:) welcome bacc
Armour: None
Weapon: None
Acc(0/12):
Health: (10/400)
The Guide rarely panicked.
He was desensitized to it.
Every day at the hospital was life and death. His day to day was composed of one crisis strung into the next. It made sense, really. He couldn't panic. If a patient was bleeding out, the surgeon could not simply run out of the room screaming. If a person was suffering a heart attack, the nurse simply could not stand there in shock and sadness. No. In the workplace, he shut down those sorts of emotions. He didn't get disgusted. He didn't get scared. He didn't weep. He didn't panic.
Because his job wasn't to panic.
*Bang-Bang-Bang*
His job was to fix things.
(Get out here! I'll kill you! Bring that man out!)
...
He was panicking.
He was standing in the middle of a well furnished living room, panting and staring at the crumbled figure slumped into the sofa cushions. Behind him, the fireplace crackled gently, casting his wavering shadow over the room. All around him, the doors and windows rattled. Fists and rocks rang against the seams of the house. There were two pink-haired women outside, shrieking and yelling, wielding knives and calling for his death, and The Guide really was becoming quite terrified.
Who are they?! Did I walk into some Amazonian cult?!
And with each passing moment, The Guide regretted walking through the park after work instead of going straight home. If he had opted to walk on the pavement, could this whole situation have been avoided? Maybe he should have picked up that extra shift after all... but surely this couldn't be karma. Getting ripped to bits by a bunch of bubblegum-pink cult members was not an appropriate punishment for failing to especially forthcoming with his collegues.
*Slam! Bang!*
The Guide flinched as something shattered against the front of the house. To be honest, the two lunatics outside had been smashing at the windows for well over an hour. The Guide did not expect the fine glass to last at all against iron bars and stone - but he was certainly glad they had. One part of him was curious how they held up to such violence, but the other was tenuously convinced there was some sort of schrodinger's effect taking place - and the moment he looked to see if the windows were shattered, they would. Right then and there.
*thunk-thunk-thunk*
Okay... Okay breathe.
The Guide shut his eyes for a long moment and calmed his heart. When he opened his eyes, he took account of his surroundings. The room was dark, all the curtains had been drawn over the windows to blot out the sunlight and The Compound's miscreants. The flickering fireplace made the room too hot and a bit clammy. On the couch lay his patient. The man he had snatched from the very jaws of death. He felt very proud of himself for that brief moment (he was a fan of superheroes and the like) but things were not as they seemed. The Guide didn't need a crazy knife lady to kill his patient, for despite his medical knowledge, his expertise, and all his good intentions - He'd managed to do it all on his own.
... how could you fuck up this badly?
The Guide berated himself through haggard breaths. The air seemed too humid and too thick. His hands were shaking and there were spiders crawling under his skin. He wanted to choke on the burning guilt clawing its way up his throat. A thousand unconvincing excuses generated in the back of his mind and attempted to assuage the scene before his eyes, but no matter what he told himself - the cold pool in his stomach refused to drain away.
How was I supposed to know? He looks just like any other man! Sure, his skin's a bit sickly coloured and maybe its texture is strange, but how could I have possibly known performing CPR would collapse his ribcage! That's not fair. I was only trying to do good! This shouldn't be my fault. I- (etc...)
*haaah*
The poor man's frame shuddered as he sucked in a laborious breath. The sound was halting and faint, it was the sound of a man clinging to life by the tips of his fingers. His chest had been crushed - the broken bones poking up through his strangely elastic skin like the tips of carnival tents. He was well muscled, and perhaps because his frame looked sturdy, The Guide had mistakenly treated it as such. But now, his patient was caving in at odd angles. His figure looked as if it's been badly taxidermied - hollowed out and re-filled with cotton. In response to having his skeleton crushed like an eggshell, the man's mouth fell open and his eyes bulged out of his head. The Guide observed, with considerable distress, that his teeth were merely a ring of white numbs still embedded in his gums. His eyes were pale and colourless; his pupils fractured as if still being formed. The Man's features might have been vanishingly plain if they weren't so dreadfully marred. It was covered in lacerations and streaked in blood. His nose and most of his upper lip was sitting in a bowl on the coffee table, exposing an uncomfortable amount of bone.
"Shit... "
The Guide took several deep breaths before carefully sitting down in a nearby armchair. He shakily pinched his brow before jerking his bloodied hands away from his face. Maybe all of this was just a bad dream... well, he certainly hoped it was, but it didn't feel like it. Plenty of his patients had died before, so, although it was a bit cold hearted, deaths became somewhat routine in his line of work. The Guide had seen all manner of terrible injuries - things far worse than what this man was suffering. This wasn't too special... but never before had he been the perpetrator! He was a gentle soul. He hated violence. He worked for the betterment of the world...
...
