G.I. Joe - Cobra Strikes Back
Opening - Wrath of Cobra Theme
Eyes narrowed, Eagle senses the incoming threat and swiftly unveils the wings on his back. With a powerful flap, a gust of wind surges forth, scattering debris and shrapnel across the battlefield. The onslaught of missiles, aimed to obliterate the Joe's forces, are caught in the windstorm and sent hurtling off-course. The ground shudders as they impact harmlessly around them, leaving a ring of destruction that serves as a stark reminder of the power that had been unleashed.
Cobra Commander, despite his newfound might, is caught off guard by the sudden display. His visor glitches for a split second before he steadies himself. "So, the rumors are true," he murmurs, a hint of respect creeping into his voice. "You've fully synchronized your human and Cobra-La genes. Impressive, Captain Eagle."
The air crackles with energy as the two leaders face off. The once-proud sanctity of Springfield is now a battleground of epic proportions. The Joes and remaining Cobra troops watch in awe as the two behemoths of power square up. The Grand Terror Drome looms in the background, a monstrous shadow over the city, but for now, the focus is on the personal vendetta between these two legends.
"We stand on the brink of destruction, Cobra Commander," Eagle calls out, his voice a mix of calm authority and the rumble of the earth beneath them. "A fight between us would bring nothing but ruin to those around us. I propose a challenge, as per the ancient laws of Cobra-La."
King Cobra tilts his head, intrigued. "A duel, then?"
"A warrior of your choosing versus one of mine," Eagle confirms. "The outcome will determine our next move."
King Cobra considers this, a smirk slowly spreading across his face. "A duel, you say?" He pulls out a pair of dice from his pocket, the symbols on their sides a mix of Cobra and G.I. Joe insignia. "But why settle for just one fight when we can have a series?"
He tosses the dice into the air. They tumble and spin before landing on the ground with a clatter. The crowd tenses, their eyes fixed on the result. "Twelve," he declares, the number echoing through the chaos. "Twelve battles will take place. The fate of Springfield rests upon these duels."
With a dramatic flourish, King Cobra summons forth seven swirling portals. "These portals will take us to the locations where my chosen champions await," he explains, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Each one of them is eager to prove their worth in combat."
Eagle clenches his fist, his mind racing. He had only brought a handful of G.I. Joe operatives, and now he had to scrounge for fighters to fill the remaining spots. He glances over at the dumbfounded Joes and the shattered remnants of the dojo. "We accept your challenge," he says firmly. "But we will need time to gather our forces."
"I think not," King Cobra retorts with a sneer, watching the flustered G.I. Joe team. "You have your twelve. Choose wisely, for each loss will bring your city one step closer to destruction."
"However, just to be nice, there will be no killing," King Cobra says with a sly smile, as if the very thought of mercy is foreign to him. "The battles will be to the first blood, or surrender. The honor of our ancient ways will be upheld, but the stakes remain the same."
Eagle nods solemnly and calls forth his teammates. "Groundpounder, Akiko, Firewall, Barrel Roll, Throttle, and..." His voice trails off as he looks towards the shadows, where a cloaked figure emerges, the folds of the garment fluttering in the breeze, obscuring their identity. The G.I. Joe operatives stand ready, their expressions a mix of determination and trepidation as they face the unknown.
"Are you certain about this?" Eagle asks the figure, his voice low and serious.
The cloaked figure nods, their eyes gleaming with resolve. "I am ready to face whatever the future holds."
With a deep breath, Groundpounder steps into the first portal, his massive form disappearing into the swirling vortex of energy. The ground shudders as he enters the unknown battlefield, leaving only a brief afterimage in the dust. Akiko is next, her nimble figure slipping through the second portal with a graceful leap. Her expression is stoic, but her eyes betray a hint of fear for what lies ahead. Firewall follows, the digital flames of her cybernetic suit flickering as she's enveloped by the third portal, the light playing off her metallic armor before she too vanishes from view.
