Welcome to Gaia! ::

Eamon gave another nod. "Y'know the doct'r?" he asked, gesturing with his head in Dr. Miles' general direction. "She seemed t'know you." Friendships and such were important to understand. They influenced a team's direction, and made for deeper complications on the battlefield. Eamon preferred a team of people who were strangers. Friendships would still form, and they were annoying, but he wasn't working with automatons, and he was reminded of that every day. Painfully. Constantly.

Pre-existing friendships, however, were the worst. They took precedence over command structure, like any friendship would in a non-military setting, and made it difficult to neutralize internal threats. Should one go rogue, the other would still try to protect them, and then you had two rogue agents on your hands, and it just got worse from there. It was never easy.

Another Illuminated entered the lobby from within the base. He had the look many of the older Illuminated had. He was neither physically falling apart nor mentally unhinged. He was just... just...

Tired.

Sallow skin and baggy eyes beneath prematurely gray hair in an expertly pressed suit gave him the appearance of a man who had just attended a funeral and who was now ready to prepare his own. Leon had never demonstrated the control needed to be ranked/cleared at 4E, but he considered it no great loss.

Leon was a burnout: Someone who had multiple decades under his belt and could hardly manage the energy to interact with his environment outside of a combat situation, clinging to the final vestiges of normalcy by going through the motions of being a functioning human being rather than a soul-eating husk of a man.

He glanced at Eamon and Niko and began to walk over to them.

Right, Jake had figured as much, and nodded in acknowledgement. Silence prevailed once again- of the comfortable sort. Knowing Strings would be on the team eased some of the brawler's tension and left him devoid of questions or curiosity. He just wanted to get there- and hoped there wouldn't be any more crossovers.

You'd think an organization of this caliber would have its s**t in order.

Location: San Lazaro Streets

Black Phantom has invaded
> _

The thought forced its way into their heads unbidden.



"The ******** is- we may have a problem," the driver called out. Cress Farrar, Jake Uso, and Strings Frederickson had barely half a second to register this before the sound of shearing metal and a call of:

"Shityeswehaveaaprrroobblleeeeeemmmmm-"

Time seems to slow as their reflexes kick into overdrive. The armored truck's front began to lift from the asphalt, dragged by an enormous black blade with a red glow around it slicing upward. As the truck split in two, they glimpsed the attacker: midnight black and shining silver with a red glow, just like the enormous blade. Cress is thrown up and back, and as his head strikes the roof he flips and falls unconscious. The figure steps through as the truck's remnants part around it, the driver stumbles out. He screams something about calling backup and runs as Strings and Jake step from the wreck.

The mysterious invading "Black Phantom" strode forth. It looked masculine, perhaps six feet tall, clad in plate mail and wielding what could only be described as an enormous blade. The blade was larger than a person. It... was that even a sword any more? How was the damn thing even possible to lift? Between the weight of that, the plate mail, and the tower shield on the phantom's back, it shouldn't be able to move nearly as fast as it could, but it was in fact running directly at them with no small degree of speed and agility, sword at the ready.

Location: San Lazaro SOUL Base

In the dining commons, two men - Nathaniel Evans and Richard Bender - were eating, each alone and silent. They had begun to poke at their food, not especially hungry but both required to report for dining because of their habitual forgetfulness in regards to eating.

Now that they were actually eating, of course, the PA system tells them to report to the garage for their new assignment with their new team - Team Seven - to assist with an attack by an unknown assailant - possibly a manifested demon.

Well, that certainly got everyone's attention.

In the lobby, Leon's face suddenly grew hard. "Let's go. We're needed, it seems." Leon was a surprisingly 'together' burnout, by most measures. Typically, an Illuminated in their late forties like him would have been recommended for or requested euthanasia already. Leon had not, perhaps on account of his unwavering dedication to his allies and his valiant (if not always successful) efforts to control himself. His sense of duty sustained him, and as the speakers called Team Seven to action, he led the way to the garage, his body language full of purpose and perhaps a little hunger.

Nathaniel had finally managed to take a bite of the incredibly disgusting cafeteria food when the announcement came on, "********." he muttered. Nathaniel had to start eating. He had been living only off of souls for the past week, as the high prevented his body from becoming hungry. However, malnutrition could potentially weaken his magic. But the announcement, oddly, caught his attention in a way that not much else could. A demon? Already? He had just been reassigned to this Team Seven, and they already had a possible demon? Interesting. Something that could potentially kill him. Or... Something that could make him even stronger. More deadly. Nathaniel made the decision to attack the demon head on, if he could. The man checked the pockets of his jeans for a weapon of some sort that he could manipulate with his magic. Several pennies and a few quarters. He cursed his damned luck, stood up, and rushed for the armory. The thin, sickly looking man easily pushed his way past the much larger suit guarding the door, ignoring the threats of being reported to his superiors for stealing ammunition. He grabbed two 20-round magazines of 7.62x51mm NATO rounds and jammed them into the pockets of his too-large leather jacket, then several of the smaller magazines of 10mm rounds, which were shoved into the front pockets of his loose, ripped black jeans. Nathaniel turned around, grabbed the suit by the collar and pulled him close, "Shut. The. ********. Up." he growled. However, despite the tone he used, he never felt any anger. Just a mild annoyance that managed to break through his apathy. The emptiness that defined him was still there. He pushed the man into the wall.

"Report me if you want. I honestly don't care what you do. You're nothing. You're worthless. I have to actually do something important. Stay the ******** out of my way if you value your life." he said. It wasn't a threat. He was simply stating the facts. Nathaniel would kill anybody who got in the way of his addiction without a second thought. The only reason he agreed to join SOUL was because it was a means to an end. Through SOUL, he could fuel his addiction... Even if they were trying to cure him with those damned pills. Nathaniel rolled his eyes at the suit and made his way to the garage to receive his assignment.

Eating wasn't particularly high on Richard's list of priorities, it was just below water and well above sleep. He had already eaten plenty and it was rare of him to indulge, so it was with no hard feelings that he pushed his tray away and stood to address the announcement. The possibility of a demon encounter quickened his heartbeat. It was cause for excitement.

It was just in time, too. The voices that haunted Richard were becoming troublesome once again, a sign that he soon needed to perform his duty and rid the world of another demon. Richard lived for this.

Before heading to the garage, he stopped by the armory to retrieve his Leviathan X6-S2 and a sufficient number of magazines. If this was indeed a demon, he would be needing the proper tools. After equipping himself, Richard headed for the garage, adjusted his suit, and silently awaited his assignment.

Eamon shook his head. "Can't use an aperture sight right now. Still a tad tipsy." An understatement, but nevertheless true. The tritium dots on the pistol were easy to line up without clear vision, and even if it didn't hit as hard as a 7.62, it still did the job well enough. It was more for distraction anyway; Eamon did not consider himself a tactical asset. He merely kept the tactical assets in line.