A terrible tremor rolled through the large, well appointed office, that shook the floor and rattled the large floor to ceiling windows. The Governor stood with the phone still in his hand, speechlessly gaping as a skyscraper, only a few blocks away, began to tip to one side. Glass and plaster broke free, raining down on the street below like confetti in a parade.
Allison, his intelligence analyst and key advisor, stood as the building's collapse quickened. A crack between the twentieth and twenty first floors rapidly formed, widening as the building fell. When it stood at nearly a forty five degree angle, the top half broke free from the bottom as millions of tons of steel and drywall scattered across the city in a billowing cloud that trailed the doomed structure. She winced as she saw several men and women tumbling into the open air, plummeting to the cement below.
Dropping the phone on the floor, the dumbfounded Governor of Arizona found himself trembling. A combination of rage and fear swept through his body as the first clouds of dust billowed up from the collapsed building outside his window. He saw several squads of King James’ men charging over the rubble, subduing the few survivors that had barely begun pulling themselves out of the wreckage.
With shaky hands he found the box on his desk that housed the last of his precious cigars. He managed to light the stogie pinched between his lips. The sweet smell of the tobacco calmed his nerves as he pulled a heavy drag on the cigar. He watched as his people were dragged away to waiting cargo trailers.
“Sir, I hate to say it out loud, but I think it’s time to retreat. We’ve lost the city.” Allison spoke so quietly it was almost a whisper, her eyes didn’t leave the destruction below them.
Governor Smits turned away from the fiery scene with his hands behind his back, cigar firmly wedged between his lips. He looked at his assistant dubiously, then opened a drawer in his desk. He eyed the black Glock 21 and the pair of extended magazines, as well as the half empty bottle of scotch lying next to it.
He withdrew the contents of the drawer and placed them on the desk, walked over to the cabinet that lined the wall to his right and retrieved a pair of glasses. Somehow he managed to pour a shot for both him and Allison. He nudged one of the drinks towards Allison. She hesitantly picked it up with a questioning look on her face.
“You’re right Allison, but I’m not running.”
“You plan to eat that barrel, then?”
“Heh, no, I plan to empty every magazine into whoever decides to come through that door. Hopefully that evil bastard, James King, is the first one through the door.”
“I can drink to that!”, With that she downed the drink making a sour face.
“Heh, look. You should go. Maybe link up with that Warlord fella. I ‘unno. I wouldn’t go South, but you’d know better where to go. You never did tell me what you really did before this nonsense.” He gave her an inquisitive look which she returned with a smile as her only answer.
“Sorry, not going to let that one go easily. Even now. Take care, Governor.”
He smiled, drank his glass, then chambered a round in the Glock.
“Meh, I’ll do my best. Now get outta’ here.”
Allison stared at the man for a moment, as she was about to turn she saw a golden blur streak past the window and smash into a cluster of Litchfield’s soldiers. A moment later a beautiful woman in shining armor, white tunic, and glimmering crown was flying by the building on stark white wings.
“Who the hell is that?”
The Governor spun back around to face the window, pistol in one hand, scotch glass in the other. “Huh, she’s kinda hot. Wait… I’m getting a call on that stupid VPA thingy.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah, hold on. Yes? Who is this?”
Allison watched the woman reach behind her with an empty hand, only to have a spear of golden light appear in the same hand a moment later. She then launched the light spear in a blur at a target that she couldn’t see from her current position.
“You’re here to help? Who the hell is Karl?”
Allison’s attention instantly shifted to the one sided conversation, interjecting a bit of the intelligence she had gathered over the last couple of months, “Karl!? As in Karl Brunett? The Warlord of Winslow?”
A look of recognition dawned on his face at her last words, “You’re with the Warlord?”
He nodded to Allison as he continued the conversation, “Oh, right, I’ll try to get a hold of the pilots, didn’t know we still had any choppers still flying. Oh. Right. Okay.”
As the conversation wrapped up Allison spotted more of the mystical Valkyr fly by, throwing magical spears or firing magic arrows through the air. She stepped forward, intent on dragging the details of the conversation from the Governor as quickly as she could, but he put up a finger for her to wait.
“Uh, Hey, VPA thingy, connect me to the pilots that are still flying.”
He waited a moment then gave directions to the last of the Blackhawk pilots that were still flying, “That’s right, don’t shoot the pretty flying ladies. They are on our side for the moment. More ground forces will be incoming.”
When it was clear the conversation was over, Governor Smits collapsed into his plush executive office chair, taking a long drag on the dwindling cigar between his lips. He just stared at her, a look of relief on his face that was quickly overwhelmed by apprehension.
