Frigidus Castle (CVnU location)

I volunteer as tribute!

No, but really, a prison break-in sounds fun.

@antonia: It kind of does, doesn't it?

@lena_dante: @antonia: "Come into my web," said the spider to the lovely little flies.

@inner_demon: Then the freaky ass house centipede came along and ate the spider before it could make a move.

@antonia: Those things are disgusting. I keep a special hammer around, specifically for crushing them.

An advanced human space vessel from Girand industries requests permission to dock.

@dexter_girand: "Long as you can fit on the helipad, permission granted."

@beremud: @dexter_girand:

"Have you checked their clearance, sir?" Sgt. Klaus blinked her eyes tightly, a slight 'tic' of the woman when she became anxious. She always tended to be worried about visitors that she didn't know before hand, and her own knowledge of Girand Industries and its benefactor was extremely limited -- a need to know basis. Despite being clever, despite having a not-insignificant rank, Nina was a soldier, not an officer.

That self-assessment, however, did little justice as to exactly how impressive a soldier Nina Klaus was. Even now she was armed to the teeth and fully armored, always prepared for something, ready to fight back against some kind of invasion or takeover or infiltration. Metahumans couldn't be trusted. Even Gunther Beremud himself could be a mutant in disguise, and Nina wouldn't know until he attacked. She'd just have to hope that whatever mutie tried to take her out didn't have as quick a sword-arm as the Pale Pixie did.

@beremud: @dexter_girand:

"Be at ease, Sergeant." Gunther sat back at his desk, watching the ship's approach on CCTV. "If they're trying to pull something, they won't make it out of here; the automated turrets are equipped with ammunition that's designed to punch through heavy armor, and if they're shielded, well, that's what they make EMP's for."

@dexter_girand: @beremud:

The short, pale commando simply nodded, setting her hands behind her back and inhaling, saying no more. Beremud was in charge, what he said went. Simple as that.

I wanna blow this place up

@ren_: Mmm...I want you to try.

@nina_klaus: @beremud: The ship docked as Kameo and a lady with orange hair walked out of it

@kameo: @nina_klaus:

Gunther turned to his tense associate. "Sergeant, will you be a dear and greet our guests? Take Ana with you. If they wish to meet with me they are more than welcome to; escort them to the dining room and we can all become friends over lunch."

The arrival of the Lord of Frigidus Castle was an event that was, by his own instruction, without ceremony. A handful of all-terrain vehicles pulled up to the private entrance, and Gunther Beremud stepped out of one of them, leaving his handful of attendants to their own devices as he strode into his family's ancestral home, shrugging out of the cold weather gear that was necessary in this part of the Alps and heading directly for his personal quarters.

His arrival was without ceremony, but it was not without expectations; his staff was well-trained and well-paid, and he would find his quarters prepared for him, with a hot bath drawn and a bottle of one of his favorite vintages waiting for him, with dinner soon to follow. Things had gotten a little too hot, back in the States. This was not unexpected, but Gunther wasn't some caped metahuman or inspiring public figure, and he felt no need to be anywhere near the front lines, regardless of his investment. Events had been set into motion, and he could monitor and direct them as well from here as he could anywhere.

The tiny crystal pendant that he wore beneath his clothing hummed, something that would be unnoticeable to anyone else but always sent an involuntary chill down his spine. Almost reflexively, he lifted a hand to his chest, and thought very deliberately, confident that the being who used the crystal to communicate with him more effectively would receive his thoughts.

"Yes master, all is proceeding as you have instructed..."

Crimson Guards :O

@last_arashikage: They're just far too slick a look to not be used for something. ;)

At the top of the castle's tallest tower, Elsa Beremud sat at a cramped, rather pedestrian desk, for one of her financial stature. The guards had been instructed that she was not to be disturbed for any reason, so now she was surrounded only by the hum of some of the most advanced computing and radio equipment to be found on the planet. A large pair of noise-canceling headphones encased her ears, and she spoke into a small microphone, her voice being transmitted by the powerful radio dishes scattered about the castle's upper levels and even embedded in some of the surrounding mountain peaks.

