Chapter 17 (Part 1): Racial Purity
Writer's Note: For anyone who is coming into this fanfic having never read any of my work, some explanation is needed.
This story was originally going to be a story arc within my larger Titans fanfic, Wings of the Eagles. But the fic was rated overall PG-13, and due to certain language in this story, Fanfiction.net said it had to be rated R or they would take it down. So, if you've never read any of my work, it is not recommended that you read this as I have introduced many elements previously and you won't have any idea what I'm talking about. To my fans, this story arc takes place between the Evilution and I'll Be Your Hero arcs. So remember, this is not a separate story, but one that takes place within a larger story, similar to another TT fanfic of mine, Time and Time Again. It's why the chapters are such high numbers, as that was where the story was originally going to appear in Wings.
And a final warning. This is not the usual fanfic material. In fact, most of you probably have never even thought of a fanfic in this vein, much less read one. But I get ideas from weird places sometimes, as well as from the great deal of reading I do, and I feel that I have to write this. So be warned. This is NOT a nice story. And I don't mean in a blood and guts way. You'll see why when you read.
And if anyone who reads this says I must be exaggerating on how the villains speak and act, I wish I was. But I did some research. This stuff actually happens. Sadly. Well, might as well start. Let's hope you don't regret it.
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"Le Coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait point."
("The heart has its reasons, whereof reason knows nothing.")
-Blaise Pascal, Pensees
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How did this all begin?
Some questions in this vein will never be answered. Others have no answer.
But we can answer where some things began.
His name was Curtis Green. He was in his early twenties. He had dark brown hair that was just on the verge of being shoulder length, which indicated he, probably, was in need of a haircut. He was dressed in a purple and yellow T-Shirt and dark blue slacks, with sneakers. He had just come from a bar, and while he had had a few he was not drunk, and now he was just walking down the street, enjoying the cool night, while he headed for the subway that would take him home.
But Curtis would never reach home. You see, Curtis was black. Or if you must use the PC term, African-American. Whether or not you assumed he was white before you were told is moot: that is what is needed in the written word. It was what he was. His skin possessed a high concentration of melanin, which made it darker then some people on this planet.
Curtis, as mentioned, had had a few, and hence wasn't really that highly alert. And even if he had been, he probably wouldn't have noticed the car gliding up behind him.
He heard the door opening though. The sudden noise caught his attention, and he started to turn.
All he saw were two men, large ones, with broad chests and well muscled bodies. One was blonde, the other had red hair. They were dressed identically though: in blue jeans and camouflage green shirts that had the image of a burning cross over their heart. Remember you I mentioned their hair colour? Well, technically you couldn't see it. You see, they were both wearing hoods.
Curtis didn't get to make a sound: he had just begun to open his mouth when the one on the right slammed him on the side of his head with a crowbar. Pain exploded through Curtis's being as his vision split and blurred. He felt himself fall, felt large hands picking him up and dragging him somewhere, felt his sense of personal space change as he was shoved into the back of a car. He moaned, and then another large hand slammed into his face in a vicious punch, knocking him even goofier.
Curtis had no sense of time: all he could feel was heat and motion. But slowly, he began to come around. But before he could fully, the car finally stopped, and he was dragged out. His still dull eyes took in trees, lots of them: apparently he was in the middle of a forest. He saw a wooden…something overhead as he was dragged into a compound, saw crude wood buildings pass him by.
And then there were others. Lots of others, at least 50 or more, all wearing the same outfit and all wearing hoods. By now Curtis's senses were started to return, and he mewled (he wished he could make a more dignified sound, but his brain was still foggy and his lips were swollen) and tried to thrash free, but the four who had him had grips of steel.
Curtis tried anyway.
"Fucking coon." One of the men around him said, and delivered a savage kick to Curtis's gut, knocking the wind out of him as new pain washed through his body. It nearly kept him from seeing the blazing campfire they dragged him past, or the post that he was being dragged to.
No, not a post.
A cross.
"No…no…!" Curtis yelled, and his semi-outburst was rewarded by another vicious punch to the face. He groaned as blood dribbled between his lips. Some of the assembled men laughed at this.
Curtis put up no more resistance as thin cords were wrapped around his arms and legs and he was tied to the cross. With no one to sucker-punch him, Curtis's mind finally cleared. His eyes filled with terror as he finally realized what was happening.
