My status as an oathbroken hardly equates to any semblance of retirement.
My prejudice against the bestial races which roam this Earth yet remains, even after all this time. While modernization and the spread of mass-consumed media has resulted in a monumental shattering of discreteness and secrecy regarding the separation of men and beast, I am still able to operate with a rudimentarily low profile when dealing with victims of mankind's scourge. The residency of myself and my wife is private-- my offices, however, are quite public. It is there, within the solitary study, that I provide my services as both consultant and headhunter; few truly know of me, but those who are desperate often find me in their greatest time of crisis.
{Category I, 'Undead' - the Risen, the Undying, and the Damned}
Case No. 5 - "The Woman in the Watchtower", 1819
I've found that things rarely die when killed.
Bit of an odd thing to say, isn't it? However contradictory the statement is, it's undoubtedly true-- there are many things in this world that do not abide by the conventional laws of mortality, whether by supernatural, biological, or technological means. This entry is focusing upon the entities which refuse to fully expire via paranormal means; simply put, the undead, and all various sub-categorizations which fall under this umbrella term.
An undead, in the most basic of terminology, is a being that retains life and animation after death. Brain function may still be preserved, though not always to the same extent when one was still fully alive; personality and consciousness, too, may still be retained by the unliving body-- though this, too, is not present for all cases. A transition into the undead state may be marked by a visible pallor, a deadening of the eyes, and a gradual rotting of the host form; in such cases, the soul may still be bound to the body in which it resides, but the actual biological matter which comprises the body is still subject to gradual decay as if it were a regular cadaver. Classical undead such as 'zombies', 'skeletons', and 'liches' abide by these rules, often times-- though external magic and miscellaneous methods may hide the established decay in order to appear more human.
Indeed, there are strengths these undead are afforded in return for a loss of life-- incredible pain tolerance, perhaps, or an undying soul which is free from the grueling concept of aging entirely. They are timeless things, I suppose; bound only by their wizened husks, they have condemned themselves to an eternity of rot and emptiness in exchange for the simple gift of existence. In this way, they have committed the cardinal sin of bypassing God's natural order-- hence the necessity of their extinction. Some strains of the eternal curse of undeath are quite literally infections, passed from person to person and propagated through a virulent biological code; in this way, we hunters were the cure for such diseased vermin.
There are those who still retain a shred of hope, even with their undying affliction; very rarely, a host body is able to regain its humanity through a variety of arcane means. The 'jiangshi' of Chinese mythology are proof of this concept-- through the absorption of an unassuming victim's 'qi', or material force, the affected undead is able to replenish its lost vitality and return to life once more. Certain species of wampir-- while wholly deserving of their separate classification under Category II-- are also examples of this rule, as consumed blood may restore youthful appearance or lively coloration of the pigment.
Weaknesses for these beasts are few and far between, and are largely based within the context of the undead's nature. If they have been cursed or damned, holy magic and purification seals often work far better than spells involving the dark arts; with classical zombie types, destruction of the brain and immobilization of the torso can be considered the most effective of strategies.
In the end, they die as all monsters do. With application of force and implacable will, even the undying shall be sent to death.
{Category II, 'Hematophagous Entities' - or, the Ones Who Drain Life}
Case No. 278 - "The Blood-Lair's Gully", 1840
The public know them in legend, often times, as vampires.
Of course, 'vampire' is a fiendishly constrictive term-- there are plenty of creatures that consume the blood of man without the title of 'wampir' to sully their history. The impish 'yara ma yha who' drains the blood of its victims through fingertip suckers before abruptly swallowing its unsuspecting meal whole; 'strigoi', too, are another example of overlap between two categories-- in this case, II and IV. While spirits by nature, their dependency on the blood of the living to regain vitality place their likeness far closer to classical interpretations of vampirism than any sort of spiritual entity. Like many supernatural entities, classifications of hematophages are to be taken on a case-by-case basis to determine the best fit into relevant, pre-existing categorizations.
As a general basis, all vampires are hematophagous-- however, not all hematophagous entities are vampires. By rule, creatures under this category have the distinct trade of feeding upon blood; most commonly, this happens to be the blood of a living human, though there are certain strains which have been observed to feed on the ichor of nonhuman animals and cadavers that have not yet been drained of their bodily fluids. The effects of such feeding differ from case to case, often times, and must be corroborated with available information and existing classifications before a sufficient assessment can be fully conducted. The most common effects of blood consumption on behalf of a vampire are the replenishment of vitality and life force, resulting in increased strength, agility, youthfulness, and complexion of the skin; enhanced vampiric abilities such as shapeshifting, phasing, 'mesmers', and animal control can also be observed. Blood consumption is almost always positive on the side of a hematophage, while almost always negative on the side of an unprepared victim.
Common effects of being drained include dizziness, headaches, weakness, and all other afflictions associated with rapid blood loss; not unlike severe trauma to an artery, a victim may go into shock and die under the embrace of a wampir's deathly bite. In certain cases, thralldom may be observed; in others, a full transformation into a vampire is also possible, while a select few implant disease within a victim's bloodstream that is oftentimes fatal. Mind control can be observed; alternatively, a wampir may completely drain the victim dry, killing their prey in the process. For some, the process of being bitten is agonizing; for others, euphoric.
The mechanism of blood-sucking also varies. As stated before, the yara ma yha who contain suckers upon the end of each digit to drain a victim of ichor; other times, a vampire may suck blood through sharpened nails and supernatural contact of the fingertips upon the body. Most commonly, however, the method of consumption is that of the mouth-- particularly a set of acquired fangs after a vampiric transition. These elongated and sharpened teeth, paired with the typical pallor and feelings of malaise that follow the turned like an invisible plague, enable the most skilled of hunters to spot these blood-sucking beasts from a crowd of blue-veined noblemen and dignitaries who would otherwise render the target indistinguishable from its mortal peers.
Due to their greatly elongated lifespans, the wampir often occupies places of high status and reputation; this is owed to the centuries of opportunities and openings to gain power with their superhuman abilities and, often times, unnatural charm. Though the stereotypical title of Count in the legends of old is certainly not the most common example of a vampire, it certainly is not an uncharacteristic view of these beasts; my own Elizabeth was known as 'Countess Ailrich' in the years I spent hunting her, and countless members of international gentry have fallen victim to the enthralling appeal of vampirism.
In the end, though, they are cursed-- damned with an insatiable hunger of blood, and doomed to roam the world as a scourge for all of eternity.
That ... is why she had never passed her curse unto me.
Having spent a decent helping of my life engaged to a beast of the night, my experience in dealing with the vampire offers a unique perspective. In helping my own wife, I learned weaknesses, I learned fears-- and in aiding her, I simultaneously aided myself if fate ever willed her life to be taken by my hand.
There are, of course, the three natural enemies of the vampire: sight, smell, and sun. Their unnatural and corpselike appearances often lend themselves to isolation and secrecy; the smell of copper upon the breath and the stench of a rotting cadaver often accompany their preserved forms long after a successful meal; the very light within the sky burns them, in the case of most species, and the effects are often scarring, if not outright lethal after a few moments of exposure. Whether this truly deals with the ultraviolet rays within the sky or the symbolic nature of the sun itself, of course, varies, as most approaches often do when dealing with subspecies of the wampir; more often than not, however, it is daytime itself which forces these beasts beneath the ground and into their broods to rest while man walks above them, undisturbed and unaware.
As such, most vampiric folk should be approached during the daytime while sleeping or weakened; in classical literature, a stake through the heart is said to kill most beasts in their coffins, and silver is thought to be a protective ward against repudiation of the attempt. While these commonly-thought tropes are important and most certainly true in most cases, I prefer to be far more thorough in my approach.
