Research Notes of Madmen

[Deleted]

This thread will cover the journals of Flynn, and Caesar Clown, as appropriate. Though the two will not meet, I'm saving space, and if I actually write enough, I'll split the two off.

Table of Contents:

LOG: The Evolution of the Hunter
Character: Flynn Toctic
Words: 8500~
Timeline: Before Harpoon and a Saw/After Swordsman, Cyborg, Puppeteer

LOG: Two Brothers atop the Arena
Character:Flynn Toctic
Words:6598
Timeline: After Rest and Recuperation

[Deleted]

----------- Some Time ago. CAZADOR Lab 3, “Testing Grounds”. 1027 hours. Satellite work station of Flynn and Ashlynn Toctic--------------



With a sigh, his head hit the desk. Flynn didn’t raise it immediately, but just sat there, his cheek pressed by the cool metal, and stared morosely at the mess of wires, steel and cable on his desk. With a petulant “Hmmph” He flicked one of the mechanized pulleys sticking out, sending it into a spin.



“Soooooooooo~ Having some trouble, Big Bro?” With a roll of his pale blue eyes, the horned scientist propped his head up on one hand. Standing behind him was his Twin, Ashlynn Toctic. Her pale white hair was up in a messy ponytail, and grease was smudged across her labcoat, marring the pale white that matched the two sibling’s skin so nicely. Flynn snorted through his nose, and shook a finger at his sister, trying not to smile a bit. “Ash, you know full well we are twins, and mother never paid attention to who popped out first. I can’t very well be your “Big Bro” if we were born at the same time. Besides, you’re .567 inches taller than me.”



The boisterous girl grinned back, a cheeky, somewhat devilish look that belied her innocent tone. “Yes, I’m aware. I’m merely showing respect to my beloved brother.” “Or doing it because you know it annoys me. Anyway, in response to your query…” The seated twin gestured to the powered grappling hook he was working on. “Yes, I am. I can get the blasted thing to function well enough, but it’s far too bulky. It’s most likely going to have to be removed from the list of upgrades for the initial CX-Series, and possibly the CXe-Series as well. Until I can get the system properly aligned for mass production and minimal mass, it’s not useful.”



The two siblings stared at one another for a long moment, Flynn still gesturing at the device. The girl leaned forward, and flicked her brother hard, right in the center of the forhead. “Flynn. When was the last time you slept?” Wincing, and rubbing his forhead, the longarm groaned. “I dunno, yesterday? What does it matter if I pulled an all nighter.” Frowning, Ashlynn glared at her brother. “Because you keep sneaking out of your room and coming in to work.”



The white-haired young man glanced away. “Ridiculous. What would make you think that.” Tapping her foot, Ashlynn replied, “Because I set up a system to alert me if you open your door after you’ve “Gone to bed.” It worked twice, and then you glued it in place. Based on the fact that you’d have to do that from outside, and the marks on the windowsill, you apparently climbed outside and back in farther down, and walked back up to the outside of said door.”



Blinking, the longarm raised a finger. “Well, you got the climbing bit right… but I never glued it in place. I just scaled one floor down to the hallway window. YOU, on the other hand, set that thing up, I would assume, two days or so before they repainted all the doors in our hall.” There was a pause, and then Ashlynn, very calmly, turned around and walked over to the wall. Placing her head against it, she began a slow, methodical rhythm of thumping it against the stone surface. Her horns curved just enough that they impacted the wall instead of her forehead. After a minute, the girl flopped backwards, landing in her chair with a thump, and frowning deeply. “Alright, so maybe I didn’t exactly think that one through. You’re distancing yourself from the conversation again, however. You can’t just spend all your time in here blowing all the other researchers off.”



There was a beat, and then the girl flushed crimson, muttering “unfortunate turn of phrase, moving on.” Confused as to her reaction, Flynn raised an eyebrow, but frowned, picking up a small wrench and fiddling about with a connector on the device. “Ashlynn, there are very few people worth talking to here. The other scientists are far more fond of you then they are of me, and we need to stay on top of our work.” Popping out a magnifying glass, the longarm scrutinized the connector, before loosening it a bit. “Flynn, you don’t have to constantly obsess over this.”



Looking back up from his tinkering, there was obvious signs of stress on the former son of nobility’s face. His eyes were baggy, and there was a desperate paranoia there, obvious to his sibling and fellow scientist. “This project’s sucsess depends mostly upon us. If it fails, we are out of a job. There are extremely few places that would be able to emply a scientist besides the World Government, and at least some of them are criminal, thus putting us under a good likelyhood of being shot. I have been training since I got my cybernetic parts.” Indeed, it was obvious after he mentioned it that the scientist’s body had gotten more muscular recently. “If we fail here, we can likely kiss our jobs goodby. If we suceed, we have a 87.5% chance of staying on to further upgrade or repair the Cazadors, especially since they decided to use our upgrades in them.”



Leaning back in his chair, Flynn rubbed his eyes with one hand, and gestured around them. “I want to ENSURE that we have a future, Ash. We can’t go back home, and I don’t think you’d WANT to spend the rest of our lives jockeying for minor political gain and running a massive shipping business.” Standing up, he walked over to the wall, and tapped the map of Ilusia Kingdom that hung upon it, staring at the dot on one side that represented the port city that the Toctics reigned over.



Ashlynn, in turn, was silent for a while. The childhood of the two siblings hadn’t been an easy one, living in a town almost totally dependent on their greedy parents mercantile concern. The distinctive limbs of the Longarm Tribe had marked the pair every time they had ventured out, and it was well known that the firstborns of the family, the 4th generation, were a pair of twins with pale skin and winding horns. It wasn’t that this was particularly bizarre, at least, not especially. Even in the blues, there were plenty of unusual mutations present. While hair colors like black, blond or brown were more common, it didn’t raise eyebrows to see a man with a tail, or someone with a pair of cat ears and no other apparent features from that animal, both with hair of a loud, colorful shade.



The combination of recessive traits was ID enough, however, and the two would frequently find themselves recognized, and often chased for one reason or another. Whether it was to be held for ransom, to be punished for the firing of someone, or merely because the person didn’t like the cocky noble brats running around town like normal kids, often with odd requests at the smithies, machine shops, and other places that the pedestrian was befuddled by.



It may have been rather pathetic for Nobles to complain about their life, but really, there wasn’t much they could do. Intellectuals go mad under the yoke of idiots, and while their parents were skilled at acquiring cash, it was the singular skill they could claim. The twins would have been written out of the inheritance if their parents could have explained it away, but that wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Ilusia had a long history of nobility and royalty trying to stab each other in the back. The first and second generations of the Toctic family in the nobility had been well respected, and known for their intelligence, to the point where the family had occupied a seat in the King’s cabinet of advisors for decades.



Their parent’s generation had changed that, however. The second generation had died, shortly after his son had joined the Navy during a conflict in their part of the Blues, and never returned. The leadership of the family had fallen onto the young, rather spoiled Gwynn Toctic, their mother. The girl had a willful streak, and after the death of her father, it evolved into a shrewish ignorance. She married another longarm, spouting some idiocy about “Preserving the Toctic’s glorious lineage and beautiful features”, and shortly thereafter gave birth to the twins. Not 5 years later, the Great Pirate Age began.



Flynn tapped a finger on his desk, and glanced over at his sister. “Do you remember that day, sis? We were really small, but I remember a big theater in the castle, and a huge crowd of people. It’s the first thing I remember, actually.” The pale girl chuckled bitterly, and nodded. The two had, as usually was the case, been thinking along similar lines. The memory was likely mostly imagined, from their views. They had been only 3 years old, and any recollections were immensely fuzzy. Aspects were filled in from later tellings, recordings of the event, and other such esoterica. Still, they could both see that day, the match dropped into the powderkeg. The execution of Gol D. Roger. “Yeah, I remember. Or well, think I do. You know what I mean, we’ve argued this enough times.”



Chuckling, the young man adjusted his glasses, and nodded, smiling wistfully. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to give you the satisfaction of arguing the point.” Picking up a cog, he spun it, over and over, bouncing it and playing it across his long, slender fingers like a coin, the teeth leaving grease stains on his white flesh. “They were recording it, like they later did with the Battle of Marineford. You’d think after what happened then, they would have learned their lesson and cut the feed before Whitebeard spoke.” The pair had been in a box with their parents, sitting on a couch and staring in interest at the massive projection. They hadn’t really gotten what was happening, despite being unusually aware for their age. All they knew was that some tall man was marching, his hands in cuffs, to a tall platform.



As he sat on down, from the screen, a voice was heard. “Hey! Pirate King!” The rest of the memory was fuzzy, but this one moment was crystal clear, even now,over two decades later. “Tell us where you’ve hidden all of your treasure!” And on Gol D. Roger’s face dawned a smile. A terrible smile, that heralded the beginning of an age of Chaos unlike any seen in centuries. The two shivered as they recalled. They had watched a recording, gleaned from the Marine Archives, when they joined CAZADOR. It was worse, now, knowing the implications of the words that would follow.Back then, however, the two genii had quailed in fright. The man who eventually helped them leave Ilusia, Commodore Corven Dreyer, was a guard for the nobles at the time. He told them, as the Marine Battleship pulled away from the pier, on it’s way to G-6, that he had wondered at the time why they had grown so frightened. Now, with two decades of the Great Pirate Era behind him, two decades of war… He wondered why everyone else hadn’t seen what was about to happen.





