[Unlike most of the characters I post here, this one's an original villain, rather than a converted character. She comes out of my decision to stop fantasizing about what I'd do to certain people if I ever got my hands on them. This is healthier than the alternative solution to that problem. ]
The Extremist -- 750 points
Attributes: ST 10 [0]; DX 17 [140]; IQ 15 [100]; HT 15 [50].
Secondary Characteristics: Dmg 1d-2/1d; BL 20 lbs; HP 13 [6]; Will 16 [5]; Per 18 [15]; FP 15 [0]; Basic Speed 8.00 [0]; Basic Move 9 [5].
Social Background: TL 8^; CF Western [0]; Language: English (Native) [0].
Advantages: Artificer 3 [30]; Catfall [10]; Combat Reflexes [15]; Compartmentalized Mind 1 [50]; DR 20 (Ablative, -80%) [20]; Danger Sense [15]; Enhanced Dodge [15]; Extraordinary Luck [30]; Flexibility [5]; Gadgeteer [25]; Hard to Kill +3 [6]; Hard to Subdue +3 [6]; High Pain Threshold [10]; Honest Face [1]; Indomitable [15]; Penetrating Voice [1]; Perfect Balance [15]; Peripheral Vision [15]; Recovery [10]; Regeneration (Regular) [25]; Single-Minded [5]; Unusual Background [50]; Versatile [5]; Wealth (Comfortable) [10]; Weapon Master [45].
Disadvantages: Berserk (15) [-5]; Enemy (IST/FBI/State & Local Law Enforcement, 9 or less) [-40]; Loner (12) [-5]; Manic Depressive [-20]; Nightmares (12) [-5]; Obsession (Rid the world of people with extreme views) (6) [-20]; On the Edge (12) [-15]; Reputation -4 (As the Extremist, "dangerous and probably insane murderer and terrorist", everyone, 10 or less) [-10]; Sadism (6) [-30]; Secret Identity [-30].
Quirks: Anonymously donates 75% of all ill-gotten gains to various charities; buys every newspaper available; dislikes smokers; doesn't hold grudges; never laughs except when someone is in pain.
Skills: Acrobatics (DX+5, H)-22* [20]; Acting (IQ+1, A)-16 [4]; Armoury (Small Arms) (IQ+2, A)-17** [1]; Brawling (DX+2, E)-19 [4]; Climbing (DX+3, A)-20x [1]; Computer Operation (IQ+1, E)-16 [2]; Computer Programming (IQ, H)-15 [4]; Crypography (IQ-1, H)-14 [2]; Current Affairs (Headline News) (IQ+3, E)-18 [8]; Disguise (IQ+3, A)-18 [12]; Electronics Operation (Security) (IQ, A)-15 [2]; Electronics Repair (Computers) (IQ+2, A)-17** [1]; Engineer (Electrical) (IQ+2, H)-17** [2]; Escape (DX+4, H)-21xx [8]; Explosives (Demolition) (IQ+3, A)-18 [12]; Garrote (DX+1, E)-18 [2]; Guns (Pistol) (DX, E)-17 [1]; Guns (Rifle) (DX, E)-17 [1]; Holdout (IQ+3, A)-18 [12]; Intimidation (Will+2, A)-18 [8]; Knife (DX+1, E)-18 [2]; Mathematics (Applied) (IQ-2, H)-13 [1]; Observation (Per, A)-18 [2]; Physician (IQ-2, H)-13 [1]; Physiology (IQ-2, H)-13 [1]; Poisons (IQ+3, H)-18 [16]; Research (IQ-1, A)-16 [4]; Scrounging (Per, E)-18 [1]; Shadowing (IQ+3, A)-18 [12]; Smuggling (IQ+3, A)-18 [12]; Stealth (DX+1, A)-18 [4]; Streetwise (IQ, A)-15 [2]; Throwing Art (DX, A)-17 [4]; Traps (IQ+3, A)-18 [12].
* Includes +1 for Perfect Balance.
** Includes +3 for Artificer.
x Includes +4 for Flexibility and Perfect Balance.
xx Includes +3 for Flexbility.

