Marcus lowered his SCAR rifle and grabbed the handrail beside him, bracing himself against a strengthening front of wind shear. The Starwood tower was over three hundred meters tall, and intense gusts at such a height were to be expected. There had been a brief mention of them in the mission outline, but Marcus hadn’t physically prepared himself for how disruptive they’d be. He glanced behind him, checking to see how his comrades were faring. The closest member of the team was Jayce Wilder. Similarly, to Scarecrow, the Admiral had shored himself up against the railing, ducking low to remain out of the line of sight of the enemy.
A deafening crack tore through the sky, forcing Marcus to flinch and duck low. The earsplitting sound was loud enough to shatter glass and came from somewhere in the sky above. Marcus squinted upward. It was hard to miss the bright fireball that now lit up the night sky. Their Thunderhawk transport had been hit by anti-air munitions. The hardy dropship was still in flight, but her port engine was ablaze, and she was listing severely to one side. A smattering of scorched debris cascaded out around her, leaving faint smoking trails as they spiraled downward. Her remaining engine whined with increasing strain as her pilot fought to keep her level. Her troop cables still dangled from her open hatches, although by now all her personnel had disembarked. A team of gunners had set up sponsons out of both side doors and were raining fire down into the Starwood’s rooftops.
A second rocket propelled projectile tore upward from some unseen source on the other side of the building. The explosive punched into the prow of the ailing dropship, exploding in a fresh ejection of flames and wreckage. Still, the Thunderhawk persevered, although thick columns of inky black ochre were spilling from almost every opening. Her pilot was now backing her off; attempting to gain height whilst also putting distance between his stricken ship and the hot zone. He was unable to climb, however, as all around the Thunderhawk, native LACPD aircars and Patriot class light fighters had gathered; a swarm of flashing blue and red lights and screaming sirens. A few of the aircars were blocking the Thunderhawk, calling to her with loudspeakers.
“Move your vehicle away from the building!” The synthesized voice was loud enough to be heard over the roaring gunfire and howling winds.
Crippled from the attacking pirates, and under the threat of renewed violence from the local police, the Thunderhawk dropship swung away and made for a gap between two skyscrapers across the block. The ship was streaming fire and smoke as it fell away, flanked by the trailing police aircars.
Marcus returned his attention to the problem they faced. The maintenance gangway they had dropped onto was a relatively linear path around the top of the hotel tower. There was seemingly only one way in and out of the building, and it was currently well guarded by pirate forces. Marcus had counted only two, maybe three pirates inside the threshold of the doorway, but their position was far superior to that of the gathered Freedom Fighters. Marcus and his comrades were pinned.
Scarecrow turned to Robert Merlow, who was crouched behind an exterior vent across the walkway, slightly further ahead.
“We need to get in behind them somehow,” He called across the din of the racing winds.
Merlow had pressed his shoulder up against the vent and was peering ahead at the target. He briefly looked back at Scarecrow.
“I could possibly make it around, but those glass panes don’t look like they’d hold much weight for long.” The Fleet Admiral nodded across to the adjacent string of penthouse lightbox rooftops. The array of glass windows formed open skylights for the immaculate Starwood penthouse suites, offering a clear and beautiful view of the night sky for any wealthy residents. What they didn’t offer was secure footing for a troop of Freedom Fighter marines.
“Doesn’t look secure,” Marcus shook his head.
Without turning, Merlow continued, “I’ll be fast. Get around them, maybe above them.”
He turned around to look back at Scarecrow, “But you need to hold their attention, I’ll be wide open out there.”
Marcus gritted his teeth and nodded, bringing his SCAR up to his chest.
“Eyes on me,” Marcus called out to the others, “Covering fire on my mark.”
He gave Merlow the nod.
Robert Merlow lay down his own SCAR, propping it against the vent he was using for cover. He then took a deep breath and unsheathed his katana from the scabbard at his hip.
He gave Marcus a quick smile, “Relax, brother. This is what I live for.”
Sayne Jaydn burst into the large auditorium that took up most of the Starwood tower’s seventy second floor, gripping his assault carbine tightly in his hands.
“Scarman, where the fuck are you?” His voice boomed as he stood at the edge of the wide theatre.
The large space was oddly quiet, except for a couple of pirates at the windows, levelling weapons out at the attacking Freedom Fighters. Two of them had long barrel rifles and were steadily picking targets with their scopes. However, the third had a plasma rifle, and was calling out triumphantly whilst firing aimlessly from the hip. The entire form seemed more for show than it did actual combat effectiveness.
Sayne strode purposefully down the central aisle toward the lectern. Before the Black Flag had seized the building, the room had been set up for some kind of business presentation. The rows of seats were scattered with jackets, briefcases, and backpacks, and the screen behind the lectern was idly cycling through a series of charts and graphs. The people who had been gathered in the room when the pirates arrived had been quickly sent scuttling down the stairwell, toward the lower levels.
“Scarman!?” Sayne shouted again. This time, the gathered Black Flag pirates turned their attention to him. He eyed them all with distaste. “Where is he!?”
The nearest, the man with the plasma rifle, turned his body to face Sayne. “Relax. He’s close by.”
Sayne bit his tongue. These Black Flag Corsairs were insufferable, arrogant. Far too cocky.
“We don’t have time to mess around. This fight will be over before you know it. The local armed forces aren’t going to stand idly by whilst one of the cities’ most central towers is torn up by the weapons fire of two unknown factions.”
The Black Flag pirate stood impassively. He clearly didn’t care about the plan. He was here to revel in blood.
Sayne took a deep breath and calmed his nerves. He asked again, “Where is Tyrant Scarman?”
The clattering of a door at the end of the theatre space prevented the Black Flag pirate from answering. Sayne looked across to see the Black Flag Brawler Pete Connors approaching, dragging a struggling young girl behind him as he came. Connors was in bad shape. He was missing his right hand, after he had been blasted off previously during his and Tyrant Scarman’s escape from the Freedom Fighter flagship Tuatha de Danaan. Sayne paused as he saw the girl. Connor had grabbed her by the wrists in his only remaining hand and was giving her little consideration as he towed her along the aisle.
“The girl…” He muttered as Connors approached. Until now, he hadn’t given her much thought. He had subconsciously categorised her as an unfortunate but necessary casualty as he finally realized his years-long campaign of vengeance. However, a strange sensation struck him as he saw her in person for the first time since he had bombed the Scarman residence. Was that… remorse? She was real. Should she survive, this girl would reel from the effects of these days for years to come. Sayne closed his eyes as unpleasant memories arose from the darkest corners of his mind.
The sound of Connors’ voice snapped him out of it, “Tyrant Scarman is on the floor above. He has the woman, Victoria Wade.”
Sayne nodded, now back in the moment. “Yes, good. Scarecrow will come for her. What are your orders, Connors?”
The broad, stoic pirate remained almost motionless as he replied, “My Tyrant has ordered me to keep the girl secure; a bargaining chip, should he need it.”
Sayne was impressed by him. The man had lost his entire hand and wrist only hours before, and somehow remained completely composed. “Yes- But come with me. I may have need of you, and the girl.”
