Memoirs of a RAFian

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCLXXXVII (1,287): "Heating Up . . ." -- Thermal.EXE desires to absorb all fire and heat into itself.

New chapter.

BOOK CLXXXII:
CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE
CHAPTER ONE:
A Blockhead

Parker had gone to an area that looked like a theme park's replication of pyramids of vague Mayan or Incan design. He couldn't say much about the design aesthetic, as he felt rather indifferent to it. The entire place was made of pitfalls and a conveyor belts. Parker had to basically "Mario" his way through the entire place. But it wasn't long before he came to the fiend, in the very heart of one of these tacky pyramid reconstructions.

The fiend was rotund and reddish-orange with silver and black accents and dull, brown bricks covering its body. The lower half of its body jutted out a bit, as if it was a jutting jaw. It was roughly the same size as an average ten-year-old human child, and it had round eyes (reddish-orange sclera, brown irises) with no visible nose or mouth. Its upper arms and thighs were white while its hands and pod-like feet were black.

When it saw Parker, it decided to start of this battle by running across the room. This was easily dodged by sidestepping the fiend. However, just by moving, the fiend stopped in place for a second and then jumped to Parker's position, which he easily avoided by sliding beneath the fiend, and immeidately jumping to his feet. Then the fiend manifested four or five reddish-orange stone blocks above Parker, which fell to the ground. Parker simply fired upward to destroy the block above him.He

Parker took potshots at this fiend, saving the new experimental chain bombs in case of an emergency -- he had a finite amount of them. They were bombs that could chain together with gears to increase their payload.

Then the fiend activated what seemed to be some sort of power gear. He shot up through the ceiling, transformed into a golem head, with chunks of stones in the area following in its wake, transforming him into a giant stone golem as he crashes back down to the room. The fiend apparently was, in a way, a Headmaster or Titan Master.

In this giant form, this fiend began to slowly advance towards Parker, who was not intimidated. It attacked by slamming the ground with its hands, throwing powerful punches and scraping the ground with his fingers to send large stone chunks flying toward Parker, which were difficult to dodge, admittingly. In order to defeat it in this state, Parker took aim at the large red core in the middle of its golem chest. He used a couple of the chain bombs, which made short work of it.

With its golem body destroyed, it returned to normal and promptly falls flat on its face to the ground. However, it became enraged afterwards, jumping to its feet and rushing to the opposite side of the room from Parker to throw an endless barrage of stone blocks his way. parker's shots could easily pierce through the stones to hit the fiend, though it jumps as it manifests its stones which allows for it to avoid the ill-timed shots. The barrage itself could be avoided by either sliding or jumping depending on the trajectory of the stones. Although, Parker felt comfortable enough to unload the remaining chain bombs into the fiend to finish the job. All of them.

Yarin would later complain when Parker told him about it, "Parker, I needed those!"

***

Demos called it a "burokkusapien". He claimed it was for construction purposes.

***

Malice was still harping on her last defeat, while watching this last fiend battle. She was rather embittered by it. And by losing her presence as the main antagonist of Cloak and his little Dweller pets.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCLXXXVIII (1,288): "Absolutely Mental" -- Thought.EXE desires to absorb all minds, thoughts, and the entirety of the astral plane.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWO:
A Dream Fixer-Upper

"Cloaky's home!"

The RAFians clambered around Cloak, excited to see their friend and colleague after brief departure of a few weeks. They didn't notice his guest at first, a lithe cheetah-form Realm Walker, all of his fellow RAFians clamoring around him.

"Dwellers. They're Dwellers!" Cloak' guest said, with a smile, having never seen Dwellers before. The RAFians turn in silence, to face her. Dino declared, "He's brought a girl!"

 And Cloak found this entirely embarrassing, as the RAFians cheered.

"What's going on?" she asked, standing next to Cloak.

"I've learned to just roll with it," Cloak said.

The RAFians seemed to be under the misunderstanding thaf the two were an item. They weren't. They weren't anything deeper than friends, really, and the two tried to correct this misunderstanding.

"What's the issue, dear?" Helen asked Cloak's guest. "Why are you holding back from such a man?"

Cloak couldn't stop the song from coming. Helen sang:

"Is it the clumpy way he Walks?"

Parker chimed in:

"Or the grumpy way he talks?"

Sorunome sang:

"Or the pear-shaped, square-shaped
Weirdness of his feet?"

Estelore sang:

"But you’ll never meet a fellow who’s as --"

Melissa and Broken sang:

"Sensitive and sweet!"

Cloak's guest interrupted, "That's nice, but--"

Faerie and Abby sang:

"So he’s a bit of a fixer-upper,
So he’s got a few flaws."

Teach sang:

"Like his peculiar brain, dear."

Aquilai sang:

"His thing with the Earth, dear."

Teach and Aquilai sang:

"That he holds in his claws!"

Then the RAFians as a whole sang:

"So he’s a bit of a fixer-upper,
But this we’re certain of!
You can fix this fixer-upper
Up with a little bit of love!"

"Can we please just stop talking about this?" Cloak almost pleaded. He was swiftly ignored.

Bladeh sang:

"Is it the way that he's always prepared?"

Gaz sang:

"Or that he’s emotionally-impaired?"

Leatherhead chimed:

"Or that he only likes to meditate in the woods!"

"I did not need to know that." Cloak's guest said, thinking that it was an euphemism, rather than being literal.

Then all the RAFians sang in unison.

"Or the way he covers
Up that he’s the honest goods?
He’s just a bit of a fixer-upper,
He’s got a couple of bugs.
His isolation is confirmation
Of his desperation for healing hugs!
So he’s a bit of a fixer-upper,
But we know what to do!
The way to fix up this fixer-upper
Is to fix him up with you!"

"Stop it, stop it, stop it! ENOUGH! She is engaged to someone else, okay?!" Cloak shouted, allowing a beat of silence as the RAFians blinked at him. Then they circled into a huddle, and Phoenix sang:

"So she’s a bit of a fixer-upper."

Duff sang:

"That’s a minor thing."

Horse sang:

"Her quote 'engagement' is a flex arrangement."

Leatherhead added:

"And, by the way, I don’t see no ring!"

Realm Walkers don't exchange rings for marriage ceremonies. There was a stark cultural difference in that.

The RAFians then sang:

"So she’s a bit of a fixer-upper,
Her brain’s a bit betwixt.
Get the fiancé out of the way and
The whole thing will be fixed!"

Helen took Cloak's guest's hand in her own and sang:

"We’re not sayin' you can change him,
‘Cause people don’t really change.
We’re only saying that love's a force
That's powerful and strange.
People make bad choices if they’re mad,
Or scared, or stressed.
Throw a little love their way!"

Then all of the RAFians sang:

" Throw a little love their way!
And you’ll bring out their best.
True love brings out their best!
Everyone’s a bit of a fixer-upper,
That’s what it’s all about!
We need each other
to raise us up and round us out.
Everyone’s a bit of a fixer-upper,
But when push comes to shove --"

GH chimed in:

"The only fixer-upper fixer
That can fix up a fixer-upper is --"

The rest of the RAFians, except Cloak, sang:

"True! true!
True, true, true!
Love (True love)
Love, love, love, love, love
Love! (True love!)
True . . ."

