Z2012SITEBTHEGUERILLAWARRIOR

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A throat cut, a brain pierced, and a body dumped unceremoniously into a slimy ditch. Officer Roger Cunnings had never previously seen such extravagant mutilations as the ones he was currently staring into the face of. Whoever the killers in this area were, their tactics were slowly becoming more and more over-the-top. Limbs were cleaved in half, boils had formed across the chest, and the nose had been broken so many times it was barely hanging onto the rest of the face. It was sickening.======

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The officer did have one theory as to the identity of the murderers: a local cult dedicated to the Greek god of the sea, Poseidon. Not only were they suspiciously reclusive, but each member allegedly owned a manual describing the most efficient techniques of human torture, mutilation, and sacrifice. Cunnings was determined to catch them in the act, but thus far had been proved unsuccessful. His proposals had been rejected by his superiors on numerous occasions, and he was lucky that he wasn't working a desk.======

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Kneeling down into the soft marshy grass, he spoke into his radio. "We've got what looks to be some sort of homicide and torture down here by the marsh..." His voice trailed off and his eyes widened as he spotted a small Eternal Father of the Sea brand on one of the victim's quite noticeable love handles. Nearby, a blood-spattered pin, one that looked to belong to the...Harimann family? It figured. That bunch of nuts had always been a bit shady; Cunnings wouldn't put this kind of brutality past them. "Suspects include all members of the Eternal Father of the -" A blunt metal object connected with the back of his skull, and as he slipped into blackness, flashes of red before his eyes, he saw two meaty hands take hold of him and the other body, and then everything faded out.======

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Cunnings woke to the sound of crackling flames. His eyes fluttered open and darted around his surroundings. A brick room, only lit by a small, bright orange flame in the center, directly in front of him. In an attempt to move, he found that his hands and feet were chained, all four of his limbs pulled out in opposite directions. Grimacing, he let his head hang, before the same brutish hand from before jerked it up, pulling open his eyelids. "Look at those," the hulking fiend rumbled, shoving his victim's head forward. "In a week's time, that'll be you." Roger stared out the window, watching as two cloaked individuals dragged the dead body he had found in the marsh, as well as another he hadn't seen before, off into the distance.======

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"They'll be takin' 'em to the markers," the monster grinned. "Crack open their skulls, drink some of their blood, and then shove 'em in the Earth. That'll be you. Just you wait." The beast let Roger's head drop once more, walking over to some sort of beaker, with a bubbling, hissing substance inside.======

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The reverend smiled and gripped his coat for a moment, calming himself down. It was always stressful right before he delivered a sermon, but once he got out there, there wouldn't be a problem. Just tell them what they wanted to here. In would come money, and even better, more subjects for the Harimanns and the Cult. They were close to their goal. He could feel it. All they needed was more time and a few more tries, and all would be well.======

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He frowned briefly, remembering how close that police officer had come to uncovering their plot. But it was no longer a problem. Messages had been sent that indicated Cunnings had simply gone on leave, and had been encrypted so as to avoid being traced back to the Cult and the Harimanns. And nobody, as far as Reverend Price knew, shared the officer's hate for the cult and his fine detective abilities.======

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"Show time," he said to himself, grinning as he stepped out from behind the blood-red curtain. He walked briskly to his podium, his smile broadening as he heard the thunderous applause from those before him. A full house. Perfect. Admiral Harriman would be pleased with this newest development. They were attracting followers like never before, despite the best efforts of that accursed Officer Cunnings and his deranged ally. They had achieved nothing. The plans had achieved the status of juggernaut, unstoppable by any mortal means. ======

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The reverend tapped at his microphone, to which the response was another roar of approval from the churchgoers. He felt ruffled by this, and chose to straighten his long black coat and adjust his reading glasses. With a friendly, forced wave to the crowd, he flipped open the book of chicken scratch that lay before him on the podium, and began to speak. ======

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“Many…around this area…are highly suspicious of our beliefs,” he hissed slowly, drawing each individual syllable out in a manner akin to the slow drip of Chinese water torture. “Some believe us to be lunatics or cultists. Some believe us to be a cover for some sort of conspiracy or business, as if we were Scientologists. And still others think we’re just trying to draw attention to ourselves.” ======

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“But none of these are the case, my brethren. Our goal is not to draw in money, or commit crimes, or elicit attention from the heretics that populate this world. No, our goal is to spread the good word of our Father of the Sea, the being out of which we all were born, and the being to which we will return upon our death. He has…” The reverend paused, feeling strange, as if something was honing in on him. Members of the church glanced at each other in confusion, wondering why he was delaying for so long. ======

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"He has given us…” Another pause. He could sense the unwanted presence somewhere, but it was difficult to pinpoint exactly. The crowd was beginning to murmur and mutter. ======

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A final pause, but this one seemed more finite. Slowly, the reverend glanced upwards, his eyes barely making out the red dot of a laser sight fixed upon it. ======

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Before a single movement could be made, the bullet had ripped through his skull and sent splashes of blood flying backwards at a rapid rate. As the body slumped to the ground, the gore splattered against the curtain he had exited from, blending in with its dark, scarlet fabric. Screams and cries flew quickly throughout the small church, and a veritable stampede headed towards the shot seemed to have come from. But by the time they had finished trampling each other to exit the building, the assassin had already taken flight. In the distance, he could be made out, one fist raised triumphantly over his head, and a sniper rifle in the other. A second, much chubbier figure was trailing behind him, huffing as he waddled after his guerilla ally. ======

