Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  “It should. Perhaps you aren't as invincible as you think.”

  “Or maybe you just hope I'm not.”

  Mark takes a breath and then nods.

  “You're right. I hope you're not invincible. I hope you can die, otherwise what I'll have to do to you is going to be like sending you to hell for an eternity.”

  “Big talk again, Mark,” the King sneers and narrows his eyes. “Thing is, you said that three days ago, and yet here we are. No harsh punishment, no torture of the soul to make me regret my actions. You don't play much poker, do you?”

  “I'm not bluffing. Just accept that today isn't your day. We can have this fight another time, when there aren't so many innocent lives at stake. You can't say you aren't a tyrant and then throw people's lives away.”

  “Tyrant. King. Emperor. God. It doesn't matter, they're all just measures of power, Mark. Power is king – and I have the most power. Do you know what that makes me?”

  “It makes you a constant,” says Mark. “One that has to be taken out of the equation entirely. Just stand down, man. Don't make me do this.”

  “Do what? Are you going to fight me again?”

  “There's a peaceful end to this if you want it.”

  The King smiles, a genuine, heartfelt smile. “Of all the people who could have ended up with your power, Mark, it had to be the person too soft to really use it for anything. What luck for the Earth that I came into the same power.”

  Mark gives him a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Luck.”

  The King puts his hands in his pockets.

  “I do genuinely enjoy our little chats, Mark. There aren't many people I consider an equal, but you – you could have really been something in the Kingdom. Imagine what we could both do – if you weren't so afraid of your potential.”

  “We aren't alike. I'm done telling you that.”

  “No, not alike – two sides of the same coin. Power, control, domination – versus, what, hope and inspiration? Almost poetic. Funny how the universe likes to bring forces together in a way that they oppose each other. Like the Destroyer and the other one -”

  “The Protector.”

  “That's balance – and here we are.”

  “Here we are.”

  “Maybe I owe you an apology too. Because I think what I'll do is this: I'll kill that girl, and set off the nuclear device. Nice clean start – and the world can see that there's no way to get rid of me. I think that's what I'll do.”

  The King starts swaggering forwards.

  “You'll have to get past me first,” says Mark, and plants his feet, tensing himself and pushing his fear out of his mind.

  “Fine by me,” says the King.

  He rushes at Mark, and Mark meets him, arms up, ready for a fight.

  Behind the forcefield, Jamie has his arm around Chloe and his other hand holding his revolver. Beyond the blue energy wall, Mark and the King are trading blows, each one giving a booming thunder-clap. Mark's armour buckles under the King's assault, and despite his vigour and strength, Mark is getting beaten on to his knees.

  “Tony,” shouts Jamie. “How's the defusing getting on there?”

  “Uh, I think I have the core. I just need to pry off one of these shaped charges and we should be ok.”

  “Guys,” says Cathy. “You know how when I go invisible, I go somewhere else entirely?”

  “Yeah, you drop out of the bloody universe,” says Jamie.

  “Well, why don't I take it?”

  “What?”

  “Take it wherever I go and just – let it go off.”

  “Cathy, nobody is sacrificing themselves today.”

  “If it's either that or you lot dying too, I – I don't mind -”

  “Cathy,” Jamie turns and stares her in the eye. “No. We can do this without losing anybody.”

  Stacy's breathing has become a low, panting whine, and her nose is gushing blood now. She's no longer capable of speech, slurring desperate pleas with every breath, talking gibberish.

  Outside the forcefield, Mark takes a harsh blow to the jaw and buckles over, clutching his face. The King grabs him by the throat and, as Jamie watches, slams him into the ground. Mark's face is bloodied, his eye swollen, his armour torn and dented, his cape ragged.

  He leaps to his feet.

  The King comes at him with his fists balled, and plants his foot in his chest. He kicks him through a shop wall, before jumping in after him.

  Jamie reaches out and grabs Trespasser One's wrist. Everything goes grey, and Tony looks up.

