Memoirs of a RAFian

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXXV (1,435): "Cool" -- A red siren comes after Cloak.

New chapter.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
Dino's Footsteps

The Blight made it outside, sensing sunlight. Sunlight was antithetical to everything it liked. Spots baked in sunshine tended to be bright and dry while the Thirst Blight preferred the dark and the damp. Not to mention it could sense a bevy of prey large enough for it to feed off the moisture of -- but all of them seemed to have that discomforting energy coming off them. So it wouldn't take any of them, even its simple mind knew better than that.

Its mind was not complex enough to comprehend nor its senses sophisticated enough to determine what these bubbles of discomfort were. It just knew to avoid them when it could. But it was also desperate for a host-prey. A host body that it could siphon all the moisture out of, a body that it can drain dry. That was its purpose, its only reason for being. It knew nothing else, nor did it care to know anything else. I didn't have the capacity to know anything else.

A thirst, not unlike that which it inflicted on others, began to burgeon in the Blight itself. It needed a host to drain the moisture, the water out of. It couldn't do it directly from the lake behind it. It needed a host and flesh to filter it for it. Its why it was a parasite. It hadn't drained a host for a couple of hours, if not days. It needed to do so. It did not know what would happen if it did it soon, because it had no concept of death.

Suddenly it got darker, and it felt the discomfort stronger, but could not tell which direction it came from. Then it felt a pressure on its flimsy body, from which it couldn't escape, as the pressure increased exponentially within seconds. It swiftly went from mild unpleasantness to quite painful. Then it graduated to be excruciating. Then --

Nothing.

***

Dino had heard the calls of a breach. And she had come to see what she could do to help. She had quite forgotten to size-shift to her compact form and found that she had to be careful that she didn't crush any RAFians underfoot. It was a fear of hers, besides . . . that number. She had also been working on getting over that, but it was a gradual thing. She had missteps and progression, as all people do when trying to better themselves or overcome fears.

Her mind was full -- worry over this parasite getting loose, fear of being infected by it (despite the Mark being the very thing causing it discomfort), amongst her other responsibilities and the stresses that stem from them. Then there was the more basic needs -- hunger, thirst, shelter, and so on.

That's when it happened.

She didn't really notice at firest, until the bottom of her left foot felt incredibly wet. Her mind immediately went to the worst possible scenario as she remembered that she was at her full size and not her compacted form. The ground was soaked through, in a rough circle connecting the massive claws on her coelurosaurian theropod foot. Her stomach plummeted as the worse scenario she could conceive of played through her mind.

She thought as she immediately size shifted into her compacted form -- she didn't really like staying in her compacted form for too long, but it had its necessary uses. She nearly gave herself a panic attack, thinking that she had accidentally crushed someone. In her full and considerable size, she weighed a few tons. A reckless footstep at that size would be easy to kill a smaller RAFian. She cursed her absentmindedness, as that could have lead to the death of . . .

But she was sure, looking at the remains, that it wasn't a RAFian that she had crushed. She couldn't tell what it was, but it looked like a deflated party balloon, withered into a black . . . thing. Was that the . . .

"Wait," Cloak said, having noticed through his Earthsight. Then he came over to investigate the remains. Then he made a determination. "It was the Thirst Blight."

"Well, that was anticlimactic," Dino said.

"Yes . . . anticlimactic . . ." Cloak said, slowly. He had a chill go down his spine to the tip of his tail, as a twinge of fear infected him . . . he wondered if she . . . he hoped he was wrong. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXXVI (1,436): "Tough" -- A yellow siren goes after Cloak.

New chapter.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
Blight Origin

Malice had watched this all go down via her secret cameras -- it was principally Walker tech, which made it all the more shameful that Realm Walkers never invented or possess television. Then again, if you you could just literally step into one of a myriad of universes, each with a different rules of how that particular universe functioned, would you really have any need for television? Would you even have any desire for one? The demand was simply not there for it.

Despite this, even Realm Walking had lost its appeal, its luster, its novelty in some Walkers that they eschewed the activity altogether. Although far too many still maintained that bigoted, speciesist streak -- but there were always going to be people, regardless of species or class, that will be like that. To some people -- narcissists, bigots, and elitists, in particular -- they always need to have someone that they perceive to be lesser than them, inferior in some way, so they don't have to acknowledge their own inadequacies and insecurities in themselves. And all species have these kinds of people -- none are immune from this blight.

Speaking of blights, Malice had been the one to create the Blight. She knew that these creatures of matter used deoxyribonucleic acid to carry their genetic information. She found it laughably primitive, as Realm Walker genetics tends to be infinitely more complex and difficult to comprehend -- which was to be expected as they all are essentially nothing more than corporealized energy with physical mass not too unlike Gems. Malice found it funny just how easy it was for her to manipulate the cytosine-guanine base pairs and the adenine-thymine base pairs of a sequence, making it simple child's play for her splice new DNA into an already existing strand of the stuff, creating new biological information. She saw it as simple as a child playing with blocks, and understood it with ruthless ease.

This helped fuel her conviction that Dwellers of any stripe were worthless and expendable. Although, she would treat Walkers -- even if they weren't related to Sage -- the same way, unless they were of use to her. She knew no love, and only was willing to do anything if it either entertained her or served to benefit her in some way.

Back to the Thirst Blight, she had used the basic genome of a Yeerk with some Namekian DNA combined with it, with some specific alterations made. Then she cancelled this scheme in favor of another, growing bored of this scheme. So, she made Thousand, instead.

She had actually forgotten entirely about the Thirst Blight's existence. It escaped its holding container when she was shuffling her purloined resources around. She didn't realize that it had escaped, until the RAFians had mobilized. She wondered if she had more abandoned schemes that she had long forgotten about. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXXVII (1,437): "Beauty" -- A blue siren comes after Cloak.

New chapter.

CHAPTER NINETEEN:
Wrapping It Up

The Thirst Blight's remains were given to Aquilai, Goom, Xeno, and Yarin -- the science boys. They were tasked with ensuring that another Thirst Blight never comes into being. It may not have been able to reproduce, but that doesn't mean that whoever created it couldn't recreate it once more. This was a proactive approach to prevent this whole ordeal from happening again. It was a contingency plan, though Cloak was aware that having a contingency plan for every eventuality is pretty much an impossibility, no matter how meticulous you are about it as there is always unforeseen circumstances.

