DocTachyon

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

@Hound55Nah, Mephisto's long conning Vig to go after the Trident. But that's probably next season.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Work was actually busy today so I didn't get to work on a post almost at all. Doing so now, but I hate it so far, so if I don't get to polish it much tomorrow the Enforcers fight might not get posted until next week.

@HenryJonesJr

Just do what I do and post it as soon as it's done.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - Strings: Part Two

“The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage.”

-Anonymous

---

Hell?

---

“You are my vessel.”

Greg Saunders couldn’t make sense of the world before him. It was a mess of color, images bled into one another until it was an amalgamation of nothing at all. The one thing he could make sense of was the air around him. It somehow had a waxy, burnt quality to it -- he could feel waves of heat rippling off from the nonsense.

Greg flopped on the ground, trying to gulp in as much of the thin air as he could, closing his eyes shut and hoping whatever this was would end. He felt a searing hand close around his neck.

His eyes opened to a figure out of the madness that swirled through his vision. It was a stark white skull, streaked with calcification and wreathed in fire. The hand closed around his neck was made of thin, spindly bone. The bone creaked and Greg dropped, slamming into the familiar feeling of brimstone.

“Guh-” Greg felt a boot on his chest, forcing out what little was left in his lungs. Above him was a ghastly rider. He was wrapped in leather and hellfire. The skeleton cocked its head, considering him. Greg pushed at the boots. They refused to budge. The skeleton cackled.

“You try so hard to resist. You feel me at the edge, rotting your defenses.” The skeleton drew closer. Greg could feel its head flames licking his face.

“It’s only been days since we’ve been together, but you are already losing. Mephisto rallies his forces. Soon, you’ll have to let me out.” The skeleton’s smile was a perverse thing. The bone drew itself back, sending a crack spidering up past its jawline in a hollow imitation of the gesture.

Warpath, Texas

---

Greg was soaked in sweat, near naked and on the floor. The dim neon of his clock read “2:33 AM”. He groaned and pushed himself to his knees, trying to raise himself back into the warmth of his sheets. It’d been like this the past few nights. Countless Advils and tylenols to try and drown the voices and the headaches so he could get some sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he was back there, swimming in demons while a skeleton laughed at him. It made him look forward to the back breaking defense work in the morning with Hex.

The Kid and Stripsey had left a few days ago to seek out their old SHIELD contacts to try and accrue some aid; Shining Knight was still convinced that his horse was alive out there, somewhere, and Crimson Avenger tagged along so he wouldn’t get himself killed. Frankenstein had gone off in search of some old occultist friends of his, if they were still alive. That left Greg and Jonah Hex to make what defenses they could for Warpath.

In Hell, the game had mostly been about dumping as much firepower into demons as possible, until they stopped moving, or just outrunning the things. Warpath had neither the luxury of extreme firepower or of mobility. Over the past few days, Greg and Hex set to erecting makeshift frisian horses and digging trenches around the town’s edge. They’d also been trying to get as much Holy Water as possible, but the town’s one Priest who hadn’t split could only work so fast. At least by Billy Gunn’s reckoning the attacks had slowed since the start, but he had a feeling the demons sensed the presence of the town’s new defenders and were marshalling their forces. They’d come in force, and soon.

Greg rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stared at the wooden ceiling. His eyes followed the gentle curves and cracks in the wood, trying to distract himself from the voices. They were quieter at night, evidently sated by the dominion they held over his dreams. Every other moment they were crying to be let out, attempting to wrest control of his mind and his body. God knows who or what they’d exact their “vengeance” upon. Hopefully he’d never have to find out. All he could do now was close his eyes and surrender himself to the lull of his nightmares…

New York City, New York --- The Offices of Ramon J. Solomano

---

The office’s intricate tilework had been sledgehammered away to reveal the subflooring. Now there was a pentagrammic rune there, carved in with a small pile of now broken combat knives in lieu of access to a proper cutting tool. The only light in the room was from the Moon, high in the sky, projecting a shaft of light onto the circle and the two figures that stood around it.

