Last Man Standing

by AngusEcrivain

The Multiverse is a funny thing and such are the truly endless, infinite possibilities, events rarely play out the way one might expect.

One minute you might be swigging coffee in your local trademarked coffee house or fighting on the front lines of a battle eight hundred thousand light years from your home planet and the next, you find yourself running and fighting for your life as several billion of Earth's residents succumb to an infection that turns them into mindless zombies or that you're sitting opposite a totally unfamiliar man in one of the many booths of an astrobar in orbit around a gas giant, the faint green glow of which makes your straight vodka look more like a watered down creme de menthe.

He could well be wearing black; trousers, shirt, tie, jacket and all, and may have three rings adorning his fingers - one on the middle and ring fingers of his right hand and a single, solitary piece of similar jewelery upon the index finger of his left hand.

He might be wearing dentures, incredibly good ones, mind, and probably as a result of a particularly brutal experience - if the eyepatch and potentially empty socket beneath it are anything to go by - rather than poor dental hygiene.

Dan took all of this in and more as he stared across the table at the stranger.

The astrobar was loud and vibrant but this was nothing he was not used to. He lived in a world of noise, after all, and rarely did anything without some obnoxiously loud heavy metal blasting from some speaker or other.

Crotch-Pointer & Knife Wielder

"So you've had seven seconds," the man said without any real hint of inflection or expression. "I'm certain that's more than enough time for a man of your reputation to have been able to work out what's going on here."

"I'm certain you're a dick," said Dan, shrugging, smiling up at the rather attractive, alien female, as she placed a frosty pitcher of beer upon the table beside the two glasses that were already there. "I'm also certain that you ain't got so much of a fucking clue what kinda' man I am. If you did then you sure as fuck wouldn't have done whatever the fuck you did to bring me here."

"Is that your way of saying you haven't been able to work it out?" the man asked, reaching for the pitcher though Dan beat him to it. Snatching the jug he put it to his lips and tipped the entirety of the six pints contained within down his gullet without spilling a single drop, likewise never taking his eyes off the man.

"People only ever come to see me when the want something or when they want to kill me." Dan shrugged again as he placed the jug to the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So which is it?"

"If I wanted to kill you, Sir Colt, you'd know it by being dead already."

"You know, that's fighting talk where I'm from."

"I imagine it's fighting talk where most people are from," the man replied, once again keeping his face level and emotionless. "Here, however, it is simply a fact."

Dan shook his head and smiled. He glanced to his left and looked through the porthole window. Far below the gas giant's atmosphere appeared to be in turmoil as what looked to be clouds of methane swirled violently.

"You like to play the big man, I get it," he said, turning back to face the man sitting across the table. "I'll play along if it makes you happy. So tell me, if you don't wanna' kill me then what do you want?"

"There is a war coming, Sir Colt."

"Tell me something I don't know. There's always a fucking war coming an' if you know as much about me as you say you do, then you'll know that if you wanna' get all pedantic and shit, any conflict that happens from hereon in is technically my fault."

"Ah yes, the reality bomb. Had that done what it could have done then yes, all life throughout every known and unknown Universe alike would have been eradicated." The man paused, chuckling, and Dan took that opportunity to light a cigarette. "But you know you should not really blame yourself for that. You did what needed to be done. You did what you did because no one else could."

"Wasn't after any kinda' justification, bud," he replied, breathing deeply of the cigarette. "Dude, I don't even feel the tiniest bit bad about it. Life is what it is and fisticuffs are gonna' happen every now and then. If I hadn't done what I did then they wouldn't, sure, but none of the good shit would, either."

"Of course... If you had simply let all life throughout the Multiverse die, then a particularly brutal warrior race would not be systematically working their way through the Universes, drafting all they encounter to their already googolplex strong army and killing those who refuse." The man chuckled again. It was weird. "But of course, you did what you had to do and you did so because no one else could do it. You might want to think about that for a couple of minutes whilst I go and shake hands with an old friend."

