Memoirs of a RAFian

[Cloak]

New chapter. Sorry about the brevity, still adjusting.

CHAPTER THREE:
Enter the Devourer

Malice stood there, waiting impassively for a fair amount of time before withdrawing the lab table back into her little hidey-hole. How she managed this while succeeding in being hidden still was remarkably lucky, and this had an incredibly high likelihood of being found out.

But Malice didn't care. She had gotten supremely overconfident with herself after the past few days. She had relevance as a villain again, and that's all that really mattered to her. And making Cloak suffer for not having proper Walker pride and being the progeny of the progeny of Master Sage, that mattered to her a great deal as well.

As the table lowered, and the orifice in the ceiling that had opened to allow it to be struck by lightning had squeezed itself shut, Malice watched with eager excitement, and one could even say anxiety, though Malice herself would never admit to feeling such a thing.

The figure on the table sat up, sheet still covering it, and Malice said, almost unenthusiastically, declared, "It's alive."

 The figure removed the sheet. The figure seemed to be made of triangular shapes, and what wasn't triangular was black as night. He appeared to be a fusion of NOS-4-A2 and Aku. He had a red mouth, glowing red eyss (with the left one larger and more protuberant) and a green beard extending from the bottom of his chin. He had six horns, four long and two short, extending from his head, and eyebrows made of green, flickering flame. He also did not have legs, with his body simply ending at the bottom with robe-like darkness, after his longest triangle of black, red, and silver.

 "Rise, Technovampyra," Malice ordered.

 "Yeah, yeah," he said, his voice sounding like a bizarre fusion of Tim Curry and Mako Iwamatsu, "when I'm good and ready."

 "You shall do as I say," Malice said, oddly without a note anger or hostility. This was highly unusual, unless Malice had a trump card of some sort. "For I'm your creator."

 "Whatever," he said, "I do what I want."

 "Oh, do you?" Malice said, in venomous honeyed tones that recalled Dolores Umbridge.

[Cloak]

New chapter. Sorry about the brevity.

CHAPTER FOUR:
The Pied Piper Strategy

 "Yeah," he said, standing to his full height, being significantly taller than Malice. He was at least twice her height, and he thought that made her weaker to him. That it made her inferior to him. He had apparently inherited Malice's overconfidence and arrogance, as he was, in a way, her son. "I do what I want."

 "You only do what I want, actually,"  Malice said, with a bit more of a bite to voice.

 "Yeah, you keep thinking that," he said, turning to leave. He was feeling famished, and he wanted to eat. He was mulling over what he wanted to eat, but he wasn't able to get very far into those thoughts before he heard music that caused him great pain.

He doubled over in pain. How could such mild music be so excruciatingly painful? It wasn't like the music was bad. It wasn't too amatuerish but it wasn't particularly skilled, either. It persisted and he collapsed to the floor, wondering how and why this was happening. The pain . . . it was like thousands of superheated knives, daggers, and swords had gored him in every possible direction. It was awful.

Then the music intensified and so did his suffering. It was as if all those knives, daggers, and swords were being twisted very slowly in him. He actually cried out in pain. A pain that like no other has ever experienced.

Then, all at once, the music ended, and that was almost worse. It was like all those metaphorical knives, daggers, and swords were removed simultaneously. And they were twisting on there way out. It took a moment before the Technovampyra was able to stand once more.

Then he saw Malice with a glowing flute. The flute looked rather like a PokeFlute gone deliberately wrong. It was as black as obsidian with blood red accents. It glowed malevolently in Malice's hands, which were glowing as well, ensconced in the glow of the flute.

 "The flute . . ." the artificial being managed to choke out.

Malice smiled a smile to match her name, instead of giving any sort of confirmation or denial of it being behind the music. Verbal confirmation or denial anyway. She played again, showing some incompetence at the finger placement for some notes on the flute, which played more like a recorder or a clarinet than a flute.

The Technovampyra would swear that the pain escalated from the last time. Almost as if Malice was deliberately playing a slow tempo just to maximize his excruciating pain. She was just being sadistic. There was no way around it. Malice was just being plain sadistic.

When Malice decided to let up, the Technovampyra immediately demanded, voice hoarse, "The flute . . . give it to me . . . NOW!"

 "Well," she said, with a smile that oozed malevolence and emitted maliciousness like a radiation, "if you insist."

As he extended his arm, hand outstretched, expecting for her to hand it over.  But Malice just played again. She oscillated between a fast, upbeat tempo and a slow, morose one, and she did so randomly.

The pain . . . it was unspeakable . . . it was indescribable . . . he curled into a ball, twitching. Even when she stopped playing. Malice stopped being coy.

 "You were made to obey me," Malice said, with hard-edged tone, "and obeying my every whim is precisely what you will do."

[Cloak]

New chapter.

CHAPTER FIVE:
The Store

"Nothin' ever happens in this forum.
Feelin' low down , not a lot to do around here.
I thought that I would go right out of my mind,
Until Shen told me the news!"

This was a gross exaggeration of the past two days. But GH was just so excited when Shenmue told him something that she read in the news -- which was, yes, a dying medium.

"She said, 'Hey, you know that vacant lot
Right beside the gas station? Well, somebody bought it,
And on that spot they're gonna build a shop
Where you can go buy amps and picks.'"

Yes, a music store was opening up relatively nearby, which was both convenient and affordable. Naturally, GH was excited.

"Since then I've been walking on air.
I can barely brush my teeth or comb my hair.
'Cause I'm so excited and I really don't care.
I've been waiting since last June!"

June was about four months ago, give or take a day.

