[Crawl #0003] Downriver Money [Complete!]

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[Crawl #0003] Downriver Money
"You might be downstream of money, but you're upstream of luck."​

Party Members: Conrad Jamboy, Brooke Stryker, Zebra
Former Members: Haruhiko Kami
Party Meter: 75%
Total Coin: 7,845
Quests Completed: 3

Quest #1 - Getting the Band Together

Word Count6,400 words (1,600 per party member)
Content – A hilarious set of circumstances had led all of the party members to be in the same place at the same time, and must end up allied by the end of the encounter.
Your story must significantly feature a celebration, love triangle, and a mirror or reflection.
Reward – 770 Coin each, Meter Boost

Quest #2 - A Bribe Too Far

Word Count5,800 words (1,450 per party member)
Content – Somebody at the party has realized that there's something afoot, and unless you can give them a good reason to not blow you're cover, you'll be stuck in the lion's den with a whole bunch of lions.
Your story must significantly feature religion.
Reward – 928 Coin each, Wayward Merchant
You may purchase any Consumables you wish on this Quest. You may also purchase the following special, half priced Consumables:
Golden Gloves
Damage 8
Cost: 400
These gloves were designed with one specific intention in mind: cheating at meta human sports. With achemo-pneumatic pistons in the front, they pack more than enough of a punch to knock out the top contender from even the top tier of the MMMA (Metahuman Mixed Martial Arts), no superpowers required! Regulation weight approved.

Quest #3 – Suffer the Slings and Arrows

Word Count – 5300 (1766 per party member)
Content – Your group crawls closer to the precipice of victory in your covert operation but not everything has gone according to plan. Unseen complications have sprung, and you will have to adapt quickly to evade capture and vanish into the night. To make things worse, something foul has happened. There is a heaviness in the air and everyone seems to be… affected by something. Madness has started to creep into everyone’s mind and individuals are starting to see unspeakable monsters in the corners of their eyes and in the shadows that blanket the facility.
Reward – 917 Coin each​
 
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Conrad Jamboy

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qeTHb3ZYjerBqY6UGLDGbxJSKoB_DyW83yMHaXw_JyTF9_8HHRE08cSd43ZXJHoiMYnmZPfKLDMV7PWu3VLpgSVgyrLORZ6fUZR7qVT6fLyvqNbgq4ikg6BnJM-5b6bKAyCwAG35


A distraught and sleepless day and night left Conrad hunched over the bar of the Whispering Tankard, flies buzzing around the untouched pint of honey mead in front of him. Absentmindedly, he reached up and slapped a hand across his face, narrowly missing one of the buzzing invaders but raising a fresh welt for the effort. If the stages of grief were to be believed, the halfling had surely gone out of order, launching straight into a consuming, twenty-four-hour haze of drunken depression. When his meager supply of coins had run out, Davroar Milner had been kind enough to keep the drink coming.

What could he do? the halfling wondered. It had taken all his life to get a ship of his own—to start running the offworld smuggling routes that kept his purse fat and his ample belly full of good food and drink. Going to the authorities was, of course, completely out of the question. The city’s peacekeeping force knew well the name of Conrad Jamboy, and going to them was as likely to land him in a pair of shackles as to help further his cause. Surely he could not confront the old merchant, who no doubt would be well-protected—who, perhaps at this very moment, sought out the thieving halfling to visit even greater tortures upon him.

“Always, the rich get their way,” Conrad spat, pushing himself off the bar to stretch the kinks from his neck and shoulders. “To hell with Ajax Whittaker.”

“Tell me about it,” rumbled Davroar, wiping a filthy flagon with an even filthier rag. “All me life I’ve scrimped and saved, bustin’ me hump day and night, with naught to show for it but a crummy bar and a glorified parkin’ lot! Then ol’ Ajax Whittaker builds that gamblin’ monstrosity up the way and steals all me customers.”

That got the halfling’s attention. “You know the man?”

“Know ‘im?” Davroar yelled, startling the few other all-nighters from their snoozing. “I’d wring ‘is neck with me own ‘ands.”

Conrad’s face split into a sly grin, the first since discovering the empty parking space a full day earlier. As it always did when he managed to land himself in a tight spot, a plan began to form in the clever halfling’s mind. “Well that’s a hell of a coincidence. Ajax Whittaker has been threatening me for weeks,” Conrad lied. “Even had his goons break into the Apothecarium and wreck up the place, trying to get me to give up the business for good. And now he broke into your lot and stole my ship as well!”

Just in time, the halfling pushed back off the bar and dropped nimbly to the floor, as two huge, meaty hands pounded the bartop, splintering wood and smashing glass. “Thieving bastard!” Davroar growled. “‘e’ll have us all outta business afore ‘e’s through!”

“No doubt, if he gets his way,” Conrad agreed. “Seems like he wants to own the entire district. The man will stop at nothing to shut down hard working folks like us.” The halfling marveled at his own ability to grasp a situation and twist it into his favor.

Davroar settled back, his rage played out, and rubbed his ruddy cheeks with both hands. He looked how Conrad had felt until just a few moments prior—frustrated, exhausted, and defeated. Just the way the halfling hoped he would look.

“What if I told you I had a plan?” Conrad said slyly. “A plan to get back at Ajax and shut him down for good?”

The barkeep pulled his hands away and regarded Conrad with his characteristically heavy-lidded eyes. “What kinda plan?” he said skeptically. The man knew little about Conrad’s line of business, thinking the smooth-talking halfling to be just another struggling merchant amidst the throngs of struggling merchants packed into Karim like so many sardines in a can. The little thief would have to tread lightly here, lest he give away too much.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said with a wink, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Plausible deniability, and all. Let’s just leave it at this: I have a team of people just like you and me—people who have been wronged by Ajax Whittaker or by others like him. It’s past time we take back what’s ours, wouldn’t you say?”

Davroar nodded, but didn’t seem convinced. “Why’re ye tellin’ me this?” he asked.

“Why, because I need your help,” the halfling replied. “As it stands, I’m out a ship and a business. Sort of leaves me high and dry when it comes to a base of operations, if you follow my meaning.” He leaned in close, intent on selling the tale. “Afford me and my team a few rooms upstairs, and enough food and drink to get us through the next few weeks of planning, and you have my word we’ll pay it back… with interest!”

At first, the barkeep’s sour expression made Conrad think he had failed to sell a lie for the second time in as many days. But then, a self-deprecating smile crept onto the huge man’s face. “Well shit, pipsqueak. I might as well, I spose… not like the rooms’re bein’ used these days anyway, eh?” His low chuckle sounded like tires on gravel.

“The plan will work, Dav,” Conrad said solemnly. “We’re going to get him shut down, and then we’ll all be back in business.” Maybe Davroar believed him, the halfling mused as he caught a heavy ring of keys that almost knocked him onto his rump. Or maybe, at this point, it didn’t even matter. His plan had bought him a place to lay his head, and enough time to figure out what came next.

“See that it does,” Davroar grumbled. “Third floor on the left. Ye can bring yer friends by tomorrow, and tell me a little more about this plan.”

The halfling did well to hide his frown, nodding briskly and skipping up the stairs. The negative effects of his run-in with Ajax just kept piling up, to his detriment. The gods damned merchant just couldn’t have kept his business separate from Conrad’s. The city’s nobility always found a way to get rich off the labor of others.

Depression soon gave way to anger, and by the time he reached his room, despite not having slept in more than two days, Conrad’s eyes were wide open, the gears turning in his head. The ‘gambling monstrosity,’ as Davroar had named it, was news to him. A few such complexes existed around the city—race tracks, casinos, and gladiatorial arenas, designed to lure in and bankrupt Karim’s peasants like honey to flies. Maybe he could shut it down… maybe he should shut it down, to the betterment of all the people like him, beaten down and marginalized by selfish, hateful men. He had to do something… didn’t he? What else did he have to lose?

Filled with a sudden surge of confidence, he convinced himself of his own impromptu plan. The next morning, he would put the word out through his network of contacts, looking for any sympathetic criminals or fighters who might want to knock a rich man down a few pegs.

And who knew? Maybe he would even find a way to make a few bucks in the process.

Post 1/8; 1,214 words.
Personal Quest Progress: 4,724/10,000
Strikes: 2
 
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Solomon Grundy

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Eight days before the Jamboy Job

Haruhiko had shadowed the caravan all night, finally reacher lusher lands. Green started to return as a color, albeit a dried, brownish shade; but green nonetheless. Small scrubs of brush gave way to large, fanlike leaves and palms. A large city lay before him, almost 5 times the size of Amegakure. A lush, oasis paradise of civilization and high, stone aqueducts carrying the one resource truly sustaining this planet. The water of Life.

Rivers of it emanated from the city, shallow canals lining the outskirts and forming easy to follow lanes, a maze of single file lines. Haru tightened his robe to hide the bulky scroll case attached to his back...and the other weaponry concealed on his person.

The shinobi approached the city line, blending in at the back of the caravan. With his loose black robe and forehead protector, Haruhiko could easily pass as a religious pilgrim, the blue lines on the robe matching the dye on his face perfectly only reinforcing the illusion.

A guard perched on a camel spoke loudly and clearly as the travelers filed into lanes. “Attention, visitors! There is increased gate security due to a recent spate of break-ins and thefts! If you do not have your stamped permit, you may be fined or imprisoned by any member of the Town Guard.”

Haruhiko smiled inwardly. Good. He needed a challenge to his abilities. There would be no use denying that he was not ready for the role he planned for himself. Practice would be the key.

“You, traveler. Name and purpose for visit?” A rough voice mumbled the words at him, Haru responding in a easy, level tone of voice that betrayed no emotion. “Katsu Kamui, priest of Amegakure.”

The customs guard, dressed in a yellow and red striped uniform, stamped a crisp sheet of paper and handed it over. “Papers. Present to Town Guards if asked.”

The ninja took the sheet, tucking it into the vest underneath his robe. Joining the others, he faded into the crowd. Just as a ninja does, becoming another shape among hundreds.

2 days before the Jamboy Job

THUMP. THUMP. FWWP.

Haru’s feet hit the pavement running as he vaulted off the side of the minaret. Paper wings spread across his shoulders with the sound of birds, giving a great flap and propelling him across the night sky. Stars twinkled above and reflecting off his wings, making the shinobi blend against the curtain of night until he flew to a particular rooftop. Taking a small satchel of scrolls out of his vest, he placed it under a gaudy flowerpot, bronzed with copper spirals on it. Holding a finger up to his ear, he pressed in the transmitter for the radio. “The package is delivered, Mr. Deljar. Where is my payment?”

A reedy voice laughed back. “Your payment is this. Another job that promises to offer great riches - if you are foolish enough to take it, Paper-Wing. You have much to learn about Karim’s shadows before you can demand payment. Goodbye.”

Haru put his hand down and frowned, staring down into the shadowed alleyways of the sleeping cities. Taken advantage of, fool? Of course, he was right. You must learn the shadows to control them.

He had been able to sustain a modest living with his various skills. Picking pockets, participating in various grunt level operations. His presence was barely a blip in Karim’s underworld, but it was a presence. The man known as Paper-Wing, the aloof one, can shred a group of men into ribbons. Quiet and stealthy. He’d gotten this request yesterday from the employer of a fellow street thug, and figured the next step would be a major operation that led to success.

10 minutes before the Jamboy Job

Straightening back on the stool, he raised the mug of desert orakh to his lips and took a sip, silently scanning the tavern. The Whispering Tankard. One of many such hubs of opportunity and debauchery. It was rustic, and felt unfamiliar and foreign to the city dweller ninja. Karim was dusty, and he’d spent as much time as he could standing under the geyser’s spray and thinking of the rains of home.

