Chapter Four

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘎𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘵, 1998

"Come on! You can do better than that!" the Suit barked. While agents of the recently founded Armament Society sprinted past columns of white-hot flame and careering projectiles, the Suit stood watching from an elevated balcony. Back then, he was noticeably younger compared to his octogenarian years. His onyx-black hair, streaked with rows of grey, was hidden underneath an inky black bowler hat, his youthful skin a satisfying tan. He still remained remarkably spry, despite his age, and was a laudable director for the Armament Society's personnel. 1998 was the hilt of the Society's golden age, leading to fortune and success. Nonetheless, success could not be achieved without the right pawns, or the right king. Hence why the Suit had to test his pawns before sending them into the line of fire. The Gauntlet was a strategically designed chamber implemented with possibly pernicious contraptions to measure the soon-to-be agents' capabilities. Those who could pass would succeed, and those who could not were not as fortunate as others. The Suit effectively damned all consequences, believing that the risks were worth the rewards, something that others regularly berated him for.

"You got the pick of the litter, huh? UFC, Marines, CIA. Feeding off of other supplies. I thought better of you, Suit."

"Sergeant," the Suit said, nodding at his guest.

"Please. After everything we went through back in Vietnam, the Korean War, you at least deserve to call me Russell."

"Is that so, Sergeant Chamberlain? What we went through? Or what happened to me?" the Suit sneered.

"Touche. But you made it out of there alive. Your captors, not so much."

"What do you want, Sergeant?"

Chamberlain heaved a deep sigh, looking down from the balcony at the Gauntlet's painstaking competitors. Each agent was clad in head-to-toe Kevlar, complete with a protracting shield, wrist-mounted flexor guns and a mandatory gas mask. The gas masks were the Armament Society's signature paraphernalia, which earned its agents the nickname of the "Sandmen", similar to how the Navy SEALs were dubbed the Frogmen. Unsurprisingly, the Suit disapproved greatly of this, stating that the Armament Society's agents were undeserving of being likened to mythological dramatis personae.

"I want to see which of your fighters have the most potential. The Army's given me a higher rank. E-9."

"Sergeant Major," the Suit interrupted.

"That's right. Therefore, I'm no longer deployed here. No longer head of security."

"Which is why I'll have to find you a replacement. Ah, well. I find myself neutral in this situation. But I have to say, it'll be hard to match your expertise."

"The Suit finally admits Sergeant Russell Chamberlain's got skills. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Don't let it go to your head," the Suit said. "I'll find a replacement for you soon enough."

As Chamberlain left, the Suit's attention was drawn back to the Gauntlet, agents scrambling to cross a gaping, pitch-black hole in the floor. His focus was then directed to one particular agent, tall, muscular, clad in a tight-fitting Armament Society outfit. The agent leapt the void with surprising ease, dodging a hurricane of projectile throwing knives once alighting on the other side. The Suit grinned, even letting out a slight chuckle. He had found his new Head of Security.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘙𝘰𝘰𝘮, 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺

Even though the Gauntlet tested the agents' bravery and determination, the Suit was still required to instruct his employees, and improve their capabilities. The training room was packed with several mats and machines; treadmills, stationary bicycles, elliptical machines, seated chest presses and, naturally, punching bags. In addition to the Society's lavish use of gym paraphernalia, the Suit also ensured the inclusion of a juice bar, which also displayed an array of various snacks. Nevertheless, the Suit's objective was not to pamper his trainees. It was to see which agents cared less about luxuries and more about maximizing performance.

The Suit stood tall in a firm fighting position, mercilessly throwing strikes at a punching dummy. To place emotion and motivation behind his fists, the Suit imagined someone of great annoyance to him, someone he would daydream of punching behind gritted teeth. He would release all that anger and use it to empower his knuckles. Brute strength was not enough. Sometimes, rage was necessary.

"Mr. Suit?" the Suit's secretary called from the doorway.

"Hey, if this is about the Van Gogh, tell Myles that-",

"No, sir. It's Mr. Pedersen. You asked to meet with him earlier today."

"Ah. Let him in."

Even in the Norwegian's early twenties, he was already nearly the height of the doorway. He was clothed in a tight-fitting, light brown turtleneck sweater, his muscles bulging from underneath. His footsteps were amplified by his boots, heavy black leather dotted with studs. A thick goatee lined Pedersen's jawline, a grey beanie containing his locks of brown hair. Pedersen lumbered in as the Suit's secretary scurried out the door.

