Title: Who’s
That Shouting? (John the Revelator)
Author: Cheezey
Theme: Doomite Fic
Characters/Pairings: Zarkon
Album and Song: Depeche Mode – Playing the Angel; “John the Revelator”
Rating/Genre: K / Drama
Summary: Fed up with the failures of those serving him, King Zarkon reflects upon his and his empire’s reputation.
Author’s Notes: This is a short character piece about Zarkon inspired by the song. Although the biblical references are rather out of place in the Voltron universe, the song’s indignant lyrics remind me of how someone like Zarkon would be viewed, and probably want to be viewed by his inferiors and enemies.
King
Zarkon’s mood was foul as he ascended the staircase to his throne. Lotor had failed him again! There was another precious chunk of lazon
depleted, another robeast wasted, yet another battleship damaged, and his
hailed conqueror of a son would once again return to Doom
with his ass handed to him by Voltron.
Zarkon wondered what flimsy excuse would be offered up to appease him
this time. Would Lotor blame the old
witch for magical incompetence? Cossack for general incompetence? Or would he follow the tried-and-true path of
not actually accepting any blame but complaining that Voltron just got lucky,
and he really thought he had Arus—and the princess, of course—this time? Maybe his nitwit of a son would really
impress him, and present his latest failure as an unfortunate combination of
all of the above.
Regardless,
Zarkon did not understand what deity he had managed to anger enough to force
him to endure such ineptitude amongst his subordinates, especially his
son. If nothing else, his own flesh and
blood, born to a great king like him and reared with all the advantages afforded the prince
of a powerful conquering empire, should not have grown into such a fool! An ill thought about Lotor’s mother and her
contribution of inferior genetics to Lotor flashed through his mind, but even
as much as he still held a burning hatred for Lilian, laying the blame with her
DNA was a flimsy excuse, just as flimsy as every other one on the laundry list of them he had
heard over the years from each of his minions that came home defeated by
Voltron.
Voltron. Why was that robotic thorn in his side so
hard to defeat? Yes, Voltron was reputed
to be the most powerful defender of good in the universe or some nonsense like
that, but he was King Zarkon.
Zarkon of Doom was a legend in his own right, a ruthless conqueror
feared and respected as a force to be reckoned with by all who knew his
name. He had been born into a dynasty of
mighty warrior kings and it was his gods-given right to live that destiny to
the fullest. How dare Voltron, a robot
created by a mere human king on a small world, presume to stand in his way?
He
had nearly defeated Voltron once, Zarkon mused, and he believed without a doubt
that without spiritual intervention from Arus’ ghost king, that Doom would have
claimed victory that day he battled Voltron as a robeast, just as it had when
he fought Alfor himself in the
Voltron
could not be invincible. He had been all
but destroyed once, all those years ago when Haggar had split him into the lion
pieces. If only they had stayed buried
and useless on Arus! Zarkon wondered why
she could not simply do it again, but any time he had asked he never received a
straight answer, even right after she would brag that she was “more powerful
than ever.”
The
king was jolted from his thoughts at the sound of a robotic voice behind
him. “Prince Lotor has been delayed,
Sire,” stated a robot guard who bowed as Zarkon turned to face him. “I was ordered to relay that information to
you A.S.A.P.”
“A.S.A.P.?” Zarkon repeated,
an unimpressed look on his face and a distinctly irritated edge to his
voice. “Have my forces lost so much
respect for their king due to his worthless son’s failures that they
can’t even be bothered to give him a status report without speaking in lazy
acronyms?”
The
robot bowed again, with more than a slight bit of anxiousness. “I am very sorry, Sire! It will not happen again.”
“So
why is he delayed?”
“The
fuel storage unit was damaged in Voltron’s attack,” the guard explained. “The prince was forced to stop on one of our
outposts for repairs and refueling.”
“Wonderful. So he’s wasting lazon just coming home
now! Idiot!” Zarkon waved his scepter angrily in the
robot’s general direction, and then sat down upon his throne, his mood now even
fouler if such a thing were possible.
With narrowed eyes he then said, “Have him come straight here when he
manages to figure out how to get from Point A to Point B and make it home. In the meantime leave me
be… I do not want to be disturbed.”
“Yes,
Your Highness.”
The robot gave the king a respectful nod and then departed, leaving
Zarkon alone in his anger.
Although
the news of another defeat by Voltron was hardly anything new, and Lotor’s
tardiness in returning to Doom to report such was
little more than an added annoyance to it, it was only the proverbial icing on
the cake. What had initially set him off
was how he had learned of it—not from one of his guards or from a battleship crew’s
response to a status report, but from one of the Drules—specifically, Viceroy
Throk.
