Chapter 2- Trouble in Paradise
At 3:42 AM, on a cold, brisk, rainy Manhattan street, not many people would be seen wandering around. Hell, not many people would be seen at all. But one man decided to go against the norm, as he was actually used to.
A heavy downpour teemed down from the heavens, seemingly following the lone man everywhere that he ventured to. The heavily falling rain soaked his long hair down to the surface of his scalp, making it look shorter than it actually was. Several droplets of water also ran down the person's face; he knew not whether it was sweat, tears, or the rain that was monotonously descending on him. The person seemed not to care either.
His size thirteen hiking boots slapped against the concrete and gravel repeatedly, the heavy footsteps splashing in the numerous puddles, echoing on the barren avenue. His head hung low and his hands, balled into fists, were jammed into his pockets. The man ignored the intense precipitation despite the fact that it was soaking him perpetually.
His attire greatly contrasted his skin tone as well as his hair... "his attire" being an ensemble which consisted of a tight-fitting muscle-shirt that exposed the outline of his rock-hard, six-pack abs. The man also sported fingerless gloves on his hands (still shoved in the man's pockets) and a pair of black leather pants. His wrists were taped up to his forearm, and his hiking boots were on loosely, the laces dragging the ground, soaking in the seemingly infinite number of puddles in the street.
His skin and hair were drastically dissimilar to his clothes. He appeared to be an of an albino complexion, his skin almost as pale as his snow-white hair, whereas his entire outfit was black in hue.
This man had been under a lot of stress lately, and his mind was racking with thoughts, each leaving as quickly as it entered, being replaced by another one immediately.
He thought back to the war, about all of the men whose lives were robbed... by him. The necks snapping, the slugs tearing apart brain tissue and heart valves, taking away the very being of these men. His were the fingers pulling the trigger, his were the hands snapping the collar and neck bones... his were hands of the devil... good for nothing outside of mindless killing. He was a weapon, and they were pulling the trigger, numerous times, again and again.
He imagined the grief of the families of the dead soldiers; the shock and anguish on their faces as the received the news of the murder of their relative. Everyone was entitled to longevity, to be able to live a lengthy life on Earth. Was survival of the fittest really valid... or moral, for that matter?
The man abruptly stopped his thoughts and reached his gloved right hand into a gun holster hidden underneath his leather pants. His hand reached around impatiently, until it found something slick and cold. He gripped it in his hand, the familiar feel too recognizable. He pulled the object out of the surreptitious compartment and brought it up in front of his eyes. He stared down the silencer and down into the barrel of his SOCOM... the taker of lives... the robber of being. He inspected it, questioning its value to him and everyone else in his life.
Sometimes, he thought against himself, however. It sometimes had to be survival of the fittest. It had to be either him or them... no alternative as long as he wanted to stay alive. His actions may not have always been moral, but they were best for him.
But was he really immoral for thinking of himself over the needs of others? No, definitely not. Everyone is entitled to survival... and that included him.
Suddenly, someone calling out to him de-railed his train of thought.
"Jack Logan?" A soft, female voice, coming from behind the soldier, said his name.
The man stopped gawking at his weapon and turned around, although still keeping the sidearm in his right hand.
Jack turned around and looked up the length of the street. He saw a figure walking in his direction, not in any kind of rush, taking her time. The warrior said nothing as the person approached, a slow gait in his direction. The figure then came into view, and Jack got a clearer view.
The woman was slender, an almost perfect figure, full breasts, a thin waist, and wonderfully long legs. She sported a light brown three-piece suit top, and a mini-skirt of the same color that exposed about a quarter of her breathtaking, full thighs.
Hers was a skin tone that could be placed somewhere between that of the average Caucasian and African-American. It leaned toward neither, staying in the middle. It was a bronze-ish shade, adding to her already beautiful features.
Long, gorgeous light brown hair hung from her scalp, almost the same hue as her skin, matching stunningly with her complexion.
Her face was almost perfect; hazel eyes stared at Jack, and he couldn't help but stare back. Full lips, spread with bronze-colored lipstick were placed on brilliantly smooth skin.