“NOW YOU JUST HAVE TO FIND IT.” And the world went mad.



The crowd had erupted, both on screen and in the castle. Nobles and commoners alike were scrambling out of their seats, and dashing out, en masse, while others simply sat still, gaping in shock. What happened after, neither of them recalled. As they grew, the two siblings would come to learn, through history books, through gradual changes in their lives, and through the stories of others, just what that day meant for the world.



“Flynn. I have a question.” Blinking, the mental train down memory lane was derailed. Apparently, the two tracks had diverged at some point. That was actually fairly unusual, at least in terms of their shared past. Spreading his hands, the reclining researcher made a “Lay it on me” gesture. Really, any distraction from thinking about that day, the start of a fire that had engulfed the world, was more than welcome. Shivering slightly, he forcibly shoved down the mental calculations of damage, death, and destruction that had occurred. Her fingers locking and interlocking, Ashlynn nervously glanced up, and asked, biting her lip, “Are you forcing yourself like this because of me? If I wasn’t here, would you still be as worried?”

There was a pause, and then Flynn, eyes shadowed by his hair, turned around in his chair. The now rather guilty girl was about to turn back around as well, when, with a squeak, the chair spun back around and a bolt hit her in the head. “OWWWW! What was that for, Flynn!” Glaring, the irritated longarm crossed his arms, and frowned at his sister, who was currently holding her head and the cross shaped bandage that had appeared on it. “Of course I would, you idjit! You think I’d be throwing myself through the vice if I hated this? You’ve lived with me 25 years, you should know by now I’d TELL you about something like that.” Gesturing at the dismantled grappling device, he muttered “Hell, I’m not exactly quiet with my complaints, now am I?”



Snorting, the pale-haired girl picked up the bolt, bouncing it in her palm, before hurling it back. Grinning, Flynn tilted his head to the side, and was about to wiggle his finger, when he winced. The bolt had richocheted off the back wall, and hit him squarely between the horns. “All right, I probably deserved that.” Snorting, his sister nodded. “Yeah, you did. Though to be fair, I was being a bit mopey.” Flynn’s eyebrow raised. “Ok, very mopey, you pedant. Still, you could stand to calm down a bit. Most of the lab assumes you’re a giant misanthrope, cause you never take a break and talk with us.” Frowning again, the male of the two twins pointed at a row of pictures on the wall. Each of them detailed a prank that had been thought up to help him “Loosen Up”. One of the last ones had ended with him nailing a few lab assistants to the walls as examples, before going to wash the cream cheese and paint out of his clothing.



Staring at the row of pictures, Ashlynn grinned sheepishly, and wondered if her brother had ever figured out that she had been involved in a few of those pranks. The two twins were very similar, and both unnervingly intelligent, but Flynn was capable of a single-minded determination towards things that bordered on insanity. As for herself, she was aware that she was somewhat more likely to get along with people, her cheerful nature proving to be a wonderful way to break down barriers, once people got over the whole “Pale white skin and hair” hurdle. Flynn wasn’t a total social pariah, but he tended to come off more as a director than a compatriot. To be honest, she suspected a fair part of the reason they had ended up with few direct superiors was that she and Flynn operated best together, and her brother had a way of speaking that just came off as authoritative, even if he was technically lower ranking than the person he was speaking to. The fact that he was generally right about what he said helped, as well. Knowing his thought process as well as she did, this was likely more due to his going over what he said in his head twice before saying it, in the time that a normal person would be forming the thought that inspired the words in the first place.





Stretching a bit, Flynn gave the pictures one last grouchy stare, reminding himself to check his door before he went to bed tonight, and went back to fiddling with the grappling hook. To his surprise, he actually found that the break had done his frustration good, and he was able to begin paring down the design with a very small loss in effectiveness. As he recoiled the the cable, Ashlynn stopped with her own writing, and tapped the Den Den Mushi she had above her desk. She had come up with this bizarre idea of recording visual diaries of what she did each day. It had only been going on for a week or so, but it seemed to not be failing, at least. As she spoke, she reached into the drawer and retrieved a rag and some cleaner. With a practiced circling motion, she began to clean the Video Snail. Raising an eyebrow, he stood up and walked over, and looked, first at the polished snail, and then at his still monologuing sister. “You do realize this is the absolute most ridiculous time to be doing that.” Shrugging, the polisher continued her work, as Ashlynn said, in a voice that held only a hint of sing-song, “Take care of your tools, and they’ll take care of you.” Flynn pulled an annoyed face, and pointed behind himself.



On a rack by his workstation were a vast and inscrutable array of metal instruments, all of which were as close to reflective as their metal composition would allow. “I’m fully aware of the idiom that I originally espoused, oh holier than thou. You just do this because my annoyance amuses you, don’t you?” Snorting, and conspicuously refusing to answer, his sister merely reached up and ruffled his hair, saying in an affectionate voice, “I love ya, Bro.”, before turning off the video snail. As Flynn sat back down, ready to finish his work, his sister’s voice rose again. “Hey, little bro.” Eye twitching, he turned around, still slumped, to give her a death glare, before realizing that the look on her face was deadly serious. “Do you hear something outside?”



Sitting up, Flynn cocked his head to the side, listening. The lab spaces tended to be as insulated from noise as possible, to avoid the entire place becoming a massive racket. Still, there was something going on outside, that much was clear. The twin's eyes widened as they suddenly realized that the steady hum was someone firing a gatling gun outside. Leaping up from their respective seats, the pair rushed for the door. Flynn got out first, primarily because Ashlynn had paused to snag her "toy". A massive double-sided wrench, nearly 5 feet in length from tip to tip, with a metal loop in the center, wrapped with grip tape. As she dashed through the door, the tall girl twisted the two sides in opposite directions, causing bladed edges to pop out of the sides of the wrench's heads. Rather than a tool, she now appeared to be carrying a pair of axes with a ring in the middle.



Snorting, her sibling shook his head as they turned out of the small hallway their labspace was in. "That thing is incredibly over the top, yo-" "GOTT EN HIMMEL! AAAAAAARGH!" Flynn was cut off midsentence by a scream from one of the other researchers, a man who was, or rather HAD been named, Hulbert Helbroner. The man was on the floor, quite clearly dead, and a hideous THING was sitting atop him, having apparently just hacked him down. He was not alone, either. Signs of chaos were everywhere, hideous, malformed creatures with brutal metal weapons bolted on. They seemed to be primarily melee based, likely because the ravening, berserker nature of whatever these cyborg monsters were wouldn't allow them to utilize guns. Although, if it was connected to the muscles in the arm so it would fire at certain times, it could be a theo- *SMACK*



His head whipped to the side, and the shocked longarm managed to rouse himself from the frantic overdrive his mind had gone into. One of the beasts had just charged at the two of them, at least until Ashlynn had hit it full force across the face with a blow from the Wrench-Ax she was carrying. The hit had merely stunned it for a second, and as it stood back up, shaking it's head, Flynn leaped forward and pressed his palms to the thing's temples. With a roar, the chainsaws bit into the sides of the head, and then hissed with the telltale sound of metal hitting metal. Thankfully for the two longarms, the motors in Flynn's chainsaws managed to jerk forward, twisting the head at an odd angle. The beast fell to the floor, unable to move, but somehow still alive, jerking and snapping as it tried to get at them. On it's now distorted face, a stretched jolly roger tattoo was visible. Eyes widening, the symbol sparked a memory, from a few weeks earlier.



The base had been assaulted by a overconfident crew of pirates, eager to make a name for themselves. The end result had been, predictably, a crew full of pirate being hauled in on a half-wrecked boat, after Wermengard had immediately swam out to the ship and began smacking around the crew with their captain. The Vice-Admiral had been a bit lost as to what to do with them, however. One of the more senior researchers had stepped up and requested them as test subjects. When he handed over the proposed plan for the subjects, the room had gotten very quiet, and the researchers on either side of him had tried to move their chairs as subtly as they could away from him.



The man, Dr. Malvorkis, intended to use the pirates as mindless combat drones, which, while rather horrifying, wasn't much different from the Pacifista being built from corpses. What set of the ensuing row between Flynn and the unsettling old man was his intent to make them mindless by drowning any sentience they had left in a cocktail of stimulants and drugs. The longarm nearly throttled the sadistic twit before Wermengard broke up the impending brawl, and went to contact headquarters. When he returned, he looked deeply upset, but informed the cheerful Malvorkis that he was being given leave to attempt the experiments on a limited basis. From the dozens of horrifically upgraded monsters flooding the lab, it was clear he had overstepped the limits on his twisted idea.



