Chaos

Yeah, that would be nice if we could hope for that, haha.

[quote name='Gavin'][SIZE="1"]Andrew and Neil have pretty much summed it up, cardio exercises with some light weight/heavy rep weight lifting should do the job, but just don't expect results overnight. The only thing I would add to it is to absolutely ensure you're getting enough water, especially if you're going to be working out more, you wouldn't believe how much dehydration can affect your routine. [/SIZE][/QUOTE] True enough. I did forget this. Dehydration can start setting in as soon as fifteen minutes in a mildly strenuous workout even at room temperature. And regardless of what you hear, stay away from any type of fruit drink, even Gatorade and Powerade, during extended workouts, ESPECIALLY during the work out. Good for when you take a decent break or when you're done, but not during a long run or full body workout. The thick mixture of syrups and pulp-based fluids can cause agonizing cramps. Trust me. Water makes up seventy-odd percent of your body, and you need to keep it that way. Show some love to a Dasani bottle.

Decent information so far. Someone said the main thing earlier; avoid crash diets. They never work. The first thing that happens is that your body stores MORE fat because it is now not getting a normal flow of nutrients. Then if you persist, you will lose weight, sure, but you'll be losing muscle and even parts of your organs. Atkins is one of the worst things you can ever do. Taking carbs out of a diet? Idiotic. The same thing I mentioned above will happen without a significant weight dive. And then your body one day decides that it is not healthy and resorts to breaking down HEART AND LIVER cells in order to regain missing carbs. Do NOT cut carbs from a diet. Carbs are the fuel which keep your body moving. They are essential to healthy living as much as oxygen and vitamin D. The key is to finding the appropriate amount of intake per body weight per daily work load. Then you'll be good. Another thing to take into account is your own metabolism. Everyone's body works in the same general way, but not exactly. Your body will react to your diet and labor in it's own way and at it's own pace. That's one thing that takes a good deal of time to map out. As far as what to do...virtually every exercise is cardio. It's just to what degree. Low pressure/hi-rep weight lifting is a good way to build stamina and burn water weight. Basic calistentics are always good at high reps. Walking, jogging, and running are always excellent choices. It's one of the healthiest excercises you can do, both physically and mentally. The increase of stamina, the leaning of muscles, a full body work out, and the release of epinephrine and serotonin in the bloodstream can bring about a physical euphoria that is addictive. It is an excellent mood booster. Weight lifting is similar in it's physical effects, sans a larger buildup of aerobic stamina. As your body physically works it eats away at fat cells, most of the time around the areas being worked. Pushups, situps, and pullups are awesome ways to burn excess fat and increase muscle toning and are a lot safer than most weight lifting because the stress imposed is roughly equal to mass limitations on ligaments and bones. Another thing is to avoid air conditioning. Hard to lose water weight when you don't sweat. Get out there and get dirty and stinky. Exercise in the day whenever you can, mostly because it's healthy and the sun gives you plenty of nutrients that artificial lighting does not, such as vitamin D, UVA and UVB. For example, with a slightly reduced diet, a seventy hour work week at my job, which put me outside in hundred degree weather, I lost forty pounds in a little over a month. It takes determination, but you can do it. Takes time, too, to do it right.

The ringing in his ears did not stop, not even when Raiha had been reduced into sobs. It was not the explosions or the roars the halfblood had unleashed, but rather rage. For this to happen, for the defilment of this occasion meant something far more than it would have to other living beings. Saiyajins are known for their ruthlessness and their bloodlust, but also for their bonds. The battles and traditions alike they go through forge ties that lie much deeper than flesh. For someone to invade his family's home on this sacred and blessed day meant death for all that benefited. He stood downstairs, fists clenching and releasing again. Most others had gone back upstairs for simple moral support and to find something, anything, to do to make this all right. He didn't know what to offer, however. The only other being downstairs was his father, who was disposing of bodies out the back. "Neil, stop standing around and grab this fucker's legs." The old man's voice sickened him to the core, but he complied. He knew what was coming up. His father was strong enough to carry all the bits and pieces of the bloody corpses with one arm. The excuse to help was a setup to talk. The large pile of bodies had grown high out back. The pair of warriors heaved and ho'ed and tossed the last block of shredded flesh that was once a foe on top. Neil's father took a few steps back and sighed, flicking his fingers to the ground, slinging blood from his hands. Neil stood apart, letting the crimson seep into his skin. The silence lasted some time as the father and the son listened to the wind and the quiet sobbing that drifted away into the night. "Well," the older Saiyajin started. "Light the damn thing. I know you can." "Go play in traffic." Neil turned to leave only to come back face to face with his father. Their past was checkered to say the least. At worst, Neil was a bastardized son who hated his lying, spineless father with every fiber of his being. He rued the day when his father reentered his life a few months ago, and was completely opposed to the idea of having him there at the homecoming. "Come on, [i]son[/i], don't be like that." Neil straighted his back and squared his chin. He was taller than his father now, but for some reason, it always seemed like the old man was always towering over him. But now he stared into his father's eyes and saw the same hate he probably had in his own. "I thought that was your curse, not mine, Dad." Neil sidestepped and walked past, bumping into his father and threw him off-balance. He did not look back to his father's snarl but instead continued upstairs. He deftly pushed off his left foot at the foot of the stairs and appeared at the top landing, disappearing from view in his quick leap upwards. He entered the bedroom and stood tall in the doorway, all six foot two and two hundred and thirty pounds of him. Some of the others looked to him as if he were a complete stranger. He did not look himself over but knew he was a sight. Covered in blood, face drawn in a trademark scowl. His hair was tossed high and his tan skin was a darker bronze shade as his ki was elevated higher than normal. He cast an errie glow over the demolished house that was now drenched in a morbid rage and fear that would never leave. He walked slowly and purposefully forward, pressing forward through the gathering. Raiha had seemingly descended into a hazy mixture of sobbing and a chilling gutteral growl. Her fiery aura had diminished, but still emitted a great level of heat. The fullblood stopped at her side and crouched down. "No more tears," he whispered. "Now it's time for blood." There was a moment of pure silence, and he stood slowly. He first looked to Gavin, and for a fraction of a second, his glare turned to a soft frown. And around the room he looked and turned to leave. He stopped at the door and looked into the shattered ceiling and beyond into the cloudy sky. "Leave nothing."

Old Spice Body Wash is the ****. After Hours is my favorite, and I've always gotten good responses when the situations came to it. It gets you clean, hydrates (key for someone who works in the sun all day), and it smells strong and, well, manly without being overpowering. Also, Adidas' generic body wash is good for said reasons, but doesn't smell as good in my opinion. Old Spice High Endurance deoderant also rocks, because it's a) Old Spice, b) smells good, and c) lasts up to fourteen hours of constant work and labor and sweat. Shampoo is simple, though. Head And Shoulders, the green one. Smells good and hydrates the scalp. Simple. And there are plenty of "guy" cleaning products. Mostly, they don't have flower scents. They usually have a thicker, heavier smell. Comparing two different types of body wash is just as easy as comparing, say a Victoria's Secret perfume to Brut.

K-Town in the house! ...New Orleans, Louisiana. You've heard the name. K-Town. K-Ville. Chocolate City. The 504. I've lived here my whole life and I love it. The winters are wet and cold, the summers humid and scorching, but I love it. So much history. So much culture. The music, the food, the people, the locations. There is a lot to do... Of course, there is Bourbon and the French Quarter, but there is a lot more. ...Like Decatur Street. Haha. But no, there are a lot of cool places you can only see here and a lot of things you can only do here. Lots of historical sights, lots of things to find. Great fishing outside the metro area. The bayous and wetlands are beautiful in the summer, especially during the middle of the day on a swamp boat. Music the the main thing, I think, tied with the food. You can go clubbing downtown and hear music from ten different genres within an hour if you know the right places. Classic blues and grinding metal next door to each other. And the food...god, you will never taste anything like a real New Orleans cuisine. ...And there's some thing called Mardi Gras. Something about glass beads and baring chests for the needy or something. XD This place is definitely home. There is just a...feeling. A spirit. It's in the air. You can taste it, smell it, walk through it. It's...home. That's the only way I can say it. Oh, we're also the murder capital of the United States. Love from the Big Easy.

