"This Earth right here is ripe with desire, dreams, hopes, lust, and a .1% that rules it all. It's the perfect place for envy and the desperation of those in search of influence, and money to cultivate. Along with that, many live in fear, and out of their prejudices, desire power to crush any threat. They'll take any advantage they can. That's where we come in. A few powerful devils were hanging around there that ruled for eons but I pushed them off the block for now. No telling when they’ll come back but I'm not the type to sit around and fear the inevitable retaliation, whatever that may be.”
Two demons locked eyes. Amber-colored versus lime. Both uniquely devious from one another, but cut from the same cloth. Both devils carried their own insidious agendas behind their poker faces, masters of their devilish trades. Ixxa, the succubus reigning over lust, and Parooz, the guile soul stealer. However, despite playing for the same team, neither was too fond of the other's style.
Violet whips of Parooz's cigar emitted a settling plume of smoke obscuring his eyes, ending their stare-off. An obvious tell.
"You're thinking about fucking killing me." Ixxa's face screamed unamused.
"I didn't say that." An expected retort.
"You're FUCKING THINKING IT!" Her voice could be heard out the hall even with all the live music flooding the bar.
Slit-eyed, Parooz skeptically examined the snow-haired succubus, figuring the cat was out of the bag.
"Who told you that?”
Ixxa's poker face broke.
"A little birdie."
In a fit of aggression, Parooz snatched his two-timing pistol out of his trousers in something resembling a stranglehold on its grip if that was even possible.
"Tony, you low-caliber snitch."
Provoking the gun to speak, the mobster recklessly stared down the barrel. A shot rang off from the pistol, lodging itself in the center of his forehead.
The pink-skinned devil fell like a brick, rattling the room's polished silver Schonbek Sterling chandelier overhead. His ashen hair blended into the dusty shag carpet and with a loud thud, he alarmed tiny fleeing blood-orange critters specifically planted in the carpet to clean up waste. Ixxa clutched her 2.55 Chanel Flap, whose leather parted with long lashes as startled almond eyes leered at the faceplanted mafioso. Seeing this as an opportunity to escape, Ixxa pointed her nose up in her exit strut, but Paoroz flopped like a fish out of water, grasping at her heels just within his reach. Promptly lifting her foot ever so slightly, Ixxa stamped the heel of her red bottoms right through the dorsal side of his extended hand with such force it penetrated the oak floors.
"You never change Sepias, but a lot has since you were gone. I think I’ll tough it out with Vileiro and see what he's got planned. Your plans are too dangerous for my liking. Not excited to find out which elder demon you’d like to make an enemy out of for your great return.”
Unphased, Parooz’s slowly raising head mumbled “Funny you asked.”
With a bullet still lodged into his skull, his wide grin became apparent even though Ixxa couldn’t see his eyes.
“I need you to put me in contact with Queen Noppera-bō herself, Ysolde.”
Ysolde, the embodiment of terror and beauty entwined, exists as the apotheosis of the Noppera-bō within the intricate tapestry of existence. Her form, a paradoxical fusion of allure and dread, casts a captivating shadow across realms, yet she is rarely seen. Ixxa draws much of her seductive power from this entity, but even she knows not to dip too big of a cup. Her presence alone projected an intricate dance of elegance and foreboding malevolence. Far beyond mere appearance, Ysolde becomes a beguiling visage, an enchantress that beckons with an insidious charm that resonates with those who yearn for aesthetic ecstasy.
Her form, or lack thereof, transcends the constraints of mere physicality. Ysolde dons the enigmatic guise of an ephemeral enigma—a spectral figure bereft of facial features, eyes, or mouth. Instead, where her visage should be, lies all-encompassing emptiness, a void that absorbs all light and warmth. This formlessness, like the caress of a shadow, becomes an enigma that invites mortals to unravel its mystery, an intricate riddle that tugs at their deepest desires.
With power like that, it made sense why Sepias wanted to use her as a medium to siphon souls. Ixxa was already a masterful manipulator of beauty and fear, wielding an arcane tapestry that intertwines mortal yearning and apprehension. Yet, the demon before her wanted better. As terrifying as it was, the succubus was now intrigued by the proposition. An unholy partnership of Ysolde's beauty-infused malevolence merging with Parooz's dark ambition would result in a crescendo of chaos that echoed across countless realms. The devil in her came out. The main question she had, however, was that it was overkill. What was on Earth F67x that Parooz felt he had such a need to recruit such a powerful source? Maybe he was looking far beyond that planet alone. Either way, she knew not to dismiss his intuition.
Name: Sepias Corleone Parooz aka “Parooz” Age: 36 appearing Gender: Male Race: Human/Devil-like Profession: Underboss of the Sarcoen crime family
Random descriptors:
He was a shaggy-looking man of average height and build with heavily damaged, matted slate-gray hair. His mophead contrasted with his clean-shaven face and he smelled like an unholy concoction of charcoal fumes and Eau de Parfum. Some stubble snuck through his peculiar red-tinted skin and he often scratched it with an aloof expression while talking. This strange mobster's complexion is easily mistaken as the result of an extremely bad tan but it was a reflection of his race. For lack of better words, he was a "devil" but not quite when looking closer. He wasn't the devil Just one of many.
Sepias was the owner of a pair of lethargic vermillion eyes with yellowing sclera signaling intense liver damage. When he widened his eyes a bit, a noticeable amber glow projected. Despite his hair, he was relatively well-kempt in terms of attire, often sporting matching slacks, blazers, and hats, appearing as some sort of ‘not so smooth criminal.’ For a devil, his horns were rather miniscule and hidden by his hair but he was certainly headstrong.
Physical Description: He had somewhat bad posture, always walking with his hands in his pockets, head down, usually mumbling to himself. He smoked a lot, and even when cigar-less, smoke and fumes escaped from his cuffs, hems, ears, and even his mouth when speaking. He had veiny hands with natural black nails and an odd spiral pattern to his palms. Sometimes he’d talk to people with closed lips through a voice that came from the base of his brimmed hat. Clearly, there was a mouth somewhere within that forest he called the top of his head, but not many people were inquisitive enough to try to find out.
Personality Description:
He was a frequent goer to casinos, particularly those run under the intergalactic Pleiades Casino & Resort chain owned by the perpetually uptight frost demon and business tycoon Vileiro. The only reason Parooz wasn't banned was because of the frost demon's respect for the mobster's superior, Ealdorman Sarcoen, who guided them both as youth and was the primary financial support of the Casino chain at its inception. Even as early as that, it was clear they were on two separate paths but in a way, they were like brothers. A pair of cramp twins. Whereas Vileiro had an unhealthy fascination with luxury, Sepias had an equality unhealthy relationship with vice and of all things, numbers.
The idea that the world is made up of numbers and that everything quite possibly had a numerical explanation kept him up at times. In a sense, numbers serve as the new deity for him, but it was one to be challenged and he often did with his unlucky dice. This led to him becoming quite a gambling addict and his obsession with dice rolls and coin flips determined if he'd act on a situation at times.
That being said, if you happened to be unlucky, and you failed to pay up from a bet, he’d take a finger or worse for his inconvenience. When Parooz became animated, more of his fiendish characteristics manifested. His already sharp canines became pronounced, multiple mouths and eyes appeared just about anywhere on his body, and a deathly heat radiated off of him, followed by random eruptions of fire. However, aside from that, he often clung to his self-proclaimed title of being a "fun guy."
Skills, powers, and abilities:
Tough son of a - Parooz's skin has what can be described as an iron-like elasticity to it. It was exceptionally tough and thick, allowing him to handle and take on some of the sharpest of weapons and projectiles very well, mostly dealing with the blunt force. With enough focus and time, he can augment its effectiveness. Combine that with his already exponentially fortified ram head of a skull and skeleton. Parooz was not one to challenge to a fight when you're feeling moxy in a speakeasy.
Occult Anatomy - Sepias can spawn the features of his head anywhere along and within his body at will. This includes eyes, mouths, ears, noses, and even sabbatical goat horns. He can remove them, cartoonishly jumble his face like Mr. Potatohead, and even place them on foreign objects with the functionality to grow.
It is no surprise the energy radiating off of Parooz is malefic in origin. He is not simply a practitioner of the occult, he is the occult, hailing from a race of human/devil hybrids who live in a hellscape version of Vegas. Its strip extends endlessly, only rumored to end at the gates of hell.
Though he had no affinity for massive feats of external manipulation, he had exceptional control over his soul, body, and demonic energy. Sepias could grow multiple of his body parts like arms and legs out his frame. He could place parts of his soul into basic objects to give them fiendish personalities, increase their strength, and grant basic movement. For example, he could put a switchblade on the floor, give it eyes and have it jump up and take a whiff at someone when they walk by. In reality, these objects aren't actually alive and just represent the multiple personalities he has. It's a coping mechanism for him to stay sane, though if enough of them are together, it's common to see them bicker amongst each other.
Cremation - Parooz has an affinity for manipulating heat, smoke, fire, and ash, often utilizing them in unorthodox, creative ways. He could turn a boulder into a wave of hell fire and brimstone. He could turn a forest into a small hell and there was no foreseeable limit to how hot his flames could get. The mobster is particularly fond of igniting opposing forms of energy, especially magical barriers, and shields. Parooz was especially sensitive to things that passed through the smoke he produced. The faintest of charred smell in the air could mean he's scouting out the area you're in.
Not so fast, buddy - With the ability to replicate parts of his brain, Sepias gained the ability to manipulate his central nervous system as well, allowing him to react significantly faster. In combination with Sepias' ability to place his eyes anywhere and his accelerated understanding of physics, trajectory, and arithmetic, it makes him quite the challenge to blitz or ambush, even with high velocity projectiles.
Dancing with the devil - For someone who slouched in seats, has bad posture, and an unexplainable leg drag that switched depending on the day, Parooz was cartoonishly nimble and flexible when motivated. At times he’d even resemble a snake, narrowly evading in slithery manners when contorting his body to avoid threats. He could briefly turn his body into the shape of a stop sign to hide behind one. He could dislocate his elbow, whirl it like a propeller and fly away like a helicopter. You never seemed to know what you will get when dealing with him.
Buck 50 - Parooz tail is thin and spade-shaped. It extends at will much like his forked tongue and was ridiculously quick, strong, and sharp. It could be used like a whip and it was capable of lifting boulders, clashing with swords, and cleaving fortified metal armor. Truly, a lethality effective weapon for surprise attacks, slicing and even constriction.
