Uber Jason - Durability 6

Jason Voorhees moved down Quadrant C in a dark, flaming silhouette. Over his shoulder he was carrying a girl's body, a bright pink nude except for knee socks. She was having tiny spasms. He shifted his weight to compensate. Jason snapped her neck in one long, clean movement like a freshly caught salmon.

"I want full flame, guys!" shouted Etchison, perpetuating the seafood metaphor. "It's lobster time." A dozen troops stepped forward into the hallway, flamethrowers coughing long jets of fire. The flames streaked over Jason's body, oil on water.

The girl? Toast. Assaulted by the ripe, stinging smell of burning flesh, the men stepped back. Its aroma was not exquisite. The corpse was still hot. Blackened, bloody sludge trailed the victim.

"Again!"

Crisscrossing trajectories, the soldiers caught Jason in a firestorm. The air began to boil like metal straight from the static irite foundries of Be-Tang.

"Stop! Hold fire! We're losing oxygen." A haze of heat distortion rippled over Jason's metallic flesh. He stumbled slightly and dropped the girl. She resembled a mannequin. Often, one does. After the accidental barbecue, that is. Scorched earth prophesies from the elder ones. Thick, blackish smoke rolls through the hallway. Much like the effects of the dark molasses.

"Die, fucker, die!"

The soldier had emerged from the ranks with a shoulder-mounted grenade launcher. Etchison was unprepared for a renegade volunteer.

"Soldier, stop immediately! Put down your weapon!"

He didn't seem to hear. The grenade disappeared into smoke. Detonated. Bright orange afterburn.

"Soldier, what the fuck is wrong with you? Stand down!"

The man was crazed. His sister had been among the dorm dead, hung upside down like a broken doll from cafeteria ceiling. When he saw the monster, something snapped in his head. The tight restraint of military training pulled apart like weakened elastic.

This was personal. The beast would have to pay.

"I want that man restrained!" yelled Eschison over the tumult. Two grunts grabbed the renegade soldier and buckled him into a body bag, sealing it with stripes of nanobar. "Ace of spades, dudes," said one. "Only ducking card ya need! Whoo hoo!"

"Not like that, damn it! Give him some oxygen!"

The grunts obliged, tossing a portable air tank into the bag and resealing it. "We'll have to deal with that one later, there's no time. Fuck only knows what damage he's caused."

They crossed themselves up and down. Mr Fuck was a dick, scary son of a bitch.

Comme d'habitude, Jason was neither dead, nor injured, nor even badly shaken. Nevertheless, the grenade propelled him the last few steps to the end of the Quadrant. Where a little something calling themselves "Team A" awaited.

"Fire at fucking will!" shouted Team A's leader, Sturgeon.

Invisible bullets whistled and clanged, streaked and skittered over the walls. Affecting very little, actually. Jason's armor bounced them right back.

"Repeat fire!" yelled Sturgeon, who relied on sheer volume for most contingencies in life.

"Photon guns, ready! And fire!"

Star bullets completed their mission of aimless damaged, punching out windows and slicing through iridescent rubes of track lightning that lined the hallway. Thick yellow goop oozed from the ruined tubes. Hissed in steaming puddles on the floor. Showers of glass rained down on Team B, which was trapped in the smoking darkness. It appeared as though the mission had not been thoroughly coordinated. Headaches induced by close examination of drawing by MC Escher. Packets of compressed photon bullets glanced off Jason's body and redounded on the soldiers.

"Fuck my arm!" yelled a grunt as the light bullet tore through his upper body.

Bite me, Jason's body would say if it spoke. But Jason has no need for speech. While not a strong suit, Jason might reach back in his early memory of rudimentary language, a thing of gasps, grunts and sudden fetal tyrannies in the manner of Richard the Third. Jason has no need for speech. He is Mr Fuck. The Endgame Man. The man who says, "This is the final fucking floorshot. It's over. You will never leave hell again."

A gibbering composite of avant-garde stereotypes. Another boomeranging bullet tore off his completely, cleaving it to a useless hank of muscles, tendons, veins and nerve fibers. He fell sideways, trampled underfoot. Jason, however, was not affected.

The most hte soldiers could od was freeze him to the spot, stop his advance- no more. Sturgeon looked puzzled.

"Why doesn't he die? Why doesn't he die>" he repeated. He looked genuinely baffled.

Milton's outcast Lucifer, Jason stepped through a pool of nacreous melted shrapnel. He caught Sturgeon by the neck. Wrung him out like a motherfuckin' chicken. Using the man's torso for leverage, Jason twisted off Sturgeon's head, caromed it into the troops.

	Jason X: Death Moon - Pages 338-341