His smirk slowly dissolved and turned to a snarl, and Demos motioned for Reverb to follow. They circled north, to come around to the right of the doorway to Loadout Containment to squat in a low crouch in the tall grass. Demos shifted his visual spectrum to a combination of night vision and infrared motion detection, whereas Reverb had adjusted the zone shading of his thermal imaging to a higher temperature range. They listened intently to the thudding footsteps that approached. Demos poked his head out of the grass, and satisfied, dashed west, coming to a halt on the other side of the exit of the EEA, against the wall. Once there, he took to the ground, on all fours. He stayed low, lip curled and teeth bared. The vibrations were thunderous now, and he soon saw the monstrosities that hunted them. They were tall, bipedal, with four arms. They were very humanoid in form, with the exception of individual weapon loadouts. The general look for the white gloss mechs was two pairs of arms, one set slightly larger than proportionate to a normal Reploid, and the other massively oversized. The secondary set was the pair that wielded the machine’s main weapon, and the primary set was actually for back-up purposes and small weapons use. The first one through the entrance wielded large cannon which Demos immediately recognized as an air burst charge. It was useful for punching holes through defenses and enemies by storing pressurized air in a canister mounted on the back and releasing it in bursts. It was typically used as an entry weapon in breech-and-clear sweeps. Four other Battle Suits ducked under the containment field generators and into the simulated hellhole. They slowly advanced forward, fanning outwards, and another five followed. The two groups integrated into one, forming a staggered chain as they proceeded into the misty, artificial night. Weapons high and shouldered, the exosuits began searching slowly. Both Hunters knew it was only a matter of time before they were found. Demos had been passed over due to simple miscalculation and excellent position. Reverb was not yet discovered due to similarly superb concealment and the fact that their enemies had not yet reached his position. Outnumbered, outgunned, but not outmaneuvered. Demos was about to start advancing to Loadout Containment when a single exosuit, wielding what appeared to be a modified XM189A3, a thirty-millimeter pneumatic shell-less rifle, most commonly used on anti-vehicle armaments. The grounding tripod had been removed and a kickstand had been directly integrated with the mech’s right arm. The handle had also been replaced with a larger handle and triple-digit trigger. “Shit.” Demos reached up to his throat with his left hand and placed his fingers on either side of his artificial windpipe. He pressed slightly, and activated the point-to-point burst transmission relay inlaid within his body. It wasn’t sophisticated, but it was a tried-and-true communications method that was very hard to intercept. “Reverb, do you copy?” Reverb reached up slowly to his own neck, prone on the ground and slowly crawling backwards. “Roger that, Demos,” he whispered. “I’ve got another target on overwatch here by the entrance,” the Elite Squadron Commander growled. “I’m going to…handle it. Wait for my mark, then unleash Hell.” Reverb merely gave a double radio squelch to confirm. Demos rose off his hands and crouch-walked his way to the containment wall, silently pressing up against it. He shifted his eyes to the other exosuits as they continued their search. They were not checking their rear or the right flank. They had confidence that most in this situation could not afford. Which meant that they knew something would be there to protect them should they screw up. Demos hoped it was this sniper in the back and nothing else. --- --- Command Room Upsilon was quiet now that Valcourt had issued his orders. An active search was underway for X and Demos and Reverb had long since disappeared into the EEA without a trace. And now the remaining exosuits inside Containment were the only ones in contact. The Lieutenant-Colonel stood at attention at the Command Deck, overseeing various data streams. His attention turned from the screens when the entrance door slid open and a Hunter walked in. He stood a hair under six feet, with a compact frame housed in tactical combat gear. His hair was cut in a military flattop buzz, salt-and-pepper coloring, and clean-shaven. His aged face showed that if he was human, he would have been around sixty years old. He looked the serious type, his thick jaw set and eyes hard. These eyes, one shining blue and the other a brilliant Emerald green that looked remarkably viral. He approached Valcourt and gave a half-hearted salute. “Evening, Lieutenant-Colonel. I trust your search is producing results?” Valcourt curled his lip slightly, and made no direct response. “What do you want, [i]Commander?[/i]” The Hunter scoffed and squared his chest and crossed his arms. “Well, if you want to be like that…” he muttered. Speaking clearly, he continued; “I’m here on orders to assist your efforts.” “I do not require your help.” The Hunter sneered and lowered his arms, fists balled. “You misunderstand,” the Hunter growled. “Your Commander deemed it necessary.” Valcourt merely refocused his attention to the monitors. The Hunter rotated on his heels and stood directly in front of the Lieutenant-Colonel, sighing deeply. “Look here, worm. I’ve been working with the European Hunters longer than you’ve been breathing. And I was kicking ass way back when you were still a DNA molecule in your father’s nut sack. And when, by not only my orders but your own Commander’s orders, to take one of your issued Exosuits to handle a problem, and you give me shit for it, I am obligated to remove your liver and burn you alive,” the Hunter said loudly with a wry smile. “So hop to it, soldier.” Valcourt merely snarled even more and watched his men work. The Hunter turned away and started walking out the door, heading for the Outfitting Armory. “Whatever you say, Levia…” --- --- Demos inched further along the wall until he was literally feet away the exosuit. He lowered both of his arms and clawed his hands. Forcing energy outwards through his ports white crackling lightning radiated outward. The kinetic force stabilized in his palms into perfect orbs of unfiltered explosive force. There was a loud pop as his limits soared higher and the orbs grew to the size of a cabbage. It was stark bright now, and Demos was illuminated by his shining power, which attracted the attention of the sniper in the exosuit. The machine turned just in time for Demos to charge straight into the chest cavity, his left arm out. He slung the orb of pure energy forward, launching directly into the core of the mech. The thick steel buckled inwards, and burned cherry hot. Demos smiled evilly as he heard the primal screams of agony from the Emerald Militia within the Exosuit. The legs of the machine buckled and the torso collapsed to the ground on its back. The Elite Commander walked over to his fallen enemy, eyes glinting with malice. He stepped up on the bent plating and squatted down. Rearing his right arm back, hand flayed out, and roaring a fierce warcry slammed the energy sphere into the cockpit. The alabaster flash emitted outwards, a deafening blast blowing the sides of the exosuit out and literally vaporizing the interior. The acrid smoke billowed outwards thickly, covering the husk from immediate view. Demos leapt off the machine corpse and dashed forward into the field. He stopped some twenty yards away, seeing the large squad of exosuits advancing rapidly on his position. Demos ducked back down and forced his energy out of his right hand again, a long Dao sword shaping out of the blazing light and deep crackle. His left superheated for a split second and shifted, forming into the Fox-III Buster. He tossed his head back and inhaled… “NOW!!”

Why, oh why, Charles, must you do this? It has taken years of work to simply forget that...abomination, much less progress from it...

...I like how Neil taunts her as he stands there about to pass out. Haha.

