War stood in the simulation room alone. All capture equipment, recording devices, and viewports were shut.
He was alone. This wasn't his daily War Game. No exercise for his troops. This was his. His self indulgent time.
"Servant." War's voice was more vengeful than usual. As it was every month he went through this program. "Run program Beta Nine. Highest difficulty, melee weaponry only."
In moments, the holographic simulation began.
Agent Nine of the Freelancer Program stood before him. His knife was drawn. He slowly paced around War, knife drawn.
"...Dangerous, you jack of hearts." War did not draw his blade, as he followed the simulated Nine's gaze. "With your words, the Riot starts."
War's eyes, beneath his helmet, were glistening red. He could feel the heat of his hatred for the young man, and everything he stood for, boiling over.
War charged. His fist came forward like a force of nature. Nine ducked and rolled aside.
"All my children came here POOR. Clamoring for better. Wanting more. But you, what do you stand for?!"
War turned, and swung his fists, battering Nine's visor, denting it.
"CHAOS. FREEDOM."
Nine backed away, dazed, as War seized his arm and yanked him forward, clothes-lining him.
"I did not become their Lord, just to FALL upon YOUR sword. Done in by some foolish boy. Without me, WHO WOULD LEAD THEM?!"
War pinned Nine underneath his knee, and reached down, seizing his throat.
"WHO lays all the best laid plans?! Who protects humanity from ALIEN HANDS?! ME! It always has been!!!"
He heard Nine choking. He heard blood bubbling beneath War's thumbs as he dug them in. War let go, and started swinging his fists.
"Every COWARD seems courageous when they hide in a crowd."
His knuckles bent in Nine's visor. Soon it popped underneath his hands altogether.
"Bravery can be contagious, when the band is playing loud."
War grinned. Nine had no such allies here. His braying fans, his plucky allies, weren't here to save him. No turncoat Daniel, and no fence sitting Manuel.
Not this time.
"Nothing makes a man so bold," War looked into Nine's helmet, yanking it off. Nine spat blood, his good eye cut and closed, and his prosthetic broken and sparking. War drew the picture of Lucy that Nine kept in his helmet. "As a woman’s smile and a hand to hold." War tore the picture with his teeth, watching the despair in his silent, dying rival's eyes.
"But all alone, your luck runs out." War now drew his sword. Nine stood, rolling onto his stomach, attempting to stand.
War seized the back of Nine's head, and squeezed.
He never knew he possessed such strength. Between the throes of victory and the nadir of rage. In the heat of battle, he was the most powerful warrior alive.
He felt bones shift and break beneath his hand. Nine stopped moving, and he swung his blade.
Clean decapitation. War smiled, as he tossed the head over his shoulder.
The simulation ended, and he stepped out of the room, sheathing his sword.
As he stepped into the hallway, he removed his helmet. His eyes were dull and flat. Drained.
One of his personal guardsmen stepped beside him, having dutifully guarded the door. "Sir, the Freelancer forces are engaging the enemy on Requiem. Their Agents One and Nine have requested audience with you regarding your war efforts."
"I care not. Keep them out of my sight." War growled.
"...And out of my MIND."
War, internally, contemplated his growing power.
What it meant to have a TRUE enemy. Something that itched in the back of his mind.
How ironic. He's making me stronger after-all. War allowed himself a brief smirk of amusement. I suppose it IS in his nature.
He was alone. This wasn't his daily War Game. No exercise for his troops. This was his. His self indulgent time.
"Servant." War's voice was more vengeful than usual. As it was every month he went through this program. "Run program Beta Nine. Highest difficulty, melee weaponry only."
In moments, the holographic simulation began.
Agent Nine of the Freelancer Program stood before him. His knife was drawn. He slowly paced around War, knife drawn.
"...Dangerous, you jack of hearts." War did not draw his blade, as he followed the simulated Nine's gaze. "With your words, the Riot starts."
War's eyes, beneath his helmet, were glistening red. He could feel the heat of his hatred for the young man, and everything he stood for, boiling over.
War charged. His fist came forward like a force of nature. Nine ducked and rolled aside.
"All my children came here POOR. Clamoring for better. Wanting more. But you, what do you stand for?!"
War turned, and swung his fists, battering Nine's visor, denting it.
"CHAOS. FREEDOM."
Nine backed away, dazed, as War seized his arm and yanked him forward, clothes-lining him.
"I did not become their Lord, just to FALL upon YOUR sword. Done in by some foolish boy. Without me, WHO WOULD LEAD THEM?!"
War pinned Nine underneath his knee, and reached down, seizing his throat.
"WHO lays all the best laid plans?! Who protects humanity from ALIEN HANDS?! ME! It always has been!!!"
He heard Nine choking. He heard blood bubbling beneath War's thumbs as he dug them in. War let go, and started swinging his fists.
"Every COWARD seems courageous when they hide in a crowd."
His knuckles bent in Nine's visor. Soon it popped underneath his hands altogether.
"Bravery can be contagious, when the band is playing loud."
War grinned. Nine had no such allies here. His braying fans, his plucky allies, weren't here to save him. No turncoat Daniel, and no fence sitting Manuel.
Not this time.
"Nothing makes a man so bold," War looked into Nine's helmet, yanking it off. Nine spat blood, his good eye cut and closed, and his prosthetic broken and sparking. War drew the picture of Lucy that Nine kept in his helmet. "As a woman’s smile and a hand to hold." War tore the picture with his teeth, watching the despair in his silent, dying rival's eyes.
"But all alone, your luck runs out." War now drew his sword. Nine stood, rolling onto his stomach, attempting to stand.
War seized the back of Nine's head, and squeezed.
He never knew he possessed such strength. Between the throes of victory and the nadir of rage. In the heat of battle, he was the most powerful warrior alive.
He felt bones shift and break beneath his hand. Nine stopped moving, and he swung his blade.
Clean decapitation. War smiled, as he tossed the head over his shoulder.
The simulation ended, and he stepped out of the room, sheathing his sword.
As he stepped into the hallway, he removed his helmet. His eyes were dull and flat. Drained.
One of his personal guardsmen stepped beside him, having dutifully guarded the door. "Sir, the Freelancer forces are engaging the enemy on Requiem. Their Agents One and Nine have requested audience with you regarding your war efforts."
"I care not. Keep them out of my sight." War growled.
"...And out of my MIND."
War, internally, contemplated his growing power.
What it meant to have a TRUE enemy. Something that itched in the back of his mind.
How ironic. He's making me stronger after-all. War allowed himself a brief smirk of amusement. I suppose it IS in his nature.
Inspired by Hadestown, an album by Anais Mitchell.