Glad Rose isn't here... Jack thought to himself.
The brunette then spoke again, interrupting Jack's thoughts... whatever they may have been.
"Are you Jack Logan?"
Jack tried to remain nonchalant, a harder feat than what it sounded like.
"I used to be..." he responded.
"Jack... Special Agent Baxter." The woman introduced herself as she flashed her badge, which happened to be hidden underneath of her top. She opened the left side for a split second, so that Jack could view the identification and nothing more.
"Could I see that again?" Jack asked, his male instincts getting the better of him.
"Excuse me?" said the woman, slightly taken aback.
"What do you want with me?" the soldier queried, ignoring his last comment.
"We need your help, Jack. It's a very urgent crisis."
"Who's 'we'?"
"The Patriots... maybe you've heard of us," the woman straightforwardly told him. She seemed unusually calm, but Jack paid no attention to this fact.
Instead, instinct took over and he moved up and snatched his gun up into the air, the barrel centimeters from the beautiful lady's head. Jack held the sidearm being held in his right hand only, the inner depths of his soul lighting aflame at the mention of this malicious organization.
"What do you want with me?!" he roared, obviously angry. He wanted no part of any schemes that this group was even somewhat involved in.
Raiden's screaming did not phase the woman, however.
"Jack... be a humanitarian and put... the gun... down," she told the soldier. "We don't want to hurt you, and quite frankly... we can't afford it."
The woman's words perplexed the soldier, who could not fathom what he was needed for. Exploitation, manipulation... all of the above?
That's when Jack felt something... a feeling like he's never felt before. His primal instincts developed during the war helped him in this instance. His brain was trying to tell him something... attempting to warn him of a certain danger that he couldn't put his proverbial finger on. It was a "sixth sense" that many soldiers developed during a war, especially one where a soldier has no backup and must watch his own back.
He whipped around quickly, and found himself staring at the chin of an extremely tall, African-American man; no, he was more than that. This person was a beast of a man; he had at least a one hundred pound advantage on Jack.
He wore no shirt, showing off his glistening, rock-hard, six-pack abdomen. He sported a desert-camo bottom, along with matching boots. His head had no hair on it, the rain causing the man's bald head to glisten and also soaking his dark brown goatee.
He was easily three hundred-plus pounds and probably nearing, if not at, the six-and-a-half-foot mark. The stranger was monster of man, a giant. He looked unstoppable, but Jack knew this to be untrue. Everyone has a weakness; an Achilles' heel, even if they don't look as if they do.
This man did not look happy with Jack, and the fact that his barrel was jammed into his shirtless chest. His brown eyes stared a hole into Raiden's, but neither man was ready to back down. They both stood their ground, not planning on pulling out any time soon.
"Jack," he heard from behind him, "Put your weapon down. We don't want to do anything rash at this point in time."
Raiden did nothing in response except dig the gun further into the man's chest, showing his absence of fear of this organization and their henchman. His eyes remained locked on the large, one-man attack squad, the look almost daring him to make a move.
"Jack!" The woman was now obviously angry with the hardheaded soldier. "You have five seconds to put the gun down before things get physical!"
Raiden then, seemingly having a change of thought, backed up one step and leaned down, slowly, and placed his SOCOM on the rain-soaked ground, a small splashing sound heard when the weapon came into contact with the damp gravel. Jack's eyes never lost contact with the linebacker-sized Patriots henchman.
The gun left his grip, and he stood back up, still eyeing what he assumed to be his assumed enemy. He now stood face-to-chin with the man, not showing any fear for this gargantuan beast.
Both warriors stared each other down for another five seconds before the woman, only known as "Special Agent Baxter," spoke up.
"Jack..." She willed him not to do anything dangerous, but it was no use.
Raiden's fist swung back and then forward, a haymaker right hook sent right to the man's left jaw. It connected intensely, the blow catching the large stranger off-guard. The forceful strike blasted him back; the man was forced to take about four steps backwards.
