Chapter 19
A banshee began to howl in the resounding room, screeching and echoing her long, tortured plea for mercy, for compassion, for anything resembling pity. But her cries were unanswered, and they slowly bled into silence. Moments later, it began again, sobbing and shouting.
He awoke with a start, his green ears trying to shut out the blasted shouting. The keening dirge did not let up, his eyelids slowly fluttering open, his eyes unfocused and bleary. Trying to rub his eyes clear, Beast Boy realized he was chained to the wall, the soft hum of energy-suppressors, like a soft, mocking snickering in his ears.
"D-don't look, Beast Boy," came the subdued voice beside him. A thin hand reached over and pulled his face towards her.
"Wh-what?" Blinking, he stared down at her for a moment. "Jinx! What…what happened? Don't look at what?" With a desperate jerk of his head, he did exactly as he was instructed not to do. He should have listened. "No…" he whispered.
A massive, grotesque of brown, pulsating tentacles had sprouted from the metal floor of the cavernous, dimly-lit room. Arching, twisting, and stretching in a flash-frozen dance, the thick appendages thrust themselves from the floor, and smashed into the roof, before crawling up and out along the cold, steel ceiling. In their center, like a cancerous tumor on a tree, several tentacles bulged out, to grasp their crying, dying victim.
Raven.
She danced like a puppet on thick strings as they sparked and pulled dark energy from her, siphoning her life away. There would be moments of rest, where she would slowly open her dull purple eyes, and stare, stare, stare as she bled, blood dripping from her throat, her forehead, her arms, legs, chest, stomach. A mess of flesh and tears. For a brief moment, she fixed her gaze on Beast Boy's, her lips forming inaudible words. 'Help…me…" Then she began again her macabre dance.
"NO!" Struggling against his restraints, his chains cut into his wrists as he tried to move towards her. "What's going on? You're killing her!"
Like a fluttering screeching crow, a heavy, unflattering chuckle alit the air with all the weight of death. A shadow slowly peeled itself from the wall, and moved into the dim light, as if he were a circus-master walking before an ecstatic crowd. "Killing her? What an unpleasant choice of words, animorph. I am freeing her, hm? What do you think of that perspective?" The dark shadow slowly came into focus, his inhumanly tall form standing before Raven, watching her carefully, before turning himself into full view.
The smell of grave soil and decay swept from him in billowing clouds, his face hidden in the dark folds of a massive, shredded cloak, his blood-red, glowing, pinpoint eyes the only discernable feature. He wore armor of bones, hundreds of thousands of bones, linked together to form a clattering chest-plate, shoulder-guards, and a massive sword sheathe of gleaming white ivory. The black cloak seemed to be sewn from the very night itself, and sat like lead on the floor, lifted slightly by unfelt winds. A single, thin arm held the naked sword of pale silver metal, the hands barely covered in grey skin. The other arm was hidden in the voluminous cloak.
"The way I see it, is that this beautiful young girl is giving herself, you, and the rest of the worlds, freedom. True freedom in everlasting sleep. Don't worry, you will all contribute to this great honor. And for this, I thank you all. However, death so soon, for anyone, would be unfair, unequal." Pausing, the other hand slowly came out of the cloak and touched Raven's face. She hissed, as if burned, before he pulled it away. "No, everyone will fall at the same moment. Then, and only then, will you all realize how wonderful it is to be covered by death's warm embrace."
For a brief moment, Raven clenched her teeth. "But you're…ice cold," she managed to hiss, before the tentacles constricted her again.
Koshchei stared at her for a moment, before turning away, moving into the shadows again. "You just don't know what's good for you," he chuckles, melding with the shadows.
Beast Boy jerked against the wall again, glancing at Jinx. "We…we gotta do somethin', Jinx." He slowly followed her arm up to where she was chained as well. Then, slowly, he became aware of the other Metas.
Strung up and chained to the walls, some were gone to the world for the time being, others slumped, hopeless against the wall. Some were even trying to pull their chains from the walls, but to no avail.
Like a fighter with no spirit, Jinx sighed, long and hard. Staring at the ground, she looked anywhere but his eyes. "And what…would you have us do?"
---
Computer screens flickered and danced about in the control room, Subtraho's fingers flinging themselves over virtual keyboards within his suddenly expansive domain. His eyes, clouded over and dull, stare unthinking at the strings upon strings of syntax, text, and code.
"Well?" murmurs Slade lethargically. "What's the progress?"
"The pirate hack is operational. It's also untraceable. I set the parameters to…"
Waving a hand, Slade shuts him up. "Yes, yes. Just stand by for broadcast."
---
She was silent for now, staring out of the massive picture window, swiftly replaced after her violent encounter. The sky was pure ebony, as always, clear of clouds, clear of moon. Only stars shone while they spun in their slowly, silent dance.
Tell me of him. I…must know.
