The earth is moving. At least that's what I surmise when the floor starts quaking and my headaches awakes once more like a pissed of infant, screaming bloody murder, from the vibrations. Normally I wouldn't care but since I have a monstrous amount of time on my hands I fake the interest needed to see what's going on.

Either this had to be the most thorough break out ever in history or Adams had me placed here for a larger purpose than to rot and the purpose suits me fine. It means Adams is bound to return.

It's been a while since I stopped to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Either it's darker than is natural in this narrow tunnel I find myself in, or I'm still dizzy from my invitation.

That familiar sound of metal hit my senses when I put my foot down. It's not until I take a few steps onto the metal surface that the place lights up, with a green ember from underneath the floor, peering through small cracks and gaps.

The door I came from closes. Passed the point of no return? No, that was years ago. This is just another Deja Vu.

The light is so soft I don't even realize that the floor is moving until a bright doorway starts to illuminate the setting as the lift descends further.

This room is box. No windows but a door on the other side of the room and a table in the centre. On the table there is a recipe for disaster; three loaded guns. My guns.

I don't hesitate to re-equip myself, even when all the alarms in my head go off at the same time. Adams was shaky. Not used to death and when staring into the eyes of a corpse, like myself, his Gestapo wannabe attitude crumbled like it was never there.

This was beyond shaky.

This was a settup.

I'm halfway into believing that the minute I opened the second door, I was ambushed and knocked unconscious and what I'm seeing is just a dream. The Lord estate presents itself with a less than subtle bang as the thunder strikes. A perfect gloom for the setting; a stunning noir.

When I take another look around the door is gone. Vanished, like it was never there. A sound behind me gets my attention. A voice that I know all too well.

A freight train hits my jaw. All the colors inverts and the sky turns white while rains of ashes batter my face. Another train crashes into my gut. My eyes blur and the sounds go wet.

Deja Vu is right.

Manute is talking to me, standing above me like a God with his golden eye shining like a star in the dark while I'm digging my fingers into the dirt. Stay awake, damnit!

"A remarkable transformation."

I can't hear it. It's a rumble, even mightier than the rain and the thunder but I know the words so well. I remember the sound; I remember the smell of those words. But it's all wrong, this isn't how it happened.

Ava...

Damn...

There she is. Standing behind Manute. Naked and soaked by her midnight swim. I remember watching her that night. Even though I remembered all she did and knowing what she was; even though I was bleeding on ground; even though it was the worst of times I still couldn't keep my eyes off her. But she wasn't holding a gun. It didn't happen like this. This is wrong.

Get on your feet, the smart part of me says. I'm fast enough to take care of Manute.

I hope.

I jump to my feet and vision and hearing slowly returns to me as Manute gets ready to charge me again. I have to be faster than him, have to strike first. His jaw feels like a jagged stone against the sole of my feet, but the mountain is moving by the impact. It is hurt. It's the only edge I have against him. Stay faster.

I kick again. I get him to his knees.

Now's the time. I reach for a gun but Manute is far from defeated and his time he was faster. The impact from when Manute throws me to the ground quakes my entire body. Throws me off focus. Makes me sick. I feel his hand grasp around my neck. His grip will sooner squeeze my head right off rather than strangling me. I panic, grabbing his arms while trying to pull him off me. It's impossible.

Use your gun! The smart side of me is screaming a language I don't understand and it takes several seconds for me to get it. The small 22. slides gently out of my sleve and just in time with the thunder, I pull the trigger.

Manute doesn't go down so I pull it again. It takes all six bullet before his posture lowers and his hands stray for his wounds. I hit him hard against the cheek, throwing him off me. I'll have hell to pay for that punch tomorrow.

I get up, dropping the gun on the ground. I'm not listening to Manute's roaring laughter. I'm not even listening to the clicking sound of a six shooter loading a live bullet into the barrel. I don't hear it.

The bullet strikes me in the right shoulder, going straight through. The shock strikes me as hard as Manute's punches but I know exactly what happened. By the time I have hit the gun out of Ava's hand she's sobbing like she always does with me. A damsel in distress, just for me. I force myself not to ignore her but my body is stunned and I can't decide whether I'm angry or sad.

She gets to her feet, sobbing excuses and apologizes but I don't listen or answer. Think of all she did. She'd kill you if she could!

She kiss me. I don't kiss back.

The thunder strikes again and Ava's deep shuddering gaze turns blank and empty. As she fall aside, the smoke from the colt dances in front of my eyes.

I said I'd kill you if you did that again. I said I would.

Thunder strikes again and this time it's my turn to go out. My world goes dark. I could be dead or unconscious; I can't tell. It's a blank and I don't seem to mind at all.

