Dead Reckoning (Ongoing Open Story Arc)

"I say we shoot him in the head. See how he likes it."

"Nah. Let's bash his kneecaps in with the butt of his gun, then make him crawl back home."

"Let's go over him with a scalpel! Turn him inside out!"

"I liked the kneecap thing better..."

"Then can we scalpel him?"

"Sure."

Lights shone down around Desmond as he sat strapped to a wooden chair, struggling against what seemed to be metallic bonds designed to hold someone with metahuman strength levels. He still had the suit on; to be fair, it was very comfortable. The outside protected him from even the most grievous shocks to his form, and the inside was covered in a nice, squishy lining. It breathed comfort. Unusual for the getup of a (former) master assassin. The light had been blinding at first, even through the red goggle that took up the right half of his silver helmet. His eyes had begun to adjust. A circle of dark silhouettes came into view, each standing menacingly around him.

"If we're going to scalp him, shouldn't we take the armor off?" Said one of the shadows, angling his head at the others.

"Don't make it weird, Ken," replied one, putting his face in his hand.

"Yeah, what if he's naked under there? How messed up would that be?" A few other voices murmured in agreement. There was an uncanny echo to the room.

"Fine, fine, we leave the armor on. We'll find some other way to kill him. I'll start." One of the figures raised something, pressing it against Desmond's helmeted head.

The muzzle flashed as the bullet cascaded into Desmond's skull, the recoil forcing his head back as the slug ricocheted off his supernatural helm. The ringing noise echoed around the dark room as the silhouetted figures raised their hands to their ears, cringing simultaneously at the sound of the gun going off. The shot had jogged his memory...he'd been jumped, knocked out with some sort of drug...but the helmet had activated, growing over his head to protect him. And now...he had woken up here. Wherever he was. There was definitely a large crowd of some sort...Desmond had heard shocked gasps all throughout wherever they were keeping him after the gun had gone off.

Ouch, thought Desmond, wincing. His armor would protect him in the meantime, but they could always just starve him to death, if that's what they wanted.

"Jesus, Jerry, say something before you do something like that!" Yelled the figure who had been referred to as Ken.

Wait a minute. Jerry? Ken? Jerry...Jerry Masterson? Kenneth Willambee?

"...Didn't I kill you guys?" asked Desmond, grimacing as a headache began to develop in his forehead.

"Ah, so the sleeping beauty wakes! That's right, you little-"

"Shut up, Jerry. I'll do the talking." Ken cleared his throat, pacing back and forth in front of the restrained man known as Shootout.

"We, Shootout, are the Legion of the Ex-Dead. You killed every last one of us over the course of the last few years. And now...the time has come for us to have our revenge!"

The audience (there was definitely an audience) roared with thunderous applause as Kenneth Willambee announced their name over a microphone. Clearly, this had been well-rehearsed. Some sort of joke, right?

Everyone I ever shot? All in one place? How...oh. That's right.

Right before he'd shot the Devil, he'd mentioned a little something about freeing damned souls tied to his curse. The Man in White had said they'd all come back to make life difficult for him. He'd figured that was a figurative statement; as in, the guilty conscience would weigh down upon Desmond.

I guess he meant they'd literally all come back. Oh boy...

The Straight-Shooting Scotsman grimaced under his mask as the crowd began to yell obscenities at him, some demanding that he be tortured, others crying out for some sort of sacrifice. He'd have to make this right somehow...to explain that he was being used by forces beyond their comprehension...

"Well, Shootout! You got something to say? You violently took every last one of our lives...you caused unbearable pain for our families and friends...what do you have to say to us, Shootout? What do you have to say?!?" cried Kenneth, before placing his microphone right in front of Desmond's helmet.

A beat of silence.

"Uh...sorry."

There was another moment of pure quiet before the audience exploded into rage, screaming for retribution. Thrown rocks crashed into Desmond's suit, rocking him back and forth against the wooden chair he was strapped to. The lights slowly came on, revealing the extent of the crowd to Desmond. Whoa, he thought, that's a lot of dead dudes. They're looking healthy, though.

"You're 'sorry?' That's all you have to say?!? Did you hear that, ladies and gentlemen? Shootout's sorry that he killed us! I guess we should let him go!" Kenneth dropped the microphone, raising his arms as the roar of the crowd intensified.

