The Mercenaries’ Tale – 1.20 Escape from Abaddon
The pilot had returned with Jenkins the Binder, but he wasn’t in any state to bind. Someone had shot him through both palms, and the pilot had tied his sash around Jenkins’ hands to help stop the bleeding.
“It was that b-bitch you sent us after, with the guy in the jacket with the s-scar,” said Jenkins, pale with shock and blood loss. “T-too much for us l-level one and t-two guys to handle, I’ll be c-complaining about this to the G-Grand Mas-t-ter.”
“Quit your whining,” snapped Abaddon, “this isn’t some academic course, tick a few boxes and come out with an A grade. This is field work!”
“F-f-fuck f-field work,” quivered Jenkins angrily, “I’m going back to my b-books in the l-library, switch to a theory t-track.”
“Hmm,” replied Abaddon, disapprovingly. He glanced at Gratin just to make sure he wasn’t moving. They should be able to get away with just tying him up, and if they were to get him out of there before he woke up – but they had to kill Gratin’s friends, that was the problem. Why was it taking so long?
“Why is it taking so long to kill-” said Abaddon, only to be interrupted by two acolytes running along the deck from a nearby staircase.
“They’re all dead!” one of them cried. This was followed by a yelp as he was shot in the shoulder from behind. The other went down similarly. From the staircase emerged four figures. Abaddon groaned.
“Useless. Absolutely fucking useless,” he said, exasperated. “It’s a simple task, and not one of you fucking morons could complete it.” His fingers flexed, static crackled from the hand with the gauntlet. Jenkins frowned at it.
“H-hey, isn’t it against the r-rules of the Order to use t-technology to augment your p-power? The G-Grand Master wouldn’t approve!”
“Yes. Well perhaps I’ve outgrown the Order. In fact, given the state of your hands, and the sudden desire to no longer be in the field, I suspect they’ve outgrown the need for you.”
With no warning, Abaddon aimed his palm at Jenkins and fired a stream of electricity into the acolyte’s skull, which smoked and bubbled with the current. His eyes rolled backwards and began to drip down his cheeks as they melted. He burst into flame as death took him. Abaddon lowered his hand and raised the other. He made the flames dance brighter, lifting the burning carcass of Jenkins off of the ground. With a flick of his arm, the body flew across the air, bouncing off of a railing and disappearing down the side of the ship.
“Holy fuck!” said Benny the Ballache, summing up the display with one blunt exclamation.
“Quite,” said Abaddon. “So what can I do for you?”
“Firstly,” replied Doug, “you can let our mate Gratin go free.”
“That’s not going to happen. Brother Gratin here has places to be. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“There was a second thing,” said Doug, with conviction, “I think we’ll go straight to it. It’s the part where you fuck off and die.”
With no prompt, both Bert and Blaise opened fire on Abaddon. With a swipe of his hand, a wall of flame geysered up around him, the act looking like a theatrical pyrotechnic display. Points of intense blue flame were dotted around Abaddon. He snorted as pools of liquid metal formed in front of him, in front of the shield of fire. The bullets being fired at him were melting away.
“Who is this guy?!” yelled Bert over the gunfire.
Abaddon raised his gauntlet hand through the intense flame and blue spikes of energy danced on his fingers. A bolt of lightning cracked across the deck in a split second, earthing itself in the guns being fired at him. With a yelp, both Blaise and Bert dropped their guns. Bert shook his gun hand and rubbed it with the other, while Blaise looked at the black marks on her now smoking gloves. The guns plumed with smoke on the deck, the bullets having discharged themselves all at once due to the shock.
Abaddon’s shield of flame fell, like a curtain cut from its rail. Hearing the quick patter of footsteps to his left, he turned his head to see Doug barrelling towards him with intent. With one finger, he fired a small, sustaining arc of electricity into Doug’s arm. The merc growled as volts travelled into him, slowing his pace. His chest felt on fire, and he slowed to a stop and fell to his knees at Abaddon’s feet. The two suits and Blaise paused, captivated by what played out in front of them, out of ideas on how to contribute.
