The Light Fades Away (Retired Superheros)

[Kazama]

Scott agreed and asked for the list. It was given to them in alphabetical order.
First on the list: Betterridge Center of Art and Antiquity; followed by the Central Museum of Natural History. The word "The" had been cut out of all of them since they all started with "The".

Mr. Baker had never been to most of the museums on the list. The ones he had visited, he'd done so decades ago. Hard to believe he'd done things so mundane before he became what he'd become. Mr. Baker didn't want to think about that. He thought about his goal instead, finding Sacrifice. He'd never outright hated Sacrifice, at least not while they'd worked together, but he'd been a little suspicious the first couple of months. The man wouldn't even share his name at first, and even getting that took some time. Baker thought it was strange that the most mysterious member would have wanted to get married. While John drove, Scott leaned back in his seat.

...

"I don't know why they make these seats hard as hell. It's uncomfortable enough riding in a fucking bomber, the least they could do is cushion these goddamn things."

A cigarette nodded up and down from Scott's mouth with every syllable. He mostly talked to himself, but he wasn't alone. The plane engines hummed outside the metal body of the B-29 bomber. The payload: Two superheroes doing recon for the U.S. Army. It wasn't anything spectacular, rather it was pretty routine. They wanted eyes on some German movement and they wanted a report on their numbers and strength.

Scott squeezed his cigarette between two fingers and exhaled smoke. The smoking was a little ritual he did before recon missions. Have one smoke from a fresh pack and keep away from them until the job was completely finished. Always the first one of a new pack, even if he already had one that was half full. He looked down and checked the black infiltrator's suit he wore. Above it, straps and pouches for gear, but not many. He checked those. A spool of wire, three extra sidearm magazines, flares, and a few other miscellanies. The only real weapons he carried were a KA-BAR fighting knife, a small suppressed .22, and the wire hook John had built. Oh, and his arms and legs as well. His mask was rolled up in one of the pouches but he almost never wore it. Without a secret identity, he didn't need it. He took another breath of the cigarette. The brand he favored had a satisfying aftertaste to them; something he reminded himself to savor in case things got ugly and this took longer than he hoped it would.

He thought about about offering Sacrifice a cigarette. He'd been somewhat quiet throughout the ride. Scott didn't want to break tradition; he never touched the rest of the pack until he accomplished the mission. It was just a superstition (and because it was a superstition, John always kept saying it didn't make any sense), but Scott followed it every time. He'd been working with Sacrifice for a while; they'd done some fighting before, back in the city. They'd done a little bit here, now that the U.S. wanted their help with the war. However, this would be the first time Sacrifice would be bringing him along on a recon mission. He usually did these alone, but Duke had told him to try it with Sacrifice.

Come on, Scott. Give it a try, take him with you.
I already said no. What are you, my mother? Asking me to include my little brother with me when I go out?

Still, Duke had been insistent and Scott had caved in. He didn't have anything personal against Sacrifice, but he preferred to do these kinds of things alone. The less of a presence the better; one person was more than enough. He looked up at Sacrifice, sitting across from him. He sighed and got up from the hard bomber seat lined up against the wall. He pulled the pack of cigarettes from one of the pouches on his chest and offered it.

"Want one? I usually save these till the job's done, but you might as well get one..." he tried to keep this from getting awkward by making small talk, "So, ever done a HALO jump before?"

The HALO jump was perhaps one of the most daunting military procedures devised. It stood for High Altitude Low Opening and it was exactly what it sounded like. Personnel would jump from a plane flying at extreme altitudes to avoid detection and open their parachutes dangerously close to the ground, again, to avoid detection. The dangers meant that opening too soon would reveal the jumper to either visual contact or advanced detection equipment. Opening too late meant the parachute didn't have enough time to slow your decent and you break a couple of things on impact; if you aren't killed altogether. Opening at the correct altitude would reduce the chances of detection and land the jumper safely albeit a little roughly.

 

[Chrome]

The mission was simple enough, fly near the extraction point, parachute down undetected, observe the town of Auxere and see if the Nazi's are executing the civilian resistance who lost contact... and if they are; get their leader out. Sacrifice knew that he couldn't do this mission alone, he was the only one of the team that was fluent in German and French and he was keeping ties with the french resistance until they lost the transmission 2 days ago. Sacrifice wasn't sure how Duke convinced Nightwatch to join him, but he was happy for the help.

I wonder what his blood tastes like Ridley, why don't you give your good pal Samhain a taste? If you stab him in the heart I'll grant you his powers, what do you think about that??

Oh the silent treatment eh? Don't want one of your friends to know how FUCKING crazy you are? Well I'm going to remind you then... YOU CAN'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS!! I will kill them all once you die trying to save your stupid land of the free and that french bitch you talk to on the radio. Soon my book will be in the hands of someone much stronger than you, and then the real fun can begin.

Fucking loser.

Samhain was pretty tame tonight, he usually liked to yell and laugh about all the good times he had with the last men who used the book before it was boxed and shipped to the U.S. He enjoyed talking about how much the book traded hands during the Crusades, he wouldn't shut up about how even with the faith in God from both sides he could convince even the most devout Christian to massacre a Islamic family, or bring the toughest of jihadists to tears when he told them their God didn't care when their friends died. Sadistic bastard.

Sacrifice didn't talk much, everyone on the team knew that; but he had his reasons. Once someone got close, Samhain stops at nothing to taste their blood or make the person attempt to gain control of the 'book'. Nightwatch wouldn't touch the book, Sacrifice thought to himself, as he watched his companion light a cigarette sitting across from him in the bomber, in a way Sacrifice envied the man, even in the midst of war Nightwatch could still crack a couple jokes and be an effective rational thinker against a tide of bloodshed.

For the mission Sacrifice traded in his regular robes for a tight-fitting all black suit which covered him from the neck down, on top of the suit he wore a ballistic vest with a large black hood attached custom made by the government by Duke's request. He wore the black mask around his head which he was accustomed to wearing and felt the perspiration from his breath wet his lips as his hands quaked. He didn't like planes and the three rats in his satchel squirmed as he fumbled in the hard seat of the bomber. He had his dagger and Samhain's book, a couple smoke grenades if they needed to make a fast getaway, and a small military issued pistol which he didn't remember the name.

Sacrifice couldn't help but smirk when Nightwatch approached him, they had about 30 minutes before the drop and they hadn't spoken a word to each other for the past hour. He was smirking because it was his fault he never really took the time to talk with Scott Baker, if it wasn't for the book and Duke, he wouldn't have even met this man, let alone share a cigarette with him.

The vigilante lifted his mask past his nose and turned to the special ops commando "Sure, if it isn't any trouble, can I borrow your light?".

Sacrifice lit the smoke and savored the smell as the tendrils escaped his mouth before taking a long drag. He hadn't smoked since he quit the book store, no need since he didn't have to deal with all the idiots who don't know how to find their harlequin romance novels in the romance section... "Do you have any books about crystal" one fat junkie asked one time... "You mean Methamphetamine? No sorry". Sacrifice hated to admit it, but he missed his simple life with books, idiots who could barley read, and a cigarette at the end of the day with a nice glass of scotch.

"I did a couple jumps back at the base for practice, I think I'll manage, it's all about the timing right? how many miles form the surface should I activate my chute?"

QUIT TRYING TO SOUND LIKE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT YOU FUCKING FAGGOT, he can tell you're a fucking flower boy just waiting to be plucked out of the sky by a sniper, he knows you're going to fuck up this mission.

Sacrifice ignored the demon in his head and took another drag of the cigarette. A wondrous thing really, how a cigarette can calm the nerves and grant a few fragments of clarity.

 

[Kazama]

Scott shrugged his shoulders.

"It's mission specific, really. Right now, we're gonna be opening at around 3000 ft, which is I think less than mile. It's low, but we're dropping into a town with a lot of open squares so we want to minimize exposure."

While he spoke, Scott gestured for Sacrifice to stand up and turn around.

"Primary objective is to get that tank platoon's number so artillery can take care of it right before morning." He checked Sacrifice's parachute straps while he spoke, "We don't get those tanks out of the way, our guys are going to steamrolled tomorrow afternoon." Satisfied with the parachute's security, Scott turned around to let Ridley check his, "After we get that, we can check on those Frenchmen of yours."

