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Verthaven: Days of Rain ☔ [COMPLETED]

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Changeling Unit...

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It was so foolish believing in Luis like that.

The Mannequin thought he was the one who'd be the perfect puppet... but in the end, he died due to his own delusions. Nonetheless, the Mannequin had his backup plans. Which he was going to implore while he had the chance.

A portal opened up within an abandoned building within the Ghost Town, and the trio stepped through it. It was a dusty, water damaged, building that was just about to fall over. The Mannequin knew that heading back to the Changeling hideout was a bad idea, it most likely would have been crawling with NEST agents by now. However, long as he was alive, he could get in contact with the backup plan.

Flashbang dropped to her knees, and Mannequin looked over his shoulder to see that she was ashing. Flicks of a black ash came off her and she screeched in pain.

If the Mannequin was capable of it, he'd be rolling his eyes. Looks like they pushed Flashbang to her limits. That just makes things more irritating. However, Mannequin was willing to put Flashbang out of her misery.

The inhuman machine crawled over to Flashbang, and grabbed her by her jaw, and cocked his other hand. He flexed his fingers as he retracted a blade out of his palm. Flashbang was practically falling apart - which made it easy to use his mechanical strength to stab her through the skull.

At that point, Flashbang faded away into ash.

The Mannequin turned to Witch Mother. "...This complicates things." He said. "I was hoping that Flashbang can take us to our contact... but it's becoming apparent that I'll have to go alone."

The Witch Mother stood there, and was hoping that the Mannequin is going to say what she think he is.

"Luis is dead. Heartbreaker is dead. As it stands, the Changeling Unit is no more." Mannequin's robotic voice was monotone. "Where I'm going to go... it's best that I go alone. It'll be easier for me to slip through the cracks of everyone who pursues me."

"So, I can leave?" Witch Mother asked.

"Your bounds to the Changeling Unit are... no more..." The Mannequin said. "However, you should take the chance to run while you still have time... regardless of what you tell them, they're going to kill you."

"I'll take those chances." The Witch Mother said as she took the opportunity to get the hell out. She ran straight for the door. She was waiting for this moment for years.

The Mannequin didn't do anything - gears in that head of his started to turn as he tried to reach out to the plan B...

Before Witch Mother had the opportunity to leave, the mechanism rattled as it turned in her hand, not of her own doing. There was a stranger on the other side. The hinges creaked and a crack of light shone into the dusty structure.

Baron was surprised to find someone right at the door at he went to enter, but he kept his rigid composure. He stared into the Witch Mother with cold, steely eyes, recognizing her face from the depictions he had studied. He looked over her shoulder to see a machine-like... person, if he could call it that. It was unmistakably the Mannequin. His last quarry. Beside it was nothing but a limb, which was slowly dissolving into a black ash. Looks like they finally exhausted Flashbang's usefulness. Much like Baron predicted they would.

"So..." Baron crowed. "This is all that remains of the... mighty Changelings that had a hand in all this devastation."

The Mannequin immediately dropped to all fours like a predator. Facing Baron.

"It appears you have come here to finish what RAVEN started?" Mannequin spoke... normally he wouldn't speak to his enemies, but the terms have finally changed.

"RAVEN is..." Baron began in hesitation, as though he were looking for the right words. "...a tool. They've nothing more they can give; the win was ultimately a Pyrrhic victory."

The Mannequin narrowed his sole eye.

"So, you've come for your own reasons?" Mannequin asked. "It doesn't matter - the Changelings... are over. I have no intention of finishing what Luis started..."

"That is not true." Baron corrected. "You remain, yes? This... older lady, too? I will admit I am also responsible to your teetering on the brink, but the way I look at it... you should see it as a favor."

Baron stepped around the Witch Mother to take a couple more steps into the building.

"I don't want anything to do with the Changelings." The Witch Mother pleaded, putting her hands up. "I surrender. Do whatever you want with me, arrest me."

Baron sighed and slowly pulled out his Apache, and began gesturing it toward the Witch Mother. "You see what I mean?" Baron insisted. "This is what you get when your ranks consist of old women," he gestured at the Witch Mother, "idiots," Heartbreaker and Luis, "and a little girl." He was of course referring to Fig, whom Baron himself had killed.

"Look at it as a culling to thin out the herd of who didn't belong."

Casually, he raised the Apache and aimed it square at the Witch Mother. He knew she was genuine in her claim. He could tell. But over the years, Baron ran out of sympathy. Mercy got people killed. And regardless of all the good intentions she has now, the countless atrocities had to be payed for. This case wasn't that different from Dr. Brooke's. Baron would even perform the same deed in that case as he is now - but the point was to acknowledge the shades of humanity, and not immediately think of them as monsters.

He fired the shot at the Witch Mother.

The Witch Mother was hit in the gut with the bullet, and fell down onto her behind. She clenched the bullet wound, as she started panting. Blood was pouring out of her wound, she would die without medical treatment.

The Mannequin didn't respond even in the slightest to the Witch Mother's injury. The Witch Mother was useless now. He was merely focusing on Baron. There was a chance that the Mannequin could simply flee out a window, but Baron was fully on guard and...

...very unpredictable.

It'd be a foolish feat on par with Luis to take his chance without having a solid exit.

