Manning pulled himself to his feet, having managed to compartmentalise most of the pain flowing from his snapped collar bone. His right arm swung limply by his side as he hauled himself up. With an immense amount of willpower, he thrust the hand of his lame arm into his belt to steady the sway. He then turned his attention to the mad Tyrant. Victoria had fallen prone, and the monstrous parallel version of Scarman had leaped on top of her, grabbing her by the neck with both hands. She held onto his wrists helplessly as he strangled the life from her. There’s only one thing for it now, Manning bitterly thought to himself, fight the Tyrant with everything you have left.
“Marcus, wherever you are-” Kurt muttered to himself, “You’d better get here quickly.”
With a rageful bellow, Kurt rushed the Tyrant’s exposed back. He sprinted, leaped, and then drove his left shoulder deep into the Tyrant’s ribs. Agony exploded across his upper torso at the jolting impact. The two of them crashed over the top of Victoria, and the monster’s grasp was wrenched free. Manning clattered to the ground and gasped for air, stunned by the pain. He rolled over and slowly rose, supporting himself on his knees and his left elbow. He swallowed and braced himself as he caught a glimpse of what was coming his way. The Tyrant had recovered much faster than he had. Scarman came at him alarmingly quickly, swinging a heavy booted foot up toward the stricken bounty hunter’s unprotected stomach. The boot connected with a meaty smack, stamping the wind from Manning’s lungs and punching deep into his gut. Manning gulped for air as he fell forward once again, unable to shout for the pain, his lungs deflated and desperate. The Tyrant rolled Manning roughly over onto his back and raised his boot into the air. He held his foot over Kurt’s face and allowed a smile to crack across his maddened features.
“Sweet dreams, bounty hunter.”
Before Tyrant Scarman could drop the killing blow, A metal chair clattered into the small of his back, stalling him and forcing him to plant both feet firmly on the ground. He whirled to find Victoria, beaten but driven with determination. She had hefted the chair with her bound hands and swung it at the Tyrant, releasing it with all the momentum she could carry.
“Brave of you,” The Tyrant sneered as he turned. He slowly started walking toward her. “But foolish.”
Victoria had nowhere to go. Her back was up against the scattered café chairs and tables, and she wasn’t fast enough to run away from him. The tape around her wrists had by now cut so deep that the feeling in her hands had almost gone entirely. It was a miracle that she had been able to summon enough dexterity to be able to grab and lift the chair. She raised her blackened hands in front of her, in as defensive a posture as she could muster. Tyrant Scarman advanced toward her, menacingly. She held her ground until they were standing face to face. Victoria closed her eyes as the Tyrant drew close enough for his hot breath to touch her cheeks.
“You’re nothing,” She croaked through gritted teeth, her voice hoarse, “You’ll never be anything close to the man he is.”
The skin underneath the Tyrant’s right eye began to twitch, and a guttural snarl emanated from somewhere deep within his gullet. He slowly brought his hands up to her neck, wrapping his fingers around her already bruised larynx.
Kurt’s mental blocks were wearing thin; the encompassing pain from his multiple injuries was starting to bubble over. He was only human, no special enhancements or implants. He had always thought of himself as resilient when it came to pain and injury, but this time, he found he was quickly reaching his limit. Through all the hurt and the breathlessness, he once again dragged himself up to his feet. This time, it took him twice as long. Blinking, he forced his watering eyes to focus on the scene before him. Tyrant Scarman was again at Victoria’s throat. She writhed under his grasp, scrabbling ineffectively at his hands. With all the strength he had remaining, Kurt started to limp forward. Wordlessly, he arrived behind Tyrant Scarman and with his final ounce of strength, he wrapped his good arm around the madman’s neck. He then clamped down hard, driving all his might into the headlock. Scarman tensed instantly, releasing Victoria and grabbing for his own neck. Kurt held on for a few crucial seconds before the Tyrant dug his fingers in around Kurt’s arm and wrenched him free. Victoria staggered backwards as the Tyrant’s eyes boiled with incandescent rage. Scarman reached out and grabbed the hilt of his combat knife, still embedded deep in Victoria’s shoulder. She screamed in agony and collapsed backwards as he wrenched the knife clean, a narrow spit of blood arcing out after the blade. Tyrant Scarman released Kurt’s arm and spun on the spot. He then drove the knife deep into Kurt’s esophagus.
Despite the intense mixture of laser fire and projectile rounds incoming from the grouped unit of Black Flag pirates, Marcus “Scarecrow” Scarman still heard Victoria’s anguished scream from behind him. He twisted round, leaning past Serov to look in the direction of the cry. He was just in time to watch Tyrant Scarman sink the blade into Kurt Manning’s throat.
“No!” He yelled in disbelief.
Scarecrow broke around Serov and resumed his sprint across the open terminal, paying no further heed to the torrent of weapons-fire. Stabs of laser energy popped and burst around him, punching through surfaces, knocking over chairs, and sending debris flying into the air.
“Marcus!” Serov yelled after him.
But there was no stopping the Freedom Fighter Admiral.
He was fixated on the Tyrant.
And Victoria.