Big Caesar wrung his hands at the far end of the circle, his back to Solomano’s desk. On his belt was a wicked, curved knife, with humming red runes beveled into it. Across from Caesar was Solomano, The Hand himself. He held a leathery black tome in one hand, while the other showed his scar to the pentagram.

“I nommus Otsihpem.” The Hand cast the book aside, verbal portion of the ritual done, and snapped at Big Caesar for the knife. The goon complied and the knife sailed through the air. It caught above the center of the pentagram, and the runes upon it changed shade to blue. The humming grew higher in pitch. The knife moved closer to Solomano’s hands as his scar changed its hue, pulsing with the blue.

He snatched it out of the air with his scarred hand and sliced down on the other. His blood dribbled onto the edge of the circle. The Hand made slow revolutions around it, allowing his blood to pour onto every part of the circle. That done, he threw the knife inside. The blood around the circle began to dance, like crimson waveforms, revolving around the circle’s edge.

“I tnaw ot ekam a laed.” He said. The blood began to vibrate down the lines of the pentagram, moving towards the center and spiraling up into the sky to meet the knife. The blood pulsed to the beat of the knife’s song, gradually forming around it into a necrotic, red torso. The knife’s runes pitch-shifted back to a deep scarlet, as the rhythm sped up. The room itself seemed to vibrate to the hymn, as the blood coagulated into the form of a man.

He was both there and not, a hollow representation of some greater monster. He stood easily eight feet tall, with horns spiraling off his head and down his back. Blood continually dropped or shook off his form and then shuddered back to the center, coming to refill the holes that exposed his empty interior.

”Who summons me?” The creature’s voice was unreal, each word seemed to trail off into the whispered screams of lost souls, and sent vibrations through the blood that formed its body.

“The Hand calls for aid.” Solomano showed his mark to the creature. Its blood lips drew back to reveal the black nothing inside.

”What do you require? And what do you offer?”

“I need powered Enforcers. My people need to fight back against the metahuman scourge. In return…” Solomano swallowed, “I offer my mortal soul.”

Somehow the monster’s smile drew back further, the edge of its ‘lips’ going up past its cheekbones.

”Exxxcellent… But I have a… Counter offer. Come inside the circle, Roman Solomano.”

Solomano stared into the creatures empty eyes. His jaw hung open. He looked to Big Caesar for guidance, but he was just as locked on the monster. This wasn’t supposed to happen. All the scripts said that the caster should never enter the circle. But he felt compelled. His legs were moving before his brain told them to. Every atom in his body quivered as he crossed the line, slicking his shoes with blood. His organs shuddered in their cages of flesh and bone. Solomano could feel his own sacrificed blood drip onto him as the creature towered over him.

”I take your soul… But, you can get it back. I suspect a Vigilante in Texas has something of mine. Just one, little, trident. Get it for me… And your soul is yours again.”

Solomano felt his hand rising, slowly, towards the Demon lord. A clawed hand came out to touch each digit on every word:

”Just one soldier for each, finger, on, your, hand.” He said. ”Do you accept?”

Solomano nodded slowly.

”Excellent. Sign.” The creature's blood claws snapped to Solomano’s wrist, turning the mobster’s inner forearm to himself. The creature reached into its own chest, blood pushing past blood, and producing the ritual knife. He forced it into Solomano’s hand.

Solomano bit his shirt with his mouth. It didn’t make his screams any quieter.

When the deed was done, the words “THE HAND” bled anew from Solomano’s forearm.

The creature gave one last smile before all the light left the knife and the rune. All at once the blood lost form and fell in a thick sheet, covering Solomano’s face and clothes. He clutched his new scar and hissed. He turned to Big Caesar, his face locked in a sneer.

“Bring me the fucking Dummy.”

Pokemon Masters: World Cup

Very interested. If I elect to not have a Legendary, may I take two pseudos?