Stake the body in the heart, for starters. Hawthorn, ash, or oak preferred, with a silver core and tip. Once staked, stuff garlic topped with silver flakes into the mouth; next, decapitate and burn the head, dissolving the ashes and scattering the solution into a running river or creek. Conduct the same procedure with the body-- burn, then dissolve, then scatter. Finally, bless the river and leave; if the river has already been blessed, you need not do this step.
{Category III, 'Werebeasts' - the Beast-Men, the Shapeshifters, and all others}
Case No. 1026- "The Man-Wolf from Sussex", 1897
Having fallen fully from the graces of humanity, the werebeast is a being that is part man and part monster. Unlike the more humanoid creatures within these logs, however, this specific category details those who transform fully into a rabid and bloodlust-driven animal; their bodies are no longer bound under God, their human facades a mere conduit for the primal curse which resides within them. Through various circumstances, these once-men morph and change into various other forms-- some voluntary, some involuntary. For the purposes of navigation, all beasts which possess the ability to shift into these creatures are included under this category.
When the word werebeast is uttered, most minds think of the common werewolf-- and indeed, this type of monster is by far the most widely depicted within this category. Firelike eyes, a drooling and snarling maw; claws that may rend a regular man in twain; strength that may bend steel and overturn carriages. All of these characteristics and more are often possessed by the werewolf as well as their cousin-species of lycanthrope. However, while werewolves are certainly werebeasts, not all werebeasts are werewolves-- in fact, there are countless forms of animals which these once-human afflicted are cursed to assume.
The specific animal, in the end, depends upon the region in which the disease is concentrated; werewolves are often common in the wooded areas of Britain and mainland Europe, while the colder climate of Scandinavia breeds far more bulky and brutish beasts: the 'werebear'. Its name is self explanatory-- imagine encountering a bear only to find that it walks upon two feet with ease, splits logs like a knife through butter, and craves the flesh of man with ravenous appetite. The jungle and rainforest climates of South America and Asia often breed weretigers and werecats; in the arid deserts of Africa and the Middle East, 'werecheetahs', werelions, and man-vultures. These beasts are not merely limited to land and air; mermaids and mermen fit into this category quite well, given their tendency to possess both human and aquatic forms. The presence of shifters is woefully rampant-- many of the afflicted coexist in modern society, only to release their bestial desires at night and ravenously murder unsuspecting victims who cross paths with their changed forms.
The ability of werebeasts to exist as both humans and animals at separate times often makes finding them a difficult ask; to a trained hunter, however, these creatures are as easy to snuff out as any other. The transformative curse each werebeast possesses often blurs the line between man and monster; those who take the form of werewolves, or any other furred beast, for that matter, often possess the quality of being overly hirsute in their human facades; the presence of slightly yellowed eyes and sharpened canines is not to be discounted, either. A predilection for raw meat and a carnivorous diet is commonplace, as is a tendency to mimic mannerisms and noises of their animal counterpart; werewolves snarl and howl when distressed and excited, and werejaguars purr and hiss when complacent and angered, respectively.
In the end, these beasts are undone by the most primal and visceral of emotions and displays. Though they take the form of men, they are anything but-- it merely takes a trained eye to watch for when they finally break.
{Category IV, 'Spirits' - Fae, Elementals, Demons, and Angels alike}
Case No. 857 - "Fear Elemental", 1884
The use of the term spirit in this term is rather broad and further encompasses the complementary classifications of demons, divines, elementals, and shades in addition to the aforementioned fae; this is largely due to the fact that they all share a hefty amount of historical similarities, and in some cases, are often used interchangeably with one another. The fae, after all, have been thought to be angels and fiends that had been stripped of their divinity and cursed to walk along the planes of man; other whispers within folklore attribute their existence to the very spirit of nature itself. As such, it would be foolish to deal with each variant separately when there is such a large amount of overlap.
On the topic of the fae-- God, they're quite annoying.
Troubling little bastards, the lot of them! Never in my life have I felt such blatant vexation in the case of trickster spirits, and the vast majority of fairies certainly do not help this deeply-settled feeling of ire. Nevertheless, my intent with these muniments is to remain objective at any cost, so my scruples must unfortunately be laid to rest in the face of scientific and metaphysical analysis.
To group each faerie descriptively would be pointless; so many exist within our modern world that classifications based on appearance alone would leave me writing for days on end without any real progress. As such, I will split these spirits and wraiths into two broad, albeit useful, categories: the Seelie and Unseelie Courts. Celtic folk in the middle ages had gotten it right, if I am being quite honest, and there really isn't much sense in completely scrapping the basis of their folklore.
But, I digress.
Seelie Courts, in this case, represent the portion of faeries that are good-natured, benevolent, and moderately devilish in nature. This camp can be stretched to include angel-like and divine spirits, as well as the relatively docile ranks of nature spirits and elementals which embody good; nymphs and satyrs further fill out this category, as do dryads, though the nature of fay often lends itself to a more chaotic and pragmatic temperament. I've yet to truly encounter an aes sÃdhe which considers itself firmly heroic-- but I have seen many, many fay who deem themselves creatures of unspeakable trickery and humiliating evil. The word I would use for the Seelie types is neutral-- not good, not kind, not anything approaching the aforementioned terms.
Unseelie Courts, then, are the latter half which unabashedly embody the malevolence of chaos and violent ire. They are tricksters, as most fay are, but their nature and alignment make them highly lethal to those unaware of the fay's wiles. Baobhan sÃdhe lure men to their demise like vile, half-goat succubi, draining their blood with enough recognizable fervor that the entire species would fit under Category II; Black Annis, with her indigo flesh and vile claws, accomplishes similar feats to the former with the key difference of cannibalism preferred over the mere act of bloodsucking. Children are taken from their homesteads by hags and faeries alike, and what are they replaced with in turn? Changeling infants, born from fayish blood and seen as the downfall of a tightly-knit homestead. Banshees, too, tear kin apart stitch by stitch with their barren cries and horrible screams, their prescience culminating in bloodied cloths scrubbed clean of crimson, owned by men and women alike who are soon to meet their demise.
It is rare that a fay is truly helpful. They speak in riddled rhymes, and while they cannot tell a lie, they certainly need not tell the truth.
Of course, protection against these wiry pests is negligible in effort. Talismans, in this case, are a surefire way to ward off the clutches of fayish creatures; charms, too, work wonders when used correctly. Church bells scramble the holier species' senses; wearing clothes backwards, too, prevents harm, as does carrying around a four-leafed clover. Angels and demons are far more straightforward, as are elementals-- demons are warded off by angelic magic. Angels by demonic. Elementals are often most weakened by the fundamental constituent they are opposite from; water is evaporated by fire, fire doused by water, air dispersed by earth, and earth disintegrated by air.
The surefire method, however, to protect oneself against these spirit types is to simply never come in contact with them to begin with. The fay do not often stray from their little dens, and they prefer to make pacts with whoever is foolish enough to wander into their clutches-- or, better yet, willingly walk into them. Category IIX explains this relationship in far more detail.
{Category V, 'Eldritch' - the Unspoken Ones, the Uncategorized, and the Elder Gods}
Case No. 552 - "The Shapeless Shape", 1861
That which lies beyond the veil is not meant for our mortal eyes.
What is there to say, really, about the beasts from beyond? I could tell you that they are similar to you or I, but that would be a lie; I could tell you that they are entirely unlike anything you have ever seen in your negligible and finite life and that, too, would be a lie. There is no comparison or difference to be drawn because there is nothing to begin with-- no common ground to bridge analysis, no school of thought to contain their presence. They are wholly untouchable, and yet present all the same; they are unable to be seen, unable to be recognized, and yet they are all around us, ever-shifting, ever-existing.