Then just as he put down the mug, he heard a burst of laughter in a nearby booth. The source was a short man, shorter than Haru had ever seen, with uncovered, furry feet. Oh no. This was the employer? The paper ninja had a strange feeling about this job, but his shrinking purse and ultimate ideals won out. Appearing next to the halfling almost as if he stepped out of the shadows with nothing but the sound of rustling paper.

His voice was deep and foreboding, measured and slow as he spoke. “Jamboy-sama….I am Paper Wing…..you have a job?”
 

Lord Zedd

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The scorching sun beat down as Brooke and Baldur made their way through the bustling streets of Karim, doing their best to remain as inconspicuous as possible. With Brooke not quite matching the common clothing of the desert city, and Baldur being a lumbering Goron that towered over any inhabitant, they were failing at that simple task. Fortunately, as new arrivals in the realm they had the temporary advantage of total and complete anonymity from the powers that ruled the land. It was for that reason that Brooke had spent the past few days carefully cultivating a meager network of contacts, keeping the two of them fed and well rested with some light pickpocketing and batting her eyes at a few easy marks.

It appeared that would come to an end soon. Free of all her past burdens and debts, she truly had the chance to start anew. She could set up shop in a nice area, work her way into a reputable position in a good business like she had imagined in her younger days, and help her companion get acclimated to a new life. Or, she could go for the big hit and skip the slow crawl of building up her funds. Robbing a high profile establishment with a ragtag crew seemed like the best way to do that. That was the promising job she had stumbled upon, and intended to capitalize on. There was only one real problem.

“I don’t like this,” Baldur grumbled as they moved through the crowd.

“Oh, what do you like, Baldur?” Brooke retorted, talking over her shoulder to the golem. She was beyond used to her teammate’s pre-game jitters.

“I’m serious!” the Goron replied in a slightly defensive tone. He didn’t like the way Brooke had countered so quickly. “We don’t know this world, these people, or this target! This could be a trap.”

“That’s why you’re here, remember?” Brooke laughed. They’d yet to encounter a foe that could keep Baldur at bay.

Baldur grunted. He didn’t share Brooke’s enthusiasm. He knew such a meeting was only a matter of time. That wasn’t even his greatest concern at the moment, either.

“We’ll be wanted criminals no matter how it goes,” Baldur continued. “We’ll have to run as long as we’re trapped here.”

They began to move down a much less crowded road, getting to a slightly seedier part of town. Brooke felt a little more at home, but her frustratingly righteous ally just got even more uncertain. He continued to follow without hesitation, however. What other choice did he really have?

“We’ll be fine,” Brooke tried to soothe him a little bit more. “Do you know how many blonde haired women are probably going to be in and out of these nice places that are worth hitting? I get a nice dress and I’ll be just another face in the crowd.”

“And what about me!?” Baldur was defensive once more. “I haven’t seen another Goron since we got here.”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “You’re here in case this is a setup. They probably won’t have anything for you to do if this is a legit job.”

“I hope you’re right,” Baldur mumbled.

Brooke was content that she had deflected any reservations well enough, but like always it was a front of her own. Word of a good, lucrative gig had made it to her through several loose contacts, but really anything could be about to happen. All she knew was to look for a halfling with a grudge. She couldn’t see the grudge, and Baldur might step on a halfling, so she wasn’t exactly as prepared as she normally was coming into an encounter and negotiation like this. She’d have to wing it, and throw her buddy at it if things broke down. The usual. Baldur should have been used to it by now.

She shoved open the door to a humble little bar, the Whispering Tankard, and made her way in. The usual looks came their way with the combination of a pretty girl and a marching slab of stone and metal entering the place together, so they approached the bar without hesitation. Both of them scanned the room as they walked, taking in the varied patrons. They stopped by the bar, where the bartender was sizing them up just the same.

“Yer the odd pair,” the man stated the obvious.

Brooke gave him a coy smile. “I hear there’s a halfing looking for help.”

“Depends,” the barkeep shrugged, cryptically. He looked up at Baldur, then back to Brooke. His question would only really apply to her. He could surmise the Goron’s answer. “What do ye do?”

“Get paid,” Brooke instantly answered with her own level of mystery.

The bartender rolled his eyes. “And how do ye do that?”

“That’s what we’re here to figure out,” Brooke flashed another smile.

Finally, the man broke out a grin of his own. He gestured to a remote corner of the pub, to a table occupied by two people that Brooke hadn’t quite noticed. She didn’t loiter, and moved over to them. Baldur gave a firm nod and a loud grunt as thanks, trying his best to play it cool before following Brooke. He just hoped Brooke was right about his role in this. The last thing he wanted was to end up in over his head in a new land.
 

V

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"Back into th' fuckin desert again..." Zebra growled, shading his eyes with one hand as he peered out across the terrain. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten out of prison and ended up headed straight to the desert before. Of course, that had just been a trip across a few countries, not to an entirely different world. That was just another day. An awful day, but still, just another day.

It didn't make it any more pleasant. He hated deserts. He hated traveling through them, he hated looking at them, and above all, he hated having to fully cross them before he could make it to any place he could settle down for a while again. Even if he had left the actual desert and dunes behind in favor of more tolerable terrain for now, it was still more than enough to grate on his nerves.

"Least I'm not goin' to any underground pyramid, this time," he muttered. Small comfort, really; might be less eventful than delving into an ancient labyrinthine deathtrap, but work was still waiting for him where he was going. The slightly more prevalent comfort, though, lay in the simple fact that his destination was waiting for him just ahead.

He idly scratched at his neck, tugging the ragged cloak back up into place. He'd had to scavenge clothes from his old captors, and they weren't exactly the best fit, given the sheer size difference. The cloak had been a huge, billowing thing that swept the ground when the old blowhard warden-wannabe had worn it. It barely reached to the ankles of the oversized criminal when he worse it. Probably a good thing, really; at least it couldn't drag in the sand and gather up grit or wear out any faster.

"Maybe I can get a bite ta eat in town, 'fore all this business nonsense gets to rollin'..." Now there was some encouragement for him, an idea that brought a spark of what might very generously be called mirth to his eyes, his mutilated mouth spreading into an even wider grin. Not just food, but maybe even a full meal. A hot meal. First time in months, maybe years.

A trail of thick saliva dampened the ground in his wake as he doubled his pace, striding toward the town in earnest now.

* * *​

"Eh?!" Zebra snarled down at the man, hand planted firmly on his head. "Whaddya mean, 'I got no idea'?! You tryin' ta get cocky with me?!"

"N-No, I don't-- I'm not--" The poor man squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady his nerves. "I don't know what you m-mean, sir. I've told you everything I know."

The gourmet hunter just growled and spit to one side, baring his teeth in a silent snarl. "Full of shit is what you are... I ain't even told ya what I wanna know yet, an' yet some how you 'got no idea'." He squeezed, applying pressure to the man's temples and hoisted him up, hauling the poor sap up to eye level with the titanic criminal. "So now I'm gonna actually ask ya, and then we'll see if you still got no idea."

The man just gulped, lifting both hands to grasp at the hand clutching his head and blinking in silent acknowledgement.

"Lookin' for a place..." Zebra went on, fishing into a pocket of the dingy, too-small pants and pulling out a scrap of paper. "...tha 'Whispering Tankard'. Got a man to see about a job." His eyes slowly rolled back to fixate on his new friend. "Wouldn't happen to know where that'd be, now would ya?"

The man's eyes went wide, and the nervous sweat pouring off of him seemed to double. "Y-Yeah, I...I know where it is..." he squeaked. "I can t-tell you--"

"Eh? Tell me? Like I'm gonna listen to a little pipsqueak like you? Let ya send me walkin' right into some'a yer pals, or the guards, or somethin'?" He tugged the man closer, until only a few inches separated them. "Do I look like an idiot, ya cocky bastard?!"

The man just whimpered and flailed in the towering criminal's grasp. "A-Ah, no! No! You're not an idiot! I-I'll give you directions! Show you there myself! Promise!"

Zebra's expression lost its maniacal edge, but grew no less devious or angry. "Heh. Coward, just like I thought." He effortlessly twirled the man around, spinning him so he faced forward while he still held him by the head. "Then let's get a move on. I'm sure you'll be happy to greet whatever we walk into head first, eh?"

The man just gulped again, giving a meek whimper of agreement.

* * *​

"Th-That's the place, there." Trembling in his captor's grasp, the impromptu guide to the city lifted an arm and pointed at the bar.

"Tch...don't look like much," Zebra grunted.

"It's...got its charms?" the man said halfheartedly. "Could you, uh...put me down?"

"Yeah, yeah...I'll put ya down..." And the gourmet criminal threw his arm forward, releasing his grip and sending the hapless man sailing forward through the air. He hit the door, smashing it open and tumbling in through the open doorway ass over teakettle, laying sprawled on the floor.

Zebra stepped forward, placing a hand on the top edge of the doorframe and using it to lever himself inside as he ducked under, heaving his massive bulk through the comparatively 'normal' sized doorway. "What the fuck are you lookin' at?" he barked in response to the expected stares and mixture of dumbfounded, curious, and amused looks directed his way from the unnecessarily violent entrance.

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Conrad Jamboy

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“Quite an entrance,” Conrad remarked dryly. The hulking, red-haired man ducked into the Tankard and drew up to his full height. The room grew quiet in his intimidating presence, the silence broken only by a few nervous coughs.

Davroar came up to the bar, depositing a tray of drinks on the bar with a frown. “Third door this month,” he rumbled. “One o’ yers?”

“I certainly hope not,” came Conrad’s whispered reply. They watched as the newcomer hauled his human missile up by the scruff of the neck, depositing him on his feet. Towering more than eight feet tall, he had a foot on Davroar, who was the largest man Conrad had ever seen. The man trembled visibly, one side of his face already swollen and purple from his meeting with the door.

“Now get outta here,” the man growled, his teeth bared in a humorless grin, “before I find some other doors need openin’.” His victim darted around him toward the splintered door, but didn’t quite make it before one of the newcomer’s boots caught him in the rear, hurling him out onto the street with a yelp.

Seemingly satisfied, the man turned and approached the bar, wiping one dirty sleeve across his drooling lips. He dropped heavily onto a stool, the seat groaning in protest, and looked to Davroar. The two huge men stared hard, neither of them the least bit intimidated—neither uttering a word as they sized each other up, bulging muscles tensed.

Just when it seemed one of the men might climb over the bar and start a proper brawl, the newcomer spoke. “Name’s Zebra,” he said. “And seein’ as this is the Whisperin’ Tankard, my guess is ya must be Conrad Jamboy. I’m here about the job.” The sound of someone clearing their throat had Zebra swiveling to the left, nearly knocking the tray of drinks from the bar. He scanned the empty air in front of him, a confused look on his face.

“Down here,” Conrad said, shifting nervously. “I am Conrad Jamboy.”

Zebra looked down and his eyes popped wide when he saw the halfling. “You?” he asked incredulously? Drooling again, he fixed the halfling with a hungry stare. A few uncomfortable moments passed. “Three bites,” Zebra said finally, giving Conrad the unsettling impression he had just been sized up for a meal. “Hardly even a snack.”

“Happy to meet you, Zebra.” Conrad tried hard to keep his cool, but his small body tensed and his right hand inched toward the hilt of his dagger. “And what is it you do?”

The red-haired man shrugged. “Eat, mostly,” he said with a toothy grin. “Mayhem, occasionally. Take orders from a pipsqueak with a butter knife like that, never, but if the stories ‘bout this job’re true, might be I’ll make an exception.”

“Pipsqueak,” Davroar echoed, shamelessly eavesdropping on the exchange with a chuckle. “I like this guy already, Conrad.”

The halfling grinned slyly. “Me too, as long as he doesn’t eat me. Why don’t you get the man a hot meal, Dav? He looks like he could eat this whole place!”

“Trust me,” Zebra said. “I can.”