All around them, Marines were firing at the horde from behind makeshift walls and tipped desks, hacking back the rushing swarm of hideously malformed pirates. It wasn't enough, though. The shambling zombies were lumbering forward, and it was all the current forces could do to hold back the seemingly endless tide. Cursing, Flynn glanced down at the body, still twitching on the floor. Something caught his eye, and he bent down on one knee to examine the body. After a moment, the young cyborg calmly stood up, then angled his head away, face impassive. He proceeded to vomit, copiously, dry heaves continuing for several seconds. Grabbing a paper from the air, he wiped his mouth, eyes shut tight as he attempted to remain calm. Not far away, the soldiers were directing the scientists into a central area, away from the origin of the monsters.



Ashlynn glanced over, and swore in a most unladylike manner. It was apparent she had been hanging about the other Marines a fair bit, and the "Swears like a sailor" idiom was apparently an accurate one. "Flynn! The hell's wrong with you? We have to go help the others take these things down!" Yelping, she was jerked forward as Flynn grabbed her lab coat with one hand, eyes still shut tight. "Prepare youself, then look at the spinal column of the.. thing we just beheaded." The girl furrowed her brow, then glanced down at the still writhing corpse. "What got you so- FUCKING HELL!"



The man's head had been twisted nearly around, and part of the back of his neck was visible. White, curly fungi dipped in and out of the skin, the area around them puckered and dead. It was plain from the spacing that they were entrenched in the flesh. Red mushroom heads could be seen pushing up along the spine.



Ashlynn barely managed to avoid throwing up as well, and turned her head away, wincing, as the hideously enraged man twisted and spat, no longer seeming like something enraged, but someone driven wild by an all-consuming pain. "Flynn... I think that's some kind of Body Mushroom. The physical symptoms seem similar. I think one got into the food Malvorkis's patients were eating, and... whatever upgrades he did kept them alive, as the fungi spread." Her words rang hollow, as the rage in her eyes showed that she had come to the same conclusion her brother had. Malvorkis had done this on purpose. There was no proof, of course, but that didn't matter right now. What did matter was that this was a fungal infection, and fungus had spores. Leaping up, Flynn dashed for the lab they had just exited, while Ashlynn ran to support the lines of Marines.



Charging along the corridor, the longarm mentally thanked any higher being that might be listening or involved for the daily training sessions Wermengard had mandated. The logic had been something about "I don't care if you're a scientist, you're in the Marines, boyo! You need to know how to FIGHT!" After that... was fuzzy. He could vaguely recall Wermengard's assistant calmly mentioning something about "Sir, I don't think he's been concious for several minutes now." and Weremengard arguing that nobody could sleep through getting thrown through a brick wall. In retrospect, it was a wonder that he wasn't more machine than he was, given the internal injuries that day had caused. Thankfully, Wermengard had toned it down, and eventually let another Marine take over. Lieutenant Fitzroy was a lot less insane, and far less capable of chucking the lanky scientist through the building's architecture.



With a skid, the young man turned the corner into the lab space they had vacated a minute earlier. Huffing a bit, he glanced around the room, before dashing over to the Den Den Mushi mounted on the wall, hanging beneath a sign saying "PA System". Clicking the receiver, he paused, waiting for the beep to signal he was on air, and took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to rush, or panic here. Haste made waste, and in this case, Waste could be the lives of his colleagues, subordinates, or even his sister. Despite the urgency of the situation at hand, Flynn managed to force his heart into a normal rhythm. The staff at the CAZADOR Project might believe otherwise, but the longarm didn't actually hate them. He just had a very narrow focus, and a tendency to be very snappish under stress. As he had said to Ashlynn earlier,he was always stressed. The twins had nowhere to go if this fell through.



Inhaling, Flynn spoke calmly into the microphone, his voice echoing through the halls of Lab 3. "Attention all Personnel. We have identified the current threat as an out of containment biological threat, due to an unknown fungal infection. Do not touch any of the unauthorized experiments, and begin evacuation immediately." Pausing for a second, he swallowed, fighting back the growing guilt in his chest. If the fungal infection spread, it could wipe out the whole base. Lab 3 was for active experimentation, and could be sealed off in case of problems like this. Still, months of work would be lost. The work aside, anyone still inside the lab would likely die. Taking another breath, he said, quietly, "Complete evacuation of Lab 3 must occur in 15 minutes. After that, the Lab will be sealed to prevent spread of the current threat. To anyone still in after that time, make your way to one of the panic rooms and wait. We will unseal them from the outside control room. Once you are inside, seal the room. Help will come."



The assembled researchers of CAZADOR stared at each other in horror for only a moment, before the chaos began. To their credit, the scientists, workers, and Marines didn't panic. Gas Masks were retrieved for the soldiers, and ammo was dragged out, as the line slowly fell back from choke point to choke point, people filtering out with boxes of papers, pallets of machinery, and other aspects of ongoing experiments. All the while, Flynn stood in his lab, counting under his breath in an even cadence that betrayed the terror in his mind. His lab was close to the exit. He could probably make it in under a minute if he dashed, less if he ran all out. There was nothing to fear about his escape, anyway. Those things had been lumbering and slow, as if staggering. Staggering through incredible pain...



Wincing, he shook his head, muttering "4... 3.... 2... 1..." as his hand clicked the button for the PA system. With a faint screech, the PA system clicked on. It sounded like some of the speakers had been damaged. "9 minutes remaining until Lab 3 is sealed." Letting the receiver go, he stared down the hallway, as people ran past, carrying boxes, bags and rolling carts. Under his breath, he continued counting, worried that if he stopped verbalizing the numbers, he'd lose track. "57... 56.... 55...". From further down the hall, a short scream echoed, only to be cut off by the roar of a shotgun. Silence reigned for a moment, before the shotgun barked again, and then again. Breathing heavily, the longarm pushed down the feelings of panic, and continued his counting.



For the next 7 minutes, the nerves of the cyborg scientist were played like a steel drum. Every time people passed, he half expected a horde of those things to follow after, spilling into the room and sinking their blades into his flesh. To his immense relief, they never did, and as the last few seconds left his lips, he grabbed the bag he had been filling in between announcements. Throwing it over his shoulder, he grabbed the receiver, and barked, as quickly as he could, "ONE MINUTE". Kicking off from the ground, chainsaws humming, he skated out of the lab and towards the doors.



The remaining seconds ticked off in his mind, as he tore towards his goal, the time shrinking with each footfall. As he passed into the main foyer, with only 15 seconds remaining, he finally caught a glimpse of the corpse cyborgs. Their howls, formerly coming across like the war cries of an army of the damned, now sounded like the screams of the damned souls of hell itself. The image of the fungi in the man’s body flashed into his mind, and he shuddered, very glad they had a sterilizing station in their lab.



As he reached the doorway, the massive metal doors were already being primed to close. On each side of the door, a pair of marines stood, manning a massive gatling gun and a rifle respectively, and aiming at the approaching zomborgs. It was indicative of the desperation they were all feeling that the soldiers no longer aimed for the heads or torsos, but merely the legs. It was no longer a matter of killing these things. It was a matter of slowing them down. The speedy scientist managed to dodge a few of the vanguard, blades scythng past on more than one occasion, as he crossed the foyer, and, huffing, stopped just past the door, hands on his knees. In his head, he counted off. 8 more seconds to go, and it didn’t seem like anyone else was coming. As he caught his breath, the Marines began to close the doors.



Staring down the long, undersea hallway, Flynn could see the convoy of scientists. Carts, stretchers, and a small horde of haggard workers rode along, heading for the exit to the main base and the safety it offered. His heart sank, suddenly and abruptly, as he realized something. There was no tall, white haired head among them. His vision began to go black at the edges, and the tall longarm fell back against the wall, hand on his forehead. A young marine stood off to the side, looking extremely nervous. He had a clipboard in one hand, and the horned young man had noticed the boy marking off a list when he passed through. “Let…” the boy jumped, and looked up. “Let me see the list.” The boy nodded, looking crestfallen, and slowly handed the clipboard over.



The names had been crossed off as the person came through, that was clear. Only two other marks were present. In a few cases, there was a harsh X next to the name. Given that Dr. Heilbroner had been among those with an X, it was fairly obvious what the symbol meant in this context. Scanning down the list, 7 names popped out. These had a simple ? marked next to them. 5 were researchers that had been stationed near Malvorkis’s lab, which was on the far end of Lab 3, and whose workspaces had been surrounded by the turned pirates before the chokepoints could be established. The final two names glared out. Senior Reasearcher Malvorkis, and Ashlynn Toctic. Flynn quietly handed the clipboard back, and nodded. “Very well. We took nearly 10% casualties, but it could have been a lot worse. You did well.” Turning, he patted the door, a curious expression on his face. One eye twitched, and then, with a roar of total unbridled rage, Flynn punched the door, over and over, cursing at the top of his lungs. The other marines winced, and looked at each other worriedly. It went unspoken, but each wondered why he didn’t ask the obvious question. After a moment, the cursing subsided. Flynn leaned against the door, forhead resting against the cool metal, and glanced at them tiredly.



