Riding the Worm

[Enzo Matrix]

Finally, something he was good at.
 
For too long he had been searching without answer, or been thrust into unexpected circumstances. Dinosaurs at Isla Nublar, the Cyberdemon at the Hero’s Graveyard, and even that monstrosity that had emerged at the Nexus had all been powerful, but the deck had been stacked against him by Omni in some way already. He’d seen the writing on the wall and quickly left the third.
 
This wasn’t exactly fair, either. If those bandits lined up and blew him away, he now knew for sure he would just reappear at the Nexus, and without even having to quickly activate his game sprite mode. Meanwhile, they were gone forever as soon as he deleted them. But, as he learned in Mainframe, the Games, the Web, and especially here in the Omniverse, life wasn’t fair. For once the odds seemed tipped in his favor, so he would all he could to ensure they stayed that way.
 
There was all sorts of wreckage and rubble near the entrance, and Matrix decided to use it as cover. Once he was situated, he held up his hand to gesture that he was ready. He hadn’t considered that there really was no way of knowing if they would understand what that meant, given there clearly wasn’t much else in common with him and the others. Whether or not they knew those specific gestures was irrelevant, however, because the basic point got across. Gurney and Duncan opened fire, and announced to the bandit enclave that trouble had arrived.
 
Just as predicted, bandits came pouring towards the entrance, and right at the hidden sprite. Matrix grinned as he rose, Gun levitating to his hand with a decisive snap as he moved. He only made contact with the firearm just as he extended his arm fully. The bandits were caught unaware of yet another enemy in their vicinity, and many came to a complete stop. It was more than Matrix could have imagined.
 
“Gun, command line!” Matrix shouted, as the gears began turning. “Burst fire mode!”
 
Bandits scattered, and some raised their own weapons. Matrix fearlessly, or perhaps foolishly, disregarded his own cover as he released three shot volley after volley, striking a bandit down with each shot. His gunfire added to that of the secondaries, and the screaming and yelling of the bandits certainly ensured that the entire encampment was aware of their presence.
 
The first twelve bandits fell in no time at all. Matrix had actually lost track of how many shots he’d fired, and jumped in place when his thirteenth trigger pull resulted in steam pouring from the sides of the weapon. He grunted in annoyance, but reached up with his other hand and pulled the vents back to allow weapon to cool. While that was happening, he moved in on his own. He broke into a sprint and charged forward, dropping the weapon and letting it resume its spot on his hip.
 
If the bandits were stunned before, they were in panic now. They were untrained killers, preferring scared and helpless prey to the slightest of confrontations. So, as the leaders tried to coax the more foolish ones to advance, they were stunned by the charging hulk that approached them. Matrix slammed into the nearest bandit with a decisive blow that shattered bones. The man flew backwards, and other bandits cursed and opened fire or charged in on their own, believing in their own strength in numbers. Still, others fled.
 
Matrix ducked and moved behind some cover, snapping his gun back into his hand. He manually switched it back to the single shot mode, and moved down a bit further. He waited for a second as it cooled, then leaped out and opened fire once again.
 
More screaming, more gunfire. The sound of battle was like home to him, and there was no doubt that he had the attention of the camp.

[Paul Atreides]

As it were, Duncan and Gurney were well versed in commands like that and opened fire on Matrix’s command. There had been developed what is known as the “Atreides Battle Language”, a form of sign language that only military commanders from their House were taught. Other Great Houses had their own versions, some spoken and others only written or hummed, but theirs was gesture based.

On this command they lasguns cut like white-hot scalpels of light through the stone edifice of the building. On their world it would have literally cut it in half- the building falling away, but in this world it simply penetrated a little better than a bullet but skill would prematurely end if faced with too much density. Then came the return fire. Flicking on their shields, each became encased in a vibrating fields of orange light that generally traced their body in simplistic squares of Holtzman energy.

The attacker's few stray shots kissed their shields and bounced off. The two had risen to allow their enemies to see the ineffectiveness of their attacks. They would normally have stayed low and taken pot-shots but wanted to have the psychological impact of them in play. They would force them to fear the two gunmen and lead them to more quickly abandoned their cause if they were not already convinced from the bodies of their friends.

