He pushed the door until he could enter without using it again. The stench of burned wood, plastic and metal filled the room but was not coming from it. The source was deeper into the structure. As he turned the first corner, Proust realized he was very calm, though alert. Then a flicker from exposed wiring revealed the hallway in an instant.
Bodies were strewn down the length of the hallway. Only a half-dozen, but all were laying still and looked as if they were rag-dolls thrown away from a bored child. Proust knelt to the first one and checked for a pulse. Faint, but alive. He inspected the unconscious and bleeding victim. Blue military uniform, black boots and gloves, and silver helmet. Though the helmet was crushed, it protected the man from death.
Sky Raiders.
Proust surmised whomever did this amount of damage was powerful and dangerous. He did not notice anyone leave the building in the hour he watched the entrance and these wounds still seemed fresh. His alertness reached a new level as the idea that the assaulter might still be in the building.
Feeling confident in his own abilities he boldly walked through the hallways, disregarding the occasional moan of pain or debris on the floor. His footsteps echoed down the hallways and faded around corners into darkness. He didn't care, he had a goal and his greatest obstacle so far had been eliminated. Recalling most groups do not usually attack each other without provocation, this was the work of a “hero”. Proust shrugged as he walked in thought. “At least usually,” he thought to himself.
Upon entering a cavernous room he inspected the surroundings he could see: crates, conveyor belts, metal stairways. Typical warehouse fair. Proust concentrated a little and his perception of the room improved. More bodies, more debris. But in the corner rested a container unlike the rest. Large and metallic. It seemed as if it was covered by dirt with some of it caked on the sides. A few guards strewn around the metal box. Proust recognized the Crey Industries logo in the corner of the box and half-covered in mud. That is it. That's what Paladin was talking about. He looked around and behind. Nothing. As far as he was concerned, he was the only person standing in the room.
“Is that your box?”
Proust spun on his heels to his left to see a woman casually resting against the wall. She wasn't looking at Proust, but at the corner his box was in. The faint light above them both revealed the scene: she was tall for a woman but nothing beyond the ordinary. A lithe figure whose bright red hair flowed across her shoulders and covered her face. Her black body suit revealed more skin than Proust was used to seeing lately, but again, nothing beyond the ordinary for “heroes”. Gloved arms were crossed and fingers tapping against one arm betrayed a sense of impatience.
“Yes.”
The woman hmphed slightly. “Hello Proust, good to see you again. You'll need this if you want what's inside.” She held up a shiny object and stood to look at Proust. The black eye patch over her left eye covered streaks of scars along the side of her face. He tensed at the sight of the woman, who was objectively beautiful, strangely made more so by the eye patch. He remembered her but his sense of duty and mission did not extend the thought beyond recognition of the fact.
“Provide.” Proust raised an open palm up, the meaning clear.
An eyebrow raised and she clutched the key in one gloved hand, still holding her new fist up in defiance. “Or what? You wouldn't hit a girl ... your former commander ... would you?”
Proust paused. “Yes.”
Her gloved hand lowered and she took a step back while crouching ready to strike. “Is that right? Before we do this, the wreckage of this place was done by me. If this key is what you need then you better prove it's worth.”
Proust calmly, slowly, lowered his hand. He thought hard to determine the next course of action. She did not and has not attacked, but is giving a chance. He decided to gamble: “The contents will help me find my brothers and sisters to crush the Rikti and save the Earth. Give me the key, or die.”
The heroine was visibly stunned by the comment. She stood and her laughter filled the room. Proust stood quietly but began to focus his energies to formulating an attack pattern. The leather of his suit squeaked at the silent strain his muscles put upon it.
“Heh, ok. That was worth it. If you wish to continue then we can work it out here now or later at your choosing. Honestly, I'd rather not fight you for this key anyway. You passed my test. Besides, I know what's inside the box. Looking at you, I am sure it was made specifically for you anyway. Here, take it. I'll be looking for you in the future.” She smirked and tossed the key to Proust who caught it one-handed in front of him without effort.
“Ally?”
