"Something from that planet is inside of you.
And worse…it seems to agree with you."
He'd always been a priority target.
They came in an unending tide.
Must have thought the impact would have slowed him down.
They were wrong.
Now, they were going to be wrong and dead.
. . .
The Doom Slayer walked calmly from another of the countless battlefields he'd made into graveyards. These fights hardly registered to him - as far as he'd been concerned, they were over just as soon as they'd started. An inconsequential culling, as no amount of dead demons would ever be enough.
Yet, flashes of his methods assaulted him involuntarily.
A spark of amethyst from his Argent receptor. His arm…the veins shined through his skin. Left through his fingernails. Were they his veins? Or energy projections?
They pierced groups of them at a time. Brought them closer.
The saw…waves of that energy screamed out from the blade. Devastated everything in a way only the Crucible had before.
There laid a problem.
Not only did he remember flashes of the battle behind him…
So much more of it he didn't remember.
He had no reason to fly into a mindless rage again. No matter how many demons they threw at him. He had a mission. A fight to finish. And someone he needed to see.
He shook his head.
He didn't need to see anything other than the end of all of this.
There was hardly a scratch on his body.
The Leviathan may have been a boon.
Blotted out the distractions.
"...Slayer! Control yourself!"
Dr. Hayden's voice was an incessant ringing in his ear. His words were worthless. They had been since he'd woken up. Callous, pompous, self-righteous scum. Might as well have been a demon, too. Just like the damned priests.
"What?" The Slayer spat, stopping in his tracks to address the doctor and hopefully get him to stop his constant whining.
The Doctor's lack of response only made the Slayer angrier…and that was when he realized something was wrong.
Hayden may have been a snake but he was far above any demon. And the Leviathan…?
. . .
"It…it was like an itch in the back of my mind," Samus explained.
It had been in Taras Nabad, back when she and the Slayer were still getting acquainted. She had removed her helmet…golden locks flowing behind her in the wind. She was the portrait of a rising sun.
"Every intrusive thought that came to me seemed to come first and foremost. When my body first started generating Phazon…I felt disgusted. Sick. Hated the fact that this…thing was inside of me. This thing that had created monsters beyond the scope of what the galaxy had ever seen. Not even the afterlife was safe from its corruption, and now, I was on the path to becoming a slave to it just like my double.
But when the corruption had taken root…when it had cultured my skin blue and blackened my eyes, I felt a new kind of disgust. It was toward the world around me. How weak everybody else in the galaxy seemed to be. All four of us got corrupted at Norion, and yet again, I was the only one strong enough not to fall to Phazon's influence. I started to think that maybe…maybe Rundas deserved to die if he was too weak-minded to control himself."
The Slayer glanced at the Hunter. There was a smile on her face…but her eyes were filled with despair. He never noticed how tired the Hunter looked.
"When things were coming to an end…when I arrived on that horrible planet…I wasn't so sure anymore if I was doing it to save the galaxy…or to prove that I was stronger than she was. In the end, I guess both ended up happening."
She put her helmet back on.
"I've apologized a million times to them for all the horrible things I thought. I know it was probably the corruption speaking, but…it resonated with an old Chozo saying I learned as a kid. The tribe that raised me had long since abandoned the ideology, but I'll never forget it.
'Hadar sen olmen.'
It means 'Power is Everything.' It's the same kind of ideology that drives people to madness. To reprehensible evils they would have otherwise never dreamed of committing. But when you're on death's door…it can keep you alive. What that life will cost you, on the other hand…"
. . .
The Slayer had stopped and looked at his hands. They were the same hands that held Samus' rabbit…its name was Pyonchi. That was the first thing he'd ever done since Daisy passed that made her smile.
He had to keep going. But he couldn't forget why.
That's what this new power wanted.
"I hear you, Hayden," the Slayer groaned. "Couldn't for a minute."
"The energy your body started producing was climbing to dangerously unstable levels, even outside of combat. This must be the Phazon the Hunter spoke of."
"It's more than that," the Slayer observed. "I have a grip over it. Feels like Argent. More cerebral. Might be a problem."
"There's no doubting the destructive potential of this substance…and while I don't doubt your capacity to keep it together, putting you at risk of compromise to Phaaze, Hell, or even worse, yourself, is not a risk we should take. I believe the name 'Phagent' is appropriate. We need to get it out of your system."
"That means finding Samus," the Slayer grunted. As if to answer, a portal opened up within his peripheral vision. He readied the Super Shotgun and aimed it in the direction of the newcomer.