Jack smiled, extremely satisfied with his action. His opponent was not smiling however; far from it, actually. His expression quickly changed from surprised shock to one of fury and irritation.
He hastily rushed up towards Jack, ready to take out all the anger built up inside of his soul on his chin.
His right hand snapped forward, a quick yet strong straight punch; it was intended to smash against Raiden's jaw. Jack's natural agility was too much, however. He easily ducked underneath the punch and countered with a blow of his own, a body shot aimed at the side of his opponent.
The stranger then showed his agility, twisting and contorting his body to lean and dodge Jack's punch, a harder feat than what it sounds.
Jack's head was now vulnerable, and the stranger took advantage. A swift and powerful kick connected to the left side of Raiden's skull, a jarring pain shooting through it. As a result, Jack stumbled backwards, but his opponent kept up with him and delivered a right hook that caught the soldier in the jaw. However, Jack was, somehow, able to stay on his feet.
The stranger now decided to rest, allowing Raiden to regain his balance. The warrior did, and approached his opponent, adopting a traditional boxing stance, as did his foe.
The Patriots' henchman then pulled a trick out of his non-existent sleeve. He feinted, that is, he faked a punch, to his left and with his left, and Jack fell for it. He attempted to block that side, and only that side, and was left vulnerable for only a split-second before he caught himself... but that was all that was needed.
Raiden was then caught by a three-blow combination; first, two lightning- fast jabs and then an elbow strike that connected directly onto Jack's chin, dropping him to one knee. The Patriots' soldier then saw an opening... specifically, Jack's wide-open left jaw.
A spinning martial arts kicked was aimed at that exact spot, but Raiden ducked, possibly playing possum. The sudden and unexpected miss caused the large man to stumble; he spun around so that Jack was facing his back.
Raiden quickly stood and took about half-a-second to devise his plan. Still facing his opponent's back, his right boot came around and struck the soldier in his face, in the front, Jack showing off his flexibility.
The impact of the blow caused even a man as monstrous as he to spin around about one hundred and eighty degrees, so that Jack was facing his front, a predicament that Raiden easily took advantage of.
Before he could even think of rebounding from the attack, he was struck by Jack's tightened left fist, a hook that sent him in reverse. The man held his jaw in pain before realizing Jack was not done.
He rushed towards his opponent, but was seized by the quickness of his foe. He was flipped over his enemy's back, a fireman's carry directly into a drop, planning to have Raiden's head meet the ground.
But Jack's agility once again saved him, as he used the forward momentum to complete a beautiful forward flip and land on his feet. However, his adversary was swift in turning around before Jack could capitalize.
The man was aggravated now, his anger getting the best of him. He swung hard with his left hand, a heavy-handed haymaker. Jack easily dodged the rather unwise, leaning under it, and responded to it with a left-handed uppercut, crashing against the bottom of his foe's chin. His neck snapped backwards as a result of the collision, but his feet stayed in place; it was as if his feet were glued to the ground.
Jack's right leg then kicked the side of his adversary's chest, but it was clutched in the large man's equally large arm. Raiden was now hopping on one foot, and before he knew it, his throat was trapped a tight grasp and he was lifted off of the ground.
His one free leg saved him from whatever the Patriots' soldier was planning, however. It smashed against his foe's head three times, causing his grip to weaken and forcing him to drop Jack, who landed on his feet akin to a cat.
The bottom of Jack's boot then met the throat of his adversary, causing him to gag and cough up a small amount of blood. He was greatly vulnerable to attack at this time, and Jack knew that he had to make the most of it. He looked beyond his opponent, and saw a weapon that could very well end this fight.
Jack sprinted towards his opponent and leapt, striking his foe's bare chest with the bottom of both of his hiking boots. The force was enough to force him off of his feet and backwards... and into a crumbling concrete wall. The man's large frame crashed scarily against it, quickly knocking it down, the man's body tangled up in the debris of the fallen wall.
Jack dropped to one knee, finally able to gain some of his lost energy back... before he was attacked from behind.