Jessica Roberts was born in late October or early November, 1949. The uncertainty is due to the fact that no one left any pertinent information with her when she was abandoned on the front steps of an orphanage in upstate New York. The next twelve years of her life were a continual nightmare, as the abusive manager of the orphanage singled her out as the most frequent target for her many tortures.
Fortunately, a police investigation eventually uncovered the depths of the woman's cruelty, and Jessica was relocated to a foster family, who eventually adopted her. Soon afterwards, her mutant powers manifested, but a lifetime of secrecy kept her from revealing them to anyone. In time, scars formed over the wounds in her psyche, and she grew into a woman. Eventually, she made a quiet, even boring life for herself as a computer programmer.
Then, when she was in her early thirties, she happened to read an account of an early attempt by a lung cancer victim to sue a tobacco company. Jessica had already developed a strong dislike for cigarette smoke, largely because her childhood tormentor had been a smoker and used her as an ashtray, but also because she was aware of the health risks. When she read the denials of those risks issuing from the company shills, she found herself infuriated, and something snapped in her mind.
With disturbing ease, she kidnapped the teenaged children or grandchildren of a number of tobacco company executives, and forced them to smoke several packs of cigarettes a day. If any of the hostages refused to smoke, she shot him or her in the head. Two weeks later, only one of the children remained alive. Jessica smiled, burned out the girls eyes with the lit end of a cigarette, and left, phoning the FBI agents working the case to let them know where to find what she'd left of the hostages.
Jessica felt pretty good about what she'd done, and it's quite possible that she'd never have done anything like that ever again. Unfortunately, one of her colleagues was too clever by half, and figured out why the children had been targeted. During coffee breaks, he'd hold forth on the subject, and eventually started talking about other people whom he felt "had it coming to them" -- various fanatics and other "extremists". Jessica listened, and found herself agreeing with him. However, she also realized that the belief that people deserved to die because of their extreme opinions, was itself a pretty extreme opinion. She plans to one day suicide when she's finally killed everyone else with such extreme views, but decided not to extend her colleague that same courtesy.
To her credit, she's not partisan -- extremists of all stripes (and their families and loved ones) have met their fates at her hands. She has, for example, flayed the skins of anti-fur activists, and then turned around and used the same method to kill fur company owners who've overhunted. She has systematically tortured right- or left-wing pundits to death by removing everything on their left or right sides (eye, fingers, hand, arm, foot, leg, kidney, lung, etc.) She once went to the trouble to executing a noted entrepreneur in such a way as to demonstrate a flaw in the "trickle-down" theory of economics. (Don't ask.) Perhaps most disturbingly, she onced killed the pregnant wife of a man in prison for blowing up an abortion clinic ... by subjecting her to a botched abortion that caused her to bleed to death.
To fund her periodic killing sprees, she has robbed banks and also engaged in various criminal conspiracies, and is registered with the Exchange. The Extremist, as she's dubbed, came to the attention of the ISTs in 1991, when she assassinated a number of vociferous critics of the U.N. and the Edicts by shooting them with jugo-loaded darts. Two of her victims were accidentally killed by members of IST Minneapolis during the destructive super-brawls that followed, while another died of circulatory failure after coming down from his "high". IST Minneapolis was able to prevent a final assassination, and confronted the Extremist. She escaped, and remained at large.
When she's not on the job, she spends most of her time curled up in bed, as the aftermath of one of killings usually brings on a depressive phase. In her manic phases, she scours newspapers, looking for the names of people who seem to be expressing the sorts of views she despises. Writing repeated letters to the editor on the same topic over and over again is a sure way to attract her attention. Her "cover" job as a computer systems consultant allwos her the freedom to move around the United States, looking for her prey. In nearly two decades, no one has connected her to the killings, due to her astute use of disguise and other advantages.

What if the movie "Weird Science" was a Disney animated musical? The characters would be furries, of course, and the locations would probably be much more sectacular... then there's tis little peice of pain:
the Oingo Boingo theme song, hammered into the tune for "When You Wish Upon a Star." It doesn't even take much more than adding a couple of words to every third line and repeating the verses the right numbe rof times, and the break line twice for the longer WS chorus. Go ahead, sing it over the music provided here.
The bind moggles.

Plastic tubes and pots and pans, lots of bits and pieces and
Magic from the hand Were makin
Weird science
Things Ive never seen before, hidden behind bolted doors
Talent and imagination
Weird science
Not what teacher said to do, yeah we're makin dreams come true
Living tissue and warm flesh
It's weird science

(bits of my creation--is it real?
Its my creation--i do not know)
(No hesitation--no heart of gold
Just flesh and blood--i do not know)
From my heart and from my hand, why dont people understand
My intentions . . . . oooh, weird . . . .
It's Weird science!!
Magic and technology, voodoo dolls and ancient chants
Electricity; Were makin
Weird science
Fantasy and microchips, ray guns shooting from the hip
Something different; Were makin
Weird science
Pictures from a magazine, body diagrams and charts
Mending broken hearts (and makin)
Weird science
(sigh)
(Spoken, wistful: Something like a recipe...)

If the original version supercharges Doug's 'enchant an object under construction' skills, I have to wonder what this slower tempo version would do - if it's reasonably close to similar, the longer effect might be quite handy.

- CD
What, you think Samuel L. Jackson isn't going to survive the zombie apocalypse?

SERVO: Loook *deeeeply* into my eyes... Tell me, what do you see?
CROW: (hypnotized) A twisted man who wants to inflict his pain upon others.
--
"Anko, what you do in your free time is your own choice. Use it wisely. And if you do not use it wisely, make sure you thoroughly enjoy whatever unwise thing you are doing." - HymnOfRagnorok as Orochimaru at SpaceBattles
woot Med. Eng., verb, 1st & 3rd pers. prsnt. sg. know, knows

Anyone remember an HP fic which features an angry Harry telling all sorts of people off and training with Bliase (F) Zabini's father?--
Christopher Angel, aka JPublic
The Works of Christopher Angel

"There is no such thing as glory in combat," I told her. "Gloryis an illusion. Glory is a clown mask you draw on your face withthe blood of those you have killed."