Slipping like liquid mercury across a table of glass, Paul made his way around back unnoticed and deftly climbed the backside unseen. Passing without issue through the enlarged part of one of the embrasures by seemingly “slipping” through the crack by way of an odd temporary contortion, he entered the third floor and slew the one remaining man without raising any sort of alarm. Their attention was on the meatgrinder below caused by Matrix and the harassing lasgun shots of his two men.

Inside it was dark, the only sources of light coming from candles mounted upon low stands. The room was largely circular with a stone staircase circling down to the next floor. This floor seemed to be their dry good storage- things less damaged by the heat. Weapons, clothing, dried meats, coins, and other treasures. This made sense- heat rose and he could sense the difference. The room was not made to vent air properly and it was stale and hot. There were two bodies felled by his men and one by his own hand- probably either new men punished to sleep up here or to guard it from the others. Without trust a settlement does not exist... fools.

Making his way down the stairs, flowing with the noiselessness of falling velvet, he lead head first to the second floor. This was a far more established room, though of much the same make. There was a central corridor running generally north to south but walls partitioning off various offices, chambers, and what he projected were sleeping quarters. This was the living spaces for the men and the place where they conducted their business. He could not see into these rooms, though some offered him a glimpse as the fleeing men had left the doors ajar when they fled, but he knew this instinctively. Some men still fought back against Duncan, perhaps having seen the slaughter below and hoping to take out their harrier before turning their guns on Matrix. The men were a medley- ill-gotten characters from all realms and worlds. Their designs were varied, some men with guns Paul might recognize, others mustached wild-west bandits from Earth that was, and still more of fantastic designs- cartoon animals, robots, beats, and more. Paul made short work of them and from the outside Duncan must have realized this as he ceased his fire. Eight lay dead at Paul’s hand and not a scratch to speak of. His crysknife dripped blood but his mind and conscious was as clean as white linen.

Moving down to the first level he say a strange man rushing his underlings out- fodder to Matrix’s assault. Paul needed no special insight to know this man was their leader, he wore it on his face like a king might wear a crown. This man was clearly a Pirate- adorned in the seafaring style with a great cutlass upon his waist under his greatcoat. A bandoleer of antique pistols sat across his chest. When the last man had rushed out to the slaughter, Paul set about doing a bit of his own.

Rushing down the stairs he meet the man’s eyes. Paul saw the work of Shaitan (Note: a Fremen term for a powerful embodiment of evil) in his expression and knew he could not falter. Paul flashed his crysknife but was meet with the same sort of blinding speed when the man drew his cutlass and deflected it. Paul, rolled, blurring as he did so but the man brought up a pistol with his offhand and had it leveled at Paul’s face when he rose to strike. He discharged a powdery mess of led and furry at the Duke but when it cleared Paul’s shield had absorbed the blow- having been flicked on at the last moment. Turning it off Paul rotated on his front foot by swinging his back foot wide and giving the pirate a spinning blow with his dagger. It caught the man in the side of his temple and rendered him dead in an instant. The viciousness and sudden finality of the blow was silencing- the corpse slammed into the ground a moment later to shatter it.

Moments after the killing had ceased outside, Paul emerged, dragging the corpse along with him like it was luggage- gripped at the back of his greatcoat, heels dragging in the desert sands. He tossed him among the pile of the dead and looked impartial but a bit grim.

“These were men who did wrong by their fellows. I offer them nothing but death. Do not mourn for them, for they would not have done the same for you. This is the law of the desert. Our justice must continue to be swift and harsh or they will never learn fear- that is to say that their actions of terror will be meet with a greater terror. Only in this way can we slowly shape the minds of men out here in the desert. Only with time can we form them into respectful, altruistic, people. Until this cancer is cut out- the deserts cannot grow.”

There was pain in Paul’s voice, thinly masked. He did not enjoy this work but knew it to be necessary. He did not love this, no... he hated it but knew what must be done. Such was the way of the desert.

