Alright everyone settle down, I know it's been ages again, I'm actually scared to see how long. SORRY AGAIN for leaving the update so long, college and other matters have been keeping me busy, which really sucks because I really want to tell this story XD
I would like to give a big thank you to those faithful readers I am loving reading the reviews you guys give, it's big encouragement to not give up on writing :)
Hope you enjoy, I don't own Storm Hawks
OooO.
2 days before Aerrow finds Dark Ace
"You do it."
"Woah - what? Why the fuck does it have to be me?"
"Because it was your idea."
"Yeah but you both agreed!"
"So?"
"You assholes this isn't fair."
"Moustache?"
"What?"
"Just knock on the door, we are right behind you."
The Cyclonian, distinctly remembered for his green moustache grumbled, "How much help are you going to be if you're standing behind me? Hm?"
Ash rattled on the door, then hid behind Moustache, as if a rampaging beast were about to bust through. There was no response, Strat pressed his ear against the wood, but there was no sound of stirring inside what so ever.
"Oh well we tried," Ash began to walk away.
"Imagine if he was dead." Strat said, furrowing his brows as he tried to imagine the state of the body.
"For christ sake," Moustache muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"What?"
"Well, bit extreme isn't it?"
"But likely with what's been happening recently. I mean, he's been acting weird for weeks, maybe he finally went crazy. Maybe he wanted out. I think we've got to check."
Ash crossed her arms, "Strat if you break into his apartment you will hence be known as the ballsiest Talon in the entire fleet."
Strat looked at the door, shook his head, and hissed, "Yeaaaah, not sure I'm ready for that kind of promotion."
Ash loved when drama unravelled within the ranks, whether it was fights, or hearing the next update of gossip. To witness something as juicy as the Dark Ace's apartment being broken in to; what marvellous entertainment it would make. She pushed her short, mousy blonde hair behind her ears, smirking impishly, "I'll buy you a round if you break the door in."
"It'll take more than a fucking beer."
"But if you break the door in, and he agrees to help, our lives may be saved, so that'll be the real reward, and then the beer is like the cherry on top."
Strat took a deep breath and pursed his lips, this was the scariest venture he would ever take as a soldier, and he was part of Ravess' orchestra. He whimpered and exhaled long and hard, bouncing on the spot as he tried to get himself to charge forward, absent mindedly ruffling his messy blonde hair.
One...Two...Fuckitgo! He gritted his teeth and slammed into Dark Ace's front door, braced shoulder first. Luckily - or unluckily depending on your personal point of view, he broke in on the first try. The entry was loud and the door was damaged, if Dark Ace was still alive, Strat was fucked.
Never the less, he was inside. Shit. He was actually inside his commanding officer's apartment, that of which no one may enter, unless you were picked up at a bar. First impressions; not too shabby. Generally, Talons had always imagined it to be very military and plain, like a bunker. But no, apparently Dark Ace spends wages on big televisions, and nice rugs. How many pay rises did this guy ask for?
Smelled a bit funny though, like alcohol and stale sweat. He turned to Moustache and Ash who were still lingering in the hall, he shot them a crazy look and waved his arm, signalling them to join him. With stiff legs and hunched shoulders the two stepped inside, taking in the view, approving of the boss' tastes.
"Holy shit," Strat said, placing a hand over his mouth at the unnerving sight.
There he was, the right hand man to Master Cyclonis. The worst of the worst, was unconscious on his couch, arms and legs sprawled out. Empty bottles and cans were scattered around the floor and coffee table, one still in his hand, which was draped over the chair. His black hair was tattered and dirty, and the stubble on his face was thick.
"Can we count this as alive?" Moustache said, taking a closer look, but not too close, he wasn't stupid.
"We'll decide when we wake him up," Strat said, sniffling as the stench was really starting to irritate his nose.
Moustache chuckled nervously, "We?"
"Well I opened the door, so-"
"Guys check this out." Ash was crouched over something by the wall of the living area, Strat and Moustache hurried over, and beheld a bulging duffel bag, "This inspires confidence right?"
"Cole said something about seeing Dark Ace running with a bag on his night shift , but I thought it was bullshit, I mean come on, it's him!"
