SAMSARA
04-25-2009, 07:12 AM
Okay, I'm a little self-conscious about posting this on here, but I want to hear criticism from people other than those I usually hang around with. It's a work in progress that follows the exploits of a vampiric mercenary in the near future. I don't think it's that good at all, but it wouldn't be far off to say I'm my own worst critic. What do you think?
Home.
It's where the heart is, or so I'm told. I've always found that expression to be a little odd. Most of the people I know, myself included, keep their hearts firmly rooted in their chests. And that's where they belong, isn't that right? After all, a heart does little good to pump the lifeblood if it's outside of its system of tubes and pumps they humans call the "circulatory system." Feh. I haven't cared much. My concern is not with how it works; mine is with stopping it.
I'm the Bladecatcher. Vampire hunter. Not the kind that you normally read about; I'm no Van Helsing, nor am I some caped madman with belts full of wooden stakes and silver bullets. I, myself, am a vampire, and I lend my services to the highest bidder. Sometimes I start wars--sometimes I end them. Sometimes I rend flesh, and others I save it. I tie myself to no specific capacity. I'm malleable, I'm flexible. For the right price.
Anyway, home, to me, is no Dracula-esque castle with high towers and dark corners and heads on pikes. Mine is an apartment in New York, in the United States. That's right. I could be that creepy neighbor next door who always seems to be hiding something. The chances are high that I'm not, however. I keep to myself. I like to read in my spare time. Works of late are dull and uninspired, and I found a specific hatred for a recent series that rather romanticizes my kind. It's not pretty being me. The whole thing shows our kind in rather the wrong light, if you'll pardon the pun. But I've gone tangential on you again. Let us return to the conditions of my abode. It's a rather seedy place, but I do like it. It's warm, it's cozy, and most of all it's insubstantial. Looking for the highest-paid assassin in the world? I'm certain this isn't the first place you'd direct your gaze. Mansions and fortresses have never been my thing. I don't do windows.
Home, to me, overlooks a busy city street, usually teeming with masses of you warm fleshy organisms, walking reproductive vehicles with nary a chance to truly impact the world. Most of you are just trying to get by, angry because the rich get richer and the poor get poorer and that the men in Congress don't care about anyone but the big wigs and the CEOs. Know what? It's true. If you want something in this world, you have to reach out and take it for yourself. And that's what I did. I realized I have a gift. A gift that most people would abhor holding onto, a gift that some would even consider a curse, but a gift nonetheless. I'm immortal. I cannot die by conventional means. Carpe diem, baby. I had to reach out and grab hold of a career that truly lets me shine before I passed my prime was consigned to a life of obscurity. I took up an apprenticeship with a swordsman in Western Europe...
---
I'm cold.
Really Goddamned cold. Imagine...oh, Alaska. Do you know how cold--what, you've never been there? Fine. Minnesota. You've been to Minnesota. Shut up, I know you have. Everyone's been to Minnesota.
Anyway, cold. But that pales in comparison to my skin. Or, should I say, darkens in comparison. My flesh is now a pallid, sickening white instead of my usual lovely designer beige. And, no, I'm not sparkling.
A traveling company of warriors is ahead, headed by a man on a horse with red and black armor. Doesn't that sound like your stereotypical dread lord? Let's go talk to him, shall we?
"Sir? I'm...bleeding."
The knight looks down at me. He motions for his liege to come near.
"Child, where is thy wound?"
I showed him. Right in the bit of my neck where the shoulders and neck meet.
"Christ, but he's caught the bloodlust!"
The bloodlust. For those of you playing along at home, that's what they called vampirism back in the day. I'm crying at this point. I'm sure I'm going to die.
"Take him. We'll bring him back to the castle, lock him up. I'm sure one day he'll be a valiant warrior at the Queen's side; he could be a powerful weapon..."
"If we keep the bastard child away from our own men!"
"We've got chickens and the like in the keep. Can that blood not satiate him until he grows to taste victory on the battlefield?"
"Damn you, Nolan. Your absurd ideas will be the death of us one day."
"Don't count on it."
A few years later, I'd become a formidable warrior. If, by formidable, you mean "able to ride a horse without falling off and pretty much inexperienced in actual combat.¨ Yep. That's me. Hey, from humble beginnings come great legends. Or soldiers with a sixteen hour life expectancy. I never can remember...
