Crossroads - RP

"Captain, can you see it?"The agitated assassin questioned, his words imbued with the subtle sound of fear slipping through the gaps of his normally resolute personality, and then, the captain responded with his contrasting tone of voice, calm and stern, fearless, yet weary all at once. "Aye, I can see it."He flatly responded, stuffing away his wooden telescope with a nonchalant care, at least, outwards, in his heart, the cardinal assassin knew trouble was quickly approaching. Too fast, in fact."Ready the crew, we're in for a tough ride today lads, and I don't see-" Crash!Came a gigantic wave, sending the Esoteric Assassin flying to the ground with a great huff, the sound of the erratic sea and crying men somehow echoed through the roofless vessel as Peak clawed his way back onto his feet and clambered to the helm of the ship, grasping it’s familiar wooden handles with a little sigh.

Looking into the sky, his wise eyes widened in genuine shock, the pacific glow of the shimmering sky had been swallowed up by a cancerous darkness which suffocated the light as though the heavenly sun had been extinguished and in its place, the jet-black sky tormented all, a void of nothingness, the only visual stimulation was the sporadic flashes of shaky thunder rocketing through the bleak sky with their indefinable roars, as though Zeus himself was trying to penetrate the darkness. But it failed. No God’s could help this day, the universe had already deemed the crews fate the moment the wild storm had appeared. But this was no storm, not in the typical sense, this was a cosmic vacuum, a time rift, others would say. Tempest had studied them, but never seen one first hand. Until now, that was.

Time slowed down. Droplets of water slowly slid through the air as though they were suspended in a perpetual state of beauty. Peak’s rough hands rotated the wooden wheel through sheer instinct, rather than to direct, the thunder radiated through the sky in slow-motion, fierce, terrifying, the sound rippled through the air as time began to slowly speed up once more. But something was wrong; very wrong. “Brace!” Roared the captain, knowing the single word was all he could muster…

And then he vanished.

It was a seemingly perfect day on the ocean, a day treasured by all pirates as much as they treasured an aged rum. As Valken hung from the side of the rigging with perfected ease which had not come so easily to the other assassins, he reminisced of his time sailing on the Caribbean. It was a time when the world was believed to be flat, a time when not a soul would ever believe the nature of the deadly men whom rode on this mystical vessel.

It was a simpler time, where most things made sense; what didn't make sense, didn't matter. But now, the Hallowed Pirate could sail through time, witnessing events both past and future; some events insignificant, others world changing in magnitude - but all had shaped the world into what it was. Valken was a sailor, a pirate, a man who naturally longed for adventure as much as he called the sea his home. Now, with these new travelling assassins, the greatest adventure was at his finger tips.

Suddenly, the Dutch Buccaneer was awakened from his day dreaming slumber. Startled by the sudden shift of the boats course against the now rough waves, he shook his head and blinked his eyes. The ocean had gained an imminent darkness, the sky had a brooding look about it. His superhuman nose could smell the difference in the air; a strong rain was lingering. His ears detected the shift in air pressure; winds and temperature change were upon them.

A storm was coming, a storm unlike anything ever encountered by the Bullshark. It came with the intensity and power of a kraken; the waves became violent. Valken lept down from his post on to the deck of the ship, and glanced quickly towards their Captain and leader. He shouted from the helm, "Brace!" As the last sound of the word left his lips, Peak vanished into thin air. Teleporting distances and through time was a normal thing for the crew of the ship, but Valken felt something very different was at work.

The Dutch Buccaneer attempted to muster a word to warn the rest of the remaining crew, but was quickly cut off before the first whole letter could be said. It sounded more like that of a cut off scream; a scream covered by forceful hand.

Now Valken had vanished along with the Captain.

A storm was raging inside the spiritual assassin as he meditated alone upon the deck. He sat cross legged, attempting to commune with his people's spirits. But alas, Akando could no longer hear their voices. Since becoming a Wanderer he had essentially cast himself off from his people's traditions, laws, and inadvertently severed that link that allowed him the ability to tap into the spiritual planes. No longer would the spirits show him glimpses of what was to come.

Akando's eyes opened as he stood to his feet. The once bright, serene light that had illuminated the sky had dissipated. In it's wake, the cover of darkness had devoured all but the sea. The winds held the promise of a storm. "Our first storm." Akando spoke aloud, though no one was listening. Every man and woman aboard the ship were running to their stations. Preparing for what was to come. Akando stood out in the open. His dark, proud eyes fixated on the ever encroaching darkness that moved with an unnatural speed.

In that moment when the storm had swallowed the ship, everything died. The wind stopped blowing, the waves stopped crashing against the hull of the the ship. Akando reached his hand out to touch the droplets of rain that were momentarily suspended in the air. Everything was still, silent. And then it happened. "Brace!" Bellowed the Wanderer's captain, Peak. He stood atop the helm, shouting his last command before the entity that hid within this storm dispersed his form.

Akando stood his ground as the unnatural storm swept up several other comrades that braced for impact. Akando shouted in his native language, "I will face this storm. I will allow it to pass over me, and through me. And when it has passed I shall remain!"

The Mohawk did not remain. Like the captain and fellow crew members before him, Akando was gone.

While the storm raged on the Voyager, the mind of one of its inhabitants was elsewhere... Years in the future, and yet so far in the past, the time travelling cyborg's enhancements granted him a highly accurate memory. As his eyes closed, the scene flickered across his eyelids like a film projected onto a wall. Piece by piece, his mind reconstructed the room. It was dark and cold outside and, in truth, the 'room' bore more similarities to a crate. There was space enough for two people to lay side by side, which just so happened to be the case. Rook settled into the memory, peering through his own eyes as he found his past self being awoken by the woman laying next to him, the woman he knew by the name Runt.

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

"Hey."

"Hello."

"Didn't mean to wake you, but..." the woman's eyes darted towards the assassin's wrist. Rook's eyes followed her gaze and found that she was clutching his arm tightly. Upon closer inspection, he realised that he was holding a dagger against his own throat, with her grip the only thing preventing his subconscious suicide. "Yeah. Given that this is the third time this has happened, I think I'm gonna need you to tell me what's up."

Allowing her to pry the knife out of his hand, the cybernetic soldier stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to recall the nightmare he had been roused from.

