“As the hours pass and the ashes fall, the storm fades and leaves you now, what remains- an ever mess, that life is gone, forever more.”
A figure drowned in shades of gray pressed forward in the midst of a black abyss, their coat tails streaming behind them with each and every step, darkness pressing outward from within and advancing their state. In the light their figure would illuminate a brilliant white, utterly spotless, with only the blackness engulfing their form present- short their face. Half of their face was visible, the hood and shadow cast by their cloak of gray shrouding the top portion above the nostrils. Only a partial scowl visible protruding on pale skin, a lip curled down protruding an air of disgust in the form of their frown.
Their steps echoed, metallic with each clunk, echoing off of iron walls. A glimmer of brown hair, or perhaps a very dark dirty blond, swaying around and over their cheeks. Lights up above continued to flicker, old and rusted warehouse overhang lights. Bulbs cracked, some dimmer than dim and even a little reddish. It was a hallway they prowled forward through, gliding like a serpent through the corridor in light and dark.
As the figure rounded a turn the fabric of their cloak flapped, a gloved hand raising up and wielding a mask. A mask, blank in expression, and overall relatively dull. The only features of true note- a black and white star upon the forehead, surrounded in a red and magenta painted flame. And then the scar over the right eye, diagonal right across, carved into the mask rather than being painted like the flame.
The mask was placed to their face, the hood pushed back ever so revealing their masked face entirely now. The hair, shown again in the light, now silvery white- a lone sapphire blue right eye somewhat aglow beneath that mask and very much visible. And as the lights went out yet again their form would be mostly obscured, short of part of their wardrobe, and the entirety of that mask which remained visible even in the darkness itself.
The end of the hall neared, evident by the creaking of metal and a door opening, shining a dim light upon the now-masked entity. Their steps changed, no longer thudding echoes, instead clanking as they stepped out upon a catwalk one and then two. The hatch open and to their right. Around them, several identical individuals of white hair, blue eyes the same as the figure’s right, though all of them were cloaked in black robes with red stars etched upon the shoulders, chest, and back.
Rain pounded the metal sheet roof of the outside, cascading echoes sent in. This figure themself bore a white cloak, patterned with a different symbol entirely- almost appearing to be an eye with tendrils. Their head tilted forward and their gaze moved outwards, off of the catwalk. The entire surrounding room was nothing more than a rusted worn down factory. Equipment in disrepair lay all around, broken glass scattered across the floor, ceiling panels dead upon the ground; though that is not what this figure was taking in.
Down on the factory floor before them were several more in black. Unlike the multiple lookalikes standing with the masked figure, those on the floor were all somewhat custom. One man, dressed as a gentleman with a cloak draped around their shoulders, appearing rather elderly with long gray hair. Another, a woman of blood red hair, dressed in a skintight black jumpsuit with a shortcut black jacket over top and black shorts, the former of which held red stars over each of her shoulders. And then in the middle a man in a black long coat decked with silver fur wherever the fabric ended, patterned with the dark red stars.
The last man with a lone left amber-colored eye, stared up at the masked figure. This man’s expression was particularly sour, scowling- his wavy brown hair covering one eye and casting shadow over the other. Behind them, several dozen SWAT-dressed people in nothing but black, the same red star patterned across their chests front and center. The masked figure’s eye narrowed into a fine almost-glaring glare. Water dripped through the broken roof above, streams of it dripping down and pooling as puddles on the factory floor.
“Leon,” they spoke, a relatively hoarse and distorted, deep-pitched masculine voice, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You know damn well what this is about Cylux- your little alliance with that bastard Arkaza. When did you think it appropriate to tell us, eh?!” Leon spat, his tone full of rage.
“Ah, so you’ve come all of this way just to discuss that,” the masked figure replied.
“Heh, ‘discuss’ he says, yeah we can go with that,” the woman chuckled to herself.
Leon then stepped forward, his right arm shot out, pointer finger pointing straight at Cylux, the look of total and excessive rage looming, “Your use of Arkaza, and the very essence of what you did with Azala, it is sickening. The Hive will no longer require your services as a result of your actions… and… because we can not allow for a loose end to continue lingering, we’re here to ensure that no threats befall us in the near future.”
“Hoh?” Cylux replied, unmoved, “So you’ve come all this way just to kill me? So I see; though I would very much implore you to reconsider your position here, Leon Sycamore. Do not forget that this is not your playing field, you’ve entered the unknown that is my dwelling.”
At once, all eight of the lookalikes stepped forward, their hair covering their eyes as they stopped at the edge of the catwalk, overlooking the Dharkanians below. The SWATs backed up a touch while the woman and the older man stepped forward, side by side with their leader, the leader of whom was now scanning the lookalikes- “Art of Dancing Shadows eh?”
“Considering your aim moving forward… anything you seek to accomplish here will not be without cost. Are you in a position to proceed with such risk that may compromise your grand plan? I would reconsider this one, old friend.”
“Nrrgh… Cortez, Tori, with me. Our combined might will be more than enough. Look alive!”
Without another word, all three shot high into the air, all with single leaps, all jetting ahead, all aimed right at the bodies and Cylux. And as they closed in the eight did not waiver, nor did Cylux, whose head simply lowered, their narrowed gaze turned into a glare. At once all of the lookalikes dropped low, their right hands touching the walk- and then BAM, out they flew, leaving the masked figure behind who simply gazed out. The three and the eight, launching for one another, not another word spoken in that moment short of the thoughts racing in their heads.
“Conflict in life is inevitable. The fire is fanned by our interactions with the world. From the flames we rise anew. We are grown by it, shaped by it, guided by it. A world of peace will never be an option- for if it were, we as humans would no longer evolve as people. Though when a fire grows out of control and ravages the lands, it falls to the cosmos or individuals to fight back those flames before they consume everything. With the fates holding out, it leaves only the latter, and for someone to move forward to answer the call.”
