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Suddenly Memories: Marksman
By Dac
Marksman peered out the window, wistfully taking in the view of the ground below. He felt tired, but he kept himself awake. He was waiting for a call from Data to explain what his mission was, and ousted as he had been from his quarters in the middle of the night, he felt irritable enough to try and make Data feel bad for waking him up. It probably wouldn’t happen, but it was worth a shot. The fact that the headset had remained stubbornly blank and motionless had done nothing to improve his mood, and he was beginning to wonder if he was wasting his time keeping himself awake.
He stabbed the call button and the flight attendant was by his side within an instant.
“Get me a whiskey,” he said grumpily. “Extra ice.”
She nodded complacently and vanished for a moment. He sat and stared as the ground seemed to grow more and more distant until she returned and handed him a glass. He sipped it bitterly, savouring the taste for a moment and reclined his seat. He had waited long enough; he may as well catch some sleep.
At that moment the headset beeped.
“Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me,” he spat, snatching it up and pulling it over his ears. “This is Marksman.”
“Hello,” Data’s smooth, liquid voice drifted through the phone. “All ready to go?”
“Already going,” said Marksman. “I’m on the plane now. Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Didn’t they tell you as you boarded?”
“I was barely awake,” said Marksman indignantly. “And I’m not much better now, but I’m pissed off too.”
“Suck it up,” said Data. “When you came on board, they would have said something about a diplomacy mission to the United Kingdom, correct?”
Marksman thought back to what the captain had said to him as he’d slumped his way onto the private jet. The exact words escaped him, but the basic gist had been similar, at least, to what Data was saying. Marksman seemed to recall grunting something that only vaguely resembled language in response.
“Yeah, something like that,” said Marksman.
“Cover story,” said Data crisply. “Tell the stewardess to bring you the confidential folder.”
Marksman pressed the button again and found the flight attendant almost on top of him before he could blink. He told her bluntly what he wanted and watched in bafflement as she disappeared in a flash, only to reappear again just as soon as she’d gone. Once she handed him the file, she was gone again. Marksman shook his head.
“I need some fucking sleep,” he muttered, opening the file. “OK. I’ve got it here. I’m going hunting?”
“Yeah,” said Data. “The first photo is your supposed contact, a British politician named Bill Grant. He’s already one of ours, and if anyone asks he’s going to say you were with him for the weekend working on deals. We’ve already supplied him with a few falsified documents to back up his story. With any luck you won’t even need to see him.”
“Then why include his picture?”
“If you know how much trouble we went through to prove where you were, when you weren’t really there, then you’ll appreciate how important this is. Your mission is classified above top secret. Wake up and start paying attention.”
Marksman returned the seat to the upright position, grumbling. He flipped through the files in the folder; there were a few maps, some photographs, what looked like blueprints and a few other bits and pieces.
“The first photo is of a mountain area in Wales,” Data narrated. “That’s where you’re headed. A terrorist cell is located there somewhere, one that’s been fighting me and mine since I first stepped into Europe, all disgraced men with combat backgrounds that have apparently taken up patriotism. I need you to shut them down.”
Marksman studied it. “That’s not going to be easy in a weekend.”
“I don’t care how long it takes. I just needed an excuse to get you in the country. The blueprints are, we believe, a leak of their base. We’ve checked the local topography, so we think the mountain in the next photo is the closest fit. The plane will be dropping you over it. If it’s not there, call in and I’ll send a local force out to extract you, and you’ll keep trying.”
Marksman tossed the photo of the mountain aside and picked up the next item, a card showing three partial fingerprints. He blinked at it in confusion. At the top read a single word: YORATH.
“You looking at the prints?”
“Yeah,” said Marksman. “What’s Yorath? Is that even a word?”
“It’s a name,” explained Data. “It’s Welsh. I gather it used to be pretty common, but not so much any more. The guy you’re after is alleged to be the leader of this little faction. Unfortunately, those prints are the only hard proof we have that the guy exists at all. Everything else is word of mouth.”
Marksman scanned the file in confusion. “What, no photos?”
“Nope,” said Data. “Believe me, we’ve tried, but I can’t seem to find any physical evidence of the guy. Everyone connected to the cell swears blind that they’re commanded by Yorath, but ask any of them for a physical description of the man and they’ll all come up with nothing. He’s like a ghost.”
“Great,” said Marksman. “I’m out here chasing Keyser Sozé.”
“Maybe,” said Data. “He might exist, he might not. That’s where the next photo comes in.”
Marksman picked it up. The photo seemed to be a screencap of a surveillance camera, and showed a broad-shouldered man whose face was obscured. Marksman studied it imperiously. There was a moment of hesitation before Data continued, and Marksman caught a note of uncertainty he wasn’t used to hearing. “That man...is an enforcer. By all accounts he came in over the last few months and has been performing a lot of the attacks that these guys are responsible for. Not many, I’ll admit, but this guy is the go-to guy whenever they do them.”
