Post by soldierboy81 on Feb 19, 2015 3:31:04 GMT -6
C: Throne of Tears, Part 1
When I was little, Morrigan would counsel me in the privacy of Alistair’s rooftop arcade, where a wonderland of lilies of the valley are still tended to … by none other than myself. Don’t ask me why, but I recall a specific moment: the evening she told me about a “special mission” that only I can complete. Elias, listen to me … There will come a time when you must face the gods of legend. Back then, I was so fascinated by what she told me. So, I gleefully took to her words, asking if what she said was true for personal assurance. Of course, just as I had to when I was a young woman---a fresh, hard-boiled gumshoe from the southern side of the legendary New York City. People like us … We’re highly favored; thus, we have tasks of which only we can complete. I observed my still intact right hand, which was---along with my entire arm---eventually taken by the CD incident, questioning the power I had yet to discover. Observe these hands, Elias … Respect them. Hone them. Train them to their limits and beyond; for, one day, they will decide the fate of all mankind … Ragnarok shall one day be upon us. It’s coming is inevitable.
Now, in the present day, after the CD incident, and its downfalls and uprisings, these hands have experienced quite a bit of chaos. A cup of coffee at the Indigo Lounge has never been so … so enlightening … (“All the things I’ve been through with Roman … Everything is meant to prepare me for Ragnarok … No one was prepared for the CD incident, but this time …”) My open hands ball into tight fists filled with fire and determination, my countenance cold with eager intent. (“I’ll be ready for anything fate has to throw at me. We all will. Together, there’s *nothing* we can’t do.”) Suddenly, I’m awoken from deep thought by the Fimbulwinter 535 morning news instrumental. “Hmm?” I gaze up at the roofed television [quadri-boxed] arrangement just a few inches to my right. (“Oh, right. I forgot, it’s about that time. I wonder what the mouths have to say this time.”)
News anchor Ivar Vidfamne is, once again, the mouth of the hour. Humph … Interesting. They usually don’t last a day under that lecher of a CEO. “Good morning, Neo America, and welcome to another edition of Fimbulwinter @ 9. This is Ivar Vidfamne here with the latest reports on the Garner City disappearances.” Just what the doctor ordered. Roman, Adina, and Angel will once again be joining this case, so the more leads we have, the better. I considered consulting the Weasel before leaving, but after paying the bills, I’m left with a few hundred double-dollars to my name. “As of 5:42 this morning, a record 27 people have been reported missing from their homes.” The mouth’s report freezes me with shock; for, I’ve never heard of such numbers developing in a short period of time. Then again, an artifact is involved in all of this [Mjölnir, the hammer of thunder]. “Forensics report: ‘Phantoms of electricity were the only traces left behind. Not even a single cell was discovered at each crime scene; thus, the difficulty of this case has reached ridiculously new heights.’ Chief of Police Egilio Ohthere issued a colonial search for any suspects, including the infamous ‘White Witch;’ unfortunately, they have yet to reach their goal.” Of course they haven’t reached their goal. GPD is infamous for slacking off and gorging cream-filled donuts instead of doing their damn job. Chief Ohthere is no exception … Just thinking about how much of a contemptible slob that guy is makes my coffee taste funny.
Find me … (“Huh?”) As if things haven’t gotten weird enough, I’m beginning to hear things. The voice … of a man … Before the next one dies, find me. You have 13 hours. (“What the hell … Who are you!?”) The decider of fate. Remember, these times were meant to happen. Or, have you forgotten your destiny? (“No way! It’s happening already?”) Suddenly, everyone in the lounge gets the surprise of a lifetime, as currents of electricity emerge from the television screens, forcing many from their seats, claiming several lives in the process! Don’t test my patience! Hurry up and find me! I narrowly escape the lounge with my head still intact; however, as I leave the joint, the lightning surges stop … This guy is trying to goad me into a rendezvous. I can understand doing so formally or informally, but involving innocent people in this … (“Fine. I’ll find you. But when I do … You’re going to regret it!”) Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Just don’t keep me waiting, Eli.
What the … That diminutive … The only person who’s ever called me that is … (“Domar … Is that you?”)
