Mexico City (CVnU Location)

@phantomshell: Red Hood is a great look.

@hawkshade: He was ahead of the curve on ditching the whole spandex attire, and rockin something I would wear like a bomber or moto jacket

He had been laid up for days fading in and out of consciousness. Whoever had discovered him had continued to see to his well being and rudimentary rehabilitation. Semi-cognitive of his surroundings, Ishmael fainted with the idea that he was somewhere below the border. It tracked. As the last thing he could soundly remember before initially waking up, was an extraterrestrial conflict in Southern California that he had taken part in as the masked vigilante, the Ghostshell.

So what the hell happened after that...

"Ah good your awake. There is someone here who says he was a great admirer of you, and your brother. He saw to the expenses of your medical care..."

"My brother....wha...what the hell does that mean? Where am I? Why am I here?

"Its okay Jesus, I got this." The deep and self-assured voice had rumbled from just outside the bedroom door. Before a large and seasoned man stepped in, boots loudly pronouncing each step of the weathered but physically fit looking stranger.

"You were injured. Jesus and his boy found you, brought you to my ranch." Pulling Ishmael's fractured and partially destroyed mask out from behind his back, dexterously turning it about, examining its streamline contours and mette texture. "You were playing hero and got wiped out would be my guess. They found ya, patched you back up. They dont recognize ya, wouldn't matter to them if they did anyway. But I know who you are. Or were rather. Who you brother was and what he was trying to do. I was fan...from afar."

Tossing the mask on the bed while heading towards the door.

"Wait who the hell are ya anyway?"

"Charles. My name is Charles.

Oh.

Shit.

@grimmwald: You're right

Oh. Shit.

@grimmwald: @hawkshade: Ya sure ya wanna put me outta commission, now? >;)

@alpha_dog: Would you be surprised if I said yes? ;P

@grimmwald: Not in the least. >:)

"You've relied for too much and for far too long on advanced technology alone. And it nearly got you killed." Charlemagne casually spoke while removing a painting from the kitchen wall. Outside the window, Ishmael had looked up from his eggs to briefly observe the activity in and around the ranch. There was no lifestock. No chickens or hens. But there were bunk houses. No more then a hundred or so. And guns....lots of guns.

Taking a sip of his coffee while side-eyeing the shirtless well heeled desperado by the door, his attention was once again sharply arrested by the groaning and grunting aches of the physically limited legend.

"Pick one. The look is purely aesthetic, your body isnt anywhere near ready for something real but I'll get you there. This wont be a hobby. Its going to be a goddamn nightmare that transforms your lifestyle. Its going to harden your core like nothing before. Redefine and tone muscles you've let slip or outright ignored. With your inherent muscle adaptability slightly mirroring the effects known as photographic reflexes, I can show you within some degree, a some sample of captured movements. You wont understand them, at first. They'll merely be a haunting of former muscular motions I've stolen from the greatest archer the World has ever known." The faded legend's fist inadvertently balled. A subconscious reaction at the thought of perhaps his greatest adversary.

"What kinda ranch is this anyway old man? What are you doing way down here in the middle of nowhere?" To which the former Arashikage murderer simply smiled and nodded to be followed.

"I learned along time ago that I cant change the World. Cant save it. But what I can do is give my species the knowledge, the, tools to save themselves. To survive when nobody else can. This is the last true university of the human race my boy" Looking out over the small encampment of militant minded humans in training, before glancing over at Ishmael, and then down at his hand with a smile. "I see you picked one. Good. Now we can get started."

@phantomshell:

With your inherent muscle adaptability slightly mirroring the effects known as photographic reflexes, I can show you within some degree, a some sample of captured movements. You wont understand them, at first. They'll merely be a haunting of former muscular motions I've stolen from the greatest archer the World has ever know.

Loved the whole thing but this call out to old canon was especially cool to me.

I didn't wanna say anything but me too. >_>

I feel like I wanna meet him but I'm already meeting up with G in another thread.

Though not the prolific prophet of photographic reflexes, such as the Knightfalls or various Strigidae clan members, the secret society of Strixs had engineered their own system of generational martial mentoring to be regarded above all others.

Viewing mutants and metas, a list that had now; in Ishmael's mind, grown to encompass extraterrestrials, as unnatural deviations tainting the artistic and exclusive beauty of martial arts. And an even greater and direct threat to the survival of man. This Mirrored the radicalized philosophies once championed by the LeBeau Legend himself, and it offered Ishmael a window into the old man's mind.