"I am a despicable, monstrous creature." He finally replied, his vision still vertical in order to avoid his lover's piercing eyes. "All my life I have waded through the blood of my enemies, blood that was not earned through honourable battle, but cold and brutal murder. The ocean of death I have created was born of innocents, through my butchering of children and those who lovingly created them. Their screams amused me, once. Now they haunt me. I have killed so many of the people I now call friends, I would even have killed you, given the chance. Why should I live when they do not?"

"That's cute."

"Cute?" Rook was surprised by her response and finally met her eyes. They were wet with tears yet to be shed, but a teasing grin was plastered to her face.

"You genuinely think you could kill me. It's adorable, really." Runt laughed, as her grin eased into a reassuring smile. She seized his cold metal hand and placed her lips up against it. "You can't change what happened, babe. But you know what? You're not that guy anymore. So when you hear those screams, don't blame yourself. Blame the other guy, the old one. Blame the beast that died when Rook was born."

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

In the present, Rook's reminiscing was interrupted as he was thrown from his bed by the lurching vessel. Flung across the room by the force of the waves outside, his back crashed against the literature-lined wall and a cascade of books promptly smothered the cyborg.

Emerging from his tome tomb, the assassin sprung to his feet and hurled himself out of his quarters. Charging through the corridors with inhuman speed, he burst out onto the deck to see that the sky had entirely fallen away. This was no ordinary storm.

Crewmen were running about in a panic, at a loss for hope to cope with this particular kind of weather. With the heavens gaping above, it almost seemed as if the vessel were in danger of falling off the Earth entirely. Tempest stood at the helm, steering them through the tempest, before with a shout of warning to brace themselves, the captain disappeared.

Then, before he had time to really question this phenomenon, Rook was washed away too.

Adhering to his self-interested persona and generally carefree disposition regarding that which transpired in his external encompassment, Santiago remained physically isolated from his peers, immersed in the undisturbed solace provided by his lavish quarters' walls. Flippantly leaning his back against his red-velvet covered chair and kicking both feet up the wooden surface of a table with hubristic flair, the Black Viper taciturnly relieves his own personal boredom by jotting down his most intimate thoughts on a mini-notebook occassionally used to formulate basic concepts for armor and firearm models. 'Up to this point, I have only met two of my Brotherhood collaborators. The little nina, Cat Savage. And Tempest, our.. heh, leader', he writes, 'I have yet to meet the others. If we do not meet, how are they to know how dangerously sexy I am?', an audibly amused, relaxed laugh escapes him.

'It has been a day since I shifted my consciousness' quantum information from the confines of my mind to space-time geometry. Twas intriguing to foresee the warning signs of the coming cosmic storm. I have never experienced one. As a scientist, and a lover of danger, I await it's arrival with relative excitement', Santiago pauses, subtly shaking his head at the jocoseness of his present endeavor, his smile of haughty self-amusement shifting into a more mildly expressive one of sincere warmth, thoughts of his seven year old daughter coming to mind. 'Mentally, she is developing rapidly', he jots down, 'Her telepathy grows stronger with each passing day. As does her wit and ambition. She named our adopted Caucasian Ovcharka, Buddha. A name that I did not contest, it was my childhood Labrador's name'. Diverting his attention away from the notebook, the Spaniard quietly rises to his feet in anticipation of the coming storm.

Setting the notebook atop his dresser, he casts a succinct glance towards his stylized spear, Venenoso, and recalls it's most recent victim, Emperor Decimus. An individual whose morally questionable efforts he has vowed to reward with the gift of death. In his momentary distraction, Santiago failed to notice the temporal vacuum's elusive ingress. It arrived not with meteoric abruptness, but with smooth transition. He could feel himself being subjected to fundamental temporal forces, his movements growing more lethargic by the minute, as if the universe sought to suspend his very position in the encompassing air, his right hand slowing to a delicate pause as fingertips brushed lightly against the cold metal of the bronze-colored doorknob.

Through his Quantum Mind's activities in space-time geometry, he had predicted, foreseen the arriving temporal storm. And while it afforded him the preparatory faculties to appropriately brace himself, psychologically, for the coming event, he unfortunately, could not unravel what would come with the storm, he knew not what it brought, or rather where it would send him, as well as his colleagues. It took but a terse passing, and he was no more, gone with the storm as dictated by time itself.

Nightmares in the form of terrorized flashbacks sprung through the mind of Catriona Sheridan-Knightfall as she restlessly tossed and turned in her room. The living quarters had been decorated with a sparse yet luxurious hand, retaining taste factors from both of the lives that the savage savant had lived.

“Mom, mom, please!” The naturally raspy voice of the thirteen year-old screamed out into the wind, the torrential rain slicking blood red hair to her face. It was the first time that mother and daughter had set sight on one another since Mercy and Andres had been corrupted by the Third Society, their sole drive now to bring in their daughter - the perfect catalyst for perfection of Aphasic’s techniques via her unique quantum biology.

Clad in the white of the Sanguine, now an abomination to the name, Mercy continued forward as Andres stalked Quintus, the cohort of the savage savant. “CATRIONA GET OUT!” Quintus bellowed at her as she ran down the street of Paris, looking for an opportunity to get the high ground and counteract her mother.

Risking a glance over her shoulder, the teenager nearly lost her footing, the bottom of her boot slipping against the cobblestone street of the abandoned city. It had been one of the last holdouts. Paris, New Orleans, Barcelona. Tokyo had fallen first, New York second, and from there it had been a domino effect as world government was compromised.

Cat ran face-first into a wall, her mothers telekinesis preventing her from navigating around, holding her in position. Moved against her will via the invisible force, Cat was back-up against the wall, her mother slowly coming closer and closer as Quintus continued to lead Andres on a merry chase.

“Mom…” Her lips trembled as tears mixed with rain drops coursing down her cheeks. “Je t’aime, mama.” Words that had been whispered a thousand times as a child, something, anything to break her out of it.

Pain wracked her chest, an unfamiliar aching heat spreading over her heart, almost incapacitating her. It was, she presumed, what it felt to have your heart break to pieces. “You’ll come see them now.” Them. Aphasic and Zedora. The Third Society. They could all go fck themselves. There was no emotion in her voice as she spoke, no recognition in Mercy’s purple eyes as they met those of her daughter. Nothing at all of the wife and loving mother that she had once been. Nothing left but a shell.