Dark Ace groaned behind them and tossed around on the couch, the bottle slipping from his hand, drooling the remains of the booze onto his expensive patterned rug. The three Talons jumped and turned to look at him, wide eyes only softening when they were sure his slumber was not disturbed.
Moustache then glared at Strat, and didn't let up until his friend huffed, and surrendered.
"Fine." His face sank with defeat, as he would have to be the one to poke and prod the commander until he woke up. As he got closer there was the slow sound of a zipper behind him, and Moustache's heavy breathing.
"Strat hang on, looky what's inside the getaway bag."
Strat took a quick glance, "Clothes, woopty friggin do."
"A ha," Ash started with a smug grin, "but," she pulled one of the photo frames out of it's hiding place, "who's the redhead?"
The two guys flocked around Ash and the photograph faster than break time at the donut stand, eyes glued to the image, baffled and amused, so many questions. If Dark Ace was a bro this would be perfect mocking material.
"Ladies and gentlemen, today we learn that the Dark Ace does in fact have a soul," Moustache said, lips parted in disbelief.
"Boss sure can pick em, know what I mean?" Strat jeered, while making crude gestures with his hand.
"OK seriously guys we'd better put this stuff back or he's gonna kick our ass." With that she slipped the picture back into place, and the trio huddled over Dark Ace's body. Eventually, after pushing and shoving each other, a stretched hand reached down. Tentatively at first, his shoulder was prodded, but he didn't shift, eyelids didn't even flicker.
"In all seriousness guys, the urge to draw on his face is so strong right now."
"Moustache, why are you trying to get us killed?"
"We'll blame it on Snipe, then Dark Ace can take his rage out on him. Phwar, imagine a fight between the Sergeant and the Commander."
"Yeah, and if Snipe found out we blamed him for a prank he wasn't invited to he'll snap us in half."
They huffed, and shuffled about a bit, all the while staring down at him. Jesus he looked pathetic, what the fuck were they even doing going to him for help? This was so stupid.
Ash hummed with frustration, rolled her eyes, then bent down and shouted in his face, "WAKE THE FUCK UP MAN!"
She could no longer see Strat or Moustache out of the corner of her eyes, the two had backed well out of the way, hands covering mouths, fearfully astonished, as if she had just stomped on a grenade.
It was only when a crimson eye slowly slid open, did the Cyclonian realise her mistake, jaw fell unhinged, breath hitched. "Sorry sir..." she squeaked and began to join her friends, who relentlessly kept shoving her infront of themselves. But Dark Ace still hadn't regained consciousness, let alone jolted up to strangle them. He was still on his couch, although now he was stirring, forehead creased with deep lines as the earthquake hangover obliterated his head.
He groaned in pain, rubbing his hair with a bruised hand, he turned over and pressed his face into the cool leather, mumbling about his head.
"It lives." Strat was swatted by Moustache for that comment.
"I'll um," Ash said, "make him some coffee...?"
Snapped out of his bewildered daze Moustache nodded, "Yeah hurry."
Two steps towards the kitchen and she haulted, locking her jaw, she turned back to the guys, "I don't want to touch his stuff." But after icy stares from the two of them, she reluctantly continued. It quickly became apparent that there were things that needed to be done now that he was waking up, and Strat realised this a moment before his friend, giving him the chance to say "I'll give you a hand Ash!"
And then, too late, Moustache realised; someone was probably going to have to help Dark Ace sit up.
"Argh shit." It was going to have to be him. He edged closer to his barely conscious commander, although his rationality was trying to restrain him. He had heard of Cyclonians, generations ago, mounting their rides and battling great dragons that once roamed the Atmos. God he wished he was with them right now instead of this.
He mulled it over for a minute, face so focused, like he was trying to suss a complex math equation. If he pulled Dark Ace's legs off the couch he would be able to get right next to him, that would be easier for getting him up. But, well, it was him, you just didn't do that, it was difficult trying to overcome the fear.
But they were facing dark times here at Cyclonia, there was a great impenetrable force blocking all the exits, and their crystals were all stashed away in the vault. There had been an effort to destroy the shield with what was on hand, but it was a pitiful failure.
