Description: Vega's troops, along with the People's Republic of China's army, set out to capture a Triad citadel in the mainland. However, a hundred men prove to be unable to topple the sole, calm protector that awaits them. Even the might of the most powerful Psionic in the world is no match against a dying Chinese assassin in his own territory!
There is an oddity in the global cartel map, and it is the Silver Dragon. Scattered, or to wax dramatic 'omnipresent' across China and Taiwan, with bases and safehouses worldwide, the Triad network that eventually, obtusely traces back to two Lees and Gen, the Silver Dragon is an artifact of a lost age - dynastic, stable, uncompromising. Where many criminal organizations in the modern age seek to elevate themselves, or their heads (cough) to undue status, Gen's operations are more geared towards stability and empowerment. Dangerous forces are cut out, hostile outsiders kept out, and tribute collected. So it has been for a long, long time now. It is a status quo that with the army's aggression after the debacle in Taizhou, and the ambitions of both NESTS and Shadaloo, threatens to break apart entirely.
Deep in the Hengduan mountains, in Southern China, there's a remote compound. Linked by local roads and air, the facility is largely old-world aside from its sizable airstrip and control center. The rest is a temple, and a simple dwelling, within somewhat ornate, high walls. A small transit stop for all kinds of goods and cargo - and a remote retreat for the honing of Dragon initiates. The organization is, after all, somewhat famous for passing on kung-fu: it can be difficult for rival cartels to collect protection money if the baker can crush them, after all. At the moment, however, the Triad is threatened. The government that long ago lashed out at Gen now grows bolder with the sponsorship of Vega's impressive resources, but the raid on the Triad infrastructure proves rather different than expected.
For one thing, the first impression is that no one is there. Shadaloo and Chinese forces could secure most of the facility without any contact at all. However, in the spartanly furnished, silk-draped sanctuary deep within the temple, incense burns, candles flicker, and a single master waits. Those who enter with battle in their hearts, meet an abrupt end. Organs are ruptured, throats crushed in, bodies crashing through bodies. Once contact is made there, it crops up silently, other places throughout the compound. Two, /perhaps/ three killers, working in perfect synergy - the breaching forces suffer rapidly mounting casualties, reports back are likely to be... garbled. At best. Gen deposits a rapidly growing pile of largely disassembled weapons near the doors of the incense-laden sanctuary, bodies hurtling back down the hallways, or into another room through the splintering wall, as fast as they move in.
A cakewalk, the soldiers think. Having expected some form of resistance to lay within the compound's walls, the joined army came well-prepared, or so they thought. Heavy automatic weaponry, tanks fitted with concrete-busting shells, snipers set up on the sides of the mountain... These men were ready. So what if a few paltry martial artists had holed themselves up in the place? There's not a chance that a single one could escape, surely; not with so much technology staring at every conceivable exit point.
And yet, the severe /lack/ of opposition is unnerving. Each of them, every single soldier, had been debriefed about the organization that owns this center...or at least all that wasn't horribly classified. Warriors--no, cowards, hiding in the shadows, trained in innumerable ways to kill a man and disappear long before the victim even started to show any signs of his demise. The troops carry flares and bright lanterns, pouring in through the gates and lining up in the hallways, thick throngs of increasingly cautious men. As always, the 'human wave' approach has been taken here. With so many men, it wouldn't matter if a few died, would it? Before long, most of the hallways and rooms are thick with near-blinding light, various draperies and useless containers stabbed and ripped in search of resistance...
And then the bodies start piling up.
The air is alive with radio chatter after the first assault. Ah, finally! Orders are given to move in, to eliminate the threat. And yet, for each of the line of bodies that rush in, they're tossed out and broken, evicted from that single, holy chamber. They start rushing in two, then three at a time, as fast as the ever-increasing piles of corpses will allow, and all for naught! Pretty soon, the hallway will be too thick with men to either enter or escape!
All the while, the instigator of this whole excursion sits at the edge of the nearby mountain, high overhead. A walkie-talkie stands on a rock at his side, turned on and chattering forth the back-and-forth communication. At first, the prospect of an unguarded base had pleased him. As it went on, insight and instincts tell him that such an ancient place of such importance wouldn't just be /abandoned/. No, there's somebody in there; he can feel it. The dark dictator's mouth pulls down into an ever-deepening frown as he hears the chaos begin. A bunch of useless fools they are, unable to handle the single man reported over the airwaves...
