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Molon Labe: Alexander Thrace


Hatsukyo Gin

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Hoplites: MOLON LABE!

 

The regiment of soldiers stand, gathered around the cliffside, their spears and shields clanging together in a cacophonous noise! Thunder shakes the very air around them, lightning crashing through the sky, splitting the clouds with its fury. As the ancient warriors stand ready, their spears pointed towards their enemies, a single warrior stands in their midst, his own spear clutched tighter than the rest, his eyes narrowed behind a black helm.

 

???: The ancient ways were said to have died long ago. So...very long ago. When I was born, my father instructed me of those ways. He made sure that I was to have the upbringing of my ancestors. To be a true warrior.

 

The image of the warrior in the rain begins to distort, flashing to that of a boy, seemingly no older than seven. His face is bruised, and his bottom lip has a visible cut against it. He grits his teeth as he takes a swing towards the camera, a fist flying past the edge of the screen, and connecting against the boys skull. He is sent backwards, sprawling against the ground in a heap.

 

???: Rise. A warrior does not die on the ground, like a lowly beast. He fights until he draws his last breath.

 

The boy rises back to his feet, anger in his eyes. The sound of thunder crashes overhead as the boy runs forward, his fist stretching out and swinging towards the camera. As the fist connects the image coalesces once more, forming into a new image. The boy has aged, seeming to be around 14. His hair has been sheared away, leaving him buzzed. His eyes seem hardened now, as he stares out of the cavernous walls, towards the fire that roars to life in front of him. The only source of warmth that he has remaining in the darkness.

 

???: My world, was a world of the ancients. A world where we were forced to grow up early on. I was forced to become a warrior, because it was the way of my fathers. I could not turn my back on those ancient traditions. So, I did what I was told to do. I...survived.

 

The boy slowly lifts up one of the burning pieces of wood, holding it out into the darkness as the sound of a howling wolf echoes into the night sky. He raises up the log higher, as the howls grow silent. The wolves begin to draw close, only their eyes visible as he lifted up the wood more.

 

???: Molon labe.

 

The boy draws closer, swinging the wood towards the wolves as the image once more fades out. As it fades back into view, thunder cracking overhead, the warrior with the black helm is seen once more, staring forward in the rain at his fate. The sound of marching feet, that of a thousand soldiers, marching to their destiny, rings in his ears. He clashes his spear to shield, summoning all of his courage with each clash of the shield and spear. The sound of marching feet begins to grow familiar, changing from that of an army to that of an audience.

 

???: A new day dawns. And in this day, in this time, I shall be the warrior that my ancestors were. OCW is primed for a war. And it is in need of a warrior.

 

The thunder crashes again, and the warrior raises his spear high. As his spear lifts up higher, the lightning streaks across the sky, splitting it in twain. The light cascades over the camera, filling it in a white void before returning to an empty arena. The marching sounds have turned into the thud of feet on concrete, cheering crowd chanting OC-DUB, OC-DUB, OC-DUB, over and over as the warrior stares out over the empty arena. The warrior removes his helm, revealing the face of Alexander Thrace. He sets the helmet on the ground, pressing his arm to his chest before raising it up high.

 

Alexander: Molon labe, OCW!

 

The scene fades out, a spear flying through the air before crashing through a shield. The image slowly turns, shifting until the name ALEXANDER THRACE is clearly visible. It shifts once more, the words COMING SOON clearly visible now as well.

 

Alexander (V.O.): Molon labe.

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