She allowed Mercy to get within touching distance of her, lying to herself and saying all the while that it was for a tactical advantage, when none of her powers required touch. In truth, it was a moment of weakness, one that she was not yet strong enough to push under.

At the last moment, Catriona placed her hands on either side of her mothers head and focused a massive amount of her power into them, overloading both the biological and synthetic functions of the assassin, shutting down the telekinesis and putting her out of commission for at least a short duration of time. “I’m so sorry.” Tears continued to fall down her face, the last of her worries at this moment in time.

Catriona bolted, knowing that sooner or later, Quintus would find his way to her, the partners in crime having established a seamless rapport with one another.

The moment that she was safe, hidden within the confines of one of their numerous safehouses, she crumbled. Back against the wall, she slid to the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest and allowing the wracking sobs their free reign.

------

The sobs echoed in her sleep as the soft cotton of the sheets slid across her body, the storm outside pelting away at the exterior of the ship.

They were quelled forthwith as mystically hued eyes shot open. In her waking moments the woman known as Cat Savage was nothing less than put together perfection. There were no chips in her armor, no apparent weaknesses, nothing aside from the image that she chose to cultivate and portray to those in her company.

Taking the opportunity to get dressed in the midst of the frenzied chaos, Cat took a moment to reflect on her thoughts before shoving down the fleeting memories, just as she shoved down everything else. Stoic perfection, now and always.

A sudden tip of the ship threw her against the wall. Energy sparked in the air, energy that she was tangentially familiar with, energy that she had spent not near enough time and energy studying.

Sighing wistfully, the petite assassin braced, tensing her muscles and closing her eyes, only to open them in an entirely different location.

Suffocated by the ruthless light of the sune and inexorable heat, Hamza opened his eyes. He found himself alone on an endless ocean of sand. From far afar he was seeing a tiny glimps of a ship which he was thinking it to be The voyager. Without a second thought he started running towards the ship and as he ran the ship went further making the tiny glmipse tiinier. A few minutes past in this endless loop of a chase. Finally he felt tired and got slower, slower and stopped to catch his breath and to think. He felt thirsty. No he thought he felt thirsty there was no real feelings to be felt.

He was hearing meaningless voices. Some familiar, some not. He thought he heard Peak but there were no one around this endless dome of sand. Suddenly the sun dissappered turning the desert like place into a void of darkness. ''Remember me? If you had another chance, would you do it?'' Spoke a familiar voice that he would die for a chance to finally forget. With the tremendous sound of a metal cutting through meat, an immense pain stroke his waist. Hamza couldn't move as bloods started spilling like a waterfall from his mouth. ''Given a chance?'' Hamza saw the unfergettable eyes on an unrecognizably dark silhouette as he fell to seemingly his demise.

''A chance?'' Hamza jumped out, yelling. He couldn't tell where he was before realizing he was passed out on a corner of the voyager. The sudden movements of the voyager took Hamza real close to vomit as he was not a sailor for a long period of time to be ready for this circumstance. The ship was mercilessly shaking as Hamza tried so hord to walk without falling. Passing by the cabins he got to the deck to stand face to face with the fierce storm raging with all it's might. He could feel the the ripples on time flow with every wave of the storm. He pulled out his self made clock. The hands of the clock span around dials giving a chaotic secene.

'Does this storm thing has to do with the vision from a few seconds back?'' A really familiar voice spoke behind him but Hamza didn't look at owner of the voice. ''Meh! The place is allready messy, brother. No need to complicate things even more with stupid... Visions. Best thing to do is drinking around a corner and praying to Allah for it to pass by.'' Another familiar voice replied. Hamza turned back to face the other two Hamzas that were taking behind him. ''You don't even believe Allah's existence, brother.'' Hamza took the glass from his otherself's hand.

A single glimpse was enough for him to deduce that the storm had effected his powers and made him to coexist with his otherselves from different times. Such as, one Hamza was him from the second he woke up as the other one must have been at least a few minutes further from now to get a drink. ''Time ripples?'' He asked his otherselves. ''What else?'' they replied. As they were talking another Hamza passed them by running as well as screaming and jump off from the ship. Before he could fall, he dissappeared and as Hamza turned his back the other two were absent as well. ''Here it comes. To the eternity, friends!'' Hamza yelled and swallowed all the drink with one shot and threw the glass to the ground and He vanished from that time and space even before the glass could hit the ground.

I once again find myself standing upon a city now gone, a week has past, since the cosmic storm...Or maybe a minute, for some of my brothers, time is a peculiar thing. From the stern deck of our vessel to the course feel of the harsh desert sands. The dry air of this world is one I thought I'd never taste again. The air tastes of what is to come, of the guilt which is destined to befall me once more and the secret crossroad which shaped my life. The crossroads which led me to the Brotherhood, and my darling Coven. I know not of the reason for the universe's decision to make me relive this point of my life. Is it because I am, once again, unsure of my purpose? Or is it for another reason? To test my faith in the Brotherhood, to test if my loyalty lies, or maybe...Something else, another chance, what if I could start again? Where would the other path lead? For now...I have more questions than answers. This is why I have come once more. To find clarity. To find the wisdom midst this uncertainty. Will I succeed? Who knows. Will I live? It doesn't matter, my life is merely one song of a million, and nobody will weep if it ends too soon.

The Voyager rocked gloriously from side to side as the self-proclaimed and fabled 'wanderers' transversed the deep ocean. Team progression had been key in the past few days, and the brotherhood were now better acquainted with each other than they had ever been before. Being part of a collective had never been in any of Prodigy's intentions before Peak had approached him, but now it couldn't be any better. After his family's death at the hands of the corrupt elite of Firenze, Italy, in the late fifteenth century, Leon had embarked on a dark and vengeful quest, to wipe out the corrupt who took his family from him, and to avenge his family in the process. But that quest was lonely, and at its conclusion, there was no sense of accomplishment, his family was dead, and he couldn't change that. Instead, there was Peak at the end of the tunnel.

His own unconscious recollection of the past events was suddenly interrupted by an oncoming storm, the clouds knitting together to form a darkness which threatened to consume them, a terrifying sight which Leon trusted their captain to navigate. Too suddenly however, as if hit by a breeze of light wind, time slowed down before his very eyes. A beautiful and esoteric sight, his eyes moved slowly, studying the droplets of water seemingly suspended before his eyes, the reactions of his teammates like something out of an action movie, his own instinctive reaction was to raise his hands out in front of him, to shield him from the invisible forces at work, but they rose slowly, eventually stopping completely in front of his hand as he was torn from this very space and time.

