A name is something given at birth, something that uniquely distinguishes one being from any other. They are given out of love, compassion, anger. It’s used to call for someone, used when expressing feelings like passion or disdain, used to refer to a particular being in conversation. As the young Volkoth applied the medipatch to a moderately sized and bloodied gash on his top-left bicep, he enjoyed the echoing shouts after the initial salvo of roaring gunfire while his assailants frantically reloaded their weapons.
He was born an orphan without a home or a name. Though the planet he grew up on was hundreds of lightyears away from this hellhole, this place still felt all-too familiar. The strangling pressure of the government and their regulations, coupled with the constant threat of “legal” criminal syndicates like the Crimson Skulls, was enough to drive any rational person to the brink of losing their sanity. It’s in this type of environment that this particular Volkoth was molded into the being he was today almost twenty-five years later.
The four-armed armed Volkoth flexed the newly bandaged arm, ensuring the fresh damage would not hinder him from completing this current assignment. A grunt of satisfaction signaled his arm was still working at a satisfactory level. The wall he stood with his back resting against splintered off metal pieces from the gunfire resuming, inching closer and closer to his two right arms and his midsection.
There had been countless times when he didn’t eat for days, when he was barely able to find hydration to keep his body functioning. For years he bounced from street to street in the dingiest parts of Polaria, scrounging for even the tiniest of morsels. It wasn’t until he was rescued by a human smuggler that he was given a purpose. That was almost a decade and a half ago, and he still thanked the old gods for him every day he was able to keep breathing.
The two folded scythes on his back were his weapons of choice. He removed them, and as he did so he snapped them forward, sending the blades flying to a ninety-degree angle before locking into place with a satisfying click. He was given this assignment, to send a message to a specific Crimson Skull Underlord, and he wasn’t about to let their brawny body guards take him down. He focused, time seemed to slow down around him. He felt that familiar pull, that tugging at his instincts that so often throughout recent years guided his scythes and his movements when forced to defend himself.
He opened up his mind and his body to it, and felt the Aether course through him, suspending the light-grey fur covering his body and arms in midair as it reached his toes and fingertips. He never thought it was an intelligent being that provided him this power, but he couldn’t confirm it wasn’t, either. Regardless of where it came from, he was grateful for it. It saved his life dozens of times before, and he didn’t doubt it would again today. He understood it was a tool to be used at his discretion, not a weapon to be used carelessly.
His hands taut as they gripped the intricately carved handles of the scythes. He inhaled, and as he exhaled, time nearly froze around him. The plasma bolts and lead bullets continued to relentlessly pummel the wall, though now the debris flying from the assault rocketed by at a snail’s pace. He was ready.
The Volkoth emerged from cover, much to the surprise of half a dozen Crimson Skull bodyguards who recovered quickly and resumed their fire, now concentrating on him. Each had the symbolic icon of their crime syndicate, a cracked skull with four crooked teeth and no jawbone tattooed somewhere large and visible on their bodies. One bodyguard had it tattooed on his neck and also painted on his metallic bionic arm. Most wore dark colored pants, and all had tears and stains on their clothing. Compared to the Volkoth approaching them who wore pants that reached to his ankles and a bare, scarred chest, they thought they had the advantage. They were quickly mistaken in that assumption.
He snapped the handles of the scythes together, feeling that familiar locking of mechanisms click into place, with a quarter turn of his wrists, they secured into place. Still walking towards the guards firing wildly at him, he rotated newly created the double-bladed staff counterclockwise, time progressed at a drastically slowed pace for him as he watched bullets and plasma shots float harmlessly passed him. Those that were headed for him impacted the whirlwind of scythes, their movement guided and protected by his connection with the Aether. The scythes perfectly deflected the bullets and plasma back at the attackers, striking them with varying degrees of damage. Some writhed in agony from the smoldering holes in their bodies, while others ceased firing for fear of taking more self-inflicted harm.