"No, the meddler has not yet reappeared. His unexplained absence is vexing, but I will not delay the operation; if he should return to make himself a nuisance again, we will be ready for him. The first batch of infiltrator units are nearly prepared. I may require additional support in Gothic City; other crusaders have arisen where the meddler has vanished. No, none of them have moved directly against our interests yet, but it is only a matter of time. When that time comes, we should have contingencies already in place..."

@the_ghostshell:

She descended into the castle's depths, past row after row of reinforced, stainless steel doors locked with optical scanning technology. Fairly advanced technology, at least insofar as what was available to her here...for now. She stopped before one of them, allowing the scanner to do its work, and the door slid open with a faint hissing sound, allowing her entry.

Inside the room, which was little more than a confined cell, was a man. Titanium shackles connected his wrists to each side wall, his waist to the back wall, his ankles to the floor, and his neck to the ceiling. They gave him enough freedom of movement to reach the cot, chair, and toilet, all of which were firmly welded to the floors, but would not allow him to reach either the cell door or the addition chair that had been welded to the floor right next to it. Despite the excessive confinement, he had been well-fed and his injuries attended to with advanced medical techniques that had been developed by the Alaric Foundation's research...or so she had led the board of directors to believe. After all, while a prisoner who was half-crazed by hunger and infected wounds might be very forthcoming, what they shared would have been suspect, at best.

Elsa seated herself in the chair by the door and simply gazed at the man for a few short moments. "I have to admit," she finally began, in her voice that came across as velvet-coated steel, "that your actions have me more than little puzzled, and I have seen some truly bizarre human behavior, of late."

@beremud:

He smirked, chuckled and restrictively stretched his body, for as much as his confinement would allow anyway. "I'd imagine you'd be used to men leaving you in a puzzled state of confusion." Sniping at billion dollar princess with a Chauvinistic shot across her bow. Spitting on the floor before looking to the ceiling and loudly grumbling. Seclusion and imprisonment haven deprived his sense of stimulation to the point of fatigued boredom.

"Whatya want daddy's girl? Why you keeping me around? You want something...you keep me fed and patched me up so that rules out a pound of flesh. What crazybitch ass thing you got cooking in that bleached blonde head of yours. huh?"

@phantomshell:

Her gaze narrowed as she glanced disdainfully down at the spittle on the floor, before returning returning it to the defiant one in front of him. Perhaps delirium is simply an intractable condition of humanity.

"Really." It wasn't a question. "I expected far better from the architect of that attack, not juvenile taunts. Yes, I do want something, but you aren't in any position to be questioning it. So why did you take it upon yourself to so efficiently reduce my clientele, hm? Not a fan of competitive martial arts?"

@beremud:

With a slight chuckle his laughter bled into the clanking of his chains. "What can I say, I'm impulsive I guess." he arrogantly placated. Unwilling to reveal any sense of true motive behind his destructive actions yet unable to resist a chance to further prod the unsung queen of Gothic's corporate consortium of corruption. "Tell ya what. Whatya say ya let me go, I'll go home and sleep on it and get right back to you with a proper answer" flashing a passive grin of unusual enjoyment. Real or fabricated, the unbroken Strix continued to impose his dismissive provocation upon his would be inquisitor. Harboring a silent hatred for her criminal composure, the stoicism many villains like herself now expressed in their attempts to promote their emotional control.

I need to visit soon.

@valerie_huntington: Agreed. ;)

@phantomshell:

"And what makes you think that I didn't intend to release you from the beginning?" She leaned back, crossing her arms. "After all, if I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead. No, I don't think you're impulsive at all. You attacked my complex for very deliberate reasons, and I'm here to indulge my own curiosity concerning whether our interests coincide."

She leaned forward, her gaze growing steadily more intense as each word was spoken. "Or do you assume that I am some wealth-obsessed criminal overlord, like all the rest that infest this sorry world?"