His hand was red, and the knuckles were bleeding heavily. He had only stopped because he was worried if he did it again, he’d break his hand. He couldn’t afford that. Still, something in his head was screaming to do it again, and FUCK the consequences. It was bizarre, he could almost see it. It was like looking in a funhouse mirror, almost. It reminded him a bit of a demon, the ruddy, tanned skin and longer, more wicked horns crowned by a head of long, curly hair, with the eyes glowing out at him above a large, crescent moon of teeth. It felt like a predator, crouching over prey. Unconsciously, his muscles went taught.



On the other hand, though, his typical thoughts, the calm, cold and logical metronome that let things be so perfectly clear, that was speaking as loud as ever. The desire for order, and everything to be in it’s place, was one he knew well. He was sure, if he listened to this voice, that his pain and rage would vanish under it’s calm seas, and he wouldn’t be bothered any more. Everything would be cold and still, like an ice sculpture. It sounded… nice. Not to feel….



Before he could think on that further, the burning rage returned. It was like the two impulses were fighting for dominance. It was… strange. He had been cool and collected before, but he had been warm enough with certain people. Now, however, it was not cool and warm, mingling like cool tea poored into a glass, warmed in the sun. Before, little outside his work had seemed quite… real. It was just indulgences, flights of fancy. Ashlynn had been the reason he had even bothered with all that. Otherwise, he probably would have thrown himself into the never-ending horizon, and never come out.



Flynn straightened, and the small squad of Marines jumped, surprised. The look on his face was far different than it had been before. It was like watching fire and ice, freezing and melting and extinguishing and flaring up, a storm of emotions whirling back and forth. Turning about, he stalked down the hallway, exiting the corridor a moment later, and crossed towards the main labratory, where he and Ashlynn had spent most of their time. All around him, soldiers and scientists were trying to figure out the results of their mess. Stopping in the middle of the mess, he brought his hands wide, and smacked them together.



The resulting crack sent a small air flurry out in all directions. Stunned into silence, the assembled CAZADOR soldiers and medics looked over, surprised and a bit nervous. They had all realized that one of their bosses had vanished during the retreat, and each dreaded the longarm’s reaction. Staring around, his eyes traveled over stretchers, medics standing by wounded men, and piles of hastily transported work, in some cases, representing a young researcher's entire life. The two storms settled, the raging battle rescinding to a tenuous compromise. After all, logic and reason would be needed here, but that did not mean some anger and passion was not warranted.



“Alright, listen up.” The words were forceful, but he wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to. Everything around him was silent, deferring to the longarm who stood, arms crossed, in the middle of the refugees. He was, technically, one of the most senior people there, if not the most senior. 3 of the other Head Scientists at the project had gone missing, and the final one was currently on the ground, his arm in a sling and a large gash across his side. “Move all the injured to a bed,or the hospital. Keep scientists in their rooms if possible, but Marines out of the barracks. Being in a group area will just prolong the healing.”



Snapping a finger at a fellow scientist, a young woman with dirty blonde hair in her early 20s, he gestured toward the pile of research. “Amy. I need you to get as many of the uninjured as possible working on sorting that out and figuring out what we’ve lost. The sooner we can find the holes, the sooner we can patch them.” The woman nodded, and with a salute, headed over, with other researchers quickly rousing themselves from their confusion and moving to assist. Staring through the crowd for a second, he managed to find the boy with the clipboard, who had arrived while he was directing the assembled inhabitants of G-6. “Hey, you. What’s your name?” The young man, about 5 feet tall, marched over and saluted. “Seaman Recruit Dugrain, sir.” There was a momentary pause, as the surprisingly deep voice issued forth from what had, at first, appeared to be a 16 year old.



After a brief pause, the longarm nodded, and muttered, clearly embarrassed, “Right, and… I take it you’re about 20 or so?” The man smiled and barked out again, “Yes sir, 21 in a few months, sir!” Now that he had gotten used to the dissonance of voice and form, something seemed off. “Recruit, have you been injured?” The voice sounded strained, as if trying not to let on that something was wrong. Giving the man a quick once over, he suddenly barked “Recruit, sit down, NOW!” In surprise, Dugrain dropped into a sitting position, and winced. As he had done so, the bottom of his pant legs hiked up, revealing a mass of bandages around the ankles. Flynn turned, about to call for a stretcher, but already, a pair of medics were rushing over. Leaning down, the original intent of the clipboard forgotten, the longarm used the tip to poke the bandages. There, beneath the cotton, was the head of one of the mushrooms that had been in the spinal area of the corpse cyborgs.



Eyes widening behind his damaged glasses, the white-haired man sprung up, and barked out “Get this soldier to the surgery room, NOW! If those don’t get sterilized quick, we could have an infection here in the main base! Get the goddamn quarantine guards down here and start sterilizing wounds! MOVE!” Within minutes, marines in Gas Masks, fashioned like the old Plague Doctors, and heavy protective gear were moving anyone injured into sealed rooms, and preparing doctors for surgery. Those who hadn’t had the skin broken were kept separate, and as he sat in his room, his body being examined by one of the healthy doctors, Flynn’s drive faded away. The near manic mixture of rage and adrenaline died, and he was left feeling stiff, empty, and very, very tired.

The man in the gas mask finished the examination, and turned to give him the thumbs up, before heading out the door. The door swung shut behind him, and didn’t open again for nearly 2 days. Despite no immediate signs, the quarantine was still in effect, and it was unknown what role cybernetics had to play.



In the 48 hours that the longarm spent alone in his room, several things were made clear in the outside base. First of all, the infection, while curiously viral among the enemy they had faced, did not seem to spread anywhere near as rapidly among the soldiers. Only 3 had any mushrooms on them, and all of them were found in open wounds from the attack. It was hypothesized that the spores could somehow persist for a while on metal, and the slashes had transferred the fungi. Second, the saferooms in Lab 3 had not been used. There were visual Den Den Mushi in them, which had been monitored for 5 minutes before the lab was closed, and for an hour after that. There was nobody in any of them.



One of the men assigned to watch the screen later reported that he saw a white figure pass the door, and stop, just for a moment, before continuing on. A few minutes later, there was a yell from outside, and then some kind of explosion killed the feed. Upon a later outside inspection of the peak that comprised Lab 3, it seemed as though one of the windows had been blown out, then sealed by a rockslide. Finally, after discovering the possible escape point, a point in the mountain where the rock was, theoretically, thin enough to blast through, the higher ups asked the Comms department to try and connect to some of the Visual Snails still active in the sealed off base.



Most of them were shut down, and it was near impossible to get a good signal, but there was a general theme in the ones they succeeded in getting. A man in a labcoat, surrounded by zombies, moving through the lab, seemingly searching for something. Over several hours, they managed to get only a few glimpses, and his rage seemed to grow each time. The final image they got was of him clawing at a pile of rocks, trying to move them, and yelling at the motionless zombies behind him to help. It seemed that Malvorkis was, for now, stuck in what was quickly becoming known as Sepulchure Spire.



When the individual scientists and marines, who had been locked in their rooms, due to the lack of enough quarantine space to hold them all, were let out, most of them poured out, heading for workspaces, the mess hall, or in some cases, a restroom that was not a pot, the longarm didn’t leave. When a very nervous intern entered, he found Flynn passed out on the bed, with desk covered in notepaper. There were designs, formula, and evidence that the man had been practicing with his chainsaws. All over the floor, ceiling, and walls, hundreds of cuts were evident. Weaving in and around them was more writing. It didn’t look like he had slept for two days, instead planning something.



Once he finally managed to rouse himself, the longarm, eyes heavy, made his way out of the room, and past the nervous scientists who stopped at the sight of the disheveled cyborg roaming the base once more. Up in his office, Wermengard put down the Den Den Mushi, and rifled through his papers. After a minute, he managed to locate the sheet Flynn had returned with a meal tray on the second day. The writing was shaky, but legible. “Ashlynn has either escaped, or has been killed. I don’t know why she would have not returned after escaping, but we have seen no evidence she is dead. I hereby request a full transfer to combat duty in the Marines, starting at Recruit. Once I make officer, I am returning to Lab 3 to discover what happened. Until then, I recommend that we wait Malvorkis out. He is cut off. We are not. His forces will degrade. Ours will remember. Remember, and train.” The big man snorted. Surprisingly deep for the scrawny, cynical git. The loss of Ashlynn must have been a real blow.



Tossing the paper into the evergrowing pile he sent most paperwork too, the marine snorted. It would probably be best not to mention that one of the small test subs they had made before beginning production on the Avernus was missing. Glancing out his window, the jovial Vice Admiral’s gaze took a touch of steel. “Well, m’girl, if you’re still out there… Find out who Malvorkis was working for. Find em, and we’ll give em hell.” Laughing softly in anticipation, he went back to frowning at paperwork. G-6 was his domain, and anyone who threatened those under his command was going to be getting a piledriver to the nose.



4 floors below, and a peak over, Flynn Toctic entered a hospital room, the curtain on the far end drawn to hide the final bed. Walking over, he paused before the cotton sheet, and knocked on the wall. A familiar deep voice muttered. “Come in, I guess.” Walking in, the lanky scientist sat down, and stared at Dugrain, who was laying in bed, looking defeated. It was rather telling that the blankets ended where his knees should have been. “Hello there, Dugrain.” Glancing up, the young man managed a weak smile. “Oh, hey. ‘s you, doc. Thanks for this. Might not look it, but the other coats said that if I had left it untreated, I’d missin’ a lot more.”



