by Sergio Black
Growing up, I wanted nothing more than to embody my parents’ actions and honorable beliefs. With the procession of time, the hope that I would ascend into something greater than a dying, angry man slowly fizzled out like a burnout sparkler that long surpassed its light. In the history of Superior beings, I don’t ever remember reading about anyone’s gifts ascending this late in life. My father would always say, the greater the Superior-Ability, the longer it would take the mortal body to become accustomed to the sheer force of its nature and only then would it be more than likely that my Ascension would occur during a near death experience or a moment of true vulnerability. Killian would always ask me, “Son, when you grow up, will you be the savior of the hollow, the faceless and the damned?” I never knew what he meant until now, the savior of the faceless? The only way to save the voiceless is to make everyone equal by mass genocide, only then will the famine, the war, the cruelties and the mass atrocities against humanity be brought to an end and I can truly bring the world to its knees. The aftermath will incorporate in an era of peace that no man alive can unreign, no more worries, no more doubt and pain. I can save billions from the damnation I had to endure, while simultaneously killing the fascist who orchestrated my parents’ demise. No, but they must die in abhorrence, the same way I did all those years ago…
Growing up, I’ve had many encounters with the Santa Muerte and now I’m curious about the circumstances of my late ascension. I have seemed to inherit a combination of my parents’ power, coupled with the abilities of every Superior who was incarcerated at the destroyed super-lab. Lying here in orange burnt-up scrubs, I feel the cells in my body being rewired and restitched down to an atomic level like a rerouted electrical current.
Eden was so eager to protect me from the man known as HIM. All the years I asked myself why did the occurrence of her spiritual energy lead to my eventual perdition? If only she had let me cross the road, I would have been okay? Why didn’t she let HIM kill me when he had the chance and save me from my past? She always said good or bad, right or wrong, the world would need me someday; the way she spoke made me believe she had some special insight into the future. She believed in me the same way father placed his faith in humanity, his belief that not all humans were bad. Most he’d say are just misguided by those who micromanage the world with the facade of progressive agendas. Something distinct makes me question how the events occurred that night. The man known as HIM domineered an ancient magic that was downright horrific, and can only be described as Satanic. To have murdered my mother so easily with little resistance was a feat I thought next to impossible...
The night sky opens up and the mythical Star brightens, snatching me back to the present, the Star of Vergina consumes the light of the universe and blackens the entire galaxy. The Star becomes scorching white with cosmic power and orbits the moon a last time, then descends from the sky, entering our atmosphere. The star divides into two halves, the prefitted pieces embeds itself into my eye sockets. Squinting with rapid desperation, I feel the Eye of Vergina imposing its will on me, burning with the inferno of a thousand suns, face trembling and twitching, my bones crack, then remold under the pressure of intense energy. I open my mouth to scream but nothing scratches to the surface, not even a whimper. The luminescence rupturing from my orifices radiate with the potency of a thousand stars. The excruciating pain, although vibrant and sensational, subsides quickly. The strength from the ascension I was fated to feel, I now feel a hundredfold. This is true power. Not false power like money, drugs, politics or popularity. With the ability to breathe new change into the universe with this galactical Superior-Ability at my beckoning, first I will break the shackles of social normality and end this Neu World. The sycophants, hypokrites, and liars who rule this universe with no regard for anyone but themselves and their wealth, will feel the power of undying agony and hatred.
Tonight, it’s my destiny to further transcend into what I always thought I was meant to be: the world’s greatest predator. Those who took from me, this is a courtesy call. I am coming. I will find you, even if I have to scour every nook on this planet and overturn every rock; no place is safe and no place is too hidden. For your treason against my lineage, the wages of your sin is death. The events that unfolded tonight instilled in me a new tenaciousness to do what my parents would not. The former man I was ceased to exist when the lab exploded, an empty core of a man content on dying just so the misery pounding within his chest would come to an unconventional end, is no more. I now know that my aspirations are validated by a higher power, I am destined to be the World Killer sent by the Galactic's to right the life of every life form in existence. Now is the moment I answer my call to destiny. The compelling feeling that invades my non-beating lifeless heart signals the new beginning and I know, it’s time...