The Scarlet Scorpion raised an eyebrow. “Back to the facade again? Yes, for now. Anyone who is brave enough to single-handedly walk into a Sky Raider fence-front looking for a box that big must be doing some good around the city. At least that's my hunch. I'm taking a big gamble here … and I don't bet unless I'm going to win. Besides, your short stay with the Patrol is still worth something to me.”
Proust nodded. “Agreed.”
“So, enjoy your hard-fought prize. You owe me one.” She pointed a finger and winked with a small smile, then started walking toward Proust. He sidestepped to let her pass into the hallway and watched her disappear into the darkness, the heels of her black boots signaling her presence in the building.
Proust scratched his head feigning puzzlement then walked across the room to the large metal crate. His developmental programming instantly recognized what he needed to do to gain access. He felt its sides until he found the keylock. Pressing the key flat adjacent to the keyhole caused the lock to beep twice. The seals hissed gently and the lip popped open an inch. The Scarlet Scorpion had indeed opened it previously, otherwise more air would have rushed into the crate to replace the slowly increasing vacuum inside. He looked around him once more to make sure he was truly alone. A guard near him whimpered and Proust kicked the helmet hard enough to silence the man. Then he opened the crate …
---
Later, inside the Sanctuary.
“You want me to paint that?”
“Yes.”
Rex was the artificer of the Sanctuary. His telescoped monocle retracted and extended as he looked over the armored suit laid out on the table. His greying hair disheveled and unkempt started to match his labcoat. Smudges of grease and grim smeared across his jaw. He looked up and down the suit, then poked at it's shell before one grimy hand gripped his jaw and the other scratched his head. He started to nod.
“Yeah, no problem. Give me the color scheme you want and it'll be done by tomorrow. Mind if I tinker with it while I'm playing Mario's day job?”
Proust shrugged which caused Rex to smile a toothy grin. Then Proust moved a finger across his throat in veto which caused Rex's smile to fade.
“Yeah thought so. The secrets in this closet can make a man claustrophobic quick. At least I get to see it before anyone else does!” Rex clasped his hands and rubbed them scheming how to get his new job done.
Proust turned to walk away, then pointed at Rex and to himself, “Trust.”
Bodies were strewn down the length of the hallway. Only a half-dozen, but all were laying still and looked as if they were rag-dolls thrown away from a bored child. Proust knelt to the first one and checked for a pulse. Faint, but alive. He inspected the unconscious and bleeding victim. Blue military uniform, black boots and gloves, and silver helmet. Though the helmet was crushed, it protected the man from death.
Sky Raiders.
Proust surmised whomever did this amount of damage was powerful and dangerous. He did not notice anyone leave the building in the hour he watched the entrance and these wounds still seemed fresh. His alertness reached a new level as the idea that the assaulter might still be in the building.
Feeling confident in his own abilities he boldly walked through the hallways, disregarding the occasional moan of pain or debris on the floor. His footsteps echoed down the hallways and faded around corners into darkness. He didn't care, he had a goal and his greatest obstacle so far had been eliminated. Recalling most groups do not usually attack each other without provocation, this was the work of a “hero”. Proust shrugged as he walked in thought. “At least usually,” he thought to himself.
Upon entering a cavernous room he inspected the surroundings he could see: crates, conveyor belts, metal stairways. Typical warehouse fair. Proust concentrated a little and his perception of the room improved. More bodies, more debris. But in the corner rested a container unlike the rest. Large and metallic. It seemed as if it was covered by dirt with some of it caked on the sides. A few guards strewn around the metal box. Proust recognized the Crey Industries logo in the corner of the box and half-covered in mud. That is it. That's what Paladin was talking about. He looked around and behind. Nothing. As far as he was concerned, he was the only person standing in the room.
“Is that your box?”
Proust spun on his heels to his left to see a woman casually resting against the wall. She wasn't looking at Proust, but at the corner his box was in. The faint light above them both revealed the scene: she was tall for a woman but nothing beyond the ordinary. A lithe figure whose bright red hair flowed across her shoulders and covered her face. Her black body suit revealed more skin than Proust was used to seeing lately, but again, nothing beyond the ordinary for “heroes”. Gloved arms were crossed and fingers tapping against one arm betrayed a sense of impatience.
