Just as soon as the surrounding men had opened fire upon him, Jack had turned right and begun pounding down the aisle, zig-zagging as he approached the three men at the end. They were in casual clothing, but two of them had gone the same route as Jack and packed body armour to compensate. Thus, every set of double-aught buckshot that Jack launched their way was somewhat negated by their armour. Meanwhile, they were more than able to fire towards him, the full-auto features of their assault rifles being able to deliver a vast quantity of rounds, many of which were hitting.
Jack was definitely feeling it; There was a loud crack as some 5.56 from their rifles slammed into his chest, prompting him to yell out in pain. Nevertheless, he pressed on, racking the pump of his shotgun again and again to deliver more punishment at them.
Once he was close enough range, he transferred his very fast forward momentum into one very strong kick to the crotch of the opponent in the middle of the group. The man, letting out a loud and girlish scream as he was flung backwards, obviously hadn't been expecting Jack to employ a tactic normally employed for breaching oak doors, but wood is wood, right?
Whilst he kneeled down, clutching his testicles, Jack span around and allowed his shotgun to fly out of his hands. It soared through the air, the barrel smashing into the rib-cage of the next opponent, a sickening crack ringing through the air to display their lack of body armour. That man released a loud gasp, staggering back and reflexively squeezing the trigger on his SCAR-H and spraying bullets all over the place as Jack's shotgun landed on the floor.
Jack pressed on, dodging gunfire from the other end of the hall, sweeping low in front of his dazed opponent, before letting loose with an uppercut that plowed right into the man's face. The loud thud signified contact, along with his opponent's head swinging backwards with an audible snap.
Jack had no time to praise himself for punching a man so hard that he broke his spine; Just as soon as he'd swept out of the punch, he felt a sudden kick to his ribcage and was thrown sideways into a table.
Shit: He'd forgotten the third guy.
Grunting in pain, he reached into his disk to pull out both of the Mateba revolvers, rolling onto his back and pointing his left hand upwards, and right hand towards the nearby assailant, sending off a snap shot in both directions before rolling out of the way of the incoming stream of gunfire. His effort did very little, however; A huge volume of rounds pelted him as he rolled towards a nearby Items Stand that he planned to use as cover.
Jack did his best to ignore the pain, finally scrambling behind the low table and got into a crouch. Reaching into his bag, he whipped out one of the smoke grenades he'd stolen from Luke back in Lowee and lobbed it over the desk, hissing away loudly as it released a thick bank of grey smoke. The moment he finished raising his arm up post-throw, however, he winced and cried out in pain, clutching his ribs and leg that a massive number of bullets had impacted, dropping to the floor to sit sown. On the other side of the table, he could hear a few dozen sets of footsteps approaching, the sounds of magazines hitting the floor and new ones being inserted ringing out over the sound of boots on concrete, and orders being called out by who he figured was the KSK guy from earlier. If he knew they'd paid attention in training, he knew they wouldn't go through the smoke with organising themselves first.
He had only a short bit of time.
There was the sound of a few people doing what sounded like setting up a machine gunner position.
So, he was definitely outgunned.
Going by the smoldering holes in the vest (And his black undershirt, despite his green shirt and chest being fine), his body armour was finally starting to break. He guessed that he could probably only take another two or three bullets before the ballistic plates shattered, and then he'd be in a whole world of shit.
Not counting that?
Probably a few broken ribs where he'd been kicked, maybe a fractured femur, he was pretty sure he'd cut a knuckle on that guy's tooth, his face was bleeding, his shotgun was missing, and he was going to get his shit utterly kicked in unless he figured out a plan within the next twenty seconds.
He gasped in pain, frantically looking around the back of the stall from his sitting position. The owner had obviously fled in a hurry. If he had to guess, Jack figured they were probably one of the hostages. Scattered around was a chair lying on its back, bottles lying everywhere, and papers scattered all over the place.
Shit, he couldn't reach those potions.
Frantically, Jack reached back to check what was beneath the counter. A sample of a potion, medical supplies, anything that could buy him a chance against what was probably about twenty opponents. Just then, his hand caught purchase on something, prompting him to immediately look at it.
In his hand, there was a pack of five syringes. On the front of the sealed plastic packet, there was a label saying 'STR'. Jack had heard that before: Strength.
"Fuck me, if I don't need this right now..." he wheezed, ripping off all the needle covers with one movement and pausing very briefly to look at the sharp needles that awaited entry into his arm...
