Archive of the stuff I’ve written for the brookverse
The beginning melody of El Paso City ringed in his ears; and it taught him a valuable lesson.
For the love of god, never put a song you like as your alarm.
His arms stretched as to grab at his phone, checking the date.
It was the date Randall Clark was born.
But Clark had died in 2012.
Rango got up, stretching groggily and going to the bathroom.
He studied himself, his stubble that’d grown in his sleep, his meticulous styled mustache and his short hair which he checked if it were receding.
It was his thirtieth birthday after all.
Thankfully, his hair was still full.
And so then, he hopped in the shower.
This is how it feels to be Randal Clark (crossed out, replaced with Rango.)
It is the day of someone who you are no longer mentally.
Someone who died the moment that strange woman tied him to a chair and described the way she murdered Kayla.
Your response was to bash her head in with her own shotgun as the blaze she lit afire warmed your skin and disfigured her.
You are Rango Robbins, a small town sheriff.
Someone with no connection to those people.
You tell people; you were born in Texas, raised there for a few years until you moved to New York.
The cold water splats onto your skin and hair as you think.
You rub shampoo onto your hair.
Her birthday was only a few months ago.
You’d missed her by the days, which went onto weeks, and months.
Something suddenly struck you.
You forgot the color of her eyes.
All that came to mind was the predatory glare of the yellow lenses that signified to one on the other end of it; that death was coming.
Would she continue to fade like this?
Would, as you got older and older forget more and more features? Forget her voice? When you tried to construct her face in those years; your mind would go blank?
Something else came to mind.
When was the last time you donned that armor?
When you unleashed your pain onto those you held responsible?
When you unleashed the pain they’d made feel dozens others back onto them tenfold?
Flashes of a brown-haired man.
The one you’d brutalized? Or is it the one you’d shot in the neck atop that hospital?
But after all; what sympathy should be felt for them?
A vestige of your catholic boyhood came up in your sprout of sympathy; and was that the place where you’d gotten your guilt?
What even was Catholic guilt?
You’d read some psycho-babble article on it?
Regretting doesn’t turn away any of your mistakes.
They will always be there, Clark. You are Randal Clark. You are Rango Robbins. And you are The Survivalist.
You did each and every one of those actions.
They were righteous, though.
You thought of the look in your father’s eye as you announced to him you’d join the military, then of Kayla’s. You were dead set on going to Latveria, Clark.
You were dead set on returning to war when you had everything, Clark. You. Me. Us.
He’d already faced those mistakes before; going to war. Stan. Where was he now? Mourning his second child to die mysteriously (although you were a lot less “mysterious” in terms of death.)
You remembered his words and tried to tone it out.
Maybe you should’ve listened.
Maybe you should’ve ignored those men with a smile, who could sell anything to anyone.
But it was too late already.
Maybe you should’ve stayed in NYC.
Should’ve went to some fancy college there.
Should’ve stayed with your family.
This is what you wanted, Randal.
It’s been 16 years since then.
You can’t change anything.
You must stop your reflection on your life and get on with the day.
You’d cleaned yourself almost instinctively.
It was the first Tuesday of April 2016.
Everything happened in a blur.
By the time you could stop and think; you’d put that stupid hat on and cupped your car keys.
You were ready for the day.
Only weeks ago had they signed into that supe act; where all supes, operating wherever would have to be accompanied by a officer of the law.
Brookhaven had none at the moment.
Not even much interesting.
You were called for nothing.
The man responsible behind the organization that resulted in the kidnapping of Kayla are dead. My purpose in this husk of a body is lost. The days of camping out in the wilderness of New York, with nothing but the necessary tools to wage war are over. In a month and 5 days; it will mark the day I was at LaGuardia and realized my wife wasn’t there to greet me; to embrace me. Would she have, though? The last time we spoke I was going off to war. I was arguing over a point that I knew was wrong, but I refused to admit it. I’ve heard that I may “enjoy” war but I’ve come to find something in myself. I don’t enjoy war, not at all. I enjoy the research that goes into it. It gives myself some purpose. I enjoy everything before it, but the recoil still comforts me to some point. To know whatever jackamzz who got themselves into my sight are dead. I clutch my modified 50 Beowulf Automatic rifle as I type this. There’s semblances of snow up here. I like this place, and my thoughts drift, to something in particular— how would Asia be? One of the woman who were trafficked over here, forced to be an experiment as many others.. As I was getting them to an homeless shelter, she explained what she could. She was younger then sixteen— and she said she had been forced into for two or more years. Her English was feasible, and I presumed she was Filipino. I’d heard about old, white pedophiles going there. To prey on the poor, and it made me sick to my stomach. And in remembrance of that, I concluded that it must happen. I thought back, regarding all the recent American interventionism (in the Middle East, when they recently did the unthinkable— attack Israel in the name of justice for the oppressed populations.) And that was relatively decent from them. The attack on Latveria was anything but. Their leader brushed the nation’s ego, so there I went off. I ensured that leader’s death (although it was after I had seventeen fractures in just my right side, god he could hit harder then thought. My armor is usually made to counter whatever that was, spread out the force, ensure that nothing like that could happen. No damage to it, thankfully.
You know, when I first started writing this, I truly believed those four words I typed in.
A new war now, finding my place in the world later. You know, I wonder what to call these.. journal entries. I sometimes think I could be a writer, especially with all of the.. books being put out. Hell, that’d replace the strategic part of war that seems to fuel me in some ways. But maybe in another life. I don’t seem to age, to be frank. I’m 27, and I don’t look like I’ve passed the age that I was when injected. Neither has Richard, and he’s somewhat older than me. He was recruited in 03, fresh out of some college in California. He was 22 then. He’s 30 now, and.. not much different. What even is aging? Boone, him neither. Don’t know when he was injected, but he’s still looking good. I sometimes wonder what my life would’ve been. I had a major in history, minor in religion. I think about my old friend, Theodore. He has a son now too, about twelve. Nico’s his name. He wasn’t aware of him during college, became aware soon after. The mother died in some freak accident and the son was sent off to the state; and they searched for any possible parents.
If you’re wondering how I know about all of this, we spoke before I was shipped off. During that.. continental clusterfuck. I mean, the world’s biggest superpower at the time falling to riots, the military not firing on the rioters? Nevertheless, we’d left years before. Disbanded for reasons beyond us, just not useful anymore.
Everyone except Richard left.
This article was written on June 16th, 2012. It’s using declassified information and information from INTERPOL and other journalistic sources.
Written by R.D of the Brookhaven Print.
Taking place in 2001-03, this war began based off a few factors.
American interference due to Supernatural entities on the Alaska Borders. The Alaskan Police Department was sent to fight them off. It didn’t go all to well, and they required assistance from the Canadian Military.
Second of all, the unfair treatment that the autochthonous of Canada have been gotten for generations.
A nationalistic militia, made by Native Americans within their reservations; which wished for Canada to be completely indigenous .
It was a reactionist ideology which believed in its ideals as a response to their own oppression. They believed that their ancestors had been at peace with these creatures for centuries. In their belief, they could end this worthless war. They used it as an opening for themselves. Their militia started as a political party which most believed as a contradictory group that had no actual chance of winning any elections, a decolonalist far right party which believed in an ethnostate, and forming “national parks” of sorts, surrendering areas and whatnot to these entities. This all comes from their manifesto, which some rejected but agreed with the overall sentiment. As the Canadian Army focused itself on the hasteful Adlets, the militia was able to use the opening to strike; they’d coordinated this. In dozens of cities, chaos broke out. The chaos was varied, from direct violence to peaceful protesting from other members. Remember, this party WAS varied as mentioned earlier, but nevertheless the orders were all the same.
Entire cities went under martial law. Others had no law. The militia hadn’t started the conflict— and to many in the world? The stories of those peaceful protests were the only one being printed or broadcasted. This is the main reason for the hesitation of many nations around the world— why joining in was an unthinkable idea.
From February 12th, the day of the rioting to May 16th, the war was mostly a stalemate. The army’d mutinied in some areas and refused to fire on citizens. On others, they followed the orders as if they were Nazi Stormtroopers.
NATO refused to get involved.
The militants struck back in other areas— on June 5th, a massacre occurred with well over 45 noncombants being murdered, their homes ransacked and children massacred without mercy.
Around this time, the Canadian goverment made interment camps to “keep the native population safe”
Within those camps, they faced harsh treatment.
A general— whom the Serbian government claimed was acting on his own initiative had arrived in North-Western Canada as to train the militants. He’d spearheaded some of the most horrible war crimes during the Yugoslav war, and was wanted for them by Interpol since 1999.
This general has not been apprehended yet— and for anyone reading this article?
He is highly dangerous. He’s dispatched multiple supes who’ve attempted to apprehend him. The circumstances of these “dispatchings.” Haven’t been made clear. I wouldn’t suggest any attempt to do so.
The militants have been whipped into shape, and by July they went on a massive offensive. The Canadian forces were overrun, outstrategerized and overconfident. Hubris was their downfall indeed.
Canadian forces out west were completely abandoned. They were ordered to hold the line— meanwhile reinforcements weren’t moving at the slightest. The forces in the east dug into defensive positions and allowed for their folks out west to be overwhelmed and wiped out.
Air reinforcements were sabotaged.
By September 2001, it was expected that the militants would win. Ontario was facing constant raids, and the defense was cracking.
Sabotaging of city infrastructure, alongside mass-fragging of superior officers, defections of forces due to promises of immunity from the militants.
the Commonwealth of Great Britain and Australia lent forces to Canada, but was sure not to get TOO involved. A counteroffensive was formed, pushing the militants back to a booby-trapped Winnipeg, which the Canadian forces faced heavy casualties with little to no return. This was in December of 2001, and it was clear that the war wasn’t something they were prepared for. They played it far, far more cautiously than they did months ago. Attempts at peace-talks ended in bloodshed, and chemical weapons were used to wipe out Canadian regiments as of March, 2002. More atrocities were committed on both sides, and chemical agents similar to that of Agent Orange used in Vietnam were dropped on cities— mainly by the militia.
The Canadian army combated this by moving most populations into the east.
The Stalemate broke, and it seemed as if the militia would win as of September 2002.
Until, the United States, without approval from Congress intervened.
In the undefended west, American Brigades struck. The most notable is one named First Recon, who struck alongside Canadian forces in the east. They proved highly efficient— and ended the war by Christmas on the eastern front. Of course, the war didn’t come without its consequences.
The native population was oppressed tenfold.
The supernaturals who started this war were completely and utterly wiped out.
The effects of this war still ripple through modern Canadian society.
And there are those in which words cannot describe. In only character can.
This article is out of respect for all those who served.
*A flash board of names appear— especially one Kyle Clark.*
four’s in its final stage of being written, alongside plans for a continuation to one.
Two hours later, both four and five are finished
Hello. For the sakes of remaining anonymous regardless when this tape is discovered, i will only refer to myself as “The Survivalist.” when needed.
My date of birth was April Fifth, 1986. This tape will be left within an hollowed out tree. The date of filming is March Seventeen, 2013.
