Founders’ Falls is one of the nicer neighborhoods of Paragon City. Tucked away in a remote part of town, the many waterways throughout lend a cosmopolitan feel to the area. If it weren’t for all the aliens, cultists and supremacists roaming the streets, the place would be perfect.
"By the great spirits of the nether, I call this conclave to order," A Death Mage says to a gathering of the Circle of Thorns.
"My robe itches," a Guardian says.
"My sword got bent last week, can I borrow someone else’s?" a Thorn Caster says.
"Uh, guys, Terry’s crossbow went off and shot him in the foot," an Energy Mage shuffles.
"Silence!" the Death Mage shouts. "The sacred rites of Oranbega cannot be interrupted by your idiotic gibbering!"
"Sorry."
"Just shut up, ok?! Now where was I?"
"Conjuring spirits from the nether," the Guardian says. "Again."
"Can I have a Mountain Dew?" the Energy Mage asks.
"Shut up, this is serious business!"
"Then why are we wearing thick wool robes that itch?" the Guardian asks uncomfortably.
"Its part of the ceremony! Now, spirits of the dark, I command thee to-- Oh [censored]!" The Death Mage drops to his knees. "Hold up guys, I lost a contact lens, help me find it."
The conclave all begin rooting around on the grass, looking for the errant contact when one of them happens to look up.
"Oh no, capes!" he says, seeing a blue blur running towards him.
The Circle stand up hastily and draw their weapons. A dagger flies past the blue figure.
"My +1 dagger missed!" the Thorn Caster wails as the blue streak materializes into a scrapper’s boot.
"Ah!" the Death Mage cries, seeing a red armored blaster swoop in from the sky. "Protection from Good 6’ Radius! Protection from Good 6’ Radius!!"
"Hey, punk," the blaster taunts. "I got your natural twenty right here!"
Minutes later, the two heroes finish mopping up the group.
"Ah, Spring is in the air, Flat," Teckstyle says. "And the LARPers are in full bloom."
"I liked smashing them with my +1 boot," Flatfoot says appreciatively.
"Well, I hope we’ve all learned a valuable lesson about getting some fresh air."
"Yeah, violence stays relevant even outside of the schoolyard." Flat answers.
"You crack me up lil’ buddy."
Meanwhile, at the Zig…
The black-clad figure known as Deadfoot is escorted up to a cell by security.
"Your cell’s this one," a guard says, keying open the door.
"Prison," Deadfoot says hollowly. "Unbelievable."
"Look pal, after you trashed Pocket D, this is the only place safe enough to keep you until we can get you out of our dimension."
"Come on, I didn’t trash the place."
"DJ Zero’s ears are still ringing. Now get in there."
"Unbelievable, just unbelievable," Deadfoot says, shuffling into the cell as the door closes behind him. He looks at his cellmate, who’s reclining on his bunk reading a book.
"Whatcha readin’ there?" Deadfoot asks.
"Der Doctor Umlaut Guide to Robotics," the man says without looking up.
"Sounds, uh, exciting. You, uh, been here long?"
"Long enough to want out of this dump and fulfill my destiny."
"What, like take over the world?"
"Take over the world."
"How?"
"An army of killer robots."
"Ah, that old chestnut."
"Laugh now, you’ll be sorry when a death machine stomps on your trachea."
"You’re not going to look up from your book are you?"
"Nope."
"You got a name?"
"Not one I’m sharing with you."
"Well I think I’ll call you Cranky."
"Whatever."
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