Rain (MK & Pulse)

GEAR

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#1
September 7th, OE 102
Bern, Switzerland
Jericho Faction Advanced Forces Temporary Camp Outskirts
8:18 PM


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So far, so good.

As the Jericho Faction had made its way north in parallel with the efforts of its equally ambitious Lunar-sympathizing rival in the east, there had been surprisingly little resistance as it had entered Switzerland. The Faction's troops had kept their discipline, and the locals were grateful for any willing to turn their guns on the Ruina, showering Lord Jericho and his entourage with gifts and valuable resources - though little in the way of any fighting aid, it was enough to raise the spirits for what would almost certainly become a grueling and bloody battle for supremacy.

Despite the occasional raid from the Ruina, there had been no sign whatsoever of Terra Sentinel. Their positions and camps had been cleared out only days prior to the army's arrival, with seemingly not a word given to those whom they had previously protected - or in some cases, pillaged. Berner Platte - plates of meat piled high, cheese, and warm mugs of swiss chocolate were jovially distributed to the welcome hands and mouths of the soldiery, and an atmosphere of camaraderie had broken out among the disparate and disaffected terrans who had joined - many only recently - under the same banner.

So it was, that Jericho and the latest addition to his inner circle would find themselves under the warm, late-summer night, the lights of Bern twinkling in the distance, flanked by colossal mountains and endless, rolling green fields, the full and absolute beauty of the world that seemed almost at peace here, in a nation that had made neutrality and objectivity the heart of its ideology.

They were as ready as they were ever going to be.

Pit... pat...

One by one, the droplets began to fall. Troops out in the open squinted up at the sky, then scurried away to their own temporary barracks and vessels, lumbering Rhinoceroses playing host to dozens of smaller dwellings, surrounded by the crouched forms of Gespensts, Huckebeins, and Zecharaiahs.

There was a whistle overhead, and a glint of roiling, fluttering metal. Near silent, green flecks spitting from their engines, the trio of machines landed - among them, a welcome sight for any acquainted with it:

A white and red machine, crouched one one knee as it looked up, its spined silhouette somehow reminiscent of both a warrior... and a coiled serpent. Flanking it on either side were identical, dark green and blue doppelgangers, nigh-perfect reproductions of the original. No alarm went up. There seemed to be no surprise of any kind as the three waited, patiently - before their cockpits opened, one after another.

The first cool, night zephyr sang through the camp.

...What could they possible want?
 

MKR

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Aug 19, 2018
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#2
A swig of chocolate, a man looking over the mountains of Switzerland. Basking in the landscape as he breathed in the air. It was a strange sense of relief, to get to enjoy the outside calmly. It had been two days but during those two days he had found out his prior life, if he could even call it that, had been bland at best. Given the circumstances and the journey that the soon to be showdown involved a travel log sounded appealing, trying local food and drink and taking in the scenery. Yes that would be fine.

In spite of the positive attitude towards that however, the past while had been anything but relaxing. Sleep had been borderline impossible, anytime he had tried to get some there was this... Scratching. No matter when, no matter where. Like a ghost clattering chains at Scrooge it was there at the anointed time. He had gotten some sleep, but not nearly as much as he would have liked. Still, he was here in the present as the pitter patter of drops of rain began.

Shevirat's eyes went up at the noise, in the meanwhile having sought a bit of cover from the rain. From where he stood he could see the arriving machines just fine, some sort of special forces or scouts maybe? Otherwise the utter lack of alarms and troops taking any proper note of the arrivals in and of itself was alarming. Still he felt as if he should recognize the machines, but nothing really came to mind so he left that to someone else. Not his problem.
 

GEAR

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#3
As the rain ran around Shevirat, a passive cloud of white noise that overlaid the distant hubbub and ambient noises of the camp, his senses might have pricked up. The muffled, good natured conversations in the distance were dying down. People were trailing off in mid sentence without being able to fully explain why, or slipped quietly away from their groups, making their way back towards their abodes as a cloud of silence began to descend. One by one, the amount of lights that had lit up the informal gathering began to wink out, as if those present had been seized by a sudden wariness.

Even the chocolate in his hands seemed to lose its taste.

Rustle, rustle.

There it was again.

That damn noise. The one that had plagued his evening hours, persistently scritching and scratching away in the dark. It followed where he went, and

But this time-

He could feel it. Something moved, right by his leg, nestled in his new uniform's pocket. Something... vaguely warm.

But, what?

Elsewhere...