But trying to map the muscular freeway of a legend and bleed it into his costume built repertoire, well sir, that there was a program the restless Ishmael just wasnt down with. Even if her copied movies were acrobatically sublime. One could only imagine the true, pure cinematic choreography displayed by the genuine article.

However he had learned long ago how to read the room. Read the man, the situation. Besides, why fight when he could use whatever knowledge the weathered warrior of the past had, to then go on to reforge his stolen criminal start up. Which unbeknownst to the unseated black market mastermind, had blossomed under Musa's staunch stewardship.

Musa. That bitch. Double crossing back shooting African Mamba mother....His memory having returned, the Phantomshell could now vividly recall the high stacks gamble he had embarked on.

Hoping to slip even deeper into the dark shows of the criminal web, Ishmael had devised a plan that would see him hand over the Incubator to the Beast of No Nation in favor of a more executive hands free clean position. His plans for HALO coming before anything else. Only to have the villainous coward try to kill him in a brazen daylight shootout at LAX.

So if indulging in a little misguided militant training and mutant murdering...so be it. As long as it benefited his overall agenda of revenge.

@phantomshell:

21:30 PM

The man had seen it but couldn't believe it. A horned silhouette had risen from the darkness like a shark from water. It had shattered the light bulbs hanging from the ceiling till only silver slants of moonlight remained. It had crippled every goon till they lay motionless and whimpering on the cold floor. And the man? His heart clamored in his chest, and his fat fingers fumbled for the loaded revolver in his coat. Chest heaving and his eyes widened like saucers, he looked nothing like what he was moments ago - a proud drug lord celebrating his cartel's acquisition of several crates of Konite. The drug had once brought Gothic City to it's knees, and turned it's population into mad dogs. It would not do so to again. Not to Gothic or any city.

Hands trembling as he took aim, the man saw no face in the darkness. Only the white of the Horned Saint's grin. Only horns and red eyes as though he were staring at the devil's shadow. BLAM! One gunshot. Then another and another, echoing their sinister serenade in the dark till the gun clicked and no bullets remained. And from the darkness, Grimmwald strode out, his strides slow and soundless like a panther's. "Goddamn it!", the man cursed, voice panicked as his brow scowled, "I left Gothic to get away from you capes!", he growled, fear and frustration mounting in a cocktail too hard on his heart. But Grimmwald said nothing. He merely held the man's stare as he inched closer with every step. "Think you're better than me!? HUH!? Talk bitch!". Nothing. Only silence. Only the reddest eyes he'd ever seen sinking into his. "I hate you capes! I ******* HATE YOU!", the man screamed with a swing of his fist.

Catching the swinging arm by the wrist, Grimmwald squeezed his grip, tighter and tighter till the sharp snap of bone pierced the air and the man fell to his knees a whimpering mess. "You hate the fact that you're powerless to stop me", Grimmwald countered with nothing but contempt in his eyes and voice. "Now. Who sold you that Konite?".

The man sang. And the song? "Amin Karrit".

@grimmwald:

Hands trembling as he took aim, the man saw no face in the darkness. Only the white of the Horned Saint's grin. Only horns and red eyes as though he were staring at the devil's shadow. BLAM! One gunshot. Then another and another, echoing their sinister serenade in the dark till the gun clicked and no bullets remained. And from the darkness, Grimmwald strode out, his strides slow and soundless like a panther's.

@hawkshade:

@grimmwald:

???? ??? ?????

Placing some haphazard looking cigar in his mouth with a shit eating grin, Charlemagne stepped out onto his porch. Chin high as he watched the jeep make its way up the long drive of his ranch.

"Knew you'd be back."

The Phantomshell tossed his tactical duffel in the dust before hopping out. Nodding to his gracious driver, as well as patting his three legged dog, before acknowledging the gloating old bastard.

"So what changed?" Charlemagne was still the observant solider. Catching a glimpse of the familiar utility belt of a Knightfall, as the Phantomshell's black-t swooshed in a light breeze.

"Fancy belt. So much for letting the past die I huh?" He shamed.

Snatching his gear from the ground the Last of the Gothic Gunslinger's said nothing. At first. Making his way towards the familiar looking barracks before finally chiming in, "What does it matter old man. I'mma do what you and your boy couldnt."