-- Bob
---------
It's a "magical" land. I think "magical" is ancient Greek for "pain in the butt". -- Bun-Bun, Sluggy Freelance, 11/9/03

Since it's known that Doug's metatalent does work with Broadway tunes...
These are the only two that seemed like they might have a chance of triggering something... and I think they'd appeal to his sense of humor.
***********
Finland/Fisch Schlapping Dance
Finland, Finland, Finland, that's the country for me!
Finland is the country where we dance
Finland is the country where we play
Here in Finland boy and girl can find a true romance
in traditional Scandinavian way
Schlip schlap-
Schlip and schlap away
Schlip schlap-
Schlap away all day
Schlip schlap-
You simply can't go wrong
In traditional fish schlapping song
Finland Finland Finland
The country where I quite want to be
Pony trekking
Or camping
Or just watching TV
Finland Finland Finland
That's the country for me!
I said ENGLAND!
Oh, sorry.
***********
It's a somewhat schizophrenic little song, with two different themes, so it may not do anything.
However, it could be a way to teleport to Finland, or everyone within range immediately has placed in their hands one (1) fish and are possessed with the almighty urge to schlap someone with it.

The other song is the Run Away! song. Some slightly off-color language and derogatory terms for the French within.
*********

Fetchez la vache!

Run Away!
Run Away!
Run Away!
Run Away!
Run Away!
Run away Run away
Run away from the stench and the trenches
Run away Run away
From thse horrible nasty old Frenchies
These Frogs with their terrible prattle
Are fighting a battle with cattle!
We're all full of fear so let's get out of here
Run away! Run Away! Run Away!

You English all are bugger folk
Your mothers all are rugger folk
Your army is a bloody joke
You couldn't beat an artichoke.
If battle you choose to renew
We'll taunt you till you all turn blue
We turn our arses as you part
In your direction we all fart.
Fetchez Les Can-Can dancers!

Run Away! Run Away! Run Away!
Run, Run, Run, Run, Run, Run Away!
Run Away! Run Away! Run Away!
Run Away!
Run Away Run Away
It seems like a helpful solution
Run Away Run Away
To avoid this French revolution
We're stuck in a nasty position
Why don't you take a short intermission
Have a drink and a pee
We'll be back for Act Three
Two sir!
Twooooo
Run Away, Run Away, Run Away, Run Away, Run Away,
Run, Run, Run, Run, Run Away, Run Away!
************
This simplest version would cause one side to just break and run from a battle (with perhaps occasionally bombardments of cattle).
The more appropriate (and limitation) to me would be that the song would only be effective when you've got French and English on opposing sides, and the English are the ones that run.
I keep visualizing Jean from Rob Kelk's Nadia crossover standing up to taunt the Neo-Atlantians and the rest of the group watches in shock.
RMH

Has anyone heard, well, -anything-, from Don Granberry in the last few months?
--
Sucrose Octanitrate.
Proof positive that with sufficient motivation, you can make anything explode.

Here's a somewhat obscure song:
The Phoenix
by Julia Ecklar
In a tower of flame in capsule 12
I was there
I know not where they laid my my bones
It could be anywhere
But when fire and smoke had faded
And darkness left my sight
I found my soul in a spaceship's hull
Riding home on a trail of light
And my wings are made of tungsten,
My flesh, of glass and steel.
I am the joy of Terra for the power that I feel
Once upon a lifetime, I died a pioneer
Now I sing within a spaceship's heart
Does anybody hear?
Before each morning's launch they know that
I am there
"To the soul that warms this vessel's hull,"
They say a silent prayer
I, fathership and spirit of the dream
For which they strive
For I am man at the hands of men
See us rocket for the skies
And my wings are made of tungsten,
My flesh, of glass and steel.
I am the joy of Terra for the power that I wield.
Once upon a lifetime, I died a pioneer,
Now I sing within a spaceship's heart
Does anybody hear?
My thunder rends the morning sky, YES!
I am here
Though lost to flame when I was man
Now I ride her without fear
For I am more than man now, and man
Built me with pride
I led the way, now I lead the way
Of man's future in the sky
And my wings are made of tungsten
My flesh of glass and steel
I am the joy of Terra for the power that I feel
Once upon a lifetime, I died a pioneer
Now I sing within a spaceship's heart
Does anybody hear?
Suggested effect: Doug "possesses" a spaceship, gaining full control over it as if it were his own body (which disappears for the length of the song). Very effective when used in small, maneuverable ships that can take advantage of his superhuman reflexes--like, say, a Firefly-class transport.
Since this could potentially be really powerful, some suggested limitations:
Doug would have to be inside the ship to merge with it. There would be an upper limit on size, depending on the magic power available (so no Death Stars or Honor Harrington pod dreadnaughts). Any damage the ship takes during the song would translate into wounds.
The song length is 3:35.

How do you go about getting every chapter of a story saved? Do you just save each individual webpage? Or is there some utility, either local or on FFnet itself?
Thanks.
--
Sucrose Octanitrate.
Proof positive that with sufficient motivation, you can make anything explode.

