The battlefield was chaos, but for Dr. Stylish, it was the perfect laboratory. His monstrous abominations lay in ruin, his forces decimated, yet he stood unfazed. With a manic grin, he reached into his coat, pulling forth a vial of glowing liquid, the very essence of his life's work.
"Perfection is not something one is born with—it is something one creates!" Stylish cackled, injecting himself with the substance. His body convulsed violently, muscles expanding, bones shifting, skin hardening into an unnatural armor. The transformation was grotesque and erratic, veins bulging unnaturally as extra limbs formed and retracted. His once-dapper form twisted into something monstrous, an abominable testament to his devotion to science. His fingers elongated into clawed instruments of death, his jaw unhinged like a serpent's, rows of jagged teeth glistening in the moonlight.
Across the battlefield, Medic watched with a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. He tilted his head, utterly fascinated. As Stylish's transformation completed, the doctor let out a slow, delighted chuckle. "You call zhat perfection? Ha! Zhis is true medical brilliance!" With a flick of his wrist, he pulled the lever on his Medigun. A red, glowing field enveloped him, his form shimmering with the telltale energy of Übercharge. A twisted smirk spread across his face.
Night Raid, observing from the shadows, watched the spectacle with wide eyes. "The guy's either insane or knows something we don't," Leone muttered, half-impressed, half-wary.
Akame narrowed her eyes. "No... he knows exactly what he's doing. He's not afraid because he's already calculated the outcome. Every movement he makes is deliberate, every reaction planned. He's not just fighting—he's dissecting his opponent in real-time, adjusting accordingly. That level of confidence only comes from someone who has tested the limits of life and death more times than we can count."
Lubbock swallowed hard, gripping his weapon tightly. "I don't know what's scarier—the monster or the guy treating this like a game." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I mean, look at him! He's dodging those attacks like he's dancing, and that grin—he's enjoying this way too much." He turned to the others, searching their faces for some kind of reassurance. "What kind of doctor fights like that? Like he's... experimenting?" His voice trailed off as Medic let out a delighted chuckle mid-battle, further cementing Lubbock's unease. "This guy's a whole different kind of crazy."
Tatsumi clenched his fists, his stomach twisting at the sight before him. "He's playing with Dr. Stylish like it's nothing... but what kind of person enjoys something like this?"
His eyes darted between the two combatants, but it was Medic's expression that unsettled him the most. The way he weaved through the carnage, grinning like a child given a new toy, sent chills down Tatsumi's spine. "I mean, he's completely unfazed. No... he's more than that. He's excited. He's treating this whole fight like it's some kind of experiment."
He turned to the others, searching for any reassurance, but found none. Akame remained focused, calculating, while Lubbock looked just as disturbed as he felt. "How do you even fight someone like that? A guy who doesn't just expect death—he embraces it?"
Leone exhaled through her nose, her arms crossed. "I've fought a lot of tough bastards, but this is different. This guy fights like he's in complete control, like he already knows how the battle will end before it even starts." Her golden eyes flicked to the battlefield, watching as Medic gracefully weaved around Stylish's strikes with a precision that was almost unnatural. "And you know what's weird? I ain't even sure he's fighting to win. It's like he's fighting to see what happens next, like some kind of twisted curiosity's keeping him going."
She clicked her tongue, frowning. "Damn. And here I thought the Empire was full of psychos. Looks like we've got our own brand of crazy rolling with us now."
Mine, arms crossed, huffed, but her usual confidence wavered for a brief moment. "Who cares? If he keeps cutting down Imperial scum like that, let him have his fun." Her voice carried its usual defiance, but there was an uneasy edge to it. She glanced toward Medic, watching the way he grinned through the bloodshed, completely absorbed in his work. His laughter, the gleeful way he dismembered Stylish piece by piece—it unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. "Still... doesn't he seem a little too into it? I mean, yeah, I'm all for wiping out these bastards, but there's something off about him. The way he enjoys it—it's different. It's not just hate, it's... something else." Her grip on her rifle tightened, and she exhaled sharply. "Ugh, never mind. Whatever. As long as he's on our side, I guess it doesn't matter."
And yet, deep down, a nagging worry refused to leave her alone. The REDs weren't normal. They weren't just some rogue faction fighting against the Empire. Spy's blackmail, the way he had forced her to stay silent about Sheele—what else were they hiding? What was their real goal? She shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. Now wasn't the time for doubt.