"Oh yeah and whats that hotshot?"

@phantomshell: The return of Lucian :-O

@phantomshell: So the ol' man ain't dead, yet. Good

This storyline is one of the most compelling on CV right now.

@alpha_dog:

@phantomshell:

The Aerial Arsonist had already made a name for himself in L.A., living up to the standards of his calling card. Whatever jobs that came his way were only supplementary to his already eccentric lifestyle, for his own funds meant nothing if they were not maintaining his fire-retardant suit or getting him ammunition for his inflammatory ways. The dances of the angels in the smoke were his only true reward, and that meant getting as many incendiaries as possible.

So it came to Mexico City, on the outskirts of such a place, where his contracts eventually took him by the nose.

He could fly for short distances, but he could stretch those for upwards of a few dozen miles at a time before needing to refuel. He timed these perfectly with gas station robberies or legitimate payments, depending on his mood. But that hardly mattered.

All that mattered was the contract in front of him. He waved his hand at the Phantomshell, as he often did to mob bosses and hardened hitmen. He didn't do this to seem tough or get a bloody reputation. He just did it for the angels that he loved so much.

"Hi, how are you?" he asked meekly, contrary to the dangerous aura he exuded of a certified maniac.

@killer_instinct:

"What. The. Hell...one of yours old man?"

"Never seen him before. Quite the....uniform though if I do say. Always fancied a simple black ball cap myself but that was alongtime ago." Charlemagne gruffly reminisced.

The unmasked Strix suspiciously folded his lean, yet sculpted arms across his chest while waiting for the unusual situation to progress. Or violently escalate. Depending on the quick drawing Phantomshell's instinctive read.

"Kind of off the beatin trail amigo. How'd you happen by this place, and why are you here?"

By now several of LeBeau's eager recruits, including the legacy; Lucian, had abandoned their daily chores and training. Instead they had begun to form a circle around the unexpected face to face. Tensions were rising.

@phantomshell:

Firewasp turned his head in both directions, watching as he slowly became surrounded. He didn't exactly... do anything. Just looked at them. He figured it didn't matter if he flew away or not, they probably had the means to shoot him down despite anything. Without any visible change in demeanor he reached into a pouch on his suit. Instinctually, some of those who were around him held up a gun at the instant he did so, expecting him to have something similar to the incendiary grenades that lined his belt.

He stopped for a split second, looking around him again, before pulling out a business card.

"Expensive," he noted, handing it towards the Phantomshell.

It was designed like it cost a lot of money, but it was really more of Firewasp's preference. It was jet black card, with specialized reflective orange engraving to make it look like a charred piece of wood in a forest fire. On it, it read 'arsonist for hire' as well as the Blazing Nutcase's information, and a callback number. Interestingly there wasn't a price-tag for his services.

"Flying around, see a lot. Just curious, won't say anything if you refuse. Not a rat."

@killer_instinct:

Ishmael took the card and dexterously rotated it over, under, and around a couple of his fingers while looking the new arrival in the face. And then smiling with arrogant, yet somewhat inviting confidence. "These men here" nodding over his shoulder "havent signed up with any notions of pay. This isnt a privatized armory, there's no founding here." Turning his head for a moment flaring his nostrils and spitting, to the smug laughter of Charlemagne. Whom Ishmael was slowly learning how to play. Slowly wedging himself between the former legend and his own biological son. Smarter. Faster. A visionary. Everything Lucian wasnt.

First things first.

"I cant offer you money. Not yet anyway. But I can offer you targets. A chance to steal some easy dough in the aftermath of the shit we're about to pull. You give me, and me alone your loyalty" slapping his open palm, card included, into the uniquely attired fire-starter's chest before continuing, "In the end I'll give you an entire city to burn..."

@phantomshell:

Firewasp flicked his card off his chest between two fingers, sliding it back into the pouch on his suit. He didn't care about the money (or lack thereof, at the moment), nor did he care about making a name for himself. He listened curiously to the new contract being offered, one that he had every intention of taking.

Seeing an entire city like that... swathed in the bodies of angelic beings, the flowers of smoke and ash twirling around them like Christmas morning. He nodded his head, the reflective bug-eyes of his mask staring back at Ishmael.

"Big promise. Point me in the right direction, I'll make the angels sing their songs of sulfur and brimstone,"

He adjusted the shoulder strap on his napalm launcher, bringing it tighter to his clavicle.