With that, Sayne broke away from Connors and made for the nearest staircase that would take him up to the next level. Connors followed, still dragging Heather Scarman behind him. The eight-year-old whimpered as she was dragged in a new direction, her face flushed and tear-stained. The Black Flag pirate with the plasma rifle watched them go, a sneer on his face. As soon as they had left, he returned his attention to the window, picked a target, and opened fire.
Forty-Ninth Street, Los Angeles Capital,
Three blocks from the Starwood Hotel
The eight-wheeler freight vehicle shuddered uncomfortably as Seras Victoria braked hard ahead of the police blockade. The large road-bound vehicle grumbled to a halt, some of its wheels locking in the process of deceleration. The huge tyres scored scattered lines of burned rubber into the road surface. To the rear of the cab, Harada Chie grimace in pain, clutching at her ribs. Lucas Anderson leaned toward her, placing a reassuring hand over her shoulders. “Easy, easy,”
Seras gritted her teeth as she took in the sight before her. As they had discovered at nearly every turn, all the roads leading into downtown LA Capital had now been effectively blockaded. They had tried several approaches, but each time they had been turned away by local law enforcement. From this route, she could see the scarred entrance to the Starwood Hotel, some three or four blocks further up the street. Masses of armed law enforcement were teeming around the entryway. The whole place had been fully locked down and likely evacuated. Seras had no doubt that whatever elite Liberty special ops forces this dimension had to offer would be making their way up the tower, floor by floor.
There were at least ten native LACPD officers at the blockade, along with a couple of armoured aircars and a string of temporary barriers. Blue and amber lights flashed in scattered groups, and several of the officers were carrying what appeared to be some kind of high-energy laser rifles. Two of them approached the eight-wheeler as Seras opened the door and stepped down to the street.
“A lockdown is in effect in this area, I’m afraid you can’t-” The lead officer stopped, a puzzled expression on his face. “Ma’am?”
Dressed in her full combat gear as she was, Seras certainly did not look like a haulage truck operator. The officer’s hand slowly travelled down towards the pistol in his hip holster. Seras raised her arms, defensively.
“Officer,” She began, “We need access to the hotel. A member of my team is ahead of me, and she needs backup.”
“What unit is that?” The officer thumbed the catch on his holster. “I don’t recognise your colours.”
“Stand back!” Another officer had fanned around to the side, and was addressing Lucas Anderson, who had clambered down to the street to stand beside Seras. “No sudden movements.”
Anderson raised his arms to match Seras as he gently completed his descent down to the ground.
“We can’t fight them,” Lucas muttered quietly to Seras, “There’s way too many of them, and Chie’s injuries from the fall are more severe than we thought.”
The lead officer opened his comms, presumably to a command unit somewhere nearby. “Bravo ten-four, I’ve got a freight truck at blockade seven being driven by some… unknowns. One of their uniforms is a close match to that of the woman arrested at the base of the tower.”
“Shit,” Seras turned around to look at Lucas, “Miyu?”
Anderson shrugged, concern in his eyes, “Maybe?”
“What was that?” The lead officer demanded as he drew his pistol, “Speak up.”
“Please,” Seras emphasised her submissive posture, “We mean you no harm. We are trying to contain what’s happening here.”
The officer brought his pistol up and aimed it direct at Seras, “Ma’am, if you’re involved in this, I have no choice but to arrest you here and now.”
Seras took a half-step forward, “I have no time to explain this, but we have to get through- We might be able to stop this bloodshed.”
“I don’t think so,” The officer looked to one of his team. The other armed officers had encircled the truck and were aiming their weapons. “Cuff them.”
Lucas looked up despairingly at the Starwood Hotel as a couple of native LACPD approached with sets of energy-binders. The tower was partially blocked by the other skyscrapers surrounding it, but Lucas could clearly see evidence of a major battle taking place. Much of the topmost levels were surrounded in a hazy of faint whisps of black smoke, the telltale signs of budding fires. Scores of native law enforcement vehicles circled the tower, and the faint streamers and beams of light that signified gunfire were alarmingly evident.
“You all need to come with me,” The police officer spoke evenly and clearly, looking up to the truck where the pale face of Harada Chie peered back out at him.
Lucas and Seras looked at each other in defeat. There were hundreds of law enforcement personnel now surrounding the hotel. To enter non-lethal combat against so many promised certain defeat, even for two highly trained HiME agents and a Freedom Fighters Admiral. In unison, they lowered their defences and allowed the officers to apply the energy-binders. There was little they could do to help their comrades. They were out of the fight.
Victoria crawled backwards along the floor, using only her elbows, her backside, and her heels. Her wrists and ankles had been rebound more securely by tough engineering tape after her earlier loosening. The maniacal Tyrant Marcus Scarman was cackling with glee as he slowly followed her. Unable to run, all she could do was desperately push herself away from him. Even if she hadn’t been bound, there was nowhere to go.
Tyrant Scarman had dragged Victoria into a conference room adjacent to the other commercial spaces on floor 73. This small chamber had been a meeting room immediately prior to the Black Flag takeover, and evidence of recent use was plain to see. The single computer and its array of holographic projectors were still active, and a mug of gently steaming coffee sat on one of the tabletops. Despite this, there was no one else present, and Tyrant Scarman had warned off any of his Black Flag pirates.
As they had entered, the Tyrant had thrown her roughly into a grouped collection of chairs and tables, where she had painfully struck her thigh. A deep pain had set in, although she believed it to be a matter of bruised tissue, and thankfully not a break. Still, she hadn’t yet been able to put any weight on it to test it. She looked up at the mad Tyrant, her mind frantically trying to pull some kind of plan together. His eyes gave her nothing but uncontrolled rage and a deeply disturbing suggestion of lust and desire. On the verge of panic, she pushed herself further away from him, knocking over another chair as she moved.
“K- Keep back!” She yelled, fruitlessly.
The Tyrant stopped at one of the conference tables and placed one booted foot onto the edge of an overturned chair. He slowly reached down inside the boot and drew a long, thick-bladed combat knife. Victoria swallowed, hard. She wasn’t wearing any of her marine armour. The Tyrant had seemingly removed everything during their descent down from the Danaan in the stolen Thunderhawk. Her flak jacket, pauldrons, groin, and all other armour pieces were gone. All she now wore were her black underlayer fatigues and her heavy-duty combat boots. Even her fingerless gloves and neck-snood were gone.
Tyrant Scarman grinned at her as he let the discoloured light from the overhead fluorescent tubes play on the metal of his blade.
“Careful,” His voice was a near whisper, “This one’s sharp.”
Victoria tried to back away further, but she had now reached the far side of the room.
Through gritted teeth, Victoria steeled herself, “Do your worst. Whatever you do to me, he’ll do ten times worse to you!”
The Tyrant laughed and said nothing as he lowered the blade and grabbed the edge of one of the tables. He then proceeded to drag the table back across the room toward the doorway. The legs produced and awful screeching sound as they were dragged across the tiled flooring. Eventually, the rending sound ended as Tyrant Scarman wedged the table up against the door. Victoria watched him, holding her breath. The obstacle wouldn’t make an escape impossible, but it certainly compounded the issue.
