07-20-2016, 01:24 PM
(This post was last modified: 07-20-2016, 01:25 PM by Vulre Oakenlimb.
Edit Reason: OH GOD TYPO NO MY LIFE IS OVER
)
The greatest showman in the multiverse stepped out from the rift in reality that spawned him, the tear in the fabric of existence erasing itself from memory as quickly as it ripped itself open. Or did it even exist in the first place?
Of course, once you started pondering philosophical quandaries like that, you end up spending your days locked in a dark room with nothing more than a chalkboard and a computer permanently connected to the weirder chatrooms. Been there, done that, found the occasional lizard-person. But there was no purpose for such… BORING activities in this new realm of possibility. It was time to pull off one hell of a gag on this entire damn universe…
His spandex-clad fingers flew to his bracer, tapping upon the near-mystical sigils emblazoned upon it, varying reports flooding his domed helmet.
What he saw did not please him. Not a single drone to dupe whatever heroes infested this land, no robotic ancient Mayan Gods to control (Damn the Avengers, he’d put far too much work into that set to see it wasted!), to speak nothing of the dilapidated state of his suit. Just how did Omni expect him to put on a proper performance without his equipment?
He took a deep breath, the fresh air within his orb filling his lungs. The show must go on, after all. Underfunded and understaffed? That just meant you were the Underdog. As the Webhead was always happy to remind him, all of his plans were frequently undone by an exceptionally lucky break, some cruel twist of fate that outweighed all of his careful prepwork.
Ah well. It’s not like that grinning bastard saw fit to bring in someone with the unholy confidence to wear their underpants on the outside here to enforce their version of justice.
He quickly typed in a series of commands, one eye observing the emptiness around him. As promising as this world might be, he was THE Master of Misdirection, a title which demanded subterfuge. The shimmering scales of his armour began to fade, The Maestro of Mayhem slowly turning transparent. The projectors mounted upon his torso activated, the twin stone eyes opening and constructing a near-perfect replica of himself, and-Dear lord, do my thighs really look that big?
A brief moment later, the narcissistic semblance was reforged, emerald scales glimmering beneath a sourceless sun, a dark purple cloak wrapped around the hologram’s broad shoulders. The translucent form of the true Mysterio hovered around his image, carefully inspecting himself for any flaws. A few extra muscles couldn’t hurt, and nor could a larger codpiece…
The alterations were quickly finished, the idealized pinnacle of arrogance before him standing resplendent under the sunless sky. It was undoubtedly a piss-poor set, but you worked with what you got. Beneath his helmet, his eyes sought out an audience.
There.
What appeared to be a green-skinned pyromaniacal Opera Singer faced off a pointy-eared mercenary of sorts.
Act One, Scene One, go.
He rapidly keyed in commands as he approached under his near-invisible illusion, commanding his holographic representation to approach the pair, his malevolent mind working on the perfect approach. You always made an entrance, no matter the scenario. Without drama, a Supervillain was nothing more than a particularly strong thug without an ounce of worth in their being.
Raw Omnillium coalesced before him as the decoy made their approach, pure will forming a shape within his outstretched hand.
With a flourish of its digitized cape, the hologram made itself known, the viridian scales coating it shining as it bowed, the featureless glass dome reflecting their surprised faces as a voice that never learnt there was a limit to dramatic tones spoke up. “Greetings, fellow players! I am Mysteeerriiioo The Magnificent!”
His voice echoed in the brief silence, a cloud of purple smoke consuming his figure before the near-six feet of Supervillain appeared next to the Elf-like hired gun, directly interposing itself between the pair and the still-invisible puppetmaster. “The proper pronunciation is either a thoroughly cowed and fearful whisper, or a praise-filled scream shouting my many virtues to the heavens.”
Three. Two. One.
A flick of his wrist sent the freshly forged card flying, sailing through the distance with near-perfect precision as his illusion extended a hand towards the Magmatic maiden. “My card, Madame.” The paper flew through the emptiness of the illusion, seemingly erupting from a bracer as the shocked damsel struggled to catch the card, her lava-wrought gauntlets tossing the card in the air several times before it could be held steadily enough to read.
