Adversaries

[Jay Omega]

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”Together we form a necessary paradox; not a senseless contradiction.”
-Healology
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Pensacola Bay Center, Pensacola, Florida, Earth

Monday, January 21st, 2019

2245 hrs, Local Time

~Having showered and eaten after his match, Jay Omega now sat on a well-worn leather couch, watching the rest of Slam! on the 50-inch flat screen TV mounted on the wall. The main event was in full swing, and Jay was heavily invested in watching the battle raging between the team of Bonnie Blue and John Rabid, against the odd pair of Noble Savage and Odin Balfore. The Wearable Espionage and Information Retrieval Device strapped to Omega’s left forearm chirped softly to indicate it had received a text, drawing Jay’s attention away from the television. Sent from the WCF head office, the subject line read “Re: Tag Team League”, piquing Omega’s interest immediately. Jay opened the text to read the message, then laughed out loud when he saw who he had been paired with. “Well shit, this is awkward,” Omega said aloud to the otherwise empty room as he levered himself up to a vertical base.

  ”Still, probably best to strike while the iron is hot.” Gathering up his ruddy red omnicoat - currently in its vest configuration - Jay slung the garment around his shoulders as he left the room, wandering through the halls of the Pensacola Bay Center in search of a particular dressing room. Finally coming across his destination, Omega raised his hand to knock then waited a few moments until the door opened a crack, revealing the cautious face of one Kennedy Matthews. The Hardcore Champion’s attractive face dropped into a scowl as she laid eyes on who was disturbing her, and she let out a disgusted sound of vexation. “Ugh. What do you want?” Kennedy asked with disdain, “Come to rub it in my face that I was beaten by a washed-up has-been?” The corner of Jay's mouth lifted in the suggestion of a smile which quickly faded as he got down to brass tacks.

  ”Nah, that ain’t my style,” Omega said nonchalantly, “I’m actually here to talk to you about the Tag Team League that’s starting next week. Know who you got paired up with? I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.” Understanding dawned on Kennedy, and her face reflected her stark disbelief. “Please tell me this is a bad joke.” Jay shrugged his shoulders as he spread his hands. “If it is, I’m not in on it.” He replied honestly, “Joke or not, it is what it is; we’re going to be teaming up for the next few weeks, and I’d rather we be on the same page from the get-go, ya dig? I don’t know about you, but I plan on winning this thing; one way or another, I’m taking the opportunity to get my hands on that Hardcore title again.” Kennedy rolled her eyes at the assertion and tossed her head, causing her raven tresses to sway with the motion.

  ”Keep dreaming; one lucky win in a non-title match doesn't guarantee you’ll win when my title is on the line.” Omega shrugged again, then folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. “No, but it does guarantee me the opportunity. Now, the way I see it, we can go about this one of two ways,” Unfolding his arms, Jay held out his right hand, palm up. “We can spend the next three weeks at each other’s throats and potentially screw ourselves out of winning this thing,” Omega’s left hand moved to mirror the right, “Or we can try to find a way to work together and treat the Dubya See Eff Galaxy to the greatest show on Earth. I can go either way, so I’ll let you decide.” Jay moved his hands as though weighing the options while Matthews mulled it over, then Hardcore Champion stepped back and opened the door. “You might as well come in if we’re going to plan how to win this.”~

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”Tragedy and adversary are the stones we sharpen our swords against so we can fight new battles.”
-Sherrilyn Kenyon
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Orion Nebula, RA 5h 35m 17s/Dec -5° 23′ 28″, Milky Way

Friday, January 27th, 2019, Earth Date

0541 hrs, GMT

~More than a thousand lightyears from Earth, in the heart of a stellar nursery, a man impossibly stepped out of a fold in space. Though human in guise, he was more akin to a god on this layer of reality, a fact one might surmise not from his appearance - carefully inconspicuous and completely average in every way - but from his immense size; easily 10 times as large as the star called Sol. As the being known to some as “the Director” moved toward a particularly superdense cluster of dust and gas being compressed into the heart of a new star, he shrank a noticeable amount, until he was barely the size of Luna. At this point, the Director plunged his left hand into the cosmic stew before him and pulled out something partially metallic and vaguely serpentine. The Director shrank again, now no larger than the state of Oregon, and withdrew a spherical object from the pocket of his trench coat.

