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This message Progeny #2: Solitude and Silence was posted by Fin Fang Foom Presents A Quiet Little Interlude on Wednesday, May 8, 2002 at 13:08.
Mama, I just killed a man
Put a gun against his head
Pulled the trigger now he's dead
Mama, life had just begun
And now I've gone and thrown it all away
...
But I'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me
(He's just a poor boy from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity)
Easy come, easy go--will you let me go?
...
Nothing really matters
Anyone can see
Nothing really matters--nothing really matters to me
--Queen, "Bohemian Rhapsody"
---------
For Mark Sanderson, there was nothing worse than walking through a graveyard that just happened to be in denial.
He'd loved this land. As a child, he'd run through its golden fields, savoring meaningless chases and safe games. When set against a black thundersky, these blonde acres seemed to glow with the shine of precious metal. He'd seen pictures: vast oceans of wheat in America. It was just the same here in Koston. The farms meant money and food and family and importance.
But at some point, he came to realize that it wasn't supposed to be this way. Put simply; it wasn't wheat. The brittle, yellowing grass was supposed to be green, and the barren ditches were supposed to be full of unborn crops. He saw other places that--for some reason--didn't have powdery black, artillery-created pockmarks in the ground. He learned that not everyone used crumbling sheds as homes, and that most families didn't keep AK-47s lying by the kitchen table.
It was then that he became aware of The War. That, over two hundred years ago, the tiny Eastern European village known as Koston had been founded. Two distinct groups of people had created it: wandering Russians, who looked to the West to find better farmland; and refugee Czechs, who looked to the East to find distance from an increasingly-changing culture.
As the years passed, the two groups got along perfectly. In truth, they weren't all that different--most people didn't know who was on which side, and they often didn't know their own heritages, as well. But then an archeologist came to town, and discovered that early Koston citizens had been involved in an ethnic massacre. No-one was sure who started it, or why it happened. But they'd come to some sort of peaceful truce--and presumably, the whole thing had been covered up in an attempt to stop the incitement of future violence.
Now armed with a reason to hate each other, both sides quickly went to work.
People suddenly remembered that their ancestors were Russian or Czech, and went about blaming the other side for their problems in life. That mangy-haired Russian boy had to be responsible for impregnating that poor, innocent Czech girl. The Czechs were scheming to steal the Russians' jobs at the mill. Paranoia bubbled into accusations, which prompted a series of heated town meetings. Koston's first-ever crime wave hit, as the two groups targeted each other. Then the shooting started. Koston could only belong to one of them, they decided.
Decades went by...homemade, environmentally-unfriendly explosives and crude chemical weaponry took their toll on the land. Crop outputs dwindled with every passing year. The population shrunk; thanks to violence, villagers who ran off, and literal starvation, as people couldn't even grow enough to feed themselves.
By the time that "Mark Sanderson" was born, the UN had outlawed the fighting there--not that there was much left to fight over. The village was all but destroyed. On the run from UN peacekeepers, both sides took to the frigid hills. The young men were sent off to America, to attend college; and to gather weaponry and resources. This had to be done under false identities, since there were international arrest warrants out for most of them. Mark Sanderson had sworn that he wouldn't take back his true name--his family name--until they'd destroyed their enemies.
That time would never come.
Four years into his schooling, Sanderson received word from his family: or rather, what was left of it. The men of both sides were all dead. There'd been a final, three-way battle between the Czechs, the Russians, and the UN. The women and children had fled to cities like Berlin, Prague, and Moscow. They were living in poverty, using new names and struggling with below-minimum-wage jobs.
Mark Sanderson had once dreamed of being the hero of his people. He'd return to his homeland, armed with an education and American weaponry. He'd team up with his almost-too-old-to-fight father, and they'd finally get Koston back, so his father could rest easy, and his friends and family could once again live like human beings. But that was over now.