Marksman stared at the photo, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t distinguish the man’s face. “In other words, we don’t know who he is.”
“No, we don’t,” said Data. “No name, no prints, nothing.”
“Could he be your Yorath?”
“It’s possible,” said Data. “He is, by admission of...captured...operatives, Yorath’s bodyguard. We have no evidence, but we suspect that he really is Yorath. We only got the prints a few days ago, we’re trying to match them. So far, nothing.”
“Great,” said Marksman. “I’m going to chase phantoms.”
“You’re going to do your damn job,” sneered Data. “Or do you think with all the problems we’re having at home that I’d just send you intercontinental lightly?”
Marksman began to protest, then thought better of it and shut up quickly. He studied the photo again, staring at the nameless man curiously. There was something about him he couldn’t quite pick, something wrong with his body, but the picture was too grainy to distinguish it. He set it back down and folded his arms.
“So if I do find these terrorists,” he said. “What would you have me do?”
“Get rid of them,” said Data simply. “Use your imagination.”
“Done,” replied Marksman darkly. “Any idea how strong their force is?”
“You know the IRA?” said Data. “These guys took their lead from them. A very strong force, most of them underground. We’d never find all their operatives, so now that we have a single lead, we’re going straight to the top. With any luck, getting rid of Yorath and that other guy should put them out of commission for a long while, before they can really co-ordinate against us.”
“And if Yorath doesn’t really exist?”
“Yorath is a shadow,” clarified Data. “Whether or not he exists is irrelevant. Most of his organisation is as clueless as we are. You may not be able to kill the man, but you can always kill the intent behind him. You have to kill him in the eyes of his men. Wreck the base, blow away as many of them as possible, and they begin to doubt he survives. If his men think he’s dead, then he may as well be. Of course, if it turns out there is a real Yorath, kill the bastard and be done with it.”
Marksman nodded, even though Data couldn’t see him. He closed the file and pushed it away, keeping the blueprints out, thinking about his best avenue of attack. He’d have to get inside the base first, or all he’d waste all his time trying to fight off an attack force at the entrance. He could see some escape routes marked out, but by the looks of things they’d be fortified too. If Yorath existed, he’d be pulled out one of the other escape routes as soon as the alarm went off.
“Check with the pilot about your ETA,” said Data. “Be ready to fight.”
“Always am,” said Marksman. “I’ll report back when I have more information.”
He clicked the headset off and reclined the chair, sipping his whiskey and studying the blueprint of the base. He hoped to hell it was accurate, or this whole mission would go to hell. He rubbed at his eyes as fatigue began to set in again, and as he downed the last of his drink, he leaned back and slept.
***
The plane jolted violently and Marksman snapped awake, startled. He looked around, but there was no sign of the stewardess. He stood up and another jolt sent him sprawling to the floor. His eyes snapped open. He could feel the plane listing, as though something else was pulling it along. Instantly he knew there was no turbulence. He was under attack.
The stewardess stumbled out of the cabin and he seized her arm.
“Where are we?”
“About half an hour from where we were supposed to drop you,” she replied fearfully, her eagerness to please completely gone.
“Good,” said Marksman grimly. “Close enough. Strap in, and tell the pilot to.”
He looked out the window and his eyes narrowed. Something else was in the air alongside the plane, something keeping pace with the jet. It was an aircraft of some kind, but not like anything Marksman had ever seen. It was huge, operated by four giant rotors in an x-formation, painted olive green with a black cockpit. Marksman saw several lines like slack cables reaching from the aircraft to his jet, somewhere further up the fuselage. He watched in confusion as cylindrical began to protrude from the base of the craft and slide down the cables towards the jet. It took a few minutes before he realised what it was.
“Hey,” he called to the stewardess. “You ever been boarded before?”
“Boarded?” she asked blankly, uncomprehending.
“Today’s your lucky day,” he said. “They’re hooking up an umbilical. Get in the cockpit and lock the door.”
She vanished from sight while he watched the umbilical slide down the cables onto the side of the jet and heard a hiss as it latched on and pressurised. He fought the urge to laugh. It was so ridiculous, he couldn’t help it. He stood his ground and watched several dark shapes behind the opaque umbilical material drop down towards the door of the jet. There were several loud thuds as his attackers hammered on the door, and still he waited calmly. His skin started to glisten.
The door burst inwards as something strong hammered into it, and instantly two men wearing black paratrooper suits stormed in. They raised their weapons and fired at Marksman, who grinned as several darts bounced harmlessly off his skin. There was a beat as the two man stared at him blankly. Marksman smiled and shrugged.
“Sorry,” he smirked, and before they could alter their strategy he rushed them, tackling them to the ground and slamming their heads together. Their helmets crunched as they caved inwards, and there was a satisfying thud as their limp forms fell to the ground.
“Some first wave,” he sneered loudly, standing back up. “What else you got?”
“Me,” said a deep, grim voice.
