Disclaimer: I do not own the machinima series Deus Ex Machina, nor do I own its characters, settings, etc. Those are all property of Jon "DigitalPh33r" Graham. Halo and its related properties such as weapons, armor, etc are property of Bungie Studios and Microsoft.
Derrick Owen sat in his office closing out the data files he'd been working on as part of his duties as mayor of the hellhole called Salvation City. He was grateful today was a "light" day with few appointments and things to do. He could get to his real business soon, and that made Owen smile in his helmet. These thoughts were interrupted by a beep from a speaker on his desk.
"Mr. Owen, you have a call waiting on line one, it's from Home for the Homeless," his receptionist said. Owen's smile broadened. Lister only used that line when they were discussing the real business.
"Thank you Chandra," Owen said sweetly before connecting his comm to the secure line. "Talk to me Lister, how're things on your end?" he said.
"I dunno, ain't seen 'im all day." the Hardcase replied. Owen's smile vanished, but he kept his voice even and cool.
"Well, well, just the man I wanted to speak with. I'd like to discuss our agreement Cannonball."
"Hardcase. It's Hardcase now."
"Right, Hardcase. I believe our agreement stated you'd kill Deus Ex Machina in exchange for my modder's services. It seems, however, that Deus is still alive. Why is this?"
"I ain't done with him yet," the Hardcase said. "When a kid gets a new toy, it becomes the center of the universe for awhile, then he gets over it and does one of two things. Depending on the kid, he'll either toss it in a closet and never see it again until his ma tosses it out, or he'll get rid of it with a firecracker. Deus Ex Machina is my toy, and I'm the kinda kid who goes with the firecracker. Trust me, when I've had all the fun I can have with him, he'll be outta your way for good."
"That's understandable, but I'd prefer him to be out of my way now,"
"Ooh, is that your big scary voice you intimidate your bitches with?" the Hardcase asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm despite the powerful drug lord's anger. "Patience is a virtue, Big Shot, and while you're surely not a man of virtue, you're gonna have to have patience anyways. We have an agreement, and I'll hold up my end in due time. It'd help speed up the process if you'd do me a favor, though." Owen gritted his teeth and held back his anger. He could practically feel his temper fuse burning to nothing.
"What kind of favor?" he asked.
"Have two goons meet me at the Richland Chemical Facility tonight at nine sharp. Kinda goons who do heavy lifting with no questions. I'm sure you got plenty of those, right?"
"Indeed I do," Owen said sourly. "They'll be there."
"Thanks. Oh, and I wouldn't drink any tap water for the next few weeks." With that, the line clicked dead.
John Brent sat before the vid screen watching the helmet cam footage of his encounter with the Hardcase. Michael had lost count of how many times he'd seen it.
"There's nothing there you haven't seen the first hundred times John." Mike noted, concern evident in his voice.
"There's something about this guy Mike," John replied. "It was like he was reading my mind."
"I know, I saw it all."
"But you weren't there. There was something about him that just…creeps me out. His voice. You notice how it sounds…weird?" Michael contemplated this.
"Yeah, actually. I do," he admitted. "It's not a voice filter, that much is certain. His external speakers aren't malfunctioning either, you'd hear it if they were."
"It's like his voice is just…wrong. I can't explain it any better," John said.
"Me neither," Michael replied. "What bothers me most is the way he fights. It's like-"
"Like he knew what I was gonna do before I did it," John finished. The irony struck Michael like a baseball bat. "You don't think it was an armor mod, do you?"
"I don't think so," Michael said. "It would have to predict muscle movements and coordinate a pre-emptive response in too short a time span to be realistic. That guy was fast, but not fast enough for his armor to have told him what response to make and then actually do it."
"What about mind reading? Is there a mod for that?" John asked, his gaze fixed on a freeze frame of the Hardcase.
"No, that's just impossible. Thoughts occur as impulses in the brain. All you'd see are parts of the brain lighting up,"
"Then how the hell did he know what I was thinking? And how else could he have known what I was gonna do?"
"He's probably good at word games and just figured what you were gonna say while talking. He's trying to get in your head, John, and it's working. I think you should take a break or something."
"First off," John said, his voice now seething in anger. "No, I don't need a break, I need to figure out how this guy works and find a way around it. Secondly, what the hell do you mean it's working?"
"Well," Michael started. "You're starting to get obsessed with this guy. You haven't eaten anything in hours, you haven't slept since you got back from the bank yesterday, and after what he said about-"
"That has nothing to do with this!" John shouted, cutting his friend off harshly. The room was filled with a tense silence, penetrated only by white noise from the vid screen.
"I'm sorry John, but-" Michael started.