The trio of figures walked unhurriedly into the camp. The two on either side were almost identical - a man and a woman in white business suits, each with a pair if concealing sunglasses, a pair of similarly colored umbrellas thrust over their heads. The third, the one at their head... seemed to need nothing of the sort. His verdant hair matched the color of his slim-fitted clothes, and his pale features wore a perpetual, easy-going smile as his eyes scanned the passerbys. Those who met his gaze either found themselves unable to shake it, staring after him as he moved past - or shrunk away, immediately diverting their gaze, finding themselves somehow unable to look on.

At length, Gail O'Brennan stopped. The cold rain ran down his shoulders, and matted his hair to his features as he suddenly spoke, directing his gaze to a woman nearby, who stiffened as he directed his full attention to her.

"You."

"Y-Yes?" She stammered in response - but Gail's expression changed little, and he looked back out to the camp.

"Bring me your leader."

"Lord Jericho?"

"Yes. Tell him..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. His companions stood in stony, resolute silence, like sentinels.

"He has something of mine."
 
Nov 12, 2018
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#4
"What kind of delusion are you under, O'Brennan? Since when has something been a sufficient qualifier?"

It appeared as if Jericho didn't mind the rain. By the time he reached the gathered figures, his hair and collar were completely soaked, and each hurried step shook free loose dew to the grass below. Everything below his neck remained below the form-fitting exterior of a stripped-down piloting suit, transparent patches hastily taped over exposed circuitry and blinking electronics. The design was certainly unusual, even considering the obvious lack of polish - a bizarre, many-fingered apparatus protruded just past the fabric along the spine, like the hollowed-out image of a backbone. The suit's accompanying helmet was still nestled between the raven-haired man's right elbow and his torso, visor opened to reveal the shock-absorbent padding within.

He'd been busy up until now. Testing the Antenora, again. Trying to push just a little more out of the machine's inscrutable workings, to make its perilous armor and lethal weapons more controllable by even a hair. A silent manifesto of frustration and light exhaustion had marred his expression, twisting eyes and lips into a light frown.

"An army waits on my word today. I have many things. But you never asked a question, did you?"

His eyes scanned Gail's smiling face. There was a pregnant tension in the air; he didn't even need his comparatively novice Psychodriver abilities to determine as such. He wouldn't have been surprised if the storm above decided to intensify to match the pace of the conversation below.

"What is it you want?"

There was a hint of impatience in his voice. At the very least, Gail couldn't be faulted for it - but it was there all the same, coloring every word.
 

GEAR

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#5
Gail waited, merely standing in the rain. As Jericho approached, his two wingmen walked forward under their umbrellas, passing him on either side as they wordlessly made their way into the camp. The young man stood, almost motionless, his stare vacant, before focusing on the man as he approached. As the leader unleashed a withering storm of contempt at him... Gail just smiled, closing his eyes, as if he were letting the aggression wash over him.

"Yes." He said, quietly.

"Your... army."


His gaze looked out at the surroundings. More and more people hurried to get indoors, and there was a quiet boom of distant thunder overhead. The raindrops soaked his hair, his shoulders, running in rivulets down his chin... but it was as if he did not feel the cold, or any discomfort in the slightest.

"In mere days, so many of them will be dead. Corpses... rotting in unfamiliar streets. Glory and greatness must always be purchased in flesh... blood... and bone."

Suddenly, he looked back to Jericho. There was a curious gleam in his eyes, as if there were a genuine curiosity for a moment, as his smile faded, turning into a thin line.

"Does that trouble you?" He said, softly.

"Do you hear the voices of the dead, see their faces, feel their stares on your neck, as you lay down to sleep?"

There was a long, tentative silence... and the smile returned with a familiar, easygoing laugh, as if it had never left. As if it were merely the product of a joke - albeit, one in terribly poor taste.

"It should."

He gave a shuddering sigh, licking his lips. His eyes met Jericho's own, boring into them with a sudden, unmatched intensity. There was no more trace of humor in his voice - only a commanding tone that was like the dropping of a coffin lid.

"The Astranagant." He said, lips seeming to curl around the syllables as though they were unfamiliar.

"Give it to me."




Shevirat's grasp curled around something in his pocket. It shook and trembled terribly in his grip, but once pulled out into the light-


"--- -- ---"

It was unlike anything he'd seen in his short time with Jericho. It fit into his palm, its shriveled body concealed by dity, ragged robes, over which a cracked, horned head rattled inbetween his fingers. The faint suggestion of organs beating slowly, painfully, beneath the semi-translucent "skin" that was mottled between armor plates. It shivered under his touch, as though it were terribly cold, like a field mouse that had only barely survived an encounter with a barn owl... or the cat.

The last trace of the Zenadye, of Abramelin Zahed, peered up at Shevirat with fear in its one remaining eye. It seemed to be trying to speak, but its breath was so shallow as to make it almost inaudible.
 

