MBCE

Sure!

Okay. It must have gotten lost in the shuffle. :oops: All set for all nine stories. Enjoy people! Arrowhawk: Origins Avenger: Oral History Belphegor: Better The Devil You Know Dark Star: The Wrong Foot Doktor Archeville: My Own Worst Enemy Ghost: Joining With The Ghost Hellbound: Blood on the Ice Malice: The Day Hate Was Born Scarab II: Honor Thy Father

The stories are up! We had nine submitted this time around which is very good. However, a few lacked titles and I need those to complete the process. The following people need to give me titles for their stories: Dark Star -- Cyroa EDIT: Got one. Malice -- Geez3r EDIT: Got one. Arrowhawk -- Ecalsneerg

I like "The Birth of Malice" myself, but yours works well.

The stories are up! We had nine submitted this time around which is very good. However, a few lacked titles and I need those to complete the process. The following people need to give me titles for their stories: Dark Star -- Cyroa EDIT: Got one. Malice -- Geez3r Arrowhawk -- Ecalsneerg

England. 6am, August 11th, 1314. "Pa-pa...Pa-pa... Alexander awoke with a start, the voices of his children still faintly echoing in his mind. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then shielded them from the shaft of sunlight stabbing in through the crack in the window shutters. He rolled over and hugged his wife, Helen, and struggled to remember the nature of his nightmare, but it had already faded. He took up his pendant, the wooden cross, hung it around his neck, and kissed it. 7pm, August 11th, 1314. Alexander wiped the sweat from his brow as he laid his sickle against his shoulder. Another long day in the fields he thought to himself as he trudged back toward the farmhouse, pack horse in tow. But he smiled as he looked down at his sons, trudging alongside him. John and Edward grinned as they looked back up at their father. "The harvest is going well, isn't it Father?" John asked. Edward snorted. "It went better last year." Alexander grinned and tousled Edward's hair with his free hand, then John's. "Best not to count one's chickens until they hatch, boys." Alexander's eyes lit up when the door to the farmhouse opened and his youngest daughter ran out. "Pa-pa!" she shouted as she ran up to him. He scooped her up in his free arm and kissed her on the cheek. "Jessica! God save me, you're growing fast. Soon I'll need two hands to lift you!" She laughed and buried her face in his shoulder. His eldest daughter, Ruth, stepped out after, wiping a bit of stew off her apron and licking it off her finger. "I think it's my best yet. Hope you boys are hungry." Alexander chuckled. "Smells good." As he entered the house, he laid Jessica gently on the ground. "Now go wash up for supper, Little One." Jessica crossed her arms as she looked up at her father. "Nuh-uh! I'm not tha little one anymore!" She enthusiastically pointed toward George, the infant currently nursing in his mother's arms as she tried to sew up a tear in a shirt around him. Helen looked up and smiled at her daughter. "You'll always be a little one to us, dear. Now mind your father, and go wash up." Alexander strode wearily over to his wife, wrapped his arm around her, and kissed her on the forehead as he stroked his youngest son's hair. "Hungry one, ain't he?" Helen laughed. "Hasn't stopped eating since he was born. Just like his father, from what I hear." She rested her face against Alexander's shoulder and rubbed her nose into him. 11am, August 12th, 1314. The ground trembled beneath their hooves as the dozen horses trample their way across the fields and into the village, bearing riders laden with arms, armor, and the heraldry of The Church. Alexander and his family were in the center of town, trading some wheat and milk for a bolt of cloth for some new winter clothes. Everyone dropped what they were doing and sank into uneasy whispering at the sight of the soldiers coming to rest in the middle of the shops. One of them dismounted, walked over to the smith, grabbed his hammer, and banged it against an anvil. He called out. "Where is the one known as Alexander John's Son? Show yourself!" The blacksmith grabbed his crutch and limped around to face the soldier and snarled. "Now what's the meaning of this? What's this all about?" The soldier raised an eyebrow at him, then backhanded him across the jaw. The blacksmith fell to the ground, clutching his face. "Gregory!" Helen screamed as darted from Alexander's side and knelt down next to the smith. The other soldiers laughed. "Your husband?" the lead soldier asked. "My brother!" Helen spat. Gregory leaned on Helen, grabbed his crutch, and pulled himself up. "He's my brother-in-law, Alex is. And ye aren't takin' him anywhere unless you go through me first." The soldier shrugged, and began to draw his sword from the scabbard at his belt. Alexander stepped forward. "I am Alexander, John's Son. What is going on here? We have done nothing wrong!" The soldier turned, returned his sword to its sheath, and looked Alexander up and down. "You are the one they say talks to God. The one who performs miracles?" Alexander swallowed. "God talks to everyone. Not everyone listens. He has chosen to bless me with good fortune, but I am no saint." "That is not what I heard," a voice called out from the middle of the caravan. A horse bearing not a soldier, but a clergyman, ambled up to Alexander. One of the soldiers dismounted and ran over to the priest, kneeling down with his head to the ground. The priest stepped on his back as if it were a stool as he made his descent. He smoothed out the wrinkles from his immaculate robes as he walked foward. "I heard that the only reason this man can walk at all is that you lifted an anvil off of his legs. I heard that you are the finder of lost children. I heard that you see visions, of the past and the future. That you know things that no man could know. Or should know. These rumors reached me all the way from Rome. I am William, your new Bishop." He stood in front of Alexander and held forth his hand, and ring, expectantly. Alexander just stared at him for a few moments, before the lead soldier ran up and swung his fist. Alexander caught it in mid-swing, holding it. "Swine! First, you dare disrespect the Bishop, then you raise your hand against his agents! You will burn for such insolence!" William held a hand up to his guard, silencing him. "Stand down, Richard." He looked deep into Alexander's eyes. "You haven't changed a bit. Still the same imperious nature, regardless of your humble surroundings." Alexander glared right back into William's eyes. "You appear to have me at a disadvantage, your Holiness. Have we met?" William smiled. "But of course we have. And yet we haven't. You really don't recognize me yet, do you? But something about me leaves you ill at ease, doesn't it, 'Alexander?'" He chuckled. "Come with me. I would have you as a guest at my castle. We shall speak of these miracles." Alexander swallowed. "With all do respect, your Holiness, I do not think that is necessary. The tales you heard are no doubt exaggerations, hardly worth your time." William raised an eyebrow. "I will decide what is and is not worth my time, thank you. Now, come along. It would be...rude to refuse an audience with such an esteemed person as myself." Using his guard once again as a stepping stone, he pulled himself back upon his steed. William's guards advanced upon Alexander. His older sons, John and Edward, moved to intercept, placing themselves firmly in front of their father. "You're not taking Papa," John declared. "Not without going through us first!" shouted Edward. Alexander grabbed his sons shoulders and pulled them around to face him. "Now listen you! I'll only be gone a couple days at the most, I promise! And while I'm gone, I need you two to look after the homestead. You're the men of the house while I'm away, and I need you to act like it! Now go tend to your mother and sisters!" He kissed each of them on the forehead and pushed them away. Then he embraced his wife and daughters, but the moment was cut short when the soldiers grabbed his arms and pulled him away. "Enough of that," Richard growled. "Time to go, 'Saint Alexander The Too-Big-For-His-Britches.'" He laughed as he shoved Alexander toward the horses. Alexander pulled his cross up to his lips, kissed it, and smiled back at his family. 