No.
Now wasn't the time for fear.
Fear was for the enemy; Fear, and arsekickings, and goddamn right he was going to give them plenty of both or die with his size 11 boot in someone's anus.
Steeling himself, he lifted his sleeve, wrapped his hand around all five STR needles, grit his teeth, and stabbed them all into his bicep at once, before pressing down all the plungers simultaneously.
The pain that came with injecting almost a pint of super steroids into his arm nearly caused him to scream as every single one of his nerves, muscles, and organs practically set on fire.
He could feel his pulse elevate; His breathing rate doubled; His arms tensed immediately, flooding with adrenaline.
And more than anything else?
He felt angry.
So. Fucking. Angry.
More blinding rage than he'd ever felt in his life was suddenly ripping through his veins. He'd been pissed off before, but Christ, that was absolutely NOTHING compared to the burning hot desire he felt that told him to take it to those who'd wronged him, as up close and personally as humanly fucking possible.
As if on autopilot, he threw both Matebas away, the weapons disappearing in a purple flash as per the usual. The pain was suddenly unnoticeable, now: Jack took advantage of this by spinning around into a low crouch, gripping the bottom of the several meter long steel desk he had been cowering behind, and letting out a near-primal roar as he flipped it up through the smoke in the direction he figured that a number of his attackers were in.
The response was an almighty crunch of bone and screaming of men as a half-ton piece of metal launched itself onto them with the force of a fast-moving car. Alongside that, there came the sound of a yell: 'What the fuck just happened?!'
That yell came from the right.
To Jack's rage-addled brain and, that was good enough for him.
He turned, immediately lunging into the thick bank of smoke and tackling the first person he could. The heavily-armoured man barely a split second to respond as his AA-12 was flung away into the miasmic gloom, his mouth was covered immediately, and Jack began hammering away at the reinforced steel riot helmet on top of the man's head at an inhuman speed. The heavy visor barely lasted two hits, shattering almost immediately and sprinkling his opponent's face with thick shards of glass. The man's head fared no better, either: The moment Jack's fist made contact with all the force of a shotgun blast, his opponent's face immediately caved in, silencing his screams with a disgusting crack and squelch.
Jack wasn't thinking straight.
That wasn't enough.
He delivered a few more punches to the destroyed head in the helmet, making sure to hit the top of the spine so that it snapped, before he got back onto his two feet and was on the prowl through the smoke again. Behind him, the dead body twitched and released a gurgling noise.
The next target came from the sound of a man groaning in pain on the ground. By this point, the metal desk had stopped skidding on the floor, five seconds after it had been thrown. Obviously, the man was injured.
Jack wanted to speed him up.
Proceeding through the smoke and rolling his shoulders, Jack came to an area where the smoke wasn't as thick, seeing someone who looked to be wearing an up-armoured Japanese military Officer's uniform steadily getting back to his feet and dusting himself off, Tokarev pistol in hand. The man was glancing about, trying to discern just what the hell was going on, but there was no way in Hell that he could ever predict what was about to happen to him.
Once more, Jack pulled his combat knife from his disk and threw himself at the man, stabbing him in the chest and kicking his kneecaps backwards in one swift move, before grabbing his opponent's collar and dragging him back into the smoke before anyone noticed he'd disappeared.
Jack was, somehow, withholding his increasingly strong urge to laugh maniacally whilst he repeatedly stabbed the Japanese soldier, delivering powerful swipes into his stomach and chest. Finishing the stabbing with a swift right hook to the face (Which, considering how tightly Jack was gripping his opponent's collar, almost immediately broke his neck and span his head almost the full 180°), Jack shoved the man to the ground, chucked his knife away, grabbed his victim's wrists, then stomped on his chest, breaking the man's ribcage in the process.
At this point, he could barely contain himself.
"RIP AND FUCKIN' TEAR!" he bellowed, giving an almighty tug and tearing the man's arms straight from their sockets. Blood spurted everywhere: Mostly on Jack's boots, but the gore that was making the most mess was jetting out all over the floor.
The battle cry had drawn more attention; Now that the smoke was clearing, Jack was beginning to see just who was left.
Crushed beneath the steel desk, there were about six people, one with his leg still pinned as he tried to free himself from underneath the massive weight.
Dead on the floor, either from being smashed in the face by the flying desk or from being torn apart by Jack, there were another four people.
The remaining ten were looking into the smoke, weapons raised and screaming into their radios for reinforcements.