  With a flick of his thumb, the Director opened a small hatch on the side of the orb, then held the serpentine object by the tapered point of its tail and shook it violently until a tiny figure fell from the mouth-like aperture, which the Director then guided into the recess of the sphere held in his other hand. The Director tossed the serpentine object aside seemingly carelessly, though the action sent the metallic serpent hurtling out of the cosmic cradle and thus out of danger. Turning his back to the unfathomably large nebula, the Director shrank once more, until the spheroid in his hand was roughly the size of a baseball in comparison. While his free hand traced a circle in the void - the other winding up like the pitcher at an all-star game - the Director threw the sphere with ungodly strength through the sparking orange vortex which opened before him.

  ”Well, Jay’s not going to be too pleased I just did that, but it was necessary. Can’t have a good story without a good conflict.” His purpose on this plane complete, the Director turned to his left and folded in on himself, disappearing from existence as quickly as he had arrived. More than a thousand lightyears away, the other end of the sparking orange vortex opened up and spat out a spherical life pod traveling at a ludicrous speed, its lone occupant on the verge of consciousness. The pod steadily decelerated as it approached a blue and green marble floating in the dark of space, slowing to a reasonably survivable speed as it hit the planet's atmosphere. Friction turned the air to flame as the ground rushed up to greet the spherical spacecraft and caught it in a rough embrace; the pod digging a deep furrow in the soil as it shed its momentum.

  The craft eventually came to a standstill, its blackened exterior sizzling as it melted the snow all around it in a thirty-foot radius. The snowy forest in which the pod had crash landed was deathly silent as the creatures of nature awaited further action from the unearthly visitor, though none was forthcoming as of yet. At length birdsong returned, trilling through the trees once it seemed the danger had passed. Less than a hundred meters from the new clearing made by the craft’s arrival, a young Caucasian man in his late twenties stepped from the treeline with the intention of investigating, his hunting rifle held at the ready and aimed at what looked like the pod’s door. As the man got within fifty feet of the crashed spaceship, jets of vapor spewed from around the seal of the oblong opening and a hiss of depressurization accompanied the hatch slowly lowering.~

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”Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next.”
-George R.R. Martin
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*Welcome back, True Believers! You should be intimately familiar with how these video packages begin by now, and if not, you’re either new to the audience, or you have the memory of a goldfish. Either way, I suppose I’ll do my job and describe this shit for you. We start with a black screen which slowly fades in on a field of white before our view pulls back ever so slightly and pans to our left, revealing the star of our show - known far and wide as The Omega Man, Jay Omega - leaning against the bole of a bare tree, bundled against the chill in a ruddy red leathery trench coat. Standing outside a small supermarket - Piggly Wiggly - The Omega Man is looking around the area with a sense of contempt, exhibited by a slight sneer on his face, then ends the inspection of his surroundings and looks directly into the camera.*

Jay Omega: What up, peeps? How about this Tag League dealy, eh? Some very strong teams in the mix; we’ve got myself and Kennedy Matthews - the Greatest Show On Earth - plus the powerhouse team of Alex Richards and Odin Balfore - fuck me running, that’s gonna be a rough fight - and the old-meets-new team of Speedey Royzales and John Rabid. There are also a couple of other jackholes teamed together, but let’s be real, only the three teams I just mentioned are gonna amount to anything more than two squirts of llama piss. Take the pairing who have the misfortune to face the Greatest Show in the first round; Stephen Singh and Scott Slayer. I’ll get to Scotty in a few moments, but I want to focus on Singh first because it just makes sense to start with the bigger threat. Not that either of them is much of a threat to me, but Singh at least has some accomplishments which make him noteworthy.

