The wind howled at the peak of the mountain, a stark reminder of the danger that lay ahead. The film crew bustled around, setting up equipment and making final adjustments. The sky overhead was a clear blue, with the sun casting long shadows over the jagged rocks. Uzziel stood at the edge of the cliff, his unnaturally white skin almost blending with the mist that clung to the mountaintop. He adjusted the straps of his wingsuit, the bright colours a sharp contrast to his gaunt appearance.
A man with blond hair and a goatee, exuding hype-man energy, stepped in front of the camera. His square jaw and enthusiastic demeanor made him a natural for this kind of work. He held a microphone and faced the camera with a broad grin.
"Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to the latest live stream of 'Outset,' where Uzziel is about to push the limits once again," he announced, his voice resonating against the backdrop of the towering cliffs. "Today, we're bringing you one of the most thrilling spectacles in extreme sports... wingsuit flying!"
The cameraman panned out, capturing the vast expanse of the cliff and the distant valley below, where Uzziel was meant to glide. The drop was dizzying, the kind that would make even the most seasoned adventurer's heart race.
"As always with every stunt, this is something he has no experience in!" the announcer continued, his voice brimming with excitement. "And what's more, he does not even know the route he must take! But fret not my friends; every two kilometers, there will be a mark for him to follow. He better not miss one; otherwise, the next thing you know, we will have to scrape his remains off of this mountain," he added with a grin, the morbid words at odds with his enthusiastic tone.
The live chat buzzed with activity, comments flooding in from viewers around the world. "As if he'll die to a rock!" one super chatter typed. "Is he finally going to end it? This is too much!" another commented. "I will buy his helmet if it survives HAHA," came another message.
Off in the background with the rest of the crew, a man sat in a chair with the insignia "3rd Producer Griff" written on it within one of their tents. He was in the middle of the bustling crew, his tough appearance and commanding presence making it unmistakable that he was taking charge of this crew. Griff held a tablet with the current live stream on it, his eyes scanning the comments.
"Delete that last message, Christina! I don't want our chat to turn into a degenerate cesspool," Griff said angrily. Even though he knew what they were doing was morally questionable, he couldn't afford to foster a bloodthirsty community... at least not one that was so vocal. After all, they had to stay PG-13 to maximize their reach and keep the executives happy. "Ah, damn those hypocrites. They know what we're doing, and yet they still want to keep it child-friendly," he muttered with a frown. "Though... I am no better."
He sighed, glancing at Uzziel on the screen. "How many times can he escape death? How many times can his luck save him? Even his ridiculous luck will run out at some point," Griff thought, hoping he wouldn't be the producer when that day came. The last thing he wanted was to be accused of assisting a suicide.
"AY ay, sir! Working on it now," Christina responded. She was a blonde-haired woman with similar features to the announcer. Short in stature and a tad bit bigger than others her size, she was responsible for everything tech-related. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, deleting inappropriate comments with practised ease.
"Ayy, I just wanted to be part of television history! Why did you delete my comment, you stupid bit..." Another message popped up, but before anyone could finish reading it, Christina deleted it.
"And all done! They will not be able to comment anymore, sir!" she announced, her hands never leaving her keyboard.
Griff nodded stiffly. Before he could give further instructions, he was suddenly bombarded by shrieks and screams from some distance away. He looked over and saw around ten people, covered in 'Outset' merchandise, pushing their way in. A towering man, standing at 6'8" with short brown hair, military trousers, and a green tank top that showcased his well-defined arm muscles, tried to hold them back as delicately as possible. However, it seemed to not be working.
"YOU useless hulk. STEVE! quit being so soft and do your damn job, or you'll get another pay cut!" Griff screamed angrily toward the tall man. This seemed to spur Steve into pushing a little harder, though still not hard enough as the fans were beginning to get through. Griff noticed the breach and felt a surge of frustration.
"Oh, for the love of... Mitra!" Griff called out, knowing things might get out of hand if the situation continued.
"Haha, need my help again, old man?" A jovial voice sounded from the tent, and a woman emerged. She had a diamond-shaped face framed by naturally long, dark lashes that contrasted beautifully with her dark golden eyes. Her brown skin seemed to match perfectly with her eyes, creating an alluring harmony. She wore a flowing, deep purple summer dress adorned with intricate gold embroidery that accentuated her graceful figure. The fabric shimmered as she moved, enhancing the elegance of her tall, statuesque form, which was almost as tall as Steve.