"Do you, Miss, take Cloaky to be your RAF-fully wedded?" Estelore said, holding a thick, opened book.

"Wait, what?" Cloak's guest asked at once.

"You’re getting married." Estelore said, as if this was obvious. Then the song concluded.

"Love!"

It was at this point that Cloak awoke. He couldn't help but smiling a bit, as he could easily imagine his friends in the forum going a tad overboard like that, but that marshalled into his mind far more sober and somber thoughts.

Having a wife and family is what he would see if he looked into the Mirror of Erised, assuming it worked properly for Realm Walkers. It was his deepest desire -- to be a family man. . . .

But, deep down, he knew it would never happen. He was too afraid to engage with a woman in that manner . . . terrified in being another abusive relationship, akin to the dysfunctional, abusive relationship he had with his mother. He also feared potentially perpetuating the cycle of abuse. He knew he had a temper -- he inherited it from his mother.

He never told his friends this . . . it was far too personal.


SOURCE SONG: https://youtube.com/watch?v=zrL6fbgAO74

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCLXXXIX (1,289): "Draining Darkness" -- Evil.EXE desires to absorb all evil, darkness, and even the Void Space into itself.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THREE:
Unwanted Visitation

Shenecron was less than pleased when he left his beautiful soul garden -- where the souls would be forever preserved. The loss of all independent and autonomous thought and self-awareness wouldn't lessen their value any. But what he found displeasing was the interruption of his "soul gardening" if you will.

They called themselves the Octessence. And Shenecron saw them as little more than former frat brothers who hadn't moved on from the fraternity life and grown up. Their obliging on his hospitality rankled the Prince of Hell. Of all the people who would come to call -- it had to be them.

They were clearly here once again to ask him to take part in their Wager. Once long ago, there was a disagreement about who was stronger amongst them. Shenecron, personally, didn't care one way or another who was or wasn't stronger. He found that such pride was often a detriment rather than a benefit. So the Wager came about to see who, amongst their new Exemplars -- expendable avatars, each bearing the equivalent amount of power from each one of the Octessence, through a very special, very unique item.

It was actually Shenecron who suggested this, and he only did so to get them to stop bothering him. he had thought that that would have pacified them for a couple of centuries. He had thought that that would have settle things, but had failed to account for their egos. Then there was that time that they tried and failed to make an engine of sorts that was intended to strip the mortals of their free will and autonomy and self-awareness. (They didn't like talking about that failure.) He had other concerns at the moment, and he didn't have time to deal with this Wager of the Octessence.

"I think you know why we've come," one said, addressing Shenecron.

"Indeed, Cyttorak," Shenecron said, biting back his displeasure. This had to be handled delicately, or his abode might become a mess that he didn't want to clean up.

Cyttorak, and his indestructible crimson bands. He held a completely armored form, reminiscent of his Expemplar, known as the Juggernaut. He used the Crimson Ruby of Cyttorak to turn an unsuspecting mortal into his Exemplar for the Wager. Shenecron saw him as the typical jock stereotype -- incredible physicality and a powerful presence, but very little in the terms of academic intelligence.

"The time of the Wager is upon us," another said.

"I'm aware, Balthakk," Shenecron said, politely , but his mind was racing how to get these people off his back and out of his abode, which they just had decided to invite themselves into.

Balthakk, and his baleful bolts. He held a form of a cloud of energy or charged particles floating freely. He used the Brazier of Balthakk to turn an unsuspecting mortal into his Exemplar for the Wager. Shenecron saw him as the stereotypical ditzy and wishywashy airhead -- scatterbrained, silly, and insipid -- though powerful in his own right.

"Then you know that we, once again, have need of you and your services," another one said.

"I surmised as much, Watoomb," Shenecron said, exasperation threatening to creep into his voice. They were after him to serve as the judge for their Wager. He had already been a judge at least two other Wagers, and those were e ones that he cared to even remember.

Watoomb, with his winds, scrolls, and wand. He presented himself as an armored humanoid with insectoid and feline characteristics. He uses the Waterfall of Watoomb to turn an unsuspecting mortal into his Exemplar for the Wager. Shenecron found him to be an incurable, egotistical blowhard and an academic elitist.

"We've managed to get our Exemplars," said another.

"As I suspected, Farrallah," Shenecron said. He really wasn't up for this Wager. He was tired of being their judge. No one was ever happy with his final verdict, and would always, inevitably, dispute his decisions.

Farrallah, with his teleportation. He presented himself as a powerful humanoid with ruminant characteristics and a cameline hump. His hands ended in very sharp nails or claws -- it was difficult to call them on or the other. He uses the Fearsome Fist of Farrallah to turn an unsuspecting mortal into his Exemplar for the Wager. Shenecron saw him as wild, savage, feral, and uncouth.

"So, we've come to collect you," another said.

"So I've surmised, Valtorr," Shenecron said, flashing a smile. He had an idea to get around this. But he had to approach it delicately, and with cunning. He didn't want any one of them to perceive a deception on his part. This would be just like convincing a mortal to sign a contract -- but he had to crank his deviousness, sneakiness, underhandedness and craftiness. He had to rely on his cautelous nature for this. "But, if I may make a suggestion?"

Valtorr, with his various vapors. He presented himself with a grayish serpentine from with a crest of raised scales. He used the Verdant Vial of Valtorr to turn an unsuspecting mortal into his Exemplar for the Wager. Shenecron saw him as one of those out-of-touch elitist sorts, who got offended by stupid, inane crap that no one really cared about.

"What do you suggest?" said yet another of the Octoessence.

"Nothing much, Ikonn," Shenecron said, smoothly. He had to play it cool and differential. He had to act as if his suggestion was no big thing, had to deceive them without being obvious about it. It all rode on his appearance of calmness and respect. "Just a slightly different Wager, so to speak."

Ikonn, with his illusions and images. He presented himself with a humanoid insectoid form adorned with dark green spikes and grey-green eyes that lacked pupils of any kind. Each limb he had ended in four radially arranged claws. he had a proboscis where a human mouth would normally be. He used the Ivory Idol of Ikonn to turn an unsuspecting mortal into his Exemplar for the Wager. Shenecron saw him as disingenuous and deceptive, but less so then Shenecron himself.

"Different?" said the seventh of the Octessence. "Different in what way?"

"Well, Raggador," Shenecron said, continuing to speak smoothly and not oily. He wanted to give off the impression of genuineness and not that he was a used car dealer hawking a rundown jalopy as a brand new car. He had to choose his words with the utmost care. "I wish to . . . participate . . . this time."

Raggador, with his rings, rains, and ribbons. He appeared as a creature with a four-armed but otherwise humanoid torso and a blue-colored serpentine lower body. His face remained concealed behind a heavy blue helm from which projected bluish horns similar to those of a ram. He used the Ringed Ruby of Raggador to turn an unsuspecting mortal into his Exemplar for the Wager. Shenecron saw him as a bit of a dandy and much too concerned about appearances, and powerful presences.

"Participate? In the Wager? " the only one of the Octessence to not have spoken yet said.

