The dictionary, when questioned, brings up the following to the query of 'Immortal'.
1. (adj) Immortal
not mortal; exempt from liability to die; undying; imperishable; lasting forever; having unlimited, or eternal, existance
2. (adj) Immortal
destined to live in all ages of this world; abiding; exempt from oblivion; imperishable; as, immortal fame
Exempt from liability to die. Perhaps not to be taken literally, as in, perhaps not that a single being or single construction is forever doomed to roam the endless skies, but perhaps, in that the name, the fame of that being, the fear of that shadow. Perhaps that can live forever.
Destined and cursed to brush through particles of nebula, soar past burning stars. Always twisted with an image of darkness, that distinct tint of red that brings with it the stench of death. Not a physical appearance, but perhaps again, an eternal mark of shame, forever branded like a tattoo onto the very soul of what it embodies.
So not the physical being. Not the cackle that sent shivers up brave men's spines, but what it represented; what would follow. It was more the fear of what could happen, rather than the act of seeing it done, which convinced the courageous to get up and run.
And yet, perhaps, there were those who stood up, said no. Took up the fight and in clashes of steel, plasma and fire ripped the evil from their homes and cast it back from whence it came. Those average men who performed the extraordinary. If you can cut a god, they will cease to be a god. If you can kill the immortal, then their legacy finally dies.
But when the immortal come back... then... then you have to question whether they truly can be destroyed.
People had hated him. People still do. A killer remains a killer forever, blood stains can never be washed from the hands of a killer. A carpenter can become a mechanic. A writer can become a blacksmith. A policeman can become a criminal.
But a killer will always be a killer. Once you have taken the life and soul from a man, taking the power of a god into your hands, that mark will always be with you. He was known sirius wide as the zombie, the man who could not die, the man who had travelled across star systems, across galaxies, the man who had lost his mind as he was trapped, paralyzed.
The man so insane that he could not escape from his own mind long enough to realise his vengeance was directed at the wrong people.
He had murdered, cutting a swath of innocent corpses through Bretonia. He had built a shipyard, brainwashed an army of children, and gone forth in a dreadnought of doom, outfitted with advanced technology and creating a horrifying image of death for the people of Bretonia.
Then, the Bretonian Police, attacking the killer at a moment of weakness, when he was protecting his daughter, destroyed the mighty battleship, sending the behemoth exploding through a hole that was ripped through space and time, collapsing in on itself, the fire melting through the bulkheads and igniting the reactors.
Salazar Kithe was killed. And that was the end. The constant mocking tones, the endless threats, the repetitive curses over the airwaves were silenced. The ship was not seen. His drones had vanished. Finally, Bretonia was free of an insane menace who had plagued them for too long.
But it was not so.
The chair in the centre of the bridge was cold. Hard. Tough. It was designed to be a chair you could never relax in. This ship was full of things like that, Salazar would never let himself see that moment of weakness again.
He had been arrogant, believing that by destroying so much, he could destroy anything. Immortal he said. And yet he was not... though his body did not age, by the sword or the gun or space, he would die. He would not make that mistake again.
He had loved. He had sired a daughter. He had created a group of trusted people around him, and they had proven themselves liabilities. He was not a father, he was not a husband, he was a mass murderer. The Hunter had arisen once more. His ship was black, lithe, smaller and sleeker than the previous model. This ship was a ship designed to intimidate, to strike, to vanish. This was not a battleship, this was more of a cruiser, thin, elegant even to a degree.
It was still the hunter though, and it was still immortal.
Though his original ship was destroyed, the soul of it lived on. He lived on. Until his body was stone cold dead he would forever be hunting on his hunting grounds, a predator amongst lesser prey.
He did not reach for the communications button. They would know soon enough.
Serena Kithe was a beautiful woman. She was powerful, though easily swayed, and quick to anger. Slightly deranged, the woman was the first to convince Salazar to stop cannibalism.
Salazar had killed her slowly. Something had awoken within him, a beast that had slumbered for too long. Serena was worse than a spy, she was a virus upon him, a pacifier to the weapon. She had tamed the predator, she had domesticated the hunter.
So she had to die. He hadn't enjoyed it, even shedding tears as he killed the woman he loved. But she had smiled. Finally at peace, away from his insane fantasies, his deluded actions.
Perhaps she had been a spy, a woman like no other, sent by his enemies to control him. Nevertheless, she was gone now. He had more important issues than her to think about.
