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 Posted: Fri Oct 06, 2006 10:00 pm
KirbyVictorious Nuh-uh! three! For Kirby is slightly skitzo O.o I have two personalities that I know of, and probably more than that, even! heart I ain't couting. blaugh --------------------------------- Chapter 10 The United States Senate November 6th, 2004 Tyson stared listlessly out Stephen’s office window. The picturesque fall scenery outside seemed to have no effect on the lethargy that had shrouded his mind the past few days. He couldn’t quite focus or think straight, and it was only angering him. And he knew it was only the Rage missing its targets. He hoped it would pass. Stephen, shuffling papers idly on his desk, looked sadly at his former friend’s back. The senator was certain that an already short fuse was getting shorter. Time was of the essence. “So who exactly is going to be in on this game, Stephen?” the Australian droned. “An FBI agent named Chris Cornette, one of our top soldiers named Alison Keyenness, and one of our top army generals, who goes only by Vladimir. I’ve explained to them everything the best way I can, but Vladimir’s still skeptic and the other two are only half-convinced. I’m going to have to ask you for a demonstration.” Tyson chewed on his tongue. “Exactly what do you expect me to do? Pull a rabbit out of my nonexistent hat?” he said, his voice lathered in sarcasm. Stephen rolled his eyes. “Of course not, I’m going to give you a hat first.” A small smile toyed with the corners of the assassin’s mouth. Under different circumstances he would have grinned ear to ear, but if something even made him think about smiling, it was huge. “All I ask is that you do that weird thing that makes you all glowy and strange.” “Glowy? It’s an Aura. It's a branch of the Rage's power.” “Whatever. Can you do it?” Tyson was insulted. “Of course, it was one of the first things Raidon taught me. It’s the most basic skill for any Assassin Lord.” Stephen was about to answer when the office door banged open. A tough-looking Russian man strode in, followed by a shorter, stockier man and- The most beautiful woman Tyson had seen in the 29 short years of his life followed the stocky man into the office. She had shoulder-length flowing black hair, piercing blue eyes, and sharp, angular features. A little red crept into his face as he watched her. Tyson was jerked violently out of his reverie when the Russian- obviously Vladimir- seized him by the shirt collar and pulled the shorter man to eye level. “So this is the fool who you were telling us about, McLane? Seems pretty wimpy to be the Shadow Killer,” he spat in Tyson’s face. Annoyed, Tyson placed his hands on Vladimir’s chest and jolted him with a small shock of the magical electricity of the Rage that caused the Russian to drop the Australian in pain. Landing gracefully on his feet (Vladimir was a good foot taller than Tyson), he put one hand on his hip and stared the general down ferociously. “The name is Tyson Whetlander, and I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands off me, otherwise next time that charge’ll be stronger,” he said in a light voice with a dangerous undertone, which he was famous for in the Underground. Vladimir’s eyes narrowed. The tension between them could be cut with a knife. The air around Tyson almost crackled. “Gentlemen, please,” Stephen said, breaking the silence and the tension. Vladimir sat down in a chair around a conference table slowly. “Well, now that the two of you have, well, been introduced, we should get the ball rolling on this,” Stephen said. Alison and Chris sat down beside Vladimir. Tyson remained standing, leaning against a wall with his arms folded across his chest. His usual taciturn expression resumed its place on his face. Stephen launched into an explanation of Tyson’s situation and what the plan of action was. Tyson lost interest and produced a floating ball of yellow light the size of his fingernail and forced it to roll in circles around his head. “Tyson, you listening?” Catching the Australian by surprise, the little ball of energy fell to the ground and dissipated. “Huh? Oh, not really. Why? Am I supposed to?” he said pleasantly. Alison and Chris chuckled. Stephen looked annoyed. “We were just bringing about the topic of that Aura of yours and what it can do." “That little ball I was toying with was a small example. Want more? I’ll give you more," the assassin said, pushing off the wall and standing straight, his arms at 15 degree angles with his sides. His eyes shut tightly. Chris, who was tipping his chair back on two legs, was blown onto the floor by the blast of energy and wind that knocked everyone back. The air around Tyson had turned a brilliant yellow shade and was pulsating violently. His hair was pulsing with the Aura; the red of his irises- his eyes had opened- had spilled over to fill all of his eyes, even the whites and the pupils. When he spoke, his voice was an octave or two deeper and hollower sounding. The rough edges had dissapeared. “Point proven? I’d imagine so,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Dear Jesus,” Alison said in an awed voice. The air returned to normal as well as his eyes. “Right. Thanks, Tyson,” Stephen said, a little shaken. The Australian nodded and resumed his place against the wall. Stephen went on to explain everyone’s responsibilities, and Tyson returned to his idle play with his powers. His attention slipped as the meeting concluded. Only when Stephen was poking him repeatedly in the shoulder did the assassin refocus his attention. “What now?” he said. “Let’s get out of here before the press show up,” the senator warned. “You know, if you keep your mouth shut and keep walking, they’ll leave you alone,” Tyson said as the two left Stephen’s office. Outside of the office, Stephen broke away from Tyson momentarily. He watched the dangerous man's retreating back and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Tyson had fallen for his front. One day at a time, he told himself. One day at a time.