The raging and suppressive fire subsided, until only three Crimson Skull bodyguards were still able to stand; the others writhing in agony of from grievous wounds. They charged him with metallic fists and brandished basic, mass-produced swords. The Volkoth was happy to give them a warrior’s death, and with a smile detached the scythes back into two smaller separate weapons.
He met the first thug head on, ducking to the side to easily miss the metal fist flying towards him., then countered with a scythe cutting clean through their back. As the two other guards snarled and charged him, the third fell to the floor, limp and lifeless. They stopped short of swinging for him, dropped their weapons, and sprinted passed with ghost-while terror painting their faces.
He exhaled, and shook his fur like he was shaking off heavy rainfall as the rush of Aether subsided. The heightened senses, the feeling of control over time, the enjoyable tingling feeling throughout his body, all of it faded away, until it was just him in a metal hallway peppered with bodies and an army of smoking holes from the bullets and plasma.
The warrior stepped over the still bodies and into the office, where a human figure sat in a fancy black chair. The ceiling lights in the room barely lit the desk in front and centered of the room, with a holovid positioned in the middle of the desk providing better illumination from its blue neon glow. It flickered off as the warrior approached the man, flinging off any remaining blood and gore from his blades before sheathing them on his back in a buttery smooth motion.
“Underlord Redbeard.” The Volkoth didn’t bother hiding his seething hatred for the man seated in front of him. He was surprisingly tall for a human, even though he sat in a chair that looked too comfortable for the piece of trash occupying it. He sported a long, orange-red beard with matching long hair flowing past his shoulders, a long gaunt face, and emerald eyes, but any other features were difficult to distinguish in the poor lighting.
“You took out some of my cheaper bodyguards. I’ve already requested more and they will be arriving shortly, so you don’t have a lot of time. What is it you want? Clearly, if you were here to kill me, you would have by now.” Despite the calm demeanor, the subtle twitches of his left eyelids gave away his frustration at the ease of which his guards were dispatched. It took everything in the Volkoth’s body to restrain himself from beheading the arrogant bastard. He reminded himself that he had a mission, and he would complete it. No additional bloodshed was permitted past that which was necessary. That was his code, and he would stick to it.
“The Resistance send their condolences for your guards. We suggest other means besides digging through the scraps of Coropolis, and you may find them more,” he paused for dramatic effect before finishing with “well more alive than these ones.” Redbeard squinted, but made no other noticeable movements. “We’re tired of playing games. Cease any and all interference with our operations, and we will allow you to continue your reign of gluttonous greed and debauchery.”
He considered the peace offering for a moment before agreeing. “I’ll see what I can do. You see, I can only speak for myself, and I have no doubt that other Underlords will not find your lackluster offering appetizing. Though, I’ll try to keep them away from you, out of good faith, of course.”
Stroking his groomed deep-red beard apparently manifested a question from the criminal mastermind. “Before you leave, tell me, mighty Volkoth warrior. What is your name? You look oddly familiar. Have we met before? Surely we already did our best to recruit someone of your obvious talent.”
He turned his head around slightly and grunted in amusement at the audacity of the suggestion. “My name, is Scythe. If we had met before, you have my word that you wouldn’t be breathing today. Consider this a first and final warning.”
Scythe turn around and left the depressingly dark room without another word, carefully navigating the scattering of bodies he left in his wake. Moments later he was again left to the peace of silence that always came after every battle. It was an odd feeling, surging adrenaline and Aether pumping through his veins, only for it to magically vanish minutes later, as if it had never been there to begin with.
His nostrils flared as he exhaled a relieved breath. It was Underlord Redbeard’s lucky day the Resistance had sent their most obedient warrior to send the message, and that he had practiced restraint as part of his craft. The unredeemable villain responsible for his parent’s deaths, and that of a myriad of others, should be praying to the old gods and the new for forgiveness and compassion. He wouldn’t be shown it again.
His name was Scythe, and though he knew this mission was complete, there was always another around the corner.