Torg Eternity – Dead Legion
Phantom Pains
Nile Empire – Northeast Sahara, 45 Feet Below Ground
Darkness.
Darkness.
Something he was used to seeing. Had been since he first put on the mask.
But somehow, this didn't seem like the darkness of death.
Fumbling around, his hand first touched sand. Of course, he was in the desert. Or, it seemed, underneath it. Regaining some sense of his own body, he searched in the pouches on his weapons belt, fingers shaking.
Fingers shaking. Right, because he'd been firing a powerful machine gun recently. He'd been in battle with a huge scorpion, trying to use a giant weapon he could barely keep under control. Memories were coming back. That had to be a good thing, didn't it? Why couldn't he remember how he ended up in the dark?
But crimefighting instincts he'd developed long before told him to start with the basics. Where he was and if he was threatened. Finally he found the pouch on his belt he remembered keeping flares in, broke the cape off one and struck it.
Instantly a red glare filled the area, which looked to be some kind of tunnel. In the distance he heard what sounded like rats squeaking, but tried not to think too hard about else it could possibly be. Behind him was nothing but a wall of dirt, so forward he went.
Perhaps it was because he was still dazed from however he ended up underground, but time soon lost all meaning. Direction seemed to lose all meaning, as he stumbled through the shadows unsure if the tunnel was twisting or still moving straight ahead. Every once in a while, he stopped at a junction and had to pick a new tunnel completely at random.
His fourth and last flare was getting close to burning out when his tired eyes realized it wasn't the only source of light in the tunnel anymore.
A desperate kind of hope filled his body and he charged down the tunnel and around the corner he'd seen in the distance. There it was: daylight! The tunnel sloped up to a white opening at the top, and he stumble-ran up it as fast as he could, exploding onto the desert above.
Never in his life did he think he'd be glad to see a flat expanse of open sand, but that was what made it better than being underground: open. He blinked a few times to make sure his good luck really was as good as it seemed, and the oasis only a few hundred feet away wasn't a mirage. Gratefully he staggered over at top speed, tripping over a few odd bumps, but ignoring them and throwing himself face down into the pool of water.
After gulping down so much water he was afraid he wouldn't be able to get up again, he rolled onto his back.
Out of pure instinct his hand went to one of his guns as he saw someone looking down at him.
"You look like you've just had quite the experience, my son," the bearded old man said with a soft smile. "Maybe you'd like a chance to have a rest out of the sun."
"Mister, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Oh, don't be too sure of that," the old man replied. "The desert's a strange place."
The old man's tent hidden behind the oasis was small, but the relief from the desert sun was welcome, and the dried fruit and beef jerky he offered was a much-needed refreshment after all the adventures the day had brought.
Patiently, the old man had waited for his guest to finish gorging himself before saying anything. Once he did, it was a simple statement for having a masked man come running out of the desert into the camp. "It must be some story, for a great hero like yourself to end up out here."
Perhaps it was due to exhaustion, perhaps it had to do with gratitude about being sheltered and then praised, but the guest let his guard slip. "You know," he said, "That reminds me a little of somebody I knew once. A long, long time ago."
"Someone you angered, perhaps?" the old man asked, but he was smiling jokingly. "Is that why you wear the mask?"
"No, actually…more like one of the people who helped inspire me to put the mask on, honestly."
"Really?" asked the old man, canting his head curiously. "Do you think you might mind telling me about that, son? I do love to hear a good story, spending most of my days out here in the sands."
A pause. A thick, uncertain pause. His career had taught him the need for having walls between himself and the rest of the world. To let them down could take away the mystery that made him as effective as he needed to be in his war against evil. But after all his experiences of late, what could it hurt to reveal just a little? To put down some of his burdens before they crushed him.
Captain Walker was, as his last act of office, standing on the stage in front of the stack of completion certificates, handing one out to each of the police academy graduates as they walked up in their smart blue suits, shook his hand and walked away.
But it was a little different when he got up there. "Officer Chambers?" Walker asked.
"Yes sir, that's me."
