Wasteland Warlords Episode 5: Chapter 8 - A Dark Moment for the DCU

“Ow!” Joe cupped his bleeding face in his hands. He turned huge, shocked eyes on the Dark Sentinel. “What the hell, guy?”

But Alex had already figured it out. She reset her feet, holding the combination kusarigama-thurible at the ready.

She’d been stupid not to use that helicopter distraction to reload the Mossberg, but it was too late now. Wildflame had her Flaming Lariat lazily wheeling by her side. Crawley flanked her, his tattooed hands open at his side and ready to cast, both with their eyes locked on Alex. If she made a move for the shotgun, she probably wouldn’t be lucky enough to end up picking her teeth out of the sand like Joe. More likely she’d wake up asking Saint Peter what the hell just happened.

“We’re the good guys here,” Joe appealed to the saintly crimefighter in a betrayed voice.

“They know that, Joe,” Alex said. “They’re not here to help us.”

“But… but… but the DCU is a beacon of justice in a dark world. They help the regular joes right the wrongs and save the day!”

“That’s just in the stories. These a-holes aren’t working for the little guy.” Alex glared at the Sentinel. “Are you? The government called you in because we were attacking their prison. You’re working for them.”

“Working for them, but sponsored by the pharmaceuticals industry,” the Sentinel said. “It’s in the name, doofus. The Dellafide Crimefighting Unit. All those movies don’t pay for themselves. Uncle Sam and Aunt Pharma keep the paychecks coming, so we keep the image squeaky clean and the smiles big for the cameras while we’re back across the wall.” He popped his knuckles, the black leather of his suit creaking with the motion. “But out here in the wasteland, there’s nobody to hear Incants scream.”

“Yeah,” the Merciful Shepherd said. “We locked up half the losers in this joint, and got an assload of cash for each and every one of them.”

A crunching, chewing sound interrupted, drawing every eye in the yard to Chonk.

The furry mechacoon had cracked open one of the shellfish guards and was busy stuffing his face with the insides. When he realized every eye in the yard was staring at his feast, Chonk cringed, sheepish eyes rolling back and forth between the DCU and the Jaeger squad.

He took a final noisy bite, licked his paw clean, then bolted across the dirt and up onto Joe’s shoulder pauldron.

“No wonder DCU comics suck,” Alex said, knuckles going white as she clenched the chains in her hands. “They’re just a bunch of lies.”

“We don’t leave money on the table,” Wildflame said with an easy, movie-star smile. “Comics and merchandising are a third of what we pull down yearly.”

“Oh, well, that makes it right,” Alex sneered.

Apparently, Joe had moved past the shocked stage and straight into mourning.

“Man, I used to think you guys were so cool!” he lamented, shaking his head. “I used to defend the DCU to the haters who said Mojave Comics Universe was better! I said you guys were artists like me, spreading wonder and enchantment, not barfing up cash grabs left and right.” He sighed. “But you are barfing. You are.”

“Hey, that’s the way the world works,” the Sentinel hissed. “You sell the merch and the merch sells you. Nobody does anything to help the little guy, because the little guy is broke as fuck. Everybody’s in it for two things: the money and themselves.” He put up a finger to emphasize each one as he named them.

“Look at this Rolex,” Crawley said in his wormlike voice. He raised an arm and shook back the black trench coat he wore to reveal an arm covered in profane tattoos and unearthly sigils of power. “Are any of you small-time dipshits going to spring for a genuine Rolex for me? I didn’t think so.”

“Seriously,” Merciful Shepherd said. “These boots are Gucci. They’re like walking on clouds. And these suits?” He twisted and hooked his crook behind his back like a baseball player stretching out, demonstrating the elasticity in the material. “So breathable! Especially under heavy plate mail. You don’t get this from Walmart or wherever you peasants shop nowadays.”

“But you run a charity for the poor,” Joe growled, the sadness in his face quickly shifting toward anger. “The Shepherd’s Crook. I used to donate to you guys!”

The Shepherd smirked. “Where do you think the Gucci boots came from?”