This is something that I'm working on that I wanted a general opinion of. It's not particularly anime-inspired, but given all the talk of heroes on this forum, I thought it a good place to show it.
---------------------
His name was Champion, and he was the first to fall.
There is not a person on Earth who doesnt know about Champion. His first appearance was in North Texas, in Carrollton, a small suburb of Dallas, where he spent his early years working in cooperation with the Carrollton Police Department. His relationship with the police was so favorable that he went so far as to pattern his uniform during the 1980s after the coloration of their patrol cars: white and blue with a stylized C. Although he was dubbed Captain Carrollton by some of the more waggish members of the press, Champion proved himself time and again during the 80s as a hero.
For the early part of his career, Champion spent most of his efforts in the southwestern part of the United States. The rest of the country acknowledged his fame, but he was rarely seen in the large cities of the Northeast or the West Coast. That is, until the Branch Davidians incident.
Mount Carmel had already been surrounded by members of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms when Champion arrived. The superhero, already well known among the local law enforcement, wisely chose to push for a nonviolent resolution to the siege. Unfortunately, members of the command staff saw the hero as little more than a man-sized siege weapon. After trying several times to convince those agents interested in forced entry that he would not serve as their battering ram, he finally lost his temper and went out on his own to talk to the Branch Davidians. Being effectively bulletproof, Champion could get closer to the compound than any other negotiator.
The Davidians were extremely surprised to see the white-and-blue-clad figure walking up to their compound. They were doubly surprised when he reacted not at all to being fired upon. But they were surprised most of all when he knocked politely on the front door, and asked to speak with Koresh. The members of the church were understandably paranoid, but after Champion pointed out that he could enter by force that he had been given that ability by God and he chose not to, they let him in.
Champion later related that he had spent most of the time in the company of Koresh, who had explained to him why he had not surrendered, that he was waiting for a sign from God. Koresh explained to him that the FBI and BATF agents were denying his requests to speak with experts on the Bible. He explained that he was trying to find out what God wanted from him. Champion, who himself was a pious man (although of a different denomination of Christianity), promised that he would try to help. In a show of good faith, Koresh allowed Champion to see the public areas of the compound, to assure the hero that no one was being mistreated.
Champion spent the next weeks serving as the primary liaison between Mount Carmel and the outside world. He served as a voice of mediation between the federal agents and church members. It was at his urging that Bible experts were brought to speak with Koresh. It was at his urging that moderation and patience were the watchwords. It was through his reputation in the Southwest that most of the agents, who were natives to the area, listened to him. In the end, the Branch Davidians surrendered the siege. Several were jailed for assaulting federal agents and on firearms charges, including Koresh, but what might have been a massacre was avoided.
It was out of this event, and the resulting media exposure, that Champion became a national hero. The federal government became acquainted with him intimately over the next years, and his moderate and sensible manner made him an excellent hero for all sides of the political spectrum to rely on. Champion took his popularity cautiously, not giving in on his principles but still helping people when he could. He became, in the years after Waco, a public hero that everyone could believe in.
Through the 90s, Champion was the hero of the people. He was everywhere, providing his voice of reason when he could, and his strength and invulnerability when he could not. He was instrumental in developing relations with Aquus, bringing the strange elemental being into the public eye and helping it voice its concerns over oceanic pollution. He helped the FBI with militias several times during the 90s, preventing or minimizing the damage from domestic terrorism committed in revenge for Ruby Ridge or Waco. He was active overseas, aiding United Nations troops in Somalia and the Balkans. Again, in those tense and violent places, his voice of reason was just as powerful as his physical abilities. It was Champion who led the task force to arrest Milosovec, delivering the dictator to the steps of The Hague himself for the trial.
Moreover, Champion was the defender of the planet from outside threats. When the Fureons pursued Zhail (commonly known to the public The Starman) to Earth, it was Champion who stood next to his friend at Lagrange Point 6 and stopped the advance invasion force. When Nocturnes reconnaissance of the Carlsbad Deeps found an army of trolls, it was Champion who held them at a standstill until the Night Warrior could evacuate the State Park and summon help. And when the insidious Mad Doctor Jonathan Jacob Walker attacked Silicon Valley with his army of giant robots, Champion was there to turn back the foe.
Hero. Celebrity. Times Man of the Year. A&Es Biography of the Year. Winner of the Presidential Medal of Freedom and an Honorary OBE from the Queen of England. Champion was respected and loved by many. Even his long-time foes, both in government and crime, expressed respect for his moderation and reasonable nature. There were those who hated him not the least of which was the noted metaterrorist known only as Schreck but all who knew him, knew him to be a man of honor and good.
The details of Champions death are hazy at best. If the American government knows what happened, they arent talking. What is known is that, on January 6, 2000, an explosion ripped through downtown Little Rock, Arkansas, leveling four square blocks. Emergency workers, paramedics, and police all rushed to the scene, and were cut down by unknown enemies. Anyone entering the area of the disaster was killed, and no one could see what or who was doing the killing. With little choice in the matter, the police cordoned off the area and called for help.
Champion beat the National Guard to the command post set up by the Little Rock PD by about thirty seconds. He spent forty-five minutes discussing the situation with the police commander, the Mayor of Little Rock, and the Guard Commander. He spent fifteen minutes talking to the press. And then, at approximately four oclock in the afternoon on January 6, he crossed the cordon and entered the disaster area.
What happened next is a matter of public record; the news footage was run on CNN for several weeks, and has been analyzed was almost as much detail as the Zapruder footage of the Kennedy Assassination. Champion flew into the crisis area. He hovered through it slowly, at about the pace of a quick walk, scanning for survivors or indications of the cause of the explosion. Twice he retrieved the remains of a downed police officer or emergency technician and returned them to the barricades. His radio contact with the command post was clear and understandable. Champions tone of voice was calm, but concerned. At no point does he appear or sound to be panicked or unsettled.
Champions final conversation is also on public record, and has been analyzed as much as the video. Upon nearing the intersection at the center of the damaged area, he descended to the ground and began to look for some indication of the cause of the explosion. The following conversation occurred:
Champion: Command, I am approaching the intersection. Am descending to the street. Over.
Captain Thomas Veitch, Little Rock PD: Roger that, Champion. We can see you. Let us know if you see anything that looks like an explosive. Over.
Champion: Roger, Command. The street looks melted. Mustve been a high-temperature blast. Theres little charring, though. No device apparent at first glance. Over.
Captain Veitch: Roger, Champion. Keep looking. Over.
Champion: Roger, Command. Command?
Captain Veitch: This is Command, Champion. We read you. Over.
Champion: No sign of explosive or incendiary device in immediate vicinity of intersection. At least, not to me. Maybe the crime scene guys can find something.
Captain Veitch: Dont worry about it, Champion. Focus on securing the area. Over.
Champion: Roger, Command. Ill start with the bank. Looks like the windows were vaporized, rather than shattered. Interior is seared clean, Command. All wooden furniture has been charred into ash. Marble floors are covered in soot probably furniture and
carpet. No sign of any bodies. Just thats funny .
Captain Veitch: Say again, Champion. Whats funny? Over.
Champion: Footprints. In the marble. They lead towards the vault. Im going to see where they go. Over.
Captain Veitch: Roger, Champion. Be careful.

