January 16, 2006. Mendel, Louisiana.
He remembered the fire, the sweltering heat and the smoke that wrapped around his throat like a noose and choked the air from his lungs. Oh, the smoke; the smoke may have been the worst of the entire ordeal, worse than the heat or dryness or the blinding light that singed his corneas and penetrated into the deepest recesses of his memory banks. It was the smoke that lunged at Peter's eyes like a hundred-headed viper and clogged his throat and made him beg to a God he didn't know existed for mercy. Trapped under the burning beam that night, he swore he saw someone standing above him, staring down with a mixture of pity and disgust. You have lived poorly he could hear it say You have been nothing to society but a nuisance, and this is your reward; this is Hell. He screamed for help with the remaining air left in his lungs and clawed desperately at the beam across his chest as the figure stared from up above. The smoke appeared as robes around his killer's obscure face.
Peter begged for mercy. He wailed at the tops of his lungs, but no one came. All of his friends had deserted him. Who would blame them? He hoped that they didn't dare to come to his side and save him, for if they did, perhaps they too would meet the eyes of the shadowy man. Something primordial in his gut told Peter that this man was Death, but he knew better; it was not the eyes of any grim reaper that stared down at his burning face; it was the condescending glare of his father. Oh, Peter. the figure said to him You have always been such a screwup. This doesn't surprise me. He heard more cracking from the ceiling. Another beam came tumbling, just barely missing Peter's head and crushing the floor below him. As he fell, the figure continued to stare, following him through the smoke.
What a damned screwup you were, boy! A screwup! Peter screamed, and the world turned away from him.
Blood splattered on an asphalt road. Shattered glass and twisted metal littered the street, and the remains of a motorcycle smoked in a burning heap. The car hadn't even bothered to stop. She lay in a pool of her own blood, her hands desperately pressed against her thoat to staunch the bleeding. Oh, my God. she thought to herself So. Much. Blood. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh my God. I'm dying. Oh my God no please. I'm dying there's no-ohmygod-stop, please stop bleeding. Her chest heaved as the clung onto life, attempting to block the waterfall of blood pouring from her carotid artery. The sirens in the distance whirred and pulsed in her beating eardrums, but she knew they would be too late. She was a dead woman if one had ever existed. The pain was gone now; her heart now pumped adrenaline like octane fuel, and as she clutched her bleeding throat she began to pull herself out of the road with her left arm. If only it would work now. If only...
She began to disintegrate before her eyes. Her skin smoked like the fires of Hell, and soon she found herself weightless. She was floating high above the city, high above the scene of the crime. She could see that the vehicle that had caused her all this pain. And she hated. But now was not the time for hatred. She stared across the Mississippi River, above the burning buildings and rioters in the streets, over to the hospital. She willed herself to catch a passing breeze, and the zephyr pushed her across the water and closer to her destination. Slowly she descended, the dust that was her body spinning around her like a twister. She came to rest at the door of the emergency room, and rematerialized. The blood began to flow again, and she blacked out.
November 8, 2014
Once more the streets of Mendel burned and screams emanated from every alleyway and window. They stood about twenty yards apart, weapons drawn and ready to fight. Whisper stood at the ready, her sword in hand and in striking position. A red bandana tied around her neck like a choker hit the wounds from all those nights before. That time was over; now it was time to prevent it from happening again. Across from her, Skeleton crossed his arms across his chest. Behind the protective veil of his skull balaclava, he was composed, confident, and ready for his revenge. It was her fault that he was like this, that he could not show his face. She caused these scars, not a phantom in the dust. He balled his fists, and stomped at the earth. The asphalt below his foot cracked. A car not far away exploded, and more screams echoed down the street.
"It ends here!" he yelled, his raspy voice resonating in his heaving chest. Whisper remained silent, choosing to speak with her blade rather than her damaged voice. Vocal chord damage, no cure. She closed her eyes gently, and vanished into dust. Skeleton waited, his eyes, hidden behind the sunglasses, following the trail of dust as she reappeared above him, her sword held above her like the scythe of Death Himself. Skeleton swung a bonecrushing uppercut towards the sword, and the two met in the middle. The screech of metal could be heard streets over. The battle had begun.
From the makers of Academy 218 comes City of Gold, a war for vengeance in a world of unforgiving hatred. Two rival gangs, one city of freaks. Blood has been spilled, and now it must be paid for.