"Yes, Krakken," Shenecron said. He would have to use a great amount of charisma and wisdom in order to succeed with his plan, and his plan to rid himself of the Octoessence forever. "One of my eight champions each against one of your Exemplars."

Krakken, the last one, and his chains. It appeared as a figure in grayish armor which possessed a number of long, sharp blades. He used the Kestrel Key of Krakken to turn an unsuspecting mortal into his Exemplar for the Wager. Shenecron found him prickly and standoffish.

"But that's not the way the Wager is done," Ikonn said.

"Oh," Shenecron said, expertly feigning disappointment. He knew that there would be resistance at first. "If you feel that your Exemplars aren't powerful enough to best my eight champions bearing the Azure Sigil of Shenecron, I suppose that I can understand that."

"That's not what I meant!" Ikonn protested.

Shenecron expertly stifled his smile. This was playing out exactly as he planned it would. The Octessence concerned themselves too much with brute power, and the appearance of being powerful. They would never stand the implication of being weaker than anyone, even if it's by implication of having a weak Exemplar.

"My Exemplar is not weak!" Cyttorak roared.

"So, you're willing to consider my amendment to the Wager?" Shenecron said, expertly feigning sincerity. "I know it's novel, after the previous Wagers. But isn't that what makes it interesting?"

There was some rumblings, which eventually became grunts of consent.

"Would you like me to put it down in writing?" Shenecron said, with faux earnestness.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXC (1,290): "Worldwide Drought" -- Spout.EXE desires to absorb all water into itself. . . .

New chapter. Sorry about the brevity, and don't expect a chapter tomorrow -- have to work a double shift at work.

CHAPTER FOUR:
Skeleton Crew

Meanwhile, back at the forum, it was fairly abandoned, as there was evidently some sort of holiday that the humans celebrate. Something about giving thanks, with regard to what you have. Realm Walkers don't really have a holiday like that. To be fair, they don't have very many holidays, if any. They just usually just go through the day-to-day minutiae, with the normal breaks and whatnot.

It was rather ominously quiet, and some of the verve in forum was gone. Only Cloak, Spectre, Underseen, Wild, Yarin, Cerulean, Aquilai, and Estelore were the only ones remaining in the forum. They had their own reasons for staying and not going home. Cloak didn't pry into why, but he knew why he stayed. RAF was his home. Thhere was no other "home" for him to return to.

There were a few RAFians that he did know, or otherwise surmise, what they were doing. Dino was with . . . well, it probably didn't matter much, as she wasn't in harm's way. GH and Leatherhead were on some father-son camping trip (he knew that GH was secretly thinking what had possessed him to make him think that this was a good idea), and Saffa, Abby, and Helen were definitely with family.

"Family". A term that could be interpreted broadly as all-encompassing or narrowly as exclusivity. There were arguments to be made that family was regulated as people who share bloodlines (or ichorlines, in the case of Realm Walkers), or that it truly consisted of people who genuinely cared about you and your wellbeing. And those were just the two extremes, with plenty of gray inbetween. For him, "family" consisted of his late grandather, his late aunt, Mercy, her husband, Mercy's four boys and their families, Faith, Shadow, and Shadow's father (Faith's husband). Possibly his father . . . assuming the man is even still alive . . .

The remaining RAFians milled around, enjoying the crisp chill in the air. They were well into autumn now, the leaves had turned and deserted their branches a while ago, while the one or two clung on desperately. Winter would be here soon, and Cloak, for one, hated winter. He wasn't a fan of snow or ice. It made it more difficult for him to use his Earthsight, which he felt was half-blinding.

That's when it happened. Cloak was standing right outside the General Fan Fiction & Art Board building, when it happened. The sky darkened and reality itself seemed to bubble and deform. It appeared as if a cloud of purplish-black smoke was surrounding him, obscuring the environment behind it. It was almost as if he were being sent to the "Shadow Realm" except the Shadow Realm didn't exist -- Void Space was the closest analogue. And it certainly wasn't Hell -- Heaven and Hell were places that Realm Walkers couldn't penetrate because of the metaphysical nature of them. It was an odd idiosyncrasy to be sure, but it existed.

There was no telling of what this was about, but his RAFian training allowed him to not panic and survey what was going on with almost practiced ease. There seemed to be a ring of sorts with flat, even ground. Then it hit him. It was rather obvious at this point. He was meant to battle someone.

He wondered idly if a guy with a shotgun leg and a guy with a robotic arm were behind this.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXCI (1,291): "Metallic Hoarding" -- Metal.EXE desires to absorb all metal into itself. . . .

New chapter.

CHAPTER FIVE:
The Juggernaut

Randall Meeks was just a rail-thin, almost emaciated-looking fellow with very little strength to him. He was always pushed around, and, though he never said anything about it, he hated it. He absolutely despised being so marginalized and frequently antagonized. He loathed being so while being unable to do anything about it. But there wasn't a thing he could do about his situation, he felt.

Sure, he could go to the gym. Actually use that gym membership that he was strong-armed and muscled into obtaining. Yet, he never used it. He felt far too intimidated by all the regulars there . . . looking at his tall, yet scrawny, appearance . . . and judging him for it. There was a reason why he wasn't a public speaker.

And it wasn't strangers that were pushing him around. His mother, father, and younger brother and sister pushed him around as well. And, he knew, if he was marries, he'd probably be pushed around by his wife, and any children they might have together. He was tired of it. But instead of conceiving of actually standing up for himself, he was considering just running away. running away from it all. As far as he was concerned, living as a vagabond would be preferable to this kind of slow torture.

But he had an inner maliciousness that he chose not to show. He would often fantasize about making all those who marginalized and minimized him pay. And a fair few of these vivid, esoteric fantasies incorporated a rather high level of violence and gore. But these were fantasies as far as he was concerned, as he never had an inclination to actually act upon them. As much as he may have wanted to, at times.

He was fleeing some bullies that seemed to think that brutalizing him for sport was a leisure activity. He didn't agree. It was then that he tumbled down into and odd place, behind a sewer grate.

This didn't eliminate his sense of foreboding. He's seen "It". He knew about Pennywise. So he was terrified to see that he wasn't in some sewer, but some sort of crimson temple. He was terrified, but . . . curious. He felt himself drawn towards . . . something. Something he felt more than he saw, though he did see a crimson glow.

He walked forward, entrance by the glow and the sensation he felt. He followed it until he saw a crimson ruby, hovering in front of him. Without so much as pausing to think, to consider the ramifications or consequences of the act, he reached out for the gem, and grasped into his hands, and saw some words before his eyes, and read the words aloud.

***

"Whosoever touches this Ruby shall possess the power of the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak! Henceforth, you who read these words, shall become . . . forevermore . . . a human juggernaut!"

Underseen was surprised to hear the voice, but not see anyone. Then he saw the Juggernaut emerge from the purplish-black clouds. He knew full well who the Juggernaut was -- the Exemplar identity not the verecund man beneath the Ruby's power.

Randall did not seem to be aware of being translocated to this spot so he could do battle with "one who bore the Azure Sigil of Shenecron". Cyttorak didn't so much as speak to him, expecting him to know what to do, and what the demonic deity of the Octessence wanted of him.

