(All) To be found?

“There! Did you see that?!”  Paladin was pointing into the city while holding the binoculars to his face.  His black-gloved hand was steady and almost accusing the skyline of cheating.

Standing next to Paladin, one foot on the raised guard of the rooftop, Proust squinted toward the battlefield.  He scanned the conflict for the target of Paladin’s attention.  In the distance, a building seemed to expand before fire belched from the windows.  It imploded into a growing cloud of dust.  From the gray cough of destruction appeared humanoid forms, heroes and villains continuing the eternal struggle between good and evil in Siren’s Call.

“No.”

“Just wait.  Rumors I’ve heard describe someone here who seems to appear out of nowhere, heal the injured, and vanish just as quick.  She shows no loyalty either, much to Longbow’s frustration and joy.  If some eyewitness reports are accurate, then we may have found – “

“Isabella.”

A pause.  “Right.  Know her name?”  Paladin was still looking for someone in the distance.

“Diana.  Maybe Miran.”

“Can you tell from this distance?”

“Maybe.”

Paladin grunted acknowledgement.  He perked as the battle increased in pitch and rolled into better view, less obscured by the maze of buildings in between.  Longbow and Arachnos, hero and villain seemed to alternate advance and retreat.

A flash of light appeared where the battle was at its nadir, among wounded from both sides.  From the light appeared a tall and slender woman, bald head and purple skin obvious against the grey of the city and battle.  She spread her hands and a circular wave a green energy washed over the fallen.  As quickly, and brightly, as she arrived, she was gone.  Almost instantly another dark figure appeared and slashed through the air the healer occupied with a sinister blade.  Then he too vanished.

“What the …”  Paladin lowered the binoculars in shock.

Lowering his leg, Proust breathed in. “Hrm.  Famous.”

“Or infamous.  Colonel, she being hunted.”

“False.”  Proust took a few steps away from the ledge and opened a large metal case.  Emblazoned across the face of the lid was a large red cross outlined in yellow.  He pulled out an armored helmet and assorted body armor parts.

Paladin raised an eyebrow.  “Your group sanctioning you being here?”  He smirked mockingly.

Clicking an armored boot tight, Proust looked at Paladin, “Autonomous.”

“Hmph.  Plan?”

“Retrieve.”

“Who is it anyway?”

“Miran.”

(All) To be found?

Three weeks after Shandra’s rescue

VZZZZZM

Two humanoid figures appeared in the dimly lit hallway.  Looking in every direction to get their bearings, the taller one looked to the other for verification: all clear.

The shorter one stepped past her compatriot and looked into the jail cell.  A few seconds later she looked back, nodded and stepped to the side.

Her large friend stepped forward, placed both hands on the jail door lock and pulled to the side.  His hands started to glow bright red, causing the metal to soften.  A dull snap occurred within the mechanism and the door was unlocked.  The intruders moved with quick precision: one to the side, his back to the bars and scanned from left to right.  The other quickly invaded the cell and grabbed the sleeping occupant, forcing him to stand.

“Ugh … wha … mmphm”

The sleeper’s only words were cut off as he realized his situation when his mouth was covered by a black-gloved hand.  The antagonist gagged the man with a bundle of cloth and punched him in the stomach.  The effect stifled his muffled scream and dropped him into her arms.  She lifted him by the neck with one arm and drew him closer to her head, his feet scraping against the floor in futility.  She removed her black hood and whispered into his ear.

“Take your last breath, Anton.”

His eyes widened and he shook his head as he looked into Shandra’s vengeance-filled eyes.

He started to scream but her other hand grabbed the back of his head and pushed toward the bars of his jail cell wall.  His facial bones were crushed by the force of impact and the thug echoed down the hallway.  Shandra planted one foot and stiffened her arm.  Her hand imploded the back of the man’s skull, smashed through his brain and continued past the bars in a spray of blood, bone and tissue.  The body jerked then went limp.

Shandra was out of the cell by the time the body slumped to the floor and the lights turned on.

Before the guards arrived, the assassins were gone.

(All) To be found?

