Bayformers Fan fiction (Seriously)

 

Seymour Simmons log entry 1984:

In 2011, Decepticon Cybertronians invaded earth.  What are Cybertronians?  You may know them better as “transformers,” at least, that’s how you’ve been indoctrinated to know them.  Now, these Cybertronians, that invaded, committed a genocidal act against our planet; Earth, all in an effort to bring their home, Cybertron, here with the intention of enslaving us to rebuild it.  Luckily, we had our own Cybertronian pals, we all know as the Autobots, to save us.  Because of them, we, as a species, are still here.  So why are we hunting them?  Why are we stabbing our greatest allies in their backs.

End of entry.

 

“You can see, from this log alone, former agent Seymour Simmons will not be an asset for us, but, more likely, an obstacle.”

Inside a large briefing room, four shadowed figures sit as a panel, discussing the next steps in determining the fate of their unwanted guests.  The oldest, Warren, a bulk of a man, continues his briefing.  

“We can’t wait any longer for him to show his face.”

Peters, a lanky man with a sunken face, chimes in, almost cutting Warren off.

“We haven’t seen him since Charlotte Mearing had him arrested at the end of the Chicago fiasco.”

“Do we just wait then, Peters?” Decker, a piercing woman, cuts in, “or do we take action? I’m with Warren on this.”

“Calm yourself, Decker,” Peters returns, “I was merely stating a fact.  I also agree that Simmons poses the same threat a dormant disease does.  What do you think, Flank?”

Flank, an older, skeletal woman, gets up from her seat and walks away from the trio.

“This is pointless squabbling,” she retorts, whipping out her phone. “Let’s just have our associates of the TRF cut out this little cancer.”

“You know where he is?” Peters inquires.

“He was still making these log entries long after Chicago.” Warren answers, “our team found his server and tracked him to a deserted Sector Seven bunker.”

“Then what are we waiting for,” Decker asks impatiently, the corner of her mouth curling upward, “make the kill order.”

____________

A single, black SUV pulls up to a run down gas station on the side of the road cutting through a desert. All its doors open simultaneously, with four men stepping out checking their gear. They enter the gas station’s convenience store single file, taking tactical positions among its aisles.

“No sign of movement in here, sir,” one of the men reports.

“We’re not looking for movement, Sal,” his superior replies, “we’re looking for things like this.”

He points at a red dot coming from behind a ceiling panel.  

“And don’t forget to scan for any transformers.”

He directs his men to fan out, and identify any potential traps laid by their target.  The survey every possible nook and cranny, each identifying basic wire trips, pressure tiles, and laser sensors.  

“Triggers identified, sir.  No sign of transformers”

“You’re all a bunch moronic government lackeys, huh?”

A voice comes from the intercom inside the station’s garage.

“Former agent Seymour Simmons,” the leader replies, “the TRF has identified you as a harborer of extra terrestrial criminals.”

“No, no Decepticons here. You checked yourself, there are no Cybertronians in there.”

“In here?” one of the men questions, taking a step toward the garage.

“Hold your positions, men,” the leader barks, “he’s trying to lead us away.  Keep searching for transformers.”

Inside a dark room, Simmons watches the men across four monitors. “Morons,” Simmons replies, flipping four different switches.  

From aisle to aisle, shots are fired.  One.  Two.  Three.  Surprise and thud.  Watching the sequence of death, their leader takes cover, forcing himself to the floor, staying out of the line of fire.  As the shots cease, the soldier take a small sigh of relief, only for the floor below him to collapse, and plunge him into pitch blackness.  

____________

The soldier falls into the darkness landing onto a slide that takes him even further down.  As he falls he hears and feels his com fry.  He’d just fallen through an EMP field.  Seymour Simmons is living up to his reputation.  

A small light finally appears, and as it grows bigger, the soldier’s adrenaline rises.  He’s ready.  He quickly thinks back on his training, remembering every pressure point, going through the process of events he thinks will unfold.  Simmons will undoubtedly have a gun.  He will disarm, then break.  Disarm then break.  Disarm then break.  The light’s reached its peak height.  He’s coming to the end.  He balls his fist and leans forward, ready to leap.  Here’s the end.  Suddenly, a large, metal hand clotheslines him on his way out.  Before he can get up, Simmons injects him.

“What did you-”

“Relax,” Simmons cuts him off, “it’s a mild sedative to lower your adrenaline levels.  If I really wanted to kill you,” he kicks the soldier in the back of the knee, forcing him to the ground, “I would have had TC, here, do much more than put his hand out in front of you. Put your hands on your head”

“TC?” the soldier, asks, following the command.

“Right, sorry.  You only know them as ‘transformers.’ But this one’s name is Trailcutter; one of the good ones.  Thanks,” he nods his head toward the Cybertronian, “by the way.”

Trailcutter is a fit bot, with a body akin to his drill sergeant, Ironhide, even taking an alt-mode similar to his.  His specialty is defense, being forged with shield generators in his own arms.  He’s watched many of his friends and comrades in arms fall, unable to defend them.

“Of course,” Trailcutter replies, “though I’d wish you stop using me as a threat towards our guests.  I don’t think it helps my species’ PR on your planet.”

“These men are a lost cause, TC, I thought you’d have understood that after they killed Dutch.” Simmons checks the monitors, “and you can turn off your shield now, there don’t appear to be anymore visitors.”

Trailcutter presses a switch in his wrist, and a blue, holographic cloth is sucked out of the walls and into his arm.  

“Why don’t you go take a rest,” Simmons suggests, “reserve what little energon levels you have left.”

“But won’t you nee-” Trailcutter starts.

“Soldier boy here knows you won’t kill him now, and I kind of do need a getaway vehicle.”

Trailcutter concedes, transforming into a muscular pick up truck, as Simmons pulls up a chair in front of the subdued soldier.  

“Who sent you?” he questions, “was it the four?”

“How do you know-” the soldier starts.

“Simple,” Simmons cuts him off, “They hack me, I follow the connection back to its source.”

“That’s not-”

“A clear answer? No, it wasn’t meant to be.  Now, you’re TRF are you not?”

Simmons gets up from his chair, circling around his captive.  

“Transformers Reaction Force,” he says with pointed disgust.

“Yeah,” the soldier replies indignantly, “we protect people from things like that pile of scrap-”

Simmons smacks the back of the soldier’s head.

“I will not condone your racism toward my friend.”

“You protect the species that seeks to wipe ours out?”

“See that’s the problem with people like you,” he comes back around, looking the soldier in the face,  “you think the actions of one portion of a species determines the character of the whole?  Do you not see the irony of that viewpoint if you just looked at our own history?”

The soldier takes a moment, like a child bully who was just put in his place.  But, his perspective gives him a pride-stroking counter.

“Even so, that thing,” the soldier gestures at Trailcutter, “and his faction just stood by and let Chicago be hit, costing the us millions in lives.  Their inaction makes them just as guilty as the rest of their kind-”

Trailcutter transforms back into his robot mode, noticeably distraught.

“You had just exiled us from your planet!” he exclaims, “and with that aside, do you think it made sense, tactically, to even attempt a defense? Nine against at least a few hundred, not including the gunships.”

“Spare me your excuses!” the soldier shouts back, “I thought you cared about us humans, and would do anything to protect us!”

Silence fills the room.

“Mudflap, Skids..” Trailcutter starts.

“What are you-” the soldier’s puzzled.

“Did you even learn their names?” Simmons says coldly, “Elita One, Chromia, Arcee…”

“Who-”

“Dino, Jolt, Q, Jazz, Sideswipe…” Trailcutter continues, “The Wreckers; my brothers.”

“How about the big names, huh?” Simmons says, getting louder. “Ratchet, Ironhide! All good bots who put their lives on the line for us, even after we desecrated the then corpse of their esteemed leader.  Now look at us.” He pauses, reflecting, “We’ve turned them into failed, knockoff gobots.”  

“We’ve lost people too!” Trailcutter shouts, slamming the ground, “All friends, who I will never see again.”  His fist tightens, “and you people never even reflected on their lives, not even when they fought with you side by side.”  His fist loosens, as he leans back, lamenting his memories.

“Let me ask you,” Simmons starts calmly, “how would you feel if the people you’ve saved, during your time in the military, turned around and started killing every member of your brotherhood?”

The soldier is finally silent, more out of fear of Trailcutter’s hands, but listening.

“So that’s what it takes?” Simmons jabs, noticing the soldier’s focused gaze on Trailcutter.  “You need someone to threaten you in order for you to do the right thing.”

The soldier looks down in defeat.

“I won’t have answers for you,” the soldier admits, unable to look up.  

“Prime has left our planet,” Simmons states, strolling toward Trailcutter, “And I wouldn’t blame him if he came back to end our race.”