All Randall knew now was he had power and all inhibitions seemed to have been wiped away from him, and the young man found that extremely freeing and exhilarating. The feeling of absolute assurance that he had no responsibilities to burden him, he didn't have worry about keeping up appearances, and he felt no one could tell him what to do anymore (which was technically not true, as Cyttorak was calling the shots, but Randall did not know that).

All Cyttorak told him, in the infinitesimal time it took him to be transported all the way to RAF, was that he had to kill the chosen Exemplar of Shenecron. Cyttorak felt that he would truly settle who was the most powerful, assured that his Exemplar was truly unstoppable. He had removed any psychological barriers or reservations this human had against violence or killing.

"Juggernaut," Underseen said, "I thought that you were finished."

All Randall said to him was, "Die".

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXCII (1,292): "A Major Blackout" -- Thunder.EXE desires to absorb all electricity into itself. . . .

New chapter.

CHAPTER SIX:
Brawn and Brain

"I'd much rather not," Underseen said, well aware of what the Juggernaut was capable of.

"Yeah," the Juggernaut said rudely, "I don't care."

"Clearly," Underseen said, standing his ground. Sure, the Juggernaut was more powerful than him in terms of raw brute power and momentum, but Underseen clearly was more clever and intelligent. He just needed a plan, a course of action. He knew already that he would have to improvise one on the fly.

The Juggernaut began to charge at him -- Underseen knew and understood no matter what form he took that he would not be able to stop his momentum. Prior experience would quite clearly play a pivotal role in this battle.

Underseen sidestepped him, discovering that this Juggernaut could not turn on a dime. But, then again, the visibility in that helmet couldn't be the best. Underseen shapeshifted into a robin and flew over his next go round. And he floated, unseen, above the Juggernaut until he came up with a plan . . . a dangerous plan. The way to defeat the Juggernaut. He could not be overpowered, but he could easily be out-thought and outfoxed. And Underseen thought his plan could legitimately work . . .

But he would have to be careful, but fast. If all goes well, he wouldn't even have to kill him per se. Underseen, still in the form of a robin, landed daintily on one of the armored bits, close to his helmet, as the Juggernaut was getting irritated at the seeming disappearance of his foe.

"Does this mean I win already?" he complained loudly belligerent and rudely bellicose. "My opponent has left the arena!!"

But Underseen hadn't left the arena at all. He shapeshifted into a small, generic bug and he crawled toward the mouth opening of the Juggernaut's helmet. But he wasn't done changing form, as he shifted into the form of a flea -- the smallest thing that he can shapeshift into. With that done, he managed to wriggle his way into the helmet without the Juggernaut even noticing. Good. The RAFian's plan, insofar, was working. The Juggernaut still seemed oblivious to it.

Soon, Underseen was within the safe confines of the helmet -- the Juggernaut couldn't really harm him in here. And, to be fair, neither could he . . . well, there was one thing he could do, but he wasn't nearly so heartless and without humanity to even conceive acting on that, even as a last resort. He knew that the Juggernaut was just a person endowed with a fraction of Cyttorak's power.

Underseen deftly went from flea to mosquito, and he was completely unnoticed by the Juggernaut. Good. Underseen may not have been able to attack the Juggernaut directly, like some of the other RAFians could possibly -- but that didn't mean that there weren't other ways to win such a battle. And win without blood being drawn.

All Underseen had to do now was be as obnoxious, as irritating, as annoying as possible. And there was nothing that the Juggernaut could do about it. He couldn't swat Underseen away, not with his helmet still in place. Underseen was as protected in here as was Randall. Underseen stopped himself fro. growing too complacent -- that would have ruined this plan in an instant. Possibly.

Underseen buzzed Randall's ears, but only for fleeting moments, allowing him the briefest moments of peace before buzzing his other ear. He had to be precise about this, to make him paranoid. Hopefully, he was one of those entomophobic sorts.

Apparently, this person was one that got frustrated and annoyed easily. This was an unexpected boon for Underseen.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXCIII (1,293): "Cold Shouldering" -- Cold.EXE desires to absorb all cold and ice.

New chapter.

CHAPTER SEVEN:
Underseen Victorious . . . ?

Underseen would deny it should anyone have accused him of it, but he was enjoying tormenting the Juggernaut in this way. He knew that insects didn't really have the intellectual capacity for maliciousness, but he couldn't help but wonder if this is this was why they constantly seem to buzz people's faces or ears. It gave him a trollish satisfaction to do this, and he knew he really shouldn't be enjoying tormenting someone like this, even if that person wanted him dead. For some reason.

But Underseen knew better to kid himself. Everyone had a threshold for annoyance and frustration. And, for some, this threshold is more visible than others. Underseen knew that it was just a matter of time before that threshold was not only reached, but surpassed. Then the hard part will commence.

If he were a Saturday morning cartoon protagonist, he would be spouting out some sarcastic, sardonic banter with the Juggernaut, but that was stupid and counterproductive to the plan he had formulated. He had to be cautious with what he did. This part was the simple and straightforward part. The dangerous part would come when he took off his helmet and he could swat at Underseen.

Of course there was a potentially easier and more permanent way to stop the Juggernaut . . . but Underseen had qualms about murdering the Juggernaut. He knew that the Juggernaut was just a mystically-endowed person who may very well not be aware of their actions. How would that justify killing him? Besides, there were less lethal ways to defeat someone. He just had to be fast and clever about it.

Underseen knew when the threshold had been reached when he heard the sheer volume of profanities and vulgar language the Juggernaut spewed. This was good sign. Now he had to push the Juggernaut a bit further . . .

And there it was. He was taking off his own helmet. Here's where it got truly dangerous.
The Juggernaut, apparently quite enraged, threw the helmet on the far side of the little makeshift arena. He saw more clearly the bloodshot nature of the Juggernaut's eyes, and the bags. Underseen was positive that those didn't come from him.

"You think you're so tough, little bug?!" Randall snarled, looking around for Underseen, who had temporarily relocated to the small of the Juggernaut's back. There the shapeshifter rested as the Juggernaut seemed to become even more irritated, to the point of hysterical paranoia. Underseen couldn't tell if the Juggernaut even realized that Underseen had shapeshifted into a flying insect. Maybe he was legitimately scolding a bug, if which was a real, legitimate bug it wouldn't have the intellectual faculties to understand anything that the Juggernaut said as speech, as actually meaning anything. "I will smash you to bits!"

After mentally preparing himself for it, Underseen went back to buzzing the Juggernaut's head and facd. He was fully aware that he could get swat now, and possibly crushed. But that was the risk that came with his plan. He had to immediately shapeshift into a flea when the Juggernaut almost succeeded in smashing him, which allowed him to survive the blow.

"Stop it and die!" Juggernaut whined.

Underseen once again wondered if he knew that Underseen was sentient or if he was just making demands of a creature without the intellectual capacity to obey demands.It didn't really matter in the long run, as long as Underseen continued to make the Juggernaut look foolish.

It seemed like forever, but apparently Cyttorak got tired of his Exemplar making a fool of himelf, and Cyttorak himself, by extension. Cyttorak reclaimed his fraction of poser and the Ruby from Randall, and Underseen revealed himself to have been the pesky bug.

