Bestia Custos Episode 13 - The Power of Nothing and The Will of All - Part 5

 

    Toyotama lunged at Agrond with deadly aim as she sailed through the air towards him. Agrond's mind raced with every possible outcome and choice in that brief instant but could only find one reasonable solution for his current predicament. Just as Toyoytama was about to bear down on him, Agrond threw out his left arm in the hopes that he could strike her with enough force as to knock her unconscious. At worst, he would lose his left arm and still be able to fight. Agrond's own aim was true, but just before his massive forearm could connect with its intended target, Toyotama's mouth opened wider ever-so-slightly to accommodate. Agrond had not considered that Toyotama would have such masterful command over her muscles. In that moment, it was clear that she could alter her bite to accommodate for any changes that may occur in her attack. Even so, Agrond knew that he would have to prepare himself for the worst.

    Once Agrond's arm was well between Toyotama's jaws, her teeth came together in the blink of an eye. The pain was excruciating, but Agrond had known worse. He was reminded of when he was brought to his knees as his flesh boiled and peeled away from his body from being in the mere presence of the beast that Animal had become during his fight with Ghast. To him, there could never be a pain in all existence as torturous as that. Feeling this in his heart, he used all his might to continue through with his attack, forcing his fist and arm forward while Toyotama and her teeth tore his flesh in the opposite direction.

    Toyotama's teeth peeled the flesh and muscle from Agrond's arm down to the bone, but despite the ndamage she had inflicted, she was forced to release her prey when Agrond's fist had threatened to bury itself deep into her throat. She must have known that she would not be able to bite clean through Agrond's bones. She could have easily swallowed his arm up to the shoulder, but then she would have been at Aground's mercy. No, her intention was to main, gain strength from consuming his flesh, and continue her assault while trying not to give into her own blood lust.

    Toyotama hit the water behind and away to Agrond's right side and disappeared beneath the surface, a cloud of crimson blood trailing off her. Agrond breathed heavily, his strength beginning to fail him. Again, the wound would not close and he was left baffled as to why he was unable to use his essence to heal his wounds. He looked around once more to try an find whatever clues he could to solve the mystery. Then, it came to him, and he cursed himself for not seeing the truth sooner. Agrond had been looking for something to explain why his body failed to heal itself, but truthfully, the answer was that there was nothing around him at all. Water is a valuable resource to primerans. In fact, it is all they need to survive along with breathable air. But this lake, this vast and boundless supply of water had apparently been untouched. There was no sign of a village, not even an outpost. Bodies of water this vast would never be left alone unless there was something wrong with it. He quickly thrust his arm into the water and felt the same sharp pain that raced through his ankle. He them pulled the water to his mouth and tasted it, again, there was a slight pain that burned his mouth and tongue

    Salt, it was salt water, but not nearly potent enough to sear his own skin, but definitely enough to keep his wounds intact and prevent him healing. Agrond concluded that the lake must feed into the sea at some point and the water became brackish. This seemed almost too clever of a ruse for even Toyotama, a plan like this was far more worthy of Genkaku's trickery. Now that the mystery had been solved, Agrond was left with exactly how he was going to defeat his opponent. But before he could produce a thought, Toyotama began her assault once more from behind. She launched herself from the depths once more, mouth opened wide enough to consume a primeran whole, and teeth dripping with poison water. She latched onto Agrond's shoulder and tore another chunk of flesh from him. Agrond's speed was failing him now too as he was not quick enough to turn and face her. He barely conjured enough strength to grab his foe and throw her off of him. She hit the water with a crash and disappeared once more. It was obvious at this point that she was getting stronger and faster. But how long before she would lose herself to the savagery that would infect her from eating his flesh? Surely she was not so careless as to risk becoming a chimera just to defeat Agrond. Then again, her loyalty to Genkaku was absolute. There really was no telling how far she would ultimately go to serve him.

    Agrond knew how this battle would end if things did not change, and that was not an option. He had known for a long time that this day would come, though he had hoped he would have had more control over when it would happen. Agrond had been of age long enough to employ one of the dragons' most coveted secrets, but had chosen to refrain from using it until he had reclaimed all the essence linked to his father. When he was finally made whole after Ghast's defeat, he found that his father's memories had given him more insight into the dragon his father was, and the dragon he too vowed to become. He knew that his rise to power would not be a race, but one of hardship and experience. Agrond did not want to make something easier just because he could. No. He wants to attack the strength of his opponents, not their weaknesses. He wishes to face this world head on without regrets. And so, Agrond decided to shed away the primeran he was to begin the transformation into the dragon he was born to be.

    Agrond spread his wings outwards as if about the fly, but instead of rising into the air, something else was about to occur. His wings began to glow a bright orange and burn the very air around them. The waters beneath him even began to steam and slowly begin to boil. Agrond's essence was changing, shifting, and enveloping him. Every cell in his body began to act as if it were on fire. Toyotama knew that something was amiss and tried to approach Agrond beneath the waves, but, she soon realized that her tactics would no longer avail her. The waters began to evaporate around Agrond as the amount of heat his body was producing turned the waters around him into a boiling cauldron. There would be no way she could approach him until this strange event was finished.

    Eventually, Agrond's own wings erupted from the amount of heat that his body generated, leaving behind a cascading trail of light that burned in orange and red hues. As his body slowly began to cool, one would have noted several changes that occurred to Agrond's body. Aside from his wings being completely gone, his entire body was covered in thick dark crimson plates of bone-like armor and his hair's color had shifted into a brilliant white. Agrond had entered into his pupal stage. A stage in a dragon's life cycle in which they leave behind the creatures they once were and begin to slowly change into an adult dragon. The lose of a dragon's wings is symbolic. It reflects a dragon leaving behind their freedom to embrace the responsibilities of adulthood. The armor that now protects him hides the changes that will take place over the coming years within his body. When the time comes, he will shed this armor, and become the primeran that he was born to be. But for now, slow he may be, his strength and durability make him even more dangerous than ever before.

    This pupal stage of dragons is rarely seen, let alone discussed. This must be a certainty, for if she was aware of what this new from was, Toyotama would not have made her next move. When the change was complete and the water had returned to a reasonable temperature, Toyotama wasted no time in continuing her assault. This time, she lunged for the same arm that she nearly crippled before. Her mouth open wide and her speed like lightning, she raced towards Agrond across the water and latched down onto his wounded arm with all the strength her jaw could muster. For a moment she must have reveled in her success, but then she must have concluded that her opponent made no attempt to evade her or shield himself. Then the pain set it. For all the power she had to close her jaws, Toyotama had no real strength to open them. This was made clearly evident by the fact that she could not pull her teeth from the living armor that now enveloped Agrond's body, his previous wounds now protected and encased in scales harder than steel.

    She began to panic and thrash about to desperately free herself but to no avail. She then felt herself being pulled upwards out of the water as Agrond slowly raised his arm above his head, Toyotama dangling from it like a fish on a hook. She became a raging beast attempting to free herself as her claws and tail battered against Agrond's new frame with no effect. Agrond's free hand moved in slowly towards Toyotama's face, and it was clear in her eyes that she was afraid. With his free hand he peeled her jaws from his arm and held her up by the mouth as fisherman would with a prize catch. As she continued to struggle against his insurmountable strength, Agrond then used both hands to slowly peel Toyotama's jaws apart, the pain and agony filling her eyes and only guttural noises escaping her throat. Soul light began to stream away from Agrond's body as a brilliant white light began to build in the back of his throat.

“If you survive this, tell your master that this is not my power... It is the strength of all dragons. THE WILL OF ALL!”