8pm, August 12th, 1314. It was less than half a day's ride from the village to the Bishop's castle. The sun was just beginning to fall below the horizon when William had Alexander thrown down into the dungeon and shackled up, to await trial on charges of "heresy." The Bishop's comments still made no sense to Alexander. The last thing he said before the door closed was "You will not stand in my way again. Not again." Alexander prayed and wished and concentrated with all his might, and once again, the Lord's hand moved in his favor. The shackles pulled themselves out of the stone wall of the dungeon. The door pulled itself free of its hinges. Alexander's first instinct was to flee, back to his village, but then a brief thought stopped him. Images flashed across his eyes, then faded as suddenly as they appeared. Images of blood, of bones, of demons and fire. He felt drawn toward the chapel, next to the central keep. He sneaked up and across the courtyard, but it was empty. He didn't even hear crickets. Torches were burning, but there were no sentries posted anywhere he could see. Horses were stabled. There was no sign of human activity anywhere. He crept to the chapel and peeked through the nearest window. What he saw made his skin crawl. The Bishop stood in front of an altar, conducting a rite. No Christian rite, but some pagan mockery. His soldiers knelt around him. He stood in the center of a circle, around a five-pointed star. Instead of water, he dripped blood upon his followers. The altar was emblazoned with an upside-down cross. Fire erupted from the pentagram, and shadows began to dance around the room. The fire died out, but still the shadows danced and crawled. Alexander felt bile rise in his throat. He choked the vomit back down as he fled toward the stables. He stole a horse and rode back to his village as quickly and quietly as he could. 12am, August 13th, 1314. The Bishop had not endeared himself to the villagers. Most needed little convincing of William's blasphemies. Those few who dissented were shamed and shouted down by reminders of all the good Alexander had done for them. How he never lied, even as a child when it would have saved him a whipping. The men of the village gathered together sickle, pitchfork, and torch, ready to take up arms in the name of the Lord to defend their homes and families. Even Gregory, the half-crippled blacksmith, could not be convinced to stay behind. When the mob arrived at the castle, the gate was open and unbarred. Torches were still lit, but the buildings in the courtyard were all empty. A light flickered up in the top level of the central keep. Alexander led them tentatively to the chapel. All the blasphemous props still hung there, but the soldiers were gone. Huddled close together, they entered the keep. As they approached the central stairwell, their torches suddenly went out and the room went black. Or so they thought. Christopher the stonemason cried out in pain. The others could hear his flesh sizzle against the flame of his torch. "They're still lit! Why can't we see?!" Another farmer, James, ran to a doorway. "I can't even see the moon or the stars outside! This is no natural darkness! It's the Devil, I s-urk!" "James?!" Alexander called out. Several other people shouted his name, but there was no response. There were several grunts and exclamations of pain as men ran into each other in the dark. Suddenly, the torches gave off light again. Blood was splattered against the wall and the floor. James was nowhere to be seen. Alexander growled. "Up the stairs, now!" He led the charge. Several more times, the lights would go out again. The torches were still burning, but there was no light. Every time the light returned, another man was missing, replaced only by blood. Sometimes pooled on the ground. Sometimes splattered against the walls. Sometimes falling from the ceiling, a drop at a time. Gregory was the last one to go. "There are no bodies. Why are there no bodies?!" he asked, as the lights went down one final time. When they returned, Alexander was alone. Alexander heard a faint, rhythmic tapping from far above him. He clung to the right wall, slowly feeling his way up the stairs. At what must have been the top of the tower, the stairs gave way to even floor, and he could just make out some sort of flickering light at the end of the hall. Following the light led him into a vast chamber, lined with candles all around the edge, and filled with all manner of sorcerous trappings. An open shutter, moved by a slight wind, tapped against the stone wall. In the center of the room, another encircled pentagram was smeared on the floor in red...ink? No. Not ink. A pile of human skulls was arranged in a pyramid shape in the center of the pentagram. Freshly stripped skulls. A chair stood at the far end of the room. No human sat there, only a large glass ball about a foot wide, which glowed with an inner fire. One of the shadows in the room seemed longer than the others. It did not move in time with the candle flames. Alexander's eyes widened as it crept across the floor, independent of any object, and rose from the floor. It rose, filled, took the shape of a man, and stood up. It opened its hands wide, then snapped its arms backward. The hands lengthened into claws, and it leapt at Alexander. Alexander dropped his sickle, reached into his shirt, and took out his cross. "Back, foul demon!" The cross began to glow with a golden light. The shadow recoiled and hissed. Alexander pressed forward, thrusting the cross toward the shadow. "In the name of the Lord, I smite thee! In the name of the Lord, I banish thee! Back to Hell with ye!" Cornered against a wall, the shadow hissed and screeched. Alexander could smell brimstone as the shadow unraveled and faded into nothingness. The sound of hands clapping together rang out from the other side of the room. The flames in the crystal ball dissipated, leaving only the smiling face of Bishop William. "Impressive," William chuckled. "I can always summon another shadow-demon. But your powers are manifesting quickly. Given the chance, you would easily reclaim your former glory. But, of course, there will be no chance. Not this time. You took the bait, as I suspected. You always were so predictable." Alexander rushed across the room, took up the globe, and shook it in frustration. "Enough! Why have you done this?!" "WHO ARE YOU?!" William's grin faded into a grimace as he glared at Alexander. "You truly don't remember any of it, do you? Not Egypt, or the gods. Not even your own name...Heru-Ra?" An explosion went off behind Alexander's eyes. Startled from the pain, he almost lost his grip on the crystal. "That name...that is...my name? My name..." He looked up at William. "...Tan'Aktor." William's grin returned. "Very good. You're learning. A pity there isn't more time." Alexander scowled. "What do you mean?" William's grin widened in a full-toothed smile. "All the able-bodied men of the village, pulled away in the middle of the night. It would be such a shame if something were to happen to all those unguarded women and children..." Alexander roared and threw the crystal against the wall, where it shattered, and exploded into flame. Enraged, Alexander charged around the room, knocking over candles as he went. He ran down the stairs as the room lit afire. By the time he exited the tower, the Bishop's chambers were engulfed in fire. He ran back toward his village, refusing to stop or catch his breath even as his heart threatened to explode in his chest. As he reached the village, all he could hear was his heart thumping against the insides of his head. After he fell to his knees and sucked in a few extra breaths, he realized that it was the only sound he heard. Oh no. Oh, no no no... He ran across the fields to his house. The door rested halfway open. Alexander stopped and listened. At first, there was only silence. "Helen?" he called out. "John? Is anyone here?" He stepped inside, grabbed and lit a candle, and slowly walked toward his bedroom. There was a burst of movement across the window. "Hello?" His wife's voice echoed back at him from their room. "Alexander...I've missed you." His children's voices followed, in unison. "We've all missed you..." Alexander raised the candle to his face as he entered the room. "Where are you? Are you all alright?" He smiled. "Is this some sort of joke? I was so worried about you..." They laughed from the shadows. "We love you, Papa. We've missed you so much." The shape finally stepped into the candlelight. It slid into view. Them. It. There was only one person in the room. His wife was the torso. Each of his children were legs. The heads and arms were cut free of their original placements and stitched back together in the center. Their arms unfolded like some hellish flower. Their faces, clumped together like the eyes of a spider, stared at Alexander, their eyes vacant, their mouths hanging open. The mass of flesh shambled forth, making squishing cracking wet sounds with each step. "We love you, Papa. Come give us a hug." Alexander took a step back and screamed. The crudely-stitched doll that was once his family crouched down, then leapt and pounced on him. The bundle of arms ensnared him, pulling him close. The many hands of his family pushed his face down into Its chest, so hard and so deep he couldn't breathe. His screams were muffled by his wife's bosom. They faded into choking sounds, as the many mouths began to bite into his flesh. William's laughter echoed across the countryside. "Pa-pa..."