The soldier glares upward.

“Then the TRF’s existence is justified,” he indignantly whispers.

Simmons sighs, “have you not been listening?”

“Look, I get it,” the soldier starts standing up, “we’ve treated the transformers like shit, and maybe we don’t deserve to live.”  He stands fully upright.  “But if I had to choose between us or them,” he brings his arms down, “I’d choose us.”

“TC,” Simmons gestures to Trailcutter.

Trailcutter nods and reverts to his truck mode.  The sedative has worn off, and the soldier’s found his second wind.    

Simmons, looking disappointed, reaches behind his back.

“I thought we got through to you, son,” he sighs, “what is your name?”  

“My name is Leland Bishop,” he says, a smirk growing across his face, “and to help save earth, I’m taking you down.”

Bishop runs at Simmons, who calmly pulls a gun on him.  Bishop freezes.

“We could have used your help, Leland, but you can’t see what’s plainly in front of you.”

Simmons’ hand is steady, this isn’t the worst thing he’s done to a living being.  He and Bishop’s eyes are locked.  Simmons is too far for Bishop to disarm and then break.  

“Do it, traitor”

Simmons looks at him, pondering his options.  He breaks his gaze and re-holsters the gun.  

“My friend here wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I shot you.”

Bishop shouts with frustration, and leaps at Simmons only to be knocked back by a yellow force field that’s projected by the truck instantaneously.  He leaps back up, grabbing a nearby rock and begins pummeling the hard light. Break, break, break, break…

“You’re wasting your energy, soldier,” Simmons scoffs tapping the other side of the field, “It’d literally take you a full year to even make this shield flicker.”  

“Come out here and fight, traitor!” Bishop shouts.

Simmons walks away from the edge of the field.

“Thanks again, TC,” Simmons says, opening the truck doors, “We’ll have to find another Energon depot.  Shouldn’t be more than a few hundred klicks.”  

Simmons grabs the door and, as he shuts it, shouts, “See you at the end of the world, soldier boy.”

Once the door slams, several explosions go off, forcing Bishop into the air and to smack into the opposing wall.  The force field is sucked back into the truck, as it drives off into the smoke.  

____________

Seymour Simmons Entry Log 2017

Prime has returned.  He’s brought Cybertron with him.  His retribution is upon us, but the Autobots don’t seem to support him?  Whatever the outcome, we deserve it.

End of entry.

 

 

 

Deadmen’s Society

“We all die. Some of us just have more to do afterward.”

You may call it a plan, I mean, you can, but it’s probably not the orchestrator you think or even want it to be. No, this bitch’s plan involves no divine intervention, purely selfish. You see, there’s a war coming, a slaughter to be more exact.

Hell holds no more room for the wicked, and the line for Heaven grows so long it lines the curb outside that is purgatory. The dead have nowhere else to go, have nothing else to do. Our Mistress has pulled some strings and called in a few favors. As Death embodied, she wants to lead the charge of the apocalypse, and seeks her horsemen to charge alongside her.

Little did she know that her “chosen” would prove resistant, so then why does she still comb the earth collecting her army? Is she still looking?

                                                                                                                                               

“So that’s it,” Liza Sherman shouts at a closing door.

“I’m sorry,” a voice says from the other side, and the door completely closes as a glass shatters against it.

“Burn in Hell, Josh,” she screams plopping onto her bed.

Inside her unimpressive room she sees little but Josh’s things. Opening a window, she throws it all out. She falls back down on her bed picking up her phone. Looking through her messages, a lot of messages pop up from different numbers all saying the same thing; “I’m sorry.”

“They can all burn in Hell as far as I’m concerned,” she says, wrapping herself tightly in her sheets, almost trying to hug herself. Shutting her eyes tight she lets the darkness envelop her.

It’s a complete and eternal darkness, entirely hollow of presence but with a sickening presence of moistness. It used to be by chance that a soul would find its way into this void, but that’s no longer be the case. The Mistress, Death herself, is culling the population; cutting lives short, building an army.

More often than not, she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, and just assimilates the soul as cannon fodder. No memories, no free will, she just turns them into a mindless drone to use when the time is right.

A bright, blue soul drifts through the blackness; its center forms a skeleton, while its light stretches into strands connected to each of its joints, like a marionette.

The skeleton awakens abruptly and darts its head around. It spins around, trying to comprehend its current situation, tangling itself in its light strands, noticing those next, and begins trying to disconnect itself. Suddenly, the strands become restraints and the skeleton’s arms are restricted to its sides, and prevent any other movement the skeleton could make.

Walking from behind the straining skeleton, A figure wearing a web patterned veil underneath a large brimmed hat with a flame flickering above it holds out her skeletal fist, the light strands connected to it.

“You actually awoke in this place?” the figure speaks with a voice as old as time, and just as strong.

The skeleton strains to look at its assailant and the figure appears before it, her face a skull from reminiscent of the “day of the dead.”

“You wish to see me?” The words just flow out of her face.

The skeleton opens its jaw. No words come out.

“You wish to know who I am.”

Its jaw closes.

“I am your Mistress,” she says gracefully using her hands to present herself, one referring to her while the other moves as if she was bowing.

The skeletons face doesn’t change. The mistress floats away, revealing her full self. The web veil keeps her form concealed, only her face and hands are visible, and the hands only visible when she sees fit to use them.

“I guess that wouldn’t mean anything to you yet. You awoke during the transition. I haven’t had to verbally explain this since the first time.” She raises her hands in appraisal, continuing, “this void is supposed to be the best place for the process, and it’s proven to be 1,999,999,996 times. ”

She turns away, and a blinding light emanates from her veil. The skeleton still staring at The Mistress, watches her turn around wielding a staff producing smoke in the form of a scythe.

“You’re not the first reaper I’ve done this to.”

She pulls out a small flask and swipes it through the scythe smoke.

“It’s proven to be annoying, but it has to be done.”

She let’s go of the scythe. She holds the flask ahead of herself, drawing closer and closer to the skeleton. The smoke wavers inside the flask actually drawing towards the skeleton’s face.

It tries to turn away, but is grabbed by the mistress, and has its face met with the threshold of the flask, looking right into it.

“It’ll all work out,” The Mistress comforts, “if you listen to me.”

As if it were waiting for its que, the smoke shoots into the skeleton’s eyes. She releases the skeleton as it arcs in pain. Horns grow on its forehead and hair bursts from its scalp. It opens it jaw again, this time in pain.

“AAAAAAUGH,” she screams.

Awoken from her nightmare, Liza sits upright in her bed. Calming down, she takes a deep breath, rubbing her forehead. Looking around at the vacancy of her room, a lot Josh’s thing dominated her space, and now her room itself is like an empty void.

Her apartment is a small, orderly mess.   Her bedroom connects directly to the living room, with the bathroom directly across from it, while the kitchen sits as a part of the living room. There is no mess strewn on the floor, but there are stacks of papers on her table, stacks of movies on her living room TV with a different console connected to it, stacks of plates in her kitchen sink, as well as stacks of bills on her countertop.

She goes through her daily morning routine, showering, brushing her teeth, eating cereal, and waits in the darkness of her apartment, looking at the other end of her kitchen table.

Leaving her apartment, she waits at the train station; a crowded place so packed everyone may as well be sardines. On all sides, Liza is surrounded by blank people; people who accepted their roles in life, and now just go through the motions, a path Liza feels she’s walking.

Her train arriving, Liza rushes with the rest of the crowd knocking into a short, pudgy man.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Liza quickly expresses concern, “excuse me.”

The man smiles at her warmly.

“Don’t worry about it,” his voice crackles with age, “The Mistress will forgive you.”

“What did you say?” Liza asks astonished. The Mistress? From her dream? How does he know about her? She swept away with the rest of the crowd backward into the train, still staring at the man.

Safely aboard the train, the doors close in front of her, and she takes a sigh of relief. Now she can actually move on from her dream.

Entering a tunnel, the train goes dark, and upon exit, is filled with Liza and a crowd of Grim Drones, bare skeletons, completely vacant of characteristic.  Recovering from the man from earlier, Liza opens her eyes slowly, and upon realizing her situation they grow wider till she feels tears forming from their dryness. Her shock is interrupted, however, by a sudden bony grasp on her shoulder.

Balling her hand into a fist, she swings her body hard ready to crack some skulls, when a skeleton catches her fist, this one different from the rest. This one wore a red band on its forehead, along with a ripped red and blue striped shirt, as well as cargo shorts. It even wore a sword and sheath on its back.

“Please calm down,” a female voice billows from its mouth, “we’re trying to help you.”

“Bill, get her out of here.” Directly behind her, a towering behemoth of a skeleton towers over her. His skeleton was at least the mass of two and his skull that of an ox, fully ablaze.

