Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ The Seven Bad Men ( Chapter 17 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Manga-Chick 
He kept hearing Virgil’s words—“You kill all us off, now you gonna lead them to kill everyone else?”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 05.15.2006 | Pages: 3 | Words: 6.6K | Visits: 314 | Status: Completed
He kept hearing Virgil’s words—“You kill all us off, now you gonna lead them to kill everyone else?”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 05.15.2006 | Pages: 3 | Words: 6.6K | Visits: 314 | Status: Completed
Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence...Just be prepared for the amount of violence and utter chaos.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.
A/N: Ne...the more I write...the more I realize that this is going to be a SHIT long story. The type that coils around in the toilet bowl, or featured in Rotten.com. (Sighs) Either a shit long story, or something broken into a small series. The mess I get myself into...hope ya’ll don’t mind. Then, I just realized–OI! Wasn’t I working on another story awhile back?! (goes back through collection)
Tri: Ah, I’m glad you liked the chapter! ^_^ It was sorta tense...and there could have been so many directions to pull, but I decided to start with the flower petals and bubbles first...THEN come in with the angsty-darkness. BWA HA HA HA HA HA
I’m Alive: As for his visions, you’ll realize he’s more of a role chara than a bit–it gets more confusing after that! (Joyful face) As for Hs’s problem...I’m kinda curious how that’ll be fixed or worked around when it comes down to it...heh. As for Mother’s Day...thanks! ^_^
Chapter Seventeen:
The Seven Bad Men
Their eyes glittered with a sort of dull, red light as they ran through the camp–their footsteps were light and swift, their bodies hunched slightly. The Seven Bad Men were shadows of infinite loyalty to the demon that was currently taking over America, and their goal was to search out any persistent threat to their master’s life. They had found one, knowing that Blood, Inc. would be taken care of by another party. There were many people throughout the area that was a threat to Madelyne, the higher forces that be delivering unspoken messages to those that could take the demon down–to destroy her–and the Seven Bad Men would find them easily.
Locating their source of power and distinguishing them immediately with their dark and deadly forces.
So far, they had snuffed out twelve people that had the power to rid the world of Madelyne–and every day, a new one popped up. The higher forces–as there was always light to dark, good to evil–wanted to be rid of Madelyne. But this process was hindered the more the Seven Bad Men found those willing to accept the gifts given to them to stop her–the Seven Bad Men always smelt them out and destroyed them before anything more could happen.
Already, they’d accept that the members of Blood, Inc. were their greatest foes, and uneasily strong, but there were others out there that lacked their talents and were easy prey to the Seven.
Good continued to fail, but it was a stubborn lot–always searching out someone else and passing on the gift, then. The Seven Bad Men were tireless, though. They always found their soul.
They were all a variation of creatures–the leader a tall being, with ghostly white skin, broad shoulders and thin arms that resembled sticks–he wore a sort of cloth that wrapped tightly around his chest, just under his pierced nipples, tattoos of Tribal designs spread across his back. He wore a simple hood, a bandanna covering his lower facial features, leaving only his eyes visible–they were sunken so deeply within his skull that as they peered out, his brow bone seemed to overhang his face. Around those eye sockets were henna designs in a startling bright pink–a stark contrast to his pale white skin. His forearms were stringy, the ulna and radius visible, wrists holding thick bangles and bracelets that jiggled just slightly with movement. His feet were bare, resembling those of a rabbit’s–only that sharp, curved claws jutted outward, leaving behind paw prints that didn’t resemble any of the animals that most humans were familiar with. Around his ankles were more bangles, clinking lightly with every step.
The Second Bad Man was short, stout–with a barrel chest and legs that curved up and back like a dog’s. He wore a short sleeve garment that folded across the front, long trails of material flapping between his legs and down over his backside–his arms were thickly muscled, the forearms covered in thick, gray fur. His hands were rounded paws with five sharp pins sticking out from the clefts. His head was bald, with ears like those of a rabbit’s, pierced with round, gold hoops. His face was that of a normal human’s–albino-featured and sharp, stark with a hawk beak nose.
The Third Bad Man was tall and thin, hair constructed upward into a high ponytail that was held with a bright purple bow–he had the shape of a normal human skull, only that his mouth dominated his entire face–a lipless opening that displayed two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. His arms were literally constructed out of twigs–bark-fingers welding a menacing looking club with human scalps hanging from the metal band that kept the study, blood-stained rocks in place.
The Fourth wore a black hood, eye holes cut out to reveal glowing red–it wore hide covered in undecipherable words and pictures running down the center. Around its necks were necklaces of human teeth and bones, jangling lightly with every movement it made. From underneath the robe of hides that it wore, cloven feet left behind ominous footprints. Its arms were sturdy pieces of metal held together by various bands of twine and rope, claw-like hands clutching scythes that were rusted and curved with seemingly misuse.
The Fifth had the head of a Kewpie doll–eyeless, blond hair frazzled and dreaded in various clumps, hanging over small breasts; nipples were taped over in ominous ‘X’s, ribs abnormally large and heaving, stomach concave. There were dark lines trailing from the empty eye sockets, as if constantly shedding black tears. Its doll-like arms hung limply at its sides, its body stocky and barrel shaped, stubby legs moving rapidly to keep up with the others.
The Sixth was a reptilian creature, it’s flat face covered by a thin white mask, similar to those of Kabuki-style features. But it was held in place by ropes that had pierced the reptilian skin, two ponytails dangling from the sides of the round, scaly head. It was tall and sleek, scales shimmering black gossamer, robes covering only what was necessary–around its long, stringy arms were shriveled bands of flesh, marked with random slashes and scratches of black color.
The Seventh was that of dead flesh stretched to cover the bones of a non-human creature–standing exceedingly tall, around seven and a half feet, its skeletal structure was thick, harsh and long. A curved band of wood settled around the skeleton’s face was stretched with some sort of reptilian skin, the eyes only slashes that revealed red underneath, the nostrils and mouth similar in hasty slashes of nothingness. From its back jutted two wing-like formations, bare of leather or feather–it was merely a framework of bone and cartilage. Its arms ended into gruesome lengths of claw-like fingers, bangles of human bones clacking with movement.
The Seven Bad Men moved quickly, easily avoiding the occasional Indian and animal that roamed throughout the camp at night. They were stealthy creatures, easily blending into the night and into silence, but they weren’t capable of magic. Easily flawed as a human could be, one of them stumbled over someone’s cold campfire site, bumping into two of his partners, and sending all three into the tent near the heart of the camp.
People awoke at the hissing, the surprised curses and shouts of those inside the tent. Like shadows, the Seven Bad Men hid as the tent collapsed, sending the camp into confused awakening as more shouts commenced.
Hotstreak jolted awake, automatically aiming his six-shooters at the shadows that were darting in front of him, Kills-Many-White-People slapping them down.
“Idiot! Someone’s tent fell,” the tired Indian cursed as Hotstreak began to determine their safety. Yawning, he slipped them back into their holsters, getting up to see what was going on. He followed two other men out from the tent to see bewildered people surrounding the fallen tent, a tired family being led to another tent; children protested sleepily as they were guided around the confusion. He rubbed his eyes, then his face, lazily surveying the challenge that was presented to them.