It didn't take long for the two Hunters to be discovered by Command's scanners. It had, in fact, pinpointed their position just after they had entered the second underground parking garage. They ran side-by-side, at breakneck pace, upwards. Ascending manually, not taking anything automated, both Reverb and Demos made it to the first floor without any interruptions. It was late, and after a major attack in Central Command; there were no civilian- or military-based personnel up at this hour. Only Hunters would be on duty, which was a double-edged sword for the two renegades. By the time they had reached the access stairs in the back of the lobby, they knew they were being tracked. Thundering footsteps above, several stories up, told of at least thirty heavily-armed Hunters on their way to intercept the pair. Demos and Reverb pressed on, running upwards, taking three steps at a time, and barreled their way into, again, the third floor in Section E. The mess hall. This time they were not greeted by a massive collection of Emerald Militia or regular Hunters, for that matter, just maintenance crews repairing the damage that had been done from the earlier incursion. Demos raised his buster high and fired off a quick burst of shots. The crews took about half a second to look at him before retreating into one of the many surrounding hallways leading to other sections of the level. Reverb notched his eyes tightly and continued to run for the opposite stairwell of the one they had just emerged from. Demos, however, stood completely still, looking back at the doorway. Reverb noticed and turned around, walking briskly backwards. "Demos, come on! We don't have time to fight every squad we come upon!" Demos craned his neck around to Reverb and snorted. "Why not?" he asked. "Most of them will be coming from above anyway, why not keep our flank clear?" He turned his head back to the door, but instead started to walk away, turning to face Reverb after three steps. He reached down to his left thigh, and accessed the compartment within his armor. The plates slid open and he caught the beam generator as it fell. "...One left. Great." Demos took ahead in stride as Reverb turned to follow him to the opposite side of the mess hall. When he reached the door he opened one side slowly, checked the hallway and then slid through the marginal opening. Reverb followed, not quite sure what Demos was up to. As soon as Reverb was through, Demos slammed the door shut and kicked the corner on the left door in. He placed the generator on the inside of the dent with the cotter pin sticking upwards. He tested it slightly, opening the door inwards, and smiled when he saw the outside corner of the door would catch. Demos motioned for Reverb to follow and together they ran down the hallway and up the general use stairwell. These stairs were marble, with glass siding and brass handles, much more showy than the steel, white-washed railing and cement steps in the access halls. The downside was that sound traveled just as well in these halls, and it was no problem for their advanced hearing to pick up the harsh crackle of the beam generator as it flashed a ten foot radius of ionized energy. The trap had been sprung and caught their pursuers unaware. Some were still alive and their groans were also audible. Demos and Reverb continued upwards until they reached the landing for the sixth floor, one of the munitions training levels in Section C, where they decided it was time to do a little shopping. They slunk in through the door, taking a brief moment to whisper thanks that it was late and the lights were off. They leapfrogged their way behind cover past the ranges, busters armed and primed. This would definitely be a staging ground for an assault group, but so far, it seemed empty. Almost like it was... "Evacuated," Reverb whispered. Demos glanced at the green and grey Hunter briefly, almost hating him for finishing the thought in his head. If they both reached that conclusion around the same time, there was a good chance that it was evacuated and they were in some deep ****. The problem with their isolated approach was that they had to go through the artificial testing field, which was an open plain of grass and simulated environment consisting of one and a half square miles of coverless space. They rounded the corner of the checkout station on that side of the field and crouched at the entrance. "Well...what do you think?" Reverb asked. "We can assault the most heavily guarded section of Headquarters with standard loadout or we can assault it with a couple of tons of ammunition. You pick," Demos said with a toothy smile. "You don't think there could be a task force over there, do you, waiting for us to raid the armory?" Reverb asked rhetorically and not without a pinch of sarcasm. "I'd bet the farm on it. But let's see if there isn't something we can't do to improve our odds..." Demos entered the checkroom after kicking the door off the hinges, which elicited a grunt from Reverb. He booted the control mechanism for the field's climate control and began adjusting the settings. "Eighty degrees Celsius, full cloud cover, moonless night, and thick fog," Demos said with a sense of satisfaction. "Now all we have to worry about is if they have any laser designators or sonic amplification device and we're set." "Why not just add in a sandstorm while you're at it?" Reverb said with a smile. "I would if I could, but I think it might cause a bit of an overload." Once more they crouched by the door and saw the engineered environment warp itself to the designated settings. What was once a bright and starry night with a huge moon over the flat field turned into a simmering hell as the air distorted from the heat and the clouds and now-featureless sky blackened. Both Demos and Reverb charged into the waist-high grass, bent at the stomach, heads down, and arms back. They weaved in and out of each other, one's path overlapping the other's until they reached the "Throne" - a rock outcropping that was always the centerpiece of the arena for war games. There they held cover and peered over the edge of the top. They couldn't see more than twenty feet past the rocks due to the wavering, scorching air, even with the myriad of selective visual filters that all Hunters are required to have. "Well, the good news is that the thermal image looks like the sun exploded." Demos said wryly. "So what's better than both you and your enemy being blinded?" Reverb asked, knowing the answer as a cardinal rule of warfare. "The element of surprise." And then the two Elite Hunters vanished into the tall grass once more. ----- Hope you can work with that, Connor. Been playing a combination of Rainbow Six Vegas and Far Cry lately, and it kinda rubs off on ya. XD

I'm kind of alive. Moved into my own place and certain things have prolonged my ability to get online, but I do still exist. I intend to post very soon, with some character development, leading to the Fight Club. Business there will more than likely be interrupted by a civil dispute, forcing the fight between the cops and the madman. Tada.

...So nice to see that the Fire Saiya-jin has been reduced to dish duty, haha. Certainly is unique. Old-school, even. Though more blood is required for this to be considered good, D'Ann. I figured you, of all people, would understand that concept.

[quote name='Andrew][SIZE=1']... if the timing belt hadn't snapped and bent the valves of the second and third cylinders of the engine when it did...[/SIZE][/quote] Haha, oh my God that sucks. [img]http://artillerie.250free.com/Jeep.JPG[/img] 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo Edition 4x4. 123k on it, and it is funnnn to drive. Rain, mud, blacktop, children, nothing throws off the Green Machine. It's like the Hulk on four wheels. Or at least it would be if I had the locking hubs for the 4x4 powertrain. So it will have to be like the...Stephen Colbert on four wheels. But it's good. Need a new sound system in it because over the years it has gotten blown out several times. Still has a tape deck, but I've got one of those little converters so I can hook up my MP3 player. No need to have a USB port in the dash. I'm not that sophisticated. It gets...average gas milage for it's make and age...13.8 miles to the gallon. But she's still fun to ride...[spoiler]So's the car, ZING![/spoiler]

Hmm. I have a sudden urge to throw out that I've gotten several parish and state victories in chess tournaments when I was younger. Nothing major, the best I've ever gotten was second place in the third round of the state tournament in...'99? Yeah, 1999. ...I haven't played in so long, too. Tch. I probably couldn't beat a third grader who knew Queen's Gambit right now. ...Yay Roxie. Yay Hawaii.

"A A aah ! Gojiraa!"

...Oh, sure, cut his tail off four posts into it. Thank you for making me an invalid.

I wouldn't have a problem with that, but I do have something lined up already at the Fight Club. I suppose once out of that story arc we could hammer something out, provided [b]that[/b] arc goes through unhitched. ...Though I'm not quite how to combat a slew of neurotoxins...

