Memoirs of a RAFian

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXVI (1,466): "[redacted]'s Friends" -- A lonely character gets some genuine friends.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:
Unnerved Victory

"Yeah, that's not happening," Cloak said, truly addressing Nul directly.

"Let go of my HAMMER!!!" she demanded furiously, still unable to move it from its hovering status.

"I cannot do that," Cloak said. Then, thinking what he said needed further clarification, said, "Well, I can, in the context of possessing the capability to do as you've demanded, but I know full well what you intend to do with it. And this? This I cannot allow. I'm more than a little fond of this planet, of this world."

 It was at this point that he locked eyes with Nul. She saw those amber, feline eyes seemingly radiate a power that seemed almost inconceivable to imagine. Meanwhile, Cloak saw her glowing eyes hiding the vacancy in them. Whoever Nul was before had clearly . . . "checked out", as GH would say.

"You can't do this!" she snarled like a wild beast. "What makes you think you have the right?!"

In stead of reacting with anger and pretentious posuring, Cloak countered easily, "And what makes you think that you have the right to destroy the Earth? What makes you think that you have the right to make such a decision unilaterally without any input from anyone else that lives on this planet?"

"Shut up!" she roared loudly. Cloak looked unimpressed. "Give me my Hammer back!!!"

Cloak hesitated as his mind concocted a plan. He quickly assessed and considered every permutation he could conceive of, so he could concoct an appropriate contingency for it. Cloak loved his contingencies.

"LEGGO MY HAMMER!!!" she screamed, sounding quite deranged and almost psychotic. But she wasn't anything like Galactron or Malice or Garrotik. She was dangerous, yes, but she was not within the same realm of dangerous foes the Elements Master has confronted. She started to repeat herself sounding like overgrown toddler who is really frustration.

"You want me to release you Hammer?" Cloak said, hiding a smile. He had an idea of how to resolve this, and it involved getting rid of the Hammer. Without the Hammer, Cloak reasoned, if it was like that other Realm, then Nul would cease to be.

She agreed, but not before hurling a whole wealth of verbal abuse his way. Honestly, after dealing with his mother, it was like someone throwing rocks after enduring cannon blasts. So, naturally, Cloak wasn't intimidated.

Cloak released the Hammer and she stumbled backward. Then she, as expected, wound up the Hammer to strike the ground again. Cloak, of course, wasn't going to allow it. When she began to swing down, Cloak caught it with his right hand. The impact didn't seem to bother him.

He had expected to use his Mastery over Metal to destroy the Hammer, but then something that he hadn't expected happened. He had caught the Hammer with his Marked hand, and the moment it made contact with it, it began to blister and fracture and fissure with bright white light.

"What's this?" he said aloud.

Then the Hammer vanished, destroyed, by this white light. Nul then immediately reverted back to Irma, who immediately broke down. She was melancholic, broken, and sadly pathetic. It rend Cloak's heart to see her like this, it was honestly heartbreaking. She stumbled away, muttering about wishing for death.

Cloak allowed her to go, wondering if it was within his power to help her. Then he turned his attention to his Mark and wondered if she was interfering again . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXVII (1,467): "Touch of Grief" -- A girl can see someone's deepest grief by skin-to-skin contact.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:
Let Us Adore You

Isaak Prince was sixteen, and he was being smothered.

Not physically, of course. His mother's two older sisters and his grandmother have been overly affectionate with him, when they lost his mother, Eudora, some time ago due to messy medical complications. His family had a net worth of $483 million, so he could live rather easily, and would want for nothing.

This could have easily made him into a brat, a spoiled, little rich kid who would throw childish tantrums when his entitled demands are met with refusal to comply or acquiesce. But that wasn't who he was -- it was what his mother, Eudora, was. His mother, like his aunts and grandmother tended to be rather . . . irredeemable. He didn't know much about their hamfisted tactics or iron grip on their respective markets, and he had decided that he was better off ignorant to it.

His grandmother, Christine Ross, usually wore a long translucent black dress that reaches the floor and has a slit up both sides to her thighs, had pointed shoulder pads. She also wore a cape with white and brown stripes that is lined with glimmering diamond and star designs, as well as a pair of intricately detailed dress sandals with high heels. She had long, acrylic nails painted white. She was about a head taller than his aunts, and towered over Isaak.

His younger aunt had long, straight, black hair which curled inward at the ends. Two noticeable and symmetrical locks of her hair curl and point inwards towards her face, just below her cheekbones. She had a long, ovoid face, a full upper lip, and a straight nose. She also possessed large, sad, downward-slanting eyes with bold mascara on the lower lashes, giving the appearance of a woman in deep mourning. She also had thin, arching eyebrows. She stood considerably taller than Isaak.

His elder aunt short, helmet-like hair and wore pale purple and pale purplish-red bodysuit, a purple coat with enormous shoulder pads, purple gloves, and pale purplish-red, high-heeled boots.

They sang to Isaak:

"Come live with us in the estate!
There's a room waiting for you!
Come on, come on, come on!
Just let us adore you!"

"Guys, you're smothering me," he said, "and you need to remember that I'm not my mother."

"Yes, we know that you're not her, but you were hers.
You know what it meant to love her, and you remind us so much of her . . ."

"Uh, thanks?" he said, obviously feeling uncomfortable. "But I really gotta go."

"But, Isaak!" the three women said, in rhythmic unison.

"I've disbanded my lobbyists! Liberated my employees!" said his elder aunt.

"I never fire. I never make anyone cry." said his younger aunt.

"I've said 'please' and 'thank you', even to peasants!" his grandmother insisted.

Isaak put on a disapproving glare, with folded arms, and said, "What did we discuss?"

"Ugh, equal people," she said, not really hiding her disgust at the idea. "Isaak, we've done everything you've asked!"

"That's great!" Isaak said, clearly trying to sound more reassuring and positive than he felt. "Good job! Keep it up!"

Then he opened the door and crossed the threshold, just saying, "Later!" over his shoulder before they could react.


