DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS
Chapter 3: Wild Things
Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue
(Based on original story by Capcom Inc.)
In our world, there are places men dare not go, and there are mysteries left only for fools to try and solve. Among these places is a lowland in the frozen Rocky Mountains of Canada, and among these mysteries are the inhabitants. They are known by many names, such as Bigfoot and Yeti or even the Missing Link if you believe in the theories of evolution, but here in Canada they are called the Sasquatch.
Those few humans that have braved their way to their village are in disagreement about the exact temperament of the inhabitants, but most agree they are peaceful and accommodating fishermen so long as they are treated as sentient beings; then again, as a testament to their temper when angered, not all humans that make it there ever make it back in the first place.
That said, the primary danger for humans is not necessarily the strong-armed, large-footed, hardily built, and white furred apes known as the Sasquatch themselves, but the environment they choose to surround themselves with. Situated on a lake where the temperature is constantly -30 degrees Celsius, the village known as Crevasse is surrounded by a fierce snowstorm that blows at a rate of 20 miles per second.
The Sasquatch race is notably reclusive, the one-hundred or so living in the village tribe considering themselves a tight-knit family that, while built to survive in the frigid land they call home, never strays too far from their safe haven. One notable exception is the primary guardsman for the village; his name is Quatos, and it is his job to oversee the safety of his entire family from the old village chief known as Tundra to the smallest cubling. He takes his duty very seriously, and even leaves the village to pursue those who would molest his people, such as unscrupulous slavers and poachers.
And so, the old skull-helmed Tundra simply twisted his long white beard and smiled as Quatos ran into his dark, icy cave one day looking panicked, "Yes Quatos? Is something the matter?"
Quatos furrowed his brows over his beady red eyes as he kneeled in respect, "That's right! I have a seen a troubling vision, Elder!"
Tundra released his beard and hopped down off his frigid throne, pacing back and forth in front of it as he listened, "I see; tell me more."
Quatos slammed his large fist into the ice, making a small crater that splintered out in tiny cracks as he spoke, "It was terrible! There was a bright star that appeared in the sky, coming closer and closer… when it came close enough, the land below started to burn. Trees, animals, persons; everything went up in flames! I feared I had seen the end of the world, and I could not sleep all night."
Tundra raised a large, furry brown brow to this, sensing the discomfort of his guardian and friend, "Indeed, a troubling depiction, but such things are symbolic Quatos; not to be taken from a literal perspective."
Quatos turned away with a huff, "It seemed real enough to me."
The large, muscular Quatos felt the wizened hand of Tundra on his shoulder now, and listened as the Elder spoke, "I understand that a noble in Romania is holding a tournament for all darkstalkers that will enter. His powers are said to be great; great enough even to eclipse the sun. Perhaps this is the one of whom the vision spoke?"
Quatos eyes lit up with hope, "Yes! That must be it! Please, Elder, let me go and fight on behalf of our race! I promise to make you proud!"
Tundra turned his head and sighed, "I thought you might ask; you are young yet, Quatos, and reckless. I fear for your safety my friend."
Quatos thumped his own chest with an arm, his big mouth in a confident smile, "It's my responsibility as guardian to oversee the safety of the village; if my vision was right, then I am destined to go and cannot fail!"
Tundra closed his eyes, "Then go with my blessing; you leave now."
Quatos ran out using his knuckles for speed like a great ape. As he leaped a mountain in several strong bounds, he breathed in the fresh air at the top and smiled as the sun rained down on him, "This tournament will be so much fun! I wonder what sort of challengers they will have for me?"
It is a place of dancing and danger. It is a place where the forest runs deep and the river runs wild. It is a place where your wildest dreams and most terrible nightmares could come true in the same day. It is a place called the Amazon.
The fishing village of Lanza lived in peace with the river. The river provided for them, and in return, they took care to guard the part of it that lay within their territory, keeping the river free of pollution and halting the ever-approaching spread of the more "civilized" men from the North.
As a result, the land that the Lanza people called their own was a pristine rainforest paradise. The tall green trees formed a near-perfect canopy over the fertile land that held the ever-moving green river that twisted through its' boundaries, sunlight only striking through the trees in focused rays that shed light for acres, and often served as meeting places for the fishermen by day. From alligators to insects, all tropical varieties of life flourished in a steady ecosystem of which mankind was but a part.
It was an especially sunny day when a gangly young Lanza with big black eyes, tanned skin, and shaggy blue-black hair named Trucha came walking down the river's edge garbed in naught but a red loincloth and a spear. Trucha was to be twelve years of age on the seventh moon after this one, and as a right of passage he was to wander alone into the forest and survive with only his spear until the sixth moon passed. It was a test to see if he, like his elders, could live in perfect harmony with the forest.
