Light

IC: "Not much, tramp," Robin said, then suddenly put her hand to her mouth, closing her eyes tightly. "Reflex." She glanced at Ayane, watching her clean up the blood and trying to get a read on how the other girl felt. "I can tell, I thought having a person to wipe your nose died out with the end of monarchy. Guess I'm referring to you as Queen from here on out... Mentally of course," she added quickly.

IC: Operation New Chick was a go. Well, TECHNICALLY speaking, that wasn't what her assignment was codenamed. But she never really did pay attention to those names. They tended to be boring or stupid puns, not like the killer ones she came up with. You know. Robins are birds, and... ... Anyway. She smirked slightly as she walked down the hall of Horizon's base, a slight skip in her step. Looking around the halls of her new home in resplendent shades of gray, gray, more gray, grey (which is like gray but British, and she'd been to London during the rain, so they KNEW gloomy), and a color that could only be described as "drabbish" made the military part of her immediately comfortable. The Hunk was in the storage hanger, she had her room assignment, everything was just plain peachy–except those walls, a quick spin reinforced that everything around was that beautiful drabbish– and... Hold up. That girl certainly had a presence. Well, both of them did. One, a girl standing with obvious military discipline, the other in a white outfit, green eyes, tall. Striking. Maybe... She should introduce herself? The one was obviously her commander, by the description she'd been given. The other must be one of her squadmates, or someone else. Robin calmed her walk and stepped up to them, saluting. Not her regular style, but who knows how this woman treated her subordinates. "Commander White, I'm..." She paused for a second. Pike, spear, javelin... Robin continued, a note of eureka on her first word. "Lance Corporal Robin Hartwell reporting for duty!"

Hey y'all. What's up. Preapproved, though with some pretty heavy consequences. Name: Robin Hartwell Age: 21 Gender: Female Occupation: Military pilot, rank E3. I think. Appearance: First thing you’d think when you first saw Robin would be “small”. She’s a scant 5’2”, her brown hair spiked to add a few inches to her height in the hope of not being totally overlooked. Combined with how lean her muscle is, she doesn’t exactly seem like the imposing, tough military type—and her brown, slightly too large, sympathetic eyes really, really don’t help. Her fingers move with an uncanny deftness, though, and her eyes are always on her surroundings. Her cheekbones aren’t overly pronounced and her nose is slightly smaller than average. She’s the pale ivory of someone who spends nearly all their time in a UV tinted cockpit, just blessed enough to have a good complexion, and she keeps her body at a reasonable level of fitness. Outfit-wise, she normally wears a plain, red leather jacket, a white t-shirt, and jeans while off duty, and the normal mech pilot uniform otherwise. Suggestions that she is trying to imitate James Dean will be met with a long, silent look, then a shrug and “yeah, pretty much.” Equipment: Standard combat pistol, knives, aid kit, a rifle and comm unit. Standard stuff really. Her Raptor, as well, where she stores rations and some other necessary supplies. Skills: A deft pilot and excellent fighter, Robin is practically built for driving the physically demanding Raptor she calls her own. Her reaction time and dexterity are by far her highest abilities, and she’s spent a lot of time training to resist the high accelerations inherent in her work. Personality: Robin’s a joker, teasing and harassing her teammates if given the opportunity, though she starts to care about them a little too easily. She won’t hit where it hurts, despite her bluster and carrying on. She’s loud and proud, her mouth making her seem larger than she actually is, while her almost satirical level of “Murika” conceals whatever she really feels about the entire situation with the Ark Union and outer colonies. She’s a good soldier, sure, but good luck getting anything personal out of her—and even then, she might be lying about it. “Truth’s just another word for not MAN ENOUGH to lie.” Bio: “American made, baby.” Robin was born in and raised in the American Midwest, where “everything’s flat but the women.” Other than that she doesn’t say much about her upbringing, apart from making occasional references to her days “on the farm with Wayne and Hoss, chuckin’ hay and leering at chicks,” though whether Wayne and/or Hoss existed is a matter of contention—considering she lived on a corn farm and never really had livestock nor a reason to “chuck hay”. At any rate, after leaving life in the plains of Nebraska she joined the Federation military, partially because both her parents had been enlisted and partially because she had nothing else to do. She wasn’t exactly a physical or mental prodigy, with not much hope of college beyond a local community one. Working her way up to the mech pilot program took time, but at last she’d found what she was good at—and now she can take to the skies whenever she pleases. Weakness: Robin SUCKS at out of suit combat. She’s decent enough at a distance with a rifle and her aim is good, but in hand to hand she’ll lose to bigger, stronger fighters—a class of which nearly everyone is a member. She’s dextrous, but not strong. On a character level, she’s somewhat too soft to be a great soldier, and has something of a complex about her height. Profile for Arsenal Walkers: Base Model: FAW-022 Raptor Designation: Scavenger Eagle, though how Robin refers to it depends on her mood. Names have included Hunk o Junk and FAWful Day. Appearance: If anything, the Eagle seems to be almost intentionally average, if lightly built. Its height and plating level are practically the same as any other of its model, though they’ve been replaced with a lighter material—not quite as strong as the normal metal alloy, but more electrically resistant and easier to change directions with. The body seems to be the only normally weighted and built part, seemingly a paradox given the small size of its pilot. All of that extra space and weight is taken up by equipment that defrays the effects of sudden velocity changes and intense air maneuvers, even beyond the normal array in other Raptors. As far as paint goes, the armor is tinted a metallic teal with a small bird hatching from an egg on its chest. Armaments: The normal head mounted machine guns of a Raptor mech, but shortswords are on the legs instead of combat knives and the rifle is meant for long range fighting rather than close encounter skirmishes. Weakness: The extra shock absorbers and faster maneuvering speed come at the cost of weaker than normal plating. If Robin’s reaction time fails, she’s likely to take a hit the Eagle can’t recover from. Pilot: Robin Hartwell