When I was a kid, I had a very close friend named Domar, heir to the House of Yngling, which was, at one point, the richest family of the old world. After the CD incident, the House of Yngling was wiped from the face of the earth. Carnage spirited them through the Cloudways into never-ending oblivion. Domar … He vanished right in front of us---our late group of friends and myself---screaming! Eli, guys, help me …! Unfortunately, there was nothing we could do … Carnage had enveloped us, restricting all movement, forbidding any form of struggle. We were just a bunch of kids, inexperienced and innocent, and … there was nothing we could do to save ourselves … But then, a light appeared before me. Hey, looks like you could use a little help. I opened my eyes to a mug shrouded in black with ebony-colored armor, eyes like sapphires, and spiky hair deep like emeralds. A whimsical smile like a fox decorated his face. You can’t die, stripling. I won’t allow it. Before I knew it, the body parts taken by the Cloudway---my right arm and left leg---were [magically] replaced by a peculiar automail. I observed my metallic body parts in horror. “Huh!? What is this!? What did you do to me!?” Would you rather bleed to death? The mug’s sharp words refocused my attention on his consuming eyes. Carnage is merciless, stripling. Many like you will soon roam the new world, and those of your ilk will be the only ones capable of preventing the end of the world. Remember your destiny, stripling. Always.
After that, I fainted and fell into a deep sleep for several days. I eventually awoke in the remnant Halcyon Hospital lying in a rather uncomfortable bed, recovering from the effects of Carnage. Morrigan was at my side, sound asleep after enduring several restless nights in worry for my well-being. I didn’t bother waking her up, but … I wish I did … Hours later, I heard news of Morrigan falling in a battle involving the first Carnage outbreak. She was reduced to the same state as I was, and never fully recovered. Shy of a few years ago, she lost her battle with the Carnage polluting her soul, and faded into nonexistence. Thus, I was left with absolutely no family … I did, however, inherit Alistair from Morrigan, along with many depressing memories.
Losing my friends as a kid, eventually losing Morrigan and inheriting Alistair … Everything took a drastic effect on me throughout the years, and I became a shell of what I once was. When I met Roman and began sleuthing up the city, things seemed brighter for a season. However, I couldn’t ignore the great responsibility looming over my head; for, I knew that … someday … I would to have face the ancient gods and deal with their bullshit. Personally.
After reporting the tragic incident that befell the Indigo Lounge, and informing the arrived APD about what happened, I was asked to go to the police department for further questioning … I told them everything to an extent, omitting confidential information reserved only for Alistair. The pigs don’t need to know a damn thing about it, especially when there’s absolutely nothing they can do to alleviate the situation. Getting the military involved also won’t be much help … Dealing with artifacts is an art form of which many are incapable of learning, let alone performing with accuracy. One mess-up and it’s game over, and morons like the APD would fall short each time. They’re inexperienced; thus, they’re not fit for the job. Yeah, I know, some of my gear is military classified, but I’ve seen the new generation in action: they have absolutely nothing on their forefathers. Bunch of hormonal hooligans looking to make big bucks and get lucky with colonial dames. Dead weight, all of them.
Upon rendezvousing with my partner and our lady friends, I told them everything that happened, saving the best for last.“13 hours!? That’s not even a full day …” As usual, Roman is melodramatic about the situation … We’re taking the Eitr Express to Garner, the only way to get there since the disappearances started. The armed forces ensured a huge [yet short] money-making season for all train stations with their [indirect] interventional bullshit. As much as I hate riding trains, this is our only way there. My company doesn’t seem to mind, but I do---you can tell by the look of contempt on my face. “So, you think it’s your old friend?” I close my eyes, trying to avoid the question as much as possible. “If so, we’ll be there to support you … Facing loved ones is a hard task. I remember engaging an old friend before.” Roman’s sudden relation captivates me; for, I’ve never heard him say anything about his past until now. “His name was Sköll, and he was like a brother to me. Unfortunately, I had to deactivate him to save our creator, after Sköll’s A.I. encountered a serious internal error that drove him insane.”
Hesitantly, I find it in myself to query his methods. “… How did you do it?”
The train to Garner arrives at precisely 9:49 AM. As we enter the train, Roman makes a heartfelt confession. “I removed his memory core by force, having no other options in the matter … If I had authentic human emotions, I would’ve been crying while I did it. I understood the emotion, but I just couldn’t express it. I still have that problem at times.” We take a seat on the third row side-by-side, where Roman continues his confession. “Magia-sapiens are powerful but limited creatures whose lives are determined by ‘percentage’. There are some whose percentage is 100 or even higher; the lattermost are referred to as ‘Vikings’ and ‘Valkyries’ respectively, depending on the gender. Magia-sapiens like myself that can only operate at 80 to 90% are considered ‘standard issue’. Those that can only operate at percentiles lower than 80 are either scrapped or assimilated with modern society; the latter occurs more than the former. I would’ve been the former if my creator didn’t upgrade and give me Sköll’s memory core, which increased my overall percentile by 30%.” So that means Roman was a below average Magia-sapiens before the transplant, my thoughts piece things together. That’s an interesting bit of information, but I wonder what made his friend lose it like that. “Sköll’s system was incompatible with the core model, which caused the internal error. My system, however, was; thus, I was given his memory core to ensure a normal life. Or, something like it.”