Reilly's condition easily stabilized after the Blight left him. He was suffering from a degree of dehydration, of course, but he was still fortunate that Parker found him when he did. A moment later, and it could have been beyond the repairable threshold. His hearty constitution and peak physical health were also positive factors. It wasn't long before he was released into the generous care of his parents. He would make a full recovery -- the Blight's other two victims, however, were not so fortunate.

Cloak had to remind himself that two casualties were still better than twelve. Better than twenty. But still . . . it weighed on him. He knew that he, himself, was not perfect, and as prone to error as any other living being, and that seeking out absolute and abject perfection was a fool's quest. But still, his conscience had done him the disservice of being heavy and burdensome.

The boy's family were still grieving and trying to come to terms with what happened to the son, their nephew, their cousin. But any attempt by the RAFians to explain what happened were coldly rebuffed and met with hostile disbelief when they were allowed to speak. They would come to blame the RAFians for the boy's fate. Senseless deaths tend to always lead to irrationality, sometimes hysterically so, when the shock sets in. But they had time to digest this and the shock had time to wear off, and that irrationality had not dissipated but instead congealed and hardened into a deep hatred. It didn't help that the listened to Bern Bridges on an almost religious basis.

Agnes, however, had no family nor friends to fret over her fate. She had far too good a job at alienating everyone that she would count as family or friends. With her headstrong personality, and that obstinate sense of always being absolutely right, and that stubborn insistence that she was never in the wrong, being even tangentially friendly towards her was a chore. So, naturally news of her passing was met with indifference and the same lack of respect she showed others during her time alive.

It didn't end as well as Cloak would have liked -- two people died. True, the fact that they left remains behind unnerved him as his kind only leave their cloaks behind. (Which makes murder investigations more difficult to investigate in the Nexus, and faking deaths ridiculously easier than in the Realms.) Cloak wonder if they could have been prevented. Fortunately, Reilly didn't become the third to die, but he easily could have been.

***

Cloak was standing in a black void with what appeared to be an indigo event horizon to his right. He was confused, as he felt as if he were lucid and knew that he was dreaming. He hadn't a clue if this was a Truth Dream or just a simple lucid dream. Then something happened.

A series of numbers -- like serial numbers -- appeared, in blue-green text, between him and th event horizon. He couldn't read the numbers, but could make out that they all started as "S-A-A-dash" followed by a string  numbers. He couldn't count how many serial numbers were in this before they devolved into something that appeared to be sand.

Then, from his left, still between him and the event horizon, came another string of serial numbers, still with the "S-A-A-dash" prefix. The text was dark, dull gray. Cloak tried to read the numbers but it solidified into stone and shattered before he could. He couldn't even seen how many there were before this happened.

Then, more appeared to his right, all with the same prefix. This time in sky blue text. Cloak tried to read the numbers, but they became scrambled when they were washed away by an invisible current.

Then, more appeared to his left, all with the same prefix. This time in vivid red or slightly orange, Cloak couldn't decide which. He tried to read the numbers but they appeared to be struck by lightning and dissipated. He was starting to get a pattern, as he narrowed his eyes.

Once again, more serial numbers appeared to his right, all with the same prefix. This time in pale green with a gray tint. Cloak didn't try to read these numbers this time, when they shifted into a bouquet, before vanishing into the event horizon.

Once more, yet more serial numbers appears to his left, all with the same "SAA-" prefix. In orange-yellow, this time. Cloak was tempted to try to read the numbers, but apparently those were supposed to be secret for whatever reason. Then the numbers faded away.

To his right, more serial numbers came into being, this time in purplish-red. Cloak didn't even try to read the numbers, though he wanted to. Apparently, he was not allowed. Then the numbers corroded into nothingness.

To his left, fewer serial numbers came into being, this time in bright red tinted with orange. Cloak watched as the numbers burst int flame, before being swallowed up by the event horizon.

To his right, one or two serial numbers came into being, this time in indigo. And at this point, Cloak woke up, wondering what the Veil that was about.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXXVIII (1,438): "Clever" -- A green siren comes after Cloak.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY:
Crabby

Parker was dispatched in another fiend mission, which volunteered for. He had a new toy he wanted to try out. It was like a war fan, but opened in a full three-sixty, becoming a saw blade. It could be used as a throwing weapon, primarily. He supposed it could have uses as a shield or melee weapon, but he didn't think so, personally. the intricate matrix lattice was far too fragile to be an effective shield, and it left one's hand too easily to be a melee weapon. He wasn't sure how durable it would truly be, as it was intended to be a cutting and slicing throwing weapon. It would probably be more effective if he had gotten his hands on vibranium or a material similar.

Parker had walked to the edge of a deep pool of water. It looked like black glass to the naked eye, and Parker had the advantage of having more resources than his naked eye. He was glad that he modified his armor to move quicker underwater. Otherwise, this might have proved incredibly tedious and potentially slow.

It didn't take him long to find this abandoned underwater facility -- another Cadmus one. Or the fiend's nest. It was a square room where the water level fluctuated, seemingly at the will of the fiend, with a spiked ceiling. It dived into the room, and Parker finally got a good look at it.

The fiend stood nearly six feet tall. It had no real head, but its face (which just consisted human-like eyes -- with purple sclera and pale brown irises -- a vent-like mouth) was on its abdomen. It had cancrine stalk eyes, which basically channeled its power, with rudimentary vision ability. it had silver shoulders with protruding spikes that recalled crab claws. It had human-like arms ending in black humanoid hands with spiked elbows. It had squat stature and human-like legs with black, pod-like feet.

When it saw Parker, it flashed energy claws that resembled crab claws from its shoulders, as if to intimidate him. But Parker was a RAFian. He had seen six more intimidating things before breakfast (Helen had a rather noticeable problem with severe bedhead). His helmet allowed his facial expressions to remain hidden, so the fiend wouldn't know if the SPARTAN RAFian was indeed intimidated -- especially considering none of these fiends appeared to be too intelligent.