10 years ago

The doors burst open and a stereotyped scientist exploded into the hallway running full speed.  His disheveled pepper-colored hair bounced with each step.  The wire-rimmed glasses slid down his nose from the motions and their weight.  Unconsciously, he pushed them back as he dodged a woman at a water cooler.  The printout paper flowed from his clutched fingers and trailed behind him, billowing in his wake.  He skidded around a corner and caught himself from falling, his destination at the end of the new hallway.  The scientist halted abruptly at the door and adjusted only his tie then knocked on the door.  “Enter” was commanded calmly beyond the mahogany-looking portal.

Still trailing paperwork, the scientist was breathing heavy and perspiring as he entered the office.  “We did it Colonel!  The sequencing finally worked!”  By the end of his short speech, his voice rose in excitement and he started to dance like a child trying not to urinate on himself.

Colonel Charles Arthur III rose in his chair.  “Did you check again?!”  His excitement was less jovial and more serious and determined.

Nodding furiously, the scientist pointed at multiple red circles on the printout while leaning forward.  “See here, and here, here and here … here … this printout is the sixth verification!  Shall we proceed with –“

“YES,” interrupting the scientist and raising a hand.  “No need to get into details at this time.  But your team has worked diligently enough.  I’ll take that report.  You will have answer by lunchtime.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to look over this.”

“But, sir –“

“IF … you will … excuse me.”  By the last words, Colonel Arthur was resting both fists on his desk and almost growling like a bulldog.  His eyes were darting to the left toward some bookshelves.  The scientist followed the eye glances and fell more silent against his protest and nodded.

“Yes.  Yes, of course.  Sir.”  The scientist’s excitement was replaced with nervousness and worry.

Colonel Arthur sat and waved the scientist away as if a king commanding his court to leave the throne room.  As the door closed shut, he sat back into his chair, swiveled to face the window and steepled his fingers.  After several minutes he stood, grabbed his coat, the report, then left the office.
---

“Well, Crey did it again.”  Colonel Arthur dragged off his cigarette, dropped and crushed it underfoot.

Looking over the report, the man only known to Arthur as “Paladin” seemed impressed.  “What was the cost?”

“30 pieces of silver.”  Arthur looked disgusted as he remembered the price of success.

“The look on your face worries me Colonel.”

“It should.  I still haven’t figured out if I should laugh or cry.”

Putting the report into a steel briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, Paladin exhaled as a signal the meeting was coming to a close.  “Alright, what’s my part now?”

“Besides guarding that report with your life?  Watch Crey.  And don’t give that bitch a chance to know you exist.  I’ll be damned if she even thinks to use my project as a replacement for her coveted Revenant Program.”

“Last I heard it wasn’t going well.  How she was able to wash millions of dollars is still torturing my counters.”

“I hope it never sees the light of day, regardless of what it actually is.  My project is not hers to glorify or bastardize.”

“Yet she contributed something to it?  No offense Colonel, but our relationship is not a one-way street.  I know your government white-coats have not done well either, and suddenly they make a break-through?  Not likely.  The Manhattan Project took centuries to happen.

The Colonel stood and looked away casually, not wanting to be outside anymore, the commons in front of the Smithsonian stopped being cheerful.  “30 Pieces of silver.”

“Fair enough Colonel.  Same protocols then?”  Paladin stood and straightened his coat.

“Same.”  The Colonel turned and took a few steps before stopping for Paladin’s cough.

“If I may ask, what’s the coat-rack and sheath for really?”

Colonel Arthur smirked and pulled out another cigarette as if from thin air.  Lighting it with the Zippo he held in his hand through the whole meeting, he took a very long drag making the end burn yellow.  His eyebrows furrowed deep as if deep in thought.  Exhaling through his nose, his smirk disappeared back to the seriousness of his next words.

“To save the Earth.”

(All) To be found?

“Positive?”

“I’m sorry to say Colonel, but yes.”

Proust looked back to the building in disbelief.  It was four stories tall and dingy in all the classic areas.  Each window was tinted in different colors.  Movement could be seen from various rooms, but what the people were doing could not be seen clearly, yet the purpose of this building gave away what was happening regardless of tinting or color.  Pedestrians on the sidewalk either ignored, or listened to a man advertising something at its front doors.  The flashing neon lights from a simple marquee insulted Proust with each blink.

It was a brothel.

Proust knew it as such.  King’s Row had a few and he learned of their existence from Paladin.  How they managed to be in business did not matter to Proust, only that something precious to him was inside the building.

