I have only heard stories - Invited Maple

(Base Thread PL: 40,000 (x2 Snakey: 80,000 active))

Standing on an even taller perch (a Satan City Taxi, whose driver he’d given a thousand Zeni bill), in a cloak blacker than Gita’s robes (and which billowed ominously with each gust of wind), was Maple. His hood was raised, though in the shadowy confines a smirk could be glimpsed.

Stupid Namekian. Think you can sneak up on me? Your power isn’t even suppressed!

Maple recognized this one, of course. It was the guy that had butted in on his Toothache Ray idea. Maybe he wanted in on it, still? He’d mentioned interest in villainy...

But Maple did not like Namekians. He’d had run-ins with them before, of course. In the Long Ago. They were a dangerous lot, skilled in the art of magic even by Maple’s high standards. The last time he’d vacationed on Namek, the villagers had responded violently to very mild little pranks and dubbed him (without even a hint of affection) The Troublemaker. “The”, with a capital T. And their Grand Poobah or Grubbo or Guru or whatever, a tremendously-fat slug creature, exiled him from the planet. In a barrel, floating through the void. It was almost as bad as that time in the mayo jar.

Maple glowered, his smirk turning into an evil grin.

He clapped the heel of his boot on the roof -- the driver’s signal to approach this green dweeb on the rooftop. When he got near enough for earshot, Maple cleared his throat and let out a loud below.

“Ahoy!” Maple yelled, waving. “I, too, often loom menacingly over the city. And I couldn’t help but notice you! Are you still wanting to join my villain club?” Maple reached out a hand, and the Rod of Rainy Days appeared in his grasp. "We have all the best magic tricks."

Gita

Maple probably should have expected being attacked. It was the way of things, in this new day-and-age -- being rabidly attacked by Goodies at the outset. Gone were the days when a Goodie would monologue about a lock of hair from their fair maiden, or swear vengeance in the name of his father whom you killed, gone were the slaps of the glove and the throwing of the gauntlet. Now it was just attack, attack, attack.

Still, he was caught off guard. The fist connected with his cheek like with a sledgehammer force, and sent him twirling through the air. “H-hey I thought you were all into villainhoooooood!” Maple yelled until he cratered into the side of a building.

Maple peeled himself off the side of the glass, rubbing at the welt on his jaw. Spitting a loogie of black blood out, Maple turned. “Nice punch. I’ve gotten better, but not many.”

Maple retrieved his Rod of Rainy Days. “Ki fighting in the city, huh? Pretty dangerous. I’m sure it’s in direct violation of several municipal safety codes! Aren’t you worried about how many problems you might cause in people’s lives?” He sneered. “Or is it that you really just want to blow off some steam and get in a big fight. That’s the real reason, isn’t it. You wanna fight! Admit it. You said you had demon flowing in that grape juice you call blood. It’s calling to you!”

Maple’s eyes became snakelike slits, his fangs more pronounced. A purple aura leapt from the magician’s shoulders. He took in a deep breath. “You gained some mass. Working out? Keto?” Maple grinned.

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve, too, you know. I was a nomad for a while, following the light of the Makyo Star. Learned a thing or two in my stay there, from fellow Makyans. For instance… with a little concentration, a timely jolt of magic, and a balanced breakfast, I can focus the energy of my natural Gorgon form into this body. I call it BDE -- Big Demon Energy.”


Purple smoke snarled from his mouth and nostrils. The buildings nearby trembled. His aura dimmed dark until it was black, and then inverted into a sort of negative violet space, an eye-aching color. His eyes glowed red, the color of dying stars.

Maple has assumed Gorgon form outside of a DE, Big Demon Energy(x4) activated! New PL: 160,000

“SEE NOW?” Maple asked, his voice deep and monstrous, the voice of a beast ten times his current size. “NOT AS STABLE AS THE REAL DEAL, BUT IT’LL DO FOR THE LIKES OF YOU!”

Maple launched forward now, lightning crackling at the end of his Rod of Rainy Days. Swinging it in a wide arc, he sent the thunderstroke against Gita’s big, dumb green face.

Gita

Maple’s Rod of Rainy Days was smacked away, but there was enough time for him to scrape out of the way of Gita’s extendo-arm. When the sword was hurled his way, Maple growled.

Two could play the magic materialization game. When the sword appeared and thrown at Maple, he clapped his hands together and suddenly a cellophane-wrapped loaf of sliced bread the size of a city bus bounced into reality. The sailing sword struck into the bread, and the soft package smooshed into Maple. It still packed a lot of force -- enough to drive Maple him into the building. The magician made another crater in its concrete, but the yielding slices were far from deadly.

“Fuck your Saturday-morning magic!” Maple yelled, his red eyes flaring.



Letting out a kiai, Maple freed himself from the burgeoning bread. Loaf and sword tumbled down through the air before smashing into the street hundreds of feet below. Horns blared, and more than a few screams drifted up on the wind.

Sweat poured from Maple's brow, and his aura trembled. Keeping up this condensed Gorgon form was already starting to tax him.

“Their names are Blojo, Gumbo, and Fapalot, make sure you write this all down in your diary for quick reference,” His voice had lost its terrible thunder, but it was brimming with the confident scorn only a billion-year old baddie could possess.

Maple charged at Gita, fleeting through the air like a supersonic pachinko ball, determined to end the fight quickly when he lashed out with a series of blurring punches and kicks whipping at the Namekian’s face and throat. Each blow, blocked or not, would strike with enough force to create devastating shockwaves. He was using all his umph now, and either Gita or the city would feel it.

Gita

When Gita broke out the six-guns, Maple rolled his eyes and disappeared on a gust of wind, avoiding the bullets entirely. Reanimating closer to Gita, he was dressed in an old-timey gunfighter outfit, complete with riding chaps, hat and poncho, and a shiny pistola of his own.

