20 minutes into the V-Day Attack.

Gabriel Woods stared at the crowd surging and pushing towards him, a primal fear coursing through his system, as the stampede of bodies barrelled down the London street, panicked and terrified.

Having rushed from Ryan “Jacket” Malik’s Croydon safe-house to London in the bomb-maker’s car, in a vain attempt to assist the SAS kill-teams already operating there, Woods was forced to abandon the car on the A23 when he saw the thousands of police checkpoints that blocked entry to London.

Slipping past surreptitiously the checkpoint, as policemen argued sternly with the hundreds of cars that were lining up, Woods made his way through the millions of alleyways that marked London’s cityscape, before finally entering the CBD properly after a long hour walk.

As he made his way through the city, he could hear the screams and echoes of gunfire. With his MP7A1, Glock 19 and warbelt looking decidedly terrifying, Gabriel wasn’t keen for anyone to see him, as he had no friendly identifying features on him.

As he rounded the corner of a street cautiously, it was then he was confronted with a crowd.

Falling back around the corner, Woods ducked into an alcove as the crowd kept running past him. No one saw the quiet assassin watching them, as they ran away in their fear. As he stepped out, one of the stragglers nearly collided into him, a petite woman clutching her arm and looking back in the direction she had came in horror.

She nearly screamed at the sight of Woods, but Woods was quicker, and with a firm but gentle grip, Woods slowly moved her around the corner, sat her down on the floor and said soothingly in a British accent

It’s OK. I’m UK Special Forces. I’m friendly. Here, let me look at that arm.

The petite woman was shaking heavily, the shock of a terrorist attack still apparent in her nervous system. Tears streaked down her cheeks, as she felt some semblance of relief at a soldier tending to her wound.

What’s your name? asked Woods softly, as he opened his first aid kit.

Liz. said the woman shakily. Woods nodded and smiled reassuringly.

Hi Liz. My name is George. I’m a medic with the 2nd Paras. We’ll have you patched up in no time OK? Just try to stay calm with me and not move too much OK? Everything is going to be alright Liz.

As Gabriel inspected the wound, a nasty piece of frag that had embedded itself in Liz’s arm, a tiny part of him marvelled at how quickly he had lied and created a false military persona. George from the 2nd Paras …. that was something he would have to tell Ashford later, so that the illustrious 2nd Battalion, Parachute Regiment, one of Britian’s first airborne troops units, founded in the Second World War, could prepare an appropriate story for the press.

It was a typical SAS ploy, to pass off their deeds to the Regiment where most of the SAS members had come from, and in most cases the Paras were all too happy to take the credit.

Gabriel looked at the piece of metal shrapnel that had lodged itself in this attractive blonde’s arm and winced at the flow of blood that was oozing out. To remove this, was to risk further blood loss, but who knew what sort of shit, bacteria wise, was in that open wound right now.

Taking out some disinfectant, Gabriel maintained gentle eye contact with Liz, as her blue eyes locked onto his green trustingly.

OK Liz, so I can’t remove this piece of metal, because to do so, would mean that you might incur more blood loss. What I am going to do, is disinfect this wound, so it’s going to sting a lot. Then I’m going to bandage you up and get you to a hospital ASAP. Hold onto me Liz, because this is going to hurt OK?

Liz nodded and started to breathe heavily, as she gripped Gabriel’s shoulder with her good hand. Dabbing the disinfectant onto a gauze pad, Gabriel started to clean the wound, ignoring the moans of pain as Liz began to writhe in his grip and tighten the pressure on his shoulder with her fingers.

Come on Liz, nearly there! said Woods encouragingly, as he continued to dab away at the wound and avoided touching the metal.

After what seems like hours, but was in reality minutes, Liz relaxed as Woods finally stopped and took out his bandage roll.

OK, hold still Liz.

She nodded gamely, as Woods began to bandage the wound, allowing the piece of metal to stick out from beyond the protective white tape and she winced in pain as the bandage pricked at the metal shrapnel.

OK, all done Liz. Attagirl. Now we got to get you to a hospital. Can you stand?

I … I think so.

It’s only a short hop, and skip away. Let’s go.

Gabriel gently looped Liz’s good arm around his neck and together they began to walk to the nearest hospital, which was the St. Thomas’ Hospital.

As Woods half carried and half supported Liz, he made idle conversation to take her mind off the pain and the sight of white bandages slowly becoming more infused with red.

Tell me more about yourself Liz. What do you normally do for a living?

I’m a bartender. I was serving drinks at the Beaufort, near the Savoy when out of nowhere I heard all this gunfire. At first I thought it was some type of sick joke, but when our bar’s windows got shot through and I saw people falling over …

Liz’s voice trailed off, as she relived the moment.

It’s OK Liz. You don’t have to continue. said Woods softly.

No, I’m OK. But yeah, when I saw what was really going on … I ducked behind the bar, but that was when the terrorists shot at the glasses above me and people starting running out. One of the bullets must have shattered something, because the railing that held up the drinks just fucking broke apart and I got that in my arm as I was hiding.

Liz took a shaky breath, as they continued their slow journey to the hospital.

You know George, I was there in 2017, when the Bridge attacks happened. I thought I was going to die when the van came near me. But this shit is way worse. I can’t believe it happened to me again. I only just got over that damn bridge attack and now .. I’m fucking shot. When is this going to be over?

Gabriel looked sympathetically at the waiter. She was tough and unlucky. To have 2 terrorists attack occur within the span of 5 years, with Liz at the centre, was sheer galactic unluckiness. He didn’t know what to say.

Take it easy Liz, Woods heard himself say We’re nearly there.

God … I’m going to have to spend a ton more on therapy again said Liz half jokingly and half seriously.

Woods smiled. A sense of humour meant that her spirit wasn’t truly broken yet. As they rounded the corner, Woods was relieved to see that the hospitals had not quite gotten full yet. Walking through the emergency doors, Woods looked at a nurse and a security guard who was rushing forwards.

UK Special Forces. I’m here to drop off a casualty. Frag wound to the arm. I’ll leave her in your care. Give me a quick trauma kit, I got to get back out there.

The nurse nodded and yelled at the security guard who immediately ran off to get a fresh trauma kit whilst she looked at Liz.

Liz smiled at Woods gratefully as the nurse fussed over her.

I don’t know how to thank you George.

Just doing my duty ma’am. said Woods charmingly.

Thank you. Oh and one more thing, as I was running out of the Beaufort, I thought I saw something strange.

Woods knelt in front of Liz and looked at her seriously.

What was it? he asked intensely.

Maybe it was nothing, but just before the attack happened, I was serving this couple. They were this good-looking Middle Eastern couple. The girl looked really nervous, and she also looked pregnant but the guy seemed chilled about everything. I only remembered them, because they never ordered any proper drinks, just mocktails and finger food. But they kept looking at their watches and I noticed at around 10 to 7, they left.

As they left, I saw the guy nod to someone who was also eating there.

This guy was the one who later shot up my bar.

Woods looked at Liz, scrutinising her. Are you sure?

Yes.

Which way were they going?

I’m not sure, but it was towards the Charing Cross.

Woods smiled gratefully. Thank you Liz. he said, holding her non-injured hand gently and squeezing it warmly. Now heal up. I’ll be back to visit you sometime.

As Woods ran off, he knew that he would never keep that promise. Such was the nature of this business. She would live her life, none the wiser about the identity of the Prince that had saved her arm from amputation with his quick first aid. To her, he was just another 2nd Parachute Regiment trooper named George.

~

To cross the River Thames, Woods was going to run directly across the famous Westminster Bridge where Big Ben watched over it, ever vigilant. To the North of these iconic institutions, stood equally famous landmarks, like 10 Downing Street, Whitehall and the National Gallery.

To the North-east of Big Ben, sat the Savoy and the Beaufort Bar, where Gabriel and Liz had walked from, as well as Charing Cross Station.

If Woods was any predictor of the Sphinx’s target, it would be any of those key icons or Big Ben itself. However, suicide bombing was not in his nature.

This was the task of his underlings. Soldiers who would die for the cause.

Men who had already set London on fire, as Woods ran across Westminster Bridge, seeing flames and smoke rising from the numerous shops that had been fired upon.

What struck Woods though, was the constant cacophony of noise. Screams of the wounded blended into the whoop, whoop, whoop of emergency sirens. The occasional pop of gunfire echoed through the skyward corridors of London, the sound reverberating harshly as it bounced everywhere.

There were people were running everywhere, as their panicked eyes sought solace anywhere. Woods could see bloodied clothes, torn dresses and abandoned heels. A man walked past him, his eyes dazed by the horror of what he had just witnessed, a zombie in a neat tuxedo. Nothing was registering on his face, just an empty blankness.

Others were crouched and lying on the floor, as they hyperventilated through the shock and fear, struggling to breathe properly, their friends sobbing into their shoulder.

A woman and her child were hugging each other tightly, and as Woods ran past them, the mother screamed in horror at the sight of his guns and buried her face into her son’s head.

No! No! NO! Don’t take him please!

Woods ignored her and kept running, his green eyes scanning everywhere for Malik and Sofia. If they weren’t going to attack Big Ben, then it had to be something else. Sooner or later, he would come across them.

More people ran past him. Shops burned. Woods kept desperately searching for the two lovers.

But he only saw chaos everywhere.

A teen in a hoodie was rummaging through a smashed in store. Woods walked up to him and raised his MP7A1, nudging him in the shoulder.

The teen jumped backwards in fright, and promptly tripped over the broken glass that littered the floor. Falling over, he instantly banged his hooded head against the floor, knocking him out cold. Woods flipped him over, and with a spare cable-tie, cuffed the teen to a floor-mounted table and sent an anonymous tip to the police with his phone.

Pushing on, Woods kept moving through the city that had been touched too many times by fundamentalism. To his great relief, Woods had yet to see any bomb damage, which meant that his intelligence and the SAS kill-teams had saved the city from further destruction.

Whilst it would have been more ideal if all elements of the attack had been stopped, there was only so much that could be done. After all, the Sphinx had planned for all eventualities. Casualties in every single one of his attacks were to be expected. This was his biggest one, and to assume that they could properly prevent an attack, planned by one of their own, was arrogant and short-sighted.

Woods recalled the conversation he had with Ashford, in the hours before this attack.

~

You know that we can’t stop this attack cleanly right?

I know, Gabriel. There are still too many variables in this scenario. The SAS teams are all prepped and ready to go. They’ll be inserting in ASAP. But …

Ashford’s voice trailed off into silence as he tried to contemplate all of the Sphinx’s moves.

We still know too little.

Yes. said Ashford defeated. The lads at Hereford are the best, but even they are no guarantee.

Woods looked on quietly, as one of the most powerful and intelligent men in the world, buried his head in his hands. Every death that was going to occur in the attack, was going to haunt him for the rest of his career. Not even his American counterpart, Richard Washington had been able to provide much assistance.

The Sphinx was going to strike, regardless of their actions from now till the Valentine Day Attack.

What the hell am I going to do Gabriel?

Woods looked at Ashford and coldly said one word

Retribution.

Ashford looked up sharply at his best asset.

You know sir, it’s time you put me to good use. The Americans never quite understood how to use me to the best of my ability. I gathered intelligence for them, hid amongst the locals and spied on village leaders and warlords.

I didn’t become the Prince to spy on people. I definitely did not expect months of service to the Americans either.

You found me for a reason. I’m not in the business of preventing attacks.

I’m in the business of hunting

The information I gather is to kill a target, not to be used for any other type of reconnaissance.

Don’t make the same mistake as the Americans. You’re better than that. You have under your command, someone who stalks and kill their prey before they can commit some heinous crime.

I don’t exist anywhere. No-one knows who I really am, or who I work for.

It’s too late to prevent this attack, but you can stop the next one.

Unleash me, sir.

Ashford nodded and realised that he had foolishly categorised this man as another intelligence asset.

What Gabriel Woods should really be designated as, is England’s only assassin.

James Ashford, the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service, looked at Woods with a cold fury behind his eyes.

You have execute authority. I want Malik’s head. Bring it to me. Don’t make tomorrow’s chaos be in vain.

Woods looked back at his boss and nodded.

With pleasure, sir.

~

As Woods rushed from Westminster Bridge to 10 Downing Street, following nothing but his instincts, the Sphinx was gripping the hands of Sofia Sumarwata, whose serene beauty was now flushed with excitement.

They looked like any Valentine’s Day couple, well dressed and romantic in their attractiveness. Malik was dressed in a casual suit, with a black collared shirt, matching his black pants and sports jacket. His hair was slicked back, and his clean shaven face showcased his strong jaw and straight nose. The only thing that betrayed his romantic sheen, was the intense focus behind his brown eyes, that scanned the environment intently and showed a strange excitement.

Sofia’s outfit was startlingly bold. Her red dress plunged daringly at the front and perfectly set off her olive skin. Her dark hair was tossed and tousled just so, giving it volume and bounce, as she ran next to her lover. Sofia’s long legs were brilliantly displayed in a pair of red Louboutin heels, and there was a strange air of carelessness to her that was completely at odds with the chaos surrounding the couple.

They were racing down the Parliament Street, as people screamed and scattered around them. The entire city was gripped in a panic and it was imperative that they use this opportunity to strike.

The Sphinx was armed to the teeth, a collapsible AKS-74U with modern Zenitco rails and a compact Aimpoint T-2 affixed towards the front of the gun. In addition, a DBAL-I2 laser designator was affixed to the right side of the gun, and in a holster on his belt was a large Beretta M9A3 with a suppressor.

It was this large pistol that was gripped in the Sphinx’s hands, as he held it low and behind his leg, the AKS-74U hidden just underneath his stylish black blazer.

Sofia was unarmed, but there was something strange about the way how she moved, how she clutched at her belly that betrayed her intention.

At 100 metres away from the checkpoint at Downing Street, the pair of them slowed down, holding each other’s hands tightly, Sofia savouring the moment with Malik.

Then it came into proper view, the simple black gates that protected one of the most iconic residences in the world. Understated and manned by 5 police officers, wielding G36 assault rifles, the gates looked strangely unimposing for so important a residence.

All the officers were at the front of the gate, anxiously looking out at the chaos that was happening all around them, their assault rifles held nervously in their hands.

The Sphinx counted them and rehearsed a move in his head

One of the officers saw the Sphinx and Sofia walking towards them and motioned to them to stop.

Halt!

Sofia stopped and put her hands up, reassuring the officers somewhat. She smiled reassuringly and for a split second they relaxed.

It was then, the Sphinx made his move. Swiftly and violently.

The Beretta whipped up from behind his leg and shooting between the gate’s frame, the pistol spat 5 rounds in a matter of 2 seconds.

The officers didn’t even get a single shot off. They all crumpled to the floor, like marionettes that had their strings cut, blood seeping out of the holes in their heads. The Sphinx walked over to the gate and peered in, before nodding to himself.

Reaching into his pocket, the Sphinx took out a wad of C2 explosive, a less powerful version of C4, traditionally used for breaching. Lining the strip along the seam of the gate, he stepped back and set it off with a detonator, watching as the gates swung inward viciously.

Smiling victoriously, Hassan Malik, the Sphinx stepped onto the hallowed grounds of the British Parliament.

~

As the two lovers crossed the gate to Downing Street, Woods spotted them, further down the road, on the opposite end of Parliament. He saw the flash of Sofia’s dark hair and her red dress as she disappeared from sight a second later, past the police checkpoint’s gates

Fuck! swore Woods as he switched from a jog to a full blown sprint.

~

Hassan Malik looked at one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and pressed her lips to his. Sofia looked deep into his eyes, tears and love mingling together in a coalescence of heavy emotion. They savoured each other for a second, before she began to walk towards the iconic black door of 10 Downing Street.

~

For all it’s importance, as the residence of the United Kingdom’s Prime Minster, Number 10’s black door was classically British in its simplicity, elegance and refinement. There was nothing particularly flashy about it, nor ornate. It was perfect in its unobtrusiveness.

But within the doors, housed many different rooms steeped in history. 300 years old, with 100 rooms for dignitaries, world leaders and influential folk of all sorts, the house had long been the home to Britain’s most iconic leaders, Thatcher, Churchill, Pitt the Younger …

Cabinet and War Rooms could be found within its halls and in 1991, the place was bombed by the IRA, during a particularly vicious era of British history, leading to the installation of the police checkpoints that the Sphinx had so comprehensively attacked.

In the words of Margaret Thatcher, Number 10 had become “one of the most precious jewels in the national heritage.”

A jewel that would very soon be besmirched by the latest brand of terrorism.

~

Sofia Sumarwata walked slowly towards the centre of 10 Downing Street. The image of such a beautiful woman standing in the centre of the home for the British Parliament was burned into the minds of all who saw it.

The security officers watching from cameras, their faces aghast at what was to come.

The 5 other officers who had turned around too late to see what was going on on the other side Downing Street and were now charging forwards to tackle Sofia, unaware of the danger.

The Prime Minister and his cabinet diving for the floor as their security guards threw themselves on top of their charges.

The Sphinx taking cover nearby, a sad and proud smile on his face as he beheld his lover take her final steps into oblivion.

And finally the Prince himself as he dashed around the gate, his weapon up, his eyes affixed through the gun sight.

Sofia knocked on the door of Number 10 Downing Street politely, once.

The sight of such an attractive woman in red, knocking in a picturesque British setting would have beautiful, if not for the intent.

