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The Killer from the East

Killian felt the weight of the exoskeleton in every joint in his body. The sensors in his muscles activated and the metal suit was brought to life. Despite the fading of the initial electrostatic shock, he knew the power was still flowing through his veins, and he could feel it. The augmented power suit gripped tightly on his limbs and the steam whistle signaled that the time was right. Killian inhaled deeply and felt the chest plate pressing in on him. There was something restricting about his suit, and yet he felt a great freedom of movement within the suit—much like the freedom that he would deliver with the mounted guns and reinforced steel fists equipped upon his new armor.

“Alright, Trevor. Come on and give it us a test run,” said the maintenance tech.

He moved his right leg first. Almost effortlessly, the hulking beast moved with him as quickly as he could think it. With every slow step, he could feel the thunderous rumbling of his feet upon the floor. He saw the faces of the technicians go bright with smiles as their creation came to life and walked across the length of the laboratory. This device would be the turning point in the war—this war machine would be the harbinger of liberty for all the world's nations. He could see himself now, fighting the uphill battles of his great nation, with the red, white, and blue panels on the side of the metallic beast—next to the name “PROGENITOR” etched into the steel arm plate—placing the American banner upon the world's battlefields with pride. It would be his honor to carry the flag of his country into battle against those who would oppose her.

The Killing House

Helen could feel the freak's lick on her back and his hand on her cheek. She ran, tumbling down the hallway in a jumble of sweat and tears, hearing his voice call out behind 'I'll cook you like bacon, you lovely thing. I'll string your kidneys for dinner.' She reached for her gun but it wasn't there, it was miles back, at the station, The window was ahead of her, and in the thundering night the lightening lit up his shadow behind her, a demon. She tried the door to her left - locked. To her right - locked again. From back there he started again: 'Why do you run, my pretty?' he said, and she could feel her spine grow cold. 'I want you; I want both of you.' She could feel his hand on her belly now, where the soft bump of motherhood was beginning to grow, where the baby - his baby - was kicking its small feet. His breathe was in her ear; his fingers around the back of her neck; and she knew what to do. With a scream that shattered like her mind she grabbed the edges of the window, threw it open, and, without looking back at his eyes, those twin roving snakes that ate her away, she jumped.

Spring Breakdown

Havilland surveyed the crowd of partying students. At every turn, there were bikini-clad babes and jacked-up jocks, each with one hand in the air and a beer in the other. The bass pounded in his ears as the college kids bounced up and down in a monotonous wave of sweat, lust, and poor decisions. He kept his cool, brushing aside the adrenaline-fueled youths and making his way through the crowd. Despite the stares he received at every step, his stone-cold gaze remained fixed on his mission. They continued to dance, without thinking, slamming into each other's bodies and his. He knew these kids didn't have the slightest idea of what his presence meant to them, or to this city. He also knew that without him, these kids would never see their friends again. Something within him pushed him toward helping these unaware and uncaring kids.

He reached the DJ, the source of the blaring, vapid pop music. Not one more minute of this crap, he grunted to himself, not one more fucking minute. He pulled the plug, and in an instant the sound and light of the adolescent rave drained from the room. He could finally hear his own thoughts again. The disembodied yelps from the rowdy students faded in a moment. Havilland was immediately surrounded with judging and disappointed glares. The fuzz had killed their buzz. Shouts of protest and chunks of demands fell on the grizzled detective, who was moved little by their noise. He displayed his badge, holding it high above the crowd and ushering in a silence over the teen partiers. Time to start talking, he thought to himself. It would be a grueling night of interrogation ahead.

All Wet

Havilland took a drag from his cigarette and let out a gruff sigh as he watched the clean up crew take Celestine's body away from the main concourse. Maybe if he'd gotten to their date on time she would still be alive, maybe he could have done something. Seeing those blonde curls disappear into a black bag stirred something up inside the veteran detective. Some sick bastard thought he'd done something clever by killing the heiress, but the one thing that they didn't count on was that Detective Constantine Havilland would get on the case. One thing was for sure, the killer better enjoy their last few days of freedom, because he wouldn't stop until the murderer was brought to justice, no matter what it took.

Writing on the Wall

Liberty stood with her back pressed against the wall, her mouth clamped shut and her eyes wide. She could hear the footsteps nearby, slow and methodical, on the other side of the wall. The entity that chased her wanted blood, wanted revenge for her meddling. She should never have touched that old book. The ancient tome she held tightly against her chest was the source off all this death, all this suffering. Though she knew that the book needed to be protected, she found herself hating it. If it were up to her, she would toss it away, destroy it, and with it destroy this part of her life.

Come on Liberty, you have to stay calm. You need to get out of here. Think! She took a silent breath and let her eyes scan the room around her. She tried to think back. There had to be some way to get out of this. Sifting though her memories, she tried not to pay attention to the sound of the approaching monstrosity. Its ragged breaths were so horrid that they nearly broke her concentration...and then it hit her. She remembered when Hamond hit the creature with that iron fire poker. The monster seemed to shy away from it, as if it were scared of the poker. It wasn't much to go off of, but she had nothing else to go off of. Her gaze fell on an old iron knife, a weapon that looked more ceremonial than practical. It was better than nothing. Crawling as quietly as she could, she walked towards the knife. It was then, that she felt the skin on the back of her neck begin to crawl and suddenly she realized that the footsteps in the other room had gone silent.

Holy Trinity

Havilland stood among the crowd hooded figures, watching the mad priest give his crazed sermon. His hand unconsciously went to his gun. He could have ended it there, killed the son of a bitch and had a good smoke on the way home. The cultists would chase him, but they'd never catch him. Havilland knew these streets better than just about anybody. The mad prophet raised his arms up in a rapturous gesture as his voice ascended to the heavens, calling out the name of his dark lord.

Then, out of the blue, Havlland felt a cold hand on his shoulder. He didn't panic. After years on the force, he knew how to handle himself in a tough situation. The cultists beady eyes looked from Havilland to his hand concealed in the pocket of his robes. To the hand holding his gun. Havilland only had a few seconds to react to keep all hell from breaking loose. Was he fast enough?