"No…NO!" he yelled. This was impossible. This wasn't the Deep South, where pockets of this kind of behavior were so ingrained it was practically in the water and air. The time of men waltzing around in white hoods carrying hanging ropes and getting away with what was done with them was fifty years gone by. This was Jump City, in the new millennium. This couldn't be HAPPENING.
Except it was. It existed, as the assemblage parted to let another man through. He was shorter and stockier then the muscle-pumped men around him, a lot of which was from prison weight lifting. But it was clear he was the leader.
He stared up at Curtis, and though his face was covered, Curtis could still feel a disdain and rage so intense it burned him. But what was even worse was that tinting that vile was a terrible sense of RIGHTEOUSNESS.
The man walked behind Curtis, and Curtis gasped as the shirt was ripped from his back. The leader threw the torn shirt into the fire as he walked back in front of Curtis.
"My brothers!" he bellowed, the somewhat small frame hiding a booming voice. "It has begun! Today we finally claim a new stronghold for the apocalypse to come! There will be those who will deny us, and defy us, but they do no matter! We have been invited here! And we will show our appreciation by doing what our gracious and powerful host could not do when he had the opportunity!"
Curtis had no idea what this guy was babbling about, but then another large man approached him.
He was holding a bullwhip.
Curtis tried to be brave, but it was too hard.
"NOOOO! NO PLEASE!"
"The time is coming! And we shall stand strong! And we will purify this diseased and tainted city as thanks for our gracious invitation! We will help him stare Satan in the eye! Let me hear your support!"
"BLOOD! BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOD!" the men yelled.
"YES!"
"KILL KILL KILL! DEATH DEATH DEATH!"
"We will strike back! We will purify this city and this land. LET ME HEAR YOU GIVE ME A HALLELUIAH!"
"HALLELUIAH!"
"For the glory of God and the Aryan nation!" the leader bellowed, and motioned to Curtis.
The man cocked back his arm.
"NOOOOOOOO!" Curtis screamed.
The whip cracked, and Curtis felt the worst pain of his life.
Then it cracked again. NOW he had felt the worst pain of his life.
And again…and again…and let us not dwell on this terrible sight. Let us move away from these bloodthirsty men, if we can call them men, and go someplace else.
You probably have some questions on how this came to be. Possibly some of you are claiming this could never happen.
For answers, let us pass through the wall of a building nearby. This building is a crude office, filled with a desk, some filing cabinets, a chair, and the usual things we will see in an office.
What is not normal are the many pamphlets, posters, and books piled around the room. They all bear a certain theme.
SCIENTISTS SAY NIGGERS STILL IN APE STAGE.
CORRUPTION OF BLOOD LINKED TO MULTIPLYING GOOK AREAS IN MAJOR CITIES.
RAGHEADS' FALSE RELIGIOUS BOOKS FILLED WITH MESSAGES TO KILL GOD'S PEOPLE.
And on, and on. All acting like they are nothing more then normal research articles…except for the common theme you have probably guessed.
Propaganda. These men believed they were at war, and propaganda in war can be one of, if not the greatest weapon in an arsenal.
But there is one certain piece of propaganda that we must see, as we look in at it…
And at the same time, we must look back in time…
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The time: several months ago, a few months after the Final Night.
The place: a battle.
The reason: The Puppet King. Having returned, the Puppet King has masterminded a plan that has seen fruition. Taking the essences of many people, the Puppet King had managed to fuel a giant likeness of himself, which is now rampaging through Jump City.
And the Titans are on the attack. Their city is still being rebuilt: they'll be damned if they let it be torn down all over again.
"Fools! You cannot beat my giant! Surrender, and I will destroy you rather painlessly!" The Puppet King laughs from his place on the golem's head. But his laugh hides, not all successfully, a growing desperation. The Titans have been hacking and slashing away at his giant with everything they had, doing far more damage then he had anticipated. If this kept up, they might somehow…
"ARGH!" The Puppet King screamed as missiles exploded around him, courtesy of Cyborg. Angered, the Puppet King pulls up his arm, and his giant mimics him totally.
Victor Stone tries to run back, but he can't quite make it, as the giant hand smashes into him and throws him off the edge of the eight-story building he was standing on.
He falls, spinning, his systems scrambled by the impact and unable to launch his grappling hook to catch himself.
But that is why there are teams. If one person fails, another steps in, as Noel Collins leaps past the Puppet King's monolith, skipping across the roof, and throws a Shimmer strand down after Cyborg.