No! Sofia, don’t! yelled Woods as he desperately tried to reach her in time. The image of her standing there, with a sad but content expression was enough for Woods to curl his finger around the trigger. But there was no time left.

She was gone.

~

The explosion that ripped from her stomach was huge. She had worn a modified vest that resembled a pregnant belly. It was directed outwards and immediately blew her apart in two. Nothing remained of her body, one second she was there, the next she was gone.

Only her actions remained, to be remembered forever in history.

The black door at Number 10 was eviscerated. Vapourised along with anything within 10 metres of the initial blast. Glass melted before the intense heat, bricks shattered and burned along with the carpet that lined the interior of the house. Priceless art dropped from their hooks and blew apart, as did tasteful furniture that was reduced to ash instantly.

The buildings around the explosion buckled heavily, as windows shattered and showered the immediate area with shards of glass and wood splinters, causing the Sphinx to roll from behind a car he was hiding behind to avoid the shower.

The Prime Minister yelled as the roar of the blast could even be felt in his War Room, the reinforced bunker holding up easily to the blast.

The officers who had come running from the other side of Downing Street were flung aside, their bodies rag-dolling against cars, walls and for one poor officer, a hard red London post box that cracked his head open. They all laid still, their heroics unrewarded with unceremonious unconsciousness.

Woods was also flung backwards by the concussive force, the shaped charge saving his life in a strange way, as most of the explosive force was directed towards the residence, and the fact that he was further away.

He crashed heavily against the black fence of the gate, the force of the impact stunning him viciously. Groaning, Woods looked up from his prone position to see the sharply dressed Sphinx get up from his position, whip his AKS-74U up and charge headlong into the breach that his lover sacrificed herself for.

What the hell is he doing? thought Woods. He knows he can’t get to the Prime Minister once he is in the War Room. What is he searching for?

Moments later, the gunfire from the building screamed at Woods to get up.

Gritting his teeth and despite the intense ringing that was shooting through his head and ears, Woods jumped up and ran into the breach after the Sphinx.

Author’s Note

I’ll keep it brief …

I’ve already started on the next and final installment of this series.

Till then!

~ Damocles.

Y/N? No.

Director: Lana Wachowski

Stars: Keanu Reeves, Carrie-Anne Moss, Jada Pinkett Smith, Yahya Abdul-Mateen II, Jonathan Groff, Neil Patrick Harris, Jessica Henwick & Priyanka Chopra Jones.

Review by Damocles

Red pill or blue pill? I’m going blue, because I wished this film never existed and I was happy in that world where it never came out.

I’ve seen my fair share of “artsy” films. Most of them are French, because only they seem arrogant, pretentious and talented enough to pull it off. They make strange films that take you along for a ride, with gorgeous visuals of the European coastline and cities and strange dialogue that is both whimsical as it is poignant.

However, the difference with these films, and something like the Matrix Resurrections, is that you can tell they are thought experiments. They’re not designed to break box office records, but give you a different experience and perhaps dazzle with the filmmaker’s mastery of the cinematic language, whilst saying absolutely nothing at all.

But when you have a franchise as unique and ground-breaking as The Matrix, you need to come in with different sensibilities. The first film married high sci-fi concepts, novel film-making techniques and classic Hong Kong martial arts in a highly enjoyable package.

The sequels were evidence of diminishing returns, perhaps a sign of things to come with this latest film, considering the concepts only got more and more philosophical, whilst failing to provide any meaningful answers.

In Matrix Resurrections, there are simultaneously too much going on and too little. There are a lot of intriguing concepts, as there are normally in a lot of bad films, but just like a B-movie, they don’t bother expanding or explore those ideas.

Perhaps the worst sin that this Matrix film performs, is the constant callback to the previous films in the franchise. Footage plays constantly from previous films, whether in the flashback format or to accentuate what is going on currently.

Beyond being very distracting and disorienting, as these flashbacks only last blinding seconds, they also have this unwelcome effect of reminding just how much better those films were in comparison to the swill you are watching now.

Especially in the first two thirds of the film, the constant sense of deja vu elicited by seeing the familiar, only made a lot worse with cheap sets, costumes and poor aesthetic choices, made you question why did they even bother with making this film.

Dialogue is a particularly troublesome issue, with a lot of it being extremely unsubtle, ham-fisted, awkward and exposition heavy. It didn’t help the cause when a lot of the actors seem to be phoning it in, with so much of the delivery being flat, toneless and clunky, due to a strange lack of direction by Lana Wachowski.

In particular, the line about Warner Bros forcing a sequel to the trilogy, seemed like a strange protest, considering that the franchise was never high art, despite the visuals desperately trying to give that impression. Film-making, especially in Hollywood has always been a marriage between large corporations and artists. It is what makes the films over there unique, in comparison to the endless smaller fare of Europe, India or Asia.

Larger and more ambitious projects are allowed to be what they are, because a corporation agrees to the risk of financing it and creating a spectacle. For the film to protest against corpos, seems disingenuous to me, when they should be all too aware of the system and mechanism put in place to support such a film being created. After all, it is this unique situation of corporations investing … gambling, heavily in arts that makes Hollywood …. well, Hollywood.

So it is strange watching this hollow shell of a film, knowing that one of the original creators wrote, directed and was the creative force behind this film. So much of what defined the original trilogy is absent here.

The famous action sequences that once featured so much kung fu and gun-fu … is now neutered and flat, with gun-fights lacking any intensity and creativity, and kung-fu now being replaced by … Keanu’s jazz-hands.

Here you have, one of cinema’s greatest action stars, a veteran in the industry, a man who is committed to stunt training, choreography and has proven, even at his age, he can kick arse with the best of them and you make him do jazz-hands, sport the same look as his John Wick character, sans style and male grooming and rob him of any agency throughout the whole film.

To the action sequences were disappointing, would indicate that I expected them to be good. I didn’t and somehow I was still disappointed. Not even Shang-Chi let me down this hard when it came to action scenes and martial arts choreography.

Speaking of style, I struggled to find any in this film. What made the Matrix so undeniably cool was the strange BDSM-inspired outfits that emphasized sleek lines and the black and green tinge to the world. I thought the incorporation of today’s awful trend of wearing searingly bright colours did nothing to match the oppressive tone of what the Matrix was supposed to represent.

For example, the agents have always been defined by their plain, anonymous suits, accentuated by sharp sunglasses. In contrast, Trinity’s sleek, leather outfit causes her to stand out yet blend in with her environments. Neo’s long coat showcases a humility and monk-like approach to his title as The One. Morpheus’ style is old-school, a representation of an aging fighter, just still powerful and mentorly. His long coat, unique sunglasses, vest and tie shows that he still treats his role like a job but still showcases his individuality from the ones who haven’t seen the real world.

In this film, Smith wears bright, fashionable clothes. Morpheus is always bedecked in colour, from head to toe. Jessica Henwick’s character has blue hair. The Matrix outfits worn by the secondary characters are just more or less modern trends that tend to violate fashion styles instead of adhere to them.

There is nothing to differentiate these people from each other. What they wear in the Matrix is the same as the people who are still asleep in the Matrix. What make these people different?

It is these small details that doesn’t add substance to the poor plot. Neo as a game designer, creating a trilogy of games that emulated the events of the first three movies? Struggling with mental issues, thus warranting an awful insertion of the White Rabbit song? It’s all desperately trying to be creative whilst recycling the greatest hits of the first film.

There are many cringe-worthy moments, from the game development sequence, to the performance of Neil Patrick Harris as the big bad. All of it, in service of a film whose plot meanders constantly, doesn’t have a good flow in between scenes and do away with big changes in the world through clunky dialogue.

Worse, the cinematography doesn’t do anything. We live in an age of Dune & Blade Runner 2049 which pushes the envelope of reality when it comes to CGI. Here, the CG is as equally ear searing as the costumes worn by the characters and look so cheap compared to the original film. How could a franchise that developed and pushed the envelope of CGI, fall into the same trap that so many other film-makers do constantly … use CGI as a crutch instead of a means to tell a story.

I need only look at the random inclusion of a Tokyo train to hate on this film. Nothing about the set nor the CG backdrop is convincing. Everything has a cheaper feel to it, and it shows on camera, especially when the cinematographer is not really trying. Gone are the steady camera that defined the HK action cinema. Now it has been replaced with quick-cutting, blurry footage that shows how lazy the choreography is and the poor CG effects.

Such a shame.

So if characters are horrible, cinematography bland, plot confusing and bland, and the costumes are ick … how about the music?

To sum up in one word: non-existant.

Nothing about the score is in my mind. Not a single note, melody or hum. I cannot remember any of it. Was there even a score? Where was the iconic electronic score that used to punctuate every action scene? Who even made the score? I got no idea, nor do I care. It was that blended, that invisible that I don’t think it ever existed.

On all levels, Matrix Resurrections fails to engage. It never delves deep enough into the rabbit hole it has created to explore its’ theme and story beats, and so much of its execution is lacklustre.

When are people going to learn to leave a franchise with a conclusive ending alone?

Why chance a loss a the box office for mediocrity?

Enough with the things we know, it’s time for the unknown.

A scene to recall: Was I blinded by gunfire sparks? Yes. Was I also blinded by Jessica Henwick’s blue hair? Yes. But only a second, because … there was nothing in this film. Absolutely nothing.

THE CRAP LIST (SPOILERS AHEAD!)

This list seems to be a recurring phenomena when I discuss bad films, so from now they shall be referred to as the Crap List. Spoilers will be everywhere and will categorise all the personal gripes and issues I’ve had with the film.

• To start the film in the same way as the original, but with a lot less atmosphere and flair already puts a sour taste in my mouth.
• The scene is very confusing to start with, and only ends with more confusion as characters throw around terms that have no explanation nor any obvious connotations. What the hell is a Modal? Why is Trinity played by someone else? What happened to that Trinity anyway?
• Why are the Agents so lame? They don’t do anything in the film …. gone is the menace. If they have been replaced by this “swarm” mode … what is the point?
• I thought humans were batteries for the machines, so why would the Matrix waste their batteries with a “swarm” mode? Seems a bit superfluous innit?
• If the Matrix can just fucking resurrect human beings … you would think their technology wouldn’t need human batteries anymore.
• Bugs, as a name … isn’t very good. Neither is Bunny, but then … why would you name your main character, the audience’s eyes and surrogate after a cartoon character. I would find it difficult to salute a Captain “Bugs”
• Morpheus as a fucking Agent does not make any goddamn sense at all. Why introduce him as one, only to have him, minutes later, turn into a good guy? It would have been fun to see an evil Morpheus take on the of Neo and Trinity, as a spin on the original formula.
• Do people just carry goddamn blue and red pill everywhere? They just seem to whip them out whenever its convenient.
• I’m a big gun nerd, so to see Bugs whip out a pistol, empty it … note that the slide is locked to the rear … then release the slide and then aim at Morpheus … as if it was loaded …. confused the shit out of me.
• For so much gunfire at the beginning, it sure as shit seems like no-one can hit anything at fucking 5 metres away. You would think Agents with superior programming can hit something …. and multiple AR-15s firing at 600 rounds per second.
• The idea of doors opening everywhere isn’t very …. interesting. It only makes things more confusing.
• I did not understand a single word between Morpheus and Bugs. Their conversation was nonsensical.
• I felt that Neo’s introductory shot should have been either more heroic or more depressing. It was smack bang in the middle, which is something I dislike. As the hero of the story, he deserves more than that. The first look at a character should always make a strong impact.
• Smith …. Smith … Smith … what a shitshow. A parody of a legendary performance by Hugo Weaving and I disliked immensely how casual he sounded when addressing Neo. “Tom” this, “Tom” that … he’s meant to be robotic, machine-like … there shouldn’t be any human traits to him. You take one look at his ridiculously modern outfit with his loafers, burgundy colours and slick style and he seems more human than Neo.
• Morpheus … Dorpheus … Orpheus … Seashells by the Seahorpheus …. Hannibal Burress was a better depiction of the legendary character than the character seen in this movie. It wasn’t even necessary to make these 2 characters the same as the original.
• The game designer element of Neo was strange. It didn’t really go anywhere nor add anything interesting.
• The game company’s aesthetic is something that I fear, on a deep personal level. I hate all those garish colours and bizarre choices that are synonymous with contemporary tech companies like Facebook or Google. The forced nature of these bright colours is so hypocritical and false and when I saw it, in the film, an irrational fear overtook me.
• Equally terrifying was the depiction of the Matrix’s sequel game development group. Their buzz words and brainstorming elicited an equally terrifying reaction from me. I will never work in the corporate world if there is anything like this in reality.
• The therapist played by Neil Patrick Harris was a bizarre choice for a villain. His blue glasses were annoying, as was his overall demeanor. I felt like there were too many villains in this film and did the main one REALLY HAVE TO BE THE ONE WITH THE CAT????? Look what you did to Mr, Bigglesworth!
• I don’t think I have cringed and hated a scene as much as I did, when I saw the recreation of the iconic blue/red pill scene in a dark-lit, stormy room with a mirror. The sheer pretentiousness and artsy presentation of the set was enough to make my skin crawl. To have Neo walk between curtains playing the scene from the original movie, being projected onto them, was so distasteful. It was so bizarrely fourth-wall breaking and modern art that I think I reflexively tried to banish it out of my mind.
• We REALLY keep retreading same old material here, don’t we? Another unplugged moment, only a lot less interesting because it’s the same thing done twice.
• The reveal of IO was done rather poorly. In addition did they really just chop off “Z” and “N” off Zion to give this new place a name? Was there any real reason why we couldn’t go to Zion?
• At any point, were the real humans in danger? I didn’t recall any scenes explaining why they had to hide and scurry away from the Machines.
• Strawberries …. filmmakers’ favourite fruit after fucking apples. I hate this cliche.
• ROBOTS are helping humans now and these weird magnetic projections. You could have chosen to film that part, where machines and humanity fought and an easy peace was established. Just like Terminator Salvation (2009). It could have been great. Interesting. But instead we get a lame flashback and an exposition dump. To quote David Lynch and a million others: What the hell?!!? ….
• So they just bust outta Io, that easy huh? Great security for a place that is supposed to be hidden. Also great job still allowing a mutinous crew access to their bloody ship. Slow clap. Slow … fucking … clap.
• ANOTHER poorly filmed fight scene, only this time they bought another character from the archive and made him shit … again! The Merovingian deserved better than this.
• The callback to the original fight between Smith and Neo is amazingly forgettable due to poor camera work and well … it’s the same shit but dressed in a clown outfit.
• The atrocious overuse of bullet time/slow-mo looked awful. NPH’s smugness made me laugh more than anything else.
• Swarm mode …. reminded me more of the F8’s zombie cars and that wasn’t good. It was bad in F8 … it was worse in Matrix. Also, it completely nullifies the concept of Agents so why have them in the movie? It would have been more intriguing to see this bot swarm attack faux-Trinity and Bugs at the very beginning.
• I still cannot believe that the whole movie boils down to Neo wanting his old flame back …. why the hell would the other characters help him for that? There’s no promise of a better world with Trinity back …
• It’s amazing that film-makers these day still rely on aging old actors to carry a film … and simultaneously rob them of any agency and magic that made them special, thus creating a shit sandwich.
• Where did this Indian chick come from and why do I not care anymore …
• Also her plot to get Trinity back is needlessly convoluted.
• The finale …. held in the coffee shop was meant to be symbolic. I thought it looked fucking cheap and weird with so many people in it.
• You call THAT a fight scene!?!?
• Oh God …. Smith’s entrance to rebel against the Analyst was so lame.
• What is with the finale …. just a lame getaway to a roof top!?!!? Also, if this swarm mode was that vicious there would be people throwing themselves at the pair all the way to the top.
• Trinity being the one to fly … was just uninspired.
• I hate this ending. Their costumes look cheap, shit and bland. Their lines are equally terrible.
• Rainbows …. Fucking Rainbows.
• My final thoughts: I can’t believe critics are praising this film. Please stop being pretentious and buying into this Warhol mentality of “trash = genius.” If you make something intentionally craaaap guess what? IT’S STILL FUCKING CRAP. THERE’S NOTHING GOOD ABOUT IT. Do you want to intentionally poop? Do you think a pile of shit is popular because it’s surrounded by flies? Intentionally making something bad isn’t something to be lauded over … it’s to be shamed. It’s the equivalent of public defecation. Lock them in a brig and shame them forever.
  • Fucking nihilists these days man. Depreciating art with their crap attitudes and praising stupid decisions.
  • Crap is crap. Stop giving the Wachowskis money to make movies. They’re terrible directors.
• I can’t believe this was the last movie I watched for 2021. A shit film to end a shit year. Poetic, really.

1630HRS GMT – THE SAVOY HOTEL, STRAND, LONDON. 51.5101° N, 0.1205° W

2 Hours before the V-Day Attack.

Sergeant Will Anderson shifted in the seat of the blacked out Range Rover that held his fellow squadmates. As he looked out the window at the masses of people that were celebrating Valentine’s Day, he was reminded of the view he took in, from the helicopter as it inserted them into the capital city of England.

Flying through the darkness of dawn in a large CH-47 Chinook helicopter, Anderson watched as the green hills of Hereford slowly faded before the onslaught of civilization and roads began to appear more in earnest. His body was tired from the endless contact drills they had performed in the Kill House the day before, but his mind was still sharp.

The 50 man chalk in the Chinook were armed with a large variety of weapons, most of them sporting the iconic MP5 submachine gun sexier, newer replacement; the Sig Sauer MPX. Other members of the squad were using heavier, longer Sig Sauer MCX rifles and just a designated few, were armed with HK417 DMRs that were going to be crucial to preventing any escapees.

