6917/The Works Lost to the Cold and Dark

The Works Lost to the Cold and Dark
Date of Scene:	04 December 2019
Location:	Ketchikan, Alaska
Synopsis:	The Concord, lead by Priscilla, come to exact both revenge and their pound of flesh from both the Nameless Servant and the Watch in general
Cast of Characters:	Priscilla, 6999, Yang Xiao Long, 1094, Sanary Rondel, August Kohler, 6730, Staren, Sarracenia, 6928, N'raha Tia, Inga, 7055, Rean Schwarzer

---

Priscilla has posed:
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6f3j4okhb8o
    There is no warning to the sleepy little town of Ketchikan. Not even minutes before. Long enough for the town council to pass down an evacuation order and civilians to get clear is long enough for the Watch to scuttle its assets and merge into the rest of the fleeing crowd. It's regrettable, but it's reality. Whether the First regrets it, nobody can tell. It's the subject of hushed arguments and murmuring conversations between the men.

    Indeed there are men. The blow dealt to the Grand Dorado security council's pride was so unignorably severe that the bravest volunteers amongst them had insisted on being here. Hard men. Motivated men. Experienced men. Most of them quasi-Elite men of the line, dressed in the Concord's black, gold and saffron tactical, bearing rifles, swords, and packs of equipment. Even a trio of Elites of higher posts are overseeing them; commanders in the middle ranks of the security forces. A woman with a large, dark hat and an onyx jewelled gold staff, a young man in double breasted captain's garb with an oversized, ornate sword, and an older gentleman with just a hint of metal visible between his tactical gloves and his sleeves strapped with battle rattle.

    The procession moves through the forested mountainside, spread out through several thick groves of massive Alaskan pines, rockslide formations, and ice fissures. In the shadow of the trees, with the sun setting over the mountain behind them, some monitor the ordinary suburban building, hiding in plain sight, with goggles, parabolics, scanners, and motion sensors, while others hastily and surreptitiously scrawl magic circles on the frozen rocks, aligned with the leyline under the mountain, and yet others assemble portable artillery and drone stations.

    A team intending to raid the Watchtower would be meticulously triple checking their data, secretly herding out civilians, creating a perimeter, encircling the area, stacking up. This formation isn't for busting the cell and confiscating their materiel. This formation is for flushing out terrorists and shooting them in the back.

    There is a long, treacherous, snowy incline between the fireteam and the bunkhouse on the very edge of civilization. Beyond that, the rest of the small Alaskan town, settling down early. Beyond that, the ice cold waters of the sea.

    The First is not yet present --no, she likely is. She was probably here before anyone else. Direction of operations has been handed down, however, to the three security captains. She has no intention of maintaining strategic oversight. That means she has entirely dedicated herself to something she alone believes she can do.

    "Teams Aleph, Sin, Lam, all ready. All specialists, sound off."

Nameless (6999) has posed:
     I am the bone of my sword.

     The Ketchikan Watchtower is not much. It's less than not much. It's a shitty little place in a shitty little suburb of a shitty little state so far out of the way most people barely even know it exists. The only full-time inhabitant is a man with dark skin and white hair who comes and goes as he pleases, occasionally stopping in at the supermarket. Nobody in the town knows his name, but they've talked to him. He puts on a good smile. He puts on a good lie.

     The lie comes off today.

     The Nameless Gunner knows what is coming. Hell, he's counting on it. He's been preparing for it. Building for it. He knows that Evil is coming for him, because that's what Evil does when it's backed into a corner: it squads up and chases down the thing it hates. That's good. It means that his fingers in Staren's brain left an impression, that the blood of people who were under Evil's thumb made them nervous, rattled them, or angered them. It means there was a reaction.

     He can guide a reaction.

     Indeed that is what he intends to do.

     They're going to come with force. Indeed, outside, he can already see it. He can see them mustering. He can't see the First, but that's fine. He knows she'll come for him. She has no choice but to come to him. The Head will come for him personally, and that will be his opportunity.

     And they can see him.

     That's the worst part. That he's there, in the window. He's not even hiding himself. He's chopping some meat with a cleaver. Like he's cooking dinner in the little house he's cleaned up, fixed up, made into a home. It's a spartan home, for sure, but it's a home nonetheless, and seeing this man, this killer, chopping food like it's nothing, like there's no problem, like nothing is wrong, Is he mocking them? Does he not know what's out there?

     How thoroughly is the game he's playing planned, and by how many moves? How extensively has this monster arranged his own execution? This thing that does Evil to eliminate Evil...how much of what he's doing is calculated, right now?

Yang Xiao Long has posed:
    Somewhere in town, as the Concord comes marching up, Yang Xiao Long is leaning against a wall in a dark alleyway. <"Blackbird, this is Luang. Hornets are in the bee's nest. Copy?"> she radios via subvocal mic, watching the file troops march past. Nothing to see here, just a local wearing a hooded long cloak against the cold. Ignore the splash of blonde hair that escapes for a moment.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Flamel Parsons is here.

    It's rare to see a man like Flamel in heavy psychonauts tactical gear. He has a rifle, an actual, hefty psitanium-laced psychic director that helps enhance his psychic blasts, as well as a form-fitting, lightly-armored, heavily psychic-enhancing black tactical turtleneck style outfit too.

    A shimmer shifts. He's moving binoculars around. "Agent Parsons, Ready to go. Hey, uh, First! I see him. Looks like he's up on the window -- marking on your datafeed. Do we make our move, ma'am?" He's ready to break into a dash and invade the tower. unfortunately, the snow's going to cause a problem; his levitation and invisibility will let him bypass the average defender, but an Elite's savvy eye might be on the lookout for invisible combatants and notice the tracks of displaced levitated snow or footprints that he'll leave behind when he's given the signal to attack.

Sanary Rondel has posed:
Sanary wasn't expecting to fight today. She was expecting a simple night: Deliver some pigs for butchering, do a quick lesson for the amateur butchers that don't know how to even handle a pig, maybe mooch a meal off the Nameless Gunner and watch the local barfights before turning in for the night. All in all, it was supposed to be like any other day.

As far as she knows, it still is. That's why she does't look like she's dressed for combat at all. She's lounging in one of the chairs in the house that the gunner's positioned in, one arm propped up on the back of the chair and... Not having her legs propped up on the table. That's just bad manners, even if she isn't the most refined dinner guest.

"Want me to grab any drinks from next door? I dunno how long it'll be before the regulars show up and start trashing the place again."

August Kohler has posed:
August Kohler is not outside with the others, playing spy. He's sitting in a chair, tapping his fingers against the armrest, sitting near Sanary. He's out of the view of the window, but he has allies to radio support.

It's time. They're coming. Instead of getting ready to fight, however, he just tries to stay calm. But there's been a dilemma on his mind. And it makes him clearly uneasy.

"Hey, Gunner. I probably won't get to talk to you again like this for a while. But...thank you. Your advice before has been extremely helpful, and I think it's helping me make a decision. So I appreciate it." It's sincere, but the unease is palpable.

August is a regenerator. If he wasn't, his Persona would already be summoned. He just looks to Sanary, and says something simple. "Sanary, they're going to be coming soon. To kill us. Be prepared."

Android 17 (6730) has posed:
"This is madness..." Seventeen says to himself, sitting in a coat in one of the houses playing spy.  They were going to come eventually, and he was going to have to fight for this organization that right now he felt were supporting the actions of someone who actively betrayed their mission.  Sure, the line 'it wasn't for him, but for us' rang slightly hollow in his ears, but what was he to do?  Abandon people who needed him?  Let people in this town die when the Concord came for revenge?

There was movement.  Seventeen's body went still, as he attempted to extend his sense of hearing out, trying to overcome the sound of the wind that normally whipped in this area.  Trying to see if he could hear anything that shouldn't be there.

Swallowing, the Android prepared.  Maybe it was just his imagination, or maybe it wasn't.  Of course, it wasn't, there were too many sounds for it to be a trick of the wind.  

Outside he walked, into the town.  Maybe he can attract their attention when the fireworks started.

Staren has posed:
    Staren has misgivings about all this, afraid of what open, large-scale military conflict between the new factions will cause. But it's happening whether he likes it or not.

    And Nameless's philosophy is anathema to him; that man needs to be stopped -- he may be able to do good in the short run, but it's like a Union elite who consciously decided to act like a Union elite, enforcing the 'I'll do this much good, but ONLY THAT MUCH' -- but where others simply don't SEE the truly greater good, Nameless does and has declared none shall do it.

    Of course, he's right that Staren is fallable. Staren waited too long to kill Wireless -- and that was the old Staren, who just waited and hoped someone would save his friend from going evil. Because of that hesitation, countless died. He may make mistakes again, but at the end of the day, Staren believes he'll do more good than evil.

    Nameless disagrees.

    The Star Hawk stands among the Concord forces, a forty-foot metal humanoid... and mixed in among the volunteers is another army. A handful of robots in police-grade armor with rifles; mostly constructs, some man-size and some ten feet tall, some armed with kanobos and others with missile packs that allow the Concord forces to call in artillery strikes. There are even some of Morg McGee's acid-spitting clockwork spiders here, controlled by the undead reanimated brains of criminals Morg has slain; as well as the larger spider-constructs encased in stone and earth that the constructs reanimate as when slain thanks to Staren's magic.

    ...And unbelievably, they actually have a visual on Nameless in a goddamn window. On the radio, Priscilla says not to hesitate or hold back, so Staren doesn't--he takes the shot. The mecha's arm raises into position, a hatch opens to expose the spinning barrels of the gatling railgun, and then trails of fire connect the robot and the watchtower as dozens of metal slugs are flung through the air so fast they burn from sheer friction.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Flamel Parsons moves the moment Staren fires.

    A shimmer in motion. Can he be tracked? Is it possible to identify him in motion? Maybe with a close eye on the snow, or something like that, but in all those traditional senses upon which one might depend, he is invisible. That doesn't mean it's impossible to see what he's doing though. What he's doing is straightforward. He's opened fire, and flicked back into invisibility soon after each launch. And with each impact, each firework of sorts, a mass of horrible neon-green gas is released. Gas? No, it's not exactly a gas. It's more like a haze, a miasma, drifting along the wind.

    It's horribly difficult to see through from within, it's disorienting, it's stunning, like some kind of psychic tear gas -- it's part of the opening volley, but more than that, it's shock and awe tactics, emphasis on shock. As it impacts near the site of the watchtower, it rises, a searing neon-green signpost of where to go, and something intended to break defenses before they form.

    Flamel intends to make a fast, levitation-assisted rush down to the doors. It's not hard to recognize a psychic's work. If one intended to take revenge for what Parsons did to August, now would be the time to take it. On some level, perhaps, that's an important part of why Flamel offered to take part in something that involves more open conflict than he's often taken part in.

Sarracenia has posed:
     Princess Sarracenia is quite clueless about all of this. She is only here because she hadn't visited a watchtower before and figured a small out of the way tower would be a good one to start with. But, identities and alliegiences are a concern. If hard evidence of her being part of the Watch is discovered, the Sundew Kingdom could be at risk. So, she is in disguise as was suggested to her a short while ago. The outfit is still over extravagant, but it is much closer to what one would see on a sailor scout. It is all red with gold vine-like designs spiraling up and down along it. A set of full body tights makes up the underlayer, and a half-shirt with a large collar and a red rose on the chest along with a pleated red skirt make up the rest of the outfit, along with a red masquerade kind of mask to hide her face and a golden tiara rather than her usual crown. It won't stand up to any kind of real scrutiny thanks to her personality and her weapons, but at a glance it might do the trick.

     Much like the others, she is still in the Watchtower as the Concord gathers and starts their approach, and really dosn't even have an idea that something is amiss until she hears some radio chatter. And once it becomes clear that trouble is here but there is not enough time to escape, she sighs heavily. "Well...I suppose this will be my first real test." she says to no one in particular. She moves to the entrance of the quaint little house and pulls a weapon from her purse that most people don't know she has. It isn't as strong as her hammer, but it is unknown to others and that is what she wants. It is a giant spiked club she got as a drop in an ALO game zone, a traditional weapon of the oni. She takes another deep breath as she tries to mentally prepare herself, and rests the oversized demonic kanabo on her shoulder.

Nameless (6999) has posed:
                              A LONG TIME AGO                                

     A purple-haired girl stood in the kitchen, her hands covered in bandages, her arms in bruises. A young man with red hair stood next to her.

'You don't have to cook if it hurts.'

'It's okay. I want to cook for you, Senpai.'

She smiled at him. He smiled at her. The glass cracked. The memory fell apart.

                                 RIGHT NOW                                  

August says something to him. Thunk. The knife descends. The Nameless Gunner doesn't look up. "Is that right."

     Thunk.

     "If you were a smarter man, you wouldn't be here."

     Thunk. Thunk. The silence that falls after it is disrupted only by the chopping of the meat, by the act of the butchering. He holds up the head of the pig, half-split-open, for the window to see. He smiles.

     The head is split open in the same way Staren's was. Surgical precision. Right down to the neck. Rooted around in.

     The roar of the gattling gun was planned.

     One of Nameless's hands goes to the window.

     "Trace, on." Golden light surges along dark skin, gold lines binding black together, a broken pot held by gleaming light. The golden light meets the window and it becomes like iron; it meets the wall and it becomes steel. Bullet shells ping off the wall, a rat-a-tat-tat of lead rain beating against plaster and losing.

Riku (6928) has posed:
Riku is here. But where? The Concord is not the only ones who know how to use the shadows. While lacking the power of invisiblity like the First, Riku can still make use of basic tactics to keep out of sight.... And his mobility in this place is unmatched, having long ago mapped out the Corridors. He has been waiting and watching since the battle near Sanary's farm.... And they are here.

    The moment they are, Riku begins. He hunts down the groups of invaders, watching for moments when they are not covering each other's back. Riku strikes then, shadows reaching out and pulling men into the Corridors.

    They don't come back out. Not there, anyway. Riku is already getting beads on his next target elsewhere. The Concord isn't here to play fair. Neither is Riku. Still, Riku isn't killing them at least. Any tracking systems will eventually pick them up having been dropped off some distance out of town, unconscious.

N'raha Tia has posed:
    For once, Raha isn't here to be a hero. He isn't here to be a good guy. He's not here to be the Warrior of Light, even though that is the core of his being, the soul of his life.

    Today, Raha gets to be a Stick. A big damn stick. A stick with a pointy catte at the end of it to bloody up an enemy. He gets to be the Berserker, and no one is going to yell at him about it.
    Well, Inga will probably yell, at some point. The enemy will probably yell at him.

    But right now, N'raha Tia is sitting in a garage across the street from the Watch site. No need for everyone to be crowed into a house, and certainly no need for him to do what he is about to do indoors where half of his friends might be.

    It's the call for 'Mental Power Defenses' that wakes him up. Parsons is here. The Warrior takes a breath, sets his feet, and then... just lets go. He lets that Inner Beast out. The one he isn't supposed to let out. Parsons is outside ,across the street. Probably doing fucky brain shit. Watch yourself. These are thought he's able to have, right before he flashes over and-

    The door to the garage splinters and flays apart, and N'raha comes crashing through, axe raised, his whole body sheathed in Angry Red Aether. He charges through the green smoke and... well. He's already dazed confused and brutally ready for things. A hideous Lion's Roar cracks the streets of Ketchikan, as Raha comes to FIGHT.

    "PAAAAAAAAAAARRSSSSSSSSSONS!"

Sanary Rondel has posed:
"...Eh? What's all that about?" Sanary doesn't put the dots together right away when August addresses Nameless, only sitting up when he talks to her directly. "Who...? Wait. You weren't coming just to...?" She gestures at Nameless, glancing at August once before turning back to the gunner and noticing something distinctly off. "Hey, uh. I think missed a bit at the..."

Nameless' butchering technique isn't the only thing she notices. She notices how things are suddenly loud outside, how August calls for assistance against a familiar psychic, and those words signifying that Nameless is doing that odd magic... Thing he does. Luckily, things aren't exploding immediately around her, so she has enough time to get up, grab her axe off the wall, and look out that same window.

"Oh. That's what you meant. Well... Quit talking like you're both dying. We haven't died after all those other times yet, right? Let's keep that streak going and..." She squints. "That's a lotta people out there. This is pretty different." Sanary takes a big swig of soda, then shivers once as she slaps a hand to Nameless' back and pours some raw ENERGY into him to help fuel his... Whatever it is he's doing.

She still hasn't figured it out yet. "How do we wanna do this?"

Inga has posed:
Something is happening. That's what she's gathered when N'Raha jumps up and makes to ready for battle. Inga, not even knowing why just yet, gets her things and makes to follow. She gets filled in mostly on the way. She is angry, but she's not currently sure at whom. There's about to be a bloodbath, and she doesn't know that it can be prevented. It's how a warlord would do it. There has to be retaliation. There always has to be retaliation. Sometimes it goes until no one is left on either side. She's seen the feuds that ended that way. A hall burned, a village slaughtered. Escalation until there's nothing but bodies and ravens feasting.

So, here she is, sitting on a lone chair outside of the 'watchtower' waiting for them to come, her walking stick on her lap and a cup of tea in her hand. She's wearing a slightly stained apron over a blue wool dress, the belt around her waist hung with bone talismans and bird skulls, a small knife in a leather sheath.

She sighs heavily, hearing Raha roar and the sounds of battle beginning. "Gods..." she begins, but isn't even sure how to finish that prayer. This is, in short, going to suck.

August Kohler has posed:
Bullets explode against the wall. Nameless's golden lgiht reinforces it. August sighs, sadly, as Nameless replies to him. "You're right."

"I don't think I've been very smart at all."

He leaps up, shouting to Sanary. "I'm going to deal with Staren. Get ready for Concord incoming." August begins running across the dining room table and towards an opposite window, which he leaps through, glass shattering around him and cutting into his skin, which regenerates rapidly, knitting itself together. Rolling out into the snow, a glass shard is glimpsed by August. "Persona!"

In a flash of grey and red, Dietrich is manifested, the giant black knight in power armor appearing in front of August, who leaps onto his back. The knight starts moving quickly, and then leaps at the Star Hawk, moving to take his massive sword and try and slam it against the machine's torso with the weight of a crashing train behind it.

"Staren. Nice to see you. Ready to dance?"

Yang Xiao Long has posed:
    And that resonant roar gets Yang's attention. "Ooooh, boy, Inga's gonna be piiiiiissed." She makes her move then, launching herself onto a rooftop, then barreling across it while discarding her disguise of some bedsheet she pilfered from the Watchtower before coming out here. "Yo, Catdude, I've got your back!" she bellows, launching into the air, and coming down where she last saw one of Flamel's launch positions, striking the ground and causing it to disrupt and ripple in a circle around her. "Hey buddy. You don't know me, but you fucked with the wrong group if ya think I'm gonna let you just waltz in here." she says, casting eyes around trying to pick out where Flamel is.

Priscilla has posed:
    "Calamity Actual, this is Aleph leader. Three personnel confirmed MIA. We're engaging anti-flank countermeasures, but we'll lose first strike capability if we don't catch them immediately. Please advise."

