Lag 6.20a (Patreon)

Lag 6.20a

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The flood of blue light from Armsmaster's HUD cast a thin hue over his vision, providing an immediate, detailed scan of the chaos unfolding before him. Hellhound Regent, and their monstrous canine companions barricaded the escape routes, while the ostentatious Trickster seemed hell-bent on seizing the spotlight as he stood atop the form of what Armsmaster knew was another member of his team, arms spread.

In the seconds that stretched between the breaking of windows and the settling of dust, Armsmaster’s processor-like mind churned with plans and contingencies. While the posh gala attendees reacted with instinctive fear, the seasoned hero mentally dissected the unfolding scene with a detached and razor-sharp focus.

Always a show with these ones, Armsmaster ruminated. Decades of experience and meticulous tactical planning had finely tuned his brain, enabling it to function at a level most could only dream of. Within moments, he had already begun to craft a strategy.

Seconds passed and the Tinker knew he had to act fast. He could see Glory Girl to his far right staring down Hellhound, and he had very little faith in her ability to not act rashly.

“One moment, please.” Armsmaster's voice was measured and even, though his mind raced. The words had barely left his lips as he took a deliberate step forward, arms raised and empty, but he could see the rising tension in the crowd, civilians and Protectorate members alike.

The enormous monster loomed, blue sparks crackling menacingly from its open maw but Trickster's mocking sneer from atop the beast was what kept Colin’s attention. “Does the esteemed Armsmaster want to parlay?”

Armsmaster's HUD flickered to life, detailing information about Trickster that the PRT and their affiliates had collected.  But beyond the digital readouts, his seasoned instincts knew that beneath the sneer, Trickster was still a child playing at a deadly game. “What I want is an answer.”

“To a question you haven’t asked.” Trickster's smirk was maddening.

Armsmaster maintained his calm exterior, mouth not even shifting past a thin line. “Why here? Why now? Just… why?” He queried. The vagueness was intentional. As curious as he was, as to why they would attack a location in which they were vastly outnumbered and with little gain, he needed to keep them talking.

“Let me guess,” Trickster raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s about the money?”

Armsmaster didn’t, because it clearly couldn’t be. Anywhere else in the city would have been a better target and a better reward. A hard target like this gala with little to no money on the premises was a terrible idea if money wasn’t the goal. However, he didn’t say any of that. “Money is the usual motive of your group. You’re too young and disorganized to have any grander goals. Am I wrong?”

The villain in the top hat scoffed, the sharp downturn of his expression letting Armsmaster know he had unintentionally pushed a button. “No grander goals, huh? That’s cute. Shows how much you know.” Spreading his arms out wide, Trickster raised his head and scoffed out loud. “It’s not always about the money, Armsmaster.”

As the youth spoke, Armsmaster’s mind flitted back and forth, part of him absorbing the verbal barrage while another part covertly subvocalized commands to his team. Their pre-set channels would ensure his orders were conveyed without any noticeable sound or gesture.

“Dauntless, aerial advantage. Arc Lance on overwatch. Disrupt Trickster by sending sparks around him; to inhibit use and precision. Intercept Ballistic’s projectiles.”

“Militial, ranged non-lethal. Target Sundancer if she attempts to use her powers. without engaging directly. Can’t risk a fire.”

“Triumph, sonics on those dogs. Minimal intensity. Too much and they’re in pain and rabid.”

“Battery, strike Assault full power. Assault, full force redirect into the chimera. Knock it out the window and away from the fight.”

His internal systems kept him updated: Battery on his left flank perfectly still as she kept her charge up, Militia’s weapon barely wavering from it’s rifle formation on her back as she kept her attention focused on it, and Dauntless, the unfortunate attention magnet, hesitating for just a fraction of a second as his Arclance visibly sparked in his grip.

Armsmaster made a mental note, Discuss Dauntless’ stealth ability in our next debrief.

Immediately after, his thoughts were interrupted by Regent, the adolescent’s derisive tone cutting through the gala’s tense atmosphere as he held his scepter aloft. “Stalling to keep us talking, Armsmaster? Giving your buddies a little pep talk?”

The accusation caused visible ripples in his team. Battery's posture stiffened, Militia’s eyes widened, Triumph's fingers twitched, and Dauntless, perhaps the most obvious, was like a deer in headlights.