I teleport to my hands and knees, then grip the solid slab of stone that lies beneath me, the weathered rocks instantly turn to silk that falls between my stout fingers. I shakily stand and dash forward through a firestorm of bundled ravens, charring quills instantly shed from my skin, leaving a streamline of feathers in my wake. Almost immediately, a searing sensation begins to pepper my face, before bright luminescence burns from within my eyes and mouth, shining a path through the forest, like Ronnie Radke in “Losing My Life.” I feel a malevolent presence that sends goosebumps through my body and frazzles of anxiety through my skin. Then I hear it, a gripping howl that cuts through the darkness, its existence ominous and ageless. I quicken my pace to escape the smell of death, I know that with this debilitating vessel, I am in no position to defend myself. I falter forward step by heavy step, my feet feel as if 100-pound weights are strapped to each foot, knowing now that this newly ascending power is far too much for my current state. It’s only a matter of minutes before my anatomy fractures, then I rupture into a thousand shards of shattered oblivion. I clumsily trudge past rows of scorched trees. Slowly, I rigorously fight for the retention of balance, seeking to tame over my newly acquired senses, the subconscious living beneath the surface driving me to a final destination. The call to fate has brought me to a high rocky peak that overlooks the bottom of the desolate forest. Everything stands out; the stream of red running H20 quickly puddles beneath the peak, the thick goopy liquid bubbles and sits by itself, glowing brightly. The reservoir is foreboding and looks to sink in on itself as two pancakes smashed together with syrup drizzling from both ends. Whatever lies in the bog is calling me. Making my descent down the impeded slope, I rest my weight on burned trees between bouts of exhaustion.
Again, I feel them; eyes that stare from the mounting blackness of a bomb-damaged forest. The tension earlier felt is lifted and relief takes me like a hurricane. The Leviathan is my devoted protector. Skulking amongst the shadows of death, snapping and snarling, ready to shred anything that gets between me and my objective in a moment’s notice. The spiritual essence I feel emanating from the monsters is one that binds us. The eyes fixate on me and slowly descend from the shadows. The eyes that stare follow closely behind me with an overbearing presence as I draw nearer to the water. I lurch to a halt, looking over my shoulder to see 7 pairs of menacing black eyes watching with patient obedience. I turn my recognition back to the mystical lagoon of wicked water and find myself mystified. The red mist that sits atop the red water presents itself as a rolling red carpet and dances across the liquid with the imitation of fog.
I count two dozen corpses, and know by the armor they have been here for centuries. The most recognizable figure among the fallen Spaniards is Ponce De’ Leon as his name is brazenly etched into his helmet. I heard many legends about him and he looks the same way I had imagined, long black hair, a thick mustache and frightened grey eyes that recognize death. The golden armor they wear look to be timeless and well-polished, with their skeletons and faces well preserved. They are unworthy who attempted to attain a true gift that only belongs to the rightfully true. My former self would have been unsure, timid and fearful. But now I feel as though I will con
quer everything. The light emanating from my eyes begins to scatter my vision, and a loud whine permeates my ears. I know it’s now or never, life or death. I trod forward and enclasp my fate.
I feel the freezing water wash over my feet, then my calves. The magical water begins to subdue the light that burns from my face. Looking into the water, my reflection is one I don’t recognize. My facial structure amidst the ash has completely changed. I went from a well below average looking man to a man who could very well be on the cover of a Men’s Health magazine. What really grabs my observation is the 16-pointed Macedonian Eye of Vergina that slowly spirals with the sameness of a combo lock. I brace myself for what happens next and don’t hesitate to throw myself into the apocalyptic water. The basin lies still, calm and peaceful before sucking in on itself like a bloody whirlpool, thousands of claws fostered from the Gates of Hell grab my body, pulling me to the trenches of an abyss until my back hits rock bottom. The reservoir of water becomes organic and forces its way inside me, my senses go berserk and I can see, hear, feel taste, touch, and smell, everything I have ever come into contact with my entire meaningless life. Everything settles and I feel my physical limitations further transcend into something that will soon be unmatched.