Jack was not thinking rationally at this point.
With his newfound speed, he charged forwards to the nearest guy; He looked to be one of the Mobsters from the nightclub massacre in Leanbox. The look of anger that set in on his face barely did anything to slow Jack down as he reeled back, and punched straight into the man's chest.
To his surprise, the thug withstood it, letting out a loud yell as he was knocked backwards a good few feet. The sound of the panicked cry immediately got the attention of anyone wondering where the smoke shout had come from, and almost immediately, Jack's ears picked up the sounds of people turning to face him.
He had to keep his streak up.
He dodged left, just as the first few gunshots ripped through the fast-fading cloud of smoke, and immediately withdrew the double-barrelled shotgun, holding it like a club with the wooden buttstock as the head and barrels as the grip. As he moved, he targeted the nearest opponent; A GIGN soldier that was beginning to fire at him with a FAMAS rifle.
The bullets were hitting.
Jack wasn't stopping.
He let out another yell, reeling the shotgun back on his rapid approach to the French special forces operative. The trooper began backpedalling as his rifle clicked empty, but was quick to draw a service revolver and dive out of the way of Jack's strike, landing a series of shots. Jack began to regain his balance as the other soldier went into a knee slide along the floor, emptying the chamber into the booster-crazed berserker as he went, before rolling into a sprint and vaulting a nearby market stand for cover.
Jack was having none of it.
Shrugging off the numerous rounds being fired at him, he put his shotgun away, pulled a grenade from his bag, and belted it towards the guys that were firing at him. The small device made a loud noise as it smashed into someone's forehead, before the unmistakeable metallic clink of it hitting the floor resounded.
Then, it exploded, prompting even more trouble for Jack's attackers as they were showered with razor sharp steel shards. The men fell backwards, which gave Jack the time to drop another smoke grenade, and do something he'd longed to do to an opponent since the first time he had picked it up: He went into his disk and pulled out the chainsaw.
By this point, the area was once more filling with thick black smoke, and the panic was setting over his attackers once again.
Jack decided to turn it into a psychological attack as well as a physical one.
He gripped the plastic ripcord to start the saw motor, giving it a series of firm yanks to get the device running. When the gears finally started turning, the device shook itself into life, letting loose a snarl which turned to an angry roar as Jack revved its engine. He could hear the opposing side's voices through the smoke as he slowly circled their last known location.
"Eyes on, fellas! He's got a fucking chainsaw!"
"Cyka! Do not let down your guard!"
"You little son a of a bitch! That saw won't be so great when we force it into your asshole!"
Jack grit his teeth, held the saw forward like a lance, then sprinted towards the last voice's source, gripping the trigger and making the saw's teeth spin rapidly on the approach. The men began to panic and yell, and Jack only caught a brief glimpse of a soldier to his right as he brought the chainsaw down on the ex-Cartel enforcer that he'd targeted.
The force of the impact plunged the saw straight through the man's unprotected shoulder, severing the veins immediately and spraying a shower of gore into the air as the man screamed almost inhumanly.
At one point, Jack would have stopped right then and there and fled.
That point had passed.
Instead, he opened his mouth to crack out a one-liner, but the unbridled amount of adrenaline and STR boosters running through his body simply turned his Ash Williams reference into a terrifying, psychotic laughter that somehow rang clear over the sound of a man's bones and flesh being shredded apart by a logging appliance. Eventually, the screaming began to sound incredibly gurgle-ish, or perhaps that was just the amount of blood spraying all over Jack that made him imagine in.
As he forced it, he noticed the other men bringing guns to bear, just visible through the smoke. He was quick to give the saw one firm push, slicing straight through the remaining flesh of his opponent and dropping himself low into a crouch as guns started firing overhead.
As the full-auto gunfire kicked in, he remained as low as he could whilst the bullets zipped over him. He stayed still, putting the saw away and reverting himself to silence.
He was still breathing too fast and he felt like he could RKO a fucking tank.
This was NOT helping him calm down.
He glanced at the dead body near him.
Well, what was left of it.
Clutched in the dead Latino's grip was another Desert Eagle. Same version as the one he already had.
He frowned, reaching forward and freeing it from the dead body's unusually strong grip.
The serial code on the side of the frame was #696969XD.
Ha!
A joke about sex!
Goddamn, he wanted to kill someone for the fact that they thought that joke was funny.
He also wanted to use his one and that one at the same time.