Davroar’s amused expression darkened, outsmarted as usual by the clever halfling. For a second, Conrad wondered if he might kick them all out on the street then and there, fed up with their antics. But his outrage at Ajax Whittaker’s slow takeover of the city’s market districts had been genuine, the halfling knew. And indeed, the plan had started to come together over the past few days. Both Haruhiko and Brooke had proven to be excellent tacticians—perhaps more so than Conrad himself. No, the good-natured bartender would let them stay, at least for a while longer. The halfling had pulled a team of thieves out of his ass already. He would be damned if he couldn’t pull off a simple heist as well.

“Outta house and home,” Davroar rumbled, tossing the halfling a last reproachful glare as he shuffled off toward the kitchens. “Eatin’ me outta house ‘n godsdamned home, these ones.”

*****​

Seated around a large table in one of the Whispering Tankard’s back rooms, Conrad and his ragtag band of criminals sipped their drinks and stared awkwardly at Zebra. More than twenty minutes had passed, and no fewer than a dozen empty plates were stacked high in front of the red-haired behemoth. If the long wait hadn’t put the group on edge, the slurping, chewing, and periodic, satisfied grunts had certainly done the trick.

As if noticing them for the first time, Zebra looked up at them, once again dragging a sleeve across his stained lips. “What’re ya lookin’ at?” he growled. He dragged one finger across the plate and popping it into his mouth. “I’m hungry.

Conrad massaged his temples with his forefingers. “Are you done?”

“For now,” Zebra said. He tossed the last gleaming plate on top of the stack and settled back in his chair with a loud bench.

At the halfling’s side, Brooke grimaced and shook her head. “Back to business. Before our new friend joined us,” she said, “we were just starting to talk about doing some recon. Is this everyone?” She looked to Conrad.

“One more coming,” Conrad replied, looking to the clock hanging on the wall above the door back into the tavern’s common room. “Right about now, in fact.”

As if on cue—and indeed, Sori D’Mani had never been even a minute late in her short life—, the door popped open. The blue-skinned, bespectacled woman entered the room, smiling nervously. Aside from the unusual shade of her skin and her shock of unruly white hair, Sori was undoubtedly beautiful, with angular features and striking gray eyes. Zebra seemed to notice as much, his jaw hanging slightly open as he took in the newcomer, one hand still absently rubbing his stuffed belly.

“Sori!” Conrad cried dramatically, hopping down from his seat and coming around the table. “We were worried you wouldn’t make it. It’s so unlike you to be late.”

The good-natured ruse failed immediately. “I am never late, Conrad,” Sori said matter-of-factly, without so much as a glance at the clock. “Although the same cannot be said for you. Hello everyone, I am Sori. I will be handling the technical side of things for this little adventure.” Ignoring the halfling’s disappointed huffing, she slid her bag off of one soldier and sat down next to Zebra.

“Well ain’t you a fine meal,” the red-haired man said, wiping away his drool. “I’m Zebra.”

Across the table, Baldur turned to Brooke. “This man speaks only of eating,” the Goron said, scratching his head. “I do not understand.” It was clear Baldur had meant to whisper, but his gravelly voice echoed throughout the room. Then, louder, “Greetings, Sori. I am Baldur, companion of Brooke Stryker.”

“Well met, Baldur and Brooke Stryker,” Sori said. As the Goron had shifted to greet her, the blue-skinned woman caught sight of the fifth member of the group. Haruhiko sat in a dark corner, his chair kicked up on two legs, his back resting against the wall. He surveyed the exchange with a placid expression. “And you are?”

“I am known as Paper-Wing. It is a pleasure to meet you, Sori.” The ninja rocked forward in his chair, coming into the flickering light as the two regarded each other. “We appreciate your assistance in this matter.”

Conrad hopped up on his chair, leaning with both hands on the human-sized table and drawing the attention of the group. “Now that the introductions are out of the way, let’s talk shop,” he said eagerly, tossing a wink at Brooke, who nodded approvingly. The halfling directed the group’s attention to the wall beside Haru. A dozen maps had been pinned there, depicting Ajax Whittaker’s entertainment complex and the surrounding district. No fewer than a hundred lengths of string had been pinned there as well, connecting possible avenues of approach and escape.

“For those of you who aren’t up to speed yet, our target is this man,” Conrad continued, poking a furry-knuckled finger at a picture of the old merchant. “Ajax Whittaker. Wealthy merchant, new to Karim but rising quickly. Well-liked by the city guard and the people of the city. Behind the scenes, he’s buying up every business in the districts like mad, and racketeering the ones who won’t give in—people like myself and good Davroar, the proprietor of this very inn. Recently, I got word that he owns an entertainment complex nearby. Racing, fighting, gambling. You get the picture. Well, I also got word that there’s a vault in that complex, packed to the brim with wealth beyond imagination. Our job is to steal it.”

“But first,” Brooke put in, drawing the group’s attention away from Conrad, “we need to go to the complex and do some recon—see what we’re up against. There’s a huge boxing match tomorrow night that offers a good excuse to get in and take a look around.”

“And an afterparty.” Conrad gestured to a portion of the complex map marked Fifth Floor. “Up there, on the fifth floor. That’s where the vault is said to be. Ajax knows my face. I can’t be seen anywhere near the place, so I’ll stay behind with Sori and coordinate the comms.”

“Meanwhile,” Paper-Wing said, “it will be my responsibility to slip past security and try to get video footage of the vault. With your assistance, of course.” He dipped his chin, nodding at Sori.

Sori’s skin flushed a darker blue when she locked eyes with the ninja. “Of course. I will acquire stealth cameras and communication devices for each of you, along with a few gadgets of my own invention.”

“As for me,” Brooke said, “I’ll work the party and see what I can dig up on our friend Ajax. Baldur here, well, he has a job interview.” When the entire group, save for Conrad, stared at the blonde-haired woman blankly, she clarified with a grin. “For the complex’s security team, that is.”

Nodding at each member of the group in turn, Conrad found himself smiling. The first phase of the plan had come together well, with the halfling, Brooke, and Paper-Wing pulling several long nights of planning and discussion. With the addition of Sori and the possibility of Baldur becoming their man on the inside, the halfling realized that, for the first time, it actually seemed… possible. Perhaps even likely. Finally, his gaze settled on the unpredictable Zebra. “That just leaves one member of our group,” he said.

Zebra matched his stare, seeming almost embarrassed that he seemed to have no role to play in the mission. But a party was a party, and parties always meant at least one thing. “I’ll check out the buffet,” the red-haired man said with a grin.

The halfling sighed and rubbed his temples again.

Post 5/8; 1,807 words.
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Solomon Grundy

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“Heirophant, do you read? This is Seraph. In position adjacent to the complex.” It was some days later, and night to boot. Haruhiko Kami was perched on a stone outcropping overlooking the palace-complex of one Ajax Whittaker, aka the Target. “Reading you clear, Seraph. I’m getting a good visual from your body - er, your body camera. Bouncer and River are in position inside already.”

The voice of Sori, the tech specialist came in loud and clear over Haru’s earpiece. He tapped the button to respond, voice low as he murmured back. “Copy. Beginning infiltration.”

Seraph. His codename. The whole team had gotten them, which Sori explained was necessary for a clean operation. Jamboy-Sama was Heirophant, Brooke and her large friend were River and Bouncer, and the overly muscled, hungry bastard was Flank. The ninja had a private chuckle over that one, as the double meaning tickled what atrophied sense of humor he had.

Brooke was stationed in the party itself, mingling among the guests. Her rocky friend had been accepted at the interview and given an ill fitting uniform to wear, the uniform of the complex security. Haruhiko had gotten a look at a few of them in the lead-up to tonight, and the “Goron” had fit in perfectly. All slabs of dangerous looking muscle. Great for throwing out unruly drunks, but terrible against a trained stealth specialist.

The trained stealth specialist focused his chakra and felt his body lighten, the large paper wings forming across his shoulders and rustling softly. “No guards on the roof...good.” The increased sensory perception let him sense the natural energy that living beings gave off. Even if a given individual didn’t have chakra, there were still telltale signs that could be picked up.

Haruhiko half-jumped over the gulf between buildings, soaring to the next rooftop and then coming in low to roll to a stop on his knees. The paper wings dissipated back into the chakra they were formed from, and he stood up. No longer dressed in his robe, the shinobi was clad in a dark grey uniform, with blued limb covers and a tight hood covering the upper half of his face. His “work clothes”. Creeping over to the lone door on the roof set into a curved clay hutch, he slowly worked the latch open to reveal a dark staircase shrouded in shadow.

Silently proceeding down the stairwell, he kept his body close to the wall in case a lower doorway opened and threw light upon his intrusion. Inwardly, he was wary of being surprised. While he could most likely lethally silence any guard that discovered him, it would be messy and unsubtle. The weapons available for sale in this city were strange and unfamiliar, and he was finding it hard to use his paper jutsu to compensate. Perhaps it was a side effect of whatever strange method of travel brought him to this land.

“Seraph checking in. Entering sixth floor. Have the guards begun their shift change?” He asked into his earpiece. “Yeah, Seraph. This is Bouncer. Sixth floor should have two heading down and one staying. Ya got ten minutes before two more new ones head up there.”

Haru paused by the door at the bottom of the stairs and put his ear against it. No footsteps. Opening the door quickly and shutting it behind him, he felt a soft springy texture under his feet. Carpet. Very, very nice carpet. By the Sage of Six Paths, the entire hallway was decorated in the most lavish manner Haruhiko had ever seen. The carpet was blue and white, with gold trim, laid out in a swirling, hypnotic pattern. The wall paper matched it, and the doors lining the hallway here and there had decorative paintings on them. Odd spirits, animals, and others.

The shinobi proceeded down the hallway, checking a few of the doors to reveal even more lavishly appointed bedrooms. Useless to their purpose. He increased his pace and turned a corner - Wait!

A guard was seated on a chair further down the hall, and he started as Haru pulled back from the corner. “Hmm? Someone there?” A gruff voice sounded out. Coming closer, the paper-nin looked around for cover of some sort, spotting a large ornamental vase mounted on a plinth. His body exploded into a flurry of paper sheets, the white squares quietly filling the massive art piece. The last sheet whipped inside just as the guard turned the corner and peered down the hall. “Huh...thought I saw something.” He slowly walked a bit further down the hallway, and then froze as he felt a strong forearm crush his throat.

“You did.”

After stowing the man’s unconscious body in one of the bedrooms, the shinobi doubled his pace towards the second stairway the man had been guarding. Now, he was heading down towards the fifth floor, the rumored location of the vault they were set to rob. Time to check in.

“Seraph checking in. I have made it past the sixth floor and neutralized one guard. Nonlethally.”
Haru went down the stairs, stopping as he arrived at the fifth floor landing, “Ooh, great job, Seraph!” Sori’s voice came through again, even more sugary than before. The woman obviously had some sort of infatuation with him, but that was a distraction. “I will attempt to locate the vault. Once I have done so, I will conceal myself somewhere nearby and wait for the rendezvous. Going silent until then.”

The fifth floor door opened into a central living area, a sort of parlor. Thankfully, it was empty, but the ninja could feel vibrations in the floor from the raucous party on the lower floors. There were sure to be more guards and other, non security individuals who could spoil his infiltration.

Luckily, ninja were trained to not be seen, to creep in the shadows, and if necessary, to strike and disappear. The vault would be found in short order, and his team would soon be receiving the video footage of it.

1003 Words
 

Lord Zedd

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Brooke ran her brush through her straightened hair once more, and half-turned to fully survey herself in the mirror before her one last time. She had been provided with a gorgeous blue, silky dress nicer anything she had ever owned in her life. It accented every angle of her well toned, yet curvaceous body. She had to admit she looked pretty damn hot, even if she was to be just one of many blonde bombshells amid the casino’s crowd on fight night. That didn’t quite help her understand why Zebra was fawning over the other girl on the squad, who had lazily thrown on an outfit appropriate for her assignment of behind the scenes subterfuge. Brooke wasn’t the jealous type, nor did she have any interest in any member of her team, but seriously what the hell?