MKR

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#6
Shevirat tilted his head at the sight, so this had been the little bastard keeping him up at night had it. A face only a mother could love paired with the disgust of a newborn toad. A grin formed on his lips.
"To hide here, you must be quite desperate are you not?" He held the small machine-man up a bit, cradling it in his palms. For half a moment threatening to close his grasp and crush the small thing inside. "Or have you been trying to get my attention this entire while?"

There was something amusing about the circumstances before him, some irony he felt but could not understand. Perhaps the small thing looked upon him in much the same way as he did it. He didn't know, but he was curious about it however. It was sick in a sense, it was tired, within the palm of his hand Shevirat could feel the strained continued service of organs eager to give out at any second of their existence. The small thing obviously trying to speak but too weak to do so from that distance. Decisions, decisions.

"It has been quite some time, old friend." He mused, why he said it he didn't know but he did. It was something he could not place his finger on, an instinctual response. He raised it up, closer to his ear. Fingers around the small thing like a cage but not doing anything more not right now at least. Instead in a calm tone he said. "Well, lets hear what you have to say."

As he moved it closer to his ear his eyes passed to the distance, it seemed Jericho was speaking to the leader of the three which had arrived. Whatever had brought them there he doubted it concerned him, unless they needed their assess kicked for intruding. Still this day was getting weirder and weirder between nostalgia to things he couldn't know or remember within the span of a minute that had been two instances of it.
 
Nov 12, 2018
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#7
Jericho's face curled into a sour grimace as Gail's first words reached him. By the time he finally broached the subject of his conversation...

"Did Sullivan put you up to this? The Black Angel?" His voice was incredulous, almost as if the opposing figure had suggested that he turn over a unicorn from the depths of fantasy rather than a Personal Trooper. That brief moment of sheer disbelief transitioned into a measured venom as he continued, frustration and resentment spilling into his inflection like rot overflowing from within a cup of wine. "I have many things, but that abominable machine is not one of them. If you or that overeager Sullivan want it, delve into the black archives yourself and build it over my corpse."

The next advancing step carried an atmosphere of mounting peril. No, there would be no battle here, but that single question had pushed him over an unseen line.

"What is this request for, pray tell? Are you a beggar seeking alms? Do you require my moribund army to annihilate Terra Sentinel? You are unfathomable, Gail O'Brennan - for what purpose could you use the Astranagant? Would you unmake this world? Would you turn on those who sponsor you? Would you trample me and my faithful? Would you destroy the hope I have built? Do you fancy yourself a hero, seeking arms and armor? Why are you even here?"

He leaned forwards, chest almost heaving with a fresh lack of breath, and leveled his gaze at Gail's own.

"I cannot, and will not - the Astranagant!? No. Not in a thousand turns of the cosmic wheel."
 

GEAR

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#8
Shevirat lowered his ear kindly to his uninvited guest. The words that issued forth from its mouth filtered up to his ear. They were papery and whispery, barely audible over the din, such that he would have had to strain to hear them even at that distance.

"run..." said all that remained of the Sorceror, even these feeble utterances seeming to take all the strength it had.

"run... away..."

A tiny hand closed on his earlobe very gently as it managed to rasp a last sentence.

"it's... wearing his... skin..."

Fshh...

Were Shevirat to lower his hand, all that would have been present in it now would have been a small heap of dust. Yet, he wouldn't have had very long to contemplate it, as a hand extended through the back of the tent flap behind him - and closed roughly about the back of his shirt, dragging him back with unusual force towards the opening. One of the two suited men who had arrived at the camp stood, staring at him from behind pitch black sunglasses.

He raised his other hand, and something gleamed in it, reflected for the briefest of seconds in a flash of thunder overhead. A long, blood-stained knife - which was suddenly, and wordlessly, snapped down, aimed to slam straight into the young man's heart.




Jericho barraged Gail with a hail of questions that would have made any other man flinch, sent scurrying back to their master with tail tucked between their legs. Gail, however... Closed his eyes, and smiled, same as ever. It was almost as if he were allowing the hostility to wash over him, drinking it all in. And as he did so.. Jericho might have felt the temperature about him continuing to drop. Gail gave a low sigh... and let his head droop, as though in shame. When he spoke, however... there was something different about his voice. A cool, firm timbre completely bereft of his characteristic warmth, as if he were drawing every word, spoken with complete clarity, on Jericho's forehead with an icicle.

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"Gail... O'Brennan." He said, as if to himself.

"A humble name... for a humble, self-styled "hero". Condemned to eternal penance, never to soar amongst the heavens again. He truly loved you all... Down to the most miserable... wretched... soul."

