David Wayne Dillon found himself in a situation that truly made him happy. He was a killer, doing what killers do. Striding forward in his mech, encased in layers of alien alloys, commanding a one man death machine on a battlefield of thousands that he could kill on a whim made him feel more powerful than he’d ever felt before. To say that murder was his drug of choice was an understatement. He didn’t care about women, alcohol, or drugs. He lived to beat a man to death, and when one hit from the oversized metal fists of his mech could crush the average man in an instant, well, to him there was something very satisfying about that.

At least the first dozen times he crushed a man with no effort, after that it just became monotonous. Only a few of his opponents had the strength to withstand the first strike from his mech, and only one was still breathing after the second. Of course a quick stomp ended that pathetic shit stain rather decisively.

He clomped off with his squad in tow, a half dozen mechs supported by various new gang members he hadn’t bothered to learn the names of. One of those nameless bangers ran up to him as he was about to order his group to advance, “Dillon, bossman told me to come let you know we’ve lost contact with the group down on Buckeye Lane!”

“And? Why the fuck do I care about some punk ass down there that can’t keep his shit together?” A speaker projected his voice to the man several feet below him. While the regular mechs that King had bought his people were of an open cockpit design, Dillon picked his own. In doing so, he made sure it was well protected. So far, not much the Winslow people had thrown at him left more than light scratches. The mage fire, that was worrisome, and he was certain that if them winged women were in the air throwing their magical spears and shooting magic infused arrows he’d have something to worry about. So far he hadn’t seen any of them, though.

“Because, mother fucker, the big red demon is there and King wants you to take him out!”

Dillon glared at the man from within his mech. The man’s suddenly disrespectful tone gave him a moment of pause. He didn’t know this man from the itch in his daddy’s ballsack and he was sitting here barking orders to him? Of course, if his orders came from King, he didn’t want to piss that man off.

So, he did what any self respective murdering asshole who knew his place in the pecking order would do. He stepped off without saying a thing in the direction the man indicated, making sure to stomp him flat as he did. The man didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late, within seconds he was merely another bloodstain on the concrete.

“Alright boys, let’s go. We’ve got a demon to kill.”

A few hushed comments from the rank and file bangers below him filtered through the comms system of the mech, followed by confident affirmations from the rest of his mech squad. They filed down the street, making a beeline for the position the dead man had indicated, taking the time to engage the random squad of Winslow infantry. After about thirty minutes they reached an intersection surrounded by tall office buildings that would make a good place to hide, or even ambush his intended foe.

He called a halt, directing his mech forces to use the buildings for cover, then gave the order for footmen to spread out and start looking for their quarry. He made it very clear that he was looking for the demon, who was soon found several blocks behind his position, easily dismantling the cheaper type of mechs fielded by his fellow slavers. To his surprise, Shantel Smith, King’s lead assassin, seemed to be engaged with the First Challenger. Their fight was currently tearing apart a shopping center where he used to sell the trinkets he’d gather when robbing someone’s house. Now it was quickly being reduced to rubble as the duo released concrete shattering attacks on each other.

If the sight of the demon and the First Challenger wasn’t enough, it seemed the Warlord and his strange plant woman were here too. Another strange man, blacker than even Dillon, was holding a barrier of white magic over the Warlord and his group, while dozens of beastmen were busy savaging any of the King’s slavers that were too slow, or stupid, to know when they were outclassed. Throwing more bullets at your target might have been the way of things before the System, but now a person’s attributes, skills, and abilities made such a thing as mere bullets like toys on the school yard.

It was a strange thing, two men could fire the same exact gun with the same exact bullets, or swing the same exact bat. The results for both men would be wildly different. One can penetrate several feet of hardened steel, while the other can barely punch through a simple glass window pane.

“Hmmmm… three strikes and you’re out. Let’s see if I can get all of them, starting with the demon.” He muttered to himself as he watched the individual battles rage nearby. He looked over to another man he’d never met before today, “Get your asses out there and get their attention, bring them to us.”

The man looked up at his mech, wide-eyed with fear. A protest clearly hung on the man’s lips before he decided against it. This moment of hesitation was one moment too long for Dillon, “GET YOUR ASSES MOVING! GO! NOW!”

Somehow, the dark skinned man seemed to pale, before resigning himself to the lesser of potentially violent and horrible deaths. Reluctantly, the other footmen joined him to run out in the street almost a block away, shooting at the Warlord and his people as they moved up. Most of their shots flew wide of their targets indicating a relative lack of Skill or Ability. They still managed the desired effect, drawing in the Winslow people, even as they died to concentrated fire from the varying enemy archers. The Warlord himself simply strolled casually towards this new group of potential enemies, frowning at them as if they were ants.