Champion: UNH!
Captain Veitch: Say again, Champion?

Captain Veitch: Champion, this is Command. Respond.

Captain Veitch: Champion, this is Command. Please respond.

Captain Veitch: Champion, this is Captain Veitch at Command. Please respond.

Captain Veitch: Where is he? Champion, if you can hear us, please indicate.

Captain Veitch: Shit. Hes not responding. Now what?

Approximately twenty minutes after the command post lost contact with Champion, the vigilante known as Nocturne (sometimes called the Night Warrior) appeared in the command post. No one had seen him pass any checkpoints and there is no indication of his presence in any media record until he exited the command post and entered the disaster zone, accompanied by four National Guardsmen carrying assault rifles. It took the five of them ten minutes to reach the intersection, and they were unhindered. It took them another ten minutes to enter the bank and find Champions body. Preliminary examinations showed that Champion was not breathing and had no pulse.
The world mourned the passing of Champion. His death prompted a massive crackdown on crime, with heroes like Nocturne and The Hunter exposing every criminal organization to light while Doctor Tomorrow and The Starman examined Ground Zero. Champions invulnerability made a regular postmortem examination impossible, but Tomorrows superscience allowed for something approximating an autopsy (although Champions body was not actually cut open). The scans of the corpse showed no apparent cause of death. There was no tissue trauma, no broken bones, no sign of organ failure, there wasnt even hydrostatic shock. Champion just stopped living.
The funeral was the largest that anyone had ever seen. Larger than Princess Dianas, larger than President Kennedys, it included celebrities and statesmen from every country. People made pilgrimages to the grave during the month surrounding the funeral. Champions family came forward, revealing his identity to the world, and the world helped them with their grief. Even the paparazzi were silent; such was the love the world had for their fallen hero.
Forty-seven super-powered villains surrendered to law enforcement in honor of Champion, including Dr. Megaton, who turned himself in to the Director of the FBI at the funeral. The Maniac arrived at the doors to Bellevue three days after Champions funeral, coherent for once, and managed to stay inside for a record 73 days, before his meta-insanity overcame the drugs he was on and he tore a hole in the wall and escaped. Over the next three months, 578 members of various crime syndicates across the world, from the Mafia to the Columbian cartels to the tongs of Hong Kong, were arrested, convicted, and imprisoned due to the efforts of heroes and police alike. The FBI unraveled no fewer than four plots to commit acts of terrorism against American citizens. Interpol found another three in Europe. But no one, not even Nocturne, found anything that led them to Champions killer or the parties responsible for what became known as the Little Rock Disaster.
As time passed, the investigators still forged ever on, searching for new clues. The public at large, however, mourned for Champion, and then moved on with their lives. The other superheroes of the world continued as they had, believing the tragedy to be an isolated event.
A belief that would soon be proven to be terribly, horribly wrong.
Ebony the Black Dragon
Senior Editor, Living Room Games
http://www.lrgames.com
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com

"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."

Had this scribbled up during a moment of inspiration sometime last week. Have a poke. The previous 'part', if it could be called that, is here:
p087.ezboard.com/fdrunkar...=266.topic

----
Disclaimer: The usual applies. I own none of the characters, places, etc. The HP 'cast' belongs to
J.K.Rowling. Drakengard, where the initial idea of the Pact was taken from, belongs to ... umm. I forget.
Not me, anyway.
AN: Initially, I wasn't really going to write any follow ups to Bound and Determined. The credit for making my brain go the extra length and come up with this ficlet goes to Crys. As always, C&C is welcome.
----------------------------------------------------------
Demonbane Ltd.
Presents

Solitude

follow up to a HP AU ficlet
by Griever
---

Thumping beats.