She couldn’t fully mill over that injustice, as she had another issue to deal with in her incredibly nervous Goron companion. Baldur was beside himself in the side room they had temporarily acquired, sweating every detail of his new mission. Admittedly, Baldur had been promised a simple task that had spiraled into a more important assignment, yet he didn’t appreciate that it was only because he was the only one of the two muscle bound freaks trusted to not lose his mind. Brooke had admittedly questioned the logic of utilizing Baldur in any role that wasn’t smashing things without a care in the world, but he truly was the best fit. He just needed a little encouragement.

Hunched over where he sat on the floor, Baldur looked up as Brooke approached him. She adjusted the bowtie on the oversized tuxedo they’d managed to convince the Goron to squeeze into, then brushed her hands down each arm as a last bit of straightening up. Baldur still looked absolutely ridiculous, but she certainly couldn’t tell him that now. It was about time for Baldur’s interview, and when that time came he would be on his own. These last seconds had to be encouraging.

“Hey. Hey,” Brooke caught his attention. “This is a huge event with a massive need for security. And you’re nine feet tall and made of solid rock. As long as you don’t walk in there and say you’re going to rob them, you’ll do just fine.”

“So, do I need to open with that? Tell them I won’t rob them?” Baldur tilted his head nervously.

Brooke furiously shook her head. “No no. Don’t say the word ‘rob’ at any point, no matter what.”

“What if his name is Robert?” Baldur asked softly.

Brooke paused and pursed her lips. With anyone else she would have assumed they were getting a little snippy with her, but she knew Baldur was legitimately this clueless. Recognizing that didn’t do much for her dwindling patience, though.

“Then keep it formal and call him Mister whatever,” Brooke retorted. “It’s a job interview. Try and be a little professional.”

“Can I tear off these sleeves, at least?” Baldur asked as he uncomfortably adjusted his shirt and coat.

“It’s not casual Friday, Baldur,” Brooke said, looking to the time. “Just suck it up and let’s go.”

Baldur scoffed. Easy for her to say, in her much less restrictive garments. He stood up, still every bit as anxious and unsure about this situation. He’d been promised that he wouldn’t have to do anything like this, but Brooke kept insisting that it was nothing to worry about. She probably wouldn’t say the same thing if she had to fight the biggest bouncer in the casino, At least, that was the only parallel in their roles he could think of at the moment.

A heavy sigh escaped Baldur as he stomped off to his job interview, and Brooke just silently watched. Admittedly, she didn’t like to involve him in such things not just for the risk to her friend, but also because there usually had to be a better way. It appeared not, this time, though. She’d have to trust that he’d learned a little bit about navigating social situations by watching her in the past. She couldn’t help.

She looked herself over in the mirror one last time, satisfied with her appearance. With that, she was off to the main floor, hoping that if Zebra was already there he hadn’t done something completely crazy yet. They needed to learn the place as discreetly as possible.

***

Baldur shifted and fidgeted. He was next in line to step into the office and have his interview, but the wait was not helping him keep calm. Behind him in line was a massive man, towering above all the others and rivaling Baldur’s build. He sported well groomed facial hair, a turban, and darker skin, so Baldur surmised the quiet, almost angry looking man was a native of Karim. Perhaps he could calm his nerves by practicing his small talk.

“I really need this job,” Baldur said as he half turned towards his fellow applicant.

The man looked to Baldur with an annoyed scowl. Baldur nodded his head a bit dramatically and crossed his arms.

“Times are tough,” Baldur continued. “With… money.”

The man rolled his eyes and turned away, and Baldur’s face dropped. Why was it suddenly so hard to communicate? Thankfully, the door to the office opened and the previous interviewee exited.

“Your turn,” the candidate said as he walked past.

Baldur gathered his inner strength. Time to shine. He marched right in, closing the door gently behind him. The small, barely decorated office had a single interviewer sitting at a desk, sorting through stacks of paperwork and writing on all sorts of documents. He barely looked up from the whirlwind when the Goron entered.

“Have a seat,” the interviewer instructed, and Baldur was quick to move into the thankfully accommodating chair.

“Thank you for-” Baldur quickly began the way Conrad and Brooke had instructed.

“My name is Raymond Oscar Barstow, I’m in charge of security around here, alright?” the interviewer interrupted with a rapid pace. He had a lot of shit to do, still. “People like to just call me Mr. Rob. Got that?”

For a brief second Baldur found his eyes completely incapable of focusing on anything.

“Alright, so where are you from?” Barstow demanded, already jotting something on Baldur’s application.

“The… desert… “Baldur slowly answered. He didn’t want to go into details on leaping across realities.

“Got no prior work history listed,” Barstow commented. “What’s the story there?”

“Because I am from the desert,” Baldur replied, not knowing exactly how to answer.

“Can you deal with people alright?” Barstow demanded next. “Or if not, are you any good in a fight?”

“Yes, I am a Goron,” Baldur confidently nodded, satisfied with his answer to that question.

“What the fuck is a Goron?” Barstow questioned, finally looking up.

Baldur’s chest puffed out with instinctive pride. “My people are made of the mightiest rock from the deepest pits of Death Mountain.”

“Weird, but whatever,” Barstow scribbled a few more notes down, then drew a circle on top of the paper. “Alright, listen up, Boulder.” He squinted as he looked at the name on the application again. “Baldur. I get it, that’s neat. You’re a little too dumb to be near the crowd and too new to be near the boss, but you’re big and probably good if things break loose. There’s a place for you somewhere. We need a lot of help this weekend, with all these events, but after that we’ll scale the staff back. Prove you’re useful, because these are the tryouts.”

Baldur smiled. “I won’t let you do-”

“Get out, tell the next one to come in. Be back tomorrow by noon,” Barstow cut him off once more and waved his hands to get him out.

Baldur was elated as he stood up and headed for the door. His first ever job interview had gone much better than he thought it would.

1322 Words
 

V

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This whole getup and plan was way too complicated for his taste. Which he had wisely refrained from voicing, given how it seemed they were barely tolerating his presence as it was (which stumped him to no end; truly, he was a valuable asset, they just couldn't see it yet). But he'd been willing to go along with it, half-listening to the plans and schemes the others in this bunch had all made up. He was mostly disinterested in it, only noting with vague attention who would be doing what, so he didn't risk running into them. Mostly because they were boring and a major grate on his attitude, but he did have enough baseline competence to realize that the more risk of them running into each other, well...

Less chances for things to turn sideways if they kept apart.

Still, for all his tolerance and going along with these crazy and borderline unnecessary schemes they'd worked out...there was one thing that he nearly drew the line at. These damn clothes. Far and away the most fancy, formal thing he'd worn in decades -- it was in one piece, good repair, and clean, for three very important things. Restrictive and a massive stride away from his usual dress, but... Well. Hard to turn down the suggestion given who it came from. Easily the second most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, right behind the sky after escaping from prison back on Kraw.

The fact that she had, beyond professional interest in his (very tenuous) assistance in this entire ordeal, expressed a minimal amount of actual notice of his existence was almost as sour a blow as the fawning and lavishing of attention she threw at that fucking ninja. It was enough to make him grind his teeth in frustration, and even put aside his normally adamant morals and personal code to go along with this. Just like when he'd been trying to get that damn chef on his side, before...a good enough reason could get him to do anything.

So here he was, in a setting that would normally be a lot more full of explosions and screaming if he was there, actually doing the unthinkable. Minding his business, mostly unassumedly nosing around. And doing exactly what he had said he would do, during that initial meeting. Which was actually somewhat of a detriment really.

He was far from a true gourmet; food was food to someone with an appetite like him. But when you had an appetite like his...you tended to eat a lot, and a very diverse selection. He knew good food, he knew bad food, and he knew everything in between. Nothing here got any complaints from him...but it wasn't particularly great. Probably expensive, and good to show off. Maybe it was even rare or hard to come by. Didn't hold a candle to some of the shit he'd hunted down with his bare hands, or that came out of Komatsu's preparation.

The voracious manner with which he ate and 'inspected' the offerings did not go unnoticed, though. Some watched with amusement, others with awe, and here and there a few with disgust. Though all had a look of confused wonder -- despite the gluttonous, sloppy manner of consumption, not a spot found its way onto his clothes. Nothing escaped his cavernous maw, like a food vacuum.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder -- or perhaps more accurately, patted the back of his shoulder -- accompanied by a cheerful, "And then ya got types like this fellah, here!" as someone spoke up. Zebra's ire was immediately drawn, and he looked back at the one who interrupted the most sacred of times for a gourmet hunter: eating.

The man in question was no slouch, clearly a giant of a man among normal humans and looking extremely fit. The type someone like Komatsu would be worried about 'tearing someone's head off', most likely. Dressed far more elegantly than Zebra himself, but with a similar lack of care -- the smaller size had probably helped finding something that actually fit. "Man's got himself a real appetite. That's a good sign. Gearin' up for the fight, I wager?"

The enthusiastic grin on the interloper's face was enough to disgust the towering criminal, and his expression twisted into a snarl...and shortly after had the word 'fight' register. Oh, that was right, that had been mentioned. Something about a huge boxing match being on the agenda, too.

Deep in the recesses of Zebra's mind, the rusty gears began turning. A plan had just been laid out, he just had to work out the steps of it. "The fight, huh..." And he wiped at his lips with the back of one hand. "What makes ya say that, eh?"

"Ah, get a load of this guy, playin' dumb, like everyone here don't already know!" the man chortled, finally taking a step back. "The fight, man. Way you're eatin', I figured you were packin' it in to get geared up and energized for that. Or else you got pockets deeper than Whittaker himself." He grinned, hands resting comfortably at his hips. "After all, only the fighters 'round here eat for free. Everyone else has to, y'know...pay up. And it ain't cheap."

"Tch..." Zebra scowled at that, idly licking the remains of his inhaled meal from one finger as the rust was finally shaken loose from his own scheming engines. "Well, if that don't just make you mister exposition, huh?" And he cracked a grin, teeth bared in his excitement."Been lookin' for a good fight lately...place like this seemed like just the sorta thing ta get me what I was after." He brought up one hand, fingers curled wickedly into a claw-grip, and clenched it into a fist with several loud, audible pops from the knuckles. "Ain't had me a chance to really cut loose in a long, long time."

"Ah, see? I told ya he was!" the interloper voiced with an absolutely delighted smirk. "Don't know what else ya could be here for, pal. Unless you were with the staff, but ya look a little..." He looked Zebra up and down with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "...well, outta uniform for that. But maybe I'll be seein' ya there. Registered to knock some heads around, myself."

"Ooooh?" Zebra's demeanor went from merely prepared for a fight to a vicious, demented grin in the span of a heartbeat. "Yer gonna be there, ya say? And you came 'round here to talk ta me beforehand?" He chuckled, voice reverberating through clenched teeth. "Must be a brave one...now I'm gonna have to make sure you get dragged outta there, ya cocky bastard."

"Oooh, them's fightin' words I hear!" the man said, tone shifting to a more serious one. "Don't go thinkin' that bigger is better in there, friend. Sure you probably got weight to throw around on the street, but it ain't gonna fly 'round here, especially not in an actual fight."

The gourmet criminal's eyes went wide, veins standing out stark and red. He ground his teeth together, as he gave a silent snarl, staring down at this damn fool talking to him like he was the king of the world. "Why, you little fuckin'...!"

He was cut off as words sounded in the comms unit, the earpiece, carefully concealed in his ear. “Seraph checking in. I have made it past the sixth floor and neutralized one guard. Nonlethally.” But it was the response that followed which made his eyes bulge with even more barely-suppressed rage. “Ooh, great job, Seraph!”

