Juryrigged > Works > RPGs > Duels > Terminal Labor

From: The Paragon | Posted: 10/12/2004 8:12:37 PM

Flight. A wondrous achievement of mankind. It carried people, cargo, and often weaponry of course. Certainly there was no better way to make them feel advanced than to utilize the capabilities of their newest inventions in a spectrum of ways. There was no good and evil, neither even existing without the other. There was only possibility. It was a menial chore for most to cruise the blissful skies. The joy of it had dissipated, and out of missions grew standards, simply mundane activities for the mentally lowly. A child may peer out of the small window and gasp, amazed, only to receive pleasant gazes from unknown faces. Oh, to be so innocent. Without a doubt those who gazed were beyond such simple pleasures, but were they enlightened? Had they once lived as single entities in the melting pot of cultures that were particularly visible among the clouds? Were they thinking, or was someone doing the thinking for them? If that one awestruck child were to never lose that so-called innocence, then he would come to inherit the world, soul and mind as one...

The misty afternoon was broken by a series of swinging doors, now thrown open as a man no higher than five-foot ten entered. No one's attention turned, and of course, considering the broadsword at his back, this was fortunate. Everyone seemed to be occupied with other matters: watching the planes depart, spending their last minutes with their family and friends who were leaving or arriving, or purchasing food and drinks while they waited. Long, round counters lined the sides of the room where tickets could be purchased, though he'd bought his in advance...

Where was he headed? He honestly hadn't bothered to check his ticket since he bought it. He told the travel agent to surprise him and said no more, though he received a bit of an odd look from the agent afterwards. It was a rather clean facility, well, except for the horrid noise pollution. The blaring announcements of arrivals and departures mixed with the muttering of seemingly everyone in that damned building, and the faint sound of planes taking off. Lights hung from the ceiling, though skylights were also scattered about. The sun wasn't visible, so they wouldn't add much light to the already dimly lit airport. It was tiresome just walking about. Not too far off, stores and restaurants could be seen, ending in a ramp of escalators and whatnot leading towards the terminals. One could enjoy a day's worth of shopping there honestly. All the food, and souvenirs, and food, and t-shirts, and food, and...

"Ohhh, food," the man thought. "I haven't eaten in two days, I need something, even if it has to be all this processed crap." There wasn't much security at all inside the little cafés and restaurants. Maybe he'd find a nice shawl at one of the gift shops later to disguise the Blade of Oceans, but for now, he had to rely on stealth, and he was rather clumsy, so he had to make sure to move at a slower pace as well. Taking a deep breath and holding it suspended within his lungs, he began to inch towards the nearest store, each plant or barrier a welcome haven...

His stomach rumbled. His heart raced. The aroma of food tore at his nostrils. Sound seemed to dull, taking on a simpler form. It was tone, but not with the harmony of song. A guard's eyes were fixed on Lasan's weapon. Not the most intelligent looking guard, but a guard nonetheless. With a yelp he began a slow walk towards the oddly clad man. What would be the use in trying to escape when he needed to get to his plane? Besides, there were guards everywhere. He was bound to be caught in one way or another. However, that didn't mean he couldn't easily outsmart the lot of them. Retreating from his nervous stance, the Hydronican stood, a stern look crossing his face, as the uniformed man approached...

A diversion. Well, not an intended one. The security guard opened his mouth to speak, but something crossed his eye...

"TERRORIST!"

It wasn't really. Simply a man of Arab descent without a feature to be found that seemed suspicious, not like that kept the poor man from being pinned against a wall and patted down. Lasan couldn't bear to watch. Heck, if he stood in the lobby any longer he might've done something drastic, like severing the guard's head from his shoulders. But... There was no need for violence. Not just yet...

The restaurant was rather quaint for something stuck in the middle of a crowded airport. The lights were dimmed even more than those in the lobby, and an aura of warmth hung in the air, possibly heightened by the misty evening. Soft music played, similar to the kind one could hear on the water-logged streets of Venice It was naught but a simple bar, reminiscent of those of yore. Oh, to relax there for hours...

But he couldn't. There was a plane to catch! He was going mad with hunger though... He had to pick up something fast. Running up to the counter, he slammed a few credits on the counter and exhaustedly spoke...

"Say, what can I get with this?"

Without a word and a slight frown, the cashier reached back and handed Lasan Damascus a small gyro and a bottle of water, sort of messy, but certainly better than nothing. Perhaps that diminished the warmth a bit, but no matter. He was too famished to notice. Grinning as he exited the restaurant, he scarfed down his sandwich, enjoying every bite. There would be no further time wasted. As he finished up, he wiped his mouth on the back of a rather long dress, of course, not without bowing his head in thanks to the woman wearing it, who seemed a little less than pleased at his action, and hurried away before he could do any more. He laughed deeply, a sly grin appearing on his rough face, but then remembered the task at hand...

First, he had to find himself a cloak, a shawl, something, anything. Rushing into a nearby gift shop, he picked up a simple roll of cloth, using up the last of his expendable credits for the time being, and fashioned a makeshift cloak, though he didn't dare remove his sword from its scabbard, and instead used his teeth to shorten the cloth for his usage. Looking in a nearby mirror, he found that aside from a small bump, he looked completely harmless, or at least as harmless as someone with his Medieval garb could look. Simply someone passing by without a care in the world and one task at hand: to get from point A to point B. Innocent. Not so amazed - and there wasn't much to be amazed by as it was - but innocent...

Like a child...

From: Wolfgang Visarett | Posted: 10/13/2004 5:24:49 PM

Drenard Yaxis Shevskoy could not be classed as a truly interesting man; his brown eyes were dull, his hair and facial features likewise. His face was unimaginative, as though god himself had gotten bored and decided that interesting would be the truly mundane, a face that looked ordinary and held not animation at all. He wasnt stocky, and stood no taller than six foot one. Nor was he extremely slim; his body held onto some definition, but beneath his further mundane clothing, he appeared as nothing more than an individual. When looked upon, one couldnt quite place, but felt that they knew this person. But unknown to the people walking about the airport, Drenard was as extraordinary as he was ordinary to look upon.

