OOC: NON-CANNON BATTLE POST

Vincent had acted quickly in escaping the apartment (if you could call being thrown from a fourth story window 'escaping'), and his masters had been equally quick in relaying the information to the proper parties, however despite the best and combined efforts of the Namidian Villains it still took The Commanders Hitmen half an hour to arrive on site.

As they rushed towards the building at a half run Orwell spotted the apartment easily; even in a bad neighbourhood a freshly smashed window and partially kicked down door would be conspicuous. A head glanced out from the damaged window for a mere moment and was gone almost too quickly to notice, none of the soldiers were able to tell if the head belonged to their target but it at least told them that they weren't going to be storming an empty building.
Orwell chopped his hands in the direction of the back of the apartment.
"Huxley! Go around the back and check for a fire exit, I don't want this to become a chase."

As the youngest of the trio double-timed around the corner of the building and vanished out of sight Orwell and Boye pounded their way up the flights of stairs and the physical conditioning that all of the Commanders Soldiers performed paid off as they reached the fourth floor without any evidence of shortened breath.
Orwell slung his rifle around his shoulders by it's strap and drew his pistol, his secondary weapon was loaded with an orange-striped magazine that indicated it was loaded with 'less lethal' rubber bullets; until he had eyes on the target he wanted to exercise what little caution he had time for. "Boye, teargas through the window. Now!"
Anticipating the order Boye had a cylindrical grenade already in her hand, and the moment the order was given she pulled the pin, released the safety lever, and threw the weapon hard enough to bounce off the edge of the windowsill and sail into the apartment. Moments later there was a violent hiss as the weapon detonated and sprayed the interior of the apartment with painful irritant gas. She ran her hand under her chin to check her masks seal before calling out her confirmation.
"Tear gas away. Ready to breach!"
With everything in place Orwell didn't waste another moment. "Breach!" he commanded, he closed the distance from the broken window to the apartments doorstep in moments and easily forced his way inside through the remains of the shattered door.

Inside the apartment the group didn't have long to act, only seconds after Arthur Coin  warned the others they could already heard feet pounding the hard steps outside their building. As they approached the door and considered how they could escape with the injured Reporter they were suddenly interrupted by the metallic clink of a grenade bouncing off the wall, onto the carpeted floor and releasing it's striker pin.
The two civilians, Clinton and Marston, had taken the days rough events well in their stride thus far- but without any formal battle experience they're reactions weren't quick enough to do anything besides stare in mounting horror at the device as it flooded the room with toxic irritant. Likewise, Arthur's instincts raised his protective shield wide enough to envelop the group but with the immediate threat of the men outside he was taken off guard for a second.
As it was, it was Anton who was the fastest to respond. Having a strong sense of self-preservation as well as being used to dangerous situations he quickly decided on the best course of action. He pulled the group backwards into the apartment and away from the door mere seconds before a steel-capped boot kicked it down for the second time that day, he pushed them behind the slight cover that Marston's furniture offered and took cover himself as he waited for an opportunity to strike back against the intruders.

Orwell envisioned his assault to be a simple short task; walk in, disable anyone inside as they struggled to breath in the suddenly toxic air, check for the reporter and force him back to the car if they found him.
What he HADN'T expected to find was the reporter taking cover behind one of the apartment couches alongside three other men, worse still was the fact that the gas wasn't affecting them: none of the group seemed to been writhing in pain on the ground, vomiting, or fleeing the building as he'd expected. The gas seemed to be falling short of the group by a few feet as the four crowded around a protective sphere of clear air, with a horrified realization Orwell back peddled his way out of the building and took cover on one side of the doorway. He hand-signalled for Boye to do the same and tapped his earpiece to broadcast a message back to The Commander.
"Target sighted! He's with a number of civilians and at least one super- gas ineffective! Advise!" he said as he tried to keep his voice even.

As it stood, the situation was that two soldiers were positioned outside the front door to the apartment, with another rushing around the back to attack the building from a different angle. Shadowjack, Orthos, The reporter, and his unfortunate friend were trapped in the building but had managed to endure the sudden breach and were still in a good position to fight back. With both sides making sudden alterations to their plans the situation had developed into a very temporary stalemate.

...

Further down the street another car pulled up in the middle of the road. With the white 4x4 and Beat up sedan both having been parked hurriedly and thoughtlessly. The car was a spluttering old thing, and if any had been paying any notice they might recognise it as the same car that the first assassin had used during his first attempt on Rice's life. Vincent stood out and snarled angrily as he saw the Commanders men raiding the apartment, behind him the rest of the car doors opened to disperse another four men who bore similar triad tattoos to Vincent's own.
"Looks like someone else want's my bounty, boys." he flexed his fingers and his thunderous expression somehow became even more furious. "The reporter, and everyone protecting him are DEAD!"
Dieter had given the triads, to commanders men, and the other forces after Rice's bounty a codeword to prevent friendly fire, but Vincent had no intention of using it. Even more than the reward money he wanted revenge against the humiliation he'd suffered not long ago.
"No one makes a fool out of Vincent Lee!" He cocked his carbine and heard the distant screech of tires as more triad cars homed in on the apartment.

OOC Non-canon battle post

The hit squad out front split up under their leader's command, with two of them heading for the front entrance and Huxley scooting down an alleyway to cover the rear of the building.

Inside the apartment Arthur saw that they might end up having to move carefully given Clint's condition, with time they didn't have. Not if they wanted to avoid a fight that is. Looking between the trio quickly as the started heading out the doorway he came to a decision and rather than head up the stairs with them turned downwards instead.

"You guys get out of here, I'll buy us some time and catch up somehow. Be safe ok?"

Anton nodded in agreement. "I will scout ahead to ensure that the path is clear." Without another word he stepped into the shadows of the stairwell and disappeared from view.

"Try to make it in one piece my friend!" Clinton managed to shout down the stairs as he headed slowly upwards mostly resting on Marston's shoulder, which caused a smile from Arthur. My friend huh? He liked the sound of that even more than hero.

The pair that came crashing through the front and pounding up the stairs with some rapidity but covering each other as they went, which slowed them down just enough for Arthur to fully extend a protective field all the way across the narrow stairwell from one wall to another.

"Hi there I guess? I don't know what your intentions are but I would recommend you both go home and um... well try to eat right?"

Both Orwell and Boye had their assault weapons trained on squarely on Arthur as he came into view at the top of one of the flights of stairs. Stand down and get out of our way. I won't ask twice. Orwell was less than impressed by Arthur's attempt to shoo them away like a 19th century nanny, but years of ingrained combat instincts told him something was off. Normal people didn't calmly stare down a pair of assault weapons, but they didn't have time to be messing around with someone who was obviously stalling either.

"Now I'd really strongly recommend you don't fire those things..." It wasn't a signal exactly from Orwell, just a slight shift in his manner and the experience of working together that might as well of been to Boye. Two short bursts of silenced gunfire came from each of their guns. Both aiming to rip a trio of holes through Arthur's chest. The bullets never made it nearly that far though ricocheting wildly off of the barrier Arthur had erected between them. Bullets were suddenly bouncing haphazardly off concrete stairs and walls, one catching Boye right in the side causing her to stumble a few steps into a wall.

"Boye you ok!" Damned gifted, no mention of him in the intel either. Orwell quickly did a mental sitrep. Things were getting complicated but this guy being here indicated that most likely Clinton Rice was heading to the roof, probably looking to escape down a fire escape or some such.

Getting back to her feet Boye grimaced a little. Luckily for her the body armour had done its job, although it felt lie at least one of her ribs was likely cracked. Its nothing sir, I am good to go. She trained her gun on Arthur once again, this time with a withering glare in her expression.

"Alright, hold down this position. I am going to go check for new orders." As Orwell passed Boye, the brief look that was exchanged between them was enough for her to read the real meaning behind his words. As long as one of them was here, it would tie down the Gifted. Orwell was actually heading down to back up Huxley so they could intercept Clinton Rice. Calmly though she just nodded and went back to focusing all her attention on Arthur.

As Orwell raced down the stairs he was on the comm to Huxley the moment he thought it likely he was out of earshot of the Gifted they'd run into. Never could be sure with their likes but you had to take some chances in this business. Huxley, encountered a Gifted, average looking, appears to generate a forcefield. Boye is distracting him. Target is likely enroute to the roof, I am on my way.

Outside in the alleyway Huxley had just made it there when Orwell's message came in over his headset. Roger that sir. Standing by, covering the fire escape. No sign of target yet. His voice was calm, collected, but on the inside though his heart was thumping just a beat or two faster. He liked Gifted, liked taking down their smug, arrogant faces, showing them that they weren't so special once their guts were spread out all over the floor in front of them. He'd done it once before and now he'd get another chance.

So thrilled by the idea of facing down a Gifted, he was almost taken down by the first blow Anton threw. Having shadow walked to the top of the building Anton had been carefully tracking Huxley from above, maneuvering himself so he could finally slip out right behind the man from his own shadow to deliver a quick knockout blow to the base of the his skull while he was distracted with his own comms. Whether it was some sixth sense or just a trained awareness, Huxley shifted his stance at the last moment, the blow glancing off his shoulder rather than taking him down outright and boy was he fast. Confronted with a foe that had somehow snuck up on him, Huxley used the momentum from the strike to tuck into a forwards roll, firing as he did so to lace his attacker full of bullets. Only Anton's own quickness saved him as he dived into the fast disappearing streak of Huxley's shadow to emerge above him in the shadows cast by the fire escape. Rolling to his feet Huxley scanned the area for his suddenly vanished foe, two Gifted! He could barely believe his luck. Standard tactics would've suggested he wait for backup, but Huxley had no intention of Orwell stealing away a kill from him. His mind raced, but from what he'd seen it seemed likely that the Gifted could teleport, although it appeared limited somehow from the way he'd moved. Ah yes he'd jumped after Huxley almost, like he was chasing his shadow.

Smiling the psychopathic mercenary concocted a plan quickly in his mind, reaching a hand into his belt he started flinging out small flare sticks which quickly caught alight, bathing most of the alleyway in an unnatural green glow. Importantly now there were only two possible areas of shadow that his foe could hide in and almost without warning Huxley started firing indiscriminately into the shadows of the fire escape.

Anton had been watching his opponent's actions carefully but the sudden attack surprised him and he was forced to dive into the shadows, emerging in the small darkness in the gap behind a dumpster, that wasn't fully illuminated by the flares. As his own darker shadow peeled out of those cast by the metal container though he heard amidst the incessant gunfire a sudden clatter of metal on metal as the grenade Huxley had flung with his off hand, while he still fired relentlessly at the fire escape one handed, bounced off the lid of the dumpster and right into the gap behind it. Huxley smiled as the trap he'd planned was sprung.

For a brief moment Anton almost hesitated and that would've cost him his life. There was no time to escape, having just emerged as his momentum was carrying him the wrong way, there was still one spot of shadow he could use though, it was too small for himself. For a grenade though, a small well of darkness leapt up almost to embrace the falling explosive. Disappearing into it just as it exploded, right in the shadow cast beneath Huxley's left foot. The mercenary never really knew what hit him as the concussion grenade literally flung him off his feet and through the air in a neat parabolic arc right into the alleyway wall, he didn't get up after his body slumped to the floor. Anton wasn't entirely unscathed though as he didn't manage to fully close the shadow portal and so some of the force of the grenade stunned his body to some extent, throwing off his balance as he stumbled around from the back of the dumpster, his ears ringing horribly. A few moments passed before he realised that someone was calling out to him from above. "Hey kid, you alright down there." Maston's voice came floating down as a pair of heads peeked nervously over the edge of the building. Looking to the car they'd been headed for and the pair above, Anton slipped easily through the shadow behind the dumpster to appear right behind Clinton and Marston. "I've been better." Before either had a chance to be alarmed by his sudden appearance he grabbed both of them dragging them backwards into their own shadows so as to emerge out of the underside of the car's roof. Marston landed neatly in the driver's seat, Anton in the passenger's and Clinton laid out across the rear. "Now I suggest we get out of here, so I can shake off this headache."

"Alrighty then." Gunning the engine Marston pulled out of the back of the alleyway in a hurry, just as Orwell came running into it the other way. The squad leader cursed as their target slipped away, approaching Huxley's limp form, he sighed a little to find him still alive. "Commander sir, target has escaped. I repeat target has escaped, agent is down, request evac. Awaiting instructions." He then flicked over to contact Boye just as there was a sizeable explosion from inside the building he'd just left, a few of the windows blowing out scattering glass everywhere. "Jesus! Boye are you alright in there, report." There was a long pause before Boye's familiar sharp voice came across the radio. "I am ok sir. Managed to find a creative solution sir for the Gifted. Should I subdue or..." There was a sudden silence over the comms. "Boye? Boye report. What on earth is going on up there?" Caught between an injured agent and Boye's sudden radio silence Orwell was totally unsure of how to proceed.

Meanwhile a few minutes earlier Arthur had begun slowly making his way up the stairs, hoping to perhaps rejoin Clinton, Marston and the odd Gifted deliver man, he wasn't moving too quickly though as he was climbing backwards wanting to make sure not to drop the barrier between himself and the female soldier. She looked like a soldier to Arthur anyway, but perhaps she was really an assassin, if she meant to kill Clinton after all. As Boye followed Arthur pace for pace she noticed that the barrier wasn't entirely complete. As he rounded a flight of stairs it occasionally scraped away a little concrete dust from the stairwell, meaning that the stairs underneath Arthur right now weren't shielded. Smiling inwardly Boye gave nothing away until Arthur had just turned around another flight, momentarily lowering her weapon she flung a sticky grenade at the stairs underneath Arthur. Not waiting to see if it found its mark she dived to the right shouldering through a cheap wooden door as the high explosive detonated behind her, demolishing the section of staircase and rocking the whole building.

Getting up off the apartment floor, Boye cautiously peered through the doorway, rifle first. Concrete dust filled the air and the section on which the Gifted had been standing had collapsed entirely. Looking down she noted a somewhat bloodied body amidst the collapsed rubble below. Orwell called in at just that moment, to which she replied, "I am ok sir. Managed to find a creative solution sir for the Gifted. Should I subdue or..." She meant to say more, wanted to but couldn't somehow, in fact she couldn't move her tongue, hell she could barely move at all. Her muscles still reacted, but it was like she was gripped in an invisible vice, tailored to her body.