Barrel Roll, ever the strategist, takes a moment to assess the remaining portals before diving into the fourth. He rolls through the air, transforming into a blur of motion and color, and is gone. Throttle, ever the eager young hotshot, charges into the fifth with a battle cry that's cut off abruptly as the portal snaps shut around him.
The cloaked figure moves towards the sixth portal, their steps deliberate and unyielding. As they reach the shimmering edge, they fling back their hood, revealing a women resembling Lady Jaye, her face a mask of steely resolve. With a nod to Eagle, she too vanishes into the fray, leaving six more portals to be claimed.
Eagle steps into the seventh portal, his heart heavy with the weight of his decision. The world around him distorts and reforms into a desolate wasteland, the air thick with the scent of burning metal and the distant roar of engines. His eyes scan the horizon for any sign of his opponent, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to pounce at a moment's notice.
Storm Shadow, having witnessed the exchange between Eagle and King Cobra, knows he must act. He whispers to Scarlet and Dawn, "We must enter the fray. The fate of Springfield is in our hands." The three of them, sharing a silent nod of understanding, break away from the stunned G.I. Joe operatives and sprint towards the remaining portals.
Scarlet, her mind racing with strategy, leaps into the eighth portal, her crimson hair trailing like a fiery comet. The portal's energy wraps around her, and she emerges in a lush jungle, the vibrant greens and blues contrasting starkly with the desolate wasteland of Eagle's battleground. She lands lightly, her boots sinking into the soft, damp earth as she surveys her surroundings for any sign of the enemy.
Dawn, her eyes gleaming with a quiet confidence, steps into the ninth portal. The swirl of colors and lights briefly consumes her, and then she reappears in a bustling urban environment, the cobblestone streets of Japan, where her Arashikage lineage is rooted. She notice charred ruins of buildings, a stark reminder of the destruction Cobra has wrought.
Storm Shadow approaches the tenth portal with a sense of foreboding. Memories of his past and the Arashikage Clan's sacred training grounds flood his mind. As he passes through, his breath catches in his throat. The once serene mountainscape has been transformed into a high-tech labyrinth of steel and glass, the air humming with an eerie energy that clashes with the spiritual essence he's come to know.
Road Pig, the burly Dreadnok, saunters towards the eleventh portal, a twisted smile playing on his lips. He's heard of the ancient challenge, and he knows the significance of fighting for his own life and the fate of Springfield. He steps through, expecting the worst, only to find himself back in Goblu, Michigan, the very place where he was born. The nostalgic stench of grease and oil fills his nostrils, a stark contrast to the clean, sterile scent of the Grand Terror Drome. The dilapidated buildings and rusty cars that line the streets are eerily familiar, yet haunting in their silent stillness.
Then, without warning, the twelfth and final portal jolts into motion, ripping itself from the ground and floating towards Destro, who had been quietly observing the chaos from the shadows. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, as the portal beckons him closer. With a grunt of annoyance, he steps through, and the world around him morphs into the gleaming steel corridors of the Terror Drome's command center. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and the low buzz of mechanical life. Destro's eyes widen slightly as he takes in his surroundings, his mind racing with the implications of this unexpected twist.
"So impatient," King Cobra murmurs as he watches the twelfth portal closes. King Cobra sits comfortably on his throne, a twisted amalgamation of serpents and steel, the symbol of his power and heritage. The Grand Terror Drome, his ultimate weapon, looms behind him, its gleaming hull reflecting the flickering lights from the twelve massive holographic screens that have emerged from the walls. Each screen projects an image of a battleground, a diverse array of landscapes and environments that seem to stretch into infinity.
On the twelfth screen, Eagle materializes in the heart of Berlin, Germany. His surroundings are a stark contrast to the chaotic scenes of Springfield. He stands in the grand hall of the former Gestapo headquarters, the once-feared seat of the Nazi regime's secret police. The air is thick with the ghosts of the past, and the faded grandeur of the room seems to whisper of dark deeds long since buried.