The Cyclonians were getting terrified and upset, worrying about dying in here, never seeing families again, wondering what they'd done wrong. Right now Moustache fell into all three of those categories. And as he moved Dark Ace's legs off the couch, rolling some of the bottles away with his foot, trying to pull him up by the arms, he quietly wondered if his boss felt the same way too.
"Does make you wonder why Cyclonis didn't take him with her," Ash wondered aloud, as she snooped in all of her commander's rooms. Moustache managed to pull Dark Ace into a sitting position, although he was slouched over, and grumbling over being disturbed. The lower rank knelt infront of him and pushed him up straight.
"Sir? Are you alright, Sir?" He patted his rugged face, trying to ease him into full consciousness. His sore crimson eyes peeped open barely, his face still reading discomfort, groaning as a lot of things hurt.
Strat hurried over with a mug, standing awkwardly for a moment as this whole thing felt weird. Bringing this hateful man a beverage after breaking into his home and touching his things; there was nothing right about it. Not to mention, he didn't want to help this greedy superior who threw his own men off their rides. Never the less, he placed the drink down and peered at the hungover commander, savouring the moment, oh how sweet it was to see him looking just as wrecked as the rest of them, clearly fallen from his high horse.
Dark Ace coughed and the three of them yelped and backed away, there was a disgruntled look on his face, although it was over his own destructive behaviour. He propped his elbows on his thighs and rubbed his temples, moaning, trying to keep as still as possible.
"I need a drink," he groaned to himself, having not yet noticed the three Cyclonian intruders. Moustache whispered for someone to pass him the mug. It was handed to him, he took a sip, was surprised by the black coffee's bitterness, and only after all of that did he finally realise that he wasn't alone.
He glared up at them all with sore, hooded eyes, and frowning lips amongst tattered stubble, but he wasn't angry, he didn't have the strength to be angry, frowning was just his normal face. Despite being seen like this, he saw no point in trying to regain his dignity, the damage was done, and he was passed caring, they were all going to die soon anyway, so what was the point in trying.
"What the fuck are you doing," he slurred, but still managed to sound like he could lift a sword and successfully swing it at them on the first try.
Moustache, Strat, and Ash were all standing to attention now, not that he had noticed, he was still wondering where this coffee had come from, and why it tasted so awful.
Moustache spoke, keeping his eyes locked straight ahead, treating eye contact as a dangerous thing to do. "Well, you see Sir - Boss - Dark Ace, we - sorry for intruding! We just wanted to know if you were alright, and well, basically, we don't really know what's going on and we wondered if you might um..."
Strat whispered, slouching out of his soldier stance, "-Contribute." But he received a swift side kick in the shin, Ash fearing for all their lives, they couldn't afford comments like that rolling off people's tongues, especially if the boss was still drunk.
"Do you know what's going on Sir?" She finished.
He was halfway through his drink now, only trying to finish it because he was aware that drinking coffee helped to get over a drunken stupor. It was taking it's time to have any effect, but he did still have a brain, and it told him that he should do something. These people had come to him, actually worried about him, which had elevated his spirits a little, so he was going to do something. Yeah something. He would do something alright.
He finally rose, scrunching his face as his head whizzed with the rush, legs and back complaining and aching. He sighed, and took another sip, "There's a barrier around the Terra."
"We know Sir, but we don't know why."
"What do you mean why? Because we're fucked. Cyclonis wanted to fuck us and so she has."
"How is she going to fuck us?" Strat asked, clearly uncomfortable with this metaphor.
The answer uprooted a lot of hellish images for Dark Ace; the zombie she had created in the infirmary, and the vile photographs of the experiments. And then came the memories of the zombie apocalypse she had started before the wish. The desolate world Atmos had turned into. It was going to fall into ruin all over again.
It had all been for nothing.
"It's the end of the world," he finally muttered, remembering how good it felt to drown his sorrows.
"The end of the world?" It should have sounded a bit melodramatic, but with their Empress' lust for conquest, and the fact that their straight faced, too-serious-to-even-have-a-drink-with-the-guys, commander had said it, well, they took it as true.
"Yes. And I'm not allowed to watch it burn with her." How long ago was it when he'd lost that status? Not since he'd woken up from the coma. It was before the very first wave of zombies. He wondered how many failures it had taken for her patience to shrivel, and which mission review it had been, when she watched him leave the throne room, and officially deem him no longer her favourite.