    And with that, Agrond spewed forth a torrent of white flames that enveloped Toyoatama both inside and out. The heat was so intense, that it instantly evaporated the waters surrounding them, leaving the two lost in a dense fog from which only one would emerge from the haze upon the shore, ready to finally begin his long journey and fulfill his destiny.

 

September 2020 Update

     I thought that it might be wise to simply post progress on what has been going on each month so that there is more content on the site. Additionally, I need a way to get images onto Instagram and other platforms quicker considering that Discord considers my files "... too powerful." So what's been happening in September? 

- Volume 1 of Bestia Custos has been fully line edited by my wonderful new editor and the book is going through those revisions and is halfway completed.

- Volume 1 of Bestia Custos is also going to be given a more professional layout and graphic presentation as I have relinquished the "do it yourself" mentality. I have chosen to invest more heavily financially in the series as I would wish it to do as well as it can with what is at my disposal.

- Episode 13 of Bestia Custos will wrap up this month as well, all I have left is the final part, so stayed tuned!

- Another asset for Curse of the Night has been painted and will be up soon. We now have a cryptic old man who will be offering his wares to players, for a price of course.

- The cover art for chapter 2 of Rakshasa is complete as I'm hoping to get part one of chapter two up sometime next month. You can view the image below.

- Finally, I believe I have made a great deal of progress in working in oils. I finished a painting of Gfantis, the mascot of G-Fan magazine and G-Fest, I am quite pleased with it. I'm thinking of continuing these when time permits by making some original kaiju that I have been conjuring up for some time now. See for yourself below!

That's all for now, see you all soon!

-Dreblin

Bestia Custos Episode 13: The Power of Nothing and The Will of All - Part 4

      I should shift my attention to what occurred with my other comrades after our separation. My lord, Agrond, only recently shared his tale with me upon my request. He found the story to be irrelevant, claiming he was clearly the victor. I implored him that such details were crucial for us to build his legacy, as tales of his deeds would spread and further aid our goals. Eventually, he shared with me the tale of what happened to him after our separation.

      After being hurled through the air and across acres of forest by Yashima, Agrond had landed in a lake north of our starting position. The verdant green waters had absorbed much of the impact and Agrond found that he managed to rise to his feet with only a few minor aches and pains. As he gazed at his surroundings thigh deep in water, he admitted that despite the circumstances at which he arrived, this view was a reminder to him of just how dearly he truly does care for this world and its beauty. Unfortunately, his momentary appreciation for his surroundings were stifled by a sharp pain that cut through his left ankle. He fell and collapsed down onto his knee from the pain as the once clear emerald water was slowly clouded by red blood.

      The wound was too deep and excruciating to be done by a blade, something was wrong. He raised his foot out the water and was shocked to see that this was no mere cut. His angle was missing a rather large piece of flesh that had been carved away from the bone in an instant, from a distance, it would have appeared that his foot was barely hanging onto this leg. Agrond immediately deduced that something was lurking in the water and immediately took to the air. His wings spread outward and carried him into the air. But when he sailed no more that a few feet above the surface of the water, something exploded from beneath the water's surface and plowed into him from behind. The force would have shattered the spine of a weaker primaren, but he gladly settled for the blunt wet smack of the lakes water's once more. The pain grew in his ankle as he balanced himself instead of his left leg to take pressure off his wounded limb. Moving was clearly not the answer, whatever was prowling the depths wouldn't let him. If he couldn't move, he would have to focus on healing his wound as quickly as possible.

     Moments felt like hours to him as he diligently tried to regenerate his flesh as well as focus his senses on his surroundings. The next attack could come at any moment. As his mind raced back an forth, desperate to find a solution, he suddenly came to a realization. He must have bared his teeth while smiling, as he so loves to do when he has gained insight into his opponents.

“You've had your fun. Why not come on out so that we can have a real fight... Toyotama.”

      Agrond was not wrong in his assumption that Toyotama was behind the attack. Though we knew little of her, her reputation is one that is well known in many parts of Ferus Mundus as a vain and haughty creature who cannot resist a chance to bask in her own achievements. Almost as if on command, the mere mentioning of her name caused Toyotama to rise from beneath the surface of the lake, licking off her fingers one by one as if finishing a satisfying meal.

“Mmmm. Such a shame that eating the flesh of another primeran has such gruesome consequences, would you not agree? Yours is a taste that swells with vigor, my lord. Delicious! Absolutely divine! You wouldn't mind if I have just one more bite would you? After all, is it not a lord's duty to serve those beneath him?”

      Toyotama was as much the talker as rumors made her out to be. Agrond knew that if he could manage to keep her prattling on, then he might be able to buy himself time to heal from his wound.

“I agree, you are all beneath me.”

      How I wish I could have seen that crone's face when my lord told her that! As expected, Toyotama flew into an expletive rage as a result.

“How dare you speak of my master and us that way! Genkaku-sama is a primeran destined to carve out his own kingdom in this world! You are nothing more than the pitiful remains of a now dead and forgotten waste of flesh! Clearly, he doesn't fear you at all. Why else would he trust me to end your life?”

“Because you are a pawn. Something to throw away at his leisure. Or at the very least act as a reasonable distraction.”

“You insolent bastard! Look around you! Why are you here!? Because I have the advantage! You are easily the biggest threat to my master's plan, and he entrusted me with your demise.”

      Agrond's plan was working perfectly, but something was not quite right. Despite how he continued to focus his essence to heal his wound, the healing was slow, much too slow. As much as Toyotama talked, she wouldn't continue to do so for very long. She was vain, not stupid. Agrond then began to laugh at Toyotama's words and replied in an effort to gain more time to solve this riddle.

“If you honestly believe that I am the greatest threat to Genkaku's plans, then surely you were not paying attention when we first met.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“I seem to recall the looks on your faces when the wolf decided to shut you ALL up with nothing but a glance. If you really want to see just how pointless your quest his, just try pushing that mutt around and you'll see.”

“See what, liar?”

“How you should have never thought you could take us... ONE ON ONE!”

      Realizing that wasting his essence on healing his wound was not going to work, Agrond instead channeled his essence into his throat to produce a thin and deadly stream of flames towards Toyotama. The soul light spiraled around Aground a mere moment before the attack came, and despite its increased speed, it was enough time for Toyotama to use her massive tail to up heave a mound of water to absorb the flames as she dived beneath the water's surface. Agrond had made his gambit, and it seemingly failed. After wasting too much essence trying to heal his wounds, he gambled on putting a great deal into a single precision attack that he had hoped would wound Toyotama enough for him to at least make it to the shore. When the waters finally settled, Agrond could see a feint stream of blood that trailed off away from him. 

     His newfound confidence was short lived, however. Toyotama soon came back towards him at immense speed, tearing across the surface of the water, her massive tail propelling her ever closer to him. Then, from where she once stood, she vanished beneath the water. Then, there was but a single breath that escaped between Agrond's lips when Toyotama erupted from the depths sailing through the air towards him, her mouth opened wide, far wider than anticipated. It was if her jaw extended down her neck to the top of her shoulders. All of which was lined with razor like teeth and emitting a foul stench of death.

 

Bestia Custos Episode 13: The Power of Nothing and The Will of All - Part 3

      After a few minutes of watching Animal pace back and forth while occasionally glancing his way, the elder spoke up and began a conversation with him, one in which Animal had recalled with quite a bit of detail.

“I hope you're thinking of how to get us out of here, you better be anyway. And don't think I haven't seen you looking over at me from time to time either. I don't like the way you look at me.”

“OH! I'm sorry, I just keep trying to think of how you might be able to help get us out of here... I thought about you throwing me out of this pit, but them I realized you don't have any arms, so that wasn't going to work, also you'd be stuck in here still... Hey, why don't you have arms anyway? I thought primerans could heal back from any wound.”