Were Jericho to shift his body, he might have noticed the state of the ground beneath. A black, viscous liquid clung to his feet, like a thin tar whose surface gently teemed with unfamiliar, yawning shapes.

"But when the time came... When he needed you the most... Who was there? What hand extended itself to him, in his most desperate hour?"

Gail's voice dropped to a low, solemn whisper.

"None."

His lips once more returned to a soft smile... but the rest of his features, cold and pale, the rain running down his face, told a different story.

"Not... one."

He raised his hands before him, enacting, as if in slow motion, a fist-fight. His hands glided through the air slowly, sluggishly, as if dogged by weariness.

"Alone, he fought me every step of the way... right to the bitter end."

Finally, Gail's hands came to a stop... and he let them fall back to his sides. He stared at Jericho now, and this time... there was a golden sheen in his gaze. Perhaps it had always been there... or some other darkness was at work, as his every word sent a new chill into the world around him.

"When I scraped the last of his soul from this vessel... I could taste his despair. His fear. Dark... sweet... and rich.

Your hope... is an illusion. Your faithful... sheep to the slaughter. And all you have built... soon, rubble.

But... I?"

Here, he paused, letting the grin crawl up the sides of his face like a pair of spiders pulling his lips. There was a distant, muffled boom - and then, another. The ground was starting to shake, as if announcing the presence of something dread.

"I... am eternal."


A bright moon hung in the sky, as Gail spread his arms wide, as if in celebration. Behind him, in the distance, the Asclepius sank down, down into a black bog, the foul liquid seeping from every part of its body, until it faded entirely from view.

"I... am truth."

Noise ripped at his ears, yet Gail's voice somehow seemed to rise over the cacophany that was now assaulting the camp. Multiple contacts, approaching from all directions - but that was not the immediate concern. A whining, mechanical chattering and grinding, like a rusted collection of drills and saws all banging against one another in a frenzied din, accompanied the rise of something truly grotesque in the distance.

"I... am destiny."

An insectoid "body" rose from the dark slop, huge, hulking, two tree-trunk like multi-segmented "arms" bowed on either side of it as it writhed unnaturally, eyeless triangular "face" turning this way and that in the cool air. Gail's eyes stared into Jericho's own.

There was nothing there.

Not anymore.

The incarnation of madness, terror, and despair was framed against the moonlight and his obscene chariot, a gaze of gold that flashed with delight at the prospect of bloodshed. Where there had once been warmth, kindness, and selflessness... Now, there was only pitiless, endless nightmare.

He had been given a name. That was the last thing he had scoured from the Angel's mind... and found it to "his" liking.

Perfectio.

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"I... am RUIN!"​
 
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MKR

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#9
A questioning glance at the remark made by the dying.. He felt, knew even, the warning was not to be taken lightly but it left so much to be questioned like what was wearing whose skin. But there was no time to ask that, for the spoken words were carried on the wind alongside who had spoken them. Now only dust, like the warning had never been there to begin with. All just Mr. Sandman rubbing it in.

Still there was melancholy as Shevirat looked at the dust, like mourning in the stead of another. That however was interrupted by the appearance of another, the man turning his hand over to spread the dust throughout the environment.
The unusual force grabbed his attention, followed shortly by the knife. Now he had to ask himself, could he fight? Had he fought? Had he been trained in fighting? All things you'd rather know before getting into a fight against someone with a knife.

A question interrupted by the sudden crash of thunder and then everything around the both of them. The tent falling around him as he heard the squish of flesh underneath weight, Shevirat forced the remains of the tent off of him, gazing up at the cause of destruction to hear a declaration. Things suddenly made sense, in the distance the man who had arrived- His skin was being worn by Ruin. Between the two however, a visage. Rain moving off of its features as the man looked on at the machine that moved to pick him up.

Below the remains of the tent, liquid moved as if in death still lurching to choke the life out of him, so Shevirat stood up beholding the thing in which he was born. A question hung in the air, spoken by lips unseen yet heard. A course question ringing through the cold air.

"As you are, so shall I be. Do you hear it? The rattling of a million billion gears? Ancient clockwork ticking, time passing, the void... Calling?"​

There it was, a surprise among surprises with no time to question it. His steed could move on its own.
His guardian angel, his twisted demonic guardian angel. Eager to extinguish life and protect it all the same.



"Can you see the path with no doors?"​

There was no need to answer, both sides of this conversation already knew. Soon the Werkbau stood tall, its weapon in hand. On the other side of the environment, the formed monster. Shevirat blinking as his mind was forced to correlate it to knowledge that was not his.
Perfectio, the King of Ruin. Inhabiting the body of an Angel. He really fucked this up didn't he, in fact both of them. Should he meet that man there would be stern words. For now, survival. He wanted to kill that thing, really really badly. But knew that he would lose just as badly.