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and rising back up to stand straight. Of course...of fuckin' course, somethin' little like doin' your damn job and not getting spotted got praise. Well...two could play at that game. He snapped his eyes open, glaring down at the man. "Guess we'll just have ta see what's what in the ring, then. Best come with everything ya got, ya cocky chump." And he turned away and stalked off, his eyes narrowing to venomous slits. Now he definitely had a plan.

He strode off from the scene he'd made near the buffet, mind working double time for the first time in years. Only when he was sure that he had been lost again in the general background lull of the event did he bother to speak up, and make his own check-in over the comms. "Yo, lissen up, ya bastards. Flank, reportin' in. I'm gonna throw my name into the hat for this big fight they got set up ta run here. Put on a damn good show, get shit riled up double time."

The response that came back was expected and typical, from their leader -- Heirophant or some shit, by these codenames. "Why in the world would you do that, Flank? That's..."

He cut in before any actual complaint could be made. "It's what I do best. Cause chaos." He grinned darkly, a savage gleam in his eyes. "More chaos I cause, more shit I stir up...more attention I draw, louder it gets. Harder it is for anyone else's fuck ups to get caught."

"....ugh, that's just..." There was a pause. "...alright. That's acceptable, I guess...just try not to do anything too stupid."

"Ya ain't got nothin' ta worry about. Jus' watch and be amazed at tha results. Buncha cocky bastards thinkin' they're on top of the world...won't know what hit 'em." He cackled in manic glee, before cutting his end of the line.

Things just got a lot better for him.

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Conrad Jamboy

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One by one, the reports had come in, and for the first time since his moment of drunken inspiration in the dingy room above the Whispering Tankard—although he would never had admitted it out loud—, Conrad believed the operation would work. He could hardly have pictured an unlikelier team. A halfling, a ninja, an alien, a blonde, a stonework giant, and a bottomless stomach walk into a bar sounded a whole lot more like the beginning of a bad joke than a recipe for a successful heist against one of Karim’s most influential public figures. And yet, in a matter of a couple hours, they had installed an inside man in Ajax Whittaker’s security team, infiltrated the merchant’s inner sanctum and captured video footage of the safe, and scanned the complex for surveillance and guards, all before cocktails were served.

Seated at the workbench in his private laboratory, the giddy halfling trembled with excitement. The earpiece buzzed and crackled with distant static, but for the past several minutes all had been quiet. A good sign, Conrad assumed although he had little by way of experience with large-scale thefts.

Turning his attention back to the glass tank in front of him, Conrad took a steadying breath. Inside the tank, the sidewinder lay tightly coiled, its nostrils flaring, its elliptical pupils narrowed. The desert snake and Conrad—an aspiring, if somewhat inexperienced snake-milker—had danced this dangerous dance before. The creature knew what was to come, and judging by its expression it cared little for its halfling handler. For a few moments, his hands poised in the air above the workbench, he admired the sidewinder, transfixed by the hypnotic reflection of flickering candlelight on its brown and tan scales. Then, as he had been trained, he locked eyes with the creature and did his best to exude confidence—to show it he was not afraid. With a second deep breath, he lifted the lid off the tank.

The sidewinder lashed out, a blur of movement too quick for Conrad’s eyes to follow. Purely on instinct, the halfling yanked his hand back and slammed the lid shut. The snake slammed into the glass with enough force to jostle the tank. Conrad fell back with a startled gasp, tumbling off his stool and onto the ground.

“—should get back here.” The earpiece had popped out of his ear in the fall, but Conrad still picked up the distant voice of Sori. “I think we might have an issue.”

Standing back up and rubbing his bruised backside, Conrad reinserted the device. “Here—sorry. What’s going on?”

“I don’t have all the details yet,” Sori said, her usually steady voice shaky with anxiety. “It sounds like Flank is involved in some sort of altercation. Whatever happened, we dropped comms with the rest of the group. They’re on their own.”

Conrad heard the words, but didn’t register their magnitude. The encounter with the sidewinder had his heart pounding and the blood rushing in his ears. Since his run-in with Ajax Whittaker, Conrad had felt a schism growing within him—a departure from his typical, if occasionally foolish, self-assurance. The powerful merchant’s act of retribution, stealing Conrad’s prized ship, and with it the bulk of his livelihood, had compromised the halfling in a fundamental way. He had no idea how to reclaim his former self, the cavalier attitude and unyielding confidence that had carried him through a lifetime on the streets of the desert city, but he knew it started and likely ended with a little revenge of his own.

“Hierophant? Hierophant!”

Shaken from his contemplations, the halfling ran a hand through his unwashed brown hair. The gravity of Sori’s words found him then, and he reeled as if struck. Zebra in a fight? Dropped communications? “I’m on my way, Sori,” he said. “Don’t do anything till I get there.”

“Please hurry.”

The halfling scurried upstairs, throwing on his traveling cloak to protect against the chill, desert wind. His usually furtive fingers shook as he engaged the many hidden locks and dart traps protecting the entrance to his laboratory. Again, he was forced to pause and draw a steadying breath. Possibilities tumbled through his mind as he considered the situation at the complex. Had they been discovered? Had Zebra or the Goron, as he and Sori had worried, two muscle heads with no sense of subtlety, failed to keep a lid on the operation? Were the rest of his crew, even now, locked in a dungeon somewhere being tortured for information?

Consumed by his fears, the halfling slipped out of Hoodwink’s Apothecarium and into the alley between it and the adjacent building, his gaze darting back and forth nervously. Distracted as he was, he didn’t even notice the two dark figures perched on the roof of his shop, monitoring his every move.

Post 1/8: 799 words.
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Lord Zedd

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The main floor of the casino was every bit the spectacle Brooke had expected. Entering from the second floor, she was given a perfect vantage of the massive complex, and it certainly didn’t disappoint. Well dressed people of all types shuffled about, playing all sorts of card and dice games while more still worked the slot machines. The bar was packed with even more patrons, laughing and joking as they enjoyed the libations of the grand entertainment complex. Yet others were more shady and tucked away as they watched the jolly proceedings. They were the types Brooke noticed by instinct, figuring they were either security or unscrupulous types like her. Either was cause for concern.

A weak smile crossed her face as she looked over it all. One day she would like to come to a place like this just to enjoy herself and have a good time for a change, not just to scope it out for another job. She’d like to come with friends, not just half trustworthy acquaintances, and in a nice dress she picked out herself with her own money, not just whatever Davroar had loaned her money to quickly acquire. Not that she wasn’t keeping this one, even if it was just another debt to pay. Her wistful thinking was harshly interrupted by a loud screech in her earpiece, which caused her to flinch and quickly clutch her left ear out of instinct before she got control of herself.

“What was that?” Brooke asked, lowering her hand and looking around to make sure she hadn’t drawn any attention with such an obvious gesture. “Seraph? Heirophant?”

Great. For some reason her coms were down. That was troubling on its own, but as she looked down the stairs at a growing crowd, something even more concerning took priority for her. Zebra was at the middle, and he was making his way proudly and boisterously towards the ring that promised to house the grand fights of the day. Had he been suckered into this? Oh no.

Brooke rushed down the stairs, almost face planting and tumbling as she struggled to move quickly in her high heels. It was a little extra proof on how long it had been since she’d worn anything but combat boots and adventurer’s clothing. She made her way into the screaming and adoring masses, taking a brief note that one of the quieter men at the bar was keeping a close eye on her. Either he was security and saw her tap her ear earlier, or he was a patron paying a little too close attention. Neither were good, but she’d worry about that later. Right now she just had to get Zebra out of this situation.

“Hey! Hey, big guy!” Brooke cheered as she made it to the front of the excited masses. She wildly waved like an excited fan and said the only thing she could think of to give him a believable exit from this madness. “How about you show me the back room!?”

Zebra never broke his stride. “Fight, food, then autographs!”

Brooke stood dumbfounded as he passed her by, and the audience followed. Her face was blank and her arms still outstretched. Really?

For an all too fleeting moment she considered walking right out of the casino and never looking back. This increasingly insane group could have it. Unfortunately, she saw no way to extract Baldur in the moment, nor did they have any real direction on where to go next. She was going to have make this one work, even if it was increasingly not her style. She only succeeded by being too irrelevant for the bigger players, and she was growing worried that she had finally bit off too much.

She took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself, and then turned and went back into the casino. She still had a job to do, and that was quietly survey the establishment and the ins and outs of its security. The uniformed staff was easy enough, but she had to admit that Zebra’s antics were already showing her who some probable plain clothes enforcement were. That still didn’t earn any kind of endorsement on this plan.

Likewise, that same creepy guy was still eyeballing her, having managed to track her even through the crowd she’d temporarily blended into. She had become full blown suspicious of him, but decided to deal with that in a moment. For now, she moved away from the crowd to try and figure out what happened to the group’s communications.

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V

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Now this, this was more his style. No more beatin' around the bush, bein' all subtle and keepin everything low key and shit. That was for the rest of these chumps to worry their heads over. Now it was time for him to do what he did best, and cause chaos. Bash in some heads and make a scene.

The fact it was in such a huge, elaborate setting and there were prizes up on offer only made things that much better. He'd have done this just for the thrill of a good fight, let alone to line his pockets and stomach at someone else's expense.

The fact he could also actually contribute something of some worth to this little operation they'd been working on only dimly registered. Sure, he was a criminal, and he had his pride about a successful job as much as anyone else that was in the trade. That went without saying. Some things, though... Just couldn't turn them down, even if you tried.

And so here he was, completely tuned out of the comms system they'd been using. Wouldn't be able to spare the focus on that nonsense anyway, with what he was about to get down to. None of these schmucks who were here for a fight looked like they were gonna be pushovers, not with the state he was in and the rules he'd have to play by. Couldn't kill them, couldn't just blow the entire ring sky-high, couldn't even use any of his real power.

Just straight up, barehanded, shit kicking, teeth gnashing fighting. Like back home, training under the old man...only less likely to wind up in some giant monster's gut if you made one wrong move. It was almost a fond memory. Almost.

Without any to-do or flourish, the hulking gourmet criminal grasped at the shirt of the suit he'd been convinced to put on for this affair and ripped it off with one easy motion, like wet tissue paper, leaving him in just the tattered, familiar undershirt he was never seen without. With his newfound freedom from formal wear, Zebra just stretched and rolled his arms with a series of pops and cracks, tilting his head this way and that to work out his neck in a similar fashion.

And then he bent slightly at the knees and hopped forward, up and over the edge of the ring to land with a solid thunk of impact. He rose up to stand, cracking his knuckles and casting his eager eyes over the surrounding crowd. "Alright...so who's up first ta get their shit clobbered?"

The bravado and bluster was devoured by the onlookers, and there was a renewed surge of volume and chaos among them. None of that interested him; let the regular fools talk. He wanted whoever was going to step into the ring to show their face already.

"Well hey there, big guy. Stepping into the ring to get knocked down already, are ya?" It was the same cocky fucker who'd spoken to him when he was eating. That shit-eating grin put all of Zebra's mirth on ice, turning his delighted grin to an ugly scowl as he looked down at the man. "Thought you'd be at least a little smarter than that, just based on body size. Guess bigger don't always mean smarter though, eh?" he chortled. "Buuuut guess ya gotta fight somebody."

He reached up and tugged at his tie, loosening it up and then shrugging out of his jacket, throwing it aside. "Might as well be me then," he mused, shuffling back into a corner of the ring. "Get yerself squared away and ready, pal. This ain't gonna be pretty!"

Zebra seethed, his teeth grinding against each other as he turned toward the opposite corner. "Yeah, yeah...best hope your head's as padded as your ego, ya cocky fuck," he growled.