Robert Merlow looked down into the ruined penthouse apartment below. The shattered remnants of the once luxurious set of rooms were still gently smoking, recoiling from the heat of the explosion that had torn them down. The floor to the lower level of the apartment was almost completely gone. Only a slight ledge on the far side of what had once been the kitchen remained in place. A small fire had broken out amongst the surviving cabinets and was slowly making its way through the woodwork. The staircase down from the mezzanine had partially collapsed, the lower half of it crumbling and falling into the seventy-fifth floor. The loose shape of its remnants was still visible, strewn amongst the other wreckage. Mines, Merlow thought to himself as he surveyed the damage, the Black Flag had drilled mines into the plascrete at key points.
Brutal, and very effective. Other areas of the building had also been mined, but not in as discreet a fashion as this. This was possibly the work of the earliest hijackers to take control of the building, Merlow pondered. Those who’d had the time to properly lay out a trap and effectively conceal it from anyone who might walk into it. In this case, the anyone had been Scarman and Serov, even though they were all on high alert. Merlow shook his head. They should have known better. Merlow had seen the trigger points of the explosion occur nanoseconds before the floor below had been engulfed in flame. Six little puffs of dust, punching up from the apartment floor. Not fast enough for a reaction. He narrowed his eyes as he watched Scarecrow pull his close friend Thomas Serov from the dust and debris. Miraculously, the pair of them seemed to be unscathed.
“We’re okay,” Serov called, still wiping detritus from his dusty face.
“Douglas and Kieslowski were with you,” Merlow replied, “Can you see them?”
“Shit,” Thomas turned away, scanning the rubble around him, “Marcus, you hear that?”
But Scarecrow didn’t respond. He had started to slowly walk away from Serov, his attention fixed on something else down on the seventy-fifth floor.
“Victoria!” He suddenly yelled, breaking into a run, instantly disappearing from view.
“Marcus, wait!” Serov called after him, taking a couple of steps away from the ruins. He too disappeared, and Merlow heard him curse again before the sound of footsteps suggested the two of them had fled the scene.
Merlow began to mentally calculate the possible routes down from the mezzanine. His eyes rapidly scanned the remains of the walls, looking for small ledges and handholds. The damage was severe, and most of the pitted surfaces down through what was now two stories of open wall were sheer and offered no fixed points for climbing.
“We following them down there?” Standing next to him, Admiral Wilder sounded a little incredulous.
Merlow did not return his gaze, “Take the rest of the unit down through the stairwell- Sweep it all, clean and clear.”
“Merlow-” Wilder made to continue, but Robert cut him off.
“That’s an order Admiral,” He turned to the younger man. Jayce Wilder had come to the Freedom Fighters accidentally, from another parallel dimension. He was an asset to their severely depleted unit, but sometimes, Merlow thought the man forgot where he was. And who he was with.
“The building still isn’t clear,” Merlow continued, “This is our mess, and we need to clean it up. I’ll follow Tom and Marcus. You take the rest of the penthouses.”
Merlow could see that Jayce was unimpressed. He clearly didn’t want to be sidelined from the main action. Still, the work had to be done, and Merlow was running out of assets on the ground.
“Yes sir,” Wilder nodded, giving the Fleet Admiral a brief salute. He then turned and began issuing instructions to the remaining 1st Fleet Marines.
Merlow returned his attention to the artificial cavern before him. The roughened walls where the tiles had dropped away were flat slabs, with nothing but remnant plaster to uneven the surface. However, with some momentum and the right angle of approach, Merlow was confident he could make a descent. He took a couple of steps backward, and then vaulted over the edge of the mezzanine, his trench coat fluttering behind him as he swooped over the banister. As Wilder and the others retreated out of the apartment, Jayce turned and watched Merlow disappear over the ledge. He then checked the ammo-count in his SCAR before turning his attention back to the central corridor. Robert only dropped about a metre before he met the remains of the stairwell. He twisted himself in midair, aligning himself with the staircase, and pressed forward as soon as his heavy combat boots hit the plascrete. Two, three, four steps, and he was flying again, over the ruined lip of the staircase, at an angle to the length of the open apartment floor below. He pitched his legs forward, aiming for the wall. His boots connected with an intact portion of plaster, cracking the delicate material on impact. Merlow bent his knees to absorb the energy of his landing. He then flung himself back out into the centre of the open space, this time arcing gracefully through the air. He completed a full two-hundred-and-seventy degrees before he met the far side wall, coiling his body once again to absorb the energy. The final drop to the ground was relatively straightforward. He flipped over the remains of the apartment debris and landed on the tiled flooring of the landing platform terminal level, bowing low as he compressed his body for the final absorption. His display of acrobatics had lasted less than six seconds.
Merlow quickly turned his attention to the pile of rubble. Slowly but surely, he found and produced the bodies of Captains Douglas and Kieslowski. Douglas was completely unconscious, suffering from a grim-looking head injury. Kieslowski, however, was groggy but awake.
Merlow dusted him down and tapped him on the cheeks a couple of times, “Captain Kieslowski, can you hear me?”
“Ugh-” Kieslowski blinked in confusion, “F-fleet Admiral?”
“You’re alright soldier,” Merlow spoke as he looked up and around, making a tactical assessment of the situation. “Take a minute.”