Fuck. Armsmaster kept himself still, even as his gaze flicked over to the smirking teenage villain across the ballroom floor. I should have expected this from the Vasil boy.

“Now, I’m no Tattletale, God Rest Her Soul,” Regent drawled, his voice dripping with mocking sorrow, “but I do know a thing or two about body language. And Dauntless there? Reads like a damn book.”

The Tinker nearly flinched as Regent's all-too-accurate observation was like a slap to the face, a reminder that these weren't just juvenile delinquents. They were threats. Real, calculated, strategic threats. His attention flickered as his HUD continuously updated him, calculating potential scenarios, risk factors, and possible points of engagement.

“Stalling, Armsmaster?” Trickster cut back in as he and the two teammates beside him dismounted from the monstrous cape they rode. “Just like I said, the heroes of this city can’t do anything when it comes down to it. What’s the point of the PRT and Protectorate when their only plan is to stall, wait, and hope things get better?”

Armsmaster's eyes hardened behind his visor as he grit his teeth. Time for a display of authority. Pulling the collapsed form of his halberd from behind him, it extended with a mechanical fluidity. The blade snapped open, gleaming threateningly. “No plan survives contact with the enemy,” he retorted coldly, “even if said enemy happens to be children in over their heads.”

The tension in the room pulsed like an ever-tightening wire, each vibration strumming its impending snap against Armsmaster's every nerve. The weight of the halberd in his grasp was a reassuring anchor to reality, though, as he stepped forward, subvocalizing to his team again. “Take them down n-”

“Whoa there, settle down, cowpokes!”

A voice—infuriatingly familiar and yet utterly out of place—rang out, lacerating through Armsmaster’s focus. The sound made Armsmaster stiffen immediately, the Tinker nearly lowering his weapon out of shock.

No.

No. No. No. He took in a short, quick, inhale of breath. His analytical core fought back, seeking an immediate explanation. I checked the guest list. There were no tickets bought under that name.

“If y’all get to tusslin’ without lil ol’ me,” the atrocious drawl came again, the bad Southern accent forcing a slight wince out of Armsmaster.

Logically, it would make no sense. The city is still on high alert after Friday night. Only an idiot would show up to a location surrounded by PRT and Protectorate heroes, he attempted to convince himself. No one would e-

“...I might just feel a tad nettled.”

Armsmaster's gaze snapped upward, following the collective eyes of the room. The incredulity in the room seemed to physically materialize and there it was—up near the chandelier—a form swathed in outlandish purple.

Miss Militia’s voice dripped with irony. “Oh, no.”

Assault, always one to enjoy theatrics, grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

That minute streak of blond hair peeking beneath the hat was all too familiar. The flamboyance of the entrance, the sheer audacity—it all pointed to one individual. The voice, the attire—it was so incredibly stupid, and yet irrefutably real. The intruder swung slightly on his rope, drawing attention to himself, pulling Armsmaster’s focus like a magnet.

A moment of uncharacteristic disarray and he muttered, “Oh, fuck.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Dangling from that chandelier, he couldn't help but revel in the stupefied expressions below.  God, if I could get exp for cool entrances, I’d be level freakin’ fifty by now, Greg thought to himself as a smirk tugged at his lips.

The world was his stage, and the entrance? Well, nailed it.

I mean, come on, he thought. Surprising Armsmaster? That’s a tick on the bucket list. But there was work to do, villains to thwart, and maybe, just maybe, an audience to impress.

“Hey!” Trickster’s voice rang out, filled with a mix of irritation and bemusement. “This is our show! Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

From his vantage point, Greg could practically see the gears turning in Regent’s mind before he spoke, the mocking lilt in his voice unmistakable. “Yeah, and what's up with that accent? Are you doing cowboy? Southern gentleman? Make up your mind.”

Greg's brows knitted behind his mask. There was a certain art to staying in character, but he couldn’t help but feel the sting of that last one. It’s my first time. I’m still learning this guy. His voice dripped with snark as he shot back, still in character, “Didn't know we were hashing out opinions here.”

Battery's muttered comment reached his ears, sharp and critical. “Why are capes such clown shows?”

Clown show? Bitch. The words stung, but Greg had learned early on that rolling with the punches, verbal or physical, was the name of the game. He chuckled, an authentic sound amidst the staged bravado. “Always a critic in the crowd, huh?”