Okay, so. For well-needed context, i have been waging a war against the men who abducted murdered my wife.
I have prior military training, special-ops, and I’ve done stuff that won’t be classified in a million years from whenever you’re listening. Once again, for the sake of anonymity; I won’t mention any of it.
I would like to break down the origins in the way i can.
(Another clearing of his throat.)
Around Christmas Week, i arrived at LaGuardia airport. My wife, who I had argued prior to me going on deployment wasn’t there. Wasn’t much of a shocker, to be frank. I called her a few times with zero responses each time. Hoped I could clear up my mistake with her, and after all that I’d done while on deployment; I believed she was right. I spent the Christmas week with my family and friends in New York City, before eventually returning to my current residence in upstate NY, a little town by the name of Brookhaven. My wife wasn’t there, also.
I checked Security cameras, and the last time it was active was in October.
I have a few cameras in the house, one with a clear direct view on the street. The one im referring to right now— within the house hadnt been active for a while besides rats.
I checked the footage on that day, and it seemed as if someone used a wifi-jammer as to take down the connective services that powered the security camera.
Mind you, this was four AM. It was an intentional target, an intentional attack on my home.
When I returned, I noticed dried-up blood, still able to be tested by the time I’d returned. And so i tested it, and the results came from a dead man whose employment was from a real-estate company that started back in 2004. The man had one car to his name; and that car, via comparison of makes (of the car that had pulled up prior to the WiFi-jamming, and the one that I saw speeding away with the aforementioned clear view of the street; it was evident that the car was used for this.) I noted a few things, the car was modified to be military-grade, and on the man’s record it also said he worked for a security company of eerily similar naming concurrently with the real estate company. Explains how he’s able to own the car legally, to an extent.
The license plate remains unchanged. And I know this because— with contacting a man I’ll only refer to as “Red.” whom supplied me with access to traffic-light information, and routing of vehicles and whatnot.
So there my journey started. I intensely watched traffic light footage for a bit, and noticed convoys alongside this vehicles. Via the usage of satellite imagery (provided to me also by Red, god bless him and the rest of his days.) I was able to determine where they stopped, and what was their bases of operation. For the next week, I let the vehicle move smoothly. I noticed that they’d take intervals late at night as to sleep.
And on December 28th, I’d decided to contact an arms dealer who I’d gotten their contact from my father. I proceeded to buy an army’s worth of ammunition, bombs, C4 and whatnot. Alongside the materials necessary to craft something that the public doesn’t know about— Stimpacks. They can heal the wounds that one shouldn’t return from. I’m leaving the materials and thirteen stimpacks alongside this tape, with another bonus surprise that I will mention later on.
And so, i set out to ambush the vehicle.
When they took their late night intervals; I took my father’s jeep, stockpiled with the aforementioned weaponry and ammunition, I moved out.
Utilizing my rifle, I hid in foliage; wearing my camouflagey armor as to hide myself. I took the shot— my automatic hellfire rippling through their bulletproof glass.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Bulletproof glass? How’d my rifle penetrate it. And that’s the other surprise I’ve left for you. The blueprints as to make a rifle— majority of them, compatible with 12.7millimeter rounds, and automatically especially. This breaks all laws of physics formally known to you, I’m willing to bet. (Or this is regular practice for the time you’re in, and I’ve just supplied you with toilet paper.)
I moved in, and one man was startled awake— and the only one alive. I dragged him out the car. When he attempted to attack me, I broke his shoulder with a singular knee. I identified him as Toya, a prisoner who’d committed suicide years ago, but was freakishly alive. I worked to capture him myself, for Pete’s sake.
I drove to an abandoned car-park, and hooked his testicles to a car engine.
And then, after a few rounds of that, he was ready to speak.
He was the head of security, offered this job weeks before his alleged suicide. Utilized cloning. Sounded as batshit insane to me, too. He revealed to me the interworkings of his job/- the location of a few bases, and the boss.
They’d established their security force just incase someone like me attempted to do something like this— and in his words, didn’t expect someone of my competency. After hanging out his intestines from his body and radioing in for help, I left that sack of shit there to inform them I was out there to his men.
In the next base I’d attacked, they had terminal . I downloaded the journals from it— and with the gibberish of them mentioning a “Fasser.” and his incompetence (Asked Red about it, he said it was something half a decade or so back. Scientist Guy went tits-up and decided to attack a police station with drones. Got apprehended after he successfully killed all of his experiments; besides one that was relatively normal and escaped before any harm could come to him, out on some island. Died while being driven to station, apparently. Cyanide poisoning, whether self inflicted or not, you can guess.)
They had still-live test subjects. Young girls and boys trafficked in from Asia. Made me sick my stomach. Got them situated in a homeless shelter, hope they’re doing fine now. Then, some asshole came after me in town. I was being overly comfortable, though. Acted as if I wasn’t at war. A mistake I haven’t made since then— and with what happened to me there (I really, really don’t wanna go into it.) Anyways, onto the present day. After the physical damage had healed, I returned back to my war effort with a duffel bag and overtly long hair. (Had to shave my beard cause my mask wouldn’t close and my facial hair would get stuck in it. Hair’s shaved now.)
Here’s what has happened, from the knowledge I have from now, and the way I got is via the terminals they have. They either have a quota to fill out a day to day journal, or they do it out of their own free will.
Ever since my assassination of the head of security, they’ve hired a new one. A man from the nation formerly known as Yugoslavia. War criminal, the worst of the worst things done, read an article about him recently by the Brookhaven print. But he knew how to whip his men into shape. And the same happened to their men— the incompetent shitheads stepping up to becoming. Well, still shitheads, just maybe competent. And so here’s my story.
I’d cataloged a bunch of locations from my old system of watching that one car move. I went to one with a buncha scientists— and they had security. Far more. Remember wht I said about informing them of my existence? Well, that’s on me. But nothing I couldn’t handle, I just thought the data would’ve been wiped out before I came in.
I slit the first guys throat outside— but as soon as that happened? My helmet interfered a signal, one informing them that he was dead and to set the alarms. Thankfully, it was intercepted but it just showed me to be as careful as humanly possible here.
I moved inside, using his card as to enter. And before I describe any of the carnage that occurred within, I’d like to explain their outfits.
Heavy plated armor, a shitload of pouches on that armor, and a 101 Tactical UBAC A-TACS LE camo shirt and tactical pants with the same camo design imprinted. The helmets have a narrow, motorcycle-helmet esque design with tactical lights on the side, And a shotgun that was a pain in the ass that launched taser shells. The Toya man wore a red, hi-visibility jacket, with the agency’s name implanted on its shoulders. (Forgot to mention that was the same with the helmets of the folks, also sporting the name.) The “internal security” ones also wore these. I’ll get to them later.
Anyways, you get the point. Huge tactical suits that are impractical to move— and there’s also a tiny slit in the neck where it shows some skin. That’ll be important later.
I entered via the back, clearing the room. Dark in the corridor I was in. Utilizing my helmet once again, I saw their heat-signatures and their position, at the doors.The thing I was after was a computer they had, large clunky thing. Has the journals and whatnot; layout and location of vital areas, ther research that’s been done there, and the generators in the same room. This is the point where I holstered my rifle and decided to play it smart. I grabbed a small stun knife in one hand, and a silenced M1911.
I set a few C4s upstairs near the structural points to ensure that’d it’d go well, and I moved downstairs.
One bastard was in the data room. Utilizing the thermal viewing, saw he was smoking a cigarette and unfocused, fiddling with his watch or some shit. Takes his dick out and begins pissing right there and right then, in that data room. Disgusting fuck, but gave me an opening.
Shocked him with the knife, and knocked him out. Got the data and what was necessary, so I proceeded to set the charges on the structural parts of the base, intended to blow it to all hell. I took magazines, weapons, and other supplies. Got a set of armor as to reverse-engineer the radio systems. Play it to my advantage.
I left the base and overlooked it; and set the charges. No innocents were hurt, no test subjects were there. Overall, was a good day.
Got the information necessary, however this general was a pain in the ass. Certainly, security would lock themselves the fuck up after this. Good thing I didn’t interact with them on this mission, right? And the suit of armor could help for espionage purposes. Anyways, I checked the terminals. Information regarding the general said he was a doomsday prepper— lived in some bunker, appeared spontaneously, and apparently had the heads of supes in his house. Got himself back on the international kill list back in 02, and maybe I’d be the one to cash that out. But it was never that easy, was it? But I figured something.
I could go to the places where I heard he last appeared. I would have to be cautious though, they’d been “whipped into shape” as I said earlier. One specific one was one of their fortresses. I checked the geographic location, and it was at a lake, in about New Hampshire. I arrived, beginning my reconnaissance. And it was.. an island in the middle of the lake. Fucking bullshit. It was February 26th that day, and the lakes were still frozen over. Seemed nothing short of a gimmick, but one that’d pose a challenge. How would I get past unnoticed? Had to think on it. Couldn’t just shoot my way through. I analyzed the aforementioned radio signals, seeing what I could manipulate it to do.
The receiver on my helmet was far enough, and I could send frequent signals of false alarms. Check what they do when it comes in, do it until whereas they’ll do a half assed job or just ignore it. Good plan, right? I tried to fall asleep, and my body wouldn’t let me do it. So I decided to enact at that moment.
Watched via the systems in my helmet. Far better than some pissant binoculars. Almost immediately, they patrolled the region. Checked out every little spot. Then, as soon as they got back? Did it again. And again. And again. Almost hilarious, watching them scurry like ants and fatigue hit them. Picked up arguing. They’d used thermal imaging and hadn’t found anyone nearby. They were told to continue doing it. They’d been fatigued from the blizzard that hit a few weeks ago. Finally, after an hour or so? The generals gave in. In between false alarms, I moved in through the front entrance. They had guards in the back, the one I kept on alerting. As easy as it could be. I snuck atop the building and linked the power systems to my PDA. I downloaded what was necessary via that, then sent the base into a total blackout, alongside their armors.
Now was time for some fun.
I placed the stock onto my shoulder, th rifle on in my hands and began to wipe out the guards. I made the impression that I was on the level floor, and when one came running out like a fucking headless chicken, trying to see what was happening? There he went.
I turned the light back on, allowing for them to get organized as I entered via the garage.
It felt like I was toying with them.
They moved in military formation and whatnot, and they were well trained for the time that they were being trained. It felt almost surreal— like a video game of sorts, especially with their cold, dark black masks that made them seem less like a person and more like an automaton. I realized midway through, as the recoil went through my shoulder that every person that went down had a life— a family, at least someone who loved and cared about them.
Then I thought about the moral decisions that led them to them being here, and I put the rifle on burst. I then swooped in to the bottom fast as shit, catching folks trying to gather their stuff to escape. Took them out non-lethally, needed at least one for later. I swept up— seeing the men I’d yet to pick out, hiding behind the office. Shock in their eyes arose, I’d suspect. Remember, those helmets. Faded away with the burst. Three for each, but I left one alive.