"You." Shevirat said to himself, questioning just how alive his machine was could wait. "Parasite." He spit at the monstrosity he could see on the other side of the battlefield. So many more words that fit the situation but he was too busy trying to find a way to not die.

Lurking at the bottom of his heart, a thought.
The kid would have a minute to solve this, he better not repeat mistakes. Then, interference.
 
Nov 12, 2018
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#10
"You-"

Something nearing a gasp escaped from the Psychodriver's mouth as the figure opposite him began again. It had been devouring. Feasting. First, his frustration. Then, his anger - now, it wanted despair, it wanted terror, it wanted the bloody reverence of sacrifice.

"Gail - "

"You - !"

Jericho's eyes widened, a brief stumble backwards alerting him to the bubbling tar rising beneath his feet. "Sullivan, you're doomed," he half-laughed. Fingers keyed in a series of activation codes through a barebones wrist display. There was a fruitless humor in the words - it wasn't as if he was out of the malign entity's reach, either. The only saving grace was that he was not the objective in its dark sight; that was his charge, the reacquired lightbearer.

It would be an unacceptable loss.

The Antenora rose from its slumber like a gleaming mountain of blades and cetacean curves, and Jericho allowed himself fade into its embrace without complaint. The new memories, unlocked by not-sensation and the sixth eye, flooded the forefront of his consciousness. A heap. Trash. Rot. Things sliding between the gaps. He recovered by biting down on the bitter taste on his tongue, focusing everything he had on the monstrosity looming before him.

Perfectio.

It sounded tacky. Something out of an outdated horror flick. But it carried weight. An article of authenticity. Something in Jericho demanded that he reply. He hefted his machine upwards, coaxed its thrusters into glorious light, carried the emblem of his efforts into the air. Light welled up within the machine's right palm, motes of shattered green darting inwards like fireflies into a lamp.

"Nothing is eternal. We are truth. My destiny will bring ruin to yours. This is my warpath. You'll drink in nothing but the bile of eons past, Perfectio - "

"Even if I can't kill you today. Even if..."

He couldn't say it out loud. He didn't even want to imagine what had happened to O'Brennan.

Had he died a fool's death? Was it heroic to go to one's grave?

Somehow, even without a proper turn of its head, a distant eye's pressure settled onto the Werkbau's stark frame. The Antenora hefted both hands forwards, pushed up and in, forcing compression to an symphonic peak. The growing globe of light in its hands fled into a single pinprick.

"Ha-kelim! Perfectio's target is you! Do not die!"

Words between a command and a request. As soon as the broadcasted voice cut off, the pinprick within the Antenora's grasp passed an unseen limit, and it spread outwards into a hexagonal formation of dazzling points. They met a moment later, a roaring tunnel of luminosity emerging. It punched across the battlefield in a few short breaths, aimed to spite the living night against the horizon.
 
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GEAR

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Shevirat's would-be assassins fell in silence, interrupted by the intervention of his dark savior. Were he to stop to hazard a glance at their crumpled, fallen forms, he might have beheld a terrible sight: behind their dark glasses, each had only gaping hopes where their eyes had been - sunken, black pits with scratch marks all around, as though they had been torn out in a desperate attempt to forestall something terrible and foul from entering their being.

Antenora's arms raised - and a brilliant ray of light burst through the encroaching darkness. The blast of focused plasma struck the heart of the rising, lurching horror, causing it to buckle in mid-rise as the blast corkscrewed a hole through its dripping, warped chest. Gail too, jerked unnaturally, as though he had been struck in the stomach. He placed a hand over the "wound"... and lifted his face, staring at Jericho from beneath his bangs.

"Your words... ring hollow." He said, a low sonorous tone that was like frigid droplets, dripping into the ear.

"Empty praises sung in mania. Curses against the falling of the night, the rising of the sun."

The black bile spreading from the Fatum's body pulsated vilely, flowing over the wound, filling it with bubbling pitch as the twin, horrid masks overhead affixed him in their gaze, expressions frozen in rigid caricatures of joy and sorrow. Did they respond to their master's call? Or did they too, possess some form of malign intelligence. Gail gave a wet, rasping sigh, droplets of dark bile escaping his mouth as he did - the shredded remnants of organs torn by Jericho's dripping to the ground.

"To reassure... your frail... shaking... hearts."

Two mouths opened - and belched forth a tide of foul, acrid smoke that ate the light and ripped at the lungs. Jericho, perhaps, might have heard what was coming before he saw it - as if it were the world's largest cloud of hornets, a whining and gnashing of miniature wings that rose and rose in volume with every passing second.