They are walking paradoxes. Their very existence is the harbinger of madness; I have seen men of astute intellect reduced to babbling madmen in the presence of greater beings as they clawed their own eyes out and screamed for their mothers. Mere acknowledgement of them within this journal is a danger. To encounter these beings in my travels is a rare occurrence, but not impossible. Never impossible. They seem to thrive upon absolutes, these formless beings, because-- and perhaps this is insane of me to think-- they are an absolute in their own right.
For the Greeks, there was Mount Olympus; for the Norse, Asgard. For the Incas, there was the Hanan Pacha, and for the Abrahamic religions, there is the concept of Heaven, the realm-above all. Paradise.
The moment the door flew off of its hinges, the room around Total Experience sprang to life.
Where there was once darkness, now there was light; sparking wheels of varying colors sprayed blinding light from corners of the room as a mock audience cheer played from speakers lined along the walls of the set. At first glance, Total Experience would see that the room he had walked into was a rendition of some sort of bedroom-- but, upon further inspection, he would find that it was a certain room in particular, his room, that Aurum had decided to emulate for this particular evening. It was almost a museum room of sorts; upon the wall, protected behind a glass case, was an authentic tattered Total Experience suit, scarred from whatever assignment the Mithril Marvel had brought it back from; gated behind velvet rope was a baseball glove and bat upon pedestals, the authenticity of which was completely ambiguous. TV screens were placed upon every wall, displaying various factoids about the chrome superhero with lovable vintage-esque cartoon depictions of various figures that surrounded Total Experience's life.
"HEL-LO, EDWARD SIEGEL! I HOPE YOU'RE READY TO EMBARK UPON YOUR VERY OWN..."
The sparking wheels spun again.
"... HERO'S JOURNEY!"
Canned applause played from the speakers, loud and boisterous, as the supervillain made his grand introduction. What was once a walled-in room soon expanded as the far wall opened, exposing a diorama display of an animatronic man. It wouldn't take a genius to find out that the robot was modeled after a very anxious-looking human Edward. He stood in what looked to be a lavishly-decorated outdoors set, briefcase held over his head as painted-on rain scrolled on a walled treadmill behind the depiction.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"I do hope you enjoy what I've put together for you tonight, darling. It's all for you, you know. I had to pull out all the stops, seeing as it's your final debut."
Letting the air hang still with his devious threat, the TVs upon the wall flickered to life with a small infographic cartoon, not unlike the classic Disney animated documentaries of decades passed.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Now-- let's begin, shall we? I believe it all began one day in the rain, as a down-on-his-luck and wholly pathetic software engineer, Edward Siegel, was on his way back from work. He'd missed the bus he usually rode back to his homestead-- too poor to afford a car, you see-- and it was then that fate gave him his greatest asset in life..."
Thunder boomed ominously over the speakers with enough intensity to rattle some of the loose ornaments upon the wall. A light thrummed to life to shine upon the robot Ed, an atmospheric overlay of a storm now playing through the loudspeakers as the animatronic began walking in place. Above the robot's head, a small pylon sparked.
GOOD GRIEF, A voice groaned from the animatronic as it walked. I MISSED THE BUS, AND IT'S RAINING OUT? THIS DAY CAN'T GET ANY WORSE!
Aurum called out in response to the pre-recorded voice line, disembodied voice portraying a degree of concerned urgency.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Oh, the irony-- Edward's day was surely about to change, but it was hardly for worse! In fact, one might even argue the opposite; on that fateful day in the rain, Mister Siegel was imbued with the power of ELECTROGENESIS!"
As if on cue, a bolt of electricity slammed from the ceiling above the animatronic and struck the head of the robot Ed, blackening the previously polished and painted metal coif atop its skull; the animatronic made a shivering motion and threw its hands out to its sides, waving them in a mock panic as the bolt of electricity continued to form a continuous stream directly into the robot's body. The interior of the metal hull lit up, and a dramatic rendition of Edward's inner skeleton lit up rather cartoonishly under the clothing the robot wore.
HEAVENS TO BETSY, THIS SMARTS! The voice called out, still waving its arms rather stiffly. A slide whistle played from the loudspeakers, followed by the soft chuckling of a studio audience. JUST MY LUCK!
Beside the diorama, a door opened-- this time, opening up into a narrow hallway. The floor was replaced with a knee-deep liquid colored a fluorescent blue, though its glow might have been owed to the streams of electricity that arced with roaring leaps and bounds from wall to wall. To any normal person, the corridor would have been a death trap-- but to TOTAL EXPERIENCE, it would be a walk in the park. The bolts would surely hit him on the sheer basis of their attraction to his metal skin, but the pain they would inflict would be entirely dependent upon the Mithril Marvel's constitution. Surely, he'd be able to handle a little static electricity and some wet legs! And if the threat of his family's lives wasn't enough motivation to brave the electric induction corridor-- beyond the screech of lightning, the faint sound of muffled breathing was audible by the superhero's enhanced hearing within the next room, its owner unknown.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Trudge ever-onward, Edward, and make haste! Embrace your electrogenetic potential and become: TOTAL EXPERIENCE!"
The electricity would purposefully strike Edward as he embarked through the corridor-- and, at the end of the corridor, the next room would show itself. The second trial would prove recognizable to Total Experience as well; this particular room was practically a 1:1 remake of the ever-elusive Skywatch offices. One office in particular-- and, with the special guest behind the mahogany desk, tied up in a bloodied costume with a black Ace of Spades painted over the left eye of the trademark red-and-yellow mask, it would become immediately clear to the superhero what period of Edward's life this was meant to reflect.
None other than a battered and immobilized James Novak sat within a plush leather chair, legs purposefully tied to the desk in such a way that forced him into a pose that kicked his feet up in leisurely repose. Duct tape was secured over his mouth-- gold, of course-- and a manila folder was placed upon the desk between the two heroes. The edge of various papers were visible within.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"He's sleeping. Or-- is he? I-- I don't actually know. Can you check to see that he hasn't bitten it, yet? I'd hate for all this to go to waste, you know? God, that would be embarrassing!"
KISCHER MUSEUM OF HISTORICAL COMMODITIES, 10:00 PM, MANHATTAN
"For the children."
Nights like these were always the perfect occasion for a little mischief.
Ah, Cordelia. Sa fleur. He owed tonight's little score to her. Active as Julian Rosencrantz was in the spheres of high society, the Smythe name carried far more weight under its utterance than his own; one little mentioning was all it took to widen the eyes and tug the collars of the liberal elite, gullible as they were, and Cordelia herself had been nice enough to acquire such information for his own benefit.
A quiet flower within a field feels every little current of wind, after all, and this particular find seemed to tickle her petals verily so; an auction amongst a garden of New York City's millionaires was hardly something to scoff at, especially considering the nature of each little item upon display. Fitting that the disgustingly mediocre would somehow stumble upon beauty they could barely understand and still find some manner in which to ruin it. He was not there for them. Aurum was there for the very simple reason of taking things that were rightfully his by virtue of him deciding that they were-- the true method of acquisition and ownership, not the emasculated and tedious process of auction. Charity auctions were quiet, they were gaudy, and most importantly, they were a facade. Nobody actually did this for charity! Events such as these were made purely for the act of rich folk flagrantly displaying copious amounts of wealth, only to jerk themselves off in their bedrooms after the night concluded because of their contributions finding a "good cause". Not that he ever had a problem with flagrant displays of wealth, of course. In fact, quite the opposite. What he utterly despised was the falsehood they portrayed, the fakeness of it all.
It was never about charity. An event like this was not civil. It was a bloodbath-- ravenous, bloodthirsty, and unforgiving of weakness. With tonight's entertainment, Aurum intended to reveal them for what they truly were.
