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Mutants & Masterminds: StarGate Freedom - Prologue: Devon Carson

z-Servant of Ra

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October 31, 2008

The Jerusalem Tavern, Clerkenwell, Borough of Islington, London, England

“What a pisser,” Devon muttered, sagging over his beer. He stared at the television, glaring at the coach of the Blackburn Rovers. The man was ruining the season, with his cocked-up calls. Shaking his head, Devon drained his beer. “Another,” he called to the barkeeper, who nodded and set another Blunderbuss Old Ale in front of him.

The screen twisted with static, drawing boos and groans from the men at the bar. Devon didn’t even bother to curse; it seemed like a waste of time to him. If the TV was broken, it was broken. Instead, he focused on nursing his beer, trying not to think about Betty. She was pulling away from him and was going to drop him. He could sense it. He’d been a good boyfriend, not perfect, but he didn’t push her about fuckin’ Daniel, didn’t beat her, he didn’t cheat on her, he gave her nice shit – what was the problem? He was so caught up in his own troubles that he missed the first few seconds of the broadcast.

“I am Ra. Your god has returned.” Devon’s head jerked up to see some faggy scifi show; the obvious villain was dressed in Eygptian garb and looked fuckin’ ridiculous.

“What the fook?” Angus growled next to him, glaring at the screen. “Put da fookin’ game back ohn!”

“It is on,” the bartender protested. “It’s being hijacked.” He reached up and flipped through the channels, showing the same image on each. After a moment, he gave up and went back to the bar, rubbing it down with his towel. Conversation drifted, mostly mocking the bad TV show. By the time ‘Ra’ was done with his announcement, most had decided that it was some wanker’s prank, and they were impatiently waiting for the show to return.

But when the Egyptian disappeared in a burst of static, the game didn’t replace him. Instead, the screen was filled with the BBC’s emergency signal. The bar patrons all booed, until they heard what was being stated: “-declared martial law. There is an immediate curfew in effect for all of Great Britain. The Prime Minister, to repeat, has declared martial law and is telling all citizens to go to their homes and remain there tonight. Further instructions will come when the situation is clearer.

“For those viewers just tuning in, there is something that appears to be a pyramid floating over the Parliament Building. Citizens are being ordered to their hom-”

“Parliament Building?” Devon muttered, glancing at his watch. Betty worked there, and was often there late. Cursing, he abandoned his drink and hurried out into the night.

He saw it well before he got there; it was hovering over the building, and there were dozens of spotlights on it now. Then he heard odd sizzling noises, right out of a scifi movie. Cursing, he ran harder – right into the fight before the House of Commons. It wasn’t orderly lines of fighters; soldiers appeared to be engaged in hand-to-hand combat with hawk-headed creatures. They bore gold armor and long staffs that seemed to both laser guns and cudgels. Devon stopped and stared, his mind struggling to catch up, so it took several minutes for him to see that the ‘creatures’ were men in elaborate armor – armor that should have impeded their ability to fight, but appeared to aid it instead. And they were trouncing the soldiers.

Without further thought, he leapt at the back of the nearest, jerking its head to the side by clawing its muzzle toward its shoulder. Suddenly, the armor moved, twisting, folding and retracting in a way that armor wasn’t supposed to do. As Devon gaped and got his fingers pinched, a man was revealed. All he could see was the back of a dark head of hair; a head that snapped backwards, catching him in the nose. Blind and in pain, Devon lost his grip and crumpled to the sidewalk, groaning.

The soldier took full advantage of this opportunity and shot the man in the head. Devon flinched at the retort, then was caught under the corpse’s legs as he fell. As the soldier helped him up, Devon saw the uniform that marked him as Special Air Service, which made the invaders’ impending victory that much more frightening. The man was shouting, “Get the fuck out of here! What are you doing!”

“Rescuin’ my girl!” Devon screamed over the fight, turning toward the building again. The SAS grabbed at him, but was thrown back by a golden laser blast. Spinning, Devon saw another creature striding forward; with a wicked grin, he dropped into a boxer’s stance. When the thing shot at him, he was ready, throwing himself to the side, then scrambling forward and rushing the armored invader like a flanker. His impact knocked the weird fucker over, and Devon wasted no time in hopping to his feet again. As the creature rolled onto its knees, Devon kicked it in the cock, doubling it over again. Whooping with the thrill of taking out his aggressions, Devon snatched up the creature’s discarded weapon. He wasn’t immediately sure how to work it, so he just started to beat his downed opponent with it.

Something hit him on the back of the head and he went sprawling, falling over the still form of his opponent. He managed to retain consciousness long enough to roll over and see the blunt end of those laser-sticks coming toward his head for the KO blow.

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