The trans-spacial portal gradually folds in on itself, leaving little
trace it was ever there.

Stryfe stands to one side of the room, head bowed slightly, his long
velvet cape draping back and over his shoulders in a relatively regal
fashion. As the youth steps through the portal, he raises his index finger
gingerly to the side of his helm and speaks in a concise, yet somewhat
cold voice. "Zero. Disperse the portal." Immediety after, the portal
proceeds to gradually close in on itself, in an iris-esque fashion.
Lowering his hand back to his side, then steadily moving both his hands
behind his back and straightening his posture, he looks on in as a silent
sentinel, endearing to see what the boys first reations will be before he
approaches him. It was always useful to assess the situation first...

Stepping through? Try barrelling through at full tilt, skidding to a
screeching halt when his surroundings change dramatically. Eyes wide
behind his mask, he finally comes to a halt (having left an impressive
skidmark across the floor) at Stryfe's feet and looks up. He glances
behind, sees the portal closing - and - well, this place looks a little
more interesting than Times Square. So hey, why not? There's a distinct
pause, then the kid clambers to his feet and stares at Stryfe. "- Wc
tkuaehyo-phor sreo?"

Stryfe furrows his brow, and examines the youth before him more intently.
"Hmm. Interlac." Raising his index finger back to the side of his helm, he
addresses an unseen entity, though his eyes remained locked on Bart with
an almost fierce curiousity. "Zero. An Interlac translator to my location.
Now." Again, he lowers his hand to his side and narrows his eyes at the
boy. Gently, almost reluctantly it seems, he closes his eyes and speaks
directly into the boy's mind. "I am your beginning, and your end. I am..."
He trails off and wrinkles his nose briefly, apparently trying to
concentrate. For a second, his knees buckle and he sways slightly, but
recovers just as fast. Showing weakness was not an option. His eyes,
slightly enraged, suddenly flicker open and give Impulse a somewhat
penetrating look. "What are you?" His lip wavers slightly as he tests the
word openly before reverting back to mental communication. "...
Bartholomew?"

"Bart," replies the kid automatically, squinting at the armored guy.
Impatiently, he tugs his mask down, letting it hang at the back of his
neck. "<My name is Bart. Cool armor! Does it come with controls like
mecha? Can I try it?>" As he speaks, he instantly begins moving, checking
the armor out from all angles. He's up, he's down, he pokes his finger on
one of the spikes and ows! and sucks his finger for a second, then forgets
he hurt himself and is checking out the cape, and and and - "<Holy grife,
I bet -nothing- can get through this! Do you use it for Antarean
paintball?>"

Stryfe blinks in a very slow, very deliberate manner, and continues to
stare straight ahead as Bart zips around him. Furrowing his brow yet
again, he ponders if he could have made a grave mistake... He does his
best to recompose himself, gripping both sides of his cape with each hand
respectively, then, sweeping out from under Impulse dramatically as he
turns to face him again. "This armor was forged as a symbol of my
authority. You'd do best to recognise it appropriately. Now... please...
stop moving..." He gives Bart an almost pleading look for one of the first
times in over 20 years. Had it been anyone else, he surely would have held
them in place, but this boy... His estranged youth made childhood a
curious commodity in his eyes.

Aww, Stryfe said please. That deserves -some- consideration, doesn't it?
The kid comes to a stop in front of the tall villain, only occasionally
blurring out of place to check something cool out that he's spotted in his
peripheral vision. Otherwise, he looks expectantly at Stryfe, waiting for
him to say what he obviously wants to say, whatever that is. It's also
good he hasn't really been exposed to 20th century television, yet, or
he'd immediately be leaping on the 'respect my authorita' bit. Bart
looks...very young. Physique of a teenager, but looking at his face, and
his eyes - that's someone who hasn't seen the world yet. "<Well, it's got
spikes, but no leather, so yeah. If it were leather and spikes, you would
be a rebel maurauder or a goth, right?>"

Stryfe allows himself a wry smile. Well... the corners of his mouth wrench
upwards, at least. As far as sights go, there are more reassuring ones.
"Apparently. Bartholomew... Bart... I am called Stryfe. The Chaos
Bringer." He pauses, contemplating this statement. There could be a new
contended to the title... "I am the first and last amoung the homo sapien
superior. Most powerful of my kind. And you have been brought before my
whim as I saw fit. I have seen much in you..."