A body flew out of it. It was a woman's, and while the Slayer didn't immediately recognize her, a sense of familiarity made him lower his weapon. He started walking in her direction. Something about that shade of blue on her armor. At first, it reminded her of Samus, but as he got closer, deep, buried memories started flooding in.
As he got closer, one glance at the woman's static-filled visor told him everything he needed to know. Her arm was over her stomach, where a deep gash had torn through armor and flesh. Around the wound was an astral residue he remembered seeing when he cut his way free from that most ancient prison. The woman was breathing heavily, though her lack of acknowledgment indicated that perhaps mentally, she was unsure if getting up and defending herself from the stranger was even worth the effort anymore. It had been eons since he'd been in a similar position, but he remembered it well.
In his eternal conflict against the forces of Hell, it was rare that the Slayer came into contact with friendlies - and even rarer for him to come across someone in need of help who wasn't already too far gone. Though he'd always carried them for emergencies, the nature of his abilities ensured they'd rarely be of use to him anymore.
He knelt over the injured woman and carefully reached into a satchel on his utility belt. He pulled out a blue flask of liquid. The bottle was warm to the touch and produced a faint glow. He removed the cork from the ancient-looking flask, gently moved the woman's arm, and poured the liquid over her wound. The woman grit her teeth and arched her back as the potion reacted with her injury, flesh sizzling as it healed and reconstructed.
When the woman's breathing steadied again, she chuckled lightly and removed her helmet, letting it roll off to her side. Her eyes remained closed. "I don't suppose you carry seconds around, do ya buddy?"
Despite himself, the Slayer cracked the closest thing he could approximate to a smile. Crash downed the next bottle like she hadn't had anything to drink in ages. Hell, as far as the Slayer knew, that could have been true. When she'd finished, she tossed the empty flask aside, grabbed her helmet, and reached her arm out. The Slayer grasped her hand and put her back on her feet. For her, it wasn't the first time he'd done so.
With finally more than the searing pain of defeat on her mind, Crash took in the Slayer's visage.
Doom had changed since he'd left the Arena.
It wasn't just in his appearance - hell, she was rocking a new suit of armor herself. But the air about him was different. The crazy seemed gone. Maybe a lot more than that was gone, going off of the empty look in his eyes. The Geiger counter in her suit was picking up on some radiation the Slayer was harboring. It wasn't going to stop her from enjoying this company while it lasted.
"It's been some years, Doom."
"Maybe a few, Crash. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"
The two warriors walked through the irradiated remains of Mt. Erebus, the hostile environment proving to be no barrier between them. They strode through scores of dust and debris and stepped over the corpses of demons, both those that were recently made and those left to decay ages ago.
"I…didn't think I'd ever see you again, big guy. Somebody's gotta teach you how to call," Crash jested, punching the man in the shoulder lightly.
"Sorry. It's been…eventful," the Slayer murmured, making the motion to scratch the back of his neck before he remembered he had armor on. "It's good to see you."
"Yeah, good to see you too." She glanced around them at the devastation both the Leviathan and the Slayer wrought. Her hand drifted over to the gash in her armor that sent her here. "Do kinda wish it was better under circumstances, but you know, beggars can't be choosers…"
"What happened?" he asked, looking at her.
Crash shook her head. "Found a bear under the hornet's nest we'd been living in. Took it home to take care of it…didn't work out. I've got no idea where the others ended up, or how much time has passed since then."
Though she wore a smile on her face, it was as empty and tired as her sunken-in eyes. "You know, a regular Saturday."
The Slayer huffed. "Feels more like a Monday to me."
Crash nodded and put her hands on her hips. The woman sighed. "Doom…I lost. My entire home dimension could be gone as a consequence of that loss, and the worst part? It wasn't even to Hell."
Her boot had planted firmly on the skull of what may have been a Baron once upon a time. As she leaned forward, it began to crack.
Though it had been millennia ago, the Slayer remembered his dear friend and Arena tutor vividly. He remembered her uncharacteristically calm, unbothered demeanor. How in any situation, she responded to everything and everyone with the same smile and shrug of her soldiers as she jumped into the fray. No matter what had happened, Crash never got angry.
But through the slight tremors in her fists and the continued cracking in the Baron's skull, he could tell that this woman was thoroughly pissed off, even if she was barely showing it.
But that was it. She was pissed. Not enraged.
"Just a setback?" the Slayer asked her. He'd guessed her circumstances led to her being desensitized to the gravity of her situation. She'd been in the Arena a lot longer than he had.