“I- my-” Kieslowski pushed his head into his hands, massaging his temples, “My head feels like shit-”
“You took a big hit Captain,” Merlow returned his attention to the wounded soldier, “But I need you to get it together. Douglas is down, needs a med-evac. Do you have your weapon?”
Kieslowski reached down into the dirt and produced the butt-end of his SCAR. It was coated in dust, but it seemed intact.
“Hold this position Captain,” Merlow continued. “Keep Douglas safe until we can get her out of here.”
“Yes, Fleet Admiral,” Kieslowski had now come around a little. Despite the daze, he too had started to make a tactical assessment of his surroundings. “Will hold this position.”
“Good man,” Merlow stood up and patted himself down. He then turned his attention to the terminal around him. He quickly spotted Scarman and Serov, under fire from a group of pirates toward the central hub. He then spotted the skirmish beyond. Tyrant Scarman was unmistakable, as were Victoria Wade and Kurt Manning. Merlow looked just in time to see the Tyrant sink his knife into Manning’s throat.
Kurt’s eyes were wide with shock. The knife had sunk deep into his esophagus, destroying his larynx. He could produce no sound other than a faint gargle. There was no pain, but he could feel the blade inside him. The sensation was cold and unnatural. He suppressed the reflex to swallow. A cool sensation started to flow down from the wound, beneath his underlayer and shirt. His lifeblood. He could feel the steady flow of liquid as if it were travelling in slow-motion, running down the length of his torso and under his belt. This is it. He knew it was over now. He had done all he could, tried as hard as he could. The sound of the terminal around him was slowly fading, being replaced with the heavy pounding of his heart as it frantically tried to pump his body’s rapidly diminishing reserves of blood. The Tyrant had bested him, but he may have swung the advantage... Kurt’s vision began to tunnel, his peripherals fading into a blackening vignette. In front of him, however; beyond the Tyrant, he witnessed the charge of Marcus “Scarecrow” Scarman. The Admiral was sprinting as hard as he could, drawing closer and closer, his face a picture of unfettered rage.
Kurt managed a faint smile. Avenge me brother.
Then his world collapsed entirely, and he was gone.
Tyrant Scarman ripped the blade away from the bounty hunter’s throat, reveling in the spout of deep red that followed. Kurt Manning slumped to the ground, the final ebbs of life fading from him. Scarman licked his lips, tasting the iron tang of blood in the air. A red curtain had descended over his conscious mind, silencing any remaining rational cognition occurring within. He remembered the bump and clatter of the chair that had previously struck him in the lower back and his tortured instincts produced only one word: threat. The mad Tyrant whirled around, blade in hand. Victoria Wade cowered behind him, still lying prone. She desperately tried to drag herself away with her elbows and the flats of her boots. However, she could barely move. The sudden, horrifying death of Kurt had drained the last of the fight from her, leaving her stunned and weak. The Tyrant emitted a guttural, high-pitched screeching sound as he lunged for her; the sound of devouring rage mixed with an almost joyous glee.
He leaped through the air, a terrifying predator animal. Time seemed to slow as he sprung toward her. Victoria heard gunshots from somewhere behind, thick and heavy; the thunk of a high caliber projectile. Several tracer rounds punched through the air past the Tyrant, each one a sharp whipcrack of energy. Two struck him: one in the shoulder, and one just above his right breast. The shot to the chest would have killed any normal man, but Tyrant Scarman didn’t seem to notice. He fell through the air, descending on Victoria with murderous intent. There was no escape this time. The predator had caught his prey, and the spectacle was devastating.
Still sprinting as hard as he could, tears welled in the corners of Scarecrow’s eyes as he watched the Tyrant land on top of Victoria. The madman started to hammer down a storm of blows on the already broken redheaded soldier, bludgeoning strikes and devastating, penetrating stabs. Marcus emptied the rest of his clip as he ran, screaming at the top of his lungs. But no more of his shots hit their mark. His emotional state had rendered his accuracy low, and he was far, far too late to save her. It took a few precious seconds for him to cover the last of the distance between them. He then charged shoulder first into his parallel self, wiping the Tyrant clear of Victoria’s shattered form.
The two men sprawled away, their weapons clattering to the deck. Scarecrow came to rest flat on his face. The tiled flooring was slick with an expanding pool of dark red blood. Marcus pulled his cheek out of the mire and quickly realised he had fallen close to Kurt’s still warm body. He looked up, catching the bounty hunter’s sightless eyes as they gazed back at him. His heart sank into the very pit of his stomach, but the despair was quickly replaced by vengeful rage. Using it, he pushed himself up on both hands and spun his legs underneath his body into a neat crouch. He almost slipped on the seemingly infinite slick of blood, but he managed to hold his composure. He then trained his focus on the Tyrant and clenched his fists. His alternate self was approximately the same size, with a slightly larger frame and more muscular build. Since Marcus had last seen the mad Tyrant aboard the Danaan, the man seemed to have changed. Not only had he fully lost his mind, but he seemed to have undergone a metaphysical change. His arms and legs seemed longer, and his strained eyes were bulging with an insanity that rocked Scarecrow to his core. The Tyrant’s long hair and stubbling beard were slick with crimson ochre. Barely any of the skin on his face was still visible behind the stains of violence.
It was Kurt’s blood. And Victoria’s.