Normally, a man like Vega would know more or less what he was up against. Perhaps be able to pry the layers right away and bellow into the skulls of the sparse, but alarmingly potent resistance. Ghosting over Gen's mind is like searching a great tundra, however. Ever-shifting winds, blank, rolling landscapes. Chasms that open here and there, and descend deep. Deep indeed. To follow one psychically quickly becomes an open blackness akin to deep space, no matter what route one takes, pushing inward... leads to vast, all but inexplorable expanses. At once, it's nothingness... and encompassing in the extreme. The elder assassin's soul is all but blank - remaining /anything/ but empty. Laughter echoes through those deep caves, tickling the back of Vega's own awareness with consciousness of its own.
The Shadaloo Overlord is sensed. Perhaps seen as inevitable. In their rampant, desperate push... numbers are thinned, drastically indeed. Even without the forewarning - for let's not pretend Gen's people, perhaps even his own students, aren't laced into the Chinese authorities - this attack looms like a dark shadow over the land itself. Rumbles like thunder in the sky. As the Republic takes to shelling the temple with tank cannon, one of its soldiers emerges, all but pulverized, from the last in a line of fine bamboo walls, flailing brokenly in the pile of rubble that soon accomodates Gen's exit.
The elder master strokes his beard, once, and then leaps atop the nearest tank, from one to the other in a blurring span of time that barely seems to pass, the legendary assassin appearing on one, then the other, a singular fist descending violently with each landing. Turret lurches downwards, broken on its mount. Stressed seams ripple outwards along the tanks hull, bolts and welds popping in a violent wrenching as the vehicles slump dead in their tracks, steam and bits erupting outwards from each as the diminutive Chinese master drops off the latter.
Blank, pupiless eyes track up the hills surrounding the base, locking inexorably on Vega. A strong, still vigorous hand rises to stroke through stark white beard, studying the Shadaloo overlord directly, for a time. The remnants of surrounding forces regrouping are, for the moment... a secondary concern.
COMBATSYS: Gen has started a fight here.
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Gen 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Vega has joined the fight here.
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Gen 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Vega
COMBATSYS: Gen calculates his next move.
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Gen 0/-------/---====|-------\-------\0 Vega
The very fact that Gen's consciousness is so --perhaps not fortified, but so thoroughly /negated/ is an irritable thorn in Vega's psyche. The frightened last thoughts of many a man are clear to him. Flashes of sight from their perspective drift across his vision like a film missing too many frames, badly discolored and horribly disjointed. Nobody can get a clear look at the assassin that mows them down, it seems. There's just the flash of muzzles and the painful vibration of short gunfire bursts, for scant moments is all anybody survives long enough to fire with.
Now, the question is...what to do? If this were simply a failed assault on another army, he would creep in himself and handle things. But the knowledge of there being someone of easily Master-level ability in there, someone that he can't pinpoint, well... It's not that he's afraid, he silently assures himself. It just isn't smart to walk into the waiting jaws of such a creature.
Vega stands, stepping closer to the edge of the sheer wall he's upon. Tiny shreds of wind-worn rock tumble down the mountain, coming to rest in the comforting knots of thin, rooted trees. The shellings commence, and his eyes are everywhere once again. Not through the minds of other people, however, no. He watches with his own pale white orbs, seeking out any changes.
His patience is immediately rewarded.
One heavy vehicle after another fall to the might of Gen's fist; an impressive feat only a single time, but to be repeated so easily, and so quickly? Despite the confidence that he has in his own body, the Shadaloo leader realizes the danger of being struck unaware. Waiting it out was the correct choice. And yet, now that he knows that the problem appears to be only one man, his blood begins to boil. He's trapped between two choices: does he let this man decimate his forces and try again another day, or take care of the problem now? His own moral code dictates that the old man should be broken in twain this very instant, gurling--choking upon the last of his lifesblood. However, were the People's Republic Army, its actual members, spot him, well...it would make things more difficult for the Shadaloo troops that have sworn to aid the nation with rooting out these terrible, destructive warriors.
