S1, 02 Spies League: Recruitment (January 30, 2018)

It was getting towards evening, the shadows were stretching along the dock area as a gang shouted from inside a warehouse. The doors of the warehouse were open and if you were to look inside you’d be surprised to see that the shouting gang had the Crimson Crusader surrounded. Their leader, Wendrick Boitz, shouted from atop a balcony/staircase which lead to what might have been an office at one point. “What’re ye waitin’ fore? GET ‘EM!”

The horde of thugs didn’t seem to need more prompting as they charged, full in force to center. The Crusader cut five down with his blade. The ferocity and speed of this first defense seemed to discourage the vermin, who began to back off slightly. “You buffoons! Won’t ye just take ‘em? Or d’ye need me to come down there meself?” Boss Boitz probed grinding his teeth so their dust flew with his spit. The horde seemed to mull this offer over for a short time till Boitz feigned walking down the stairs. They panicked and chose to come back at a charge rather than meet their leader’s wrath. The Crusader Jumped onto a thug’s shoulders and flipped him bodily forward in a three-hundred sixty degree spin, landing the villain on his back. The Crusader grabbed the thug by the arms and swung him around to build momentum before he threw him into the mob, clearing a path. Taking said path, he darted down one of the aisles in the warehouse, the horde following suit. He ducked in and out of the aisles, running the horde in circles. Then he ran down the wrong aisle. It was a dead end. He turned to see the horde blocking his exit. He began laughing at his own mistake. His laugh was menacing and scornful. The Crusader raised his hands in a mock invitation, “Come and get me ye ruffians!”

The invitation was too good to pass up, they had him cornered and outnumbered. They advanced eager to capture their foe. When they came only three yards from him, he brought his hands together in a clap. At first nothing happened as the horde slowed their pace cautiously, but then the stacks of crates began to shake. The horde’s confusion turned to horror as those closest their adversary were crushed by tumbling crates. The remaining hordemen ran as the wooden boxes cascaded behind them like the waters of the red sea on Pharaoh’s chariots. They retreated to the central area where they began, greatly diminished in number. The Crusader fell from the ceiling, blocking their path. At the petition of their leader and the loss of their comrades, they charged en masse, each man vying for the killing blow. This time the Crusader outstretched his hands and began singing a little song. Fire jettisoned from in front of his palms, incinerating the majority of the thugs.

(English words included in song in brackets [] because I have to pay to make new words in the Collective language. I also substituted “for” with the word for “to” and “Thousand” with the words for “all” and “(all) full” for the same reason.)

“An’kl [Lord], uin an’kl [burns] l’ue raf.
Nud’ar [burns] [with] yu fort'tue warr si [a] illn ill’ana [suns]!
Nud’ar [with] shus [unmatched] [shall] ri’tooma yu oirja si uin enkaa-Ahhh, Aaagh!”

By the end of his half-sung song, only about a half a dozen thugs were left staring at the ashes of the others as well as staring at the Crusader himself, who lay on the ground writhing and screaming in pain. These street hardened thugs were already weary of the Crimson Crusader, but to say they were terrified at this moment would be an understatement in the extreme. They were frozen with fear, incapacitated by the sheer volume of the Crusader’s cry. This was not the scream of a middle aged man, as the Crusader had to be, but the agonized, unholy wailing of some ancient creature which has seen and felt more pain than the planet Tolterros.

The Crusader had halted his assault abruptly…

… As the world exploded. A sharp, disorientating and painful ringing infected his ears. The noise grew louder and louder until it was unbearable. The deafening sound echoed in his mind, and through his mind’s eye he was taken to another place. There he lay on the floor, but observed there being several others on the floor as well. He was in some sort of hangar somewhere. The design looked vaguely familiar, though he could not place it. At least not now, with as much pain as was coursing through his very being. In his line of sight stood a rather large robot who’d rent the head from an unfortunate cyborg, then it discarded the pieces as if it were no longer interesting. Something about the automaton seemed familiar, yes, he’d seen those same glowing eyes in his past, and the memory seared inside of him as though he’d swallowed a burning coal. Ap’kajli had only enough strength to helplessly look around, unable to do anything within his vision to hinder the droid’s escape. As the ringing continued without any signs of presently letting up, he thought he would have favored to be tortured to death as slowly and as painfully as possible. Nothing could be worse than the pain he was feeling. The noise was so loud and so incredibly high in pitch that it became a struggle to stay conscience. His mind slipped from that scene back to the warehouse. He saw the remaining thugs closing in on him and heard Boss Boitz’s voice softly echo,”Git ‘em, the Imperium will prob’ly… Shiny penny fo…” His voice began to fade away as unconsciousness tugged at Ap’kajli’s mind. His vision went fuzzy and even pressing his hands against his ears did not help. Unconsciousness was enticing, and Ap’kajli welcomed the idea even if it only meant the ringing would stop. His sight slowly drifted into darkness, his old friend…

