SUPERWORLD

Misha II

The cold never bothered Misha. In his memories of a place he maybe once lived, the foggy, changing, and distorted few that are left to him, there was always snow, and he and his sister, no, brother, no, mother.

It doesn't matter.

Misha's other voice reminded him, and turned his thoughts. What is important now is the work, and the work dictates what memories he needs. His first, the earliest one he could recall clearly, is of The Call. God had spoken to Misha, there in the pit where he lay naked and scarred, with only his bible and his chokti. God said unto his servant:

"Go forth and strike down the heretics. Cut them down in my righteous and holy name. Cull those who have embraced Satan and surrendered their souls unto him in exchange for their diabolical powers."

And Misha answered his call. He went from that pit, not even knowing his name, led by God's Will. And that was enough to make Misha operate as the Judge Samson. The giant went from foreign land to foreign land, smashing all heretics with his righteous strength, bludgeoning evil with his wrench and silencing voices that spoke against the One True God.

Now, by God's Will, he was in this frigid shipping container in a freighter on the sea. Bribing the sailor was of no difficulty, Misha had money, taken from the homes of the heretics he slew. But money is not important. All of this he did in the name of the task The Lord had set him upon.

Misha opened his pack, its faded green drab suggesting a military origin; its bare thread suggesting great age. But it does not matter. Misha retrieved his light from the bag and activated it. He used the light to open his bible, and there, just on the inside, was the word that made his name "Misha" scrawled in an unsure hand, possibly a child, possibly a fool. He read the Judges 6:12 to prepare himself for his work.

"When the angel of The Lord appeared to Gideon, he said, 'The Lord is with you, Mighty Warrior.'" Misha read aloud.

The freighter docked, and Misha put away his holy tome and came down from his hiding place in the crate. He had the second half of the payment waiting for the smuggler. The squat sailor opened the shipping crate and let the light of the moon fall upon Misha, casting a shadow that was longer than Misha's already preposterous size.

"Hey, big fella, you got my dough?" The smuggler asked, too stupid to be intimidated by the massive Russian in front of him. Misha retrieved the rest of the payment from his boot, so badly battered that some of the steel in the toe was visible where the hardy leather had failed. Misha handed the man the money.

"Pleasure workin' with ya' pal." The smuggler said, looking at Misha, waiting for a response.

Misha said nothing and pushed past him. Misha looked up at the cold moon and took a lung full of the salty sea breeze. This made him think of The Woman. He does not remember her name, it doesn't matter anymore. He loved her, that was all he could remember, and that does not matter now either. Nor did their time together by the ocean, nor the laughter of the nearby child. Perhaps she was Misha's daughter or son...or nephew...or...but that does not matter.

Misha walked over to the edge of the boat and looked down at the dock below, he jumped from the railing to the dock. He landed perfectly, but the distance he jumped still caused the impact to buckle his knee and hurt him. Maybe a snapped tendon, maybe a broken ankle, it does not matter. It would fix itself soon enough. Misha put his good leg forward and dragged the damaged one behind it, making his way to the mainland. Misha did not like the smell about him, it smelled of corruption and depravity.

God is not here, Misha thought, they have cast him out in favor of their own lustful and greedy pursuits.

He pressed forward into the city, ignoring the filthy scent around him. No matter how wicked or tainted this city was, he would not run and hide from the sinful, he would fight it as a Warrior of God.