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Killzone: Underworld

Chapter 3: Wrath

"Man, you're ugly..."

James Taylor almost wished the helghast was still alive right now. True, the only good hig was a dead hig, but it was tempting, so tempting to throw in a "your mother" joke in with that comment. But it was only worth it if the bastard was alive to hear it. Besides, who was to say what the guy's mother really thought about her little baby nearly twenty-four astronomical units away from home as part of an attack on a world that the helghast considered theirs. Proud? Ashamed? Worried?

The lieutenant shook his head. He was overanalysing. The hig was dead, the dog was dead and if he didn't start moving, he might soon be dead as well.

Yet he felt compelled to stay. He'd bagged a confirmed kill, and some morbid side of him wanted to make the most of it. So even when Rapid Reaction Force training compelled him to be just that-rapid, the trooper was now anything but. Indeed, it was hard to be rapid when you were kneeling down and staring at your enemy's orange eyes.

What's up with those helmets anyway? I mean, do they really need them to breathe? Or do they just want to look intimidating?

Taylor didn't know. Not even after giving one of the lenses a few taps for good measure. He supposed it had some merit-the helghast seemed to be dead, but he couldn't find any distinct source. The fall alone shouldn't have been enough to kill him...and while he couldn't hear any breathing, what about his mask? Would that shield the sound of his enemy's breath?

Still, if the bastard is still alive...that's easily solvable.

The lieutenant blinked, and not because of the sweat trickling down from his forehead, carrying a generous amount of dirt with it. Kill a prisoner? A defenceless man? Granted they were at war, and the helghast were the aggressors, but even so...he was a human being, a servant of the ISA...was this all he could amount to? To kill someone in cold blood without even having the balls to look them in the eye?

His eyes...wonder what he looks like...

The trooper subconsciously reached for the helmet's clasps, murmuring "let's see what's under there" as he did so. It was morbid, it was almost insulting, but somehow, he couldn't stop. Just a peek...just a little unlatch, just a glance at the face of the man he'd killed, just a-...

"Arghhhh!"

Taylor let out a yell of anguish. "Just a hand grabbing you by the neck and choking you" wasn't on his 'just' list. Nor was the helghast slowly getting up, rising from the grave and bringing his foe's face to meet his. It...was terrifying, the lieutenant reflected, feeling his face be pulled into sync with the helghast's. Like looking into the face of the devil, feeling his gaze burn you from the inside out.

And as the helghast slammed Taylor's skull against the adjacent wall, knocking him out cold, it felt quite painful as well.

"You sleep like an infant, human. Maybe you are one."

Unlike the ISA swine, Versilli held his words back until he was sure the individual they were directed towards was actually awake. A state of being that hadn't come soon enough. True, he hadn't wanted the RRF soldier to regain consciousness while he was getting his walking legs back, nor while he secured him, but even so...a bump on the head shouldn't have kept him out this long. Then again, none of the RRF wore helmets for some reason, so he supposed that maybe it was all relative.

The human let out a groan. Behind his mask, the sergeant's visage drew into a sneer.

"Reversal of fortune...it's a bitter pill to swallow isn't it? Just like this world really...yours for so long, it's hard to accept that it's back in its rightful owners' hands."

"Vekta...isn't...yours..."

Versilli gave him another blow across the head for that.

"I think you already know that your chances of survival aren't that good right now..." the Helghan began, beginning to pace around with a machine pistol in hand, as if he were an instructor back at the Radec Academy. "I think you also know that if you don't toe the line, you'll be back with your friends in the gutter. God knows it's where both you and they belong, but-..."

The human let out an expletive and struggled to get to his feet, letting out curses like the savage he was. It was all for nought though, courtesy of the rope that bound him to the pipe that Versilli had tied him up to.

"Defiance is refreshing, considering how many of your people didn't even have the courage to stand and fight when we first landed," Versilli said, remembering the shuttle maintenance staff who'd been the first to fall to the Third Army when their dropships had first touched down. "But too much of it is tiresome. And consider this, human-if you become tiresome, what reason do I have not to put a bullet in your brain?

The human shut up. Typical. Gratifying, true, but still, typical.

"Now that I have your attention, I'm going to get back to business," Versilli began. "I can see by your shoulder insignias that you're a commissioned officer, so I assume that you know a thing or two that could help the Helghan Empire. So if I find a way out of these sewers, I may be able to take you along. If not...well, work that out for yourself."

The man remained silent, but the sergeant wasn't fooled. He'd learnt the difference between silence stemming from defiance and silence stemming from fear. And while on the outside the RRF trooper seemed defiant, inside Versilli could see him as the scared infant he was. Clearly getting to positions of power through actual achievement was a concept that humanity failed to grasp.

"So, unless there's anything you might like to tell me now...I'll be off."

Giving the bastard a kick for good measure, Versilli holstered his pistol-glad to be gone.

This place stunk enough even without cowards making him feel even more ill.

