I do not own the rights to the image of Fort Tilden further down in this story.
This is the seventh episode of the nine-part series, Wu-Tang vs. AI. This is purely fan fiction, so of course, the events, actions and dialogue in this story are completely fictional. Catch up on Episode I, Episode II, Episode III, Episode IV, Episode V and Episode VI.
In the sixth episode, RZA called in a favor from the CIA to get powerful artillery from Algeria via 50 Cent to the U.S. without government interference. It was an essential part of the Wu-Tang Clan’s secret plan in their ongoing battle to thwart the devastating AI attacks on their very existence.
Meanwhile, Ghostface Killah, GZA and YDB were faced with another android assault at the edge of the Rainforest of Xishuangbanna. YDB was taken by androids but fought them off in mid-air. He’s now hours behind Ghostface Killah and GZA, who have just arrived at an Italian villa to come face to face with their enemy…
GZA was bemused. He and Ghost had trekked all the way from America to the Rainforest of Xishuangbanna, into the Dwelling of the All-Seeing Eye, out of the forest, and then over to the little village of Montenero di Bisaccia, Italy. And now here they stood, looking at a modest villa that couldn’t seem to house more than seven or eight people, max.
But if there was one thing GZA had learned on this journey, it was that appearances were deceiving, just like those skinny dudes who dominated hot-dog-eating contests.
“Do we just…go in?” Ghost asked.
GZA shrugged.
“It seems too easy, doesn’t it?” he said.
Ghost frowned and held his meteor hammer before him while GZA wielded a steel-penetrating sword. They quietly walked up to the front door in a would-be casual manner. GZA tentatively grabbed the doorknob, half-expecting an electric shock or burning sensation.
Instead, he felt nothing but the cold smoothness of metal. He turned the knob and opened the door, leading the way as Ghost walked in after him. Ghost took a quick glance behind him before he snapped the door shut. They were in the clear.
They stood in a tiled foyer. GZA felt ridiculous for holding a steel-penetrating sword in a place that compared to a benign suburban home. There was a carpeted staircase ahead of them, a living room with a piano to the left, and when Ghost peeked into the room on the right, he saw a washer and dryer.
They shared a quizzical expression. Despite keeping their guard up, they both felt an odd sense of calm. After everything they had fought through, it was almost disappointing.
GZA motioned to the staircase. Ghost shook his head and pointed at the hallway to the right of the stairs. The hall wasn’t big enough for them to walk side by side, so Ghost took the lead. They passed a half-bathroom before reaching the kitchen, with a family room to the right of them. A sliding glass door offered a view of the outside.
Everything about this house looked perfectly normal. It was spotlessly clean without a speck of dust, yet it appeared that no one had been there for weeks. GZA peered around the kitchen, but nothing caught his eye.
Ghost entered the family room and spotted a door in the right-hand corner. Ghost inhaled just sharply enough for GZA to turn his head, and when he did, he saw the same thing that had Ghost transfixed: A cool blue light glowing from the tiny crack between the door and the carpet.
Slowly, carefully, they walked toward it. Ghost gripped the doorknob with his left hand, turning it ever so slowly with his meteor hammer at the ready in his right. GZA stood behind him in a warrior stance, his sword poised to plunge into the core of any foe on the other side of the door.
After several seconds that felt like minutes, Ghost had fully turned the knob and painstakingly opened the door. It was a den, bathed in an eerily calming blue, with bookshelves on either side of a finely carved wooden desk. A dark green couch sat against the wall opposite the desk, but it was the source of light beneath the desk that drew Ghost’s and GZA’s attention.
A square spot of the beige carpet glowed so powerfully that the fibers of the carpet gently wriggled from its force. GZA looked at Ghost, who simply nodded. GZA gingerly moved his sword to prod the blue spot.
No sooner had the point of his sword touched the carpet than he was blown back into the green couch on the opposite wall. The wind knocked out of him, GZA tried in vain to suck oxygen back into his lungs. Ghost, eyes wide, turned to him. After a few moments, GZA drew air with a high-pitched gasp, and as the oxygen rushed to his brain he was hit with a realization.
The liquid sword.
GZA held out his hand so Ghost could pull him to his feet, and once he’d steadied himself, he unslung the case from his shoulder and laid it out on the couch. Ghost looked on as GZA opened the case, revealing the silvery-white liquid sword in all its glory. Ghost backed up as GZA grabbed the sword by the handle. Taking a few steps towards the glow, he reached down and plunged the silvery-white mercury blade into the glowing blue carpet.
The floor rattled as the blue spot crumbled, creating an ever-widening hole in the carpet that slowly spread throughout the room. As the hole widened from wall to wall, GZA and Ghost had no choice but to freefall in the darkness…
Yet again, RZA found himself waiting on someone. He supposed he’d spent more time waiting patiently for people in the last several days than he had in the last 10 years. Everything he did was precisely timed to maximize efficiency in his endlessly busy schedule. But, as the fate of the Wu-Tang Clan - and perhaps the world - rested on his shoulders, he knew he couldn’t afford to rush anything.