His
yellow eyes narrowed further as he thought about it. Zarkon did not like the Drule Empire’s
viceroy and self-appointed spokesman on a good day; however when he contacted
him with the sole purpose of needling him about “yet another embarrassing
defeat” to Voltron it left him not just annoyed, but nearly homicidal. In fact, had a flesh and blood slave gotten
in Zarkon’s way at the wrong time, it might well have carried past “nearly,”
but fortunately for them, none happened into his path on his way back to the
throne room.
During
the communication Throk had been unusually pleasant, and in retrospect Zarkon
realized that the smug sneer below the Drule’s beady red eyes should have
indicated that the sole purpose of his call was to piss him off. Viceroy Throk, and the entire Drule Council
to an extent, had never made a secret of the fact that they did not like Zarkon
or approve of his policies. As far as
Zarkon was concerned, that was just too bad, for he was Doom’s king and they
were not. Although he was technically a
part of the Drule Empire and was supposed to answer to them, in Zarkon’s eyes
that membership was little more than an alliance with a contract, one that he
accepted solely for the benefits it provided in furthering his own gains. Besides, the Drule Council was far away and
tended to stay out of his business as long as they collected their handsome tax
revenue, which, while it irked Zarkon to pay, his worlds were already rich and
his greedy nobility, who made their own fortunes with the benefit of slave
labor and abundant resources from conquered planets, absorbed the cost in taxes
he in turn imposed on them. It was only recently
that the Drules had become more active in meddling in his affairs, the best
example of which was the recent failed coup where they had temporarily usurped
him and put Lotor on the throne only to reverse the decision after Lotor nearly
lost the kingdom in less than a day.
What a glorious disaster that had been, and how he reveled in
rubbing that in whenever he could.
Zarkon
was still smarting from that political slap, however, and when the best
response he could come up with to the snide insinuation that his empire and
leadership were weak for failing to Voltron was that they would know all about
failing to a Voltron, and hey, at least his planet was still structurally
sound, it did not go far in improving his mood.
The fact that there was validity in Throk’s remarks galled him to no end. The defeats were embarrassing, and he
wanted them put to an end—no matter what.
“I
should be the most feared man in the galaxy!” he shouted, his voice echoing
powerfully through the empty throne room.
“This
will be the last time that fool dares to speak to me like that. I am Zarkon!
Conqueror of galaxies, ruthless sovereign of an empire that none should
even think of challenging!” He shook his
scepter once again, his voice rising as he continued to rant. “And it’s about time that Voltron, Arus, everyone,
including my dimwitted son and his cohorts, accepts that!” The scepter then flew from his hand, flung
angrily across the room in a throw that would have impressed one experienced at
the javelin.
A
renewed resolve far stronger than he had felt before, one born in pure hatred, filled him.
An accompanying surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins, supplying
him with new vigor to see that fervent desire through. Rising to his feet, Zarkon turned his face
upward and addressed the ethers above. “King
Zarkon isn’t a man to be trifled with, and you and your ilk, Alfor, have gotten
away with it for too long! I’ll see your
world in my control, its resources my property, your people my slaves, your
only daughter defiled by and bound to my son for his pleasure, and your castle and
your precious Voltron in flames and ruin!” The venom in his words was so strong that had
it been a magical curse, it would have manifested in tangible form as the
deadliest of poisons.
A
cruel smile then tugged at the edge of his lips, exposing his fangs and giving
him an even more sinister appearance.
“And I won’t stop until I have it all, and I can hear you and your
pretty little wife’s sobs of misery from beyond. Then, and only then, will this score be
settled.”
Turning
his gaze downward once more, he switched on his view screen and brought up the
image of Arus. “With all the gods as my
witness, planet Arus, you will be mine, and those of you that live long enough
will remember this: defy the mighty Zarkon and suffer! Rebel and all it will bring you is pain, pain
that will be dealt first to what I hate most on your world,” he said, his voice
ice cold and his eyes alit with rage. “Voltron.”
* * *
“John the Revelator”
Written by Martin L. Gore
John the Revelator
Put him in an elevator
Take him up to the highest high
Take him up to the top where the mountains stop
Let him tell his book of lies
John the Revelator
He's a smooth operator
It's time we cut him down to size
Take him by the hand
And put him on the stand
Let us hear his alibis
By claiming God - As his holy right
He's stealing a God from the Israelite
Stealing a God from a Muslim, too
There is only one God through and through
Seven lies, multiplied by seven, multiplied by seven again
Seven angels with seven trumpets
Send them home on the morning train
Well who's that shouting?
John the Revelator!
All he ever gives us is pain
Well who's that shouting?
John the Revelator!
He should bow his head in shame
By and by
By and by
By and by
By and by
Seven lies, multiplied by seven, multiplied by seven again
Seven angels with seven trumpets
Send them home on the morning train
Well who's that shouting?
John the Revelator!
All he ever gives us is pain
Well who's that shouting?
John the Revelator!
He should bow his head in shame
By and by
By and by
John the Revelator
By and by
John the Revelator
By and by
John the Revelator
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