"Served with Officer Chambers Senior a good few years ago…finest man I ever met. You've got quite a pedigree, son."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me, son. You're a policeman now, go out and live up to that example," Walker said with a smile, shaking his hand, signaling the end of the interview.
He took his certificate. "I'll certainly do my best, sir."
"An officer of the law, are you, then?"
"Not in any territory around here, that's for sure," he laughed. "Back home I was, yeah…we had so many great heroes back home. On Terra. I wanted to be one too, but they never talk about how they got the way they are. Becoming a police officer seemed like the best option I had."
The old man nodded before he replied, "Ah, but life has a way of surprising us, doesn't it, friend?"
"Regular folks like me, I guess. Bet the Guardian wasn't like that. He was probably rich. It'd explain him taking that diamond cane of his everywhere. Probably has some big secret lair full of all kinds of fancy machines and trophies from all the cases he's solved. He must've solved hundreds…"
"Well, not to disparage this idol of yours," the old man gently interjected, "but at his core he's surely just as human as you or I. Is that not what makes a hero truly inspirational, though? Being human, but having conviction enough to take control of one's circumstances, and shape oneself into a form capable of great things."
A moment of silence. "That's true, isn't it?" he asked, not really asking the old man. "Those two crazy ladies I've been going around with, they took charge of themselves and became heroes."
"Ladies, are they?" chuckled the old man.
He waved off the question. "It's not like that."
"Still, a hero must meet many grateful beauties," the old man gently persisted.
"There have been some," he admitted.
"Have there, indeed?" chuckled the old man.
Limbs burning with fatigue, he was sure if he continued to struggle with the Scorpion much longer, the masked fiend would overcome him. The only solution was to find a way to end the fight immediately.
So he resorted to an ungentlemanly tactic.
Suddenly he juked to one side, sending the Scorpion barreling headlong past him. Before the villain had even stopped his squawk of surprise, he'd grabbed the hand wearing the villain's signature ring with its venomous needle extended, and jabbed it into the Scorpion's own chest. Paralyzed, the villain slammed to the floor. Just as the locked doors were finally battered open and a whole squad of the uniformed officers who'd been ineffectually guarding the mansion until then closed into slap the cuffs on Scorpion.
"Good show, old chap," wheezed Dick Benson, the family's old butler. The one Scorpion had been impersonating to get close enough to threaten the family's daughter. Gallantly, Benson had tried to help after he'd been freed, but Scorpion and his minions had quickly proved too much for him.
"Let's go downstairs," he told the butler, who was still clutching at a bleeding nose. "I'm sure they'll be glad to hear you're all right."
"Only so they don't have to take time out hiring another bloody butler," Benson grumbled. "I quit, do you hear me? This is the last straw! Putting up with that daughter of theirs was bad enough, now I get kidnapped and beaten up, my good named dragged through the mud by some masked felon!"
"Well, don't look at me. I'm not some playboy who does this because he's bored at home. I can't afford to hire a butler," his masked savior said with a wry smile.
Benson grumbled all the way down to the mansion's ground floor.
Despite the fistfight that had broken out right in front of her and destroyed half the living room, Jeannette Van Loan still looked immaculate. She wore that white evening gown like a second skin, her short blonde hair perfectly coifed, to say nothing of the ruby red lips that magnetized the eyes of every man she came across.
Immediately she flung herself at him, throwing those slender arms around his shoulders. "Oh, that was the bravest thing I've ever seen! Finally, I've met a real man, after all the time my father wasted trying to find me a match with one of those 'nice society boys'!" she cooed and stroked his cheek.
"Just doing what needed to be done," he replied.
"And so humble! I never see that from those 'nice society boys'! All they ever talk about is their horses or their boats! As if I'm not bored to death of those from all the ones my parents show off!"
"I don't make it down to the yacht club too often," he said. "If you'll excuse me though, miss, I'm working more than one case and I've got a lead I really need to chase down before roll call."
The heiress's eyes went wide. "You mean you're just leaving?"
"I can't hang around and regale you with stories of my exploits, ma'am," he answered. "There's work to do."