"For this day to finally arrive.
I'm so happy now just to be alive.
'Cause any minute now I'm gonna be inside!
Well, I hope they open soon!"

And there he was, with Shenmue and Leatherhead (wearing his human suit, of course, so they didn't attract unwanted attention) in tow. Leatherhead was clapping along happily to the song, while Shenmue looked as if she didn't know why she came along.

"I can't wait, I can't wait!
When are they gonna open up the door?
I'm goin' goin', I'm a-goin' to the
Goin' to the music, I'm goin', really goin' to the
Goin', I'm goin' to the, oh yes, I'm goin' to the --
Music store!!"

Leatherhead was loving this, while Shenmue was finding GH's over-the-top enthusiasm . . . off-putting.

"In my sleeping bag, we camped out overnight
Right in front of the store, then as soon as it was light out
I pressed my nose right up against the glass.
You know, I had to be first in line!"

Not a word of that was true.

"Gonna get me a guitar maintenance kit of doom.
Want a pair of guitar picks for every single room of my thread.
See those sweet amps? Very, very soon
One of them will be all mine!"

Shenmue could hardly see what all the excitement was about. Sure, it was a music store, with a rather bizarre focus on guitars, in particular. Even the name left something to be desired, in Shenmue's opinion.

"Guys with nametags walking down the aisles,
Rows of steel strings that go on for miles and miles,
Brand new fingerboards in a plethora of styles,
All arranged alphabetically!"

GH looked as if he was in seventh heaven in this store. In this . . . this Picky-Mart. Obviously, taken from guitar picks, and "Mart".

"And they're doing a promotional stunt,
There's a great big green sign out front.
That says every 207th customer
Will get a power attenuator free! "

What? Where was that? Shenmue didn't see it, out front. She wondered if GH wasn't just making it all up.

"I can't wait, I can't wait!
When are they gonna open up the door?
I'm goin', goin', I'm a-goin' to the
Goin' to the -- I'm goin', really goin' to the --
Goin' -- I'm goin' to the, oh yes, I'm goin' to the
Music store!
I'm goin', goin', I'm a-goin' to the --
Goin' to the --, I'm goin', really goin' to the --
Goin', I'm goin' to the, oh yes, I'm goin' to the
 Music store!"

"Would you look at all that stuff," he said, with a broad smile. He called out the guitar bodies, bridges, fingerboards, frets, pedals, headstocks, inlays, machine heads, guitar necks, neck joints, nuts, pickguards, pickups, soundboards, strings, truss rods, and a whole bunch of other things that Shenmue was either unfamiliar with or completely indifferent to.

"I can't wait, I can't wait!
When are they gonna open up the door?
I'm goin', goin', I'm a-goin' to the --
Goin' to the, I'm goin', really goin' to the --
Goin', I'm goin' to the, oh yes, I'm goin' to the
Music store!
I'm goin', goin', I'm a-goin' to the --
Goin' to the -- I'm goin', really goin' to the --
Goin', I'm goin' to the, oh yes, I'm goin' to the
Music store!
I'm goin', goin', I'm a-goin' to the --
Goin' to the -- I'm goin', really goin' to the --
Goin', I'm goin' to the, oh yes, I'm goin' to the
Music store!"

"Why did you feel the need to narrate that through song, GH?" Shen sighed. "Better question: how'd you rope me into coming along?"

But that question was never answered, as Leatherhead pointed, and, with the usual lack of tact a six-year-old boy has ordinarily. "Daddy? What's that man doing?"


SOURCE SONG: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DFI6cV9slfI

[guitarhero01234]

Why do I have a feeling you just Googled a list of guitar parts?

[Cloak]

Why, GH, I'm shocked and appalled that you would think such a thing!

. . .

I used Wikipedia.

New chapter.

CHAPTER SIX:
He's Dining and Dashing!

GH looked as saw a hulking mass of shadowy black, blood red, and metallic silver haunching over what appeared to be an amp with an orange casing. One that GH was looking for, despite his immense gratification at being at this store.

They heard a sickening slurping sound, causing all three to recoil at the sound of it. Then the man -- no, the RAFians could see him clearly now. He was not a man, but a monster. He dropped the amp down, and it collapsed into pieces. Its interior was devoid of any electronics -- circuit boards, LED, resistors, transistors, and so on -- liquefied and sucked out. Siphoned out by this beast, whatever it was. Shenmue was the first to notice the two puncture holes on the side of the amp.

"It's like it is a . . . a vampire!" Shenmue said, not entirely sure about what she was witnessing. "But not like any that I've ever seen before."

 "An amp vampire?" Leatherhead queried, nonplussed.

 "No," GH said, knowingly , his exuberance dampened by this monstrous stranger. "If he fed on only amps, there wouldn't be that kind of remnant. The entire casing was discarded. It fed on something within . . . something like . . ."

 Then something occurred to the RAFian guitarist, something that might have put Leatherhead's life in peril. He would not, he could not, allow that to happen, especially right under his nose, when he could have prevented it.

 "Shenmue," GH barked. She was unaccustomed to hearing such authority in GH's tone, and immediately ascertained the seriousness in which was speaking. "I've got to LH out of here. He's not safe. He's a target."

 "You think that vampire will also go after flesh and blood, as well as whatever it --" she stopped, suddenly understanding why GH was so adamant about getting LH out of here.

"Because he's covered head-to-toe in technology, Shen," GH hissed, as the monster was distracted by some guys with nametags and red uniform shirts trying to get it out. And failing. "His entire suit is outfitted with technology that i couldn't begin to guess at, which allows the suit change to match his age and other such criteria. And that thing eats as if it was Slurpies from a Seven-Eleven. We gotta get LH out of here."