“The Warlord is here?” She asked.
“He is. And it seems he does not wish for New Phoenix to fall into Litchfield’s hands. They come from the East, and he is personally on the way with an army to push back King’s men. And I guess our two remaining Blackhawks decided to cover the civilian population's retreat up the 17.”
Allison slumped into a chair opposite the Governor. “That’s a relief. Now what?”
“Dunno, the lady said we would be contacted when the situation was secure. Guess we sit back and watch the fireworks.”
Elias “Eli” Butterfield, Armsmaster of the Great Legion
The thrill of the coming battle surged through Eli’s veins as he and Percival charged forward with an Alea, or 512 total, of mounted cavalry at his side. They tore through the city streets, whipping past retreating survivors, an eclectic group of civilians and adventurers. The survivors paused as the strange mixture of coyote and mountain lion riders streamed past them towards the overwhelming sounds of battle and carnage.
Ahead of them, Eli could hear the screams of the dying and injured, as well as the barked commands of Litchfields thugs rounding up any living survivors echoing off the walls of the remaining buildings. Already, Queen Freya’s aerial assault had begun.
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“Valkyrie Actual, this is Lion Actual, open a hole, we’re coming through in about three seconds!”
“Understood, take your next right, they got one of their slave trucks and what looks like a commander on the field.”
“Copy, Lion Actual out!” He looked to the indicated turn and signaled his men, “Next right boys, imminent contact!”
As they tore around the corner as a single disciplined unit, the Valkyr halted their bombardment on the despicable slavers. Hundreds of angry looking men and women stood around a half dozen trucks where their trophies were being loaded up to be spirited away. Most were unconscious, the few that were conscious had the distinct look of the defeated.
Anger surged in Eli, so it was with no small amount of satisfaction that he activated his newest skill, [Mounted Charge]. A red energy surged around him and his unit. Then they were charging like a stampede towards the unexpecting thugs and slavers. A few attempted to turn guns or other weapons on them, but it was too late.
Percival led the charge, lowering his head to plow over a pair of large black men in tactical gear. His claws tore through their bodies as they pressed forward. Eli at the same time took massive swipes of his cavalry sabre. A woman’s head came off at the end of his blade, another swipe tore through a man’s ribs. Similar carnage was wrought by his unit as they took their enemy by complete surprise.
Bodies were trampled or torn to bits as tooth, claw, blade, or bullet tore through the former assaulters. Lacking the discipline of Eli’s troops, the men and women of Litchfield died with barely a response, only the occasional magical barrier or quick reflexes saving a few from the grizzly death of their homies.
Where the enemy had managed to rout New Phoenix’s meager defenders, they now found themselves the routed. One of the men in charge of the trucks jumped into the driver's seat of the nearest vehicle. From the roar of the engine screaming for attention the man had the accelerator pressed to the floor. Black smoke poured out of the exhaust as the semi began to pull away.
Eli guided Percival towards the truck where the big cat jumped atop the trailer it pulled. They quickly crawled across the top of the trailer where Percival lashed out with razor sharp claws to open the top of the semi cab. With the top now opened like a tin can, the man inside looked up in alarm, only to catch Eli’s blade shoved straight into his upturned eye.
The shearing sound of the transmission grinding indicated the man’s foot had slipped off the accelerator pedal. With no input in the clutch, and no power to the drive train, the vehicle lurched to a stop in the middle of the road.
Eli leapt down from the truck, went to the rear and opened the trailer to find dozens of men and women, beaten and bloodied from the previous fight. Relief washed over their faces like a wave lapping at the shore when they realized Eli was not there to force them into slavery. Their grim fate had been narrowly avoided.
A woman with blood smeared across the side of her face stared at him in wide-eyed awe, “Wh-who are you?”
“Ma’am, I am Elias Butterfield, Arms Master of the Great Legion, Legatus of the First Winslow Alla Milliarie. At your service.”
A young woman rode up on a dusky furred coyote, “Legatus! We’ve secured the block and plaza, some of the enemy surrendered, what are your orders?”
He looked at the woman for a long moment considering the orders he himself was given. Karl wanted to send a message here. That message was two-fold. The time for fighting amongst each other was over, and would not be tolerated, as such a new sheriff was in town, and his rule was absolute.
The second was that no mercy would be given to slavers. And based on the people in the back of this trailer, it was clear what his prisoners were up to. “Execute the prisoners for the capital crime of slavery, lieutenant, I think the people in this truck are enough evidence to that crime. I am assuming the others were in the process of being loaded as well.”