Upon its embossed surface were the golden-gilt words: Mysterio. Master of Illusion. Maestro of Mayhem. Professional Supervillain. Birthday Parties at your own peril.
Of course, once you started pondering philosophical quandaries like that, you end up spending your days locked in a dark room with nothing more than a chalkboard and a computer permanently connected to the weirder chatrooms. Been there, done that, found the occasional lizard-person. But there was no purpose for such… BORING activities in this new realm of possibility. It was time to pull off one hell of a gag on this entire damn universe…
His spandex-clad fingers flew to his bracer, tapping upon the near-mystical sigils emblazoned upon it, varying reports flooding his domed helmet.
What he saw did not please him. Not a single drone to dupe whatever heroes infested this land, no robotic ancient Mayan Gods to control (Damn the Avengers, he’d put far too much work into that set to see it wasted!), to speak nothing of the dilapidated state of his suit. Just how did Omni expect him to put on a proper performance without his equipment?
He took a deep breath, the fresh air within his orb filling his lungs. The show must go on, after all. Underfunded and understaffed? That just meant you were the Underdog. As the Webhead was always happy to remind him, all of his plans were frequently undone by an exceptionally lucky break, some cruel twist of fate that outweighed all of his careful prepwork.
Ah well. It’s not like that grinning bastard saw fit to bring in someone with the unholy confidence to wear their underpants on the outside here to enforce their version of justice.
He quickly typed in a series of commands, one eye observing the emptiness around him. As promising as this world might be, he was THE Master of Misdirection, a title which demanded subterfuge. The shimmering scales of his armour began to fade, The Maestro of Mayhem slowly turning transparent. The projectors mounted upon his torso activated, the twin stone eyes opening and constructing a near-perfect replica of himself, and-Dear lord, do my thighs really look that big?
A brief moment later, the narcissistic semblance was reforged, emerald scales glimmering beneath a sourceless sun, a dark purple cloak wrapped around the hologram’s broad shoulders. The translucent form of the true Mysterio hovered around his image, carefully inspecting himself for any flaws. A few extra muscles couldn’t hurt, and nor could a larger codpiece…
The alterations were quickly finished, the idealized pinnacle of arrogance before him standing resplendent under the sunless sky. It was undoubtedly a piss-poor set, but you worked with what you got. Beneath his helmet, his eyes sought out an audience.
There.
What appeared to be a green-skinned pyromaniacal Opera Singer faced off a pointy-eared mercenary of sorts.
Act One, Scene One, go.
He rapidly keyed in commands as he approached under his near-invisible illusion, commanding his holographic representation to approach the pair, his malevolent mind working on the perfect approach. You always made an entrance, no matter the scenario. Without drama, a Supervillain was nothing more than a particularly strong thug without an ounce of worth in their being.
Raw Omnillium coalesced before him as the decoy made their approach, pure will forming a shape within his outstretched hand.
With a flourish of its digitized cape, the hologram made itself known, the viridian scales coating it shining as it bowed, the featureless glass dome reflecting their surprised faces as a voice that never learnt there was a limit to dramatic tones spoke up. “Greetings, fellow players! I am Mysteeerriiioo The Magnificent!”
His voice echoed in the brief silence, a cloud of purple smoke consuming his figure before the near-six feet of Supervillain appeared next to the Elf-like hired gun, directly interposing itself between the pair and the still-invisible puppetmaster. “The proper pronunciation is either a thoroughly cowed and fearful whisper, or a praise-filled scream shouting my many virtues to the heavens.”
Three. Two. One.
A flick of his wrist sent the freshly forged card flying, sailing through the distance with near-perfect precision as his illusion extended a hand towards the Magmatic maiden. “My card, Madame.” The paper flew through the emptiness of the illusion, seemingly erupting from a bracer as the shocked damsel struggled to catch the card, her lava-wrought gauntlets tossing the card in the air several times before it could be held steadily enough to read.
Upon its embossed surface were the golden-gilt words: Mysterio. Master of Illusion. Maestro of Mayhem. Professional Supervillain. Birthday Parties at your own peril.
Torcher of tomes, slayer of sorcerers, taker of ears, and flayer of men. Reasonable rates.