He looked over to see firelight dancing briefly over blond, and felt that uncomfortably strong feeling in his stomach–over how adorable he thought Richie looked as he sleepily looked over at the mess. Hotstreak imagined, briefly, what it would be like to see that face up close, in the middle of night–he had to stop thinking that way, shuddering in an effort to change his thoughts. He started to look away when movement behind Richie’s tent caught his eye. He had to frown, squinting–bewildered in that he thought he saw an overlarge doll walking around the place. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, looking away–the Indians were getting irritated at each other, he realized, watching men square off–apparently, more damage than necessary was done to that tent.
He looked over at Richie again, watching him signal briefly to Turtle Moon that he was going back to sleep–the man in drag nodded, and left the tent to talk with some women nearby. Hotstreak stared at the tent, wondering if he were alone in there–Running Elk had made a joke that Punches-With-Many-Fists went to bed early and got up late just because he was enamored of the boy; Running Elk walked away from that fight with a cut that had to be stitched and Punches-With-Many-Fists sullenly laying in his parents’ tent across camp.
Still...he shouldn’t push things...but...maybe he could leave Kills-Many-White-People to sleep in Turtle Moon’s–to be near Richie. It was odd how much Hotstreak wanted to–the urge pushed him as he decided on that, retrieving his jacket and sparse belongings, and heading over to her tent. Walking in, he set things aside, undecided in etiquette on how to get Turtle Moon to see his way in staying here, also.
Richie was curled up in bed, near the fire, back to him. Hotstreak stared at him in silence, reveling in how small he was–the way the light of the fire reflected off his hair. He was starting to accept how serious he felt for the kid; while a subject of scorn and disgust, Hotstreak really didn’t think homosexuality was all that bad if he felt such good things for another male. Frankly, he really wasn’t exposed to enough scorn and attention in that such considerations were unacceptable. Accepting it more and more gave him more time to admire and see more of the kid, anyway. Why waste time with more questions when he could just feel?
The fire was small–casting enough light to illuminate the small area around it. He quietly settled into the blankets and hides, reveling in the warmth–Turtle Moon sure liked the warmth in her tent. He wanted to reach out and touch Richie–to draw him close like he had that one night. But he was afraid of Richie’s reaction to that, so he just settled close enough for him to smell him.
He was about to shut his eyes to sleep when he heard the jingling–it struck him as odd because he didn’t know why any Indian would wear something so noisy at night. He listened to the odd jingling that seemed to focus its attention near the back of the tent–he could hear voices on the other side, so it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He started to put it away within the back of his mind when he heard the first slash of knife through hide–it startled Richie, too, sitting up with a confused expression.
Once he saw Hotstreak, though, the kid froze, staring at him with a bewildered expression. Hotstreak didn’t see that expression, staring at the obvious blade that slashed through the tent’s back wall, fingers curling in to draw the hide aside–someone was obviously trying to be sneaky with the attack. He pulled out his guns as Turtle Moon slipped inside, intending to snap at him before she saw her tent being pulled apart.
She shrieked, calling out an alarm as the hides were shoved apart, the Fourth sticking its head in, making all three cry out in alarm. The tent came down suddenly, and everything erupted into confusion. Turtle Moon was screaming frantically, warriors quickly running at them, while the snarls of an animal erupted into the night, dogs barking in alarm.
The camp erupted into that of alarm and confusion–women, children and the elderly quickly leaving for safety, warriors quickly arming themselves; the horse herd was quickly mobilized, guarded by those that thought members of another tribe was launching an attack and intending to steal them. Dogs ran about, barking noisily, while human confusion made the entire process much more complicated.
The Fourth managed to sweep the falling tent away from itself, presenting itself to the band of warriors. Standing in its proud glory, it exhaled with a hissing action, weapons displayed, catching the light of the fire. The various shadows made it more ominous, much more demonic–utterly out of place among the humans that it faced. Confusion and horror swept in, the other six demons revealing themselves with menacing snarls and sounds of unearthly detail. They were settled in various directions throughout the small area, surrounding the tent–startling people that had been standing near them. As their features were taken in with horrified stares, utter silence descended upon the camp.
Hotstreak, as he struggled out and away from the tent, was appalled that he’d managed to drag these things to these people that had accepted him as they did. Forgetting about Richie, he had his guns out and began firing instantly, hollering for his horse.
Immediately, the Fourth was up and leaping away, darting into the shadows like a rat. The others scattered with menacing hisses and wails, the blood curdling sounds interrupting the shouts of humans and animals. Hotstreak headed off into the direction the Fourth had taken, spotting the Sixth, and firing at it. The ghastly creature was quick, fluid-like in movements as it hissed and avoided his bullets easily–blending into the shadows to escape him. He ran after them, fearless in his advances–used to monstrocities.
Warriors were mounting their ponies, drawing up their own guns and weapons, chasing after the scattering Seven. Richie, meanwhile, managed to escape the collapsed tent, nearly ran over by a couple of warriors riding their mounts, chasing after the Second.
Hurriedly, he escaped the confusion, then reacted with alarm once he realized he’d left his books. He ran back to the tent, frantically struggling with material to search for the leather pack. Incredible luck had him escaping the pounding hooves of horses and frantic humans and demons as they ran about. He escaped the tent once more, swinging the pack onto his back, running off into a random direction as gunshots blazed all around him. More tents fell, creatures screamed–he had to duck behind the small correl to escape a dog blazing with fire, screaming loudly. Peering out, he saw that demonic creatures were quickly slicing through the attacking Indians with indifference, searching each and every one for a specific person. They sliced through tents and chased after women, shrieking and hissing all the while.
They easily slew the Indians with their blades and weapons–the Second was easily dispatching of them by using its bare limbs to tear heads from bodies. It was a horrifying sight to see, something that he didn’t want to witness–yet, he was watching it with terrified eyes, unable to look away.
Metallic jangling had him looking up, to see the Third running at him, bow bouncing in place–once he realized that it was really coming at him, Richie froze; just staring at the monstrosity with fear and bewilderment. It was the ridiculous bow that had him moving, avoiding the club just in time–the heavy stone smashed through the wooden post, knocking aside the carefully constructed west section of the correl. Horses screamed in alarm upon the new scent and the threat, about climbing all over each other in their efforts to escape.
Richie quickly passed through the creature’s long legs, scrambling for the camp once more as the creature stumbled, running after him with a series of incoherent words. Quickly, Richie ran through the group of tents, frantically looking for a way of escape. He ducked suddenly when the thin slash of air created by metal swept through the dark, narrowly missing him as the Second extended its long fingers. The two Bad Men attacked him, and he narrowly missed all their attacks, ducking and dodging, finally darting behind a tent to escape them. The Second swept through the tent, charging after him as the Third leapt over the collapsed mess to join its brother.
Richie wasn’t sure where to go or what to do, looking over his shoulder to see them catching up easily–his ankle wrenched at that moment, sending him tumbling into a tent, separating material from pole. He reached out for some sort of support to get him back up, fingers curling automatically on the handle of a pot–he swept that up, intending to throw it at the Second when its claws slashed into the metal, catching; he took that moment to wrench the pot upward, taking the Second off its balance. He shoved it aside with both feet, sending it tumbling into the Third as it lurched into view. As he was scrambling to his feet, his fingers curled around a rifle–feeling incredibly lucky, he ran out from the tent, in utter disbelief that he’d escaped that situation. He looked up just in time to see the Sixth lunging at him; he turned, a foolish and yet lucky mistake–the club bounced right off his books, but sent him flying across the muddied dirt.
