Some time ago...
“You’re sloppy, there’s no other way of saying it.”
Biotronix steps forward into the light, the gleam of his red visor fading into a dull crimson. Reaper, sitting in silence as he is oft to do of late after the loss of Trish, slowly looks up.
“What?”
The words come almost like a growl, the arrogant yet kind manner of his voice now revealing of spite and anger. The other members of Legend appear behind their armored leader.
“Surgeon had the element of surprise, his powers rival your own, but you lost because you’re unfocused. To this point, most opponents have been relative pushovers, those you could simply trick into defeat using your cellular manipulation. The Surgeon simply knew you well enough to pierce any deception and you didn’t have the skill to bounce back from it.”
His face remains awash in the vile emotions he has allowed himself to sink into, but deep down the dark warrior finds truth.
“So, what now?”
“So, you have to become better.”
“Training? Been there, done that. Besides, I doubt Doom Lord would give us the luxury of time. When he finds this place, or should I say returns, it’s over.”
“I think I can help with that.”
His red cloak reveals his presence before his speech. The frail form of a man wrapped in bandages floats forward before the Reaper.
“You’ve been quite benevolent of late, haven’t you Time Trapper? Oh, but this isn’t for my benefit, is it?”
“Indeed, my younger self. You may deny your destiny as much as you wish, but undoubtedly if you are to have your revenge, then an ally you must find in my humble self. As for my assistance, you know well my dominion over the realm of time and space. A nexus to permit your advancement is but a simple feat, provided I am here to keep it powered.”
“Everything you stand for disgusts me. We are aligned at the moment, but when this ends, I will come for you. You are as much to blame for Trish as those psychopaths Surgeon and Doom Lord.”
“Of course, Reaper. You can always find me, I’m as close as the nearest mirror.”
Though the darkness clouds his visage, the black-cloaked figure feels the smirk come across the face of his deepest fear. Before he can retort, the darkly clad brooder is dropped into a world of light, complete emptiness around him save for the Legend.
“It’s simple: each of us specializes in a certain field, every field of which can benefit you in the coming battle. Hachiman will draw out your inner power, Utan your inner beast, Moriarty with psi defense, Jack and Etrana with your scythe, and I can offer ideas into mastering your manipulation powers. But first, your mind must be honed, your base of combat technique sharpened, so Nightingale will take lead.”
Biotronix walks to Reaper and presses his hand to his chest as the man in black flinches in pain.
“What was that for?!”
Feeling like his insides are melting and his body turning to wax, circuits and machinery begin falling out of his body.
“Those gifts from your last run of training will only impede you now; the training wheels are off. The pulse I sent into your body turned them off and dislodged them. There will be a few moments of discomfort.”
“A bit late for that!” as he begins to vomit.
“There may also be some nausea.”
An elbow to the side of the Reaper’s face sends him some feet across what can only be a floor though none is visible. He turns up to see Nightingale in her tight-fitting purple body suit, a mesh of strong yet flexible fibers and metals. Grunting, he unslings his massive zanbato sword but in place of its target is an empty space as the blade cuts in two. The Kusanagi, a sword said to be forged by the gods, touches delicately against his carotid artery as the ninja lands like a settling mist.
“No weapons. They come later.”
What was once a hero now acts more like a beast, as he screams and lashes at her with his arm like a whip. The attack is cut short as a wave of energy envelops the Reaper leaving him a sizzling mess. Biotronix lowers down beside him with his blazing boot rockets.
“No powers, either. You must learn to become better from the ground up.”
He reforms, a look of defeat and shame on his face. He thinks back to the Surgeon, beating him relentlessly, and he thinks of Doom Lord, treating him as nothing more than a gnat. But, it’s the thought of Trish that calms him as he thinks of the song she sang when Jaydee died. “All we have to do is to face tomorrow,” the ending to the piece, echoes in his mind as he stands up his head low. He fights back his tears, his anger, and replaces it all with resolve. The resolution to become stronger and destroy the Doom Lord, Surgeon, and their forces, for Trish and for himself. Elsewhere, Yoshika sneezes. Reaper looks Nightingale into her blank eye guards and gets into a boxer’s stance.
“I’m ready.”
…
Time passes. Karate, Kung-Fu, Jujitsu, Pankration, Tang Soo Do, Muay Thai, Kalaripayit, Krav Maga, Pentjak Silat, Capoiera, Bokator, Savate, and so many more styles, one after the other, is passed down from teacher to pupil. The “day” starts with pain, the pain is savored and macerates throughout the body before the “day” ends and he collapses to recover for the pain of tomorrow. He is indoctrinated into a world of violence, built upon blood and sweat. In time, his body becomes a weapon, only for him to then become familiar with actual weapons; the staff, the bow, the chain, the sword, these become extensions of the foundations he built. However, in all this time, he’s yet to land a single blow to his teacher save for glancing ones that led to more pain as the attack is contorted against him.
