Why He Did It
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Many times in history, humans take actions some cannot explain. They start wars, destroy buildings, blow up car bombs, and set off fireworks in crowds. Destruction, death, denial of safety. Among those depraved death-strewn dealings are a dearth of derivative doomsaying dingbats, nimrods, and numbskulls. But sometimes one of those people has an idea. It is something that possesses their mind fully and completely, ripping apart their life like wolverine claws through wet paper, shattering their plans, and spoiling them like milk in the sun. For Stévenson Anderson, that idea was simple- death by Kaiju fight.

Sometimes humans get stuck in a hole. That hole is deep and dark and stabs and bites and crawls and consumes and eats and hates, oh how this hole hates. Stevenson Anderson is swallowed whole by the hole, beaten and defeated, depressed and stressed, and the opposite of blessed. They are an unending void of suffering humiliation, a drone of capital feeding dead labor into more dead labor, a feedback loop of hatred and doom. They wake up one morning, July 23 of 2193, and looks out the frosted glass into the haunted abyss of Macau, and realizes something deep about themselves. That the job they have, the work they do, the people they speak to day in and day out, none of it fucking means anything. Not a single solitary molecule of meaning integrates into their life. They live alone in a sea of destructive self-hatred that batters the shore of their mind and continues to break them down, the small sand particles of their sanity drifting out into the inky black void of depression and self-annihilation.

In this world, there are very few avenues for self-expression. One of the few that Stevenson enjoyed the most was kaiju fights. When the world feels empty and dim, the few lights in it are important- and one of their lights was Bloodscourge, a titan of some repute. Their walls are covered by the merch any good fan collects: pennants, posters, plushies. Pleasant pictures portray parts of positive pigmentations. Stevenson looks at these balefully before the fight that changed their life begins: Bloodscourge against Murderboat. Bloodscourge has helped Stevenson through many things- a divorce, several breakups, a firing. Bloodscourge is dependable, always there to rip off a few limbs. Stevenson is loathe to admit it, but their favorite parts are when Bloodscourge is used to execute death row inmates- the blood sprays look like art, crimson arcs moistening their drying tear ducts, a ballet of pain and suffering. The screams are the best- no single musician can capture anything like the crunching, munching, punching signature of Bloodscourge eating a man. Its scales a shimmering turquoise, a river of hurt streaming across the battlefield. The perfect combination of mech and creature, titanium jaws snick and snack everything in its way. Nearly 5 stories long, it's not the biggest beastie, but as its fans are fond of repeating, "Size ain't everything."

Its turquoise scales were just the first of the many beautiful things about Bloodscourge, a roughly fourteen-meter-long beast of scales and hatred. The highly corruptible Biological Titan Approval Board, if the board had ever bothered to snick beneath these hardened scales, would notice the titanium reinforced joints, the advanced targeting computer inserted into the magnificent brain it possesses. A genetic combination of aye-aye, human, and Gila lizard, its Titan Clash Almanac lists it as a "lizonkuman." Most titans aren't classified- most are barely animals, after all. But to Stevenson, the beast is more than its name or its species, it is Bloodscourge, the singular source of joy within their life, the only reason they wake up in the morning.

Bloodscourge possesses six massive limbs, each tipped with fourteen thick fingers, needle-sharp retractable nails like a cat on their claws. Their skin is the polluted polymer seas that shimmer shyly from Stevenson’s artificial windows. When they move, they do it like a centipede, each limb moving intelligently with the other to create a paralyzing hypnotic wave effect of beautiful blue-green scales. Its core is thicker than a mid-sized sedan and when it dies, its organs will be studied in order to improve further titan biology. Their delicate scales interlock over each other, an interlocking hypernatural armor composed of dense keratin, reinforced with a special organ tracing the measure of their body that pumps the high amount of iron in their diet into the base of their scales, toughening them even further.

If we gaze within its systems, we see a throat, lined with pointed anemone-like buds that destroy anything that enters the mouth and can’t wriggle free. The masticated mass of muscle and meat is then fed into a percolating pouch of stomach acid, broken down into component parts, and then pumped deeper into the beast. From there, it resembles a human's digestive system; kidneys, liver, gallbladder, and all the bells and whistles that make it work. Only now have we come to what makes this system unique. Bloodscourge has a cannon of waste in its tail. Deployed rarely in combat, it blasts out heat-hardened waste products into its targets, ripping them apart via a mechanical firing mechanism, operated neurally, located within the tail. A simple burst of neurons firing, and a line of ten men can be annihilated and turned into pink mist by a single blast. It is powerful, deadly, and seemingly in control of all of its actions on the battlefield. On the battlefield of life, Stevenson has none except what clothes to wear and accessories to add. Bloodscourge has all the moves to execute a swift and painful death for its foes- all Stevenson can do is whimper in melodramatic anger as their foes laugh at them.


