"This world, is but at an end," Tormenta murmured in his secluded hotel penthouse. The Black Mamba turned the television off, disgusted with the well-being of the world. Another proclaimed Registration Act. The Assassin already knew the outcome. Every attempt had failed before, there was no chance for this one actually working on a place like Earth. Why? Super-powered people were anti-establishment. The amount of egos were just too much to unify. This 'Utopian' society wasn't so perfect. Nor the people who ran its government.
Tormenta went into his bedroom and slipped into his walk-in closet. He grabbed the nearest shirt and slid it over his bare chest. Beside this assortment of hung shirts was a oak table. On it were two blades, both five feet long and and four inches wide. Their curved edges pointed up toward the ceiling. The usually Black-Clad Assassin--plainly garbed in pajamas--grabbed one of the weapons before exiting back into his bedroom.
His bare feet trotted over the marbled floor, which felt cold on his skin. He crouched next to a vent, his gaze fixed intently on it. Without warning Tormenta's body began to dissipate. His head turned into a thick mist first, before the rest of his body and the sword in his hand. The mass floated in the air for a moment before diving toward the vent. The diffused Disciple of Deception navigated through the ventilation system with relative ease. His body slipped into another room two floors below him. Although not as large as the penthouse, this one was large enough to hold a closed bedroom and a living area. Tormenta's gaseous body floated towards the ceiling, unseen and unheard. The Genetically Engineered Assassin peered down to a couch. On it, several men watching TV. Each of them had a weapon in a holster on their chest, but they didn't look intimidating arguing over Family Feud in Spanish.
The Black Mamba's body rematerialized in a corner of the ceiling, in which he held himself up, his sword in his mouth. Then he pounced. Tormenta dropped down and sliced one man across the chest. The other two, stunned, immediately tried to retaliated, but were too slow. The Disciple of Deception stabbed another before pulling the blade from his soft flesh and sending it again through the third. All three men were now peacefully calm as their life-blood cascaded from their wounds. Tormenta, without a single drop on himself, stalked off towards a bedroom. Inside were two men who were deep in conversation. They ignored the Angel of Death, waving him away as if he were a lapdog.
"Death is a release for those on my hit-list."
Both heads turned and four eyes focused on him. Tormenta grinned, his sword dripping blood...
Tormenta sat outside on the penthouse porch, a cup of coffee on a table beside him and a newspaper spread across his lap. He took a sip of the brewed drink peacefully before an intense ringing from a small device on the table grabbed his attention. The Black Mamba's mind stopped wandering, and focused on the sound. He clicked the sides of the communications device, and a very familiar voice interrupted the calm morning air. It was a melodic voice which captured Tormenta's attention. The voice of the Cajun, the King of Kings. "Sancta Casima, one of our own has been taken captive, dis, is unacceptable. Alter any and all current mission statues and re-divert actions towards Utopia. Bring Mercy back by any means necessary. Or die trying..."
The Black-Clad Assassin immediately knew what he was supposed to do. He stood, letting the newspaper run off of his legs and onto the ground.
"I'll die before failure."
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