Randall was sent back to his cruddy life, apparently with no knowledge of ever being Juggernaut, except for the remnants of a fevered fantasy, and the arena disappeared. This left Underseen wondering what was going on.

[Cloak]

Sorry for the delay. We got slammed with a winter storm here -- and just getting to work is a trial in and of itself.

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXCIV (1,294): "Stone Cold" -- Stone.EXE desires to absorb all stone, gems, and crystals into itself. . . .

New chapter.

CHAPTER EIGHT:
The Stonecutter

Perry Frasis was, what many considered to be a bit of a maverick, with some ideological positions many could see as being quite . . . indefensible. He tended to use a lot of long-winded rhetoric to describe a very simple concept. As such, it should be no surprise that he was a politician once upon a time. But he wasn't a very good one, as he was incapable of getting anyone to vote him, much less remember his name.

After his political failures (which was the only thing he was remembered for, and marginally, at that), he decided to try his hand at building, at being an architect. But he failed spectacularly in that venture as well as he didn't bother to make his buildings up to federal code, cutting corners to maximize his wallet, and the structures always turned into dilapidated messes very quickly. He had to file for bankruptcy for this, and so he could avoid potential lawsuits from both angry clients and tenants. This was the second major failure that he tried to ignore, to protect his rather fragile ego.

Then he tried his hand at sculpture, and it was here that he found some modicum of success. Even though he wasn't very good, and his scultures were very niche and kitchy. And when his sculptures became slightly profitable, he became ****y and egotistical. Insufferably so. This alone turned off many people to him. Others lost interest because his artistic style stagnated and remained the same, and that became stale and boring to the prospective buyers of his sculptures.

This caused him to become embittered, especially when he discovered how quickly he was forgotten and how finicky the art world was. He soon lost everything (as he never learn prudent budgeting of his money), and was thrown out of the home that he had known for several years. It tough not to be resentful of the art community (and the politicking community, and the architecting firm, amongst others). He always blamed others for his failings and shortcomings, refusing to take any responsibilities for his own decisions and their repercussions and consequences.

It was at this lowest point of his life that he found the Temple of Raggador. He immediately noticed that their was some sort of ring motif going on here, but he felt apull, a draw towards something in the center of this temple. . . .

***

"Whosoever touches this Ringed Ruby shall possess the power of the Rain of Raggador and Ribbons of Raggador! Henceforth, you who read these words, shall become . . . forevermore . . . a human stonecutter!"

Aquilai heard it, but didn't have a clue what it meant. Other than it sounded like that Juggernaut fiasco that happened a while ago. Aquilai certainly hopped not. True that he had another eleven Regenerations in him, but he rather not have to Regenerate again. It seemed like not so long ago when he Regenerated into his firebending incarnation. He knew that his Earthbending incarnation would be next, but he rather not have to be that incarnation just yet.

It wasn't too long until the Time Lord RAFian saw him. In silhouette, he looked rather similar to Darkseid, and when thrown in better relief and better lighting, this newcomer had the same build and skin tone, but only his mouth was visible, and, where his eyes would be, there were stylized yellow markings on his helmet, which, along with most of his armor, a deep reddish-orange. Upon his chest there was a sigil of some sort, in gold. There were moderately-sized gold studs on his armor going up his shoulders, and two where his ribcage met his gut. He had a tool belt of various strange looking gold tools with an ornate buckle. And his pants and boots were the same color as his armor.

"Who are you?"

"I am the Stonecutter," he said, his voice a lower pitch than Aquilai was expecting. "And my patron, Raggador, had determined that it's time for you to die."

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXCV (1,295): "Magical Siphon" -- Magic.EXE desires to absorb all magic into itself.

New chapter.

CHAPTER NINE:
Power of an Exemplar, Inadequacies of a Man

"Oh, me? Die?" Aquilai said, casting his mind around for a nonviolent way out of this situation. He didn't know much about the Stonecutter, but he knew just from looking at him that he hadn't the raw brute strength to take him on in a head-on confrontation.

And it was clear, whoever this Stonecutter was, he assumed Aquilai was human. It was a common mistake people have, just looking at Time Lords. There was a strong resemblance, outwardly, between their species. Perhaps Aquilai could somehow use that to his advantage.

"You know, to be frank, I'd honestly rather not," Aquilai said, deliberately omitting telling him about his Regenerations.

"Your consent doesn't matter," the Stonecutter said.

"How come I have the sneaking suspicion that you've worked in either politics or Hollywood?" Aquilai quipped easily, his mind still casting around for a simple, nonviolent solution. Perhaps antagonizing the Stonecutter wasn't a brilliant maneuver, though.

"You shall die, Sigil-Bearer," the Stonecutter said, beginning to tinker with what Aquilai assumed was just some miscellaneous debris. He was making obvious armaments. At least, that would be what logic dictated. "And Raggador will be proven the strongest of the eight."

Aquilai had no idea how to parse that, but he pretended that this wasn't so, as he didn't want the Stonecutter to get too much information from loud protests and panicked denials. And such reactions would be clear and obvious indicators that Aquilai was hiding something.

"So this is a contest of sheer power and not one of ingenuity?" Aquilai asked, seemingly to stall. But he was, in fact, trying, in a cunning way with subtly manipulative rhetoric. It may not have been the stereotypical " heroic" thing to do, but Saturday morning cartoon heroics rarely ever work the way the subject in question desires.

The Stonecutter stopped tinkering with his device of unknown design or recognition to Aquilai. The slow, deliberate way the Stonecutter did it, it was clear that he considered something that Aquilai said, something that he had the merest gall to question, quite offensive. "Are you suggesting that I am devoid of ingenuity?"

"Oh, no! Perish the thought, Stonecutter!" Aquilai said with an air of insincerity that the Stonecutter missed. And Aquilai had to supress the smile he was feeling. He may have just found a suitable weakness to exploit. Clearly, this Stonecutter person harbors some deep-set feelings of inadequacy, but covers them -- or tries to anyeay -- with bluster and intimidation. "I was just requesting clarification on the circumstances on how you shall try to kill me. Will it be a straightforward manner of fisticuffs or something more . . . indirect?"

But this was an assumption on Aquilai's part. The assumption was a monumental gamble on the Time Lord's part, and he knew it perfectly well. The Stonecutter only stopped a few minutes to consider how to answer the questions, but, in the end, chose to ignore them. He just continued to work on his machine, which would be finished in a few minutes, but, judging from the Stonecutter's attitude and behavior, he could have finished it within seconds. He was just enjoying building it. He was actually savoring it.

"You're attaching that flange all wrong," Aquilai gambled. He hoped he wasn't being to brazen with this plan. He hoped that he had not lost any subtlety in his rhetoric. He had to be careful. "It's going to fall off at the slightest pressure exceeding --"

"No, it will not!" Stonecutter said sharply. Again, Aquilai had to suppress a smile, knowing that he was hitting pay dirt. "The flange is just fine bolted right there. I know what I'm doing!"

"Are you sure about that?" Aquilai asked innocently. The Stonecutter didn't snap or seem to find this demeanor or question offensive, but said nothing. "Because it blocks that kinetic assembly there."