      Animal noticed that the elder shrank into himself a bit and turned his gaze downward. Perhaps it was Animal's extended time among humans that made him so sympathetic to the plights of others, a trait that primerans don't usually possess. Either way, he took note of the elder's change in mood and felt a remorse for his inquiry due to the elder's body language. Feeling remorseful, Animal continued their discourse.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. I'll find us way out.”

“You should know that your sympathy makes you weak. This world is a cruel one and others will not hesitate to take advantage of you if it benefits themselves. However, I'm starting to believe that you are not quite from around here, are you?”

      Animal admitted to the elder's assumption and explained that he was a lost one, a primeran born in Ferus Mundus but lived on Earth through a means that he himself did not understand. Though Animal was honest with the elder, he left out a great deal of his story so as to not place himself or his friends in a dire situation. The elder had seemed pleased with Animal's degree of honesty and began to address him in a far different tone than the one he first used to address him.

“Hmm, It seems that I now owe you an apology for my rude assertion of your character, young one. For that, I apologize. Though beasts and monsters we may be, honor and civility are not beyond us. But to answer your question, I lost my arms long ago in an attempt to protect someone. I was weak then, and I blamed my own arms for being unable keep safe what I cherished most. So, rather than constantly be reminded of my failure, I simply did away with it. I have no arms, young one, because I rid myself of them and refuse to grow them back.”

      There was a lump of terror that welled up inside of Animal's throat, his mind raced with questions and the inability to comprehend the willpower and the grief that this creature must have felt to maim his own body and carry with him such scars for the duration of what must have been a very long life. I too was shaken to my core when Animal told me this. It was almost unbelievable in fact. As a species, our sense of self preservation is very high, and to brutally main one's self out of grief for the loss of another is a level of devotion that escapes me. And yet, I see a great beauty in such an act. To primerans and even most humans, I can see how this elder's actions could be perceived as an act of insanity, but for myself, I see a devotion that commands respect. I can attest to the overwhelming feelings of dread and disgust I experience at the very thought of failing those close to me. I believe this elder is to be respected and even feared. For to survive for as long as he has without his own primary limbs, he must have attained a powerful means of defending himself. One that I'm sure many would be desperate to learn.

      Animal regained composure when he was able to convince himself that the elder meant him no harm, but soon began to panic when he realized just how close the miasma had come towards them and how much was accumulating.

“I'm sorry, I know you wanted me to get us out, but if we're make it then we have to work together! There's no way I can get us both out-”

      Animal was silenced when the elder raised a single large paw towards him, extended a clawed toe level to Animal's chest, and then spoke in a foreboding tone, one that filled Animal with an almost strange sense of familiarity.

“You're hiding something from me... You know how to get us out but you choose not to show me out of fear... You're sense of smell might be weakened due to the miasma, but mine is not. You have the smell of the Black Heart on you... You have a power that could easily remedy this situation and you choose not to use it? What possesses you to hide such a gift? Especially when it is our solution!”

      Animal confessed to me that he was shocked to learn that his unnatural gift could be detected by something as simple as his scent. During our talk about what happened, he asked if I could tell when we first met. I admitted that I could not smell anything foul about him. Animal's attempts to conceal his identity as an inheritor of a Black Heart's power was being questioned. It seemed that unless he physically showed his power to younger primerans, they would be non-the-wiser, but if this elder he was trapped with could smell this power like some foul stence, could Baal have known as well, or was this an ability that only this one strange elder had possessed. Either way, he would try to hide it no longer and confessed to the elder his concerns.

“I was told that this power was feared and hated in this world, I didn't want anyone to find out and make trouble for myself or any of my friends. Besides, I was told that it is cursed... I've seen what it can do to others. I can't let that happen.”

“I can see now that our meeting was not by coincidence, young one. It would seem that you and I were destined to meet. I abandoned my name long ago with my own arms and created a new identity as someone who would help others with words rather than actions. You, young one, are indeed in need of my help. Strange is it not? I demand your assistance when in fact you require mine. Fate conspires in magnificent ways. I will help you to understand and embrace your gifts and you will in turn release us from this prison, how does that sound?”

      Despite the increasing pain of the miasma's approach, Animal could sense that something was not quite right. It felt as though they had been conversing for quite some time, and yet despite its advancement, the miasma seemed to slow itself to an almost unnoticeable pace, as if some force prevented it from coming too close too quickly. The elder's promise was also suspicious and Animal had become cautious around those he did not know in Ferus Mundus after we had been tricked by Trill and Durga. But there seemed to be no way out of this situation, his strength was failing him and he was growing lethargic and exhausted, his senses waning. So it was in either desperation or unsound mind that Animal reached out to the claw that the elder extended and took hold of it in agreement.

      Truthfully, I wish there was more to say on the matter. But Animal himself recalls very little after that moment. He referred to what little he could remember as dream-like and euphoric, like an immense weight had been taken from off his shoulders and he was lighter. At the time of this writing I can say that Animal has attained something miraculous, if not terrifying during this gap in his memory. Recently, I have received word of what many claim to have seem that day in the forest. Various primerans who had a view of the forest at a distance all say that the ever looming moon burned brighter than they had ever seen, and with it, a blue light that exploded from the forest followed by the appearance of four massive azure glowing arms that reached out and crushed the forest with gargantuan fingers and claws as if desperately trying to free whatever was attached to those horrifying limbs from beneath the bowls of the land. I know in my heart that this event is part of what happened to Animal, and despite that this power he wields would aid us, I still fear for him, as such a thing can only bring misery and despair.

Raksasa Chapter 1: Dirty Work - Part 5

      “I gotta say, Wolf. I'm pretty damn surprised to see you alive. I guess you figured out how to cheat death too, eh?” Piranha jokes as he slowly walks across the metal walkway towards a series of concrete steps that lead him into same flooded pit that holds Cross. Cross begins to make his way to the stairs as well, silent and ready. He gazes up the stairs and clearly sees Piranha standing at the top looking down upon him. It is a rather symbolic scene, two warriors gazing above and below towards one another in a predatory manner. Cross, the fallen soldier, desperately seeking peace, gazes up from the abyss at one of many nightmares that stands between him and serenity. The other, looking down on weak and wounded prey, ready to devour it and claim a victory he so desperately desires. They each take one step forward. Cross, rising out his self imposed torpor, and Piranha, descending down to claim a coveted battle. They move closer and closer now, until they gaze into each others grim facades. Though despite the height difference between them, they stand as equals due to the incline of the stairs. It is a defining moment for both of them. They know this about themselves, but are completely ignorant that it holds true for the other.

      Piranha had not changed much, he is still stocky, broad, and muscular in his build, a sign that he too did not age, like Cross. It was clear that Piranha had also maintained his skills from long ago. He is wearing an air tight body suit accented with rubber gloves and boots. A harness adorns his upper body attached to a belt lined with waterproof pouches. In his right hand, a highly modified sub-machine gun. In his left, a bulky grenade launcher, the same one that he used to send Cross plummeting into that damn pit. Finally, despite the upgrades, his helmet appears the same as before, an abstraction of a piranha's skull. Though the equipment is new, Cross knows that the tactics are all still the same. Riot Piranha was designed to approach the enemy from the water and assault his targets with a combination of highly combustible weaponry paired with automatic and semi-automatic small arms fire to induce panic. But here, it was one on one. Cross knows he has the advantage if he can get in close, but Piranha still has the benefit of the battlefield. This place is filled with numerous tanks and pools of water, perfect for him to hide and execute an ambush should Cross lose him for even a second, a mistake that could cost him everything.