"So are you going to help us get out or?" Strat asked.
"Help you get out?" He looked at them, and they looked back at him like hopeless, wounded, dogs. His eyes then found his busted door. "So, in fact, you weren't worried about me at all. Just thinking of yourselves."
"Um...no," Strat lied.
"Get out." He looked at them again, enraged by their selfishness, sick of them all, with their birthdays, and their friends, and their get togethers. They shuffled on their feet, tried to form a good argument. "I SAID GET OUT!" He hurled the mug at them, the sound of it shattering against the wall was the trigger to run. They sped out of his apartment, skidding into the hall, never looking back as they dashed down the corridor, making safe distance between themselves and his unforgiving wrath.
Of course they weren't here to worry about him.
He screamed, because it was terrifying and frustrating, being so lost with no one to go to for help. He couldn't block out the loneliness, he wasn't busy enough to ignore it anymore. Aerrow and his friendship had wrecked everything.
He stood there, among the mess he'd made, wanting to contact Aerrow. He'd lost count of how many times he'd wished he could do that, but he didn't know the Condor's transmission.
He stood there for the longest time, pondering it all, everything that had been going on recently with his damaged little life. Then, for the first time, it dawned on him. And if he was being perfectly honest with himself it really hurt; Ravess had obviously found out about all of this, and fled, which was wise, but she had just left him to suffer the fate Cyclonis was planning. She'd just left him to die, she hadn't even tried to explain.
His behind found the arm of his couch, he didn't understand, not fully. Was he really so hard to live with? Why had she not wanted them to partner up this time around? Was an epidemic crisis the only time someone could bear to stand him?
It would soon be that kind of crisis again. And this was not going to be another case of simply outsmarting the dead, as he recalled a conversation overheard in the office between Quinan, and the Master, just after she'd abandoned them.
"Master Cyclonis, I hope you are enjoying your evening -"
Cyclonis' voice hissed from the transmitter "Get on with it you idiot."
Quinan flinched at the tone, and Dark Ace would have mocked her had that not been him a few weeks ago.
"Our test subject is still stable. Alertness, attention, energy, all maintained."
"You're sure?"
"Of course Master, their speed and basic thought patterns have not wavered at any time. The instinct is still to feed, and I have yet to read different."
"And the infected is still under my control?"
"Indeed, it is quite admirable, with the crystal you created you can take over the minds of all those infected with the gas or a bite. Any command you give, they shall obey, provided it's not too complicated."
There was a cruel chuckle by the teenage empress, "Excellent, the Sky Knights will never see it coming, and with their weapons they will be defenseless to stop them."
Quinan was getting excited, "Where do you plan to strike first Master?"
"This is not a casual chat, and I certainly do not need to discuss my strategy with you, you are merely there to update me."
"I apologise for speaking out of line."
"Just be sure to wear the gas mask when the time comes, I would hate to lose such a fine ally."
OoOoO.
The day Aerrow finds Dark Ace
For the first time Terra Cyclonia was brought to life on an extravagant level. Music boomed throughout the entire domain, and the Talon's feet hardly left the dance floor. The clock was off and so were the duties. Past the distress of being trapped by their merciless Queen, the Cyclonians accepted Dark Ace's word of the end, and chose to spend the last of their days doing what could never be done in a place like this.
Fun.
They kept it all reserved in bedrooms, the mess hall, and the training grounds, all with the intention of avoiding a certain drunken commander.
Dark Ace was left alone, undisturbed in his apartment.
"The test results show you are the father!"
"Called it," he grumbled from his couch, slouching, feet up on the cracked coffee table. He was sober, souly because he'd ran out and no one would give him anymore, Snipe threatening them with a knuckle sandwich if they did.
He was more than ready to die now, just waiting for what ever it was that was going to end them. Much longer and it would be starved of oxygen, or maybe the food supply would run out, at the rate of their consumption they'd probably all die of alcohol poisoning first. In the meantime, trashy television would be his company.
He sighed, and raised a glass to the photographs sitting back on his drawers, figuring this would be one of the last days he'd ever get to spend thinking about them. And then he thought of another, lost, but not gone. He raised his glass up toward the sky for Aerrow, praying that that marvel of a kid might do more about the end of the world than he ever could.