¨Charge, men! Let their flesh be your earth!¨
Ooh! My favorite bit of his speech. Onward into battle...
As we stormed the castle walls, a flurry of arrows flung feverishly from the facade.
¨They're lighting their arrows!¨
¨Can they do that?¨
¨Obviously. 3rd Edition rules state that rangers can light their arrows given a constant supply of oil and--wait, isn't this that fourth wall thing we talked about earlier?¨
¨Right. Sorry. Uhhhh.¨
The puzzled footman twirled his spear, unsure of how to stabilize the reality he'd so carelessly wrought open.
While he's doing that, allow me to explain something. I haven't always been such a magnificent badass. Don't think that Nolan helped much; his idea of training was taking me out into the woods at night and having me try and ¨cut the darkness¨. Filthy poetic. I learned most of what I know from the pit: gladiatorial combat at its finest. Two men go at it; winner claims glory, loser gets the axe. Eheh. It was wonderful, growing up in Blackhaven...wonderful memories, I tell you. Don't get me started about my first public execution...
¨Oh! You, reader! I think I've got it! 'Forward, comrades!'¨
¨Ah, that'll do. Let's take the keep! No prisoners!¨
The footmen resumed their charge as Nolan and I followed from behind, mopping up straggling remnants of the enemy army. An arrow inexplicably struck me in the chest...
...and caught itself in my leather armor. Still, it felt as if a thousand voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. Or perhaps that's just Star Wars. Star Wars, medieval combat, they're so effing samey that I can never keep them straight.
Finally, we broke through the walls. Our battering rams had done their duties, and one at last had created a gaping hole in the keep's walls. I suddenly felt a tremendous lust for blood, so I did what any sane teenage vampire would do: I jumped off my horse and sped toward the opening, baring my axe against the unlucky first defender to impede my progress of chaos.
¨Chop-chop, my friends...¨
---
Wait, though. There's something you need to know, first. Nolan might be a horrid teacher, but his battlefield tactics do deserve renown. Why's that, you say? We had many names for our little contingent, and all of them were true. The Phantom Regiment, as we were officially called. The death knights--the townsfolk's pet term. The Frighteners--derogatory. There were reasons, though...Nolan was awfully ruthless. Nothing was a sin to this man on the battlefield. He was always devising a ploy to ruin the days and the minds of those who would oppose us. From flinging corpses from catapults for calamity and chaos, to blood-stained drills that ran on the power of harvested fear (really), Nolan's grasp of bitter warfare was unparalleled by anyone I've seen to this day. Thankfully. There's many theories over how he accomplished it...some say he entered into a pact with the devil; others say he was simply a very bored man.
I know none of these are true. Why? The man, in the end, had a conscience. He knew these evil doings made for good ends, and thus he felt justified in the end. Plus, his character sheet says--oops, never mind. Anyway, I don't even believe his fear engines ran on anything but human ingenuity and the power of psychology. And this is why I hated the man. He was a damned hypocrite. But I respected him for his prowess and knowledge.
Among the cast of the Frighteners were many good, solid men. Men who I needed in order for my eventual rise to power. Men who could fight at my side. Men who I'd later enlist in my own company, in some cases, but also men who would turn against me. And thus, my closest confidants, my deepest defenders, would need to give me something. A token of their truth.
And blood is thicker than water, after all.
So, that's how things began. The founding of the dread merchants, the brotherhood of Frighteners. Wait till you hear about those initiation rites -- the entrance exam was a killer.
About the current job. I'm dealing with a botched military black op in Colombia. Colombia! Land of crack, coffee, and consorts. I'd sent a recon unit, and she should be back home soon.
Home.
It's where the heart is.
But not where I am.
Right now, I'm on the back of a Colombian military train, loaded with a rogue insurgent group threatening to destroy Peace, Freedom, and Happiness(TM). As we know it, that is.
I was in the worker's breakroom. There were a few shots of espresso in the fridge, so I helped myself. I hit the floor with a sickening thud. I felt a strange jittery feeling as my perceptions began to warp. Worse than normal. Who spiked the coffee? I'm not surprised. But it destroyed my inhibitions; I hungered.