“Calm down, Lucky,” Bill responds, drawing her sword slaying a drone in a single slash, “It’s not like these guys will actually pose a threat to us.”

“Bill, I’ve been burning for too long,” Lucky kneels down, his whole torso now ablaze, “I have to expel these flames.”

“Yeesh, fine,” Bill says turning around, grabbing Liza.

“Hey!” Liza shouts.

“Let ‘em have it big boy,” Bill jests, kicking down the doors and jumping out with Liza screaming.

A Grim Drone leans out the door, but is grabbed and incinerated by Lucky’s hand.

“Where do you think you’re going, scum?”

Lucky kneels in front of the door, as the pack of Drones creep toward it.

“Alright, you worthless heap of bones, get ready to taste hell…FIRE,” he shouts as he consumes the car in his flames, shattering its windows.

Watching from a distance, Liza screams as she and Bill draw closer and closer to the jagged gravel when a large, skeletal hand and catches them.

“Cutting it a little close aren’t you, Prime?”

“What do you want?” Prime, a small child-like reaper riding a skeletal T-Rex, replies, “this guy doesn’t run as fast as a train!”

Bill grabs Liza again and hops onto the back of the T-Rex.

“Take us to eden, Prime. Our Mistress can’t be unaware of us now.”

“Got it.” Prime pulls out a slingshot and shoots a flaming skull opening a portal, the T-Rex disappearing into it. “What about Lucky?”

“Stick to the plan,” Bill responds, “He knows where to go.”

On the train, Lucky sits in front of smoking piles of ash. He stands, his flames reduced to flickers on his horns. As he turns to go out the door, The Mistress appears at the end of the train car.

“You’ve been busy, number 777,” she taunts.

Lucky turns around, head down. He sighs and looks up. His flames flare again, and he charges shouting, “BASTARD!”

The Mistress appears beside him as he runs, and places her hand upon his head.

“I wanted so much more from you, Sunny.”

Crack!

The portal tears open into an empty warehouse, the T-Rex’s head popping out, and the trio disembark. Once off, Prime snaps his fingers, and the portal and T-Rex disappear.

“Alright,” Liza snaps, stepping away from Bill, “where the Hell am I?”

“Calm down Bills,” prime responds. “All that’s happened is; you’re life as you know it has ended, and now you’ve been drafted into our resistance.”

Raising an eyebrow, Liza responds, “Resistance? Resistance to what? What even are you?”

“The Apocalypse,” Bill responds.

“Come again?”

“Ugh,” Bill starts, “look, Bills, I’m just going to give you the gist of it.”

She sits Liza down, looking intently at Bill.

“What are you,” she starts to repeat.

“No,” Bill cuts her off. “For the sake of time, that detail is unimportant.” She starts over. “Simply put, the apocalypse is coming. Hell is stockpiled to the point where even its demons are pressed up against the wall, and the line to get into Heaven is so long purgatory is just as full. The Mistress, the one in the veil, called in some favors and seeks to lead the cull on the earth. She’s been collecting souls, amassing her army and all the while looking for those she can use as her generals, her horseman. You were going to be her replacement for one of us, those who refused to listen.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself, number one billion,” the Mistress’ says appearing between Bill and Prime, and Liza.

Bill draws her sword while Prime his slingshot.

“What do you want, Mo- Mistress,” Prime corrects himself.

“Oh, number one,” The Mistress comments, ignoring Bill behind her.

Bill, taking the opportunity lunges at her, but The Mistress shows up beside her like she did Lucky.

“I’m talking to my son,” she says maliciously. “I’ll get to you later.”

Arching her hand backward, strands instantly restrain her, holding Bill like a marionette. She walks over to Prime, still with his slingshot pulled back.

“Stay back!” he shouts, letting loose. A portal tears open, Hellfire pouring out. She walks through it, not a burn on her.

“Darren,” she says comfortingly, “it’s time to come home.”

She stretches out her hand, connecting with Prime’s forehead, his arms shoot out to the side, and a sea of strands erupt from his body, connecting to the shadows above, rendering him a limp puppet.

“No!” Bill shouts.

The Mistress coldly turns around, and instantly appears by Bill’s side and lifts her hand up high.

Bill, looking at the hand screams, “No! Please!”

Clenching her sword, she swings and cuts her strands, rolling out of the way. Like she was no longer confined by the laws of reality, The Mistress becomes physically twisted as her upper torso stretches from her body, her feet planted firmly where she stood, trying to smack down Bill. Liza, meanwhile stands, watching her nightmare incarnate attack Bill.

“Stop,” she thinks to herself.

The Mistress smacks Bill, sending her flying into a nearby wall.

“This isn’t right,” Liza whispers. She glares at the pair of them, the Mistress taking delight in Bill’s beating. “Stop.”

Bill hits the ceiling.

“This.”

Bill crashes to the floor.

“Now,” she screams, her flesh ablaze, charring away, and her mane of hair lunges out like a hand stretched out. It grabs Bill and pulls her back, connecting to her like The Mistress’s strands.

“What?” Liza, now the horned skeleton from her dream, says, taking a step back.

“You dare,” The Mistress challenges attempting to snatch Bill again with her strands. Only to have Bill respond with impeccable speed and accuracy, deflecting and cutting each strand before it makes contact.

The Mistress looks at Liza, now, and rushes at her, only to be cut off by Bill’s sword. She looks up and sees Bill is no longer connected to Liza. Looking back at Liza, she sees her holding Prime’s slingshot, aiming it at her. She laughs.

“Go ahead, fool,” she shouts, laughing as the distance between her and Liza grows smaller and smaller. “Give it your best shot, Liza,” she taunts.

“Who’s Liza?” Liza says, letting loose, a portal tearing in front of her, The Mistress driving right through it. “My name is Bills.”

Appearing in some kind of desert The Mistress turns around to see the portal closing behind her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says amused, Lucky and Prime’s bodies hang next to her. “I still have two of the three back under my control, Famine will rejoin us. It’s only a matter of time.”

At the warehouse, Bill and Bills reconvene.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Bill scolds.

“Do what?”

“You violated my free will,” Bill explains coldly, holding her right arm “only The Mistress has ever been able to do that.” She picks up her sword.

“I’m sorry,” Bills replies.

“It doesn’t matter,” an explosion breaks in the distance, “We’re out of time.”

The pair walks over to a window and see beams of light all over the nearby city.

“It’s begun.”

A Role to Condemn For

Around a mansion, at a scale almost rivaling the White House, surrounded by black gates, the world burns. The world has ended, and now hordes of the undead, walking skeletal beings, roam the earth, searching for flesh to inhabit.

The gates come crashing down, and hordes rush forward, with a large skeleton, bearing a ram’s skull for a head, and wearing shredded pants and a trench coat, hulking behind them. The horde forms a circle at the doors of the mansion, while others drag two men out from the building, one an older man the other younger.

“Why,” the man shouts, whimpering. “I’ve done nothing to deserve this.”

Two other skeletons walk up to the younger man, and placing their hands on him, burn him till he looks like them.

“No!” the older man shouts.

“You know exactly what you’ve done, Grayson,” the large skeleton shouted, the words just emanating from it’s face, “what you’ve done all your life; cheat.”

“Flint?” The whimpering man questions. “Please, make them stop.”

“That’s not my role anymore, Grayson.”

He lifts his fist above his head, Grayson being held down below him.

“No, Flint” Grayson pleads, screaming, “Please!”

“Flint is gone,” the skeleton shouts. “I am War!”

He swings his fist down.

A fist makes contact with another man’s face. It’s a week prior to the burning world. Joseph Flint has punched a younger actor across the face.   On a movie set, Flint, a middle-aged man is dressed in a thick sweater, while the boy below, looks to be a little over twenty, and dressed in an open button down shirt.

“What did you say to me, you insignificant speck?” Grayson shouts down at the fallen boy.   “You overshadow me? No, I’m not the one who is going to fade away. It’s little boys like you who have their fifteen minutes of fame.”

“Flint!” a voice comes from behind.

Flint turns around and sees Grayson standing there.

“What have you done to my boy?”

Two men approach flint.

“You’re boy? Are you serious, Grayson?” Flint shouts incredulously. “Now I know why he’s here.”

“You’re out of line, Flint.”

“I’m out of line!?” He points violently at the boy, still staring at Grayson. “You nepotistic ass hole!” He approaches the boy, “do you have any idea what we had to go through to get where we are?” but is stopped by the two men.

“Flint,” Grayson starts, “you’re done!”

Flint is stunned.

“After everything we’ve been through, Grayson?”

“Go.”

“Fine!”

Flint walks out, and as he leaves a skeletal figure, wearing a webbed veil watches with intrigue as he leaves.

