Toy Soldiers [judgement day]

Truthfully, and this was the honest truth now, Crim didn't give all or any fucks who saw him come and go. The only thing that mattered was the fact that not a single person, being, entity, monster, ghost, phantom, or fuckin' sorcerer had bothered to do jack shit to get in his way. Which meant that they either didn't regard his actions as any sort of threat (super smart!), or they simply didn't care (two outta three ain't bad!). Well, there was also the third possibility that they just kinda lacked the ability to do anything about it, which Crim knew was certainly on the table, but likely not at this juncture. Eventually though, yes, that definitely would happen.

Anyway, call him paranoid, but the Captain wasn't about to allow some filthy stranger to put their grubby mitts all over his nice new Turk Jacket. So when the guy seated next to him attempted to pat him on the back, the gesture met nothing but empty space. But it didn't actually appear as though Crim had moved at all. It would have just looked like the dude's hand passed right through Crim's body. Like a hologram, or some kind of ghastly apparition! The second one.

Not that it really mattered, since the entire place was about to go kaboom for 'reasons'. Mainly because of Ishida though. Yup. And praise be to the great underwordly forces below, the super demon actually went the extra mile and rescued him - along with Elyk and Darcy - from the terrible fate that might have otherwise befallen them. Unfortunately, one Miss Halinn wasn't so lucky. But it seemed like she'd managed to somehow save herself anyhow, so he figured all was right with the world, as it were.

Somehow still seated upon his bar stool, Crim laughed right along with Ishida.

"Yeah, that was awesome, HAHAHAHA!"

Ah, but now they were all outside and exposed to the otherworldly horrors of the many dastardly foes who awaited them in all corners of the city, which was already getting its proverbial concrete-n-steel ass handed to it by means of random laser bombardments, creepy corrosive mists and whatever other flavor of the week nasty destruction could possibly manifest itself in two shakes of a basilisk's tail. What to do, what to do...

He heard Halinn shouting in the background, but decided that it would be funnier to just ignore her.

As for the rest, well, he knew the score. Whether or not anyone else did was anyone's guess. It sure as hell wasn't his responsibility to give a damn though.

You could die, but you're never dead.

Well, was that all the guy wanted? Pretty elaborate way to figure out the answer to such a simple question. And for some kind of seemingly all-knowing, all-powerful mega-mage, this guy - huh, Crim actually had no idea who he was or where he came from, much less why he was being such a jerk outta nowhere - anyway...this guy, in spite of all his fancy magic powers, had been taken for a fool by an even bigger fool. Which certainly begged all sorts of questions, but now wasn't really the time for an internal monologue about fools.

Earlier, when he had come and gone from the bar unhindered and unnoticed by all aside from that other random dude who did nothing but watch anyway, Crim had left his mark upon the battlefield. His footsteps, seemingly innocuous, scattered all over the area outside, from the ruined remains of this bar, all the way to the other bar and back, continued glowing. Maybe one assumed the glow to be a result of simple friction and heat generated from such high-speed movement. Nah. In order for him to move that fast, particularly while wearing his trademark Turk Jacket, which sapped his tremendous physical abilities, limiting his strength in particular to that of roughly 'peak human' levels, he needed to tap into the enormous well of Ether Power that resided within him. He needed to alter the Ether Flow in his body, temporarily enabling him to move at speeds imperceptible even to the majority of those possessed of enhanced senses. Perhaps they could have noticed had they been paying proper attention, but that ship has long since sailed.

The glowing aspect of his footprints was actually due to the pockets of concentrated Ether that he had left behind at each one. He hadn't been laughing about Ishida's destruction of the bar. The true cause of his laughter was the fact that, somehow, Mister Oz the Great and Powerful had managed to float himself right into the middle of a trap that Crim had set up for no reason other than wanting to see if it would actually work.

Well it worked, all right.

And Crim had all the time in the world to set it in motion. Man, Mister Oz sure liked to talk a lot. The trouble with engaging in so much banter, though, was that it was a really slow and arduous process, being limited to the speed of sound and all. Whereas the thousands of solid-Ether spikes that were shooting up towards Mister Oz from the ground all traveled at speeds significantly higher than that. Significantly as in the speed of light. Yep, each of the Captain's prior footfalls, scattered all around the area, effectively surrounding the hapless mage and his smarmy little doll, was basically a lethal attack lying in wait. Crim activated enough of them (but not all of them!) to effectively strike at the mage from every angle. Yes, the spikes curved and twisted in from above as well, arcing high overhead as well. Crim initiated the assault a split-second before Mister Oz stopped chatting up a storm and came at him with his own human kamikaze attack. Crim was able to anticipate this action on the part of his enemy through the simple power of observation, being that the moments leading up to the attack were all well within the scope of what could be referred to as 'normal velocity'. Calculating the enemy's intended trajectory was beyond rudimentary for the Captain's heightened perceptions.

So what did this mean for Mister Oz? Well it meant that he'd be flying himself directly into a path of countless deadly spikes! Each of which contained enough power to easily pierce the hull of a heavily armored space battleship. And what's more, each spike would detonate ferociously upon impact with anything, be it a body, a construct, a shield, even a wayward bird. Or hell, if Crim decided he wanted them to explode for no reason. The yield of each explosion would be akin to that of the heaviest of the heavy artillery used by the likes of the Aesir military, which is to say...pretty dang severe!

And of course, Crim gave the same treatment to the wizard's rambunctious little friend as well. And with at least a couple thousand footsteps to spare! After all, he'd spent close to an eternity from his own perspective rushing out to grab that delicious bottle of Tamburlaine Vodka.

