Life aboard the Obelisk-2 was easy. The space station which resided just outside the rings of Saturn was relatively unnoticed by invading forces into the Sol System, and despite its advanced weaponry it rarely had a call to action. The people who manned the station lived boring lives, their days always mundane and repetitive. The only call to arms came during training drills and mock, simulated battles. Perhaps that’s why they’d become lax in their duties, and, despite the glimmering sheen of new metal, the station had begun to look quite aged and old within. Maintenance crews had become rather adept at neglecting their work, and the soldiers which manned the station began to keep odd hours. They didn’t sleep for days, and then they’d crash for weeks.

In their neglected corridor of the Sol System, where no enemy had dared come, they thought of themselves as unseen and unneeded. They felt that, because of their nearly negligent commanders, that their behaviors could go on unchecked and unstopped. In fact, they were quite certain that no one outside the station itself even knew of their ungodly work habits, and their other…less reputable dealings with merchants and pirates galaxy-wide. Their own minds told them they were safe, and that no one knew of their double-dealing, double-crossing actions which would name them traitors should anyone find out. Of course, no one could ever find out, surely.

They were wrong.




”We’ve been on this damn flight for fifty-seven days, when will we arrive?” The voice demanded, and the thud of a fist being slammed on the table made its way into the microphone receiver embedded within the roof of The Sweeper’s mouth.

“Sir, in order for us to completely fly under the radar, and your cover identity to be effective we must take a circuitous route. This will ensure that your credentials as “Johnathan Alexander” will be completely credited as your own. Therefore, your trip is roundabout and while a normal flight would only take a few weeks, you’ve been on a route which will have you arriving at your destination in…fifteen minutes. You should prepare for departure. Check in every night, and don’t forget your primary objective.” Another voice spoke through the ear piece, which in this case was a small, implanted bug directly inside the inner ear drum.

“About damn time, I’ll begin preparations to disembark now. Reports will be incoming soon. The station will be destroyed before the month is out, and this rotting infestation of traitors and scumbags will be nothing more than a memory quickly enough.” He spoke, and then with a single thought command turned the receiver and the ear piece off.

Johnathan Alexander stood up, his muscled body shifting with the minimal effort of gathering his few belongings, those of which could be gathered in the open, and putting them in his pack, which was already quite full of the other materials he would need - all cleared ahead with people who didn’t even know what orders they were being given to follow. They knew nothing as to the reason this stranger was coming to their home, their headquarters, only that he had been cleared to bring in otherwise illegal substances - and would be allowed to pass through inspection untouched.

Of course, being involved in the rough-shod criminal enterprise having been built on this station, they automatically assumed it was something their bosses had ordered being brought in for their own, personal use. If they knew the truth, they’d be upset if they knew the real materials inside the case, especially if they knew the ends to which those materials would be put. The Sweeper , of course, knew his mission well. Within five minutes of landing he’d begin the mission protocol, and end the entire scheme in less than a few hours. He was known for his ability to work fast, work hard, and get the job done with maximum innocent casualties. In this case, though, they weren’t so innocent. This mission wasn’t for his usual crowd.

The United Confederate Government was offering him a clean slate, and more money than he’d ever dreamed of, to do this one little mission for them. So, his shuttle was docking and already he was preparing to finish the work lain before him. He made his way through the shuttle docking pod, and into the main bay of the huge space station. Circumventing customs required only the flashing of his identification badge, and the proper papers which proved his lack of need. Stamped in the right places, and initialed on the proper lines, he made his way through a four hour process in less than ten minutes.

Once in his room, he swung his hand into the bottom compartment of the bag, one which was well hidden and easily concealed. He pulled his main weapon, a mystical crystal found on the backwater planet of Daan’dal. The crystal had a few pretty nifty properties, the least of which was giving The Sweeper a plethora of powers and abilities beyond the scope of human capacity. The fact that the gem was mutating, and malleable, was also a nice addition to the mold.

His boots thudded on the steel flooring, and his jeans rubbed as he walked. He seemed nothing more than a natural, run of the mill, drug dealer. Which, he hoped, everyone would think of him as, be it the case or not. Soon, though, they would all know there was something odd about this creature. That he wasn’t entirely…human.

He’d always hated the futuristic life that people had come to rely so heavily on. Part of him wished he could have died the death of a normal person, instead of actively searching and finding a way to extend his life past vast limits of old age. The man kicked himself every day for those decisions, for choosing to hunt down the man named The Liaison across all known stretches of reality and dimension. However, that mischievous bastard had managed to evade him each time he got close. One of these days, his Untouchable streak would wear out and his pursuer would be there to finally slice him in twine for what he put the man through.

