The Last Decree of Honour: Chapter 2

Read Chapter One: Here
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CHAPTER 2: FIRST DOWN
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ZONE: REGION SIX
CHRONOMETER: 1811 HOURS REGION 7 TIME, FEBRUARY 20, 2032

There was a thunderous crack in the hot air at Region Six, Section 4. A .50 calibre BMG exited from a gun’s barrel, pressure forcing the case to eject from the bullet itself. It was the eighth shot for the day and trainee Lee still did not hit the watermelon target 2100 metres away. The projectile left a vapour trail in the air, showing a clearly deviated motion path to the watermelon. It was the best shot Lee made, approximately three inches from the watermelon.

Region Six was mainly a large mass of land spread across the equator of the earth. It was a sand field of unmercifully sweltering heat during the day. Section 4 on the other hand was the MetroPolice Training grounds and it was an unforgiving place. Worse still, donning the MK13 standard issue bullet resistant suit made the training even worse.

Lee was cursing through his sweat. Once again he pulled back the bolt to reload the .50 calibre bullet, locking the bullet into place and pushing the blot back in with a click. Lee turned to his spotter and at the same time, trainer; Kalashnikov who was using a much more powerful scope than the sniper rifle Lee was using.
“You need estimation Lee, estimation. In Region Six, it might be hot, but it is actually the best condition for sniper firing. Section Six, firstly, is located in the equator, that ultimately means that you can ignore the Coriolis effect unlike in the North and South Regions. Secondly, there is hardly any moisture to affect your accuracy and also the air is hot, meaning that it is less dense, allowing your fifty calibre bullet to tear through the air. Give me the rifle and I’ll show you how.”

Lee shifted from his prone position. The modified MK13 suit was camouflaged to the desert colour, and as they changed positions, it just looked like shifting sand. They were using an S21 Heracles sniper rifle with exceptional barrel length of 40 inches to increase muzzle velocity. It was bolt action, making more moving parts redundant, and simultaneously, reducing the weight of the rifle itself. It was a powerful .50 calibre rifle with a muzzle velocity of 3000 feet per seconds and capable of firing at 2000 metres away with the accuracy of 3 Minute of Arc, unlike the MetroPolice urban warfare rifle DMR8 which can produce an accuracy of 1 Minute of Arc, capable of firing at a 100 metre distance target the size of 1 inch. The accuracy in the S21 had to be sacrificed for power and much marksmanship is required especially when the scope was not designed for bullet drop compensation. It was a rugged sniper rifle and requires less cleaning and maintenance for as long as 190 shots.

Kalashnikov took over the rifle from Lee and he handled it competently, adjusting his cheek to the slightly raised cheek piece then adjusting his shoulder to the stock.
“Make your gun an extension of your body. Feel comfortable with it. Refrain from getting your attention diverted. Once you’ve got your eye adjusted to the sights, do not ever look up until you’ve fired your shot. See the reticle in the middle and focus on your target. At such distances, the reticle is not always on the target itself, but rather a small distance from the target. Since gravity is a major factor, always aim slightly above your target, then look out for wind direction and take into account the Coriolis effect if you’re not in Region Six. Take your time and wait. Do not be pressured to fire a shot. You only have the opportunity to fire once, if you miss, you’re as good as dead. Though the enemy might not hear the crack of the rifle from 800 metres away, the bullet travelling at hypersonic speed will release a small sonic boom that is audible to the enemy. Remember, you need to estimate, wait and be patient. Once you’re confident enough and ready; then hold your breath – and may the force be with you.”