.
At 3:42 AM, on a cold, brisk, rainy Manhattan street, not many people would be seen wandering around. Hell, not many people would be seen at all. But one man decided to go against the norm, as he was actually used to.
A heavy downpour teemed down from the heavens, seemingly following the lone man everywhere that he ventured to. The heavily falling rain soaked his long hair down to the surface of his scalp, making it look shorter than it actually was. Several droplets of water also ran down the person's face; he knew not whether it was sweat, tears, or the rain that was monotonously descending on him. The person seemed not to care either.
His size thirteen hiking boots slapped against the concrete and gravel repeatedly, the heavy footsteps splashing in the numerous puddles, echoing on the barren avenue. His head hung low and his hands, balled into fists, were jammed into his pockets. The man ignored the intense precipitation despite the fact that it was soaking him perpetually.
His attire greatly contrasted his skin tone as well as his hair... "his attire" being an ensemble which consisted of a tight-fitting muscle-shirt that exposed the outline of his rock-hard, six-pack abs. The man also sported fingerless gloves on his hands (still shoved in the man's pockets) and a pair of black leather pants. His wrists were taped up to his forearm, and his hiking boots were on loosely, the laces dragging the ground, soaking in the seemingly infinite number of puddles in the street.
His skin and hair were drastically dissimilar to his clothes. He appeared to be an of an albino complexion, his skin almost as pale as his snow-white hair, whereas his entire outfit was black in hue.
This man had been under a lot of stress lately, and his mind was racking with thoughts, each leaving as quickly as it entered, being replaced by another one immediately.
He thought back to the war, about all of the men whose lives were robbed... by him. The necks snapping, the slugs tearing apart brain tissue and heart valves, taking away the very being of these men. His were the fingers pulling the trigger, his were the hands snapping the collar and neck bones... his were hands of the devil... good for nothing outside of mindless killing. He was a weapon, and they were pulling the trigger, numerous times, again and again.
He imagined the grief of the families of the dead soldiers; the shock and anguish on their faces as the received the news of the murder of their relative. Everyone was entitled to longevity, to be able to live a lengthy life on Earth. Was survival of the fittest really valid... or moral, for that matter?
The man abruptly stopped his thoughts and reached his gloved right hand into a gun holster hidden underneath his leather pants. His hand reached around impatiently, until it found something slick and cold. He gripped it in his hand, the familiar feel too recognizable. He pulled the object out of the surreptitious compartment and brought it up in front of his eyes. He stared down the silencer and down into the barrel of his SOCOM... the taker of lives... the robber of being. He inspected it, questioning its value to him and everyone else in his life.
Sometimes, he thought against himself, however. It sometimes had to be survival of the fittest. It had to be either him or them... no alternative as long as he wanted to stay alive. His actions may not have always been moral, but they were best for him.
But was he really immoral for thinking of himself over the needs of others? No, definitely not. Everyone is entitled to survival... and that included him.
Suddenly, someone calling out to him de-railed his train of thought.
"Jack Logan?" A soft, female voice, coming from behind the soldier, said his name.
The man stopped gawking at his weapon and turned around, although still keeping the sidearm in his right hand.
Jack turned around and looked up the length of the street. He saw a figure walking in his direction, not in any kind of rush, taking her time. The warrior said nothing as the person approached, a slow gait in his direction. The figure then came into view, and Jack got a clearer view.
The woman was slender, an almost perfect figure, full breasts, a thin waist, and wonderfully long legs. She sported a light brown three-piece suit top, and a mini-skirt of the same color that exposed about a quarter of her breathtaking, full thighs.
Hers was a skin tone that could be placed somewhere between that of the average Caucasian and African-American. It leaned toward neither, staying in the middle. It was a bronze-ish shade, adding to her already beautiful features.
Long, gorgeous light brown hair hung from her scalp, almost the same hue as her skin, matching stunningly with her complexion.
Her face was almost perfect; hazel eyes stared at Jack, and he couldn't help but stare back. Full lips, spread with bronze-colored lipstick were placed on brilliantly smooth skin.
