35 (Second Part)

Red and black. Interchanging. Red squares. Black rectangles. Swapping every second. Red squares and black rectangles and... Yellow triangles. Creating and destroying themselves, in a cube whose lines are infinite chains.

Smell and taste smoke. A deafening roar. But the worst thing is the weight. It pushes him, crushes him. His body creaks, his head threatens to explode. The pressure wants to pulverize him, deform him. And it succeeds... Otherwise, why does he feel his skull protruding from his chest?

Chester resists. He remembers who he is, and his reasons for fighting. Though the red and black persist, he tells himself that he is sitting in a booth, whole and healthy, and nothing he sees is real.

The red square grows and covers everything. The black rectangle changes to a long snout. The yellow triangles are now a pair of fierce eyes. The colossal beast opens its maw and reveals a throat of fire. The Lancasterian's chest burns, and he wants to blink, because his eyes burn, and he wants to flee, because his brain boils.

He screams, but not from fear, the beast would devour him. He gathers every ounce of determination to scream with fury, with courage, and threatens the Crocodile that if it continues to resist him, he will fuck his mother.

...

"Go on and I'll fuck your mothers!" Erika shouts before firing another rifle blast into the duct. The slavers retreat. The German seeks to continue firing, but the trigger stops responding. She clicks her tongue, throws the unloaded rifle to the ground, goes to Chester and removes the magnum from his thong. Erika doesn't notice that the swordsman has calmed down, but Ash warns him.

Chester's gaze is serene and determined. His posture abandoned any tension. He shows focus, but where...? The Lancaster's attention and senses go far beyond the titanium of the cockpit.

...

His body is slow, heavy, stiff, crushed with power. Every muscle is encased in metal blocks. Chains slow his near-zero movement. Does that mean he's weak? Not at all. Chester for a moment believes he is the avatar of strength itself.

He is not fooled, such ideas are an illusion. He senses appendages on the shoulders, explosive fire on the left, and when he opens and closes the right limb, the five GAU-8 Avengers spin with an electric hiss.

360 degrees of vision allows it to locate the scaling slavers. They are like ants, if you didn't see them you wouldn't even know they existed. He slides the heavy cannons like extra thumbs over his head, but the maneuvering range is meager. Is it because of the rustic engineering, or because the Crocodile still resists?

(I admit, I don't own you. But cooperate, come on. I know you yearn to dish out pain)

He fires all three cannons at once. A large portion of ceiling collapses outward, revealing the sky. Chains, plates, catwalks, and chunks of concrete, fall to crush vehicles and hapless chainmen. The slavers attached to the Crocodile are sent flying by the shockwave and embedded in the walls, floors, and pillars, their bodies turned into impossible anatomical positions. Those who surrounded the Crocodile without touching it are knocked down with their eardrums shattered. The rest simply fall on their asses.

A hush falls over the skirmish, and this is broken only by the movement (limited by drag chains) of the devil's hand. Chester, grinning from ear to ear, aims and fires at the slaver arsenal, and those hiding there. Wherever the Lancaster directs fingers, death rains down from five glowing torches. Each rotating cylinder has 7 cannons (Total 35) of 30mm caliber, with a rate of 4200 rounds per minute. The beer-bottle sized shells turn tanks and armored vehicles into smoldering, smoking scrap metal. The people? Totally vaporized, with nothing to bury.

Faced with this divine power, the slavers flee in all directions. The ammunition that fails, shakes the reinforced wall in the background that, after half a minute of punishment, collapses in a dusty cloud. The bullets follow outside, killing pedestrians and street vendors on their way, and embedding themselves in nearby shops and houses. Families having dinner peacefully, or people enjoying their onanistic hour in front of the computer, are surprised by projectiles that destroy walls and turn human beings into nothing.

Screams, confusion, roar, and crying. An entire wing of buildings collapses under the attack coming from the workshop. Several wallets end up overturned, their contents turned into red juice. When the destruction reaches gasoline and gas tanks, they become raging fires that cover and kill where bullets cannot reach.

Those Australians, tough and accustomed to dominate, do not even think of attacking, they only flee from the blast, driven by fear. Over their heads, coming from the gap in the workshop, missiles whistle and hit like drumbeats. The bombardment is like the law: it blinds.

Amidst the fire and smoke, escaped slaves murder their masters and free their comrades. Several chainmen try to regain control by waving their whips, but nothing stops the human wave that corners them and tears them apart with their bare hands, proceeding to raise the torn limbs as if they were trophies. From the infernal noise a scoop is sung:

Long live freedom! Long live the Lancasterian!