Cowboy, Ninja, Viking.

The man walked into the dingy room, his purposeful gait ringing in the bar.

His wide, manic eyes scanned every corner from underneath his stetson.

Nine bald, tattooed, snarling Yakuza thugs. They huddled around tiny tables, groping barmaids, gulping bad beer and inhaling worse weed.

A twisted smile formed on the man's thin lips, a finger traced the hilt of the katana on his hip.

"Tell you what mate, you kill more of these shits than me and I'll give you my whole bottle of Inderal."

"You are on."

"Heh."

The man, tall and thin, glared at the scum in the room. The thugs noticed his presence and lifted their heads from their cards, flexing muscles, revealing side-arms and blades.

"Let the game begin. You can just hand me the bottles now."

The man's arm blurred and two thugs slumped dead in their chairs, throwing stars perforating their bodies.

"Psssh, you are getting slow there mate! Watch this."

The Yakuza, aware of being under attack, rushed the stranger.

The man's left hand whipped a six-shooter from his side and unloaded into the charging attackers. Four more hit the dirty ground, brains and guts spilling out of bullet holes.

"Dammit."

"Guess another sleepless night for you mate!"

"It is not over yet, gaijin. These two are mine."

"ENOUGH! I WANT BLOOD!"

The man hefted the battle axe strapped to his back with both hands and decapitated a thug with a single blow.

"HAHAAAHAA! NOW THIS IS FUN!"

The surviving baddie pissed himself in fear as the man approached.

"See you in helheim, cocksucker."

The axe fell once, twice, thrice and the thug littered the floor with his limbs, head and spleen.

"Dammit you barbarian shit! This was between me and pyjama boy!"

"I need Inderal to fucking sleep."

"Ain't my fault you both are fucking pussies."

The man closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers into his temples, brow deeply creased.

"Shut the fuck up all of you."

Weapon X - Chapter 3

“Test completed. Weapon X, Scenario 23: successful.”

The control room was utterly quiet save for the beeps and clicks of the equipment.

Dr. Stryker could barely contain his ecstasy as he turned away from the monitors, the carnage still fresh on his mind. He faced his guests with zeal in his pale eyes.

“Gentlemen, I hope you are satisfied.”

The officials had not moved an inch since the bloodbath had begun. They witnessed in silent awe and terror as Weapon X and the horrific bear tore each other to shreds.

One of the officials ran out of the room; hand over mouth, on the verge of vomiting.

The senior most among them, medals and titles flooding his uniform, locked eyes with the Doctor.

“Dr. Stryker, how long until we can have a full battalion of such weapons?”

“Weapon X is a unique specimen due to his physiology. Crafting additional subjects will take considerable time and resources.” Stryker paused. “However, Weapon X, as you just saw, is fully operational and ready for field use.”

Stryker let his words hang in the air for a moment as the officials realized his meaning.

With hurried excuses they rushed out of the control room to contact their respective agencies; acquisition of Weapon X top priority.

Stryker’s bony face was contorted with satisfaction.

“What is the status of Weapon X?” he inquired from one of the technicians.

“Subject is stable sir.”

“Any anomalies?”

“Nothing significant, sir. The subject’s healing factor was operating below normal standards but we believe it was due to the extreme cold.”

Stryker studied the assortment of displays before him.

“What are the toxicity levels?” he asked from another underling.

“Healing factor is holding the Adamantium poisoning to acceptable levels, sir.”

Satisfied, Stryker once again gazed at the large screens displaying Weapon X standing in the red snow.

“Bring him in. Get him cleaned up and properly restrained. I suspect our guests will soon have the necessary funds to facilitate the transfer.”

Looking back at his greatest creation, Dr. Stryker could not help but feel disheartened.

“You will soon have a new home,” he murmured to himself.

Weapon X - Chapter 2

It was snowing heavily. The earth was already blanketed in white and yet the grey heavens kept pouring down.

The man, known only as Weapon X, stood statuesque in the middle of a clearing in a large pine forest.

He was stark naked, his coarse body hair providing the only protection against the blistering cold. A beast of a man, his body rippled with lean muscles, his broad shoulders and bulging arms radiated strength. Although he appeared to be short of height, the menace of his appearance was no less diminished.

