Gothic Slums, Brahma Brotherhood Shanty Town
He strode forward, the Baabda Beast. Scar tissue marring flesh he covered with armored adornments and an onyx leather coat. He breathed in, his mask, forged from titanium and ceramic composite armor, filtered the toxic gases and the stench of rotting and burnt corpses, of the disagreeable chemicals left from his two week old attack on Gothic. He breathed out, clutched his collar and continued his march. It hurt to walk. It hurt to blink and breathe. It hurt to do the little things. Every time he dared move, his shredded muscle tissue swarmed his body with agony, as if razor sharp crystals had been left to sting him for every twitch.
He'd yet to fully heal. It hardly mattered though. The endurance of a monster would allow him to do battle again, should he need to. Injuries upon injuries prevented him from harnessing the full brunt of his brutish power. Still he refused to wear the power ring wrestled from Connor. The lantern would come, searching for his ring, in anger, in desperation, but on Satar's presence was not where it would be found. It lie deep within this broken down base of operations, compiled of scrap metal and recycled materials. Here, the Baabda Beast would rely on what he'd always relied upon, his tactical genius. His ability to lure his foes into his game-plan. Behind him trailed a crony, an unassuming character, slender, well groomed, broad-shouldered and the countenance of an elder statesman. He was no combatant, his was a brainier quality.
His was the mutant power to remember.. everything. He forgot no detail. He couldn't. His brain? An extraordinary biological search engine. The Baabda Beast's plans knew no piece of paper nor hard disk. "If we are to fail today", Satar began, his deep voice echoing, its timbre hanging with a gravitas replicated by his thick, Lebanese inflection, "We will target Gothic again. They can delay it as much as they like. But this city, it will be mine. We will need reinforcements. Raiding Maverick again is not a realistic option at the moment. Instead, we will target the League of Shadows. We will wrestle control of it from its leader, and we will turn the League's assassins into the Brotherhood's soldiers". Pausing, his eyes, pale gems of crystal blue, darkened. Gone was the psychopath cold, and in its place? Rage.
"We will target Abigail Aensland. The virus spreading the disease of the slave morality", the disgust, it seemed tangible in every word he uttered. "She embodies the worst of the slave morality. Her values.. kindness, humility, sympathy.. moral goodness, they are all social fabrications. Lies used by the weak willed to hold back the great men of this world. The lies that lead one into making distinctions between good and evil. She binds herself to rules outside of herself. They say she even refuses to kill. Abigail, the slave, she spreads the disease of the slave morality, and in her wake, creates a world of weakness. For the disease to be purged, for the League to be mine. For Gothic to be truly mine, Abigail Aensland must die". Waving his crony away, Satar felt his blood cool, and his towering, muscled frame emerge. Stepping outside, he silenced his followers and stood by the Dragonfang, her frame chained to a pyre, Satar's hand resting on a CIF3 (chlorine trifluoride) grenade.
He said nothing, he merely waited. Gothic's Finest would arrive, and he would be ready. With Ananke's services employed, and the mercenary eager to take aim, drop bombs, what have you, war was certain.