GH never took his eyes of the creature, almost unconsciously putting himself between the creature and his adoptive son. His hand gravitating towards his guitar, preparing to use it combatively against this creature. Just to protect Leatherhead. His son.

The Technovampyra had finished its third or fifth amp, tossing its empty shell aside, rather like a brittle, empty coconut shell. It reached for the final amp, apparently still quite famished. It ignored the yells and protests of the employee staff. They didn't matter to it.

Malice was permitting it to feed, so it was going to gorge itself before she could tell it to stop. It did not seem to understand nor comprehend that this was precisely what Malice wanted.

[Cloak]

New chapter.

CHAPTER SEVEN:
What Happened to the "Dashing" Part?

The Technovampyra finished sucking the technology from the amp in the same way a generic vampire would from their prey. Or, perhaps, he was more akin to those "van-pires", a sort of Cybertronian analogue, despite the Cybertronians themselves calling such beasts "Terrorcons". But, as far as the Technovampyra was concerned, this was just meaningless semantics.

He had other concerns. He had a hunger that he was almost in desperate need to sate. These amps only sated him for minutes at a time it would seem. Sure, he heard the protestations of the meatbags with the red shirts and nametags. Their squealing and squawking mattered little to him, and he only sought more technology to feast upon.

It was just fortunate for him that Malice had allowed him to feed, especially because he was feeling perpetually famished. He had no reason or way to know this was precisely what Malice wanted, all he knew was that he couldn't go against her. Not while she had that flute.

He stopped his feeding at the mere memory of the excruciating pain she caused him. And he held no misguided ideas about her actually enjoying it . . . enjoying hjs torture in such a blatantly sadistic way. . . . Would he ever be free from her? All he would have to do is get the flute and break it. He was sure that that would free himself from her influence, allow him to get out from under her thumb. Or maybe "out from under boot" was a more apt descriptor.

But these musings ended abruptly as his hunger decided to butt in, as if it was a child demanding attention and would not be denied. The Technovampyra, still without a real name of its own, glanced around for more electronics, more technology to sate this hunger once more. But that was a lie -- this hunger was never really sated. Although, it wasn't nearly as the gnawing, all-consuming hunger that plagued the Taxxons. But it was enough to cause discomfort, but not nearly as much as that godforsaken flute of Malice's.

He looked around, and noticed that he had finished off the amps and most of the electronics in this aisle. (Did these fleshbags really think that those plastic covers and cardboard boxes would have stopped him from getting the sweet nectar of technology within? Please.) He picked up the remainder and strolled, almost sedately, to the next aisle. There were no electronics or technology on this side. Moving on.

It wasn't long before he finished off his little snacks, and moved to the front of the store, where computerized cash registers stood. He immediately made a beeline for them, and began to suck out the delicious technological nectar within from their cases. But he knew that this wouldn't be enough to sate his hunger for long. He could resist the hunger, if necessity called for it, but he was more comfortable in indulging in it. He enjoyed the act as much as the sustenance.

And he was confident in always being able to find food in some regard, that delectable technology. He was awash in the delicious nectar of technology. It's what happens when a species gets so reliant on technology for convenience. He was created in the right era of time. Had this been the Cretaceous Era he would have starved, so he was fortunate for that.

"Stop it!" one of the meatbags said. They were of no concern to him, so he didn't pay attention to them.

"For minimum wage?" another fleshbag said. "We don't get paid enough to deal with this crap."

"Yeah!" another concurred. "We don't even get dental!"

Their petty concerns were of no importance to him. Their meaningless protests were pointless and held no merit to him. He just kept feeding on these electronic cash registers . . . he just kept focusing on drinking out the succulent nectar from them. The taste . . . indescribable!

He never noticed the RAFians had left, nor did he really care, assuming that they were just stupid, pointless meatbags.

[Cloak]

New chapter.

CHAPTER EIGHT:
Brief Briefing and Peckish Panic

"The thing ate tech," GH was saying. Dino was distracting Leatherhead while the RAFians were convening about this matter. "Sucked it right out of the casings."

"This is a significant problem," Shenmue said, buttressing GH's point. "The world is getting more and more reliant on technology."

"So it found itself in a veritable smorgasbord of sustenance," Cloak said. "Which also means all cyborgs and robotic life is in danger. Or those who use technology primarily for missions."

He looked pointedly at Oceanspray, Rocklobster, and Parker as he said this. The implication was quite blatant. They were at risk with this technology vampire on the loose.

"This also is a problem for communication as well," Yarin pointed out. "Suffice it to say, our communicators contain tech. Perhaps not the most high-end tech, but tech nonetheless. And if this technology vampire manages to get ahold of one, it'd know all the frequencies and channels we use. The communications would be compromised."

 "All our options of dealing with this thing are limited," Phoenix said. " The world's become reliant on technology, and we're no different, in that regard."

"Code Avalon is as much magical as it is technological," Broken pointed out, " it should not be able to breach it. The forum should be safe. But, as for everyone outside of Code Avalon . . . ?"

"Will it be able to be restrained by magical means?" Melissa asked.

"We don't know," GH answered. " We didn't check. I was more concerned with LH. He was wearing that human suit of his, and that suit is technology from head to toe, which is why it can compress his snout and tail into human proportions. And allows its appearance to age with him. And this creature seemed to be very rough with what it sucked the tech out of. If it had gotten ahold of LH . . ."

"It would have been highly traumatic," Cloak said, almost knowingly. "It was good that you followed your fatherly instincts, GH. Such trauma could have had lasting consequences on him. You did the right thing."