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Posted: Sat Oct 07, 2006 8:27 am
......?
Kirby ish curious. More please. >.<
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Posted: Sat Oct 07, 2006 9:21 am
Yay! I can't wait for more, I'm adicted now.
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Posted: Sat Oct 07, 2006 12:50 pm
heart
---------------------
Chapter 11
The Underground Training Arena
November 8th
“Markson! Put more heart into it! Johenstien! Don’t you dare forget the backhanded strokes Velnax taught you!"
Shouts of generals and soldiers alike rang through the valley that served as the Underground Training Arena, but the voice that rose over all the others was that of Tyson Whetlander, pacing the ridge of the valley and shouting encouragement and reproach. Ever since his return to Antarctica, he had driven his soldiers hard. They had been in remission for a while; since Raidon passed the Underground to Tyson’s control, there had been no urgent need for training. Tyson had kept them on their toes with occasional exercises, but nothing drastic like what he was doing now.
Rick Chadson, the Underground’s head chef and one of its most talented sword defense masters, joined Tyson on the valley’s ridge.
“Tyson, I think this is a little to extreme. The soldiers are really rusty. We need to put them through endurance exercises first.”
Usually, the Australian would have accepted the Canadian’s suggestion as a wise one, which it was, but Tyson was straining, knowing the army was running out of time to prepare.
“Rick, that’s a great idea, but we don’t have time, do you understand that? They just need to hold off long enough to throw these guys out the window. Endurance is not what I’m worried about at the moment. They need to be able to fight. And fight to my standards. Speaking of which,” Tyson trailed off, glancing back down at the valley. His hands reached for the twin blades on his back.
“Oh no, you’re not going to do that, are you?” Rick said, exasperated, but it was too late. Tyson already has his running start off the edge of the cliff. With a roar and a loud crash, he hit the ground running and charged at the unsuspecting soldiers. His drawn blades glinted in the brief sunlight of Antarctica. The soldiers the Assassin King ran into first were caught off guard, but they recovered before Tyson could really get into his element. The whole army surged at him, surrounding their leader; each one going at him like no tomorrow, but Tyson was returning the same amount of inhuman force.
Roaring like a lion, Tyson used the flat of his blades to knock the soldiers back when he was overwhelmed, and the infinitely sharp edges to knock them down, per the rules of the Underground’s training rituals. Each of the soldiers wore a thick vest similar to a bulletproof one, colored according to his or her respective commander (Ryan’s soldiers wore red, Tyson’s elite soldiers and commanders wore black, Mike’s wore blue, Sarah’s wore green, Rick’s wore white, and Marcus’ wore purple), and once hit by a weapon in certain places a certain number of times, they were to drop to the floor until the mock battle was over and casualties counted.
Tyson, however, was unprotected, and when he called off the soldiers after being worked to the bone trying to keep them at bay (quite the feat on the soldiers’ part), he was covered in numerous cuts and bruises.
“That… was way more… than I expected,” Tyson said in between breaths. He had to lean on the ruby-hilted Marchantine for support. “For the… amount… of training… you’ve had recently… that was incredible. How many did I take down? Wow. Not many. I’m exhausted. I think that’s plenty for today. Dismissed.”