"Don't give up on the Changeling unit just yet." Baron said smoothly. "You're a scientist, yes? Look at this as an experiment. The first prototype. Now that we know what doesn't work, we can approach this Unit idea with different methods."

"You wish to rebuild the Changeling Unit...?" The Mannequin asked out of sheer disbelief.

"At first I wanted to join." Baron told him. "But I wasn't sure. I wanted to see how much punishment it could take, what your lasting power was. I was discouraged to find out that... the rest didn't have the suitable survival instincts necessary for such an undertaking. But now that I found you, I think we can actually get something done."

"Luis..." The Mannequin trailed off, taking in Baron's words. "Heartbreaker... all of them... they were nothing but pawns. A means to an end..."

He narrowed his eye.

"...That stopped being convenient." The Mannequin said. "Throughout the years... Godhood... A perfect world... it's all nonsense. Some other fool had already implanted that idea in Luis' head... I've just been feeding him that stupidity to get them to do as I please..."

The Mannequin got on two feet again - he was at least ten feet, but he hunched over so he appeared a foot taller than Baron. He stared him right in his green eyes.

"There is something to be gained out of a Metahuman that can burn all to ash..." The Mannequin said. "They're implanted with a form of the Metahuman energy so powerful that it can be harnessed for great things. Essentially giving people powers for temporary periods..."

The Mannequin took a few steps forward towards Baron.

"For example... extreme regeneration, revival of the dead, enhancing people...." The Mannequin said. "And so forth. Such medical accomplishments that would change the very face of the world... I want to work with it."

"I can grant you an immunity of sorts." Baron told him. "Control through brute force gets nothing done, Luis has proven that... now, I have information that can compromise several nations. Control through political and economic means - such as the sort of blackmail I wield - could have allowed the Changeling Unit to remain under government radar, and NEST would have never gotten the authority to pursue and destroy the Changelings... and control is ultimately my ambition. Not quite unlike Luis' Godhood, but... feasible."

Baron drove a hard bargin. He was unsure of who this man was, but he had connections if he was able to return to a forsaken city. However, there was one thing on his mind... "Throughout the years... I've been abandoning everything in pursuit of the ultimate breakthrough..." The Mannequin trailed off. "... My body..." He looked down at his ceramic shell. ".... My family..."

"...And possibly my soul - along with what remains of my "humanity"." The Mannequin blankly said. "All in the pursuit of one thing..."

"If I'm willing to reform the Changelings... starting with you..." The Mannequin took a few steps forward until he was practically inches away from Baron's face.

"Prove your worth..." A hint of anger entered his voice. "...Show me you are willing to help me further my dream."

Baron smiled, and slowly reached into his pocket, before withdrawing a passport booklet. He extended his arm to hand it to the Mannequin. Inside were dozens and dozens of different names and slight alterations to Baron's face, and each of them corresponding to a different country. In every one of them possessed special government-given permissions with the depictions of little icons on the top right-most corner of the IDs.

"Deceit might be my specialty," Baron admitted, "but I would be a foolish cripple to try deceiving you... oh, but... that was not the sort of proof you were looking for? Was it?"

"No." The Mannequin answered. "I want your alleigance." The Mannequin threw the booklet to the ground like it was nothing as he took a step back.

"I see..." Baron mused quietly. Damn. He might have to get a tattoo at some point in the future to cover this up.

"Then how about a little something I won't be able to hide?" Baron suggested. He flipped open the blade on his Apache and stuck his left arm out. He took a deep breath as he dug the tip of the blade on one side of his forearm. He made a moderate cut and curved it around, forming a C. Baron gritted his teeth to hide any weakness from the machine man. He was a P.O.W. He could do this. It would be easier on himself if he kept going. Cursive it is, then.

Slowly, the C merged into an H, and then into an A. Blood began running down his arm. It was a good couple minutes of stinging and wincing, and grunts. He almost felt a bit dizzy trying to keep a strong face as he put himself through this kind of self-torture. But his art piece was eventually finished.

Cut in cursive, on Baron's left forearm, read the word "Changeling".

The Mannequin would have laughed (if he could). "Good..." The Mannequin whispered. "...Very good. You have shown me you are willing to join me. Come now, we have much work to do..." The Mannequin turned away from Baron and began walking towards the door...

Baron began following, feeling the air touch his arm, wracked with pain. At least he earned the Mannequin's trust. Still, there was one last thing he had to finish.

"You know," Baron started, "now that we're colleagues, it would be shameful to hide anything more. As a Changeling... I feel you should know what my power is."

"...Power?" Mannequin looked over his shoulder and whispered at him. The moment Mannequin had done so, all he saw was a blood-soaked blade lunging toward his eye, and Baron thrusted it as far into the Mannequin's head as he could. He didn't want to take chances on this thing having the kind of regeneration Luis did. His blood in the Mannequin's system should keep him from doing that.

The Mannequin started thrashing around with the knife in his eye, as he let out a distorted yell. "...You *zzt* bastard... *zzt* this is *zzt* for the best.... *zzt*" There was blood dripping down from his eye.

This was the apparent end of the Mannequin, and fell forward on the ground, motionless.

Baron was taking deep breathes as he waited to see if he would get up again. but the Mannequin remained still. He let out a final, relieved sigh. As he said before, deceit was his specialty.