The fiend encased itself in a giant bubble. Parker surmised (with help of Tyr) that it'd take a good amount of damage to be destroyed. He allowed the fiend to go about its attack pattern, as to learn and exploit it. The fiend was not smart enough to realize what the SPARTAN was doing.

Then the fiend launched hydrokinetic, mini-crab drones and bubble rings at the RAFian. They all floated at an upward angle. Not too terribly difficult to avoid. But Parker tried not to get complacent -- one tended to make stupid mistakes when they got complacent.

The tide level of the room rose and sunk at seemingly random intervals. That was the most unpredictable part of this environment. But Tyr had apparently come up with an algorithm to predict, and quite accurately so, this tide situation.

Now Parker decided to act, feeling as if the fiend had showed him its full capabilities. It would fall quite easily to Parker's new little toy. It was instantly able to pop any of its bubble shields. Not to mention that the fiend was quite easy to manipulate -- whenever Parker was above it, it will jump upwards with his claws. when the tide was high enough, it was possible to lock it into this pattern by jumping over it and back, thg Parker's little toy as it hits the ground, then repeating the process. The fiend never used a different attack afterward.

It wasn't long before Parker had succeeded and the fiend was dead. He waited for h extraction.

***

Demos called it "kuraburosu baburi", and wouldn't state its intended purpose.

***

Malice only had this on as background noise. The whole Thirst Blight thing made her go through every single one of her schemes to see if she had abandoned some that might prove . . . entertaining . . . for her to watch.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXXIX (1,439): "The Alpha Siren" -- The first siren seeks vengeance upon Cloak.

New chapter.

BOOK CLXXXVIII:
HAMMER TIME!
CHAPTER ONE:
Flame Antlers

Cloak was dispatched to deal with a fiend in an active volcano. Cloak wasn't afraid as he would have been were he not a Realm Walker. He went to the coordinates and saw that the place was completely undeveloped. Understandably so. He could feel the magma churning beneath his feet, and he wondered if he could . . .

No. No, he was powerful enough already. He didn't need anymore powers. Despite it could just be considered an application of a power he already had currently, Cloak didn't see it in that way. He felt as if  didn't need to be more powerful -- power has an awful habit of breeding corruption and complacency.

Cloak burst into the volcano, seemingly dormant. Then he maneuvered into the main part of the volcano,only to discover that it was on the cusp of erupting. Oh, Veil. He barreled upward, and dodged to the right. It wasn't a big eruption, no where near a pyroclastic flow. Cloak was sure that he would survive -- due to his physiology -- though he knew it would provide discomfort that he would find unacceptable.

Soon enough, he found the fiend's nest. It was a narrow room, that had more verticality than horizontal room. And the fiend descended into the room by kicking off the walls. The fiend looked to be a cervine humanoid, with human-like eyes that possessed green sclera and black irises. It stood just shy of eight feet, making it slightly shorter than Cloak. Its face feet, and human-like hands were black, and its antlers were just tongues  flames. The rest of its body were greens and oranges with silver accents.

When it landed on the other side of this narrow room, and saw Cloak. It flared its fire antlers, and made two quick jabs with its right arm, followed by a small uppercut with its left. These weren't attacks, but posturing. Cloak wasn't intimidated or impressed.

Then the fiend tried to run into Cloak by jumping diagonally between walls, which Cloak dodged, as he waited for a moment to strike. released two small fireballs, the first going downward and the second upward. The second flame crawled up the earthen walls. Interesting, but Cloak was a Master of the Fire Element (though, truthfully, a reluctant Master). The fire wouldn't harm him.

Then it performed a dash attack that leaves a trail of flames. Then it ended this attack with an uppercut. Cloak easily dodged this, as he saw as easily telegraphed. And he saw that this presented him with the opportunity to use his mastery of water to repeatedly douse the fiend. Until the fiend was no more.

The Cloak left this room, and waited for his extraction.

***

Demos called it a "pyrocervine", but wouldn't say why he made it.

***

Malice continued to try to find any abandoned schemes, when she was made aware of something strange . . . something unusual . . . something . . . unheard of. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXL (1,440): "A New Power Broker" -- The RAFians must deal with a new kind of power broker.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWO:
Reconstituted

Back here . . .

Back here when they were so pleasantly ignoring her existence, and pretending her death was real. . . . She was risking being seen, risking being recognized . . . She pulled the hood of her cloak further down, as far as it would go. Her existence was being dismissed -- and only a narcissistic fool would let that bother them. But she didn't care if she was dismissed by other Realm Walkers (Cloak was a special case -- he had inherited her as an adversary from Sage). It allowed her more mobility and less scrutiny.

And other Realm Walkers might have enough ability to overpower her, with enough numbers. And she didn't really want to be interred back at Oblivion Gate Prison. It was dreadfully boring when she was there. Though she escaped easily enough -- and they just assumed she died in her cell because of her cloak and a bit of her ichor left behind. Simple and easy -- and the guards weren't always the sharpest tools in the shed. Still . . . she didn't want to go back. Especially with Veil view . . . that was the singular worse, and yet magnificant, view in the entire Gate Prison. It was simultaneously wondrous, beautiful, and mesmerizing and, yet, intimidating, terrifying, and horrifying.

She was secretly looking for what drew her attention. Her curiosity had overrode her strong desire to ignore it, to focus on herself and her schemes. Something was happening in these forgotten alleyways of this ghetto district. The Walkers here far more concerned with their own problems than a mysterious figure skulking around in dark alleyways and hiding it their long shadows. Which was precisely how Malice wanted it.

She peered around corners, desperate to keep up the pretense of her expiration. Other Walkers thinking her dead prevented them from poking their noses into her business and interfering with her whims and schemes. She liked it this way. She preferred it this way.

What she saw around one corner in this dark, dank, forgotten alleyway took her a moment to process. There was what appeared to be a Klepto Stone of some sort, that glowed red and hovered about five or six feet in the air. It had twelve bichromatic spheres of energy orbiting around it . . . looking rather like a Manaphy egg without the blue, translucent egg shape. Malice had no idea how this came to be here, nor why this was happening.

All she knew was that she was here to bear witness of this. Whatever this was.