His head was enclosed in a helmet adorned with high-tech gadgetry. Pipes, tubes and cables ran from his helmet to his waist where more monitoring devices and recorders were attached to a belt. Electrodes and receptors punctuated his body at measured intervals, providing nerve information at various muscle junctures.

The helmet came down to his ears, the man’s dishevelled dark hair spilling out from underneath. His eyes were covered with a red visor recording everything he saw.

His earpiece crackled.

“Weapon X, initiate Scenario 23: track and terminate your target.”

The man sprang to life.

He raised his head and sniffed at the air, like a predator trying to catch scent of his prey.

Catching a hint of his quarry, he snapped his head northwards and bounded towards the trees on powerful legs.

The harsh cold had no effect as he charged through the forest, back and neck bent forwards, only pausing to sniff for a trail.

He came to a sudden stop at the edge of another clearing.

A black bear of monstrous size and girth was shuffling in the snow.

Weapon X took a moment to observe his target, and began to move slowly towards the massive beast.

He knew there was no way he could sneak up on it: the bear’s sense of smell was stronger than his.

Sure enough, the bear lifted his head and studied him with baleful eyes.

The man stopped in his tracks, watching every twitch of the bear’s muscles.

Standing fully erect on its hind legs, the bear issued a deafening roar, challenging the man. He flailed his huge paws, long claws unfurled, teeth gnashing, ready to attack.

The man gave a low growl, teeth bared, shoulders stretched, legs coiled, hands balled into fists.

Snikt. Snikt.

Razor sharp claws popped from between each of his knuckles. The metal blades gleamed in the night.

The bear barrelled towards the man, roaring, with clear killing intent.

Weapon X charged the beast with a guttural cry of his own.

They met in a fury of claws, teeth and fur. Pure animal force clashed against each other as each combatant obeyed the oldest instinct: survival, kill or be killed.

The snow billowed around them as they wrestled for dominance. The bear caught the man in his chest with a swept of his mighty paw, his claws leaving deep gnashes in his flesh.

Weapon X leapt backwards, blood spewing from his wounds. He rushed the bear head long, snarling viciously, claws slashing thick black fur.

The bear howled, injured. The beast’s wrath amplified, it leapt at the man with the full weight of its immense body, knocking him down. His claws and teeth tore at the man’s skin, reddening the snow.

Screaming in rage, the bloodlust having taken him, the man went berserk. His own claws ripped the bear’s hide, repeatedly stabbing it in the chest, raining blood and guts down on him.

The bear retreated from the man’s onslaught, body heaving, leaving a trail of his innards as it tried to back away from the monster.

But the man gave no quarter. He pressed on, cutting and rending flesh.

The bloody, beaten bear bellowed in defiance as it lunged one final time and sank his cruel teeth into the man’s neck, tearing out his throat.

An instant of shock and the man thrust his claws, knuckle deep, between the bear’s eyes, skewering its brain.

With a sigh, the colossal beast slumped to the ground, dead.

Weapon X, claws embedded in the bear’s skull, stood inundated in gore, both his own and his target’s.

With a sickening splutter and the cracking of bone he wrenched out his claws and sank to his knees.

A massive hole dominated the ruin that used to be his neck.

He gasped for breath as his hands tried to stop the bleeding, to keep his innards in place. He collapsed on to the bloody snow, body heaving for air. After a moment his movements ceased completely.

The flesh of his neck began to slowly knit itself back together. The gaping cuts in his chest also began to heal. A while later, most of his wounds had closed themselves. His neck had reformed, barely leaving a scar.

Snikt.

The claws popped back into his hands.

Weapon X got to his feet and stood stock still in the night, an arena of slaughter around him.

Weapon X - Chapter 1

“... No, this isn’t right? The cold is-“

“Cease your muttering Mr. Hartnell. Is the Project ready for activation?”

“Y-yes, Dr. Stryker! Performing final calibrations now.”

“Excellent.”

Dr. William Stryker, a tall gaunt man, peered at the array of screens cascading the control room. His skeletal face awash with light from multiple displays, he presided over his team as they frantically made last minute preparations.

At the back of the control room stood a collection of military officials. Their respective uniforms adorned with trappings of high rank, chests puffed with obvious indignation, they glared at Dr. Stryker in distaste.