His father, brothers, and uncles were dead. A small group of young men was all that remained of both sides--those who'd been in America when the final battle took place. They couldn't risk engaging the other orphans without being spotted by international military patrols. The UN had fenced off the remains of Koston, declaring it a potential hazardous-materials site. Sanderson knew they could defeat their traditional enemies...but the representatives of the entire world?
And now, he stood on Koston's outskirts, combing his fingers through the dying yellow grass. A silvery winter sky was smothering the war-eroded land. The village now consisted of a few dozen piles of stone and wood, scattered within the fenced-off area. Most people would've found it to be freezing, but he loved it. He had auburn-colored hair, and rugged, yet young, features. At the age of twenty-three, he was the oldest living man in his family.
He'd easily avoided the guards...after all, he'd grown up here. His entire life was about getting this piece of land back. And as long as he didn't start shooting anything, they'd probably never notice--it wasn't like they were on high-alert. Who'd want to break into a worthless, toxin-poisoned excuse for a village? There wasn't anything to steal--nothing of value.
But...this land. Before the UN had stepped in, the village had been divided roughly in half: the town square doubled as the front lines, and both groups occupied an opposite side of Koston, bordering on the outskirts. There'd been buildings, then--huts and shacks; nothing fancy, but functional. While he'd been growing up, people freely walked around their respective territories. And as a teenager, he'd been a soldier in the very local war.
His entire life had taken place here. He could literally see the spots where his existence had happened. Just on the other side of the fence, he'd first asked a girl out on a "date"--namely, to go watch one of the small TVs, which sometimes got decent reception. She'd said no. He asked two more girls (one by the now-collapsed shed, the other by the edge of the dead farm-field), and one said yes. Three months after that, in the summer, they'd snuck off into that distant tree-filled gulley--now a skeleton of its former self--and he'd first been with a woman. She laughed and laughed when he finally realized that she wasn't wearing anything underneath her overalls, which was roughly two seconds after they'd dropped down to her ankles. "Why'd you think I wanted us to come down here? To look at the birds?" she'd teasingly asked him.
He'd first killed someone down by the creek--in fact, the shell casings were probably still on the ground. He'd first been wounded while running across the open field where he now stood. That hill riddled with stumps? They'd gotten their Christmas trees from it. His father suffered a concussion near one of the shacks...in his delirious state, he begged his son--who he thought was an enemy--not to hurt his wife and family. And the UN said they had this place cordoned off...it was impossible. He knew it too well.
He'd crawled across this golden grass. He'd laid on it, rolled on it (with some help), fallen on it, bled on it, stood in triumph and defeat on it...
The land was gone forever. He'd accepted that. They just weren't powerful enough to get it back. But rescuing his people's dignity...that, however, was an attainable goal.
He'd contacted the last remaining men among his people. His plan was coming together. Within months, his people wouldn't have to live in poverty. They'd have all the money that they'd ever need.
He could have an easy life. Living under his new identity, he could graduate, stay in America, and--given his grades--most likely find a high-paying job. He could sleep in an artificially-heated apartment, never have to risk his life again, draw from a dating pool of a few million, rather than a few dozen...but no. His people needed him.
It was now December. In May, he'd take hostages--children of the rich and influential. In some ways, it felt wrong. But this plan involved putting the welfare of others before his own; and he'd always been taught that evil was selfish. His mother had told him that evil was the easy way out--and this was clearly difficult and self-sacrificing. He was giving up his own future, so his people could have one instead. A heartless man could turn his back on those who needed him...but Sanderson couldn't.
What did that make him?
Progeny #2
Places
From the outside, the Parodiopolis district of Pierce Heights looked perfect. Unlike the more metropolitan areas of the city, it was fully landscaped; packed with forests, creeks, and attractive rockbeds. This was all spread out over a series of lush, rolling hills, which gradually rose higher and higher.
It was full of mansions that were designed with the sensibilities of modern castles: they were surrounded by huge outer walls, and the buildings often incorporated spire-tipped towers. Pierce Heights itself mostly consisted of a string of "private communities", which were literally walled off from the outside world. Private security forces guarded it, and it was known as one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the world.