"Welcome, Mr. Pedersen. You're much taller up close."

Pedersen chuckled. "So I've heard. What was that about a Van Gogh?"

The Suit sighed. "Ah, a former lumberjack like you must know that in business, some requirements are certainly less than lawful. Now, regardless, the reason I called you here was because I wanted to discuss something with you."

"Oh?"

"Sergeant Chamberlain came to me with word of his resignation this afternoon. Quite the tragedy, isn't it?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Therefore, I will require a replacement. A new Head of Security."

Pedersen paused to think. "So you're considering giving me the job?"

The Suit analyzed Pedersen, looking him up and down, sucking his teeth.

"Have you heard of commotio cordis?"

Pedersen paused, remaining silent, prompting the Suit to elaborate.

"Commotio cordis is a phenomenon in which, without cardiac injury, a sudden impact to the chest results in death. In Chinese martial arts, they call it 'Dim Mak'. The touch of death."

"Instant death upon single contact can be achieved?" Pedersen enquired.

"Oh, yes. I've developed my own way of achieving it, in fact. The Suit of Death. Begin with a knifehand strike, sharp and deadly. Get down low, perform a front sweep, couple that with a roundhouse kick and then, and only then, are you ready to deliver the coup de grace."

"And that is?"

"The overhand. Deliver it with precise speed, force and trajectory in your opponent's chest area, preferably right between their ribs. Your opponent's been battered and beaten, and this piece de resistance is what you need to end the fight."

"That is fascinating, but need I remind you, I'm no killer, sir."

"That's what you start off with. A code. You start off thinking that you can achieve your objectives without killing. But, as Friedrich Nietzsche said, 'Battle not with monsters, lest you become a monster.' That is the price of battling monsters. You have to be ready for anything."

"That's a pretty cynical view."

"Cynicism is a skill," the Suit chided. "Who knows, it might just save your neck on the battlefield."

Pedersen's attention drifted to a sheathed blade resting on a shelf, emblazoned with Japanese lettering.

"Where did you get that?"

"It was a gift from my sensei back in Kyoto. Legend has it that it belonged to Tokugawa Ieyasu himself. Its name, アマーノーハバキリ (Ame no Habakiri)."

"Meaning?"

The Suit shrugged with a slight chuckle.

"You know, a lot of people called the Japanese shogun ruthless. The worst of the Sengoku area. He and his allies started a war, killed hundreds of thousands of people, even killed his own family. But the fact of the matter is that Tokugawa did everything necessary for the greater good. People disliked him greatly because he opposed peace. People wanted peace so that they could flourish in their ignorance. The truth is, peace is momentary. It's simply the hiatus, if you will, between even greater conflicts."

Pedersen froze, stupefied. "You-you really think killing someone's family is necessary?"

The Suit was unfazed. "Yes. Why, yes, of course! Tokugawa had to. He had to maintain closeness with his ally. He was an astute politician, a noted leader. His judgment is not one to be questioned. And neither is mine. You should know that, Mr. Pedersen."

The Suit's watch began to beep rapidly, signaling that it was a new hour. 24:00.

"Oh, dear. Look at the time. Mr. Pedersen, we will discuss the position further tomorrow. For now, get some rest. But remember what I said. Doing whatever is necessary for survival is the best quality."

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯, 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘋𝘢𝘺

Those exact words still echoed in Pedersen's head. Anything necessary for survival. And what exactly was that? 'Anything' was a broad category, which was exactly what frightened Pedersen. The fact that the Suit would do anything to uphold survival. And he was more than capable. The stories did not lie. The Suit and his team's trip to Panama resulted in a bloodbath before they came toe-to-toe with Noriega. If anything were to threaten the Suit's survival at the very least, the Suit would hit back twice as hard. It was this that made Pedersen wonder; what if that 'something' was him? What if he, unwittingly, of course, insulted the Suit's honor or threatened his survival? The Suit's morals had been unclear thus far. To him, there was no clear line between black and white. It was all grey. Would the Suit hurt someone that he'd known for years? His friend? At that thought, Pedersen paused. Was he even the Suit's friend? The Suit had been like a mentor to him, guiding him, training him. But had they really had the friendship that Pedersen thought they did? The Suit was known for his immense paranoia, never being too close to anyone to the point where they were friends. According to him, he had 'too much at risk to simply perish.' There was no doubt that the Armament Society needed him. But if he was willing to kill to protect his reputation, to maintain power, what leader did that make him? Was he even a leader? Was he someone that Pedersen should trust, that he should follow? Pedersen had always had unwavering faith in the Suit, but had he been blind to the Suit's true colors all along? It was this that made him falter.