"Subdue or what exactly?" The voice emanated from below her, it was that Gifted boy's or so it seemed. But it was off, different somehow, more sure of itself, more sinister. "Kill I am guessing. Haha, now I'll admit you almost had poor little Arthur there. Still boy has a knack for protecting himself, wouldn't you agree?" Unable to move her head Boye wasn't sure how he managed it but Arthur or whoever he was, suddenly rose up in front of her like he'd flown up. "Can't answer though can you? Can't even move. You see Arthur's a wuss, plays nice with all ye little people when he could just crush you like ants." Boye screamed suddenly or tried to against the field Arthur had trapped her in as part of that field applied sudden pressure on the spot where she'd been struck earlier with a stray bullet. "Ah yes, I guess I should make it a bit easier for you to scream shouldn't I? Else where will the fun be in slowly taking the wings off this little butterfly." Arthur walked calmly past Boye, into the apartment, just as the field around her mouth and tongue loosened enough to allow her to scream as she too disappeared into the apartment after him.

Anton's head rang with the painful echoes of the explosion and gunfire he had just waded through. On top of that, his left shoulder was aching. With a quick glance, the Shadow Runner saw a smattering of blood and what looked like small pieces of something peppered in his shoulder...Dammit...shrapnel...dammit, dammit, dammit...shouldn't have gotten involved you idiot..not worth the risk...not...

Vincent Lee anger had almost blinded him to the twist in karma coming right at him. As his own Triad brothers pulled up in various vehicles, he felt, more than heard the two separate explosions go off...one right after another. Vincent's rush to seek revenge slowed a step before his righteous anger fueled his fires of vengeance. With a quick jog, the Golden Dragon Triad started to pass the alley and flow into the building. Vincent, aware of the dangers in the building, slowed slightly, letting his brothers take the lead...How many shadows can you fight Dirty Shadow...can you fight them all?....Can you...

In slow motion, both men lock eyes with each other as they pass mere yards away. The look of oh shit passed between them as they both tried to react first...one on foot, the other in the back of a moving car. Then with a snap, time returned to normal.

“Martson...DUCK!” Anton screamed as he kicked the back of Marston's seat forward and  slipped down into the shadow between the two seats.

“Nǐ huì sǐ yīqiān cì āng zāng de yǐngzi!!!!” screams Vincent Lee with his finger squeezing the trigger on the AK. Bullets start to spray just as Vincent's shadow erupts from the ground before his feet.

Even though he knew it was coming, the move still jolted the Asian Assassin. However, the blows rising up did miss Vincent, just not the gun. Kicked from his hand, the AK-47 goes spinning off behind Vincent. But, not before the stream of rounds found there mark. The bullets sprayed across the back of the retreating car, exploding two of the tires and sending the car careening into Vincent's own car that he had arrived in.

The shadow never slowed down, never hesitated as it spun low across the ground, legs sweeping around and up as hands pushed up into a cartwheel kick. This time, though, Vincent knew he was fighting a shadow...knew it would be close...and knew he could answer . With a grim line, Vincent Lee double stepped out of the swirling leg sweep and ducked under the rising cartwheel...following up with a vicious four knuckle jab and short kick to the back of the leading knee as it spun by. Unable to control his forward motion, Anton had to abandon his transition and simply roll awkwardly to avoid pair of double stomps.

"Hēi bào gōngfū Dirty Shadow...Black Leopard Kung Fu!” The anger is palpable as Vincent flows into a low stance that widens his center of gravity. “No more easy fight for you...No more bullshit tricks...no more...SHADOW!” There was no warning as Vincent Lee sprung forward, hands and feet moving low and in blurs as they came rapid fire at Anton. This time though, the Leopard's paws found no mark. In a series of backflips, cartwheels, and rolls, Anton seemed to always flow with the strikes...always just be out of reach...right up until he spun towards a parked box truck. Not slowing down, Anton simply ran up the wall of the truck and flipped over Vincent as he struck with double leopard paws.

With a twist and half pike, Anton landed in a three point stance ten feet behind Vincent. Even at that distance, Anton heard the power of the strikes and could feel the bones break in Vincent's hands and forearms from where he was. Vincent scream of fury and pain was visceral...almost a strike in and of itself, as Anton flinched from it.  Standing there in disbelief, Anton flinched again when Vincent turned around. The mangled hand were realigning themselves, bones popping and cracking as Vincent grimaced in extreme pain. “I will rip your arms off and feed them to you! I will beat your face to the back of your head...I will KILL YOU!” The screams give Anton enough tie to glance over at the Car. Marston was getting out and staggering over to another car, as Rice pulled himself up from the other side....Time, they need time...and I get to face a killer who won't die...should have said no...With that thought Anton flowed into the charging Vincent.

What happened next was caught on no less than thirty different cellphones all across Vegas. A flickering shadow thing fighting what looked like some sort of zombie. All up and down the strip, the two fought, both moving like shadows that flowed across the walls. Many thought it was some sort of new horror movie being filmed. Others thought it was just another Gifted stunt that was being pulled to get an audience. And Vegas? Vegas did what it always did...it ran the odds. In seconds, someone had already started a book and profits were starting to develop. All of this for a battle that last three minutes.

Three very long minutes to the two fighting. No quarter was given...and none were taken. Anton knew that Marston needed time. He also knew that Vincent needed to be occupied...just in case he had any other gifts. So...instead of just pulling the Lethal Leopard through a shadow and leaving him stranded somewhere. Shadowjak kept pulling him along as they flowed into buildings, along walls, and even down the strip. Every third pull, Anton would bring them back to the alley, to see what Marston had accomplished...first time he was smashing a window, the second time he was under the dash...the third time, Anton heard an engine rev.

With a grim nod, Anton pulled Vincent Lee into another portal with him. Throughout the fight, Lee was hammer away at full strength, regardless the out come. He would heal...nothing was permanent. Not so for Anton. Already, the Umbral Ukraine knew that he had strained his wounded shoulder, his left eye and cheekbone were swollen almost shut...might be a fracture there...and he was limping with his right knee. Which is why when Anton flowed up out of the umbral portal with lee, he flung him directly into the path of a speeding semi on the highway out of town. Lee would survive...so would Anton, for now.

Flowing up out of a shadow by the newly acquired car, Anton slumps down in a new backseat, broken and weary. “Where's Arthur?”

(OOC: Canon Battle Post)

Vincent had acted quickly in escaping the apartment (if you could call being thrown from a fourth story window "escaping"), and his masters had been equally quick in relaying the information to the proper parties. However, despite the best and combined efforts of the Namidian Villains, it still took The Commanders Hitmen half an hour to arrive on site.

As they rushed towards the building at a half run Orwell spotted the apartment easily; even in a bad neighborhood, a freshly smashed window and partially kicked down door would be conspicuous. A head glanced out from the damaged window for a mere moment and was gone almost too quickly to notice, none of the soldiers were able to tell if the head belonged to their target but it at least told them that they weren't going to be storming an empty building.

Orwell chopped his hands in the direction of the back of the apartment.

"Huxley! Go around the back and check for a fire exit, I don't want this to become a chase."

As the youngest of the trio double-timed around the corner of the building and vanished out of sight, Orwell and Boye pounded their way up the flights of stairs and the physical conditioning that all of the Commanders Soldiers performed paid off as they reached the fourth floor without any evidence of shortened breath.

Orwell slung his rifle around his shoulders by it's strap and drew his pistol; his secondary weapon was loaded with an orange-striped magazine that indicated it was loaded with "less lethal" rubber bullets. Until he had eyes on the target, he wanted to exercise what little caution he had time for.

"Boye, teargas through the window. Now!"

Anticipating the order, Boye had a cylindrical grenade already in her hand, and the moment the order was given she pulled the pin, released the safety lever, and threw the weapon hard enough to bounce off the edge of the windowsill and sail into the apartment. Moments later, there was a violent hiss as the weapon detonated and sprayed the interior of the apartment with painful irritant gas. She ran her hand under her chin to check her masks seal before calling out her confirmation.

"Tear gas away. Ready to breach!" With everything in place, Orwell didn't waste another moment.

"Breach!" he commanded. He closed the distance from the broken window to the apartment's doorstep in moments and easily forced his way inside through the remains of the shattered door.

Inside the apartment, the group didn't have long to act; only seconds after Arthur Coin  warned the others they could already hear feet pounding the hard steps outside their building. As they approached the door and considered how they could escape with the injured reporter, they were suddenly interrupted by the metallic clink of a grenade bouncing off the wall, onto the carpeted floor, and releasing it's striker pin.

The two civilians, Clinton and Marston, had taken the days rough events in stride thus far- but without any formal battle experience their reactions weren't quick enough to do anything besides stare in mounting horror at the device as it flooded the room with toxic irritant. Likewise, Arthur's instincts raised his protective shield wide enough to envelop the group, but with the immediate threat of the men outside he was taken off guard for a second.

As it was, it was Anton who was the fastest to respond. Having a strong sense of self-preservation as well as being used to dangerous situations, he quickly decided on the best course of action. He pulled the group backwards into the apartment and away from the door mere seconds before a steel-capped boot kicked it down for the second time that day. He pushed them behind the slight cover that Marston's furniture offered and took cover himself as he waited for an opportunity to strike back against the intruders.

Orwell envisioned his assault to be a simple short task; walk in, disable anyone inside as they struggled to breathe in the suddenly toxic air, check for the reporter, and force him back to the car if they found him. He hadn't expected to find the reporter taking cover behind one of the apartment couches alongside three other men. Worse, the gas wasn't affecting them: none of the group seemed to been writhing in pain on the ground, vomiting, or fleeing the building as he'd expected. The gas seemed to be falling short of the group by a few feet as the four crowded around a protective sphere of clear air. With a horrified realization, Orwell back peddled his way out of the building and took cover on one side of the doorway. He hand-signalled for Boye to do the same and tapped his earpiece to broadcast a message back to The Commander.

"Target sighted! He's with a number of civilians and at least one super- gas ineffective! Advise!" he said as he tried to keep his voice even.

As it stood, the situation was that two soldiers were positioned outside the front door to the apartment, with another rushing around the back to attack the building from a different angle. Shadowjack, Orthos, the reporter, and his unfortunate friend were trapped in the building but had managed to endure the sudden breach and were still in a good position to fight back. With both sides making sudden alterations to their plans, the situation had developed into a very temporary stalemate.

...

Further down the street, another car pulled up in the middle of the road. A white 4x4 and beat-up sedan had both been parked hurriedly and thoughtlessly nearby. This car, though, was a spluttering old thing, and if any had been paying any notice they might recognise it as the same car that the first assassin had used during his first attempt on Rice's life. Vincent stood out and snarled angrily as he saw the Commanders men raiding the apartment, behind him the rest of the car doors opened to disperse another four men who bore similar Triad tattoos to Vincent's own.

"Looks like someone else wants my bounty, boys." he flexed his fingers and his thunderous expression somehow became even more furious. "The reporter, and everyone protecting him are DEAD!"

Dieter had given the Triads, The Commander's men, and the other forces after Rice's bounty a codeword to prevent friendly fire, but Vincent had no intention of using it. Even more than the reward money, he wanted revenge against the humiliation he'd suffered not long ago.

"No one makes a fool out of Vincent Lee!" He cocked his carbine and heard the distant screech of tires as more triad cars homed in on the apartment.

Inside the apartment, Arthur saw a crowd of Triads gathering outside. Given Clint's condition, they might need to move carefully, but they didn't have time! The crowd was getting closer. Looking between the trio that first showed up and the gang of Triads rapidly as the others prepared to leave, he came to a decision. Rather than head up the stairs with them, he turned downwards.

"You guys get out of here, I'll buy us some time and catch up somehow. Be safe ok?"

Anton nodded in agreement. "I will scout ahead to ensure that the path is clear." Without another word, he stepped into the shadows of the stairwell and disappeared from view.

"Try to make it in one piece my friend!" Clinton managed to shout down the stairs as he headed slowly upwards mostly resting on Marston's shoulder, which caused a smile from Arthur. My friend huh? He liked the sound of that even more than hero.

Arthur bounded down the stairs, extending his protective bubble further and further out as he went. In the span of about a minute, he had reached the ground floor. He stood in the doorway as the Triads and hit men shouted loudly at each other outside.

"Hi there, everyone. I don't know what your intentions are but I would recommend you all go home and um... well try to eat right?" shouted the Gifted guardian.

Orwell was less than impressed by Arthur's attempt to shoo them away like a 19th century nanny, but years of ingrained combat instincts told him something was off. Normal people didn't calmly stare down a pair of assault weapons, but they didn't have time to be messing around with someone who was obviously stalling either. The Triads had no such reservations.

A river of Triad bullets crashed against Arthur's force field as Orwell and Boye leapt out of the way. The bullets ricocheted off the barrier Arthur created, bouncing off cars, buildings, body armor, and thrusting into the bodies of a few Triads. The lead Triad, in particular, had his neck sliced open by a bullet... but the wound shrank and healed itself shut in the span of five seconds.

Simultaneously, Boye grunted loudly as a bullet pounded into her body armor.

"Boye you ok?" asked Orwell. She nodded.

Its nothing sir, I am good to go.

"No! I'm sorry. Don't fire!" said Arthur, fearing for the lives of the very men who were here to kill him. Arthur backed up into the building and carefully, slowly strode back up the stairs. After giving her a few seconds to recover, Orwell shot Boye a signal. Though the signal was nothing more than a look and a point of his fingers, Boye knew that she was to follow the target while her captain moved around the building.

Orwell raced around the building in order to help Huxley catch their real target. He was on to the comm to Huxley the moment he thought he was out of the Gifted's earshot. You never could be sure with their kind, but you had to take risks in this business.

Huxley, encountered a Gifted, average looking, appears to generate a forcefield. Boye is distracting him. Target is likely en route to the roof, I am on my way.

Outside in the alleyway, Huxley had just made it there when Orwell's message came in over his headset.

Roger that sir. Standing by, covering the fire escape. No sign of target yet. His voice was calm, collected, but on the inside his heart was thumping just a beat or two faster. He liked Gifted, liked taking down their smug, arrogant faces, showing them that they weren't so special once their guts were spread out all over the floor in front of them. He'd done it once before and now he'd get another chance.

