"A general tour it is," Seraph replied with enthusiasm. After making a slight bow, she turned and strode with surprising speed toward the nearest door. As the three egos moved across the marble tile, hidden designs on them drawn in a clear substance that reflected torchlight became apparent for brief moments. The stones of the walls, though congruous at a distant, proved to be very unique upon closer inspection, made of different materials and in different fashions. If either Breaker or Sonata paused to take count, they would fine a total of eleven distinct styles. One of those styles was a dark sort of gunmetal gray stone hastily and scratchily embossed with the same starlike shape present on Ironclad's chest; another bore a lilac tint and smooth, artistic carvings. Evidently the bricks reflected those who had made them, each different but all constituting in part the grand structure that housed them all. The torches, though blazing with mundane orange flame, featured braziers crafted of bronze, simple and without ornamentation.

Quicksilver Seraph led her guests through a stone archway and into a merrily lit chamber floored by forest green carpet. Bookshelves comprised a whole wall of this room, while another was dominated by a huge, unlit fireplace. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through thick, glossy windows reinforced by wrought steel. Numerous couches and tables, all spaced evenly and symmetrically, sat in the room's center. Unlike the formulaic arrangement of the furniture, all sorts of paraphernalia littered the place randomly. Books splayed open, stacked on a side table, or simply sitting with bookmarks lay everywhere. Various plushy cushions resided haphazardly across the couches, clearly moved on the whim of those using the room. Two of those room-users currently lounged in the chamber, both unfamiliar egos. One, an obese young woman in elegant dress, sat with her back to the entrance, totally absorbed in a book. The other, an old, mustachio-sporting, bespectacled gentleman with skin the color of teak, looked up from a mug off coffee as they entered and bestowed them with a slight wave.

"Here we have the lounge. Just lovely, isn't it?" Seraph sang, clearly taking pride in the comfortable chamber. "Allow me to introduce Millennium Ichor Muse, usually called Mim, and Undertow. Friends of ours who, like us, dwell in this fortress in return for service or payment to the local Land Lord, Viral Talon. There are ten of us here total, twelve if you count Viral Talon and Mouth of the Void. Best not talk about that last one. Ready to continue with the tour, or would you rather remain here a little while?

Almost no sound was made as the saber of Ironclad slid through the sand-filled bad, cutting it cleanly in half and spilling its contents back onto the sandy floor. The miniature indoor colosseum was Ironclad's favorite place to be. Like a snake after striking, the metal warrior's blade recoiled, returning to its sheath with a faint [i]shtck[/i]. A few dozen feet away, another alter ego began to clap slowly. This scrawny, blonde-haired boy armored in leather for maximum mobility could best be described as a weasel in terms of looks, and as every bully had his or her toadies, Heat Crash was Ironclad's. Though also possessed an affinity and delight for combat, Heat Crash lacked the strength and endurance necessary to master it. Though at first a common victim of Ironclad, Heat cleverly maneuvered himself into the status of crony, doing favors for his 'friend' and generally currying his favor. In time, Ironclad had even started thinking of Heat as a friend as well. Now the two were common sparing partners, as Ironclad endeavored to improve his companion's fighting capability to acceptable level. "Lay it on me," Ironclad called, and Heat Crash plucked a slab of wood from the sand and chucked it at him. In a flash, Ironclad's claws appeared and both flew up to meet the projectile, turning it into a spray of splinters in the time it would take most egos to block it. "See?" He resonated, gesturing to the shards of wood. "Your turn."

-=-=-

"Hey, Greg!"

Still thinking about Aiko, Gregory hadn't noticed his a friend headed in his direction. "Ando! Didn't see you there. How was the game party?" The other boy, his own age and a Japan native as well as a huge video game aficionado, gave a shrug. 
"Not bad. We played shooters for a while before we started in on fighting games. As usual I kicked the guys' asses. At least they tried, though, so that's good."
Remembering getting totally stomped by Ando the last time he played him in Street Fighter IV, Greg couldn't help but sympathize. "Not bad! Hey, catch you later."
"You too! See ya, man."

As Greg placed his hand on the door to his apartment complex, a brief vision surged through his mind. He saw fearsome metal claws ripping a small log into jagged shreds, savage and visceral. For a moment, Greg staggered, almost falling against the door. After shaking his head, he rubbed an eye with his free hand and entered, wondering exactly what had just happened.