*Jay pushes away from the tree and steps toward the sidewalk, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he does.*

Jay Omega: So let’s talk about Thievin’ Stephen. To see if I could get a better sense of who he is and where he comes from, I went down to Nekoosa, Wisconsin - where the self-styled “Golden God” comes from - to see if anyone knows who he is. I mean, he grew up here and the place has a population of less than three thousand, so the odds are pretty good I’ll find somebody who can give me a little insight into the backstory of the Dub’s most prominent Head of Concessions. Oh! Here comes a genuine citizen of Nekoosa now; someone who is totally not a paid actor! Excuse me, ma’am! Could I have a moment of your time?

*The shot pans further to the left bringing into view a short woman well into her winter years, her shoulders a little stooped, but her spine otherwise straight. Wrapped head to toe in woolen garments, the little old lady shuffles over to Omega and tugs down the thick brown muffler covering the lower half of her face.*

Old Woman: Hello there, dearie, how can I help you?

Jay Omega: I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions about former Nekoosa resident Stephen Singh…

Old Woman: I’m sorry, who?

Jay Omega: Stephen Singh. I understand he was something of a prodigy; finished school early and all that? Had a lot of talent, but mostly for making an ass of himself? A little taller than me, maybe a little heavier; brown hair, dark eyes, huge gaping asshole?

Old Woman: Oh, did you mean Rod and Lili’s boy?

*The Omega Man shrugs his shoulders helplessly and shakes his head.*

Jay Omega: I honestly have no idea who his parents are; he could be the son of a yonic tree stump and an overly enthusiastic goat for all I know. Would probably explain what I know of his personality, though.

Old Woman: Well, if you do mean Rod and Lili’s boy, all I’m comfortable saying is that he lives a shameful life of sin and depravity. Why they still haven’t found all of Samuel Gallagher’s sheep!

*Jay’s expression becomes a mixture of confusion and revulsion, and he raises his hands wardingly while backing off a step.*

Jay Omega: I’m suddenly not sure we’re talking about the same guy. And if we are, I’m not sure I want to know. I’m talking about pro wrestler and former Dubya See Eff World Champion, Thievin’ Stephen Singh.

*The old woman shakes her head sadly at the clarification.*

Old Woman: Sorry dearie, I don’t follow the sportball.

*Omega stares blankly for a moment, blinks twice, then gives his head a thorough shake in a vain attempt to scour away the last few minutes.*

Jay Omega: You know what, ma’am? It has become apparent you won’t be able to help. I apologize for wasting your time, have a nice day, carry on with your business.

Old Woman: Oh, well I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. You have yourself a nice day too; I hope you find someone who can help you with your Sammy Sings album.

*The elderly lady replaces the muffler over her face and toddles past The Omega Man without another word, while Jay works his mouth a few times trying to find an appropriate response without managing to say anything. Giving up as the woman exits the frame, Omega turns in the opposite direction and motions for the camera to follow as he walks closer to the Piggly Wiggly.*

Jay Omega: Well that was a bust. Maybe I’ll have better luck with the next person I come across. As an aside, I totally understand why Singh left this place and said he’s never coming back; it’s a real shithole. Anyway, until I can find somebody who can tell me anything factual about Singh, I’m just gonna make shit up. Did you know Stephen Singh once lost a no holds barred match against a vending machine? Okay, that was me, but it was a long time ago, and I wasn’t really myself. I definitely wasn’t this particular incarnation of myself, considering I’ve died and come back to life a couple of times. Hey, if I’ve been resurrected twice, does that make me, like, Double Jesus, or something? Oh shit, am I the Messiah?

*Jay stops short, and gives the camera a wide-eyed look of wonder., which quickly lapses into a self-assured smirk.*

Jay Omega: Nah, I wouldn’t want to sell myself short like that. I’ve come across plenty of gods in my time and I’ve beaten them all, so I highly doubt it will be any different with the Golden God. Did you know that nickname actually refers to Stephen Singh’s fetish for golden showers? I’m about eighty percent sure I’m not making that up.

