Post by Crow McMorris on Jun 12, 2016 15:42:26 GMT -6
ACT V: NO MAN'S LAND
After “1he wav3” hit, the Blackwater “security initiative” collapsed. Back in the day It was the world's most powerful Mercenary army; their arsenal used to contain technology verging on the borders of science fiction. Reverse engineered Maratopian cybernetics. Poon Guinean hive mind narcotics. A global strike force without equal, hired to track down and corner terrorists for smaller, lesser prepared countries; those cottage industry types like France and Germany. Blackwater in it's heyday was a looming Goliath in every sense of the word. A country in and of itself that eventually became every bit as insidious as the enemies it once hounded for payment.
But when “1he wav3” hit, so did a tide of madness that swamped the Blackwater ranks; the towering monster collapsed overnight and shattered into nomadic organisations. Recruiting from every scumbag corner of the world, these smaller, splinter groups worked for rogue nations without remorse. Without any sense of consequence. The once paragons of commercial law enforcement had become a genuine problem that no one nation could seemingly contain.
That's when they went underground, disappearing off the grid seemingly forever. Apparently tipped off that they were about to be infiltrated by the F.C.B. (among others)
Bags of laundered Money was hurriedly divided and segmented among the Mercenaries core elite as they went there separate ways. Taking with them whatever tech they could possibly transport, such as MRAP's, fitted with crudely spliced together snow ploughs. And a super-soldier of “strange and limitless possibilities”
Which leads us to today, and a transmission sent via e-mail to Spencer Adams, John Gable and Benjamin Atreau; a statement of intent that has the Blackwater signature as it's logo. This now shadow organisation has revealed itself to be the muscle behind the “Chicago Combat League” the custodians of sector: 46782. AKA: Northside.
My Grandfather, Buddy Roman and the traitor, Donald Mosley now sit on ether side of me as I try and keep them apart with vague promises of lethal force. Deep down in my sour gut I want to let Gramps just dismantle this guy for what he did, gut him like a fish on Friday for leading the charge with Operation: Hammerlock, a witch hunt that saw the fall of the Federations and the bloodbath that followed. I want to, but Mosley is a slippery individual; as sharp as he is cunning. A fastidious man with his planning, Mosley always has every exit covered and every escape plan mapped. He's one of those “right down to the last detail” kind of bastards. If I'm going to get out of Northside in one piece, as much as hate to admit it, this mission going to need Mosley's unique stamp on the occasion.
Donald Mosley: Play the message again, Mister Adams. I want to study our targets inflictions.
Buddy Roman: So, Is this how you brought ruin to my empire? Sitting, studying the work of others for...inflections? Profiling the great men that died at your hands so that you could have your few hours of freedom from us? Tell me, “Donnie”, how does it feel to have the deaths of over twenty million people stain your fingertips? Even I can't reach those heady heights.
Donald Mosley: It feels better than kicking a dead hooker out of a rusting Datsun so that Crow's dead dad stays out of jail. Just to put things into perspective. And, by the way, Mister Roman; ice? Actual ice? Very good at preserving bodies just so you know. If I where you? I'd personally stick to feasting on the brains of orphaned Mexican children; less chance of suspicion that way. More opportunity for bribery. Just some professional advice...from one killer to another.
Buddy Roman: Lies. All lies. I'll have your head for this!
Donald Mosley: Are you sure? I'm nearly forty. You might not like the taste.
Buddy Roman: Insufferable Cun--
Crow McMorris: Just play the damn message.
Time index: June 9th. Oh-nine-hundred-hours.
Static greets us at first; an intermittent haze of interference as the Blackwater logo appears; just long enough to register in our field of vision before ghosting away from view; to be replaced by a strange and haunting sight.
Two long steel railroad spikes have been burred deep into each eye socket of a crucified stone Christ. The vandalised statue leans at an angle to it's left under a burning sky; the roof of a church had been previously charred away into ash by the madness of “1he wav3” gone, and never replaced. The building has been left to stand in ruins as a stark reminder, a twisted cenotaph to a Northside that never recovered. That never regained its faith. That never moved on. Northside; the new no man's land of a wounded nation. The new Baltimore of the twenty first century.