Once again Dan shrugged and lit another cigarette as the man in black headed off to the bathroom and alone, he muttered quietly to himself. "What the fuck is a googolplex?"

He got to his feet and pushed through the throng of people as he made his way towards the exit. The man unnerved him, a feeling to which Dan was rather unaccustomed and he had no intention of waiting for him to return from taking a leak.

It had nothing to do with what the chap had said, either. Going up against an army of gargantuan proportions sounded like a whole lot of fun. Instead, it was the fact he still had no idea who the man was. Sure, he could quite easily have hung around, awaiting the return of the besuited, urinating man and made attempts to glean a little more information from him, but that would have meant spending far more time with him than Dan would have liked.

He had no doubt at all the fella had told him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Sir Colt was not an easy man to find, after all, and the man had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to locate him and to get him to, well, wherever-the-hell the astrobar actually was. Such a thing took a great deal of power or a whole lot of perseverance, possibly an awfully large amount of both, and having done so Dan could not see any logical reason for the man to fill his head with untruths.

It was not long before he was beyond the general hubbub of the astrobar though the noise was most definitely still there. Bass from the poor quality speakers vibrated unevenly through the metal grating at his feet and the shrill squeaks of many an inebriated, excitable woman did their level best to fuck up his eardrums beyond all recognition.

Two men approached, apparently engaged in a very deep and meaningful, drunk conversation and Dan stepped aside that he might allow them to pass, which they did, though both had not taken half a step beyond before they were upon him, one with a blade to his throat whilst the other held some kind of blaster to his groin.

"We're takin' your ship," said the knife-wielder. His breath was rank and such was the proximity of his face to Dan's, the combination of halitosis and spit that wound its way to his face was nearly enough to make Dan vomit. "Any shit and you'll lose your cock and balls."

"If you're gonna' do it lads, don't fuck around," Dan replied, calm and collected though he suspected the look upon his face was a picture of distaste and anger. "If either of you've got anythin' about you, you'll pull that trigger an' slit my fuckin' throat."

"Your ship!" Knife-Wielder was insistent, so he definitely had that going for him. "Now!"

"Ain't here," Dan replied, shrugging as best the knife at his throat would permit. "When you've taken me out you can check the docking logs. Pretty sure you'll find no record of me in there."

"We need a ship Kenny!" Crotch-Pointer wailed. He appeared pretty jumpy and Dan was not at all enamoured about the blaster he had held to his meat and two veg, a feeling compounded as Crotch-Pointer nudged his junk with the barrel of the weapon. "Make him give us his ship!"

It was pretty clear Crotch-Pointer was high as shit on something though it was not like that knowledge helped Dan any, not really. High or not he was certain he could take out Knife-Wielder and Crotch-Pointer pretty readily.

"Ain't gonna' tell you backwards fucks again." Dan ensured the same calm tones continued though even had he wanted to there was no way he could have kept the edge of malice from his voice. He was beyond the point of having had enough.

"Yo, Crotch-Pointer," he said. "Do me a favour an' count out loud to three."

"What?" Crotch-Pointer was confused, quite clearly, and even had he failed to vocalise that fact, the empty and vacant expression upon his face most definitely gave him away.

"Y'know, numbers?" The slightest smirk spread across Dan's face. "Tell y'what, I'll do it for you. Thing is, if'n I reach three an' you's two fucks are still here you ain't gonna' survive much more than three seconds after that so it's either kill me or fuck off. The choice, my friends, is yours."

Dan remained silent for a few seconds, giving the two gentlemen plenty of time to decide which course of action they might like to follow. The blade and blaster remained in place, however he showed no fear.

"One..." he said, cocking his left eyebrow. He could see beads of sweat streaming down Knife-Wielder's face and the man's eyes were darting about all over the place.

"Two..." Clearly the pair did not value their lives particularly highly, or they were simply stupid and held the opinion the odds were in their favour.

"Thr... Motherfucker..."