What was strange though, was their civilian clothes. Instead of battle dress uniforms, every single trooper was in casual clothing, with tactical vests, headphones and thigh-rigs strapped over a variety of jeans, cargo pants, hoodies, polo shirts and windbreakers. One man even wore a pair of chinos, a particular source of amusement amongst the lads, as they ribbed him endlessly about it.

Whilst some of the men chose to wear baseball caps, many preferred to strap their trusted bump helmets to their vests and backpacks and go without headwear.

However, despite the fashion differences, every single SAS trooper was heavily tattooed, and had on their person, a balaclava to conceal their identity and an IR Union Jack patch that could slapped on their vest to be identified as a friendly.

Anderson, looking out the window, beheld the familiar skyline of London. He felt a vague surge of anger at the idea that someone was going to conduct a terrorist attack on home soil, and looked around the helicopter to see that the men had gone silent, their thoughts preoccupied with the job ahead.

Landing at a private airfield nearby, 50 of the most lethal soldiers on Her Majesty’s payroll strolled off the ramp of the Chinook casually, to split into 4 man teams. A CO and his 2IC peeled off into a fast Jaguar sedan that would take them to the control centre at the SIS HQ.

Anderson looked at his team, Bravo 2 to 4 and they quickly checked their personal radios so that they could hear each other on their discreet earpiece.

Bravo 2. Check.

Bravo 3. Check.

Bravo 4. Check.

Bravo 1. Copy all.

Anderson climbed into his car and stowed his MPX beside his leg, before shimmying in his seat, in a vain attempt to get comfortable.

7 Range Rovers peeled off to their respective target areas, with the remaining 5 cars behaving like a QRF to wait in-between targets, ready to assist in any direction.

As Bravo 3 drove Bravo Squad to their target, the Savoy Hotel, Bravo 2 was busy in the rear, checking the squad radio that would allow them to coordinate with the SIS HQ, local Police and the EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) teams waiting on standby for their signal.

It’s going to be a long wait, thought Anderson as they arrived at their spot early, parking the Rover in the best surveillance spot possible.

Nodding at the men, Anderson and his squad stripped off their vests, clipped their radios to their belts and buried their sidearms under shoulders or belts.

Piling out of the car in unison, Bravo 2 and 4 walked out, disappearing instantly into the crowd that would only build to a feverish pitch by 1830HRS.

Anderson pulled out a tablet and patched himself into the myriad of surveillance options that covered the surrounding 5 blocks. Meanwhile, Bravo 3 began to drum his fingers on the wheel, anxiously scanning the crowd around them, a rhythm that would slowly grate on Anderson’s patience, but he was too busy to tell him to shut it.

The tablet flickered constantly, as it flicked through hundreds of footage, little squares appearing over people’s faces as it scanned them for any distinguishing features.

Thanks to the Prince’s intelligence, the SAS kill-teams had memorised the faces of every single terrorist member that threatened to wreak havoc. Bravo squad’s particular terror cell, comprised solely of 2 men, Abdul Hussain, an Saudi national and Yusuf Amin, a devout Pakistani. Whilst Abdul was tall, handsome and lithe, with a trendy haircut, Yusuf was stockier and quiet, and walked with a limp, the result of a brush with a landmine as a child.

It was thanks to the Prince, that the SAS teams knew the timing and location of all the attacks. They were even aware of the vans that had been loaded with high explosives, the fact that both men would be armed with AK-47s and suicide vests and the exact timing of when it would all occur. For the SAS kill-teams, this was intelligence of the highest order, the critical difference between mission failure and success.

The only thing now, was to wait for the van to appear.

What made their job highly difficult, was the van. Whilst the terrorists had to get to a safe distance before detonating, buying the team precious time to defuse, Woods had been unable to ascertain the type of bomb that had been placed inside.

Which meant that EOD teams had to work fast. It would not take long for the terrorists to get clear, before remote detonating the bomb. Even then, there was a possibility that it was on a timer and the bastards were just going to run clear and then start shooting everyone on sight.

Anderson didn’t like any of this. His team could handle 2 trigger-happy ragheads, but the van was the real problem. They needed that intelligence on the bomb, but there was no real way to figure it out. The poor EOD boys would have their work cut out for them. There was every chance that they weren’t going to make it.

~

Anderson and his squad rotated throughout the day, as they watched the entrance of the Savoy through various “eyes”, around the area, drones, CCTV and actual eyes on the site. Then, as Anderson’s tactical watch ticked over to 1840, shit got real very fast.

A white Ford Transit Van, one of the common vans in the world, appeared out of traffic like a slow-moving spectre. Bravo 4 clocked it instantly and whispered into his throat mike.

Bravo 4, to all elements. Target Van in sight. Approaching AO from South side.

Bravo 1 copy all. Anderson looked over at Bravo 3 and they both slipped on their tactical vests. Things were happening fast now.

Bravo 4, tracking the van now. It’s driving really slow.

What the fuck?! came the voice of Bravo 2 from the other side. All elements, there’s another van! West junction.

Sergeant Will Anderson’s blood ran cold at the message. He flicked on the surveillance footage from his tablet and audibly gasped. Nearby, Bravo 3’s finger drumming got even more intense as he realised the situation.

There were 4 vans, all converging slowly towards the Savoy Hotel, from all the major compass points. North, East, West and South.

How the fuck are they doing this? screamed Anderson internally. Did we really get bad intel?

It was then, the calm, stern voice of James Ashford came over all of the SAS troopers’ microphones.

All UK elements, we’ve only just received new intelligence from the Prince. The terror cells are using drones to guide their vans to the target area. Remote detonation has been confirmed, as has the type of bomb kit they are using. Schmatics are being uploaded to your tablets now. Hurry lads, you’ve got 10 minutes before these vans detonate. As for the whereabouts to the terror cell, assume they are in the immediate vicinity, using remotes to control the vans.

Anderson watched as his tablet flickered to show the blueprint of the bomb. As it flickered, both men in the Range Rover began setting timers on their watches.

All Bravo Elements, we have 4 vans, 4 bombs. We need to split up and get each one. We now have 9 mikes to defuse. Get aboard that van and get those bombs. Once we get those bombs, rallypoint Charlie. Final things lads, the detonator is your standard IED electronic fuse. Cut Red, Green, Yellow in that order.

Bravo 2, Red, Green, Yellow. Copy all.

Bravo 4 copy. Boarding vehicle now.

Anderson made a call to the control centre.

Control, this is Bravo 1, I need a tech on hand to guide my lads through everything.

Bravo 1, Control. Affirm. Oscar 1 through 4 shall guide Bravo 1 through 4.

Bravo 1, Oscar 1 to 4. Affirm. Out.

Beside him, Bravo 3 gave a final nod to Anderson and dashed out, making his way to the North van. Anderson, clambered out of the Range Rover and yanked his MPX submachine gun around his neck, before he began sprinting for the East van, his breath roaring harshly as he yelled at people to get out of the way.

Move! Police coming through. Move! Move!

A feminine voice came crackling through his mike, the tone serious and emotionless.

Bravo 1, this is Oscar 1. Continue for another 100 metres then turn right, suspect van will be directly at 12.

Anderson didn’t waste his breath, instead pressing a button on his microphone to confirm the message.

Seconds later, the SAS trooper had rounded the corner, and he beheld the van, which was now idly in traffic, ignoring the chorus of horns that were blaring behind it. Time was running out.

In normal circumstances, Anderson would have gaped at the sight of a driver-less van, powered by an intricate remote steering mechanism. But his training had taken over. This was the key difference between an ordinary soldier and special forces. The indoctrination and intense training in the SAS, had created an Anderson that could rationalise, identify and assess situations in a split second and perform fine motor skills without hesitation or fear.

Anderson didn’t stop at anything. Without pausing he ran around the back of the van, and unclipped his multitool from his tactical vest.

Using the windowbreaker, he smashed open the back windows and roughly brushed aside the shattered glass with a gloved hand, reaching in to open the door latch.

As the door swung open, Anderson caught it before it opened too wide, swearing in a monotone as he noted the wire that was attached to the door to the bomb. Had he not caught it, it would gone off prematurely.

Bravo 1 to all elements. Watch for booby traps. My door was rigged to explode if opened too far. Proceed with caution for defusal.

Bravo 2 copy.

Bravo 3 affirm.

Bravo 4, understood.

As Anderson jumped into the back of the van, shutting the door behind him, he snipped the wire that linked the bomb to his only exit and as he crouched before it, he felt fear and nervousness began to course through his body.

Every single SAS trooper had done the same course. But back then, the lads were fucking around and knew that the detonator wasn’t wired up to real explosives. Many guys mimed being blown apart, and the insane number of yelling “BOOM!” as a newbie tried to defuse one was too many to count.

That was in the safety of Hereford. However, the moment when a trooper had to defuse an IED in the real world, nothing felt funny anymore. With each year into the Afghan war, and with more IEDs claiming the lives of Blades, the jokes soon disappeared and the course became more and more extensive, and realistic, to the point where the “bomb” would actually create a wisp of smoke and enter the final phases of detonation to hammer in the stress.

It was this training and constant repetition and quashing of nerves and fear, that ensured Anderson’s gloved hands were steady, as they touched the huge bomb inside of the van.

Occupying the entire back wall of the van, the bomb was crudely but ingeniously designed. There were a dozen cheap blue barrels of stolen ammonium nitrate that lined the walls of the bomb, and were clustered in the centre of the cargo hold. Whilst he couldn’t see inside the barrels, experience warned him that they were doubtless packed with sewage, ball bearings, nails, marbles and glass, to ensure maximum damage and carnage.

After all, the initial blast was small for what it was, because the van’s shell would take a lot of the initial blast within itself. But the millions of frag (fragmentation) was the true destructive force. Dirty shards of glass and metal would fly everywhere, piercing skin at the speed of a bullet, horribly infecting the wound and thus leave any survivors with less chances to survive.

Anderson, like many of his fellow troopers, took some small consolation that if the bomb was to go off, their end would be instantaneous.

Peering at the bomb’s primary unit, and it masses of wire behind it, Anderson silently thanked the Prince for his timely intelligence, as even an EOD team would struggle to defuse the bomb. A part of him wondered how the intelligence asset managed to obtain such intel, but that wasn’t the priority now. All he had to do, was cut the wires, Red, Green and Yellow.

As he snipped the first red wire that led into the primary detonator, a triangular unit that held the two primary fuses together, he felt his heart accelerate as the small digital readout went from a solid “ARMED” to blinking rapidly.

Then to his shock, the van began to roll forwards, throwing him back into door of the van. The terrorist, aware of his plans, and eager to put a stop to it, was now sending the vehicle straight towards the Savoy.

Diving forwards and swiftly cutting the green wire, then the yellow one, Anderson heaved a huge sight of relief when the blinding readout cut out and went completely black. Gingerly pulling the fuse out, Anderson slowly backed out of the van and shut the door behind him, as uniformed police officers came running up, the infamous SCO19.

Anderson pointed at the van and his IR UK patch, emblazoned across his tactical vest, before remembering that he still had 2 murderous terrorists in the immediate area. He yelled at the officers that the bomb was defused, and the van was inert. Despite the van rolling forward momentum, Anderson took off, ignoring the confused cries of the officers behind him, and the fact that one brave SCO19 officer, threw his rifle to the ground and running along the van, had smashed the window with his elbow and stomped on the brakes, by throwing his body half in the van’s cabin.

Sprinting back to the car, which was designated rallypoint Charlie, Anderson keyed in his throat mike.

Oscar 1, sitrep.

All Bravo elements have defused their bomb. Bravo 2 is already back at rallypoint Charlie, Bravo 3 & 4 are on track to meet you there at the same time. When you are at the rallypoint, check West, we’ve traced the signal from the vans to a building there. Wait, is that you running, no, no, no … Bravo 1, STOP!

Sergeant Will Anderson, Bravo 1, SAS soldier and decorated veteran, heard the warning of his SIS handler, and immediately dove behind a car, as he saw one of his team members, Bravo 2, take a fusillade of bullets that caused explosions of blood to erupt all over his body.

His tactical watch ticked over to 1900HRS.

The attack on London had begun.

Enraged that their initial attack had failed, the terror cell poured out of the building that they were hiding in and immediately located the SAS team that had foiled their plans. Seeing one of the members alone, Abdul Hussain tapped Yusuf Amin on the shoulder and together they racked their AK-47s’ charging handles.

Whilst Hussain’s eyes were wide with an incredible narcotic injection of opium and PCP, all designed so that he could fight longer, Yusuf’s religious zeal was more than enough to sustain him through pain, violence and death. With their bomb vests strapped around their chests, and approximately 540 rounds of ammunition on each of their bodies, they were a formidable force to be reckoned with. The Sphinx had even provided the men with primitive ballistic face masks, to ensure that headshots were even more difficult for Coalition forces.

The AK-47s that the Sphinx had smuggled in for them, were also heavily customised. The barrels were skeletal, and the traditionally heavy wooden stock was replaced by a sleeker, folding butt stock. Foregrips enabled the two men better accuracy and the weapons were personally cleaned by the Sphinx to ensure that they could chew through all 540 rounds in a matter of minutes.

Even their initial magazines had been modified, with three of the curved banana mags taped together, to ensure that the Saudi and the Pakistani had 90 rounds ready to go straight away, with reloads being a snap of the finger to perform.

In short, the weapons were lighter, harder to fuck-up under stress and more accurate.

It was this army of two that now opened fired on London and Bravo squad.

Anderson roared in anger, as he watched Bravo 2 get ripped apart, under the combined weight of sixty 7.62mm bullets. He danced gruesomely, in a horrible version of a marionette, as round after round tore through his body, before landing with a wet splat on the concrete pavement, unrecognisable.

Anderson looked in the direction of the terrorists who, in under a second, had already finished reloading. Hussain, spotting Anderson from behind a shiny black BMW sedan, grinned manically and began to unload a torrent of bullets towards him.

Yusuf, ignoring his crazy partner, calmly began to fire in punctuated bursts, at innocent civilians. A woman in her mid thirties, spun around, as a round entered her pelvis and came out through her friend’s knee. A man, shielding his son, gasped as a round went through his shoulder and he fell forward, determined to protect his son from more incoming fire.

A boyfriend stood frozen, unsure what to do as his girlfriend laid flat on the floor, her hands over her head. A bullet nearly entered his chest, but was saved when his girlfriend yanked on his pants leg, causing him to trip and fall on the ground. Elsewhere, a couple showed their true colours when the the boyfriend immediately let go of his girl’s hand and sprinted for his car, only to get shot in the back for his trouble.

Valentine’s Day … acts of love, acts of courage … acts of cowardice. All was revealed before the face of death.

People ran every which way. It was pandemonium. Streets away, people heard the gunfire and froze. Worldly restaurants immediately announced that evacuation procedures, scars by attacks that happened years before, now saving lives in the present. Police officers controlled crowds and desperately sought to help their much more lethal SAS brothers restore safety and order.

A poor couple ran from the ugly scene at Bravo’s squad, only to venture into a bigger firefight that had Charlie squad pinned and wounded. One of the SAS troopers saw them, and despite the wound in his leg, sprinted towards them and crash-tackled both, before bullets could find them. He stayed atop the terrified couple, his blood dripping onto the girl’s pretty white dress, shielding them from harm.

Gunfire echoed everywhere. Screams rose above them, as blood, fire and metal merged into the urban jungle, to create a terrifying environment of endless white noise that battered the senses.

London, within the space of 3 minutes had turned into a hellish nightmare that was more commonly associated with Afghanistan.

The war had come home.

~

Anderson was yelling into his microphone.

Bravo 1 to all elements, Bravo 2 is down, KIA. Under heavy suppressing fire. Need assistance now!

Bravo 3, engaging now. said the trooper, his voice strained but professional.

Bravo 4, flanking. replied the Blade, cold and emotionless. There was an edge to this soldier’s voice. Anderson was pleased to hear it.

As he remained crouched behind a car, Anderson waited until he heard Bravo 3’s suppressed MPX whir to life.

The tch, tch, tch sounds of the MPX could barely be heard above the thud of the AKs, but it was enough. Hussain, hit twice in the shoulder, spun around angrily at Bravo 3 who was behind him and began firing in earnest, as the SAS trooper swore and ducked behind a large Mercedes sedan.

All elements, be aware, tangos are heavily armoured. Multiple headshots are required to take them down! My rounds just bounced off their face masks!

Anderson cursed loudly, as he realised that the Sphinx had performed his research. Technology in ballistic face masks offered limited protection, mostly only against 9mm rounds. Using anything higher, was guaranteed to penetrate through.

However, 9mm were the exact type of bullets that the SAS teams were currently rocking in their MPXs, to ensure that their rounds did not over-penetrate and go beyond their targets, as personally experienced by the woman and her friend who got shot by the much more powerful 7.62mm, clutching their hip and knee in agony.

Simply put, the Sphinx had covered for a lot of the SAS’s capabilities.

However, these men were not one of the most feared and deadly units in the world for all their gear and equipment. They were the best in the world, the ultimate fighting man in mankind’s short history, because of their ingenuity, tenacity, unique training and pedigree.

Their ancestors held back the Romans. Men by their age, had created an island stronghold that have never been invaded since Hastings. Their forefathers established an Empire and could find no equal anywhere on Earth or Water. Their grandfathers played major roles in every single conflict across the globe since the 20th Century.

