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Old April 2nd, 2010, 08:04 AM
Bards Sword's Avatar
Bards Sword
La Resistance!
 
Join Date: May 2009
Location: Israel!!
Gender: Male
Nature: Rash
So, this is a fanfic based of an RP ongoing on the Emort Region's forum. It got quite complex and really good, so I'm writing a fanfic. NOTE: It uses Emort region fakemon, and for those who read the following prologue and note that there are no pokemon in it, trust me, the pokemon are coming.

And without any further ado:

ARES' WRATH


O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog!
Look when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites,
His venom tooth will rankle to the death.
Have not to do with him. Beware of him.
Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him
And all their ministers attend on him.

-William Shakespeare, Richard III

PROLOGUE:
HORUS


I

Detective Mark McGrath was known throughout New York City as a very determined man. He was respected for it and applauded for it, but his determination often kept him isolated from his peers. As such, he had very little friends. He did not enjoy drinking, and never seen at a bar. His day was centered around only one thing: solving the case at hand.
Every morning, Mark would wake at exactly 6:05 AM. He took a 5 minute shower, got dressed in 3 minutes, ate 1.5 bowls of cereal in 10 minutes, brushed his teeth in 2 minutes, and read the paper for 10 minutes. He then took the paper in his hand and left the building, taking an exactly 10 minute walk to the bus station, where he took the 6:45 bus to work. The bus ride was exactly 10 minutes long, and dropped him off 5 minutes away from the police station. He entered the station at exactly 7:00 every day.
He worked on cases from exactly 7 until 12, sometimes traveling forth between the station, jails, and sites and houses where potential evidence, clues, or suspects waited. At 12, he would take a lunch break. He refused to eat with anyone. Instead, he walked over to the diner around the corner, Roxanne's, and ordered a pastrami sandwich on rye with no mustard. The sandwich was out in 3 minutes, and he ate it in 7 minutes. He then paid his bill and left. He was back at work no later then 12:20 every day.
He then continued his usual routine of investigation, interrogation, and intelligence, the “three i’s” as he sometimes referred to his work. He finished work at 6:30, though he wished he could stay later. He took the 6:40 bus home and ate dinner. He never went out to dinner or dinned with anyone. Instead, he would make himself a turkey sandwich on rye and review the day’s information over his dinner and a smoke. If he had a sudden revelation or thought he solved a case, he would run over to the police station, file in his evidence, return home, and promptly go to bed. He had no more use of the day. If, like usual, he did not solve anything, he would review the clues he possessed until 8:30. At 8:30, he got into bed and spent thirty minutes doing the only activity of the day not related to his work: reading the latest James Paterson Alex Cross novel. When asked why he read Paterson and not Sir Conan Doyle, Mark would always respond “Paterson gets it right. Doyle pulls things out of his head. My job is nothing like Sherlock Holmes.” And as if offended, he would break off the conversation.
Mark’s day revolved around his work. He refused to change his habits, and when asked while he devoted so much time to work and only thirty minutes a day to leisure, he would respond “The city’s a dirty place with a lot of crime. This city gave birth to me, and I figured I better repay the favor and lock up some of her worst.” While he was often sneered at behind his back as a wanna be superhero or Batman, he was widely respected in the police force for his commitment to his job and the results he brought it. By retirement, Mark McGrath had put almost 200 high class crooks in jail. He found serial killers, banks robbers, maniacs, cannibals, drug dealers, the list went on and on. Mark McGrath faced all of them and was fazed by none. Something, nothing he saw ever seemed to shock him.
Except for one man.
He never revealed his true name, and he had no records to show who he was. At first, the press called him “The Devil of New York.” But eventually, he started leaving taunting note cards in which he “identified” himself. The name he gave was Ares.
Ares. Mark thought it was hysterical. The God of War. Of course. Only a deluded psychopath would call himself that. Which posed a question to Mark. Was the killer simply a serial killer who liked having such a fearsome name? Or was he an insane fanatic who believed he was the God of War, and filling his duty? Mark would find out soon enough.
He killed seemingly for pleasure. After every death, notes would be left on the scene explaining his reasons. They usually contained wild rants about how he, Ares, was born to kill, that killing gave him power. At first, he left no other clues. Then, he got cocky.
Small, subtle hints began to appear. One of Mark’s favorite examples was the line “I am double the meaning of life.” The next day, a woman was found dead on 84th street. Whoever this Ares was, he clearly had some idea of pop culture. The clues began to get easier and easier as Ares killed more, and by the 16th man dead, Ares simply gave himself away. While investigating the latest murder, a drug dealer in Harlem, Mark found a note which said “I have a date with destiny in the center of the night at the center of the city.” Mark promptly reported back and told the commissioner that Ares was planning to kill someone in Times Square at midnight. Several hours later, Ares was in custody, and an innocent woman was safe. Mark McGrath slept well that night. Another case solved.
But it was hardly the end.