Marksman looked back at the open doorway as a large form emerged through it. The newcomer stood up straight as he came through, and Marksman blinked in surprise. He was tall, as tall as Elite or DarthJ3sus, and extremely broad in the shoulder. He wore plain clothes, a pair of grey trousers and black boots, along with a white short-sleeved shirt under a black shirt that opened at the front. His hair was black and closely-cropped, kept very short, but the thing that drew Marksman’s attention was the fact that, by the look of things, he was made entirely out of metal. His skin was not a sleek, glistening coating like Marksman’s, but a large series of dark grey segments. There was a clanking sound at every step he took. Even his eyes were a soulless dark grey, devoid of any irises or pupils, and any sign of emotion was absent from them. The large man surveyed Marksman grimly, who stared in surprise.
“Holy crap,” he said. “You’re...huge! Shit, you’re way bigger than most of the people I’ve had to fight.”
“I get that sometimes,” said the large man. As he spoke, Marksman could see the inside of his mouth. Everything inside – teeth, tongue, and everything beyond – were also solid metal. His voice had an odd rasp to it. “You’re Marksman? Travelling on behalf of the Leader?”
“Who’s asking?” demanded the Guardsman.
“Don’t waste our time,” said the large man bluntly. “You work for the Leader. I work for Yorath. You know that name, I believe.”
Marksman hesitated. He dearly wanted to smirk defiantly and brag about how he knew the name and was ready to fight, but Data was constantly dumping on them the need to make every fight the fault of the other guy before throwing any punches. He bit his tongue and instead pushed the mock-diplomacy angle he’d gotten accustomed to.
“I’m on my way to a diplomatic meeting in the United-” he began, but the large man cut him off.
“We know all about that,” he said. “Your friend Grant is really our friend Grant. As soon as the Leader arranged for you to travel out here, we knew. I was told to intercept you en route and save you the trouble of messing around looking for our base of operations and take you there myself, dead or alive. My name is DoNothing.”
Marksman blinked. “Do I-”
“No,” growled DoNothing, and Marksman caught barely-concealed disgust in his voice. “You don’t know me. Neither you nor the Leader, nor any of those others – Brodie, Powerbomb, Elite – none of you know me. Don’t tell yourself otherwise, you murdering bastard.”
Marksman snorted. “We’ve already progressed to name-calling? I guess we better get this over with, then.”
He ran at DoNothing before the other man could respond and delivered a skull-crushing blow to his face. DoNothing barely flinched and backhanded Marksman across the face, sending him flying down the cabin. He crashed straight through one of the seats and crushed another under his metallic form, barely noticing either but feeling a sharp pain where the larger man had caught him. He sat up and rubbed it gingerly, staring in shock as the Welsh man walked down the cabin towards him. His hand came away covered in what looked like metal shavings, which he eyed warily.
“You’ve got a metal body too,” DoNothing noted. “What’s yours, organic steel? Mine’s stronger. We’ve tested it. It’s about as strong and heavy as titanium. My tendons and nerves are all made of it, and my skin is like a file. I could sand yours off if I wanted to, and I do.”
Marksman shot up and threw a wide punch but DoNothing spun on the spot. His speed was blinding as he delivered a roundhouse kick straight to Marksman’s face. Marksman heard his metal nose crumple under his opponent’s foot and dropped to the ground. He opened his eyes blearily in time to see an open metallic palm drop rapidly towards them and slam his head through the floor. He felt five solid fingers crushing his head inwards like a soda can, and kicked up frantically. By chance his foot slammed into DoNothing’s head; caught offguard by the blow, DoNothing stumbled sideways. In a flash, Marksman was up, grabbing at DoNothing’s hair. It felt like steel wool under his fingers. He twisted and pulled DoNothing to the ground. Furiously, he stomped on the larger man’s head, hearing some satisfying grunts of pain from beneath his heel.
DoNothing let out a roar of anger and his arm swung around, hooking Marksman’s other foot out from underneath him. Marksman fell awkwardly and DoNothing leapt atop him, delivering blows that would have crushed the skull of an ordinary man. Marksman was dazed by the blow, but he swung his arms up and latched onto DoNothing’s head. His thumbs found his opponent’s eyes and he forced them in to gouge them out.
DoNothing chuckled harshly and mirthlessly. “Sorry,” he said. “My eyes are the same stuff. Everything about me is the same. Eyes, hair, organs...hell, even my genitals. No soft, weak parts for you to exploit.”
Marksman gave a gurgle as DoNothing punched him in the head again. He coughed and spat something out involuntarily.
“Looks like the same can’t be said for you,” noted DoNothing, punctuating his words with occasional blows to the head. “Saliva and phlegm? You have normal innards. If I’m right, that means you have a soft brain inside that shell. You know how boxers will be disorientated and concussed after a fight? It’s because all that padding they were on their heads doesn’t do shit. Their brain spends so much time rattling around, hitting the inside of the skull, that it bruises. Guess what’s happening to you.”