The Sixth tittered in a high-pitched voice, squealing, “You’re dead, now!”
It lunged at him, club held high–Richie turned onto his back, steadied the rifle, and fired–the blast sent the surprised demon back into the air, flying into the dirt with horrific screams of pain, convulsing as it clawed at the widening wound in its chest.
Richie didn’t hesitate this time–climbing hastily to his feet, he ran off for the light–realizing that fire had caught onto the tents, and were spreading thunderously throughout the camp, sending up a horrid smell as hide burned.
People were screaming, animals were shrieking–the demons were shouting at one another. He heard the various gunshots, and avoided those riding through the devastation–there were bodies throughout the damage, and he regretted seeing it. But he picked up various guns along the way, figuring they were all the same–hoping they were loaded. Hoping they wouldn’t jam. He wasn’t sure how many shots he’d have with the rifle, so he tossed it aside, fumbling with a long-range rifle.
He stumbled over the body of Turtle Moon–he wished that he’d had a chance to thank her for all that she’d done for him. Movement at the corner of his eye prompted him to look up, seeing the Third barreling toward him–he quickly propped the gun into a somewhat comfortable position and fired as soon as he had the chance; the demon sprawled into a tent, gurgling as streams of black liquid hit the air.
He tossed that rifle aside, and headed off, searching for a place to hide–there really wasn’t a place to run to, so he just ran straight ahead; leaving behind the devastation.
That next morning, cold and exhausted, Richie was walking back, following the stark black column that drifted into the cloudy sky. He’d run quite a distance last night, and his limp was more pronounced, his leg aching with every step–but there wasn’t a way he’d sit and rest. Not when it was so cold....not when he needed to know what had happened, last night.
He walked over the eastern sloping hill that overlooked the Indian camp and froze, a look of desolation on his face. From his advantage point, he could see that the entire place had been ripped apart; burnt; destroyed. Bodies lay everywhere; animals lay torn apart and broken. He stared in horror at the sight, taking in the utter destruction that had been wrought. The cold air made it difficult to smell, and for that he was somewhat thankful–but he held an arm against his nose and trudged downward, to investigate and search for survivors.
Staring in silence at the bodies he came to, he realized that despite the women, children and elderly immediate leave of the camp, they all had been dragged back and torn apart. The more he walked into the camp, the more bodies he came to. He gingerly stepped over entrails and shattered bones–over the strangled mess of animals that had been ripped apart like stuffed toys. Fire had spread from tent to tent, burning slowly–leaving behind a wretched smell. Blackened corpses littered the inside ring of the camp, grim faces stretched into thin, awkward smiles. He finally pulled back out, hurrying away from the camp–hardly able to stifle the heavy feelings of stress and shock that he felt upon seeing such a sight.
He was gasping for air, searching for something stable when his eyes caught on a lone figure and horse atop of the hill that had once overlooked the horses’ grazing grounds. He sucked in a breath, squinting to try and discern who it may be–then headed in that direction.
Once the horse looked back at him upon hearing his footfalls, Richie realized that he was looking at Hotstreak. The utter joy that shot through him was immense, and he felt more than uplifted upon knowing that this man had survived. He hurried along, pushing himself to go faster to meet up with him. The deadly silence of the area, once bustling with activity and sounds, was depressing. The stallion continued to stare at him, looking as dejected and forlorn as his master. His thick head drooped, neck seeming to be heavier than he could handle–Richie stared at the stallion cautiously before reaching their left side, the heavy jangle of his rifles finally catching Hotstreak’s attention.
Hotstreak looked down at him in surprise, and Richie stared up at him with surprise, as well. For it was obvious the big man was crying. There was no mistaking the redness of his eyes, the utterly defeated expression on his face. Being that of a redhead, there was no way he could hide the effects from anybody. It just seemed to make his skin more red, for the puffiness to stand out more.
Seeing this made Hotstreak more human, more like him. Not the cold, indifferent man he was treated to before. He looked away, with nothing to say; Richie continued staring up at him, feeling rather empty as he took in the silent tears, the way the redhead wiped his nose with a worn piece of cloth. Charger even allowed him close, not even bothering with nipping at him, or trying to step on him. Dejectedly, the stallion lowered his head, bowing deep as he, too, regarded the emptiness of the grazing grounds with sad eyes.
Richie fiddled with his short nails, then looked away–saying nothing, he wasn’t sure what to do or think as he stared over the fires that continued to burn. Once the wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of burnt bodies, he covered his nose with his arm, and began walking away. He eyed the camp apprehensively, wondering what those creatures wanted. Why they would kill so many without regard. He wondered where they went–they couldn’t have gone far...
Hotstreak looked over at him, still in the throes of the miserably depressed. He was waiting to feel the utter joy that he knew was there deep inside of him upon knowing that Richie was still alive, but it was heavily squashed by the weight of his depression as he looked upon the camp. He kept hearing Virgil’s words–“You kill all us off, now you gonna lead them to kill everyone else?”
Those creatures had killed every soul that had resided at that camp–they couldn’t get to him. He felt it unfair that they couldn’t kill him, but they killed every defenseless victim and proud warrior that they could. People he knew–people he laughed and joked with. People that had been friendly and welcoming–and they were dead because of him. All of them.
He felt wholly responsible for each and every death that was visible on those camp grounds. He couldn’t look at them, too shamed and suffocated by guilt to do so. But he felt responsibility–he should do something for them–but their scouts that patrolled their territory borders were out and about, and if they came back–
They’d be raring for a fight with him. And he didn’t want to fight them–but at the same time, he just wished someone would do him in, for all the murders he’d caused. All the needless deaths, all the destruction.
He stared off into the snow covered hills, sightless and deaf to everything around him. He felt that curdling deep inside–as if someone were sticking his insides and heart with a pitchfork. He felt entirely sick to the stomach once smelling the bodies that burned–he thought of the helpless victims that had been dragged out from their hiding places, slaughtered messily. Once the warriors went down, the others were easy pickings.
Bile crept up his throat, and he swallowed hard. He kept seeing the remains of children lying amongst the bodies of their mothers.
Blinking away the tears that continued to fall unhindered, he stared out at the snow covered mountains and wondered when it would just stop.
When he would stop having so many people killed because of his mistakes. For being alive.
The cold swept through him, abruptly reminding him that the elements were just as deadly. Looking up at the sky, he could see that another storm was coming in. Wordlessly, he wiped his face, twisting in the saddle to look back for Richie. He could see the blond moving about down below, pulling bodies toward the camp–making it easier for the others to find. Remembering that he’d been here longer, Hotstreak realized that Richie probably knew the others’ schedules. They were probably coming in, soon–and he didn’t want a confrontation. He didn’t want to kill anymore people.
He watched him work for a small while, then urged Charger down. The stallion went reluctantly, not liking the smells that were wafting their way. Fighting him for a bit, Hotstreak made sure he was more composed of himself–uncaring of what image he presented with his shedding of tears. Everything was just so pressing–! He felt like just ending it all with a gun barrel in the mouth, and doing away with it.
Richie stopped his work, looking up to see the stallion and man approach. Turning away from the old man’s body, he watched Hotstreak approach, shielding his eyes from the glare of the snow.