So thrilled by the idea of facing down a Gifted, he was almost taken down by the first blow Anton threw. Having "shadow walked" to the top of the building, Anton had been carefully tracking Huxley from above, maneuvering himself so he could finally slip out right behind the man from his own shadow and deliver a quick knockout blow to the base of the his skull while he was distracted. Whether it was some sixth sense or just a trained awareness, Huxley shifted his stance at the last moment and the blow glanced off his shoulder instead of taking him down outright. Confronted with a foe that had somehow snuck up on him, Huxley used the momentum from the strike to tuck into a forwards roll, firing as he did so to lace his attacker with bullets. Only Anton's own quickness saved him as he dived into the fast disappearing streak of Huxley's shadow to emerge above him in the shadows cast by the fire escape. Rolling to his feet, Huxley scanned the area for his suddenly vanished foes. Two Gifted; he could barely believe his luck. Standard tactics would've suggested he wait for backup, but Huxley had no intention of letting Orwell steal two kills away from him. His mind raced, and he quickly determined that it was more likely that he was fighting one Gifted who could teleport. One Gifted who could teleport... in a limited way. That's right, he'd jumped after Huxley almost like he was chasing his shadow!

Smiling, the psychopathic mercenary instantly concocted a plan. He reached a hand into his belt and started flinging out small flare sticks which quickly caught alight, bathing most of the alleyway in an unnatural green glow. Now there were only two possible areas of shadow that his foe could hide in and almost without warning, Huxley started firing indiscriminately into the shadows of the fire escape.

Anton had been watching his opponent's actions carefully, but the sudden attack surprised him. He was forced to dive into the shadows, emerging in the small darkness in the gap behind a dumpster that wasn't fully illuminated by the flares. As his own darker shadow peeled out of those cast by the metal container, he heard amidst the incessant gunfire a sudden clatter of metal on metal. The grenade Huxley had flung with his off hand, while he still fired relentlessly at the fire escape one handed, bounced off the lid of the dumpster and landed right in the gap behind it. Huxley smiled as the trap he'd planned was sprung.

For a brief moment, Anton almost hesitated and that would've cost him his life. There was no time to escape, having just emerged as his momentum was carrying him the wrong way. There was still one spot of shadow he could use, but it was too small for himself. For a grenade, though, it could work. A small well of darkness leapt up almost to embrace the falling explosive. Disappearing into it just as it exploded, it immediately appeared right in the shadow cast beneath Huxley's left foot. The mercenary never really knew what hit him as the concussion grenade literally flung him off his feet and through the air in a neat parabolic arc right into the alleyway wall. He didn't get up after his body slumped to the floor. Anton wasn't entirely unscathed, though, as he didn't manage to fully close the shadow portal and so some of the force of the grenade stunned his body to some extent, throwing off his balance as he stumbled around from the back of the dumpster, his ears ringing horribly. A few moments passed before he realised that someone was calling out to him from above.

"Hey kid, you alright down there." Maston's voice came floating down as a pair of heads peeked nervously over the edge of the building. Looking to the carefully hidden car they'd been headed for and the pair above, Anton slipped easily through the shadow behind the dumpster to appear right behind Clinton and Marston.

"I've been better." Before either had a chance to be alarmed by his sudden appearance, he grabbed both of them dragging them backwards into their own shadows so as to emerge out of the underside of the car's roof. Marston landed neatly in the driver's seat, Anton in the passenger's and Clinton laid out across the rear. "Now I suggest we get out of here, so I can shake off this headache."

"Alrightey then," Gunning the engine, Marston pulled out of the back of the alleyway in a hurry, just as Orwell came running into it the other way. The squad leader cursed as their target slipped away. Approaching Huxley's limp form, he sighed a little to find him still alive.

"Commander sir, target has escaped. I repeat target has escaped, agent is down, request evac. Awaiting instructions." He then flicked over to contact Boye just as there was a sizeable explosion from inside the building he'd just left, a few of the windows blowing out scattering glass everywhere. "Jesus! Boye are you alright in there? Report." There was a long pause before Boye's familiar sharp voice came across the radio.

"I am okay, sir. Managed to find a creative solution for the Gifted. Should I subdue or..." There was a sudden silence over the comms.

"Boye? Boye report. What on earth is going on up there?" Caught between an injured agent and Boye's sudden radio silence, Orwell was totally unsure of how to proceed.

Meanwhile, a few minutes earlier, Arthur had begun slowly making his way up the stairs, hoping to perhaps rejoin Clinton, Marston and the odd Gifted delivery man. He wasn't moving too quickly, though, as he was climbing backwards and working to make sure not to drop the barrier between himself and the female soldier. She looked like a soldier to Arthur anyway, but perhaps she was really an assassin, if she meant to kill Clinton after all. As Boye followed Arthur pace for pace she noticed that the barrier wasn't entirely complete. As he rounded a flight of stairs, it occasionally scraped away a little concrete dust from the stairwell, meaning that the stairs underneath Arthur right now weren't shielded. Smiling inwardly, Boye gave nothing away until Arthur had just turned around another flight. Momentarily lowering her weapon, she flung a sticky grenade at the stairs underneath Arthur. Not waiting to wait and see if it found its mark, she dived to the right, shouldering through a cheap wooden door as the high explosive detonated behind her. The explosion demolished a section of staircase and rocked the whole building; that had to have been enough. That had to have killed him.

Getting up off the apartment floor, Boye cautiously peered through the doorway rifle first. Concrete dust filled the air and the section on which the Gifted had been standing had collapsed entirely. Looking down, she noted a somewhat bloodied body amongst the collapsed rubble below. Orwell called in at just that moment, to which she replied,

"I am ok sir. Managed to find a creative solution sir for the Gifted. Should I subdue or..." She meant to say more, wanted to, but couldn't somehow. In fact, she couldn't move her tongue. Hell, she could barely move at all! Her muscles still reacted, but it was like she was gripped in an invisible vice, tailored to her body.

"Subdue or what exactly?" The voice emanated from below her, it was that Gifted boy's or so it seemed. But it was off, different somehow, more sure of itself, more sinister. "Kill I am guessing. Haha, now I'll admit you almost had poor little Arthur there. Still, boy has a knack for protecting himself, wouldn't you agree?"

Unable to move her head, Boye wasn't sure how he managed it but Arthur (or whoever he was) suddenly rose up in front of her like he'd flown up.

"Can't answer though can you? Can't even move. You see Arthur's a wuss, plays nice with all ya little people when he could just crush you like ants." Boye suddenly tried to scream as part of the field Arthur had trapped her in applied sudden pressure to the spot where she'd been struck by a stray bullet. "Ah yes, I guess I should make it a bit easier for you to scream shouldn't I? Else where will the fun be in slowly taking the wings off this little butterfly."

Arthur walked calmly past Boye, into the apartment, just as the field around her mouth and tongue loosened enough to allow her to scream as she too disappeared into the apartment after him.

-------------------

Outside, on the street, the Triads spotted their target's car leaving the area. The thugs dashed after it. Vincent Lee pointed his AK at the front seat. Both his mind and his face smoldered with the insane rage of a scorned criminal.

“Martson...DUCK!” Anton screamed as he kicked the back of Marston's seat forward and slipped down into the shadow between the two seats.

“Nǐ huì sǐ yīqiān cì āng zāng de yǐngzi!!!!” screams Vincent Lee with his finger squeezing the trigger on the AK. Bullets start to spray just as Vincent's shadow erupts from the ground before his feet.

Even though he knew it was coming, the move still jolted the Asian Assassin. The shadow's rising blows missed Vincent, but not the gun. Kicked from his hand, the AK-47 spun off behind Vincent. The bullets sprayed across the back of the retreating car, exploding two of the tires and sending the car careening into Vincent's own car that he had arrived in.

The shadow never slowed down, never hesitated as it spun low across the ground, legs sweeping around and up as hands pushed up into a cartwheel kick. This time, though, Vincent knew he was fighting a shadow...knew it would be close...and knew he could answer. With a grim look on his face, Vincent Lee hopped out of the swirling leg sweep and ducked under the rising cartwheel. He countered the shadow's assault with a vicious four knuckle jab and short kick to the back of the leading knee as the shadow flew past. Unable to control his forward motion, Anton had to abandon his transition and simply roll awkwardly to avoid a pair of double stomps.

"Hēi bào gōngfū Dirty Shadow...Black Leopard Kung Fu!” The anger is palpable as Vincent flows into a low stance that widens his center of gravity.

“No more easy fight for you...No more bullshit tricks...no more...SHADOW!” There was no warning as Vincent Lee sprung forward, hands and feet moving low and in blurs as they came rapid fire at Anton. This time though, the Leopard's paws found no mark. In a series of backflips, cartwheels, and rolls, Anton seemed to always flow with the strikes. He was always just be out of reach...right up until he spun towards a parked box truck. Not slowing down, Anton simply ran up the wall of the truck and flipped over Vincent as he struck with double leopard paws.

With a twist and half pike, Anton landed in a three point stance ten feet behind Vincent. Even at that distance, Anton heard the power of the strikes and could feel the bones break in Vincent's hands and forearms from where he was. Vincent's scream of fury and pain was visceral. It was almost a strike in and of itself, thought Anton as he flinched away from it. Standing there in disbelief, Anton flinched again when Vincent turned around. The mangled hands were realigning themselves, bones popping and cracking as Vincent grimaced in extreme pain.

“I will rip your arms off and feed them to you! I will beat your face to the back of your head...I will KILL YOU!” The screams give Anton enough time to glance over at the car. Marston was getting out and staggering over to another car, as Rice pulled himself up from the other side.

Time, they need time...and I get to face a killer who won't die...should have said no. With that thought, Anton flowed into the charging Vincent.

What happened next was caught on no less than thirty different cellphones all across Vegas. A flickering shadow thing fighting what looked like some sort of zombie. All up and down the strip, the two fought, both moving like shadows that flowed across the walls. Many thought it was some sort of new horror movie being filmed. Others thought it was just another Gifted stunt that was being pulled to get an audience. And Vegas? Vegas did what it always did. It ran the odds. In seconds, someone had already started a book and profits were starting to develop. All of this for a battle that lasted three minutes.

Three very long minutes to the two fighting. No quarter was given, and none was taken. Anton knew that Marston needed time. He also knew that Vincent needed to be occupied, especially if he had some other gifts. So instead of just pulling the Lethal Leopard through a shadow and leaving him stranded somewhere, Shadowjak kept pulling him along as they flowed into buildings, along walls, and even down the strip. Every third pull, Anton would bring them back to the alley, to see what Marston had accomplished. The first time, he was smashing a window, the second time he was under the dash. When he appeared in the alley for the third time, Anton heard an engine rev.

With a grim nod, Anton pulled Vincent Lee into another portal with him. Throughout the fight, Lee was hammering away at full strength, not caring about where his blows went or how much he was hurting. He would heal; nothing was permanent. Not so for Anton. Already, the Umbral Ukraine knew that he had strained his wounded shoulder, his left eye and cheekbone were swollen almost shut (might be a fracture there), and he was limping with his right knee. In desperation, when Anton finally flowed up out of the Umbral Portal with Lee, he flung him directly into the path of a speeding semi on the highway out of town. Lee would survive. And so would Anton, for now.

Flowing up out of a shadow by the newly acquired car, Anton slumps down in a new backseat, broken and weary. “Where's Arthur?”

Normally, even someone with Dieter's vast information resources would have taken several minutes to find out what had occurred at the apartment building. And, even though he did not have all the details, this time it was Dieter's finger in the gambling world that had him alerted first. An aid poked his head in to utter a quick message, then Dieter brought up the various footages of the fight in progress. On additional screens, he brought up the past footage and watched it all simultaneously.

Before the fight was done he instructed his aid to get Lau on the line, find the assassin's number, and locate the other site. Dieter recognized a delaying action when he saw one. The shadow porter was fighting back but he was obviously loosing. With that mobility, there was no reason not to escape, but he kept on fighting the potent assassin. The footage was hard to track and not all of it was in the right order, but it became apparent that injuries were manifesting themselves between every some jumps. There was a second location, where the delay was necessary. Dieter's dissatisfaction was shown by only a slight twitching of his lips down when Vincent was thrown into the semi-tractor. Dieter had tried to recruit the man twice before, but his loyalty to the triads had prevented it and since the triads were "loyal" to Dieter, he had left it alone. That time was passed.

His aid handed him a cellphone, "Lau, Schwartze Auge is recruiting Vincent Lee. If he contacts you, send him here immediately." He then dismissed the man and set the second cellphone on his desk. An update was needed soon, but he still needed more information here. He would also need to contact the men he had just contracted to aid in the situation. He frowned, there was Gifted set against him and he needed countermeasures. Luckily, this was Vegas and countermeasures were in ready supply for the right price.

---

About a mile into the desert around a minute after the group were making good their escape, Vincent's body fell from the grill of the semi and meaty noises were heard. The driver just drove but the next car skidded to a halt by the roadkill, for surely it was dead? Still, a coroner's van and ambulance were there in short order, but didn't it look less mangled the poor man who had found it uttered as he gave his statement. Whatever it was was declared dead and taken to the LVPD crime lab for analysis. They got to it an hour later. So, imagine their surprise when the man who was supposed to be road pancake was sitting up on the table as the skin on his face was growing back and some bones were resetting themselves. The man was in extreme pain and he "got" some drugs from the staff before locating his belongings. Outside the lab, he stopped and made a call; he then made a second call, "I said I didn't want to work fo..."

"That doesn't matter anymore, Vincent. I can give you what John Lau cannot, the means for revenge. A car will come for you. This is not a request." Vincent clicked his teeth and looked at the stars, vengeance was consuming him right now and if Lau had willingly given him over, then why be loyal? He waited and when a black Lincoln pulled up, he opened the door and stepped inside to see a large white man staring at him with cold, cold eyes.

---

In the hour before that call, Dieter had made a flurry of calls. First, he had used the prearranged voicemail drop box he had established to communicate with the Commander and left a coded message that the target's had escaped and that their next likely target was the Bulletin presses. He then called the printing house where the newspaper was printed and had the presses shut down cold. Dieter knew that those machines, once cold, took hours to reactivate and prep for work. It was expensive to pay for a day's missed paper, but worth it. He also received a call from his agent's in the field that the editor was being "cooperative."

Lastly, he had his own vehicle prepared and departed for the printing house himself. He received Vincent's call on the way there and altered the course to pick the man up. As Vincent sat and almost asked a question, he held a finger up. His perceptions were already slowed to 1/5th as they always were when someone was this close to him. "You have a lot of talent Vincent, and potential, let us help you to realize it as John Lau never could have. That said, we need to help you realize it, so what do you feel that you need?" He smiled as he saw the man mulling over what was essentially a wish granted. Namidian resources were vast and potent after all. He smiled when the man made his request and phoned it in just before they arrived at the printing house. He gave Vincent a device with a single button, "Hit this if you seen them. I will be in the offices."