Trucha sat down and leaned over the river, his spear raised as his keen eyes watched for something to swim by. He had only watched for a little while when he noticed that something was amiss. The water was always moving, but it usually moved in a course; today he saw large and disturbing ripples. As he looked up and saw a large shape coming fast down the river, steam pouring from the spout on the top, he knew exactly why the river was so restless and muttered a low curse.
A fat, red-faced little man with a balding head and a bushy dark mustache captained the off-white steamboat; he wore a vanilla suit and a straw hat. Beside him stood a large-built man with scarred tanned skin, dark eyes, and short black hair wearing a striped t-shirt and blue jeans with a gun on a leather belt to his side. Scattered around the deck were at least five more sailors with similar attire to that of the captain's bodyguard.
As the boat noisily chugged its' way down the river, the captain turned to a skinny man with glasses, a white t-shirt, and beige jean shorts sitting on a chair on the shaded side of the deck and glowered, "You told me there would be a golden tower damnit! I see no tower!"
The thin man smiled, puffing on an equally thin cigar in his mouth, "Relax. I promised a tower of gold and a tower of gold you shall have, Monseñor"
The captain's little face scrunched up angrily as he tried to think of something to say. When he felt the index finger of his bodyguard tap his shoulder he snapped at him, "What the hell do you want?"
The bodyguard pointed forward to a figure some distance back standing on the river; not sunk down to his ribs in the water, or floating above it on a raft, but merely standing on the surface of the water as if it were solid, "I wondered what we should do about that, Captain."
The captain pulled out a spyglass and gasped at what he saw. The thing was humanoid, but the resemblance was almost superficial. It was tall and agile-looking with emerald green scales over most of its' body except for the scales over its' face and underbelly, which were a golden yellow. Lining its' back, forearms, and the sides of its' head were angular fins, and its' hands and feet were webbed. It had the face of a noble, beautiful young man with eyes the color of a stormy sea; eyes glaring forward at the boat.
The horrible little man shook with fear. He had heard tales of the famed sirena, or merfolk, but he had never believed them until now. His fear soon turned to rage, "Monstruo! All men fire at will! Kill it before it kills us!"
Trucha had been running up to have a word with the treasure hunters himself when he had seen the specter on the water and kneeled down behind a large bush. Now he watched as a barrage of bullets came flying at the strange being. "Fools", he muttered to himself, "Can they not see that they are in the presence of the Hero of the Deep?"
The gunfire ceased, leaving a cloud of smoke where the creature was. The captain clenched his fists and smiled diabolically, "I've done it! We travel on men! These waters are haunted no more, hahaha!"
His victory speech was cut short by the surprised gasps of the sailors, causing him to look forward, first out of curiosity, and then in shock as the smoke began to clear. The creature had stood fast, the fins on his forearms crossed over his face in a guard. As the fins lowered, the hunters saw the most haunting blue glow in the creatures' eyes, and suddenly heard a voice in their minds, "Pollute not the water; it gives life, and it can take it away!"
Behind the merman was the truth of his convictions; the water began to rise in a wave that swelled higher and higher from as far back as the eye could see until it formed a deadly crest like that of a tsunami and came crashing forward over the guardian and into the boat, smashing it to pieces and dragging the unscrupulous men down to be torn apart on the rocks below.
His grim duty fulfilled, the merman turned and walked to the side of the river, those sharp blue eyes looking to the boy who heard the voice in his mind, "Those who appreciate the river for what it is have nothing to fear from me."
The boy stepped out of the bush and lowered himself in a bow, "Sirena Magno, I am Trucha of the Lanza. Our people are grateful to the guardian that protects the water."
The merman looked to the distance where he sensed the presence of mankind; surely the village this boy spoke of, "I am Aulbath, and I must ask for your aid."
Trucha looked up at the wondrous Aulbath, his eyes wide, "What could a simple fisherman give to The Guardian of the Sea?"
Aulbath now kneeled down to eye level with the boy, "My empire was destroyed by a terremoto beneath the waves; I feel something calling me, across the sea, and so I must leave this place for a time. Your people will guard the water in my place."
Trucha nodded slowly, "Yes, I understand. Will you ever return?"
Aulbath nodded and smiled, "Someday you will need me; I will return then."
New York City was like most of the big cities in the United States, but with one major exception; it was much bigger. You found all types of people here; all races, all religions, and virtually all outlooks on life with tolerances varied by what neighborhood you were in. In a city this big, everybody had seen everything and nothing seemed new.
