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Did you know that sunflowers can grow up to thirty feet tall? Well,‘up to’ is not confirmed to be the limit, that is simply how tall the tallest one ever found was. Knowing how low key creepy the beautiful, tasty, sociable flowers are, they may grow much taller than that, in the correct circumstances.
Jason Voorhees neither knows nor cares about sunflowers, nor retains any nerd facts within his outrageously thick skull. His brain is large and fast, but it is for murder, and for murder only, and when a sunflower makes itself a murder weapon, then he will care about how tall it may be.
The day on which he is destined to learn something about sunflowers, is a summers one, the sun grins down from on high, with manic, fiery glee, making the 'Crystal Lake Killer's' preferred abode of cool woodland shade, even more preferable. As always, he is going about his very boring routine of chopping up whatever he discovers caught in his traps, resetting his traps, angrily practicing his aim at the bow and arrow range, angrily sharpening his machete, and angrily muttering to himself, with breaks for a meat heavy lunch, and a meek visit to Mother.
Boring, boring, boring. No idiot has set foot within his Serial Killer Reservation Zone (SKRZ for shortseys) for months, and it's getting to the point where he'll have to go play the boogeyman in town, rustle up some ladies, crouch in some bushes, steal some poor Working Joe's clothes.
An idea strikes like a hammer, as it often does. Mother used to beat it into his head that to be a good boy meant he had to pray for what he wanted, but most of the time he's too angry to do much more than pace around his homemade altar, hissing and roaring and spitting over the audacity long dead victims display in camping within fifty miles of some psychopath's squat in the trees, a psychopath whom they weren't even aware was there. Unfortunately, the bodies in the shrine do not respond to his insults, kicks, or whatever else he does to them, sending him out again into the world to take out never satisfied hate on a fresh set.
But today he's more bored than angry. More bored than hateful. More bored than lustful, even. Bored and antsy. It's exceedingly difficult to keep the killer shtick going continuously, and even a regenerating, questionably undead, giant cyborg woodsman hillbilly monstrosity needs to take a break from the tough job that is persecuting the weak. Accordingly, he clambers to his feet from his seat on the porch of his tumble down house, grabs his machete, and goes inside to pray.
🌻
There are many kinds of sunflowers, many many, some are red, some are black, some are PINK, some are white, orange, purple, but most are various shades of yellow. Most importantly, they include seeds. Seeds that dot their faces, and which come from the many tiny flowers that grow on the disk. Yes, the sunflower is like one of those reptiles which gives birth to live young, a big snake bearing many little snakes inside it. Not so innocent now, are you!
The seed element is of principal importance to Warsman, because he is a Russian of a certain class, as much as he might like to deny either fact. Sunflower seeds are also important because his energy needs are phenomenal, being a serial killer professional wrestler. It's for this reason and no other that he deliberately strides over the border of the SKRZ. He'd heard about a field of sunflowers somewhere in the area. He desires to raid it for the seeds, and maybe he will even pick a few for beauty's sake. He's definitely not desperately looking for a fight with one of the last few challenges left on Earth. Definitely not. He's a good boy now, he doesn't lure other creatures into picking fights with him, or someone near him.
While the 'Copy Fiend' saunters along, he mentally Googles the plants he's searching for, simply because as a born cyborg, acquiring knowledge is a compulsion, not a choice. One must continuously feed the data banks. Quickly, he hones in on one particularly interesting line of text.
->Can become aggressive.
That's what Wackypedia says about common or garden sunflowers. How promising. It therefore stands to reason that wild sunflowers are even more likely to destroy you on sight. How wonderful. He can't wait!
Being even more of an unnatural and gigantic monstrosity than the local squatter is, offended Nature quickly tells on 'The Black Devil' to the local authorities, those authorities being Jason. Birds squawk alarms and then fall silent as the superhuman wrestler stomps silently past. Trees creak and collapse. The warm ground develops a layer of frost. Deer dash away, and stink bugs and wasps suicide bomb the intruder. So far, so normal.