These fighting men came from the finest fighting stock and regiments in the world.

The turn-around in the flow of the combat, was swift, efficient and terrifying.

Who Dares Wins.

At first, it was Hussain who dominated the streets of London. Pivoting constantly to suppress Bravo 1 and 3, whilst Yusuf was slowly leading the pair through the streets, gunning down civilians, behind cars, shops and street-lights, it came to a point where he had to drop the three taped magazines to reach for a fresh one on his chest.

As the three taped magazines fell, Bravo 1 and 3 whipped their guns up, moving fast, and sprayed their MPXs at his legs.

Hussain’s knees exploded simultaneously, and the Saudi roared in pain, the intensity even punching through the protective mental layer PCP had created in his mind.

As the Saudi dropped like a stone, Yusuf spun around, astonished by the new tactics. He yelled in Arabic as bursts blasted through his thighs and he joined his fellow terrorist on the ground, his legs mangled beyond recognition.

Hussain and Yusuf looked at each other and desperately sprayed their guns in unison at Bravo 1 and 3, keen to hold the two troopers off, so that they could reach in and detonate their vests.

As they fired at opposite ends, they failed to see Bravo 4 appear in between them, a big Sig Sauer P320 pistol in his right hand and a serrated tanto knife in the other.

Swiftly walking up to the pair of terrorists, Bravo 4 assessed the pair in a nanosecond and noted the intensity of Yusuf. As he made his decision, Yusuf turned around and gasped at the sight of the blacked out SAS trooper wearing a balaclava and a baseball cap, with a pistol and knife in each hand.

He tried to turn his AK-47 around with his one hand, whilst the other fumbled for the detonator.

Bravo 4, moving coldly and quickly, kicked the AK-47 away, before firing his Sig at point blank into the terrorist’s fumbling arm. Yusuf wailed as over seventeen 9mm rounds tore his arm to shreds, but the scream was quickly extinguished by a gurgling noise as Bravo 4’s tanto knife ripped through the exposed throat, underneath the ballistic mask.

The move was so savage and heavy, that Yusuf’s neck actually tilted backwards and the two folds of skin flapped gruesomely in the open air, as blood sprayed outwards.

Hussain, entirely focused on his target, Anderson, and hopped on battle rage and PCP, never noticed Bravo 4 reloading his pistol in a single second, rack the slide back and without hesitation, flipping the ballistic mask off Hussain’s face.

Hussain paused and looked behind him. His handsome face registered shock before it melted under the weight of all the firepower Bravo 4 could muster.

By the time the final shot finished echoing loudly off the corridors of London, Hussain’s head was essentially mush. There was nothing left facially, to identify the two men. The SAS trooper had remembered the Prince’s warning.

Gun them down in the head before they blow yours off.

The attack on the Savoy had been stopped.

Anderson and Bravo 3 ran up to Bravo 4 and they assisted each other in disarming the suicide vests. These were much less complex than the bombs in the van, just your standard issue s-vests seen everywhere in the Middle East. Bravo 3 spiked the AK-47s and threw all the spare magazines in a dump bag. Overall, the attack saw nearly 700 rounds expended in a matter of terrifying minutes.

Then leaving the bodies to rot on the street, the SAS kill-team walked over to their fallen comrade, Bravo 2 and respectfully covered him up with a sheet from their damaged Range Rover, now pockmarked with bullets.

Anderson called in the paramedics and trauma crew, and the team set about rendering first aid, tending to the numerous wounded. They soon ran out of tourniquets, bandages and gauze, and were relieved when the first paramedics arrived on scene, only seconds after they used up all their medical equipment.

Whilst the terror cell had only managed to walk 100 metres, the carnage they had wreaked was awful. Over 70 people had been shot and wounded, with 34 more dead. Anderson waited with baited breath, as he heard the echos of gunfire slowly dissipated after his own gun battle.

As he applied pressure to a wounded father’s shoulder, he looked over at the small boy, whose face was covered in blood. Smiling kindly at the lad, Anderson took the boy by the hand, as a paramedic took over, and fussed over the father. No-one this young deserved to see this.

Reaching into his tactical vest, Anderson cracked an green chem-light and handed it to the boy, watching as the glow of the light slowly removed the shock from the boy’s brown eyes and replaced them with wonder and awe.

Tousling the boy’s head gently, Anderson looked over at Bravo 4 who nodded and took the boy over to the trauma crew, who were dealing with a mass of hysterical people.

Oscar 1, Bravo 1. Sitrep. barked Anderson harshly as he beheld the damage around him.

Bravo 1, situation has now been contained. All terror cells have been eliminated. Estimated death toll, 154, casualties approximately 357. UKSF casualty report is looking like 5 wounded and 1 KIA. It would have been a lot worse if you guys weren’t here.

What happened to the other squads?

Alpha team managed to kill their cell before it got out of hand. Because yours was the first attack, I was able to relay intel to Alpha, whose cell was the last to attack. Alpha 3 got shot in the shoulder, but no-one else was injured.

Charlie squad needed assistance from the QRF, Charlie 1, 3 and 4 all got wounded in their firefight. It turned out, that once they found out about us knowing the van trick, the Charlie, Delta and Echo cells regrouped together to fight. That’s where the bulk of the civilians casualties were inflicted. Echo 4 was also wounded in the fight but they’re all looking stable.

Foxtrot actually found their cell, before the vans. So they nailed the two guys and then disarmed the vans remotely. They got extremely lucky and then went to help the Charlie, Delta and Echo squads.

Golf had a similar story to yours, they got the vans, but had a long fight with their cells. A lot of casualties there too, because their cell fired into restaurants.

I’m sorry Bravo 1.

Anderson stayed silent, his mind trying to comprehend the enormity of what had just happened. The SAS were not used to failure. Whilst this would be touted as some kind of victory by Downing Street, the men would know better … it was their job to make sure the war never touched down home. Innocents had died and now, the SAS would go on the offensive. Someone had to pay for the blood spilled today. Already, Anderson was considering what gear he needed for a return tour to ‘Stan.

Anderson’s mind remembered the question he had posed for himself about the intelligence that had saved London from a more devastating attack. If it wasn’t for the Prince’s intel on the van bombs …

Oscar 1, Bravo 1 … thank the Prince for us. Let us know when he’s hunting. We’ll get evil with him. Bravo 1 out.

~

In the hours leading up to the attack, Gabriel Woods was also riding in a helicopter, like the SAS kill-teams. However instead of a powerful Chinook CH-47, his ride was much smaller, nimble and fast. The dark grey sleek outline of the Bell 407 helicopter, melded into the night sky of England, and its rotors had been dampened for sound, giving it a stealthy signature.

A common sight across skyscrapers and civilian utility, the Bell 407 was often used to assist in search and rescue operations or ferrying CEOs from airports to offices. What was uncommon about this Bell 407 was the spindly arm that jutted out from the right cargo door, just underneath the rotors.

Woods looked over at the skyline of London and recalled his prerogative. His job was to discover exactly what type of bomb the Sphinx had equipped his men with. To do so, meant going straight to the source, a close associate of the Sphinx, and local bomb-maker, a nasty piece of work, who went by the name Ryan “Jacket” Malik.

Jacket had earned his epithet as an amusing play on “bomber jacket” and his habit of wearing his own custom one everywhere. A garish red, cream and purple combination, the jacket had his name emblazoned across the back, along with a huge explosion going off with an evil smiley face in the centre.

Tasteless and tacky, were just two words that could describe Malik’s brand of humour and style.

Raised in the badlands of New Delhi, Malik’s obsession with explosive started early when he first set off a firework that blew open an ex-girlfriend’s toilet. It grew to letter-bombs, then finally her car exploded one day, causing Malik to go underground with his new skill-set.

Owning to his extraordinary skill in sourcing explosive materials and placing them together, Malik soon relocated to Londonistan where his talent was soon put to work across Europe, under the Sphinx’s guidance and recognised for the genius he was.

But like most geniuses, his life was going to be short-lived.

As the Bell 407 crested past the London Eye, gunning for Croydon, Gabriel looked down at his armament. He was dressed like a terrorist. There was no mistaking the dark jeans, the black combat boots, a black v-neck t-shirt and red & white checkered plaid shirt. It was the universal, functional uniform of military men off-duty everywhere. But instead of rocking the Westernised approved baseball cap, Woods had covered his head with a red/white shemagh, the traditional headscarf worn by men across the Middle Eastern region.

Tying it in a turban style, that covered his entire face, barring his eyes, Woods was comfortable operating in this outfit, owning to his numerous Afghanistan tours. What was surprising though, was him wearing this kit in London. But Woods wanted nothing to be traced back, hence the generic terrorist garb.

It also gave him no small amusement that Malik was about to get a visit from one of his customers.

In addition to this kit, Woods was armed with his trusted Glock 19 on a right thigh holster and a high-tech suppressed MP7A1 personal defence weapon (PDW) with an EOTech sight and PEQ-15 laser designator.

Woods felt, rather than saw the Bell 407 begin its descent, as they neared the target apartment. With his immense resources and connections, Jacket had managed to convert the northwest corner of a poor apartment block into his own personal bomb-making workshop.

According to the SIS, he had gutted three floors, to carve out his own twisted version of a penthouse amongst the boroughs in Croydon. The top floor featured his apartment, where a staircase lead down to the living area and kitchen, before featuring the bomb workshop itself, and a huge safe/escape room where Malik kept most of his treasures out of reach from his greedy lieutenants.

Woods would be entering from the roof and snaking his way down, floor by floor.

The pilot held up 2 fingers. 2 minutes to drop.

Putting on fast-rope gloves, Woods checked the coil of rope by his feet and tugged the two guns on his twin thigh holsters. Woods was light. There wasn’t even a tactical vest on him to cover his vitals. This was an old-school hit and run affair. The only piece of kit to slow him down was a warbelt that had 3 flashbang grenades, 2 spare magazines for his pistol and 3 spare for his PDW, cable ties, a multitool and a rudimentary first aid kit.

The Bell 407 swooped down to the rooftop of the Jacket’s apartment and moving quickly, Woods kicked the rope out of the door and watched as the spindly arm went taunt.

Leaping out of the helicopter cargo door, Woods fast roped down to the building, wrapping his legs around the rope, and maintaining a gentle pressure with his hands.

As he neared the building, a man opened the door to the rooftop recess, pistol in hand.

Without pausing, Woods slowed his descent with his right hand, whipped the MP7A1 from his thigh holster with his left and zipped him with three rounds.

The scout dropped like a sack of shit.

Landing lightly on the roof, he waved off the pilot, who let the rope tumble away from the helicopter before powering up and away. Woods watched the Bell 407 go, before walking slowly over to the corpse.

It was one of Malik’s underlings. His unseeing brown eyes stared at nothing and Woods kicked away his pistol, before venturing into the dark recess of the Jacket’s workshop.

~

The fight for Jacket’s workshop was slow, intense and fierce. Woods was methodical in his approach, using all his senses to detect enemies before they found him. He was so quiet, and smooth, that often Jacket’s men were unable to get a single shot off before they died with 4.6mm rounds in their hearts and minds.

However, by the time Woods had cleared the second floor, Jacket was now all too aware of the bodies that were dropping with loud thuds above him. He only had 3 men left and owning to the timing of the attack, he was in the middle of constructing a bomb, that he was unable to take his eyes off.

Sweat poured down his fat face, as his pudgy but nimble fingers tried to make the bomb inert before the Prince arrived. He eyed the open door of the safe room to his left, but the process was too delicate now.

Seconds passed and the 3 men aiming their machine guns at the door were breathing heavily. An assassin to their front and a live bomb behind them. They had nothing to lose.

Malik whelped with delight as he was just about to put the finishing touches to the bomb. All he had to do was secure the detonator and all would be well.

It was then, the Prince struck.

The front door to the workshop creaked open, a pair of weakened cable ties popping off their link to swing it outwards.

The entryway was blasted to shit, by the three goons. As they reloaded and exchanged nervous smiles when nothing happened, it was then, the window behind them and in front of Malik’s shocked face, was blasted open and a pair of flashbangs sailed through.

BANG! BANG!

With a deafening roar and blinding light, the three henchmen staggered around, as Woods came crashing through the window, having used the rope from the Bell 407 to abseil down the side of the building and make a breach point right in front of the stunned Jacket!

Woods kicked Malik square in the face and using his momentum, unhooked himself over the bomb table and before he landed properly, shot all three henchmen in the head with precise bursts. Before the bodies had even slumped to the floor, Woods spun around and cracked the collapsible stock of the MP7 across Malik’s nose, breaking it instantaneously. The man screamed, both in despair and in a weird action, grabbed at the air, towards the bomb, as he fell backwards.

Looking at the bomb and exposed door to the safe room, Woods acted fast and threw the entire package in, before rushing to the door and sealing it shut.

3, 2, 1 … BEEP!

A muffled WHUMP resounded through the entire apartment block, the safe room shuddering as the bomb went off inside its steel construction, incinerating all of Malik’s precious stolen goods in an instant.

Malik stared in horror at the green eyes that stared out angrily at him from beyond the shemagh. He began to back up slowly, as the Prince approached him slowly, his MP7 held lazily in his hands.

He had only heard rumours, but never put any trust in them.

He was a believer now.

The Prince was real.

With his back pressed up against the wall, and his right hand cuffed to a table, Malik broke down immediately and told Woods everything he needed to know about defusing the bombs that were about the scorch London.

As Malik grovelled before Woods, his left hand very surreptitiously crept to the small pistol he held in the back of his pants.

Come on man, I told you what you wanted to know. Just let me go. What are you waiting for? I told you everything you needed to know about the Sphinx. I just made bombs for him. I swear by it, I did nothing else. I’m just a bomb-maker … come on bro, let me go.

Woods, inspecting the bombs-in-progress around the workshop and taking photos to send to the SIS, did not see the movement. Malik continued to blab to keep his attention occupied.

Wait, I know why you haven’t let me go, it’s because I’m still valuable to your bosses aren’t I? You can’t touch me, because I got information they need to know right? Well, come on then, take me in, big man. I’m worth a lot right?

Malik, smiling at his own cleverness, whipped his hand around the gun and bought it to bear at Wood’s chest.

To his shock, Woods, had already clocked the move, and as fast as a rattlesnake, drew his Glock 19 and hip-fired once, drilling a neat hole in Malik’s forehead.

Looking at the fat, dead bomb-maker’s shocked expression and glazed over eyes, Woods holstered his pistol and said softly to himself.

Yes, considerably.

Ignoring the corpse, the Prince turned around and continued his search for clues left behind by the Sphinx.

Author’s Note:

This one was in the works for a very long time. I knew that I liked this series enough to continue it, (unlike my poor Sol series, which I will try to revive one day to complete) but I was struggling on where to go with it.

Enter Matthew Reilly, whose book One Impossible Labyrinth was just released this year and is the epic conclusion to his Jack West Jr. series.

I had waited patiently for nearly 7 years for this extraordinary author to finally pen the series, so that I can continue where I left off, The Four Legendary Kingdoms and then blitz through all of his books down to the last one.

Ever since I was young, I have loved Matthew Reilly’s imagination, pace and language to showcase his incredible action set pieces. They’ve never really been topped either, on the big screen or otherwise, simply because my imagination and mental film I conjure up of his action have been impossible to recreate anywhere else.

It was his books that I’ve been reading through that gave me the mojo to finish this chapter in my espionage series. If you found any of the violence excessive, I pin the blame entirely on one of my favourite authors of all time. I am weirdly proud of how I describe and italic certain words to give them more oomph, a technique that Reilly has done for many of his books now.

This is the longest chapter in the series thus far. I actually considered splitting the segment where Woods go on a solo CQB mission into another chapter, but I was already so amped up from the SAS kill-team part, I just decided to add it on anyway, just to contrast and showcase how Woods is another level above, the already elite SAS.

A lot of this chapter was dedicated to my favourite special forces unit in the world, the SAS, because I wanted a break from writing from Woods’ perspective and showcase how he is such an invaluable intelligence asset that can turn the tide in a war. This is also the most violent aspect of the series so far, with heavy inspiration taken from the Piccadilly Circus mission in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (2019).

However, I didn’t want too many of my favourite fighting men to die, so I made sure that the attack was horrible (but not awful), and at least one of them paid the ultimate sacrifice in a big way. After all, I can’t write a story where everyone makes it out, it’s no fun that way.

Lastly, as an Easter Egg, the final line of this chapter was a call back to the cold line that Daniel Craig delivers in Casino Royale (2006) one of my favourite movies. In fact, that how quick draw set up was a homage to the gun-barrel sequence.

I hope I don’t take too long to write the next chapter of this series. Nearly at the end!

~ Damocles.

In today’s world there is arguably too much information available for people to consume. One can go to a library and find multiple books written by experts on a single subject, each with slightly different viewpoints on the topic. Then you can hop onto your computer and find 4,000,000 subreddits, wikipedia, forums and news articles also debating the subject matter.

The wealth of information is huge nowadays. Granted, probably 80% of those 4,000,000 providers of information are useless, inaccurate and barely compelling reading, but even 20% of that is still an immense resource.

The thing that education should be teaching you, is discerning the 80 from the 20, the good from the bad, the reliable to the unreliable.

Perhaps one of the biggest defining regrets I’ve ever experienced in my life, was the decision to finish my Bachelor Degree at university. I spent 4 years of my life studying Marine Biology for my Science degree, an incredible waste of time that has helped shaped my urgent nature nowadays.