Griff smiled a little when he saw her. "Sigh, I do. That useless hulk is not doing his job properly again, and the vultures are slipping through." Reminded of their seemingly useless bodyguard, his anger flared again. "Please take care of this... and don't do it so forcefully this time, please," Griff pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation.
She simply smiled at him and walked toward the commotion, her eyes sparkling with a hint of anticipation. "That depends entirely on them, old man," she said, her tone light yet firm.
"Bullshit! You just want to get violent again," Griff thought darkly to himself, his already grey hair seeming to gain an additional shade of grey. "I swear, if it were up to me, I would have fired the both of them long ago."
Unfortunately, he was under no illusion that he could fire them since they were Uzziel's people. So, he did what he usually did with situations out of his control... he ignored them, a method that hadn't failed him yet! He chuckled a little and went back to ordering the rest of the staff and looking at his tablet.
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Mitra approached the chaotic scene with slow, forceful steps, her presence commanding attention. "Hi big guy, having some trouble again?" she asked, her voice carrying a blend of amusement and authority.
Steve glanced at her, relief evident in his eyes. "These wolves are getting out of hand, Mitra. A little help would be appreciated."
Mitra's dark golden eyes scanned the crowd, her lips curling into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She stepped up beside Steve, surveying the eager fans. "Alright, everyone, back up!" she called out, her voice carrying over the noise. But the small crowd continued to push, driven by excitement.
She turned back to Steve with a mock sigh, "Well, at least I tried to be civil." As she said that, she feigned being staggered by a forceful push from one of the crowd members who had broken through. The sudden silence that followed was palpable.
"Wait, isn't that the freak?" someone in the crowd whispered, the words slicing through the quiet like a knife.
Mitra calmly got up, brushing herself off as she locked eyes with the man who had pushed her. His bravado melted away, replaced by a flicker of fear. She could almost taste his panic, metallic and sharp in the back of her throat. As she approached, his breath hitched, a ragged sound in the heavy air. Just as he was about to speak, Mitra grabbed his head with one hand, her fingers digging into his scalp like a Muay Thai clinch.
"Oh, you like hitting ladies, do you?" Mitra's voice maintained a chilling calmness, though a hint of joy was evident. "I... I didn't mean..." the man stuttered, but before he could finish, Mitra drove her knee into his face!
Her knee struck with brutal force, the impact reverberating through the air, a dull, meaty crack as bone shattered and flesh split. His nose crumpled under the force, a gush of warm blood spraying onto Mitra's leg. Mitra didn't release her grip; instead, Her knee slammed into his face again and again, each blow more vicious than the last. His face quickly became a disfigured mess of swollen flesh and shattered teeth, blood and saliva mixing in a grotesque froth.
The crowd, now running away horrified, muttered anxiously. "Damn it, because of that crazy bitch, no one can get the 10,000-dollar reward." "Forget about the reward, I don't want to spend two months in the hospital because of this freak!" Mitra seemed oblivious to their panic, her focus entirely on her victim as she smiled while delivering the punishing blows.
"Mitra, Mitra, snap out of it!" Steve's voice cut through the chaos as he lunged forward, wrapping her in a full Nelson hold and dragging her backwards. Trying to restrain her. Losing her grip on the man, Mitra seemed to snap out of her trance-like state.
"Release me!" Mitra demanded violently, jerking one arm free and driving her elbow into Steve's liver. He gasped, a sharp intake of breath that ended in a groan, dropping to one knee in pain. "I was trying to help you!" Steve pleaded, clutching his side, his face contorted.
"Does it look like I need your help?" Mitra spat venomously, her eyes filled with rage as she glared at him.
"Yes! Unless you want to live behind bars for the rest of your life. Look at him!" Steve pointed towards the unconscious and badly injured man.
Mitra said nothing, her hatred burning fiercely as she stared into Steve's eyes. A palpable hostility oozed off her, but Steve did not look away. She stared back at him for a second, seemingly deliberate in her silence, letting the tension build. Finally, she spoke, each word laced with venom.
"Don't touch me again unless you want to end up worse than him." she turned sharply and walked back towards the main tent.