"<Strife? Or> Stryfe?" Okay, so that was a little confusing. It's all
right. Bart's on the next subject already anyway. "<So you're one of those
live-forever guys, huh? Like Darkseid or Vandal Savage? They think they're
first and last, too.>" Then, eyes widening again, he starts to step
forward, but remembers Stryfe asked him to stay still, so just kind of
shuffles his feet a little. "<Inside me!? Do you have x-ray vision?>"

Stryfe continues to stare intently at Bart, probing his exterior, if not
his interior as he presumes, for clues as to how he functioned... "I... do
not have x-ray vision. Merely a somewhat extensive foresight. And it does
not take a genius such as myself to anticipate your potential, Bart. Pure,
distilled, unadultered potential... waiting to be molded..." He gestures
dramatically with a clenched fist full of cape, before turning and
striding towards the eastern elevator. "As for my nature, it is not yours
to muse, but to merely to accept. And labels can be so very black and
white when it comes to that, in a world of hues and shades..." As the
elevator seems to slide open of it's own accord he turns back to face the
boy with a steely gaze. "Come. I shall explain futher to you in a more...
comfortable surrounding."

"<So you really didn't see -inside- me>," presses Impulse, trailing along
behind Stryfe. "<Nass! I was hoping it was green in there. Oh well. Hey,
do you have any cookies? And usually I'm kinetic, not potential, but you
told me to stay still, so I guess you're right. If you don't have any
cookies, do you have a kitchen? I could try and make you some cookies. Or
just eat something else. Are we in space? There's no doors except ones
with big warning looking signs on them and I can't breathe in space so I
don't want to go out there unless it's not space, but I'm hungry...>" Does
he ever stop? It seems his incessant trail of blindingly quick babble
won't cease unless someone puts food in his mouth. Or gags him, but that's
not too nice and he'd get it off right quick anyways. "<But if we're not
in space, let me know so I can go. But I'm pretty sure we are. Or
something, anyway. Do you have any windows? Or hey, are we underwater? I
bet we are, and this is a really big submarine, or maybe part of Atlantis.
Dox said Atlantis is a real tourist trap, except maybe it's not back in
this century, but I don't know>."


Elevator (East Tower) - Stryfe's Citadel

         Welcome to the elevator for the eastern tower of Stryfe's
citadel. The eastern tower holds the lodgings of the citadel's residents,
recreational and training facilities, and a few other miscellaneous areas.
To exit the elevator at a certain level, use the following chart and type
in your exit -


Stryfe keeps his eyes narrowed and locked directly ahead of him as he
steps into the elevator, trying to keep his temper tempered while
processing Impulse's innane banter. He allows a frustrated out take of air
as the buttons on the elevator panel take the liberty of selecting level
one for themselves. He couldn't possibly have been this hyper active as a
teenager. The Forever Walker would have had him beaten with an unmatched
fervour. He humoured the thought for a moment... But no, he couldn't.
Glancing over at Bart, he realised him to be far more useful while
cooperative, if somewhat annoying. And the leisures of cruel and unusual
punishments weren't something he was readily able to pursue without
causing the youth to walk into the clutches of his enemies... no... not
yet, at least... "I shall provide you with refreshment shortly. First, I
have something you may be interested in..." The door to the lift closes as
it begins to move up.

"<Oh...okay>," replies the kid, who seems to be...slowing down a little.
He leans against the side of the lift, looking over the inside. Lots of
controls. Lots! Plenty of buttons to push, but later, definitely. later.
"<Whatcha got? Armor for m- oh, sorry, I forgot it was a symbol.>" Either
he's a real flake or there's something very interesting going on in his
head. But why isn't he - he's not bouncing off the walls. Why?

