I don't own anything of the Mortal Kombat universe except my own creations. All credits go towards Netherrealm Studios.
Enveloping darkness formed all around him. It was an absolute horror to endure. Every agonising second of balancing between existence and non-existence, every second of clinging onto some kind of consciousness. As if absolute dread surged through his body. Luckily, he was prepared. He didn't go in expecting a fun roller coaster with neon lights and jazz music playing somewhere in the background. No cosy boat ride on the lazy river, no exhilarating jump into a cavern lake. No, it was absolute torture to get through.
He could feel his bones burn, his skin boil as he fell through the planes of Hell. Not really unexpected, but definitely still an awful feeling to experience. The planes of this realm swooshed by as his fall accelerated, showing less and less, the planes becoming a blur of pestilence and plagues, shadows and spectres, flames and fumes. With a massive thud, he crashed down upon the coldest sands he had ever felt, sending goosebumps all over his body. He arched his back, tensing his muscles to ease the pain before pushing himself up, his hands sinking away slightly in the dead sands. His eyes fell upon the bright sky, remarkable golden, the sun perfectly perpendicular to the desert.
He saw, far in the distance, a keep of monumental proportions, the dark stone consuming all light from the sun. Yet despite its intensity, the sun could not heat skin and sand, nor brick and bone. It was something extraordinary to experience. Something that so little people could actually appreciate. Not that they could, for Hell did not accept those pure of heart and strong of mind. Usually.
His trek didn't last longer than what felt like half an hour, his leather shoes collecting sand and scratches as he marched over the faint hills. He did still have his watch, a sleek minimalistic design, but in this plane, he questioned its reliability. From what he could see, no other tracks could be found, no behemoths stampeding through the plains of sand, no critters skittering about. Perhaps the expired winds had blown them away, perhaps the plane had been abandoned to the ages, forgotten as its relevance decayed.
He came up to the keep, fishing his comb from his back pocket, pulling back his coal black hair, keeping it taut but dusty. He put it away, admiring the architecture of the keep, the archways carved with stories of old conquests and cunning atrocities. It reminded him somewhat of the Gothic movement, with the tall spires and massive glass panes, each pane a fantastic rainbow of colours. After remaining lost in thought for a minute, he strolled up to the massive double doors, standing at the very least three times taller than himself. When he pushed them, open, he could feel their sheer weight, the cold iron leaving their smell on his palms. No mortal could have pushed them open with just their strength.
He marched through the great hall, the tapestry perished by the invincible grip of time, the carpet robbed of colour, now just a grey mass of yarn. Mirrors dotted the walls every now and so, staring into his own eyes, his sclerae a bottomless dark, his ires a vibrant crimson. His brows were still thick, his eyes still sunken deep, his grin still as broad as a barn.
He found another double door, leading to the throne room, the space littered with skeletons and empty seats, tables covered with platters and cups, yet no succulence could be found, no feast to be had. The chandeliers had lost their great shine, now a dull iron with unused candles, their burn extinguished. Once again, the great glass panes proved remarkably eye-catching, the only things that have bested time, always drawing his sight to them.
Somewhere in the back, a throne the size of a car stood, with a great skeleton occupying it. The claws had embedded themselves deep in the armrests, his feet had been buried in sand, his magnificent attire now a tattered relic of lost power. The frame was hunched over, the horned skull showing nothing of its visage. He walked up to it, pulling out a cigar from his breast pocket. Even from yards away, he could feel the heat, the mythic arcane radiating through his soul. He stepped towards the throne, the god of brimstone and ash still firmly seated in his black iron throne. His heart began racing, his blood began cooking, his bones bore the great flame.
Pressing his cigar on the skeleton, it lit up, and he took one deep pull from it, puffing out rings of smoke from his nose. He kneeled in front of the skeleton, coming up on eye-level to see any sort of activity, any sign of ambition left in this artefact. After he finished the rest of his cigar, he tossed the butt away, adjusted his ddark grey sleeveless suit jacket and spoke.
"Hello, my good sir," he began, his voice raspy and deep, "and please, allow me to introduce myself."
The skeleton began expelling ash and smoke, darker than any smoke he had seen in his life.
"I am Solomon King, a man of former wealth and taste," he continued, his grin growing to his ears, "and I have a proposition for you."
From within the three pairs of eye sockets, deep ruby orbs glowed, finally revealing some of the dark skull, graced with thick fangs and strong cheekbones.
"I have read much about you," the man of wealth carried on his proposal, "from your inception to your very unfortunate demise."
A throaty hum rumbled the keep, rubble and grit raining down upon Solomon's white blouse, his sleeves rolled up to let his muscled arms breathe.
"Perhaps you could accept it to be my partner in crime," the man of taste resumed, and the throaty rumble turned into a reluctant groan, "An alliance to achieve our goals."
The groan had grown silent, and the sharply dressed man adjusted his tie for this moment of tranquillity.
"I'd like to see both out ambitions realised, you see?" Solomon said, his grin never fading, "So what do you say…"
The smoke and ash began encompassing the mortal man, the vapour and ashen flakes seeping through his skin, stoking his veins, tantalising his nerves, hardening his bones.
"…Diablo?"
knock knock, open up the door, it's real
Wit the non-stop, pop pop and stainless steel
So inbetween my much larger story, I'm going to keep up my writing spirit by writing this shorter, more condensed story. If you like it, sub to my Twitch Fortnite channel and donate to my Patr3on.
- The Coolest Man on the North Pole