Pedersen stood sentry in front of a towering, stainless steel door. The cylindrical room had walls of reinforced steel, not a window in sight. The six subjects were languishing on the chamber's floor, still shackled in their prison-issued jumpsuits. All except for Adrianus, who stood by a vending machine, dressed in a bespoke suit. The Suit had always kept his history with Adrianus under wraps. Until now, Pedersen hadn't even heard of an Adrianus Adelram. Certainly not an "Eidolon" in Tokyo. Pedersen had been a veteran agent of the Armament Society, standing by the Suit for as long as he could remember. Of course, there had always been missions that he was excluded from, predominantly since he had more demanding priorities. But what higher priority level could there be than stopping a man armed with a density manipulating exoskeleton from wreaking havoc? Apart from that, Pedersen could clearly see that the Suit and Adelram had complicated, possibly unresolved beef. If they had had bad blood, how come Pedersen had never heard of such an incident? Why was it that it seemed as if Adelram had not existed until Project: Vortex? The Suit liked to keep many questions unanswered, but to Pedersen, this was of the utmost importance. Why did Pedersen know nothing of a terrorist, if he was so 'evil'? These were the questions that Pedersen simply couldn't wrap his mind around.

Adrianus pushed a coin into the machine's slot, ravenously collecting a bag of corn nuts from the compartment at the bottom of the machine. Voraciously, he tore the bag open and shuffled its contents into his mouth, gulping entire mouthfuls at once. Adrianus dropped the bag, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and strode over to the other side of the room, approaching a crestfallen Hugo.

"Hey. Hubert, right? Hubert Allen or something?"

"Actually, it's-it's Hugo," he protested. "Hugo Alden."

"Right, right. So, how's this feel, huh? Saving the world. I mean, it ought to get your blood pumping."

"Oh, yeah, of course. I can hardly wait."

Adrianus sighed, taking a seat next to him.

"Come on. What's going on? You know, I had a nephew before all this. Never had any kids of my own but, hey, at least I had experience."

Hugo chuckled.

"It's just that... Saving all these people, it brings back memories of the people I hurt."

Adrianus heaved a sharp sigh, drumming his fingers on his lap, his legs crossed.

"You want some advice, kid? Never look back. Okay, so you made some mistakes back then, but you have to damn the consequences and move on. There is always an upside to whatever mistake you made. You hacked into a bank? At least you got some money."

"It ruined my life."

"No," Adrianus interjected. "It didn't ruin your life. The Armament Society did. If you hadn't gotten caught, you wouldn't be here. If they hadn't caught you, you'd be wild and free with millions of dollars. None of us here pulled off a successful heist, or succeeded in whatever we tried to do. But we're still alive, and that's what matters. We can still get a second chance, you know. We save the world, they're giving us parole."

"Parole? We won't go back to jail?"

"You'd better believe it, kid. After this, you can go and do whatever you'd like. Just make sure to never make the same mistakes you made again. Don't let the cycle repeat itself. Even donkeys never fall into the same hole twice. From what I heard, you're a smart kid. Use your brain, then. Mind over matter, right?"

Hugo chuckled again, and Adrianus patted him on the back.

"Ah, you know what I miss? Before all the crime and everything, my life was simple. I was a researcher. I lived in a nice, secluded neighborhood in Tokyo, worked from nine to five. I'd come home and have some cup noodles, maybe a movie if I had the time. Everything played out the same every single day, 24/7. My life was predictable. I knew exactly what was going to happen tomorrow. And I liked predictable. But it was boring. Not much happened. Until I got fired. Then my life changed. You know what I learned from it?"

Hugo looked at Adrianus inquisitively.

"Always change something before something else changes it for you. That is the cost of survival."

Instantaneously, the doors to the chamber swung open, clearing a wide berth for the Suit. Pedersen and the other sentries stood rigid, their arms at their sides, nodding at the Suit.

"I guess that means we'd better get going," Adrianus said, helping Hugo up.