Long, deep shadows are cast by the early morning light, concealing spindly humanoid movement: something now stalks silently through what used to be the church's pulpit; hugging the darkness like an old friend. A strange, metallic blue and gold shimmer leads the way for the gaunt man that follows it; his small, black, photo sensitive eyes hidden behind large gold gargoyle shades. Long, whispery white hair cascades over Caucasian leathery skin. We see a snarl and a vile snort of cocaine damaged nostrils as they flare up in our presence. This Caliban seems gaunt like a ghost as his camo dressed skeleton comes into view; something about him seems familiar to me; like deja vu. But I've never met him before. Odd.
“Hello, “children of Earth”. My name is Captain Gideon Snow, second in command of the epsilon chapter of New Blackwater. Several hours ago I lead a lightning strike operation that extracted your newly minted Heavyweight title belt right from under your nose. Taken, whilst in route to your so-called, “arena”. That piss reeking shithole you people named, “The War house”. Just so we're all clear, there's no war, not any-more. The Chicago Combat League have now acquired your Battle Standard. We have your purpose to exist. By Sunday night, we will have broadcast your precious title being smelted down and recast as our new light heavyweight division belt. And with that deathblow, you, and everything your Cartel stands for, will be a memory. This, now, is the first day of our blessed expansion.
Gideon grins as he uses the title's shimmer to light up the face of the vandalised Christ behind him.
Gideon Snow: We have grown strong in a Godless land. After Sunday? They'll be a new religion. And a new God. And it will be all us. Converting the world. One state at a time. One fan at a time: from you, to us. And as our ratings climb so will our power and our influence over Chicago grow. Germinating like a cancer burred deep into the hearts and minds of those that cannot ignore us. Such great plans we have for them. Wondrous designs that would blind a messiah if he saw them.
Gideon upholsters a long, serrated hunting blade and runs its flat side along the metal cast of the Heavyweight belt. Snow then sticks out his tongue and licks the blade lovingly.
Gideon Snow: Your death tastes good. I just wanted you to know that.
The message smashes back to static.
A loud “slurp” greets our ears as we return back to the Crow's nest. Donald Mosley has brewed himself an instant and is trying (against his better instincts) to enjoy the almost coffee.
Donald Mosley: Clearly we're dealing with a dangerous fanatic here. This Gideon Snow perp has a fixation on religion; hence his desire to preach to us his intentions for this Sunday. He sees himself as an instrument of a new God; one based on whatever laws he deems fit. He's your basic egotistical psychopath. I'd be surprised if he isn't running for Mayor next week.
I'm not convinced, nether is Buddy.
Buddy Roman: Well, thank you for your insight, “C.S.I: obvious”. But I'm not buying it. This Snow, he's a man of military training, giving away his position like that? Something about this seems off.
Donald Mosley: He's gloating.
Crow McMorris: Are you sure that's what this is? Feels wrong.
I flip that Jay Omega card over and over in my hand. Searching for inspiration. That accent sounds different, maybe South African; maybe, I dunno...
Donald Mosley: We don't have time to debate. Tonight we go in; we'll use the cover of darkness to get Crow into enemy territory; they rely on automated Gun Drones and rooftop snipers for extra backup on the streets; they all have one thing in common though.
Crow McMorris: They use heat sensitive technology. They rely on infra-red.
Donald Mosley: You're dead. So to them you'll be invisible. They'll be keeping the belt at the bank; that's a given. So I'll meet you close by at the water tower. Keep to the shadows, Crow; stay low and don't take any chances. You have a weapons stash, Spencer?
Spencer Adams: This “shit hole” isn't just named the War house. We have a weapons rack in the basement. Glock 19's, throwing stars, crossbows; we have a few singers we picked up on the cheap from a Floridian arms dealer named Rojas. Standard Custodian fare. I think there's a samurai sword down there too, you interested, Crow?
