Chapter 58: The Two Remaining Champions, Part 5

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The place where he had ended up was not a void. It couldn't be called that because it was filled with pieces of the base, floating in space slowly, from left to right or from top to bottom, depending. And when things were connected, they weren't connected well.

For example, the ceiling where the floor should be.

For example, the wiring hanging out of the wall. The wall wasn't broken, letting the cables out, but it was as if they had been mounted outside. Or as if the cables had passed through the wall as if it were nothing.

In short, I was in a space where nothing was intact and nothing made sense.

Had they been transported to another universe, perhaps? Although I was aware that using the plural was being optimistic, when the state of things meant that my field of vision wasn't obstructed for miles and miles, and I didn't see anyone.

Or maybe it was a temporal space, created by someone's power, like the crystalline kaleidoscopic reflection that Heather had brought him to talk, to try to convince him?

In any case, it was a problem. I wondered how difficult it would be to find the way out.

I wondered if I was the only one left alive.

Silvestre outside the edge of the floor or ground he was on, falling, manifesting wings in the midst of the fall and rising again.

He had to explore, and he had to find something or someone. Anything would do.

"Is this the work of the enemy?" he wondered once again, this time aloud. Doing it sometimes helped him organize his thoughts. Sometimes it had the opposite effect. But he couldn't paralyze himself; he had to try something. No, it wouldn't make sense. It's a more powerful ability than the one he used to attack.

If the intruder could do something like this, he would have started with this, instead of attacking him like a coward in the shower. As far as he knew, there was no reason to hold back, not to want to use this.

Sylvester flew.

Nothing and no one, no matter how far. Could he really be the only survivor of this, whatever it was? He was frustrated. Because Cynthia had gained powers too, because she was getting stronger, and someday she would catch up with him, inevitably. Because Heather was more everything than him, and he could never catch up to her.

But he had never wanted them to disappear.

They were his friends. Even Heather, though it was hard for him to believe, was more than an ally, even though he couldn't call her a friend yet. The fights had helped. He wanted her to live. Sincerely.

Sylvester landed on a stone platform, mostly because it caught his attention, as it didn't seem like something that could have been in the base. At least, he didn't know anything about a place like that.

The ground was made of stone, he hadn't been mistaken, he couldn't mistake the solidity under the soles of his boots. But things crawled out of the ground, and what slithered over their heads, arms, and chest as they made their way outside was sand. Lack of connection, once again. The solidity of the ground was not connected to what it really was.

In any case, what came out of the sand was not anyone he had been looking for. None of the union agents, guarding the base, nor his comrades.

They were undead, their bodies clearly marked by lethal wounds, or wounds that should be lethal. Clearly, they didn't prevent them from moving towards him. They didn't even move with the slowness and clumsiness characteristic of zombies in movies, although they didn't run towards him either.

They just walked towards him, and even before they got close enough, he recognized many of those faces.

Again, they were not union agents. He wasn't particularly close to those who should be his comrades; he knew they shared the same fight, he knew many died every day, that was all.

He recognized the faces from autopsy reports, from old case files.

They were his victims.

Lunar Remnants, only with the monster layer stripped away, leaving only what they had been. What they should have remained.

Leaving what had been done to them.

Those wounds were sword wounds. Made with the edge of his katana. There were even those he had cut in half and shredded, their wounds hadn't just healed, they were stitched, that was the only thing that kept them intact.

Sylvester felt the urge to vomit.

"It can't be real."

But it was real, even if they weren't. This was an attack, from the intruder or whoever. They were perfectly capable of killing him. He couldn't doubt that he was in danger. Letting his guard down.

Sylvester unsheathed the katana. He didn't feel like repeating what he had done over the years, his 'greatest hits,' so to speak, but it was clear that they wouldn't give him a choice.

Well, actually, he did have another option.

Take flight, run with his tail between his legs, but would that do him any good? They were the first presence of life, or death, that he had encountered in this space. They were progress, one way or another.

Perhaps he needed to defeat them to find the way out or at least take a step forward. He wasn't sure, but it made sense to him, and that was enough.

The dead started running towards him, as if sensing his determination, and Sylvester defended himself with all his might. Then the dead began to speak.

"You are a monster in human skin."

It was amusing that a zombie would say that. How audacious.

"All that whining about your powers, your destiny, the weight on your shoulders when deep down you enjoy it. You need it."

That was nothing new. Those were his feelings, and he had dared to admit them to Cynthia, one of the few people he trusted. The concerning part was that they knew his feelings. Whoever orchestrated this had managed to put them into the mouths of these monstrosities, and for what? To mess with his head, make him slip up?

"Feeling superior to others."