From the pits of Lazarus, I witness the blood moon rise higher and higher with bewildering rapidity until it peaks, the red aura surrounding its surface trembles then shatters before raining back to earth. The time I spend down here feels eternal and astonishing, but at the same time it’s like everything in the universe has ceased to exist. I feel the manifestation of a malignant hand, angrily tapping my shoulder. I slowly twist my head to the side and see lying in the murky distance the 4-bladed Reaper Scythe that shines and glimmers. The cold, unforgiving alloy begins to hail my name in whispers.
“Nefarious-Nefarious-Nefarious-They’re-Guilty-Kill-Them-All!” I stare transfixed in a trance-like state with childish wonderment, admiring its impeccability and flawless craftsmanship. Setting eyes upon this weapon, I can tell by the spiraled engravings carved throughout the handle, this weapon is not of this world. No mortal could have forged something so menacingly beautiful. It’s easily longer than seven feet and looks as if it could weigh more than a ton.
Another forgotten memory hits me like a Mack truck. Eden told me tales of this weapon. If this weapon exists, what about the other trinkets she hinted of? When I was little, mother rewarded me with bedtime stories about a Superior with godly power. An all-powerful being who used the Twin Scythes to rule both realms with an iron fist. I feel the empathy cast by the Reaper Scythe. I don’t hesitate in reaching for it; the ominous energy is enticingly powerful. Now more than ever, I feel its connection to the dark intent of mankind, a thousand souls wailing within like death kissing sirens. The Scythe shivers before it teleports and fits perfectly into my palm like a well-tailored glove. The Scythe has been here for uncounted centuries, waiting to serve a master of like-minded intentions. I let the maleficent energy engulf me like a bed of quicksand. Red illumination breaks through the water and shines throughout the broken forest.
The Vortex generated by the Scythe takes me from the bottom of the lagoon back to the forest’s rocky peak that overlooks the swamp. The level of extra power exhausts my body and I pass out on the cold surface, before waking to loud, coarse whimpers emitted by 7 Maned Wolves twice the size of family sedans. Sitting patiently, they are waiting for me to fulfill my mission and answer my call to destiny. The Wolves gently use their noses to nudge me to my feet. I stand proudly with every vein in my body lit up like neon Christmas lights in the still night of December, feeling the power of a thousand suns swimming through my veins. It’s like being born for the first time and having lived with the strength of a thousand Superiors. I will sail this world into the cosmos, dethroning the false and unrighteous until I’m all that exists.
Welcome to My Universe...
CHAPTER ONE
ONE YEAR LATER… IN THE QUAKER STATE OF WILLIAM PENN
(October 31st, 6:31 PM, 365.25 Days Post Ascension) The black boot heels of Eduard Wirth the 2nd click the stone floor of the baby blue dissection room where a white surgeon’s light hangs from the ceiling, a dead Superior lays strapped to a silver operation table, chest open, stomach gutted, with bloody guts spilled over like a scene from Frankenstein. Dr. Eduard Wirth is in the middle of documenting his research with a brown clipboard in one hand and a black pen in the other. The Doctor’s lovely but gold-digging assistant, Jaime Anthony, raps on the steel door with a closed fist before opening the heavy door with little resistance. Jaime saunters into the dissection room wearing jazzy red lipstick, black Prada heels and a red Dior pencil dress that shows off more cleavage than is appropriate for a work setting.
“Dr. Wirth, the General has arrived,” Jaime Anthony announces like a two-cent bimbo. Dr. Wirth doesn’t lift his eyes from the clipboard but continues to scribble notes about the defector who went A.W.O.L. from the Neu Superior Weaponization Team.
