“Listen up,” She said as she called the room to order. She stood at the head of the table, graphs and pictures displayed on the large screen behind her. “We're real and we proved it. We're not some one-off rebellion. We're the Renegades, and the Maji will have to deal with us globally now. That means clashes with the Astral League, the Starseekers, and whoever else they find.” Nedra explained, sitting backwards in her chair at the head of the table. She ran a hand through her dense braids and smiled at the group of agents and majes assembled in the room. Her dark red leather jacket commanded almost as much attention as her confidence did.

“It also means running PR missions for non-Maji aligned countries.” Max said, British accent on full display. “You can run an operation, but civilians need to see us run a campaign.” With his dirty blonde curly undercut and trimmed goatee, Max Winters looked ready for a photoshoot or a battlefield. Like Nedra, he'd also shown up in his typical outfit. Unlike her leather jacket, holsters, and gear just casual enough to blend into a crowd, Max's purple and black bodysuit was designed for absorbing impacts and minimal wind resistance while flying through the air.

“What they need is stability.” Across the table from him, Donojan Oerbas scowled. His wavy silver tresses hung down his brown face in an asymmetric cut designed to obscure his eye patch. “Wars aren't won on the battlefield. They're won in the hearts and minds of the populaces and soldiers involved. Ask me how I know.”

The question was facetious; everyone in the room knew the well publicized story of the crown prince of the nation of Oerbas ascending to the throne 12 months prior amidst rumors of scandal and betrayal only to be ousted after a long bloody civil war led by his wife. Less public was his recent association with a group reviled as terrorists or hailed as liberators, depending on who was talking.

Nedra Adebayo intentionally kept a low profile, but “Spectre” had gained notoriety among the intelligence community as an opponent of the Maji ever since her departure from the CIA. Though he might report to her, Major Max Shields, better known as “Max Impact” served as the Renegade’s public face and ostensible leader. Donojan had been assumed dead after being deposed by a successful civil uprising, but “Dusk,” had slowly come around to the idea of operating on a team. Together, the trio were the burgeoning movement’s most powerful battlemajes.

“So 'the Renegades' are international, thanks to that little dust up in Fortazela.” Donojan said, “the real test will be what comes next.”

“We know what comes next.” Max laughed. “The Maji aren't just gonna sit there and take it. They're gonna come out swinging.”

“They're going to try and delegitimize us.” Nedra corrected him. “It's what I would do.” The Nigerian woman scanned the room: nearly two dozen faces stared back at her, some standing against the walls of the makeshift conference room. “When that fails, they're going to hunt us. They'll try and get us off the chessboard however they can. The one thing they can't tolerate is a viable alternative to their plan for the world. It’s why they hated Set. And feared him. But with him gone, we have the funding. We have the support. We have the resources. But most importantly? We have the opportunity. Take a look around: we can either do this now or die wishing we had.”

Her audience responded with nods and growing confidence written on their faces. This was working. It reminded her of being an intelligence field agent, running ops and sowing the seeds of an insurgency. It felt good to make a difference the way she knew how.

“If we want to fight them on anything like equal footing though, we'll need more majes. battlemajes.” A woman at the table opined, green eyes locked with Nedras as her straight black hair ran down one side of her face. “I'm tired of getting my ass kicked and having to take cover everytime Rumble or Andromeda or fucking Verdict shows up, yeah?”

“That's a good point, Lin. Ain't too many heavies walking around now what can hang with those two. Even fewer I can think of I'd want to recruit.” His British accent was clear. “But I might just know one.” He grinned and pulled a phone from his pocket.

“Wait, what? You know someone who could even kinda stand up to Rumble and just... didn't call them?”

“Hey, listen. She's... fucking unpredictable, aight? We’ve only talked once since the Aegis days. But if she's still alive, I know she's still down to scrap.” Max put his hand up to silence the groans his answer produced.

Nedra knew who he had in mind. She'd read Max’s file months before she'd ever recruited him. Before he'd been the face of the Renegades, even before his second stint as a battlemaje for the British Air Force, Major Impact had been part of Aegis, the now defunct strike force made up of battlemajes from a dozen different countries.

With his versatile telekinesis majick, self propelled flight came as easy to Max as gathering a cloud of debris and hurling tree branches and rebar from 200 feet in the air. The man was his own artillery, his own air support, his own “no fly zone.” But majes like Martin “Rumble” Washington or Verdict shrugged off those kinds of impacts. They called them “heavies” for a reason.

No, if the Renegades wanted someone who could stand toe to toe with those juggernauts, there was only one person she knew that he knew. Their eyes met, and Nedra considered spoiling his secret. But Max's talents were only matched by his ego; if she wanted him around she needed to move out of the way and let him shine.