"There is sufficient clearance for the kinetic assembly to move and perform its desirous action," the Stonecutter said, dismissively. He clearly didn't see anything wrong with this scenario -- the person his patron told him, in not so many words, to kill was now helping him, seemingly build the device of the RAFian's own destruction. He didn't find anything weird from that. "Again, I know what I'm doing."

But his tone suggested otherwise. Aquilai said, "Well, if you're sure . . . just don't blame me when it blows up in your face."

 The Stonecutter said nothing, but Aquilai knew that this hit home.

[Cloak]

Sorry about the delay, shiny hunting, Super Smash Bros Ultimate, and work have been distracting me.

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXCVI (1,296): "Swarm Siphon" -- Bug.EXE desires to absorb all swarms and insects into itself.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TEN:
What a Farce!

Aquilai could see that the Stonecutter, despite himself, was second-guessing his decisions now. This was good. This could mean that the Time Lord could potentially defuse this entire situation nonviolently. And he was starting to feel that he and the other RAFians were solving all their problems with force and violence -- and that's hardly the example that he thought they ought to be setting.

The Stonecutter looked at the flange, and the kinetic assembly to this "god machine" he was building and he wondered -- what if this guy was right? What if he had been mistaken? His patron had supposed enhanced his building and sculptural capabilities to far above they were before, but he had the little worm of doubt in his mind now.

His pride, however, would not allow him to admit this aloud. His pride remained unchanged since before he became the Stonecutter. But he had no way of knowing that Aquilai was completely insincere about what he was pointing out, that the Time Lord would not be suggesting ways to make a machine designed to kill him more efficient. But this completely went over the head of Perry, who was seemingly oblivious to this little factoid.

The Stonecutter actually hesitated before stubbornly working on the rest of his machine. But Aquilai knew that his words had made the desired impact. Self-confidence was not always a common thing, and bravado and pride often covers up a lack of self-confidence.

"Is this your cooling system and power supply?" Aquilai asked. There wasn't any really wrong with it, but Aquilai had to keep up the facade. The Stonecutter's self-doubt was his biggest ally here, and he needed to extrapolate it. Make it grow. He was well aware of h manipulative this was, but it was a nonviolent means to reduce the Stonecutter's threat level. At least, this was what the Time Lord had hoped. "Don't you think such a design makes short circuits inevitable?"

The Stonecutter said nothing but a grunt. Aquilai was savvy enough to know that the Stonecutter thought that the Time Lord had a point, and immediately began to rework this part of this grand doomsday machine he was making. Instead of making it better, he was actually making it worse for his grand machine, a problem that always tended to come about when your over-design something. Simplicity is sometimes needed over complexity.

Yet, the most egregious fact of this was that Perry never questioned Aquilai's intent or motives for pointing these things out. He never paused to consider that he was being misled, or being manipulated in any way. It is one reason he never really found any real success as a politician, as he was always the patsy, the one that smarter political schemers with little to no scruples would always use against him.

Aquilai continued to point out little things in an nonobtrusive, passive manner, and Perry begrudgingly and naively went to fix every little problem, whether it was truly a problem or not. Raggador was greatly displeased more and more that Perry did this. Perry's gullibility and obliviousness was starting to grate on the entity.

It only took a moment more before Raggador grew fed up enough with Perry and rescinded his power from Perry, who didn't remember his time as the Stonecutter, and reclaimed his ringed ruby from him. Perry was immediately returned to where he was before he stumbled into the Temple of Raggador.

Aquilai was left wondering why he had to deal with the Stonecutter in the first place.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXCVII (1,297): "Rex Clash" -- All the .EXEes clash with each other, forcing the RAFians to limit collateral damage.

New chapter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:
The Decay

Dee Myse was a man who had an unnatural fixation on death, and decomposition, and rot. It fascinated him, and entranced him. But, of course, no one knew this about him, as he skillfully hid this spellbinding fascination to this rather dark interest. However, he was not murderous, but not for the reasons that most other people don't murder everyone they come across.

He found murder distasteful, seeing it as "manufactured death", as he puts it. He believed that murder ruined the beauty of what he referred to "true death". Granted, he only used these terms in private, behind closed doors, when he was alone. From the outside, he looked like a normal guy, if a tad emaciated and thin.

You could say that this fixation began when death took his mother and younger sister away from him. They both got sick, but, as far as he was concerned, neither lost their inherent beauty, and he still adored them. Even after their funeral, and his fascination with death and macabre reached a zenith.

He worked as a mortician, which he secretly adored. He treated each of his clients with so much lovingly reverence, that his coworkers and the families of the deceased thought he was just being respectful, without any contempt or disdain. He made a concerted effort not to appear creepy or offputting . . . in public. In private, he was rather creepy and had many taboo inclinations toward the dead and dying. There were questions of inclinations of . . . of necrophilia. Naturally, he took great offense at wuch accusations.

Granted, comparing the corpses to great artistic works, and claiming that death was the greatest artist -- this led into investigations into him. His home and mortuary offices were searched (with search warrants, of course) and several rather . . . disconcerting and even repulsive notes and macabre poetry were found. Dee was a guy clearly with a lot of problems and issues, but from that day people kept their distance from him, as the police found nothing in which to indict him over. He never committed necrophilia (he considered that to ruin and soil the beauty of death), but he was now permanently seen as the creepy mortician.

Even his coworkers, those that he would have counted as friends, kept him at arm's length. He felt ostracized and outcast for his simple interests. Interests where he didn't hurt anyone, despite glorifying death, decomposition, and rot. He grew frustrated at his peers, perceiving their standoffishness and unease around his presence as prejudice and bigotry. He could help but blame them for taking the luster out of his work.

He was considering joining his sister and mother, but he couldn't bring himself to ruin and soil his own death, whatever and whenever it might be. He just held his head in his hands as he sat down upon the curb.

But when he looked into the sewer grate, he found, not Pennywise or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but what appeared to be a temple, hewn expertly from some sort of resilient stone. Without knowing precisely how, he found himself wondering the halls of this temple, all his dreary thoughts beforehand completely forgotten at the sheer magnificence and monumentally exquisite craftsmanship of this sizeable temple. Here, he did not feel ostracized and shunned. Here, he was afforded some modicum of comfort.

Then he saw the vial of some sort of green roiling liquid, and he reached out to take it, reading the words that came when he did aloud.

***

"Whosoever touches this Verdant Vial shall possess the power of the vipers of Valtorr and Vapors of Valtorr! Henceforth, you who read these words, shall become . . . forevermore . . . human decay!"

Spectre heard this and was distantly interested, noticing how he was separated from the others. He was curious at this, but was wise and knowledgeable enough to know some power and entity wanted to take him on. Part of him was full of contemptuous and contentious confidence at such challenges, while the more rational part of him knew that he was not invincible and had his weaknesses, and thus knew it would be foolish to underestimate his foe, whoever and whatever they may be.

"Gaze upon the ultimate beauty that I have become," said a voice behind him, "gaze and bear witness to . . . Decay!"