He wore a simple business suit, black in color, with a navy colored necktie. He carried a brown briefcase at his side, and for all the world, looked like just another businessman on a trip for his company in the ever-prevalent atmosphere of global capitalism. Drenard, though, was here for an entirely different purpose. He moved with catlike reflexes, a feline grace that when looked upon from afar, made the ordinary Drenard appear like an exotic dancer. His face, when it did assume any kind of expression, became exceedingly animated, showing the full range of human emotion that it would otherwise have been thought incapable of showing.

Drenard, while appearing human, was far from it, though. His eyes, as dully brown as they were, hid intelligence benign and not necessarily honest in context. Drenard could be classified only as a gunrunner, a man who dealt in weapons contraband. His face was plastered on wanted posters in most every quadrant of the galaxy...except here. Here he was a free man, unrecognized, and while his face might be on wanted posters, few could ever remember having looked at it because he was as unrecognizable as he was. Drenard, while being a gunrunner, did so for the sake of a singular race, a people known as Vadasian; what most knew of this strange race was that it was extra-galactic, existing on a plane of existence in another universe altogether within the confines of the multiverse.

Drenard was just one such Vadasian, and currently his purpose was scouting. He ran weapons for the Vadasian military when they needed it; he knew the insides of every defense system ever created. In fact, he was the head of security for a good many military facilities within the AkaeehnLaa, the plane of existence occupied by his own species. Drenard was moving with a new kind of purpose today, but similar in context to the purpose he had in life; he was here for information. He would be catching a flight to London today, followed by another to Berlin before making another stop-over in Warsaw, and finally be bus to Kaliningrad. For him, it would be a long flight.

What was in Kaliningrad? A Russian Naval base that had an interesting discovery on its hands that Drenard felt needed to be confiscated or destroyed, and he was leaning more toward the latter than the former. It was the mission of the day; the Russians, far ahead in certain theoretic spatial concepts had bought about the creation of an inter-dimensional warp-gate. Drenard was here for the sole purpose of destroying that device, or at least taking the technology home with him to understand exactly how such a puny race--such as the humans--could have devised such an intelligent device despite their own ignorance, stupidity, and lack thereof of far superior technologies.

What Drenard hadnt counted on, though, was a lack of high-level scanning equipment. While he may have had all his essential weaponry hidden away in a means undetectable by scanning equipment of his own technological level, he wasnt used to the kind of scrutiny currently used by the human animals. Metal detectors... Drenard was annoyed when he stepped through the gate and the alarm sounded. He was even more annoyed when the guard standing there told him to remove all the metal items on his person and place them in the small basket he was holding and step through the gateway again. Drenard was wearing a fully bodysuit beneath his rather ordinary suit, a bodysuit composed primarily of lightweight metals and alloys. In fact, he was wearing an armband composed of a polymorphic metal that contained the immediate components needed for the creation of his Echo armor.

He glanced toward the guard, a dismal expression highlighted on his face. "I am sorry," he said, tapping his head, "metal cap in my skull." He smiled dispassionately, trying to sound apologetic, but the guard wasnt biting the bait.

"Yeah?" he asked, "fine. Run a full search on him. Start stripping-"

The guard wasnt able to utter another word. His face had exploded inward, turned from a crabby expression to a perforated burn blast. There was a scream, shrill, sounding feminine in nature, followed by more screams; crying children soon accompanied the panic. Pandemonium was soon loose, and Drenard was now facing down the barrels of guards holding out side arms and telling him to put down whatever weapon he had used to kill their comrade. Little did they know that said weapon was his left arm; his Echo armor was fully deployed beneath his suit; their simple weapons wouldnt be able to stop him now.

Drenard only turned toward the closest guard, shrugged once, and turned his stomach into a smoldering mass of burnt flesh. The smell permeated the air, and the fear of the out-rushing crowd was palpable. Stealth was surely out of the question now; Drenard wondered if he might make the six oclock news, or if the government might just censor this little mistake of his. At least his mission wasnt over; he still had a Russian facility in Kaliningrad to visit...

From: The Paragon | Posted: 10/16/2004 4:09:29 PM

Past the first myriad of shops, past the slopeless escalators, and towards the metal detectors went the traveller. He hadn't gone unnoticed, but not for the small bulge at his back, but simply for his clothing. He had to admit, he didn't even look like the common homeless man. He looked like a figure who'd fallen behind the times, well, roughly 600 some years behind the times. He was surrounded by suits and ties, some t-shirts and jeans, some dresses, usually below short hair, and in the case women, fairly cleaner hair. Lasan's was stringy and sweaty, not so rank. He made sure to bathe when he had the chance, as any sensible person would. He guessed his smell didn't have much of an effect on the attention he garnered...

Some spoke to him in their own languages. In his travels he had learned a variety of languages, but not to the extent these people seemed to expect of him. He could fluently speak Latin, the language of his home village, the only remaining area to use the "dead" tongue casually. He learned Italian of course, and could carry on conversation as easily as anyone of his land. He knew English, not willingly. Aside from taxes, the only new-world concept that came to the seaside town of Hydronica was education. They offered no languages to learn except for English. He had no intention of ever heading to the states... But, would he?

"Crap..."

Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out his ticket to see where exactly he was going. "One way, New York, NY," it read...

"New York, New York?! Noooooooooo!!!"

A look of disgust and worry overtook Lasan, and a few more heads turned at his yelp. He'd heard stories, oh so many stories, from not only the half-drunken burly men at the taverns, but everyone with a story to tell. Crime, poverty, pollution, and worst of all, suits. So many suits. Business. Briefcases. SUVs with nothing to store in them. Café lattes. EVIL! He hated big cities, and they didn't get much bigger and more corporate than that. The people in those cities had no true goals in life. They were faceless tools who had abandoned their childhood dreams and adopted more "sensible" or money-making jobs. He could leave right then. Leave that airport and go back to making his voyages on foot. He still had much of Asia and Africa to explore, and could find himself a boat for his trans-oceanic travels...

