A Morlock alert
A dark alley
A one sided fight
The Core's chosen method of killing a Morlock is a knife that has been soaked in the blood of an innocent. If you lose your knife during a fight with a Morlock, you're going to die. If you don't take your knife with you, knowing that you will be confronting a Morlock, you will die. And if you don't die, I will kick your head wide open for being dumb enough not to have your knife on your person at all times.
One kick to the side of his head and Chandler was down, his knife falling from floppy fingers as he struggled to get back onto his feet before the Morlock could strike another painful blow. Before the fight had even started the Morlock had bragged of his skill as a kick boxer, a kick boxer who knew how to throw one hell of a punch, his kicks just as painful. Chandler hadn't believed him because let's face it, Morlocks were known to lie. But now, Chandler wasn't only seeing stars, he was also seeing the truth.
Chandler blinked, his vision already blurry, and searched for his knife, for the Morlock. A few seconds later, his knife still lost, his fretful gaze not only found the Morlock but also the Morlock's boot: it was coming toward him so fast, Chandler didn't even have the time to wrap his arms around his body, to make a pathetic attempt to protect himself from further damage before the boot struck.
The boot slammed into Chandler's left side, forcing him onto his back and sucking the air from his lungs. Chandler wheezed as he fought to breathe, to get oxygen to his suddenly anorexic lungs. The Morlock stood over him, his right leg preparing to strike a third and possibly final time. Chandler reached outward with his right arm, trying to stop the inevitable. He stopped nothing, only delayed it.
The kick was fast, hard and extremely painful, a direct blow to Chandler's right kidney. Chandler screamed a colourful obscenity, his voice more hoarse than usual, cracking on a high note as he tried to pull his body away from the pain, to leave it behind him. But there wasn't time to wait for the pain to subside, for the Morlock to step back and allow Chandler to throw his own punch or his own kick to the Morlock's head. Chandler rolled onto his side, forced himself up onto his hands and knees and began to crawl – there's no shame in crawling – toward the alley's opening, toward Henry, toward safety.
He couldn't fail here because to fail would mean death. Chandler wasn't sure he wanted to die again, but he would welcome death because this time it would bring him closer to his wife . . . unless, of course, the powers that be decide to send him straight to hell without the chance of judgment. But death now, death at the hands of a Morlock, it would be worse than going to hell, worse than never seeing his dead wife again.
If a Core agent is killed by a Morlock, he will become a Morlock. So, my suggestion to Chandler . . . don't die.
Chandler felt the weight on his back before he was forced back down, the side of his face scraping against the alley's rubbish ridden floor, his right arm caught beneath him. He tried to push back, to force the Morlock off his back but the attempt was weak at best, his energy drained, his muscles trembling with pain and exhaustion. A glancing blow to the back of his head left his mind reeling, feeling as though it were teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to fall.
Looks like Chandler is getting his ass kicked from one end of the alley to the other. If he'd remembered my Morlock killing tips he wouldn't be getting an ass kicking.
Still in an alley
Still a one sided fight
Ready to lose consciousness
Morlock – 4
Chandler – 0
Chandler could feel his consciousness waning, see the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision, his mind unbalanced as it began to fall from the cliff into the unknown depths below. It was as though he were drowning, struggling to reach the surface for that life saving breath. Above him he could see a light, dim, shrouded in darkness. In the light was a figure, an outline of a human form, fluttering in and out, there one minute, gone the next. Chandler reached toward it, his shoulder straining with the effort, his fingers stretching beyond their endurance. He was so close . . .
Another brutal kick to the side brought him painfully back to the real world. Chandler groaned in protest and curled in on himself, his body giving up and his mind on the verge of losing consciousness. He forced his eyes open, struggled to keep them open, again looking, searching for something, someone, a life line that could save him from a fate worse than death.
There, before him, standing in the opening of the alley, a figure, the outline of another person silhouetted against the light. The same figure he had seen only moments before during his desent into darkness. An angel. His life line. He knew the big man upstairs wouldn't deny him, wouldn't allow him to become a Morlock, wouldn't keep him from his wife.
An angel? If you ask me, Chandler's had one too many kicks to the head.
Another kick, forcing Chandler to uncurl, to arch his back away from the blow. It left him open to more brutality. A hand reached down for him, grabbing a handful of his jacket, pulling him to unsteady feet. His knees wouldn't lock, couldn't support his weight and he went down, the only thing stopping the back of his head from cracking against the ground was the Morlock.
It grinned at him, its teeth razor sharp.
Chandler kicked out at the Morlock, the attempt weak and useless, missing the Morlock by at least three inches. The Morlock didn't miss, the short jab slamming against Chandler's right cheek, opening the flesh. Chandler could feel the blood, a blanket of warmth against cool flesh. It ran like a river, pooling in his ear. He wanted to shake his head, like a dog, shake the blood out.
The Morlock let go and raised himself to his full height, lifted his right leg and brought it down on Chandler's chest. Chandler didn't even have the breath to swear, to cry out in pain because, god damn, that had hurt like a mother fucker. He was sure something cracked, a bone broken. His eyes watered, his body wept, the pain so bad.
Through a veil of tears Chandler could see a figure towering over the Morlock, arm raised, poised to strike, a glint of metal in its hand. The figure struck, the knife entering the Morlock's back, once, twice, a third and final time. The Morlock fell.
"Eye of the tiger, baby," said Henry McNeil.
Henry. Chandler's angel, his life line. Henry had saved his worthless hide again. Chandler was never going to hear the end of it.
Morlock – 8
Chandler – 0
Henry – 1
Deacon Jone's Morlock Killing Tips #2. If you have to defend yourself against a Morlock, don't strike once and then pause. Continue to follow-up until you have killed the Morlock. If you don't, the Morlock is going to kill you and you know what happens if a Morlock kills a Core agent. Don't make me smack you upside the head to remind you.