Orlok walks through the streets of the bazaar, located around an oasis in the middle of the wilderness. A very busy settlement, possessing a remarkable structural contrast between the palaces of the merchants, and the tin houses of the slaves who negotiated freedom with their owners but soon discovered how complicated life is when you are responsible for every step you take.

Orlok's long black hair flutters in the wind, and a perfect smile shines on his square jaw, satisfaction also glistening in his hazel eyes, fully aware of the good work genetics did. The links of the thick pure gold chains wrapped around her arms jingle with every movement she makes. It was no surprise that the saleswomen made eyes at him, nor that he became known as Orlok the gallant soldier. Only comparable in stallion fame to good old Dick Buenatranca. The rest of the men were very cautious about leaving their daughters, wives, mothers, or slaves around him. Orlok's natural charm was enough to tempt them, and Orlok prided himself on always taking them to meet heaven.

And what about the broken homes, the aborted bastards, and the violent divorces resulting from the affair? Orlok doesn't really know the answer. After promising eternal love, and being satisfied with his conquest, he would leave. And even if he were in front of the lady he deflowered and condemned to die by the hand of a choleric father or husband, Orlok doubted that the scene would quicken his heart. After all he sees the opposite sex as one more trophy to add to the long list of his triumphs in the bedroom, more long-lived than any record of war exploits.

Orlok's vision and attention is taken by a huge ass swaying in a tight dress. He watches the couple out of the corner of his eye. The woman is bent over a rug where a one-armed merchant is offering a series of gemstone necklaces of pollution compressed into glass. The man accompanying her is strong and tall, his face covered by a metal mask in the shape of a devil, and carrying on his sword a heavy steel blade more suited for gutting whales than for combat.

Orlok wields a mocking half-smile. The woman's companion tries so desperately to be menacing that Orlok assumes he's a softy who probably doesn't even have what it takes to satisfy a woman. The gallant licks his lips, readies his hand, shakes and strikes.

One could swear that the blow was heard throughout the bazaar.

Orlok continues to walk calmly, opening and closing his now reddened palm. Smiling he looks back, expecting to find surprise and embarrassment, mixed with intrigue and disguised excitement. Instead the woman, while rubbing her ass, pierces him with a look that if it were steel would have sliced him open. Orlok doesn't flinch, he knows that they all like it, only that some are more resistant. He answers the angry expression with a smile that indicates that he is ready to accept the challenge. The dyed-haired stranger twitches, and leans in to whisper something to the masked man. The man with the blade stops watching a collection of VHS tapes and seems to finally notice what is happening. The masked man's eyes end up on Orlok.

Orlok does not diminish the smile, turns, imprisoning them, and crosses his arms with his back erect. The one in the mask approaches him. Orlok keeps his heart relaxed, but not unguarded, and when he calculates that his amorous rival is ten paces away, just the range in which his combat techniques are effective, the gallant one allows the chains on his left arm to uncoil and touch the ground. The masked one brakes just in the position Orlok desired. However, an idiot who only wore those bold pints to scare would have continued to approach. The masked one, on the contrary, seemed to notice the hostility of Orlok's gesture, which erased the smile of the gallant one, who stopped considering his rival a simple pushover. The slavers and sellers, also sensing the tension, moved away, forming a ring around the two of them.

"Was it you who spanked my sister?" questioned the masked man with clear anger.

Orlok was disappointed. Had it been his wife or daughter, the conquest would have promised to be more delicious.

"So what if I did?" Orlok says with a sneer.

The eyes beyond the mask open wide and in the next second narrow almost to slits. He reaches a hand to the hilt sticking out of his back and grasps it. In one motion he unsheathes the three-foot blade, so heavy that the veins and muscles in his arm swell with the simple action of wielding it. He lets the tip hit the ground, kicking up a layer of dust.

"Kneel down" the masked man orders. "And without getting up, approach and ask for forgiveness"

This time Orlok is unable to contain his laughter.