Tyrant Scarman then turned and made his way back across the room toward her. She closed her eyes and braced herself, sensing him draw closer. She then felt a grappling at her ankles, and suddenly, the tape that bound her fell away. She opened her eyes and looked on in disbelief. However, any hope she had quickly drained away as she found herself directly faced with the still leering Tyrant. He was now knelt before her and had cut the tape to free her feet.
“There you go, better for you…” He growled, flicking the knife over in his hand so that the blade was facing downward.
In one devastatingly swift movement, the Tyrant plunged the knife down, aiming for Victoria’s left shin bone. She managed to move her leg to the side, but only just. The blade nicked the side of her calf, cutting cleanly through her combat fatigues and slicing through flesh. Victoria howled in pain and recoiled away. But it didn’t take her long to rally. Her legs were now free; a significant improvement. She coiled her right leg and pushed the Tyrant away. She then sprung to her feet, as best she could. Pain lanced throughout her legs, from the mixture of the bruising of her thigh and the cut to her left calf were almost debilitating. Wincing, she limped around the back of the conference tables, positioning them between herself and the Tyrant. She then began to twist and pull at the tape binding her wrists. She moved her hands up to her face and sunk her teeth into the binding roll. The taste and texture were horrible; bitter and sticky.
The Tyrant laughed again as he grabbed the first table flung it aside. It crashed to Victoria’s right with a clatter, sending chairs sprawling in every direction. The Tyrant grabbed another table and slid it away to the Victoria’s left. It shrieked and groaned as its legs scraped along the floor before it finally came to a halt.
“Go on,” The Tyrant leered. “Make a break for it. See how far you get.”
Victoria lowered her arms, spitting away the disgusting taste of the tape. There was no way she’d be able to free herself in time. Instead, she readied herself for the fight.
The elevator doors chimed and opened, and Kurt Manning stepped carefully onto the seventy second floor. He grimaced as he put weight on his left leg, a sharp pain from the bullet wound he had taken at ground level lancing across his body. By now, his entire leg was covered in a slick of blood. He had done his best to stem the bleeding, removing his much-loved leather coat and using the belt as a torniquet. It was holding, for now, but a thick black ooze was forming around the edges of the taught leather. The bullet had punched clean through, but Kurt suspected an artery had been struck, given the volume and colour of the blood. He didn’t have much time.
The space before him was relatively peaceful; the concourse at the elevator access point was devoid of any activity. Kurt readied his already loaded shotguns and moved cautiously forwards, his injury giving him a slight limp. The long corridor travelled in only one direction, as the elevator shafts were toward the front of the building. Behind Kurt, a wide panoramic window looked out toward the opposite row of skyscrapers. Far down below, the flashing blue and red lights of the local law enforcement seemed almost unreal.
Kurt advanced along the wide corridor, flanked by the doors of the other elevator shafts. At the end, an unoccupied desk sat inconspicuously awaiting the arrival of businesspeople and hotel guests. The elevator access area had hardly been touched at all by the chaos that surrounded the tower. From here, it was easy to imagine a situation where things were normal, as if a horde of pirates hadn’t descended on the city and hijacked the building. Kurt made his way past the desk and bore to the left, following the sound of muted voices.
Approaching the large set of double wooden doors, Kurt hefted his twin plasma shotguns; one in each hand. Step by step, he advanced, listening intently as he moved. He could make out two muffled voices, likely just on the other side of the door.
“The Tyrant has gone further upstairs; he had that red-haired woman with him.” The first voice spoke in a low tone.
“The man’s a lunatic. He’s gone further and further off the rails ever since he dragged us here. It might be time someone else took charge.” The second responded, taking a little less care in the masking of their voice.
“Maybe you’re right,” The first voice replied, “But who’s gonna’ take him on? Certainly not me. And not Raphael or Hawkins, those two are whipped.”
Kurt frowned. He spoke evenly so that his voice would be heard through the doors. “Shame. It’s a nice idea guys, it really is, but we don’t have time to orchestrate a coup from within.”
He then aimed his two shotguns at an approximation of the two Black Flag pirates through the door and unleashed furious plasma. The blat-blat of the shotguns shattered the relative peace, white-hot plasma shrapnel ripping the door panels to pieces and instantly lighting the dry wood on fire. Howls of pain sounded from beyond the threshold. Kurt smiled. Wallbang.
Gathering his courage and pushing the pain from his leg down as far as it would go, Kurt took a deep breath and lifted his right boot to the doors. His powerful kick brought the pair of them crashing open with a shower of flaming splinters. Kurt hammered his shotguns as he moved. As he stepped through the splintered doorway, he scanned for the next most dangerous targets. The room beyond had fallen into chaos, the gathered members of the Black Flag Corsairs scrambling for their weapons, or for better defensive positions. Kurt picked the next two nearest targets and opened fire.
Blat-blat. Blat-blat.
His shotguns screamed as they spat fire.
The first two Black Flag fell, then two more, and two more. Kurt barrelled into the room, catching the gathered pirates off guard. He hammered his guns between each devastating round of fire, swinging the shotguns in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree wheel in the palms of his hands. The room was a large auditorium of some kind, its walls lined with inspirational quotes and the profile images of various company founders and accomplished heads of department. The eyes of the profile images stared sightlessly as the furious exchange of weapons fire began.
Kurt made for the nearest row of chairs for cover, moving as quickly as he could. His blood iced as a sharp stabbing pain cursed up and down his left leg. He almost stumbled, but he made it to the chair just as the enemy rallied. Projectile weapons fire opened up on him, reigning a mind-shattering volley of bullets into the rows of chairs ahead of him. The auditorium seats were light protection at best, and Kurt found himself forced into moving along the line to keep ahead of the onslaught. Behind him, bullets punched through the chairs, carving them to pieces in a mist of shredded plastic and material fibres.
Kurt’s leg complained again as he reached the end of the row and he dropped to one knee. Looking up briefly, he saw one of the pirates off to his left. The woman ducked down low and raised a long-barrelled rifle of some kind. The weapon shrieked as a bolt of laser energy tore from its muzzle and ripped into the seating Kurt was using for cover. The back of the chair exploded in Kurt’s face, temporarily blinding him. Simultaneously, the shotgun in his right hand was wrenched from his grip. He swore and spat, lowering himself as far as he could for cover and wiping his eyes with his now free hand. He squinted off in the direction of his lost shotgun. The weapon had been struck directly by the laser blast and had been sent skittering across the floor. He could just about see it through the moisture buildup in his eyes. It was damaged beyond repair, buckled in the barrel, and gently smouldering out in the open. Unretrievable. Kurt shifted his remaining shotgun to his right hand and blinked several times to remove the dampness.
“Asshole! I liked that gun!” He growled as he broke cover and returned fire.
The final five stories of the Starwood Hotel were a myriad of steeply angled glass panes that tapered up to a point. Narrow platforms of reinforced steel supported the structure where the windowpanes levelled off, and tiered maintenance access walkways aligned with every even-numbered level. The outer shell of the building could be described as a glass ‘bubble’, albeit one made up of thousands of small vertical, horizontal, and diagonal panels of different shapes and sizes. High-capacity solar panels were scattered across the windowpanes that, when looked down upon, formed and impression of opening petals. The thin outer layer protected the balconies and frontages of the penthouse village from the strong winds, creating a calm environment within, through which the tenants and guests could enjoy an unrivalled view of the city. The bubble began where the vertical sides of the building ended, and sprouted up and over the penthouse village until it reached the point of the base of the lightning spire.