The first of the swarm burst from the darkness - a miniature of the leering masks, held aloft by a whirling, miniature propeller. It would have seemed almost comical, had it not been accompanied by hundreds of the same - rolling forward in a terrible carpet, mouths gnashing at the air. A swarm of metal and terror that was aimed to engulf Jericho whole, and devour him alive.

At the sight of the Werkbau, the corner of Perfectio's mouth gave an errant twitch. Was it amusement? Or perhaps, irritation? There were no words that could describe the thoughts that now inhabited Gail O' Brennan's body, a consciousness that regarded the human condition in the same fashion one regarded what seasoning to apply to a holiday roast.

The only thing that mattered... was the taste.

"Struggle, then." He whispered, drawing a hand in Shevirat's direction.

The black cloud advanced, swallowing the surroundings about the Werkbau, as if it were attempting to separate the two from one another. Something loomed, perhaps the young man's sixth sense alerting him to its presence - before one of the colossal masks lunged at him from his left, a trio of enormous, whirling drills jutting from its eyes, its mouth, aimed to impale him violently through his chest.

Waiting, expectantly, were he to be so sure-footed as to avoid its peer, the second azure-toned face would have emerged from the murkiness below - to vomit a steam of blackness across his body, the very essence of the horror itself, to fasten about his limbs, his body, holding him still - submersing him, drowning him in pure defilement...
 

MKR

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Aug 19, 2018
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#12
As the night sky was lit ablaze by the Antenora's assault it was simultaneously swallowed whole by the black walls surrounding the Werkbau. It was a peculiar dichotomy that, the wailing of life against the choking of despair. How often had this tale played out, how often had life lost. Excellent questions for another time, such thoughts would serve no good here today. Not with it still around, the parasite, the thing that hollowed out and filled in.

Eyes shifted around the tumultuous surrounding, obscuring sight from all directions. This in turn forced Shevirat to listen more to his other senses, the sixth one coming in particularly handily at this point in time as to his left the first massive mask crashed through the bile towards him. Drills perforating its every orifice like it had been impaled upon them eager to inflict that exact fate upon the target the self proclaimed Ruin had declared.
"I figured when one of its slaves came for me!" He replied to the warning. Somewhere there was an acknowledgement, this specific pursuit meant that even despair made manifest could fear something, the eventuality looming just over the horizon that would need to be stopped now lest it escape its cocoon. Sure now the thing he inhibited was a cockroach but what about after that.

For now however like the cockroach it was, the Werkbau leaped upwards, the first mask passing underneath as he gazed down upon it only to be met with the second of the contorted faces, it looked like its cheeks had been forcefully gripped and forced inwards leaving it unable to do anything but give a pained, tormented, smile. The wings shot forwards as the machine hung there in the air, this machine could not fly so he had to be quick.

Accuracy was no concern so that helped. The green eye of the living dead machine lit ablaze for a moment, blue light forming at the tip of both wings as they extended. "Emet Asher!" he declared, the beams firing down on the mask as he descended along with them. There was one benefit, those beams were a lot quicker to go down than him, and what made him not fear for his life as he approached the black bile below was the barrier inserted between him and it. One that would push away the filth for now, allowing a 'clean' descent down to the mask itself.

That very same barrier, shared now with the much much larger machine some way down the battlefield. Shielding it against the swarm of miniature masks, both parties being psychics had made sharing this much easier and would help against the coming despair, as two hearts would stand taller than one, however it would also give Jericho a glimpse. In this connection of two, at the fringe there was a third presence. Simultaneously ancient and young, it felt eerily similar to Shevirat but just... Wrong, like something that held no right to exist along men. It was not Perfectio, that was certain. That core of despair and the urge to feast on the fears of men both were severely lacking. But instead there was a hint of wrathful apathy.

As the Werkbau fell down again, the Deflection Field pushed against the bile below, if the mask was still there when he landed Shevirat would flick open the machete on his gun and begin stabbing downwards, aiming for the eyes first as he would seek to render them inoperable. To accompany the incoming stabbing of the red dots the brown machine would also stomp down on the green crystal at the mask's brow for good measure.
 
Nov 12, 2018
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#13
"Is that all you see in me?" Jericho spat. Perfectio's icy taunts had found a grip in his heart, try as he might. Even from his limited experience fighting as a mobile weapon pilot, the impression wasn't that Perfectio had been genuinely hurt with that shot. Like shooting angry water - was there more to the King of Ruin that he could see? The way more of it boiled into existence where it had sustained damage...

"No night lasts forever..."