Animals.
It had been simple enough to piggyback off of the catering service the event had contacted and infiltrate from there. The weakness of the bourgeois was that they so frequently underestimated the power of the lower classes; the working folk were the ones that prepped the food, the ones that mixed the drinks, and the ones that served the dishes. Coincidentally, the only common folk that initially found themselves at such an event were the wait staff, which worked out quite well. With only the rich to fall victim to his ruse, he could claim moral superiority, or... something along those lines. Nevertheless, it would surely delight Karen to know.
With control over catering, the obnoxious elite would be completely and utterly at the mercy of Aurum's immaculate staff-- a mixture of Sauls and other hired muscle, seeing as the same face for every waiter or waitress would be downright concerning. He trusted the rich to be oblivious, but not that oblivious-- and with his accommodations, they would be so numbed by monotonous comfort that they needn't suspect a fucking thing. It was beautiful, this feeling of power. This feeling of... knowledge, almost, of the impending chaos that only he was privy to. To look around a party and know that every single guest was completely and irredeemably fucked was something he had done multiple times, and the amusement had never been lost upon Aurum each time.
The event itself was held purely within a large ballroom within the museum, fashioned out of some sort of lobby or large sitting room that had been cleared of its furniture; now, there were only white-clothed tables and slightly uncomfortable chairs, the air filled with chatter in between auctioned items. A hour or so had progressed into the event, with around 100 in attendance; much of the floor had become a sea of dress and tailcoat, though as the auction progressed, many returned to their tables to eat and drink. A small few-- one or two, perhaps-- excused themselves to the restroom, though many dug into their meals with piggish intent. As Aurum watched them from the security feed of his tablet while his entourage approached, he could only let out a dejected scoff.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Pigs in a trough,"
He stated, looking over at the newest addition to his posse before his gaze swept along the Saultourage he had formed for his event. It had been the same gifted few that stuck with him through the fiasco in Scarsdale-- his A Team. Or, rather, S Team. They all murmured their various catchphrases and notions of agreement, and Aurum looked back at the screen before shutting the device off and relaxing against the seat of the Havilah. Karen would already be in attendance, he presumed. The distraction was primed-- most of the guests had already been infected, as shown by the scan his Dictionary Saul had been so kind to show him a few minutes prior, and it was with great esteem and gusto that he stood from the car and exited its side door, stepping out onto the curb with a magic wand in one hand and a small button in the other. Two of the staff had already been stationed out front of the building, and they let him in without issue, opening the doors to allow him entry.
He had chosen a classic magician's outfit and tophat in preparation of tonight's theme, the inside of his cape outlined with gilded velvet as opposed to the traditional crimson; indeed, his bowtie was gold as well, infusions of black running along the sides to give the article a smoky gradient as the eye reached the outer bow. His coat was black and gold as well-- a departure from his traditional violet aesthetic, but delightfully vibrant nonetheless. His suit bore gilded floral inscriptions along its arms and body, and his legs were similarly outfitted; the tops of his shoes, meanwhile, were a pure and polished gold that reflected the legs of the tables and chairs he passed. If he raised a foot up, he'd most certainly see the shocked and disgusted faces of those in attendance.
His tophat, too, was similarly patterned. A gold-gloved hand took it from his polished skull and tipped it as he made his way towards the stage from the opposite end of the room, the entire ballroom falling silent as his shoes clicked off of the hardwood.
Clak, clak, clak.
He gave a short bow as he walked.
Clak, clak, clak.
Some recognized him. Others did not. Those that did stood from their seats, only to be forced down by the wait staff. It was far too late for escape, now-- though he supposed it would be amusing to release a few of the cattle from the pen to have them run amok along the streets. Ah! Ideas for later, he supposed. Right now, it was showtime. His grand debut.
Aurum called as he approached the stage, a moment of direct eye contact with the auction speaker causing the fattened man to step back from the podium with a soft gulp. They all looked like fish-eyed minions. He would've laughed if he didn't have a professional standard to uphold during his performance. Aurum stepped up upon the stage, climbing up the stairs two steps at a time, and gave another great bow. Someone at one of the tables actually clapped, completely oblivious.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF. I AM--"
A flourish of his hands, and plumes of smoke ejected from his palms with a mighty puff.
This time, the ballroom erupted into sparse applause, courtesy of the wait staff. Just as they'd rehearsed. He took off his hat once more and held it out for the crowd to see, dramatically waving his wand over the brim and chanting a few magical words as the crowd wordlessly stared in abject horror at his motions. With the deafening silence of terror that the room held, it was more of a surrealist act than anything else, but Aurum didn't need them to be fooled. He only needed them to be distracted as the button he held in his other hand-- now pressed against the brim of the hat he was holding by forefinger and thumb-- was pressed. How long did the Scientist Saul tell him the mechanism of action was, again? Christ, he should've listened more closely. He looked to Karen, nodding for her to join him upon the stage, and flourished his hat again with a flip of the cap.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"My lovely super-assistant Argent will be joining me for tonight. Argent-- the costume, please. Now-- oh? Oh, what's this-- what's this in my hat! OH!"
Aurum declared with vibrant intensity, strapping the wand to his hip to reach into the hat and slowly, carefully, pull out an engraved and gilded pistol. Pinching the barrel as if he'd pulled out a soiled handkerchief, his eyes widened behind the mask in mock surprise, grip quickly shifting to grab the decorated Mauser pistol by the ivory broomstick handle and wave it around at the audience as he spoke.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"A gun! Now-- for this next trick, I need a member of the audience. Please? Anyone will do. Say-- you,"
Aurum stated, pointing at a random ill-dressed man in the crowd. The wait staff was upon him in seconds, dragging him up to the stage as he kicked and yelled out. Some people, by now, were beginning to lose focus, groaning as they clutched their bodies. A few fell upon the floor. Other people shifted, looking irate. A majority looked downright terrified.
The man was placed next to Aurum, who put the gun into his hand and aimed it out at the crowd. The gold skull lingered beside the man's ear.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"NOW WATCH, DEAR AUDIENCE, AS I MAKE YOUR EGO DISAPPEAR!"
Aurum's gloved hand gripped tighter, pressing the man's finger upon the trigger-- not enough to fire, but enough to leave the man nervous beyond belief. A small amount of froth gathered at the side of his lips as he looked to and fro, eyes growing bloodshot.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Shoot somebody in the crowd, darling. Shoot them. Shoot them. I know you want to. You can feel your blood boiling, can't you? Power welling up in your gut. It's intoxicating, isn't it, that feeling-- I want you to sink into that feeling. I want you to become that feeling. I want you to shoot somebody. Come on."
Aurum whispered, finger clutching the trigger tighter as the man slowly began to devolve into hysterics. Much of the crowd was on the verge of chaos as well-- murmurs amongst the seated, a brewing anxiety within the air as a wholly different type of magic was worked within the bodies of the gathered elite. All that was left was to plant the seed of suggestion within their minds, to leave a lasting message before the animals were released.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;font-size:1.5vw;"]"THE NET-WORTH OF EVERY MAN AND WOMAN WHO DIES WITHIN THIS ROOM WILL BE MATCHED WITH AN ANONYMOUS CONTRIBUTION TO A CHARITY OF THE WINNER'S CHOICE. GOOD DAY!"
Whether or not the man squeezed the trigger was wholly irrelevant to Aurum. The supervillain squeezed the trigger anyway, firing off a bullet into the crowd that struck a man in the neck. The gunshot filled the air, a thundercrack of noise-- and like horses off to the races, the entire ballroom erupted into a fever pitch of hysteria. Wealthy patrons and well-groomed guests turned upon one another in an instant, bloodshot eyes settling from target to target as the elite scrambled from their tables and began to tear at each other like trapped rats within a cage. They screamed; they wailed; they kicked over tables and chairs, and those who were not uninfected soon found themselves within a sea of screams and blood as the ballroom erupted into a warzone. Inhibitions were shattered; consequence was of no matter to them all. Like animals, they tore each other apart, clubbing one another and biting and tearing and scratching and killing with the hysteria of cornered predators. Fitting, since some of them actually were.