Dr. Stryker shared the sentiment as he forced a smile to his thin lips and turned towards his guests.

“Gentlemen, thank you for your continued patience, we will begin shortly,” Dr. Stryker said in honeyed tones.

“We have been here all day, Stryker! You are testing the limits of our indulgence,” cried out one of the men in annoyance.

“Does this project of yours even work? All we had are empty promises so far,” piped another.

Dr. Stryker took off his thick glasses and began to methodically wipe them with a piece of cloth he kept for the very purpose.

“Your previous experiments have been disappointing Stryker. What makes this one so special?” challenged a general.

“The Subject possesses natural traits and abilities which have granted us unparalleled success.”

“But-“

“Gentlemen,” he interrupted, holding back the emotion in his voice. “This endeavour of ours will revolutionize the future of warfare. The considerable amount of money and resources you have committed to my work has not been wasted. Rather it has allowed you the potential to build a military force the likes of which the world cannot comprehend.”

Cowed, the officials grunted and shuffled their feet, obviously uncomfortable. Dr. Stryker, discreetly smirking, addressed his subordinates.

“Are we ready?”

“Yes sir! You have full control over the Weapon. Beginning activation on your mark.”

The Doctor looked at the massive screens on the opposite wall displaying the snowy outside.

“Your attention gentlemen. Now you shall see the results of our labour,” he said to the officials without turning, gesturing towards one of the screens. The display showed a humanoid form standing in the snow.

“Is that it?” whispered one of the generals.

Stryker afforded himself another smile.

“Begin the test.”

The Weeping Angels - Ch. 1

CHAPTER 1

Evening was giving way to night and a thick mist was settling in as my carriage rolled into the small village of Ravenwood. The moon, only a sliver, winked lazily from behind a heavy curtain of clouds which hung low in the cold night sky.

The mist transformed the warm, inviting lamps of the village into willow-o'-the-wisps, waiting to lead errant wanderers to their doom. My carriage drove past a church. Through the gloom I espied a priest manning the doorway, intently reciting a sermon to a rapt audience. Another man of faith was leading a small procession through the adjoining cemetery. A deacon behind him swung a censer, its fragrant smoke adding to the growing fog, as the parade prayed for the souls of their dearly departed.

The carriage stopped before the inn where I was supposed to take lodging for the night. The driver rapped on the door, announcing our arrival. I disembarked and was immediately assaulted by the elements as the cold wind knifed across my exposed skin. Burrowing my head deeper into my layers I hurried inside.

The inn was warm; a relief after the biting cold. I had entered into a large dining room of sorts, which was empty save for two older gentlemen engaged in a chess match. The furniture was ancient but not decrepit. Gas lamps hung sparsely on the walls, providing adequate illumination; accompanied by framed photographs of soldiers, and decorative firearms. A great stone fireplace completed the tasteful décor of the refined room.

The driver came in with my luggage, followed by the innkeeper.

“Ah, Sir Kevinroy! It’s good to finally have you with us.”

“The pleasure is mine Mr.-“ I inquired.

“Butterman. Henry Butterman.” He warmly shook my hand.

Mr. Butterman was an old army veteran turned innkeeper. I had corresponded with him before setting out in order to secure lodgings for the night.

“Like I said Mr. Butterman, the pleasure is mine. However it will be quite short lived as I plan to carry on to London in the morning.”

“Of course sir, your letter hinted as much. But I must inform you that may not be possible. The road is treacherous in the winters and will be impassable if it snows tonight, and the skies are just fit to burst.”

“Are there no other routes that I may take to get to the city before nightfall tomorrow?”

Mr. Butterman’s brow furrowed as he contemplated, adding more wrinkles to his already wizened countenance.

“I am afraid not Sir. The only other road is through the old forest, Ravenwood; where the village obviously gets its name from. But I will not advise it. It has been unused for too long and the rumours surrounding it are unsettling. But enough of this talk of tomorrow! You have travelled quite a ways and must be tired and hungry. Would you like to have supper before you turn in for the night Sir?”

“A fine point Mr. Butterman. Yes I am quite famished actually; supper would be most welcome.”

“It will be my honour Sir! It is not every day I have the pleasure of serving one of Her Majesty’s Lords.”