  “What? What are you doing?”

  “Stacy can't hold on much longer man. Work fast, I'm giving you time.”

  “Got it.”

  Mark struggles out of the rubble collapsing around him, and the King appears through the dust and smoke and punches him in the gut. Rather than go for flair and technique, Mark roars and grabs him around the waist, tackling him to the ground like a wrestler. The King gets him in a headlock, and Mark uses his weight to drive his shoulder into the King's solar-plexus, winding him. Lying on his back, the King plants his knee in Mark's gut and drives it up again and again, bringing bile up in Mark's mouth.

  Mark plants his hands on either side of the King and pushes himself off, getting free of his assault and crashing through the roof, into fresh air. The King jumps and follows him as Mark urges himself upwards into the air, the King latches onto him and twists like an acrobat.

  He puts all of his strength into it and spins Mark, dragging him by the cape and throwing him through the shattering glass of the Buchanan Galleries, sending escalators and pillars collapsing on to the struggling, drunken hero.

  The King lands with a heavy thud, and swaggers outside the café, dusting himself off and grimacing at the marks on his suit. He looks at the blue bubble of energy, and the squad crouched around the bomb inside it.

  He grins, and walks towards them.

  Time snaps back for Jamie and the Trespasser, and Jamie's nose is bleeding where it wasn't before. Trespasser One works feverishly, sliding his combat knife under a shaped charge and trying to pry it loose. The King stands on the other side of the barrier, and Gary grimaces as he gives it a playful tap.

  “It's ok,” says the King, his voice muffled by the barrier. “The explosion will vaporise you before you even feel a thing. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

  Stacy's eyes have rolled back into her skull, and tears of blood are welling beneath her lids; she doesn't have long left. Even Donald's nose is bleeding trying to help her.

  “We're losing Stace,” says Cath. “Hurry up.”

  “I've nearly got it,” says Trespasser One, the urgency making his voice shake. “Nearly...”

  The King looks at the group for a moment, as though pondering something, then he slams his fist against the forcefield.

  Gary cries out, blood spurting from his nose, and the group huddle around him in defence.

  The King punches it again, and Gary openly sobs, blood burning out of his eyes.

  “I can't -” he gasps. “I can't keep it -”

  “It's ready!” shouts the Trespasser. “Cathy, Jamie, somebody, get us away!”

  Cathy and Jamie link hands with everybody, and Gary lets the forcefield down.

  The King punches thin air where the energy shield was, and laughs, walking through it towards the squad.

  They vanish.

  In their place is a burning geyser of molten plutonium, rocketing out of one end of the bomb casing as the rest of it detonates

  There's an explosion like a missile strike, and the King grimaces and cries out in shock as the liquid metal covers his body, burning his skin away and scarring him. It knocks him to the ground with the blast wave, searing his skin.

  Not a nuclear explosion.

  Barely even an explosion at all.

  The King gets to his feet and wipes himself down, grimacing at the molten metal clinging to him. His shirt and suit are ruined, and he tears them off to see his skin knitting itself back
together across his chest. Standing in nothing but his trousers and shoes, he spreads his arms wide and walks through the burning crater where the bomb once sat.

  “Not bad,” he shouts. “What did it cost you to defuse a bomb, eh? One bomb? There are millions more out there, the Agency won't stop just because one failed. You've bought yourself a day, maybe. At most.”

  Glasgow greets him with silence.

  “Well? Is that it?”

  The squad reappear a moment later inside the Buchanan Galleries, on the bottom floor, around a pile of debris with a cape draped over it. Stacy is limp, catatonic in Trespasser One's arms, and Jamie lets go of Chloe's hand to pull the cape from the rubble.

  “Mark?” he says, keeping his voice low. “Mark, mate, come on. We did it, we need to get out of Glasgow.”

  Trespasser One sets Stacy down, and Donald rolls up his sleeves and lays his hands on her forehead.