She slowly, cautiously, tentatively approached the stone with its orbiting spheres, which seemed to orbit it quicker and quicker. Something was happening. Something big. Something that she could have dominion over. Something that she could possibly use to her advantage . . .

But what exactly she could not say. She could not determine the exact nature or characteristics of what kind of creature would be made when these orbs merged with the stone. She just knew that it would be hers to do with as she pleased.

The time was growing close as the orbs slowed and began to burn with bichromatic fire. Within each a bla silhouette could be seen, and Malice could make out all but four. from what she saw, there was a dragon . . . a rat . . . a chicken . . . a monkey . . . a pig . . . a dog . . . a tiger . . . and a rabbit. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXLI (1,441): "Sight-Shifter" -- The RAFians must save a boy who can shapeshift into anyone he sees.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THREE:
Singularity

Malice watched, with a mixture of eager apprehension and tempered excitement, as these twelve orbs merged with the stone. The light given off was akin to that when Gems, but purplish-black. It was more darkness that light, really. Despite her octogenarian age, Malice was secretly fangirling at this development, though not in an obsequious way.

The form was humanoid, with thin limbs, stubby human-like toes, and long hands and fingers to match. The shape this being took had a large, upside-down teardrop-shaped head, not unlike Megamind or a Grey. It had no discernible ears, pointed chin, small (possibly toothless) mouth, no discernible nose other than two nostril slits, large almond eyes (black sclera and red eyes), and a large head. The being's skin was a supple, palatinate purple. He stood taller than Malice, towering over her, wearing the usual outfit Walkers wore for Realm Walking, in the usual dull earth colors, and a cloak of pansy purple.

"Welcome to the Nexus," Malice said, smoothly. She had to be carefully charismatic, and not come off as a simpering lackey. She was intending to manipulate this being, whoever he was. He looked at her, and, despite trying to hide it, she felt something that she never did before. Something that she couldn't quite identify. Something that she didn't recognize, and, thus, tried to ignore. "What, may I ask, is your name?"

His gaze lingered on her a moment before. She thought she should have felt discomforted by this, possibly unnerved by it. But that unknown feeling would not allow it. What was this odd sensation, this atrophied emotion? It didn't matter. It wasn't important. After a while, he turned and looked away, so Malice saw him in profile. She felt a pang of -- what? Disappointment? Dismay? Sadness? No, that couldn't be right.

When he spoke, his voice surprised Malice, but not in a way that Malice disliked. She had expected the stereotypical gestalt voice of all twelve Walkers that made him up, but that wasn't it at all. His voice was soft, melodic, and powerful. Malice gave herself a mental slap -- why was she focusing so much on his voice rather than what was being said. What was wrong with her? She had to be careful not to lose her aloof poise, because that may not make her able to have her way with him.

No! Not like that!

"The Twelve became one," he said, simply. "We became me."

"Sweetie," she said, pouring it on, telling herself that she was just manipulating him. When that wasn't the full truth, and she knew it, but denied it to herself. "Sweetie, that's not a name."

She didn't want to give him a name, but wanted him to choose his own. She didn't know why this was so important to her, but she knew that this was important. Inwardly, she was surprised that this seemed to matter so much to her, as this new fused Walker seemed utterly indifferent to everything.

"Yes," he said, almost bored contemplating this, "none of my old names would suit me in the state that I am now. I shall be henceforth known as . . . Singularity."

Malice tried to hide her reaction at that name. She thought five syllables was a bit long for a Realm Walker nomme de plume, but she didn't say anything. She cajoled Singularity to follow her from this place, and back to the Prime Universe. Singularity seemed mildly amused and complied, curious as to what these Realms were.

But Malice didn't notice how the power dynamic was changing, and still thought that she was the one in charge. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXLII (1,442): "Sound-Shifter" -- The RAFians must help a person who can shapeshift into anyone they hear.

New chapter.

CHAPTER FOUR:
Forging Ahead

Back in the Prime Universe, Singularity was being brought to speed all the things about the Realm that Malice thought pertinent. Of course, she didn't spill the beans about everything. That long-dormant feeling may be warping her judgement and reason, but she fought it. Fought to ignore it. It hadn't any use for her, so she was better off without it. It was like an annoying door-to-door salesman who never gets the point that you're not interested.

She thought she was getting away with withholding information from Singularity, still believing that she held dominion over him. She never suspected that she was being allowed to think that, and Singularity knew full well that she was holding back information from him, but he didn't really seem to care that she was. He had a lot of indifference in his by language.

Besides, he was busy creating several items that he thought might prove useful to him, and he was curious about the limits of these Dwellers, these humans. He was creating eight hammers of distinct, individual designs and purposes. With unique powers that he likewise chose not to disclose to Malice. She was none the wiser. He was well aware that she was enthralled with him, and he was milking it to his advantage. Had she had her wits about her, she might have caught on by now.

Singularity, ignoring Malice for the most part, went to scrutinize the hammer production. He would instill each hammer with its own sentience and spirit, which was not an easy task. He was essentially making them like Horcruxes, but none of them housed a true soul, just a possessive spirit, which would take over once their chosen host took hold of the hammer.

There was the Hammer of Skadi, the Herald. It had a white, yellow, blue, and pink pearl on the pommel and looked as if it were forged from obsidian, despite being exponentially stronger than that. It had a short shaft, a crescent moon-like guard, and a bell-shaped head. The one who the hammer chose to wield it would be Singularity's Herald (Malice misunderstood and believed that it would be her herald), with unwavering loyalty to their "Gestalt Lord".

To its right was the Hammer of Kurrth, Breaker of Stone. It appeared to be forged from orange jasper, with a jasper pommel. it had a moderate sized shaft and a cylindrical head, almost like that of a pill. Like it's brethren, it would force its wielder undying loyalty to the "Fused Authority". It also afforded its wielder the ability to cleave, smash, and break any sort of stone placed before it without fail.

To its right was the Hammer of Nul, Breaker of Worlds. It had a peridot pommel, with a metallic ring below it, and looked as if it was forged from some sort of sulfuric stone. It had a moderately-sized shaft and a head that had pyramidal shape on one side and a trapezoidal shape on the other. Like it's brethren, it would twist its wielder's mind into abject loyalty to the "Divine Collective One". The Hammer allowed its wielders immense power to devastate planets with a single blow.