For now though, he was forced to reside in the futuristic setting of distaste and hunt down rag-tag criminals and potential warriors of The Liaison’s sick game, and question them on if they had been approached. Rarely did this end well for either party involved, more so the party that was not Alphonse himself. Being alive as long as he had, had taken him on trips across the galaxy, and to places people dared only dream about, and yet nothing had offered him any insight as to his inquiries. Perhaps his next round of interrogations would yield some fruit, or he’d be back here, at the Sweaty Bullfrog Tavern, drowning his sorrows in another pitcher of Jack Daniels.



When on a mission, Alphonse had taken a liking to the name Warrior, homage to the man he was deemed as at the end of the first incarnation of The Way of the Warrior. It was after that faithful tournament, where his body had been bathed in the blood of all his victims, that he had taken to the life of revenge. Such a thing had a way of leading a man to doing things he would normally not think of doing; in one instance, Alphonse sought out a way to extend his life, his determination had led him to such a discovery and released him from the bonds of age.

“Alpho-- Warrior. We’ve recently discovered that the United Confederate Government has been making some under the table moves that may or may not warrant our attention. At the moment, our mole on the inside has told us that they’ve gotten one of the best to handle their current piece of dirty work and that whatever he was supposed to be carrying is dangerous.” There was a man across from him speaking, relaying him the briefing of the mission he was inevitably going to undertake. All of these things had a way of piquing the interest of a man whom only had one thing on his mind. Perhaps this man, or the government, knew some information he did not, such people had a way of knowing more than they should.

“Fine, I’ll accept it, under the condition I get to question them before you make your arrest. As you know, things get hairy after the energy-cuffs, or whatever your new technology is, are slapped on someone’s wrists.” Warrior made no attempt to hide his displeasure at the way law enforcement held potential information hoarders away from him, but that was the name of the game. A dossier was slid to him across the polished wood table, and included nothing but a wallet, some papers, and a microchip that could be implanted into any sufficient computer to allow for readily available information. Warrior did not so much dislike these things, as much as the rest of technology, but they were still not favored amongst his choices.

The man across from him stood and began to walk away, before a eerie knock on his shoulder forced him to freeze. “Leave the computer, Relique,” Warrior asked, turning the object on the man’s shoulder sideways. His request was complied with. Inserting the small chip into the computer, information on the UCG was quickly brought up, and much of it was encrypted. This didn’t matter, for there was always a way. Tapping the keys with his pointer finger, the keyboard recognized his fingerprints and unlocked the hidden passages of the file. Soon, anything linked to the devious intent of the UCG was displayed across the screen. A pair of provided headphones allowed him to hear the audio in peace, while he enjoyed another pitcher of Jack Daniels. Whomever they sought to hire this time, had to have been a pretty bad guy to be on their radar, further still to actually be hired by these people. They had a hand in all kinds of illicit activities, particularly the drug trade, of which their boss was a humongous supporter.

Seems like Liaison‘s type of people.

Alphonse arrived the next day, standing on the shuttle dock bay amongst hundreds of other people; none of which knew him, and none of which he knew, aside from a few assorted moles that were there to help identify the target. Under the guise of a wayward traveler, he blended into the crowd with extreme ease, even managing to hide both his primary weapons. Either was in reach of his hands, and with his expertise in multiple sword styles, they were still fairly in place for defense and offense. Skilled eyes transitioned across the area, focusing particularly on a man whom did not wait like the rest of them, in fact, by the time Alphonse managed to make it to the front desk of Customs, the man had been gone for what seemed like a quarter of an hour or more.

Flashing his paper work and wallet contents, as well as getting a little help from higher up, Warrior was allowed entry into the station, and offered an escort to his room. As he, and his escort, Dalia, walked down the corridor and past windows to space, the man he had seen before strolled by with thudding boots and rubbing jeans. Tipping his head towards the man, he continued down the path, wherein Dalia, an undercover agent told him that the man they passed was their prime suspect. Alphonse looked back, though the man was a good ways down the hall and approaching a turn, that Warrior expected him to take. Well then, this should be amusing, he thought as he slid into his room and dropped his briefcase, wallet, and other trinkets he would not need.

On the bed lay two swords, and though they were Katana, they had seen numerous different styles of sword play and in Warrior’s hands, could mimic them perfectly. The man, himself, stood before a mirror and whispered a gentle prayer, hoping that his skill in Chi Manipulation would serve him well. After two moments, and a deep breath later, Alphonse lifted his weapons and slid them into the waistband of an exquisite kimono, of crimson and red, with a hefty brown addition over his lower body. He sought out his sandals and slipped them on, though he knew they’d be useless later. A large red scarf was wrapped around his forehead, and proved itself long enough that a length of the silk covered his back. Placing his hat on his head, he wandered out of his room and followed the corridor the way he and the suspect once traveled.

It wasn’t long until he found himself in the food quarters, wherein he could glean the most information. So off in a corner he sat, patiently waiting for the man he thought would come, the information he was sure to find buried beneath the mashed potatoes he aimlessly played with, and the action that his body felt was imminent. ”If only I had some more Jack Daniels.”