Yes, he wanted to feel superior. He wanted to be important. Was that a crime? Throughout history, many men had sent thousands to their deaths just to be someone, to matter, to leave their mark on the history books. And for better or worse, many had succeeded.

Was it so bad?

Wasn't it a desire that, deep down, every human being had?

As long as he did things right, as long as he was a hero, then everything was justified, right? He wasn't a Genghis Khan, he wasn't a Hitler. He was more like a Gandhi, without the racism or pedophilia, and taking a more direct part in the events.

Okay, maybe he didn't resemble Gandhi too much.

"Feeling that someone needs you."

That was also a basic desire. Everyone wanted to be loved.

"But it's a bottomless cup. No matter how much others admire you when you know you're a useless piece of shit."

A bottomless cup...

"You'll always be that kid crying for his mommy. Seeking approval she'll never give."

Sylvester was so surprised that he let an attack pass through his defenses. Consequently, the claws of one of those zombies tore into his shoulder, near the neck, very close.

That wasn't true.

He didn't blame or hate his mother for the things she had said before dying. She had been sick, that was all, and the events surrounding his strange powers hadn't helped her return to reality. Overnight, her son had turned into some kind of superhero straight out of the pages of a comic, after all.

He didn't blame her, and he didn't want to make up for that time, although it had certainly been unpleasant. His mother had nothing to do with this.

"Face it, God did a lousy job with you. You're defective, a disaster."

Oh, really? Everyone was. It had taken him time to realize, but he wasn't any different from others. If he could peek into the heads of the people around him, into the heads of those who seemed to have it all together, he would see the same shit as inside him.

Life was what happened while people tried to get by.

"How can you lament the injustice of your fate when you're the worst mass murderer in human history? And yet, you'll be remembered as a hero."

Sylvester gritted his teeth.

He executed a spinning attack, pushing back more zombies with the wind that rose, the wind and the sand, along with the blade of the katana itself. The point was that he had achieved what he intended, the necessary space to breathe.

"But they will never shut up. Not really. Because I know it's all true."

At least most of it. The dead were an echo of his own thoughts, his mind wielding a knife, or rather a scalpel, against itself. Nothing more and nothing less. That's why he couldn't deny a single word with force. That's why he had felt cornered in the end. Not physically, but mentally.

He shook his head.

"I need to regroup, see if anyone has survived. Then... I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

He hoped there would be an afterward, not just realizing that they were all dead.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

That he was the last one standing, the only one left.

Again.

***

Heather was flying, while Cynthia made her way through the strange space using her grappling hook, a tool that any union agent had but rarely proved as useful as now.

She had offered to carry her, but the woman insisted on doing things her way, so Heather let her be. She understood, too. The insistence on doing things on one's own. That pride, that determination.

She could understand and respect it. If it had slowed them down too much, she would have picked her up and lifted her anyway, ignoring her protests, as it was a very serious situation. But that didn't happen.

There were enough pieces of the base scattered everywhere for her to move quickly through space, shooting the hook, retracting it, dropping and shooting it again.

As much ground as they covered, they saw nothing and no one, and Heather was starting to worry seriously about Sylvester. If Cynthia had survived and she herself, then surely Sylvester would have too, but that didn't prevent her from worrying anyway. Besides, simple bad luck was always a factor, so it didn't matter how things should or could be.

Sometimes things just happened, without logic.

The first person she saw, in the end, did nothing to calm her concerns. Rather the opposite.

The intruder, the self-proclaimed hero. Heather leaped onto the platform where that guy was, landing like a meteorite, making the whole platform shake as if it were about to collapse. Which would have been fine. As far as she knew, at least, the enemy had no way to save himself if that happened. Nothing like the rope hook or her wings.

There was no exchange of words. Words were entirely unnecessary.

The enemy prepared to fight, assuming a fighting stance, and Heather waited for Cynthia to land by her side. Not much, and it wasn't necessary, probably, but she appreciated having support anyway.

It was a strange feeling, but not unpleasant at all.

The enemy had had plenty of time to act while Cynthia caught up with them, a few seconds could and did decide the outcome of a battle all the time, but he didn't. It was they who made the first move, running towards him, who simply raised a blood barrier again.

Cynthia shot again and again, freezing the barrier. Why fix what wasn't broken? The subsequent explosion cleared the barrier, leaving the enemy exposed.

That damn guy dodged most projectiles, but one came dangerously close to his neck, drawing blood. He caught it in his right hand, wet and slippery with blood, and stabbed Cynthia when she got close enough in the side.

He twisted the knife in the wound, then spun the girl around, swapping positions.

Releasing the shard of ice and pushing her forward, into the void. An endless fall. Cynthia threw one of her revolvers away to be able to firmly grasp the platform's edges, at least with one hand.