Silence, with the gentle fluttering of distant sounds serving to make it not less, but more intense.

Not true silence, then.

He knew there was no such thing as true silence. There wouldn't be, until he breathed his last.

The heat was an enveloping experience, like a layer of soft and moist silk running across exposed skin.

The hiss of air as it left his lungs, then as it entered again, did not break the stillness. It composed
itself into it, becoming as indistinguishable as he hoped he was.

And then there was the rush. Underbrush stroking his flanks as he felt motion, eyes locked on the running
form, its smell filling his nostrils and the heat it gave off helping him follow even as the escapee dashed
through the cover provided by the thicket of the forest floor.

The sound, or rather vibration, of bounding steps.

From the soles of his feet, he felt them. With his ears, he heard the
rustle of approaching prey.

He waited.

Still.

Composed.

As much a part of the background as the tree his back was propped against.

Rustle.

In an instant, the rush of motion was discarded, or should that be exchanged?

Relayed sensation, relayed sight, relayed hearing was pushed aside, as his own senses stretched.

His lunge wasn't even much of a lunge.

Step.

Turn on the balls of the right foot.

Feel the vibration.

Hear the startled prey over the sound of his own, finally accelerating hearbeat.

The shaft felt as if it were an extension of his hand, even as said hand was pushed forward.

Blood splattered.

The heartbeat slowed, and another fluttered, its beat hiccuping for an instant and then going ...

Still.

Composed.

Breath.

In.

Out.

Embrace the link and see the prey as something other than a melange of coppery tones, fur, fear and anger
stink, and meat.

Once, this would have seemed barbaric. Now?

It was simply his nature.

He was past denying his nature.

/Good hunt, little serpent./

***

The fire crackled. Once, he would have said 'merrily'. Now it was merely comforting.

Stars above, though he could not see them.

Being blind had its drawbacks.

The meat was surprisingly tender, give how fresh it was, but that likely had to do with preparation. He'd
been more than a fair cook before, and merely had to adapt. Suprsingly, smell and touch made up for lack of
sight, though the link and his Pact Partner were more than ready to provide that in those first weeks.

The smell of cooking meat, as the boar spun on its spit, flesh already prepared and simmering. The noises of
life around them.

The warmth of the fire, an odd comfort. Doubled by the link. A pleasure he was glad to share and have shared
with him. His Pact Partner enjoyed the warmth. Unsurprising, given his serpentine nature.

Winter was coming.

Oh, it was still far off. And yet, he could feel it, feel the cycle of death and rebirth, the river of life.
Its flow altered, surged, dwindled, but continued on. It was fascinating to contemplate, really ... shame he
had little time for idle contemplation these days. Surviving was a chore in and of itself.

Ironically, it was also, he was coming to realize, one of the best times he could remember having.

Perhaps, because it was so unlike anything he'd ever experienced that it was trivial to let himself go, lose
himself in the sensation, and forget ...

And he had things in his memory that he'd rather forget about.

A healing balm for a torn soul.

Again, amusing irony. His soul was not really torn anymore, rather, it had been stretched somewhat. Mixed
with that of another, not merely due to the mark left on his brow.

Here, in this forest, without other here save for the scaled bulk of his Pact Partner, he was finally
discovering the meaning of what it meant to do more than merely exist.

He felt alive.

/How poetic, little ssserpent. Ssshould we get you sssome bark, so you can keep the ruminationsss
pressserved for posssterity?/

He was also learning the fine art of sarcasm ... from a beast that was, or had been, the king of all it
surveyed. Or the slayer. In a way, it was one and the same, really.

"Title it 'Ramblingsss of an insssane Dark Wizard' or whatnot, and sssell millionsss of copiesss?" He
replied, though his voice wasn't really needed for communication in this case. He was equally comfortable
with both methods, to tell the truth, but vocalizing his thoughts often helped him order them appropriately.
"Tempting offer."

If one of those who'd known him previously had been able to hear him speak those words (and understand them,
since he was hissing rather than speaking at the moment), they would have scarcely recognized him.

It was a dramatic change he'd undergone, especially for a period as short as two months. At least, that was
how this would be understood by others. In truth, the changes had occurred far earlier. As the Pact was
made.

Assimilating them, though, that had taken a bit of work.

He was not, in the strictest sense of the word, mature. Not as a human being would understand it. The
Basilisk, though, was old. Far more intelligent than it had been given credit for. And of a mindset and
morality that was alien to that which was commonly in place among humankind.

This, though, worked both ways, as did most things about the Pact.

And even as the alien ideas were taken into the mind of the erstwhile Gryffindor, the king of serpents had
been forced to deal with an influx of his own.

In the end, they were both a little less than they'd been before, and at the same time a little more.

A sum of their parts, first. And now more.

Winter was coming.

The insistent little nagging voice of instinct spoke up again, still quiet, yet nagging. Not something he
would willingly ignore. It was, after all, correct. Summer would give way to fall, would give way to winter.

If nothing else, his Pact Partner had taught him to not only live in the moment, but to also look ahead.

And it was somewhat startling just how far ahead a being that was, for all intents and purposes, the oldest
sentient creature he'd ever encountered, could look.

