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Siren’s is Calling
By Myths n’ Wraiths
“How does he do it?” Vindea asked in a voice that
could barely be heard over the costal breeze that was washing over
Siren’s Call. The young blaster sat casually on a charred metal
support beam that protruded from what was once the fifth floor of a
coastal resort. Her long slender legs were pulled up close to her body,
her elegant bare arms wrapped around her knees. Her long blonde hair
was caught in the steady, salty breeze and it shifted itself gently
around her body, concealing her beautiful features as it waved in the
“He is not like you and me,” Myth
replied evenly, despite his fatigue. The leader of the group of mutants
known as the Dogs of War leaned wearily against the outside of a
blown-out window frame which was situated only a few feet above
Vindea’s perch. His white hair was smudged with ash and dirt and
his young face was etched with both focus and fatigue. “Most
people, no matter how good they are, have moments when they go beyond
their average skill and become truly brilliant. For me it was the day
that I killed my parent’s murderer. I have been through much
since then; I have learned and grown, I have become more powerful.
There have been times when I have defied reality with what I have
accomplished but that day… for me that was the day that I was
unbeatable. For Wraith…” Myths voice trailed off as he
looked far below him at Siren’s coast. “… It is
every day of his life.”
I eat this, Wraith’s subconscious spoke to
him. His hands moved on their own accord. His feet danced in perfect
unison with his shifting body. The dark energies which he held sway
over coursed through his body and into his clenched fists where they
seeped from his pores, sucking the life energy from any organics that
where unfortunate enough to receive one of the Scrapper’s
This is me; the words roared from his soul. This is
who I am, this is what I do. I do not make them fear me; I am their
A powerful blow slammed into his abdomen, driving
him backwards and causing his feet to dig into the soft sand of
Siren’s beach. He took the blow, allowing his hyper-regenerative
body to dissipate the pain and the damage of a bruised rib almost
instantly, in order to trap his attacker’s fist and respond with
a powerful blow to the shoulder.
A howl of pain echoed out when the Brute, who had
plowed his right fist into Wraith’s stomach, had his
corresponding shoulder snapped out of place by the Scrapper’s
relentless, savage hands. Ducking under a poorly aimed swing, Wraith
brought his fist up into the Brute’s solar plexus, knocking the
air out of the villain’s lungs and forcing him to double over in
pain and gasp for air.
The bounty alert for this villain had identified him
as Crucible, a particularly ruthless juggernaut that had earned his
bones in the Rogue Isles by spearheading a prison break from
Bricktown’s infamous ziggurat. The name and the reputation meant
nothing to Wraith, however; in a matter of moments he would be nothing
but a fleeting memory. The Brute’s name, his face, the pain of
his powerful blows, even his foul smell would all be forgotten and he
would return to the Rogue Isles in shame and in pain; Wraith would see
Pressing his attack, Wraith threw a powerful hook
into the Brute’s body causing him to stumble back from the force
of the blow. Pausing for the briefest of moments, Wraith allowed
Crucible to begin to catch his footing then, coming up off his feet,
and pouring the entire weight of his body behind his fist, threw a
powerful punch squarely into the Brute’s chest.
With his victim knocked off balance, Wraith saw his
opportunity to finish Crucible off, but a flicker of motion in his
peripheral vision caused him to jump backward on instinct. A blast of
brilliant energy lanced over Wraith’s shoulder close enough to
singe his shirt, and slammed into Crucible with all the force of a
freight train. Wraith spun in mid air and looked up to see an
athletically built villain in a red and black leather costume hovering
almost twenty feet in the air.
Frey cursed at his luck. How could I have missed? the Dominator’s
boggled mind questioned. Not only had he missed the Scrapper, but his
most powerful blast had instead hit a fellow villain, burying him in a
shallow, sandy grave.
Frey began to wonder for the first time why he had even come to
Siren’s Call. The feelings of bravado he had felt when faced with
the prospect of combating the arrogant, beloved, poster boys of freedom
quickly faded when his mind pondered what a man who could batter a
Brute would do to someone with his own meager physical stability. He
cursed again when he saw the darkly clothed Scrapper leap effortlessly
into the air and come sailing toward him.