He picked up the Apache as it was still stuck in the Mannequin's face. With he it popped out the eye and whatever fleshy bits that stuck to the optic nerve, and carelessly pulled it off and tossed it aside onto the dirty ground and hobbled outside at a slow pace, the metallic brace on his leg clicking as he moved. He suddenly felt the brace budge, and his knee bent. Pulling up his pant leg, he revealed that the black machinery encasing his knee had become unlatched and hung loosely around his leg. In irritation, he kicked the thing off of him and took a moment to stretch his leg out. "Damn, I guess that thing's thrashing knocked something loose... I'll put the damn thing back on before I re-enter city limits. It's nice to be rid of it for a little while."

For one, he felt comfortable as he continued walking casually through the old ghost district of Verthaven, not having to hide anything anymore, and listening for the sounds of trucks and helicopters and the like to guide him back to the rendezvous point. The binder containing Dr. Brooke's research being tucked securely into the back of his pants, and his shirt layered over it.

"So this is finally the end..."

"...Not quite." The Mannequin muttered to himself after Baron had left. A faint electronic laughter had came out of his mouth. He pushed himself up to his feet. All Mannequin could see was static... An unfortunate side effect of getting his optic nerve damaged, but Baron never considered that the Mannequin was clever enough to hide the most important fragment of his old body in his torso.

He'd have to repair this when he gets the chance. For now, he'd have to quickly leave here before Baron comes back. If Mannequin was correct, he would redirect NEST over here. The Mannequin took two steps forward, and put his hand on the Witch Mother's head. Pulling it back a bit.

She's dead.

Didn't matter.

The Witch Mother was dead weight at this point. In Baron's feeble attempt to kill him, all he did was make the Mannequin's job much easier. Without NEST pursuing him, he can go to his alternative at any given moment.

However, Baron had damaged his communications, so he'd have to meet her in person.

Taking his time, the Mannequin climbed over to the shattered window, and crawled out of it. His hands attaching themselves to the side of the wall like an insect. He crawled in between the buildings, and disappeared into the nearest sewer entrance.

Which he used to make his great escape from Verthaven...

...He's got a lot of work to do.

Verthaven: Days of Rain ☔ [COMPLETED]

The... Dreadnaughts?

<sub>“Are you sure this will work?”

“We don't know anything yet, Daniel. We're just doing what we can.”

“But what if something happens? Maybe--”

“Your father is right, Danny. Truth is we can't be for sure. But we've sacrificed too much at this point to not try.”

“But what if something happens to you? It's your blood, what if she, it... whatever, what if they--”

“Oh, just listen for once! My stupid, stupid son. My stupid, stupid, loving, selfless... amazing son. We'll get through this... we always have.”</sub>

“Well, here it goes. The beginning of an amazing tale – or something. I've written medical journals before. Biographies. Textbooks. Medical documents, obituaries, I've forged letters (perhaps an admission of guilt, but the fact I'm writing this feels like a coming-to-God moment), lessons, so on and so forth. But a personal journal, for all of my taste in vintage culture, is something I've rarely considered. I guess I should start by introducing myself. I wouldn't know to whom, if any other than to just myself. It's a personal journal after all. Daniel insists on calling it a diary.

I am Baron Moreau. Pardon my French, but I'm in shit way over my head (that isn't French). Or as they say it in actual French, je suis en chemin de la merde sur ma tête (actual French). At least, as close together as the two languages come to one another. I digress. In reference to my situation – I want you, myself, whomever, to understand my full meaning. Perhaps my life or career shall forever come to an end if this gets into the hands of another, but I suppose if that time should I come, I would submit willingly.

I don't flatter myself by stating I am a genius. As a scientist, and doctor, I state so with every objective intention and perspective in my bones. I began my path early in high school, and had the highes GPA in my grade. I earned by doctorates in clinical psychology in five years through hard work, intuition, and passion. Alongside the path of my education in clinical psychology, I achieved other, minor degrees in relating fields. An Associates in neuroscience. A Masters in psychiatry. I received additional training in the specialized, experimental field of neuropsychology, studying psychology and that links and patterns and connections it has with the physiology of our brains. Additionally, I've led careers in criminal psychology and even detective work. I've become a leading force in the psychological field. I've taken a job with a private military company called the Dreadnaughts. They've conjured a custom position for me to fill as a Chief Psychology Officer (CPO), or was otherwise known as a Chief Internal Communications Officers, but didn't quite ring as well. During my time, I've even played a spook, gathering private intelligence with efficiency. I've withstood torture that'd drive many men to insanity.

Yet, despite all of what's been described, this literal hell on earth has gotten my bearings off tilt. Seen things once thought of as fantasy or horror. Unnatural powers, unnatural monsters, men who've become monsters, and men who've been turned into weapons.

Yet, despite all of what's been described, the delusioned who still remain here insist on calling this place what it's not. Not hell, but a desolate city called Verthaven. I do not know where they've mustered the false hope they're clinging to as though it's some small sliver of light that remains; clinging to the belief that this place can actually return to becoming a haven.'"

<sub>“So what's the plan?”

“Warmed up to it, have you?”

“No, I haven't. But you guys were right that we don't have a choice. We can't really go back to the way things used to be.”

“No, we really can't. And you've a noble heart, so I suspect you wouldn't even if we could.”