“Germ, move down that alley, hit them from the side.”

Germ, one of Dillon’s oldest acquaintances from his days in prison, nodded with a smile, called over another mech and trundled off as directed. A moment later the sound of their large caliber tri-barrel cannons opening up roared from the direction he’d indicated. The strange looking blackman summoned a shimmering white shield that flared as the heavy rounds struck it but failed to penetrate.

The demon smashed through the building the pair of mechs were using as cover, a giant black battle axe blurred out of the flying debris to connect solidly with the second mech soldier. Germ reacted quickly by engaging his jump jet upgrade, jetting away from the demon as it spun around to slice the mech in half with its massive battleaxe. He didn’t see the man die as the top half of the mech toppled forward obscuring his death.

The demon looked up in irritation, “KARL! These ones have upgrades!”

The Warlord responded by dumping massive amounts of white hot plasma in the direction of Germ. His friend backed off the top of the building, dropping into cover on the other side, then ran off to avoid the same treatment his squadmate had just received.

The massive demon ran out into the street, looking around wildly for Germ. Dillon decided this was the moment he was waiting for, “Alright boys, light em’ up! I’m gonna’ ring this fucker’s bell!”

The other four mechs in his squad, which had positioned themselves so they were spread out opposite of where Dillon waited, opened up with everything they had. The demon made a move to push forward through the withering fire, then thought better of it. He quickly planted his battleaxe into the cement, then crouched to get as much of his massive bulk behind the blade which managed to turn away any rounds that struck it.

Sensing the moment of weakness he’d been waiting for, Dillon charged forward as fast as the mech could move, reached back with a heavy metallic right fist and launched his most wicked suckerpunch ever. The heavy thud of metal on flesh echoed across the street causing the battle to slow to a pause, as if time itself recognized the gravity of the situation. As time recovered, the demon shot across the street from the force of the impact to plow straight through two of the mechs in Dillons squad. His battleaxe remained in the cement where he’d been using it as cover.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Dillon stood his mech up straight so he could get a better look at the building the demon had landed in. As he did, it collapsed, burying his foe within. A warning light flashed for his attention, something he’d yet to see, causing him to realize this was the incoming fire indicator. He turned to face the Warlord, who was already dumping plasma in his direction.

The two firesupport mechs that didn’t get bowled over by the big demon’s passage into the now crumbled office building returned fire almost instantly, though to little effect as the Warlord’s black skinned ally intercepted the rounds with one of his impossibly powerful shields. Seeing no movement from the rubble pile, Dillon shifted to press the attack on the Warlord himself.

“Heh, if I take this fucker out…” The Warlord stopped firing as the clattering sound of concrete bouncing across asphalt echoed out from behind him.

A loud popping noise, like bones breaking then being set, followed a low rumble of pain and irritation. He looked back to see the demon dragging himself out of the rubble pile, one hand forcing his jaw back into place. He worked it back and forth before baring a toothy, manic grin.

“FINALLY! A WORTHY OPPONENT! THIS ONE IS MINE, MASTER KARL!” The demon roared down the street to the Warlord who was simply smiling in such a way that spoke to the confidence he had in the coming battle's outcome.

“HAH! Glad to see you still alive, that looked like it hurt!” Dillon was beginning to seeth at the amount of disrespect the duo were committing at his expense. Years of conditioning and institutionalization to value one thing above all else, even money, infused him with an uncontrollable rage. David Wayne Dillon would not be disrespected. Ever.

“You fucking shit stains dare disrespect ME!? I’m going to fuck you both up!”

Rather than cowing the Warlord and his demon into fear, the Warlord’s smirk intensified, while the demon looked past him with a puzzled look on his face.

“Hmm, ok… ok. Hey! You want respect? COME GET IT YOU PUNK ASS BITCH!” The demon roared the last bit at him. If he wasn’t pissed off before, he sure as hell was now. Dillon could feel his skin darken in unbridled fury, if he were a white man, he’d be beet red right now. What the demon had just said to him basically was like calling into question his manhood. If he didn’t respond with overwhelming violence, his own people would kill him for his weakness. He slammed the oversized fists of his mech together in a challenge, then sprinted towards the demon who was laughing uproariously in response.

“Finally, a worthy opponent.” The demon quipped before lowering his head, dipping the points of his massive horns, and charging to meet Dillon’s assault head on. Dillon swung another heavy right fist just as the demon dipped his head further, driving head first into the body of his mech. His strike missed, sliding a hair's breadth over the back of the demon’s head.

