"....Blazkowicz, far from the smirking super-killer of older iterations, is now a dried-up, overused Stretch Armstrong doll in the rowdy daycare center of the universe, who has an increasingly ridiculous talent for coming back from serious injury, but isn't quite returning back to his old shape each time."
"But what about the tears? The tears of a stuntman when no one is around? We never said "Mr. Trick Rider, I know you busted your ankle last night, so don't bother entertaining me tonight", no! We demanded that he do it again, until he was so broken, so pumped full of pills that he lost touch and encouraged children to imitate his stunts."
You know you can't do this forever. Bruce:
I can barely do it now.
Mata Nui: *(looking over Ackar's wall of shields)*
You won all
of these? Ackar: *(in the middle of packing up)*
Yeah, and look what good they do me. I should have packed it in long before this. Mata Nui:
But you stayed. Why? Ackar:
Duty. Pride. But a Glatorian past his prime is no good to anyone.
Nayl wandered across to the bulkhead cupboards. He was limping. The free-for-all in the Carnivora
had been less than fun. Reaching out to the cupboard latch, he noticed how skinned and raw his knuckles were. Grime-black, caked in dried blood, the calloused skin torn. He needed a shower. The effort didnt appeal to him.
He raised his left hand and held it out alongside his right. The missing finger
seemed like a smack-in-the-mouth slur, an offensive lack. Ironic
that finger had once been his favourite insult. Now its very absence seemed obscene. All these frigging years, he had been shot and stabbed and left for dead but hed never lost a part of himself. It was like an omen. Hed never needed augmetics. He thought of Gregor Eisenhorn
, replacing and supporting his battle-torn body bit by bit. Then shit he thought of Ravenor.
Was this where it started? Was this the beginning of the end? First a finger, then what? An arm? A leg? A major organ...
Right now my interns are having a field-day just figuring out what his scars mean. So far we've tagged stabs, slashes, cuts, burns, acid scars, frost damage, you name it, he has it. Not a single bullet wound, though. most of his ribs were broken and healed at some point. There are signs of former hairline fractures all over, and if the massive scar tissue in the middle of his chest means anything, someone fucking ran him through with... I'm not going to call it a sword, but it sure as hell seems that way. Anyway it pierced his heart—yes, there's scar tissue there as well—and he somehow lived through that. Oh, and I forgot about the weird prosthesis his left hand has been replaced by. We tried to remove it, but... ah, forget it, you won't believe it. It doesn't matter. Honestly, I want Wright's surgeon's number, because that man is either Hippocrates reborn, or he somehow has a stash of phoenix down hidden somewhere. I'm not done yet. Wright's liver, pancreas, kidneys, stomach, and
intestine all look like those of a rock-star twice his age. His skeletal frame and muscle group suggest use of high-grade designer steroids over a short period, from two to four years, but there are absolutely no traces in his system. Also, his eyes are... weird. Detective Kane:
So all of that is why he's out like a broken lamp right now— Doctor Hill:
Oh, no. All of those are old
wounds. I haven't gotten to his current ones yet.