Scott turned to face Ridley and pulled the cigarette from his mouth. "Just set your watch to 75 seconds and pull when it goes off. Don't worry about finding an LZ, just land where I land. I'll be jumping fifteen seconds before you."

Scott had to admit he felt nervous. It wasn't the mission, this was routine to him. It was bringing someone else along. He'd always done these alone because it was easier that way. Less things to worry about and any mistakes made were at least his and he had some control over whether they happened or not. Bringing Sacrifice changed the formula and Scott didn't like that. He'd tried to explain this to Duke, but jackhammers know more about combat subtlety than Duke. The way Duke saw it, the more the merrier. Scott decided he still had a little time before they dropped. Scott stubbed the cigarette on the rubbed of his boot.

"Alright, look... Sacrifice. I know half of this gig is yours, but I want to make some rules clear." Deciding on house rules wasn't hard, it was just a matter of what could go wrong, "Duke likes you, and that's nice, but here with nothing but Nazis all around, I give you an order, you follow it. Got it? I say stop, you drop what you're doing and stop. I say go, you go where I tell you to. You don't engage unless I engage, you don't even take out a weapon unless I take one out. I know what I'm doing here. When we're down there, you stay alert and you pay attention. No light shows or stage performances. We don't want to leave in a hail of gunfire, we want to leave without anyone ever knowing were there. Just... just pay attention, alright?"

Scott was perfectly confident in what he could do. He knew his body, he knew what it could and couldn't do; but training, condition, and his abilities meant it could do a hell of lot. But Sacrifice was an outside factor whose capabilities he didn't fully understand. He didn't want to end up in a situation where he suddenly realizes Sacrifice simply can't do something that needs to be done for whatever reason and he hadn't known. It was nothing personal against the kid, but if it didn't feel like he was babysitting, he didn't know what it felt like.

It was then that a the pilot announced, "Thirty seconds till drop. Get ready, boys."

Scott lightly slapped Ridley's arm, "Alright... good luck. Wait fifteen seconds after I jump and land as close to me as possible."

The bay door of the bomber opened and gusts of wind tore through the loading bay. Scott put the black mask on, although only for the jump. He wanted to see where he was falling. Before jumping, he yelled one last comment over the wind.

"And take the hood off when we're on the ground. You're gonna need your peripheral vision."

That last part of the sentence was faint. Scott had already started running so as to not miss his window of opportunity. By the time 'vision' came out of his mouth, he was jumping out of the plane into the cold night sky.

The first sensation Scott always felt when he jumped was that stinging cold all around his body. And like every other jump, he pushed the pain of the freezing night air into the back of his mind. He focused on the town below him, already looking for a place to land. He flattened his body to make sure his fall was nice and level. All he could hear was the wind shrieking in his ear. His eyes found a flat rooftop with plenty of space to land. Northwest of that, he could see lines of tanks. He aimed for flat roof and waited for the right time. Then came that rare sensation that came with free-falling; one only he could ever feel.

Because of Scott's powers, his mind's eye always has a clear map of his surroundings. Walls, objects, people, threats. He always feels them with more precision than if he were to see them with his own eyes. Their movements, their actions, everything they're about to do, Scott anticipates it and senses them carrying it out. Only time and conditioning has trained Scott to filter out the massive amount of information coming to him at all times. Like someone who must learn to maneuver without eye-sight, Scott had learned how to interpret this inhuman sense. The brain is adaptive and Scott's had learned how to interpret, filter, and recognize this new type of information. But not while free-falling. Here, in the night sky with nothing around him for hundreds of meters in every direction, Scott's sixth sense is null. It picks up nothing and in these two minutes of free-fall Scott's mind feels clean and empty. Like a bare white room. He is but a small dot floating in a sea of nothing. That mental nudge is gone, devoid of any input. No signal, check connection. It's always when Scott just starts to feel the peace of emptiness that he must open his parachute.

He pulls the cord on his chest and the sound of rapidly unfurling military grade canvas turns the volume down on the wind. His descent starts to slow, although in general terms, he's still moving pretty quickly. The wind went from a shriek to a moan in his ears and his senses began to map out the structures below him and soon as he was close enough. A few seconds after that, his feet slammed into flat rooftop. He let the parachute fall around him and sat there for about three seconds feeling the area. There were bound to be at least a few soldiers in the occupied town. He was right. Two men right underneath him. Armed with MP-40's. Dressed in fatigues. Definitely German troops. They'd heard him hit the roof. They'd be on alert, but there was no way to get onto the rooftop from inside. They were going outside to get a better look. He had about thirteen seconds before Sacrifice touched down, hopefully on this rooftop. He pulled his mask off. He didn't need it.

Scott moved to the edge of the roof and swung himself off the side. He hung onto the rooftop and he got lucky. An open window to his right. He let himself fall, caught the ledge of the window in front of him and moved himself over to the open one, but did not climb in. Ten seconds. There was a hallway inside the window. The soldiers were going to walk past this window in two seconds. He let the first one pass, the second was right in front of him. Eight seconds. In one movement, he pulled up using one arm with enough force to let the other reach in and wrap around the soldier's head. He let himself fall back and his weight as well as that of the German trooper's drove the man's head into the open window's edge. There was a crack as the soldier's skull met woodwork. Even with his helmet on, it was enough to knock him out cold. His partner heard it. Scott threw himself in through the window and the second trooper jumped back in shock as a man rolled in through the window in front of him. Six seconds. Scott gave him no time to react. He intercepted the hand reaching to pull back the submachine gun's bolt and pulled it away to throw him off balance. A fist slammed into the side of the soldier's head. Four seconds. The soldier had been too stunned to scream, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try it. From the same position with the soldier's wrist in one hand, he kicked the backs of his knees out from under him and let go of the wrist to pull some of the wire out of the grappling device mounted on Scott's own wrist. He wrapped the wire around the trooper's neck and pulled back, reducing a shout that had just begun to form into a squeak of escaping air. Two seconds. Scott turned his body around, swung the two hands holding the wire over his shoulder, and bent over. This pulled the strangling man onto Scott's back and bent him backwards, pulling his neck far back enough to break it. It was basic garrote technique. The man's body went limp a moment before Sacrifice touched down. Mark. Thirteen seconds; two take downs. One completely silent kill. The guards at ground level didn't even look up into the building.

Sacrifice had already landed by the time Scott climbed back onto the rooftop. He felt a little bad about the kill. He usually did and it was a good thing. Scott didn't know that in less than two years, he'd loose that feeling completely. It would shame him deeply, and he'd loose a lot more because of it in the decades to come.

The tanks sat northwest of them.

 

[Chrome]

Sacrifice nodded to his teammate "I understand".

Though he resented the attitude and tone Scott used to get across that he was more combat experienced, Sacrifice deep down didn't care. Nightwatch was prone to doing missions on his own and he didn't want anyone to screw it up. Ridley understood that all too well.

As he checked the other man's chute he drew a long drag of the cigarette and replied "As long as you don't interrupt any of my spells we should be in and out without complications, when we land I will get the coordinates for the tanks and I'll follow your lead".

The rats squirmed in his bag as Sacrifice set his watch under Nightwatch's instructions. Ashing his cigarette under his boot, he moved his face mask back into position and removed his hood. As the hatch opened for jump he felt a rush of power surge through him as the wind blasted his senses and the pat on the shoulder from Scott shook him back to what he was about to do; jump behind and into enemy territory.

He removed all distractions from his head but was confronted by the demon of the book as Nightwatch leaped from the bomber.

You're going to die, you are going to splat onto the earth and the crows will bathe in your blood. I WILL LAUGH and await a stronger and more competent host as my book lies on the open battlefield. I wonder what sound you will make when you land face first?

"Fuck yourself Samhain, you will have blood soon enough"

The timer on Sacrifice's watch beeped and Sacrifice didn't think, he took action. The cold wind lashed at his body as he fell from the bomber, eyeing the location Nightwatch intended for them to land. He calmed himself as he picked up speed towards the ground Remember the training, stay focused and release the chute firmly with no hesitation. The vigilante saw small sparks of light around the small town to the west of Auxere, some were fires no doubt, but not all the fires were made to keep warm. He saw Nightwatch land on a building and he projected himself in the same direction as he released his chute, Sacrifice let out of relieved sigh as the chute caught the air; slowing his decent towards the building. When his right foot touched the roof he ducked into a well practiced roll and when he stopped moving he crouched low and rapidly began to gather his parachute into his backpack.