A sharp crack snapped out across the street as the demon’s horns slammed into the mech's thick armor. Somehow the demon managed to halt the inertia of several tons of metal alloy, resulting in a brief severe case of whiplash for Dillon, the straps over his shoulder and around his thighs holding him in place. Dust and debris spiralled out in a wave around the pair of titans. Red or orange warning lights blared across his status panels incessantly demanding his attention.

The demon's eyes, yellow orbs that seemed to pulse in hot rage, stared directly into the camera embedded in the front of his mech. A shiver ran down his spine, goosebumps raising across his forearms. He fought down a fear he’d never faced before and forced the demon back with sluggishly responsive arms. A quick look at a small display in the corner of his cockpit showed that the direct feedback lines that controlled the arms had been damaged and it was currently rerouting controls to a back up system.

“FUUUUUuuuuuuck!!!” Dillon roared at the leering demon as control was restored to his arms. He whipped his hands up to grab hold of the monster's horns, pushing them back with a tearing metal sound that vibrated through the mech's sensitive internals. He didn’t give the demon a chance to dislodge his grip, opting to launch a long legged kick towards its chest. Somehow his opponent managed to raise a hasty cross block absorbing the majority of the attack on his forearms.

The effect was less than desired, though it gave Dillon much needed breathing room for his mech to fully restore its systems. The skidded backwards for several feet before leaning back and laughing at him, “YES! FIGHT ME WITH ALL YOU’VE GOT, HUMAN! SHOW ME YOUR WORTH!”

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU!?!?” Dillon yelled back, fear seeping into his cry.

The demon stood in front of him, horns brushing across an overhanging light pole that somehow managed to remain standing amidst the swirling chaos around them. He cocked his head curiously before announcing himself softly, “I am the last Daemon Lord. You can call me Lord Shubin, Final Commander of the Last Horde of Grax-Hoob, First Tetrarch to the Warlord of Winslow, Karl Brunett. What is your name and lineage, warrior? So that I may inscribe it on your tomb, and write it into my Song of Glory and Tragedy, should I find our battle of worth.”

Dillon slammed his fists together, the sound of hyper-dense alloy slamming together punctuating his response, “The name is Knuckles. And I don’t have no lineage that I know of, and I don’t give two shits about your worth. NOW DIE! [Heavy Stomp]!”

He slammed a heavy mech foot into the concrete, sending a rippling wave of force to spread out in front of him. The street buckled and cracked as the attack reached Shubin, leaving him scrambling to regain his balance.

Dillon lunged forward with a left cross, surprised to find the demon somehow managed to bring a massive red arm up in an outside block. Before the demon could counter he launched a quick right jab that was also somehow deflected by the imperious monster. He hopped the mech a few meters and activated another ability he hadn’t tried inside the metal monster.

“[Thousand Fists of Doom]!”

Dillon surged forward inside his mech, its heavy arms moving in a blur as several dozen jabs reached out in a random pattern towards the demon’s body and face. He began to smile as he saw the demon attempt to defend itself, then suddenly the world on his display was spinning, centripetal force pinning him against the back of his seat.

He felt the impact before he heard it, “FUCK!” Blood flowed from biting his own tongue as the sound of more warnings blared in his ears. He wasn’t sure how or when, but the demon, Lord Shubin, had managed to knock him on his ass while also interrupting one of his most powerful abilities. Through the two remaining displays he saw blue sky, the third one to his left flickered with black and white static.

Wasting no time for the alerts and alarms he rolled to gain his footing. Just as he was about to plant his left foot, he found himself falling forward again. He looked around at his alert panels in confusion. The diagram of his mech showed red where his left leg should be.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Fear caused him to rage irrationally, he rolled the mech back over as the sound of heavy footsteps thumped the ground behind him.

Dillon blindly swung his right foot out, hoping to catch the demon off guard, but only managed to spin himself like a turtle stranded on its back. He pushed the mech up so he could see to the front, then stopped at the sight of the demon who was standing in front of him with its hands on its hips.

“Knuckles, if this is all you are worth, I find myself disappointed. Dismount this useless machine and face me directly, or I’ll end this battle now. You will not be written into my Song.”

The look on Lord Shubin’s face somehow managed to remind him of the first time he had been caught fighting by his mother. It was the most pure look of disappointment he’d ever seen, the shame that followed filled him with an irrational rage, a thing which couldn’t be explained. Dillon, then as now, was defiant as ever and refused to back down.

“Man, go fuck yourself.”

The demon stared at him with those yellow embers he called eyes, then walked out of sight. When he returned he hefted his massive battleaxe over his head and brought it down on the center of the mech. Dillon winced as the first strike somehow didn’t fully penetrate the cockpit, but still managed to shatter all the instrumentation and displays within. When the blade was yanked free, sunlight streamed through the gap in the armor for a moment before the second blow consigned David Wayne Dillon to darkness.