Thus, I broke into the next cabin. Two hostiles. Ragtag, motley-looking guards with Kalashinkovs and a penchant for revolution. I threw myself at the closest one. I don't speak Spanish, but I'm pretty sure "Hrnngh!" means "Would you kindly get your teeth out of my neck?" in any language. Sinking my teeth in deeper, I lapped up the delicious lifeblood. The other guard, finally realizing the gravity of the situation, cried out. "El deomino!"
I looked up, shocked out of my bloody reverie. The guard was staring at me, rudely, I might add, shuddering slightly and swaying his gun with a flashlight mount side to side. I took the axe from my back and tossed it at him, insantly impaling him and embedding itself into the wall behind him as the chain clinked through the corpse.
Actually, corpse is a bit misleading. He's still alive. But something horrific began to transpire, as before I could get back to leeching life from the lost soul on the ground, I saw the impaled sentry's eyes glow red. His long, black hair gnarled itself into tentacles and writhed rhythmically, pulsing in some unholy beat.
His jaw dropped to the floor. I say this with no hyperbole whatsoever. I heard the bony thud as it finally struck ground, the guard's gaping maw a vortex of awful absurdity. He lashed out his hair-tentacles at me, attempting to bind me, to constrict my neck, to force me to the ground. How odd. I brought a gloved hand to my neck, trying to tear though the sheath of hair hardened by horrific hell-force and free myself, but to no avail. The demon dragged me, my feet trailing on the ground as it lifted me up, higher, higher still until I was dangling into its gaping maw. It felt like hours, but the timer in my goggles claimed otherwise. I grasped at my neck, strangled still by the sinuous hair. I looked deep into those eerie red eyes.
He let go.
Time to find out if there really is no more room in Hell.
I descended into Hell. The third day, I rose again--
Erm, wrong story. Eheh.
But I did descend into Hell, or something like it. Odd, flesh-colored ripples surged along the walls of the fear engine. Demonic sentries poured out of the door ahead of me, rearing their heads in utter disgust. I pulled out a flechette shotgun, cocking it in defiance as my scarf wavered in the black, nebulous air. I fired a few shots into the unholy roster, dispatching two demons as they marched forward, moaning and stretching their horrid maws. But the mob was coming closer, and closer. I could smell the hatred rippling off their breath as they spoke, long strings of death babble, unintelligible poems of doom and violence.
"Cthulhu fl'tag'n! Um...Damnit!" I fired a few more shells into the shambling mess of flesh before retreating behind a partition.
This wasn't a job for myself alone.
Time to call in a few friends. I reached into a pouch on my pants, pulling out a vial. I placed it into an injector, jabbing it quickly into my neck. My limbs writhed as my brain sizzled, firing neurons in a transfer protocol that would engage a transmission device embedded in my head, long ago. I see a loud flash of light; I hear a sharp, violent crack. The Aspect Warriors. My finest, those whom I was most proud of.
She floated into the cabin like a valkyrie. Twirling a shotgun on her fingertips like a baton, the maiden descended. In silver armor, trailing red hair behind her, she smiled profanely. The death priestess, Clair. Her shining shell gleamed in the darkness as she continued soaring downward, on pristene wings of steel. Armor like a space-age warrior, fashioned in some far-off unfathomable dimension, encased Clair's thin, frail frame. Grenades dangled from a belt draped across her chest, and a visor covered the upper half of her face.
The creeping death machine hadn't stopped just because Clair made a dramatic entrance. A few were already toe-to-toe with me, dragging their nails across my camo suit and swaying their heads back in preparation to savor the Bladecatcher Special (it's 4.99 at Red Lobster, if you're wondering). I whipped my gun across the horrific skulls of my enemies, firing a shell into the chest of the closest one, knocking him flat to the floor and disintegrating completely his arms. I'm just going out on a limb here, but I think he's out of comission. Clair was already on top of things, dispatching demons left and right with successive shotgun bursts, and not a soul laid a hand on her blessed armor. Well, that much is obvious; the damned lack souls. It's a truth nontheless, as we'd held the line thus far.
But a familiar voice boomed. All too familiar. Like a ghost from my past, but I couldn't place it with a name.
"Corisetti Alestharion! You left me for dead, you filthy scoundrel!"
And another.
"You used me! As a pawn!"
And another still.
"YOU LET ME DIE!"
Shocked, I came to a realization.
These weren't just your vanilla, run-of-the-mill lost souls.
The Phantom Regiment had come back to haunt me.