Friday, Feb 13th, 2008 I remember the first person I killed. It was early on, before I could control my impulses, when I was so damnably hungry that I was ready to chew my own lips bloody just to get at my own vital fluids. (That particular trick doesn't work, by the way. It's like trying to make a baby solo; the right parts just aren't there.) Claudia had gone out for a meeting with Melinda, leaving me alone in the apartment for like the third or fourth time. This was all about three years ago, now, I'd only been a vampire for about a week and a half. She'd forgotten to feed me. No, I'd forgotten to ask for food. I was so besotted with her, so besotted with the joys of undead grace and power, that I assumed I could hold back that urge gnawing at the back of my mind. You ever have to go to the bathroom but put it off because you were busy doing something really fun? It was kind of like that. Except giving myself indigestion, I was putting off the taste of a stranger's blood pouring down my throat. I can't even tell you what that's like. I really can't. You know, I tell myself that my objection to blood banks is ethical, that it's not right for someone who's already a predator to feed directly from the body of the community. And maybe that's true, but it doesn't change the fact that it's so _good_ coming straight from the flesh, a delicious, curling shot of sex and food and every single carnal appetite wrapped up into one irresistable package that just goes on and on. Anyway. My murder. Maybe I'd have come through it all right if not for that burglar. The doors were locked and I hadn't figured out how to break into mist yet, so I'd have been stuck there chewing my lip and clawing at the walls until Claudia got back if that uppity little thug hadn't forced the lock. Claudia liked me that way; she liked me hungry, needy, dependent. I'd been that way when we met, you see, except back then it was for max and zombie powder instead of blood. She'd fixed that little addiction, yessir. I'm changing the subject again? Yeah, yeah, I am. Anyway, the guy cracked the door open with a crowbar. Pretty simple stuff; I don't know it says that I hadn't thought to try that yet. I'll admit I'm not a hugely smart guy, and I wasn't as strong then as I am now. So he kicks open the door, sees me standing in the hallway with red eyes and fangs, and I see him, a walking eight pints of hot, pumping blood. God, he looked so surprised! I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him inside, jacked him up against the wall and shoved my teeth into his neck. I hadn't figured out then how to make it feel good, so he'd have been screaming before I hit his windpipe. I don't really remember it very well; when you get that hungry, all you really think about is food. It was a good thing no one else lived on that floor, I tell you what! I finished tearing his throat out about the time Claudia came home, and I remember looking down at the dead guy at my feet and thinking... _Nothing._ That's the thing. Oh, I was scared that I'd be found out, that Claudia would be angry with me or we'd have to move, but as for the man I'd just murdered? The throat I'd just torn out like a rabid, hungry dog? (OK, I did feel that: way too much flesh!) I felt _nothing_. Claudia had a lot to say; she screamed at me and beat me, like she did back then, and left me to clean up the mess while she called the disaster cleanup service the vampires own. After all, now she had a lot of work to do! I'm not like that now. I tell myself that every time I go out at night. Killing is wrong; killing as a superhero is especially wrong. I can live as what I am and not kill, even if it would be fun, even if I could get away with it scot-free, even if I was sure nothing would come of it other than a hot, sensual meal of blood and death. And I believe it, too. I don't want to kill. I don't want to be a murderer! But my world is soaked in blood. I have killed three humans and multiple vampires. I have used my fists, my teeth, my claws, and anything else I needed to get the job done. I can't think of a friend I have, outside of Avenger's friends, who hasn't killed right in front of me, or close by me, or to my knowledge. Sometimes it's casual, sometimes it's shocking, but they've all felt heart's blood on their fingers, or tasted it on their lips. When I see a pretty woman, I think of her thighs and neck as much as her breasts; when I see a tough, dangerous man I think about how easy it would be to bleed him out. I live that way every night, and every day. I stop myself today, tonight, tomorrow. I have willpower I didn't have when I was younger; I can restrain my blood lusts. I don't need to kill when I'm hungry anymore. But, see, here's the thing. The sun doesn't burn me. Fire, blessed weapons, stakes, silver; they don't hurt me more than they'd hurt anyone else. It is entirely possible that I will live forever. I can save a thousand lives; I can break the gangs of Freedom beneath my fists, I can fight a demon, a monster, a terrorist, and do it all in time to get laid at the end of the night. I can do it all. I will kill again. And again. Forever.