“Heh... the plan?”

“We take the special bullet and pierce that bitch's head.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“We don't have the CheyTac anymore, we don't have the long range we used to. How are we supposed to do that?”

“You're right, we don't have the same range we used to have. But we still have range. Even your old skeet shootin' gun could do it. Listen, you're an amazing shot.. You can shoot further away with a .22 than most of the 'Naughts could probably do with a .50 cal. I don't know if you're gifted, some lucky idiot, or one o' God's own angels of death. Fact is, you can do it. Don't undermine yourself.”

“Right... so this bullet. It's gonna kill something that can't die as far as we can see?”

“She's a meta, and this thing is special. It can do a lot more than the power-suppression bullshit NEST has got. It's in his blood. She won't know what hit her.”

“Because she'll be dead?”

“Because she'll be dead.”</sub>

“I guess we're bleeding hearts. We did the unimaginable after leaving Verthaven as per our given orders. We were so close to dismantling the vital organs of the Hands of Science – how foolish were we to think they were the greatest threat – but we received word from Belroth himself. That 'the terms of our contract has deviated to unprecedented extremes.' The argument was that events which later unfolded was not within the arrangement and placed his agents in unexpected danger. It wasn't a matter that was supposed to concern us any longer and was outside of our control. We were forced to fall back to our base without word of warning. They must have been wondering where we were when everything had gone to hell. I know I couldn't justify myself. I've been thinking of what I would say over and over – I'm a wordsmith, but all I could think of bringing myself to say is that we all have our orders. Some matters are out of our hands.

This isn't the case any longer. The unimaginable was the end of our careers. The three of us were unable to detach ourselves from the mission. We regularly monitored the situation despite orders otherwise. We requested honorable discharge, but given transportation to fulfill the job ourselves. He obliged, but told us to proceed without his blessing. Belroth probably expected such from me. My colleagues in the Dreadnaughts have always suspected my motives were ulterior. I was hiding something. Maybe I was in it for myself. Or my allegiance was never to the Dreadnaughts. It truly broke my hearts all those years to hear them think those things of me, after all I've done for them. For the sweat I've poured over their well being. I never showed it, though. I don't think he expected it of Isaiah. I don't actually know why Isaiah chose to turn down his position. I don't think he's as cold and hardened as he wants the rest of us to believe. I've long suspected that. But the man has always had an honorable work ethic. Maybe he just doesn't want to leave a job unfinished, and would strip himself of all resources if that was the only way to get it done. When I asked himself, he just said 'because there's a cataclysmic shitstorm coming our way and I'm the angel chosen by God to give them a proper ass kicking.' The man is crude, but he warms my heart.

We expected Daniel to follow least of all. He was so proud to be celebrated as an official Dreadnaught on his first day, and my heart aches for him. I'm not sure if he's just trying to follow Isaiah and make him proud – that was one of his core motivations – or if that truly noble core of his is what led him here. I think he's still struggling to figure out why he made that decision, himself. He's still coming to terms that he just decided his fate. I expected Isaiah to come down hard on him, but it wasn't so. He was steaming at first, I never seen the man as rage-filled as he was then, and I've seen him at his worst. But he simmered down, and I think their relationship is improving. I think he's beginning to realize what kind of young man Daniel is developing into, and I don't think he could be prouder. I hope Daniel knows that.

We've come back to settle a score. To finish what we started, and with less cards in our hand than before. I... personally, have come to settle other scores in addition. I have loose ends I hope to cut off. If that means helping others along the way, well... I guess that'd just be a token to remember in my last moments.”

<sub>“Baron. Hey, Baron!”

“What is it?”

“You're a doctor of sorts, I think you can appreciate this.”

“What exactly am I looking at?”

“You're smart. You tell me what you think.”

“This is a medical research journal covering cell regeneration and stem cell surgery. Not my field though.”

“I don't care, keep reading it.”

“This... this is quite something. Half of this I can't grasp, but it's experimental and... who wrote this? Dr. Brooke? Dr. Peter Brooke?”

“Do you see the code yet?”

“Yeah, I think it is. I can acknowledge that his work here is something that can revolutionize the field and--”

“Whatever, Baron. I think it's great he can save a lot of babies, but my main concern is the code he left in it.”

“They're plans.”

“Almost like battle plans, right? This is clever shit, it took me a while to crack it. But it follows a particular pattern that a lot of people wouldn't be able to follow unless you're a seasoned tactician.”

“Dr. Peter Brooke had one deployment and almost no time on the ground, though.”

“But he's smart, we've established that. He planned out the attack on NEST, reviving, and then causing major structural and internal damage to NEST HQ and NEST systems. The one flaw in his plan was depending on humanity's... well, humanity. I think he was a huge believer of the humanity in everybody, or some crazy hippy shit like that.”

“Curious, given his actions, but he was forced.”

“Forced indeed. As the coded plans pan out, he never intended to deliver the Hands the ex-Director. He wanted to use her as a bargaining chip.”

“He killed her... so that only happened to prevent them from going in and tying a loose end once he was captured. If he's captured, but fulfilled orders, he's still believed to be on their side.”

“His plans include much more. A bargaining chip, right? Take his stuff and identity back, and they can have the director back, do what they will with her. Along with one of their superweapon serum ingredients. Some odd trace amount of some regenerative metahuman essence or whatever the shit.”

