The Man In Red

Story and Cover by evolution-500

Disclaimer: Lobo is a character belonging to DC Comics. 

WARNING: This story contains violence, course language, dark, mature and disturbing themes and imagery. Reader discretion is advised.

Author's Note: So, for those of you wondering, this had been part of a compilation of stories that I've been working on called "Ghosts of Czarnia". However, due to concerns about this particular story's length, I have decided to upload this as its own separate story to make reader consumption easier. I hope you all enjoy the story. Take care, and stay safe and healthy, everyone! :)

Prologue: Stirrings

"The pain we inflict upon ourselves hurt most of all."

― Sophocles, "Oedipus Rex"

"Target located."

The figure sat unmoving in the pilot seat, his form veiled in shadow, his blood-red, featureless eyes glowing in the dimly lit cockpit.

"Are you certain?" he questioned, his voice a rich, dusky tenor.

"Satellites orbiting around Arias I, Barsoom, and the moons of Orion V have picked up his signal," the AI answered in a flat neutral voice. "We have one hundred percent visual confirmation."

Strong, black taloned hands with black fingerless gloves twitched.

"Show me."

Green light poured into the cockpit as the old DOS-styled monitor flared on, the digitized grid replaced by a still image of a pale man in a black vest and jeans riding on a flying, rocket-powered motorcycle, causing the figure in the pilot's seat to cease breathing.

Leaning forward, he stared into the monitor.

"I'll be damned. So... there is another." Reclining back into his seat, he raised a hand to his chin, tilting his head in thought. "Interesting."

Taking in a sharp intake of air, he let out a deep, rumbling full-chested growl as he narrowed his eyes.

"How long ago was this?" he demanded.

"The image has been taken fifteen minutes ago."

Filmy nictitating membranes flared, slipping over the eyes before quickly withdrawing back into the socket as the pilot leaned forward with predatory intent, his pale mouth slowly etching itself into a hungry smile, revealing sharp fangs and teeth on his upper and lower jaw, his short yet thick black mane of hair bristling.

"Have you managed to lock onto his ion trail and coordinates?"

"Locked on and waiting for further orders."

His smile grew.

"Excellent." Grabbing hold of the joystick, he settled back into his seat, his glowing red eyes mere slits. "I think it's about time we met face to face."

Sharp teeth gleamed in the darkness. "It has been a very long time coming."

* * *

Stars glistened lifelessly like frozen and painted tears while asteroids hurled limply past.

His ship, a vehicle with a long, thin nose and frame that was bordered by a pair of sickle-like wings, cut a swath through dust clouds floating around in space, its engines rumbling silently as it continued forward through green and black nebulas.

Flying through the charred and crumbling remains of various massive cruisers, shuttles and ships, he watched the bodies of various crew members as they swirled around him, scanning his surroundings with cold distrustful eyes.

Another corporate skirmish, he surmised, based on the burnt out company logos and uniforms on the ruined freighters and bodies. Probably from Helios VIII. From the look of things, nobody had won, as per usual. 

He squinted left, then right, eying everything in suspicion.

"Scan the area," he ordered.

He watched as the DOS-styled monitors lit up, lining and marking the various broken hulls and bodies with green grids.

"No life signs detected."

He narrowed his eyes into a squint, staring out through the window of the cockpit, his gloved taloned hand reaching for the holstered weapon he kept on his hip. Although life signs hadn't been detected, he would be a fool to let his guard down around these parts; it was common practice for pirates and thieves to lay in wait somewhere on the battlefield to ambush the unsuspecting, whether it were to hijack ships, steal equipment or credits, etc.

He studied the bodies as they swirled around his ship.

A vast array of species, ranging from the mammalian, avian and reptilian to the more multilimbed cephalopods, the cadavers - well, what had been left of them - were all artfully poised above the asteroid field, their spilled blood forming multicolored frozen crystals that glinted in the light of the sun. Taken together, it looked like a sort of grisly fresco of decapitated torsos, limbs, organs, detached jaws, beaks, eyes and heads, their faces locked in varying and perpetual expressions of fear and agony.