“Whell ay nevar!” Maple exclaimed, his accent now one straight out of the Old West. “This dast’dly varmint is shootin’ me with two guns. Not a fair fighter, are ya?”

Flipping his poncho aside, Maple drew his own gun out. When he pulled the trigger, a big red flag flapped out, with the word BANG! printed in big black ink.

Snickering, Maple poofed back into his dark and billowy cloak, cowboy accompaniments disappearing into the nether. He was now covered in a sickly sheen of sweat -- he felt miserable, he felt like his inner-self, that pure and wonderful Gorgon tearing through his insides, like he’d just ate the world’s most rancid dim sum cart whole. It was all he could do not to barf, or blow up. He could hold out for another half hour or an hour tops if he really pulled out all the stops. But he didn’t think it’d take so long.

“Hey, smooth-brained toad? Newsflash, I was born Evil,” Maple grinned. “For reasons that’ll go way over those asparaguses sticking out of your head. Now that we’re giving lifecoaching lectures -- hey, why don’t you be more productive and ambitious? You’re floating around aimlessly for fights.” Maple flapped his hands and puffed out his cheeks. “Like a jellyfish. You have Mazowhatsit, Bozoku lineage, and this is the best you can come up with? I’d be ashamed! I am ashamed. I’m ashamed we’re distant cousins. If what you said is true, you’re supposed to come from a Demon Clan. One of the Evil Tribes. Evil being the operative word here.”

Maple folded his arms, stuffing his hands in the voluminous sleeves of his cloak.

“So why don’t youuuu start acting like it? You could start by serving me. I need some good servants. If you’re bored for fights, boy, I can get you some fights. And it’ll be for a reason! For a capital-P purpose.”

Maple smiled a genuine, happy smile as Gita stopped fighting and agreed to his proposal -- the snake’s first jolt of real-deal happiness in months. You’ve still got it, you old monster, you. Maple congratulated himself. There was nothing nicer in life than bringing someone into the fold. Plus, he’d have a new servant!

Though Mumbo had started out as just your run-of-the-mill lackey in Maple’s eyes, Mumbo had grown into much more of a friend than a servant, and… well, Maple felt sheepish whenever he thought of rekindling that friendship. Would the big gray lug still look up to him (figuratively speaking)? Would he be surprised or happy? Maple was depressed and unsure of himself. He was hiding his Purple Power on Pluto. What would Mumbo make of all that?

But this he could deal with. A run of the mill, no frills servant he could boss around. A powerful ally in the war against the Good.

“I knew you’d come around,” Maple said, his dark eyes shining with glee at his victory. When his smile broke into an ear-to-pointy-ear grin, his fangs seemed longer than usual. He released his concentrated Gorgon form with a sigh of relief.

“Our first order of business will be to awaken and juice up your latent Mazoku-ness. Right now it’s mostly inert, but we can fix that.” Maple cupped his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t have access to my Ten-Thousand Year Spell, Mumbo got that last year. But I might be able to whip something up.”

Behind Gita poofed a barber’s chair and a big nylon kite shaped like a bat, magicked from the kid’s section at Bao-Mart. Maple tossed Gita a roll of duct tape. “Tape the wings on so I can get a good mental image of where we’re going. Then have a seat and relax. Think evil thoughts.”

Maple drew a circle in the air next to him, a laser line following the curve of his index finger, forming a glowing blue ring. Pressing his hand flat into the middle of the circle, he pushed. Instead of his hand passing through the ring, a section of the sky was pushed away, revealing a pitch darkness. Maple reached into the darkness.

“Now let me see if I can find it,” Maple squirmed his arm deeper into the hole until he was leaning his shoulder into it, his forked tongue sticking out and to the side in concentration.

Finally, he grasped hold of something. “Aha!” Pulling his arm out, he brought out into reality a dusty tome covered with cobwebs and yellowed by centuries. It’s cover read Advanced Transmutation Spells for Dummies. Thumbing through the dust-covered pages and sneezing more than once, Maple finally found the spell he was looking for.

“Here we go. Magical Pathway to Ancient Gene Amplification for Mazoku Subtypes. Yes. Incantation and finger placement isn’t too hard. Ingredients required?… Eye of neut. Brain of bat. Giant’s toe. Well, we don’t have any of that.” Maple slapped the book back together and tossed it back into the hole, which promptly shrank shut. “But it’ll be fine! Everything will work out just fine. Don’t you worry. Those ingredients aren’t really “required”.” Maple made bunny ears around the word. “It’s just so you’ll shop the mail order catalog in the back of the book.”

Maple placed his hands together imploringly. “But as a licensed wizard I am obligated to warn you before I cast this spell, that both I and the contributors-slash-publishers affiliated with this magic book are in no way shape or form liable for any negative countereffects and side-effects which you may incur or be permanently-slash-irreversibly afflicted by.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Maple aimed his outstretched fingers in Gita’s direction. “Saké Socks, Wasabi Clocks! Turn the hourglass back around and flip these genes upside down!”

A purple wave of light blasted from Maple’s fingertips, smashing into Gita. If the Namekian allowed the impact, he would find himself permanently transformed into an ancient Mutant of the Mazoku Clan, complete with a webbed fan on his forehead, scaly skin, and a pair of startling, majestic wings.

“Yes!” Maple exclaimed, jumping for joy. To celebrate, Maple turned to his baffled hovercar driver, who had been waiting petrified this whole time. He thumbed over his shoulder like an umpire at a North City Narwhals game, and transmogrified the taxi into a rocketship blasting towards the moon. The scream fading into the upper atmosphere was like music to his ears.

“How’s it feel to have wings? Wanna get some use out of them?” Maple would ask.