A degree that should have ended a year early, I was unable to finish it due to my lack of motivation, commitment and overall care for the degree and the institution itself. Passing grades became my norm, a clear indication of my lack of enthusiasm for my tertiary degree.

It was a far cry from my distinction level average held in high school, but then being disillusioned will do that to you. I was lacking friends, willpower and interest and that proved so costly, that I failed 2 units, thus forcing me to do another year.

With such a horrific experience, what made me agree to sacrifice another 2 years to do another Bachelor, this time in Arts and specialising in Journalism and Ancient History?

Because, those two topics were something I cared about. Something I was genuinely interested in.

But what made those 2 years enjoyable and fast paced was the change in learning style.

It was journalism that made me really sit up and notice how, and what education should be.

The teacher, a hardened veteran who had cut her teeth at multiple papers, was no-nonsense, generous and efficient. She didn’t bother with the theoretical. Her advice to us was simple:

If you want to write a story, get out there and find one.

We were all daunted by the task, but there was a simple truth to that statement. You weren’t going to find a story sitting behind a desk. The simple matter of the fact was … you had to go out, you had to be the nosy arsehole and you had to ask all the right questions, whilst appearing not to twist people’s words.

I grew good at it. I excelled in this environment. My grades shot back up, to my usual distinctions and high distinctions. I felt reinvigorated because, simply put, the environment wasn’t a university anymore, it was a workplace.

What also sold that impression was that the journalism faculty was one of the most impressive and immersive work-spaces I’ve ever been to on campus. Situated in the heart of the building, was a huge media room, complete with recording equipment, cameras, microphones and a desk for news-reading. On the other side where classes were held, rows of desks had Macs instead of regular PCs, and along the roof, was an array of TVs showcasing every major news channel broadcast, from CNN, Sky News and the BBC.

I loved working there. One of my fondest memories of my entire university experience, was working alone late at night, in that very room, with a bag of Maltesers, writing up my long investigative piece on young Asian-Australians mental health, with the news bulletin issuing various soft lights across the darkened room..

In 2 years, the course and its teachers taught and impressed me more than any of the other dozens of lecturers I had come across in my science degree.

This stemmed from one singular difference … these were industry professionals that were guiding us. They weren’t interested in the theory of journalism, only the practice. I left that degree feeling confident I could apply myself in the workforce.

Which brings me back to the original discussion.

In today’s world, rote learning is remarkably archaic and almost useless by the time the year is out. Information is discovered, processed and assimilated into fact so quickly, that by the time you realise Pluto is no longer a planet, the world has already moved on to caring about the proposed Artemis program to put man on the moon again.

Which means that the focus should be more on learning how to acquire information and discern it from fact to fiction and remember the basics that will always outlast the textbooks. These basics and fundamental are drilled into you best, when put into application, when placed in the context of the real world, instead of the academic.

The irony of the current Australian higher education isn’t lost on me. In fact it’s so bizzarely terrible that here I am, writing an editorial style piece on it.

The irony, is that the system is designed to prepare you for the workplace, however almost nothing you learn is used in the actual workplace and the way how grades and exams are designed, actually ensures that you forget a lot of the knowledge you learn throughout a semester.

A frequent occurrence, is that students will trundle along their way through semesters, stumbling past assignments, before knuckling down for 2 weeks to cram 6 months worth of information in their mind, sit their exams and then anxiously wait for results throughout the holidays.

Holidays, in which the students spent 3/4 of it blind drunk, partying, determined to forget their anxious times, and thus by the time the next semester rolls around, they’ve forgotten everything they’ve learned in the past 6 months, except how to create terrible study habits and hangover tips.

This vicious cycle continues for the entirety of the Bachelor degree, cynicism, and weariness encroaching the student’s mental state with each passing year, until finally they are spat out of the tertiary system, having wasted 3 years of their lives, learning absolutely nothing, with no connections or relations to the industry they studied for and now forced to face a terrifying reality that was previously hidden behind a university emblazoned shield.

Confronted with such a harsh reality … either continue to study and pray that networking opportunities arise with even further study or completely abandon what they studied for so long and find an entirely different career, starting from the beginning again, only more disenchanted with life than before they started.

This tragic choice is hidden from view, by that aforementioned shield. The shield is deceptively attractive. It presents itself as thus.

Welcome to university, where you will meet lifelong friends, join exciting and thrilling clubs and study in the field you always wanted to. Here, at this prestigious university, in its hallowed halls, you will join thousands of other students in becoming the best academics you can be. It is an honour for us to welcome you to this enormous campus, with its sparkling facilities.

The reality though is markedly different.

Welcome to uni, where your friends shall be as disposable and displaced as your empty bottle of beer. Join uni-student run clubs, which will lack proper guidance, rules and management due to raw inexperience.

Feel free to choose any faculty, as you are doubtless fresh out of high-school, with zero clues on how to decide what is a monumental decision for any adult, let alone a fresh-faced child … where you want to be and go for the rest of your life.

Here at this university, you shall be just one, amongst thousands who are equally lost, equally poor, equally deprived of experience, know-how and personal growth. Enjoy the smelly, old, slightly dilapidated equipment that were kept barely to a reasonable standard, the musty libraries and the sheer lack of computers available for the thousands on campus.

It’s a chore to welcome you with the thousands of other faceless and nameless applicants, but here are the basics and enjoy getting lost on campus. Hope to see you at another dull graduation that we endure every year, until then leave our staff alone, because they’ll always be exceedingly bored, passive aggressive and understaffed at all times.

Perhaps one of the best examples of this shield being lowered and the spawning of my eternal bitterness to higher education came in the final year of my first bachelor degree in science. At the time, the entire marine biology cohort was relaxing, after a day of experimentation, just having finished our dinner on our first field trip. We were all listening to the head lecturer who started innocuously about the plans for the next few days.

It was then, just as we were getting excited, he dropped the truth, about how much longer this degree would need from us, if we were to get a job in the field; “a minimum of a Masters” and … that none of the jobs were here in Victoria, but instead were found in our northern neighbours, Queensland and New South Wales.

Upon receiving this news, I silently fumed with resentment, as I looked around angrily, to only see relaxed faces around me. It floored me how calm everyone seemed to be taking this news.

What’s was the fucking point of the past 3 years then? my mind screamed at the impassive professor.

Whatever motivation I had for my studies, vanished from then on, and I passed my degree with all the reluctance of Hercules with his famous 12 Labours and presumably as much struggle, though I doubt I had to face any Nemean Lions or tame the Augean Stables. That said, I still faced my despicably smug and guilt-free King Eurystheus (my professors and lecturers lumped into one authoritarian figure) after all my assignments and I never quite recovered from the multiple barely passing grades nor the incredible indifference they offered me.

What has always surprised me, is the fact that often, you do your own learning about your passions. That knowledge you attain through self-learning, is usually more extensive, more comprehensive and driven than anything you learn in a formal education setting.

Thanks to my interest in F1, I have a rudimentary knowledge of aerodynamics, engine parts and the effects of G-Forces on the human body, and which workouts are necessary to counteract those forces.

My extensive research into all things militaria has been so exhaustive, I can discuss weapon systems with actual trained soldiers, debate geopolitical flash-points, identify guns and their common calibre rounds, and know which languages are popular in certain troublesome regions.

Then there’s my useless knowledge about all things pop culture, from Warhammer 40K, Star Wars, Star Trek, Dune, NASA, Mad Max … the list goes on and on, and all them have proven to provide little nuggets of knowledge in the most unexpected of ways, such as the warp drive being one of the most feasible ways of achieving FTL travel or creating artificial gravity through thrust, as depicted in the Expanse.

I can’t forget to mention my small knowledge of American Football (NFL), EPL (English Premier League) and now recently my burgeoning know-how in tennis and card tricks.

Classical music, jazz, house, soundtracks, kitchen techniques, fine dining, table manners, first aid, event work, shooting, … the general knowledge list goes on and on

All of this information, all of this research was found for free, through vigorous and diligent research. I didn’t pay a single cent for this education. I just went out and sought information.

I look at my friends, and see a similar story. They’re low-key experts in their passions, simply because they went through the trouble of educating themselves on the subject matter.

So what is the point of formal tertiary education? Why can’t all places simply be a simulation of the workplace you want to engage in?

I’ll be honest, I don’t know. I don’t have the answer to that weighty question.

What I do know, is that there needs to be a shift in how we view, grade and learn through tertiary education. The method of rote learning is perfectly adequate for high school and younger. To still employ such an archaic method at a tertiary level and accelerate it, is foolhardy. Adults need different learning styles beyond boring power-points and a lecture hall.

Information is simply growing too fast to allow such slow, inefficient and brute-force style learning methods. People need to learn how to read information and recognise that some fundamentals are eternal and worth remembering. You don’t need to learn the fundamentals, you can just experience them.

When you enter the work-force, that is exactly what happens.

At its core, tertiary education should be about simulating the workplace. The fundamentals have been drilled into you in secondary school. Now it is time to experience them and see them in action. Whatever else you need to learn, you’ll find out whilst working and getting paid to do so.

It is already the case, that you will forget any superfluous information you learn anyway, because the moment you get a job, they’ll train you and teach you everything. So why fill your head with extra rubbish? Better to fill it with the information about your passions and hobbies.

This is why I valued my journalism course so much, because it simulated the work environment I was expected to be working in. I didn’t have to be taught how to write …. I did that in high school already. What I needed was a place that would prepare me for the stress, intensity and speed in which I had to write, for a professional news network.

For all their money, facilities and supposed brain-power, university academics are woefully out-of-touch with how to best prepare their students for the reality outside of school. In today’s world, I feel strongly that education needs to adjust to the demands of jobs. There needs to be a stronger reflection of job prospects within the context of education.

The old “here’s my degree, so here’s my job” is no longer a reality for so many here in Australia. Nowadays, it is who you know, how you network, how to engage with future bosses and how hard you work. The degree is a formality that millions possess.

It matters little how you got the degree, because if an reluctant, recalcitrant and rebellious arsehole like me can struggle through and get a Bachelor of Science degree, it also sadly invalidates the hard work of a studious, bright-eyed student who also got the same degree.

So it comes down to who got the more sparkling personality.

No-one in university can teach you that, except yourself and the hobbies you engage in.

But at the very least, they should teach you how to network, how best to find a job in your field, instead of tossing you out, after bleeding you dry and emptying your heart and mind.

If only I knew any of this, before I joined … I would have taken my time and really plotted out the course of my life and wasted a lot less time.

They say that education is an investment … they never said which part of education you need to be invested in.

Consider this long rant, this editorial, knowledge that you should be aware of before going any future in your tiertary education.

Forewarned is forearmed.

So make sure you know yourself and do your research about everything, before committing to anything that will take 3-6 years of your life away.

Because you might find out like me, that after 6 years studying, you are still unemployed, immature and with no connection to the world nor any memory of the supposed knowledge you obtained during that period.

And that is the irony of tertiary education in a nutshell, that you end up back where you started, when you left high school, only a lot more cynical, jaded and mad.

What a joke.

~ Damocles.

Y/N? Yes?

Stars: Timothee Chalamet, Rebecca Ferguson, Oscar Isaac, Josh Brolin, Stellan Skarsgard, Dave Bautista, Zendaya, Javier Bardem and Jason Momoa

Director: Denis Villeneuve

Review by Damocles.

I should never read the book before I watch the film.

I have always traditionally struggled to review films that have been adapted from source material that I’ve read. That is because, in a lot of ways, the way how the book flows, reveals the twists in the narrative and showcases all the different viewpoints is a lot easier for me to digest.

I am a bookworm first, before I am a film critic. If you placed a DVD and a book in front of me … my hand would automatically wander towards the first page of the book, no matter how trashy it is.

It also doesn’t help that I direct a lot of the scenes from the book in my head and normally what a director has in mind, is vastly different to my aesthetic.

My favourite case in point, being Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban where I walked out of the theatre, furious at the changes in plot and decrying books were always going to be superior to the films.

I think there should be a fun exercise held every 5 years, where 3 or 4 famous directors get together and make a small competition to film a short story and see whose version comes out on top.

The Dune film adaptations, a showcase for 2 visionary directors, David Lynch and Denis Villeneuve are both markedly different to the version I have in my head.

This is where I am going to struggle with the review for the film. Because I am also going to insert something of a review for the book as well in here.

It’s been said that Frank Hebert’s Dune is near impossible to translate on screen. I don’t know where that impression came from, because the story is eerily similar to Lawrence of Arabia (1962) and to use that epic as a baseplate on where to go is a good start.

I would argue, something like The Lord of the Rings was a much more difficult task to film, especially considering it’s multitude of races, fictional languages and epic quest across Middle Earth and her many factions.

The way how The Lord of the Rings trilogy introduces itself though, and the template it created for adapting the dense book, is impressive and perfect for fans of the book and non-readers.

Which is why I was very perplexed by the approach Villeneuve took to adapting the plot of Dune. Whilst watching the film, I was left with a feeling of alienation and distance from the plot and characters.

Perhaps this is a strange issue to have, but I have always valued clarity in my narratives whilst watching films, because it enables me to appreciate the visuals more. Maybe it is the bookworm in me, because I often find myself being more engaged in a film, if the characters are built well, and I can easily discern the plot.

With Dune, it was difficult to truly engage with the incredible visuals and details, because without a clear motivation behind the shots, I couldn’t live vicariously through the film.

When I think back on the film, so much of it seemed to lack that proper cinematic language. So much of the film, seemed to me, more like a long montage of all Villeneuve’s favourite parts of the book, put forwards on the big screen, instead of an adaptation of the book itself.

I can see Villeneuve’s obsession and love for the source material. It is apparent in every aesthetic and and detail. From the worm-inspired heighliner, to the subtle intricacies of the still-suits, it is obvious that Villeneuve has an incredible passion for the world of Dune and how it should look.

In particular, the wardrobe for this film is incredible, but it lacks a greater context as to why they are designed in such a way.

Which is emblematic of the entire film. Throughout so much of the film, Dune lacks that fascinating political intrigue that Herbert designed to showcase why Arrakis is such a key component in galactic politics. At no point in the film, is there a greater discussion or showcase as to why the whole universe deems spice as so important.

The very thing, that every major faction in the world of Dune clamours over, kills and obsess over, is barely discussed in the film.

As a fan of the book, which I only just recently finished, I couldn’t help but get a strange bereft feeling whilst watching, confused as to why Villeneuve never emphasised more on the politics at play, instead choosing to focus on Paul, but in a very strange restrained way that made it difficult for the character to be relatable.

So much of the film, seemingly felt rushed, despite its’ length, and never really slowed down to truly emphasise key emotional moments.

A lot of what I deemed as crucial elements in the book were also ignored, such as the dinner scene which creates a fascinating whodunnit element before the Harkonnen attack, Paul’s instinctive and strangely natural use of the thumper to draw the worm, despite having no prior experience, Kynes’ death, which was changed to a less impactful version in the film, or Leto’s awareness and discussion with his men about the trap that the Emperor has bequeathed to him in the form of ownership over Arrakis.

In a strange way, I felt that Villeneuve repeated, to a much lesser degree, the same error Lynch was forced into with his adaptation …. cramming too much into 1 film. Dune is a very dense book, with a lot of parts that can be fleshed out further, had perhaps, Villeneuve been confirmed and locked in to do a trilogy.

The fact that a sequel only got green-lit after this Part One was released is something akin to madness. Dune, logically would always need a Lord of the Rings style adaptation. The book is already conveniently split into 3 sections. Had I been in charged, the first movie in a three parter, would actually end at the tent scene, just like in the novel.

From a design standpoint though, Dune is an excellent looking film. The visual artistry on display is incredible, especially the use of CG which has a wonderful weight and scale behind them. In a time where every film has excellent CGI, it is the director’s flair and shot placement that makes all the difference.

I particularly loved all the designs for the Sardaukar, the Harkonnens and the Fremen, there is a wonderful level of detail behind every element for the costumes that I know I shall be looking up the concept art for.

What I was less enamoured by however, is Hans Zimmer’s score for the film.

Is it sad that I miss the old-school, romantic scores of the past? To me, having been conditioned to adore Middle Eastern inspired music, whilst viewing footage of rolling sand dunes and ruins, I was left very nonplussed by the usual Zimmer’s loud percussion sounds and lack of any proper melody work.

His score is not something you can just listen to, for a vibe or atmosphere, instead it is solely tied to the film, in a way that lack real character to the sounds. This is such a shame, because for a film set in the desert, it is so crucial to have a strong melodic element that runs throughout the whole film.

When you think of Lawrence of Arabia, the score is a portal to a world, that Westerners were unfamiliar with. Maurice Jarre transport you into the exoticness of the Middle East with his overture.

Similarly, Jerry Goldsmith’s score in the classic The Mummy (1999), is beautifully evocative and adventurous, showcasing the beauty of the desert, the mystery of the dunes and the danger hidden beneath the sands.

To take more recent examples, I can point to Henry Jackman’s score in Uncharted 3: Drake’s Deception (2011) where his song, Atlantis of the Sands is a wonderfully fun and grand tune that really ramps you up for an adventure.

Conversely, you could do away with more Middle Eastern sounds and go for a more Western approach, such as Ludwig Goransson’s score in the hit series, The Mandalorian (2019), which beautifully blends a Western twang with the grand sci-fi soap opera that Star Wars is known for.

Which is rather apt for Dune.