Stryfe doesn't seem to notice or care. Stryfe is a fairly self-centred
person, and as long as Bart is concious he seems him operating in an
optimal state. He keeps his eyes ahead of him and arms tucked neatly
behind his back as the elevator doors slide open. Striding out forward
with an air of importance, he doesn't stop to ensure that the child is
following him, but simply assumes with mental command, "Walk.", that he
will immedietly obey.

And, sort of shuffling quietly, yeah - Bart does follow. There is, after
all, no food in the lift anyways. He tugs at his collar, then runs a hand
through his hair - which gets even wilder and more chaotic. 'More
comfortable surroundings', he said. Where where where?


Living Room - Stryfe's Citadel

         This room is much more than your average living room. It's sheer
astronomical size seperates from most first off. The general living room,
or media room, presents many various recreational activities, because,
after all, it's easy to get cabin fever when you're so cut off from
society, even if you are within a structure the size of the citadel.
Firstly, there's the actual 'lounging' area. This has a sofa set, one or
two armchairs, a coffee table with a few miscellaneous magazines scattered
across it, and an immensely large entertainment system before the spread.
The entertainment system includes a nigh 60" tv, a set of exceptionally
large speakers, a stereo system, and console system with several games
cartridges (such as Eric the Echidna, and Mega Zuchinni Brothers). Moving
on, there is a large, long, wooden table in the room also, capable of
seating at least 20 odd people. The table could be used for research,
eating, etc. It is surounded by several book cases against the walls,
which are absolutely packed with books. Everything from Military Tactics
textbooks, to Bio-Physics, to literary classics by Charles Dickens.
Against another wall there is a desk featuring a fairly high tech
computer, with various peripheral hanging off of it, such as a printer,
scanner, modem, drawing tablet, etc. And, finally, in another corner of
the room, there is a large electronic harness and pair of VR goggles. This
VR system allows people to play VR games, watch holo-vids, and so on. It
is state of the art, fresh from the 41st century. Enjoy.


Stryfe immedietly steps to the side as he enters, and, with a dramatic
sweep of his hand, indicates to the room before them. "This is the
recreational room of those who serve under me. I think you'll find it to
your liking." One of the corners of his mouth turn up again, ever so
gingerly. It's obvious Stryfe is putting no real effort into his twisted
attempt at a smile.

"<Cool>," is the young speedster's curiously listless response. Something
occurs to him as he flops automatically on the couch and stops moving.
"<People who serve you? Then howcome we're the only ones here? I looked
all over when I got here and I didn't see anyone else...>"

Stryfe narrows his eyes at the youth and folds his arms definitively
across his chest. "At the moment, only my worthy vassal, Zero, resides in
the citadel with myself. There will, however, be others... And I would
like you to be the first of many, Bart. All of this can be yours..."
Again, he gestures to the room. "... in exchange for your fealty unto my
expansive throne." He grins with a slightly more emphatical manner this
time, going so far as to show his teeth, making it all the more terrifying
for that.

"<-Fealty->?!" exclaims Bart, sitting up suddenly, then swaying slightly.
"<That's so first millennium>," he continues, a tad distastefully.
Irritatingly, he seems to be completely and utterly missing the scarybad
facil expressions - but who can blame him when there's that helmet to
stare at? /Really/. Ehn. That took effort. Also, uh-oh. He has a decent
vocabulary. What's this, though? He's a little pale - slowly sits back
against the couch again. "<Can I eat now>?"

Stryfe's expression weakens as he looks to his feet and narrows his eyes.
"Very well. I shall fetch you something. Feel free to think my offer over
and peruse the room." And with a flourish of his long cape, he storms out
the door in a frustrated manner.

Impulse doesn't do a lot of perusing. Hungry hungry hungry. Jeez, this is
a fairly debilitating weakness, no? But when a kid with a metabolism like
that relies on continually zipping off to snack, then he's suddenly
somewhere where zipping off through the walls would be Sudden Gruesome
Death (tm), and he's been eating nothing but carbohydrates...it's not a
pretty sight. When Stryfe returns, Bart's curled up in the corner of the
couch with his eyes closed, otherwise not having moved.