The floor beneath him shakes, and the whispers grow into a roar as a figure emerges from the shadows. Chariot, the terrifying embodiment of Cobra's might, stands tall, the crimson circuitry on his black armor pulsing with anticipation. His single, piercing red eye locks onto Eagle, the hiss of his breathing echoing through the cavernous room. The creature's monstrous form is a blend of ancient and futuristic, a chilling reminder of the power that Cobra Commander wields.
Eagle's heart skips a beat as he lays eyes on the creature he had only heard of in whispers. He had seen the destruction Chariot had left in its wake, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer terror that emanates from the cyborg-undead's very being. Yet, he stands his ground, his fists clenched and his resolve unshaken. This was the enemy he had sworn to protect the world from, and he would not falter.
The battle begins with a clash that echoes through the hollowed halls of history. Chariot's heavy, metallic limbs slam into the ground as he charges forward, his eye glowing with a malicious intent that seems almost sentient. Eagle meets him with a graceful leap, his sword slicing through the air with the precision of a master swordsman. The steel and circuitry of Chariot's frame clangs against the ancient blade, sparks flying with every impact.
In Paris, the Eiffel Tower looms in the background as Scarlet emerges from the portal, her boots clicking against the cobblestone streets. The City of Love is eerily quiet, its usual vibrant energy replaced by an ominous calm. The scent of freshly baked bread is replaced with the faint hint of something unnatural. The floating head appears from nowhere, teeth bared and eyes gleaming with malice. It darts forward with a speed that defies its size, aiming straight for Scarlet's neck.
Her hand flies to her side, grasping the handle of her pistol, but before she can draw it, the head clamps down on her flesh. She gasps in pain, her hand instinctively reaching up to the wound. The head's teeth sink in, and she feels a cold, metallic shiver run through her veins. The head laughs maniacally, its fangs grinding into her skin.
With a surge of adrenaline, Scarlet pulls away, tearing the jaws from her neck. Blood spurts from the ragged wound, and she screams in agony. But she doesn't stop moving. The head is thrown to the side, its laughter silenced as it hits the ground, rolling away into the shadows. The pain is intense, but she knows she can't let it control her. She has to fight.
Suddenly, scattered limbs and torso appear to hover in the air around her. They twirl and contort in a macabre ballet before reattach themselves into a complete body. The figure stands, revealing Glamour, the enigmatic enchantress of Cobra. She regards Scarlet with a smirk, her fiery pink hair fluttering around her face like a halo of flames. The crimson on her lips and the sharpness of her fangs are a stark contrast to the delicate beauty of her features.
"Ah, the infamous Scarlet," Glamour purrs, her eyes glinting with a mix of excitement and challenge. "I've heard tales of your valor. It's an honor to face you in combat."
Scarlet's grip on her pistol tightens, the warmth of her own blood seeping through her fingers. "The pleasure isn't mine," she spits through gritted teeth, her gaze never leaving the enchantress.
Storm Shadow's eyes dart around the steel and glass maze, his heart pounding in his chest. He had hoped to find some trace of his past in this high-tech hell, but instead, he finds the mutilated bodies of his fellow ninjas. Their lifeless forms are twisted into unnatural poses, their once-white gi's now stained with a crimson that matches the blood that pools around them. His breath catches in his throat as he recognizes the insignia of the Arashikage Clan on their torn garments. Rage and sorrow well up inside him, his fists tightening around his own weapons.
The silence is shattered by the whistle of spinning metal. He ducks and rolls, his instincts honed by years of training taking over. The energy shurikens narrowly miss him, embedding themselves into the wall with a sizzle and a shower of sparks. He whips around, his gaze zeroing in on the source of the attack.
"Storm Shadow, my old friend," the voice echoes through the corridors, cold and metallic, yet unmistakable.
