Here we go, readers... My first fanfiction. Please review nicely, and no flames will be accepted. In fact, I can use them to burn Chick Hicks.
Another thing as well: this fanfiction was inspired by the song "The End Has Come" by Ben Moody. So all things considered, enjoy and leave feedback! (Make sure to vote for my poll on my profile! I won't update any further unless I have enough votes.)
[All characters mentioned in this work of literature are copyright to PIXAR Animation Studios. All events that occur are crafted by the author and any relations to realistic events are completely coincidental. All plot and story elements are solely in the hands of the author. All works of music mentioned are copyright to their respective owners.]
Act I: Unchained
They stole everything from him. They stripped him of his license to wreck havoc upon the world, stuffing him in the jail cell inside C.H.R.O.M.E's prison, tossing his soul and spirit away to rot amongst the other unfortunate fire starters of evil. These agents were his worst nightmare and vice versa.
None, in spite of that, were more haunting than the dreaded high-ranking Finn McMissile.
Oh, how he desired to crush him into a million shards of metal.
His weapons, henchmen, lair, everything was discovered and were either demolished or emptied out completely. Dead were many of his loyal lemons, imprisoned was the liar Sir Miles Axlerod – although you couldn't really consider him a "sir" anymore – and his schemes of wrongdoing and wickedness had been whisked off into the sands of history, done for, no longer a threat to the planet Earth.
For three entire years it had remained this way.
For far too long it has been this way, the Professor glanced at the steel ground, deep in thought. It's time this Manufacturer-forsaken nation experiences the peak of my brutality against the greatest agent of C.H.R.O.M.E. In fact, this nation is far overdue for the monstrosity of its worst nightmare.
All he needed was a weapon, a mechanism to brawl against his enemy...
For the final time.
He would spend countless of hours designing it, polishing it, and executing its attacks on his predators. Yes, this layout of "The Last Impression" would end perfectly, with his target perishing. When he himself passed, he would leave the realm of the living knowing that he successfully drenched C.H.R.O.M.E in tragedy.
From merely envisioning this his facial features lit up and a one-sided smile stroked on his right side. Mild laughter soared from his mouth in delight. Oh, I take such pride in my occupation, don't I?
Nothing, not even the combination of protestors could block him from achieving his long-awaited goal. They would tremble before him, begging for mercy, for a chance to continue living in freedom. They would let his every evil deed slide past their instincts of purity and allow him to get away with every crime ever instituted into the law. All of the particles that shattered from the mayhem of the World Grand Prix would levitate from the surface and form what would be massive destruction towards the espionage industry.
If only he were able to escape from this rotten jail cell.
Naturally Zündapp would have grabbed a nearby metal tool such as a hammer to break himself free of being a captive, yet not even a can of oil rested near him. Nothing besides the walls were caught in the proximity of his reach, which wasn't very extensive due to his tiny stature.
For once a getaway involves an amount of clever reasoning, the mint green Janus Zündapp smirked at how theoretical the staff of C.H.R.O.M.E had gotten when planning the blueprint of the prison ward. Finally, I am challenged to use my mental capacity.
The Professor checked his surroundings to watch for guards. None idled from his point of view. He spotted a number of security cameras hidden in the gloomy shadows of the room and a dead, broken microphone for efficiently releasing or encasing subjects from their cells. So far nothing proved to be much of a threat to his scheme.
Wunderbar.
He whacked his tire against the sturdy metal bars as hard as possible. It was difficult to do so without a sharp object or metallic device within his grasp, he had to take note of that. Ten times later he resorted to crashing his side against them, although not too harshly to avoid passing out.
No thoughts besides the goal of murder wandered about his conscious throughout the next several minutes of repeating the exact process. Zündapp swore to the Manufacturer above that he would at least damage the coldhearted cylinders blocking him. And I will make my breakout known, he set his level of determination, ranging from one to ten, to a ten.
All of those separated thoughts drifted back into their rightful places when he discerned the heavily beaten wires in front of his windshield. Now was the appropriate time to complete the task of actually breaking all Hell loose.
Professor Zündapp once again perceived his conditions. No cars located around the four corners, no tiny objects slipping through the passageways, no nothing. Only oxygen and his breathing occupied the barren lockup.
Excellent, he revved his aged engine and prepared for the solo rebellion.
If the cameras captured his flee, he would disregard it. Dodging attacks from here and there would be rather straightforward; agility was one of his most affluential qualities besides insanity (as he was informed) and brainpower.