Crow McMorris: No thanks. I'll stick to the Glock's. Samurai Swords are too showy in my opinion. Let's keep this simple. No complications.
ACT VI: COMPLICATED
Bullets whiz past my bleeding scalp as I dodge and weave the Kawasaki through a gauntlet of gunfire. The water tower was once the centrepiece of North Chicago; a survivor of the first city before it's old world was burnt down around it's bricks and mortar during the great fire of eighteen seventy one. It's a survivor then, while I might not be.
There's no sign of Mosley. Fuck! I can only assume they got to him as I slide the bike under a length of cheese-wire stretched over the entrance to the mall. Jesus these guys had this place scouted, what the fuck!?
I smell gasoline as I look down and see the tank has been struck, so have I, but that's not as desperate as loosing fuel. They have me cornered now as I ride the bike the wrong way up the escalators; the building is deserted. This is a trap, pure and simple.
I draw the glock 19's and open fire as I reach the apex of the escalator, leaping the bike over and aiming the back wheel at the head of a waiting merc. The impact decapitates the soldier before by blood and brain matter stained wheel can hit the ground. No time to admire my handiwork though, these Blackwater grunts are everywhere. No longer the highly trained individuals they once where, but they still know how to shoot straight. And did I mention there's a whole swarm of them?
And oh yeah, they have me surrounded.
I'm thinking car park exit, but before I can reach a stairwell the first taser line snags my left leg; I loose feeling and the bike begins to slip away from me as it powers down. The second line hits my shoulder, that's worse, A LOT worse. The bike slips completely away from me now as I cannon forward and smash into a store front window; it's travel agent; I'd laugh if I didn't have glass stuck in my mouth.
The lines fire out now from all directions as I try to haul myself to my feet; my whole body is shutting down now; a bio-electrical calamity that can't think nor shoot straight.
That's when I hear his voice. And it all falls horrifically into place.
Donald Mosley: Sorry Crow. But I need those hostages back alive. They're important. Scientists for the W.H.O. Gideon kidnapped them over five days ago. I need them, alive. While you, well...you're just not.
That's the point I lose consciousness, and vow to kill Mosley for a second time.
ACT VII: THE ALPHA
Q: the unconquered had struggled valiantly, his wrestling skills fared comparably well placed head to head with most within the old Federations. Perhaps somewhat showy at times, but still effective when applied.
But not today.
The Alpha had brutalized him. Body blows didn't just stun internal organs, they shattered them; all with a ruthless pinpoint accuracy that relied upon a state of the art up-link to an external server computing each decision over a hundred trillion miles per second. This was The Alpha, a chimera class Maritopian clone warrior, cybernetically enhanced prototype, customized to increase fighting prowess and brute strength. His face had a look of Omega; but it had all been cruelly altered, surgically hacked away at to remove unnecessary aesthetics in favor of eye camera's and sensor arrays. A clockwork Omega that lacked the humanity of the original.
As the uppercut struck Q, his bludgeoned head flopped forward, the sound of a snapping neck lost among the snarling and cheering crowds that ate up his prolonged and tortuous dissection with a psychotic vigor: all eagerly awaiting the arrival of the next hapless victim/competitor to arrive, another soft target that would discover what life was like to face the ultimate killing machine.
That hapless victim by the way? Yeah, that would be me.
Should've listened to my Grandfather. Again.
A moment passed as the cell roof was flooded by a cascade of blood and water; I was incarcerated beneath the arena floor; each snap of bone and crushing of cartilage reverberated down into the walls and pierced my nerves like a thousand tiny splinters. My shirt was gone, bare skin across my chest that revealed my wounds had already healed and knitted together; it must have been several hours since my capture.
Light was spare, the corners of the cell had human organs and worse hugging it's jagged dimensions. If I squinted hard enough I could see a mask made from rotting flesh wrapped around a decapitated, ancient skull; I think it might have been that Lister guy from the west coast, but it was hard to tell.