“Ha, well that was futile,” the mage mocked. Doug shuffled his normal hand around his boot and, with great effort, hauled himself up on to his feet. As part of the movement, his normal hand clicked the release button on the flick-knife he’d stolen from one of the mafia corpses earlier and stowed in his boot, and slipped it easily into Abaddon’s chest, as if returning a kitchen knife to its holder. The mage regarded this as one would regard a large bug at a picnic.
“That…usually buggers…most men up,” panted Doug, slightly crestfallen at the mage’s response. Abaddon pulled the knife out of his chest, admired his blood dripping from the end of it, and then jabbed the implement into Doug’s shoulder, just above the now useless bionic arm. He fed a small stream of current down the blade into Doug’s shoulder, and leaned his head forward towards Doug’s ear as the man creased up in agony.
“Here’s a hint: I am no mere man,” he whispered menacingly to the man in his grasp. Doug slid on to his hands and knees on the floor. With no indication of difficulty, the mage leant down, found a grip around Doug’s neck, and hoisted him into the air.
“As I said before, you must die,” announced Abaddon. Doug flailed in his grip, but the charges of electricity to his body had scrambled his brain and left his body in racked with pain. The best he could manage was an angry gurgle.
There was a loud crack, and Blaise flinched. She expected to open her eyes and see Doug’s head hanging limp from Abaddon’s grip. What she saw was the small (when compared to Abaddon’s stout size) and tense figure of Benny, holding what looked like a thin table leg, removed from one of the nearby deck tables. The leg was bent at a sharp 90-degree angle over Abaddon’s head, and he was still holding one end of it. The mage’s nostrils flared as he sighed, giving the mobster a thousand-mile glare. Benny let go of the leg, and it remained sat on the mage’s head. He cleared his throat and loosened his tie, looking at Bert for advice. Bert shrugged. Looking back at Abaddon, Benny grinned and chuckled nervously.
“Hey man,” he said, “I don’t even know these assholes.”
In one motion Abaddon grabbed the wood sitting on his head with his free hand, set it alight in his fingers and flung it at Benny, catching the mobster around the midsection and knocking him to the floor. Panting and whooping, Benny rolled around and tried to pat out the fire on his suit.
“Pathetic,” growled Abaddon. “Is this really what my Brother here calls ‘company’? Now stop that.”
He said this to Doug who, although looking far from well, was digging inside his jacket with his human hand. Abaddon gripped Doug’s sleeve with his free hand and forcefully pulled it out of the leather. Expecting to see a gun, he instead saw a slightly crumpled cigarette between Doug’s fingers. Astonished, he let go of Doug’s hand. Still dangling from Abaddon’s gloved hand, the merc slowly placed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a light, mate?” asked Doug, his voice a low wheeze.
“Smoking will kill you,” said Abaddon, “or at least I will. I suppose one last wish is in order.”
With one finger he carefully lit the end of Doug’s cigarette, and the merc took a long toke, expelling the smoke from his mouth and nostrils.
“Anything else for the dead man?” asked the mage.
“I’m fine, ta,” Doug said in a low tone, “just wanted to have something to chew on while watching my mate hand your arse to you.”
Abaddon’s brow creased into confusion, his eyes darting over the other three people on the deck, excluding the air mage. Realisation dawned, and he looked down to see Gratin’s toes and fingers all waggling.
“Oh fuck-” was all he managed when, within his field of view, a small can rolled in front of him. It exploded, and his world was filled with light, and then pain as a heavy metal fist dislocated his nose. He let go of the heavy weight in his hands and began firing flame and electricity around him in a panic, unaware of what was going on.
“I’m blind, you bastards, I’ll kill you all,” he howled, aware of footsteps around him but unable to see. The pure white in his vision began to fade after some furious blinks, and he discovered that, between the spots, he couldn’t see anyone, including the air mage. Turning around completely, he saw Gratin was still lying there on the floor. He hurried towards the prone figure, wiping blood from his mouth, and walked into an invisible wall. Beating against it with one fist, he could make out the slightest of a green tinge in front of him.
“Your friends are gone. You cannot save yourself, Brother,” he sneered with glee.
“Neither can you,” said Gratin. All his fingers and toes stretched outwards, all at once, as if Gratin had suddenly been shocked. Recognising the gesture, Abaddon looked around himself, and then down at his feet. The floor in a circle around him was almost bright red with intense energy.
