Doggone Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap (An Arbiter's Rage)

[Don Isaac]

As the warm water cascaded over his battered form, Rhodri was more than happy to simply ignore the ringing phone. He had suffered a long night- the urban assault he had spent the past few days mentally preparing himself for had vanished, and in its place, he had found himself lost in a strange city, losing himself in its alleys, and finding himself conscripted into some flatface struggle. Whoever had chosen to call upon him could damn well wait until he'd stripped that bedsheet into rags to bandage his wounds, fuck you very much.

Eventually though, the cheap plumbing gave out, and the yelp he made as the shower head doused him in frigid water did nothing to improve his mood. He stalked forth from the shower, still stooped low within this damned runt-sized dwelling. Curses spilled from his lips as he seized the tattered rags of the impromptu cloak he had stolen after arriving in this strange world, tearing it apart into strips of material that he swiftly wrapped around his wounds. It wouldn't do to let whatever filth this city had into the injury, as minor as it might be. Ideally, he'd cleanse it with strong absinthe, but for some reason, this cheap hotel lacked a wet bar.

So be it- he gnashed his teeth as he fumbled with the phone's answering machine- he was no territorial that had yet to see a lightbulb, but it took more tries than he'd care to admit before the tone played, and an emotionless voice seeped into the otherwise silent room. Not cold, because that would imply the potential for warmth. This was a tone that offered nothing but desolation.

"At nine PM, there will be a chariot. Board it. At journey's end, there will be a feast."

The flatfaces had a saying- raising the hair's on the back of one's neck. They lacked the proper hackles of Lupar- when Rhodri's suspicions were properly aroused, it was as if a static storm coursed down his spine. His gaze ran to the digital clock, the numbers flashing, flickering like crimson, hungry eyes in the dark of the woods.

8:55

He gave a shout of frustration, grabbing his uniform off the floor- it was made to hide bloodstains, at least. He hopped along the floor, one leg within his pants as he frantically tried to button his coat over his bandaged torso- Damn-damn-damn- he could only attribute it to a minor miracle that he stumbled out of that room, Mitra swaddled in another stolen blanket like a colicky pup. He'd seen inhuman creatures during his brief sojourn- an extra eye here, some tentacles there- and his appearance was unlikely to cause too much comment.

Not that the fucking receptionist seemed to notice. A tentative grunt and upnod from Rhodri as he passed earned nothing more than a licked finger as the bastard turned another page of his paper. Bastard! Still- the wulfen warrior considered himself composed enough as he stepped out onto the streets, nose wrinkling at the scent. Would he really have to grow used to this atmospheric malaise?

He shook that depressing thought off, trying to ignore the stench of rotting vegetables coming from a torn plastic bag around the corner. Instead, he focused his attention on the bright yellow car cruising to a halt before him. Emblazoned upon its side, flanked by checkerboard patterns was a title: Chariot.

His molars ground together as he opened the back door and slipped inside, swaddling himself in a metaphorical cloak as he adjusted the weight of the thirty-caliber dagger cradled in his arms. He looked at the driver in the rearview mirror, an impassive flatface with brown skin and short hair acknowledging him with a grunt as he pulled away from the corner, setting off down the city streets. The entire cab reeked of cigarette smoke and garlic, enough to make Rhodri's eyes water as he shook his snout, trying to lose the scent and failing as he found himself pressed against the far door as he rounded a corner.

"You left your stuff in the back, last time," the cabbie said- heavily accented, disinterested. Reciting a line for the hundredth time, rather than saying anything of importance. Rhodri could only nod as he reached behind the seats with a lanky arm, dragging forth a duffel bag- the driver didn't even flinch as he slid Mitra into the canvas, the machine gun fortunately squeezing in without much effort. And, within its depths-

Rhodri couldn't help but growl as he pried out a rubber mask, in the same vein as his erstwhile employer. A wolf's visage glowered back at him, stretched and shaped to accommodate his muzzle. Was this a joke? Had he been dragged here simply to be laughed at? With lips curled back into a snarl, he gave a baleful glare into the mirror, about to ask his driver some very pointed questions when the cab cruised to a halt before a dilapidated warehouse, the gears shifting as the back doors unlocked.

Tired eyes that would surely forget him as soon as he stepped out looked back at him in the mirror, asking a silent question- why was he still here?

Frankly, Rhodri couldn't answer that question. Anywhere was better than in there, with that stupid mask, that obscene scent, and the inescapable feeling of being the butt of some cruel joke. With a snarl, he hauled himself out of the taxi, staring down the abandoned warehouse, clearly damaged in some recent battle. Didn't he see something about a siege? Omega symbols were crudely spray-painted onto crumbling walls, boarded windows failing to keep out a stiff breeze, let alone looters.