Scarecrow’s discarded M9 lay not far from him, resting where it had fallen in the middle of the open. Close by it lay the Tyrant’s bloodied combat knife. In a flash of reflexes, Marcus made for the weapons, but he was too slow. Tyrant Scarman closed in on him with an unnatural speed and his right fist connected with Scarecrow’s jaw. Marcus staggered off to the left, completely stunned by the strike. A second blow came in from underneath, snapping upward into Scarecrow’s chin. Marcus’ jaw was forced outward into a painful underbite, and his bottom teeth sank into his upper lip. Spitting blood, he reeled backwards. He slewed and skidded on Kurt’s blood beneath his feet, but he once again held steady. With purpose, he slowly lowered his head, bringing his eyes level with the mad Tyrant’s. Wiping blood from beneath his nose, Marcus’ curled his torn upper lip into a snarl, and launched himself at his enemy.
“Manning is down,” Merlow said through gritted teeth as another energy blast from Connors struck the thin partition wall behind him. The laser bolt melted a hole straight through the light plastics. Merlow and Serov had backed away into a small, enclosed restaurant area as soon as they had come under heavy fire from the various pirate emplacements. There was Connors’ position, plus the attacking pirates from the direction of the collapsed ceiling. Another group had also joined the fray, raining fire down on them from another, yet unseen point in the central supermarket. The restaurant they had taken for cover was surrounded by a waist-high barrier wall, and was divided inside with taller, similarly styled partitions. It felt more like an office block to Robert than a restaurant. Still, the partitions had offered the two beleaguered Freedom Fighters a good amount of visual cover from the pirates.
“Shit,” Serov cursed as he jammed another clip into his SCAR. “How bad?”
“Bad,” Merlow replied, trying to steal a glance out of cover, “Scarecrow’s there. Damn it- He’ll get himself killed.”
“You need to go,” Serov grunted painfully as he shifted his weight. The injury to his right shoulder was making it difficult for him to brace and aim his rifle. The butt end of the weapon was darkened with his blood. He pressed it back under his shoulder pauldron with a grunt, ignoring the pain.
“Get to him,” He continued, “He needs backup. He’s a sitting duck over there.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Merlow shook his head, peering out in the direction of the attacking pirates. More light-arms fire clattered into the partition wall. “Not with this much heat on you.”
Serov grinned through the pain, “Then we’d better thin them out.”
Thomas Serov rose from his kneeling position to stand low behind his section of the partition wall. He sighted down the barrel of his SCAR and aimed in the direction of the central supermarket. The low, dark shape of Pete Connors was on the move again, attempting to rotate.
“Not this time,” Serov muttered under his breath as he tracked Connors. Merlow watched with intent as his friend expertly panned with his rifle. From his position, he could not actually see Connors beyond their position. However, he could see movement further into the supermarket. More pirates were moving up to Connors’ position to reinforce him.
“Better be quick,” He mumbled, tightening his grip on his rail pistols.
“Go, now!” Serov barked. He squeezed the trigger on his SCAR and the rifle roared to life, spitting fire out in the direction of the supermarket.
The Fleet Admiral's eyes widened as he broke cover and ran. That had almost sounded like an order.
Black Flag pirates Skyler Hawkins and Zed Raphael advanced on Pete Connors. They had pulled away from a bitter stalemate with the encircling native law enforcement, regrouping to support their embattled Tyrant. They were tired, bruised, and bloodied, and they had witnessed many of their brethren fall. As soon as they had arrived on the seventy-fifth floor, they had spotted Connors almost immediately as he exchanged fire with some unseen enemy target. The Brawler did not seem to be pinned, but the enemy apparently had him at a disadvantage. The fact that he had lost one of his hands only hours earlier was not making matters easier for him. He darted from shelf to shelf, covering his route as he attempted to reposition against his enemy.
As the two pirates entered the supermarket, Zed whistled to get his comrades’ attention. “Hey, Connors!”
The rattle of gunfire sounded from somewhere beyond, just as Zed called out. Caught in between shelving units, Pete Connors turned to look in the direction of the two Black Flag Elite. His eyes widened and he pointed angrily elsewhere into the seventy-fifth floor.
“Our Tyrant-” He began, but before he could complete his sentence, his face exploded outward in a visceral fountain of blood. A couple of rounds from the volley of his unseen enemy had struck him in the back of the head. In unison, both Raphael and Hawkins ducked down and skidded to a halt, sharing angry looks.
“This isn’t going to plan!” Raphael yelled over the sound of more gunfire from further along the supermarket area.
“What do you suggest!?” Hawkins shot back at him as he loaded another charge pack into his blaster carbine.
“I’m saying-” Raphael continued, “The Tyrant’s plan has gone to shit- And who the hell knows where Jadyn has gotten to.”
“You want to bail, Raph? Is that it?” Hawkins sneered at his comrade. “After all this time and dedication?”
“Fuck you Hawkins, I don’t want to die for no reason.”
“Good point. Then I suppose we fight our way off this deck.” Hawkins laughed as he peered through the shattered supermarket aisles. “There are aircars to the landing platforms outside. We can blast our way out.”
“And the Tyrant?” Raph said. His expression was uncertain.
“Fuck him.” Hawkins spoke with determination, “He dragged us to this place- this parallel dimension, and for what? We’ve done nothing but fight and die. It’s time we took control of our own destinies!”