OOC: Let's finally get this #### show on the road. IC: Shadow King Images filtered into her mind. Pawns, moving furniture, preparing the massive room for the ball, ordering supplies. Everything was proceeding exactly as she'd planned it. But the orchestration wasn't her own, every situation she saw coming in through the unstoppable, irrepressible gloom that dominated her mind. Even the garb of the White Pawns looked stained, looked dirty... Still... When the Abyss stares into you, you stare long into the Abyss. She could see what the King had planned, and... She had to appreciate it. A Bishop returned, smiling slightly. "The decorations are exactly as you instructed, madam, and the food and drink has been prepared." Lynae felt her lips spread into a fanged smile, the King's shadows pulling up strings at the edge of her mouth. She--he--still had so much to do... A date to arrange, a dress to buy, a few more preparations to make. But the important ones were done, the gala was being decorated according to the right design... The King, as much as he ever could be... Was happy. And his happiness gave the remnant of her mind something of freedom, some ability to escape the utter suffocation that his influence drowned her thoughts in. If only-- She gasped and stumbled, her eyes going blurry as she supported herself with one arm against the wall, her breath suddenly deserting her. At least... That's what it felt like. Her vision receded, tunneling away, small black bars filtering in from the edges, chains joining them, barring her from the window that the world was becoming... And she was back in her cell, trapped by her own mind as the King took back absolute control. *** And the Gala was in progress. She was wearing an emerald green dress, probably intended to be upper thigh length on its original wearer... But it feel to her knees. No matter, the King's goal was not seduction, not today. Waiters were in motion, bringing refreshments to all those attending. With the pull of puppet strings, she glanced around, searching for someone in particular...

