Ultimate WildC.A.T.S. #0

[tjkernan]

Ultimate WildC.A.T.S. #0
"Into All Precious Things Darkness Comes"
TJK

Three weeks ago.

"Hello?"

"Are you The Manhunter?"

"Yes."

"Are you currently available for hire?"

"Yes."

"My employers would much like to tender your services then."

"Who is it you would like me to find?"

"A dead man.

Manhunter. Are you still there?"

"Yes. This isn't an actual dead man is it? Like a zombie or a ghost or something, because if that is the case that really isn't my gig. I can turn you onto a fellow I know named Doctor Thirteen..."

"No, this isn't about any undead. The man you are looking for is suppose to be dead, but he was a man with a certain...set of skills...and my employers are very cautious and suspicious people. They want you to confirm this man is indeed dead, and if by some miracle, he is not, then they need to know that as well."

"A certain set of skills? Is he a government spook?"

"Are you taking the case?"

"You are aware of my fee? This sounds like a case that could take up some time and require some serious dollars..."

"I assure you, for my employers, money is off no object when it comes to achieving this objective. You will have ample funds at your disposal, as well as your usual fee, and a hefty bonus should you find him alive."

"Then I am taking the case."

"Excellent. I will then relay the information necessary to your associate, as well as an account from which you can extract funds necessary for your endeavors, as well as your first payment. You can reach me at this number if you have questions or finish the job and confirm his life or death. Good evening."

---

Mark Shaw, the man behind The Manhunter identity, placed the cell-phone into his pocket and twirled his chair around, away from the coffee table his legs had sat upon. He grabbed the gin and tonic, which sat on the table, and took a large swig before standing and walking to a door nearby. He threw open the door to the next room, which on the inside looked like a voyeur's wet dream. Every inch of every wall was either covered in a myriad of different sized television screens or circuitry or computerized panels. Mark glanced around briefly, checking out feeds as they flickered from different cameras covering a vast number of locations. On one he watched people walking down a street that looked like it was in Madrid. In another, people huddled around an office water cooler in anywhere USA.

Sitting across the room, typing furiously away on a keyboard, was Mark's little helper, his associate. She was, as always, deeply engrossed, in whatever she was doing, loud music blasting through the ear buds in her ears. The music was so loud, Mark wondered why she even bothered wearing them at all. The short white hair on her head bounced up and down as she sang to herself, continuously pounding around at the computer keys before her in rapid succession.

"BETTY?" shouted Mark at the top of his lungs.

Bad Betty swung around in her swivel chair, pulling the ear buds from her ears with one hand and turning off the music with the other. She had a very big smile upon her face.

"Hey boss." Betty said sheepishly, winking.

"We got a new gig." said Mark, grabbing a nearby swivel chair and plopping down into it, getting himself comfortable as he scooted across the room and pulled up next to his associate.

"Yeah, I see that," Betty declared, nodding in affirmation, before turning herself back to the screen and keyboard in front of her, "Pretty interesting stuff too..."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, this one might be a toughie. I like it."

Bad Betty pushed a button and a picture of a man came upon this screen.

"This is one Manchester Black," Betty said, thumbing towards the screen, "A real piece of work. A Brit expatriate. He was a spook for The Queen before he went off the reservation and started his own little cadre of mercenaries known as The Elite. Nasty bunch, but damn good at what they did. If someone hired them to eliminate you, you were good as dead.

That was, however, up until about two years ago. Apparently, Manchester and his crew were chasing some nut-job assassin known as Red Claw. She blew them up, along with a dozen people in a nearby restaurant. Manchester Black and one of his team, a guy called Hat, died in the explosion. Two of the other members-Coldcast and Menagerie-were wounded and taken in custody and thrown into US jails. Coldcast was later extradited to Britian to face charges he had pending there. The last guy, Geist, escaped, and nobody has seen or heard of him since. Completely off the radar."

Mark browsed the information on the screen, "Apparently, our employers suspect that Manchester Black made it out of the explosion somehow alive. Do we know just who they are yet?

Betty shook her head negatively, "Still working on that one. They certainly set you up pretty for this operation though, hefty dollar account, to say the least. Money is in an account being funneled through Bialya. I am back-tracking it now, lots of bouncing. Someone is trying hard to cover their tracks. This kinda of stuff would take a talented hacker months to unravel.