Glad Rose isn't here... Jack thought to himself.
The brunette then spoke again, interrupting Jack's thoughts... whatever they may have been.
"Are you Jack Logan?"
Jack tried to remain nonchalant, a harder feat than what it sounded like.
"I used to be..." he responded.
"Jack... Special Agent Baxter." The woman introduced herself as she flashed her badge, which happened to be hidden underneath of her top. She opened the left side for a split second, so that Jack could view the identification and nothing more.
"Could I see that again?" Jack asked, his male instincts getting the better of him.
"Excuse me?" said the woman, slightly taken aback.
"What do you want with me?" the soldier queried, ignoring his last comment.
"We need your help, Jack. It's a very urgent crisis."
"Who's 'we'?"
"The Patriots... maybe you've heard of us," the woman straightforwardly told him. She seemed unusually calm, but Jack paid no attention to this fact.
Instead, instinct took over and he moved up and snatched his gun up into the air, the barrel centimeters from the beautiful lady's head. Jack held the sidearm being held in his right hand only, the inner depths of his soul lighting aflame at the mention of this malicious organization.
"What do you want with me?!" he roared, obviously angry. He wanted no part of any schemes that this group was even somewhat involved in.
Raiden's screaming did not phase the woman, however.
"Jack... be a humanitarian and put... the gun... down," she told the soldier. "We don't want to hurt you, and quite frankly... we can't afford it."
The woman's words perplexed the soldier, who could not fathom what he was needed for. Exploitation, manipulation... all of the above?
That's when Jack felt something... a feeling like he's never felt before. His primal instincts developed during the war helped him in this instance. His brain was trying to tell him something... attempting to warn him of a certain danger that he couldn't put his proverbial finger on. It was a "sixth sense" that many soldiers developed during a war, especially one where a soldier has no backup and must watch his own back.
He whipped around quickly, and found himself staring at the chin of an extremely tall, African-American man; no, he was more than that. This person was a beast of a man; he had at least a one hundred pound advantage on Jack.
He wore no shirt, showing off his glistening, rock-hard, six-pack abdomen. He sported a desert-camo bottom, along with matching boots. His head had no hair on it, the rain causing the man's bald head to glisten and also soaking his dark brown goatee.
He was easily three hundred-plus pounds and probably nearing, if not at, the six-and-a-half-foot mark. The stranger was monster of man, a giant. He looked unstoppable, but Jack knew this to be untrue. Everyone has a weakness; an Achilles' heel, even if they don't look as if they do.
This man did not look happy with Jack, and the fact that his barrel was jammed into his shirtless chest. His brown eyes stared a hole into Raiden's, but neither man was ready to back down. They both stood their ground, not planning on pulling out any time soon.
"Jack," he heard from behind him, "Put your weapon down. We don't want to do anything rash at this point in time."
Raiden did nothing in response except dig the gun further into the man's chest, showing his absence of fear of this organization and their henchman. His eyes remained locked on the large, one-man attack squad, the look almost daring him to make a move.
"Jack!" The woman was now obviously angry with the hardheaded soldier. "You have five seconds to put the gun down before things get physical!"
Raiden then, seemingly having a change of thought, backed up one step and leaned down, slowly, and placed his SOCOM on the rain-soaked ground, a small splashing sound heard when the weapon came into contact with the damp gravel. Jack's eyes never lost contact with the linebacker-sized Patriots henchman.
The gun left his grip, and he stood back up, still eyeing what he assumed to be his assumed enemy. He now stood face-to-chin with the man, not showing any fear for this gargantuan beast.
Both warriors stared each other down for another five seconds before the woman, only known as "Special Agent Baxter," spoke up.
"Jack..." She willed him not to do anything dangerous, but it was no use.
Raiden's fist swung back and then forward, a haymaker right hook sent right to the man's left jaw. It connected intensely, the blow catching the large stranger off-guard. The forceful strike blasted him back; the man was forced to take about four steps backwards.