"You got a deal."

@killer_instinct:

"Bunk houses are over there." Lucian chimed in. His time below the border having had a profound and almost comedic impact on his cadence . Ishmael was forced to turn his head and free himself from the overwhelming fumes resonating from their newly initiated firefly.

"So whats the deal, chief? Nobody goes for a specialized rig like that without one hell of a messed up backstory." Ishmael skeptically inquired.

@phantomshell:

Firewasp looked over at the supposed 'bunk houses' but his gaze didn't hover there for long. He craned his neck back towards Ishmael and clicked the ignition switch on for the flamethrower. The tiny blue cone of flame on the cusp of the napalm barrel lingered and flickered for as long as he kept that trigger down.

"Have you ever seen something so beautiful, so innocent, that you wanted to dedicate your whole life to bringing it everywhere you go? Maybe it's an idea, a purpose that your mind creates. Something you want to protect, or just care about a whole lot,"

With a sudden snap, the switch locked into its standard position and the sapphire tongue went flat.

"That's what their songs are to me, they just make the world a bit brighter."

This is awesome. Its subtle and doesnt hold the reader's hand in terms of what you mean

@phantomshell:

Thanks man.

@wolf_of_the_west:

Sounds like someone needs some security professionals...

@tessa_callahan: You told me you knew how to drive stick!

@beremud:

I love HD gifs.

Dog had been in some real dives, in his day, but this...was definitely one of them. It was one of those places that could really only ever be a bar, if only because you needed to fill it with something capable of killing bacteria. He was pretty sure that most of the roaches probably needed health insurance.

He wasn't here for the scenery though, or even the drinks. He was here for a meeting, and the obviously uncomfortable but otherwise nondescript man sitting across from him in the dimly-lit booth was here for the same reason. "You're sure you weren't followed?" he muttered, in between furtive glances at the door. "You haven't exactly been keeping a low profile, lately."

Dog gave the man a look somewhere between bored annoyance and his usual murderous bloodlust. "If I didn't already know ya were such a jittery rabbit I'd tear out yer throat just to keep ya from passin' yer stupid on to future generations," Dog answered, evenly. "We're clear. Ya got the goods?"

"Yeah, yeah..." the man replied, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper that looked somewhat worse for wear. "They changed the password last week, probably because of that stunt you pulled in France. Here's the new ones. Should get you access to any of the data you could possibly want."

"Ya done good, Blaine," Dog muttered, as he took the proffered paper and tucked it into his own pocket. "But ya still ain't leaned a damn thing. Why do ya think I blazed a trail o' destruction all the way down here? I needed to make sure what I'm about to do looks like just another random killing."

The next day, the local coroner reported that the state of the bodies would have made positive identification difficult, even if the building hadn't been burned to the ground.

Midnight, Warehouse

"HA! So much for that mask fool!", a Société agent shouted over the crackling fires burning a path through the warehouse. Rising from the smoke with the top half of his Shroud burnt off his torso, Grimmwald scowled as his eyes caught the fierce glow of nearby flames. "Hehehe... so what's a pretty boy like you want with Amin huh?", the agent asked, his twisted grin growing wider from the Horned Saint's silence. "You don't know what you're getting into kid. What happened in Grimm City's not anyone's business but the people who were there for it. So", the agent paused, green eyes widening like saucers as he readied his flamethrower, "Let's test out that hero's resolve hm? Now I'm down to die, but a lot of you masks are scared to live".

And like a madman, Amin's crony sprayed the warehouse with storms of flames, burning anything and everything in his path to halt the Horned Saint's investigation. But Grimmwald had vanished, sinking into the black smoke and escaping the scorching lick of the flamethrower. "I don't kill", Grimmwald rasped, voice floating clear to the agent's ears over the sound of cracking crates and wood. "Well shit, looks like I get to tell everyone what you look like. I've seen your face. If I don't die, your secret will". Scowling, the Horned Saint climbed out the man's shadow and bent his leg till the sickening snap of a joint came sharp and loud. "You're mistaken. You didn't see anything", Grimmwald corrected, clutching the man's face and digging his thumbs into his eyes till he plucked them out their sockets. "And you won't tell anyone anything", he promised before crushing the man's larynx.