SOURCE SONG: https://youtube.com/watch?v=_pA-OPaC72k (contains Steven Universe spoilers)

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXVIII (1,468): "Touch of War" -- A boy can see someone's deepest war-making desires by skin-to-skin contact.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:
Of Its Own Volition

Isaak was meeting with his father, which his aunts and grandmother didn't really care for. Not that they cared one one or the other about Isaak's father, Reggie Prince, but more the fact that he was going there, that he lived there, that he had life their outside their sphere. The only reason Isaak put up with them, really, was because he was trying to help out their employees, which they cruelly abused -- but legally abused (thanks to the three of them being key "donors" -- i.e. bribers and/or blackmailers -- to several high-profile politicians).

Hell, Isaak was sure they had illegal activities going on that he was neither privy to or had any concrete evidence of, as they were friends with several media outlet owners (which was not a lot of people, surprisingly enough). He, himself, found them irredeemable, but he was putting up with them long enough to exact real change and real reform for their employees and general underlings.

They were very draining to be around, especially as they tried to smother him with affection as they were very fond of his deceased mother -- and she wasn't a good person either. She was very self-important, pompous, and had a tendency to keep secrets and lie to those she would call friends. She was never entirely truthful. And she had a nasty habit of throwing people away, even if they adored her. Not to mention she always tried to escape responsibility . . .

It was at this point that he realized that he was not on the path to his dad's place. It was as if his feet had took him some place of their own accord. Once he regained his lucidity, he tried to turn away from the path and continue to the one to his dad's modest apartment. But he found he could not. Something was calling him, summoning him. And he felt some trepidation of fear, but he kept going towards it, despite wanting to turn away. He found that he could not.

And, yet, part of him was curious about what was calling to him, what was trying to entice him. But he felt more fear and apprehension than curiosity. He would be perfectly fine not finding out what it was, despite being curious. It was powerful, though. The draw was overpowering his willpower, which seemed to be ebbing at a remarkable rate.

Soon, he came to the abandoned quarry, where there was a hammer. It had a cylindrical head, and was glowing slightly. His fear and apprehension started to ebb away now. Any doubt he had was summarily buried by this attraction, this draw. He seemed unaware of everyone else around him as his right hand closed upon the handle. He was dimly aware that his body was still seemingly acting of its own accord, only to get worse when the Hammer was in hand.

The transformation was instantaneous. The lucid, independent part of Isaac was pushed into a corner of his own mind, losing all control over his body, voice, and autonomy. He raised the Hammer high, and declared, of the Hammer's volition, "I. AM. KUURTH!! BREAKER OF STONE!!!"

The lucid part of Isaac did not like this significant loss of autonomy. But his scope of doing anything about it was effectively reduced to nothing. Nothing. He was helpless. And helpless by his own hand. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXIX (1,469): "The Force of Speed" -- A nonsentient force of speed looks for a new host.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY:
Unreasonable

Kuurth began to break all the stones in the quarry, until they're broken to dust. Fortunately, the quarry was abandoned, and no casualties were risked. No real property damage was incurred. It was fortunate, but Kuurth wasn't satisfied. He was the Breaker of Stone, but stone doesn't resist, and breaks without a struggle. There was no resistance, usually.

Normally, Kuurth wouldn't mind this mundane sort of labor, but he had tasted Isaak's sense of something better, and wanted more. Wanted to be feared. Wanted to terrified. By Isaak hosting it, it had tasted ambition, tasted a desire for more. A desire for notoriety and prestige . . . aspects of Isaak himself he often tried to ignore about himself. Things Isaak didn't particularly like about himself.

But, because of Kuurth, the lucid part of Isaak had to face it in a most in-your-face that he rather not have had it. He could be very selfish, as his mother was, obsessed with a "happily ever after". Kuurth kind of threw it in his face, but in a horribly indirect manner.

"I want to break greater stone," Kuurth said, with a distorted version of his own voice. "I want screams. I want fear. I want . . ."

Isaak felt horribly used, and found that he really didn't like it. He almost wished that he wasn't lucid. He thought he would have been happier not knowing, not having these negative traits thrown in his face like this.

"Stop right there," said a voice, coming behind Kuurth and Isaak. "I cannot let you go any further . . . with that Hammer."

"You can't have it," Kuurth said, with a distorted version of Isaak's voice  "It's mine."

"I don't want to wield it," AniDragon said, succinctly and matter-of-fact. "I want to limit its damage output. It's an exceedingly dangerous artifact, like all the other ones. Too dangerous to wielded by anyone."

"This is MY hammer," Kuurth grunted, turning to face AniDragon. The grip on his Hammer tightened as did so. It would have been intimidating, had Isaak not been a sixteen-year-old kid and had AniDragon not been a RAFian. Meanwhile , the lucid part of Isaak wanted so much to relinquish the Hammer, regretting ever hoisting it up. He was just thankful that he didn't hurt anyone.

"It's dangerous," AniDragon insisted. She also insisted on trying to be reasonable, as the Kuurth influence insisted on being unreasonable. "You haven't hurt anyone . . . yet. You're fortunate in that regard, but if you keep going down this path, if you keep letting the Hammer influence you like this . . ."

"The Hammer has no influence over me," he said, which infuriated the lucid part of Isaak. As the lucid part of Isaak had no control nor could communicate nor could fight this Hammer influence called Kuurth.

"Clearly," AniDragon said, with a heavy sigh -- as she acknowledged things just got all that much harder, "the influence has a hold already. So, this is how it's gonna be. . . ."

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXX (1,470): "Touch of Compassion" -- A boy is able to someone's deepest compassionate act via skin-to-skin contact.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE:
Attempted Binding

"You can't stop me," said Kuurth, as Issak was silently raging within his own head. He wasn't liking this one bit, and regretting even touching the accursed Hammer. He just wanted to be free again, and his hopes of ever being so were realistically starting to dwindle and die. "I am the Breaker of Stone."

"I wouldn't count me out just yet, Mr. Stone-Breaker, " AniDragon said, rather uncharacteristicall y caustic. This was a compensation on her part, to counteract her fear. Kuurth didn't look as small and nonthreatening as Isaak did normally, despite being essentially made from Isaak's body and most of his mind. "I do have a way to stop you."