I feel starved. My tongue feels parched. But I feel fully rested. What happened, is the storm past? But as I turn to absorb my surroundings, I find myself on the other end of the tunnel, a tunnel which has taken me to Firenze, my birthplace, but this is not the Firenze I know today. No, this is the Firenze of yesterday. The Firenze thrown in the middle of civil conflict, the Firenze of the Medici, which ruled Firenze with an iron fist. Needless to say, I was not nostalgic. I could have visited Renaissance Firenze at any time with 'The Wanderers', but there is a reason I choose not to. The pain, and the memories of joy I shared in this place, I had purposely tried to suppress, to forget. Eventually, the place and the pain become one, the feelings too closely associated with the city, that I cannot separate them both. Intense emotions are contagious like that. and Renaissance Firenze brings many of them.

I'm a girl of the present day, always have been. I've never been one to live in the past, why would I when I can visit it? I've never held regrets the sum of my actions is the alluring transcendence of expectations I look upon in the mirror. However being human I do hold some curiosity in regard to a particular event. If given a chance to freely do it, would I? Could I? All the facets that could change, but could I compromise the now to do so?

In my gut I know that these thoughts are manifesting for a reason. Something is soon to come of a temporal anomaly. It's not my first, I was young then a witch still learning her way and trying to find herself. I remember rewriting that death out of greed, I couldn't lose her. Deidra Obarin my best friend in the early days of my first career, she even was prettier then I when we began. She'd gotten to close to a mark however and died. She was the birth of my beginnings in the Brotherhood. I began the study of temporal magic, a year after Deidra's death I'd tracked down one of these rare encounters at the time it was a grail. A potion that allowed me to instead of gain life revisit my past. Forcing it's tempest of time to favor my own will.

Resting on the mainmast my eyes gaze out to the sea as it begins to churn wild. The sky darkens in artificial night thick angry clouds block out the sun. Droplets of azure tears descend from the heavens cascading my figure. Thunder roars like a wild lion as a bolt of luminous light pierces the ocean. I can feel time starting to slow and the mind wanders. For an assassin over a thousand years old one might ponder why I'm just a crewmember on a boat? If not one should I mean come on I could of been sorceress supreme by now.

Violet eyes close as I let my self fall from the highest peak of the Voyager.

When violet eyes open I'm looking at the busy people in the buildings of Las Vegas of a time only a year ago. Beside me is Desmond Obarin, one of the Esoteric Six, the man I helped raise. I've been his right hand, his handmaiden, his most valued operative and friend for two hundred years. This step back in time is virtually like minutes to my elongated existence but an integral point in how I got to the Wanderers.

The encompassing darkness began to be viciously pushed away by the blinding light as Valken opened his eyes - squinting as the sun was in his direct field of view. He could feel the fine sand as he clenched his fists; it was scorching hot from the sun hovering above him, and the humidity in the air was almost unbearable. He could hear the waves crashing lightly against the sand behind him, the scent of its salt was familiar. However, that was not the only scent which was familiar. This place had a lingering smell that was distinct; the Hallowed Pirate knew this place, but it how was it possible that he was here?

As his eyes finally adjusted to the brightness, he lifted himself up from the prone position, brushing the gritty, fine sand from his clothes. He turned to observe the ocean behind him. The shallow water was clear, and progressively became a bright, vibrant blue as it's unlimited length extending out towards the horizon. But it was not the attractive weather and scenery of this place which was interesting to Valken, but the Spanish Galleon sitting anchored out in the deep water. The Dutch Buccaneers heart-rate began to steadily increase, "There's no way I'm reliving this...it's...it's...impossible."

From further observation with the Bullshark's keen vision, he could see that nobody remained on the deck of the Spanish ship...they were already on the island.

"Captain Niklaas Jager, we have been looking for you for quite some time." Valken quickly spun around in response to the thick Spanish accent that brutishly attempted to sound out the sentence in English. But what had surprised him even more, was the name spoken. It was a name he had not heard in centuries, it was unfamiliar, and nearly forgotten, but yet it belonged to him - it had been lost through the passing of time and the path which he had chosen. The group of Spanish sailors were just ahead of Valken as they had just appeared from within the thick, tropical vegetation.

Their swords were drawn and their overly aggressive expressions displayed their intentions as they continued at a cautionary pace towards the Dutch Buccaneer. Instinctively, Valken began to allow large bone spikes to slide out from the underside of his wrists. Their appearance was bone-like, but darker and almost drill looking as spirals went down their entire length. He sighed heavily, "I need some rum."

As he does with any phenomena that promotes a sense of danger, Santiago approached this inevitable, temporal peregrination with his characteristic disposition of apparent arrogance. And while being carried along space-time geometry by the cosmic winds of the temporal storm, he reflected on the public perception of his polarizing persona. 'Tis always been entertaining when they call me arrogant, cocky or brash. I am actually just self-assured. Perhaps because when faced with danger and problems, I'm a bit imperturbable, nonchalant, flippant even. But I just can't be bothered to get hot under the collar. All of these global threats, the so called villains, the morally ambiguous criminals, the technologically advanced emperors with messiah complexes'.

'They are ninos. They are... jokes. I taunt, dismiss, and otherwise enjoy myself taking jabs at them for the same reason that a stand-up comic takes subtle pauses or chomps on his cigar. It saves me from rushing from the last joke to the next one'. And so, as dictated by the sands of time, Santiago, the Black Viper was carried off, taken to the enjoy the next joke. His ingress while abrupt, was not meteoric. The blackness yielded to the quiet formation of a rift, and from it the Spaniard's body emerged, cerulean eyes taking in the encompassing architectural aestheticism of Constantinople, the then capital of the historically revered Ottoman Empire. "Dios mios..", Santiago's words bore no sentiment of wonderment, instead they were laced with a character of sincere shock, and to an extent, excitement. This shock was founded not in his physical transposition to the year 1530 in Constantinople, but to the realization that he is to relive one of the most defining moments of his life.