He trailed off, voice growing quiet. That was the impression; of more unseen pitch rising from the earth, an everlasting fountain of nightmare and ceaseless, tireless tears. Was fighting even of any use?

"...And it is after him," Jericho muttered. "Did I make a mistake, taking him back?"

Attracting the attention of something like this already, before having more time to absorb what he'd already gleaned? Even if he didn't allow occurence to throw off his plans, it was a horrifying glimpse past the veil. Were there others like this, waiting for him? More importantly, what was it that invited this meeting?

Was there something even he hadn't seen in the abrasive man?

"...Just what are you now, Ha-Kelim?"

Doubt. A faltering, however brief. It almost prevented Jericho from reacting to the screeching cloud of metal tumbling his way, but the sound was unthinkably unpleasant. He hurled his will into the space around him, and the the Antenora answered. Its G-Territory flashed into existence, a coruscating wall against the evil trying to bite through and consume him. He needed space, needed room. He pushed outwards, trying to repel the nightmare familiars. Thank the fates that Shevirat had reacted first. But it wasn't enough to survive. They had to flee, somehow.

"Bugs!"

The eight protrusions on the Antenora's elbows leapt off with metallic shrieks of their own, unfolding close to its body into curled shapes of shining white. Turning outwards, each unleashed a small burst of azure light, endlessly chipping away at the swarming mass. Then, to add to the revolving flashes, a miniature rain of metal fragments seemed to split away from the Antenora, fleeing into the darkness past its shield to detonate in a spectacular flurry of fractal detonations. In a situation like this, the telepathically guided missiles didn't need much direction.

Still, doubt bit at his mind.

Would it buy Jericho anything more than time?
 
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GEAR

Administrator
Staff member
Jun 15, 2018
1,165
1
18
#14
"Pointless."

Perfectio's laughter echoed across the battlefield, a sonorous rattle that, much like its owner, seemed to deafen and drain of hope all that it touched. The needle-like bugs spat death at the lurching Fatum as it slithered forward, slowing it only slightly as the Emet Asher pounded into its frontal armor, the EOT-driven rounds warping the very space before the monstrosity, twisting and contorting its already sinister features before sending up a riproaring explosion.

For a moment, it seemed the monster had been vanquished, but...

As the smoke cleared, the twin heads pushed through, leering and jeering respectively at the two defenders. Perfectio lowered his voice to almost a whisper, as their mouths yawned wide, sickly bile dripping from their features as they prepared to deliver the long-delayed deathblow.

"No matter how you struggle..." He said, solemnly:

"I... will choke out your light-"

Light.

Light!


1673303223620.png

As if on cue, something enormous and bright smashed into the Fatum, shearing away the layers of protective filth that encrusted it as the Lord of Ruin reeled. Something... ancient, something his memories clawed at... warning him-

A second blast lanced out from over the horizon - and the Fatum was sent skidding back, raising its shields to protect itself, one face having its features mangled beyond all repair. Black blood and bile poured from the monstrous engine as it hissed ominously, along with its occupant.

"Gugh...!"

Over the horizon, like some sort of chariot of legend, came the lumbering form of the Biancaneve - bedecked in gold trim, flag waving proudly in the breeze, cannons gleaming with a new and unearthly power the likes of which had not been seen on this side of the planet in untold generations. Missile and cannonfire rained down on Perfectio's position - but this time, found no purchase, as the horror sank into the pool of blackness it had formed, vanishing from view.

Then, and only then, did the horrid, oppressive aura that had smothered the surroundings finally lift - and was replaced with a new sound, as the surrounding Ruina began to poof out of existence one after another, retreating back from whence they came:

The triumphant cheers of the victors.
 

MKR

Moderator
Staff member
Aug 19, 2018
626
3
18
#15
It couldn't be this easy, the thought raced through his mind in the moment of quiet as the Werkbau moved. Using the lull to reposition himself Shevirat glanced at the fog with suspicious eyes. A being that sought to instill despair would likely love to feed its pray some false hope only to crush it beneath its heel. Between the laughter prior and the aura exuded by the Fatum the hopelessness of the situation began to set in. Fortunately for Shevirat, it was not hope that fueled him. Instead a deep seated but difficult to explain but still ever so present wrath and lust for revenge perhaps a less benign motivator but also one less in contrast to the evil that fought them and due to that not being actively quashed.

As such the reveal that the monster was unharmed was still not pleasant, but not unexpected. The machete was drawn at the face that came to jeer and / or leer at him but before that could be responded to there was an unexpected interruption, light. Not necessarily hope but certainly counteracting despair, the Werkbau shot at the masks after the first beam crashed in but the Lord of Ruin slipped away. The Werkbau instead looked at the ship as the knife folded back in the rifle, as if searching to make eye contact with something.