I moved forward, slogging through the sea of undead, which had begun chanting songs of my impending demise. They’d all suddenly come to the realization of who I actually was, and this inspired new vigor in their souls (or lack thereof). A sudden lurch shook the train as the fear engine increased its speed, hurtling toward a dark tunnel near the end of the tracks. This can’t be good. Either that, or they’re all just planning a “welcome back” party. They have had over a thousand years to do so. Who knows?
Before I had time to consider what one would get as a gift for a thousand-year-old vampire assassin, a demon struggled its way onto my shoulders, sinking its teeth deep into the flesh not covered by my scarf or vest. I cried out in pain as the demon’s teeth imbued my flesh with its dark venom, before shaking madly in an attempt to throw him off. I kept shaking. Soon, there were more. Two, three, four, all jumping on top of me, all searching for some bit of skin to poke into, some opportunity to infect me.
And then I opened my eyes. Turns out, I was curled up in the corner of the cabin, the two bleeding guards lying strewn about the room. Turns out, I couldn't remember why. Turns out, no one cares. I pulled the chain on my axe, a clanking clangor as the slack picked up and the chain tightened before the axe flew out of the wall and back into my hand. I wrapped it back around my back after rising out of the niche, a large headache beginning to find itself in the recess of my skull.
Clair’s gone. I see a shining light in the sky, a twinkling trail following a star in the distance. Must be her. She always leaves like that. It’s odd.
But enough about that. The title of this story isn’t “Bladecatcher and Friends”, is it? You’re here for me. I worked up my strength, wary of the slippery lifeblood on the ground, before bashing my shoulder through the door at the end of the room. And in the next room? Boxes of kilts. Yes, kilts. Those skirt-y things the Scottish wear. I suppose it’s an emergency supply for some far-off nation; and that it should do until they can get their own production going.
I opened the door into the next room, feeling the train’s movement under my feet once looking outside to realize that it was still moving. I wasn’t out for long, then; I won’t have to explain this one to my CO. Hah. That’s a joke. It’s one of my favorites. Would you really believe that your army could control me?
Two more guards stand there. It almost appears that they’re only here to ruin my day. That’s it. That’s why they station these lackeys. It’s the drug companies, I tell you. It’s a conspiracy. Here, take this tin-foil hat while I pour you some Kool-Aid.
“It’s the demon! Watch your back and take him down.”
English? Why are there—
That device there is called a fragment. It’s what I do when I want to imply that I’ve been cut-off mid-thought. Which I was. You see, it’s kind of hard to think with a bullet in your stomach. My thought process went something like this:
There’s a bullet in my chest. Dangerously close to my heart.
Oh. How quaint. Perhaps it will find a nice home there.
It’s a bit of a pain. Perhaps we can make it pay rent?
Yes, but we mustn’t let it get attached. Then we’ll have to give it pocket money.
Guys? It’s the pain receptors here. Got a message for you, courtesy of the stomach.
Oh? What’s it say?
“Stop it.” That’s all.
Ah. I suppose we’d better panic, now.
Pain.
Now that's definitely not where the heart is. I mean, it affects the heart, sure, but there's no emotion in it. Of course, I knew a fellow who chose to carry that emotion into battle. I can't watch a Sting live concert to this day because of him.
But that's another story.
So I'm crumpled on the ground in a bloodied heap. Vampires don't bleed? Think again. Just because Meyer decided to paint us as Superman meets My Chemical Romance doesn't mean that's how we truly are. I gather my strength before huffing and puffing my way to cover behind a bench on the train, priming a concussion grenade on my belt. I lob it over the seat, waiting to hear that telltale sonic burst and the equally familiar thud of falling bodies as their system finds it impossible to adjust to the shift in vibration.
I charge forward, hoisting up my signature chain-axe and faking out the first grounded soldier with a downward feint, then tossing the chain around his torso. With a quick yank, I pull him against my extended foot and grip both of his arms.
They say that brute force can't solve all problems.
I think I disagree.
If brute force isn't working, you're not using enough.
Grinning like a schoolgirl, I pulled. And pulled. And pulled some more. It felt like a matter of minutes but I'm sure it was accomplished in seconds.
I was sent here to liberate, and thus I did.
I liberated the man's arms from their sockets.
And before the other man had a chance to respond to this lovely atrocity, a crunching sound emanated from the roof of the train as a large suit of powered armor dropped down.