So, when the catwomen showed up, nobody really cared. They were considered a gene mutation that only affected women and was passed on to the female offspring. There was no such thing as a catman, and nobody knew why, or really cared. As far as most New Yorkers were concerned, they were just ladies with cat ears, a tail, and rough patches of fur in various places on their bodies. Like everyone else in this city, they were new faces on an old scene; some people tolerated them and some didn't.
Admittedly, the catwomen faced the same prejudice as anyone who has a strange appearance; some people called them monsters, "darkstalkers", and thought they deserved to be destroyed. Thankfully for these women, civil rights groups in the 60's and 70's had made enough of a fuss to earn them semi-equal rights; now they were second-class citizens instead of freaks.
A 16-year-old catgirl named Felicia came skipping home from her job as a waitress one evening, a cheerful smile on her round, blue-eyed face and an upbeat groove to her step as usual. Although her white fur technically covered enough of her vital areas that she could get away with walking around in public without any clothes on, the dictates of her profession required her to wear black pants and a red shirt with a nametag, and her long, blue hair was tied back in a ponytail with a pretty red bow.
Felicia's long white tail waved excitedly behind her agile body as she stared across the street at the apartment she called home. "I wonder how Rose is feeling", she hummed and started to step onto the pavement when a red car suddenly zoomed past and sent her jumping back with a screech. "Hey jerk! Learn to drive!", she hissed at the car as it spun around a corner, making her way across the street in a slow strut to show everyone who wasn't watching that she had nothing to fear.
As she stepped inside the tattered old room, she found an older looking woman with gray-blue hair and droopy white cat-ears laying face down on an old orange sofa in one of her old navy blue dresses. "Heya Rose!", Felicia smiled cheerfully, "I'm back!"
"Felicity", Rose tried her best at a smile and started to sit up, suddenly breaking into a coughing fit that was so bad Felicia had to hold her frail body in her arms and soothe her for a bit before it settled down.
"You sound awful sis", Felicia frowned, "Should I make another appointment with the doctor? I'm sure he can make you all better."
Rose closed her eyes and sighed, "No sister, he can't. Not this time."
Felicia's eyes flashed with alarm, "What are you talking about?"
Rose took Felicia's paw in her own and squeezed lightly, a tear running down her cheek as she leaned into her sister's embrace, "It's getting worse every day sister, this cancer. I don't think I can hold out any longer; I'm so sorry!"
Felicia ran her elongated fingers through Rose's hair as she broke down into a fit of tears in her arms, "There there Rose; just because the doctor only gave you a month doesn't mean it's going to be that way. Have faith; you've already made it a week longer than that crackpot expected, so what did he know, eh?"
Rose sniffed and nodded, "I guess you're right; God will protect all his children, even the ones with funny ears and a tail …why do you put up with me?"
"Don't be silly", Felicia grinned showing her cute little fangs, "You took care of me ever since Mom died; now it's my turn. Now, what do you want for dinner? Spaghetti or taco salad?"
Rose smiled, her eyes still puffy from the tears, "Let's do spaghetti."
That night, the sisters ate together and talked together like they had done so many nights before, but tonight Rose laughed like never before. They had so much fun that they didn't want to go to bed, but Felicia had to work in the morning.
The next morning, as Felicia sat up with a groan to the sound of her alarm clock going off on the desk beside her bed, she reached over and shook Rose lightly, "Rise and shine big sis; I've got work and you've got the dishes."
When Rose didn't respond, or even move, Felicia checked her forehead; it was cold. Fearing the worst, she checked her breathing, and her fears were confirmed.
That night, in an emergency room that was blasphemously white with plastic blue chairs on cheap metal legs, Felicia sat reading over her Bible, hoping to find some comfort and an escape from something she wished wasn't happening right now.
When the doctor came out in his white labcoat with his stethoscope hanging out the pocked and his bowl-cut brown hair matted down, he didn't have to speak before Felicia hung her head and bawled; she could see the defeat in his eyes.
Hours later, she snapped herself out of it long enough to realize visiting hours had long passed. Steadying her nerve, she stood and walked out, constantly trying to read something, anything, just to get her bearings straight. Her eyes fell on a poster near the door that she began to read eagerly the more she looked at it.
Her eyes squinted as she read the important parts aloud, "A tournament… Romania… one month from now…" She looked back down the hall; back toward where they would be preparing the body for the trip to the morgue about now, "Rose… I'll do it. I'll enter and I'll win it all for you, Big Sister; I swear it!"
The tears still in her eyes, she turned and walked out of that horrible place, never to return; her destiny, whatever it entailed, lay ahead of her now. No looking back.
Across the sea, destiny would touch another life. This time it would hit in a dingy, seaside pub in somewhere in England.