OOC: Stannis from Po. IC: The walk from Po-Koro was long, and Stannis had a lot of time to think. He hadn't seen the others, not for a long time... Not since his self imposed exile, actually, since he'd returned to his own Wahi. Not since the dream, not since his mask had changed... Not since he'd decided that he wasn't right, wasn't worthy to lead the Maru anymore--not that they were likely to accept his leadership. His lips spread into a rueful smile. He'd lied, lied to his team, had the hubris to circumvent destiny, then had disappeared back to the desert. They hadn't looked for him, hadn't really come calling during that time... The mad prophet, on his own personal hermitage, painting pictures of fallen heroes. Of visions destroyed by deceit, of impressions of whatever that unnameable and unmentionable evil was that his mask had created through the Makuta's destruction, his pictures all had one common feature. One figure in darkness, one tempted by fear, by love... By what it didn't matter, but tempted, the temptation causing them to flaunt destiny, either to not truly defeat an enemy or to join it. Kopaka in some... Himself in others. The market was bustling around him, a few people noticing the presence of the Toa Maru of Stone, others too busy in their own business to see a onetime hero. Then he bumped into someone moving hastily through the crowd, almost seeming to try to become lost in it... A familiar face, one he could have recognized anywhere. "Reordin," he said, then stopped. How does one end a long year of malevolent silence?

NPC: "Lieutenant Terenor Alinkon of the Ihu-Koronan Highlanders, sir. I've been sent by Ahka Tamara with all powers necessary to forge an alliance with your city and discuss the problem of Ko-Koro." The Ko-Toa smiled uneasily. "Being as we are, somewhat cut off from the rest of the island by it... We feel its fall particularly acutely."

NPC: Terenor Alinkon, Ihu-Koronan Lieutenant The Lieutenant snapped awake, his Kakama-masked face turning upward at the sound of the door opening. It seemed like he'd been waiting for years, but Onepu was finally free. "Sir, excuse me!" He said, sprinting up to the Onu-Matoran. "I must speak with you."

Reviews for XMDN here! Don't be too mean, I don't think my panda heart can take it. As time goes on, more of what happened here will be revealed. Have fun, hope you enjoy it!

Now for ten years, we've been on our own. The radio in the corner was blasting out Don McLean. Part of a block party weekend or something. He rubbed his eyes, squinting at the light coming in through the window, licking dry lips. And moss grows fat on a rolling stone. He had a headache. But that's not how it used to be... The radio exploded, his headache receding after the intial spike from the sound of the detonating speakers. His toothbrush was somewhere around... He stumbled into the bathroom, nearly tripping over a drumset, splashing water on his face, reaching for his toothbrush. His mouth felt grimy. The toothbrush helped. He spat, watching the running water swirl down the drain, turning it off. His phone was buzzing. He ignored it, pouring some cold coffee from the pot he made the previous night and drinking it in one gulp, grimacing at the flavor. Some of his hair was falling in his eyes. He ran his hand through it, sending it into disordered spikes, pulling a black, rubber plated riding suit on, grabbing his helmet from where he'd dropped it when he came into his apartment the previous night. Plus side of a one-room apartment. Not many places to lose things. He paused at the door, looking back toward the phone on the counter and sighing, picking it up and sticking it into a pocket on his suit. He didn't turn the screen on, no reason to check the messages right now. The elevator creaked downward to the garage, pausing for a full twenty seconds at the bottom before the doors finally decided to screech open. He winced, the sound of the elevator bringing on a new throb of pain in his head as he stepped out, a plain black motorcycle sitting in a near parking spot. Well, it looked black. Bits of the original green paintjob still showed through, but repeated scorchings, scrapes, and general abuse had fractured it off. "This'll be the day that I die," he sang softly, the spark plugs deep inside the machinery of the cycle reattaching, the engine roaring to life. He got on slowly, pulling his helmet on, latching the airtight seal onto his suit. It was surprising how useful that seal was, especially because he could cut out a lot of sound if he wanted to. As the shout of the engine faded into blissful silence, he sighed-then grimaced at the smell of bad coffee on his breath. Oh well. Beast couldn't be picky. *** "Soundbyte and Remus will attempt to distract any enemy combatants while Errant tries to sneak in and free the hostages from behind. Errant, I'm downloading the blueprints for the building to your phone, along with my suggested route. Soundbyte, Remus: Be loud, be obnoxious, fight hard but not too aggressively. We don't want them getting worried and executing anyone before Errant can get to them." He nodded. True, a drunk didn't paint such a pretty picture... But Beast looked old, grey patches showing up in his blue fur, his catlike eyes weary from years of worry. Remus was immortal, so of course she looked the same. Alistair was still in his twenties, still looked good, their personal Knight Errant a tall, brown haired man with polite speech and smile. Might as well be the face of their little triumvirate. The X-Men. Down to a drunk, a knight, and a wolf. *** The X-Men. Down to a few seconds. He was running, his powers stretched to their absolute maximum, the entire universe creaking past him in slow motion, light starting to burst through the walls of the medical clinic- Reaching for the black-haired boy with him, gold brooch on his chest- Grabbing him, continuing on, dashing through the open door, glow melting through the room behind him. He had to go faster. His body started to tear under the strain of being yanked almost entirely out of the timestream. The light was burning closer. Faster. It was at his heels as he ran. FASTER. Time was disintegrating as the light caught up, burning him away, agonizing pain tearing through him so unmercifully slowly, tearing through his burden- The X-Men. Down to a few seconds. He was running.