Spectre turned to see what amounted to a rotting corpse in loose mummification bandages, a breast plate with a nonsensical symbol upon it, and black compression shorts. It looked as if he -- assuming it was a he, the degradation was so severe that it was difficult to tell. His voice sounded masculine, but there could have been another explanation for it. Where its ears would be there were three protrusions that looked as if they should have been webbed. His eyes were sunken in and there was a large black dot on his forehead.

"What an . . . apt nomme de plume," Spectre said, dryly.

"My patron demands that I destroy you," Decay said, almost apologetically. "I am sorry that I must soil your death, but it needs to be done, I'm afraid."

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXCVIII (1,298): "What?! Can't You Stay Dead?!" -- The .EXEs fuse together . . .

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWELVE:
I Am Not A Freaky Corpse Guy!

"'Soil my death'?" Spectre said, with a raised eyebrow.

"It is a beautiful thing when someone dies naturally," Decay said, " and their body begins the intricate process of deterioration and decomposition. A slow process, yes, but absolutely marvelous."

Spectre was finding it incredibly hard to not just write this guy -- assuming he was a guy, due to his rotting corpse appearance making that difficult to determine -- off as a loon. He seemed to revere death, as if he were a Black Lantern of some sort. But not only death -- he seemed to get a . . . a thrill over watching a body rot away. Most people -- of any race or species -- would find watching such a process disconcerting and even apalling.

"I see," Decay said, noting Spectre's look and silence and correctly interpreting it. "You are one of those who fail to see the beauty of the slow effervescence of decomposition, who fail to comprehend the ebullient changes to the deceased's mortal form, who fail to notice the zestful return to the earth that once made them up."

"Are you serious?" Spectre said, wondering if the Decay's . . . attraction to death and decomposition and decay was a bit more . . . unconventional.

"Yes, quite," he said, " and I pity you for not seeing the intricate beauty and marvellous wonder I see. But, then again, you've probably seen so much of it soiled by murder and embalming preservatives."

Spectre waited a beat, casting a disbelieving look at Decay, who seemed to have expected it, and he waited another beat before saying something. When Spectre was sure that Decay was actually being sincere, he blurted, "You're serious?"

Spectre couldn't help but be rather gobsmacked by this rhetoric. Perhaps Death was beautiful, in his own way, but he would never speak of him or what he must do to maintain the balance of thin with such worshipful reverence or such devout zealotry.

"Quite," he said, "and clearly you are another one of those stupefying philistines and those stupendously stupid dullards. Foolish, shortsighted consistency is the hobgoblin to little minds, such as yours and your Absurdistan brethren."

Spectre said nothing, but noted that he clearly had touched a nerve. One that seemed especially sore and flayed. His flenched and flensed body seemed even more pronounced now. Spectre was hardly intimidated -- he was the fourth most powerful RAFian. He had little to fear, and certainly this freaky corpse man wasn't going to concern him much.

Decay had, despite himself, launched into a tirade, "But, no, instead of seeing the truest form of beauty, as the very planet herself reclaims what she had given, save for a lingering reminder of the persons' existence, you fools who lack vision and appreciation for the process only see those of us who actually are appreciative of this mighty process with its intricate beauty and almost divine purpose in the great scheme of things as shamefully different. We become the victims of your shunning. We become victims of your ostracism and ostracization. We become castaways from society, because of people with your lack of vision cannot see -- or choose to ignore what we see! Outcasts, marooned from society at large. Marginalized, discarded, and, eventually, forgotten. The offscouring of society. Exiled by those we once counted as friends and allies. Untouchable pariahs from the petty elitists of society. Turning us into contemptible folk devils, abject misfits, ignoble plebeians! Being labelled as 'creepy' or 'freaky' or -- or -- or 'dedecorous'! You have no idea what its like, being forced to conform, hiding your truer self, in order to not lose those who you thought you could count as friends, only have them swiftly abandon you when they see your vision, your admiration for the natural processes after a body loses its spark of life. You have no idea!!"

"You have issues," Spectre blurted, before he could stop himself.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCXCIX (1,299): "Never Keep A Good [spoiler censor] Down" -- He's baaaaack . . .

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
You Really Didn't Think This Through, Did You?

"Excuse me?" Decay said. He sounded more pompous now, more full of himself.

It was said. It could not be unsaid now. So, Spectre decided to roll with it, and be honest. Brutally so.

"You have issues." he repeated. "Yes, you had some hardships, pal, but you ain't the only one. I won't go into mine, as I prefer to keep them private, but here's the thing. Having some hardships don't give you the right to kill people."

"I don't kill people," Decay said, very much offended at this suggestion. "I wouldn't want ruin their death -- I wouldn't want to defile it with the death being artificial."

"Yet," Spectre said, pointing to rather large holes in the Decay's logic, "you wish to kill me."

Spectre didn't see fit to mention how killing him would be impossible, as he was already technically dead. It just didn't seem like information that needed to be shared at this point. Perhaps it would come up later, and be addressed then.

"That only because my patron, Valtorr, commands it," Decay argued. " If circumstances were different, I --"

"You wouldn't?" Spectre said, seizing upon this sudden weakness in the Decay's ideology. "What do you think this Valtorr will order you to do, should you succeed? Do you think ordering you to kill me would be last murder that he or she or it has you perform?"

Decay said nothing, and looked away.

"I see," the RAFian said, with almost presumptuous inflection, "you didn't consider anything beyond that. You were willing to sacrifice your morals, or lack thereof, for this Valtorr. You were will to sacrifice your entire ideology for Valtorr. I just have one question for you, Decay."

Decay said nothing, remaining silent, but met Spectre's glowing eyes. The question was a simple one. "Why?"

"What?"

"Why did you forego everything you believed in for Valtorr?" Spectre elaborated. "Why did you compromise everything you say you stand for, just to become Decay?"

Decay said dnothing, because he had no answer for the questions. He . . . he couldn't even remember agreeing to the terms of Valtorr's patronage. How had that gone? He couldn't even conjure up an image of Valtorr's appearance. This actually began to scare him -- he was starting to believe that he had been connived and hoodwinked io the servitude of a --

Then, suddenly, nothing. He remembered nothing still, not even being Decay. As he was no longer Decay, just Dee Myse again. And he was greatly perplexed and confused. But Spectre was understanding the circumstance a bit better, he thought.

Clearly, whoever or whatever this Valtorr was, he knew that he was losing his grip over this poor soul's sensibilities, and he evidently couldn't have that. So he rescinded what ever fractional power that the Decay was endowed with. As to why Valtorr felt such a compunction to even have an Exemplar in the first place was a mystery to Spectre.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change. (And starts the Year Dino probably won't read. )

Book MCCC (1,300): "Ambushed Again" -- A trick is played on the RAFians.

New chapter.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
The Tempest

Theresa Kettle, referred to her close friends as simply "T", was an academic overachiever. Getting anything less than an "A+" was cause for her to get a panic attack. Though this kind of pressure was not the kind she placed on herself -- she would have accepted a less than perfect grade if it was up to her.