With the knowledge of what was to occur, the Black Viper executed a sharp turn to his left, his predatory, enrapturing eyes quickly meeting those of the woman responsible for cultivating his spear-fighting style, and his penchant for poisoning his blades. Beyhan Satar. Tall, regally garbed, elegant in her steps, and magnetic in her posture. Likewise, her unique, auroral-golden eyes met his. And like his, they conveyed a character of an apex predator, the edge of hypnotic danger that was an inherent feature of his own gaze. And as she turned towards him, her footsteps motivated by a curiosity in his unique sartorial adornment, certain that he was no native citizen of Constantinople, Santiago wondered. Would he be forced to bring her the gift of death once again?

The Obarin name has been in the Esoterix for millenniums well had been up until a year ago. One of the longest lasting members was Deidra the very girl I reversed time for. That's when the Brotherhood grew intrigued in my exquisite persona. Normally someone could not be permitted to have tinkered with time, but I was pardoned for my actions. See the Obarin name has very few survivors never been more then two or three in existence at a given time. Deidra had only one relative at the time. A Saxon 'barbarian' by name of Alezra Azura Obarin. Alezra was the embodiment of everything opposite of the order. Rash and brutal they couldn't take her into the Six but methodology from eons of consistency suggested that she should be. And Alezra wasn't going to object the position. I'd spared the Six a tie to a psychopath and sparred a beautiful friend of theirs in the process. This positioned me in the eyes of Lady Obarin a position that would rise over the years. By the time I'd joined Obarin had guided me into already being a star in our art. By my third year in the Brotherhood my missions were primarily being given by Obarin. And three centuries in I was Obarin's right hand.

Then came Desmond. Like his mother he exhibited an ongoing growth in combat. But we could see some of his techniques were not hailing from Deidra and the ancestors. Alezra had to still be alive, those moves were to savage. See the Obarin name carries a unique genetic mutation series. With it is the adaptive ongoing cerebral database. It remembers all the skills of past Obarin and takes in ongoing memories and growing skills as well. Because of this Deidra and I watched as Desmond grew. A tint of beastly ferocity manufacturing into the heirs veins. We'd done well however in keeping it at bay. And eventually Desmond became the third of the Esoterix Six.

Today called for his exceptional talents, a rare day that had required one of the elite to be present. Our target was who we believed was a man out to end any probability in mutation and magic. Genuinely believing that the evolutionary breakthrough starting was the down fall of society on a whole. An irrevocable collapse of social structure was perceived as guaranteed by the man's perspective. Thus he had to be stopped, two of the best were to sever the thin wire the genocidal anarchist walked along.

Falling from the grand bight Desmond's body collapses in on itself transforming into that of a falcon. As I fall I cast a spell of similar transformation. I say similar as naturally I had to be a prettier looking falcon, what can I say I like to look good. Auburn and onyx feathers float to the pool over a hundred feet below. Talons set on the railing with a faint click as my violet eyes look to the room before me and my superior, superior officer that is.

"Yes the machine is under construction." A pause "no Stark industries and all others taken from be it big or small is oblivious." Another pause "yes sir we'll transfer the device over soon. Your threats are noted we won't delay." I take flight to the floor above, knowing full well that Desmond will have a plan.

"He's roughly thirty years old standing at seven feet tall weighing four hundred pounds. No idea of his abilities but he carries the presence of someone well trained. He'll have four guards. Follow him extract all the information you can." The third caries a unique ability called Mastercraft, I helped a girl once with such a power. Unlike her however Desmond had an easier time learning people then inanimate objects. The counter weight being a psychic triggered headache usually. This was why the Third needed me for this, I was as reliable as he without the risks of power hinderance. Besides Desmond had mentioned that this unknown target knew him. I can't let my superior walk into a trap.

For a while, Rook was adrift in the oceans of time, until finally his anchor snagged on something.

It was as if a fisherman's hook had snared his cheek, as he felt the force of it dragging him out of the waters.

At last, he washed up on the shores of a distant memory.

The skyline was difficult to see through the thick smog that filled the city to the brim. The fumes were neither dirty nor toxic, in fact they produced a rather uplifting aroma. It was a pheromone added to the exhaust of each vehicle, so that as they sped through the streets they distributed the sweet scent. For those who lived there, it was a tase acquired long ago. Visitors, however, found it overpowering, almost sickly. Like the stench created by an overuse of air freshener, the city was too clean, too polished. Automated cleaning vehicles patrolled the pavements, scrubbing the sidewalk with disinfectant in order to ensure the city maintained its high standards. Likewise, the Police followed suit and scrubbed away the muck, though they were more concerned with the human muck.

Falling into his past self, the Cybernetic Soldier almost retched as the vapours of New Austin stung his nostrils. Too far removed from the city of his birth, he found the smell just as repellent as any other tourist. His visceral reaction confirmed the cyborg's suspicions, that he was not merely accessing a memory, but had actually been transported back in time. He had jumped through time on several occasions with the Wanderers, but this was different. Watching as the police approached a homeless man, resting up against a building as he dozed in the Texas sunlight, Rook felt that it was all very familiar. As the scene continued to play out, he watched one of the officers swing a baton and strike the man's knee, producing a cry of pain from the hobo as he lurched to his feet.

It was then, as the enforcer who had instigated the altercation jabbed her taser into the innocent's gut, that the assassin suddenly realised where, or rather when, he had been sent to. This was a moment in his history, it was in fact one of his first journeys through time after being recruited into Tempest's band of merry men. He remembered how he had used the technology aboard to Voyager to make a solo trip through the timestream, mere weeks after coming aboard. Choosing to rectify something from his own past, Rook had elected to return to his own time period, to a day more than twenty years before he would decide to leave it.

As the other officers dragged the paralysed beggar away, the woman who had incapacitated him turned her gaze towards Rook. A blinking red light appeared in her visor, as the assassin realised she was scanning him in an attempt to determine his identity. He posed quite an intimidating figure, and it occured to him that he had been staring blankly at the confrontation for some time whilst trying to identify his surroundings. No doubt he was attracting suspicion. It didn't take long for the red flashes to become a constant green, as his identity was confirmed. At this point in the timestream, he was an antibody, a killer employed by the military to eliminate 'runts', those who had been born through natural reproduction. Such people were outlawed and a danger to society and while Rook would eventually defect from his position and join the fight for their rights, that had not occured yet. According to the officer's sensors, he was a military official. Trusting that a soldier wouldn't question her decision to apprehend the hobo, she moved on without a second glance.