Lights began to dance in Marksman’s vision and his tongue lolled out. His hands scrabbled lamely about on the floor when he felt them close on something. He managed to twist his head enough to see what it was: one of the dropped dart guns.
With all the focus he could muster, he jammed his free hand into DoNothing’s open mouth. His attacker, surprised, reared back. Marksman ripped his arm out and slammed it into DoNothing’s face, sending him sprawling. Marksman staggered up the cabin until he came to the doorway. If he was in a decent state of mind, he would have kicked himself for such a stupid idea, but addled and desperate as he was, he didn’t care. DoNothing was running at him, snarling something, when he emptied the dart clip into the material of the umbilical. Several holes were ripped free and the cabin depressurised, knocking both of them off their feet. They heard screams from the cockpit as they collided in the doorway. The umbilical began to rip to shreds, and both of them grabbed hold of seats, straining against the air pressure. The umbilical ripped away completely, and Marksman caught a brief glimpse of the strange aircraft detaching from the cables that had held it before a dark grey hand seized his wrist. DoNothing stared at him with a mixture of amusement and astonishment, but any words he shouted were lost over the roar of the air pressure. They realised the jet was dropping, but all they could do was cling for dear life. Marksman swatted DoNothing’s hand away and, hand over hand, dragged himself into a seat. He lashed himself in with the seatbelt and braced. Seeing what he was doing, DoNothing struggled to crawl over, but right as he began to move the plane impacted the ground.
The sound was deafening and Marksman’s body jolted violently to and fro as the cabin crumpled in around him. The fuselage crushed in on itself and the plane rolled across the ground, splintering into pieces as it went. Marksman clamped his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, pinning himself between the two seats, somehow managing to stay there. The seats held as the plane collapsed around them and the fuel tanks ignited. Flames exploded around him, but he held himself steady, feeling rattled.
The plane slowed, and finally halted. He cautiously opened his eyes and looked around. He was on his side, and could see the ground under the window beneath him. He checked the seatbelt and saw that it had ripped clear already; only pinning himself in had saved him. He stood up, but the fuselage had caved in above him. Unsteadily, he punched his fist through and ripped a hole wide enough to climb through. He struggled up and out of it, looking around hazily. The plane had crashed in a wide green field underneath an unfamiliar mountain range. The sunlight blinded him for a moment and he fell off the fuselage, dropping to the grass below. Standing up shakily, he walked around to the back of the plane. There was a large, ugly black scar ripped into the field where the plane had impacted and dragged itself, easily a mile long. Marksman stared blankly at it and turned from steel back into his standard form, relishing the lack of weight to carry around. He breathed the clean air deeply and turned back to the plane.
Behind him, a large grey form swung a fist at him, and his vision went dark.
***
His head splitting with pain, he sat up uncomfortably, rubbing at his forehead. His eyes were screwed shut as he grimaced. He swung his feet around and stood up, leaning on a nearby wall. Opening his eyes, he was only aware of his immediate surroundings: the bed he had picked himself up from, and a nearby sink. Staggering over to it, he splashed water on his face and blinked in the dank light, taking in everything else.
He was standing in a small cell with what looked like a customised door. The bar set-up was the same as in any prison, but as examining it he felt impressed despite himself. They were made of heavy tungsten and were thicker than any cell bars he’d ever seen. They’d gotten prepared for him.
“That should keep you, for now,” said a sly voice. As he looked up, DoNothing walked into his line of sight. He was still in his metal form, but his expression still conveyed triumphant contempt. “You could probably break them in your steel form, given enough time, but we won’t allow you that time. You won’t be here long.”
“And how long will I be here?” asked Marksman coldly, sitting back on the bunk.
“Not too long,” replied his captor. “Yorath has plans for you. A superhuman prisoner, belonging to the Leader. We’re looking forward to what we can do with you.”
“Yorath,” snorted Marksman. “When do I get to meet him?”
“You don’t,” said DoNothing. “He hates people at the best of times. You’re an opponent, so he’s not going to bother with you. Since we’re already acquainted, I’ll be carrying out any orders related to you, when the time comes. Enjoy your stay. This is a terrible picture of me, by the way.”
He flipped a photo through the bars. Marksman picked it up; it was the photo from the file Data had sent him. The edges of the photo were scorched, but otherwise it was intact. Marksman stared at it and recognised DoNothing, now that he’d seen him up close. He looked up, but DoNothing was already walking away.
“You’re happy just playing puppet to a terrorist leader, then?” he called to DoNothing’s receding back.
“Just as much as you are,” came the snide response.
“The Leader’s not a terrorist,” said Marksman bluntly.