From a distance, Sheele stood among the REDs, silent, her eyes fixed on Medic. There was no hesitation in his stance, no fear—only the confidence of a man who had long mastered the art of life and death. His aura was different, exuding not just confidence but something more—something far more dangerous. Watching him work, she felt a strange mixture of awe and apprehension. He wasn't just a warrior, nor simply a doctor—he was something else entirely, a force of nature that reveled in the chaos of battle, dissecting his opponent with a clinical precision that sent chills down her spine.
She clenched her fists slightly, remembering how Spy had trained her, how he had spoken of deception, control, and precision. She had admired his calculated efficiency, but Medic was different. There was no deception in his approach, only unfiltered, gleeful carnage. It was disturbingly honest in its brutality.
"He's... terrifying," she murmured under her breath, unable to tear her gaze away.
One of the RED mercenaries beside her, a Soldier squad member, smirked slightly. "Aye, but you gotta admit—he gets results."
Sheele nodded absently, but a creeping unease settled in her gut. The REDs were allies, but how much did she really understand about them? How much control did they have over their own impulses? And more importantly... how much control did she have, now that she was part of their world?
Dr. Stylish let out a guttural growl, lunging forward with unnatural speed. His arms morphed into elongated blades, striking at Medic in rapid succession, each swing powerful enough to cleave through solid steel. Medic, however, was already moving, weaving between the deadly arcs with an unsettling grace, as if he were dancing through a deadly waltz. He never broke stride, his smirk unwavering, his eyes gleaming with intrigue.
Stylish's mutations gave him incredible versatility—his arms retracted into whip-like tendrils, then reformed into razor-sharp drills as he lunged again. He attacked from every angle, but Medic always remained just a hair's breadth away, slipping past each strike with maddening ease. Stylish snarled in frustration, his enhanced senses struggling to keep up with the doctor's erratic movements.
"You mock me?!" Stylish howled, his body convulsing as he forced more mutations, his form becoming more grotesque with each passing second. His speed doubled, his attacks relentless. Yet, Medic merely chuckled, sidestepping another wild lunge. "Mock you? Ah, nein! I am merely... enjoying myself!" His voice dripped with amusement as he tilted his head, effortlessly avoiding a strike meant to decapitate him.
Stylish's desperation mounted. He was stronger, faster—he should have been overpowering the doctor with ease. And yet, he was the one on the defensive. Every time he lashed out, he found nothing but empty space. Every mutation, every enhancement—none of it mattered if he couldn't land a single hit. His monstrous form trembled, his rage boiling over. "Stay still, damn you!" he bellowed, bringing both arms down in a devastating hammer strike.
"Tsk, tsk," Medic chided, dodging another wild swing. "You are not thinking like a proper doctor! You must be precise!" He suddenly ducked low, sliding beneath Stylish's arm and slicing across his exposed side with his bonesaw. The enhanced skin resisted the cut, but the pain forced Stylish to stumble, his unnatural form writhing as his own biology fought against the mutation.
"Impossible!" Stylish hissed, his grotesque form convulsing violently, his body rebelling against his forced enhancements. His flesh pulsed erratically, grotesque appendages sprouting and retracting at random, his own mutations spiraling beyond his control. His monstrous eyes widened in horror as his limbs twitched unpredictably, his enhanced muscles spasming as if rejecting his very existence. He let out a choked roar, staggering forward, desperation overtaking fury. He threw himself at Medic with reckless abandon, each strike wild and erratic. But Medic merely watched with amusement, his grin widening as he effortlessly weaved through the frenzied assault, observing the unraveling experiment before him with the clinical curiosity of a surgeon dissecting a failing patient.
"Nein, merely inevitable," Medic corrected, grinning. He pulled back, allowing Stylish one final desperate charge.
Stylish roared, all his enhancements surging at once for a devastating blow. His limbs thickened, his muscles tripling in mass as he lunged, a living weapon, a horror beyond reason. His mutated body tensed, his enhanced nerves firing at peak capacity as he brought down an earth-shattering strike aimed straight at Medic's head.
But as his attack landed, it did nothing.
The red energy around Medic flared, forming an impenetrable shield that absorbed the force without so much as a ripple. Stylish's clawed fist remained frozen mid-impact, the full weight of his monstrous strength reduced to a meaningless tap. His expression twisted in confusion and horror, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. The ground beneath them cracked from the sheer force of the blow, but Medic remained untouched, unbothered.