Mike Killarney, who was on the other side of the arena, came jogging across to where Tyson was recovering.
“Anything major?” he asked.
“They came close,” Tyson said. “I’m lucky I still have my left arm.”
“Agility’s a great thing, isn’t it?” Rick said, sliding down the face of the cliff. The Assassin King laughed, a rare thing in recent times. The two generals smiled, glad that their King- more so their friend- still had his sense of humor.
“Get some rest,” Tyson said, the smile not quite entirely faded from his face. “Tomorrow’s going to be much bigger- and longer- than today was.”
Halfway back to the Main Complex of the Underground, Rick broke off from the other two and took a tunnel down to the kitchens where he was to supervise the soldiers’ dinners. Tyson and Mike journeyed the rest of the distance in silence. Mike returned to his room in the Generals’ Barracks, and Tyson, drained both mentally and physically, trudged up four flights of stairs and collapsed, fully dressed, on his bed. Within minutes, he was asleep.
Later on, he was glad he fell asleep with all his weaponry.
Tyson slept fitfully, his dreams plagued by disturbed nightmares of distorted reality, a side effect of the Rage. When he awoke with a start, he knew by instinct it was late. The normal busy buzz of the complex had died. He closed his eyes and felt with his mind around the complex. Some strange sense of foreboding had settled over him, which he assumed was nothing, but double-checked anyway.
It was then he realized the night watch’s absence.
Immediately, he was wide-awake and alert. Instinct told him something was wrong. Tyson found the consciousness of Ryan, awoke him, and sent him a telepathic message.
Ryan, the night watch is missing. I feel something’s up. Get the other generals and meet me in the main hall. Come fully armed. And hurry.
Silent as a shadow, Tyson snuck down to the marble hallway on the ground floor. He was still feeling around for foreign consciousnesses. Finding none, he began to prowl the complex, moving the range of his telepathy.
Something finally picked up as he rounded the back of the building. One consciousness standing near the wall. Tyson placed his own consciousness within the others, giving himself the ability to see through the others’ eyes. The assassin’s heart skipped several beats at the sight.
At least two score soldiers in the camouflage uniforms of the United States stood just beyond the wall Tyson leaned against. They all had knife sheaths at their hips, and rifles and guns in their hands. Reading the mind of the soldier who was playing host to him, they were on a sting operation. They had broken into the Underground. The night watch was dead.
Angered, Tyson felt the Rage consume him. With the hilt of Marchantine, he broke straight through the brick wall and slew the soldier he had recently taken over. The Assassin King gained control of the Rage just as he did this. Realizing that the forty soldiers were now all turned to him, he drew his other sword, Kerosine, and stood ready to fight for his life.
“Who the hell are you?” one of the soldiers said.
“The Grim Reaper,” Tyson said sarcastically, before lashing out. The snow at the soldier’s feet turned red as he crumpled. The remaining soldiers surged forward. Tyson smiled.
“Come on, try and take me out!” he yelled as five soldiers fell before him. Some soldiers opened fire with their handguns. Tyson took two hits- and only two- before those armed forces fell as well. There were three soldiers left when Tyson stopped in his tracks.
Two stood before him, and the third stood a little ways back. He hadn’t heard it over the noise of the fight, but now he heard the high-pitched scream of the closest person to his heart in the entire world.
“Keira!” he shouted. In that moment, the other two soldiers pinned him by the arms to the undamaged section of the wall behind him.
“This little twerp important to you, assassin?” the soldier holding the girl by the throat spat. “Funny, I never thought cold-blooded murderers could experience love.”
“Let her go!” he screamed. “She has done nothing to you!”
“No, but you have. And I’m under strict orders not to kill you. But this… this is personal. You murdered my family. Now I bring justice to their deaths.”
“No!” Tyson shouted, flinging the soldiers off him. He rammed his sword straight through the leading soldier’s gut. They stood for a second that lasted a lifetime, face to face. Tyson could feel the man’s dying breaths.
“Too late, murderer,” he said, laughing weakly. He expired a second later.