      “I got so many questions for you, chicken shit. But I guess the one I gotta ask first is what made you think you could show your face here? To me.” Piranha quips inquisitively. Cross takes a moment and responds, “Because I knew that you had to be the first. You and I have some unfinished business.” Piranha's head tilts to the side and leans in, interested, excited even. “Oh! Well don't keep me in suspense, chicken shit! Tell me all about it! I do hope it's good.” With a familiar whirling sound, Piranha positions the tip of the sub-machine gun's barrel beneath Cross' chin. The motion is almost instant, but Cross knew that his speed was almost on par with his own and expected as much. “Come on! Tell me!” Piranha demands. The pressure of the gun's barrel forces Cross' head up slightly, giving him the first moment when he is the one gazing down on Piranha. “Simple, it's because your a murder worshiping piece of shit.” Cross declares. “Well, fuck you too.” Piranha retorts, pulling the trigger.

      Before the first bullet can explode from Piranha's weapon, Cross hurls an open palmed left hand to the gun's center mass, the bullets spaying out inches away from his face. The rest of Cross' body roars to life as he immediately follows with a strike from his right hand, his fingers curled at the first joint past the knuckles to extend the razor sharp protrusions adorning his gloves, leaving behind silver streaks of light as the honed metal races towards Piranha's face like lightning. But it is not meant to be, Piranha arcs his left hand, still holding onto his heaviest of armaments, and brings it crashing down onto Cross' wrist before the strike could be dealt. Cross knows better than to resist the force of Piranha's counter and falls with the blow to protect his arm from injury, but there is still one more move to play. Hunching forward, his balance waning, Cross takes his next move and rockets upwards into Piranha with all the force his legs can muster. The concrete stairs beneath Cross' feet buckle and crumble beneath the force of his exertion as both he and Piranha sail upwards back onto main floor of the facility. Piranha falls first and rolls himself into a half stance, crouched on one knee and then quickly thrusts his weapons in front of him to face his opponent. But Cross is gone, vanishing in the confusion of the unexpected and crude counter attack.

      “Now that's more like it! I knew you had some fight in you, Wolf! Don't stop! I've waited so long for this!” Piranha shouts in delight. From the shadows Cross knows he can wait for an opening, it was what he was created to do. Stalker Wolf, that was his name on the battle field. But in truth, he never acknowledged that name. He was Cross, and he had vowed to never commit the same sins as the others so long as he was 'Cross'. And yet, Stalker Wolf was no different from the others, a soldier as part of an experimental combat force that shared in all the atrocities as his brothers in arms. To him, Stalker Wolf and the man named Cross are two separate entities that share the same body, and that fact alone can never make him feel completely detached from what he has done. This contradiction of identity is the source of many of Cross' personal torments, but now is not the time to think on such things. He is in a fight for his life, and he knows full well that Riot Piranha will claim it if given the chance.

      Piranha slowly rises to his feet, his arms and hands locked into position with his weapons forward at first, then sweeping them slowly left to right as he glares into the shadows around him. “I bet you feel pretty good getting the upper hand just there with that CQC shit. Enjoy it, you ain't getting another chance, Wolf.” Piranha mocks as he creeps around the facility, always staying well away from the edges of the shadows that are littered around him. Cross knows that Piranha will say anything to get to him, it was not just how he was trained, but who he is. The man known to him only as Riot Piranha was a constant source of torment and anxiety. During their time in service, Piranha never missed an opportunity to criticize and berate him. What made it worse, was that among all of them, he was the only one that ever truly seemed to enjoy the battles they waged through the jungles of the south pacific. That was part of the reason why Cross chose to face Piranha first, because if he ever had to turn on them, if he had no other option, than Riot Piranha had to be the one to start with. For the world would only benefit the lose of such a monster.

      “What's the matter, Wolf? I thought you wanted to talk... Fine, how about I set the mood while you're waiting to find the stones to come out and get your licks in.” Piranha spouts as he gets closer to Cross' position. This is good a time as any to move into a better position, Cross thinks. Let Piranha ramble on, ignore what he says and use it to work toward his back and then try to close the distance to strike. Minimize his reaction time as much as possible, Cross ponders, as he begins to navigate the darkness towards Piranha's rear. “Let's me guess why you're here. Old Uncle Sam wants his half tin soldiers back because he's scared shit-less that the Reds might get lucky and learn a thing or two about us. So, they send in you to try and take us out, right?” Cross has no answer for Piranha. He was never meant to engage them. It was a desperate attempt to try and face his past, to connect with those he once called his brothers outside of the language of war. But it is not meant to be. Cross had infiltrated this facility, a water processing plant he now recalled, and managed to get close enough to Piranha without him noticing. Before he could even attempt to monitor what exactly Piranha was doing here, he was overcome with a desire to face him. He severed his communications, removed his helmet, and called out to Piranha, hoping that seeing a familiar face would start a discourse that could lead them to something meaningful. It was a desperate act, a cry for help, and he was a fool to think that Riot Piranha would give him anything but a howling grenade the moment he lay eyes on him.

      “Nah, that's not it. Is it? You ain't built to scrap with us are you? You're hear to spy on us. That's right. Well, don't you worry. I won't be telling the others you're here. Don't you think I want you all to myself? How can I pass up the chance to actually have a fight that's a challenge! Course if I had to pick which one, it was always gonna be you...” Cross is close now, so very close. He moves into position, his fingers fold to bare his claws, his knees bend waiting to propel him forward. “Well, if I'm being honest... I would have loved to sink my teeth into Hare.” Cross' foot slips on the water pooling around his feet, his focus thrown off by that one word, that name. Hare. The error causes Piranha to spin around and fire his weapon into the darkness behind him. The sound is deafening and is no ordinary sub machine gun. The recoil pushes Piranha himself back several inches as he leans into the weapon. Cross darts through the shadows to find cover, but Piranha tightens his grip and sweeps his arm across the room towards Cross, the bullets burning through the air and shredding through the concrete walls and pillars of the facility. In a desperate act to evade Piranha's assault, Cross leaps above onto one of the many metal walkways that are littered about the facility, hoping that the sound of the metal receiving his weight would be masked by the roar of Piranha's weapon.

      The gun suddenly stops firing, the barrel glowing from the friction and now slightly bent. “Well that was fun while it lasted.” Piranha scoffs, throwing the weapon to the floor. “They don't make'em like they use to, eh Wolf? Speaking of new toys, don't think I didn't noticed the new fancy suit you got there. The red scarf is a bit much, but I like the white helmet. Too bad it doesn't do you any good if you're gonna just sit in the dark and shit your pants.” It seems Cross' plan worked, he is now above him and still close. Piranha seemed non the wiser. But he couldn't make the same mistake again. It takes all that he has to bring himself back into position to try once more, this time it would have to be from the front, but at least he was above him now. He struggles to remain focused and frantically shields himself from the name Piranha just uttered. A name so dear and precious to him that if he ever needed the strength to kill Piranha, it would be to hear it defiled by his own toxic voice.

      “You might have had me there, Wolf. Not like you make a sound when you're that close... Hmm, let's see. It wouldn't happen to be because I mentioned Hare was it? Bitch was glued to you since day one. Only fair that if given the chance I'd get to have a taste too, right?” It was unforgivable, Cross knows this, and it sets his mind on fire as his nerves and muscles rocket him into the air towards Piranha. Piranha follows the noise and gazes upwards to see his prey falling towards him. “I seeeeee yooooou!” Piranha rejoices as he levels the grenade launcher towards Cross and fires. The grenade spirals in the air towards its target, its aim true. But it is not meant to be, Cross gently grasps the grenade in free fall making sure the impact does not detonate it and quickly hurls it behind him. The grenade explodes and silhouettes Cross in front of a burning mass of flames as he continues to fall towards Piranha, ready to strike a mortal blow, not for himself, but for the memory and honor of a friend. 