Kalashnikov bent to look though the reticle in the scope. He waited for a good ten seconds, then fired the projectile. It made a curve due to winds, but it reached the target perfectly, making a mess of the watermelon as juice splattered red on the desert sands. Kalashnikov smiled.
“One shot, one kill” he said. Lee was astounded. The maximum effective range of the .50 calibre BMG is 2000 metres but Kalashnikov managed to score a headshot with an extra 100 metres from the maximum effective range.
“God forsake sir. I haven’t seen anyone shoot like that before.”
“Private Lee, all you need is practice and experience. I went through the Apocalypse as a soldier-survivor. I’m not one of those who hid in the bunkers. You had to be good in every field to survive. Whether knives or guns. You don’t kill to kill. You kill to survive.”
“Crazy shit. What’s your secret?”
Kalashnikov rolled in the sand laughing.
“You want to know secret? You need discipline and … this,”
Kalashnikov pulled out a small flat bottle, rectangular in shape.
“Here’s the ultimate secret. Try some.” Kalashnikov chuckled.
Lee sipped at the small mouthpiece. Kalashnikov’s lips moved, supposed to say something, but was not fast enough. Lee spat the liquid he drank from the small flask, choking.
“I just wanted to warn you that that was a fully flavoured Jack Daniels scotch whiskey.”
Lee spluttered, still with the strong smell of alcohol in his nose, blushing red with embarrassment. “Alright,” he said, “give me the brandy, and I’ll try one more shot.”
“Your call” Kalashnikov winked.
Lee took one single gulp this time and squinted his eyes through the piquant taste.
“Ouch, how do you people like this shite. It tastes worse than rotten kimchi”
“Come on, it’s the elixir of life! What do you expect? Now, try the second watermelon. I’ll be your spotter.”

Lee repositioned his prone state at the S21 Heracles sniper rifle while Kalashnikov took up the high powered spotting scope. Lee’s eyes was aligned exactly at the reticle’s crosshairs. The whisky was somehow drowning the effect of the heat around him, allowing focus only on his spotter’s guides. Seconds later the tenth shot of the day rang out in the cloudless sky. This time it was a score for Lee. The bullet tore through the air right into the second watermelon. He threw his fist right into the air in joy.
“Excellent,” Kalashnikov clapped.
“Yeah, that’s my first.”
“You’ll need that skill when facing off with that cop-killer,” Kalashnikov said, his expression turning grim.

At that exact moment Kalashnikov’s phone rang.
“He’s in Region Seven. Confrontation at suburbs north of Section 4.” The voice crackled in the phone receiver and a click ended the call.
“Speak of the devil. Hurry. Let’s move. I need to get that bastard. Region Seven southern suburbs.” Kalashnikov hurriedly spoke.

Kalashnikov slung the rifle onto his back while Lee revved their quad-bike into life.
“The Grim Reaper huh? Lets rock and roll!” Kalashnikov said and the quad bike seared through the sand field, roaring towards the city.

***


ZONE: REGION SEVEN
CHRONOMETER: 2022 HOURS LOCAL TIME, FEBRUARY 20, 2032

The sunset’s beams were hot red upon the broken, makeshift walls of the suburbs. The hustle and bustle of the suburb low-life was usual, keeping time’s pace somehow at a state of comatose. Life was repetitious down there and every other day was just like the day before. Out of the lifeless city a dark figure emerged from the shadowed alleys, sweeping quickly across the streets.

Back in the Regional Police MetroQuarters back operations room, buttons were lighting up and a large screen displayed current status in the battlefield. People were busy on their computers, answering calls. Jackson stood tall amongst the crowd of workers, shouting orders. The four starred insignia on his epaulette clearly distinguished his high rank between the other police officers. Jackson was also known as Sir General Commissioner Jackson Black.
“Give me eyes, I need a visual on the target!” he barked
“Yes sir, UAV 45 is inbound. It’s loaded with anti-material rocket propelled grenade though. I recommend not to fire that on target. Collateral damage is too high in this populated town. Bad publicity for the government.” One of the men said from behind his messed desk.
“Understood. Deploy field operatives onsite. I want his head on my desk by tonight.”
“Team Bravo has been deployed ten minutes after witness had made the call sir. They are approaching target’s coordinates by chopper once the UAV 45 has locked on the coordinates. They can’t go in blind. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“Excellent.”

The helicopter’s swirling blades rattled the weak walls of the suburbs area. The field operatives were wearing the full MK13 suit, including their safety helmets. Ten soldiers slid down the helicopter by a thick rope. The commander was wearing a red shoulder pad which extended further than his shoulders. He struck one two hands out in a waving manner. The entire group split into two. One group were a designated marksmen with rifles of sharpshooting capability.
“Into positions team. Team Bravo, on my go. Team Vulture, get into positions ahead of the coordinates uploaded from the UAV. Out.”
“Roger that. Moving out.”
The designated marks men team ran up onto the rooftops, since it was always connected, they could jump from one building to another without much sweat. Team Bravo moved in a formation with the Commander. Two units in the front of the formation were using automatic shotguns, while the three following behind were carrying assault rifles.