Aurum shoved the man he'd taken off of the stage, letting him slam into a table as he screamed and grabbed at his head. A good few already began to make their way up the stage to try and get to the supervillain, but were stopped by the wait staff that guarded him. The auctioneer was writhing on the ground of the stage behind Aurum, yelling about something indistinct; a bullet from the Mauser silenced him. The roar of the fighting crowd was nearly deafening, and the supervillain raised his voice to speak as he glanced around at his assembled crew. This certainly was a hell of a way to make the night interesting-- it was just beginning, and he could already feel his blood boiling with excitement. God, he loved this.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Right! Now-- to the lower levels, yes? We've got some work to do."
Aurum stated, looking to Karen and motioning with his head back to the rioting crowd.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Keep an eye on all of this, will you, darling? Do call if you need help."
And with that, Aurum departed with his entourage, moving backstage and disappearing into the museum proper to find what they truly came here for.
Magic, after all, was founded upon the core principle of misdirection.
BALTHIS FAVRE, Swiss two-time World Series of Poker Main Event champion and renowned card player, has entered the FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION most-wanted list after taking the lives of four opponents during the 2020 World Series Open Finalist round. An international warrant has ALSO been issued at this time. The string of murders comes directly after the ruling decision by World Series officials to disqualify Favre, pictured left, after suspected use of metahuman and/or extranormal powers during the Finalist event-- an offense that is strictly outlawed and met with severe punishment on behalf of the perpetrator. The ruling was expected to bar Favre from World Series affiliated events indefinitely, and the offender was expected to pay a substantial fine to account for the incident. Favre's motive remains unknown at this time, but the killings are speculated to be catalyzed by the decision to suspend his activities in professional poker rings.
The suspension came at a time of great financial and turmoil for Favre, who was reported to owe a substantial debt to the City of Dreams casino in Macau, China-- over 4,000,000 CNYÂ¥ (615,000 USD$). TMZ also reports that Favre has accumulated vast debt in the Americas due to unpaid property tax, resulting in a federal audit by the IRS. Interviews with the disgraced poker star-turned-murderer have elaborated upon the issue, with Favre stating himself that much of his future depended upon the outcome of this World Series game.
Favre is speculated to have utilized a diverse set of metahuman abilities that each center around the usage of card decks, as seen in the security footage released by the Luxor Hotel & Casino in the aftermath of the incident. He is armed and dangerous. The FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION is offering a financial reward of up to 200,000 USD$ for any person that may provide information leading to Favre's arrest.
continued on pg. 3A.
[attr="style","grid-area:t2;TEXT-ALIGN:CENTER;"]
IN THE NEWS TODAY
VICTORIA RORKE POLLS AHEAD OF CONTEMPORARIES
[break][break]
With Mann's two terms over, the Republican party no longer has an incumbent candidate for the 2020 presidential race. Our reporters examine the recent Gallup poll that place Victoria Rorke 12 points ahead of other candidates, and why her meteoric rise as the face of the RNC marks her as a faithful successor to David Mann's presidency.
continued on pg. 2.
ASSURANCE: SAVIORS, OR TYRANTS?
After the neutralization of the "Blossom" extranormal event in Chicago, Bulwark News sends correspondent Chelsea Carver to speak with Mary Brown about the recent influx of alien threats to the United States, and how Assurance plans to enhance the common man as Earth's first natural line of defense.
continued on pg. 4.
THE RECOVERY FROM "RUINATION"
The terrifying extraterrestrial tyrant Surgath has been vanquished yet again, but not without its cost: Hector Williams has been killed, and Recurrent has been speculated to be a volatile recreation in the real Teja Docesznic's image. Bulwark News is here to make sense of these troubling revelations, and Junior Reporter Eidolon Martins has provided an exclusive interview with Captain Capacitor-- the real Docesznic, as claimed by the United States Military.
The crux of the decade had gifted Balthis Favre his powers. Once a professional poker player and womanizer, he is now SOLITAIRE, an international criminal-- as well as lieutenant to the supervillain AURUM.
Favre's abilities center poetically around the manipulation of cards-- most specifically, thematic abilities that revolve around a standard 52-card French playing deck. On the most fundamental level, Balthis sports increased agility, sleight-of-hand, and marginally strengthened physical prowess and durability that most metahumans endure. These skills are supplemented by an extrasensory ability known as the Cryptic Eye-- an increased optical capacity within Favre's eyesight that allows him to discern and distinguish the presence of arcane items based on an emitted aura. While he cannot discern distinct varieties of magic, nor can he see these auras in a large radius, his ability to both anticipate and identify threats and objects related to the weird serves both him and his employer greatly. Artifacts of higher magical quality and energy glow brighter than less important curios; additionally, maguses and beings of greater magical power possess a higher luster when compared against novices. All of these abilities round out Favre as an archetypal "magician" in the layman's sense-- a man with sharp eyes and keen fingers, often times magically adept.
The most dangerous weapons within Solitaire's arsenal, however, are his "DECK" and "HAND". The "HAND" is, strictly speaking, a group of five cards that Solitaire draws from his "DECK", or the 52-card French deck that he has imparted a chaotic arcane energy unto. This does not need to be a true playing card deck-- however, given Favre's ability to throw playing cards and the specific symbols upon the cards influencing his attunement, these often are the cheapest and easiest-to-access means. While the origin and mechanism of Solitaire's powers are unknown even to their user, Favre himself suspects that the power lies within the markings upon the card and his own mind's recognition of the object. Through these means, a blank playing card could have an ace marking and a spades symbol, and Solitaire's unconscious enchantment abilities would treat the card as an Ace of Spades. Favre does not experiment much with this ability because, in his words, "thinking about it gives me a fucking headache".
When Solitaire holds a deck of cards within his hands, however small or however large-- provided he was not currently enchanting another deck beforehand-- he possesses the ability to imbue the group of cards with a disorderly energy which glows a phosphorescent magenta. However-- the mechanism by which this enchantment occurs is largely fueled by chaos. As such, the deck is subject to this chaotic energy and is randomly shuffled into disarray before settling back into an ordered deck. Favre currently possesses no means by which to circumvent this random ordering, nor can he arrange cards to his own liking-- as soon as the deck is enchanted and shuffled, each card locks into place within the deck, and he is forbidden from drawing anywhere except the top and bottom of the deck. Favre's sweet spot is five cards-- any more and the cards' shared energy is lackluster. Any less, and the energy spread amongst four cards is volatile. The traditional poker hand of five, thematically, appears to link to this detail.
Each card, according to its respective suit and number, has a different effect associated with its usage.
[attr="style","grid-template-areas: 'a b c d e f' 'g h i j k l';display:grid;grid-template-columns:17% 17% 16% 16% 17% 17%;grid-template-rows:auto auto;"]
[attr="style","grid-area:g;padding:6px;font-size:1.0vw;color:#b394b3;text-align:center;border-right:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;"]Spade cards, when thrown, mimic effects akin to knives and other sharp objects.
[attr="style","grid-area:h;padding:6px;font-size:1.0vw;color:#b394b3;text-align:center;border-right:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;border-left:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;"]Heart cards are explosive and hum with a distinct high-pitched frequency when activated. The detonation extends out from the front face of the card.
