This is what you guys have been waiting for, right?
"Dooms vs Anyone"
Well, I'm anyone. Or someone. I think.
Anyhow, here it is. The story of a really old man playing rough with a little blind girl. :P
Dooms' Story
Spoiler (Click to Show)
Dear Doctor,
We wish to appraise you and your companion known as the Fixer. It would be preferable if you could meet us at these coordinates(and here it provided a set of fairly standard coordinates). You may be as armed or unarmed as you wish, and you may decide not to go. However, if you do not go, you will lose out on a serious opportunity for both of us.
Best wishes,
Your(potential) colleagues, The Animus.
Collapsing into a chair, Altaer eyebrowed his friend, curious as to what he had called him over for today. Glancing at him, the Doctor answered his silent query: “We have been contacted by an anonymous organisation calling themselves the Animus. Not entirely sure who they are or what their intentions could be, but they have provided co-ordinates for a meeting. I was hoping we could check it out together, especially as they asked for you to tag along. Would you be interested?”
Altaer continued to eyebrow him, before sitting up, arching his fingers and leaning forward.
“Details, my man, details.” came the seemingly somewhat enthusiastic reply.
”Well, they said we could bring as few or as many weapons as we liked, and it didn’t matter. Of course that means we could be walking into a trap, but we’ll be armed and ready. Now, I will ask you again. Are you interested?”
The Fixer grinned. David Macbeth knew him too well.
Around the same time, a little girl was sitting in her Cocoon, wondering whether they would show up. Alice had waited anxiously for 19.356 hours since her message was sent, and she was beginning to suspect they wouldn’t risk it. She was… interested in the duo.
Very, very interested.
Altaer strode along the path through the woods, his boots clacking like stone splintering against its polished wooden surface. The Doctor was sweeping through the undergrowth, his usual classy suit somehow not hindering him one bit. They had agreed strategy. Altaer would go to the coordinates and hide. Dr. Macbeth would be the face of this negotiation- assuming, of course, it was not a trap. This would throw off anyone tailing the former Chaos Deity, and allow the Doctor to utilise his people skills- normal social ability and otherwise. As he reached the location, the ex-Lord of the Abyss vanished from sight, his certain skillset enabling him to blend perfectly with the environment- almost to the point of invisibility.
A sharp inhaling sound was just about audible as the air splintered and a pod emerged. The mirrored silver surface split and three figures stepped out. At their forefront was a little girl in a longcoat and a skirt. Alice had arrived. To her right was Adrian, his arms folded and his posture arrogant. And to her left was Sleipnir, her robotic eye darting around and her hands behind her head. “Doctor Macbeth, I presume?” queried the 8-year-old. The Doctor simply raised his eyebrow and studied her. The girl was clearly here for a purpose, and this question was important to her. He needed to find out motive and for that he should answer her questions. “Yes, little one. What of it?”
“Oh good. I thought I had come all this way for nothing. I challenge you to the rite of A Thousand Cuts.”
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The veteran just looked at her blankly. “Come on. The Rite of a Thousand Cuts? No?”
The girl looked sad, her eyes downcast. “Never mind. Sleipnir, would you explain it to the Fixer while I take care of business?”
“Sure! Just after you get me that damn cookie!” Came the slightly acidic reply.
“Oh, fine. I’ll do it.” Adrian stated flatly, his eyes locked on Altaer.
Altaer stepped out of the undergrowth, it being clear that stealth would be of no value. It would therefore probably hinder his progress. “Let’s be having you then,”growled the Alluminakin.
“I haven’t had a proper workout in ages.”
__________________________________________________________________________________
Alice spun around, her blades flashing in the noonday sun. The Doctor sighed, fighting not being his first call in this situation. They both took stock of their opponent. The way Dr. Macbeth held his rifle clearly showed some experience, perhaps even expertise, and the Descendant’s pose proved that her frail exterior belied at least some skill. Macbeth eyed her, and began his machinations. Feeling a blanket of calm gradually drift over her, Alice became slightly suspicious, aware of something. Her Bjarkan had spied a spark of intent in her opponent, and she was quick to perceive his deception. “Ah-ah-ah, Doctor. I challenged you to the Rite. We are going to fight now.”
The Man with Healing Hands simply did not answer. He looked down. And almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.
Alice frowned slightly. This was important, though. She could not get hung up on little issues like the Doctor’s willingness to fight.
