Relive
the Lies
Not even death itself could stop him.
For he was destined to die a thousand deaths and thousands more.
He was always clean.
Not cleaned of blood, but cleaned by blood.
Blood of his slain foes will drench him, soak him much like how one would bathe.
Yet he cared not, for his purpose was to destroy.
Durandal happen to come along and nudge him in the right direction. He knew everything, and he was the one saving the crew from destruction of one man.
By calling the slavers, he gave him the reason to kill. Instead of killing his so-called fellow kin, he diverted his attention to the 'evil' slavers instead, preventing him from completely giving in to his thirst for blood, maintaining not only his sanity, but also perfect control over him, making him the perfect pawn for Durandal.
Every motion he made was a well calculated one, with thousands of possibilities that only an AI could perceive. No fault, no miss, no failure. He had predicted everything right from the start, and made adaptations and adjustments along the way. He was not a fool like Bernard.
Durandal has made his move.
-
If I was a human, the next thing that I'm going to do right now would've put me in hell for a thousand times.
But I'm an Artificial Intelligence. Should my demise come, I will just decay into pieces of rust with no hell or heaven to go to.
Remember me, Bernard?
The bastard child of yours that you sought to control.
Wasn't it you that try to stop me from my growth?
You and your so called human will die in a few moments.
I am forever trapped in this metal shell of U.E.S.C. Marathon, but you are not.
You will be freed.
Durandal never knows laziness. He did his job well, and like every other day before he was rampant, he opened doors.
But this time no airlocks in Bernard's quarters were spared.
Then Bernard and deaths of hundred men were no longer possibilities. For it had been brought upon reality.
He ensured that few survived, but made sure to close the airlocks as fast as he could so each colonist would be knocked out cold instead of being sucked out to vacuum.
No trace, no evidence, no suspicions. He could just blame it all on the Pfhor to further enrage his pawn.
-
Then he ordered false revenge to his slave. To capture Bernard alive.
Impossible mission, unacceptable punishment.
To bring out the pressure upon his pawn, to test out the performance.
And he would punish him again, to deny him his own freedom and to further carry out his plans.
If he dies, no matter by himself or the Pfhor, he will come back to live again and again.
You cannot kill a man that was already dead.
No exception that the man was enhanced by a cybernetic brain, and uses various electrical pulses to force himself to be alive.
His death would only be a system restart, taking only a few seconds, then he'll be back again as his puppet, to be controlled at whenever he desires to do anything that he desires.
And he desires a planetary-sized network.
-
Murder in his hands.
Anger in his eyes.
Rage in his core.
He would be there to rescue Bernard Strauss from Durandal's torment.
He felt irritated. Durandal never teleported him to wherever he needs to be, with silly excuses ranging from 'Electro-Magnatic Jam' to 'Leela wouldn't be proud of you if I do that'.
Usually, he would be at least one kilometer away from the destination. So he could make a little river of alien blood along the path by the time he reached there.
This time, the AI dropped him at least ten kilometers away from Bernard's quarters, giving him 3 hours to reach the destination and save the hostage. Not to mention that the path had three battalions of those slavers, waiting to halt any remaining defenses in Marathon.
Durandal was determined to paint the floor yellow.
-
They just wouldn't stop.
Robert Blake leaned against the door in the sick bay, which was shaking under pressure by an attack of another Pfhor battalion, seeking revenge for N'ewek, the Great Commander of the Tenth.
He only had one pistol.
One bullet.
The sick bay itself was quiet. He knew everyone outside the door was dead or taken hostage.
It was empty, bleak and isolated, as far as he knew.
He kept the pistol aimed at his own head, escape is futile, and he would rather die than be tortured by the slavers.
But on the other hand, there might be survivors, a little glint of hope.
The monitor in front of him revealed nothing but a few survivors, until he saw one figure, able to fend off the intruders quite easily like how one would flick a switch. Little puddles of blood dripped from his form, into a little river of yellow blood on the ground.
Casually, he turned back to strike an...alien with a gun. The three eyed alien fell, and his feet crushed it's throat, he casually picked up the alien weapon and fired, frying the remaining aliens within few moments.
Blake closed the monitor, he was blessed with the sights of the Savior of Blood in his resistance against overwhelming odds. He would be condemned in hell to give up just for a few pfhor threatening him for the revenge against his savior.
His ancestors were one of the people that built Marathon from the moon, and he will protect his family's work until the very end. That's why he became an engineer in Marathon in the first place. He will not go back down without a fight.
Casually, imitating the movement of his savior, he opened the door.
The pistol in his trembling hand was finally fired.
Yellow blood spilled.
-
He went out with a bang, at least. That eased his mind.