[attr="style","grid-area:i;padding:6px;font-size:1.0vw;color:#b394b3;text-align:center;border-right:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;border-left:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;"]Diamond cards are largely defensive, and cast shields when thrown. They activate upon mental command.
[attr="style","grid-area:j;padding:6px;font-size:1.0vw;color:#b394b3;text-align:center;border-right:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;border-left:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;"]Club cards are largely blunt force, and impart a kinetic strike upon impact.
[attr="style","grid-area:k;padding:6px;font-size:1.0vw;color:#b394b3;text-align:center;border-right:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;border-left:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;"]A Red Joker allows Solitaire to create a mirror image of himself, complete with a second enchanted set; however, this clone dissipates upon being struck, akin to an illusion.
[attr="style","grid-area:l;padding:6px;font-size:1.0vw;color:#b394b3;text-align:center;border-left:2px #b394b3 solid;border-radius:8px;"]A Black Joker allows Favre to teleport wherever the card is thrown and activated.
When the five card HAND drawn from the DECK is used by Favre, another five cards are drawn from the top to take their place. When cards are dealt, they disappear permanently and are burnt into ash, forcing Favre to utilize his deck carefully. The ranking of each card determines the intensity of its effects in ascending order; 1 is the weakest, and an Ace is the strongest, with each Red and Black Joker card within the deck sporting its own unique effect.
One property of note: through combining cards numerically and by suit, Solitaire can increase the intensity of the related cards' effects. This adds an additional element of tactical consideration to Favre's attacks, as well as a degree of luck when drawing his HAND of five.
BALTHIS FAVRE, Swiss two-time World Series of Poker Main Event champion and renowned card player, has entered the FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION most-wanted list after taking the lives of four opponents during the 2020 World Series Open Finalist round. An international warrant has ALSO been issued at this time. The string of murders comes directly after the ruling decision by World Series officials to disqualify Favre, pictured left, after suspected use of metahuman and/or extranormal powers during the Finalist event-- an offense that is strictly outlawed and met with severe punishment on behalf of the perpetrator. The ruling was expected to bar Favre from World Series affiliated events indefinitely, and the offender was expected to pay a substantial fine to account for the incident. Favre's motive remains unknown at this time, but the killings are speculated to be catalyzed by the decision to suspend his activities in professional poker rings.
[break][break]
The suspension came at a time of great financial and turmoil for Favre, who was reported to owe a substantial debt to the City of Dreams casino in Macau, China-- over 4,000,000 CNYÂ¥ (615,000 USD$). TMZ also reports that Favre has accumulated vast debt in the Americas due to unpaid property tax, resulting in a federal audit by the IRS. Interviews with the disgraced poker star-turned-murderer have elaborated upon the issue, with Favre stating himself that much of his future depended upon the outcome of this World Series game.
[break][break]
Favre is speculated to have utilized a diverse set of metahuman abilities that each center around the usage of card decks, as seen in the security footage released by the Luxor Hotel & Casino in the aftermath of the incident. He is armed and dangerous. The FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION is offering a financial reward of up to 200,000 USD$ for any person that may provide information leading to Favre's arrest.
[break]
continued on pg. 3A.
[attr="style","grid-area:t2;TEXT-ALIGN:CENTER;"]
IN THE NEWS TODAY
VICTORIA RORKE POLLS AHEAD OF CONTEMPORARIES
[break][break]
With Mann's two terms over, the Republican party no longer has an incumbent candidate for the 2020 presidential race. Our reporters examine the recent Gallup poll that place Victoria Rorke 12 points ahead of other candidates, and why her meteoric rise as the face of the RNC marks her as a faithful successor to David Mann's presidency.
[break]
continued on pg. 2.
ASSURANCE: SAVIORS, OR TYRANTS?
[break][break]
With the neutralization of the "Blossom" extranormal event in Chicago, Bulwark News sends correspondent Chelsea Carver to speak with Mary Brown about the recent influx of alien threats to the United States, and how Assurance plans to enhance the common man as Earth's first natural line of defense.
[break]
continued on pg. 4.
THE RECOVERY FROM "RUINATION"
[break][break]
The terrifying extraterrestrial tyrant Surgath has been vanquished yet again, but not without its cost: Hector Williams has been killed, and Recurrent has been speculated to be a volatile recreation in the real Teja Docesznic's image. Bulwark News is here to make sense of these troubling revelations, and Junior Reporter Eidolon Martins has provided an exclusive interview with Captain Capacitor-- the real Docesznic, as claimed by the United States Military.
Favre wanted to crack his polearm over Aurum's gilded skullcap.
Of course, he would not tell his employer such a thing. It would be unprofessional. Introspectively, however, he could be as uncouth as he liked-- a perk of one's own internal monologue. He could utterly despise somebody as much as he liked without repercussion within his mind, and although it did not carry the immense satisfaction of telling someone to go fuck themselves, it also prevented him from getting shot by his boss. So, instead of directly telling off the supervillain to his face, Solitaire choked down his pride and gave a silent nod before departing the group and walking down an adjacent hallway.
"Prick."
He allowed himself that small curse and continued. As much as he harbored disdain for Aurum from time to time, he couldn't exactly force himself to hate the man, much less go against orders-- the supervillain had, after all, offered him asylum in exchange for his services. Insane as the gold-skull psychopath was, he beat whatever metahuman prison law enforcement would send him to when he was inevitably incarcerated. Not that he quite knew what facilities were like for superpowered prisoners, but-- he'd seen documentaries on the subject, and they were far less than ideal. Fuck no. He wasn't doing that. Instead, he was acting like a trained monkey as his drag-queen twink of a boss searched for some MacGuffin that a bunch of rich folk were trying to pawn off on each other.
Yeah, whatever made the guy happy. As long as he got paid and his debt to the Chinese was slowly paid off.
Flourishing his quarterstaff in both hands, Solitaire brought both arms back and smashed the pole into the side of a display case, shattering it with an echoing crash that echoed out into the quiet of the closed museum. It was some old fertility mask used by tribals in Europe, so he figured that nobody was going to exactly cry over it falling onto the ground and breaking in half. His eyes spotted another display case-- a larger rectangular box with some sort of old spear inside of it. That one was smashed, too, and Solitaire made sure to stomp on the remains to make the glass break extra loud for his shithead boss.
"Fuckin' distraction." Favre muttered under his breath, shaking his head with disappointment. He should have been out in the ballroom-- Karen didn't even want to do her job, half the time. Solitaire didn't have a fucking clue why Aurum kept her around, really.
STOMP. KRRSH. CRASH. KRSCHH.
It was the ass, probably. No wonder she got shoved into leotards. He supposed he was lucky to be spared from doing that.
Idly, Solitaire gripped his staff with one hand and checked his deck, seamlessly drawing five cards in his hand and fanning them to get a good look at each symbol and suit. Just his luck-- Ace-King high. Not a fucking pairing to be seen. Whatever. He always got shit hands at the beginning of the night. Given some time, his luck would turn around.
Those that were not granted the swift mercy of death at the hand of Argent or the sinister protector of Abigail were subject to further abuse at the hands of the newly-arrived heroes; a handful were slammed against tables and other articles of furniture by unbreaking webs, thrashing within their restraints and letting out guttural barks as their eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. The spider-themed girl was able to web about ten patrons to the wall and ceiling before unrestrained patrons quickly took notice of the immobilized cocoons and quickly began to flock towards these targets, tearing at the silk as best they could with blood-stained hands to reach the helpless target beneath and tear them apart within their silken prisons. Cocoons would soon turn to caskets if Poison was not to work fast-- and to complicate matters further, a crowd of patrons had set their sights upon the heroine herself, knocking over chair and table alike with seemingly enhanced strength as they barreled towards her. One immediately leapt towards her head-on, aiming to tackle her off of her roost and slam her down onto the floor; a group of three enraged guests followed suit, each wielding clubs of a different variety. One wielded a table leg; another, half of a chair. The third held a dismembered leg, rotund and most certainly belonging to some fat liberal who was too slow to escape the riot.