A set worker approaches Grayson.

“Can you even kick him off the set? This was his project, right?”

“Our project,” Grayson corrects, “and now it’s mine.”

Grayson turns around.

“Alright people, our biggest obstacle is gone. His latest outburst was his last. Phone his replacement, we’ve got to get back on track.”

The set man, who talked to Grayson, walks away from the crowd, and out of everyone’s gaze, is consumed by a beam of light.

Flint, leaving the set, wears his trench coat, and scarf. Walking down the hall he passes by a poster and stops. He stares at it. The title reads Unrivaled, and at the bottom reads, “starring Joseph Flint,” and beyond that reads 1984 best picture nominee. He tightly shuts his eyes fighting back his sorrow.

He walks out of the building, his coat holding him tightly and his scarf concealing his identity, hiding all his wrinkles. He continues walking down the street toward a local bar, Freeman’s.

It’s a small place, just a blank building with a single door as it’s only entry and exit. Entering through its door, Flint is greeted by the bartender.

“Give me a strong one, Barry.”

Barry gives Flint a tall glass, and tends to another part of the bar. Flint flatly drinks his beer.

“Excuse me,” a figure says, sitting next to him. She’s the skeleton from earlier. “Are you Joseph Flint? Star of Unrivaled?” she asks.

Flint doesn’t respond.

“You were great in that.”

Flint stays silent.

“A truly tortured soul capable of so much more,” she says holding her head in her hands like she was infatuated with him.

Flint takes another swig.

“Would you like it I give you a similar role in relevance, but exponentially longer lasting?” She asks sinisterly, looking right at him.

He stoops out of the bar, staggering, barely able to stand up straight.

“See you tomorrow, Barry,” he shouts, and walks off.

He arrives to his building and upon entering his apartment, is instantly greeted by the veil-wearing skeleton.

“So?” she says eagerly, putting her face in his, making eye contact with her empty sockets.

Startled, Flint almost falls backward, but is caught by a series of strands coming out of nowhere. Struggling with the strands, Flint stands up right, and angrily stares at her.

“Who the Hell are you?” Flint demands. “If this is some producer’s sick idea of payback, I will have none of it!”

He walks past her.

“I am Joseph Flint, and I deser-“

She twists her wrist, and Flint is tripped. Bringing him up, the figure hangs Flint upside down, wrapping him in web.

Upon realizing his actual situation, Flint asks, “who are you,” fear starting to set in.

“Humans,” she scoffs, “so entitled. I’m amazed any of you are ascending.”

She holds Flint’s head in her hands.

“I could send you to Hell right now,” she says, still holding his head. But, looking again, she sees the young man from Unrivaled and says, “but boy do I love you, your fury.”

She let’s go and walks away from him.

“To answer your question, I am Death incarnate.”

She drops him.

“As cliché as it is, the ‘world as you know it’ is coming to an end.”

She turns to look at him.

“And I want you to join me.”

Whipping around, Flint looks to find no one else in his apartment, only him and his scattered papers.

Waking up the next morning, Flint sits up straight on a green couch he has in his desk room. He brushes his teeth, sitting on the edge of his bathtub and hears a large “boom.” Standing up, he goes into the living room and looks out the window.

Beams of light burst from the heavens, and people can be seen floating upward in them. He bursts outside his building and looks at the spectacle. Spinning around he sees the figure, impossibly black against the bright environment, staring down at him from the roof of his building.

Busting on to the roof, Flint stumbles forward and accidently kneels before the figure.

“Have you given my offer anymore thought?” The figure shouts at Flint.

“What offer?”

“To join me and help bring about the apocalypse.” The figure shouts, spreading her arms out like she was offering Flint an embrace. Behind her, two other figures peer out, shrouded in darkness. One stands incredibly thin, sporting a hyena skull for a head, while the other incredibly huge, bore a gorilla skull.

“You could be my War.”

Might

A news chopper flies over a city skyline. Inside the chopper is a news reporter, Dan Haught, as well as his camera-man, and pilot. Dan looks out the window. Below he can see large rock formations converging on one location.

“Are you ready Mr. Haught?” the camera-man inquires, his arm transforming, coming apart in panels, and reforming into a large news camera.

“Jesus,” Haught says jealously.

“Mr. Haught?”

Dan puts on a smug grin and says, “Always, Devon. Always.”

Devon begins to countdown.

“We’re live in three, two,” Devon points at Dan mouthing the word one.

Dan, still bearing his smug grin like he had just dosed himself with botox, greets his morning audience with great zeal, “Good morning, Conurton, and what a way to wake up. Today we are awoken by two gods among mortals; the great Grant Canyon and sinister Cerebellum.” He sounds like an announcer at wrestle mania.

While Dan entertains his audience, Grant and Cerebellum’s fight ensues. Grant pulls the street from underneath him telekinetically, forming two large boulders in the shape of footballs. His armor resembles that of a football player, if their uniform looked more like convincing armor.

“Come on, Cerebellum,” he jests. “Come on, fight me like a man.”

In the distance, a woman dressed in a long, white lab coat, black leggings, combat boots, and sporting two gauntlets, made of a golden, shimmering metal, runs toward him.

“Seriously, Canyon?” she asks judgingly. “I prefer to be more than just a bundle of muscles.” She taps one of her gauntlets with an index finger.

Grant laughs, throwing the two, giant rock footballs, “Let me know how that goes for you.”

Cerebellum dodges the first formation, pivoting around it. The second one catches her off guard and she braces herself. She teleports in a flash of light, an inch from the rock, and reappears behind it.

The two rocks crash into surrounding buildings, but are deflected by an invisible field, leaving no damage. Cerebellum continues running toward Grant Canyon, who has amassed a large quantity of rocks around him. He rears his fists back preparing to launch them at her. Seeing this, she teleports again, and Grant halts his movement. She’s nowhere to be seen.

“You shouldn’t have interrupted my shopping spree, Canyon,” Cerebellum’s voice echoes throughout the streets. She’s talking into her one of her gauntlets that she’s connected to the city speaker system.

“Is that what you call it?” Grant inquires, “Because, to me, it looked like you were trying to steal Gray’s prototype.”

“It’s inferior to my designs,” Cerebellum replies irritably.

“I can see that,” Grant says, “so would you offer your teleporter to Conurton then?” Suddenly she appears right in front of him.

“Of course not,” she says slyly, and kicks him across the jaw, teleporting again, behind him this time, elbowing him in the back. She continues to disappear and reappear around him, knocking him around in this circle, giving him only a second between apparitions to recover.

“Okay,” Grant whispers, being punched in the face again, “That.” Kick. “Is.” Thwack. “ENOUGH!” He shouts, summoning columns of rock, sprouting from the gravel, around him, upper-cutting Cerebellum as she reappears. Shocked, Cerebellum just flies backward, and Grant catches her in a rock fist, smashing her teleportation gauntlet.

Back on the news chopper, Devon has the camera on Dan who has his index and middle fingers on his temples. He was transmitting the fight he just witnessed from his mind to his audience. “And there you have it folks, two of the Fortitude’s own graduates have brought their clash to an exciting end. Have a tremendous day. Stay Haughty.” Dan smiles as the segment ends.

Inside a small apartment a young man groggily watches TV in his kitchen, just witnessing the fight between Grant Canyon and Cerebellum. He changes the channel.

That was thrilling I thought to myself. It’s been ten years after my class graduated and went our different ways. Changing the channel, I find a morning program to watch. “Hi, guys,” a small, blonde journalist talks to the camera outside in the aftermath of Grant and Cerebellum’s fight, “Terry here with Grant Canyon, who just recently took down Cerebellum for the fifth consecutive time.”

I knew Grant before he was a hero. He used to be Fortitude’s football captain. His name was Gregory Bulwark, a stereotypical jock, but that doesn’t sound as heroic as Grant Canyon, the Earth manipulator.

“Tell me, Mr. Canyon,” Terry asks Grant, never actually breaking eye contact with the camera, smiling like Dan had been earlier, “how does it feel having such a successful career in heroism?”

“Terry, success is not in the triumphs of a hero, but the impact he or she has on the world around them.” Grant replies.

Did your PR team write that for you, Greg? I thought to myself. What a perfect ass hole.

“Wow, what a true hero we have here,” Terry states, Grant actually looks down avoiding the gaze of the camera, “you must at least be somewhat celebratory. Tell me, what do you have planned?”

“Well I was-“ Grant starts,

“Stop,” Terry interrupts him, “let me tell them for you.” Terry points both hands to her head like Dan had before. A pink wave emanates from her head, travels to Grant’s, bounces off, and is received by her. “Grant Canyon is planning on going to the Fortitude’s class of 2012 reunion. Oh, that sounds like a fun event. The famous rocketeer, Missile, I hear is supposed to be there.”