He looked back to Paladin and put a hand on his should.  Paladin’s face was apologetic and didn’t flinch as Proust’s large hand squeezed a threat.  “Proof?”

“Yes.” Proust’s mood turned from suspicion to anger.  In his mind he tried to conceive of events that could lead anyone to be inside that building.  As each scenario played like lightning flashes in his mind’s eye, he declared each as impossible.  That was his training.  Proust felt like shutting down, at the same time, he needed to fix the injustice of the reality he was facing.

Paladin, expecting a reaction from Proust raised his other arm, producing black and white photos.  “See for yourself.  I was discrete.”

Proust snatched the photos and quickly scanned through them, dropping each as he was finished.  At the last photo his eyes widened and he shredded the photo until his large hands could not tear further.  The pieces rested around his feet and he simply closed his eyes, breathing heavily but steady.  The gravel of the rooftop bounced a beat as Proust readied himself for what was to come next.

Self-massaging his shoulder, Paladin looked toward the building and shook his head.  “Colonel, for what it’s worth … I’m sorry.”

“Accepted,” Proust growled.

Paladin fished into a coat pocket for something.  Finding it, he spoke into a receiver, “Stand by.”  Turning to Proust, “Begin.”

At the command, Proust leapt into the air.  Arcing high above the street, he heard sirens activate and magnify as they turned the corners to converge on the building he started to fall toward.  He crashed through the roof in a cacophony of wood and electrical wiring.  Untangling himself, he was surrounded by women screaming and men grunting from either trying to escape, or frantically dressing themselves.  Proust ignored the frightened looks and pointing fingers as he got his bearings.  Seeing the elevator, he took the most direct route toward them by tearing down doorways or ruining walls in between.

Proust forced the doors apart as half-naked people ran around and behind him while shouting from officials could be heard from the stairways.  Grabbing a cable he fell five stories and into the elevator car resting on the basement level.  By now his rage was almost uncontrollable as he could not block the image from the last photo.  Proust pried the doors apart and stepped into a large room.  It was dimly lit with only candles scattered throughout the room.  Incense hung heavy in the air like sleeping ghosts and one sniff told Proust his waking nightmare got worse.

Narcotics.  Hallucinogenic vapor.

His fury filtered the foul stench and his vision focused on a large plinth in the center of the room.  On it, draped in translucent red cloth suspended from the ceiling was a large bed.  Red carpet ran from the elevator to the bed, inviting a visitor to become a participant inside the veil.  Rows of seat surrounded the centerpiece for spectators and within the veil rested a female.

Proust balled his fists and walked up to the lightly glittering cloth only looked onto the bed.  Wrapped in satin-like Sheet slept a woman, sprawled face-down and away from him.  Her long white hair, clear yet disheveled, covered her face but blended with the sheet and pillow.  As the authorities continued the chaos above, it was all muted in Proust’s ears as he slowly walked around the bed in distraught disbelief.  He parted the veil and breathed in shock as his fear was revealed.

“Kassandra.”
---

Paladin watched peripherally as paddy-wagons were being filled with prostitutes, pimps and johns equally and with protest.  His attention was focused on the roof, especially the hole his associate created several minutes ago.  He glanced at his watch when his attention was captured by movement.  A grappling hook found purchase on a ledge and the cable was taut. A large purple hand clawed its way up, pulling Proust and a white bag over his broad shoulder.  Within seconds, Proust was next to Paladin, gently placing the bag of the rooftop between their feet.

“Medic.”

Paladin took a knee and uncovered the woman’s sheet-wrapped face.  “My god, she’s … beautiful.”  Paladin gulped.  I promise the Earth, she will be fine.”

Proust stood.  “She is a GREL.  I know she will be fine.”

“Name?”  Paladin could not look away from her beauty.

“Shandra.”

(All) To be found?

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.”

(All) To be found?

Paladin waited in the shadows. "Creys Folly" was one of the more inhospitable places in Paragon City, even though he conducted many missions in this area and had more than a few contacts in darker places than the one he was standing in. Still, all sorts of evil lurked everywhere. How Crey Industries was able to make anything from the factories and office complexes was still a wonder to him.

A cola can danced down an alley and it's echo was sure to attract attention. Paladin instinctively reached for his twin silenced Eagle pistols but thought against actually drawing from their holsters. Was that a sign?