All the same the weapon was returned to the side, there was enough on his plate now to bother with the distant distant feeling he felt aimed at the ship. Weaker than the one aimed at the runaway terror but very much present. Something there, in that vague area. He felt it, and that likely meant it would feel him even though he knew not exactly what it was that feeling was lurking around. Inside the cockpit he looked down at his hand, a little remainder of ash cradled between his fingers. The rest scattered to the winds as a warning had been issued. All that remained of another's friend, of another's enemy. All that remained of the man who knew the most about the Black Angel, of the man with whom another got along.

Was this an appropriate end? Was there any such thing as an appropriate end in tales such as these may be the better question. The answer was found lacking, if it even mattered what one decided on as answer.
 
Nov 12, 2018
52
0
6
#16
"It's not working." The notion came unbidden, infuriatingly rebellious. Doubt materialized into something darker: realization.

Reality.

"Why?"

Were his dreams shattering?

"All this! Why isn't it enough?"

Jericho's eyes were almost bloodshot. As Perfectio's horrific armature slid through the smoke around it, his features twisted; indignation poisoned the righteous fury of his voice. It was a tantrum mated with the raw, corrosive anger of ambitions denied, a desperate refutation of what now seemed inevitable. Yet when the Fatum lunged forwards, fangs dripping with the distillations of dark infinity, the Antenora hung still. There was no moment of final resistance, no spite-fueled rebuke; only paralysis and sudden regrets remained as unseen barriers gave way.

"I prepared all this! I promised her! So at least this! Why not this?! Why are you here, standing in my way?!?"

The Antenora reached ineffectually forward, claws flexing; as if it could meet the enemy and smash it whole. It was nothing. Not even a gesture with meaning. Not anymore.

An answer came, nonetheless.

Absolute power. It struck with the force and speed of lightning made iron; light blinded Jericho even through his closed eyes, the filtering of his machine, and the many measures he'd programmed to handle such an exact case. The first strike forced his hyperventilating lungs to a halt. The second was enough to freeze his eyes wide.

Perfectio.

What he saw wasn't another malignant deception. It was wounded; more than that, it was retreating from the battle. In an instant, bated breath slipped its bindings and escaped as the beginnings of a choked laugh. Jericho couldn't help himself. Had this all been one cosmic joke? A prank by some unseen arbiter of fate? He turned to look at the Biancaneve, absorbing the sight. The vessel was undeniably different, evidence of its alterations evident even to the untrained eye; now, it held a power beyond mortal will.

"No," he muttered. "Not a joke."

Even as the sounds and unearthly beat of his triumphant forces filled him, Jericho's thoughts turned elsewhere. He closed his eyes, settling back in the Antenora's alien cockpit. The resonance of his distressed body hummed on, freed from Perfectio's malign presence.

But it was so small. So fragile.

"Is that what I require?"

Eyes on the edge of an exhausted sleep cracked open, intently scanning the Biancaneve's glittering mass. Images buzzed on the edge of Jericho's mind, eager to exist, to become an answer instead of a question.

"Power like yours?"

Shifting in place, the Antenora turned to face the Werkbau's jagged figure.

...Or yours. Could you guide me, Ha-Kelim? Or will I...

The fragments of a mold began to spin in Jericho's mind, a negative shape carved from the undeniable tapestry of lost time. A vessel. Empty. Waiting to be filled. New resolve suffused his exhausted soul, more nourishing than the implication of rest dragging his eyes closed. In the distance of dreams, the shape of final victory waited. Today, he'd taken one step closer.

Tomorrow, he'd seize the entire path.
 
Mar 23, 2021
159
0
16
#17
“Secure the perimeter! Ensure everyone gets proper help and attention.” A squadron of mobile weapons deployed from the top of the Bianceve. An upgraded Wildschwein and a cluster of Zechariahs behind it. Slowly they descended, ensuring no Ruina remained manifested or hiding somewhere in the shadows.

The Wildschwein Clarent would touch down on the streets below, twin Rail Cannons drawn. Still remaining on alert as the Zechariahs secured their current location. Clearly everyone was shaken up but their spirits had lifted with their arrival. His gaze fell upon the Antenora, to think something had managed to put it on the back foot when he and a Special stood no chance. There was still that aspect of it he couldn’t place his finger on, but now it was clear to him that it was not invincible. His gaze immediately moved to met the gnarly visage of the Werkbau, another strange machine. He was beginning to wonder what exactly it was Jericho needed all these machines for. To create the perfect weapon? He didn’t know, but at the very least, he knew where his inquiries would go next.

”I will see to it I uncover your scheme Jericho, for good or for worse.”