[Enzo Matrix]

There was a child in the middle of this bandit camp. Well, the corpse of one. Right beside it, the corpse of a young, female adult, obviously the mother. Unspeakable things had happened to them both, that much was evident. How they ended up in this camp would never be entirely known, but it was obvious they were not here of their own free will. They had been dragged, screaming, into a horrible fate that they didn’t deserve, all because these savages thought the ‘verse belonged to them.
 
A bandit was in Matrix’s grip. The green sprite’s massive left hand was wrapped about the man’s neck, choking the last shreds of life out of him. The bandit’s eyes pleaded, begged for release. He had to communicate with only his gaze, for the pressure placed on his windpipe removed his voice from the equation entirely, and his body was too broken to resist any further. The bandit now suffered more than he ever had in his life of destitution. He would be equally content with release or his own death. He simply needed some release, whatever form that would take.
 
Matrix refused to give it, however. He had been too late to save the mother and her child. As he advanced, he’d heard their screams and pleas. Their throats were cut before he could reach them. This man in his grasp was one of rank and stature, for what little that meant among the culture of savages. That only meant he had claimed the helpless as his own. A single, well aimed shot had removed any evidence that he once had a right leg, save for the blood splatter that resulted. The commander had then watched his men get slaughtered. The lives of those that would defend this murderer meant nothing to the renegade sprite that plowed through them.
 
They were all dead. All except for this one bandit, who was trapped in the clutches of the victor. His eyes bulged. His mouth moved, but no words could escape the vice grip on his trachea. It didn’t matter. His actions were done, and he didn’t accept the consequences. Even now, he felt no remorse for what he had done. He only looked for the certain way out of this situation, whatever shape and form that would take. If he were spared, he would only continue the senseless violence he knew.
 
He was vermin, and his life was meaningless to Matrix. The bandit had made those innocents suffer, so Matrix would not grant him the quick death he wanted, by now. No, he would suffer, too. He would feel pain. Matrix’s cybernetic eye glowed a bright red. He countered the bandit’s fear with pure, unadulterated rage.
 
He could find no mercy, not even in the deepest reaches of his soul. The Guardian code meant nothing to him in a situation like this. For he had once been that child. He had been spared the destiny of becoming a similar body, but only because of the training he had and protection that came with it. To see others abused and taken advantage of, it stirred a primal anger that no conditioning, no training, could ever overcome.
 
The one legged bandit gasped for air as Matrix released his grip, and he fell to the ground. Only a wheezing sound could escape his throat, as he could no longer breathe properly. The damage was done. The secondaries arrived, but Matrix did not acknowledge them. The remains of the innocent family were nearby, and showed his focus and direction to any observer.
 
Gun snapped to Matrix’s hand as he silently acknowledged the return of Maud’dib and his completion of the mission. He listened to the man’s words, and acknowledged that they were wise, if slightly inapplicable to him. Matrix would not mourn these men, and he would do them the greatest disservice he could imagine, which was simply forgetting they existed after he extracted his own justice.
 
Matrix’s only response was two gunshots. One to the gut, for more suffering, and a second to the head, to eliminate the threat for good. He released Gun, and it returned to his waist. But the look on his face said it all: this was personal. Innocents had suffered, and he felt remorse that he couldn’t save them. Their methods may have been extreme and violent to some, but Matrix felt the closest thing to peace he was capable of. He was glad he had found these men.
 
This world was filled with darkness, but they had made things just a little bit more right.

[Paul Atreides]

As a child and largely until his time with the Fremen of Arrakis, Paul had not been a hard man. He had been a noble, thought the Dukes of House Atreides were famous for their worldliness, willingness to toil with their people, and realist practices. Still, it had not been until the near destruction of his House and abandonment in the deep desert of Arrakis that he found that inner steel that most men lack. This was tempered and reinforced by the Fremen who adopted them, the harsh and utilitarian way of life they had to adopt. He knew them to be warriors forged by the desert- something matched only by the Padishah Emperor’s own Sardaukar. Those warriors had been trained on the radioactive death world Salusa Secundus and were feared amongst the stars as the finest soldiers ever. The Fremen were harder though and even a child knew more of guerrilla warfare than a Sardaukar Bashar. Still, the sight of Matrix doing what must be done touched Paul in the pit of his gut. But he did nothing.