“Oh very good, Brother,” admitted Abaddon. There was a loud bang, a cloud of smoke and a sudden burst of flame, and Abaddon was no longer standing there. Off in the distance, a small figure flailed in midair, completely wreathed in green fire.
The mercs, the suits and the air mage emerged from the staircase, the mage being led at gunpoint by Bert and Doug being carried on the shoulders of Benny and Blaise.
“This guy’s fuckin’ heavy,” complained Benny.
“Suh-sorry,” slurred Doug, drool escaping the corner of his mouth and streaking a sticky line down the front of his jacket. He felt limp and looked tired, his head nodding back and forth and eyes lolling back and forth in their sockets. He gasped as Blaise pulled the flick-knife out of his shoulder and pocketed it.
Gratin picked himself up off of the floor and dusted himself off as the crowd drew close. He reached out his hands and grasped Doug’s head, examining it.
“Int-interesting technique, mate,” Doug managed to grunt out. “Did-didn’t look stu-stupid at…all.”
Doug passed out, Gratin let go of his head and it fell forward.
“He’ll be fine,” said the mage. “He just needs rest. Can I suggest we make our swift exit most hastily?”
“What’s the rush?” said Benny, grunting as he shouldered Doug into a more comfortable position, the metal arm wrapped around his neck. “Apart from getting this lummox offa me, and leavin’ before the ship burns up?”
Gratin simply pointed over his shoulder. Everyone turned to look, and saw the flaming speck plummeting in the distance was slowing. It stopped its descent, and then appeared to get bigger and bigger in size.
“Shit!” blurted Benny.
“Time to go!” announced Blaise. Bert poked his gun into the air mage pilot, who waved his hands dismissively.
“Yeah yeah, I’m not going to give you any trouble.” The air mage led the way into the aircraft sat nearby. “Heck, that asshole’s so far off the deep end, he’ll probably just smite me out of rage when he gets here.”
“Consider it incentive,” reassured Bert sarcastically.
Inside the craft, Blaise and Benny slumped Doug’s unconscious form on to one of the benches built for ten, while the air mage took seat behind the controls. Bert took his place at the mage’s side in the cockpit, gun still drawn in case the magic user got any funny ideas. A couple of pang noises from the rear of the craft caused all the occupants to startle their heads in that direction. Gratin stood at the doorway, arm outstretched. A green glow in front of him deflected two big fireballs with the same pang noise.
“He’s almost here,” remarked Gratin with a degree of practiced indifference. The air mage levered the thrusters into gear and the craft hovered for a moment before taking off at sudden speed.
Blaise joined Gratin at the doorway, leaning out while hanging on to one of the straps alongside the door built as emergency grips. She could see Abaddon gaining on them, streaking in flame and fire headfirst towards them like some ballistic fireball, an angry snarl on his face.
“He’s going to catch up,” she observed. Gratin nodded.
“Undoubtedly.”
“Can’t you do something?” she asked. Gratin bowed his head.
“Abaddon is at terminal power right now, and I am weakened. I can offer minimal protection spells. Apologies, mistress.”
Blaise bit her lip, and then marched around the craft, looking for something, anything she could use.
“Don’t you have any guns or explosives on board?” she called out. The air mage chuckled.
“Not much call for that sort of thing with magic users, I’m afraid.”
On the bench, Doug groaned and rolled himself over. His limp metal arm caught against something with a tinny clang. Blaise looked to see what he’d caught himself against.
“A fire extinguisher,” she said to herself. She leant down and carefully un-tucked it from behind Doug’s arm. “What is it with you and fire extinguishers, McCracken?” she muttered to her unconscious colleague with a chuckle. “Still, not one of your worse ideas.”
“That mighta worked with the guy’s cronies,” Benny said, still sat on the bench along from Doug and gripping one of the hand straps above him, “but that piddly thing’s not gonna work ‘gainst that guy out there!”
“Didn’t you pay attention during science class?” Blaise replied, removing something within her coat whilst knelt next to the canister. The noise of Velcro loosening implied she was tearing off a strip off something secreted inside her coat.
“Nope, did you?” said Benny.
“I may have used to bunk off. When I even went to school, that is. Actually, I learnt a lot from friends of mine.”