"Hey, hey, come on!" yelled Desmond once the crowd had died down again. "I saved your souls too! You're alive again! I was being manipulated!" A long pause fills the room. "Most of you were douchebag politicians anyways. Not like any of you actually had families. The cocaine would have killed you if I didn't, and then where would you be? Dead! Permanently! Maybe you should be thanking me!" Shootout yelled, rocking the chair back and forth.

"Shut up!" yelled Kenneth, who Desmond now saw was wearing a cape of some sort, as well as a t-shirt underneath the suit. The design on the shirt was Desmond's helmet, only with large red X's where the eyes would be. Everyone else had one of the shirts on too.

What the Hell? T-shirts? So he's set himself up as some sort of ringleader...trying to profit from his resurrection?

Kenneth stepped on his head with a roar, kicking the chair down.

Nng...no, he's definitely mad.

"I say...I say we make him suffer!" yelled Kenneth into the microphone, which Jerry had picked back up for him. "Lets start with Operation Hellfire! See if that cracks open that armor of his!"

Desmond's eyebrow raised as Kenneth's assistants began releasing gas into the room. The audience roared with laughter, all leaving through the emergency exits. There was another noise...ticking.

A time bomb. Uh-oh...

"So long, Shootout! I'll remember you in therapy!" gloated Kenneth with an insane laugh, kicking Desmond in the head on the way out the door. He chuckled, mounting a Segway. Speeding away on the two-wheeled personal vehicle, his cape billowed behind him, reflecting sunlight as he raised his middle finger over his shoulder at the building.

What a dick, thought Desmond. Oh yeah...the bomb. That might leave a-

The bomb went off, igniting the gas canisters and tearing through the building's foundations. Desmond's suit was wracked with explosive energy, tearing apart the chair and ripping through his bonds. Every inch of his body was bombarded with g-forces as the explosion propelled him into the air, crackling with heat. Every ligament sore, he landed 50 meters into the ruined auditorium, now a burning husk. He was outside a city somewhere, in what had clearly been an abandoned part of town. Bits of rock and rubble from the explosion had piled on top of him. Groaning, he slowly stood up, his back cracking as he pushed away the debris. Thanks to the suit, he was relatively unharmed, but bits and pieces of his skin were now exposed. The suit would repair itself-it always did-but his dignity was hurt. How humiliating...

Wait. It's not over yet.

They'd seen that he was still alive. The so-called Legion of the Ex-Dead converged on his position, some on foot, and others on Segways like Kenneth. They held spears and pitchforks, knives, guns, and even a few Molotov Cocktails. They were a literal legion, too; there had clearly been many more waiting outside the auditorium they had just destroyed. He recognized Conti's goons amongst the mob, casualties of the Shadow War in Gothic who had all been mowed down by Desmond's gunfire.

"STOP!" he cried, brandishing his arm-guns. They spun with vicious energy, aimed at every last member of the Legion. "I've killed all of you once, and I'll do it again if you make me. I'm not murdering anyone anymore! Can't you all just let it go?!?"

The answer, clearly, was no. Every member of the Legion converged on Desmond, attempting to maul him violently. His repeating guns blazed with power, a steady stream of potentially infinite bullets tearing through the army that was attacking him. He didn't even need to aim; there were so many, all charging him directly, that he could just hold down the triggers and watch them fall. After an entire five minutes of brutality, hundreds lay dying (again) around Desmond.

"I'm...sorry..." he huffed, out of breath. "I didn't wanna kill you guys again." Hands on his knees, he bent over, trying to catch his breath. It was then that he heard the familiar cackling of Kenneth Willambee.

"Heh, heeee...you can't kill us, Shootout. We can't truly die until we take you down. It's one of the conditions of our contract. We'll...nnng...we'll all see you in two weeks..." he said with an evil grin. His body faded to dust, disappearing entirely. Clothes, weapons, and Segways all ceased to exist, blowing into the wind like smoke.

"The Legion of the Ex-Dead. Oh, that's just f***ing brilliant," huffed Desmond, standing up straight slowly. Looking around, he began limping towards the nearest city, intent on finding a way back to Gothic, his mounted guns smoking and spinning.

Just f***ing brilliant.

OOC:

The Legion of the Ex-Dead is a new faction that will continue to plague Shootout. This is an "Open Ongoing Arc," meaning if you want your character to make an appearance in one of the fights against the Ex-Dead, we can work something out. They will continue to get smarter and stronger as the event goes on, and it will be referenced in other events Shootout makes appearances in.