“Thanks, Terry,” Grant says, looking a little annoyed, “yeah, the whole graduating class is going to be there, so Missile, Bludgeon, all of the famous figures of our year will be as well.” Grant pulls a rock platform out from underneath him, carrying himself on it. “Terry, have a good day, I’m sure I’ll see you at the opening of the event.” He floats away, past Cerebellum. He looks at her. “So I’ll be seeing you tonight as well?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she replies, “there was no way this was going to hold me.”

“Didn’t think so,” Grant says, taking a small chip out her lab coat’s pocket, and floats away as he sees Terry drawing near again.

Terry walks over to Cerebellum, holding out her phone setting up a hair appointment. She walks up to Cerebellum, who is fiddling with her teleportation gauntlet.

“Cerebellum, tell me, how does it feel to lose so many times in a row?”

Cerebellum glares at Terry, who takes a small step backward. Cerebellum flicks her wrist, and Terry’s phone is assimilated into Cerebellum’s gauntlet.

“Shut up, Terry,” she says, and teleports away in a bright flash.

I knew Cerebellum as Lexie Matter. Like Grant, she was up there on the social food chain, the smart and pretty girl. She has the ability to see an invention in her head and form it telekinetically, exactly to form. She and I had this ability to converse and see through the bullshit of our situations, but along came Greg.

“You’re not strong,” he told me. “Lexie deserves someone strong enough to protect her, to keep her beautiful mind and body safe. A boy given his place does not deserve the responsibility. You’re not strong enough for that.” After that, she never spoke to me again. He was right.

Seeing their powers in action again reminded me of how they work. I’m a copycat. I can see a person use their powers and gain a portion of it. I don’t gain that full ability, but certain attributes of it.

So in terms of Cerebellum, I can look at any piece of technology and know how it works, but not how to go about building it, let alone using telekinesis to do it. As for Grant, I can only pick up small amounts of rock with ease; basic sidewalk blocks take large amounts of physical strength.

I looked at my toaster and could see right into it, into all the parts that made it work. Check. Next to it was a pile of small rocks, I think they’re meant to be decorative. That’s what mom said anyway. I motioned my hand towards them, and piled them on top of each other. Check. It was good to know my power still worked after not being exercised for so long.

I didn’t take the path that was laid before me. We went to The Fortitude, found in the center of Conurton, an institute meant to guide those who want to serve the betterment of mankind, or at least better harness their powers.

It was a very pristine building no matter what form it took. It’s always altering itself taking into account the different powers that might inhabit it. Sometimes it would resemble a beautiful cube, other times it might resemble a Jackson Pollock painting in architectural form.

Many attendees had to prove themselves to get in, while others had connections. I had those connections. My father was the head at the time of my enrollment. The same day I was handed my acceptance letter, people like Grant were put through the ringer. You could see the difference between those who were handed their spot on the roster, and those who worked for it. Not only by how a few attendees appeared a little more exhausted than others, but also by their powers.

Being a copycat who could only partially copy somebody’s abilities pales in comparison to someone who can control an entire crowd of people with just the sound of his voice. I’m talking about Comic, a mischievous guy who just freaking loved attention. He, like everyone else in their high school years had a crew, so did Grant, so did Cerebellum. They were the top tier people. People my crew and I could never hope to come near.

We were the ones with lesser powers, abilities that aren’t the most obvious to utilize in the daily life of a superman. My friends Richard and Maxwell both had the ability to speak to technology. They’re the guys if given a screwed up hard drive could organize it to peak functionality, the ultimate IT gurus. My other friend Nick had the power to turn himself into a bear.

Needless to say we did not go on to be great public figures like the majority of our year did. Where they became public images of heroism or villainy, we just slunk back into society with the rest of the mundane. I’ve never been out of my peers’ shadow, always looking up at them, while them down on my friends and me.

I glared at my rock stack, and scattered them at high speeds all at once, a few piercing the side of my toaster. I don’t know why I’m even going tonight. Oh right, an obligation to the family name. Geez. Even from the grave the man has a power over my will. I remember a talk I had with him while enrolled.

We sat in his office, him at his desk, and me across from him. It was a room so white no shadow could be cast, a very plain and sterile place. In actuality, it was a room that kept peoples powers at bay.

“You have a power, son,” he told me, “one of the best I’ve seen. You are one of the powerful.”

“Right,” I replied indignantly.

He points out a view from one of his one-way mirrors. Pointing at Comic’s posse. “You should be with the Top Tier, son.”

“Father, have you not realized that the powers I have are limited to a large degree?” I challenged.

“Hey, those people only had trials that lasted for that short amount of time. Your whole time here, this is your trial,” he started getting red in the face, “I put you in here because I knew you weren’t going to develop your power on your own.” He calmed down a bit, the red fading slightly. “Just because the benefits of your powers aren’t as blatant as others, does not make you less than anyone else.”

It was so easy for him to say. My father’s ability allowed him to jump back to desired points in his life to make new decisions based on what he experienced. He went by The Strategist before he became the head of Fortitude.

It wasn’t a blatant power, but it was certainly a great one. I learned about it when I wound up leaping back five minutes after spilling some juice on the carpet of our home. My father was ecstatic when he thought I inherited his power, but became noticeably disappointed when he saw that I could use other people’s powers, and only to lesser degrees.

It was the day he died though, that gave me perspective. It was a brutal fight on campus, inside Fortitude. It was a clash between him and the son of an old adversary of his known as High Strike, from his time at Fortitude. The two fought enough that they were destroying the grounds as they fought.

The place couldn’t adapt fast enough. The guy could turn his fingers into long, metal claws, calling himself Claw Fingers. He was a skinny man, very fast, but my father was seemingly faster. He had probably been through the fight several times already. He was bobbing and weaving, dodging every strike, Claw Fingers getting angry. It looked like a sure win for father, but then time caught up with him.

Father knocked Claw Fingers on his back, in a pile of debris. He stood over him ready to take him out, when the guy threw dirt in father’s face, temporarily blinding him. It was fine though, I’m sure he had already foreseen it. But before he could react, Claw Fingers stabbed him through the neck. A look of shock and disbelief took over his face as all life fled from it. It was the first time I had seen a hero killed in a fight, and it was my father.

As his body fell to the floor, lifeless, I felt the powers inside me swelling, all trying to come out at once, but before I could react, the rest of the student body did instead. As Claw Fingers turned to walk away, Comic used his power to rally the masses, motivating everyone to avenge father. I watched as Every Top Tier member began to lay waste to him. Cerebellum threw bolts of energy at him through gauntlets she formed on the spot. Grant brought the walls crashing down to form a confinement space, and together they brought Claw Fingers to justice. It took only five minutes and two seconds, two seconds too long.

I didn’t even get a chance to avenge my father. Even if I tried to go back to that moment, what could I have possibly done? My father, even with his power, was killed, and I was powerless even to help avenge him. These powers don’t matter. I wasn’t needed, and I never will be. These guys will always save the day when it’s needed. I’m not needed, not as a hero.

I’m reminded of the time when my phone goes off, telling me to get ready. I’ve been staring at the wall in front of me for a good amount of time. Let’s get this over with. I clean myself up and leave my apartment, walking towards my bike that is locked to a pole right outside my building. As I walk towards it, an unexpected face greets me.

“You live in this shit hole?” It’s Grant. “I thought designers made big bucks.”

I look at him perplexed. He’s talking to me as if we were buds since Fortitude.

“Hi, Greg,” I say, my confusion apparent.

“I told him to pick you up.” Cerebellum speaks from inside a small limousine. “Are you going to get in or what?”

“The reunion is going to be a red carpet style event, it’d be weird for the son of a passed past chairman to ride his bike there,” Grant explains.

Still confused, I follow Grant into the limo. We arrive at the event together. It was odd. They had fond memories of me. We talked about them in the limo, and it felt genuine.

Getting out of the car, the three of us were greeted by a sea of flashes. Grant was spot on with his analogy. It does feel a lot like the red carpet scene that I’ve witnessed on TV. People were taking photos of everyone arriving. Two others arrived in front of us.

One of them strikes a pose and turns into solid bedrock. He reverts back to normal when someone shouts, “Behind you!” He turns around to catch a man flying at him like a projectile, turning right back into bedrock. Bludgeon and Missile, two heroes for hire, both dressed as secret agents. Others appear behind us as a purple tear in space forms and opens like a curtain. Two people walk out from behind it, closing it as they leave. Tartarus was showing off her portal forming power as Comic follows right behind her.

He shouts, “Everyone, look at me!” and everyone obeys.

He hasn’t changed. The two together look like they’re ready to go to a ball. Comic sporting a long tailed coat, and Tartarus wears a nicely purple, puffy dress.   She still has the key aspect of her look; make up that looks like she’s ready for the day of the dead.