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

@Sep Oh, you've heard of us before. Our mutant power is a real bitch, though.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

@NightrunnerIt might have been a callback to @Inkarnate asking who I was.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

<Snipped quote by Master Bruce>

@Nightrunner

I watched the VHS tape of this crossover every day when I was a kid. It was my shit.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

I just want the Superior Spider-Man suit. Please, Insomniac.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - Strings: Part One

“The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage.”

-Anonymous

---

Texas --- The Desert

---

It was only a few hours since they... Emerged. Vigilante still wasn’t sure quite how to describe it. One moment he was on his knees on a slab of brimstone, with a Demon Lord’s claws wrapped around his head and his friends waiting for death all around him. The next he was lying in a bed of sand, all his broken bones and scars knitted together like nothing had ever happened.

The walk to town was silent. Each man seemed content to contemplate what it meant to be well and truly alive again. The crunch of the sand beneath seven sets of boots. True, fresh Texan air swelling their lungs. It was unlike anything in hell had ever been. The sky twinkled with stars instead of crackling with fire. The wind whistled instead of howling. It was almost enough to make Vigilante forget what had happened there. If it weren’t for the screaming.

It started as a quiet throbbing in the back of his head once he accepted Mephisto’s deal. A little reminder of what he’d done. The closer Vig and the six others drew to Warpath, the louder it got. Every footstep raised the voice a decibel. The voices, rather.

“Vengeance. Must. Be. Done. Vengeance. Must. Be Done. Vengeance! Must! Be! Done! VENGEANCE! MUST! BE! DONE!” It was a cacophony. If Vig focused on it, he became more aware of it, more in tune with it. Somewhere in recesses of his being, there was a swirling, pulsating vortex of fire and shrieking skulls baying for blood and retribution -- and it was trying to pull him in. He tried to shake his head and clear himself of it, but it was always there, gnawing. Begging him to let it out. He felt the pressure on the back of his eyes. It was all he could do to ignore it and continue his slog through the desert. He needed a goddamn drink.

Warpath, Texas --- The Crossroads Saloon

---

The Crossroads Saloon was The Bar at the End of the World. It had been in Warpath since the early 1800s. It had survived attempted buyouts, a handful of shootouts, a few arsons, and countless charms and curses placed upon it by wannabe sorcerers. It was there when Vig was born, and would likely be there long after he died. Hex probably still recognized it, the paint chipping off the cheapest boards available and the subtle scent of watered down booze. To Vig, it smelled like home.

Not a word had passed between the men, but a thousand years worth of teamwork had cultivated a silent understanding between them. Drink came before discussion. The only stop they made was to exchange their clothes for something more pedestrian. Costumes and armor weathered by hellfire were exchanged for worn out jeans and dusty flannels liberated from the boarded up shack Vig used to call home.

The place still had the same swinging “cowboy” doors, with all the little holes and nicks in ‘em from various nights of drunkenness and debauchery from the few locals who attended the slag heap. Vig pushed through first. It was empty. The tables sat deserted, with a handful of stools askew. Some lay overturned. The barkeep idly wiped dust motes from glass mugs, but his eyes snapped to the door as it swung open. The barkeep set the glass down. His hands dropped below the bar.

“Greg Saunders? Why, we ain’t seen you around here in a long time, feller.” The barkeep said.

“Yessir.” Vigilante nodded and tipped his hat.

In an instant, a sawed-off was in the barkeeps hands and Greg flinched, slamming onto the ground on his back. His revolver was in his hand before the shotgun’s report reached his ears, and his finger squeezed the trigger as buckshot obliterated where he’d just been. His pistol cracked in his hands and the barkeep’s hat disappeared, Greg adjusted his aim down a micrometer.

“Boy, you best think about where you next aim that shotgun,” Greg said. He could scarcely hear himself over the ringing in his ears.

“Jesus H. Christ, Williams, what was that?” The swinging doors behind the bar burst open and an old man in a droopy bucket hat hobbled out. His eyes flickered over the scene. He slapped the gun out of the barkeep’s hands.