Feeling an irrational panic begin to sink into his
heart at the Scrapper’s approach, Frey spun in the air, defying
both the law of gravity and physics and began to fly away. Frey’s
heart skipped a beat when Wraith caught hold of his broad, black,
leather belt before he could make good on his escape. He tried to break
free of the Scrapper’s grip by spiraling away but Wraith’s
grip not only held firm but offered him enough leverage to kick upward
and slam his foot into Frey’s face.
The pair began to fall instantly but Wraith seemed
to pay their growing velocity no mind. The feral mutant let loose with
a series of blows to his victims mid section, his hands moving so fast
that all that could be seen of them was the trail of dark energy that
they left in their wake.
Retaliating on instinct, the Dominator released a
quick blast of fiery energy which clipped Wraith in the shoulder,
singing his skin and burning away his already torn shirt. The
Scrapper’s retaliation was merciless. He boxed the sides of
Frey’s head with enough force to burst the man’s eardrums
and clutched his skull in a crushing grip. The dark energies began to
flood Frey’s mind, draining his very consciousness and sapping
Blindly, the Dominator released a panic shot of pure
energy in an attempt to save himself from the relentless beating that
he was receiving at the hands of his ruthless opponent. Despite his
pain and lack of focus, there was no way he could miss at point blank
range. The blast exploded between the pair of battling men and sent
them sailing along the horizon in opposite directions before crashing
into the shallow costal waters.
Crucible shook his head in an attempt to clear his blurry vision and
the throbbing pain that wracked his mind. It did little good however,
since his head was surrounded by sand. Forcing his stiff limbs into
motion, he began to pull himself out of his untimely grave. Using his
spiked fists and armored arms as plows to dig himself free, the Brute
slowly made his way from the earth.
Reaching sunlight once again, Crucible stumbled
shakily to his feet just in time to see the Dominator that had buried
him and the Scrapper that had battered him, disappear into the waves.
Relief flooded through his mind at the sight of Wraith’s body
crashing helplessly into the waters of Siren’s beach and an
immense hope that the Scrapper would not be coming back out soon
followed. These emotions however, were quickly replaced by regret.
“I am Crucible,” he proclaimed loudly,
chastising himself for the moment of weakness. “I fear no one.
The kill should have been mine!”
Crucible truly believed the words that went through
his mind at that moment. He had proven himself time and time again in
countless battles. He had always managed to come out on top no matter
what adversity he had faced. It was because of his relentless
determination and fearless heart that he had triumphed time and time
again; which is why he truly felt confusion when his heart skipped a
beat and his adrenaline spiked at the sight of a darkly clothed man
leaping from the cresting waves of the ocean.
Wraith landed nimbly on the soft sands of the beach. His shirt was now
little more than tattered shreds and the singes on his chest were still
fading, but his eyes had lost none of their focus or fury. He scanned
the terrain around him with the patience and perception of a hawk
looking for its next prey and he almost chuckled when he spied the
Brute’s sand covered form less than a hundred yards away. A faint
splashing sound and the sight of a battered red and black leather
outfit proclaimed that the Dominator had also managed to struggle back
to consciousness and was flying slowly toward land.
Forcing a moment of restraint and patience, Wraith allowed the two
villains a moment too make eye contact and instantly, silently make a
pact against him. They were a team now, joined by their hatred for him.
He had united two people that he could have more easily defeated if
they were alone; he had joined two men and made a lethal team out of
what would have otherwise been two easily manageable miscreants; he had
brought a greater danger on himself and jeopardized the outcome of the
ongoing war in Siren’s Call. He… didn’t care.
Wraith crouched slightly, tensing his powerful leg
muscles, then sprung nearly fifty feet in the air and landed on what
was left of an old water tower. The brash mutant fixed his adversaries
with a withering stair. “Run or fight,” Wraith shouted in a
clear deep voice. “Makes no difference to me. Just remember this,
the line is drawn here,” he continued, pointing towards the
shoreline and moving his arm to draw an invisible line across its white
sands, “and I hold that line.”
Vindea couldn’t help but smile when she heard
those words echo across the shore. Pride welled in her chest at the
sight of her companion standing alone against the filth and refuse of
the Rogue Isles.