“Come on, come on!” Jadyn hissed as he rifled through the small lockbox full of aircar controllers. He grabbed one after the other, thumbing the locking mechanisms on them. All the while, he visually scanned the surrounding landing platforms for any signs of a match. At least, he scanned those that he could see. The landing platforms encircled the uppermost floors of the Starwood tower. Many of them were further along, in both directions, clear of his line of sight. None of the parked aircars in sight were flashing at him in compliance. Frustrated, he emptied the box on the floor. The plastic controllers skittered across the tiles in all directions.
One of these must control that damned car.
A small, family sized airbus sat on one of the pads not too far from the ferry terminal where Sayne had taken cover. It looked like a relatively luxurious example, although that was all Sayne could glean from this distance. He couldn’t make out the make or the model of the vehicle, it was too far away, and he knew too little about aircars to be able to identify any telling shapes. To him, most of the planet-bound aircars looked largely similar; uninspired boxes or wedges packaged with skirt-like Anti-Grav systems around the chassis. However, this one had what he wanted: discretion. It looked a lot like every other airborne civilian vehicle that flitted around the skies of Los Angeles Capital. It would have no trouble blending in with the rest of the aerial traffic, despite the police lockdown that was now in full effect.
“Daddy?” Jadyn looked up at the sound of Heather Scarman’s puzzled voice. She was peering over the back of the bench that he had dragged over to the security booth for cover.
“Get down,” Sayne ordered, pulling her back. She flopped into a sitting position on the bench, a look of fear in her eyes. Jadyn turned to see what she had been looking at. His eyes widened with shock. There you are! He had presumed it would happen, but he hadn’t let himself consider how he might react when it did. A tornado of emotions spun up from the pit of his stomach; a vengeful rage taking precedence. There he was. For the first time since the attack on Senator Scarman’s million-dollar home, Sayne found himself looking at the face of his enemy. The focus of his entire mission, Marcus “Scarecrow” Scarman, had launched himself at his twisted alternate self; the mad Tyrant of the Black Flag. The two men were fighting, hard. It was a bitter and unforgiving match, the two men close contest for one another. They were each landing blow after blow, like bare-knuckle boxers at the height of intense violence.
Sayne furrowed his brow as Tyrant Scarman landed a heavy strike across Scarecrow’s face. The Admiral staggered backwards; his arms spread out to retain his balance. They were certainly closely matched, but what if… No. A dark thought crossed Sayne’s mind. No, you can’t have him. You can’t kill him!
Marcus’ thoughts reeled as his vision blurred. The Tyrant’s attacks seemed to be hitting a lot harder than they had done in the Danaan’s loading bay. He shook his head and steadied himself, bringing his guard back up to protect his face. The Tyrant came at him instantly with a left jab to test his defenses. In one motion, Marcus swatted the jab away and struck back with a clean uppercut. His clenched fist connected with Tyrant Scarman’s midriff, punching up into his abdomen. The Tyrant doubled over, the wind wheezing from his lungs. Marcus savagely followed up by bringing his knee up into the Tyrant’s face. The shock of the blow knocked him backwards. Buoyed by the success of his onslaught, Marcus readied himself for another push. But the Tyrant took only a couple of steps backwards, soaking up all the punishment with apparent satisfaction. He snapped his head back down, his nose broken and bloodied. His maniacal grin seemed even wider. Marcus felt hatred well up within him. Not only for the death of Kurt, and the brutal injuries to Victoria, but of the change within him. Marcus had never felt as biting a rage as the fury he now harboured for the Tyrant. He wanted nothing other than the death of his alternate self.
“You don’t deserve to live,” He hissed, slowly. Tyrant Scarman’s grin broadened into a laugh, which in turn became a cackle and howl. Marcus narrowed his eyes and brought up his guard.
Sayne slowly drew his blaster pistol, keeping his eyes locked on the two versions of Marcus Scarman as they fought. The Tyrant again launched himself at his enemy, his rapid jabs disorienting Scarecrow has he tried to deflect. Their clash resumed as if it had never paused; a brutal slugging match that would undoubtedly see one of them dead. Tyrant Scarman was keeping himself close to Scarecrow, too close to be held at arm’s length. Scarecrow was soon doing all he could to protect his head against the Tyrant’s relentless barrage. Despite the chaotic nature of his rage, the Tyrant appeared to still be fighting with a degree of control. He deftly feinted against the Freedom Fighter Admiral and tricked him into a strong swipe that knocked him off balance. The Tyrant then spun Scarecrow around and caught him in a vicious headlock.
“You really are mad,” Jadyn muttered as he levelled the pistol in the direction of the two men. He waited, every muscle in his body tensed. The two men were almost facing him, with the Tyrant blocking Sayne’s shot with Scarecrow’s body. All Jadyn needed was a sliver of opportunity, the tiniest gap. But Scarecrow and the Tyrant were locked together, grappling with one another in a test of strength.
“Come on…” Sayne growled as he closed one eye. “Move, damn it.”
Scarecrow had dug his fingers into the Tyrant’s forearm, desperately trying to wrench himself free. But he could not gain an effective purchase. Sayne could see the two men were talking to one another, although he couldn’t make out any of the words. Eventually, the Tyrant forced Scarecrow down onto his knees, exposing his torso.