Crash turned her head to him. "You kidding me? Whether I go back to a dustbowl or the screaming void of space, that fucker's head is going up on my wall."
She lightened her pressure on the skull, and after a brief pause, she circled to sit on it. "One way or another, I've got a flock of wayward souls to go back to. That asshole cheater prick can bite me - if the Vadrigar couldn't break me, if Hell couldn't break me, I'm not gonna let some glorified toy break me, either." She looked up at the Slayer. "You remember Uriel?"
The Slayer took a moment to recall. The acrid stench of The Fatal Instinct began to creep back into memory.
"Gargoyle breath, right?" The Slayer asked. It got a chuckle out of Crash.
"Yeah. After you left, he was determined to stay at the Arena…I finally coaxed him into taking a step outside and getting some fresh air. Fresh as you can get with Hellgrowth all over the place, anyway. He took a liking to that sword the old Vadrigar had. I guess the Vadrigar's pet liked it too, 'cause Gorea copied its ability to slice into dimensions. Hence how my shiny blue ass ended up here."
The baron skull suddenly gave way and broke underneath her. Crash hit the ground with a grunt as her seat was crushed to dust. The Slayer let out the closest thing he could to a chuckle, remembering days long past of jokes he and the other warriors of the Arena Eternal would crack at her expense. He walked up to her and offered his arm to help his battle sister up, and she couldn't help but laugh at the irony herself. This feeling…this is what Samus had dug up from the pits of his soul. His humanity. It didn't matter what torment he had endured, what atrocities wracked his mind, or how many times he'd lost it…there was a spark of life buried within him that he fought to keep alight.
"Shiny-butt…name stuck," the Slayer joked.
"Guess you're right, Greenie," Crash laughed.
With the faintest of movements, the Soul Cube appeared from behind Crash. The Slayer had a weapon drawn and trained on it within half of a second. He moved his finger away from the trigger as he recognized the weapon just as it did him, and gradually lowered the weapon as Crash folded her arms.
"Didn't think I'd see them again, either."
The Slayer held his arm out as the ancient device hurriedly floated over to him, twirling around his hand and arm. It spoke.
The original Avatar of Doom. Our Champion. Our Hero. It was thanks to you that our world survived the demons. It was thanks to you that we were able to persist and smite the evil wherever it may rise. It brings us joy to see that you still walk the planes.
"You two are acquainted?" Crash asked.
"For a time," the Slayer answered. "Saw a lot of different things after I…lost my people."
Through worlds and through time the hero fought the demons, rage insatiable. He saved our world from near-extinction, one of many we are sure. We have assisted several of those who walked the path of Doom since your departure. One in the world you left when the demons returned, and another three in the world Crash called home.
"Helped us with an invasion of our own," Crash said, somewhat solemnly. "Back before the Arena. It's just me left, now."
The Soul Cube returned to Crash's side, floating idly about her. The Slayer could tell his friend was silently mourning. For every victory, Hell would claim two elsewhere.
"Anyway…what's up with you these days?" Crash asked, feigning her usual casual demeanor. "Big ass radioactive blue planet in Hell's sky. That's different. And you've got some sick under the hood with the same readings."
"Invader," the Slayer said simply, looking up at Phaaze. "Not the only trouble from a different world, either. Made a friend…enemies call her Hunter."
"Hunter…?" Crash asked, perking up. "You don't mean like, our Hunter, right?"
"No," he replied, though in truth he hardly remembered whoever she was talking about. "You wouldn't know her. Not from here…or anywhere close. She's destroyed that planet before…Phaaze is its name."
"You know, funny enough, we ended up running into someone from out of town back home, too. And it just so happens he also mentioned some Hunter who took down our current big nasty before. She's not very good at cleaning up her messes, is she?"
The Slayer waved his hand a little at his hip.
Crash chuckled. "So big guy, what can you tell me about her?"
The Slayer thought for a moment. "Her name's Samus. She's a lot like you. Maybe with sharper fangs. Tall, blonde. Her suit's high-tech. Looks like the burning sun. If she isn't still in my dimension…maybe the winds will scatter her to yours."
"I'll keep the girlie safe if I see her Doom, you can bet on it. Once we've finished our fight…it'd be nice kicking ass with you again." She walked up to the Slayer and tightly locked arms with him. "The Arena's only a thought away, remember that."
The both of them picked up slipgate readings all of a sudden - there seemed to be one buried in the remains of Limbo just ahead.
"Looks like as good a ride as any other," Crash said, breaking off as she readied a Plasma Gun in her arms.
"For now," the Slayer said, cracking his neck. "And…thanks, Crash."
