Author's Note: Hey everyone! I'm back! And I want to say, five reviews…it makes me want to ignore my homework and fail all my tests just to get my next chapter written and up! (Don't worry too much—Mum would kill me, so I won't. Still, it's tempting…)
Well, thank you Bergie, Hawk-Masters, FamousFi, Love Shall Never Die, and Helliexx for reviewing. It means a lot to me!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Storm Hawks. I also don't own…well, I'll put this one at the end. I don't want to spoil anything! ;-)
000000000000000000000000000
Terra Yorkia, like all large, city-like Terras, had a darker side. Grimy back allies in the poorer regions were filled with muggers, gangs, rabid dogs, and other dangers. Naturally, no honest citizen in their right mind would be out at night. However, the figure wearing a hooded cloak was neither honest nor in his right mind. None of the Shadowmen were.
A group of drunks across the street yelled something inarticulate at him, and he pulled the rough, dark fabric closer, the tip of his hooked nose and the glint of his nearly black eyes difficult, if not impossible to see. He doubted the men would remember his presence, but when committing treason, it was best to remain unseen and unheard of. So far, they had been lucky.
He ducked down one ally, into another, and behind an overflowing bin of trash was a small doorway. Wrinkling his nose at the odious smells wafting out of the rotten food and discarded waste, he quickly rapped three times then waited. The door cracked open.
As soon as he stepped inside, five different crystals shot light at him, lifting him into the air and completely paralyzing him. If they were working properly, it should take exactly seven seconds for them to recognize his DNA and deactivate. The man counted nervously, as he had seen what happened to a rat when it had wandered in once. Not a pretty sight.
"Seven…" The crystals powered down, and he sighed, then hurried forward through a maze of hallways, dead ends, and trap doors in the old, abandoned building they used. Finally, he came to a door with the warmth of a fire and the sound of conversation coming from within. He walked past, opening the next door, which was painted a fading grey. The room was cold, silent, and dark as he quickly made his way to his seat.
"Representative Four," the Servant's voice stopped him. "You're late."
It was a statement of fact, and despite various excuses that he had, all very valid, he bowed his head silently. There were no apologies or wasted words. Now that they were all there, the meeting could begin.
The Servant spoke. He—or she, as the Servant was always cloaked, always in darkness, so none of them knew the gender—was the leader of the Shadowmen. The Servant always spoke, first, last, and in the middle.
"You are here because you are among the few that see the truth. You see what's really important. You're here because you see past the Cyclonian lies. The shadows aren't are real enemies. They're a smokescreen to spread the Cyclonian Empire."
A new member, Ten, stood. None of them had names here, only numbers. "I'm from Terra Tropica, and my family was killed by the Shadows. I would have died too, if it were not for Cyclonian intervention. Oh, I hate them just as fervently as all of you—they came like heroes, parading through our streets, claiming to be the saviors when half of us were dead. And we believed them, when really, they never saved us. But without the Cyclonians, we would all be dead. The shadow threat is very real."
A newbie. He hadn't heard the Servant's speech yet, apparently. He didn't know not to interrupt. He didn't believe in the dream. "We are the only ones who see the truth. We are the ones weaker minds call fanatics," the Servant hissed. "We are the ones who know that the chains of slavery are worse than death."
The young man was angry. "So you would rather have all of Atmos destroyed by shadows than ruled by the Cyclonian Empire?"
The man, Representative 4, decided that if he could see the Servant's eyes, they would be flashing manically. "Yes," came the hiss. "When our forefathers broke free of the Cyclonian Empire to form the Free Atmos, they proclaimed—"
"GIVE ME LIBERTY OF GIVE ME DEATH!" the entire assembly chanted.
"And now, when the Cyclonians are taking away our liberty, we choose—"
"DEATH! DEATH BEFORE ENSLAVEMENT OF CYCLONIAN TYRANTS!"
The new man was shaking his head. "You've gone too far. You're insane. You're utterly insane. There's no way that I can—"
A thin, silver blade burst out of his mouth, and he looked almost surprised, before it disappeared just as quickly as it came and he slumped down, squirting crimson liquid. A tall, pale man with dark hair and dirty hazel eyes stepped into the light. His thin lips were twisted into a cruel smile. "Oh, dear," he hissed. "We can't have any rats. Rats and vermin will be eradicated." He glanced at his immaculate blade. "My sword is dirty, quite a pity." He laughed; a cold, cruel, evil sound. He just stood there, threw his head back, and laughed.
The meeting full of self-proclaimed Shadowmen were stunned into silence. It was one thing to believe in death, but quite another to see it so close up and personal.