Jack smiled, extremely satisfied with his action. His opponent was not smiling however; far from it, actually. His expression quickly changed from surprised shock to one of fury and irritation.
He hastily rushed up towards Jack, ready to take out all the anger built up inside of his soul on his chin.
His right hand snapped forward, a quick yet strong straight punch; it was intended to smash against Raiden's jaw. Jack's natural agility was too much, however. He easily ducked underneath the punch and countered with a blow of his own, a body shot aimed at the side of his opponent.
The stranger then showed his agility, twisting and contorting his body to lean and dodge Jack's punch, a harder feat than what it sounds.
Jack's head was now vulnerable, and the stranger took advantage. A swift and powerful kick connected to the left side of Raiden's skull, a jarring pain shooting through it. As a result, Jack stumbled backwards, but his opponent kept up with him and delivered a right hook that caught the soldier in the jaw. However, Jack was, somehow, able to stay on his feet.
The stranger now decided to rest, allowing Raiden to regain his balance. The warrior did, and approached his opponent, adopting a traditional boxing stance, as did his foe.
The Patriots' henchman then pulled a trick out of his non-existent sleeve. He feinted, that is, he faked a punch, to his left and with his left, and Jack fell for it. He attempted to block that side, and only that side, and was left vulnerable for only a split-second before he caught himself... but that was all that was needed.
Raiden was then caught by a three-blow combination; first, two lightning- fast jabs and then an elbow strike that connected directly onto Jack's chin, dropping him to one knee. The Patriots' soldier then saw an opening... specifically, Jack's wide-open left jaw.
A spinning martial arts kicked was aimed at that exact spot, but Raiden ducked, possibly playing possum. The sudden and unexpected miss caused the large man to stumble; he spun around so that Jack was facing his back.
Raiden quickly stood and took about half-a-second to devise his plan. Still facing his opponent's back, his right boot came around and struck the soldier in his face, in the front, Jack showing off his flexibility.
The impact of the blow caused even a man as monstrous as he to spin around about one hundred and eighty degrees, so that Jack was facing his front, a predicament that Raiden easily took advantage of.
Before he could even think of rebounding from the attack, he was struck by Jack's tightened left fist, a hook that sent him in reverse. The man held his jaw in pain before realizing Jack was not done.
He rushed towards his opponent, but was seized by the quickness of his foe. He was flipped over his enemy's back, a fireman's carry directly into a drop, planning to have Raiden's head meet the ground.
But Jack's agility once again saved him, as he used the forward momentum to complete a beautiful forward flip and land on his feet. However, his adversary was swift in turning around before Jack could capitalize.
The man was aggravated now, his anger getting the best of him. He swung hard with his left hand, a heavy-handed haymaker. Jack easily dodged the rather unwise, leaning under it, and responded to it with a left-handed uppercut, crashing against the bottom of his foe's chin. His neck snapped backwards as a result of the collision, but his feet stayed in place; it was as if his feet were glued to the ground.
Jack's right leg then kicked the side of his adversary's chest, but it was clutched in the large man's equally large arm. Raiden was now hopping on one foot, and before he knew it, his throat was trapped a tight grasp and he was lifted off of the ground.
His one free leg saved him from whatever the Patriots' soldier was planning, however. It smashed against his foe's head three times, causing his grip to weaken and forcing him to drop Jack, who landed on his feet akin to a cat.
The bottom of Jack's boot then met the throat of his adversary, causing him to gag and cough up a small amount of blood. He was greatly vulnerable to attack at this time, and Jack knew that he had to make the most of it. He looked beyond his opponent, and saw a weapon that could very well end this fight.
Jack sprinted towards his opponent and leapt, striking his foe's bare chest with the bottom of both of his hiking boots. The force was enough to force him off of his feet and backwards... and into a crumbling concrete wall. The man's large frame crashed scarily against it, quickly knocking it down, the man's body tangled up in the debris of the fallen wall.
Jack dropped to one knee, finally able to gain some of his lost energy back... before he was attacked from behind.
.