Upon hearing his father's voice, Greg sprang from the bed and rushed to greet him. This enthusiasm was hardly new; for years now Gregor Sr. had worked the same job, and though two promotions had convinced him to stay, it remained as tedious and exhausting as ever. As such, Greg Jr. made sure to treat his hardworking parent with respect and love. Still, it wasn't easy for the boy to maintain a thriving companionship with his dad. As an employee in the realm of customer service, Gregor Sr. dealt with an inordinate amount of trouble and tribulation every day, and often it made him too tired or angry for family activities—or even interaction. Greg greeted his father with a brief but warm hug. “What's up, dad?”
“Everything that's supposed to be.” A weary smile appeared of Greg's face. “Except morale, maybe. I need a beer.”

A few seconds later and Gregor was in the kitchen, popping the lid off an Asahi lager. Though by no means an alcoholic, it wasn't unusual for him to take a drink after work to relieve some of his pent-up tension and anxiety. Greg Jr. leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. “I was thinking of going around the corner for Japanese food tonight. Whaddya say?”
Greg Sr. finished a sip and replied with dry humor, “That's new. Eh, go ahead. Need any money?” After shaking his head, Greg Jr. left the kitchen and sauntered to his room. Once he had properly placed the bookmark in his novel -which he had left splayed open on the bed when he had heard his father's call- he rooted around in his wallet for some cash. Fortunately, there was enough left from the trip to the mall on Thursday to buy a few containers of food for supper. He stuffed it into his pocket, zipped up a navy blue hooded jacket, and headed outside, hoping to beat the crowds by arriving and ordering early.

-=-=-

From the forest behind Fantasy Sky Breaker there came rustling and panting sounds, increasingly loud by the second. Distracted by his own indecision and the teasing of Crisis Sonata, he was taken off guard as a dark blur sped past him, running at full tilt. It had a masculine humanoid shape and no malevolent aura, which debased any possibility of it being a negative. Breaker hadn't much time to examine the blur before a far stronger presence -once again from behind him- made itself known. With a cacophonous shriek, the enormous birdlike negative crested the edge of the forest, intent on the running man below and ignoring the two newly arrived alter egos.

With no trees to obscure his line of sight, the running man slid to a stop and turned around, holding aloft a bladed steel scepter. As the gargantuan negative approached, a singularity of cold manifested around the scepter, and soonafter the alter ego fired a blast of icy wind. The freezing jet arced through the air and splashed against the negative's face, instantly coating over both nostrils and eyes in ice. It shrieked again and flapped its giant wings to gain altitude lest it fall to earth and become vulnerable. For a few moments it would be unable to attack.

The black-clad alter ego fell to his knees, panting heavily. Now that Crisis and Breaker could see him clearly, they saw an older man with stringy black hair tied in a loose ponytail and rampant stubble. His eyes were dead white, which contrasted the formerly elegant, now ratty clothes he wore. Like Quicksilver Seraph, his garb was also interspersed with decorative lengths of cloth, though his were slashed and teal rather than maroon. The scepter was now slipped into his belt, indicating that he had no intention of continuing to fight the negative. “Hello, children,” he wheezed, “Anyone got any liquor? No? Shameful! Name's Midwinter's Envoy. Nice knowing you.” He laboriously pushed himself to his feet and took off running once more in the direction of the fortress.

From the fortress parapets Quicksilver Seraph narrowed her eyes. The brilliant blue flash in the distance, near the forest's edge, could be only one thing. “There he is,” she remarked. Ironclad, whose eyesight was less sharp, strained to see. “His ice has temporarily decommissioned the beast, but it won't last long. There—he's running for us again.” In addition to the familiar form, she could dimly make out two other alter egos. “He's not alone. I wonder who they are...?” Ironclad smirked, though of course the expression was invisible beneath his armor. “Weaklings or cowards. I wonder if they're going to run from Envoy's negative or get killed by it.”