The man he was waiting for, though, was almost as efficient as he was. Always had been. Jonathan Harper was born in Harlem and made his name writing news articles and reviews for The Source in its heyday. RZA knew Harper never missed a deadline and seemed to always be one step ahead, which led to his growing profile beyond hip-hop journalism.
He covered The People vs. Russell Jones in 1999, earning widespread acclaim for not only his engaging reporting but for his fair and honest approach in the eyes of the defendant himself - ODB - and the rest of the Wu-Tang Clan. Ever since, Harper had maintained a solid relationship with the Clan, even after he left hip-hop journalism and began covering crime for The New York Times.
Sure enough, Harper showed up outside Harlem’s Westsider Records at 3:16 p.m. - 14 minutes after RZA did, to avoid being seen together - and met RZA between two tall shelves. They dapped each other up, and Harper got right down to it.
“You said you got something,” Harper said.
RZA nodded.
“Tomorrow, at dawn,” RZA said. “Be near the abandoned fort at Fort Tilden with a large camera crew. Be discreet.”
“What?” Harper said.
“You’ll get the scoop of a lifetime,” RZA said. “I tipped CNN and The Washington Post, but I gave them a later time.”
“You gonna tell me what this is about?” Harper asked.
“It has to do with what happened at Concord Music Hall,” RZA said. “We figured out what’s going on.”
“What does a concert hall in Chicago have to do with Fort Tilden?” Harper asked. “Is Cappadonna gonna be there? GZA?”
RZA turned his head slightly to the side and pressed his lips together to give the Ed Lover-patented “Come on, son” look. Harper chuckled.
“I know they’re innocent,” Harper said. “I just thought-”
“Don’t stress,” RZA said, and at Harper’s look of skepticism he continued. “Remember who warned you that Black Moon’s crew was looking to beat you down for that lukewarm review you gave their album?”
Harper smiled and shook his head.
“I remember,” he said.
“They woulda stomped you out,” RZA said. “But I had your back, right?”
Harper raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t act like I didn’t have hands,” he said.
“One-on-one, no doubt,” RZA said. “But against that whole crew?”
Harper didn’t miss a beat.
“Just a bigger piece of cake for me to chew a whole through.”
RZA laughed so loud they caught the attention of other customers, so he quickly pulled his hoodie over his head and took a few steps down the aisle.
“You see my point, though,” he said in a low voice.
Harper sighed and nodded.
“OK,” he said. “I’ll make it happen.”
RZA frowned.
“What is it?” Harper asked.
RZA raised his eyebrows.
“Now that I think of it, you never gave us a bad review,” he said. “Whether group or solo.”
Harper shrugged.
“Y’all never put out anything wack!”
A few minutes later, they’d parted ways and RZA was walking towards his car. Just as he reached the driver’s door, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out, but didn’t recognize the number. After a moment’s hesitation, he answered, and relief washed over him when he heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line.
“Yo, it’s me,” YDB said. “Calling from a burner ‘cause my phone got ruined in a river. Just got to Italy now.”
Method Man and Inspectah Deck stood side by side at a railing of the abandoned fort at Fort Tilden on Camp Rockaway Beach, watching the sun dip lower and lower in the sky as the last light of day was fading away.
RZA’s plan had come to fruition; in just a few short hours, the Wu-Tang Clan would be joined by friends and affiliates at the shore with weaponry to bait the androids. At some point, G-Unit would bring in the reinforced firepower. The media outlets would catch it all, clearing GZA’s and Cappadonna’s names and hopefully drawing support from the military.
If not, the Clan figured 50 Cent’s heat might be enough to blow every last automated soldier across the ocean.
It was surreal for Deck, standing next to his brother hours before the biggest moment of their lives, not knowing if they’d survive to see another sunset. Everything else that came before it - the tours, the beef, the awards - all seemed so distant and insignificant now. They’d planned and prepared everything out to the last detail. All they could do now was wait.
Meth looked out at the water. Even in his 50s, he still felt small when he looked out on the ocean, humbled by the creation and his own little place in the vast universe.
“You know,” he said, his eyes still on the water. “All this got me thinking of this one time at Dreyfus 49.”
Deck looked over at Meth and smiled quizzically.
“You’re thinking about middle school right now?”
Meth looked back at him.
“You remember Maurice?”
Deck blew air out of his mouth.
“How could I forget?” he said. “That kid was a giant on the football field. Everybody knew about him.”
“Yeah, he was,” Meth said. “‘Til he stopped growing in the ninth grade.”
“True, true,” Deck said with a grin.
“But you’re right, though; back in middle school he towered over everybody.
“So I’m in the lunchroom one day, it was stromboli day,” Meth recalled. “I hadn't had anything to eat since the night before and I’m starving. I’m ‘bout to grab my tray when big ol’ Maurice shoves me out the way and cuts the line.”
Deck leaned in. This was one story he hadn’t heard before.
“So I grab the tray and crack it over his big ol’ head,” Meth said. “He smacks the back of his head like it ain’t nothin’ but a fly. Turns around and grabs me by the collar. I get a few shots to his stomach, but he tosses me to the ground and is about to drop the elbow when coach Holmes breaks it up.