However, America wasn't just composed of cities like New York. There were vast wooded areas, mountains, canyons, rainforests and deserts to the south, and chilly subarctic forests to the north. Maybe it was worth being in the giant city for about a week. He wouldn't come across an opportunity such as this one for a long time, if ever again. It was a risk he was willing to take. Well, that and a small boat could never be adequate for crossing the Atlantic...

Now with a full stomach and a makeshift cloak to hide his weapon, he at last reached the guards standing before the detectors. It was apparently time for him to use the plan he devised while confronting the guard who noticed him originally, the one who had leaped at the Arab man. Smiling dryly, the Hydronican stepped through the door, and of course, sounding the alarm. Frowning, one of the guards stepped towards him and tried to grab his arm, but came up short as Lasan pivoted. In a peeved voice, the guard instructed him...

"Now sir, you'll need to cooperate. I'll need you to remove that coat."

The traveller looked directly into the man's tired eyes, as if he was looking to find something lost in them, something long abandoned...

"I'll do it myself. Do not touch me again."

He wasn't one to speak so seriously, but he felt that his maturity was being insulted. To think a grown man couldn't remove his own cloak was absurd. Shrugging, he allowed the "coat" to drop to his feet. It was a rather involuntary motion, for he was a bit surprised to find that he had exposed the scabbard holding the Blade of Oceans completely. The guard's eyes opened widely as they focused on the sword, and for a moment, he couldn't speak, but shook himself out of his fascination and reached behind Lasan's head to grab the blade's handle...

"Sir, what is this?"

"Uhhh... A very obscure rolling pin?"

"Very obscure, yes. Why don't we have a look see then?"

Once again, a fight could be avoided. Reaching behind his back, the traveller grabbed a small handle fastened to the back of his scabbard. Tugging at it, the sword locked into its sheath just before the hand of the guard pulled it up, sheath in tow. Getting behind Lasan, he grabbed the handle with both hands, and with a grunt, attempted to pull the sword out again. He failed, of course, but did not become much more tense...

"Sir, remove your uh, rolling pin, and we'll send it through the x-ray."

"It won't fit I don't think."

"Yes it will sir, don't you worry about that."

"Uhhhh, no it won't?"

Hesitating for a moment, the Hydronican looked around for any other guards, only to find the one a few feet from him, who seemed to be sleeping against a nearby wall. No need to waste any more time. He had to go. It'd take him awhile to find the proper terminal, so he couldn't risk dealing with any more paranoid practices. Letting go of the small handle, he raised a fist to the chin of the guard, causing him to drop to the ground, a bit of blood visible on his lips...

"Well, that was easy enough," thought the traveller. He dashed through the hall, disappearing in the crowd of people...

A scream echoed in the airport a moment later, following what sounded like a bomb going off. But... There were no signs of a large explosion. The crowds scattered and ran for the nearest exits. Something was amiss behind him and he couldn't help but involve himself in it. Turning, he found the body of the guard, now a bit more than unconscious. Next to him was another guard, shouting at something, but he too fell in another instant. Other guards were visible, and as Lasan adjusted his sight, the one who appeared to have caused the pandemonium was as well. Seemed to be just another businessman. A suit. But there had to be something else to him. Something deeper. Something obviously stubborn enough to cause such commotion. Something with a hell of a lot of firepower, wherever it was...

The hall was empty, save for a few stunned individuals, Lasan Damascus included. He looked at them, sharply, causing them to gain their senses again and dart off. Now he set his eyes on the strange man. The suit. The traveller jumped back, finding himself a large plant to hide behind, one that seemed to be of the same make throughout the entire airport. Fake. He drew the Blade of Oceans slowly, hoping to not make any audible noise among the cries of fright that still reached the now empty section of the building. He would wait, study whatever this thing was, human or not. He didn't really want to face down the man just yet. He figured his flight would be cancelled at this point, so if he had a chance against he, or it, he would be interested in seeing that nothing else was harmed that day...

From: Wolfgang Visarett | Posted: 10/20/2004 5:31:47 PM

Drenard was about as pleased with his bout of destruction as a man could be of it when smitten with an animalistic tendency such as his. The deaths he had caused of the people around him didnt bother him, didnt even matter; they were casualties of their own stupidity. The moment he had been stopped was the moment when these worthless creatures had become nothing more than cannon fodder. He watched with detached humor as many people fled. Let them flee, he thought gleefully, at least then they might preserve their lives for another few minutes, hours, days or years. Drenard knew that everyone had to die sometime. It was a melancholy trait in him that he did little to suppress. To him it was a realistic view, and if one were to die, he thought that one should make the most of the situation at hand.

Drenard sniffed at the air. The smell of charred and burnt flesh nearly gagged him. He wondered how some of the others who were fleeing took the smell. He noticed a young woman, maybe in her mid twenties, early thirties, vomiting on the ground after seeing the sight lain before Drenard. A guard, flat on his back, with the smoldering ruination of an abdomen, charred black with wisps of smoke rising evanescent into the air. Drenard smiled, his ordinary face becoming vividly animated in the process. One of the men, a guard who still had stomach to even look on the ruined heap of a man he had called a colleague at one point in time wore a livid expression that Drenard couldnt even begin to associate with.

To him death was death. Although mourning wasnt a foreign idea to him, it had never fully lodged itself in his mind. For him, there was nothing to mourn about death; it was just the passing from one realm into the next, and if you wanted to remember someone, you were best to look through your own memories than to visit a grave. Drenard laughed suddenly, an explosion of yipping that rocked the guard who stood shocked from his proverbial state of inaction. Drenard laughed because graves didnt even exist on his homeworld. The guard didnt understand Drenards laughter, and had he, would have still been as perplexed. Either way, the guard believed Drenard to be a threat that must be destroyed, and with that drew his sidearm from its holster and pointed the weapon squarely upon the Vadasian.

