Two
Klokateer Number 782 shivered, trying to shake the dew from his steel-toed boots. The uniform might have been intimidating, but the sleeveless shirts did little to keep out the cold. His third week on the job and so far he'd been shot at, almost drowned and lost three teeth to a bizarre accident involving the band, a jet-ski and an electric lawnmower. By Gear standards, things were going well. Counting down the hours until dawn, he jumped at the sound of a woman's voice amongst the thicket of dead trees surrounding the perimeter.
"Soooo...You think it's workin'?"
"I dunno what to think, s'all up in the air," a distinctly male voice replied. "Will yer' stop jumpin' around like that? Yer makin' me uneasy here."
782 crouched behind a particularly charred and malnourished oak, careful to make no noise as he flicked the safety off his weapon. Shoot first, ask questions later. Hazarding a look at the soon-to-be ex-intruders, he was immediately struck by how out of place they looked, like they'd gotten off at the wrong stop on the way to the 'Free Lovin' Music Festival or whatever crap he guessed those sorts listened to.
An overweight man leant against a tree trunk, tapping out a rhythm on the bark and looking bored. His female companion was perched in the fork of a tree, humming a strange little tune. It was difficult to tell where her long hair ended and her black dress began. Three weeks in Mordhaus had given him pretty thick skin, but 782 found something uniquely unnerving and sinister about the two. The klokateer took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart, probably just more suicidal fans. Shoot first, ask questions later.
The chubby man straightened up, tugging his patchwork cap in a business-like manner and giving the woman perched above him a patronising look.
"S'gonna take a little while longer, I reckon. Ya gotta be patient."
782 crept forward a little, getting a better look at the pair. They had to be in their late thirties at least, and neither seemed particularly phased by their location. The uneasiness he felt before doubled as the woman seemed to look straight at him, a shark-like smile twisting her features.
"I wanna be the one to send the gorilla straight to hell, 'kay , Jerry?" she called out into the darkness.
Spindly fingers dug into the Klokateer's shoulders and yanked him around. Training forgotten, he didn't even raise his own gun before he felt cold steel against his forehead. A long red and yellow scarf flapped about as his attacker leant down. He could see his own surprised eyes reflected in a pair of tinted shades. An unlit cigarette rolled across a pierced tongue. He was face-to-face with an executioner's grin. Their breath mingled for a second. The last thing Klokateer 782, reported missing, presumed dead, ever heard was a low, lazy drawl, not even directed at him.
"Shore thin' Izzy, 'Splosions's all yours."
The other two hardly blinked at the sharp crack of the gun. The third man nudged the body lazily with a boot, returning the handgun to his tattered waistcoat. All three looked up at the last light left on up in Mordhaus, shining out like a beacon. Their leader's smile seemed to widen, and he shifted the cigarette again, tasting the gunpowder in the night air.
"Hope you're ready to play, Charlie-Boy."
#
Charles F. Ofdensen woke with a sharp intake of breath, looking about the office wildly. Nothing. Relaxing the improvised fighting stance, he removed a fluorescent Post-It from his cheek. Since returning to Mordhaus his sleep had become constantly restless. Things he was able to ignore, or at least suppress, in his day-to-day life seemed to come alive with a vengeance at night. He often awoke in the darkness, drenched in sweat, almost tearing the sheets beneath his hands, feeling furious, terrified and pathetic. But this had been different. A vague sense of unease washed over him as he looked down at the letter flattened across the desk. He'd almost call it a premonition.
'Prepare Yourself for the Reckoning...'
He had the infuriating sense that he'd been close to indentifying what it was that personally bothered him about those exact words. He'd been at it for hours, examining the word choice, the position and colour of each letter, cross-referencing them with common sources. Nothing.
Charles felt the muscles in his back stiffen painfully as he moved to get out of the chair. It troubled him that the band had been directly involved this time, Dethklok did not cope well with these things, and when they did, it was each with their trademark vice. Except Nathan. Nathan, who, on the whole, seemed to react in a much more worrying way of late, lapsing into brooding silence. And that wasn't something Ofdensen could solve with strong coffee, rehab or paternity waivers.