IC: "And I don't accept it." I smiled slightly as I entered the room, straightening back to my full height after Kass closed the door. I pulled the backpack off again, undoing the strap and pulling both bundles out of it, setting them on the plain wooden table that every hotel room seemed to have. Sure enough, there were spots where the cloth had slipped and metal was peeking through. I sighed, touching the strings bound around the fabric, absorbing their plant fibers with barely a thought. The wrappings fell to the sides, revealing two beautifully crafted swords, both made out of the same material my katana and Kass' talons were--but there, the similarities ended. The larger of the two weapons was extraordinarily well balanced, a hand and a half sword that likely felt as though it was only a longsword. Emphasis on likely. Neither I nor Kass could actually use the thing. It was a shame too: it was very, very sharp and covered in etchings, one side of the blade a darker alloy than the other, a set of scales engraved on the hilt where the crossguard met the handle. Of course, after Kass' experience with her talons, there wasn't really any guarantee that what the sword currently looked like was what it actually was. Same thing went for the lighter, smaller blade next to it. No telling if its understated elegance was real, if the light runic engravings on its blade and pommel were its actual appearance. "So... Where do you want to look today?"

IC: I stared at the backpack. I did a lot of that, to be totally honest, and as important as it was to me... It didn't look like much. Plain, dirty green cloth, wooden frame and reinforcement (made by yours truly), flap that strapped down over the top, numerous other pockets and straps covering its surface irregularly, most of which were not square or stitched with much skill. To be frank, the thing looked nasty, both in quality and cleanliness. But in a way, that was the point. Dirty old knapsack, not even worth stealing for the ability to carry things in it, carried by a Ve-Toa wearing a tattered old cloak and wearing bulky, stained and scratched wooden armor, katana in a battered wooden scabbard. I didn't paint a pretty picture, but I looked like what I was: A wanderer. And in a place as rife with wanderers and wayward heroes as Mata Nui, I wasn't likely to attract attention. Especially with my companion. Kassiopeia. Midnight black with yellow splashes,big heterochromatic eyes, plates that looked like the ice of Ko-Wahi-And insistent that she wear her weapon unconcealed, the golden metal flashing in ever the slightest light. Nope. Wasn't going to attract attention to myself with her around. Who cares about the grungy wanderer next to that? I sighed, grabbing up the backpack and slinging it over my shoulder, pulling my fraying hood up and stepping out of my inn room, walking down the hall to the one Kass had picked and knocking on the door, listening to the slight clink of the two wrapped objects in my pack. Would have to rewrap them...