This Man was going to die. Nobody survived getting their chest crushed like this unless they immediately underwent major surgery.
And The Guide wasn't a surgeon.
Perhaps he knew what to do in theory - but his certifications had never allowed to to touch a scalpel. He'd never even observed a surgery before, much less get hands-on experience. He felt guilty, true, but how was he supposed to save this man? He was dying. He was laying on that couch, struggling for breath and dying. If The Guide just sat here and let him die... then he was a murderer.
But if he tried his utmost to save him and failed... wasn't he just trying to save somebody? He wasn't a bad person if he did that, right? Maybe he had no anesthesia, or tools, or medication, or sutures - but if he tried, then maybe the guilt would slip away. The Man was a lost cause anyways. It was doubtful he would mind getting his thoracic cavity split open.
Well, he would - but he certainly wouldn't suffer for too long.
Okay. I'll give it my best shot.
And so The Guide took a deep breath and rolled up his sleeves. He calmed his heart. He chilled this blood. He fetched a kitchen knife, a needle and thread and a set of bath towels, and - after splaying The Patient across the kitchen table - began his procedure.
The moment he stepped into the Clandestine Corps Barracks, The Cyborg immediately wished to be back in the little windmill village at the base of the mountains. Well, frankly - even if the mood weren't so dismal, he might still wish to be back amongst the windmills. It took central nearly a week to send a cart out to fetch him and his few remaining men, so The Cyborg - genteel as usual - became quick friends with The Villagers. (Although the few that knew his involvement with The Clone appearing here had to be swiftly disappeared. The Cyborg didn't want to put down an uprising.) The four of them had celebrated the rest of the autumn festival with the villagers - helped to rebuild their homes and received a myriad of different foodstuffs in thanks before getting bundled into a dreary looking van and bouncing their way along dirt roads... all the way home.
(Crying)
On the way, he was made to listen to all the problems Dragon-Eyes (that's what they were calling The Resistance Terrarian now, apparently) had wrought in The Capitol. Although Dragon-Eyes was his enemy, The Cyborg couldn't help but pay him some grudging respect. That man was a terrifying beast. He had the utter balls to walk into The Capitol alone, wreck havoc, release The Golem and destroy Draedon's Twins (he'd been present for this) - then leave. The Cyborg had good naturedly chuckled his way through the tale until they arrived back at the CC headquarters - and realized far too many of his collegues were missing.
(I'm sorry child. She didn't say where she was going.)
He'd refused to look at the list of deceased. CC Agents really shouldn't be getting killed at all, and especially not en masse like this! If these were first Generation CC Agents, then maybe it was understandable. The first batch were just men and women mixed with animal DNA and pumped with steroids. Most of them were dead by now, and the handful that survived this long were revered from afar.
But in this day and age, where the bulk of agents were third, and even fourth generation - casualties were few and far between. The science of enhancements and genome editing had come so far, that nothing should be able to kill them! During the siege of the Resistance, out of the two hundred agents dispatched, they had only lost 10. Yet Dragon-Eyes - in the course of a single night, had slain twenty whilst fleeing!
(Crying)
Maybe he was being childish. He was an Imperial Agent. He was a spy. He was a soldier, and The Empire was -until very recently- at war. Of course there would be casualties, and of course some of those casualties would be his friends and his family. Men and women he'd grown up with, trained with, and clung to whilst mutagen ran through their veins. Two hours ago, The Cyborg walked into CC Headquarters, saw the bunches of funeral flowers set up around the lobby, and walked right out. Right now, his heart couldn't take that...
Guess I have to toughen up? Nah...
He sighed as he wandered through the city, dressed in full CC regalia and drawing fearful glances from the population. It did bother him a little that people feared him. Unlike most of his colleagues, The Cyborg didn't like to be feared. He liked people. He liked talking to them, and interacting with them, and enjoying their smiles and grins. He'd been told his personality did not match his job description - but alas, where else would he go? What else could he do? He was strong, and no matter what, he would use his strength to protect those he loved.
(Off you go now, Kiddo. I have customers coming. Here. Take this lollipop. Shoo-)
The Cyborg was lost in his own thoughts as he rounded the corner, stepping out of the shadow of a building and onto the ornately patterned sidewalk indicating he was in The University district. In this part of the city almost everything had been deconstructed and re-made with magic - and therefore sported an intricacy of stonework thought impossible with human hands. It really was a wonderfully pretty place, especially with the sunshine beaming down and the puffy clouds traversing overhead. The Cyborg tilted his head and drank in the scene, allowing nature's beauty to comfort him.
I just hope they found peace where th-
He blinked in surprise as a child - no older than 8 or 9 - bumped into his knee and collapsed back with the rebound. The kid was scrawny, dressed in worn clothes and tearfully clinging to a lollipop as if it were his very last hope. He wore an odd little bucket hat atop his head, and when he looked up to see who he'd run into, he froze, turned pale and nearly burst into tears all over again.