I should have it in a couple hours, tops."

"That my dear," said Mark, patting her upon the back, "is why I pay you so handsomely. In the meantime, set me up a file with everything and anything you can find on this Manchester Black. Info on him, his family, and anything else you can get me on these other members of The Elite. If he is still alive, I am sure one of them knows where he is. You can't stay hidden forever..."

[tjkernan]

Two Months Ago.

If a person is looking for a nasty bar in San Francisco de Quito, the capital of Equador, there are few nastier than El Tercer Ojo. Funded by one of the city's larger drug gangs, the drinking establishment is a den of thieves, killers, junkies, and whores. The true authority within the establishment is obvious when you walk in the door and see the two men armed with machine-guns at the door, though after a few minutes it is obvious they are more there to keep unwanted out (like the police) than stopping trouble. Drugs are done openly, breasts fly uninhibited and there is plenty of blood stains across the floor.

The real action though, is not within the drinking area itself, nor within the seedy bedrooms upstairs. but within the large open basement below the building. That is where the fights occur. Most nights of the week there are cocks or dogs or some other animals engaged in combat, money passing from hand to hand are a flurry of cash exchanges hand.

On Sunday nights though, the animals are left at home and men take to the fighting ring instead.

As was usual for a Sunday night, the area around the ring was packed. Everyone one looked money was exchanging hands, as the bloody remaining bits of the last loser were cleaned from the ring in preparation for the last match.

Finally, a short chubby man stepped from the crowd and out into the ring. Attention finally turned from the exchange of cash and the volume of chatter changed to roars of excitement from the crowd.

<Finish up all your betting, my friends, because we are now ready for our main event of the evening...

To my left, coming to us from Brazilia, he is the three-hundred pound monster from Brazil, The Hatchet...>

A massive beast of a man stepped from the crowd. His skin was dark and midnight, and his shoulders wide like a professional defensive lineman. He rippled with muscles from neck to feet, and he had a viscous scar that wrapped around from behind his left ear all the way down his neck nearly to his nipple. In his hand he was a well-used hatchet that he dragged upon the dirt as he walked. The blade still contained the dried blood remains of his last victim.

<and to my left...>

Where the crowd was loud before, now everything amped up several more notches, the crowd bursting out into a fever pitch.

<...he is our reigning undefeated champion. With a record of seventeen wins, hailing from parts unknown, the mysterious Deathwing...>

A second man stepped from the crowd, and at first glance, the two men could not be more opposite to the physical eye. Deathwing was nearly a foot shorter than Hatchet. Though he was tanned he was still Caucasian, a stark contrast to the darkness of Hatchet. While Hatchet was built like a defensive lineman, Deathwing was built more like a running back, still well-muscled but built for speed and agility and not brute strength. Hatchet worse little more than a pair of shorts, while Deathwing worse a mask and full outfit colored in blue and gold. He looked more like a super-hero...or villain, and the crowd seemed to eat it up.

The announcer shuffled out of the ring as Deathwing adjusted the the dual blades attached to the wrists of each hand. Hatchet pulled his blade from the ground and patted it in his hand, smiling wildly with a mouth that contained more caps of gold than any real remaining teeth.

<FIGHT!>

Hatchet pulled his blade up and ran towards Deathwing, yelling something indecipherable. His eyes looked wild, as a man obvious under the influence of some narcotic. He attempted to barrel into Deathwing, but the man nimbly slipped to the side. Hatchet slammed into the metal wall that separated fighters from watchers, his head bouncing off the wire fencing. Surprising the man seemed to barely notice as he struck, instead moving with surprising speed to throw the butt end of the blade around towards Deathwing's chest.

Deathwing was faster though, easily dodging to the side of the clumsy shot. As the blunt end of the blade struck the metal wall, Deathwing twisted himself around and sliced the twin blades on his left wrist through the air, slicing into the left arm of Hatchet. The cuts were not especially deep, more of a grazing blow, but enough for the razor-sharp steel to draw blood.

Outside the ring, the crowd worked their frenzy up further, yelling and screaming, spewing streams of profanity and admiration.