“Neither’s Yorath. The Leader just has better publicity and comes from a more powerful country. Everything else is semantics,” said DoNothing, looking over his shoulder. “You don’t have any idea who Yorath is, or what he’s done. In a world where there are superhuman forces everywhere, who pays attention to one poor guy in Wales? I somehow found myself in America and got the hell out, coming back here to Wales, and then Yorath found me. I’ve been watching the world from here, and it’s going to hell because of the Leader. We can’t all be the brilliant men like the Leader, so I’m Yorath’s lieutenant. He orders, I follow, and I do it because it’s the right thing to do. Isn’t that why you do what you do? You think it’s the right thing to do?”
Marksman didn’t answer, regarding DoNothing curiously. DoNothing nodded silently and grimly, stepping out the door and closing it behind him. The clanging noise of the door being pulled shut echoed around the cell for a long while as Marksman lay back down, thinking.
For several hours he lay calmly on the bed. He thought hard, but he was in no particular rush. Data had said he could take as long as he needed on this assignment, and DoNothing had not only kindly brought him right where he needed to be, but also as good as told him they weren’t about to execute him at gunpoint. He had all the time he needed, and all he needed to do was rest. A guard had walked in with a meagre tray of food and slid it through a compartment in the stone wall. Marksman thanked him politely, but the man walked out without a word. Marksman bit into his bread and continued resting. His migraine eventually went down to a bearable level, and he sat up in bed.
***
Outside the door, three guards were playing poker. One of them watched the other two steadily. He was sitting on two pairs, queens and fours, but he felt confident he could take them both. Neither had very good poker faces. He held his face blank as he raised his bid. One of them matched, the other folded. He waited calmly. His remaining opponent was bluffing, he could tell. They showed their cards. He surreptitiously held his breath as he revealed his pairs.
The other guard had three jacks.
He cursed as his colleague grinned and pulled the money in. Idly they set up for the next round, and the dealer began to shuffle. He took a sip of his drink and waited for the cards to be thrown out, and they chatted idly as they played.
The door exploded inwards and collected them as it flew into the back wall. They gave a cry of alarm as they fell; the dealer took the worst of the collision and did not stand back up; the other two pulled themselves up and took out their weapons as Marksman stepped calmly through the doorway, holding bars from his devastated cell door. They were jagged and smoking, both about twelve inches long. He ran into the room and impaled both of them before they could aim their weapons, and both of them fell to the floor, coughing up blood. He planted his foot on both of them one after the other and ripped the bars from their bodies, swinging them smoothly. From the unconscious dealer he took the keys, in case he needed them, and stepped out into the base.
Mentally he reviewed the blueprints from the plane. He didn’t remember much, but he remembered the cell block, hoping it was the same as the one he’d been housed in. Much of the time he’d spent in his cell he had gone over the blueprints in his head, and recalled what seemed to be a command centre. It wasn’t far, but he’d have to get there quickly before news of his escape spread. One of the escape tunnels had been right near the command centre, and if Yorath was there he’d surely use it before Marksman could get to him.
If he was there. If he even existed. Marksman didn’t trust DoNothing’s word that he did.
He ran down a corridor and bypassed what looked to be a mess hall. Many men, all of them in plain clothes, walked idly back and forth inside. Marksman pressed against the back wall and hoped none of them noticed him, but did not slacken his pace. He turned a corner just as a warbling noise came to his ears, followed by distant shouts. The alarm had been raised; his escape had been discovered.
Deciding not to disappoint them, he turned to look back at the mess hall and his eyes narrowed. The sound of explosions and panicked screams echoed around the base as he fled the scene.
Turning another corner, he came into what looked like an assembly hall, full of men dressed in a black uniform, similar to the paratroopers he’d encountered on the jet. Wasting no time, he lowered his shoulders and barrelled into them, swinging his bars like batons and knocking down anyone who got to close. Yells of alarm and anger echoed around the area, and a wide arc of light cut through the thick of the men. The yells turned to panic, but in the confusion he darted out one of the doors and jammed one of his bars through the handles behind him. The men inside the hall hammered on it, but couldn’t get it open.
Marksman sprinted as fast as he could, leaving dents in the ground wherever his feet landed, followed only by smoke from the rooms he had devastated. He ran through the base and up a flight of stairs until he came to a hangar. He pulled up short. There were four of the strange aircraft he’d seen from the jet, standing in a line, but they did not capture his attention. Standing waiting for him was a very familiar figure with folded arms. DoNothing shook his head.
“I’m impressed,” he said. “I honestly didn’t think you’d be strong enough to break out.”
“I’m inventive,” grinned Marksman. “I’ve been held in cages before. I learned that patience gets you out faster. All you gotta do is keep your eyes on the prize.”
“Clearly,” said DoNothing. “Credit where credit’s due. You’ve raised hell where I thought hell couldn’t get in.”
“Thanks,” said Marksman briskly. “So I don’t suppose you’re going to let me by easily?”
“I’m afraid not,” replied DoNothing. “You’re on your way to kill a man who helped me through the hardest part of my life when you know nothing about him, just because your boss told him to.”
“As if you’ve never done that,” snorted Marksman.