"Okay, everyone listen up!" the Suit bellowed. "We've given you time. Time to rest up and recuperate. Time to replenish your hunger and saturation. Time to muster up every bit of your courage for this mission. But now, now that time is up. Now is the time for you to do what you were meant to do. To save our world and everything in it. That starts today."

Adrianus jumped onto his feet, applauding uproariously.

"Heh. What a rousing speech, Suit. How exactly will we begin our little quest to save the Earth?"

"All that will be explained later. For now, none of you stand a chance without your toys."

All of the prisoners simultaneously stood upright weakly, gathering in an immaculate row.

"Which of you are ready to defend our world?"

With that, the prisoners released a sharp battle cry, succinct and ear-piercing. The Suit grinned from ear to ear, standing tall and nodding at Pedersen.

𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘈.𝘚., 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺

The Armament Society would not be called such if not for sufficient armaments. Over the years, the Armament Society had developed many cutting-edge weapons, used only in situations of the utmost importance. From advanced hydrogen bombs to high-performance fully electric laser weapon systems, the Society was nowhere near short of arms. Nevertheless, it was only logical to store these valuable accoutrements in a secure storage area, one that could be monitored and protected at all times. Hence why the Suit designed Fort A.S., a heavily manned fortress hidden in Jan Mayen, Norway, housing the Armament Society's armory, experimental laboratory, testing rooms and vehicle storage. The Society was nowhere near short of vehicles either. To maintain stealth, vehicles of extreme velocity was a requirement. The Suit ensured that for airborne missions, his deployed agents utilized a modified Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird, fitted with advanced fanjets and weapons array. After all, the Armament Society settled for nothing but the best. And to craft the best, they needed the best. Trusted mechanics and engineers, dubbed their "Armorers", to design and mass-produce their weaponry, vehicles and gear. The Armament Society-issued combat suits were. of course, produced by the Armorers, and fitted with only the latest technology, but included, but was not limited to, motion sensors detecting the efficiency of certain movements, for the purpose of enhancing performance in combat. The Armorers' job was no small task, but the results were not only satisfying, but highly rewarding, and high quality results were exactly what the Suit needed.

"Access, TS-01," the Suit said firmly.

"Welcome, Mr. Suit," a metallic voice cooed. The blast door slowly lifted upwards with a mechanical whir, clearing a wide berth for the Suit and the inmates, releasing mounds of smoke.

"My, my. What's this place?" Adrianus enquired.

The Suit paused and whirled around, spreading his arms wide with a slight grin on his face.

"This is the Armory. It's where the magic happens. This is where the Armament Society conceives and creates our ordnance. The future of humanity is what's being put together in this laboratory. However, not only do we construct our own weapons; we discard yours. But for this mission, you'll need them. Which is why I had them restored. Go on, take your pick."

Adrianus scurried over to the corner and began to polish his exoskeleton. After decades in storage, the alloy had began to accumulate rust. Adrianus spat on his embroidered handkerchief and gently dabbed it on the exosuit, refining the infested areas. Expectantly, Adrianus tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and turned to face Hugo.

"Mr. Alden. To what do I owe the absolute pleasure this time?"

Hugo sighed, staring up in awe at Adrianus' exoskeleton.

"Holy- Did you make this?"

Adrianus chuckled. "Every inch of this exosuit here was put together with my own hands. This is the true Eidolon. I was just its handler. This beauty was my ultimate brainchild, a collection of years of research and development. This reunion is like deja vu."

"That must be nice. I didn't have much back then. I was arrested for cybercrime and theft, so the only thing I had was my old PC and some nasty malware I cooked up."

"You must have been some hacker, huh?"

"I suppose. But sadly, this hacker doesn't have much to bring with him on this mission," Hugo sighed glumly, looking around at the other inmates collecting their accoutrements. Cyrus Tyson with an XL18 Flamethrower, Conrad Broderick with his signature mind control headset wrapped around his head.

Adrianus plucked an electric laser weapon from the wall, handing it to Hugo.

"Relax, kid. I have a plan that might save all of our necks. Well, mine. But you keep this up, and you might just prove invaluable. Hey, what was your callsign back when you were robbing banks with your computer?"

"I was the Silver BULL37. One shot delivers the coup de grace."

"That's smart. Yeah. Hey, chin up, Alden. Those morons can go on with this idiotic plan and die in the other side. I might as well enjoy my last moments on Earth."