“You could’ve cut off your sleeves and pants legs like a normal person,” the mech-suited redneck said darkly, “but you turned to the dark side. I can forgive a lot in the name of comfort and fashion, but stealing from widows and orphans? Selling your soul for breathability…” His fists balled at his sides. “That’s unforgiveable. My momma did her best to raise me right, and if there’s one thing she taught me, it’s not to abide a hypocrite.”

Alex’s heartbeat thumped a little faster, recognizing his tone. Joe wasn’t the kind of guy who got mad easily, not the real kind of mad. False outrage and righteous indignation were as close as he got most of the time. He was a happy drunk, a happy sober, an all-around good ol’ boy, just living his best life and having a blast doing it. She’d only seen Joe really mad once, when somebody had criticized Clay for enlisting. When that switch flipped, hell had no fury like a God-fearing redneck spurned.

She swallowed and shifted her weight, keeping her stance light. Four Incants who’d been around since she was a kid, gulping down God knew how many stat potions a year, with the full might of the government and Big Pharma at their back—versus her and Joe and a racoon. No matter how she did the math, the answer wasn’t good.

Clay and Griff were inside counting on them, but when Joe spoke again, she knew it wasn’t them he was thinking about. Or at least, they weren’t the primary source of the fury simmering in his voice.

“Let it be known,” he growled, locking glares with the Merciful Shepherd, “that you could’ve chosen good and worn jorts.” He gunned Bertha’s throttle and charged the elite members of the DCU. “YOU COULD HAVE WORN JORTS!”

***

Clay watched helplessly as the team of superhero Incants wiped the prison yard with his wife and his brother. On one monitor, the Merciful Shepherd was beating the piss out of Joe with his giant blunt-weapon crook while Crawley cast some kind of evil curse to beef up the armor-clad knight’s already insane Strength. In the other, Alex fought for her thurible, caught in Wildflame’s glowing Flame Lariat, while Dark Sentinel fired writhing black fireballs out of his eyes at her back.

“I’ve got to get out there.” Even with the M4 in his hands, Clay would be just as outclassed as Alex and Joe were. Even more so, since both were higher level than he was. But he couldn’t just stand around while the DCU—the guys whose whole public image rested on helping the little man—destroyed his family.

“Hope you like funerals,” Shifty said, “because if you go out there, you’re headed for one. Forget Super Team Douchebag, we’re talking about facing off against the Warden. He’s an Unknowable Cosmic Horror, said to be the offspring of the Oldest Ones and the Mad Goddess of the Wareling Deeps. That’s some straight-up Hearthworld shit, right there. You saw what he did to the security cams—imagine that but with your brain.”

“Not to mention there’s about a thousand ICSOs between us and the yard,” Herman said. “You’ll never make it to the Warden. Hell, you barely made it in here.”

“I think I might know how to even the odds between him and me,” Clay said, his eyes locking on a monitor showing the empty lab up the hall.

Shifty smirked. “Don’t you mean, ‘him and I?’”

“No, I don’t,” Clay snapped, not in the mood to go over the rules of pronoun usage.

“Yeah, fuck yer grammar,” Herman said, pumping a fist.

For once, Clay agreed with the sentiment. “But Herman’s right, if we had fewer guards to get through, we could get to Alex and Joe faster.”

“I might have an idea on that count, lad,” Griff said, leaning close to the buttons so he could read the labels. “Could be I’m wrong, but I’m thinkin’ there’s a sight more of us in these cells than there are of them in uniform.” He flicked a switch, shutting off the mass containment field built into every cell in the prison. On the monitors, millions of red lights lit up. The air around Clay crackled with energy and he felt the full range of his powers return.

“And we’ve got more magical powers,” Griff finished with a dark smile.

With the press of a button came a cacophony of buzzing, clanging metal, and alarms as every cell door in the prison rolled open at the same time.

Slowly, like dreamers waking from a dead sleep, inmates drifted toward the doors of their cells. They eyed the openings like they couldn’t trust what they were seeing. Clay couldn’t blame them. As long as some of them had been locked up, they probably didn’t trust anything.

“Think they’ll fight?” he asked.