The unmanned aerial vehicle glided silently above them, like a watchful guardian, constantly uploading feeds back to the reconnaissance team at the MetroQuarters.
“We’ve got a visual on the target. Team Bravo and Vulture, at any point of contact, do not hesitate not to engage. He is in the building at your six o’ clock Team Vulture.”

The dark figure was indeed inside the building they mentioned. He ran across the small rooms and leapt across into the nearby house through the window and climbed inside. Four bullets from the designated marksmen slammed into the side of the window, barely missing him. One of them swore into his radio.
“Team Bravo, Team Vulture reporting in. target is moving further south. Intercept him before he reaches the sand field. We’ll lose him there if he buries himself inside the sand. Over.”
“Roger, we’ll proceed ahead. Team Vulture stick to your current positions. If possible, try getting a better vantage point. We might need back up.”

Team Bravo was moving fast, following the coordinates sent to them but the dark figure was getting drowned by the darkness of the evening. If he gets to the sand field, all he needs is to lie low and he’ll be secure. Out of nowhere the dark figure jumped out in front of the units carrying the shotguns, hitting them in the face with something hard and stunning momentarily. The three units holding the assault rifle fired shots harmlessly into the darkness. The alleys were narrow and he could disappear anywhere with relative ease.

The frightened civilians ran across the streets, seeking refuge in their homes or whatever refuge that was. Shutters were closed tightly and doors were locked securely. Now, it was easier to track the unknown figure down. It was one of him against ten of them. In the UAV’s infrared camera he was sticking out like a sore thumb. On a portion of their visors the video feed from the UAV was screened as a heads up display. Team Vulture took an even higher position, waiting for him to emerge from the buildings. Team Bravo was very close to the border of Region Six already, small samples of sand scattered across the narrow roads.
“Team Vulture, report in. Do you have a visual from your position? Over.”
“Negative commander. He is still inside the building from the last coordinates sent by the UAV. Over.”
“Roger that. Bravo One to Bravo Two and Three. Storm the building. Over.” The commander radioed.
“Order received. Proceeding. Over.”
The two soldiers holding the shotgun stormed the building where the figure was. From his hiding place he heard the sound of the night vision being turned on. His pupils were slightly enlarged as it got more used to the dark. He could see the illuminated “eyes” of the night vision. They passed him, his dark cloth blending with the surroundings. As soon as their backs were facing him, he dashed out of the old building from one of the windows, tripping by accident. The other three members of the Bravo Team sprinted across the streets, chasing after him. They keep firing, but missed. He kept running into alleys as soon as they caught him locked into their iron sights.

The small alleys had high walls and it kept him secure from the sharpshooters of the Vulture Team. He was swift in movement but he will be running to a dead end soon. He himself knew it. Unless he got across to Region Six fast enough he will be apprehended, or the worse possibility, shot dead. He stood near a wall and leaned for a moment, trying to fill his lungs with as much air as possible at the fastest possible time. He was already breathing so loudly he feared that even the UAV floating above him might hear that.

“Live feed from UAV suggests that target is stationary in the opposite block from you Team Bravo. Get there now!” Jackson shouted his order over the radio.
“Roger that sir. We’re moving out as fast as possible. There’s only three of us following him, two shotgun units are stranded in a building.”
“I cannot take incompetency or excuse for reasoning do you understand? There’s a cop killer out there. The more time you waste is more opportunity for him to take flight.”
“We understand sir. He’s on the move now. Our bullets can move faster than he can run.” The commander replied monotonously.
“Get it done, that’s all I ask.”
“Roger that.”

The black figure only had fifty metres as a distance barrier between him and the sand field. He drew out a knife. If there was a single possibility that he would be engaged with these special police force he would not want to die without a fight. His knife only had a killing radius of only three feet while the police sharpshooters can reach 500 metres accurately and the assault rifles could reach him at more than 30 metres away. As long as he kept to the narrow corners there was a high possibility that he can flee unharmed.

Ten against one. It was unfair play he thought as he ran faster, his heart pounding in his ears. He approached another corner and it led to another straight road, leading right into Region Six’s desert plains. Team Bravo was hot on his trail now and taking that road means his escape. The remaining ten metres suddenly felt like light years away.

Only nine metres left and the fatigue was tremendous as lactic acid flooded his muscles. Five metres left, then four, three, two, one ...