I then went downstairs, strapping the soldiers onto a table, and tying all of the others onto the beds around them.
I explained I wanted every bit of information about the general.
All of them refused to give anything. So I had to make the example out of one. I pumped the soldier tied down full of what I presumed was adrenaline, and started cutting.
I then grabbed out his wrist as he was still alive, the bone.
And I began to scoop out the man’s brains through his eyes.
Thinking back on this, I became, in my rage, in my anger towards these people— a person who I knew I didn’t want to be. Who I inherently wasn’t. I got what I wanted, but the cost on myself is still heavy to this moment as I say this.
He was situated at a bunker around the Long Trail in Vermont, with an estimated area given to me.
My brother fought against this monster years ago, and I felt it was up to me to finish the legacy he had onset. I still miss you, Kyle. And I feel as if everyday that I’ve failed you with this career path. That’s certainly not what you would’ve ever wanted for me. Or you, Mom. Those footsteps weren’t mine to follow, and only now am I reflecting on that. But the war persists, and it won’t end until that man at the top is dead. But this story still needs to be told, and the past is the past.
I followed that estimated area for days, until I found it. Restless nights in the woods, and with the thermal technology, the tracing that could be done with it.
It was highly secure. Entering would be fundamental suicide. I watched and watched. The minute someone came out? I pounced onto him as he got farther along the trail. Knew nothing, so I used him to get in. As soon as I returned, watching them?
The fuckers lit him up. They knew it was a trap. And they came out for me.
The fatigue from earlier was hitting me. They’d boobytrapped the trail, and I could recognize that. So I stood and fought. I had the perfect area to watch— yet reinforcements moved in. The reinforcements fell into the man’s own trapping, seemingly not being aware of it.
A flamethrower wielding man came at me. Played dead. Continued incinerating me.
Didn’t have my duster on, left it back home.
Stupid fuck still took me in, to confirm the kill.
It was a spartan facility. Every bit cleaned. No trophies, no bostage of arrogance.
The General himself looked somewhat emaciated, nothing of what I’d seen of him. When he attempted to get the helmet off? I slugged him in the face. He was rocked halfway from how unexpected the blow was. I kneed him in his stomach, and there was no staggering there. He punched me, sending me flying.
Fuckin stupid of me. So that’s how this shithead was able to avoid capturing from any of those agencies, regardless of who they sent.
My armor spread the initial damage of the hit, due to its architecture (can that word be used here?)
He moved at lightning fast speeds as to intercept me.
I was made for this. To die for this.
Killing supes such as him. I’d killed supes just like him. He was strong. Too strong. I could see that. Too fast. But he was able to be staggered once.
I tore something from my pouch in the haste; grabbing the flashbang out.
It blinded him and likely disoriented him.
I used my footing to an advantage, punched with my whole body— and a shockwave rippled through my arm and my whole body. Could feel the fracturing in my knuckles as I struck him. Wasn’t even shocked halfway. The frugalness of the facility didn’t help. I grabbed a taser off my hip, plunging it into his neck. Thousands of volts rippled through him. Kept up the pressure, but one lucky swing would’ve been enough to put me down.
It came for me in what was slow motion. That luck wasn’t there for him. I ran to tackle him, getting him off his footing and throwing him down. He punched me directly in the goggle area. Didn’t break, but I knew that damage that was there would cause it to someday.
Today was not that day. He swung again, into my chest plate and I could hear the grunt of over exertion from him. I wrapped myself around him, my legs around his hips, my taser plunged into his neck. He realized my legs were unprotected, and began to move wildly as an attempt to hit them. He failed, so he resorted to hitting me as hard and wildly as he could. He eventually alerted his men— but I’d razed him enough that getting up would be extremely difficult. I moved as to take care of them.
Six heads entered, with weapons.
A riot shotgun on one, a M16, like the one my father wielded in Vietnam on three. Primitive, horrible tech in comparison to what’d been invented recently, made by Colt for more money and less spending on making it. Thing is, one can’t go the cheap way with weapons. With human lives.
On the other two? Heavy weapons, a modified sniper rifle without the scope, to presumably hip fired or whatever and one of those stupid fucking “laser” rifles which’d burn your hand off with the first shot. I picked up the general and posed him up. I threw him at them, the one wielding the laser rifle dived away, the one with the Riot shotgun too. He landed at a wall positioned behind us. I too, moved as fast as possible, taking down the two with the M16.
The one with the rifle got a shot off at my thigh, barely missing my femoral artery. Not even registering this, I booted him in his oblique before elbowing him in the face and wrestling it off of him. I put down the pissant with the laser rifle, and did the rest for everyone else.
I turned around down to the general, who’d gotten up. Behind me and them, remember.
He came charging at me. I shot him once in his right eye— it hit, but didn’t go beyond his tissue. Eyes were sensitive, but the tissue past it completely stopped the bullet from traveling furthermore. I threw the empty rifle at him in a futile moment, and grabbed for the laser rifle.
Should’ve gone in my pouches before going for that hot piece of dogshit. But well.
I charged up a burst and shot it directly at his midsection— he moved out of it, but not fast enough.
Blew off his elbow, but the overheating was unbearable.
Had to do it though, and I hipfired a few shots as to slow him down.
He continued moving, using his stump of an arm.
Fucking cauterization. He wasn’t even bleeding, either. Couldn’t rely on that, and the non-charged up shots were as tiny as a needle’s eye, so that was futile too.
It did do something good though— I charged up a shot as I positioned it upwards when I KNEW he was going to hit me. Scorched his hand when he punched through the barrel entirely and gave him pause. I then scrambled on my feet away, grabbing the riot shotgun.
Boone told me this was my brother’s preferred weapon of choice. For you, Kyle. For you.
I fired a shot, and it seemed as if they had the military grade altering to the bullet, whereas it used kinetic energy wit each pellet.
It knocked him onto his ass, and I fired them into his kneecaps as an attempt to do something. Stay down.. and fucking DIE!
I grabbed something that Richa- I mean, Red made for me, and I threw a satchel charge directly at him and got to running, with the riot shotgun in one hand.
There, that exact moment was when the pain in my thigh registered, as I was sprinting away into a blast-room that closed. I folded onto the ground and exploded the satchel charge. I lied there for a few moments, before eventually getting back up and tying my shemagh around the wound as a tourniquet. I reentered the room, and the spartan environment that was once? Covered in blood, guts and overall uncleanliness. Nothing new, just wish the General could see this.
Blown to shit. Saw his remains just to be absolutely sure, and shot them to mincemeat. No clones for this one. Nothing.
I cleared out my weapons from the lockers, potentially more and just to be absolutely sure? Detonated the base from within. Doomsday bunker with a self destruction failsafe. Who the fuck does that?
That was March 8th when I left.
There’s still more to be killed. Still more to do. War won’t end any time soon, but I’ve since realized that I need to have my own personal rules on this. Won’t stoop down to that level of depravity ever again. Hope these supplies help you, whoever’s listening. Survivalist out.
I stand over the newly dug grave of the brother I never knew I had, Harry.
Harry died in 2009– just as Randal Clark did in 2013.
He went under another identity, Brian Moser.
He worked for Krausher, as far as I knew— the genocidal supe hating maniac.
I liberated those he’d abducted back in 2014, my first year as Rango. I think of Kyle, he’d gone missing a week before my graduation.
Brian broke into my house with full intention of killing me in the memory of the dying Krausher— but I dealt the fatal wound first.
He revealed to me he was his brother.
I attempted to save him, but he just told me it was futile. That he’d die either way.
I held him as he died and cried with him.
My brother, Brian or Harry.
He had a son, Harrison who was murdered.
I analyzed the injuries he had, or more so the scars.
A few to the head-/ shotgun blasts.
I saw Stan in him somewhat, and Kyle.
I cleaned him up, and put him in a tuxedo.
I lastly closed his eyes for him.
You can rest now, Harry, Brian, whatever you wanted to be called.
You drive your police wagon down into your underground bunker, the one you intended to build a life with Kayla at with the body of your brother in the back. You feel the tears starting to come out of your eyes as you think of his life. This was another brother which you’d lost, one you didn’t know you even had until his dying confession.
He smiled at you in his death and comforted you. Told you it was futile, and to just give him peace in his final moments.
You put him in a coffin which you bought for Kayla; but her body was never found. You still haven’t gotten over that loss, and never will. You wipe your eyes as if they’re irritated, rub it. And you allow it to happen, the falling of tears. You think back onto the armored woman— who wore Kayla’s armor. Rage erupted in you through the grief from what she’d done.
But you thought back to the dying smile on your brother’s face, and you couldn’t help but meet it back with your own bittersweet smile with the tears still welling in your eyes.
You had a feeling in your stomach he could see you, from wherever he was. You looked down onto his peaceful face in that tuxedo— the meticulously slicked back hair, the stubble. And you only wished that you could’ve met on better circumstances. You thought of the younger Harry, meeting with Professor Thompson frequently. You’d spoken to him once or twice, done a project with him. You liked him. He was a decent person.
And you saw semblances of that childlike naivety in his face. Who knows why? Maybe believing someone loved him— in reality, when it was a perversive twist on what love could’ve been. For whatever reason, you rested your hand on his forehead and prayed.
You marked the grave only as “My Brother.”
You put it near the entrance of the bunker.
If for any reason, you’d be reminded of him. When you needed him, that smile.
Maybe it’d give you guidance for when it was necessary to enter.
To be able to accept life like that.
You put two souls to rest that day in your eyes.
I wondered what Kyle would do if he were here at this moment. We spent summers together— but he’d lived in Oregon with mom. I lived in NY with Stan. He joined Boot Camp at Fourteen, and went off to war at seventeen. Never saw him again at Nineteen. I was going to spend the whole summer with him like we did when we were kids. Introduce him to that wonderful lady I’d met. Learn about the man he’d become.
I only wish I was with him for that summer. The advice he could’ve given, the mistakes that I would’ve missed.
I also laid something else to rest— that shotgun that I used to take down the general.
And once again, I give that bittersweet smile and walk away.
I came to process his death quickly— but the randomness of Kyle and Kayla, no face at the moment to remember them by. No acceptance in their gaze. I got that with Brian, and I wondered if Kyle would give me that too.
But I’d never heal from Kayla. Not in a thousand lifetimes. She’d stay with me perpetually, and only when I died would she in my eyes.
I enter my truck and return home.
And in those moments, I think of the softest of clothing, the brightness of its wools. It’s tender voice.
Little Lamb, God Bless Thee.
I repeat those words to myself as I think of the peaceful face of my brother’s corpse.
Little Lamb, God Bless Thee.
What an interesting concept, right? Especially for one out of their time.
I’m going to write down my life story, vague elements of it. I know the rest of it, and you shouldn’t be reading this if you don’t.
I was born on April 5th, 1986 alongside my younger brother, Randall Clark. He went with my father, Stan. I went with my mother, father. Let me explain about that.