The chuckle that followed was incredibly bitter, and three days ago, the horned longarm would likely have reacted quite less sympathetically. The past 72 hours had been an emotionally draining lesson of sorts, though, and he held his tongue. “Dugrain, or… no, that sounds cold. Raphael.” The medical chart hanging on his bed revealed the recruit’s first name. “You do realize you’ll probably be discharged, right? I take it from your expression that this isn’t satisfactory?” Shaking a bit, the boy shook his head. It struck Flynn that the marine couldn’t be more than 4 years younger than himself, now that he thought about it. He looked young, but the bone structure indicated a man of early twenties, rather than late teens.



“No, Doc, it isn’t “Satisfactory.” I was never a fighter, but after the hell of the past two years, I joined up. Hell, I ended up in the Grand Line. Now, I’m going to go back to my village a cripple because some arrogant fucker decided to make himself some zombies.” Despite the obvious resistance, a tear spilled out of his brown eyes, and Dugrain cursed, smacking his hand against the wall. “God dammit, I didn’t make a bit of difference.” Standing up, Flynn crossed the room, and looked down at the Marine, expressionless. “There’s always an alternate path. However!” he held up a finger before the other could respond. “You have to understand, to REALLY, truly understand, what you’re getting into. Once you do this, there’s no going back. Ever.” Turning around, he stared out the window. Tapping the metal disks on his arm’s joints, the longarm said, calmly, “I personally have my own beliefs about Cybernetics, but I’m not here to proselytize. I’m here to offer you another path.” Tapping the bed where his legs would have been, the scientist stared intensely into Dugrain’s eyes.



The recruit looked away after a second, a little taken aback. He had met the tall, nearly white researcher a few times, and he had always been lackadaisical in appearance. Now, though, a cold, intense light seemed to be illuminating his eyes. “At best, I’ll be able to downgrade you to a humanistic looking cyborg, if we leave the surface intact and you wear long sleeves.” He was about to continue, when Raphael raised a hand, and stopped him in mid-thought. “Doc, I know what you’re offering. I don’t have much to go back to, and I’d rather fight those lousy bastards that think they can run wild, no matter the cost, than end up in a wheeled chair on some island in the middle of nowhere at 22.” Struggling upward, Raphael Dugrain stared up at Flynn Toctic. “Make me a Cazador, boss.”



-------- Several months later, G-6, Cazador Storage Peak, nicknamed “The Warren”. Shortly after the raid on Lab 3 and formal formation of the 22nd Division.-----------



Standing alone on the walkway, Flynn stared at the 5 Cazador he had reserved for their unit. Each was marked with a specific serial number, designating their creation. The first four, CX-0435, 0287, 055, and 515, had no real significance. They, like many others, had elected to become a Cazador to continue to serve. The final one, however, was to fulfill a promise he had made. CX-0003, the first production Cazador, lay on his surgical table, the full upgrades complete. The mask was on right now, but somehow, he could still recognize Raphael Dugrain. Walking over, he roused the war cyborg from his sleep. “How are you feeling, 0003?” The head turned, and a monotone replied “I feel fine, Captain.” No divergences, as usual.



Sighing, Flynn turned away. “Good, good. Go back to sleep, we’ll wake you to meet the troops later.” The Cazadors were his greatest success, but in a way, a failure as well. The intention had been for them to be kept in a calm state, alert but relaxed, like a lucid dream, until they could be fully acclimatized. The better part of a year later, and they hadn’t woken up. It galled him, and sickened him in a way. He hadn’t wanted an army of robots, and even if the Cazadors were still aware, they were almost emotionless. The World Government had been satisfied. Honestly, the idea of smarter, but still loyal subjects probably appealed to them MORE.



Staring at the medical records, he suddenly realized the 0003 hadn’t answered. Turning around, he found the tall cyborg staring at it’s hands, turning them over and flexing the long fingers. Through the plague doctor inspired Gas Mask, bright blue eyes glowed, and they turned and stared at Flynn, seeming more… alive then before. From the altered throat of CX-0003 came a deep laugh, and then a familiar voice. “Well, hello Doc. Head’s feelin’ a lot clearer now.” The shock on the longarm’s face slowly gave way to a massive grin, and striding over, he gave his fellow machine-man chimera a pat on the shoulder. “Welcome to the land of the conscious again, Raphael. Come…” The folder he had abandoned slipped off the table, sending papers with the word “BIOS Project” scattering everywhere. “We have a lot to catch you up on.”

[Deleted]

The waters around Illusia were shrouded in mist in the early morning
light. Waves lapped quietly at the shore, the still air broken occasionally
by the sounds of seabirds, bells, and in the distance, the approaching
noise of a ship. From the docks, workers paused to look up, blinking, as an
odd sight met their eyes.

Cutting through the water was a strangely shaped boat. There were no sails
flying, only a flag with a Marine emblem. Still, despite the lack of
canvas, the ship moved smoothly through the water, approaching the shore
with a dull whine. From nearby, a couple of Marines stood, brushing off
uniforms and adjusting hats. The boat stopped, and the water splashing
about by it's back ceased, the whine ceasing as well. The misty morning air
hid the details, but it was clear that figures were moving around on deck.
After a moment, a metal gangplank fell down onto the dock with a thud, and
men leapt to the dock, looping ropes around poles and dropping anchors.

The men currently bringing the boat to port were clearly marines. Nobody
else wore the white uniform and seagull, after all. Still, something was
off about their outlines. As the delegation from B-4 approached, a few
curious docksmen and women approached behind, wondering what this vessel
was. One of the men from the boat turned at the sound, and all approaching
paused.

It took a moment to adjust to the sudden sight of two glowing circles in
the air. His face was covered by a white rubber mask, with a long tube
leading into his coat. His hands were covered with thick leather gloves,
and a gun and sword hung at his side, attached to the backpack he wore. The
soldier removed his helmet, and pulled at the mask, which stretched
grotesquely. After a moment, it slid off, and fell to hang around his neck.
He nodded, once, to the B-4 men, and turned around.

"Area is secure. No immediate threats." On the deck of the boat, another
soldier saluted, then turned around, shouting orders to the men still on
the boat. As movement commenced, the man turned back to the welcoming
committee. "You are the check-in group? Excellent. It will take about 20
minutes to unload the shipment, and then the men and I will accompany it to
the base."

The marine he spoke to looked a little taken aback. "Err, that's not
really necessary... We can just take them back on the cart." There was an
awkward pause, and the CHIMERA Corpsman rolled his eyes. "Well, I have
direct orders to make sure this stuff doesn't get jacked by anyone, so
you'd have to take that up with the Captain. He's... not in a great mood."
There was a loud clanging from the inside of the metal ship, and then
footsteps. From the hatch, a large figure began rising. As it stepped onto
the deck, the locals suddenly found that they had work to be attending to.

As he breathed the Illusian sea air for the first time in months.. or
years by this point, really, Flynn sighed. It was disappointing that his
first visit home was marked by this sort of business. Quite annoying,
really. Turning, he swept down from the deck, jumping skyward and then
kicking off the air, moving from the boat's surface to the docks in a
moment. The local marines flinched, but his own soldier remained unmoved.
Giving him a brief approving smile, the longarm captain turned to the three
unsettled men before him. "The men will take the delivery to B-4 before
shore leave. A few will stay behind to guard the boat, but a team will
travel with you to ensure."

It wasn't exactly a command, but it didn't seem to expect any rebuttals,
either. The three men all bobbed their heads as one, and stepped back a bit
as Flynn strode forward, turning to face the boat. Snapping his heels
together with a brisk click, he folded his arms behind his back as the men
on deck and dock stood at attention.

"Alright, orders are as follows. Warrant Officer Ryder, you are to go with
the local garrison to B-4. Ensure the package is properly delivered, and
bring the paperwork back for Logistics Officer Mckee here." He nodded once
to the man next to him on the dock. Mckee saluted, and then turned back to
the gangplank, signaling the others to begin carrying down the goods.
"Platoon 2, you are going to split up. One half will come with me, the
other will guard the ship. I don't expect trouble either place, but
still..."

The men clearly recognized a lead-in when they saw it. "Prepare for the
trouble you don't expect, so we can surprise the bastards right back!" the
Corpsmen chorused as one. The now thoroughly flabbergasted non-coms from
B-4 could only stare at each other. They had heard that the visiting
captain was not normal, but this was something a step above what they had
imagined. Moving further out, Flynn crossed onto the docks proper, and
turned around. "Platoon 2-A and 2-B, help with the unloading, then meet me
over by the well up the street once you've decided how you're splitting up."

As he moved forward, he could see a figure just ahead, flanked by two
Illusian Knights in full plate. The man carried an ornate lantern, and his
old, frail form was cloaked in a thick robe. In his other hand, he carried
a sheaf of papers attached to a board. As Flynn approached, the man bowed
once. "Good day, Captain Toctic. I am pleased to see you have arrived home
safely."