Knives out - Parooz had a seemingly endless amount of stiletto knives that never encumbered him. They were stored just about anywhere: Pockets, socks, shoes, sleeves, in hats, under his tongue, ass crack. Use your imagination. Not to mention, he also happened to pull much larger objects seemingly out of thin air like glass bottles, standard Tommy guns, anvils, and sometimes even freakishly large hammers. It was common for him to embed said weapons with his hellish energy to increase their effectiveness against magical shields and armor.
Character Equipment
Barrel-Tone Tony - A slick talking ghoulish-looking pistol with noticeable anxiety that only got worse when firing. He'd often taunt Parooz when he was off the mark, especially since specific rounds physically hurt him to fire. During disagreements, it wasn't surprising to see Tony attempt to pistol whip Parooz on the spot and even take literal shots at his owner.
Bullets shot by Tony could curve at absurd angles and the rounds themselves had a habit of gnawing and devouring absolutely anything they seemed to be lodged in or penetrating. They also had the capability to stuff themselves fat and explode. The effects they'd have was dependent on what Barrel Tone Tony told them to do. They could turn corrosive, explosive, incinerate, become cryo rounds, etc. Parooz considered him an idiot but he did have some amount of psychic proficiency. He could at least warn Sepias when someone was trying to penetrate his mind.
Pair of dice: Cerulean glass dice whose snake eyes are actually snake eyes.
Zippo Lighter: A holographic lighter embroidered in his emblem. When flicked open, it revealed a set of razor-sharp teeth like a barracuda and a blue flame. If you weren't paying attention, you could lose a finger or two.
Switchblades: Stiletto Milano Knives whose blades could extend moderately to become sword-like.
The decrepit fingers of a peculiarly soulful ghoul engineered hypnotizing sounds through the yellowing, cracked keys of a three-legged Bartolomeo Cristofori creation. Its body, tastefully remixed, consisted of fortified bone and hardened spotty leathers similar to the pianist's skin tone. Under the speakeasy's scarlet light, you could barely identify his glowing red corneas sharply surveying the room. Awaiting the arrival of the alluring Ixxa, he was certainly on edge. As a member of the Sarcoen family, this musician's career was a side act. However, he was a true artisan of his craft, never splicing a note when playing in front of the crowd in ecstasy resembling a demonic sugar shack. His name was Vincenzo. A name not necessarily feared, but respected. He had more fans than enemies, though being backed by Ealdorman Sarcoen added a double-edged level of protection.
Despite his role in racketeering, the jazzist was quite low rank but that extra layer of safety as an artist in the wild, Hell Vegas city of Aeternus meant the world to him. Today his job was simple. He was a pair of eyes and with them, he spotted the cherry-skinned snow-blonde woman in a little oroton mesh dress waltz in. Vincenzo played a particular stream of chords that alerted management of her arrival. When Ixxa attempted to sit at the topaz counter of the bar, a large Gargoyle figure obstructed her path with his forearm, directing her to V.I.P. Extremely irked, her heels, which were more like stiletto knives than footwear, pierced the creature's foot before she stomped off. Though in monstrous amounts of pain, the creature bit his stone lips and watched her angry strut into a narrow, winding hallway. Ixxa's heels sliced through the carefully laid velvet pile carpets that decorated the interior filled with blackened bones and claws carrying lambent candles burning violets and puke greens.
Ixxa approached the section brazenly with pursed green lips but before she could get a word out, the raspy but smooth voice of what sounded like a lifelong smoker exclaimed "Remember when we were kids, Ixxa? You had faith in me. What exactly changed between then and now?" She paused.
The purplish haze that fogged the V.I.P. room cleared, revealing a mauve-suited man lowering his brimmed hat to his chest in an honorary gesture towards the snow-haired succubi. He had small onyx horns on opposing sides of his head pointing north and south that you could barely make out between his matted ashen hair. With one foot resting on his knee, this bizarre man, if you'd consider him one, slouched on the couch whose legs were the actual legs of some very much alive mink beast.
Ixxa stood directly in the center of the room. The walls were illuminated in dim vermillion light, showcasing the multicolored works of imagist art hung somewhat lazily, with many crooked and some even upside down. When examined closely, the boundaries of the section appeared to breathe, aside from the last wall directly behind the man. That one was boundless, plastered in infinite darkness.
"Ealdorman exiled you." The scowl on her face pierced souls, yet the demon opposite her named Parooz frankly replied "CGHH-CGH…Yeah, so?"
The demon casually flung his hat over his shoulder into the void behind him and began patting the cushion left of him. Ixxa rolled her chartreuse eyes, unfolded her arms, and began to turn around.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't see you, Sepias. Consider that mercy and a warning."
Before she could depart, rusty gates like a graveyard rose out of violet flames sealing the exit. Spontaneously, a cigar Parooz pulled out under his skull-shaped cufflinks lit with the same flame. He exhaled.
"Things change, Ixxa. I wouldn't come back without a nod from the boss. You and Vileiro's lackadaisical response to the Casino's relocation is, for lack of better words, alarming to Ealdorman. You two may be satisfied basking in earthy riches but he and I know the only thing of any real value down here are souls."
A BRIDGEWORLD OPERATING AS HELL'S VEGAS BETWEEN EARTH AND HELL
Welcome to Aeternus, a city that thrives on the symphony of sins and temptation. A demonic rendition of Las Vegas’ strip endlessly stretching into the hottest pits of hell. It pulsates with an intoxicating blend of vice and darkness, where the streets are slick with desire and every corner exudes a sense of supernatural danger. Neon lights paint the sky with a mesmerizing scarlet glow, casting an eerie sheen on streets that never sleep. Sinuous spires of odd shapes in sizes sprawled the strip, filled with creatures of all walks of life and origin.
Entering Aeternus is not for the faint of heart but it is accessible at nearly any point in the multiverse. Correctly prepared portals to this infernal wonder are hidden in the most inconspicuous of locations, requiring daring souls to traverse speakeasy back doors and navigate cursed elevators that descend into oblivion, stopping at the dreaded -666 floor.
Vice is supreme and souls, the currency of this wicked city, exchange hands as effortlessly as a poker chip in high-stakes games. The pursuit of these precious tokens is a fevered obsession for both the living and the damned. Souls are stolen from humans and creatures alike, plucked like ripe fruit from unsuspecting victims, or sold in Faustian bargains in hopes of fame, wealth, and a taste of glory.
There are many gangs, corporations, and syndicates but the Sarcoen crime family holds sway over the labyrinthine underbelly of Aeternus. Their grip on the city is ironclad. From their business fronts, they orchestrate a symphony of corruption, guiding the destinies of both mortals and demons alike. As a secret backer of the Pleiades Casino & Resort, the Sarcoen family's tendrils of control reach into every facet of Aeternus.
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RACES OF THE VERSE
THE DAMNED
Making up the vast majority of this hellish society, members of this race often have odd hues of skin tone and predominantly have horns of some sort. As for placement and size, they varied tremendously as each "Demon" took on the features of a particular mythical or cultural entity while appearing as humanoid as possible. An example of this would be the owner of the Pleiades Casino & Resort, Vileiro. Though his classification would be frost giant, Vileiro's freakish height was relatively tame at eight feet tall. His skin was an undersaturated blue, like a pale man suffocating and his lanky pencil-like build was far from what you'd expect your typical frost giant to have. (For further reference, Morrigan Aensland from Darksalkers would fit in a world like this seamlessly.) To be noted, humanoid features were not absolute. Often these beings could transform into more menacing and primal forms when angered or at moments of high emotion and others have no human-like form altogether.
SOULBOUND REVENANTS
When a soul departs its mortal vessel, the cosmic currents of Aeternus might intertwine with it in ways unforeseen. Souls unable to move on or steeped in malevolence are drawn into the dark undercurrents of the city's essence. Within the crimson-lit labyrinth of this hellish city, the Soulbound Revenants come into existence. Once human beings, now they stand at the crossroads of undeath. Their forms are reminiscent of their previous mortal selves, but they are twisted by the touch of infernal energies and the weight of their malevolent pasts
In Aeternus, many Soulbound Revenants wander the streets like lost spirits, navigating the eternal night with a purpose that only they understand. Some seek redemption, and a chance to absolve their sins and ascend beyond their twisted origins. Others embrace malevolence, embracing their sinister nature as they manipulate the currents of power and desire that course through the city's veins.
UMBRAL ANGELS
What most would know as Fallen Angels, Umbral Angels are in fact one and the same. A celestial race that has succumbed to the allure of darkness and temptation. Their forms, once radiant with ethereal light, now bear the scars of their fall from grace. Skin that once glowed with celestial luminescence is veiled in obsidian hues, shrouded in an aura of mystique that conceals their true nature. By far the rarest race in Aeternus, they aren’t particularly well-liked and often meddle in the Damned’s affairs. Easily able to hide their presence and blend in, many have conversed with one and have never known. Out of all of the creatures who live in Aeternus, these angels were the most likely to help wandering souls but not at the cost of a soul like devils would.
S-WARDENS (FACTION)
Having emerged from an alternate Earth that experienced its own descent into darkness, the Seraphic Wardens carry with them an unparalleled understanding of the demons as the descendants of those who lived through rapture. Their specialized training and mastery over combatting the forces of the abyss are a testament to their abrupt exposure and through countless trials and tribulations.
As the shadows of Aeternus attempt to cast their pall upon Earthf67x, the Seraphic Wardens approach the Earthf67x Government with a proposition. A sacred alliance, between them and the Mobius ops. Their awareness of the devils' machinations and the intricate fabric of their realm makes them invaluable allies in the battle to safeguard the sanctity of mortal souls. They are so devoted to this task that they even have hidden bases within the devilish city.
PRETTY MUCH ANYTHING ELSE
From mere humans to spirits, aliens and beyond. Play what you want as long as it's original characters of your creation that you deem fit for the story.
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LOCATIONS
THE SARCOEN SPEAKEASY
Nestled within the labyrinth that is the city of Aeternus, lies a hidden sanctuary. An elusive establishment, having many fronts as legitimate businesses in multiple locations. Their secret doors lead to a notorious speakeasy serving as one of the many bases of operations for the Sarcoen crime family—a nefarious conglomerate of demons who navigate the realms of power, sin, and the coveted currency of stolen souls.