From his perch on the bar stool, the bright green Ether spikes reflected in his eyes, his left eye in particular unleashing a mysterious flash.

He tapped the telescopic metal rod against the stool some more, his smirk now a full-on chaotic sneer. Crim wasted no time on words. His killing intent spoke more loudly than any words could. And unlike words, his intent, which translated directly to action without any middle-men getting in the way, didn't waste anyone's god damn time.

Would the wizard manage to pull himself out of the frying pan in time? Crim gave him 50/50 odds. In spite of not knowing the guy, he could tell just what sort of fighter he was, being that he's seen this exact sort of thing before. Numerous times, even.

But you know what they say about frying pans. Something about FIRE!, right?

Ha ha ha...spirit, indeed.

Attalu to Xelphia, Hyperspace.

Elves and humans scrambled among the small freighter that looked to be no more than a rickety old cargo ship. However if one looked close it would have a pair of heavy laser cannons on either side and enough small turrets to nip a Capitol ship in the tail. The little frigate had two arrays. One seeming to be for comm bay, the other for sensors. There was a third however that would hide just at the nose of the ship. 


Computer: "Hyperspace cleared. You have reached your designated target. Next order being awaited. Systems malfunctioning, hyperspace has been deactivated."

Vermilion looked toward the radars then outside the window of the bridge. His arm lifted, and he brought his forearm near his lips, the comlink active, "Adell, this is Vermilion Nightveil. Someone called for cavalry?"

He shut off his comlink and then spoke to the computer. "Activate emission sequence, 5501-35-21-634."

Computer: "Activating hail fire sequence."

The small auto-turrets started to fire upon the buildings of Babylon city, the structures started reducing to rubble with each round that plowed through the respective target. Two heavy laser cannons shot, leaving a full couple streets as nothing but a ditch full of wreckage.


"All hands report to the pods! We are about to give them a nice welcoming committee!" Vermilion waited as his crew took to their pods. Once told to launch, they did, propelling and curving into different battle zones. Vermilion and his second in command took the last one. The pod was met with fire from an unknown source. The panel of the escape pod flew off and another shot whistled past his ear and killed his second.Vermilion's hands were glowing, and sliding into the guard of his rapier to wrap around the hilt just above the pommel. 

Soon Vermilion slammed out of the pod and down toward the pavement. Impact in: five, four, three, two---- his free hand went groundward, and a white pulse shot the ground, padding his fall and propelling him forward into A few bushes and topiaries of a past time that were very much unkept. In the propulsion, he drew his rapier and broke into a flurry that ate through the brush. His body hit the ground in a brief roll then ended with him in a crouched killing position. The soldiers in the pods died or were injured on impact.

"Where is that sneaky little runt that my elf seer had informed me about? Is he afraid of one who was deemed evil's spawn? Who was given the name Cahalelg Sheltleth? Where is Josh?" His tone seemingly relaxed as he closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. A good man died in front of him. For this, they would pay.

Well, that was interesting. Good thing he used Wind Ether immediately. Whatever that mist shit was, it didn’t look nice. The puke that rested on the floor of his wind bubble started to smell and make Josh sick again, which meant it was time to go. He had been lucky to give each of the Senior Crew member’s one of his Raijin Kunai, and the moment he felt the android bring it into “real space”, he was gone in a flash. His wind bubble, however, didn’t remain or even just vanish in a *POOF*. No, instead it was supercharged with a burst of electricity that originated from the ninja’s previous position and shot down through the “mist” and towards the owner itself.

Through a practiced motion, the shinobi appeared next to Cee and caught the kunai before it passed her hips. In truth, he kept his mouth shut for once in his life. No quips, backtalk or anything. It would be a first in the life of the ninja, but while Cee performed her trick on Josh, he was busy attempting to read his opponents and determine what his next move should be. “AAAACHOOO!” Out of nowhere, Josh let loose a really loud sneeze. He shook it off and looked down as he realized the outfit he now wore. “Woah, hey. This is pretty cool, Cee. Thanks…” Out of nowhere, he heard his name in the wind. His name, however, was not something he was privy to just giving to anybody. And that meant whoever it was…was here for him personally. Without turning to Cee, the ninja tossed the kunai to the ground where it stuck in by the middle point. He then removed three more of said kunai from his side pouch and tossed one of them in the direction of the voice. “I’m sure you can handle these guys. I have somewhere to be, apparently…” And with a flash of yellow, he vanished from the battleground.

The ninja flashed into view a few hundred feet in the air from the person who happened to utter his name. Pointy ears, lanky body, rapier…damn this elf looks legit. Whether the person could sense him or not didn’t matter, he would give the guy a chance to speak. The three kunai that rested in his hand dropped to the ground and landed around the guy in a triangle position around him, with one of the kunai thirty feet in front of him. Another teleport and the ninja came to be face to face with the elf. “Hey there. Got a quick question before we start…how the fuck do you know my name?”

    Four small glasses lined up neatly in front of the man; each one reflected his narrow eyes, and their bright green colour bounced off all four, then a second pair of eyes came, and they looked his reflections intensely. They were dark, with chipped onyx in a soft gray.

    “Take one,” he said to the man who stood behind him in the bar. He was tall and had an angular face, high cheekbones and full lips that were always frowning. His hair rushed over his scalp, full with volume and dark just like his eyes.


    He always hated those eyes.

    
    Turning on the bar stool and looking at him still, the clatter and chatting of the patrons buzzed while they remained silent. Together, they reached for the amber drinks, taking them down with no more than a huff.

    Riku broke the silence.

    “So, what's up Old Man?” The old man looked at him, with a stare that sent shudders down his spine. “Er.. Uncle.”

    “It seems you've been busy lately, Riku.”