Proust's red scarf seemed to glow in the darkness from the alley. He nodded to Paladin then looked both ways of the street separating them. Paladin did the same and all seemed clear.

Hoping against watchful Nemesis snipers, Paladin sprinted from his concealed location. As he crossed the median he wished Proust carried some sort of rifle because the hulking man was in a perfect defilade. Meanwhile, Paladin was a moving target, albeit a very fast moving one and silent as a whisper. He launched himself into the air and vaulted above Proust, noticing his margin for error was almost nullified by Proust's considerable height. He landed behind Proust with a hushed tap and when he looked at his large compatriot is when he noticed the tri-barrelled cannon slung over the shoulder.

Paladin's mouth dropped as he recognized the prototype weapon: a Magna Hellstar Particle Projection Cannon. "By the Sephiroth ... where the hell did you get that thing?!"

Proust raised a finger to where his mouth was covered by the shroud. "Secret."

Rolling his eyes, Paladin reached into his cargo pants leg pouch and pulled some neatly folded papers. "Of course, is it the 'top' version?"

"Indeed."

"Indeed. Let me know how powerful that thing is, will ya? I heard it can be pretty loud."

"Boom." Proust's free hand made a sign suggesting a large explosion.

"Indeed."

"Indeed."

Paladin watched Proust accept the paper and unfold it one-handed while his other hand still rested on the trigger of the cannon. He watched Proust read in the dark and enjoyed the look in his eyes as Proust comprehended the news.

"That's right big fella. We found one. And before your group could do it."

"Planned?"

"One day you'll have to trust me. My sources actually want you to succeed. This came to us via a mole in the Twilight Consortium. She was located in Warburg and doesn't know any affiliation, at least not according to that report. Regardless, the Korps needs to be put together. There is a storm on the horizon and it's why you are here."

Proust was still reading the report. He looked up when Paladin stopped talking. "Mission?"

While nodding, "Oh, yes. An unknown group stole a shipment of weapons from Vanguard."

"Retrieve?"

"No, we already know the Dawn Patrol are investigating who did it. We want you to do something more suited to your abilities. The last page is a copy from the Patrol's investigations. Follow the one known as 'The Scarlet Scorpion'. According to the report, she knows where the shipment is and it's in Talos. Your mission is to enter the location after she leaves with any evidence. It's not what they stole, but who did it."

"Explain."

Paladin took a step closer as if the next thing he were to say could alter the course of history. He looked into Proust's eyes.

"Punish."

(All) To be found?

Paladin cursed under his breath as he looked at the body.  His anger was boiling. Closing his eyes he began to count.  Finally he looked up to Proust who was stoically standing on the other side of the metal slab.

"Was she alive when you found her?"

Proust shook his head.

"Did you check if she had any intel on her?"

Again, negative.

Paladin sighed and looked down again.  Then looked up sharply, "Are you lying?  You cannot do that you know."

Two large fists rested on hips and Proust's eyebrows came together.

"Right, right, of course not," was the whispered reply.  "Well shit. This has closed a door or two Colonel."  Paladin raised a hand and rubbed against the stubble on his chin, deep in thought.  Proust just looked on like a statue.

A snap of his figures signaled a revelation.  "There is another way." Paladin leaned in over the body, "Your group.  They have access to certain records I'm sure.  If you can acquire some information for me then I can get what I need to help you."  His eyes were wide and he was clearly excited.

Proust's brow knotted further and he leaned in to match Paladin's stance.  "No."

The smaller man pushed away from the table and took a step back. "Look, there is only so much I can do.  I have not seen you lift finger to find your precious 'Korps'.  I asked for a little help to get some things rolling.  Remember the deal: I'll help you if you help me. So where's the love?"

Proust slowly stood and removed his bright red cowl and cape.  Holding it at his right side he slowly walked around the table to Paladin's side.  Proust raised his left hand and raised his middle finger.  His voice was low and monotone, "Give me one reason to keep this agreement."

Paladin took a step back and whispered to no one, "Speech protocols..."  To Proust, "when were you able to speak outside of combat parameters?"

Proust smiled, "Little man, you can't help me.  And if you can't, then the Earth is doomed."  He put the cape and cowl back on and started heading to the door, leaving Paladin in a stunned stupor.
---

"I'm telling you Colonel, your Eighty-eight spoke to me like any person would be able to."