My mother was born a man, but his metagene was discovered when he was injected with a serum. His ability was revealed via this— an ability to genderbend completely. My mother was the first and last person injected with that specific serum back in 1976. I’m going to refer them as just Rick, although his full name is Kendrick.
I was raised in a very.. well, “macho” household. That word’s something that peeves me somewhat. Sounds weird to spell and stuff. But onto the point, i was taught not to cry, to resolve my emotions by lashing out onto the world, onto others. I was prone to doing just that as a younger man. I played American Football, Rick encouraged me to do wrestling, and I did it. I constantly got in fights, into trouble. Never did any of those overtly bad shit that’d you think of. I was a relatively good kid morally, at least i like to think.
I was an oxymoron in a way. Not elaborating on that, but anyways.
It felt as if my life was guaranteed before i was born for me. I would be in the army no matter what. Wanted to follow the path that was laid out for me. I never enjoyed harming others, it just felt like a chore, something you’d have to do unless you wanted it to bite you in the ass later. Rick frequently “disciplined” me physically. By the time i was fourteen, i was already balls deep into a special forces training camp. I was multilingual (fluent in 3, conversational in five and literate in 2.) I learned what one would in school— history, geography, culture, the art of infiltration, human behavior, and the skills I’d learned in the schoolyard, or in the streets of violence spread itself and became me. I was a weapon, as any other. I studied the ongoing conflicts and what to learn from it. I disassociated from that weapon and the person I was around my family. But majority of the time, I was that weapon. And speaking about my family.
A few months a year when i was younger, i stayed with my brother or he stayed with me. He lived in New York, went to Catholic school, and was the epitome of the quote “speak softly, and walk with a big stick.”
I wouldn’t call him a nerd, but I wouldn’t think of him as being anything close to what I was as a boy. We wrestled for fun sometimes, and he’d gotten the better of me. My brother had taken his own life on January 14th, 2013 via suicide using a pistol. Only the spatter was located.
As a younger man, in that camp. I could hear something speaking to me. Someone, telling me that THAT was who I was. War was something to live for. I remember my first kill.
I was doing minor work for the Agency out in Liberia. Of course, I was a teenager then. It was 2000, during the second Liberian Civil War, throughout the beginning of the skirmishes.
It was a battalion trained by Sam Bockarie, known now as “Mosquito”. They’d followed his teaching well, doing some of the worst things known to man. They raped, mutilated, and amputated for the sake of doing it.
The USA wasn’t officially involved by that point, and nothing was sanctioned.
I’d learned the language fluently, and I was 14 at that time. I could only witness from afar, staring down my binoculars as I glared at their actions. And I continued to witness from afar as I snuck into their tents out at night. As I inflicted my hate for them out ont them. I continued to witness the husk of my body do this from afar, something or someone else controlling me.
The squad commandeer, Jesus Doe Gaye, I’d intentionally awoken and tortured. The screams brought me something that was similar to.. actualization, in what my purpose on earth was. I thought of the irony of his name. His name represented that of the kings of kings, the alpha and the omega, the beginning snd the end. And yet he showed none of the virtue that Christ did.
I wonder sometimes if I am worthy of his love. And I think back onto moments like that. I beg and pray for his forgiveness, to heal my soul.
Yet I continue what I saw was my purpose on this earth. The Canadian Civil War, my meeting with Craig— my squad commander. Richard, a kid fresh out of college and recruited to it. I was told a squad would be assembled, and ready for deployment by 2006.
In 2004, I was injected with a syrum as were the others. A stable version of the one given to my father, with far better abilities for oneself.
I was made far stronger, agile, hasteful. And it only affirmed my thought of myself being a weapon, and this being my purpose.
My father still remained young as he were— out adventuring, remaining on the same path. And I trailed behind him.
In 2005, near Christmas time.
I was engaging in letters with my brother, Randal.
He described someone he’d met, a woman.
His professor— but I knew that professor.
We spoke through that medium, and I promised him something that never came to fruition.
I would be there for him in the summer.
Near the end of the year— I was sent out onto something. Couldn’t look at what was in it— if I opened it without permission, It’d explode.
I was never the curious or the disobedient type when it came to something like that. Encouragement to NOT look in it wasn’t needed, but nevertheless. I had to follow a very specific path. No deviation at all, to and back.
I was sent to the coast of California, to give something to a mysterious agent.
He had slicked back hair, a eyepatch, goatee, a long-coat, basic gear underneath it— a holster. He stood at around 5’7-5’9 and was skinny. He was with a 5’10-5’11 darker skinned man— in a shirt (as would usually be under a suit), with holsters that were plainly out. He had a meticulously groomed mustache that connected to a goatee, alongside the hairstyle of “waves”. I later learned of them being both known as **Rawlins and Mr White.**
When following the path back, I was taken. Kidnapped by scientists. They knew exactly where I would be. Plotted, I could tell. The scientists, I could describe physically.
A pale-skinned lanky man, with a man bun and completely clean-shaven.
A large mutated man— green skinned.
I also remember a blond woman from earlier days.
I cannot remember anything— sounds of voices, besides the last day.
Sirens. Chaos. I could hear every slight sound, the changing of breeze. Could feel everything in something I touched. The hands that stitched the shirt I was wearing, their scent. The bun wearing man was kidnapped, and I was the only subject there at the moment.
It basically decided fuck it, and let me go with a backpack— a note, and some of my belongings, such as my PDA. The note explained that they themselves had LOST. Organization was being absorbed by bigger fucks out in the North East. Glad they’re all dead, anyways.
And this is where the story returns to sometime around the present day.
June 16th, 2015 was when I awoke. Everything was so loud. All of my senses were tuned up to the absolute MAX.
I could see from miles away. Hear every little conversation. Smell the snow from days earlier. I was in a cold hospital— but I thought it was them. Hadn’t read the items yet. I jumped out the bed. I subdued the hospital security and ran out.
And that was when everything hit me at once.
The outside world surrounded me in every way possible. My knee on the gravel infront of the fire station. I tasted the copper in the air from god knows how long ago.
I smelt the ozone of the power wires above me.
I was able to see from miles afar.
A woman by the name of Madeline helped me. I recall awaking in a room. My senses were controlled, strangely. I was back onto a normal well.. level, but I found out later that I could control my senses. Put it onto the level I wanted. Don’t know how, it comes to me as does.. moving does. As walking is natural to you, this is natural to me.
I spoke to Madeline about a few things, and that’s when I discovered the suicide of my brother.
I remember her saying something about how if I was alive— he could be too.
I doubt that a lot, but hope is never something bad.
I recall attempting not to cry. The lessons of Rick came back at me with the intensity of a bullet-train.
I shushed her away in a pathetic attempt to keep my ego, and I left ASAP. When I left, I went to the library and learned about the political situation globally. The USA had a major switch in power, so my path for vengeance was nonexistent in my eyes. I intended to leave town as fast as I left the house. I wanted to leave the town quickly and not rely on anyone for that same reason earlier, my ego and the maintaining of masculinity. I had to discover my own path for answers throughout the day, and it was a circular conclusion.
Your path for vengeance is nonexistent. You are a NEW person within this new world.
I was a weapon learning to become a person, you could say. I leaned back onto the system keeping me intact— Madeline.
She explained to me some things going on (Two “souls” named Crowley and Angela, both demons or whatever the fuck. They’d attacked her, and Angela seemed to be little short of a fucking hound, taking him back even after all the shit he did to wrong her. He lost their fucking kids! What kinda father/ ex husband does that? And apparently she intended to remarry him. Madeline intended to talk sense into the jackass, and Angela just smacked her. What the fuck is wrong with her? Madeline got her lic back though. They both tried to jump her, and he broke their ribs. Also, Crowley, this demon king? Is a cuck. His wife got her back blown out by some barbed wire bat wielding dude and is apparently the father of “Crowley’s” children. This’ll have relevance later.) Anyways, Madeline informed me she got this RV. She didn’t know how to drive but got it for basically free.
We rode around town in it. I marveled at the inflation of Burger Mart burgers. I mean, the dollar menu disappeared. Fuck was that?
Nevertheless, we still ate. I opened up to her regarding my folks; and she did the same somewhat. She was in the same predicament with her father (her dad also had a womb??) Anyways, anyways, more recent news. We found out that Crowley died, he was hacked to death by.. Richard, who was now a high-ranking member of the United States Military.
Now, onto the day I wanted to discuss.
I was just driving around, intending to grab something to eat.
I got a call from Madeline, with coordinates.
I drove off to the location haste-fully in my Ford M151 (good for off-roading n reliable.) I came out with my shotgun in hand.
It was Angela. She had her at her mercy, and needed help with the decision.
I argued that— she was a loose end. Even if she didn’t feel like it now, a week, a day, a month later, she’d hold someone responsible and lash out onto someone responsible. She telepathically spoke, saying she didn’t wish to die. She tried to bribe me with well over three quarters of a billion. Tol her I couldn’t be bought, and the only thing I wanted was the guaranteed safety. She pleaded, even telling me the location of that quarter billion, and I considered it for a while, until I came to a conclusion
I grabbed a quarter from my bag. Still could recall the details. 1972. On the tail was inscribed “E Pluribus Unum.” On the head, was “In God We Trust.”
I told her to pick a side, heads or tails. If it landed on that side, she’d live.
I looked down. She pleaded.
I asked if she was really going to beg.
I realized in that moment— there was no moment to disassociate. No moment to watch from afar. I had to do this myself. All by myself.
I loaded the coinshot into the riot shotgun.
I sung a lullaby that Rick would to put me to sleep.
“You are my sunshine. My only sunshine.”
I recall the feeling of my chest rising.
“You make happy.. when skies are grey.”
And I remember my chest deflating, and the shot ringing out.
I looked down, placing my shotgun onto my shoulder.
Her vitals were splattered all over the grass mud and dirt of the area. The beauty of nature was contrasted with the other aspect of nature—, human nature. The violence, the reality of it all. I wondered if this was how my brother looked in those moments after his death.
I buried her with the respect she lacked in life, facing a lake.
She was DEAD. As was my brother. And they would remain so, for the rest of time. And one day, I’d be alongside them.
But today was not that day.
Madeline informed me she was going somewhere. And so would I— to the New York Treasury. I got that 750,000,000 USD, a haircut from a Dominican barber and I began to hire PI’s all over the nation. For one thing— locating of Rawlins and Mr White.
In The Beginning, I only had a description of them. And that went far.
I learned they ran the biggest Meta Gene Activation Androgen trafficking ring, a drug which activates one’s meta gene and may be based off the same thing that my father got. It’s temporary, though. A market needs supply and demand. A one time drug wouldn’t do anything for those selling it. They also trafficked other drugs, such as Heroin, Cocaine, and whatever else comes to mind.
This would be a pain in the ass to get at. But nevertheless, they had world-wide markets. Every continent and nearly every nation you could think of.
Some of my PI’s ended up dead, and a few assassins or hitmen came to visit me.
None of the hitmen returned.
Remember what I learned about cracking the human brain? The body? Maximizing pain?
I used my senses to determine if they were lying or not. To ensuee they told me nothing but the truth and the whole truth.