The cab had already driven off, crushing broken glass beneath its wheels. Rhodri spat and turned, prepared to do the same and stalk off into the night. He could live like a cynic for a few weeks, eating rats in back alleys. It would be better than being some rich flatface's bi-

And then, a God screamed in pain.

An Arbiter's Rage- Word Count: 1032/2500.

 

[Don Isaac]

It was not a sound- it was an entire existence, condensed into a single sense, every moment of agony transmuted into an atonal dirge. Fear, Despair, Rage- every emotion was overwhelming in its own way, erasing conscious thought as Rhodri fell to his knees, his own voice joining the damned chorus. Pain arced through his body as his bones shook within his flesh, threatening to turn into nothing more than powder as the cracking of concrete served as a backdrop to this symphony of suffering.

Time- space- self- all of it was gone, wisps of smoke driven away by the oncoming tempest that howled through the air, that flensed through his flesh and cut him to the very bone. The only thing left was Darksei-

Darkness.

How long had he been lying here, on the cold earth? He tasted blood in his mouth, and that familiar taste helped him focus- though he could not help but groan as he saw the warehouse before him.

It had exploded- or rather, was currently exploding, fragments of concrete and shrapnel hanging in the air as a dark purple glow emanated from within the heart of the facility, sapping light and life alike. No longer beholden to gravity, a chunk of masonry the size of a small car drifted through a glittering halo of shattered glass, its motion continuing unimpeded as it snapped a broken lamp-post, immune to inertia.

His ears flattened against his skull as he saw the glyph painted upon it: the horseshoe shape of the Omega.What the hell was happening? They had promised him a feast- a fight. He pulled the rubber of the mocking mask over his muzzle, snapping the howling visage tight against his snout. If they insisted on a dress code, then the least he could do was accessorize properly as he cleaned up whatever managed to survive that blast.

He drew Mitra from his canvas bag, racking her arming bolt as he stalked forwards, shouldering her mass. In this strange land, he still had her familiar weight- still had the taste of blood in his mouth. His claws rapped a familiar rhythm against her steel, a tattoo that he had picked up as a nervous tic from his drill sergeant. How much worse could this be than boot camp?

The answer found him in that next moment. The very air around him was dead. Not the fugue of rot, the iron dinner bell ringing in his mind that was blood, or even the acidic tang of the decomposition agents used to dispose of the dead. He struggled to even scent himself- which is why it was only hard-learned reflexes that saved him as a creature sprang out at him from above, a segmented tail pushing it from its perch atop a floating chunk of concrete. Steel fangs and claws like hypodermic needles flashed through the air as it descended, pale, dead flesh deeply carved with arithmetic in mad patterns of crosses and slashes. It could have driven a mathematician mad attempting to decipher just what calculation it sought to solve- but Rhodri was a practical sort. The answer to an unarmoured opponent is to pull the trigger until they stop moving, regardless of what math they might purport.

Mitra roared, and so did he. At this range, there was no question of accuracy. Round after round shredded the creature, its already-dead flesh sloughing from its bones as they were pounded into dust, crashing into Rhodri as a spray of rancid gore and shrapnel. He was almost grateful for the mask, in that moment- he could hardly smell the decay that had seeped into this living carrion. What kind of creature-

No time to think. Contact. He swiveled his torso, already pulling the trigger as the barrel moved, blasting chunks of concrete from a still earthbound wall before he started hitting his mark on another creature. More scars- arms twisted, bent beyond biology, its forearms twisted into serrated blades. One round, two- its skull burst like a man beneath a tank's treads, and he let off the trigger.

That was an error. Its neck was nothing more than flaps of skin and vertebrae etched with that same damn symbol, it continued on, what little was left of its jaw bobbling along while its tongue attempted to roar. A great, scything limb came down in a disemboweling arc- he raised his gun, slamming its heavy bulk into the abomination's forearm and stymying its strike- other arm, stupid.

He threw himself against the beast, using his strength and bulk to knock it to the ground while its blade ripped through the back of his uniform, slicing through his skin. He snarled, fury building in him as he felt his own blood spill. He pulled Mitra back, seizing her barrel as he rammed its thick stock into the grossly warped elbows, shattering bone and sending the bladed arm sprawling, dead and nerveless. Again. Again. It blurbled from its barely-there maw, though whether it was in shared fury- when did he start to scream? - or in some plea for mercy, Rhodri neither knew nor cared- his blows rained down, again and again, until it was done.