Nightwatch came back onto the roof and Sacrifice saw him gesture silently with his hands that he eliminated two guards inside. Two distinct fingers, a pat on his left shoulder, and a slit of his throat with his thumb told Sacrifice all he needed to know. Sacrifice responded with a simple nod and a thumbs up and in the calm wind of the night opened his bag placing a topographic map of the town and surrounding landscape, a pencil, and ruler onto the roof and on each corner he placed his knees; He motioned for his companion to come hold the other side down.

When Nightwatch was in position Sacrifice lifted his mask from his mouth and whispered, he whispered in a soft tone barley audible, but knew that Nightwatch would hear what he had to say plain as day. Removing a large black rat from one of the three sacks he carried the vermin in he said "This rat will show us where the the tanks are located, we know they are to the northwest so that will help me guide it" he placed his right hand firmly on the mouth of the rat and positioned his left hand placing the rat across his left arm with his thumb clasping the mouth of the vermin shut. Sacrifice drew his dagger, the obsidian glinted in the light of moon as the he placed in firmly in the grasp of his right hand. "My dagger will act as a marker for the rat, distinguishing the location of the tanks before I lose the spell... it will be up to you to mark the map with the coordinates, as I will be busy fighting to keep control. After we have the exact coordinates I will follow your lead".

Though he only talked for two minutes he felt like he was wasting time, without waiting for a response from his companion; Sacrifice placed his blade under the right eye of the rat and felt the cold stone pierce the fur and skin as he twisted the eye from its socket expertly. He kept his left arm firm with the rat thrashing against his chest as he did the same action to the left eye, both eyes landing firmly on the roof. Though he only had done the spell two other times he knew the words as he whispered in a language closely relation to Arabic.

Arabic

أتعهد بأن راعي الدم، سامهاين اتخاذ هذا العرض البصر من هذا المخلوق من الليل ، والسماح ذهني لتوجيه رحلة التضحية ل عدوي ، من خلال تناول العينين، واستخدام شفرة الخاص بك ، بمناسبة عقدي مع الدم الذي سيولي .

("I pledge to the patron of blood, Samhain take this offering of sight from this creature of the night, allow my mind to guide the journey of your sacrifice to my enemy, by eating the eyes, and using your blade, mark my contract with the blood that is payed.")

Sacrifice grabbed the eyes in the palm of his right hand and he chewed, feeling the water ooze from them as he felt the lenses fall onto his tongue. He didn't enjoy eating eyeballs, Samhain knew that, but this was the only way to bargain with that sadistic fuck, by wasting a couple minutes, Nightwatch could plan their actions accordingly with a path laid out without setting foot into the unknown. Sacrifice could feel that Nightwatch was probably uncomfortable watching this happen in front of him, but war isn't pleasant either, blood magic is a war within. After swallowing the eyes Sacrifice could feel a surge of energy enter him, he stabbed the rat lightly on the top of it's head and felt the surge in full force flow through him with an immensity that consumed him as the rat entered a meditative state.

Sacrifice shut his eyes and his mind took over as he concentrated on an image of a Scorpion tank and the image of the swastika in white circle on a field of red. His right hand moved the dagger across the map and stopped at their current location hovering gently as to not cut the map. He set the rat free and at a 'human pace' remarkably less frantic than a rat missing both of its eyes, the rat scurried onto the side of the building and scaled down in the direction of the tanks...

As the rat moved, the blade followed on the map fluidly. The dagger was firmly grasped and Sacrifice kept his focus as he guided the rat with his images. Only a couple of minutes had passed since he whispered to Nightwatch, but for Sacrifice, each minute within a spell felt like hours...

"The rat should find the tanks pretty soon, I sense it gaining momentum as it draws closer" he whispered on the edge of sound that only Nightwatch could hear.

With time, everyone will learn to hate you Ridley, I hated you the instant I met you, using my book for your sense of false justice will only alienate you from a world of sane people. Friendship is a luxury you will never have.

The blade stopped moving...

 

[Kazama]

Scott watched him do his thing for a little. He had never believed in magic, even as a kid. That is, until he met Sacrifice. Back when he'd first met Sacrifice, Scott couldn't help but grow suspicious. The kid was too secretive, even for a super. But what really got to him was that book. One of the first things the team was told about Sacrifice was to never ever touch his book or some really bad shit would happen; or something like that. Not that Scott would ever willingly touch it in the first place. The damn thing gave him the creeps. The dagger was weird too, but the book beat it by a mile. There were a few times he could have sworn he'd heard a whisper coming from it. One time he swore to hell the damn thing whispered his name. He'd told Eve about it. She said it creeped her out too, but she'd never heard a peep from it. Said he was stressed out. Then he told John and John got lost in theories about its origins. Duke just told him to try and like Sacrifice. It was kind of hard to like someone who kept their name from everyone and carried a whispering book around. He got used to Sacrifice in the months that followed, but he didn't like that damn book. He still referred to Sacrifice's magic as his "thing".

Right now, Sacrifice's "thing" involved eating rat eyes. Fucking classy. Scott wasn't squeamish, but this was just plain gross. Not the worst thing he'd seen Sacrifice do, but not the best either. Right now, Scott just focused on the dagger over the map. As uneasy as he felt about using magic to accomplish an objective, he had to deal with it for now. He'd rather confirm that tank platoon's location with his own eyes, but at least Sacrifice's magic hadn't failed so far. He'd just have to trust it. Once the dagger stopped, he marked the area on the map with the pencil. He got up and turned toward the tank platoon's location. He could get glimpses of it with binoculars, but with Sacrifice's spell they had an exact location. He wrote down the coordinates relative to the artillery field that would be firing down on the tanks in a few hours. He wrote it on the map, tore a scrap from the map's corner and wrote it there too. Last but not least, he memorized it. Losing information because your stuff gets wet or damaged was an easy mistake to make.

While he waited for Sacrifice to recover from his spell, he scanned around with the binoculars to see what was outside his personal range. The town was mostly empty, but there were a few patrols walking around. More importantly, he saw a few checkpoints and a building a few blocks west of them was all flagged up with red and black Nazi banners. Probably a command post. However, that wasn't what interested him. What interested him was the squad of guards escorting prisoners around to the rear of the building. Probably Sacrifice's French rebels. Three of them with their hands tied and loaded German submachine guns pointed at the back of their collective head. Krauts probably hadn't set up a jail in the town yet so, they were using the command post to either keep them or interrogate them. Most likely both. This made things difficult; a command post housing officers would have tighter security. On top of that, it was a regular town building. It would be all cramped hallways and tight corners inside. Scott was confident that he could handle it, but Sacrifice was with him and that made him nervous. It would be like trying to walk a tightrope with another person strapped to your back. On the upside, getting up close and personal was Scott's strong suit and if the prisoners were being brought here then it meant they were important enough not to execute on the spot. Scott guessed there'd been more Frenchmen a couple of hours ago.

"You're not gonna like this, Sacrifice. I think Germans got some of your rebels. Important ones too. And where they're going, it's going to be pain in the ass to get ourselves in there. You still want to see how those rebels are doing?"

 

[Chrome]

Sacrifice snapped into action as he heard Nightwatch convey the current scenario, He wanted to aid the rebels and he needed to think quickly before the mission is botched. The rebels know key storage cache locations used by the axis, and Sacrifice did not want that valuable information lost to the hands of the enemy.