Storm Shadow's eyes widen in horror as Tyrone, or what's left of him, emerges from the shadows. The once-vibrant red of his armor now dull and stained, a grim reminder of the tragic path he's been forced to walk. The visor that now shields his eyes flickers with a ghostly red light, a stark contrast to the gleaming silver of his robotic limbs. The shurikens that had just narrowly missed him are a testament to the mechanical precision that now drives the once-human ninja's movements.
"Tyrone," Storm Shadow breathes, his voice thick with emotion. The sight of his friend, now a twisted amalgam of man and machine, sends a chill down his spine. The rage within him flares, a maelstrom of anger and grief that threatens to overwhelm his very being. Yet, he remains steadfast, his grip on his katana tightening as he prepares to face the monster that Cobra has created.
"Kenta will be eager to have you among our ranks," Tyrone's cold, mechanical voice slices through the tension.
Storm Shadow's eyes narrow, a mix of anger and pity in his gaze. "Tyrone," he says softly, his voice a mere whisper, "I am sorry for leaving you to this fate. But I swear to you now, I will end your suffering."
Kenta, Storm Shadow's long-lost cousin, emerges from the shadows, a similar but distinctly more monstrous version of Tyrone. His red armor is adorned with a gem-studded chest plate that glitters with an eerie blue light. Unlike Tyrone, who had been transformed against his will, Kenta wears his cyborg nature proudly, a twisted testament to his desire for power and control. The gem at the center of his chest seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy, hinting at the extent of the dark arts that have been woven into his very being.
"You call if suffering, I call it progression.", Kenta's metallic voice retorts, his gem-studded chest plate pulsing with a malevolent glow. His eyes, once the same piercing blue as Storm Shadow's, now burn with a cold, mechanical light that seems to bore into Storm Shadow's very soul.
The air crackles with tension as Kenta lifts his hand, the gem at his chest flaring to life. A fireball the size of a basketball forms in his palm, the flames dancing and licking at the air. Without a second thought, he hurls it at Storm Shadow with a malicious grin.
Storm Shadow's eyes widen as he recognizes the gem at the center of the flaming sphere. It's a fragment of the Jewel of the Sun, a powerful artifact that the Arashikage had safeguarded for centuries. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. "Kenta," he murmurs, the name barely audible over the roar of the flames. "What have you done?"
"I have become more," Kenta sneers, his voice a cold, metallic echo in the stark chamber. "And now, Tyrone, show your loyalty to the new order. Defeat him, and bring his body to me."
With a snarl of pain, Tyrone leaps into action, his robotic limbs propelling him through the air with inhuman speed. The clang of steel on steel fills the air as he and Storm Shadow's swords collide. Their movements are a dance of death, each strike and parry a silent conversation of grief and anger.
Barrel Roll's portal opens over the Grand Canyon, the breathtaking beauty of the natural wonder starkly juxtaposed with the brutal purpose of their battle. He emerges, his jetpack flaring to life, and the wind whipping around him as he plummets towards the rocky terrain below. His eyes scan the horizon, searching for any sign of the enemy combatant he's been sent to face. The vast expanse of the canyon stretches out before him, a canvas of red and orange that seems to pulse with the setting sun's dying light.
Suddenly, the sky above him darkens, a shadow descending with the swiftness of a raptor in pursuit. His instincts scream a warning, and he barely has time to react as Raptor's gleaming hooded beak slices through the air, aiming for his heart with the precision of a seasoned falconer's throw. The condor-like blade misses its mark by a hair's breadth, the wind from the near-miss sending a shiver down Barrel Roll's spine.
"Raptor? Impossible," Barrel Roll mutters under his breath as he narrowly evades the gleaming beak-blade. The man he knew as Chip Talon, a Cobra accountant turned falconer, had been killed by Cobra Commander as punishment for betrayal. Yet here he was, soaring through the skies, a living weapon. The shock of seeing Raptor alive sends a jolt of confusion through his system.