    The tactical radio silence hangs long and heavy. The white noise of the biting Alaskan breeze crackles faintly through the speaker, the channel held open without a word.

    The Nameless Gunner holds up the pig's head, dripping with refrigerated gore. Its innards have been scrambled by fumbling fingers, down to the root of the brain. He smiles

    The radio finally gives up one word. Just one, and a shivering, fathomless cold; one that pierces to the bones where the wind cannot.

    "Commence."

    The fresh snow blanketing the lower mountainside explodes all at once, lifted high into the air as if by a bomb. It is caught at its resting height by a sledgehammer of wind, casting it down into the edge of Ketchikan. The crisp evening becomes an ocean of streaming white, impossible to see more than thirty feet. The air is filled with the shrieking of wind, becoming a mournful roar as it funnels between the buildings, rattling siding and tearing off roof tiles and bricks. Blaring car alarms add to the noise, as well as the sense of urgency. Frost begins forming on forward walls and pavements instantly. The snowflakes don't just sting the skin; every so often, they leave little bleeding cuts, smoking blue.

    The charge down the mountain is swallowed up in the blizzard, but the Concord has the gear to see through it. With the house already plugged into various rangefinders and memorized, the teams up in the crags let loose with a salvo of mortar fire. Dull flashes are visible through the snow-mist, and the whistle of falling shells follows, coinciding with a scattered sheet of tiny, fiery meteors, churning out of the sky. It all lands on the position at roughly the same time, turning the street into a hellish earthquake of fire.

    In the chaos and poor visibility, the tactical teams rush forward from hiding, skidding down the slope, raining fire on the Watch position, both with energy weapons and elemental bolts. The teams move while they fire and cover each other as they chant and reload. It's an all out assault. No lulls. No gaps.

Nameless (6999) has posed:
                                 RIGHT NOW                                  

Sanary asks how they want to do this as the world goes mad. Snow, fire, ice and thunder, meteors and death. It all comes raining down in Ketchikan. It all comes tumbling down. The Nameless Gunner shakes his head and gestures for Sanary to go as August goes out the room. "Go," he says, and that's all he says.

     The walls won't hold up for long. The charge boost needs to be saved. Needs to be held. Needs to be reserved for just the right moment. But the sound of the storm, the sound of the avalanche, the sound of the pouring thunder, brings a grim smile to the Nameless Gunner's lips. Seal in the city. Suppress as many people as possible. Take as much control as possible to deal with the problem.

     But they're used to dealing with heroes. They're used to dealing with people who are predictable, who have simple plans. Even the anti-terrorism tactics are raw, overwhelming force: come down and seal the town off, then bring as much fire and fury as possible. It speaks of one mind, something old and dangerous.

     The last old and dangerous thing he killed was the same way. Cunning. But reliant on force, on strength, on surprise.

     This was his advantage.

                              A LONG TIME AGO                              

     A red-haired young man's hands are dripping with blood. The blades are coated, slick and wet, one black, one white. He's walking towards an old man. The old man is laughing. Telling the young one he's immortal. He can't die. He's-

     The blade comes down into the throat.

     The young man falls to his knees, carving, and carving, and carving. Sick, wet thumps. Worms. They're worms. The man is made of worms. The old man falls apart into wriggling, writhing beasts, and the young man's blades keep cutting, and cutting, and cutting. No escape. No escape. No escape for the wicked. No escape from his vengeance.

                  A thousand blades wasted without purpose.                  

                                 RIGHT NOW                                  

     The assault squad is met with the entire god damned roof. A huge chunk of it just slides forward, a massive, heavy hunk of material falling directly onto the assault team. It'd be comedic if it wasn't so horrifying - if it wasn't for the razor blades that line every tile, painstakingly placed to cause maximum possible pain.

     The Nameless Gunner gestures into the window

     How many are you going to throw to your death before you come for me, it says. How many lives do you want me to take?

Android 17 (6730) has posed:
A barrage of weapons goes off, and Seventeen's head immediately turns right for them.  He catches the glimmer of the Starhawk, before the blizzard and avalanche come down the mountain.  Gritting his teeth, because he was outside, he moves to try and brace himself.  The ANDROID BARRIER comes up, aiming to protect himself from the wave of snow washing down over the town.  

Moments later, the assault starts in earnest.  However, Staren's position is quite remembered.  A surge of energy courses through the part of the snow he was buried in.  Right now the town is going to be buried, which means evacuation is impossible.  This means, that when everything is done, they're going to have their pick of victims to 'question' to get their vengeance off.

And hey, who cares if they die because Staren can just bring them back.  The thought that this could be used this way makes his blood run cold, as he literally crashes into the ground near Staren.  Of course, if they could reverse this on Staren...then would the First still hold on to this strategy?  Who can say?

Right now, Seventeen's helplessness turns into anger because he can't do a thing.  Except beat the shit out of Staren.  

Inga has posed:
Inga puts down her tea, grabs her staff and pulls herself to her feet, leaning on the walking stick as she moves toward the sounds of Raha and Yang about to go crazy on some unlucky fellow, and she supposes she's about to help. Yang's right, she is pissed, but not at Raha. It's what he does. She knew that. But someone has to be around who can bring him out of the rage and its probably best if it is her.

Once she reaches them, Inga pulls her knife from her belt and looks menacingly at Flamel. "I have no desire to be here. Frankly, I understand the reasoning and I'm not pleased to know this man killed Staren--and went through someone who /doesn't/ recover to do it. But I can't let these people be hurt," she says.

Inga then cuts open her arm and flicks a blood ward at Raha and Yang.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Yang uses AoE tactics, and as N'raha probably knows, lard AoEs being distributed throughout the battlefield have this notorious habit of managing to mysteriously catch casters directly in them when they ought to have been literally anywhere else.

    But all it does in Flamel's case is knock him out of his invisibility -- or at least it messes with his focus enough to get him a little bit flickery. "Yang Xiao Long! Am I saying it right this time?" He says, with a bright smile. "We met at Maslow Peak. And Inga! Back at the Warp Iris... that was a long time ago, wasn't it? Dang!"

    He can hear the other, raging voice. He attempts an experimental mental intrusion-- nope. No dice, at least, not right now. "Can't say I know that one. Look-- This is how it's gotta be. A message has to be sent, you know? And we can either build up what we have to send it, or we can tear down the Watchtower. I'm sorry, but, I'm anti-MAD, right to the bones. Literally, you know." He takes a more aggressive stance... And appears near Yang.

     He isn't pointing his rifle at her though. The line running from his temple to the weapon lights up, and tries to blast N'raha instead, a sustained wide shot of pure white psychic energy. His telekinesis activates as he does, pulling up huge chunks of snow in motion and using them as a sort of riot-control bashing implement. Massive translucent hands arise and sling the clumps at terrible speeds at Inga, trying to bash her away!

    But for Yang, Flamel takes advantage of what he's got, which is the chance to try to leap into her mind before she can get a punch off! If he can dive into her MENTAL ARENA -- whatever the first layer of her brainscape might look like -- he might be able to dive in, find her self-image, and give her a real solid thwack square in her capacity-for-violence, by landing and giving a heavy telekinetic punch to her mentality! Who knows how that works, brainwise, for someone like her?

Riku (6928) has posed:
The snow rises... And it crashes down on the town. The terrain promptly becomes obviated in a wave of snow and ice. Riku is forced to take cover. He can move, but he can't move through THAT. The wall he's hiding behind creaks... And then collapses on top of him. There is a shout that vanishes in the darkness as the snow and ice rush over the toolshed that Riku had sheltered in.

    A few seconds later, a disheveled and angry Riku suddenly drops out of a Corridor right next to Staren's mech, the Soul Eater swinging out to try to pierce into the cockpit amidst all the snow and chaos and destruction, amidst the roof slamming down on top of the assault force.

    He averts his eyes from that. There was a reason why he wasn't perching on that roof. "You need to be stopped, Staren." Riku says simply as he perches firmly on the thing and prepares for a ride.

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
Majima should have been there. He was not. Peculiar, of all things, for the Mad Dog of Shimano to miss a fight.
It has, after all this time, become clear why. A sizable, lumbering vermillion hulk of metal has been making its way down the street, rumbling for a very, very long time. Dangling from its crane-front is a solid metal weight--it has been painted solid gold, but is clearly no such thing. Atop the weight, dangling as it is from steel cables, is a figure. Despite the cold, the figure is clearly shirtless, round-headed, and...
Screaming into the radio.
"Neheheh! Didja know how hard it is ta drive one of these things in snow? Cause I sure as fuck didn't!"
Majima just picks the widest band he can. There's absolutely no reason to hide himself. He didn't before, he's not going to start now.

"Majima Construction is here to serve an eviction notice, eh!?"

Within the driver cab of the vehicle, a nervous Japanese man works the controls. "...Boss? Boss can you get back in? This is kinda crazy, Boss!"

Yang Xiao Long has posed:
    Yang quirks. "Huh, guess we did meet once. Sorry, I forgot ya." she remarks. She's got her guard up, and with a millisecond of 'incoming' to warn her, she ducks back away from from the wave of telekinetic force. She bends around, and with the same motion aims to bring a rising uppercut into Flamel's chin, her gauntlet firing in the same motion, sending a wave of flames instead of the usual kinetic burst.

Sanary Rondel has posed:
"Are any of us really that smart?" Sanary laughs at her own joke, then nearly topples over at the sudden shock of explosions rattling the building she's cooped up in. Catching herself just before hitting the ground, she takes a deep breath to prepare herself before following August through that same window at Nameless' signal.

"Hey. Nags." She came up with that one just now. "Stay low to the ground. Tall people suck at hittin' us shorties, even though you're..." She pauses, looking back at the gunner once more before shaking her head. "Bah, you'll figure it out! Their timing is ass, though..."

And then snow buries the houses. Several people. Blocks the entrances. Makes the targets a little too easy to hit. Even with her jacket on, it's kind of cold, and Sanary has to do a bit of trudging to get somewhere that the snow isn't too dense to move properly. Spotting the chaos already starting to unfold, the healer heads in another direction to try and close up the gaps that might be appearing in the defensive 'line'.

There is a crane charging right at one of those holes. The crane has a screaming guy with an eyepatch on it. Sanary narrows her eye as she adjusts her own eyepatch, stepping forward and steadily building up speed. Once she breaks into a sprint, she leaps forward with a mighty roar as she brings her axe down at the mad dog!


WATCH PIG FARMER, PLEGIA BRANCH
S A N A R Y   R O N D E L

N'raha Tia has posed:
    Believe it or not Raha is used to lazer beams and beams and AOE ground Templates and shit like that. Call it the Echo or whatever, he can see that shit coming and he can avoid it. It's great. Thanks Hydaelyn!

    But that's not what Raha is about right now. Not even in the slightest. That laser beam shoots past him, razeing the sidewalk and the pavement and the snow, bashing and crashing bits of all of it into him and... and he just trucks it. Right now it is not a 'let's be sensible time'. Right now it is Fight Time. Fight Time For Fight People.

    Parsons makes a move for Yang and NOT HIM. WHY IS HE NOT FIGHTING THE TANK? THIS IS RUDE. There's a howl of anger and the catman channels his aether, and with a dull red arc of motion, leaps across the battlefield, aiming a swing of that massive ax at Parson's head and neck region.

Inga has posed:
"Yes, I remember you. It is unfortunate that we must meet again this way," she says, ever-polite. It never hurts to be polite.

The snow he chucks her way is much less polite. Inga raises her staff, and with a word the snow is met by a barrier of fire, most of the snow turns to steam in the air, and what does hit her doesn't knock her for a loop as it would have otherwise.

Inga narrows her eyes as he focuses on Yang. She knows a bit about him from conversations on the radio, and can guess what he is trying to do. Inga takes a deep breath and takes the restraints off her Sight, focusing upon Flamel to get a read on his wyrd. What is his most likely strategy?

Sarracenia has posed:
     Sarracenia is in a position she does not usually find herself in. She doesn't really agree with what Nameless did, even if she understands the reason he did it. And the Concord is perfectly within most doctrines to seek out the attacker. Sarracenia would be risking a lot. Just the risk of her identity being discovered is bad enough, but fighting actual people in a life or death battle is something she actively tries to avoid. Crazy princess is bad enough. She really doesn't want to be known as a killer princess.

     She is brought out of her thoughts by the heavy pounding of artillery and an avalanche. Really all thoughts but 'oh god I am really here in the middle of this!!' leave her mind. She doesn't want to be here, or to fight anyone here! She never really thought it through when she joined the Watch! It was just a place where people didn't really care what you did as long as you weren't opressing people!

     The building holds up, but how in the world it does she isn't sure. She peeks out the door once the shelling has stopped, just in time to get her face lightly cut up by those razor sharp snowflakes...and to see a group of incoming soldiers get crushed under a roof covered in razors! "Holy Shiitakes!" she exclaims as she falls back, eyes wide beneath her mask. That's about all the nerve the blustery princess has, and she quickly exits the building and moves down the destroyed road. She is hoping that being clear of it will reduce her likelyhood of encountering an enemy agent, but the red-haired amazon in the bright red outfit is going to be hard to miss.

     And it doesn't help that she just happens to run right toward that crane in her panic. Her eyes widen, but rather than stop she just charges. "Get out of my way!!" she exclaims as she leaps and swings that massive kanabo right at the golden wrecking ball, attempting to send it smashing into the very crane that is carrying it.

     She lands, then blinks. "...Sanary?" she says, seeming surprised. Didn't she even know they were in the same faction?

Staren has posed:
    Three people facing a giant steel construct. Riku may recognize this as a boss battle. Does... does that mean there should be music? There's only the howling of the wind and the snow, though.

    Strikes hit the chest of the mecha. The shape gives away where the cockpit is, there's the telltale outline of the curved canopy under armor plating... plating that begins to break apart, though not yet enough to see inside.

    "I'm glad you're in high spirits, August!" Staren's tone is friendly, then grows colder. "I'm sorry it had to come to this." A 'blade' of plasma extends from the mech's right forearm as it steps back and aims a punch at Dietrich, trying to melt it and then slam a giant metal fist into it. Then the sword turns off and it swats at Riku as one might a bug that's just bitten one.

    "I must be stopped? Ah yes, because I want to make the world BETTER. You claim to be the Multiverse's rebels, but you fight only to restore the status quo. The tyranny of nature, where billions sicken and die every day across the multiverse! But their suffering doesn't MATTER to you unless it's called out! Unless it's at the hand of someone you can punch to make it right!"

    Seventeen didn't say anything and Staren's having enough trouble fighting three people, let alone talking back to two, so for the moment he just tries to punt the Android away into the snowstorm!

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
    Oh, good. He was worried for a second that he was actually going to have to sit there doing demolition instead of fighting someone.
And, much to his glee, whoever it is has a giant axe and is willing to jump up atop to hit him with it. He isn't about to just take the hit like a chump or anything, swinging on the cable to get his body out of the way. Sanary's axe impacts the ball, which /does/ damage it, but it's not exactly a crippling blow to the Mad Dog himself. He cackles wildly, body flaring with a glowing vermillion flame as he draws a wooden bat.
"...Get off my ride, eh? I spent /hours/ gettin' this shit over here." He spins himself around on the cable again, before bringing the bat down as hard on Sanary's head as he can muster, under the circumstance.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Parsons catches nothing. Somehow Yang has dodged an astral projection and avoided even getting mentally invaded! Her uppercut nearly takes his skull off of his spine in return, but with a deft backwards bend, he pulls away, somehow using unexpected close-quarters combat skill to deftly parry the assault. Then comes the axe, right as he's about to perform a follow-up on Yang! It comes tearing for his neck, and the wide-eyed psychic gets a few choice visions of his head being lopped clean off a half-second or so before it happens, giving him the impulse to raise his rifle and use it to deflect the strike, forcing it to one side and keeping himself from an untimely end, though he winds up straining his arms pretty badly to do it.

    When Inga goes for his brain, she finds it well-guarded, but not intrusion-proof. There's an entire world in here! She could find what she's looking for, but it would need her to navigate what appears to be the mental image of an entire massive underground secret bunker stored in Flamel's mind. She could shake him, or pursue more, but she can't get something quite yet.

    There's something there, though, in that bunker. Something he's got. A glimmer of a concept that hide under the surface of all of this. Perhaps something he hasn't told Priscilla? It could well be buried that deep, anyway. Whatever it is, he'll need to be closer to the Nameless one to do it.

August Kohler has posed:
As Staren argues with Riku, snow buffets everything, as wind howls, August's skin freezes, and he's forced to divert closer towards the mecha to avoid mortars. This is a shitshow. He's not actually in good spirits, Staren will quickly realize, as August replies. "I'm not going to argue with you. But I can't let you proceed."

A plasma blade stabs into Dietrich. It does not punch a hole - the Persona is too tough - and instead carves through what appears to be practically endless armor. The armor quickly regenerates itself, but August begins bleeding from the nose, already strained from previous encounters and stress. "Let's tango."

The blade suddenly burns bright orange with fire, as Dietrich starts running up the Star Hawk. When Android 17 pinpoints the location of the speakers, August moves for one of them, and moves to jam his fiery blade into the speakers, before carving a swath down and towards the cockpit as powerfully as possible. Staren will survive it, if the armor doesn't stop it first.

August has no plans to kill tonight.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    But for now? Looks like he needs to focus on dealing damage. He didn't get anything on Yang, and he needs to even those odds. This time, he doesn't focus on going after her brain. This time he focuses on going after her to cause some proper injuries. No dives for this one -- instead he moves in close for a barrage of open-hand close-quarters telekinetic hand-strikes! A dozen heavy psychic fists translucently form near him, trying to batter and barrage Yang and out-do her two-handed combat abilities, or at least push her off so he can focus on N'raha properly!

Sanary Rondel has posed:
Sanary hears another familiar voice landing nearby, swinging for someone else in that demolition vehicle. "Sarra? Ah, we'll catch up later!" She barks as she jerks her axe out of that wrecking ball, turning just in time to get nailed right in the face with that bat. It's a rather nasty hit, too, but it doesn't appear to stick quite as well as it should.

There's blood. A lot of blood. The bruises remain, too, but her head isn't as caved in as it might be for a regular person. No, there's a green light that linger around Sanary's head as she staggers against the front of the vehicle, mending the wounds enough that she's still mostly recognizable and functioning. "You ain't bad with that bat either... Good swing. But you should quit screwin' around!"

She says as she leaps for that wrecking ball, cheating a bit with her flight anklets to help her reach for that chain. Whether she gets onto it or not, she proceeds to go for something a little more her speed: Try to lull her opponent in with the prospect of trading hits by swinging her axe wildly and advancing in an attempt to limit his mobility!

Riku (6928) has posed:
    There is a sickening crunch as the hand sweeps across the mech, tagging Riku directly and sending him spinning away to crater into the wall. Or he would, if the wall wasn't Reinforced. He falls off of it into the painful blizzard-snow, shuddering with the sudden traumatic influx. Already, part of his mind is screaming to just stay down, that /hurt/.