Some of the larger homes could be seen from downtown...it was like looking up at the Parthenon or the Acropolis. Those who worked high in the skyscrapers often stared out their windows, gazing at the massive, distant buildings embedded in the far hills.
In most cities, the night made buildings look like yellow-and-black checkerboards, and turned highways into continuous, flickering streams of light. But Pierce Heights was spread out over hills, rather than being tightly packed into urban sprawl. So, it vaguely resembled a glowing coral reef, in the middle of a dark ocean. Networks of light covered it all, linked by the occasional bright golden blob, which was most likely a mansion.
Of course, it was one of the most well-lit areas of the city, for security purposes. But the residents who valued privacy had built their homes behind the hills, rather than on top of them--so the light that came from them was muffled. All in all, the hills were drenched in a hazy afterglow, looking both out-of-focus and slightly mystical.
But that was just the view from without. Within, it was a different story. Pierce Heights residents lived by a simple, unspoken creed: as long as appearances were maintained, nothing else mattered. So, it was no surprise that the areas that couldn't be seen from downtown were ill-kept. Beyond the privately-owned land laid overgrown grass and unsightly drybrush. These were the unused valleys, which were between and behind the mansions. Unless you were flying directly over them, they were hidden from view.
These areas were also well-guarded, and within the fenced-off private communities. But no-one ever bothered trying to get in. However, the people of Pierce Heights had found a use for it--unmarked, one-way roads snaked through the untrimmed wilderness. These were for delivery vans and supply trucks...it just looked too low-class, to have these people pulling up where someone might see them. The roads had access to the proverbial "backdoor".
Tonight, a faded red semi was driving through one of the more tree-filled valleys. The road was devoid of lights--aside from the lean stretch of asphalt, there was nothing man-made in the immediate area. The truck's white trailer bounced along the cheaply-made road, heading to deliver massive rolls of carpet to a newly-built mansion. When the truck had arrived at the edge of Pierce Heights, the guards had asked how many passengers were aboard. The driver had unknowingly lied, by saying "just me". They'd done a quick search, and waved him through three layers of security gates.
Now, a lone figure had climbed on top of the semi's trailer. The full moon briefly acted as a halo, surrounding and silhouetting his face. He paced to one side, and turned around, so his heels were hanging just off the edge. Then he stretched out his arms like a diver would, and backflipped off.
He landed in the ditch next to the road, rolling. Dust kicked up as he shook off the momentum. Any regular person would've at least sprained something...but he quickly tumbled back onto his feet, unharmed. Physiologically-enhanced reflexes made him a natural at both gymnastics and fighting. It was literally his second nature--a nature that he'd been running from ever since he'd found out the truth.
He was wearing faded bluejeans, a tucked-in white t-shirt, and dingy grey sneakers. Perfect-looking red hair was arranged somewhat-messily on his head. At the age of nineteen, Michael McKinley had been out of prison for less than two hours.
This was the first time he'd been back home since his father and sister had died. He'd often had to use this way of sneaking into Pierce Heights, back when he and his father were having their own private war. Most teenagers spent their senior years worrying about grades, relationships, and college...he had to live with the fact that his father was secretly the supercriminal known as Royale.
Maybe war was an overstatement. His father had laid out some challenges for him, and they'd had power-struggles...but it never came down to a physical fight. It almost did, once--outside the emergency room, after his mother had been pronounced dead, from suicide. While in prison, he'd relived that moment at least a million times.
But for now, he was free. He still suspected that it was a trick, or a trap...Michael seriously doubted that Intelligence agents like DuPlis went around using prisoners as running-dogs. The deal was that if he performed this mission, and returned to prison the next morning, he'd be released in a legit capacity. And, DuPlis wouldn't reveal the truth about Michael's late father.