"I can get us in there, I'm not sure if you're going to like it, but it's our only chance at rescuing at least one of them... they know some valuable information that could change the course of the war"

Sacrifice moved to the side of the building slowly and silently as he observed the movements of the soldiers below, no soldiers present at this time. He motioned for Nightwatch to join him as he climbed into the side of the building that Scott entered previously. He eyed the two bodies as he entered the room and did not hesitate as he began to remove their clothes.. One appeared to be an officer which meant that he could likely gain access to the building, he flipped the body over after removing his pants and the lapels of his uniform showed the 'SS' logo of the Nazi secret service. The other man, as Sacrifice removed his clothes appeared to be a grunt of some sort but looked to be relatively around the same height as Nightwatch, and that could be of use if Nightwatch liked his idea. He set the clothes in two separate piles atop the table in the room and left the two dead men in soiled undergarments. Sacrifice searched the pockets of the SS officer and took out the man's identification pass. Lt. Jurgen Bodenhofer....

"You and I will relieve the men interrogating the french rebels... we will arm the french rebels and as they distract the enemy we will vanish with their leader. It's a rather bold attempt but if we can at least save their leader then they can fight for a cause they believe in and we can work towards ending this vile war"

WAR IS WHERE I TAKE A BATH, WAR IS WHERE IS SEE CHILDREN MURDER CHILDREN IN BEAUTIFUL AGONY, it is very poetic... bloodshed. This Nightwatch super is quite the killer, are you sure you don't want him to touch the book? He could probably make more use of my powers than you Ridley... Ridley the historian....

"If you agree to this plan, I will take the physical form of the SS Officer and you can put on the clothes of his guard, since I'm fluent in German and French I will convince them to let me interrogate the enemy for information, all you would need to do is find a way to arm the french rebels inside and make some Nazi's shit themselves if they get in my way" Sacrifice smirked then and waited for Nightwatch to collect his thoughts and raise any objections he may have.

 

[Kazama]

Scott was impressed with Sacrifice's idea. An approving nod was the best praise he'd give him, but he was impressed nonetheless.

"Alright, in that case we're going to want to get there using some of the emptier streets. The disguises can work, but the more times we get stopped the higher chance we have of our cover being blown." He began dragging the Germans into a closet where they wouldn't be noticed for at least a few hours, "I'd hate to run into this guy's bunk buddy and have him blow our cover."

As soon as they were set, they set off; Scott leading the way through back alleys and side streets in order to avoid checkpoints. More than once, he whispered at Sacrifice to drop to the ground and let a patrol pass. They crossed a town square by heading in through the backdoor of a bakery and out through the second floor window into the apartment building next door. They were stopped by German soldiers twice, both times he let Sacrifice do the talking. Scott's best German was taken from a German for Beginners book so he could read signs and notes, but that was about it. He let Sacrifice take care of the foreign languages. It wasn't until they got to the command post that things would get hard. Sacrifice began to talk to the officers who'd set up a checkpoint in front of the building. Scott stood behind him, but focused his senses to get a scope of the area. Three men here in the checkpoint. He could take them quietly. A few more just inside the command post past the front doors. Four of them. Armed. Not much of a problem, but they might get a little noisy in a fight. Best to keep quiet for now. Then there were the resistance fighters. They were the only ones on their knees with their hands behind their backs. Three members, behind the building. Seems like someone was talking to them. An SS officer.

He'd already begun making a plan when the officers Sacrifice was speaking to began to get agitated. Nervous. Like dogs before a storm. Then he noticed Schlusser walking up behind the officers.

What? No... wait. No, no, wait it didn't happen like this.

Scott tried to draw the silenced M1911 that had been provided to him. There was no way they'd get past this quietly they would have to fight. He tried, but couldn't move. His arms were made of lead. The Nazi Colonel said something to Sacrifice, but Scott couldn't hear him. Schlusser began to draw his Mauser and Sacrifice didn't move. He just stood there. Scott yelled at him to move, to run. Schlusser glanced at Scott right before he shot Sacrifice in the head. He watched Ridley's body crumple, his uniform was gone, replaced with the robes he'd always wear. The ground beneath Scott began to shift, bricks moving around like sand. The more he struggled the faster he sank. Schlusser polished his pistol and simply walked back into the building.

Scott woke up. He was running. He was in combat. In front of him was a mountain of beach sand and behind it was a German machine gunner, keeping him and his men pinned. Scott tried to peek over the hill and saw him. He pointed his rifle, squeezed the trigger and it jammed. He pulled himself off the sandy hill, fixed the jam, and reacquired his target. It jammed again. He fixed it. It jammed again. Each time, fixing it seemed to take longer until each cycle felt like hours and then days while the machine gun fired without pause. Again and again, his gun jammed. He saw Remnant rise from behind the hill. He aimed one more time and his gun exploded.

Now he was hunting. Except he wasn't. His body was hunting. Moving quietly in the rafters above a group of men in a warehouse. He had no control, instead he watched through his eyes as his body moved above the men. They were French resistance fighters. He'd been given orders. The US Government couldn't take chances with this resistance cell. They knew a lot of US Army intel, but they were too close and the Germans were only days away from capturing them. The Department of Defense called for extreme measures. And Scott's body followed the orders. It dropped form the ceiling, K-BAR knife in one hand, silenced M1911 in the other. The fighter below him was hit with a human body. Scott's body. It spared no time. It pinned its prey by pressing its knee on his neck and fired the pistol at the other men in the room. Two were killed by shots to the head before Scott's body reacted to a third attempting to shoot him from behind. It turned, flipped the knife upside down and threw it into the Frenchman's neck. Two left. His body rolled away from the now unconscious fighter that had been beneath him, fired a shot at one opponent and scored another kill. The last man standing tried to run, but Scott was faster. He shot his knee from beneath him, walked over, ignored the man raising his hands for mercy and finished him. Six armed men were nothing short of a warm-up to Nightwatch. The fighter that had been unconscious was getting up. Scott was reloading. He ignored his gun, jumped over to the new last survivor and delivered a solid punch to the side of the head. They stumbled back and Scott's body wrapped its hands around the man's neck. Except it wasn't a man. It was a young girl, no older than 17. The Scott inside couldn't stop his body from accomplishing its objective. His physical form had become a machine with no emotion. It had all been pushed out in order to complete its objectives. They were for the greater good, he'd told himself. They safety of entire countries depended on it.
He could see the faceless mask of his suit reflected in the girl's eyes. His hands squeezed and the girl opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. Tears had begun to flow down her cheeks when her eyes became dull and unfocused. Freedom Squad would be angry. They would be furious. They burst through the walls and one by one, they fought him. He dodged, finished reloading and began to return fire. Dragon and Duke both attacked, and they knew him. They made sure he could only dodge one of them. He dodged Dragon. Duke sent him through a wall.

He tried to get to his feet. All around him, people slammed their hands into a chain-link fence. The floor had a bright orange decal in Chinese and the other fighter in the cage kicked Scott back down. He pummeled him and Scott let him. He felt a rib break and breathing became difficult, but he let him continue. He felt himself being dragged out of the cage as he lost consciousness.

He'd arrived at his final destination. He was an old man. An old man sitting atop an apartment complex neighboring a busy street. He stood up and gazed over the side. Cars passed by, people walked around below him going to work or school, or going home. Someone was behind him. He turned and saw Nightwatch. Nightwatch stared back at Old Man Baker through a faceless black mask. Mr. Baker shouted at him,

"What do you want? Huh? What the fuck do you want?!"

Nightwatch said nothing.

"Don't you think you've done enough? Don't you think you've fucked up and ruined things enough by now? Or is all this shit not enough for you? What more do you want?"

Nightwatch walked closer to the old man. Mr. Baker walked forward and met him halfway.

"I never should have become you. I never should have listened to all that hero bullshit! I had a choice and I fucked it up. What more do you want from me? I already gave you my life!"

His voice began to quiver. Nightwatch just stood there.

"Fucking say something!"

Mr. Baker lost his patience. He reached out and ripped the mask from Nightwatch's head. He saw his younger self. He knew it was him, but he didn't recognize this man.

"Fine. I know what you want. Just... Just get it over with."

He handed the mask back to the man. He put it on and became Nightwatch again. Mr. Baker sank to his knees and prepared for his fate. He deserved it. It would be his last job.
Nightwatch stood there, silently, for one more second. Then he carried out the deed.
Nightwatch kicked Old Man Baker off the side of the building.

Mr. Baker fell. He was free-falling again. Falling through nothing. Then he landed on a taxi.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"FUCK!"