Mr. Butterman implored for my hat and coat and directed the carriage driver to place my luggage in my room, and informed the driver of his own lodgings for the night.

I made myself comfortable as Mr. Butterman fetched my supper of scrambled eggs, beef stock soup and a slice of smoked venison. Perfect winter fare: both adept at satisfying hunger and keeping the cold at bay.

As I sipped the vintage bourbon the kind innkeeper had so generously provided from his own personal stock, the fatigues of travel began to weigh on me and the promise of a good night sleep became more and more enticing.

A shrill, gut-wrenching shriek shattered my warm musings.

I jumped from my seat, heart pounding. I looked around the inn, confirming that my tired mind had not imagined the other-worldly scream: Mr. Butterman stood frozen in the middle of the room, one of the chess-players sat with his hand on his heart breathing heavily while the other had leapt from his seat, his chair skidding across the floor.

“What in God’s name was that monstrosity?” I practically shouted at the terrified people in the room.

Without a word, Mr. Butterman and the standing chess-player rushed outside into the cold. I stood petrified, the sound freshly resonating in my ears. I heard rushed whispering; the other gentleman was praying fervently, eyes closed, tears running down his creased cheeks, his hands clutching a rosary cross he wore around his neck.

This did little to ease my fright and I too made my way outside.

It was dark, and the mist was thick. The heavy clouds barely let any light through from the small moon; adding to the eerie atmosphere.

A mass was gathering in front of the church.

I joined the crowd. My eyes darted from face to face, demanding an explanation but I was only met with silent stares.

I found my way to Mr. Butterman’s side.

“What is happening?!” my confusion turning to irritation.

He impatiently gestured me to be silent, and pointed to the church’s doorway.

The lamps were snuffed out; the pitiful moon was the only source of illumination. I peered through the darkness and what I saw only heightened my bewilderment.

A woman lay sprawled on the church steps, sobbing hysterically. Her eyes, wide with absolute terror, were transfixed on an object a few meters from her.

The moon peeked a little more brightly through the clouds for a moment and I saw the cause of the woman’s turmoil:

It was a statue of a young woman with coiled hair wearing a flowing robe. It had two wings. An angel. The statue stood hunched, burying its head in its hands as though crying.

Perplexed, I once again turned to Mr. Butterman. His eyes were fixed on the angel just as intently as the woman’s.

“What is happening?” I asked once again, whispering this time as I felt the suffocating tension of the gathering.

Mr. Butterman just shook his head, wiped his eyes and continued to stare at the bizarre scene.

I could not conceive the reason for such fright. It was a statue. Yes, the placement was odd; it was right in the middle of the street. Other than that I saw no cause for alarm, let alone a village-wide panic.

The moon once again hid behind the clouds, shrouding the world in complete darkness, and what I saw next destroyed my notions of logic and reasoning.

The moon flashed and I saw that the statue had moved.

I stared at the angel uncomprehendingly, my mind ceasing to function. I could not believe it. The statue had moved. It was not in the place it had been. It was now closer to the woman.

My exhausted mind is playing tricks on me. It’s the damn mist, I thought to myself. This is not real. Not possible.

The moon blinked, just for a second or so. The statue moved again, but now its hands were not on its face; one arm was outstretched towards the woman. Its stone face was smiling.

The statue is moving.

I rubbed my eyes unbelievingly, not entirely convinced of the reality of what I was witnessing. But the angel stood in its new posture and position, unconcerned with my mental turmoil.

Clouds passed in front of the moon. The world went black for a moment. The statue moved yet again; now its stone face was like that of a demon: fanged mouth gaping, hands curled into claws, like that of a bloodthirsty predator; mere inches away from the poor squealing woman.

My body had broken out into a cold sweat. My heart fluttered as if it would escape from my chest. Blood pounded in my aching head, vomit was bubbling in my throat. I simply could not accept what I was seeing and yet I could not tear my eyes away.

                                                                                            

The sky darkened. There was a final screech, which halted suddenly. The silence was deafening.

The woman had vanished. Only the angel remained, neck bent forwards, hands cupping face, as if it were weeping.

Another wink of the moon, and the angel disappeared, as if it had simply melted into the mist.