"Crazy woman!" Steve muttered, keeping his gaze fixed on her until she was safely out of reach. "Damn it! Why does Uzziel keep her around? Hopefully, Abbey might be able to fix this"
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"Damn that Hulk, I was just getting into it," Mitra thought to herself, her anger fading almost as quickly as it had come, though her itch remained. "Uzziel is in his high mood again; better take advantage of that. Hopefully, he would fulfil her... urges more." With that happy thought, she skipped towards Uzziel.
In the distance, Uzziel stood with a middle-aged man who was meticulously inspecting his wingsuit, checking and rechecking every detail. The man's furrowed brow and serious demeanour contrasted sharply with Uzziel's.
"Uzziel!" Mitra screamed, still skipping towards them.
Uzziel turned towards the voice, his eyes sharp and alert. He exuded a calm yet intense focus, every movement deliberate and controlled. His dark eyes held a glint of something akin to excitement, a rare spark of life in his otherwise indifferent gaze she knew he normally had. He was lean, a little too lean in her opinion, and she knew he would get even thinner after this stunt and lose the muscles he had, staying that way until their next episode a couple of months later. With that thought, her expression lessened a little, but she quickly hid it from him.
A faint smile played on his lips, one that seemed to put him in perpetual joy and anticipation. The anticipation and joy radiated from him, a tangible aura that enveloped those around him. Every fibre of his being was attuned to the moment, vibrating with an almost electric energy. One that seemed to put the man near him a little on edge. She knew He had been waiting for the high, the rush of adrenaline that would flood his system and ignite his senses.
She was always amazed at how he seemed to turn into a different person during these expeditions. This was the Uzziel that everyone thought they knew—a person who always had a joyful demeanour, yet spoke with a calm and respectful voice to everyone, with a smile that everyone mistook for genuine. Only she and his family knew the truth. Being reminded of their respective families, the anger seemed to come back again.
"Mitra, what can I do for you?" Uzziel asked, his voice smooth and unhurried, each word carrying a certain weight. His tone was measured, almost aristocratic due to his Received Pronunciation accent his mother had made him learn for whatever reason, making even the simplest question sound like an invitation to a grand event.
Mitra felt a shiver of appreciation for the control he wielded so effortlessly even during the supposed point where he considered himself to be more "loose" with his emotions, or more human as he would word it. "Tch, I still don't know what he meant by that." She pushed her darker thoughts aside, focusing on the task at hand. "Uzziel, my best friend! I need your help again, please," she said jovially, with a bright smile that would convince any man to do her bidding. Her smile was a radiant display of charm, her eyes sparkling with a blend of mischief and innocence that seemed to promise adventure and thrill to anyone who complied.
Uzziel just stared back at her with his usual expression and said nothing.
"Tch, come on, man! A beautiful woman needs your help. At least pretend to be enamoured!" she said with a little heat. Again, Uzziel said nothing.
Mitra gave up and, after mulling it over for a second, decided to cash in her favour. "Uzziel, you promised," she said, staring intensely into his eyes.
That comment seemed to finally get his attention. He looked at her, seeming to smile even more somehow. "Alright, We will do it after."
She smiled back, "Yes! Finally! I will be waiting," she said excitedly, rushing back to her tent to pack her stuff.
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Uzziel POV:
As Mitra rushed off, Uzziel's smile remained fixed. "He is getting worse," he thought to himself as he observed Mitra's distant figure. "It seems like I have to reevaluate him again; he is starting to lose his value to me," he said as his eyes stared at Mitra passively. His gaze, concealed yet penetrating, hinted at depths of calculation and hidden intent weaved within the enigmatic gleam of his irises.
"Quite the feisty friend you've got, Mr. Uzziel," the man checking his equipment remarked with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"You have no idea, Mr. Johnson. She is very... passionate, so to speak," Uzziel replied, chuckling softly.
"Aye, I feel you, but she seems a little more passive when talking to you," Johnson observed, securing the straps with practised efficiency.
"Oh, have you been eavesdropping on us, Mr. Johnson?" Uzziel quipped with a light tone.
"I have," Johnson admitted dispassionately. "After all, it's not every day you meet someone seemingly eager to meet their end in such a violent way. Had to make sure they weren't forcing you," Johnson added with a subdued tone.