Once stepping into this jazz-complemented sanctum, one is immediately enveloped by an otherworldly ambiance only capable in Aeternus. A crimson haze permeates the air, casting an unsettling yet captivating glow across the onyx-polished bar. Behind an eclectic assortment of potions and elixirs, each brimming with an iridescent sheen. The bartenders on any given day of the week range from a seductive succubus, stonefaced gargoyles to even mild-mannered ogres.
The centerpiece of the speakeasy is a grand stage. A focal point of darkly mesmerizing performances that captivate the senses. From demonic ballets that blend grace with menace, to symphonies conducted by floating hands. Yet, within this colorful den, dangerous secrets in the underworld trade ears and two-timing deals are negotiated and cut. All in the name of stolen souls, the very currency that greases the wheels of this infernal machine.
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RULES
☩ Treat each other with respect as collaboration is the goal. However, Arena is allowed among consenting parties.
☩ Anticipate mature content within the character interactions. [18+]
☩ Aim to craft detailed, captivating scenes that drive the narrative. However, there is no mandatory post-length
☩ Posting is flexible and continuous. Post as much as you like as long as you arent forcing actions onto others' characters that isn't logical.
☩ This is a multiverse/omniverse RP, meaning this is a part of a larger ongoing narrative of stories spanning multiple long-going threads. If you would like to learn more about that, just ask.
☩ Prioritize proofreading for high-quality writing rather than sheer volume.
☩ Adhere to the established RPGuild regulations. (No harassment, obsessive trolling, etc)
After a reptilian blink, the demon's pupils scattered like a broken rack of pool balls. Parooz's mouth foamed, leaking a malodorous miasma laced with kerosene and Eau de Parfums. To his fellow spectators displeasure, the devil's abhorrent wheezing and violent spasming distracted from the final, probably drawing Kyinon's ire. Like a marlin, the devil's straight jacket restrained body joused into the doorstep of Daniel and Tom. Billions of electrical impulses in the depths of his twisted mind fired relentlessly, mirroring the action beyond the scope of the portals, ping-ponging through the endless labyrinth of his gyri.
The mafioso's body was too hot to touch, fatally searing if even a quick attempt to unlatch his bindings bounded by hell occurred. A demon suffering at the feet of mortals was no sad scene, so no sympathy was expected, but if anything, the bizarre sequence of events before them were a sign of something significant. What could cause a malefic entity to virtually have a seizure when he had nearly infinite pools of hell energy to siphon computing prowess from? The terrifying luxury tendons currently binding him to hell allowed for just that. What did that say about this verse in general? The straps loosened on arrival, but now Parooz felt like he was being dragged back. Their power was increasing. The boundless verse that was the nexus, deemed unscalable, impenetrable to outsiders, was vulnerable. Perhaps by the subterfuge of events masquerading as a final. Whether it was carelessness or hubris, obliviousness could lead to oblivion, which wouldn't be so bad in the demon's eyes considering what they put him through prior.
Before Parooz even came to his senses, reminiscing slightly to events not even a day ago, an explosion thrusted him like a blade into the wishmaker. His maleficent frame vibrating like a wet saw with hell sourced energies, highly adaptable to being capable of burning through arcane walls of power by the most ever-present and long-living entities.
Constricted by a bevy of designer straps facilitated by the finest designers in hell, Parooz recognized these hell bound tendrils as vintage chanel. He was familiar with the Nazi sympathizer turned couturier, Coco. Surprisingly, the demon wasn't a fan. As a means of revenge, the second his presence graced the gates of hell, her signature pattern ran through the thinnest layers of his skin like a seal of glyphs. They signified a spell as she attempted to drag him towards her to settle his unbecoming critique of her last collection.
The only way to escape this straight jacket like hold was burn them off but even turning himself into a violet human torch could not yield the force. She was livid, and after fighting Sośe, Parooz wasn't in too jolly of a mood. It felt like he was dragged for an eternity before the ashen haired skull of the devil crashed into the floor before the iconic two-toned Cinderella slipper of the demonic couturier.
Before the mafioso could look up, her voice coming from everywhere but nowhere at once chastised him in a language known to drive mortals to insanity.
"Sepias, I've finally caught you. So elusive, it was almost as if you didn't exist for decades. You should know better than to show your face around here without visiting Moi!
Squirming like larvae in a cocoon, Parooz opened his mouth for a witted retort but he found himself speaking directly to Kynion. He was no longer in hell. At least for now he could take a second to exhale but the way he leered at the curator of the Nexus was the gaze of someone who had been severely blue-balled. Perhaps he sadistically enjoyed what was happening moments ago.
The pale blue glow of the raised liftgate's LEDs shone over Sóse's sculpted bare torso. The ceramsteel nano-fiber that replaced his dermal system mimicked human skin better than most cyberflesh implants. He rummaged through the Escalade's spacious trunk for a moment before pulling on an aquatic patterned aramid-weave long-sleeve. The deep greens and blues of the ukiyo-e waves depicted on the fabric were highlighted with fiber optic threading that danced like sunlight on the water. He contemplated his choices for a moment then reached for a bundle of marengo gray. The bolero-style jacket draped over the broad oceanic vista of his torso as he slipped into the oversized garment. With a thought the neo-silk and Deflexion textiles conformed to his brawny proportions.
Sóse slid the silver lighter he'd taken from the prestigious principal's office into a utility pocket along the right thigh of his navy blue tacti-cloth cargo pants. After some minor adjustments to the magazine pouch attached to his belt Sóse stepped away from Mary Two-Axe’s trunk. The liftgate lowered automatically. Uktena’s anodized barrels swung out as he secured the weapon’s two-point sling across his torso. He gnawed on the end of an unlit cigar and peered around the nearly empty Nexus.
Two fights down. How many to go? Does it matter? Should probably get a bottle of electrolyte water out of Mary before the next one.
Sóse turned to look at his vehicle. Only it wasn’t there. Neither were the gilded surroundings of the Nexus. Instead, Sóse found himself staring at an iron-wrought gate shut with heavy chains. He turned away from the gate and observed a large signboard at the end of a cracked lane. It was mostly obscured by a layer of gnarled undergrowth. As he approached to read its display, dull, dead leaves skittered across the asphalt in a frigid gust of wind that howled through the mostly barren trees that flanked the thoroughfare. A crescent moon hung from the inky night sky high above Sóse at an odd angle. He reached the signboard in silence. With his new perspective, he easily read the sign’s eroded message: WELCOME TO OBAYASHI CAT SANCTUARY. The peeling words surrounded an uncanny illustration of a white Persian cat. Its haunting yellow eyes glared at Sóse. He considered cross-referencing the name with his digital archives when a forlorn mewl met his ears.
Sóse looked down to see an emaciated calico circling his titanium-toed combat boots. He bent down to pet the abandoned cat when his cybernetic digits passed through it. This moment was accentuated by a burst of sheet lightning. Beneath the momentarily lit cloud he observed the twisted silhouette of a strange building. The structure loomed over a bare courtyard 100m away. Multiple overgrown paths crossed the interceding plaza. From within he could hear an antique grandfather clock ringing. Almost in response to the tolling clock, a torrent of blood poured from the illustrated Persian. The calico hungrily lapped at the fluid that trickled past his feet.
Midnight; the hour when graves give up their dead.
Parooz
Proudly parading his panther pleat lapels, Parooz found himself dwarfed before a monolithic cat house columbarium. Each urn slot twirled outwards like the winter limbs of a contorted beech. The lingering incense trails of fleeing feline specters caressed his bad-postured figure in an aura laced with loneliness and dread. To Parooz's pleasure, the sweet smell of their suffering whelmed his asymmetrical nostrils. Still, however, he violently whisked away the aroma with his left hand. It was far too sweet and frilly of a scent to have tarrying around in his clothes.
The mobsters' glowing amber sclera worked like hazard lights. Without much effort, he illuminated the surfeit of engraved plaques befogged by the night mist. Mr. Bigglesworth, Felix, Garfield, Sylvester–The chilling list of names Parooz read went on. However, one name before the demon was obstructed by a sticky concoction of what seemed like a clump of litter. Curious, the mobster's ghoulish hand inched forward towards the plaque's silver-plated surface, brushing the display. Before the crumbling residue reached the ground, a cheshire grin filled the mafioso's face at the revelation of a familiar name.
"Mae Mae
They arrived, shortly died.”
"Purrrfection!"
The demon got a kick out of rolling his forked tongue. Sepias couldn't help but admire his own work so he took it one step beyond and liquified the plaque with just the heat of his finger. Grabbing the interment of ashes, he peppered his hands, utilizing the remains as if it were some sort of performance chalk and he was preparing to play a basketball game. With no use for the rest, to any spirit or stray still watching in horror, with his cupped hands, this absolute degenerate slung it upwards into the air like a pregame ritual. As bizarre as this was, In many ways, he was preparing for a contest in his own right as the mobster knew he had yet another round of combat to endure. The more rounds to pass, the further skilled he assumed his opponent to be, though, if he had another round like the prior, there wasn't much he'd object to. Figuring he had enough fun, Parooz perused the literal catacombs of feline remains, navigating a winding pathway in which countless bombays hissed and swiped their claws angrily at the mobster. Parooz barely gave their leers any real estate as the grandfather's clock’s bell reached his pointed ears. Passing through the sanctum’s corridors, moonlight bathed the demon in a lunar light. Standing in the archway, he noticed the presence of someone approaching from the corresponding courtyard. Instinctually, he began to blend his naturally permeating bog into the low coasting fog in his immediate area. He wanted to see just what exactly was coming but a psychic jolt, caromed off his skull. A sharp message, one that had to be damn near omnipotent to single him out through the vastness of the nexus.
Ealdorman’s message to him was clear. Return to the speakeasy and begin operations on Earth F67x. What the demon was not aware of was how unstable the telepathic signal became due to traveling such a distance. Its telegram was easily intercepted...
Sóse
A curious figure manifested before the heavy sound of the antique clock’s final knell broke through the twisted structure and rolled across the plaza. The rich copper of Sóse’s pupillary apertures widened as the variable zoom function doubled his visual range. He observed a hunched shape, cloaked beneath the hood of a soiled wool robe, trudge towards a darkened archway. They bore an enormous salver of tarnished pewter. The platter was heavy with hundreds of fish heads; lifeless eyes swollen to nearly bursting. Plodding steps were accompanied by the strained concerto of a dozen injured songbirds; they hobbled with broken wings woven to the heavy robe with barbed wire.
