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Post by DocQuantum on Apr 23, 2024 6:59:15 GMT
In the hallowed halls of Mains Aircraft, where the fate of the future hung in the balance, tension crackled in the air like an electric storm. As the board of directors convened on this day in early February, 1942, the company's founder, Doug Mains, stood at the threshold of the meeting room, his eyes gleaming with both determination and trepidation. His hand rested on the cold, metallic door handle, his knuckles turning white with the weight of his decision.
"Romano," he uttered, his voice a low rumble that carried the weight of an unspoken command, "I have entrusted the papers to you. Remember, should any misfortune happen to me, you'll be able to act in my place with full authority over the plant."
Joe Romano, the rugged plant foreman, met Mains' gaze with a resolute nod, his eyes reflecting an unwavering loyalty. "Don't worry, Mr. Mains," he proclaimed, his voice steady and reassuring, "the plant will be in capable hands."
As the board meeting commenced, Mains took to the podium, his presence commanding attention. His words resonated with a fervor that ignited both excitement and unease among the assembled directors.
"As majority stockholder," he declared, his voice resonating through the room, "I propose that we redirect our profits towards the noble cause of donating aircraft to our armed forces. In a time of war, profits must be cast aside for the greater good."
A chorus of disapproving murmurs met his proposal. "Nonsense!" exclaimed one outspoken director, his tone dripping with skepticism. "I have a feeling you'll reconsider your stance before the next meeting."
Doug Mains' resolve wavered for a moment as the weight of dissenting opinions threatened to overwhelm him. Yet, deep within his core, a flicker of determination refused to be extinguished.
***
In the quiet enclave of a gabled house nestled in a secluded location in the suburbs, a voice could be heard in a dimly lit room, commanding attention.
"You can do it, I assure you!" the deep voice intoned. "Your powers are incredible! You can foretell the future! No... you can make the future!"
In response, a tremulous voice, weathered by the weight of years, quivered at first, then swelled with newfound resolve. "Yes," the old woman's voice declared, a fragile whisper gaining strength with each syllable. "I can... I can!"
***
The next day, at the same house, two Mains Aircraft workers huddled over a darkened table, their faces etched with concern as they sought solace after hearing rumors of another impending disaster at the factory, which had already been targeted two previous times as if it were under a curse.
An ancient gypsy woman sat hunched over a shimmering crystal ball. Her voice, aged and raspy with the wisdom of countless years, echoed through the dimly lit room. "The crystal ball says... stop working, lest evil fortune betake you."
"Phooey!" scoffed a young worker, his voice laden with disbelief. "This is just superstition. I don't know why I let you drag me here, Johnson."
"You've got to hear her out, Mark," said old Johnson. "We could be headed straight for disaster!"
"Remember the gypsy's prophecy," the old woman intoned ominously. "Mains Aircraft is doomed! And all who continue to toil for that cursed company shall share in its fate."
Despite their doubts, the gypsy's warning echoed in the back of their minds, like a lingering whisper of impending doom. Fear gnawed at their resolve, threatening to shatter their loyalty to the company.
***
As the golden rays of dawn pierced through the factory's towering windows, casting an ethereal glow upon the bustling assembly line, Doug Mains stood proudly amidst his loyal workforce, his heart brimming with anticipation. Beside him, a masked figure cloaked in mystery surveyed the scene with keen eyes. It was none other than Mister America, the patriotic mystery-man who had come at Doug's behest to witness the impending triumph of their clandestine endeavor.
"Mister America, my friend," Doug boomed, his voice reverberating with excitement, "our tank planes shall soon be ready to soar, ushering in a new era of aerial supremacy!"
But Mister America's gaze was drawn to a distant corner of the sprawling factory floor, where a heated altercation was unfolding between two grizzled workers. Johnson, a wizened veteran with gnarled hands and a face etched with countless years of toil, jabbed an accusing finger into the chest of the stern-faced foreman, Joe Romano.
"You may be the foreman, Romano," Johnson rasped, his voice thick with both age and indignation, "but I've been around long enough to see a lot of strange things in my life, and I tell you I saw that gypsy put a curse on us!"