    "You keep repeating that like you think it's going to become true." Riku says, voice grating as he forces himself to stand once again. A hand wipes blood from his face as his eyes narrow at the mech. "You're a madman who thinks you have the right to play God. You think you have all the answers and you don't care when people bring up the problems. You just stuff them into little boxes and pretend that they don't matter." He steps forward, his shows crunching in the icy mess as the breath mists around him. His shadow begins to grow.

    "You make so many assumptions. You assume everyone else is ignorant just because you think you're the smart one. No wonder why the dragon likes you so much. You're as arrogant as she is. You don't even understand what kind of hellish world you want to give to those people you're pretending you're saving. You're just replacing the tyrrany of nature with your own!"

    As he yells, there is a surge of blackness, the Eidolon rising up and hulking out as the horrific expression of the darkness in Riku's Heart manifests, the distorted Heartless-like figure rushing forward to simply bring a fist back and attempt to crash into Staren's mecha with no survivors, aiming for the position that 17 provides on the mecha.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    And then, he can't afford to ignore N'raha, whose axe is so close upon his neck. Focus! He whips around, clenches a hand, and casts a swarm of heavy CONFUSION GRENADES! In a berserker state, he has plenty of mental defenses, but Flamel can at the very least mess with his vision and make it harder to land a hit! He can little afford a dead-on strike from that axe under these circumstances, especially with so many impacts knocking him out of his invisibility. The blasts are mostly kinetic bursts that bruise more lightly, but they're nothing to ignore, like getting pelted with two dozen flashbangs.

Android 17 (6730) has posed:
Unfortunately for Staren, and fortunately for Seventeen that the Cyborg was both a capable hand to hand fighter, as well as tough as nails.  The foot of the mech slams into the guarding Android, and while it connects, the force is disbursed just enough to only send the Android back a few feet.  

The moment his legs touch, they wind up like a spring, and he immediately changes direction, charging back for Staren.  There is a flash of movement, and he appears to vanish for a moment, only to appear on the opposite side of August's attack.

Both hands aim up, aiming to send a ball of electrified energy right into the side of the machine in an attempt to disable the speaker.  "Save your words.  At this point, we are beyond them.  You and yours have assaulted our leadership, have assaulted our base and put civilians in danger.  But hey, I guess you can just 'bring them back' if you mess up a little, right?  An omelet and all, right?"

"Gero thought that too.  And I killed him, and if you are like that I will finish was Nameless started...but I will not use his methods."

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    As for Inga though, Flamel can act much more directly. Identifying her attempted invasion of his Mind Palace, Flamel sort of tracks backwards through her mind-reading! Instead of launchign snow at her now, he can try to leap into her outer thoughts, dive into her mental arena, and assault her motive to remain in the fight directly, by dropping in and barraging it with a heavy rush of repeated bolts of psychic energy!

Yang Xiao Long has posed:
    And Flamel comes back in with a flurry of psionic punches. Yang's put on the back foot, parrying and dipping between the strikes... ones hitting her arms making the metal of her gauntlets ring resonantly. She skids backwards from a particularly heavy strike that she has to crossguard against, digging up furrows in the snow.

    Yang laughs... it's a cruel sound, malicious even.... "Not bad, not bad at all..." she lifts her eyes, showing they've turned red. "Lets do this."

    Yang takes a quarterstep back, then launches herself back into CQC, bringing her own flurry of rapid punches back at Flamel, then jinking around to come from a different angle, 'dancing' around him like a really angry woodpecker... but with fists.

Rean Schwarzer has posed:
Rean is here. He's dressed in a black jumpsuit, with a hood covering his hair and bottom half of his face. Obviously he still doesn't agree with what Nameless did, and his only issue with the Watch was that they were keeping someone like him around. But none of that was worth this ice and blood.

But maybe, just maybe, he could tip the scales just a bit and make things less terrible.

Rean sighs. Now or never. Then some girl with a spiked bat smacks the wrecking ball right into the cranes cab, towards his seat. Sad girl sounds an awful lot like-

"Wait, Sarracenia?!"

Rean throws himself into Nishida to try and avoid it, probably squishing the poor secretary. "Sorry-" he sputters, before climbing out of the vehicle and drawing his sword.

"Sorry about this." He says and then rushes the disguised princess,  aiming to try and knock the bat out of her hand.

Priscilla has posed:
    The roof of the house coming off, no, launching off, causes the lead squads to try and skid to a halt. A fireball launches from a jeweled staff and blasts it dead center, but the tiles turn to blades --so many blades-- and scarcely melt the tips. There is screaming when the thing lands, steam erupting from the ground, so much snow flash vapourized.

    A sniper with perfectly precise mechanical hands, lodged in the hillside, takes the shot at Nameless' head, and a mortar team fires a fragmenting submunition into the house, now that the roof is off. A 'daisy cutter'. The sharp whistle terminates in a dull crack, and the kitchen is riddled wall to wall with cutting darts. The two other teams not headed directly towards him though, suddenly change tactics and fork off to either side, firing sidelong as they run, strafing the building with bullets and lightning to get into the town ASAP. Support fire from above lands in the midst of the ongoing battles. The man in the jacket, with the great sword, cleaves his way free of the razor wreckage, bleeding all over.

    If all three were to attack him in combination, it'd be moderately challenging. That doesn't seem to be the idea though. He can detect hate behind the attacks. Scorn. An intent to kill. But not bloodlust. His senses don't tingle the warnings of extraordinary danger until a knife, thin, streamlined and symmetrical, suddenly flies out of the blizzard at his face. It's a simple steel thing, disposable, but somehow it screams peril.

    It also came from very, very close.

N'raha Tia has posed:
    If Raha knew that Parsons was fishing around in his partner's brain, he'd be only a smidge grumpier than he is right now. Not that he's grump right now. Battle rage is a different Inner Beast all together, after all.

    Raha also has to contend with Crazy Blinding Flashes of Light. Who uses the Blind status effect anyways these days? Honestly? Echo Drops are so hard to come by. That said, Raha snarls and rubs at his face, and then shakes it off, forced to take a moment and burn one of his recovery abilities. There's a dull green glow around his frame as the blindness passes, and then the red is back in his vision, and once more he's charging in. Parson's is right to be worried about Raha, because the Train Hasn't Brakes right now. This time, the Train is merely a Feline Missile, as Raha simply moves to Shoulder Check Parsons into the snow and the rubble.

Sarracenia has posed:
     Sarracenia freezes for just a moment as Rean calls out her name. "Rean?!" she exclaims back, then blinks and coughs. "N-no! Who is this Sarracenia of whom you speak? I am Crimson Rose!" she declares, and does a dramatic flourish with her bat.

     She hops back, then huffs. "What are you even doing here?! I know what that gunman did was questionable at best, but the Concord just trapped an entire town in cutting snow and explosions to get at a few operatives! Surely you do not agree with that!" she says.

     She grips her club more tightly and growls a bit. "Now, get out of here, before one or both of us get hurt!" she exclaims before swinging it at her friend. Though if Rean knows anything about how she usually fights, he can tell that she did not put nearly as much force behind the blow as she could have.

Inga has posed:
Inga feels Flamel' psychic assault come her way and she tries to buckle down on her defenses...but as a Seer, she is sensitive. It is sort of her superpower. She's sensetive to the patterns of the world and the people who are woven into it. His attack is met with a small gasp, her thoughts on this all are clear. She doesn't want to be here, but she's afraid that if she is not someone will die that might otherwise be saved. She is especially afraid Raha will lose control and get himself killed if she isn't here to bring him out of his rage. The thought of him dying brings up all too recent trauma. The pain is terrible. It is horrible, crushing despair and grief.

She doesn't shut down or throw up her guard against his intrusion. No, she hurls it at him in all it's intensity.

Staren has posed:
    As the mecha moves, August just misses the speaker he's aiming at. But trying to cut through towards the cockpit makes one wonder: The cockpit is more heavily armored than anywhere else. But is it armored from INSIDE the mech, if the armor were breached somewhere else? Dietrich's sword still cuts a rent into the side of the machine. Seventeen's attack isn't straight on, but still scorches and melts a thin layer of armor, and the speaker on that side goes a bit staticky. Staren at least manages to swat the heartless away before it can hit him.

    Staren sounds angry at Riku and Seventeen's words, though. "The right? The RIGHT? Noone has the RIGHT, but someone's got to do something! Nature has stabbed someone and left them bleeding in the street; SOMEONE's got to start first aid and order someone to call emergency services!"

    "I DON'T have all the answers and I worry about the problems all the time! If I thought I'd solved them I wouldn't be talking, I'd be DOING!"

    Staren steps the mecha back again and sweeps the mecha's right arm at August and Seventeen, trying to catch them with railgun fire. Staren winces as he realizes, an instant too late, that beyond the white snow are houses and his stray shots might hit them. "I don't even know if this is the best plan! Maybe I'll find a better one in time! At first I thought if I could just conquer death it would help everyone... then I found the technology and realized it could be used for eternal torture! If I didn't think about problems like this..." The mecha actually freezes for a split second, then shakes its head. "Then I'd have done something terrible."

    Staren raises his voice to a shout of frustration: "At least I'm trying to solve them! You just turn a blind eye to it as billions, trillions suffer and die every day across the Multiverse!"

    Shadows appear in the snowstorm behind Staren... and a group of constructs surges forwards, some firing bullets and acid spit at Riku while a large, cement humanoid with a big metal club charges him!

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Yang matches him, but Flamel can move fast and efficiently. He can only move so fast and so efficiently though -- she's outpacing him in damage, battering his psychic constructs and often his body as he moves. It leaves him so occupied and so focused that he can't move out of the way of N'Raha's attack! It slams him so hard into the snowbank that it's hard for him to extract himself again!

    That's what Flamel sees in a quick psychic insight, which gives him all the motivation he needs to suffer a lighter hit from Yang square on the face in order to give himself the room to POOF into invisibility and dodge around the charge that he should never have seen coming!

    He pops back into clear visibility to one side, trying to psychically judo-toss N'Raha after the lion-berserker tries to slam him, flinging him aside! One hand snaps out to brandish the rifle and blast it at Yang as he tries to keep her at a distance, then the other hand clamps onto his head. He summons a dozen tremendous fists to try to pummel N'Raha into a snowbank!

    But not all pummelings are physical. Flamel, in his mental invasion, tries to strike at something that one might say is 'rigged', in a sense. A mental booby-trap of trauma, the psychological trigger that brings up painful memories. Flamel tries to blast through it and instead it goes off like a mine got triggered in his face. If N'Raha is needing any respite from the impacts, the brief hesitation as he shares Inga's worry for N'Raha's safety will give it to him-- Though in turn, he moves to shift his rifle blasts into a heavy airbursting artillery shot in her direction, a gleaming white blast that is intended to stun her and break the psychic link!

Nameless (6999) has posed:
                                 RIGHT NOW                                  

     The sniper takes a shot at his head. The Nameless Gunner's reaction is smooth, efficient, calculated. The bullet lodges in his skull, blowing out the back end; his rifle manifests in the span of the instant before the bullet hits and fires as it enters his head, a streaking red bolt that carves across the sky, aiming for the other sniper's heart, twisting for the other sniper's heart like a homing missile. There's no hesitation, no moment for it, as the mortar comes down and slams against what's left of the roof, caving parts of it in around him. The next shot will get him, so he'll have to go deeper in.

     But first, the knife.

                              A LONG TIME AGO                              

    The knife hits the cutting board with a thud and drops onto the counter. The purple-haired girl falls to the ground. The red-haired man moves to catch her. She's bleeding. She looks up at him with a weak smile. 'I'm fine, senpai. I just cut myself, that's all. It happens a lot.'

     He grabs her hand. Too stupid to know what she means. Too stupid to understand the cry for help. Too dense to grasp it.

                    Rusted my body, dark runs my blood.                    

                                 RIGHT NOW                                  

     The knife comes whistling out of nowhere. The Nameless Gunner's motions are fluid, water, flowing without hesitation. A bullet appears in his hand, twisting and stinking of burning wood. As the knife comes in he jams the bullet into his gun and raises it towards the point the knife came from. He takes the hit, clean in the shoulder, pain shooting up his arm to match the pain in the skull that's already trying to reassemble itself with tiny knitting blades.

     The Nameless Gunner fires.

     One shot becomes ten. Ten shots become a hundred. One hundred shots become three hundred.

               A THOUSAND BROKEN WORLDS - LOST LINE FORMATION              

     Nobunaga's own Noble Phantasm. Anti-Divinity. Anti-God. Splitting the field in saturation to draw her out. To draw out the thing he is dragging here to fight on his own terms. To draw out the root of that place.

     The knife is a small price to pay. The very, very deadly knife in his arm will suffice as a price. It's rangefinding.

     Sacrificing his own body as a tool to get what he needs to do done.

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
"...Oh, ya got spark. I like that."
Majima more than expects a counter-attack, but..he's kinda distracted. Mostly because this ball keeps moving. So he finally decides to jump off, and...as he's about to, he realizes he /definitely/ did not hit the girl as hard as he thought he did. Weird. "Heh! Good! I thought ya were gonna be down for the count already! Woulda been wasting my time, eh?"
    Sanary's also still going, which makes her double-great in Majima's books. "...Quit screwin' around, eh? Ya ain't ready ta see the big show yet, eh?"

The bat's still out. He is absolutely not used to fighting atop a moving ball. This sucks, and that axe is starting to nick and scrape more than he'd like. "Ya know it's cold out here, eh? Why ya gotta be cuttin' a guy's clothes?!" He demands of her, that bat readying back up again.

This time, new plan. He's just gonna knock her off the wrecking ball. Someone else keeps hitting the damn thing anyway. So this time, he just drives it like a spear forward, hoping to just casually push the pig farmer off. The big move comes in a minute. First is always the setup.

August Kohler has posed:
The cockpit is heavily armored. That's fine. As the arm sweeps up, blasting Dietrich with railgun fire and knocking it back, shattering armor that rapidly repairs itself at a slower rate, August's nose getting bloodier, he pauses. And then, Staren's mecha pauses too. The perfect chance.

He doesn't go for the cockpit. He needs to disable the machine. He goes for the arm, trying to slice into it with heavy swipes and start tearing at armor, carving it open and weakening those railgun shots.

There is no response to the argument. At this point...August doesn't care.

Inga has posed:
Inga's anger looks very different than Raha's or Yang's, but she is angry all the same. "Got a bit more than you wanted, hmm?" she asks, only to be blwon from her feet into a snowbank. There is an unpleasant cracking sound Inga really hopes wasn't her spine. All the same, she's going to stay there for a moment.

After all, she doesn't need to be on her feet to set Flamel on fire. She gestures to him, shouts "FIRE" in old Norse, and promptly tries to set his pants on fire.

N'raha Tia has posed:
    Raha goes skidding into a snowpile with Flamel, unable to stop the skidding of his attack. New boots, a little un-crazy piece of his brain laments.

    The sudden raining of blows on his body forces Raha to take another moment to center himself. He may not have the defensive prowess of a Paladin, but there's ways to brace for impact, even when all you have to defend yourself is an ax. There's a dull reflective shield that forms from that red aether that sheathes him, and spends itself away with each blow, a little reflective shudder as the strikes blast against his frame... but then the blows are complete, and the catman can shuffle himself up and out of the mess that's being made of... everything, and square up again.

    Straightforward and single minded and unwavering is Raha right now. A commendable quality, in some cases. But Flamel's concern is going to get him maimed. Because right now the Single Minded is 'bloody the nose of the enemy'. The catman lets out a rather perilous noise, and raises his ax upwards... and with a much more graceful looping somersault than one might expect out of him, he flips forward, swinging that ax in a horrifying bloody arc.
    And alongside it, ghostly, aetheric buzz saws join right in, all aiming to grind Parsons into mince.

Rean Schwarzer has posed:
Rean sidesteps Sarra's attack, it barely clipping past him.

"I don't." Rean says, looking at the ground. "But I couldn't just stand by while I knew this was happening, and I don't think I could support the Watch in supporting that assassin."

Aaaaaaaand Staren is arguing with the Watch again. Rean sighs. How much of this was even about the assassin anymore? He takes another swing at SArra, not quite at full force, but not quite holding back either.

"The faster this is over, the sooner these people can go back to their lives, right?"  At least, that's what he tells himself.

Yang Xiao Long has posed:
    Flamel fires his rifle, bullets rippling through the air. Yang's fast and agile, but even she can't dodge bullets, though she can deflect a few with her gauntlets. Many more rip through her defenses and her body, punching holes and drawing blood, which is quickly patched over by her Aura. Her hair begins to flicker and wave, like flames, her Aura wavering briefly. She doesn't close in again though... instead she shifts her Gauntlets into a different configuration. She then starts punching the air, hurling explosive bolts from her gauntlets to add to the fire, and buzz saws and general unpleasantness around Flamel's person right this moment. She doesn't let up until she has to reload, purging the spent shells and reloading with a flick of her wrists tossing fresh clips into the air, which she slams her gauntlets into, causing them to wrap around into place.

Android 17 (6730) has posed:
The barrage of bullets aimed to turn the Cyborg into swiss.  As dust is kicked up by stray shots, there is a hum of power.  The ANDROID BARRIER comes on, as he walks towards Staren's machine, even as bullets fire into the shield.  They are intercepted for the most part, as he seems to be a rock in a stream.

Some manage to get through, bouncing off of his body, or causing minor grazing, but the sheer number causes quite the number of grazes.  Seventeen runs through the field of bullets and jumps up to the head of the Mech, and repeatedly drives his knee into the head.  

Flipping off the machine with his final knee, he lands.  His sharp eyes stare at Staren, as he slowly brushes some of that hair out of his face.  "Get over yourself.  You can only save the people who want to be saved by you.  You can only do so much.  It is the depths of ego to think YOU are the solution to the problems of the multiverse...and it is people like YOU who end up bringing more suffering.  It is not evil intentions that a madman is born from..."

"It is good ones.  The desire to make a better world.  The desire to avenge your son.  Yet these things create monsters in their wakes.  Cause suffering because of their views."

"And it's this same thing I see happening again that is you.  You don't actually care about people, only as much as you care about someone to recognize your accomplishments and confirm your belives are right."

Sanary Rondel has posed:
It takes a little bit longer before Sanary's jaw realigns properly, still wobbling unsteadily after that nasty hit from earlier. "Yeah? It'll take way more than that to put me in the ground!" Noting those cuts making their mark finally, her grin grows for just a moment until Majima calls attention to the weather and the clothing damage. It's a good thing the snow is still snow, or otherwise her face would be visibly heating up at that!

Still, it's not every day she gets to fight a madman that isn't just surviving against her wild swings, but keeping up with them and then some. Catching that bat to the chest, she grunts painfully as it jabs in, but it gives her some breathing space as she drops off that wrecking ball and lands below it with an almost-graceful roll! The followup is a little more graceful, at least, as she winds up and flings her axe skywards towards Majima and his vehicle, the two-handed weapon holding enough force behind it to rip through whatever hits!

If it hits.

Priscilla has posed:
    The embodiment of Oda Nobunaga's own three line formation, scourge of Sengoku feudal lords, death to the worship of the old gods, spearhead of the Arsonist of Hiei. It is the perfect tool for the job. Ranks of gunfire so wide and dense that no invisibility could hide from them. Bullets infused with the essence of modernity discarding the divine. Nothing could be more suited.