Mr. Baker jumped up in the car seat and reached for the nearest object that his senses told him could be used as a weapon. He sat there, panting and holding a pen from John's dashboard. He was confused for about a second before reality came back to him and he was in the sleepy car ride again. Another nightmare. He'd had them every now and then for years. It was always the same shit. He saw faces and events he didn't want to go back to, fears and anxieties he never wanted to acknowledge. Actions he never gave himself closure for. At least they tended to fade away after waking up. He slowly turned and looked at John in the driver's seat next to him. He instantly regretted falling asleep in the car.

"Sorry... had a bad dream. Just. Just fucking drive."

 

[foodforpigs]

John jolted in his seat. "Monkeys in a barrel!" he blurted, gripping on the wheel tightly to prevent himself from having a heart attack and from swerving from the lane he was in. "You spooked..."

He didn't say another word after that, for his eyes seemed to relax considerably again, and relaxed back in his seat as though the entire incident never took place. His mind simply couldn't focus on two things at once; his pre-occupation was centered on the road in front of him. A hooligan sped past him and merged into his lane way too early, but Mr. Wakefield paid no visible mind at all. He mentally congratulated himself for adapting to driving like a real pro. It was a skill again, his skill, something he was a natural at doing. He didn't need all of his brains for his patience and muscle memory from hours of constant practice. He felt useful moving around, even if it ended up not counting for much.

They made it to the Betterridge Center of Art and Antiquity in quick time, though Independence Day appeared to be moving faster than they were, threatening to end before the duo managed to find Sacrifice and rally against the notorious shadow assassin known as... Shockwave, was it? It was something like that, anyhow, John knew. With Sacrifice on their side, they'd be able to stand a chance against the hero-killer. Once they entered the museum, however, John's mind started to drift again. He walked his way to the admittance booth whilst staring at a Grecian marble bust of an ancient philosopher. John couldn't recall the name. The bust looked famous, though. He never really did enjoy art as much as he should have had as the young and pragmatic Dr. Nucleus. It wasn't practical, and the only complexity in art and antiquity was from what people only claimed to exist. John wished he could see it the way that Dragon used to, when her media cravings as Impulse were more focused by the ways of Master Yeng and his insistence on traditional philosophy and ways of life as part of Shaolin training.

"Next in line, please." a man called from the booth. John snapped himself out of his trance and made his way up slowly, pushing Mr. Baker forward across the polished tiles. "That'll be $10.00 for the both of you."
John looked at the sign in confusion, focusing on the area that said $15 per adult.
"Seniors' discount, sir." the man added.
John shook his head to get out the cobwebs clogging his brain. "I'm not here for admission. I'm looking for a man. Name:" A military grade document flew past his field of his mind's eye. "Ridley Leppelman!" he said, much too loudly, excitedly as though he answered a very difficult trivia question.

 

[Chrome]

"Ridley Leppelman??" the man stared blankly at John as the name jumped form the old man's mouth, "I didn't think I would be hearing that man's name any time soon." Mr. Grant, head of security and customer service at the Betteridge Centre, had a couple 'incidents' with Ridley just before he was stripped of his position, though he had no idea why these two older gentleman where looking for that raving lunatic; he thought better of speaking his mind.

"Let me buzz our curator Ms. Agatha Gambino, please wait for a moment in our lobby sirs", Grant spoke politely as he gestured towards the sleek black leather couches in the lobby area just a few meters away from the booth. When the men moved away Mr. Grant picked up his phone, "Ms. Gambino, two older gentlemen are asking about Ridley Leppelman..." He paused and then responded loud out of frustration, "NO they are not the police!... sorry Agatha, I didn't mean to raise my voice at you, they seem old enough to maybe have known him and I thought you would be the best person to send them on their way.."

After receiving an earful, Mr. Grant set down the phone and questioned his position at the museum before looking over at the two men, "She will be right down."

Just under five minutes had passed and a woman with striking features dressed in a black business skirt, black suit jacket, a red blouse, and thick black rimmed glasses entered the lobby. She appeared to be just over 40 with strands of grey hair amidst the dark brown placed in a single bun. She walked over to the lobby and placed her index finger onto the bridge of her glasses moving them closer to her face; before addressing the two older men.

"Friends of Ridley's? My name is Agatha Gambino, curator of this museum. As you may or may not know, Ridley is my ex-husband. He has not set foot into this building after we had to force him out nearly a year to the day and I haven't seen him since. I'm sorry to say that if you're his friends he had never spoken about you, he's deeply troubled man with a brilliant mind for ancient texts...I told him he should go to rehab but I'm sure he's in central park or drowning in a gutter somewhere."

Agatha crossed her arms over her chest and eyed the two men, one in a wheelchair, and the other staring blankly at her as if he didn't have any clue where he was, this could be amusing, she thought to herself.

"I'll try to answer any questions you have but im afraid my knowledge is limited, May I inquire your names?"

 

[Kazama]

Scott redirected the question. It was a gut feeling, but Scott didn't like her. His gut had pretty good instincts. So, he gave himself the upper ground in the conversation.

"Your boss told you to send us away. We're not leaving until we get what we want," Scott leaned back in his wheelchair, "And we're very stubborn in our old age."

Scott had figured, if he was being sent away, he'd make it hard for them. She would want to get rid of them and do her job, so she'd be looking for a way to get them to leave. Letting her know how she could get them to leave was important, she'd see that giving them what they want is the best way to be done with it, so she'd do it for the sake of getting back to work.

"Ridley have anywhere he might be? You were his wife, you should know. We're vets, and it's important to us."

Mentioning they were veterans was mostly done because Scott didn't want this crow patronizing him. He'd had enough with the patronizing.

 

[Chrome]

Agatha listened to the man in the wheelchair, she coughed into her right hand and straightened her jacket. She did love Ridley, deep down she still did, but she didn't need some vet from the war making demands in her establishment.

"Sir, I assure you, I am the boss." he looked cold but she needed to hold her ground. It wasn't easy being a woman in power, though power was an understatement, she had a museum to run.

"You have yet to give your name and I can't disclose any information of past employees until I am guaranteed their safety and that I can judge whether or not the information I disclose will not be used against the employee in question."

She sat on the leather couch opposite of the two men, " I was his wife, and I do have an idea where he is, but I don't need engage in conversations that discredit my integrity as an employer and an ex-wife."

"Let me ask you again, what are your names? would you like some coffee?"

 

[foodforpigs]

"Coffee would be splendid, thank you."

John thought about the scripts that he ran through, written by others to further improve his skills in social interaction to increase the changes of acquiring grant money from potential investors that had absolutely no practical know-how of the revolutions they were buying into. His job was to dress up the concept as much as possible; in other words, bring out all of that pent up, nerdy enthusiasm, without any the nerdiness attached. It wasn't right to say how a man should be excited about the geometry n-fold space-time manifolds or the exact nature of uncertainty principles. It was all business. What does this contraption do and how much money will this save? Those were the questions they wanted answered. All the rest was posed by his colleagues as fluff. Free food and beverages from the finest caterers was one such thing.

It was an easy concession to accept coffee, though he didn't plan to quaff it as though he was alone. Perhaps when it came, if it came, he'd take a sip. Mr. Baker should understand. It wasn't about coffee. It was about who depended on whose graces, on whose privilege it was to be in the other's presence. His pose suggested submissiveness, also trained, with his right arm across himself suggesting a bow, though he didn't bow, before he slowly took a seat himself on a small chair.

"My apologies, Ms. Gambino." This woman looked like she preferred if the people she talked to get to their point. Also, honest. He didn't move to speak for Mr. Baker as a sub-colleague. He apologized only for himself for suggesting he was here to simply waste Ms. Gambino's precious time. He met his thumb with his index finger, looking for precision, that Golden Script. He took a calm breath in. "I am Mr. Johnathan Wakefield, Former Head Chair of the Physics Department of Duke University. This is my friend, Mr. Scott Baker."

"I'll cut right to the case, Ms. Gambino. Mr. Leppelman has been one of my closest friends that I have had the honor of knowing personally. As you say, he has a very brilliant mind; a man who had incredible wealth of knowledge of matters of antiquity beyond my understanding. He would have made an excellent professor had he accepted my offer as being a voice for him in having tenure in one of the prestigious seats offered in the Humanity and Arts department. Over the years after the war, however, we simply ended up drifting apart, troubled by the terrors we faced during that time. We both wished to leave our pasts in the war behind us, even if that meant drifting apart as friends."