"Hey, Corisetti! Long time, no play! I'm here to ruin your day!"
A salvo of missiles punctuated the end of that sentence.
Wonderful.
Home.
It's where the heart is, or so I'm told. I've always found that expression to be a little odd. Most of the people I know, myself included, keep their hearts firmly rooted in their chests. And that's where they belong, isn't that right? After all, a heart does little good to pump the lifeblood if it's outside of its system of tubes and pumps they humans call the "circulatory system." Feh. I haven't cared much. My concern is not with how it works; mine is with stopping it.
I'm the Bladecatcher. Vampire hunter. Not the kind that you normally read about; I'm no Van Helsing, nor am I some caped madman with belts full of wooden stakes and silver bullets. I, myself, am a vampire, and I lend my services to the highest bidder. Sometimes I start wars--sometimes I end them. Sometimes I rend flesh, and others I save it. I tie myself to no specific capacity. I'm malleable, I'm flexible. For the right price.
Anyway, home, to me, is no Dracula-esque castle with high towers and dark corners and heads on pikes. Mine is an apartment in New York, in the United States. That's right. I could be that creepy neighbor next door who always seems to be hiding something. The chances are high that I'm not, however. I keep to myself. I like to read in my spare time. Works of late are dull and uninspired, and I found a specific hatred for a recent series that rather romanticizes my kind. It's not pretty being me. The whole thing shows our kind in rather the wrong light, if you'll pardon the pun. But I've gone tangential on you again. Let us return to the conditions of my abode. It's a rather seedy place, but I do like it. It's warm, it's cozy, and most of all it's insubstantial. Looking for the highest-paid assassin in the world? I'm certain this isn't the first place you'd direct your gaze. Mansions and fortresses have never been my thing. I don't do windows.
Home, to me, overlooks a busy city street, usually teeming with masses of you warm fleshy organisms, walking reproductive vehicles with nary a chance to truly impact the world. Most of you are just trying to get by, angry because the rich get richer and the poor get poorer and that the men in Congress don't care about anyone but the big wigs and the CEOs. Know what? It's true. If you want something in this world, you have to reach out and take it for yourself. And that's what I did. I realized I have a gift. A gift that most people would abhor holding onto, a gift that some would even consider a curse, but a gift nonetheless. I'm immortal. I cannot die by conventional means. Carpe diem, baby. I had to reach out and grab hold of a career that truly lets me shine before I passed my prime was consigned to a life of obscurity. I took up an apprenticeship with a swordsman in Western Europe...
---
I'm cold.
Really Goddamned cold. Imagine...oh, Alaska. Do you know how cold--what, you've never been there? Fine. Minnesota. You've been to Minnesota. Shut up, I know you have. Everyone's been to Minnesota.
Anyway, cold. But that pales in comparison to my skin. Or, should I say, darkens in comparison. My flesh is now a pallid, sickening white instead of my usual lovely designer beige. And, no, I'm not sparkling.
A traveling company of warriors is ahead, headed by a man on a horse with red and black armor. Doesn't that sound like your stereotypical dread lord? Let's go talk to him, shall we?
"Sir? I'm...bleeding."
The knight looks down at me. He motions for his liege to come near.
"Child, where is thy wound?"
I showed him. Right in the bit of my neck where the shoulders and neck meet.
"Christ, but he's caught the bloodlust!"
The bloodlust. For those of you playing along at home, that's what they called vampirism back in the day. I'm crying at this point. I'm sure I'm going to die.
"Take him. We'll bring him back to the castle, lock him up. I'm sure one day he'll be a valiant warrior at the Queen's side; he could be a powerful weapon..."
"If we keep the bastard child away from our own men!"
"We've got chickens and the like in the keep. Can that blood not satiate him until he grows to taste victory on the battlefield?"
"Damn you, Nolan. Your absurd ideas will be the death of us one day."
"Don't count on it."
A few years later, I'd become a formidable warrior. If, by formidable, you mean "able to ride a horse without falling off and pretty much inexperienced in actual combat.¨ Yep. That's me. Hey, from humble beginnings come great legends. Or soldiers with a sixteen hour life expectancy. I never can remember...
¨Charge, men! Let their flesh be your earth!¨
Ooh! My favorite bit of his speech. Onward into battle...
As we stormed the castle walls, a flurry of arrows flung feverishly from the facade.