"She'll enjoy getting down on her knees more than I will, I can assure you"

The masked man growls and raises his blade. Orlok needs no more to understand that he is in a fight, he drops the chain from his other arm, and presses the button disguised in the center of his right palm, this turns on small electric motors located inside the metal bracelets he wears. The motors fill the chains with heat and turn them into whips capable of branding for life with their embrace.

Orlok waves his arms in a swift motion. The chains become two golden trails capable of biting more painfully than any desert viper. He planned to remove his mask with the first blow, and burn his face with the second. The chains clash against metal, but Orlok's plans are far from being fulfilled.

Deathmask takes a step as he deflects the first blow, and takes another step forward as he deflects the second whip.

Orlok pulls both arms back, the chains follow the movements and over the heads of the ring of people. A bead of sweat trickles down the gallant's forehead, but he forces himself to wield a smile. He throws both arms forward and traces trails with his hands, faster and faster, turning the chains into a whirlwind of whips that send sparks flying every time they hit the ground. When the links brush against one of the tarpaulins of a nearby food stall, it catches fire, leading the owner to complain but being unable to approach with the gallant wearing his chains like this.

"You're the ones who should be thanking me for showing you my interest!" He throws a dozen blurry lashes in the direction of the masked man. But his rival, instead of retreating as Orlok predicted, rushes at him.

Deathmask deflects ten of the eleven blows. The weight of the blade is no impediment to his reflexes and combat skills.

Both warriors are left an arm's length apart. The last chain whip hits Deathmask full in the forehead. Orlok hoped to knock his opponent down, instead, the mask is thrown beyond the ring of people. The face that is revealed is manly, although compared to Orlok, it is very ordinary. The blade whistles, and bites deep into the gallant man's shoulder, staining his face with a splatter of blood.

Orlok's knees are planted firmly on the ground. A shriek bursts from his lips, and his voice trembles as the masked one unclips the blade from his shoulder, allowing the blood to flow and stain the gallant soldier's chest. Deathmask raises the heavy blade above his head to unload the final blow.

"Achu, no!" But Shura calls out to him and intercedes. "I beg you, let him suffer"

Achu. The name echoes in Orlok's head, and he recalls stories of a tall ivory tower made of human skulls stacked one on top of the other. Panic adds to the pain on Orlok's face, and he looks up at the slaver chieftain and exclaims:

"Please don't cut off my head!"

The plea softens the fire in Achú's eyes. He takes a deep breath, lowers the blade, and lets it rest on his palms. After several seconds of macerating tension, he nods and says:

"All right. I won't cut your head off"

A nervous and involuntary smile grows on Orlok's face, he was about to shout a thousand thanks and swear fealty to him, but the words die in his throat when Achú raises the blade again.

...

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Without his arms and legs, the rest of his body became flabby. A victim of despair caused by the terrible fate that his vanity brought him, every time he accidentally looked in the mirror, Orlok smashed his head repeatedly against his reflection, until, thanks to constant punishment, the handsomeness of his face ceased to exist.

One night, watching motivational videos on the Internet, he decided he couldn't go on like this, kept down by the few slaves he had left. He began to read a lot, to cultivate gray matter instead of muscle, thus earning himself an important place as an administrator for famous slaveholders who preferred to leave the less stimulating management tasks to someone else. He also nurtured his ethics, read The Feminine Mystique and began to value women as people and not just meat to please his instincts. It was one of his closest and most treasured friends who recommended him to work with Lord Enslaver, and after a couple of years serving the ruler of Australia, he earned the right to drive one of the steel trains.

Now another strongman was planning to take everything he got from him, something he would not allow without a fight. He ordered his sentries to prepare their armor.

...

A battered roar seeped, along with blood, from the spherical helmet that covered the fat giant's head. Chester fell from the roof of the train to the sand, and rolled to avoid being crushed by the slave's feet, weight added to the weight of the sledgehammer he wields, which looks like a steel bar attached to an anvil.