  “Her head feels like it's full of fire,” he whispers. “She nearly pushed herself too far.”

  “Brave girl,” whispers Mark, as Jamie helps him to his feet. His face is swollen and bruised, dripping blood. He pulls his flask out and empties the last of it into his mouth, tossing it aside. “She just saved thousands of lives. Be sure to tell her when she wakes up.”

  Jamie claps his shoulder. “Team effort man. You can tell her yourself once we get out of the city.”

  “Yeah,” says Mark, laughing. “Yeah, no.”

  “What?”

  He starts to walk away from them, towards the glass doors. Outside, the King is shouting challenges to them. His voice carries in through the rubble.

  “This bastard has done enough damage,” he says, and stops and turns. “I have to end this. Whilst I still feel like I can.”

  “Mark, wait,” shouts Trespasser one. “You can't bloody breathe in space, wait until we can get you an oxygen mask or something.”

  Mark smiles, and turns back to them as he leaves. “The King won't wait. It's been a hell of a ride guys.”

  He turns and leaves – and as he expected it would, everything turns grey and stops, all the life draining out of the world.

  Jamie's hand is resting on his shoulder.

  “Mate,” he says. “Come on. You're drunk and you're angry.”

  Mark turns to face his friend, rubbing his sore face.

  “If you've got a working idea to beat the King, tell me now. Otherwise, let me do this.”

  “You know you won't come back. If the ocean nearly killed you, you've got no chance trying to go into space.”

  “The King needs to be stopped. There's no other way. You remember the Destroyer? When I was terrified, about to jump out of that helicopter?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “You stopped time, and you told me that I had a rare opportunity; that for once, I was the right man, in the right place, at the right time.”

  Jamie gives him a sad nod, looking at the floor. “Yeah.”

  “Well, that's where I am now.”

  “Yeah but – you don't have to die doing it. You'll get better at flying. You can do this later, when we have a suit for you or something.”

  “And how many bombs will drop during that time? How many cities will be turned to ash before I feel like I can do this? This happens now, while I'm still stupid enough to go through with it.”

  “Don't die. I mean it, mate. Don't bloody die.”

  “I might -”

  “Well don't. If you aren't going to make it, bail out. The world needs a superhero, not just to throw idiots like the King into space. Look at what he did in just a month or two, with that kind of power; he's not even started yet, and he's changed the world forever. Imagine what you can do with your power -”

  “We're all powerful, Jamie -”

  “Yeah but not like you,” Jamie jabs a finger into his chest as though he's insulted. “You've got a power none of us can imitate, or stand in for. You can't be hurt, Mark. You can stand up in public and say whatever the hell you want, and who can stop you? You can point to the corrupt and tell people they're bastards, and guess what? Nobody can stop you. You can walk into a boardroom and arrest the bastards funding shit like the Kingdom project. You can do so much more than just punch psychos. That's your power, Mark. You get to be fearless. You get to be an example.”

  “Jamie, I have to drink to use my powers -”

  “Then tell the world that! What was it Stacy used to say to you? If you were diabetic, people wouldn't begrudge you taking insulin. It's a medical fact that you need to drink, or you'll die. So tell the world that, and then look: they've nothing to use against you. You can tell people to stop being cruel to each other and they have to listen to you, because they can't just make you go away. You can't be ignored.”

  Mark says nothing – he just nods, taking it in.

  “So don't -” begins Jamie, and he stops and takes a breath. “Don't you bloody die. Don't throw your life away for some arsehole psychopath worth a fraction what you are. You come back, ok? We've got work to do.”

  Mark takes Jamie's hand and shakes it firmly, then embraces his old friend.

  “I'll try my hardest, mate.”

  “You always do,” whispers Jamie, and breaks away from him. “Ok, go be a hero. Idiot.”

  Mark laughs, and Jamie returns it, then lets go of his shoulder.

  Colour returns to the world, and Mark turns with his cape swirling behind him, and walks out the door.