His chest heaved as he sat atop the ruined torso, the mask stifling his breath as he attempted desperately to fill his lungs- to find some vestige of stability within this maddened realm. He raised a claw to tear away the mask, to become a man again, when he heard the crack of splintering concrete.

He didn't want to look- but he did, ears wilting as he clutched at Mitra like a child's first teething bone, and just as scarred.

A flatface woman hung in the air, her ravaged body bound in chains, bleached-white hair hanging in a halo about her head, her eyeless visage warped into a rictus of eager anticipation, the moment before her change captured as Rhodri was left to clean up the mess. Crimson beams of light flowed from her empty sockets, twisting at acute angles as they carried her forth across the ground, razing it barren with its cursed touch.

"Glory to Darkseid," she intoned, vibrant light bursting from her eyes and arcing towards the stunned soldier.

An Arbiter's Rage- Word Count: 2093/2500

 

[Don Isaac]

Rhodri moved, his aching body compelled by a racing heart to dive to the side. His claws scrabbled at the air, desperate to find any kind of purchase to drag him away from the point of impact, his spine tensing in anticipation of the impact behind him. According to all laws of logic he knew, he was safe.

According to the fact that most of the warehouse was currently floating around him, and that twin beams of coruscating energy had suddenly arced at a perfect ninety degree angle, he had a great deal still to learn. Searing pain erupted across his back, fiery concussive force slamming into his kidneys and sending him careening into the rubble.

Cover. Yes- cover was good. Inside the rattled confines of his skull, he recognized that as ideal. He could smell burnt fur. That was not ideal. He gave a shake of his head, snapping out of his stupor, and pressed his back against the chunk of concrete he had sheltered behind, slowly peeking out from behind its mass.

The twisted, chained creation was skittering towards him, beams of power splintering into fractal bolts of lightning that pushed it further along the ground towards him, desiccated lips fixed into an enigmatic smile even as eyeless sockets burned with unearthly energies. They blazed brighter, now- the only warning Rhodri had to throw himself to the ground, growling as he felt a heat that somehow left him cold pass a scant inch above his back.

Sight-lines, he thought, desperately searching for a way out. There was barely anything left of the building, only walls that threatened to crumble- he scrambled to the side, leaping out into the open as another lance of power shot out over the wall and arced downwards, detonating against the concrete below, rather than his skull. He didn't have the time to brace his weapon, didn't have the time to aim- he simply sprayed shells downrange as he ran, firing from the hip until his sole companion clicked dry. Bullets chipped away at the rubble behind the sorceress, with only an errant thirty-caliber round tumbling through her withered organs and chipping her chains.

She hardly seemed to mind, black eyes glinting with eldritch power as she prepared to unleash another lethal blow towards the simple soldier.

Rhodri kept running- another weathered wall was close, a rotting wooden palette propped up against it, a twisted mural celebrating the inevitability of decay apparently using it as an example. He had to admit, he'd never cared much for art. He sprinted behind the wall, throwing the wood behind him and was rewarded with a shower of moldering splinters raining against his injured back as he ran.

His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he kept moving, fumbling with Mitra as he removed her empty magazine, cursing as he stumbled over a thankfully actually-dead corpse. The rot was too pervasive to tempt him. He grasped its form, the flesh already sprinting towards liquidity, throwing it behind him to intercept another blast that turned the former woman's compatriot into black blood and splinters of bone. Fight or flight- the question was posed by his most basic instincts, creeping up from deep within his brain.

He licked his lips beneath his rubbery mask, its surface ripped by the shrapnel that had been tearing through the air and his own body. Blood. It always came back to blood- to meat, to that ever-present hunger.

He snarled in defiance as he slammed a fresh magazine home, racking the bolt. He'd been transported to a strange realm, almost mugged, committed murder on reflex, and press-ganged into dealing with whatever the hell this was. It was past due he got even with this new world.

He pressed the weight of his gun into his shoulder as he spun around the corner, howling, his mask stretching to accommodate his rage.

And Mitra joined him. Brass cascaded from his weapon, while steel-tipped rounds ripped through the air and slammed into the floating corpse before him, punctuating the algebraic statements carved into its flesh- turning subtraction to division, adding errant decimal places. Her kick bruised his shoulder, but that little love-tap was a familiar sensation by now. He walked forwards, nostrils flaring in fury as he kept up the rate of fire, slowly emptying the magazine as broken links of chain and ragged scraps of desiccated flesh fell in a morbid rain.