When I open my eyes I find myself starring into the darkest of stones man ever carved to build a ceiling. I missed this place.

(Day-amn, Vic, I always knew that it would be stupid to make you try using someone other than Dwight, but I didn't realize just how stupid it would be until that post you just made. We're glad to have McCarthy aboard the Psycho Express!)

Level 5. Containment Officer Norman-B-4735 was terrified of it. Only the high-powered supernaturals went in here... the hateful spirits, the inhuman undead. The psychotic psychics, the nightmares--the literal nightmares. And it was the nightmares that Norman B-4735 would be dealing with today.

"4735!" barked a commanding officer. "Report!"

"Approaching subject now," responded Norman. "All security measures are in place."

"Report back through the audio transponder once every thirty seconds. This is the most volatile prisoner we have, soldier--so far, anyway."

"I understand, sir."

"Good. Deactivating optics in five."

Five seconds later, the hallway was immersed in darkness. The lights had not been turned off, of course--it was Norman's eyes that had been turned off. He plucked them from his head with little discomfort; they were shiny metallic orbs, rather than fleshy organs.

Norman turned 180 degrees and dropped the orbs onto a tray. Then he turned back and touched a sequence of dials on the wall, working entirely from his memory of the room's position. A door swung open and an endless void was revealed behind it. Norman stepped dutifully into the void as the door closed behind him.

Norman raised a device strapped to his wrist, raised it to his mouth, and breathed "Subject NIGH-667."

The void was suddenly filled with rushing wind, and Norman was yanked through a conduit of bent realities and fractured stories before landing on a mountain of bloodstained eyes, each one the size of of basketball. Norman could not see them, but he felt their slippery ovoid shapes and came to the right conclusions. He leapt to his feet and tried to wipe the blood off of his robes, disgusted. He was aware of a munching and slurping sound to his back.

"Admiring my collection?" came a sneering voice. The noisy eating ceased, and Norman's senses homed in on the voice immediately, pinpointing the Corinthian's location.

"Hello, Nightmare," Norman answered. Munching and slurping sounds resumed. The Corinthian was drinking the fluids from one of Argus' eyes like soup from a bowl.

"I've been sent to ask if you are comfortable," continued Norman. "Your stay, while involuntary, should be as pleasant as possible."

"Don't patronize me, mortal. Your obvious lack of eyes will not deter my knife even the slightest bit, should I find you unpleasant."

The slurping began again, then stopped. The Corinthian resumed his speech. "Understand, though--I'm comfortable, yes. But I am not at peace. My Lord still needs me, and I am still going to slaughter every last one of you the moment I get the chance. You owe my King and me a heavy debt for taking me from the Dreaming, and we're only taking checks written with your blood. Heh... you'd better pray that your balance isn't in the red, eh?"

Norman didn't quaver.

"Or, alternatively," added the nightmare, "they could be written with your vitreous humor. But you don't really have any, do you? No juicy eyes in that bony head of yours, hm? Perhaps you could borrow some from friends. Or family."

Norman felt a twinge of fear at the mention of his family, but didn't show it. He'd spent his whole life learning not to show any signs of weakness to these monsters, and he wasn't about to let that go to waste.

"No more combat routines will be necessary for you, nightmare. We've learned all we need to know from you."

"Really? I thought it was rather fun. And there's so much more that I can do, you know--I barely went through an eighth of my technique back there."

"You take pleasure in the combat simulation, yes. We know this," said Norman. "But we need no more data on your combat technique. Instead, we would like to know about your older memories... the ones you inherited from your predecessor."

*Munch. Slurp.*

There was a long silence, broken only by the noises that the Corinthian continued to make. Finally the nightmare caved in. "So, what do you want to know? And why should I tell you?"

"Tell us about the meeting that your predecessor attended a few years ago. The group that called itself 'The Collectors.' Do you recall it?"

"Maybe."

Norman stood up, then. "Well, you'd better remember fast. Because we'll only let you back into the combat arena once per piece of relevant information."

The Corinthian grunted nonchalantly, surprisingly nonplussed. Norman hadn't been expecting this.

"Aren't you worried? Isn't it boring in this endless void? Don't you want another opportunity to kill?"

"Like I said, kid. No patronizing. Don't push your luck."

Norman spat angrily on the mound of giant eyeballs, turned, and began to leave.

"Thanks for the garnish!" the Corinthian called after him. "Or was that supposed to be offensive?"

F*cking animals, thought Norman. What kind of world spawns things like that?

He raised his wrist to his mouth and silently breathed "Back to Level 5, clearance code B-4735."

Nothing happened. That was odd...

"Were you looking for this?"

There was a jangling noise. With a sudden shock of realization, Norman knew that the Corinthian was shaking his wrist device.