    “You could say that. I'm taking a break from Midian, and Havoc's been pretty busy this month. Did some stuff for justice, or something. I don't know if what happened was even right, to be honest. Brought my mood down.”

    “And still causing trouble?”

    “I'm Slade's kid, 'The Calamity Trigger', remember?”

    “You're a man now, you can chose your own path,” the older man was harsh, and the tip of his tongue was like acid every time he scolded Riku like that.

    “Yeah, yeah,” he reached for the second shot glass.

    “I heard, and this is from those people, that you've affiliated yourself with some team of rag-tag heroes?”

    “You got that right,” he had choked down his drink.

    “Can I meet your friends?”

---

    “You know, if you're going to join me, then I might as well get Mouse and Murphy here!”

    “Because you're unable to work by yourself, Kid?” More venom, which flared Riku's face full of anger.

    A long line of individuals smuttily dressed for the evening stood, waiting for the behemoth of a bouncer to let them in. For Zoran Vampir, the head of the establishment and Riku, a used-to-be-bartender, “Thomas” opened the door for them with a smile, something non-befitting for him. He had ugly teeth.

    “Listen, you wanted to meet them, and if you get dragged into any of their shit, then it's best we just get some numbers, 'kay? Vance taught me that.”     He ended that instantly, Riku would have no discussion of Vance from Zoran's perspective.

    Men and women bathed in flashes of whites, blues, reds, greens, and many, many other colours. They all danced rhythmically to the beat of the song, which was thick and heavy like stone from the speakers. Many women drank their fruity drinks one after another, while clusters of men cheered, clinked their glasses and finished lines of shots of the most light booze they could find.

    Sifting through the crowd of ecstasy-filled young adults, Zoran led Riku behind the bar, where the extra booze had been kept, safe and sound. They reached the furthest portion of the room, where a black door with a golden knob had been worn out, and they stepped through and up the stairs to the apartments above. Up there, four doors had been placed down a long hallway, and the second to their left, Zoran knocked. “I'm coming in,” he said, and forcefully opened the door. Hit in the face, Riku and Zoran stepped into a thick cloud of smoke that stank of weed. Inside the apartment, a man similar to Zoran with dark brown hair, a sharp face and red eyes sat with three girls under his arms. He was shirtless, and leaned back, with a fourth between his legs. She didn't stop.

    “What the fuck... Candi, quit it. Family's here,” she looked up and smiled. Mouse gestured for the women to leave for the bedroom, while Zorand and Riku stood there. He pulled himself together and looked at them dully.

    “Lemme guess, Fam' busine--”

    BAM! The door to the bedroom swung open again, and out came a man with skin like darkened wood and thick messy dreadlocks that ran down to his neck. He shouted obscenities towards the man whose eyes were glazed like fresh doughnuts.

    “Calm down, Meebs. Jesus, Zoran's here with the Kid.”

    Zipping his mouth, Zoran cleared his throat and waved some smoke away from his face.

    “We're going on a family trip, escort those ladies back downstairs please.”

    The sun rose up, passing the curvature of the earth and shined light outside, but it was still dark with the collection of these men. The air around them was thick and heavy like tar, and to taste air was to taste acid. The older men stared at Riku with daggers while he fumbled with the technology in his hands.

    “Don't tell us yer' friends are imaginary, Riku! I hear that's seriously unhealthy – bad enough you gots like.. What? Four people in ya' head?” Meebs teased him.

    “Shut your trap, you dumb dog.”

    “Woof, woof!”

    Riku huffed, and the man who lay on his belly on the counter held his chin with his hands. He looked at Riku, stupidly grinning while kicking his feet in the air. Zoran and Mouse stood in front of Riku while he leaned back on the bar counter, still messing around with his phone. Riku kept dialing the number, but to no avail would anyone pick up the phone.

    “Fuck it, who's up to do some teleporting?” Riku offered.

    Meebs rolled off the counter top and stood up straight, dusting his white sweater and smiling wide with sharp, prehistoric teeth like a shark's. Zoran placed his hand out then Mouse then Zoran. Slowly and surely, Riku's body was filled with cosmic might, channeling it's energy through his body and out through his hands, touching the back of Meebs' hand, touching them with the boundless form of transportation, making them vanish in a flash of black light.

---

    Information had been gathered quickly, and tagging along with Riku is his three companions who all donned the same white suit with yellow ties. Vincent Fiorelli, a man who still shocks Riku, beckons him further for something.

    Odd, Vincent has never called on Riku to test anything, but stupidly enough, Riku is shoved into a chair while the three others laugh at him, and he is strapped down. Only in moments, is he injected with the power booster, and flakes of black flood his eyes and suddenly the needle wasn't so scary anymore. Popping out, Riku was unstrapped, and he nodded to Vincent.

Power, a physical might that Riku has never felt before. A spark lights in his eyes, and suddenly.. his power is overly dramatic, increasing so much merely flexing his muscles gives him that pull in the pit of his stomach.

    “Ah.. Yes,” he grins. “They'll turn purple.”


New Babylon City,


    The Tesser harboured these men, and Meebs kept pushing Riku around.

    “Hey, piss off.”
    A hand was gently placed on Meebs' shoulder, and Mouse shook his head. “It's time to get serious, Meebs.”

    Surely enough, aboard The Tesser, Riku was given the “go”, and he had touched the hands of his family. “Let's go.”

    Dropping down onto a rooftop, the three men wove material chairs, which they sat on and watched Riku. “We're here to help, if you need it, just like you said. We'll keep an eye on you, okay?”

    “Yeah, Mouse. Got --”

    BOOM! Came the Tesser in a fireworks display, and Riku's jaw dropped after the ship had been shot at. It lowered to the ground, alit with a display Meebs' eyes grew wide at.