“I haven’t, actually,” said DoNothing. “Yorath doesn’t believe in pre-emptive measures when they’re that drastic. He told me once, it doesn’t matter if that believe makes them think we’re weak, or unwilling to act, or cowardly. They’re monsters for trying and what they think doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not here for a philosophy lesson,” spat Marksman. “I’ve had enough of those in my life. I’m here to do a job.”
“Just following orders,” sneered DoNothing. “What you do is a violent, disgusting thing. What you call a job, I call raping morality. You follow your Leader’s orders, never bothering to find out what the other side of the fence thinks at all, and once they’re left in the dust you just forget about whatever you were doing. Just another murdering, monstrous job.”
“Oh, shut up!” snapped Marksman. “I don’t give a shit about your moral high horse! I come from Venezuela, I’ve seen real monsters with power. I know what they’re like, and the Leader isn’t anything like them. You give me shit for not bothering to find out about my enemy and you’ve done the exact same thing. Did you bother to find out anything about me at all before bringing me in here to string me up?”
“I found out your power,” said DoNothing. “And your loyalty. And the fact that we were never going to kill you. Unlike you people, we don’t torture or murder our prisoners. I know about Celtic, yes. He leaves his mark everywhere, and he does that on your precious Leader’s orders, now what exactly do you call that?”
“I don’t have anything to do with that,” snapped Marksman. “Ask the Leader and Celtic about that.”
“Just blind yourself to what your own team does and carry on blindly following the orders of a madman,” said DoNothing loftily. “You remember the last group who used that as an excuse? The Nazis?”
Marksman let out a roar and dived at DoNothing, tackling him to the ground. He smashed both fists simultaneously into the Welshman’s face, putting a crater in the hangar floor. He swung both fists endlessly, jarring loose a few metallic teeth.
“Godwin’s law,” sneered Marksman, standing up. “All arguments end once they get to Hitler.”
He kicked DoNothing in the jaw, sending him reeling. DoNothing swung his arm out as he had before, to sweep up Marksman’s other foot, but Marksman stepped nimbly over it and stamped on DoNothing’s shoulder. In response, DoNothing swung his own foot up and slammed it into the back of Marksman’s head. Marksman stumbled forward but kept his footing as DoNothing dragged himself up. The pair of them ran at each other and collided with a sound like a portcullis dropping. It echoed all around the hangar as they locked hands and attempted to force each other back, glaring daggers at each other. DoNothing gritted his teeth and slowly began to inch forward. Marksman’s feet ripped up trails in the concrete as DoNothing forced him back, bit by bit.
Abruptly there was a loud crunching sound and Marksman dropped to his knees. DoNothing blinked and released his hands, no longer sleek organic steel but ordinary flesh and blood. DoNothing looked down in surprise at Marksman kneeling before him, holding his broken left hand with his aching but functional right. DoNothing cocked his head.
“Why the hell did you do that?” he demanded.
Marksman bent over his crushed hand, his face hidden from view, but in between the grunts of pain, DoNothing heard a low chuckle.
“Like I said,” hissed Marksman. “You don’t know anything about me.”
He lifted his head and DoNothing froze in astonishment. Marksman’s eyes glowed red for a split second before a blast exploded outwards and smashed DoNothing across the hangar and out the entrance. Marksman heard a furious roar as DoNothing flew away, but there was nothing he could do. The roar grew fainter as DoNothing fell out of sight.
Marksman stood back up and turned into his steel form again. The pain in his arm lessened to something manageable; it still hurt, and he couldn’t use his fingers, but it wasn’t distracting at all. He walked towards the nearby exit, hoping it would lead him to the command centre he’d spotted. Ripping the door open, he ran up a flight of stairs and came to a door marked NO ACCESS. Standing in front of it were two armed guards, who immediately ran at him with bayonets. He punched the first one in irritation, spun and elbowed the other. Both fell and rolled down the stairs. Gritting his teeth, he stormed towards the door and kicked it open.
“I’ve just about had it up to here-” he began to snarl, but he paused midsentence.
At the other end of the command centre was a large command console. In front of it was a large chair with a raised back and wheels on either side. Marksman blinked.
“What the hell?”
As though stirred by the sound of his voice, the chair began to rotate, and a reedy voice spoke up.
“What’s the matter? Not what you expected?”
Marksman started. Seated in the wheelchair was a wizened old man in a white suit. He was bald and largely wrinkled, and his brown eyes had a bright, intelligent, ruthless light in them. His shoulder was oddly formed and he had seven fingers on his left hand. His left leg stuck out at an odd angle. His bare arms, the side of his face, a portion of his bald head and a small part of his leg visible under his pant leg were adorned with scars. His expression reminded Marksman of a carrion bird over a fresh carcass; it was triumphant and revoltingly unpleasant.
“Welcome, Marksman,” said the bent figure. “You came looking for Yorath. Here I am.”
Marksman stared in shock. “But...you...”
“Am not the glorious epitome of physical perfection?” asked Yorath. “Nor a wondrous superhuman with powers beyond the norm? Not even a biologically-standard human? No. I am none of these things. This surprises you?”