Tea steamed gently from her small ceramic cup, the cheerful saying on the mug's sides covered with her long, slim fingers. She didn't feel very cheerful, staring at the world beyond, with its oh, so foreign ideals and values. Running a hand through her red hair, she sighed, tipping her forehead against her knuckles, staring at her reflection in the green, wavering chai.
Very well, if you must know...He, was born of a fairly poor family, by the name of Grayson. His family's life was not quiet. It was not kind. Nor was it forgiving. When he was ten, his father flew into a drunken rage, killing his mother without so much as a thought. Then, he turned on his son, who cowered in the corner, eyes having seen much more than they should have. Instead of killing him, the father carved up his back, cutting the letter 'R' into his skin. 'Rejected'.
The room was dim and quiet, the howling, high-altitude winds inaudible through the glass, steel, and concrete. It felt unreal. Standing, she moved to the window, pressing her forehead against it, laying her hand on it, feeling the chill of the winds.
Have you ever watched a wounded panther? No? Well, his reaction was similar. Half-crazed with pain and grief, he butchered his father. Slew him without thought or reasoning. Koshchei sensed it. The pain, the death. And he took advantage of it.
As she slid open the glass door, she stepped onto the balcony, immediately being assaulted by the tearing, howling winds. Moving towards the rail, she set her hand on the chilled metal, and stared out over the open city, simply thinking.
Koshchei is a Metahuman. Perhaps the first known Meta. He is a plague, a death, that does not die. Having separated his life from his body, he has been called the Deathless and the Immortal. His life, or what can be called his life, stretches back to perhaps a thousand years, when he first began to appear in the annals of history on Old Earth. He seeks the warmth of life, the warmth of a soul, as his own is gone and cold as ice. I, when I was still young and daring, encountered him, and fought him. I could not defeat him. But neither could he kill me. And so, we fought on and off, until he had his trump card. Young Richard Grayson.
Her red hair streamed out behind her like a flag as she faced the winds, as if challenging them. Slowly, she fell into position, assuming a classic combat stance. Slowly, methodically, she thrust her fist into the air, feeling the weight and strength of her tendons and muscles, contracting and expanding. She began to train.
He had planted his life, hidden it, in young Grayson, nudging and poking him towards me in a discreet manner. I found him wandering the streets, fighting burglars and vagabonds, as if trying to atone for his father's blood. Taking him in, I found him an excellent pupil, capable of anything I could do. Sometimes, he surpassed even me. And slowly, his mind was eaten away. One day, he vanished, only to reappear, with more blood on his hands. He'd killed a criminal. A burglar who was unarmed. Horrified, I tried to help him, only to realize it was not Dick Grayson occupying the body.
Deathwing…
Mmm, and I was able to wrestle with this dark entity, as it was new and confused. We were able to suppress the persona, locking him back into the subconscious through a strict and harsh process. However, I soon realized that the scent and memory of blood would not subside from Nightwing's mind. So, I made him my assassin, giving his killing a cause, his blade a purpose.
Sweat was swept from her forehead as she went into a flurry of moves, hands blurring, legs flipping, body arching. Running through imaginary fight scenarios, she thrust back invisible foes, fought and tackled, anything, to run from her thoughts.
And now, I've unleashed a monster. Something long buried has risen to the surface. It tore apart his mind. His will. And now, I fear that this time, we will not be able to pull him back.
And the world flickered…
---
Thousands of worlds, thousands of signals, thousands of eyes, were all captured as their electronic world of televisions, communicators, and computers changed. Before them, like a massive shadow casting its length upon humanity, a masked man appeared before the masses, his eyes staring down at them.
'Good day, citizens of the worlds, those little orbs spinning in your own section of space. Today, a new era approaches. A new society, if you will."
Governments went mad trying to find the signal, interwoven beneath millions of billions of others. The worlds' attentions were caught. And the masked man knew it.
"I now own you. All of you. The richest, the poorest. The sinful, the pure. The good, and the bad. You all belong to me. Why? Well, I set my cards on the table, and threaten you...with the second Apocalypse."
Billions of mouths gaped, trillions of eyes widened. The signals bounced back and forth madly, relaying his words to all ears. Even Old Earth, in her war-torn, plagued state, could hear the madman from billions of light-years away.
"Unless, of course, you deliver all power to me. All of it. I hold the trump card, and I hold your lives. You have only four hours to respond...Oh, and have a pleasant rest of the day."
The transmission cut, the worlds warned, the final gong was rung.
Slade turned in his chair, staring out a window over the world. He smirked softly, turning a small chess piece in his hand. "Checkmate.
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Hey, yeah, long wait for the update-ish….-ing. Sorry. Probably lost a lot of you. But I got my inspiration back. This is the second to last chapter, meaning that next update, I'll be updating two (count 'em, 2) chapters. One will be the Epilogue. Yeah, it's been a good run, and a long one at that, which is totally my fault. But at least it's done, eh? Eh:P
Anyway, stay tuned, folks. Hm?