But she, secretly, was at a lost as to how to do it. She needed contact his chest and forehead in order to bind his powers. And she had no idea if that would even work, as her powers were not infallible. They were just lucky that every time she used them within the last two years had held -- this wasn't enough to make her complacent, though. After all, complacency often leads to arrogance, and arrogance often leads overconfidence or entitlement. She was intelligent enough to know this.

Kuurth gripped his Hammer tightly with both hands, in a threatening and dangerous manner. Making what AniDragon had to do all the more harder. She wasn't the strongest RAFian in terms of brute strength or wisest RAFian in terms of sheer intelligence, nor the most athletic, most acrobatic, or most cunning RAFian. But she has the indomitable spirit and will that all RAFians (well, except Kane) have.

"Don't dare oppose me," Kuurth said, looming over her -- or trying to. "You won't like the results."

"I cannot allow you to harm others," AniDragon said, correctly predicting his intent.

"What you can or cannot allow is of no concern of mine," Kuurth countered.

"I will not allow this," AniDragon repeated, doubling down on her conviction. "I cannot allow you to do this."

"That is of no concern of mine," Kuurth said, dismissively, doubling down as well.

Then, evidently tired of the mindless talking, he took the initiative and began his attack. AniDragon dodged his attacks, and it wasn't easy. This Hammer can break any stone, and she was far more fragile than stone. There was no way that she could get close enough for the amount of time she needed to bind his powers.

Kuurth swung his Hammer, and it would have connected with AniDragon. There was no way for her to dodge away, she was cornered. She instinctively held out her hand -- her Marked hand -- out as if to catch the Hammer. She never noticed that her Mark was glowing a blazing white, as she was in the process of wincing.

When the Hammer was moments away from impact, when it was but a few micrometers away from her Mark, it started to blister from the light of this Great Power. Blister and fissure. Then fragment and dissolve away, into nothingness. The Hammer was gone and Isaak gasped audibly, causing AniDragon to look round.

Isaak cried unabashedly, in pure elation and ecstasy that he had control over his body and mind once more. That he had autonomy and accountability of his actions once more. He was free of the curse of that Hammer, and looked at AniDragon, who's Mark's white glow had faded away as if it was never there.

Isaak promptly ran over AniDragon and gave her the biggest hug that he could muster. He felt immense gratitude towards her for this.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXI (1,471): "Touch of Lies" -- A boy can see the deepest lies that someone tells themselves by skin-to-skin contact.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO:
Ocean Vendetta

Maxwell Aleurites was the son of a fisherman and sailor, who he thought the absolute world of. He always greatly admired his father and learned as much as he could from him, and the two were e definition of inseparable, something that actually affectionately amused Mrs. Aleurites, in that she thought this was downright adorable, seeing her two men together, almost attached at the hip.

She subscribed to the belief that sons always have a special bond with their fathers, just as daughters have that bond with their mothers. Whenever she saw them together, she didn't hide the smile she had. It made her happy to see the two happy, and she knew she had chosen a good man for a husband and father. Everything was idyllic and ideal for the three.

She was an experimental cook, always willing to try out new recipes, which her son and husband always enjoyed, if only for the sheer novelty of it. She also knew the precise ways to comfort her men, and they her. It was the perfect happily-ever-after anyone could ask for.

Unfortunately, destiny decided not to continue this kindness.

It just so happens that both Maxwell and his father were on a simple fishing and sailing trip, and everything was going splendidly and according to plan (as much as fishing can go according to plan). Then they were blindsided by a sudden storm that violently churned the sea, tossing their little boat around like bullies stealing a toy from a smaller, weaker child. A lot happened in this flurry of action and terror.

Then blackness. All he remembered after that point was blackness.

He awoke some time later, washed up on a beach. His clothes were tattered and soaked through, so he must have washed up fairly recently. He was immediately taken to their small seaside home by his mother. But his father was nowhere to be seen, and he was assumed to be lost at sea. He was questioned mercilessly about it by those pseudo-journalists only interested in the story as "feel-good" story, despite it being nothing at all like a "feel-good" story. And their interest quickly faded when the next such incident happened, the two forgotten by society as a whole.

But Maxwell was angry. Not at these ambulance-chasing pseudo-journalists devoid of any moral or true compassion. Not at his mother, who tried her best to help her son come to terms with this while trying to reconcile this incident with herself. Not at his father, who's disappearance spelt significant financial woes to his wife and son. None of them were what his ire was directed at.

It was the ocean.

Yes, the ocean, as silly and nonsensical as it may sound. He irrationally felt like it was a sort of betrayal of trust, and this perceived betrayal by the ocean made the young man hate it. Hate it with a fiery passion for stealing his father away from him. Secreting away his body so that they couldn't give him a proper funeral. It was just not fair. The ocean betrayed him, in his view, so, in return, he wanted nothing to do with it anymore. He would not become a sailor. He would not become a fisherman. The ocean could not be trusted in any regard, in his distorted view.

But he did need a job. His mother has been doing everything to support the two of them, but it wasn't easy. It wasn't like they were tremendously wealthy to begin with. So he went to the nearby pier to see if their were any job listings. He needed to stop grieving and moping, and pull his weight with the bills.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXII (1,472): "Touch of Hope" -- A girl is able to see someone's deepest hopes by skin-to-skin contact.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE:
Hammer of Vengeance

The pier was encrusted with tourists -- an obnoxiously loud sort with an undue, uninhibited sense of entitlement, concerned only with themselves and their fellow tourists. Getting a job shouldn't be too hard, though he could already tell that, if he got a merchant job on this pier, that these overly-boisterous bands of clowns would be unbearable and intolerable to deal with, as all entitled people and choosy beggars tend to be. Put themselves and their families first and foremost, no matter how rude and unpleasant they make that job.

Maxwell felt about tourists just about how he felt about the ocean -- as he met far too many people of this ridiculous trope before. He believed at they had no respect for anything around them as they didn't live here and wouldn't have to pick up after themselves. The worst ones were the ones who clearly had a lot of money, that clearly had never worked an honest day in their lives, and looked down on the locals as if they were either garbage or "the help". He knew he would not enjoy dealing with these people, but he needed to support himself and his mother, as his father was no longer there to do it all for them, especially as Maxwell refused to sail or fish ever since that horrid day. . . .