  Sunlight floods Glasgow, warming the tarmac and sparkling off the Clyde.

  The King stands at one end of the street, near the ruined shop and the crater, and watches Mark emerge from the galleries. In his ruined suit trousers, and his scarred torso, the King looks like a street fighter. Then Mark's armour catches the sun, showing every dent and scrape, and the gold in his cape lights up with the sunlight, creating a beaming silhouette around him that blinds the King.

  “Well,” shouts Mark as he takes a breath. “I guess it was always going to end like this, eh? Opposing forces and balance and all that.”

  “Shame. You could've made a real difference.”

  “I'm still going to.”

  “So what, do we talk each other into an early grave or what?”

  “No,” says Mark, and smiles, strolling closer, until he can see the hollow darkness, the pain at the edges of the King's eyes. “No, because I'm an idealist and I want to give you one last chance.”

  “Well that's awful naive of you,” sighs the King.

  “Last chance, King. Hand yourself over. Turn yourself in, and we can end this peacefully. No more death – and you don't have to endure what I'll do to you.”

  “I don't think you can do anything to me, Mark.”

  Mark nods. “Then I guess that's that, Paul.”

  The King's eye twitches a little at the use of his real name.

  “I guess that's that,” he growls.

  “I am sorry, by the way.”

  “Whatever.”

  Mark takes a breath, and begins walking towards the King, tensing his muscles, focusing his mind on something positive, a memory, a place, a time.

  Stacy and him, floating above the clouds, kissing as the sun rose.

  He smiles, and the King snarls, and they leap at one another for the last time.

  Trespasser One lifts his antiquated phone to his ear.

  “This is Trespasser One, Command are you there?”

  “You defused the bloody bomb didn't you -”

  “Yeah ok, whatever, we're not wiping out Glasgow. Listen, Mark is going to try and take the King into space and throw him into the sun – he's our only chance of actually beating the King, and he's probably not going to manage it. Turn your jets around and have them come back, Mark will need back up.”

  “I do not take orders from -”

  “Shut up Command. Just shut up. This is not negotiable, so just shut up. Drop it. Order the planes back. Then get a radar lock on Mark and monitor his speed, let me know how he's doing. If it starts t
o drop rapidly, we're going to need to try and catch him. Fire up a chopper and arrange tanks of whiskey, just trust me. We might need to spray him down with it.”

  He hears arguing in the background of Command's line, followed by a grudging:

  “Fine. Consider it done, stay on this channel.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Trespasser One crouches down beside his squad as Stacy regains consciousness and takes her hand, trying to cheer her up.

  “What if he doesn't come back?” she whispers.

  “He will,” says Jamie. “He will.”

  Mark gets the first punch, feinting right and then jabbing left, catching the King in the kidneys. The blow sends the King reeling back, and Mark leaps after him, capitalising on the opening, driving another two blows into his ribs before the King gets his guard down and pushes Mark back with his shoulder.

  The King comes in swinging, renewed, and Mark ducks under the first blow and rises like a bullet, smashing the King's head back with a brutal uppercut that knocks him on his back. Mark dives on his prone form and smashes his head against the ground, cracking the concrete.

  Growling and writhing under him, the King jams his hands up and gets his thumbs hooked into Mark's eyes, sending him crashing back clawing at his face, batting the King away. Before Mark can recover the King is on his feet, and kicks Mark's ankles aside like a footballer.

  Before Mark hits the ground, the King stamps hard on his stomach, driving the wind from his lungs and shattering the road under Mark's spine. Mark punches the King's leg aside with a sickening crack and drives his elbow into the ground, rocketing himself up and driving his fist into the King's face.

  The King stumbles back, and the two get their breath back, eyeing each other with snarling faces. Mark watches the King's bruises fade and his cut face patch itself back together before his eyes.

  “I'm sorry, King,” says Mark, shaking his head as the King clenches and unclenches his fists. “I'm so, so sorry for this.”

  “Still bluffing, Mark?”