“The scouts will be back, soon. They’re supposed to trade off–”
“Let’s go,” Hotstreak interrupted gruffly, lightly surveying what was nearby, then looking away. Feeling wholly responsible for the slaughter.
Richie frowned, lowering his hand. “They’ll think we did it! I can’t just–I can explain to them–!”
“Don’t be fucking stupid!” Hotstreak snapped at him. “We’re white, dip-shit. They been fighting with whites since they set foot, here. They ain’t gonna believe us!”
“But–!”
“Get one of those fucking robes an’ let’s go! I don’t wanna be responsible for killin’ more of ‘em!”
Richie sullenly stared at him, refusing to budge. He didn’t think it was right to cut out, before they could explain what had happened to the entire camp. He felt that if he explained to the other warriors, they would be understood. He couldn’t quite understand Hotstreak’s reasoning to leave so abruptly–even though it made sense.
Hotstreak realized that Richie didn’t agree with him, and felt his face twist with maddened impatience. Instantly, Richie paled considerably, and he scurried off before Hotstreak could even follow through with any form of threatening.
Feeling absolutely low and devious, Richie snatched a buffalo robe off of a woman, whispering apologies and condolences as he did so. He removed the rifles from his back, setting them aside to carefully pull on the robe. His hands were shaking as he pulled it on, tying the ties that kept it together, making sure that there was enough hide to cover his head as a hood. Every movement he made was slow and deliberate–as if he were moving underwater.
He thought of Junior’s impatient anger, the way he’d slap and snarl at Richie if he were moving too slow, or questioning him too much. It was strange how much he missed the younger Alva–he felt so bad for allowing him to die the way that he had.
After all, despite his abuse, Junior had tried to keep him safe, and had provided safety for him–as limited as it was.
Slowly, with much aggravation to his leg, he began walking back to the stallion and man that was waiting for him; watching every movement. Sullenly, he pulled hide over his head in an attempt to hide his expression–yet he feared any sort of abuse from this man. He slung the rifles he had over one shoulder–clumsily adjusting the slings to fit his robe-covered frame.
Silently, Hotstreak held out a hand and helped him up onto the horse, Charger protesting the extra weight with a neighing noise, accompanied with the snapping of teeth toward Richie’s leg. Hotstreak sent a heel into his stomach, and the horse sullenly plodded forward, ignoring more orders to move faster.
He didn’t bother with looking at the devastated camp–keeping his head averted as Charger walked out from the area. Richie watched everything, mournful over the entire event–he kept seeing the creatures in his mind’s eye, detailing everything that he saw of them. Mentally examining every movement, every strength and weakness that the creatures displayed.
Awkwardly, he stretched his arms around Hotstreak to hold himself in place–unmindful of the hugging contact, just wanting to make sure he stayed on the horse. He leaned against his back, wincing briefly at the smell of Hound fur, and stared in silence as they walked on.
He didn’t know that Hotstreak was wholly grateful for the contact–the way he felt some comfort from the hug from behind. It just allowed him to continue to cry silently over all that had happened...because he felt it was his fault.
010101010110
Madelyne frowned as the First relayed his report. His telepathic abilities were just as clear as hers, just as vocal–she disliked the information that came from him, his beady red eyes staring into her with intense loyalty. Sitting nearby, Caine frowned.
He was stroking his chin, trying to place the images that the First relayed when he suddenly burst into laughter. “That one’s still living, eh?” he shouted, slapping his knee. “Dropped off the map, for awhile!”
Madelyne cast him an exasperated look, shifting out of the image of the teenage girl to that demonic form she’d transformed into, recently. The Seven Bad Men recoiled at the sight of her, hissing quietly amongst themselves as they eyed her with wary regard. Her four arms shifted restlessly as she moved, tittering her deformed voice as she played lightly with her stark bob of hair.
“That one, m’dear, was part of the boys that tried to rob our train. Haven’t seen nor heard from him, in a while. Thought he got hisself kilt a while back.” Caine delightfully recalled the rather sullen-faced redhead that had, along with Blayne, been a nuisance to their armies earlier on. But he frowned, gruffly clearing his throat. “You say he was with one of our troublemakers?”
The First nodded grimly, specifying his claims with mental images and words. Caine winced. “I simply hate when you all get into my head. Knock it off.”
“Deal with it, father,” Madelyne said sternly. “It’s the only way they communicate. I don’t care how much affection you have for this boy, I won’t have him around, doing this little Superman effort for someone that wants to destroy me! These people keep popping up–! I have a new group of men and women banding together just to play with the idea of my destruction! Knowing that I’m being targeted makes me mad, daddy! I want it to stop!”
Caine tried to suppress the raging headache that pounded at his thin temples. His ‘daughter’s’ whiny voice was starting to really pound away at his brain.
“Fine, fine. Do something about it. You’re the almighty one of darkness, honey.”
“I think I’m just going to ignore that one person–this group of others makes me wary. There’s so many popping up–!” Madelyne reached for the human-skin book nearby, clutching it to her chest with the shorter arms, apprehensively playing with her hair with the other two hands. “I hate this. This was supposed to be easy! Why is it taking so long?”
Caine sighed tiredly, dropping his head back. “Stop your whining...”
“I thought we’d be faster and better than this, daddy! I hate taking so long! We’re not even NEAR the East coast, yet!”
“I’m going for a walk, dear. Calm yourself. And, for the record, do you really want to let that one individual go? It’s going to bite you in the ass, one day, Mad. You might want to think about that.”
Madelyne huffed, staring at the Seven Bad Men with a contemplative look. She pointed at the First, Fourth, and Seventh. “Do something about it.”
The three nodded solemnly–as demons, they were hard to kill. Bullets wounded them, but hadn’t killed them. So far, nothing of their demise came close–humans were slain quickly under their talents.
The others looked about helplessly, waiting for orders.
“You four–do something about this group. Watch them, for me. Report to me on their doings, on who they pick up.”
As for Blood? The First asked curiously, his mental voice loud in her head.
“Um...well, I’m having that worked on,” Madelyne decided, a tone of uncertainty in her voice. She shooed them away. “Go!”
The three disappeared in puffs of brimstone and smoke, while the other four scurried off into the darkness. Worriedly, she shifted back into teenage form, biting her lowered lip. She opened the book that she’d held to her breast, shifting through the thin, yellowed pages until she reached the back section. She had the faces, and the names–but their talents were unknown, to her. They were the specified souls destined to bring her down, destined to slay her and restore order to the world of chaos she had wrought. She worried about them, but felt confident that her army would succeed. She scratched off four pictures and names–recently slain heroes that would never harm her again.
But the ones that were still living...she frowned at the various faces, pondering their roles in her fate.
There was the Knight, the Hero, the Wizard, the Magician–there was also the Hanging Man, the Star, the Ghoul-in-Disguise; there was the Queen, the Inventor, the Illusionist. So many different titles, so many different talents–all that, if combined, could severely hurt her. Could destroy her.
She lingered on the Sheep, the Coward, the Murderer–all titles that were deceptive to their true roles. They were titles that hid their main roles–these people were just as important as the Hero, the Knight, the Inventor; she wouldn’t take them lightly.
She already knew that all were aware of each other–they’d all already met in some way, or another. Thirteen souls that could overtake her army of hundreds of thousands–and only one was destined to kill her by his own hand alone. Supporting characters kept the main characters alive–she wasn’t sure which one to take down, first. The main characters were already starting to worry her in their roles–they just didn’t die. The supporting characters switched with each death, but they were always there. There was always another to fit that role that had been killed.