But something happened that caused him to forget all about what he came to the pier to do. Something that actually caused the cowardly tourists to flee for their lives, which they clearly valued above others, given how much that they pushed and shoved to get out of the throng. They felt terror at the seeming meteor that was heading just outside the pier's radius, onto the beach. Roughly ten o'clock from Maxwell. It landed with an impact hard enough to knock Maxwell off his feet, but he easily returned to his upright position and went to see what landed . . . entranced and dazed by it, unaware that it was drawing him to it. That it was summoning him to it.

It was a hammer, looking similar to Mjolnir. Short staff, with a square head and two protrusions out the back as if someone was trying to craft Mjolnir into a claw hammer of a ridiculous size and power. And Maxwell found himself drawn to it, but he couldn't definitively say as to why he was. This set off alarm bells in his mind at only a small part of him acknowledged and wanted to look deeper into. No one else seemed to notice its call, but there some that seemed to be drawn to its power and nothing else.

Some who had managed to get there before him -- the disrespectful tourist types that Maxwell despised so thoroughly due to their intolerable entitlement and overblown sense of self-importance -- were attracted by the power the Hammer radiated, wanting it for their own, fully believing that they alone were worthy of the power and perceived prestige the item would give them.

The Hammer clearly disagreed, as none of them could heft it up. None of these flabby, pompous hexagenerians and quinquagenarians could lift the powerful artifact, no matter how they tried. There were some that tried to claim legal ownership of it, but these claims were shaky at best. The madness this small perceived promise of power had driven these horrid tourists to believe they had any justifiability or legal right of ownership. The Hammer wanted none of these tourists, and only Maxwell saw this, as it had been calling for him. He found himself already embracing the call. . . .

Maxwell grabbed the Hammer's handle. This caused one of the feuding pretentious quinquagenerians to disengage with the others of his lot and come over to scold Maxwell.

"Boy! BOY!" he shouted. It wasn't a genial sort of shout. It was the type of shout that would be followed up with an ugly, ethnic slur. " Get your greedy mitts off my hammer!"

"It's not your hammer," Maxwell said. His voice was colder and more distant than it had been to anyone. It was rather chilling.

"It is mine by divine right!" he called out, only to be ignored by the young vicenarian. This did not go over well with this uppity quinquagenarian. "Get your dirty mitts off it. I don't need you getting fingerprints all over it lowering the value, you --"

And there it was. The ethnic and racial slurs had been said. And, yet, Maxwell found himself not caring what one bigoted quinquagenarian thought of him, even when this piece of work decided to tell him how he thought someone like him could lift it when "better men" tried and failed. This time Maxwell deigned to answer the racist.

"The Hammer is mine," he said, his back to the racist quinquagenarian. "Because it has been calling for me. I am its Worthy."

"Don't lie to me, you filthy --" he began, moving like he was about to assault the young man . . . who hefted the Hammer up with no effort whatsoever.

"And," he said, his back still toward the tubby, balding man. "That is not my name. Neither is 'Boy'."

He turned to face the man, now clad in the gray armor the Hammer bestowed upon him. "I am Nerkkod."

The man quickly quailed at this sudden intimidating sight (the dark sky opening up with a torrent of rain and lightning, almost just for effect). He hurried to scramble away, as Maxwell announced to all present, "I am Nerkkod! Breaker of Oceans!!"

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXIII (1,473): "The Force of Strength" -- The RAFians must deal with the Strength Force.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR:
Why So Serious?

"I'm afraid that I don't understand your motivation," said a pleasant voice, directly behind him. He turned, and saw a seal upon a slab of ice that wasn't there before. The lucid part of Maxwell and Nerkkod were unified to the point that there didn't seem to be a distinction between them. "You declared yourself to be the breaker of oceans. I confess that I don't know why you would want to do such a thing."

Nerkkod looked around for the source of the voice, refusing to believe that it came from a seal. Everyone knew seals don't talk after all. He could not find a source, but it could not possibly be the seal. That would be ludicrous -- then again, the slab of ice wasn't there before. But . . . the fact of the matter was that seals don't . . . seals can't . . .

"What?" Horse said, in her flippant, irreverent manner, as Nerkkod's eyes rested upon her, witnessing her speak. "You've never seen a pinniped capable of speech before? Now, you never answered the question that I posed to you."

"You're a seal," Nerkkod said, with a distorted version of Maxwell's voice.

"Quick on the uptake, aren't you?" Horse said, glibly. "Yes, I'm a seal. And I'm speaking plainly to you -- and I'll ask again. Why do you want to break the oceans? It's kind of personal to me, as I swim in the ocean."

Nerkkod said nothing, clearly not willing to believe a seal was talking, and, frankly, it was none of its business why Maxwell despised the ocean so much. He just moved in front of Horse with a slow, menacing stride, but Horse was a RAFian. Confrontations with guys holding magical hammers of destruction? About your average Tuesday, for a RAFian. It takes a significant amount to intimidate a veteran RAFian, such as Horse.

Just before the hammer would have made contact, the ice slab melted instantly. It shunted to one side and solidified once more. Horse made a tsk-tsk-tsk sound -- which was astonishing, as seal don't usually made such vocalizations. "So, you're not above -- what amounts to -- clubbing poor, innocent seals? For shame!"

"Don't you ever shut up?" Nerkkod said, testily. The novelty of a talking animal had long sense worn off for him, and had become annoying to him.

"Rude," was Horse's rebuttal. But her being so talkative had an ulterior motive. If he was fixated on her, then he wouldn't be "breaking" the ocean -- however you're supposed to do that. "And unnecessarily harsh."

But then she had another idea, and she hoped she had enough power in her to make it work - - she knew that she probably wasn't the most powerful cryokinetic there was, but she wasn't by any means the weakest. She pulled the nearby ocean water and formed a minor ice labyrinth between the two, with the walls being more like a mirror than translucent. It was a massive undertaking, and took a fair bit of power on her part, but she managed it just the same.