"Hold it!" he screamed, his own fear making his voice crack and his hands shaky. Drenard turned toward the guard, his smile changed into a sneer. "I said hold it, you bastard!" Drenard cocked his head to the side, and with the motion the guard was thrown backward, as it a hand had grabbed him and flung him with inhuman strength. The guard screamed, flailing in the air until he collided with the distant wall, where his voice was silenced and the gleam of crimson blood slithered down the wall where the guards head had hit.

Drenard still had a flight to catch, but understood now that there was no hope of even getting on the plane. All pilots would have been warned already of this terrorist attack, and any planes airborne would be fleeting their way away from the unknown, and yet dangerously deadly, variable that now stormed the corridors of the international airport. He felt he would have to take a land route now, or maybe a sea route, whichever worked best. Either way, it meant a change in plans; while Drenard wasnt against change, he didnt like unknowns that might pop up along the way when plans had been laid ahead of time. He felt the compunction to counteract the current predicament he was in by simply vanishing, but to pull such a trick from his bag of tricks wasnt currently on his agenda.

He would have to wait until such a time when he wasnt under the scrupulous attention of security guards, or cameras for that matter. They had him on tape, and might already have sent pictures of him to the local authority. With a sigh, Drenard began to stalk up the corridor from whence he had come, hoping to make it toward an exit and out of the vicinity of the airport with all due speed. He didnt wish to be caught here when police and whatever passed for homeland security forces showed up; while he might have relished the idea of dispensing death to these miserable creatures, doing such would eat into what time he had to accomplish his mission. He had little time to play.

And because Drenard had so little time in which to accomplish his over-arching goal, he never once noticed that man in medieval armor hidden, more or less, behind the fake vegetation that so populated the airport terminal. He might have noticed, had he taken the time to fully scout his current predicament, but he didnt. He was in a rush; he disengaged his Echo armor for the time being and began to move, carrying his briefcase with him. His stride was long, and almost appeared poignant when viewed upon from afar. Drenard only wanted one thing done: a mission well done and a large bonus for all the difficulties he had encountered so far. What else was there to life other than the certainties of death, power and money?

From: The Paragon | Posted: 11/5/2004 10:33:54 PM

The waiting room was quiet for the most part. A final plane soared into the clouds, however, there was no one besides he to say goodbye, or at least, there were other matters at hand. He expected them to evacuate the plane in a hurry, only to face the one who showed no care for the lives of the guards who simply did their job. Martyrs. Ignorant martyrs. But it was wise to depart. They'd arrive at their destinations and contact their families and friends. It would be a story to look back on in fear, one that would never find a humorous lining, despite inevitable attempts to make light of such a tragedy. He was sure the paparazzi would be on hands and knees to sink their greedy teeth into this one, whether they're let in or not. He had a sneaking suspicion they wouldn't get very far with the man who caused such a disturbance. He'd probably kill them too. Well, not if he was disposed of first...

Another guard acting in the line of duty. Lasan didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He was a foolish, foolish man, that guard. The traveller himself wouldn't mind sparing such a life if the situation called for it, but this situation truly didn't. The guard's scream reverberated at all corners of the giant room. Another soul lost. Yes, there had to be something done about this... This thing.

Silence again. This couldn't be happening. It made no sense, and to happen to Lasan! He'd gotten into many a predicament, but not one this insane. It was an airport. People commuted from place to place without a care in the world. It would be his first time flying, a butterfly fresh out of the cocoon that held him to the ground for so long. It would've been a wonder. But no. There was always a madman. The guy looked like a businessman, no less normal than anyone else aside from the traveller in that airport. However, that obviously wasn't the case. Whether he had some sort of concealed weapon, or some sort of magic, or robotic parts to him, or whatever else this crazy world had thought up over the span of the modern age, bah, it didn't matter. There would be no more flights that day.

The man had something to hide. That was given. Lasan Damascus, the Hydronican geographer, had a similar dilemma, but his was so clear, so out in the open. Anyone with a little common sense could have observed the scabbard, sword in sheath, at his back, at least before he fashioned his cloak. This person, so riddled with apathy as to take the lives of three guards who had no intention of harming him, had something concealed. A weapon, some sort of metal plate, whatever. On the other hand, he could have just been horribly impatient and unwilling to follow procedure. That was just sad. He didn't seem like one to be targeted by prejudice, so there were no worries. The traveller had to get to the bottom of this. He was always one to analyze an opponent before stepping out from his hiding spot, and with the man beginning to walk out, it seemed he would get a better view...

Spotted. Damn cheap plants. They concealed little, though they weren't exactly manufactured to do so. The laws of nature didn't apply so much indoors, amidst the wonders and banes of the age, this cursed modern age. Would he have to face this man now? Quickly, he had to scan him top to bottom. Head to toe, no weapons, no armor, nothing. It seemed that Lasan would have to find out the workings of this strange creature face to face. He inched to the right, no longer obscured, the man in clear view...

...But, the man continued walking. Why? Was he in that much of a rush? If he intended on catching a plane, he was out of luck. If he intended on causing disarray, he would have spent more time to bask in the destruction. What an odd man he was. An enigma in business clothes.

Enough of this hesitation. Lifting himself up, Lasan walked towards the middle of the hall, now facing the back of the man, who seemed to be heading for the exit. Oh, there were numerous ways to get his attention. There were no more ninja stars left in his inventory, nor any other tools. He originally planned to stock up upon arriving at his destination, but unfortunately, that place, New York, would not be reached just yet. There was no need for flare. He had no desire in stunning the man just yet, if he could. He'd make it blunt. Yes, that would work just fine. A plain introduction for a plain-looking person...