He pried himself free from Jeanette Van Loan's adoring embrace and slipped out the door, leaving her gaping in disbelief as his back.
And Dick Benson snickering behind his hand.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she, though?"
"I mean, yeah, she hit all boxes. But I just…"
"Just knew a chatty socialite wasn't for you," snickered the old man.
He opened his mouth to reply to the jibe, seemed to realize he'd rather not, and just shrugged.
The old man smiled, a bit warmly, a bit teasing. "No, if a man of action like you was going to have a woman in his life…there's no way around how she'd need to be able to share it. Isn't that it?"
He said nothing.
The old man went on smiling. "Ah, yes! Our hero needs a heroine! Only a strong woman who can keep up with him. That's the only kind that strikes his fancy."
Still, he said nothing in reply.
"Like Angel," the old man said.
"Yes, like Angel," he replied finally, but dully.
A strange light had started to glow in the old man's eyes. "She was a rare one indeed, wasn't she? A famous, well-respected heroine. Not many like her on Terra."
"No," he admitted, shaking his head weakly. "Not many."
"Not just beautiful. Powerful. Capable. Qualities I have a feeling you're drawn to in a woman," the old man said, leering now.
He scowled in disgust. "I'm not some kind of trophy! If I'm going to go after a woman, she's got to have a mission like mine. What am I without my mission?"
"Well said, young sir, well said!" the old man said, smiling even wider now and revealing a row of teeth that hadn't been that sharp before. "Angel understood that, didn't she?"
"Yes, she did…"
His lungs ached as he chased another villain up the stairs, but it had gotten a lot easier to ignore since his case against the Scorpion.
And this one was twice as deadly as the Scorpion, so not an enemy he intended to let escape. As if knowing how dangerous he was, however, the Dagger turned and faced down his pursuer.
This villain cut a menacing figure, clad in a dark turban and suit, the cuffs fastened by blood-red rubies. His clothing was as dark as his thick mustache and beard. As dark as the blade of his jeweled namesake weapon was bright.
The Dagger had stopped running up the stairs where it terminated at a narrow walkway rimmed iby a marble railing. One step past it and a five-story drop to the streets of Cairo awaited.
"You won't kill again if I have anything to say about it, Dagger!"
"You couldn't stop me from killing tonight!" the assassin sneered. "It'll be my pleasure to leave Sir Willard's widow with the knowledge that her avenger only succeeded in joining him in the underworld!"
With that the villain attacked, slashing wildly with his trademark weapon so fast it became a lethal serpent of white against the encroaching darkness of night in which they fought. His opponent ducked and dodged as best he could, but it was only a few short seconds before the tip of the blade slashed across his chest, leaving a trail of warm blood seeping out.
"I've killed dozens of men on two worlds now, Stormer!" the Dagger taunted him again. "The heroes who brought you here gave you a nursemaid! Do you honestly think you're any match for me?!"
Wordlessly, he stepped back and melted into the shadows. For the first time since their chase began, the Dagger's arrogant smirk faded. The villain reached inside his jacket and pulled out a flashlight, then flicked it on. He swung it around, seeing only the narrow aisle of the balcony that curved around the edge of the building. Suddenly he spotted a pair of legs on the railing, just before his pursuer jumped and tackled the Dagger against the wall.
It was true, the Dagger's experience ending lives far exceeded his. But while any assassin worth their salt was stealthy, the darkness was instead his pursuer's element. He knocked the Dagger off-balance with a hard cross to the jaw. While the assassin reeled, he grabbed for the wrist holding the deadly weapon.
Fury filled the Dagger's eyes, and with a burst of manic strength he plunged the blade into his opponent's side. A horrendous scream of pain rent the air. But as the confident smile returned to the Dagger's face, his opponent did something unexpected.
Instead of sinking to his knees and clutching his grievous wound, his leg shot out and hooked around the Dagger's feet, pulling them out from under him. The assassin gasped and fell against the railing, his opponent knocking him dazed with another punch to the face. Before the Dagger could recover, he got a hard shove to his chest.
Which sent him tumbling over the railing and down the side of the building.