They exited the car and Dieter moved in his deliberate way to the factory offices and sat down at the computers there. He hacked into, well his personal hacking expert at his behest hacked into, the security systems and he began to monitor the building with his perceptions at 1/20th normal. The signal he had given Vincent's twin was set where he could see it easily. He was expecting a call about the apartment situation as well.

OOC: NON-CANNON BATTLE POST

OOC: CANNON BATTLE POST

"Orwell. ORWELL! Report in! Do you read me?!" One of the commanders operators called tensely as he tried to draw the shocked soldiers attention back on task. The command room back at The Commanders hidden lair was a flurry of confusion as they struggled to regain control of the situation. The evac driver had already been ordered into position and The Commander himself simply sat on the edge of his chair glowering darkly at the tactical map that remained on screen.
"Or- Orwell reporting in." Orwells voice resounded through the speakers surrounding the command desks and The Commander noted that he stammered slightly as he spoke, no doubt the mercenary was out of his depth and had begun to feel a metaphorical noose tightening around his neck; as well trained as he was conventional tactics flew out the window the moment superpowers came into play, and losing your entire unit in a matter of seconds would shred anyone's resolve.
"No injuries sustained, but Huxley's down. Target has fled."
"Orwell maintain position and await orders." the communicator said as he switched his comms channels to Boyes own headset.
"Boye! Report in. Do you r-" "Ee-gahhhhhh!!"
Without warning a screech of pain that could only have belonged to Boye blasted out of every speaker in the room loud enough to cause feedback. Some of the technicians shielded their ears and the communications expert scrambled to switch channels back to Orwell, the immediate silence that followed left ringing in their ears. Despite himself The Commander found himself standing on his feet, every face in the room turned to look at him but he hesitated for a long moment before he issued the orders they were all awaiting.
"Forget the damn bounty. Orwell; recover Boye and Huxley and find a safe area for the getaway van- you will be evacuated in approximately 8 minutes."
"Yessir." Orwell responded, automatically before continuing in a more cautious tone. "She was last seen with a Super, sir. I'm going to have to get creative."
The Commander slid lightly back into his seat and considered Orwells situation over steepled fingers, he'd promoted the man because he'd proven himself a quick thinker- but failure now could easily cost his entire team their lives, was it worth the risk?... "Do what you must. Don't die."

---

Back inside the apartment the limited interest that Arthurs dark self had in it's captive was rapidly running out. Like the monster out of a jumpscare horror movie he hovered half a foot off the ground with his feet dangling freely, his arm was extended carelessly towards the twisted marionette figure of Boyle. Boyle herself was in poor shape, the bulletwound by her side was bleeding profusely from where Arthur had sadistically crushed it and her right leg was twisted at a painful angle where he'd broken her ankle just to see if she was still concious. "Are ye' still with me, hen?" he said, in a mockingly patronising tone. "If ye' dinnea' scream I won't know when te' stop." She didn't give out much more than a shortbreathed whimper and his smile cooled by a degree into something more dangerous than simple maliciousness as he realised that she was going to bleed out before he'd had his fun.
Still, there were always other people to hurt. He could chase down her companions and kill them as well- it would be easy.
With an effortless gesture he twisted his hand and Boyle felt the telekinetic pressure imprisoning her redouble and her chest began to cave in and force the air out of her lungs, he kept going and as Boyles vision began to dapple between red and black she wondered what would kill her first, suffocation or a collapsed ribcage? She tried to spit out a final sarcastic retort, some sharp tongued jab that'd at least let her die with some satisfaction, but nothing came out of her throat but a hollow whining rattle.

For what must have been the third or fourth time that day the much-abused door to Marston's apartment was kicked in, which was entirely unnecessary given that the lock was long gone but the slam served to draw Arthur's attention for a moment. Standing in the doorway was Orwell, he was covered in dusty debris from the awkward half-climb half-sprint that he'd taken to reach the fourth floor and he'd discarded his rifle, gasmask and vest along the way; he knew they'd do no good in this fight and even after ditching the extra weight the rush to the apartment had left him redfaced and exhausted. He took a final gasp of air, didn't bother with any one-liners, and snapped his arm up with his pistol and pumped five bullets at Arthur.
Arthur didn't even bother to raise his arm as the bullets pinged harmlessly away in wild directions; tearing chunks out of the apartments wallpaper and denting the walls as they went. "I thought you'd run away! You've some guts after all, big man." Arthur smiled unpleasantly, and the attitude difference between 'Dark Arthur' and the version he'd fought just minutes ago would have shaken the last of the fight out of Orwell if he hadn't already committed himself to an all-or-nothing gamble. "Not much brains, though. Don't worry, I'll let you see each of them before I finish yeh' off."

Arthur and Orwell acted simultaneously, Arthur lifted his spare arm with a slow expression of patient boredom and locked Orwell in a vicelike telekinetic prison as he'd done with Boye just as Orwell used his last second of freedom to sling an object underarm towards Arthurs head- Arthur saw the palmsized dark object leap at his vision and stopped it two feet away from his face with a thought.
"Another grenade? Fool me once shame on you- but that trick's getting old."
Arthur concentrated on the object, he could stop the explosion easily and he wondered whether he might toss the object at Boyle before it detonated as a final humiliation to them both, but as his eyes focused on it he realised that it wasn't a grenade at all... Orwell had thrown his cellphone.
"STOP THAT." The Commanders voice snapped through the phones tinny but maximised speakers, even through an electronic medium and a sub-par connection The Commanders power of absolute authority carried enough weight to force Arthur's mental powers into a defensive flinch, the last syllables of the two words were cut off as his shields obfuscated the voice enough to leave Arthur unaffected but the damage had already been done. With his concentration divided Arthur, Orwell and Boye all dropped bodily to the ground as the telekinesis field wavered and in that brief moment Boye took a lifesaving gasp of air, propelled herself towards the apartments door with a lunge of her one remaining good leg, and was caught by Orwell who fired off the remaining bullets in his pistol and dived them both outside of Arthur's field of vision.
Arthur could hear their footsteps pounding away as fast as they could. The sound of fleeing prey was only on the edge of his senses however, and he gave the phone by his feet a moment of consideration before breaking into a gleefully maniacal laugh.

---

Seconds later Orwell had used the last reserve of adrenalin fuelled energy to half-carry Boye and drag Huxley out and across the street into a neighbouring alleyway. In Two minutes thirty seconds a plain white van would pull up, load them, and drive away three battered, mentally scarred, half-dead, but ultimately very fortunate, mercenaries.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:53, Mon 18 May 2015.

A wave of delighted excitement flooded over Dark Arthur as he laughed maniacally at the unexpected intervention. He'd been rather bored in truth, torturing the female merc had done little to alleviate that, but this intervention was intriguing. With a small gesture of his hand, the phone floated up before him to head height.

"So you're the fella behind the trio of combat dolls then? I'd say I am sorry for breaking one of your wee toys, but I wouldn't really mean it. Tell me, that voice trick of yours, is that the best you've got? Its kinda lame really for a Gifted. Guessing that's why you like hanging back, have your stooges do the dirty while you watch? You like watching is that it?"

The phonecall that Orwell had used in his brilliant but desperate plan was still open and The Commander let the insults that the Scotsman threw over the rooms speakers wash over him. Orthos wasn't going to get a rise from him that easily, and he had a few choice words of his own to share.

"It's not the strength of your powers that matters, it's how you use them." Commander grit his teeth as he spoke, putting a severe edge on his next words. "-but rest assured that if I happen to develop the ability to make people explode by frowning at them, or shoot deathrays out of my eyes, or any other such nonsense, I'll let you be the very first to know."

"You've cost me a fair chunk of money this afternoon. What do you care what happens to the reporter?"

"Ocular death rays would be quite the sight to see, or is that to gaze with? Alas the queen's English was never my strongest suit." Arthur slowly meandered towards a window that had been blown out by Boye's grenade as he spoke, stepping straight through it and into the night air. Where he should have fallen however he simply kept going, his field forming an invisible staircase that allowed him to easily cross the street onto a neighboring roof top. When the Commander mentioned Clinton, a rather wicked smile crept across Arthur's features, followed by a low echoing laugh.

"Oh our poor beleaguered defender of the truth? Right now I am almost inclined to pay him a little visit, I ended up bleeding over his bleeding heart after all. Wonder how hard you have to squeeze a reporter's heart before it pops?" No, you can't! He's a good man, just trying to tell the truth... Dark Arthur growled at the night air almost stumbling from his invisible staircase, as Arthur's consciousness rose up inside trying to wrest back control. "Put a sock in it and go back to sleep. You're the reason we're in this mess." Dark Arthur's psionic field fluctuated wildly as for a brief moment Arthur almost awoke, a nearby bit of brickwork paying the price as the field dislodged it over the edge of the building. Luckily only a few car windows were smashed below as the streets were so deserted. A moment later though Dark Arthur was fully in command again, Arthur's consciousness subsiding away once again and his eyes drifted to the phone which had fallen to his feet during his brief inner struggle.

"Well I'd say its been fun, but you're a bit of a stiff really. Try to send out some more fun toys next time will you? I promise I'll return them in no more than a dozen or so pieces." With that Dark Arthur made a casual flick of his wrist and the small device sailed off, disappearing into the night. It was rare that he got to play and whatever else the call had helped him decide on a destination. Setting off over the, rooftops at a fair pace, his field filling in the gaps so he could easily cross, he made his way as the crow flew towards the business district of the city. It was time to make some news.

Commander tutted in annoyance and disconnected the call as Arthur threw the device away. Something about the call had troubled him; towards the end it sounded as though Arthur had been in an argument with someone else, but he was sure he'd accounted for everyone in the building.
"Odd. 'Wonder what that was about- Save a copy of that call, I'll go over it again after I've talked to the away team." he said idly as he got off his chair and moved to pace around the room, as he walked he shot off orders to the men surrounding him.

"You! Send off a report to Mr Green, we're pulling out of the race for now. You! Wait for the driver and away team to return, make sure that they're patched up and ready for an after-action report." He interrupted himself as instinct stifled a yawn, his weight lurched forward and as he took a stabilizing step and remembered the exhaustion that he'd wilfully forgotten the moment he'd been sucked back into his work.
"The rest of you, at ease and stand down. There's nothing else we can do for now..." The automatic doors leading out of the Control Room hissed open as The Commander strode towards his Barracks for some much needed rest, before they slammed shut again he called out a final order: "...the war resumes in four hours. Be ready."

Phillip Skaar had not been having a good day. Threats on his life and family, preparing to betray every ideal he'd ever held about journalism and ruining his best pair of pants after pissing down them. Coming out of the bathroom after having finally changed into a clean pair his secretary Denise had been loathe to help him fetch, he did feel at least a slight sense of dignity returning with his stride. That sense of security disappeared swiftly though as he entered his office to find someone lounging in his editor's chair, a pair of somewhat worn trainers planted atop his desk.

"Who the hell are you?" Being a little shaken from his earlier encounter, the statement came out a little less forcefully than Phillip would've liked.

"Ever the ultimate question." Arthur jibed back, a sinister grin on his face as he looked Phillip up and down, rather like how a cat might look at a trapped mouse. Sneaking into such a building would normally be difficult, but late at night it had been easy to simply walk in the third storey window. "Still I think likely the wrong one for this situation. A better question would be what am I to you? Sit down and lets have that conversation."

Phillip was getting more nervous by the moment. It was late, most of the staff had gone home. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, but his wretched excuse of a secretary Denise was still away from her desk, most likely on another cigarette break. No way was she getting a Christmas bonus this year. "Look just leave right now, else I'll have to have security escort you..." Phillip reached for the phone on his desk as he spoke but suddenly it slid along the desk out of his reach. At the same time the door behind him slammed shut. If he wasn't a trapped mouse before well he certainly felt like it now.

"Where exactly would they escort me? Now like I said before sit down." Before Phillip even had a chance to respond he felt himself being shunted down hard into the seat in front of his desk a small cry escaping from his lips from the surprise of it all.

"Please I am sorry. I didn't know you were with them. I haven't heard anything from Clint yet I swear. You'd have been the first to hear of it, I swear on my family. Please." For the second time that night Skaar pissed his pants again.

A slight furrow creased Dark Arthur's brow at the editor's rambling pleas. Then it dawned on him, someone had got to Skaar, the same someone who'd been sending assassins after the reporter all night.

"Well that is interesting. I'd like you Mr. Skaar to tell me everything and how about I swear on your family that if you leave out even the smallest wee detail, I'll pop your eyes right out of that skull of yours." Already broken twice, Phillip spilled the beans on everything that had happened that night to him.

A short whiles later Phillip was calling the one number that had been left on the burner phone Dieter's man had left him earlier. A sultry voice picked up on the other side.

"Speak."

"Uh its Phillip Skaar here from the Bulletin. Um you wanted to know if there was any stuff from Clinton Rice."

"Continue."

"Um yeah, some odd looking fellow showed up with a package from Clinton not ten minutes ago. Dropped off some printouts and such. A lot of numbers and some kind of key code, don't know what to make of it but the guy said Clinton wanted to leave it for insurance in case things didn't go well. Said it was key to the case he was working on. I've got them here now in the office."

There was a slight pause on the other side before the curt and sultry man continued.

"Wait where you are, we'll send someone. Don't show anyone else the files."

With that the call cut off, and Phillip turned to look at a rather remarkably grinning Arthur. "Now what?"

"We wait, aren't you curious about who's sitting at the center of this little web of intrigue? I certainly am and I think I'd like to meet him."

Dieter was sitting in the printing house offices going over his handy work when his phone rang and he pulled it out. He frowned at the number but picked up the line and coded phrase then listened to a man speak for ten long seconds in silence before hanging up the phone. Dieter's face was grim and blank.

He stood and strode back out to where Vincent stood and the former triad grimaced at the expression; whoever had made this man mad was about to realize the deep, deep error of that fact. "Vincent, you are now a Lieutenant, provisionally, in my organization. The newspaper man is your first task. This location is... finalized. Get back to the offices and use what resources I have just allocated to you to do your work, then kill him Vincent..." Dieter stared in silence until the man swallowed and nodded. The large man then moved past him and toward the car. Vincent went about his business.