“Yes, sir! It’ll be carried out immediately.”
He turned to the bloodied woman who had managed to stumble out of the back of the truck, “Miss, if you would organize your fellow captives and get them to retreat back to the east, I would appreciate it. Mesa’s people have been co-opted to set up an aid station by the 60.”
She looked at him, uncertain to what he was saying, then a look of understanding lit her eyes and she nodded, “Yeah, I can do that. You’re really going to execute them?”
As he was about to answer her question, several shots rang out back where the enemy had been rounded up. She visibly gulped then nodded to him again and went to the task he’d assigned her without another word being spoken.
Lord Shubin, Daemon King, Last of His Kind
When word came out that New Phoenix was about to fall, Shubin gave Karla pleading look to which he simply said, “Dude, go have fun. See if you can wrap up the southern flank while you’re at it.”
Shubin smiled and called his people to his side and charged off where Eli’s scouts reported a large congregation of enemy troops, trucks, and an unknown armor unit. That sounded like the biggest challenge, one where Shubin may properly prove his value on the battlefield.
Additionally, he and Freya had a friendly bet running on who would take down the most enemies in single combat, and the strongest. Shubin was determined to find the strongest. Which is how he now found himself locked in battle with a steel monstrosity of a mech, laying waste to what remained of Sky Harbor International Airport.
“Oh, Nigga! You a big ugly motha fucka!” The little man within the egg shaped mech yelled as he swung the barrel of a flamethrower across Shubin’s body. Shubin laughed as the flames licked at his flesh but did little more than tickle his senses. His people were born in magma, after all, it would take more than these flames to harm him.
The man inside stopped grinning when he saw the lack of response from his attack. He hit a button in the cockpit and the flamethrower swung out of the way to be replaced by a large diameter cannon barrel. He back-pedaled away from Shubin as the chamber locked into place.
Just as the oversized daemon was about to reach the mech, the man inside swung the barrel up to Shubin’s face. A flash of light, followed by a resounding wet thud found Shubin flat on his ass. The mech stomped around in victory, the man within thinking he had killed the massive ancient daemon.
“That’s RIGHT motha fuckers, you can’t fuck with the mech! Damn I love this thing, gotsa’ tool for every situation!”
The man in his infuriating mech began to stomp away when he found himself suddenly unbalanced and falling backward. He looked down to find the left leg of the mech missing before the mech smacked across the tarmac with the sound of an echoing gong.
“What the fuck!?”
A long shadow fell across the man as he struggled to come to grips with how his mech lost its leg. The answer was apparently that the big demon who he thought he just killed, was in fact not dead. It also appeared that said daemon had literally ripped the leg off his mech when he turned around.
“You, little man, are disappointing. The fact you landed that shot on me is embarrassing, I can’t come back to Freya with such a humiliating victory. Tell me, is there one stronger and bigger than you on this battlefield?”
“FUCK YOU!” The man swung the barrel of the massive cannon towards the giant daemon who simply reached out with a hand and crushed the barrel. A moment later the sound of screeching metal and the violent jerking of the man inside resulted in the cannon arm being handily removed from the man’s mech.
Shubin sighed, looking across the airfield as his people tore through the enemy ranks. Having seen their battlefield commander fall to the mercy of the giant daemon, and facing horrors only imagined, they broke and ran back towards Litchfield.
“I had hoped for a glorious battle, you have left me extremely disappointed. What to do with you, hmmm?”
“Do you know who the fuck I am, nigga!? I am the mother fucking SLAVE MASTER! I am Micheal Isham. You kill me and you’ll have a world of hurt dropped on you, bitch!”
Shubin smiled a horrifying visage at his last words while leaning forward to speak directly to the man trapped in his mech. “Micheal Isham, you promise that someone stronger is out there? Someone I can unleash my true strength against? Who is this person and where can I find him?”
Even though the man had pissed himself in terror, he refused to back down. Shubin respected this, even as he determined to end the man after he spoke his next words. “You’re fucking with the King! James himself will come. H-he’ll kill you all!”
“Good. Let him come.” Micheal’s eyes widened in horror as Shubin stood up, raised a heavy black hoof and stomped down through the open cockpit to crush his head. He didn’t even feel the impact, he’d died so fast.
“Demon Actual to Lion and Valkyrie Actual, I’ve eliminated the battlefield commander. He was… disappointing. Also, the airfield is secure.”
“Copy that Demon, did you extract any intel before killing him?”
“Yes, he says he was the Slave Master. He said the King will extract reprisals for his loss. I hope he does not lie.”