Cynthia was aggressive, with a curious inclination to get close to her enemies, despite having good aim and choosing a pair of revolvers as her weapon. It was quite interesting that Cynthia might have been better with a sword, especially now that she wasn't as soft, and Sylvester just the opposite. He was too cold and calculating, although he could afford to be much more aggressive and reckless, considering what his body and mind could endure. It was interesting, but nothing more. Things were as they were, and she doubted they would change soon.

With Cynthia almost out of action, it was up to Heather to take the lead. Compensate for the absence. Cynthia still held one of the revolvers, but she couldn't let go of the platform to lift the gun, aim, and shoot. Otherwise, she would fall, and she wasn't sure she could save herself with the grappling hook. Cynthia didn't either, or she would have done it already without hesitation.

Heather brandished the sword, and the enemy caught it, stopping it just millimeters from her chest. Barely avoiding being stabbed in the heart. Perhaps she should have noticed earlier, but only now did she realize that the neck wound had disappeared.

A consequence of this, whatever it was, a side effect of their power? Or simple regeneration, like any of the Champions? She wasn't sure how long it had been since this started, oddly enough. Occupied as she was with her sword, however, the enemy had no chance to dodge Cynthia. Even Heather only perceived the attack when she saw, strangely, two pieces of ice growing from his shoulders outward. Like malformed wings, and on the wrong side.

That guy collapsed, falling to his knees. Heather, quickly and efficiently, made sure he wouldn't get up again. More specifically, she cut off a leg and an arm, cauterizing the wounds, ensuring he wouldn't die, at least not too soon.

Words had been useless before because the fight had been inevitable from the beginning. Now? She needed answers.

Cynthia slid the other revolver across the floor, freeing her hand, and landed back on the ground without needing help. She retrieved her weapons and approached the fallen enemy.

There was blood everywhere. Perhaps it was strange coming from a rare, otherworldly creature whose mere birth foretold death and destruction, but she didn't like blood.

"Turn off this shit, or my friend will open you up like a pig," she said. That was still very true, however.

"Oh. So you think I did this," he laughed openly, but he wasn't mocking anyone. It just sounded like he was. Tired, defeated. Resigned. "Yes, of course. If I could do something on this scale, I wouldn't have attacked invisibly, inaudibly, and ambushed Sylvester in the shower. I wouldn't have needed to. What madness."

"What he says makes sense," Heather said, although feeling like she shouldn't have to say it, after glancing at Cynthia out of the corner of her eye and noting her expression. It was part of human nature to believe in easy solutions, shortcuts, in times of greater stress, especially.

"It does, but then what is this?" Heather opened her mouth to say that she had no fucking idea, but that was beside the point.

"I think... I'm not sure, but I think..." The intruder preempted her, however, with something slightly more substantial. Maybe.

"Spit it out."

"I think we are in the middle," he laughed again. It was a bit irritating, but he sounded just as he was. Tired, defeated. Resigned. "Of all things."

"What are you talking about?" Cynthia, again, asking. No, demanding. She didn't care that she took the lead in this interrogation. Anyway, people weren't her strong suit, not even breaking them, making them confess.

She never would, of course, if she didn't get practice, if she didn't seize opportunities like this. But well, all in due time.

"Something set all this up, this game," he spat. In that, at least, they could agree. "In which different universes face each other. That something may reside here. A void between universes. The connective tissue, yes, perhaps. What? I can't prove it, obviously, but... Do you have a better idea, huh? Do you have a better idea?"

He seemed a bit more aggressive and energetic when he looked at Cynthia, as if offended that she considered him a madman, that she didn't believe him. Once, Heather didn't agree with what was now her companion, for better or for worse.

"That doesn't mean what you're saying makes sense. But I agree."

"Really?"

"This is... different." She wouldn't know how to express it in words, even if asked. The good thing is that she didn't. For a change, she seemed willing to listen, at least consider the possibility, so it was a shame that she couldn't come up with something.

But she felt it in her bones. She couldn't be more sure.

Without anyone asking, that little rat started telling the story of his life.

"Before I got my powers, my world was drowning in darkness. An infection like tar, spreading everywhere, trapping people and animals, pulling them with skeletal hands. Yes, like the substance that the creature on the island expelled, only without the creature. Appearing out of nowhere.

Yes, she had made the connection without him having to tell her anything. She wasn't stupid.

"What the hell are you getting at?" Cynthia asked.

It was becoming increasingly clear that this man didn't want to get anywhere in particular. His end had come, and he was just talking, without rhyme or reason, no greater purpose. As if he were in a hurry to leave some kind of mark, now that he was going to fail. Now that his world was going to be wiped off the map, his world, his loved ones, and all his effort over the years.