I just wished Zimmer would stop relying on his usual gimmicky loud sounds in his scores and actually create more interesting melodies again. It seems ever since his work with Nolan, he has constantly fallen back on his same tricks and I’m tired of it. Scores are meant to evoke emotions, not impress you with how good the cinema’s bass and reverb is.

Overall, it’s difficult to love Dune. I think I largely found the film decent, only due to the fact that I had read the book prior and could follow along, despite the big missing chunks and lack of clear motivations, from characters and narrative.

In a sad way, this film only reinforces my love for David Fincher whose two book adaptations, Gone Girl (2014), and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011) I have truly adored and found it matched perfectly with the version in my head.

Dune is a complicated movie, based on a complicated book, that I think should have paced itself better from a narrative perspective, to really engage an audience that is unlikely to have read the Frank Herbert novel.

To enjoy Dune, I suspect that you need to be armed with knowledge of the world (to wikipedia you go) and go in expecting to see a spectacle that looks incredible but rings, ever so slightly hollow.

It is on the strength of the film-making alone, that I am barely recommending this film. Even then, I am hesitant.

I cannot however fully adore this film, on account of the disappointing score, lack of narrative thrust and for removing a lot of the world-building Herbert placed in the world of Dune.

Villeneuve … for Part Two, you better not have a lot of clumsy exposition dumps, due to all the big parts you’re missing in Part One.

Also, for the love of God, tone down the flashbacks.

A scene to recall: Any time the Sardaukar turned up on screen, I was mesmerised. Mostly because I wanted to be one of these badass sci-fi special forces swordsmen.

Things I wished were more prominent in the film or were inserted.

SPOILERS AHEAD!

This list isn’t to say that I could do a better job than Denis Villeneuve, but more to satisfy the version I have playing in my head with his production design.

• Starting the film with a guerilla attack on the Harkonnens seem unnecessary, as is the voice-over by Chani, whose role in the overall story is light.
• Had I a choice, I would have elected to start the film with a scene, not set in the book anywhere. I would have begun in the Emperor’s throne room, where he has called for an important meeting with all the crucial factions involved. This has multiple benefits.
  • Firstly, it introduces all the key factions like the Bene Gesserit, the Sardaukar, the Suk School, the Spacing Guild, the Mentats, the Harkonnens, the Atreides, the Emperor himself, and all the other characters. It establishes and introduces the hierarchy and political machinations of the galaxy that the audience needs to be aware of.
  • Secondly, it showcases the importance of Dune and why spice melange is such a crucial element to the workings of the universe.
  • Thirdly, you can establish the motivations behind the Emperor’s intentions to kill Duke Leto and his secretive relationship with the .
• Spice and it’s role in the workings of the universe, needs to be emphasised more. Beyond Paul’s supernatural ability to see into the future and past, there needs to be an example of why spice is so valued. People buying milligrams of spice for recreational purpose at exorbitant prices could be shown, or the Guild Navigators themselves using it to navigate through time and space.
• I would have less black uniforms and perhaps have the Atreides bedecked in a different colour, a dark green or blue to showcase their home-world of Caladan. This is just to contrast them more, as heroic, versus the Harkonnens’ villainous black.
• The dinner sequence in the book would have added a wonderful element to the betrayal later.
  • Firstly, it would have been an excellent time to showcase why Duke Leto is so beloved and thus a threat to the Emperor. You want to build up more emotional connections with the Duke, so that his death near the end of the film is all the more tragic.
  • Secondly, Stilgar and a host of other characters would be there (smugglers, Fremen, Guild members etc) to create a fascinating whodunnit element for the audience to guess who betrayed the Atreides family.
  • Thirdly, you could add Dr. Yueh’s motivation for betrayal here, with a conversation about his past and family. In the film, it is so abrupt and sudden, that you do not really get anything from him.
  • Fourthly, you flesh out the side characters like Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho and Thufir Hawat. Beyond seeing them in their roles, you can also get more of a sense of who they are, unlike in the film.
  • Fifthly, you show the workings of a royal family, the customs and attitudes they need to adhere to in the universe, thus adding another world-building element, that will contrast with the Fremen.
  • Lastly, it slows the movie down a bit, and shows the changes that Leto was undertaking on Arrakis before his untimely demise.
• Kynes should have been captured, tortured by the Harkonnens and left to die in the desert like in the book, embittered by the fate that had befallen the character.
  • In addition, her character’s role amongst the Fremen should have been expanded and touched more upon. There should have been scenes where Fremen treated her with awe for the vision she instilled in them.
• I would have never shown any footage of the Fremen riding the sandworms. In the book, it was such a revelation, such a powerful moment to discover that the Fremen could genuinely control these creatures. To have it spoilt so early, with lame footage that lasted 3 seconds, is so disappointing from a narrative standpoint. Paul’s first attempt to ride a worm, is a key foundation in his character and it should have been reserved for that, not for a lame line: “desert power.”
• The Harkonnens weren’t grotesque enough. There needs to be more disgusting-ness to their character and behaviour that I thought Lynch nailed rather well, in comparison to the Villeneuve version.
• Chani is too prevalent in this version of the film, with continuous flashbacks to her …. a move that I think is a bit odd, considering for most of the book, Paul is more obsessed with preventing a holy war in his name, that will spread across the galaxy than some attractive desert girl. I wished there were more flash-forwards to his fear of a jihad spreading, due to his myth and power instead of repeated footage of Zendaya looking over her shoulder in different costumes.
• So much of this film could have been fleshed out and explored further, had Villeneuve stopped at the section of the book where Herbert ended Part 1. The character of Piter De Vries for example, was worth exploring and expanding, as is a deeper exploration of the concept for the Kwisatz Haderach and how the many factions involved
• I wished a lot more of the fun side characters were fleshed out more, because of how they create this intriguing extra world-building element. In particular, Gurney Halleck, should have had more screen time versus Duncan Idaho, as his songs and skills and post-betrayal role is much more significant and interesting.
• Finally, I would love to see all the deleted scenes and see whether there is an almost 4 hour version of the film, that really sticks the landing of adapting the novel.

The blue light from the laptop highlighted Hassan Malik’s sharp cheekbones as he stared at the screen intently. Reaching upwards with his left hand, he scratched his freshly shaved cheek thoughtfully, missing the feel of his beard.

Muscular, tall and intelligent, Hassan Malik was the gentleman archetype, a jack of all trades, master of none, his smarts only matched by his prize-fighter like body. Sofia Sumarwata once described her beloved, as a man blessed in all facets of his life, an angel ordained by Allah himself to do His bidding.

With his intelligent brown eyes, olive skin, dark hair and square jaw, Malik was as charismatic as he was handsome. Adept at both charming his way through life and wielding a Glock 17, Malik was an fervent study of history and military leaders. He almost always led the way in battle, his iconic royal green cloak, a rallying cry for lesser men across the chaos of a battlefield.

As magnificent as a fighter he was, it was spy-craft that really spoke to Malik’s talents. His assassinations and deviously brilliant guerrilla attacks on NATO forces across the bloody fields of Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria earned him the moniker of The Sphinx, simply because there was no one better at disguising his intentions and self.

His work set back NATO forces several months alone in their work across the Middle East, and with the backing of his Iranian paymasters, he was soon called to Europe, to strike at the heart of the beast.

A master linguist, he mastered French, German, Spanish and English during his conquest of Europe, and took great pleasure in outwitting the Continent’s finest, disappearing as rapidly as he appeared. His terror cells were so small and well incorporated into society, that it was nearly impossible to predict when or who would strike at any given time.

It was a compliment to his fearsome reputation, when Malik discovered that within 4 months of his arrival in Europe, he shot to #4 on Interpol’s Most Wanted list. After 2 more attacks within a fortnight of each other, he claimed the number #1 spot.

It was Malik who devised the food delivery system of communication. For local attacks, Malik would use the country’s most popular food delivery service, but when it came to coordinating cells scattered across Europe, Malik had a much simpler solution.

The phenomenon known as football gripped the entire world with a manic energy that was unmatched in any other sport. But it was Europe where football obsession hit its’ peak. Leagues in each country could count on scores of talent, passion, money and fans.

To disguise his movements and communicate safely with his cells, without any need for electronic means, Hassan Malik used multiple football games to provide lengthy 90 minute briefings in the safety of the crowd, with a particular short-hand language that was unique only to football. Travelling to and fro Germany, to support his favourite English Premier League team, was a move that thousands of others did with impunity on weekends.

Conversely, his cells could send a man over, sporting a La Liga uniform into England, to discuss any further attacks, with much of their conversation disguised into the vernacular of the game. Dates, times, locations and casualties estimations were disguised with scores, and statistics of the team.

A typical exchange between Malik and his terror cell leader could be:

We shall win in our game on the 12 of August against Madrid. There is no way, it won’t be a huge bloodbath, if we got the numbers on our side. (Strike at the heart of Madrid on the 12th of August)

What sort of numbers are those, mate?

You know, team player 90 and the two rookies, 15 and 7. (90 dead, if you strike at 15 past 7pm)

The meetings would continue onward, with Malik providing precise instructions months in advance at a single game, and the terror cell leader making notes on a piece of paper, that would soon be burnt at the comfort of the safehouse.

By using the 90 minutes of a football match efficiently and disguised amongst thousands of fans that looked exactly like them, Malik could easily slip in and out of countries with ease. In the case of an emergency, the game known as Fantasy Premier League provided an direct means of communication that was completely disguised behind the language of football.

For months now, Hassan Malik had waged war across the Continent, costing hundreds of lives and racking up billions in damages and political capital using food and football as his secret pigeon. His entire campaign however had led up to this moment. His final decisive strike against the British, with the world bearing witness to the price the United Kingdom would pay for its’ hypocrisy.

All the soft attacks he had conducted across Spain, Italy, Belgium, Germany and France and once a venture into Austria and Portugal had left the British complacent. They felt reassured that the attacks were not happening on their home soil. That the war was a Continent concern only. Hassan knew all too well the unique cultural psychology behind the British, and was keen to play their ideals of sportsmanship against them.

With each attack, he generated more and more concern amongst the likes of James Ashford and Richard Washington, but soon after months of stress and reassurances, Downing Street began to believe their own lies and dismiss Ashford’s concerns as paranoia.

As a result, security measures across the United Kingdom were relaxed somewhat, and to Hassan’s great pleasure all 7 terror cells that had caused so much destruction across Europe, were able to take a first class train ride into the heart of London, without a single security check.

For 3 weeks, the 14 hand-picked men for the greatest terrorist attack on a Western country since 9/11 stayed in pure isolation across London in their safe-houses, communicating only through bursts of Fantasy Football and one man from every pair occasionally meeting Malik at a football match.

The plan was 3-fold. Each pair were in possession of a rental van that would be fitted with explosives. Targeting specific popular tourists locales and high-end restaurants suburbs, they would trigger the explosives on the van, before taking advantage of the chaos to employ their AK-47 assault rifles, indiscriminately firing into the crowd. With 8 magazines each, and then a final suicide vest, the death toll would be in the thousands.

London would be left burning.

The perfect tribute to a woman he had lost in another life, fighting for a lie, a false country and an apocryphal Queen.

With less than 48 hours until the scheduled attack on Valentine Day, Hassan found sleep elusive and wracked with dreams of failures. For months, he had been plagued by a spectral figure in his dreams, whose very presence unnerved him to the core and would leave him jerking awake, gasping for breath.

Malik knew better than to worry anyone about these strange dreams, however, he could not help shake off the ill feelings he had. There was a strange sense of inevitability about the spectre, that this figure would be the death of his work.

Sighing, knowing that he would not find any more sleep, until the attack came, Malik shut the laptop down, closing the Fantasy Football app. Reaching out for his phone, Malik paused before calling Sofia, a strange sense of disquiet rustling his consciousness.

However, emotional and physical needs overwhelmed the niggling sense of discomfort.

The ringtone sounded harsh in the sterile safehouse. It also went on for far too long.

Malik frowned when he got Sofia’s voicemail. She was always so quick to respond, no matter the hour of the day or night.

Texting her through the Just Eat app, he ordered a simple Lebanese dish that he knew she loved, kibbeh, and sent it through to her apartment. Now his paranoia was spiking furiously.

Could she be compromised? wondered Malik. Impossible. Malik concluded, but he knew deep down what he had to do. This operation was far too important to risk for a woman, no matter how much she meant to him.

Without hesitation, Malik shattered the phone and broke the SIM card, before slipping on a long coat. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he propped the collar up to shield his face and his grief and walked outside with the remains of the phone, to throw into the Thames.

~

Gabriel Woods had his seat all the way down in his silver Audi A6, lying as flat as possible, watching the movements of Hassan Malik through the feed of a tiny Black Hornet Nano drone.

At only 10×2.5cm in size, the nano UAV was as surreptitious as they come, and could be controlled via a specialised app on a phone. Woods kept the drone as high as he could, aware of the noise it could create, despite the busy noisescape of London.

Woods frowned as he watched Malik make a circuitous route to throw the remains of his phone into the Thames. He was a consummate professional, always scanning his surrounding and pausing frequently to ensure no tails were following him. As Woods watched the splash from the phone recede, he knew that Sofia’s non-communication had alerted Malik.

Will he call it off? wondered Woods, as he kept watching Malik hustle past smiling couples through the tiny feed on his phone.

No. This is too important for him. The attack is too soon. He’s committed now. As is everyone else.

An effusive Ashford had already congratulated Woods on his work. Thanks to Woods’ interrogation on Sofia, the exact location and timing of the attacks had been worked out. However, they were still in the dark where the safe houses that contained these men were.

This meant that they would have to stop the attack at the target. High risk.

It was time to call in Woods’ old unit, the infamous 22nd SAS to come in, and mop up the mess.

If SOP (Standard Operation Procedure) were to be followed, the next 24 hours would have the kill-teams furiously training in mock-ups of the area that they were assigned. 7 targets, 7 different locations, 7,000,000 ways for things to go wrong. The SAS teams would know each area like the back of their hand, aware of the millions of alleyways, sewers, bus routes, traffic patterns and a thousand other variables.

To stop a suicide attack, the men would be sharpening their marksmanship skills. Headshots only.

They would seek to limit the number of civilians around, and ideally take out the terrorists before they detonated the vans. To shoot them in the car, was too risky. Glass had a strange way of disrupting bullets and there was always a chance that there was a switch in the van that could be triggered by a dying body spasm.

This meant that the team had to ID the correct van, wait for the terrorist to jump out, then nail them all in one go, amidst a busy civilian population.

As one of the captains of the kill teams said bluntly in his concluding statement after a briefing.

7 million ways for this to go tits-up boys. So let’s get evil lads.

Woods though, had faith in his old Squadron. They were the best in the world. No other fighting man came close to the warrior that was a Blade. If anyone could prevent a Valentine Day massacre, it would be the 22nd SAS.

It was Malik that concerned him though. Whilst the attacks were going on, what was Malik going to do?

What are you thinking, you bastard? pondered Woods as he watched Malik thread his way effortlessly through London.

Author’s Note

And I’m back again with another chapter in this short story!

It took even longer this time to write but I finally found a way forwards!

Let’s hope the next chapter isn’t too far around the corner.

If you forgot the past chapters, simply use the search bar on my page and type in espionage and they’ll turn up!

~ Damocles.

Note: This short story uses a lot of technical fencing terms. Please refer to this key for further clarification.

Prime, Seconde, Quarte, Quinte, Sixte, Septime, Octave and Neuvieme shall all be referred to in this story. They are merely references to the areas where the blade attacks the body.

“A slight has been perceived.” intoned the droll referee. “The two parties are to engage in an honourable duel to settle the matter. As is ordained by God, the winner shall settle down once quarter is asked.”

Francois Dubois stared at the blue eyes of the man before him, and saw not a powerful Lord, but a deadly fighter.

Likewise, Lord James Allister glared into the green pearls of Matthew and beheld a formidable Officer instead of a commoner.

Both men, striking in their appearances, turned away and motioned to their seconds. The “second” was their most trusted ally, in charge of inspecting their weapons, and ensuring that the honour of the duel was respected.

Dubois looked at his long-time friend Hubert who solemnly handed him his French light cavalry sabre. Heavy, strong and brutal in its simplicity, the cavalry sabre was a fearsome weapon wielded in the right hands. Designed primarily to be used on horseback with long sweeping strokes, the sabre was designed around the principle of speed and momentum to inflict a devastating single hit.

Unsheathing his weapon, Dubois looked at the dull steel, and ran a hand along the blade, pleased to see that it had been recently sharpened. The weapon felt comfortable in his hand, his body moulded to its’ shape, after years of combat in Spain.

Hubert leaned in and took the sheath back before whispering. Are you sure about this Francois?

Dubois looked back at Lord James Allister and felt his jaw hardened in response to his resolve. I must Hubert. He slandered Esme. Her honour and mine is at stake.

Hubert frowned at the stubbornness from his childhood friend. Francois, you know, as well as I do, that Esme is allowed to do as she please. She is not your betrothed! Do not throw your life away, honouring that woman. That English Lord … there are thousands of rumours about how skilled he is.

Francois smiled ruefully at his friend’s pleas. I’m sorry Hubert. But my mind is made up. You know all too well, when it comes to women, how I am. Besides, you should have a bit more faith in your commanding officer! I am one of the Emperor’s most feared cavalrymen. How many charges have we survived?

Justice, God and Luck are on our side Hubert. Vive Le Empereur!

