Vassal

1

 "Initially, our biggest beasts were rumored to be the world's stragglers, the Savants. Those who clawed themselves out of their struggle to be the sickening survivors preying on humanity. Scrawny, towering creatures embody humanity's talents or struggles in nightmarish parody. Classifying them as human and even more difficult to fight them with any conventional means was difficult. Eventually, one man created the ultimate weapon in response to them—an inventor who didn't play well with others but played them at any point. Parker Lee refused to think of the aftermath of any invention he made. As always, he didn't wear his weapon himself; he armed his foster son. So he equipped him with the weapons in sync with poisoning the boy's mind, esteem, and identity long before. Evidence can excuse things, but the Vassal argument must begin appropriately. He had no one close to him, few fans, but he let facts slip out before he took his throne."

"What shaped our world was this corrupted boy. He resulted from warped intentions, identity crisis, innovation, and verbal abuse. Corruption came as he customized his arsenal, trying to help his rationale. The selfish side protecting himself would come after the charitable, the alternate lying in wait. "

"Trying to be a light others need until they fall into the other shades. The one working in the gray submerged deeper in death, shifting his form as he looked for answers. Hollow and trying to fill a void. He would come to his conclusion and force his answers upon our world. The one who decides in the dark."

His real name was Chandler Lee, an average boy who blended into the background, toiling away

in his foster father's shadow, obeying him and his conditioning without time to socialize, ending a hellish form of homeschooling that left him in shape, intelligent, and uncertain. He barely said a word when he left his house, never genuinely knowing a home. He wondered if he could even be called withdrawn if he was never exposed to the world in the first place. He'd tinker away, startled by everything, including his shadow, assisting with a forced smile. Shaking hands would answer the door and operate the machinery. Unsure if he could ever stand alone, get accolades or acceptance. He witnessed the imminent threat long before the public because of his father's work.

" We don't believe he couldn't have been saved, consoled before he was consumed. A talk with a shrink, a network could have lessened what would grow in his heart. His arsenal would be much less. "

He knew his father didn't want to help people, and he just wanted people to rely on him. Look at him as the supporter and smugly stare at them. Chandler would think he was better than doubt it, wondering what others could have done for him. He wanted to act on more than the Savants plaguing the world; he wanted the suit to make it possible. It was his chance, his platform, but it would resemble a prison in a way he didn't realize. When he grew accustomed to its structure, he couldn't bear to be out of it.

He'd forget what his own features were like in the mirror because of the suit. Letting his skin peel away in certain spots in other areas grew grotesquely pale. He stayed that way in public, refusing to turn back when he had the chance. It wasn't easy to spot the young adult within. It could be assumed he was just cosplaying or trying to play hero at a time when it seemed like the world was insane. It was always a suit that would constantly be compared to death, the reaper being revamped for the modern age. Wherever he sat down, someone would consider the spot damned, and people were willing to burn it once he left. Specific locations could be the site of a Savant attack, but anywhere the Vassal could attack.

His attire was an amalgam of faded white cloth, gray scarred metal, and black leather. Armored gauntlets with needles on his form arms. His fingertips on his left were clawed, and on the right it was scythe-like. Black boots with white metal toes and light blue laces that resembled whips. At his back and chest were separate letter V's connected with all three colors. A thin metallic belt similar to razor wire sank into his waistline, making it look like it was stabbing into his flesh. A cowl exposed a strip of hair on top of his head. A glowing visor that flickers no matter the situation. There was a small silver case on his right leg like a holster with tubes feeding into the rest of the outfit. It was scratched one for every card it contained and every sacrifice or slaughter needed for it. Once it was stainless, then the scratches began. Now, it was like steel wool being dragged upon one metal surface for years.