Nerkkod just grunted in annoyance as his reply.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXIV (1,474): "Touch of Delusion" -- A boy can see a person's deepest delusions via skin-to-skin contact.
New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE:
Talking It Out

"I'm afraid that I don't understand your motivation," said a pleasant voice, directly behind him. He turned, and saw a seal upon a slab of ice that wasn't there before. The lucid part of Maxwell and Nerkkod were unified to the point that there didn't seem to be a distinction between them. "You declared yourself to be the breaker of oceans. I confess that I don't know why you would want to do such a thing."

Nerkkod looked around for the source of the voice, refusing to believe that it came from a seal. Everyone knew seals don't talk after all. He could not find a source, but it could not possibly be the seal. That would be ludicrous -- then again, the slab of ice wasn't there before. But . . . the fact of the matter was that seals don't . . . seals can't . . .

"What?" Horse said, in her flippant, irreverent manner, as Nerkkod's eyes rested upon her, witnessing her speak. "You've never seen a pinniped capable of speech before? Now, you never answered the question that I posed to you."

"You're a seal," Nerkkod said, with a distorted version of Maxwell's voice.

"Quick on the uptake, aren't you?" Horse said, glibly. "Yes, I'm a seal. And I'm speaking plainly to you -- and I'll ask again. Why do you want to break the oceans? It's kind of personal to me, as I swim in the ocean."

Nerkkod said nothing, clearly not willing to believe a seal was talking, and, frankly, it was none of its business why Maxwell despised the ocean so much. He just moved in front of Horse with a slow, menacing stride, but Horse was a RAFian. Confrontations with guys holding magical hammers of destruction? About your average Tuesday, for a RAFian. It takes a significant amount to intimidate a veteran RAFian, such as Horse.

Just before the hammer would have made contact, the ice slab melted instantly. It shunted to one side and solidified once more. Horse made a tsk-tsk-tsk sound -- which was astonishing, as seal don't usually made such vocalizations. "So, you're not above -- what amounts to -- clubbing poor, innocent seals? For shame!"

"Don't you ever shut up?" Nerkkod said, testily. The novelty of a talking animal had long sense worn off for him, and had become annoying to him.

"Rude," was Horse's rebuttal. But her being so talkative had an ulterior motive. If he was fixated on her, then he wouldn't be "breaking" the ocean -- however you're supposed to do that. "And unnecessarily harsh."

But then she had another idea, and she hoped she had enough power in her to make it work - - she knew that she probably wasn't the most powerful cryokinetic there was, but she wasn't by any means the weakest. She pulled the nearby ocean water and formed a minor ice labyrinth between the two, with the walls being more like a mirror than translucent. It was a massive undertaking, and took a fair bit of power on her part, but she managed it just the same.

Nerkkod just grunted in annoyance as his reply. Maxwell was never too fond of mazes of any sort, and couldn't fathom how anyone would find such distractions enjoyable. So the same translated to Nerkkod. Looking around, he saw the walls just reflecting his image back at him, and the area around him. There was no way to see past the reflections.

"So," said the talking seal conversationally, "care to explain why you hate the ocean so much?"

And now Maxwell and Nerkkod were truly miffed. Here they were stuck in a three-dimensional ice labyrinth -- with a stupid talking seal trying to inexpertly psychoanalyze them. The indignity of it. The unmitigated gall, the sheer arrogance, and the unbearable complacency the tiny pinniped had! Did she not know who he was? Did she not realize that he had other matters to attend to other than being cajoled by silly seal into "talking things out"?

"Perhaps I can just take a guess?" she said, still sight unseen.

Maxwell did not want to talk things out, especially with a seal stranger. Nor did he ever have any intention to. He was fine. Why did everyone insist he need some sort of psychological evaluation? Even his mother had betrayed him on this stance. He was FINE. He didn't need therapy. He didn't need a grief councillor. HE. WAS. FINE!

"Surfing accident?" Horse suggested, before dismissing the idea. "Perhaps a shark bite? But you look fine and unmarred, so that can't be it."

Maxwell/Nerkkod, thinking as one, acting as one, tightened their grip upon their Hammer, anger beginning to permeate their whole being. It was a toxic sort of anger that would leave you hollow and apathetic after it burned out. It was the type of anger that always invariably led to violence.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXV (1,475): "Touch of Potential" -- A girl is able to see someone's truest, fullest potential via skin-to-skin contact.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX:
Raging Refusal

He allowed this anger to continue to fester within him. Allowed it to decay him and burn him from the inside. This type of coping mechanism is highly inadvisable to remain a healthy, well-adjusted individual.

"Perhaps you lost a love one in the ocean?" the stupid seal prattled on, as Maxwell's rage was finally built to its zenith at the last word she spoke. His grip on his Hammer tightened, which reminded Maxwell/Nerkkod what hammers typically are meant to do.

He ****ed his hands over his head and poured all his power, all his rage into the blow, and stuck the ice wall. It didn't destroy the labrinyth, but took out a significant chunk of it. And, yet, his anger had not and would not abate. It was a wonder why he hadn't attracted the attention of a Red Lantern ring.

"Okay," Horse said, oddly calm. "So we narrowed it down to that."

"DO YOU EVER SHUT UP?!" Maxwell/ Nerkkod roared as one.

"That's still rude," Horse chided, but continued to psychoanalyze Maxwell. The more she talked, the more she distracted Nerkkod from causing irreparable damage to the oceans.

"I DON'T REALLY CARE!!" he shouted. Although he used more expletives, peppered here and there, that was the general message. He was really angry -- and when one is that angry, they tend to not notice all the important little nuances. Their minds tend to close off to all but the object of their ire, even if their wrath is misdirected.

He was breathing angrily, becoming single-minded in his endeavor to hurt this seal who dared to psychoanalyze him. She had become the object of his rage, rather than the ocean. This had been Horse's plan, but she had misjudged the young man's rage. It wouldn't burn out into apathy for a while.

He began to thrash about, lashing out with his hammer like a petulant toddler throwing a tantrum. He didn't care how it looked, he wanted that seal. He wanted her dead. Because how dare she! How dare she try to psychoanalyze him like this! She didn't even know him! She didn't even know what he's been through! She had no right! SHE! HAD! NO! RIGHT!!

