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.”

Bestia Custos Episode 13: The Power of Nothing and The Will of All - Part 1

      My account shall come to a close here, captain. With the wolf expelled from the battlefield, isolated from his companions, Yashima was left to face the ram alone. It seemed as though there was little interest on the ram's face as to what had just happened. Perhaps there was no true camaraderie between them after all. Such behavior would certainly serve to justify the tales of black rams. Aside from a momentary gasp at the wolf's forceful departure, the ram was calm and emotionless, until a slight smile crossed her face and a vacant gaze filled in her eyes. As Yashima slowly began to regain some of his strength, he must have wondered why she did not strike him down in that moment of weakness. Instead, she only continued to stare at him, still as a stone, her gaze and smile never wavering. He began to speak to her, an attempt I assume to buy time until his strength returned.

“It would seem that you have no concern over your comrade. Tell me, why not attack me now and take revenge for his lose? Or perhaps you wish to bargain for your own future, yes? I must warn you that I-”

“Because you are weak.”

“What was that?!”

“You must be tired after your last attack. A clever move, but you must have known that you would leave yourself completely vulnerable to me. I was shocked at first, but now I am most interested in your decision.”

“And what decision would that be?”

      There was a pause between them. The ram seemed to be entertaining several thoughts before speaking again. Time that Yashima began to use to his advantage by harnessing what strength he could gather for another attack.

“You had only enough strength to use that ability of yours twice, once to free yourself, and the other for the wolf. Tell me, why him?”

“I don't think that is really any of your concern. This is a contest of skill and savagery, my dear. Perhaps one is just as good as the other.”

“Then you insult me.”

      Yashima must have felt all the warmth in him drain out his body as the ghastly countenance of fear enveloped his face. I too felt the fear that this female, this creature, was exuding. Was she truly expressing jealousy over not being targeted by Yashima? Was she honestly envious of his ire? The horrifying tales of madness surrounding the black rams must surely be true if this creature was sincere. She then began to play the unusual instrument that was undoubtedly the means by which she was commanding the earth to assault Yashima.

“I'm sure you have heard the tale's of black rams. How we are all cursed, that we bring madness and death to those around us. I find such lies to be unbearably irritating. When I leave you hear to die, know that it is because you chose to insult my honor by not seeing me as the greater threat.”

“Haha! How amusing, my dear! And how exactly do you plan on-”

      Yashima's attempt to mask his fears failed when the ram cut him off by severing one of the strings on her instrument. The high pitch noise cut his senses as a peculiar thing began to happen. The instrument began to glow with a faint golden light, one that eventually consumed the object as if it was completely transforming into that most valued material prized by humans. Worse yet, were her eyes. The whites of the rams eyes filled with a deep dark crimson, and her pupils burned a golden hue that resonated with her vile instrument. An aura more terrifying than anything that I have ever felt washed over the battlefield. Yes, captain, even more horrifying than yours. Yashima did all he could to fight his instincts and run for his life. Suddenly, all was calm as the ram spoke once more. But this time, the voice was low, and it echoed with a menace the foretold only pain and doom.

“I did not have to go this far you know. I chose to. I want you to know just how unbearably hopeless you and your friend's efforts really are. If you live through this, be sure to tell them that they have no chance. I 'will' kill all of you.”

      Yashima managed then to muster just enough of his courage and strength to launch himself at the ram with all the fury he could possibly muster. Staff in hand, he struck down towards the ram's head only for the crude object to shatter into hundreds of pieces before it even touched her. He was left in shock and could not conceive of how such a thing was even possible. He leaped back away from her and extended both arms towards her, palms exposed and fingers spread. Yashima screamed as he poured all the power left in his body into one final attack against the ram. Yashima's anima poured from his arms in burning waves of essence that cascaded towards her, but to no avail. Yashima's technique was executed flawlessly, the strength he used to fuel it was beyond anything he ever commited before, and yet, all of it was in vain. The waves of Yashima's essence crashed against the rams own aura like waves against the shore, doing nothing. The ram smiled at him.

“W- Why!? How could it fail?”

“Because I wanted it too. I wanted you to fail with all you had. That is why I did not strike you down sooner. Now then, my turn”

      The ram turned her back to Yashima and with one quick motion, played a single note on the golden instrument. In that moment, the earth stuck Yashima from below, impaling him with several spears of rock and soil. It raised him high overheard, his screams filling the battlefield as his blood rained down from his gaping wounds.