February 13, 2009 Sammy looked around at the various tombstones placed about Lantern Hill Cemetery. This was only the second time he had come out to the area and he wasn't sure why he had come out this way again. Something about the area simply called to him. "So, what brings you out here?" came a voice behind one of the larger tombstones. Sammy was surprised by the voice and quickly turned to face it. Hidden within the shadows was a figure. Sammy was unable to make out much about the speaker other than the fact that it seemed to be tall. "Nothing much," Sammy replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "Guess I simply wanted to get out and stretch my legs." "Kind of a strange place to be stretching your legs, eh?" the figure said as he adjusted his position slightly. That slight movement allowed Sammy to get a quick view of a powerful leg covered in a dark cloak. "Seems to me, Ghost, that someone of your namesake and abilities would be welcomed on a night like this in a cemetery." The fact thtat he figure knew his name and obviously asomething about his abilities, put Sammy on edge. Slowly he began to move to get a clear look at the figure. "Sounds like you know a lot about me. But I don't know a thing about you, buddy. Why don't you come out and show me your face." The figured smiled, catching a ray of moonlight in the process. Sammy, still out of position, could only see glistening pointed teeth. "Why, Ghost, you wound me. You and I are so intertwinned that it surprises me that you have yet to realize who I am. Haven't you been paying any attention to your dreams?" Sammy stopped in place, surprised etched upon his face. Recently, his nights had been plauged with strange dreams. Dreams of being someone else, running through the city destroying machines in an attempt to satisfy an overpowering hungry. There were always similar people with him at the time, but he could never remember much about how they look. "Are you the one playing with my mind?" Sammy moved towards the figure quickly. When Sammy had gotten within five meters, the figure lunged toward him. The speed of the attack, caught Sammy unprepared, and the figure managed to grapple Sammy to the ground. It took a moment for Sammy to gain his senses but when he did, he got a clear view of his attacker. What he saw brought a scream to his lips. "Now, Ghost, we are one!"

Date: 1993-ish. Dark Star flew through space with ease. He was getting faster now that he’d been doing it a while. Nowhere near full speed of course, but getting there. It allowed him to go from system to system, letting his curious mind observe and learn what he could, enjoying himself and the freedom he experienced all the while. He hadn’t really had too much contact with space faring races so far. He had avoided them mostly. He hadn’t felt confident enough in his abilities at that point. But as he approached the planet, he didn’t feel he had a lot of options left. A small space station, looking very worse for wear was under attack by three big ships bristling with weapons and armor. The station had no chance and was surely going to be destroyed. So Dark Star quickly entered the battle. They ships were tough and dangerous, true. But his small size, speed and strength of his attacks couldn’t be equaled by them. In short order, Dark Star had destroyed almost every weapon system on the vessels and was about to start on the engines or sensors when he realized there was still fighting going on. The ships had sent boarders onto the station. With a growl, he shot off like a rocket, knocking out the occasional shuttle’s engines on the way. In not time, he had phased right through the side of the station and entered the midst of a battle. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see. But 4’ blue ‘people’ being battered about by 8’ tall werewolves, with everyone in armor and blaster-type weapons came as something of a surprise. Dark Star had no idea what was going on but those werewolf guys looked to be slaughtering the little blue guys. They obviously were trained fighters with better equipment. So naturally, Dark Star entered the battle on the little humanoid’s side. With his abilities, and the fact that their weapons weren’t strong enough to actually hurt him, the battle went quickly. Soon enough the werewolves were running, some escaped and managed to board their retreating ships. But the rest, those who weren’t killed in the battle, were captured. Their unconscious forms were thrown into cells. It was hard work, especially since he couldn’t understand the little guys nor they him, but he helped them repair their station as best he could as well as healed their injuries. After many hours, things were definitely looking up for the little guys and their station seemed to be working fine again. He felt pretty proud of himself. His first foray with alien species and he had fended off horrible murderous aliens. Now that he had time, he figured he should take a look at the prisoners. They might be the bad guys, but that didn’t mean they should suffer. He could take a look and heal them up easily enough. It actually took a little work; he couldn’t find most of the prisoners. Frowning, he managed to find one cell that still held one. He concentrated and let the healing energies infuse the creature. It blinked, and after several growling words Dark Star couldn’t understand, spoke somehow translating it so Dark Star could comprehend. Dark Star marveled at the sudden communication and then the words sunk in. “Who or what are you?!? You have attacked our ships, hurt and killed our soldiers when we have done nothing to you! We had the murderous scum beaten! Why have you aided the Blood Pirates?!†For one long moment, all Dark Star could think of was, “Oh crap…â€Â