That was until they dropped an incandescent, silver and gold, light down at my feet; it was THE WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP BELT; I head a roar of laughter above me as I picked up the strange, gold and blue shimmering title and checked out the weight over my shoulder; it was light like air. Odd and brilliant all at the same time. I felt electricity flow through me as it rested there, like a magic spell perched upon my shoulder. Maybe it was the blood loss, but It almost spoke to me.
I reached down and took the trading card out of DM boot; Jay Omega opponent at Lazarus was about to face his cybernetic, psychotic twin. Time for a pep talk.
Crow McMorris: What makes a champion, Jay? Is it as simple as victories over losses? Is it psychical power? Guile? The ability to take more punishment than your opponent? All these are factors, percentages. They all have they're moments in the sun. You know what I think makes a champion? Belief. I believe I deserve this belt. I've worked harder, I've worked longer. I've placed more on the line than you, and I'm willing to continue to do so. Look at us, man. Your here as a tourist, while me? I have the belt over my shoulder; and it's destined to stay there. This Alpha above me. He has your abilities, he has your strengths, but what he doesn't have is your belief. The center of a champion. The engine that powers us. By the way, on this card it says your impervious to harm. Really? I think I might have to test that theory. Right down to the bone.
I hear another cheer as the door to my cell opens, it's time.
Crow McMorris: I fear no death. My job now is to place that fear into others. Like you, this Sunday. You see, Jay, I am the Lazarus that they speak of. I am the man they all thought was dead who now walks again. Who dragged his cold carcass out of the soil and the shit and stood upright again in the sun and fought on. That took belief. Belief from others in me, and own my belief in myself. That journey has no end, but this title? it's a destination. It's a page in the books for the crowman. I'll write it in blood if that's what it takes. Cold or warm, it makes no difference to me. The only thing that matters now is that this belt, this Battle standard, finds it's way home, with me. It's new; and first undisputed owner. Crow McMorris. World fucking Champion. Get used to it planet Infinity. I am the Battle standard, incarnate. Now, bring on this Alpha. Let's get ta killin' me a toaster.
I take a few steps forward before a wall of heat from the crowd hits me. It's like swimming though magma as I feel bones of ancient foes crumple beneath my feet. The Alpha is not in any hurry to face me; he has been programmed to allow nine hundred camera phones to take all the shots they need before my dissection.
Now it all makes sense, they didn't just want the title, they wanted me. They wanted the show. The death of an unkillable man; with the main title of his Cartel over his shoulder. Now that, is making a statement.
Time to change the playbook.
The Alpha thinks the same way to as two, four feet long serrated blades exit it's arms. They extend outward as it hunches it's body forward for an attack; poised to strike like a bull as I measure up my options; nothing going but to use the belt as a shield as the Alpha leaps.
I duck and raise the belt; an arch of electricity hits the cyborg as it crumples upon landing; rolling in agony as I charge forward and seize the initiative. Whatever this belt is made from, it's not from Earth, that much is certain as I smash the belt into the face of the Alpha once more; I hear a crackle as circuitry and bio mechanics fuse and collapse.
Another blow; one of the blades slices open my gut but I'm too into the moment; the belt is willing me on; it's almost like a symbiosis. What the hell is this thing?
Is this what 1he wav3 felt like? Madness you want to drown in? I'm losing control as I reach down and begin to slowly snap the neck of the beast. I hear its screams as the procedure is nether quick nor painless. The worst part is, I don't care. I want this now, all of it; I want to hear their agony, their cries of horror. The irony is, you can hear a pin drop in this underground theater; situated beneath Gideon's burnt out church.
I see Gideon himself, cold as ice as his perfect creation dies in my insane arms. The belt. He never felt the power, not the way I do. He calls for his personal team of bodyguards to evacuate the venue with him as I hear the sounds of gunfire scream past my head.
It's Mosley; plus ZMAC and Adams; I guess the antidote changed his mind. This is an invasion as the arena is cleared of personal at the edge of a bullet. Some simply give up. Others dig in; we have the time on our side though, time now at least. For how long I cannot be certain. But the standard comes home with me. That's all I know. It comes home with me.