@beremud:

Subtle but conscious facial alterations transformed between one theatrical expression to another. "What is this? I tell you my motivations and you what...just let me go if the answer intrigues you? Indulge your curiosity...interests coincide" inadvertently interrupting his own retort with a bit of laughter, "I hate to break it to you hun but only villains talk like that. 'specially in this city. But it aint villains that infest this World, or even the ones who make it sorry. Nah, its the mutants and metas. The same kind your federation panders too. Elevates and promote for public consumption. The X-gene is the real villain. I was just the only 'hero' in this town willing to make a move."Pausing to show his shackled wrists "But this is what playin hero gets ya. This, or the grave. Like they did my brother."

@phantomshell:

Ah, there we are.

A genetic purist, then. She'd encountered the type before: self-righteous crusaders terrified of the slightest genetic variance in their own species. It was entertaining, really, the way such individuals rationalized their own terror of evolutionary obsolescence using, if not religion, at least religious thinking, a form of zealotry that made them willing to commit acts of mass murder in an effort to forestall a natural force that was as inexorable as time itself. After all, she mused, allowed herself a smirk, there was really only one way to prevent a species from continuing to evolve.

"So that's what you make of me, then," she replied. "A...'bleeding heart,' I believe the term is? Someone blinded by misguided compassion and enabling abominations that are sullying the pristine gene pool of humanity?"

She stood, straightening herself to an almost military degree, folding her arms behind her. "I suppose I should be complimented, as that is exactly the kind of image I was assigned to adapt, here. "You give your own species far too much credit, human. I'm not interested in what ultimately dominates your DNA; my goals go far beyond that, and you don't even figure into the end game."

With that, although she remained still, her form shifted and realigned itself, ever so briefly, giving him the barest glimpse of something that was clearly neither human nor metahuman.

Wait, so was the father one as well?

@rosso: Anyone could be one!>;)

SKRULLZ!

@beremud:

"I'll say one thing...thats one of the better auspicious monologues I've been forced to digest. Give ya that much." he didnt care or even really put much thought into her - it's, specific categorization. Mutant, meta, extraterrestrial, they were all the same thing and her latest speech had only fortified his beliefs.

"Everytime I hear one of you self-aggrandized types spit about end games I wanna slit my wrists. Twice even. F*^& your end game and 16 end games that look jus like it." Annoyed, more so by his situation and the unsettling fact that he had been captured, Ishmael grimaced with slow agony while trying to maintain a steely facade.

His muscles aching and his posture corrupted by confinement, the Phantomshell never the less refused to submit. Visually, emotionally, or otherwise. "So now what Green Genes? I suspect you didnt go on and show me your morning face without a good reason did ya?"

@phantomshell:

She sighed, inwardly. It shouldn't be surprising, really; her experience with species who had not yet managed to spread beyond their own home atmosphere had been largely consistent: most of them suffered from an understandably limited perspective, and this had a similar impact upon their ambitions.

"You're still not thinking clearly," she chided. "Did you suffer some kind of head injury during your capture that I need to have treated? Of course I have reasons for showing you this, the first being that I'm not concerned with your discretion. Shout my true identity from the rooftops; you'll be just another unhinged extremist spouting conspiracy theories produced by a disordered mind. The second is that I want to give you a chance to consider this opportunity. I've just told you that the future of both your species and your world is about to be decided. You may not care about the role this plays in grander schemes, but you now have two options: you can either flail ineffectually at it in an effort to change what cannot be changed, or you can step into a role that may permit you some say in what form the future takes."

@beremud:

He rhetorically wondered why, how, so many so-called superior beings clung to the idea that they were some how above the human race yet in nearly ever instance had needed to assimilate just in order to get their plan off the ground. How many years, possibly decades had the Beremuds pretended to be human? He grinned as he envisioned the human race needing to pretend to be ants in order to enact some grand scheme. The idea was not only absurd, it was laughable. True, pure, superiority never assimilated, never camouflaged itself. True superiority, simply was.

"An extremist huh? Conspiracy theorists...maybe you aint heard Beremud, to the rest of the world I'm already dead. Ishmael Strix no longer exists. So even if I wanted to, even if I thought somebody would care, shouting your 'true' identity from the rooftoops would first require getting people to believe in mine. I aint got that type of energy. I'd much rather just put a bullet between your eyes, see how that plays out. Hypothetically speaking of course."