"Unfortunately, it required a tragedy to incite a reason to meet again, leaving Mr. Baker and I distressed because neither of us had current information on Mr. Leppelman's whereabouts. As to the nature of the tragedy, it is rather personal, but suffice it to say, your implications that he's already in a terrible spot is quite alarming. Central Park is no place for a person as vulnerable as ourselves to be wandering in alone."

 

[Chrome]

As if Agatha had another woman waiting around the corner to bring coffee to them, a woman approached with a tray and gave Mr. Wakefield and Mr. Baker their coffee's along with cream and sugar. Ms. Gambio drank her coffee black and listened as Wakefield explained why the two men sought after her ex-husband.

"I'm sorry to hear a tragedy has arisen and that is why you want to find Ridley, but I'm sure there is more than just memories of the war that are on his mind as of late. It's strange that you chose to look for him today because he seems to act the most deranged around the 4th of July... He refused to talk about it when I was with him, but he would talk to a bottle of whisky without hesitation..."

She paused and drank her coffee, thinking about her and Ridley's past wasn't easy. Agatha longed to have been the emotional pillar that he needed to lean on but she was always being pushed away with words like, "You don't want to know" or "I want to take it all back."

"He's reverted to a rather destructive path, he yelled to himself much more often when he drank as if talking angrily with someone... he assured me it wasn't me, but he refused to go to therapy and later marriage counselling." she drew her breath calmly as she took another sip of her coffee.

She looked at both of the men she was explaining this to and decided to get down to business so that she could carry on with her own. If they had come a year ago she would have brought the two men to see Ridley herself; but she couldn't deal with what her ex-husband has now become.

"If you're truly bent on finding him I would stay outside Junction Liqour, it's a store that Ridley tends to frequent if he manages to wrestle some change. I imagine he would be there, especially today, but I must warn you the last time I tried to speak with him he pulled a knife out of his pocket and mumbled something in Arabic... I'm not sure if he would even recognize a familiar face anymore."

Agatha stood and adjusted her skirt, "I'm deeply sorry I can't tell you more, but that's really all I know. If you do end up finding him, please don't mention my name."

 

[foodforpigs]

Dr. Nucleus nodded his head in knowing for Ms. Gambino, before that side returned to the abyss that time conquered. He wouldn't be able to tell Sacrifice who helped him track him down, because Johnathan Wakefield couldn't remember the head museum lady's name as soon as he took the handles of Mr. Baker's wheelchair. Mr. Baker definitely looked slightly more unplussed in response to hearing what was said about Sacrifice's current situation.
"The name of the place was Jackson Liquer, right?"
He was quickly corrected for his error by Mr. Baker, though he couldn't tell what his tone implied. It was all dead up there in his brain, mucking and flopping about like a fish without water. His shoulders slouched and his face was paler as he pushed Mr. Baker out of the front doors of the museum, felt his jaw muscles pop. That sometimes happened during his university lectures too, though Mr. Wakefield couldn't recall the content of what he said. It could've been gibberish and his students would've probably been none the wiser. He was a forced retiree, rightfully so, though he knew his work was far from over, even if that just meant acting as a transport, a means to bring the remnants of his former team together for one last mission.
"Geez, what a pickle, huh?"
The car remained silent, the clicks of seatbelts the only resounding sound. He always made it a point to be safe; that never changed. Mr. Wakefield guessed that Mr. Baker really didn't change that much and said what only needed to be said. John felt a bit stupid again, for flapping his gums just to assure himself of things that were true. Back then, at least he said useful things, probably. That professional talk was worth days of brainpower; what remained was simple, though woefully off-point.
To break the silence, John turned on the radio. The station rarely changed to his favorite - 800AM Freedom Talk. Even when he was the young Dr. Nucleus, it was heckled as the 'grandpa station'.
"I served in the military for 20 years, and all we saw was a pittance of a pension, because they had to send even more of our boys to Nam. Duke Help Us All."
"What do you think about the current situation developing in Washington over the sudden news of Dragon's death?"
"Well, I tell ya, it's a real cold day in hell when the Angel among us gets killed on our own soil. She deserved better from our government. They've forgotten about the vets who gave up their lives for a better country, of Duke's noble sacrifice. All around the world, heroes are getting suddenly killed off, and it's sad, but now we're finally getting to see how the suits up top are going to respond to this mess. The hero issue didn't fade with the disbandment of the first Freedom Five. It's been 20 years since World War II; WAKE UP!"
"The shift in political agendas make sense given the increasing awareness and the upcoming election coming up in the next month. There are many switches in the ridings in response to the sudden news, to prove that their party will respond best as the world changes. One of the new candidates that has been switched in put it best when he said that 'It's no longer just about what our heroes can do for us. It's about what we can do for them!' His new policies really speak to me as part of an action to really reform how we think about superbeings and how to best use their potential to bring about world peace."
"Damn right, though it may be that the government wants to do away with the old FF, and focus on how to treat the new kids as a publicity stunt. The Good Doctor Nucleus was always in the crosshairs of hippie radicals who accused him of being an atom bomb waiting to detonate. And while Nightwatch and Sacrifice were known for getting into the grime of cleaning our crime-ridden streets, the government was too damn quick to wash their hands of it. Without people like that, scumbags like Lou would still be around. New Freedom Five don't do that."
"I disagree. Dragon's Children have always been at the forefront of taking action against criminal undergrounds, though it's much cleaner, with conclusive evidence collected before they're given the go-ahead. Wyvern has always been vocally supportive of Nightwatch-style vigilanteism, though his sister Eagle Eye appears to keep him in check."
"They responded as they needed to, I think, to this terrible affront to Independence Day and all it stands for. As we speak, the New Freedom Five have stated that they are already in planning to enact swift justice against Dragon's murderer. Duke Be With Us."
"Duke Be With Us." Mr. Wakefield repeated silently, as he pulled in the parking lot of Junction Liquer. "Let me just check if Ridley's in there. We've been 0 for 2 so far, and I wouldn't want to drag you along if it's a strikeout."
The radio continued. "Do you remember when the twins were asked who their favorite superhero was, when they were maybe around 4 to 5 years old? They both said their mom, obviously, so the reporter asked if they had a second favorite. Wyvern instantly said Nightwatch, because he was always doing the badass stuff as a covert operative. Eagle Eye squirmed a bit and said Doctor Nucleus. America's Sweetheart was blushing from ear to ear."
"They've changed, to be sure. Both have become rather hardened under Dragon's steady training, to match her vigilance. Wyvern moves with speed and deadly force like his mother, while Eagle Eye has shattered distance shot records many times over with nearly every firearm type. Crime better watch their back for the next couple of decades. Today will not be so easily forgotten. This has been Freedom Talk, signing off."
"I'm back." Mr. Wakefield said. He almost asked if he missed anything on the radio, but shook it off. It was his news now. "So we're close. Man at the counter said he saw Ridley in his store and drove him away with security about ten minutes ago...?? Of course, he didn't say that with very nice words, but you get the idea. Apparently the clerk learned his lesson from last year from the previous incident. Lets him in any other time but today."
It'd make sense, but Mr. Wakefield didn't make the connection since he forgot about Ms. Gambino's comment that, indeed, he acted much differently on Independence Day.
"Oh!" Mr. Wakefield re-injected. "Almost forgot that- hmm, oh, the clerk said he might've seen some kids eyeing Ridley at a far distance, though he had no inkling as to why. Central Park isn't far from here, so let's just go the rest of the way."

Central Park was eerily quiet when they first arrived, but as the two slowly made their way down their path, they could hear the resounding sounds of strong punches ahead, and that was when, without thinking, Mr. Wakefield raced ahead with wheelchair handles gripped in his hands, pedalling Mr. Baker with the momentum of a rollercoaster car. It was John's instincts taking over; that drive to help another despite the risks that came with it. John turned to stop and the wheelchair followed with a resounding screech.