Incompatibility---yeah, that makes a lot of sense. It’s one of those oil and vinegar situations: if it don’t fit, it won’t work, and that core model didn’t fit with the mug’s system. Basic stuff, but pretty fucking tragic if you ask me. “During our time in the services, Adina, Lee and I witnessed a few MS manufacturing sessions.” Angel finally speaks up, after being silent for most of the time. I can hear it in her voice … She’s still recovering from yesterday. “The process is pretty simple. Basic machine-powered mix and match, but the accuracy is probable. Incompatibility isn’t incredible; it happens every now and then.”
“And when it *does* happen, situations like what Roman described are unavoidable.” Adina seconds Angel’s statement, recounting several incidents of the sort. “The worst one I saw involved the death of an apprentice. Her name was Embla Alberich. She worked under the late Chief Scientist Ask Gullinbursti sometime before his eventual medical decline due to Carnage poisoning. C-Research has its pros, but the cons … are definitely *much* greater.” Images of Embla’s tragedy return to mind, as the lieutenant retells the account. “It was about six years ago, during the Prose Edda campaign that would’ve garnered an evolution in C-Research, until this day came about … A glitch in the now defunct Sturlusson SG-976 processing system caused a serious explosion that set the Niflheim Scientific Research Facility on fire.” Dr. Gullinbursti! Hold on, please! “Embla raced to aid her mentor who was caught in the fire. She succeeded in rescuing him, but …” Run, please! Aaah! “She lost her life in the process. The full extent of her success, however, was barely halfway met: Dr. Gullinbursti contracted a progressive case of Carnage poisoning caused by the surrounding Cloudflames; the research facility underwent a multimillion double-dollar reconstruction period that lasted for two years; and, she and several employees were lost in the process. Bad times, boys.”
Yeah, yeah, I know this has absolutely nothing to do with the disappearances, but you have to do something to pass the time on trains, or else you’ll go crazy with boredom. 11 hours, 52 minutes and counting. (“Hmm? You again?”) The voice of Domar returns to me, giving a little heads-up on the time limit. (“So, that’s it? You’re just going to taunt me from afar?”) I just wanted to keep you updated, of course. Oh, and by the way, I didn’t shock those people good enough to kill them. They should recover within the hour. (“Recover within the hour? But … I saw them …”) What you saw is what I “wanted” you to see, not what others saw. (“Then, I made that report for nothing?”) No, people were hurt, but not severely. You did the right thing, but now, you’ve become a suspect in the missing persons’ case revolving around Garner City. I’m sure Fimbulwinter will get a kick out of exploiting you. This guy … He’s laughing at me? (“Why you …”) My fists ball against my kneecaps, earning Angel’s concern. She opens her mouth to speak, but I stop her before she can say anything. “Don’t worry. I’m just thinking, that’s all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, Angie. I’ll be fine.” Nobody’s buying that. I look way too intense to be “fine,” so it’s obvious that I’m lying through my teeth here … Just thinking about how slimy this faceless mug is makes my blood boil. I’m not sure if this mug is Domar or not, especially after hearing the way he ridiculed me just now. Most of the time, Domar was quiet and observant; never spoke a word, unless we had a one-on-one moment. We shared a lot, me and him, so I’m really conflicted right now. (“Domar … If it’s really you contacting me, why are you treating me this way? Why … Why are you doing all of this?”) It was meant to happen. Something that was decided long ago. (“But … Domar, why you?”) Domar? That kid is dead. Guess you forgot about that.
I see … So, it’s not Domar, after all. I wonder … If it’s not him, then who could this person possibly be?
In the deepest depths of darkness, secluded and clandestine, a voice echoes lightly. (“Domar … He was lost to Carnage a long time ago. As were many people of the old world.”) The faintest umbra can be seen within the abysmal naught, confessing the [distant] presence of some manner of light. Is it sunlight? Candlelight? Is it natural or artificial? (“Those with strong wills possess strong hearts. Strong hearts forge determination and success. Ironically, of the many that fell, strong hearts were among their numbers. Why … Why did the Carnage take them so easily?”) This enigma is suffering the pain of the fallen. Apparently, he or she isn’t a villain; however, these sentiments were the makings of the toughest S.O.B.s of the old world. Even in recent history, people are still people---still human. Thus, should such emotions plague the heart … (“All must be made equivalent. If the strong-hearted cannot survive the Carnage, then neither can the weak-hearted.”) A concentration of electrical light reveals a strong left hand with a noticeable [sapphire-studded] antique class ring dated “2007”. (“I … will eradicate them all!”) You will do no such thing! (“Huh? Who is …”) Ironically, this faceless purger isn’t alone. Mentally, he or she is being monitored by none other than … the White Witch. As a daughter of the white rose, I am charged with protecting the innocence of this world and the old world. Your actions will hasten Ragnarok … I cannot allow that. This world must survive, until the grand hour’s advent.
