There's blood everywhere, and Alpha has never felt so powerless.
Cordova's body is limp in the corner, leaning against a wall in a chair. It's been hours since Alpha and Bravo had waken up in that room. Guards, two young men with bandanas and pistols on their hips, yelled, threatened, beaten the two more times than they could account for. The guards gained nothing from this, other than a bloody spit in the eye from Bravo. Alpha stayed quiet, keeping his eyes on the floor, letting the blood from his broken nose fall into his lap. Bravo was yelling, making jokes and threatening bodily harm with a colorful tongue.
In that small room, it smells like blood and rotting bodies, mixed with piss and feces. Between the guards screaming at him, Alpha could've sworn he heard dogs barking and men cheering rooms away.
What was strangest to Alpha, however, was that Cordova was left untouched by the two guards, like he wasn't there, not visible to them. Cordova, the man who had the entire cartel buzzing like he'd kicked the hornets nest. It left Alpha puzzled, but he'd rather have a wounded objective than a dead one.
Being without his mask makes Alpha feel like he's already dead. The mask was a symbol to him, each dent a story, each scratch a bullet that didn't take him life, each dot of blood a man who wasn't smart enough to put his gun down. While Alpha can keep his mask clean and polished, he cannot forget the marks and splatters that once defiled it, they're already etched into his very soul. Bravo, opposite of Alpha, keeps his mask as scarred as he possibly can, wearing each dent and scratch like a brand on his very skin.
Being without his armour, Alpha feels exposed, naked. It's like the world was staring through his body, into his mind. Any bullet that would be caught in Kevlar would be caught in skin. Blades would rip flesh instead of fabric. There was no safety, there were no scratches or bruises. There were only gashes and wounds that wouldn't stop bleeding.
At one point a guard held a knife up to Bravo's throat. Alpha was powerless to stop the thug from carving deep, shallow cuts along Bravo's collarbone. Bravo let out quiet hisses, but never anything else, not even a chop-busting joke.
A guard pulled up a metal chair, slamming it down in front of Alpha, twisting it around and sitting in it. Alpha tore his eyes away from the stained floor. The thug was young, too young to be part of the cartel. The young man smiled, revealing yellow teeth, a canine showing off a silver cap. He says something in Spanish. His pistol hangs lazily in stubby fingers. The guard is waving the pistol around in the air, pointing it at Alpha a few time, speaking a language Alpha doesn't understand with bits of broken English. Alpha keeps his gaze fixed on the guard.
Behind him, Bravo laughs.
"You know he can't understand you, you stupid son of a b-"
The second guard pistol whipped him. It was a loud crack against Bravo's skull. Alpha tore his look away from the thug in front of him, trying to twist around to look at Bravo.
The radio on the thug in front of Alpha started to speak. The thug un-clipped it from his belt, and held it up to his crooked yellow smirk. He spoke into it, the radio responding in an instant. The guard shook his head at Alpha, and stood up, knocking his chair to the floor. He walked around the two tied up mercs, tapping the other guard on the shoulder. The thug was whispering, but Alpha and Bravo could hear just fine.
"El Diablo is here."
The guard smiled, and cast an almost pitied look at Bravo,and laughed. The two guards left, and Alpha muttered something for the first time in hours.
"Are you alright, Bravo?"
"Yeah, I'm just a little shocked you haven't said a fucking word in over 3 hours."
He's alright, Alpha decided to himself.
"You got a plan?"
Alpha nodded.
"Yeah, lucky us, these guards only took our guns."
The door of the room opened, and in walked in the Devil Himself.