      That is all for now, I must hurry away to where Genkaku has instructed me, captain. I'm sure this new information will prove helpful in our cause.

-Bandit

Rakshasa Chapter 1: Dirty Work - Part 1

    

     Humanity is a strange and often complex thing, is it not? For thousands of years humans have seemingly been ordained by their own DNA to question their place in the universe and, more often than not, have come up with only more questions. For a being capable of contemplating its own existence, it is quite perplexing to consider the fact that humans fail to elaborate on the possibility that there is no answer, let alone the conceivable likelihood that they are, to put in plainly, meaningless. But is anything in nature truly meaninglessness? Without purpose? One could argue that a parasite has no worth as it literally preys on others in order to survive, the world ever spinning should their existence be wiped from the face of the Earth, or would it? 

      A worthy attempt to answer the question, for sure, but a grim reality awaits those who indulge the idea that humanity too is a parasitic organism, and worse yet, one that takes by choice and not by design. Humanity is quick to demonize something as frail as a mosquito for having its fill of human blood, but should they? After all, the insect did so as nature intended and not by choice but by eons of programmed instinct. Humans, on the other hand, indeed have a long and dismal history of taking far more from the world around them than necessary, and there is no greater example of this than in humanity's most paradoxical quality, war.

      War plays a defining role in humanity's existence and has shaped the fate of the planet, and its inhabitants, on numerous occasions. Wars have been conduced by the human symphony for as long as it has been alive, and yet despite how loud the voice of humanity may claim that it is a thing to be reviled, it is never quite as loud and the grinding gears of the war machine when it begins to awaken once more. If one were to take the time and look for answers regarding so much wanton death and destruction, they would find a bewildering amount of justifications that range from economics to justice. However, should one look closer, they would find so simple an answer. War is built on the presumed needs of the human race when paired with the inability to resolve those needs through language. But if mankind is so evolved a thing that we can split the atom and ward off infection and disease, then why is it that humans lack the ability to converse with one another to avoid the horrors of war?  

      Again, more questions with numerous answers and subjectively motivated opinions. Truthfully, the question one should ask is this - “Is war a choice or an instinct?” So I ask, is humanity to be judged harshly like the mosquito, deserving little more than a quick death and a quiet curse, or does there yet remain hope for something that can conceive so heinous a thing as war, is there perhaps place in this world for the parasite?

     This is the story of a man forever shaped by war and his journey to find meaning in that both damned and celebrated human pastime. A journey that will take him to the edge of madness by both receiving and inflicting immeasurable sorrow, pain, fury, and ultimately arrive at an end that will either see him descend into an unspeakable darkness that would lash out at the world, or perhaps arise as something more than just a man, more than a soldier, and find a purpose for the parasite we know as humanity.

      We begin in a dark place. The air is cold and damp as the sound of running water is heard all around. Grey trails of light from an overcast day cut the gloom of the darkness like dull razors from sporadic windows that occasionally line the high ceilings of this abandoned structure. When the wind blows, the sound of metal chain links can be heard dancing briefly with their siblings, echoing throughout the dark from steel walkways that layer the void between the ground and ceiling. The ground itself is hard and cold, concrete laid down not too long ago as the foundation for this now hallow facility which has lost its purpose. Numerous rectangular pits are spread out roughly every twenty feet or so with metal pathways built over them for walking make up the bottom level of the facility. Some of these depressions overflow with gallons of water that have not moved in months, with the exception of possibly a heavenly drop of fresh dew fallen from above. Others are bone dry, as if gasping its final breath as its sense of purpose becomes truly forgotten. Then there are those like the the one we draw our attention to, filling up rabidly from several busted pipes from above, an event made possible by the battle that only recently took place here moments ago. A sullen figure sits in anguish in this dark pit. Around him, the water rises steadily with no end in sight, and yet, he does not move. Time is running out, but he his not alone.