The cyborg nodded, and bowed in return. "Good day, Scribe Linnius. I hope
I did not keep you long?" The old man chuckled dustily, and adjusted his
pince-nez glasses. "Not at all, young man. Now that you have arrived, we
must undergo the formalities. In accordance with tradition, the duel will
be held at noon by the great Sundial of the arena. It would be wise to
arrive as close to one half-hour early as you can, for the fight begins
once the shadow crosses the marker, and lateness will result in forfeit."

He hummed for a moment, scanning the list. "Now, with these two men of the
court as my witnesses, I ask ye, do you acknowledge that this duel be
challenged in accordance with the law?"

"Yes. I so acknowledge."

"Do you swear to arrive, and resolve to fight like a nobleman of Illusia to
defend your claim, or else renounce your title before king and court?"

"I so swear."

"And finally, do you so accept, that should one not see triumph this day,
this duel may end with you never seeing a sunrise more, or your brother in
turn, depending on the victor??"

Flynn stared down at the scribe, who was examining his metal form, taking
in the cold metal. Unless his brother had a massive change of attitude, and
had trained severely, it was very likely that Flynn would win this duel, if
he so chose. If he won, it was up to him whether his brother would live or
die. If he lived, all that awaited him was exile. Challenges to the title
of a noblemen that failed were not forgiven. Conversely, if Flynn himself
lost, then save for Marine business, he would have to leave Illusia forever
before the next dawn.

"I so accept, by the grace of our King, our land, and the Noblesse Oblige
earned and bourn by my Father's Father's Father, Sir Carrowyn the Gale."

Nodding approvingly, the scribe made a mark, then tipped the lantern,
dribblng a small blob of wax on the bottom of the scroll. Turning, he
offered it to Flynn. Reaching down, the doctor pressed his thumb into the
cooling wax, letting it harden before he removed the digit. A crimson
thumbprint remained in the wax, with his name scrawled beneath in spidery
letters by the quill of the Scribe. Tucking the scroll away, Linnius bowed
once. "Good day, Captain Toctic. I shall see you in the arena."

As he turned and strode away, the knights following behind, footsteps
approached from down the street. Turning, Flynn watched as his half of
Platoon 2, 2-A, arrived. It took a moment to recall their names, but after
a moment, it registered.

"Florez, Pendergrass, Sewell, Skelton, Hodgson. You're my honor guard, I
take it?" The grunts chuckled a bit, saluting, and fell into around the
tall longarm as he began walking up the street. The group remained silent,
Flynn deep in thought, and the others looking back and forth awkwardly.
After a few moments, even the normally socially blunt scientist noted the
tension.

"You know, you aren't required to move solely in stoic silence." When this
didn't produce much beyond a few more nods, he sighed, turning around and
striding backwards up the boulevard, staring back at his men (And women. He
had no intention of being sexist, but when he referred to his subordinates
as "His humans", there had been... issues.) "I am aware that I may be a
somewhat... intimidating figure. However, I have no desire to alienate my
soldiers. I've certainly talked about my philosophy for CHIMERA enough."

This got a few chuckles. Flynn, like most scientists, had a tendency to be
quite talkative when it came to his areas of expertise or future plans. He
smiled in turn, even if it was a small smile indeed. "Well then. We have a
few hours before the duel, and I have no intention of pointlessly marching
you about until then. Perhaps breakfast?"

This drew another brief pause, then a chorus of silent shrugs. The group
marched along in silence for another minute or so, until they arrived at a
main street. The sunlight had broken through the crowds, and everyone was
bustling along. Not much attention was paid to the marine uniforms, for as
unusual as they were, Illusia did host a Marine Base. After some brief
searching, the group entered a place that, from the scent, was open for
morning repasts. Flynn took a seat against the wall, and the others
carefully sat, glancing at each other.

Marine Captains did not typically take random groups of soldiers out to
lunch, but then again, most Captains did not typically possess four arms
and a tendency to fiddle with their own body's configurations when deep in
throught. A waiter, a tad hesitantly, came around, took their orders and
left, leaving the group in the heavy, oppressive silence of social
awkwardness. Finally, Florez banged a hand on the table. "Right, can't
possibly get any more boring than this. Captain, have to ask, but is it
true that the Cazador botboys end up without, well.." He gestured downward
vaguely, but any further questioning was silenced by a smack upside the
head from Sewell.

The female marine glared at her coworker, and shook her head. "Captain,
please excuse this idiot. He apparently has not managed to discover the
concept of appropriate conversation." Turning to her captain, she was a tad
shocked. The man was laughing. Not loudly, but the shaking of his
shoulders, hand cupped over his mouth, and raised corners of said orifice
were unmistakable. The other marines were sitting in stunned silence as
well. The Captain was not a particularly emotive person, and to see him...
giggling? That was outright unheard of.

After a moment, the long-arm composed himself, and sat up straigh, resting
his multiple elbows on his lap and the table edge. "Well, that... certainly
explains why so many of the soldiers in the med-bay seem to cross their
legs when I enter. No, I don't remove the... what was the term... "Bait and
tackle." I do install a protective cup, though. Most soldiers probably wish
to return to a mostly human form when they get out." Florez grinned, and
turned to Skelton, who was sitting on his other side. "Oh? You don't say,
Captain?"

The now extremely sullen Skelton glanced over at him for a moment, then
snorted and made a hand gesture. Grudgingly, the soldier counted out a
small sum of Beri from his wallet, and stuffed it into the grinning
Florez's waiting palm, before turning back to the table. "Well, now that
Florez has both broken the ice, and my last paycheck, do you mind if I ask
a question as well, Captain?" Shrugging, Flynn nodded, resting his head in
one hand. "I would prefer we avoid the subject of genital enhancements, but
otherwise, go ahead."

Amidst a few snickers, the now poorer soldier began inquiring about the
possibility of replicating the Grappling Hooks that Flynn used for the
soldiers. It was an somewhat pricy proposition, but the scientist agreed
that arming a few squads with them could prove useful. The conversation
shifted back and forth, questions being asked and answered, occasional
jokes being cracked, and a good 5 minutes being devoted to the story of how
Flynn had first met Suriko and Mari. As the group chatted, ate and drank,
the time passed, and before long, the sun was approaching it's zenith.

Rising from his seat,the longarm stretched briefly, then turned and headed
to pay the bill. As the soldiers behind him gathered their things, he
counted out the Beri, left a tip for the host, and tipped his hat. Turning,
he strode outwards, ducking under the doorframe, and waited for them to
gather outside. Once all were assembled, he turned, and gestured upwards.
"We aren't in the capital of Illusia, but this town is home to the arena
used to settle duels between nobles. It's up there, on the top of the hill.
We have perhaps an hour left, so I think we should make haste."

As the six of them climbed upwards, Hodgson spoke, quietly. "Sir, I
apologize if this is an impertinent question, but why don't you seem
particularly concerned about keeping your title?" The others tensed a bit
at this. It took time to shake the mindset that superiors were quick to
anger. Still, if anything, Flynn seemed utterly apathetic at the moment.
"Well, to put it bluntly... I find most of the other nobles idiots who
spend their time uselessly, and I don't particularly care about anything
that comes with the title. I get funding from the World Government, and
I've worked my way up through the ranks of the Marines. I have a Division,
now, and so far, you and your fellows have done splendidly."

He snorted momentarily, then turned back. "Although, I understand rumors
persist that "Transfer to the 22nd" is being used to describe soldiers who
have angered their superiors and are being "left to the science psychos." I
would be more offended, but I did just announce that our transport will now
produce fog to make us seem more terrifying." There was a few grins at
this, as the Marines recalled the announcement from a few days before.
Several platoons were already practicing exit marches. Flynn had nixed the
one that D-1 was practicing, however. Clawing the airs in time to music
just looked silly, even if it was supposed to "Thrill" the foe.

"To sum up, I'm debating simply marching up there and informing my brother
that I don't give a damn what he does with my parent's money, that I want
him to leave me alone, and leaving the arena via casual stroll." Shrugging,
he turned, staring upwards at the rising shape of the Arena before him.
People were filing in, and a clockwork device that mimiced the sundial
design of the inside of the arena showed that about 2/3rds of an hour
remained. From the crowd, a small, wrinkled figure seemed to emerge
effortlessly, passing through the taller forms like a ghost.

"Aha, Captain Flynn Toctic. Welcome to the island of your birth. I would
say home, but I imagine perhaps... not." He bobbed his head back and forth
a few times, before gesturing. "Come, come. There is a room where you will
wait." Moving away, he vanished again.

Tapping his fingers against his arm, the scientist moved after him,
confused retinue giving each other looks of hopeless inquiry behind his
back. He did not quite recognize the man, but if there was anyone it was
likely to be, it was Minister Gaizorrich. He was, technically, the Minister
of Succession and Inheritance, but he was also the head of many, many
things. He was the font of a great deal of Illusia's function, and a loyal
retainer of the king. If he was here, that meant that the king was not, but
the Royals were taking an interest. Cracking his neck, he entered the
confines of the arena, and the light slowly dimmed around him, the dark interior of the contestant's area cold and silent, save for the footsteps of the five behind him.