Perched atop a derelict building in Garner City’s historical district, the White Witch gazes upon the metropolitan majesty set before her, as a cool breeze traverses the area. (“The agents of Ragnarok are unknowing. Ancient deities of the old world are using your lot to exact their revenge upon my masters---the Vanir … Go ahead. Use their weapons. You will only lose your life in the end … The Aesir. They care not for humankind.”) Their weapons? You mean, the faceless purger ogles the hammer of thunder [Mjölnir] in his left hand. This thing? (“Mjölnir is the hammer of Aesir God Þórr---a most fearsome weapon capable of leveling mountains. It was forged by the dwarf brothers Sindri and Brokkr. It’s characteristically short handle was due to a mishap during its manufacture; however, Þórr used its might to command thunder and lightning to his heart’s content … You know not the manner of power held in your hands. Surrender it to me before it’s too late.”) … No. This hammer gives me the strength I need. (“Humph. Typical, to say the least.”) Yeah, typical of a human. I know … But, I must make things right. I must equalize this world! (“Indeed, but you won’t be needed.”) Huh? The White Witch parts from her rooftop perch with a leap from its edges! (“Equality … begins with your death!”) With an impromptu invocation of her contract with the Vanir, the White Witch materializes a flattened Cloudwave at her feet. Emulating the grace of a seasoned sportswoman, the White Witch surfs the skies towards destiny. (“I will purge this world of my masters’ nemeses … without mercy!”)
Upon arriving at Garner City’s Eitr Express outlet, my party began executing a plan we decided upon along the way: to search the precursor crime scenes, and uncover the whereabouts of our chief culprit via C-Technological implication. Our first stop is the home of the initial victim: Bödvar Bjarki. His home is located at 97653 Delaine Avenue according to both Roman’s A.I. sensory and my phone’s Aun-screen Services … Quaint little setting, if I must say so myself. An inner city home bordered by caution tape and GPD warning signs. Not like either one will keep us at bay, especially since we’re not affected by regulations pertaining to unlawful entry. “Oh, my goodness!” Ironically, our entry rights reveal a most unsettling sight: everything beyond the doorway is missing, except for the residence itself. Furniture, portraits, people and other lifeforms. All gone … The only thing left behind is an expansive phantom smoke that has yet to clear. The smell of fresh oak trees is also present, along with the looming sensation of unseen static electricity. “What on earth happened here?” Adina approaches a windowpane upon noticing the static phantoms upon its frame. “It’s as if … Is the Mjölnir really capable of *this* much devastation?”
“Mjölnir is the strongest of Aesir weaponry.” My party faces me from their respective positions, and notices my fascination with a peculiar marking upon the living room’s southern wall. “Guys, come take a look at this.” Adina, Angel and Roman come to my side, and notice the marking as well. “It’s the impact ashes of a thunderbolt. Judging from its pattern, this is where the culprit’s attack began.” Pay close attention to its pattern: the center circle is small compared to the ashes emblazoning its edges. If the circle were wide and the ashes were small, that would be where the thunderbolt landed. “The legends of Mjölnir are true: it can freely manipulate electricity from remote places, even through natural insulators. Our culprit disbursed electricity throughout the entire residence via this specific entry point.” I turn to my partner. “Roman, could you scan this for me?”
Roman nods and complies, activating his A.I. sensory with the blink of an eye … Don’t panic folks. C-Technology differs from old world technology because it has absolutely nothing to do with electricity. Furthermore, automail, Magia-sapiens and C-Weaponry are constructed via Aun wielding, which is a natural insulator to old world energies unless a proper amount of alchemical energy is utilized to alleviate this truth … Roman’s sensory picks up a real-time image of the static electricity oscillating the residence, which borders a more concentrated flow of energy that leaves the room. “Looks like we’ve found a lead, guys. Follow me.” My partner follows his lead, escorting us to what appears to be … the master bedroom, where we are stunned by the image of an ash marking outlining a human frame along the bottom part of the eastern wall, as well as its borders and the carpet. “Judging from what my sensors are telling me, Mr. Bjarki put up an unsuccessful struggle and chase against Mjölnir’s thunderbolt.” Angel approaches the impact ashes, extends her right hand, and compartmentalizes an Aun-crafted glove extended from the bangle upon her wrist. What the … Is that a … My mind is taken for a whirl upon noticing top-quality Tyrfing Armor: battle suits worn by the military’s elite Tyrfing Knights; a subdivision of the military charged with high-level espionage, reconnaissance, and seizure operations. No way! Angel was … a Tyrfing Knight!? “Sense anything, Ms. Love?”