Dethklok didn't suspect a thing, but he berated himself for not being more discreet. They received thousands of threats and hatemail every day, an insignificant amount compared to the gifts and fanmail, but certainly a large enough concern to have a full-time team of investigators and Klokateers rounding up suspects. Maybe this was nothing more than a bored, pathetic soul looking for attention. But those words...
Someone had managed to partially dismantle part of the stage scaffolding. The reports only served to confirm his suspicions, and the implications were troubling. It wasn't even a particularly vital part; certainly they'd all almost died, but it seemed inefficient and messy. If he'd been the saboteur, he would have focused on the central structure, giving his enemies no time to react.
Someone was testing Dethklok's reactions. Testing his reactions.
They were capable of getting to the boys without being seen, and they wanted it known. It was a game. Well, he hadn't become one of the most powerful men in the world by playing by other people's rules. Dethklok's enemies had come and gone, perishing before the empire he had built. Nobody fucked with his bread and butter.
He started making a list of everyone Dethklok had managed to offend; beginning with large nations, as well as the more powerful religions and corporations. Pouring himself a drink, Charles sighed. He was going to need a lot more paper.
#
It had been a long time since Nathan Explosion had been up before midday. Not since he'd started sleeping right again. His mind flickered back to a hazy memory of a rooftop conversation he'd had with Pickles. Way back when they'd been in charge for those nine months of hell. Shit, they'd been off their faces, sleep deprived and crazy. He was pretty sure the constantly-stoned drummer didn't even remember what Nathan had told him that night. How he'd wished things had been different, just... stuff like that. He couldn't remember talking so much in years.
He had no idea what time it was, early morning probably. Sun wasn't up. Hadn't he just fallen asleep? Needed to distract himself. He did not want to deal with those very unmetal thoughts. He tried the TV, but after the fifth infomercial in a row he gave up. Nathan couldn't stop thinking about it. Sure, he'd been dreaming about the usual weird, fucked up metal shit as usual, but there'd been something else on his mind. What the hell was Ofdensen's game? Did he get off on appearing in the nick of time to save the day? He'd done it again last night, saving his ass like some big damn hero. Just like before. He'd turn up and fix their fuckups so perfectly, like the robot never made a mistake in his life. Like they had no right to some answers.
Nathan had developed three ways of solving a problem; getting wasted, violent or loud. The first two didn't seem to bother the robot, so he was going to wake up his manager and yell some answers out of him. Simple. Problem solved.
The singer quickly realised he had no idea where the robot slept. He had to have private quarters or something. He usually just appeared out of nowhere to stop them setting stuff on fire, or he'd be in his office, doing something boring. He decided to check there, for lack of any better ideas. Stumbling up the stairs, he headed for the office with all the grace and purpose of a gigantic, slightly inebriated homing pigeon.
#
"Good morning, my Lord."
There was still a guard at the door, which was probably a good sign. He guessed robots never slept.
"Shall I te—"
"NO." Nathan pushed past, wanting the element of surprise, not wanting to give the man time to figure out something smart to say, to trick him out of answers.
He completely forgot all this as he stormed into the dimly lit office. Ofdensen was dead to the world, Nathan though he may actually have been dead until he saw the papers ruffled by his breath. His manager was slumped over the desk, head resting on his arms, glasses lopsided, drooling slightly on his paperwork. Nathan asserted to himself that this was, in fact, a testimony to Dethklok's legendary badassery that they could exhaust their robot to such lengths, without even trying. But he couldn't help but grin as he noticed the open bottle of fancy grog on the table. This guy could not hold his drink. He thought back to that night they'd got him utterly wasted. He'd been very... friendly. Yeah, it was brutal, in no way was this showing an 'average guy' kinda side of a dude he was thinking about way too much. No, Nathan knew brutal. It wasn't Dethklok-level brutal, but whatever.
