OOC: I would like to thank Spawn, A.K.A. Tyler, for taking the reins during this incarnation of Techna, and all the other staff members for their help. If a sequel should someday appear in a BZPower RPG contest, I will take a more active hand in running the RPG; anything less from me and I will not enter.To all others who participated: Thank you.* * *IC: EidosTime: ~1030New Metru Nui, inside Citadel* * *I was lucky to find an empty room.I have sat in the dark for about forty-seven minutes now, meditating on my situation: alone in enemy territory, off my allies' radar, no methods of secure communication, my only weapons the rifle on my back and my mind.And the voices. I cannot forget the voices.They whisper now amongst themselves, wondering at my lack of activity. Am I planning something? No, I think, and my response sets alight a new wave of conversation. The metal floor is uncomfortable, but it is nevertheless solid enough for me to lay my head upon it and shut my eyes.I am not sleeping. I am listening. Resting only comes as a side-effect.Toa Torch?I do not open my eyes. The voice is right -- I can hear Torch's footsteps and feel his presence passing the door -- but his mind is elsewhere. A word, Desdemona, floats atop his consciousness; another, Gust, joins it in a delicate dance of ideas and counterarguments. His confusion is pleasing; I feed upon it, drawing strength from the uncertainly of my enemy.Through a film of visuals, I see the hallway outside through Torch's mind. He frowns and shakes his head. A new bout of depression threatens to overcome his thoughts; switching his focus to business (though Desdemona and Gust still move as one in his subconscious mind), he quickens his pace.I draw away from the contact.He is vulnerable, says a voice.I am aware of that, I respond.So why do you not move now?In due time.That is your excuse to everything, another voice cuts into the discussion.Because it is a righteous excuse, one I will stand by. Killing Torch will do nothing but anger the hornets' nest. No, my work needs be subtle. The web I knit requires time and patience to construct.The voices acquiesce; the background chattering of my mind fades to white. I am alone in the silence.Some beings would find such utter starkness of sight and sound disturbing; my soul, however, is soothed by the absence of outside stimuli. My plans, for once, rest upon only my shoulders.Only two paths now lay before me:Death.And success.