Now, the avenger sank to his knees, clutching a gloved hand to his bleeding side and panting for breath. A few feet away he noticed the jeweled dagger that had apparently fallen from the villain's hand when he himself fell. He took the weapon and tucked it through his built, glad to have a memento of his victory over his ruthless opponent.
For a while nothing seemed to happen. Until a ball of light rose above the marble railing and hovered just above it.
"I see you've managed to deal with the perpetrator," said a relieved feminine voice.
"He said he'd killed on two worlds," he breathed. "He won't be doing it again."
The light faded as a woman in a white costume stepped closer and crouched down beside him. "Forget about him, are you alright?" Angel asked.
"This is nothing. You should've seen the working over those two guys gave me before they threw me off the dock, the first night I put on the mask. Now that was a beating I'll never forget…"
"You're strong, Ghost," she said, and kissed his cheek. "You'll be okay. Still, we'd better go get that stitched up."
"With you, lady, I'd go anywhere."
"The Angel was a true rarity among heroes," the old man stated. "No wonder the others from Terra have never forgiven you." He stood up and walked behind Ghost, pulling down the collar of the hero's shirt to exposed bare neck. "It was a terrible loss."
"It was a terrible loss," Ghost droned.
"Don't worry," the old man snickered. "It needn't bother your conscience for long."
"…but it wasn't my fault."
"Of course it was," the old man persisted. "You weren't strong enough, didn't find the clues fast enough. The Cult of the Crocodile were too much for a rookie like you…It was only blind luck that let you get away!"
Ghost pulled away, a light of awareness the old man didn't like coming back into his eyes. "Yeah, the cult was tough, but that was why they had to be stopped. They were too much for Angel, but I made sure her death wasn't in vain. That's what she would've wanted."
"You're thinking too much," the old man replied, an angry growl by now. "Stop fighting it, you're not strong enough to win this war."
Ghost had drawn his guns by then. "Not by myself." He fired. The bullet hit the old man in the chest and threw him against the side of the tent, knocking the entire thing down.
In seconds he was back on his feet, much faster than his apparent age would indicate. Ghost was expecting it by now, though. His conversation partner was something much more, and much worse, than human, with all the things it had been able to learn about him without asking. The old man's eyes were glowing a vile yellow, and when he opened his mouth, an entire mass of forked tongues flicked past his pointed teeth.
"You have a surprising willpower, Terran," he said. "I'll enjoy drinking every drop of it once I've crushed you."
"Planning on doing that all by yourself?"
"Why dirty my hands?" mocked the old man.
Ghost took aim at him, but stopped when he heard a sound of sand being sprayed. A horrible thought occurred to him, making him think of those strange bumps he'd staggered over on the way to the oasis.
The sound came again, and again. Faster each time.
He was in the middle of a Gospog field, and the old man was some kind of horror placed here by the High Lords to oversee their growth!
Around them undead horrors were erupting out of the sand, zombies wearing the headdresses of Nile Empire shocktroopers, but battered brown and grey uniforms of a military Ghost didn't recognize. As they marched across the distance to the oasis, however, they took aim with tarnished rifles, and Ghost knew he didn't intend to take a chance on those weapons not being deadly.
Right away he took action, diving forward and firing both pistols into the old man who'd been pulling memories from his head. The double impacts threw the evil creature clear out of the oasis. Ghost had no illusions he'd done any serious damage, but he'd bought himself a few precious seconds to turn his attention to the advancing undead.
Lying on his back, Ghost put a well-aimed bullet through the head of one Gospog. Even before it'd hit the ground he rolled onto his side and shot another Gospog coming the other way. This one had had time to aim its rifle and fired the same time Ghost had. Its shot grazed his shoulder, leaving a trail of blood and making Ghost gasp in surprise.
But he managed to keep his head and crawl to the top of the hill to see how many more had arisen already; he counted seven, with the outlines of more coming up behind them step by step. Another shot pair of shots from his guns and another two Gospogs fell. In that span of time three more fired back and he retreated down the hill with a roll.