Date: January 16th, 2006 Eric turned on his right signal with a quick motion of his wrist, and pulled into the parking spot. Pulling out the key as he got out of the car, Eric took a moment to savor the cool fresh air he never got in the city. As he stretched a warm and familiar voice called out “Eric! Over here sweetie.†As Eric chuckled and trotted over to the voice, a second voice said to the first “’Sweetie?’ For heavens sake Heather he’s 26. You’ve got to stop embarrassing him like this.†To which the first voice replied “I’m his mother, it’s my right to embarrass him as much as I want.†“Hey I heard that!†called back Eric in a voice of mock anger. “It’s great to see you again Mom and Dad.†Said Eric as he embraced his parents. On Eric’s right was his mother Heather Micheals, a spry woman of 50 years of age, with slowly graying red hair. On Eric’s left was his father Victor Micheals, a heavyset man with graying black hair of 52 years. After a moment, Victor said, “Alright, alright, enough of this mushy stuff, there’s food to be eaten.†With a smile and nod Heather and Eric agreed it was time to go into the restaurant. Over the appetizers the discussion was mostly about the recent trends in the economy, various investments that Victor had made in the past year and the like. Mostly it was just bringing everyone up to speed about what had happened in the “unimportant†things in their life for the past couple of months, essentially a set up for the discussions that were to follow. As the courses arrived, Eric talked about his new promotion at Darts, the house he had just gotten for himself in the Riverside, and Eric evaded his mother’s questions about “that cute receptionist†she saw there last time. It was soon decided that Eric’s parents needed to see Eric’s new house to give it their seal of approval, and if they were feeling generous, to help Eric finish moving in. And so the trio whiled away the hours at Eric’s place sipping coffee, reorganizing Eric’s cabinets as soon as his back was turned, and just generally enjoying each other’s company. Before his parent’s had to set off for the night, Eric suggested that they take a quick walk around the Riverside so he could show them the neighborhood, and of course spend a little more time with them. They were maybe 20 minutes into their walk when things turned sour. A battle between the Freedom League and the Crime League had broken out and the streets soon became chaos incarnate. As the trio scrambled to get out of harms way, one of the combatants hurled a passing car at another one of the combatants; it wasn’t on target. It headed straight for Eric and his parents. Reacting quickly, Eric pushed his mother out of the way of the incoming car. As Eric moved to push his father out of the way, he felt a strong arm grip his wrist and yank sharply. With a horrid sinking feeling, Eric recognized the hand as his father’s. Eric awoke in the hospital listening to an EKG machine beeping. Groggily looking around, he saw his mother sitting next to his bed, countless tears streaming down her face, which told everything he needed to know. Ignoring the pain, Eric sat up, hugged his mother longer and harder than he ever had in his life, and wept openly with her for hours. It was on that day that Eric Micheals swore an oath to use the life that was spared by a loving father without hesitation to ensure that the so called heroes of this world would never again separate a father and son, nor ever make a loving mother cry for her loss. On this day, Malice was born.

Aberdeen University Halls of Residence, Friday 19th May 1989 3.00 AM John Fraser crashed through the door of his student flat, startling awake its inhabitants. The flat was dingy, with a distasteful grey carpet and cheap grey furniture. "John? That you?" murmured Brendan from under the book open over his face. "God dammit, man, stop barging in drunk at this time," came a voice from the armchair on the other side of the room. Steve had been lying there asleep, also with a book over his face. Brendan and Steve were both really heavily in debt, so if they didn't study and lost their scholarship money, they'd be in trouble. John ignored their protests and tottered through to his room, asleep before he hit the bed. He was fairly lucky, his parents being moderately rich and being smart enough to ace all his classes. That's why he could afford to go out partying most weekends. He awoke an hour later, startled by a loud bang. "Whu... wha... who..." he managed as he rolled onto the floor and lurched upwards and through his door. It was dark and his vision was blurry, so he flicked the light switch on... ... he threw up on the spot. Brendan lay there with a bullet through his forehead as two dark-clad men bickered in loud whispers. "I told you to put a silencer on it, you moron!" They turned at the sound of retching and sighed. "We were told he was out... well, we've paid off the killings of these guys. Pigs might not look so kindly on us killing him." The taller one grabbed John by the throat and lifted him up. He could see Steve lying on the floor behind the armchair. "They didn't pay in time. Steer clear and you'll not have to see them for a looong while, got that?" He dropped the struggling student and went to leave the room with his partner. He was hindered by a hungover biology student running up behind him and smashing a chair over his head, shouting in rage. Still not in a great state, though, he was easily tossed backwards over the breakfast bar and lay there concussed. He vaguely heard shouts and struggles, and a few more gunshots before passing out... Wednesday 24th May 1989 12.00 pm John stood in a black suit looking at the four fresh graves. Brendan Jarvis. Steve Cooper. Julia Dawson. Blake Davies. The latter two had been killed after a few... stupid was the only word John could think of... students had pushed the two mobsters too far in the attempt to catch them. He smiled wryly and walked away. Four people, dead for no reason other than money and pride. What was the point of that? There had to be a way to stop them. The police were too corrupt, the government didn't care and ordinary people lived in fear of the mob and the gangs of thugs. No man could stand up to them. But a legend... a figure in black like the Raven... they could do it. The people needed a hero... no, a superhero. So, for the next year, John trained in unarmed combat, archery and stealth. He barely slept, he fell behind in classes and abandoned all his friends. Most put it down to trauma, but it wasn't that. It was the mission. It had to be done. Saturday 19th May 1992 3.00 AM The figure stood shivering on a rooftop, looking at a warehouse. The mob used it to traffic drugs into the city. His city. With the rain beating down around him, and the bright white hawk motif visible on his chest even in the dim lighting, black cloak streaming behind him, the Arrowhawk fired a grapple line to the warehouse and slid along it. He crashed down through the skylight, into the midst of a gang of thick-set mob flunkies moving boxes out of the back of a truck. Before they could react, a sharp-tipped arrow flew into the tire and punctured it. "Ever had one really, really horrific night?" laughed the black-clad figure, the shadows under his hood revealing a black mask with red eyes. Later, he stood watching it burn, the unconscious mobsters tied up outside with a note. 'You'll have some more for your cells soon.' He signed it with his new name. The Arrowhawk. Walking off into the rain and darkness unseen, John Fraser smiled wryly once more. And kept on walking. Friday 13th February 2009 3.00 AM John sat up straight in bed, sweat dripping from every pore. He was breathing hard, a look of shock still visible on his face and a barely suppressed urge to vomit in his belly. Getting up, he walked over to the window and looked out into the night. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image of those four graves from his mind.