*Omega resumes his journey toward the supermarket and we follow along, keeping pace with him in profile view.*

Jay Omega: Whether or not Stephen likes to get pissed on, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be at least a little pissed off come Monday night, when Kennedy Matthews and I trounce him and Scott Slayer. Hmm, y’know what? You guys need a team name. And since you haven’t given yourselves one to my knowledge, I’ll be nice enough to do it for you. How about “QuadS”? ‘Cause you’ve got Stephen Singh and Scott Slayer, that’s a quartet of esses. No, that might come off as a little insensitive, considering what happened with Singh's brother and all. How about “The Alliterative Assholes”? Because, again, Stephen Singh, Scott Slayer; smug and superior, and simply subpar. You folks at home should probably get used to this bit now, it’s gonna be a running gag for the duration of the League. Oh! I’ve got a name for Singh and Slayer: “Midwestern Metal”!

*The Omega Man stops walking once again and points at the camera, then sweeps his left arm forward, our viewpoint swinging around in front of him with the motion.*

Jay Omega: It’s alliterative like both their names, it tells you where they’re from, and Scott’s last name has the added benefit of reminding me of Slayer, which is honestly about the only thing he contributes to this match, other than an easy pin. I’m not going to go digging around Scotty’s hometown trying to get a handle on him like I’m doing with Singh; for one, I doubt I’ll find anyone willing to admit they know Scott and for two… man, I’ve walked through literal Hells and even I don’t want to go to Detroit. Oh hey, here comes another legitimate resident of Nekoosa, definitely not somebody I’ve paid to talk shit about Stephen.

*Jay points at the camera with his left hand again, then sweeps his arm to the side to direct the tiny drone back to a profile view just as a middle-aged man in a thick gray overcoat enters the shot.*

Jay Omega: Good day to you, sir; may I ask you a few questions about Nekoosa’s golden boy, the “Sure Thing”, Stephen Singh?

*The middle-aged man hunkers further into his coat, his muffled voice emanating from somewhere near the garment’s torso.*

Man: Hmph, is that what he’s calling himself these days? I remember him from high school; little shit always thought he was so brainy.

Jay Omega: Oh, so you know him? What can you tell me about him? What was his biggest fear in high school?

*Despite his shoulders being hunched seemingly as much as they could be, the man somehow managed to shrug*

Man: Probably getting a swirly from somebody bigger than him, which was pretty much everybody. How the Hell should I know? I didn’t have any classes with him. I just remember that he was a mouthy punk who thought he was better than everyone just because he was a bit smarter.

*Omega’s face falls a little as he realizes this is yet another dead end.*

Jay Omega: Damn it, you’re not going to be able to help me either, are you?

Man: Probably not.

Jay Omega: Well fuckbunkies. All right, thanks for nothing, I guess. Carry on.

*The man shrugs once more, then pushes past The Omega Man as he continues whatever business he was on. Jay motions for the camera to follow him again and sets off afresh.*

Jay Omega: Krishna, I feel like I should have gone to Milwaukee instead; I might have had better luck finding someone who knows something worthwhile about Singh. Or at the very least I could find someplace that sells Whoop Ass beer.

Man #2: Excuse me, did I hear you say Stephen Singh?

*Omega whips around at the question and directs the camera to take position looking over his shoulder. This brings into view another middle-aged man carrying a plastic bag, though this one wears a puffy blue coat with a toque of the same shade. Jay throws a surprised look at us over his shoulder and jerks a thumb at the new arrival.*

Jay Omega: Oh snap; this dude really is a Nekoosa citizen! Either that or I just don’t remember him being at the rehearsal yesterday.

Man #2: I don’t know what rehearsal you're talking about.

Jay Omega: Perfect! So you really aren’t a paid actor, and you know who Stephen Singh is?

Man #2: That is correct. I also know who you are because I watch Double You See Eff.