It had been three days since the Dogs of War had
initially responded to an emergency call, which requested all available
heroes to report to Siren’s Call. The devastated port had been
overrun by Arachnos forces and villains were on the verge of destroying
the last of the Longbow troops that defended this zone from full out
The entire team, as well as many other heroes, had
responded to the call. After a long ruthless day of conflict, they had
managed to press the forces of evil back from the war wall and bring a
level of stability to a fight that promised no true ending. Despite the
always effective Emergency Teleport System, there had been casualties
on both sides and after twenty-four hours of bloodshed and pain, few
fighters on either side held enough spirit to continue the assault.
After that first day the majority of the heroes, including many of the
Dogs of War, left the coast to resume their obligations inside the
city. Wraith; however, refused to leave. The determined mutant was like
a predator among a flock of prey, and though he had been beaten,
pierced, blasted or otherwise injured to the edge of death many times
over the past thirty-six hours, he had not relented in his fight.
Since Wraith stayed, Vindea also remained; though
whether her motivation came from devotion or admiration, she could not
tell. She couldn’t explain Wraith’s appeal; it certainly
was not his charm or charisma. He was in fact the most defiant,
ruthless man she knew; yet in his defiance could be found steadfastness
and his ruthlessness held a passion that inspired. In battle the line
between love and loyalty can become blurred, but one thing Vindea was
sure of was that whenever Wraith fought, she would be ready to fight
beside him. No one could survive on their own forever, not even Wraith.
After all he had suffered to bring peace to Paragon, when that one
moment arose that he would need help, Vindea promised herself that she
would be the one that would be there to stand beside him.
Myth was in many ways the same in her eyes.
Wraith’s empathic, twin brother was a born leader, a man who
could inspire her with his mere presence but the inspiration he
provided was not the same as Wraith’s.
No, not the same, she thought to herself and glanced up at
Wraith’s white haired twin. Like any good leader, he had refused
to leave the zone while his brother or any of his team remained behind
but he did not posses his brother’s resilience; few did.
Vindea’s soft blue eyes returned to
Wraith’s solitary form just in time to see the two villains
swooping in him. Even from this distance she could hear the sound of
Wraith’s fists pound on the Dominator, his first target. She
could see very little detail of the fight but she had no doubt, based
on the howls of pain that came echoing up from the skirmish, that
Wraith was executing his target with extreme prejudice. Less than a
minute had passed before the slim red and black figure collapsed to the
ground and Wraith turned his attention to the Brute, who had been
trying in vain to pummel the distracted Scrapper.
The two impressively built, super powered men
collided with startling force. Vindea could hear the two shout and
grunt in exertion while they traded blows in a raw display of savage
power. The two men battered each other with every ounce of strength
they could muster, the percussion of their blows being so loud that
they echoed across the shore.
“No one beats Wraith through stamina,”
Vindea almost laughed. Seemingly in response to her statement, the
Brute faltered and collapsed to one knee. She watched Wraith catch the
heavily built man by the throat and began striking Crucible’s
face mercilessly with his closed fist until the armored figure hung
limp in his unwavering grasp.
Myth chuckled and mumbled, “Not much of a sportsman is he?”
“No,” Vindea responded dismissively.
“Sportsmen are people that have the luxury of losing. He is a
soldier and he fights like one.”
Suddenly Myth stiffened in his perch and his eyes
snapped out of their tired fog and into focus. “There’s
some one else out there,” he whispered.
Wraith cast Crucible’s limp form off the water
tower with no more respect than he would show a bag of compost and
slowly turned in a complete circle, scanning his surroundings for any
other threats. Finding none, he wiped his brow with a blood stained
hand and let out a long sigh.
He never saw it coming; the piercing and mortal fire
of pain just appeared in his chest. Where there had been nothing but
clear air a second earlier a gothic garbed woman now stood, a twisted
smile etched on her angular face. Wraith wanted to strike out at her,
to retaliate for the crushing pain that filled his chest but his fists,
which moments earlier seemed to have a consciousness of their own, now
hung limply at his sides.
Reluctantly, Wraith broke his eyes away from the
woman’s face. His vision abandoned the black make-up and dark,
unruly hair, to look down at his fists. His eyes however, never made it
to his hands. They focused instead on a glistening steel blade that
protruded from the center of his chest.
“So,” the woman sneered at Wraith.