And here is where it all starts, again. For you see, Cyborg is falling in a tumbling, flipping whirl, the Shimmer strand following him. Savior needs to grab Cyborg: he is too close to the ground to pick and choose where.
And hence, as Cyborg faces upright, only a second or two before hitting the ground, the Shimmer reaches him and loops around the closest part to it where it can get the proper leverage to stop Cyborg's fall.
His neck.
Now, this may LOOK very bad on the surface, until you consider three things.
A) Cyborg's neck was far tougher then the average man's. Still, it was a considerable amount of whiplash and pressure. But those were negated because…
B) The Shimmer was no ordinary rope. It had special qualities, which Noel took full advantage off. Had Noel just had a normal rope, he would have never done this. But the Shimmer is much more, as it absorbs virtually all the whiplash, leaving Cyborg with just a slight sense of stopping, much like how you would feel if you fell out of bed. And finally…
C) The Shimmer was only around Cyborg's neck for a second. As soon as he stopped, smaller strands broke off the main one and wrapped around and under Cyborg's arms, as Noel exerted his power to pull his teammate up.
And while this was happening, behind Noel his teammates combined their powers for one titanic final strike. Savior could hear the bellowing and the terrible racket as the Puppet King's wanna-be kaiju finally fell apart. A wave of dust washed over Savior as he finished pulling Cyborg back up on the roof.
"Thanks for the save man! But come on, could you have grabbed me someplace better?" Cyborg mock-complained, lightly punching Savior on the arm.
"Before you became street pizza? Probably not." Savior replied, and then he and Cyborg headed across the roof and leapt down to aid their fellow Titans in capturing the Puppet King and returning the stolen essences of people that he had used to power his giant. And that was that: The Titans went home and rested until the next problem.
But you see, while this was happening, a few intrepid reporters and cameramen were acting foolish by following the fight, despite the great risk of being crushed by something. One of them happened to on the side of the building that Cyborg had fallen off of, and he had reacted quickly by snapping a huge amount of shots.
In the end, none of the series were used, and the photographer quickly forgot about his pictures.
But they did not disappear. Somehow, they found their way into other hands. And other hands from there. And others.
As a butterfly flaps its wings…
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It is several months later, and we are looking at the picture.
In reality, this was taken about 1/3 of a second after Savior had grabbed Cyborg. Cyborg has just been caught, and has not yet been able to reach his arms up. At the time, Savior's face was locked in concentration in his deed of helping Cyborg.
But that is not the story the picture tells. The picture captures Cyborg's abrupt jerk, and Noel's face. But the angle and the shadows have changed the features into different ones, ones that, if looked at in a certain mindset…could almost be interpreted as…angry joy.
And in one final nasty quirk of fate, the outfit Noel was wearing that day was his all white one. Usually he mixes in some blues and purples, but sometimes he just wears white. This was one of those days.
Reality had vanished. What the picture showed now was Savior, white in outfit, hair, and skin tone (well, his skin tone was more accurately a pinkish tint, but you know what I mean), hanging a black man.
This photo is a centerpiece of a large piece of propaganda, between twin sets of words. On top: THE ONLY GOOD NIGGER IS A DEAD NIGGER.
Below it: TODAY'S METAHUMAN YOUTH THINK SO TOO.
You heard the man speaking of an invitation?
To these men, this misinterpreted picture is all they need.
I wish we could just leave, but we cannot. Let us pass out of this building again, where the group is still at it, chanting and stomping, sounding more like wild animals then men, above the screams of Curtis Green as they lay his flesh open to the bone, over and over.
Until the leader motions them to stop. The chants for blood and death cease as well, as the man with the bullwhip lays it down and heads for the campfire.
Curtis is in utter agony, but he still sees what this man pulls from the campfire. He screams anew.
"BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD!" the leader bellows.
"BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD! DEATH DEATH DEATH! KILL KILL KILL!"
"HALLELUIAH!"
"HALLELUIAH!"
Curtis's scream split through the whole forest as these men did what they did. I will not tell you. But I will tell you that it finally caused him to pass out.
He never awoke again.
These men were called the ASP. The Anglo-Saxan Patrol. They have come to Jump City because they believe, through this picture, that one of their fellows has invited them.
Never mind the reality. Never mind the truth. Never mind that Noel Collins wasn't even THERE.
They had come to make Jump City their own. And they had some grand plans.
To Be Continued