Stryfe returns with a tray floating through the air at his side. It
appears to be laiden several food types. A large bowl of ice cream covered
in chocolate syrup forms the centrepiece of the junkfood pile, with
several miscellaneous cakes and pastry goods around the edges. A tall
glass of milk accompanies the sugary platter also. Stryfe looms over the
couch ominously, tray bobbing beside him, unsure how to approach the
situation. He spends some time probing the child's external features,
searching for some signal as to what he was supposed to do. All the while,
only one thought comes to mind though, and that's the notion of just how
vulnerable the boy currently was... and not for all the right reasons...

Cracking a lid open, finally, Impulse glances up at Stryfe. "<Am I making
breath ghosts on your armor>?" What the hell? Um. Oh, well. Once he's got
some carbs in his system, he's okay - jeez, it's like Popeye with spinach.
The effect is almost instantaneous. "<Thanks! Sorry...it was almost half
an hour since last time I ate...hey, howcome you can understand me? That
vampire kid who said he wasn't a vampire couldn't understand a word I
said>."

Stryfe quirks an eyebrow quizically at Impulse and stares at him warily.
"My birthright grants my the boon of telepathy. I can read your
thoughts..." He narrows his eyes slighty. "... to a degree. You're
speaking interlac, aren't you? An interesting language..." His eyes glaze
over as he carefully considers this. Suddenly, he blinks carefully and
looks back to Bart, as if remembering something. "... vampire?"

"<Yeah, Interlac. I thought everyone spoke Interlac but Durlans, but I
guess I was wrong>," replies Impulse, continuing to chow down. In the
world of time that it takes Stryfe to carefully consider the interesting
language that is Interlac and suddenly blink and speak again, Bart
finishes just about everything that's on the tray. Much happier camper, he
is. "<Yeah, he drinks blood, but he swears up and down he's not a vampire.
Pretty goofy, if you ask me. So wait, you can read my mind? Annnd...oh
yeah! You know...yeah, wow, -grife- that's cool. Your birthright, huh? So
you're from Titan. Hey, have you ever heard of the Flash>?"

Stryfe draws himself up at the name of the super hero, a brief sneer
passing across his expression. "I am... familiar with him, yes. A member
of the Justice League of America, if memory serves... self-righteous oafs.
Why do you ask?" He resumes a defensive stance, with his arms crossed over
his chest.

( Self-righteous oafs? ) O o . thinks Impulse, eyes going wide again. He
gets reeeeally quiet all of a sudden, with this sort of, I dunno,
-wounded- look on his face. Kinda like a sad puppydog. He also scuffs his
foot around on the floor a little. "<I...was kinda lookin' for him...my
Gramma told me to, said I could spot him because he's fast like me...>"

Stryfe narrows his eyes and bends over slightly so that his face is level
with Impulse's. "Your grandmother? Why? Of what significance is the Flash
to you, whelp?" His voice takes a much sharper, harsher, and direct edge
on this note. Stryfe briefly contemplates ravaging Bart's mind for the
answers he's seeking, but recalls the earlier encounter just in time to
control himself and refocus his energies into a particularly nasty glare.

Totally puzzled, Bart fixates on the bit he didn't get. And, since he's
got this bizarre sense of personal space (read: none) he doesn't flinch
back from Stryfe. Just sort of sits there calmly, unaware of any danger,
and asks, "<What's a whelp>?"

Stryfe grits his teeth and lets out a hiss of impending rage. "I grow
tired of your games, child." He draws himself back up to full height, then
looks down upon Impulse in a somewhat disdainful manner and speaks in a
surprisingly calm and clean-cut voice. "Answer me. What significance does
the Flash hold for you, lightning rider?"

