Gord Zajac - Major Karnage

“You sure as hell can,” the old Karnage grinned, baring yellow teeth. “What did you think, General? That I’d want to kiss and make up after all those people you killed? That I’d find it in my heart to forgive the Butcher of Bereznyi? The Terror of Tatvan? The Siberian Slayer?”

The flightpacks were mounted on a raised platform just beyond the cloning tanks. Karnage inched towards them, keeping his eye on the Patricks. One of them clenched a gloved fist.

“You’re a monster,” old Karnage said. “You can try and hide all you like behind your shiny medals and little pretty stars. But that don’t change the fact you’re a cold-blooded killer. I did what I had to do because it had to be done. You? You did it all because you got off on it. You’re no hero, Mayhem. You’re a goddamn sociopath.”

Karnage inched himself up to the platform, and unstrapped a flightpack from the wall. He watched the back of Mayhem’s head shake slowly. “You Carpathians are all alike, aren’t you?”

Handsome and dashing, Karnage thought.

“Dashing and handsome?” old Karnage said.

“No,” Mayhem’s voice slowly turned into a low growl. “Naive, short-sighted, and incredibly out of your depth, you ungrateful little carpy .”

The Patricks moved in tighter around Karnage; their anger was palpable.

Old Karnage smiled, nodding. “There he is. That’s the General Mayhem I know.”

Mayhem jabbed a shaking finger at old Karnage. “You know nothing about me! Just lies and half-truths and propaganda fed to you by your superiors! Nothing about my struggles. Nothing of what I’ve been up against. You—”

The base of the flightpack scraped along the floor. One of the Patricks turned, and caught a glimpse of Karnage out of the corner of his eye.

“Stop him!” Mayhem shouted.

The Patricks turned and raced towards Karnage. Karnage tried to strap into the flightpack, but a Patrick tackled him to the ground. Karnage’s world became a frenzied maze of gloved hands and angry gritted teeth shouting, “Stop him! Stop him! Stop him!”

Karnage lay on the ground, his face pressed into the floor. A sea of shiny black boots stretched out before him. Between them all, he could just catch his older self’s face. Sorry, old man, Karnage thought.

It’s okay, kid, the old Karnage thought. You did your best.

Mayhem looked at Karnage, then back at the old Karnage. “So that was the plan, was it? You keep me busy while your partner goes for help?”

Karnage felt lips near his ear. “A nice try, Major.”

Another Patrick from somewhere in the crowd spoke: “But I’m better than you.”

Mayhem smiled. He toyed with the joystick on his wheelchair. “Still, I shouldn’t be too surprised. Admittedly, I was expecting a lot from a carpy like you. I had such high hopes, Major. I had hoped… ah, but it doesn’t matter now, does it? There’s nothing going on behind those defiant eyes of yours, is there? Just empty, primal rage. You’re a vacant meatbag. Good for spare parts, but nothing else.”

The hair on Karnage’s neck stood on end. What does he mean spare parts?

“What do you mean spare parts?” the old Karnage said.

“Your mind may be unwilling, but your body is quite strong. While not quite as effective as providing a new host, we can use your genetic material to repair artifacts in the clones.”

“Like a patching material,” said a Patrick.

“Or spackle,” said another.

“The technique isn’t perfect,” Mayhem said, “but it should bring the error rate down to tolerable levels. Just think, Major. Instead of a partnership, it will be a hostile takeover.”

“Quite hostile,” said a Patrick.

“Very hostile,” said another.

“Your strength combined with my mind. Mayhem & Karnage. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Much better than Karnage & Mayhem,” said a Patrick.

“Much much better,” said another.

“But first,” Mayhem said, “we must dispose of the old material.”

Karnage heard a bullet click into a chamber above his head.

“No!” The old Karnage struggled against his bonds. “Let him go, Mayhem! Or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what, Major?” Mayhem leered. “There’s nothing you can do. Look at you.”

“Struggling,” said a Patrick.

“Helpless,” said another.

“You’re done for, Major,” Mayhem said. “Finally beaten. There’s nothing you can do to change that now.”

The old Karnage glowered at Mayhem. “You wanna bet?”

“I suppose you have an emergency backup plan, then?”

“I do,” the old Karnage said.

Karnage looked up, as the realization of what the old Karnage was about to do sank in. His heart thudded in his chest. No, Major! Don’t do it!

Sorry, kid, the old Karnage thought, it’s our only choice.

“And whatever would that be?” Mayhem said.

“Just two words,” the old Karnage said. He locked eyes with Karnage. “The War.”

The War!

Karnage’s mind filled with violent images. Fire-tinged hate billowed up from his belly, like napalm pouring out of guts.

The War!

He burst out of the pile of Patricks. Screams and chauffeur hats flew in all directions. He let out a cry of primal rage as he remembered…

The War!

He charged across the hangar towards old Karnage, who was struggling in the wheelchair against those same visions. Patricks leaped out at Karnage. They tried to grab him, to throw him down. Karnage’s fists flew, clearing a path through the mob. He broke noses and snapped wrists with barely a thought. Screams of indignation and howls of pain poured out all around him.

He jumped up onto the wheelchair. The momentum of his landing threw the wheelchair backwards through the cargo container until it slammed into the wall. The blow knocked the metal door shut behind them. Something clanged against it, and shouting and banging from the other side confirmed that it was stuck.

Karnage ripped the restraints off of the old Karnage, whipped him out of the chair, and threw him against the wall.

“Don’t talk to me about The War!”

The old Karnage’s eyes were shut. His teeth gritted. Karnage felt him straining against the violent hallucinations running through their shared mind. Old Karnage’s Sanity Levels rocketed upwards. The old man’s mind reached out to his through the chaos and the flames: Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney. Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney. Come on, kid. Concentrate. We can stop this. Think, kid. Think! Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney. Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney. Come on. We can do this.

Karnage tried to focus on the chant. Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney. Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney. He could feel it pushing through the noise and the fear. Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney. Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney.

That’s it, kid. We’re doing it. We’re doing it!

The visions slowly pulled themselves apart, replaced with the faces of each of his missing comrades. Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney. Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch, Sydney.

The last of the visions spilled away, and Karnage let go of his grip on the old man’s neck. The old man’s Sanity Patch went silent. They looked at each other and smiled. We did it.

The container door banged open behind them. A Patrick appeared in the doorway, holding a gun. “No!” Mayhem screamed. Another Patrick knocked the gun down. “We need the meatbag,” he hissed.