"Hey, you thug. You knave! I won't let you leave this place, no, not without my body lying dead on the floor! You aren't dealing with some ignorant guard anymore! Go on, just try your games with me."

To be perfectly honest, he was worried. He was fearful to the highest degree. He saw those guards torn apart at the seams. Would that happen to him as well? No, no, he couldn't let that maniac at him. He'd give himself a moment to see if that fool was truly in a rush. Then he'd go at him. He'd tear into him. He'd need to be fast. He would be fast.

One more soul would depart today.

From: Wolfgang Visarett | Posted: 11/10/2004 6:17:01 PM

Drenard was a man oblivious to the world around him; he was secluded, his mind having already been spirited away from all feeling of consequence, and as such, felt little or no compunctions in dealing amoral deaths to those around him. He strode forward with a kind of purpose, ignoring the wails of those wounded but not yet dead, or the cries of those who were stupid enough to stay behind with a loved one that had been attacked by Drenard.

In actuality, Drenard hadnt really attacked, killed or wounded too many people. His main problem was disposing of any security at the point in time when the little fiasco had erupted. The secondary problem had been in how to clear out as many people as possible in the quickest time possible; the answer came before him in the form of a young woman who was very much dead with a barren, wasted stump of a neck where he head had once stood proud before it was evaporated and charred beyond recognition by a singular blast from Drenards left arm laser cannon. Its not that she was really his intended target at that moment in time, it was just she would suit his purposes at the time, and would strike home the fear he needed instilled in the rabid-, feral- and simplistically-minded humans to cause them to flee.

Set up a reaction to cause a desired response; that is what Drenard did. He felt no guilt in the action, no remorse. And if he ever thought back to this day, it would be as a slight setback in a plan, not of a massacre.

The terminal building was almost deathly silent now as Drenard walked its halls; no longer was the incessant buzz of conversation. It was almost eerie. Drenard, being the Vadasian he was, was a firm believer in the spiritual, that there were such things as spirits that dwelled just beyond the sight of other living beings. Drenard, as a Vadasian, was more than capable of seeing these spirits, the souls attached to the bodies of the people and the release that happened when the body died. He wondered momentarily what kind of afterlife he had to look forward to. He shook his head then, abruptly, trying to expunge the thoughts that milled about in his overactive mind.

What came next, however, was something Drenard hadnt even anticipated within the realms of reality pertaining to this mission. A figure was approaching from behind; Drenard was able to hear the man simply be the rustle and clank of armor plating as well as the clicking of feet against the ceramic tiled floor. What was more striking to Drenard, though, was that the figure now approaching on a kind of intercept course actually intended to confront him. He almost laughed at the though of this mere human standing before him, telling him to submit to planetary authority. To bad this person will not live to see tomorrow, Drenard thought wryly.

And then to add insult to injury, the figure called out and began speaking in the tone of voice meant to brook little, or no, argument whatsoever from the person being talked to. Silently, Drenard instructed with his mind alone the deployment of his Echo armor beneath his clothing. It would come as a rude shock, an awakening really, that Drenard was not an individual to be trifled with. He turned, cocking his head to the side to peer at this figure that now confronted him, looking him up and down with a critical eye. What he found amused him beyond words; a man dressed in attire better suited to the medieval days of this planet with weapons to match.

Drenard did laugh now, a high-pitched yipping sound more akin to a dog barking. He spoke then, but his voice sounded off-key; he was, after all, a Vadasian, and speaking through two sets of vocal cords in a language that wasnt his native tongue, and as such, his voice was rough and heavily accented.

"Silly Human, try playing with someone more to your size or face the consequences."

It was the best basic Drenard could call to mind on a moments notice. He had spent several moments formulating that sentence, as he couldnt fully speak basic at all. It was more amazing still that he had managed to get this mission despite being almost completely unable to speak one of the native dialects. Drenard then chose that moment to cut out any further talk by pointing his left arm at the stranger, his forearm having been elongated and widened some with the appearance of a cannon barrel where his hand should be. The stranger standing opposite Drenard had no notice of the sharp flash of red light that soon erupted from the cannon and flung itself at speeds close to that of light itself in a death collision with the individuals head. Drenard didnt like guys big on talking.

From: The Paragon | Posted: 1/1/2005 7:05:02 PM

(OOC: I meant to mention it in one of your earlier posts, but I never said Lasan was wearing armor of any sort, or at least I don't think I did. In fact, the closest thing he has to armor is a mythril vest under his shirt. It was a harmless error, so I don't mind much, but I'm just pointing it out for future knowledge.)

For most, with all decisions there are regrets. He was certain many of those who witnessed the tragic events that occurred that day would regret ever coming to that airport. The managers of the building, hell, even the government, would regret their lack of adequate security there, well, unless Lasan disposed of him. Then, they'd most likely credit the remaining security guards with the victory and disregard any evidence proving them false. It was no big deal. He didn't mind. He had a few regrets himself. Asking to be sent to a random location was not a wise move. He'd often wandered aimlessly with the spirit of adventure in his heart. Oh, the trials he faced. Hunger, thirst, predators, bandits, severe weather, heat, cold, hunger. Thirst. He didnt quite expect the same troubles in America, though it had its own obstacles. He could easily be caught in the middle of a gang war, or run over by a speeding car. He could be assaulted by some druggies on the street, not like he couldnt deal with them, of course. His worries revolved around this confrontation, this strange man that glanced back at him now. He couldn't possibly regret challenging this man as he did. It would lower his own self-confidence. But, to make the suited oddity regret ever stepping foot in that airport - oh, that would be true vengeance. Beautiful retaliation. He felt obligated to do so...