Flickering red lights illuminated a black corridor, casting long, strange shadows in all directions. One of said shadows began growing and changing, shifting unnaturally in the passage to form what can only be described as terrible. It held the shape of a man, but much larger than a man. Its presence brought cold and the sickening stench of death. To use any word other than “It” would do it no justice, for it was the Dread Deja the Inexorable, the Irresistible; Death itself feared the day when he would have to lead it to the grave. That might have been how it had survived centuries on end in this world and in the dream world. It had sensed something it hadn’t felt for over a millennia, a sense of failure. It glided down the corridor till it reached a set of doors, larger than the first gate. It forced the gargantuan doors open and came into a great hall where sat on a throne a great being; a red cloud of pure evil that wore only a broken red mask where one might have placed its head. The mask turned, its voices were rich and guttural, and it spoke in a tongue which was like the crack and boom of rolling thunder as it addressed its servant.

“Lat nauk-avurn wiavh avidinguk moukav julpleaukanav, jiak diukavinguiukh, o greaav Deja- uko don’av peukavas lat'r maukavas wiavh avhe maavavas. Jiak ukhall avake aavavenavion ro iav auk ukurpak auk jiak avook aavavenavion ro avhe nauk-ukav ro avhem, agh auk ukurpak auk jiak raiukun lat'r porandor avhrough lat. vacaave mausan preukence uknake.”

“aav lat'r urdan, mausan goth.”

With that, Deja bowed solemnly and turned to leave the hall, and the presence of the being who even caused it, the great Deja, to tremble in fear. It was clear what it had to do, and it set about its work promptly…

It was on the haunt…

January 19, 2098

The Crusader woke with a splitting headache. He sat up on what he assumed was a sort of hospital bed. He lifted his hand to his head, wincing at the pain that accompanied the motion. He looked around, the room was strewn with medicines, chemicals, and several paper notes and data pads. Bright white light flooded the small room. A voice warbled through the door, which looked to be made of glass. “Open block 195.”

A man dressed in white stepped inside and turned to the Crusader in an official fashion. “I say, you’re finally awake. You are a member of the Collective, correct?”

The Crusader nodded, holding his head with one hand. The man seemed pleased. “Perhaps you can help us further, I’m Doctor Thiwize.”

“Listen, I don’t even know where I am, or why I’m here. And what do you mean finally awake?”

The doctor thought on this a moment. “You are in a top secret IIA holding cell. We received a transmission that a local group of pirates wanted to exchange you for a large sum of currency, at the time they deserved pay for capturing you. You’ve been in a comatose state for 37 days now.”

“So are you holding me against my will?”

“Not if you’re willing to work with us.”

“What makes you think I’ll help you?” He said with a weak smile’ the pain was becoming bearable, but it was still pain.

The man grinned, “We took the liberty to study briefly into how you Collective tick, while you were in your coma. We were going to draw up papers for you to sign, but High Command said it'd be easier to just recruit you in with the spies' paperwork. We really would like more information and it’d be dreadfully kind if you consented to joining, and thus aiding our study.”

“Do I have other choices?”

The doctor folded his hands in front of himself. “Well of course -- we could always have you shot, but we won’t; so no, not really. It is absolutely imperative that you tell no one of this. The Archmage has recently announced the official breaking of all military pacts between the Collective and the Imperium. Which means-“

“Which means if they caught wind of the Imperium’s having imprisoned and tested one of their own, they would possibly throw their allegiance and support to Aurelia.”

(To be continued...)

C&C Appreciated, as always!