Restless at the Top

General Albrecht Darrow stood at the edge of a balcony on the tallest skyscraper in Irbit, king of all he surveyed.
Night wind sheared across the glass facets of his headquarters, but its cold couldn't bite him, only tug at the half-cape over his shoulder. All the warmth he needed, he drank through his dark eyes from the city lights below. Low beams and tail lights snaked along highways like glittering scales of blue and red, factories churned out smoke with a fiery tinge, and the homes of loyal subjects glowed as if candles sat in every window. An entire world at work, at his behest.
The UNSC barely noticed when it lost this world, when a man who'd served the URF from its start was installed as governor. They were blind, too large and bureaucratic to pay the colonies holding up their regime any mind. Not when the diseased organs of its corporate interests clamored to be the next one fed.
Not him, though. And not Watts, rest his soul. The old General had been a man of vision, for an empire ruled by its colonies, for its colonies. It was an honor to stand in his shoes, and see his dream fulfilled. He would turn Talitsa toward the production of an army which could bring their fight to the stars. Their war had been postponed, but just as a changed galaxy hadn't ended the UNSC, it hadn't ended their cause.
And yet, the creases of age set a scowl closer to permanence on Darrow's face. Something was out of place. Something always was, like a Tetris block nudged just enough to leave an empty square rows below a level top. One of those lights in the array below burned out of step, spiting him.
He could spot it. He knew he could, if he just looked hard enough...
Muffled voices from inside his office and scuffling feet disrupted his concentration. After all it'd taken him to climb to the top, he had little patience to spare, especially for men he paid to stand quietly and look intimidating. They barely cut mustard for the second, given his own towering frame put him head and shoulders above them.
When it didn't cease the moment after they should've realized their error, he wheeled and shouted, "I was not to be disturbed!"
Rather than the usual cowed apology for a misstep, one of his guards appeared—headfirst, hurtling through a window in a hail of shattered glass. He lay still where he landed among the shards.
He couldn't make out the attacker. The inside was too dark, black on a black figure. Darrow knew him, but still called, "Who goes there?"
The laughter came in defiance of the wind, carried on its gusts. Always laughter, always mockery. What did he always find so damn funny?
"Come out, Renegade." Darrow commanded.
"But I've already made myself so at home."
A second later, another body flew sideways through the inky gap. Darrow threw up his arms before realizing it was another of his unconscious guards. He batted the body aside—only to find the Renegade sprinting in its wake like a vengeful wraith.
Darrow swung his fist like a hammer. The augmentations made him fast, and stronger than steel, but the Renegade still danced aside. That he could so easily dodge the strength Darrow had spent so much to attain infuriated him. He rounded and followed up with a kick. The Renegade stepped back, a hair beyond his reach each time, but it drove him to the edge of the balcony.
Darrow wound up to leverage his full strength. Even the Renegade couldn't take such punishment head-on, and the precipice left him with no options. Darrow leaned in, expecting to feel splitting flesh and breaking bone.
Nothing. The fool had leaped into empty air and fallen.
And then steely hands closed on Darrow's wrists. And laughter.
Darrow gasped. The Renegade floated in open air, hovering beyond the edge of the balcony. Before he could draw back, the Renegade yanked, and Darrow was suddenly kicking helplessly over the howling void himself.
He looked up in terror at the black visor. The Renegade, Darrow's lifeline in his hands, spoke through buzzing helmet speakers. "We haven't forgotten you. I'm just the beginning."
The stars above him began to fall. Not stars, Darrow realized, shells. Each brilliant point plummeted to ground, cast by UNSC cruisers invisible in orbit. When they landed, each swelled into a fireball consuming entire blocks, then winked out into permanent darkness.
"No..."
Darrow could only watch, terror's grip outstripping his superhuman strength, as Irbit, his accomplishments, burned in the dark. Then the Renegade's grip disappeared, and he dropped.
"NO!"
He tumbled backward, felt his shoulders strike—
----
His bed rushed up to meet his back, pressing the cold sweat on his body into the sheets. Darrow gasped, his unconscious shout having stolen the breath from his lungs. He coughed and sucked in air, throwing off sheets as he rolled out of bed.
A light came on, and the door to his room opened.
"General?" came a hesitant voice. Britt leaned cautiously around its frame.
"I'm fine," Darrow growled, finding his feet. "Assemble your staff and call Turiv or whoever runs the Syndicate today. This Renegade problem has gone on far too long. I want it solved, now."
"Yessir." Britt scurried away. Leaving Darrow, giant as he was, alone in the vastness of the grand chamber he'd made for himself.
Category:The Weekly