Would it break his wrists?
...yes.
He growled to himself, put the new pistol in his disk, and rolled out of the way of the bulletstream, going through his disk to retrieve the RPD.
Once he was certain that his opponents assumed he was where he had been sighted at first and were thus still shooting in that direction, he circled around behind them and set up the LMG's built-in bipod.
Briefly, his rather chaotic state of mind gave him a flashback to the time that he told Vert, Chika, and Uni that he wouldn't ever use a bipod because that wasn't his style.
OK.
He stopped setting up the bipod and stood up at full height, hefting the gun at his hip. By normal standards, that would be heavy. Jack wasn't normal, and he had taken enough super steroids to make Lance Armstrong look at him in disapproval.
Then, without further hesitation, he squeezed the trigger and felt the 7.62 x 39 flow from the RPD with a rhythmic thud. The bullets ripped through the smoke in a steady pattern, the weapon jumping around from the recoil. Inside the smoke, the gunfire had stopped, but there was some screaming.
Jack questioned how the past few minutes of gunfire and chainsaws hadn't deafened him.
After a solid ten seconds of firing, he stopped, lowered the RPD, and assessed the carnage.
By this point, the smoke was steadily clearing. On the ground lay at least fifteen corpses, all riddled with holes and eviscerated to varying degrees. One of the corpses, a US Marine Jack had spoken to, like, twice during training, had a neat hole straight through his forehead. The rest of his body was flayed with shrapnel from the grenade, and peppered with shotgun pellets from earlier on.
Just as he prepared to loot the bodies, Jack stopped.
Someone was standing amongst them, arms hanging slightly with a G36 pointed one-handedly at the ground.
Jack raised his LMG again, narrowing his eyes.
The smoke finally cleared, and revealed that the man in question was one of the KSK troopers. His back was filled with holes, but he was still standing: Still desperate to just hold on. He was twitching slightly. Every so often, he would take a slight step to retain his balance as he stared ahead. Jack couldn't see his face, but he could tell it was probably terrified.
"I-I-I-I-I..."
The man was stuttering quietly, before he slowly began to bring himself to face Jack.
His face was drenched in gore. His neck had a ragged hole through it.
"...I-I...will...will never...kneel...to-to-to...y-you..."
Jack slowly lowered the RPD and stored it as he slowly approached and the man coughed a small stream of blood. Jack pulled out the double-barrel once more, and levelled it with the man's head.
"I never said anythin' about kneelin'," he growled, before squeezing both triggers.
The force of the shotgun blast almost completely destroyed the injured man's head, flipping him straight backwards before he landed on his chest at the top of the pile of corpses. His gun noisily clattered beside him, echoing around the now empty battleground.
At this point, the STR boosters wore off, and Jack could fully appreciate...
...just how much pain he really was in.
Almost immediately, he dropped straight to all fours, and vomited up an incredibly thick jet of foaming sick and blood. As it left his mouth, he felt incredibly dizzy, and the fact that he was bleeding from literally everywhere did not help. A glance around told him that none of the guys he'd fought were still alive.
So that was a plus.
As he looked at the stalls from his position low on the ground, he could hear the sound of sirens outside the building, as well as helicopters.
So at least the cops'd arrived.
He looked down at himself. His clothes were utterly painted with blood, and about 80% of it wasn't his.
So he'd...won, he supposed?
He glanced up again, noticing a stall at the end of the row.
Adventure Supplies.
That would definitely have something.
Whilst it was only about ten or fifteen meters away, the inhuman pain that strangled every one of his nerves made it feel like it was as far away as the life he used to lead.
Every time he reached forward, his muscles called him a slimy cunt and were screaming at him to bloody stop.
But he pressed on.
Five minutes passed.
He reached the stall.
He yanked himself behind it.
Lying in front of him was a case of Super HP potions.
He'd never used a potion.
What if it tasted of shit?
He threw that thought aside, pulled himself against the wall, and leaned against it.
He could barely find the strength to bring the bottle to his mouth.
As soon as he did, he swallowed, washing down the gleaming crimson potion, the taste of his own blood, and the taste of sick.
Honestly, the strawberry flavour of the potion sort of balanced it out.
It didn't, however, balance out the fact that the potion had suddenly brought about Ragnarok in his body.
It felt worse than before: Ten times the pain he'd felt due to all the repairing agents literally stitching him together from the inside, plus the temporary sensation of feminity due to the oestrogen included in the potion's ingredients.