Even if it was a set-up, it didn't matter--the mission was his main priority. One of Michael's friends had been kidnapped in Paris, along with a group of other students. Every second counted. Michael glanced around the darkness, getting his bearings. His family's mansion was just up the hill...but that wasn't exactly his destination. Nevertheless, he started running towards it.
He doubted that anyone would miss him...DuPlis seemed to have covered most of the angles. Michael had been led to an interview wing, and was then snuck out through a series of narrow hallways. Prisoners routinely went in that room at night, for "interrogation sessions". They'd return twelve to twenty-four hours later, with scars and bruises. There were rumors that they'd been taken out of the prison during that time; to serve some purpose for the state.
The funny part was...Michael didn't want to get out of prison. He wanted to stay there forever. Because he deserved it. Not for killing the Gemini Twins, one of whom had killed his father...no, he felt no guilt over that. He'd ended their lives simply because no-one else was in a position to stop them. In retrospect, he should've killed his father, for that same reason.
Part of him knew why he wanted to give up on life, by staying in prison...but he wasn't ready to accept it. Not yet. His current rationalization was that he didn't want to be like his father, who'd always managed to avoid consequences. Avoiding punishment for something he'd actually done just felt wrong.
He was now sprinting uphill, weaving through crooked trees. He was getting closer. Occasional bursts of wind stumbled through the valley, and he spotted a glow in the distance, high in the background. It was the mansion--the auto-lights were on. He could just see the back of the security wall.
He really didn't want to do this. But he couldn't afford to be recognized, and he needed equipment and weaponry. If peoples' lives hadn't been at stake, he never would've come back.
Guided by the moonlight, he came across a spot where there was a small overhang of ground, with a large rock underneath it. Moss hung down like a curtain, its edges piling up on the rock. He reached through the moss, found a metal grating, and pulled upwards. The overhang flipped "open", like a car trunk. Several steps were within.
Michael descended into a small room, which consisted of a bumpy black material. That was for filtering and blocking typical scans, such as x-ray, infrared, heat-sensitive, and energy-sensitive. It was otherwise bare, except for a large, silver, egg-shaped item, which was laying on the gloor. The door closed behind him, and Michael took a step towards the egg. He placed a foot on it, and the egg's surface wavered...then his foot passed through. The rest of him followed, and he crouched inside it. In seconds, the egg was being absorbed through the floor in a similar fashion.
Had it been anyone else, the egg would have reverted to its pure liquid-metal state and covered the person; strangling and suffocating them. But the McKinley DNA was fairly recognizable, and other identification-requirements were coded in, as well.
The egg was currently shooting through the ground, creating a natural tunnel that would quickly collapse on itself, once the egg had passed through. Within seconds, Michael felt something rushing up to meet it. Its surface went non-solid again, and he stepped through.
He was here. The Throneroom.
It was drowning in darkness, lit only by large, transparent cylinders, which were full of a glowing, blue-green liquid. They were about twelve feet tall, and at least ten feet in diameter. The bases of the cylinders were opaque metal. All twelve of them were arranged in a circle, which he was on the outside of.
What he could see of the room was covered in metal tiling...he took a few steps, entering the circle. There was a misshapen, dark blur in one of the vats. He went to take a closer look. As he did, his breath vanished out from under him.
Michael McKinley had secretly been diagnosed as a sociopath. He went through life being very depressed, but also calm and unresponsive. He felt no guilt over the murders that he'd committed. He only felt guilt about his personal failures. He could've been the perfect poker player, because his face was so unexpressive. So, it was probably significant when--for the first time since he was an infant--he screamed.
For the most horrifying split-second of his life, he thought he'd seen his father. But, no...it was just the Royale armor, floating in one of the tubes. The way it was hanging there, with a limp neck, and awkward arms...it was empty. It had to be. Michael wiped a sudden wave of sweat off of his neck and forehead. His hands were cold and trembling.