    “Fuck off, that was HUGE!” Meebs smiled, standing on his chair and looking overhead to the chaos and destruction. Explosions and Mist, something was up, and just a mile or two away, something ferocious was happening. Riku expanded a small amount of energy, and his body had undergone a change, like a shroud of darkness had overcome him. He only needed to take a step, expelling another form of ridiculous energy.

    In the midst of this fight, the shrouded figure appears. A single step crosses the limited boundaries of space, and soon enough, a voice says, with some excitement, “Loki, nice to see you here! What'd I miss?” As usual, Riku's gotten into the middle of things. Up within the air, hovering over buildings while fires burned and things crumbled into absolute rubble, the three men of Dread sit on floating chairs of obsidian-coloured wood. Seats you'd find at a bar.

Riku, now, looks different as though he is sentient, black mist and distinctive qualities are rough to see. A keen eye could not say, for certain, that Riku's eyes were green, or if he was smiling. He planted his feet firmly on thin air, and up above, Zoran, Mouse, and Meebs all watch him.

    “Remember what we taught you, Kid.” Said a voice that rang through his head.
    “Got it, Pops.”

    By this point, Riku was filled with so much energy, he hadn't the slightest clue on how to start.

Hellion watched Cee rummaging through her pouch, yawning idly and allowing her whatever random nuances she might have wanted – all the while pondering the meaning behind her real name. Which he still knew by the virtue of timing, ya' ken. See, Darcy hadn't be purged until she'd touched Crim – which wasn't until Cee had already kicked Josh through the wall, and began to stroll out behind him. The Mist picking up on the name when it left Vincent's lips happened while Cee still sat at here booth, drinking her hooch. So, while Cee could try and pretend her name was still a sorta-kept secret, it wasn't. And so, of course, Hellion still used it to mock her. It was a pretty simple mistake to make, he supposed, what with it only being a few seconds between them and her only having a robot brain.

Though it kinda seemed like she might still be running Windows 98, what with the obviously latency and frame-rate issues displayed. Regardless, Hellion knew her name. Hellion taunted her with it. She saved Josh (like he even really cared about that Naruto wannabe, honestly), and then things got...well not interesting, that'd require Cee actually do something pertinent and at least feasible. Of course, the Ninja had done something too – but it'd been kind of ridiculous to assume Hellion would allow his own body to have electricity travel through it. Then again, they knew little of him he supposed, even though they'd met more than once – and at one point one of them, not these two specifically, but one of their crew – had tried that exact same tactic.

It worked as effectively then has it did now, which is to say it didn't work at all. The lightning just crackled out and fizzled, kind of like pop rocks. It tingled, it tickled, but it wasn't even remotely painful. Then again, few things were. Cee's ether-laced missiles though...those were the real show started. They were the real issues to deal with. Of course, he had no choice but to deal with them – lest they become some kind of actual threat. Though, by their very nature, they threatened him not at all. See, they'd been created through means other than natural – and though the remainder of the Collective sat on the sidelines for this fight, they were still linked, their powers still shared between the group.

Hellion didn't call upon those powers, though. Rather, he called upon something he'd had since the moment of his creation, but used so rarely most people probably forgot about it. His own energy-construction capabilities. Utilizing the bio-force inside of his body, he formed a lattice-like wall so thick in front of him, and expanding out so far around him, that it coated the entirety of the Mist within the local area – not hindering its progression from his body through the ground and air behind it a bit, but protecting it wholly from the ether-bullets of the robotic lady.

Whether the lasers from the Swordnado did or didn't affect her, he didn't honestly care – they hadn't been an intended thing anyway. Their assault on Cee's clothing had only been a byproduct of his sweeping Dias' defensive augmentations into a readily available offensive strategy that would take care of most, if not all, of the random ass buildings and ground getting in his way.

Either way, as each of Cee's projectils went ker-splat on his energy wall, effectively becoming more useless than a whore with no holes, Hellion prepared to unleash his counter-assault. Which, of course, he'd been building up since the very moment of his awakening in New Babylon. That was, of course...until something stopped him. It was something he'd never sensed before, something he'd never felt.

Dread.

But what could bring about such dread in a creature like Hellion? What could cause him to stop mid-thought, and suddenly feel more fear than any entity such as he ever should have? The answer was simple, and soon it would all become clear.

---

Legends?

Legends

Legends are material to be molded, and not facts to be recorded.

History is written by the victors, and in their falsified accounts rise legends.

Welp...it's time to hit erase.

---

Before Xelphia

BGM

He sat quietly in Brobdingnag's womb, trapped. A hostage of his own design, really, though he'd never admit his own foolishness had put him here. They'd not really been mistakes, though certain individuals – namely his father-figure – saw them as such. In his mind, he did only what was right and proper for him to do. He found a world without a leader, primitive and unguarded, unprepared for what might have come to them from the depths of space, and he'd assumed the mantle of control. Their primitive culture quickly advanced beyond what would have come of it in a thousand years without his help. Now, that same culture dominated a dozen planets and were expanding beyond their own galaxy to overtake even more planets. He'd done that, he'd been the architect of that design. All in an attempt to impress his Father. It hadn't worked, obviously. Even as he sat in this cage, someone else ruled that empire, HIS empire. It was almost enough to make him plot a rebellion, though that was just in his nature. Where Vincent followed relatively without question, he had ever been the rebellious one. Seeking his own glory in his own ways, but sometimes, that came back to bite you in the ass.