“Meta-human energy as part of his medicine?”

“He theorized that, small enough, it can bolster the stem cell recovery process, boost production, and would dissipate by the time whatever limb has recovered. Like a strong-ass energy drink, so the body won't be exhausted and undergo trauma by spending so much energy into an extensive recovery.”

“If I'm reading this right, that's not just it.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I think you missed something. Here it says about something in the basement.”

“Let me see that, point to it!”

“Here, right here.”

“Oh... Oh my God...”

“What does the rest say?”

“...the bastard was going to destroy the Hands.”</sub>

“Taking everything so far into consideration has given me recurring bad dreams, restless evenings, and night terrors. A curious phenomenon, this one. People think of psychologists as initiates to the discipline of self-mastery. I was once under this impression, too, many years ago. Maybe to some extent I still am. Despite no longer believing in my own self-mastery, I clung desperately to this idea. I thought if I could acknowledge the logic of my situation, the inconsistencies in my own thoughts, that I could control the situation around me and thereby control my feelings. It is a moot effort, I've known this all along. Feelings are caused by chemical balances in the brain. Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, endorphins – cortisol. A particular elevation in the latter-most mentioned chemical. It's against my training and education to prescribe myself, or even diagnose myself properly, as I am too prone to bias or influence. The others are not qualified. We do not have funding for another doctor, but I believe I wouldn't have it anyway. I am very proud of my work and my career. I am confident in my own value. This chance that I would be influenced by bias may interfere with a colleague's diagnosis. I suppose one could say I am conceited. I am not so proud that I think I wouldn't concede to that point.

The others have suggested I write my own personal diary. They are convinced by the idea that writing my feelings down on paper may help to ~express~ myself. Perhaps on a few occasions I have suggested this to patients, but they were in a significantly different situation with a different diagnosis. Often used to help manage confusion, sense of feeling lost, chaotic feelings, and such that would disorient a patient's emotional or mental direction. My chaos is of a different sort. My chaos is of fear and uncertainty. Any measure of suggestion, proposal, idea, may only mislead and lead to greater chaos and confusion. But most importantly, writing and documentation of feelings such as mine brings greater harm by granting them validity. Much like the phrase, “I won't even dignify it/that/they/them with a response”, I dared not to pave conceptual concrete for a tainted image of my health. I didn't want what may have been mere ideas and fears to be supplanted by a manifestation of lasting terrors.

How the mighty have fallen!

I suppose I had no other place to turn to. Such as what's been written previously, I suppose this may be nothing more than an admission to myself. To put to rest what was or what may have been, my sins, and my virtues. I might have acted to be above the rest to others, before. That I may be a higher power, or that I may be the very devil, or the gray chaotic uncertainty – a walking mystery. I want to be rid of all of that. I am a man. I've never been anything more, and if I've ever convinced myself otherwise, I was deluded. Now I simply want nothing more than a simple life.

I can't say for certain if I believe I deserve even that.”

<sub>“The situation has never been more complex. It's convoluted in ways we hadn't ever thought on the day we came to the fucking city. We never expected unkillable super-villains. We never expected the anti-Christ. Not only did we get both, we also got mad scientists as a grand ol' fucking turd cherry on the top of this mud pie of camel shit. But we also can't complain, because in history, we'll be the idiots that came back. I can work magic, but we don't have the equipment, or our darling Maria watching our asses. What I can assess is that the Devil has reached pinnacle mass in my very own Rapture-meter, the Changelings are totally unveiled and wreaking what havoc they want in Verthaven – what they could want with ruins, I don't know.
Personally, I'd get tired of scraping monster-brand mystery sludge off my boots whenever I grind their stupid faces into the asphalt. No trace of the Hands remain, but we can't rule them out yet. A man turned into a weapon, who was capable of saving thousands of lives, was left for dead and subsequently killed when presented with his only chance of redemption. The only apparently solution to this storm is to glass the whole damn place, and finally, I am slowly losing my faith in the good Lord – forgive me, but given the circumstances, I'm sure daddy-o wouldn't blame me.”

“And what we're going to do about it?”

“I haven't arranged anything, it's too risky. But Baron will make a surprise rendezvous with the NEST crew. They're gonna be pissed with us, so we're putting our best smooth talker up to the task of diplomatic relations with apocalyptic survivors we could have helped earlier – God help him. They'll work out their strategies. I'm spotting Grit while he tries to make his shot in knocking down a demonic skyscraper with little .308 sized rounds. They're capsuled. Re-purposed incendiary bullets carrying Baron's blood. None of us are meta-scientists, but we're hoping that since Baron is immune to meta-energy, that something carrying or imbued his essence can stop whatever bastard with super-powers from coming back to life or whatever. Grit, you've come into contact with one of these people yourself.”

“That's right. Probably a dozen rounds, and he ate 'em up.”

“If the bullets had something that negated powers, he would've stayed dead.”

“God damn it.”

“But there's no guaranteeing it'll work. To minimize risk, we'll be taking blood samples from Baron before we head out to make the freshest possible ammunition. If we succeed, everyone will see the Devil tower fall for miles. Then we clean house. The biggest threat is the regenerative fucker, and then the one that can transport them. Take them out first, and then there's no way they can recover.”