"YOU PIECE OF FUCKING YELLOW SHIT!" [i]The bastard started running away. He had used my own handcuffs against me. Got one on his left wrist, and then the son of bitch rammed his head backwards into my chin, and slapped me in the face with the free clink. And then he had the nerve to [b]run.[/b] What the fuck?[/i] Pounding footsteps tore after the scrawny dealer. He was panting hard; the wind long left his lungs after being slammed into a wall and then running for his life. This cop was something else. He managed to overwatch a deal from down the street and didn't even bother to try and set him up. On top of that, he had been chasing the pusher for more than ten blocks now. The pusher, a goon for the Brotherhood of Infinite Longevity, looked over his shoulder as he turned around a corner. He was still coming. The dealer saw what might be his opportunity and drove quickly into a trash alley along one side of a building. He ducked low behind a Dumpster and tried to catch his breath, tried to slow his racing heart. He panted quietly, wiping sweat from his eyes, and listened as well as he could over the roar of his pulse. [i]There.[/i] The stomping of the hard boots against the cement went thundering past and faded off into the night. The dealer blinked several times, straining to hear. He turned onto his shoulder and crooked his neck so minutely he didn't even think it moved. Peering from the side of the container he saw the empty alleyway, heard nothing but silence. Several minutes passed before the pusher reached up and pulled the hood of his green sweatshirt over his head. He stood slowly, listening to the still night. He began walking, slowly, towards the street, picking up speed to a brisk walk as he neared the sidewalk. [i]Fuck you.[/i] It was then that he was collared, from behind, and he felt what must have been a steel vice dig into the back of his skull. In that moment that adrenaline flowed through his veins again, he felt almost weightless as he floated to the brick wall to his left. Time slowed as he came closer and closer to the wall. He thought he could see the individual cracks in the mortar, the tiniest pits in the bricks. Then, reality struck back with fury. His perception of time returned to normal as he felt the bones of his nose shift in place. Warm blood flooded out of his nostrils and lips. He managed to draw enough air to get half a scream out before he was smashed headlong into the wall again and then a third time. By this time he managed to get his hands over his face and let out a stifled moan. He felt himself getting spun around and the vice repositioning to cover his forehead. With a dazed realization he somewhat knew what was coming next. [i][b]Fuck you.[/b][/i] Four, five times the back of the thin Asian boy's head was slammed into the wall. By the third swing his knees buckled and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He now crumpled to the ground and was slowly gurgling. His body twitch on one motion, rolling him from his back against the wall to face-first into the dirty ground. Foam slowly leaked out of his mouth as the hand of God descended from above and pulled him up by the hair. In his distortion he heard the roars above, feeling the hammer blows land across his cheeks and jaw. The thunder crack of every strike seethed with fire, though from a very far away place. One good shot to the base of the jaw was strong enough to fling his body to the right, ripping a bloody chunk of hair from his scalp as the other hand held strong. His head and shoulder collided audibly with the cement, a blow that elicited a grunt from the disfigured mouth of the dealer. [b][i]FUCK YOU![/i][/b] He was gone. There was nothing left of this scum. His eyes saw no more, just the dark night fading to complete back. The blood flow from his wounds slowed as his body lost blood pressure. His heart rate dropped and his lungs emptied one last time. But he had one last moment of horror as he saw the steel-toe boot swinging into view, coming from the cloud on high. The last thing he saw was the fine cracks in the leather hide before his torso tossed back from the kick to the skull. The cop continued kicking, hitting the dead suspect several times more before dropping down to his knees, hands grasping the mutilated face on both sides of the eye sockets... "FUCK YOU!" ...and pulled up. Putting all of his force into his shoulders, the cop shifted his weight and momentum, and growled as he felt the sickening crunch go through his hands as the skull shattered against the ground. He raised again, slammed again, raised again, slammed again, and again, and again. Again. Again. Again... Again... Again.... Neil snapped out of it when he realized he was no longer pummeling a head anymore; instead he was staring into a flattened bag that felt like it had glass shards and Jell-O in it. His hands were covered in blood and his tongue was bleeding from when he was clenching his teeth so hard. Blood had soaked into the knees and shins of his jeans and had splattered all over his arms and chest. He stood quickly, looking around him, slightly lost. It was quiet now. No more whimpers or guttural snarling. And there had been no screams that he heard -- no witnesses. Neil turned to leave the alleyway when he stopped short. He looked over his shoulder at his victim and turned back in the same motion. He grabbed the pusher's left leg and dragged him further into alley, back behind the Dumpster they had shared opposite sides of then he cornered his target. He pulled the dealer up against the Dumpster and the wall, satisfied that the lack of significant light and shadow of the container would hide him until morning. Just as he stood he remembered why he chased him in the first place. He reached into the pocket on the front of the now-purple sweatshirt with green patches, and pulled out the three vials and two filled syringes. He felt something else, and reached after it, pulling out a money clip with more than a few hundreds. Neil stood once more, looking over his shoulder as he slipped the contraband into the left pouch-pocket of his cargo pants. He shrugged, and looked up to the dark sky, and smiled. "Well, I took what mattered most to him...why not take it all?" He pocketed the money in the opposite leg, and turned to the street again. ----- He killed the sirens on his black Crown Victoria, the designated undercover car for American police forces, and drove for half a block more. He saw the building, large and looming over the street. He parked, illegally, directly across the street. He got out quickly, and walked with swift and purposeful strides to the entrance. He counted four limousines outside and about seven large men in black suits out front, all smoking and wearing sunglasses in the dead of night. They all straightened up and turned to face him as soon as his intentions were obvious enough. Neil slowed his pace a little and saw no less than three of them unbutton their coats. Neil put his right hand up as he approached the light circle under the street lamp and reached his left around his back. He brought back out a flip-out badge with an identification card. The strongmen stood a little taller and most sighed in an exasperated manner. "Relax," Rave called out as he stepped up onto the curb. "I'm not here for any of you. I'm here to see Chang. So, if you'll just excuse me..." Neil slipped past the first two portly fellows before the rest encircled him. He stopped cold and looked around him as they all stared back with the same ugly glare. Though none of them were taller than him, though they were all within arm's reach, he was not in the mood to be shot at at this time of night. Sighing, he reached back with his left and replaced his badge and let his right dangle to retrieve the money clip. He flipped it over in his fingers reluctantly, with a grimace on his face, and then held it up to the goon directly in front of him. He popped the wad in the air and swung around the guy as he reached up to grab the money. A quick jog to the elevator and a button press later he was rising through the complex. The doors opened with a ding and four men, completely fitting the prerequisites for bouncers all turned from the straight hallway to peer at Neil. They were standing in a square formation right in front of the large double doors to the parlor. Neil walked up, not even giving them a glance as he continued through the left door. One of them called after him as he barged in. He immediately spotted his boss and approached him. His ghastly and bloody appearance gathered quiet stares parallel to the distance he made across the room until he reached the bar. Eric Chang turned around slowly, having felt someone approach. He was sipping his drink when he turned and in his startling vision he slurped his drink noisily. He coughed lightly as he rolled his eyes at his Sergeant. He was going to grind Neil for this. It would cost a lot to clean up whatever mess he had made if he looked like this. "Christ," Chang muttered. "You're covered in blood, Scruggs; you DO know that, right?" "Chang, we have a problem. I suggest we discuss this, now." Eric raised an eyebrow; it wasn't every day one of his beat officers gave him an order. The Rave was on thin ice as it was, so it had better be one goddamn good reason for him to act this way. They both turned and leaned on the counter as Neil fished out the drugs and laid them on the counter. Before he spoke, he pulled a fifty from his wallet quickly and looked to the bartender. "Hey pops, fifty dollars says there is a spilled drink on the other side of the bar. How's about cleaning it up?" The bartender took the bill silently and walked away, to where, exactly, neither of the cops cared as long as he wasn't within earshot. "I found an old friend of yours, Eric," Neil began. "Yue Fu Shi." The name earned a snorted chuckle. "Caught him right off a deal. Bust went bad, he caught me blinking. Chased him down and...well, that's not important. What IS important is what he was selling." Neil shuffled the contraband in front of his Detective. Eric merely clinched his jaw. "Looks an awful lot like what Allen described, doesn't it?" "Where was Shi pushing?" the Machine Gun asked huskily. Neil tilted his head for a question, seemingly concentrating. "Seven and a half blocks away."

I got talked into this. I have every intention of showing up and causing trouble at the fight club. Knock some heads loose, something like that. Apparently D'Ann wants me to write her in so that she can mock me. Tch.