"Is it possible to track the creature?" Saffa asked. "If we could keep tabs on it, we could find a way to take it down."

"Without technology?" Aquilai countered. "It would be difficult. I don't know about magical means of tracking, but technological means are out. It would just be feeding this thing."

And so the discussion continued.

***

In the center of town, there was this promotional kick going on with a professional dancer and mascot performer was dressed up in a rather bulky suit. The character was supposed to be more cartoonish than some other mascots. The mascot was a red bee with yellow accents. The character wore a yellow cap (which was attached to the hard plastic or enameled silicon rubber head), yellow jersey with orange trim and the company which it was promoting imprinted on both the front and back, orange shorts with a yellow vertical stripe, character-matching socks and shoes. The costume's "bare" arms and hands were made of a bulky fabric, which hid perfectly the skin of the performer within.

The thing that made this mascot suit stand out was that the head was articulated. By clasping his hand secretively, the performer could close the head's eyes or open the mouth by secretively clasping the other hand. The choreography was usually made such that the audience never noticed this, as their eyes were drawn elsewhere during the performance. It was a rather interesting bit of technology, albeit not the most high-end of stuff. But it still wasn't what you could call cheap.

The performer inside the suit clearly loved performing in the suit (going on his seemingly exhilaration while performing the character) and apparently didn't find it cumbersome or anything of the sort. GH probably wouldn't have gotten along with him, although . . . considering his crush on Andy . . .

Anyway, the performer was going about the motions of this job, and he was performing superbly. He was somehow cartwheeling about in this suit, before going into a dance move called "the Worm", before going into more complex dancing, making the character close its eyes every so often.

Then there was a commotion. The visibility inside the suit wasn't particularly great, which was something rather common about mascot suits of any stripe. Visibility was never great. Sound was also rather muffled due the overlarge, cartoony head. But this performer, Amin Peligro*, wasn't sure what the commotion was about. He thought he heard someone shout "My phone!" and other such cries, but he literally couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.

 If he was in danger, he was sure that his handler, Ben, would have stepped in and whisked him to safety. Ben was charged with making sure that he wasn't overwhelmed by crowds, and Amin's safety was in his hands. How could he know that Ben decided to up and abandon his post when the Technovampyra came round, the creature having took his smartphone and sucked all the technology out of its casing.

Amin just kept performing, utterly oblivious to any possible danger he was in, due to Ben's gross negligence. But his face, hidden by the mascot head, showed some concern and anxiety by these sounds, but he tried not to convey it with his mascot body. It was not too difficult -- mascots don't do subtlety real well, when it came to body language. They were about extreme, bombastic movement.

But he broke one of the cardinal tenets of mascotry. When he was seized by the monster, and saw him through the character head's eyeholes, he screamed. When you're in the suit, you're never supposed to talk, much less scream. But, in all honesy, can you blame him? It was terrifying! Especially with the limited visibility and sensory input when someone was in such a suit.

He struggled against the iron grip of this creature, panicking. The suit was already hot, but now it was sweltering. He wore a sweatband, but now it was soaked. He felt a vibration in the character head, and he couldn't see it but felt as if the character head was punctured. He felt almost as if something was being sucked out, but he found that the creature's grip loosening.

He managed to break away, ripping the character head's away, not caring about the other cardinal tenet of never taking off the character head "on stage". He didn't care. He didn't want to die. He wanted to live, and being so close to a monster easily capable of taking his life . . . screw these tenets of mascotry. Survival was more paramount.

He ripped off the costume as he left, not caring about damaging it, as he fled for his life. He would later come to regret that, as the company that owned the suit would eventually come after him, as these suits, especially of this quality, were not cheap. They, of course, refused to acknowledge his tale as truth, despite the dozens of eyewitnesses reports of similar things.

Amin didn't care. He never worked as a mascot ever again, now afraid of them, reminded of this traumatic event.


* "Peligro" is Spanish for "danger". "Amin" for the homophone of "I'm in".

[Cloak]

New chapter.

CHAPTER NINE:
Callous Indifference

The Technovampyra had drained the music store of its electronics, and, so, left the low-slung, single-story bricked building. He plucked smartphones from passersby and ate them like they were potato chips.

"You can never have just one," he said to himself, with a sinister smile, as he continued to pluck smartphones from the populace. When the owners of the smartphones would turn around to protest, they immediately backed off when they saw what the thief was. The Technovampyra was an intimidating, unnerving sight to the layman on the street, especially those that are unaccustomed to such things.

But these fleshlings -- he liked that term for them best, "fleshling" -- mattered little to him. He only cared about them if they had those delectable little nuggets of technology with them. And seemingly every single on of them did. This overrelianace on technology was a major boon for him, and he knew it.

He continued to stroll down the avenues and boulevards in an almost sedate way, confident in his power, in the assured certainty of getting what he wanted. He always did, though he had consciously chose not to recollect what Malice's little flute did to him. These fleshlings couldn't stop him, and he knew it perfectly well.

He didn't hesitate on feeding on the tech of the newer model cars, not caring about causing what amounted to property damage. He didn't see why he had to concern himself with such meager and meaningless complaints. The technology was there for his consumption, so he consumed it. Plain and simple.

He saw that there was an accumulation of fleshlings, but wasn't what concerned him. He could sense the technology nearby. It was almost like a scent to him. He would pick off a smartphone here and there on his way to the stage where some odd creature was performing. Dancing. The Technovampyra didn't care one way or the other about the performance, but he just noticed that there was tech -- though rather limited in scope -- inside the . . . whatever it was.