Remembering suddenly why he had originally come here, the former antibody's enhanced eyes widened. The first time he had elected to return to this time period, it was to assassinate a character from his past, an assassination he failed to complete before being dragged back to the Voyager. So, why had the universe elected to bring him back to this moment? There were countless decisions he had made that he wished he could take back, so many lives he would spare if given another opportunity. Yet he had been sent back to the one life he regretted not taking, the kill he wished he had been strong enough to go through with. Was this a sign? A chance to do something that should have been done long ago?

Retreating into the shadow of an canopy jutting out of the nearest building, the Premium Professional took shelter from the intense rays of the sun. He was also taking shelter from the intense eyes of a face he knew very well indeed. Folding up his collar to disguise his face, Rook peered through the corner of his eye at the figure crossing the street a few yards away from him. It was difficult to resist the urge to open fire then and there, but he was trained to be more subtle than that. This was a personal matter, no need to risk innocents getting caught in the crossfire. Resolving that, this time, he would go through with the murder, the cyborg stared with one hate filled eye at the face he had grown to despise, the one person he had grown to detest above all others.

It was a face he had studied in the mirror all his life.

It was the face of a monster.

"Time to kill the beast."

Being brought back to this time, inhabiting this body it's insulting nauseating to fathom. I used to be unrivaled in magic, well that's not true perhaps Doom or that angel claiming to be amazing could match what I can do. I still doubt it however. Point is for me a year ago, well technically now, I could make meteorites rain from the heavens like it was an apocalyptic monsoon. A wave of my hand could relocate a mountain. Miracles were as simple as brushing my obsidian hair. In the present day, if I left this timeline hear and now my magic would be a minute fraction of what I can do. My failures made on the night I visit now led to my regulation of capabilities. I failed the brotherhood and they reduced me to a faded silhouette of who I was. And maybe it's wrong, and I can't know what my choices will be revisiting this moon. But I fully intend to indulge in the might I once held.

Onyx feathers float to the black tar as my falcon wings allow me to follow the moving van. Neon lights of Vegas nights strobe by my visage. Slowly they fade in number as we creep deeper into the old and abandoned part of the district. A few crimes can be spotted in the forgotten alley ways I do long to save them. But it's not my responsibility, criminals do deserve their judgment but tonight I stalk the greater danger. That soul who harbors venom for all those with a capacity to do more then what normality permits.

I fall to the top floor of the abandoned garage, I stand right before a guard close enough to hug him, to kill him. But his senses are enchanted to be oblivious to me. As I continue my venture I uncover the other three guards. Three hand signs follow so swift they're barely distinguishable. Three men place guns to their heads below the chin and pull the trigger. Three bullets seek brain matter but emit no sound, three men stand motionless, three men shed no blood. Despite being dead nobody can distinguish that they've died without checking vitals. I know for a fact that the exceedingly high friends of the man in this room will not question the statuesque trio.

I enter the room with a beauty enchanted so extravagantly the drug lord is literal putty in my hands. So blindly enraptured by my visage he'd die a hundred times over for me without a second of thought. He thinks of me as a dancer and I play the part. I'll be here when his more knowledgeable guests show their faces. Desmond and I will have our answers soon.

Beyhan Satar. A name that try as he may, the Black Viper never truly could expel from his memory. Her curiosity had been piqued by his foreign visage. Though his complexion and darkness of hair may be features more commonly distributed in the architecturally grandiose city of Constantinople, his selected attire, an onyx Dolce & Gabbana Martini Suit, and the electrifying azure hue of his enrapturing, mesmeric eyes, were unlike those of any to have graced her gaze. Temporally out of place, if not for the endless collections of scientific, esoteric, and historical knowledge so superlatively compiled in his flawless 'Quantum Mind', Santiago's hopes for conversational exchange and appropriate social interaction would be in vain. Fluent in the language however, he would be free to verbally engage as he saw fit.

There was a crisp, floral fragrance that lingered in the air as she approached, the sounds of her elegant footsteps drowned out the noisy banter and audible background fervor of the encompassing market area. Her mystifying, golden eyes met his charming gaze with enticing benevolence, a mild smile of highborn politeness touched by a subtle element of danger curled as she grew closer, the smell of perfumed air growing stronger as every one of her steps drew her to greater proximity. And for a moment, he recalled the memories from when he first met her during his original temporal peregrination. Though a winsome gentleman, he was at the time unrefined and grew nervous in Beyhan's presence, a woman who fell not at his feet but met his magnetic gaze with an equally powerful one, a woman who challenged him at every turn with her sharp wit and captivating intelligence.

"Your attire is odd, stranger. Even for a foreigner", she remarked with the enchanting allurement of a siren, and the stately eloquence of a noblewoman. "Most people opt for a form attire that conforms to the status quo", Santiago adds with conversational savoir-faire, a smirk of characteristic suavity accompanying a galvanizing quick wink, "I don't want to be most people", he justifies with an insouciant shrug. A whisper of laughter escaped her tall, statuesque frame, "Oh, a mysterious man I see", she commented in partial jest, a winsome smile painting her proud, highborn features, "You're certainly attracting passing stares and glances", her smile grew wider. And even as an expression of amusement bedecked her features, she never lost her exotic, sensuous flair. Though somewhat veiled by a jeweled headdress of beauteous regalia, her hair was long and like silk, not unlike a waterfall of liquid ebony. She had an aristocratic air to her, one that exuded a sense of self-assurance that commanded respect.

And her gaze came with it a seductive yet dangerous character, that of both a goddess and an apex predator. "My presence warrants the attention of others", Santiago quips with charismatic appeal and engrossing magnetism, fully aware of the events to follow. "Perhaps. But not all attention is positive", Beyhan commented, casting a nonchalant glance over her shoulder, catching sight of an approaching squad of guards in pursuit of her arrest. "Come with me, stranger". She did not ask, she simply told as she took hold of his arm and casually waltzed into the congestion of the market crowd, cleverly concealing herself in the masses as she maneuvered past pedestrian after pedestrian. Santiago? He simply played along. He could not redirect the temporal flow, the stream of the event, not yet at least.