The eerie outsider knelt beyond the darkened archway while a strange fog crawled out of the gloom. A series of sharp hisses escaped the hood. Grimalkin silhouettes surrounded the genuflect and for a moment all was still. Then Ultharian hordes descended on the scullion and their offering. Gluttonous yowls filled the air. Lonesome stars swirled and descended into a skybound scowl as the crescent moon overhead contorted into the fanged grin of a celestial cheshire.
Oh, fuck this. Lustrous beads of emerald helixed around Sóse's left leg. Tawiskaron’s 13” barrel remained rigid in its holster, secured to his belt and relocated to his right hip, as the cybernetic detective chambered his size 22 titanium-toed combat boot. The virescent spheres condensed into a turbulent nimbus around Sóse's left leg below the knee. His leg shot forward like a professional soccer player. The titanium plate flashed with arcs of the brightest green as Sóse made solid contact with the phantom calico. Its caterwaul faded to silence as its spectral form tore rocketed across the sky at terminal velocity. The feline projectile struck the cheshire in the center of its deranged grin. The skybound smile erupted into a phantasmagoric meteor shower above the still thrashing form of the genuflect.
I’m burning this whole thing to the ground.
Parooz
Recovering from the psychic shock, the downpouring phantasm of apparitional remains bedazzled Parooz’s senses, alerting the mobster to quite the hellacious scene. Momentarily in a daze, his eyes lit up like a kid in a candy shop as he watched the gangrenous flesh of the keeper snatched off his kneeling feeble bones. The devil had a front-row seat to the spectacle but the jazz music seemingly stopped as he traversed the fog, causing his haunting presence to hover over the now photo-still cats. A single one of his wing-tipped boots went forward and the red sea parted, clearing the way to an individual he assumed created the shower. His leaking fog told him that much.
The demon leer of the underboss analyzed the streetwear-attired blocky individual opposite of him. Even from the view on this end of the courtyard, there was much he didn’t like. For one, he looked like a narc in disguise, and immediately that didn't sit right with him regardless if he was a fed or not. To introduce himself, Parooz reached into his blazer digging excessively for a particular item. Concerned, his slick talking pistol, Barrel-Tone Tony’s stark yellow eyes shot open like he awoke from a nightmare. The gun began to hysterically rattle as its shaky voice lashed out.
“Hey, you're going to use that blasted thing, aren't you? As if you haven’t tormented it enough!”
The pistol shimmied out of Parooz's pin-striped trousers watching in disgust as the mafioso presented what appeared to be a pickle-me-Elmo out of nowhere. It was in a moonshine jar of a special devil’s cut of alcohol with a laminated tag haphazardly taped along its bottom rim reading ‘Do not open.' “This guy still owes me a couple of wishes.”
Parooz was legitimately enraged. The demon served a wicked fastball in submarine form, hurling the corkscrewing jar toward the man opposite of him. As it got halfway, Barrel-Tone-Tony shot straight forward, right through the jar, shattering it, releasing the wispy astral existence of a powerful Jinn. A torrent of gale winds shot outwards, ripping away much of the fog, overgrowth, and spiritual beings about, sending a few feline spirits and more flying as their cries drowned in the howling gusts. The misty form of the malevolent genie couldn't expand much since the incendiary rounds of the bullets spawned a chain reaction with the supernatural 666-proof moonshine. To the creature's dissent, it morphed into an ifrit bathed in Parooz’s cerulean blaze.
With the turning of Sepias’ clenched right fist, the jinn's body shriveled, condensing into a ball the size of a volleyball now on a collision course with the wedge-shaped man. What wasn’t clear to the booner opposite the mobster was that the ball emitted a daemonical cool flame within a ten-meter radius. Its hidden inferno, capable of smoldering through other forms of energy, intensified the closer an individual was to the core. With an attack like this, the man wouldn't even have to get hit by the glowing ball to feel the hellish might of the heat.
“Hey, that’s not funny, leave him alone, Parooz. I didn’t mean for you to make it worse. You intended for that to happen you asshole. I liked it better when you were a lifeless zombie. Ealdorman should fuck your mind again. Maybe then I could be a weapon for Ixxa or something. Maybe even Merse. He's still alive, isn't he?”
Sóse
The all-terrain polyamide sole of Sóse’s bio-force wreathed boot returned to the cracked driveway when he noticed a figure traverse the crimson-shrouded archway, heralded by twin beams of hellish light that cut through the phantasmagoric shower. Sóse stood by the Raimian signboard (which actively gushed blood) and scoffed internally at what he observed. Across the overgrown courtyard, at a distance of 80m, slouched a being out of Tóta’s ghost stories around the campfire back when he’d visit the rez. Sóse couldn’t tell which he found more repulsive: the scarlet complexion beneath that shock of lifeless gray hair or the garish ensemble straight from the latest giallo brain-dances coming out of Nuovo Italia. Their momentary mutual assessment ended the moment the fiendish fop reached for something inside his catamount-lapeled blazer; an act mirrored by the cybernetic digits of Sóse’s right hand seizing Tawiskaron’s grip.
Ceramsteel myomeres adjusted their density for maximum output along Sóse’s legs; the equivalent of tensing the muscles in preparation to move with explosive speed. The emerald nimbus of bio-force enveloped the cybernetic detective’s left side, up to the shoulder, by the time a grotesque pistol slithered out of the mafioso’s pinstripe trousers. The firearm’s sallow eyes opened wide as it floated by its wielder. A moment later and the infernal figure produced a mason jar filled with a wispy substance. Its soiled label read 666-PROOF while a laminated tag around its sealed lid warned: Do not open. His brows rose a fraction of an inch in understanding while the red-skinned devil bent at the torso, shoulders shifting like old-schooler Joe Smith back during his rookie year with the Mets.
This gangoon wants to play ball. Okay, motherfucker. Let’s see the pitch. The jar corkscrewed towards Sóse at a wicked 170 mph. At the speed of hyper-accelerated thought, the cybernetic detective mapped out the projectile's trajectory and calculated the appropriate responses. The ersatz missile had traveled 40m when a flash erupted from the conscious weapon’s barrel at the mobster’s side and shattered the jar. Motion sensors along the AUGUR implanted in Sóse’s cranium register the round’s acceleration and shuffled the additional variables into his calculations.
Now.
The illustrated Persian let loose one final, demonic yowl as the 6’9 detective leapt through the signboard that splintered beneath his emerald-wreathed left shoulder. Meanwhile, his right hand drew Tawiskaron from its holster. The previously trapped apparition transitioned from its initial form to a condensed projectile. It hurtled towards Sóse’s original position, incinerating the dry foliage in a 10m radius of its azure nucleus.
By then the cybernetic detective was diagonally propelled 15m into the courtyard at 300 mph with his lunge. The motion-damping and stability-inducing subsystems of Sóse’s n0 sc0p3 augment kicked on while he was airborne. Decentralized nanocircuits along his inner-ear, optic nerves, and cerebellum adjusted his balance and orientation, thereby narrowing his fire zone to allow for greater accuracy while moving at high speeds. He hip-fired Tawiskaron. Arcs of cobalt gleamed along the fiber optic threads of his aramid long-sleeve as they spiraled down the 13” barrel. A .950 osmium alloy projectile tore through the shortened distance between Sóse and the stygian gangster at Mach 3.8 towards its target. If unchecked, the round would strike a stark yellow eye of the grotesque pistol dead in its center. Sóse traveled another 3m before his polyamide soles met the courtyard’s cracked cobblestones. In those final floating meters, Sóse’s right arm rose. Tawiskaron swung upwards with a new target in mind: the condensed projectile now 30m away from the cybernetic detective’s original position.
Parooz
Parooz's watchful eyes blinked sideways, examining the burly figure opposite of him, never taking his eyes off the man with his piercing fog-light vision. While in his windup, he noticed the individual seemed to be waiting for something. Perhaps his opponent knew in baseball there was one well-known fact about pitching. After delivering his pitch, even with his grossly root-like vein-riddled tri and biceps tossing a projectile at generally incomprehensible speeds, Parooz, like any other pitcher, was vulnerable until he regained his footing. In that split second you could hear Parooz's bones and joints grotesquely crack and pop as he contorted his body to move in time. Somehow, his movement was undeterred, and his talon-like feet burst through the expensive boot soles like cleats as he picked up superhuman speed.
His opponent sprung sideways and Parooz, cognizant of the trajectory of a potential counter, kept advancing forward and right to the detective, closing the distance. He had an exceptionally solid view of the man considering the blast of gale winds cleared anything that may have been obstructing his view. Even the sign the map he leaped through instantaneously blew away at the release of the Jinn.
Initially, the mobster assumed the man would aim at him, so he made an effort to stay constantly moving, but his target was Tony, still within the restraints of his belt but watching in genuine terror. "He's trying to–"
The pistol's words were cut off when the whizzing round eclipsed his body narrowly, scarring the edge of the pistol's slide stop. Tony didn't even see it coming. Parooz's cartoonish "C"-Shaped contorting of his figure, while freakishly maintaining semblance of a stride, saved him by completely overestimating how wide the round possibly was despite Sośe's hip-firing gun. It wasn't reflex, it was the sheer unorthodox nature of his movements which were equal parts nimble and sportaticly chaotic. This mostly likely gave Sośe fits considering how accurate his shot actually was despite it.
Tony was used to firing off the shots, not being a target himself and now he was mad. Relaying a message telepathically to Parooz, it seemingly distracted him from controlling the Jinn.
"I AM BAANIM, THE BOUNDFUL. I WILL NOT BE SOME MERE INSTRUMENT OF BATTLE!"
The unbound body of the genie expanded from a ball, morphing into a form akin to its original. However, its flames plagued existence and all its hazards remained. The raging spirit accelerated like a runaway train on the way to assault Parooz but through Sośe caught in the middle of its blind fury. Its nebulous cloud of fire exploded forward like lighter fluid hitting a grill, approaching in a hugging form about twenty meters wide. Because its inferno was less concentrated out of its ball state, the flames were very much visible but merely jumping to the side would baptize Parooz opponent this time.