“You’re the one holding the line. I pity those people that
thought they could sleep safely tonight because you were here
Wraith could feel darkness closing in him, he could
sense the icy cold tendrils of death creeping in on his heart but still
he forced himself to look back up at the Stalker that had claimed her
victory over him. Reaching deep within himself Wraith willed his hand
to reach up with blinding speed and snatch her by her narrow neck,
pulling her face to within inches of his own. A weak, sneering smile
formed on his lips. “Y-you’re gonna l-love this
part,” he said, coughing up blood on her pale lean face.
A blinding bolt of horrendous energy plowed into the
Stalker so suddenly that she did not even manage a scream until just
before her body slammed into the side of a decaying, old building. The
scream ended abruptly, replaced by a faint moan from her unconscious
throat. Falling limply from the side of the building, where she had
left a small crater in the already crumbling steel framework, the
Stalker’s body looked more like a sack of tossed bones than a
Watching the Stalkers body hit the ground and bounce lightly off of the
cracked pavement, Wraith’s grin turned from twisted to satisfied.
“S-see, wasn’t t-that great?” He mumbled weakly.
Slowly, the wounded Scrapper sunk to his knees, his shoulders slumping
and his head hanging low with exhaustion. Taking a deep breath, he
grasped the hilt of the katana that still protruded from his chest.
With as much speed as he could muster Wraith yanked hard on the hilt,
dragging the blade from his chest. No matter how fast he pulled at the
blade however, there was no avoiding the pain. The feeling of the razor
sharp steel grind against his ribs and carve his lung tissue
reverberated through his body. A horrific cry of agony escaped his lips
and a gush of blood spurted from his chest when the blade fully escaped
The world spun around him and darkness grasped his mind in a vice like
grip. The sword fell forgotten from Wraith’s hand and he
collapsed to the ground, grasping at his gaping wound. He sucked
heavily at the air around him, just to have it bubble out between the
fingers that clutched at the hole in his chest.
Helpless to breathe, Wraith lay in a growing puddle of his own blood,
with his mouth hanging open and his chest squirting black fluid and
air. Stubbornly refusing to accept an immediate trip to the nearby
medical facilities, he waited in unreal agony for his body to overcome
its nearly mortal wound.
“We’re here.” He heard the gentle
voice sink through the fog of pain. Along with that pleasant female
voice, the familiar presence of his twin brother settled in around
Wraith. Less than a second later a wave of healing energy swept over
his body and he felt the unbelievable relief of air filling his lungs.
Suddenly the fog of pain and the chill of death fled him and Wraith
found himself coming nimbly to his knees.
Vindea rested her hand gently on Wraith’s
shoulder. “Easy there big guy; that one was kind of close…
even for you.”
“All just part of the game,” Wraith said in a low gravely voice.
“Some game,” Myth replied with a grin
that mirrored his brother’s. “Ever think that maybe you
should redefine your rules? All these near death experiences of yours
can’t be good for your already shaky psyche,” he teased.
“Didn’t realize there were any rules too redefine,” Wraith replied.
A low hum cut into their conversation and Wraith
quickly snatched his cell phone from one of his cargo pockets. The
luminous screen proclaimed a simple message.
No bounties available.
“Well, guess they all got tired of dancing,” Wraith said with a shrug.
Vindea giggled, though her throat and body were so
tired it came out more as a cough. “Does this mean we can finally
“Unless Wraith likes hanging around here for the scenery,” Myth replied.
“Never cared much for the beach,” Wraith
said, rising from his knees and stretching his newly restored abdomen.
“I think they got my message. Let’s book.”
The trio turned their backs on Paragon’s
war-ravaged coast just when the sun began to set. Its fading light
caught the faint fumes that rose over the villain’s island base
and cast the evening sky in a pink hue. The twins paid the celestial
light display no mind but Vindea could not help but glance over her
shoulder for a moment in silent awe.
“I wish that everyone could enjoy this. These
past few days would be worth it all if the citizens could one day
return here and see moments like this,” she whispered low enough
so that only Wraith could hear her.
The dark haired scrapper glanced over his shoulder
at the dimming skyline and shook his head dismissively.
“That’s not why I fight,”
“Then for what?” Vindea persisted.
“You just spent three days battling out here; why?”
Wraith just shook his head. “It’s who I am. It’s what I do.”
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