Angel closes her eyes, and immediately receives a multitude of visions pertaining to the location of our culprit. “Just a second, everyone. I’m getting something …” Tyrfing is a highly-concentrated Aun-based alloy crafted from the synthesis of Aun and the cerebrospinal fluid of high-level Carnage spawns. An evolution in C-Technology that transforms humans into Carnage-like super soldiers. The only reason Angel isn’t dead right now is because of the Hervarar pill needed to physically and mentally nullify the strain of Tyrfing armor. Hervarar is synthesized from the choroid plexuses of Carnage spawns, along with natural chemicals and resources that nullify its side-effects … This dame is piping with surprises, I fascinate in the corner of my mind, as Angel reaches a conclusion. “I’ve pinpointed the culprit’s location.” She stands from her research point, faces us and reports her findings. “95432 Wiltshire Boulevard, Room 326. That’s an office in the old Élivágar Records building.”
“The late Helena Vanaheimr’s recording studio?” That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. According to the September 20XX-Year 0 edition of Hveðrungr magazine, Élivágar Records is listed as “# 1” on “the 24 most haunted locations in the new world”. It’s said that the spirits of Ms. Vanaheimr, her production crew, and the murderers among their numbers still haunt that place to this day. The lattermost is said to attack anyone who enters the joint on sight. “So, if we want to get the skinny on the culprit, we’ll have to go there, huh?” Angel affirms my query with a nod, cementing my worries. “I don’t like where this is going, but it wouldn’t be the first time we had to deal with spirits. So, everyone, if we’re forced to fight, please … don’t hold back.”
My party nods adamantly. “Right.”
Helena Vanaheimr was a Neo-Eurasian jazz vocalist with a vocal range spanning three octaves. Often referred to as “the Woman of the Hour,” “the Queen of Hearts” and “Lady Helena,” she was noted for her purity of tone, impeccable diction, phrasing and intonation, and a "horn-like" improvisational ability, particularly in her scat singing. Over the course of her illustrious 40-year recording career, she sold 9.5 billion copies of her 30-plus albums, won 33 Grammy Awards, 22 New World Awards, was awarded the Neo-World Medal of Arts by Primarch Chevalier and the Hierarchical Medal of Excellence by Grand Bishop Louganis. During her marriage to bass player Kermit Fyris-Wolds, she gave birth to Neo-R&B icon “Showtime” Kermit Fyris-Wolds, Jr., who became an international megastar by the age of 12. Angel listed Ms. Vanaheimr as her second leading inspiration to enter the world of music and stage performance, hoping to one day live up to the shadow of what the late Woman of the Hour was in her prime … Can’t argue with anyone on this. Ms. Vanaheimr was one incredible vocalist, and many of her signatures can still be heard during late night work shifts, “filling everyone with that good feeling”.
~ You’ve gotta love that g-o-o-d feeling,
The kind that makes you scream and shout;
You can’t ignore that g-o-o-d feeling,
So, get out of your seat, and dance all night long. ~
Her most notable signature is “Good Feeling,” dedicated to the road she traveled towards success, as well as the treasures and merits that came along the way. Seriously, who could blame the woman for being happy, overcoming odds that made her feel “that good feeling”? Ironically, even in the darkest of hours, this signature gave people hope, even if it sounded as if she was gleefully boasting about her success. For me and several of my deceased friends, it brought us great joy; none of us could ignore “the feeling” that song gave us, so much that we grabbed a partner and started cutting rug like no tomorrow … Don’t mean to brag, but we got the chance to meet Ms. Vanaheimr two years before the murder-suicide that claimed her life and several others. She was so kind to us. So inspirational … If you have a dream, don’t give up on it. You’re a megastar. Never accept anything less, and even if you don’t make it the first time, continue on, make ‘em shake and bake, honey. Many people tried to stop me, and I’m here to tell you: give them *exactly* what they weren’t expecting *with resilience*. You dig, smooth coolers? That laugh … that cheery laugh and that beautiful smile … Ms. Vanaheimr was definitely someone worthy of the pseudonym “Queen of Hearts”.The fool … He’s hiding in this building. As promised amid her aerial pursuit, the White Witch stands outside the studio, having followed the Vanir’s guidance via their contract. She spectates atop the neighboring Delaine Goodies patisserie just across the street, unseen by the glum populace of this alleged “ghost street”. I can sense his trepidation. He knows I’m here, and he’s remaining hidden because of it. “So, this is the place, huh?” Unfamiliar voices from the streets below earn the White Witch’s attention, having not heard anyone speak until just now. She adjusts her shades at our sight. Hmm? Curiouser and curiouser … The dame can sense our power from her perch point. These people … Who are they? “Must’ve been nice in it’s day.” As Adina was never a post-old world jazz lover, she doesn’t know much about Ms. Vanaheimr. However, that doesn’t stop her from tagging along and lending a helping hand. “Unfortunately, yeah … the place is all boarded up.”
