Finished Stories: The Archangel Legacy (TAL)
Currently Posted Stories: Reality's Fangs (RF)

• 25Dec 09

  Merry Christmas!

  Or happy holidays if you want. That's about it. I'll try to write more tomorrow aout my haul. I've gotta get back to playing Modern Warfare 2 (sneak preview); the game is fun.

  P.S. Check out my profile on Youtube for a duet of videos released for Christmas time. As a bonus, you get to see how I relate with my younger brother (who makes his first--if I get my way--only appearance)! Enjoy!

  • Posted Dec 25, 2009 8:22 pm PT
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• 9Dec 09

  Megaman 10!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  CHECK IT OUT!

  Also, I've been on a frenxy of posting new chapters in my new story; check 'em out. The newest (posted yesterday) is below this.

  P.S. Hotel Dusk 2 is coming out as well, but I don't have a link to that.

  • Posted Dec 9, 2009 3:37 pm PT
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• 8Dec 09

  Torment - Chapter 3 -- Act of Death

  Cyrus' eyes flickered open, only to be met with complete darkness. Where am I? He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. It wasn't long before he could make out the faintest of shapes, though he wasn't happy with what he saw. Cyrus was trapped inside of a sealed box. What the hell? Suddenly, the world around Cyrus started shaking, throwing him off his feet. He got up, dusting himself off, just in time for one of the walls to rise, moonlight rushing in.

  "It's go-time, amigo." A non-descript man said, walking out of view. Cyrus cocked an eyebrow in confusion, and stepped out of the box, only to fall once again. He landed with a thud, kicking up a cloud of dust. A rumbling started behind him, and the box Cyrus was in, drove away. He looked back, watching it go. It was a truck. Why was he in a truck?

  "Definitely not home anymore..." He muttered. A burst of static erupted from Cyrus' pocket, and he instinctively reached into it. He pulled out a radio. Continuing to be confused, Cyrus lifted the radio to his ear; someone was trying to reach him.

  "Ready, Herr Scramble?" A Scottish-accented voice asked. Before Cyrus could think of something to say, or wonder why the person had called him Scramble, he lifted the radio to his mouth.

  "Target location in sight. Waiting for the green light." He said, staring at a large mansion that overlooked an even larger field of a front lawn.

  "Good show; glad to see you made it there in one piece." The voice continued. "Remember, the target is Alan P. Fontaine—kind of a short, pudgy fellow with neat, black hair." Cyrus scanned the radio, looking for the off-switch.

  "Got it. I'll take him out." He said, dropping the radio into his pocket. Wait—what did I just say? He wondered, appalled. It was then, that he noticed that he was wearing different clothes. He was wearing an onyx, long-sleeved tunic under a midnight-black, sleeveless jacket, made out of a raincoat-like material. A black belt cinched around his waist, over the jacket, holding a few black pouches, and his pants were now slightly loose, made of the same black material as his jacket. His shoes were comfy, and rubber-soled. Adorning his shoulders, was a black poncho, and black, silk gloves covered his hands. He also felt a strange weight on his clothes, but he shrugged it off. So far, the new clothes were the lowest on his list of confusion

  An instinct that Cyrus didn't know he had, commanded him to dash into a patch of tall grass, his movements completely silent. The tiniest sound—the scuff of a shoe—set him off. What am I doing? He thought, Where am I, and what is going on?! Cyrus peered through the blades of grass, watching a silhouette walk by, carrying a flashlight. Guards.

  He didn't know where he was, why there were guards, or what the strange conversation he had on the radio, meant. Did he agree to kill a man? No, I couldn't have. All he knew, was that he needed to somehow get away from there, though his every instinct told him not to. Despite his inner-turmoil, Cyrus got into a crouching position to better see the situation, only to feel a sharp object jabbing into his ribs. Taking care to not make any noise, Cyrus undid his jacket to grab the object. He opened the clothing, only to be met with multiple items; but not ones Cyrus liked.

  Hanging from various places inside his jacket, were tools of a deadly trade: two or three differently-sized knives; a bundle of what he vaguely recognized as throwing needles, or senbon; and lock picks, among others.

  Suddenly worried, Cyrus reached into the pouches on his belt. From one, he pulled out canisters he recognized from movies as smoke and flash grenades; and from another were kunai, throwing knives, of various shapes. The others held rations and other trinkets he couldn't place, but had the notion that he knew.