To hear the inhuman laugh of the man did pester the traveler. However, it appeared to not phase him. He tried to suppress emotion at such times, or perhaps, morph it into another feeling. Lasan grinned widely, each of his less-than-pearly teeth glinting from the light of the facility. His eyebrows bent downward, possibly a bit of annoyance breaking through his mask of elation. It didn't take long for that mask to give way, for as the man spoke, such a vile frown crossed the Hydronican's face that he could feel the cartilage in his neck sticking out slightly. He couldn't get mad. He'd be blinded by rage, and he didn't work well with rage. As much as he wished to tear at the man, to annihilate him as he did to the guards, he just did not fare well in those conditions. If he didn't keep his head, he would be quickly and effortlessly defeated. That would be a shame...

Stepping back a bit, he breathed in deeply, closing his eyes for a moment, opening them only to find the left arm of the man pointing out at him, a strange device forming where his hand once was. Was it a gun, a cannon? The rage had faded now, gone as quickly as the crowds of people that once surrounded him. In its place was shock, a deathly shock. He wasn't accustomed to such weaponry, particularly those that materialized from what seemed to be flesh. No, this was not a human. It couldn't be. He'd read stories about robotic individuals with such abilities, simple stories. He enjoyed such lore, fascinated by what could never be. Were those storytellers more than petty drunken bar fiends? It seemed what they spoke of held true. For a split-second, he stood astounded at this freak of nature, but forced himself into concentration, raising the Blade of Oceans instinctively. Certainly the mythril vest underneath his tunic was durable, but the impact of what was to come would have thrown him back into unconsciousness. Heck, he didn't know how well the underwear would fare against something like that. He wasn't exactly one to stand in front of a tank and let it fire away. Even old alchemy had its limits...

He couldn't have even sensed it. Fortunately, he didn't blink in that fraction of time, for a flash of light fired out of the barrel of that intrinsic weapon, colliding with the blade with the force of some bullet train. He wasn't dumb enough to go with it. He'd end up a fossil in the wall behind him, but the sword would have to go - not that he couldn't catch up with it on the rebound...

Just as he loosened his grip on the Blade of Oceans, though making sure it wasn't tilted to the side, he began to run at the man, his right arm trailing behind him, ready to catch the airborne sword. Using one eye to look behind him, he observed the sword in motion, watching the blade hit the wall as quickly as the blade was hit itself. As he expected, it bounced into the air, nearly taking out an overhead light in the process. Lasan needed to slow his dash into a jog so he would be in line to catch it. He figured it ruined the spontaneity of his attack, but he wasn't really one for flashy moves anyway, so long as they were effective. The handle of the weapon reached his grasp easily enough. He knew his sword well enough to know how to get it into the correct position, so as he leaped to the right side of the man, the blade was comfortably in his possession again. If that guy was going to use any more crazy moves like that, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to hold in there, but for now, he would be aggressive...

As he landed a moment later, he turned his wrist so that the blade was perpendicular to the man's body, and quickly slashed it at the side of his abdomen, remaining on one foot for easy pivoting afterwards. Maybe he'd learn a bit about this stranger in the process if he slowed his pace a tad, he could tell already that he'd need to be quick on his feet if he wanted to avoid whatever other tricks his opponent might have. The Hydronican knew he wouldn't regret it later on...

From: Wolfgang Visarett | Posted: 1/8/2005 8:08:58 PM

Drenard had fired off his singular shot. His first conscious thought following that expunging of energy in the form of a laser blast was that he would be able to continue on his mission unabated. In fact, he would have resumed his mental course had it not been for a rather interesting phenomena: the individual who had imposed himself as a kind of conscience used his weapon to deflect the shot. While such phenomena had been documented on certain occasions, he had been told, the act of such should not have even been possible by the humans currently inhabiting this world.

What came next would further add to Drenard's perplexity as he struggled vainly to understand the mechanics of what was happening around him. His face screwed itself into a rather appealing mass of concentration as his eyes sought out the image of the figure set before him and advancing. The weapon, a sword, took the brunt of the attack and flew from the advancing individuals hands, but his right arm trailed enough behind him to grip the hilt as he moved forward. What really struck Drenard was the fluidity of movement by the figure that had yet to be seen in humans not properly augmented for such, and Drenard had been led to believe that the humans of this particular time period were incapable of augmenting their physiologies beyond the necessities of day-to-day usage.

His mind still tumbling, he did what any self-respecting person with a Vadasian heritage could have done at such an insult, he roared. It was an ear splitting, earth-shattering wail from deep within his gut, an ululation that permeated the air, made it palpable with all his loathing and hatred, reverberating throughout the halls and corridors to vibrate windows. It was completely inhuman, and his dual set of vocal cords in his throat added to the complexity and strangeness, if not bone-racking surprise of the wail.

The individual, now Drenard's enemy, moved to Drenard's right in a leap-dash of sorts bringing the archaic weapon into line with the middle of his stomach; had Drenard not been equipped with Echo armor, he would have been disembowelled on the spot, but even with such advantages as these, Drenard still had enough presence of mind to attempt an evasion of sorts so that all his advantages wouldn't be found out.

Drenard pivoted on the ball of his left foot, bringing his left arm into line, still in the shape of a cannon, and met the blade with the outside edge of his left forearm; but, instead of halting the progression of the blade in its path, he instead use the archaic weapons momentum to his advantage, and applying some motion of his own via his left forearm, moved the blade up and over his head as he ducked low and came rushing forward. His left arm was now clamped close to his chest, but not for long. As he advanced, he swung out his left arm to take the figure full in the back of the head to take him down, or at least send him pin wheeling.

But the motions of Drenard's attack didn't stop there. His right hand--suddenly encrusted in a blackish looking glove that had an aquamarine orb on the back of the hand that glowed slightly--was moving into line to grip the opponents right shoulder from behind if at all possible and bring his right knee into the enemy's spin, ending all combat...and the individual's life.

From: The Paragon | Posted: 2/23/2005 10:30:24 PM

It was expected. He anticipated a counter. There wasn't much to his attacks other than agility. The traveler was light on his feet, but he wasn't expertly trained in armed combat. He picked up a little martial arts in his younger days, but as a child, he'd always focused on his intellectual side, reading hundreds upon hundreds of books ranging from internationally known novels to the intricately woven history and lore from his own village...