---

It was almost twenty minutes before the Lincoln pulled up in front of the Bulletin offices and Dieter stepped out of it. He sized the building up like a man eying an annoying gnat. He could not recall the last time he had been so personally involved in a job. It irked him deeply. Others in his organization were a more hands on sort, but he had always been a very remote type. He pulled out a phone and hit the button then spoke a coded phrase, "Log #198, Vincent Lee Asset acquired. Log #23, Confronting a major player. 36 hour protocol activated."

Dieter then put the phone away and shrugged off his jacket. He tossed the black cloth back on the seat then his purple tie followed as well s his vest. He rolled up his black cotton shirtsleeves revealing thick, powerfully muscled arms. He removed his watch and then shifted his sunglasses on his nose before striding toward the door.

It had not been overly difficult sniffing out the trap; no one was trying to hide it. Dieter smirked as he guessed it wasn't really a trap then. You didn't take on an organization like his that casually. He moved through the offices like a train. Dieter had never been a subtle man, physically. He was a wrecking ball. As he moved, he slowed his perceptions down to combat levels and considered the reports he had from Vincent on the possible antagonists here: the teleporter of the shield generator? When eh arrived at the editor's door, he pressed his palm against in the slowest of slow motions. He watched his hand raise idly, analyzing the movement, his possible courses of action, and the ramifications. He wouldn't be able to move the door without some force first, he could amplify or dull kinetics not produce them when not there. There was a lot of wiggle room in that definition but he had explored it thoroughly and the power and focus necessary to manipulate at the atomic level was currently beyond him, so he watched as his palm slapped against the door frame by frame. A normal perception probably would have missed the subtle vibrations, but his perceptions caught them, amplified them, and then shoved them in toward the office.

Dieter stepped in behind the explosion and watched the trajectory of each shard closely as he did so. His eyes couldn't move any faster than his body, so he was more or less stuck to the one frame. It was like examining a picture of the world in minute detail for minutes at a time. He didn't bother moving his arm but let gravity slowly affect it, a curious thing to feel in slowmo, and watched as a splinters of glass flew toward the editor on one side of the door and the other man behind the desk.

As soon as the salvo was over, he brought his perceptions up to 1/5th so he could speak normally, "You have my attention... I hope you do not regret this."
This message was lightly edited by the player at 20:00, Sun 31 May 2015.

Dark Arthur was idly whistling a little ditty when the doorway literally disintegrated into a hail of wooden shrapnel. A little smile of twisted delight caught the corner of Arthur's mouth at the carnage unleashed before him by the man standing in the shredded hole of a doorway. Whoever this was, he was going to be fun.

There was a scream of pain as dozens of small bits of the door tore into the editor Phillp's arms and side, the blast also knocking him to the floor, where he lay whimpering in a dazed anguish. Arthur's own field easily deflected the bits of the doorway coming towards himself though.

"Bravo! Bravo! A truly excellent entrance there, you Americans really do display an abundance of subtlety." Arthur gave Dieter a slow mocking clap as he congratulated him. "I was beginning to wonder if the Spider was going to send anyone to entertain me at all this night, before I turned into a pumpkin that is."

Swinging his feet off the editor's desk, Arthur casually got up onto his feet, arcing his back out with an exaggerated stretch, yawning a little as he did so. He strode round to the side of the desk, the slumped figure of the editor being shunted unceremoniously out of his path by a small application his field, just to save him having to step over the bloodied man. Approaching Dieter, Arthur eyed him up and down, taking in the expensive suit and bulky physique.

"You don't look like a grunt though, I'll give you that. So... what game shall we play?"

Dieter frowned deeply at the boy across from him and shifted his bulk a bit as the words poured into his ear like pudding. Even at this low rate of senses, deciphering words was a bit tricky. Still, he heaved a sigh as he saw something in the boy that wasn't predatory. Predators were natural; they hunted and killed for survival. This boy was something that only humans could produce; he was a monster. The situation seemed fitting; Dieter was also a monster.

The difference seemed to be that Dieter had control of himself and this boy did not.

He noted the editor's body moving without any seeming reason and made some calculations about the effect. Vincent had reported some kind of shield user, so this must be the kid.

He kept his gaze steady as he checked out the editor writhing on the ground and idly calculated the man's remaining seconds. Then he shifted his vision back to the boy, "Spiders, eh? I have no idea of spiders, kind, but I an not an American. What I am is of no importance to the current situation and there is no game to be played. You have seen what I can do so you know what I will do. You will give me the files." Dieter prepared himself for what was coming, this kid either would play his "games" or see the error of those games.

There was something disdainful and empty in Arthur's gaze, like an abyss existed just on the other side of those childish features of his. Dieter had met a lot of twisted minds in the circles he ran in, but it had been obvious from a just few moments of studying the boy that he'd found a real monster lurking here. Still that just meant he was more predictable in Dieter's eyes.

Dieter knew that the monster would not pass up the chance to play whatever game he craved. Monsters had their addictions; Dieter understood this. His own addiction was control and power. Thus, he immediately slowed his perceptions down and just in time, too, as he felt the molasses like flow of something into his aura of control. At his normal sense speeds, the field's growth would have been lightning fast and invisible. He grunted as he pushed it away with his own will and saw the boy's eyes widen just slightly as something, maybe the first thing ever, resisted his power.

Dark Arthur watched as the man stood there with his hands at his side and returned his gaze. Something was odd about the way his body and power seemed out of sync, almost like his mind and form operated at two separate speeds. Still, a contest of might appealed to his mentality. He resolved to push his field in around the man and render him immobile. As hard as he pushed though, the field around Dieter stayed locked in place. It was like trying to push his ability through peat moss. Whatever held it back flexed but did not budge. Still, the man was sweating and looked a bit red in the face from exertion even as Arthur was just getting warmed up.

"Whatever you are, old man, this is a young man's game. Why don't you just give in and let me have my way?" said Dark Arthur with a laugh.

You don't really want him to quit, sicko. You want him to struggle and resist as long as possible. You get off on it. Dark Arthur grinned as his inner self told the truth but the grin turned into a frown as something fluttered up then slid along his field. It was a scrap of cloth. His eyes searched for where it had come from and found the old man's shoes in tatters even as the old man did a weird stutter jump thing to step off the soles of his once very fancy leather shoes. The scraps of leather, two rubber soles, and the cotton cloth of his socks now fluttered around inside the small cage Arthur had the man in. But they didn't flutter aimlessly, like leaves on the wind. They moved with purpose, speed, and precision. They were circumventing the "globe" of his shield. No! He had already shut out everything from getting through the shield, even air! What was this old man doing?

Dieter's experiment determined that nothing was crossing the barrier and that it was not composed of matter or energy. Matter he could deal with, energy he could find familiar ways around. No, this shield was something else entirely as substances went. Dieter did not like that as it forced him to reevaluate what he knew of physics. Air was not flowing inside the cage he found himself in, or at least not flowing into the small area his ability kept for him. Air was only entering the through the several small holes in the floor Dieter drilled with the buttons on his shirt sleeves. He was exerting himself; doing so many things in so little time took considerable concentration from even him. He had almost enough information now, he just needed one final piece. He slowly raised a foot and brought it down hard on the floor.

Arthur watched as the old man stomped on the floor. Was he having a tantrum or something? The sound was wrong, it didn't sound like a stomp. His mind caught up to his ears a second later. It wasn't a stomp, it was more like an earthquake! Suddenly, the floor tore itself to pieces. It went from solid wood and concrete to suddenly rippling like stirred pudding and breaking up like scrambled eggs. Then the whole bit of floor dropped along with the man. Arthur had not thought to shield below the floor, who could have gotten through it? He chided himself even as he clapped the shield over the top of the hole to keep the man from popping back up through it and approached him. He looked down through it into the eyes of his adversary, which were glaring up at him.

Dieter had caught the broken ends of two pipes as he fell through the hole and was hanging there. His senses had felt the shield clap down over the hole and he applauded the kid for having some acumen. The wait for the kid's face to appear over the hole felt like an eternity. But as he waited, he devised another test: he believed that the kid's field was only as strong as his mind. It wasn't like steel or electricity which had its own strength independent of what generated it, but was dependent upon the boy for its potency. That was his hypothesis, anyway.

As the kid looked down, Dieter inhaled sharply which caused the buttons on his shirt to move toward the hole. Dieter accelerated so that three of the small, plastic discs shot up at the boy's face as fast as a bullet. Dieter knew that they were not enough, so he slowed his perceptions down to 1/100th normal and watched even these projectiles move something like regular speed. They ricocheted off the field and Dieter redirected them at it again, accelerating them to incredible speed and drilling them into the orb again and again and again. As they struck the exact same place over and over again, they slowly deformed and warped the spots they hit. The force they were exerting, however, was warping them and liquifying them. Dieter had to hold them together with his will as they battered the shield.

Arthur had fast reactions for anyone, that was given, but as he looked down something began to pound at his shield like nothing ever had before. The force was incredible, but his shield held for a second, two seconds, and then he growled in pain as it broke. It was like having a freight train batter against his mind! He reeled back and staggered, a trickle of blood coming out his ear. While his head was pounding away, he looked up at his opponent who wasn't grinning, smiling, or reacting at all. His face was just a calm pool of milk with two flecks of ice for eyes.

"Neat trick, old man." His opponent still didn't speak. Arthur had never had his field resisted in this way and the experience excited him. He couldn't help the devilish grin that cracked across his face. This is going to be oh so fascinating."

Dieter found words to be futile, useless, meaningless thing in a fight anyway; so even if he had been able to talk with his perceptions so skewed from reality, he wouldn't have. He could see through that this kid had never fought another monster like him. His silence and calmness frustrated the kid, who was used to rage and panic in the face of his power. Dieter noted the weakness as he took a glacier slow step toward the boy and felt the shield slam back into place. Dieter smiled and threw two bits of concrete he had pulled from the hole at the shield and repeated his trick from before. When the shield broke, though, only one piece could be redirected at the boy and the other shot off into a wall, slicing a hole through it like a laser. The other piece winged Arthur's shoulder and left a trail of blood oozing down his skin. Dieter noticed that the kid was not liking a real match as much as he might have though he would. None of the fun or control of winning and torturing your opponent existed yet, just the desperate, animalistic desire to win.

Not so much fun now, eh? Not so much fun when you're the one fighting for your life! This is what you put people through, my friend. This is what you do... It must stop. Arthur tamped down his good half and put a hand to the wound. True, this was not what he had expected/ His blood was pumping and his vision getting red at the edges. He stood straight and sent a wave like shield out from him.

Dieter felt it coming and braced, setting his palms against the pulse like shield and letting it push him back. He slowed it as best he could and felt the part pushing him bulge in even as he was shoved back against the room's wall. He grunted and raised a foot to place it against the wall and sent his aura into the sheetrock, wood, and metal, tearing it apart and sending chunks of it spiraling off into the newsroom. The fight was desperate and dangerous now, but only for everyone around them. Arthur had become more aggressive, trying to flatten and crush Dieter against the wall, knowing that he could not stop him from using whatever trick that let him pummel through the shield.

Few of the old man's attacks were well aimed after they broke his shield, but each attack that came through was a kill shot waiting to happen. Conversely, Dieter had to work harder and harder to keep the shield away from him. He, too, was growing more and more tired as the amount of concentration his abilities required from him was mammoth and exhausting. Desks flew like 500 lb torpedoes, sheets of paper sliced through the air like shuriken, pencils and pens were more dangerous than bullets as the two men used their environment, tore it apart, and flung it at one another. The Nevada Bulletin building was slowly turned inside out almost literally and civilian casualties rose with each moment as the two titans collided again and again.

A clod of dust, glass, and office debris shot out of a window and rocketed toward the ground only to seem to slow and then alight, feather soft, on the street. Dieter grunted and stood, letting his perceptions speed up a bit as he dusted himself off and watched the kid ride one of his shields down to the street. He mentally inventoried his body's damage and found cracked ribs, several lacerations, copious hematomas, and what he suspected to be severe exhaustion setting in. The kid was in no better shape. An arm hung at his side after a lucky strike with a flung computer monitor had broken the shoulder joint, he limped on his left leg due to a massive laceration across the calf, and one side of his face was swollen shut from where a seat cushion had struck it at 100mph. Dieter reached over his shoulder and felt around until her grasped something soft and pulled the straw from the flesh of his shoulder. He regarded it curiously, then looked at the kid and spoke for the first time in the fight.

"You're good kid... but, you are 50 years too early to beat me."

Arthur grinned and shook his head. It had been a hard lesson, but he had Dieter's ranges figured out now. The man was potently dangerous at about five feet but beyond that, whatever trick he used to break Arthur's shield was piss-poor inaccurate. He grinned as he felt the feeling of triumph and the anticipation of the aftermath rising.

"Whatever, old man, don't cry when I wear your face like a hat." Suddenly, the street itself rumbled and buckled and Arthur glanced down at it, then up at Dieter as his eyes went wide as saucers. Between the violent storm of chaos and the blood that soaked his skin, he had forgotten the old man's trick!

Dieter had been building the vibrations the second he had impacted the street. In the office building, the floors had been piecemeal; each made up of hundred of separate pieces which his ability had difficulties with. The road was one solid piece for the most part. Finally, the vibrations were mounting to something noticeable, but noticeable to others was minutes too slow against Dieter. The road under the kid erupted like a geyser of shrapnel. To his credit, Dieter saw maybe 80% of the rubble bouncing off of the kid's instinctual defenses but that 20% that got through spun around the inside of the boy's battered shield like a tornado, exploded against the kid's body, and threw his limbs into unnatural poses that must've snapped his bones into piles of calcium-rich debris.

A coughing Dieter moved toward the kid, but stopped and stared as the boy rose. His mouth was agape with curiosity, amusement, and (though he'd never admit it) a miniscule amount of fear as Arthur stood, looking like a puppet barely being held together. Suddenly, Dieter found himself gasping. His eyes scanned the space around his body as he hunted around for breathable air. Nothing, nothing, nothing! He slowed his breath as best he could, but he was drowning in exhaustion.

"Didn't see that one coming did you old man? Finding it a bit hard to breathe? Seems like your range is about only a foot or so from your body." A few moments ago, when a barely conscious Arthur had realized Dieter was approaching him, he'd generated a special bubble field around his enemy. It wasn't kinetic in nature, but designed to prevent any oxygen entering it while allowing oxygen inside the bubble to filter out as the bubble moved. Dieter fell to his knees.