 

Rakshasa Chapter 1: Dirty Work - Part 4

     Jackson's words were proven correct once our sir took an immediate notice of how limp and lifeless O'Neil's body had become. He released his hold on her instantly as her body fell to the floor with little but a thud. Jackson ran to her side and began to check her vitals and injuries while our sir slowly began to back away into the corner of the room and curl into a shivering ball. Without a word, Jackson started to give O'Neil CPR in an attempt to resuscitate her. After a few moments, O'Neil gasped and began to cough, tears rushing out the corners of her eyes as the color flooded back into her face. During this time, our sir had begun to whimper and shake uncontrollably while uttering 'No no no no no...' to himself in a guilt laden mantra. After ensuring that O'Neil was lying down and not risking further injury, Jackson turned to our sir and began to speak, but his words did not reach him. Our sir had inadvertently opened a doorway back into another time and place, one in which his past sins now stared back at him from a violent history and were only exacerbated by the shattered visions of the pain inflicted on himself from countless experiments and surgeries. As this horrifying anthem built towards its crescendo, Jackson uttered a single word, a name actually. It broke our sir's delusions like waves crashing on a rocky shore as the nightmares receded back into the abyss of his mind.

      “CROSS!” Jackson had screamed. Our sir locked eyes with Jackson immediately. “That's your name right? Your file said it was what you wanted to be called. Your name is Cross, right?” Jackson continued. “Y-yes, I am Cross. She gave me that name.” Our sir responded. “And who gave you that name?” Jackson said, attempting to put all of our sir's attention on himself. “The good doctor... She gave everyone a number, but not me. She called me 'X.' I hated it. It made me feel like a failure, that I was broken. So she called me 'Cross' instead. It made me happy.” Our sir explained. “Cross, look. She's alive. She is going to live. Do you know why?” Jackson said, knowing the end was near. 'Cross' was now in the perfect position to understand his plight and would see the situation in a manner that benefited them both. He was, however, guilty over the fact that O'Neil would need to be hospitalized. It was surreal what he had done to her in a only few short moments without even trying. Jackson had spent a small amount of time serving in the armed forces as an assistant to a field medic, so he damn well understood the trouble O'Neil was really in. The force that Cross had grabbed her with was enough to dislocate her left shoulder, break her collar bone, and give her a whip lash. 'Jesus,' he thought, she might as well been hit by a car. On top of that, her wind pipe was damaged and she might need assisted breathing if it continued to swell. Having Cross help them was the only way. How else did they hope to deal with these 'monsters' without one to fight back. Fire with fire one might say. Still, it was terrifying that something like this even existed, but his concerns would have to wait, O'Neil needed a doctor and Cross needed to walk out of that door with him, as a friend.

       Cross continued to look between Jackson and O'Neil, puzzled by Jackson's last question. Jackson then answered for him. “It's because you have a heart, Cross. You stopped the moment you realized that her death might be on your hands. We don't need a killer, we need someone who knows when enough is enough. I know your hurting, I know your messed up. But it isn't your fault, and you can make yourself whole again. You just have to help us, and I promise we will help you.” Cross' eyes swelled with tears as the very idea that he could find relief for his pain filled him with so much promise and doubt all at once that it felt as though his stomach would rocket into his chest. Crying, he looked at Jackson and said, “Please... Don't make me do this.” “I can't make you do anything, Cross. But you know what the right thing to do is. You have to help us, not because we need you, but because if you really want the pain the stop, you have to face your past. Face it Cross, and find the strength to live above your demons.” said Jackson as he extended his hand.

      There was so much strength in Jackson's words, Cross thought. To him, Jackson was an optimistic beacon of light that held the promise of a better tomorrow. Whether this was a mere fantasy of not, Cross could not help himself, and like a moth to a flame, he reached out and grabbed hold of that light.

      Moments earlier, outside of the tiny confines where this drama had played out, the tension was never uplifted, not even for a moment. Outside of the room that Cross had been held in, was a fully armed combat unit equipped with an array of shotguns, pistols, and riot shields. Their weapons aimed at the door and their nerves set on a hair's trigger. Without context, it begs the question of why they were there. The obvious reasoning could be that Jackson was not fully confident in his abilities to keep Cross under control and needed a plan to ensure his cooperation. Or, perhaps, Jackson was left unaware of this development and such measures were put in place by someone else. Either way, this truth will perhaps play some role yet.

      The memory of taking Jackson's hand was enough to pull Cross back to the present, back into that dark pit that is quickly filling with rising water. It is level with his chest, and should he decided to remain motionless, he might as well resign himself to death. With a renewed vigor, Cross confesses, “Now I remember. I'm here for myself. Everyone else is just a bonus.” If you recall, Cross is not alone. The strange skull like object is still only a few yards away from him but is slowly sinking beneath the murky waters that steadily rise. Without hesitation, it spoke back to Cross. “I'm so happy for you buddy. That's great. Can we please get the fuck out of here n-” The skull's words are cut off by a loud bellowing scream that echoes above them. Both of them know the owner well. After all, he was the one that put them here. “WOLF!? WHERE ARE YOOOOOU!?” The voice is sarcastic in tone and accented with a southern drawl as it makes a mocking musical tune with its question. The skull is quick to respond, “Asshole! Little bitch still can't tell us apart!?” The voice continues above them, echoing off the metal catwalks, still mocking and growing impatient. “We were having such a nice chat, Wolf. Don't you wanna finish catching up? I still have so much left to 'say' you chicken shit!”

      Cross' strength recedes at the figure's words as they fill the air. He gazes upwards to the skulking shadow overheard and questions his choices once more. “Christ... My cover's blown so what's the point? Maybe I'm meant to die h-” Cross' words are then interrupted by the skull, “HEY! I told you I'm not dying here! Remember why we chose 'Piranha' first?” The skull's words strike Cross hard. It was true that he had made the decision to begin the operation here. To begin his ordeal with the one member of his unit that he despised the most, subject 03, field name: Riot Piranha. “Shut up! That's not fair!” Cross exclaims. “Fair!? You think 'Riot Piranha' gives a flying fuck about what's fair!? We agreed, Cross. He was the first to go. We're doing a four count.”

      The skull is right, Cross knows that much. He is finding any excuse to not move forwards despite his destiny literally looming above him this very moment. The skull's declaration of a 'four count' is something very special to the two of them. A process that is simple in both understanding and execution but is also completely unique, sacred even. Cross glares across the rising waters at the skull and makes his own declaration, “... Fine. But I call the shots. We're doing this my way.” “Stubborn ass... Deal. But if you can't handle him, then I'm taking over. You've had plenty of chances. Got it?” The skull demands in response. Cross nods in agreement and the two begin as they had done many times long ago. “Good. Now, why do we count to four, Cross?” The skull asks. “Because we go one step farther than the rest.” Cross answers. “That's what we want them to think. Why do we 'really' count to four?” A pause, but Cross confesses, “Because it was 'her' number.” “You're god damn right it was! Now then... One! Stand.” the skull orders.

      Cross slowly rises to his feet as he breaths deeply and makes a long exhalation, as if to purge his body from the overwhelming dread and that plagues him. He looks to the skull, awaiting his next order. “Two! Get over here and pick me up.” Cross sloshes his way over to the skull as it finally sinks beneath the dark surface. Cross thrusts his hand into the depths and retrieves it. Pulling it from the abyss, we see clearly that this is no skull, but a helmet, terrifying in appearance, the purpose of its design never forgotten from even long ago. Cross holds it front of him, gazing into its large bulbous green eyes. “Three... Put me on.” the helmet demands in a cold tone filled with malicious intent. Cross turns the helmet around in his hands and raises it high above his head. He lowers it down until it consumes his face and then locks an external jaw piece that had hung at his side in place securing it. It connects with a satisfying sound that signifies that two have become one, that a warrior has been reborn.