He held his gaze, thinking about him out there, living his life with his friends, surely overjoyed that he has them back. He hoped he was living life to the full, and he wished Aerrow would beat this thing. Even if he wouldn't be around to see it.
And then he saw it, and he wouldn't have in time, had he not been looking up. It was in the corner of his eye to the left, he craned his neck. There in the air vent, pouring through the gaps was a green gas, so much of it, rolling across the surface of his ceiling. He watched it, bewildered, as it spread through his home. The thick pollution started to drop lower in heavy clumps, eyes widened as he realised what it was.
Formula 33.
Cyclonis' zombie infection, the poison she had created to mutate a man into the undead. It was all so clear now, he hated himself for being so stupid. Of course she would do this, as cruel as a child pulling wings off insects. She was going to turn the entire Terra, every single Cyclonian, into a zombie. Infect them all, leaving them under her influence to spread it worldwide.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Terra was beginning to flood with the poison, the rooms and areas filling up. People once wild and laughing, now all gagging and clutching their chests, as the gas catches in their throats. No real notice was taken until the number of those coughing and collapsing was too great. The infection shot their visions, and clogged their throats. It started to fog their minds, their chests twinging, nauseated as their stomachs knotted. Soon they would all be on their knees, choking, and desperately grasping for breath, squeezing their eyes shut as it burned.
The smell alone was enough to knock them into a dazed state, the sound of glasses shattering all around, people crying and sputtering for help.
Dark Ace's door burst open with an explosive force, as the Commander crashed through it with his lungs still in tact. There was no time to stop, the gas was all over, slowly invading every inch of the Terra. He bolted through the halls, leaping out of the way of other soldiers as they too managed to escape their rooms.
His bare feet drummed down on the cold steel floors, ungroomed hair flapping as he ran with all the effort and energy left within him. He was only wearing a black tank top, grey workout pants, and his headgear. No armour, no uniform, he felt so bare and vulnerable. After Cyclonis had left them in this hostage situation, Dark Ace had spent days trying to get his sword back, not to use destructively, it was simply a stubborn soldier wanting what was taken from him.
He had managed to swipe it after escaping the apartment, and stuffed it down the elastic of his pants. There was no crystal encased in the handle, it was just a blunt, thick, metal shard.
The pulse of his heartbeat was fiercely loud and meshed with his fiery footsteps. His speed never wavered, couldn't imagine slowing down, as long as he was still on this Terra, he wouldn't stop. Down the stairs he thundered, kicking empty beer cans and fallen streamers on the way. At the bottom he had to hop over an unconscious Cyclonian, clearly passed out after all this merry partying, his fate would creep on him quietly, and he would not have to suffer so gravely.
He reached the loading docks, thankful for knowing it was a pointless effort trying to get past it. There were a few Talons who had managed to slip out of the rooms, and had raced there too, now trying to charge their way through the impenetrable fortress with pure might and fear.
Dark Ace kept going, sprinted past them, never thinking of offering them a chance to join him and his plan. Among them he only recognised Moustache, and Snipe, and felt his silence towards them was justified. They didn't deserve his help, they never once thought about him and his well being.
He was hurrying down the depths of the Terra. What a dangerous plan this was, if he failed there would be no other alternative... The gas was already suffocating the majority of the air around him, not a lot of space around his head, only a few minutes to go. Claustrophobia presented itself, even though it was never an issue before, he still felt the effects of it. He was fearful that he wasn't going to make it, doubting his chances, he was going to lose this wildfire chase. But still he did not stop.
Until he reached the crystal vault, it was locked and bolted, so he slammed right into it. He gripped the handle and writhed it about, but the door wouldn't shift.
And then formula 33 was whirling around his face, it was strong, revolting, and already he was coughing as his body couldn't agree with it. He didn't have long. He pulled the sword from his elastic, but without crystals he would have to be primitive about this. So he wedged the thick, dull, sword into the tiny gap of the vault door, and pulled hard. Grunts turned into suffocating coughs as he continued with the feeble leverage. The next intake of breath, and his own poison invaded his lungs.
A few more tugs, and the door broke open, but his beloved old sword was ruined, snapped in half. There was no time to mourn the ten year partnership he and his weapon had formed. He was inside, dregs of gas so thick it clung to his shoulders before diffusing into the air. The door would not close after the damage, but it would hold it back.