  What frightened him the most, was something slipped into a pouch on the back of his belt. Just by touching it, he knew exactly what it was: a pistol. In fact, when touching it, a torrent of facts entered his mind: it was a Beretta 93R, a selective-fire machine-pistol. It was very useful for close-quarters-combat and room-to-room infiltration. This one in particular had been fitted with a suppressor. Gunshots would only be as loud as a spit, and there would be no muzzle-flash. A weapon for assassination.

  Cyrus felt a lump forming in his throat, readjusting his clothes. He was equipped with enough weapons for a reasonably skilled man to take down a small army. Alone, in unfamiliar territory, Cyrus suddenly knew what he was doing. Not knowing how or why, Cyrus was now a hired killer.

  "Hey! Show yourself!" A voice yelled. Cyrus felt his skin go cold; he was seen. He stood up slowly, arms above his head. The guard from before had come back, only a couple feet away, holding a rifle trained on Cyrus' head.

  "Your name! Now!" The guard commanded. A million thoughts raced through Cyrus' mind, all vying for dominance. Rush him! No—wait for him to lower his guard! Shoot him! Above all others, however, one reigned supreme.

  "You can call me 'Scramble'." He said, his voice as cold as ice. "Ich werde deine Verdammnis sein." The words, no longer English, but the same language of the girl who started all this, struck the guard at his core. The guard stiffened for but a moment, though a moment was all Cyrus would need. Once again relying on the instinct he didn't know he had, Cyrus turned his back on the guard, lashing out with his foot, knocking the rifle into the air. Cyrus span, immediately dropping to the ground, on his back, drawing the Beretta. Dust flew into the air at the exact moment Cyrus pulled the trigger, three bullets burying themselves into the nameless guard's head. The encounter lasted seconds.

  Cyrus dropped the weapon, horrified. What had he done? His mind hung on the action, and the ease, of ending the man's life. Then, he remembered what he said.

  "I...am Scramble..." That memory triggered another.

  "'Ready, Herr Scramble?'" He muttered, the voice sounding familiar.

  "...Spiral!" He seethed. Spiral! The guy from before—the one with Alice! They kept calling me 'Scramble'! Finally, an idea came to Cyrus, a grim reality accompanying it. Scramble was an assassin. Alice and Spiral knew that, meaning they must have been accomplices. They put him here! The rage that teemed inside Cyrus when he fought Felix, returned in full-force. Alone in the night, Cyrus' crimson eyes shown an eerie light, reflecting the moonlight.

  "When I find you two, I'll get my answers!" He screamed. Shouts erupted from across the grassy expanse. Cyrus, in his fury, had stupidly alerted the patrols. Static burst from the radio on his hip.

  "Scramble, they're on to you! What happened?!" The Scottish voice chorused.

  "Minor glitch." Cyrus replied, the words coming effortlessly. "It won't be a problem, Spiral." Silence came from the radio in Cyrus' hand for a moment.

  "All right, mate. Hurry up and finish, so we can get you out of there." Without saying a word, Cyrus replaced the device, smiling. Spiral had confirmed it was, in fact, him on the other end of the line. Additionally, Cyrus now knew how we was going to meet them.

  "Ich werde dich finden, Spiral." He said to himself, crouching in the grass, waiting for the guards to come. "When I find you, I'll get my answers. Until then, I'll play your game." The lone boy drew his pistol, flicking a switch that set it into a single-shot mode, away from the three-shot bursts he had used to kill the guard at his side.

  "I am no longer Cyrus. My name is Scramble." At least for now, He added mentally. "Mein Name ist Scramble! Zeit zu sterben!" He shouted to the distant guards, not realizing that he was no longer speaking English. A lone guard had broke from the rest, charging nearby. He didn't have a chance. A low growl escaped Scramble's throat as he lunged into the guard, driving a knife into the target's gut, and firing once into their skull. All they saw was a silhouette of a monster, red eyes glowing with the moon at their back. The hunt was on.

  Everyone has a dark-side. Some embrace it, and know it's there. For others, they could manifest as different personas—completely different people that don't know the other exists. This, however, does not absolve them of being monsters.

  Damn you GS blogs! For some strange reason, I couldn't access my blog all day! Ah well, it started working in the end. How was the chapter, by the way? Enjoy it? I've been meaning to put Cyrus through smeone odd in this chapter, but what I did end up ding, surprised even me. I like where it went, though, and I hope you did as well. One mystery solved, right? Maybe. Read and review, as always! Bye!

  P.S. I'd like to give a shout out to RPG_Hacker, again, for his help translating some of the text into German. You're a big help! I especially like the last line's translation: "My name is Scramble! I'm going to be your damnation!" Sounds pretty good in English too

  • Posted Dec 8, 2009 7:49 pm PT
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