Hmph...boxing, was it? Or something like that. Luckily, he never went anywhere without being prepared. Little secret he'd picked up from old man Ichiryu, way back in the day. He reached into his pockets, tugging out a pair of gloves and working them onto his hands. Glimmering gold, the color of a badass. Just having them on, flexing his hands into fists, made him feel like he could put a hole through even the old man with one punch.

When the fight started...that's what he was going to do. End this son of a bitch in one punch. Put those pearly white, shit-spewing teeth down his fucking throat, courtesy of the knuckle express.Easy win, easy prize.

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Solomon Grundy

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No signal. The entire team was out of contact. Haru noticed a low, tinny whine emanating from the earpiece, even though he couldn't transmit. Odd. Technology was not his strong suit. The blue woman had to explain how to use the transmitter to him, at least the fine details. He was more used to radio headsets, bulky things that were not as concealable.


Had the team gotten the vault feed? He hoped so, otherwise this operation would have been for nothing. Sudden communications disruption could only mean one thing, especially since they had a dedicated tech expert. If she hadn't been able to restore functionality by now, it could only be that she was actively being obstructed. They were discovered.


The ninja exited the closet he'd been waiting in, weighing the various options before him. He could just run back up to the roof and escape, perfectly safe. But what if the rest of the team were captured? Then the word would go out, and a man like Ajax Whittaker did not seem to be the type to keep an intrusion like this quiet. The culprits would most likely be paraded around violently as an example. His reputation would crumble. No, immediate escape was not an option.


He took out the scroll case on his hip and ruminated on it for a moment. This was his trump card - a jutsu powerful enough to bring half the building down, to cover a hasty escape. That would be the “plan B” he made for himself. But even that couldn't be done without verifying the status of his team members. Damnit.


Playing hero now? Just when you started to make a name for yourself in the underworld? So contradictory. Come now. Use this as an opportunity, spread your name, wreak devastation.


Hmm. Yes, that would….that would be a fair outcome, and one that he wouldn't find disagreeable. But first, he had to at least figure out if the rest of the team was dead or alive. This would require descending down to the main floor, through most likely guarded chambers.


But for a ninja, there were always other options.


--------------


A chunk of mortar broke away under his fingers and he froze, the dark color of his stealthy garments camouflaging him against the stone he was slowly climbing down. It hit the ground 50 feet below him, a crack that seemed to echo around the outer walls. No movement from the guard towers though, and no shouts of “Hey, you!”. Good.


Down another twenty feet, towards an open window. The paper-nin spider crawled to the tip of it, and flung himself through the curtains, landing with a soft sound and rapidly scanning the room for any threats to dispose of.


“Snnnrrrkk!”


His head whipped around towards the sound of the noise, only to behold a very fat man sleeping on a luxurious bed, clad in finery and clutching an empty bottle of wine. One of the Merchant's valued guests, no doubt, out before the main event. Haruhiko crept over to a boudoir and slowly opened the door, revealing a full wardrobe of noble garments.


A short while later, he exited the guest room and locked the door behind him, holding the empty bottle of wine and dressed in slightly too big robes and jewlery. The fat man was now in a much deeper sleep, and much poorer as well, not to mention locked in his room. Haruhiko affected a drunken, swaying gait, humming to himself and sashaying past a guard who looked on the verge of sleep.


“ ‘ey. Ey, you. Where'sss….the fight? I wanna watchit.” The ninja slurred his words and tilted his body unsteadily, gesturing with the wine bottle. Looking him over, the guard squinted at Haruhiko's facial marking, but rolled his eyes. “Downstairs, but you'd better hurry. They started five minutes ago.” Haru nodded and continued towards the staircase, whistling merrily. The guard watched him go and snorted. “Damn foreigners.”


Haru ceased stumbling when he was out of sight, tossing the wine bottle away and straightening up. He could hear the noise of the gathered spectators now, and smell the alcohol and smoke of a rich man's party. Inwardly, he felt a rush of enjoyment. This was what he trained for. Admittedly, he'd never actually gone on an assassination mission before being whisked away to this world, but the setting was more than familiar from practical exercises.


The best way to scope out the scene….ah ha. There should be some sort of...locker room for the fighters, and from the sound of it, they would be having their bout right now. He crept around the outer wing of the hall, surrounding the central ballroom until he found a door marked with a star. Perfect.


Inside were rows of lockers, some with things hanging off them, others closed and locked. Finding an isolated corner, the paper ninja shed his royal finery and opened a locker to hide it in. Inside was a pair of golden gloves, laced tightly together and packed in some sort of clear plastic. Brand new.


The way this night was going, the ninja would be lucky to see payment from this job. He grabbed the gloves as spoils of war, and adjusted his stance. A soft rustling filled the locker room as his wings formed over his shoulders, and when he opened his eyes it was with greater awareness. Now he could see into the center of the building.


Two fighters in the ring...guests milling about...there was the other girl, and her bulky friend off to the side. The fighter in the ring was ….Zebra? Oh goodness. He most likely wasn't even aware of their comms being down.


Too focused on recon, he didn't hear the door to the locker room open.
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Conrad Jamboy

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11J904BgOdfRf86CM6bFGJuZ1J8lWmYoXzm68j_OmEg8Fo5H5RkcMvDpNPs29czseZqpTBN8PwMKixOPQGh_sWTJ2Y3OSGS0haL-8-740ShLzZ05HvdpPowiUuG_SGgrYoJ1HQPW


While he made good time across the market district, Conrad couldn’t help feeling ill at ease in the shadows of the desert city—his all-too-familiar, hair-raising sixth sense, cultivated by a lifetime of peril. He was being followed. The halfling knew it instinctively, though he had picked up on no overt signs of pursuit. A shift in the wind, perhaps, or the sudden flight of birds from seemingly still rooftops. Whatever it was, Conrad remained on his guard as he slipped from alley to alley, doubling back at random intervals in a fruitless attempt to get eyes on his pursuer.

Only those finely-honed instincts saved the halfling as he moved to step out of the darkness and onto the broad, well-lit avenue leading to the Whispering Tankard. He heard the padded footfalls and dove into a forward roll, just as the telltale click-and-swish of a crossbow firing echoed in the stillness.

Conrad came up from his roll with shortsword in hand, a deft flick of his wrist intercepting and turning aside the incoming projectile. The crossbow clattered to the ground as his assailant came on, drawing a slender sword of his own. The man wore a sweeping gray cloak, the hood pulled low to obscure all but the bottom half of his face. His lips curled into a snarl as he jabbed his sword at the halfling’s belly, retracting the blade an instant later and spinning it into a sidelong slash intended to tear Conrad’s throat.

Recognizing the feint for what it was, Conrad did not fall for that first jab by side-stepping into the path of the sweeping sword. Instead, he crouched low and offered a deceptively quick stab of his own. The attacker sucked in his belly and threw his hips backward, and the halfling’s limited reach caused his blade to stop short of the mark, while the attacker’s sword passed harmlessly over his head. Both man and halfling disengaged and circled, each eyeing the opposing combatant with new respect.

“Does ye no good resistin’, lil’ one,” the man said, his voice thick with an offworld accent Conrad didn’t recognize. “Ye ain’t t’ be escapin’ this time.”

"Who says I'm trying to escape?" Conrad snapped back.

This time. The words registered in Conrad’s mind just as the man darted forward again, offering another cunning feint, slash, feint, jab routine. Conrad stumbled back, fighting hard to keep his balance as he angled his parries. But his opponent, almost three feet taller and a hundred pounds heavier than the diminutive halfling, put his full weight into the blows, sending painful vibrations and numbness up his arm. He wiggled his fingers to reacquaint himself with his grip on the sword-hilt and cast his gaze about, looking for another avenue of escape.

The assailant’s words painted a clear picture in Conrad’s head, yet another thread leading back to a single man: Ajax Whittaker. This ambush gave new meaning to the dropped communications coming from the merchant’s complex. Again, the image of his cohort trapped and tortured in the bowels of the complex filtered into his thoughts, but this time they didn’t make the halfling feel afraid.

They made him feel angry.

When the attacker came forward again, Conrad skittered to his left, his little shortsword jabbing at the man’s groin. Predictably, the opposing sword dipped low to block, but the halfling had no intention of committing to the attack. Instead, he let go of the sword’s hilt and continued out wide to the left, tugging his own crossbow from the sling across his back. The attacker, overbalanced by the sudden absence of resistance from the halfling’s sword, stumbled forward. The automatic crossbow unleashed a flurry of quarrels, peppering the man’s back with tiny, stinging wounds… and introducing to his bloodstream the insidious toxin.

For just a moment, as the attacker wheeled around and started back toward him with a feral growl, the halfling thought the attack had failed—that somehow, the man had resisted the toxin’s paralytic effects. Then the hooded man’s movements began to slow. His limbs jerked and twitched weirdly as the toxin spread, causing his fingers to seize up and relinquish their grasp on the sword. The hood slipped back, revealing the grizzled visage of the very same older man Conrad had encountered in the old merchant’s study—an officer in Ajax Whittaker’s legion of soldiers.

“The toxin will wear off quicker… this time,” the halfling said, managing a smirk in spite of his fear. The man could offer nothing more than another growl in response as he slumped to the ground, his muscles still twitching.

Conrad’s mirth proved to be short-lived, as a sharp pain appeared in his shoulder. With a howl of surprise, he reached back and plucked a small dart from the wound. Almost instantly, a seeping coldness blossomed from the point of impact, a tingling sensation he recognized as the initial effects of a paralytic not unlike his own. Panic spread quicker than the toxin as Conrad put two and two together. He broke into a stilted, limping run as more shadowy figured descended from the rooftops on either side of the alley, some carrying crossbows and others carrying swords or pointing wands.

A second quarrel skipped off the wall to his left as Conrad staggered out of the alley, banking hard to the right to put the solid building between himself and the new assailants. He found cover just in time as a searing lightning bolt erupted from the alley with a blinding flash of light, arcing into the corner of the building behind him, blasting the wall apart and spraying the halfling with shards of stone and splinters of wood. In the chaos, the halfling somehow kept the presence of mind to tug the communication device from his ear and hurl it away, bouncing and skipping across the stones.

With his neck frozen in place by the spreading poison, Conrad couldn’t even look back to gauge the nature of the pursuit. He barreled ahead, his head lolling weirdly and his arms stuck straight out from his sides, drawing breath in labored gasps. His darkening vision caught the familiar black, foaming mug insignia of the Whispering Tankard, his refuge less than a block away. The door stood ajar, letting in the cool night air.

Conrad tried to cry out—tried desperately to call for help—, but his voice emerged as little more than a frail whisper, his vocal cords tight and constricted in his throat. He felt a second sharp pain in the small of his back, and a third along his scalp as a quarrel grazed through his tangled, brown hair. A bitter taste filled his mouth, a combination of bile and the tangy metal bitterness of blood.

The Whispering Tankard was a hundred feet away, then fifty, so close that the frantic halfling could hear the murmurs of gathered patrons and the low notes of the jukebox spilling out into the street. “Sori,” he wheezed, but the sound was drowned out by footsteps approaching from all sides.

A hand tugged roughly at his shoulder, tripping him up and sending him sprawling down to the cobblestones. Wild-eyed and nearly blind, Conrad felt distantly a heavy weight settle on top of him, pinning him to the ground. The coldness continued seeping into his extremities, that insidious tingling sensation reaching his toes and the tips of his fingers. He reached out with one arm, his gnarled fingers twitching and grasping for the open door of the Whispering Tankard, now less than ten feet away.

Then the darkness swept in completely and his desperation fell away, replaced by the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.