      A thunderous crash occurs as a short and broad figure comes sailing down onto one the metal walkways only a few feet above Cross. He gazes upwards and their eyes meet. “There you are!” The figure bellows. “Now, there's the face I know! Ain't that right, 'Stalker Wolf'?” Piranha exclaims as he observes Cross' new visage. Cross glares through his helmet up to Piranha and sees that he has changed little. His equipment his new, but his helmet is the same as it was long ago. The time and place is different, but to face him feels nostalgic, and Cross hesitates. But then, the final order comes to him. “Four! Kick his ass, Cross.” With that, our fallen soldier becomes a legend once more and bares teeth and claw against his opponent.

Now, a bloody battle of betrayal, long overdue, is about to begin.

Rakshasa Chaper 1: Dirty Work - Part 3

      Our sir's breath quickened at Jackson's words as his gaze shifted down slowly to the manila folder past to him moments ago. His hand moved away from the cover of the folder revealing a word that was long since seen but was so committed to memory that it might as well had been burned into his brain. 'Rakshasa,' that very word had once held so much mystery for our sir. But now, it was nothing more than a catalyst for an avalanche of psychosomatic responses that threatened to transform him into a wild animal once more, only this time, there might be blood between himself and freedom.

      Jackson paused and looked over our sir's troubled expression and changed his tone. Now was not the time to play the stone faced government agent, he thought. No, what was needed here was an understanding and sympathetic approach. He had to correct himself and play this right. After all, there was no other option. Jackson waited until his eyes met with our sir once more and continued. “I understand that this must be a lot to take in. I'll admit that even though I was briefed on your history, I by no means will ever be able to fully understand you. But what I do understand is that if your former comrades are allowed to do as they please, than a lot of innocent people could be hurt, or worse. Would it be alright if I continued? Do you need a moment?”

      Jackson's approach was something that our sir was not use to, not one bit. His tone and words were well chosen and though they did bring him some sense of comfort, our sir could not fully lower his guard. But, there was a nagging need to hear him, a desire to know more about what was happening. Perhaps the bonds he shared with his team was stronger than he realized, that, or their connection was out of his control, a product of the innumerable experiments that they had all been subjected to in order to forge them into a team. Either way, after locking eyes with Jackson once more, he nodded hesitantly.

      “Thank you... The vessel they stole from the Soviets has been described to us as some kind of mobile laboratory and communications relay. They refuse to give any information beyond that, aside from the fact they they were abandoning the project. They claim they have no idea why anyone would want it. That said, it is possible the Soviets aren't telling us everything. Your old team has made a make shift base inside the damaged reactor and have stored the vessel inside. The protective shield around the reactor does contain the radiation leak, but it also shields the outside world from seeing what they are up too. That degree of shielding paired with the threat of the radiation have made it a perfect place for them to hide from prying eyes. Anyone else would die from exposure, but what was done to you and your team has made you immune to radiation, at least that is what I understand.”

      Jackson was not wrong, many things were done to them, things that would make anyone question the humanity of those responsible. It was true that they were all immune to radiation, but as our sir tried to remember why that was, he couldn't find the answer. There were so many conversations he had overheard between scientists, doctors, and military officials that it was all a blur. But there was always one voice that he knew would not fail him. It was a woman's voice, the lead scientist, the one who started the entire project. Our sir had always referred to her simply as the good doctor or Doctor for short. He never called her by name, but he did remember it. Roshani, Doctor Roshani. Memories of the good doctor came back to him in a flood, and with them was a sense of peace. She was kind to them, all of them. Despite the fact that all the experiments and surgeries they had gone through was her doing, she always reminded them that they were still people and that what they were going through was for the benefit of the world. It was during this reflection that our sir remembered that it was from the good doctor that he first heard the term Rakshsasa, and that he knew it was her term for each of the members of the team. They all had their own names, but Rakshasa, that was what they all were, what they still are.

      With the image of the good doctor fresh in his mind, our sir found the strength he needed to open the cover of the folder resting on the table before him. But whatever strength he found to open and reveal its contents, immediately failed him when he gazed down at the photo that was placed on the first page. It was an old photo, black and white, tarnished on the edges, but still very much clear. There were seven figures positioned together, all wearing matching combat uniforms and a loose scarf wrapped around their necks. The only difference between them were their faces, each one shielded from the world behind steel helmets that were molded to resemble the skulls of various animals. The reasoning for such a thing was lost to our sir, but he did remember that it was partially about fear, and to instill it in those they fought. The photo was taken by a cliff's edge, the vast hills and mountains covered in verdant jungle. Our sir could feel the heat and the humidity, his breath quickened, his eyes dilated, and his muscles roared into action as he slammed the folder shut with such force as to lock away the memories that he nearly pressed the folder clean through the table as he defiantly screamed, “NO!”

      Many a moment had passed in silence, only the sound of our sir breathing heavily could be heard as he tried desperately to regain his composure. Jackson knew the situation was getting worse. He was going to lose him if this kept up. But there was no going back, he had to press on, he had to secure our sir's involvement, the alternative was a failure waiting to happen despite what his superior's believed. No, he knew he would have to press on and drive him to the edge. He would have to take the risk. Jackson leaned in once more and continued, “We don't need you to engage them, just observe. Your skills were infiltration and espionage during your service. Your abilities make you the best in the world at what you can do. On the plus side, we are very certain they think you are dead.” Our sir raised his brows at this. Was that true? How would anyone know that.

      “You think, or you know?” asked our sir meekly. “I think the fact that you were not with them is definitely a good sign. We do not know exactly which of them is calling the shots, but at most we know that four of them are involved, which means that at most there are five. I read that one of you was killed in battle during your service. I'm sorry for that. But without you present, that means that only five of them remain. We also have collected numerous reports of their activities over the years. But up until now they were always alone, isolated, like you. Someone is getting the band back together and they decided to leave you out of it. A positive for us don't you think?”

      It was true, they all went their separate ways after what happened between them. But to think that he was dead? It was possible. It wasn't like the people who made them didn't have a means by which to control them just in case they all went rogue. But he never knew what that thing was. In fact, our sir had expected to die years ago, but just, kept on living. He knew that something was not right but couldn't help but think that maybe it was all a trick to keep them in check. No, it had to be true. The others must have found some way to keep on living. He was the strange one after all, why else did the good doctor label him with the letter “X” and not a number like the others? “X” is something you use to cross out a mistake or a failure. Our sir was beginning to understand that if something could bring the others back together, it was worth overlooking their relationship with one another to accomplish that goal. He knew who was behind it then, the only one who had the means and the words to get them to follow him again. Our sir looked to Jackson and asked, “Do you think I can't kill them? It would better for everyone wouldn't it?”

      It was a moment of weakness, Jackson knew that much, now was the time to make the push. He would have to accept what happened next. Jackson smiled and replied, “We don't want you kill anybody, not even them. The government still considers all of you property and would rather see them captured if possible. But I think we both know that will never happen. All we need is for you to observe and report, that's it. Besides, you are correct. I don't think you could kill them.” Jackson's words hit their mark as our sir's face contorted into a snarl. “Oh? And why is that?” our sir growled. “Because of this...” replied Jackson as he procured a piece of paper from his jacket's inside pocket. “Know what this is?” Jackson asked. “Your laundry bill?” Our sir quipped. “Ha, funny guy. No, it's a hospital bill. You know, for the twenty men you put there instead of in body bags when they tried to apprehend you. You, sir, have a heart. You, can be a hero.”