Dubois sharply turned around and ignored the forlorn Mon Dieu from his friend, eager to test his mettle against the English Lord who was still talking to his second, and testing the balance of his weapon.

Lord James Allister flexed his fingers over the slim handle of his English small sword, enjoying the way how the grooves prevented any signs of slippage in his hands. An left-handed fencer, Allister possessed an unusual advantage over many opponents, due to the simple fact that the two blades were pointed directly at each other, instead of having to scythe inwards towards the body for a thrust.

This evolutionary advantage over many right-handed swordsmen, meant that Allister preferred a lighter, faster blade. The English small sword he favoured was perfect, a dancing, shimmering blaze of sharp steel, that enabled more dexterity from the sword hand.

Whilst it lacked the power and cleaving ability of the French cavalry sabre, the small sword made up for this, in precision and speed. This was a weapon made to wound, slow down the opponent, then adjust for a killing stroke.

Taking off his heavy coat, Allister rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, to reveal an unfashionable tan. Handing his coat to his second, Allister inspected the square upon which they were to duel.

Flat grey cobblestones paved the ground, upon which spots of water had been splashed by the sardonic priest to ordain the duel, ensuring the sacrosanctity of the entire matter was observed by God.

Around the square, lined attractive, brick houses, that were now lightly misted by the early fog that characterised so many towns in the Napoleonic era. The fog was an indication of early dawn, the only time where privacy could be expected in a busy district like Plymouth.

Allister kept his thoughts to himself, but inside he was seething at the temerity of the whole affair.

That French bitch. Had I known … To blazes with her. Focus on this, man!

Recalling his nobleman training, he pushed the emotional thoughts of his mind, and concentrated fully on the duel. He had spilled much blood, with his skill and ruthlessness. There wasn’t a swordsman yet who could match his pace and calm efficiency.

Perhaps this Frog bastard will be different. thought Allister, relishing the idea.

Stepping forward, almost dancing on his feet, Allister held his small sword out to the side and sharply flourished it in a salute, as Dubois returned the gesture, his cavalry sword rotating slightly in a more military fashion.

The referee, an sanguine man whose dull intonation denoted that he had seen many duels before, stepped forward, away from the priest who was too busy muttering in Latin to notice.

Gentlemen, upon my call, you shall retreat 7 paces, before engaging each other. Any movement before is strictly prohibited and shall be punished most severely. This is a matter for God to observe and show his will.

Allister felt his heartbeat start to increase, his body prepping itself for his first initial attack. Dubois found himself beginning to sweat, as he realised that the English Lord before him, was genuinely excited.

If you will, gentlemen … take your 7 paces back.

Dubois walked away, his hand already preparing for a defensive manoeuvre. He would bide his time and wait for the perfect killing stroke. Just one hit … one hit would be all it took to kill this arrogant bastard who had wronged his darling Esme.

Allister stopped dead at 7 steps and spun around sharply, his heeled shoes clicking on the cobblestones.

En garde. announced the referee.

The Latin prayers began in rise in volume, as the priest provided a strange melody to the proceedings.

Pret.

Allister and Dubois stared at each other, their eyes clashing already over their swords.

Allez!

The first sign of emotion came from the referee as he forcefully expelled the word out of his mouth and stepped back to watch the deadly dance.

Within seconds, Allister crossed the 14 paces that separated the two men, and Dubois found himself retreating instantly, side-stepping furiously, astonished by the ferocity of the English Lord.

Allister lunged forward, his left foot stamping on the ground, as his blade darted forward to Dubois’ quarte side. Dubois, sensing the feint, ignored the sword dancing to his left breast, rotated his body away and moved his sabre across his chest, as Allister scythed the point of his sword across.

Metal scraped on metal, and Allister, whilst outstretched in a full lunge, made a circular motion downwards to Dubois’ leg.

Reacting instantly, Dubois snapped his leg away from the blade and took a few more steps back.

The opening gambit played out, Allister took a breath and took up his normal en garde position, smiling grimly, his left hand moving the small sword in a distracting manner.

Francois Dubois kept his eyes on Allister, breathing heavily after the initial exchange.

Merde. He’s fast! So damnably fast. I need to be very careful here.

Allister weaved to and fro, before sweeping his small sword to Dubois’ octave, going for his right calf. Dubois panicked and swept his sabre down. The moment he moved, Dubois knew instantly it was the wrong decision.

Without any effort, Allister flicked the point of his sword upwards and scored Dubois’ hip, along the sixte line. It would have been worse, were it not for Dubois violently twisting his body out of the way.

Touching his right side and noting the blood, Dubois felt relieved it was a small cut. Gathering his wits and remembering the speed upon which his blade worked best, Dubois charged forwards, his sabre outstretched to ward off the dancing English small sword.

Allister frowned as he beheld the charging Frenchmen and braced himself for a parry riposte that he knew would work to his advantage.

To his astonishment, the French sabre was outstretched towards his head and Allister moved awkwardly, pronating his left wrist, to sweep the sabre to the side of his body, and whilst his hand was over his head, jabbed downwards.

Dubois, sensing the danger, shifted his leg and allowed the blade to pass by him harmlessly.

The two men, were now inches away from each other, Allister’s mien reflecting one of frustration, whilst Dubois’ features were fixed in a battle scowl.

Balling his left hand in a fist, Dubois shortened the distance even more and punched Lord James Allister squarely in the face.

Allister reeled back, his nose broken and bleeding. Smearing at it with his right hand, and looking at the crimson stain on his palm in astonishment, he was almost caught unaware by the follow-up attack by Dubois.

Dodging quickly to the side of the sabre that was coming down, Allister felt rage creep into his sword arm and he arrogantly directed the sabre point that was aiming at his chest to the side, with a mere flick of his wrist, a quarte parry that immediately turned into a riposte aimed at Dubois’ sixte.

Dubois smoothly retracted his sabre blade into his en garde position, and took a step back that left the small sword’s tip a mere inch from his body.

Allister swore internally inside as he sized up his opponent once more.

Frog bastard!

The pause in the fighting grew longer, as both men drew in heavy breaths to recuperate their exertions. Allister’s en garde was becoming sloppier, whilst Dubois’ sabre grew heavier with each parry, slowing down the potent weapon’s swing.

As Dubois reeled back from a flurry of attacks from Allister, he felt a second wind come in, as he learned to read the English Lord’s favourite move, which was to feint to Dubois’ quarte, then circle his parry and thrust towards octave, in the hopes of wounding Dubois’ legs.

The only obstacle that stood in the way of that attack, was Dubois’ low centre of gravity and his instinctual desperation to protect his legs, a habit garnered from years as a cavalryman. Dubois had seen too many of his compatriots’ legs sawn off by the doctor, after wounds became infected on the battlefield and gangrene set in.

The duel continued, with both men slowly getting more tired, only their desperation and anger fueled their sloppy swordsmanship.

But unlike Allister, Dubois kept his cool. He had too many years charging into battle to waste his energy. His strategy from the beginning of the duel was about to pay off.

A neuvieme attack was launched by Allister, whose finesse was beginning to wear off, the small sword clashing with a metallic tang, as Dubois blocked the blade from hitting his head.

Batting the lighter sword away, Dubois gathered all his energy and with a roar, brought his heavy cavalry sabre down in a diagonal motion that went from quarte to octave, mirroring Allister’s favourite combination.

Allister staggered backwards, his shirt ripped across his torso, his face aghast at the devastating killing blow.

Falling on his back, Allister stared up at the sky, only to be disappointed that he would not see the blue horizon, as the fog was still thick enough to obscure everything. Taking a ragged breath, he closed his eyes and felt the fog envelope him into nothingness.

Dubois sank to his knees, as the priest and doctor rushed forward and inspected the dead English Lord. Checking his pulse, the doctor shook his head at the referee and stepped aside, doing the sign of the cross, as the priest took over the last rites.

The referee looked at Allister’s second, a humble servant, who merely nodded coldly and walked away with his dead Lord’s belongings.

Scoffing at the back of the second, who he knew was going to pilfer everything that was valuable in his dead master’s house, the referee motioned the graveyard men forward, who were keen to take the body and see what they could sell.

It is done, by God’s will. I will leave you gentlemen now. Have a good morning.

With a tip of his hat to Dubois, the referee shuffled off into the town, no doubt unhappy to be the tiding of bad news to the local magistrate who was going to be apoplectic that a nobleman had died in a duel in his town.

Hubert rushed forwards to Dubois and looked at the wound on his hip. It was nasty, but nothing too serious, despite the huge red patch that had spread across Dubois’ white shirt.

Doctor, over here now! yelled Hubert at the doctor, who was startled out of his stare at the dead Allister, being carried unceremoniously away by graveyard men.

As the doctor bandanged the wound, Dubois looked at Hubert cockily.

I told you my friend. We had everything on our side to win. But mon dieu, he was fucking fast.

Hubert shook his head at his friend’s bravado.

To nearly die for the affections of Esme … you are aware that she was invited to that Lord’s party right?

Dubois looked at Hubert in shock. No, I thought she was taken by force …

Hubert shook his head sadly. Francois, you fool. How many times have I warned you to stay away from Esme? Now an English Lord is dead because of her and you, a fugitive.

But this was a fair duel, Hubert shook Dubois in consternation and dawning realisation.

A dead Lord is still worth more than a dead French officer. said Hubert forlornly.

The magnitude of what had happened hit Dubois instantly, and his adrenaline was filled with dread. This was not going to go unpunished. Fair duel or not, noble blood was spilled and such matters wasn’t going to be taken lightly. His beloved Emperor would have to exile Dubois immediately or risk further English wrath.

Merde whispered Dubois.

Author’s Note.

Drawing heavily from my own experience as a past fencer and my obsession with the Hawkwood series of book by James McGee, this was surprisingly difficult to write, with only a vague idea on how I should pace the fight. I also struggled to insert technical terms whilst still making the flow of the swordplay exciting.

I will probably come back and write more fight scenes, which I think I have a decent grasp on, but still need a lot more practice.

Onto the next one!

~ Damocles.

Modjo’s Acknowledgement was playing softly in the background, as the penthouse Halloween party began in earnest.

Situated on the 59th floor, the penthouse was exquisitely designed, with the perfect amount of glass permeating and off-setting the dark metallic interior. Moonlight flooded the two storied apartment complex, shining through every glass window that overlooked a busy metropolis.

Nowhere was the light stronger than on the sheer glass balcony, that offered thrills in any direction. Left, right, up … down, there was a floating sensation that only those without vertigo could withstand for long periods of time.

Leaning on a skinny dark railing that seemed to blend with the night, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, Michael stared out at the view alone in his thoughts.

At an excessively tall 195cm, Michael had dark features that excited and terrified in equal measure. His piercing blue eyes glittered from under his swept back blonde hair, and his tanned skin only served to accentuate the strong, sharp jawline. His face was aquiline, with shallow cheeks, that showcased cheekbones that could cut through butter.

It was startlingly attractive, in a way that seemed too perfect. Like he was designed with an artisan’s eye for detail, crafted without any flaws. Nothing marred his skin, and absolutely naught could take away his breath-taking looks that were perfect at any angle.

As he raised the glass with long, slender manicured fingers, the music in the background changed to Blue Monday by HEALTH. The lights inside the penthouse changed to a neon blue and yellow scheme, as the DJ signalled the audio-visual jockey to time his flashes to the beat of the song.

The pulses and flushes of 65 people dancing rhythmically together, gave the party a strange zombie like feel. Every single person there, was slightly drunk, riding the depressive high of excellent quality agave tequila, their bodies clashing, shaking … before breaking apart and coming together again.

Confusing scenes were everywhere as the lights changed once more to accommodate the brutal sounds of Casey Edwards’ Bury the Light. Purple hues slashed through rays of electric blue. Heads began to bob, as the monsters at the party began to ramp up their throes of ecstasy.

Mike Myers was conjoined at the hip with Juliet Starling. It, the infamous clown, was now furiously grabbing at Harley Quinn. Elsewhere, Joker was staring balefully at the bizarre couple, before distracted by a sensational Freddy Krueger. Maleficent was desperately locking lips with a Fembot as two approving Grady twins nodded in conjunction to the beat of the music.

Everywhere, depravity ruled the swanky apartment, which only magnified the scenes, by reflecting every single guest’s actions, a million fold as they stared at their mirror selves echoing their motions.

Only Michael, remained mirror-less and costume-deprived. Indeed with his elegant dark blazer, white shirt and loafers, he cut a desolate figure of elitism amongst all the fun, cheaper costumes.

It was only until STONEFIST by HEALTH came on, and the lights poured in red, and dark that Michael turned around to face his twin, Samael, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

The two stared at each other, before Samael smiled charmingly and went over to the small table in the corner. Gripping the alcoholic decanter, he poured himself three fingers of whiskey, before taking his place beside Michael.

If Michael was blindingly pure in his beauty, Samael boasted a much darker, intense attractiveness. Despite possessing the same bone structure, Samael’s jet-black hair and obsidian eyes with crimson irises warped the beauty into a much more intense seductiveness. He was made to induce reckless abandon, and wanton lust. Samael was irresistible.

Whilst Michael was serious, Samael was always perpetually smiling, his dark eyes piercing through people’s facades and armour with ease, encouraging them to indulge in their dark hidden desires.

Together, they watched, as the lift to the penthouse arrived, the solitary yellow “UP” light failing to pierce the crimson atmosphere inside.

The 66th guest had arrived.

Stepping out, he paused long enough for the vibe to change once more.

Kavinsky’s Odd Look blazed to life across the penthouse. Smoke began to issue from dry ice machines, the thick clouds pooling around ankles, then knees … then waists. Soon, the entire room was covered in smoke, with light strobes flashing brilliant, pure white, to stimulate lightning. Dark blue spotlights began to focus on random guests.

Imhotep appeared out of the gloom. Only to be replaced by a Hellboy over there. A werewolf snarled menacingly, before its fangs were replaced by a Dracula’s. The Invisible Man, unaware of the paradox, shone brightly under the spotlight, his startlingly white bandages soon juxtaposed with the pale skin of a Hellraiser.

But the blue and black eyes of Michael and Samael were transfixed on the latest guest.

He was monstrously big, taller than the twins that stood outside on the balcony. Like a boulder come to life, the 66th guest was muscular in the extreme that only added to his already towering height of 2.2 metres. His chest seemed to dwarf the tiny people dancing mindlessly beneath him, and the huge rifle he hefted in his hands seemed to weigh nothing at all.

Decked out in an iconic red/white varsity jacket that showcased a white singlet beneath, dark navy jeans, and thick cream boots, the costume was hardly horror inspired, beyond its high-school throwback vibes.

But it was the head that screamed at the world. Disturbingly white and blank, bar for crimson sabre-tooth tiger styled fangs that protruded out from the jawline of the mask, there was nothing to see. No eyes, no sign of a nose, nothing human could identify the giant beneath the mask.

The 66th guest’s head was entirely, glaringly, pure metallic white.

Standing absolutely still, the fanged blank giant waited until the first person looked at him.

It was an inadvertent touch. A Wolfman softly nudged a dazed zombified woman, who then swayed into the 66th guest.

Looking up, to apologise, she froze when she saw the black rifle and the terrifyingly vacant face that loomed over her.

Stumbling back, she began to whisper “No, no, no, no, not this party. Not tonight. Oh God, please no … not here, please, please, please …”

A bloodied Crusader Knight spun around in anger, as the zombified girl crashed into him, causing him to drop his drink.

“What the fu …” said the knight, as the curse word choked in his throat and died out before the visage of an armed lifeless statue. Soon, within minutes, the entire party was paralyzed before the feared serial killer, who had haunted the city for the past month.

VOID.

The giant’s name was uttered in complete fear. Massacres followed in his wake, merciless death haunted his presence and the screams of the dead and dying whispered unheard warnings to the living.

Every year, despite the warnings, Halloween parties were held, despite the grip of fear that VOID wielded over the populace. Without fail, they were punished for their insolence, always through the same means … by blood, bullet, blade and blunt trauma.

Michael and Samael looked on dispassionately, as VOID unslung the huge rifle from his broad shoulders and levelled it at the crowd of holiday celebrators.

The DJ was the first to receive a flurry of bullets, that dropped him on the stage of his set and set the final song for the evening.

Jeff Rona’s Crimson Cloud began its’ malevolent melody, the screams of Rachel Fannan soaring high above the chatter of gunfire, as the songstress’ wails merged with the genuine screams of the VOID’s victims.

Scores of costumed people fell in a heap, as the floor became slick with glass, blood and the sweat of the fearful. VOID never moved from his post, as he indiscriminately raked the crowd with more gunfire, pausing only to reload.

A foolish Jason Voorhees rushed the VOID, knife arms outstretched in desperation. The gunfire paused in respect, and the survivors looked on with hope. Perhaps this machete wielding killer could save them.

Letting the rifle hang loosely by his size, VOID allowed Jason in close, before his arm shot out at blinding speed and gripped the head of the hockey-killer, lifting him clean off the ground.

With minimal effort, VOID began to apply pressure, his immensely strong fingers causing the skull to crack and splinter apart, as the pained screeches of Voorhees tore to shreds, any vestige of hope the survivors had.

Bringing the struggling, writhing costumed killer closer to his blank face, VOID looked at dying Jason curiously, before lifting his head and in a violent downward thrust, buried both of his fangs into the skull of his victim.