She removed a black woven canvas strip from her coat, the most notable thing about it being the two smaller metallic canisters held in two loops within the strip. She wrapped the strip around the canister and secured the Velcro, so the two canisters were attached to the big extinguisher. Gripping the handle on the canister she stepped over to the door of the aircraft and placed the extinguisher down. With a quick series of hand movements manipulating bits retrieved from her coat, a couple of snaps and clicks, her rifle materialised in her hands. She nodded at the fire extinguisher when Gratin gave her a blank look.
“Throw it at him,” she stated. Gratin shrugged.
“My pleasure, mistress.” He hefted the extinguisher with one hand and flung it spinning into the air. Before gravity could pull it away it became wrapped in a green glow, and then straightened out before firing towards Abaddon like a bullet. Gratin held his hand out at the projectile, guiding it.
Blaise took a deep breath, removed her hat and stepped forward, perching against the doorway as the wind ripped around her.
“Step out a little further,” said Gratin. “I’ve got you, mistress.”
Blaise bit her lip and did so, casting her foot over nothing. It found solid purchase on a transparent green platform. Kneeling down, she aimed, following the canister. The world flying past her, hair and coat tussled with the wind, she retreated into her rifle scope, her own little world.
Abaddon saw the canister flying at him, and held out a hand in preparation to blast it out of his way. He wouldn’t let something so trifling stop him now, he could see the airship, Brother Gratin standing in the doorway and one of his stupid insignificant friends alongside him with a gun. The woman with red hair. She looked like a scared little girl. A little girl. The little girl.
Blaise could see Abaddon glaring at her as he flew head first at them, his expression changing briefly from rage to mild confusion. She took her shot.
The bullet struck one of the napalm grenades strapped to the extinguisher, which ignited the canister, and in turn ignited the flash grenade strapped to the other side of it. Abaddon flew into a bright ball of intense light, heat and shrapnel. Appearing the other side of the sudden burst of light and energy, he plummeted, spiralling towards the ground miles below. He was a fireball, every inch of him covered in smoke and flames.
“That, Gratin, is why you never keep a chemical fire extinguisher on an aircraft,” said Blaise, stepping back inside the craft and replacing her hat on her head. Gratin nodded in agreement.
“They’ll blame me for that,” groaned the air mage to Bert, having overheard the mercenary behind them. “Unless I can somehow prove that the guys in maintenance have been ordering the wrong equipment.”
“To be honest, pal, I think you’ve got bigger fuckin’ worries right now,” said Bert, disinterested in the air mage’s problems.
“Er, right. Where to?” the mage asked.
“Galmanoc,” said Blaise, replacing the rifle’s components into her coat. She looked at the two mafia men. “That alright with you two?”
“Sure, let’s go to a city in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere,” replied Benny sarcastically. “Why not, it’s not like we’ve got anywhere else to go now.”
“Ignore him,” said Bert. “We’ll make a few calls once we’re docked, figure some things out. Let the guys know back at home that we’re down to a skeleton crew.”
“I suppose I should say sorry for what me and Doug did,” sighed Blaise, eyes fixed on the unconscious form on the bench nearby. Doug’s impromptu sleep looked far from peaceful.
“Ahh, forget about it. Whatcha gonna do?” said Benny, waving a hand dismissively.
—
Agony, and pain. Intense burning, outside and in. Seeing red.
What was left of Abaddon hauled itself on to its haunches, and sat upright in the middle of the large black round smear that marked his impact on the sand. It screamed at the sky, a howl of solid anger. Every inch of him was red and black. Most of his clothing had been burned away, and his flesh hadn’t fared too well either. Just him and miles of desert. Failed in his mission, because of Gratin. And the girl, he knew the girl. It was her fault. And the man, the curious idiot with the metal arm and the knife and the cigarette, his fault too. All three would pay, feel his wrath.
“Brother Gratin,” Abaddon whispered in a guttural drawl to the world, “I think it will take going rogue to catch a rogue. Perhaps it is time to become a mercenary. It’s not over yet…”
Post by Sean Patrick Payne | November 17, 2013 at 12:00 pm | The Mercenaries' Tale | No comment
Tags: Abaddon, airships, Benny 'the Ballache' Spigotoli, Bert Benolli, Blaise, Doug McCracken, Gratin, magic and mages, the Galactic Finders of the Tserulian Monastery, the Mercs