"<I'm not playing games>," says the kid a little sulkily, crossing his
arms. "<Gramma Iris said I should find him so he could help me fix my
metabolism, but...I dunno, maybe the time travel did it.>" He pauses,
frowning slightly, then looks up at Stryfe with his eyebrows raised. Again
- open, innocent, vulnerable face. "<How old do I look>?"

Stryfe is taken aback by Impulse's comment, and almost takes a step
backwards as a result. With a raised eyebrow, he fumbles and does his best
to rally. "I... um... 10?" He hazards a guess, with a face twisted into a
vaguely pleading look which immedietly shows he wouldn't normally be able
to comment in such an area. All of a sudden, he furrows his brow and draws
himself up again, "Wait a nano-second..."

"<A -whole- nanosecond>?" complains Bart briefly, then shakes his head,
pulling his feet up to sit crosslegged on the couch. "<Well, I thought I
looked older, but sure>." He looks around fifteen. With a grin, he notes a
little proudly, "<I'm just past two>!"

Stryfe bears all his teeth yet again and lets out a vaguely primal growl
from the back of his throat. In one swift movement, he brings his arm back
steadily and does his best to strike the child across the jaw with the
back of his hand. Stryfe winces slightly as his arm approaches contact,
realising the harshness of such an action, but one which was necessary.
Casualties had to be allowed. How else could he win the war?

Instinctively blurring, vibrating out of phase with Ye Olde Matter
Universe, Impulse blinks. "<Hey>!" he's saying as Stryfe's hand goes
through his head. "<Why...>" he's getting up "<did you>" and vaulting the
couch "<try to>" and at the back of the room, by the door "<hit me>?" He
looks utterly and completely baffled. "<I didn't break any rules...did
I>?"

Stryfe's jaw wavers briefly as his hand passes through the boy blunder's
cheek bone. He looks down blankly at his hand, waggling his fingers for
futher introspection, then looking back up to Impulse, mouth still open
slightly. "Intriguing." He rallys exceptionally quickly, if not as quickly
as the child. Extending his fist in clenched gesture towards Bart, he
grits his teeth and concentrates, apparently using some sort of
telekinetic field to spiral Impulse through the air, and pin him
upside-down to the opposite wall by his feet. It's a fairly impressive
display at that.

Yelling a little in surprise, it's not long before Bart's arms are
crossed, and he's scowling. His hair looks pretty long, upside down -- but
his temper looks pretty short. "<I'm not a monkey! The vampire kid said I
was a monkey too, and monkeys hang upside down, so I guess you think I am
too, but I am -so- not! Leggo, willya? I gotta find the Flash!>" He
squirms some, tugging at his feet, trying to free himself. Wiggle, wiggle.
Indefinite blur, then stilled again, grumbling.

Stryfe allows himself a slight triumphant smirk and strides stoically over
to Impulse's newly acquired position. "All in good time, my pint sized
companion. First, I believe you have several assets of some use to me." He
holds out a hand, palm before him, fingers outstretched, and maintains it
several inches before Bart's face, beginning to probe his find again ever
so gently. "... all in that glorious chaos conglomerate you refer to as a
cerebrum ..." For a second time, his eyelids flutter and his bodice sways,
as a stray bead of sweat gently rides down his cheek.

"<Um...what're you doing>?" asks Bart curiously, watching the hand in
front of his eyes. Again - not much of a sense of personal space, and this
new bizarreness has pretty much made him completely forget that this shiny
guy just tried to hit him. (!) He gets bored of holding his arms up to
cross them, so just lets them fall, hanging down below his head. He looks
up at Stryfe and frowns a little. "<Er, you need a kleenex>." With intense
concentration, pretty much all you can sort out is that he's got about
nineteen years' worth of knowledge crammed into two
chronological/emotional years. He wasn't lyin'. Also the words/concept
'Allen legacy' floating around in there, as close to a directive as the
kid's mind is capable of.