Gallia.
Their fleet was gathering, amassing in the Taus. Soon, like a hurricane, they would sweep through anything in their path, pillaging and burning as they went. Like a tsunami they would brush aside any resistance and replace it with their own power.
Salazar had plenty of experience dealing with an enemy far more powerful, far more deadly than his own force. And yet, he had lied in his transmission to the King of Gallia. Vengeance was the most powerful force in this universe. That which has the power to incur it's wrath is limited. Love, loss, hatred. All create vengeance. And yet, important to note is the difference between jealousy and vengeance. Jealousy is the desire to be someone, to have their power. Vengeance is the desire to kill them, destroy them, for what they did to them.
Sometimes, people got those two confused.
The new Immortal Hunter had a skeleton crew, an equal mix of women and men. They were the last of his original crew, and he had dabbled in some genetic modification, decreasing sleep requirements, increasing attention span, the like. Some had succeeded, others had... failed... Out of his original crew of almost a thousand, he had 41 survivors. Some were disfigured, some almost as insane as he. Still, they had served a purpose, and he now was starting to put together a perfect method to create the perfect crew man.
He liked his new ship though. The old one was big, bulky, heavy. This new one was a reminder of the old days, the lithe, the sleek. It reminded him of his beloved Vengeance, the ship he once used to strike at the Coalition. He would act in a similar way now. Guerrilla tactics, disrupting supplies, damaging morale, destroying hope. The power of an invasion force relies on pushing the army of the defenders back, keeping an impenetrable wall between them and your civilians.
Salazar was a one ship army, and he would attack these people hard. And they would not be able to stop him.
He had fought for their ancestors too, pushing back coalition dreadnoughts so vast you could not see the far side of them, a lone battlecruiser, rolling across the plain of metal and weapons, loosing concussion mines and firing every turret at that beast of destruction. A suicide mission they survived time and time again.
But others had died. So many had died to save those people. And now, they dared to attack the descendants of those brave people who had defended them? They dared to see themselves as better, stronger.
They would be proven wrong.
With a hiss, the door to the cabin sprang open. Within, on a bed, lay a man, horribly disfigured by burns. Pipes, cables and wiring sprang from beneath the skin, a mutated mix between cyborg and human.
Salazar's footsteps echoed around the small room, bouncing from metal wall to metal floor. He walked through the door tall, well groomed. He could walk into any upper class club on New London and no one would give him a second look... except for the fact that his face was well known by most. A disadvantage to being a mass murderer.
Alas, clubs were the last of his desires. He peered down at the soldier on the bed, who was mildly groaning. The screams and tears had stopped, the shock and pain were now taking over his sanity, they were no longer capable of creating a physical reaction.
It was interesting, seeing how far Salazar could push this brainwashed fool, a soldier who had dedicated his life to anything his 'Lord' wished. In a similar way to a cult, Serena and Salazar had convinced the children as they grew to worship and love their masters. Restricting cognitive ability, discouraging aspiration and free thought, they were the perfect soldier. Unified, loyal and easy to command. Siona had even dabbled in hypnotherapy to bury keywords into their subconscious. Say the correct word, and the soldier would be released from certain mental bonds, an easy way to promote them to a field tactician for example.
And now, after so much pain and horror, this soldier had finally broken free of his indoctrinated mind. He now loathed Salazar, hated him for the pain he had caused, sickened by his own distorted body. And yet the hunter was glad of it. It told him that even after years of dedicated training, people could still change. Perhaps he could too. After Bretonia was nought but a memory and he was finally avenged, perhaps he too could let go of his hate.
He opened a panel on his tab, it sliding out from a tiny square to fill an area about 10 inches across. Sliding his finger across a small picture of a microphone, he began to speak.
'The subject has now been injected with the osteoporosis treatment. This should encourage rapid bone growth. We will continue with bone marrow calcium shots to stop the bone becoming brittle.'
He lifted his finger, allowing the computer to transpose his voice into a new note file. His eyes found his victims, and he smiled sadly at him.
'Just remember, your death will help me kill others. You will help me perfect this formula, creating the perfect... perfect soldier.'
His eyes glazed slightly, and then he typed the command to start the injection. And though the soldier thought he could scream no more, scream he did.
And the Immortal Hunter continued to travel silently north towards the Tau systems, out in the middle of nowhere, and the screams stopped at the bulkheads.