Cerebellum pulls me aside, away from the paparazzi flood.

“I can tell you’re off put by all of this,” she states.

“Well, yeah,” I respond, “this is completely different from our years here at Fortitude.”

POW!

She laughs. “You nerds stayed in the past,” she starts, “you need to get over it-“

She abruptly collapses in front of me. She’s been shot in the head. I examine her wound. I analyze the bullet and can see a line forming, exposing its path. I see the line lead me to two men riding a bear. My crew. The man who fired was Richard.

The rest of the people ran over and made the same conclusion. Tartarus starts to build a new portal, when Maxwell, behind Richard, shoots his gun, which forms a blue tear behind Tartarus.

The tear spews out squid-like arms with spurs on its skin, which instantly grab Tartarus, forcing her into the portal screaming.

“Tera!” Comic shouts, and grabs her arms only to be pulled in with her as the veil closes. Missile launches himself at the trio, but Richard and Maxwell roll off Nick’s back who just bats Missile to the ground, slamming him hard. Maxwell and Richard continue to run toward our group.

Bludgeon turns into bedrock, and begins to charge at the pair. Maxwell just throws a circular, metallic pad that anchors into him, and vibrates so fast he crumbles to dust. Missile watches from a distance as Bludgeon falls to rubble, when Nick tears out Missile’s jugular.

Meanwhile, Grant gathers rock rubble managing to throw a few good chunks, Richard dodging them clumsily, until he gets the perfect shot. Richard shoots him with a lightning bolt, making him scream in agony, burning him to a cinder. His body collapses to the ground. I’m the only one standing.

I look around at the devastation around me. Here they were, people I hadn’t seen or heard from for five years, and they just murdered our classmates. The cameras are still flashing, now focused on the new murderers. Richard approaches me.

“Hey, man. Long time no see.” He embraces me.

“Why?” I asked.

“Respect,” Maxwell replies stonely.

“That’s right,” Richard begins, “These people stood too tall for our society, and we needed to show the people that the powerless can stand up to the powerful.”

He holds out his hand, asking me to join him, and I see his watch. This attack and statement took only four minutes and fifty-eight seconds. Thank you father. I knew what I could and had to do. I shut my eyes hard, and I let myself fall back. The flashing of the cameras stretched away from me. I felt my spirit pulled out of me, like a veil being taken off of me. It felt like I was falling sideways, as empty air passed by my whole being. I felt all the shock I felt as Richard began his assault, then felt the awkwardness when Cerebellum pulled me aside to talk to me. This is it.

“You need to get over it-“ Cerebellum says to me again, and I instantly put myself in front of her taking the shot. The area where the bullet hit me turned to bedrock. Lucky guess.

I turn around quick and I see them on Nick rushing towards us, Richard scrambling to reload. Everybody is panicked looking for where the shot came from, but I’m the only one that knows. I don’t have the time point them out. I single out Comic. “Tell everyone to get down!” I shout, taking off using Missile’s ability, pushing my running steps into long leaps. He obeys.

The gap between them and me is getting smaller, but not fast enough. Richard has reloaded. Aiming at me, I look at the space above them. I tear a small rip in front of me, big enough to fit me only, and above them. He fires. The bullet goes in one side, and me in the other. The bullet passes through the other portal right into Nick’s hind leg, as I came out the other side of the portal falling on top of the trio.

The shot wounds Nick, as he collapses forward, launching us forward. Nick reverts back into his human form, holding his leg in pain. I’m still flying forward about to go head first into the concrete. I turn my head into bedrock taking the impact, smashing the street, leaving rubble at the point of impact, and just rolling out slowly coming to a stop in the street.

Trying to recover, I get up only to be knocked down again and looking at the end of Richard’s gun.

“What the fuck, dude?” Richard shouts at me ragefully. “Why the fuck did you-“

“Hey!” Grant shouts from the distance. He and the others run toward us, each powering up.

“Keep them busy!” he shouts at Maxwell, who points his veil ripper at them, ripping the blue dimension gate open again.

“No! Get back!” I shout at the group. They actually listen, hesitating for a second, and had enough time to avoid the grasp of the tentacles.

“Now back to you.” Richard says, pointing his gun at me. I look at Maxwell pointing the gun at the group. He has to keep the gun concentrated on the area to keep the portal open. The monster is tearing the rip even bigger, coming through it. Do they not realize what they’re doing? “Why the Hell did you get in our way?”

I don’t know what happened, and I don’t care. This needs to stop. That rubble. I clench my fist. I can feel a large rock tethered to my arm. Glaring at Richard, I use all my might and roll sideways, launching the rock forward bashing Maxwell in the back of the head making him drop the veil ripper and himself to the floor. As I rolled, Richard took another shot at me, missing.

I stood up fast looking him face to face. He rushedly reloaded his gun, and I just grab the rock in my hand, bashing him across the face, making him fall to the ground dropping his gun.

He scurries backward, starting to lose it as I pick up his gun and throw it to the side. I just stand over him.

“Hey, Manifold!” Comic shouts at me from the distance. That’s not my name. Suddenly a deep roar filled the atmosphere. Oh yeah. It looks like the beast coming through has torn the veil too big for control. I can’t simply close the portal.

The guys are containing it well though. Missile, Bludgeon, and Grant protect the people, while Tartarus and Cerebellum keep it at bay.   Cerbellum blasts stray tentacles with new gauntlets, while Tartarus opens portal after portal to keep the tentacles from venturing too far. I pick up the veil ripper and look into it.

I see it has a specific connection to the dimension it opened, some kind of object. Turning my fist into bedrock, I find the point of generation, and punch right through it, finding the item, a spur from the thing’s tentacles. I crush it.

The veil then collapses, closing like a curtain on a stage, severing tentacle after tentacle until finally the veil was closed, and there was nothing where there once was a terrible beast.

Grant and Bludgeon gather the trio together, trapping them each in a rock cage.

“We weren’t ready for you, Manifold!” Richard shouts at me as I walk past them. “We had been planning this for five years, imagine what we’ll have planned for you all in a decade or a few.” He and the rest of the guys plant a series of devices on their constraints, and in a bright flash of light the three were gone, their cages in rubble.

There it was again. Manifold. That’s not my name. It was a name given to me by Comic just a few minutes ago. I like it. I think I’ll keep it.

“Hey, are you okay?” Cerebellum asks me while I sand there staring at the broken cages. “Are you ready to move on inside? Ready to face the past?”

“I think I just did,” I reply with my brows held high.

“Well are you ready to face the rest of the top tier?” Grant asks, slapping me on the shoulder.

Bring it on.

Just Another Dimension, Another Story (Red vs Blue)

“CABOOSE!” Church shouts from outside their base in Blood Gulch. The team has been there for years now, and has experienced many adventures and happenings. This particular event dealing with their tank, once a normal, driven tank, is now rolling around in front of their base, doing doughnuts. Church watches it do this, feeling a little worried, he didn’t like that the tank kept looking at him with the cannon every so often. Church is a ghost by the way, well an Artificial Intelligence that’s possessing a robot body, but ghost is much more understandable and easier to explain. Caboose comes out of the base, his armor Aqua.

“Hey chicka bum bum,” Caboose starts.

“Caboose,” Church turns around fast, “what is going on here.”

“I don’t know anything about Caboose turning the tank alive. I was just thinking about ladies and how cool it would be if they were…tanks…” The two stare at each other for a brief moment.

“Caboose, what are you doing?” Church asks.

“I am not Caboose,” Caboose replies, “I am the one who could never be as cool as him.” Caboose pauses for a decent amount of time that would raise some kind of concern.

“Caboose?” Church says with a hint of worry.

“I am Tercker.” Caboose finally says with a tone like he is unsure.

“Do you mean Tucker?” Church says with a tone of annoyance and disappointment combined.

“Yes.” Caboose says, continuing, “I was going to say that, but that didn’t sound right.”

“You, you are Tucker?” Church says, testing Caboose’s commitment.

“Yes.” Caboose replies.

Suddenly Tucker comes out of the base. “What is with all the yelling?” Tucker says walking up to the pair. Then he finally sees Caboose in his colors, and turns his head from Caboose to Church.

“Look guys,” Tucker starts, “ I know you have some kind of weird desire to either hang out with me,” looking at Church, “or be me,” looking at Caboose, “but this is not the way to fulfill your desires.”

“That’s not what’s going on genius,” Church replies with disdain.

“Yeah you are not the one Church wants to be with-“

“Shut up.” Caboose is cut off by Church.

“We’re trying to figure out what Caboose did to the tank to make it act crazy,” Church explains to Tucker.

“I thought we established, I am Turkish.” Caboose says annoyed.