"Five-fourteen." Vega speaks into his wrist, transmissing the simple numbers to a select few crimson-adorned soldiers. Down in the belly of the compound, those men stop as everyone else rushes around them, trying to continue searching, or perhaps to escape. These few men, they look...horrified. The color drains from their face and they drop their weapons, drawing the attention of everyone around them. Inside, outside, west wing, north wing... One after another, a small handful--no more than half a dozen troops--suffer the fate of expendible soldiers. Charges implanted in their necks go off, severing the head messily from their shoulders. Blood splatters all over walls and fellow troops alike. What purpose could this possibly have?
Distraction.
The waves of men searching for Gen all but stop, and instead of trying to find the escaped assassin, scour the place anew for other, imagined assailants. With the tanks out of commission, only few people will pay attention to one escaped man, no matter how powerful he may be, with the possibility of many, many more still hiding within that accursed compound. It means that only those few, instead of the entire platoon, can see a dark swell of violet light come careening down the mountain, so fast that it would likely be ball-shaped were it not warped and stretched on its way toward the old Master.
COMBATSYS: Gen dodges Vega's Psycho Shot.
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Gen 0/-------/---====|-------\-------\0 Vega
The ripples of life lost explode outwards all around the compound as charges are triggered, but the legendary assassin between two shattered tanks breathes it in, those white eyes remaining fixed on their counterpart, the dark reflection of his own soul. So much power, so much direction... turned down a violently different road. The rippling current of rampant psionic power draws Gen's brow to a deep furrow, narrowing his eyes, and electing to travel past it by taking the high road. The deceptively small old master leaps upwards, inverting in an easy, almost languid forward flip that barely alters his posture. He touches down in a sprint.
One hand extends out behind him, the other bends over his features, and he /races/ up the hillside. Perhaps he shields his face because Vega may be waiting? In reality, it's a windbreak. The elder assassin is just moving that. damn. fast. He leaps in on Vega, just above the ground, sliiiiides in sidelong seeking to slither fluidly inside the overlord's defenses, grab his snazzy uniform by its jacket's front, and quite abruptly yank Vega off balance, towards himself.
Should this effort prove successful, what follows is an abrupt low strike, one of Gen's short little deathtraps that pass for legs bending up, and shooting down at a forty-five degree angle... for the front of Vega's leg. The intent is to then slam him, face-first, into the mountaintop - after crushing that knee out from under him in ways that even the /perfect/ vessel just isn't meant to be contorted. "You overextend. These cretins will only lead you astray, fool!"
COMBATSYS: Gen successfully hits Vega with Houzen.
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Gen 0/-------/--=====|=------\-------\0 Vega
Alas, such concentrated power only serves to further destroy the tank that Gen had just been near! The metal shell caves inward, crushing whomever may have been unlucky to be trapped inside of it, thanks to the damage that had already been inflicted upon the usually sturdy rivets and welding. The violet orb spreads out around the vehicle like a shimmering dark casing, then dissolves completely. However...there is no old man revealed as the manifested psychic energy fades away.
Then, where is he?
Vega's not comfortable with this, not at all. Being unable to sense where his opponent is exactly, unable to read his thoughts...for once, the dark Lord appears to be at a severe disadvantage. He remains standing where he had all this time, completely unprepared for a sick man to be so /fast/! Those slim white eyes widen and a look of surprise that few men ever see paints itself upon the Lord's features. Though he tries to lift his arms and raise some sort of guard, it's too little, too late. Thrown, stricken, slammed, and bent. It's a fate meant for weaklings, for lesser men. For /mortals/. /Not/ for someone of Vega's god-like status.
Though pressed into the ground, his body begins to bear wisps of purple, like smoke rising from a burnt corpse. Acrid to the senses, the downed man's rage is both immediate and palpable. A hand clutches the earth, fingers gripping so hard as to crack the rock beneath them. Pebbles fall and clatter from his scratched and scuffed face, though he remains face-down as he only begins to lift himself up.
"My reach is /limitless/, Relic." The voice is dripping with contempt, though nearly lost as waves of hatred and rage roil within his form. The wispy tendrils give way to crackling bolts of bright arcs as the man simply...attempts to stand.
COMBATSYS: Vega gathers his will.
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Gen 0/-------/--=====|======-\-------\0 Vega
Explosions echo off the mountains, cries and shouts a chorus that follows them. The rupturing tank comes as backdrop to Gen's assault on Vega, the elder assassin leaping back and steadily flanking the Shadaloo tyrant as he gathers raw power, rights his own stance. Gen... proves relentless, "As with us all." The diminutive old master presses the overlord, two thrusting, penetrating fingers lancing outwards at the end of a blurring, forceful stroke for the much larger lord's throat. It's accompanied, more than followed, for the sheer speed and fluidity of it, by a swift one-two, seeking to drive knuckles once into each of Vega's kidneys, going for a rattling ribcage with the second for good measure. It's a blow that would out and out displace the torso of a normal man, likely.