    It's a tool that the Nameless Gunner used once against her before. Priscilla had not survived through the trials and horrors of Lordran by being unready for a peril encountered once before. She is old, yes. Her name itself means 'Ancient'; a silent wish for safety from a mother long ago, like a charm of longevity. But it's the most dangerous kind of old. The kind that began with nothing, was given nothing, and put through a thousand times more hardship than anyone should be.

    The instant the entire three hundred bullets demolish the snow bank without a drop of blood, Nameless should get it. He isn't fighting a dragon that'd sat atop a hoard for a millennia, grown massive and mighty with age. He is fighting someone that lived by pushing on 'one more day', and kept going . . . and kept going.

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qY-gWF9AF8

    A chill voice encircles the house, carried in through every window and crack on the freezing air.

    "More than a thousand years ago, now, men decided that I was Evil. In a way, much like thou hast. I had scarcely been born, but that mattered not to them. No such trifling detail couldst matter to something with a hold so powerful as Good and Evil. And for that reason, from then on, anything they couldst possibly dare to imagine, no matter how abhorrent and mad, was somehow fair and just in the end."

    Something ploughs into the house from the east wall. The side tears away like paper. The floor splits in two, along a swift, curved line towards him. It carries on through the entire bottom floor, and throws its debris high into the air. Shattered furniture and shorn appliances, medical supplies, food, and weapons scattered into the wind. The familiar fixtures the Watch here had come to know. The floor is pierced through all the way to the basement.

    "Thou see, when one is not simply 'wrong', but Evil, all other things cease to matter. Nothing is unacceptable anymore. Everything is deserved."

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Flamel is quickly enflamed, but he's quick, and he's not entirely biological -- luckily, a few swift movements let him roll and the roll through wet snow is enough to keep him from spending too long with his pants on fire. "Gaaaah!" He shouts. And when he scrambles onto his feet, he's barraged by bolt after bolt from Yang! He has to cut the volley off fast!! But as he looks to her, he sees a glint in the corner of his eye, and then... something frightening. An axe, heading for his brain. He is full of lethal fear, and his breath chokes in his throat. "Ghhhk!"

    BZZZZT.

    He has a barrier. A circular, thick psychic barrier, gleaming white and translucent. It shimmers and shines, and hums with odd energies, but has cut off the damage to him: N'Raha's strike would have obliterated his body, but he managed to have it mostly obliterate the outer ten layers of barrier instead. The shockwave from the impact is enough to send psychic shards to the surrounding foes, but Flamel himself can't attack further for a moment. He's tanking, or so it seems, and trying to recover from the exhaustion of even evading that danger!

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
Majima does not do a great deal of ranged fight. Also, who the fuck throws an axe? He's knocked clean off the wrecking ball, falling off into a snowdrift, blood visibly falling down after him.
Nishida, who has just been trying to stay hidden from Rean and Sarra, leans out of the crane. "Boss?! Boss?!"

There is silence. There is nothing.

And then, like some sort of terrifying snowdemon, Majima erupts from behind the pig farmer. His body flashes a burning blue flame, and he makes a very, very risky gambit. Mostly, he tries to grapple around Sanary, one arm around her neck, twist one way, and with his other hand, twist the other. This may, very well, tip the scales in his favor. It is, also, weirdly the least lethal neck-snapping in the Multiverse, but we try not to ask that question.
HEAT ACTION: ESSENCE OF CHOKING

Nameless (6999) has posed:
     The wall comes free, the blade carving through the room. The Nameless Gunner moves to grab it, and it's pain, raw pain, running up through his right hand. He squeezes against the Lifehunt Scythe in defiance of all common sense, his horrid golden eyes locked on Priscilla's own. There's something deep and terrible in there - not a misguided madman with no concept of his own actions but a thing that has already determined that he is himself a monster who hunts monsters. He is not a Hero of Justice. What she is looking into is a demon that hunts demons.

     "Have you killed?"

     The words cut through the blazing snow as gold light shines around the draining blade. He's sacrificing his own life force. He knows it's foolish. Foolhardy. Insane. She can tell. He's feeding her. For some reason. For some purpose.

     "If you have killed," he says, "Then you are evil."

     "There is no good reason to take a life."

     "Not even yours."

     "But the Work is not done."

     "I am not the judge. I do not hate you. I do not even dislike you. I am not Good. I do not do what I do because it is right."

     "I do what I do because it must be done. Because as long as there is Evil there must be someone to drag it into Hell."

     "If you have killed."

     "Then I am your executioner."

                                  LONG AGO                                  

     'I don't care. Whatever it takes.'

     The black-haired girl grabbed his arm. 'This will kill you.'
     'Fine.'

     'Are you really that stupid?! There's other ways we can do this. We can...we can solve...'

     The red-haired man looked her in the eye. 'Does she have time for that?'

     The black-haired girl hung her head. She said nothing. Her eyes didn't meet his. He nodded, and held out his arm. 'Then we don't have time for a third option.'

     'Give me his arm.'

                 A thousand blades wasted without purpose.                  

Nameless (6999) has posed:
                                 RIGHT NOW                                  

    His lips are moving.

     He's chanting.

     "I am the bone of my Sword."

     The binding on his arm comes way. The red bandage falls apart. The arm is not the same color as his own skin. It's lighter, gentler. It's surging, too, like something is bursting forth under the skin, struggling to be free. Cyan light runs across it in circuit lines.

     "Steel is my body and fire is my blood."

     The cyan blaze burns so bright it pierces the blizzard. It punches through the snow. It roars through the house's walls. It is a physical force being unleashed, something growing in that arm.

     "I have created over a thousand blades."

     The world starts to twist. The sky goes black. The snow vanishes from the ground, blown away by some forceful wind.

     "Unknown to Death
, nor known to Life."

     Gears. Massive, unbelievable gears. They devour the sky, hanging nonsensically in the air. They hang on the horizon. Slowly, slowly, they begin to grind. The gears are too big to be real. Too big to be sensical.

     "Have withstood pain to create many weapons."

     The house disappears. In its place, all around, are swords. Large swords. Small swords. Gigantic swords. Guns. Daggers. Bows. Spears. Scythes. Hammers. All of them are scattered across the ground, standing straight up and down, macabre graves for a life spent in pursuit of the destruction of evil.

     "Yet, these hands will never hold anything."

     The glowing blue arm surges upwards. It pulses. A sword stabs out of it, punching out of the hand. The Nameless Gunner winces. "So, as I pray!"

                          UNLIMITED BLADE WORKS                          

     Ketchikan is gone. Ketchikan is devoured in a rust-colored sky, in an endless hill of swords that stretches in all directions. Ketchikan is devoured in a storm of blades that sweeps the world clean, swallowed into that hill. That hell. That hell of blades.

     The Nameless Gunner's face finishes restoring itself, a thousand tiny knitting swords tying off the last bits of flesh. His left arm is out of control. But he doesn't care.

     In that left hand is the Lifehunt Scythe.

     No. Not quite. It's degraded, weakened. It's not the full majesty of her blade. He couldn't possibly do that. But he doesn't need to.

     He swings it with full force, to shatter it against her, and another forms in his right hand.

     In this place there is no end to these blades.

Riku (6928) has posed:
Staren makes his response. Riku is about to respond when the horde of constructs comes in to spit acid and bullets at him. The Eidolon is out of position, being used to try to smash the mecha.

    Riku lunges back, but in a moment of critical error, his foot comes down on an icy patch that absolutely wasn't that way before the avalanche. Priscilla's area control continues to deny Riku his most powerful advantages and as a result, a moment later that heavy club comes down, crashing into him and clobbering him into the ground. "GG.. GHAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" He yells in pain, unable to stop himself as the intense strike grinds him into the snow, staining part of it red. "Need more... power... Damn it all..." He thinks back to the last time he and Staren had a tiff. Ugh, why is nothing working!?

    Before the next strike lands, however, the fallen Riku drops out through the floor using another Corridor of Darkness, vanishing from sight for a moment...

And reappearing on Staren's opposite side. There has to be a weak point somewhere! Riku falls back, using the Eidolon to guard him as he begins hurling black flames at the mecha, trying to expose some kind of weak point. Meanwhile, over the radio he points out more problems. More issues. More dimensions and contextual hangups.

Yang Xiao Long has posed:
    Flamel's caught tanking, and the shockwave from the clash of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object sends shards of energy randomly in all directions. One's headed right for Yang's face. However a flare of golden light shatters the psychic shard, and Yang steps forward, letting the energy waft around her as her hair ignites.

    And then Nameless changes the entire field into Unlimited Blade Works.

    Yang doesn't care. She steps forwards, an implacable advance, each step thudding into the ground, dislodging the various blades that create the landscape. "Looks like I've been given a field of weapons." she says, and actually compacts her gauntlets again, cracking her knuckles. "I don't need weapons, not to beat you, not to beat anyone..." she shifts forward, and runs at Flamel, bringing an arm back to deliver an overhead haymaker at the psychic. "I ONLY NEED MY FISTS!"

N'raha Tia has posed:
    It didn't kill Parsons. Parsons is still in front of him. He's still alive and he's still breathing and hells dammit what does he have to do?

    The psychic shock wave slaps into N'raha and somehow that just makes him madder. He's not dead, he can still find new depths to the Beast. He staggers up to his feet, and then...
    Swords. He's in a land of swords and weapons and murder and death and this is acceptable to the Warrior of Light. Not that he's going to grab any of them, but he's happy to be here. Or he would be if he could feel anything but FIGHT at the moment. He's a little winded though. The feeling is mutual with Flamel on that one. He steps up, slams his axe into his chest and bellows. "FIGHT ME."

Inga has posed:
Flamel's psychic shrapnel cuts into her flesh, but she's trying to pull herself to her feet....

The landscape changes. She's falling again, sliding down a mound of weapons, blades tearing into her, catching on her skirt, tearing her apron. She tumbles down with a clatter, her eyes wide with confusion. Finally she comes to rest, reaching out with her hands to at least sit upright, cutting her palm in a sword beneath her hand. Her other hand, there is warm metal, vibrating ith some familiar energy. She reaches down and lifts it up so that she can see what it is. A hammer. A magnificent warhammer...though it's handle is a touch short.

Inga stares, open mouthed. Is this even happening?

Ah, well...if ever there was a sign. Inga calls up her magic and the air fills with electricity. She points the hammer toward Flamel, and discharges a deafening bolt of lightning.

Sanary Rondel has posed:
That was more effective than Sanary expected. She lets out a half-blowing half-whistling noise as Majima drops from the wrecking ball, glancing back as he lands in the snow. She looks over at him for a moment, then sighs before looking up towards Nishida in the crane.

"... You up there! Get your boss and get outta here! He's probably st-" And then Majima bursts out of the snow out of nowhere. She's too slow on the draw to even react to that, barely turning her head by the time he gets his arms around her head and neck. There's a violent struggle as she tries to get the mad dog off of her, that awful snap, and she goes limp in his arms.

At least, for several seconds. That green shimmer continues, though, and there's audible popping as her neck stops having things sticking against the sides non-fatally.

"H... Ey... Ma-ji-ma." Her voice gurgles while her head twists slowly. Not completely at a 180 degree angle, but just within the outer edges of normal human limits as her eyepatch comes into view on that side. "Why... Are you here?"

There's a pause, and then she turns the other way a little more hastily so she can actually see from the eye on her non-covered side. "Is it for your friends? Or..." Now that she has a better look at him and the strange field of weapons that Nameless has brought them to, she finally starts moving again. Grasping a nearby blade (ugh a sword), Sanary starts taking wild swipes at Majima to try and get some distance. They're not particularly strong swipes or even well-practiced ones, but she'll have to make do until she finds something more axe-like and gets her body back in check.

"It's not for some... Moral posturing bullshit, is it?"

Sarracenia has posed:
     'Crimson Rose' tries to sidestep Rean's counter-attack, but is only partially successful. She spins away, her stumbling disguised in the pirouette, then just huffs at Rean while holding her side for a few moments where she was hit. "It is less about supporting that assassin and more about making the Concord see that they cannot simply do as they want without reprisal. They obviously will not put up with such things from the Watch, and the Watch cannot simply stand by while they use people as they see fit to further their own goals! They forcefully invaded someone's mind to get information on the gunman! That is tantamount to assault! Simply because he would not willingly share the information!" she says.

     Rean doesn't seem to be leaving, and Sarracenia lets out a little growl of annoyance. "And now they have done this. Trapped and possibly injured innocent people to get at an assassin. An assassin who did what he did because he believes that Staren's methods will cause as much if not more harm than good in the future. I do not think Staren means to harm anyone with his resurrections, and I do not approve of the assassin's methods, but I can at least see his point. Suppose Staren raised a great manipulator who then went on to kill many people? How does someone who admits they have flaws know when they are doing the right thing upon raising someone who is known to be a killer?"

     She brings her oversized spiked club to rest on her shoulder again. "I do not support the assassin. But I also do not support such drastic measures simply to get their way." she says, then...

     ...just before dashing for him, the world changes. The princess skids to a stop and looks around, eyes wide. "Wh-...what happened? Where are we?" she says, still not attacking Rean yet. She actually moves closer to him, like he might protect her from danger even as she marvels at all the weapons around. "...did Doctor Strange arrive while I was distracted?" she wonders, then blinks. She looks over at Rean, and...laughs a bit and grins as she spots something behind him. "I am sorry Rean, but...something over there looks much too fun to pass up."

     She leaps over his head and lands near what looks like a section of some sort of giant honey comb. She pulls on it, and the sand slides away to reveal...some sort of shoulder-held missile pod. "This fight doesn't mean much for you and me, so how about we just have some fun!" she says before pulling the trigger. The first FWOOSH of a missile is accompanied by sliiiightly maniacal laughing. The princess just can't pass up such a fun toy, or such fun explosions! And Rean is tough, right? More and more missiles fire, until what seems like a full dozen are launched, and a series of explosions rains down on her friend.

     Of course later she might have to answer to someone much scarier than Rean.

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
    Majima was not expecting that to be the finishing blow. It never is. But it's fun. It's incredibly fun. What's even more entertaining is Sanary just..casually surviving it. With this weird green glow, and her head just casually turning around. She also has an eyepatch, and somehow he didn't notice that. It's kinda touching. "..Eh? Whaddaya mean? Have ya -seen- this place?"

He stops. "..Arright, when I said that, it wasn't...it wasn't this shit. Holy -shit-, what is this?" He absolutely just drops Sanary entirely, giving her a moment to scrabble for a blade. "...Did we die? Is this fuckin' heaven?" He hurriedly digs through the pile. Somehow, some part of him recognizes something, and he rips out what, at first, looks like a perfectly ordinary kitchen knife. He sniffs it. The red glaze along the knife almost looks like a burning flame. "...There we go. Nehehe...NEHEHEHEHAHAHAAAAAAAAA!"

Sanary's hitting him with the sword. He barely notices. He's getting cut up, and he's bleeding, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. He powers through the farmer's attack, throwing the knife up into the air. He does his best to keep her at bay with a few feinted punches, before he suddenly spins around to drive that weapon right into her stomach with a knee. It turns out that that red glaze is hot sauce.

The knife is completely covered in incredibly spicy hot sauce. Not the best thing to put on a wound.

Staren has posed:
    The other arm bends in August's way and there's suddenly a beam shield there, tilting slightly to take the sword slashes in the least effective way. Seventeen gets his licks in, bashing up the head of the mecha, but knowing Staren the damn thing is probably covered with redundant sensors.

    "It's nice to be recognized, but helping people is more important! I told the Union that, I told the League that, I told the Concord that! I don't care about being the Hand, the Concord's given me a chance to help people more than ever before, and for that, I'm willing to ...tolerate some of the company they keep. And because of that chance, I want to do a good job as Hand! So what?!"

    "Just because the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, doesn't mean all roads paved with good intentions lead to Hell! That's a syllogistic fallacy!"

    The mecha moves its shield to block the flames, which wash over it all the same, melting armor but avoiding the worst of it. It widens the rent August tore in it earlier as the edges glow hot and melt away...

    ...And then the battlefield changes.

    The Star Hawk freezes for a moment, and Android 17's precise sensors see, among the horde of constructs that WAS waiting just out of vision in the snow... Staren, in his usual armor, standing idly like his attention is elsewhere. And also Staren, in his robot armor, looking around in alarm and confusion.

    Robo-Staren stops, and the mecha moves again, right arm swinging to try and punch Dietrich, left arm sweeping a beam sword across the ground over Riku and Seventeen! The constructs fighting Riku part just right to not get caught in it, and then missiles arc across the battlefield towards Dietrich and Seventeen, exploding nearby, and then several more constructs rush in, although there are still plenty hanging back with the Starens.

Priscilla has posed:
    "No good reason." The voice comes after him in the wake of the scythe. He can feel where the inner edge split through the house. It's far too sharp, almost possibly so, to leave such wrenching, ragged wounds. It's also far too heavy. It feels like clinging to a speeding car. Something from the side is coming. It'll split the tower into quarters. Collapse it completely. "Yet thou do what thou 'must'."

    "If only the world were so kind as to provide no reason to kill. Even the most gentle of places, with the kindest of inhabitants, who had done nothing to a single soul . . . even they . . ."

    It's the inside of the man's soul that takes over the land first, and not the falling scythe. Not the one who is Nameless. The one he could have been. Was. Should have been. The snow vanishes altogether, on this barren and blasted plane bereft of anything but instruments of death, stretching away into infinity, full of an infinite number of weapons. Fitting for either of them. It does reappear, however. Not the powdered white of the mountain slopes. An uncanny white shaded with strokes of pale blue, like the contrast of a brush, spreading into the surroundings. Glittering, glowing frost spreads its crystalline fingers out over the earth, slowly consuming meters at a time, burying it in a pristine layer of white. Diamond dust glitters in the air as it plunges in temperature once again. Glinting shards of blue. Little stabs of bloody pain.

    It marks the obvious center of where she is. Nameless feels his fingers wrap around the twisted whorl of unidentifiable mineral, like something organic. Even the replica makes his digits go numb, even as his nerves burn at the same time. He feels contact. Like sheets of kevlar over a stone column. Sliding feedback. Splitting. Dark red blood flicks out onto the snow. There's a gasp somewhere in the mist. A crunching footstep. Like completing an electrical circuit, touching metal to metal, deep, impenetrable darkness writhes and burns at his flesh. Black smoke surges up his arm for the effort. Then a wave of wind.

    He swings again, and feels the clash of metal on metal, jarring vibration and glassy cracks in the replica breaking to pieces. Another rips through something like thick fabric, coming away tipped in red. He can hear footsteps in the snowfall around him, moving not quite naturally --not tracing any line for long. The backside of a copy strikes with a blunt impact, something heavy sliding on the ice, then crumbles away. One more though, is at last caught expertly inside the hook, throwing off ghostly white sparks, and then wrenched flying from his hands.

    "There is no 'Work'. That is what I knoweth. I have seen it. I even believed them, at first. For so long. It took centuries of watching the good preying upon the innocent; the just disposing of the unloved, before I recognized it as its own evil --a true evil-- growing fatter and more depraved on its own justification. It bemoans its cruel necessity with one hand whilst it clutches its bloody axe in the other, carefully weighing the two as if one balanced out the other."