Date: October 31st, 2008 Jos Terhune strode down the streets of Kingston, whistling a somewhat upbeat tune. Anything can happen on Halloween... Children and tweens scampered about in an assortment of costume, most light and colorful and kid-friendly, but some were grotesqueries fitting an R-rated horror film. More than one group appeared to be a "Junior Freedom League," and numerous 'zombies' shambled about, though there were also some kids dressed as characters Terhune did not recognize, a possible indication that some of the kids truly favored creativity and imagination. Or that he just wasn't as in-touch with the superhuman community as he perhaps should be. Terhune himself was in a disguise of his own. Sneakers, blue jeans, an UWL (Ultimate Wrestling League) t-shirt, a bit of latex over his nose and brow to give him a more "rough" appearance, and topped with a backwards Freedom City Comets baseball cap. The clothes had all come from a Goodwill shop, paid for in cash. He had considered just strolling down to Kingston in his demonic form -- it's Halloween, it's one of the few times of the year he could do that -- but decided the risks were too high. Too much chance someone might recognize him from the Golden Calf debacle, or knows enough real magic to realize he's a real demon and not some guy in a fancy suit. One child ran by, dressed as a red demon, with little bat-like wings dangling off his back. Terhune smiled inwardly. Ah, but business first. He should be around here somewhere... ah, there! Terhune had come looking for Ted Forrester. Forrester was the man he'd been stuck next to on the plane from Morocco, prattling on the entire time about his lost love and a descent into alcoholism which lead to him being dishonorably discharged from the air force and killing his ultimate dream of becoming an astronaut. In the three months since, though, Forrester had experienced a string of good fortune, due in large part to having found the love of a good woman, whom he had moved in with. They had recently announced their engagement in the newspapers. This could not be permitted. So Terhune dug and searched and called in favors until he learned where Forrester lived, and knew a night where he, his fiance, and her infant son (from a prior relationship) should all be at home. That it happened on Halloween was icing on the cake. He approached their house, a nice upper middle class home like so many in Kingston. He rung the bell, and waited patiently for a reply, which was not long in coming. The door opened, and Forrester's fiance, Elaine Hagerty, stood by with a large bowl of candy. "Why, you're no trick-or-treater!" "No I'm not, ma'am," Terhune said in a slightly lower-than-usual voice. "I do hope you can help me, though. I'm supposed ta meet a buddy of mine for a Halloween party. I thought this was da place, but I t'ink I'm lost. I'm lookin' fer 201 Clinton Street." "Oh, why, that should just be a few doors down!" Elaine replied. "This is 193, so 201 should be..." Elaine stepped out and looked to the left, then the right, then left again, "four houses down that way!" Terhune bobbed his head a bit, "t'anks, ma'am. Have a nice night!" He walked off in the direction she indicated, but then looped around, doubling back so he was soon in Hagerty's back yard. Mister Forrester, you are about to have a very, very bad night. And so are you, Ms. Hagerty, though your torments won't last long. "Tragedy struck Kingston last night as a man beat both his fiance and her infant son to death. Police responding to an anonymous call report that Ted Forrester, who had recently announced his engagement to Elaine Hagerty, had strangled her son, a child from a prior relationship, then beat her to death with a blunt instrument, all seemingly while in a drunken rage. Forrester, a recovering alcoholic, has had a history of traumatic stress-related problems..." The television clicked off, showing Terhune's reflection as he lounged in his Riverside home. He smiled to himself, close enough to the truth as they'll likely get. It was easy enough to amp his love for her cache of wines, and once he was happily drunk, manipulating his emotions was child's play. He'll remember killing her son in a jealous alcohol-fueled rage, thinking it the only way he could have her to himself, then his rage shifting to her even as she see-sawed between icy fear of and unnatural love for the man. Once he was done, a healthy dose of despair kept him from doing anything but drink more and more. Lucky for me, Halloween's activities kept anyone from wondering about the few shrieks coming from their house. Then I called the police, pretending to be a concerned passerby who saw something very unusual through their windows. He glanced over at a small pile of objects d'art, And I even made off with a few pieces of art, too. I doubt Forrester will even notice they're gone... if he ever sees that place again!

