Mouse snored loudly, dreams of coffee and ice-cream punctuating his thoughts while Alamo quietly listened to music on his IPOD 9. It was basically the shell of an IPhone 5, but he'd revamped it up to futuristic standards. It called people, could display you holographically, trace you, take pictures in all electromagnetic spectrums and five hundred different shades, graph as a calculator would, explode, and unleash an EMP powerful enough to disrupt the workings of an 8-wheeler. Oh, and it played music.
Alamo was currently listening to "Fire Burning" by Sean Kingston. It was one of his favorites, as it pumped him up the right way before he went off to a prolonged battle. His eyes were open, and he recalled all his time with and before DragonDen.
They recruited an overweight, 21-year old man who had run up several million dollars in debt. The reason he wasn't dead, he spent the money on explosives, and threatened to blow up several buildings, monuments, and meeting areas of various trades. So all backed off with their hands raised. From a young age, Alan"Alamo" had a no-die attitude many attributed with his Spanish heritage, and his great-grandfather having fought and died in the place. He blew up his first kitchen at the age of six, when he realized hydrogen did not respond well to the fire beneath a stove. The accident left his hormones off-balance and pituitary gland damaged, so he grew taller than he expected, and then also receded in size, while putting on weight very rapidly. By the age of ten he had a mustache, was six-two, and weighed two hundred fifty-nine pounds.
Then he went to high-school, where he shrunk to five-four, yet weighed 153 pounds. Doctors worried about him, but his parents just told him to never die. So he didn't, even when days were harsh and kids taunted him. "Hey you Mexican. Had too much for lunch today? Oh what did you pack, Herpes?!" Endless laughter, and he got in numerous fights, his body not reacting as many would think with his weight and frame. Alamo learned to wrestle, and by the time he was 18, he was the number one wrestler in New York. Many thought he took steroids, but once he got out of high-school, Alamo went dark, sending occasional messages to his parents, mostly from encrypted areas while he held bomb threats over people. His parents did not try to turn him away from his life-style, they just warned him to not die.
Not die. Alamo smiled, and thought of all the times he could've died. The numbers were in the hundreds. How they were once shot out of the air by rebels in Egypt, a bullet that got lodged in his ribs, the one right in front of his heart. The time he was captured rescuing Devilkin, and he had to wait three days before they got him out. In that time, he had been tortured with fire, beaten, and about to be given to the men he still owed money, and many other things too. But Alan was still here, ready to kick ass.
"How's that for being Mexican?" he thought smugly, and duly noted that they were descending as the air-pressure on his ears lessened, and it no longer felt awkward to swallow. Mouse's snores grew deeper as the air around them grew more dense, and Alamo turned up his music a little louder while the other men around him stirred and started talking. Alamo turned up his volume half way, but it still drowned everything else. He smiled and reached for his Shotgun, which gleamed in the red-light. It had killed many, and he shrugged. "Screw lightsabers, I got a shotgun!" And the group landed.
The sun shone brightly over the world that Mouse and Alamo associated it with. It seemed larger here, and more bright thanks to the clean air. They were virtually no trees around , which freaked Mouse out since he thought they were in the savannah, only to be told they were near the ocean. Rolling washes of sand and sea salt-filled wind periodically drove through, slamming grains against the soldiers as they traveled the designated ten miles they were assigned, as to get a feel for the terrain, and so the ship would not be shot at. As they neared a three mile distance away from the settlement, Alamo stopped, and kneeled, scooping up a cup full of sand before pouring it in his mouth. The group stopped at this spectacle, standing guard, sitting, or taking swigs from canteens and water bottles. Many bags were strapped to their backs, full of ammo, things to do between battles, security measures, food, and in some perverts' cases, condoms. It was cruel and sick, but it was assumed that with most of the men in this village dead or fighting, the wives didn't have much "fun." Mouse and Alamo didn't object to such a thing, but they didn't prey on having women. Mouse let some water dribble down his chin as he gulped greedily. It was hot, even with the heat-expelling armor, and he was very active, jogging a bit in his effort to increase his running stamina.