Each guest descended upon Poison in turn, bashing their clubs against her-- attempting to, at the very least-- in an effort to rip the costume and batter her regardless of whether or not she was immobilized by the first tackle. They each screamed different obscenities at her, with some forming cohesive insults and phrases while others merely screamed until their voices were hoarse. With each swing, the air grew colder-- until a sheet of ice formed upon the edges of the clubs, the layer shattering wherever the weapons struck. In a matter of moments, the room itself seemed to grow frigid, and the reason became obvious within moments.
The infected patrons were manifesting powers.
It was subtle, at first-- and then it wasn't, with shards of ice forming throughout the bodies of different guests as the heroes fought. For some, it grew from their bodies like spikes impaling their skin and muscle; for others, it was a sheet of ice that formed a protective layer over their body, water vapor simultaneously boiling and freezing over their skin and bodies as a triple point formed on the surface of their flesh. Skin was simultaneously burnt and frostbit; the distinct sound of shattering ice echoed through the ballroom amongst the chaos as bodies were frozen solid, entire guests petrifying within frost before being shattered like statues from luckier patrons who escaped such a fate. Those that remained were practically monstrosities of ice and malformed flesh, the frost warping out from them like malignant growths and spiked callouses as they roared like animalistic savages. A particularly large guest barreled towards Sacha as she moved to kick the laser pistol, bounding on all fours before leaping up onto the stage and attempting to ram into her while she circled Novak and Argent. He was a relatively fit man made even more brolic by the sheets of ice that covered his hands and forearms, almost armoring him in a twisted form of natural defense; his suit was made brittle by the drop in temperature, freezing over and turning rigid as spikes grew from his chest and upper arms. They tore holes in the fabric-- and there wasn't a single drop of blood upon him, the wounds from each spike clotted by frozen blood almost instantly. Steam wafted from beneath his suit, boils forming on the skin where the sheets of ice did not cover. He was simultaneously burnt and frozen-- and, seemingly, unaware of either condition.
What he was aware of was Sacha, who he promptly attempted to bearhug and impale upon his spiked body with a roar of anger that was almost rendered mellifluous by the ice around his mouth and lips. As the two fought, the other pair upon the stage was left alone for a moment-- before a tinkling sound of chimes filled the air above them, followed by a voice in the ear of Argent's comms piece.
"CHANDELIER DROPPING. ROLL!" The very clear and dangerous snap of a metal chain filled the air not a moment later as one of the wait staff broke the release upon the reel for the chandelier that was set above the stage-- coincidentally, right above the center marking that Novak was strangling Argent upon. The waiter-- now armored in a light ballistic vest and assault rifle-- intermittently fended off enhanced guests as he made his way towards the stage, raising his rifle and taking a few shots before being tackled by a spiked patron and slammed against the table. In fact, all of the hired staff was seemingly fighting for their lives as the situation in the ballroom soon began to spiral out of control. There was no clear advantage upon either side, disorganized as the rioting mob was, and the catastrophe was quickly snowballing into something far, far worse. The room had since plummeted in temperature to below freezing-- to all people gathered in the gala hall, it was like standing out in the middle of a blizzard. Exposed skin stung, and wherever the patrons touched, ice would spread along the body until contact was broken.
The GOLD STANDARD posse was, by and large, out of place amongst the usual crowd that would gather at a museum; then again, any group of identical bodyguards surrounding two oddly-clothed men would seem out of place anywhere. A quiet chime upon the tablet Aurum held prompted a glance at the screen, and the supervillain gave a satisfied grunt at the news that awaited him.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Wait staff has dealt with security and are accessing CCTV feeds as we speak. Lovely! Solitaire, I do hope you've made progress on charting a course to the cache we've set out to appropriate. Yes?"
The man nodded, silently, and the Saultourage continued to trek through the various halls of the museum in pursuit of their target. Basement access, according to the cameras and plans the security room team had been kind enough to lend him, was at the end of the Occultism exhibit. Before they could well and truly enter, however, Aurum quickly raised a hand and stopped in his tracks.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"It appears some people are ignorant as to the closing hours of this establishment,"
Aurum sighed. There were a few folks milling about in the after-hours of the curated museum, if the camera feeds were correct. One one camera, he could see himself and his group as clear as day; in another, a depressed-looking fellow that bore resemblance to an author he'd had the pleasure of meeting some time ago, harmless and halfway across the museum itself; and, finally, at the tail-end of an administration office feed, there was a man-- and a small girl. Aurum raised an eyebrow at that, peering closer to cycle through the cameras upon his phone before giving another sharp breath and shaking his head.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"Somebody appears to be here with us."
"Could be nothing."
Aurum shot a glare over to Favre, at that, and tilted his head to the side sarcastically.
[attr="style","text-shadow:purple 1px 1px 4px,0px 0px black,1px 1px black,2px 2px black;display:inline;"]"I may be flagrant in my risks, Balthis, but I am not idiotic. If it's nothing, then count yourself lucky-- cut off whatever is coming, and draw attention away from us. Yes? Good boy. Now shoo."
And with that, Aurum gestured for his Saultourage to follow behind him, trekking through the exhibit proper and admiring the various items upon display as they walked with a relative degree of quiet. They were most certainly upon the right track-- he could feel it in his gut with every step, a calling that whispered to him as he grew closer and closer to that which he desired. It had taken quite a bit of preparation for tonight, and he was not keen on letting it go to waste.
The GILDED MYSTERIO was far from a lackluster performer, after all. He had confidence in his assistant and lieutenant to deal with any interference. Solitaire was here for that very reason-- after all, it always helped to have a wild card.
Sacha's fight with the mutated guest was, for the most part, in her favor; the bear-hug had been sidestepped, and the girl's dexterity had resulted in a complete circumvention of the monstrous patron's perception. As she became a blur, the thing grunted in a moment of brief surprise, animalistic instinct causing its head to whip side to side in order to track its target; but, by the time it was able to so much as recognize the shape that approached it, the damage had already been done. Sword had already impacted ice-covered flesh, and instead of a clean-sounding slice through muscle and bone, there was a loud shatter of reinforced frost-- and then resistance. The snow-covered beast let out a roar of pain, the sound unsettlingly human and agonized in nature; it swiped at the girl as she leapt away to run across the stage, staggering down upon one knee as the wounded leg went limp and dragged along the ground behind him.
Angered grunts crept into the man's voice, guttural and unintelligent-- but the eyes were a window to the soul, and there was naught but unfettered agony within them.
The waiters hardly fared any better at the hands of Sacha's expertise. Like mere training targets, arcing bolts of light shot at each of the guns and impacted the metal; more direct hits completely detonated the magazine, while many simply melted the barrel and sights of the weapon beyond any sort of reasonable use. It was instantaneous; it was unforeseen; most importantly, it was efficient, and much of the wait staff was left unarmed within moments. There were a lucky few who were simply not within the girl's sights for one reason or another-- taking cover behind a table out of view, perhaps, or mobbed by so many guests that hitting the gun was outright impossible based on obscurity-- but almost all of Aurum's forces had been de-weaponized in a single fell swoop. Confusion was replaced with alarm almost immediately as those who were left defenseless quickly reached for their sidearms, only to be tackled by rabid beasts who capitalized the choice seconds of vulnerability. Those who were lucky enough to be killed quickly hardly had any chance to react; those who weren't, however, found themselves torn apart by the guests in a slow and admittedly very agonizing process of dissection.