Archeville looked out at the scene before him. From atop his well-fortified tower, he and those under his protection were safe from the hideous creatures that roamed the streets. Their appearance boggled the mind, no two alike, incorporating elements from every branch of the Animal, Fungal, and Plant Kingdoms. There, a swarm of winged humanoid creatures, seemingly composed of parts taken from insects, predatory birds, and digging mammals, swooped down and tore a fleeing man to shreds. Cancerous masses writhed as they flew through the air, bursting and warping as it extruded and reabsorbed organs, darting down for a quick meal to replace their disintegrating flesh. In the far distance, beyond the burning city, gargantuan squid-like monsters shuffled about in search of prey, leaving huge trails of fetid mucus in their wake; small bands of vile serpent people followed in its wake, picking off any stragglers the squid-beasts missed. The forests were even less hospitable; many of the trees had mutated into ropy, fleshy things with hungry, lamprey-like mouths, scuttling about on great hooves in search of prey. Indeed, some of the things which had invaded Earth were so hideous and repulsive that getting too good a look at one had driven more than a few men to gibbering madness. But not all the creatures out there were inimical to mankind. Some fought for the human race, fought against the horrors though they themselves were disquieting to behold. Archeville made them, in part from the corpses of these weird invaders, and in part from human volunteers. At least, most of the humans had been volunteers. At least, that's what he told himself. The world was hard enough without dissenters throwing a wrench into the works; the security acts and punishments he'd put into place to protect the people from raiders or cultists who allied with the weird creatures worked equally well against those who spoke against him from within. Slight tremors from the west indicated that some of Archevile's forces had put an end to a gargantuan worm-like beast which had been blindly burrowing about and had been headed for his city. The forces soon returned, carrying what they could of the beast for Archeville's later experiments. They themselves were a bizarre sight: large ridgy, scaly, semi-elastic conical bodies, covered in metallic plating, and with four tentacles projecting from their top, each ending in a different appendage. They hovered slowly back towards Archeville's tower, their lower halves giving off an unnatrual blue glow, and awaited the signal that the protective field had been lowered, the field which not only protected against brute force attacks but also from the weird lean greyhound-like beasts that could move through any matter. As they waited to come in, others gathered to go out and conduct more hunts. "Rottet alle aus, die sich Archevilles willen verweigern! Ausrotten! Aus-ro-tten!" A knock at the door drew Archeville's attention from the scene. Turning, he saw it was one of his officers, clad in the crisp, dark uniform Archeville had designed, both for form and function; the image of authority and order it carried had been a carefully-crafted part of his campaign to rally the people and form a resistance against these weird creatures. The officer handed over his reports, saluted and clicked his heels, then marched back to his other duties. A dim corner of Archeville's mind screamed and wailed at all that had transpired. While it was his genius and skill that had brought together the resistance, and created the weapons and forces needed to combat these weird creatures, what no one else knew was that these weird creatures were here because of Archeville. They had invaded through the portal generated by his transdimensional viewer, and once a few were in they were able to create more portals on their own and spread across the globe. He still wasn't sure if he did it intentionally or not, if he purposefully allowed the creatures in through his machine after he first viewed them (for simple study, or so they would look to him for leadership); in a way, not knowing how deep his hands were in this was worse than knowing that he'd had a hand in it at all. Whatever the case, he was very quick to seize the opportunities and become, in effect, the savior and ruler of mankind. The world was burning to ashes, and Archeville was the one to recreate it, per his vision. This, for the most part, made Archeville smile. Which made his tiny dissenting part scream and wail even more. The smile faded as he began to hear a voice calling his name. At first it was from very far off, but steadily grew louder and more urgent. Viktor! Viktor, snap out of it! A dream? A nightmare? No, one of BlÃ…Âzan's illusions. Archeville shook the last of the vision from his head, and saw the self-professed with Hexe and some of her "coven-mates"Â fighting off BlÃ…Âzan with "magical bolts."Â Their aim was in clear need of improvement.

Camera crews recorded the entire, horrible encounter. Almost all of it, anyway. Everything that was really important, everything that mattered, managed to be broadcast to the people outside. It was a lousy day. I can say that, at least, it was probably the worst one of my life and it was all my fault. Not entirely, I suppose. I can't be held completely responsible for what happens when I get cut, but I should have known better than to stick around in the first place. I should have gotten out when I could, before the panic and the stampedes settled into the crowd. But I was too into the fight, literally seeing the world with blood in my eyes. Like I said, I can't be held completely responsible, but I still should have known better. If I want to keep doing this then I'll have to figure out how to BE better. I still haven't even figured out who the guy was, the one I'd been fighting. Some pale, slim dude with a weird looking spear and a fetish for leather bondage gear. He was dressed from neck to ankles in black straps and gaudy looking pieces of dark fabric that flapped in the wind as he moved. It struck me as something half-way between some priest's cassock and a straight-jacket on steroids. Maybe something Keano Reaves would have worn in the Matrix if Neo shopped on Castro street. I don't know, it was weird, but so was the guy wearing it. He had long white hair, like some spider had taken a dump on his head, and his skin was almost as pale. His eyes were the same silver as the blade on his spear and he wasn't wearing any shoes. I noticed that because he had claws coming out of his toes. Not just long, nasty toenails but actual claws. They looked dirty yellow in color and I don't think he kept them very clean. Fortunately he didn't manage to land a blow with those otherwise I'd probably be getting tetanus shots for the rest of my life. There wasn't any explanation behind the attack, either. He didn't shout threats at me or grandstand like a proper villain should, he just claimed to be there to collect me and then we were rolling. The man used his spear like Jet-freaking-Li and it was like fighting an oversized sewing machine. I barely had time to breath while the damned thing kept darting at my head, my shoulders and my gut faster than I could think about it. 'Almost faster than I could even see it, but fortunately I don't worry about thinking too much when some joker tries to spill my guts on the ground. We started out on some rooftop but it didn't take long to spill the fight out across a couple of neighborhoods. I was just watching the city from up there, wondering how I was really going to get my career started, when he came out of nowhere. I swear the shadows just vomited the freak up, spit him right at my head. He sure as hell didn't come up the fire escape and I doubt he dropped out of a hot-air balloon. No idea what other options there were, though. Maybe he's just really quiet when he wants to be, but he made enough noise during the fight. Before long, we were falling on top of the ice arena. That's where things really started to go downhill. We both landed there after jumping off the edge of a nearby building, but I can't remember right now if he was chasing me or it was the other way around. Things were pretty chaotic right about then, and like I said, thinking's not my strong point. Not when I'm seriously ticked off, anyway. I watched him skewer a few exhaust fans trying to fill me full of holes before we both headed into the building. In retrospect, I really shouldn't have let that happen and not just because of the innocent bystanders. The bastard loved the shadows, really faded into them like he lived there. While we were in the sun it was a lot easier to spot him, but once he had some cover it was like fighting a dozen guys all armed to the teeth. I thought I was done for, but somehow we managed to find our way to the catwalk that runs over the ice rink for the lighting and sound systems. From there it was only a short time before we were falling onto the ice itself. Of course, it had to be a Saturday and the whole rink was packed with kids and parents. 'Looked like a sunday-school outing or something, and apparently the press wanted to do one of those crappy human interest stories at the same time. At least one camera and a reporter dying to make her big break. Almost literally, given what came next... See, after we hit the ice I noticed how badly I was bleeding. I'm not sure how much you've been following the Hellblog, but when I bleed my blood burns. That's burns as in bursts into flames, not burns as in I'm a freaking poet. I might be hot-blooded as well as hot-headed, but you could burn start a forest fire just from me cutting myself while shaving. Real nasty looking stuff, all smoky and it smells like brimstone and hot copper. As I lay on the ice after the fall, figuring out what my next move was, I watched as little rivulets of my own blood etched scars into the ice. Thick, black vapors came off of it and started drifting towards the crowd. They'd been pretty close when we dropped, I'm surprised we didn't land on anyone, and a lot of people got some really good whiffs of the stuff. I could see the fear just erupt in their eyes, it's happened before. The fire from my blood isn't really the bad part. Granted, I don't want to be standing in a pool of gas when it happens, but for the most part it's not that hot. Dry wood, paper and cloth might catch on fire, but I won't be melting holes in steel doors any time soon. Hell, I couldn't even slag a chain-link fence with the stuff, but then again fences don't have lungs. People do. And when people inhale the fumes from my blood, it does very bad things to their mind. It triggers some kind of fear response, a bad one. I've never found out if they start seeing images of their worst fears or if it just activates their 'fight or flight' response, but that doesn't really matter when you have half a dozen standing next to you getting ready to hit the panic button. It didn't stop there, either. Apparently we did take out the air-conditioning before we left the roof because nothing was moving the air around to clean the fumes away. They hung a little longer than I'm used to seeing and that just gave more people a chance to freak out. The more who sucked the crap in, the more chaotic it got. And the more chaotic it got, the more people panicked regardless of whether they'd been affected by my blood or not. Don't forget, there were kids in the crowd. Apparently a lot of parents even forgot that because that's mainly who managed to get trampled in the stampede. Parents, visitors, kids practicing hockey and kids just wanting a morning out with their friends all rushed the exits at once and nobody waited until the way was clear, first. It was a mess, literally a bloody disaster and it all played out just fine for the cameras. I don't know how many times the coverage was ran that night, or the week or two that followed, but by the end even I was sick of seeing it. Hopefully they won't really remember it all by the time I'm ready to make my name known. That was before any of them had ever heard of Hellbound, but I'm not sure I'll be able to keep them from remembering who's blood had been on the ice that night. Eventually, I was able to put the punk down that started it. I ran him through with his own damn spear, took it away and put it through his gut. Ripped it up and down once or twice, too, just for good measure. He'd done a lot of damage that night; to me and to the people in the ice arena. I wanted to kill him two or three times over again after all of that, but unfortunately he only died once. Dissolved back into the smoke and shadows that apparently sent him after me, too. Just faded away, turned into puffs of vapor and was gone. Weird bastard, he was. And I never even got his name.