Sighing, she shut the book, then opened it–to figure out how to conjure more creatures, to figure out more plans. She would win–she was too competitive NOT to.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.
A/N: Ne...the more I write...the more I realize that this is going to be a SHIT long story. The type that coils around in the toilet bowl, or featured in Rotten.com. (Sighs) Either a shit long story, or something broken into a small series. The mess I get myself into...hope ya’ll don’t mind. Then, I just realized–OI! Wasn’t I working on another story awhile back?! (goes back through collection)
Tri: Ah, I’m glad you liked the chapter! ^_^ It was sorta tense...and there could have been so many directions to pull, but I decided to start with the flower petals and bubbles first...THEN come in with the angsty-darkness. BWA HA HA HA HA HA
I’m Alive: As for his visions, you’ll realize he’s more of a role chara than a bit–it gets more confusing after that! (Joyful face) As for Hs’s problem...I’m kinda curious how that’ll be fixed or worked around when it comes down to it...heh. As for Mother’s Day...thanks! ^_^
Chapter Seventeen:
The Seven Bad Men
Their eyes glittered with a sort of dull, red light as they ran through the camp–their footsteps were light and swift, their bodies hunched slightly. The Seven Bad Men were shadows of infinite loyalty to the demon that was currently taking over America, and their goal was to search out any persistent threat to their master’s life. They had found one, knowing that Blood, Inc. would be taken care of by another party. There were many people throughout the area that was a threat to Madelyne, the higher forces that be delivering unspoken messages to those that could take the demon down–to destroy her–and the Seven Bad Men would find them easily.
Locating their source of power and distinguishing them immediately with their dark and deadly forces.
So far, they had snuffed out twelve people that had the power to rid the world of Madelyne–and every day, a new one popped up. The higher forces–as there was always light to dark, good to evil–wanted to be rid of Madelyne. But this process was hindered the more the Seven Bad Men found those willing to accept the gifts given to them to stop her–the Seven Bad Men always smelt them out and destroyed them before anything more could happen.
Already, they’d accept that the members of Blood, Inc. were their greatest foes, and uneasily strong, but there were others out there that lacked their talents and were easy prey to the Seven.
Good continued to fail, but it was a stubborn lot–always searching out someone else and passing on the gift, then. The Seven Bad Men were tireless, though. They always found their soul.
They were all a variation of creatures–the leader a tall being, with ghostly white skin, broad shoulders and thin arms that resembled sticks–he wore a sort of cloth that wrapped tightly around his chest, just under his pierced nipples, tattoos of Tribal designs spread across his back. He wore a simple hood, a bandanna covering his lower facial features, leaving only his eyes visible–they were sunken so deeply within his skull that as they peered out, his brow bone seemed to overhang his face. Around those eye sockets were henna designs in a startling bright pink–a stark contrast to his pale white skin. His forearms were stringy, the ulna and radius visible, wrists holding thick bangles and bracelets that jiggled just slightly with movement. His feet were bare, resembling those of a rabbit’s–only that sharp, curved claws jutted outward, leaving behind paw prints that didn’t resemble any of the animals that most humans were familiar with. Around his ankles were more bangles, clinking lightly with every step.
The Second Bad Man was short, stout–with a barrel chest and legs that curved up and back like a dog’s. He wore a short sleeve garment that folded across the front, long trails of material flapping between his legs and down over his backside–his arms were thickly muscled, the forearms covered in thick, gray fur. His hands were rounded paws with five sharp pins sticking out from the clefts. His head was bald, with ears like those of a rabbit’s, pierced with round, gold hoops. His face was that of a normal human’s–albino-featured and sharp, stark with a hawk beak nose.
The Third Bad Man was tall and thin, hair constructed upward into a high ponytail that was held with a bright purple bow–he had the shape of a normal human skull, only that his mouth dominated his entire face–a lipless opening that displayed two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. His arms were literally constructed out of twigs–bark-fingers welding a menacing looking club with human scalps hanging from the metal band that kept the study, blood-stained rocks in place.
The Fourth wore a black hood, eye holes cut out to reveal glowing red–it wore hide covered in undecipherable words and pictures running down the center. Around its necks were necklaces of human teeth and bones, jangling lightly with every movement it made. From underneath the robe of hides that it wore, cloven feet left behind ominous footprints. Its arms were sturdy pieces of metal held together by various bands of twine and rope, claw-like hands clutching scythes that were rusted and curved with seemingly misuse.
The Fifth had the head of a Kewpie doll–eyeless, blond hair frazzled and dreaded in various clumps, hanging over small breasts; nipples were taped over in ominous ‘X’s, ribs abnormally large and heaving, stomach concave. There were dark lines trailing from the empty eye sockets, as if constantly shedding black tears. Its doll-like arms hung limply at its sides, its body stocky and barrel shaped, stubby legs moving rapidly to keep up with the others.
The Sixth was a reptilian creature, it’s flat face covered by a thin white mask, similar to those of Kabuki-style features. But it was held in place by ropes that had pierced the reptilian skin, two ponytails dangling from the sides of the round, scaly head. It was tall and sleek, scales shimmering black gossamer, robes covering only what was necessary–around its long, stringy arms were shriveled bands of flesh, marked with random slashes and scratches of black color.
The Seventh was that of dead flesh stretched to cover the bones of a non-human creature–standing exceedingly tall, around seven and a half feet, its skeletal structure was thick, harsh and long. A curved band of wood settled around the skeleton’s face was stretched with some sort of reptilian skin, the eyes only slashes that revealed red underneath, the nostrils and mouth similar in hasty slashes of nothingness. From its back jutted two wing-like formations, bare of leather or feather–it was merely a framework of bone and cartilage. Its arms ended into gruesome lengths of claw-like fingers, bangles of human bones clacking with movement.
The Seven Bad Men moved quickly, easily avoiding the occasional Indian and animal that roamed throughout the camp at night. They were stealthy creatures, easily blending into the night and into silence, but they weren’t capable of magic. Easily flawed as a human could be, one of them stumbled over someone’s cold campfire site, bumping into two of his partners, and sending all three into the tent near the heart of the camp.
People awoke at the hissing, the surprised curses and shouts of those inside the tent. Like shadows, the Seven Bad Men hid as the tent collapsed, sending the camp into confused awakening as more shouts commenced.
Hotstreak jolted awake, automatically aiming his six-shooters at the shadows that were darting in front of him, Kills-Many-White-People slapping them down.
“Idiot! Someone’s tent fell,” the tired Indian cursed as Hotstreak began to determine their safety. Yawning, he slipped them back into their holsters, getting up to see what was going on. He followed two other men out from the tent to see bewildered people surrounding the fallen tent, a tired family being led to another tent; children protested sleepily as they were guided around the confusion. He rubbed his eyes, then his face, lazily surveying the challenge that was presented to them.
He looked over to see firelight dancing briefly over blond, and felt that uncomfortably strong feeling in his stomach–over how adorable he thought Richie looked as he sleepily looked over at the mess. Hotstreak imagined, briefly, what it would be like to see that face up close, in the middle of night–he had to stop thinking that way, shuddering in an effort to change his thoughts. He started to look away when movement behind Richie’s tent caught his eye. He had to frown, squinting–bewildered in that he thought he saw an overlarge doll walking around the place. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, looking away–the Indians were getting irritated at each other, he realized, watching men square off–apparently, more damage than necessary was done to that tent.