      Hero? Him? No, the thought was maddening. The things he had done, despite the greater good they claimed it was for, was not the mark of a hero. He was a soldier, nothing more. The very idea of that word being used for someone like him threw him into a terrible rage. “SHUT UP!” our sir bellowed as he stood throwing his hand apart and snapping the cable linked between his restraints. Jackson's assistant, O'Neil, scurried for a radio attached to her waist in the commotion. “Sir? Should I-” her words cut off by Jackson who raised a single hand to her and replied, “Wait...”

      Our sir's muscles slowly began to expand, a loud whirring noise emanated from his body as what appeared to be steam trailed from his exposed skin. “Don't you ever put that fucking word on me! If you really think war makes heroes than we're done! I'm leaving. So I'll remind you why you should leave them and me the hell alone!” Our sir proclaimed. Before Jackson could even think of what to say, our sir vanished from his sight instantly. He was shocked, scared even. The moment he vanished there was a low thundering sound that echoed in the room to the point that his ears popped and pained him. If not for the sounds of struggle behind him, he would have gazed ahead of him forever, desperately trying to comprehend what had just happened.

      “What the-!?” Jackson stood and turned around to find our sir standing behind O'Neil, grasping her in a choke hold, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as her breathing slowed and became ragged, arms desperately trying to free herself in vain as they limply fell to her side. It was madness to think it, but there was no other explanation. Our sir had moved from one end of the room to the other so fast that Jackson's eyes could not even follow it. He didn't want to believe it, but the evidence was there, it was still ringing in his ears. The sound from before, that loud thunder that echoed in the room, it was the pressure. Our sir had moved so fast that the sudden change in the pressure of the room's air created thunder, unbelievable.

      Our sir had become a wild animal, his gaze burning into Jackson. “Let me go. Or I'll kill her...” Our sir proclaimed. Whatever it was deep down that lead our sir to this moment was then suddenly diffused with ease at Jackson's response. “... But you're killing her now.”

Bestia Custos Episode 13: The Power of Nothing and The Will of All - Part 2

Year of the Ram – Ninth Entry

      I am compelled to document a most mysterious event that occurred during our time in the Festival of the Hunt. After my brother, Genkaku, and his band appeared, we were met by lord Baal himself, the current ruler of Pandemonium. He spoke briefly of our abhorrent past as a species, something that I tried to shield from Kate earlier, and how it played a role in the meaning behind the festival. Baal's tale left us all feeling quite disheartened, perhaps that is why we were so vulnerable to my brother's trap.

      When the time came for as to meet our opponents, we were not quite prepared for Genkaku's trickery. Yashima used his anima to create a powerful force to propel us all away from one another, a tactic I assume was meant to assault us one by one as they feared we would be too dangerous in a group. Trill had prevented her own expulsion from the area using her ability to control the ground to seal herself in place. The only one else left unaffected, was Animal, who clearly was meant to stay put. It was much later on that my lord, Agrond, proposed to me the curious question of why Animal was not targeted by Yashima's ability. It was true that Animal had demonstrated his own power to their group before and they were quite fearful, but if the plan was to face him together, they would not have scattered themselves into the wilderness before Yashima separated us.

      Though I would not hear what happened to everyone until after the festival had concluded, I find that what happened to Animal to be the most bizarre. As such, I will begin my account of our separation with him. Animal explained that he fought with Yashima alone at first, until Trill joined him. Between the two of them, Yashima had little to no chance of success until he used another trick to propel Animal away just as he had done to the rest of us. The force was great enough to send him away for what he felt was miles worth of forest until he finally landed, not on the ground, but apparently on someone.

      Animal recounted that he did not see or feel himself crash land into anyone, he had past out during his descent and had awoken in a most peculiar situation. Animal slowly came out of his slumber and took several minutes before he could begin to take in his surroundings. Eventually, he came to understand that he was in a large and deep pit, its edges steep and its depth immense. But most distinct, was the smell. The scent burned his nose and even his eyes, which were having a difficult time focusing. In fact, his whole body felt irritated by the odor, burned even. He looked around desperately for the cause until he found its source, a vibrant pink hued mist that crept out of the walls of the pit and slowly began to creep its way towards him.

      When Animal told me this, I was shocked that he was even still alive, for I knew all too well the purpose behind this deadly trap. Animal had fallen into a chimeran pitfall, a trap designed to kill the large monstrosities known as chimeras. I was reserved to speak of this with Kate before, for the tale of the chimeras is a sad one indeed. Should a primeran lose themselves in the process of devouring another and become addicted to the act, it is said that the consumers body will undergo a hideous transformation into a monster that grows rapidly in size and power, but loses all sense of reason and eventually turns into an insatiable monster. There is also a longstanding rumor that children sired between two primerans of different clans would result in child far more tempted to consume their brethren, thus resulting in a chimera with almost certainty. Such was the reason why my lord's half brother Ghast's identity was hidden from others.

      The chimeran pitfall is one of the most effective means by which these creatures can be killed, but it's construction must occur in a very specific location. Across Ferus Mundus, there is another threat that has existed for as long as the clans have been freed from their progenitors, the miasma. It is a pink or red hued mist that originates from deep beneath the land and emerges sporadically. It is highly toxic to primeran flesh, burning and destroying it even before it makes contact. It is far worse than salt, which was discovered by humans as an effective weapon against primerans. Though wounds created by salt may heal, wounds created by the miasma do not. This horrible mist literally unmakes us as a species, contorting our bodies into a hideous countenance before dissolving us away into nothing, a death that many find fitting for the chimera.

      These pits are dug with great caution, as failure to do so will almost certainly result in death. Worse of all, it has been proven that the miasma is attracted to primerans, but only when in close proximity. Should a chimera or primeran fall into the trap, the miasma will bleed out from the surrounding soil and consume the helpless victim within.

      Animal's eyes soon came into focus as he began steel his nerves in preparation for finding a solution. It was then that he realized that he was not alone in the pit, for only a little ways away from him, was a massive primeran, an elder, such as Baal, sitting only a few feet from him. Most alarming was that he too was a canidae, a wolf. Animal described him to be as big as Baal, but not nearly as presentable, he was dressed in indigo colored rags and kept a long black walking stick close by. His fur was completely disheveled but was also a deep burgundy in color, something that Animal found strange. There are indeed primerans that have unusual pigmentations, but such a thing is considered rare and often a sign trouble, considering the fact that primerans as a species have difficulty with those that are alarmingly different. As animal gazed in awe at this new figure, the elder eventually spoke, his words not quite what Animal had expected to hear from the first of his clan that he happened to meet.

"Awake are we? Good. Now, considering you crashed into me and we are both stuck in this death trap, how do you plan on getting us out, hmm?"

      Animal was set aback by the elder's words and emphatically tried to apologize for their current situation despite the increasing peril of their current circumstances. The elder silenced Animal's attempt at an apology and demanded a solution to their predicament, not an apology. Animal was looked around and noticed that the miasma was slow, very slow. They would have some time to consider their options, but only a half hour at best. His strength waning due to the miasma, Animal concluded that he climbing or jumping out would be impossible. If there was a way of the pit, then he and the elder would have to work together.

Rakshasa Chapter 1: Dirty Work - Part 2

      He knew these sounds all too well. Over twenty years was between him and such horrible audible memories, and still they rang clear in his mind as though they were playing out in front of him - a torturous symphony. He raised his hands to cover his ears as if that would help dull the memories. His fingers, ending in claw-like nails, were digging into a savage mass of hair so forcefully that one might assume he was trying crush his own skull, a pain that would be a relief to his hellish journey down memory lane. He began to shrivel into a ball in his chair, bringing his knees under his chin and burying them in a thick overgrown beard. He became unresponsive as he slowly regressed into a quivering child, tears swelled in his eyes and rolled down his face in rapid streams, his pupils shrinking to barely discernible dots as they darted back and forth, and his teeth, bared and gnashing, ready to bite out the throat of the next living thing that would dare to come near him.