"No, stop…you're right. He's getting to me, I just….I need something eat. And sleep. I'm done for awhile." John said glumly, realizing what kind of mood he'd started spiraling into. With that, he walked past Michael and headed for the kitchen. Mike approached the vid screen and reached out to turn it off, then paused. The freeze-frame of the Hardcase seemed to stare at him. The visor of his helmet was a thin orange slit under a rim that seemed to bore into Michael's eyes, and behind it he knew the Hardcase was smiling. He just knew it. It gave him the heebie-jeebies, and he didn't like it at all. Shaking his head, Mike turned it off.
It was nine PM at the Richland Chemical Facility. The security cameras were no longer functioning, and both security guards lay dead in the hallways. One had been stabbed in the throat, his helmet removed to prevent him from calling for help on his comm. He'd had the displeasure of bleeding to death while struggling to breathe through the blood in his lungs. The other met a similar fate: his spine had been stabbed at just the right spot to paralyze him from the neck down but keep him alive. Then he'd been stabbed in the side, between two ribs, his lung punctured. He'd drowned in his own blood minutes later.
In the docking bay, two men in armor were carrying large crates onto the trailer of a semi truck. A third figure, the Hardcase, stood nearby, juggling three green colored glass orbs while tottering about, humming circus music. He was using his powers of precognition to see what would happen if he dropped one, and he found it quite hilarious. The crates were marked with numbers and letters which didn't make sense to anyone who didn't have a major degree in chemistry. Fortunately for the Hardcase, he'd found a doc with such a degree and had been able to find the crates his new goonies were loading for him. He needed to get this done fast, and two workers was better than one. Plus, he just didn't feel like doing all that lifting. Eventually, after forty-five minutes of lifting and cursing, the two goons plopped one of the last crates in, making its contents clatter inside.
"Hey hey hey!" the Hardcase said, catching his juggling balls and holding them in his hands. "Careful with that shit, you know what it is?"
"No, I don't." One goon said with anger, obviously not caring either. The Hardcase walked up to him and held one green orb in front of his face.
"This is 50 milligrams of VX chemical nerve agent. It is the single most deadly and effective chemical weapon ever discovered, and it's been around for 600 years. It was outlawed for use and stockpiling in 1993, but lately some folks don't care considering the space freaks we've been up against. It's odorless and tasteless, meaning you could be covered in it and wouldn't know. In liquid form, it's lethal at 10 milligrams. In vapor form, like this little diddy here," he said before he began bouncing the orb in his hand. "It's lethal at 30. This little snow globe of death is God's own form of overkill. It acts on the synapses that control muscle movement. Inhaling this shit will make every muscle in your body contract hard enough to break all your bones like twigs and crush your heart and lungs with your diaphragm, your throat and windpipe get squeezed shut, and everything burns like hell the whole damn time. Your muscle system basically squeezes everything to death. Now a funny thing about civilian armor like yours is that it doesn't feature the air filters real Mark VI armor does. Thankfully, I've had mine put back in. So if I were to, say…DROP IT!" With that, the Hardcase had moved his hand, allowing the midair orb to plummet towards the concrete floor. The goon jerked away in fear before the Hardcase caught the orb with his foot like a soccer ball. He tossed it back up and caught it with a grin, reveling in the fear emanating from both goons. "You two would've seriously been fucked up. So please, respect the shit?" The two goons didn't need anymore warnings, and handled the remaining crates with the care of nurses handling newborns. Not long afterwards, they were finished. One closed the trailer and went to start the truck while the other went to make sure the coast was clear. When he was sure it was, he came back….and saw the other lying in a pool of blood.
"Think fast!" the Hardcase cried. The goon turned in time to see him wind up like a major league pitcher and hurl an orb of VX gas at him. Before he could react, it shattered on his helmet's visor, and though he couldn't taste it, he inhaled all 50 mg.
"You sonuvabitch!" the goon cried, coughing violently. "I'm gonna, I'm gonna, oh God…" His coughing increased, starting off like he'd inhaled thick smoke, but grew raspy and sharp with each cough, reaching a point when it sounded like he'd hock up a lung at any minute. He then fell to the floor seizuring violently. The Hardcase stepped over the writhing goon, whistling as if nothing were wrong, hopped into the truck, and drove off, ignoring the bump when the back wheels of the trailer put the goon out of his misery. As he drove off into the night, the Hardcase once again sang to music that wasn't there.
"Livin' like trash, a society rash, ready to break and ready to dash. A bad deal and a real rough ride, and doin' time on the other side. No rebellion, not today. I get my kicks in my own way."
Author's Note: I appreciate the one new review I've gotten, but I'd really love some more please, readers? Due to the difficulty of the last song riddle, I'll make this one easier with some clues: it's an AC/DC song that's been referenced before in this story. So please review?