And I went off to a flight to Europe with a shitload guns and a vendetta.
I landed at a Finnish airport, linking up with a few contractors I hired. They spread the area, asking for information across Europe.
A woman in Sweden who got most of her shit from him, seller in Turkey, one in Belarus, latveria (or whatever it’s called now), and we learned of it all.
Mr White was in one of those Stan nations. I’d learned Russian during my youthful years, and so I rode through Russia, down into Kazakhstan. It was a beautiful nation, and I wished I was there for different reasons. He hid out in the Charyn Canyon, as a cowardly Machiavellian fucker usually does. He orders horrendous things, yet just sits at his office, having a smoke while others suffer and do his orders by the letter. So it was time to get em. Let me describe myself. I’m a larger man currently, standing at around 6’6, and I’d describe my build closer to a strongman/ a powerlifter rather than anything else. I’m still physically and mentally 19– probably due to the serum. Before the haircut from that great barber, I had longer shaggy hair reaching to my shoulder and a stubble I occasionally shaved. I had shorter hair— kinda slicked back, but the front was kinda curly. A more shaved stubble, but it was still there.
Anyways, I went with a hiking crew into the canyon. It was a beautiful slice of nature that I hadn’t seen in too long. Like I said, wish I was there for a different purposes.
I left a note and strayed from the hiking crew, with a bag, a jacket, a henley, and jeans
The clothes were made with a micro-weaved version of an intensely durable material that was very comfortable.
My dogtag was around my neck to let them all know who was coming after them and why.
Hiking up the mountain with myself tunnel-visioned completely and utterly on this. I was still that man. I didn’t let that part that spoke to me— the part that did those things take over as I hiked through the canyon meticulously.
And I felt as if it was something that needed to happen. There was no thought of vengeance, of righting the wrongs. Just of doing that chore. To allow God to sort them out. It was Fall, about October. The arrogance made it so there was no security— or possibly that nobody knew of it.
But one did. The contractor they’d gotten to build it was located by the people i’d hired. Spilled it all immediately. There was little to no connection with the outside world from anywhere they didn’t intend. It blended in with the rest of the canyon. It had older tech within it as to make those aware of it think of it as a mid-Soviet abandoned base.
No guards. I marched up to the entrance, and placing on weighed gloves, I came around. I punched through the hull of the disguised entrance, stepping in. An alarm system began, and I threw an electromagnetic pulse to short-circuit it. The lanky man, that I knew only as Mr White was sitting down, enjoying himself a mug of hot chocolate. He beckoned me to sit down, ever eternally calm. To speak with him.
He called me by my name, and explained.
He was working under a branch of the CIA for the job— for something called The Enclave. His heartbeat signaled nothing but the truth and the whole truth.
He was a loyal man of the Company. Followed everything by the letter, as I was. He told me he didn’t like violence, and wouldn’t like it to be inflicted against him, and in his words “of someone of my proficiency with it.” He explained that he’d tortured someone before and wasn’t great at it. So that’s why he just told the truth. And it only supplied my belief of the enclave being gone. It was nothing but business in his words. He reached for a gun— and attempted to end his own life. I slammed him down, pinning him squarely and I felt the breakage of his cheekbone with my first and only hit. He only told me he knew where Rawlins was.
A island on the coast of California, which he’d taken from a supe supremacy organization they dismantled. He asked if he was free to go.
I told him. “You stupid fucking caitiff.”
I then proceeded to light him ablaze. His cooperation didn’t mean shit to me.
As of Rawlins? Doubted he knew much, so I simply gave a tip to the goverment.
Rawlins was reported as being shot and killed in the chaos, and I returned to that Alaskan town. I found myself there, and maybe I’d stay myself there. I looked over a hilltop, looking down onto the city and hearing all of the chaos, all of the lives being lived. Smelling them. Feeling the effort in my boots, and tasting it in the air.
You’re home, Kyle. Stay here. I felt into the air with my ungloved hand, and the cold of it was more comforting than any recoil, then any flame. And the voice of the Devil that I suspected was in me was stomped out. I was in control. I was a human.
okay so this is oocly— but I decided to go the smartest route with Kyle. Whereas someone like Randall would’ve directly assaulted that compound and most likely gotten themselves killed, Kyle just simply.. got them. I also planned a confrontation between Rawlins and Kyle, but I felt like it would’ve felt more or less cliche. I also liked staying to the character of Mr White in this scene, and it was heavily reminiscent of the diner scene. Nevertheless, his nature was shown.
Unlike Rawlins, he’s only Machiavellian. He’s not a psychopath nor a sociopath/- he’s just de-attached from the orders he gives. I also felt like now was time to close the book on White, but leave Rawlins ambiguous enough for any future appearances if necessary.
After filling out a lot of the first pages, I’ve decided to continue writing. That’s what a journal’s for, right? Here’s what’s happened.
Okay, so. It’s the winter of 2015. Tail end of the year. I’ve finally retuned home. I was thinking about going to the Cibao, taking a vacation to where my family originated from. Maybe that’d be France, cause of one of my ancestors. (Marquis De Moser, a figure during the revolutionary war.)
And if you’re someone reading that’s not me, Cibao means the northern area of the Dominican Republic. Only been there less than a handful of times. Liked the community. So close, yet so far to the place which I am now.
Here’s what I have been doing, though.
First things first, I’m occupying myself with teaching a self-defense class for free. To give to the community. Not one of those karate dojos that make you pay twenty bucks a month just for you to learn how to do something you could’ve learned by reading a 1.99 dollar comic off the rack.
Second things second, I’m funding sports teams in the area. Giving out scholarships to lower-income families, funding the building of a daycare.
I’m driving a modified Rolls Royce. Just to treat myself and have the status, but I still have my ford.
I’ve also learned how to cut hair myself and when I have free-time, I go out and host community events. Free haircuts, for example. Could help someone needing to look presentable for job interviews. On that regard, I’m helping folks write up resumes. I want to do as much as I can for this community; for it saved me, even if it didn’t know it. They just call me “Mister Kyle”; the folks in the community. I made a Randall foundation; didn’t use the last name so it wouldn’t be linked out to me, but I still had to do it for my late brother. I’ve made friends in the community; and for thanksgiving, I gave one of my good friends a franchise in Starbrooks. He was an older gentlemen who’d formerly ran his own shop, but due to the chaos a few years back and the recession then; he’d have to give it up. But Mr Preko has a store up and running again. He’s given me nothing but the upmost thanks; that I’ve helped put his kids through college and that I’m an upstanding young man.
I’ve come to believe it, too.
I went to church this Sunday, the sixth of December.
While hearing the fiery passions of the father. After taking the Eucharist, and then getting onto my knees as to pray; I looked up at the symbol of Christ on the Cross, and my eyes came to tears.
I thought of Mary as she saw her son wither away atop that cross. To us, Christ is the only son of God. The alpha and the omega. But to her? That was her BABY. Her son. I thought of Christ as a baby, being cradled in the arms of a loving mother and a father.
I thought of Christ himself. And God.
How much he loved us to suffer and persevere through that pain.
I felt worthy of his love in that moment. Of his sacrifice. To live with Christ in my heart.
And I thought about all of the hatred and violence in the world.
If everyone knew how much they were cared for by Christ; by those around them.
They would never raise a finger in hatred or violence. And I thought of how Heaven looked like. And of Hell.
okay, this is my “send off” to Kyle, since it feels kinda evident that these characters are being put aside for the regular cast. it’s intentionally mirroring a throwaway line I did as thompson; regarding how Randal wasn’t a priest or something so he presumed they took the offer. it shows that that’ la a possible path for Kyle, but not too set in stone.
If I am to resume anything for Kyle, it’ll probably be set during/after the current story (but of course, priorly to 2020)
I’m open to doing roleplays with Kyle, the first of the Clark’s to break the cycle and Madeline, the nogitsune mix son of Leon and Mason who together, basically wiped out the Crowley bloodline and made Rayvn their bitch in the most gentle way I can state either of those extremely informal and not-gentle words.
Goodbye, Kyle. I’m proud of you. I wonder how naming him “Ryan” would’ve been, but I’ll save that name for Randall if we ever do another brookverse reboot as to make him truly mine. And Clark’s probably going alongside it; being changed out for somethin like Fitzgerald. I do plan more with Kyle, but I think this is a great ending for him. I decided against him reuniting with Randal, for I feel that last tragedy is perfect. If he is to ever reunite with him, it’s going to be as logically coherent and not just for a cameofest. It’s 2:35 PM for me as I write this, March 29th, 2026.
Goodbye, for the last time. Kyle.
My name is Wyatt “Ace” Cozart Junior.
I was born in 1974. I am a businessman. I have a degree in business. And I’m currently lying on the floor, with a deep incision through my stomach. The light isn’t getting any closer, thanks to the man’s methodicalness, almost.. well, I guess we could call it “muscle memory” with me. He’d done this more than one should. Set the thermos to a negative temperature, as to ensure I wouldn’t bleed out. Set me to the corner, so anyone entering would be surprised by me. Throughout it, I didn’t do these things.
Didn’t argue, would’ve been a waste of breath. Didn’t ask him for his motives. Made it clear enough.
We wronged him. This was his way of asserting vengeance on us all. His un-telling helmet stared down at us. Inscribed things on it— talking about how the sky was falling— the wind was calling. Business, was business.
I’ve already told you who I am, but not WHO I truly am.
I was born at a hospital someplace In Massachusetts. I remember my childhood. My friends.
A woman named Millie and the crimson that rushed down her chest.
And a little girl named Millie.
Brown hair— unlike the sister that came after her. Similar to mine. I could remember the purity in the way I was. And many moments, I wished I could go back to that state. Even now.
Before my mother became a hollow shell of herself.
Maybe that’s what shifted me.
Or maybe it’s when father disciplined me.
Or I was just always a jackass, wanting everything for myself. That’s how we were raised, aye? One with the most toys would win.
Sharing is caring was always bullshit, or I told myself.
Put on the facade of an emotionless, empathetic man.
Maybe that’s why I’d normally fuck someone to sleep. So I wouldn’t have to be alone with my own thoughts, to face myself. My actions. Because they were always mine. No matter what reasons I put behind it.
Put on a facade as I imagined my father around this age. Fucking.. director of the FBI. Forced Truman’s hands into signing his own composed civil rights document that remains the golden standard to this day, and that was back in 47.
Willing to go off to war— but rejected to dye his own physical disability.
Got the DEA instated. Invented half of the modern day institutions. The DEA— his mother was an addict as was mine.
Resentment of his own father ( or lack thereof) lead to him swearing to be the best father ever. To be present in our lives.
Maybe you shouldn’t have, you old shriveled up peace of shit. You deserved that stroke. To not be able to walk. To be as pathetic as you are. Raise a hand again, if you even can.
And you can’t even get your little thing up anymore.
Oh, yes. As a child. I heard, observed things. I was quieter then most my age.
Something about Millie’s mother from my dad. Didn’t know what he meant. Wasn’t old enough to understand.