"You don't think I will survive?" Uzziel queried, locking eyes with him.
"No," Johnson said curtly, his aged face meeting Uzziel's gaze.
"This sport is not as dangerous as many people think. Wingsuit flying has a fatality rate of around 0.2% per jump," Johnson explained as he bent down to check Uzziel's boots.
"I sense a 'but' coming, Mr. Johnson," Uzziel remarked, detecting an underlying tension but not caring about it.
"According to regulations, one must complete a minimum of 200 skydives before even considering wingsuit training," Johnson continued, standing up straight. "Much less something as hazardous as BASE jumping." Placing a hand on Uzziel's shoulder, he added sincerely, "There are no statistics for BASE jumping, son. It's not too late to reconsider. No one would think any less of you."
Uzziel's demeanour shifted subtly, a flicker of derangement crossing his eyes as he moved Johnson's hand away. "You've only fueled my resolve, Mr. Johnson."
Growing a little annoyed, Johnson responded, "At least let me give you one piece of advice that might save your life." His voice carried a hint of urgency. "There are three forks you will pass through, with one wrong move leading to a dead end. Don't ta— Ahh!"
Before he could finish, Uzziel swiftly clasped Johnson's unsuspecting hand, executing a fluid motion, deftly twisting the wrist into a one-handed Nikyo wrist lock, eliciting an immediate gasp of pain from Johnson.
"I've been looking forward to this, Mr. Johnson. Do not ruin it for me," Uzziel said, his face contorting into an expression of intense hatred. His eyes now resembled those of an addict denied their dose.
"You... you... you really are insane!" Johnson managed to say forcing his hand away, wincing and holding his wrist as he staggered backwards.
"How dar—" Johnson began again but was cut off as he looked into Uzziel's eyes, now filled with a horrified intensity.
"Fine, it's your life! If you want to end it so much, be my guest!" Johnson exclaimed, storming away.
Uzziel remained unfazed at the man's outburst. Instead, he turned around to look at the drop. "That should be able to satisfy them for a bit," he thought to himself as he pretended not to notice the camera capturing his interactions with the elderly expert. His thoughts were calm, not at all aligning with his previous actions.
"There has been a minor but vocal group of concerned advocates," he mused. They accused the crew of crafting a grotesque snuff documentary, coercing him into their macabre spectacle, and they had been gaining a little momentum recently. He was not surprised at that. There were many people like Johnson, convinced he sought to profit from his demise, painting the production company as nefarious entities feeding on a "poor man's" despair like morally bankrupt, blood-sucking leeches.
However, even if he understood their intentions, he would not let them get in his way. One part of preventing that was convincing the public that he was doing this entirely of his own volition, which he did with this persona—a man who was a little deranged and crazy enough to do anything to get his fix. A man who otherwise would probably have died in a ditch somewhere by now. But instead, he was "given" the opportunity by the production company to make something of himself, rather than being a nameless nobody. A narrative that suited the company quite well.
"Though they are only partially right about that," he thought, a smile curling at the edge of his lips. He recalled his interactions with the executives, each one a seamless transaction that underscored a fundamental truth: That everyone was willing to cross their moral line if you pushed hard enough. And in a society as decayed as Haliwood, those lines were drawn closer than most.
"In this world, accumulating wealth or power often requires a dance with moral ambiguity. Success required navigating a landscape of manipulation and ruthlessness, where calculated cruelty was not a flaw but a distinguishing trait, separating the truly powerful from the inconsequential."
These truths were as natural as the inevitable decay of life, as inherent as the relentless passage of time. He clung to this belief with unwavering certainty. That beneath the veneer of their civilized mask, that they were all like him.
"Are you ready, Uzziel?" The announcer, Eric, called out, holding an air horn. The cameraman, Vale, followed closely, capturing every moment. Eric's voice jolted Uzziel from his thoughts.
"Yes," Uzziel responded tersely. He had waited long enough.
"Alright, jump when you hear the sound!" Eric instructed, raising his hand.
"3!" Uzziel tensed, focusing.
"2!" He steadied his breathing, heart pounding.
"1!" Muscles coiled, every nerve alert.
HOOONK!
And then he jumped.
Almost immediately, he plummeted straight down, losing control. His grip slipped, and his trajectory spiraled out of control!