The door slides open as an odd looking being, possibly some sort of
mechanical, enters bearing a tray. The humanoid has a large, black circle
on both it's face and chest. Otherwise, it's emidermal layer is completely
white, and bears no identifiable marks. As it enters, it stands patiently
by the door, apparently waiting for something. Stryfe doesn't appear to
notice the being, or doesn't appear to care at least, as he begins to
perspire and physically shake even more profusely. Gritting his teeth, he
does his best to carefully dig through the mind of Bart Allen. Steadily,
he feels his own pulse rising, and finds his own hand, outstretched,
quiverring like a leaf as he struggles for control. But he refuses to give
up. Faster, and more wildly, he slowly begins to lose control the futher
he delves, and his body rattles beyond his control. Ultimately, he
subsides he with a gruff snarl under his breath, and, in one swift
movement, he spins away from the boy and releases the built up tension in
a mighty telekinetic roar. All of a sudden, the room's sofa, arm chairs,
and entertainment system are picked up and hurtled against the wall like
children's toys as they fall under his line of sight. With a slight
moaning noise, the far wall of the room visably bends and strains under
the sheer force of the shockwave. Finally, panting heavily, Stryfe's gaze
falls to rest on his feet, his emotional state bubbling at a simmer, and
most of the room's contents lying in a jumbled heap.

Throwing his arms up over his face, flinching away and pulling another
'hey I'm intangible' thingy, Bart's utterly silent throughout the entire
tantrum. Finally, slowly, his arms drop again, and he stares at the state
of the room. A pause. Then, enthusiastically, "<Again!! AGAIN!>"

Stryfe steadily returns his gaze back to Impulse, in a very steady, very
unflinching, though melancholic, manner. With a huff of his breath, he
errects his posture, and, without turning around, speaks to the humanoid
standing by the door. "Ah, Zero. Your timing is impecable as usual." With
a wave of his hand, the tray Zero was holding hovers through the air, and
to his side, where upon Stryfe looks over it's contents with a somewhat
grim smirk. The tray supports many various surgical tools, it seems, with
varying nature. Some of this century, some not. Their underlying nature is
the same though. Shiny. Pointy. Sharp. However, Stryfe's hand passes over
all of these, and reaches instead for something on the edge of the tray. A
small black box, which he straps to the belt-piece of his armor. "Ahh, the
translator." He turns back to Bart, and bows curtly whilst speaking in
interlac. "<I trust this is to your liking, good master>?" He goes on
smiling as he turns back to the tray and produces, what appears to be,
some sort of futuristic, with a large needle piece down the length of the
barrel...

Okay, he's steadily turning steadily, but...well..."<Can you put me right
side up? My stomach's getting kinda...I dunno, I can feel that ice cream
coming back up...>" Trailing off when he sees the robotty guy, Bart starts
to enthuse, then sees what it's carrying. Immediately he pales. Most of
his life, he's lived in virtual reality - but before that, and
occasionally during, scientist-types have done things to him with sharp
pointy things that hurt rather a lot, and he doesn't especially want a
repeat. But then Stryfe goes for the black box, and he just watches. But!
Then...what the hell? "<Hey, a second ago you were thinking 'whelp' at me
and now you're calling me 'good master'? What kinda wacky trip you on,
mister? And WHAT'S THAT GUN THINGY??>"

Stryfe sighs wearily, as Bart quickly rotates on the spot, turning him the
right way up against the wall, and shifting the telekinetic focus to his
hands instead of his feet. Stryfe raises an eyebrow at the youth from
under his helmet. "<I trust we're comfortable now>?" Stryfe leans closer
to Impulse, licking his finger and pricking the needle suggestively, all
the while giving him a somewhat amused and devious look. "<This, my
pre-pubescent lab rat, is a genetic micro-scanner, capabale of extracting
DNA samples from your cellular structure and breaking down your genetic
matrix withing minutes. If I can't break you down mentally, then, as they
say, there are other ways to skin a chaos incarnate...>" He narrows his
eyes at the child slightly, giving him one more sharp glance of distaste
to reaffirm his annoyance, before swiftly jabbing the telekinetically
reinforced extraction device sharply into the child's arm. "<Now be a good
boy and say 'ahh'...>"

"<Yeah, um...as comfortable as someone can be when they're in a subtly
creepy high-budget remake of Return of the Astro-Zombies with a guy
wearing a helmet like Shredder's holding a scary gun needle thingy in
front of them,>" replies the kid, eyes on the genetic micro-scanner. He
remembers to breathe. Struggles a little, too -- gotta put up a show. Then
Bart blinks. "<Who're you calling chaos incarn-> OW!! HEY!!" he yells,
flinching.