For ten seconds, he writhed in pain, yelling loudly and contemplating why he suddenly wanted to watch Bridgett Jones' Diary as the potion worked on stopping him from...well, dying.
After that ten seconds, the pain subsided entirely.
It was as if nothing had ever happened.
He could think clearly again.
First off, shit, he'd killed people...
No, not getting into that.
"You're over those feelin's, London..." he muttered to himself.
Right: Mental reassurance, done.
Second: Where was his shotgun?
His mind flashed back to it being used as a crude javelin before he was kicked in the ribs and forced to stab himself with needles. Then he didn't see it.
Leading onto that, third: Ow, needles hurt.
He mentally reminded himself to avoid needles.
Fourth: He'd nearly been wrecked in that fight.
He needed more firepower.
Standing up, he vaulted the adventure shop desk and looked down the aisles.
All the stands were abandoned, leaving stock either on display, behind the counter, or sometimes on the floor.
Nobody would've minded if he...requisitioned some of it, eh?
He stepped over the dismembered Mexican and walked with his hands in his pockets down the aisle, eyeing up everything on display.
All too small: As expected.
And none of it would work well: His strategy in that fight had been to sneak around behind smoke, and that was a near-death last resort plan that he hated using.
Considering how many of them there would probably against him, and how only fifteen of them had really fucked him up, he needed something that could make a mess.
Just as he passed the Avenir Corporation tent, he looked inside.
MILITARY ANDROID PARTS AND EQUIPMENT
"OK, you've got my curiosity."
Jack stepped inside, crouching beneath the marquee doorway and approaching that section of the tent, passing a whole variety of shit along the way.
Of course, considering how Noire constantly told him how the Avenir Corporation was inherently evil, he figured that must have meant they sold some cool stuff to bad people.
The military android stuff they had was no disproval to his statement.
Inside a glass case, they had put an 'XMPL21 Anti-Vehicle Device'; A massive, yellow-painted and industrial-looking cannon that looked to be loaded with missiles. As soon as he noticed that, Jack reeled a fist back and punched through the glass, carefully shaking off the shards of glass as he lifted the rocket launcher off its' stand.
Whilst it did have sights, he realized that the lack of a stock for the weapon meant he would not be holding it like a rifle: That'd break his shoulder. Instead, the grips provided comfortably allowed him to hold it at the hip, just like he enjoyed doing regardless. Satisfied, he fumbled around for the magazine release, finding it after a few seconds of searching and dropping it into his hand for inspection.
The thing was the size of about two large encyclopedias; It was holding rockets, after all, and the window at the side of the magazine showed it had about twenty small missiles loaded.
He grinned.
"It'd be a shame to let such good tech go to waste."
He put this into his disk, as well, and looked around again.
As he laid eyes on the other weapon being advertised, he felt his shoulders go slightly limp.
"Ohhhh..." he moaned, grinning as he slowly approached the glass case on the other side of the tent. "Now...what might your name be, you sexy, sexy girl...?"
Suspended on two metal rods was the unmistakeable, hulking black form of a six-barrelled minigun. The motor was the size of his chainsaw's engine, but bigger and sleeker, with a massive belt feed of ammunition linking to the drum beneath the frame. Each barrel was easily the length of his leg, and some, with the circular flash hider stuck over the end of the barrels to hold them in place when firing. The chainsaw-style grip was a little towards the front, meaning it hung in Jack's arms as if it were made just for him.
In that moment, Jack felt more sexually aroused by a 6000RPM weapon of mass destruction than he had ever felt in all of his time shitposting on /k/.
He hefted the minigun carefully.
Not too heavy. Weighed half as much as Chika.
Beau. Ti. Ful.
Immediately, Jack turned, and began to jog towards where he'd dropped his shotgun, and collected it, hiding his new toys in the disk to add a bit of surprise. Then he began to run towards the elevator.
First, ground floor. He'd work his way up from there, find someone, and interrogate them until they told him where everyone was being kept hostage.
If there was pockets of resistance, he'd go help the people fight off his worldsmen, and just hope that Falcom, IF, Tekken, MAGES., Nepgear, Compa, or Cave were there.
After that, he'd make sure the civilians were out, and then he'd go back in to kill every remaining member of the project that had opted to attack the innocent.
But as he passed the Avenit on route to the elevator, he failed to notice the box of Killachine Summoners that was completely empty, lying on its side in the middle of the room.