Am I cool enough for this to be considered a cameo? Name: Neil Scruggs Gender: Male Nickname: Rave Age: 28 Chinese Zodiac Sign: Rabbit Organization of Choice: San Francisco Police Department Function: Plainclothes undercover Narcotics Agent - Rank: Sergeant Appearance: Standing tall at six-foot four, Rave is well-built and fits his frame well. Weighing in at two-hundred fifty-two pounds, his defined muscles and broad form carries the weight well. Medium-short length hair and a thick scruff covers his neck and joins in with elongated sideburns. He has a tattoo of a tribal phoenix on his right arm. Often wears black jeans or military-grade cargo pants, steel-toed boots, and sleeveless shirts, a white sleeveless undershirt and a black or slate overshirt. Conceals a varying amount of knives on his person, notably being a Gerber Covert in his right front pocket, a Gerber Paraframe II in his back left pocket, and a SOG SEAL Pup, holstered with combat-grade nylon cover case through his belt at his right hip. Scarred knuckles and forearms, as well as several gunshot scars on his torso and a vertical slightly left and off-center on his bottom lip show the wear and tear he has undergone in life. Weapon of Choice: Considered a verifiable genius in hand-to-hand combat of many forms, including Muay Thai, several practices of Judo, several practices of karate, a basic understanding of Tiger Style, general-use aikido and jiu-jitsu, an avid boxer, and is an experienced street fighter, Neil is definably a lethal threat when barehanded. He is also an expert with bladed weapons, knives in specific. His training also gives him general proficiency with modern and dated firearms. Biography: An all-American, Neil is a mutt, or as he prefers to call it, a "Heinz 57." He draws roots from mostly Russian, Cajun, French, and mixed European. Originally from New Orleans, Louisiana, Neil enrolled at the Naval Amphibious Base in Coronado after a brief tour in the Pacific as a sonarman at the age of nineteen. He always had an interest in the Special Forces, and decided to try out for BUD/S selection. He passed the training courses at the head of his class and was enrolled in SEAL Team 2. He served in active duty for over seven years and traveled to more than thirty countries. He is extremely well trained, and has a natural skill that surpassed many of his fellow warriors, and his actions in combat and in other duties earned him much praise and attention. His abilities range from counter-terrorism in the physical world to the virtual world to political overlook and security detail. He is multilingual. His overall skill eventually earned him a promotion to E-9 and was selected for testing as a Command Master Chief. But before he was able to complete his Command training, a personal emergency aroused. His wife had died while he was on duty from brain cancer. The shock was tremendous, as she had not even been diagnosed. He resigned from the Navy and bid his squadmates goodbye. He was inactive for a year, living off his sizable pension, before he applied to the SFPD. His resume in itself was enough to earn him a Detective position, but he turned it down in favor of walking the beat. Not much else is known, as a good portion of his adult life has been classified, and that he remains silent on his younger years. In his own words, he prefers to live two seconds ahead, not a year and a month in the past. Inquiries to his late wife are often met with a distant stare and a wry smile. He generally a hard-boiled and stone-hearted, the things he had seen in his tours of duty making him very cynical about life. He is, though, still a military man at heart, and shows a mild respect to those that he meets and is a gentleman around women, although lately he has been becoming more and more pessimistic. He feels as if he is reverting to something less human, a personification of the battlefield, what he usually felt during a combat situation. His nickname "Rave" comes from the wild, uncontrollable fervor he experiences in a fight, particularly a close-quarters fight. Fellow SEALs have remarked in debriefing that he didn't even give enemies a chance to bleed before moving on to the next target. Normally, this is ideal for a Special Forces commando, but many times he went off the charts and would not stop, even when mission parameters were being infringed. Personality: Collected, but far from calm. He is clinically introverted, but he prefers to think it is from the nature of his previous profession. He is hesitant to use his abilities for mundane reasons, but when he does get started, he is usually hard to quell. Though considers himself civil, Neil is rarely anything but anti-social, and has been experiencing hazes, especially in moments of stress, such as arrests, and fading out to find his fellow officers holding him back from a severely battered suspect.