DeeDee’s right---this joint is boarded and restricted to the public. After garnering an ugly reputation years back, some 30-plus lives claimed in the process, Élivágar Records is approached and entered with precaution. Even the best paranormal researchers were either terrified or killed in this place, but … If we don’t enter Élivágar Records, more people will die. As of 3:26 PM, we now have little time left before this happens. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” I step forward and force a board from its nailing with my bare hands, which doesn’t take much effort. Automail prosthetics have their advantages, even if you have to polish them every night with tuning oil. “Alright, should be good to go.” I place the hardwood board aside the leftward Aun-glass door, which was cracked open during a previous haunting. “Humph. Looks like some serious proof of purchase there, folks. Anyway.” I push the door open by its handle, and hold it open for my party. “In we go, everyone.”
The White Witch observes our entry from her perch point undetected. (“What in the new world do those unduly *cretins* think they’re doing?”) She contemplates with annoyance, ironically displaying [inconceivable] expressions of concern. (“They mustn’t interfere.”) In the blink of an eye, the White Witch disappears in a flash of Cloudwaves, exiting her perch point with style. There’s no telling what she’ll do to interfere with our case … And, I’m afraid to find out what that is.
They’ve entered the building. As expected from the famous Alistair Detective Agency. In the deepest depths of darkness, the faceless purger senses our arrival. He wanted us here … I don’t understand how our involvement will alleviate his problems, but at this point I don’t know much about them, so I’m incapable of supporting my initial statement. Theoretically, that is. However, his persistence succeeded in earning our attention. That much I can say. Two elite soldiers are in their company. Hmm … No wonder why their progression was hasty. Of course, he’s mentioning the detection of Angel and Adina. Apparently, the hammer of Þórr [Mjölnir] has the power to enable extrasensory abilities not mentioned in any text. To sense someone’s presence from a remote or local position takes some serious hocus-pocus, folks; not your average magic show. Humph. So be be it … Mjölnir sparks electricity, once again revealing the faceless purger’s ringed left fist. Find me, quickly. You’re almost here … Eli.
Upon entering the recording studio, the stench of mildew and aged construction stings our nostrils, all except for Roman. Magia-sapiens have it good, not being able to sense this funky stuff. Small, dissipated specks of dust trail the air, which is cleared by an in-built ventilation system in Roman’s palms. This makes the atmosphere breathable compared to how it initially was when we entered. I know people of the old world would find this kind of stuff incredible, but for the Alistair Detective Agency, it’s just another day on the job. “Area cleared. Deactivating VS engines.” My partner does the deed by automatically deactivating his VS engines, and closing the ducts in his palms. He places his gloves back on, and takes a step back to observe the area. “That was about a decade worth of unkempt filth. All jokes aside, this place is in horrible shape.”
“That’s understandable in more ways than one.” Angel proceeds deeper into the studio, leading the way according to her knowledge of the place. “Follow me. It may get a little messy from here, but I know my way around this place.” What else could you expect from Ms. Vanaheimr’s # 1 fan, I contemplate amid following my party through the derelict studio. Figures she’d know her way around the joint. A true fan does their research, so I can tell she’s the real deal. “This place was constructed six years prior to the age of Alistair’s legendary martyrdom. In its prime, Élivágar was a powerhouse of a building, said to have sustained itself through the entirety of the CD incident’s Cloudwave admission. It was managed by song.”
“Managed by song? You mean …”
“Yes, Roman. Helena’s voice gave life to this building.”
Adina wittily fascinates at the sound of such an incredible maintenance procedure. “So, you mean to tell me some old-timey scatter’s voice maintained an entire building? That sounds like something out of a fairytale, Angie.”