Post 5/8: 1,265 words.
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Lord Zedd

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No good. This was no good. Brooke returned to the main floor, having unsuccessfully attempted her malfunctioning earpiece, but honestly it could have been something involving the group’s com network as a whole. Such a scenario was even worse, because that could mean they were busted. Brooke took a calming breath as she tried to push all the different scenarios out of her mind. She knew she just needed to stick to the plan, look around, and get out undetected. Of course, just as soon as she rejoined the main commotion, that same creep was still watching her. Scratch that, he was actively moving in on her. She braced herself for either a harsh interrogation by some plain clothes security or to deflect an unwanted suitor. She wasn’t sure which was the worse hypothetical.

“You! I know you!” the man said, walking right up and pointing at her.

Brooke looked and weakly smiled. “Um, excuse me?”

“I’ve seen you before, do you not remember me?” the man replied.

That couldn’t be right. Shortly after being dumped in this giant desert she’d met with Conrad’s team, and surely hadn’t taken the time to make any acquaintances worth confronting in a casino. A case of mistaken identity was a welcome relief, and a rare easy exit. Brooke was already walking past the man with a confident smile.

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong person,” Brooke said as she walked away. “Have a nice night.”

“You’re one of the chosen, just like me!” the man said loudly after her.

“Bye!” Brooke called back, desperately trying to get some distance. Whatever this guy was rambling about might end up drawing attention after all.

The man remained persistent. “You’re one of Omni’s!”

Brooke froze in her tracks as a cold chill ran down her spine. She was so shortly removed from the land before this one, but she’d already put it behind her and encouraged Baldur to do the same. This guy wasn’t some rambling nut job, there was no way he could guess something like that. She instantly moved back to the man and pulled him out of the room, and into an empty hallway. Shoving him against the wall and standing right before him with her arms on his shoulders was her best guess on how to interrogate the stranger but also quickly play it off if they were discovered back here.

“What did you say?” Brooke slowly and clearly asked.

A warm, welcoming smile appeared on the stranger’s face. “I knew I saw you in Camelot. You and the stone man worked an errand for that duke.”

“How did…who…” Brooke had a million questions, but none of them really mattered. “You can’t talk about that here, you understand?”

“It’s alright, sister,” the man encouraged her. “He’ll come back for us, we’ve all been cast out of the kingdom but we’ll be welcomed back in no time.”

Brooke looked around in disbelief. What kind of luck was it to run into a guy like this in the middle of an operation? Her fears were coming true after all, and if this guy was going to run around preaching about the previous land’s god and pointing to her, she was going to be a big target. Not just that, but he knew who Baldur was. Even careless rambling was going to make the security keep a closer eye on their new hire. That endangered everyone involved, and could shoot the whole mission in the foot. The obvious solution, for the moment, was get Baldur and get the hell out of here. Fortunately, she had seen him near one of the many card tables. His shift must be starting later. Not a moment to lose.

“Leave it, and leave me alone,” Brooke said, shoving the man away and quickly moving back to the floor.

“Omni’s word promises salvation! A return to the promised land!” the man shouted behind her. Knocking him out would have felt good, but with even worse consequences.

Fortunately, something finally went right as her earpiece screeched back to life.

“Can anyone hear me?” Sori’s voice suddenly was in her ear, and not a moment too soon.

“Finally,” Brooke whispered as she stepped up behind Baldur. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Sori asked. “Where is everyone?”

“I don’t know, but Baldur and I are about to get made,” Brooke said as she tapped the rocky giant’s shoulder. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Ok, get in touch when you’re clear,” Sori requested.

“Copy,” Brooke said, looking to Baldur as he stood up.

“What’s wrong?” the Goron asked, confused.

“Just follow me,” Brooke was already walking, and Baldur had to trail after her. “We got a big fucking problem.”

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V

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The giant behemoth of a gourmet hunter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at his opponent across the ring. Just waiting for the signal to kick things off. Been way too damn long since he'd gotten a chance to have even a half-decent fight, what with being locked up for so long in solitary and going straight from there to traipsing halfway across the crossroads to come out for this job, and now that the opportunity for one was staring him right in the face, there wasn't much out there that could drag him away from this.

The other man was much more leisurely in his approach, adjusting his shirt, rolling up his sleeves, pulling his tie the rest of the way off. Perfectly at ease and with that infuriating smile still plastered on his face. Not even a smile, the bastard was smirking. Like he already had this in the bag, like it was just another day at the office. Like this was an inconvenience for him to have to deal with but he was still handling it out of the generosity of his heart.

Cocky fucker.

It made Zebra's blood boil. It made his manic grin grow even more broad, threatening to tear the scar splitting his face wide open again. His hands curled into fists, the golden gloves stretching taut and creaking from the stress.

"Ya alright there, big fellah? Lookin' mighty tense!" his opponent voiced with a merry chuckle. "Best calm down 'fore ya bust a blood vessel or somethin'."

"Eh? What's that ya say? I can't hear ya over all th' shit you're spewin'!" Zebra snarled. "Keep yer damn friendly advice reserved for someone who'll fall fer that bullshit." The gourmet criminal spit off to one side, eyes narrowing to slits as he stared at the man. "Or are you th' type ta spend time tryin' to talk someone ta death?"

The merriment and cheer went out of the other man's face in the blink of an eye. "Well...just a real charmer, ain't ya?" he mumbled. "Alright, if you really wanna do things that way...guess we can dance that dance."

There was the sound of a bell, clear as anything to Zebra's ears even over the noise of the crowd. And when it came he launched himself straight across the ring like a shot from a gun. "Put up or shut up, ya cocky bastard!" he bellowed, and swung out with a straightforward punch. Nothing fancy, just testing the waters.

With speed that belied his bulky frame, the other fighter sidestepped the initial blow and merrily danced and twirled around to deliver a blow to the side of Zebra's head that left him stumbling and stars dancing across his vision."All brute force and no finesse, I see." The mocking edge to his voice was as obvious as the light shuffling of his footwork as he distanced himself from the titanic gourmet hunter. "This should be even easier than I thought."

A deep breath hissed out from between clenched teeth as Zebra's body shook. First from indignation, then...from ill-suppressed laughter as a realization came to his mind. "You're more fulla shit than I thought you were," he cackled, and without another word lunged back at his opponent for another harsh, graceless blow.

Predictably, the man simply stepped aside and spun away from it, twirling around to deliver his own strike. And as his fist collided with Zebra's face, he found the wind completely knocked out of him by a gloved fist connecting with his gut. Lifted clean off the ground by the force, he was sent tumbling ass over teakettle across the ring, landing in a gasping heap.

"That little shit Toriko hits harder than you," he growled, spitting out a gobbet of blood. "Less fancy than yer prancin' and dancin' around, but he was always better at th' more skillful parts of a good fight than me...so I picked up a couple tricks." He took a trio of steps forward, reached down and hauled the man up by the collar of his shirt. "Grin and bear it; take the best they got and hit 'em right back!" And he delivered another brutal blow, golden-clad fist swinging up into an uppercut which connected squarely with the man's chin.

As he sailed up in an arc, over and across the ring, and came down with a solid whump outside, the crowd went momentarily silent, and Zebra's manic, delighted cackling echoed among the room, before everything went wild again. "C'mon, c'mon, ya fuckers!" he bellowed, barely able to be heard over the raucous noise. "Who's next?! I'll take ya all on!"


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Solomon Grundy

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THWUMP

The man's body flew through the air and hit the opposing locker, Haruhiko's breath straining in his chest as he stilled and listened. No shouts. No cries of "What was that?!". Just the muffled shouting and noises of the fight through the wall. His senses were still heightened, but his wingspan would make it difficult to stay hidden. And the radios were still out. He couldn't get a feed from anyone.

Logically, he should assume the mission was compromised, and escape. But he'd been through this before, and he'd already made his choice. Dragging the man's body into the locker room, he flung it back into a corner and checked himself over. He was about as ready as he was going to be.

Out into the hallway, he pulled open the door into the main ballroom/arena and looked out upon the entire scene. Throngs of people cheering and screaming for blood around a circle ringed with lines to denote the fight area. He was visible; he felt naked with his wings and undervest exposed to so many potential enemies. But the move had been worth it, as he squinted towards the ring, he recognized the remaining man; Zebra!

Good. One member of the team locked down, and currently howling for another challenger. Haru was glad that the muscled thug could put his bloodlust to good use and not overwork his brain with attempts at subterfuge. Another quick scan of the room revealed far to many guards for the ninja's comfort, some of whom were not glued to the
fight - and beginning to watch him.

He began to close the doors, and slid out of sight back into the hallway. There were less patrons here, and less guards. If he could help it and stay under notice, he might be able to coordinate the rest of the team and form another plan. Perhaps one of them had managed to regain comms.

Then, from down the hallway, came the lumbering figure of the Goron and his companion, the other female. Brooke.

The guards!

They couldn't show a hint of recognition, or something would smell fishy. Bowing his head, he walked down the hallway towards them. As they passed in the hall, the ninja slid a sheet of paper into Brooke's jacket and merely nodded before hurrying off down the hall, out of sight of the guards.
 

Conrad Jamboy

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The pain came first. It lanced through Conrad’s wrists, up his arms, and into his shoulders like hot metal, knotting and cording his muscles. Had he been screaming before he woke up? His voice climbed hoarse and aching from his throat, emerging muffled through the strip of grimy fabric covering his mouth. Blinking away tears, he forced his bleary eyes open and took in his surroundings.

It looked something like a maintenance shop. The floors were concrete and caked in a thin layer of grime. Empty, rusted barrels and timber planks leaned against the walls beneath tall windows, through which shafts of vibrant, neon light illuminated swirls of dust motes. Agony blossomed through Conrad’s neck and shoulders as he twisted his head to the right. Black spots danced in his vision, but he saw a ladder, a workbench, and a couple of tool chests before he howled and straightened his head.

Conrad stood with his back against a rough stone surface, his arms pulled back behind him and stretched to their limit. His wrists were bound with thick ropes and rubbed raw and bloody by the same. How long had he been unconscious? Judging by what he could see through the papered and boarded windows, it was still nighttime. The neon lights, alternating red, blue, green, yellow, gave away his location: Ajax Whittaker’s complex. He cast his gaze around the dismal surroundings again—felt the agony in his muscles—knew it wouldn’t be long till the old merchant’s interrogators came in to exact some revenge… and smiled.

His part of the plan had gone off without a hitch. While Sori and the rest of the team coordinated the infiltration and got into position, Conrad’s job—his only job—was to get himself caught. Easier said than done, the halfling groused, flexing his aching wrists. A headache pulsed behind his eyes, probably from his close encounter with the cobblestones outside the Tankard. It had been Brooke’s idea. Of all the members of their impromptu team, Conrad was the only one with the safe-cracking skills needed to pull off the heist’s most important detail. There had only been one problem. Ajax Whittaker knew the halfling’s face. He couldn’t very well sidle up to the bar in the complex and hope for the best, without giving away the entire operation. No, the only option available to him was to let the old merchant’s goons get their hands on him—to pray if they caught him outside the Tankard, they’d take the easy route and bring him straight to the complex nearby, instead of halfway across the sprawling city to Ajax’s manor.

Not to mention, Conrad had a score to settle. Normally, vindictive was the last thing he was, content when outsmarted—truly outsmarted—to scurry off and lick his wounds, wait for the next opportunity to present itself. But Ajax, in his supreme confidence, had made a mistake—one the halfling intended to be fatal. He had taken Gulliver.

Nobody fucked with Conrad’s ship.

Somewhere nearby, a door banged open. Conrad allowed his head to droop, ignoring the spike of pain in his upper back, and peered through slitted eyes toward the source of the noise. His eyes widened almost immediately when he saw the shadow against the far wall, heard the scrape and squeal of something approaching. The shadow twisted and writhed, somehow sprouting quills, bearing fangs, and waggling tentacles all at the same time. Conrad gaped as a pair of batlike wings unfurled, beating the air with great gusts of wind that sent sawdust and scraps of paper whirling in the air before him. The creature—whatever it was—snarled and keened, its voice like rending metal. The sounds grew louder, the wind picking up into a gale, and Conrad, unable even to comprehend the approaching creature, knew in his heart that death was about to greet him.