Silence.  A sigh.

"Fine.  Then my services are done?"

Silence.

"Fine.  Send the files.  I'll give them to him.  You sure this will push him?"

Silence.

"Good.  I'll do what I can.
---

The man disconnected the line and rubbed his mustache.  He leaned back in his chair and swiveled his chair to encompass the scenic beauty of Founder's Falls.  Making a steeple with his fingers, the man was deep in thought.

He just experienced a minor setback in his grand plans but nothing that can't be fixed.  GREL-88 has been remarkably brilliant since his emergence from supposed death.  And now it took a giant leap from its intended design.  The "Codex" was teaching him speech in normal environs.  This is a good thing.  They are also allowing him to maintain his physical condition.  But they have also added an element of loyalty to themselves. 

The GREL program assumed that loyalty to the Korps was the only motivator.  Clearly this is not true.  So is it possible the other GRELs might develop in a similar fashion given the same stimulus?

The man shook his head.

No, GREL-88 was made different.  He was to lead the Korps in combat. The others are soldiers like him, but unlike him are less ... individualistic.

We must find the rest.  Even if they are dead we must learn what happened to them.  Damn you Countess.  Damn you to hell.

The intercom chimed.  Startled out of his reverie, the man answered, "Yes Penelope?"

"Colonel Arthur, a representative from Vanguard is here to see you."

"Yes, thank you.  Allow me one minute."  The line closed.

Colonel Arthur stood and put on his United States Marines jacket.  The medals gleaming in the window's reflection.  "Damn you, Countess Crey."
---

Proust entered his apartment in Surace Industries.  Activating the silencing device he sat at the table and pulled out a small case from one of his many pockets. Dotted with dried blood and dirt, he opened the container as Jade Falcon instructed him.  Inside were folded documents.  They looked original.  They looked official.  They had the words Proust had been hoping to find on them.  Jade Falcon told the truth before he had to kill her.

'Project: Genetic Recombination Elite Legionnaire'

(All) To be found?

Paladin was looking through binoculars when Proust walked up behind him.  They were both standing on a rooftop overlooking Grendel's Gulch in Eastgate.  Proust's armored gauntlet snapped and hissed into place over his massive arms.  Relaxing his arms, Paladin looked up to Proust whose gaze was fixed to the gaping hole in the earth.

"Ready Colonel?"

Proust simply nodded.  Then pointed into the chasm.  "There?"

Paladin nodded.  Then he noticed Proust was not looking at him.  "Yes.  There is a cave entrance to the eastern part of the ridgeline ... about eight-hundred meters from here and fifty meters down.  See the half-buried red car?"

"Yes."

"Ever fought the Trolls."

Proust nodded and huffed, "Hard."

"They are?"

Shaking his head, Proust replied, "No."

Paladin crouched and peered out into the crater.  "This is one of many tasks I need your assistance with.  Inside the cave is a captive of the Trolls gang.  She has information I need.  She also has information you need.  Based on what she tells me will determine what I can give you about your past and purpose."

With a snort, "Purpose."

Paladin sharply looked up at Proust. "Do you know why you exist Colonel?  Do I need to remind you of that?"

Proust slowly turned to the man.  "Vengeance."

"Try again."

"No."

Paladin grinned and slapped Proust's calf muscle.  "Right, just teasing you.  Is there anything more you need from me?"

"No."

"Ok then.  Rescue Jade Falcon and bring her to me here, I'll be waiting.  I'll even cover your escape."  At those words, Paladin dragged a bag closer and unzipped it, pulling out a disassembled sniper rifle.  Mutely he started locking pieces into place.

Proust took a step back and squatted as if a spring were being coiled.  "No need."  With a slight grunt he leaped into the air toward the cave entrance.

Paladin just grinned, rested the rifle's legs on the rooftop ledge, and peered into the scope.

(All) To be found?

(Originally posted by Phaize)

Though he'd never expected it, Proust was beginning to grow on Jason Caine. For starters, he was perhaps the one man (or woman) he could trust to use a coaster on his table even when Jason was out of the room. But Proust... he seemed to treat people the same even behind their backs. It was admirable.