Just like his homeworld all those years ago.

Bodies brushed against his ship while others bounced off and smashed into his sides, some reduced to icy crystal shards that stained the vessel's hull.

He snarled. He had just cleaned that.

"Farking terrific," he muttered.

Then again, he reflected, it was very apropos. Symbolic even. After all, hadn't he himself been baptized in blood and gore at a young age?

Leaning his head into the back of his seat, he glanced around at the ship graveyard.

How long had it been since Czarnia? How long had he been searching for another of his kind?

Outside, bodies and debris were pulled down into the planet's orbit. He watched as the bodies fell, their forms burning and crumbling into embers as they slowly receded, leaving behind nothing but a burning trail before ultimately disappearing altogether into the planet itself.

Talons tightened around the joystick.

Perhaps this was the universe's way of telling him that it was inevitable. If so, then he needed to lay claim to his destiny at long last, his birthright. His name.

And in order to do that, he needed to meet and kill the slimy bastard that stole it.

* * *

It had taken a great deal of time and patience to locate the target, far too long for his liking, but once the ion trail picked up, he was able to lock onto the vehicle's signal and track him to a bar.

The Steaming Load, as it were called, was a heap of garbage mounted on a sliver of moon that used to be a lunar mining colony, but government shutdown rendered it mostly inoperable. What existed now was nothing more than a pitiful excuse of a place, a shithole that had some notoriety for being a hangout for cutthroats, mercs and other disreputable figures.

He studied the structure.

The building itself was appalling, nothing more than scrap metal and organic material scavenged from dead ships, corpses, androids and whatever else the owners presumably found and welded together over the years, parts of its foundations exposed like bone from a rotting corpse. Even the pieces of metal looked like they were ready to fall off like dead skin.

* * *

A baby was writhing around in agony, its form bloated and swollen, its skin peeling.

* * *

Clutching hold of the controls, he closed his eyes and slowly took in deep breaths.

"Sir, I've detected a spike in your heart rate. Is everything alright?" the onboard computer asked.

Clearing his throat, he shook his head, exhaling with a rumbling growl.

"I'm fine." Opening his eyes, he turned his attention back to the bar. "Run a scan of the building. Check for heat signatures and cybernetic augments. I want a thorough analysis of this...facility's security."

He spat the last two words out with a mixture of contempt and disgust as he waited for the results, staring off to the stars, back to where Czarnia was.

He sighed as a feeling of melancholy came over him.

If Czarnia hadn't fallen, would things have been different?

He frowned.

What was the use in even contemplating?

Czarnia was dead - simple as that.

The judge and Kozar Prison authorities made it perfectly clear that he was to blame for its downfall, a fact that he himself couldn't refute, no matter how hard he tried to.

Who was he to question?

All he had left was his name, and with it, its terrible power and reputation, the last connection he has to his people. With no other choice left, the only honorable thing he could do now was to take responsibility for his actions and reclaim that title once and for all, to commemorate and honor the memory of his fallen brothers, sisters and ancestors.

He will no longer be a Lupo, the Czarnian term meaning a man without a name, without worth.

He will be a Lobo.

A cruel smirk edged at the corner of the man in red's mouth.

Lobo. In his peoples' tongue, there was not one precise definition for it...at least, as he far as he were aware. It was a name of great and terrible power, so great that everyone seemed reluctant to use it themselves.

Nobody had ever explained why it were so in Czarnia when he had been a boy, and whenever the name had been brought up, it was spoken in hushed fearful tones, as if merely speaking the word would summon the wrath of their gods and ancestors. It was that tantalizing mystery that both frustrated and yet drew him.

Perhaps, he reflected, once he finally laid claim to the title he will finally understand what it was that his ancestors tried to hide at long last.

Then again, perhaps not.