"You look surprised, Joe," Raptor says, his voice a low, predatory growl. "Did you think death was the end for me?"
Barrel Roll grits his teeth as he fires his sidearm, the bullets ricocheting off Raptor's metallic hood. "I thought Cobra had more sense than to bring back a traitor," he spits.
Raptor's eyes flare with a cold fire. "Cobra Commander saw something in me that you never did, Joe," he says, his voice a mix of pride and bitterness. "I was reborn, not out of mercy, but out of necessity. He offered me power, and I took it. I am no longer Old Raptor. I am the new and improved Raptor, and I serve Cobra with every fiber of my being."
"So you're not some guy in a silly bird costume anymore, huh?" Barrel Roll quips, trying to keep the fear from his voice. He's seen what the VENOM serum can do, the monstrous transformations it can induce. Raptor's new form is terrifying, and the thought of facing his former loser in combat fills him with a dread that is both personal and professional.
"This is no costume," Raptor says, his voice a mix of pride and challenge. "This is the culmination of my power, the embodiment of my purpose. I am the Raptor, the ultimate hunter." He spreads his wings, the jets on his back igniting, lifting him higher into the air. His eyes gleam with an intensity that sends a shiver down Barrel Roll's spine.
The two adversaries circle each other, their movements a deadly ballet above the vast chasm. Raptor dives, his beak aimed like a spear at Barrel Roll's head. But this time, the Joe is ready. His fear has been replaced by a steely resolve, a confidence that comes from facing his own mortality. He brings his laser sniper rifle to bear, the red dot on Raptor's mask unwavering.
The air crackles with anticipation as the laser bolt sizzles forth, a crimson line drawing a path to Raptor's skull. Yet, at the very last instant, the cyborg falcon twists in a display of impossible agility, the beam grazing his cheek and leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. The near-miss sends a jolt of electricity through Raptor's circuits, a stark reminder that his opponent is not to be underestimated.
Raptor pulls back, his golden eyes wide with surprise. "How?" he murmurs, his voice a mix of admiration and disbelief. It was a shot that defied the very laws of combat he had learned during his time in Cobra's service. A sniper shot taken without the luxury of a spotter's guidance, without the meticulous calculations that typically preceded such a precise and deadly strike. All in a short time and at the speed Raptor was going, it was impossible, and yet, the smoky afterimage of the laser was a testament to the fact that it had indeed occurred.
Barrel Roll smirks, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards despite the gravity of the situation. "You should know better than anyone, Raptor," he says, his voice echoing through the canyon. "When you bet on a losing horse, sometimes they still have a trick or two up their sleeve."
"You're quiet the marksman, aren't you?" Raptor says, his voice a mix of respect and contempt. "But precision isn't everything." He flexes his wings, the metal joints creaking slightly as he prepares for another dive. "Agility and speed are the true weapons of the hunt."
"You not the only master of the air, Raptor," Barrel Roll says with a smirk, reaching back to his utility belt. With a swift, practiced motion, he unsheathes two katar blades. The sleek, curved weapons gleam in the fading sunlight, each one a testament to the ancient art of combat that he's mastered.
With a battle cry that echoes through the canyon, Raptor extends his hood's beaks, spinning his body like a deadly drill. The wind screams as he dives, his wings folding to form a living projectile aimed at Barrel Roll. His beaks glisten with a sinister intent, ready to tear through flesh and bone with a single strike.
Barrel Roll, however, refuses to be intimidated by Raptor's terrifying new form. Drawing on his G.I. Joe training, he extends his arms, the katar blades glinting in the fading light. His body follows suit, spinning with the same ferocity as Raptor's, his blades a blur as he mimics the cyborg's maneuver. The two collide, a tornado of steel and feathers, their spinning forms creating a whirlwind of death in the open sky.