Stryfe doesn't look up to the boy's face, instead concentrating on a small
LCD read-out panel on the scanner's side intently. After several seconds,
it emits a high pitched beeping noise, and Stryfe, with little heed to
Impulse's pain, draws it out in an inhumanely slowly fashion. With a
satisfied sigh, he gently places the device back on the tray and sends the
tray hovering over to Zero, who recieves the tray readily and stands at
the ready. Stryfe turns back to Bart, grinning like a cheshire cat, and
allows him to drop to the floor callously. "<Bartholomew... I have never
had the...>" He rolls the word around in his mouth thoughtfully. "<...
'pleasure' of meeting someone so purely chaotic as yourself... someone
lacking all rhyme and reason... Be thankful, Bart. If not for your
eternally unfathomable cranial capacitor, you would surely be licking my
boot heels as we now speak. But alas...>"

Yeah, well, even if he -saw- the kid's face contorted into a grimace of
pain - remember how rarely he actually /feels/ it - it probably wouldn't
do anything to him. And if the sudden, sharp intake of breath as Stryfe
begins to pull the needle /out/ doesn't make the Man with the Funny Hat
feel the least bit of compassion, well, too bad for Bart, eh? Shaking as
he's dropped to the floor, the young speedster curls up against the wall,
holding his arm - that's definitely gonna leave a mark. He does Not Look
Well - eyes on Stryfe, bewildered, Bart just asks, "<What did I *do*? That
-hurt-! I don't understand...what did I do wrong?>"

Stryfe looks down on Bart solemnly, his intimidating siloutte looming over
him solemnly with a vaguely superior air. His stern expression fails to
falter with the boys plees, but his stare hardens ever so slightly, as if
in some sort of automatic defence to any emotional stimulus. For several
moments, he fails to budge, opting to merely look on in silence. Finally,
he glances over his shoulder to the one known as Zero and raises a hand to
him in an odd gesture. Zero nods stoically, but otherwise doesn't appear
to make any movements. Stryfe turns back. "<That was but a fraction of the
pain you have yet to endure. That was but a drop in a sea of physical
torment you have landed yourself in, child.>" He grits his teeth and bends
over to bring his face closer to Impulse's. "<You don't know hurt... you
don't know -pain-, until you've known -me-... insolent cur...>" He breaks
off that last sentence in a slightly over-emotional hiss, as he feels
himself losing his grip. Again, he straightens himself up and attempts to
regain his composure. "<You may now rise and leave. Though this is far
from over, Bartholomew. Expect my presence when you least expect it.
Expect Stryfe, the Chaos Bringer.>

A portal opens before the room, creating a causeway across the spacial
continuim.

Pulling himself up via wall, slowly, tiredly, the young boy's face is a
mask of hurt and betrayal. Man, TK sucks. You can't even high-speed
pummel...assuming you've got the energy to. Gathering up his resolve,
Impulse walks carefully, unsteadily, to the portal. Not another word from
him - just an overwhelming air of bewildered pain. I pity the doctor who
immunizes him. At any rate, the last thing you can see as he goes through
the portal are his outstretched arms, coming back ludicrously quickly to
give Stryfe the double eagle. Then he's gone.

Stryfe sighs gently, and scans the demolished room with quiet reflection.
After several seconds, he turns to face the humanoid by the door. "Close
the portal, and get that genetic sample over to the lab, Zero. Oh, and see
about having this furniture replaced..." And with that, he strides out
into the corridor, not giving the disappearing speedster a second thought.

The trans-spacial portal gradually folds in on itself, leaving little
trace it was ever there.