"I'll find Amin. He wasn't in France but I was born in the shadows. He can't hide in them forever". Dragging the man into the darkness before climbing out the shadow of a building by an alleyway, the Horned Saint left him there. Alive but with empty eye sockets and a crushed throat leaking red.

Nice o' folks to respect a man's privacy.

Dog slammed the empty pitcher down on the bar, and the barkeep immediately darted over with a fresh one, retreating quickly with the empty vessel. It was the closest anyone in the bar was willing to get to him; the patrons that hadn't slipped out when the massive mutant entered had very noticeably clustered as far away from him as possible, leaving him with enough elbow room for any five men. It suited him just fine. He wasn't here for company, and he wasn't even here to instigate a slaughter, for a change. He just wanted a beer.

Not that he wouldn't indulge his other thirsts, if the occasion presented itself. He gave the other patrons a once-over, wondering if any of them might grow some beer muscles and start something he had no chance of finishing. When no gazes met his own, he turned his thoughts to other musings. He had everything he needed, now, or at least everything he was likely to get. It was time to decide exactly what he was going to do with the tidy arsenal of information he'd armed himself with. He could do a lot of harm to a lot of people with what he now knew, and not his usual method of harm.

Hmmmm

Texas Rangers had no business further down south.

But there were a few over the border that needed to be reminded why you don't kill a Ranger - especially when they don't stay killed.

It was a seedy bar on the outskirts of Mexico City, right on the side of the road. Three men came stomping out into the gravel having just drank themselves crazy, laughing and hollering as loud as the night air could carry. Their cars were parked on the other side of the two-lane piece of pavement, except they had to look and clear their heavily buzzed vision to understand what had happened.

Each one, from the converted Charger to the looted Mustang, had been set ablaze. None too far away stood a motorbike in a similar situation, though its skeletal frame didn't melt and buckle under the heat of the flames.

"<You killed a Texas Ranger named Anthony Carson not too long ago>," a voice like nails on the brain roared from the head of the flames. They didn't see him clearly before, as his face and disposition carried into the inferno.

His skinless bones rattled as he turned, a hellion come to carry them to the Devil.

"<Get away>!" one shouted, taking out a pistol and firing pointlessly into the chest of the creature. Like a ghost, the flesh phased away and reformed after the bullets passed through.

"<You've already killed me. I'm still a Ranger>,"

The other two who did not shoot started to run, but they didn't get far. An otherworldly chain snapped around their ankles, dragging them back screaming into the twisted metal and heat. The figure grabbed the third by the throat, and lifted him clear off the ground.

"<Look into my eyes>," he commanded, and the murderer whimpered but could not break the grip even as he emptied the clip into the thing's chest. He might as well have been shooting thin air.

"<Suffer the wrath of Testament>!"

A wolf howled in the desert. Kicking the stand out from underneath his bike, the man known as Testament drove off into the dark of the night, leaving behind the ruinous aftermath of vengeance to turn into naught but ash.

Mexico. Like Gothic it was overrun with crime. Corruption. Murder. But for once Hawkshade wasn't in Mexico to solve a crime. While the Cave provided security and secrecy one thing it didn't provide was weather conditions that replicated those above ground. Updrafts and wind in particular.

Hawkshade stood atop a plateau of red clay that jutted up from the Chihuahuan desert. A pebble rolled off the edge of the cliff in front of him and feel for a long time before it struck the dessert floor.

A black cape hung from his shoulders. It was connected to a switch on his belt by wires taped to his shirt.

He backed up thirty yards.

Then he exploded into a sprint toward the cliff and leaped over the edge. He dropped like a rock. A finger flipped the switch and the left side of the cape hanging from his shoulder snapped into a glider shape. The right side remained limp.

He spun in a corkscrew and the ground raced toward him.

He flipped the switch again.

Nothing.

Again. This time both sides of the cape solidified into glider shape and he pulled out of the dive a hundred yards before certain death.

The momentum of his dive launched him forward at great speed and the curvature of the glider-cape generated lift. He soared on the thermal lifts of the warm Mexican sands and circled through the night skies like a bird of prey forged from shadows until he finally swept down and landed, flipping the switch to deactivate the cape.

It stayed rigid.

He scowled and cut the wires with his survival knife.

Progress. But it still needed work. Arrachtach's designs were harder to put into practice than they first appeared. But if the cape could carry his mother and her vibranium armor it could carry him too.