"Superstitious bunk!" Romano retorted, his lip curling in disdain. "Don't be an old fool, Johnson! America's destiny lies in these planes, not in the mumbo-jumbo of some wandering gypsy fortune teller."
Doug Mains and Mister America approached the squabbling men, their expressions a mixture of concern and exasperation.
"What's all this talk about gypsies?" Doug inquired, his voice laced with authority. "Get back to work, men! We have a war to win, and America is depending on our new planes."
Romano shook his head, his eyes darting toward Johnson. "You see what I have to deal with, sir? Old Johnson, here, claims he saw some gypsy casting a curse upon us!"
Doug's brow furrowed. "A curse? Is that so, Johnson?"
Johnson's eyes flickered with a strange intensity, as if he were privy to ancient wisdom beyond mortal comprehension. "Aye, Mr. Mains," he replied, his voice hushed and reverent. "I saw her with my own eyes, her gaze filled with malice, her words dripping with venom. She cursed this factory, doomed it to failure and destruction."
Doug's mind raced as he pondered Johnson's words. Could there be any truth to this old superstition? Or was it merely the ramblings of an aging worker whose mind was clouded by years of toil and hardship?
Mister America, ever the skeptic, interjected with a dismissive chuckle. "Curses, Mr. Mains? Come now, we're men of science, not children afraid of shadows. Let's get these planes in the air and prove that gypsy woman wrong once and for all."
Doug nodded in agreement, his heart heavy despite his outward confidence. He knew that old Johnson was a man of integrity, unlikely to fabricate such an outlandish tale. And yet, the thought of a curse hanging over his factory, hindering their efforts to forge the weapons that would defend their nation, filled him with a gnawing unease.
As the factory workers finally dispersed to their stations, Joe Romano cast a lingering glance at Doug and Mister America, his eyes filled with a mixture of worry and determination. "You heard the Chief, men," he said, his voice echoing through the factory. "Get back to work!"
***
Hours later, as the golden orb of the setting sun kissed the horizon, casting long shadows across the bustling factory grounds, a chorus of raucous laughter and chatter abruptly ceased. In its place, a collective gasp reverberated through the air as a worker pointed skyward, his trembling finger tracing the ominous trajectory of a crane gone haywire.
"Watch out below!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the cavernous expanse.
Mister America, always ready for action, suddenly surged forward, his eyes frantically scanning the danger zone. To his horror, he spotted the factory owner, Doug Mains, standing oblivious to the impending catastrophe, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
"Doug! The crane!" Mister America bellowed, his voice laced with urgency.
With lightning reflexes, Mister America lunged toward Doug, tackling the older man to the ground with a resounding thud just as the massive crane, groaning and creaking under its own weight, thundered overhead. A deafening roar filled the air as the colossal structure missed Doug by mere inches, its shadow casting an eerie pall over the stunned workers.
Doug Mains, shaken to his core, gasped for breath as Mister America helped him to his feet. "What... what happened?" he stammered, his voice trembling.
"You were lucky, Doug," Mister America replied, his eyes still wide with disbelief. "The crane... it almost crushed you."
"I... I couldn't see it," Doug whispered, his gaze fixed on the massive machine. "I didn't realize..."
A ripple of alarm spread through the crowd as Joe Romano approached Doug and Mister America.
"I saw what happened," Romano whispered, his voice grave. "Maybe that gypsy was right. Maybe this factory is doomed."
Doug's disbelief was evident in his voice. "What, are you still going on about a gypsy and a curse? That near-accident was just a coincidence, I tell you."
"No coincidence," Romano insisted, his eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light. "As I told you this morning, old Johnson heard her mutter a curse, and since then others have come forward who told me the same thing."
"Nonsense," Doug scoffed. "I'll go see this gypsy myself and prove that this was nothing more than a freak accident."
With a nod of determination, Doug Mains turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing through the cavernous factory.
"He's a brave man, to go face that gypsy alone," Romano murmured to Mister America.