"For interrupting a Hell power-walk and drinking your health potion? Sure, any time, big man."
The Slayer huffed. "You reminded me to keep my eyes open. This sickness…it's trying to hide the things I need to see."
Crash was silent for a moment as the two warriors stood still.
"You know," she said, sighing. "It's because of you that I found the will to get up and make the changes I wanted to see. For ages, I had just accepted that things were the way they had to be. Then you came along and proved that our situation only has to be how we want it. I'll never be able to repay you for that…but I can at least finally thank you."
That look in the Slayer's eyes wasn't emptiness, Crash realized. If anything…she could almost say he looked hopeful, despite the threat of futility beating down on him at every turn. In that way, he truly was a kindred spirit.
Crash and Doom had carved their way to the Slipgate, once again resuming their missions. SAL had finally spoken up as she and Crash traveled back to the Arena Eternal.
"Kira… that man was so much like Stan."
"I know, SAL. I know. I don't intend to let him down a second time."
. . .
Uriel could feel the shifting of time around him as he was thrust through the divide. He still held the hilt of the Vorpal Blade tightly - the same weapon that betrayed him and his allies. What cruel fate it was that he was not resistant to the Vadrigar's blade, but the less favored creation was.
The wound that dug into his shoulder blade would heal in time - from the regular clipping of his wings, he was no stranger to the feeling of cold iron razing his flesh. It was the wound in his chest that he was more concerned about. The crushing grip of quashed hopes was one more foreign to him, and every second he thought of the trust and faith his companion held for him, the deeper his pain was felt.
The damp, pungent aroma of swamp air brought Uriel back to his senses, as the rift he'd been sent through spat him out into filthy, murky swamp water. Down the gargoyle sank, defeat and shame buried beneath the slime.
As deeply rooted was his despair, it was not enough to overpower his distaste for being submerged…certainly not helped by the foulness of swamp water. Uriel rose from the depths, algae and seaweed hanging over his hood and wings.
Confined to the Arena Eternal he had been, Uriel was still afforded glimpses into the lands beyond. He recognized the feeling of the air, here…the magic that ran through it. This was the Realm of Black Magic, almighty Volkerh's domain. Snapshots of this dimension served as battlegrounds for the Arena Eternal. This would be Uriel's first time in the realm proper.
No matter where he was, the thunderous pounding of battle never seemed to be too far away. He could hear them from inside the fortress before him. Ancient weapons digging into flesh, the dying, guttural screeches of monsters that roam the spaces between dreams.
As Uriel entered the fortress and drew closer to the battle, he picked up another stench he was familiar with.
Demon.
Quizzically, there was only one. Hell worked in hordes.
It seemed this demon had bitten off more than it could chew. Several of the nightmares had backed him into a corner. The Vorpal Blade dug into the back of a mighty Ogre, the foul beast breaking its arm backward to aim a rusty grenade launcher at its attacker. Uriel's head rolled to the side and avoided it. Eons of muscle memory made the maneuver as thoughtless as breathing. He swung the blade into the hallway's wall, a shower of sparks accompanying the viscera as the Ogre was chopped free from the blade. Uriel brandished the Lightning Gun in his other hand and aimed at the flying Shalwrath creatures spitting bile upon them in a row. The shaft swept across them, four in a line superheated to combustion in seconds. He glanced over to where the demon had struggled, just in time to watch Fiend's torso blast off into the red, sticky void. This left the two of them alone, and rather than engage the gargoyle, the demon scurried around the corner from its sitting position. The grunt that accompanied the motion indicated to Uriel that he wasn't getting much farther than that. The blood trail he left made it certain.
Uriel stood still at the end of the hall, cloaked in the comforting grasp of darkness. He put the Lightning Gun away and sheathed his sword.
"Come out, demon."
Uriel didn't have to see to feel the unholy gaze peering at him from the shadows. He could also hear each drop of the demon's blood hitting the ground. These were senses that had been honed in every gladiator of the Arena for time immemorial.
The demon surrendered a cough, but not its visage. It was wounded in the encounter with the Fiend. All demons healed after a time if they weren't finished off.
"So that you may strike me down with the other abominations? I may be without a place…but I reject this one as where I am meant to die."
Uriel growled. He hadn't the patience for petty games of trust. "If you were to die at my hand, your remains would be indistinguishable from those around you."
Sensing the powerful aura about him, the demon complied. He sheathed his weapons before limping into the dim light.