“Goddammit, you dumb son of a bitch! Don’t you know who that is?” The old man said. Billy Gunn hadn’t changed much in the… Well, however many years Greg had been gone. He still wore the same hat, pulled low over his face with as many buttons and as much memorabilia that would fit plastered over it; and he still walked with that same limp. Greg slid his pistol into his holster and drew to his feet.

“But what if he’s a --” The barkeep couldn’t finish his sentence before Gunn’s hand cracked across his face.

“You think a changeling could aim like that? Git yer keister in the back.” Gunn elbowed past the man as he passed and planted both hands on the bar.

“Things have changed ‘round here, boy. Where the hell have you been?” Gunn said. He gestured to a barstool.

“I’ve been… Around. Coast’s clear, Frank.” Greg said, stepping up to the barstool.

The titanic frame of Johnny Frankenstein shouldered through the doorway. Greg could see the buckshot pellets dug into his skin, with fresh holes blown in the many-sizes-small shirt. Somehow he seemed less undead under the flourescent lights of the bar. It helped that he had a cowboy hat pulled over his head scars, and that the seams in his patched-together body were covered, mostly.

“Sir.” Frankenstein tipped his hat to Gunn and sat down next to Greg. The stool shuddered under his weight.

The rest of the Seven filed in, one by one. Sir Justin seemed to stumble as he came in, evidently suppressing his instinct to bow. Lee Travis came in next, cracking that big wide grin of his. Then was Sylvester Pemberton and Pat Dugan, each giving low nods and shuffling to stools of their own. Lastly was Jonah Hex.

The bounty hunter stood in the doorway a moment, looking the bar up and down. He stepped to the left wall, and moved a hanging picture a hair to the left.

“Heh. Still there.” Hex righted it and pulled up a stool. Gunn’s eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes scanned over each of the bar’s new patrons. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Greg cut him off.

“Gunn, what… Exactly happened while I was gone?” Greg asked. He pulled off his brown cowboy hat and began fiddling with the brim. He locked eyes with Gunn’s baby blues.

Gunn sighed. He scratched the back of his head and stared at the ceiling for a moment, his face scrunched in thought.

“Three years is a long time to up n’ abandon Warpath, Greg. Since you split town, things got…” Gunn gulped, “Well, things got weird.”

Greg exchanged a glance with Frankenstein. Hex looked up from his hat brim. Three years. It felt like a thousand.

“I got some kinda acquainted with weird in my time away.” Greg said. He reached across the bar and placed a hand on Gunn’s shoulder.

Gunn looked deep into Greg’s eyes, searching for some kind of truth in them. He swallowed.

“Every now n’ again we get hit by… Well, to put it to ya straight, gentlemen, monsters.” Gunn reached down and put the sawed-off on the table.

“Williams back ‘ere thought you was a changeling like we’ve been callin’ em. Nasty ‘lil buggers. Takes your friend’s face n’ kills you with it. N’ that’s just one o’ the many we’ve been gettin’. SHIELD's been tryin’ it’s damnedest to help, but with the metahuman business n’ everything, they don’t have much by way of resources to spare for a lil’ town like us.”

Sylvester shot up in his chair. “Metahumans? By God, SHIELD finally let the cat out of the bag.”

Gunn nodded. “Lotsa cats in that bag, then.They got a boy up n’ Metropolis who just spent his day rippin’ apart a bunch o’ robots.”

“Well, we’re whistling Dixie if we think a fella all the way in Metropolis will help you, pal. Or us, for that matter.” Lee said.

A moment of silence washed over the bar. A thousand years of combat, but Greg may as well have been back where he started. Knee deep in demons and without any kind of backup.

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out, Billy. Pop always did, n’ I’m sure that we can, too.” Greg said. By now, the voices had settled into a steady chant.

“Vengeance. Vengeance. Vengeance.”

“I’m more than sure.”

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

'Tis a strange day when picking Spider-Man 2 as the best Spider-Man film is picking a hill to die on. Alas.

@Eddie Brock

I flip flop between Homecoming and 2 constantly, but lately I've found myself settling more and more on Homecoming. But hey, maybe it's recency bias.