Raz I KNOW where Edgardo comes from and I KNOW his history of breaking universes soooooooo gonna have to wait about that while I think. Aramis +2

IC: The Hunt, meanwhile, had moved back into the safety of the robot side of the mountain, taking its injured pilot and her more injured cargo with it. It finally landed in the deep, black iron recesses of the summitt, powering down as robot drones rushed forward to begin repairs and take Eli away to a place where he could be healed and confined. God, did she wish she was the unconscious one, Christina thought as a drone helped her limp toward a medic station that had become all too familiar. Why couldn't she just faint from pain? Excruciating-leg rammed back into its socket, cast pushed over it, mechanical, accurate, but entirely ruthless instruments stiching, cutting, patching up small cuts, wrapping her hip, ensuring the joint wouldn't move-metal digits examining the places where flesh was bonded to steel, ensuring everything checked out, raking over raw skin and cuts, cold travelling into her bones- *** An old, battered Stealth Hunter stared at Christina from across the hall as she sat in Holding Block 11, its torn and burnt husk barely held together by the remnants of a black and green paint job, the empty cockpit half destroyed and twisted beyond recognition. She swore she could still smell scorched flesh if she got too close to it. Her scorched flesh. A smile. At least she'd have a place to haunt if she died. Her attention returned to the task at hand, which was to peel off the ruined combat suit she'd worn in the battle and put on something more presentable. She was entertaining guests, after all. She grimaced as she slid the legs of the suit off of her cast, then winced more as she pulled a pair of shorts back on. #### hip. Her shirt, at least, was easy enough to get off. No major injuries there. She faced away from Block 100. Elijah probably wouldn't wake up, but there was no reason to take the chance. She pulled the shirt over her head, careful to avoid snagging it on the thick metallic cables that came out of the base of her skull and journeyed back into her flesh at the top of her spine, travelling down to her mechanical arm under the skin. She sighed, rubbing her shoulder at the tangled and twisted line of flesh and steel where her arm hadn't quite healed right. Her right side was patchwork, metal scars taking the place of a small piece of skin here, a destroyed bit of flesh there. She was missing a toe. The robots hadn't seen a need to replace it. Only with her eye had they taken extreme caution, likely due to the delicate mass of neurons that controlled it. The mechanical, glowing green eye in her right socket and the plate that surrounded it were exquisite craftsmanship, bonded to her pale skin beautifully. And that was when Eli woke up, right as she was pulling a t-shirt on, just in time to catch a glimpse of the irregular, scarred hybrid of metal and flesh that made up Christina's right side. She turned to him, as if sensing he was awake. "Admiring your handiwork?"

IC: "Aye. Fate, it almost seems like–" "They've breached the well!" The innkeeper of the Yawning Portal came running in, her eyes alight with terror. "The eyes, they've burst through the shield and–" The wall behind her blasted inward, sending her flying, a massive beholder floating in, eyestalks aiming toward those assembled. Several smaller ones followed, all taking aim at the assembled patrons. Terenor swore, reaching for a mace at his waist– that wasn't there. They had caught him unawares, all he had was Sunbeam, and... No, he couldn't use that. He dove behind the counter, looking for a weapon–

IC: Deep in the recesses of her mind, the darkness lurked, its tendrils running into every crevice of her brain, feeding on her memories, on her emotions, on her hate, on her. She was ravenous–she was always ravenous now, that creature’s voracious hunger pounding through her brain, dominating her mind–she had to find it food, had to create hate. Had to keep it from consuming her anymore. She looked down at her hand, pale white, normal, then glanced into her car mirror. Ice blue eyes, now pure black, the crystalline, azure beauty now frozen pollution. The King had her, his ethereal grip tightened around her brain, her head pounding. It hurt. She could feel shadows running down her spine, along her nerves, everywhere. She didn’t fight it, not anymore, all that led to was pain, pain so excruciating she couldn’t bear to take anymore– A metallic shape came hurling out of the sky, the King forcibly turning Lynae’s attention to the metal humanoid that had landed in front of her, aiming his repulsor glove at her face–if only she had her sword–and at will a black, shadowy mass appeared in her left hand, solidifying into a long blade. Her other hand snapped forward as the darkness wrenched control of her, a massive blast of gloom coming out of it and throwing the drone backward into a building. The shade reached into her legs, propelling her forward as fast as her physiology allowed her to run, her blade behind her, lancing out–slicing the drone in half as it tried to stand. She could get used to this…