"But ever will that hand be slapped away when it reaches within /my/ orbit!" The legendary assassin promises coldly. It's not a warning without weight - given just the events of the moment, as his own operatives slip into deeper cover, prepare to mount the guerilla war that was waged briefly once before. An ominous forecast, indeed. The accompanying punctuation to Gen's assault is a simple, snapping kick for the side of Vega's shin. On the wounded leg, of course.
Vega's unnerved brush against his vacant soul does not go unnoticed, completely, by Gen. Within him, the winds have picked up, roaring through the canyons, rushing out and inwards in seemingly equal measure. Still, that mild, detached consciousness observes the process.... how it flows with the currents of the battle itself.
COMBATSYS: Gen successfully hits Vega with Improvised Grapple.
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Gen 0/-------/--=====|=======\-------\1 Vega
Yes, the little men below scurry around in their fear, unable to find the invisible enemies that had downed their men. Gunfire rattles off in the enclosed hallways at random, soldiers searching for secret panels from which an assassin might strike through and disappear entirely. Grenades are thrown into pipes, all manner of plumbing and ancient masonry ruined. Gen was right about one thing: the men ARE fools.
"Hah!" As Vega stands up to his full height, he manages to mask the favor he holds for putting his weight on one leg instead of the other. He stands at an angle, that injured leg out a bit and to the side, appearing to any amateur's eye as though he's taken up a proper stance. How unfortunate that Gen's eye is anything but amateurish! But as he looks at the ancient beast before him, realization slowly begins to dawn upon him. The deep frown that wrinkles his chin fades into one of enlightenment. "...Aaaah..." Sagat had been useless. Not lasting long enough to get him any proper data, it's only now that Vega might realize who indeed it is that stands before him. "I had thought you to be dead, you miserable little cockroach." There was word that he was sick, and having been silent for so long... He should have sought this man out first, swept him aside before he even became a problem. "Well..." The larger man's right hand turns upward and juts out slightly before him. The fingers curl into a fist, and in an instant, it's set ablaze with that same gout of Psycho Power that was seen earlier. A deadly chill fills the air about that hand, an awful radiation that sends the cry of rent souls through the immediate area. Only a few men below can manage a smattering of lifted hairs and goosebumbs from that distance. It's such a shame that Gen himself might not be able to appreciate such a sensation. "Your reach shall only orbit the gra--GGHHK!"
So rude, to interrupt the man like that! His throat indents beneath the strength of such withered fingers, his body rocked to and fro from the rear assault...and he even crumples to a knee as his wounded leg is set upon again! His teeth grit and rage pours through his veins, every mental lock upon his limitless anger shattered from the humiliation. "THAT. IS. ENOUGH!" Even bent and hunched over so, the man's body seems to swell. The crimson suit strains to contain his flesh, threads pulling near to the point of breaking...and then given sudden respite. In lieu of his body overloading and consuming itself in a gout of psychic energy, a massive wave of virulent power comes from him in pulses. One, two, three... Brilliant violet light shines as they spread out from him as though a bursted shell, each wave bringing on the very embodiment of fear and agony. This time, it's potent enough for the soldiers below to feel it. Already on edge from the imagined assailants, they go absolutely apeshit, shooting and stabbing anything within sight, their companions most notably included.
COMBATSYS: Gen dodges Vega's Psycho Wave.
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Gen 0/-------/--=====|=======\-------\0 Vega
The chaotic waves that rush outwards from Vega are not so much unappreciated by Gen, as they are ineffective in swaying the elder assassin's resolve. If one could visualize it, Gen is a whirlpool in the center of a vast, rousing hurricane. All around him, devastation, death, fear. It swirls deep within the old master's expansive spirit, however - swallowed up, all but disappearing to most senses. There is no fear. There is no malice. There is only Gen, Vega, and the tumultuous levels of power fluctuating between them. The legendary assassin's vessel is already near-perfect, honed through the years that are, like Vega's, longer than they might seem... if for entirely different reasons. As such, the old man's kung fu is strong. His body, spry.
