Seventh commercial break
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Warning. Mildly disturbing content.
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It all comes down to this.
"He's here, somewhere," their captain, a pale-skinned human in his thirties, cries out. He gesticulates wildly, and I watch him and his unit from my vantage point in the ceiling. "Spread out, but don't go far."
They split into three teams of three - suicide - then the captain drags one team with him and disappears out of sight.
It's messy up here, ancient cables joined by decades of dust, and even an outdated porno magazine, but I don't want a conflict - not now. Not today.
Today's not a good day for taking lives.
Two teams remain; a total of six people.
"So," a helmeted someone, female judging from her voice, enters my view, her green armor is the epitome of personal defense, "just who is this guy we're chasing, anyway?" A cigarette's lit by another somone, and a plastic helmet's set aside.
"It's the slayer, of course," an ancient, male voice mutters. At least three people take long, deep breaths, and the unmistakable sound of bolts slamming into place fills the air. "That's why there's so many of us. It's to try and balance things out, you see. Not that it matters in the end, but the big guys really love throwing unwanted people at him."
The female coughs.
"I thought the slayer was a myth, an urban legend," metal-clad feet tap the floor, and another cig's lit, "or do you know something that we don't?"
"It's the cuts," he remarks. Someone unscrews a canteen, then proceeds to down several mouthfuls of liquid. "The cuts and the precision used, not to mention the brass he leaves. He's got a quicksilver - targets are blown apart, armor's completely ignored. You can't fight him up close, either, since he's got a knife that shouldn't be."
"Mobian?" another, younger, male chimes in. A blade's scratched against one of the concrete walls.
"Like you, son," fingers are snapped, then the old guy empties the canteen. It's discarded quite noisily onto the floor. "See, he's a highly skilled remnant from ancient times, as proven by his knife." He drones on, lists exaggerated achievements, and censors some of my more famous acts.
I love my profession.
Employer assured me that there would be no obstacles, that the way out would be completely clear, and absolutely guaranteed that there were no guards around.
Get inside using the supplied fake papers, snatch the case, exist.
Smooth, seamless, perfect.
"And that's why he survived when everyone else died," lies. "We only need to find him, then, with our superior numbers and firepower, he'll be dead and buried in minutes, or at least that's what I'm supposed to tell you." He's a realist, and I admire him for being one.
People cheer, some high-fives are heard.
A male cat, decked out in blueish combat armor, face shaved, paces below me in a small circle. Quickly decide that it's the one the old guy talked to.
Forced to wait and hide.
How very typical and unprofessional.
Situated some six meters above the floor, held in position by my arms and legs, case safely grasped in my right hand. Disguise was useless, same with all other tips the fat idiot provided me with.
Luckily, I didn't listen to most of them.
"When will Terry show up with the big guns?" a fourth, very young, female voice blurts out. A loud smack is heard, then something that's both heavy and made of plastic hits the floor.
"Shut up! He might be listening!" it's the old man, who just happens to be the smartest henchman ever employed.
Cock my head from left to right, judge how much strength I've got left.
The pacing cat comes to a complete halt, but doesn't turn around to face the group.
"Jesus, you don't have to hurt her," he mutters. The fallen bitch gets up, and I can hear the sound of her kneepads scraping against the concrete floor. Someone decides to stretch and yawn.
Two more minutes, at the very max, then I'll have no other choice but to drop down and surprise them.
Only now, after fifteen minutes of hanging, does the sweat start to trickle down my forehead.
Love this.
"We should head out," the old guy calls out. Cigs are discarded and stepped on. Two people spit in succession, someone yawns once more. "Maybe we won't have the pleasure of running into him."
Walk. Move.
Away, disappear. I'll get billed big-time if I kill even a single one of them.
Pearls crawl their way down my muzzle, but stop on the tip of my nose.
It's all good. All the time. Every single day.
Watch in horror as the drop grows.
They pass, one by one, until it's only the cat left. His steps are very slow, very strained, and he probably knows that something's wrong, amiss, out of place. He doesn't look up, and I actually allow myself to believe that, yes, the mission will be a success, that there won't be any more blood, death, tears, or sorrow. It grows further, and he slows down even more, even stops directly below me.
But things just can't work out, no, that's against the rules. Out of both pace and phase.
And then it falls - a single drop that could destroy the whole world. Deadlier than any sword, any gun, any bomb, because I'm involved.