Stop. Please stop, let him go. Isn't this enough? asked Arthur's good side.

"Shut up you whiny little pissant. He almost killed us, would've gotten your lousy weak self for sure."

You've won though, you're killing him now. That isn't right.

"I defended us, just like always. Now go back into whatever hole you crawled out of and I'll..."

WHAM! One last column of road beneath Arthur punched itself through the bottom of his weakened shield, tossing him up into the air. He fell to the ground with a massive THUD that was only somewhat quieted by the remains of his shield.

Unbeknownst to Arthur, Dieter had noticed the boy's shield weakening while his two halves were arguing away. Dieter cracked his neck and took a deep, contented breath of fresh air as he sized up the unconscious Arthur.

"First lesson of combat, boy. When given an opportunity, take it. You won't get another chance.

Dieter frowned when he heard the distinct sound of approaching sirens. The battle had seemed like hours to him, but it had to have been only minutes long in reality. Enough time for terrified 911 calls to summon the LVPD. He looked to the form of his defeated foe and shrugged as he brought his perceptions up to speed. He regarded the office building and sighed as he considered the files. He would need to gamble. He approached it and used his hands to strike it and begin the process. A few seconds later, the whole building began to shake, then tremble, and finally collapsed.

Dieter waited a second to examine the smoke coming up from the rubble. He continued staring until he saw a flame peeking out from under the rubble and then made for his car and home. In his rear view mirror, he noted the still supine body of his defeated opponent as a silhouette against the inferno that had been the Nevada Bulletin. He finally allowed his face to crack a smile as he reached up to the visor and took a pair of sunglasses down and slippe onto his face. That kid was interesting, no need for him to die just yet...
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:48, Mon 08 June 2015.

There was something disdainful and empty in Arthur's gaze, like an abyss existed just on the other side of those childish features of his. Dieter had met a lot of twisted minds in the circles he ran in, but it had been obvious from a just few moments of studying the boy that he'd found a real monster lurking here. Still that just meant he was more predictable in Dieter's eyes.

For a brief moment, Dark Arthur and Dieter stood eye to eye across about half the office neither really moving. The moment stretched out rather lengthily in Dieter's mind as he slowed down the rate of perception so the world ran agonizingly slowly for him. It wasn't a moment too soon either as otherwise Dieter might of missed the sudden shift in lighting from the corner of his eye. Turning just in time he held out a hand towards the metal filing cabinet that Arthur had flung at him from his blind-spot. As the cabinet, came within a foot or so of Dieter's outstretched arm, the field Arthur had surrounded it in crashed right into Dieter's sphere of influence over kinetics. Caught right in the middle of these two inexorable forces the metal cabinet promptly crumpled into an initially mangled and then compressed flat mess of metal and bits of filed papers.

"My oh my old man. This is going to be oh so fascinating." Arthur had never had his field resisted in this way and the experience excited him. He couldn't help a devilish grin cracking across his face. The manic smirk quickly disappeared though as Dieter finished the preparations he'd been making. Suddenly loosening his countering force to Arthur's field Dieter redirected the now suddenly accelerated mangled disk of nearly solid steel that was the cabinet right past him and straight at Arthur. The whirling disc of metal clanged right off the field that Arthur instinctively strengthened in front of him, ricocheting back towards the old man. This had all been in Dieter's calculations though as he knew one blow wouldn't be anywhere near enough to break this field. It wasn't entirely kinetic in nature, that much Dieter had discerned from the brief manner in which it had interacted with his own powers, but it also wasn't immovable. The slight shifts his slowed down senses had noted when the cabinet had been crushed between them told him that and so he just needed to apply repeated pressure. The ricocheting metal disk suddenly reversed direction as it came within Dieter's influence and lashed back bouncing off Arthur's field again at exactly the same spot and again and again the whirling metal disk struck, each time a little closer as Dieter closed the distance between them with each rebound. Arthur didn't quite realize Dieter's intent until his field almost buckled under the penultimate strike. The next one was at a tremendous speed smashing Arthur's field the metal disc landing a glancing blow on his shoulder as the field's remnants managed to divert its path away from splitting Arthur in two. Such was the kinetic energy though that Arthur screamed out in anguish as his shoulder shattered under the impact.

Seeing an opening Dieter leaped forwards aiming to close the gap between them. If he could put a hand on the young man's body in his moment of pain then this would all be over. Arthur didn't see Dieter coming but rather felt some remnants of his shattered field being easily pushed aside and it was just enough warning for him to shunt himself with his field agonizingly outside of Dieter's grasp. Into the space he vacated though Arthur flung every object in the office he could focus his field around. Dieter managed to easily stop most of the small items his slowed down senses allowed him to see but a few rusty nails did manage to pierce his left calf muscle causing the big man to stumble a step or two before recovering his balance and restarting his relentless assault on Arthur's field.

Soon the building became a whirling mess of debris and furniture as everything became weapons for the two. The entire floor of the Nevada Bulletin's office was quickly reduced to nothing more than a messy ruin of rubble and dust as the kinetic forces unleashed by Dieter and Arthur tore everything around them into shreds as they were used as weapons against one another. A short few minutes after fight began the entire front half of the building folded in on itself like a collapsing house of giant concrete cards as one too many of building's main support pillars was torn through.

A small dust spewing figure manages to hurl itself out of a hole in the wall as the collapse happens landing just outside the collapsing rubble on the now dust engulfed street. Dragging himself to his feet Dieter assesses that he's taken at least a dozen or so injuries in the few short minutes of the fight and that he'd likely have bled out already if he wasn't carefully holding the  blood around his wounds inside of himself with his kinetic mastery. Looking up he sees an equally battered Arthur floating about 30ft off the ground. "Not bad kid but this fight is over. You're still too young to play with adults."

Arthur drifts in a little closer an almost disappointed look of confusion on his fight. His arm was useless and his left leg was broken in at least two places but he was still holding himself upright just about, even though the pain was immensely distracting. "Really old man, you giving up already?" The confusion in Arthur's eyes turned into a horrid realization though as he only now noticed the way the earth around Dieter was shaking. Having started working on it as soon as Dieter had landed outside the collapsed Bulletin offices the ground around them now erupted into a mass of rubble and concrete slabs flying around in all directions tearing up everything within about a hundred meters of the pair. Even reinforcing his field as quickly as he could Arthur found himself being buffeted around like a pinball by the detonation, until amidst the dust and rubble he suddenly found Dieter just a few feet away from him in the air.

Dieter had known that the sudden explosion of the street wasn't likely enough to completely take down Arthur, but it had provided him the cover he'd needed to ride one particularly large slab that had been detonated upwards right towards the kid. Now that he'd finally closed the distance between them Dieter could finish this. Hands gripping the slab he was riding he jerked round the large concrete block aiming right at Arthur's side from near point blank range. With his own kinetic manipulation accelerating the slab and largely cancelling out Arthur's field the slab connected with Arthur hard. The slab broke apart as it collided with Arthur and some few bits of his shield that weren't being nullified shattering apart as Arthur's now limp body went flying through the air, bouncing off the cracked and broken road a good half dozen times before finally coming to a rest on the ground. Now unsupported himself and exhausted from his exertions Dieter also fell to the ground somewhat harder than he intended. For a few moments he just lay there on his hands and knees trying to recover his breath before climbing to his feet and slowly limping towards Arthur's body. Dieter noted that at least two of Arthur's limbs were bent at really unnatural angles although he did still seem to breathing and remarkably as their eyes met Dieter realized the kid was still somehow conscious and smiling at him...

Dieter fell to his knees suddenly more exhausted than he thought possible. His vision was blurry now, dark around the edges. His slowed down senses made it all excruciating as his body slipped quickly into unconsciousness, Dark Arthur's pained but delighted laughter ringing in his years for what must of seemed like hours before he finally blacked out from oxygen deprivation.

Like a puppet barely being held together, Arthur's body was lifted by his fielld into a somewhat unnatural standing position over Dieter's collapsed form, leaning forwards on to the thin field he'd erected around the old man a good ten feet or so around him in all directions. "Didn't see that one coming did you old man? Finding it a bit hard to breathe? Seems like your range is about only a foot or so from your body." Earlier, the moment Arthur had realized Dieter was beside him and more than 20ft in the air he'd generated a special bubble field around them both. Not kinetic in nature, but designed to prevent any oxygen entering it while allowing oxygen inside the bubble to filter out as the bubble moved. Dieter's strike had easily sent him well outside the bubble's range but as Dieter had fallen back to earth Arthur had kept the field with the old man. It had taken a little while but the human body needed oxygen and by now Arthur guessed the air inside the bubble field was less than 10% oxygen, more than enough to render him unconscious. In fact Arthur reckoned the old man would likely die in a few minutes.

Stop. Please stop, let him go. Isn't this enough? "Shut up you whiny little piss ant. He almost killed us, would've gotten your lousy weak self for sure." You've won though, you're killing him now. That isn't right. "I defended us, just like always. Now go back into whatever hole you crawled out of and I'll..." No! You can't just kill people. It isn't right, I am taking over. "Oh you think you can just..." ... get rid of me that easily? No! Wait, this was so much fun...

With a tortured cry Arthur collapsed to the floor, his eyes screwed shut in anguish and torment as the two sides of him struggled for control. When they opened, the pain from his wounds lingered terribly but the emptiness in his gaze was gone, replaced by a profound sadness as he examined the carnage around him. In the distance he vaguely heard sirens wailing as he stumbled painfully towards Dieter's body, the oxygen prison his darker self had erected long dissipated. Leaning over the old man Arthur breathed a deep exhausted sigh of relief to find him still alive if only barely. Carefully he extended his field over Dieter's body pressing it in around the numerous wounds he could see to prevent them from bleeding out. It was like this that a pair of rather confounded looking paramedics found Arthur and Dieter a few minutes later.

There was something disdainful and empty in Arthur's gaze, like an abyss existed just on the other side of those childish features of his. Dieter had met a lot of twisted minds in the circles he ran in, but it had been obvious from a just few moments of studying the boy that he'd found a real monster lurking here. Still that just meant he was more predictable in Dieter's eyes.

Dieter knew that the monster would not pass up the chance to play whatever game he craved. Monsters had their addictions; Dieter understood this. His own addiction was control and power. Thus, he immediately slowed his perceptions down and just in time, too, as he felt the molasses like flow of something into his aura of control. At his normal sense speeds, the field's growth would have been lightning fast and invisible. He grunted as he pushed it away with his own will and saw the boy's eyes widen just slightly as something, maybe the first thing ever, resisted his power.

Dark Arthur watched as the man stood there with his hands at his side and returned his gaze. Something was odd about the way his body and power seemed out of sync, almost like his mind and form operated at two separate speeds. Still, a contest of might appealed to his mentality. He resolved to push his field in around the man and render him immobile. As hard as he pushed though, the field around Dieter stayed locked in place. It was like trying to push his ability through peat moss. Whatever held it back flexed but did not budge. Still, the man was sweating and looked a bit red in the face from exertion even as Arthur was just getting warmed up.

"Whatever you are, old man, this is a young man's game. Why don't you just give in and let me have my way?" said Dark Arthur with a laugh.

You don't really want him to quit, sicko. You want him to struggle and resist as long as possible. You get off on it. Dark Arthur grinned as his inner self told the truth but the grin turned into a frown as something fluttered up then slid along his field. It was a scrap of cloth. His eyes searched for where it had come from and found the old man's shoes in tatters even as the old man did a weird stutter jump thing to step off the soles of his once very fancy leather shoes. The scraps of leather, two rubber soles, and the cotton cloth of his socks now fluttered around inside the small cage Arthur had the man in. But they didn't flutter aimlessly, like leaves on the wind. They moved with purpose, speed, and precision. They were circumventing the "globe" of his shield. No! He had already shut out everything from getting through the shield, even air! What was this old man doing?

Dieter's experiment determined that nothing was crossing the barrier and that it was not composed of matter or energy. Matter he could deal with, energy he could find familiar ways around. No, this shield was something else entirely as substances went. Dieter did not like that as it forced him to reevaluate what he knew of physics. Air was not flowing inside the cage he found himself in, or at least not flowing into the small area his ability kept for him. Air was only entering the through the several small holes in the floor Dieter drilled with the buttons on his shirt sleeves. He was exerting himself; doing so many things in so little time took considerable concentration from even him. He had almost enough information now, he just needed one final piece. He slowly raised a foot and brought it down hard on the floor.

Arthur watched as the old man stomped on the floor. Was he having a tantrum or something? The sound was wrong, it didn't sound like a stomp. His mind caught up to his ears a second later. It wasn't a stomp, it was more like an earthquake! Suddenly, the floor tore itself to pieces. It went from solid wood and concrete to suddenly rippling like stirred pudding and breaking up like scrambled eggs. Then the whole bit of floor dropped along with the man. Arthur had not thought to shield below the floor, who could have gotten through it? He chided himself even as he clapped the shield over the top of the hole to keep the man from popping back up through it and approached him. He looked down through it into the eyes of his adversary, which were glaring up at him.

Dieter had caught the broken ends of two pipes as he fell through the hole and was hanging there. His senses had felt the shield clap down over the hole and he applauded the kid for having some acumen. The wait for the kid's face to appear over the hole felt like an eternity. But as he waited, he devised another test: he believed that the kid's field was only as strong as his mind. It wasn't like steel or electricity which had its own strength independent of what generated it, but was dependent upon the boy for its potency. That was his hypothesis, anyway.

As the kid looked down, Dieter inhaled sharply which caused the buttons on his shirt to move toward the hole. Dieter accelerated so that three of the small, plastic discs shot up at the boy's face as fast as a bullet. Dieter knew that they were not enough, so he slowed his perceptions down to 1/100th normal and watched even these projectiles move something like regular speed. They ricocheted off the field and Dieter redirected them at it again, accelerating them to incredible speed and drilling them into the orb again and again and again. As they struck the exact same place over and over again, they slowly deformed and warped the spots they hit. The force they were exerting, however, was warping them and liquifying them. Dieter had to hold them together with his will as they battered the shield.

Arthur had fast reactions for anyone, that was given, but as he looked down something began to pound at his shield like nothing ever had before. The force was incredible, but his shield held for a second, two seconds, and then he growled in pain as it broke. It was like having a freight train batter against his mind! He reeled back and staggered, a trickle of blood coming out his ear. While his head was pounding away, he looked up at his opponent who wasn't grinning, smiling, or reacting at all. His face was just a calm pool of milk with two flecks of ice for eyes.