Two corpses dropped to the snow that moment. A slightly painful tingling overtook the back of Tyson's neck, a feeling he’d only felt once before.
The air imploded, and Tyson was thrown high into the air. He hovered for a moment, then began the slow trip down. The same ritual he had undergone when the Rage first awoke. He landed gracefully on his feet, not in a heap like he had last time. When he spoke, his voice was deeper and hollow sounding, the same way it sounded when the Aura was in effect.
“Be it wrongdoing, be it death. Be it pain. Be it a loved one’s last breath. Justice not served to those who have done me wrong. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, so it shall be, so it shall rule. The Rage is woken, so it shall thrive, until justice is done, only then shall it die.”
Tyson blinked. He had recited The Rage’s Promise. It was what every Assassin Lord said without control when the Rage awoke.
“Is this possible?” he said to himself. This meant the Rage had awoken twice. What did it mean?
Looking down at his feet, he remembered he had a body to bury. Hot anger overtook the assassin again.
"I know this was your doing, McLane," he said to the silent Antarctic. "And mark my word, I will have my revenge."
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Posted: Sat Oct 07, 2006 3:06 pm
Once again, a wonderful job.
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Posted: Sat Oct 07, 2006 6:27 pm
I had almost forgotten about Kiera.
Is she dead?
Is she coming back to life?
Did the soldiers get axe-murdered yet?
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I missed things!
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Posted: Sat Oct 07, 2006 11:20 pm
KirbyVictorious I had almost forgotten about Kiera. Is she dead? Is she coming back to life? Did the soldiers get axe-murdered yet? EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I missed things! Juuuuuuuuuust because I'm giggling myself silly over this, and this is one of my favorite chapters... ------------------ Chapter 12 The United States Senate November 9th, 2004 Bob the Security Guard. Bob liked the sound of it. Of course, his actual name was Robert, but he preferred Bob. He smiled to himself, pacing the perimeter of the U.S. Senate grounds. It was late, but Bob enjoyed the night shift. Nothing ever happened during the night shift. He could call himself a security guard and not have to actually do anything. Something unusual, but not too unusual, happened to him as he rounded to the front of the building. A young man, no older than 30, in a black jacket and blue jeans, was walking down the street, his hands in his pockets and his eyes trained on the ground. He glanced up, saw Bob, and made for him. “Excuse me, sir,” the younger man said in a thick accent. Bob managed to identify it as Australian. “Can I help you?” Bob said, trying to force authority into his bouncily childish voice. “Do you have pen and paper I could use? I need to write something down before I forget it.” Thrown by the question, Bob pulled a sheet of paper off his notepad and handed it and his pen to the young Australian. “Thank you,” he said, scrawling something. Bob tried to read it, but the other man’s lengthy hair fell across the paper as his head bent to see. He returned the pen, folded the paper into his pocket, thanked Bob again, and continued walking. The security guard shrugged and kept walking. A rasp like a sword being drawn- something Bob had only heard in movies- startled him and he spun on his heel. He was dead before he registered he was under attack. Tyson wiped the blood on the guard’s uniform. He dragged his hefty body behind a large oak tree. The assassin pulled out the paper and began writing again. A moment later, he refolded the paper, used one of his expendable throwing stars to pin it to the man’s sizable belly, dragged the corpse to the front steps of the Senate, and he disappeared into the night. The next morning, a clerk came in early to get through some immense amounts of paperwork. He tripped on the body of the security guard. When he recovered and saw what he had tripped over, he screamed. A scene of police cars, ambulances, and news crews swamped the entryway when Stephen McLane arrived. The senator’s heart jumped. A reporter rushed up to him. “Senator McLane, can you explain the note that was found attached to the body of Robert Atelier earlier this morning?” “What?” he said, causing the reporter to press on. Taking Tyson’s advice, he shut his mouth tight and kept walking. When he passed the threshold of the building, one of the forensic scientists handed him a small scrap of paper that bore his name in neat handwriting. My dearest Senator,
Late last night I was awoken to find a small squadron of United States soldiers- about two score- outside the Underground’s Main Complex. Might want to count your forces. You’re probably missing somewhere near 40.