To its right was the Hammer of Skirn, Breaker of Men. It had a hessonite pommel, and appeared to be crafted from amethysts. It had a shaft of moderate length with a head of a sledgehammer with a pyramid on one side and a trapezoid on the other. Like it's brethren, it twists its wielder to have unshakable loyalty to "Holy Unity". The Hammer allowed its wielder power to break men with little effort.

To its right was the Hammer of Mokk, Breaker of Faith. It had a rose quartz pommel and appeared to be crafted from high-quality, super-dense blue quartz. It had a long shaft with a head akin to that of a sledgehammer. Like its fellows, it forces loyalty towards the "Merged King". The Hammer allowed its wielder power to cleave a man from his religious faith, and other circumstances.

To its right was the Hammer of Angrir, Breaker of Souls. It had a blue diamond with its shaft dotted with pink diamond shards, and the shaft and head appeared to be forged from amethysts. It had a short shaft, with a heavy head with nine spikes on both sides. Like its fellows, it coerced loyalty in the "Unified Leader". The Hammer allows the wielder to crush, cleave, and mash souls.

To its right was the Hammer of Greithoth, Breaker of Wills. It has a white diamond pommel and a chain leading off this pommel, and appeared to be forged from a green stone. It had a short shaft, a long chain, and a head that appeared similiar to the letter "A". As with the others, it influences its wielded to unwavering loyalty towards the "Zodiac Leader". The Hammer allows the user to weaken and destroy the wills of others.

The final hammer was the Hammer of Nerkkod, Breaker of Oceans. It has a lapis lazuli pommel and appeared to be forged from a red stone. It looked like an overlarge claw hammer. As with all its predecessors, it twists its wielder's mind into blind loyalty to the "Flawless One". The Hammer allows the wield to destroy oceans.

Once the pseudo-spirits had been installed fully and the forging process was complete, he said, "Begone now! Do not return until you find worthy hosts."

Then Singularity sent them out into the world, to seek out unsuspecting wielders to twist the minds, souls, and loyalties of. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXLIII (1,443): "Smell-Shifter" -- The RAFians must help a person who can shapeshift based on scent.

New chapter.

CHAPTER FIVE:
Look Out! Thou Shall Not Move!

Cloak was standing in a void of blackness, but the flooring beneath his feet felt solid and sturdy enough. He didn't try to Earthsight as he was aware that this was a dream. He had his normal lucidity within this dreamplane. Probably because she wanted him to . . .

Cloak suppressed a shiver, and chose not to think about her. She already gave him the, as the humans say, the "heebie-jeebies". Then he heard a disembodied voice cry out:

"Run for cover!
Look out!"

Cloak felt no fear or urgency. He had to admit to himself, being one of the most powerful RAFians, third to only Estelore and Richard, had given a bit of complacency. He knew and acknowledged it, and the dangers that came with complacent arrogance. He had his flaws, and this was one of them.

Cloak thought he saw silhouettes of a dragon, a rat, and a rooster at three o'clock. But he looked, frankily, unimpressed and unintimidated. What was the point of this dream?

"Don't stop to look around!
Nothing to do but hide some place
Where we cannot be found!
Look out! He's after you!
You ought to take care, but take care where you go!
It's a nightmare coming true!
The evil that's spreading is stating to grow!
Your friends are doing all they can do!
But what about you?"

Then he saw the silhouette of a monkey, a pig, and a dog at nine o'clock. But he felt no sense of urgency whatsoever. He was failing to understand the meaning of these dream. He highly doubted that he would be lucid if this dream was just . . . well . . . a dream.

"How can we help these unfortunate souls?
How can we stop him? He's out of control!
(Look out!) Running and hiding to stay out of sight!
(Look out!) Running and running, it doesn't seem right!
(Look out!) Running and hiding and running again.
(Look out!) Running and running?
Oh, please make it end?
Isn't there someway to make him our friend?"

The he saw the silhouettes of a tiger, a rabbit, and an ox at six o'clock. And yet, he felt no urgency, and he didn't feel threatened at all. He had confidence in power and ability, and he hadn't seen or sensed anyone coming after him. Though he found these silhouettes odd -- and they clearly meant something.

"Twelve have become one, and --
(Look out! Look out! Look out! Look out!)
He's forgot about feelings and friends!
(Look out! Look out! Look out! Look out!)
(Look out! Look out! Look out! Look out!)
Look out! He's after you!
(Just one thing.)
It's a nightmare coming true!
(Look out! Look out!)
When will this really end?
(Look out!)
He's not himself!
He's turned mean!
He's been on a path of terrible wrath
No kid's ever seen.
Friends are there to help you out
Because they care and there's no doubt
And if you're scared, they'll lend a hand,
Till you're prepared to make a stand."

As he saw silhouettes of a sheep, a snake, and a horse and heard the line "twelve become one", something clicked. And he had hoped he was wrong. He hoped he was horribly wrong. Because he knew how powerful such a union could be.

"This power's wrong.
But incredibly strong
If only we can make him understand
Look out! Look out! (Look out! Watch out!)
Look out! Look out! (Look out! Watch out!)
What can you do if there's only one of you?
What can you do if there's only one of you?
What can you do if there's only one of you?"

He awoke, and he felt shaky and clammy. They couldn't be back. They could not merged. They were dead. They were Beyond the Veil. There was no coming back. There wasn't. . . 

But the Realm Walker formerly known as Abomination had somehow procured their powers and abilities and combined them with his own nearly two Dweller years ago . . . so he must have found some . . . remnant . . . of them . . .

But the rings should have taken them through the Veil! There was no way that they could have returned! None. It couldn't be true. It couldn't. If it was . . . then the singularity's power could very well . . . eclipse his own.

***

The Hammers plummeted down into their "chosen" locations, where a worthy wielders would be. They stuck fast to the earth the landed on, and could not be moved by any means, save for the only ones they considered worthy enough to wield them.

And many have tried. Whether for their own envious desire of the power each Hammer represented, or for their covetous vengeance for those that they felt wronged them, or to intimidate and cow those around them into submission. But none of them were deemed worthy to heft Hammers, much less wield them.