And sometimes, I’m still there. Even in this moment, playing those games. Running around with Millie. She was my only friend in the desolate world I lived in. No daycare. No younger siblings.
Ten years after my birth, a sister entered into both my lives and Millie’s. Still friends.
I was called special. More intelligent than those around me. Remembered well.
Put into a different school.
Drifted away from Millie.
My little sister was my best friend after that. Wouldn’t let the world harm her. But my father embodied everything I tried to protect her from. Couldn’t fight back.
All I remember of him is the bad. Every single element. But good things come to mind too. No matter what he did, it didn’t matter. That would be my memory of him, forever and ever.
When I was eleven, after my sister’s birth.
That’s when I first saw my mother in that way. Slurred words, almost sickly.
And she never returned to the woman I knew her as. Never reconciled with it.
I knew my father had other children. But I only knew one sister truly. I recall the powerlessness I had. And I swore to myself.
No man would ever make me feel like that without any retaliation.
My father got his. I was seventeen .
I remember the fear in his eyes. Told him to never do that to her again.
What a fucking brother I was.
Should’ve beat that cunt into a pulp a dozen times again.
When I was nineteen, I went off to the UK to a prestigious university for a business degree.
I took care of a kid named Monica. My half sister via my mother. This is why it’s all a facade. Could recall my feelings within myself. How I wanted no harm to come to her. How I wanted to give her the world.
Always wanted to be a dad— maybe be far better than him. It’s a cycle, after all. It’s a fucking cycle. Maybe I’d break it.
Couldn’t get the papers in order. Mom refused to sign shit, whether out of malice or just plain indifference.
Fuck whoever sold that shit to you. You know what? No. You chose. You chose to get into that pit.
That’s why I never used that shit myself. Instead, my own “drug” was my own carnal desires. Never formed any meaningful connections. By th time I was 15, I was sneaking off to NYC to brothels while my baby sister was at a daycare.
I was a jackass. Through and through.
I manipulated that poor fucking scientist after his wife died. Arin, was his name. Made him be the assistant to my baby sister in a moment of grief. Sold him this lie.
But he chose too. Just like my fucking mom. To pick up that flask or whatever it was.
Brian, too. Stupid little shit. Fufilled the promise.
God, look at me. Still putting on that stupid facade. Can’t be honest with myself even in the end. Even when I tear it down, it rebuilds back up in the next thought.
Arin, yeah. Sold him whatever.
Dug up his side before he made a decision. Told him she’d be there.
If he rejected, probably would’ve put a bullet between his brains and used her to warm myself in the winter of 09.
Brian? Let him go, just let one of my business acquaintances know about him.
Krausher was a stupid cunt too. Continued his own cycle. Let his son get disabled by those demon freaks out in California.
Hey, it was all business after all, Ace.
Fulfilled my promises for each and every one of them. Mind-wiping technology WAS used for betterment. Brian forgot about what he wanted to forget. Maybe I could’ve gotten into the pharmacy business with it. Could’ve done something good. But business was business, right?
What did the “Human Scientists” achieve? What did I achieve?
I owned a real-estate business in the 2000s and to this very moment.
Cozart Consoliated. Had a website for it too.
Had someone who flagged when the name was searched and whatnot.
Now, we had some.. negotiation problems with another “businessman.” Mobbed up, apparently.
And here’s what I know from this.
Some college student around the time— in 05, when this was. She decided she wanted to.. howdya call it? Do some investigating for a project. Didn’t know the details. It just got flagged.
She did it all at the school library. Mother wasn’t very present, and this girl’d given up her teen years to raise her sister.
And everyday, I still hate myself for this. But business.. is business.
Couldn’t afford the risk. Never actually did the deed before.
Was real easy, though. Instinct of pointing— eye-hand coordination. One I learned playing.
Used it to take a life too.
The cold stings my skin as I reflect.
My soul leers off the valley that is death. The light that I won’t see. That I won’t be getting. I yearned for it in that reflection of self. And maybe only then, am I stripping myself of the facade.
I did this to myself truly.
I walked the path that fueled my life.
Fucked to sleep. Perversion of something that creates life. Probably have a dozen kids, probably more.
Killing became more numb to me.
I never was. Just rode with the flow.
Continued that facade of being my father. Never allowed me to be my own person.
But I decided it. Nobody forced me to.
And in that moment, I take responsibility.
And by god, I WISH I could just be dead. Wouldn’t have to see the look on her face. Tear twinkles down my face.
Close my eyes for the last time so she wouldn’t have to do it for me. Try to fade away.
don’t think I did my best with this— but for a few hours with no outline? Decent, decent.
PASSAGE 0.5/ INTRODUCTION
In the beginning, it all started from one thing.
Not grabbing Deacon’s utility belt for him, saying some shit about how Marko was closer. And that wasn’t even a year ago.
And now, reflecting on it all how I can, deep into my soul, my brain due to the fact my body is broken.
I laugh, even as my soul is far, far away from my recovering body. Unable to move it. Unable to wake.
For the time being. I feel myself drifting closer and closer. The brain activity that’s required for my brain to function, to refresh. It brings up the images, the vivid memories of this day. Most call this dreaming. And that’s what I was doing when this all started.
Dreaming, of a perfect life. Of an absolutely ideal one.
One that I can admit could never happen.
And I relive a dream within a deep coma.
You awoke beside Kayla. Silk sheets around the both of you. You inhale her scent— the shampoo she used, the lotion she’d put on the night before.
She was asleep. You watch upon her peaceful face. Eyes closed shut.
You do something she’d always hated— how early you woke up. By the time she’d awaken, you’d already brushed, flossed and showered.
And so you do exactly that.
The bristles prick your teeth, your tongue.
The water-flosser you’d bought a bit ago cause it was on clearance and you’d read about it a bit ago in an article cleaned between the teeth. It cleaned it of all debris that it didn’t clean last night, whatever plaques built up in the night.
The cold ting of the pressurized water alongside the autumn temperature provided a similar sensation. The window was open in your bathroom, supplying outside ventilation and that brisk breeze.
It persisted as you showered, your teeth shivering uncharacteristically.
And that’s when you awoke. In the imagining of droplets on your skin and your short hair.
It was June 16th, 2016. Thursday, one more day till Friday. Two days of freedom, then back to work. But that was far, Clark. You gotta get through the day, right?
Unlike the last few weeks, you awoke uncharacteristically fatigued. You’d still looked as young when you looked at yourself in the mirror. Last time you’d felt like that was a few years back after days of not sleeping.
And one part went by like a blur— the part you’d remembered in the dream.
Unlike then, it wasn’t an autumn sun that was yet to come out that struck you, Rango. It was a rising, summer sun. The season where it made its presence known.
And this was the part you wished could go by.
When you came to, you’d left the shower— done all of the hygienic things necessary, and had your boxers on, reading about the reveals at E3 2016 on your phone.
New Doom coming later this year. And Fallout 4 DLC. You recalled your younger days. You and Teddy, reading up about the reveal of the new Nintendo handheld via the gaming mag he’d gotten. TV you two had didn’t have cable, so that’s how you got your news. You were seventeen thanks to your accolades in school and had two years left to go in the prestigious university of Brookhaven.
You remember considering sending an application to that one college in Beacon Hills, and it being accepted. Was a hard decision, but you ultimately chose state-side.
You come back to, put your phone down and to charge, before focusing entirely on gettting dressed.
You placed on your police uniform hastefully, its brown jeans— the black belt tightening around your waist, the blue undershirt and the brown, expensive jacket atop it.
You groomed your stache and put on the hat, before fixing yourself a cup of *CAWFEE* on the stovetop.
You heard the fizzling of the moca pot and got out a cup.
It was a gag you and Kayla had about that little dog you two owned. A older, shelter dog who died in 2011, in April. Four days after your birthday. More memories flashed after that.
The skin of a man’s testicles being hooked up to a car-engine, someone’s brain’s being carved out with their own bone.
The explosion of a room with a satchel bomb.
Your machete’s noises as they made its way through one’s stomach.
You got back to as the hot smoke from the moca pot hit your face, and you grabbed a towel to pour it in.
No milk or anything, just the cawfee.
You filled your water bottle and popped in some chewing gum for the purpose of the minty taste it’d give to your water.
You grabbed the keys to your jeep, before remembering that it was down in that field across town, where your brother was.
You grabbed the key to your police wagon, and your house keys.
You’d rented out your old college apartment; the one you and Theo were in. Wasn’t supplied by the school, he just rented it too at the time.
It was right across the street of your current job. By then, it was 6:40.!You’d entered work, albeit early. Marko and Daniel were speaking about something with Baker Mark’s daughter, Deacon wasn’t there and there wasn’t much to be had. You’d just put paperwork in its correct folders from the last few weeks, and time flashed by.
It was nine. Captain Peterson was already in, and so was Deacon.
Peterson said someone gotta do something at the moment, about a “dispatching with the freaks.” Daniel volunteered Marko, but Deacon protested an my name was mentioned.
“Rango. He didn’t fetch Deacon’s utility belt that time ago. Why doesn’t he do this now? I mean, if he’d done that then, then id be goin out. Am I right or am I right?” Deacon’d always said that bullshit. Kinda miss it now.
“Rango, come over here. You’re about to make Brookhaven PD history.”
He explained. A police officer had to be dispatched out alongside some supernaturals to take care of a.. in his words, a mutated gorilla vampire with magnesium skin. He said the rest of the information would be in my wagon’s MDT.
I nodded and grabbed the key from my pocket.
The people that had to go with me were three people.
First, a pyromaniac named.. Niko. I heard of him from talks with Theodore. His son. Had to treat him with the upmost care. He wouldn’t know me— but I knew him. And that was all the importance there was. Magnesium was flammable, if I recalled. Powers would do great on it, too.
Blade, a vampire hunter donning a trench coat. Explainable why he was here— it being a gorilla vampire, or whatever the fuck that ridiculous shit was.
Last one was a woman named Avirel. Some scientist, geneticist; whatever. Was on it to analyze its dead body/alive body. We were told that we should only kill it when necessary.
Man who got us all on this was named Luis, the dispatcher for it all.Skinny, Venezuelan guy. Goatee. When I went to pick them all up, I towered over him.
Reckoned he was like 5’6.
And there was the death of Rango Robbins, even if I didn’t know it. As my foot rested on the pedal.
(For a moment, I genuinely considered ending it at that. It’s quite cinematic, to be frank.)
I thought of all that was happening in the moments. All so ridiculous. A mutated gorilla vampire? Really.
Thought of the stakes, and all. How many innocent people could die due to this. And plus, I’ve seen much more crazier shit than a mutated gorilla vampire.
I got to the coordinates hastefully. In the middle of a road in the outskirts of town. Nobody around, the person who called; a farm hand a bit while away.
Apparently, this thing broke out of a zoo in Albany via some environmentalist teleporter died in teleporting it. They were in a mental facility up until a mystery outage in Alaska, where they teleported all over the nation and revealed themselves here. Apparently they don’t like being grabbed and mayhaps tear your head off.