"Neat trick, old man." His opponent still didn't speak. Arthur had never had his field resisted in this way and the experience excited him. He couldn't help the devilish grin that cracked across his face. This is going to be oh so fascinating."

Dieter found words to be futile, useless, meaningless thing in a fight anyway; so even if he had been able to talk with his perceptions so skewed from reality, he wouldn't have. He could see through that this kid had never fought another monster like him. His silence and calmness frustrated the kid, who was used to rage and panic in the face of his power. Dieter noted the weakness as he took a glacier slow step toward the boy and felt the shield slam back into place. Dieter smiled and threw two bits of concrete he had pulled from the hole at the shield and repeated his trick from before. When the shield broke, though, only one piece could be redirected at the boy and the other shot off into a wall, slicing a hole through it like a laser. The other piece winged Arthur's shoulder and left a trail of blood oozing down his skin. Dieter noticed that the kid was not liking a real match as much as he might have though he would. None of the fun or control of winning and torturing your opponent existed yet, just the desperate, animalistic desire to win.

Not so much fun now, eh? Not so much fun when you're the one fighting for your life! This is what you put people through, my friend. This is what you do... It must stop. Arthur tamped down his good half and put a hand to the wound. True, this was not what he had expected/ His blood was pumping and his vision getting red at the edges. He stood straight and sent a wave like shield out from him.

Dieter felt it coming and braced, setting his palms against the pulse like shield and letting it push him back. He slowed it as best he could and felt the part pushing him bulge in even as he was shoved back against the room's wall. He grunted and raised a foot to place it against the wall and sent his aura into the sheetrock, wood, and metal, tearing it apart and sending chunks of it spiraling off into the newsroom. The fight was desperate and dangerous now, but only for everyone around them. Arthur had become more aggressive, trying to flatten and crush Dieter against the wall, knowing that he could not stop him from using whatever trick that let him pummel through the shield.

Few of the old man's attacks were well aimed after they broke his shield, but each attack that came through was a kill shot waiting to happen. Conversely, Dieter had to work harder and harder to keep the shield away from him. He, too, was growing more and more tired as the amount of concentration his abilities required from him was mammoth and exhausting. Desks flew like 500 lb torpedoes, sheets of paper sliced through the air like shuriken, pencils and pens were more dangerous than bullets as the two men used their environment, tore it apart, and flung it at one another. The Nevada Bulletin building was slowly turned inside out almost literally and civilian casualties rose with each moment as the two titans collided again and again.

A clod of dust, glass, and office debris shot out of a window and rocketed toward the ground only to seem to slow and then alight, feather soft, on the street. Dieter grunted and stood, letting his perceptions speed up a bit as he dusted himself off and watched the kid ride one of his shields down to the street. He mentally inventoried his body's damage and found cracked ribs, several lacerations, copious hematomas, and what he suspected to be severe exhaustion setting in. The kid was in no better shape. An arm hung at his side after a lucky strike with a flung computer monitor had broken the shoulder joint, he limped on his left leg due to a massive laceration across the calf, and one side of his face was swollen shut from where a seat cushion had struck it at 100mph. Dieter reached over his shoulder and felt around until her grasped something soft and pulled the straw from the flesh of his shoulder. He regarded it curiously, then looked at the kid and spoke for the first time in the fight.

"You're good kid... but, you are 50 years too early to beat me."

Arthur grinned and shook his head. It had been a hard lesson, but he had Dieter's ranges figured out now. The man was potently dangerous at about five feet but beyond that, whatever trick he used to break Arthur's shield was piss-poor inaccurate. He grinned as he felt the feeling of triumph and the anticipation of the aftermath rising.

"Whatever, old man, don't cry when I wear your face like a hat." Suddenly, the street itself rumbled and buckled and Arthur glanced down at it, then up at Dieter as his eyes went wide as saucers. Between the violent storm of chaos and the blood that soaked his skin, he had forgotten the old man's trick!

Dieter had been building the vibrations the second he had impacted the street. In the office building, the floors had been piecemeal; each made up of hundred of separate pieces which his ability had difficulties with. The road was one solid piece for the most part. Finally, the vibrations were mounting to something noticeable, but noticeable to others was minutes too slow against Dieter. The road under the kid erupted like a geyser of shrapnel. To his credit, Dieter saw maybe 80% of the rubble bouncing off of the kid's instinctual defenses but that 20% that got through spun around the inside of the boy's battered shield like a tornado, exploded against the kid's body, and threw his limbs into unnatural poses that must've snapped his bones into piles of calcium-rich debris.

A coughing Dieter moved toward the kid, but stopped and stared as the boy rose. His mouth was agape with curiosity, amusement, and (though he'd never admit it) a miniscule amount of fear as Arthur stood, looking like a puppet barely being held together. Suddenly, Dieter found himself gasping. His eyes scanned the space around his body as he hunted around for breathable air. Nothing, nothing, nothing! He slowed his breath as best he could, but he was drowning in exhaustion.

"Didn't see that one coming did you old man? Finding it a bit hard to breathe? Seems like your range is about only a foot or so from your body." A few moments ago, when a barely conscious Arthur had realized Dieter was approaching him, he'd generated a special bubble field around his enemy. It wasn't kinetic in nature, but designed to prevent any oxygen entering it while allowing oxygen inside the bubble to filter out as the bubble moved. Dieter fell to his knees.

Stop. Please stop, let him go. Isn't this enough? asked Arthur's good side.

"Shut up you whiny little pissant. He almost killed us, would've gotten your lousy weak self for sure."

You've won though, you're killing him now. That isn't right.

"I defended us, just like always. Now go back into whatever hole you crawled out of and I'll..."

WHAM! One last column of road beneath Arthur punched itself through the bottom of his weakened shield, tossing him up into the air.

The boy fell to the ground with a massive THUD that was only somewhat quieted by the remains of his shield.

Unbeknownst to Arthur, Dieter had noticed the boy's shield weakening while his two halves were arguing away. Dieter cracked his neck and took a deep, contented breath of fresh air as he sized up the unconscious Arthur.

"First lesson of combat, boy. When given an opportunity, take it. You won't get another chance.

Dieter frowned when he heard the distinct sound of approaching sirens. The battle had seemed like hours to him, but it had to have been only minutes long in reality. Enough time for terrified 911 calls to summon the LVPD. He looked to the form of his defeated foe and shrugged as he brought his perceptions up to speed. He regarded the office building and sighed as he considered the files. He would need to gamble. He approached it and used his hands to strike it and begin the process. A few seconds later, the whole building began to shake, then tremble, and finally collapsed.

Dieter waited a second to examine the smoke coming up from the rubble. He continued staring until he saw a flame peeking out from under the rubble and then made for his car and home. In his rear view mirror, he noted the still supine body of his defeated opponent as a silhouette against the inferno that had been the Nevada Bulletin. He finally allowed his face to crack a smile as he reached up to the visor and took a pair of sunglasses down and slippe onto his face. That kid was interesting, no need for him to die just yet...
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:50, Mon 08 June 2015.

Dieter turned the wheel and the car rolled smoothly onto Las Vegas Boulevard and toward his building even as he reached into the seat next to him and grabbed his one button phone and put it to his ear. He spoke a coded phrase or two and then listened to some messages about the Chicago operations before finally speaking, "Update, Log# 23; situation limbo status, monitoring. 36 hour protocol suspended. Major player on hold, not closed. Recommendation: Hyde Protocol." He then hung the phone up even as he pulled into his private garage at the casino and stepped from his car. His aide met him with a briefcase and a clothing bag. His own current outfit was torn to shreds. The man glanced at where his expensive shoes were missing and Dieter clucked his tongue. The shoes had been comfortable and expensive.

"No worries, Alvin, not a complete loss. Bring me a standard material investment plan. I want one of our contractors on the cleanup for the Bulletin building and the man found unconscious outside it diverted University Medical Center and given the absolute best care. Hmm, also, leak some footage of the brawl to the media but only images of the boy. Oh, and call my personal physician." The mans curried off and Dieter moved into his office, then his personal bathroom where he stripped and stepped into a very, very hot shower. He let his senses move at normal speed and relished the relaxation of it.

When he emerged into his office again, there was a sheaf of papers on his desk and he smiled as he reviewed the plan. He logged onto the internet and watched a half dozen youtube videos all featuring Arthur's fight against an unknown and unseeable opponent. Dieter grinned as he read a few of the comments, some of them seeded by his organization, about the boy being "badass." Dieter agreed. He had rarely been so personally taxed in a fight.

He felt his injuries twinge and put stress on his ability to stabilize them and sighed as he stood and moved to his personal suite where his personal doctor waited to treat him.

---

Arthur would awaken in a bed in a private room hooked up to the best medicine money could buy. On the little table in front of him would be a business envelope and a letter. On the table by the bed were several elaborate flower arrangement from various Las Vegas agents and promoters. The letter read very simply:

Dear Arthur,

I saw your fight on the internet. Quite impressive. I used to represent Monolith, but he has lost his contract recently. I was wondering if you mgiht want to take his place in the theater? Five shows a week for $20,000 a show? The details are in the package.

Sincerely,
Alvin Meadows

The envelope contained a contract for the proposed show, the blue prints for a stage, and the details of the theater to perform in. The details of the show were left vague and dependent upon what Arthur would want to do. Based on his injuries thoguh, he has some serious time to consider the matter. Alvin Meadows was a show promoter and talent agent of some repute in Vegas. He had represented the popular show staring Monolith the Undefeatable, who had lost last week finally.

Janice was determined. No more settling for sh#tty grimy strip clubs. She was coming to Vegas to make it big. Of course she would have to start small, but she knew she could wow any crowd. Her looks alone made it easy for her to get starting gigs. Parts in topless reviews or in skimpy Vegas show girl outfits.  The hard part was getting something where she could stand out from the cast. No uses making an audience feel amazing during a show where she would not get the credit.  But she could influence casting directors too..  It was not long before she had her first leading role and she made the most of it.

Every performance, every night, she left the crowd exhausted and amazed. She was playing down the lust aspect this time, going instead for awe and wonder, trying to attract a larger, more mainstream crowd. As her reputation grew she got offers and started to play the strip, always refusing the very large venues where her abilities might not reach everyone in attendance and always refusing to sign anything long term.  She knew her star was rising and she was not going to stop till she reached the top.

Much to her surprise, Syndie had been offered a guest spot in Zumanity for a week's productions. A nice paycheck, no commitment, and a spot in a high profile production without being in the limelight herself. The theater was perfect proportions for her tricks and the show matched her current tastes, oozing sexuality but not raw sex. It was exhausting work and the Cirque performers were exacting perfectionists.

On the fist day, she was made aware that the theater and Cirque had been in trouble once the Gifted shows started to take over Vegas, but some mysterious investor and his organization had bought in and revamped the show. They even had a few gifted performers of their own now, in the main Cirque act on the Strip and here. Each night she performed, she noted the darkened box that was always reserved for this patron but never occupied. She was told that, occasionally, a guest would sit there, but the true patron had never been seen. Never-the-less, each night, a large arrangement of flowers arrived for the performers congratulating them on their work. The second to last night of her run, an additional arrangement of tiger lilies arrived just for Syndie with a card in a distinct, angular cursive handwriting, Your talents are quite noteworthy.

The small stage was now doing quite well and the manager of the production was ecstatic with the uptick in attendance that came with Syndie's addition for the limited run. Thus, it was with some bemusement when Sandy came into her dressing room before the last show of her run with a strange, worried look on his face. Syndie could feel his nerves and worry spiking violently as he passed her a note written on Casino stationary. One of the big casinos on the strip; the note simply said I am watching; impress me in the same cursive script and was signed with a black eye of Ra. "Dear, the lights are on in the patron's box! He's here!"

Out of curiosity, would you like to treat her performance as a battle post? Write what she performs, I will counter; we'll see how thoroughly affected Dieter is by her "spells."

Yes! This was her chance... Raw nerves, giddy excitement, finally she was feeling something! something her own. Before going on Janice tried to  reached the tongue of her mind  out to the black box. Trying to lick the emotions of the soul within...

Nothing!

She tried again, but again could read absolutely nothing of the dark occupant. Fear slowly crept up her spine.. She had never failed to read someone before. And now the music was playing... her cue! She had almost missed her cue! Janice leapt to the stage, nearly a half beat off her routine, but her training took over and her body did what her confused mind momentarily could not do.. it moved.

As she swam though her routine Janice's nervousness infected her motion, her grinds where filled with unsureness, her every sexy revelation of skin betrayed vulnerability.  This was not the act... She was no longer stripping her body for the crowd, she was stripping her soul for the dark box.

As her routine waxed her act changed from a strip tease to an offering. The crowd was no longer witnessing a hardened professional displaying her her toned and sexy body, they were seeing a young girl slowly showing herself for the first time to her first lover, shy and fragile. Janice took and slowly amplified the glimmering emotions of sympathy towards her, the recognition from men and women in the crowd old enough to be her parents of how young she was, how lost and alone she seemed.  From those in the audience who remembered how desperate it was to be nineteen years old, offering oneself for the first time to another just for the hope of acceptance, a thin chance to be loved in return.

Joyous crying; the kind of crying one does when witnessing the greatest of romantic scenes touches every face as Janice finishes her last step. The applause slowly builds as people belatedly realized the act is over. Everyone rises; but for some a mere standing ovation is not enough, men and women cry out, professing their adoration towards her, some take to the aisles and try to rush the stage as momentarily dazed security guards hold them back. Couples kiss and exchange love vows in the seats, no less than 3 marriage proposals are made and accepted on the spot, dozens of new relationships are forged some of which will last a life time.


Yet naked and alone, Janice stands on the stage, breathing deeply, sweating from her exertion. She is perfectly still amidst the madding crowd, not sparing a moment's notice for anything but the black box directly before and above her. Presenting herself... as an offering... just for the hope of acceptance, a thin chance to be loved.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:28, Sat 20 June 2015.

Dieter sat in his box and kept his senses at a slightly slowed pace. Even as the performance began, he felt his emotions ripple and flux. But, as with all of his mental functionality, his mind would be moving out of sync with the world, and this often caused severe issues for those who tried to affect it. It was possible, if they altered their tactic or were prepared for his nature, but not for this woman.

