A/N: Since I can't do Fanart, you'll have to put up with fan descriptive essays from me! This is an image that's been stuck in my head for a long time but, even with the various MMX fanfics I've written, I've never had a place to put it. This image is set pre-MMX1, after Zero has been awakened but before the Maverick Hunters have captured him.
With the ferocity of an untamed beast, the hurricane ripped across the shoreline neighborhood. Roofs were stolen off buildings, porches were smashed into the ground, cars were seized by the ocean, and boats were thrown onto land. The sharp wind gave nails the power to pierce metal armor. The warm rain became water that could beat plants and animals senseless. In an instant, the storm could tear up the roots of a ten-year-old tree and kill it with a bolt of electricity in the air. The violence was massive, senseless… but also mindless.
Within the storm, though, there was also a source of violence that was far from mindless. He was defiant to the storm without because it could not compare to the storm within. He had a mission of destruction. While it had been aborted once, he was active again and ready to finish the job. The hurricane was little more than a nuisance.
A weather reporter in the area did not find the storm a nuisance. She found it a thrill and a challenge. Most days, her job consisted of standing around the studio, watching computer scans and predictions, and then translating that information for the watchers of daily news broadcasts. In short, mostly boring. But then came a storm like this and, while it could ruin many peoples' lives, it infused her with love and excitement for meteorology all over again.
The human reporter wore a long yellow rain slicker with tall black boots. In these hurricane-force winds, umbrellas were useless so she had a clear hood piece that snapped onto the slicker. Even so, she had to wrap an arm over her head to keep the hood in place. She held her right hand over the small microphone clipped onto her collar, in an attempt to protect it from the rain. There was a grin on her wet face. "This is so amazing," she said again. "Aren't you glad we convinced them to let us stay?"
"Yup," her cameraman said. Given that the equipment he was wearing made him top heavy, they had secured him to a sturdy metal pole so the howling winds didn't knock him over. His camera was big, black, bulky, and blocky, mostly because it required strong plastic shielding to protect it from potent raindrops and various flying debris. Part of it rested on his shoulder, but part of it rested on a brace that went around his stomach. This was to keep weight more evenly distributed so his arm didn't get tired during this long vigil. A crash of thunder boomed through the air, shaking it even where they stood.
Shortly before the hurricane made itself known on land, they had picked out this spot as a viewing platform to the storm. It was a wooden deck that led from a parking lot to a popular sandy beach with a great view of the ocean. For now, they were the only ones there. They were far enough from the shoreline that even the greatest waves were unlikely to hit them directly, but close enough that they could record those roaring waves. Turning some, they could record damage to nearby vacation homes and a ritzy five-star hotel resort. Lots of drama, much potential for lucrative shots. Even if the hotel got destroyed, they might just get a special payment from the resort for recording that destruction.
"Careful!" the reporter cried out, struggling against the wind to get to a post opposite the one the cameraman was tied to. A tall metal pole then slammed into the other end of the deck, jamming itself at an upright angle for a little while. "No quick, get a good shot of that!"
The cameraman made sure that his equipment was recording, then panned up to the top of the flagpole. Hanging there was a black flag made ragged by the forces of the storm. Curiously enough, there was a white image of a grinning skull on that flag. Two bony hands were depicted below it, the right holding onto a lightning bolt while the left held onto a snake. "That's wicked."
"I know," the reporter said, gleefully. "I wonder where that flag came from. That shot is sure to be worth a pretty penny later on."
"I would agree." He recorded the soaked flag flapping in the wind for a while, then panned out to get the view of the beach behind the strange pirate symbol.
As the pole began shifting and creaking, the reporter walked back out to her old spot. "I bet those pirates would be having a bad day if they were out to sea now. The hurricane would smash them down to Davy Jones' locker."
The flagpole was quickly reclaimed by the hurricane. For a moment, the cameraman thought to follow it into the sky. But then something through the lens caught his eye. Over at the water's edge, there was a spot of bright crimson red.
"There it goes," the reporter said, but the cameraman was already zooming out to whatever that red object was. The rain sheet was quite dense, but he could make out a blurry human-like figure standing in front of an incoming wave. As he focused his view, he could make out a metallic texture that suggested this was a reploid instead of a human. A flash of bright yellow showed that this reploid had a long ponytail coming out the back of his helmet. Extremely long, likely coming down past his knees.
"That's got to weigh a ton in this rain," the cameraman muttered. The reploid was facing the crazed ocean and the incoming frothing wave. He didn't move and he didn't flinch as a rabid wall of water taller than he was smashed into him. Although the storm-whipped ocean had the strength to tear through beach houses, it did not have the strength to make this reploid budge.
"What would?" the reporter asked, looking out towards the beach. Squinting, she could only make out a colored blur behind the curtain of rain. "What's that?"
"It's a reploid, I think," he answered. "He's got to be a tough one for taking the full force of this storm like that."
"Really? I hadn't heard any were being left here. Maybe he's doing some research." She waited for a moment when the wind hushed, then called out, "Hey mister! How's it going?"
Through the camera's view, the cameraman saw the reploid turn his head back to them . The open part of his helmet only had a slight shield to keep the rapid rain out of his eyes. He decided to leave the ocean and run over to where they were. Zooming his view back rapidly to follow, the cameraman kept watching the stranger. He had yellow and black accents, but didn't seem to be a common design. Some reploids had insignias that made it easy to identify their maker and employer, but not this one.
"Hi," the reporter said cheerfully as the reploid got close. "Enjoying the weather?"
His response was to punch her in the jaw, then grab her shoulders in both hands and slam her head into the wooden railing of the deck. She didn't get to make much more than a frightened gasp before he had her killed. Realizing that he didn't stand a chance secured to the post like he was, the cameraman's hands trembled. In the last shaky frames of the video, the red reploid turned to look at him. His bitter blue eyes showed an intense hatred and insanity before he turned his deadly skill on the cameraman.
The footage ended a few seconds after that.