And it stays there.
FIN.
After “1he wav3” hit, the Blackwater “security initiative” collapsed. Back in the day It was the world's most powerful Mercenary army; their arsenal used to contain technology verging on the borders of science fiction. Reverse engineered Maratopian cybernetics. Poon Guinean hive mind narcotics. A global strike force without equal, hired to track down and corner terrorists for smaller, lesser prepared countries; those cottage industry types like France and Germany. Blackwater in it's heyday was a looming Goliath in every sense of the word. A country in and of itself that eventually became every bit as insidious as the enemies it once hounded for payment.
But when “1he wav3” hit, so did a tide of madness that swamped the Blackwater ranks; the towering monster collapsed overnight and shattered into nomadic organisations. Recruiting from every scumbag corner of the world, these smaller, splinter groups worked for rogue nations without remorse. Without any sense of consequence. The once paragons of commercial law enforcement had become a genuine problem that no one nation could seemingly contain.
That's when they went underground, disappearing off the grid seemingly forever. Apparently tipped off that they were about to be infiltrated by the F.C.B. (among others)
Bags of laundered Money was hurriedly divided and segmented among the Mercenaries core elite as they went there separate ways. Taking with them whatever tech they could possibly transport, such as MRAP's, fitted with crudely spliced together snow ploughs. And a super-soldier of “strange and limitless possibilities”
Which leads us to today, and a transmission sent via e-mail to Spencer Adams, John Gable and Benjamin Atreau; a statement of intent that has the Blackwater signature as it's logo. This now shadow organisation has revealed itself to be the muscle behind the “Chicago Combat League” the custodians of sector: 46782. AKA: Northside.
My Grandfather, Buddy Roman and the traitor, Donald Mosley now sit on ether side of me as I try and keep them apart with vague promises of lethal force. Deep down in my sour gut I want to let Gramps just dismantle this guy for what he did, gut him like a fish on Friday for leading the charge with Operation: Hammerlock, a witch hunt that saw the fall of the Federations and the bloodbath that followed. I want to, but Mosley is a slippery individual; as sharp as he is cunning. A fastidious man with his planning, Mosley always has every exit covered and every escape plan mapped. He's one of those “right down to the last detail” kind of bastards. If I'm going to get out of Northside in one piece, as much as hate to admit it, this mission going to need Mosley's unique stamp on the occasion.
Donald Mosley: Play the message again, Mister Adams. I want to study our targets inflictions.
Buddy Roman: So, Is this how you brought ruin to my empire? Sitting, studying the work of others for...inflections? Profiling the great men that died at your hands so that you could have your few hours of freedom from us? Tell me, “Donnie”, how does it feel to have the deaths of over twenty million people stain your fingertips? Even I can't reach those heady heights.
Donald Mosley: It feels better than kicking a dead hooker out of a rusting Datsun so that Crow's dead dad stays out of jail. Just to put things into perspective. And, by the way, Mister Roman; ice? Actual ice? Very good at preserving bodies just so you know. If I where you? I'd personally stick to feasting on the brains of orphaned Mexican children; less chance of suspicion that way. More opportunity for bribery. Just some professional advice...from one killer to another.
Buddy Roman: Lies. All lies. I'll have your head for this!
Donald Mosley: Are you sure? I'm nearly forty. You might not like the taste.
Buddy Roman: Insufferable Cun--
Crow McMorris: Just play the damn message.
Time index: June 9th. Oh-nine-hundred-hours.
Static greets us at first; an intermittent haze of interference as the Blackwater logo appears; just long enough to register in our field of vision before ghosting away from view; to be replaced by a strange and haunting sight.
Two long steel railroad spikes have been burred deep into each eye socket of a crucified stone Christ. The vandalised statue leans at an angle to it's left under a burning sky; the roof of a church had been previously charred away into ash by the madness of “1he wav3” gone, and never replaced. The building has been left to stand in ruins as a stark reminder, a twisted cenotaph to a Northside that never recovered. That never regained its faith. That never moved on. Northside; the new no man's land of a wounded nation. The new Baltimore of the twenty first century.