“Are you ready?”
His mind coming out from deep meditation, The Reaper opens his eyes but does not turn to look upon Nightingale.
“Yes.”
In a fluid movement, she draws Kusanagi and tries to behead the kneeling student. His head bobs as his scythe is drawn and pushes the sword of his attacker away, its curved blade turning to the kunoichi as she spins away. Turning quickly yet calmly as he stands, the Reaper points his weapon to the ground with its edge facing upwards, his right arm holding the base of the scythe above his head. The pair begin a dangerous dance as the reach of the dark fighter’s weapon tries to outmaneuver the sleek precision of the master’s Japanese steel. No one could say how long this went on, since time holds no meaning to a place such as this, but it ends as both fighters are stripped of everything but themselves as hands meet feet and bodies smash to a violent harmony. Both out of breath, neither gives up any ground. Every step, every movement is met. Like some chess game played out with bones and flesh, the pair meet and disengage. Every hold leads to an escape, every escape to a strike, and every strike to a new, more skilled technique than the last. But, indeed, the fight ends as an elbow shatters its target’s cheek bone and then tranquility. The pupil stands in amazement as the teacher gives up nothing but focus, recedes, and bows.
“Our time is done. You are now ready for the next stage.”
…
“The beast lays dormant inside of you, lashing out when you are filled with fear and there’s no longer room for it to remain silent. Such a relationship ends in failure as the beast attacks without thought and thought has hidden away for protection, both will die as such. You must learn to accept the beast, to not fear what it is capable of, to tame it. Feel it within you but do not let it go.”
Utan hunches over as if in pain, digging at his sides as what was fur soft and gentle has raised into hateful quills, claws inching ever so slightly from his fingertips, and his mouth perverts into a mad grin as jagged teeth protrude like a child’s nightmare. The sight was terrifying enough to Reaper but it was the beast’s eyes that made him almost shriek instead gasping, choking on his breath. Before those eyes were calm and serene, like an old grandparent, but are replaced with blazing fire, viciously clawing at his very soul. Utan catches his pupil in this frozen state as a howl precedes a lightning leap as claws meet flesh and teeth greet bone. As the realization of his torment becomes reality, the Reaper’s world changes from white to pitch black.
“The first time is the hardest. When looking upon the inner self, the self we try to chain deep in ourselves, we are wrought with disgust and fear, but this fear is simply of the misunderstood.”
The form of Utan is somewhere between the creature he was and the beast he became as the student comes to.
“As men, we walk a line of order and anarchy. So entrenched have we become in what we understand, what we know, what we force ourselves to represent, we merely muzzle what we call our inner darkness. In turn, there is a struggle, one that forces us to separate what is proper and what feels right, and in trying to create maintenance, we cause turmoil. Man was never meant to deny the beast, nor was he to give in absolutely to its power. Spending so much time trying to separate them, we forget they are one and the same.”
The Reaper stands as teeth bite deep into his shoulder, the massive primal form of the teacher casting his shadow down as he lands behind, hurling the student into the air minus some muscle. The man in black contorts, digs into what should be earth and looks up in pain and anger. Staring back at him directly in his face is the beastman as gleaming steel claws lunge forward. This time, however, the claws are not greeted with flesh but the claws of its target. The moment is short-lived as Reaper’s arms break and he is smashed into the ground. Darkness creeps in again as words become the student’s parting lesson, “Don’t be afraid.”