He looked over at Richie again, watching him signal briefly to Turtle Moon that he was going back to sleep–the man in drag nodded, and left the tent to talk with some women nearby. Hotstreak stared at the tent, wondering if he were alone in there–Running Elk had made a joke that Punches-With-Many-Fists went to bed early and got up late just because he was enamored of the boy; Running Elk walked away from that fight with a cut that had to be stitched and Punches-With-Many-Fists sullenly laying in his parents’ tent across camp.
Still...he shouldn’t push things...but...maybe he could leave Kills-Many-White-People to sleep in Turtle Moon’s–to be near Richie. It was odd how much Hotstreak wanted to–the urge pushed him as he decided on that, retrieving his jacket and sparse belongings, and heading over to her tent. Walking in, he set things aside, undecided in etiquette on how to get Turtle Moon to see his way in staying here, also.
Richie was curled up in bed, near the fire, back to him. Hotstreak stared at him in silence, reveling in how small he was–the way the light of the fire reflected off his hair. He was starting to accept how serious he felt for the kid; while a subject of scorn and disgust, Hotstreak really didn’t think homosexuality was all that bad if he felt such good things for another male. Frankly, he really wasn’t exposed to enough scorn and attention in that such considerations were unacceptable. Accepting it more and more gave him more time to admire and see more of the kid, anyway. Why waste time with more questions when he could just feel?
The fire was small–casting enough light to illuminate the small area around it. He quietly settled into the blankets and hides, reveling in the warmth–Turtle Moon sure liked the warmth in her tent. He wanted to reach out and touch Richie–to draw him close like he had that one night. But he was afraid of Richie’s reaction to that, so he just settled close enough for him to smell him.
He was about to shut his eyes to sleep when he heard the jingling–it struck him as odd because he didn’t know why any Indian would wear something so noisy at night. He listened to the odd jingling that seemed to focus its attention near the back of the tent–he could hear voices on the other side, so it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He started to put it away within the back of his mind when he heard the first slash of knife through hide–it startled Richie, too, sitting up with a confused expression.
Once he saw Hotstreak, though, the kid froze, staring at him with a bewildered expression. Hotstreak didn’t see that expression, staring at the obvious blade that slashed through the tent’s back wall, fingers curling in to draw the hide aside–someone was obviously trying to be sneaky with the attack. He pulled out his guns as Turtle Moon slipped inside, intending to snap at him before she saw her tent being pulled apart.
She shrieked, calling out an alarm as the hides were shoved apart, the Fourth sticking its head in, making all three cry out in alarm. The tent came down suddenly, and everything erupted into confusion. Turtle Moon was screaming frantically, warriors quickly running at them, while the snarls of an animal erupted into the night, dogs barking in alarm.
The camp erupted into that of alarm and confusion–women, children and the elderly quickly leaving for safety, warriors quickly arming themselves; the horse herd was quickly mobilized, guarded by those that thought members of another tribe was launching an attack and intending to steal them. Dogs ran about, barking noisily, while human confusion made the entire process much more complicated.
The Fourth managed to sweep the falling tent away from itself, presenting itself to the band of warriors. Standing in its proud glory, it exhaled with a hissing action, weapons displayed, catching the light of the fire. The various shadows made it more ominous, much more demonic–utterly out of place among the humans that it faced. Confusion and horror swept in, the other six demons revealing themselves with menacing snarls and sounds of unearthly detail. They were settled in various directions throughout the small area, surrounding the tent–startling people that had been standing near them. As their features were taken in with horrified stares, utter silence descended upon the camp.
Hotstreak, as he struggled out and away from the tent, was appalled that he’d managed to drag these things to these people that had accepted him as they did. Forgetting about Richie, he had his guns out and began firing instantly, hollering for his horse.
Immediately, the Fourth was up and leaping away, darting into the shadows like a rat. The others scattered with menacing hisses and wails, the blood curdling sounds interrupting the shouts of humans and animals. Hotstreak headed off into the direction the Fourth had taken, spotting the Sixth, and firing at it. The ghastly creature was quick, fluid-like in movements as it hissed and avoided his bullets easily–blending into the shadows to escape him. He ran after them, fearless in his advances–used to monstrocities.
Warriors were mounting their ponies, drawing up their own guns and weapons, chasing after the scattering Seven. Richie, meanwhile, managed to escape the collapsed tent, nearly ran over by a couple of warriors riding their mounts, chasing after the Second.
Hurriedly, he escaped the confusion, then reacted with alarm once he realized he’d left his books. He ran back to the tent, frantically struggling with material to search for the leather pack. Incredible luck had him escaping the pounding hooves of horses and frantic humans and demons as they ran about. He escaped the tent once more, swinging the pack onto his back, running off into a random direction as gunshots blazed all around him. More tents fell, creatures screamed–he had to duck behind the small correl to escape a dog blazing with fire, screaming loudly. Peering out, he saw that demonic creatures were quickly slicing through the attacking Indians with indifference, searching each and every one for a specific person. They sliced through tents and chased after women, shrieking and hissing all the while.
They easily slew the Indians with their blades and weapons–the Second was easily dispatching of them by using its bare limbs to tear heads from bodies. It was a horrifying sight to see, something that he didn’t want to witness–yet, he was watching it with terrified eyes, unable to look away.
Metallic jangling had him looking up, to see the Third running at him, bow bouncing in place–once he realized that it was really coming at him, Richie froze; just staring at the monstrosity with fear and bewilderment. It was the ridiculous bow that had him moving, avoiding the club just in time–the heavy stone smashed through the wooden post, knocking aside the carefully constructed west section of the correl. Horses screamed in alarm upon the new scent and the threat, about climbing all over each other in their efforts to escape.
Richie quickly passed through the creature’s long legs, scrambling for the camp once more as the creature stumbled, running after him with a series of incoherent words. Quickly, Richie ran through the group of tents, frantically looking for a way of escape. He ducked suddenly when the thin slash of air created by metal swept through the dark, narrowly missing him as the Second extended its long fingers. The two Bad Men attacked him, and he narrowly missed all their attacks, ducking and dodging, finally darting behind a tent to escape them. The Second swept through the tent, charging after him as the Third leapt over the collapsed mess to join its brother.
Richie wasn’t sure where to go or what to do, looking over his shoulder to see them catching up easily–his ankle wrenched at that moment, sending him tumbling into a tent, separating material from pole. He reached out for some sort of support to get him back up, fingers curling automatically on the handle of a pot–he swept that up, intending to throw it at the Second when its claws slashed into the metal, catching; he took that moment to wrench the pot upward, taking the Second off its balance. He shoved it aside with both feet, sending it tumbling into the Third as it lurched into view. As he was scrambling to his feet, his fingers curled around a rifle–feeling incredibly lucky, he ran out from the tent, in utter disbelief that he’d escaped that situation. He looked up just in time to see the Sixth lunging at him; he turned, a foolish and yet lucky mistake–the club bounced right off his books, but sent him flying across the muddied dirt.
The Sixth tittered in a high-pitched voice, squealing, “You’re dead, now!”