The Freedom Fighters had rushed their landing, as they had been under heavy fire from the pirates holding position in the topmost levels. The tier they had landed on offered only one entrance into the building: a maintenance access for window cleaning and panel repair, and the entrance was being blocked by a trio of Black Flag pirates. Using speed and momentum, Robert Merlow sprinted lightly along a line of tilted glass panels. To his right, a wide-open expanse sprawled out toward the opposite skyscrapers, and down toward the street far below. He quickly covered the ground between the position of his comrades and that of the enemy, leaping high above them on arrival. None of them saw him coming.
Merlow scythed down on them like a hot knife cutting through butter. He practically landed on top of the first, the keen blade of his katana sinking into the man’s collar. The cut was clean, swift, and deep, the blade coming to rest around the lower end of his ribcage. The expression on the pirate’s face was one of complete surprise and disbelief. With little fuss, Merlow neatly withdrew the blade. The man had passed before his body hit the floor. His two comrades barely had time to rally as Merlow set upon them. What followed was almost unfair. Neither of the pirates were able to bring their weapons to bear as Merlow neatly carved a path amongst them. Merlow took down the first with a horizontal strike at neck height. The second he knocked backwards with a blow from the weapon’s hilt, before running his blade through the man’s stomach. By the end, delicate arcs of blood lined the nearby glass panes and the interior walls of the maintenance corridor. Merlow came to a standstill and drew a handkerchief from somewhere on his belt. He wiped his blade clean and returned it to his scabbard. He then drew one of his rail pistols and looked back toward where Scarecrow and the others were still taking cover.
“The route is clear my friends,” He called, “Come, quickly!”
The final couple of tables parted as Tyrant Scarman flung them away with both arms. Victoria lowered herself, ducking and rolling to one side to avoid the torrent. The Tyrant lunged for her, his blade whipping through the air where she had once stood. Victoria skidded to a halt, knocking into a grouping of discarded tables. She had evaded his strike, but her body was wracked with pain from all the cuts and bruises she had sustained over the past ten minutes. The Tyrant was toying with her, that much was clear. None of his blows were intended to cause serious injury, although at the rate he was going, it would surely be 'death by a thousand cuts'. Victoria’s head pounded from where she had taken several knocks to the skull. Dried, encrusted blood had run down her forehead and filled her right eyebrow. A smattering of blood had also dried around her left nostril, and her jawbone ached on both sides. She still had her senses, for now. And some of her reflexes. She dodged again as the Tyrant shifted his weight and swung at her with another attack. This time she wasn’t quite fast enough, and the blade caught her just above the stomach. The keen edge cut through the fabric of her combat gear and sliced open another gash in her skin. She grimaced as she reeled away, staggering backwards and almost tripping over an upturned chair.
She tried again to loosen her hands; her gaze locked onto the savage monster that opposed her. Her wrists were now agonisingly raw as she tried desperately to free them from the tape. Since her previous breakout, the Tyrant had secured them much more tightly. The sharp, sticky plastic edges were biting into her skin and cutting off the flow of blood to her fingertips. With every swift movement, she felt a renewed buzz of pins-and-needles through her fingers and hands. And they were starting to take on an alarming shade of light blue.
Tyrant Scarman’s sinister grin was fixated on her. She still found the fact of his existence hard to believe, despite all these months of travelling through parallel dimensions. The face was that of the man she had come to love, although she hadn’t yet faced up to that fact within herself. Except this man, this face… It wasn’t Marcus. It was a twisted nightmare. This creature was evil wearing Marcus’ face.
The creature attacked again. Weary, Victoria was once again caught off guard. However, this time, the wound was more severe. She tried to duck away from the Tyrant, towards the wide line of windows that spilled out toward the row of opposite skyscrapers. Tyrant Scarman had lunged with the blade outstretched, beneath his hand. The knife sunk into her shoulder, deep. Almost to the hilt. Victoria crumpled mid effort and screamed in agony. She fell to the floor, knocking aside a trio of discarded chairs. The knife hilt protruded from her left shoulder, and an an alarming amount of blood started to run down toward the ground, soaking her already stained and tattered underlayer.
Tyrant Scarman stood over her. He had leg go of the knife as he had struck, allowing it to fall with Victoria. He looked down at her, as she glanced from him to the blade embedded in her flesh.
“Go on,” He coerced her, “Take it. Pull it out.”
Victoria’s breath was rapid. She could see the hilt clearly when she looked down to her left. She lifted her tied hands up and wrapped her fingers around it. The pain almost filled her completely, enough for her to instantly release her grip, open her eyes wide, and curl up into a ball. “Oh- God!”
The Tyrant knelt on one knee before her and rolled her onto her back. He avoided the blade protruding from just beside her left collar bone and gently caressed her face, wiping a strand of blood-matted strawberry blonde hair from over her eye.
“You are…” He whispered as he marvelled, “… the most beautiful…”
The door behind the Tyrant clattered with a heavy impact. Scarman turned to look just as it banged again. This time, the strike knocked loose the table that was blocking the entrance. The tabletop screeched as it was pushed along the floor. Sayne Jadyn stepped through the gap and his eyes locked onto the Tyrant.
“Scarman, what the fuck are you doing?” Sayne demanded, an almost incredulous tone in his voice. “Scarecrow and Merlow are here! Now!”
“They’ll get theirs,” Tyrant Scarman stood and turned to face Jadyn. “I’m making sure I get something else that’s owed to me.”
Sayne looked down to the near-broken form of Victoria Wade lying on the floor. She looked back at him, a pathetic, broken thing, devoid of any hope.
Jadyn looked back up at Scarman, “You’re a psychopath.”
The Tyrant snarled, “It takes one, Jadyn.”
“We’ve spent hours- days- pulling this plan together.” Sayne stepped in closer, walking toward the Tyrant, “And you’d jeopardise everything for this! You do realise that this is what put you here in the first place, don’t you? You killed this woman- her alternate self- because of Merlow!”
“Yes!” Scarman almost shouted, “Don’t you see! This is my chance to have it all back! Everything that bastard took from me! Mine again!”
“If you kill her again,” Sayne matched the Tyrant’s volume, “You’ll have no one to blame but yourself!”
“Don’t test me Jadyn,” the Tyrant took a menacing step forward.
“You’re a fool Tyrant Marcus Scarman.” Sayne smiled darkly, “Go rot in hell.”
At that point, Sayne knew there was nothing left in this. The Tyrant was too obsessed with Victoria to be trustworthy. Sayne must let his perverse fixation run its course, or put him down for good.
The rage in Tyrant Scarman’s eyes boiled over, but he remained still, puzzled, as Sayne raised a placating hand. Seemingly out of nowhere, Victoria broke free of the pair of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Sayne had watched her. She had been inching herself away from the Tyrant as Sayne held his attention. As soon as she had a clear line to the door, she made a break for it. Sayne stepped to one side, allowing her to pass.
