Stranglehold
The guardroom was not a place he often frequented, preferring to distance himself from the antics of his subordinates – but today was a little special. It was for that reason that Erol was sprawled in one of the hard, lumpy chairs with his booted feet propped up on a nearby table and his hands linked behind his head.
Conversation had ceased when he had entered, although by now the guards had gotten sick of the tense silence and were talking in low voices, casting the occasional glance at the commander.
Who, for his part, completely ignored them.
One could almost expect him to purr, folded up upon the chair with his eyes half lidded and a sly smile dancing on his lips. Almost.
But not quite.
Erol's fingers twisted through his shock of red hair as he eyed the guards curiously, clicking his tongue against his teeth whenever he found someone he particularly liked. The apprehensive air was enough to make him chuckle, hissing through his clenched teeth as he surveyed the room. To say it was dirty would be a grave understatement – the only thing that looked clean were the weapons littering the shelves and the guards themselves.
Erol was tracing a gloved finger through the thick layer of dust on the table when his COM let off an insistent beeping noise.
His fingers dug within his armor, reaching mechanically to close around that square of hard metal – jerking it free as his fingers found the switch and it crackled and hissed as a voice filtered through.
"Commander, we have a situation in the industrial section."
Erol was up on his feet before the title had been squeezed out.
"The underground has staged a shoot up – up to fifty men in a close group down the G67. We've established that their line of retreat is straight up the buildings themselves, and there are sentries posted on the roof. I have a squadron standing by to take them out."
The room was utterly silent, every head turned to the lean figure of the commander as he strode towards the doors, motioning for them to follow as he snapped out a stream of commands.
"Get them up there and take out those sentries quietly, then position the men on the buildings and tell them to wait for my order."
The COM fizzed into silence.
Erol didn't pause, moving swiftly through the dark corridors of the fortress until he found his way to the hanger – one of the larger hellcats was already waiting for him, the armored elf inside tossing the keys his way as soon as he turned towards the red beast.
He caught them squarely in the palm of one of his gloved hands.
The wiry man leapt up into the mechanical monster, settling down into the hard backed chair and sliding his fingers onto the throttle as it roared into life.
Erol slid his helmet down, making everything a fractured red, and clicked on the radio concealed within the neck of his armor.
"Go."
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The site the underground had chosen was a good one – presuming they kept their line of retreat open and the lookouts were good.
Unfortunately for those sentries the Krimzon Guard were much much better.
Even now the men were falling like flies as the red-garbed soldiers clambered onto the buildings, taking them out with ruthless efficiently before positioning themselves so that they could move forwards and send down a rain of shells on the heads of the unsuspecting fighters as soon as their commander ordered it.
Erol, however, took a far more direct route.
Flanked by a troop of guards the KG commander approached the rebellion head on, walking towards them and allowing the squad to fan out behind him and block off the alley. Erol licked his lips, pulled his pistols from their holsters, and strode towards the group of underground fighters with a smile on his face.
They didn't move.
Erol stopped, twenty meters away and in clear sight as the guards behind him cocked their guns and waited expectantly for the order to kill.
Words of abuse sailed from the underground – hushed quickly as thirty guards responded by swinging up their weapons.
Erol held up a hand.
The world went silent.
"I'd thought you'd have got sick of dieing," Erol purred. "Or is the temptation to kill me and crush the guard just too great."
A shark-tooth smile, Erol spreading his arms wide and allowing the pistols to dangle uselessly from his fingers.
"Go on then – shoot me!"
No one moved.
That was, until a single fighter at the front of the group raised his gun hesitantly, finger squeezing the trigger.
The world exploded into a frenzy of killing.
The guards on the roof surged up immediately, bullets raining down on the group of rebels below. Screams punctuated the air, blood flying in slick curves as bodies were torn apart.
There was a gunshot and then Erol was in amongst the terror and the blood and the killing.
The first bullet had ricocheted off his armor and torn one of the pistols from his hands, skittering away through the wet steam to lie useless on the hard ground.
But the other one was up and firing.
His bullet took his assailant through the mouth, driving all the way through to blast free in a bloody wave as the man pitched to the earth. His arms waved in vain, crimson surging from the tears in his flesh to lie in a slick pool around him.
Erol didn't care.
Another bullet grazed his ear and he cursed, raising his gun. But that was torn from his hands by a rushing of metal and flew away to lie beside the other.
"Dammit," Erol shrieked – before narrowing his eyes and moving straight for the man who was attempting to take advantage of his current predicament. The commander let him come, running full tilt towards him with a howl on his lips – intent on tearing down the racer.
Said racer smiled.
And then his fist came up to slam into the fighters jaw, sending his head flying back as his body drove in – gun torn from his grip by the commanders other hand and tossed aside as he laughed and felt his attacker surging against him.
In the press of bodies the fighter had no chance to raise a defense against the fist that shattered his nose and sent a spray of blood over the pair. The man lurched forwards, blind and in agony as Erol's helmeted head split his lips.