I observed it, clearly enraged.
I grabbed my M1911, holding it with one hand as I drove with the left. Wasn’t planning on using it then, but good to have it out.
I began to plan somthing out.
“Alright, Nico. You can fly, yes? Go on down there and give him a scare. Fly around him. Allow an opening to blade as it attempts to go towards you. Blade, try to take it down non-lethally. If necessary— get it down. Avirel, stay in here. That’s imperative.”
Avirel muttered something in the back.
I asked her to repeat it, and she just said it was nothing and a half-assed sorry.
I looked in the rear-view window at her. She was holding a PDA, not a phone. And hiding herself in the corner of the back. Niko was aside her back there, listening attentively. Good kid, I could tell. He was quiet, but ingesting everything I said clearly. His silence showed nothing short of the level of intelligence you knew you needed in someone in something as important as this.
Blade, I could tell was used to this. Their silence spoke volumes, and they ran rings around Avirel, the scientist and her nervous behavior that felt suspicious.
Let it go, though. Just hoped she’d listen.
Niko got out the car and flew above the gorilla, having himself on fire and making himself a clear attraction.
Worked as I thought, till Blade came out.
It rushed at Blade as soon as it saw him. He attempted to use his blade, but the magnesium skin it had stopped it.
It then began rushing at the car. Avirel got out first. I yelled for a moment and backed out my taser.
Conductive and flammable.
I had my hand-held taser from my time as the survivalist.
When Niko noticed me rushing at it, he came into the trajectory of my way.
Fuck. Little lamb, huh? Innocence of a kid.
I tackled him out of the way, as softly as you can tackle someone out of the way of a 700 pounds gorilla.
Told him to keep his distance, and to try and provide a distraction again. He’d recognized that I’d just saved his life, and after a few breathy thanks, he got to it.
Blade rushed at it again as Niko did his rounds.
Never lead a squad— nor was I a NCO.
But felt like I could at this point. I plunged it into the back of thr gorilla’s neck, only initially doing 100 volts.
Conductive nature of its skin— it rolled through. And enraged it.
At that moment, it grabbed the kid.
Fuck. Couldn’t let anything happen. Put up the volts to 400. Didn’t go down, so I had to take out one of its eyes so it coul at least focus on me.
It tried to bite me. Vampire, remember?
Avirel just lurked from the sides, as if she was Spike Lee.
I wrapped my arms around its neck. Put up the taser’s pressure. Could tell as it began to die via its pulse. It still had the kid in his hand.
Was worth it. Had to protect this kid with my whole being.
Got off of it as it fell. Would’ve crushed me.
I shook Blade’s hand, and he offered to go out for drinks that night.
Accepted it. Felt rude not to, and I didn’t have much actual friends in Brookhaven. (I pushed everyone away, don’t feel too bad for me.)
I dropped them all off at assorted spots around the town.
Word’d already spread around in the station when I returned. My bodycam footage, how I took on a gorilla for some supe kid.
Took my honors, before going on break at 1.
All of that happened at 9 AM.
Went off to congratulate myself. Drinks with Blade was at 9 PM, so I went to get some donuts in the meanwhile.
I was parked along the graveyard, looking at Kayla at a distance. And myself, I was buried alongside her. At least the slab said so.
I decided to do something, get some flowers.
Did exactly that, and as I was driving along? I saw Avirel and Niko on the ledge above the hospital— entering to the second floor, with Avirel hiding a needle in her hand.
Instead of returning to the grave; I began to rush, my car exceeding all possible traffic laws. No witnesses, no lights. Didn’t matter.
I drove to my underground bunker, looked at the grave of my brother and nodded. To ensure he has a life. The one neither of you could get. To ensure that fuck, Avirel couldn’t get away with any of it.
I suited up nearly immediately and took the blood-stained machete that I took Ace out with.
Back in my survivalist armor, and I felt only an extreme amount of protectiveness. Not revenge, but to preserve the white, soft coat on a lamb. To ensure they stay innocent.
I took off in my Ford M151, similar to the one that my father once drove in Vietnam.
To ensure I couldn’t be tracked. I had parked the wagon near the road— a bit away, but being thorough is a pain in the ass.
I drove to the hospital, and with the upmost urgency i had earlier— I climbed up the hospital to get to the closed down second floor. Kicked through the wooden boards.
There, I saw Niko tied up onto a table.
The abandoned floor had been repurposed into a lab.
There were two exits that weren’t really exits— th one behind me, and the one to the northeast of Avirel. Fight wasn’t an option here— sh recognized the glint of my helmet. I walked slowly, holding the bloodstained machete in hand. She recognized it.
Whatever words she wanted to say weee caught up in her throat, and she ran to the north-east exit.
Niko couldn’t hear nor see, so I preformed an attack Boone taught me.
I punctured her trachea, severed her jugular and carotid. Pulled this off by striking her lateral root to her median nerve. Couldn’t make a sound. I held her by her shoulder against the wall, and the terror in her eyes were evident.
My first strike besides that was a surgical strike to her left rib. I then slit her intestines horizontally, opening them. I then began to cut them off slowly. She couldn’t scream, but wanted to. I propped her against the wall and took off that PDA, before returning.
When I was grabbing what I wanted to grab— I saw the terror in Nico’s eyes, but when he saw the blood splattered over me, and recognized it wasn’t mine, but the woman who’d intended to cut him up and inject him with something— something entered his eyes.
I cut off the straps holding him with the same machete. Symboled for him to run. Go to the police.
Then, I grabbed the syringe she’d intended to stick in Niko and rejuvenated her.
Began to gut her. Split her wrist open. And I wrote a message.
Not a literal message, but they’d know.
I scoured through her PDA, and it gave plenty useful. Downloaded it all within the same hour.
The Survivalist was back, and so was my war as long as they lived.
I shared that drink with Blade, and got him onto my cause.
Someone from my past led the Human Scientists. And I learned via that PDA she’d be on a castle.
Godspeed, **Myro.** Godspeed.
done in 3 hours w/ a outline
Related to Fredrick the Great only by law, Gunter fought the Seven Years War, before going off to the Colonies to train and galvanize their forces. He was a very efficient leader during his time; saving over ten thousand men from the British, successfully defending a town near Canada against what’s over twenty thousand British on an attempted new front in the war, and conquering Maine.
He stayed in the United States after his wife came overseas , and his family remained until this day.
I am not related to this man via blood.
Instead, during that time period?
I was related to a Frenchman who called himself Marquis De Moser who had his ass saved by Gunter, and an indigenous man who lived on the island of Hispaniola who has no information regarding him anywhere. A few generations later; the maternal side of my family were in Latveria, fighting my for a resistance against the Nazis.
Now, a few generations back again.
My paternal side, having moved from the Dominican Republic in the 1860s due to the Spanish invasion. He fought for the Union;
For American citizenship for his entire family, and to the right of self determination for millions. From scholarly writings he’s made to document himself; i think of him as a well educated man who I would’ve delighted from having a conversation with.
He studied in Europe, was a poly linguist who was fluent in four languages at the minimum, and literate in more.
Yet, he was willing to go off to war because he believed in the cause he fought for. He believed it was important.
And, my grandfather paternally fought in the greatest war in contemporary history as did my maternal grandfather and grandmother; out of necessity. World War Two. My Grandfather fought in Africa the British, shredded German forces on Normandy; and after reaching Berlin, joined the island hopping campaign.
He passed away from medical complications related to a gas used during the Korean War over forty years later, when i was seven.
I remember him as an intelligent man. He explained to me fables of old, and asked me what I gathered from them. He explained to me poetry from more modern times and did the same. He viewed Education as being more important than anything else. To think for oneself, and to reflect onto history and gather a path for yourself.
I’m sorry. I tell them all this. My brother, my father, and my ancestors. For keeping the Clarks at war.
This time, I’m stepping onto the same continent that my grandfathers did for their war.
I didn’t finish on my maternal grandfather, but he was the main resistance fighter, per se the figurehead for Latveria. In conversation, mentioned in the same context as Tito. When the Soviet’s steamrolled through, they recognized that this man UNITED them for an identical cause. And that did not align with Stalin’s causes.
He was exiled; but not in the way you think he was.
Instead of killing him, or exiling him in the historical context, they refused to make a martyr of him.
They stripped him of all legacy. Of it all. Left him penniless.
And yet, Kendrick still went off to fight a war that benefited nobody, besides those at the top. So did I.
With the intentional sabotage of gear sent as to cut corners and to get more of a profit.
To gather drugs and to sell them.
The American people, overseas and in the nation are harmed via proxy.
And not to mention those fighting on both sides; the people it awoke within them.
The people who never returned home, either physically or mentally.
For some domino effect that never went true, and left the nations of Southeast Asia as a hollow version of themselves to this day.
The Clarks go off to war. For varying reasons.
And in the next few days, I will be arriving at the selected battlefield, which is Haugesund, Norway. I’m staying at a hotel around the area, in Rogaland.
I continue to scribble down onto this notepad at a corner in the bar. And I decide to give an explanation. To myself at least.
This war is based around protection of the innocent, not the base instinct of vengeance and a cold furious rage that led me on the one back in 2013.
I started this for Niko. I started many other wars in 2014 for those children. I killed Krausher FOR the innocent people he’d kidnapped just off their identity.
Been doing it since my initial war ended.
Isn’t vigilantism, either. Tried to get the law involved as much.
Travelled down to New York to speak to the DA. He was a dark-skinned man, with a goatee, with braids assorted in a ponytail for professionalism. Name was Thomas Leeks
I remained under an identity Richard gave me.
Francis Fury, an Irish doctor whos family moved to the US when he was younger. Didn’t apply any facade nor accent.
Just gave him my ID then gave him a copy of what was in the PDA.
Said he’d look into it . I know, in English that means “I’m going to wipe my dick with these files. Go fuck yourself and never return.”
Familiar guy, we’d spoken about my struggles to quit alcoholism a few months back.
Told him frankly that I’d fallen off the wagon.
His eyes widened, and he asked when.
Told him it happened earlier yesterday.
He said that my me and my pal weren’t drinking alcohol yesterday, so he pressed for more.
I told him I wasn’t speaking about alcohol, and after a wide, deer-in-headlights esque look at me, he said “Really?” And just walked away.
Back to what I was writing.
I’m not going to stoop to levels of depravity as once had. I’m going to stay methodical. I’m not going to let my rage overtake me, nor a cloud of fury. My war is built on the protection of the innocent, and truly decimating the human scientists so nobody has to experience what I did. I want to make the world better for good people. I want to fight the good fight.
And I know how to do that.
Me and Blade have decided to divide and conquer, well; divide as in split up. I’m going to Europe, as I mentioned earlier.
Blade’s going to do what I did; raid bases, get information. Gave him the run down on everything from my own experience.
As of me, let me explain.
From Avirel’s PDA, she had linked up (Not in the way you’re thinking. This is American English. When we say “linked up”, we mean connected with/ teamed up with someone, not engaged in coitus you british bastard. Just kidding. I love you. This is OOC) with a European ring that’d established itself years ago, according to them and their paperwork. They had a monopoly on.. chemicals and materials needed for cloning.