It lunged at him, club held high–Richie turned onto his back, steadied the rifle, and fired–the blast sent the surprised demon back into the air, flying into the dirt with horrific screams of pain, convulsing as it clawed at the widening wound in its chest.
Richie didn’t hesitate this time–climbing hastily to his feet, he ran off for the light–realizing that fire had caught onto the tents, and were spreading thunderously throughout the camp, sending up a horrid smell as hide burned.
People were screaming, animals were shrieking–the demons were shouting at one another. He heard the various gunshots, and avoided those riding through the devastation–there were bodies throughout the damage, and he regretted seeing it. But he picked up various guns along the way, figuring they were all the same–hoping they were loaded. Hoping they wouldn’t jam. He wasn’t sure how many shots he’d have with the rifle, so he tossed it aside, fumbling with a long-range rifle.
He stumbled over the body of Turtle Moon–he wished that he’d had a chance to thank her for all that she’d done for him. Movement at the corner of his eye prompted him to look up, seeing the Third barreling toward him–he quickly propped the gun into a somewhat comfortable position and fired as soon as he had the chance; the demon sprawled into a tent, gurgling as streams of black liquid hit the air.
He tossed that rifle aside, and headed off, searching for a place to hide–there really wasn’t a place to run to, so he just ran straight ahead; leaving behind the devastation.
That next morning, cold and exhausted, Richie was walking back, following the stark black column that drifted into the cloudy sky. He’d run quite a distance last night, and his limp was more pronounced, his leg aching with every step–but there wasn’t a way he’d sit and rest. Not when it was so cold....not when he needed to know what had happened, last night.
He walked over the eastern sloping hill that overlooked the Indian camp and froze, a look of desolation on his face. From his advantage point, he could see that the entire place had been ripped apart; burnt; destroyed. Bodies lay everywhere; animals lay torn apart and broken. He stared in horror at the sight, taking in the utter destruction that had been wrought. The cold air made it difficult to smell, and for that he was somewhat thankful–but he held an arm against his nose and trudged downward, to investigate and search for survivors.
Staring in silence at the bodies he came to, he realized that despite the women, children and elderly immediate leave of the camp, they all had been dragged back and torn apart. The more he walked into the camp, the more bodies he came to. He gingerly stepped over entrails and shattered bones–over the strangled mess of animals that had been ripped apart like stuffed toys. Fire had spread from tent to tent, burning slowly–leaving behind a wretched smell. Blackened corpses littered the inside ring of the camp, grim faces stretched into thin, awkward smiles. He finally pulled back out, hurrying away from the camp–hardly able to stifle the heavy feelings of stress and shock that he felt upon seeing such a sight.
He was gasping for air, searching for something stable when his eyes caught on a lone figure and horse atop of the hill that had once overlooked the horses’ grazing grounds. He sucked in a breath, squinting to try and discern who it may be–then headed in that direction.
Once the horse looked back at him upon hearing his footfalls, Richie realized that he was looking at Hotstreak. The utter joy that shot through him was immense, and he felt more than uplifted upon knowing that this man had survived. He hurried along, pushing himself to go faster to meet up with him. The deadly silence of the area, once bustling with activity and sounds, was depressing. The stallion continued to stare at him, looking as dejected and forlorn as his master. His thick head drooped, neck seeming to be heavier than he could handle–Richie stared at the stallion cautiously before reaching their left side, the heavy jangle of his rifles finally catching Hotstreak’s attention.
Hotstreak looked down at him in surprise, and Richie stared up at him with surprise, as well. For it was obvious the big man was crying. There was no mistaking the redness of his eyes, the utterly defeated expression on his face. Being that of a redhead, there was no way he could hide the effects from anybody. It just seemed to make his skin more red, for the puffiness to stand out more.
Seeing this made Hotstreak more human, more like him. Not the cold, indifferent man he was treated to before. He looked away, with nothing to say; Richie continued staring up at him, feeling rather empty as he took in the silent tears, the way the redhead wiped his nose with a worn piece of cloth. Charger even allowed him close, not even bothering with nipping at him, or trying to step on him. Dejectedly, the stallion lowered his head, bowing deep as he, too, regarded the emptiness of the grazing grounds with sad eyes.
Richie fiddled with his short nails, then looked away–saying nothing, he wasn’t sure what to do or think as he stared over the fires that continued to burn. Once the wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of burnt bodies, he covered his nose with his arm, and began walking away. He eyed the camp apprehensively, wondering what those creatures wanted. Why they would kill so many without regard. He wondered where they went–they couldn’t have gone far...
Hotstreak looked over at him, still in the throes of the miserably depressed. He was waiting to feel the utter joy that he knew was there deep inside of him upon knowing that Richie was still alive, but it was heavily squashed by the weight of his depression as he looked upon the camp. He kept hearing Virgil’s words–“You kill all us off, now you gonna lead them to kill everyone else?”
Those creatures had killed every soul that had resided at that camp–they couldn’t get to him. He felt it unfair that they couldn’t kill him, but they killed every defenseless victim and proud warrior that they could. People he knew–people he laughed and joked with. People that had been friendly and welcoming–and they were dead because of him. All of them.
He felt wholly responsible for each and every death that was visible on those camp grounds. He couldn’t look at them, too shamed and suffocated by guilt to do so. But he felt responsibility–he should do something for them–but their scouts that patrolled their territory borders were out and about, and if they came back–
They’d be raring for a fight with him. And he didn’t want to fight them–but at the same time, he just wished someone would do him in, for all the murders he’d caused. All the needless deaths, all the destruction.
He stared off into the snow covered hills, sightless and deaf to everything around him. He felt that curdling deep inside–as if someone were sticking his insides and heart with a pitchfork. He felt entirely sick to the stomach once smelling the bodies that burned–he thought of the helpless victims that had been dragged out from their hiding places, slaughtered messily. Once the warriors went down, the others were easy pickings.
Bile crept up his throat, and he swallowed hard. He kept seeing the remains of children lying amongst the bodies of their mothers.
Blinking away the tears that continued to fall unhindered, he stared out at the snow covered mountains and wondered when it would just stop.
When he would stop having so many people killed because of his mistakes. For being alive.
The cold swept through him, abruptly reminding him that the elements were just as deadly. Looking up at the sky, he could see that another storm was coming in. Wordlessly, he wiped his face, twisting in the saddle to look back for Richie. He could see the blond moving about down below, pulling bodies toward the camp–making it easier for the others to find. Remembering that he’d been here longer, Hotstreak realized that Richie probably knew the others’ schedules. They were probably coming in, soon–and he didn’t want a confrontation. He didn’t want to kill anymore people.
He watched him work for a small while, then urged Charger down. The stallion went reluctantly, not liking the smells that were wafting their way. Fighting him for a bit, Hotstreak made sure he was more composed of himself–uncaring of what image he presented with his shedding of tears. Everything was just so pressing–! He felt like just ending it all with a gun barrel in the mouth, and doing away with it.
Richie stopped his work, looking up to see the stallion and man approach. Turning away from the old man’s body, he watched Hotstreak approach, shielding his eyes from the glare of the snow.
“The scouts will be back, soon. They’re supposed to trade off–”
“Let’s go,” Hotstreak interrupted gruffly, lightly surveying what was nearby, then looking away. Feeling wholly responsible for the slaughter.
Richie frowned, lowering his hand. “They’ll think we did it! I can’t just–I can explain to them–!”