As ghostly silent on his feet as the intruder is on his own, Jason steps out of his house, and into a bush. Mother was right, prayer works. Oooh, juicy juicy bodies, Jason's coming to taste your red, red blood!
🌻
The 'Campground Beast' quickly sours on that idea, when he catches sight of the creature shunted into his clutches. That is not a hot young thing or ill prepared adult. That is not even human. Not even a cyborg like himself, as in, the man has clearly not been blown apart and put back together again by robot ants like a more evil Humpty Dumpty. No, he's a gestalt entity, and even more quiet than Jason, not muttering despite moving as if he believes himself unobserved. From a single glance the creep in the bush can tell that the other creep is just that, a killer, murderer, pervert, every fibre suffused with sadistic desire. It's in the wolfish walk, the look in his scarlet eyes, in the wearing of a frightening mask, and in the way he holds his shoulders and arms - just a little too tense. The cunning mind driving that machine is always ready for what Jason calls ‘Playtime’.
The intruder carries no visible weapon, but Jason must admit that his body is clearly more of a weapon than even his own. Much more in fact, because this is some sort of giant bodybuilder, and bodybuilders are some of Jason's most hated people, only one rung below Hot Girl, and Hot Guy That Hot Girl Likes.
What to do, what to do? The pair of villains are remarkably similar in many ways, but there is one way that they differ, one way that Warsman in particular differs from others of his breed - he's not solely a killer, but a warrior too, he only likes to fight strong creatures, preferably one's he deems almost as strong as himself (because no one is stronger, naturally), fighting them in a small ring. Meanwhile, Jason, and every other human gutter skulker, exclusively preys on the weak and vulnerable, one by one from ambush preferably, like the predator he is. Going up against someone so bold as Warsman, is not something he wants to do. There's no fun in it, except the fun of inflicting pain on such a prime specimen, and yet instinct tells Jason that the weird, unnaturally black skin of the near naked supervillain traipsing around his woods, is not amenable to pain.
Not like him, noooo, not like him. Even with more than half his body now a steel chassis, even with nanoants flying through his black blood, he still feels pain, and doesn't like it.
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Both killers end up collaborating on the final solution. Jason cannot let this invasion of his domain go unpunished, and Warsman knows he's there, first spotting a massive heat signature crouching in a bush, then luring him towards a meadow on the edge of the woods. As a fellow devious piece of work with access to enhanced vision, Jason realises this is what is happening, and plays along, loosening his machete in its scabbard in preparation. Oh well, a change is as good as a holiday, and he can't die, so there's nothing to lose. Except Mother, but if this thing makes off with her head, he'll climb out of the shallow grave Nature makes for him, and hunt him down. Even if he doesn't take Mother's head, he'll hunt him down. Simple.
The meadow they step into bakes in the hot summer sun, not a breeze interfering with the blades of grass and wildflowers which form a lime green counterpart to the turquoise blue sky. Not a cloud vies with the local star for mastery. Not a voice disturbs the hum of the bees. It's perfection, the pair of evil men making a horrible contrast with the surrounding Eden, their various man-made grotesqueries standing out as a vile insult to God's pure creation. Of the two, Jason is the least ugly, not that he would believe it, and when he steps out from the dark and enveloping womb of his maternal forest, he says nothing, not a word. He never does to victims, words are for Mother, and himself, the only human beings he considers to be worthy of respect. Everyone else is a toy, a decoration, a meal.
Likewise Warsman says nothing, for similar contemptuous reasons. His colleagues, people in general, talk far too much, the crowd makes too much noise. Speaking during a fight means you're not paying attention, causes you to not pay attention, preludes a mistake. The beast that approaches him is one he naturally detests most, one like himself. There is never a reason needed for killing, only reasons given so as to maintain the preferred Image whatever Promotion or Federation or League thinks it needs in order to sell the most tickets. No doubt they would pawn off everyone's mother's to be able to have exclusive coverage rights to this battle, a battle that had already begun as soon as he and the hockey mask wearing stranger locked eyes.