Heh. I admit, my stories are a little contrived, I'll admit that first. There is a lot to this storyline, so a short version is kinda hard. Let's see what I can pull off. Demos is a lot older than he remembers. He was made after Bass' designs, but a few things were changed, such as height, size, overall strength, minor upgrades to improve the structure. He fought, somewhat behind the scenes, though he did battle Rock a few times and quite ably at that. His creator, Andrew Levia, a creation of Wily himself, tried to foster Demos as Light had with Rock. This was a little trickier, as Demos, at that point in time, knew who really made him and for what purpose. Around the time of Megaman VIII, Demos was shut down and redesigned to a slighter, less outgoing version of himself, codenamed Drake, in an attempt to make him stronger by giving him something to fight for. In this way, his memories were concealed. Levia then put on a facade that showed his son he was a government-hired scientist for a Russian black-ops department with the goal of preservation from attacks from Wily. His original form was contained within this new body, meant to reemerge when a program code was activated. During the battle with the Replimasters back in MHR, Drake experienced a situation which required abilities that his condensed form did not possess, so his self-preservation instincts activated the change within his frame and CPU, thus unleashing Demos once more. In this way, a programmer secret that was a backdoor entrance to the CPU opened up again and let his regressed memories back in, through a controlled way. Whenever he recovers from a Standby, memories are replayed in his hard drive, the closest thing a Reploid can have to a dream. He only recently found the truth when Wily upgraded him with the TITAN Project. Havoc on the other hand was made a general Zero-clone, something that Levia had done on his own, without orders from Wily, to protect his 'family' in case Wily tried to cover his tracks once Zero was unleashed. It was somewhat like a game of spy versus spy. In-context, Havoc was created as Chaos and upgraded through a powershift that took away some of his ranged capabilities in favor of close-combat. Out-of-context, I had ideas of retiring Demos and replacing him with Havoc, and Craig wanted the name Chaos for the MHP version of his character. Heh, I know it's a little crazy, but those were my..."younger years." As for the relationship between the characters, Demos and Havoc generally have the same outlook on life, though Havoc is a little calmer, not as fiery as Demos is infamously known to be. Demos knows the truth about Zero's past, seeing the devastation of his home after the Red Fiend attacked the underground base Levia was given. Havoc, as Chaos, saw this as he was being launched into orbit in a stasis capsule. Neither one of them actually saw Levia die. Demos hates Zero with a passion, and dislikes X for the simple fact that X is Zero's close friend and protégé. Havoc does not particularly like Zero either, because of the air strike incident and from the general vibe Demos gives off around Zero. Havoc is on general friendly terms with X due to the simple fact that he is 'young' and has no other bearing than X is an exceptional Hunter that has time and time again saved many lives. The few loose strings are that Demos is infected with the Pure Strain Wily Virus, what will happen now what he knows the full truth of his past, what of Wily now that his automated lab is now active, and what happened to Levia. Well, I had plans to answer most of that, but I'm now in a force cage, so... *smiles* But not to worry. Things will be resolved. Hopes this helps, James. [spoiler]God Almighty, this is the short version?[/spoiler] ----- The lights dimmed low over the lab, still soft from the mechanized surgery. Abandoned and cold, the massive STARK II supercomputers, huge in size, still hummed with quiet life, mulling over the processed information they had obtained from Demos's CPU. It had been dissecting the data for the past seven hours, searching for anything of interest. Around ten minutes later, the monstrous banks whirred louder, coming back from the grave. Likewise, the rest of the lab started coming back online, for the second time in one day after over a century of inactivity. The lights shown bright, the multiple computer consoles glimmered to life, and many things happened at once now. The projector from the ceiling spun around to the main terminal and the image of Wily clawed through the passage of time and appeared in a twang of red laser. The large screen powered on and showed an overhead view of the Earth, moving very quickly as it updated from over a hundred twenty years' worth of data. "Hmm." The screen now segmented itself into eight different screens, two showing the birds eye view of the Earth, one directly on-center, and the other tracking an object in orbit. Two more showing vital signs of Reploids, one active, the other inactive. The remaining four streamed communications data that was recorded over the ages. The image of Wily tilted his head at this. He noticed a constant open source, even at the point of the Catastrophe, the point where the world went silent. A satellite and a motherpoint server. "...You clever son of a bitch." And there it was; a direct connection through long-range burst transmission to an orbital rig. One that not only received transmission but returned in through a non-encrypted radio band. Satellite JH0129-Levia and Port Sib-69.23N/135.11W. Two unprotected communications device with wireless access from both ends, one with burst communications and the other broadcast transmission. Wily looked at the data that rapidly increased in quantity in the past five decades. He looked back to the screen showing the view of Earth from JH0129. Wily's avatar smiled, nodding slowly as he set up his computer to plot and track the satellite's course and trajectory. He now had a dedicated source, protected from outside influence, but not isolated from it. The image tilted its head back, and laughed audibly over the mounted speakers on the ceiling. This would do just fine. In a world filled with WiFi connections, he just found his own private little network-breaker. ----- In the red glow of the containment cage, Demos smirked viciously, retracting his blade in a violent flash of white energy. His left hand lowered to his side and opened wide. He contracted his fingers in, making a claw as his arm began to shake. "Heal me, huh?" Demos snarled, literally drooling in rage through his bared teeth. A slight crackle popped once from his cage-like hand, a synapse jump from the filament-embedded diamond in his palm to his fingertips. Very quickly afterwards, a sizzling sprang to life when white-hot fire filled Demos's hand. Acrid smoke wafted outwards as the pure energy he was wielding burned the air itself, and the blindingly bright orb, barely stable, pulsed as it grew in strength. "Come on," the Elite Squadron Commander growled. "Let's see who can heal who the most." The stark light snapped loudly now, and in the reflection of Demos's lemon yellow eyes, it gave off a frightening glare to this masked tormenter. And although the cloaked figure did not flinch, it did seem that he respected Demos and his strength enough to not press him further. Demos, on the other hand, did not possess the stability of mind to do the same. The Elite Hunter slung forward with his left, whipping the misshapen sphere of unadulterated energy into the red-hot cage that contained him. The reaction was a violent, twisting explosion that circled the ion field. It warped the linked bars of energy outwards to the point they faded slightly, and it was then that Demos leapt forward. Palms open, fingers wide, he slammed into the field with a roar of fury that shook the walls. His ports burned white, sparkling brilliantly, and there was a very harsh whine as the red energy swirled into the hands of the crazed Hunter. He continued his yell as the crimson fire spread across his hands and into his palms. A few seconds more, he lashed backwards, smoking across his arms. The field shredded into what appeared to be almost a large mesh design, a chain link fence. As he continued to draw the raw energy in, it dispelled with a burst of sound akin to thunder and sprawled across the floor like lightning. Demos gave off a throaty growl full of menace and brought both of his hands down this time as white-hot energy started to flare out. In his two palms he gripped ferociously strong spheres of unrefined kinetic power. They barked off crackles like a welding gun, like the shattering of electricity. He continued to growl at his shrouded opponent in the sharp white basking his fire gave off, focusing his eyes on the face of his adversary. It was then that his growl silenced and the irises of his eyes elongated. If it could be heard over the chortling of energy, there would have been a slight mechanical whirring as his vision zoomed in. The beast that had taken over Demos slowly stood straight, face softening, brow relaxing. He almost lost himself to what he saw, that which shattered his resolve - mostly. The energy in his hands pulsed as it stabilized and flared once more before remaining constant. And in this calm that had suddenly blanked out the Maverick, Demos re-awoke for a moment. ----- X wearily trudged himself into the Command Deck, sweat still beading his forehead and panting. His armor was charred and burned stark white in small patches from the flash of heat energy that formed Demos's leafblade, and his back was scuffed and chipped. Though he stood tall, his face showed the defeat he dare not admit. Duke turned his attention from the screens streaming data from the fight to the Hunter, his eyes glaring and his mouth twisted in a grimace. His words were harsh and loud as his fists balled in anger. "X, how could you let yourself be bested by one Maverick? You practically had an ARMY at your side!" X bowed his head in disgrace and his shoulders drooped low. "I'm sorry, Duke," X mumbled, thoroughly cowed. "I know how strong Demos used to be. The infection in him...it's unreal." Duke continued to sneer at his Hunter for several lingering moments before his face softened and he turned back to his reports. "Yes, I see that now," replied the Usurper. "Perhaps he is too strong to be subdued." The heads of all Reploids in the room turned to Duke, faces showing a range of emotions, shock being the most common. "I've never seen anything quite like him. Forming ionized blades out of thin air. The speed and strength in which he moved. He quite obviously earned his glory here." Duke stood slowly and descended from the Command Deck Control Platform. "It is not just the infection. The scans isolated the remapping of his CPU that the virus corrupted. He is completely different than he was before. His entire body is shimmering with energy. He is running at nearly three-hundred percent of his previous normal combat abilities...without the aid of the virus. The emissions of his energy signal were constant, too, meaning his limiters were still in check. "I'm afraid this is getting too out of hand for us to be cautious. He is a threat to every living being around him. Demos must be stopped." Duke stopped at the foot of the platform and placed his hand on X's left shoulder. "...Demos must be stopped. By any means." Duke did not care to listen to the murmurings around him. He released X and reascended to the Control Platform and brought up broad-range communications transmission on his panel. "Attention, all Hunters. This is Commander Duke. By now, you all know that a Maverick has infiltrated Headquarters and caused irreparable damage. This crazed Reploid is one you know well; he is the Elite Squadron Commander, Demos. He was last seen battling to his limits with X in the third floor Mess Hall in E Sector. He was almost bested and made a hasty retreat. There is a teleportation scrambler in place over E Sector. "He is still in Headquarters, Hunters. He is still lurking, waiting, and ready to tear apart all that we have fought so hard to build back up. If you encounter the wounded and disgraced Commander, confront him and call for reinforcements. Do what must be done. He refuses to listen to reason, and will not surrender. Protect Headquarters and your comrades with your lives." Duke ended the transmission and tented his fingers in front of his face as he distantly focused on the screens before him. What he had just done was order an execution warrant for the Commander of the Elite Squadron, an act that had never been done before. Most of the Reploids in the Command Deck, pale in the face, went back to fevered work in general silence. X merely narrowed his eyes. [i]"Demos is a very great threat. Even in groups, our best Hunters will get cut to ribbons. Is Duke hoping that some random ensign gets a lucky shot off?[/i] "X," Duke called out, still deep in his thoughts. "Yes, Commander Duke?" X replied, though with less zeal than normal. "You are dismissed. Get repaired to safe combat parameters and hunt him down. Do your duty." X did not salute as he turned, and walked away. ----- Don't know exactly what you're planning Connor, but there. Also didn't know what to do with the other plot line, so I'll let it stand.

I joined a day before 9/11...with similar results to the stability of the board. ...Good God, what am I doing posting? I'm supposed to be lurking. The number one fad on OB? Find a rival, eat him, get banned. At least, thinking back, that seems to be the fad, seeing as how many times it has happened. *shrug* *tilts head* Am I famous or infamous? Hmm. I shall muse on that for a while.