Long, deep shadows are cast by the early morning light, concealing spindly humanoid movement: something now stalks silently through what used to be the church's pulpit; hugging the darkness like an old friend. A strange, metallic blue and gold shimmer leads the way for the gaunt man that follows it; his small, black, photo sensitive eyes hidden behind large gold gargoyle shades. Long, whispery white hair cascades over Caucasian leathery skin. We see a snarl and a vile snort of cocaine damaged nostrils as they flare up in our presence. This Caliban seems gaunt like a ghost as his camo dressed skeleton comes into view; something about him seems familiar to me; like deja vu. But I've never met him before. Odd.
“Hello, “children of Earth”. My name is Captain Gideon Snow, second in command of the epsilon chapter of New Blackwater. Several hours ago I lead a lightning strike operation that extracted your newly minted Heavyweight title belt right from under your nose. Taken, whilst in route to your so-called, “arena”. That piss reeking shithole you people named, “The War house”. Just so we're all clear, there's no war, not any-more. The Chicago Combat League have now acquired your Battle Standard. We have your purpose to exist. By Sunday night, we will have broadcast your precious title being smelted down and recast as our new light heavyweight division belt. And with that deathblow, you, and everything your Cartel stands for, will be a memory. This, now, is the first day of our blessed expansion.
Gideon grins as he uses the title's shimmer to light up the face of the vandalised Christ behind him.
Gideon Snow: We have grown strong in a Godless land. After Sunday? They'll be a new religion. And a new God. And it will be all us. Converting the world. One state at a time. One fan at a time: from you, to us. And as our ratings climb so will our power and our influence over Chicago grow. Germinating like a cancer burred deep into the hearts and minds of those that cannot ignore us. Such great plans we have for them. Wondrous designs that would blind a messiah if he saw them.
Gideon upholsters a long, serrated hunting blade and runs its flat side along the metal cast of the Heavyweight belt. Snow then sticks out his tongue and licks the blade lovingly.
Gideon Snow: Your death tastes good. I just wanted you to know that.
The message smashes back to static.
A loud “slurp” greets our ears as we return back to the Crow's nest. Donald Mosley has brewed himself an instant and is trying (against his better instincts) to enjoy the almost coffee.
Donald Mosley: Clearly we're dealing with a dangerous fanatic here. This Gideon Snow perp has a fixation on religion; hence his desire to preach to us his intentions for this Sunday. He sees himself as an instrument of a new God; one based on whatever laws he deems fit. He's your basic egotistical psychopath. I'd be surprised if he isn't running for Mayor next week.
I'm not convinced, nether is Buddy.
Buddy Roman: Well, thank you for your insight, “C.S.I: obvious”. But I'm not buying it. This Snow, he's a man of military training, giving away his position like that? Something about this seems off.
Donald Mosley: He's gloating.
Crow McMorris: Are you sure that's what this is? Feels wrong.
I flip that Jay Omega card over and over in my hand. Searching for inspiration. That accent sounds different, maybe South African; maybe, I dunno...
Donald Mosley: We don't have time to debate. Tonight we go in; we'll use the cover of darkness to get Crow into enemy territory; they rely on automated Gun Drones and rooftop snipers for extra backup on the streets; they all have one thing in common though.
Crow McMorris: They use heat sensitive technology. They rely on infra-red.
Donald Mosley: You're dead. So to them you'll be invisible. They'll be keeping the belt at the bank; that's a given. So I'll meet you close by at the water tower. Keep to the shadows, Crow; stay low and don't take any chances. You have a weapons stash, Spencer?
Spencer Adams: This “shit hole” isn't just named the War house. We have a weapons rack in the basement. Glock 19's, throwing stars, crossbows; we have a few singers we picked up on the cheap from a Floridian arms dealer named Rojas. Standard Custodian fare. I think there's a samurai sword down there too, you interested, Crow?