He decided he really should move the guy. Dethklok were experts in waking up in unusual places, and the hangover-cramps combo of a creative sleeping place was a bitch. There was no way Ofdensen was going wake up now. He was out like a fucking light. But just to be sure...
"HEY."
Nothing. Nathan paused. Switching to what passed for his inside voice, he decided to change tactics.
"HEY! The clown got back in and he's uh, stealin' all your good lamps... to sell for coke... to deal to,uh...orphans."
The sleeping man snuffled a little and smiled. He might as well have been yelling at a deaf guy. A totally brutal, not in any way kind of... Well, this could never be a good idea but...
"Charles." he growled.
He'd never met someone on first name terms with Ofdensen. He'd hadn't even really considered the possibility until he saw the people at the funeral, some that seemed vaguely familiar and others who were complete strangers. Nathan didn't really know what was supposed to happen at a funeral, but none of them seemed too cut up about it.
This was essentially him doing the band a favour, their manager might nag them less if he got a good night's sleep. Yeah. Carefully pulling him upright, he slipped an arm under his legs and the other between his shoulderblades. Ofdensen mumbled something as the larger man's hair fell across his face, before falling silent and pulling closer to Nathan's chest. The band really owed him one.
He was heavier than he looked, and the world's most brutal frontman had to readjust his arms a bit to stay upright. The guy was pretty lean, but if the muscle tone in his arms was anything to go by, he worked out a bit. Standing in the middle of the room, he realised this plan had not been well thought-out. He figured the Klokateers might try to do something if he walked out of the room carrying Dethklok's manager bridal style, demanding to know where his bedroom was. Yeah, that could look pretty bad.
The couch. He'd forgotten it was there. Usually, whatever they were here for was too important to bother with furniture. Or too boring. He quickly dumped him on the much-abused couch, watching as he curled up a bit, looking peaceful. He was smiling slightly for some weird reason. Probably dreaming about waivers or something. Whatever it was had got to be better than the messed up stuff keeping the singer awake.
He finally noticed the yellow piece of paper Charles held, scrunched up in his fist. Carefully tugging it free, he held it up to the light, recognising the manager's freakishly neat handwriting from countless cheques.
Prepare yourself for the Reckoning?
-literary allusion? - ref. Scripture, cult texts, lyrics, organisations etc.
-Motto -organisation?
- Someone with stage access- affiliation with venue? Interview employees.
-Double D-Klok guard. Senior gears only.
It took him a moment to link the carefully written note with what he'd seen at the hospital. That weird note on Pickles' table was supposed to be no big deal; their manager had explained that people often sent these things as jokes. They'd all agreed it was sick, and gone back to hassling the hospital staff. If it was no big deal, why was he here, staying up to 4am writing... lists and shit? There was a whole list of names on the back, some of them he'd seen before. Someone was trying to fuck with them and, Nathan concluded in a rare moment of passable deduction, their manager was keeping them in the dark again. Fuck that, he thought they weren't capable of taking care of themselves? Screw Ofdensen. He pocketed the scrunched up paper and stormed out, bulldozing the sleepy guard at the door. Looking down at the dazed Klokateer, he gave his best death glare.
"You didn't see me here."
Picking himself up off the floor, the slightly unsteady and tubby Klokateer watched a huge shadow storm off into the darkness, trailing curses and threats. Waiting until Explosion disappeared out of sight, he threw a cocky salute and leant against the door.
"Shore thin', Boss-man, shore thin'."
Author's Notes: Hey guys! I am so sorry it took me so long time update this, seriously. Things have been hectic and I've got to divide my time between coursework and writing my comic. I'm not one of those authors who holds out on chapters till they get reviews and such, I'm just godawful at time management. Hopefully my characterisations aren't too off, the pace is OK (The chapter's pretty slow, I know) and the mysterious trio in the grove are interesting without stealing the show from our antagonists. Thanks for the support and I'd really love to hear your thoughts and any constructive criticism you might have to help me improve my writing. And cheers for my awesome beta, Larien!