Regent, forever the antagonist, pounced on his earlier comment. “There! You did it again.” His voice held more than a hint of laughter, making it clear he was enjoying the moment far too much. “PICK ONE ALREADY!”

Okay, enough banter. Greg thought. Time to set the stage. Without missing a beat, he shot back, “Why don’t you try hanging from chandeliers and see if you stick to one accent? Besides...” Greg paused, letting his voice drop an octave for theatrical effect, “that’s enough out of you.”

Leaning into the moment, he locked eyes with Trickster, a sly grin playing on his lips. “And to answer your burning question...”

With the flourish he had grown used to, Greg let go of the rope.

Time seemed to slow as he somersaulted through the air, landing deftly on the polished floor.

One hand instinctively adjusted his hat, tipping it just so in a gesture of respect to the heroes present. The other hand, gloved and steady, pointed straight at the Travelers. The atmosphere felt charged, his next words punctuating the silent drama. “Name's Void Cowboy. Pleasure's all mine.”

Greg could almost feel the eyes on him, scrutinizing his every move, every element of his attire, and likely judging him. They hadn’t yet seen what he could really do, but, you know, first impressions. Seriously, I couldn't have chosen a better day to rebrand.

Miss Militia and Armsmaster exchanged glances. Greg could see the silent dialogue passing between them, idly noticing Miss Militia shooting Armsmaster a pointed look, and the man himself palming his face. Wonder what that’s about?

As the silence stretched, Ballistic finally broke it, taking a step forward, his boots echoing on the marble floor. "Void Cowboy?" He had a certain incredulity in his voice. "You're the Void Cowboy?"

“Dead on, hombre.” Greg answered, swagger in his stance.

Sundancer tilted her head, tapping a finger against her visor. "That dude from PHO? The annoying one?"“That annoying dude off PHO?” Sundancer chimed in.

Greg's chest deflated slightly. "Well, 'annoying' is one word for it, but I wouldn’t quite say th-”

A familiar voice, biting and sharp, came from somewhere in the gathering. "So that stupid troll has powers now?" Vista. Oh, great.

“Feelings!” Greg shot back, accent slipping as he fake clutched at his chest. “He also has feelings!”

Ballistic leaned in, accusingly pointing. "You got my friend banned. Banned from World of Heroes. For a lifetime."

“Your friend?” Greg’s gaze flicked from Ballistic to Trickster to Sundancer and back again, unsure who the villain was referring to. “Which one?”

Ballistic jerked a thumb behind him, directly at the growling dragon chimera with electricity sparking from its teeth. “This one.”

Greg let out a vague sound of confusion. "That thing is your friend?"

Trickster, not one to stay silent, smirked. “That thing has a name.”

“I mighty don’t care.”

“What is that accent?” Regent, once again, was not one to stay silent.

Miss Militia cleared her throat, attempting to restore order. "This isn’t a high school reunion. We have—"

"Ma'am," Greg interrupted, holding a finger up. His voice was polite, but his eyes challenged her. "I'm trying to restore my good name here. You can speak in a moment."

A single twitch of Miss Militia’s eye conveyed her mounting frustration, Armsmaster eyeing the flickering of her weapon.

"Alright, let’s break this down," Greg began. “Two things there, compadre. Firstly, I wasn't aware giant monsters played video games. Secondly, are you absolutely certain you have the Void Cowboy?”

“Lemme refresh your memory,” Ballistic replied as the chimera behind him continued to growl louder. “You kept trolling her and pissing her off until she told you to stick your baby dick in a garbage disposal and kill yourself.”

“Okay that sounds like me.” Void Cowboy tapped his chin thoughtfully until... “Oh! Wait, was she the one I called a third rate Cape with a fourth rate build who should get pregnant so she can play phone games like a mom?”

Ballistic’s nod was tense. “...Yeah.”

Dropping his accent, Greg responds focusing his attention on the monster, “Yeah I'm still right, you fucking dragged our raid down. Eat shit. I'm glad you got kicked.”

With a roar, the monster lunged.

“Genesis, no!”

And for a split-second, Greg wondered if maybe – just maybe – he should've kept his big mouth shut. But then again, where was the fun in that?