He had allowed himself to feel hope, for a moment, when limbs no longer bound by lengths of rusted restraints reached outwards, moving in graceful patterns regardless of the bullets impacting against the corpse's forearms. A flash of crimson lightning- and then nothing more, as the carcass fell. He eased off the trigger, Mitra's barrel smouldering under the sustained fire as he kept her trained on the fallen foe, chest heaving with effort and injury as he searched for signs of un-life.

His vigilance was rewarded a second later as it leapt back to life, springing to its feet- that smile has been replaced by a sorrowful howl, the teeth within lengthened into fangs like knives. Its arms split apart, jagged teeth lining in the interior as the fingers warped into twisted claws. It started sprinting towards him, even as he emptied Mitra again into its center mass, a cloud of dust and strips of rotten jerky flying out of the back of the corpse's torso- and then, he ran.

Where rage had buoyed him before, now there was only terror. He'd survived artillery barrages, assaults on fortified positions, and the brutal hand-to-hand of trench warfare- but he'd never fought Sorcery. The thing took bullets like a tank, and moved like a Feral on Stim- Oh.

He had a split second to realize the inevitable conclusion of the chase before a set of claws closed around his leg, hauling him up off the ground, the creature's arm still mutating, still growing as it held him upside down, snarling into his mask as it prepared to take a bite with its murderous maw, a tongue lined with razor-sharp barbs slipping outwards, licking at his mask as it tried to taste blood.

It was a tormentor- a cruel demon bound to the flesh of man, and every inch of its twisted form was dedicated to the simple cause of pain and suffering, and Rhodri was in its grasp.

But he was a cornered animal.

At last, his mask snapped apart, shredded by shrapnel and the tender attentions of his captor, to say nothing of the jaws opening within. He bit deep into the throat, tearing leathery skin and muscle, clutching the spine in his teeth. He was dimly aware of claws tearing into his leg as the second hand took its vengeance, but his own claws caught the other arm, grasping each hand as he bucked and writhed within its grasp like a landed salmon. Blood streamed down his pant leg from whatever injuries he was receiving- they were a problem for the Rhodri of five minutes from now, provided he was still alive.

Twist the neck- like tightening a cord, hear the crack. Pull the arms back, before they struggle- this wasn't his first hunt. He could feel the elbow joint snapping as he pulled, tugging the twin arms out of position. It fought him- like a steel trap closing its jaws inexorably around him, but he was hardly in a position to chew his own leg off and escape. Do or die.

He could hear its jaws still snapping shut, just past his ear, the stench of rotting flesh threatening to make him vomit up his last meal of gangster within its torn-open throat. Growling around the spine stuck in his jaws, he pulled- sinews snapping as the head went flying off into the dirt. But the fight was far from over- the arms he had fought to break tore themselves from his grasp, the jagged jaws they had twisted themselves into trying to close around his arm- the damaged joint ensuring that instead they only bit deep, tearing into fur and flesh as he hammered his fist into the elbow.

The crack of bones, the snapping of his jaws as he savaged anything within reach, ripping apart the math-marred muscle of its torso- the world had contracted to nothing more than himself and this monster, both of them tearing into each other with the goal of nothing less than each other's total destruction. He couldn't feel his right arm, his flesh shredded by the serrated fangs of the creature's secondary jaws- but his left hook continued to hammer away until something snapped, and the arms fell limp. It staggered backwards, its grasp on his ankle starting to fail. More. More. His claws dug into its gut, anchoring him as he twisted, bucking against its grasp, every muscle in his body straining as he pulled his leg from its hands, leaving strips of flesh in its clawed grasp.

He fell to the floor, drawing out a length of its still-writhing intestines with him, even its internal organs moving unnaturally towards his throat, trying to strangle him. But its body had fallen in turn, like a felled tree, landing in a pool of rotting gore.

He was free.

He panted with exertion, gasping for breath as he began to feel the extent of his injuries. His arm, his leg- they were shredded, skin and uniform alike hanging in tatters as his blood flowed freely. He pulled that torn cloth tight in a tourniquet, attempting to stem the flow as he propped himself against a ruined wall.

Could he call this a victory? Did that even matter?

Any fight you could walk away from.

He trembled with effort, pushing himself to his feet, leaving bloody paw prints against the wall as he limped along, giving a hiss of pain with every agonized step. Within his pain-addled, anemic brain, a single thought emerged as he hobbled towards the relative safety of a nearby alley.

He better get paid for this.

An Arbiter's Rage- Word Count: 3792/2500