¨They're lighting their arrows!¨
¨Can they do that?¨
¨Obviously. 3rd Edition rules state that rangers can light their arrows given a constant supply of oil and--wait, isn't this that fourth wall thing we talked about earlier?¨
¨Right. Sorry. Uhhhh.¨
The puzzled footman twirled his spear, unsure of how to stabilize the reality he'd so carelessly wrought open.
While he's doing that, allow me to explain something. I haven't always been such a magnificent badass. Don't think that Nolan helped much; his idea of training was taking me out into the woods at night and having me try and ¨cut the darkness¨. Filthy poetic. I learned most of what I know from the pit: gladiatorial combat at its finest. Two men go at it; winner claims glory, loser gets the axe. Eheh. It was wonderful, growing up in Blackhaven...wonderful memories, I tell you. Don't get me started about my first public execution...
¨Oh! You, reader! I think I've got it! 'Forward, comrades!'¨
¨Ah, that'll do. Let's take the keep! No prisoners!¨
The footmen resumed their charge as Nolan and I followed from behind, mopping up straggling remnants of the enemy army. An arrow inexplicably struck me in the chest...
...and caught itself in my leather armor. Still, it felt as if a thousand voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. Or perhaps that's just Star Wars. Star Wars, medieval combat, they're so effing samey that I can never keep them straight.
Finally, we broke through the walls. Our battering rams had done their duties, and one at last had created a gaping hole in the keep's walls. I suddenly felt a tremendous lust for blood, so I did what any sane teenage vampire would do: I jumped off my horse and sped toward the opening, baring my axe against the unlucky first defender to impede my progress of chaos.
¨Chop-chop, my friends...¨
---
Wait, though. There's something you need to know, first. Nolan might be a horrid teacher, but his battlefield tactics do deserve renown. Why's that, you say? We had many names for our little contingent, and all of them were true. The Phantom Regiment, as we were officially called. The death knights--the townsfolk's pet term. The Frighteners--derogatory. There were reasons, though...Nolan was awfully ruthless. Nothing was a sin to this man on the battlefield. He was always devising a ploy to ruin the days and the minds of those who would oppose us. From flinging corpses from catapults for calamity and chaos, to blood-stained drills that ran on the power of harvested fear (really), Nolan's grasp of bitter warfare was unparalleled by anyone I've seen to this day. Thankfully. There's many theories over how he accomplished it...some say he entered into a pact with the devil; others say he was simply a very bored man.
I know none of these are true. Why? The man, in the end, had a conscience. He knew these evil doings made for good ends, and thus he felt justified in the end. Plus, his character sheet says--oops, never mind. Anyway, I don't even believe his fear engines ran on anything but human ingenuity and the power of psychology. And this is why I hated the man. He was a damned hypocrite. But I respected him for his prowess and knowledge.
Among the cast of the Frighteners were many good, solid men. Men who I needed in order for my eventual rise to power. Men who could fight at my side. Men who I'd later enlist in my own company, in some cases, but also men who would turn against me. And thus, my closest confidants, my deepest defenders, would need to give me something. A token of their truth.
And blood is thicker than water, after all.
So, that's how things began. The founding of the dread merchants, the brotherhood of Frighteners. Wait till you hear about those initiation rites -- the entrance exam was a killer.
About the current job. I'm dealing with a botched military black op in Colombia. Colombia! Land of crack, coffee, and consorts. I'd sent a recon unit, and she should be back home soon.
Home.
It's where the heart is.
But not where I am.
Right now, I'm on the back of a Colombian military train, loaded with a rogue insurgent group threatening to destroy Peace, Freedom, and Happiness(TM). As we know it, that is.
I was in the worker's breakroom. There were a few shots of espresso in the fridge, so I helped myself. I hit the floor with a sickening thud. I felt a strange jittery feeling as my perceptions began to warp. Worse than normal. Who spiked the coffee? I'm not surprised. But it destroyed my inhibitions; I hungered.
Thus, I broke into the next cabin. Two hostiles. Ragtag, motley-looking guards with Kalashinkovs and a penchant for revolution. I threw myself at the closest one. I don't speak Spanish, but I'm pretty sure "Hrnngh!" means "Would you kindly get your teeth out of my neck?" in any language. Sinking my teeth in deeper, I lapped up the delicious lifeblood. The other guard, finally realizing the gravity of the situation, cried out. "El deomino!"