So, there they sat. Motionless and forgotten, and shafts in the air. Waiting for the Worthy . . .


SOURCE SONG: https://youtube.com/watch?v=J6TYxD5Kkv8

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXLIV (1,444): "Taste For Shapes" -- The RAFians must help someone who can shapeshift into anything he tastes.

New chapter.

CHAPTER SIX:
Hammer Hoisting and Hosting

The Hammers stayed where they landed, not moving even the smallest fraction of an inch, glowing in their respective colors. The glow seemed alluring to some, but those quickly noped out of it. They didn't want to have anything to do with the hammers, apparently able to also sense the evil interspersed with the hypnotizing allure.

They had their colored auras pulsate in a strangely enticing towards those that had some modicum of the vague quality of "worthiness". While most had the good sense to reject the beguiling aura's many attempts to enrapture them, others were ensnared by the fascination and captivated of the pulsating power of the Hammers and their auras. These people were apparently deemed unworthy, as no a single one was able to lift any of the Hammers.

No Jerome. No Monty. No Cindy. No Lillie or Billy. No Bugsy. No Missy Applegate. No Ozzy. No Madison. No Carla. No Penny. No Felix or Ted. None of you were worthy enough to wield one of Singularity's Hammers. Not a one.

And there they sat, unable to be hefted, unable to be so much as lifted from the ground upon which they rested until one wielder that each Hammer felt was worthy enough to do so grabbed hold of the hammer shaft and lifted the head into the air. There would be a moment of lucidity before the Hammer's directives and orders would overtake the worthy wielder's mind and personality, twisting it. Erasing their previous identity, and any memories that would cause lucidity to resurface. Becoming, effectively, slaves to Singularity, as long as the Hammer was held.

And, in this state, it would be a monumental task to separate the two. The two, hammer and wielder, have their souls, identities, and personalities intertwined and intermingled, until nothing of the wielder's previous life as an Unworthy was recollected easily. And this effect was nothing to trifle with. Nor was the devastating power of the Hammers, once held by a Worthy wielder.

The wielders, known as the Worthy, would not be stopped. They would be like a force of nature, and they would only know destruction and pain. Especially to the wielder themselves, as some small part of themselves, of who they were before, a smidgen of morality, would remain alive. Alive but helpless. Helpless but being bystanders in their own bodies, unable to stop themselves from doing things that they knew were abhorrent. It was like being a Controller, but worse. The Hammer would not be able to heard or comprehend pleas to stop, remain unaware of any mental resistance, nor care about the opinions of some lesser mind, or an aspect of the previous one.

Eventually, each Hammer felt a grip upon their handles. All strong and firm. All Worthy. They were all lifted up, and their new Worthy hosts maintained their lucidity and control for a moment's time. They had no idea what they had done, but the allure had stoked their curiosity and enticed them to pick the Hammers up. And the Hammers judged them as Worthy.

Within moment's after beingnlifted, the Hammers changed their Worthy hosts. Altered them in their power, minds, and personalities. Their souls, however, remained unchanged, but trapped within their bodies, unable to influence the actions of those bodies, or words spoken with their voices, thought distorted. They were helpless.

The Worthy of Destruction were chosen and decided. And many things would be broken. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXLV (1,445): "Touch-Shifter" -- The RAFians must help a person who can shapeshift anyone that they touch.

New chapter.

CHAPTER SEVEN:
Broken Will

Dom Convertir was a broken man.

His will was broken. He just laid around his small, cold, dank prison cell. His orange jumpsuit a constant reminder of the incident that broke him completely -- financially and emotionally. His health hadn't deteriorated so much, but he found himself half-heartedly wishing that it had. Death would be preferable to this, in his mind.

It wasn't just because the food was of poor quality, or because the service of said food was less than ideal. Or that the mattress upon which he slept was lumpy and sagged in the middle, on the left side. Or the fact that his pillow was lumpier than the bed, and got hot and discomfortable far too easily. Or that his thin blanket didn't offer too much warmth on these increasingly cooler nights. Those discomforts were only secondary to the major aspect that left him with tears in his eyes.

It was the humiliation that truly broke him. The ostracism within the prison itself was intolerable and unbearable. Yes, he had several RAFians under lock and key, powerless to escape him. And what did he do? Tried to convince them to their, in his view, patriotic duty. He still believed in this laughable rhetoric, too. It was public knowledge of this fact (much to the RAFians' chagrin) that caused him very much ridicule.

He spent his days wishing for death to deliver him from this torment. He had even lost the will to live. This had congealed into a sort of apathetic, loner, guarded attitude that he projected to those around him. He was tired of the jeers and sneers and consternation. He was just . . . just done with everything. Done with being Dominic Convertir. Done being human. Done being alive.

And, yet, he was never put on suicide watch, despite being clearly suicidal. This neglect just further fueled this downward spiral of his. He fell into a deep, all-consuming depression following this, deepening his suicidal thoughts. He would have done it, too -- he just didn't have any resources in which to do it. His creativity was limited, even when depression wasn't muddying his thoughts.

Then something happened that purged these thoughts from his mind. Replacing it with a singular desire. Something had landed in the prison yard while the prisoners were there with some guards. These guards were the type who were prone to power trips, and enjoyed lording it over their prisoners, demeaning and dehumanizing them when their bosses weren't looking. Almost all of them were around the fallen Hammer -- the Hammer of Greithoth. Many of them tried to lift it and claim it for themselves.

All failed. And they wouldn't allow others to have a turn. It wasn't long before they turned on themselves and fought amongst themselves. And they weren't pulling punches -- so enamored they all were with the hammer.

He looked at it, with its white diamond pommel and a long chain leading off this pommel, forged from a green stone, its short shaft, and a head that appeared similiar to the letter "A". It called out to him . . . he felt a warmth from it . . . an attraction, a bond . . . he wasn't aware of moving towards it.

He wasn't really aware of closing the distance towards it . . . he wasn't aware of reaching out for the shaft . . . his eyes never left the Hammer . . . he was only dimly aware of grasping the Hammer's shaft, clinking the chain, alerting the fighting guards to his presence.

"You! Get away from there!" one of them ordered. He was ignored, and he didn't like it.