“I'll leave it up to you. Don't disappoint me.” She warned.

“I never do.” He grinned.

———————————

She was too big for the helicopter, and Max Impact wondered if she'd grown since they'd last seen each other. He hadn't expected they'd see each other again at all. Her agreeing to work with them came as a genuine shock to a man difficult to shock anymore. The intense wind whipped her blonde high ponytail and messy bangs back and forth. She crouched in front of him, peering out of the side of the chopper and down at the scene beneath.

The wind made it difficult, but he could just make out the words she muttered.

“God I missed this.”

Below them a battle raged. Smoke wafted from plasma scorched craters and people fled east along streets choked by abandoned cars and bikes.

“Right then, what fresh hell am I dropping into?” She asked as she shut the door and turned back to him. He’d almost forgotten her New Zealand accent.

“It’s a protest gone wrong.” He paused to consider how much more to tell her, or how much more she’d want to know. “It’s political. There’s a new candidate with some divisive ideas. We didn’t start today’s fight, though.”

“No? Pussies. Whatever. Don’t care who started. I’m gonna finish it, Max.” The towering woman punched her palm. Her blue eyes gleamed at the prospect of violence.

“Alright. We’ll bring the chopper lower and you can hit the ground running. Play it just like we planned...” He gestured towards the ground.

“Since when do you play things according to plan? Don't tell me you turned into Beacon when I wasn't looking.” She teased.

During the Aegis days he’d been the one bristling loudly at overbearing commanders. Max wondered when he’d become a boring authority figure to her; another voice telling her ‘no.’

“Fuck you and fuck him. I know you can regenerate, but I didn't bring you all the way out here to watch you go splat on the bloody asphalt.” Max took umbrage at being compared to their former squad deputy commander. “Beacon wouldn't know a joke unless he was planning to avoid it during a mission.” They were nothing alike.

“No, you brought me out here to beat up the big mean man who's been bullying you and your friends.” The tall, tanned woman laughed at her own joke. She looked for someone to high five, and finding no one, high fived herself. Max noticed that the extraordinarily tall woman had changed her outfit and her attitude. Gone were the preppy red and white jersey and shorts designed like a volleyball outfit.

Now Hellbent wore a cropped black jacket partially zipped up over a red halterneck top. Her new jacket was no better at hiding her massive bust than her old outfit had been, but her change to pants fitted with armor plates was a welcome one. The new gear made her look older, more serious.

And in their years apart she'd found new confidence and a new attitude to boot.

“I changed my mind. Go fucking splat right there on the asphalt, Leslie.” Their banter felt familiar like an old jacket pulled out of a closet.

“THAT's the Max I remember. Welcome back, asshole. And tell your boys not to forget my luggage. I'm high maintenance.” She fell backwards out of the helicopter, two middle fingers extended, tongue out.

Just like old times.

Max gave a command to the agent behind him, motioned to the black case along the wall of the helicopter, and then followed her out of the helicopter and into the open air above the city.

Hellbent might enjoy a freefall all the way to the ground, but Max Impact was telekinetic. His purple aura wrapped tightly around him long before he hit the ground and he turned a tight arc until he was parallel with the ground, racing above a city street. Leslie Slayter had her mission. His was search and rescue.

Her legs tensed like springs and she felt the ground shake beneath her as she landed. She felt the impact plates in the soles of her heavy boots snap and shatter, and felt that entropy warm her in turn. Breaking things was a fact of life for a woman more than 2 meters tall. But Hellbent's majick turned broken things into power. Each shard of glass that broke beneath her feet was a drop in the bucket of her mana. She found the first soldier and threw him. She didn't much care whose side he was on. He was an appetizer. His scream, the sound he made when he hit the wall behind him, the parts of his she'd dislodged or damaged, all of it was fuel.

Hellbent was hungry.

She ran into the fray, towards the next group of soldiers, plasma rifles heated and blaring. She recognized then that she'd gotten it right. Her first victim had been one of these. This trio went down shooting and screaming, victims to a battlemaje who thrived on conflict like some statuesque blonde war goddess. It was almost boring. Almost.

Hellbent turned to study the situation, looking for whatever direction the civilians and allied agents alike were running from. She could count on the most fun and the best fuel there at the source of the chaos. She popped the collar to her jacket, checked the straps on her heavy boots and gloves, and began running.

He wasn't hard to find. She'd seen him on TV before. He looked taller there. In front of her he was half a foot shorter than her and nearly as wide as he was tall. But the man in front of her was definitely, obviously Martin 'Rumble' Washington. There weren't too many metas with glowing blue veins and sweat and a shape that would make a bodybuilder envious.