…
Insects buzz amid the think humid air, trees droop as if the heat is too much for them to bear. A gazelle lowers its head to drink some water from a creek, seemingly the only relief in this world, but it does not drink unnoticed. Golden eyes peer through the brush, like two hungry stars in the night. Slowly, a creature on all fours creeps out of the high grass and stalks the creature before it. A wolf, large and black, it smells the air to tell if the gazelle perfumes itself with fear, listens to the world if something has gone amiss at the appearance of its frightful form, and it tastes the blood in its mouth as it knows the taste of gazelle all too well. In an instant, the gazelle notices its massive predator and prepares to run, but the wolf coming in air marks too late a sign as its fangs dig into the once calm creature. The ordeal lasts less than a moment as the wolf drops the prey and prepares to dine when itself, learning to mind its surrounding, senses something wrong. It is this instinct that saves the beast as it goes to move and narrowly dodges clawed paws of great size crash upon the carcass of the fresh kill. The wolf rises on its hind legs and takes on a form like a man, but not like a man or a wolf. The new creature, some pairing of man and beast itself but in much greater size, paces in a circle with the wolf. Their eyes meet, devoid of fear but instead filled with anticipation. They meet like lovers as they bite at each others’ necks, the claws of the smaller beast going to the eyes and upper arm muscles of the larger as the other creature beats about the spine and kidneys of the smaller. The larger beast’s eye begins to gush and it response the creatures jaw twists and opens, sending the smaller one before it. In an instant, the eye of the large beast heals as the wolf lifts up, seemingly unharmed. They run into the brush, neither prey nor predator but equal in their lust. At times, they move as apes then as rabbits then as moles, using the world around them as defense and weapon, always leading into more combat, as if some brutal chess game. It goes on for hours and into days as the scene changes. Atop a mountain peak and wading deep through snow, the two tired creatures alternate from walking on two and four legs. For some time, they’ve only creeped, measuring the other in a way only an animal could comprehend. The large beast lunges, but the smaller one remains still. Steely claws reach from the sky as their target kneels, the great beast rebounds but finds under its feet a lie when snow gives and it begins to tumble down a slope over the edge of the heavens. Reality shifts and the once cold mountain peak is encompassed by absolute white. The great beast lay upon the ground before it contorts and metamorphoses into Utan Oran. The wolf turns to look upon the fallen animal and bares its fangs. As it moves forward, some deeper consciousness seems to try and reassert control, inevitably the wolf goes to sit but turns into the Reaper falling on his knees. Biotronix picks up his holographic apparatus and helps lift his leader up as Nightingale attends to the injured Utan, though he stands unharmed as she lowers next to him.
“You’ve found the balance inside of yourself. The beast has been unleashed, but you have joined with it, became one with it, and used its primal instincts and elemental power enforce you. I have nothing more to teach you.”
The green and red giant Hachiman enters into view and looks down upon the still recovering Reaper. Before their eyes can meet, the giant plants his massive axe’s flat side into his newly awarded pupil sending the youth several dozen feet from where he rested. The dark hero, surprised, lifts up with a ‘I need to rest…’ as the burning eyes of the great hero meets his own face-to-face. His mouth opens and Reaper is engulfed in flame. Black, smoking protoplasm remains while the attacker stands above it.
“You no time to rest, child. Rise and face me as a man.”
…
He sits, as if in meditation, his palms open upwards upon his crossed legs. The words of Hachiman resound in his ears.
“Reaper, reality is energy. From the largest cluster of stars to the smallest microbe, energy both defines and composes it all. What the eye perceives is the mind’s way of interpreting something that defies description. Sanity is saved, but it is at a cost of knowing truth; namely, everything is one thing and thus the most minute of occurrences warps and shapes all things. Yet, amidst this chaos, there remains an order, a balance, some greater design that not only accounts for change but exists by it. We grasp at this concept from the smallest of the small for one must walk before one runs and look inside yourself to claim the power of all, the power of one.”
A small flame appears above the palms of the Reaper.
“The inner light is simpler to comprehend. Easier to foster. Find that fire, the source of your rawest emotions, the fuel the beast inside most deeply drinks, the guilt of your harshest losses, the pride of your greatest victories, the joy of your fondest love, and that desire that drives you to rise every conscious moment of your life. Take these invisible concepts and bring them forward, give them substance. Feel the heat as it builds in your chest, like kindling to fire at first realize it is there and bring it to an inferno. Push it as a mother gives birth from your heart to your hand. Let it erupt into the light!”
The dark clad hero opens his eyes only for his flame to extinguish. Hachiman steps forward.
“Not that easy, I’m afraid. You can be taught how to move and train your mind how to react in hand-to-hand combat. You can experience the world as an animal and bring forth the beast that sleeps beneath. But, to grasp the light, you may know it’s there, you may even glimpse its majesty for a moment, you have to learn how to unlearn all that you know. You are not here. I’m not here. None of this is real. Ours is but a flash in all that is. What is must go beyond comprehension, even belief, and instead become nothing. Then, and only then, does the door to everything open.”
...
Time cannot be measured in the place Reaper and the Legend have taken residence in. Relatively, one could say years have passed to this point. To follow this linear explanation, it would be appropriate to say months still pass as the Reaper contemplates the idea of nothing. Sometimes, he thinks about it until he gets so frustrated, he curses Hachiman for putting him through this torture. Generally, he gets angry at himself that he gave up out of frustration, feeling he wasted “time” that could have been spent finding the answer to a statement, though logically only questions ever have answers. Inevitably, the sheer white that surrounds him unhinges his grasp of reality. At first, he has his memories to hold to, but in time even those dull as the white creeps into him. Finally, there is nothing, not even the white. Reaper is asleep yet awake at the same time, alive yet he is as immobile as death, conscious but not of the world or himself but of everything. His eyes still closed, a giant fist strike at his face but the dark clad warrior lets it strike him like rain as it passes off a roof. More fists with feet, knees, elbows, and assorted body parts strike at him but merely hit with the force of a breeze. Hachiman calls forth the power inside as we waves his arms to form an unseen yin yang and some orb forms about his mid-body to come together with his palms into an explosive stream of energy. The blast hits the Reaper forming into a great bang, the specs of the Legend in the white become white themselves in its wake. If time existed, it would be long moments until silence and the sight of the Reaper floating in a meditation posture of seating, his right hand before him and Hachiman's energy in a pulsing ball just beyond the tips of Reaper's fingers. Suddenly, the basketball sized orb lurches in all directions and forms to some great size, like some perfectly rounded mountain. Hachiman looks on in a manner of disbelief while mutually in approval.
