Tales of the Parodyverse

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Derek
Sun Apr 11, 2004 at 06:24:52 pm EDT
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Happy Easter, and a long due gift... Verdict #1
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“A silhouetted figure bowed before a large stone alter.

“A candle lit for a loved one long lost.

“A lost soul in a time of treachery, deceit and lies.

“This is a picture far too common in the inner city, a place where once the glory of the east coast once held it’s place of residence, now a cracking and decaying mass of effluence. Now a place no one would enjoy calling home. Yet in spite of it all, this mockery is allowed to exist, and furthermore, within our fair city. Something MUST be done, Mr. Mayor.”

The large polished boardroom of Parodiopolis’ city hall shone radiantly as city councilors and various esteemed members of the community gathered to decide the fate of the growing amount of impoverished within the city, the slums now teeming with masses with street violence and gang activity at record highs. Enter Geoffery Hatfield, a decidedly right wing politician directly from the well-oiled machine that is Washington.

Today he has brought together the most prominent members of the community to decide the fate of one of the city’s growing concerns, the expansion of Hell’s Bathroom, as it’s commonly known. The slum has traditionally been a problem within its borders since the 30s, but it grows to new heights.

Emergency response stations within the subsection have recently all been either destroyed or taken from within by the stricken, those fed-up with the style of life they seem doomed to live. All seemingly riled behind one man, a man known only as Zero.

Mr. Hatfield has been chosen personally by the President himself to attempt to calm the dispute before it raises out of hand.

“These people have been given the choice, sir. The choice to change their lives numerous times, and we have given it, with hard-earned dollars straight out of the public’s pockets. Do we not owe it to them to calm this storm before it breaks.

“Must you call on that mismanaged band of miscreants before you will place your trust in your own country? They care nothing for the safety of the average man, nor of you or the general public. Your ‘Lair Legion’ is nothing but a gloriously over-paid budget item, Mr. Mayor. Treat them as such and issue them a cut. Let the military handle this.”

“Martial law is not how I’ll run my city.”

With that the board adjourned, and the powers that be within the city walls exited leaving only the hot-shot 30 something in the presence of the Mayor himself.

“You’re making a mistake, sir.”

“Am I, Mr. Hatfield? Am I wrong in not declaring a section of this city a warzone? I will not write off these people, and I will die before I see a tank rolling down my streets.”

“You have no idea, Mr. Mayor”

-----

”THERE ARE NO MASKS IN WAR…”

Fires burn, consuming fuel and leaving nothing but ash, much like the anger that drives one man; he’s the culmination of the ignorance seemingly given to this place by outsiders. He is the one known as Zero, the embodiment of the Bathroom, the one voice of change within the newly constructed concrete walls surrounding it.

He screams about the injustice, and compares the current political system to those of Rome and Germany during the heights of their empires. He says that the people will be heard, and eventually topple the system that threatens to crush them.

What the young man doesn’t realize is that he is soon to become one with his chosen moniker.

Scarlet beams lance down from the heavens, and sections of pavement crack and crater. Vagrants are flung from their positions as rubbish is swept from the gutters. And a man clad in black armour touches down in the middle of the street, oblivious to the rocks and other such projectiles flung at him from Zero’s followers.

He strides forward and shoves the offensive young man from his makeshift podium. His eyes burning like twin embers.

Just as a steel-plated hand reaches out for the activist’s neck the man is struck from the side by a hand-held Stinger missile launcher. Lifting him from his feet and slamming him into a brick wall. Blood courses down the left side of his armour.

Then rocket powered grenades launch over the concrete, exploding and jettisoning tear gas throughout the crowd, flash-bangs follow to further disorient them.

More black-clad intruders crawl over the separating wall, as red ants emerge from a disturbed hill.

As the gunfire opens, tearing live bodies to pieces as if they were nothing but rotten fruit. Everlast’s ‘What It’s Like’ begins to play in the mind of the armoured man as the bloodshed continues, screaming almost seems muted in his ears due to the song’s potency. He slips into unconsciousness as the intruders drag him and his prey away, and his nightmare begins again.

The street is now taken by the ghosts of those slaughtered. The power of the few upsetting that of the many.

A young girl rushes to the side of her mother.

A silhouetted figure against the blood red sky.

Another chapter in the life of the lost.

-----

“Mr. Reed, I’d like a progress report on the patient”

“The suit sustained minimal damage, but the impact of the Stinger jarred the patient unconscious, I suggest we upgrade the suit to take hand-helds into account. Other than that he is adjusting well to the virus, although he should be left quarantined for another 36 hours before we attempt to undergo anymore therapy.”