...You know me too well. >_> --- Blitz Bloodfur had always lived an exciting life. Though he was an animal-frame reploid, though he had been flushed off a manufacturing line, he still carried as much sentience as a creature could with just ones and zeroes. Bloodfur was huge, towering fifteen feet tall and weighing close to a ton and a half. He was solid, thick, and gained his title due to the crimson fiber optic strands that covered his armored shell. He was known throughout the Maverick Hunters as a vicious and loyal grunt worthy of his honorable position. Back during the wars, that is. Now he was busted down to guard commander of Headquarters Entrance 72, Subsection E. He covered an area of twenty-thousand square meters ten times a day and monitored eleven other Hunters. Even with the recent attack and reports of Hunters going viral, he had no concerns. He was the equivalent of a mall security officer. Nothing ever happened. Nothing would. Not against the Hunters. No Maverick, no berserker, no Sigma form would ever [i]dream[/i] of launching a direct assault on Headquarters. Especially Bloodfur's district. And that's why he never had a chance when the plasma bolt tore his watch post apart. His huge frame did not save him. His decorated records did not save him. Not his razor-sharp claws, not his spined whip, not his monstrous strength. Nothing saved him when the white-hot blast blew his guard station and collapsed the outer wall of the Headquarters lobby. His guards were gone. His position had been compromised. He had failed to live up to his legend. Alarms blared loudly, announcing Demos' arrival at the Hunter's Headquarters interior entrance. Wily had teleported his creation within the walls of the most sophisticated military complex on Earth. Oddly enough, the Elite Squadron leader's signal had not been blocked, even though it seemed as if Duke knew what Demos and his company had done, if at least to some degree. The semi-docile Demos was allowed access within the HQ's transport zoning, and the teleport was not redirected or scrambled; a welcome mat had been put out. Upon beaming in, his entire demeanor had changed. Demos almost instantly reverted to his usual fire-hot pessimism. He walked freely to the guard station located closest to the Teleport Rally Pad, a characteristic scowl and glowering eyes crossed over his face, and armed his buster. He got few stares until the last moment; many had heard of his misadventures and horrid general attitude. Though he looked somewhat different before, with the slate-gray tear stripes running down his cheeks thicker than before, with his near-black armor trimmed in silver lining, with his helmet fins flared even more than before, he was still recognizable as the sour Hunter who rarely asks questions after shooting. However, a charging buster [i]does[/i] tend to get attention quickly. But by the time he had been noticed, it was far too late. Several explosions rang out around him and tore holes messily in the flooring and walls, exposing the long hallways and various rooms through a new, craggy window. And this is how his rampage started. He tore his way through sparse resistance that came as he plunged upwards through the vast headquarters. Most opposition came from the emerald-clad Hunters that crooked knee to Duke, though this made little difference to the modified Demos. The Wily Virus strain that infected him dulled his logic to the point that all Hunters who followed Duke were enemies. His own immunity system was now starting to fight back, now being triggered by irregularities within his neurological patterns. Unfortunately, it took lives to spur this reaction. ---- Havoc had finally shaken off his wondering as he piloted the [i]Impact[/i] down the last stretch of the Aqueduct. Instead, his thoughts had been replaced by the agreements made earlier, and the revelations of a true man. [i]"And so it seems like we're completely lost," sighed Havoc. It took some time for Hunters to explain everything to the doctor, even with seclusion and no interruptions. To fully put everything in perspective was no easy task, especially with so many things intertwining and so many things unknown. By the time everything was said and done, Doctor Inoue sat in his seat, brow furrowed in deep thought. He was not so much as set aghast by all of this, but instead approached the situation with a degree of analysis almost befitting a case study. Perhaps it was the isolated lifestyle that brought this on, but there was very little outward shock as a result of this development. Whatever the case that explained his control, the doctor almost seemed to be set at ease knowing what was now troubling the outside world. Perhaps, on some level, he was now set with the Hunters that stood before him, in avenging his daughter's death. But again, whatever the case, he did not stir outwardly. It was almost calming to know that something was being done to correct the horrors abound. "But...anything you could offer would be incredibly helpful, regardless of the odds," Proteus pursued. "Even the smallest bit of aid can push us further." In the spacious board room, at the large, oval conference table, Doctor Inoue sat; hands folded over each other, and gazed from one Reploid to the next. While his eyes pierced gravely, his thoughts also mounted higher, and he perhaps saw this as an opportunity to not only bring justice to the recent change of events, but also bring justice back to the corrupted world that was now held in the hands of impending war. Doctor Inoue stood slowly, and paced to a small terminal a few yards from a three-dimensional projector. He entered a series of key strokes, and the device hummed to life. Various maps and charts flared into view. Overlaying schematics showed the layers of Novus Concordia, progressing through the ages, as more and more structures were added on to the zoning landscapes. Aside from it showered different graphs, such as pollution distribution, population changes, income status, profession tendencies, and many other statistics that, generally, would not be considered. There was also another projection, a listing, to be exact, of a multitude of weaponry and combat support utilities. "I, undoubtedly, have the largest collection of information, resources, and stockpiles outside of any military organization. I also see the world for what it really is," Inoue said quietly, hands resting silently over the keyboard. "I..." He turned deliberately to the Reploids, though his gaze was focused on something invisible, some phantom vision that his heart showed his eyes. "I want to see that world return to peace, to a time when men like me are no longer needed." Proteus drew a deep breath, and held it, staring into Inoue's eyes; Warlock and Havoc merely looked on at the projections. "I will help you. No matter the cost, I will help you."[/i] Havoc shook his head as the mild alarm buzzed at the Communications Console. It was the long-range interceptor detecting a lock-on. Havoc cycled through his options and pulled up a triangulated three dimensional overhead map. On the thermal band, a pitch black landscape settled around a creeping dot of purple and red, with a dwindling trail of yellow and green. Havoc shook his head. It was a single-rider vehicle, but traveling very fast and emitting much radiation due to the high output. It couldn't be much to worry about, but the fact that it was heading right for his comrades and the [i]Impact[/i], with a secure infrared satellite lock. "Warlock, prime the main turret. We might have company." ---- Carving lithe strokes through air and solids alike, Demos danced his blade to and fro. It was a solid blade, formed when a blinding white flash from his palm, the molecules of the ionized metals within his stores breaking apart as his unique energy signature projected through the matter. In this way, the atoms destabilized, accelerated to a rate of super-metabolic transfer, took shape through controlled energy transfer, and magnetized to solidify and emit a single point width ion barrier. Effectively, this created a force field that resisted plasma and other energies through a redistribution of kinetic power, and still held sway as a solid weapon. It could be said that this gave a nod to the Progressive blades, but the fact of the matter is, this technology was the predecessor, and was thus not as advanced to destabilize other energy emissions. In this way, a matter that happened as quickly as a lightning strike and as easily as a thought, Demos wielded a wondrous leafblade of untainted perfection. He clashed beam weapons without fail and deflected laser and plasma rounds as if with a sabre of his own. In this way he was vastly underestimated by those that challenged him in his berserker frenzy. Using full-body charges and swooping, wide cleaves, he expertly carved a swath through resistance as he continued up the central Headquarters command. Upon reaching the fifth floor, access passages were effectively sealed. It seems as if Hunter Command had finally gotten through to find his position and triangulate. As a result, the winding corridors he was using to avoid being sealed off in the elevator or locked up within bottlenecks. So now, his only option was the old-fashioned way; the stairs. In order to continue in this manner, he had to cross the mess hall, returning to the third floor. He knew what this meant. If Hunter Command had the ability to seal him off from a non-direct route to the Commander's Office, they also had time to rout him to a specific point. A large, open point in which one could be cut off from retreat, where one could be easily surrounded and outnumbered and outflanked in coordinated strikes. If Hunter Command could flush him in a specific direction, they also had time to scramble a defensive unit, perhaps an entire battalion by now. After all, he had only gone through sparse resistance as he continued; probably those that had not yet had time to regroup at the sallypoint. Demos took his time as he approached the doors to the mess hall. All radio and burst transmissions had ceased some time ago, just after his path was blocked by a foot-thick titanium shutter. That meant a stalwart defense was already in place and required no more support at that position. With a mighty kick, the double push doors flew off the hinges and careened into the vast, cafeteria-like dome that made up a two-story egg known as the mess hall. Within the dug-out that formed an oval within the central command building, that had many tiers and outcroppings, there laid in wait at least two hundred Hunters all armed to the teeth with not only on-board weaponry and standard equipment, but also heavy assault gear and emplaced artillery. Over four-fifths of the Hunters there were the bright-green variants that represented Duke's personal employ. On the various levels and seating areas were no longer tables with idling soldiers but instead heavy machine guns. Instead of a small line of warriors waiting for subsistence were mortar launchers. At once, a multitude of weapons armed and directed, in some fashion, at the Elite Squadron's commanding officer, but no discharge was made. "Hold your fire." A voice, one heard many times by Demos and by many Hunters, rang out. From behind a line of anti-personnel mini-guns stepped a cobalt-clad Hunter. X was offering Demos a chance to surrender for a reason or another. But despite the support in his cadre, X stood well away. The Blue Bomber held his Z-Sabre in grasp, but did not activate it. When he spoke, he was calm and reserved, choosing his tone, but not his words, carefully. "Demos...what are you doing? Have you lost your mind?" Demos, faltering between radically furious and completely introverted, curled his lips in a fierce snarl, showing his accented fangs, a characteristic of his brother that Wily favored in his clichéd perception of evil, but when he spoke, though with fervor in his lemon-yellow eyes, he was completely devoid of emotion. "Have [i]I[/i] lost my mind? This from you, the blind zealot? Tch," Demos muttered. "You, who follow a terrorist of the state? You, who listens to a usurper and obeys a murderer who slays without prejudice?" Demos? face relaxed, but his voice grew to a roar. "You are a mockery to all you have lived, fought, killed for! You spit in the faces of all that rely on your blade for protection by bending to Duke's will!" The entire gathering, with the exception X and few true Maverick Hunters, tightened their grips on weapons and handles, anticipating a burst of explosions to follow the burst of rage. As Demos ranted, he waved his blade about emphatically, though he moved little otherwise. This ebb and flow of emotion was a sign of balance returned to his neural net, but he was still far from normal. "For the crime of treason against the Maverick Hunters organization, and supporting a terrorist and threat to the stability of the protective barrier the United Nations provides for," Demos shouted, hunching his shoulders as he foamed and raved with darting eyes. He drastically changed again, and pointed his blade at X, standing straight and set, a fierce determination came over him; he finished, "I condemn all who continue to oppose peace to death." With this, Demos charged, right shoulder down and blade spitting embers as it carved along the floor. It rose as he drew near, and flew for the dodging X... -- I totally just edited what I had written months ago to fit the new situation. XD

