The Red Blade

The soft female voice seemed to sing the question:

Are you sure?

A smile crawled along Scarlet’s lips.  She pressed the button that would process her request.  Deep inside Dawn Patrol Headquarters in Paragon City, machines started making the weapon.

3 days later

“Well, what do you think?”  Scarlet was beaming with pride.  She felt like she was in front of a classroom during ‘show and tell’. But it was a class of one and he was not looking impressed.

Grand Battler Daikar looked down the length of the blade and kept his frown.  He then turned it to it’s side, then the other side.  Taking a step back, he lifted the sword and swung two-handed in a wide arc in front of him.  Finally, he lifted the sword on both palms and bowed his head as he presented it to Scarlet.  “This was manufactured by a machine, correct?”

“What?!”  Scarlet blushed. ”Well …yes.”

Daikar smirked.”Good luck then.  If you are looking for the perfect sword then I know someone who can help you.”

After a small pause Scarlet said, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch. What’s the price.?”

“Time.”

She slid the gleaming sword into its sheath.  “What do you mean?”

“Kathryn, you don’t need this.  The Zenith Fangs were bestowed to you as weapons to augment your anima.”

“But I want this.  I want something I own.  Not just what was given to me by genetics or celestial lineage.”

Daikar nodded.  “Then you understand the cost.”  It was not a question.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“We’ll see about that. You may as well start using that thing to get a feel for what’s wrong.”

She felt her pride finally washed away from the insult, “how am I supposed to know the difference?!”

“Once you learn the improper way, then the real lessons will be more rewarding.  You will be contacted by a friend of mine in two days.  Do what he says without question and trust him like you trust me.”
---

The day after meeting the Grand Battler

The man looked like a stereotypical Secret Service agent: crisp suit lines, opaque sunglasses, muscular and clean shaven yet somehow rugged looking.  The person fit the mold so well his next words were almost comedic.

“You have two days.”

He placed an envelope on the table and calmly walked away.

Nathan Maddox relaxed then lifted a cup of coffee to his lips.  “You make some interesting friends.”

Scarlet smirked then snatched the envelope and stood.  “I’m sorry, but duty calls.  Rain-check for tonight?”

“You know, your tab is starting to get high.”

She leaned down to whisper something but gently licked the rim of his ear instead.  After kissing Nathan on the cheek, she finally whispered, “I’ll pay in full with interest when I return.”  Scarlet stood straight and quickly walked away without looking back.

3 days later - Osaka, Japan

Scarlet was stunned by the request.  “Forgive me Master Snow, my hearing must be fading.”

The little old Japanese man was calm, his voice harsh from age yet gentle with wisdom.  “That’s hard to believe considering your reputation.  But I will gladly repeat for your American ears … I need a lock of your hair and three drops of your blood from a cut made with this sword.”

Scarlet was staring at the invidious wakizashi and noticed the blade did not reflect anything on its surface.  It looked as if it absorbed light.  She forced herself to look away as if looking at it further would steal her soul.

“Do not be afraid little warrior … but it will hurt.” Master Snow raised the short sword above his head.  “A lot.”

Her face betrayed her surprise and fear.

“If you want my help then this must be done.  From what Daikar tells me, you will heal perfectly … which makes you fortunate.”  He immediately swung the sword one –handed with such speed Scarlet barely registered the attack.  Several strands of her crimson hair floated to the ground.

“Now for the blood,” Master Snow whispered darkly.

Scarlet’s pride reeled in shame as she realized she was losing consciousness and rolling to the ground.
---

3 Months after meeting Master Snow

Exalted.

That’s how she felt.  The hilt seemed to grip her hands and massage her fingers when she flexed them around the shaft.  Although not weightless, the sword floated from one position to another as she moved in slow moving arcs.  Scarlet couldn’t help but smile at her enjoyment of the moment.

Master Snow was indeed an artist and Daikar was absolutely right, again.  How would she repay the boon they had given her?  That will have to be explored another time.  For now, her concentration returned to the finely crafted sword.  Against her expectations, Master Snow did not place a hand guard where the handle met the blade, common to almost every sword used by sword-smiths.  He said a guard-less sword would allow for better fluidity and range of motion, once she learned to use the sword of course.