“Everybody’s circled around, screamin’, but coach just grabs Maurice and pushes him back. I’m scramblin’ to my feet like I still wanna go, but Holmes gives me this look that’s like ice down my back.”
“How long they put you out for that?” Deck asked.
“Ten days,” Meth said. “Maurice got five.”
“Wowwww,” Deck said. “Ain’t that how it goes, though.”
“But you know, when I was in the office, coach sat next to me in those chairs up there,” Meth said. “And I’ll never forget it; when he found out what I swung that tray for, he looked at me like I was the dumbest kid alive.”
Deck broke into a high-pitched laugh. Meth chuckled to himself.
“He dropped a jewel that day,” Meth said. “He told me, ‘Clifford, if you’re gonna fight, fight for somethin’ real.’”
Deck nodded knowingly.
“And you know,” Meth said, pointing at the railing to punctuate his words. “I never truly felt that until right now.”
Deck gave him a small smile. Method nodded sagely. Then they fixed their gazes at the sky, feeling at peace as they watched the sun disappear below the horizon.
The underground area below the Italian villa was nothing like the cavernous space beneath The Dwelling of the All-Seeing Eye. GZA and Ghostface Killah had fallen with dull thuds on a large wrestling mat.
GZA, who’d let go of the liquid sword so as not to accidentally impale himself, picked it up to see a blade-shaped burn on the surface of the mat. He leapt to his feet, and Ghost, still clutching the meteor hammer, did the same.
Once their eyes adjusted to the darkness, GZA waved the liquid sword to illuminate what was before them. They saw huge, ascending stone steps, like those at an art museum or monument. They couldn’t make out what was at the top, but the steps were the only way forward.
GZA and Ghost shared a grimace and, side by side, started their way up.
No sooner had GZA stepped on the first stone than a figure in ninja’s garb came flying out of the darkness. GZA sliced the ninja in half in one fell swoop, and as it clattered noisily onto the steps, the ninja’s hood slipped off. Yet another android.
GZA and Ghost looked up to see a hoard of ninja androids stampeding down the steps, seeming to literally come out of the walls or drop down from the ceiling. Now fully used to their new weapons, GZA and Ghost wielded them fiercely and fluidly as they charged up the steps.
Ghost stopped at the top of the first set of steps and did a 360 with the hammer, crushing every surrounding android to pieces. And when one tried to land on his head, he threw up the meteor hammer, watched it blow back the android with such a force that it was fossilized into the ceiling, and caught the rope of the hammer with ease.
GZA meanwhile, was slicing the mercury blade through metal like a Ginsu, turning the robotic ninjas into falling embers and charred remains on the steps around him. Though they were dressed like ninjas, these androids were much less agile than the ones they’d battled in the rainforest.
Before they knew it, they were halfway up the stairs and cracking jokes as they slashed through their feeble enemies. GZA sliced off an arm and watched the android smoke from its shoulder as it flailed on the steps like it was having a seizure.
“I’ve heard of a heatstroke, but this is ridiculous!” GZA yelled.
“Ba-dum-tssss,” Ghost said, imitating a rimshot that he punctuated by walloping an android in the chest with the hammer.
“I gotta remember that one,” GZA said.
They moved like Jedi as the androids became fewer and fewer. Three-fourths of the way up the steps, they could now see a sealed-off, stone archway at the top.
Encouraged by the sight, they dashed up the steps, GZA carving a “Z” in the air to slice a falling android while Ghost whirled around one more time and smashed the last oncoming robots to smithereens. Their ears rang at the deafening noise their demolition had caused, but they surged up the last set of steps in triumph.
They reached the surface in front of the stone archway, and all of a sudden everything felt still. The ringing in their eyes grew fainter as the stone archway began to unseal itself.
They stood, weapons at the ready, but once again the sight before them was oddly plain. The opening of the archway revealed nothing but a dark room that resembled a billiards room, although there were no pool tables to speak of. Cautiously, GZA and Ghost stepped into the room.
As soon as they did, the stone resealed itself and light flooded the room. Two hulking androids the size of Strongman champions rushed GZA and Ghost and picked them up like they were loaves of bread. The Clansmen kicked and thrashed to get free, but the androids ripped their weapons out of their hands, tossed them aside and roughly threw the duo into a corner.
Ghost was temporarily knocked out, while GZA saw stars after his head collided against a wall. The menacing androids towered over them. From behind the androids came a reedy voice in an unmistakable Italian accent.
“Finally,” the voice said. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
GZA’s normal vision returned. He stared up at the man before him and shook his head, thinking they should have known it was too easy to get up those steps. He recognized the man as Giorgio De Luca, the disgraced label executive from their meeting so many years ago.
There were more lines in his face and specks of gray in his sideburns, but with his lean frame, pencil mustache and jet-black hair parted down the middle, De Luca looked nearly the same as he had three decades before.
“Now that you’re here,” De Luca said, his eyes dancing with sinister glee, “don’t you want to see what your friends have been up to?”