So he immediately made a beeline for the creature, who seemed unaware of his presence. He grasped the creature firmly, and bit where he sense the delicious technology was. It was after the fact that he drained the technology out of this creature when he realized that what he had wasn't a creature at all. Just some cumbersome adornments on some fleshling, who was panicking to get away from him.

The Technovampyra found this amusing, as he sensed more tech. Small, sure, but present. It was inside the chest of a nearby fleshling.

***

"We have a report," Goom said. "Turns out someone was attacked by this technology vampire."

"Pacemaker?" Abby asked at once, her thoughts to the most obvious thing when those words were uttered.

"No, the man -- Amin Peligro, 37 -- was a performer."

"Why go after a performer?" Shenmue asked.

"He was performing as a mascot character," Goom said, scrutinizing the report read-out.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Gaz inquired.

"It was one of those mascot costumes with an articulated faces," Goom said.

"In another words," Cloak said, with a sigh, "technology. But going back to Abby's concern, it's not a question of 'if' it attacks someone with a pacemaker, but 'when '."

"We need act now," Parker said.

"Not you," Helen said, firmly. "Your armor is technology, Parker."

[Cloak]

New chapter.

CHAPTER TEN:
A Smashing Smorgasbord

He had to remove all the flesh between his fangs and the delectable tidbit of technology in this fleshling's chest. He did not care if this would cause the fleshling to cease functioning (which he did). It was none of his concern. What was his concern was getting that disgusting fleshling goo off the delectable morsel of technological goodness.

Such a wealth of sustenance he found himself amongst, although the hunger beckoned him like the hunger of a Taxxon, he could refuse the appetite for a moment's time, if it was necessitated. But he didn't have such necessities, so he was free to indulge whenever and wherever he could. That miserable witch with the flute hadn't shown up to stop him from doing it yet, so he assumed that they're goals aligned roughly enough on this that he could go on about this feeding business.

Smartphones. Beepers. Pacemakers. Gaming devices. Cochlear implants. Neural implants. No technology was safe, not even the very small. Not even if it was within a fleshling itself, which, obviously, put the person's life in dire jeopardy. And their lives were worthless to the Technovampyra.

He was proceeding sedately, before he came upon what appeared to be a person in his mid-twenties. He had a fairly average build, moderate height, modest weight, chin-length flaccid blond hair, and a fairly nondescript face of the kind that one wouldn't give a second glance at. He was dressed as unobtrusively and forgettable as possible. It was almost as if he went out of his way to not be remembered and to be easily overlooked.

But the Technovampyra saw him for what he was. For what he was truly. And it caused him to actually salivate. The attack came quickly and was nearly imperceptible to this man in question. He couldn't break the Technovampyra's grip. Even by summoning strength beyond what a normal human was capable of, he was unable to break free of the Technovampyra's iron grip.

The technology vampire seemed to be savoring this. It was a torturous amount of time before the Technovampyra managed to plunge his fangs into this man's neck. This man didn't stop struggling, and this amused the Technovampyra. He tasted the delicious technology within this man. As he did this, the man's struggling slowed as his body seemed to convulse every now and then. It was only when the man seized up and seeming engaged in immediate rigor mortis that Technovampyra tossed him aside, having sucked all the delectable technology from his body.

Sure, the four or five diminutive fleshlings inside would be unable to leave the exosuit, as they needed the tech to open their respective compartments, but the Technovampyra didn't care. It was none of his concern. Their lives were forfeit for all he cared. He didn't even know what they were, and didn't know why he should care.

He moved on, licking his lips. That technology was certainly scrumptious, and he was hoping to find more of them. And he was secretly dismayed to find that they were strangely rare. It was like tasting something exquisite and then having to settle for something a bit more mediocre.

He loved this -- loved feeding, loved feeling unstoppable (these puny little fleshlings couldn't do anything to stop him, so that gave him all the leeway he needed), and loved just being himself. He had almost forgotten about Malice and her accursed flute. True, his hunger was never sated for long, but he was awashed in a sea of sustenance. What was there to worry about?

"Hello, there, handsome," said a voice behind him. He recognized it.

[Cloak]

New chapter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:
Malice Commands

"Hello, handsome," said the faux sultry voice.

"What do you want?" the technology vampire said, with a sort of irritated ambivalence .

 "Now, now, poppet," she said in the most irritatingly condescending tone of voixd she had  "Is that anyway to speak to you . . . mother?"

The Technovampyra looked less than enthused at this, glowering at the Tasmanian devil Realm Walker. Malice, however, found this absolutely hilarious, as she leaned against a building on the curiously abandoned sidewalk, and she laughed raucously at her creation's discomfort.

 "What do you want?" the technology vampire repeated, demanding to know.

 "Awww," Malice said, not done reveling in her creation's discomfort, "you're not happy to see your dear old mother, Technovampyra?"

 Technovampyra wanted to tell her precisely what he thought of her, but he remembered all to well her flute. He was well aware of her sheisty, untrustworthy, and shifty nature. He was not so unperceptive to not know her malicious, sadistic intents. He wanted tell her just what he thought of her, but he held his tongue.

Malice was perceptive enough to notice this and found some perverse humor in it. She loved power plays . . . she loved winning power plays. She loved lording power over people, despite her personal ideology dictating that Dwellers (and, yes, Technovampyra was made with in-Realm parts, so the Technovampyra was technically a Dweller) were beneath Realm Walkers, beneath their notice and concern, that their lives were the playthings of Realm Walkers. Their lives to Walkers was analogous to the life of a spider to a human with arachnophobia.