Mister America's keen eyes narrowed as he mused, Except he won't be alone, for that gypsy is also going to get a visit from Mister America.
Unbeknownst to the others, another figure lurked among the factory workers, his dark hair and mustache providing a rudimentary disguise. Mark Lake, a former employee fired for his relentless curiosity, had managed to get a new job there under another identity after his Oracle Ring had warned him of an impending sabotage threat against Mains Aircraft. It was this young man who had accompanied old Johnson to visit the gypsy the previous night, when nobody else would go with him.
Mark's mind raced as he overheard Doug's plans. He could not stand idly by and watch tragedy befall Mr. Mains, the man who so reminded him of his own father back on Hydara.
It's time for the Sword to intervene once more, Mark thought to himself, a spark of determination igniting in his eyes. I won't let what happened to my father happen to Mr. Mains.
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Post by DocQuantum on Apr 24, 2024 16:53:12 GMT
Back then:
The massive industrial forge on the largest island of the water-world of Hydara stood as a beacon of strength and power, its walls gleaming in the sunlight that danced upon the crystalline waters below. Within its walls, the factory complex hummed with activity, the sound of machinery blending with the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.
Ortharr Laak, a formidable figure with his white hair and stern mustached face, strode through the halls of his domain, his son Maarkus trailing behind him. The young boy's eyes were wide with wonder and a hint of apprehension as he took in the sight of massive spacecraft taking shape before his very eyes.
"Maarkus, my boy," Ortharr said, his voice booming with authority. "Behold the future of Hydara. Our starships safeguard the star-spanning Incandescent Empire from all threats, both within and without."
Maarkus nodded, his gaze lingering on the sleek vessels being assembled before him. "It's awe-inspiring, Father. But what about the Witch-Queen of En-Daar I've been hearing about? Is she really a threat like they've been saying?"
Ortharr chuckled dismissively. "Mere rumors and superstition, my son. King Wyn himself would not bow to such nonsense. We will continue our operations undeterred."
But Maarkus couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him. The tales he had heard of the Witch-Queen's dark powers haunted his thoughts, filling him with a sense of foreboding.
"But... but what if she's real?" Maarkus asked hesitantly.
Ortharr offered his son an assured smile. "If she is, Maarkus, we will face her head-on. Our machines are unmatched, our army invincible."
Soon they reached Ortharr's office, overlooking the facility. As they stood before a holographic display, a message flickered into view -- the image of a sinister goblin with green skin leering at them.
"By order of the Witch-Queen of En-Daar, we command Ortharr Laak to cease his infernal machinations," the goblin hissed. "Shut down your factories or face our mistress' wrath!"
"What nonsense!" Ortharr remarked, unfazed by the threat as the holo message vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Still, Maarkus felt a chill run down his spine. "Father, I don't like this," the boy said anxiously. "There's something... ominous about it."
Ortharr placed a reassuring hand on Maarkus' shoulder. "Fear not, my boy. And count on the Circle of Light to guard not only the Empire, but Hydara as well. We will not be swayed by shadows from the dark."
But Maarkus still could not shake the feeling that they were facing an enemy unlike any they had encountered before. He could hardly have known that, at that very moment, the Witch-Queen of En-Daar was watching from afar, her eyes glowing with malice as she plotted her next move against the ever-defiant Ortharr Laak and his world.
As the father and son made their way to their next destination, the bustling starship landing pad, his eyes scanned the crowd of workers with a sense of unease. His gaze soon settled on his father. Having once been a space knight known as the Flying Ace, Ortharr Laak was currently engaged in a heated conversation with his former squire Kray Ektorr, now his business advisor. The tension in the air was palpable as Maarkus approached, his curiosity piqued by the intensity of their discussion.
But as he moved closer, a sleek, silver starship caught the boy's eye and drew him away, its polished hull gleaming in the sunlight. It was the prototype for a new line of spacecraft, and Maarkus couldn't help but be captivated by it.
"What a beauty!" he whispered to himself, admiration shining in his eyes. "It will be the finest vessel in the fleet."