    "It is but a special privilege given unto damaged men, by which to act out their darkest madness."

    The snowfield explodes all around him. Not into him, but past him. A gale so swift and hard that it cuts lashes across him, tearing away the fog in every direction, spewing snow outwards and scattering it across the land. A revolving arc of death becomes a perfect circle in an instant, then crosses itself at a tilt, killing off the atmosphere around it. For a moment, he can't breathe, though it hardly matters. It's being thrown for a mile, or cut clean in half, that does.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Flamel takes shot after shot. The shield rocks back and forth, shuddering, fracturing all over. Panting and truing to focus, the Psychonaut tries to regain some composure. Some energy. Gotta muster more motivation in that damaged psyche. But he can do it! He's confident he can! Just needs to pull through more and more... Alright, focus. Who can he take down first! N'Raha looks to be the most damaged, Yang the most exhausted -- but he can't dig into Inga's yet, not with that psychological minefield.

    And not with that high-intensity hammerblow. It smashes through the shield, sending Flamel flying and flipping back. Heck! What can he do, what can he do...! His Plan Inga nearly found out before isn't going to work out unless he can get these people off his back! He moves as fast as he can to go for what may be a weaker link, one still more and more exhausted by all this. Pulling the bolt on his heavy rifle as if loading fresh thinking into it, he unloads an absolutely horrifyingly heavy barrage of strikes towards Yang, trying to take her off her feet and put her down under one of those weapons with a series of shots that feel draining, painful, and exhausting!

    For the others, he has to scatter a dangerous barrage of strikes, a series of continuous confusion micro-grenades that make it harder and harder to see him or target him during this sustained effort.

August Kohler has posed:
August is thrown back by the sweeping arm, doing barely any damage himself to Staren. Dietrich's armor is further crushed, as he slides backwards through the battlefield. The battlefield shifts.

It is a wasteland of weapons. August can work with this. He's armed, sure, but Nameless had...special weapons. August immediately diverts to grab a curved knife stuck in the ground, moving to check the blade against his finger, cutting deeply in an inch and regenerating as he stings the pain, and then grabbing a pistol at a further distance. Holding one in either hand, August starts charging the mecha. He leaps towards Dietrich in the middle.

August jumps onto Dietrich's hand, and gets /thrown/ upwards at the mecha. This is risky. This is insane. But, with these weapons...

First is the pistol. It's got a wooden grip, a cross on the side of it. As August goes flying, he begins firing at the cockpit. Holy energy forms from the muzzle, and rends into the mecha's armor, able to tear holes into it if it hits. And then comes the knife.

The knife, a curved blade, Indian in make, moves to slam straight into the cockpit. It should break as it impacts. It does not. It embeds itself into the machine, as August attempts to pull it downwards with his body, slicing down and perhaps tearing open the cockpit's armor.

And perhaps causing him to fall, too, but if he does, he'll just keep firing holy shots.

Sanary Rondel has posed:
That sword didn't quite cut it. Tempting as it is to toss that strangely gleaming blade with the hole in the middle aside, she's forced to hold onto it a bit longer as she gets a better look at her surrounding with Majima. "So this is... Shit, just how much power does that guy have?" She mutters with a pained groan as she glances over towards...

Actually, she's not sure where Nameless is. She can't worry about him too much for the time being, though, as Majima demands her immediate attention with that normal-ish looking knife. It's not the knife she's worried about, though, as he charges at her and forces on the back foot again, tossing that sword aside to block those hits with her arms instead since.. Well.

She really doesn't like sword. It's probably not the smartest idea, though, when Majima's feints work wonders in getting that knife into her gut. She tries to ignore it at first, but the searing ends up drawing uncomfortable fidgeting, then painful howling and thrashing once the capsaicin kicks in.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS WHY WOULD THIS BE IN HERE" She is not having a very good day. Even the healing magic only goes so far in numbing that vile awfulness, but the pain seems to hit a breaking point before the howling stops and Sanary becomes one with the pain. The searing. The utter suck.

Also, she found some axes. One, an with golden detailing and radiating with ancient power. The second, covered in blue scales that look like they might've been torn off a larger creature. Both, taller and wider than Sanary.

Of course she's going to hoist up both of them. She can't move very quickly wielding either one, but she's going for massive swings regardless. She's opting for a more 'attack everything in Majima's general direction' strategy this time, banking on her strength to move them fast enough to keep up with him!

Inga has posed:
Inga looks at the hammer in her hand. She says a quick prayer of gratitude then puts it down by her feet to take up her knife and cut a fresh wound into her arm. Flamel is trying to confuse them while he goes after Yang. She can't have that. Before her mind can become too clouded by his attacks she throws a blood ward up around herself to purge whatever curse he was trying to cast. She closes her eyes for a moment, and when they open again she's focused on him once more. "You'll just make her more angry, you know. You really don't want that," she says in regard to Yang, then flicks her knife toward Flamel, showering him with a mist of acidic blood.

Yang Xiao Long has posed:
    Yang's struck, over and over by those painful hits, knocking her back, pitching her completely off her feet and into a pile of weapons, the blades piercing her Aura and cutting flesh.

    That would normally put someone down and keep them down, the demoralization, the exhaustion and the pain. All that just pisses Yang off even more than before.

    She gets up, pulling herself up with obvious effort... exhausted, pushed to her limit, but mightily pissed off, she snaps. Because she spots a splash of yellow amongst the silver and grey, a few strands of hair that were pulled loose from Flamel's attack.

    "YOU..." her eyes close for a moment, then open with a full 'eye glow', yellow with red points where her irises would be, and a burning, white-hot pupil. "I'LL KILL YOU!" she bellows, charging forwards. Gauntlets unfold and as she falls on Flamel again, even in her exhausted state, she flails, punching, kicking, elbow strikes, headbutts. Anything to get at the Psychonaut.

Nameless (6999) has posed:
     "Of course it's evil."

     The Nameless Gunner says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, through gritted teeth. The cold of the scythe is pain, but pain is his lot in life. He's withstood much pain to create many weapons. This is just another moment. Another pain. Another thing to internalize and scar and make part of him.

     For however long it lasts.

     "You don't justify it."

     The scythe shatters. Another one appears in an instant. In this place, he has no such limits. He need not conceal. The other hand pulses, and blades push through the skin. It's horrible to look upon. He uses that arm to 'block' - as if such a thing can be done - the incoming scythe cut, the blade meeting another blade as it digs into the wrong-colored flesh. It stops him from being carved in half. Anywhere else and he might've been flung away; here, he just skids backwards, the Hill of Swords itself reinforcing him with blades to block his fall. The sky tears slightly, but it repairs itself moments later, as the arm seals up before it can start bleeding out. Wasting prana. Wasting power. Wasting energy. He can't stop until she's gone. Until they're gone. Until he takes as many as possible.

     "You don't pretend it's something worthy."

     "You take a life and you are Evil. You take that into yourself." The Nameless Gunner's scythe breaks again, an explosion of power fracturing around Priscilla. Another scythe appears in his hand, and another, and another. He's flinging them at her in rapid succession, one after the other, giving no time, no pause, no moment.

     "It's not necessary because it's just. It's not just because it's necessary. It's necessary..."

     "Because it's mathematics."

                                   LONG AGO                                  

'Senpai...'

     The purple-haired girl's smile was deranged. Her eyes were full of tears. Her skin pulsed with red. Her eyes glowed a deep and terrible light. Black force oozed off her, corrupting, evil liquid. Behind him, a blonde woman clad in black had fallen. Behind him, a priest lay bleeding on the ground.

     'Senpai, it hurts.'

     The red-haired youth took a step forward.

     'Sakura'

     The memory cracks, black tears flowing through the glass.

                  Unknown to peace, nor known to justice.                  

     The scythe is abandoned. No more use for it. In its place a club. A massive club, a heavy club, a club the size of himself or bigger, wielded in one hand like it's nothing. The other hand, the same, the same club, the same massive, monstrous, brute-force thing, swung around like it weighs nothing, like it means nothing, like he's skilled with it.

     "There isn't always another way."

     "THAT'S WHY!" The Nameless Gunner roars, the first real emoting he's ever done as the massive clubs swing, "THAT'S WHY YOU ACCEPT THAT YOU ARE EVIL! SO YOU NEVER LOSE SIGHT OF IT! SO YOU NEVER LOSE THAT MOMENT!"

     "THE MOMENT YOU CONVINCE YOURSELF THAT IT'S JUSTIFIED"

     "IS THE MOMENT YOU LOSE YOUR WAY!"

     The clubs come down hard, smashing into the hill of swords. "The choices you make! The lives you take! Kill ten for a hundred! Kill a hundred for a thousand! A thousand for a million! A million for a billion! "

     "They are always evil! There are no just choices! Not where life is concerned!"

     "Nothing can be saved unless everything Evil is dragged into Hell where it belongs!"

     "Do you even know the name of the man you're seeking vengeance for?!"

                    These hands no longer have purpose.                    

N'raha Tia has posed:
    Nope. Nope, Parsons is still up and he's still moving and now he's aiming more beatdowns at Yang. Not that Yang can't defend herself, but it's still the principle of the thing. Raha is the tank, tank wants aggro, wants fight, this magical grenade bullshit is not Fight. This is Not Fight at all.

    Raha once again dashes in at Flamel, and this time he reaches out to take a proper swipe at the Psychonaut.

    Bravura sweeps in another arc, looking to drop Parsons to his feet, sweep him low and knock him out of position.

Android 17 (6730) has posed:
The beam sweeps over Seventeen, the barrier attempting to negate what it could.  To its credit, if not for the barrier that blade would have torn through his body quite easily.  Instead, it leaves a burn mark across his skin and probably a scar to remember the fight.  Knocked to a knee, Seventeen stands up, those cold eyes still staring.

"Strawman, much?" He says, as the world changes.  The gears and weapons that lay around him.  The blasted wasteland underneath the weapons, and the torn sky.  It was like a void, nothing existed here but the weapons used to kill.  

It was disgusting.

Seventeen pushed forward, throwing himself at Staren after the beam washes over him, aiming to try and slam both feet into the side of the Starhawk, before flipping up and over the machine.  Both hands come up, and then point down like balls of light rain down, exploding around Staren as they fire.  

"Did you ever think that my life was changed by someone who thought like you?  Someone, who eventually fell to their own arrogance, their own vengeance, and their own self-belief in their own superiority?" Those eyes, don't reveal any emotion, his face betrays nothing.  He stares at Staren with that unnerving stare.  

"No, because the only thing you desire is people to tell you that you are right, and pat you on the head.  Eventually, you bow to one slightly unreasonable demand, and it becomes less so.  Eventually, you are taking two children and forcefully converting them to Cyborgs without their consent because of your pride."

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
"...I dunno, eh?!" Majima's bent backwards, now, knees bent as he screams. It's..not a manly scream. It's weirdly shrieky. "Eehehahah! Pity everyone else is just fuckin' talking, eh?!" Christmas, as near as Majima can tell, came exactly three weeks early. He just thrusts his hand into the pile of blades again. Sure, it's nicking him, but that's fine. Who cares? Who cares about any of that? There's practically everything he could dream of in here!

While he's digging, Sanary is at him again with the axe. But his adrenaline is too high. These meagre strikes--they don't matter. They cut into him, he bleeds, the jacket is in ribbons, but none of it matters. What matters is that this is it.
This is the world of ecstasy to which battle takes you. He was joking before. But now it feels real.
Now he's got a baseball bat. It's metal. Emblazoned with--something. It's hard to tell, because the bat itself is burning with blue fire. "...Shit. I ain't..I ain't seen this thing in decades." He looks over at Sanary, eye blazing. "...Arright. Don't ya dare fall over ta this one, girl!" He rushes forward, first planting his bat in the ground. He flips over it, but his feet also do not connect with the farmer. They land firmly on the ground, and his whole body wheels around again, solely as a vector to swing that bat 180 degrees around from ground to the ground Sanary Rondel is standing on. For her sake, she'd better not still be there.

Riku (6928) has posed:
    Staren yells his response again, and Riku rises as he sees the wave ove the world changing and overtaking the area around them. Weapons are everywhere, spreading about. Legendary blades, flourishing like weeds as he rises in the terrible field of endless despair that is this land.

    "You don't listen to people at all. You just do what you think is best. You really are a know-it-all jerk." The laser sweep comes again, this time, but this time Riku is prepared. He reaches out, and there is a hissing noise as there is a flickering of a blade in his hand, and the mecha-scale laserblade shears, fragmenting and scattering all around him to shred the constructs that surround him.

    When the light fades, Riku is seen standing there with a longsword of ancient, Norse make, all decked with gold and gleaming bright... But scorched, as if by a terrible flame, blackened marks running down the length.

    "You're even more annoying than Sora. You may as well just be slapping hands over your ears and yelling 'la la la, I'm not listening'. All you care about is how people see you. Time to put an end to it."

    At that, Riku launches forward, running up the arm of the mecha and flipping up to perch on top. The scorched blade is brought up, and in a single deadly motion, he plunges the sword down, attempting to drive it straight into the mech's left shoulder with a powerful blow, up to the point that maybe he'll even get mechfluid all over his arm. He'll simply leave it there, hit or miss.

Sanary Rondel has posed:
"Heh... Right? It's just posturing! White noise! Posturing!" The pain keeps her from realizing that she said the same thing twice, but it's also keeping her senses sharp as she continues that deadly dance with Majima. Although her moves aren't anywhere near as fast as his, she's also putting massive amounts of force into each swing to clear a path and to try and reach the construction worker.

And then he grabs a flaming baseball bat. That's probably not a great sign for her, but it's something worth keeping her eye open for. "You, too? I thought I lost this thing ages ago..." She nudges that blue scaled axe onto her shoulder as Majima charges forward, crouching slightly in preparation for getting whacked in the face again.

He doesn't go for her head, though. He goes for a confusing array of maneuvers that leave her unsure of when to strike, and it's only when she gives up and just brings the golden axe down at Majima that it finally makes contact, bashing right into her with a sickening crack of metal on bones.

"Kkh... Y-you know what? You'd do wonders with an axe, you know. And you don't... Sound like the type to get wrapped up in all that other bullshit." It's probably not a good thing that she's heaing so rapidly, all things considered. That knife is still stuck in there, there's probably bones that will need to be re-set heavily later, and the healer is all but running on fumes. Still, being at that range means she's close enough to start hacking away at Majima again, and if she can just get that axe firmly into him? She might still manage to pull this off and back up Nameless!

Majima can probably see that there's something off about Sanary's attack, though. The physical force and the skill are there, but she also looks a bit distracted. Disappointed, even, but not in him. It's something else.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Flamel manages to get a partial Shield up before all the acid gets on him, but much still winds up stinging him badly! "Ghhh! Well, it's hard to follow your ideals without making at least a few people angry!" He insists. "I'm going to stick to them! I've gotta make sure this doesn't turn into any kind of MAD situation -- you /know/ the kind of pain an assassination can cause for that sort of thing!"

    But Inga isn't wrong. Here comes pain and anger. Yang goes right for him. His eyes shoot wide open. "Nononono! Shit!" He swears! She lands on him, and... he's gone. Vanished. Adrenaline is a fickle thing; she's pushed it into that attack and it was either going to take Flamel's brains out of his delicate little skull or it wasn't, but it fades soon after. But invisibility isn't teleportation. Forcing him into the retreat means that N'Raha's sweep catches him off-guard, and sends him cartwheeling into the dirt. No more soft snow. Just bleak hills and endless weapons.

    Flamel doesn't like this place. The inside of The Nameless Gunner's mind. It's too painful in here.

    What next? What can he do? Does he have the strength for another of those barrages? He has to hope he does. With a desperate gasp, he focuses this time on N'Raha. "OKAY! I'LL FIGHT YOU!" He shouts, trying to give him the validation he's looking for. In the form of attention, in the form of words, and in the form of a painful barrage of swings, a dozen, no, two dozen telekinetic fists launched from Flamel's own, each laden down with the same sense of over-exhausted pain that Flamel is feeling right now.

    The blastwaves from each impact are enough to toss shattered terrain into the faces of the others nearby. But he can't focus on that. Yang has the corner of his eye. He's in a panic, noting the way her demeanor has shifted and understanding it quite deeply. He's definitely on the backfoot with this encounter.

N'raha Tia has posed:
    YES. YES THIS IS WHAT HE WANTED.

    N'raha senses the attack coming, feels the killing intent, feels all of it welling up on him the aggro, everything else. There's wild speeches and grandious posturing and endless Talking Talking Talking going on around him and he is blind to it all because the Fight is what matters right now. And the fight has come to Raha. He takes a breath, plants his feet and howls in... joy?

    Yes. Joy, as the blows rain down on him.

N'raha Tia has posed:
    Is there joy in this? This bloody duel? This awful clash of mind over matter? The beating of those physhic blows continues to rain down on N'raha, and there's a horrible energy that overtakes him. And in the middle? A chain whips out of the melee, and WRAPS itself around Flamel. Raha YANKS, and tries to drag the Psychonaut to him. Face to Face. Toe to Toe.

    A horrible red glow masks Raha's face under the visor of his helmet. A very VERY pleased Lion Rumble shakes the Miqo'te's armor.

Yang Xiao Long has posed:
    Yang missed.

    Yang keeps coming.

    The young Huntress picks up a weapon, in contradiction to her earlier statement, and hurls it at Flamel as she half-limps. Blood seeps down from cuts in her body, but she keeps coming. She'll keep coming as long as she can still stand and swing her fists.

    As Raha finally gets Flamel's attention, she comes in with another overhead haymaker. It's sloppy, a far cry from the tight, focussed combat style she had earlier, but likely no less deadly if it connects.

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
Majima and N'raha are not so different, it appears. The axe strikes barely convince Majima to dodge. He's swerving left, he's swerving right, but it's almost a dance. The glancing blows do not seem to affect him at all. "...We're both sick o' the bullshit, ain't we. This all coulda been solved with one fuckin' pinky. Noone wants that shit. Not really. This is what they fuckin' want. This is what I want. And right now, I'm havin' a whale of a time. Ain't ya?!" He cackles again, thrusting his arm wholesale into the pile of blades. A maniacal grin on his face, as this time, a more serious weapon comes out. A katana glowing with a purple flame. Majima's got much the same look. "Normally I ain't able to do much with a sword like this. But in a place like this? I'll fake it. Yeah. I remember this one. Ame no...some shit. Who cares. It's a sword."

The Mad Dog of Shimano is moving differently now. Fluid. Like a snake. He's weaving around, dancing somewhere between woozy and malicious intent, before he finally makes his move. He waits for the axe to swing, and--

It was a trick. He's bit the axe. He's literally bit the axe with his goddamn mouth, and he's holding onto it. He delivers a kick to that knife still sticking within Sanary, ripping the axe free. The Katana drops to the ground. He doesn't care about the katana. He never did. The axe is his prize now, and he swings it back around to demolish the healer.
HEAT ACTION: ESSENCE OF BLADE BITING

Inga has posed:
"MAD? What are you talking about?" The acronym is lost on her.