One night, Stevenson sits to watch another new Bloodscourge fight. They have abstained excellently- no intranet, no spoilers, no newsstands, all filtered out in hopes of a perfect virginal experience. It is Bloodscourge against another corporate-sponsored product of biological hearsay, Megalodominator. A combination of ancient fish and gorilla, its thick fur is threaded through stone-like armor plating. Stevenson has no information on this new contender- they will wish they did.

The bell rings.

The combatants charge each other, limbs swinging. Megalo strikes, attempting an overhead smash against Bloodscourge, aiming for the vulnerable arrow-shaped cranium. Bloodscourge dodges, jumping quickly to the side, its humanlike arms moving in trained and expert motion. It attempts to crawl along Megalo’s body, the human-lizard arms powerful in their grasp. The armor plating cracks, a camera zoom, a pornographic angle of the violence broadcast to millions. Blood spurts from the cracks. Megalo swipes the hand away, bounding backward. The foes circle, staring at each other. Another zoom, inopportunely focused on Megalo, giving a poor view of the whole battlefield.

At this moment, Megalo charges, swinging forward. Bloodscourge sprints its wiggling, beastly way, tail swinging out to attempt to trip the beast. The Megalo’s rough, calloused grip snatches the tail. A reversal of movement, lowering of the center of gravity. A hip tuck, a throw, the turquoise beast flies through the air. Blood sprays, the Mechatail ripping, shredding, shedding, tearing in half. Blood sprays in an arc- a parabola shown in crimson, Bloodscourge utters a shrieking cry. Its teeth dig into the blood-soaked arena, dirt streaking up along with it. Megalo pounds forward, arms swinging like hammers. Bloodscourge bounds backward, flinging itself bodily away, tearing out several teeth. Blackened crimson streaks the ground, sprayed out like an abstract painting.

Stevenson bites their fingernails, bloodshot eyes wide. Before this match they had saved up for an implant- thousands and thousands are offered, modular changes to the human form available at a premium. Better hips, larger chest, broader shoulders. Those are the cheap ones. Stevenson purchased a “special order gig”- slight turquoise scales, implanted under the skin of their face. The ultimate commitment to their idol, to the beast that brings them so much joy. It makes them slightly sick looking to anyone not twisted by the games- it has made it even harder for him to speak to people. 37, and not a single friend in sight. Except for the one they look at now- the one in so much trouble.

Megalo swings forward, body rushing, roar screeching. For the first time, Bloodscourge cowers, blood dripping from many stumps, its several hearts screaming blood along the arterial motorways of its body. Artificial adrenaline is released and Bloodscourge roars, thundering forward. They collide, and Bloodscrourge’s tail strikes, stabbing into Megalo’s chest. At the same time, Megalo pounds its fists down again and again and again and again and again. Bloodscourge falls, head crumpled by fists surreptitiously enforced with platinum joints and high-tension release gear joints in the shoulders. Both beasts fall, and a fiery ‘DRAW” covers the screen. Blood covers the ground, spilled in a pointless conflict. Both will be stripped and dumped on a transpo to Death Valley, where they will be taken apart even further.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, oil to oil,

In their sparse room, a person breaks and decides that death is better than life.

Dead eyes. Mouth open. Gone.

Loving Blooscourge gave their life meaning. But it was over. The Whore Luck has sought to swindle their heart, take away the one thing that they thought gave meaning to an empty and paltry existence. Thus, they will destroy the one thing keeping them tethered to this hell life, this reenactment of the same tired plan over and over and over and over. To put it to an end. For, in reality, is one long dark ever brighter than the other? When you lack color and stare at an abyss, does not infinitude gains it's own unique hue? When you see the long road ahead, is it not sometimes better to cut through the hedges and find its end soonest?

For all of these, to Stévenson Anderson, the answer is yes.


