Crownless King: Proclamation

~EARTH ZF-035~

The location is unknown. The time is sometime in the wee hours of the morning. The temperature is too cold, even inside this huge building that, perhaps, functioned as an air hangar in a previous life. But the purpose... Some can only guess, some would rather not. All feel, however, that a monumental occasion is about to take place.

The people gathered here are many. And they all come in different varieties, that exceed the standard fare of old, young, tall, short and so on. There are some who dress like they escaped from 1930's America, smartly-dressed with tuxedo's and trilbies that wouldn't look out of place in the Godfather. Some have more elaborate costume, skull masks hidden beneath cowled hoods and heavy robes fit for a funeral procession. Yet others dress as though a science laboratory gave up on them, white coats stained with blood and other unmentionable substances. It is a mixed bag that comes today.

And each group of men, arranged in military formation, is headed by an individual who seems to represent whatever their group stands for. A young boy, glasses slipping down his face, fidgets uncomfortably in front of the scientists. The masked figures are headed by a brute of a man with red armour, a scythe slung across one shoulder. And the gangsters are lead by a young woman in an outfit that seems as though Vaudeville threw it up, complete with patriotic colours. Were Ash and Christine here, they would even recognize Ivan Vanko in his silvery armour, leading a group of what appear to be military shoulders

These are the Magpies. The criminal lords of this world, the men and women who are feared and respected across the globe. There should be seven here tonight, but a cursory glance counts only six of the infamous Ubermen present - Dallas Cohen, the Mirthful Lord, is not among them. This, however, is an uncomfortable and touchy detail for all present, a detail most of the assembled try to ignore.

For the cowled figure, emerging from a double-doorway onto the iron balcony in front, would make those who noticed pay dearly.

There is a long, uncomfortable pause as the figure walks forward, slowly and deliberately, taking it's time. The doors are set in a large alcove, the balcony itself jutting out a little way forward, and it takes a little while for the newcomer to reach the end. But when it does, all the hushed talk falls away as all eyes present turn towards this hooded apparition and the darkness that follows it like a malignant, living block of shadows.

Another pause as it surveys the crowd. Expectation hangs in the iron air like butchered pigs in a freezer - heavy and cold.

"Gentlemen," it begins, and the voice is like ice down the back of the shirt. The assembled men fidget uncomfortably, but keep their eyes on the balcony in front of them, refusing to drop their unending loyalty for a second. And those who do look away are dissuaded from it by glares from their commanding officers, Mr. Silver in particular.

"I would like to announce, firstly," continues the figure, "that Operation: Dawn's Light has been a resounding success. Nicodemus, the Destined Hero, has been confirmed as being trapped in another dimension, with no known way of returning and little motivation to do so. This gives us all the time we need to move forward with our future plans, without fear of hindrance or complications. And whilst we have had, unfortunately, to dismiss one of our own as a result of recent events, I am fully confident we are now best prepared to deliver our little...

"...surprise."

A murmur ripples through the assembled throngs of men, but dies down like a wave crashing against a beach. Where it possible to be seen, the figure seems to be grinning underneath the heavy, ornate cowl that covers most of its face. The mention of Dallas causes one or two of the Magpies to shuffle their feet, knowing full well what events their leader refers to but inwardly pretending otherwise, for their own sakes.

"However," continues the stranger, "before we begin our next phase, I would like to take some time to address a... rumor... that has been floating around the organization as of late." As it speaks, hands grip the railing in front of it as it leans forward, scrutinizing the men below it. "Some of you have, quite reasonably, come to believe that I, your Godfather... like war. I wish to dash these insane accusations to the ground like the fine china they are made from. I do not like war - on the contrary!"

"My friends... 

"I... love... war!"

There is complete silence, apart from one man reflexively coughing. But the speaker takes no notice of him and, after allowing a pleasurable shudder to ripple down itself, releases the railing and stands straight again. A deep breath through the nostrils, and then the speech, which has seemingly been built up inside for quite a considerable time, comes forth as the figure begins to pace alongside the balcony, towards the far wall of the alcove.

"Throughout my... long and extensive life, I have been privileged to observe so many different and unique forms of war. Picture this scene, my friends. You wake up in the morning, have breakfast, get washed and dressed and climb into your battered, second-hand car. As you do, you see a rich and fat CEO, who works only as half as hard as you do for greater pay, drive down your street in his shining Porsche that he only bought the day before.

"Class war."

The wall is reached, and the figure pauses. Then, with a rustling sweep of the cloak, it turns around and begins pacing the other way.

"You make it through the morning rush hour traffic jams to work, and discover that the company's annual employee drug tests are today. With a cold horror, you realize that you just so happened to take a puff of your one-hitter, a couple of nights ago, before you had dinner with your wife's awful parents. A  simple exercise in stress relief could now cost you your job, your livelihood, everything you ever had.

"Drug war.

"But then you discover that the only ones being called in for the tests are your Black and Hispanic co-workers. This does not seem fair - the White, American-born worker is spared the indignity and possible loss of career that those of a different skin color have to undergo. Someone, somewhere, is being a prejudiced douchebag,

"Race war."

The figure reaches the other wall, and turns again.

"During the lunch break, you post about this on your Facebook. One of your friends makes an inappropriate comment on your post, and all of your friends begin arguing about what's right and what's wrong. Bullshit theories about evolution, genetics and society get thrown around like water balloons at a pool party, and soon you begin to wish you'd never posted about the issue at all.

