Author's Note: This story's been up for awhile, and it's been really slow in progress for several reason, ranging from medical emergencies to months-long internet disconnection. Most recently, my trusty beta reader TheSpazzo has had to step down to focus on more important things, and so I've been searching for a new one. That new beta's been found in my friend Myzak, who has helped me redo the first three chapters, which I've always felt were the lowest quality of the bunch. They're still not as good as the rest, but they're better. Check 'em out, and be sure to drop a review.

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.

There's a killer on the Road. His brain is squirmin' like a toad. Take a long holiday, let your children play. If you give this man a ride sweet family will die. Killer on the road. – The Doors, "Riders on the Storm" (L.A. Woman, 1971)

Emile Duke's job was so important, yet so goddamn boring it wasn't even funny. He was, more or less, a babysitter for missiles. They sat stockpiled here in a weapons facility, and his job was to literally sit here and watch them, and make sure nothing happened to them. No man could possibly count the hours Duke had spent just sitting and staring through the window that sat over the terminal before him. The terminal was used to move the missiles, something he loved to do just because it was different from staring at the damn things. But that part of the job was like the average middle-aged man getting sex from his wife. Well, maybe not as fun, but it broke the monotony.

Thankfully, he had a way to break the monotony much ore often, although it also could get old after awhile: man's best friend, the jugs magazine. It kept him entertained throughout his long shifts, but he could only see all those perky nipples so many times before they'd become just another set of tits. Luckily, Duke was a monthly subscriber.

Duke was enjoying such a magazine, his feet propped on the active yet unused terminal, the clock showing it was close to midnight. Great, another six hours of this shit. Duke just grumbled and returned to his "reading" material, already wanting a new issue. They just didn't last as long as they used to. He'd just uncurled a centerfold of a stunning "alt girl" with purple hair and tattoos all over her smooth back when there was a loud knocking at the door.

"Jonesy, that you?" Duke called as he sat the magazine aside and stood. "Seriously, you don't pop around as much as you should, a man needs a constant supply of brewskies in desperate times like this." He added as he walked towards the door, a heavy security kind that could only be accessed from the outside by a code entered into a key-pad, and that could be deactivated from the inside. Unlike facilities which the money-handlers deemed more worthy of moolah than a fucking weapons storage facility, there was no camera mounted outside to show who was knockin'. Instead, there was an old 20th Century style sliding panel through which Duke could look. If he wasn't wearing his helmet, you'd be able to see his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He slid the panel open and saw that it was, in fact, not Jonesy at all.

"Nuclear disposal?" the guy outside asked, his armor modified from the green standard civilian issue. Duke had seen enough altered suits to not find it odd.

"Nah, G Hall, three right turns that way," Duke said, pointing to his right with his hand visible in the slot. "New here?"

"Yeah,"

"Like it so far? Your job's probably better than mine."

"Ooh, I'm like a fat kid at a Hershey's factory," the new guy replied, earning a good laugh from Duke.

"Alright, catch ya around," Duke said with a wave before closing the slot. He turned and was halfway back to his boring chair when the door knocked again. Arching an eyebrow, Duke turned and went back to the door. New guy probably needed a repeat of directions or something.

Duke opened the slot again, and didn't even have time to say "Yeah?" before the shotgun in the slot shattered everything above his jawline. The rag doll-like corpse hit the ground, blood, brain matter, and skull fragments spreading in a pool under it as a series of beeps came outside. Another, then the Hardcase opened the security door and entered, turning and closing the door before deactivating the outside keypad. Turning around, the Hardcase walked to the terminal, sat down and set his shotgun to the side, then set to work. His fingers flew across the keypad, inputting codes and commands from Duke's mind. Through the window, the Hardcase watched as a mechanized arm began moving, slid into a missile rack, pulled out the ordnance, and placed it on a motor cart designed to transport such weapons.

"Jesus, that's a bad way to go," Robert Blake whispered, his right hand shaking as he looked at the unmasked corpse on the floor before him. Dried foam coated the area around its mouth, the neck was at an impossible angle, and his eyes were red where they should be white because of the busted blood vessels.

"Well the other one got the quickest way out," the cop crouched by the body said. "Looks like just a stab wound to the underside of the jaw. Probably went up into the skull."

"Okay…walk through it again, from the beginning," Blake ordered, his gaze frozen on those red eyes.

"Homeless guy walking to the liquor store almost gets run over by a trailer truck pulling out this building," Rhodes started, his gaze also unable to leave the corpse that had indeed gone out in a real bad way. "He goes inside to complain to someone in charge and finds this guy. He calls us, first guys on the scene secure the area and find the other. Everyone else shows up and, here we are."

"Okay…we got two dead security guards, two dead John Does, and disabled security cameras. On top of that, the truck hauling ass outta here, obviously in a hurry."