As long as they have no clue as to who I am after, everything is shaped according to me.
In mere seconds the car swerved through the broken bars and into the hallway. Alarms sounded from all corners imaginable, alerting the keepers that their prisoner had broken through. The colorless tone brightened to a scarlet red hue as the alarms echoed throughout the facility.
"Agents of C.H.R.O.M.E," the Professor quietly spoke since what felt like forever, "I have returned to creep around your thoughts and torment you."
A 1972 Honda Coupe abruptly barged into his view, loaded gun in tire.
"FREEZE!" he hollered in his thick Cockney accent, "EITHER YOU COME WITH ME OR HAVE YOUR LIFE TAKEN!"
At first startled by the sudden outburst, the captive Janus Zündapp masked his reactions behind a blank expression. It morphed into one of the most nefarious smiles the prison guard had ever experienced.
In reply to the barked order, he let the flow of words become unchained, "I'd prefer that you are the one that falls consequence to sinful doings."
All the bullets aimed at the miniature mechanism crashed through the hind walls of the jail. A feminine scream of agony was in earshot, indicating that either the woman was horrified or struck by a bullet.
The dark Honda became so distracted by the cry that enough time was left for the Professor to pound him on the hood, rendering him unconscious.
He raced from the jail and passed through passageways and skidded to a halt, smack dab into the center of the tenth floor of the building, completely surrounded by armed C.H.R.O.M.E agents. Before anyone could act, though, he leaped over them and followed the slicker, silent path that was decorated with nothing but laser cannons on the sides, targeted towards him.
Similar to his encounter with the prison guard, no shot affected him one bit as his tiny frame granted him access to a larger probability of survival from the attackers. His judgment on the result of his escape from when he was locked in the jail cell proved to be quite accurate to the present time, considering how strenuous it was for criminals to break free from the premises.
However, as Professor Zündapp persisted to steer clear of getting shot, he couldn't help but reminisce about when he was confined by all those agents. One of them appeared to be... familiar. A silver-blue paint job, closely resembling an Aston Martin DB5, a moustache for a grill, turquoise eyes...
Wait, he paused near the ramp to the exit. I believe I have unearthed my target. Finn McMissile, you are in for the thriller of a lifetime.
As he conducted his descent down the ramp, that was the only thought plastered to the bulletin of his mind... Until he stumbled across a verification system.
"Please enter the password," the machine, eqiupped with a keyboard, droned in a masculine voice. Oh, how he grasped substantial joy in guessing passwords.
He attempted a random botch of numbers and letters, nonetheless he was face-to-face with a "try again".
Frantically, he used his hacking skills to uncover the password before he would be hunted down by the C.H.R.O.M.E cars. The operation contained much coding and swift keyboard motions, but he finally managed to get ahold of the password.
Then the agents zoomed in on him.
"Professor!" a familiar posh British accent echoed across the narrow hallway. "I strongly recommend that you do not move any further!"
"Finn McMissile," the German Janus Zündapp grinned his grotesque smile, revealing his rather unattractive teeth. "So it has all come down to this? I'd say not unless your friends are dead, so very dead."
The Aston Martin, mildly taken aback, was evoked of Leland Turbo, a loss which still remained impossible for him to overcome completely. He regained his composure briefly following the mentioned nightmare that never eluded him.
"...May I ask that you lower your weapons and for your friends to do likewise so that I may resume my current task."
They did not obey; alternatively they closed in on him, demanding that he be seized and thrown back in the prison if he wanted to live.
In a desperate endeavor, the Professor pressed the Return button on the device, opening the camouflaged gates for him to progress into the elevator section. He then snatched it from its position on the far right and projected it towards the wall, generating a hole sizable enough for him to retreat from.
The Professor presented his pursuers with one last glance before hurdling from the opening. The agents chose not to follow, for they believed that their enemy would perish by dropping ten stories off the ground.
They were validated wrong.
Opposed to their theories of his death, Zündapp clung to the roof of a structure, hauling himself onto it. He pinpointed another roof to jump to and performed the action. Again and again the 1957 model repeated the manuever without misfortune. He overlooked the police cars and helicopters trailing him down in the depths of the night, the night in which was alive with hunting and hunger – his hunger.
Better luck next time, McMissile, he proceeded to jump from roof to roof, once again working his mind to communicate with him.
But maybe there won't be a next time.