“If we don't topple the tower?”

“I'm gonna take a guess and assume it's like the tower of Sauron, and also assume that the tower of Sauron can shoot beams out of its eye, or raise monsters from dirt. We make a run for it and wait for government official to turn the whole place to slag. Baron, if you hear it get pissed and it isn't falling down, wrap up whatever you're doing and leave pronto.”

“Assuming Lihua isn't--”

“On a first name basis now? Did you call her while we were gone?”

“...Assuming Lihua isn't keeping me preoccupied with a long lecture. Asian mothers. You know how the stereotype goes.”</sub>

“I'm asked if I have regrets. I say no. I'm a spook. Nobody comes into my life. There's no room for love or commitment – not to another. No room for selfish choices. This selfless devotion doesn't even come as admirable as service to country. A sort of nationalism I haven't felt in decades. It's fed straight to a PMC. I will be honest and say that the PMC is like family, and I will continue to think of them in such a way, but in the broader scheme, we're scraping the bottom of the barrel for respect. This respect is derived from our aptitude, but not us. Nobody hears “mercenaries” and thinks “honor”. If we were to dissolve, the civilized world would hear that and think nothing of it. No room for honorless, greedy, and heartless scum bags. I would get angry, but not show it, because they don't know all the amazing men and women that has done countless, great things for the world in the darkness. The hell they've been spared. We, and I especially, bear the darkness on our shoulders. Doing the things we don't want to do, but know what must be done, to ensure a lasting peace.

I have my regrets. I am proud of my service. I also regret it. I suspect if I had to choose again, and picked not to, I would also regret not taking the opportunity, even if I had known everything I had to do and suffer and give up. I'm a man. I'm indecisive like the rest. The only difference is that I pretend to understand it better than most, but the funny thing about psychology is that it's a science. It's logical and factual. Humans are not so. Learning neuropsychology was more logical to me, since brain patterns can better predict this chaos – but sometimes I wonder if it's really possible to *measure* chaos. That sounds like an oxymoron to me.

I mentioned loose ends once before. I just think it's time to get everything off of my chest. If the first actions in the last segment of my final job should set the pace for how the future goes, it should be something that can benefit the future. I want to look through whatever rubble remains and procure the remaining research papers of the late Dr. Peter Brooke. He was an individual even I wouldn't be able to help. He was in the center of the chaotic throes of life, and he took it on. Whatever monstrous acts he committed with one hand and benevolence he performed with the other... well, metaphorically speaking – his first acts of the last segment of his final hours set the standard of what kind of person he really was. When push came to shove, he put humanity first before himself. That shines all the light on him that I need.

The middling is selfish. I don't think I've the right to be, but so many years have left me apathetic to whatever conclusion that may arise to answer, I think it's time I made a decision to be selfish. I'll probably ask Lihua on another date. You know, in the middle of the apocalypse. Except after the apocalypse. Post-apocalypse dinner or breakfast or something. The first wasn't genuine at all. I was feeding on the information she provided. I want to say she deserves better, but again, selfishness. Besides, the point of this is to turn over a new leaf. Maybe I'll be a college professor.

The last is the dirty deeds. The last few terrible things I'll commit as the old Dr. Moreau, before the renewal, and assuming I survive. The Changelings. I know I can talk my way in there. Might be the hardest job yet, but even my hardest job so far has only left me feeling a little moist in the pits. I'm good at this. The one with the alias of Bloodsucker is the worst. Word is he can't die. I know that doesn't matter to me. Nobody can get close to him, nobody but me. I know secrets he doesn't. I could literally topple nine different governments, black mail dozens of others. I'm limitlessly beneficial. Nobody should have to risk themselves dealing with this trash. I don't use this term lightly. I believe most people are capable of redemption.

Most.

This is just another assassination. This is within my reach. What comes after is unsure to me. Disheartening. I've always had a good measure of foresight.

Remain vigilant until then. Wait for me.”

Dr. Baron Moreau

. . .

The back of the van was a somber sight. No noise, no talking, just men taking what they could in. Uncharacteristically, Baron's depiction was quite unlike the ordinary. His hair was usually styled and his face was clean-shaven. It was clear now that his black hair may have been aided by coloring, as silver strands were showing, and without the gel, his hair was soft and dry, and he had bangs hanging over his forehead. Black stubble layered over the bottom half of his face. Across from him was Danny Grit, perhaps the faintest afterimage of a smile on his face, as though thinking back on the good old days as he meticulously polishes his gun. His disposition now more matured than before, and thin sideburns has grown down to his upper jowls. His hair, usually put up in a small ponytail, slightly more grown out – and in a rare occasion, let down. So rare, that curls and waves in his hair were apparent down the middle of his locks and the head was naturally slicked backward. Washe was driving the van – he seemed to be the one taking this in stride the most. He has even gave himself a clean shave, removing the legendary beard piece. In place of his Dreadnaught-brand beret was a proper cowboy hat made of leather, whistling show-tunes to the sight of smoke on the horizon.

“You're awfully eager for hell.” Grit piped up.

“The devil promised to keep my throne warm for me.” Washe responded.

Baron paused before making a half-hearted interjection. “I could do an impromptu psychoanalysis , if you'd like.”