Inga narrows her eyes as Flamel turns his offensive attention toward Raha. "That wasn't a particularly good idea either, you know. I must warn, I do not See this ending well for you. You may wish to withdraw," she says, putting emphasis on 'see'.

Raha is getting what he wants, though. She'll let him do his thing and keep an eye on him, if Flamel chooses to ignore her warning.

Pieces of terrain (which is mostly weapons!) come flying her way, but her ward mostly guards her. There's a couple fresh cuts, but the ones from earlier are already starting to mend. Since there is still fresh blood however...Inga flicks another wave of acid-blood, but her attention is mostly on her teammates now, ready to heal them should they fall.

Staren has posed:
    August has a mecha-slaying knife! It's got a +9 against mecha! Which... seems to be enough to stop him from missing this time! The holy energy melts away the outer armor and partway into the canopy -- it looks like glass, but it's got to be some kind of high-tech transparent armor. Inside, Staren sits motionless at the controls... but then, that's normal, since he controls the mecha with his mind, right?

    The knife cuts into, but not quite through, the canopy. Still, that's got to be a hell of a structural weakness now if someone else can hit it hard enough...

    Seventeen flies up and rains destruction down upon the mecha. It dances, trying to avoid fireballs, but even explosions /near/ it add up, and in some places half-melted armor plating begins to fall off. Mentally, Staren sighs. They accuse him of not listening, and they don't listen themselves. And clearly Seventeen's got some baggage. It would be so easy to just dismiss them, to not see them as people with agency, but as slaves to their pasts... but that can't be the way forward. The people speaking up in his defense... they wouldn't be doing that, if they'd unpersoned /him/.

    Maybe there's no point in talking further right NOW, though.

    Riku hops atop him, all three of them now out of construct reach as the boy stabs deep into the left shoulder. It smokes and bleeds oil, exposing the metal 'bone'. A good hit to that would take that pesky shield arm out of comission...

    Staren, controlling the mecha as if it were his body, is covered in opponents. "Gah!" He lets out a cry of annoyance and tries to swipe August and Riku off with giant mecha hands, while some of those constructs carrying missiles suddenly launch a volley up at Seventeen!

Sanary Rondel has posed:
Sanary looks shocked when Majima speaks. "... You get it, too. All that bullshit... Things haven't changed at all since the war." She starts laughing, the flurry of attacks almost becoming like background noise to that understanding between them. That moment of clarity. "Everyone spouting crap about who's right and wrong, who's gotta do what to who... All because it makes 'em feel better about ignoring the shit they pull themselves!"

That katana won't stop her. It doesn't stop her nearly as well as the dog's bite, chomping down on the blade of that axe carved from scales of a blue wyvern. She tries digging it down into Majima's face, but that's just the opening he needs to slam that knife further in until it's literally buried in the healer's gut. She spits out a dangerous amount of blood, but she doesn't have time to mend it fully now.

She'll just have to stop the bleeding and hope it does't get into any internal organs too badly. The fight is all that matters, and it's the only thing keeping her conscious at the moment.

"I don't get this pinky business, though... That a thing where you're from?" It doesn't hurt to do a bit of learning while she's trying to chop someone up. Dropping that giant axe, she jerks back to grab a second one thatl ooks significantly less fancy. It's practically a giant bone shaped vaguely like an axe, but from something twice her size. Recognizing the shape, she draws it back as parts shift around, and it turns into a massive sword instead.

"... Don't really like these things, but eh." She'll improvise, opting to rear it back, then leap forward as she tries bringing it down on Majima whole-body while red energy pours out of the glowing bone blade!

She also spits out more blood, as a result of jumping forward with that freaking thing.

Priscilla has posed:
    "Mathematics."

    The voice floats to Nameless' ears as if a ghost were beathing into them. So close he could touch. It pronounces the word with disgust. "Mathematics hath nothing to do with evil nor necessity. Not once. It is called 'cruel calculus' because it is cruelty. To slay the few for the many; it is a necessity fabricated by humans. Even without a pretense of justice, it excuses death."

    "Nothing need be dragged to hell, nameless one. That is something only thou hath decided for thineself. A creation of thine own making; and yet thou hast surrendered all choice, thine very sense of reason, to it. Speaketh not to me of saving anything. Of doing anything. A man who Wants nothing shouldst stay silent."

    "Or else, tell me. What wouldst thou do if thou were not forced to kill by thine own hand? If thou had not surrendered thine own mind to that code. Never choosing. Slavishly obeying. If that house were thine home, and thou were still in that kitchen, what wouldst thou even prepare? What wouldst thou be eating? What book wouldst thou be reading?"

    The ultra giant club smashes down on the nameless hill of swords. The ground ruptures. The ice cracks. Frost disintegrates into ghostly blue-white fire. Shards of stone fly like arrows. Swords and axes, pikes and spears, tumble through the air. Several ricochet free of something in the air, creating biting streaks of crimson. A lance comes to a dead stop, the first foot of its tip disappearing, then hovers away. The metal screams, and snaps in half, then discarded.

    "I did not choose. I abided by goodness. By necessity. I raised mine hand against no one. I remained pure. A child. In the end, all I did was alloweth the lost and helpless, who came to me seeking salvation, to be chewed to pieces just as I. Whether they repented or raged, sought to help others or to strike back, or desired simply to do nothing at all, nothing changed either way."

    "So many lives, all so very different, unique in their own way, and they all simply . . . crumbled away. All in the same fashion. At the end of it, I saw that all I had done was erode more gradually than they. Just as thou hast, thou lost soul."

    He can feel it now. Those hits he took earlier. The healing isn't enough. The wounds have closed, but they've only sealed in something worse. An existential poisoning, racing not through his veins, but through the arcs and channels of his soul. It's not as if his limbs seize, his vision blurs, his heart slows, or his breathing labours; it's not like any wound or hindrance he's ever experienced. It is teeth. Teeth inside him. A hundred little formless things. A thousand bites. Dreadful, shapeless fangs, biting at his essence, tearing at his hardened body and spirit, sinking in and gripping. He is Hunted. They have him. She has him.

    The last of the dust and snow and rent metal falls away, clattering to ground like rainfall. The debris scatters, waved away all at once, with a great, scornful hand. Priscilla emerges from the middle of it, cut and bloodied and pierced, and towering over him. Almost twenty feet tall. Her shadow drowns him. Her eyes are cast into darkness, but glow with the cold yellow light of a predator. Her breath steams from her lips as an eerie blueish fog. Her hair is tangled and partially stained with blood. She exudes cold fury beyond description, from every angle of her body.

Priscilla has posed:
    Something is wrong. She's rattled. Furious. Wild. Yet, that fury isn't directed at him. Her eyes pierce right through him, her rage washing over him --past him. A thousand years of hate and grief is too much for any one man to deserve by himself. It's so much more than just him.

    "Gared." That wasn't the man's name. "Alicia." That's a woman's name. "Vilhem. Anrei. Cassia. Elise. Arstor. Orsten. Sabrin." She just keeps going. Names upon names upon names with each and every step. She advances on him. Twenty. Forty. Sixty. A hundred. "If because I killed for them, mine choices matter not, from now and ever on afterwards, then I shall simply follow whatever it is that this heart of mine wishes for. Regardless of what it is, not a single word from thine mouth wouldst change in the end, wouldst they?"

    Priscilla's scythe sweeps broadly over the ground. It misses Nameless completely, but impenetrable, streaming, almost liquid darkness, like ink blossoming in water, follows it. Like a great stroke of a brush across the ground. Gleaming, glowing, searing white ice races across the hill of swords. It spreads like a wildfire. It engulfs hundreds of weapons in an instant. Spears of ice erupt all around him and under him. A gale of slicing snowflakes blows over him. The ice burns and ruptures, unstable, exploding into magic so raw and primordial that it simply disintegrates flesh on contact. Where he cuts it, breaks it, even where his footprints scrape away the snow, the ice bleeds, oozing red from nowhere.

Android 17 (6730) has posed:
Seventeen was preparing for his next attack, he just had to wait...but then something surges in Staren.  Gritting his teeth, he might have mistimed this, but it's too late to back down now.  He dives towards Staren, right as the barrage flies at him.  The barrier comes to life, trying to protect him the best that it can.

An explosion rocks the entire area, as all of those rockets and Seventeen collide.  From the smoke, Seventeen still flies forward.  Body battered, bleeding, and looking like another direct hit like that would put him down.  

However, he was still coming.  

He aims his full force on top of Staren's cockpit, aiming both hands into it.  Energy builds up inside, but before that, his Android barrier effects around the two of them.  To contain the explosion in a small area, and make sure it tears through Staren more, at a cost to himself.  

Regardless of if he is successful or not, he goes flying from the attack, smacking into the ground and rolling over until he finally stops.  

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    N'Raha drags. Yang crashes with more and more crushing fists. Inga tries to sear his flesh from his bones. But Flamel seems to be... elsewhere, in a sense. His brain is overloading badly. Quite literally, in fact: The man's machine nature is a little more clear every second. His skull is beginning to light up under the flesh, and sparks emerge from his slicked-back, messed up hair. "I need to-- This is wrong. This-- This is wrong!" The world shudders strangely around him. His interaction with the mindscpae, his interaction with the psychic plane, shudders him like a piece of sheet metal being wobbled for its sound.

    Instead of suffering every strike, all of a sudden, he suffers none instead. Three huge telekinetic hands, three strikes blocked. One even pulls the chain clear of his body. "Will you just /let me do my plan?!/" He shouts, clenching both fists and slamming the ground, releasing the overloading stress-energy in his brain in a shockwave around him meant to catch all three combatants. It carries with it a palpable sense of everything Flamel has felt about the wrongness of this soul-world, and turning that psychic influence to weaponized force.

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
"Eh?" Majima says, taking a moment to breathe. "It was bullshit twenty years ago when everyone was losin' their shit over a fuckin' empty lot. It was bullshit last year when it was everyone losin' their shit over ten billion yen. Any time anyone tells ya they're fightin' for reasons that ain't the fuckin' thrill of it, they're full of SHIT!"

He stomps forward. Yeah. There's blood trickling down his forehead. And out of most of his limbs. Right now, though, the pain doesn't feel like pain. It feels like a reward. The warm trickling rivers feel like a soothing, cleansing rain.

He grins madly. He's still got his usual knife. It'll do. The demonfire dagger glints in the light of a world of a broken man. This is his paradise, and he's going to claim it. He's still burning purple, as he stalks towards Sanary.

"Yeah. You fuck up, you cut off a pinky. Shows respect. Shows you know what the fuck ya did wrong. And that's what noone 'round here seems to get." He says, "Nah, they all gotta argue for fuckin' hours about how justified it was. Could be out here! Doin' this! Wasted fuckin' weeks!"

Sanary leaps in with the blade. Majima brings up his knife. The tanto somehow blocks it, though the vibrations from the blow clearly rock through his body. He doesn't care. "...ya gotta just..rejoice in everything." He manages to finally push the axe out of the way, moving in. He's going for the throat. He's probably losing the knife, one way or the other.

August Kohler has posed:
August stabs into the cockpit. He's knocked back, slamming hard onto the ground, crushed. Bones break, puncture. They knit themselves back together violently, bone ripping from where it punctured and back into his body, blood cells multiplying. August slowly stands up, away from the mecha now. He needs to be stronger. He needs to be able to use this weapon to its fullest extent.

He drops the knife, and takes the pistol with both hands. Nameless always incants with it, right? Nameless...he had taught August many things. They were alike. They both wanted to be just, at least at one point - despised evil, despised monsters. They'd do whatever it took to slay it. Nameless was probably the only person in the Watch who August felt he could follow the path of.

The revolver is cocked, as August points it up at the glass canopy.

Though he wouldn't admit it to the others, August admired Nameless. He never let the others draw the line. And, too, neither would August, he wanted to believe. He would be strong. He would be the greatest leader the Watch ever had, able to destroy all obstacles in their path.

Trying to incant, August looks at the gun again, and guesses at its name. Wood...a cross. It couldn't, could it?

"Dogwood...Dogwood!" August shouted, but it did nothing. Not at first. And then, in frustration, he pointed it up one more time.

DOGWOOD

The revolver lights up, white, and then fires. A colossal beam emerges, holy in nature, a purifying blast. It scorches the air and burns it white hot, moving to impact straight into Staren's cockpit and try and purify it away. Try and melt him.

August was a lot like Nameless.

And that realization finally hit him, as the beam activated in his frustration. He was a lot like Nameless. The man giving his broken story. The man who could save nothing. The cold-blooded killer.

Nameless, the monster.

The gun drops to the ground. August's face is one of horror. What has he become?

Riku (6928) has posed:
The arguing and moral posturing seem to be over for the moment. This is both good and bad. Good because well, it is what it is. Bad because it means Staren is paying more attention to winning. The mecha hands come back for him. This time, he's ready for them, leaping off moments before impact. This time, the strike only clips him, sending him spinning as he falls, immediately lege-grabbing back onto the mecha and holding tight as he grimaces in pain. "You can give up anytime." He gasps, breathing heavily. Already, he almost feels tapped out. How can this thing be so /hard to kill/?

    As the mecha flails about, Riku reaches out and grabs at a passing blade, an absurdly long katana of some kind. It's completely impractical as a weapon, but the extreme length is what he needs right now. With a flip, he vaults up into the air, giving August and Android 17 their room as he vanishes into a Corridor.

    Finally, when the smoke clears, Riku drops down, blade-first, striking for that weakness in the cockpit and trying to simply stab through to try to get at the catty nougat center.

Inga has posed:
That's it, then. Flamel's psychic shockwave hits her hard. She cries out in pain as she crumples, clutching her head as all that stress and wrongness rushes through her mind. She shudders, casting a healing spell upon herself.

It's a few moments before she sits up, and she still looks rough. "What plan is that?" she asks, and once more she opens her Sight and tries to tease out the threads of his wyrd to see what it is he intends.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Under these circumstances, Flamel can little defend the idea.

    Inga will, of course, spend no less than several subjective hours deep within a somewhat dangerous underground bunker and laboratory, where strange men run tests on exotic memories and anomalous mental images, where figments of the imagination are ruthlessly categorized and stored to prevent their dangerous breach, and all kinds of things like that. But eventually she finds what she's looking for.

    What does she find? It's a secret.

N'raha Tia has posed:
    Flamel wants a moment to breath, wants a break in the action, wants some measure of respite. And Raha... just can't let that happen. He's here for a reason and there's blood in the water and it's probably his at this point.
    The Miqo'te howls as he barrels head first through that mental blast, the force of it jarring... something loose inside of him. That's going to hurt, he's going to feel that at some point here in the next... whenever it takes for Inga or whoever to roust him out of his Odinsrage. He grips at his ax and...

    Wait. There's words escaping him now. "I Admire Your Gift, Parsons." The words are... horribly calm and stilted, coming from a Raging Beast. "But Leave. Now."

    Raha punctuates that with a swing with the Flat Bit of Bravura, looking to wedge all of the wind out of Flamel's sails.

Staren has posed:
    Staren keeps trying to dodge, but their attacks strike true! Seventeen slams into the cockpit with everything he has. A spiderweb of cracks spreads over it.

    Dogwood shoots holy light at the heart of the machine. The glass starts to melt, then a hole forms and the glass sort of melts and curls away as the noble phantasm burns into Staren's armored flightsuit, through the layers of chest armor until tatters are all that cover the black nanoweave bodysuit Staren wears under it.

    Riku goes Sephiroth and just runs Staren through.

    The catboy jerks in his seat from the impact, but otherwise doesn't respond as his blood begins to pour out.

    And then Staren's trap set for Nameless, the bomb inside the cockpit, detonates, filling the cockpit with intense heat that strips electrons off of atoms!

    The constructs that have been waiting for targets to appear on the ground again rush August and Seventeen, aiming to just lay on a beatdown before they can recover!

Nameless (6999) has posed:
     "The world gave me that."

     The Nameless Gunner's voice is low and cold. It isn't pointed at her. It's pointed at him. "I sold my soul to the World itself. To be a weapon. To do the cruel calculus. To keep mankind alive."

     It isn't an excuse. It's a statement. A flat, simple statement. A truth. He gave up his sense of self to serve something higher because he had nothing left. He gave up his sense of reason to serve a cause that would torture him forever because he deserved to be tortured. The hatred in his voice is pointed squarel at himself. Priscilla's rage, Priscilla's hatred, is a cold bath. He's been hating himself for as long as he's existed. What's more hate piled atop that?

     The sense of being Hunted is a pulse against his vision. It's a reminder of those moments. Of the same clubs he's wielding smashing down upon him. Of the same weapons attacking him being dodged, being spent, being pointed at him. The sense of massive things bearing down on him that he cannot fight. That Emiya Shirou cannot fight. Something that cannot be defeated.

     Something the old Emiya Shirou could never accept.

     For a moment, he is that young man again. It's a surge of determination as the liquid darkness sweeps across the land. He's dodging ice spears as closely as he can, the blades cutting through skin as he fights with knitting himself together, as he fights the attack with his own willpower. It was the same, wasn't it? Beaten, bloodied, Emiya Shirou. Fighting something that can't be beaten.

     "Where would I be?" He asks in between the bloody ice, in between the spears, as his own blades crash against them from afar, smashing into the spears with all force, as much as can be mustered, as much as can be wielded.

     "Dead on the countertop, the gun in my hand."

Nameless (6999) has posed:
                                  LONG AGO                                  

     'Thank you...senpai'

     Blood on his hands. Her blood, spilling down those hands. A white blade, a black blade, rammed through her stomach, up through her chest. To make it fast. To make it quick. To make it hurt as little as possible.

     The red-haired youth falls to the ground. His eyes are gold. His eyes are broken. He is already gone. In that moment, he could no longer pray for redemption.

                  Unknown to peace, nor known to justice.                  

                                 RIGHT NOW                                  

     The black and white guns appear. Dozens of them. They're firing on all cylinders, bullets shrieking through the air to hold back as much as possible, to fight against the primordial explosions of magic and flesh-burning death. They're holding her off.

     "But let's pretend."

     The Gunner dives past another explosion, a massive sword emerging from the ground to shield him. It disintegrates, and another is pushed up, and another, and another. "Let's pretend that I deserve to smile. That the man who killed the one person he wanted to protect above all else deserves that happy moment."

     His hands are shaking as he fires around the sword. Not with a lack of aim - no, nothing can throw off his aim. But with hate. Hate for himself. A blade of ate pointed right at his chest.

     Another set of guns emerges, firing on more of the spears. Swords from all around the Hill are dislodging themselves to fly around and carve through ice. They're breaking, but so what? That's what they're for.

     "She loved Dim Sum."

     The memory is cracked, and flawed, but still there, still clutched tight to his chest. Parsons gets a burst of hate and anger. "Jiaozi dumplings."

     "Lotus leaf rice."

     The smile is getting distant. Her smile. The purple-haired girl standing in the kitchen, cutting vegetables. That girl who called him senpai. That girl who clutched him close and in tears told him what she was. That she had been violated. That she was impure. The weeping, shuddering of that frame.

