Uber Jason goes to Moon City

Beyond the immaculately molded galleries of the biosphere, the Moon is cold. Like the man said, She is a harsh mistress. Nothing moves there. Except for the ever-blinking machinery. The eye loving machinery.

Leaves of hacked grass, flash-frozen and born again as particulate matter. Robot spycams crawl dunes of that white particulate matter, leaving tiny impressions in the sand. Fractal relays, whisps, trances and tails of icestorms dance upon the surface.

At times, from a certain distance, a pattern spiraled out, a design scrawled by chaotic fingers, recalibrated and formatted for your home viewing pleasure.

The contents of the pattern changed, but the message was the same:
Stay.
The fuck.
Away.

Beyond the molded galleries of the biosphere, the Moon is cold. She spares no one, not even herself. Scourges her flesh with whiplash bursts of icy sand. Flagellates her body with ammonia- heavy weather systems.

And always comes back, dripping, for just one more.

From behind a dunerise, a long shadow emerges. It leaks out over the sand like the ripped claws of some rough beast.

Following the shadow, a stain on time, a blocky figure emerges. An immortal spawn of the chaos gods. A one-man death machine. As though the scraps of stray engines left to die on the Moon like so many bugs have assembled themselves. Merged into a composite figure. Aligned against sinister grids. Bedazzled. Bewitched. Defiled.

Something hardy enough to resist the freezing winds. Something so brutal, hard and masterful that it doesn't need shelter from the storm. Something like the storm itself.

Like him.

Like Jason Voorhees.

   Chapter 15

Jason Voorhees approached the gates of Moon City.

...

Jason punched through the airlock. The airlock gave with just the faintest tinge of defeat, like a balding Earth bitch who prefers to go quietly, leaking a millennium-wide trail of the foul yellow liquid.

Beyond the airlock lay stairs. And more stairs. Stairs that went up. Stairs that went down. Stairs leading to other stairs. More stairs than seemed feasible or reasonable, really, considering the access issues they posed.

At the top of Stairline B17, music was playing. Jazz cocktail for prepared fusion piano. John Robertson, singing his heart out for all the ladies.

Hello ladies.

And all the men, keeping one eye out for the ladies and another eye out for the smooth piano man. Just because he was blind didn't mean he wasn't trouble.

Curved dome awash with stellar light. White radiance of eternity. Funeral contagion chords of George Crumb. Peace and love hacked to bits behind overwhelming forces. Shatter. Break. Immanence of the digital text.

At first, all Robertson picked up on was the commotion. Couples had stopped moving, threads unwound from other threads, polymers took rest breaks.

Then glasses began to fall.

He could hear each microtinkle loudly, painfully, tympanic membranes vibrating like sepulchral seashells, pitched at five times the volume threshold an ordinary human sustains without —wince!— permanent damage. But that was how Robertson saw through the chip on his shoulder. Through the pearly gateway, and beyond.

To? Smells of wet, ripe carnage. Serving trays heavy with champagne offloaded, used as weapons. Clack and crackle of things breaking. The hiss of atmosphere sealant. Like a giant popping the cork back on some big fcking champagne bottle. This was how he saw through the swirls of sound, the vaulting chaos, as he stood up, closed the fusion piano, and waited for a signal.

"Sparky," he said, summoning the Kay Nine unit.

The artificial dog rolled itself up at Robertson's feet.

"Sparky, what's going on?"

Sparky the Kay Nine unit spoke in a rapid gibberish composed of scraps of NeoSenegalese and the latest additions to the Universal Binary Code. He was the best friend Robertson had ever had. And he wasn't even human. Wasn't even animal. Was, in fact, a perfectly functioning machine. A "biofriendly", they were callin' 'em.

"What do you say, boy? Boy?"

Robertson heard the signal fading out, getting weaker and weaker. A high-pitched hum vaulted the sound spectrum in his left ear. He winced. That was enough to give him blinding headaches most days, when the thing went off. When it malfunctioned. Leaving him stranded. Alone. Feeling pretty fcking useless.

As death carved a swathe through the diners, on a straight path to the performing artist, Robertson tickled the keys one last time. His head came off with one sleek blow from Jason's machete.

The head hit the piano top, rolled over, slid past a cluster of fruit shaped in memory of Hieronymous Bosch, and finally smacked against a leg from the nearest table.

It was still grinning. His last thought had been a happy one. A bit clichéd, but happy nonetheless.

"What a terrible thing it is," thought Robertson, "to lose one's head."

Jason looked up. The partiers faced him from behind an impromptu barricade, cobbled from chairs, tables, chandeliers, odd bits of broken glass, fractal curls of the Utility Fog and unknown substances that later defied the most sophisticated analysis known to civilized man. "Au-dessus des epauves, la plage."

Whatever firepower they could summon, these partiers summoned.

They weren't military ops, were not trained in special weaponry or the cryptic art of the bone jigsaw. They were just regular guys, ordinary women and men: off-Earth stock loaders. Utility Fog engineers.

Random homosexuals looking for interplanetary rough trade (one or two). Workers from the dust planet of Syrinx (five, actually). Aged social workers there to pour away the last miserable moments of their miserable lives behind tall glasses of the Blue Death (one—be patient).

All they wanted was a break. A little ray of hope. Some cool jazz on the moon at the start of the six month night. Surely that wasn't too much to ask.

Jason Voorhees did not have an opinion. He did have:

A machete.

A brand-new upgrade.

And millennia of built-up rage.

Primed for detonation.

Waiting.

Seeking.

The final floorshow.

   Jason X: Death Moon, chapter 16