Well, fuck if he really even cared anymore (he did). He'd taken his punishment like a man, he'd remained in here for over a century since being discovered on Avendrai, casting forth his hand to unleash his minions on even further reaches than before. That'd been so long ago that, even now, he was beginning to lose memory of it. Not because his memory was as keen as a razor's edge, but simply because he had no use for remembering it. Father had shown up, and Father had taken it from him. He'd been punished not for the Imperialism he'd shown, but for taking things without permission from Father. It'd been one of many of Father's toys, so who would have thought the old man would care to have it go missing? Who thought he'd even notice?

Well, apparently he did, and he came looking with a vengeance. Now, after nearly a century, his imprisonment was ending. Finally he would be released from this terrible fucking place. Not too bad, only a century this time. Last time it'd been five. Already he was beginning to wonder when the time might come, Brobdingnag spoke to him sometimes, kept him informed of all the happenings on the Omniverse, the Multiverse, and whatever Verse might have existed. He knew of the war on Xelphia, he'd known it was Xelphia before many of the people on the planet itself knew. It was...an interesting thing, to say the least. Yet, his bonds were not yet broken, and so making himself a part of that particular struggle for power was beyond him.

So, he put it at the back of his mind, and listened only to the idle drumming of the lifeform around him. The Jellyfish was vast, audaciously so, and living within it had been quite an adventure in and of itself. Several bio organisms had been hostile toward him at first, probably remnants of the beast's time in hell, as well as the terrible manifestations of the Val'gara. They didn't exist anymore – and in fact, their death had been the perfect way for him to test out his reforged sword; Gekimetsu. Several additions had definitely changed it, and that display would be a brilliant one once he showed.

While he waited, he began to pick up his things – preparing for the moment when his metaphysical imprisonment here ended. He gathered his pants, their flowing, comfortable material shifting as he pulled them up his legs. The almost-black red of them dim in what little light was created by Brobdingnag's semi-luminescent body. Fastening the simple, yet elegant, black belt in place to hold them up, he reached for his shirt. Pulling the black garment over his head was a simple affair, one anyone could do really. Well, except Fabio, he reckoned, but most people seemed to prefer him that way, he supposed. Finally, it came time to put on his armor.

That...was a bit more complicated. Not overtly so, but it had many tiny pieces which had to be in exactly the right place – though once in place they were anchored and only removable by his hand. These pieces were the defenses which protected him quite righteously, picked up over the course of his travels (generally from the dead hand of an enemy who used it before him). Some of them strong, others weak, they were what kept him alive in nearly all of his fights. Though, in the end, it only mattered to have them as decoration. The simple part of the armor was the ornaments. The hard part was deciding which set to wear, as nearly a hundred lined the walls of the womb. Picking out a fairly simple red and black color scheme, he slipped the chest and back pieces together, the metal instantly fusing itself under the influence of his internal might. One protective ornament went right over his heart, a crystal of some sort which was slightly oval with a shimmering red liquid swimming around within it.

The entire thing had some distinct markings, in the shape of winding, curving carvings etched into the metal which seemed to have no discernible pattern nor affect. In truth, the armor contained his soul within his body, making it impossible for either to me cut away from the other. The binding spell was one of great strength, to the point that even the combined might of a thousand Gods couldn't remove his soul from his body without his permission. Once that was settled, he picked out his favor overcoat, a fairly sturdy leather trench coat the color of dried blood. In truth, the entire thing was stained with blood – hence the color. That made for his clothing, and so he only had one thing left. The newest addition to his armory, though at this point the only thing in his entire armory.

Reaching out his hand, he grasped the unadorned hilt of the sword in his right hand, pulling it free from the mount on the wall holding it in place. The fact he could even touch the toy made during his imprisonment, on the one and only journey outside of it Father allowed, was a good sign. It'd been secured from him as part of his punishment, to hold within his grasp one of the most powerful weapons to ever be created was...awe-inspiring. Hell, he even felt a single, lonely tear trace its way down his left cheek. Of course, that tear promptly dropped to the floor and beat the shit out of some rather hostile molecules. Even his tears were just that badass.

His fingertips closed over the weapon tightly, a white-knuckle grip as he felt the power of the sword flow through him. God, the sins he'd committed to forge this weapon could only be described as horrendous. First, he'd hunted down the last remaining Eternium Dragon in the entire Omniverse, and cut its still-beating heart out of its body, placing it in stasis. That'd been an endeavor in and of itself, but even that wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was obtaining the crucial ingredient for tempering the blade.

The Blood of the Universe.

BGM

The rarest, and I mean rarest, material known to any living creature. The Blood of the Universe can only be obtained at the point where Verse's cross over, in the darkest reaches of purgatory and only then under certain conditions. Those conditions were excruciating to recreate, but he – along with the help of Father and Vincent – did it. Other than that, the sword had been fairly easily made – and with little bloodshed, surprisingly. Only a few thousand virgins had to die to give it the proper curses needed to create such a massive soul trap, even Vincent's magic couldn't replicate the amount of soul energy within the sword, though it could come fairly close considering the Magister's distinct levels of power.

What made the Blood of the Universe so special, so worth grabbing, were the unique vampire-like qualities of it. Infused in this sword, it was capable of a vast number of other things too, though the powers it would bring to Lysander, its one and only master, were exponential. See, when anything died to the Blood of the Universe, their life-force became trapped within the weapon used to kill them (there's the necessity of such a strong soul trap!). From there, their powers, their abilities, even their personalities could be called upon at a thought by the wielder of the sword.

The best part? Deep down the sword was still Gekimetsu. That meant it came with all those same qualities as before, including the instant death for anyone who tried to wield the sword other than The Soul Sage himself. Not that anyone would be dumb enough to try and steal the only thing Lysander ever loved more than Father. Even Father hadn't grabbed the sword from him with his hand, and instead took the smarter path, though the sword might not have hurt Father at all, considering his integral part in its creation.