The blaster not only took out his genitals but during the very few seconds he was able to think with any semblance of clarity he suspected the shot had nicked his femoral artery, too. There was an awful lot of blood that belonged inside him that was actually pooling upon the floor at his feet, rather than where it ought to have been.

***

He is dead.

There are others. Many others.

He was the one. Of all of them he was the most battle-hardened, the most likely to be able to deal with what is coming.

Then let us hope one of the others surprises us.

...

What?

Well... None of this would have been an issue had the human of whom you took control been able to hold his bladder.

You could do better?

We shall see.

Star Power

"Steady as she goes, bring her in nice and easy. We don't want another Titus on our hands."

"Aye, Sir," the pilot replied with a chuckle, cricking his neck as he guided the enormous Yankee, a supply ship running a skeleton crew, easily and expertly into her designated docking bay. "Got that right, but don't forget the Titus' pilot was a bellend an' so high on fuck knows what that it's little wonder he took out the Rig. In fact, I know damn well I'm not alone in bein' surprised it took 'til his forty-second docking for it to happen!"

"True enough, but Hobbs never was quite the same after losing his daughter."

"I heard that's all she is," said the pilot, flicking a pair of switches that would set in motion a sequence of mechanical events that would eventually result in the Yankee's docking clamps locking the vessel into place. "She went all 1970s and took a Walkabout, didn't she?"

"That's the official line," the Captain replied, proffering a cigarette to his pilot as both men removed their headsets. "Apparently though, Hobbs hired some private investigator out of Prima City. It took him a couple of years but he eventually dug up evidence his girl wound up in some cult or other, and that she drank of the Kool-Aid."

"Well that's a whole lotta' fucked up, Sir," the pilot replied, putting a lighter to the tip of the cigarette. "Does explain a few things about Hobbs though."

This time it was the Captain's turn to chuckle.

"It does at that, aye," he said. "Anyway... Three days leave and then we've got another run; a high priority cargo. We're even going to have a military escort. It's all very hush-hush."

"Must be high priority if they're sending planes out with us."

"Not just planes. From what I gather there's going to be a trio of battlecruisers, though I suspect each will have their own compliment of fighters."

"Jeez," the pilot replied, and let out a low whistle. "Reckon I'd best spend a couple of days gettin' wasted then, 'cos it sounds like we're all gonna' have to be on our best behaviour."

***

The Yankee's cargo bay was clear, completely empty of everything apart from a cage no more than three feet by three feet with room enough inside for a man perhaps two metres tall.

"What've they done with all our shit, Sir?"

"Dunno," the Captain replied, shrugging as he and the pilot stared out from the high, raised platform overlooking the Yankee's bay, a vast area ordinarily full to bursting with stock and cargo of varying types. "There's two things I'm more concerned about though; where's the rest of our damn crew and who the fuck's getting locked in that cage?"

As they watched, one end of a pair of jumper cables with enormous crocodile clips was attached to the top of the cage whilst the other end, complete with clips just as hefty, was hooked to a sizeable generator just wheeled in.

"Crank that shit to eleven, El-Tee."

"Right you are."

As soon as the generator was turned on the cage fizzed and sparked, its bars electrified with who-knew how high voltage a current. Both Captain and Pilot were sure of one thing; neither of them wanted to find out.

The dozen or so military personnel holding station at various vantage points around the cargo bay cheered and whooped, quite clearly delighted.

"Who's that damn cage for?" the Captain asked as he and the Pilot descended the metallic staircase that led from the viewing platform to the cargo bay.

"With all due respect, Captain," one of the men replied, the Captain was unsure as to his rank as there was no insignia upon his uniform, "that's none of your damned business."

"Reckon it is, friend," the Captain shrugged. "I mean yeah, you might've cleared my cargo bay of anything and everything that makes me money but it's still my bloody cargo bay an' besides there ain't nothing coming on this ship without me knowing about it."

"You'll have to excuse my associate here," the man previously addressed as El-Tee said, stepping forwards. "We're using your ship, the Yankee, to transport a high priority, highly dangerous prisoner, to the Super-Max."