Marksman struggled to find something to say, but could only stammer half-formed words before doubling back on all of them. He was utterly dumfounded; he didn’t know what he had expected, but to be confronted by a bald, disfigured cripple in what looked like his mid-70’s was close to the bottom of the list. Yorath smiled and the wheelchair rolled towards Marksman.
“Don’t be alarmed, Marksman,” he said, smiling calmly. “I know I look surprising. This is why I don’t often meet with new people. No one is ever sure how to respond.”
Marksman shook himself and found his tongue. “You’re Yorath?”
“I am, my boy,” grinned the old man. “What stories has the Leader been spinning you? Were you led to believe that I was some kind of seven-foot athletic type? I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
He turned his chair back to his console, beckoning Marksman to follow. Marksman walked cautiously behind him as Yorath went on casually. As he did, Marksman caught distinct bitterness in his voice.
“Not all of us can be superhuman. Not all of us can enter this world blessed with supernormal powers and abilities, looking like gods as they soar across the sky and lift mountains with their hands. Some of us can’t even stand up, but that’s beneath the notice of most of you. Content to allow your powers to dictate the lives of everyone else.”
He pressed a button on the arm of his wheelchair and the consoles all flashed up different images, cycling through them at random. Marksman stared. Some of the images were of his team. He could see Data, DarthJ3sus, Powerbomb, Elite, Brodie, even himself, as the images clicked and began to change. There were other images, too, many of which he didn’t recognise, but some that he did: the old heroes like Captain Liberty, Thrud and Mr Invincible. He watched as they continued flashing across the monitors. No distinction seemed to be made between the dead heroes and Marksman’s teammates.
“We know the Leader has a power,” said Yorath. “We don’t know what it is yet, I’ll admit, but we know he has one, and possibly more. His arrogance, his rise to power...it all smacks of superhumanity, those glorious folk who preen like supermodels and consider themselves better than us, deserving to rule us.”
“You mean like your bodyguard?” spat Marksman, unable to help himself. Yorath chuckled unpleasantly.
“DoNothing’s a rare case,” he sniggered. “He understands what I meant. How could he not? He was cursed with his power. He can’t change back into flesh and blood like you can, and to our cost we learn too late you can also use optic blasts, which is beyond him. When I found him, I saw him for what he was. He had the perspective I did. More, in fact; he had been normal once, and found himself on the other side of the spectrum. He saw as I did, and he hates you. Oh my, he hates all of you under the Leader. He told me about all of you. Once you discovered your powers, you simply took the most powerful country in the world and bent it to your whim, not giving a damn about the common people. Meanwhile, he’s left alone in the gutter with nothing but a body he can’t get rid of.”
Marksman felt a flash of rage. He hated being lectured at the best of times. His eyes began to glow. Yorath saw the light and smirked.
“Yes, there we are,” he sneered. “That’s the superhuman condition. When someone questions you, you get rid of them and forget them. Murderers and tyrants, the superhumans. Free to bring the world to its knees and step on its neck, all in the name of truth, justice, and the international way, is that the politically correct thing to say?”
Marksman seized the back of the chair and ripped it around, staring Yorath full in the face. His eyes were glowing red, and he was only just holding back from vaporising the old man’s ugly face. Yorath smirked, staring right back, unafraid. Marksman saw into him in that instant. All at once it hit him. This man had lived for decades as a freak, a real freak. Marksman could even see it. His scientific breakthroughs, his political achievements, anything else this man had done in his life would always come second to the fact that he wasn’t normal. He didn’t have any extraordinary abilities as Marksman did, he was the wrong kind of abnormal. Marksman could see him growing up, a young man doing great things for the world and feeling constantly downtrodden by its unwillingness to ignore his disabilities, and then finally that despondence turned to anger, then when he found a suitable target, someone to blame, to hatred. Marksman saw it all in Yorath’s grin.
He grinned right back.
“I know what you want,” he hissed. “You want to be proven right.”
Yorath’s grin faded, and for the first time he looked uncertain. “What?”
“You’re broadcasting this,” said Marksman. “Where’s the camera, in your consoles? Your chair? The ceiling? What, are you going to martyr yourself to prove to the world how horrible the superhumans are? You want me to kill you. You want to be right one last time.”
Yorath’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he said nothing. He frowned; he knew something wasn’t right. Something in his grand design had gone wrong. Marksman pulled him bodily off his wheelchair and into his arms, and the old man gave a yell of protest.
“What the hell are you doing? Put me down!”
“I don’t think so,” said Marksman, shoving the chair away with his foot. “I’m not going to kill you. Why should I? You’re no threat to anyone. I’ve got something better in mind for you. I know a great nursing home back in America, and I think you’ll fit in there just fine.”
Yorath fought to keep his jaw from dropping. “What?”