Jay Omega: Bangarang! Then you know I’m set to face Thievin’ Stephen in tag team action this coming Monday. Do you also know that Midwestern Metal is going to be forged, beaten, and shaped by their encounter with the Greatest Show On Earth?

*The Man glances left and right, then furrows his brow at Omega.*

Man #2: I’m not entirely sure what you’re talking about.

Jay Omega: Oh, those are the names of the teams. I came up with them myself. Stephen Singh and Scott Slayer are Midwestern Metal for reasons I don’t feel like explaining again, while myself and Kennedy Matthews are the Greatest Show On Earth because we’re the greatest show on Earth.

Man #2: I’m not going to argue with you, but I don’t necessarily agree; I’ve been following Stephen Singh’s career ever since I watched him tap out to Dan Wanderlay years ago, and he’s a pretty phenomenal athlete. Wanderlay tried to mock him for his arrogance, but Stephen didn’t back down; he showed up the next day and pushed himself hard. Then the next day he pushed himself harder. Every day he pushed himself further and further until he made himself a success. And you know what? I bet if he met Dan Wanderlay today, the guy would shake his hand.

*The Omega Man rocks back on his heels as he absorbs the information and nods his head.*

Jay Omega: Ah, I take it you’re a fan of his?

Man #2: Yeah, one of the few. I don’t care what people think of him; Stephen Singh has got drive, ambition, and talent, and he’s not afraid to go after what he wants, even if it means using underhanded tactics. Besides which, the man is fearless; did you not see the series of epic matches he had with Odin Balfore?

Jay Omega: No, I did not. I’ve been away for quite some time.

Man #2: Oh, I know. I was watching Double You See Eff before you ever showed up. My point is, even when he stays within the rules, Stephen Singh is one of the best technical wrestlers to grace the ring, able to stand tall against the likes of the Se7en God. He’s no stranger when it comes to leading teams, either; as shown by the Church of Singh. Sure they didn’t last very long, but they were very successful.

Jay Omega: I’m not completely clueless, y’know. I have people who do research then give me the gist of it. I know about the rise and fall of the Church of Singh, I know about what went down at Helloween, and more importantly, I know about how the Guardians fucked his leg up to the point where poor Thievin’ Stephen would never be cleared to set foot in the ring again. Not as a competitor at least. But hey, when you’re the interim General Manager, I guess you can forgo things like medical clearance and just throw yourself into a grueling tag team tournament.

Man #2: But the man’s a prodigy; he’s probably better than a hundred percent, and even if he isn’t, Stephen Singh’s seventy-five percent is still better than most men’s one hundred.

Jay Omega: Fair enough. But Jay Omega’s twenty percent is equivalent to most men’s one thousand, so I would think that Stephen had best be cautious going into this match. Which doesn’t sound like it’ll much of a problem for him; I understand Stephen’s a fairly cautious guy anyway. Isn’t that right? You wouldn’t call him a risk-taker, would you?

Man #2: Of course not. That’s why he’s the Sure Thing.

*Jay shakes his head and wags his finger back and forth.*

Jay Omega: Yeah well, The Omega Man don’t get down like that. No risk, no reward, ya dig? That’s why I spent ten years specializing in high-flying, high-risk territory; the payoffs were worth every risk, and even the failures had the side effect of making me tougher and stronger. Playing it safe will only get you so far; you need to be a little reckless now and then. Shit that’s half the reason I’ve been as successful as I have been over the course of my career; I’m not afraid to take risks, but more importantly, I can recognize when I should take a risk, and when to play it safe. But speaking of reckless, how’s about we finally transition to talking about Scott Slayer, hmm?

Man #2: No, I’m not really a fan of his. If we’re done talking about Stephen Singh, I have some groceries I need to get home.

Jay Omega: I wasn’t really talking to you.