Dom lifted the Hammer up, barely aware of doing such, something which none of the guards were able to do. He maintained lucidity and his sense of identity as Dom Convertir for scarce moment before that was wiped away.

His body became oily black with green markings like that of the Phalanx or Galvanic Mechamorph. He roared, in a distorted voice, "I . . . AM . . . GREITHOTH!!! BREAKER OF WILL!!!!"

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXLVI (1,446): "Loss of Power" -- The RAFians take on the power broker.

New chapter.

CHAPTER EIGHT:
Contest of Wills

The guards immediately backed off, as they looked up at Dom, whose physique became far more intimidating and ripped, as he increased in size and strength. He looked like a comic book character, with ridiculously hulking masculine physique. He was far more intimidating than he was as Dom Convertir.

Dom fully embraced this Griethoth identity, and he was perfectly willing to allow his former identity and knowledge of it flow away into the aether. Even the part  him that remained lucid embraced this identity fully. He felt so powerful, so in control of his destiny, so . . . everything he could ever want. He felt like, despite not truly being in control of his actions anymore, freed. Free to break the wills of others.

"You . . . can't have that," a guard said, hesitantly. He was intimidated, and it was a wonder that he managed to choke out those words as it were. Greithoth looked at him, all humanity leeched from him. His grip on the chain, which was wrapped around his forearm, actually loosened, but Greithoth would not lose its hold or Dom's physical being as long as the chain was still attached.

"Really? Then take it," Greithoth said, with his distorted voice, "straight to the gut!"

And so the hammer flew from Greithoth's hand, which securely held the length of chain connected to the shaft and pommel. It happened far too quick for this guard to react. He doubled over and collapsed into a heap, roughly eleven o'clock from the Breaker of Wills.

But it wasn't just the physical blow the guard felt. He suddenly felt an immediate apathy and lethargy that was completely inexplicable to him. He could not muster up the willpower to even move from where he lay, feeling completely unmotivated to do so. He offered no resistance, peaceful or otherwise, when roughly moved aside. The blow had shattered his willpower into bits. Shattered like a pane of glass, with just as much effort exerted on Greithoth's part.

And each guard fell to this, all of the guards who desired the Hammer for themselves, for their own agendas and desires. All the ones foolish enough not to see the draw, the attraction for the danger that it was. All of them had their willpowers shattered as Greithoth was a bull in a china factory, and both the Dom and Greithoth side of this being were enthralled by this, thoroughly enjoying this stature, this power . . . and of being feared. This was as it should be he thought, and he had lost all track of time.

"Leave them alone," said a voice behind him. "I know that theyre prisoners, but they don't deserve this kind of punitive measure."

Greithoth turned around to see who had the audacity to confront him, the Breaker of Wills. Who had the gall? Who had the balls? He saw a chalk-white person in green shorts, pointed shoes, wrist-length gloves, and a cloak. He had burning emerald eyes and his cloak's hood was up.

"And who are you to speak to Greithoth, the Breaker of Wills, like that?"

"Speaking to yourself in the third-person," Spectre said. "So, you're one of those villains."

"Shut up."

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXLVII (1,447): "This Will Not Stand" -- Noncanon. The RAFians must stop "the Snap".

New chapter.

CHAPTER NINE:
Clash of Wills

Greithoth threw the Hammer again, bound to his arm by the chain, expecting for Spectre to fall like the guards and prisoners. Will broken. Shattered completely. Defeat uncontested. Greithoth believed nothing and no one could stand up to his power. He allowed himself to believe that this Hammer made him all-powerful. It all went straight to his head.

Imagine his dismayed surprise when none of this happened. Imagine his disappointed irritation when Spectre caught it in his right hand. Spectre looked unintimidated and undaunted. And unimpressed.

"Was that supposed to be an attack," Spectre said, and it was unclear if it was the spirit or Sam speaking, "or some sort of . . . joke?"

Naturally, due the inherent egotism of Dom, Greithoth took great offense at this insult. And he tugged the chain, recalling the Hammer. It only did when Spectre released it. He was the fourth strongest RAFian, after all.

"I will break you," Greithoth seethed, "I don't care how strong your willpower supposedly is. I will break it, and I will break you."

"Break my willpower?" Spectre said, his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Greithoth with disapproval. "Dude, I used to be a Green Lantern. And you think you can break my willpower?"

He shot the hammer again in reply. It missed. He recalled it and tried once more. Only to miss again. Both aspects, Dom and Greithoth, were getting frustrated and angry. They were the Breaker of Wills!!! They broke the willpower of any being, no matter how strong. The Hammer granted this power to them, bestowed this bounty upon them . . . how could it have encountered one with an indomitable, unbreakable will so soon after finding and adhering to its Worthy?

"Are we done with this exercise in futility?" Spectre asked, again unclear which one was really speaking, Spectre or Sam. "You cannot hope to win this . . . battle."

"I'll show you!" Greithoth roared. This reaction stemming from Dom's own insecurities, his fear of being subpar. "I'LL SHOW YOU!!!"

He decided he wanted to eschew mid-range combat, and desired to get close. He wanted to pummel this smug, chalk white bastard. He wanted to hit him until his Hammer and fists run red with his blood. He wanted this so much.

But you can't always get what you want.

Spectre never lost his composture, and thus was thinking clearly, with a level head. Greithoth (and the Dom remnant) was not. The difference was palpable. Greithoth began to swing his Hammer wildly, in a berserk sort of way. Spectre dodged all them without much, if any, exertion.

"Stop that!" Greithoth raged. "STOP IT!!!"

"No."

"Die!!!"

"I've already done that," Spectre said, obviously Sam speaking, "I'd rather not repeat it."

"Be quiet!!!"

"Not until that Hammer is dealt with," Spectre said, quite seriously, "it an artifact of immense power, much too dangerous to be wielded."

"I'm Worthy!!" he raged. "I am the only one Worthy to be the Breaker of Wills!!!"

"But you cannot break mine."

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXLVIII (1,448): "A Silent Place" -- The world is ravaged by the Audiopugno.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TEN:
Unbroken Will

"I am the BREAKER OF WILLS!!" he screamed, sounding more petulant than intimidating. More hysterical than threatening. "No one will can resist my Hammer!!!"