"Why are you here?" Technovampyra asked, cautiously. "I haven't yet completed your last task."

He had hoped that this would be sufficient to dissuade her from further interaction. The Technovampyra's hunger was beginning to spike again, making it difficult to pay attention to Malice when he was awash in a veritable smorgasbord. But he knew he had to. All because of that accursed flute of hers.

If he could only get his hands on that flute . . . he was sure that then . . . then she would have no power over him, and he would be able to do what he wanted without interference from the likes of her. He would have true freedom, free from being under her thumb. He hated being under her thumb. He hated being under anyone's thumb. He wanted his own autonomy.

 "Yes," Malice acknowledged. And she doesn't do that often. "But you're going in the wrong direction."

"What?" Technovampyra snapped. He wasn't designated a direction to go. But he immediately regretted his harshness of tone, as his entire body flinched and cringed as Malice pulled out the flute again, apparently not too keen on his tone.

 "You were supposed to make your way to the coordinates that I gave you," Malice said, with a smile to match her name.

The Technovampyra wanted to protest. He wanted to refute this claim. He wanted to debunk it. But he found himself unable to such, and didn't know why. It took him a moment to realize that he was afraid to. He was feeling fear, a paralyzing terror, of this figure before him. This figure half his height. This four-feet-tall figure in front of him.

"It's that way, dearie," she said, deceptively sweet and almost motherly. She was point between six and seven o'clock. "Get going."

[Cloak]

Well, I've changed my mind. I'm not ending the series at #1,237. That'll just be the end of a massive arc.

BOOK MCCXXXVII (1,238): "Shattered Reality" -- This book will detail how the Fractured Realms got that way.

Titles are not final, and are subjected to change.

New chapter. Sorry about the brevity.

CHAPTER TWELVE:
Free Will? Oh, We Can't Have That!

The Technovampyra hesitated and was seemingly resistant to what Malice was saying. He didn't want to be dictated of where to go, dictated of what to do. He desperately desired for his own autonomy. Malice had allowed him some, allowed him to get a taste of it. And he found that he liked it. That he loved it. That he reveled in it.

But he didn't know that the only reason she allowed this . . . was so she could take it all away later. She took perverse pleasure in this, and the Technovampyra realized that. As long as she had that flute, he would never be free. And he could never get it away from her. Thus, he could never be truly free.

The flute. That's what this all boiled down to. The accursed flute. He needed to wrest it away from the octogenarian Realm Walker. Ordinarily, one would think such a thing a simple matter, taking something from what appeared to be an enfeebled old woman. But appearances were very frequently not what they appeared to be on the surface. Despite looking like an enfeebled old woman, Malice was anything but feeble. Her grasp and grip was surprisingly strong for someone whose age was as advanced as hers. And it wasn't like she was going to be without a trick or trap up her sleeves.

 "Technovampyra," Malice said, her voice much harder now. More commanding. " Did you not hear me? I said the coordinates that I gave you. They're over there. "

The Technovampyra wasn't too much of a fool. He recognized the sudden hardness and edge to his creator's voice. And still he hesitated. He hated this. Hated being dispatched like some lowly pawn in a proverbial chess game. It was not only irritating and frustrating, but humiliating and mortifying. He had autonomy, whether Malice wanted to acknowledge it or not. He had the ability of self-awareness and the concept of self, something all truly sentient beings achieve.

"What is that?" Malice said, all coy behavior vanishing. The venomously honeyed tone she affected was gone. "Is that . . . is that free will?"

The Technovampyra said nothing, neither confirming nor denying this assertion. His body practically tingled with the dreadful anticipation of the horrendous music from the flute. He did not like feeling this fear. He didn't mind generating this fear. Like his creator, he found that fear in others amusing, but, unlike Malice, he also found it futile and inconsequential to his one and only goal -- to feed and sate his hunger, and to do so by any means necessary.

His hunger still licked at his insides but the possibility of the flute playing causing him more torturous pain enabled him to ignore it, to put it aside. He had to deal with this first.

 "Why, I believe it is!" Malice said, not disguising her intent so much now. "Well, poppet, we certainly can't have that!"

"Please," he groveled, hating himself for doing such, "don't."

"Your request is noted," Malice said. She waited for a brief pause before adding, "And ignored."

Then she started to play.

[Cloak]

Remember, all titles are subject to change.

Book MCCXXXIX (1,239): "Fighting Figure" -- A Savawler boy somehow made his way to this Realm.

New chapter. Sorry about the brevity.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
Like the Cruciatus Curse, But With Music

Once again, the fingering that Malice had on the flute wasn't right to produce the sounds that she was from the flute, and she didn't appear none too skilled musically. The tune was roughly akin to the one the Green Power Ranger used to summon the Dragonzord, but almost deliberately fouled up and poorly played.

Once more was that horrid sensation of having every possible square inch of his body impaled, gored upon invisible swords. Then having them slowly twist around, clockwise at first, once they've been inserted inside him. Then they stop and switch to counterclockwise. And all excruciatingly slow. Faster that the perceived rotation of the planet, but slower than tick and tock of a clock.

And Malice wouldn't stop the playing. She was punishing him for daring to show even the slightest resistance to her every whim. She expected absolute compliance and obedience. Willing loyalty was insubstantial to her, though she understood that such loyalty could be a useful tool to her. She believed any Dweller's free will should be supplanted with her own when she felt like it.

 "P-please," the Technovampyra begged, "st-stop."

 "Hmm," said Malice, though the music didn't stop. "No."

