Cold Fire: The wake of Cold Zero


Imagine. A thundering rush of sound and vibration rattles through the very fabric of your person, a storm of earthquakes and tremors that bang on an otherwise extremely thick and tough hide. You've been plummeting for seconds now, at a vomit inducing speed, pure nausea and shock roaring in a shell of cold, shelled, steel. You are blinded, in a dark center of shadow, the rumbling of the atmosphere burning at the hard-drop's coating your only symphony, and all is a deadly pause, anxiety to wait for impact. You breathe slowly, the streamlined helmet that covers the top half of your skull, a black reptilian visage inhaling within it, provides you with the distance check of your landing, artificial wires and metallic hinges driving electron sensors straight into your brain.

It's suffocating. What waits below you is massacre and carnage. Burning flesh combined with the malodorous scent of stagnant iron and hot metal are the scents of war. Blood spilled askew, coating the ground in an ocean of scarlet red, along with loose heads, torn ligaments, leaking intestines, tatters of bone and teeth, with screams of agony unimaginable ready to reap themselves through your eyes and sound receptors, and every last second of it will be remembered. It's recorded. Where it ends, there is no answer, for none can exist. One side will burn, and from the ashes, like the incarnation of victory, the warriors will stand, bodies pulsing with the fuel of adrenalin and death.

It grows closer. You snort with a strange confidence, and you loosen your arms, your back attached to the life-support system of the hard-drop, a deadly weapon of a true killing artist resting without emotion to your side. Your jaw twitches, your fists tighten, and your eyes continue to go through spells of closing and opening, your enhanced mind creating a thought process of combat from recorded battles in the past, twinging at the electronic buzz of old horrors. And yet, for some reason, you suddenly desire the bloodshed, the mutilating, the great sensation of ending life in rapid succession. You know, for you feel your fangs dripping with hungrily ignited saliva.

A sound chinks. It was a warning, the final notation of inedible death awaiting all whom faced its grey cackling, and you feel the hard-drop hull lurch. The speed of your descent gives way to reverse thrusters fighting back the fierce rip of gravity, and it shatters through the atmosphere, miles speeding through without stopping. It is almost here, the ground growing closer and closer, your nerves affixing to a new sensation, distorting all fear and sickness, replacing it with a numb rush of blood and anger. How long have these aching dreams lasted?


He can't escape it. He was designed for it, engineered from superior combat DNA and sensory organs, amplified with artificial augmentations of machine and electron. His tar black skin, a hide of tough flesh that could resist a heavy impact of otherwise killing proportion, was hidden behind a shining-though scarred and burned-white plating of chassis armor covering most areas of his body. The unguarded areas were strapped heavily with a neuron suit, channeled perfectly to his brain and spine, jolts of electricity pumping into him when danger was present. A reptilian-like head resided to fabricate with a thick neck, long and forwarded (some 11 inches), piercing eyes on its sides, a mixture of blood red and yellow.

What was he designed for, you ask? War. War was his brother. He was made, generated, built, cloned, for such a thing as that nightmare. He was the sacrosanct vessel of its arms and blades, merciless, intelligent, tormenting, endless in new and vigorous ways to eliminate the enemy. There were not many of his kind, only sixty to be precise (of this augmented state, mind you), leaders and battle-engines. Once his existence was seen on the field, all hope erupted for his kind and soldiers, as victory appeared imminent. Perhaps, with wild exaggeration, he could even come as a Juggernaut, unstoppable, unbreakable, but this was left to legend. Fear pulsed from him, from those myths and legends, and he fed from it, every drop of it, consuming it, devouring it, as a monster would.

The engine of War.

He did have a name. There were many different forms of it, codes, titles, words, nicknames, alias', and his own personal name. Of the Ixai Bio-Generation Military Facility, Station 12, his title here was "IHW-56/CZ/R-89", commonly H-56. In combat, very frequently, his title remained to be "Breaker 56", and so on and so forth. The enemy called him things, soldiers of his own side did so as well, but all in all, the Ixai hybrid preferred his name in actuality. Cold Zero. From 'birth', no mother stood there to give names, no father to whisper in soft tongue, just the cold sting of a metallic hook dragging a soldier from his embryo pit, ready to be constructed in the armory. But there was a particular definition Cold Zero had found, of his language, of course.

His name, 'Cold Zero', subsequently had a primary meaning in the Ixai world, meaning in common term: "The biological elimination of a cellular structure with the use of extremely low temperatures". He had smirked at that knowledge. A sub-negative chill that could usurp bodies and destroy them from the inside out. It was as though War itself was a body, and the Ixai hybrid happened to be that so called 'negative chill'.

It all amounted to this, though. The shockwave of a blast tremor was only seconds away, and the hull of the hard-drop had been easily weakened from the searing of the hungry friction that had been tearing away at the fresh and raw steel for the past minute. Time was always against him, Cold Zero. He did not fear warfare, but the waning sand of the hourglass only seemed to rapidly speed up when a sudden death-zone was near. Perhaps it was because it was such thrill...

Journal Break/ E-34/IHR-7/Mode 3

"The regiment base of Tarcas, one of the harshest places for military training. I had heard so many stories about the horrors of its tactics on the inside, of how brutal the punishment was for failure. Though, I thought all Ixai training was like that. At any rate, it had fallen under assault, from Black Hope , no doubt, and through the past weeks, it had slowly been weakened from a constant strategy of wave after wave of strikes. Tarcas was a base that the regiment of the Ixai Empire could not afford to lose, as hated as it was, and due to the annoying prod of Black Hope, I had to personally see to its safety and survival.

My orders were quite simple, as usual: simply to hard-drop with a package group of veteran Ixai soldiers, repel the assaulting Black Hope enforcement, and dismember their attack strength by eliminating all opposing leaders. Easy enough. Though Black Hope had summed up quite a bit of courage lately, and attacking Tarcas was a perfect example.

I was rather forward looking to tear off their hair covered faces and loosening out their innards."

Journal Break/Completion E-34