“You mean Tucker,” Church corrects him.

“Yes. I am Tucker,” Caboose states as the tank rolls up behind him. Tucker and Church look at each other and back up.

“Captain Caboose, are these two acting insubordinately?” the Tank asks.

“Oh, no. It’s okay, Freckles. We were just having an early morning shoutival. You can go and play,” Caboose commands the tank.

“I will go survey the area for enemies of the Blue team,” Freckles states as he rolls away. Caboose looks at Church and Tucker who are both poking their heads out from some kind of cover.

“Yeah I’m Caboose.” Caboose states.

“We know,” Church and Tucker both respond simultaneously.

“How did this happen?” Church asks angrily.

“How did what happen?” Caboose asks his armor fading back to blue.

“The Fucking Tank now moving on its own,” Tucker says.

In a flashback, Caboose is standing in front of Freckles, then a giant mech, looking at the Tank. “Freckles,” Caboose looks at Freckles, then the tank, “in.”

Present time, Caboose is staring at them again. Clearly, another long period of silence had just passed. “Yeah it wasn’t that hard.”

“What happened to its body?” Tucker asks.

“What?” Caboose replies.

“His body, genius,” Church states, “What happened to Freckles’ original body?”

“Oh that…” Caboose replies cautiously.

Over at Red base, Freckles’ mech body is walking around. “How’s the new body, Lopez?” Sarge inquires.

“Voy a gobernar este cañón y todos ustedes (I will rule this canyon and you all),” Lopez repsonds.

“Heh heh, I knew you’d love it,” Sarge responds, “now it’s time for some target practice. Simmons is Grif ready?”

In the distance Simmons shouts, “He won’t stand still long enough for me paint the target on his armor.”

“Get the fuck away from me, Simmons,” Grif shouts in response. Sarge walks off to sort the two out.

“Just knock him out, Simmons. We can begin the practice when he comes to,” Sarge commands.

“On it,” Simmons obeys. Thwack!

“Ow! Okay, that really hurt.” Grif exclaims.

Conception

I’m breathing heavily, running down a corridor. What is this place? A hospital? No, it’s a manufacturing facility. There are rooms full of drones being fixed up and tested to be shipped out and inhabit the world.

“Atticus!” someone shouts my name from the other end of the corridor. I have to move faster. My work, everything I have planned, is five stories below me. There’s an emergency exit stairwell coming up. Hopefully the chaos caused by the alarm system will stall them long enough for me to prep. I ram into the door at full speed, and instantly the lights switch from white to red. The stairwell is now blaring with red and that obnoxious ringing. I rush past the lower floor’s emergency exit, then the next, the one after that, and I hear the rest start to swing open, as well as my name shouted again followed by, “Stop him!” I hear the rest of the building start to empty into the stairwell, making my estimations of my pursuers harder to make, but chances are they’re right on my tail.

I get to my floor. As its door starts to swing open, I run into Mitch, the security guard. I can’t let anything get in my way. With my current momentum, I ram him into the nearby wall. He slumps to the ground.

“Sorry!” I shout running past him, entering the floor. I don’t believe he’s getting up anytime soon. As I reach the end of the hallway, I hear the door open swiftly and my pursuers’ footsteps closing in. I can’t fail. They found out about the Foible Code. I find my door, and force my way through, allowing it to slam into the wall, leaving a dent. The door slams shut. The steps getting louder near the door, I bring down a bookshelf to block it.

My pursuers are stuck on the other side, bashing my door. I rush over to my console. The image of a keyboard manifests itself before me, as well as a USB port. Pulling my hair to the side, a hieroglyphic of a USB inhabits the upper right corner of my forehead. Tapping the USB port image, I pull a green line from it to the image on my forehead. A progress bar reads “uploading…” as my brainwaves are copied into a nearby pod. I hear the door begin to give, as my pursuers break down the door the bookshelf flies back, and the red light of the hallway pours in.

The line still connects me to the console. I can’t venture far from it. I can’t take cover. The upload gains a percentage every three seconds. The upload already reads 90%. Is my mind really so small? I think to myself. Shadows begin to enter the room. 91%. I pull a broom out from the nearby corner, breaking the end off over my knee. 93%. Three men in suits stroll into the room. I stand holding the broomstick as if it were sword, ready to face my pursuers. Come on! Bring it! I’m ready!

94%. The middle man, a stout, short man, wearing a pink and blue suit, smiles and says, “Ah, Atticus, working so hard to achieve what you think to be right.” 95%. He smiles.

“Mr. Simper himself. I should be honored to meet you…I should.” 98%.

“You will,” he replies, as one of his men, a drone, punches the console, leaving a hole. The holographic keyboard and screen, cut out as the bar reaches 99%.

“No!” I shout. The line connecting me to the console blinks out of existence. Simper takes a step forward, as the second drone kicks me in the back of the knee, bringing me to a kneeling position. I find myself face to face with the goblin.

“We know what you’ve been planning,” his smile somehow grows even bigger. “How could you? How could you try to undermine the foundation that serves so many? How could you try to sabotage us?” The drone that brought me down to my knee kicks me in the gut. I slump down even further, now looking up at Simper. Like the Cheshire cat, all I see is his white smile in the shadow.

I start to reply, “Because it’s the right thin-“ BLAM!

I’m startled awake. My alarm blaring, the red numbers flashing brightly in my face. I slam the alarm clock, the numbers turning white. I see my TV is still on. There’s a stand off scene inside a science lab. I have to stop watching programs as I fall asleep.

I leave my room, walking over to my brother’s door. “Wake up, bro. It’s time to get ready.” Knocking three times, with no response, I burst in. “Did you hear me? It’s time to go-“ a bin falls onto my head.

He laughs pointing at me, “Geeze, how many times have you fallen for that?”

“Approximately two hundred and thirty-four times,” I reply rubbing my head.”

“You keep track?” he asks.

“It’s part of my duties,” I say laughing, putting him in a headlock, “so that I know how much to repay you.” I release him, and he rushes off to get ready.

While he gets ready, I prep breakfast, turning the TV on. An ad for Beam Technologies plays. “Here at Beam Tech we work to serve the human populace as best we can. Now, introducing our new line of service providers.” A female drone walks forward. She almost looks entirely human.

“Hello. My name is-“ I turn off the TV. Beam tech has been developing drones for years, making more and more life like machines. Their purpose is to make our lives easier, and to do so by any means necessary.

My brother walks into the kitchen, and I serve him his breakfast, a fully balanced meal, at least my understanding of what one is. “Another nutritional breakfast?”

“Well I know you’re not getting it from your school,” I reply, taking a candy bar out of his bag as he puts it on the table, “so I have to make sure you get it from somewhere.” He begins to eat. “What time do you need me to pick you up from school today?” I ask. He averts his eyes, only looking at his food.

“Actually, would it be okay if I start leaving school on my own?” This causes a bit of a jolt in me.

“Am I not cool enough to come by your junior high,” I ask, doing my best to sound joking. I don’t like the idea of having him walking the streets home.

“No it’s not that,” he says defensively, “it’s just that now I think I’m at an age where I can handle walking by myself.”

“You know what, my building is not far from your school. It’s exactly five blocks from there. Since I don’t want you taking the bus on your own quite yet, you will go from school to my building. Fair?”

“How will I get in?” he asks.

“What time do you want to leave school?” I ask.

“As soon as it gets out,” he replies with sharp determination. He really does not like school.

“Okay,” I say laughing, “It should only take you about five minutes to get to my building. I’ll be waiting for you to get to my building by three, and if you are not there by three-ten, I am coming to get you. Got it?”

“Okay,” he replies with similar laughter. “I got it.”

We take the bus. It arrives around ten minutes late, like it usually does, and as we board the bus, I see that our driver is now a drone. You can usually tell thanks to a seam line, fairly unnoticeable, on the right side of the face. It looks like a scar. It’s fairly impressive how they captured Rick’s image so well. He was such a nice old man. When we came to be recognizable, he treated us warmly. I got the feeling he did this with a lot of his regulars. Last we talked he was talking about retiring. I guess he went through with it. I hope he’s doing well.

“Good morning kids,” the drone says, greeting us with a face as if he knew us as long as Rick did. It’s a nice touch.

“Morning!” bro replies. I guess he didn’t notice the new scar. We both slide our passes through and take our seats.

Getting off at our stop, I drop off the kid and begin my walk to the building. I turn around real quick to make sure he got inside okay. I don’t see him anywhere. He probably ran right inside. Does he like school?

I arrive at my building, Beam Designs. I check my watch. About five minutes. Walking to the clearance gate, I see Mitch. “Good morning, sir!” Mitch says with enthusiasm.

“Good morning, Mitch,” I start, till he turns toward me. He also has a scar on the right of his face. Replaced, just like Rick.