It strikes his left ear, then his gaze turns upwards, but I'm already ahead of him.
He's hit in the head by the falling case which I decide to forget for the time being, then my right foot touches down on his left shoulder, almost tipping him over with my weight. There's no way to avoid this, and I'll have to fight.
Eagerly.
The left one lands on the back of his head as he falls forward, and the world slows down to a crawl all around me. I've got the knife in my right and the quicksilver in my left, and I've even emptied a round into the base of his skull before he's even realized I was there.
The recoil's awesome, grants me new life, and the detonation shatters his head into a thousand pieces of bone, and a gruel of gray and red splatters all over the floor and walls, and I want more of it. I need more of it. I deserve more of it.
They've barely had time to react, and I'm so very far ahead it's sickening - as always.
Rifles blaze, the bitchy female human fires a grenade which is way off, and impacts with the floor somewhere behind me and the corpse, and out of nowhere I hear the familiar sound of my casing hitting the concrete. It bounces, then I'm away, assured by it.
Somehow, for some reason, I'm bounding towards them on the right-hand wall, like a stalking predator, out for an easy kill. Brass fills the air, and they shout for dear life, but it's no use. Metal clatters against concrete and steel, dents it, ricochets. The area's sprayed by tiny fragments of bullets and a mix of concrete.
First one, the ancient, withered human, stands in my way, and I hit him head-on, like an angry titan from my childhood tales.
His throat's opened up by a flash of silver, and I slide into a crouch. My left leg goes out, kicks him off his feet, and I watch him fall backwards, his dying body weighing down a female fox armed with two shitty handguns. She screams, but it amounts to nothing.
The loss of their leader disorientates them, and I grab this opportunity to cause carnage with both hands.
Spin out of the grenade launcher-wielding human's way. She stumbles past, almost falls forward, and I bring my knife up high, then I drive it down into her neckjoint with so much power that she probably dies from the impact. There's a gurgle, a light spurt of red, then nothing more, and I retract the bladed tool just in time to twist around and block a bayonet aimed for my chest.
It's another mobian, like I. He's got one eye, the left one, about two teeth, and no helmet, and since everyone else but he is busy, there's no reason for me to not enjoy the show.
Turn my gun around, then bring it down onto his forehead. There's a satisfying crunch, then his entire head whips backwards. Something broke, and I'm to blame. The only way to set things right again is to relieve him of his pain, and I advanced after him as he drops the rifle and clutches his face.
Another whack, to his left temple, sends him flying into the left-hand wall, and his face leaves a nice smear on it.
Spin around to confront the fox, who's switched to a large knife, blade ornate and finely detailed. Dagger veteran.
She impales herself on my knife, sharp end lodged in her chest, right in-between her breasts, and in the only crack her armor had.
Give her a grin, then she stabs me in the left part of my chest, even twists the blade around with a triumphant cry of victory. We're getting somewhere, finally.
I see no other alternative than to bash her to death. Arched blow, from the right, hits her just above the left eye socket, and completely destroys it. Her head, just like that of my previous foe, whips, but she can't stumble away from me, so I strike again, and break her lower jaw in half with a sweet snap. She spits teeth, but then she's back to her old self.
Knife's withdrawn, and I'm kicked in the stomach so hard that she slips off the blade. Angelic freedom. A human would be dead by now, but we're different - more durable, tougher.
She swings at me like it's not about life anymore, but proving who's the best. The final one, a young male human, appears in my left eye's corner, armed with a chainsword. It's an impossible situation, one that should not be escapable, but I've got an ace left.
Throw myself backwards, to my right, past the human.
As predicted, they both stumble into each other, and his sword falls on her right shoulder. A second passes, then it's more ground meat than a shoulder.
Flip the gun around, ranged end pointed at them, then I take careful aim at the fox as I pass through the air.
She looks at me, and I look at her, and I see all the horrible things I've done, and I know that this is another one of those faces that I'll have to carry with me until the end, just like my cross.
And then I fire, and the projectile slices through the air like a spear. It catches her in the throat, just below her chin, her bloodstained chin, covered by plush-like brown fur, then it detonates, and she disappears beneath an ocean of tears and pieces of what was once a female fox.
This is my life.
This is my pleasure, my dreams, my hopes, my imagination, and also the things I hate. This is what I'm best at.
Taking lives wasn't supposed to be this easy, or this free of guilt.
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One - up on fanfiction dot net - Late November 2006-early 2007.
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VT2 - 2006