Thinking of the blade stopped her joy.  Aside from the volcanic rock the core was made from, she had to surrender a few things of herself, the least of which was a lock of her hair.  She clearly remembered when Master Snow took that from her.  She released one hand to touch the healing laceration across her stomach; the source of the blood needed apparently.  The wound was healing but it was unsettling to think Master Snow did what he did while she was unconscious.  It was her blood that gave the blade its red color.

The final product Master Snow requested was her Zenith Fangs: ancient weapons bequeathed to her from another life she lived.  According to Master Snow, the Fangs were forged in the fires of a funeral pyre fueled with undead corpses and it was from the same fires they could be re-forged …

She looked at the blade.  Its beauty and perfection marred by the knowledge of its creation.  Scarlet didn’t fully believe the tale told to her, but after everything she’d seen in Paragon City … anything was possible.

“Are you sure?”  The small and demure female spoke from behind a mask.  The Japanese accent made the question seem rhetorical.  Her hair curled into tight rolls behind her ears.  Every muscle in her body trained to make her one of the world’s foremost assassins.  Her presence was ironically intimidating yet Scarlet showed no fear.

“Yes”, the tall red-head replied with confidence.

“Then let’s see what you can do.”  The little woman quietly drew her own sword from the scabbard on her hip.  She bowed to Scarlet and slowly slid into a starting stance that was both an attack posture and defensive position.  Kitai nodded once.

Scarlet exhaled and attacked.
---

Yesterday

She pulled down the sheet of paper.  It was marked with the Japanese kanji that appeared with growing frequency around the city.  This page was fresh compared to the dirty and neglected warehouse she stood in.  The trail seemed cold but this was just the entrance to the massive building.  The Scarlet Scorpion was confident to find more around the corner.

Three shuriken whistled from the darkness in a long blur.  One struck the wall; a second ricocheted from her armor, but the third imbedded deep in the flesh of her shoulder.  Scarlet barked in pain and surprise and finished turning in place to face the source of the attack. Her sonic abilities alerted her to the missile attack but that doesn’t mean she’s was fast enough to do something about it.  Biting down to prevent revealing any agony, she reached for the shuriken and pulled it out.  She dove for cover behind a desk and looked at the sinister weapon.  Half covered in her blood elevated her pain to anger.

Three more shuriken attacked various objects around her.  Scarlet tightened the grip on her sword and removed the cowl over her head.  She debated the addition to her costume and this event was enough to prove she didn’t want it anymore, but the mask had to stay.  The pain in her shoulder started to fade as she concentrated on healing and realized she was breathing heavy.  Looking around the corner caused another assault but with crossbow bolts.  Scarlet shifted the other side and the attacker shot another round.  She was blocked from escape.

“Surrender, Miyagi,” the female voice said from the darkness.  Scarlet closed her eyes trying to think of a comeback.  She heard the whisper of movement.

There is more than one.  These are not Tsoo.  She rolled her eye at the revelation.  The best defense is a better offense.

Scarlet quickly stood with red blade in front.  Arrow bolts flew toward her.  Their silent flight betrayed their path to her.  She raised her sword and deflected the three from her front, then raised an armored gauntlet above her right.  Three missiles clanged off the gauntlet to crash around her.  She dodged the last three from the left, one skipping off her hip.

Enough.  Absorbing the resulting noise of combat, Scarlet refocused the sound into a defensive shield around her.  The debris of the ruined warehouse vibrated and danced in the faint glow of the sonic barrier.   She heard gasps as if she surprised her assailants and that made her grin.  She was not your average sword-fighter … she was more than a martial artist.

Today, 30 minutes ago, Scarlet’s home in Founder’s Falls

Scarlet massaged her shoulder as she looked at the piece of paper with the Japanese kanji printed on it.

There is a coincidence I’m not seeing.

The Knives were not known to attack heroes without cause, and mayhem is not their business.  Someone has been laying these leaflets with enough frequency to mean something... was it from the Knives?  Scarlet made enough enemies during her tenure with the Dawn Patrol and to think she were important enough for their plans felt obnoxious.  It was as if she could see the other side of a chasm and all she needed was the bridge.

Then the bridge appeared … they called HER “Miyagi”!

She dropped the paper and ran toward her phone.  Quickly dialing a phone number she started pacing for a connection.  When it was answered, Scarlet paused suddenly not knowing what to say.

“We need to talk.  Something has happened and you need to know about it.”

The phone was placed on the receiver and Scarlet paced to wait for a reply of some kind.  With Kitai, one never knew how she would respond to a message like that.

(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."