The pain was unbearable, but there was nothing else she could do. Victoria cannonballed for the door, leaping across overturned chairs as she ran. She slipped through the door before the Tyrant had time to yell. Once outside in the wider auditorium space, Victoria began sprinting for a large set of double doors on the far side of the room. She was vaguely aware of another two people standing outside the door to the conference room, but she didn’t stop to check. She needed to put as much distance as she could between herself and that monstrous creature.
Sayne broke into a howling laughter as Tyrant Scarman charged after Victoria. “Careful Scarecrow, she’ll slip away.”
The Tyrant burst from the room and almost ran into Pete Connors, who was standing guard by the door. Connors’ only remaining hand held a tight grip on the arm of the young Scarman girl. Her red face was stained with fresh tears, although she had now learned to keep her whimpering to a minimum.
“Connors!” Tyrant Scarman boomed, “Victoria, where did she-”
Connors immediately pointed toward the set of double doors. Victoria disappeared through them as the Tyrant looked.
“With me!” He yelled, setting off after Victoria in a sprint.
Pete Connors took one look down at young Heather Scarman. He released his grip and fell into a sprint behind his Tyrant.
Sayne Jadyn exited the room behind them all, watching them go.
“Screw you Scarman,” He muttered under his breath, “I hope you find a slow and painful death. I’ll have my revenge; I don’t need you for it.”
Sayne looked down at the cowering form of Heather Scarman.
“You,” He put a steering hand on her shoulders, “Come with me.”
The Starwood Hotel’s penthouses were a small village unto themselves. Situated within the protective shell of the building’s reinforced glass cap, the penthouse village looked more like a scattered and asymmetrical rural town than the uppermost levels of a skyscraper, except made from smooth white concrete and steel and not centuries-old stone and terracotta. The suites resembled a bundle of homes, but they were still bound together by the common logic of the skyscraper. The final five stories of the building broke the village into logical sections, despite the irregularity of the layout. Each floor was essentially a ring, with the penthouses on the outside of the loop, facing outward. That left room for entertainment suites, gyms, bars and restaurants, and the elevator shafts in the middle.
The penthouses themselves were the peak of wealthy luxury. They were spacious, comfortable apartments that made use of natural light and broad, open spaces. Some of them spilled over more than one floor, adding to the irregularity of the section. Under normal conditions, they were the height of extravagance, a refuge for the wealthiest travelers and holidaymakers. However, since the Black Flag Corsairs had made them home, they had fallen to ruin. The pirates had taken up positions on balconies and through wide windows, setting up heavy weaponry and anti-air missile systems in an almost three-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc around the top of the tower. Their weapons had blown through walls and shattered glass, both internally and externally. Some of the panes of the outer glass cap had been completely destroyed, raining lethal shards down on the streets below. This had led to strong gusts of wind that rattled the walls of the penthouses, swept light furnishings from tabletops and surfaces, and created odd wailing and groaning sounds that droned throughout the penthouse complex.
At points, the village contacted the reinforced glass cap in the form of a bridge. These bridges provided essential access to the exterior maintenance decks. This was where Scarecrow’s party had made their way into the penthouses. The team from the Thunderhawk was an unusually high profile one; Admiral “Scarecrow” Scarman, the Freedom Fighters Fleet Admiral, Robert Merlow, Special Agent Thomas Serov, and Admiral Jayce Wilder, supported by a retinue of originally six but now down to five 1st Fleet Marines. It wasn’t regular protocol to have so many high-profile targets in one unit, but they had rushed to arms following the escape of Black Flag Tyrant Marcus Scarman from the Tuatha de Danaan in orbit and the escalation of events on the planet’s surface.
The party had by now fought the pirates throughout floor 78 and pushed their way down to floor 77. Scarecrow led the way, the butt of his SCAR pressed into his shoulder. The team of Freedom Fighters pressed forward through the penthouses, room by room, covering each other with military precision. Marcus’ breathing was long and controlled, regulating his oxygen and adrenaline levels. He had done this a thousand times, long before his days amongst the Admiralty.
As the party entered the inner circular route of floor 77, Marcus caught a glimpse of movement up ahead.
“Contact,” he said plainly, his voice clean and even, loud enough for everyone to hear. He followed his warning with a short burst of fire from his SCAR. The muzzle of the weapon lit up the corridor, and the inner wall several metres ahead of him exploded in a shower of sparks and shattered paneling.
The Freedom Fighters fanned out, nearly two thirds of them facing forwards whilst the remainder covered their rear. The leading members aimed their weapons at the point Scarecrow had tagged. Sighting down his own rifle, Thomas Serov also let off a short burst of fire, impacting the wall close to Scarecrow’s mark. Behind his line of fire, he could just make out the form of one of the pirates. She had pressed herself up against the wall and was rapidly backing off. Crack. Crack.
Merlow stepped across, ahead of Serov, firing his twin rail pistols as he moved. One of the high velocity projectiles punched into the wall ahead of the pirate but the second found its mark. The woman fell away from the wall with a howl, an ugly bullet wound in her gut.
“One down,” he said, lowering his second pistol to the injured woman on the ground, “Possibly more.”
Merlow executed the gut-shot pirate at range in a merciful coup de grace.
Scarecrow and Serov took point again, pushing forward to run down any more pirates. Short bursts from their rifles lit up the corridor, covering their companions as the whole party advanced. Their rounds shattered the wall paneling along the furthest visible edge of the circular passageway and punching holes in the plasterboard.
“Hold,” Marcus called, suddenly stopping. Serov paused next to him, casting a glance across.
“This isn’t right,” Marcus continued, they are pulling us into something.
“Good call,” Serov hunkered down, scanning the corridor ahead.
Behind them, Merlow and Wilder were close by, with two of the marines.
“Same as the last level,” Merlow said plainly, “We must check this place room by room. Our top priority is rescuing the native Scarman girl. They could be holding her anywhere here.”
They had painstakingly cleared the previous floor, pushing through each of the suites and central rooms in a methodical, by-the-book sweeping pattern. This floor had been no different. They had covered all the rooms within the central ring as they had come down the stairwell. All that was left was the penthouses facing outward, but that was typically where the pirates had dug themselves in.
“There,” Serov pointed toward one of the doors to the penthouse apartments. It was ajar, but the angle of the corridor inside the apartment in relation to their position made it impossible to see inside. However, if they had continued along in pursuit of the pirate, they would have blindly fallen into a clear and potential enemy line of sight through the door.
Marcus dropped to one knee and unclipped a grenade from his belt. “Flashbang.”
He pulled the pin and tossed the grenade in through the open door. It struck the interior wall running perpendicular to the ring corridor and disappeared out of sight. A dull crump followed in its wake.
“Move, move,” Scarcrow pushed himself forwards and descended on the door. A burst of rifle fire from behind him signaled Serov covering him as he moved.
Marcus’ fears were confirmed as he rounded the corner. He discovered the trap that had been set for them. A high-energy rotolaser nest had been set up a few metres back inside the doorway. It would have no doubt melted half of the squad had they stumbled into it. It’s two operatives had stumbled and lost possession of their weapon, temporarily blinded and deafened by the flashbang. Marcus finished them with two quick bursts each. Blood spattered along the walls as they went down. Marcus quickly stepped forward and disconnected the power-pack from the rotolaser.
“Entrance hall clear,” He called back, stepping over the gun emplacement and pushing further into the apartment. “You were right. Heavy laser cannon.”