The Technovampyra was in too much pain, too much suffering to notice this. All he knew at the moment was pain. He was close, really close, to wishing for death. This pain . . . it filled the whole of his mind, as his collapsed before Malice. Not only did he felt as if the daggers impaled him, it felt as if his metallic and shadowy skin was on fire. His breathing -- even though, technically speaking, he didn't have to breathe -- was haggered and ragged, as he continued to cringe and wince from the pain. He wanted relief. His hunger was nothing -- NOTHING -- to this pain.

And, possibly, the worse part of this was that the Technovampyra knew that she was enjoying this. Enjoying watching him suffer as she played the flute so inexpertly. He knew that she would be cackling if she could. In fact, he swore that he did hear her cackling like old crone she was. But that was impossible -- you can't play a flute and cackle at the same time, unless you're two people or you have two mouths, vocal cords, and lungs. The Technovampyra never noticed this -- he was in too much pain, collapsed to ground, breathing heavy, ragged breaths, whimpering like a beaten dog.

And this didn't deter Malice. She enjoyed seeing his flailing about in pain, enjoyed watching him twitch on the ground ghere, completely subjected to her power. She loved being in this position -- the position of power. She had always felt as if she was denied, unfairly and unjustly so, such positions too often than she cared to recount.

But then there was a sudden plume of arguably iconic blue smoke, which surprised the Realm Walker so much she stopped playing, and the Technovampyra was granted, albeit unintentionally, a reprieve. The tension he held in his body relaxed, and his breathing became shallower as the tremendous pain ebbed away.

"We are the terror that flaps in the night," said a cacophonious chorus of what sounded like three voices. "We are the virtual keyboards that make you make stupid typos.*"

"This is so uninspired, " Malice commented, almost sourly.


* Why are you looking at me like that? It's not like I have personal experience with this. . . . Okay, I do.

[Cloak]

Remember all titles are subjected to change.

Book MCCXL: "On the Wing" -- A Floaflier girl somehow makes her way to this Realm.

New chapter.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
Roll For Deception

The smoke cleared and revealed GH, Broken, and a short, anthropomorphic mallard duck with white feathers, a large forehead, and orange beak and feet. This anthropomorphic bird wore a gray fedora with an oversized brim and black band, a purple mask, a purple cape with a teal interior, and a purple, long-sleeved coat over a teal turtleneck.

"We are the RAFians!" they declared.

Then this duck smirked as he knew this was deliberate lampshading where this idea was taken from. Then his form lost coherence and he shifted back into Underseen's base form. Or, at least, what Underseen assumed his base form was. Malice watched this, looking completely unentertained.

"Completely unimpressive," Malice critiqued harshly, "even for Dwellers."

This didn't stymie the trio before them, who were acting rather out of characted, by striking "superhero poses". Malice didn't know this, just finding them incredibly uninspired with that entrance. She held the flute loosely, as the Technovampyra recuperated and recovered.

"Well, is that it?" Malice said, impatiently. "Just the most amateur of entrances? What is your next move? How do you plan to stop me?"

 The three didn't move, and had she been more eagle-eyed, she would have realized that none of their eyes were looking at her. They were looking . . . elsewhere.

Their determined silence and insipid puerility was beginning to annoy Malice. "Let me guess. You expect me to engage you myself. To sully my hands to put you foolishly vacuous Dwellers in your place."

More silence. Malice did not seem to notice anything behind her, as she continued her intransigent diatribe. "Well, I'm so sorry to disappoint you Dwellers. I shall not dirty my hands with you. That's for lesser beings like the Technovampyra."

 She gestured to where the Technovampyra was laying.

"I shall not engage in battle with insects," she asserted proudly. "I crush them beneath my heel. The only reason that I don't kill you where you stand right now is because you've proven to be entertaining in the past. You entire kind are nothing more than disposable court jesters. You haven't any other purpose outside entertaining me with your suffering and struggles. You --"

"You talk too much," a voice behind her said, as a golden-scarlet blade cleaved the air heading right for her neck, with the clear intention of decapitation. But Malice ducked and slid away. She stopped a fair distance away, a safe distance.

"Ah, yes," she said , with a smile to match her name. "Little Cloak. I should have known you wouldn't allow the lives of your pets to be endangered."

Cloak said nothing. His face said it all. He was fed up with Malice. He was fed up with this little song-and-dance that they were going through. He was sick and tired of Malice's sanctimonious bigotry. There was only one way to end this.

One would stand, the other would fall.

Cloak pressed his attack again. He could have used his Elemental Mastery, but part of him wanted to eschew that for taking her down in a more personal, more tactile way. Was it foolish to indulge that inclination? Almost certainly.

"Ah, so you do have some fight in you," she cackled like the hag she was. " But you're still weak. You could have slain me easily, without a single utterance. But you hesitated."

Cloak said nothing. Killing members of your own species, your own kind, your own people is not an easy thing to do. Most beings are able to get away with doing it to other species by regulating them to the "other" and demonizing them as all being evil in every conceivable way. But the truth is that the world, the Realms and the Nexus alike, are hardly ever that straightforward. There is a wide array of subtleties, of grays.

"You killed Cataclysm," she said, "my ancestor. And a bit of an old jerk, it is true. You didn't hesitate then. And yet you do now. You've grown so weak!!"

Cloak didn't say anything. He felt as if he didn't need to defend himself from that accusation. It wasn't confirmation of what she was saying was true, it was more like he didn't want to waste energy disputing and debunking such claims.

The only reason he killed Cataclysm was because he hadn't any other choice, and he was the only one who could. He didn't take such an action so cavalierly, like Malice did. He knew the weight, the impact of such an action. And he had second guessed himself so many times after the fact.