All movement immediately ceased, and the hockey-masked corpse was unceremoniously let go, to crumple lifelessly onto the ground. Raising his rifle up once more, VOID fired into the immobile crowd, their lack of hope rendering them unable to move, struggle or resist any more.

Death was now just an inevitability. Acceptance was now rendered apart by bullets.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was only 6 minutes of carnage, VOID began to slowly walk around, inspecting victims. Any signs of life was promptly extinguished with a clubbing motion from the huge rifle, the butt of the weapon slowly becoming bloodier and grey with brain matter as savage blows were rendered without compassion into people’s heads.

His work completed, VOID looked out at the balcony and saw nobody there.

With a casual grace, VOID slung the rifle over his shoulder once more and walked back into the elevator where he disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

Michael looked at his twin brother Samael.

How many are yours? he asked.

Samael, the eternal smile flitting across his lips, shrugged. 40 or thereabouts.

Michael nodded grimly. Out of mine, only 5 went straight up. The rest are in limbo.

I’ll probably be collecting them sooner or later. said Samael teasingly.

I wonder when you’ll be collecting him. replied Michael as he finished his whiskey.

Samael gave a nonchalant flick across his broad shoulders. You never question it, do you brother?

We’ve had this discussion before. replied Michael curtly.

Same old Michael, always steadfast in his belief in the Path. Forever loyal. mocked Samael as he stretched his broad shoulders, allowing the pure white wings to unfurl.

Michael, looking at his fallen brother, felt the familiar twinge of jealousy as he beheld the huge 7 metre wingspan of pure, dazzling white wings. Samael was always the one that their father had laboured the most on.

Be seeing you soon Michael. called out Samael, in sing-song, as he flicked his wings downwards and soared high into the sky. Don’t go blaming me for tonight … you chose to believe, I just dared to asked questions.

Michael scowled at the insolence of Lucifer, his brother’s new christened name and looked back at the room full of dead bodies.

Putting aside his reservations, Michael revealed his own wings, a dark obsidian colour that contrasted Lucifer’s pearls.

Floating high above the world, Michael heard his brother’s voice in his mind once more, the siren song of skepticism.

I’ve always spoken the truth … that’s why Father set me free.

Shaking Lucifer’s seductive logic out of his mind, Michael aimed himself downwards and flew to the next soul collection point. Clouds rustled his black wings, as he shot around the world, unable to do anything, except claim more people for a home that he had not seen in an eternity.

Perhaps he’s right, we’re all in our own Hell. Lucifer just chose to make it his own.

Author’s Note.

This one was meant for a Halloween release, but unfortunately work waylaid me. I actually struggled to create this one, as I originally meant for it to have an angel/devil be revealed as the monster. However, inspiration struck when I listened to the dark synth of Carpenter Brut and I tweaked the story so that the angels and demons were forced to watch a massacre, unable to do anything, except pick up the pieces at the end.

Only Lucifer take pride in this work, because to him, it has become fun to tease his more upright brother about the whole situation and only he sees the truth behind the actions they take.

As for VOID, I was originally inspired by the latest helmet design rocked by Bloodsport in The Suicide Squad (2021), which is a clear reference to the Xenomorph. However, I wanted to make it white, in homage to how a pure white room, creates too much noise and anxiety in people when stared at for too long.

White is actually a highly piercing colour, hence I made VOID’s mask/helmet design in honour of that sharp, disturbing quality. The fangs were an idea I had, just to contrast the mask and add an extra element to the brutal nature of the serial killer. I originally toyed with the idea of teeth and elongated jaw, just like Bloodsport, but I preferred an even more minimal approach to the mask. I really just wanted to strip away any recognisable human elements to the mask.

As for the music, I hope you enjoyed the links. It was a lot of fun re-creating a dark synth, Halloween playlist for this short story. I wanted to add more songs, but figured they didn’t mesh well with each other.

Until the next one!

~ Damocles.

Picture me like this … tall, tanned, leanly muscular and with the perfect amount of scruff across my jaw and cheeks.

I have dark short hair, sliced and cut into a undercut. Annoyingly when I exercise, a lock of hair normally curl over my forehead. I think it’s untidy, but apparently women are drawn to it. My eyes are dark green, and I have a habit of placing my index finger along my cheekbones when I’m thinking or being flirtatious. which are normally intertwined together, because if I am being flirtatious with you, then I’m thinking about you.

Everything about you. How you think, the way you laugh, the dimples on your smile, the toss of your hair when you’re nervous, the tilt of your head when you stare … anything you do, I’m interested, curious and intrigued.

The first thing I look at in a woman, are her eyes. Not the face, the bust, the hips or the bottom … it’s always the eyes. If she has beautiful eyes, I’m switched on, but if she has interesting eyes, then I’m turned on.

It’s always easy to tell when they have interesting eyes, because you’ll normally can’t read what they are feeling. They’ll always be enigmatic, staring back at you, without wavering attention. A woman can have beautiful eyes, dazzling different colours and sweeping lines, but she’ll never be interesting if you can see everything she is feeling.

When I make a joke, a woman with beautiful eyes will laugh along, whether she finds it funny or not, because she’s attracted to me. But an pair of interesting eyes will always keep her intentions unclear.

I’ve searched many women’s eyes in my life, but hers was the only one that remained interesting.

I met her under special circumstances. What I mean by that is that they were special to me, but ordinary to everyone else.

To all, they were attending an Opera. As for me? I was experiencing my first taste of Turandot.

It all started with the colour of her long dress. It was impossible to miss. That damn colour haunted my dreams for the next 5 months. Honeyed, warm, amber and just the right side of bright, the satin weave made her dress beautifully lustrous and created incredible dips of fabric in all the right places. A royal blue sash kept the dress around her waist like a belt, and offered generous views of her long legs, as the fabric of her dress ebbed and flowed with each step.

Her left shoulder was left bare, as the dress came up in a classic chartreuse style and accentuated her long slender neck that swept up her warm golden brunette locks into a classic bun that only enhanced her naturally elegant features.

But it was her eyes that caught me off guard. It’s always the eyes ….

They were the most impenetrable blue I have ever seen anywhere. They glittered like sapphires, radiating a confidence, intelligence and wry detachment on everything they saw.

I was besotted. Smitten, infatuated and enraptured. I knew right there and then, I had to find out who she was, even though we were just lining up for our ticket check. Even though I was a stranger. Even though, this wasn’t a bar that screamed “pick me up”.

As I walked forwards, ignoring the small murmurs of protest about line-cutting, I knew that I had to take my chance. By now, the murmurs had become general discontent, and she is slowly becoming aware of the commotion I’m causing behind her.

When you go after honey with a balloon, the great thing is to not let the bees know you’re coming.

She turns around with an amused smile and looks into my eyes. Up close, it’s hard not to catch my breath. She’s elven in looks, with defined cheekbones and full lips. Her ears tapered slightly upwards to accentuate the sweeping lines of her features and I can’t help but note the wisps of her golden hair that seem to shimmer in the light of the opera room.

Did you just quote Winnie the Pooh at me?

I couldn’t think of a better pick-up line. I figured … a woman like you, would appreciate a classier quote.

Her genuine amusement and smile at the compliment is enough for me to be assured that this flirtatious to and fro between strangers is going well. But it was the fact that she didn’t blow me off completely, that proved to me I was allowed to keep my eyes locked onto hers.

I’m surprised you didn’t quote Turandot at me. she said slyly

Love is in vain, if luck isn’t there. I replied loftily. And I’m lucky to be here, seeing someone as lovely as yourself.

She laughs wholeheartedly as we inch closer to the ticket box. Really now?

Yes. I say with complete sincerity, maintaining eye contact and trying my best to communicate the depth of emotions she has stirred in me, within minutes. She looks back and I see a tiny trace of emotion crept across her blue irises before they disappear. The ticket collector looks at our tickets, and without hesitation I demand something ridiculous.

Please, seat me next to her.

I’m afraid, I can’t … oh sir, you already are! says the flustered ticket attendant, as she looks at our tickets in confusion.

She looks at my ticket and gives me a surprised look, before it is replaced with a look of daring.

It must be fate. I say assuredly with a smile. I hold out my arm, and ask Shall we go to our seats, Ms?

Scarlett. Scarlett Greene. she says as she takes my arm.

Dorian Wilde. Pleased to make your acquaintance Ms Greene.

I can’t tell you exactly what happened in the opera, except that we were much more interested in one another than what was happening on the stage. We mimed to each other throughout the entire opera, her faux yawns matching mine, the playful looks of mischievousness replaced by daring, seductive looks in an instant.

By the half-time interval started, we were out of the door and hailing a taxi, back to her apartment. I remember the rush, of restraining ourselves. We sat on opposite sides of the taxi cab, our hands close, but not close enough, the sound of rain slowly pattering on the roof of the car.

It seemed like the rhythm of nature itself, was matching the pace of our heartbeats, our anticipation increasing with every minute of the ride. I found myself unable to look away, the profile of Scarlett’s face against the stained window, as the city lights cast shadows across her features, hauntingly beautiful.

She looked like an angel.

When the taxi cab finally pulled up to her apartment, a luxurious condo on the 7th floor, she was leading by the hand through the lobby and into the elevator. I was swept along, through the halls of the apartment block and finally near her door.

As she slipped the key in, I placed my hand near her face, on the wall and stood there, as she slowly turned around and looked up at me with those voluminous blue eyes. We stood there, for the longest second of our lives, staring at each other, nose to nose, soaking in each other’s presence.

We were hungry for each other.

A second later, we were crushed against each other, my hands, gripping her waist and the back of her head, cradling both like precious jewels, her hands running across my torso, gripping my shoulders underneath my blazer, then moving up and across my face as I kissed her passionately.

Somehow the door to her apartment shut, and we navigated the place blind, with only the moonlight to guide us. We were unable to let go, our bodies locked in tango that neither of us would let go.

Without hesitation, I lifted her upwards and onto her kitchen bench, where she panted heavily into my mouth. as she scrabbled at the buttons of my shirt. I kept kissing her, caressing her beautiful face, letting my hands explore every single dip and rise of her features, enjoying the feel of her hair swiping along the back of my fingers.

As she ripped my shirt off, letting the silken fabric fall to the ground, I grabbed her closer to me, pressing our bodies together hard, her golden brunette hair now cascaded down her muscled back, and creating an image that stunned me momentarily.

I pushed her away from me for a second, as she looked at me confused, and hungry.

Incredible, I whispered, as she smiled dazzlingly at the compliment and hopped down off the bench, to undo her dress.

Whipping her shoes away, and undoing the clasp that held the chartreuse dress together, Scarlett Greene was now my entire world, nothing existed beyond her.

Standing there, half naked, only in lingerie, with her wavy hair tossed, each every way, she posed slightly, poised and confident.

I laughed reflexively in happiness and took a teasing single step closer and pausing just long enough. Sick of the games she leapt at me and wrapped her incredibly soft, and lithe legs around me, causing us both to pant as we kissed through our efforts.

I carried her across to the wall that led to her bedroom and cradling the back of her head, pinned her against the wall, our kisses still coming thick and fast. Her full breasts pressed and heaved against my chest, as she broke the kiss, to run her tongue along my neck, whilst she shed my pants, undoing the belt and the trousers in mere seconds.

Staring at her, as we exchanged incredulous smiles and breaths, I held up my hand between us and walked past her slowly, towards the bedroom.

Laughing at the gentlemanly gesture, Scarlett grasps my hand and allows herself to be led to her silken Queen-sized bed.

As I lay her gently on the bed, she looks up at me and I stare at her blue eyes, lost for words. She runs her hand along my face, stroking my cheekbones and tracing the shape of my jaw.

I returned the favour, letting my hands slowly run down, until they trace her shoulder blades and and unclasp her bra in a single movement., freeing her breasts.

Scarlett’s hands pulls me close and down on top of her, and as we continue our exploration …. she whispers into my ear

Dorian … drive me wild please.

Author’s Note

Figured, I’d stop it there, before it gets a bit too graphic, which I notice tends to sound very gross. Genitals have never sound particularly sexy and I was definitely running out of adjectives.

This was an exercise in how I could build a highly charged, sexual atmosphere, and I credit most of it to the show where I got the screen-grab from. L

I would say, I hope you enjoyed reading this, but that’s implying a lot.

So instead, I’ll just say, don’t expect too much of this type of content in the future, although I will come back and continue to practice these sort of scenes.

~ Damocles.

Y/N? No

Director: Keishi Otomo

Stars: Takeru Satoh, Kasumi Arimura, Issey Takahashi, Yosuke Eguchi & Kazuki Kitamura

Review by Damocles

It’s not good enough as a romance, nor as an action film.

The last hurrah for the cinematic adaptation of Rurouni Kenshin is ultimately a drama, not an action film.

Centered around Himura Kenshin’s tragic past and the story of how he received his iconic cross shaped scar, The Beginning is a bloody deep dive into the character, before he became a wanderer.

And it is … decidedly average.

This is a difficult review for me to write, because I inherently love the characters and the world it is set in. But unlike The Final, which has incredible choreography to make-up for thin characters and motivations, in The Beginning, I felt a lot of the drama lacked chemistry and proper nuance.

It is difficult to recall last, when a romance left me feeling so empty, but for some reason I was reminded of Spectre’s James Bond and Madeline Swann’s relationship, where the film is telling you that they are in love, but your mind is arguing with the images portrayed on screen.

Chemistry isn’t just the wordplay between characters, it is also present in body language, gestures and meaningful looks.

There just seemed to be a real lack of chemistry between Tomoe and Kenshin. Regardless of the circumstances in which they found themselves in, I couldn’t really discern a noticeable shift in behaviour between the two leads.

Granted, I was not sure if they are going for a realistic, cultural approach to their relationship. In early Japan, the cultural norm did not allow for much physical contact, which I will also note happened with Kenshin and Kaoru’s romance.

But unlike Kaoru, who expressed more, Tomoe’s demeanour came across as stiff and unconvincing, and I was unable to properly chart her character development from beginning to end.

Perhaps I am overlooking something in the performance, but Kasumi Arimura’s portrayal never truly sold to me a woman who went from grieving to in love over the span of the film.

It also did not help much, that Kenshin’s character was an archetype of a moody emo, with Satoh being forced to resort to hunching his shoulders a lot, throughout the film and never truly exploring the actual impacts that Tomoe had on him.

Pacing wise, the film meanders a bit too long, with unnecessary flashbacks, something that The Final also suffered from, and I felt like a lot of the script was underdeveloped, with too many scenes repeating the same stage that the characters have been stuck in for the past couple of scenes.

In regards to the iconic action, that the film series is renowned for, there is too little devoted to Satoh’s impressive physicality, with only a few standout scenes at the beginning of the film.

These are note-worthy, simply because of how bloody they are, which is a definite departure from the more bloodless violence seen in the franchise before.

However the climatic battle sequence is a let-down, because Otomo continues to slavishly repeat his mistakes, of introducing a character who had little development and connection to the main lead, with a long monologue justifying his actions.

Thus, when the, (random I might add) antagonist appears at the end, there are no real stakes involved between the two and again, the fight is more dramatic than choreography-based.

I don’t have an big issue with that approach per se, but when the previous 4 films have had such epic showdowns and satisfying fights for their conclusions, this one stands out as a bit of a weak link.

To be honest, this film proved frustrating to me, because I felt so much of it could be excised out, and reconfigured to be tighter, leaner and more detailed oriented on other elements that I considered important to the lore.

As much as I appreciated the film’s attempts to stay true to the iconic OVA anime, (a lot of the best imagery seen in this film reference the OVAs heavily i.e. the shot of Tomoe and Kenshin in robes together), I felt like a lot more tweaking should have been done from a plot and pacing perspective.

Too much of the dialogue is exposition heavy and clunk. The chemistry and romance is underdeveloped for such an important chapter in Kenshin’s life. Too many random characters have no real bearing on the plot and are introduced without any real fanfare or importance, then dismissed entirely out of the film.

And … far too many emotional scenes only carry weight, because of the excellent score by Naoki Sato, whose work is much more distinctive and unique for this film than the others in the series.

A lot of my dissatisfaction with this film, mainly stems from the endless in and out characters, whose presence never obey the simple film rule of Chekhov’s Gun. If you are in the film, you, as a plot device, should be expected to be tied up at some point down the line.

However there are some small positives. I thought that the cinematography was good in this film, with a lot of attention paying homage to the attractiveness of Japanese natural landscapes. Care was clearly taken in regards to the bloody splatter effects, so that they melded with the environments well and added extra emphasis on Kenshin’s bloodthirsty work.

Tomoe’s constantly evolving kimonos as well as some of the combat uniforms that Kenshin wears were of particular interest to me, another hold-over I am glad they retained from The Final. For much of the film, I spent time marvelling at some of the costumes and colours and wishing I could try something similar on as a fashion statement.

To cap off, Rurouni Kenshin – The Beginning suffers from a lot of the franchise’s issues but without the redeeming quality of beautifully intricate choreographed sword fights.

The drama felt weak, for such an important moment in Kenshin’s life and overall motivations and whilst I appreciated how neatly this film tied into the first instalment back in 2014, I left the film bereft of the sadness I was expecting from this tragic chapter.

I honestly, do wish, this film was a lot more tragic than it ended up being. What a pity tears never ran my cheeks.

A scene to recall: Basically any shot that is set in the countryside. Watching these slower sequences make me realise that cinematographers have the easiest job in the world, when operating in Japan. The absolute picturesque nature of Japanese natural scenery is so easy to capture on film and can make moods tragic and melancholy just … like … that.