“Our time has ended.”
As the words leave the giant's mouth, the energy dissipates as mist cascades off the waves that hit shore. The Reaper opens his eyes and stands.
...
The Reaper sits on the “ground”, his legs crossed in meditation. His eyes open as Moriarty takes a similar manner of sit before him.
“Your time here is nearly done. You've passed the tests of Nightingale, Utan Oran, and Hachiman, or, the body, the beast, and the spirit. Now, we test your mind. Your previous experiences have built toward this, very few without psionic capability can resist one in battle. But, now that you've built up your body to take the damage, developed the ferocity to fight the effects, and the spirit to have a weapon against it, you bear a chance. But make no mistake, you've only developed a chance.”
Moriarty's eyes close as his fingertips touch together to form a triangle. The eye can not see what is happening, but the new awareness of the Reaper can sense energy swirling before the face of his teacher, swirling into a funnel coming at him like some slow moving needle. He tries to concentrate to prepare for it, but its tip plunges deep into his mind's eyes. The type of pain he feels is unlike any before, save perhaps when the Surgeon violated him previously. He tries manually rewiring his brain as he did before.
“The Surgeon is on to that trick, as am I.”
Synapses explode in his brain as the black swordsman's eyes go white. They reform in time for another wave of pain to cross over.
“Sense where the attack is happening and build up as people lay down sandbags against rising rivers. Rebuild your mind, like the advances of the computer to build smaller processors, to take wasted space and remodel it into a super computer. I am here and with me I can protect your mind.”
And so it went, time unmeasured, as walls were built, channels made more efficient, and the mind of Moriarty would strike again with more force. The experience was brutal on both, the brain of the Reaper molded and remolded in microseconds and the teacher, holding to the mind as a parent holds a child's hand while breaking down whatever structures were built to keep him out. The pupil's most precious memories, of his brother, of Jaydee, of Trish, were opened like a book again and again by the teacher as doors, walls, chains, and locks are thrown up to push him out. And so it was until finally the Reaper learned how to push back.
An artificial being has very little memories, save those implanted as necessary. Moriarty's first conscious memory was in a tube, watching as the Time Trapper looked upon him as some lab experiment. Before the programming, all he knew was the cold, wet darkness of that tube that haunts him to today. However, this is no dream, and as this realization comes to the forefront of Moriarty's mind, the Reaper appears.
“How did y... you're not a telepath.”
“I... don't know. I sensed the energy, I sensed the resistance waning, and so I followed it back to its source and found this.”
The world again goes white as the two, ragged and stinking from their journey, remain.
“Then, you are ready.”
Etrana, Trample Jack, and Biotronix emerge, eager to end this time unmeasured, yet long experience none the less. The armored leader speaks.
“Summon your scythe; all we know about it is it was found amidst T.I.T. headquarters' mound of artifacts when your previous weapon was destroyed and it was “unlocked” by Chip Micro to become the Crescent Blade of the Moon. That mystery's going to change thanks to Jack and Etrana. While they're peeling away that puzzle, I'll be your final training partner.”
The ball forms from Reaper's body and transforms into his techno-scythe. As he hands it to the pair and tries to walk away, it tries to jump from Jack's hands. Everyone's amazed but the weapon stops and grows still. Biotronix and his pupil walk away as Jack and Etrana look warily at the scythe.
“Up until now, you've been trained in things that generally require hero lineages and thousands of years of development. This has only been made possible because of the time distortion we're in and your power of manipulation. Everything combined, you are likely the Surgeon's equal, provided you took him to the limit in your last fight. However, the object is to beat this bastard. For that, we come to the last leg of your training. You have the skills, the physicality, defense... all because of your powers. Now, it's time to beef up your powers, and this time it won't be cybernetically enhanced. Moriarty showed you how to rewire your brain; this not only boosts its capabilities but improves it by micro-processing its base sloppy structure. Now, take that process, and apply to the rest of your body. Thus far, you've had to Hulk out to get strong or turn into any number of things to boost your speed. Instead, take the Superman or Flash route, and interweave your muscles at a more tight level.”
“That... sounds kind of hard.”
“Well... we got time, sort of.”