He kept destroying the labyrinth until he saw her, until he found her. Hiding away from him. Like the coward she was! She should come out and fight like a man! He continued this line of thinking before his rage just made it incomprehensible and indecipherable.

Then he saw her. That pretentious, pernicious pinniped! He found that he hated her with every fiber of his being, almost as if he blamed her for his father's disappearance, and apparent death, despite the obvious fact that she had nothing nothing to do with it. He had lost all rationality in his anger.

With a roar, he charged forward, intending on clubbing the seal to death. And he decided right then and there that he was going to enjoy it. He was going to take malicious enjoyment out of it, and savor the memory.

Only to receive a shock when his feet refused to move under his own power. Then his ankles stopped responding. Then his calves and shins wouldn't move. Then his knees and thighs remained infuriatingly immobile. Then everything beneath his neck was immobile. It was then that he realized that he was frozen in ice, unable to so much as wiggle his fingers.

Horse was there, by the head of the Hammer, and he couldn't move to swing it, to bring it down upon her. Didn't mean he didn't try, though.

"Kid," Horse said, unaware of his Mark glowing white, as she put her left flipper on the head of the Hammer. "Kid, this needs to stop."

Horse ignored the string of of vulgarities and obscenities that he threw liberally her way. They were just from a very angry young man with no constructive outlet for it, a young man angry at the unfair hand life dealt to him. She was being far more understanding than she probably should be, seemingly impervious to his verbal abuse.

It took her a moment before she realized the Hammer was fracturing with deep fissures. The blessing of the Great Power destroyed the Hammer as it had destroyed the Hammer's brethren. The Hammer of Nerkkod was forever gone and Maxwell was none too pleased about it, and didn't hesitate to inform Horse just what he thought of her, fitting an astonishing amount of expletives within a single statement.

Horse said nothing, but left in the ocean. The ice was gone by the time she was out of sight. Maxwell was still quite incensed and livid. But he was also powerless.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXVI (1,476): "Force of Sage-ness and Stillness" -- The RAFians must deal with the Sage Force and Still Force.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN:
Won't Let It Go

Rotiart was still fuming. After all these weeks, he was still fuming in his anger at the RAFians. His ire at them had not wavered or diminished in the least. All he had to do was look at his horrid, scarred visage in any mirror (hoping none would outright crack at his hideousness) to see what they did to him. He would habe died if not . . . if not . . .

He pushed that particular thought away. It was uncomfortable to dwell on that thought for any extended period of time. He didn't enjoy thinking about it, and why should he dwell upon it? Thoughts of revenge were enough to fill his mind and satiate his desires, apparently unaware how paths toward revenge never end all that well. The results, one way or the other, always have an inexplicable consequence of making the seeker feel hollow and unfulfilled in some small, but significant, manner.

If he was aware of this, he never showed it or ever seem to even consider it. He lusted for vengeance, even in the most vague definitions of the word. It consumed his thoughts, to make him hard-done-by and offended and wronged. He refused to let these hard feelings go. He would not let them go.

They left him for dead. They left him for dead. There is no forgiveness for that. None.

This anger, this hurt, this pain in his heart . . . he honestly thought he could trust these people. He legitimately believed this, whole cloth and wholeheartedly. He rejected any evidence to the contrary as lies and gaslighting. He wouldn't allow them to deceive him with their lies. He would not be fooled so easily.

He just needed to collect more DNA samples to complete his little pet project, one of which he managed to keep low-key, beneath their notice. The little device he was constructing would be perfect for taking them all down. The Realm Walker and star would be difficult, but there may be ways to get them to bend a knee to him . . .

He just had to continue to fly under their radar -- he had a bodysuit in his old likeness that he could wear to hide his scars, to help with this. His scars would make him stand out too much in public. Granted, he made sure the suit removed some blemishes that he was unhappy with.

He wore this to collect some more DNA samples when he saw something land with a powerful impact, roughly five o'clock from him. He felt the power emanating from that direction. It flowed through him . . . made him find it attractive . . . drew him to whatever made the impact . . . it was calling him . . . calling to him . . .

He seemed to cross the land with astonishing rapidity. He felt a powerful desire to possess whatever this item was. He had no idea what it was until he was within view of it. It looked like a hammer with a head like a hand bell (the sort of bell that bellringers at the Salvation Army and such ring during the holidays), attached by the bell "handle" to a short shaft with a hand guard directly beneath the head. It was an odd design for a Hammer, to be sure.

But Rotiart knew one thing. It would be his. And his alone.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXVII (1,477): "Touch of Love" -- A girl can see someone's deepest, truest love via skin-to-skin contact.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT:
Crossed the Line

As he was approaching the Hammer, he heard someone call out his name.

"Rotiart! Rotiart, wait!"

He ignored it and continued to go for the Hammer. His Hammer. Then the voice called out again, ringing across the forest they were in, across from a mouldering old tower.

"Rotiart!"

Rotiart stopped to see the voice belonged to Sakki. Sakki was truly aggrieved about how she treated Rotiart. Was it harsh? Yes. Was it really necessary to be so rough to him when he was so lazy? Perhaps less so. But she never meant any true malice behind it. She was frustrated with him, true enough, but she didn't wish what happened to him to happen to him.

Rotiart, in return, gave her an extremely soured expression, which deepened when Sakki started to sing to him:

"This has to stop now.
Whatever it is that you're going through,
We'll fix it together - us and you,
Just like we've always done."

Rotiart was angered at what was, in his view, an attempt to gaslight him. He deftly countered with equal, if not more, passion:

"No! This has to stop now!
This thing where you think that you've been my friend,
And don't even hear how you condescend!
The way you've always done!"

Sakki tried again:

"Rotiart, listen --"

Rotiart lost none of his hostility:

"I'm listening."

Sakki tried again:

"I know it isn't true."

Rotiart was still aggressive.

"Isn't it?!"

Sakki tried to coax empathy from Rotiart:

"Just look into my eyes now."

Rotiart was still unreceptive.

"Well?!"

Sakki tried to be persuasive.

"I know you feel it, too."

Rotiart was growing angrier.

"You knew! You knew!"

"Rotiart, listen . . ."

"I'm listening."