The pub was dimly lit by the red light over the bar, where a pale-skinned man with a spiked Mohawk that had been dyed a strange fuchsia color served drinks to some old codger in a yellow raincoat. There were all the freaks and geeks you'd expect to find in a place like this, each with their own story.
Interestingly enough, it was probably the one normal looking guy sitting alone in the corner that had the most interesting story to tell, assuming of course he was in the mood to talk. He was a handsome forty something with steel blue eyes, silver-gray hair that rose in a rough backward spike-slick over the top of his head and down the back of his neck, and a healthy Caucasian tone to his skin. He wore a brown leather jacket with a furry beige underlining, blue jeans, and dark brown cowboy boots. He looked like a man who had been to hell and back, coming up with the short straw at the end of it all.
He looked hard into another tall glass of beer, his seventh tonight, and sighed with a noticeable dissatisfaction, "Here's to the night, and all I ain't doin' tonight."
"And what is it you'd like to be doing?", a pretty pale woman with long, straight dark hair and handsome green eyes in a red flamenco dress grinned as she sat down beside him.
The man almost spit his beer in surprise, "And who the hell are you?"
The woman leaned back in her seat and smiled sharply, "I'm a pretty girl in an ugly place, and I don't mind sticking around; what's a name to you?"
He started to stand up, his tone smug, "Well, based on what I know about you, you're probably a prostitute or a bar-to-bar saleswoman. Either way, I'm not interested."
The woman flashed him a glare, "Is Jon a bad name for you? Do you prefer Gallon? It is your real name, isn't it?"
Jon stopped dead, and spun around in a flash, breathing down the woman's neck as he leaned over her and growled, "How do you know that name, woman?"
The woman closed her eyes and smiled, "I know many things, Jon Talbain. I'll make you a deal; buy me some time and I'll sell you some answers."
An hour later, the woman had had more to drink than Jon and didn't seem phased; he was drunk, but he was a laid-back, cynical drunk so it didn't really do much for his personality either way. Everyone else had gone home, but the two of them had been talking nonstop since he had bought her the first drink and the bar didn't close for another two hours so they had no intention of stopping now.
"So, you never really knew your father then", she passed the question.
Talbain returned it, "Not really; my mother died in childbirth and nobody really knew what happened to the father. Grew up in an orphanage and I've been on my own ever since more or less."
"More or less?", the woman tilted her head.
Jon shrugged, "I mean, I've had a few buddies here and there, but it's not like I can tell them I'm a werewolf, so they pretty much fade in and out. Humans are a stupid lot anyway; when they're not destroying anything else, they turn on each other. Who needs 'em; if everyone dropped dead except me, the only thing that would change is I'd get my drinks for free."
She frowned, "That's quite a chip you've got on your shoulder."
The lycanthrope just scoffed at that, "Yeah, well, when you've been chased through the woods by a small mob with automatics full of lead meant for your arse, we'll talk about pride and prejudice."
The woman leaned forward now, making sure to catch his eyes before she spoke again, "Even so, as much as you hate people for making your life hell, I get the vibe you'd live a normal life if you could. Am I right?"
Talbain cracked his knuckles and leaned back, breaking the gaze, "Hell yeah, but it's not like that's ever gonna happen. I've been training myself since I was a young punk without a clue, and I can keep the beast in when the moon isn't full, but that doesn't mean a damn thing if I still go nuts once a month, now does it?"
The woman propped her elbow on the table and grinned, "What if I know a way?"
Talbain quirked a brow, "Come again?"
She just grinned for a bit, then straightened up, "Alright, it's like this. Training was a good start, but it's just a workout; even when you do your best, it's only one hundred percent, get it?"
Jon looked perplexed, "Guess I never really thought about it like that, but yeah I'm digging that."
She nodded with a smile and reached into her purse, pulling out a yellow flier and handing it to him, "Read this man."
Jon looked it over, "A tournament in Romania? Shit, now I get it – you're some kind of sports promoter that heard about my street fighting in London. Shoulda known-"
"Nah, it's nothing like that", the woman cut him off.
He blinked at that, really puzzled now, "Then I don't get it. What's the catch?"
She just flashed him that winning smile again, "No catch at all big guy. The only way you'll find what you're looking for is to give it your best and more, and the only chance you've got of that is this tournament." With that, she stood up.
Talbain shook his head, genuinely amazed, "I gotta know; who are you. Really."
The woman closed her eyes as she opened the door, "Like I said, what's in a name? Later." Without another word, she was gone.
Jon looked down at the paper he was holding now, "Jesus, what a night…"
As the woman walked down the street, she passed by a window that reflected her true form; Morrigan Aensland. She smiled to herself in thought, "The half-breed son of Baraba Kreutz; this is going to be a bout to remember."