No, he was not one for battling. Nearly the entire Elven race was a peaceful civilization, let alone his own kind. Even their mighty bows and short-blades were most often used for no more than hunting and defending. The Blade of Oceans was a prestigious weapon of the highest regard in Hydronica, certainly a product of Human influence as well as Elven. Unlike the trite clichés he often read about, it was not given to the great warriors before quests to rescue the world from tragedy. It did not hold innate power that only those of specific inbred ability could harness. It wasn't forged by hermit Druids with dark magic laced into its cold steel. It was fashioned by a smith dedicated to his job. He spent his life studying and honing his art, and for this, his greatest work was revered by the Hydronicans, Lasan included.

It is difficult to come across one so dedicated to their work. Even within his own village, there were some who lived their lives lifelessly, as odd as that may sound, but to the best of their ability, the Hydronican council wished to preserve a lost love for one's career. The Blade of Oceans was given to whomever wished to live in near isolated dedication to their skill. Lasan happened to take a fancy to geography, and with a little help from his sword, he was brought to that crowded airport, which now lays rather tranquil, or at least it was after his opponent's scream faded into the glass walls of the building...

For someone as seemingly weighed down as this man, he was rather quick with his maneuvers as well, though not quite swift enough for the Hydronican. Simply enough, his attack was evaded, but not in the manner he expected. Instead, his opponent caught the blade with the weapon that seemed to be part of his left arm, and brought it over his head. Now apparently looking to get behind the traveller, he brought his arm down and against his chest in a stance only Napoleon could rival, but only for a moment. Lasan attempted to pivot, but just as he caught sight of the metallic arm coming at his head, he could only begin to duck...

For some reason, a sort of sickly feeling crept over his stomach as the cold metal brushed over his perspiration-dotted hair, scraping the top of his head slightly. Perhaps the knowledge that this cannon may have been part of his opponent's very being was sort of unsettling. Sure, he'd seen artificial body parts before, but never did they seem so intrinsic as this man's weapon, able to morph at will. If this was what technology had come to, he was ready to head towards the wilderness as quickly as possible.

Hurriedly shrugging off this nausea, he prepared to dart off to prepare for a second attack. Close-range fighting would leave him at a disadvantage. However, just as he stood upright and lifted his left leg, the other hand of the strange man grabbed at his shoulder roughly. Startled, the Hydronican immediately jumped to the side, turning away from his opponent, only to meet a powerful knee in his side. This sent him spinning a full 180 degrees before he could stop himself with his right foot. Allowing himself to slide a bit more across the slick floor, he began his sprint. For all he knew a chase may have begun, though he was skeptical as to whether or not the man could keep up with him...

At the other end of the hallway width-wise (Though it certainly was a rather wide hall), a trash can came into view, and thus Lasan was hit with inspiration. It seemed sturdy enough. He wasn't about to waste time picking it up though. Positioning himself at the right side of the plastic trash can, he reached it in another second. Effortlessly, he swung out his right leg in a roundhouse kick, knocking the can over and out in the direction he began to run: back at his opponent.

Now at a much slower pace, he dribbled the rolling receptacle with his feet as if it was a soccer ball. It didn't take long for him to reach the strange man once again, and within a few yards of the figure, he planted his feet in a full stop. Before the can could get away from him, his left foot came out and kicked it strongly, causing it to fly towards the head of his opponent. With hope, it would at least block his vision for a moment...

The coup-de-grace of his attack was simple enough, as his repertoire of physical strategies were, but it could serve to knock the wind out of his opponent, allowing for an easy defeat afterwards. Allowing himself some distance between himself and the hurtling trash can, he ran at the man, bending over as he went, seemingly prepared to impale the him with the Blade of Oceans, his sword even assuming that position. That really wouldn't be a bad idea, but he enjoyed creating illusions better. Their effect was always much more humorous. At the last minute, he threw his body back and leaped into the air, still moving forward towards his opponent's stomach, and stretching his feet outwards in a dropkick. At the same time, he stretched his arms out over his head, not only allowing for swifter movement in the air, but also giving him a chance to spring off the ground if he was blocked. Hopefully the strange man never dealt with any janitorial work. Lasan wasn't about to have a trash can crashing down into his own gut...

From: Wolfgang Visarett | Posted: 3/16/2005 10:44:45 PM

The entrée served up for Drenard's unhealthy consumption at this point was trash can of the plastic variety. He was at this point summarily annoyed, and already having a good portion of his time taken up by the particular fool who thought rough-housing as the in-thing of the moment was not doing wonders for his already crotchety disposition of the moment. The use of the trash can was something he hadn't expected, either. The moron rolled it along the floor as he dash towards him, Drenard standing there waiting for the proverbial attack that was sure to come.

It wasn't a question of whether or not the attack was coming, but knowing when the attack was coming. Drenard knew from experience that people just didn't lie down and die. They either fought till the bitter end or ran. Of course there were exceptions to the rule, such as those who fought when they should run or those who ran when they should fight. Drenard felt that this man was one who should have run but stayed to fight. Of course, this was a rather arrogant thought to be coursing through his consciousness, but he was Vadasian, and as a Vadasian was more than prone to such condescension in thought. One of the few unnecessary thoughts was about fools rushing in, and Drenard wondered who the fool in this situation was.

And then the fellow with trash can stopped momentarily before unleashing a swift kick to the receptacle and sending it whirling through the air. Drenard had many viable options left open to him. It was as though he were at a buffet and could mix and match whatever entrees he wanted for a wide variety of flavors and experiences to behold. The trash can came up, the opponent jumped, and Drenard stood there with a face masked in stoic contemplation.