“Believe it or not, Walden. This building … It lost its life a long time ago.” Unbeknownst to us, Angel’s employing the usage of her Tyrfing Armor’s goggle sensory, which gives her a 100% accurate reading of the overall area. It’s alchemically spread across her temples and orbit from her earrings, bearing a likeness to the compound eyes of a rhinoceros beetle. For a dame dressed in a white silk, diamond-studded dress with matching slippers, styling a long silk scarf around her shoulders and arms, yeah … You wouldn’t expect that kind of stuff from her. “I’m detecting two major energy generators in the vicinity. 1: the apparent existence of high-level paranormal activity spanning the entire building; and, 2: a chief invoker of otherworldly energies located somewhere beneath this floor.” Only a novice would overlook the former, but the latter … That’s something only an expert would detect, I contemplate, before our progression is halted by the sound of suffering within the building. Ghastly suffering that sounds like bloody murder. Wait, don’t tell me that’s … “The spirits. They know we’re here.”
“As do I, cretins!” Suddenly, the White Witch enters the scene from a Cloudway that appears and disappears several feet in front of us, reinforcing my party’s defenses. Roman compartmentalizes into his Brave rod form, which I take into my right hand; Adina draws her Sleipnir yo-yo from the holster on her left hip; and, Angel automatically suits-up in her Tyrfing Armor that bears the resemblance of the aforesaid arthropod. “My apologies, everyone, but I can’t allow you to pass.”
Roman’s groove gem glows, conveying his argument. “Why, are you in cahoots with the Garner City abductor?”
“No, but it sounds as if we’re not enemies. You bear ill-feelings against him, correct?”
“Unfortunately, Bruja Blanca [White Suit].” Adina’s Latina blood simmers with [potentially lethal] aggression. “So, stand aside. We’re on a mission to stop this punk, and we don’t need some rogue getting in our way.”
“My contract forbids such compliances. You see, I am also charged with an important mission, so!” The White Witch conjures a blade constructed from Cloudflames in her right hand, reinforcing our defenses once again. “I can’t allow you the chance to *get in my way*.” Technically, there’s four of us and one of her, so we have the numerical advantage here. However, I contemplate, before sensing a massive aura from the dame. She’s strong. Commanding the Cloudways like that … This may get ugly. “Alright! En garde, cretins!” In a flash of Cloudwaves, the White Witch dances around the area, using the environment to her advantage. She’s nimble, which forces us to pursue her. Angel’s Tyrfing Armor gives her a leaping advantage, as it multiplies her physical capabilities a hundredfold. Holy shit, I [mentally] fascinate. Amazing! Angie just leapt fifteen feet into the air! “My, my, I see we have a *cheeky little witch* in our midst.” The White Witch gleefully accepts Angel’s fervency. “Fine! En garde, Saucy!”
The two empowered dames engage in an aerial struggle of fervent techniques: punches, kicks, sword swipes, evasions and parries, counters and combinations; the stuff epic battles are made of. So, *this* is how the Tyrfing Knights get down, eh, I fascinate once again, mesmerized by Angel’s vigor. “Boys, over here!” Adina earns my attention from afar, revealing her usual strategizing-on-the-run method. “Assist Angel from your standpoint. I’ll cover the defense, you two intercept Bruja Blanca when the time is right.” You may be wondering why Adina’s speaking out loud instead of discreetly relaying this to me. Well, pay close attention to the sly look on her pretty looker … Yeah, she has a plan B. (“Looks like Bruja Blanca is an expert fencer, but this leaves me guesstimating her other talents.”) Fortunately, Angel escapes a horizontal slash that could’ve bifurcated her, giving everyone a chance to witness a powerful follow-up technique on behalf of the White Witch: she blasts a concussion wave of Cloudflames at the distanced Angel from her right hand, which gives me a chance to move in for the counter-offense. Roman compartmentalizes into his Sentinel mode, as I run forward and directly charge into the Cloudflames shield-first! My intervention breaks through the Cloudflames, as Magia-sapiens are Cloudenergy and Carnage-resistant. (“This gives me a chance …”) Adina tosses Sleipnir mid-dash, and manages to coil the White Witch’s legs together. Alright, DeeDee got the tootsie, I fascinate once again, before the White Witch disappears in a flash of Cloudwaves. Dammit! She escaped!
Sleipnir returns to its caster, as Angel, Roman and I ground and regroup. Forgive me, cretins, but you must fall here, the White Witch haunts us from all corners, before random Cloudflame pillars begin razing through the studio, shaking and ruining its foundations. Goddess of war and death, banish all before me to the pits of Inferno! I lift my partner into the air, [automatically] activating a secondary form of his Sentinel mode: Expansion Gear, which fends enemy assaults from all corners. This enables us to secure Angel and Adina, as well as ourselves, against the White Witch’s berserker attack. Humph. Sneaky little wizards. But, I’m not done yet, the White Witch taunts us, before returning to her original self, which prompts Roman to retract and return to his initial shield form. Upon doing so, we’re immediately introduced to the saddening damage done to the recording studio. “Why you …” Angel, pissed beyond reason, snaps at the White Witch. “You heartless, shameless, subservient little *bitch*! You just ruined a *national landmark* with your *senseless showboating*!”