Chester plants the only hand that serves him in the sand and stands up. His left arm has been disabled by two shots that left two grooves in his muscles, to this damage is added the sledgehammer he received in the left thigh, which by the pain that stabs under the skin, Chester deduces that it splintered the bone.

His enemy is also not at 100%. Three blades and two short daggers, all made with bone, remain stuck both in his back and in his chest and belly. Chester would like to count on his katana, but it with one blow ended up lost on the other side of the railroad. He cannot go and simply look for it, he has the fat man in front of him and a skirmish around him. It's time to use the last weapon he has left. He grabs the hilt that protrudes over his shoulders and unsheathes the mandoble made from Zell's femur.

The weight immediately makes itself felt. Chester snorts and has to rest the five-foot blade in the sand. The fat slave catches that gesture as a sign of weakness, lunges with the sledgehammer raised above his head. Several slaves and warriors forget the battle to watch worriedly as that mass lunges at the Lancasterian.

Five steps away. Four steps. Three. Two...

Chester roars and forces his arm to move with speed and power. The mandoble slams in and out of the slave's body. The torso flesh separates from the hip. The upper half hits the ground before the legs. The swordsman rests the heavy blade back in the sand and blows back the air he had been holding. The burning in his body is increasing, his flesh is screaming at him that he can't take it anymore, but he ignores this first warning... And the second... And the third.

Chester was about to set off to where his troops were firing, the same place where the last slaver forces were gathering.

"Hmm?" But he catches hostile movement out of the corner of his eye. He jumps and spins, avoiding the mace the fat man threw, which continued to fly like a cannonball until it turned the head of a running slave into a pink mass, with each tooth and molar jumping in a different direction.

The Lancaster looks at the giant with a smile somewhere between surprise and admiration.

"You're a top guy. I like you!"

The big guy insists on approaching even without legs and dragging his guts.

"Come on, show me your war face!"

He pulls his arm back, forces his muscles until his sword is horizontal, and makes a thrust. The helmet, already dented, is hit right where the nose should be and fractures into pieces. The fragments of the helmet fall and an expression is revealed that makes Chester frown in disgust.

With no nose and a cooked mouth, watering eyes in a pockmarked face as if disfigured by hundreds of stab wounds are the only human thing left of the individual. The fat Slav groans and lets out his last breath, ends with his arm outstretched and his face sunk in the sand. His life is over, and his pain is over.

The last remaining war wagon.... Explodes. The breeze and the heat generated shake the Lancaster's garments and fill his back with dust. The final blast, instead of being taken with jubilation, is greeted by panicked screams coming from men and women who recoil shooting back at a new threat.

"What's going on?!" Chester asks loudly, looking sideways without understanding why they are retreating.

"Armor!" One of the freed slaves who trained for the assault answers. A brave man, but who at that moment looks like a child frightened by an alleged monster under the bed.

Chester clenches the only fist he can use and turns to face the three-meter figure that appears like a demon among the pile of iron and fire.

Air-Buster is the name engraved on the olive green shoulder pads he carries on his shoulders. The head is a red light bulb inside a pentagon-shaped breastplate, with two stelae that descend to the torso square, on fire, which, saving the distances, reminiscent of a bloody cry. Its arms are hoses with steel cones at the tips whose mouths measure one meter in diameter, metallic trunks. On his back he carries a cylindrical tank without a lid, with a biohazard label attached to the side. Orlok uses the pilot-machine nexus to propel the broad-based legs, and the same applies to all other actions.

The left arm turns on its turbine generating a powerful suction. Four people, a sentry, a liberator, and two slaves, are engulfed like garbage by a vacuum cleaner. Bones are instantly fractured to force them into the trunk. Dull thuds on the metal of the tank is the signal that they are in agony at the base of the cylinder. Orlok activates the blades. The screams are gone as soon as they appear, cut short to make way for the shrill sweep of a blender that lasts less than 10 seconds. The Air-Buster aims its right arm at the shooters, and spews a rain of bone and blood that fans out like shotgun breath, at a speed of 100 meters per second. The rain of fragments pierces or kills, and for those who don't, the mixture of blood and gore messes up their faces and prevents them from aiming, as well as bogging down their weapons, increasing the risk of mechanical failure.