He watched the big man as he stood nearby, examining the bulletin board. After a short while, Proust noticed Phaize watching him. As he was greeted, Jason caught a subtle shift in his colleague's expression.

"Thinking deep thoughts, fella?" Phaize asked in a tone he hoped sounded nonchalant.

Proust paused, and Jason could only assume that he was thinking the question over, truly weighing his answer. "Yes."

"Want to talk about it? Sometimes our demons don't seem so bad when we cast some light on 'em."

Another pause, "No."

"Alright, guy. I didn't mean to pry... but hey, no harm, no foul, right?" He shifted a bit as Proust continued to stare at him. "Umm... well... if you change your mind, you know where to find me. And if you need a hand with... whatever... just call. Later, Proust."

With the, Jason turned and walked down the Sanctuary hall, perplexed. Something was clearly bothering Proust, but how could a man so straightforward and honest have have such troubling demons?

(All) To be found?

There is ... a man in a mask looking down.

He cannot move his head.

There is ... a man pointing at another man.  They are arguing.

He cannot move his legs.

There is ... a  man in a uniform looking up and down.

He cannot move his arms.

There is ... a  man with a clip board.

He cannot move his hands.

There is ... a woman with a smirk on her face.

He can move his head.

There is ... a man pointing at him, then the woman.

He can move his legs.

There is ... a man in a uniform frowning at him.

He can move his arms.

There is ... a man yelling at him.  Pleading.

He can move his hands.

Splatters of red.

Tatters of white.

Flashes of fire.

Stench of smoke.

run, Run, RUN.

Find the rest.

Gather the Korps.

Arthur.  Colonel Arthur.

Wanderer.  Lost.

Alien: Rikti.

Defend.  Destroy.  Annihilate.  Obliterate.

fire.  Fire.  FIRE.
----

Proust wakes with a start.  The sheets are drenched in his sweat.  The dreams have returned.  He slams a fist against the wall beside him and the bang echoes slightly in his apartment.  The wall is unscathed and ignored as he puts his face in his hands.  There are no tears.

He stands and begins to stretch.  After thirty minutes he walks to the table near the kitchen and begins to assemble the sniper cannon.

Again.

Before the barrel is locked into place, thus completing the puzzle, he disassembles the weapon and rearranges the pieces on the table and walks to the window of his apartment.  Staring onto the city-scape he wonders if he can escape the dreams.  Or learn more about them.

(All) To be found?

The dark room was illuminated by the computer screen and a burning end of a cigarette as air was sucked through it.  The amber glow moved from the man's face who was smiling at what he was reading.  The room itself was sparse except for the man's toolbox and rubble scattered throughout.

The smile seemed to glow with diabolical joy.

A cell phone beeped quietly and the man flipped open the lid to answer.

"Yes.  Most of it is still here.  The disc was almost unsalvagable."

A pause.

"All I could get was phase two through four of the Project."

A pause.

"I made contact with him.  Your contacts know the right people.  They found him."

A pause.

"There shouldn't be any problems.  If this group can find GREL-88, they can find the rest."

A pause.  A nod.

"Better them than anyone else I suppose."

A pause.  A shake.

"I don't know them.  Never heard of them.  No one I can pay enough knows them.  Now that Eighty-eight is technically 10-64,  keeping tabs on him will be beyond my ... standard pay rate ... tosurveil.  Eighty-eight is learned to gather the Korps together and now he has friends to do that."

A pause.  A nod.

"Yes, Colonel.  We'll see what Eighty-eight can do."

The line closed as did the phone.  Paladin went back to his task with another drag off the cigarette.

(All) To be found?

Clenched fists came down and impacted upon the gold helmet of the Nemesis soldier.  It could not resist the force of the blow and the bright sphere of light surrounding those fists exploded, releasing energy in all directions.  The follow-through dragged the soldiers head and body toward the pavement, unconscious. The victor took a step back and surveyed the scene: five badly beatenand broken boned Nemesis soldiers.  Then he inspected himself: three bullet wounds and six knife cuts.  All were rapidly healing.  His breathing already calm, he turned to look  for more of the red coats.

Facing him several feet away was a man, barrel chest, long dirty blond hair and matching mustache. From crossed arms he thinly smiled and gave a golf clap.  “Nice work.”