"Flame war."

The speaker stops at the middle of the balcony, and turns to face the assembled. All of them - men women, soldiers and a Magpies alike, are staring up at him, enraptured by the scenario he has concocted in their heads. Good. Get on their level, that's the ticket - make it seem like you sympathise with the working man's problems. Soon, they'll be straining at their moral leashes to follow your commands, and all it takes is a little push...

"You finally get home from work, tired and worn out by the problems of the day. After your dinner, you decide to relax by turning on the television. The first program you see is about 'Who gets the box? What's in the box? How much is what's in the box worth?' You find yourself hooked, and decide that you should try and get the series on DVD as soon as you can afford it.

"...Storage Wars!"

The figure giggles - high-pitched, musical. It rings around the room like the ring of iron when struck by a hammer, and fades with an odd thrumming noise. The shadows around the balcony seem to thicken and darken, simmering like boiling water, before dying back into normalcy - an act that the speaker does not seem to acknowledge.

There is a pause before it next continues.

"What I am telling you, my faithful Magpies, is that I consider myself a purveyor of war. And with your help, over the years, fighting small and petty wars concerning money and arms and drugs, we are now at the precipice of our true goal. A goal that, for as long as I have lived in this era, I have been striving towards with all my utmost strength. You see, all I ask for is... a simple war. Not a class war, not a drug war, no race wars, no flame wars..."

The voice raises to a sudden shout, and a fist bangs on the railing with a noise that makes the soldiers recoil.

"AND CERTAINLY NO COLD WARS!"

The speaker pauses, drawing in a long breath, and seems to calm down slowly as it exhales. "Blue-balled for forty years," it mutters under it's breath, before continuing at normal volume.

"But then, I asked myself 'Am I being selfish?' After all, I have you by my side - an army of Ubers, each powerful enough to level a city, if you so desired. People would laugh, of course, and say that you are only a thousand strong, but I believe that a mere single one of you, who have worked in my service for so long, are capable of taking down a million of the sick, weak children they field in the military nowadays. And so, I ask you, my friends..."

Hands are raised in supplication. Small hands, white-gloved hands, beacons in a sea of dark cape and curling shadows. The voice rises to a hysterical crescendo, glee and bloodlust filling every syllable and trickling down into the minds of the masses below.

"What is it that you want? Do you wish for war, as I do? Do you wish for a merciless, bloody war? A war whose fury is built with iron, and lightning, and fire?! Do you ask for war to sweep in like a tempest, leaving not even ravens to scavenge from this Earth?!"

The call is answered with a chant. A thousand voices, raised in roars like lions on the hunt. Rifle butts, iron pikes, feet, anything that can be used is pounded against the iron floor in a terrible, ominous rhythm that grows in volume and strength by the second. It is as though the army is already on the march, making tracks to the thing it collectively bays for in a thousand voices, dialects and accents.

"WAR! WAR! WAR! WAR! WAR! WAR! WAR!"

The speaker waits for a moment, basking in the chanting and the bloodlust echoing around him. Ah, the moment when you get them riled up. That's the push, right there - make them understand and share your views, then fling it back at them at the end just to make sure. By then, they'll already be convinced and champing at the bit to do as you ask, and everything will go down just peachy. Now, a dismissive gesture to quieten the mob, and let' drive this nail in once and for all.

"Very well," responds the stranger. "Then war is what you shall have. For we are a clenched fist, ready to strike down all who oppose us with our might. But," it adds, red eyes flashing with eager glee in the darkness. "After over half a century of hiding like rats, scurrying in the shadows lest the daylight come down like an awful hammer of vengeance, a simple war of men and machines is no longer enough for me. No, we need..."

A dramatic sweep of the arms outwards, to emphasize something great. Something bigger than can be comprehended.

"WE NEED A MASSIVE WAR!

"A war of the kind that only we, as the superior species, can bring! A true war, an Uber war, a war beyond any other that Man's history has ever known! And to do that, we shall reach through time itself, through the boundaries between dimensions! We shall do as no army has done before, and draw on the powers of the new world we have discovered - its magic, its science, everything it has to offer us! And with it, we shall wage the kind of war that those before us - Atilla, Ghengis and even Hitler herself - would only dream to be at the front lines of!

"It is time for us, my friends, to wake the sleeping dogs who drove the glorious name of the Magpies into the darkness so long ago! Let us drag them out of their beds by the hair and stamp on their throats, and show them what it means to be afraid! Let them quail at the sound of our jackboots on their streets, and let them tremble at the sight of mountains falling before our might! And should those who call themselves the Kobbers, from that other dimension, dare to interfere in our work, let us remind them that there are more things in Heaven and Hell than can be dreamed of in their backwards philosophy!

"Ladies and gentlemen... The sequel you've all been waiting for..."

In the spirit of the moment, the cloak is thrown aside. Shadows curdle, reach out tendrils and swirl upwards in a maelstrom of power that beggars belief.

"I... WANT... TIME... WAR... THREE!"

And at this proclamation, the army raises its arms in salute and gives tongue.

"ONE FOR SORROW! TWO FOR MIRTH!
THREE FOR A FUNERAL! FOUR FOR A BIRTH!"

"FIVE FOR SILVER! SIX FOR GOLD!
SEVEN FOR THE SECRET NEVER TO BE TOLD!" 

And Godfather, the leader of the Magpies, looked upon her army, and saw that it was good.

TO BE CONTINUED

In May 2015

(Hopefully)