As smoke from the inferno wafted into the courtyard again, the gun centric fighter had to deal with the rise in temperature which was not only a threat to him but his ammunition.
It was very possible any rounds inside the barrel of his weapon stock could heat up to the point of ignition temperature for the primer or propellant, causing them to go off unexpectedly. This was especially true for any non railguns he could be carrying, and Sośe could very well discharge on himself.
To make things worse, an enormous switchblade conjured out of a blaze in Parooz's left hand, glimmering in a malignant amount of energy concentrated on just the blade's edge. Mindful of his opponent's drawn barrel and its trajectory, staying clear, he diligently progressed towards his opponent.
Sóse
As Sóse soared through the air following his shot he observed the pinstriped devil go full Merrie Melodies mid-stride to barely avoid the .950 round that streaked off into the gloomy woods surrounding the courtyard. The projectile left a series of smoking craters through the bare trees along its trajectory, highlighting the destructive force that almost struck true.
This has gotta be cartoon cat hell.
Sóse hit the courtyard’s broken cobbles boot-first and used that momentum for a controlled lateral roll. His head tilted against his right shoulder to prevent injury as his luminous left shoulder met the ground. The shoulder roll ended with Sóse in a kneeling shooting position, left foot forward, oriented towards the moving mafioso’s direction. Simultaneously, the coruscating emerald nimbus completely enveloped the cybernetic detective.
During Sóse’s roll, his outstretched right arm continued to track his secondary target via a combination of n0 sc0p3 working in conjunction with the bioplastic shock compressors of the STEADFAST system housed within his shoulders. The condensed ball shifted again after a voice like a hurricane roared across the courtyard; a nebulous inferno, twenty meters wide, surrounded its airy form as it furiously reeled on its fleet former warden. Meanwhile the molecular assembler hidden within Sóse’s left thigh flash-fabricated graphene plates out of a silicon carbide cartridge. The firestorm phantom traveled 10m on its path towards the advancing mobster when Sóse fired a second shot through its scorching haze. A miniature vaporous vortex appeared in the round’s wake as it sped through the phantom’s flames towards the demon at the moment a large switchblade appeared in his red right hand with a hellish flourish.
This diversionary shot coincided with the navy blue tacti-cloth of his cargo pants shredding at his raised left knee. With a blur, Tawiskaron returned to his right hip as opaque graphene llamelar plates horizontally spiral in a hexagonal-matrix from Sóse’s kneecap in the shape of tower shield 6’ tall by 4’ wide when held vertically. In an instant Sóse gripped the handle with his free left hand and peered over the shield’s edge as the emerald nimbus crept over its atramentous panels.
Parooz felt a shift in equilibrium. He stood there, basking in the buzzing industrial lights, chromatic smoke billowing out his pointed ears. He was descending, but to where? The devil surveyed the room, noting the abrupt transfer in scenery from mere seconds ago. From war-torn feudal lands to now a remarkably large freight elevator traversing a measureless shaft. You couldn’t tell Parooz anything. He was convinced the curator of the nexus simply wanted to piss him off. He barely had time to loosen up at the hub point. Across from Sepias, a mere cat, probably some mimic attempting to lower his guard through innocence. It didn’t do much other than stare off into the distance. It appeared the feline arrived solely for the sake of it and nothing else. If this was his opponent, he certainly has seen weirder. After his bizarre altercation with what seemed like personified lightning, nothing struck the gangster as impossible.
The big cat probably banked on the red-skinned mobster being a fan of wildlife, but in reality, Parooz appreciated a chic fur coat or pelt rug whenever he saw one. It didn't take much detective work to deduct Sepias being on the side of poachers. His wing-tipped boots, whose tongue was actually one of some strange hell cat, alluded to his wicked intentions.
“Careful not to burn it too badly, you’ll ruin the pelt.”
A grating voice creaked out the left side of his chin. Hands-free, he cracked his neck like he had a crook in it. The further he leaned his head to the right, a pulsating tumor bulged out of a knot on his shoulder. The already gag-inducing tumor took it one step beyond with its arrhythmias pulse. With each succeeding heartbeat, a facial feature spawned—first eyes, then a nose, and lastly a multitude of clefting mouths. A nightmarishly disfigured head emerged, babbling incoherent diatribes at Mae and Parooz. At this point, the suited demon resembled a disfigured orthros. “Fire! Burn! Kill the cat! Fucking do it! Turn it! Tie! Turn it into a Tie!”
Mae
Mae Mae reads the random creep's mind.
“Aye bro, I can read your mind, I grow hair like crazy, so uh, how about you like, let me live or some shit, I don't know. In exchange for my hair, or fur, whatever you people call it. I mean, think about it, if I die, you can only use whatever's on me once. If not, then like, I'm going to dodge or whatever."
That was the whole post
Parooz
"PPPSSSSH! That thing is trying to penetrate your mind."
A muffled voice whispered in such a manner that it could easily be heard by anyone nearby. It came from the mobster's hip, precisely where he stored his trusted pistol. The living weapon opened one of its crust-filled stark yellow eyes, shimming upwards so that it could get a view.
"Really, now? I didn't notice."
Parooz started speaking to his glock to find out how this went undetected but there was a much simpler answer right in front of him. Before he could deduct further, his additional head rammed one its horns into his cheek.
"Ouch!"
Unbeknownst to Parooz, his violent monstrosity of a tumor represented why any attempts to read his mind failed on the spot. A brief gaze into his twisted mind revealed a chaotic space, plagued with hundreds, if not thousands of voices simultaneously arguing in a belligerent rage. It befuddled any chance a psychic could accurately decipher his thoughts without constantly being led astray by the labyrinth of conversations between Parooz's multiple personalities. This was the reality of Parooz's cursed mind. This was how he thought, how he made decisions for himself in real time. It illustrated how much neural computing power he actually had by merely functioning. Every excess, eye, mouth, nose, head that Parooz managed to detach from his body represented a part of his soul and the multiple consciousness housed within. The only one who habitually decoded his thoughts was Ealdorman.
After literally butting heads and absorbing a few eye pokes, Parooz had enough. He mauled the additional head clean off his shoulders, uprooting it like an enormous turnip. The mafioso tiptoed forward, slotting two fingers in the head’s nose and one in its mouth before skidding it across the freight’s industrial flooring like a bowling ball right at Mae. His form was flintstone-esque, but most importantly effective, as he delivered a strike. Multiple elongating tongues burst from the incoming head’s open mouths like whips, fondling Parooz’s signature stiletto blades. The sweltering heat of the knives, which alone could melt carbon nanotube by close proximity, jousted forward with lethal intent, curving like spears in an attempt to shish-kabob the cat. One attempted to spear the creature into the elevator wall, with the following attempting to constrict its movements in anticipation of the dodge his opponent openly stated it would do.
Ō-yoroi-clad warriors, many horsebacks, marched upon a valley to war. Their battle was a long one, outlining an end of an era. Their battle littered the pasture with a generation's worth of soldiers, involuntarily issuing a scene that'd bring a smile to the devil's face. Such a scene warranted an omen; by the slay, these grounds merged into Yomi. Known as a desolate land of the dead, portrayal or not, a sinister spirit like Parooz should spawn here. It was apropos. To the average soul, this is hell.
In times of war, it's commonplace for soldiers to be desensitized to death, seasoned by their losses and wounds of the flesh. Their fates were scripted under feuding regimes but loyal they remained. Honor burked any qualms of futility. In their society, it was second to nothing, but when faced with the unknown, like any variable, things change. In the face of this unknown, the well of valor ran dry.
"Y-Y-Yokai!!!"
One warrior butt-planted, failing to wield his already bloodstained nodachi which fell by his waistline. Parooz overlooked him, veiling them both in a fog of smoke that naturally permeated out of his bodily exits. The mobster seemed unamused. He wasn't buying the stock sold to him about this nexus mumbo-jumbo. At first, he believed Ealdorman, the mafia's head put him up to the task. But this tournament was an awfully inefficient way to gain souls. What good was it to take souls from individuals soon fated to meet the reaper anyway? He had to get out of here and perhaps the only way was to win.
"Yokai? I hate those guys!"
An angry Parooz planted his boot's heel into the ass of the fleeing warrior who mistook his identity. Efficaciously, he punted him through the battlefield subsequently dropping him before a peculiar boy brandishing a golden aura. An abundance of unnatural smoke billowed off the armored warrior's arse and began to blend in and influence the scattered fire's fumes throughout the theater. "I assume that's my opponent?"
Parooz placed his hand on his chin. He was the only individual colored as he was. Curious about the boy, an eye sprouted from the samurai's left cheek, and a mouth followed. He got an up close and personal look. The soul was beamy, bright like his own but for an entirely different cause. This devil's soul was brightened with hell flame. He flipped his baphomet embossed coin. It was face up.
"This is just an observation, but I think we're fated to fight. No hard feelings."
The spawned mouth on the man's opposing cheek spoke out to the boy, subsequently saying "ahhhh," like it was at the dentist. It revealed a pristine stiletto knife smothered in energy that felt like the devil himself. It was kind of overkill considering the black forked tongue fondling and tongue kissing the blade was an elongating razor in itself. The stiletto's edge hummed pink till it was fuchsine, emphasizing an overload of nefarious energy and heat that'd liquefy carbon nanotube. It was practically a fancy stick of dynamite with all its potential energy adding to its natural cleaving ability to holy or magical barriers. To be frank, he considered both the same. Parooz knifes worked. That's all he cared about.
While all this played out, more and more samurai fled with some collapsing from the sweltering heat. One stood oddly close to Parooz, paralyzed by the disbelief, ignoring the devil entirely. Intrigued, the mafia underboss placed his arm around the shoulder of the warrior whose uchigatana, stood firmly in the cindering sward.
"What exactly are you guys fighting for again? You wouldn't believe what I'm fighting for."
Like an annoying coworker, Parooz attempted to strike up a conversation.
Zane
Zane just gave a quizzical look to the demon mobster, even though only his eyes were visible as glowing dots with the mask. He couldn’t really tell if he thought this guy was boring or not, although he didn’t particularly feel like dealing with it at the moment.
“Please leave him alone.” He said, after a brief pause, “Also, does it count as being ‘fated to fight’ if we were literally paired up in a tournament? Like, it’s not that clandestine.”
