“During the Frost War, Kai and I were in the same unit: the 48th RRF.”
“Ah, the Dire Wolves,” Oliver remarked. If his legs were fully functional, the surprise might have put Jackson back a few paces. Instead, he just cocked a brow. Either the old man was an amateur historian or a telepath, the giant thought. “You boys had quite the reputation,” he continued, rather mysteriously. Maybe he really was a ‘Wizard’.
“How did you…?”
The once-detective of Central City flashed a broken grin. “2nd Autonomous,” he explained, “…mechanized.” He flipped over his limp arm to expose his ink-touched wrist. The tattoo had faded a bit since the war; a monoeyed skull, crossed with a bone. Though barely visible, the handwriting below read ‘Cyclops Squadron’.
From the titan’s maw came a deep, thunderous laughter. “And I thought Frost killed most of you metalheads. Guess we underestimated you.”
The two lost themselves to hard-capped stories of the frontlines, trapped in war nostalgia. It was fitting too as the pair looked as though they'd just been through a war. The Wizard’s left arm was now appropriately placed in a sling, while bandages from the laboratory stopped the bleeding from his chest-wound. Jackson too, was looking like a broken action figure. He had re-set his fractured leg but the other was beyond saving for now. Once he got off the island, he would need a good doctor and a better physiotherapist. But for now, a wooden staff (borrowed from a tree) would have to suffice. Despite their menacing appearances, they carried on like old acquaintances at a pub, for a good fourty minutes.
Until it came into sight: Olde Town.
“We’re here.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. ‘Why the hell does everyone say that?’
The pair advanced at a staggered pace, toward what looked to be a Ghost Town. They kept their eyes sharp, and their ears open; not sure what to anticipate from the ominously dead location.
Quite suddenly, though, the abandoned city lit up like the fourth of July; and the warriors were bathed in an orange hue from the distant explosion. “Looks like they started the party without us,” the old man muttered; half-eager, half-exhausted. “And y’said my friends’ll be here?”
Jackson nodded.
The FoF contestant squinted at the battered buildings, trying to see some figures through the smoke and debris. If that party of misfits was still alive—and he had a hunch they were—then that meant they had gone on without him, leaving him to die in the collapsing water processing plant. The Wizard should have been sore about this, but he wasn’t. Oddly, he smiled.
---
The grinding of tires against gravel caught their attention, as they moved closer the city. It was coming from … behind them? Yes, but a little more to the east, Oliver observed. It was a combat jeep. There was a long barrel on top of the vehicle that looked like it could be mounted. Sitting on a recoil-absorption pad, it looked like … “A coilgun. Fuck.” Oliver knew that neither of them were in the condition to dodge rail shells. He looked to his newfound comrade, Jackson Pride.
“Don’t worry, I know them,” the larger man assured him, “Let me talk to them. Maybe we can get some intel on what’s going on here.”
The Wizard gazed at the armored car with a furrowed brow. His gut instinct was telling him this was a bad idea, but he trusted the human tank at his right. If Pride thought it okay to approach these blokes then it meant Kai was keeping his footmen uninformed. “One of us should be dead, Pride, and you better hope they don’t know that. Otherwise, that machine gun might turn us into ground beef.”
“If that happens, I won’t get my rematch.... and there’s no way in HELL I’m letting that happen.” He replied, massive teeth exposed in a grin. He snapped his fingers, sending his four-legged friend away, as he approached the vehicle.
"Hey, over here!" the giant roared, waving the driver over.
Little did they know, these guards had some baggage, and their names were Ashe and Sage...
“Ah, the Dire Wolves,” Oliver remarked. If his legs were fully functional, the surprise might have put Jackson back a few paces. Instead, he just cocked a brow. Either the old man was an amateur historian or a telepath, the giant thought. “You boys had quite the reputation,” he continued, rather mysteriously. Maybe he really was a ‘Wizard’.
“How did you…?”
The once-detective of Central City flashed a broken grin. “2nd Autonomous,” he explained, “…mechanized.” He flipped over his limp arm to expose his ink-touched wrist. The tattoo had faded a bit since the war; a monoeyed skull, crossed with a bone. Though barely visible, the handwriting below read ‘Cyclops Squadron’.
From the titan’s maw came a deep, thunderous laughter. “And I thought Frost killed most of you metalheads. Guess we underestimated you.”
The two lost themselves to hard-capped stories of the frontlines, trapped in war nostalgia. It was fitting too as the pair looked as though they'd just been through a war. The Wizard’s left arm was now appropriately placed in a sling, while bandages from the laboratory stopped the bleeding from his chest-wound. Jackson too, was looking like a broken action figure. He had re-set his fractured leg but the other was beyond saving for now. Once he got off the island, he would need a good doctor and a better physiotherapist. But for now, a wooden staff (borrowed from a tree) would have to suffice. Despite their menacing appearances, they carried on like old acquaintances at a pub, for a good fourty minutes.
Until it came into sight: Olde Town.
“We’re here.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. ‘Why the hell does everyone say that?’
The pair advanced at a staggered pace, toward what looked to be a Ghost Town. They kept their eyes sharp, and their ears open; not sure what to anticipate from the ominously dead location.
Quite suddenly, though, the abandoned city lit up like the fourth of July; and the warriors were bathed in an orange hue from the distant explosion. “Looks like they started the party without us,” the old man muttered; half-eager, half-exhausted. “And y’said my friends’ll be here?”
Jackson nodded.
The FoF contestant squinted at the battered buildings, trying to see some figures through the smoke and debris. If that party of misfits was still alive—and he had a hunch they were—then that meant they had gone on without him, leaving him to die in the collapsing water processing plant. The Wizard should have been sore about this, but he wasn’t. Oddly, he smiled.
---
The grinding of tires against gravel caught their attention, as they moved closer the city. It was coming from … behind them? Yes, but a little more to the east, Oliver observed. It was a combat jeep. There was a long barrel on top of the vehicle that looked like it could be mounted. Sitting on a recoil-absorption pad, it looked like … “A coilgun. Fuck.” Oliver knew that neither of them were in the condition to dodge rail shells. He looked to his newfound comrade, Jackson Pride.
“Don’t worry, I know them,” the larger man assured him, “Let me talk to them. Maybe we can get some intel on what’s going on here.”
The Wizard gazed at the armored car with a furrowed brow. His gut instinct was telling him this was a bad idea, but he trusted the human tank at his right. If Pride thought it okay to approach these blokes then it meant Kai was keeping his footmen uninformed. “One of us should be dead, Pride, and you better hope they don’t know that. Otherwise, that machine gun might turn us into ground beef.”
“If that happens, I won’t get my rematch.... and there’s no way in HELL I’m letting that happen.” He replied, massive teeth exposed in a grin. He snapped his fingers, sending his four-legged friend away, as he approached the vehicle.
"Hey, over here!" the giant roared, waving the driver over.
Little did they know, these guards had some baggage, and their names were Ashe and Sage...
[SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
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