Hatchet bellowed in rage as Deathwing backed off towards the other side of the ring. This is what the crowd wants, not just the violence and the blood, but a show.

Hatchet looked down at the streams of blood making their way down his arm. His looked across the ring at the blade on Deathwing's wrist, a few drops of blood still pooling at the tip. He spat in anger and spewed forth a stream of obscenities, raising his weapon high above his head and yelling at the top of his lungs.

Hatchet charged for a second time, swinging his blade ferociously. The large slashed at his opponent. His swing missed, but before the arc was complete he also barreled into the man with his shoulder, and the surprising agile move struck Deathwing in the shoulder and pushed him up against the wall.

Briefly unable to remove himself, Deathwing jabbed his wrist blades into Hatchet's side, pushing them deep enough, just below the rib cage, to strike internal organs. Hatchet yelled in pain as he stepped backwards, bellowing . Deathwing stabbed straight forward with the same bloody blades. Hatchet managed to deflect that straight plunge, towards his heart, with the handle of his his weapon, but that left his other flank open, and Deathwing plunged his twin blades into Hatchet's side, a cut almost a mirror-image of the stabbing he performed better. Hatchet took another step back as the blood began the pour from both sides of his body.

Hatchet grimaced in pain. stumbling further back. Deathwing lowered himself to a couching position then leaped forward. He raised his foot, and with Hatchet's reaction times now slowed due to his injury, was able to slam his foot squarely on his opponent's chin. Hatchet's jaw cracked as the force of the blow broke the bone. Deathwing flipped over and landed on the ground, and slashed both of his arms out. The blades struck Hatchet squarely in the chest, ripping the flesh in an outward motion. Blood spewed forth, followed by the organs of Hatchet's abdomen. As Deathwing, flipped himself backwards in a series of back-flip, Hatchet fell to the dirt below, making a sloppy plop as the blood spilled forth. The crowd cheered enthusiastically.

===

Thirty minutes later, the revelry once more returned had made its way to the upstairs bar. Several women danced on the tables. Booze flowed everywhere, and the air was thick with smoke. Deathwing emerged from the basement area to a crowd of cheers. Several cold cervezas were thrust at him, as the men he passed patted him on the back and threw out thanks for the money they had won on the fight.

Deathwing made his way through the crowd to the bar, where he opened his beer and took a healthy swig. As he went for another, a woman caught his eye from a couple of stools down the bar. She was young, and very pretty. Her dark skin was flawless and her long black hair flowed down most of her back. She turned and smiled at Deathwing, and he smiled back.The girl turned back towards her drink and took a swig, then lit herself a cigarette. She turned back towards Deathwing and smiled again, nodding her head for him to join her. Deathwing slip down the bar to join her. Before she even uttered a single word he grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, towards the stairs that led to the rooms above. As a path cleared, cheers and lewd screams of encouragement followed Deathwing and his companion as they made their way up the stairs and to a room at the end of the hall. Deathwing pulled a key from with a hidden pocket in his outfit and unlocked the door, and the two slipped inside.

Deathwing walked to the bed and sat down, and began to remove his boots. The beautiful girl stood, propped up against the door, lighting herself another cigarette.

"Hello Manchester," said Deathwing, very matter of factly, "as he flung his boot towards the wardrobe to the left of his bed.

The young girl just stood there, an insulted look upon her face, as though she was pouting.

Deathwing shook his head, "Give it up, old friend. Your illusions might fool those who do not know you so well, but the cigarettes you smoke give you away. Those stinking British cancer sticks you so adore have a wretchedly distinct odor from the tobacco the the fine people of this city partake of..."

The girl's demeanor changed instantly, she smiled, and laughed, but the laugh was not one of a petite young Latin girl, but the gravelly, harsh chortle of an adult man. Suddenly, the girl faded away, and in her place stood a man. He stood at over six feet, wearing a long black leather duster, with matching pants and black biker boots. He wore a Manchester United Futbol t-shirt. His hair was as black as his clothes.

"Nice to see," said Manchetser, between puffs of his cigarette, "my old friend hasn't lost his touch. I like the new name and costume, by the way, Geist..."