Still, it'd been a smart thing to not test the weapon's will. Lysander swung the sword over his body, summoning the souls from Jigoku to lash the weapon to his back, the pommel standing up over his left shoulder and the tip only an inch or so from the ground. The obscenely over-sized buster sword looked...right on his back. It felt right, too. It'd been two centuries since he last held this weapon, though even know he could tell it wasn't the exact same.

No, the spirits inside were the same, with a few new additions, but it wasn't Gekimetsu anymore. Even the voice in his mind, the one the sword itself emanated for their private, uninterrupted conversations was different. It had once been soft, lilting like that of a prince. Now, though, it was harsh and gravelly. Like nails on a chalkboard almost.

“Is it time, Lysander? Are we to finally be released? Are we to finally kill again?”

“Yes, Gekimetsu. Our lust for blood will finally be sated, and we will be able to feast upon the fallen bodies of our enemies once again.”

“MY NAME IS NOT GEKIMETSU!” The sword bellowed in his head, like a wave crashing into a man's body with tremendous force. Enough that it actually made Lysander take a step back and reevaluate what was happening.

“Then, my new friend, what is your name, that I might call upon you for aide?”

“My name is...My....name...is....” Struggling, it seemed to have lost the name in the darkest reaches of its own personalities. Finally, though, the confidence returned and the voice with it, speaking its true name into Lysander's ear.

“Caldecise.”

Hm, Lysander thought, a fitting name, I suppose. “I like it, Caldecise. A strong name, for a strong weapon. Yes, Caldecise. It is time for you to taste your first blood. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

No other words were shared, Brobdingnag reminded them of the time – and immediately swam through the portal opened by Lagedorre. Father had paved the way, and the chains were broken. Immediately his body shifted, it was not teleportation, simply him moving at such obscene speeds that time itself seemed to stop for his very movement. His body was simply there, and then with a nearly unnoticable blur no longer stood in the womb. Those outside, and capable of seeing him, which basically just means Griff, could notice him if they looked. Hanging by one hand, and a foot around one of Brobdingnag's curled tentacle ends, he looked not at the giant space-thing across from Brobdingnag, to him Brobdingnag was sending out mocking jeers. No, his eyes were on the planet below, on Xelphia.

But why?

The answer was a simple one, just a moment ago all color faded from nearly all of reality – or maybe every bit of reality, fuck if he knew. He was only nearly omnipresence after all. With that discoloration of reality, came the static in his head, and the visions. The horribly... magnificent visions he always got when Father made his grand entrances. Bloodshed and murder. Rape and robbery. All of those things excited, they rustled his jimmies, one might say.

Those visions, the static in his head, and the lack of color in all of reality around him, though only a split second in duration, told him exactly what had become of Xelphia.

“Father's home”

He said it quietly, with no hint of real emotion – though happiness flowed through him like a river during monsoon season, spilling over its banks and threatening to wipe out thousands upon thousands of lives. His eyes closed for a moment, simply drinking in the beauty of the moment. His brother. His Father. Both were here, and so, too, must he arrive. Perhaps his entrance would not be as grand as Father's, but it would certainly be sight to behold. Immediately bending his legs at the knee, he pushed off of Brobdingnag's tentacle with enough force to send it careening into a satellite – which in turn lost its orbit and began a devastating descent toward the planet below, thankfully in an arc to keep it far from the apex of New Babylon. The Archetype's descent, however, was directly for the Val'garan present on the planet below.

There was unfinished business there.

BGM

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

His fall, just as it began to feel endless, halted abruptly. Not by any magical force, just by simple physics really. See, mid-air he turned his body so that his legs would land first, and of course he slowed his own descent so that the devastation wrought by his landing was only mildly devastating to the landscape beneath him. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he went to one knee – his fists punching into the ground just before his hunched over body. The impact of it sent dust clouds billowing out for a mile around him, overpowering the Mist itself, and pushing it back in a turmoil before the Mist regained its footing.

“Hello, Father” he said quietly, knowing full well his Father could hear him even from their intense distance apart. Even as he sent the message, he picked himself up and when the dust cleared there he stood, in full battle regalia, silvery-white hair billowing behind him in the wind vortex created by such an intensely quick descent. He took three steps forward, toward Cee and Hellion, before he stopped and looked at something occurring in the distance, where a man stood before a ninja – who had apparently buried three kunai in the ground in triangle formation.

“Josh Meliden, as I live and breath. I forgot about you, glad to see the demons of Jigoku finally let you go. You know, after you spent all that time trapped there being tortured day in and day out. I'm glad you're here though, I've been wanting to correct my past error of not eating your innards for a noonday snack.”

Of course, he also had words for the other – whose name he didn't know, and whose energy signature told him was a perfect match for Josh, in that they were both insanely weak and not really worth even the faintest notice.

“Hey, buddy. You're standing in a trap. And not even a very good one.” Shaking his head and muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'kids these days are so fucking stupid' he turned his attention back to the original goal, and immediately his footsteps carried him away from the fond memories of Avendrai and the imperialistic place he'd turned that once peaceful nation into, in less time than most men took to get off. Either way, he had other business to be about – though he did throw a perfunctory wave toward his brother who, off in the distance, could obviously see him – or at the least sense his arrival.

BGM

From there, he continued toward the android and Val'garan Herald. A little known fact, as in a fact no one knew except him, Hellion was not – in fact – a one of a kind creature. Not even remotely. There were actually forty-seven other versions of him, all stemming from the one central creator. Of course, that central creator was the one walking directly toward the Hellion, unaffected by the Mist on simple precedence that he was its true creator – its one true host. It knew that, and it parted before Lysander like the red sea before the outstretched hand of Moses.