There was a loud crack in the air, out of the shadows thundering the desert plains as a .50 calibre bullet smashed though the sound barrier leaving behind a vapour trail. The bullet tracked its way into the hooded figure’s head, annihilating him immediately. There was blood everywhere. The immense pressure leaving the skull ripped the cranial bones apart as the entire skulls contents exploded, spilling everywhere. The after effect was tremendous. The entire atmosphere halted to a single stop, the crows taking flight in fright. All the occupants sat shivering in their squatters. Even the deployed police battalion were shocked.

“Report in, Team Vulture, did you engage enemy? I repeat, did you engage enemy? Over.” the commander’s voice crackled in the radio.
“No sir. That was a fifty calibre BMG. None of us are specialised in that calibre. Over.”

Jackson, amidst the bustling crowd of people in the reconnaissance team sat slowly on his chair with a sigh of relief. “He’s dead, people. The cop-killer is down. Tell our field operatives to stand down. The crime scene investigation team will be en-route. It is one of our men who took him out. Sniper unit; Kalashnikov. The man named after the pre-Apocalypse rifle, AK47. “

***

Initiating encrypted chat …
Secure chat channel engaged …
Chat participants: [P, S]

P: What happened to the delivery? Rendezvous on the previous night has been forcefully aborted with two of my men dead. This is merely the first delivery and I’m returned with disappointing results.
S: Apparently, I am facing the same predicament. Two of my underling’s were killed.
P: Do not regard my work as a comedy. I will not tolerate your incapacities.
S: I understand.
P: I need to know that you are worthy to the Seraphim’s cause. Prove it to me and I will consider not your liquidation.
S: Do not look into this matter emotionally. I have my skills that are vital to the Seraphim’s cause. Instead of sending the parts to you one by one, I’ll make a delivery of the entire machine tonight, personally.
P: You need to understand that we cannot let the others know about the machine. I cannot deploy my men to collect the materials from Region Three. It would involve a large team to surmount the aquatilisaraneus grandis and that would only attract unwarranted attention.
S: Fathomed.
P: I need to corroborate the delivery of the parts.
S: Understood. Sending over encrypted file of the machine.

Encrypted file transfer …
File transfer successful…

P: Verified. Thank you. I need to know how many men will you need for the process to occur flawlessly.
S: I need three men. Make sure they are fully geared in case the unknown figure arrives. Make sure they are capable of taking him down.
P: Leave that to me. I don’t think that figure might appear so soon. He was exterminated some time ago. If however he was not killed, he will be on the run. The cops are hot on his trail. Forensic experts are giving Jackson the results soon. They could send the whole platoon after him for all that I care.
S: I should then expect not to run into any setbacks. Is that true?
P: That should be correct to the evidences that I’ve been provided by the police.
S: Then, fault should not be of mine if the transaction does not occur impeccably.
P: You do not call the shots around here. You are merely Seraphim Elite number one. That leads you to the bottom of the food chain. You just need to prove yourself.
S: That will not be a problem. Tonight, I myself will complete the task.
P: Excellent. I will make contact with you tomorrow night.
S: Affirmed.

Initiating connection termination …
Chat logs deleted …
Chat session terminated.

***

“Sir.”
“Yes?” Jackson answered over the line.
“I think you will need to take a look at our findings.” Cartwright, the crime scene investigation team lead said, sounding very fretful.
“What is the matter? What does the DNA fingerprinting results elucidate? Anything substantial?”
“Negative sir. I cannot explain it over the phone. Please sir, you will want to see this.”
“I don’t do very well with post-mortem if that is what you wanted me to see.”
There was a light chuckle over the phone, despite the austere atmosphere, whatever atmosphere it is on the line.
“Wrong again sir. This is just a simple analysis and I want to explain it over here.” Cartwright got serious again.
“Alright. Take it easy, I’ll be getting the lead outta my arse soon.”
The conversation ended with a click. As usual, no one bothered about the significance of mutual politeness.

Little did Jackson knew that his blissful tone over the phone was going to be a complete contrast when he met with the simple facts Cartwright was going to throw to his face. Jackson went straight from his office without hesitation, a slight sense of doubt that they got the right person. It made him drip with a nervous sensation.

Through the darkness of the investigation lab, Jackson was a tall, looming figure, well-built, with a harsh scar on his right cheek. Cartwright was at a single corner, two small bags of evidence in his hands. He was short, but accompanied with a hard face that made him look like a criminal himself.