"Just the one, is it?" the Pilot asked, his eyebrow raised. "What the fuck's with all the guns and the trio of battlecruisers? Seems like overkill for a single prisoner."

"You watch the news, Gentlemen?" El-Tee asked with a smirk. "Of course you watch the news, everyone does, and that means you will have heard of Daniel Colt."

"Serial killer. Single-handedly killed three hundred and eleven people over a four-month period, claiming they were demonically possessed, right?"

"Exactly," said El-Tee. "That's exactly right, and that's what the fuck's with all the guns and the trio of battlecruisers. We are transporting the most dangerous man in the Solar System to Haumea. If anything goes wrong you will both be grateful for those guns and the battlecruisers, and for the fact you are the only members of your crew on board."

"Well, when you put it like that..."

El-Tee touched a finger to his ear, nodding slowly whilst listening to the communication coming through a small, earbud-sized device.

"Colt is on board, gentlemen. If I were you I'd... What the fuck was that?"

"Felt like the electrics playing up," the Captain replied. "Though I know that's not possible as my engineer checked everything over thoroughly at the end of our last run."

"If it wasn't your ship then it was something else," said El-Tee, stating the obvious as a deep, guttural rumble indicated to all three that the vessel's engines were running on more than the nominal-power tickover they ought to have been. "Is it getting mighty hot in here, or is it just me?"

"Find out what the hell is going on with my ship, Pilot."

"Yes Sir," the man replied and turned, breaking into a run as he headed towards the bridge.

El-Tee was right; the temperature was most definitely rising and the pilot could only think of one logical reason as to why that would be the case. It was not a thought he cared to entertain, though he would find out if that was the case soon enough.

"Ah, crap!" he exclaimed, having skidded to a halt upon reaching the bridge to find the windscreen through which he would normally watch whilst piloting the Yankee was completely filled with the bright yellows and oranges and reds of a star, most likely the Sol star. "That ain't a good thing."

***

I could not keep him alive.

That did not go unnoticed.

How many remain?

Alive? Many, but only one now, who has not been recruited into the Dark Army.

Perhaps we should both help him.

Perhaps, though I am inclined to suggest neither of us get involved. Doing so has not worked out particularly well yet, has it?"

If he dies, we fail.

I am aware...

But...

I am aware but have a little faith. I believe he will not fail because whether he knows it or not, he cannot afford to do so.

Demons and Beer

The twin stars beat down with little remorse, baking the atmosphere in such a way that should one be a newcomer to the planet, one would likely find the simple and natural act of taking a breath took a great deal of thought and effort.

In the scrapyard a few miles due east of Prima City, the largest and in fact, only city upon Prima, temperatures were even higher. The vast amount of metal within the ten acre compound served to cook the air and were it not for the occasional cloud that drifted across the otherwise clear blue sky, temporarily shielding those below, then it would most definitely have bordered upon the unbearable.

Two men, both attired in nothing more than a pair of jeans and combat boots, approached their newest acquisition. It was a wreck, a total write-off but the components of the Seven-Five-Three's were made to last and whilst they were not quite universal, there were not many vessels which, with a bit of tinkering, a lot of elbow grease or failing that, a lump hammer, would not accept a good proportion of them.

"Been to hell an' back, this one," said one of the men. Unlike his companion his hair was cut short and a pair of goggles rested above his eyes.

"Aye," his friend replied, chuckling as he ran a hand through his dreadlocks. "The kinda' hell you get when you try n' take a ship through a fucking asteroid belt."

"Yeah well we'd best..."

A rattling and crashing from within the vessel itself cut the conversation short and both men, for the briefest of moments, stood stock still whilst staring at the ship, just in case it was going to do anything else unexpected.

"What'd that sound like to you, JD?" the dreadlocked individual asked. His body tense and muscles taught, he took the large hammer from his belt. "Ain't supposed to be anyone inside a ship when it gets to this point of its life."