There was a homeless man, clad in dirty rags, the hood of it thrown back to reveal a scarred face, brown-reddish eyes, and shoulder length brown hair. The man was visibly grizzled, his eyes having the constant glaze of drunkeness and tears, underneath the stream of fresh blood streaming from his nose and bruised areas. On top of the homeless man was a young punk in a black leather jacket and ripped jeans, wailing punches upon him. Besides the young boy was a girl that looked about the same age, wearing a simple ascot blouse and flared jeans. While both had characteristically dark hair, the boy's hair was ragged and unkempt, spiked chaotically with gel, while the girl's was tied neatly into a double back ponytail. The girl was crying, wailing and begging her brother to stop; her freckled face was soaked in black eyeliner.

"You said we were only going to talk to him. Don't kill him, please for the love of god STOP!"
"Master Yeng teach you to pick on the defenseless?" yelled Mr. Wakefield, though at the moment he realized his words carried little weight as the squakings of an old man. It was also a gamble. Maybe these kids weren't who he thought they were.
"Master Yeng has already passed on, Dr. Nucleus. You should know this if you weren't already braindead."
"That's no way to talk to anyone Winston!" Mr. Wakefield snapped.
"It's Wyvern."
"I suggest that you leave right now before I call the cops."
"Oooh, I'm so fucking scared." rebuked Wyvern. "What are they going to do, lecture us to death? You've done enough already. THIS MAN KILLED MY MOTHER!!"

 

[Chrome]

Lying on the ground under the young assailant, Sacrifice smiled his dark stained teeth as he spat the blood from his mouth. His nose was broken but he couldn't feel his face thanks to the vodka he downed in the store; and the constant pummeling. Maybe I'll die today, that would be nice, he thought as the young man's fist collided with his jaw.

STAB HIM, You want to stab this boy, cut yourself and I will light the boy on fire, I hunger for blood Ridley

Sacrifice spoke out loud, though his words were a mixture of slur and gargles of blood pooling in his throat, "Cuuurfe you Samhain, I don'd wan ta hurt anymore."

He felt the boys fist collide with him again and it reminded him of the days he and Nightwatch would argue, most of the time Scott would get a decent hit in before Duke would split them up. Duke would always say "You guys need to understand how similar you two are, you both do what is necessary and for the right reasons, Save it for the enemy." Sacrifice missed Duke. Duke was one of the few people Sacrifice considered to be his friend, along with Dr. Nucleus and Nightwatch; but Sacrifice couldn't forget the day he gave Duke to Samhain. That was today. This day comes faster every year and Sacrifice just wanted it all to end, he already hid the book in a safe place and he just wanted it all to end.

Another fist slammed him in the chest and he coughed as the air left his chest winded. Sacrifice began to laugh loudly. "FUCKING KILL ME you basterd, that's what you want ISN'T IT."

Sacrifice heard the voice of an old man and a young girl but he focused on the young man beating him, he laid limp waiting for a sweet release for his tortured life. Soon Duke old freind, soon I'll join the silent ones.

 

[Kazama]

Torn jeans, crazy hair, nasty attitude. That Wyvern kid was dressed like the kind of punks Scott ate for breakfast back in the day. The average thug wore either that or a mobster suit, but at least the guys in suits had a little more personal preservation skill once they figured tangling with Nightwatch wasn't worth what they were getting paid. The leather jackets on the other hand, always seemed to think they could take anyone anytime and it earned them a lot of broken bones. If someone counted all the fingers, noses, arms, ribs, and other body parts Scott Baker had broken over the course of his life, they'd probably hit the hundreds. Maybe even the thousands. Nightwatch was never known for going easy on people.

Ridley was the polar opposite of the kid. The last time he saw him in person was when they were all still part of Freedom Squad. He saw him again on TV or heard about him on the radio for a little while longer, along with the rest of the remaining Freedom Squad. Now, the only way to accurately describe Ridley was as a bum, plain and simple. This man was filthy and ragged. But he was still Ridley.

Mr. Baker decided to use the aggression Mr. Wakefield had left out.
"Hey! Hit him again and you'll be drinking your meals from here on out!"

For a second, Scott considered if he could take this Wyvern punk while on a wheelchair and as an old man. He figured he a 50/50 chance. He still had his arms.

Ex-Nightwatch rolled his own wheelchair forward.
"Don't test my fucking patience kid. I don't have any. Let him go if you want to keep that pretty face of yours."

While this went on, the girl's wailing began to get on Mr. Baker's nerves.

 

[foodforpigs]

"Go back to the nursing home where you belong, before I break the rest of you." Wyvern threatened back.
"That's enough!" Eagle Eye yelled. "These people are on our --!"
The backhand strike resounded like those that had been inflicted on Ridley; Eagle Eye struggled to remain on her feet, but collapsed on her knees from the cheap shot. Her wailing suddenly stopped.

Now, now it was definitely on. John could take a jab at his honor, but this phony of a hero challenged everything he stood for as Dr. Nucleus. He was never strong, and he was no longer smart, but cram it all to gel!
The Nucleus side of John took hold again, grabbed the handles of Mr. Baker's wheelchair and started tapping in morse code.
"You're no hero." Mr. Wakefield said, "You're just a thug, getting his jollies from hitting old men and girls."
We're charging this clown. the morse resounded.
"It's not like I need your fucking approval, you washed up quack. Fucking, do you really think I enjoy this? Even if Ridley goes to fucking jail, which he won't, he'll die long before his sentence is over."
"You don't even know if he's -"
"Guilty? He's been guilty ever since he renounced our mother. Who else could stab our mother but him? Ballistics concluded the same make of knife."
"That doesn't prove anything."
Wyvern looked at the gasping bloody body which was Ridley, who screamed his wishes for Wyvern to end it all for him. You live like a hero, you die like a hero!

Dr. Nucleus charged with wheelchair in both his hands like a chariot as fast as he could, pushing everything he got to the front; a weak gravitational shield that would slow Wyvern's frontal attack slightly. By his crude calculations, his running charge collected the weak gravitons he could generate, so there was more stuff to cushion the punishment Wyvern could deal: basically Applied Doppler Effect. If he was a young Dr. Nucleus, he could have forced a bullet time fight with anti-gravity, like he did during his desperate fights against Fritzie.

Mr. Baker had no choice in the matter, for not even wheelchair brakes would stop John's foolish will. Nightwatch would always act as he had to in response to the situation thrust upon him; Dr. Nucleus knew Nightwatch would share the same thoughts of bringing this punk down a couple of notches. Wyvern, however, didn't appear at all worried. His entire face became unnaturally calm. Mr. Baker could see his arms moving from instant to instant because of Dr. Nucleus' imposed slow and his experience in perfect reflexive understanding of human fighting patterns. The image in that instant was of a male Shiva, as his arms fanned out from his original two as seemingly numerous as feathers of a wing. Nightwatch would know that terrible truth. Those arms weren't really moving, because the motion Nightwatch knew wasn't a simple visual blur after-effect. All those arms existed at the same time - a multi-strike converging at the instant of a non-temporal moment horizon. Dr. Nucleus would have had the math to back it up, if only he saw with such clarity as Nightwatch had. Beyond bullet time.

 

[Kazama]

We're charging this clown.
Morse code was one of those things you didn't forget if you practiced it well. Scott was only too happy to be given a chance to knock this kid down a peg. This Wyvern apparently knew who John was, but there was no way he knew the old man in the chair was Scott Baker. The majority of the world hadn't seen Mr. Baker in person since he went underground after Duke died. Even less knew he'd ended up as an old man in a senior's hospital. Some people even thought he was dead. For some reason, the fact that this kid was about to get a hell of a surprise from two old men made Mr. Baker feel pretty good. The look on this kid's face would be priceless once he found out the old guy he decided to fuck with had once been known as the deadliest man in the world.

This crippled old fart's still got plenty of tricks left in him.