? Flash, I love you. But you destroyed half of my plans. XD Welcome back, man. -- It was some time before he remembered what had transpired over the past day. His mind was a haze of jumbled memories and mixed emotions. He was still not completely adapted to his new body. Something had opened up inside of his mind, his CPU. He felt like he was walking on air, everything was distant. The power that coursed through his whole body, his pulse, threw his perceptions off and overwhelmed his senses. It was some time before he remembered he had teleported out of the underground lair of his despot father. Time raced forward as he tried to recall the past hour within his memory banks. Either it was an error, or he had gone back to Hunter Headquarters. Even though his unique energy signature had changed, his identification access code allowed him in. There. It hit him like a bullet train, the events that surrounded him. Now everything slowed to a crawl, as he surveyed his surroundings. Scorch marks plastered the walls, parts of droids and Reploids alike strewn around like dust in the wind. The registration of the electronic equivalent of a sense of smell told him of synthetic blood and hydraulic fluid, of plasma tar burns, of burning embers. Third floor mess hall. With dozens of Hunters, armed to the teeth, in front of him. And hundreds behind him. -- Havoc stared intently at the screen before him, an incredulous smirk on his face. The trip through the Aqueduct was much longer now that he wasn?t flying evasive maneuvers. Doctor Inoue?s swarm droids had followed the [i]Impact[/i] for a portion of the tunnel system, a winding, lolling escort of living metal. But now it was much quieter without the constant thudding of energy blasts colliding against static shields. There was no urgency to find some sort of escape from a certain death. ? Well, at least, no more than what had developed into the usual. So, flying at half-throttle, and not flying for his life, Havoc was hard-pressed to not think of what random fate had befallen his older brother. Demos had basically raised Havoc, back before Havoc had actually existed in his entirety. As Chaos, Havoc had learned much about combat, much about battle, from his brother. Though he did not have direct access to his full memories, as his father, Levia, had rebooted most of his hard drive, he did have sub-systems that made most of his previous life almost instinctual. So it was difficult for him to imagine his older brother being taken away, especially in a manner that Warlock had described; recalled by a robot?s creator through a supersonic demolecularization process. If that was the case, it would mean that Doctor Levia, killed by Zero?s hand, was still alive and over one hundred years older than he should be. Along with the past few weeks, it was a lot to absorb. With an almost ironic shift, the [i]Impact[/i] turned to the original tunnel of the Aqueduct. He could almost swear he could see the graying night slowly edging towards dawn at the mouth of the system, still miles ahead. ??Something wicked this way comes,?? Havoc muttered with a sigh. -- Reforming from teleportation, Demos had returned the prodigal son. Gleaming new armor, striking features, and a much unattached demeanor made others double-take. His normally lackluster armor, well worn and sturdy, now shined with what seemed like an inner light, and though was a darker slate color, it glinted brightly. Needless to say, this drew unwanted attention. His blind search for Zero came to an abrupt halt when he sighted a squad of the Emerald-armored Hunters approach. Two came directly at him in the main lobby, chatting amongst themselves. Another came from his left, from a powerlift, and another from the guard station several dozen yards at the main entrance. He gave them no chance to organize. In some distant part of his infected processor, Demos remembered that his foe was Duke and his horde, that he was supposed to eliminate their corruption from the Hunters Organization. However, with the virus that clouded his inhibitors, he saw no distinction between unyielding fury and discreet evasion. Ripping into a fury, he slung his right arm down as he lowered into a somewhat animalistic crouch, and forced his energy outwards. The radioactive, molten ore within his body, primed with pure fusion power, and separated from his body. It solidified once it erupted from the ports in his hand, and a long, slightly curved sword simmered into shape. The crackled of energy sent the lobby into a craze, Reploids and humans alike running for cover. The Emerald Hunters reacted a little too slow. Demos charged backwards, spinning right and sprinting to his two foes. He had been discovered, and before more were alerted, he had to eliminate these threats. Closing the distance with ridiculous speed, he cleaved once to the left at a downward angle and caught both of his targets as they were shoulder-to-shoulder. Various fluids sprayed in a thick mist in a twenty foot radius, and Demos did not wait to revel in his kill. He turned right and formed his left hand into the Fox-III Buster Cannon and directed a charged shot to the chest plate of his third victim of the day. The blast exploded in a wave of heat and pressure and for all purposes vaporized the outer core of its mark. And his last two enemies had enough time to ready their weapons before they were sliced apart with a five-strike flurry. The simple fact of the matter was that Demos had forged a weapon out of thin air and light, and performed the third terrorist attack on MHHQ in the past three days. With a growl, Demos took off in a charge towards the stairwell. It would only be a matter of time before he would have to improvise, before Headquarters began performing lockdowns to try and trap him. But he knew more than one way to his goals, and access tunnels would not be the only secret in his arsenal. It would still take all of his strength and skill, and his current state of raving lunacy to even survive.

Mmm, I suppose it might just be a matter of personal preference, but when I play, I feel a definite difference between DW and SW. Sure, the control schemes are the same, but the small things like the way the charge attacks physically hit and the abilities of the Musou attacks have a distinct feel to them. When you hit something in DW, particularly with a Charge4 attack, you really feel and see it, whereas in SW the enemies kind of float away like a bubble. *shrug* I don't know. Maybe I've developed a little bit of fanboyism over the years and just don't like it because it's not the epic struggle I can remember staying up until three in the morning reading and later replaying. But, in my opinion, there is just something different in the physics engine of SW that I just _don't_ like.