"I did," Spectre observed stoically.

"Shut up!" Greithoth spat back. He was clearly getting quite frustrated, and that frustration was clouding his mind. "Just shut up!!!"

He launched another attack -- but Spectre can fly effortlessly, and Greithoth could not. This just amplified his angry frustrations even more. Escalating his recklessness. This is the problem when relying on anger and strength alone in battle. They often conspire to work against you. Clouding your mind. Especially when your opponent has a clear head.

"This entire exercise is futile, and has grown stale," Spectre said, catching the Hammer with his Marked hand. The Hammer seemed to crack and fracture as the Mark glowed unusually white. Prolonged exposure seemed to amplify the damage to the Hammer that even Greithoth could not ignore. "It is time to end it."

Spectre transformed the Hammer into green paper airplanes, which crumpled to the floor. Greithoth was no more, and he was just Dom Convertir once more, and the Hammer's effect of shattering the wills of others was slowly undone -- but not with remnants of the effects. Each prisoner and guard remembered having their wills broken.

"No!!!!!" Dom cried. He was powerless again, no longer possessing the might that enthralled him, that fuelled his confidence. "Nooooooooo!!!!!!"

"We're done here," Spectre said, flying away, leaving Dom to the guards . . . the ones who didn't have their wills shattered, who were still very shaky, but alive.

***

"'Worthy', my tail!" Malice stewed. "Some unbreakable hammer, Singularity."

Singularity said nothing as he ignored Malice. He was far more interested in the white glow he saw from Spectre. It reminded him of an old folk tale once told to one of his constituent parts -- which one, it didn't matter.

Singularity didn't care that the Hammer was destroyed. He hadn't intended them to be unbreakable, after all. He may have led Malice to believe this, but it wasn't true. Wasn't true in the least.

But Singularity took great interest in the few seconds when Spectre's Mark became white. Bright white. It just reminded him of that folk tale, and that there just may be a kernel of truth to it.

He had to know more . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXLIX (1,449): "When Diplomacy Works" -- The RAFians foster a treaty with the Gargantians.

New chapter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:
Broken Soul

Rudy Hutz was a broken soul.

He had lost everything he had, and he was completely disbarred. He was no longer able to practice law -- despite not being very good at it. The failures and ineptitudes he showcased during the trial of Dom Convertir seemed to be the tipping point of his life. And not for the better.

As when he lost that case, he got termination papers from his law firm, who as deeply disappointed and tired of his constant losses due to his incompetance, lack of preparation, and overall messy, unfocused attire. He tended to look as if he just rolled out of bed and just came into work looking so disheveled. It was not professional, and Hutz wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

To top matters off, his girlfriend decided to leave him for some burly, bald guy in a sleeveless black leather jacket with a flaming skull depicted on it. She went with him, because she liked his motorcycle, which clearly was his baby, and she cheated on Rudy with him several times without Rudy's notice. His girlfriend left him when it became clear thahe could no longer support the life she had become accustomed to, financially. She clearly ws playing him for a fool, and he only realized it when he lost his job and she had moved out on the spot.

His problems didn't end there, unfortunately. He quickly found that she had drained his bank account before leaving him, rendering him unable to pay for his rent at his comfortable home, leaving him being peppered with eviction notices after the late notices stopped. He took up drinking during this period, as he looked for anher place and a job -- both were incredibly difficult, and nigh impossible in the position that he found himself in.

He was now homeless, alone, and promptly forgotten and quickly abandoned by those that, once upon a time, he counted as friends and allies. He had nothing to his name, a name no one cared about any longer. He had gone from a modicum of notoriety to the cold vacuum of anonymity. He was forced to take his home on the streets and inside dark alleyways. Forced to sleep inside cardboard boxes, and endure cold nights relying on his thick jacket and neophyte beard.

He found it humiliating and disgraceful to be homeless, and to live in this squalor. He hated having to dumpster-dive for food, the perceived abasement of poverty, and just how real survival became for him. Things he had always taken for granted, things that he never really thought about -- warm beds, showers every day, meals at a significant higher frequency than now, possessing a vehicle of his own, having a job to report to daily . . . all gone. Gone. Gone forever. He found this to be a mortifying shame to have nothing, knowing that he deserved more!

Even amongst the other homeless people, he was an outcast. He tried to keep his distance from them, almost as if he didn't see that he was just as dirty, scruffy, and scraggly in appearance, and his clothes were just as threadbare, worn, and torn as theirs. As such, this was reciprocated by them not allowing them to share their fires in steel drums, and they treated him with the hostility he showed them.

It wasn't fair. He hated his disheveled, unkempt appearance. He hated his situation, and the circumstances that had led him to it. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to be forgotten like this. It wasn't fair to be thrown aside like this. He was still a person, with the full range of emotions and rights that came with it. He still mattered . . .

He still mattered . . .

This is where it happened, near a seldom-used bridge over a trickle of water and an abandoned industrial park. The Hammer of Angrir came slamming down, obliterated the steel drum fire that several vagrants were clustered around, to get warm on this cold day. This impact slayed one of them, one of the poor souls forgotten by society, who was flung to upper part of concrete bank.

This was enough to send those homeless persons with enough good sense to recognize a bad thing when they see it. But one or two stuck around, enticed and enthralled by the Hammers aura, which reached out, searching for that who was Worthy of wielding about it. Neither of the vagrants that stuck around could lift it, despite trying very hard, before tiring themselves out. Though they were inclined to keep trying, they retreated when they realized that it might bring them more trouble an its worth, leaving the area abandoned.

Except for Rudy.

Rudy was thoroughly enthralled, and he acted upon it. He was never had good judgement to begin with, so there was nothing to stop him from approaching something that was clearly dangerous and one should keep their distance from. Rudy walked slowly, with a mild limp, as his health had been less than immaculate since his heavy fall from grace.

He reached out and slowly grasped the short shaft. With a mild jerk, he found that he could lifted with ease. Only he transformed into something with the skin of a Phalanx or a Galvanic Mechamorph. His personality was slowly subsumed, baring a small bit, a fragment, that remained lucid, until he became Angrir, Breaker of Souls.