From Janice's perspective, it would be as if people were normally like glasses of water that she could control: empty, fill, manipulate. But this person was like jello, thick and hard to move.

Dieter watched as she spiraled into some kind of needy, visceral display and noted with amusement how utterly like putty the audience was to her. The show was nothing short of a strip tease, which was not what Zumanity was known for, but no one watching cared. Everyone in the room might as well as had cupid's literal arrow through their hearts. Dieter was quite impressed, the talent was far more potent than he had been led to believe by the analyses. He had, of course, sent readings and recording of her shows to Ohio for analysis. But this was truly spectacular.

Dieter mused and concluded that he must also be affected by her abilities at a much reduced level.

After the show was done, Syndie received a summons to the private box. As she entered, Dieter was reclined in a chair wearing his normal black suit with a lime green tie. His emotions were still like jello to her as he watched her with eyes unaffected by her manipulations, "So, when was the last time your fate was in the hands of someone you could not manipulate?" His voice was sluggish and warped as he kept his senses out of sync from reality as far as he could and still interact somewhat normally. It would not be good for her to get a grip on him.

[Non Cannon Battle Post]


Janice entered the room slowly. Timidly, like a fawn, she approached the seated man. Slowly she extended her 'tongue' to lick at Dieters soul. Now that he could see him in the flesh Janice had more success than when trying to read his resistant self through a one way mirror.  At first all she could taste were tiny bursts of flavor... caution being the most predominant. But still, even beneath his twin shells of gifted shielding and his mental resolve their was more. Something so powerful, so elemental to his being that noting could mask it...

A hard core of molten emotion spins within him, like the center of the earth beneath a cold crust of rock. Something he carries with him every single day of his life, a feeling that would crush a lesser man, send him to drink or to suicide. Yet this dark core drives him and defines him. A loss...  a hole so huge in his heart that it threatens to take his very humanity with it.

Dieter spends so much of this life trying to hide his pain, from others lest he been seen as weak, so much of his energy repressing his pain from himself lest it consume him that it has grown into a cancer. His calm is all show, his rationality and his logic merely the thin cool crust of his being, beneath it all lies a seething volcano of rage.

It was the most delicious soul she had ever tasted. Better than sex, better than coke, better than Jack Daniels, this seething, terrifying man pushed all her buttons at the same time. Janice's addictive personality was instantly hooked on him right from the very first hit.

She dared not try to move him with gross manipulations, his gift and his caution were far to strong for that, but she could try, slowly try, if she could only stay in his presence long enough to ever so subtly place herself at the core of his loss, the eye of his hurricane of anger. If she could just stay with him long enough he would come to care for her, eventually to love her. And they could be together for ever....


"I have been this way since I was sixteen... I've never.. ever meet anyone like you."

Janice made a feint for Dieters emotions because she knew that would be expected, a pull on his lust as she opened her robe to reveal her body to him...

[OOC] Basically I see Dieter as being a bit to confidant in his 'Jello' defense as far as masking his core emotions. The emotions Dieter have are HUGE and repressed to the boiling point. Like all people who refuse to process loss Dieter spends enormous energy trying to hid his feelings from himself  and thus he thinks he has much more control over them than he actually has. (this is common for A type personalities). So is my OOC battle post... To see if she can penetrate his defenses and convince him that her 'lust attack' is her genuine attempt to manipulate him when in fact she is placing a far more subtle, slow and long term attachment to him based on his unprocessed and metastasized feelings over the loss of his family.[OOC]
This message was last edited by the player at 19:08, Sun 21 June 2015.

Dieter had waited for her to make her move as he slowly let his emotions play out. Many often misunderstood Dieter; many thought he was an emotionless icy man, but to think that was to misunderstand what emotions were. Instinctive reactions to external stimuli. Emotions were the vestiges of human instinct evolved over millions of years. Dieter never fooled himself into thinking that he was in control of them, but he was in control of what they could make him do. This was the source of his indomitable willpower. This was what made him a monster.

As Janice's sense connected with Dieter's outer most layer of emotions, she was struck y how different he was immediately. Most men and women at her shows were emotionally simple if not the least because they had come to see a burlesque show. Lust was dominant, forward, and easily controlled.

Dieter watched in slow motion as her robe shrugged off. Long before any of her flesh exposed itself to him, he knew what was coming. This was the beginning of Syndie's play for control of him. Rather that try and convince himself that she was not a beautiful creature or that he did not possess physical lust for her, her let it play out. He slowed himself down even further, 1/20th speed, and let the lust weave in to the symphony that was his emotional surface.

Syndie's senses were on edge, this man was not her usual mark, and she had to be ready to catch and expand those notes of lust she expected. But they flew past. Either he was not that attracted to her or something else was a factor, for his lust for her was a constant note in his emotional song but it was so fast she could barely taste it before it was past. And though with each pass she touched it for a second and expanded it, the process was slow.

Dieter felt his lust for her growing and assumed it was her doing, not that he minded. IF this all ended with them rutting like animals, he was not opposed. Still, his icy calm surface was in fact the illusion that Syndie expected, but Dieter also knew this. His calm was not a product of lack of emotion but of it remaining at a constant simmer. It was like a lake boiling just below the surface. Beneath that, Dieter's core lay like a writhing, ravenous wyrm hungry for everything it could reach. Dieter's rage was magnificent to behold; like witnessing a dragon of old. It coiled and writhed and snarled and beheld her with deep, black eyes. It would consume her as well if she let it; but she also knew that this was just a manifestation of his true self.

Dieter was aware that some men were born monsters like him: sociopaths. Dieter was very frank about being no such thing. Dieter had been a very normal person before if a little overly analytical. He had love his wife and children deeply and truly. Their being taken from him had been the first blow; the impotency of the world to make him feel better about it struck many more blows, and the final blow had been awakening to his own powers. Dieter had not become a monster until that very night he had killed the Gifted who had killed his family. Dieter had chosen to emotionally wound and scar himself deeply and terribly. The only way to make yourself never feel such loss again was to make yourself incapable of it. But, that had been his folly. At his deepest core, Syndie encoutered such a towering complex emotion that she at first could not recognize. It was bitter and acrid against her tongue but sweet and soothing as well.

There, swimming beneath the rage that seemed to whip around her at light speed, Syndie saw that Dieter hated himself only as much as he loved himself. This man loved to hate himself; he reveled in emotionally abusing himself. There was no being he hated more than himself and he truly enjoyed making himself suffer deeply.

Still, all this information was gained by weathering a storm; Dieter's soul, if that word applied, was a rotten, black hurricane where emotions flew by her at the mental equivalent of the speed of sound. It was like withstanding a F5 storm that battered at her. The symphony was a riotous cacophony and it was hard for her to single out anything consistently except hate and rage and love in some twisted dance.

Dieter felt his lust for this woman rising but where most men had just a few seconds to think about this fact and respond, Dieter had minutes to feel what was happening and react to that itself. He was being manipulated, but he wasn't certain that mattered; he didn't know what this woman wanted, but that mattered only a little; and he knew what potential she had. He felt something more potent than lust curling deep inside him now and that was not welcome. That was an emotion he constantly flogged himself for; the one thing he detested in himself most and wished to excise: the ability to love someone. It was vulnerability and he hated it, but he also knew he could not stop it.

Slowly, like moving through molasses, Dieter stood from his chair. The new position revealed the strident affect Syndie was having on him as he crossed the room. His dark eyes were locked on her eyes, not her form. Slowly, he raised a hand and gripped her chin, "You have potential. Yes, great potential. Allow me to reveal a secret to you. I always kill the things I love. I make it a policy. It is ironclad, immutable, and even you will not stop it from happening. If you make me love you; you will die by my hands. However, if you wanted something less than that... a deal could be made." Dieter leaned in and pressed his mouth over hers in a moment of fiery passion.

Janice was, though, currently in the violent throws of her own emotional storm as this man stoked fires in her that none had or could. Surely, she could make him change his mind about killing her? Wasn't that the ultimate goal of her ability; wasn't it her destiny to find someone to grip to; didn't all strippers have issues with male rolemodels? "You say that now, but could you kill what you love?"

She could feel his emotions were less chaotic, less speedy, and more controllable now. Whatever ability he had that resisted her influence was slackening. Dieter looked her in the eye and shook his head, "I wouldn't have a choice in the matter. I would make the choice and even if I could not make myself do it, it would happen. I will repeat myself. Choose now and accept the consequences. You can have my love for a time and die or you can accept what I can offer and be content." Syndie didn't even hesitate to pull the strings which focused this man's towering love focus on her.

Dieter smiled at her beatifically and gathered her to him even as his mind, somewhere deep inside, knew that it was doomed. A hour later, Syndie was left on the floor of the room panting as Dieter dressed and left. She could feel the love she had created in him no longer the inferno but a smoldering bed of coals to warm her as she desired. He had given her a keycard for a room at his casino and had warned her once again to leave him if she knew what was good for herself. His emotions were still complicated and dense, his willpower was absolute, and his core was still that self-flagellating hate/love, but he was hers on some level as long as she kept him. Of course, he would never be under her spell completely and maybe that was the source of the attraction for her as well; a man who loved her at some level not because of waht she did but who she was.

Janice entered the room timidly, like a fawn. She approached the seated man, slowly extending her mind's 'tongue' to lick at Dieters soul. Now that she could see him in the flesh, Janice had more success than when trying to read his resistant self through a one way mirror.  At first all she could taste were tiny bursts of flavor... caution being the most predominant. But still, even beneath his twin shells of gifted shielding and his mental resolve their was more. Something so powerful, so elemental to his being that nothing could mask it...

Dieter was aware that some men were born monsters like him: sociopaths. Dieter was very frank about being no such thing. Dieter had been a very normal person before if a little overly analytical. He had love his wife and children deeply and truly. Their being taken from him had been the first blow; the impotency of the world to make him feel better about it struck many more blows, and the final blow had been awakening to his own powers. Dieter had not become a monster until that very night he had killed the Gifted who had killed his family. Dieter had chosen to emotionally wound and scar himself deeply and terribly. The only way to make yourself never feel such loss again was to make yourself incapable of it. But, that had been his folly. At his deepest core, Syndie encountered such a towering complex emotion that she at first could not recognize. It was bitter and acrid against her tongue but sweet and soothing as well.

There, swimming beneath the rage that seemed to whip around her at light speed, Syndie saw that Dieter hated himself only as much as he loved himself. This man loved to hate himself; he reveled in emotionally abusing himself. There was no being he hated more than himself, and he truly enjoyed making himself suffer deeply.

Still, all this information was gained by weathering a storm; Dieter's soul, if that word applied, was a rotten, black hurricane where emotions flew by her at the mental equivalent of the speed of sound. It was like withstanding a F5 storm that battered at her. The symphony was a riotous cacophony and it was hard for her to single out anything consistently except hate and rage and love in some twisted dance.

Dieter spent so much of this life trying to hide his true nature from others lest he been seen as weak, so much of his energy lashing pain onto himself in self perceived deserved torment. His icy calm surface was in fact the illusion that Syndie expected, but Dieter also knew this. His calm was not a product of lack of emotion, but of it remaining at a constant simmer. It was like a lake boiling just below the surface. Beneath that, Dieter's core lay like a writhing, ravenous wyrm hungry for everything it could reach. Dieter's rage was magnificent to behold; like witnessing a dragon of old. It coiled and writhed and snarled and beheld her with deep, black eyes. It would consume her as well if she let it; but she also knew that this was just a manifestation of his real self.

It was the most delicious soul she had ever tasted. Better than sex, better than coke, better than Jack Daniels, this seething, terrifying man pushed all her buttons at the same time. Janice's addictive personality was instantly hooked on him right from the very first hit.

She dared not try to move him with gross manipulations, his gift and his caution were far to strong for that; but she could try, slowly try, if she could only stay in his presence long enough to ever so subtly place herself at the eye of his hurricane of anger. If she could just stay with him long enough he would come to care for her, eventually to love her. And they could be together for ever....

Janice made a pull on Dieter's lust as she opened her robe to present herself... as an offering... just for the hope of acceptance, a thin chance to be loved.

He felt something more potent than lust curling deep inside him now and that was not welcome. That was an emotion he constantly flogged himself for; the one thing he detested in himself most and wished to excise: the ability to love someone. It was vulnerability and he hated it, but he also knew he could not stop it. Slowly, like moving through molasses, Dieter stood from his chair. The new position revealed the strident affect Syndie was having on him as he crossed the room. His dark eyes were locked on her eyes, not her form. Slowly, he raised a hand and gripped her chin;

""You have potential. Yes, great potential. Allow me to reveal a secret to you. I always kill the things I love. I make it a policy. It is ironclad, immutable, and even you will not stop it from happening. If you make me love you; you will die by my hands. However, if you wanted something less than that... a deal could be made."

Dieter leaned in and pressed his mouth over hers in a moment of fiery passion. Janice was, though, currently in the violent throws of her own emotional storm as this man stoked fires in her that none had or could. Surely, she could make him change his mind about killing her? Wasn't that the ultimate goal of her ability; wasn't it her destiny to find someone to grip to; didn't all strippers have issues with male role models?

"You say that now, but could you kill what you love? I have been this way since I was sixteen... I've never.. ever meet anyone like you. Your heart or my life, it's a gamble I'm willing to risk..."

She could feel his emotions were less chaotic, less speedy, and more controllable now. Whatever ability he had that resisted her influence was slackening. Dieter looked her in the eye and shook his head;

"It wouldn't be up to you, or even chance. I would make the choice and even if I could not make myself do it, it would happen. I will repeat myself; choose now and accept the consequences. You can have my love for a time and die, or you can accept what I can offer and be content."

Syndie didn't even hesitate to pull the strings which focused this man's towering love focus on her. Dieter smiled at her beatifically and gathered her to him even as his mind, somewhere deep inside, knew that it was doomed. A hour later, Syndie was left on the floor of the room panting as Dieter dressed and left. She could feel the love she had created in him, no longer the inferno it had started as but a smoldering bed of coals to warm her as she desired. He had given her a keycard for a room at his casino, and had warned her once again to leave him if she knew what was good for herself. His emotions were still complicated and dense, his willpower was absolute, and his core was still that self-flagellating hate/love, but he was hers on some level as long as she kept him. Of course, he would never be under her spell completely, and maybe that was the source of the attraction for her as well; a man who loved her at some level not because of what she did, but who she was.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:05, Fri 26 June 2015.