“I can’t have you take my prize from me. Our agreement is at an end, Tyrant Scarman.”
With a delicate exhalation of breath, Sayne took the shot.
Tyrant Scarman attacked Scarecrow with both his hands, chopping down hard on either side of his neck. Marcus tensed his shoulders, absorbing as much of the blow as he could. Still, the strike jolted him, sending pain lancing throughout his upper torso. The Tyrant grabbed at Scarecrow’s neck, but he managed to shrug free, pushing his open hand up into the Tyrant’s face. He was losing the fight, and he knew it. The Tyrant’s physicality and stamina were simply too great for him. The Tyrant grabbed Marcus’ outstretched wrist and used it along with his free hand to twist his opponent around. Marcus grunted in pain as his arm folded and was forced behind his back. He was spun until he was facing away from the Tyrant and felt the man’s powerful forearm snake around his neck. The grip tightened, and Marcus gulped for air.
“I wonder how it will feel-” The Tyrant snarled into Marcus’ ear, “As I slowly crush your neck.”
On the edge of his blurring periphery, Marcus could just make out the still form of a body on the floor. Victoria. She wasn’t moving. Tears began to well in the corners of his eyes. He’d made such a mess of everything. He had told himself repeatedly that he didn’t understand the feelings he had for her. He had been lying all along. Victoria had instantly been special, the moment he had first set eyes on her. And now he may well have lost his chance to tell her. Tell her everything. Tell her exactly how much she meant to him. His thoughts then travelled to his wife Tomoko, and his son Matthew. And the guilt. Maybe this is it. Maybe I should just let go. Maybe I deserve it.
“Scarecrow!” The call cut through his dark thoughts. “Scarecrow!”
The voice was distant and nullified, as if he was hearing it underwater. Marcus gritted his teeth against the headlock, screwing his eyes shut.
“You- kill- her-” He managed to grunt through the crushing pain, focusing the last of his energy at his captor. The Tyrant released his grip enough for Marcus to draw in a lungful of air.
“What did you say?”
“You- killed her-” Marcus spluttered, still grasping at the Tyrant’s thick forearm. “Again- You did it again- Victoria- It’s your fault- She’s dying! Let me- help her!”
It was as if Tyrant Scarman had woken from a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. His awareness bubbled back up from some deep, hidden, subconscious trench. He felt like he had been lying at the bottom of a deep, cold lake, and the words he heard suddenly brought him up through the water to the surface. The top of the lake was oddly calm and still. The unbound fury that had possessed him was fading. Whilst down at the bottom, he had been able to make out the shapes of the surface, but little else. He hadn’t been able to speak or move, only watch. He had slowly taken in the hazy outlines and sounds that made up the past few minutes, his fugue state making them difficult to process. However, slowly but surely, the scattered edges were forming a pattern. He knew what he had done. First Kurt, then Victoria.
Now, he was back in control. He looked down to find that he had trapped his alternate self in a headlock.
“You- What-” Confused, he looked around. “Where is she?”
He forced the man in his grasp into a kneeling position, his arm still wrapped tightly around his neck. He looked across the tiles in front of him to see Victoria lying battered and broken, unconscious. A pool of dark red blood had formed around her.
“Wha- What-” The Tyrant’s voice was reedy, hollow. It can’t be- There’s no way- It can’t be!
Jolts of memory from his home dimension flashed through his mind like lightning bolts. The arid dunes of the planet Kabul. Victoria Wade, an alternate Fleet Admiral of the Freedom Fighters. Robert Merlow… That bastard!
In his mind, the blaster pistol screeched as he pulled the trigger, aiming for Merlow. But Wade stepped into the path of the blast. Why!? Why would she do that!?
The screech of the blaster pistol was paired with a dull thunk and the feeling that he had been punched in the chest. Then, the faint smell of burning reached Tyrant Scarman’s nostrils. Slowly, he looked down to see that a gaping, burned hole had appeared in the middle of his solar plexus.
“Scarecrow!” Merlow shouted as he ran, “Scarecrow!”
He was rapidly closing the distance down on his friend, but he wasn’t sure if he’d make it in time. Tyrant Scarman had dropped Scarecrow to his knees, readying to enact a brutal coup de grace. Before Merlow could shout another word, a flash of laser fire cut back across the open terminal from a direction he didn’t expect. The laser bolt struck the Tyrant squarely in his now exposed chest. Merlow instinctively ducked low and skidded to a halt below a stack of refuse bins. Shooting a glance across toward the source of the weapons fire, he spotted a flurry of movement over by one of the ferry terminals. Jadyn!
Looking back over toward Scarecrow, Merlow saw the Tyrant release his grip and slowly topple over backwards. He clattered to the deck, seemingly lifeless. What? Merlow was puzzled. Had Sayne just executed his only ally in all this madness? Why?
He had no time to ruminate. As soon as Sayne had taken the shot, he turned his attention to some unseen detail on the floor by the security desk. He couldn’t be allowed to escape. Merlow levelled one of his rail pistols and took a shot. The pistol crack cut through the air and the super-high velocity round punched into the security desk above Sayne’s head. The wooden surface exploded in a miniature cloud of dust and wooden fragments.
