The coronation of the prince

The adversaries faught. The assault continued, punch after punch impacting the cockpit of the dazed combatant.

Set against the backdrop of the ruined, dying city stood its immobilized defender, an urban legend among the residents of paradigm now revealed as an impotent victim. "The black megadeus", as it was known in hushed tones, now served as a punching bag for the amusement of Alexander Rosewater's private death-machine.

The assault continued. The big-o was twisted, turned upside-down.

Within the pilot's compartment, Roger Smith stirred weakly. The controls would not respond, the levers he had used to save this city now were impotent. And at intervals there it was, cracks appearing in the windows, the fists of the opposing machine coming ever closer to killing him. Over the radio he repeatedly was told that he was outmoded, outdone, that 'a new god' had arrived.

Then, static..and another voice was heard.

"Roger..Roger...I'm scared.."

He recognized the planative cry, it was his mother.

"Roger..you're moving out with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air"

It became clear to him then, he had to kick it. Pressing the emergency release he fell from the hidden compartment in the pilots chamber and hailed a taxi, the driver brushed the dice hanging from the rear-view mirror away to hear his destination, "Homes..bel-air.." roger weakly said, vomiting blood. As he passed out from his wounds he thought that if anything this was a rare experience.

Arriving at his destination he awoke, estimating it had to be seven or eight at night, too delirious to be certain he knew one thing..this was his kingdom, he was now the prince of bel-air.