As he talked, he interrupted himself with a brief snigger, and then a bout of spontaneous laughter, as if to relieve himself from the awkwardness of the situation. He, like the man and his knife, prepared his own weapons, as, without warning, a flat disk of golden electricity, only about two feet in diameter, manifested in the air. It seemed to almost ‘open’ as it appeared, expanding from empty air until it reached its desired size, its flat end facing the straight forward in front of Zane, which was also Parooz’s general direction at this time. Then another appeared. And another, and another. Soon a wall of these disks, numbering about thirty, floated, suspended in the air behind Zane.
These were called Gates. If Parooz would wield a knife, Zane would wield these constructs.
“Making threats is boring. But please don’t mind if I don’t kill you, I’m not really a fan of that.”
Parooz
"He thinks I only threatened him. Get a load of this guy."
The samurai cranked his head a few degrees, finally making eye contact with Parooz's radiant leer. The demon grinned, anticipating the Japanese warrior's reply. The mafioso's right horn crept terrifyingly close to the soldier's ear making him feel at knifepoint. The soldier's survival instincts flipped on, slowly opening his mouth to go along with whatever the red-skinned demon befriending him was trying to suggest. However, before he uttered a word, the unspeakable took place. The enigmatic golden boy, the only one who could potentially save him, exploded.
A knife whimsically waved directly in front of the child by a tongue overloaded with the malignant energies it unambiguously accrued. It was a miracle for the boy not to notice how volatile the object humming with virulent forces was. The demon, genuinely bewildered by the light child's actions, winced a little. His opponent failed to move an inch from the proverbial time bomb at his doorstep. Sure, his opponent had an electrical aura around him but nothing about that screamed ample defense to his flame. He detected that much, connecting his senses to the plumes of smoke and haze that filled the domain with his corruption.
Hazardous firework displays of magenta and crimson hues engulfed the boy and his constructs entirely in an eruption sponsored by the flames of hell. These weapons, which the boy was so proud of that he took the time to make thirty with a charging bomb in his face, bolted behind him, zagging in distant directions via the blast. They became an electrical arrow storm of projectiles killing even more of the fleeing Japanese combatants he was perhaps attempting to save.
"Look who's the bad guy now." Aside from burning at seemingly inconceivable degrees, the force behind the point-blank blast surely blew off the lower limbs of the child and probably more. This baptism of fire and brimstone burned with a malefic force that couldn't be conventionally extinguished. Much separated it from common flame.
Overwhelmed in Parooz's hell, the light child probably felt his electrical energies openly in a struggle with the demon's. It probably felt like his own energy was being burned and reduced to ashes. This was the result of the gangster’s malign flames damning his intended target's aura. It actively attempted to limit the amount of power the boy could feasibly conjure in this injured state. Parooz wanted nothing more than to incinerate all traces of his adversary to insignificant ashes. With his free hand, Parooz's oversized golden cufflinks jangled with his finger wag, taunting the living firewood.
"No no no. How can he say threats are boring and then threaten me with such ridiculous toys."
There was something poetic about the eccentric Parooz commenting about how absurd his opponent was. The Japanese warrior took a long, nervous swallow, looked at the mauve-suited demon, and tittered "yeah, what a hypocrite."
Zane
The boy was, in an instant, consumed by a conflagration of flame, not even graced with the ability to make a reply as he was immediately overtaken by burning heat and light.
If only that were the end.
“That’s not what I meant.” His voice responded through the smoke and fire, before through the haze came a dense torrent of brightly shining thunderbolts, gushing like a waterfall as a dense barrage. Dozens, hundreds of electrical arrows flying straight through the air in Parooz’s general direction. Although many would pierce the hapless samurai in their path, he would not experience harm; as the bolts of lightning made contact with his armor, instead of going deeper, they would deliberately snake around the outside of the man’s body before re-emerging out the other side to continue their flight path. These arrows, the thirty Gates acting as their turrets, Zane’s danmaku. As if lightning could be blown away with explosive force, especially with Zane’s own power keeping them suspended in the air effortlessly.
As the continuous rain of thunderbolts shot ahead, aiming to fill the demon with holes in as many non-vital spots as Zane could think of, as he walked forward out of the dust cloud.
“I meant,” he said, “That I wouldn’t waste time trying to make threats. My name is Zane. I’m lightning. Let’s do this.” The boy was still visibly on fire, but he remedied that by simply, for an instant, transforming his body into a silhouette of pure electricity, expelling it all outwards with a single electron remaining in the middle. That singular electron would then instantly become two, and then four, and in the span of an instant, Zane was reformed, completely not-on fire.
The bomb, which admittedly, Zane had literally never noticed, an embarrassing failure on his part, did not really damage Zane in the slightest. It was no matter of physical durability, but rather the nature of the explosion itself. Due to the Light within Zane’s body, the explosion would not be able to hurt him, only decrease his Light and get him that much closer to becoming a one-hit-point wonder (buffs provided by the Nexus notwithstanding), but the very light released from the explosion itself would immediately refill his reserves, leaving him less than unaffected.
Furthermore, Zane’s power over lightning was entirely physical in nature. He could transform into lightning, split it off from himself and control it, or create more of it, but none of these things would logically be inhibited by any sort of aura-based interference. Furthermore, destruction of his own lightning via fire, even from hell? Disintegrating it into dust? Electrons were elementary particles—they could not be broken down, they could not be destroyed in the sense that flames could burn them. And even if they did, Zane could produce more with less than a thought. Just to make even more sure though, what he had just done was take all of the afflicted parts of his physical body, turned them into unburnable electrons, and then detach those afflicted parts from his body before reconstructing himself, leaving him burn-free. Maybe Zane couldn’t extinguish the fire, but there was more he could do in spite of that.
“You’re too fixated on trying to look clever. Be prepared.” As for the bullet shower itself, it would be but the most simple of attacks for Zane. His Gates were like an army of Gatling guns, firing Zeus-style thunderbolt after thunderbolt. If even a single thunderbolt made contact, its electricity would travel inside the devil’s body, spreading out and traveling throughout their limbs and spine in an attempt to disrupt the electrical signals operating their body. In this way, Zane could induce paralysis by preventing Parooz’s limbs from following the brain’s instructions, restraining without killing them. Since these bullets came out as a continuous shower of hundreds of projectiles, even with high speed it should be frankly absurd to try and dodge them all, especially with the massively wide area they covered as they fired. It wasn’t focused, and it wasn’t meant to be.
That would come later, if they could handle this move first. Meanwhile, Zane studied Parooz carefully, fully prepared this time to attack in an instant should anything change.
Zane Post Redo
The boy was, in an instant, consumed by a conflagration of flame, not even graced with the ability to make a reply as he was immediately overtaken by burning heat and light.
If only that were the end.
“That’s not what I meant.” His voice responded through the smoke and fire, before through the haze came a dense torrent of brightly shining thunderbolts, gushing like a waterfall as a dense barrage. Dozens, hundreds of electrical arrows flying straight through the air in Parooz’s general direction. Although many would pierce the hapless samurai in their path, he would not experience harm; as the bolts of lightning made contact with his armor, instead of going deeper, they would deliberately snake around the outside of the man’s body before re-emerging out the other side to continue their flight path. These arrows, the thirty Gates acting as their turrets, were Zane’s danmaku. Although a the Gates Zane had created were momentarily frazzled by the electromagnetic disturbance created by the explosion, it wouldn’t be enough to prevent them from firing their projectiles and retaliating against the explosive attack. As the continuous rain of thunderbolts shot ahead, aiming to fill the demon with holes in as many non-vital spots as Zane could think of, as he walked forward out of the dust cloud. He seemed visibly pained, even with his body not having a scratch on it, his face red as he panted a bit. Wait, hot? He was feeling hot? Burning, even?
“I meant,” he said, “That I wouldn’t waste time trying to make threats. My name is Zane. I’m lightning. Let’s do this.”
The boy was still visibly on fire, but he tried to remedy that by simply, for an instant, transforming his body into a silhouette of pure electricity, expelling it all outwards with a single electron remaining in the middle. Though, when that one electron attempted to multiply and reform Zane’s body, there was some sort of strange….something holding it back. It was like every fiber of his being was scorching, molten hot, exhausting him by the minute. After a moment of struggling try and generate more electrons, he gave up, recalling the burning electricity back to himself before it degraded completely under this strange fire. With their combined numbers, multiplying back into enough electrons to reform Zane’s body was possible, and he did so, but he was still on fire. A fire that could burn electricity—no, him? That was the only explanation for how he was still somehow feeling pain and corrosion even as intangible lightning. The bomb, which admittedly, Zane had literally never noticed, an embarrassing failure on his part, did not technically damage Zane in the slightest. It was no matter of physical durability, but rather the nature of the explosion itself. Due to the Light within Zane’s body, the explosion would not be able to hurt him, only decrease his Light and get him that much closer to becoming a one-hit-point wonder (buffs provided by the Nexus notwithstanding), but the very light released from the explosion itself would immediately refill his reserves, leaving him less than unaffected. But, something was wrong. How did it still hurt? How did it still burn? He wasn’t wounded he was just….burning. Like acid reflux inside his very bones.
Furthermore, Zane’s power over lightning was entirely physical in nature. He could transform into lightning, split it off from himself and control it, or create more of it, but none of these things would logically be inhibited by any sort of aura-based interference. As such, the curse inflicted by these demonic flames wouldn’t necessarily impact his ability to control his lightning, but Zane had to devote more resources to constantly generating electricity in an attempt to stave off this mysterious flame’s attempts to consume him
“You’re too fixated on trying to look clever. Be prepared.” He said, breathlessly. As for the bullet shower itself, it would be but the most simple of attacks for Zane. His Gates were like an army of Gatling guns, firing Zeus-style thunderbolt after thunderbolt. If even a single thunderbolt made contact, its electricity would travel inside the devil’s body, spreading out and traveling throughout their limbs and spine in an attempt to disrupt the electrical signals operating their body. In this way, Zane could induce paralysis by preventing Parooz’s limbs from following the brain’s instructions, restraining without killing them. Since these bullets came out as a continuous shower of hundreds of projectiles, even with high speed it should be frankly absurd to try and dodge them all, especially with the massively wide area they covered as they fired. It wasn’t focused, and it wasn’t meant to be.