The immediate future didn't require anything of him ... but beyond that, ever so slightly beyond that, they
would need to move.

/We linger here for reasssonsss of our own, little ssserpent. You know thisss./

The giant serpent moved, surrounding he youth, coiling itself underneath his legs and around his torso,
resting its head - well, part of it at least - on top of one of his shoulders. It was, the boy knew, one of
the benefits the Basilisk saw in their Pact. A heat source that moved with it. For a cold blooded creature
this was something of a luxury.

"Where would we go, then?" he didn't glance over his shoulder, but the intent was clear. As things stood,
they were too deep in the forest to still see the lake and castle they'd ventured from, and the boy knew a
return would be rather difficult. Were he to desire it.

It was a possibility, however, and if nothing else, the Pact had taught him to always examine his
possibilities.

/Elsssewhere./

"Big help," replied the boy, the tone of his hiss matching the smugness that the one his Partner had given
contained. And the sarcasm.

This was not an unimportant issue, for either of them, though. The Basilisk could sleep, but his Partner's
body was not yet ready for hibernation, even with the less obvious changes wrought by the powers unleashed
as the Pact was forged. Possibly, it would never be quite ready for the Sleep.

There were things, the king of serpents could sense, that lurked within the boy. Desires and wants, that -
while dormant now, suppressed to make room for learning this new way of life - would eventually make
themselves know.

The boy knew this as well, though not on an entirely conscious level.

Still, planning aside, some things were best dealt with one step at a time.

There was still some time left to take that particular step.

Both Pact partners shared this awareness, and decided to deliberate further during the coming days. Right
then, though, the night was too enthralling to let go of, and boy and serpent soon sunk into the depths of
slumber.

They slept.

***

The book's contents were far from what most considered legal. At least, far from what most wizards would
consider legal. Or good.

It was one of the things that they had taken from the Chamber. At first glance, nothing special. At second
glance, nothing special.

But, really, he did not really glance. Fingers moved, tracing and feeling the paper, the ink, and the subtle
flow of energy that preserved the tome past what the materials it had been created from could possibly
handle.

It was old.

It was also not, strictly speaking, anything even close to being a key to ultimate power.

That was alright with him.

Ultimate power was, as far as he could tell, overrated.

He was perfectly willing to settle for moderately impressive power.

And he'd be perfectly content with a place to live, a meal to fill his stomach every day, and being left
alone for now.

The first was only useful as a means towards the second, really.

Again, ironically, the so called king of serpents had priorities that ran much along the same lines. A
symbol of ambition, perfectly willing to shrug the mantle away and immerse itself in selfishness.

Though, again, ambition could be interpreted in many ways.

He was perfectly willing to settle with life as his current ambition.

Though the differences between life and existence were something he'd become well aware of, especially
lately.

He had his magic, still. In a way, it was actually easier to wield now. He could almost 'see' the flows as a
spell was woven into being. He imagined that, with practice, the words could become unnecessary. With
practice, though. And patience.

He knew more of patience now than he'd ever known before. Not merely fearful waiting, or anxiety suppressed,
but true patience.

He would learn.

He had time.

He was young, still.

And there was the faintest possibility that he would remain so for quite a while ...

/Mossst likely, little ssserpent. You will not end before I do, I will not end before you do. The Pact hasss
asssured that./

So he worked. Practiced.

Some things came easier, some were more difficult, but this caused surprisingly little irritation.

/There isss nothing to be concerned about. We, each of usss, are different. We learn differently. Ssso
doesss your breed. You know thisss. It isss the nature of life itssself, diversssity./

The studies were not rushed. Rather, they were thorough. Learn something, attempt to master it, only when
you cannot continue can you move on.

Very much like the hunt, the boy noted.

Time passed.

Fall came.

They moved.

And other things were set in motion by this, as well.

Things that they would come to be aware of.

In time.

***

He knew the name of the town ... or, perhaps, had known it. He'd read it upon entering. It wasn't all that
important though, in the long run, so he'd not committed it to memory.

Winter had come.

He felt slightly sluggish, though. The cold, while also invigorating, was having a dual effect.

Surprisingly, it had the opposite effect on his Partner. The serpent slithered, its scales on the snow,
something that would have been impossible for the cold blooded creature to do normally.

The Pact was sharing, on roughly equal terms, after all.

The house was small, on the outskirts of the town, out of the way. A good place for contemplation. Solitude,
he would have said before, but there was no true solitude possible for him. Not anymore. Not ever again.

One of the things about the Pact that he saw as a definite advantage.

He missed the hunt, to be honest, but it was not the place for it. Nor the weather. His Partner could and
did still seek out prey, but that also happened on a more sporadic basis.

A few carefully planned out actions had made acquiring their current lodgings a possiblity, with little fuss
standing in the way of things.

Sometimes, magic was very useful.

He did not play with the mind, really. Oh, a bit of added confusion about an issue here, a slight nudge
there ... subtle, nothing as obvious and glaring as those clumsy memory charms Lockhart had been so fond of.

People looked, people saw, but they simply ... wrote it off as an oddity. Ignorance of the modern world. It
was present, had been present for some time. He merely ... capitalized on it. No big thing, really.

Though, to be honest, there really wasn't much he could do about people not noticing his Partner. On the
other hand, he didn't need to do much to that effect, since the king of serpents was insidious and stealthy
when there was need.