"I swear it's not too late.
So, before another line gets crossed,
And everything we've had is lost,
Just wait . . ."

Rotiart's anger spiked. "Wait?!"

Rotiart was filled with a toxic mixture of rage and disgust. It was to the brim, nearing overflow.

"No, I won't wait."

Then he made a mad dash for the Hammer, throwing dirt in Sakki's face, while singing aloud:

"There's a line between the winners and the losers.
There's a line between the chosen and the rest.
And I've done the best I could,
But I've always known just where we stood.
Me, here with the luck-less.
Them, there with the blessed."

He was nearing the Hammer with Sakki finally overcoming her shock at Rotiart's attack. Sakki began to follow Rotiart -- but there were more obstacles in her path than his.

Rotiart sang:

"And that line between the beggars and the choosers
Is a line they never let me quite ignore.
How I've tried to jump that great divide!
But I've never got the chances they were given.
They don't know how much I've been denied!
Well, I'm done being patient anymore."

Rotiart was within reach of the Hammer's shaft, singing:

"I've crossed that line!
And I'm done holding back
So look out, clear the track, it's my turn!
I'm taking what's mine
Every drop, every smidge,
If I've burned a bridge,
Let it burn!
But I've crossed that line . . ."

His hand was about to close over the Hammer's shaft.

"As for you lot, we're over, and that's fine!
I've crossed that line."

With that, Rotiart grasped the Hammer and became Skadi, Herald of Singularity.


SOURCE SONG: https://youtube.com/watch?v=iaHBg8E1o00

[Cloak]

Sorry about the delay. Been distracted by Pokemon Shield, work, and general life things.

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXVIII (1,478): "Too Late" -- The RAFians are too late. . . .

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE:
Holding Back

"Rotiart, I'm sorry what happened," Sakki said. She was being genuine about her apology, but Rotiart/Skadi wasn't having it. Still, she tried. "I didn't know about . . . I didn't know. That doesn't excuse my actions, I know. Perhaps I was unduly harsh and cruel to you . . . what I mistook as laziness could have been something . . . else. Rotiart, when I thought you died --"

"Rotiart is gone," he said, cold and stoic. "I am now the Herald of the Twelve-Into-One, the Singularity. I am now the Herald of the Singularity. I. AM. SKADI!!!"

With the last three words, he charged forward and begun his attack, Rotiart's rage, hatred, and feelings of betrayal fueling Skadi's power and furious flurry of strikes. Rotiart and Skadi did not seem divested from each other as most of their other Hammer wielders were. They seemed to have merged into one coherent being, with the identical goals and methods.

"Rotiart, listen," Sakki said, holding back, just dodging his attacks. Had she not possessed her RAFian training, she would not have been able to dodge so efficiently. The Hammer clearly had enough force to cause significant damage. "You have to let go of your anger, it's clouding --"

Skadi's next blow missed her by a fraction of an inch. She felt the slipstream of the Hammer by her left ear. This was his response to what she said. He would not let this slight, this insult, this BETRAYAL be forgotten. He would not let it be ignored. He found the fact that Sakki was coaxing to allow this betrayal to stand, unpunished, and be forgotten -- that was another offense, as for as he was concerned.

He swung, and, he did so, he said, "I am Skadi! Herald of the Singularity!"

"Singularity?"

"The Twelve-in-One, the Gestalt Lord, the Great Master of All Things," Skadi said, and Sakki knew that Rotiart's mind must be being warped and manipulated by the hammer to talk about someone he's clearly never met with such immediate reverence and undying devotion. "The Singularity's will shall be done!"

It was the Hammer. It had to be. It had a hold over Rotiart, that not even he seemed to realize it had. But Sakki continued to play defense because she didn't want to harm Rotiart. He's been hurt too much already . . . and Sakki, despite trying to assuage her burdening guilt, felt responsible for it.

"Rotiart, listen," she said again, trying to reason with him once more, despite knowing the chance of it working being effectively nil at this point. "That Hammer has twisted your perspective, twisted your mind --"

"Be silent," he said, with an almost casual swing of the Hammer, which Sakki easily sidestepped. Rotiart, in combat, always telegraphed his attacks and intentions way too much. He had obvious tells, and it's one reason he was so abysmal in combat.

She decided that she would have to be more proactive in her approach, and stop playing on the defensive and trying to cajole Rotiart to see reason. She will have to go on the attack, but she would pull her punches. She still didn't want to hurt him, despite him really wanting to hurt her and the rest of the RAFians.

In her mind, all she had to was separate him from the Hammer, and his wits would return to him. He was this way because he was hurt, because he felt betrayed . . . and her harshness towards him before . . . before the Wesen thing -- well, it couldn't have help matters any.

She dodged another strike, and gave a sharp, shrill whistle toward the Hammer. Fortunately, Rotiart/Skadi couldn't react in time to defend against the tight-focused acoustic attack. It hit his hand -- the one wielding the Hammer -- forcing his grip to loosen upon the Hammer, and causing it to plummet to the ground.

Sakki was dismayed with what happened next, or the lack of what she had expected.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXIX (1,479): "Lifestyle Choices" -- The RAFians discover a group of humans and Yeerks who have a roulette system between them, to which all parties are consenting.

New chapter.

CHAPTER FORTY:
Misunderstanding and Understanding

Simply being separated from the Hammer was not sufficient to reverse the effects, the hold it had over Rotiart. He simply summoned the evil thing back to his hand with but the most minute of gestures. The solution became clear to Sakki in this one moment.

"Waste of an attack," Skadi sneered, clutching his Hammer with that death grip again.

The Hammer had to go. Completely go. It had be destroyed as if it were a Horcrux, so definitely that it couldn't be magically repaired. As she dodged blow after blow, thankful for the agility to do so, she made the uneasy realization that she couldn't hold back. She had to use her sonics to their full potential.

But part of her still resisted this. Rotiart already blamed them for leaving him for dead (and, to be fair, they had thought he was already dead and thought there was nothing more we could do for him). Going full force might just add more fuel to that fire. Vendettas often don't take reason and objectivity into account. Reason and objectivity often don't soothe the vicious wounds that feelings of being wronged and being betrayed often leave in their wake.