That would come later, if they could handle this move first. Meanwhile, Zane studied Parooz carefully, fully prepared this time to attack in an instant should anything change. At this point, he could easily guess that nothing about this flame was natural. Burning electricity? Making him feel as if he was burning, when heat was usually easily repelled? He couldn’t even risk transforming into lightning, lest he accidentally be incinerated attempting to come back.
Looks like I’ll have to end this quickly, he thought. Here we go.
Parooz
That's it, get on my good side. Perhaps you'll realize that I'm the only one here who can give you what you want. A deal perhaps?
Visibly salivating, just that quick, the demon devised a nefarious scheme to steal the man's soul. Any immediate plans came to a screeching halt however, as the haze alerted the mobster of the torrential bullet storm homing in. At this point, sources of smoke polluted the battlefield. The degrees to which this added to the mobster's reaction time could not be understated, as he'd link his senses to each plume of corrupted haze. He figured fogging up the space between could aid him, so he did just enough so Zane could see his projectiles slowly vanish in the distance like descending rocks in the ocean's murky abyss. Because of how obstructing the view between the fighters became, Zane wouldn't see the mafioso's latest trick which involved sabbatical goat horns erupting from the feet of Parooz winding in the shape of a hulking hand. Serving as a barrier between the light child's projectiles and Parooz. The lighting bolts distilled on impact, giving off a boisterous thunder colliding with the powerful presence of his shield clad in dark energy. Before too many of the arrows could collide with the claw Parooz was long gone.
"I'll be right back." The samurai fell to his knees, eased by the notion of the devil leaving but frightened by the claw inadvertently sheltering him from the onslaught of arrows had no idea would purposely evade him. The suited devil plunged deep into the earth like an Olympic diver away from the currents, wriggling his body like a worm to escape the deluge of arrows projected at him. He effectively gave them the slips, coating his body in an aura that increased his ability to burn through the soil. While his opponent was attempting to make out what happened, like a jack in the box, Parooz erupted from the charred soil behind the gates, momentarily springing his body towards the light child swinging a cartoonishly large hammer above the boy's head. The head of the hammer, more like a beer keg than a traditional mallet, threatened to squash the boy like an ant under the weight of its dripping glowing barrel boldly embossed 666 Proof - Real Devil’s Moonshine.
“Peek-a-boo!!!”
To not be forgotten, though it was charred to a crisp, a butcher cut of samurai thighs still remained in Zane's wheelhouse. It was the only remains of the samurai Parooz kicked earlier and the eyes and mouth opened back up to greet Zane from the front who was very much a human torch. The light child put up a visible front but the mafia underboss knew he was in pain. He had to give the boy some credit as many would have perished by and become unholy pieces of white charcoal. The burn was consistent, unyielding, in line with the feeling of hell itself. Despite partaking in Parooz's powerful explosion of hell flames, The devil noticed still that the boy had not moved far from his initial spot. In fact, Zane lightly walked in a mini amphitheater of ashen land cursed by the gangster's flames. The same eye and mouth on the samurai's keister greeted him, coughing up ashes and gravel. It's tongue coiled like a chameleon’s, spitting with every syllable as it spoke out.
“Better rid yourself of that flame, bucko. Left unchecked and well…"
Zane
Zane honestly didn’t have a clue how this mysterious flame worked. So many theories, but no room to experiment with then, and that was before he sensed the bioelectricity of the strange demon dive underground, digging around beneath the earth, likely firing some kind of attack. Honestly, that wasn’t especially concerning to Zane at the moment given that he can’t fight at full strength with this flame eating at him. Who knows how long he had with this? Even if he could produce enough lightning to keep it at bay, this insufferable burning in his chest was likely something he couldn’t dispel as easily. Maybe the flame was the key? But then…The ground ruptured, and suddenly Parooz was trying to strike from behind, but Zane knew he couldn’t turn in time to stop it. So maybe…another approach was needed.
With that, Zane’s body from the eyes down turned into lightning, save only for his scalp and Hat, which proceeded to get literally pounded into the dirt, specifically as Zane’s Hat was crushed by the hammer and his head shoved into the ground, his scalp only transforming at the last minute to allow Zane’s body to become fully submerged. Like a game of Whack-A-Mole, Zane was shoved into the ground below, leaving only his crushed Hat.
This was Zane’s next attempt to circumvent the flames. By passing through a physical substance such as the ground, hopefully the gaseous flames on his body would not follow. If the demonic magic took the form of flames, even if they didn’t share the same behaviors, they were still physical in nature and couldn’t pass through substances in the same way electricity could. Like water passing through a sieve when the pasta could not do the same, maybe Zane could purify himself in this way.
Zane’s next action would be dictated by whether or not this attempt succeeded, which he could tell instantly based on whether the sensation of his soul burning would vanish or not.
Parooz
Though mafias operated on a strict rule of code, underhanded fighting, especially in a syndicate of demons, was never off the table. Parooz had a documented history of blindsiding individuals whether they'd consider it honorable or not. The idea of fairness never rent a square inch of space in his shrewd mind. This mentality he adopted out of the necessity to survive rubbed many the wrong way. Sepias' abrasive upbringing polished him into the cold piece of obsidian he was always meant to be. This latest trick was a prime example.
Considering the boy had yet to shake his flames, the suited demon assumed they were starting to wear down his opponent. Now was as good of a time as ever to attempt a deceitful haymaker. After revealing his gigantic hammer, the actual danger was curtained behind the physical absurdity of the attack. His opponent tried to escape the physical consequences of the assault by turning the majority of his body into lighting save for his scalp. This was, by all means, a logical counter, as who would want to get flattened by a hammer that size? There were two layers to the attack, however. Aside from it already being risky for Zane to morph his body into lighting because of the devil’s flame, allowing the face of the hammer, the bottom of a glowing keg to touch any part of him with its dripping exterior gaveled his demise. Embossed “666”, proof of liquor like that shouldn't even be possible. Alcohol maintains a consistent flame when lit at eighty, making it fairly obvious why it was brought out. Considering the child was still on fire, it was a costly idea to allow himself to make contact with Parooz’s maul. The instant the fiend’s hell flame connected with the hammer sopping with mysterious alcohol, the makeshift mallet's face burst into a relentless azure cylindrical inferno. It completely overtook the electrical form of the boy, trapping, and obliterating everything in its down-facing vortex. Left in its wake, a very miniature kola well, molten hot, emanating the same malicious energies that plagued Zane's body.
The mafioso accelerated what was becoming a slow roast of Zane in which he was not patient enough to see through. Parooz threw lighting fluid to morph his flames into an exponentially more powerful beam of concentrated hell energy bent on extinguishing the boy outright.
Because of how resilient Zane's inner light shone, Parooz required the extra fuel to burn out his aura. It rarely happened but Parooz had the sense that the boy had enough vigor to starve off what he dubbed the flames of damnation. Had the demon allowed him to meander longer, the light child may have stumbled upon a solution. The fact that Zane could operate his gates and even taunt the demon after his initial attack gave signs that he was special. True to character, Parooz wouldn't admit this, standing over the trench looking as blasé as ever. Though, in the back of his mind, he knew… Suddenly gritting his teeth with an alligator's force, a bulging vein protruded from his red-tinted forehead. A terrifying mouth formed on the left side of his face and his horns became more pronounced under his messy ashen hair.
"You fucked up."
The mouth chastised him. Somewhere, if not still here, Zane was still fucking alive and that ate at his core.
Zane
Burning. Burning. Burning.
Zane couldn’t call this the worst pain he had felt in his life. Although maybe that was just relative. However, he’d never felt such an invasive pain, something felt in every fiber, every skin cell, and yet a part of him also didn’t think he was on fire, and that contradiction only added to the maddening burning sensation.
The scalp consumed by the flames was undamaged due to Zane’s own Light defenses, but right now he was experiencing absolute hell, in every sense of the word considering that this was literal hellfire. Still, deep within the pit of madness and absolute sensation of unending pain that encircled Zane’s mind, his body and his very being, there burned something else still.
The memory of death upon death, bludgeoned to a bleeding pulp and turned to stone in a storm that sought to consume him. Again. And again. And again. A sacrifice, performed for the sake of his people, his love, but the pain never stopped. It never stopped hurting, no matter how many times Zane ritualistically resigned himself to it as he tore that very Light inside it to shreds with his own two hands. The experience of dying again and again in an abyss without hope…it had brought him one thing. More than his power, the experience of death strengthened one thing beyond anything else.
His will to live.
Summoning the last of the strength his battered and burnt soul could muster, Zane reached an immaterial hand out…and grasped. The demonic flame, burning with incredible heat, concentrated into a single immensely powerful blast to pierce the Earth itself…with a blast this power, rather than resist it, Zane would try to make some of it his own, and escape it. With immense sources of heat came an appropriately large amount of electrical charge as the heat’s energy ionized surrounding atoms, such as the air and the earth around it. Furthermore, even if electrons were destroyed by the heat, that would only leave positively charged ions which Zane could also take control of. Even if these sources, now becoming a part of Zane, would begin to be targeted by the flames for annihilation, the sheer amount of electrical energy that Zane would now have access to, which now began to exponentially multiply in an attempt to preserve itself, quickly gathered as the electricity composing Zane coalesced into a single point. Due to the high amounts of heat in the area, there would be little to no electrical resistance, allowing it to move much more easily and further improve its chances of survival.
Once the mass of electricity desperately clinging to life gathered, it threw its full force against the wall of the flaming vortex, attempting to make its escape through the ground by basically condensing all of its energy and trying to break through the mystic forces trying to keep him contained, if there were any. Either way, the ultimate goal was to finally escape into the ground itself, from there it would move as fast as it could through the earth in order to finally and fully become free of the flames and recuperate while Parooz still thought Zane was dead. He could still sense Parooz’s bioelectricity, so he knew where he was, plus he was ready to detect any possible fire attacks by exploiting the electromagnetic interference caused by the immense heat and energy radiating from it, similar to how the explosion caused a disruption to his Gates at the start of the fight. Once he was far away enough, about 50-60 feet where the chaos do the battlefield could assist in concealing his location, he would emerge out of the ground, finally back in physical from, panting hard from the shock of the past few events.
“…enough.”