Motorboating his lips with cinematic boredom the unmasked Shell began to relent. "Forming the future...okay, whatever. If thats what it takes to walk outta here in one piece then I'm down. Whatya want me to do?"

You should've made that straight-up dialogue said aloud. That was brilliant.

@phantomshell:

Inwardly she sighed, silently lamenting that her masters hadn't decided to act on this planet back when its natives were still in the "anyone with more advanced technology must be a god" phase. That always made matter so much simpler.

"In that case, dead man," she replied icily, pointedly ignoring the rather blatant threat, "consider this your resurrection. What is required for you to walk out of here alive is simple, and should not be against your liking. You will be released, with a few new toys that should find quite fun to play with, and you will continue your murderous crusade. The only difference is that now you will be taking my direction on who to kill. Feel free to butcher whoever else you like on your own time, of course."

@beremud:

@phantomshell:

Not long after Elsa Beremud departed the cell, the door again swung open to admit a visitor, this time, her emotionless assistant, Silas Xundar. Wearing his usual business suit and impassive expression, the man handled a massive duffel bag contents: one plasma rifle and pistol, a vibromace, and a full suit of duranium armor with unsettling ease. Setting the weighty burden on the ground, he turned to Ishmael. "Make it look convincing."

With that, he simply turned and strode from the room, leaving the door to the cell wide open. Exactly three minutes later, the shackles disengaged.

@xundar:

badass. its on now

@xundar:

The man's gait and sub-conscious sense of natural posture gave the Phantomshell a glimpse into his possible physical abilities. But to the Secret Strix's surprise the obedient attendant simply entered the cell and slipped the military style duffel off his shoulder, dumping it on the ground with an ominous remark.

Ishmael flashed a highbrow of confusion yet did little more then rub his sensitive wrists, ironing out the weakened and indented skin before riffling through the contents inside the bag. Initially ignoring all but the plasmatic pistol, which was stylishly spun along his trigger finger before being slipped into the back of his waistband.

"No offense but I got my own style." he cavalierly smirked to himself. Breaking down the segmented slates of the duranium armor, the rifle, and the vibromace in a utilitarian bid to retrofit the equipment. Fashioning the items into a crude replication of his aerial wire-riggings. A far cry from the original. Yet serviceable in the moment. Without further delay the renewed vigilante took a glance around the solitary room, and then vanished with gymnastic grace and silent flair.

@phantomshell:

It's done.

Elsa smiled faintly as the message popped up on her phone, sent by her ever-faithful assistant. She was taking calculated risk; Ishmael had already demonstrated that he was unpredictable in his actions, if not his motivations, but sometimes a little chaos could be advantageous, especially when one was expecting it.

Now, then...time to put a few more pieces in play.

Picking up her phone, she responded back to Silas: Make sure the sleepers are all in position, and see about getting me on @valerie_huntington's calendar.

"Everything is in place, then?" The question itself was largely a formality; Elsa was well aware that all the pieces were now in place, having been painstaking arranged, often under her direct supervision. Nevertheless, she was the cautious sort.

"Yes." Dour as always, her personal assistant, Silas, simply nodded with his monosyllabic response.

They stood on the wind-whipped landing pad that she had recently had installed behind the castle that was the ancestral Beremud home. The pad itself was occupied by a vessel that few on Earth would recognize, but anyone of an interstellar background would be able to easily identify as an Annihilator, the transports ships of the Abyssal Imperium.

Everything was in place.

This was always an odd feeling. When one had spent years living a single mission, immersing oneself in a culture one was not native to, only to have to abandon it even as the fatal blow was struck...Elsa supposed it could be called melancholy, or even regret. Still, the mission was the mission, and she did not leave such unfinished, regardless of the cost.

"Perform hourly system checks on the shuttle," she snapped, turning on her heel and heading towards the castle, "and keep a pilot on board at all times. We are activating the final stage of the plan within the week, and we need to be able to depart on little to no notice."