IC: She was staying at home, actually. The rest of her team was gathering, and the text message containing her orders was blinking on her phone. But she was staying at home–and what was funny was that she was probably more terrified than any of the Avengers in New York. Her gaze fell to the life she was cradling in her arms, her worried blue and purple eyes meeting dark blue orbs that for once didn't have a look of mischief in them. Her lips kissed his forehead. She wasn't going. * * * Brando's face smoothed, features becoming softer and smile brightening. Out of impulse he leaned in and wrapped his arms around Natalie, putting his chin against her shoulder and kissing her cheek. "We're gonna have a kid," he repeated. "Yes. Yes, we are." She leaned against Brando, hands still on her stomach. "I'm g-going to b-be a mother..." "And you know what? You'll be a good one." * * * She wasn't going for so, so many reasons. She was afraid, yes. She didn't want to lose Brando a second time–losing him once was enough, and to a certain extent she wanted to be there with him, so she could protect him, at least know what was happening to him, keep him safe– but... She had other priorities, and Brando could survive on his own. * * * "I d-don't know. I g-grew up in an orphanage, Brando... I d-don't know..." "And my dad died in a plane crash. James' granddad burned alive, and so did Stark's father and Banner's father. Our parents don't define us, Nat. God help us if they did." Brando brushed hair softly away from Natalie's face. "You have a nice laugh. And a good head on your shoulders. And you have such a big heart. The kid's gonna be in good hands." * * * Clint was her child. He might have Brando's eyes and the same smartaleck nature, but... He was every bit as much hers as he was Brando's, and he wasn't going to grow up alone. She was going to stay here, going to watch Clint, going to hold him close to her and look into those dark blue eyes that were so, so close to his father's instead of going to help his dad–because she had to live. Her son was not going to grow up the same way she did. He was going to have at least one parent. And if that meant she had to stay home and keep herself safe instead of protecting her boyfriend... That was how it had to be. She was not going.

IC: His hand still looked the same, but he could still feel the antidermis burning and writhing against it, hear Skorm's cries in his ears as the curse was blasted out of him. As Skorm had said, the mask certainly did have quite the kick on it... But more than Skorm's words, his own echoed in his head. If only his sin could be cut out with the gift of a magic mask... He shook his head, shaking himself out of his reverie, watched the muscles in his hand flex as he moved each of his fingers in order, then his eyes moved up to the mural he had painted. Reo had told him to get a hobby–“Take up fingerpainting” was exactly what the Ko-Toa had said–and he had. Started painting, to be exact. Paints were easy to come by out here, and it was a hobby he could do alone. He hadn't been terribly good to start with, but practice had helped, and the mural he had painted of the Toa Mata on his wall looked reasonably okay. All six of them, with their weapons extended toward the symbol of the three virtues in the sky... Kopaka surrounded in black, the others in white. A knock at the door. Stannis stood, pulling a curtain across the mural, and going to answer the door–and that same Ba-Toa was there. “Truth be told, I did not expect to see you again. Most don't come back after that level of pain from a healing." IC: Ronah "Of course quite a few of them still live here. Kale and Naona, I'm fairly certain... I know that Captain Dehkaz does. I don't roll with the higher ups, though, so I don't know a lot of what's going on." Ronah sighed, shielding her eyes from the sun. "We're almost there, but it looks like he might have company."

IC: Ronah "I do, actually. But I think it'd be best for everyone's health and sanity if I pretend to think I'm escorting two newlyweds."

IC: "In my experience, coincidences don't exist, and this definitely isn't one." A veritable mountain of a man with a good-natured smile turned away from the bar toward the two who were talking. "Especially because I've had the dreams too." "Terenor Thomason, at your service," he said, holding out his hand. "I apologize for eavesdropping."

After consorting with my co-GM, you've been approved with all of those items on the condition that they aren't abused. Hawklight approved. You're free to post. This applies to you as well.

With the edit we discussed on Skype, Salazar approved. Prowl, I have no issues with a custom species XD do what you will.