RWD Omake: A draft of the scene. Non-Canon. Possible Spoiler.

I began drafting this yesterday after seeing how the polls swung. It is not final nor is it canon. In fact, I have three other incomplete drafts that would work better for other names like Ozymandias(this one has the poem rather than a Ballad), Agamemnon and Charon, but I decided to spend time brainstorming this scene instead. This is only a sample to better contextualise the direction the fic is headed. Enjoy.

3x INTERLUDE(Carlos)

The rec room couches had that familiar sinking quality, broken springs and compressed foam offering little comfort but a known quantity of discomfort. I shifted, feeling the dull ache in my shoulder where the last training simulation drone had scored a lucky hit. Already healing, of course. Always healing. The low thrum of the base, the distant clatter from the workshop, the drone of a video Vista had open on her tablet—background noise. Relative peace.

It shattered when Clockblocker practically kicked the door open, skidding into the room with his cellphone held out like a religious relic. His usual manic grin was stretched thin, something sharp and uneasy glinting in his eyes behind the visor.

“Guys. Guys! You have to see this. Just dropped on PHO, already going nuclear.”

I pushed myself up straighter, exchanging a glance with Browbeat who’d paused mid-sketch on his own datapad. Vista looked up, curiosity piqued. Clockblocker didn’t wait for an invitation, practically shoving the device into my hands. “It's the new guy. Hollowpoint.”

I took the tablet, Dennis leaning over my shoulder, practically vibrating. Browbeat shuffled closer, peering over Dennis’s head. The video started abruptly. Shaky handheld view, focused way too close on rough fabric—a black ski mask. Whoever was holding the camera fumbled, adjusting the angle. Cheap webcam, maybe, judging by the grainy resolution. Then the view pulled back.

My breath hitched.

The figure in the ski mask —nondescript dark hoodie, jeans—stepped away from the camera, revealing the background. A warehouse, looked like. Concrete floor, shadows clinging to the corners, empty except for… them.

Three figures. Masked, costumed, instantly recognizable even in the poor lighting. Lung. Hookwolf. Skidmark. They weren’t standing. They were kneeling, upright, chained wrists pulled taut behind them, secured to thick metal poles that seemed driven directly into the concrete floor behind them. Lung’s demonic mask was tilted downwards, his massive frame unnaturally still. Hookwolf, stripped of his usual whirlwind of metal, was just… bulk, chained and slumped, head lolling. Unconscious? Drugged? Maybe.

Skidmark wasn’t. His lean frame strained against the chains, muscles cording in his neck. A thick gag stretched his mouth wide, muffling frantic sounds—whimpers, choked screams, desperate pleas that were horribly clear despite the fabric. His eyes darted wildly, pure animal terror.

My stomach clenched. Seeing villains downed wasn’t new. Seeing these villains, some of the city’s heaviest hitters, displayed like trophies… that was something else.

The masked man, Hollowpoint, seemed satisfied with the camera angle. He walked casually to the right of the prisoners, where a simple three-legged stool sat. A dark wooden instrument rested against it – a lute? Looked like one. He picked it up, settled onto the stool, and strummed a quiet chord.

Then he began to play. A simple, haunting melody. Old. Sad. It plucked at something deep, a resonance I didn’t understand.

“Appalachian folk ballad,” Browbeat murmured beside me, his voice low. “Old school. Can’t place the name…”

Hollowpoint started to sing. His voice wasn’t remarkable, not professionally trained, but clear, steady, carrying the mournful tune with a strange, unaffected sincerity.

O Death, O Death,

O Death,
Won’t you spare me over ’til another year?

Well what is this that I can’t see
With icy hands takin’ hold of me?

When God is gone and the Devil takes hold,
Who will have mercy on your soul.

O Death, O Death,

O Death,
Won’t you spare me over ’til another year?

He continued thrumming, but his gaze slowly, deliberately, shifted towards the whimpering Skidmark. Evaluating. Judging. His mask betraying no expression, but the sudden stillness in his posture screamed irritation. The air in the video seemed to crackle in response as the last note hung for a pregnant second. Then, smoothly, without emotion, Hollowpoint’s left hand stilled on the lute's neck while his right moved.

There was no blur of speed. It was slower than that. More deliberate. His hand slid behind him, under the hoodie, and reappeared holding a matte black pistol. It rose, aimed, all in one fluid, economical motion that felt less like violence and more like… pruning a branch.

The bang was flat, brutally loud in the enclosed space. Skidmark’s head jerked violently sideways, a dark spray erupting from the exit wound. His struggling ceased instantly, his body utterly limp, dead weight against the chains.

Clockblocker made a choked sound. Vista gasped, hand flying to her mouth. I felt a cold knot tighten in my gut.

Hollowpoint didn’t react beyond the act itself. He lowered the pistol, placing it carefully on the concrete beside his stool, parallel with the leg. Then, he sighed, a quiet exhalation barely caught by the microphone. His hands rested on the lute for a moment longer, head bowed slightly. Pondering. Considering. Then, with the same deliberate care, he leaned the instrument back against the stool. He folded his hands in his lap, took a slow breath, and finally looked directly into the camera lens.

When he spoke, his voice was the same – calm, almost reflective. But the weight behind it pressed down, heavy as bedrock. “This city is loud,” he began, “And I grow impatient. The constant clamour. The villains. The flaccid authorities… they irritate me.”

His masked head tilted. “I have little desire for prolonged involvement here, as my concerns lie elsewhere and my interests are not yours. But the noise… it irritates me.” He leaned forward slightly, the simple movement carrying an unnerving intensity. “So, a suggestion. While I remain, conduct yourselves with a modicum of restraint. Avoid… making noise. Avoid becoming nuisances.”

He paused, head cocked as if listening to something only he could hear. “Ah. Identity. A label. You require one, perhaps.” A faint, dry chuckle that wasn't humorous at all. “Well, I have been known by many names. I have answered to Mahdi. To Muad'Dib. The people called me Lisan al Gaib. The Kwisatz Haderach. The one to lead them to paradise.” The names were strange, layered with an alien significance that made my skin crawl. He shrugged, a small, dismissive gesture. “Irrelevant here, I presume.”

He reached down again, slowly, and picked up the pistol. He didn’t aim it at the camera, just held it loosely, turning it over as he examined it in his grip. “What is relevant, however, is choice. Yet, I must warn you… Should you choose to oppose me, be prepared to reconcile with the reality that you have chosen me as the instrument of your demise. The vessel of your misfortune.” He let the words hang there. “Your Omen.”

Hollowpoint's eyes rose to face the camera a final time, two still pools of icy blue. Then, the pistol came up, steady, unhurried.

Bang.

Lung’s body jerked against the chains.

A breath.

Bang.

Hookwolf’s body slumped further.

Silence. The cape regarded the corpses for a moment, then wordlessly returned the gun to his belt. He stood, brushed something invisible from his jeans, and walked calmly towards the camera. His hand reached out to fiddle with the camera, obscuring the lens.

A moment later, the screen went black.

Vista was pale, staring at the blank screen. Browbeat hadn’t moved, his expression thoughtful but deeply disturbed. Even Clockblocker didn’t seem in the mood for a joke. 

For a long time after the video ended, no one seemed capable of mustering the will to speak.