The White Witch laughs at Angel’s anger, taking it as amusement rather than offense. She deliberately desecrates an entire building hosting generations of unforgettable memories, and laughs about it, I [mentally] fume, having never met someone like this dame before. Angie’s right. The White Witch is one hell of a shameless tootsie. “Humph. Leave the dead in the Afterworlds. Helena Vanaheimr and her production crew are long gone from this building.” The White Witch retreats her Cloudblade, folds her arms and conveys a sense of remorse. “No life is within these walls. Only faded memories of a legend, and the men and women who aided her along the way remain. Oh, by the way … move!” In the blink of an eye, a surge of lightning explodes through the floor, prompting everyone to leap for a safe distance! Angel, Adina, my partner and I crash several feet away from the impact zone to the north. The White Witch crashes in the opposite direction, but immediately recovers at the same time as we do, to observe the ascension of … the purger! “So, we finally decided to show our face, huh? You’ve got guts, for a fool.”
The purger glides upon lightning currents that veil his entire frame with an electrifying gold. His hair is spiked and whitened, an obvious side-effect to Þórr’s influential power. Barefoot, bare-chested, toned and tattooed, donning the ragged pants of a war-spent soldier, this savage abductor threateningly brandishes Mjölnir in his left hand. “History cannot and *will not* repeat itself. The reincarnated Aesir have chosen me to realize this truth.” The purger taunts us by observing the hammer of thunder in his grasp, relishing in its dominant power. “As you can see, Þórr’s blessings are mine to control. I will use this power to cleanse the new world, paving the way for an even greater one … in the image of the Aesir!” This guy is out of his mind, I [mentally] observe aside my comrades. And he said “reincarnated”. Is he saying the Aesir … are alive? But, didn’t they … According to Midgard legend, the Aesir died alongside Alistair during the CD incident. The only proof of their existence lies in the artifacts known as the Aesir Weapons. Mjölnir is the strongest of these artifacts, and from the looks of things, this mug can’t handle it’s power, regardless of what he says. “By the way, agent of the Vanir.” The purger’s address reinforces the White Witch’s defenses, as she re-materializes her Cloudblade in her right hand. “You said you were going to kill me. Did you change your mind already?”
The White Witch adjusts her sunglasses with her left palm, cold, calm and composed. “I have not reneged on my promise to kill you. Be a good little fool, and don’t confuse observation with reconsideration. Furthermore.” The White Witch removes her sunglasses, with dissipate and fade in a flash of Cloudenergy, revealing her silver eyes. “What have you done with the abducted? Their auras have not disappeared from the new world … Talk. Now!” With a balling of her left fist, the White Witch materializes yet another Cloudblade in her free grasp, and poses stylishly. “Or, I’ll enjoy punishing you to death!”
“Stand in line, tootsie!” In case they forgot, we’re also here to accomplish the latter task: to solve the case of the Garner City disappearances, ensure the safety of the people, and now---to recover the hammer of thunder. Roman automatically compartmentalizes into his Brave mode, which I carry over my shoulders with laid-back swagger. “The Alistair Detective Agency and their loyal affiliates will be solving this case. Vanir, agents, power-hungry scumbags---none will stand in our way.” Adina and Angel reinforce their defenses, as I take a few steps forward with my signature saunter. “In this city, the next and the next after that, we *are* the law. GPD couldn’t cut it and won’t put in the effort to do so. You got two of our united nations’ finest behind us here, and they’re itching for a fight, just as much as we are. So!” I cut into a sudden sprint! My speed takes the purger and the White Witch by surprise! “It’s time … for the unlimited climax!” With a grand leap of faith, my partner and I soar the airways of Élivágar Records with the greatest of ease! “And, bada boom, baby!”
Unfortunately, we didn’t know what type of trouble we were dealing with at the time. The Aesir and their weapons are a force to be reckoned with, and both the Alistair Detective Agency and our speeding companions are about to learn this first-hand. For now, we’ll bring this case to a To Be Continued, since the best part has yet to come. Hope you enjoyed this edition of C: Files, folks. Oh, and don’t worry, this case will be closed before you know it. I bet you $$400 bills on it.
Until next time, this is Detective Elias Crane … Case Adjourned.