I looked up, shocked out of my bloody reverie. The guard was staring at me, rudely, I might add, shuddering slightly and swaying his gun with a flashlight mount side to side. I took the axe from my back and tossed it at him, insantly impaling him and embedding itself into the wall behind him as the chain clinked through the corpse.
Actually, corpse is a bit misleading. He's still alive. But something horrific began to transpire, as before I could get back to leeching life from the lost soul on the ground, I saw the impaled sentry's eyes glow red. His long, black hair gnarled itself into tentacles and writhed rhythmically, pulsing in some unholy beat.
His jaw dropped to the floor. I say this with no hyperbole whatsoever. I heard the bony thud as it finally struck ground, the guard's gaping maw a vortex of awful absurdity. He lashed out his hair-tentacles at me, attempting to bind me, to constrict my neck, to force me to the ground. How odd. I brought a gloved hand to my neck, trying to tear though the sheath of hair hardened by horrific hell-force and free myself, but to no avail. The demon dragged me, my feet trailing on the ground as it lifted me up, higher, higher still until I was dangling into its gaping maw. It felt like hours, but the timer in my goggles claimed otherwise. I grasped at my neck, strangled still by the sinuous hair. I looked deep into those eerie red eyes.
He let go.
Time to find out if there really is no more room in Hell.
I descended into Hell. The third day, I rose again--
Erm, wrong story. Eheh.
But I did descend into Hell, or something like it. Odd, flesh-colored ripples surged along the walls of the fear engine. Demonic sentries poured out of the door ahead of me, rearing their heads in utter disgust. I pulled out a flechette shotgun, cocking it in defiance as my scarf wavered in the black, nebulous air. I fired a few shots into the unholy roster, dispatching two demons as they marched forward, moaning and stretching their horrid maws. But the mob was coming closer, and closer. I could smell the hatred rippling off their breath as they spoke, long strings of death babble, unintelligible poems of doom and violence.
"Cthulhu fl'tag'n! Um...Damnit!" I fired a few more shells into the shambling mess of flesh before retreating behind a partition.
This wasn't a job for myself alone.
Time to call in a few friends. I reached into a pouch on my pants, pulling out a vial. I placed it into an injector, jabbing it quickly into my neck. My limbs writhed as my brain sizzled, firing neurons in a transfer protocol that would engage a transmission device embedded in my head, long ago. I see a loud flash of light; I hear a sharp, violent crack. The Aspect Warriors. My finest, those whom I was most proud of.
She floated into the cabin like a valkyrie. Twirling a shotgun on her fingertips like a baton, the maiden descended. In silver armor, trailing red hair behind her, she smiled profanely. The death priestess, Clair. Her shining shell gleamed in the darkness as she continued soaring downward, on pristene wings of steel. Armor like a space-age warrior, fashioned in some far-off unfathomable dimension, encased Clair's thin, frail frame. Grenades dangled from a belt draped across her chest, and a visor covered the upper half of her face.
The creeping death machine hadn't stopped just because Clair made a dramatic entrance. A few were already toe-to-toe with me, dragging their nails across my camo suit and swaying their heads back in preparation to savor the Bladecatcher Special (it's 4.99 at Red Lobster, if you're wondering). I whipped my gun across the horrific skulls of my enemies, firing a shell into the chest of the closest one, knocking him flat to the floor and disintegrating completely his arms. I'm just going out on a limb here, but I think he's out of comission. Clair was already on top of things, dispatching demons left and right with successive shotgun bursts, and not a soul laid a hand on her blessed armor. Well, that much is obvious; the damned lack souls. It's a truth nontheless, as we'd held the line thus far.
But a familiar voice boomed. All too familiar. Like a ghost from my past, but I couldn't place it with a name.
"Corisetti Alestharion! You left me for dead, you filthy scoundrel!"
And another.
"You used me! As a pawn!"
And another still.
"YOU LET ME DIE!"
Shocked, I came to a realization.
These weren't just your vanilla, run-of-the-mill lost souls.
The Phantom Regiment had come back to haunt me.