“It's good to see you again, Hellion. You probably don't remember me, but technically speaking I'm the one who made you what you are...and now...now it's time to end that failed experiment.”

Lysander, in one smooth (not to mention impossibly fast) movement of his arm, pulled Caldecise free, breaking open the string of souls containing it and swung the sword around – piercing the very core of Hellion's being with the tip of the blade, shoving it all the way through. Immediately Hellion's body exploded into a vast cloud of Mist, which, for a single second, coated the entire city. Of course, that didn't last. Almost as soon as it exploded outward, the Mist drew back in – the vampirism of Caldecise sucking the power of it within itself. The newly added Mist was the only one affected, though. What Hellion spread throughout, and into the planet, itself remained.

The soul of Hellion of Val'gara, yes the man had one, surprisingly enough, became entrapped within the weapon. Lysander's eyes lit up with the joy of his new found power. Afterall, the vampirism was total. Even now The Mist responded to his command, though he'd never make the mistake of making his entire physical being out of it. He liked his internal organs too much to do all that, especially his stomach. The taste of freshly dead flesh was one he couldn't help but love, and losing the ability to taste it by giving up his natural body wasn't a sacrificing he could willingly make. Still, the latent powers of the Mist were great – and it only helped him realize certain mistakes The Hellion made. Like, for example, leaving Crim's movements unchecked. That wouldn't happen again. Almost immediately the remaining “traps” left in the crater-prints were dissolved, the Mist simply sucking the exploding spikes into itself, breaking them down to their base energy before dispersing it as useless throughout itself, rendered inert and harmless to Lysander himself.

Next, and still completely ignoring the robot whose name he only knew because his family knew it, he turned to the remaining members of The Collective. “Run” was all he said, and having witnessed the utter destruction of Hellion, their strongest, in that single instant they listened. Even Azaroth, who could have easily best Hellion in a fight, saw this newcomer as an immense threat – and though he didn't run, he didn't exactly dawdle in his escape. It was only a matter of minutes before they'd cleared completely out of New Babylon, retreating into the wilderness of Xelphia.

For years they'd been on the run, hiding from a source of great evil and power. Always the assumption that it was Disciple rose to the forefront. That they ran from the retribution of the Val'gara at their betrayal of the Cataclysm. Now, though? Now it came to the truest of lights. The Collective never feared Val'gara, never feard Anathema, Thane, Disciple, or even Colossus. No, their fear was deeper and truer than any could have ever known, and much more respectable than a fear for something so much weaker than themselves. Their fear, it was now evident, was for Lysander Telos Korvein, member of House Pendragon, Dunk Squad Blue – and their fear was rightful and whole.

It was the only thing that could ever cause them to run so hard, so far – and feel such a primal fear as they felt when he appeared. Anyone linked to them would soon enough share that fear. Lysander, however, had something else in mind for the other members of The Collective. He was alright with their running, he had the means and the desire to hunt them down now. Especially poor little Caitlyn, whose power seemed so very nifty, and one he wanted all for himself.

And her body. God was that thing fucking sexy or what? He already knew that he'd have to take that body for his own, too – though not in the same way he planned to take her power. Her power was for his own arsenal, to grow his own capabilities even more than they already were able to reach. No...taking her body was going to be pure pleasure. For him anyway, for her it'd be nothing but pain and torture leading up to the grand finale of being just another meal in the long list of cannibalistic victims Lysander decided to prey upon.

Already he hungered, his stomach rumbling as he recalled his reason for being here in the first place, well...his second reason for being here. The first was Hellion, and that particular goal was already reached.

Finally, Lysander turned his gaze toward the android Hellion had, moments ago, been engaged with. The odd nature of his eyes, one bright red and the other a brilliant gold, probably didn't bother to robot – though some people seemed to be taken aback by his gaze. However, the determination in his eyes might have been something to take note of, or not. He didn't really are what some machine thought of him anyway, after all, aside from serving as cheap forms of customer service and menial labor, they really weren't anything more than a bucket of bolts and wires.

“I apologize for the rudeness of that failed experiment, Christina. He should not have been so disgusting to a woman quite as...detestable as you. However, I hope you understand that, as per the agreement made – and he still technically being me, at least in one form, you still have to win a fight to get Carnus back. That fight, now, however – is with my true self. I hope that's okay.”

Not that he gave two shits if it was or wasn't okay. She could fight him or not, either way her death was already written in unbreakable stone by an invulnerable chisel with an inviolable hammer. Caldecise still in hand, he let the swords tip drag along the ground – and immediately as if on queue every single shadow in New Babylon pulsed. Almost as if in time to a song, or perhaps even Lysander's very heart-beat. Either way, the city came alive in a pretty unexpected way.

Without thinking about it, or even remotely caring to begin with, he felt the presence(s) of some pretty strong people. Still, didn't really mean much in the long run. For now, his target was before him and so he did what he planned to do from the beginning - he completed the attack prepared by Hellion.

The Mist sprang from the ground behind Cee, tendrils of it reaching up to grasp at the body of Christina. At the same time, the shadows continued to pulse – and each of them slid along the ground, none was left out of this display of power. Cee's own shadow stalked away from her body, and despite the abundance of light in the area did not seem to be replaced. Every shadow, without question or fault, crawled along the ground until they joined into an amalgam structure on the ground behind Lysander, constantly growing and shifting, pulsing with what appeared to be a life of their own.

Would those shadows come back into play at some point? Who could really say, for now they seemed completely benign in their desire to simply reside in the proximity of their truest and most powerful master. Anyone, back to the Mist, that's the important part...isn't it?