No announcers announce anything, but if they did, it would take a while. Both immortal cybernetic abominations have been responsible for an insane amount of death and destruction, with no signs of true remorse yet seen from either. Both display a very impressive height and weight, both are extremely popular with the ladies despite severe social, moral, and facial issues, both are dreadfully wicked yet strangely compelling. Both refuse to get over their respective tragic pasts. Jason might be shorter and just an ordinary human before his various transformations into an eldritch being, but he can regenerate, unlike Warsman, who must either visit a lab, a hospital, or as a last resort, break out of some manner of Chojin hell. Still, Jason can't regenerate very fast, even with nanobots, and Warsman not only can predict the movements of his opponents with machine accuracy, but he also possesses Bear Claws.
These emerge into the glittering sunlight, sliding out of Warsman's gauntlets with the same zhing sound that Jason's machete makes upon leaving its scabbard. A villainous dance begins, a slow circling, a deliberate waltz, heavy boots made for stomping, crushing pretty little flowers beneath them. Neither man gives a hint of anything but utterly calm confidence, both show a marked enjoyment in the use of their deadly forms, the way their limbs obey instantly and without question to deliver shattering blows that spill the steaming innards of lesser men. No reason is given, no questions are barked, and at the nigh invisible twitch of an eye or jaw muscle, the match begins, the monsters leaping, free hands spread wide.
Both go for the throat, and both duck, but Warsman catches his foe's abdomen on the way up, creating sparks as his diamond infused steel claws slice across nano metal, while Jason slams the butt of his machete into the hinge of Warsman's jaw on the backswing, knocking the superman sideways. No overt wrestling moves appear for now, Warsman returns to the foundation of everything - an inner city street - stabbings are his joie de vivre.
Jason can relate, penetration occupies his mind for at least ninety-five percent of the day, and one hundred and ten percent of the night. In a flurry of slashes and thrusts, each one attempts to introduce to the other, his unique take on the shared obsession.
🌻
On and on the unnatural gargoyles go, Grendel v Grendel, stabbing, slashing, stabbing, stomping their stamping feet, the constant throwing of one another gradually shifting them down the meadow, a previously unnoticed field of tall, yellow plants with false faces beginning to take up more and more of the horizon.
Row upon leafy row they stand, most of the adult's faces resolutely turned east, the youngsters that have not yet bloomed, eagerly following the sun as it travels along the Earthly ceiling, thick, hairy stems supporting gargantuan heads, which tilt upwards, their petals like the solar rays of Sol Invictus, or the halo of a saint. Sunflowers do move, you're simply not worthy enough to witness it.
🌻
A demonic red grin cuts across and through a black steel mask. Apart from being stronger, Warsman is also much faster than his foe, despite his much greater size, and Jason resorts to teleporting while still in view of his enemy, his machete long ago having left his hand and flown away. Naturally, his first move is to teleport to where it landed, tip down in a grassy knoll. Teleporting requires thought though, and each time he uses the power, Warsman predicts where he will reappear, nearly succeeding in taking off Jason's head when he launches himself into the Screwdriver, flying across the meadow as a horizontal whirlwind. Although clothing becomes increasingly ragged and sparse on Jason's side, neither machete nor claws land well enough to take off a metallic limb, and neither cyborg tires.
So many pretty flowers suffer for man's egotism and bloodlust. Huffs and low exclamations of pain, irritation and surprise make it sound as if a pair of rutting antelope are disputing mating rights. The battle will never end, neither supernatural revenant will back down, neither will be satisfied until this, their greatest rival, screams in agony, and then dies with fear in their eyes. Never, never, never.