Shadaloo and Chinese forces fire on one another to locate Gen's hidden backup, Vega summons a powerful gout of psychic energy, and Gen? Gen rolls clear of the waves of Psycho Power. It's a single tumble, a somersault that barely touches the ground as the alarmingly agile assassin flips to Vega's flank, then leaps back, clearing the pulsing eruption of hateful energy with impressive alacrity. "Then go!" Gen encourages, "Vessel of hate! I'll not brook you here!"
The declaration comes with a sudden, inverted thrust of his left hand. It's a stroke that would never /quite/ touch the center mass of Vega's massive frame, yet impact with a resounding shockwave meant to knock the Shadaloo Tyrant away from him in a forceful flash.
COMBATSYS: Gen successfully hits Vega with Quick Throw.
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Gen 1/----===/=======|=======\=------\1 Vega
The massive exertion of such violent energies leaves even the great Vega breathless for a moment. His body, sore and pained from the stress put upon it both from his own actions and Gen's seemingly peerless assault. With every fabricated nerve ending screaming at his brain in unison, the ache of his injured leg is but a single voice in a spanning crowd, each one vying to have its voice heard above the others.
It's something not quite unlike a potent, throbbing, full-body migraine.
The man rises up slowly, carefully. He has to will his muscles to respond to his commands--no. Why should they? To hell with his body. The thing is but a vessel, a shell. Why rely upon it when he boasts the depthless ocean of the world's most potent power? Indeed, he should simply--
He should simply take a near-backhand to the chest, apparently. Vega's body is seen to visibly cave inward beneath the strike, a hollow dent that's flipped back out a moment later. It's little consolation, however: he's flung back, further into the mountains and away from the citadel. He's only stopped by the cruel care of the mountainside itself, his 'vessel' sinking into the very wall itself with his head hung low, rent of the energy it needs to even scowl at the beast blocking his path to glory.
To the casual onlooker, he may appear defeated. Making no motion to extricate himself from the rock wall, he's still. And yet, he's the only thing that /is/ still. The trees that dot the mountainside are pulled by a shift in the air. The clouds overhead cease their careless drifting, and little by little, the nearer ones begin to draw toward the battling pair. Psychic energy bleeds from the fear-stricken, confused soldiers, invisible tufts that stream toward the edge of the mountain, pulling through rocks and roots and trees to feed into the Lord's body. Even the very earth begins to shudder, pebbles lifted up as the glut of mental force pulverizes them for the offense of simply existing. In an instant, Vega's form flashes with a massive gout of violet flame. It's all-consuming, corroding instead of scorching. The broken rock around him is melted away as though paper put to acid...
And then, in a fit of murderous rage, the man's body simply flies toward Gen as though a spent bullet, his hateful aura encasing him in all directions. There will be no simply stopping this, not with that old body. Of this, he is certain. Not even the mountain behind him can hope to stop this train.
COMBATSYS: Gen blocks Vega's Final Psycho Crusher+.
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Gen 1/---====/=======|===----\-------\0 Vega
Gen feels it, oh yes. The taint, the thrumming psychic resonance that's distorted, then drawn into Vega himself. That empty husk filled to the brim with hate, with rage, with the intent to do ill. It's not the same as the killing evolution of his own art, yet it remains a dark parallel to the Assassin's Fist, to himself... to Gouki. No, Vega's presence ensconced in the mountainside, crushed into the rock... it does not ease Gen's alertness, does not calm the elder assassin's mind, nor assure him of victory. In fact, it's entirely possible that the moment of his own death is at hand. It's a risk he takes, particularly at times like this... but the Triad shadow boss is not keen to give it up easily, and holding his wide, adaptable stance, arms are raised against the onslaught.
Pupiless, blank eyes narrow, clawlike hands lead powerful arms through a quick kata, and a forearm braced by one clawing appendage slams forward against the proverbial warhead of Vega's all-destroying torpedo. The ground, rent. Blackened. The air, smouldering with acrid, distasteful residue. The grass, withering away, where it's not torn asunder. The rocks, a sickening, used-up charcoal hue near the attack. Then there's Gen, at the center of it. The ravaging waves tear into his body, despite any defenses he possesses. The energy burns skin, rips his kung-fu tunic from his arms, exposing thickly muscled appendages that belong on a much younger man.