The problem was her father. Russell Benjamin Kettle, otherwise known as "Big Russ" (and, often derogatorily, "Big Fuss"). He demanded perfect excellence in her schoolwork, which sapped even the most minute enjoyment one might have gotten from them. He was often cold and distant with her, and  made his disapproval known solely through body language, mostly disapprobative glares that made Theresa feel small, stupid, and insignificant.He

And to make matters worse, Big Russ was her only family -- her only known family. She desperately craved his approval, and his parental love. Whereas the love and affection of a good parent is unconditional, Big Russ didn't dole it out like that. He didn't even give it to her when she followed his demand of absolute and abject academic excellence. She so desired to be loved by her father, it tended to blind her to the cavalier way he wore his hypocrisy.

"Big Russ" was a lousy academic in his younger days. His grades were abysmal, but it wasn't because he was stupid. It was because he was, primarily, a lazy student. If it was not something he could do with immediate ease and ultimate success, he had no interest for it. When he reached his teenaged years, he was something of a womanizer and a "player", as the vernacular has it. When he "knocked up" Theresa's mother, they held a quick marriage, but this didn't last as, shortly after her birth, Theresa's mother and "Big Russ" got a quickie divorce, and "Big Russ" got custody of the child, which he quickly poisoned against her mother -- making her believe at her mother didn't want her, and that's why he was so gungho about academic excellence, to prove his ex-wife wrong.

In reality, this was just something he did to hurt her mother, whom he would never refer to by name, but by any vulgarity conveniently nearby. He made Theresa hate her mother with a fiery power, and carefully crafted a dependence on him in his daughter. He did some of this knowingly, and some unwittingly. But it was not a good situation -- he was crafting his daughter into an emotional weapon against his ex-wife, and was unable to see her beyond that.

But Theresa was blind to all this, and, after all, how could she know what went on between her parents before her birth? She never questioned her father (lest stir up his temper -- which could be explosive at times, especially when he was stressed out from work or bills). It was an environment of fear and hatred that she grew up in, it was all she knew.

Currently, she was avoiding going home -- despite knowing this would upset her father a great deal, as he was emphatic about punctuality, hypocritically so -- and, also because she got an "A-" on an assignment she had turned in earlier the day before. She was marked off for forgetting a comma and period in the report.

She was terrified of what would happen if her father found out . . . but then she heard a voice calling to her . . . it drew her near . . . to a temple of some sort that she was sure wasn't here in the days before. But her curiosity was getting the best of her. He had to check this out . . .

She was feeling an odd attraction to a waterfall situated inside the temple. She splashed into the water pooled at its feet, and she reached out to touch the waterfall itself . . .

***

"Whosoever touches this Wondrous Waterfall shall possess the power of the Winds of Watoomb! Henceforth, you who read these words, shall become . . . forevermore . . . a human tempest!"

Cloak heard these words being spoken, but he didn't see fit to concern himself with them. He stood, almost expecting someone to come and attack him, as he felt that it was obvious that this would happen.

He saw his supposed adversary floating across from him. She was seemingly aeromorphic -- being composed of corporealized air -- as such Cloak surmised that she could fly, have a degree of intangibility, and possess aerokinesis. But Cloak was far from intimidated. There was only one person in existence that ever truly frightened him. And this person wasn't her.

"I am the Tempest," she said, a bit more grandiose than Cloak thought was strictly necessary. "My patron has informed me that your death is required."

Cloak said nothing, but just planted his feet to the ground, and folded his arms in obvious defiance.

"There are two ways that this can go down," she said, clearly overestimating her capabilities. "If you don't fight it, this can be quick and painless. If you do . . . well, you won't like the result."

 Cloak said nothing, giving her a deep glower. A disapproving glare. That alone seemed to stymie her, and make her hesitate.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCCCI (1,301): "Cobbled Together" -- The RAFians must face a different kind of Combiner. . . .

New chapter.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
Roll Intimidation

"So it's going to be that way is it?" she said, almost as if she wanted to end the silence, that she found uncomfortable, that was starting to form. "Don't say that you weren't warned."

Cloak continued his silence and glare, and, despite refusing to admit it, she was starting to feel a smidgen intimidated. She couldn't help but find that cold, icy stare of disapproval anything but unsettling. But she covered this up with excessive bravado.

She fired a gust of wind, as strong as a hurricane, condensed into a narrow blast at Cloak, who didn't move an inch and who didn't flinch in the slightest at this oncoming attack. But the attack seemed to lose heart and dissipated within inches away from the man. And still Cloak didn't move or flinch in the least. He was basically a statue, seemingly frozen in place with that disapproving glare.

Tempest was feeling miffed by this. She was the Exemplar of Watoomb! She was the Tempest! She had power to do what she wanted, as long as her patron permitted it. She was free, free from the consternation and opinions of others. She had the power to make them bend to her will -- to make them leave her alone when she didn't want to be bothered.

She blasted another blast of air at her seemingly immobile and immovable opponent, sure that it would work this time. She put most of her strength into the attack, holding back some. She was so sure that this would do the job this time, that she had figured out that she had simply not hit him from the right angle. She was sure that she had it right this time.

But the blast seemingly bounced off Cloak, who was in his Apex Tier the entire time, to his right, roughly at a vertical ten o'clock. This was effectively immediate, much to Tempest's chagrin. She continued her silence, as did Cloak. She felt a modicum of trepidation, but she refused to acknowledge it.

She would try again. She just hadn't found the right angle, the weak spot -- as if this was just some video game. She believed that she was taking this seriously, but that was the disconnect she had -- all this was unreal to her, and her mind wasn't her own at the moment, as Watoomb manipulated it to get her accept his patronage, just like all the other Octessence.

She blew another powerful gust, condensed into an essential "beam" of wind. She was sure that it would work now, and not just the definition of insanity. Only this time she pulled her punch very little now. And it was deflected to the right.

Her intimidation was now wearing away into frustration, it was like using Focus Blast, knowing full well it's accuracy, and getting upset that it wasn't working. This was the very definition of insanity -- doing things over and over again, but expecting a different result, a different outcome, each time.

"Stop that!" Tempest demanded. " Stop . . . not dying!"

Cloak didn't move, and he didn't speak.

"You think you're better than me?! You're nothing but a glorified statue!" she said, trying (and failing) to get a rise out of Cloak.

Cloak remained motionless and still glaring with that look of disapproval. The Tempest was now finding this galling.

"What? No words to fail? No quips? Cat got your tongue?!" she demanded, asCloak remained immovable and silent as a Celestialsapien with conflicting personalities. "You think you're better than me?! The Tempest?!"

Still Cloak said and did nothing.

"Well, you're not!" she practically screamed. "I pwn you! I pwn this planet!! In fact -- frig you!"

Then she poured forth all her power towards Cloak, kicking up massive amounts of dust. It was certainly powerful, there was no denying it. Cloak still said nothing, and didn't flinch even an inch.

The Tempest gasped heavily twice before, smiling, "So, who's laughing now?!"

Then she looked up, and her heart fell, as Cloak wasn't affected at all. He didn't move even a smidgen. His glare never faltered. His arms remained folded across his chest. The Tempest was speechless -- in her mind, this was impossible. She had given it her all, all the power she was loaned by Watoomb. It would take her time to recuperate -- and reclaim her power. But even that did nothing!

Cloak unfolded his arms, but maintained his glare. He spoke, but only two words.

"My turn."