“DNA fingerprinting results negative?” Jackson inquired.
“No sir. I believe that DNA fingerprinting would be redundant. I made a hypothesis from two evidences. One, comes from Alleyroad 22, the other, from the suburbs near the south of Region Seven. What you see here is a kitchen knife.” Cartwright lifted a bag, it was a fully intact kitchen knife. Jackson took the bag slowly, examining it, as though doubting what Cartwright had just said.
“This, on the other hand, are knife shrapnel. The difference? The knife shrapnel is not a normal kitchen knife. This one is made from a more brittle substance, yet still adequately sharp enough to mortally wound your nemesis.” He continued.
“Brittle? Why would anyone want his knife to shatter easily?” Jackson, perplexed asked.
“I too was confused initially, but I found small traces of c4 plastic explosives in the surrounding area of Alleyroad. That could only indicate that he fitted the explosives into the knife, most likely the handle is utilised as a compartment for the explosives.” Cartwright explained.
“Son of a bitch! That snivelling bastard wants to inflict as much damage as possible.”
“Correct, but that is if he’s able to outperform your rifles from a distance. Remember, his weapons are merely melee based.”

Cartwright was frowning as he rubbed his chin, somewhat evident that he is hesitant to continue his isolation of both cases, afraid to make Jackson turn purple with anger.

“I hope that should be substantial consolation. Do you think that evidence is sufficient in proving that the two cases are not inter-related?” Jackson asked.
“Maybe.” Cartwright paused. “but based on my second findings, the first job done on the police in Alleyroad was a professional. He left no traces of finger prints while the other case, the person left a whole load of fingerprints on the walls as he took flight from your people.”
“Correct, but perhaps he did not expect us to hunt him down the second time, got careless and maybe even frightened.” Jackson commented.
“That could be another assumption. Still, if I were you, I would not get too complacent with the person you took down. He might still be out there, perhaps taunting you, laughing, watching, waiting.” Cartwright’s voice sounded grim.
“I don’t know what that bastard wants from us, no one has ever escaped the grasp of the police force before. For him to take such a desperate measure, there must be a more sinister reason behind his attacks.”
“With the new governmental election starting soon, we don’t know what these people are capable of doing. Maybe it’s one of the Seraphim organisation’s plans to take over the government from the police. Their network is massive, anything is possible.”
“Fucking Seraphims. What do they want? Another instance of Communism? This is madness!” Jackson’s point of rage was beyond mollification.
“Isn’t that the whole reason why they started the Apocalypse? They want control over the world, as cheesy as it sounds, they are serious at that. Damn rats, hiding during the Reconstruction but emerging when we’re the city has fully grown. Without your knowing, they already are taking jurisdiction over the police force.”
“I will never let that happen. Even if it means waging war against them.”
“We could start with killing the person that tried to take us down. The ghost.”
“Where can he be? What does he want? Who the hell is he?”

***

John’s armchair was empty tonight. It’s papers left as an incoherent mess throughout his table. The fireplace was left with the fire to crackle merrily, radiating the room with warmth. Something was different from the other white papers and empty forms. On his large teakwood desk sat a frayed and yellowing-paged journal. The opened paged revealed cursive writings:

“Condition your emotions to be fluid, or emotionless at any time. Control that gains you jurisdiction over your fears; the vital point of weakness in humanity. Like Mercury, the Roman God, volatile, erratic and mercurial, he changes shape as desired, a trick too cunning beyond imagination, no one can conquer you. Feed your nemesis with emotions that will blind them, then strike pre-emptively lest they recover.”

John was in his panic room, a heavily armoured and reinforced room that could withstand a blast from a nuclear attack. He looked at one corner, an automatic rifle was hung there and he smiled cynically at it.

***

Right above the rooftop of the highest point in John’s house, the clock tower a dark figure squatted, his cloak flapping silently in the wind. The hood was pulled back, as the figure held a head gear in his hand, but the darkness swallowed the features on his face.

“So it begins tonight.” He said in a young, yet austere voice.

His hand, concealed within lightweight steel gauntlets held the helmet up and slid his head into it, pulling the hood to conceal his helmet afterward.

From fifty feet above, he leapt far into the forests and started towards the central of Region Seven, which was inevitably bustling with its night life. The figure’s dark cloak contrasted a great deal against the city lights. Keeping close to the shadows as best as possible, he leapt right above to the rooftops, evading contact with unwanted people.