She attacked.
The whistle of steel slicing through the air was punctuated by the sharp clang of said steel clashing. The Doctor had drawn a single knife, and was using it to defend himself. Alice was behaving less like an opponent and more like a force of nature; a storm of cleaving strikes rained down upon her opponent, more reminiscent of a blistering typhoon then a series of attacks. While Alice was certainly skilled, her opponent was a demigod of war: empowered by his many battles and preternatural skill, he ducked and weaved around her assault, rarely actually having to block said blows, during which times he deflected them to the side. Leaping back, the Doctor shot his cuffs, as a duplicate of himself emerged from the trees. Charging from behind, the Reflection held Alice’s arms back. The Doctor took three quick steps as he reached into his jacket-something metal flashing in his hands. The Descendant squirmed, but could not escape the Reflection’s grip of iron as the original Doctor swung downward with deliberate finality. Alice felt the object penetrate her skin, and began to fall-
and fall-
fall descend go down
and down
and down
Into darkness.
Alway darkness.
Dark darker yet darker.
Macbeth frowned. This next assailant’s questioning should prove to be very, very interesting.
Springing up, Alice moved to attack…no-one. Shaking her head, Alice groggily looked around herself, bloodshot and bleary eyes scanning her surroundings. She was standing atop a metal table, with broken Lego all around. She had clearly broken the Lego in her attempt to attack. Looking around and focusing more, Alice glared at her surrounding. The bleached white walls and spotlights stared blankly back. Getting off the table, Alice sat in one of the three plastic chairs arranged just next to it, and began to plot.
___________________________________________________________________________________
The Doctor eyed the monitor. After his fight with the golden one, Altaer had come back without a scratch, but a hollow look in his eye. He refused to tell David what he had seen, but the Doctor suspected he would get the answer in time. The child was sitting, a void gaze of disinterest upon her face. Then the child disappeared. Blinking, the doctor stood up and dusted himself off. He was not entirely sure what this one was capable of. She woke up, and behaved as if she had never been sedated. What sort of training would you have to go through for that? He shrugged on his jacket, and collected his rifle from just next to his feet.
___________________________________________________________________________________
The Doctor was a potent enemy(and hopefully, a useful ally), but he had made a fatal mistake: not realising Alice could summon her weapons if necessary. Hacking her way through the door as everything seemed to grey slightly around her, Alice moved down the corridor, glancing briefly along the redbrick walls for signs of motion detectors. Her ruse of teleportation would be sunk if there was… but funnily enough, the Doctor had not accounted for people who manipulate time, and as such, she sped forward. Time was of the essence if she was to succeed. ___________________________________________________________________________________
Macbeth sighed. It was clear he could not contain the girl in a safe enviroment. Calling Altaer, he began moving down towards the basement of the safehouse they were staying in. This was not going as planned. But he needed to talk to this one without hostile conflict. He holstered his rifle and kept it concealed-protection might be necessary, but he did not want for this “Animus” to find their former associates. By the skills of both Alice and that golden one, he could determine quite easily that inviting a whole organisation of them after sedating and kidnapping one would be a pretty bad idea.
Alice crossed her fingers, hoping fervently that 32-34 didn’t try to pick her up. The full force of Nehustan should be more than enough to eliminate the Kin, considering Sleipnir and Adrian are probably not going to be around for a bit. She decided:she was going to have to speak to him. He did draw blood first, though.
So she guessed the Rite was satisfied. It entailed this: Challenge to determine strength of a person. Whoeverso draws blood first without killing or permanently damaging the opponent wins. The challenge is usually done to show dominance: as if they draw blood first, they win. But if you draw blood first, you win. Killing or permanently damaging counted as losing though, so you had to be skillful. The Doctor had drawn blood first. So she should negotiate now.
___________________________________________________________________________________
The girl waiting at the foot of the stairs, humming to herself, threw Macbeth off. He had assumed she would either be waiting for an attack or long gone. Striding down the stairs, still confident, he assumed a sitting position on two steps from the end. Doctor looked at Descendant, and for a while, neither said anything. Then came a timid whisper, like ice cracking under the heat of the sun in summer: “You won.” The doctor most certainly did not expect this statement.
“Won what?” he whispered back, mirroring her tone perfectly.
“The Rite. You won. That means that we can be friends now. So in all honesty, what I am trying to say is: You won’t need that rifle.”