“Thank you, Jaime, let the General know I’ll be right in,” the Doctor says dismissively. Jaime nods, turns around and struts off the way a black hooker would, gently closing the silver door behind her which shuts with a distinct CLICK! Jaime Anthony pops his luscious hips as he sashays back into the Doctor’s white office and cozies up with the reputed 3-star General on a red velvet sofa. Jaime is a very attractive african american she-man whose top-secret existence is known only by the world’s most powerful people. He was indoctrinated and brain warped by the Regimocracy for the sake of pleasuring the government's most valued VIP. He cares not whether the person he sleeps with has a penis or a vagina just so long as they can get him high and the price is right. The General and Jaime giggle and whisper to each other, coping inappropriate feels in Dr. Wirth’s elaborate office while waiting for the highly regarded physiologist to finish up the dissection process of the N.S.W.P. defector.
Jaime Anthony and the United States General are interrupted when the metal lock clicks and the steel door swings open on rusty old hinges. General Bathory quickly pulls her hand away that was lingering up Jaime’s warm, smooth, silky thigh and into the she-man’s dress, like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar. The General clears her throat and stands while her cheeks grow rosy red like Saint Nick. She gestures her hands in an attempt to explain what was transpiring, only for the image of keepsake, not that she cares about morality.
“We uh- I mean technically he is a boy.” Eduard Wirth pauses in the doorway and examines the tasteless events unfolding.
“I’m not even going to ask. I’m afraid of the unsavory answer. Can we get business appropriate, please?” General Elizabeth Bathory dips her head and looks to the aseptic blue floor then meets Dr. Wirth’s green eyes. This game for her is like a deadly game of cat and mouse.
General Bathory speaks in a soft seductive whisper, that could even lure a siren to their demise. “You know, there’s always room for one more.” Elizabeth looks at Jaime then back to Dr. Wirth with a kinky smile, implying the thrills of an orgy. Dr. Wirth doesn’t even think about the answer before speaking.
“I’d rather not. I know your reputation and it’s quite a distasteful one. TRK right? Torture Rape Kill? I think I would like to stay off that list.” Dr. Wirth extends his advice to his assistant. “Jaime, if you were smart, you’d do the same.”
Jaime giggles, “You’re funny, Dr. Wirth.” Unfazed by what Dr. Wirth just stated, Jaime seems to be a victim of severe infatuation. By what Dr. Wirth can theorize, Elizabeth seems to have a way of seducing men, women, and children, leaving a trail of bodies behind her, that’s longer than my dick, for the better part of 408 years.
“Once again, can we get business appropriate, please?”
Elizabeth Bathory doesn’t like Dr. Wirth’s casual dismissal of her, and expects him to give in to her demands, and why not? Everyone had succumbed to her seduction, but now she is curious as to why with this one, since her existence, not one person has been able to say no… Until now.
“We can.”
The physiologist reveals a look of disapproval as he continues to march into the luxurious, white room like a handsome prince reeking of death. The Superior Physiologist, who is tall, grey-eyed, and brilliantly handsome, dresses well enough to be on the cover of GQ magazine. The man had dissected and studied thousands of Superiors taken prisoner with a means to no end, in attempts to dopplegang his father’s former works at Auschwitz. The person who they have mistaken to be renowned SS Chief Doctor Eduard Wirth the 2nd is not, in fact, the stern, sociopathic Doctor, but an imposter. Although the real Dr. Wirth put up a decent fight for one whose father had stolen the souls of his people and passed down that which was never his to begin with, Wirth the 2nd was no match for me.
Nefarious flashes a small smirk of malignancy underneath the self-concealed illusion that projects from his eyes and around the room in various directions like a hologram. He easily manipulates everything in his surroundings, including the 5 senses of those within 1000 feet, giving Nefarious the sound and appearance of being Doctor Wirth. Nefarious rejoices on the inside at the thought of getting his hands on the murderous General. After assassinating the Countess, he can focus on someone else he has wanted to kill since he discovered the truth after his Ascension. This man is believed to be the bestowed owner of the N.S.W.P., the Mad Doctor, Andrew Rush. Oh, how he wants to eviscerate the life out of that cowardly man; the same man who captured and murdered Killian in the name of self-assuring grandeur.