In no time, the dark figure swept across the city and across to Alleyroad 22, still at the rooftop of a building opposite the Regional Police MetroQuarters, exactly the same spot he was the previous night. This time, there was not a single soul in the dimmed alley. It lay quiet as death. Apparently the two knives he left on the wall of the police headquarters were still there, untouched by the forensics team.

Behind that wall was the headquarters’ armoury and it holds within a great deal of weaponry. In fact the almost the whole ground floor of the police headquarters was taken up by the first level of the armoury. The next level is contained in the basement where most of the armoured tanks were securely kept.

The figure stood noiselessly, keeping still as to that of a statue, making himself blend even more with the surroundings. He looked at his chronometer on his wrist’s touch display. It was close to eleven midnight. He waited, patiently, as every second ticked away. Something was about to happen. Something terrible, and he knew it, because he would be the cause of it. It was already 5 minutes past eleven, and the alley - as quiet as ever now. Still, he waited persistently.

A few seconds later a huge pickup truck manoeuvred its way into the tight alley, followed by a police patrol car. A man in expensive bomber jacket and jeans got out of the truck and walked towards the patrol car as two police officers got out. There was a brief exchange of words and the two officers, both wearing their MK13 battle armour. The man in his bomber jacket was wielding a submachine gun, while the two officers were using shotguns.
The figure laughed quietly to himself. “Why the guns?” he thought.

They looked shaky, trying to accomplish whatever they were there for as hastily as possible. The two officers were to check the contents of the truck and then allow it to illegally gain access to the weapons depot.

The truck’s cargo compartment hissed as the hydraulics opened the doors. One officer hurriedly stepped inside, checking the contents while the other stood guard with the man in the bomber jacket outside. The temperature dipped lower as time ticked every second away. The darkness, even more apparent.

The figure’s eyes glowed a bright green through the blackness of his hood. His eyes darted from within, trying to catch their movements in the dark. The second police officer emerged from the truck as he nodded to the two men standing outside, giving a thumbs up at the same time, indicating approval of the contents inside the truck.
“Let’s finish this piece of shit before that idiot comes to screw our asses up.” One police officer said.
“I’m not exceptionally sure about your ass, but I’ve got mine covered.” The man in the bomber jacket patted his submachine gun. “Man stopping bullets, incendiary tipped. I’m not the one using tardy pump-action shotguns.”
“Yeah, incendiary-fucking-tipped like I care. If we don’t finish this here and now he’ll fry us like steak you jackass.”
“Do you know who I am, you fucktard?”
“I don’t give a damn even the fact you’re an elite. You’re not God, so get your goddamned ass moving.”

The atmosphere became fiery as the cop and the man in the bomber jacket held their weapons against each other. Menacingly.

“Cut it out you two! Lets finish the job brother before it’s too late!” the other officer tried to diffuse the situation.
“Fuck off brotherfucker. This is not your business.”

The hooded figure folded his arms, watching with a sinister smile on his unseen face. Fools. They don’t even know that I’m not going to even waste my sweat today, he thought. His eyes focused on the wall where he planted the two knives earlier on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me present today’s show, Fireworks!” he said quietly to himself.
With that, he shouted through his mask as a hollow and shrill scream erupted throughout the silence. The three men’s burly figure suddenly shrunk like flaccid seeds. They tightened their grip on their weapons as their anger quickly turned to fear. They looked around, but the sound never came again.

“I don’t see anything dammit.”
“That’s because you’re not God”

Just behind them the two knives from the wall exploded. It claimed a small portion of the wall, but the damage was not extensive. The three men looked behind, unscathed.

“Fuck it! Run!”

They dropped their weapons as they took flight, trying to get into the armoured police vehicle. Too late. Sentry guns emerged from the wall along the alley. The multi-barrel guns fired a rain of bullets on the entire alley, tearing through the truck’s metal. Multiple bullets ramming into the bodies of the three men, penetrating through even the MK13 armour. Blood splashed on the wall as their bodies were ripped apart from the barrage of hot lead. The guns stopped as soon as it had started, leaving a trail of blood and badly scarred metal.

The figure stood above, unmoving. His hand then pushed the hood back, then he took out his helmet. The face, a silhouette against the dark sky. He smiled, then his lips move slowly, whispering, “Feed your nemesis with emotions that will blind them, then strike pre-emptively lest they recover. Fear.”