Gurney and Duncan swept the area, years of training taking over as they checked the dead an put an extra shot into each of them. They had witnessed far too many attempts at assassination to not be this careful. Paul let the body drop as he approached Matrix, stoic as ever. His two retrainers surged past him like hounds, one short and muscular and the other tall and lean, on a hunt for anyone still living.

“This is the way of the desert Matrix. It is a harsh way but you have not done wrong here. We will lay these men out in their tower, their heads atop the battlements, and leave them as a symbol so that others know people like us still exist. That there will be retribution for wicked acts- cruelty meet with cruelty.” He said, knowing it would not reach Matrix in this state.

“The Endless Dunes CAN be reclaimed. They CAN be made green again. Of this I am sure. Maybe not in my lifetime, but they can be made green again- that much I promise.”

These were words he had spoken to Stilgar and the other Fremen back on his lost Arrakis... but he believed them now perhaps more than he did back then. This was just the beginning. He knew the journey would only get tougher down the road.

[Enzo Matrix]

Matrix took a deep breath, and managed to control his breathing. The sight had rocked him to his core, but as came down from the adrenaline high he began to feel functions other than the primal need to make the criminal suffer. Only then could he look around and survey the corpses of the bandits that had once populated this lively encampment.
 
It had been another moment where he scared himself. At his core, he was good. He may have wandered from his guardian programming, but in his time as a renegade he’d still worked to make systems better and safer, just in his own way. He’d always told himself it was what he had to do, in order to survive. AndrAIa, and later Bob, had agreed. Yet in moments like these, he became something else. Good and evil went out the window. The man had paid for his crime, but was Matrix killing himself in the process? And even more, was it worth sacrificing his own soul to save others’?
 
“Green,” Matrix looked to the sand as he responded to his newest Prime friend. “Yea. I can see it.”
 
He took another focusing breath, and watched the two secondaries. AndrAIA wouldn’t approve of this. She would draw the line at desecrating the fallen like this, no matter what they’d done. She’d tell him they needed to rise up. To him it wasn’t so bad, though, and that was what truly scared him. He didn’t know what he’d become if he let himself wander too far away from AndrAIa for too long.
 
He shook his head. It was time to get back to Cinnabar. He’d been away for far too long. He’d need to get his bearings back and refresh. This had been more taxing that he’d expected. Still, he’d made sure he could get in touch with his new allies again, should he need them, or the other way around.
 
“Muad’dib,” Matrix said, looking up from the carnage, finally. “It’s time for me to head back to the Vasty Deep. Be careful. The Omniverse is an unfriendly place, but you can at least call a friend. There's not many people like that out here.”

[Paul Atreides]

Paul nodded solemnly.

“Sallamaka al-lahu wa-nasaraka.” He intoned, softly pounding his hand, still gripping the bloody crysknife, to his heart before offering a small bow. Paul’s men mimicked the gesture, having returned after arranging the bodies and painting the words “Muad'Dib” with their blood on the outside of the damaged base doors.

“The phrase is a Fremen one, which was suitable for someone who has done the desert a service.” Paul explained, knowing he would not understand Chakobsa or its modern descendant languages.

“It means, in simple terms, ‘May Shai-Hulud protect you and grant you victory’ and may only be spoken between those who have partaken in the hunt together. Shai-Hulud is a great worm like the one we rode, but much larger, that is worshiped by the Fremen people. I suspect he is more a manifestation of deep rooted traditions and possibly even a morphology of some ancient Islamic binary god-figure... but it will suffice as a gift of my intentions... that is to say... Marix- be well. Call on me if you need me.”

And with that, Paul vanished as a shower of dusky sand swept across the great desert of the Endless Dunes. He who was one with the sands cannot be distinguished from its lesser parts and Paul was a creature of the desert. Afterall, Muad'Dib was just the word for a “desert mouse”.

Paul had found a new desert, a new Arrakis, now and he would set things right here. He had seen today that he could rely on others, for there existed a rare breed in this world that were not as twisted and cruel as the Harkonnens. Still, he could not shake the feeling that he had more cruel work to do before things got better for the Dune. Perhaps his work would never end...