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

Of course, as with anything "official", there was, apparently, paperwork. The paperwork he had done before had been signed so that they could file the paperwork, and he could be issued this new stack of paperwork. Flynn was getting rather annoyed by the word paperwork.

As he sat, scanning the newest page and tapping his pen on the desk, the longarm mused about simply setting the whole stack on fire and calling it a day. As entertaining as that would likely be, wisdom suggested against it, and so he refrained. Still, it was tempting. Leaning on one of his hands, he examined the precise wording of the contract, rolled his eyes, and sighed. Placing it flat, he scribbled out a signature, date, and impressed a blob of wax upon it, then placed it with the other forms in a neat staggered stack, the seals forming a cascade of red.

According to the clock, another miniature of the massive sundial built into the Arena that declared the staring time, about 15 minutes remained. He only had two pages left, and they seemed to become more banal with each sheet. He really did not care about the potential implications to his theoretical and likely never-to-exist heirs, but having to sign a sheet declaring that he would not use the duel or outcome as a method to aid a coup against any reigning monarch or noble was a bit much. To be fair, apparently this had happened multiple times in the past, so perhaps it was warranted, but it didn't seem as though someone committing High Treason would much care about a piece of paper. It did explain why so many revolutionaries tried to burn the Royal Archives, though.

He was scanning the last sheet, a summation of the terms of the duel, when the feeling of unease began. Checking the clock, it revealed that 10 minutes still remained. He intended to head up at 5, but there was something bothering him about the wording. Looking down, the cyborg found the offending passage, and re-read it, thinking about the implications.

"Upon completion of the Duel, the loser will either be put to death, or, at their option, be exiled from the island of Illusia, as well as any land or sea where it's authority holds sway. The victor shall gain at that time all accorded title and rank the loser was given, and any property so attached."

"Any land or sea where it's authority holds sway..." If thought about, that could mean... that was ridiculous. But.... 8 minutes remaining... "Minister, a question."

The old man straightened in his plush seat, ceasing the scribbling of his pen, as the soldiers perked up. The minister chuckled dryly, folding his hands, and stared at the doctor with a curious quirk in his mouth. Not quite a smile, no, but something. "I was wondering whether you would catch that. Yes, I suspect you have the right idea, boy." It was telling that Flynn, who barely permitted Weremengard to refer to him as such, did not react in the slightest to the appellation. "As Illusia is part of the World Government, the loser of this duel would be considered an expatriate from both it, and any island that the World Government has authority over. I imagine a bounty may be worked out if necessary, but for all intents and purposes, the one who loses this duel may be considered a pirate from all legal standpoints."

Nodding his horned head slowly, Flynn signed the final page. 6 minutes to go. "I thank you for your honesty, sir. A final question, if you would permit it?"

"Ask away, Captain."

"I take it that this means that, should I lose or forfeit, he would be commissioned as a Captain in my place, and take over command of the 22nd Division?"

"... Yes, he would most likely do just that."

Flynn stood. It was not abrupt, and the chair did not tip. 5 minutes remained. From above, the crowd began cheering. Clearly his brother had entered and was showing off. The boy... man. The man always did know how to work a crowd. He may not have been a scientist like his siblings, but he was special in his own way.

As the longarm climbed the long, curving staircase around the central pillar of the Arena, his thoughts pieced together what had occurred in the weeks leading up to this. He had been awarded the rank of Captain, and the news would likely have made it's way to Illusia. He had been more or less out of any kind of observation since the incident at Lab 3, and thus information about him would likely have been at least 6 months old.

His brother had waited until he had achieved a respectable, but ultimately middling rank, and assumed that his thin, scholarly sibling had remained as such. His brother had done nothing when his sister vanished, merely perched like a vulture, waiting for an opening that he could use to retrieve the inheritance that had vanished with his siblings. His brother wanted to steal everything. His work, his rank... and CHIMERA.

Flynn glanced upwards, and right at the edge, in the Challenged's box, saw his men standing at attention. They glanced down, and Sewell nodded. The others didn't move, but he saw oddly eager smiles on their faces. It took the socially dense scientist a moment to realize the implications. They didn't even consider he would lose. 3 minutes remained.

From the floor of the arena, he could hear the swish of a rapier, and his brother's voice. "Right, almost time. Is he coming?" "Err, yes, but... Sir, when was the last time you saw a photo of your brother?" He paused for a moment, steps ceasing as images flitted through his head. Mari, her puppets slamming Damoc into the ground. Suriko, his blade cracking through the body of one of the Corpseborgs. Shuman, sighing and rubbing her nose at the state of C-1 Platoon's Flamethrower after the Assault on the Pirate's Market. Weremengard, laughing uproariously, and upside down, during one of the training sessions he had inflicted on his newest Captain. All that... gone....

His pale eyebrows knit together as he scowled, finally, truly angry. His heart was pounding in his ears as he knelt, leg muscles and augmentations preparing. He wouldn't be able to utilize his odd electric field effect like this, but it was doubtful he'd need it. Limbs snapping downwards, he shot up like a bolt from a crossbow.

There was a startled gasp from the crowd, and he could see his brother take a step back, sword hanging loose in his grip and utter shock evident in his face. With another pair of kicks, he shot down toward the arena, spinning in the air as his weapons came to life with a growl. Landing, he spun in place for a second, bleeding off the momentum of the movement. Just barely more than a minute remained.

The crowd was dead silent now, everyone taking in the sight of the rather bizarre Marine. His four arms, tipped with weapons that appeared to be moving blades, and pale skin and hair were rather unsettling, especially in the Blues. In contrast, his brother cut far more of a noble figure.

Tall, though not as disturbingly so as Flynn, Norwynn was dressed in a tight shirt and ascot, typical noble dueling attire. His hair wasn't white, like the twins, but a light blonde. A sheathe sat at his hip, perhaps somewhat more jauntily than necessary, while the blade itself was held in his left hand. Somewhat to Flynn's surprise, he appeared to actually be holding it properly. Perhaps he was actually a competent swordsman. However, it took the best of the Blues to be able to survive in Paradise.

Overhead, the sun reached it's zenith, and the beam of focused light that split the dueling grounds moved, ever so slightly, to the right of the arrow icon on the circular platform. From the stands, the voice of the Minister rang forth, shockingly strong despite his age. "Let the duel for the title of Count Toctic... begin!"

Norwynn adopted a stance, and lunged forward, crossing the distance with commendable speed. Flynn, staring down at him, did not move until the last moment. Thrusting forward, the rapier passed through empty space, and there was murmurs from the crowd as everyone located the Captain, currently standing on the other side of the 30 meter arena where Norwynn had been before. It was not quite instantaneous, but even the soldiers in the audience had not been able to fully track his movements.

Bringing his arms out, the cyborg splayed them wide, and thought for a moment. It was likely that utilizing most of his weapons would be considered somewhat outside the spirit of the duel, given their lack of "traditionalism." or some rot. Just his fists, then. Also the chainsaws attached to the fists, but there wasn't much choice there. Kicking forward, he began zipping around the field, Norwynn growing increasingly confused as he spun in place, trying to figure out where his brother was. With a sudden screech of metal on stone, Flynn slid to a stop behind him, and swept his leg around, hitting the back of the other fighter's thighs and knocking him off his feet. In the second of hang-time, he brought his elbows down. Hard.

With a crack, the fencer was slammed down into the ground, the resulting dust-cloud obscuring both fighters for a second. When the dust cleared, the doctor was standing with one foot upon his brother's chest, a hand planted on the ground on both the left and right of his neck.

Flynn stared down at the utterly shocked eyes of Norwynn. He looked to his right, gazing at the beam's position, and th e eyes of the crowd followed his. One minute had passed. From the ground, a resigned voice whispered. "... I... I yield." His brother was shaking slightly, glancing at the chainsaws, and his grip on his weapon had loosened considerably. In a louder voice, he called out. 'I Yield!" There was no response from the crowd. The onlookers were staring at one another, and the faint whispers could be heard, even from a distance away. "-monster-" "-Those chains... devil fruit?" "He looks like those disturbing war-bots the marines use..."

Ignoring the unnerved crowd, Flynn looked down at his brother, and sighed. "You know, I have to admit. This wasn't a terrible plan. However, it seems as though not checking the combat skill of a Marine Captain, and assuming it would be the same as it was two years prior was a bit of a glaring flaw." The crowds were standing, and filing out. Norwynn was looking resigned, but the panicked sweat on his brow showed he wasn't as calm as he was pretending. As he sat up, massaging his neck and groaning, Flynn couldn't help but be slightly impressed.

Perhaps his brother was a bit tougher than he had been expecting as well. When he had left two years ago, the boy, now a man, was slightly pudgy, more of a silver-tongued showman than anything else. He coughed again, and stood shakily, hands on his knees. "I- Ack... I wasn't actually expecting you to show up. I figured I could likely beat you if I had to, but I didn't expect you to actually WANT the title. I assumed it would be a mere formality, after what happened the day before."