Perhaps I really am too scary.
Of course, The Cyborg wouldn't have that. Comforting others during times of grief always made things easier to bear. Quickly, he kneeled on the ground, and carefully helped the boy to his shaking feet. Although his voice came out slightly mechanical due to his augmentations - he was rather satisfied with the gentleness of his tone.
"Don't be scared! What happened, Little boy? Where are your parents? Are you lost?"
At the very mention of 'parents' the lollipop slipped out of the boy's hand and the child began to weep once more. He stood there in his bucket hat, both hands rubbing furiously at his eyes, and blubbering out something nearly incomprehensible. Naturally, The Cyborg was equipped with a good deal of computing power. He had no problems understanding what the child said.
"M-mom and D-dad... they s-said if anything happened to them, I s-should go find Sis. She w-was supposed to be here! L-look!"
The boy offered a crumbled up letter. It was addressed to one of the provinces almost entirely swallowed by the spreading crimson. Apparently Yharim himself had gone through and scorched that land with fire - temporarily halting the diseases' progression and displacing the peoples of that land. There had been many casualties as well, and it appeared this young boy had lost his.
He continued to blubber, his tears of distress streaming down his face.
"B-but she's not here! The l-lady said she sold the store and left! I walked all the way here, and she's gone!"
The Cyborg frowned and gently took the envelope from the crying child. He checked the address and grimly confirmed they were indeed standing in front of the correct storefront. It was a small barber's shop, quaintly outfitted and run by a fiesty old woman who glared at him from behind the cashier's desk. Clearly she wasn't this boy's sister...
Oh... poor kid. He's all alone.
The Cyborg sighed and awkwardly patted the boy on his shoulder. He couldn't help him. His parents were dead. His sister was missing. He would carry pain in his heart for a very long time... but at the very least, The Cyborg could help to meet his more basic needs. It'd help him keep his mind off his own woes.
He made his voice gentle.
"Hey Kiddo, what's your name?"
"A-angler... I w-wanted to be a f-fisherman."
The Cyborg offered a brief chuckle.
"Okay, Angler. You can call me 'Cyborg'. Why don't we get you a shower and a change of clothes... then go to a fish restaurant. You can order whatever fish you want. How does that sound?"
The Angler's mouth was still etched in a bitter frown, but he looked up and nodded - teary eyed- to The Cyborg. When he stood from his crouch, the boy immediately grabbed hold of his hand and walked closely beside him. He really was terribly dirty, and terribly thin. Had The Cyborg been a harder man, he would have turned his nose at The Anger. Instead, he just smiled and turned off his olfactory receptors.
They hadn't gone several paces before The Angler tugged his arm. His cheeks were still stained with tears, but at least he wasn't crying any more. The Cyborg turned to listen.
"Mister Cyborg. Do you think the Fish Restaurant has Rock Lobster?"
"Maybe. Is that what you want?"
"Yeah, I've never seen a rock lobster before... they live in the desert, you know."
"Oh really! (etc...)"
The palace was nothing if not opulent.
The lord of this land spared no expenses on his castle, and it showed. Thick velvet drapes adorned each crystalline window - the cloth arranged in such intricate designs they almost seemed to be carved from clay rather than true hanging fabric. The pillars were plated in gold and they beamed in their lustre. The floor was scaled in marble and shimmering quartz and at the entrance of each great hall stood the massive, jewel encrusted twin visages of The King and The Great Dragon.
Everything was tastelessly expensive. Saccharine in its beauty. The Gardens were filled with carefully trimmed trees and hedges. Flowers were enchanted that they bloom all year-round, neither wilting nor bruising from one season to the next. Gemstone trees blossomed amongst their overworld counterparts, their delicate leaves sparkling gloriously in the sunlight. In The King's Palace, a man was assaulted with beauty. In The King's Palace, a man saw the sweetness of The King's favour.
*Roaaar... cackling... howling*
Yet there was a caophany in the great hall. A great throng of men and women, warriors, generals, judges, nobles - each surrounded by a small army of their guards. A few remained cold and silent, scornfully watching their collegues shout and clang their spears against their shields. Others had devolved into shouting matches, and still others had resorted to bloodshed. Somebody had brought a lion with blades strapped to its forelegs, and it bellowed and slashed at the bodyguards that had been sent to accost it. Bets were being made. Wine was being guzzled. The room was cearly filled with people that hated each other - and they were not afraid to show it.
Yet although there was writhing and shouting and cries of pain from all sides - none dared to approach even near to the great golden throne at the head of the hall. Men and women would far rather stay amongst the pricking spears than dare bleed upon the throne. Not for fear of The Guards that stood to its left and to its right (indeed, the seething throng daren't touch them either) lest their actions be seen as a slight against The Mighty Tyrant.