The only trace that would remain of all that would be his presence in the memories of his enemies.

It was disgustingly ironic.

"I rose to the challenge. I stopped it, healed the world. Only to be dragged into the game. Only for my eyes to open. Maybe it's all just a bad joke. Maybe... But I have to have hope. Hope is the last thing you lose, isn't that what they say? Tell me, do you have anything left to lose?"

Because he didn't. Anymore.

"Kill him already," Heather ordered.

Cynthia did it easily. The enemy, whose name they still didn't know, had no way to resist at this point.

At that very moment, Heather's soul separated from her body and flew to some distant place. Above this space, the city, the clouds.

From one space to true space, perhaps, a blackness in which only distant planets and even more distant stars floated.

Heather suddenly understood.

Roman had been the first Champion of his universe. After his death, supposedly there were two left.

But after killing this one, they had managed to get front-row seats to witness the end of a universe.

***

Sylvester felt a strange sensation, his body failing him, shutting down, for no reason. That, of course, also applied to his wings, which were as much a part of his body as anything else.

Never before had he felt so violated, to the point that while describing circles in the air, falling, he only thought of that sensation. Like losing consciousness but still being able to observe what was happening to you. Eyes open, able to think, feel fear, but unable to do anything to prevent it. Some would say the word he was looking for was coma, but he could still move his limbs, to some extent, though it was futile.

But he stopped thinking about that, in any case, and stopped seeing what he was seeing. His soul took flight to a very different place.

Toward the precipice on which a universe teetered.

4 Sylvester, Heather, and Cynthia. The three remaining Champions, still undefeated. What the three beheld was the following:

There was an explosion.

There was fire among the stars, being born or dying. Maybe there wasn't much difference.

Galaxies spinning and abruptly stopping, but with a strange naturalness, like a clock ceasing to function for no particular reason. Time took everything, nothing was eternal, no more, no less.

Planets exploding in unison, as if it were vengeful, pushing many important things out of place.

Black holes going crazy, swallowing everything nearby and far away without a trace.

One disaster after another.

A cosmic-scale disaster.

It started with that and then continued with things for which humans had no words. They couldn't, because it was like witnessing the reverse beginning of the universe. When that unimaginable horror ended, the three were expelled back into their bodies.

Back to their reality.

5 Sylvester found himself at the base, not in that strange space. Ryan was beside him too. Apparently, everyone had returned to the moment and place from which they had been dragged into that dark void and beyond, as if it had all been nothing more than a dream.

But it had been real.

Everything he had heard and witnessed. He didn't know how, maybe the enemy had killed itself, maybe it had encountered Cynthia, Heather, or both and received its due.

The point was that someone or something had finished the job for him, and had witnessed the death of the universe to which Roman and the others belonged. They had assumed that at least two would remain, but had only one really remained?

What does it matter? The point is, they had won.

Ryan got up, growling, beside him.

"What did you see?" Sylvester asked, having to raise his voice to be heard above the noise, despite how close they were. They weren't the only ones who had returned, after all; the union agents filled the hallway and were scared, talking loudly, complaining, trying to understand.

"People I failed. My parents, my... I don't want to talk about it."

"I understand. I had the same experience, only I failed a lot more people."

"Is it over?"

"Didn't you see that, in the end?"

"I was wandering, trying to find you, and then I came back here. I don't know how, I don't know when. That's it."

"I saw a universe die. Those from that world, at least, won't be a problem anymore."

Ryan reacted as if he had been slapped. He lowered his head.

"I know it was necessary, but... My God."

It was a hard pill to swallow.

Everyone knew what was at stake, what would happen to the loser, but... Knowing it was very different from seeing it with your own eyes. And Ryan hadn't even seen it. Probably because he wasn't a Champion, but still.

If he had... Well, better this way. That man had already suffered enough.

"What about me?" wondered an inner voice, dark and selfish. "To hell with me, as usual," it answered.

Cynthia reached them, making her way through the crowd. She had something in her hand. A rolled-up paper. Heather wasn't far, she didn't seem disturbed, even though she should have seen that horrible spectacle too. Sylvester didn't know why it surprised him.

"Was it you?" Ryan asked.

"The one who killed him, you mean? Yes, but that's not what matters now," Cynthia added. "Look."

She unrolled the paper, showing it to them. Sylvester didn't understand a damn thing, except that they seemed to be plans.

"What is this?"

"We think these are plans for a machine, probably what they used to open portals to our world," Heather said. "We killed their champions, ended a universe, and here is our reward."

The Two Remaining Champions, Part 5: FIN