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.