"Roger, what course of action shall we take?" George inquired in a hushed tone.
"I comprehend—haha, I have finally deciphered it!"
"Deciphered what?"
"I understand the nature of the ability granted by that fruit I consumed. Come, take your seat. We are departing."
"Are you mad?" George's eyes widened, gesturing towards the severed bridge ahead. "The bridge is broken. Are you suggesting that your motorcycle possesses the capacity for flight?"
Ahead lay a vast sea-spanning bridge. The central section was submerged in the water, the bridge having been demolished, leaving a gaping chasm. It was not a distance that could be traversed by a mere acceleration of a few meters.
"Ah, my motorcycle cannot take flight, but it can traverse the surface of the water," Roger replied, indicating the sea.
Traverse the water?!
Before George could react, Roger had twisted the throttle to its maximum extent. The Hell Cycle emitted a roar and, with audacious disregard for the laws of physics, plunged into the water.
Before the astonished officers on the shore could fully comprehend what had transpired, the water gurgled, a plume of bubbles arose, and a Hell Cycle, wreathed in flames, surged forth from the depths.
Boom!—
The Hell Cycle floated upon the surface of the water. Subsequently, the two tires, blazing with infernal fire, propelled it forward with the velocity of a speedboat.
"Aaaaargh—" Once clear of the water, George emitted a piercing shriek, as though to release the pent-up terror within his breast.
It was not that he had been submerged and had swallowed water, nor was it that Roger, too, was wreathed in flames. He had been mentally prepared for the fire-spouting motorcycle. But now—
The Roger at the helm of the motorcycle had transformed into a skeletal apparition, his flowing locks – or, more accurately, his flowing flames – whipping in the wind.
The scene was utterly horrific. A skeleton driving a motorcycle, carrying him on a desperate flight. Was this not a scene from a nightmare?
"Cease your clamor, Officer George. You comport yourself like a maiden. Your shrieks are deafening me."
"Monster... Wait, are you Roger?!"
The skeletal head turned, regarding George with an expression of mournful grievance. The fleshless jawbone clacked.
"Who else, unfortunate soul that I am, entered the magic mirror with you?"
"You... How did you become thus? Your appearance is... is utterly terrifying."
"Alas..." The skeletal head gazed skyward with a semblance of sorrowful reminiscence.
"This is the consequence of my arduous training, my relentless efforts to enhance my control. Other superheroes, they are blessed with the physique of Captain America, or with suits of impenetrable iron, or, at the very least, the ability to project strands of adhesive webbing. But I? I am transformed into a skeletal specter."
"Were a maiden to discover my true identity, any prospect of courtship would be irrevocably dashed. The mere sight of this skeletal visage would send her fleeing in terror."
Seeing Roger's descent into self-pity, his discourse veering increasingly off-course, even to the point of neglecting the operation of the motorcycle, George, overcoming his fear, felt compelled to offer consolation.
"That is not necessarily so. Your transformed appearance... in truth, it possesses a certain... panache. There will be women who find it appealing." He added silently, I should think so.
"Truly? You are not deceiving me?" The flaming skull turned, nearly pressing against George's face.
"Aaaaargh—" George, confronted by this horrifying skeletal countenance, was so startled that he tumbled into the water. Fortunately, a bony claw seized him, hauling him back aboard the blazing motorcycle.
His composure shattered, George could only see the skeletal head gazing at him with mournful grievance.
"Perhaps... perhaps if a woman became accustomed to your presence, she might find someone who appreciates you. I am a man; my aversion to you is entirely natural."
"Ahem, let us not dwell upon this matter. Roger, observe. Helicopters approach from the sky. It is likely they will resort to aggression. Do you have any recourse?"
Two helicopters, initially circling above, had now increased to four, and were rapidly approaching Roger and George.
The speed of a motorcycle, however swift, could not rival that of an aircraft. Observing the helicopters drawing ever closer, George once again grew anxious.
"Here. Take this firearm. Employ your ability, and direct your fire upon the helicopters."
Roger produced his prized possession, the Winchester Model 1887 shotgun. Indeed, it was the very weapon favored by the Terminator, Arnold. He had selected this firearm for no other reason than its perceived coolness when paired with a motorcycle and sunglasses, projecting an aura of style.
"What? Are you mistaken? Am I to employ this to bring down a helicopter?" It was not that George lacked faith, but rather that, while this firearm possessed considerable power, it was hardly suited to aerial combat.
"Have you forgotten the fruits gifted by Ajay? I surmise that your ability pertains to aiming, or something of that nature. Simply discharge the weapon; I shall provide assistance," Roger shouted.
"Assistance? What is the nature of the ability granted by your fruit, Roger?" George inquired, curiosity piqued.