“Nah, nah, I've had enough of that for one life time.”

“Do it doc, do it!” Grit goaded.

“When the patient exhibits personality traits relating to an increase in endorphin--”

“Nah, nah, nah--”

“--during a time of crisis or significant danger, this is often in relation to--”

“Nah, nah, nah, nah!”

“--is often in relation to the state of shock or--”

“Nah, nah!”

“--or desperation, and the patient clings to denial or enters a depressive and nihilistic state.”

“But doc,” Grit interrupted, “the ol' man doesn't look to be in shock to me.”

“You're right.” Baron agreed. “He's gone mad, there's no hope left for him.”

“Truly got your work cut out for you!” Washe chimed from the front.

“Tsk, tsk.” Grit continued. “Then what do we pay 'im for?”

“Nothing, we're all unemployed.” Baron declared. “Throw me on the slab, I'm done for.”

“You been chain-smoking like a mother fucker lately,” Washe said with an inordinate amount of concern in his voice, “don't even think the birds would eat ya.”

“What can I say?” Baron said, sounding almost exhausted. “End of the world. No more consequences.”

“Just keep your head in the game.” Washe insisted. “We might have to use your tongue at some point, when we do, we're gonna need it cancer-free.”

“Nah, I don't think so. You're a real charmer yourself, you know that? Got yourself a kid to prove it.”

“Y'know what? Yeah, you're right.” Washe announced. “Maybe I'll go up to that Jap bitch and steal that putang right from under ya.”

“Chinese.” Baron corrected, ignoring the rest of his comments.

“See? Yeah, Chinese. It's good to have a wing-man.”

Baron looked at Grit silently cleaning his gun, and thought to say a few words to perhaps brighten his spirits, or get him to join in a little more. “I'm surprised a fine young man like you doesn't haven't gotten himself a lady yet.”

Grit looked up, giving a shy smile as a hint of blush brushed his cheeks. “Oh, naw. I mean, I guess yeah, but you know... being a Dreadnaught didn't leave much room or time for that sort of thing.”

The van fell quiet all of a sudden. Baron felt a twinge in his heart. Washe felt a little guilty. Being a bought-for soldier had the magic of robbing a young man of his youth.

“But I'm not one no more.” Grit quickly said. “As soon as we wrap this up, it's all smooth sailing from here. Just... gotta figure out what to do. Something that... doesn't involve shooting people.”

“Getting off on the exit.” Washe said.

“Factory work is honest work.” Baron suggested. “It pays good, too. Good benefits.”

“I reckon it would, yeah. I'll look into it.”

It was a couple of more silent minutes, listening to the wind whip and holler outside the van windows, watching countryside fields lined by gray skylines pass by as the city limits came closer. Baron felt prepared for the worst. He could say he accepted whatever fate lied in wait for him, but if he had to choose, a normal life might suit his wishes more. As old as he was now, mid-late thirties, he was wondering if he could adapt again. Grit had it worse. He knew normal life better, but he has a vastly changed outlook on life now that he's served. Baron's outlook has been maintained over a course of many years.

“What the hell...” Washe murmured.

“What? What happened?” Baron said as he hurried to lean over and look over Washe's shoulder. Grit also stood up and braced his footing to see what was happening through the windshield. All of a sudden a bright flash of red light blinded them, and Washe made the van skid to a near stop to prevent him from swerving out of control. As swiftly as it came, the light had vanished. Their eyes were still recovering from the sudden flash.

“What in God's name...” Baron muttered as he rubbed his eyes.

“Don't tell me that was a fucking weapon or something! Was it Hands?” Washe roared.

“Christ...” Grit murmured.

“We need to get there ASAP.” Baron stated. “Floor it, we need to find out what happened.”

“There's been a major change in plans!” Washe roared. He didn't wait for Baron. The wheels of the van smoked for a second before the whole vehicle bolted down the highway.

They were cutting their way through the forest now. Every one of them had their hearts jumping up into their throats. Grit broke from his panic trance and dropped to the floor of the back, pulling out all the footlockers and equipping himself with what he could carry. Grenades, pistols, rifles and all the sort. Radio headsets. Baron watched them. He was grateful he aligned himself with some Texas and Alabama folks – they sure liked their guns. What they had with them was what they owned. Nothing from the Dreadnaughts remained except for some few tokens. They started to break through the other end of the forest. They whizzed past a sign, “Welcome to Verthaven (Isabella Isle)”.

“The Devil!” Washe exclaimed. “She's gone! Where the hell could she have gone?!”

“I don't know,” Baron said, “go towards where all that smoke is, maybe we can find her there.”

“Guys...” Grit said gently as he raised himself to his knees. Something didn't feel right. “Where's the NEST tower?”

Baron and Washe looked at each other. The Devil. NEST tower. Lots of smoke. The answer was becoming clearer. Their van entered the city, ignoring all the rules of the road – nobody lived here anymore. It didn't matter. Tight turns faster than they should, no police to chase them. Smoke was getting thicker, and they could see it billowing over the tall buildings from a city block away. It towered over them. Washe made a few quick maneuvers to get around what damage and debris blocked their way, and made a few quick turns onto NEST's street. There was the sound of gunfire nearby. Grit began tying his hair up into a bun.