It may sound cliche but I once had a tour in Nam. It was an ugly war to say the least the most influential day however was on a simple mortar strike. As the foul stench of burning flesh hit my nose I awoke from my unconscious state the home I'd been in the past month was gone nothing but splinters of wood scattered to the soil. As I admired my recovering wounds I realized my left hand wasn't healing as it dangled by a strand of flesh. Do to it's attachment it was still in fair condition but the gap in marrow left it in need of greater aid. Now usually I can fix this no problem however on this particular day I opted to let the hand grow back. Meanwhile I chose to watch the severed hand in my inquisitive self curiosity, after all I do think myself far more interesting then most other things. In about an hour my hand was rotting flesh and withering bone the odor sickening. In two hours it was just decaying bone it's structure durable as a wet twig. And by the third hour it was but ash clinging to the winds. I had grown so reliant on magic for my survival that severance equated my nearly immediate end. The reason I delve in that memory is to perhaps help articulate this one.

I've been to prisons before but nothing can compare to the unique isolation of a Brotherhood's cell. Prison is never luxurious but usually you've a bed you've company and meals a day that isn't so in the cell for assassins who fail at one of the primary obligations of one of the most dire missions. Usually there is margin for error however some targets are so valuable, so critical that failure is punishable in harsh extremity. Such was my failure that I was sentenced to a year in one of those cells. There is no shared room or moment of exorcise in a yard when in this cell you are only there. And I do mean only there, appearing as it's own pocket dimension there is nothing but the room and you. I once detained a psychic in such a cell, he went irrevocably mad. For he couldn't even escape to the astral plane, it is complete isolation with only your thoughts to entertain you but thoughts are so hard to hold in these cells. I don't know how but something about those domains naturally torment your very thought pattern. Like when an answer is on the tip of your tongue, but with thought. This isolation becomes even further as it strips you of everything unique to your physiology.

For me that was the departure of magic, all that was retained was the slivers of arcane energy necessary for me to not wither away. I don't know if I can accurately convey just how staggeringly tormenting such isolation was. I could say it was like turning a unicorn into a horse or a dragon into a lizard but I don't know if those comparisons stick strongly enough into your mind. Everything I ever was felt stripped away. The only mysticism I held was that which is necessary for my life. Imagine having lived for as long as I and then being reduced to a pace maker and an oxygen tank it might come close to that. And as I sat choking on my own depravity I drowned in my disrupted thoughts....

In time my present employer was visited by his own. Seeing me as just pricey entertainment they never questioned my presence. They didn't worry about me talking as they were sure that was apart of my cost. That and how could I know anyone of relevance to them? As his quad of armored guards cornered the room the pair began to speak. The language Latin and so old even I struggled at first to decipher what was being said.

"I wear my face" "with morning and disgrace" "for I give up my rightful place" "to safeguard the human race" "should I die I forsake grace" "to pacify the evolutionary chase." The apparent hymn followed by the entire room besides myself saying "amen." I silently scoff at the lyrics, these are men and women who relinquish freedoms and diversity. They'd have everyone dress the same and look the same if they had a choice. Everyone could be Ken and Barbie, or Adam and Eve whatever idiocy they perceive as ideal.

"Is it coming tonight?" I remember this it. "Yes, and it's not happy with our progress" I remember not being happy with it either, how'd the Brotherhood let them ever get so far? "It's not an easy endeavor" good thing to they could truly trigger the war. "Still find a way soon it will end you otherwise." At this time I also see Desmond above that's my Que.

A increase in my pheromones, a guards blood pressure adrenaline and lustful emotions sense the man into a frenzy. Violently charging the guard in the left corner the victim is split in two. His blood gives way to violent explosion the crazed and split are atomized. A flirtatious kiss at the next causes a brief spike in brain activity. A spike soon amplified to a deadly mind boiling voltage. Turning to the last guard we embrace his body withering to ash. The targets are paralyzed, a display of magic I silently crave like no other. How frighteningly potent I once was.

From there Desmond takes charge. These men fear castration and damnation if they talk. Their lips are sealed tighter then a vault door. They'd even be able to resist telepaths, fight off manipulators like I. Desmond gets answers from them when he leaves the room he carries one name on his tongue. "Azrael."

I was placed in a isolation nobody desires only my thoughts to amuse me. Trapped perhaps even more in my head then that room. This may have been even worse then the solitude itself. For a millennium I served no question no doubt no hesitance. In that cube of darkness however the mind trails off. My prey was everything the Brotherhood is not and in trying to understand my enemy I found myself picking apart the code. Perhaps to you that is nothing but minute grievance for myself however it felt like deep seeded betrayal for I was trying to look behind walls never designed to be peered behind.

"Your actions must never alter fixed points in time - Direct, or indirect, in doing so, you endanger yourself, and the Brotherhood." Yet daily we venture through time guiding their course do we not. This may just refer to past events of great significance but why not? If you could end Hitler sooner, drop the bomb that yielded the wars demise a year ahead of time should you? Thousands have died for wars wouldn't it be better without such conflict? I'm no saint and far from a heroic individual but I've seen the fields of carnage there is no beauty in it. And more importantly if every action creates a ripple in the sea of time can we do anything that does not sway the current?

"Your actions must never bring harm upon the Brotherhood, through action, or inaction, you must preserve our family." Yet we have to be inactive on some of the ugliest moments of time. And can any of us really harm the brotherhood? They can rewrite time could not they halt whatever someone might do? Perhaps it's simply the tribulations of a brother that they dare not interject. However if they chose to let us have the chance to inflict harm doesn't that just say they can handle the wound? Eons old and universally infinite can any one assassin shatter the Brotherhoods footing?

"Whilst partaking in historical events, do not cause unnecessary harm. We are promoters of peace, not the harbingers of death." Yet some times intel needs forced free. You could say that's necessity but it's not. If we can see the future if we are so mighty why would need intel gathering? Presumably this is to test us but that suggests are steps are all unnecessary just made for us. Which raises query am I free at all or simply being told that I'm making choices for the illusion of freedom? We are left with so many paths to take but is not the end decided soon as mission given? If my greatest movement my defining moment is preordained then was anything ever really up to choice? Sure my path may differ from another's but the end has the same weight. So are we even free or just provided clever illusion.

Then come the ironies. "The Brotherhood seeks to give ultimate freedom to it's members; but require obedience to rules." Are targets are almost always decided by others rather then us. If we fail we might cause harm to this guild requiring punishment. But if their is punishment the choice isn't free. We still bare weight of consequence and thus it isn't freedom without consequence. So can freedom ever truly be given life when life itself places restraint?