"Technovampyra," Malice snapped, "kill little Cloak's little pets."

[Cloak]

All titles are subject to change.

Book MCCXLI: "Poisonous" -- A Venoxican girl somehow comes to this Realm, and she needs special equipment in order to survive.

New chapter. Again, sorry about the brevity.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
Fact or Farce?

Nothing happened.

"Technovampyra!" Malice said, sharply. "Did you not hear my command?!"

"I heard it," he replied throatily.

"Then why aren't you following it?!" Malice demanded.

The Technovampyra turned slowly and looked at her. It was a look of purest loathing and everlasting enmity. He would always hate Malice, there was no doubting that. He would take great pleasure in seeing her suffer as he did. And he felt more confident to assert himself now. Now that he had recovered and now that he --

"Have you forgotten who's in charge here?" Malice said, her hands on her hips. Her empty hands.

"You no longer are in charge of me," he said, holding up the flute which he snatched from the ground. "I hope that you had your fun, because I am no longer bound to you."

 He crushed the flute to bits with just one hand.

"Now, that I have finally emancipated myself from you and your thumb," he said, speaking grandly, as if Malice had no more advantage over him. Cloak knew better than this and wondered how this monster could really be this obtuse. "I can -- and will -- do as I please. Never again will I have to listen to your meaningless drivel that you think is proper input. Never again will I have to suffer by your hand."

"'By your hand'," Malice repeated, with a devious smile to match her name. "What a marvelous choice of words!"

"Be silent, you wretched hag! " the Technovampyra snapped. "Your power over me has dissipated, and it's lying in pieces all over the ground. Literally littering the ground!"

Instead of feeling taken aback by this, or even alarmed a smidgen by it, Malice threw her head back and belted out a big belly laugh at this. This perplexed the Technovamlyra to no end. He destroyed the instrument that she used to control him, and she now had no sway over him.

He didn't have to take into account her whims any longer. But why was she laughing? Why was she laughing when the playing field was finally evened out? What was so hilarious about him destroying the flute? It just didn't make any logical or logistical sense to the technology vampire.

"And here I was worried that I made you too smart! But you're right amount of obtuse!" she sakd, between shrieking laughs. When she sobered up from laughter, she spoke more seriously. " You honestly -- HONESTLY -- thought that power came from the flute. Hilarious. Absolutely a scream."

Her hands glowed, and the Technovampyra collapsed to the ground, feeling the excruciating pain once more. Malice smiled a masochistic smile.

"I had hoped you'd be that obtuse," she said, smile deepening, showing her teeth. "Now SUFFER!!"

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXLII (1,242): "Grounded" -- A Terraseismoan girl somehow comes to this realm.

New chapter.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
You Do As I Say!!

The Technovampyra shrieked in pain. This was even worse than before! He wanted to die. He wanted to die to end this pain. He never imagined that pain this bad could even existed. His vision blurred, his hunger seemingly evaporated to be replaced with more pain.

"You are my slave,Technovampyra," she said, as the RAFians looked on, horrified by this treatment. "You haven't any free will of your own -- though it's entertaining to see you try to have some -- and you live only to serve my every whim. There's no point in being obstinate, all your struggles will prove futile in the end."

 The Technovampyra wanted to cry. But he hadn't any tear ducts for lacrimation, and so was unable to shed tears. He just wanted the pain to stop. He didn't care whether it was by death or by some sudden merciful impulse by Malice. He just wanted it to stop. He just wanted the pain to cease.

"You will do as I say," Malice said, sounding rather ominously ethereal. But she let up, leaving the Technovampyra gasping for air, despite not needing to breathe. It felt as if his very skin was coursing with fiery electricity. It was not a pleasant sensation, but nothing -- NOTHING -- was as bad as the excruciating pain that he had just endured. "You will not resist or defy me. You will obey me without question. Understood?"

Technovampyra did not say anything, his body spasming and convulsing involuntarily from the excruciating pain. He was barely able to string two thoughts together at the halting of the pain. His thoughts were fractured and separated -- it took time for him to marshall any sense of coherence back together.

"I said, 'understood'?" she repeated, her fist glowing once more.

The Technovampyra cried out in pain, which stirred the RAFians into motion. Cloak immediately took up his attack on Malice once again. The two bobbed and weaved as if they were going through some rehearsed choreography on a movie set -- despite every blow and strike being aimed true. They were not pulling their strikes or blows. Neither spoke, which spoke to the seriousness of the battle, as there was no 80s-cartoon-style banter between the two.

The other three RAFians -- GH, Underseen, and Broken -- found themselves more at an impasse. They felt sorry for the Technovampyra, sure, for Malice's cruel and brutal treatment. But he was also the monster who so callously killed Cody Hart for his pacemaker, who so carelessly traumatized Amin Peligro, and who knows what else that weren't reported?

They looked at each other, wondering what they should do. Action or inaction? Kill it or allow it to suffer? What was the right thing to do? Which was the cruelest? There really wasn't any clear cut answers for this. If only this was a black-and-white situation, or a Saturday morning cartoon. Then their objective and path forward would be clear and obvious.

The trio was nonplussed, when they heard a small plea, from a ragged hoarse voice who sounded the absolute zenith of misery. It was the voice of someone who had been through a lot of pain.

"Please," it said. "I cannot t-take anym-more. P-please have m-mercy."

It was the Technovampyra. He was addressing them directly. He was pleading with them, pleading with them to have mercy. Whether or not he deserved mercy, not withstanding.

"P-please," he begged once more, " p-please . . . p-please k-k-kill me."