Sayne flinched as the round exploded through the wooden panel above him, a small cloud of debris raining down on his head. He looked up to see an almost perfectly round hole in the side of the security desk. Looking back in the direction of travel, he spotted Merlow, squat, beside a duo of waste containers. In a flash, Sayne whipped his blaster upward and fired off a shot in the direction of the Fleet Admiral. The laser round smacked into one of the waste units, blowing a hole in the side and sending a shower of garbage cascading to the floor. Merlow ducked to the side, albeit unnecessarily; the shot had been wide. Sayne swore and ducked even lower, once again training his attention on the ground. Keys, keys, keys! He snatched amongst the discarded aircar controllers, grabbing individual units and frantically thumbing the buttons. The airbus sat stoically on the landing platform out beyond the edge of the tower. Nothing. He tried key after key, thumb-press after thumb-press, until eventually the final set he scooped up signalled the flashing of the airbus’ indicator lights.
“Fucking finally.” He grunted. He stood up and grabbed Heather Scarman, who had remained crouched behind the bench. Another high velocity round whipped through the air inches from his face. It passed him, punching out of the large, wide glass windows that looked out toward the landing platforms. The thick glass cracked in the blink of an eye; spiderweb lines branching outward in every direction from the small hole at the epicentre. Sayne whirled around, bringing Heather before him. He pressed one hand firmly down on her shoulder and brought his blaster up to point at her temple. Merlow was now standing, duel-wielding his rail pistols as he advanced on Sayne. He was still a good distance from the ferry terminal, but he had a clear shot.
“Don’t do it Merlow,” Sayne shouted, “You don’t want her blood on your hands.”
Merlow paused, “Let her go Jadyn!”
“Raph, look!” Skyler Hawkins had stopped in his tracks at the sound of gunfire off to his left. He had spotted the small group just in time to see Tyrant Scarman topple to the ground, a faint trail of smoke leading away from his chest.
“What?” Zed Raphael dropped down beside him, squinting ahead.
“That bastard Jadyn just shot the Tyrant!”
Zed seemed nervous, his muscles tense. “So what? He won’t come after us if he’s dead.”
Hawkins shot Raphael a look of frustration. “You’re not seeing it Raph.”
“I thought you were cool with running!” Raphael protested, backing away slightly.
“I was wrong,” Hawkins brought his laser carbine up to his shoulder and sighted in the direction of Robert Merlow. “We’ve been given an opportunity here.”
“Fuck no,” Raphael growled, “I’m getting out of here.”
“Think about it Raph!” Hawkins insisted, looking back at Zed, “No Scarman, no Jadyn… We can take control of the Black Flag! Leave Liberty space entirely and operate on our own! We’d be free of his madness!”
For a second, Raphel paused, Hawkins’ prospect echoing around his mind. As he opened his mouth to reply, the clatter of gunfire sounded from behind him. He flinched has bullets zipped through the air to his right. He dropped to his knees for cover. “Get down!”
But Hawkins did not reply. Slowly, Raphael turned around and looked up at his comrade. A think trickle of blood had begun to run down Skyler’s forehead, emanating from a clean bullet hole just below his hair line. To their right, further around the terminal, Thomas Serov had spotted them and carefully lined up his shot. It had been a quick, semi-automatic burst, clean and clinical. Hawkins had been an easy target, standing out in the open as he was. Raphael reeled at the horrific vision before him.
He had broken and run before Skyler’s body had hit the floor.
Marcus barely heard the gunshot. The world around him had become muted, as if he were perceiving it through thick glass. His vision was rapidly tunnelling when the Tyrant suddenly released his grip. The thick, oppressive arm of his alternate self melted away from around his neck, allowing his beleaguered throat to finally open. He greedily sucked in the air around him, coughing and spluttering as he fell forward, onto his hands and knees. He heard a heavy clunk from behind. With immense difficulty, he peered back over his shoulder. He saw that the Tyrant had fallen flat on his back, deathly still, and with a faint trace of smoke rising from his chest. Marcus coughed and wretched as his wracked esophagus tried to direct oxygen to his lungs. He heaved and groaned as he turned around, scanning the environment around him through watery eyes. His vision was returning to him, as were the aural details of his predicament. The clattering of further gunfire could be heard somewhere off to his right, and the unmistakable crack and zip of a rail pistol sounded much closer.
“Robert?” Marcus croaked, turning in the direction of the rail pistol. He had heard his friend calling his name, but under the pressure of the Tyrant’s grasp, he had lost the ability to properly judge what was real and what was not. “Robert-”
Marcus tried to push himself in the direction of the sound of the rail pistol but trailed off as his eyes fell on the desperate sight of Victoria Wade, prone on the floor before him.
“Oh- no…” The scene provoked an almost primal energy within him. “No- no, no, no!”
Despite his injuries and reduces senses, he darted across the floor toward her, a raw panic bubbling up within him.
By now, Victoria was deeply unconscious. Marcus cradled her head in his hands as he came to rest beside her. The injuries to her face were severe. She was covered in dried blood, all from numerous cuts and lacerations, and she had an alarming swelling on her right cheek and again around her left eye socket. However, despite it all, she wore an almost peaceful expression. Marcus cupped her face in his hands and almost fell on top of her, tears openly spilling from his eyes.