After about a minute, Alamo spit out the sand and washed his mouth out with some beer he packed. As he spit it out, he barked, "This way!" and started walking east. No one really spoke out against him, Alamo was rarely clear on what he said, but it was also rarely wrong. Mouse however, didn't ever agree with what Alamo said.
"Why are we going east mate? The village is over that ridge."
"The sand has traces of sweat, and gasoline. Meaning people traversed this area within a few days, as the sun had enough time to bake in the massive quantities of salt."
"An army." Drizzle caught on, and Alamo nodded. He moved a ways to the east, sun gliding right with him. There came upon an imprinted area that carried faint, but still visible remnants of the enemy camp. Alamo crouched low and resumed,"The village must've been overwhelmed with an army this size, but according to satellite updates there is a back-up village to the east. But in order to avoid capture or being followed the refugees and survivors made a section of underground tunnels. That's why I tasted the sand for so long, I was tasting for everything this sand blew across. I got, wood, sun-baked mud, skin covered in grime, and metal from what I presume to be a tunnel now judging from the village being overrun and the tunnel, we go east."
"Hey everyone! You might want to come see this!" A man named Aresole screamed. He was one of the best snipers in the team, and could see all the better because he was far-sighted to the near extreme. Alamo and the rest grouped around him, following his finger. About a mile away, a small village, surrounded by massive dunes and walls, was underfire by a massive group of soldiers, Buildings smoked and fire was visible, by the roar as gunfire was exchanged set everyone's blood on fire. This, is why they had come.
"Men, move out!" Alamo shouted, and they began their sprint into the hands of War and Anarchy. Aresole landed down on his belly, and took the first offensive shot.
The LightLancer cut through the air at supersonic speeds, but inside was highly suited so individuals felt as though there was no change in outside pressure and altitude. BD woke as they descended, and saw Drake with his eyes closed, his respirator almost completely silent with the combination of light breathing and BD not really paying attention to him. As the ship decloaked, they both stood up and exited out into a prosperous oasis. The water was a pure sky-blue, and reflected Big Daddy's face perfectly as groups of sand-trees right near it fanned the area.
"So this is where all the water in the desert went to..." BD joked, but Drake made no mention of laughing. His head was already on the mission. "Are you ready?" he rasped, and BD nodded. Drake lifted a detonator, and blew up the LightLancer.
Well...he didn't actually blow it up. But it unleashed a fake barrage of explosions and holographic metal while the real LightLancer flew off in cloak. Fire belched and roared, while Drake stood in front of the wreckage, his cloak flapping in the wind while BD cupped his hand and drank some spring water. "Yo Devilkin( they used real names whenever not on missions, and sometimes on missions), how long until they send people to see what was that?" he asked between gulps.
"Not long, I can almost feel them coming." Drake replied. It was true, Big Daddy had become increasingly conscious of Drake's presence throughout his entire journey, so much so that it was impossible to truly sleep. It reminded him of Drake's increased agility and precognition when they first fought. And now, BD was hearing whispers from everything around him, the ship, whispering that it was proud to serve him, but to watch Drake. The water, that almost rose in its eagerness to quench his parched throat. And now, he sensed that five men were coming in a SandRider 49 military jeep.
Ten seconds later, the group stopped about 30 feet before Drake, speaking rapidly in Swahili. Drake stood impassively, not yielding as they angrily brandished their guns and pointed at him to come. BD was hidden behind a sand dune, but he could almost see them with his new senses. He could hear their hearts beating, slowly and collected despite their vigorous gestures; these men were more than they appeared. Finally, one of the men shot a bullet right at Drake, a grand shot right between the eyes.
Only the bullet swerved right by Drake an inch before it was to kill him. The men stood, horrified, as Drake pulled open his cloak, and pulled free his lightsaber. Big Daddy heard the sound as the blade elongated, and then a barrage of gunfire. There was a short reprieve, and then a lot of frustrated yelling. Then the first scream, and soon the guns fired, but started lessening in volume, meaning there were less people firing because well, Drake was doing his thing. As he brought down another man, leaving two left, Drake turned off his lightsaber, and rolled, bypassing a soldier who was reloading. The man threw himself away, but Drake was faster, and sliced him in half during his mid-air flight.