Pushed back so far as they are, the duelists eventually tread upon the field of silent sun worshipers, tread on oddly crunchy, oddly pale soil, and here the diabolic sharpness of their weapons and the monstrous and unimaginable strength of their arms becomes nauseatingly apparent. Eerily tall daisies begin to fall, hacked down in their youth, middle or old ages, it doesn't matter which, all of it is the same to the robo-freaks. Massive disks containing hundreds of flowers, land on the serial killers, but make no impact on them. What is a flower to beings of legend? Immortal men who have survived death and hell and disgrace and the laughter of pretty women, only to come back ever stronger. Unstoppable killing machines, twin terrors of the world. Fatherless brothers from another mother, even.
What draws them together begins to close over what separates them, as both Warsman and Jason must unavoidably admire the form and poise and power of the other person. The utter refusal to be beaten, the will to shape the world to their liking. Neither one is the sort that makes friends easily, or at all, and it's mostly due to this forced or deliberate exile from normal human society. This vicious ambition and pride. Still, the other one must surely understand what that lonely life feels like. First moves though, so easy in battle, so difficult outside of it. Hopefully someone trips over, or hesitates, allowing the other egotist to overcome themselves for a split second, and a split second is all that is needed to form a lifelong friendship. Especially one born in blood.
Opportunity after opportunity for reconciliation is missed as the big louts crash and smash their way through a seemingly endless maze of greenery. More and more the huge leaves tickle the tops of their heads and the back of their necks. More and more the light diminishes as the sun sails on towards the horizon. Death approaches the death dealers.
As the older, wiser man, it's up to Jason to make the first move, which he does by headbutting his rival on a whim, smashing their masks together, red eyes staring meaningfully into red eyes. With his super strength, the headbutt has the adverse effect of dazing the both of them for a millisecond. Cyborgs still have a bit of organic brain lying around somewhere.
During that millisecond, thumping is detected by both sets of enhanced ears, thumping not caused by either of them. Soft thumping underneath the hum of life. Can't afford to give all one's attention to the problem, so both Warsman and Jason keep their eyes on each other, while their ears metaphorically wander off to investigate. No breeze rattles the surrounding leaves, yet they begin to move, slowly, up, up, up, till they are held in a way evocative of a pose of adoration and praise. That's creepy and bad enough, but then the sunflowers, every single one simultaneously, stoic adult or perky child or droopy elder, lifts and turns their heads, stalks twisting with great woody creaks and crunches. Great black or yellow discs glare down at the pair of killers, not an eye to be seen amongst the strange plants, but their stare is no less heavy for that.
Finally, this incredibly unsettling event forces the pair to look away and gawk at the immense flowers, entering a staring contrast with them, hitching up their personal intimidation by a factor of five in an attempt to make the uncanny valley go away and allow them to return to battling. It achieves nothing, and when they go to chop down the offensive plant material, they discover they can't, because roots have been slowly growing over their feet and creeping up their legs, affixing them to the ground.
…Well, they have blades, so hack-ho they go, carefully working on extracting themselves from the malevolent fibres, the unusual experience failing to impress these people who have so dulled their own capacity for wonder. There's all sorts of weird creatures inhabiting the universe, why not sentient sunflowers? They don't seem able to do much more than-
A rattling sort of roaring begins to accompany the thumping. Wracking his mental archives, Warsman searches for some explanation for this phenomenon. What do the plants mean by this?
->Can become aggressive.
Death, dismemberment, destruction, disintegration into teeny tiny, oily pieces, that's what they mean. Over the heads of the still standing plants emerges conical crimson spikes jabbing at the sky, jabbing at the ground, each one as wide as a bus and much longer, each one forming part of a ring that encircles a swirling black hole. No, not a black hole, but hundreds of thousands of enormous seeds, sticking like pins into the flesh of the stupendous disc of an absolutely monumental sunflower.
The false face of the Queen of Sunflowers turns slowly, violent creaking and popping causing both tiny men to clap their hands to their ears. When it's done turning, the immensity of flower blots out the sun, its furious petals like streaks of blood smeared across the heavens.
Monster of monsters, horror of horrors, but still, neither murderer utters a word.
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((You DEAD, bitches))