I don’t know if this was a battle command or a voluntary act of the soldiers themselves, but I do know this: they took more than the lives of a few worthless soldiers. I do not know how your army works, however, I treat each of my own soldiers like my life depended on it. 23 of my night patrol were murdered in their own home.
In a bigger personal attack on me, my beloved apprentice, Keira Lazingholt, was taken from her bed and murdered in cold blood. She was only eight years old. There was no wrong she had done to anyone. My anger at this act is the same a parent would feel if their child was killed for something they did. If anyone deserves death, it would be me.
This security guard- pathetic excuse of that, I might add- is only a small portion of the retribution the world's nations will pay. This is not a threat, far from it. It is a promise. This is not a game anymore. I know that somehow, you are responsible for this. And trust me, McLane, when I find out your precise connection to these happenings, I will make it my life's work to kill you as slowly and painfully as possible. And that's another promise.
Keira will be avenged.
Tyson R. Whetlander
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Posted: Sun Oct 08, 2006 12:13 pm
I'm gonna cry. crying
I really am...
gonk
AAAAAAAAAAAHHHno, I really did start to cry crying
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Posted: Wed Oct 11, 2006 3:09 pm
Wowzers eek
Short chapter. Apologies.
--------------------------------
Chapter 13- The Underground
The Tzechlimona
November 9th, 2004
“Bloody mortality,” Jade said.
Tyson smiled slightly. The ghost of the long-dead Assassin Queen, Jade Alyssia, sat with him in the deepest-known part of the Tzechlimona, the only place other than Antarctica where it met the surface. No one knew quite where, but Tyson had always imagined it somewhere in the highlands of Scotland or Ireland. Wherever it was, it sure was beautiful. The place had no name in the Assassin Language and was only known as the final resting place of every Assassin Lord. Occasionally their ghosts left their graves and wandered the graveyard. Today, Tyson was graced by Jade’s incorporeal presence.
He had just told her the story of Keira’s death; she had been sympathetic and humorous the whole way through, as she always had. Ever since he became the Assassin King 14 years ago, Tyson had always entrusted Jade with his thoughts and problems, and she answered every time to the best of her ability. Most of his success as an assassin was due to her guidance.
The two of them sat on a small stone staircase that bridged the distance of a small slope, their backs to Keira’s freshly dug grave. Tyson chose this spot because it had always been one of Keira’s favorites. It overlooked a small valley and some lush, green mountains. He had to hand it to her; she had quite a taste in scenery, even for a little girl.
“So what are you going to do now?” Jade inquired.
“I’m not sure,” Tyson responded after a moment of thought. “ I know I’m going to take revenge, somehow. And I think I know what I’m going to do. I do know one thing, though. Keira’s death made the Rage stronger. Twice as strong, I can feel it. Which is both blessing and curse. On the plus side, I’m stronger. On the down side, the Rage is working faster. I think, when it comes down to it, preventing Armageddon is way better than a small strength bonus.”
“Why do you care so much for the rest of the world? I thought you hated it.”
The living assassin was silent for a while.
“I finally figured this out: I may have turned my back on the world, but only then did it turn its back on me.”
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Posted: Wed Oct 11, 2006 3:54 pm
I liiiiike. a lot.
Well, one thing I notced--we all love Tysonl. He's the Austrailian, dark-haired accented hottie, am I right? By I can barely remember Keira's name...
In my opinion, Keira wasn't a main character because she wasn't expanded enough. See, no one will feel sorry for her unless she was SOMEBODY.
...Tyson is cute, right? Because there's no hope if he isn't. oonly cute guys can save the world. wink
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Posted: Thu Oct 12, 2006 2:46 pm
KirbyVictorious I liiiiike. a lot. Well, one thing I notced--we all love Tysonl. He's the Austrailian, dark-haired accented hottie, am I right? By I can barely remember Keira's name... In my opinion, Keira wasn't a main character because she wasn't expanded enough. See, no one will feel sorry for her unless she was SOMEBODY. ...Tyson is cute, right? Because there's no hope if he isn't. oonly cute guys can save the world. wink Well, Keira was never really intended to be a main character. She is only there to show that Tyson is, by nature, a good person; to establish what it's like to awaken the Rage; another reason why it's so urgent to break it; and to start to introduce the reader into the- erm, relationship- between Tyson and Stephen. And I actually found a picture of an actor I thought looked a lot like Tyson: http://imdb.com/gallery/ss/0119683/Ss/0119683/lm10.jpg.html?path=pgallery&path_key=Matheson, Hans Now imagine him in full color with black hair and red eyes.