He was aware of the word's meaning in the Khundian dialect, and as much as he despised that disgusting race and its customs, he had to admit that he liked the way it sounded.

He leaned back in his seat, his fanged teeth glinting as he recalled that particular phrase, his red eyes shining.

"He Who Devours Your Entrails And Thoroughly Enjoys It."

He had to admit, there was a certain atavistic and bestial charm that appealed to him.

And wholly appropriate, too, especially given how he himself had survived before being whisked away from the rotted remains of his homeworld.

Shaking his head slightly, the Czarnian let out a low rumbling chuckle.

Perhaps once this troublesome pest was dealt with, he could indulge alongside his precious Cave Bears and dolphins back at his base of operations in that particular act as a way of affirming his status to the universe, to his ancestors and the gods themselves.

If they were unwilling to offer any sign of absolution, if he were truly damned as he was led to believe, then he would proceed forward into the blackest depths without protest.

After all, who was he to question his gods and ancestors?

The monitors pinged, drawing the man in red's attention. Scanners indicated the bar lacked even the most basic of security systems. Some rudimentary augments for communication purposes, with one or two concealed weapons in their arms. A few with optic lasers, but nothing majorly concerning. None of the species present were likely to possess any sort of telepathic abilities, which gave him some relief.

His lips curled in disgust.

Farking telepaths. There were few things he despised in the universe, and 'pathers were near the top of list. Every so often, some dumb motherfarker would decide to reach out and try to mind-grope. Not that he had to be worried - after all, he had thoroughly researched their various possible means of doing so, and as result, he had devised various means to avoid detection, perfecting his craft to the point that it was mere child's play. The only way into his mind, if any ever dared to, was if he would let them in willingly, and hoo boy, would they be in for one hell of a surprise upon entering! One peek, and they would regret it instantly.

He continued checking the readings. Not even a security android.

He scoffed in derision. What a joke. Still, he should be wary just the same. Even a dung heap like this can be dangerously deceptive, plus it was possible there may be the odd 'pather among them.

Landing his vehicle, the man in red carefully checked the gauge on the screen. He should have enough fuel cells for a week or two. Looking up, he scanned his surroundings, then froze as he saw the target's own - a black motorcycle with a skull placed right in front of the handlebars, with turbines and thrusters at the sides.

He coolly observed the model and make. A Spazfrag666, he reckoned, with some customized parts. Definitely Czarnian make.

Clawed fingers twitched with excitement.

* * *

He waited as the cargo bay door at the rear opened. Stepping out onto the white silvery surface, light gleaming off it, the man in red had to count himself fortunate that he were able to breathe without any sort of apparatus. Very few species such as his were able to breathe in such extreme and hostile conditions, especially in an open vacuum. Even fewer were just as adaptable.

Casting his red eyes to the vehicle while his own sealed shut behind him, the man in red curiously approached. Tilting his head, his nostrils flared as he picked up the "scent" of his target.

Got him.

Now that his aura has been locked on, there was no way the bastard was going to get away from him now. 

Czarnians by their very nature were powerful empaths. An omnivorous race with very strong predatorial features, centuries of genetic engineering, spiritual practice, and planetary mining had made what were already impressive abilities even more formidable; a lone Czarnian can tear off limbs through a mere flick of its finger, rip through steel and titanium with the minimalist of efforts if it so desired. Not even the power of a Green Lantern ring would keep prey safe - once a Czarnian has their sights set on prey, nothing in the universe would stop them, with the possible exception of Darkseid.

He ran his tongue over his sharp fangs.

Now there's prey worth considering! There has to be some contract out there with that farker's name on it! After all, what self-respecting assassin wouldn't want to pursue such a tasty target? If he killed Darkseid, his name would be known across the universe.

He caught himself. Technically, it already was - the problem, however, was that someone was using his name for their own benefit.

Of course, that particular contract will have to wait until this farking imposter had been properly dealt with.

Clawed hands tightened into fists, his sharp teeth grinding angrily.

Time to rectify the situation.