“Don’t be fucking stupid!” Hotstreak snapped at him. “We’re white, dip-shit. They been fighting with whites since they set foot, here. They ain’t gonna believe us!”
“But–!”
“Get one of those fucking robes an’ let’s go! I don’t wanna be responsible for killin’ more of ‘em!”
Richie sullenly stared at him, refusing to budge. He didn’t think it was right to cut out, before they could explain what had happened to the entire camp. He felt that if he explained to the other warriors, they would be understood. He couldn’t quite understand Hotstreak’s reasoning to leave so abruptly–even though it made sense.
Hotstreak realized that Richie didn’t agree with him, and felt his face twist with maddened impatience. Instantly, Richie paled considerably, and he scurried off before Hotstreak could even follow through with any form of threatening.
Feeling absolutely low and devious, Richie snatched a buffalo robe off of a woman, whispering apologies and condolences as he did so. He removed the rifles from his back, setting them aside to carefully pull on the robe. His hands were shaking as he pulled it on, tying the ties that kept it together, making sure that there was enough hide to cover his head as a hood. Every movement he made was slow and deliberate–as if he were moving underwater.
He thought of Junior’s impatient anger, the way he’d slap and snarl at Richie if he were moving too slow, or questioning him too much. It was strange how much he missed the younger Alva–he felt so bad for allowing him to die the way that he had.
After all, despite his abuse, Junior had tried to keep him safe, and had provided safety for him–as limited as it was.
Slowly, with much aggravation to his leg, he began walking back to the stallion and man that was waiting for him; watching every movement. Sullenly, he pulled hide over his head in an attempt to hide his expression–yet he feared any sort of abuse from this man. He slung the rifles he had over one shoulder–clumsily adjusting the slings to fit his robe-covered frame.
Silently, Hotstreak held out a hand and helped him up onto the horse, Charger protesting the extra weight with a neighing noise, accompanied with the snapping of teeth toward Richie’s leg. Hotstreak sent a heel into his stomach, and the horse sullenly plodded forward, ignoring more orders to move faster.
He didn’t bother with looking at the devastated camp–keeping his head averted as Charger walked out from the area. Richie watched everything, mournful over the entire event–he kept seeing the creatures in his mind’s eye, detailing everything that he saw of them. Mentally examining every movement, every strength and weakness that the creatures displayed.
Awkwardly, he stretched his arms around Hotstreak to hold himself in place–unmindful of the hugging contact, just wanting to make sure he stayed on the horse. He leaned against his back, wincing briefly at the smell of Hound fur, and stared in silence as they walked on.
He didn’t know that Hotstreak was wholly grateful for the contact–the way he felt some comfort from the hug from behind. It just allowed him to continue to cry silently over all that had happened...because he felt it was his fault.
010101010110
Madelyne frowned as the First relayed his report. His telepathic abilities were just as clear as hers, just as vocal–she disliked the information that came from him, his beady red eyes staring into her with intense loyalty. Sitting nearby, Caine frowned.
He was stroking his chin, trying to place the images that the First relayed when he suddenly burst into laughter. “That one’s still living, eh?” he shouted, slapping his knee. “Dropped off the map, for awhile!”
Madelyne cast him an exasperated look, shifting out of the image of the teenage girl to that demonic form she’d transformed into, recently. The Seven Bad Men recoiled at the sight of her, hissing quietly amongst themselves as they eyed her with wary regard. Her four arms shifted restlessly as she moved, tittering her deformed voice as she played lightly with her stark bob of hair.
“That one, m’dear, was part of the boys that tried to rob our train. Haven’t seen nor heard from him, in a while. Thought he got hisself kilt a while back.” Caine delightfully recalled the rather sullen-faced redhead that had, along with Blayne, been a nuisance to their armies earlier on. But he frowned, gruffly clearing his throat. “You say he was with one of our troublemakers?”
The First nodded grimly, specifying his claims with mental images and words. Caine winced. “I simply hate when you all get into my head. Knock it off.”
“Deal with it, father,” Madelyne said sternly. “It’s the only way they communicate. I don’t care how much affection you have for this boy, I won’t have him around, doing this little Superman effort for someone that wants to destroy me! These people keep popping up–! I have a new group of men and women banding together just to play with the idea of my destruction! Knowing that I’m being targeted makes me mad, daddy! I want it to stop!”
Caine tried to suppress the raging headache that pounded at his thin temples. His ‘daughter’s’ whiny voice was starting to really pound away at his brain.
“Fine, fine. Do something about it. You’re the almighty one of darkness, honey.”
“I think I’m just going to ignore that one person–this group of others makes me wary. There’s so many popping up–!” Madelyne reached for the human-skin book nearby, clutching it to her chest with the shorter arms, apprehensively playing with her hair with the other two hands. “I hate this. This was supposed to be easy! Why is it taking so long?”
Caine sighed tiredly, dropping his head back. “Stop your whining...”
“I thought we’d be faster and better than this, daddy! I hate taking so long! We’re not even NEAR the East coast, yet!”
“I’m going for a walk, dear. Calm yourself. And, for the record, do you really want to let that one individual go? It’s going to bite you in the ass, one day, Mad. You might want to think about that.”
Madelyne huffed, staring at the Seven Bad Men with a contemplative look. She pointed at the First, Fourth, and Seventh. “Do something about it.”
The three nodded solemnly–as demons, they were hard to kill. Bullets wounded them, but hadn’t killed them. So far, nothing of their demise came close–humans were slain quickly under their talents.
The others looked about helplessly, waiting for orders.
“You four–do something about this group. Watch them, for me. Report to me on their doings, on who they pick up.”
As for Blood? The First asked curiously, his mental voice loud in her head.
“Um...well, I’m having that worked on,” Madelyne decided, a tone of uncertainty in her voice. She shooed them away. “Go!”
The three disappeared in puffs of brimstone and smoke, while the other four scurried off into the darkness. Worriedly, she shifted back into teenage form, biting her lowered lip. She opened the book that she’d held to her breast, shifting through the thin, yellowed pages until she reached the back section. She had the faces, and the names–but their talents were unknown, to her. They were the specified souls destined to bring her down, destined to slay her and restore order to the world of chaos she had wrought. She worried about them, but felt confident that her army would succeed. She scratched off four pictures and names–recently slain heroes that would never harm her again.
But the ones that were still living...she frowned at the various faces, pondering their roles in her fate.
There was the Knight, the Hero, the Wizard, the Magician–there was also the Hanging Man, the Star, the Ghoul-in-Disguise; there was the Queen, the Inventor, the Illusionist. So many different titles, so many different talents–all that, if combined, could severely hurt her. Could destroy her.
She lingered on the Sheep, the Coward, the Murderer–all titles that were deceptive to their true roles. They were titles that hid their main roles–these people were just as important as the Hero, the Knight, the Inventor; she wouldn’t take them lightly.
She already knew that all were aware of each other–they’d all already met in some way, or another. Thirteen souls that could overtake her army of hundreds of thousands–and only one was destined to kill her by his own hand alone. Supporting characters kept the main characters alive–she wasn’t sure which one to take down, first. The main characters were already starting to worry her in their roles–they just didn’t die. The supporting characters switched with each death, but they were always there. There was always another to fit that role that had been killed.
Sighing, she shut the book, then opened it–to figure out how to conjure more creatures, to figure out more plans. She would win–she was too competitive NOT to.