And time passed.

Winter crossed its midpoint.

Books were read, and things were learned.

But fate has a way of nudging things sometimes.

***

He sat.

In darkness.

Light wasn't really a concern for him any longer. He'd learned to work around the Price the Pact had
required, by virtue of said Pact's other aspects.

It was a little known fact that snakes were deaf. In the traditional sense of having no real 'ears', at
least. They perceived vibration, yes, but actual sound was something of a mystery to them. The hissing of
Parseltongue paid little heed to actual words, more to the vibrations of the voice which were carried by the
speaker's innate magic.

The ability to 'feel' footfalls, motion, the vibration of the very air itself as it carried 'sounds'. One
could perceive their surroundings with these, in some cases better than one could with sight alone.

And then there was the Third Eye. Or whatever you might call that organ which let serpents perceive heat.

These innate abilities, among others, seemed to have been shared through the Pact somehow, even as the
Basilisk had gained eyes that, while lacking its trademark dread gaze, let it see the world as the
/hairlessss apesss /did.

It was, to both of them, something of an experience, each witnessing what the world looked like from another
being's point of view.

The room was comfortably warm, though the boy was faintly aware of the fact that he would have considered it
a tad too warm a few months ago.

He was reading, fingers skimming paper as he took in the minute differences in texture that marked letters.

/Engrosssing, little ssserpent?/

That this surprised him marked just how deeply he'd been studying the text.

"Sssomewhat," he admitted, sheepishly. "How wasss the hunting?"

/Thisss disssgustingly wet and cold white sssubstance sssemed intent on getting in my way. I fail to sssee
the reassson for your ssspieciesss' fassscination with it, little ssserpent. Once the novelty hasss worn
off, it isss little more than bothersssome detritusss./

"Sssorry," the boy sighed. "If it weren't for me, you could sssimply sssleep through thisss ..."

/Ssstill, it isss an interesssting dissstraction./ The King of Serpents grudgingly conceded. /Do not let it
burden you, little ssserpent. You provided usss with a warm lair for thisss occasssion. And, in any cassse,
I welcome thisss break in the monotony of exissstence./

The boy frowned at this.

/Ssso, what wasss it that had you ssso deeply in itsss clutchesss?/

"A ... triviality," was the response. "A sssection of the tome isss filled with ssscrying ssspellsss ... I
wasss attempting to find a ... replacement."

He made a gesture towards the uniformly white orbs of his eyes.

/No luck, little ssserpent?/

"It isss asss if I literally cannot sssee in that manner anymore, other than through your eyesss," the boy
replied sadly. "They don't work for me."

/Do not let it dissscourage you. There isss far more to the weave of magicksss that entanglesss usss all
than wizardsss have dissscovered. Until you dissscover one, you have the ussse of mine./

"Whenever you feel like it granting the privilege," there was a smirk slowly creeping onto his face.

/Isss that arrogance I feel, little ssserpent?/

"I sssuppossse. You're rubbing off on me, I think."

***

At first, he didn't know what it was that had awakened him. Merely that it had been unexpected enough to
have him instinctively roll from the bed, hand closed around the holly length of his wand, senses stretching
out as far as he could manage and perceiving ... nothing.

Or rather, those that were of the more mundane persuasion, though there were hardly any that he'd call
'normal' these days.

Then he noticed it.

A prickling sensation on top of his skin, as if an nonexistent wind was running across it.

For some reason it put him on edge, and for the life of him he couldn't tell why ...

/Little ssserpent, /his Pact Partner's voice came directly into his mind, and he knew the Basilisk was not
in its preferred resting place - the cottage's small boiler room - even as it made contact and he reached to
share what it was seeing. /They come! It hasss been a while, but I can sssenssse them ssstill! It isss
unmistakable!/

"Lesss obfussscation, more information, pleassse," he mumbled. It was not necessary, since he could just as
easily 'think' the words and the Basilisk would hear them as if he were standing next to it. From the
'tone' it had used, there was considerable unease involved, and there were few things that he knew could
take the King of Serpents aback.

He was halfway into his clothes by the time the reply came. Along with an image of just what the serpent was seeing.

The light dusting of snow on the ground. The moonlight falling on that.

A struggling figure rushing over the meadow, in roughly the direction of the town.

And following it, the clear source of the Basilisk's disquiet. So clear that it set the hairs on the nape of his neck on end.

Cloaked in shifting darkness woven into hooded robes, floating above the white cover at a pace that seemed leisurely but ate up ground rapidly enough ...

It wasn't his knowledge that he drew upon to recognize these dread creatures, but that made their idenity and presence no less true.

His Pact Partner merely confirmed it.

/Dementorsss./

***
END
ANv2: yes, this is the ending. I know it's abrubt. I wanted to keep this from snowballing, and leave an
open ending. No, I don't know whether or not I'll be writing any follow ups. A definite 'maybe' is all I can say about that. Here's hoping I managed to entertain you a bit, Dear Reader. 'Till next time, if there is a next time.
-Griever
I don't set myself any deadlines. Why? Simple. I can never keep them.
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When tact is required, use brute force. When force is required, use greater force.
When the greatest force is required, use your head. Surprise is everything. - The Book of Cataclysm