“No, no!” He sobbed, “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”
He scanned her face for any movement or sign of life. Her mouth was open slightly, beneath her badly broken nose. Marcus quickly looked down at her chest, watching with bated breath. It took a few long seconds, but her ribcage finally rose and fell as she took in a tiny lungful of air. Marcus lowered his ear to her mouth and listened. It was faint, and there was a rattle to it, but she was breathing.
“Come on Victoria,” Marcus once again took her head in his hands. “I can’t lose you.”
Her warped, damaged features slowly faded as his mind replaced them with his memory of her. Her strawberry blonde bob fanned out on the floor behind her, and her lightly freckled cheeks dimpled as she smiled back up at him.
“I love you.”
The tears ran freely as he kissed her.
“Scarecrow!” The sound of Merlow calling urgently behind him brought him sharply back to reality. He smelled the iron tang of blood and saw that his tears had mixed with the red stains on Victoria’s face. He turned, wincing at the pain, and raised a hand toward his friend.
“I need a medic!”
“With me Marcus!” Merlow had broken free of his cover and was sprinting toward the ferry terminals. “We can’t let Sayne escape.” Jadyn. The girl!
Marcus looked back down at Victoria. Nothing had changed, but she was losing blood. If a medic didn’t tend to her quickly, she’d fade. “I need a medic!” Marcus shouted at the top of his lungs. His voice was cracked and sore.
More gunfire sounded from Merlow’s direction. Marcus looked up to see Sayne Jadyn dragging the girl Heather toward one of the ferries, firing his pistol blindly back at Merlow with his free hand.
Merlow had ducked down low and was returning fire. “I need you Scarecrow!”
Marcus gently moved some of Victoria’s matted hair away from her eye. “Stay alive. I’ll be back for you.”
Marcus hauled himself to his feet. He quickly scanned the area around him. Scattered groups were still fighting, elongating the bitter conflict between the Freedom Fighters and the Black Flag, but the end would soon be upon them. Marcus knew that his priority now needed to be the girl, Heather Scarman. She was the biggest victim. His greatest responsibility. Gathering all the energy he could muster, Marcus set off after Merlow, leaving Victoria lying still on the tiles.
Zed Raphael sprinted back along the outer edge of floor seventy-five, away from the sounds of conflict. He was done. With Skyler dead, there was nothing left for him with the Black Flag. The entire operation had been cracked wide open, all for the Tyrant’s insane lust for vengeance, and his foolish alliance with the unpredictable and untrustworthy pirate Sayne Jadyn. I hope those Liberty fuckers get him. Raphael thought bitterly as he rounded a coffee stand and ducked for cover. They deserve each other.
He peered back around the stand to see Jadyn making for one of the ferries. Fleet Admiral Merlow and the alternate version of Tyrant Scarman were chasing him down.
“Rot in hell.” Zed muttered as he watched Merlow close in.
He almost jumped out of his skin when an almighty crash sounded from behind him. He hardly had time to turn around as he was showered in razor-sharp shards of glass. He instinctively raised his arms around his head to protect his face. When he lowered them, he saw the cause of the violence. A native LACPD SWAT unit had broken through the nearest of the outer windows, having rappelled down the outer edge of the building on tough nylar lines. The darkly clad SWAT team punched into the building and instantly fanned out, scanning with their snub-nosed laser carbines. Thin red tracer lasers cut out from the noses of the weapons, ready to mark any hostile targets in the vicinity. The leader of the group spotted Raphael and instantly trained his weapon on him. Zed squinted as several lasers hit his retinas at once.
“Down on the ground, hands on your head!” The SWAT officer barked.
Zed had no choice but to comply. There was nowhere left for him to go. Reluctantly, he dropped down to his knees and knitted his hands over the top of his head. The officer slapped a set of energy-binders over his wrists and pulled his arms down behind his back.
“You’re under arrest! Do not resist, any efforts to resist will be deemed hostile!”
Zed scowled up at his captors but said nothing.
* * *
Starwood Hotel, General Area
All around the Starwood tower, the native LACPD were galvanising. Overall, their reaction times had been admirable. When the rumblings of trouble at the Starwood had first reached them, they had dispatched their standard policing units to investigate. Now, the incident was being regarded as an open act of terrorism, and the LACPD and LSF had been granted the use of full force to bring peace to the city. Eighteen SWAT teams were currently progressing through the tower, either descending from the roof after aerial insertions, or by climbing up from the ground floor. They were in turn being supported by aerial light fighter and aircar support. Heavy firepower for an inter-city engagement. Power to the tower’s elevators had been cut, so progress for the ground teams had been slow. However, the aerial teams were now able to strike. At equidistant points around the ferry terminals of the seventy-fifth floor, SWAT teams broke through into the building almost in unison. Patriot light fighters swooped in close to the building and lit up the level with powerful searchlights. Across all units, officers and pilots alike were now more than ready to bring an end to what had become the most devastating outbreak of violence ever recorded in downtown Los Angeles Capital. The noose was tightening, and soon it would be completely taught. The end was drawing near.
![[Image: Scarecrow-Jupiter.png]](https://i.ibb.co/6FqxTqG/Scarecrow-Jupiter.png)