They all looked out the windshield, seeing what little bits that remained of the Devil's tentacles and mass dissolve into the air. The faint image of a group came through all the smoke and dust. Civilians? NEST? Whoever it was, they'd only see a black van with tinted windshields. Washe hit the brakes and set it to park. Grit bolted out the back, kicking the back doors open and jumped down. He raised an automatic rifle and was taking hurried steps forward, poised to defend himself against any straggling monsters, Hands, or... God forbid, the Changelings. Strapped to his back was an old-fashioned sniper rifle, an M40. One pistol was holstered on either side of his hip – a sawed off on his lower back like a fanny pack, and an assortment of gear on his belt. A Kevlar vest was layered over his long-sleeve green shirt. On the inside, Washe squinted through the fog. The people were mourning. One lick of fresh air came through with some wind, and he immediately identified a couple of NEST agents.

“We're too late.” Baron said with a disheartened sigh.

Washe abruptly opened his own door, grabbing his own weapons, but not as heavily armed as Grit was. Who knew how many knives that boy hid on his body? He had his own shotgun on his back, and a pair of .45 colt revolvers. We won the West with 'im, might see if history repeats itself this time. He roared after Grit as he marched through the streets.

“Stand down, Daniel! They're friendlies!”

He paused, and began waving his way through the fog, but still on the defensive. Familiar faces began coming through – but they weren't happy. The were wracked with grief. “I'll be damned...”

It was a couple moments longer until the final door opened, slower than the others. Baron slowly let himself out. He wasn't his usual dapper self, looking a touch more worse for wear. A gray undershirt, two of three top buttons done. Tucked into waist-high black trousers, held up by suspenders. They were tucked into boots. Underneath, untidy protrusions on one of his legs shown. They made metallic rattling. He unpocketed a half-empty pack of cigarettes, but fumbled at the last second, and they fell out into a dirty puddle on the side of the road. Baron couldn't believe he half contemplated trying to save them. He sighed, gave up on the smokes, and limped forward with no particular enthusiasm.

The once-been Dreadnaughts, in all their glory. Not far off from NEST, in having seen better days.

'We are going to need a new plan.'

Academy 218: Why

Andrea Pasternack

_@Scoundrel

---

Andrea faced her, shall we say, "new-found acquaintance" rather stunned and perhaps even a little bit appalled. This is not to see that she found his manners any less appealing, but his demeanor was at least off-putting. Like a blast from the past, straight out of the 1700s or something. She caught herself staring with her jaw slightly dropped and quickly recomposed herself. Now embarrassed with herself, she combed her hair through her fingers at the back of her head was scratching at her scalp behind her ear.

'It's okay, it's okay. This is no big deal, right?. I don't have to call security just yet, I don't think. He hasn't done anything wrong yet. Yet. Yet...'

"Oh!" Andrea exclaimed perhaps a bit dramatically as she leaned onto her door. Perhaps attempting to portray herself being comfortable and okay a touch too hard that she made it obvious. "Yeah, pfft, no big deal, right? Besides, I don't think you'd be too interested in stealing some girl's college homework, right? Hehe, yeah, go figure!"

Stanford law, no less. It definitely wasn't a fun way to kill yourself.

'Slick as ice, Andrea. Slick as ice.'

"Anywho..." She began to say awkwardly. A moment of silence dragged out couple seconds longer. She stuck her hand out. "My name is Andrea!"

Her hand felt stiff at the thought of touching this guy's hands. Did he he wash them at all? He didn't look too clean. Oh gosh, she really hoped he washes his hands.

---

Abraham Gene

_{@Verminlord@Maxx@He Who Walks Behind who ever the fuck else}

---

Snake-themed powers.

The first of all the girls he could talk to, and it was Lord Voldemort's daughter. Except instead of not having a nose, her ass was just as lacking.

"Oh, yeah? Not a problem, ma'am." Abe said enthusiastically. He rubbed his arms with his hands. A flannel and a leather jacket didn't do much to ward off the Alaskan cold as all three layers could. You'd think that someone with snake powers would have the self-preservation to be a little more innovative! Like putting those hand-warmer packets all over their body, beneath the layers of clothing. His eyes trailed back to the crowd former a little further down the boat. Looked like they planned on starting a party. Abe didn't want to be the guy being seen stuck around just one person. He needed a name around these parts, because money alone meant nothing. He was being completely selfish here, but he could think of a couple o' ways to appeal to Chloe.

"Well since neither of know anybody else around here," Abraham started, "how 'bout I help the both of us with that, eh? C'mon, I know how to play the game. Their body heat or whatever will help too, I bet!"

Without even waiting for Chloe's response, he stuck two of his fingers in his mouth and whistled, letting a sharp screech rip through the air.

"Yo!" Abe yelled, cupping his hands in front of his mouth. "What do you lot say about partyin' up? How about it!"

Academy 218: Why

Academy 218: Why

Sorry to anyone that got frozen because of me. I've been working almost constantly.

Academy 218: Why

Academy 218: Why

Academy 218: Why

I'm a good writer, I swear.

@Mr Allen J

Academy 218: Why

I thought we went over the three sets of powers stuff tho? I mean, it's one thing if they're related to one another, but they're three separate things. I get it's based off of an Egyptian god, but let's reiterate: an Egyptian god.

Academy 218: Why