     His arms around her.

     His fingers in her hair.

     The words 'I don't care.'

     The words 'I love you.'

     The smile on her face, choked through those tears.

     He reloads the gun. "I would be making her those things. She would be making tea. And then we would sit and do our homework."

     "And that would be our day."

     The hovering guns turn to black-and-white blades. The Gunner surges from behind his cover, lunging for Priscilla, slashing and carving with his own guns as the blades around him come down like rain.

     "I would still be there with SAKURA."

Inga has posed:
Inga breaks through. Time distorts. In the inner world of Flamel's mind she finds what it is she was looking for. It isn't some secret to defeat him. Not at all, really.

When she shakes her head, coming to, she tries to pull herself to her feet and limp toward Flamel. Unfortunately, Raha is very much still in a rage, and still trying to attack him. And it looks like Yang is out of the fight. "RAHA! Stop!" she says. "Both of you! Stop! Just..." she sighs heavily and looks to Flamel, shaking her head. "What are are trying to do...I see the kindness in it, but I don't think you should do it. You can't change him. You shouldn't change him. Not that way. Not even... in the end," she says, hoping that even just one person here would stop trying to draw blood and listen.

Sanary Rondel has posed:
That knife does not go in a good place. Even with Sanary dropping her axe to try and stop it with her hand, the knife goes right through both hand and neck, likely enough to put a person down for a long while if they weren't so good at cheating their way through terrible injuries that should have killed them.

Sanary does not have nearly enough dignity to stop cheating. Her movements slow down considerably as she gurgles incoherently for several moments, reaching up slowly to grip the handle of the knife. There's a sharp yank, a burst of green light, and then she drops in a bloody, bruised, and burnt mess.

She's still alive, though, and that's what matters! For now, anyway. "He... Heh. Okay, yeah, that's... I know when I'm beat." She laughs, coughs up another gout of blood, then holds a hand against her neck to pour some more healing magic into that. She doesn't look like she's quite capable of standing, but she does manage to glance around slowly at Majima and the ongoing battles all around them.

"Survival ain't a bad reason either, but... Yeah. I get it. The pinky thing. Much better than..." She gestures at her earpiece, then groans again while falling on her back. "All this shit. I'm just in it defend one of my guys, you know? But..."

Another groan. "... I'm getting too old for this shit."

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
Majima looks pretty spent, as well. Sure, he's not bleeding from one or two knives sticking out of him, but he's still roughly speaking, bleeding all over. He gets up, slowly, shaking his head. "...Heh." When did he fall over? ...It doesn't matter. "...I like ya. Glad ya didn't die there, eh? Ya would ruin my record o' never killin' a guy."

The adrenaline's gone. There's just the warm afterglow of having had a really, really good fight. He needed that. He absolutely needed that.

"...That was good. I liked that shit. I ain't sure what the hell this is all about, in the truth of it, but I got what the fuck I wanted outta it." He reaches forward with a gloved hand to help Sanary to her feet. "...Come on. Probably don't wanna fall asleep on a hill fulla swords, eh? Let's get ya into the fuckin' crane. Nishida can drive, ya know?"

Nishida has liked precisely nothing about anything that has happened this entire night. He's just atop the crane now, clinging to it. At some point, the driver's cab just completely filled with a pile of incredibly shitty swords, and he's completely done with this.

Rean Schwarzer has posed:
Rean doesn't respond, not at first.  Neither group is right. So he's just...here, in a failed attempt to fix things. Maybe it'd have been better if he took a page from that night Staren got assassinated and drew on all that rage he felt when someone he admired was on the verge of death. At least he wouldn't have to think.

The world changes, and Sarracenia suggests they just mess around since neither had any real reason to be here. He doesn't move. The bombs slam into him, and he just lays on the ground, in a crater, his hood blown off.

And then Nameless speaks.  He tells that story again, of that boy who sold his entire existence to save the world. And to a different boy who still lived trying to undo anything he did that he deemed a misdeed towards others, it was a cautionary tale.

"...Why punish yourself like that?" Rean says, missing the irony just a bit. This was beyond anything anyone deserved...even for killing someone he cared about to save her. Something that he may one day have to do to Mikoto himself if they could never change her contract. Becoming less of a person, until there's nothing left. Becoming nothing more than a tool.

Was that a path he possibly could wind up on? If one day, he lost everything?

He coughs a few times, and sits up. He looks around and there's another sword laying in the sand near him. He picks it up and looks it over, then gets gets up. Sarra's probably really concerned about him now.

"Sorry about that, Your Highness."  Rean says. He then runs at her with both swords out like a ninja or something like that, probably looking like a fool.

Riku (6928) has posed:
    Riku silently comments to himself as the blade managed to punch through the heavily reinforced cockpit that he honestly wasn't expecting that to work.

    Of course, then he finds out why. Staren is not the only one who can rig their stuff with bombs. He sees the blade punch through the cat-scientist only to be filled with light and heat, the burning detonation ripping through him, searing flesh and more as he is sent bursting away like a comet, trailing fire and blood to crash into the cracked wasteland. His blood joins the countless others that have soaked this place. Agony rolls through all of his senses, his muscles trembling. He doesn't want to look at himself. He can't look at himself.

    At the same time, he can't remain here. "This... isn't over." He whispers through parched, bloody lips. A Corridor opens beneath Riku, and he casts himself into the Darkness, fleeing from this place.

    He can't do any more here.

August Kohler has posed:
Robots tackle August, as he breaks the cockpit and it turns out to be a fake. August suspected it was...but Staren's robot's replacement is going to cost him a Ton Of Money, at least.

As the robots charge August, he forces them back with super strength, kicking the knife back into his hand, using it to try and ward them off. He doesn't attack. They, hopefully, won't attack him. It's a standoff. But he has no energy to truly fight.

He has no Willpower to truly fight. But he can't retreat. Can he?

Sanary Rondel has posed:
"I.. Do like being alive more than being dead, yeah." Sanary chuckels lightly at her own shitty joke, still groaning and audibly creaking from bones bending and rubbing where they shouldn't be. "Hard to believe you haven't killed a single" guy with the... Uh." She gestures at her neck, then at the knife /still/ buried in her gut.

One pull and a brief bout of screaming later, and the knife is no longer buried in her gut.

"It's... A weird situation, but it sounds like somethin' deeper than our fight. Pride and stuff, honor, all that... Thing." She gestures vaguely in the direction of Priscilla and Nameless, squinting lightly as she adjusts her earpiece to make sure she can still hear pieces of what's going on. After that, she takes Majima's hand to get up. "Wouldn't mind checking this place out, but... I dunno. There's some stuff that needs to get worked out with all of that first, and..."

Sanary trails off, an anxious frown crossing her face as she watches the ongoing fights. Part of her is tempted to rush back out there, but she bides her time for the time being to observe. She'll gladly take the offered seating in the crane, and Majima gets a bit of heaing magic directed his way to keep him from bleeding out for at least a few more hours.

He may still want to see a real healer about making sure things don't get stuck healed improperly, though. "Got a bad feeling about all of this, y'know?"

Priscilla has posed:
    Priscilla was right there.

    She was right there, just a fraction of a second ago.

    She was right there and then she wasn't. It doesn't make any sense. The snow hadn't moved. The air hadn't moved. Countless blades pound the grotesque landscape of snow and blood, skewering it a thousand times over, carpeting it with a fresh hill of abandoned swords, wasted in the Nameless Gunner's own mind. His weapons carve through the air, rending and cracking, but it still doesn't make any sense.

    A trump card?

    "And I supposeth, thou killed her, the few, to save the many."

    "What hast that brought thee?"

    Her voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. The heaviness of its quiet grief is a palpable weight on his shoulders as much as he can almost feel her shivering hate like a pressure against his face.

    "Not long ago, all I had wished for was to give unto everyone else who has so suffered at the hands of the Right, a place where they wouldst finally be safe. A when and a where, at last, happy, beyond the insatiable, pervasive bloodlust of the righteous. Where that girl wouldst no doubt be now. Not so long ago, that thought alone had felt faintly like salvation."

    "Even simply seeing an unfortunate, naive, hopelessly foolish boy, slowly becometh a man that stands for second chances, even when none were ever offered to him, had felt, somehow, as if such things could heal, little by little. As though people art more than deeds of once long ago."

    Then, the wind picks up. It rises as a creature disturbed, wavering from the ground, lifting up streamers of writhing snow. Cold, deep and unnatural, whips through the valleys and spires of ice, churning through the gaps, carrying blood in the wind, howling as if bereaved. The landscape starts to crumble again, rapidly becoming an inferno of magic. Not quite magic. Splinters and embers rain down upon him. The air freezes above him, and becomes an impenetrable cloud like ash. It's just as if he stands in front of an inferno --a raging fire claiming the remains of a city, scorching his lungs with smoke and his face with cinders-- but only ice and dark and emptiness.

    "But that bottomless desire to cross boundaries . . . to erase lines, to instill shock and fear, to make those thou deem evil feel hunted, unsafe, unwelcomed anywhere, stopping at nothing and for no one . . ."

    "I am already so very tired of it! I am already through with being barred for all eternity from feeling safe! I am sick to mine bones with how no line I couldst possibly draw is ever safe from people like thee! It seems that the entire world is indeed filled with nothing but endless variations of righteous madmen, each of thee inexorably compelled to tell me over and over, that I will never, ever, be allowed to be free of it! That the very world abhors that I shouldst ever simply be allowed anything! Thou hast never cared for the justice of it! All that any of thee hath ever cared about is whether or not I 'win' and nothing more!"

    "Men like thee exist without reason! They hath no purpose but to take! Always to take, and take! They scream blasphemy, and take from me! They scream evil, and take from me! They scream justice, and take from me! They scream retribution, and take from me! They scream freedom, and take from me!"

    "The few to save the many; worthless! Not once hath it ever caused ought but misery! I shall slay the many to save the few, as many times as I must!"

    Right behind him.

    "Thou shouldst hath done the same."

    Too late?

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Unfortunately, the impact cannot be entirely stopped. Flamel moves to intercept the strike, and he grits his teeth. He holds the flat of his hand out -- and it's joined with the flats of twelve, no, two dozen translucent hands, all of which shatter on impact. He's slammed backwards, skidding over the ground, his brain jarred, sparking now as much from psychic overload as it is from the constant barrage of visions and emotions that he's getting from being in this inside-out poisonsoul.

    Inga gets a quick response, one where Flamel's head starts clearly sparking and shuddering as he suffers the effects of the visions of pain and hatred. "Nnnnh... Dammit. Look, I know I can't change this, fine. Yes. It won't change substance, but that's not how this works. When you take responsibility for something, it's not about changing the substance." He says, his voice taking on a rather insistent edge. "I gotta make sure I do this right, if I'm going to have been part of this! It doesn't need to change anyone, it doesn't need to change anything, but it needs to be done because I'm responsible for some of this. Psychonauts have /ways/ we deal with these things."

Sarracenia has posed:
     She fires those missiles, and Rean just...gets hit? It didn't seem like he even tried to move, really. She lowers the launcher and waits. And waits. And...Rean just lies there. After a minute or two, Sarracenia does get worried and moves toward him. "Hey Rean! You didn't get actually hurt did you? Mikoto would...I mean what do I care? It is not as if we know each other because I am Crimson Rose not this Sarracenia person!"

     Rean finally gets up, and picks up a nearby sword before rushing at her. Sarracenia moves to parry the attack with her kanabo, but only manages to catch one of them. The other slices at her arm and causes her to yelp before twirling away. He apologizes, and she just smirks lightly. "It is alright. You seem like you are having a hard time today." she says, then looks toward where Priscilla and Nameless are fighting. "...I wonder if you have to be some ancient being to have suffered like they have?" she asks Rean, then looks at Rean again before looking around. A few of her faction have had to withdraw already, and Sanary is...getting chummy with her opponent as well. Sarracenia blinks, then laughs a bit and shakes her head lightly. "This whole thing is ridiculous..." she says quietly to no one in particular.

     She doesn't attack Rean again for a few moments, listening to what she can hear of Priscilla's and Nameless's battle conversation. It is a sad conversation, and a subject which Sarracenia feels like she has no experience with at all. She hasn't really had friends to lose, she hasn't really been barred from things. She has been ostracized (as much in her mind as anything), but not persecuted. And she definitely hasn't had to kill someone she loved.

     She takes a deep breath, a bit teary eyed, and lets it out slowly. And she wonders about Rean and Mikoto as well. There seem to be possible parallels there. "...you won't turn out like him, right?" she asks, them pauses a moment. "No, I do not believe so. If you started down that path, I am sure Mikoto would do something. And if she did not, I would." she says with a smile.

     That smile turns to a smirk. "But, I hope you will not mind if we continue! I doubt we will get a chance like this again, to test each other's strength!" She charges toward Rean and spins once to bring that big club around, aimed at his side.

Nameless (6999) has posed:
     "I killed her to save her."

                                  LONG AGO                                  

     That girl died with a smile on her face. She fell to the ground with a smile on her face. The pain of her life was finally over. The pain of her burdens were finally over. The blood on his hands, her burdens, her pains, would be his to carry now. The blood on his hands.

     The blood on his face. Smeared on his face as he cried into his hands. As he wept the final tears those broken eyes would ever weep. Mingled with her blood. Mingled with that blood that he loved so much.

                                 RIGHT NOW                                  

     The blade goes into his back.

     It goes in deep. It goes in fierce. It digs into his chest, so close to his Spirit Core it's almost a joke that it doesn't pierce through. It's so close.

     But that inch is all the difference.

     He grabs onto it with his torso. His body knits closed around it, rapidly. His gun flips backwards, his golden eyes locking onto hers. "The many to save the few."

     "Until no one is left but the ones you choose."

     "Until no one is left but the ones you deem worthy."

     "Until nothing is left but the precious eggs you hold in your hands."

     "Until the whole world grinds to a halt for you and you alone, and you stand on a hill of swords, with everything dead around you to save everything else."

     His lips curl back in a smile. "In the end, we're the same. From different sides. Everything you care about will fall apart, too."

     "I am the bone of my sword."

     Gold streaks across his arms and back. A broken pot in the middle of the hill of swords. With enormous effort, in the middle of his run, he shoves the silver gun into the red one.

     "Rusted my body, dark runs my blood. A thousand blades wasted without purpose."

     The gold light burns across him, and then collapses into a single point. A bullet. A bullet so horrible, so foul, that even looking at it hurts. A bullet holding more than death.

     "Unknown to peace
    Nor known to justice."

     The bullet slots into the gun.

     "My life, my name, my will, all spent bullets."

     The gun rises up to press against Priscilla's chest.

     "So as I pray."

     "Unlimited Lost Works."

     The world cracks.

     The hill of swords rusts.

     The sky turns a foul and horrible black. The gears stop turning, lashed down by rusted chains. Every sword, every blade, every weapon in the land turns to rust as the hammer meets the bullet, as the bullet discharges.

     It is a horrible thing. It is that hill of swords in a single bullet. It is a hill of swords condensed into a single shot, to burst forth from its target and tear it asunder from the inside with the agony of countless self-tortures, of countless agonies, of countless pains.

     The hill of swords around them begins to crumble. The sky falls like puzzle pieces. The ground splits like an earthquake. The world is coming apart.

     The hill of swords inside...?

N'raha Tia has posed:
    Flamel goes down and Raha snarls. He's not getting up. He's not fighting. Why isn't he fighting? He literally just told him to stop fighting but the Beast is fickle and... and this isn't how things are supposed to go. The horrible redness behind Raha's visor flickers and deepens... and then fades... and goes right back. There's a struggle going on here. The utter awfulness of what's going on around him is finally sinking into Raha's brain and-

    No. NO WE FIGHT. The Beast takes control again, and Raha stalks forward, ax raised... as the world shudders again. But still he staggers forward. Blood is dripping from the tassets of his armor, and still he moves forward. He's not dead yet. "...FIGHT ME."

August Kohler has posed:
August's knife rusts away. August steps back, drawing his standard revolver, but his hands are shaking. The ground is splitting. The world is changing.

This is the full power of the man known as the Nameless Gunner. His true name...will forever be a mystery. August is shaking. But he won't allow those drones to knock him unconscious. To take him away.

Inga has posed:
Inga gets between Raha and Flamel. "Please don't make me do it. This is over. Just let him go," she pleads with Raha, reaching out to put her hands on his shoulders, looking to Flamel. "I suggest you go, too. This isn't a good place for you. It isn't a good place for any of us."

Then the strange inner world starts to crumble. Inga grabs onto Raha as if afraid she's going to fall.

Android 17 (6730) has posed:
Staren comes at Seventeen again, the two clash, even as Riku and August collapse to their knees.  However, this time, despite being down in the snow at the end of his attack, he flips up and over the strike aimed at his prone form, and attempts to kick off of Staren.  

Even as Staren swings, Seventeen moves around trying to keep up.  The field around them collapses, but he still has to keep up the pressure should they need to work longer here.  Seventeen is nearly beyond his limits, and beyond words right now.  

Pushing himself to the brink, he tries push his speed as fast as he can go.  Power surges through his body as he just appears to be a flickering series of images, trying to confuse and throw Staren off.  This is until he comes right towards the cockpit of the Starhawk.

Enough force behind the punch to blast out of the back of the mech, should he connect, blowing snow away for miles.  Drained, tired, and nearly on his last legs, he resumes a fighting stance.  Putting on airs to keep going.  

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Flamel jams the bolt back on his rifle, his eyes blazing beneath the sunglasses. They're cracked badly, badly enough that he discards them. "Get out of my way. I've got minutes at most, he's-- Ghhhh.... Nnnnnnhhhhhhhh!" Flamel's head is sparking badly. He can't hold it in. The visions, the sheer, unfiltered pain he can feel of someone doing what they're doing now -- shaping a piece of their mind and soul into a weapon.

    "No mind is a good place to be." He says, speaking quite articulately for someone in such deep pain. "It's why we have friends. It's why we make connections. Because anywhere in the world is better than being inside the mind. It's awful. Nightmares, personal demons, intrusive thoughts, self-destructive habits, anxieties, Psychohazards... it's a mess. It's my job to be here. Here, now, doing what I'm doing. I'm going to take responsibility for what's happening. And I won't fix it. But I won't miss a chance to do what a Psychonaut is trained to do."

    He pulls the bolt all the way back and ejects a heavy psitanium shell, then scowls and advances on N'Raha, gun blazing with rapid-fire blasts. He WILL get to Nameless. He WILL execute his plan. He won't let this catman get in his way.

N'raha Tia has posed:
    Out of everything else tonight, had one goal. To bloody the nose of the Concord. To make a mark, a dent in this plan, this... whatever it was going on out here.
    But that psitanium round is just too much, and even more so as... Raha forces Inga out of the way of the shot, turning into the blast and takes it right in the side. Tankbuster. The round makes it through the last of Raha's aether, the last of his armor, the last of his rage and...

    The lights in Raha's visor go out, and he crumples to the mud and dirt and lack of swords.