Those who were even luckier managed to escape the horde for a moment and retreated, diving for windows and running for exits-- only to be stopped by barred doors and a police line waiting around the immediate quarantined perimeter of the Gala. However, those who ran were only the hired help, so to speak. They were the untrained and unhardened masses meant to promote diversity among face and build. Normal soldiers.
They were not Saul King. Saul King knew no fear.
And so it was the Sauls that held the line as best they could; those who were torn apart pulled grenades upon their hips and chests, exploding the beasts upon them in a particularly ruthless fashion. Those that possessed enough of a window to arm themselves again did so with precision, unholstering and quickdrawing pistols and knives alike to engage with the horde in any way they could. It was the best quality of the Sauls, truly-- their loyalty. Aurum's most favored quality, at least. The problem with henchmen was how willing they were to break, given the proper time and pressure. Even the most trained soldiers were flawed, one way or another. Saul did not possess such a weakness. They greeted death with the same confident smirk and bodacious temperament, and they greeted it like an old friend.
What was a clone, after all, if not the ultimate form of expendable labor?
And yet, the Saul Staff could only do so much with their impacted weaponry; in due time, they fell one by one until only the choice and grizzled survivors remained. Their survival was aided, in part, by the spider-girl's efforts; as Sacha shot Karen's appropriated laser-pistol and Novak attempted to take the life of Aurum's super-assistant, Poison had been the one-- and the only one-- to engage with the beasts in a particularly personal fashion. She had dueled with them directly, webbing them to different surfaces and taking their brutalization in stride. She had suffered as they had, through table leg and spikes of ice and tackling embrace alike-- and she had fought them with the same ferocity with which they had shown her. And, in the end, her suffering proved vital to the containment of the threat within the ballroom.
Little by little, the uninfected slowly gained a foothold over the mutated elite-- and while this progress had been severely impacted by Sacha's deweaponizing tactic, Poison made up for the deficit through tenacity and grit alone. While suffering a hearty amount of damage on her own, the end result was a good half of the ballroom successfully immobilized and incapacitated-- and the number was still growing, with her efforts resulting in most of the threat being stuck against the walls and floors and ceiling of the Gala hall. They thrashed within their bindings, attempting to break free and fight once more, but as their movements slowed and their fury abated, many of them slumped within their cocoons and resigned themselves to their constricted fates. With any luck, thank to the combined efforts of Sacha and Poison, there would be little adversarial obstacle left in due time.
The beasts which still remained standing, however, knew this-- like primal savages, they understood the animalistic concept of being cornered and trapped. Unlike unintelligent animals,
Solitaire continued to smash every manner of fragile object and housing within the exhibit room, eventually growing so bored that he resorted to breaking them in unique ways, such as trying to cave in the top pane of glass without cracking or damaging the walls of the display case in the process-- or, with one particularly large housing case, attempting to break one side of the case to carry through all the way to the other. It was a fun game that, admittedly, was very pathetic, seeing as Aurum had essentially shooed him away to stage a public freakout; however, he imagined every case was somebody he didn't like, so the stress relief was enough momentary compensation. Then, after a particularly exerting swing, his hair became disheveled and he used the next display case as a makeshift mirror to adjust his appearance.
To say that Favre was anywhere near as much of a metrosexual as Aurum would be hyperbole. The one visit to Avalon he'd taken was more than enough proof of that-- the walk in closet for that man was enough for a family of four to live in. The square footage taken up by clothing had been psychotic. Solitaire largely stuck to a signature outfit-- one that he believed was far more suitable than whatever trite getup the boss currently had on. It was practical. Armored jackets and padded underclothes often were in situations like this, not whatever gaudy magician's assistant outfit that Karen had been shoved into. One of the perks of not being a favorite, he supposed. God forbid Aurum tried to shove him into some sort of awful rabbit outfit. Come to think of it-- Solitaire was the real fucking magician, here. Why hadn't he been the one doing the tricks? Whatever. Not that he cared. Fuck it.
As he was adjusting his hair to perfection in the mirrored case, however, Solitaire caught something along the fringe of his peripheral that gave him pause for a few moments. By virtue of the glass, he focused upon what had moved behind him, eyes narrowing to try and determine whether or not he was losing his mind-- he had, after all, become highly accustomed to paranoia in the wake of his debt to the Chinese. So, for a brief second, he concentrated on the polished glass, picking out an odd-looking shaped within the warped reflection of the pane. Then, abruptly, he realized just what was across the room behind him-- albeit a second too late-- and, like the incompetent moron he was, stood up straight to turn around and look at what it was, seeing as the mirror was God-awful.
He got about halfway before his leg gave out with a deafening barrage. About six shots buried themselves in the padded exterior of his right pant leg, the ballistic weave catching five. The final bullet struck close to its twins, and dug itself into a shallow path along the meat of his upper thigh before exiting the skin and catching itself in the front of his armor weave. Predictably, Solitaire screamed, grabbing at his leg as he dove to the side and prevented the rest of the barrage from hitting him-- a final bullet, however, found his left asscheek, and Favre's shoes squeaked on the polished hardwood as he tripped and slapped onto the ground. His cards scattered onto the flooring in front of him.
"ARGH FUCK!"
Instinctually, Solitaire grabbed the 6 of Hearts and whipped the card over his head; the card glowed a soft magenta as it careened through the air, stabilized by the magic which enchanted it in the first place. It would curve through the air towards where the shots had came from before violently detonating out of the front face of the card-- which, if Solitaire had judged correctly, would be the doorway from which he had been shot. Grabbing the four remaining cards off of the ground with a quick movement of his hand-- agility, thankfully, was something he sometimes possessed at the right moments-- Solitaire quickly rolled behind the cover of a wooden display table, yelling out a variety of creative swears in a mixture of German and French as he grabbed at his ass and sat behind the cover on one cheek.
"BASTARD! FUCKING BASTARD! I FUCK YOUR MOTHER! MON DERCHE? ASSHOLE!"
Favre idly shook his leg as he yelled, the bullet that had trapped itself in his pants burning his skin somewhat and forcing him to constantly shake the thing free; after a moment, it tinkled to the ground, allowing Solitaire a brief respite as he planned out his next move-- one that, admittedly, was decided for him as the radio hissed and Karen spoke some choice words over comms. Apparently, things were going not so well within the gala, which led Solitaire to ask himself why he had been smashing display cases as the situation in the ballroom deteriorated. Ah, fuck. Aurum would find a way to blame him for this, would he not?
Quickly glancing out the side of the large display pillar, Solitaire quickly fingered the Ace of Spades and threw it at the ground in the middle of the exhibit hall; for a moment, the air shuddered, and then a large shockwave erupted forth from the ground where the card had hit. The walls shuddered; the glass cases that were still standing rippled and then shattered, shards flying through the air and scattered towards the walls by the sheer force of the concussive blast from the epicenter of the Ace. The walls of the exhibit shuddered somewhat, with the various hanging fixtures ripped from the chains and falling to the ground; even Solitaire was not safe from his own card, the shockwave pushing him out from the pillar and leaving his ears ringing as he quickly used the momentum to scramble to his feet and run back towards the ballroom, weaving in and out of cover where he could to keep himself from being shot again.
"Backup coming." Favre breathed into his mic. "I am, er-- on the way. In-bound. I have been shot in the ass, and it is fucking-- hurting fucking. It hurts." His command over English was far from spectacular, but he hoped that his approximation would suffice for the current moment. His tailbone felt awful, like the pins and needles. With any luck, the man with the guns would be following, and Favre could repay that agony tenfold in due time. Best to have the party in one place, anyway.
Solitaire quickly pressed two fingers to the deck clipped against his hip and drew two more cards, praying that they gave him something useful for the fight to come.