by Gold Baron
The lights on either side of the street flickered and went out. A dark fog seemed to hang over the street, and frost formed on the car windows. A stream of crimson flowed down from the air and, with a tearing flash, exploded into a brilliant array like the budding of a flower. The crimson spread out over the buildings and cars and flowed down like a river of blood, forming into a massive cape, concealing the figure as it slammed down hard onto the roof of a car, smashing it utterly.
The figure stood slowly and sheathed something blue on its back. All at once, the fog and a certain surreal effect disappeared, and the lights flickered back on. The figure wore brilliant armor that shone like a mirror in the moonlight, yet it was clouded, tarnished in some way, like a dark cloud hung over it. The figure's face was entirely concealed by the high rising collar of the cape, which writhed about behind him like a living mass, flowing over the cars like great wings, a wraith to the petrified who beheld it.
It moved in strong strides, with purposeful, intent eyes glowing out of the darkness of his figure, set upon the carnage laid across the city. Chicago was in ruin, and it called to him.
He drew out once again the blue sword. It seemed to pull in the light all around it, and the black top bubbled under its heat. With a flash, a looting metahuman fell to the ground in a pathetic heap. Onlookers could only shut their eyes to the blinding light and cover their ears as the screech of the blade pierced their ear drums. What horror had been unleashed?
All any survivors in Chicago had seen was a blue strike in the sky, like a bolt of lightning. The dim sky contorted and twisted in a shadow and quickly returned to normal. A heap of would-be assailants was left below on the street in a gruesome ring of death. Some were torn open horribly, as if by some brutish but refined blade. Some had gaping bullet holes in their cavities that need not be mentioned further.
The ground was sunk in at the middle of the ring, and flames seemed to have licked the buildings and cars. The blacktop was glossy, as if newly paved. One had to turn away from the scene, and it quickly faded from their minds, never to haunt a dream or a passing thought.
The figure stood up slowly in a side alley of London. A swirl of shadows, and the returning street lamps revealed a man roughly in his fifties, although seemingly untouched by age, save for a splash of gray hair, and cloaked in a heavy, white trench coat with strange red symbols on the shoulders. He wore glossy, black leather gloves and high riding boots to match, with what appeared to be a black, bulletproof vest.
He walked casually down the street, his heavy boots drowning out the click of a gun's action, two to be exact. He was in need of information. He was not ready to reveal himself yet, but he was sure a presence was already noticed, at least by someone, maybe a group. No, he could only hope.
He slipped silently along the docks. He was not positive what it was, but he had a good hunch. The sword on his back rattled ceaselessly in its sheath. "Be silent," he said under his breath, but to no avail.
He pushed aside his coat and drew out a second sword, or at least part of one, from his hip. It was extremely ornate, shaped like a dragon, with a gaping mouth at the hilt. The blade was broken off a few inches down. The sword on his back seemed to squeal and then let out a sigh, like a long wail from a banshee.
"No use causing too much more damage, my friend." He reached into a small pouch on his belt, with more than half his arm disappearing into its endless depths, and pulled out a fiery red stone that swirled like a storm inside and placed it in the dragon's mouth. Instantly it grew hot, and the blade burst into flames, adding another three feet to the broken blade.
The man known as Christopher Trinity, the Gold Baron, surveyed the warehouse. A line of windows broke the sloping roof, which continued down below them to its completion. He jumped lightly to the roof, his coat falling down about him like the wings of a foul creature, and crouched, watching the scene unfold below.
A stout, brutish-looking man roughly six-foot-five peered down at his boss. "I don't like this. Why are we trying to lure him in, anyway?"
The boss looked down his nose as if he were looking down at the man like the dirt on the bottom of his shoe, but his stature made that impossible. His features were sharp and dark, with small beady eyes completing the typical evil complex. "You fool, don't you understand how valuable those -- hrm -- that merchandise is? We would never have to be run out by larger gangs again!"
The brutish man stared into space above his boss' head as though he was trying to understand what was just said. "We could, uh... we could have our territory back?"
The boss sneered and stepped forward, grabbing the brute's ear and pulling him down to his level. "Why do I work with such nearsighted idiots? We could take the whole world, the whole universe! Now get into your places. He should be here any minute, if I know him correctly."
He nodded to the gunmen standing near, and they stepped back into the shadows of the large crates that filled the warehouse. His sharp features contorted into a sly smile as he watched the young woman kick violently, hanging high in the air, gagged and bound.
A crashing sound filled the air as glass fell down all about them. The sharp-featured one caught a movement in the corner of his eye. He wheeled on his heels just in time to see the large man fall to his knees, clutching his throat, crimson pouring out from between his fingers.
The boss stepped back uneasily and snapped his fingers. He began to doubt his plan. The shadows lit up with muzzle flashes as a hail of bullets rained all over the warehouse. The shadow blurred and appeared behind a gunman, whose eyes went wide, and he fell to the ground with a crunch, his head twisted backwards.
The other four gunmen ran out of their hiding places, firing a hail of bullets, pausing only for a brief second as they dropped the empty magazines in tandem to reload. One never got a chance, as a crack whipped him backward. He glanced down to see the gaping hole in his chest, but he never got a chance to see his missing back as he fell into eternity.
The shadow stepped out, a machine gun in hand. The gunmen's machine guns clicked as the slide knocked home a bullet in the chamber, and then bullets fell like rain in a thunderstorm, blowing apart crates and sending splinters of wood everywhere, but the shadow was already gone.
The boss teetered out from behind a sturdy steel box, his eyes dilated as they beheld the scene. He looked up to see the empty rope swinging back and forth. "Who are you..?" he whispered.
The voice came back in his mind. "I am death, come for thee."
The woman could not fight the swimming feeling in her head. She lay still, flat on her back, for a time as her surroundings spun around her. She rolled onto her side and threw up on her own floor. Her vision cleared, and she found herself laying on her own bed, in her own room, in her own apartment.
She fainted as the curtains blew in the open window. A watchful shadow passed out of her room, disappearing into the London fog.
The End