“Yes.”
The woman hmphed slightly. “Hello Proust, good to see you again. You'll need this if you want what's inside.” She held up a shiny object and stood to look at Proust. The black eye patch over her left eye covered streaks of scars along the side of her face. He tensed at the sight of the woman, who was objectively beautiful, strangely made more so by the eye patch. He remembered her but his sense of duty and mission did not extend the thought beyond recognition of the fact.
“Provide.” Proust raised an open palm up, the meaning clear.
An eyebrow raised and she clutched the key in one gloved hand, still holding her new fist up in defiance. “Or what? You wouldn't hit a girl ... your former commander ... would you?”
Proust paused. “Yes.”
Her gloved hand lowered and she took a step back while crouching ready to strike. “Is that right? Before we do this, the wreckage of this place was done by me. If this key is what you need then you better prove it's worth.”
Proust calmly, slowly, lowered his hand. He thought hard to determine the next course of action. She did not and has not attacked, but is giving a chance. He decided to gamble: “The contents will help me find my brothers and sisters to crush the Rikti and save the Earth. Give me the key, or die.”
The heroine was visibly stunned by the comment. She stood and her laughter filled the room. Proust stood quietly but began to focus his energies to formulating an attack pattern. The leather of his suit squeaked at the silent strain his muscles put upon it.
“Heh, ok. That was worth it. If you wish to continue then we can work it out here now or later at your choosing. Honestly, I'd rather not fight you for this key anyway. You passed my test. Besides, I know what's inside the box. Looking at you, I am sure it was made specifically for you anyway. Here, take it. I'll be looking for you in the future.” She smirked and tossed the key to Proust who caught it one-handed in front of him without effort.
“Ally?”
The Scarlet Scorpion raised an eyebrow. “Back to the facade again? Yes, for now. Anyone who is brave enough to single-handedly walk into a Sky Raider fence-front looking for a box that big must be doing some good around the city. At least that's my hunch. I'm taking a big gamble here … and I don't bet unless I'm going to win. Besides, your short stay with the Patrol is still worth something to me.”
Proust nodded. “Agreed.”
“So, enjoy your hard-fought prize. You owe me one.” She pointed a finger and winked with a small smile, then started walking toward Proust. He sidestepped to let her pass into the hallway and watched her disappear into the darkness, the heels of her black boots signaling her presence in the building.
Proust scratched his head feigning puzzlement then walked across the room to the large metal crate. His developmental programming instantly recognized what he needed to do to gain access. He felt its sides until he found the keylock. Pressing the key flat adjacent to the keyhole caused the lock to beep twice. The seals hissed gently and the lip popped open an inch. The Scarlet Scorpion had indeed opened it previously, otherwise more air would have rushed into the crate to replace the slowly increasing vacuum inside. He looked around him once more to make sure he was truly alone. A guard near him whimpered and Proust kicked the helmet hard enough to silence the man. Then he opened the crate …
---
Later, inside the Sanctuary.
“You want me to paint that?”
“Yes.”
Rex was the artificer of the Sanctuary. His telescoped monocle retracted and extended as he looked over the armored suit laid out on the table. His greying hair disheveled and unkempt started to match his labcoat. Smudges of grease and grim smeared across his jaw. He looked up and down the suit, then poked at it's shell before one grimy hand gripped his jaw and the other scratched his head. He started to nod.
“Yeah, no problem. Give me the color scheme you want and it'll be done by tomorrow. Mind if I tinker with it while I'm playing Mario's day job?”
Proust shrugged which caused Rex to smile a toothy grin. Then Proust moved a finger across his throat in veto which caused Rex's smile to fade.
“Yeah thought so. The secrets in this closet can make a man claustrophobic quick. At least I get to see it before anyone else does!” Rex clasped his hands and rubbed them scheming how to get his new job done.
Proust turned to walk away, then pointed at Rex and to himself, “Trust.”
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