The way it looked now, it seemed harmless. It was like an oversized cartoon robot...black and gold, a bit bulky; with slightly-big hands and feet. If not for the fact that Michael had seen it kill dozens at a time, he'd have laughed at it.
Up-close, you could tell that the black portions were made to look like thick chainmail. However, those segments were more flexible than the rest, and were present on the suit's legs, arms, head, and neck. Additional layers of smooth, gold metal covered its hands, feet, and torso. A gold headband sat above blank white lenses--it had small points, which gave it the look of a crown.
He stared up at the suit. This was his father's masterpiece. His life's work. His greatest weapon. His true self. His idol. His crutch. The cornerstone of his corporate and financial success. The symbol of everything that had ruined the lives of Michael, his family, and anyone who'd been unlucky enough to cross Royale's path.
The suit magnified the user's strength...and his father had already genetically enhanced his own physical power. When combined with the suit, he was unstoppable. Some of those DNA alterations had trickled down to Michael.
But what was it doing "out" like this? Most of the time, it was kept in its storage-space below the floor, waiting to be called into use. Unless...
He knelt down to the metal ring that surrounded the tube. A small, digital screen was on it...and sure enough, the last command was sitting there, blinking. Waiting to be fully entered in.
It was time-stamped just a few moments before his father's death. He'd requested remote suit-delivery. But he must've died before he could finish doing it.
Michael canceled the command, and the cylinder retracted into the floor. He doubted that he had the clearance-level necessary to use the armor--besides, he'd never even worn it. Nor did he want to.
Aside from his dislike of the very concept of Royale, Michael was never entirely sure if his father had told any of his criminal allies about his true identity. As far as the world knew, Royale hadn't been seen in over a year--so he was either dead or missing. And Michael wanted to keep it that way. If he used the suit, and someone who knew the truth heard about it...they'd surely know that his father was dead, and put two and two together. He didn't want any unexpected visits from people who might want to steal the Royale technology.
Besides, if this was a trap, DuPlis might be after the Royale armor. Michael just couldn't risk wearing it.
Michael shook his head--he'd put this off long enough. He briskly paced across The Throneroom; and as he did, lights came to life, and then died as he passed. Roughly twenty feet from the cylinders was the main computer. Its screen took up the upper half of an entire wall, while its controls covered the lower half. A myriad of buttons, dials, switches, and even a normal text-keyboard could be found on it.
The controls were grouped into segments...they were divided by the occasional vertical row of blank tiles; each of which was about the size of a CD case. He pressed on the third one from the top, and it lit up with green.
For a few moments, the computer churned softly. He was being scanned. That had already happened once, when he'd first gotten near the mansion--but what he was requesting required a double-check. Micro-cameras were examining his fingerprints, his brain-waves were being verified, and his DNA and heart-rate were under an invisible microscope. An omniscopic sensor array was making sure he wasn't a shapeshifter or some other form of imposter, and that he wasn't being mind-controlled. Then it went silent.
God help him, his father had expected him to follow in his footsteps...so, his father had given him limited access to The Throneroom. Royale had many enemies--and if they found out his true identity, he knew that Michael might need to be able to get certain weapons, for self-defense.
Still, Michael honestly expected that ionic cannons would pop out of the walls and blow him away. His father's paranoia and self-centeredness were legendary. And now that he was dead, the security system could have instituted a lock-down, or the parameters could have changed in some other way. With his luck, it'd be on a "kill everything that gets in The Throneroom" program.
A monotone, electronic voice rang out. "State your authorization-level."
"Prince."
"Username?"
"Progeny."
"Password?"
He winced. "...Cynthia."
The green tile faded back to an industrial beige-grey. He heard metal noises, far underneath the floor. A purple circle suddenly lit up an area within the ring of liquid-filled cylinders.
Then, the tiled floor within the circle turned to smooth, non-lined metal, except for a single line down its center. It started to split in half, opening. There was another layer below it--it was solid and armored, roughly the shade of an old furnace.