The Servant stepped forward and spoke. "Fellow Shadowmen, I'd like to introduce our new allies, from Terra…Rew-see-uh. They are called…"
Sparks flew as red blade and blue daggers crashed. Crimson eyes locked with emerald in the deadly stare down. Finally, the Dark Ace heaved, and Aerrow was thrown backwards, flipping to land crouched below a skimmer.
Aerrow leapt up, charging forward, blue daggers slashing, but Dark Ace sidestepped easily, parrying his blows and sweeping his feet. Aerrow quickly rolled back and leapt up, but the damage was already done; he had been winded.
The Dark Ace furrowed his brow in frustration. It wasn't that Aerrow was too hard; in fact, it was the opposite. It seemed like Aerrow's reflexes were slower, his blows were weaker, and it made him…easy to defeat. His blade was at Aerrow's neck before Aerrow had a chance to raise his daggers.
Aerrow sighed, deactivating the blue light, as Dark Ace did the same with his sword. "That's three, in our best out of three," Aerrow sighed. "All in which you've beaten me. Am I getting old or something?"
The teen looked so depressed that Dark Ace felt guilty, despite the fact that he had won fairly in all three fights. He thought about what Cyclonis said the night before, how he was stronger, faster…how he was a shadow now.
"Aerrow, it's not you. You're fighting better than ever," Dark Ace explained, trying to cheer him up. "It's me. I've changed." He trailed off, unsure whether to continue or not.
He glanced up to see Cyclonis, flanked by Piper and Starling, in the doorway. She gave him a curt nod, and he knew it was alright to tell Aerrow.
"Ever since I absorbed the energy from Cyclonis two years ago, I've changed. It's changed me. I'm no longer completely human. I'm part—I am—I have the capacity to become—well, a Shadow."
Aerrow's mouth fell open. Finally, he stopped gaping. "Well, wasn't expecting that one," he stuttered. "If it were anyone but you, I would say, 'And I'm a monkey's uncle.' But you never joke."
The Dark Ace smirked. "I can joke. Surely you've heard me tell a joke!"
Aerrow shook his head.
"Well, no time like the present. Why did the chicken cross the road?"
Aerrow's eyes went wide. Was this some kind of a joke? Yes. It was some kind of joke—a 'chicken crossing the road' joke, to be exact. "Why?" he asked nervously.
"She saw Radarr on the other side!"
Radarr made such a face that everyone couldn't help but burst into laughter.
"…the OktoberGuard."
"Horrorshow—ew! Seriously, did you have to make it so bloody? I'm feeling sick!" A smaller man, looking just as lethal, but also younger and a bit more naïve, spoke out, making a face. Horrorshow, who had just killed Ten, chuckled again, bringing his bloody blade up near his face and stroking it, spreading the red liquid all over his hands.
"What? Can't take a little blood and guts?" shot another, a tall, heavyset man with dark hair and a hooked nose.
"Be quiet, Krimov. We're not here to watch you tease Ruslan. Don't you ever get tired of it? 'Cause we sure do." A woman, slim yet muscular, and armed with two pistols stepped into the light.
Krimov slapped her across the face. "Don't you go tellin' me what to do, girlie. Remember your place!" The woman looked angry, but she bit her lip and stepped back, head down, for the moment.
All the time their leader, a bald, tall, strong-looking man in full military uniform was watching silently. He shot them all a look with his ice-blue eyes and they quieted. The Servant smiled.
"Thank you, Colonel Brekov. Like the Shadows, they are not from the Atmos. And like the Shadows, they bring weapons, technology, and blessings not from the Atmos. They have agreed to work with us."
Icy eyes surveyed the assembled Shadowmen. A rather pitiful collection of revel fighters, all insane, old, or weak. Yet it was not his job to judge his employers, merely to get his job done and fulfill his mission. The eyes revealed nothing, no feeling, no opinions, no hint of what was going through his mind. "If it fits in out own interests," the Colonel said coolly.
The Servant smiled. "I can make it fit your interests. I can give you as many crystals as your heart desires."
"He doesn't have a heart," snorted another one of the Guard, before the woman elbowed him. He quickly shut up.
The Servant slapped a snapshot onto the table. It depicted two people, a woman and a man, standing in front of a cheering crowd. The man was tall, lean, muscular, and had jet black hair and red eyes. The young woman was pale, and rather small, with dark hair, too, and violet eyes. "This is Master Cyclonis. I need you to capture—"
"Consider it done." The leader of the Guard swept the photograph off of the table, glancing at it once then handing it to his men. "Just make sure you don't flake out on your side of the deal."
00000000000000000000
Okay, so now I can say it without spoiling everything: Hawk-Masters owns the Oktober Guard, not me!
Please review!!!!
Next chappie should be up b4 the end of the weekend! Again, thanks for reading!