Herman watched them with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Back in the early days, Incants got a choice,” he said softly. “Sign on as Conglomerated Industries’ killing machines or spend the rest of your life locked up here as their guinea pig. You’re looking at people who won the magical lottery but wouldn’t go against their principles no matter what the cost. But if they knew those DCU assholes who took the deal were out there, they’d rip each other apart just to get their hands on ’em.” He glanced from Shifty to Griff and shrugged. “Obviously, I can’t speak for the NPCs, but if it was me, I’d want to kick somebody’s ass.”

Griff nodded. “They’ll do it. Soon’s they figure out they can.”

A slim black mic sticking out of the keyboard caught Clay’s eye.

“Let’s speed up the discovery process.” He leaned past the old weed and held down the button for SPEAKERS – PRISONWIDE.

“This isn’t some kind of trap.” Clay heard his voice echoing through the cellblocks outside. “Your doors are really open. The magic-nullifying curses are off. Freedom’s out there waiting for you, assuming you’re willing to take it. We—four of us, inmates just like you—took over the control room. Together, you can take over the prison. This is your chance. Stand and fight the guards and Warden and system that’s been holding you down or roll over and stay locked up here forever.”

Herman shoved Clay out of the way and grabbed the mic, making it screech with feedback.

“Yo, all you Incants in here,” he said. “If you’re hearing my voice, you know exactly who I am and exactly how long I’ve been here. You also know I’m not gonna bullshit you. Right now, Dark Sentinel, Wildflame, Merciful Shepherd, and Crawley are in the yard, nothin’ but a couple cellblocks and some ICSOs between you and them. You wanna pay back the assholes who locked you up and stole your life away? Wanna show those super douches what ten years in a wasteland prison did to ya while they were living in the lap of luxury, eating caviar and getting cereal endorsements? You’re not gonna get a better shot than this. Get out there and give ’em hell.”

There was a split second of stillness on the cellblock monitors. Then one guy stepped out. When he didn’t get immediately incinerated, a few more tentatively followed. They waved at their cellmates to come on and shouted out the all clear.

In the next second, a tidal wave of inmates flooded out of the cells. Spells flew freely inside the Supermax for the first time in years, and the few guards left in the inner cellblocks were quickly overwhelmed.

As the revenge-hungry mass focused their efforts on escaping into the prison yard, Clay turned to the men standing in the control room with him.

“Exciting stuff,” Shifty said, tapping a mossy finger on his bottom lip, “but we may want to stay nice and snug in here until things die down a little. See how things shake out with the Warden.”

“Fucking coward,” Herman spat. “I didn’t bust my ass to sit on it while everybody else does the grunt work. I’m going.”

“Same,” Clay said. “But I’ve got a pit stop to make first.”

“Do what you want,” Herman said, shrugging. “I ain’t waiting around.”

“But you don’t even have a weapon,” Shifty said. “It’ll be suicide.”

Herman grinned. “The containment wards are down. I am the weapon.” He thrust a hand out, palm down, and the ground rumbled. Dust swirled up, coalescing into a hulking demon of rock and stone and bone. The beast stood seven feet tall, half again as wide, and had huge teeth and claws built for rending flesh.

Clay’s blood ran cold. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen one of these things. That had been years ago… back in the dusty waste of Jordan, during Operation Hell Gate.

Herman gave him one last, hard look—and confirmation burned in his eyes. Then he marched out into the corridor, summoning another minion along the way, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Clay had just released the Dread Messiah of Jordan—or more accurately, the Marine who’d killed the Dread Messiah and inherited his powers. Despite the fact that guy was supposed to have been dead and buried for years now, lost in an ambush on the way back to base, according to the official story.

There was no mistaking that demon, though. Clay had fought them firsthand, mowing them down with his Humvee-mounted .50 cal.

He shook his head and pushed all of that to the back of his mind. He didn’t have time to think about any of this right now. He’d handle the fallout later, assuming he lived long enough to care. Right now, the only thing that mattered was saving his wife and brother. The rest of the world could burn if that was what it took.

“I need to find Ella,” Griff said, a worried frown creasing his craggy features. “Things can turn just as ugly for allies as enemies in a melee like this, especially if the folks throwing around Magicka and fists have been out of commission for too long.” The old weed pierced Clay with that icy blue gaze. “Where were you thinking of makin’ this pit stop, lad?”

“The lab,” Clay said. “It’s about time we level the playing field.”