This situation was...enlightening. And for all the wrong reasons.

Up until this point, Taylor wasn't sure that the helghast even took prisoners. Granted, they hadn't been in a situation to take POWs for over a century, but still, after all he'd seen and heard over the past month...being taken a prisoner by one of the fascists was a surprise. Not necessarily a pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless.

But do I stay as a prisoner? Or is my body going to be slouched against this pipe for other reasons?

Sitting there...facing the firing chamber of a handgun...waiting for the blood to pour out of his forehead, trickling out of the open wound, making a pool on the stone cold floor of his tomb...

The lieutenant shook the image off. He had better things to think about. Such as how to avoid such a fate.

The ropes were tight, cutting into his wrists and hindering circulation as well, given the lack of feeling the CO had in his hands right now. Simply wriggling out of them wasn't an option, nor was yanking the pipe lose. But then again, there was a third option. Or what felt like a third option. Because while his hands had lost most of their feeling, they hadn't lost so much that he couldn't feel how jagged some of the pipe was. Enough to maybe cut the rope and get free.

Blood from my hands, or blood from my forehead...little choice...

Gritting his teeth, Taylor began rubbing. It was painful, it was unpleasant, but it seemed to be working. And in a surprisingly short amount of time, he was free. And so was the blood to circulate through his eight fingers, two thumbs and the pieces of flesh they were attached to.

And hands similar but different bound them in the first place...

It was tempting to wax philosophical, and less than twenty-four hours ago, the lieutenant might have done so. Yet he felt...different, somehow, to the extent where such an impulse was able to be ignored. His men were dead, he'd survived more attacks himself, yet he'd failed to kill his foe...if this was his baptism of fire, it had yet to reach boiling point. Yet somehow, he wanted it to. He wanted to take out that son-of-a-bitch and make him pay. Pay for every citizen of Vekta who'd lost their life to the helghast war machine and send his head back to Helghan on a platter with a large Do not fuck with the ISA carved on his forehead.

Art...it's a wonderful thing.

So were weapons. But like Taylor's artistic talent, they were missing. No rifle, no pistol, not even a combat knife. The helghast might have done a poor job in binding him, but he clearly had some brains behind the mask.

Flexing his fingers and savouring the warm, tingly feeling that ran through them, the trooper weighed his options. Ambush was, surprisingly, was the first considered. Unsurprisingly though, it was dropped. There were no real hiding places in these tunnels-certainly not around this particular spot at least. And there were so many side-paths and alternate routes that he could be waiting for the helghast to come by one route, only to be ambushed in turn. And of course, there was the fact that he had nothing to ambush him with but his bare hands. And after his little encounter with the 'arm of the living dead,' Taylor wasn't too keen on engaging the hig in CQC.

So I make my own way out of here. And hope I don't encounter the bastard along the way.

A simple plan, and one that could easily go south. But right now, it was the best one.

Hopefully this plan wouldn't involve a bridge blowing up this time.

God damnit, where's the exit to this bloody maze?

Versilli supposed he should stop bringing "God" into this. If the bearded madman really existed, then three possibilities existed. The first was that Man was created in His image and that He had nothing to do with the superior helghast race, who would therefore have to seize their destiny without divine intervention. The second was that He had always intended the helghast to replace his original flawed creation and as such, Versilli shouldn't take His name in vain. The third was that He wanted nothing to do with his bickering children and as such, the helghast would make do without him.

It was the third possibility that appealed to the sergeant the most. If the helghast managed to claim their rightful place in this universe, he wanted the credit to go to the helghast alone.

Still, whatever the nature of intelligent design or lack of it, none of that was relevant to the task of making it to the surface. Just corridors upon corridors with little writing. And when there was writing, it was almost always illegible. Versilli knew the basics of written English, but coupled with how faded the letters were, it was hard to distinguish them. And since most of them were section codes anyway, trying to read them at all seemed like a wasted endeavour. Just as his latest search, which had led to a dead end.

So now here he was, on his way back to where the lieutenant was. To find another way out and give the bastard another good kick while he was at it.

Or a bullet in the head...

Despite his early speech, Versilli wasn't sure whether the human could, or even should be taken prisoner. His words had been true, but they'd mainly been spoken to scare the man into submission. The lieutenant might be able to prove a nuisance and who was to say he knew anything of worth at all? Everything the Third Army needed to know about Vekta's defences had been leaked by an ISA traitor. What would one little CO be able to add?

A good question...maybe I'll ask it when next I see him.

Which could be a long time. Because as he rounded the corner to where he'd left the RRF prisoner, Versilli saw that the prisoner in question was nowhere to be seen.

"God damnit!"

And there was God again. Bastard was probably laughing his head off.