"It's of no use to you," protested Norman. "You can't escape with it! You don't know the clearance code!"

*thunk*

The Corinthian's knife buried itself three inches into Norman's neck. The blade disappeared completely into his flesh. But Norman didn't bleed or scream or die in pain; he simply winked out of existence, like a snuffed candle flame.

"Well, THAT did nothing for me," the Corinthian mumbled. "Still, though..."

For the first time since Norman's arrival, the Corinthian actually stood up on his feet. He looked over at the mound of eyes, and saw what Norman couldn't see--a half-dead raven, a semi-conscious souvenir from the Corinthian's journey into the simulation arena. Its eyelids were stitched open with splinters and thorns from the dream-forest; it had seen everything that Norman had done after entering. Everything.

The nightmare cut both of the bird's eyes out and popped them into his head. The image of Norman mouthing his clearance code appeared in the Corinthian's mind, playing over and over again... the nightmare struggled to read Norman's lips.

"B..." read the Corinthian, thinking aloud as he memorized each syllable, "hm, definitely a B... then F... O... R... Before? No, words would be too easy, too mnemonic... hm, B-4, perhaps. Then 7... 3..."

Really, this is much too easy. These people have no idea what they're doing at ALL.

***

The Corporeal Essence of the Omnipresence sat regally on his principled utilitarian throne, looking proudly at his work. His servants were aiding him in the pursuit of absolute moral justice; there could be only one reasonable end, and it was well under way.

"Boss! Boss!" came a panicked underling, a man from the Research department. "The Corinthian's escaping! He got Norman's pass code somehow, and--"

"Did he kill Norman?"

"Yeah, boss. We're making a copy, that's not the problem, but it will take time and resources to recapture--"

"Then all is well," chuckled the CEO. "Carry on as planned."

"But boss--the Corinthian's loose! He swore a blood oath against us!"

"It's part of the plan, Herald," the CEO said, brightly. "Everything's going to work out. Trust me--you'll see."


(SPP, when you make your next post, I'll give "escape post" details for you and Vic. I have an idea for an escape sequence right now that will get everyone free but it's pretty flexible, so if either of you have any specific plans on how your character could escape, feel free to PM me and ask.)

Howdy. Checking in a tad late with a character profile.

CHARACTER: Johnny C. (a.k.a., "Nny")

CATEGORY: F*cking Hilarious / F*cking Insane

CONTINUITY: Johnny The Homicidla Maniac series

WEAPONS: Basically, whatever he can get his hands on-- anything from mannequin limbs to firearms

CLOTHING: Dark clothing; long duster jacket, long, tattered, tight-fitting shirt, tight pants, stereotypically "gothic" boots, long black gloves (on occasion)

PREFERRED M.O.: Depends on situaton-- most prevalent form of termination is slow, painful torture, rarely immediately deadly

FIGHTING STYLE: No fixed style; applies various melee weapons in a erratic and wanton fashion

SUPERNATURAL: Waste-lock; keeps some portion of the collective evil of the universe contained within a single wall in his house.

APPEARANCE: Black matted hair, olive skin, tall wiry physique, large eyes (no irises, apparantly), large mouth with small, widely-spaced teeth.

BIO: Much of Johnny's past is shourded in mystery. The remnants of his sordid past are limited to a small, sentient novelty "Bub's Burger Boy" figurine, the ghost of a pet bunny which, as a child, Johnny fed once and then nailed to a wall, and two Pilsburry dough boy displays painted in a macabre fashion-- both of which fight for the fate of Johnny's soul.

Johnny murders out of disdain for all humanity. He also fights, inadvertantly, for its salvation. In killing and painting a sole wall in his house with the blood of human victims, Johnny keeps the Lovecraftian evils of the universe locked away safely, sparing this sordid planet one day longer for every person he puts out of his misery. Although-- according to the voices in his head (using his dead pet bunny as a conduit)-- Johnny's entire life has been a massacre of sorts, Johnny's insanity is attributed to this job, this calling as a "waste-lock."

(YES. Johnny C. is made of epic win. Well come indeed!)

(I'm experiencing some problems with my formatted, connectionless computer and the external hard disk where my post is placed at. I'll try and fix the stuff within a day or two. Otherwise, you have my official permission to call me a bitch. Once.)

(It's a point of pride with me to only call someone a bitch if I am fairly certain that the someone is male.)

(At any rate, I understand, SPP. I can wait. I've got the tie-in post for Johnny / Xaxem to keep me busy.)

(Belkar's combat simulation was the sexyness itself, couldn't have made it better!

Anyway, I'll be back friday (completly). Although I'm leaving almost directly after for 5 days.)