      A snickering can be heard in the dark among the torrent streams of gushing water. Our figure raises his face to address the sounds with the glaring eyes of a wounded animal who is not in the mood to be toyed with. His features are sharp and angular, his eyes deep set with high cheek bones. The most vague shade of a beard recently shaven crawls across his face. Short black hair is pulled away from his features into an uneven mess with two ragged locks of hair that fall forward against his forehead. But most defining of all would be a pair of thick eyebrows that adorn the rims above each of his golden yellow eyes. If such characteristics were not bizarre enough, his ears are long and ever slightly pointed giving him the appearance of something that was lost to human memory, of a time when man fought with beasts for his own place in the world's savage past.  

      His attire is something to be noticed as well, a loose black jumpsuit trimmed on the outer edges down the body with two striking white lines. Adorned on his shoulders, elbows, and knees are sturdy guards made of a material that resemble bone. His hands are covered in black leather gloves that have a noticeable curved metal claw attached just past the knuckle on each finger and thumb. His feet, which sat beneath the slowly rising water level, are covered in slender black leather boots. His chest is also additionally covered by a heavy military style combat vest, littered with brass snap pouches and a hard shielded area over his right pectoral. The trim around his neck is accented with a fur lining that reaches around the back of the head and is most likely intended for warmth but only adds to his animalistic countenance. Finally, and most odd, is a red scarf wrapped around his neck, tied into a knot below his Adam's apple and splitting into two long stands that disappear under the surface of the rising water.

      The man's lips part to respond to the rising volume of laughter. “Shut up.” he says in a low tone, direct and course. Almost as if to retaliate, the laughter becomes loud and emphasized in a mocking display of cruelty. To the outside viewer, the source of this laughter would come as a shock to anyone, but for our sullen sir, it is no more than an old acquaintance. About several yards away, floating on the surface of the water but half sunken beneath the murky liquid, is a skull like object with dreadful features. A large green bulbous eye peers back at our sir as razor sharp teeth and fangs glisten with moisture as the ghastly object very slowly is consumed by the dark waters. As the skull's mocking laughter intensifies, our sir brings his hands to his ears to shut out the sound as a painful expression morphs his face into one of desperation and sorrow. “SHUT UP!” he screams over and over again, until the laughter stops suddenly. Then, as if to break the silence, the skull speaks. “Wow, really?” the voice is assuredly emanating from the skull, an almost raspy voice that sounds otherworldly to our sir. “...Shit...” our sir replies and buries his head into his knees, wrapping his arms around them to hide some sense of embarrassment and stupidity. The skull retorts mockingly, “If he didn't know where we are, then he sure as shit does now.” Another long pause. Then the skull speaks again, “Look, sorry about being a dick...But... What the hell were you thinking!?”

      Our sir raises his head and takes a long look at his left hand as if the story to his failure begins there. “I thought that if he could see me. The real me. Then maybe he would listen.” our sir explains. “Oh, he listened all right. To the sound of your ass getting beat. Do you even remember why we're here?” the skull responds. Our sir sits in silence yet again as he continues to gaze at his left hand which slowly tightens into a fist along with an ever growing look of determination on his face. He answers, “Yeah... I remember.” Not satisfied, the skull retorts, “Really? So that shit you pulled is what you call covert now? I'm not dying in some fucking hole! So get your ass in gear! We got work to do!” Almost as if in pain, our sir raises a hand to his head, seemingly struggling with finding an answer for his grim companion as well as with the rhythmically dripping sound of water that he manages to focus on. “I'm trying... But you know how messed up my head is. I just need to find it again. To find-” His words are stopped short as his eyes dilate and he is thrust back in time through memory's doorway with the help of the water's hypnotic rhythmical drip. Drip, drip, drip, slowly gives form to a new sound- drick, drick, drick, until reaching a more familiar one – tick, tick, tick. A sound that our sir remembers well, a sound that marked the beginning of his journey into that sunken and dark pit. Though to be fair, he fell into a pit long again and has never come out.

      Two weeks earlier our sir found himself looking far different, hands in strange shackles, sitting at the end of long wooden table in a white room with gray trim. The only noticeable things were a long dark window on the wall to his left, and on the wall farthest from him, a heavy wooden door that he assumed was locked and of course, there was the clock. Ticking away incessantly. Many things can make similar sounds, like pulling back the hammer on a revolver, loading a magazine into an automatic rifle, pulling the pin on a grenade, and so many more. Worst of all were the screams that followed such noises. He could hear them now, growing louder and louder.