“How are you doing today?” he asks.

“I am feeling fine. Yourself?” I ask out of politeness.

“Functioning well too, sir.”

I make my way to my room. There, a girl greets me. I recognize her voice. It’s the girl from the ad. A drone. What was her name?

“Hello. My name is Jen.” Ah. I got my answer. Wait. She has no scar.

“You have no seam,” I tell her, “Does that mean-“

“Yes,” Mr. Simper interrupts me. He walks from behind me. “It means we are using your new, more attractive designs.” Mr. Simper walks next to Jen. “This is Jen,” he starts.

“I know. We’ve met.” He’s as short as I imagined him. “But you’re using my design?”

“Yes,” he continues, “now we might even trick people like you into thinking you’re talking to a real human.” He smiles his Cheshire smile. It’s a little unsettling, but I laugh and give my thanks. “No. Thank, you. You’re helping us serve the people better. Now maybe the drones will be better accepted.” He turns and leaves the room. I wait for his shadow to disappear before I say anything to Jen.

I close my door. “So, Jen, why are you here?” It’s my understanding that drones only go where they are meant to serve. If she wasn’t here to act as a prop for Mr. Simper, why is she here?

“I have been appointed as your personal assistant by Mr. Simper.” She’s too real. Her mannerisms, with out the noticeable scar, are too human.

“Why? Why do I need an assistant all of a sudden?” trying to sound joking. “Is Mr. Simper all of a sudden worried about my work load? Does everyone else have a Jen,” realizing my comment could be perceived as rude, “I mean, an assistant.”

“No.”

“Then why?” I ask again, still trying to act jokingly.

“Mr. Simper noticed some property damage, and wanted to make sure you weren’t overly stressed.”

“And do what instead?” I ask, still trying to hold my composure.

“Well, talk to me,” she responds.

I have to take a seat. The product is too strong. Isn’t that the point? But then something else strikes me. “Jen, you said there was property damage?” I don’t recall doing anything in here to damage my room.

“Yes. There’s a dent in the wall, like somebody had punched it.”

“Is anything else damaged?”

“Your bookshelf looks like it was hammered in several points.”

“Thank you.”

I take a quick look at the damages, trying hard to think of when and how this might have happened, but it doesn’t keep my interest for long.

Besides Jen being present, the day was pretty much normal, just going over some code, as well as manufacturing procedures. It took some time, but after a while, I got used to Jen. With out the scar on her face, I’m not always reminded that she is a drone. It’s three. Bro should be leaving school at this time. I’ll go down and make sure bro can get in.

It’s five after three. The walk from his school to here only took me five minutes. He’s not here. He is shorter than me. It is possible that he can’t get here as fast as I can. Three-ten. He’s not here. Where is he? I walk out the door at a brisk pace. Down the street I see a group ganging up on a lone pedestrian. From their taunts I take it he displayed some kind of valuable. Only those who haven’t experienced the world make this mistake. I feel my heart sink, speeding up so I can make out who the victim is. It’s him. It’s the kid.

The men surrounding him are kicking him, pushing him around.

“Where’d you get those books, kid?” One of them taunts, kicking him in the back, pushing him to the ground. “Can’t imagine those were cheap,” the jerk continues, “What else do you got on you?”

The guy pulls out a knife. I feel a whiteness, a white hot burning in my head. “Protect him at all costs” like a command, echoes in my head, and I move instinctively, analyzing my targets with the block and a half I have left.

I count five, all male. They are all of a skinny build, except one. One of the men has a knife visible. It’s important to take him out first, possibly using one of his allies as a means. With my momentum it should be relatively easy.

With my course determined, I tackle the man next to the knife wielder. I manage to cause them both to fly into the wall of a nearby alleyway, resting in a pile of garbage. I whip my head, eyes lit with fury looking at the other three.  The smallest of the three rears his fist back and charges forward, another following behind him. The third just stays back. The punk in the front swings at my face, but I block, not even feeling the force behind his punch. I respond in kind, grabbing his arm with the same I used to block, and punch him right in the chest with the other. I feel some ribs crack, and I instantly let go of him, as he hunches to the ground trying to capture air. The one behind him manages to punch me clean across the jaw. I swing right around, the man taking a cocked position, ready to attack or defend.

“Why did you bother him?” I ask him, “What point was there?”

He replies, “Kid needs to keep his privileged self out of our turf”.

Instantly forgetting my regret for the ribs I broke, the man and I simultaneously run at each other, him swinging while I duck. I pick him up and drop him on his back, knocking the wind out of him. As I stand over him, I’m blindsided by the third. He bashes me from the side, forcing me to roll.

He comes charging at me again, like a bull. I try to leap out of the way, but he’s oddly fast for his girth. He grabs and rams me into a wall. I slump to the ground. The beast picks me up again with no effort, and slams me right back into the wall. I can’t withstand this. Looking to the distance, there he is. The kid. The one who looks up to me. The one who needs me. I must be bleeding profusely, internally. My vision goes blank. All I can see is blackness.

“Your job is to protect him!” I hear echoing in my head. The blackness wipes away, left with white, and then I see one of the punks staring me right in the face.

“You made a mistake here, son,” the man starts, “and now you’re gonna pay.” He pulls out a broken, metal pipe. “Found this next to where you threw me. That really hurt.” His grip tightens. “Stretch out his arms.” The rest of the group gathers on both sides of me, three of them on one arm, and the big one on the other. “I want to make him hurt.” I look over to where my brother is. I have to protect him. “Let’s start with the left!” He swings with such force, but where I should have felt bone break, I feel tearing. Looking at my arm, I see bent, metallic ligaments and blue tubes spraying fluid, sparking as well. It all comes back to me.

“You have to protect him!” Who is commanding me? It sounds like me. “No!” I hear myself shout. 99%. Connection blinking out. 99.5% Connection gone. Coming online. My chamber door opens with a hiss, as the cold air floods out into the room before me. The mist clears. I see myself on the floor. Mr. Simper approaches me.

“Come.” He motions to me. My inclination to follow takes hold, but as I leave I hear myself speak.

“Do not forget.” I’m on the floor drowning in my own blood. “Do not forget your prime directive. You have my mind. You are me. You must protect him-“ BLAM! I’m cut off. Mr. Simper shot me again. He ushers me out.

“He’s right,” he says, “you do have a prime directive. Go on and live your life. Serve my company well.”

As I come to, the men holding my left arm have fallen to the ground holding my arm. I have a directive to follow. Mustering all my strength, I flip backward to kick the big guy in the face, making him stagger backward. I rush to the men holding my arm. The guy whose ribs I broke instantly lets go, while the other two are frozen in fear. I punch the one on the right across the face, dislocating his jaw. I grab my arm, easily snatching it from the last man, who just cowers away.

I turn around to look at the last one remaining. I am hunched over, and armless, holding my left arm like a club in my right.

He shouts, “Come on! Bring it! I’m ready!” He begins to run right at me with the pipe above his head, ready to swing down. His grip is loose. He swings hard though. I block with my left arm, knocking the pipe out of his hand.

I drop my arm, and grab him by his collar. I can see his fear. I’m compelled to stop. I think I’ve made my point clear. Hurting these men further will just make protecting the kid harder.

Red lights start flashing, red and blue. The police are here, accompanied by Mr. Simper. “Drop the human, Drone!” the officer commands. Once I let go, I feel a sharp jab in the back of my head. Blackness.

I hear voices. “You know the procedure. Defective drones must be taken apart and disposed of,” a woman’s voice says annoyed.

“I know,” a young man’s voice replies, “this is just the first one to be defective. What went wrong with this one?”

“Lack of inspection,” the woman replies.

“Seriously?” he starts, “then what about the rest of them?” His concern is very apparent. The confidence in Beam Tech is weakened.

Don’t forget, echoes in my head. Where is my brother? Sitting up fast, I startle the two. The young man approaches cautiously.

“Hello? Are you okay?”

“Where is he?” I ask in a low, quiet voice.

“Who?“

“Where is my brother?” I say again, this time staring right at the pair.

“Is he talking about a fellow drone?” the man whispers as he approaches me, “You don’t have a broth-” I cut him off, grabbing his throat. I look around the man, and stare at the woman.

“Could you please fix my arm?” I say with a smile.

“Hey!” I’m interrupted. “I-I think I know where your brother is.” I can feel his fear.   He’s lying. “Yeah! He’ll be waiting for you when we-“ Snap. I drop the body. The woman begins to creep toward the intercom near the door. I throw one of the nearby tools, piercing the intercom. She looks at me with astonishment.

“You are going to fix my arm,” I tell her, and she abides. As she begins to fix my arm, a thought crosses my mind, I will protect him at all costs.