But then, the legendary assassin pushes off, lands clear of Vega's own landing point. There's a thoughtful little grunt, analysis. It's a realization that Vega may or may not hit, so rare would be the occurance. ... where someone /else/ pauses to take measure of the Shadaloo Tyrant, rather than simply vice-versa. In the next instant, though, that observation period is apparently over.
Right hand clutches at his side, his entire stance seeming to shift, contract around it. Tremors run through the old master's mucles. Death gleams in his eyes. Eyes that are locked on Vega. An instant later, he's shooting outwards. It's a moment that pauses in time, yet would be lost to almost any onlooker. Just what happens, few could say, few have ever lived to tell. At first glance, it's a simple, oldschool samurai charge. Gen races by Vega, makes a nigh-invisible motion, and then the anticipated result would be for the overlord to slide in half. Only Gen does not wield a sword, he wields the five digits of his right hand.
He does not seek to cut Vega in twain, but slice through him nonetheless. In a quick thrum, in his passage, all five digits seek purchase around Vega's heart, at very precise points. The legendary assassin holds nothing back, he strikes to kill. There are few who would not die to such an attack, points of vital energy disrupted until their heart itself ruptured, until they choked on their own blood. Vega... Vega is another animal. Not entirely human, at all anymore. Like Gen. Still, no one will be surprised if this vessel's expiration date winds up moved ahead a few years.
COMBATSYS: Gen successfully hits Vega with Zan'ei.
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Gen 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1 Vega
This is simply impossible.
All of Vega's rage, all of his hate, all the fear and anger in the air...none of it can move Gen. Not a single. God. Damned. Bit. To think that there's such a perfect being is an affront to everything the Shadaloo master is. Everything he speaks, everything his faction believes. There is nothing, /NOTHING/ greater than their feared Lord.
And yet, this single, simple assault has been so thoroughly and effectively decimated that it makes him sick. The forces below are completely ruined. Though some settle down, with their fear siphoned off, easily half of the troops are dead or bleeding on the ground. Others still are horribly wounded. And Vega himself? Even with everything he has, nothing changes. Oh, but merely infuriating, insulting, and humilating him isn't enough, no. Even as Vega's purple-coated hands strive to spin around and rip Gen's esophagus from his withered neck, the only think awaiting him is a forbidden strike. The assassin can feel his digits tearing through flesh, slipping between bone...
And then, nothing.
There's not a trace of that awful presence anywhere. It's as though the man 'fighting' all this time were little more than an illusion. However, the rent and spoiled earth prove otherwise. He WAS here... Now, he's over half a mile away, his body shimmering out from the empty air, solidifying. Vega's feet hit the ground, but his legs fail to support him as he drops to his knees. One hand happens to chance upon a nearby rock, allowing him to keep from tipping over completely. Had he the energy to do so, he would let loose his rage upon the land, screaming out with bottomless fury at being swept aside like /nothing/. Oh, this is not over, not at all. There will be more armies: larger ones. A spin upon the news returned to the People's Republic about a rogue fighter poisoning the country. There /are/ other ways to win...
COMBATSYS: Vega takes no action.
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Gen 0/-------/-----==|
COMBATSYS: Vega can no longer fight.
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Gen 0/-------/-----==|
Gen strikes, and before the deal can be closed... Vega vanishes. Gen's stride ebbs a short span beyond the point he previously occupied, righting himself and looking back over one shoulder. There's a subtle frown at the translocated Lord's absence, then Gen flicks his right hand off to the side in a singular, swift motion... transferring the would-be ruler's blood abruptly from fingertips to the spoiled ground. The elder assassin shakes his head, scans the facility below, and begins walking away from it, diligently up the mountain.
A small remote is taken from one pocket, a simple device bearing an antenna to extend its range. A few more steps follow, and then the elder assassin presses the button, triggering secreted charges around the mountainside to erupt. The facility, any evidence that remains... it's being rapidly consumed in fire. The forces withdrawing? Well, now there are explosions, and landslides destroying the narrow road to deal with. No, the war is not over at all. Little won, but much discovered. "And so it begins." Gen breathes, making his way deeper into the wilderness towards Burma as a dark helicopter wings its way towards his position under the radar, easily navigating with the plume of smoke rising from the rubble-hewn site. Reclaimed by the mountain.
Log created on 17:57:16 11/11/2010 by Vega, and last modified on 21:37:09 11/11/2010.