He then stepped forward with right foot while bringing his left-arm-turned-cannon into the air and smashed it down on the trash can causing it to hit the ground and rebound. It'd scrap up along the back of his opponent, which was more than enough fro Drenard. Albeit, the Vadasian wasn't finished in the slightest with his rather childish looking "soldier march" move. You see, as he swung his left arm down, his left leg was already extended, and the ball of his left foot had already touched the tile floor. With that, he pivoted, arching his back out of the way before ducking low.

As he ducked low, he snapped the trash can from the air as it was falling back down from gravity, and gripping its edge with his right hand came up and flung it back toward his opponent with a full extension of his right arm. With the trash can now flung at his opponents back, Drenard went to move again when he felt something wet. He glanced down and was rather annoyed to see the bugger had got him, more-or-less. The left side of his stomach was stained with green-black blood that shaded his white dress shirt. It wasn't a deep cut, but the fact that Drenard had had such a lapse in judgment meant this was taking far too long.

He looked up quickly, taking a calming breath in the same instance before morphing his left arm from its cannon back into a usual arm. This followed by a ruddy red glow engulfing the Vadasian's right hand where a cane appeared. It was with the cane in hand that he rushed at his opponent to personally beat the fellow. If nothing else, the Vadasian demanded some compensation on a more personal level for the wound inflicted upon his person.

From: The Paragon | Posted: 4/15/2005 7:10:08 PM

The breeze created by Lasan's movement whipped his hair back as he took a quick breath through his teeth, clenched tightly in preparation. He felt his feet roughly brush past his opponent, though he couldn't raise his head enough to see if he made any substantial impact. It certainly wasn't the desired effect, but he was not in the position to complain. However, his landing would be a bit more difficult now. He simply couldn't afford to loose step or fall. No, the man would be right on top of him then. He was growing impatient with this... This robot. This android. Whatever they call them. Tilting his head to the side, he could see his knees beginning to bend downward reflexively, thus determining his landing. He wasn't all that clumsy, but even he did not have the momentum to pull himself up into some stable standing stance right upon landing. Any attempt at it would most definitely be a waste of time and effort...

The traveler planted his feet on the ground, arching his back to allow his hands to reach the dusty floor shortly after. He only needed to press against the ground with his fingers for a moment before launching himself upward in a simultaneous pivot. Coming up slowly now, he was able to slide his right foot out, balancing his stance well enough...

He turned his head to find a trash can flying at him. Seemed like someone was getting a bit cranky. Without moving his feet, he bent over, letting the airborne receptacle fly over his head and crash against a nearby shrub. As he started to rise, he felt his stomach grow uneasy. He wouldn't have been surprised with indigestion. But that wasn't it, was it? Something deeper upset him. Something about his previous maneuver seemed incomplete. Or was it that he felt incomplete himself? He expected little more from his attack. He seemed to have only a fraction of a strength his opponent appeared to possess, so he would do little damage without his magic or the Blade of Oceans...

Then it struck him harder than any blow he could have received from the man. He wasn't holding his sword. He must have let go of it as he was landing from his dropkick. He hadn't noticed at all for some reason. He couldn't think of any time when that had happened before. It was as if the blade was a part of him when he held it in his grasp, some innate appendage gained through ages of training and meditation.

He frantically looked about for his forsaken weapon, his eyes finally setting upon it naught but a few feet to his left, looking so cold and devoid of the life it seemed to have when he held it.

He hesitated. The man began to come at him with what looked like a cane, though he couldn't be all that sure at this point. His opponent seemed determined to beat the life out of the disadvantaged Hydronican. He'd need a small diversion, any diversion, to distract the guy so he could quickly retain the Blade of Oceans. That monster would pound right through anything he kept in his pockets - a few shurikens, namely. Glancing one last time at the fallen sword, he noticed the mist that hung outside, now a curtain against any possible visibility. Perfect. He was rarely one to use his magic in combat, dare he call water manipulation such a thing, but he had little other sensible choice now.

Allowing his tense muscles to calm for a moment, he shut his eyes and began to concentrate deeply, imagining the mist that engulfed the airport. Osmosis brought much of the precipitation inside, now condensed on the glass skylights. He began to mechanically step back, still in an almost trance-like state. In what seemed like an hour, though it was truly only a few seconds, he thrust his hands outward, a similar haze forming about his palms, swirling and beaming with a growing luminosity.

A second more passed and a small crack in the glass could be heard, hopefully not enough to break the windows entirely.

Yet another second passed, and the air grew arid, so dry against the skin that it felt as if the air had been sucked out of the hall itself. His hands were now amassed in a glowing mist.

One moment more, and Lasan Damascus dropped his hands, breathing in audibly and deeply. It felt as if his opponent was right on top of him now, looming over his smaller, more Elven form. With the passing of one final second, his eyes shot open as he exhaled. The haze that now hung in the air before him flew forward, scattering instinctively to soon fill the area about the two duelists in an almost equivalent concentration as the air outside. He felt damp again, but in a much more refreshing way. A bit drained of thought, he nearly forgot about the task at hand. The force of the barrage of mist he sent towards the man, as well as its visibility effects, would avert his opponents attention for a few seconds, and with that, he sprinted to his left, nearly leaping, to his sword...

As he retrieved the Blade of Oceans, he turned once again, now facing the cloud of mist which surrounded the form of the man, or so he thought. With a shout unheard of from a usually silent combatant, Lasan dashed at the center of the haze, which was now dispersing back into the sky, where it belonged. He ran a crooked path, in the event he was being watched from elsewhere. It was a possibility, no doubt...

He neared the cloud in virtually no time, leaping into the air as he had done before, now looking to finish what he had sought to do for the entirety of his encounter with this devious individual. Raising his blade above his head, its hilt grasped with both hands, he began to descend towards his fate - a man of still unknown power, or emptiness. A few feet later he slashed the blade downwards, hoping to connect with some part, any part, of his opponent. He would tolerate no more of this strange man, nor would he tolerate the gadgets the man harnessed for such malicious purposes. With all hopes and prayers, his terminal labor would at last be executed...

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