The Throne Room of Castle Regina was dark, in the night. Torches usually went unlit, and the windows letting in only moonlight. Dark, sinister shadows spread and stretched across the cold, cobblestone floor, and dark shapes moved along the upper balconies, the beaked servants of the Queen.
Queen Samantha Regina, the great and terrible. Or, at least, she liked to think of herself that way. The only victories she had to her name were raids on supply shipments going through the Algernon Woods, and small scale turf wars against the Giovanni Crime Family. All the same, she found victory boring. Her mentor, Julius Caesar, or at least the man using his name, had been a conqueror and a general as well. She had little teachings in the way of patience, or prosperity. She wanted more prey, and more victory.
She would have it.
“My Queen, our scouts bring news.” Mr. Rigby announced, breaking the thick silence of the large room.
Samantha sat up, in her large throne. She did not suppose her posture could be seen, in the darkness, but Rigby had sight without seeing. He was host to something claiming to be a God, and as such, his abilities could not be denied. He was an excellent servant.
“Yes, Rigby? Do tell. I yearn for entertainment.” The Queen said, adopting a less formal tone around her beloved and handsome-sounding subject.
“Do you recall our trip into the city, one week ago? Our… activities, in Club Vodka?” Rigby asked.
“Of course. Quite a fun night. Not that I remember too terribly much of it…” Samantha responded.
“There are pictures, being advertised. The Blood Witch, and her companion. Photographic records of your appearance, and hers.”
Samantha’s companion. Her trust handmaiden. Her concubine, her confidant. Her lover. Evelyn Frost was someone not to be seen in public. Her disappearance from the White House was a subject of much conjecture, and Samantha had no intention of anyone knowing her true whereabouts. Especially not her rival, President Robert Frost Junior. She did so love having such a secret.
She disliked people knowing her secrets. She additionally disliked seedy club owners taking pictures of her beloved, her belonging, without her permission.
She hated it. Her hands balled up into fists and her face contorted into one of rage. Her platform boots thumped with an unnatural weight as she stood and descended the stairs of her throne.
“Prepare a suit of armor, proper armor, and three of the Royal Guard. Rufus, Eve, and the Royal Family are not to know. Do I make myself clear?” She barked, storming past Rigby and throwing open the massive doors to the throne room.
“As you wish, my Queen. I will prepare everything you need, for a meeting.” Rigby said, his humor lost on the fuming girl.
--
Red light illuminated the dark sidewalk ahead of The Blood Witch, projected from the glowing eyes of her armor. Those still wandering the city of The Narrows at this time of night immediately fled upon seeing her hulking, armored form. The image of TITAN armor was not an unknown quality to the residents of The Narrows, the Legion Industries Tower sitting in the heart of the city, but the red light and highlights gave warning. They recognized this particular suit, in the night. The Blood Witch.
Samantha Regina enjoyed the feeling of T.I.T.A.N. armor, of wearing it, of being indestructible and all-powerful. It made her drunk, just to wear it, and walk in it. It made up for the relative discomfort of the M.O.T.H.E.R. suit she was instructed to wear underneath, a creation of her royal blacksmiths and technological experts. It did not matter, to her. Although the neural sensors prodded at her bare skin, and dug at her back, it wasn’t enough to ruin the feeling of empowerment.
The bright white lights and red lettering of Club Vodka were visible even a block away from the bar, the establishment an extremely popular mainstay of The Narrows. Allegedly, the grounds it was on were cursed, formerly housing the King in Yellow Club before it was burned to the ground. Samantha could not help but chuckle, as she thought to herself that rumors of a curse would continue, thanks to her.
Samantha gave a verbal command, heard only inside of her helmet, causing it to retract and segment away, revealing her equally iconic red eyes and single long mouth scar, along her right cheek. The doorman, upon hearing the cracking of cement under the heavy, hydraulically assisted suit, went for the handgun under his jacket. The moment he met the eyes of The Blood Witch, it was over.
“Halt.” She commanded.
He obeyed.
“Take your handgun out of your jacket, and press it against your head.” She commanded.
He obeyed.
“Pull the trigger.” She commanded.
He obeyed.
One of Samantha’s plainclothes dressed Royal Guard produced her rifle, handing it to her. The M1918A2 Browning Automatic Rifle, more commonly known as the BAR, was by and large considered an annoyingly heavy, yet powerful, rifle, which is why Samantha chose it. She wanted to wield it like it was nothing. Marching into the club, the wood and ceramic surfaces groaning under the weight of her suit, patrons danced the night away in front of the DJ, the music so loud Samantha ordered her helmet to deploy, in order to drown out the noise.
Gunshots hurt her ears, anyways.
Raising her BAR, Samantha held down the trigger and moved the rifle across her line of sight, coldly gunning down as many men and women as she could with a single spray who were unfortunate enough to be on the dance-floor, many others wounded or fleeing in terror, the music still blaring as she ejected her empty magazine, reaching out to one of her knights for another 20 round magazine. Loading it and pulling the bolt back like it was nothing, a few gunshots bounced and ricocheted off of her armor, some of the club’s enforcers deploying and taking cover, firing at Samantha.
“Get to safety. I’ll handle them.” She directed, her knights scrambling to safety and avoiding fire as Samantha calmly advanced.
The small arms fire harmlessly glanced off of her armor, although the interior of her helmet gave her various warnings and updates as to what she was being hit with and how dangerous it could be if it hit one of the gaps in the extremely heavy and durable plates. In response, The Blood Witch raised her left arm.
“Deploy RPG.” She commanded.
A small panel slid away on her forearm, and from it a compact launcher was produced, firing a rocket at two of the bodyguards hiding behind a booth, resulting in a shower of debris and gore. Two remained, although Samantha wished there were more to play with. Using the thrusters built into the armor, she shot towards the two, prying some seating off of the floor in order to grab one of them, crushing his head in between her armored hands like it was a grape. The final guard fled, and in response, Samantha simply shot him in the back, putting four holes in him as he fell to the floor.
“And here I was thinking this would be a fight…” She remarked with a weary sigh.
--
The manager and owner of Club Vodka, Vladimir, hurried to stuff the photographs and bundles of cash into a duffel bag. The panic room settings meant the front door of his office was immune to anything smaller than a blast from a tank, his escape route through the window and down onto the street below. A drop from the second story would hurt, but it would be nothing compared to the ire he had drawn from The Blood Witch. As he placed the last bundle of cash within, his heart sank with the large crash.
Rather than come through the main door, The Blood Witch had opted to thrust upwards and smash through the floor to the second floor, standing in the office.
“The pictures.” Samantha barked, her voice warped and distorted by the helmet’s customized voice changer.
Vladimir scrambled away, pointing fearfully at the bag. Perhaps if he did as she asked, he would live. Seemingly appreciative of his honesty, the Blood Witch looking into the bag and nodded, picking it up and tossing it down the hole she had come from.
“All of them were in there? Every last copy?” She asked.
The manager nodded, trembling all over.
“Good. Flamethrower.”
Samantha held up her right arm, holding her BAR by the forward grip in her left hand, as a miniature flamethrower appeared. Squeezing her fist, she doused Vladimir, as well as most of the office, in flames. Oh, how she enjoyed the screaming.
It was minutes of agony and shrieking before Vladimir finally died, collapsed in a flaming, napalm coated heap on the floor. Samantha took a moment to appreciate the sight before leaping back down the hole, picking up the duffel bag and handing it to one of her royal guards.
Samantha Regina thought to herself that this was a rare occasion. She was wrong, earlier. This had been quite an entertaining night after all.