A strange, chilly feeling was creeping up Flynn's back, his sense of paranoia rising with it. The way his sibling said that, it didn't sound malicious. It was... matter-a-fact. Much like the way Flynn himself dealt with issues whose outcome was expected. Down below, the sound of metal boots on stone began to ring out. The guards were coming. It took the cyborg a moment to remember that this duel was to death.. death or exile.

"If you didn't think I would come, why did you make this a final duel? What was the purpose of that?" Norwynn squinted, then scratched his head. "Well... It's death or exile, isn't it? I assumed the second point would be moot, that you'd have gone after Ashlynn."

"W-what are you... What are you talking about? Ashlynn disappeared from the base 6 months ago during an experiment outbreak?"

"You didn't hear? The day before I sent that message over the Den-Den Mushi to the base, it was in the weekly bounty updates."

"Bounty... Norwynn. Tell me. Now."

"Flynn... you really don't know, do you?" He sighed, rubbing his face. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. I... You must think I'm a power-grabbing little shit, don't you? If I didn't claim the title before you became ineligible, it would have vanished, and the company and household would have been shattered. Not just me, hundreds of people would have been out of work. I- No, no, right. The point."

The footfalls were growing closer now, as the soldiers climbed the stairs. The rage Flynn had felt before was melting into guilt, but he kept listening. "The day before... Ashlynn Toctic was seen on a contested island leading a squad of augmented Rebellion troops, and wearing officer insignia. As of noon at Mariejois that day, she was considered a Traitor to the World Government, and was issued a bounty. I had assumed you'd follow her as soon as you found out. I wasn't about to try and stop you, but I had to make it seem like we had nothing to do with it."

Ashlynn was... a Rebel Officer? What had happened during the past 6 months? Was she under the control of Bios? Was it to keep protected from them? Why hadn't she contacted him? What- who- why.... It wasn't until he felt the hesitant tap of a metal finger on his shoulder that the Marine snapped back to reality. "Uh, Sir? Umm.. I hate to intrude, but... what have you decided?"

What had he- Oh. Right. What would happen to Norwynn. According to the official duel declaration, the loser would either be exiled or executed. Standing up, he brushed off his coat. "Right. I select this option." Reaching over to the scroll he held, he tapped the paper. The assembled guards, and Minister Gaizzorich, turned to look at the paper. Flynn's finger was pressed, quite firmly, against the last option. The last of three.

"Err. What." Gaizzorich, for the first time that day, looked genuinely confused. "I didn't put a third... option..." He blinked, turned to Flynn, and then back. Then, with a deep, rumbling laugh, he clapped. "Oh, well DONE, boy. When did you manage to sneak that in, I wonder? I shall have to be sure to check future copies of this document, or eliminate the space." The guard looked uneasy. "Sir, if you didn't write this, then it is ineligible. Altering the contract does not-" "Oh, shush, you imbecile. Look at the writing. It looks like my handwriting, right down to my little quirks with the i's. Nobody can prove he wrote it, and I greatly suspect Mr. Norwynn is not going to argue with this."

Looking totally lost, but apparently clever enough to see an opening, Norwynn nodded. "I seem to recall there being three options on there when I signed it. It may be inconvenient, but the law is the law." Barely moving his lips, he whispered to Flynn, "I greatly hope this is not "Drawn and Quartered" as opposed to merely executed."

Frowning, the Minister hobbled closer, and leaned in. "Indeed it is not, Mr. Norwynn Toctic, and while those guards in their metal helmets may not be able to hear that, I most certainly can. I would appreciate you not abusing this willful ignorance I am performing for your benefit.." The younger Toctic had the grace to look ashamed, but still rather relieved, all things considered. Dismissing the guards, the older man cleared his throat.

"Norwynn Toctic, you have lost the duel of honor, and at the request of the winner, your brother, the newly confirmed Count Toctic, you will be put into servitude. Your duties are decided at your brother's whim, but you may legally chose to exile yourself from Illusia at any time should the terms not be acceptable." Rolling up the scroll, Gaizzorich gave a nod, and turned, heading for the stairs,grumbling a bit about the long climb. Norwynn turned to his brother, and coughed delicately.

"So, I realize you may not have thought about this in your... current state, but I was hoping perhaps to have a relatively-" Stopping, as Flynn raised a hand, he waited for the eldest (By about 3 minutes) Toctic to speak his piece. "Norwynn, calm down. Your duties will be essentially what you were doing already. Running the Toctic Concern, looking after the house, etc. Though, I WILL be getting reports from the Head Butler, and if you start acting like you did 4 years ago, I will personally come back and kick your arse up and down the stairs."

Rubbing the back of his horned head, Norwynn nodded sheepishly. "Right, got it. I know, I was a brat, but I'm trying to change. Really." Bringing the hand down, his demeanor changed, becoming more serious. "What about you, though? I mean... you're not going after Ashlynn? You could take those bots of yours we've seen mentioned in the Coo..."

"... I probably would have, but other things are more pressing at the moment. I'm not sure if Ashlynn joined voluntarily or not, but I want to get into contact with her, if I can. If not... Staying in the Marines gives me the best chance to possibly capture her before some fool-hardy Vice Admiral decides to make an example of a deserter."

There was a long moment of silence as the two were left to their respective thoughts. Norwynn was the first to break it, turning to the Marine. "I don't think I'm the only one who's changed. I saw those Marines in the stand when you were climbing the stairs. They were looking at me like I was an idiot, and I can see why. You're..."
He hesitated, then sighed, screwing his eyes shut. "I have to be honest. You're sort of terrifying. You don't look human anymore."

Flynn didn't respond immediately. The sun was still high in the sky, and the crowds had cleared away, leaving them alone on the man-made mesa of stone. "I don't necessarily see how that's a bad thing. I live on the Grand Line. Humans are hard-pressed to survive there."

"The Grand Line.... What's that like? I mean, you hear these stories, and I know most Devil Fruit users wind up there, but... it sounds like a madhouse." Flynn laughed at that. His brother looked offended for a second, but before he could respond, the cyborg grinned. It was a particularly feral look, lips wide, and he stared into the distance, toward the direction he had come.

"Madhouse? No, Norwynn. The Grand Line is a sea of monsters. If you're very, very lucky, you might even manage to avoid most of the ones on two legs. I serve under a man who fights smaller Sea Kings with his bare hands. I've personally clashed with men who are clearly insane, and could likely slaughter most of Illusia's forces with a little tactical know-how. One of my soldiers is a young girl, and I personally saw her drive an ex-pirate named "Wooden Hammer" Damoc through a wall. With a PUPPET." Flynn stood up, dusting himself off, and took a few steps away. "As for myself..."

His body was wreathed in a glow, which separated, dancing around him like a corona of blue arcs. The electricity whirled greatest around his spinning chains, and the air smelled of ozone. "After Ashlynn vanished, I leapt headlong into the maelstom after her." Norwynn was staring, aghast, even after the electricity vanished. He stood up, stumbling a bit, and rubbing a hand across his eyes. "What the hell, Flynn! How did you... Is that some sort of device?"

"Hrmm. No. I actually have no idea how I managed to start doing this. I know how to turn it on and off, but not what precisely is causing it. I think my chainsaws spinning build up charge, but then they..." Mumbling to himself, it took the scientist a good minute to notice that his brother was laughing. "Good lord, Flynn. When you left, I swear Maid Natilda could have beaten you in a fistfight. Now, I'd wager on you in the Coliseum, and I doubt I'd be alone."

Stretching, Flynn turned, looking down at his little bro. "Mmm. A fascinating idea, but I really can't afford to be getting into prize fights. They'd probably send Wermengard after me, and my paycheck can't cover that kind of property damage. The man's a walking disaster, we just try and point him at the pirates."

Chuckling a bit at that, and mentally trying to imagine a man that could flatten his brother in an instant, Norwynn strolled down the stairs behind him, arms folded. Down below, Flynn could see the Marines grouping up, chatting excitedly, and smiled briefly. Shuman, the Anderson brothers, Wermengard, Mari, Suriko... He was a bit astonished to realize that he was eager to return to G-8... to return home. Illusia may have been his birthplace, but it was undeniable that he had grown attached to the quirky denizens of the Peace Route's capstone.

Still, it couldn't be denied that today had merely traded one issue for another. He was faced with the fact that, for one, his sister had been declared Persona non Grata by the World Government, a problem, to be sure. However, what more immediately came to mind was...

Why didn't Wermengard tell me? Did he assume I knew? No... He had to know I hadn't seen the paper. The muscled bravado-filled Vice Admiral wasn't one for subterfuge in general, but Flynn was one of the few who was aware that the man was really quite clever. Even if it was a bit of a punishment, they wouldn't have put an idiot in the labs. No, if he hadn't told the cyborg, there was a reason.

"Well then. Marines of the CHIMERA Corps... Form up. We're headed home. The tides wait for no man, and we must be prepared for what is washing inexorably closer. Double-time to the docks." Pulling his hat on, his eyes narrowed beneath the brim. "I fear the clock may be ticking faster than any anticipate."