"Definitely sounds occupied though," replied JD, taking a step back as he spoke. "I'm gonna' run grab a cutting tool, just in case."

Left temporarily alone he stared at the vessel. The Seven-Five-Three was a rather popular model amongst smugglers and traders alike. They were cheap to run and relatively easy to maintain, not to mention they came with a vast cargo hold.

"Fuck it..." He stepped forwards. As he approached the bay door lowered slowly with a loud, accompanying hiss of hydraulics and the rushing of air that meant up until that point, the cargo hold at least had been pressurised. "Well that was unexpected..."

Perturbed he might have been he set foot upon the ramp regardless and slowly, putting one foot cautiously in front of the other, walked the incline.

Out of the Suns within the confines of the vessel the air was cold and he wished for a moment he was wearing something other than a pair of jeans. Wishing was short-lived, however, for his hackles went up and adrenaline flooded his body as he saw that rather than being empty as it should have been, the Seven-Five-Three was actually carrying a cargo.

He let out a low whistle for the cargo was a thing of beauty; a ship, far smaller than the Seven-Five-Three itself but sizeable enough, it was unlike anything he had ever seen which given the fact he held a fifty percent stake in a scrapyard that dealt almost exclusively with derelict vessels, that really was saying something.

He stalked the vessel, walking around it and studying its lines and curves. Along the port side the word 'REAPER' had been etched.

"Step away from the vessel."

He rounded the ship and saw, holding station but a few feet from the vessel's central exhaust port, two men.

"S'cuse me?" he asked, his eyebrow raised. "Who the fuck are you?"

"It doesn't matter who we are." Both men were attired in black, finely tailored suits with blonde, slicked back hair. Far more pertinent than their hairstyles though, were the swords they carried. One had a single weapon sheathed at his hip whilst the other appeared to have a pair of blades strapped to his back. "But this vessel is not yours, Mister Colt. You would do well to forget all about it, to forget you ever laid your eyes upon it."

"See... I kinda' gotta' problem with every-fucking-thing you's just said an' I defn'itely gotta' problem with the two a' you's comin' 'round here, doling out orders and suggestions like you own the damn place an' whilst I respect the fact you's'd kick my ass between you, anyone knows anythin' about me knows I'll take a damn beatin' before I let anyone talk to me like that."

"As you wish, Mister Colt."

As one the two men leapt high into the air, each performing an unnecessarily intricate somersault as they did so. However when the landed they found Colt was not there.

"Gotta' try harder'n that, fellas," he said, grinning. The grin altered rapidly to an expression of surprise though, complete with raised eyebrow et all, when he realised he had taken the sword from its hip sheath. "Looks like I got me a pretty sword, too... That's new..."

"Dan!" he turned at JD's shout to see his friend standing at the top of the cargo ramp, the large cutting tool strapped to his back and if the sparks the blades emitted were anything to go by, it was approaching full power.

He turned back to face the two men just in time to receive a fireball to the face and it sent him sprawling, flying through the air until he crashed, loudly and painfully, into the wall.

"Our work here is done. Mister Colt is dead."

"Take care of the other one. We don't want him thinking vengeance is an option."

"Oi! Fuckers!"

The men turned with no small amount of shock to see Dan struggling to his feet, dusting himself down with his sword hand still gripping the hilt tightly.

"Firstly, fireballs? What the fuck are you's?"

"Demons, Mister Colt," one replied, flexing his hand as he spoke, an act that induced the creation of a second fireball. "We're demons."

"Fine, whatever... Second, none of this 'Mister Colt,' bullshit..." Dan paused and with a grin and accompanying shrug he flung both sword and hammer with such force the demons did not stand a chance and before either could release a fireball, those weapons embedded themselves into the two available skulls. "It's Dan, fuckers."

"Dude that was sick..."

"Pretty cool, right?" he replied with a grin. "Fancy a beer?"

***

He survived.

He did.

I did not think he would.

Honestly, neither did I.

At least now there is hope.

Yes, and so it begins again.