It's an important match. The Southeast Asian company of Omani Corp has decided to settle a patent dispute with a Titan fight with the Northwest Asian company Yanagami Corp. The resulting media circus has inspired further debate on the patenting of biological life, which has been brusquely tucked away into certain leftist forums away from the public eye. This match will decide the patent decision itself, a special arbitrage agreement having been met after nearly a year of toxic debate. It is to be a near-mirror match; one titan of disgustingly recombinant genes versus another grotesque monstrosity of the human mind.

For Stevenson, the patent argument couldn’t matter less. In fact, for the past few weeks, absolutely nothing has mattered except for this ticket. This last gasp of hope. Sure, Bloodscourge has been reassembled and put back into rotation- but any casual glance could tell it wasn’t the real Bloodscourge, the beast that reigned the ranks, the animal that ruled the arena, the record of eighty-nine wins and a single draw now nothing. Because that’s how it goes, isn’t it? Everything feels great, but then the carpet gets pulled out from under you, the chalkboard is erased, and any hint of joy extracts itself from your mind like a snake running from an ethereal mongoose.

The crowd roars. Patents are on none of their minds- they desire blood, viscera, spray. Death, violence, doom. Stevenson desires something similar, unto themselves. They wear tattered clothing as they pass the ticket booth, the worker not caring enough to notice the bloodshot eyes of a man taking no sleep, only constant stimulants and the desire to plan. Under their cloak, they possess a specialized electromagnetic device meant specifically to disengage the two-sided energy barrier erected between the audience and the fighters. Designs were easy to come across in certain ecoterrorist circles- plans, but no one with the balls to do it. Stevenson obtains refreshments and food, settling into their seat. The crowd is stimulated, as always- the light doses of adrenaline slid into every food taking effect quickly. Stevenson feels it pierce his system, their mind beginning to attune to the people around the stadium. Useless, pointless drones, minds empty except for the thrill of combat.

The fight begins, the two lizard-like beasts taking a moment to size each other up. This moment takes longer than usual- the crowd begins to boo. Omani Corp’s beast is slick, covered in a cloud of protective feathers that bristle at the crowd's sound. It rests on powerful haunches, seeing its reflection in its reticent foe. The Yanagami Corp beast responds by shaking its crimson tail, a permanent grin of razor-teeth shining in the noonday sun. Beasts born to fight, formed to destroy, denied any independence- they sit, staring at each other, seeing themselves in the stunted legs, the malformed jaw, the body built to be horrifying seeing another beast just like itself.

A major flaw in the plans of Yanagami and Omani- one beast was female. The other male.

Within their tentativeness, Stevenson sees an element of himself. He was molded, created by massive companies for a specific job, for a singular purpose, to make sure insurance adjusters made the proper calculations about the cost of death. He chuckles, the job that he left now abandoned forever. The EMP is extracted from a stained coat, the last remaining functioning pocket holding a godsend of crackhead engineering. Stevenson charges towards the field, tucking the device in the crock of his elbow, charging down the stairs towards the electrofield, shoving everyone possible out of the way. He plants his feet, throwing the device in a perfect spiral, the arcing electricity of the oblong plastic shape shimmering gayly with copper wires as the nodes make contact with the field. In the front row, the child of a businessman looks up and notices the field start to shrink diminishing in size and sliding off the magnetic surface, the device successfully nullifying it.

In the arena, the two beasts growl to each other in their instinctual language. Their circle becomes tighter and tighter before they touch, tails tentatively curling around each other. Skittiskly, they touch snouts, two behemoths closing their eyes and a feeling a peace wash over them. As this happens, a man sprints towards them, screaming with joy and pleasure as his feet carry him hard and fast. The beasts growl, the screams reminiscent of their vile trainers. Stévenson Alloicious Anderson is annihilated by the swipe of a tail. His body is cut in twain, lying in the dirt with his organs leaking, blood spouting, a crimson fan of death laid out like so many pieces of abstract art behind the shattered corpse of his mind. They drift away, a smile plastered on its face as death overtakes the third beast on the battlefield.

Yanagami and Omani Corp investors notice the lack of tell-tale orange film that covers all footage of Titan Clash matches. Even more uncertain calls to each other, the executives unsure of what will be ruled in the event of a tie. As they do so, the beasts their scientists created charge the stands. Stevenson's last act as a man as a human is to begin the death knell for TitanClash. He is a martyr, a proud environmentalist, and an antiviolence hero paraded as the Messiah. It is 2197- Stévenson Andérsons name will be known until the 2790's.

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