She found a hunk of concrete and split it into chunks with a downward elbow. More broken bonds.More drops of mana absorbed. She hefted one melon sized piece of concrete and hurled it straight at Rumble, trying to catch him unaware. But if the videos oversold his stature, they undersold his composure. The brawny Black American lifted an arm to guard himself but never turned towards her, even as the stone turned to dust as it collided with his beefy forearm.

“Wicked...” Hellbent said. This was going to be fun after all.

Rumble barked an order to his soldiers nearby and then took a step that Leslie barely saw. She fixed her eyes on him as he came to a stop in front of her. He wore an orange and black rash guard, lightly padded along the ribs and back and marked with the Cosmic League's starred logo. His shorts were short and broad, designed to never impede his movement.

“What name should I give them when the paramedics come get you?” He asked, staring through her as he assumed a mixed martial artist's stance, loose and ready for anything

“Well how's that for a hello? I figured we'd banter back and forth a bit. Get to know each other a bit. You know girls like a little foreplay before you try and sweep them off their feet.”

If he cracked a smile, it was a small one, black goatee and moustache framing his mouth. “Everyone knows who I am. If you're here, you're here to fight. So let's rumble.”

Hellbent was halfway through her high roundhouse kick by the time he finished his sentence. The 6'6” New Zealander felt her shin against her boot against his arm and pivoted into a hook, and then a knee, a flurry of strikes meant to test his defense. Rumble blocked, then parried, but she caught him by surprise when she caught his brown arm in hers and flung him into the air.

The stocky battlemaje turned midair, trying to regain his balance. Hellbent met him in the air, legs tensed to send her soaring before she curved her body backwards and spiked him back into the ground like a giant volleyball.

“The name’s Hellbent, asshole.” She smiled, brushing off her pants.

It felt nice to put skills from her pre-majick life into practice here in her new career. Back when her greatest ambition was pro volleyball. She landed with a much softer thud than Rumble had, but he leapt back to his feet before she could follow up.

This time there was no denying he'd cracked a smile. The Starfinder’s premier brawler, their immovable titan, was impressed. Hellbent twirled, picking up a downed street sign with ease and swinging it at Rumble. She didn't even see him duck beneath it. Instead, her eyes locked on him again right before his fist landed flush on her cheek and sent her tumbling.

“Hellbent? Sure. Let me know when you start regretting coming here.”

“Hey Leslie, you still alive down there?” Impact's voice was clear in her ear. The fact that he thought to check on her was sweet. The fact that he thought he needed to after a punch like that was insulting.

“Fuck off, flyboy. Me and Rumble are about to get much better acquainted.” She rolled away from Rumble's diving knee, realizing then that a piece of rebar had slashed her side. She felt her mana seeping out of her, mending the torn skin. She watched Rumble observe the reaction as well, studying her.

“Oh, you like that? Come closer and I'll give you a closer look.” Hellbent wiped a layer of dirt off her shirt and made certain to touch her chest more suggestively than necessary. Her curves were no secret. Why not make them a weapon.

“I'll see you close enough when you're in a cell.” Rumble said.

And then they lunged at each other.

Rumble was faster than she’d expected, especially from a man that large. But that was the power of majick: nothing needed to be as it seemed. He fought with the confidence of a career fighter; no surprise coming from a man who’d been a champion fighter before ever becoming a maje. But Leslie leaned on her advantages too; a body that healed itself, and a significant reach advantage. Most important of all, she’d never learned to fight by any rules. She was free to use anything and everything at her disposal.

And that included her luggage.

He’d gotten the better of their last few exchanges, striking with near instant and thunderous force. He was learning her style, her habits, and beating her to the punch. Worse yet he was mocking her for it. The smiling Black man was enjoying himself more with each passing moment.

But Hellbent was not a woman without her secrets.

“Drop my luggage.” She said, finger to her earpiece.

“Leaving already?” Rumble taunted, circling her. He dashed toward her, but Leslie saw an opening in his approach this time, hoisting him up off his feet and then jumping into the air before dropping him on his head. She didn’t press her advantage this time, instead leaping away from him. The black obelisk was already plummeting towards them.

“Bingo.”

The man sized box landed with a thud and a cloud of smoke. Rumble stared at her, uncomprehending as she stood next to it. She slapped the top of the box and then grinned as it split open, revealing a minigun.

She pulled the weapon from its container and hefted it in two hands. Its immense weight didn’t surprise her; the weapon had originally been designed for mounting on vehicles. Only the superhuman strength offered by her majick made the immense gatling laser a feasible weapon for the athletic brawler.

“I didn't expect to need this, but since you got me all riled up... let's go another round!” The blonde woman grinned, weapon trained on him, her hand wrapped around its massive trigger.

#Battlemaje #Action #Magic #Fight #Fantasy #FirstDraft #SFW #Fiction

Find shorter thoughts at https://c.im/@NaClKnight