*The unnamed Stephen Singh fan shrugs his shoulders and exits the frame leaving Omega as the only occupant of the shot. Jay turns to face us once more, then reaches into the pockets of his ruddy red leather trench coat to retrieve his ever-present black cigarette case. Once he’s got a bit of bud burning, Omega leans against a lamppost and takes a moment to think.*

Jay Omega: To be honest, I’m not really sure what to say about Scott Slayer. I’m not sure what I need to say about Scott Slayer. This shadow persona of his does bring to mind an Irishman I used to know; Ian was a useful tool when he could be controlled, but he was more like a rabid dog when he couldn’t be. And like a rabid dog, once he was too much to handle, he had to be put down. I’m anticipating a similar scenario with this team of Singh and Slayer. Because let’s face it; Stephen’s going to try to run the show, it’s his nature. But Scott’s an anarchist; he’s not going to suffer long under Singh’s oppressive yoke. Shit if Midwestern Metal doesn’t implode during their first match, I will be truly surprised. But even if they make it through all three rounds, they’re not going to be facing Rabid and Speede from Block Bee.

*The Omega Man hits the spliff in his hand and shakes his head.*

Jay Omega: Nah, see, the tag team I am calling Viral - because rabies spreads with great speed - will likely find themselves in competition with the Greatest Show On Earth. In all honesty, the only stumbling block that could potentially give Kennedy and I trouble is the team of Alex Richards and Odin Balfore. If you want to know what name I’ve given them, you’ll have to wait until our scheduled bout, whenever that may be. Do you know why Odin and Alex are the only team I consider a real threat? Well, “Jazzy” John McCarty and Matt Draven could fuse into one being, and still not be anywhere near my level. The fact that they carried the tag straps going into this tournament means very little because neither of them has ever set foot in the ring with me. There’s no way they can prepare for the onslaught I’m bringing, and they will be torn apart like a Kleenex at a snot party.

*Jay raises a finger to indicate we should wait a moment while he puffs at his doobie.*

Jay Omega: But I’m getting ahead of myself, as I do. Have to get through Midwestern Metal first. And while it’s not going to be an easy victory, because Stephen Singh is a credible threat, it’s not going to be overly difficult, because Scott Slayer is inept, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes a mistake and Stephen turns on him. Buddha, is it just me, or is anyone else reminded of a slightly more refined Hot Dog Kings when they look at this team? Except Singh isn’t nearly as big a slimeball as Logan was, and Slayer has a long way to go before he’s on par with Marc Mayhem. At least Marc took the time to learn a little about his opponents; Scotty doesn’t get me or my motivations at all. Don’t get me wrong, I love hearing the roar of the crowd chanting my name; it’s intoxicating in a way no drug or drink could ever be. But it’s not why I’m here. I’m just a broken individual who enjoys a spot of violence now and then and this is not only a legal outlet but also a decent way to stay in shape.

*Omega indicates his physique with a displaying motion of his free hand, while the other raises the joint to his lips once more.*

Jay Omega: Granted, the fact that I’m a modern day Adonis has no bearing on this match. What does have bearing on this match, though, is what kind of team Kennedy Matthews and I make. When you consider that she is the current Hardcore Champion, and I’m a former Hardcore Champion who was so prolific that most people didn’t want to get in the ring with me, well, you get the impression that we’re a pair of rough-and-tumble protagonists who take no shit, stand tall, take on all comers, and stomp faces. So when I say that Midwestern Metal are going to be overshadowed by the Greatest Show On Earth and left as broken and bloodied bodies in the ring, you know it to be true. I’m anticipating a fairly good fight on Monday, but I’m also anticipating a resounding victory because Kennedy and I are a tough act to follow. This is the greatest show, and we’re the stars. Singh and Slayer? They’re a warm-up act. They’re only here to hype the crowd and give Kennedy and I a little practice working together before we move on to real action.

*Jay draws at his joint again, then gives a shiver as he exhales.*

Jay Omega: Okay, fuck Wisconsin; I’m freezing. I’m going back to my tropical island to relax for a bit with my friends and family. Maybe I’ll invite Kennedy out to the Fortress of Ball-itude, show her a good time before we show Midwestern Metal a bad time, ya dig? All right, I’m out of here. See y’all Monday night!

