Crey Industries’ Revenge
By Eli J. Litzelman
A cool breeze wafted down from the giant walls surrounding Talos Island. A group of civilians crossed a street towards the east. One man in particular stood out from the rest.
He was seven-feet tall, bald, and wore the look of a man who has fought to the death on more than one occasion. His wrinkled blue tux shifted back and forth as he walked. Although no one noticed, his left hand was chained to a briefcase. He walked with purpose.
He strode into the medical center, took a right, and went behind the desk.
“Excuse me sir,” a hospital attendant said, “but you are not authorized to be here.”
The bald man extended his right hand to within an inch of the woman’s face, showed her his wallet, and said, “Detective Anderson.” He then gave the woman a look that made her shrink back into the elevator.
He was, in fact, not a detective, or even a member of the police force. He came here under the command of a sinister arch-villain. He looked purposefully around the room. Satisfied, he put his wallet back into an interior pocket of his suit.
Setting his case on the table, he reached into his breast-pocket and procured a silver pen. The computer monitor in front of him reflected his image. With swift ease, he pulled the pen apart to reveal a USB plug-in attached to the upper-most side. He leaned down under the table, plugged the pen into a port, pressed a button on the back of it, and watched a red light turn on. Almost immediately the red light changed to green. He then pulled the pen out of the computer, put it back together, placed it softly in his pocket, picked up his brief case, and with one more look at the computer monitor, left.
Before long he was in an elevator, ascending to the top floor of Crey Industries’ Central Building. He looked at his watch. The digital dials on it told him that it was one minute until four. He was on time. He strolled out of the elevator and across a carpeted floor to a desk. The guard held up his hand. After scanning the bald man’s arm, the sentry let him through.
The seven-foot tall human entity walked through the mahogany-framed doorway and into a large office. He then seated himself in front of a woman at a desk. The woman looked up from her papers and into the eyes of the man. She reached across the table, grabbed a glass of water, took a small sip, placed it on a coaster, and nodded to the man that faced her. They both knew why he was here.
The man set his briefcase on the table. The woman handed him a key. After using the key to unlock his handcuff, he slid the piece of luggage to her. She scrolled through the numbers on the lock until the found the proper code and thrust the case open. Inside laid a laptop. She opened the PC and held out her hand to the man seated in front of her. He sighed, retrieved the pen out of his pocket, and handed it to her.
She took the pen, pulled it apart, and plugged it into the notebook. The head of Crey Industries looked briefly at the information appearing on the screen. She leaned back, familiar with the story: fourteen-year-old boy saved from car wreck, used for testing, escaped. She quickly browsed through the rest of the info. She closed the briefcase and looked at the man waiting patiently.
“The information is in order,” she said turning the briefcase toward the man.
“Do we have go for elimination of target?” he asked.
“By any means necessary.” She was blunt.
The man stood up, positioned the briefcase loosely in his hand, and walked to the door.
“Do not reveal our identity.” The woman in the chair leaned forward.
“As good as done,” he replied without looking back.
Crey Industries’ Revenge
Attempt on Life
By Eli J. Litzelman
Over the giant statue of Atlas, a sunset was slowly fading. A small, metallic figure flew over the sculpture on his way home. His name was RoboZon. He leaned down slightly and set a straight course for an apartment two-hundred yards away.
Landing on the top floor, he took a key from a pouch in his belt. He then unlocked the door and stepped in. His footsteps made no sound as he crossed the floor. He sighed softly and took off the crest from his forehead, his shoulder attachments, his belt, and finally the spikes from the backs of his feet. He pushed a button on the side of his head and the interior sensors in front of his eyes shut off; he could now see normally. On his way to the kitchen, he glanced at his commuter. It had three nineteen-inch flat screens, speakers on surrounding stands, a cordless internet connection, and dozens of other features. He had built it himself using the best he could find off the internet and adding a few gadgets he had invented.
Once in the kitchen, he grabbed a can of orange juice. Using his skeletal robotic arm he undid his air filter. He could safely do this because the covering over his nose helped him breathe. His lips were severely scared. He took a drink, put the container of juice back in the refrigerator, and walked over to the living room. He redid his air filter and laid down on the floor to rest.
Sometime after midnight, he was suddenly awakened by a gun shot.
The gunman’s objective was simple: eliminate the hero. He was given a description and the needed supplies. He was going to finish the job on the first shot. As he squeezed the trigger a slight wind came up. One inch down and the target, made green by the night vision scope, would never get up from his sleep. The bullet, however, skimmed the side of RoboZon’s helmet and threw his head to the side. Another gun shot came from the opposite direction, hitting the floor directly where his head had been before the first shot. Because of the gunman’s error, his partner also missed. He unleashed several more quick shots at the rolling hero. RoboZon rolled sideways amid the hail of bullets. In mid roll, he reached up and pressed the button on the side of his head. Instantly night vision came up and his thermal sensors showed him the location of one of the gunman. He activated his cloaking device and stood up.
When the target suddenly disappeared from the assassin’s view, he looked over the scope in surprise. He heard the sound of glass breaking, jerked back down to his scope, and shot two more rounds at the falling glass before his gun clicked. He cursed the weapon, extracted the currant magazine, and was putting a second in when he felt a jerk.
RoboZon pushed up on the sniper rifle. The butt of the rifle slammed into the assassin chin. He was out cold. RoboZon threw the gun up in the air. It continued in its loop as the hero spun a half circle. The gun landed in his left hand and firmly against his right shoulder. As he slid his right hand back his invisible index finger gripped the action, cocking a bullet into the chamber. He felt the trigger through the nerve simulators in his robotic arm. He heard the faint click of the hammer hitting the bullet. The silenced weapon went off. The projectile arced through the air homing in on its target. The bullet found the forehead of a second trained assassin. His head jerked back before slumping forward against his gun.
RoboZon smiled. Just because he didn’t carry a weapon didn’t mean he didn’t know how to use one. He pointed the rifle up in the air and sat down next to the victim, who was slowly reviving.
“What do you want from me?” asked the dazed assassin.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I won’t tell you anything.”
RoboZon leveled the gun a mere six inches from the man’s face. “You will tell me everything I need to know.”
The man shrugged; what harm could it do. “What do you want to know?”
“First off, tell me who you work for.”
“Freelance.” He shrugged once again. “I don’t know who hired me. I asked him, but he just gave me the money so I didn’t ask any more questions.”
“How many jobs have you done?”
“This is my ninth. First time I’ve ever gone against a hero. Mostly gang-war type stuff. I don’t like it, but it pays well, you know?”
RoboZon nodded and stood up. He unloaded the weapon and set it gently on the ground. After dialing a few buttons on his wrist, he heard one of his contacts answer the phone.
“Hey, this is RoboZon. Listen. I have a couple of mercenaries on the roofs by my house. One is dead and the other…”
The assassin stood up and walked forward. “Hey, wait. Listen.”
The hero extended his left arm, breaking the other man’s nose. “…is out cold. Could you send one of your police guys to pick them up?”
“Will do, Robo.”
“And could you tell them to keep those dang sirens off?” He hung up abruptly.
Taking one more look at the moon, he flew down to his apartment.
“I’m going to have to fix that door in the morning,” he mumbled.
Despite what he had said a few minutes earlier, he heard the wail of sirens. He shook his head and went back to sleep.