The flesh automatically cauterized from the extreme heat, there was no bloodshed, only two limp pieces that fidgeted with the last messages from nerves dying off. The remaining African started pleading, BD heard the gun drop in the sand as if it was right next to him. He came out from behind the rock, and saw Drake quietly asking the man about all he knew. When he was done, Drake brought his lightsaber down with a quick slash, and the headless body slumped off, almost silently landing in the sand.
"We may go." Drake announced, and BD followed as the two headed away from the green shade of the trees, and towards a mammoth palace that seemed more like a mountain than anything else. When the entrance, a dark burgundy metal seeming to be titanium, was visible, Drake and BD met thirty men sent to intercept them. A bare-chested male with skin black as obsidian stepped forward, his arm holding a spiked whip.
"What did you do to our patrol?" he asked in almost no accent. Drake's cloak billowed in the wind, so BD answered, "We did not see any patrol. Perhaps they got lost in the sands?"
The man spat at the dirt. "We have footage of you- his finger pointed at Drake- killing them."
Drake smiled behind his mask, but the others could not see it, except for Big Daddy who felt it. "I do not know this character. We met up on the way here and I assumed we both had business with your master."
This enraged the captain. "We are not slaves!"
BD raised his hands in compliance. "I did not say that, but I will apologize nevertheless."
The captain nodded, satisfied with this answer. "You, may go inside. But he...will die out here."
BD bowed slightly. "You are most kind. Please make quick work of him, he was not the best of company." Big Daddy walked past the congregation with the captain escorting, glancing back at Devilkin right behind the group and mouthing, "Kill them all." Devilkin smiled again, and drew his lightsaber as the bullet shower began.
The last man stared, inebriated with fear. Once the gunfire started, Drake was able to melt the bullets with his blade before one touched him. As the group started to reload, he made his move, feeling his agility surge up as he quickly bounded in the group and began slicing and swinging away. Many tried to overwhelm him with brute force and sheer numbers, but a tingling in Drake built and built as he fought, growing and rearing and empowering him with the strength of hundreds. He decapitated, stabbed, poked, jabbed, but made no one-fell swoops like he had last fight. He was the rapier, twisting and leaving fate to bleed his opponents dry. At least that way, he was not the only murderer. And as he was attacked by three men, his tingling grew into a wave, and he screamed as the men flew back with quick velocities. They all crashed in the sand, tens of feet from Drake, who went down on one knee in fatigue. But he was not done, even though the force of which he had air-pushed the men had broken their spines. He bared down on the last soldier, the one inebriated, and with a quick slash, he was dead.
Alone and tired, Drake trudged up to the palace.
BD looked at his quarters, which were both lavish yet comfortable. The captain had said he would be back soon with the drug lord, but first he had to check on the status of Drake. Big Daddy nodded as if he hoped Devilkin was dead, but he was mentally calculating how they would get Kanisha-Buindundilo. Once all the men were discovered so viciously slaughtered, Buindundilo would be guarded by hundreds of soldiers, all of which would try to kill Drake. His sense told him Drake was currently scaling the roof-tops, stealthing the guards as a video-game character would. Still, it would take the two of them to get Buindundilo. But how to also get his business closed too would only add to the mayhem. He needed a way of chatting up Buindundilo in such without alerting the man to his schemes.
Or…he could find out the damn information himself. Big Daddy smiled to himself, and opened the door. He had a knack this would be quite interesting a mission.
Drake slid down the roof and fell on a guard who stood watch carefully, watching for everything from below. The neck gave way before he could utter a word, and Drake rose as he entered the room. And there he stopped.
A beautiful woman with the skin of almonds was dressed in an almost-see through gown of wind silk, which were threads so well sewn they looked like moth wings, the slightest breeze sending a ripple through them. Her eyes were naturally lined with eyeliner almost, so her topaz eyes contrasted all the more while her mouth was a perfect oval. Her skin was a well-oiled, although it looked natural. She smiled as Drake gave pause, for she knew what a killer he was. And Drake knew who she was…
"Anatricla…"he breathed, so it sounded like Death's whisper. She gave him a sad smile, a single, perfect tear running down her face.
"Hello Drake." She sobbed, and then Big Daddy's daughter shot him in the chest.
-Hope you liked that one, and thanks for the reviews!-LLL