Uriel observed his figure as he sized the demon up. He was considerably more humanoid in both build and mannerisms than most of Hell's denizens. Sage half-plate adorned his body bearing markings from a culture Uriel was not familiar with.
"You are an outlier among your kind," he said.
"I am," the demon replied. "A blessing, and a terrible curse."
"What might I call you?"
The demon looked away, the familiar tinge of despair in his eyes.
"My kind would call me the Defector. In truth…I am not deserving of a name or title. I had thought it my destiny to die an unidentifiable husk in this world of horrors before your arrival."
"I see," Uriel said. He nodded his head. "I am Uriel. Presently, I too find myself displaced from where I belong. As you can see, I have no intention of allowing the foul Ebon Fortress to claim my bones."
A conversation like this…it took ages of Crash's incessant attempts to break Uriel into accepting such an exchange. Her ability to find connection with those of entirely alien origin and circumstances to hers was one of her greatest strengths. Her teachings brought the words to his tongue, so that he may find the strength to return to her side.
"The stench of defeat leadens your step, Defector," Uriel observed. He and his present company stood at opposing ends of this dark hall. "This fate is one that I share. If you would, perhaps we may indulge one another in the lightening of our burdens."
. . .
"I was loyal to the Khan," the Defector explained. The gargoyle had proven to be a surprisingly adept listener. Eons of imprisonment in the halls he presided over had bestowed upon him patience betraying his purpose.
"Many of us were. They had been our most trusted allies, our guiding light to salvation for generations. They had become irreparably intertwined with the Argenta's culture and beliefs. Ideas that the Maykrs' actions were cloaked in treachery was heretical to even consider."
"Ironic, a demon speaking of heresy," Uriel commented.
"Indeed, as we would soon find out. What the Khan did…what the Maykrs did to our brothers and sisters to make us prosecute one another like dogs…I could not serve her kind. Somehow, even following my transformation, I retained my clarity. And yet the same Argent that drove my people to ruin still flows throughout my body." The Defector clenched his fist, Argent surging around his clawed hand. "I do not understand why I exist."
Uriel allowed the Defector's words to settle. They sat next to one another on a ledge overlooking a murky canal below. The sounds of distant pests and the faint rumbling of mechanisms beneath the waters gave them company. A stark contrast to the thunderous cacophony of battle Uriel had known longer than silence.
"I was created for a purpose proven unfathomably dull, and then liberated from my creator long after it had been the only thing I'd known. An…acquaintance pressured me into seeking something beyond my womb and cradle. Places not meant for me, not made for my kind."
Uriel stood, spreading his wings once more.
"When the time comes for us to outgrow our original purpose, we exist to search for a new one."
He thought for a moment.
"A nudge in the right direction is all it takes to begin."
He tore a small scrap of fabric from his worn cloak and offered it to the Defector. The demon cautiously took the gift in his hands and stood up as he pondered it. As the tiny scrap made contact with his skin, he caught glimpses of other faraway worlds. Warriors with no place left to go gathered to find new purpose by proving themselves against one another and the infinite.
The Defector threw the scrap into the water behind them.
"My existence will never have meaning if I allow another to merely hand it to me. To accept your offer would be no better a mistake to make than what turned me into this perversion to begin with."
Uriel growled at first but then made peace with his decision. "I will not rob you of that agency, Defector," he said, finally leaving his side as he reached for the blade on his back. "So long as you now realize you seek something greater than what you were handed in the first place."
. . .
Uriel could again feel the shifting of time as the Vorpal Blade returned him to the Arena Eternal. He would reconvene with Crash, and once again face Gorea with the fury of a thousand suns.
At the same time he arrived in Final Resting Place, so too had a newcomer appeared.
The woman was tall, easily clearing six feet. She wore a sage-colored armor that immediately brought to mind Uriel's previous guest. She wore her hair long and blonde, and there was the searing light of a warrior in her eyes. A golden spear sat holstered on her back, and another, more rugged weapon was built into her armor's left wrist.
She was also an intruder.
Uriel cast a shadow over the woman before she could so much as move an inch. And yet, she did not flinch - she did not falter. She looked right into his flaming eyes with the same defiant spark that Crash did.
"State your purpose, girl," Uriel said.
"I was told this was the birthplace of a monster named Gorea. The Arena Eternal. I've got a couple of worlds to save and it sounds like I could obtain the power to do so here."
She took one step back from Uriel and raised her hand out to him.
"The name's Aran," she said, smiling at the gargoyle.
Crash arrived in the Arena at just that time, and one look at the Hunter proved to her that this was the woman they were looking for.
"Samus Aran, right?"