*Omega hits the blunt as he waves and the scene fades to black.*

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”People often believed they were safer in the light, thinking monsters only came out at night.”
-Captive In the Dark
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Outskirts of Sortavala, Republic of Karelia, Russia, Earth*

Friday, January 27th, 2019

1438 hrs, Local Time

*= All languages translated into English for your convenience

~Despite the frigid temperature in the uninsulated barn, Mikhail Kuznetsov was sweating profusely and it had nothing to do with the oxyacetylene torch he was wielding, though the work of stripping the salvaged life pod without damaging the internal wiring did require great concentration and finesse. No, the source of his perspiration was the menacing figure stalking the breadth of the barn behind him. Tall and gaunt, the being was shaped like a human for the most part, but aside from being bipedal, there were more than a few bodily dissimilarities. Such as the way it could move faster than Mikhail’s eye could follow, or the strength of its muscles, the durability of its hide. Mikhail remembered the way the 7.62x54r rifle round he’d fired had ricocheted off the thing’s torso, the way the alien creature had streaked forward to yank the Mosin Nagant hunting rifle from his grasp, the way it had torn the wooden buttstock from the weapon and bent the barrel almost in half. Mikhail remembered this and shivered again.

  Intent on trying to work without proper equipment or understanding of what he was doing, Mikhail didn’t realize he’d begun muttering under his breath, cursing his decision to go hunting that day, his parents for having him, and any gods that might be listening. “What’s that you’re saying?” The voice in his ear made him think of a snake slithering through rotting leather. “You whispering to somebody through a transmitter?” Mikhail reluctantly turned toward the alien and looked at its horrifying, too-large face. Rather than orbs, the black eyes were bulbous at the front but wrapped slightly around the sides of its head. The nose was concave with wide nostrils; the skin around the mouth drawn taut, clearly defining the double row of sharp teeth within. All in all, the face looked far too much like an evil skull for Mikhail’s liking. “N-no,” he stammered out; his teeth chattering from fear as much as the cold, “I’m just cursing my fate. You're going to kill me when I have finished what you want, aren’t you?”

  Mikhail waited while the creature’s device translated the words into its incomprehensible language, then blanched as the thing began to laugh. Though he could tell it was with genuine amusement, that didn’t change the sinister nature of the sound. “No, I’m not going to kill you. I’m a mercenary, not a murderer.” The tone of the translator device changed, indicating the brief moment of levity was gone, “That said, I will absolutely gut you if you do anything to get in the way of my contract.” Not sure if he truly wanted to know, Mikhail gave voice to the question that rose in his mind. “Wh-what is your m-mission? Are you here to conquer us?” Again the creature laughed, more heartily this time, which only amplified the disquieting undertone. “Now what would I do with this backwater dirtball? No, I’m only here because I still have a contract out on the human you call Jay Omega.” Life in rural Russia allowed for few luxuries, which meant poor Mikhail didn’t recognize the name.

  ”And what did this man do to bring you to this ‘backwater dirtball’?” Having two pairs of arms, it was very unsettling when the creature shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care; I’ve been given a hefty advance fee with the promise a very generous payment upon delivery, and that’s all that matters to me.” The creature picked up the clothing it had been wearing when it came out of the life pod, stuck the hat on its head, and slung the thick cloak around its shoulders before making its way to the barn door. Unable to fathom what man could incur the wrath of such an implacable personification of death, Mikhail shrank back as the icy wind outside crept in. “What are you?” He asked quietly, and the alien turned to give him an unreadable look. “My name is Cazal Ryv’Gour-il," Mikhail's tongue cramped up just hearing the name, "But since I doubt you can pronounce that,” The being grinned and Mikhail nearly soiled himself with terror at the sight of so many sharp teeth. “You can call me ‘Quadshot’.”~