*Creaak*
A long noise.
The door slid open and the room became jarringly silent.
The gambling men hastily pocketed their dice and their winnings before scurrying to their seats. The brawling guards hurried to their charges and nursed their injuries in silence. Even the lion cowered and lay its maned head on the ground. None raised their eyes, all trembled.
Because the air had become tense and hollow.
And there was a gravity in the room that had not been there before.
*thump...thump...thump*
They knew The King's footsteps. They had memorized them the same way a child memorizes its parents'. From the gait of the burnished golden claws clacking against the stone, they could tell The King was displeased. And when The King was displeased, heads were separated from bodies.
For the splendor of the palace hid the power of The Ruthless Tyrant.
And the gold in these walls were torn from the cold, dead hands of his enemies.
...
A page walked ahead of the king.
(Stand and greet his Majesty!)
There was the noise of three hundred nobles obediently standing to their feet. They raised their heads. They spoke in unison.
"We Greet Lord Yharim, and acknowledge him as the rightful sovereign over these lands."
(You may be seated!)
They sat.
As did The King, upon his gleaming throne.
He - as always - wore his full battle regalia. A strange machination of Auric alloy and whirring diodes that glowed teal-blue and crackled - sometimes with lightning, sometimes with shimmering strength. He wore a great scarlet plume atop his closed faced mask and a heavy blue cape adorned his shoulders. When he sat, he lounged on his throne, relaxed yet keenly focused on each of the many pale faces turned towards him. Today, none dare to speak. The King was inscrutable on his best days, and on his worst - downright murderous. Many had made assumptions about him in the past - what he liked and disliked, how he liked to be flattered, and what could sway him - but each and every one of them had misstepped to their deaths. The King could not be bribed with money. He could not be swayed with influence. He was The King, and he owned everything in this land...
For he was The Absolute Sovereign.
He was the paragon of strength.
And through the force of overwhelming power, King Yharim brought peace to his lands.
...
But...
But for the very first time in his long reign - The King had failed to achieved the victory he sought. The Resistance siege had been a success, obviously (as The King had fought personally), but clearly, his victory did not bring peace. This time, his strength did not cause rebellious hearts to tremble and simmer to nothing. There was now a thorn in The Empire's side. An unkillable thorn conjured up by his trusted advisor - the now fled Lunatic Cultist. He had released a plague upon this land. A seething venom that would slowly crush the greatest powers of this age, this kingdom included.
It was a Terrarian.
A Legend.
A Monster.
A Monster that had wrecked merry havoc in the capitol itself mere days ago, mocking The King, destroying his home, killing his subjects, the, when all was said and done, had absconded into the wilderness. With him and his brazen feats, all the rebellious hearts in this kingdom had been set aflame. There were rumblings amongst the populous. There were low mutterings in the bars. There were dangerous questions being raised, and there were many who were silently taking up arms in preparation for strife.
The nobles knew this. And if The Nobles knew, then so must The King.
He must know of the seams forming in his ranks. Of the generals - drunk on ambition carefully considering whether to throw some of their weight behind this 'unkillable soldier'? After all, If Yharim fell, and The Regime changed - surely the allies of the victor would reap benefits. The nobles, who controlled vast tracts of land and resources would be shrewdly considering the same. The wealthiest may well be seeking to hedge their bets and lend to this uprising.
Each man in this room knew the same about the other. The moment 'The Hero' escaped - seemingly unscathed - the powers in The Imperial Regime were shaken.
("Bring in The Traitor")
The Page raised his hand. A ancient man, beaten and bloodied was dragged in. He wore the robes of the Magical Academy - high robes, of the highest echelon of scholars. A few of The Nobles seemed to look on with recognition in their eyes. The others watched with no little curiosity.
The page spoke, his voice belting out against the golden pillars.
"Lords and nobles, I present you the esteemed creator of the Resistance 'Terrarian'..."
Mutterings amongst the crowd. Noises of surprise. Several 'I knew it's rang through the audience. When the clamour died down, the page continued.
"The Mentor of our recently departed Lunatic Cultist... perhaps it is no surprise he has allegiance to The Resistance... But rest assured, we did not gather you to witness an execution. His Royal Majesty has seen fit to enlighten you."
More clamour. The Page looked around until the room became silent then he sneered down at the trembling old man crumbled on the marble floor. His voice was venomous, thinly veiling a terrible threat.
"Now speak Wizard... tell us the truth about your 'Terrarian'."
Guide1: Slayer, do you know where my journal is?
MK: Smoosha journal in hand
G1: ...
MK: millions of journals pour from his sleeves.
G1:...
G2: Slayer do you know where my pet hamster went?
MK: *smoosha*
* So I know Cyborg was present for The Destruction of The Twins. He wasn't feet on the ground during the chase, though - and also wasn't there for Golem.