Ghost looked up to see the old man floating across the dunes, the evil yellow glow in his eyes visible even in the light of the desert sun. Feeling a pang of desperation, Ghost took another shot at him, but a tendril of darkness whipped out and swatted the bullet aside.
"There's no escape from the Void, Stormer," the old man said with a vile smile that even the most vile of men had never managed.
Hearing that, Ghost got to his feet and ran. Away from the oasis that was only a spawning ground of evil. Into the desert sands. He turned and fired as he ran, shooting a pair of Gospog over the old man's shoulder.
But because he was looking backward, he missed what had happened in front of him.
A pair of black tendrils had erupted from under the sand and grabbed Ghost by the ankles. They dragged him back, rough grains of the desert floor slashing against exposed skin. Within scant seconds, he was suspended in the air in front of the old man.
"You thought to take your chances in the desert rather than face me," the old man said. "Yet you shook off my powers before. Your willpower comes and goes, doesn't it, Stormer?"
Ghost scoffed. "Something like you's probably never had to learn to how to defend himself."
"No, that's true," the old man replied. "But all it's amounted to is you becoming my next meal, then the next body to be fodder for a Gospog." He looked down to meet Ghost's eyes, but all of a sudden his inhuman golden eyes went wide. Ghost had drawn a dagger with a jeweled handle.
"Stormer, I warn you—"
It was a warning he never got to finish. With all his strength, Ghost stabbed the blade into the monster's body.
Immediately all strength seemed to leave it, as it dropped Ghost into the sands. He knew better to question a break, especially with the light now pouring out of the wound he'd made, along with the old man's eyes and mouth. Without looking back this time even though he heard the sounds of the surviving Gospog firing, Ghost ran for all he was worth. He paid no attention to how he'd dropped his guns and he'd be helpless if some monster caught up with him. He paid no attention to how he was charging blindly into the desert that could kill him just as horribly as any monster.
Behind him, the old man erupted in a terrific ball of yellow fire that engulfed the Gospogs mindlessly chasing after Ghost. Before it engulfed the entire oasis, leaving nothing but an ugly scar of black earth where the spawning ground of evil had once been.
Already, Ghost realized how sick he was getting of aimless wandering in the desert.
Yes, he'd escaped, and destroyed some creature of evil, but what good did it do him? The wind was picking up, and pelting him with sand. He covered his new shoulder wound and grimaced, wondering if it made more sense to keep going, hoping for some kind of miracle, or if it was just better to sit down and wait for the end.
He got his answer when he almost bounced off the camel that'd come to a stop in front of him.
Wearily, Ghost looked up at the robed rider atop the animal. "Hey…how much for a lift to Cairo?"
The rider wasn't the one who answered him. "Ghost? Ghost!" cried a female voice. He leaned and peered around the camel, and saw a whole caravan of more, and a pair of familiar figures jumping down from them and running over. The closer one he couldn't doubt was Kristina Rouge. She jumped and threw her arms around his neck, but sheepishly let go when he cried out from her putting weight on the bullet wound on his shoulder. Sophia stopped behind her, saying nothing, but the relief was obvious even on her face.
"What happened to you?" Kristina demanded, but was smiling all the same.
"I remember now…when the giant scorpion thing fell apart, a lot of it fell on me," Ghost mused. "I thought I'd suffocate, but it must've been all that weight that pushed me down into the tunnel where I ended up. Then…"
"Then?" Kristina prompted.
Ghost waved it off. "I'll tell you all about it when we get back to town….Hell, I need a cigarette. You guys get the thing that made that monster?"
"Yes," Sophia replied. "I'm sure the council will be very happy for the chance to examine it. Hopefully they'll be willing to replace your knife as well, Ghost."
"My knife?" he asked, looking down at the dagger he only then realized he was still holding. It was the one that'd once belonged to the Dagger himself, the blade melted almost completely away.
A reminder of a powerful memory, from a creature that fed on memories. Had that been what'd let him finally destroy it?
He guessed he'd never really know.
But there were plenty of other enemies still waiting, and it seemed he wouldn't be facing them alone.