He couldn't stop; the pain drove him forwards and straight into the commander, his feet attempting to give out under him – kept up only by Erol himself.
The commanders' left hand flew out, smashing into the fighters belly and causing him to lurch forwards into the uppercut that sent him reeling backwards. His flailing fists missed Erol completely as he surged forwards for the kill.
Sadly, the bullet that came hissing through the steam was not so ineffective.
It tore into Erol's side and the commander cried out, more in fury than pain as he dropped to the ground and rolled. By luck – and luck alone – his hands found the two pistols he loved so much, curling around them as he surged to his knees.
The fighter was coming for him, screaming bloody murder as he stumbled forwards – blood drenching his dirty clothes, the cloth mask shredded on his face.
There was no time to smile, no time to think, or pause, or breathe.
A loud crack shattered the silence.
The two pistols flared, the backlash sending searing pain through Erol's body as his muscles contracted around the bullet lodged deep in his side.
However, the fighter was not quite so lucky.
One bullet took him straight through the throat, the blood surging free from its confines as his own heart pumped wildly to the tune of death. With the last of his strength he raised bloody fingers to the hole, staring wide-eyed at the commander as he gurgled incoherently.
Then he dropped like a stone.
The other bullet had taken him through the chest, close to the heart.
Erol had time to smile before he tottered backwards and lay on the hard ground, hand pressed tightly to the wound in his side as he stared at the sky.
In the corner of his vision he saw the guards on the roof cease to fire, and a deadly silence descended on the world.
The last thing he heard was the thud of military boots making a hasty approach and a stream of commands he couldn't decipher.
All that mattered now was that he let the pain take him away…
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"I warned you Erol."
"Yes, you did Sir. But I think you will find my actions do not warrant such an extreme reaction."
"Did I not say detain? Is that what you call detaining?"
The Baron loomed over the commander, knuckles white and hands shaking in rage as he leaned on the table and glared at the man sitting opposite.
Erol winced as he moved, fingers moving to rest against the bandages that had been strapped around his side. Shirtless and dirty, stinking of blood, smoke, and sweat, and not to mention in a 'hell lotta' pain – not the kind of situation he particularly enjoyed.
And when you throw in the whole thing about Praxis breathing down his neck, well that just makes it a real riot.
The commander sighed, shifting his narrow shoulders and quirking one of his eyebrows.
"No, sir."
"So you give in?"
"No, sir."
Praxis snarled, clenching his jaw and turning away from the commander in anger. Erol looked at his broad back for a moment, waiting for him to turn around and explode.
It never happened.
Erol's eyes narrowed in surprise and he surged up from his seat, resting his fists on the table and ignoring the pain that charged through his body. "Sir?" he hissed.
One large meaty hand was waved in his direction, silencing him instantly. "Very well, commander. Get your shirt on and meet me down in the prison, at least you managed to detain one."
Erol stared at his back for a few moments longer, before turning on his heel and moving away.
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The prisoner was young, too young in fact – his eyes far too wide in a pale face adorned with blood, his lips too soft and slack.
A mere boy posing as a man; but he would come to learn that in this world it was far better to be a child.
In the confines of the cell he looked even smaller, but maybe that was because Praxis was towering over him. Erol didn't know, and he didn't care.
All he worried about at that moment was that the boy would be killed before he could have some fun.
He was pinned against the wall, hands twisted behind him at an unnatural angle as the guard ignored his wails of pain. Praxis was obscuring Erol's view of the boy, so the commander settled back against the wall and closed his eyes with a sigh.
It felt like it had been forever when Praxis finally moved away, the boys' cries long since turning hoarse and broken as he succumbed to the questioning and told them everything.
It wasn't much.
As Praxis turned away the boy seemed to gather some vestige of courage, clambering to his feet as the guard that had been holding him followed the Baron to the door. His voice was soft, attempting to be calm although it pitched and surged from his throat.
"You're not going to kill me?"
The Baron didn't turn, didn't pause as the door slid open and his bulk slid through the gap. "No, you're the commanders problem now."
A dull hiss penetrated the horrified silence as Praxis and the guard disappeared behind the cell door. For a few minutes the prisoner stared in slack-jawed terror towards the metal, until the air was shattered by a soft chuckle that grew steadily into full-blown laughter.
Two eyes turned to fix on Erol as he pried himself from the wall and stepped towards the young man, shoving him back hard against the wall – eyes flicking over the stained and torn clothing. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers, staring at it for a few moments before his head rose and a sick-sweet smile slid over his face.
"Now, if you would be so kind," he crooned.
The boy blanched, cringing instinctively although he knew he had nowhere to go. "What?" he stuttered, wetting his lips as he struggled to come to terms with the turn of events. "Aren't you going to knife me or something?"
Erol chuckled and raised his hand, fingers threading through the boy's pale hair.
"Now where would be the fun in that?"