"You shall witness it once you fire—" Roger replied with a smirk.
George took up the Model 1887, aiming at one of the helicopters. Roger, meanwhile, placed a hand upon the shotgun's barrel.
Bang!
George discharged the weapon. A projectile, imbued with Roger's enchantment, erupted from the muzzle, expanding as it flew, ultimately transforming into a metallic sphere with a diameter of one meter. It struck the helicopter directly, causing a resounding explosion, reducing the aircraft to a ball of fire.
Struck by a one-meter-diameter enchanted iron sphere, not even fragments of the aircraft remained, only cinders.
"What in blazes? Roger, what manner of firearm is this?" George gazed in astonishment at the Winchester Model 1887 in his hands.
It appeared to be not a shotgun, but rather a naval cannon.
"Hehe, I have only just discovered it. The fruit I consumed, it possesses no practical ability of its own, merely amplification. I had not anticipated that the projectile would expand so dramatically. I had merely surmised that its velocity and destructive power would be enhanced."
Roger was delighted. This amplification, though seemingly useless on its own... Applying it to a rifle, or a cannon... Now that would be something. And if multiple girls...
Inadvertently, a droplet of flaming saliva escaped his jaws, falling into the water and eliciting a small puff of steam—
Had George been privy to Roger's current thoughts, he would undoubtedly have uttered a resounding "Bah!". Amplification applied to a rifle or cannon would result in a far more potent effect. What first came to your mind was a girl?!
"There remain several aircraft. Damn, they are opening fire! Take cover—" Before George could even finish aiming, one of the attack helicopters commenced firing.
Dat, dat, dat, dat!
A heavy machine gun, with a caliber exceeding 10mm, unleashed a hail of bullets upon the water's surface.
But for a motorcycle that had matured and learned to steer itself, this posed no difficulty.
The Hell Cycle, with its infernal flames, weaved left and right, evading every bullet fired by the attack helicopter.
In truth, even had they been struck, Roger would have been unharmed. He possessed the protection of various devils and demons, coupled with the Ghost Rider's inherent immortality. Unless he were to be utterly disintegrated by a missile of immense power, death was beyond him.
But George was vulnerable...
"Do not be distracted. Commence firing—" Roger urged, his own marksmanship being, in truth, merely adequate.
He was no sharpshooter, though he was not entirely inept. Striking a helicopter in rapid, erratic flight from this distance presented a considerable challenge.
"It is difficult to acquire a proper aim. The motorcycle's velocity is excessive. I cannot achieve a steady targeting," George responded.
"The excrement-shaped fruit you consumed, it should bestow upon you an innate aiming ability. Focus your will. It will undoubtedly succeed."
"I will attempt it, then."
George, enduring the erratic movements, disregarded the need for precise aiming. Concentrating his will, he discharged the weapon.
Upon firing the shotgun, an immense leaden sphere materialized in mid-air, yet its velocity remained undiminished. This time, the helicopter proved more fortunate, being struck only in its midsection, causing it to disintegrate, rather than being reduced to mere cinders.
"Yes—I struck it!" George, triumphant, clenched a fist and raised it skyward.
Subsequently, employing the same method, he focused his intent upon the two remaining helicopters, firing once at each. Two fireballs erupted in the heavens, and all aerial pursuers were vanquished.
Roger's skeletal head swiveled to regard George, his expression devoid of emotion. "I believe you are exulting prematurely. Invariably, the antagonist, the ultimate boss, makes his appearance only at the denouement..."
————
"Worthless! An utter assemblage of imbeciles—" Carmack raged.
He recalled his days as an officer. Had the entirety of the New York Police Department been so utterly incompetent, the metropolis would long since have devolved into a wasteland.
Could it truly be that his fellow people of color were so hopelessly inept?
Carmack covered his face in despair. Was this utopian nation, fashioned with his own countrymen as the ruling elite, so utterly unsustainable?
Was he to permit two individuals to simply saunter forth from his domain? Unthinkable.
Carmack had made an exception. He would invoke his prerogatives.
"Roger, you stated that he might resort to more drastic measures?"
"Undoubtedly. Bear in mind, Sally was capable of conjuring Godzilla and Superman. Carmack, at the very least, has witnessed a number of cinematic productions, has he not? It is entirely plausible that he might summon forth a few individuals to impede our progress."
Scarcely had Roger uttered these words when a roaring filled the heavens. Several fighter jets soared into view from afar.
George: "....."
Roger: "....."
A veritable flock of crows, he thought. What he spoke of, invariably materialized. Roger yearned to slap his own face.
He would have preferred the appearance of the Flash, Barry Allen, over a squadron of fighter jets.
For while superheroes excelled in melee combat, his Hellfire remained a potent counter to their souls. These aircraft, however, presented a more formidable challenge.