Air-Buster continues and repeats his tactic, absorbing, mashing, and firing. The bloodbath he leaves in his wake fills most of those watching with terror. Only Chester advances toward him, limping and dragging the mandoble behind him, but ever determined. Surely the ex-nobleman is more afraid of failing than of dealing with Air-Buster.

Armor and swordsman are fifteen paces apart. For a while they observe each other in silence. The troop stops firing, deciding to wait for their commander's orders. Orlok is the only enemy left standing, the others are dead or captured.

"Greetings, Lancasterian" The slaver's canned voice erupts from horns disguised in the design of the armored head. "I am known as Orlok, the Techno soldier, machinist of the Abraham Lincoln, and pilot of Air-Buster. Prepare to die"

The tank on the machine's back shakes, preparing for the next charge. Orlok points the ejection hose at Chester, its bottom edge dripping a stinking red, almost black liquid.

Chester's face doesn't move a muscle.

"Or maybe not..." Orlok adds, wanting to sound gentler. "The rumors are right, you are a very good looking man, and I need a new babysitter. Of course, before you take that position you need a dose of humility. It will do you good, believe me, I know what I'm talking about"

Chester tightens his grip on the hilt of the mandoble. Orlok brushes the trigger of the hose with the tip of his thumb. And a surprised voice comes from the top of the train. Both the liberator and the slaver turn their attention to the woman who is held by a group of little girls who carefully protect her. Chester restrained the urge to say: I told you not to bring them, woman!

"Chester, here!" Erika throws the katana. The metal-crowned blade makes a parabola in the air, spins and ends up stuck one step away from the lion.

Chester lets go of the sword and draws the katana. The Lancaster flashes a smile that doesn't match the hostile glare that dominates his red eyes.

Orlok is startled by the sight of him, it reminds him too much of his encounter with Achu. He turns on the hose. A new bloody fan is created in the sand, bones bounce, but when the red mist settles, there is no face of any liberator torn to shreds.

"But where...?" Orlok chokes on the words.

The armor's warnings come too late.

Look Up!

...

Malaysia Airlines Flight 370 was a scheduled international passenger flight missing on March 8, 2015, operated by a Boeing 777-200 carrying 239 people (227 passengers and 12 crew). From the moment contact with the aircraft was lost, a search and rescue operation was initiated and developed, which has been considered the longest in history, as well as "one of the most difficult and costly investigation and search operations in aviation history". After several weeks of searching in and around the waters of the Gulf of Thailand, where the plane was presumed to have gone down, new clues indicated that the plane had continued southward into the Indian Ocean far from land, both the location of the wreckage and the cause of the crash remain unknown. The fact that the location of the plane and its occupants remained unknown after nearly four weeks of intense searching was described by some media as "an unprecedented event in modern aviation", as "one of the greatest mysteries in aviation history", or "the greatest civil aviation mystery in history". The then prime minister of Australia, Tony Abbott, claimed that the search for MH370 was the "most difficult in human history."

... the actual location of the plane was not determined, and the wreckage of the aircraft and its crew were not found. More than three years after the plane's disappearance, the final report considers it "socially unacceptable" that today a commercial airliner could vanish and that "the world does not know what became of it and the people on board"....

According to an analysis prepared in collaboration between the Vermilion family's Great Library of Alexandria project, the World Institute of Geographic Malformation, and the University of Salamanca, the most likely site of the plane crash could be a particular area on the edge of the Australian desert, near the capital of the Free Republic of Nadjelia.

-Revocspedia. Renewal of article No. 1287043569. Day 16, month 01, year 2223.