Before he could linger on his thoughts, a piercing alarm shattered the din of the forge, sending a jolt of fear through Maarkus. Workers rushed past him, panic etched on their faces as the air began to crackle with energy.
"Something bad is happening," Maarkus realized, his instincts on high alert as he scanned the area for any outward signs of the danger he could sense from within.
Suddenly, his attention was drawn to a strange sight that materialized in the midst of the crowd. A cloud of black smoke billowed forth, filling the sky and enveloping the landing pad in darkness. From its depths emerged a sinister figure -- the Witch-Queen of En-Daar herself.
The Witch-Queen's grotesque appearance sent shivers down Maarkus' spine. Her emerald-green skin and glowing eyes exuded an aura of malevolence as she cackled maniacally, casting a shadow over the platform.
"You have defied me, Ortharr Laak," she declared in an ominous voice that echoed through the chaos. "Now you will pay the price."
A deafening explosion rocked the complex, sending sparks and debris flying through the air. One worker cried out in alarm as he pointed toward the Witch-Queen.
"Sir! The Witch-Queen! She's here!"
Ortharr Laak stepped forward, his regal presence commanding attention as he faced off against their mysterious adversary.
"Begone, foul creature of the dark," Ortharr's voice boomed with authority. "You have no power here."
The Witch-Queen scoffed at his words, her otherworldly voice dripping with malice.
"Power? I possess the ancient dark magic of En-Daar," she sneered, her eyes flashing with dark intent.
Maarkus watched in awe and fear as his father stood firm against this formidable foe, but to no avail. The security forces tried in vain to battle the Witch-Queen and her goblin minions, but no one could stop her when she suddenly seized Ortharr Laak.
"Father!" Maarkus cried out, rushing to the edge of the pad, his fists clenched in rage as he watched Ortharr being taken by the Witch-Queen into the swirling smoke. A sense of helplessness gnawed at him, fueling a fire within that burned with determination.
As the smoke cleared, Maarkus stormed into the control center, his face etched with worry. Kray Ektorr, weathered and wise, approached him with a solemn expression.
"Maarkus, I'm so sorry. Your father..." Kray began, but Maarkus cut him off with a steely gaze.
"He's been taken by the Witch-Queen," Maarkus stated firmly, his voice trembling with emotion.
Kray placed a comforting hand on Maarkus' shoulder. "Don't worry, Maarkus. King Wyn has been notified. A Paladin of Light is being sent to us to assist in the search."
But Maarkus shook his head, his determination burning bright in his eyes. I'm not waiting for a Paladin, he thought to himself. I'm going after my father myself. I will rescue him, no matter the cost.
With an unwavering resolve, Maarkus knew that his runesword held the key to finding his father. The legendary sword had chosen him as its champion, granting him powers beyond imagination to protect Hydara from all threats.
His mind flashed back to a pivotal moment on the planet Lumen, throne world of the Incandescent Empire, when young Maarkus had stumbled upon a secluded cavern deep beneath the ground. There, he discovered the ancient sword Dragonspirit embedded in a stone scaffold, its ancient power calling out to him.
Approaching the sword cautiously, Maarkus had spotted flaming words appear upon the wall, written in ancient and ethereal runes that he could understand.
"Maarkus of Hydara, you are the Chosen One. Take Dragonspirit and use it in the cause of Liberty and Justice. Then, because your heart is Pure, you shall have the strength of many times ten."
As his thoughts drew him back to the present, Maarkus found his noble intentions of rescuing his father himself hampered by a tight security detail ordered by Kray Ektorr. How could he break free to rescue his father? Frustration would continue to gnaw at him throughout much of the night until finally his moment came at a late hour when he was finally left alone in his room.
With Dragonspirit in his hand once more, Maarkus was mystically transformed into a knight clad in armor of golden chainmail. Just as during other times he had performed the rite, Maarkus became a tall, well-muscled champion known to the people of Hydara only as the Sword. Already he had become a legend for his feats in battling space pirates, brigands, and robber barons that had preyed on the people of Hydara. And now the Sword would again step forward as Hydara's protector and beacon of hope in its darkest hour.
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