Parooz
It was true, to escape, Zane made some of the demon's energy his but at what cost? In the aftermath of the spiraling vortex of energy, Parooz and his Japanese friend stood there in an awkward showdown to determine what was the next step. In the samurai's eyes, Parooz vanquished his foe, but then he noticed his captor's body language.
The demon angrily shook the empty keg before dumping it down the not-so-bottomless pit. Much heat still existed within the deep pocket, charring the lands even more. It enforced his existing control of the ashen lands of his immediate area. He could feel the light child escape and a multitude of voices let him hear it.
"He's escaping you idiot." "Why have you not stolen his soul already." "It's right for the taking." "Screw that, take both their souls!" "What if you really can't kill him?" "You're losing your touch…"
The mafioso's fist clenched as he collectively pulled the annoying extra facial extremities back into his skin. Like a drop of blood flowing down the asymmetrical nostrils of a coke user, they were snorted away for now. He appeared as normal as the word could be applied to a rouge like him. His jaded eyes observed the boy as he pulled his figure above the soil. He could do so simply because the boy emerged within the veil of his corrupted haze. Much of him was the same but Parooz noticed something that endangered the boy far more severely than his bout with the suited demon. His inner light was not the same.
As someone who introduced themselves as lighting, it wasn't far-fetched for the demon to assume light was a crucial part of the child’s existence. With that most likely being true, for the boy's purity, it made more sense for him to die honorably than do what he did to escape. By taking in the very energy that sought to destroy him, the same dreadful aura that attempted to extinguish his light and countless others, Zane rolled dice on his destiny.
"How reckless…" The demon sneered, knowing from this day the boy would never be the same. No matter how bright he shone, there would always be a layer of darkness within, calling him, effectively endangering his connection to whomever high power he leaned to. Like a dose of heroin, you can't simply forget how it made you feel. In Zane's heart, he could feel the souls of hell tugging at his existence, pleading, begging, burning. But now, much like the demon cross him, there was something about that suffering that felt…satisfying. Forever, Zane would be in search of that first high. The first time he welcomed the malefic hell force into his already withering spirit. The first time he acknowledged he needed the power of hell and not his own prowess to endure. The first time he heard Ealdorman Sarcoen speak to him…
Like a lobotomy, a gravelly disembodied voice drilled into Zane's consciousness.
"I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but I am not to be mistaken for either. I come from a place of eternal suffering and vigor, not God's agape love. This power you have felt is a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal to your spirit which progressively will strengthen with each feeble exercise of your abilities.
So far, no temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. However, Hell is relentless. You will be tempted beyond your moral means, as I am prophetic. You will be tempted by the agony of your soul. You will be tempted to explore the power which will eternally cause you pain. With that temptation, I will also provide a means of escape, that way you'll be able to endure. May death eat away at your soul, body, and mind until you accept your latent power…
Should you lean towards it again, which you will. Your soul is mine." The conviction in his tone was alarming. With a knife drawn, Parooz stood unsure of whether to attack his foe or give him insight into the ultimatum he had been dealt. He of all people knew when Ealdorman spoke into your being for the first time, it was often from a place of mercy. A merciful malice that entailed giving a part of yourself to stay a resemblance of who you were prior to that point. Brow up, the red-skinned demon stood frozen.
“The boss doesn't just speak to anyone you know.”
Parooz taunted him, but in a way that had him probably questioning was the demon he inside his mind. It was worse, In a way, they were linked as most devil-like were naturally. If Zane was able to see, he’d notice Parooz never even opened his mouth but communicated directly into his mind…
Zane
Zane looked directly at Parooz, his gaze steely as he properly righted his posture. Demons, Hell…of course. This was a strange feeling, but not an unfamiliar sort of presence, it reminded him of…
It reminded him of…
“…boss, huh? I see how it is.”
He cracked his knuckles, popping his neck to either side as a new surge of electrical power surrounded his body, the sudden expansion of air and clap of Thunder as the lightning erupted from him causing a shockwave to blow away the surrounded cursed haze.
“…I never really cared for Hell, as a concept or as a place. Mostly because I already despise gods. God’s love? Don’t make me laugh. It’s easy to love something when it can never hurt you. In my eyes, no matter how good a person I might be…if Hell existed, that was my only destination.”
The power surrounding only grew, unrestrained by cursed fire, even with that nagging blight on his being, he held strong. He’d faced worse Hells than this.
“A devil can understand, right?! The powerlessness, the hatred and anger of the weak! Cast out for pride, cast out for rejecting someone who could never understand you! Someone who has never struggled, never feared, never been anything but a God! And yet still, you enact His punishments for him, even subservient in your own rebellion! If God is infinite, so his sins must be without end as well!”
“…that’s why I have power. To take that absolute control away from such a tyrant. Not to rule others, but to live without fear. If I fell to the darkness…”
A portion of electrical aura surrounding the boy gathered in his hand, forming a brightly glowing ball that encompassed his entire fist.
”How could I possibly kill a God?!!” He threw the fist forward. Although he struck merely empty air, suddenly that air began to lurch. By ionizing the very air around him, granting it an electrical charge, he then mentally exerted control over it to make it vibrate with immense force. An invisible shockwave, traveling through the air from that very point, ruptured and blasted forwards at the speed of lightning, with the force of a devastating earthquake.
Zane realized that if he exposed his electricity to that fire again, he wouldn’t be able to deal with it, so instead he used his electricity to perform an attack that didn’t let any of his electrons get near the demon—a powerful vibration, the air doing the work for him as it would smash and pulverize anything in its way. As a result though, Zane couldn’t focus it as well as if he used more lightning, but this meant the destruction would be more widespread and make it harder to avoid.
Furthermore, Zane’s previous electric light display wasn’t for show—he had generated a protective magnetic field around himself, which would enable him to disrupt and repel energy attacks, such as fire, lasers or even radiation. It wasn’t as strong as it could be, but Zane couldn’t risk doing that just yet.
Even after that beating, Zane had more tricks of his sleeve. Maybe his science couldn’t defend against magic…but it sure as hell could attack with the best of them.
Zane: Score- Characters: You're clearly familiar with the character, you're very descriptive of them and their bodily movements. Really solid characterization. 3.50 Introduction: Like the confusion, it shows the character's childish innocence. It's not a very strong intro, while it's good in characterization it's not very gripping. You did what quite a lot of players did and just got the post in and didn't put much effort into the reader's perspective. 2.00 Action: Ton of action in this fight. You both did really good, though it is noticeable you struggled more. 3.00 Attack/Conflict: Your offenses were your strongest suit. 3.00 Defense/Resolution: But your defenses struggled, I think you’re not as familiar with taking damage as you should be. Remember that the point of writing a fight is to write a good fight, not just to win. 1.50 Creativity: Throughout the fight you were trying to figure things out, but if you'd written a bit more naturally this score would be higher. You're creative, and you enjoy the character a lot. It shows in the writing. I'm comfortable giving this a 3.00
Sepias: Score- Characters: While I know for a fact this character is experimental, you smoothly slotted into them. You came up with really solid characteristics and personality, and even the manner of writing around the character is really good. 4.00 Introduction: Really really good intro, you used everything from your own character to the battlefield. You read and understood the assignment, easily the best intro score I’ve graded personally. 4.00 Action: Fun and solid, you made good use of powers and the battlefield as much as you reasonably could. Your movement was good, and was solidly descriptive. You did kind of bully your opponent, which isn’t negative, but you didn’t really have much defense since you were so aggressive. 3.00 Attack/Conflict: Incredible offense, you walked your opponent with ease. The difference in experience is clear. 3.00 Defense/Resolution: Not much to say, you chose offense as your defense. 2.00 Creativity: This one’s unquestionable, you used a bottle of alcohol as a catalyst for an explosion, that was fun and wild. You clearly know what you’re doing, love reading your fights. 3.50
Final Scores: Zane: 16.00 Parooz: 18.50
Parooz wins by points, @Lest advances to the next round. If you wish to coup de grace your opponent, you may. However if you wish to simply return to the Nexus that too is fine.
A man and his grimly existence sunk deep into a rustic-orange sofa, sulking, like he had a cloud above his head. The mauve suited man could be seen isolated, in the back of a speakeasy with the posture of a willow. In front of him, a table of hallowed shrunken heads operating as ashtrays. Stuffed in their sockets, ears and mouths were an infestation of cigar butts whose ashes gave off heat like whitening charcoal. Unsatisfied, he lit another with a spontaneous amber flame dancing in tune with the blaring brass vibrations of the club. The deafening volume of ragtime performed by a trio of ghouls several meters from him served a single purpose. To drown his monstrous den of conflicting emotions, all with their own voice, festering within his troubled mind.
Some days, this pulsing migraine of guilt and shame was only a minor inconvenience, and others, like today, physically drained his spirit. It was a curse, one embraced out of respect to his family. A crime family, spearheaded by his superior, the "Top Card," Ealdorman Sarcoen. If Sepias, underboss of the syndicate failed to abide by the orders of the mafia's head, order would not resume.
Like a prisoner awaiting bond, Sepias past issues shackled him. He was a shell of himself, in an internal high that caused him to meander clubs, graveyards and casinos like a zombie. The flame which powered his soul was faint, dim, dying even…
clink
A noise akin to a finger gently tapping on an aquarium, woke him from a near dose. At this point, the sounds of the band felt muffled and began to endlessly reverberate until it fizzed out. Sepias closed his eyes…
clink Gradually, the haze of his conscious simmered. The depressing voices, the constant anxiety and most importantly, the feeling of inadequacy dissolved. All he could make out in the blackness was the crossfading image of a gold coin, painstakingly twirling in the air. It landed in a hand resembling a heavyfisted fiend closing upon arrival, concealing the results.
"Clean yourself up. We got shit to do, Parooz."
"That voice. That hand. Sepias eyes rolled like slot machines, with both eyes buldging with lucky number seven embranded. A coin fell into his palm. It landed heads showcasing the sinister leer of a baphomet and now his eyes held the same amber glow.
Not only was the curse gone, his presence, his name was back. The Jazz music literally stopped as the entire speakeasy appeared to strengthen up their posture and collectively swallow. They understood the magnitude of his return. They knew exactly what it meant for everyone associated with the Sarcoen family for Ealdorman's dog, his enforcer to be let loose. Collectively, the organization was low on souls, and now, they had to do their jobs.
He had his name back. Parooz. And just as soon as his intent sent out venom into the room's atmosphere, he was gone…
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