Level by level, the multiple security devices unlocked. One was spiked, one was a dense metal grating, one was liquid-metal, and one was electrified. Thirty seconds (and roughly ten more levels) later, there was a gaping hole in the floor, easily twenty feet deep. Michael heard hydraulics whirring, as something started to rise out of it.
It was another cylinder, with a smaller suit of armor in it. It was also full of blue-green liquid, which created light that danced off the room's metal surfaces. The whole set-up was elevated a few feet off of the floor, pushed up by an opaque titanium column.
The tube quickly emptied, as the liquid drained through its floor. Once it was completely empty, the glass slid open. Small, flat "stairs" extended out of its metal base. Michael walked up them.
He'd only worn this suit once...to calm his father down, during one of his more hot-tempered days. It was much more lightweight than the Royale armor...in fact, it didn't even have any built-in weapons. It was all black--a thin plastic-metal alloy. This was actually the "core" of a Royale suit, without the bulky golden weapon-segments; and before it had undergone molecular-density-upgrades, which created the chainmail appearance. So, the suit's surface looked smooth and polished, rather than being metallic mesh.
It was bulletproof, but not much more than that. It didn't enhance the user's strength. It couldn't fly. Unlike the Royale suit, it came with two grappling-cord launchers, which were built into the wrists. Also, it was compatible with a weapon that he'd actually used...an explosive-shell handgun.
For "his own protection", Michael's father had basically bullied him into training with it. Michael had found that it was a good anger-release...so he'd spent a lot of hours in The Throneroom's shooting gallery. The gun currently sat in a barely-noticeable bump on the suit's hip--essentially a holster.
The suit itself was fairly nondescript: Michael's father had intended on using it as a basic skeleton for more advanced armor-technology. Thankfully, he'd died before he could get around to it. The only notable thing about Michael's suit was that it had some ridges...they almost looked like thin rings, which wrapped around the suit's surface. These divided the armor into stripped segments, which increased flexibility. But the armor was pure black, head to toe. Like the Royale suit, it had blank, white eye-lenses.
He told himself to put it on. Lives were at stake. And DuPlis knew the truth, and wanted him to do this...if Michael failed, or refused, DuPlis might go public with the truth about the late Mr. McKinley.
As ever, The Secret had to be protected. His father had used Royale to help build his personal empire: KinLabs, and a stake in the charitable Twelve Labors Foundation. Both of these things were initially fueled by supervillain blood-money--but now, they were self-sufficient. And without his father around to manipulate them, they could do even more good for society. If the truth got out, both organizations would be in trouble...and even though they'd started for the wrong reasons, they could end up doing something right. The people who worked for KinLabs and the TLF...they were genetics researchers and charity fundraisers. These were authentic "let's help people" people. Why should they be punished for something his father had done--had been?
He reached for the suit, and was unable to make himself touch it. Just looking at it--at what his father wanted him to be--made Michael feel like throwing up. The terminology of The Throneroom; the phrases that Michael's father had used to describe him..."prince", "progeny". He was just supposed to be a junior version. Someone to continue the Godforsaken legacy of Royale.
And yet...he was his father's son. It was more than just his abilities. He was a killer. He felt no remorse. He knew it was wrong, and punished himself for it...but he just didn't feel bad about it. He hated himself because he couldn't hate himself. In many ways, Michael felt like he didn't deserve to be human--to walk around in broad daylight, acting normal and living a happy life. Not that he had to worry about that last bit. So, yes, he was a futureless, hopeless killer.
But the world needed killers.
Michael accepted his fate and reached for the helmet. He placed a palm on top of it the metal.
It was too late to save himself. The world, on the other hand...
Continued...
I used to be a little boy
So old in my shoes
And what I choose is my choice
What's a boy supposed to do?
The killer in me is the killer in you...
--Smashing Pumpkins, "Disarm"
Fin Fang Foom
*flies away*
This poster posed from 63.171.208.95 when they posted
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