Meeting happens tomorrow. Flight is in five hours, but I can’t sleep and the bar isn’t closing. Got everything packed, and the airport is close enough. So the Clarks go to war..
You sit on that airplane, out looking the window. You’re in first class. Francis Fury is going off to Europe, with his connections allowing for him (or you), to bring all the items you desire.
You admire the view you have, looking out the window.
Haven’t had a vacation since those years back; and it was just as much of a vacation as it was a change of scenery as it is now.
Still gotta fight the good fight, no matter where you are.
This.. kingpin of illegal chemicals, or whatever’s provided this. You know where and when they’re going to be there. You have on a long-sleeved striped polo, jeans and combat boots for that just in case. A watch lies on your wrist; the one Boone gifted everyone. You wonder where he is now. Probably raising his son out there. You’d calculated; his son should be about 16 now, born in 2000.
Richard’s a colonel now, due to his exquisite handling of nearly every situation, every scandal that’s came his way. You wouldn’t be surprised if he threw his cowboy hat into politics from the long talks you had with him. He’s basically the modern day Ulysses S Grant. He would be the first truly American president after all. He grew up in a reservation camp in Arizona, and graduated in political science.
Ayesha’s dead. You remembered when Kayla told you the news, and it didn’t surprise you. That’s how her story was destined to end.
And Kayla’s story should’ve never ended there. You should be in that plot of land (which you’ve used as a bunker to wage war since her death; and now return to.) raising a family. She’d gotten off of birth control and you remembered the month before you’d started arguing.
And the flight attendant diligently gives you your cheez-its alongside a cup of coffee.
Sipping it as you look out; you’d remembered something.
It’d been well over 10 years SINCE you’d been injected, so this was usual.
But it was nice. To have that pain in your ass disappear thanks to a magic injection a few years back.
Even with the dosage of caffeine and produced cheese, you slip asleep on your way to Norway.
I awake, take my suitcase and quickly make it to the hotel.
High-end. From some of the money back in 2013; they had a shitload of safes in their bases. Always took all I could get. Weapons would go in the bunker, money into the same place. Saved it for a rainy day; and it’s hailing like a motherfucker right now.
I decided I’ve slept enough on the plane, and I get a rental car. My breakfast consists of a pack of Beef Jerky and a Yoo-Hoo as I drive, all taken from a market. Follow the directions on my old Survivalist PDA, some PDA that was a “Special edition Daredevil”, red with the double d’s on it for promotion of that Ben-Affleck flick which honestly wasn’t all too bad. Painted it yellow when I was in college; so it looked like his classic costume. Has all the data I need. Global geographic map, with updating routes, records of everything necessary, and lastly.
Pictures of Kayla, the most valuable thing on it. Look at them for motivation. To ensure nobody has to suffer what I did. And the cold, hard fury I promised wouldn’t take over remains as an energy vessel in the back of my heart, coming in only when my body views necessary; like my Adrenaline reserves. I parked outside of the closed lighthouse which lights were still on, even at 7 AM. I broke in. Shut the cameras off via my PDA’s other capabilities (thanks, Richard. Would’ve thought you went to school for engineering, computer science, anything besides poli-sci with that brain of yours.)
I go up with a sniper rifle.
Glint would be obscured by the light from the lighthouse, so it’s the perfect spot.
I’m not very good with a sniper rifle. Only half decent, and at these ranges; it turns into being worst then a mule handling one. The 12.7mm Survivalist rifle was always my speciality, it being modified in every little aspect for me.
I look onto the scene. A very large, green-skinned man speaking to Myro. And a man in.. Is that a Beret? Who the fuck is..
That’s a clone. They’ve cloned Boone. Has to be. No other way. No other fucking way.
and that’s when my body determines it’s necessary.
I begin to fire out of pure rage. One knicks the green man’s cheek, one is only protected thanks to Boone tackling em. And I know it’s Boone in that moment.
I hoped the blood of the covenant was thicker than the wads of cash in that moment. He rushed to prepare his rifle to fire-back, and I jumped down the staircase, catching myself only with the sniper and pulling myself up.
Got onto a flight back in the next two hours.
And I drifted asleep immediately, to distract oneself from the revelation. Thinking was for home. Strategizing was with those around you, your current brother in arms. You stare down at your watch with an inkling of sadness; one that you knew would roll up into a flood eventually.
Just as The Alamo. Surrounded by more than they can handle. But instead of being with comrades, they’re on their lonesome. It won’t be thirteen days. It’s a matter of hours, if not minutes.
In a bunker within the base, that’s shut closed. They enter in smaller waves, but they have the numbers to keep this going. They’ll kill the man inside via tiring him out. The bunker is underground. Immune to all elements on the opposing sides hands besides flesh and blood. Besides entering directly with your firearms and facing on the sole man. The ordeal at hand prior to the man’s entrance was a deal. Between the Human Scientists and a corporation that majorly funded the government a few years back; since the time of my grandfather serving. They made worse plastic weapons than the M16. Main leader in the laser weapons industry that I knew did nothing but get more men killed than the enemy could ever do in their most erotic of dreams. What they’d been doing since Korea with those aforementioned plastic weapons. When the US government restructured, monopoly busting began. The Defense Industry became useless with them deciding to use their own massive surplus of arms, and focusing on the betterment of the people rather than the destruction of others.
I watch from a football (🏈) field away, hidden by the foliage and the rising sun. The man inside the bunker is Blade, my brother in arms. Odds are bad. And mentioning that former corporation; now trafficking MGAA in the absence that’s been left in the last year for good. Trying to put that shit back in the market makes you deserve this, and dealing with the scum that are the human scientists make the cold, white fury within me dump its reserves more methodically. They’re on a rooftop, all hurdled up around the bunker entrance. Blade has forced it closed. Gets no signal at the moment. It’ll only be a few minutes till they get it back open. I grabbed a napalm grenade. Knew what it does. MGAA isn’t very flammable, so it’ll be temporary. Laser tech may keep it burning. Fucking hate that shit. It’s a delight to watch it burn in a few seconds. I analyze the men. Zarabi, the head of the organization/ corporation. Dude dealing with him is semi-important to be regelated this job. Honestly, still surprised how punctual they are after me and Blade have interrupted nearly everything they’ve done in the last few days.
It goes ablaze in a large blue flame. Fuck. They’ve probably cut it with Fentanyl or some kind of shit of the kind. Some of that shit that was running rampant back in the 2000s; that kinda cigarette that allowed one to harness the smoke, probably that. I watch as Zarabi burns ablaze, in panic. I just watched, no intent to put anyone out of their misery. I saw one of them burning, in that stupid fucking armor back in 2013. They went to open the bunker even ablaze. Trying to do their job even to the death. I used that slit in the neck to blow off their throat and put them down. Marty Robbin’s Ballad Of The Alamo plays in my ears as I look down at it ablaze. The intense chaos going on down there. Wondered if this was how the final stand went there. I take my mask off to watch it with my own, unprotected eyes. To witness the beauty of.. the end. The end of the corporation who’d ruined hundreds of upon thousands of lives throughout the years. The fire burns away the sins. It reminds me of that woman wearing Kayla’s armor, she. I bashed her head in with the butt of the shotgun as we were both ablaze. No scars remain on my skin from it due to my own healing. I recall using the weakness that was intentionally placed in it for the soldiers wielding it, incase an armor was compromised. For this exact scenario, someone wearing one of our armors against us. Placing on the helmet, I already know what’s next.
I rush across the foliage, down towards the rooftop. The flames dissipates as I climb up the side, opening the bunker, yelling that it was me. Blade thanks me as I help him out of it, and the arm-hug we give shows only to our camaraderie. I haven’t told him the details of why I’m doing this. He’s owed that, and I’ll tell him eventually.
Returning to my base as I clean my firearms, with Blade having returned home. He’s getting a well deserved break. And I wish I weren’t at the moment. It makes my mind wander onto what I’ve been attempting to avoid all this time. The subject of Boone. What am I to do about him, the man who taught me how to fire a gun, how to fight war? How to think in it? If he’s even aware of me being on the opposite end. I think up scenarios of me gaining him as a inside agent or whatever. I meet up with him at a bar on false pretenses. He’ll ask why I’m not dead. Would I be able to do the impossible, of convincing my brother in arms to do this? I can’t kill him, for the sake of his son. For the sake of us. Don’t think he’d kill me either.
Cut the shit, Randal. You’re being more naive than I thought. You know Boone, and above all else; he follows orders. He’s licensed himself out as a mercenary. For whatever reason or motivation there is, he’ll kill you. He probably has the capability to do so.
A report comes in from your scanner; large explosion nearby in the deep, deep outskirts. Someone going down to NYC or north to Albany reported it. On a desolate road. Heard from miles away due to how loud it is. You got yourself dressed in the disguise of your identity, William Taggart; a detective in a federal investigative branch.
Arriving at the scene, you told the bystander’s it’s been handled. To go on their way or risk being arrested. They do so. And you investigate the scene.
It’s been exploded from within. Location was a human scientists facility as a bunker. You get into the cameras; or what remained.
The scene pieces itself together. They arrived in a hurry. Boone and Myro. Someone’s after them. The person who is.. is a superhero. Flashy, vibrant colors. I look down at his body, and it pieces together.
Thomas Leeks, the district attorney was under a secret identity as a superhero. You recall back on your cynicism. You were dismissing him as being another one of those nothing burger men with false promises. Yet, he died for this. You look at the footage. He’d been shot down by Boone. Cut down. Yet, broke his knee. He was very strong and durable,intelligent and highly tactical. I read up about him in that moment. A hero. Dying for a cause. After Thomas broke Boone’s knee, he died before the bombs went off. I could tell that by his body. Eyes already closed, accepting death in both sadness and acceptance.
I looked aside to the remaining bits of the armor, coat and the skeleton, continuing to watch the footage on my daredevil PDA.
Myro left him in there and self destructed the base out of some false fear of thinking Leeks was still alive. He yelled the name of his wife and son, unable to accept it and maybe asking them for forgiveness as it exploded. He ran at the door, attempting to break it open as he was vaporized.
I think back onto the cynicism. A fucking hero, and I dismissed his words as him “wiping his dick” with the files I gave him. I grabbed the fabric and the remaining bits of armor, taking it with me. Couldn’t involve anyone who wasn’t already involved. He was an unacceptable tragedy. Knew it was his choice to get involved, especially when he broke the law via not following the supe shit, having to be patrolled with a cop. But he went off to do what was right. To fight the Good Fight. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but knew it WAS in a way at the same time. Never again. Never again.
I return to my base with the pieces, grabbing a small razor blade I’d used to shave to engrave a name into the barrel; the part i’d hold each time. Where my fingerprints would always feel. I engraved it DEEPLY.
I wanted some form of vengeance for both of them. To strike back. And I began to read the files about.. a “assistant to Myro.” Named Arin.