Cut ropes, the absence of the enemy...he'd escaped and made the Helghan look like an idiot in the process. Versilli began pacing around, but not with any of the style or finesse that he'd possessed earlier. No-one to lecture for starters, and his former confidence had been shattered and replaced with rage. Burning at him like the burning of a rocket, unable to vent out into this world's sky...this was...not acceptable. Not for him nor any helghast, NCO or otherwise.

It's alright though...Versilli told himself. He won't have his weapons, considering that I dumped them down into a lower section. And chances are he's as lost as I am. He's simply...prey. And I have the means to take him out. Maybe the lieutenant wouldn't be a prisoner. Maybe he'd be sport , as the sergeant reflected as he un-slung his rifle, anything was better than just wandering around aimlessly.

Yes...hunting down the ISA grunt would be much better...

A simple plan...make my way out of here and hope I don't encounter the bastard along the way.

Simple plans were often good ones. Less chance of having the enemy screwing it up, less chance of yourself screwing it up and a point all in itself, far easier to remember. Complicated plans had their place in the world, but as far as Taylor understood, it was always preferable to go with simplicity.

Understood...as in past tense.

Right now, the simplicity of his plan was showing itself to be paper thin. "Getting out of here" wasn't getting him out of anything and "hope I don't encounter the bastard along the way," while it had yet to be broken, wasn't proving to be much of a consolation. Because after the better part of an hour of running around through here, he knew he was lost. It stank, it was dark, there was an angry helghast around somewhere and right now, the lieutenant couldn't think of anything to alter such a grim status quo.

A simple plan...it's gone to hell without even making contact with the enemy...

It was strange, but it was as if the bullet-ridden corpse of an ISA regular had been placed there in testament to that fact.

Poor bastard...

Kneeling down, and trying to ignore the smell, the lieutenant felt glad the dead man's eyes were facing downward rather than at an angle where he could actually meet them. The Regulars were said to be the lifeblood of the ISA forces and right now, it seemed that a good chunk of that blood had been splattered left, right and centre of the poor sod. Feeling like a ghoul, but managing to suppress his self-disgust regardless, Taylor reached out for his gear-a M82 with no rounds left, a M4 semi-automatic pistol with three rounds left and perhaps the only useful piece of equipment present, a field radio.

Pistol's pretty much a popgun at this point and the rifle's worse than useless...the lieutenant reflected grimly, holstering it nonetheless. But the radio...

Leaning against the wall, the trooper held up the receiver with one hand whilst fiddling with the settings of amplitude, frequency and wavelength with the other. He knew a few ISA frequencies that he could rely on, but down here, under Vekta City, he'd have to do some adjustment of amplitude and wavelength as well.

"This is Lieutenant James Taylor, Rapid Reaction Force, seeking to contact any ISA forces in or near Vekta City..." the soldier began. "Please respond, over."

Something told the lieutenant he'd be saying that a lot. That something turned out to be his voice itself, complimented by the whining of the radio, as if complaining about its settings being continually adjusted. Taylor ignored it though-if anyone had any reason to complain, it was him.

But then again...the lieutenant reflected grimly, remembering all those he'd led to their death on the surface. It's not like I have the right to...

"This is Lieutenant James Taylor, Rapid Reaction Force, seeking to-..."

"...geant...receiving..."

"Hello?" the trooper asked the radio, ceasing his fiddling with the knobs immediately. "Are you receiving me?"

"...peat...faint...please..."

A lifeline. Now I need to pull myself up on it...

"This is Lieutenant James Taylor, Rapid Reaction Force..." the trooper announced forcefully, trying to keep each of his words as distinct as possible. "I'm trapped in the sewers under Vekta City."

"...that. Sewers...location..."

Taylor blinked. Was the user asking for his location? Did he have a lock on his location somehow? Did he-...

Bam!

Taylor blinked again. So did his heartbeat.

"Interrupting something, scum?"

The lieutenant remained quiet for a second, paralysed with fear.

Even a single helghast walking out of the gloom tended to have that effect on people.

"I need help, now, damnit!" the lieutenant yelled into the radio. "My coordinates-..."

The trooper dived aside as he heard the helghast's rifle let out another raw, like that of a triumphant predator closing in on its prey. Or toying with it. Because while the hig could have shot him easily, he'd opted for the radio instead.

"Argh, die you son of a bitch!"

Three shots-that was all Taylor had in the pistol. And as the helghast took cover himself, he wasted every one of them. Heck, even throwing the gun at the bastard was more effective-at least it actually hit him.

"Pitiful...it's remarkable that you can even operate a radio."

Taylor sat there, watching. Watching as the helghast neared. Watching as he clutched his rifle. Watching as he saw the angel of death come to judge him for his sins.

Watched as the helghast clenched the rifle in his hands, bringing it down...

A/N

I actually intended on making the strangling scene a whole chapter originally, as per my intent of having one chapter per ad segment and filling in the rest with original material. Indeed, it was like this right up to the point when I came to said chapter. However, I quickly realized that a few seconds of footage does not a chapter make, or at least not a very good one. Hence, I merged the chapters together.