How far would you go to NEVER fail again?
This question will push Noche L. Grim to the test as she attempts to join the Cross Military. With their resources she intends to find DeathTech and recover her memories.
However, when she lives on a conti...
Tar black hands flipped through the pages of a book.
"Ahh, here it is."
A finger landed on chapter ninety-four and trailed down to the written date – the woman grinned.
Thirty-seven years ago, in the year 1737, a little boy sat in an elementary school and drew inside a box. He placed the cube on his head and the art became scenes in his imagination. His mind took him deep underwater; he turned the box to snow-covered mountain tops, turned again to wind-blown deserts, and turned to dragons roaring in a forest.
The dragon roared – or rather something exploded in reality. The ground crumbled, the kid fell, and darkness overtook his vision. Hours later, his ears rang with a high pitch screeching as vision unblurred to a crimson sky. The ceiling was completely gone; the edges crumbling away.
Directly above the boy was a solid black needle in the center of the blood-red sky.
He stood and searched for the teacher – he found her buried alive, half of her face burned off and the rest cut from glass shards. Vomit rushed out his throat onto flicking flames; screaming brought his attention to his right.
Stumbling towards the howls, he encountered the bodies of many dead classmates. The few who survived screamed louder when their eyes met his face. He raised his hand to his skin; it was like wet string – a gunshot overtook the screams.
"Hurry! It's coming!"
"If you can use Create faster, be my guest!"
"We have to give the kids a painless death before it crashes!"
The child leaned past the broken wall to see rainbow energy swirl above the palm of a man's hand. Bullets appeared out of thin air and were loaded into a magazine – at his feet laid a dead girl.
Acting fast, the boy turned towards his crying classmates. They screamed every time they saw his face, he couldn't calm them down no matter what he did. There wasn't time, the gunmen were coming closer, he had to act fast. His foot bumped into the cardboard box he was playing with before the explosion.
He put it on his head, grabbed his classmates' hands, and pulled them out of the destroyed room. The gunmen's voices trailed behind.
"Ouu-wee, this little tart got it bad."
"Nah look, her face is burnt up... But her backside is still fine."
"Are you serious? With a dead schoolteacher?"
"There's a meteor approaching!" He screamed. "If I'm gonna die, then I'm gonna get one last good fuck!"
The kid closed his eyes and fled – screams from ahead caught his attention. A third gunman held a girl by her red ponytail.
"Hold still! It'll be painless! I swear!"
His eyes widened and flickered to a nearby piece of rebar. He grabbed it and ran to the man, who noticed and aimed the gun towards the cardboard box. The girl kicked him between the legs, he leaned over, and the rebar was swung into the man's head. Both kids kicked and beat the man until he couldn't move, then they ran.
Safe from the school, the kid removed his cardboard box. The red ponytail girl's face went white as a sheet when the box came off. He didn't care – his eyes lingered on the sky. A red vortex of explosions, giant rocks, icebergs, firestorms, and massive arcs of lightning filled the air. The black needle grew closer and closer, yet despite all their abilities with Create, the Cross Generals couldn't stop it.
On the streets below, riots and looting took place. Prismatic energy drifted about like a rainbow cloud as the Create Users in hiding no longer had reason to hide. Gunshots and Molotov cocktails were at every turn as Create spread destruction and fire. The child's fingers rose to his face – the burns like an insect's hard caprice and the exposed muscle-like soft, wet tree bark.
He turned towards the red-haired girl, whose gaze was still horrified by his face; his eyes fell towards the box.
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Decades later, a middle-aged man stared into a mirror. His fingers traced over the scars, burns, and warped flesh on his face. He turned towards the cardboard box, picked it up, and stared into the large googly eyes.
Memories flashed before him, how he joined a small anti-Create organization right after the planet lance was diverted. The quick rise through ranks, year after year, until he became their leader at the age of eighteen.
His inauguration speech where he gave the story of his childhood and used the box as a visual to enhance dramatic effect. The vow to never publicly remove the symbolic helmet – to remind the world that children are unsafe in world with Create.
How his rankings shot up that day... The same day he got the nickname Boxy; how quickly fifteen years had passed. He turned some small, no-name group into a worldwide organization. Even managing to join the United Government – sealing the deal when Boxy Love pressed the button that killed Ezekiel.
There was a knock on the door, he put the box helmet back on.
"Sir, your lunch is here."
A secretary with a red ponytail walked in, set the food on his desk,
"Vhy thank you," he said. "If there iz nothing elze, you may leave."
She bowed and did so. He approached the table and slid a finger across the surface. Rubbing it between his thumb, he decided it was adequately cleaned. His head turned to the window, to the blue sky above. No matter what color it was, all he saw was a red vortex with a black needle in its center.
He sat down at his desk and removed the box once again. Hundreds of electronics flashed and beep within the DriveMetal frame, for his costume covered him head to toe in the substance; not an inch of skin was exposed. Despite his fragile appearance, his armor had enough durability to withstand the might of a half-gen.
That was all it could do. He had no super strength like those devilish Create users. If it was his choice, he wouldn't even use DriveMetal armor, but his committee was so afraid of assassination attempts they forced him to wear something that could protect him from even the strongest Create Users. Only a Cross General or Raptorman could harm him while he wore this suit.
He took a bite of food and stared into the comedically sized googly eyes. Even on the floor, that box helmet looked heavier than a mountain. Its fake gaze bore into him as if it criticized his every action. He had to be better, he had to be more than a man – he had to be a symbol.
"Thiz vorld iz full of pestilence," he muttered. "Ve'll never be zafe... Not until Create is destroyed."