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David Rodriguez leaned against the side of the machine shop, gasping for air. Samson had already made his way inside to get to work on their next movement, but that run from the Father of the Sea cultists had been far too stressful for David to just brush it off and keep on working. “This is insane,” he whispered to himself. “Absolutely, certifiably bonkers. I’ll get myself killed working with Samson Hell. He’s waging a war against a massive conspiracy, I just have a glandular problem, what chance do I have?!” He turned and punched the wall of the machine shop in a rage. ======

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“Please don’t do that, David,” came the raspy voice of Samson from inside. “We need this place intact as it is, it’s already falling apart. Come in and look at all those bits of wood and glass. Well, I suppose that’s what you get from such volatile weaponry being created, eh?” A chuckle followed, frightening David further. Reluctantly, the large fellow turned and entered. ======

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Samson was right; the floor was covered in pieces of wood, glass, and shrapnel, all from designing and creating weaponry or devices for the purpose of sabotaging the Harrimans and their work around the naval base. Samson was at his work table, tinkering with some sort of explosive packed with fireworks, designed to cause both disorientation and spark up a fire. ======

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It was still astounding to David, how Hell had been able to eliminate all history of himself and create an entirely new identity based off old family information, purchase, design, and build vast amounts of weaponry, and even kill off a corrupt preacher whose main goal was to find suitable subjects for the Harrimans’ twisted experiments with genetics and necromancy. Hell had true dedication to this war – or revolution, as he referred to it – dedication that David didn’t quite have. But since Hell’s rescue of him from the Infirmary, he had felt obligated to stick around and help out in any way he could. It was only fair. ======

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“I can’t believe you killed that guy…” David said, kicking a chunk of metal across the wide open. “That’s just…so, so weird to me.” ======

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“He’s not the first,” Hell replied, picking up the incendiary grenade and tossing it from hand to hand carelessly. “I took out quite a few of those in charge of the Infirmary while saving both my sister and you. Bombed the annex, too, and freed the prisoners there. I’ve been very busy these past couple years.” ======

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“I can tell,” David winced, still concerned by Hell’s acceptance of all the strange and revolting developments that had cropped up around him. “So what should we do next? The Infirmary’s been all but useless to the Harrimans since we sabotaged it so often. Without the reverend, they can’t recruit new members to infect with diseases for transfer to the Infirmary.” ======

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Samson didn’t say a word for a time, just continued to toss the grenade back and forth. Back and forth. Finally, he set it down, and rubbed his eyes tiredly, for the first time that David had ever seen such a thing. ======

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“I need some sleep, David,” he answered. “But after I get it…we’re going to storm that goddamn mansion, and put an end to the family behind the atrocities we’ve witnessed. Mark my words, Rodriguez. It will not go on one more day.” ======

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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14.6667px;">With that, Hell swiftly exited the machine shop and headed in the direction of the trailers. The dogs that he raised as company could be heard barking as they saw their master approach from the window. David shook his head and walked out of the door. He looked back briefly, before following suit. ======

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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14.6667px;">A kick to the rickety cellar door, and the two had entered the mansion. Samson had a strap coated in different explosive variants and a shotgun in his hands, while David held a machine pistol with which he looked rather uncomfortable. They tiptoed their way through the darkness of the basement, searching for some sort of light. ======

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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14.6667px;">As Hell went on ahead, easily navigating his way through the cramped and packed cellar, David tripped, slamming his head against a wall. Luckily, his head cracked against the light switch as well. A faint orange glow overtook the room, revealing…horrors. ======

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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14.6667px;">On an operating table nearby was a still baby, without any sort of facial features whatsoever. Cages lined the walls, filled with animals that had been burned, shot, stabbed, and undergone strenuous rejuvenation rituals that, clearly, had not proven successful. And, in what was most horrifying to Samson…Officer Cunnings, his old partner and friend who had disappeared just a couple weeks previously. Cunnings was shackled, his arms and legs stretched out tautly in an X formation. Skin was peeling off from extreme chemical burns, and his hair was falling out in clumps every time he moved slightly. Slowly, as if in a daze, Samson approached his friend and touched his face. ======

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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14.6667px;">“I thought they had killed you…” he said, a tear escaping as he choked back a sob of rage. “I never suspected…that any of this could possibly exist. I knew they were horrid…but this…” Cunnings stirred and looked up, forming deep eye contact with his guerilla fighter ally. He tried to speak, but all that emerged was garbled combinations of gargles and hisses. Even so, Samson could make out the message behind it. ======

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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14.6667px;">Steadying his arm, he raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger. A series of bullet holes in a random pattern appeared around Cunnings’ chest, dotting it in a spray of blood. The officer’s head slumped once more, this time for good. ======

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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14.6667px;">David moved slightly closer to Samson, unsure how his normally stable, confident partner would react to this latest development. Then, suddenly, Hell gave a tremendous, furious shout that nearly shook the cellar. ======

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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14.6667px;">“HARIMANN!” he screamed, and rushed towards the stairs into the mansion. ======

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