Back To Flynn's

There it was. 

Flynn's Arcade stood on the corner of Culver Blvd, a decrepit ruin of its former glory. The giant neon sign that was once a symbol for good times, a burnt out husk. Lifeless windows and shuttered doors completed the dismal portrait of abandonment.

Sam edged his bike forwards. This place still held importance for him. Memories of happier days, love and fun had him smiling through his helmet. But it was also a memorial for how those times had been cut short, how neglect had withered love; how guilt had left him empty. The smile gave way to his usual scowl.

Sam would not be here if he could help it.

The message on Alan’s pager came from Dad’s office at the Arcade. From a phone which had been disconnected for the past twenty years.

Twirling the keys to the doors between his fingers, Sam wondered for the umpteenth time what he was doing there, why he insisted on opening old wounds. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that the past was just that, he could not stop chasing ghosts.

Sighing in defeat, Sam unlocked the front doors. Dusty darkness greeted him as he strode inside. Even through the black pitch Sam easily navigated his way to the circuit box. Wiping the grime away, he flipped the switches one by one bringing the old place back to life.

The overhead lights illuminated the plastic covered arcade cabinets, lonesome without jumping kids. The second switch turned on the cabinets flooding the floor with their theme music. Another rare smile appeared on Sam’s face as he enjoyed the nostalgia. Asteroids, Battlezone, Centipede, Crystal Castle, Millipede, Missile Command and Space Duel. Stunt Cycle. Tempest, Warlords, Yar's Revenge, Galaga and Pole's Position. Donkey Kong, Space Invaders and Pac Man. All old friends.

The distorted music blasting from frayed speakers had Sam reminiscing the countless hours he had spent playing one game after another, only going home when his Dad would close down for the night.

Dad.

Snapping out of his reprieve, Sam flipped the final switch. The jukebox lit up, and the videogame music was drowned by Journey’s Separate Ways.

Dad did love Journey.

Sam made his way to the office. The thick layer of dust on all the plastic covered furniture betrayed no signs of anyone having been there. The phone was broken and disconnected.

Sam fumed at himself. This was a stupid idea to begin with.

Ready to leave, something caught Sam’s eye. Right at the back of the arcade, underneath an unlit neon sign, was the crown jewel of his father’s arcade: Encom’s Tron. Sam made his way to the back, passing row after row of arcade machines. Tron looked as fun as ever. Multi-coloured light cycles ran across the screen trying to entrap each other.

One for old times. Sam pushed a quarter through the slot, only to have it clatter onto the floor. Bending down to pick it up, he noticed deep scratches in the tiles; as if something heavy had been dragged across the ground.

Running his hands across the sides of the arcade machine, his fingers touched upon a switch. Puzzled, he flipped it.

The Tron machine swung forward on hinges revealing a space behind the cabinet.

Sam ducked inside to find a small passageway. Turning on his flashlight he descended a flight of stairs into the basement. The machine swung closed behind him, cutting off the sound of music from the floor above.

At the bottom of the stairs was a metal door.

A sign boldly declared, “DANGER. Electrical Sub-Room. No unauthorized access.”

Keys were dangling from the lock.

Sam paused a moment. He grabbed the handle and turned it. Unlocked. He held his breath and pushed open the door.

A small, dank room, with electrical equipment and gadgets cluttered everywhere.

His torch illuminated a chair and desk. Above it was a notice board stuck with papers and photos. Childhood photos of him with his father.

Must be Dad’s workshop, Sam figured.

Sam scanned the pages, trying to make sense of the printed computer codes and diagrams which inundated the board. “The Grid?” Sam muttered to himself, reading the words repeated over and over.

The desk itself was concealed under a dense coating of dust. Nobody had been here either.

Through the thick layer of grime Sam made out a digital display on the desk; a timer of some sort, with blue numbers counting down to … something.

Confused more than ever, Sam brushed his hand across the surface wiping away the dust. The entire desk began to whir and chirp like a computer. The surface of the desk flickered to life and revealed itself to be a screen.

The screen displayed a few boxes and a keyboard.

Sam typed in a few command prompts, trying to get access into the system’s files, with no success.

A message on the screen piqued his interest. LaserControl.

Sam inputted a command activating it. A dialog box popped onto the display: Aperture Clear? Yes/No.

Machinery began to hum and whine.

Sam paused, thought what the heck, and selected Yes.

The whine became a high pitched scream and a blinding flash of light struck Sam from behind.

Life Plan: Activate.

http://www.smbc-comics.com/?id=2722#comic

All and full credit to Zach Weinersmith of Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal.
The guy has got some epic quesidillas up in his brain meats.
I love you dude.

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.

Last Lamentation

As I kneel before my fallen foe, I know this is my end.

His spear had pierced true and made a mockery of my mortality. I had replied in kind when I buried my axe in his skull.

I know this is my end; and I welcome it.

It begins to rain and the world is enveloped in grey. I no longer smell blood, only sweet petrichor. The clamour of blades seems far away, replaced by the pattering of rain drops on my heavy helm.

My limbs betray me, I cannot move. I do not want to. The rain is cold and the heaven-sent drops numb my inflamed skin. Pain is quickly becoming an unpleasant memory as I give in to the growing frost in my blood.

But my relief flees as my fading heart is gripped with fear. The chill permeates me completely, freezing my bones. Icy, dead hands grab my ankles and wrists. The soothing cold now burns me.

I am afraid.

“All-Father!” I cry, though no sound escapes my barren throat. “All-Father! Why have you forsaken me? Am I not worthy? I lie dying on the field of battle, bathed in the blood of my enemy, in service to my Jarl; and your shield-maidens do not come for me? Am I not worthy?”

No reply.

The terror grows.

“No! Hel will not have my soul! I am worthy! I am worthy of your gilded halls, All-Father! My life was honourable.My heart knows no cowardice, only valour. Have I ever shied from battle or from blooding my enemies? Nay! I lead the charges! I slew my foes! I brought honour to my house and to the houses of my kin! I am worthy of Valhalla!”

The cold reaches my spine, and my mind is on fire. My spirit is shattering like ice on anvil.
“All-Father, I beg of you: grant me this peace. I deserve my rest. I am old and weary, victim to so many wounds which have left me broken. My hearth is but embers. My sons and daughters have no use of me; I have already seen my wife to your gilded halls. I have nothing left. Lift me from this mortal plane! I deserve my rest.”

I weep, silently, rain mingling with my tears, the pains of my past fresh on my mind. I cannot lift my head to once last gaze upon the sky before oblivion claims me; my helm is too heavy.

There is a touch on my shoulder!

It is warm, and life-giving. My helm is removed from my aching brow and I turn to see my saviour. A maiden, fair like early-winter morn, adorned in beautiful mail and winged-helm, astride a magnificent steed, stands over my shoulder.

She lifts me, like a mother would lift an errant child too long from home. Her aura is holy. Her mount whisks us away from the battle-field, my mortal coil and the hurts of my life.

“Odin deems you worthy.” Her voice: a river of honeyed-mead.

I am happy, I am at peace. No pain, only relief.