Inga has posed:
"I SAID STOP!" Inga screams as Flamel attacks Raha again. She turns on Flamel and tries to plunge the little knife she usually uses for her blood magic into his neck.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Flamel's eyes flare brightly. Everything is collapsing ahead of him, but the man strides calmly, loading a fresh magazine and pulling the bolt back dramatically again. When she plunges the knife towards his neck, the light in his eyes surges and another dozen psychic hands latch onto Inga's arm. From fingers to shoulder, they lock all throughout her arm. "Get out of my way, Inga. This is serious. This is the end, and fighting me won't change that. There's only one thing we can change, and that's the things we take responsibility for. I'm taking responsibility for this." He won't stop.

    He has to do this. He has to execute the plan.

    He twists her arm as ruthlessly as his rather non-lethal mind can manage, trying to make sure she doesn't come at him with the blade again... But trying to make sure she has enough strength left to grab N'Raha, and perhaps even Yang too, and evade danger. Just enough strength. And if that works, he intends to approach the place where Priscilla and The Nameless Gunner are ending their feud once and for all. He has a Plan to follow.

Staren has posed:
    The golems trying to give Android 17 a beatdown aren't very fast -- he can easily outrun and outfly them.

    With its cockpit blown out and Staren not expecting more attacks on it, the Star Hawk is a sitting duck. Seventeen punches right through it, tearing out the nuclear reactor!

    Actual Staren winces behind his visor. The giant robot begins to fall, but suddenly runes glow across its form and it halts, before slowly standing up again and lumbering away. It is in bad shape, and would be even if Staren HADN'T set off a bomb in the cockpit, but it's in enough of one piece for magic to move. The golems, humanoids of metal and concrete wielding kanobos, leave a few to keep August busy and keep chasing after Seventeen, while the two Starens and the mix of golems, robots, and giant clockwork spiders around them move to run...

    But... run WHERE, exactly? They're trapped in this world, and it's falling apart! Right now, Staren wants to get away from Seventeen, though, before losing even MORE resources. This went better than he hoped, and he'd really like to quit while he's ahead!

Rean Schwarzer has posed:
Rean looks towards Priscilla and Nameless. "...Maybe." He's not sure but...the Multiverse was full of possibilities for everything, even tragedy.

"...I..." He's not sure of this either. He didn't know what the future might hold for him. But he smiles when Sarracenia says that she and Mikoto would stop him if he went down that path. "...Yeah." Not just them but his classmates, the other Paladins, and all the others he's met over the last few months. At least, for now, he has people who are willing to guide him.  

Then the soulscape starts to collapse. After some discussion, Rean grabs Sarracenia's wrist without thinking and starts to pull her towards the portal. "Good enough! Let's go!"

Inga has posed:
He grabs her and twists her arm easily. She grits her teeth against the pain, but there's nothing she can do. "Go! Just go!" she yells, trying to twist out of his grip.

When he lets her go, she uses her knife again, this time on herself, to get the blood needed to cast her healing magic on Raha. She crouches by him, pumping as much healing into him as she can. "If he dies, gods help you," she says to Flamel, turning away from him to focus on Raha. Yang will need healing as well. She's nearly spent herself, but she's won't stop until they are on the mend.

Riku (6928) has posed:
People are panicking about exit plans. Riku thought they had this covered. THERE WAS A PLAN, HE THOUGHT. Sarracenia left her airship at home too. Plan B is out.

And so there's Plan C. Which means he has to do this. A long distance away, a nearly-unconscious Riku holds up a hand and opens the Corridor of Darkness.

    On the battlefield, a black portal opens. He gave his directions. The others can escape through it if they don't have anothe way. But he can't guide them.

Go directly forward, he said. Do not deviate. He is going to be /very/ put out if he has to try to fish you people out of the Darkness.

Move.

Priscilla has posed:
    "Silence. Priscilla only breathes, yet it crackles and groans all the same. "Thou 'killed her to' nothing. Thou killed her and now she is dead. Her blood on thine hands, over and over and over. That is all there is."

    The seconds before she moves. The space in which the Nameless Gunner is surrounded, on all sides, by a thousand potential blades, and none at all. Where more and more teeth sink into his being by the minute. Snaring his flesh. Piercing his veins. Stabbing into him like white hot knives; shards of glass; hellish biting flies; cold black embers.

    "A world of only those I chooseth . . . A world in which there art no men who feel the need to kill. In which there art none who speaketh of justice or evil. Whence none art cornered and trodden down and art robbed of their lives. A world of people who art precious to me, and abide by me, and liveth their lives in peace. A Cold, and Dark, and Very Gentle Place."

    "I see nothing wrong with such. Neither shouldst thee. There is no reason for thee, save that with hearts calloused and scarred with necessity, thou cannot understand --will not understand that of another. Imagining up cruelty to reject and drive away empathy. Dreaming evils into existence to cast out harmony. Thou art indeed, exactly the type of men who deserveth not to exist in any world of mine."

    The blade flashes. It sinks in. It's not gigantic anymore, but keen and wicked and it slips between his ribs. A Deep, uncanny, unknowable, unbearable darkness blooms from it. Thousands of jaws clench taut around every fibre of his being, eagerly waiting. Hunting hounds. A hunter without form or identity, save hers.

    "If thou shalt respect no line not to cross, then I shall cease attempting to draw them. If thou cannot alloweth me even one place where that which I care for is safe from thee, then I shall see that nothing that thou care for shall ever be safe either. Must I be forced to slaughter thine own families before thou shalt begin to treat mine with the barest compassion?"

    He isn't dead. The origin bullet --the thing that contains everything he is, embodied in that Noble Phantasm-- shoots into Priscilla at point blank. The flash of the muzzle is absorbed with a dull thump and a jump of her body, barely any taller than he, but nothing could possibly contain what spills out of it. Transfixed on his blade as he is on hers, swords, spears, knives, daggers, lances, arrows, blades of every single shape and size, gathered throughout the countless pointless battles he has started and ended, erupt from Priscilla's body. Ivory skin splits, crimson blood drenches the ground around her feet, metal skewers her from within, cruelly thrust out in every direction. Through her heart. Through her lungs.

    Priscilla breathes out, and the fog streaks across the Gunner's face. It isn't cold or even magic, but raw, spiritual essence. The stuff of souls. Blood drips from her lips. She wipes it away.

    "So be it. Sharpen thine swords and be glad as it happens." She twists the blade. A million thirsting fangs clench. His blood rebels. His magical circuits turn on him. His spiritual core turns to commit suicide.

    "If we art the same, then the reason that thou hast died here is obvious. Thine goal was impossible from the start. He who doth nothing but kill cannot lessen evil. He can only add to it. Such is the way that broken men leave the world."

    Priscilla blinks. Her Lifehunt ability fires.

Priscilla has posed:
    The shapeless, timeless, formless monster that is the Dark in Priscilla's grief and resentment, isolation and always burning hatred, tears the spiritual body to ribbons.

    Blood becomes blades, slicing and spearing outwards in flashing ribbons of murderous scarlet, painting the ground with every last ounce. Flash frostbite takes all the extremities at once. Magic seethes and rampages within, gushing from the spiritual core. The body is torn apart by am impossible wind of rending teeth and horrific, transcendental violence, insatiable in their grieving brutality.

    It's like a thousand years of the desire to hate and to avenge and to kill and kill, aimed at all the world, manifested all at once, for an instant, in one person.

Staren has posed:
    The PORTAL OF DARKNESS is the way out. Staren just has to hope that everyone will be too busy escaping to fight further. The golems break away from August and Seventeen to run for the portal. The Star Hawk picks up its reactor and lumbers portalways. And Staren and his remaining decoy flee towards the portal as well, surrounded by more constructs. Pay no attention to the catboy behind the curtain!

    Staren doesn't think for a moment that Priscilla might be in danger. The First can take care of herself, and if she'd needed help, she'd have asked.

Majima Goro (7055) has posed:
Nishida is not a brave man.
He tries to be. Majima is his idol. It's why he was in the Majima Family, and why he stuck around for Majima Construction. The fact of the matter is, he's never going to get to be the hero.

Even now, as he's finally brushed most of the swords out of the driver cab, he's not really a hero. Even as he gets into the driver cab, dropping the weight of the wrecking ball, and pushing the vehicle forward, he's not at all a saviour.

Majima for his part grabs on. Nishida takes a perilous route through the collapsing world for anyone else who needs out with him. Sure, it's horrifying, and sure, he's sweating and ...frankly, worse things may have happened.

And, sure, he's about to drive everyone trying to escape directly through a nightmare dimension he's never been to and know anything about.

...But he can do this. He's sure. Everyone is depending on ol' Nishida-san.

Sarracenia has posed:
     Sarracenia is getting pretty panicked again when Rean grabs her wrist. She blinks in surprise before getting tugged along, and follows after him without attempting to break his grip. Until she catches some radio chatter and looks toward Inga and those with her. "Hey wait, Rean! We have to help them!" she says, and grabs -his- hand this time and pulls him toward N'Raha and Yang.

     Once there, she pulls out some red mushrooms. "Here!" She hands one to Rean and to Inga. "Just squeeze it!" she says, then moves to pick up Yang. She may not look it, but Sarracenia is still quite strong. Carrying one person isn't that hard, and the mushrooms would give Rean and Inga a bit of extra strength as well if they need it. "Hurry!!" she shouts, and then starts jogging as fast as she can toward the dark corridor. "Go straight through! Do -not- try to go anywhere but straight ahead!" she warns anyone within earshot.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Parsons is immediately at the side of Nameless the moment the Lifehunt hits. He is not, in any way, interfering a moment before that. His telekinetic grip moves to where he suspects the man might fall or already have fallen, if this is the true end of his life, and offers to keep him in a state of repose. Parsons only needs a few minutes -- maybe just a few seconds -- to do what he wants to do. Whatever happens, as long as he has that moment un-interfered, he will do something.

    "Sorry, ma'am." He speaks up, to Priscilla. "I'm not going to stop you, but I had a part in this, and he's... This soul of his was speaking to me. For a while. Until he did all this to it. There's one last thing I need to do." He turns to look up to her.

    "If you want, you can join me."

    He'll take Priscilla if she chooses to come along. If she doesn't, he'll do it alone. But while this place falls apart, there's one last thing that needs doing. He projects himself, astrally, into mind...

Priscilla has posed:
    In that exact moment, Priscilla looks at Parsons. There is no yellow glow --that perversion of sunlit gold. A tint of green. That look is incalculably different, gazing upon the man who'd never really hurt anyone --with whom she'd averted the Calamity --who'd seen inside her head --the one she'd called too good for the Watch.

    "Fine." she says. Not ''Fine'. 'Fine'.

Nameless (6999) has posed:
     The World Inside His Head Is Twisted.

     It's broken. Cracked. Countless, thousands of cracks. A broken, shattered ebony mirror. Everything here is broken, glued together with gold, a fragmented pot in a thousand pieces. The memories are hazy. Cloudy. Broken mirrors. Broken fragments. Broken faces. Even the girl, the purple-haired girl, the girl he obviously loved so much, is assembled from broken glass and hazy memories.

     The only thing that's clear are the deaths.

     The hundreds. The thousands. The millions. Over and over and over and over. Called back over and over and over. Tortured, over, and over, and over, and over, and over. And all of it circles around that single drain. That broken memory, cracked glass, bleeding black onto the floor and the ceiling and the walls. Oozing spiritual pus.

     Littered with bullet casings. Littered with rusted swords. With broken blades.

     With corpses.

     All of the corpses are the same person.

     A red-haired young man.

     All of the blades are the same.

     Black and white, covered in blood.

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    Inside, Flamel intends to take advantage of something. Generally, it is impossible to change the entirety of someone's life memories. This is because it is peacefully but absolutely lethal, or at least induces severe disability. However, neither of those concerns are the case for someone who is dying. For someone who is dying, they can die with peaceful memories, or they can die with terrible memories. Flamel has taken part in enabling this man's death. He will not go against Priscilla, the First of the Concord, or anything like that. But if this man must die, Parsons thinks, it's worth it to have him die with peaceful memories.

    Here are the broken fragments of the memories. Here, each, they are rooted in the most important death that started this: The death of a girl in the past. Flamel cannot change every memory. But if he can change the root of all the worst decisions, he can perhaps adjust the track in some way. He can perhaps make what Nameless became something better.

    Is there some way, in the memories, some decision that could have been made such that the girl did not have to die? Is there some way, in the memories, some decision that could have been made after, which would have shortened the torture? Flamel seeks it all out, and tries what he can. What would change the path of his life? What one thing would he have done differently, if he could?

    Flamel Parsons performs the Sigmund Procedure -- known to others as Au Clair de la Lune. He wants the man to die in peace, if he must die. What decision would he have made to allow that? It is that which Flamel will seek and change. Perhaps his own mind can do the rest, as it slips into the void.

Nameless (6999) has posed:
     No.

     Flamel can see it in the broken mirror. The moment she died, she was already gone. It was a kindness. It was a kindness. It was a soft-hearted kindness, a final act of kindness from a broken man. He, who had discarded his ideals to save her. He, who had failed in even that. All he could do was grant the wish in her eyes.

     There's nowhere that path leads but pain.

     But that thank you...that smile on her face.

     That, he can touch. He can make clearer. He can make....better. He can make that smile, that thank you, that moment of kindness, more poignant. More powerful. He can let the man remember, for a brief, disappearing moment, that that act was not a failure, but a kindness.

     Outside, the last of the Blade Works falls apart. The last of another man's soul falls away, leaving Ketchikan, the roofless watchtower, the avalanche, and the biting, freezing snow.

     The Nameless Gunner disintegrates into gold sparkles.

     ...a detonator falls to the ground.

     It's been cut.

     It wasn't cut by the Lifehunt Scythe.

     Ketchikan Watchtower, littered with explosives, with traps, does not go off.

     It doesn't go off.

     He had wired it to his spirit core.

     He had planned to take them with him in his death.

     So...

     ...at the last...

     A gift from that girl, maybe. A gift from that smile.

     Or just a choice made to try and end his life without more death.

August Kohler has posed:
August is struggling against the robots. As he does so, he looks out to that hill, to the fight between Priscilla and Nameless. And he sees Nameless's last stand.

His final bullet, that tore apart the land, and it can't even kill her. Her scythe, her Lifehunt, rips him to ribbons. The man he thought he admired, the man who he realizes is disgusting, who made him realize he was becoming disgusting, is dead. Disintegrated. Yet, didn't even keep his final promise.

August breaks down. His decision is finally made. 99 percent becomes 100. His decision is made.

August begins moving for Sanary. As the world falls apart, August starts moving to join up with her, and escape. He knows what he has to do. He's shaking.

He's done.

Sanary Rondel has posed:
Sanary clenches her teeth as she watches that duel between the towering dragon and the enigmatic gunner come to a close, her fingers digging deep enough to draw blood from her own hands. She reaches up to rub her forehead and adjust her eyepatch, then glances over at Majima and Nishida. "I'll.. Catch up later. Go."

Without further warning, she dives off the crane, then breaks into a sprint. She knows she saw him close to... There. She slows down when she sees Priscilla and Flamel gathered by Nameless, and her hand bleeds a little more. Her lip bleeds from biting down on it. She can feel her blood starting to boil again, not knowing what they're doing or about what's going through the Nameless gunner's final moments.

She doesn't have enough energy to do much beyond see, but just one little burst. Just a little bit would be enough to trigger her eye. Just that could be enough to...

She sees August, and her jaw clenches tighter. She listens. Sanary takes a deep breath, wipes her hand off, then moves to join August.

He's going to need the extra legs to get out of there.

Riku (6928) has posed:
The others, meanwhile, escape through the path of Darkness. To flee the incipient collaps into the void, the annihilation that awaits the violent disassembly of a Reality Marble, a flight through a place that bears little resemblance to the world of light and the reality that they know. Paths pass to either side, a tangle that sweeps through the void. The path is thin.

    You feel like you are being watched.

    Sometimes, the path looks like it wants sweep one direction or the other. Sometimes, it looks like it vanishes completely. But true to Riku's instructions, as long as they go directly forward without fail, they eventually emerge on the other side....

    A couple miles away. On the roof of a convenience store. Riku is lying to one side, blood splattered around him as he keeps the path open until the last person is out. He can't even tell it wasn't even necessary.

Priscilla has posed:
    The blades stuck in Priscilla disintegrate along the the man who had wielded them. Embodied them. Become them. She shouldn't be alive. She *isn't* alive. To all senses, she has no heartbeat, no pulse, no breathing, and her body temperature is the same as the frozen rocks. She coughs into her hand, wipes one last smear of blood from her lips, and then walks through the snow, barefoot, stabbed in a hundred places. Her dress is nearly torn to pieces. Not her regal dress, as Queen of Anor Londo and Hand of the Concord. The thick, furry, simple white one. The one she'd started with.

    She crouches down, dusts the snow off the detonator, and picks it up. Examining it in her hands for a few, long seconds, her slit pupils contract and dilate again, the tip of her tail twitching the drifts by her feet.

    Straightening up, she puts her hand on Flamel's shoulder, though only he can feel its surprising gentleness, and then, wordlessly, walks past him.

    She flicks her scythe. It spills a wide, perfect circle of blood around her. Rather than a single word about him, she chooses not to mention his death, or his last moments, at all. Instead, she looks to the smouldering battle still sluggishly playing out, cracking gunfire, burning trees, flying fists and blades, and she says-

    "Run."

Staren has posed:
    A convenience store probably wasn't made to bear the weight of a giant robot so uh, whoops! It's okay, the Concord will pay for it.

    On the bright side, Staren (the robot one) sees Riku and immediately rushes to apply nanobandages and healing potions, because dude, the guy just HELPED him, even after everything.

    But Staren doesn't stick around or assume this will gain him any further good will. It's time to vamoose!

Flamel Parsons (1094) has posed:
    And Flamel stands from his kneeling position, looking rejuvinated. He has a soft smile on his face. This was an unfortunate, necessary evil for him. But he took responsibility for it. It was bad, and he didn't like it, but he won't regret it. He did his best, and for what little it was worth even at the end, he could make things better. Even the Nameless one whose name he never got to learn, even in his mind, could have just a little more peace.

    Until he notices the detonator. Wait, he just defused a bomb?! Holy shit! He actually jumps a little, panting in fear and relief. But then he recalls... the state of the reality marble outside. "Oh. Right, yeah. Yes ma'am!" He says dutifully, taking off as fast as he can, ready to leap and dash desperately through the dangers, and to assist the First however she might need in her own escape. Back to more standard adventures, isn't it? All of this, this tension and pain... in a way, it's over. One death to help many. This man stuck to his guns, all the way to the end. Flamel respects that.

Android 17 (6730) has posed:
Nothing.

Apparently, Staren wouldn't even face his own messes.  Grunting in pain, exhaustion, and basically at his limit...well there was nothing left to do.  There were calls out for an escape.  The portal, and very specific directions.  Well...

Before Nashida can collapse the roof, Seventeen headed right for it, trying to get in before everything was crushed.  Picking up Riku, there was little else to do here.

This was a mess.  People were hurt.  

Rean Schwarzer has posed:
August's decision to retire is...sudden, but understandable. It's odd, given Rean's perception of him, but did he really know him, anyway? If this really was what he wanted, who was he to stop him?