A shockingly tall masculine figure, clad in a pink and black body suit with accessories reminiscent of a Mexica warrior, slinks out of the shadows. The dark yet brightly lit futuristic city of Newon is spread out for miles below him. He stops for a moment, lost in the past. A monster had killed the three things that were keeping him together years ago. His son, his husband, and his career. One could also say that it killed him in a way too. He takes a few steps forward, standing at the edge of the building. He had been a famous DJ, he traveled all over the multiverse and brought people together with sets of electronic music. An obsidian Aztec club with a red zig-zag down the middle of it appears in his hand. But now with rage in his heart, along with music based powers, he enacts what he sees as long due justice upon the vile monsters who roam the dimension of Newon and the multiverse at large…
Glowing red text appears on the display of the visor built into his mask as he scrolls through a music playlist, selecting a track after a few moments. The words LOADING TRACK flash across the visor. He walks forward until he is standing on the edge of the dark skyscraper. Red words flash on his visor once more, NOW PLAYING. A red sound wave starts pulsing as thunderous techno music starts playing. “You don’t need to do this, Oscar.” A calm yet firm voice says from within his mind. His muscles tense. “My name is Deathmatch.” He leaps from the building, descending down to the streets below. Deathmatch lands in front of a dark alleyway, the glowing red accents of his costume are the only source of light.
“You really don’t need to do this…” The voice says again. Deathmatch’s hand, holding the jagged obsidian club twitches as he walks further into the alleyway. “Whoever reported this ‘monster’ as being problematic is probably lying, it’s probably just looking for a home-” “MONSTERS have no need for a HOME.” He snaps back. “Oscar, please.” Deathmatch puts a hand to the side of his head. “Shut UP, Tempo-” He immediately snaps back to attention as a loud hiss fills the air. “I am not afraid to defend my home from the likes of you…” A thunderous hissing voice vibrates the air. Deathmatch gets into a defensive position, gripping his weapon “Come on then… get down here already, You fucking FREAK!” An inky looking entity immediately emerges from the darkness. “You have no idea what you are truly dealing with…” The monster’s singular orange eye begins to glow as ink drips from its ever evolving form.
“You’re NOT getting out of this ALIVE, Splot.” Deathmatch threatens. The Splot draws nearer. “You won’t either, if you don’t leave at ONCE.” It warns. The music emanating from Deathmatch abruptly changes from the steady techno beat to an aggressive bass heavy track as he launches himself up, striking the Splot. “I’ll wipe out ALL of you degenerative killers! You are all the same filth!!!” Deathmatch yells. The Splot ROARS as they engage in a battle where the music takes control of them both, the rise and fall of the tune influencing the pattern and intensity of their attacks. Lost in the heat of the fight, Deathmatch looses touch with his surroundings until there is a jolting BANG! The music stops as a golden bullet hits Deathmatch straight in the chest, tearing through his pounding heart. The Splot retreats as Deathmatch hits the ground.
Deathmatch’s vision blurs, and he feels genuine physical pain for the first time in years. Memories start flashing across his eyes. Oscar remembers happily eats pizza with his very young son and husband. The lights abruptly went out, then there were the horrific sounds of a child and man screaming out in pain. “DADDY HELP! It HURTS!!!” His son’s normally happy voice had cried out in agony. The lights then turned back on. He had seen the Darkness slithering back into every dark corner of the kitchen, leaving behind a scene so horrific that he knew he would never forget it.
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The present snaps back into focus as Deathmatch slowly gets back up, clutching his bleeding chest. He suddenly remembers backing away from his FATHER who had a gun pointed at him. “YOU are NOT a BOY! YOU are MY DAUGHTER!!!” His father had screamed at him. There is the sound of glitching static before his music steadily starts playing again. A red tint spreads across Deathmatch’s vision as his mind returns to the present once more. His heartbeat grows stronger as he absorbs the energy from the music, turning it into powerful magic that begins to heal him. There is another BANG! Deathmatch is ready this time. He twists away from the bullet, then launches forward. He violently lashes out with his club which SLICES the gunman’s head open. Deathmatch doesn’t even let them hit the ground before he begins to mutilate their body, letting out awful screams of hurt and rage.
“STOP! You’re OVERDOING IT!” Tempo cries out in alarm. Deathmatch continues beating the body, consumed with a blinding mixture of confusion and fear. Many painful moments pass as his hits become slower and slower until he stops. Deathmatch, now completely covered in blood, stares down at the mangled mass of flesh and blood. “Oscar, you swore you would ease up, this is too far!” Tempo yells in frustration. “The Newon Safety Force is going to come after you and-” “This was a fucking set up. I knew that Splot was acting way too confident.” Deathmatch says, his voice void of emotion. “You hate when I say it, but you have many HUMAN enemies, and now the entirety of Newon will be after you because of this-” “But what HUMAN would want to KILL ME?”
“Are you serious?” Tempo mutters in frustration. “Oscar, that presidential candidate, MR. CHAMP, has VOWED to EXTERMINATE you!” Deathmatch pauses. “I’ll teach that FASCIST PIG a lesson, if this stunt was his doing…” Deathmatch states. With that promise, he leaves the blood splattered alleyway behind and ascends into the air. A few minutes later, Deathmatch descends from the sky, touching down in the middle of a group of giant rundown warehouses.
He walks towards the biggest one, entering. Dozens of homeless people sleep around a giant bonfire lit in the middle of the building, some stirring slightly at Deathmatch’s arrival. Deathmatch ascends a flight of stairs to the second level of the building. There is a plush couch on the other end of the room which he all but collapses onto, holding a hand to his bullet wound. He murmurs a few words in the Nahuatl language, and the bullet wound quickly closes up. Deathmatch’s visor goes dark as he instantly passes out from a mixture of his adrenaline wearing off and pain.
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Meanwhile…
Mr. Champ, a boringly average looking white man a black suit and tie, sits behind the desk. He looks rather tired, that is up until a figure wearing a dark gray bodysuit and side swept cape, bursts into the room. “Everything went according to plan!” Shade, as they are called, waves what looks to be a small metal orb around excitedly. Mr. Champ immediately leaps up and grabs the orb out of Shade’s hand. He twists the orb until it begins to float. A hologram appears in the air, playing out the gruesome scene of Deathmatch killing the gun man from a different point of view.
A wicked smile appears on Mr. Champ’s face. “This is PERFECT! All it needs is some minor editing before we can slap it into that campaign video we filmed last week.” Shade’s excited demeanor wavers. “You mean the one about my type?” Mr. Champ firmly puts a hand on Shade’s shoulder. “You know that I would never tarnish your name in particular. You’re one of the good ones!” Mr. Champ exclaims. “Good… I’m glad you aren’t lumping me with those obnoxious vigilantes.” Shade huffs. “You’re gonna have a big role to play once I become president. You’re gonna work with my private defense group to round up those flamboyant degenerates and really make Newon great again!” Mr. Champ chuckles. “After all, you’re like the son I never had.”