But it didn’t. Instead, two hulking men turned the corner, speaking in low, tense voices. Conrad blinked rapidly, all pretense of still being unconscious long flown. The two men walked up to him, and if they had encountered that nightmarish thing, they sure as hell showed no sign. Taking the lead, the first man passed from the shadowy corridor into the room. Conrad recognized him as Ajax Whittaker’s officer, the grizzled man who had become well-acquainted with the halfling’s poisons during their two previous encounters.

Conrad eyed the man, his thoughts still reeling from imagined horrors. “Evening,” he greeted, as the man pulled the dirty rag away from his mouth. “You look a little… stiff.” His voice rasped like claws against stone, stinging his cracked lips as it met the air. The first backhand took him by surprise, wrenching his head to the side with an explosion of light and color. An involuntary moan escaped his lips. He spat blood and tried to ignore the agony in his neck and shoulders.

“Could say the same t’ you,” the man growled, with an ominous crack of his knuckles. “Ye can’t ‘ave thought ye’d escape the old man so easy.” As he spoke, Conrad’s second captor stepped into view. Dwarfing his companion, his hulking form towered nearly nine feet tall, his bulging arms and torso clad in an ill-fitting uniform. His yellow skin, wide features, and the markings on his face marked him as a Goron. His Goron.

Conrad’s face split into a wide grin. “Bouncer!” he said, addressing Baldur over the shoulder of the Goron’s companion. “So kind of you to join us!”

“What?” the grizzled man said dumbly. He turned to question Baldur, just in time for a huge fist to slam into his chest, sending him flying back into the wall. The Goron was on him in the blink of an eye, grabbing the front of his uniform and dragging him up the wall to eye level.

“That’s three times I’ve outsmarted you, pal,” Conrad said. “I’m thinking it might be time to look for a new profession. Custodial work, perhaps? There’s no shame in it, believe me.”

The man growled, struggling futilely against Baldur’s iron grip. “Ye gods-damned little—” Baldur pulled him forward from the wall before slamming him back in again. The man’s head lolled grotesquely, his eyes blinking fast to maintain consciousness. Finally, his muscles went slack and his head drooped. The Goron let him slide to the floor in a heap.

“Thanks, big guy,” Conrad said, his expression caught somewhere between a grimace and a smile.

Baldur frowned. “I don’t like this,” he intoned, his voice deep and rugged like tires on gravel. “We didn’t agree to… kill anyone.” He produced the halfling’s dagger belt as he protested, unsheathing the blade. It looked comically small in his huge hand, like a butter knife.

“Well, fortunate for you, you can leave the killing to me,” Conrad replied. The finely-crafted blade hewed through the ropes on his wrists, and he dropped to his knees with another groan. He tried to move his arms out in front of him, but another shock of pain rocked through him. He retched and spat.

“I don’t—” Baldur began to protest, but Conrad staggered to his feet and feebly waved a hand at the Goron.

“Fine, fine,” the halfling snapped. “I won’t kill him. I just need a little… pick me up. Go watch the door. I’ll be done in a minute.” He plucked the dagger gingerly from the Goron’s grasp.

“You promise?” Baldur’s eyebrows furrowed with concern.

Conrad met his gaze, smiling reassuringly. “Promise. Now go, there’s no time.”

The Goron didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded slowly all the same. “One minute,” he said, and plodded back around the corner and down the corridor. As soon as the footsteps receded, Conrad walked up to Ajax Whittaker’s guard. The man’s eyes fluttered open, settling on the halfling. They were unfocused, glassy. That last slam had probably left him concussed.

“You took my ship,” Conrad growled, kneeling to place the tip of his fine blade against the man’s throat. A single bead of blood emerged, tracing a path down the man’s chest and into his tunic. “Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

“Had to,” the man groaned, shifting his weight and tilting his head. “Orders. Ajax… I couldn’t...”

Conrad slapped him hard, the sharp sound reverberating throughout the room. “Haven’t you ever heard of a proportional response? I sip a little bit of Whittaker’s brandy, and he decides to fuck up my entire life? Well, let me return the favor.” His promise to Baldur echoed in his ears as the dagger slipped between the guard’s ribs and found his heart. The blade began its dark work, and Conrad felt the man’s lifeforce seep into him, infusing his aching muscles and raw wrists with soothing warmth. The man’s groan soon became a gurgle, and by the time he slumped to the floor, his lifeless eyes illuminated by the electric neon glow filtering in through the windows, Conrad’s wounds had healed.

Baldur started as Conrad slipped through the door beside him, emerging into a broad hallway lit with dingy fluorescent lights. A maintenance wing, from the looks of it, empty and silent. “Is he…” the Goron started, eyeing Conrad curiously.

“Just knocked out,” Conrad said, matching the Goron’s stare. “He’ll come to in a few hours, once we’re long gone.”

Baldur offered a slow nod and fished a communications device from a deep pocket. “Comms are in and out,” he said. “Some kind of interference, Sori thinks. It’s working for now.”

“Thanks.” Conrad slipped the device over his ear and was met with faint, smooth static. “Hierophant here,” he said. “Initiate phase two.”

Post 1/9: 1,595 words.
Personal Quest Progress: 7,352/10,000 (+1,007)
 
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Lord Zedd

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Baldur grunted in dissatisfaction. He didn’t want to be caught up in some revenge plot, but apparently that was what working with Conrad would entail. He didn’t like it, as he had no person grudge against the man. Yet as much as it pulled against his moral core, Brooke had been right in one of their private pre-mission briefings. They didn’t know the politics of this land, and this man truly could have been the worst of the worst. Baldur liked to think more of people, but he’d begun to learn that some people were beyond redemption. Not only that, they really did need the money from this.

So things couldn’t afford go too further south than they already had, but Baldur’s displeasure was easy to note at this point. Still, there wasn’t much time to dwell on the past, as they suddenly heard a lot of commotion from the outside. Baldur cocked a stone eyebrow as he looked out the door.

“What’s that?” he cautiously asked.

Conrad shrugged as he moved along. “Phase two, I suppose. Let’s go.”

*************

Brooke gently opened the door to the control room, peeking her head in quietly. It was surprisingly empty, but she wasn’t about to complain. She tossed aside the jacket she’d acquired for what she thought was an escape, but ended up being useful for the team’s ninja to transfer an item to her. Luck had turned in her favor for a change.

She approached the consoles that displayed all the feeds from the security cameras, and noticed why the guards were gone from here. Things had gotten a little crazy since she left the floor, and it was certainly all hands on deck at the main floor. Certainly not the opening night they expected. Brooke was a little confused though. Was that her team’s doing?

“River!” Sori suddenly said through her com unit, causing the blonde to jump in surprise. “I still can’t locate Seraph.”

Brooke had thought something was off in their last encounter, but now Sori confirmed it. That’s why she’d come to the control room on her own.

“I think we got stood up, honey,” Brooke sarcastically lamented.

“I hate that,” Sori playfully agreed, before getting to business. “There should be a drive you can insert that disk in. That’ll let me wipe the security feeds and disable recording. The only problem is I’ll lose my eyes on the situation, too.”

“We’ll have to risk it,” Brooke decided as she scanned the consoles.

Having omnipresent eyes from afar on the entire casino was nice, but getting out of here mostly unknown was even more important. Especially for Brooke and Baldur, as they were truly pilgrims to a new land. It was a little too soon for a wanted poster. In her thoughts she found the drive, and inserted the disk Haru had slipped her. At least he’d done that much.

“Got it,” Brooke reported.

“Alright, stand by,” Sori replied.

Brooke looked at the camera’s feeds one last time as one by one they went to static. The excitement on the main floor was escalating, and she couldn’t even see Zebra. She sure didn’t want to have to go in after him, but something told her that not only was he at the center of it, but he was relishing it.

“Alright, servers wiped,” Sori reported.

Brooke thought about making a teasing comment about sparks and fires and movies, but decided to just get on with getting the hell out of here. “Alright, Sori, I’m headed to-”

Brooke spun at the sound of the door being violently kicked open, shattering two of the hinges completely and leaving it awkwardly hanging. In the entryway was a mammoth of a man, and boy did he look pissed.

“Who are you!?”

630 words
 

V

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His shout of challenge rose above the chaos of the crowd for a moment before fading away. And slowly, the noise of the crowd began to take on an entirely different cast. From raucous shouts and cheers at the brutal spectacle, to a wave of confused murmuring, to an increasingly panicked mess.

Voices were raised, piercingly elevated in pitch as terror and fear crept in. Shouting and shoving, screaming and fighting broke out. Everyone pointing this way and that, ducking dodging and diving. Waving and batting at things unseen and at each other in a mad bid to get down or away.

Standing in the ring, Zebra looked out over the scene with a grimace. "So much for the rest o' this show. Guess that makes it time ta blow this joint..." He sucked in a breath and spit off to one side again. "Was lookin' forward to more of a rumble, though."

The towering gourmet criminal had barely turned around before he came face to face with...something he couldn't explain. Something big, and menacing, looming in the indistinct blur of the scene of chaos. Towering over the crowd, slowly lumbering its way toward him. All made of sharp angles, spikes and jagged edges, gleaming red eyes, long claws and teeth.

"The fuck're you supposed to be?" Zebra was far from deterred, even by the monstrous appearance of whatever this fresh newcomer was. "You tryin' to start shit with me?!" The only answer he received was a muted hiss, piercing right through the noise around him as clear as if it had been right in his ears.

It sent shivers down his spine, and made his hair stand on end. His eyes went wide, straining in the socket, and his lips split wide into a manic grin. "You cocky fucker...tryin' to scare me? TRYIN' TA SCARE ME?!"

The creature snarled and lunged with speed surprising for its size, easily covering the distance between it and its prey in the blink of an eye, only to find itself skewering on a fist the size of a dinner plate...

...and its owner, as the man stumbled forward with the follow through of his punch, the massive mitt only striking empty air. Several unsteady steps saw Zebra eventually crash down to the ground with a reverberating impact. "Gch...what in the fuck?! I know I hit you, ya cocky little..." Both fists made contact with the floor, sending cracks spidering and splintering out from the impact.

In a frenzied whirl, he was back on his feet and turning to face the new threat. Hands curled into grasping claws, and teeth bared in a silent snarl of challenge and glee. "So we gonna take that road with this, huh? Okay, then..."

He was distracted, as a piercing crackle of static and noise slowly gave way to sound in the comms device still in one ear. Maybe it was the blow to the head he'd taken earlier, but it was coming in rough. "Tch...can't fuckin' stand this shit." Still, it was clear enough to send the message for what they were onto next. "Well, guess it's time to really cause a scene..."

Planting both feet, the gourmet hunter threw back his head, sucking in a lungful of air. "MACHINE GUN VOICE!"

When his head was thrown forward, jaws stretched wide, the scream that issued forth was splintered and broken into a grating, echoing storm that was heard even over the chaos around him. A deep thump-thump-thump sounded countless times, sending large bolts of red energy cascading across the room as Zebra swept his head to batter and pelt the nightmare beast he faced with the explosive sound bullets, and render the walls of the entire room battered and cracked from the crazed onslaught.

"No more fuckin' around...let's go! Each and every one o' ya! There ain't no monster here badder'n me, I'll show ya!" He clenched both hands into fists so tightly the straining of muscles could be heard in the sudden, dead silence. "An' ain't none of ya leavin' if you don't square up and prove you got what it takes!" The sound of breaking, crumbling stone could be heard as the doorways collapsed, buried under a shower of dislodged and destroyed wall and ceiling.

Yeah...this'll keep all these losers busy. Plenty of security in here...less for the rest of these punks to deal with.

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