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Posted: Thu Oct 12, 2006 4:10 pm
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Posted: Thu Oct 12, 2006 6:48 pm
hrm. I was thinking hotter...
but whatever. still cute. heart
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Posted: Sun Oct 15, 2006 12:03 pm
KirbyVictorious hrm. I was thinking hotter... but whatever. still cute. heart Quit yer whining. smile The end of this chapter will seem pointless for a while. Trust me, it ain't. --------------------- Chapter 14- The Surface World The White House November 12th, 2004 “We’re here live at the White House where Senator Stephen McLane will shortly be holding a press conference regarding the latest happenings in the Shadow Killer case. Hailed as one of the most lethal serial killers the world has ever known, the Shadow Killer is infamous for his graphic murders and knack for leaving no conclusive evidence. The Shadow Killer has claimed more than 500 lives in this country alone; his worldwide numbers are not completely known,” the reporter said into her microphone. The TV camera focused on her swung to a shot of the podium that had been set up for the senator. “Audrey, what is known about the Shadow Killer at this time?” the anchor at the studio asked. “All that has currently been released to the public is that he calls himself the Assassin King- a fitting title at this stage of the case. We also know that he doesn’t work alone. “We’re going to have to stop there, Senator McLane is ready to begin.” A harassed-looking Stephen took his place at the podium, lowered the microphone to his level, and began speaking wearily. “Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon. Although it’s not quite operative on this day. Last night, a Senate security officer, Robert Atelier, was killed on the job, in the signature style of whom we know as the Shadow Killer. “Today I come to you to tell you the truth. “The Shadow Killer calls himself the Assassin King, but not out of vanity. Hiding away from our eyes for millions of years in Antarctica is something known as the Underground; an alliance of the world’s deadliest people. This Underground amounts to much more than anyone could imagine. It is an army, for lack of a better word: an army ten million strong. A staggering number indeed. Out of all these, however, one assassin remains stronger than the rest: the leader of the pack, the Assassin King, and his name is Tyson Whetlander. And he’s looking for a war.” “And he’s looking for revenge,” a harsh voice called out. “Always the drama king, aren’t we?” Stephen said under his breath. “Heard that,” the same voice said in his ear. Stephen’s breath froze. He felt cold steel at his throat, and an arm around his body. Tyson's fire-red eyes gazed out over the stunned crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Tyson Whetlander. Welcome to your worst nightmare. Velnax! Jakerston!” A ring of assassins appeared around the perimeter of the crowd, swords drawn and gleaming in the afternoon sun. “What are you doing?” Stephen hissed. “I keep my promises,” was all the assassin said before burying his knife in Stephen’s back, throwing him aside like a rag doll, and drawing his two twin swords, jumping wildly into the chaos of the crowd as his assassins moved in. The crowd was decimated in moments. Jakerston stood over one of the last survivors, her sword pointed at the woman’s throat. She raised the blade high over her head and brought it down to- A loud sound of metal on metal rang out. The ruby-hilted Marchantine had stopped Sarah’s blade. “Let her go,” Tyson said. Sarah started to protest before Tyson’s fiery glare silenced her. “Get out of here,” he said to Sarah. “Round everyone up and get them home. I’ll be right after.” Sarah obeidiently vanished. Tyson looked down at the woman lying on the ground, bleeding from the leg and holding her young baby close. The assassin said something in the Assassin Language, and the terrified mother’s wound healed. She looked him in the eye and saw beyond the fiery red irises. Years of pain and anger hidden and locked away in his heart hit her in full force. A longing to be normal again- to erase his violent past- washed over her like a wave in the ocean. And then he was gone. Along with the strange connection to the assassin’s heart. “Thank you,” she whispered to the air where he had stood.
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Posted: Mon Oct 16, 2006 9:04 pm
'tain't pointless, I get it.
Niiiiice, you updated! heart
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