I am No Longer a Child

The wintry winds of the North Pole were cutting to all but the most sturdy of flesh as Mother Nature forcefully reminded the comparatively small reploid as she buffeted him with her blizzard. Of course, the reploid was not one to simply bow down; not anymore. He had done that enough, and it had given him nothing. He grit his teeth and pressed onwards; this biting wind was nothing in comparison to the ice growing within his soul, where there once had been a warm glow. Put there by thoughtless derision over many years of bitter fighting, lost to a cause he couldn't believe in any longer, and trapped in the cycle of never ending comparison to the one man he could never, no matter what, surpass in enough respects to deem noteworthy.

The heavily armored reploid grunted in irritation as he crouched down at a seemingly random point in the snow, and slammed his fist into the ground, again, seemingly at random. However, the solid thud of frozen metal, and the accompanying blast of melted ice and steel left little to the imagination that the reploid was neither helpless, nor willing to be polite. He calmly walked down the revealed staircase to reveal a bunker which must have once been a fine base of operations a century ago. Around a table were gathered a group of powerful-looking reploids who stood in shock at their discovery as the intruder descended. A duo of guards, carrying heavy rifles with a large enough caliber to worry even very tough reploids, tried to stop him, but the intruder simply dashed forward with incredible speed, and with the sound of two shots fired from the surprised guards, their heads fell from their shoulders as the reploid smirked in victory, two gaping burn marks on the wall the only evidence that he'd dodged certain death.

"Your guards, quite frankly, suck. But will any of you impress me, I wonder...?" the reploid spoke in a harsh, but also quietly commanding voice. He nearly laughed at the looks on some of these clearly executive and upper-class roids' faces. "Come now. You call yourselves the Hunter Resistance, and yet you quail before me? How amusing."

One of the younger, apparently stupid, members took a step forward. He was a human amongst machines. The irony did not fail to make itself known. Ah, idealism; such a worthless thing, in the face of the world's cruelty.

"I-I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of anyone."

The reploid crossed the room in just a few strides, his Variable Sword, his one and only companion who had not betrayed him or his trust flashed out, stopping just shy of slitting the young fool's throat.

"Ah, but you should fear me; not having fear is the same as willfully following every other person's design but your own. It's madness, and will only destroy you in the end. Cowardice is weakness, to be true, but common sense is far better."

The human gulped, and slowly tried to edge away. The reploid allowed it; there was no point making things any more difficult than they had to be, after all. The reploid took one of the now empty chairs, and sat down casually near the door to the stairs he'd just broken in through. "Now. Let's talk, shall we?"

At once, most of the assembled collection of scum becan begging for their lives or demanding who he was and what he was doing. All of them went ignored until only the most ardent, an old reploid model some fifty years-old remained, demanding his identity and why he sat there so calmly. With a chuckle, the reploid took off his helmet, freeing his short blonde hair, and revealing light blue eyes that were harder and colder than the freezing wind outside.

"To answer your questions, would require me to care about your opinions. I can safely assure you that I do not, and you shouldn't waste your breath. As for what I'm doing here.... Well. I want to take over your little organization. You see, I've had some very powerful people wrong me, and I want to make them understand the error of their ways, and for that, I will need more than just myself."

"You think we'll just let you lead us?!"

The reploid gave the dissident an evil, hate-filled stare; it was not fully focused on him, but just the proxy of it felt as if the weight of a thousand wounds ill-treated and left to rot away were piled onto their shoulders, causing them to wilt from the intensity. "As a matter of fact, I do indeed believe that to be the case. After all, you lack a leader already, and are little more than a global gang with no drive or purpose. I have a few ideas that could help you get thing going, shall we say. You need a face, a symbol to rally behind. I have those."

There was general muttering, deeply tinged with fear, even as several more guards showed up, all carrying heavy weapons, and the group as a whole seemed relieved. The intruder, however, simply laughed at the display. "Go ahead; there is nothing you can do to me that will be able to overcome my revenge. Kill me, but you will only lose your greatest asset. I was a hunter until recently; I know everything about them, and I know the only thing you hate more than me is them. Killing irregulars as a matter of sport and pride, rather than trying to treat them. Fighting the supposed 'good fight' while we're left out to dry in their suffocating hot wind of foul gasses they spew to justify their murders."

There was a silence, before the guards were given a signal to back off somewhat.

Finally, the old model reploid asked tentatively, "What are you suggesting?"

The reploid smirked. "Only that I have every answer to all of your desperate prayers in the palm of my hand, should you merely allow me to lead your forces into the victory. I will make your organization a name feared across the globe, if you would but give me the power I seek."

"And if we refuse?"

The reploid's gaze hardened into a mask of pure malice. "Then every one of you dies, and I take control anyway. So, you can live your lives knowing that you need not fear me unless you anger me, or you can simply anger me and die like worms. I would suggest option one, but then again, killing has its appeal, too...."

There was another general murmur before, "On one condition."

"Hmm?" the reploid looked genuinely curious, but also amused. "Go on."

"Who are you?"

The reploid grinned, looking very much like the old photos of a certain maverick hunter with a similar shade of blonde hair, left in a ponytail and garbed in crimson.


"You may call me Lionheart; or, should you ever prove useful and loyal enough, Richard Lionheart."

He raised his head as he held out a hand, his grin fully feral with untainted malice and sizzling hatred. "Those fools in the Hunters won't know what hit them once we come knocking."