Well, maybe it was and maybe it wasn't – either way it reached out to grab Cee's limbs and tear her body into shrapnel. Whether or not it actually touched her, he didn't give a shit. The Mist was his most recent addition to a list of powers gathered through nefarious means from nearly every battle he'd ever fought. The Mist, while fairly powerful in its own odd little way, was far from the most powerful of his choices of assault. It was simply there already, having corrupted roughly a quarter of the city in the time it'd spent spreading its debilitating influence unchecked, and so why not make some minute use of it before he switched to his true methods of combat?

Twitcing his fingers a bit, he tightened his grasp on Caldecise and immediately closed his eyes – losing the sight of his eyes for that moment, his other senses (including the ones not normally held by human being) heightening to a degree far beyond even the scanners of a robotic entity such as Christina.

“Gentleman, I'm glad you could make it.” The sending from Father was strong, and Lysander sent his response back – faster than actual thought, and with all the elation of a man recently escaped from the madhouse.

“I'm just glad you let me come out and play once more, Father. It was growing awful dull inside the Prisdingnag.”

Incredibly, Crim knew even before his opponent knew what couldn't be known through any means known to man or beast! The supreme omniversal knowledge of knowing everything before it could be truly known was known to all but a select few, and it just so happened that Crim was counted among their numbers? Why? No particular reason needed to be given. All anyone needed to know was that Crim knew things that nobody else did and if they didn't like it, well, they couldn't possibly know why anyhow so there was no point in trying to debate it!

Somehow, even though they didn't know what he'd done, his enemies had managed to react to it anyways. Was that entirely horse shit? No way to know! Except Crim knew, oh yes, he knew indeed. Ah! But there was yet a remaining special snippet of knowledge that only he knew! Sure, his enemy could apparently just alter the sequence of events to suit his own liking, seemingly whenever he damnwell felt like it, for 'reasons' that not only made no sense, but made not perfect sense. Here's the thing, though. Crim's mind had no time-lag. As much as various cosmic-level entities enjoyed bypassing the laws of physics, they still couldn't exist and interact in the physical realm without at least having to adhere to some of their laws. And this one actually was a doozy! So yeah, the wizard somehow managed to completely escape from his rightful impalement unscathed, probably through little more that a special catch-all move that would always and forever enable him to just do whatever the fuck he wanted without any effort and with no penalties whatsoever. Crim was familiar with the schtick. Was it annoying? Yeah. It was the epitome of unskilled labor. This wizard was no fighter, he was just another boring wishy-washy know-it-all who relied on reality-manipulating trickery to make everyone think he was 'the man'.

Anyway, back to the earlier point. You know, the one where Crim's mind reacts in real time to events. It's like this. It takes time for normal brains to react to things in the physical world because time exists and there has to be a sequence of events. Point A leads into point B. Unless you're some kind of timelord mage who can alter causality freely with zero repercussions. Ah, well point taken. This bloke could probably do that too. Actually, he did do that. There was no actual way for him to have done what he did without actually doing that. Which was precisely how he had managed to pull himself out of the frying pan and directly into the fire. Yes, Crim's aforementioned fire. Specifically, the whirling, moon-blasting power of the Ignas Array beams from the Yggdrasil itself, which Crim enjoyed direct control of thanks to his connection to the Ygg V's Ether Amplification Engine.

His previous 'trap' had been nothing more than a lead-in for the actual attack that he'd had in mind. He knew that his enemies would pull some kind of ridiculous stunt, like undoing everything he'd done earlier, unhindered by them because they hadn't actually bothered to pay attention to the game. And that was the knowledge that saved him, one could say. Well, that, and being able to react faster than the shortest physical measurement of time. His enemy moved faster than light. But that didn't matter when Crim had already made his own move before his opponent had even realized what was actually happening. The great mighty wizard attacked Crim's ether-construct after-image, which appeared to be sitting on a bar stool that hadn't even been safely procured from the destroyed bar. Crim himself had moved away some distance. How much? ONLY HE KNEW HAHAHA. Not that it mattered, because before the wizard could even figure out what the fuck he was doing, several Ignas Array beams collided with him. Crim had guided them in from orbit while they enemy wasted time pontificating and proliferating, making moves against Ether Spikes that didn't even matter because apparently they never existed in the first place, even though they did, but that was neither here nor there. The real trouble now would be figuring out a way to not get completely vaporized but the innumerable beams of hyper intense blue energy that Crim had condensed into countless deadly wires, each with the potency to obliterate a small moon. They were each focused on the wizard, aimed to kill him and only him, because he was bored and didn't feel like dragging this shit out any longer. Of course, he was sure that the wizard would yet again manage to come up with some contrived space magic method of escaping certain doom. What was a hapless space pirate captain to do? Well, he could do plenty. And plenty he would do if it came down to it.

Seriously though, who programmed this shit? Some intern somewhere was going to get fired for this!

And so he stood wherever he stood, a pocketful of nukes and a mind full of ideas. What would become of the Wizard Who Could Do Anything? Oh, he'd probably be right in his face again (but not again) in less than an attosecond. Fortunately, Crim could continue to observe and react to anything more quickly than that thanks to his vaguely-defined abilities (except in his case not actually vague at all) to perceive things. It crossed his mind, briefly, that if only he had a respectable opponent, he'd actually be able to salvage some fun from this dog-and-pony show. But instead of that, he's been left with a profoundly immaculate slop-artist masquerading itself as a competent warrior. No matter. He'd dance the dance for now, but eventually the tedium would probably make him begin to question his own entire face.

Thanks for the sour persimmons, cousin.