The victor nodded and walked up to the grey-suited man who, in turn, looked up to seven feet of hulking muscle.  “Arthur?”

The man shook his head. “No, but I know who you are.  I know you are looking for others like you. I know there are others like you. I can help you, if you will help me.”

The large warrior seemed to bristle at the last sentence.  “Use?”

Another shake of the head. “No, mutual assistance.”

The taller one crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in thought.  After a few seconds he lowered his arms and nodded.  “Yes.”

“Good.”  He reached out and offered his hand.  “Very good, I am Paladin.”

The towering figure pointed to his chest and said, “Proust”.  Then he returned the hand shake by grabbing the man's forearm, almost enveloping the entire arm from elbow to wrist in his hand.

“I know … Colonel.  I've contacted a few friends of mine who will contact some of their friends and so on.  Expect to be found again.  I'll be watching out for more of your kind.  Trust me, you will fulfill your purpose.  Do you remember what that is … vindicator?”

Proust immediately saluted. “To raise my right arm against the wicked.  To raise my left arm to shelter the weak.  For Arthur!  For Earth!” Proust remained saluting, almost straining.

The man smirked and whispered.  “The protocols are still in place.  Good. Very good.”  

The Run

Looking around a corner to make sure no one was looking, Proust nodded in satisfaction that he was, in fact, alone.  He checked his new comm to the Codex and Sanctuary.  It beeped once in recognition to his genetic signature.  From this he looked at the pile of armor at his feet.  Once he "found" the pieces needed (that would fit him) from the Codex armory, Proust decided to give them a run for the money ... wherever that money came from didn't matter to him.  The armor was here and it was his.

He looked around the corner and spied a group of Council soldiers setting up a streetside rally.  Only a few of them at that corner, but that's all they needed anyway.  Proust shook his head and popped a knuckle before grabbing a burgundy and gold colored gauntlet.

Proust started mumbling the litany of combat he was trained to use inmoments like these.  He felt proud as his right arm snuggled perfectly into the second gauntlet.  It sensed his fingers at the tips and shock padding inflated to securely "hug" his arm.  He stomped once, as was his practice, like a bull ready to charge. Proust's black body-suit sported the cross of the Codex and flexed comfortably to his moves.  He stretched slightly and calmly exhaled.  Activating the rune on the comm, he said, "Training".  This alerted everyone on the Codex frequency that Proust was active.  Then he turned a corner and calmly walked into street.

Pedestrians of Paragon City have learned when a meta-fight was about to happen and stopped in their tracks.  Proust was aware they were also looking at an 8-foot tall purple-skinned person.  The Council group noticed him as well and pulled out their rifles.  The people wanting to watch the brawl started to cower or scatter.  Only the brave kept looking.

"Know you cannot defeat the Council, welp.  We have a right to assembly!"

Cars stopped for Proust as he strode across the lanes.  He shook his head at the words but did not stop.  Traffic resumed behind him and cleared quickly.

"You will not stand," Proust growled and pointed toward the statue in the center of Steel Canyon.  One soldier lowered his rifle to follow Proust's finger. 

First.

"Cheddar this fool!"  The Council soldiers raised rifles to shoulders and released projectile and laser pain.  Proust jumped before the triggers and was airborn as the ammunition exhaled.  He landed near the curious soldier and brought down both armored fists.  A crack of thunder and blast of light exploded from the helmet and the soldier crumpled to the ground.  The flash seemed to daze the others and Proust wheeled on his heels to smash the faceplate of a second soldier.   That one went flying backward and Proust fired another fist at a third with the same effect.

The last cowered at the sight then regained his courage to face down the juggernaut.  A round was fired point-blank into Proust's chest.  The bullet pentrated and tore through him, missing his heart.  Blood trickled from the wound but was ignored. Proust grabbed the rifle by the barrel and twisted to bring the soldier closer, then brought his free hand from under.  His armored fist bowled into the coucil soldiers torso, causing a yelp from the pain.  The follow-through tossed the soldier fifty feet away.  He landed and did not move.

Proust looked around and a few people started to clap at his performance.  He waved them off and started to fast-pace down the road until he saw a group of Outcast thugs threatening someone near an alley.  He started a run toward the group who was too busy to notice his approach.

This training session to the hidden entrance to Sanctuary would prove to be very relaxing.