"The Brotherhood seeks to preserve itself; yet seeks out dangerous enemies for enjoyment." Not only is it contradictory it promises demise. Play with fire and you will inevitably get burned. Fight endlessly and you will at some point lose maybe first match maybe your thousandth but it'll come. If all we do is put ourselves in danger how can we even expect to be safe?

"The Brotherhood seek to promote universal peace; but commit murder." I get this but I question the very concept of peace. Such is a world without suffering could that even come to be? Utopia is ad illusion all fantasy is it not? To harbor peace would require the removal of humanity. Life is precious because of our thoughts and emotions our humanity. Life is frightening because ambition and emotion is as beautiful as it is raw. If a mother loses her children she'd become angry and depressed it's the natural aftermath. Now she may be the sweetest of women but after that loss any annoyance could trigger a punch because of simple feeling. A world without war and crime would be great but there is always going to be retaliation be pain. Life is as glorious as brutal to take the brutality away would presumably steal the glorious as well.

So if peace can not be born so long as there is freedom is peace worth while? And if my actions are chosen and I have to bare judgment for my faults am I free?...

"This group of people savors order I imagine this woman will only come out when she thinks she has control. I'm going to assume she knows we're coming and who we are. Meaning she's going to come for me." As Desmond speaks I can't do anything but nod and smile pridefully. This man before me I helped raise, I watched him grow. He became the ideal assassin the flawless heir of his mothers title. He seemed unconquerable. I wasn't ready to be apart of the six I was beautiful and a witch unrivaled but I wasn't the unbeatable. "Don't tag in until I say." My left eye glazes over as if replaced by a mirror. It's a spell Desmond and I use when one of us needs to take point and the other wait for that ideal moment. The mirror like eye let's me share consciousness with the other assassin. I see what he sees hear what he hears.

The chase begins in time spotting a woman with mane of vermillion. She looks out of place with the time a fire burns in her eyes speaking of an end of freedoms of diversity. Pursuit is given, no city piece is hinderance of paths. Cars are flipped over in acrobatic grace, trucks slid under. Signs and lights but stepping stones to parkour brilliance. Walls ran up as if condemning the very laws of gravity. One could tell the miles journeyed, the blinding speed of the marathon what obstacles were surpassed. Doing so would not be just in explanation however. The only honest and right remark is to say that a trio of hearts was beating as hard as thunder so swift it sounded more like a solitary beat. Adrenaline surged muscles feeling inflamed by the effort.

Fight begins and it's furious, and fluid. Fight goes on and no blow is landed. These two were so matched so harmonious that sparks and the symphony of blades was all that came. As they continue to cross path however I begin to watch moves closer. Their not just harmonious and skilled their identical. Not same style of combat but rather like one was fighting their shadow. Every action was the same movement that would usually be a unique character trait was matched. This devil of freedom was related to Desmond. So enraptured by the duel Desmond refused to let me join the conflict. I could take part but he refused to take lender hand. And then heart calms.

In beautiful motion that's every millisecond testified of ages of experience throat was split head dangling by but fiber of flesh. Movement continues blade switched hands as backwards thrust spears heart of kindred foe. Hour long engagement of steel ends in that moment. Until second later table turned tanned flesh turns as dark as the rivets of crimson that had stained it. And arms raise blades coming down in swift parallel pattern. Desmond's arm falling aside and head split in two.

I remember this moment I knew it was coming the bite of the loss scars cheek with azure rivers. I couldn't intercept however Desmond died gloriously I can't take that from him out of greed. When this happend I turned to get Desmond back to the Brotherhood. I failed the Brotherhood as I let the killer escape. Objective was simple kill the leader of this obscure faction. I now am weighted by choice do I give pursuit do I change the one mistake I made that I regret?

For punishment of my failure I was locked away. Stripped of power reduced to shadow of myself always was I proud I love what I accomplished. But I love someone else more. Though I hate that I failed the fault led to something greater then a title. I despise that I took the time to asses the code and from then on to question order. It made me who I am though and I love me. It brought me to Peek and I can't fathom a life differently.

My choice is made. I do not attack the slayer of a six. Won't give chase. I will be damned, even upon future when returned to glories I will be looked down upon. But the tides of time are favorable as they are current needs no change in course. I repeat my steps. I allow myself to fail. I return to the Voyager knowing my affection for myself and Brotherhood is surpassed by that for another.

A few Spanish broke from the progressing group at a faster pace towards the Dutch Buccaneer. The bone spikes which he had withdrew from underneath his wrists had now reached his hands, but remained hidden from sight from his attackers. Valken began at a light jog up the beach, his pace quickly increasing. He could move faster through the deep, soft sand than any man and with a much higher level of coordination and balance - he had already outmatched the Spanish attackers.

He threw both arms forward, launching both of the bone spines from his palms with lighting-quick speed. One rocketed through the breast plate and the chest cavity of the foremost Spaniard. The second, struck the next-closest assailant in the throat. The spine went clean through his oesophagus and protruded out the back of his neck, causing him to immediately begin gasping for his last breaths of air. Both organic spikes hit with enough force to completely stop all of their momentum, and violently throw them backwards on to the sand.

Both men were dead before their backs hit the sand, their bodies drained of life in a mere split second. Now they were victim to the deterioration of the heat from the hot Caribbean sun and the scavenging animals, as the white sand soaked up their crimson blood like a leach.

However, Valken's pace did not waiver as he passed the dead Spaniards. He snatched a sabre from the hilt of one of the dead men as he passed, giving it a quick twirl in his right hand as he moved towards the rest of the group with ever increasing speed. He also drew another bone spike from underneath his left wrist; this one was smaller and he held it in a reverse grip like a knife.

The Hallowed Pirate met his next opponent, whom swung his sabre in a downward chop at Valken. The attack was easily avoided with his superhuman reflexes and speed as he simply side-stepped out of the way, making the trained swordsman look like an amateur. Following the side step, the Spaniard had left his back open to Valken - it would be his last mistake. Valken made a slight hop, and rolled across the attackers back, driving the knife-like spike into the man's spine.

As Valken's feet touched down on to the sand once more, third victim's body slammed face first into the sand. The spike was left driven deep within his spine; a deep-red pool began to grow underneath his cloth shirt. Valken had finally stopped his aggressive assault, as he came to see that the remaining Spanish had now drawn their flintlock pistols, readying their shot.