She decided to try reason one final time. "Rotiart, it doesn't have to be this way."

"I. AM. SKADI!" he roared, as he charged forward, taking a leaping overhead strike. Sakki managed to sidestep this attack, but she still felt the slipstream and impact of the blow in a indirect manner. It was enough to knock her off her feet, landing hard on the concrete. She wasn't injured, unless you count her ego. "I shall pave the way for the Singularity, by killing all those who will stand in his way."

"Rotiart --" Sakki said, unable to hide her disappointment and reluctance. "Rotiart, I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apologies!" he roared. "You can't apologize for what you and the RAFians have done!!"

"I wasn't apologizing for what I've done," Sakki said, with a heaviness that she'd rather do without. "But for what I'm about to do."

This actually stymied him. He held his Hammer between himself and Sakki, who knew what she had to do. She wouldn't kill Rotiart, but the Hammer. The Hammer was the catalyst of this battle, though not for the hard feelings Rotiart had towards her and the other RAFians. Though she still thought it was a bit of an unfair judgement, she could see how he came to his determination. And she could could see he came to his conclusion based out of emotion, not rationality. There was nothing she could do about that -- only Rotiart could, and he's already made up his mind to hate her and the other RAFians. No amount of dissuading would change that.

"What do you --"

Sakki unfolded her mouth, to maximize her sonics, and screamed. She remained unaware as she screamed, that her color palette became bleached and white scale. Her eyes were closed, aiming for the Hammer, well aware how Rotiart will take it. But she had to stop him. From both killing her and becoming a danger to innocent civilians. She had no other choice.

She kept her eyes closed, so she did not see how her sonic scream fracture the Hammer. She did not bear witness as these fractures deepened into fissures, casting off shrapnel shards. It wasn't long thereafter that the Hammer was obliterated and the Great Power left her, with her still unaware that it empowered her in the first place.

Rotiart was reverted back to normal, into his red and black, scarred form. He retained all knowledge of his actions as Skadi. But he was now apoplectic again, furious with Sakki. She was aware of this consequence, and had already accepted it, as it had to be done. It was the lesser of the two evils. But she wasn't happy about it.

"You tried to kill me!" he accused angrily, jabbing a finger at Sakki. "You nearly succeeded! You tried to kill me! Leaving me for dead wasn't enough, was it?!"

Sakki stood, with three-quarters of her back to him. She didn't look at him. She didn't defend herself. She saw how futile it was trying to reason with him, especially as he was determined to be furious with them all. Nothing she would or could say would change his mind. He had made his mind up that she and the other RAFians were evil incarnate. It would be a pointless exchange, a waste of energy and emotion at this point.

Rotiart took Sakki's apathetic silence as tacit confirmation of his accusations and said as much, before he stormed away. Sakki felt sorrow for how far Rotiart had fallen, and knowing that she had played a part, however tangential, in it.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDLXXX (1,480): "He's the Box Ghost!" -- A "box ghost" steals several boxes from Pandora's domain.

New chapter.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE:
Follow-Up

With the last of the Hammers taken care of, now it fell to the RAFians to clean up the mess that each one had wrought. It was not as simple as one may of assumed it would be. No lives were lost, but some were severely injured or would just simply never be the same again. There was nothing they could do about that -- Kelly could only heal physical damage. Psychological and mental damages were beyond the scope of her healing ability. Everyone had their limits, and the RAFians were no exception.

Soon, the RAFians were gathered around being debriefed upon the whole situation. No one knew what these Hammers were or where they came from. This little fact caused Cloak a great deal of unease. He was accustomed to having some answers, if not all of them, due to his knowledge of other realms. In fact, that's precisely how he knew breathbending, bloodbending, and Earthsight (Metalsight just basically being Earthsight applied to metallic surfaces) were a thing, and applications of his powers -- he discovered what he calls "mechbending" all on his own. Cloak had no idea how to lessen is nauseating feeling of anxious unease.

The more he tried to think of other things, the less thought he tried to give the issue, the more it disobligingly popped up, like an uninvited and unwelcomed guest who remains oblivious that their hasty departure was heavily desirous. It weighed upon him, and he didn't know why.

Then he heard Sakki talking about what Rotiart, as Skadi, was saying. Something about someone named "Singularity", but she hadn't a clue who that could be. Cloak nearly dropped the box he was carrying (he was helping Kelly and Goom move some of their infirmary stock around so it wasn't sitting in the middle of the floor). Cloak had an inkling of who Singularity was as his mind flashed back to the dream he had from what seemed to be an eternity ago. The one where he interacted with the Twelve. . . .

No. No, they were long dead. There was no way that they could have survived until -- the inconvenient thought of Cataclysm popped into his head. He was an ancient Realm Walker that survived millennia (and that was in Realm Walker years) somehow. Until Cloak was left with no option but to . . . to kill him. But the Twelve couldn't possibility have survived and become this "Singularity", right? It was a farce, a . . . figment of his imagination.

After he dropped off this last box, he bid farewell to Goom and Kelly, and it was only then that he realized that he was trembling slightly. He clenched his fist and stopped, wondering why he felt scared. Yes, scared. There was no denying it. It would be blatant foolishness to deny it.

But he couldn't fathom why. The name 'Singularity' doesn't necessitate a Realm Walker name. It could be a nomme de plume assumed by a Dweller of some sort. And, even if it was the name (chosen or given) of a Realm Walker, that didn't mean that they were necessary related in any way to the Twelve. He was being ridiculous. The name of Singularity meant nothing. Nothing.

He released he was breathing shallowly. He was feeling true fear. He entered his thread, desiring to be alone. Deep down, he knew why he was feeling so terrified. When Ab had the abilities of the Twelve . . . he very nearly killed Cloak. He was at the precipice of death . . . had he not gone down the Epiphany Road, he would have very likely been carried off into oblivion. He didn't tell anyone this, preferring to keep it to himself. This was probably foolish, and Cloak was dimly aware of it.

He just wanted to avoid awkward conversations. He just wanted to avoid perceptions that . . . that he was overreacting to something that's probably nothing. He was probably just making a big deal about nothing . . .