“You hate your life so much,” sneered Marksman. “So I’m going to make sure you live for as long as you possibly can, as comfortably as you possibly can. Hell, I’ll pay your fees myself. You want someone to love you and take care of you, old man? Don’t worry. You’ll be well looked after.”
His eyes glowed red and he vaporised the wheelchair and every computer in the room. Yorath stared up at him, rage permeating every line on his face, natural or otherwise.
“You sick bastard,” hissed Yorath.
Marksman smiled and carried him back down towards the hangar. Yorath struggled feebly, but Marksman shook him violently.
“Hey, behave yourself or I’ll drag you there,” he said sternly. Yorath could not come up with a response and fell silent, shaking with rage. Marksman walked into the hangar and found there was a scattering of activity. The destruction he’d caused earlier had done some damage, and the lower parts of the mountain base were on fire. Several men were running across the hangar. No one noticed the pair of them emerge until one man ran by them, did a double take, and stopped dead. Marksman’s eyes glowed menacingly.
“Don’t fucking move,” he said. “Can you fly one of those?”
He jerked his head at the strange aircraft he’d seen. The man nodded hesitantly. Yorath began to snap a command at him, but the man just looked at him blankly. Marksman felt a thrill; not even the men on base had ever seen Yorath before.
“Fly it,” said Marksman. “You’re taking me and this ugly bastard to America. Do anything I don’t like, and I’ll vaporise your head. Got it?”
The man nodded and they ran towards the nearest craft, Yorath cursing the whole way. They climbed inside and the pilot moved straight to the cockpit. Marksman strapped Yorath in a seat at the back, overdoing the seatbelts. The old cripple stared hatefully at him.
“Don’t you go anywhere,” grinned Marksman.
Yorath said nothing. His eyes conveyed more hatred than his mouth possibly could. Marksman smiled and moved to the cockpit, keeping his eyes glowing as he went. The pilot trembled as he emerged.
“Get us out of here,” he said. “There’s a full pardon for international terrorism in it for you.”
“Yes sir,” said the man meekly.
The four rotors spun and the craft picked up speed, shooting towards the entrance of the hangar. It shot out into the blinding sun as Marksman strapped himself in. He pulled on a helmet and tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
“One more thing,” he said into the radio.
“Yes?”
“Blow it all up.”
The pilot looked at him in confusion.
“Blow what up?”
“That.”
Marksman pointed back at the mountain. The man looked back at it, then at Marksman. Marksman nodded coldly, his eyes glowing slightly brighter. The man looked down at the mountain and shrugged.
“I never did like it there anyway,” he muttered.
“That’s the spirit,” grinned Marksman. “You’re on your way to a promotion. What’s your name?”
“Crane,” said the man. “James Crane.”
Marksman placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Welcome to the Leader’s services, Officer Crane. Your first order is to blow the fuck out of that base. Think you’re up for it?”
“Watch me,” said Crane, spinning the craft round and taking aim. Marksman watched interestedly as Crane flipped a few switches. A panel rotated beside his arm; flying over the mountain again, he punched in a few numbers and pulled the master switch. He brought the craft around and Marksman stared out the side at it. For a split second, nothing happened. Marksman blinked.
“What the hell did that do?” he demanded.
“Wait for it...”
The mountain erupted into flame as dozens of explosions went off, peppering the grassland with it all. Marksman jumped in surprise as more and more of them blew up everywhere. The air around the mountain became too thick with ugly black smoke to see through. Marksman heard a whimper from the back as Yorath watched everything he’d worked towards literally go up in smoke. Marksman folded his arms in satisfaction.
“What’d you do?”
“Aerial mines,” replied Crane. “These things are full of surprises.”
“Take our technicians through them when we get back, and you’ll get some nice perks,” said Marksman. “What are these, anyway?”
“They’re called XR9 Pointers. Developed by the head of that organisation we just bombed the crap out of. Some engineering wizard named Yorath.”
“You’ve never met Yorath?” asked Marksman.
“Can’t say I have, no,” said Crane. “You know the sort. Industrial powerhouse type, never associates with his underlings.”
“I do,” said Marksman, slightly louder than he needed to. “They think everything’s about them, and they’re better than everyone else.”
“Damn straight,” said Crane, not noticing the surreptitious glance Marksman sent towards Yorath in the back. Yorath looked utterly enraged, but said nothing. Marksman smiled and turned back to the front.
“Take us to America,” he said. “By the way, is there a radio or phone or something in here? I need to call my boss and tell him to fire a double agent in London.”
The Pointer sped away over the mountains, heading west, leaving behind a mountain covered with smoke and silence. The Pointer receded slowly into the distance, and silence returned to the mountain. At its base, a single lone figure slowly climbed up, moving unsteadily but with steadfast determination. Hand over hand, the figure crawled up towards the hangar entrance, biting back whatever pain he was feeling. He kept his eyes on the Pointer until it had vanished from sight. The sunlight glinted off his dark grey skin.
10/10/2011 5:19:48 AM
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