The 99th Platoon – The FlatFeet Saga
Act Three: Into the Lair

(A/N A chapter dedicated to pure COMABT MAYHEM. erhem Now that we are once again civilized, this chapter is solely occupied with direct combat against foes that are far more familiar with our heroes than foes should normally be. A great deal of Dark-uber-carnage lies ahead, so if the Black Panther can make you squeamish, I suggest you eat lunch after reading this chapter. Feel free to read and review. Peace out.)

Chapter 16: The Dark Side

As the eye stared down at the four men, a large, dark force moved towards them. It emerged over the horizon, a dark orb of crackling black and purple energy. Jets of flame broke the surface, spitting out onto the street, slowly taking shape.
Six figures took shape.
The one in the middle resembled Sarge, the one to the right of that Dark and so on and so forth. They were exact duplicates of the Platoon members that were there. Stealth and CoolGuy were still out like a light, but there were nevertheless copies of both, two more for the rest of the Platoon to handle. Dark looked upon his copy with a pearly white grin.
"Oh-ho-ho. So exciting."

The battle began. Dark slashed at his copy, bringing the sword down diagonally towards the Shadow's neck. The blade was deflected and the Panther was flung back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stealth's copy about to execute the real ninja. Dark swallowed his pride and dashed to the copy. He sent a drop kick to its left knee, causing it to bend inward. He then jumped up with an uppercut, knocking it back a few feet.
The Shadow stood, popping its leg back into place. If he could see their mouth, Dark was sure there would be a grin on its ugly face. He was so set on saving Stealth that he didn't notice his own duplicate coming at him. A blow to the back of the head sent him sprawling to the ground. He skid a few feet. Looking up, he saw the Stealth duplicate. It brought its sword down towards his neck, but the panther rolled out of the way in time.
This was insane. The poor copies got on either side of Dark and moved towards him, their swords drawn. Dark stood there. He welcomed their challenge. The blades came at him at the exact same time. He blocked Stealth's while jumping over the other. While he was in the air, he delivered a kick to the Dark-copies' jaw. It fell to the ground. Dark focused in on the Stealth-copy. He attacked it with his fluid motion, the trench coat moving along with him.
The copy found itself at the mercy of Dark. He was not a very merciful man. He pulled back, and let loose on the shadow, taking off its head. The Shadow dissipated. Dark then felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. His clone had gotten up. It had slashed him in the shoulder. Deep, cardinal-coloured liquid trickled down the Panther's arm. He switched his sword to his left hand and slashed at the copy.
The blade was deflected, but Dark followed it up with a kick to his foe's jaw. It slammed into the ground, feeling no pain. Dark grabbed it and pulled it to its feet, kneeing it in the gut. He then pulled its head back, placing his blade along the part where its Adam's apple should be, and he slid it across.

RedStorm held his staff over his shoulder, gripping it in the same way he would use a snooker stick. He leaned back, staring his own copy in the eye. Warily he noticed his copy had decided to team up with the Shadow-CoolGuy.
He slid the spear-like staff forward, daring either of them to come within striking distance.
The CoolGuy-doppelganger drew his short blade, racing forward. RedStorm growled, forcing his staff forward, scoring a direct blow to the impostor's chest. It burst into flame.
He swung the staff under his arm and flipped sideways, keeping the blades stretched in his copy's direction. Landing in front of it, the two locked staffs, swinging them out of each other's grasp, before rotating them around their shoulders. There was a loud clang as steel struck steel. Their blades had interlocked. They moved in a circle, locked together like fighting deer whose antlers interlock.

RedStorm could see his copy sweating. He grinned, retracting the blades, the impostor slipping forward with gathered momentum. As he tripped past him, RedStorm armed the staff again and drove the lance-like edge straight through the impostor's lower back. He gave the staff a final twist before drawing it out.

The fight waged on around Sarge. He could see Mon was pinned behind a pillar as his duplicate fired a stream of sizzling hot lead towards him. Somehow though, in all this, Sarge was aware of two entities: himself and the other Sarge.
He knew it - the other knew it. It was as if everything around them was being 'muted', turned down so to speak. Sarge smirked.
Sarge smirked.
"You okay there Rico?"
"I'm fine Rodriguez." Sarge spat.
"You're messin' my my boys."
"I think it's the other way round."
"You don't know who you're messing with."
"I actually do..."
"You?"
"Me."
"Me?"
"You."
"Confusing isn't it?"
"No."
"It should be."
Sarge made the first move.

sh-CLICK
BLAM

The buck shot tore plaster out of the building above Sarge. Bits of cement rained down through the air in a white Christmas mockery. Sarge stood untouched in the middle.
"You really gotta work on that aim"
He charged. He charged...they were interlocked as one.
Right - right - left - duck - swing - jab - right - roll – forward
Each blow he delivered he blocked back. Sarge was on the offensive. Sarge was on the defensive. The two moved in time, there battling bodies weaving an incomprehensible pattern.
The shotgun was fired. Sarge stopped and hit the floor. Sarge rolled and hit the wall. Dark clutched the fallen shotgun in his fingers. The Panther snarled. He pointed the gun.
"Don't shoot me! I'm the real Sarge! Dark, it's me!"
Dark laughed and pulled the trigger. Sarge stood up. Sarge slumped against the wall, a bloody mess where he chest used to be.
"How'd you know?" Sarge asked.
"I know that you know that I'd never shoot at you."
"I'm glad you know that; just in case I didn't..."
"Know what?"
"HELP!" Mon screamed.
"I dunno."