He paused for a moment, breath wheezed as his throat fought against the hot, tough, strains of the infection. He scanned the room, then jumped into action, to one of the first crates near the entrance, as they were the most simplistic. He rattled his brain trying to stay calm and focused, while the formula snuck in through the gaps of the door.
Signals. Signals. Which was the colour for the Sky Knight SOS distress signal? He was sure it to be either blue or yellow, certainly not red, that was strictly for Cyclonia. Blue was possibly for law enforcement, he would just have to snatch a yellow.
Then he dashed deeper into the vast storage room, with a failing memory of where the warp crystals were. Thankfully they had a distinct appearance; a vibrant shade of purple, brighter than his Master's iris', and a scratched swirl engraving.
A few steps further, and something sharp and hot shredded through his right shoulder. He dropped to his feet and gasped, the pain was nothing, merely the shock had caught him off guard. Driven into the wall was a crossbow bolt, the crystal on the tip still glowing brightly.
He turned to find a woman standing before him, her arms were locked in place, but her hands that held the crossbow trembled. She was wearing a gas mask, but he could read the panic, it was clear to see she was not accustomed to this line of work.
Despite being nominated for this shit stain of a job, Quinan stubbornly maintained her vain appearance. She still wore her pinstripe suit, the underarm of her shirt sticking to her with sweat. Her false eyelashes trapped behind the glass of her mask, and she nearly tripped over her four inch heels after firing the weapon.
His blood red eyes startled her, never in her life had she faced such an arduous task, when this stage was over she would demand a promotion with the highest payment. She was promised the Talons would be no trouble, their lives would be destroyed before they realised what was happening. But no, that rogue commander was here, breaking an entering, thieving, and now his very eyes were threatening her with death.
He was on his feet, staring her down like a bloodthirsty wolf. In an ideal situation he would have torn this bitch apart, proved himself to the world that he was still the infamous killer that everyone once feared him to be. But the infection had slithered in and had already covered the ceiling, so he would simply have to deal with her quickly.
He took his eyes off the brainless wench, and returned to the crates, the warp crystals would have to wait. He knew exactly what to grab, knew exactly where they were, as it was part of his professional hobby to know. Oblivion crystals were the epitome of 'no mercy'.
She was still trying to slot the bolt in by the time he'd fished a freshly harvested oblivion out. They were far more effective than a bullet to the brain, leaving no readable trace of a body.
He pointed the crystal at her.
She aimed at him.
And then, she was obliterated.
Every particle of her being split into a million pieces, she was nothing but dust in the spot she'd stood in.
The gas was rolling in like waves, engorging more and more of the precious air, he would surely drown in it should he stay any longer. No time to gloat, or smirk at another check mate. He hurried for the warp crystals, pulling out crates and boxes from the shelves, no longer taking time to read the labels. One image in his mind; the purple crystal with a deep swirl.
By the time he found it, the gas was clouding around him again, impairing his vision, drying out his throat.
Having never practiced the art of warping, he clutched the yellow crystal in one hand tightly, worried he might lose it on the way. He'd never wanted to dabble in the magic of crystals, he lusted for the power they could create, but there was distrust for them, and for good reason.
Dark Ace took as much of a deep breath as he could manage without being snared by the formula, and harnessed the power in the core of the stone, feeling it radiating in his hand. It was ready to use, and so he activated it, not really sure what he was supposed to envisage.
Was it distance? An image of where he wanted to go?
Nevertheless, he warped out of the crystal vault. Losing his breath as he was picked up off the ground, and swept away through a void. There was a bright flash, and then he was falling forward, face first onto a rocky surface. He felt like he was going to pass out, the gas he had breathed in had left him nauseated and dizzy. He was flushed by a heat like an inferno, and the crackling of flames was close by, his bloody shoulder dripped onto a dusty, crumbling, ground.
He looked around, and barely managed a sigh of relief, he was in a cavern of the wastelands.
OoO.
Yes that's right, the next chapter, we will finally see what happens after Aerrow finds dark ace unconscious in the wastelands! Hope you enjoyed, if you do, please leave a review, I love reading each and every one :)