Were he to be struck by a missile, his skeletal remains would be utterly obliterated.
Instantaneously, Roger resolved to take to the ground, eschewing the waterways.
The Hell Cycle immediately comprehended its master's intent, veering towards the shore and charging directly into the modern cityscape.
As they were on the verge of reaching the shore, the fighter jets unleashed their first volley of missiles. Two projectiles, trailing plumes of fire, hurtled towards Roger.
Roger executed a sharp turn, evading one. However, the missile's velocity was excessive. The second missile detonated in the sea nearby, generating a colossal wave.
The Hell Cycle, caught in the surge, was propelled skyward, tracing a fiery arc through the air before landing securely upon the solid ground.
"Roger, we must seek cover amidst the surrounding structures, eluding the fighter jets' visual range," George shouted.
"I am aware. Presently, I will locate a suitable vantage point. You will then target and eliminate those aircraft."
Roger navigated a series of convoluted turns, entering a district of towering skyscrapers, enacting a scene reminiscent of Speed and Passion.
Thereupon, several more missiles were launched, instantly obliterating an entire building.
The thunderous collapse of the structure, coupled with the cries of the fleeing populace, instilled in George a profound sense of guilt.
Though he knew these beings were mere fabrications, in their own perceived reality, might they not be real?
"Roger, hasten! Find a location to halt. I must deal with these merciless scoundrels."
Seeing George's eyes, brimming with a fury that seemed on the verge of eruption.
"Very well. Hold tight, esteemed passenger. The Hell Cycle Express shall now convey you to a skyscraper rooftop, to engage in aerial combat." Roger surveyed his surroundings.
Twisting the throttle, the motorcycle emitted a roar, and began to charge to a tall building.
"Hey, hey, hey, Roger, what are you doing? That is a wall."
"Hold tight. We are ascending—"
Boom! With a resounding crash, the rear of the Hell Cycle transformed, extending two exhaust pipes that erupted in a torrent of flames.
Roger, piloting the motorcycle, charged directly from the ground towards the skyscraper. Upon impacting the wall, he executed a turn, driving diagonally upwards, then accelerating, soaring towards the heavens.
"Aaaaargh—" George had never in his life experienced such a thrill, not even on a roller coaster, as riding a motorcycle up the side of a skyscraper.
The building and the ground formed a 90-degree angle. They were, in effect, scaling a wall. What was more preposterous was that the Hell Cycle's tires maintained a firm grip upon the building's façade. Newton, had he witnessed this, would likely have been unable to contain his astonishment...
The realm of magic, it seemed, was inherently illogical, defying the constraints of science.
George's hands had nowhere to grasp. He could only cling desperately to Roger's waist, his legs clamping tightly around the motorcycle, never daring to relax his grip, fearing that a single lapse in concentration would send him plummeting to his death.
The Hell Cycle's velocity was extraordinary, exceeding 300 kilometers per hour, surpassing even the fastest Ferrari. In mere tens of seconds, it conveyed Roger and George to the rooftop.
"Huff... Huff..." George, his countenance ashen from the simulated roller coaster ride, staggered off the motorcycle, his legs unsteady.
The sensation of solid ground beneath his feet finally brought him a sense of returning to the mortal realm.
"Hehe, my friend, you resemble a spent force who has just engaged in a protracted bout of amorous exertion with ten women," Roger quipped.
"Upon our return, I will never again ride your motorcycle, not even if it means my death."
"Very well. Those fighter jets are still searching for us. Let us proceed with the task at hand."
Retrieving the shotgun, George inquired, "Roger, do you possess no other weaponry? I perceive that you are capable of concealing a considerable quantity of items upon your person."
Motorcycles, shotguns, pistols, luggage – it seemed as though Roger's pockets could accommodate an inexhaustible supply, prompting his curiosity.
"Regrettably, I did not prepare an extensive arsenal. My usual assignments do not involve slaying individuals or engaging in aerial combat, but rather exorcising demons," Roger replied apologetically.
"Thus, I did not equip myself with a diverse array of weaponry."
Very well, then. A shotgun would suffice to engage the fighter jets...
Roger produced another type of ammunition, the small steel pellets.
And then, the two once again commenced their collaboration. One provided enchantment, the other aimed, awaiting the next pass of the fighter jets.
At long last, several fighter jets, flying at low altitude in search of Roger, passed by the building where they were situated.
"Now is the moment—"
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
George fired several rounds in rapid succession. The projectiles, under Roger's amplification, expanded in mid-flight to an immense size, yet their velocity remained undiminished.
The sky was instantly filled with a dense cloud of basketball-sized steel pellets. The several fighter jets had no opportunity to evade.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Support me with comments , reviews and powerstones