Crow McMorris: No thanks. I'll stick to the Glock's. Samurai Swords are too showy in my opinion. Let's keep this simple. No complications.
ACT VI: COMPLICATED
Bullets whiz past my bleeding scalp as I dodge and weave the Kawasaki through a gauntlet of gunfire. The water tower was once the centrepiece of North Chicago; a survivor of the first city before it's old world was burnt down around it's bricks and mortar during the great fire of eighteen seventy one. It's a survivor then, while I might not be.
There's no sign of Mosley. Fuck! I can only assume they got to him as I slide the bike under a length of cheese-wire stretched over the entrance to the mall. Jesus these guys had this place scouted, what the fuck!?
I smell gasoline as I look down and see the tank has been struck, so have I, but that's not as desperate as loosing fuel. They have me cornered now as I ride the bike the wrong way up the escalators; the building is deserted. This is a trap, pure and simple.
I draw the glock 19's and open fire as I reach the apex of the escalator, leaping the bike over and aiming the back wheel at the head of a waiting merc. The impact decapitates the soldier before by blood and brain matter stained wheel can hit the ground. No time to admire my handiwork though, these Blackwater grunts are everywhere. No longer the highly trained individuals they once where, but they still know how to shoot straight. And did I mention there's a whole swarm of them?
And oh yeah, they have me surrounded.
I'm thinking car park exit, but before I can reach a stairwell the first taser line snags my left leg; I loose feeling and the bike begins to slip away from me as it powers down. The second line hits my shoulder, that's worse, A LOT worse. The bike slips completely away from me now as I cannon forward and smash into a store front window; it's travel agent; I'd laugh if I didn't have glass stuck in my mouth.
The lines fire out now from all directions as I try to haul myself to my feet; my whole body is shutting down now; a bio-electrical calamity that can't think nor shoot straight.
That's when I hear his voice. And it all falls horrifically into place.
Donald Mosley: Sorry Crow. But I need those hostages back alive. They're important. Scientists for the W.H.O. Gideon kidnapped them over five days ago. I need them, alive. While you, well...you're just not.
That's the point I lose consciousness, and vow to kill Mosley for a second time.
ACT VII: THE ALPHA
Q: the unconquered had struggled valiantly, his wrestling skills fared comparably well placed head to head with most within the old Federations. Perhaps somewhat showy at times, but still effective when applied.
But not today.
The Alpha had brutalized him. Body blows didn't just stun internal organs, they shattered them; all with a ruthless pinpoint accuracy that relied upon a state of the art up-link to an external server computing each decision over a hundred trillion miles per second. This was The Alpha, a chimera class Maritopian clone warrior, cybernetically enhanced prototype, customized to increase fighting prowess and brute strength. His face had a look of Omega; but it had all been cruelly altered, surgically hacked away at to remove unnecessary aesthetics in favor of eye camera's and sensor arrays. A clockwork Omega that lacked the humanity of the original.
As the uppercut struck Q, his bludgeoned head flopped forward, the sound of a snapping neck lost among the snarling and cheering crowds that ate up his prolonged and tortuous dissection with a psychotic vigor: all eagerly awaiting the arrival of the next hapless victim/competitor to arrive, another soft target that would discover what life was like to face the ultimate killing machine.
That hapless victim by the way? Yeah, that would be me.
Should've listened to my Grandfather. Again.
A moment passed as the cell roof was flooded by a cascade of blood and water; I was incarcerated beneath the arena floor; each snap of bone and crushing of cartilage reverberated down into the walls and pierced my nerves like a thousand tiny splinters. My shirt was gone, bare skin across my chest that revealed my wounds had already healed and knitted together; it must have been several hours since my capture.
Light was spare, the corners of the cell had human organs and worse hugging it's jagged dimensions. If I squinted hard enough I could see a mask made from rotting flesh wrapped around a decapitated, ancient skull; I think it might have been that Lister guy from the west coast, but it was hard to tell.