As he pushed further into the suite, Scarecrow realised that this apartment was one of the blocks that spilled out over two floors. The entrance corridor on the 77th floor opened into a wide mezzanine landing area that branched off into a couple of rooms, presumably bedrooms or bathrooms. A staircase led down to the wide-open living room and kitchen space below, on the 76th floor. The furthest wall from the mezzanine banister; the outer wall of this section of the penthouse village, was almost entirely made of glass. The view beyond was spectacular; a stunning panoramic out of the Starwood’s rooftop, out over the city of LAC. Marcus could see a couple of the hotel’s floating landing platforms, each with landed aircars resting on them. One had a native police Patriot class light fighter hunkered down on its skids, it’s blue and red lights flashing with urgency. Small, scattered figures indicated the local police presence. Possibly shooters, Scarecrow thought worriedly, this is getting way out of hand…
Scarecrow carefully traversed the stairwell, covering every angle with his SCAR. Serov followed, along with two of the 1st Fleet Marines, and Merlow bringing up the rear. With a quick glance, Marcus saw that Wilder and the remaining marines had taken up positions by the mezzanine banister, covering the room below. Marcus delicately stepped off the bottom step and into the living room area. He slowly spun on the spot, covering the room down the sight of his rifle.
“This still feels off,” He muttered as Serov joined him on the bottom floor.
“Yeah,” Thomas nodded as the pair of them fell in step, back-to-back. “Something-”
Serov didn’t have time to finish his sentence. The explosion began with a series of small pops around the outer edge of the room. Then, a searing ring of fire punched up out of the ground, emerging as if from nowhere, and swallowed them whole. The thundercrack of the explosion came nanoseconds after, deafening them both as the floor fell away below their feet. The last thing Marcus remembered before blacking out was the surprised look on the face of one of the 1st Fleet Marines as the flames engulfed him.
The landing platform terminal had the feeling of a spaceport concourse; expansive and spread-out, a sandwich of open space between the penthouse suites above and the Centre for Commerce below. The building’s central core was still present, as with every level, housing the elevator shafts, staircases, and several other core rooms filled with matters strictly of staff business. However, beyond that, the entire floor was wide-open. From almost every direction, the building’s outer glass cap was visible, as well as the impressive views of the city beyond. Thick supporting pillars were placed at key intervals, each sharing the weight of the remaining levels above. Overhead, the ceiling was a mismatched lattice of different shapes; the undersides of the floors of the lowest penthouse suites. Some had glass floors, allowing the guests inside to enjoy the social buzz of the terminal as if it were a reality show.
Scattered throughout the main concourse were various stalls, kiosks, and small cafés, bars, and restaurants. Some of the cafés and bars were open-air within the terminal; clustered gatherings of chairs and tables, targeting the fast market of busy city-dwellers and those who hadn’t the time to pause and take in the view. Others were enclosed in light translucent fabric or plastic bubbles or tents, each with varied decor and exotic potted plants. A large ring-shaped supermarket surrounded the central core, offering a luxurious range of foodstuffs and other supplies. This level was the entry point for the supremely wealthy and the highly important; guests of the penthouses and VIPs attending talks and seminars at the Centre for Commerce. On any normal day, the landing platform terminal would have been a bustling hive of activity. However, today, due to the Black Flag takeover, the place was completely empty.
In the opposite direction to the core, around the outer edge, were a series of equidistantly placed check-in desks and small Anti-Grav ferry terminals. These were the access points for the floating landing platforms that orbited the upper floors of the Starwood tower. The small ferries could only hold around ten people, but under normal circumstances were regular enough, and would shuttle guests too and from the landing platforms on demand. The ferries were the fixation of Sayne Jadyn as he rapidly made his way to the terminal. Taking one of them would be his ticket to freedom.
Sayne dragged Heather Scarman up the final staircase and out through the double doors, into a small landing area adjacent to the elevators. He towed the young girl along the corridor and was soon out into the expanse of the seventy-fifth floor, entering the heart of the supermarket. Aside from a handful of Black Flag pirates in temporary emplacements, the humongous space was eerily still. Several pairs of eyes turned to him, but not a single pirate dared cross his path as he stormed through the small shop. The Scarman girl was tugging back on his arm, a sudden surge of determination rising within her. Perhaps her fear had abated because she was no longer with the Tyrant, Sayne mused to himself as he looked down at her.
“Let me go!” She was in the process of yelling, “Let me go!”
Sayne tightened his grip around her arm and shook her, narrowed his eyes. “That’s enough!”
Heather closed her mouth and looked down, the hint of a bottom lip protruding from beneath her frown. Sayne could see that her eyes had welled up once more. By now, the skin around her cheeks and nose was raw from all the tears.
In truth, Jadyn had no intention of harming the girl. She was simply a bargaining chip; a tool to lure Scarecrow to him. Jadyn even felt a pang of guilt as he tightened his grip around her wrist once more. His mind flashed back to his youth… his Uncle…
Young Heather Scarman was now his only hope of taking Scarecrow cleanly away from his allies. An even fight. That was all he could hope for now. If I can get Scarecrow- alone… That’s all I need.
It was a bluff, and a delicate one at that. But he no longer had any choice in the matter. Tyrant Scarman’s actions had led to the complete destabilisation of their original plan. Scarecrow and Merlow were inside the building, Jadyn knew. It wouldn’t be long until their paths crossed. There was no longer any time to lure them into the trap that had been set. Jadyn knew the Tyrant to be unstable, but he had not foreseen just how much the presence of the soldier woman, Victoria Wade, would have thrown the leader of the Black Flag Corsairs off his game. He needed to escape with the girl, and quickly. If he ran into the Freedom Fighters now, he’d have little hope of getting away. The scattered pirates wouldn’t be much help. Their strength as a fighting force had now peaked, Jadyn was certain.
As Sayne pressed through the supermarket and out into the main concourse, a loud clatter to his left drew his attention. At a small café island, a group of tables and chairs had been knocked aside as a figure floundered through them. It was Victoria Wade, weary, bruised, and bloodied, her hands still bound. She looked exhausted, intense fatigue evident in the way she was carrying herself. Her adrenaline had subsided, and she was now running on fumes. She took several steps toward Sayne, her bound hands raised.
“Please…” Her voice was hoarse, almost a whisper. The paled skin of her face was almost completely covered in dried blood and violent purple bruising, and her mop of strawberry blonde hair was matted and stained dark. Her combat fatigues were now lop-sided and ill fitting; cut to ribbons by the Tyrant’s knife attacks. Beneath the blood-stained cotton, Victoria’s body was covered in deep slashing wounds. Some had clotted and dried, whilst others still bled openly. Sayne noticed that she was leaving boot prints of fresh crimson on the ceramic floor tiles, and that she had the Tyrant’s combat knife still embedded deep in her shoulder.
“Please…” Wade repeated, dropping to her knees in front of Jadyn. “Get her to safety.”
Sayne looked down at Heather, who was staring at Wade, utterly horrified by the sight of her.
“Get her out of here,” Victoria croaked, “Or let her go and take me instead. She doesn’t deserve to be in the middle of all this.”
Sayne looked back at Victoria for a handful of seconds before he replied.