"I think I'm followin' ya," Rhodes nodded.

"I'm not," the cop crouched by the body said.

"A few guys, most likely three, came here to take something, the third guy kills his two cronies or partners and gets away in the truck." Blake explained, looking around the warehouse in which they stood.

"Why though?"

"There coulda been a falling out, a dispute of some kind," Rhodes explained.

"Or the guy who made it out just wanted to make sure there were no loose ends of any kind," Blake added.

"Why are you so certain it's one guy though?" the cop again asked, stumped on how his bosses seemed to be solving so easily. Probably why they were in charge.

"Three of the four dead guys were killed with a knife, and just looking at the wounds, it looks like the same one was used on all three of 'em," Blake said. "Won't know for sure though until the autopsy, but that's not what worries me."

"What does?" Rhodes asked.

"The truck tells me they were stealing something, a lot of something…and we're in a fucking chemical facility,"

It was a tough fit, but the missile was now packed into the trailer of the truck. The sound of the trailer doors closing echoed throughout the warehouse, the second one of the night the Hardcase had had to break into. After locking the trailer, the Hardcase walked towards the driver's cabin, his shotgun in his hand, a good song in his head. He opened the driver's door, tossed his shotgun into the passenger's seat, and grabbed the handle as be prepared to hoist himself up.

He was stopped by the sound of a cocking pistol.

"And just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" a security guard growled, his Magnum inches from the Hardcase's head. "Hands up, back away from the vehicle."

The Hardcase at first didn't do anything, but then raised his hands in the air slowly, his posture not that of a man caught red handed, but of a man going through the motions. He took a step back, bringing his feet together, then repeated the movement before turning to face the rent-a-cop. He kept his cool, almost icy gaze on the officer through his visor as the guard kept his aim on the Hardcase's chest. For a few moments, he did nothing else, as if something was bugging him enough to freeze him. Shaking it off, the security officer reached for his comm…and never stood a chance.

The Hardcase struck like a coiled viper, grabbing the guard's right hand, which held his Magnum, and dragging him in by the arm. The Hardcase then struck his foot out, kicking the side of the guard's knee inward and breaking it with a sickening pop. The guard screamed in utter agony as he fell to the ground, his Magnum flying through the air and clattering on the concrete floor. With a swift kick to side of the head, the Hardcase shattered the comm. In the guard's helmet, cutting off from calling help, and giving him a nasty head wound in the process. But that didn't stop him from screaming and wailing. He started to drag himself backwards with an elbow, but the Hardcase reached out and grabbed his shattered knee with a vice grip that elicited a screech of agony.

"Whoa, ho-ho-ho, where d'ya think you're goin'? We haven't even gotten started yet!" the Hardcase cajoled has he dragged the screaming guard back towards the truck. Roughly dropping the broken knee onto the concrete, he turned and climbed partway into the driver's cabin. Digging around, he found the perfect plaything and held it up admiringly: a good old fashioned crowbar. A thought then occurred to him, and to better fit the mood, the Hardcase switched on the truck's radio and turned the dial to a station called "The Greats", which played the hits that defined music, even from centuries past. The DJ said something about Queen and Bowie, then the most recognizable bass riff in music came on, accompanied by alternative snapping and clapping in beat with a drum kit.

Bobbing his head and shoulders in time to the music, the Hardcase griped the crowbar as he began dancing around the guard snapping in time with the song as a guitar began riffing. Then, he lunged without warning, plunging the sharp end of the crowbar into the shattered knee in perfect unison with the start of the lyrics.

"Pressure! Pushin' down on me! Pressin' down on you, no man ask for!"

The Hardcase ignored the guard's screams and wails and began gyrating the crowbar in the wound, digging and ripping and tearing. He let go and saw that the crowbar was in enough to stand on its own, then he kicked it, doing further damage to the wound when the weapon ripped out and clattered to the floor. The Hardcase scrambled for it as the music played and the guard screamed, grabbing the crowbar and proceeding to hit the knee as fast and hard as he could. The guard kept screaming, his voice raw, his throat on fire, and his lungs barely working. With a vicious swing, he slammed it into the guard's face, silencing him for just a moment before he grabbed the nearby pistol. Gripping it in one hand, the Hardcase began bashing the guard's visor, uncaring of the blubbering noises from within as the guard was choking on his blood and teeth, several bones in his face broken and continuing to be shattered.

The Hardcase kept beating his face as the music built into a crescendo.

"And love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night, and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves!"

"This is our last dance!"

"This is our last dance!"

"This is ourselves!"

"Under pressure,"

The Hardcase finally stopped, glanced at the bloody pistol in his hand, and tossed it aside like garbage before standing and getting into the truck, shut the door, and drove off, whistling along with the beat and the music as it slowly died down to snapping in time.