Blinking in surprise for the second time that afternoon, the Doctor checked. There was no possible way she could see from that angle.
“Don’t bother. Anyway, me and my friends at the Animus looked at your operation-before and after the activities of a certain man- admittedly I could not find the man responsible. We decided it might be salvageable.” Chuckling slightly, the Head of the Serpent admitted:
“That is the plan. But why would it be of any interest to you?”
“I said we might be interesting in joining in with the salvaging. We have resources that you may find… useful, and we also share a similar goal.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“Shared prosperity, and acceptance for all. Basically a combination of what I believe to be your and another organisation’s goals.”
“And here I am, having a conversation with an 8-10-year-old child about my life goals.”
“It’s a strange world, isn’t it.”
“That it is.”
[/spoiler]
Alphaeus' Battle
Spoiler (Click to Show)
David straightened his straw hat. “No thank you, Richie. I’ll just be heading into town, I think.”
Richie nodded, and stepped over to the lounge chair David had occupied, sweeping off some of the beach sand and snatching up the jacket that was draped over the back. “Sir, your jacket.”
“Ah, yes…island time does wonders, but it would never do to forget my jacket.” David paused and extended his arms as his man helped him with his jacket. With a shrug of his shoulders he settled into it and then strode off across the sand. A massive, sprawling teakwood plantation style home sat behind them on a cliff that was the highest point on the island. David slipped into his boathouse, stepping deftly into his 40 foot VanDam Custom. The hand-cut panels of mahogany had been salvaged from a 1700s British East Indiaman, and gleamed like they were new. The lithe, majestic form of the speed boat – one he personally designed to incorporate the best of his beloved 1930s Riviera Runabouts with modern ocean performance – purred softly as he motored out of the boathouse and past the coral reefs that surrounded Solaveri, MacBeth’s Carribean island; and island which registered as a legally independent nation, in fact.
As soon as the slender bow sliced through the breakers, David steered past Banquo’s Bane, the only clipper ship still fully functioning from the old MacBeth family’s days in international shipping. The few crew members that regularly stayed on board for maintenance saluted him as he passed, as he did in return. Now fully in the open, he tightened his grip on the polished chrome wheel and slammed forward the throttle, letting the Twin Super-Turbo Bugatti Custom Marine W-16 roar to life. The twin jets under the hull spewed out a rush of water that threatened to send the slender craft airborne, yet were placed just close enough to the center of the vessel that it remained balanced. Within seconds he had accelerated well past 120 knots, skimming across the waves as lightly as the wandering albatross that occasionally drifted past his piece of paradise.
He dropped back on throttle just enough to stop accelerating, then settled onto the seal-hide seats basking in the warmth of the sun. Despite his speed, the windshield was angled just right to create a pocket of almost still air over the passenger area, isolating them from all but the invigorating spell of sea spray. His eyes wandered languidly back and forth from under the brim of his hat, keeping watch for any reason to cut his speed. He wasn’t particularly worried about collisions – the boat was agile, and the wood was more resilient then the best metal alloys. Still, he didn’t want trouble on his vacation. It was the first time in a while that he had been able to get away from it all, and with Altaer having found a replacement for his P-51 Mustang, David simply couldn’t resist a flight down to Solaveri. Being a nation of its own was more of a title than anything – given its size and a population consisting of only his plantation workers and house staff, it held no international position. It did give him a place satisfactorily under is legal control, however, for centralizing some of his more high-stakes dealings with international figures, as well as a handy shelter for his wealth.
After just over an hour, he dropped to cruising speed and coasted into the harbor of the nearest town, a sleepy half-forgotten place by the name of Isla de Caballo Maron. The island itself was hardly larger than Solaveri, but was politically part of Belize, which lay far beyond the horizon to the west. Motoring in to the dock, he aimed for one of the slips he owned on a private dock. A Latino dockhand in pristine blue uniform stepped forward to guide the boat in while David cut the motor and leapt onto the greyed planking. David scanned the docks, taking note of the other boats and giving an approving nod. Much of the life at this town was funded by Solaveri, which did in fact run as an operating plantation, albeit one that focused on experimental growing techniques and heirloom agricultural varieties. His presence had drawn the attention of other local islanders from Belize, as well as the kind of shiftless nondescript “well-to-do” that can afford to stay in obscure tropical islands for months at a time. He made a point, however, of ensuring that publicity s