Mon had been to battle. He'd fought some of the best. He was a Squirrel who could keep his cool in battle, someone that people could look up to while their lives were in his hands. He had been to hell and back, yet Mon really wasn't prepared when the challenge of fighting himself came up.
The duplicate went in with his assault rifle blaring, giving Mon enough time to slip behind a pillar.
Normally, Mon would have taken out his gun or grenade and attacked the enemy randomly while still behind the pillar. That was just the thing; randomly. He could have hit the others.
The duplicate was still firing at Mon. Suppression fire. Mon just had to wait for the right moment…
click
For a necessary reload.
The Medic called on something dear to him that he hadn't used in a long time, his diamond tipped scalpel, 'Shrapnel' as he affectionately called it. He had practised for something like this. He got it out of his sleeve compartment and threw it at the duplicate's head with a flick of his wrist.
Mon nearly slapped himself and came up with lists of names he had been called over the ages when Shrapnel hit the duplicate's helmet and buried itself in it, unable to penetrate the skull.
He had no time to react. Cursing his amateur mistake he ducked behind another pillar.
A familiar ping was heard, followed by a soft ticking, followed by a grenade bouncing off the wall towards Mon.
He kicked it aside and ducked just as it landed on the base of the first pillar and exploded. There was a deafening crack as the pillar fell backwards, crushing the duplicate beneath it.
Mon dusted himself off and jerked Shrapnel out of the helmet it had been lodged in.

Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
No. Straight.
The maze of turns and tunnels seemed to blur by.
Straight.
No, or was it left?
Blaze the Hedgehog shook off the thought, dashing through the city not heeding to the moans and bubbling noises that were spurting up behind him. The path was straight all along, but the Omega meant to confuse him, before he could get Sarge the, terrible, terrible news.
Light.
Air.
Blaze's ears pricked up. He skidded to a halt at the edge of the building and gazed down at the ensuing battle between the 99th and….the 99th?
"Oh dear…" he said, quietly, looking up at the sky "What have you done?"
Merely turning your words against you Omega said to Blaze alone. You said at least one of you would survive. No matter which side wins, at least one of you will survive! the Omega crowed, laughing at his own brilliance.
"You sick freak," Blaze spat.
No. I'm a Genius!
"Wrong. You are a parasite. You have taken over what was a great mind. And you dare call this knowledge your own?"
Arrogant fool. If you do not fear me now, you soon shall…
A streak of lightening hit the black and purple orb, and another tongue of flame took shape. Blaze knew what was going to happen. He saw his own copy form out of the fire.
They raced at each other. They began to punch and slam into each other violently, each gathering speed, till at last the others could not see more than two black and red streaks, the occasional white flash signifying a successful hit.
Having successfully defeated their doppelgangers, the real Platoon snapped out of it first and re-grouped behind a pile of debris.
"Okay what are we gonna do?" Sarge asked.
"I thought you were in charge!" Mon yelled back.
"I don't know everything! Look, we've evened out the scores now...it's the four of us against anything else that comes out of that ball."
"So what are we looking at?" RedStorm asked.
"All out assault sound good?" Sarge offered.
The others nodded their agreement.
"Okay, Vee formation, we go in strong and fast. If Blaze makes it out he can be back up..."
"That settles it."
The black orb began spitting out flames at a desperate rate, trying to amass as large a force as possible.
"Ready? One...Two...Three."

They ran out guns ablaze.
The Shadows screeched in pain as round after round tore through their skin. Various clicks of dry ammo. A pause to reload.
The Shadows were throwing themselves in front of the Platoon in a desperate act of assault. The triangle split to form a line. Weapons were holstered. Flesh struck flesh.
Spin - kick - jump - dodge - roll - left hook - jab - rabbit punch - spin kick - sweeper - around the world.
The Shadows were losing. They could no longer keep up the decoy appearances. Their images were starting to deteriorate...
Sarge dealt a vicious blow to a jaw. The head spun clean off...allowing for a black gas to escape hurriedly into the air...
The Shadows felt to the ground - hard enough so they would never stand again.

Deep within the inner core the true embodiment of Omega seethed with rage as it watched what were some of its finest creations fall at the hands of the Platoon.
Still he continued to drain power from FlatFeet's mind, thick tubes running into his enormous chest and back. Hidden under layers of pulsating flesh, sealed away in cocoons that the Omega had made out of his own tissue rested his ultimate bargaining chip.
He stared at the multiple screens in front of him. He still had the snow-white Hawk and the flame-coloured Cat under his direct control. He had lost track of the Professor and the Tediz defector, but what worried him the most were the blank black screens where images of the one with the black glasses and the ninja should be.
"This is no place for you," came a voice. The flesh surrounding the Omega began to pulse.
"What's this? Fear? From you?"
Who is this? How did you reach me?
"You may have taken control of FlatFeet's mind, but you haven't defended it very well. Duplicates? What a half assed trick."
The Omega felt a wave of coolness rush through the artificial veins tying him to FlatFeet. It felt strange…he felt…weaker…
Rumbling he forced FlatFeet back into submission.
"FlatFeet's still fighting to come out Omega, and I'm going to help him do it, and mark my words, together…" All of the Omega's screens showed a ghost-white Squirrel with pink eyes. "We will destroy you."
The screens went black.