Ignis Freedom City was still new to Ignis. His time at the Academy was proving to be interesting. His friends at the school had given him more insight to the ways of humans. At night, he continued his studies, patrolling the streets of the city. Occasionally, he would come across those that needed his help, which he gladly gave. Tonight, his wonderings had brought him further from the school than he usually ventured. Something had drawn him deeper into the Southside area of the city until he faced a derilict building.

Start out with an intro post responding to the information I put in your section. So if you want to do research or ask questions about the situation, that would happen in that post. Once you say you're heading to the area, we can get people meeting each other.

Arrowhawk With the information that Lenny had given him as a starting point, Arrowhawk manged to turn up a bit of information using his contacts within Southside. The Skinheads had been becoming bolder and bolder int heir dealings with the people of Southside. They had even begun to show a number of their members with the red tinted skin that showed their increase use of the Powerhouse' drugs. From what he could learn, it seemed that the gang was beginning to start somethign major. They had attempted to steal some very dangerous substance, but for what purpose was still unknown. Luckily, someone else had beat them to it. They did manage to make off with the designs and prototype that Monty made for them. though nothing was heard about that item in recent days. Now, his information had brought him to a derilict building.

February 19th, 2009 Scarab II Freedom City had changed much since the last time Scarab had been apart of the world. With Centurion gone, the city had fallen into the hands of the heroes that came after. All of this, the new Scarab had determined once she had regained her old lair, as well as her abilities. The Freedom League had been busy dealing with the large scale dangers that the world faced. That left the streets unprotected from the gangs and other crime committed by normal people. Freedom City's finest, were well trained, but even they were unprepared for the sudden rising crime rates within the Southside area. Scarab II had responded to various incidents within the area and knew how dangerous things had become. Tonight, her premotion powers allowed her a glimpse of the future. A future that had the streets paved in blood. It all seemed to start within Southside at a derilict building.

Okay, the long wait is over. At least for Southside people. I've put up the thread and will give an introduction post for everyone. Teh OOC thread: [Turf Wars] A Cry for Help (OOC) The IC thread: [Turf Wars] A Cry for Help (IC) Southside heroes are as follows: Arrowhawk Scarab II Ignis Slamdance Events start February 19th, 2009. That's the game time of the thread not real time. Look for your introducting post there.

February 12, 2009 Freedom City, one of the greatest cities upon the Earth, home to both heroes and villains, often forgets that within its borders are ordinary people. Those people struggle to perform their daily lives while beings of greater power than themselves roam the city flaunting their superior capabilities. The gangs, once controllers of the small areas find themselves harried by the heroes that disrupt their business, villains that try to use them as pawns in their larger schemes. Now it's time for them to take back the streets! The night was dark, Clouds blocked the light from the moon and stars above the city. It was the perfect night for a gathering. "Hey, what's all this mess about? Why they calling us all here?" asked the young man wearing the colors of the Brootherhood. His hairless head glistened with sweat as he took a drag on his cigarette. "I mean we've been hitting the streets a lot these past few months and I've got to know what this is all about." His comapnion, another skinless figure shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows. All I know is that with those new fellas joining up and taking the drug has given us more than enough street credit to make me feel better. Let's just get inside and find out what's going on." The two gang members walked into the derilict building.

I hope he gets better soon. I've been fighting a cold myself, but nothing that bad.

Welcome to the board allworth! I hope you enjoy your time with us.

We'll be posting them up fairly soon. Look for them before the end of the week is out.

Yes. Perfect from the GM side of things.

:oops: It seems you were correct after all. I priced the penetrating incorrectly. Sorry about that. The rest then fall into play correctly. Man I'm an idiot! :oops: Sorry to have keep you out of play for such a long time! Approved!