II

“Nothing? Nothing at all?”
“It’s as if this man doesn’t exist.”
“No matches?”
“I told you nothing. No fingerprint matches, no DNA matches, no birth certificates. All we got is his fake name.”
“Ares. God of War. He must have gone to great lengths to hide his identity.”
“Speaking of gods and stuff, I’m supposed to let you know that a priest is seeing Ares Saturday.”
“So this Greek god is a Catholic, huh? What does he want, a confession?”
 “An exorcism.”
 “Huh?”
“The inmates around him have been complaining. They say he acts all strange, that he sometimes jerks and intones things in an odd voice. Some say he’s speaking in tongues.”
 “Wouldn’t happen to be Greek, would it?”
 “I’m serious, Mark. The guards noticed it too. Say he’s been acting all funny. In fact, that guards are the one who requested an exorcism.”
“I see.”
 “I want you to witness the exorcism, Mark. I doubt he’s actually possessed, but this could tell us a lot about his motives. How he acts and stuff. Just what degree of crazy is this man.”
 “I’ll do my best, Commissioner.”
 “I know, Mark. I know.”

An exorcism, Mark thought sadly to himself as he stood outside Ares’ cell. What has the world come to. This guy doesn’t need a priest, he needs a psychologist. Nevertheless, how this guy responded to the exorcism would say a lot about his state of mind. So Mark watched, patiently. The keys to the cell were in his hand in case anything should happen.
The priest was locked in there with Ares. By his own request, to properly preform the exorcism. Mark thought it was a bad idea, but kept his mouth shut. Each to his own.
Ares sat on his cot, crouched in a ball, holding his knees tightly to him and shivering like he was out in a blizzard. Mark had to admit, if he was religious, he would have thought this guy was possessed too. The priest had finished putting on all his ceremonial gear, and turned to face Ares. In his hand was a vial of Holy Water.
“I will now begin the exorcism,” said the priest. “First, by the power of Jesus Christ, I will purify this man with Holy Water.” Then Ares spoke
“Horus! You behind the bars!”
Mark turned and looked directly at Ares. What’s this, the detective thought.
“I know its you, Horus. Horus the Avenger. But I shall have the final laugh!”
Mark simply stared for a couple moments, then laughed.
“You’ve got your mythology mixed up,” Mark said. “Ares is Greek. Horus is Egyptian.”
For the slightest moment Mark saw a look of panic cross Ares’ face. It was then replaced with the same dead look as before.
“All mythologies are the same,” intoned Ares.
“Enough,” said the priest. “I will begin the exorcism.” Then, rather nonchalantly, the priest sprinkled holy water on Ares.
That’s when Ares sprung.
Ares leaped from his cot and tackled the priest. He went down without a sound, the only noise being the large thud when the priest hit the floor and the delicate sound of the Holy Water vessel breaking. Then Mark did something he regretted for the rest of his life.
Acting instantaneously, Mark first unlocked the door, entered the cell, and then remembered to scream for the guards.
By the time he was done screaming, Ares was on him too.

III

It was almost too easy.
In fact, it was so simple Ares was sure it wasn’t going to work.
But it had. And now he was free.
Well, he would be free, as soon as he reached the gate.
Pretending to be possessed had been the easiest part. All he had to do was some cliche things. Babble, ran around, scream, shudder, mutter diabolical warnings, and other things he had seen on The Exorcist. He was hoping that the guards would send a priest down to preform an exorcism. And he was betting on two factors: that the priest would want to be locked in the cell with him. And that the detective would be watching, trying to examine him for a motive and psychological damage. And if the detective was watching, that meant the guards wouldn’t have to be close. Cause two men could handle a criminal, right?
Ares grinned.
He was so close now, so close to achieving freedom. Around him, bells rang and alarms were sounding, but he didn’t care. Soon it would all be over.
He was outside now. The men in the towers were shooting at him, but all the bullets seemed to miss him. That was the way things were. He had great luck. The gate was half-way open, midway letting some truck in with supplies. He was almost there. He would just keep dodging bullets, slip through the truck and the gate, and just keep running to freedom.
Almost there...
The earth shuddered.
At once, everything stopped. Ares halted, and looked around. He was standing dead center in the middle of an open field. By all rights, he ought to be dead. He had stopped running. But everything had ceased. Everyone had felt that thud, and was afraid of what it meant.
That was when the earth swallowed Ares.
The earth split beneath Ares feat with a great roar. Ares fell through the holing, falling and falling and falling deep into the blackness of the pit...

IV

Mark McGrath ran up to the pit. No doubt about it, an earthquake had just happened in New York City. And the earth just happened to open up right beneath a serial killer.
Mark reconsidered his atheism.
As he stared into the black hole, a guard ran up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. Mark turned around and stared the guard dead on.
“Now what?” muttered the guard.
Mark turned around and looked back down into the pit. “There’s nothing more to do.” Mark said softly. “Ares is now out of our hands.”
And saying that, Mark walked away, leaving Ares to his inky void.
__________________
Me, I hang around the game development sections, giving plot advice and whatnot.

KYLE: If you don't show Muhammad, then you've made a distinction what is okay to poke fun at, and what isn't. Either it's all okay, or none of it is.

And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains.


MACBETH: I will not yield
To kiss the ground before young Malcom's feet
And to be baited with the rabble's curse
Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane
And thou opposed, being of no woman born
Yet I will try the last. Before my body
I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff
And damned be he that first cries, "Hold, enough!"

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