Once John charged the boy, the magic started. It had been so many years since Mr. Baker had felt like this. When the adrenaline starts to run through his veins, his already inhuman reflexes become even sharper. God, how many years had passed without him getting that rush? In the back of his mind, he got that same feeling he would get back when he could choreograph his way through entire rooms of armed opponents, punching, shooting, stabbing, throwing, and grappling his way through them. There was always a sense of clarity and detail unrivaled by any other experience. He'd get so sharp that the most well trained attack would seem telegraphed and bullets would crawl along like slugs. Even now, every bounce of his chair's wheels, every panting breath from John behind him, and every drop of makeup flying form the girl's face all happened slowly and in extreme detail. It's why he'd been able to fight Dragon at her full speed, it's why he was seen as a one man army, and it's why the Department of Defense had once decided that the best way to kill someone is to put Scott Baker in the same room as them. To an ignorant person, Scott's powers may have appeared as the weakest and most mundane, but he'd learned to use them well and it was why he was one of the gods of America that had been Freedom Squad.

Once he saw all the kid's arms, it irked him a little that some punk would use his powers to such a degree against two old men. The kid was powerful, sure, but he'd taken on bigger guys. It would give him even more pleasure to knock some humility into this punk. John was doing his thing, and it would help a lot. He'd seen this time-slowing thing before. He couldn't explain it, he just knew it happened when John brought it out. Regardless, he'd use it to it's full advantage. Combined with his powers, Mr. Baker wasn't worried about whether they could beat the kid or not. The only thing he worried about was whether he'd feel bad about fucking up Dragon's son. He'd worry about it later.

Wyvern was powerful, but all that power went to his head. He had no technique, no real skill. He began his punch and already one could see his inexperience. He drew his elbows back and wound up his punches, something professionals didn't do because pulling your arm back telegraphed your punch and that split second could fuck you real hard against someone who knew what they were doing. Someone like Scott. It helped even less that all the arms aimed at one spot. The kid probably thought that if he hit the same spot all at once, he'd win. He didn't consider that he could miss. And when he did miss, he'd have to pull those arms back, giving Mr. Baker even more time to act. He could already see where the hits would land with such a shitty punch like that, and he started ducking as soon as they began to move. The distance closed and Mr. Baker could see every stitch on Wyvern's jeans, and every spot where light reflected off the leather jacket. He could see hear his breathing and he could smell his sweat. Every detail of his opponent flooded Mr. Baker's senses.

The arms swarmed past Scott's head as he doubled over in his chair to avoid them. The seat would be annihilated, but Mr. Baker's hand reached up through a gap in between all the arms. His hand closed around the kid's throat and his thumb pushed back against his windpipe.

This had been one of Mr. Baker's usual moves against enemy supers. One he learned from Master Yeng once he's agreed to train Scott. The way Yeng had put it,

We use all our energy into focus to succeed. Take away focus, and you take all energy. Take away all energy also take away will to fight.

In English: Most supers focus on their powers to use them more effectively. Take away the focus and they fall flat on their ass.

With his thumb pushing into his throat, Wyvern wouldn't be able to breathe. Not only that, but the experience was incredibly painful. You can shake off a punch, but this kind of pain really screws with you from the inside. Scott knew, Master Yeng had once done it to him. Best part was that it stimulated your gag reflex, which, when combined with excruciating pain and a lack of air, made this move agonizingly unbearable. And it completely destroyed your concentration. A solid punch to the gut solidified that suffocating feeling and Mr. Baker threw himself forward off the chair to knock the kid to the ground.

It was as if someone hit play on a tape that had been in slow motion. The wheelchair's handles and backrest practically exploded from the punches and Mr. Baker slammed into Wyvern with his hand still around the boy's throat. The two of them tussled a bit, but with Mr. Baker's thumb pushing hard into the boy's throat, it was a short fight. The girl was whimpering while her brother struggled against the old mam on top of him. His eyes bulged and he gagged and rasped as he tried to breathe. Mr. Baker lay on his side on top of Wyvern and pushed his thumb in a little harder. He threw another punch into the side of the kid's face for good measure. When his fist came away, there were little droplets of drool and tears on it. Choking tends to make you tear up and Wyvern looked ready to pass out.

"Think it's funny to beat up old men, you fucker? You're a fucking disgrace," Mr. Baker hit him again, "to your mother!"

 

[foodforpigs]

John could feel being part of the explosion as Wyvern's uncountable punches collided with the steel frame of the wheelchair. The force of impact launched him backwards, Nightwatch forwards. There was a satisfied smile on John's face as the sensation of being chaotically thrown about overtook him. It was boundless joy, being able to take part in something truly epic again. Nightwatch and Dr. Nucleus, matching someone of the new Freedom Five, out of their prime. His whole body was wrapped in pain, but somehow it still felt good. Wyvern wouldn't be able to harm Sacrifice anymore.

He struggled to get up, along with keeping a watchful look upon Eagle Eye. She just stared at the scene before her, of Mr. Baker choking the lights out of her brother. She had a blank expression of 'I don't know what to do' written all over her face; it was likely the same expression that Mr. Wakefield had right now. Nobody was moving in to save the torturer from harm. Mr. Wakefield wondered how it could be that he could feel more rage when acts of violence were done against people he cared about, rather than of random soldiers. It was an error he forced himself to accept. He had killed a small division of Nazi soldiers just to extract Nightwatch from a bad spot, and he'd do it again. After the war, his happy go lucky vision of everyone deserving redemption was tainted by those who were merciless themselves.

This kid was going to kill Sacrifice, on an accusation. Freedom Five? This punk should be in jail. Power didn't earn the person the right to be a hero. His mother was a hero. Nightwatch was right; Wyvern was a disgrace to his mother. He took no more heed as Mr. Baker finished his beatdown, making his way to the prone Sacrifice. Blood got all over John's shirt as he desperately tried to remember basic first aid training.

"Eagle Eye," Mr. Wakefield shouted. "Assist me!"
Eagle Eye was confused, looking at her brother, then at Dr. Nucleus, but frozen in place. She was trapped in inaction.
"You call yourself a hero?" Mr. Wakefield grumbled. He tried to access the damage with his fingers, but couldn't tell with all of Sacrifice's fidgeting. "It's alright. I am a trained medical professional. We'll have you better in a jiffy. I just need to - refresh my memory..."
Eagle Eye looked at the spot where Dr. Nucleus was failing hard to be a medic at, though the look in her eyes indicated that she was rightly scared of Sacrifice.

Meanwhile, Wyvern understood that his chi had been redirected; the perfect failure for a Yeng student whose first lesson was the importance of mastering chi. He tried to reach upward, but this old man continued to beat the hell out of him. His gasps of air and his helpless arms only seemed to encourage the man.

 

[Chrome]

Flickered light shone into Sacrifice's eye's as he witnessed his assailant get taken by surprise by the two men, the one in the chair now on the ground with his hands wrapped around the boy's windpipe. A glint of familiarity shot through Ridley, but in his drunk beaten state he was in no way able to form any kind of coherent thought. He spat out more blood that pooled in his throat and coughed as one of the men came to help him, he didn't need any help, he just wanted to be left in a heap. If they really wanted to help they should leave him a bottle.

At the mention of the word 'jiffy' the recognizable voice to Dr. Nucleus shot threw Ridley's mind and when he told him to calm down Sacrifice grabbed John by the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer aggressively, "Why the fuck are you here?!" still holding the good doctor gripped in his left hand he sat up, "I'm fine." and shoved the man away from him. Sacrifice took a small bottle of vodka from his pocket as it clinked against others he stole from the store and twisted off the lid, watching the man clutch the throat of the young man that was wailing on him. He drank the small bottle and threw the empty in the general direction of Scott and Wyvern.

"Don kill da poor kid for beating a murderer." he slurred. He scanned the area in a toxic glaze and observed the young girl who looked down at him with a look of disgust stretched across her face. "Neber see a man half dead befur? Takea picture and show your friendsss, this happens erry day in central park."

He wasn't lying. Sacrifice in the golden age of freedom squad was acknowledged for his renowned service in controlling the fights and tragedies that would befall the homeless in central park. He was feared in the park, and even now he instilled fear among the other bums since he knew exactly how to blend in with them and end them if he had to. Sacrifice much like Nightwatch did the dirty work for the squad, the deed was a necessity that was being ignored by the new group of supers; guess nobody likes getting blood and dirt on their church shoes.

Sacrifice slunk his hands into his jacket and heard Samhain muffle through his head, but thankfully the booze was drowning the demon; all Ridley had to do was keep drinking.... he twisted off the cap of a small bottle of gin and sucked it back.