That was until they dropped an incandescent, silver and gold, light down at my feet; it was THE WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP BELT; I head a roar of laughter above me as I picked up the strange, gold and blue shimmering title and checked out the weight over my shoulder; it was light like air. Odd and brilliant all at the same time. I felt electricity flow through me as it rested there, like a magic spell perched upon my shoulder. Maybe it was the blood loss, but It almost spoke to me.
I reached down and took the trading card out of DM boot; Jay Omega opponent at Lazarus was about to face his cybernetic, psychotic twin. Time for a pep talk.
Crow McMorris: What makes a champion, Jay? Is it as simple as victories over losses? Is it psychical power? Guile? The ability to take more punishment than your opponent? All these are factors, percentages. They all have they're moments in the sun. You know what I think makes a champion? Belief. I believe I deserve this belt. I've worked harder, I've worked longer. I've placed more on the line than you, and I'm willing to continue to do so. Look at us, man. Your here as a tourist, while me? I have the belt over my shoulder; and it's destined to stay there. This Alpha above me. He has your abilities, he has your strengths, but what he doesn't have is your belief. The center of a champion. The engine that powers us. By the way, on this card it says your impervious to harm. Really? I think I might have to test that theory. Right down to the bone.
I hear another cheer as the door to my cell opens, it's time.
Crow McMorris: I fear no death. My job now is to place that fear into others. Like you, this Sunday. You see, Jay, I am the Lazarus that they speak of. I am the man they all thought was dead who now walks again. Who dragged his cold carcass out of the soil and the shit and stood upright again in the sun and fought on. That took belief. Belief from others in me, and own my belief in myself. That journey has no end, but this title? it's a destination. It's a page in the books for the crowman. I'll write it in blood if that's what it takes. Cold or warm, it makes no difference to me. The only thing that matters now is that this belt, this Battle standard, finds it's way home, with me. It's new; and first undisputed owner. Crow McMorris. World fucking Champion. Get used to it planet Infinity. I am the Battle standard, incarnate. Now, bring on this Alpha. Let's get ta killin' me a toaster.
I take a few steps forward before a wall of heat from the crowd hits me. It's like swimming though magma as I feel bones of ancient foes crumple beneath my feet. The Alpha is not in any hurry to face me; he has been programmed to allow nine hundred camera phones to take all the shots they need before my dissection.
Now it all makes sense, they didn't just want the title, they wanted me. They wanted the show. The death of an unkillable man; with the main title of his Cartel over his shoulder. Now that, is making a statement.
Time to change the playbook.
The Alpha thinks the same way to as two, four feet long serrated blades exit it's arms. They extend outward as it hunches it's body forward for an attack; poised to strike like a bull as I measure up my options; nothing going but to use the belt as a shield as the Alpha leaps.
I duck and raise the belt; an arch of electricity hits the cyborg as it crumples upon landing; rolling in agony as I charge forward and seize the initiative. Whatever this belt is made from, it's not from Earth, that much is certain as I smash the belt into the face of the Alpha once more; I hear a crackle as circuitry and bio mechanics fuse and collapse.
Another blow; one of the blades slices open my gut but I'm too into the moment; the belt is willing me on; it's almost like a symbiosis. What the hell is this thing?
Is this what 1he wav3 felt like? Madness you want to drown in? I'm losing control as I reach down and begin to slowly snap the neck of the beast. I hear its screams as the procedure is nether quick nor painless. The worst part is, I don't care. I want this now, all of it; I want to hear their agony, their cries of horror. The irony is, you can hear a pin drop in this underground theater; situated beneath Gideon's burnt out church.
I see Gideon himself, cold as ice as his perfect creation dies in my insane arms. The belt. He never felt the power, not the way I do. He calls for his personal team of bodyguards to evacuate the venue with him as I hear the sounds of gunfire scream past my head.
It's Mosley; plus ZMAC and Adams; I guess the antidote changed his mind. This is an invasion as the arena is cleared of personal at the edge of a bullet. Some simply give up. Others dig in; we have the time on our side though, time now at least. For how long I cannot be certain. But the standard comes home with me. That's all I know. It comes home with me.
And it stays there.
FIN.