“I’m sorry,” He spoke softly. “I need a live captive. I doubt you’ll see out the next ten minutes.”
Victoria sank down, coming to rest on her ankles. Her expression was one of complete despair as a flood of tears poured from her eyes and melted through the blood on her cheeks. She let her head roll forward, breaking eye contact with Sayne.
“What about me,” The voice came from behind them. “I’ve got more than ten minutes. I think.”
Jadyn turned to see Scarecrow’s friend, the bounty hunter Kurt Manning. He glanced down at Manning’s left leg, which was bloodied and bound by a torniquet made from a leather belt.
“Persistent, aren’t you.” Sayne gritted his teeth as he turned to face the bounty hunter. A faint red glow had started to build behind his eyes. “You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure…” Manning replied. He couldn’t hide the uncertainty in his voice as he noticed the shifting colour in Sayne’s eyes.
“The eyes? It’s just my implants,” Sayne said darkly as he started to slowly walk away from Manning, toward Victoria. “The implants your buddies Marcus and Robert gave me, all those years ago. They help me focus, shed any distracting emotional elements when I need them to… The eyes are just a small side effect of the sensory dulling…”
Sayne continued walking, towing Heather Scarman with his left arm and resting his right on the butt of his holstered blaster pistol. The appearance of the bounty hunter was a grave concern. He had the power to hold Sayne up enough to allow Scarecrow, Merlow, or one of the others to catch up to them. Sayne had to keep Manning distracted and at an arm’s length. Or dispose of him quickly.
“Of course, I’m speaking figuratively.” He continued, “The implants were an experimental effort concocted by the First Fleet’s finest during the war with the Bretonian Empire, in our native dimension. A desperate effort to change the direction of the fight on the ground. I was special. I was chosen.”
Sayne came to a stop when the still prone Victoria was squarely between him and the bounty hunter.
“I was one of Liberty’s most dangerous weapons…” He narrowed his eyes, bitter at the memory. “For about five minutes, until they wiped out my unit and threw me to the wolves.”
Sayne closed his eyes and took a breath. Remembering was difficult, even now, after so many years had passed. Soon he would have his revenge. Soon, he could rest.
“Don’t try anything foolish.” He concluded, pulling Heather around in front of him and slowly unholstering the blaster. “It’d be a shame if anyone here was to get hurt…”
Manning licked his lips, his eyes moving steadily from Sayne, to the girl, and to Victoria. Despite her sorry state, Wade was watching him intently. His appearance had spun the faintest thread of hope within her. Manning scowled. He didn’t like the odds. Sayne had the distance; Manning’s shotgun would be no effect at such a range, or at the very least there would be a high risk of collateral damage with the weapon’s high spread. Manning made a slight move to his right, trying to open a clear line between himself and Sayne, free of Victoria. But Sayne lifted his blaster and put it against Heather Scarman’s head.
“Ah, ah,” He chided, his expression deadly serious. “I don’t think so.”
Sayne started to slowly walk backwards, facing Manning all the while. Behind him, Kurt could see one of the ferry terminals, only a few metres away. I can’t let him get away! Not again!
Kurt’s mind raced. If Sayne made it to the ferry, he’d be out onto one of the landing platforms in no time. He looked around him, frantically searching for anything that might give him the initiative.
Ultimately his decision was made for him. A shrieking call rent the air from back in the direction of the central shaft, taking them all by surprise.
“Victoria!?” It was Scarecrow’s voice, but it was strained. Cracked.
Manning turned half-way to look, but it dawned on him before he could see. Tyrant Scarman entered the terminal from the direction of the elevators, bellowing at the top of his lungs.
“Victoria! You can’t escape me! You’re mine! You hear me!? You’re mine!”
Victoria instinctively flinched, hunkering down even more in the wake of the screeching call. Then, a new determination took her, and she shifted her body weight and tried to stand. With a low yelp, she barely made it up to waist height, dropping back down to her knees and clutching at her right thigh.
“Kurt-” She managed to croak through the pain.
Manning instinctively took a step toward her, extending his hand to help. He was immediately cut short as a howling laser bolt punched into the tiles by his feet, scattering cracked ceramic. The shriek of Sayne’s blaster temporarily drowned out the sound of the Tyrant’s calls.
Kurt looked up to see Sayne shaking his head. Jadyn compellingly mouthed the words, “You stay.”
Kurt turned around to see that the laser bolt had attracted the Tyrant’s attention. He was sprinting toward them, knocking aside kiosks and tables as he ran. His accomplice, the pirate Pete Connors, was in close formation. Kurt swore and spun on his heel, lifting his shotgun to bear in the direction of the charging pirates. He knew the ranged shot wouldn’t do much damage, but at best it might scatter the two men, forcing them into cover.
Handling the weapon as if it were a rifle, Kurt aimed with both arms and lightly squeezed the trigger. Blat.
The sound of the shotgun blast rent the air, a cloud of scorching plasma flechettes cannoning out in the direction of the pirates. Connors slid to the ground, taking cover behind a rack of magazines, but Tyrant Scarman was unperturbed. If he had been hit by the blast, he did not show it as he continued to sprint toward them.
As Kurt hammered the shotgun, readying for a second effort, a huge explosion detonated somewhere to his left. He glanced across just in time for a hot shockwave to hit him. He braced against the blast, which pushed him a couple of inches along the floor. A fireball had punched down through the ceiling around a hundred metres from them, raining fire and debris down into the terminal. A cloud of smoke and dust billowed down from the gaping hole in the ceiling, expanding rapidly throughout the large open space. The building complained with a rumble of aftershock. Kurt swore he felt the tower sway beneath his feet. He didn’t have time to think about it as returning weapons fire came at him from Connors’ crouched position by a small magazine stall. Energy bolts from the pirate’s laser pistol tore through the air close to Kurt’s head. He instinctively ducked down and skidded over to Victoria.
“Stay close to me,” he said, pulling her up by the arm.
“Kurt,” Victoria felt tense under his grasp, “Look out-”
Manning didn’t notice in time. Tyrant Scarman barreled into the pair of them, forcefully wrenching them clear of one another. Victoria screamed in pain as she spiraled backwards, clattering into an adjacent coffee bar. Kurt grunted as he hit the ground, his collarbone cracking audibly under the impact. His shotgun skittered away lightly across the cold porcelain floor.
Marcus came around in a thick cloud of dust and smoke. He instantly coughed as he inhaled a lungful of the harsh mixture. More dust billowed from his mouth and nostrils as he cleared his esophagus. He slowly sat up, looking down as fine plascrete powder and debris tumbled from his chest and shoulders. He ached everywhere; a constant, dull soreness that permeated every part of his body. The navy blues, greys, and blacks of his Freedom Fighters combat fatigues were covered in white and cream dust. He quickly patted himself down, checking for injuries, or any damage to his armour or equipment. He couldn’t feel anything out of the ordinary, aside from the mounds of dirt and powder that now covered every inch of him. He realised that he had lost his rifle. The SCAR was presumably buried somewhere in the debris. No time to look for it, he thought to himself as he slowly pulled himself forward. He reached down to his waist and checked for his pistol. His faithful M9 Enforcer slugger was still there, seemingly intact. He thumbed the catch on the holster, releasing the weapon in readiness.