“I want him fully operational within the week”

“We can’t afford to rush the treatment, sir; if we do we run the risk of subconscious memories resurfacing, and the planted persona replaced by his true identity once more.”

“Very well, and the peasant?”

“We’ve extracted as much as we can from him.”

Even though muddied, the man in the opposite room still held coherent thought, his mind currently centered on the burning within his veins, the virus taking hold and changing him from within, already 95% of his skin had changed from a traditional caucasian colour, to a coal black, accented by the fiery red coursing down the divisions of his muscles like embers. The doctors and scientists surrounding him covered from head to toe in white radiation suits, as if to protect themselves from some form of unseen enemy given off by the man in black.

In fact this is true, as he holds the ability to control and absorb energy of all kinds, including the small jolts of electricity given off in routine brain activity. The downside of this power, is that he must be completely segregated from human touch, as he has no power over this gift.

The only thing countering this ability would be the shielded electronics within the facility, and the millimeters of protective garments between the technicians and the subject. Millimeters from life, and certain death

“How long will the conditioning last this time, Mr. Reed?”

“We’ve explained to you before, it all depends on the strength and willpower of the subject. And in this case, using a former Legionnaire was probably an ill choice, considering he seems to be above average in both, but it seems the infection is running its course and dropping his power levels, so he’ll be a bit more manageable. You’ll have to give my regards to those in the BioChem Division, they did an excellent job on him.

“When the disease has finished, his flight, creation, and strength levels will have decreased dramatically, while his energy absorption and manipulation will escalate tenfold.” The scientist droned. Hatfield made a note to have the man shot when the process was completed, six months of this had gone far beyond his patience, but the cold decisive man that he is, Geoffery slid it into the back of his mind, smiling cruelly as he pondered the end to the trite man’s life.

Even through the soundproof chambers of the building, Hatfield could feel the power of the storm building, and exploding upon the city with all the strength Mother Nature could muster. He felt the waves crash, and inside, he felt at peace. Peace in destruction, glory in pain.

“If there are any updates on the patient’s status, I’ll be in my office.”

While walking the corridors of the sterile facility, Geoffery noticed the storm growing again. That’s when the lights flickered and died.

-----

The noise had stopped.

The propaganda, the conditioning, everything; it had just stopped.

Scientists, the brightest in their field, reduced to stumbling children. Their tasks halted by the power outage, the long seconds involved in switching the entire facility from a land-line to a self-supplied power source.

That is when he returned to complete consciousness. Groggy, dazed, and angry, the patient formerly known as Derek Foreman rose to his full height, tore the IV needle from his arm, and the rest of the apparatus from his body.

That’s when the light returned, and stunned doctors realized what they were in for.

Three large armed guards entered the room, only to fall to the floor stone dead, doctors and technicians suddenly becoming masses of torched flesh. Reed screamed into the receiver of his security direct line. Response time from the Security centre was normally timed at 3 minutes, he prayed they could push the envelope.

The door of the lab room lay shattered on the hall floor as the patient ran between rooms in search of anything that may aid him. Specifically the ebony suit that would help him in escaping, with the loss of his strength, he felt vulnerable, alone, and very afraid. There was only one thing to keep him running, the feral instinct that normally lies dormant within most humans.

He burst through the doors to the large, well furnished office to find his objective. Walking slowly towards it, the man outstretched an arm.

The armour sprung to life, smashing the young man to the floor with a solid right cross.

“Who the hell do you think to are!?” barked Geoffery Hatfield.

A red lance shot across the room, sending the director into a large bookcase, toppling it atop of him.

Instinct.

Keep breathing, Derek.

Derek?

The case began to glow red, then darted over Derek’s head and across the room, to be reduced to toothpicks as it smashed into the covered concrete walls of the bunker.

Black covered operatives poured into the room silently.

Guns raised, triggers squeezed.

From the distance, a normal man would’ve been perforated.

But they aren’t dealing with a normal man.

Instinct.

A swirling mass of raw energy surrounded the ‘captive’, and lead melted on contact.

20 guerrilla style assailants, 1 metahuman.

Blood spatters up the tapestry, the lush fabric soaked in it.

Footsteps in the liquid, changing from human to machine.

Rolling thunder.

Crashing lightning.

The floor littered with bodies, the door to a high-tech government facility blown open.

This is the first time I’ve really felt the rain.

Even through I’m not sure who I am.

Aside from humanity’s exile.



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