Fools, wretches, scum. This world has become so full of such worthless stinking idiots since Malice’s glory days. Civilians and non-combatants were practically unheard of in that era, but now we have cities of them! A putrid cityscape in the skies, a rotten city by the river, and an especially filthy urban blight at the world’s center. Maybe a purge was in order. A good war or two, one or more of these cities conquered by iron-hearted dictators, and the weak culled for daring to pollute this world with their soft minds and fragile bodies. Yes, yes, and we could start with that imbecile who nearly hit us with their car seven minutes ago, and work our way down the list from there.

”God, I am so sick of this, Raz. Every time it feels like my luck is going to change, snap! The jaws of deadtime claim another victim. Do you think it’s me, maybe? Is it something I’m doing wrong?” a red-robed cyborg asks, staring glumly down at his drink. It’s been a while since he’s been seen around here, so just as a reminder, Malice has brass cyborg bits, more or less the same menacing half-machine visage as the notorious Lord Magtok, and a scowl without equal in this mortal realm. On the opposite end of his table, the disembodied head of Grigori Rasputin floats in a jar of science goop. The jar itself has a series of spindly mechanical spider legs attached to it, which are currently struggling to find a way to sit comfortably on the high chair Malice specifically requested for his infant-sized comrade. You know, I’m not really sure if he ordered the kiddie chair to help out Rasputin, to demean him, or to just keep his gross little spider legs from scuttling along the table. The Mad Monk hasn’t any idea either, and that ambiguity is beyond frustrating.