I moved forward, slogging through the sea of undead, which had begun chanting songs of my impending demise. They’d all suddenly come to the realization of who I actually was, and this inspired new vigor in their souls (or lack thereof). A sudden lurch shook the train as the fear engine increased its speed, hurtling toward a dark tunnel near the end of the tracks. This can’t be good. Either that, or they’re all just planning a “welcome back” party. They have had over a thousand years to do so. Who knows?
Before I had time to consider what one would get as a gift for a thousand-year-old vampire assassin, a demon struggled its way onto my shoulders, sinking its teeth deep into the flesh not covered by my scarf or vest. I cried out in pain as the demon’s teeth imbued my flesh with its dark venom, before shaking madly in an attempt to throw him off. I kept shaking. Soon, there were more. Two, three, four, all jumping on top of me, all searching for some bit of skin to poke into, some opportunity to infect me.
And then I opened my eyes. Turns out, I was curled up in the corner of the cabin, the two bleeding guards lying strewn about the room. Turns out, I couldn't remember why. Turns out, no one cares. I pulled the chain on my axe, a clanking clangor as the slack picked up and the chain tightened before the axe flew out of the wall and back into my hand. I wrapped it back around my back after rising out of the niche, a large headache beginning to find itself in the recess of my skull.
Clair’s gone. I see a shining light in the sky, a twinkling trail following a star in the distance. Must be her. She always leaves like that. It’s odd.
But enough about that. The title of this story isn’t “Bladecatcher and Friends”, is it? You’re here for me. I worked up my strength, wary of the slippery lifeblood on the ground, before bashing my shoulder through the door at the end of the room. And in the next room? Boxes of kilts. Yes, kilts. Those skirt-y things the Scottish wear. I suppose it’s an emergency supply for some far-off nation; and that it should do until they can get their own production going.
I opened the door into the next room, feeling the train’s movement under my feet once looking outside to realize that it was still moving. I wasn’t out for long, then; I won’t have to explain this one to my CO. Hah. That’s a joke. It’s one of my favorites. Would you really believe that your army could control me?
Two more guards stand there. It almost appears that they’re only here to ruin my day. That’s it. That’s why they station these lackeys. It’s the drug companies, I tell you. It’s a conspiracy. Here, take this tin-foil hat while I pour you some Kool-Aid.
“It’s the demon! Watch your back and take him down.”
English? Why are there—
That device there is called a fragment. It’s what I do when I want to imply that I’ve been cut-off mid-thought. Which I was. You see, it’s kind of hard to think with a bullet in your stomach. My thought process went something like this:
There’s a bullet in my chest. Dangerously close to my heart.
Oh. How quaint. Perhaps it will find a nice home there.
It’s a bit of a pain. Perhaps we can make it pay rent?
Yes, but we mustn’t let it get attached. Then we’ll have to give it pocket money.
Guys? It’s the pain receptors here. Got a message for you, courtesy of the stomach.
Oh? What’s it say?
“Stop it.” That’s all.
Ah. I suppose we’d better panic, now.
Pain.
Now that's definitely not where the heart is. I mean, it affects the heart, sure, but there's no emotion in it. Of course, I knew a fellow who chose to carry that emotion into battle. I can't watch a Sting live concert to this day because of him.
But that's another story.
So I'm crumpled on the ground in a bloodied heap. Vampires don't bleed? Think again. Just because Meyer decided to paint us as Superman meets My Chemical Romance doesn't mean that's how we truly are. I gather my strength before huffing and puffing my way to cover behind a bench on the train, priming a concussion grenade on my belt. I lob it over the seat, waiting to hear that telltale sonic burst and the equally familiar thud of falling bodies as their system finds it impossible to adjust to the shift in vibration.
I charge forward, hoisting up my signature chain-axe and faking out the first grounded soldier with a downward feint, then tossing the chain around his torso. With a quick yank, I pull him against my extended foot and grip both of his arms.
They say that brute force can't solve all problems.
I think I disagree.
If brute force isn't working, you're not using enough.
Grinning like a schoolgirl, I pulled. And pulled. And pulled some more. It felt like a matter of minutes but I'm sure it was accomplished in seconds.
I was sent here to liberate, and thus I did.
I liberated the man's arms from their sockets.
And before the other man had a chance to respond to this lovely atrocity, a crunching sound emanated from the roof of the train as a large suit of powered armor dropped down.
"Hey, Corisetti! Long time, no play! I'm here to ruin your day!"
A salvo of missiles punctuated the end of that sentence.
Wonderful.