      Then it was over, the sounds stopped for him. Not on there own, but by the introduction of new and dissociated sound, one that was unique enough to shock him back into reality, but not without consequence. Because the sound was so different, it brought about a new level of fear and anxiety, easily enough to turn his own body against him. His previously shaking frame fired into action. The sound was the door knob on the other side of the room slowly being opened, but to our sir, it might as well have been the approach of the enemy, reaching across the veil of time and memory to take his life. Or perhaps, he was afraid of what he knew he might do to them in retaliation. 

      His muscles roared into action. For anyone who would have been present, there would have been a strange and fearful sight before them. Our sir's body exploded with muscles expanding and swelling across his frame as a high pitched noise emanated from his being. It was as if an engine fueled his actions as the noise screamed with his every movement. He leaped from his seat and grabbed both corners of the table that was before him with purposeful vigor, perhaps too much. The table was made of solid oak and was easily ten feet in length. When his hands fell upon the table, they sank into it as though it was made of Styrofoam, the wood splintering and cracking under the pressure, the sound bleating out as if it were in pain. 

      Then, as if his own strength was laughing in the face of physics, he lifted then entire table and raised it back behind his head as though it were a comically large baseball bat. In a very brief moment, some sense of sanity remained, and our sir chose to not target the door, but the clock that had been his abuser only moments ago with its infernal ticking. He screamed, and then released the table across the room. The force was enough to make it seem like the table had blinked out of existence from his hands and then only to appear once more at its destination, where it shattered the clock into pieces along with the wall behind it. In that moment, the door opened as young man in a suit entered. “Christ!” he screamed as he attempted to shield himself from the debris with a manila folder and his free hand. Most shocking, from the moment the door knob moved till now, less than two seconds had passed. The table fell, still in one piece. Though the clock was gone, the concrete wall behind it was was still intact, mostly.

      The young man slowly relaxed as he took in the scene around him, the door shutting on its own in the momentary calm of his observation. Our sir glared at him, breathing heavily, hunched over, fists clenched - a cornered animal. The young man met his gaze, and for what could have only been the briefest of moments, showed a glimmer of hesitation before his countenance completely changed into that of an innocent child. “Wow, you really are something else!” he said, his eyes bright and enthusiastic. “But if the clock was a bother, you should have said so.” He smiled as he spoke, clean white teeth, all even without imperfection. Our sir thought that such a smile could only belong to two possible identities for such a man – a salesman or a government agent. He hoped it was the former, at least that would quell his urge to choke the life out of him is needed. 
 

      “I'm agent Jackson. I'm with the CIA. It's an honor to meet you.” the man said. Our sir continued to gaze on, swallowing his own disdain for what he realized moments earlier about his visitor. “CIA? Aren't you a little young to be a spy?” our sir responded. Jackson was young, in appearance at least. He was tall, dressed in a black suit and gray tie. He was baby faced, soft, with a pair of blue eyes and a curly mound of short blonde hair. “True, but no one would suspect you're pushing sixty am I right?” responded Jackson with a charming wit more accustomed to our sir's initial prediction that he was about to be sold something, a fact that would be proven to not be completely wrong.

      Jackson's remark regarding our sir's age was not incorrect. Despite his savage appearance, no one would suspect that he was anything but a young man in his mid-thirties. But truthfully, he was in his late fifties, almost sixty. This truth along with our sir's recent display of strength and speed only served as a reminder for him that he was indeed no longer what one would call 'human.' What had been done to him, to all of them, was something that was done in secret over two decades ago in an attempt to change the world. How this baby faced government agent knew of such things only made our sir even more on edge as he began to feel that familiar anxiety and desperation rise in his chest and throat. 
 

      “Care to lend a hand? No sense in leaving a mess now, eh?” Jackson spoke as he moved towards the table and crouched near it to gain leverage. “Huh? Oh...S-sure.” our sir responded. Odd, he thought. Our sir had dealt with numerous people like Jackson before, wide smiling government assholes who lie through their perfectly white teeth only to jerk you around long enough to get what they want. But for some reason that he could not describe, Jackson had a sense of genuineness about him. He seemed to act like a kid in front of his idol, putting on a respectful demeanor while his excitement built up inside, always ready to burst. It was his smile, it was ear to ear, but not forced like some shit spewing con-man. Jackson was happy be here, that was certain.

      They both grabbed an end to the table and set it back up in the middle of the room, just as it had been before our sir had re-purposed it. “S-Sorry.” Our sir said as they finally placed it down. “Don't Worry. It can't be helped after all. So why not lend a hand, right?” Jackson emphatically replied. “There now, no harm no foul-” Jackson was cut off as the door slowly opened and a young woman with jet black hair, holding a clipboard over her face and head came into the room. “I-is everything okay, sir?” She said meekly. “Oh! Ms. O'Neil. Come in. Everything is fine. Nothing two gentleman can't fix.” Jackson responded. “If you say so, sir.” O'Neil said. Their words to one another seemed almost comical to our sir, but there was still a feeling that these two were constructing some elaborate ruse in order to get something from him. After all, he was brought into this damn place by force. Granted, he never would have come willingly, but he was tired of trying not to kill his captors while also protecting himself. Ultimately he knew it would be better to give in and wait for an opportune moment to escape. But there was also something about them, especially Jackson, that amused him, made him feel calm. With that feeling their was a memory, buried deep within, that he sought desperately for but could not find.
 

      “Ms. O'Neil is my assistant. Truth be told I'd be lost without her.” Jackson said as he took his seat. O'Neil stood at his right side and our sir took his seat as well. Jackson put the folder he was carrying on top of the table and then interlocked his fingers between one another and placed his hands on top of the folder as he leaned in. 'Getting straight to the point.' our sir thought. “I'm very sorry you were brought here in such a violent manner. But please understand that we had no choice. The government wants me to explain to you that we are in a very desperate situation. But I honestly believe that far more than our country is at stake. Personally, I feel the world may need your help.” It was a tad dramatic, but Jackson's words did seem sincere. Our sir only listened and choose to not give any sign that he was interested in what Jackson had to say. He chose to remain motionless, his glare steady, waiting for a moment that was most opportune to make an escape. 
 

      “You might not know this, but the Cold War is still going on. however, we are reaching the endgame. The Soviets have actually come to us asking for help with a problem that we feel you are the only solution for.” Jackson said as he passed the folder over to our sir from across the table, the folder sliding and spinning over to our sir's clawed hand which stopped it in front of him, right side up, his hand covering the words in front of him. When he moved his hand, our sir's breath quickened, his blood ran cold, and far too many horrors clawed their way into the forefront of his mind. It was as if hell's doors swung wide open, emptying its contents. Now Jackson had his attention, and there was no plan to escape, only the desperate need to hear that his fears were unjustified, that what would come next would be the complete opposite of the notions that plagued his fragile mind.
 

      “Six months ago a nuclear power plant in the Ukraine went critical. The Soviets have set up a thirty kilometer demilitarize zone around the reactor and have attempted to shield the surrounding area from contamination by building a reinforced structure around the leaking reactor. Unfortunately, that's not why we need you. Three weeks ago, a Soviet research and development facility was attacked by only four individuals. They killed everyone, over a hundred people. Worse yet, they stole an experimental vessel and have decided to hold up in the leaking reactor I just spoke of. The description of the culprits was clear to us. They were members of your old unit, the Iron Pack.”