Medic tilted his head slightly, amused by the futile display. "Oh, did you truly believe brute strength alone vould save you? Ah, zhis is adorable!"
"Oh, did I forget to mention? I am invulnerable!" Medic sang, before driving his saw straight into Stylish's chest. The abomination screamed, his mutations surging out of control, grotesque limbs flailing wildly as he tried to fight back. But it was too late. The Übercharge granted Medic complete immunity, allowing him to work with impunity.
Stylish screeched, his form collapsing in on itself, his body rejecting the very enhancements he had forced upon it. Medic twisted the saw with glee, delighting in the sheer chaos. "You vere a fun experiment, doctor. But I am afraid I must… terminate your contract."
With one final, precise strike, Stylish crumpled, his grotesque form convulsing violently as his mutations spiraled out of control. His elongated limbs twitched erratically, his monstrous jaw snapping shut in a grotesque rictus as he let out one last strangled gasp. The forced enhancements, once a source of his power, turned against him—his body rejecting the unnatural alterations with violent spasms. His flesh pulsed, bubbled, and finally, with a sickening lurch, collapsed in on itself. A guttural, warped screech of agony tore from his throat before it was silenced forever.
The battlefield fell into eerie silence, the last echoes of Stylish's death rattle fading into the night. The sheer brutality of the execution left even the hardened warriors of Night Raid momentarily stunned. There was no drawn-out struggle, no valiant last stand—only cold, surgical efficiency. Medic straightened, rolling his shoulders with an air of satisfaction, as if he had merely completed a routine procedure. His bloodstained bonesaw gleamed under the moonlight, a final testament to the clinical precision with which he had dismantled his opponent.
Medic straightened, rolling his shoulders before reaching down and plucking the now-ownerless Teigu from Stylish's fallen form. He held it up to the light, eyes alight with fascination. Perfector took the form of a pair of sleek, metallic gloves, each finger adorned with intricate, vein-like engravings that pulsed with energy. A crystalline core was embedded in the back of each hand, glowing with an eerie, otherworldly light. The metal itself shifted subtly, as if still adapting to the loss of its former master, flexing and reshaping as though testing its new wielder. There was an unsettling hum emanating from the Teigu, a faint whisper of power promising the perfection of flesh and form to those deemed worthy—or the complete rejection of those who were not.
"Ah… so zhis is Perfector. Let's see vhat makes you tick, ja?"
A cold shiver ran through the air as the Teigu quivered in his grasp, its energy adjusting to a new presence. For a brief moment, the battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, as if accepting its new owner, the device settled, the pulsations steadying.
Medic chuckled, peeling off his usual rubber gloves and slipping his hands into Perfector. The metallic material adjusted instantly, tightening around his fingers with an almost organic fluidity. He flexed his hands, feeling the Teigu shift and mold itself to his anatomy, as if recognizing its new master. A faint hum of energy coursed through the gloves, sending a strange, invigorating sensation up his arms. "Oh-ho, ja, zhis is wunderbar!" he mused, utterly unbothered by the weight of what he had just claimed. instantly, tightening around his fingers with an almost organic fluidity. He flexed his hands, feeling the Teigu shift and mold itself to his anatomy, as if recognizing its new master. A faint hum of energy coursed through the gloves, sending a strange, invigorating sensation up his arms. "Oh-ho, ja, zhis is wunderbar!" he mused, utterly unbothered by the weight of what he had just claimed.
Tatsumi's stomach twisted at the sight. "Did he just... take a Teigu?" he muttered, his voice laced with unease. "How does that even work? Isn't it supposed to reject unworthy users?"
Akame narrowed her eyes, watching as Medic casually examined the Perfector. "Teigu resonate with their owners. If it accepted him... that means it sees him as a match."
Lubbock's fingers twitched over his wires. "Great. So now he's even scarier than before."
Leone exhaled sharply, arms crossed. "We were worried about the Jaegers having these weapons, but now we gotta ask ourselves—what happens when guys like them get their hands on this kind of power?"
Mine's expression hardened, her grip on Pumpkin tightening. "He's on our side. That's all that matters, right?" But even as she said it, doubt lingered in her voice.
In that moment, one thing became clear—Medic was no ordinary doctor. He was something far more terrifying.