Marcus gingerly pulled himself up into a kneeling position, blinking as his eyes slowly came back to him. He shook his head, trying to shake the buzzing from his ears. His hearing was muted, covered by a dull and persistent ringing. At least the dazzling stars and vivid colours that danced across his vision were slowly dissipating, replaced by a loose picture of the smoky aftermath of the blast. He was surrounded by rubble and other penthouse detritus that had been destroyed in the explosion. A huge, cracked slab of granite lay next to him; part of the now destroyed kitchen worktop. Had it landed a couple of inches closer, it would have likely killed him. It seemed as if the entire floor beneath the living room and kitchen of the apartment had been mined and set off as they had set foot upon it. The leading members of the group had almost certainly been caught in the blast, although Marcus didn’t know how many of them had fallen through with him. Looking around, he could just make out the shape of a partially collapsed bar area, alongside what looked like a bookstore. When the floor had given way, he and Serov must have fallen into the landing platform terminal that made up the entirety of level seventy-five. Serov!
Adrenaline surged through Marcus’ body as his heart started to pound. The General had been beside him when the mines had detonated. He turned and began searching through the rubble, pushing aside large chunks of plascrete and fractured breezeblocks.
“Tom!” He called as he dug, “Thomas! Can you hear me?”
After several seconds of frantic scrambling, Marcus felt movement beneath the debris. He dove in with his hands and grabbed whatever he could find. First, he felt an arm, and then a hand. The hand grabbed up at him, so Marcus clasped the palm and placed his left hand under the elbow. Then, he pulled with all his might. Thomas Serov emerged from the wreckage, coughing and spluttering.
“I’m here- I’m good-” Serov broke into a raw coughing fit as he tried to clear the particles from his lungs.
“You alright?” Marcus checked him over, “Those explosions- drill mines-”
“Yeah- Something like-,” Serov managed as his coughing fit died down. He wiped his face with his encrusted hands. “I’ll be alright. A bit bruised, and slightly over done. But I’ll be fine.”
With Scarman’s help, Serov got to his feet, looking around to take in their new surroundings. He looked up at the ruined ceiling and saw Robert Merlow and Jayce Wilder, peering down at them from the apartment mezzanine on the seventy-seventh floor, two stories above.
“We’re okay,” He called up, waving to them.
“Douglas and Kieslowski were with you,” Merlow replied, “Can you see them?”
“Shit,” Thomas turned his gaze downward to the pile of rubble. “Marcus, you hear that?”
He reached out to the side and grabbed Scarecrow by the arm. “Marcus? Douglas and- Hey?”
Marcus wasn’t responding. Serov turned to look at him. The Admiral’s attention had been taken over completely by something else. Something off in the distance. He was staring intently through the now rapidly dissipating cloud of smoke that surrounded them.
“What’s up?” Serov tried to look through the haze in the same direction. Slowly, forms were taking shape. Something was happening round a hundred metres away from them, toward the southern façade of the tower. Serov realised he could also hear shouting as the buzzing in his ears died down; sharp calls and shrieks that signified conflict.
As Marcus squinted through the smoke, he could just make out a trio of figures locked together in an intense scramble. One of them seemed to swell over the other two, a mass of chaotic muscle and wrath. Scarecrow took several steps forward, clearing the worst of the smoldering debris. The larger figure had clattered into the two smaller figures, sending them sprawling. It looked like some sort of enraged creature, rather than a human being. Like an out-of-control ape or chimpanzee, escaped from a zoo. Of the two smaller figures, one was slowly coming into focus. Marcus’ suspicion grew into clarity, and the pit of his stomach seemed to fall the length of the entire hotel tower. Despite the distance and the smoke, he knew that he was looking at Victoria Wade, and he could instantly tell that she was fighting for her life.
“Victoria!” He called, breaking into a run.
“Marcus, wait!” Serov called after him, taking a couple of steps away from the ruins. His face a scowl of concern, he turned back to the wreckage. Captains Douglas and Kieslowski were nowhere to be seen, but they were in there, somewhere.
“Shit.” Serov cursed again and turned after Scarecrow. If they were still alive, the 1st Fleet Marines would have to wait.
Running across the open concourse compounded the aches and pains that coursed through Marcus’ body. The explosion and the fall had certainly taken their toll on him, but he had no time to collect himself. Victoria was in trouble, and he needed to get to her. He pushed his run into a sprint, accelerating to close the distance as quickly as possible. The screech of a laser weapon sounded somewhere off to his left. A crimson bolt of energy split the air in front of him, missing his head by an uncomfortably narrow margin. He skidded to a halt and ducked, taking cover behind a small pancake vendor’s wagon. Peering around the edge, he saw his attacker quickly duck back into cover, somewhere inside the perimeter of the terminal’s central market. The glimpse was quick enough for an identity. It was the Black Flag ‘Brawler’, Pete Connors, who had stowed away earlier aboard the Danaan and helped Tyrant Scarman wreak havoc. Marcus drew his M9 and waited for an opportunity. It came soon enough. Connors once again peered over his magazine rack, a blaster pistol in his hand. This time, it was the pirate who flinched as Marcus let off a couple of rounds in his direction.
“Targets left!” Serov called in warning as he caught up. He skidded in beside Scarecrow, the butt of his SCAR pressed deep into his shoulder. Marcus whipped his eyes in the direction the General was pointing. More Black Flag pirates were descending on them, presumably shifting position from some unseen weapons emplacement elsewhere on in the terminal floor.
“We’ll be surrounded if we don’t move!”
“Then, go, go!” Marcus broke out and fired his M9 at the approaching pirates, laying down covering fire for Serov to advance. Light arms fire from the pirates’ projectile rifles clattered through the pancake wagon, splintering the wood and kicking up paper plates and cups. The M9 growled in Scarecrow’s hand, every blast spitting a spike of flame as high caliber projectiles fired out toward the pirates. One of them took a hit squarely to the chest and went down hard. The others scattered quickly, and ceased their barrage, breaking into smaller targets.
Serov pushed past Scarecrow, firing his SCAR in the direction of Pete Connors. The Brawler was trying to change location and rotate through the supermarket, to renew his firing position. A little further along from the magazine stands, in a cooled section of the supermarket, stood some large refrigeration units. They were broad, tall, and thick. Much better cover. Connors fired from the hip as he ran, sending bolts of cherry red cracking through the air.
“Bandit on the move!” Thomas shouted as he made for a row of recycling bins, trying to counter Connors’ repositioning manoeuvre. He only made it halfway. One of Connors’ bolts struck him hard in the shoulder, sending him sprawling to the deck. White hot pain rocketed through his nervous system, like the waves of a boulder cast in water. He snarled as he fell to the ground, instinctively clutching at the wound with his free hand. The blast had struck just below the pauldron of his armour, just inside the ball joint of his shoulder. It had made short work of the fabric of his underlayer and bored into his flesh. Lying prone on the ground, Serov adjusted his position so that he was completely out of sight of the enemy. He delicately pushed his fingertips around the edge of the wound. To his stark horror, he realised that he could no longer feel the entirety of his right arm.
![[Image: Scarecrow-Jupiter.png]](https://i.ibb.co/6FqxTqG/Scarecrow-Jupiter.png)