Revenge

'Will this thing even fit?'

As he gazed at the sizable instrument of death, David pictured his inventory to see if it had enough space to hold it. By his count, he had killed 40 mercenaries, meaning the internal space should have enlarged accordingly. The quick mental glance he gave it proved this to be true.

With the confirmation obtained, he didn't hesitate and dived right in, adjusting the positions of the items already in it to make way for the new addition. After a few seconds, he reconnected with his physical self only for the low hum of car engines to greet him.

With a single tap, he stowed the device and turned his gaze towards the source of the sound, his face marred with a light frown. For some reason, the sound of the approaching vehicles produced red and gold ripples in his mind. He instantly thought of [Eagle Sense]'s color designations.

'Is this enhanced synesthesia?'

As he pondered the phenomenon, the vehicles finally entered the range of [Eagle Pulse] and their inhabitants lit up in the colors he perceived. He ignored the red individuals and focused on the front-most truck where two gold hued individuals sat, making his countenance grow cold with a hint of recognition.

'Fyers and Wintergreen.'

Watching them alight and strut about with confidence and superiority, he became even more thankful for [Killer Instinct]. Their nonchalant movements and demeanor, as if nothing could harm them, incensed him to the extent that he doubted his improved self-control would have helped.

Were it not for the composure afforded by [Killer Instinct] he might've attacked them right now.

The new arrivals had parked their vehicles about ten meters from the camp. For someone with his abilities, this distance might as well be non-existent. He could cross it and kill the duo in less than a heartbeat. However, giving them such simple deaths did not sit right with him.

After what they did to him, the way they treated him…nothing shy of slow, agonizing deaths would satisfy him.

...

Fyers could not believe his eyes.

The staging area, which was supposed to be lit at this time of the night, had become barely visible. He could only make out the tents and vehicles. What's more, the giant missile launcher that stood out even in the dark night had gone missing! How the hell did that happen? Where did it vanish to?

To make matters worse, he couldn't see any of his men? Where did they go? Didn't he just contact them?

In a bid to investigate this madness and preserve his safety, he waved for the vehicles to stop a good distance from the camp. He then disembarked and stood beside Wintergreen as he faced his men. "Whoever took the launcher couldn't have gone far. Spread out and find it now!"

The mercenaries began to disperse in adherence to the directive, only to be interrupted as a black form darted into their midst. Too fast for them to react, the black blur manifested a bright crimson light that swished through their bodies numerous times, making it look as if they had been caught in a web of laser traps.

Were it not for the audible "schwings" and repeated "chks" of things being sliced, Fyers would've thought this assumption to be true. The crimson radiance disappeared as fast as it came while the black blur retreated back into the darkness, leaving him a front row seat to the aftermath of its rampage.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Three of his men fell simultaneously as their heads rolled off their necks. The others then followed suit and went down in similar divisions, their cuts going a little lower at steeper angles. Most of them fell in two chunks, a few in three, and one unfortunate guy in four.

Each successive thump of a head, torso or detached body part struck Fyers like thunder, his countenance paling further and further.

'What the hell?!!!' he thought as he retreated in fright. Wintergreen, who was less susceptible to such fear, unsheathed his swords and positioned himself in front of his master. The sight of his subordinate's back didn't reassure Fyers one bit, and his skepticism proved right the next second.

As soon the sword-wielding mercenary stepped forward, the blur appeared beside him and grabbed him by the leg. Catching him off guard like his dead comrades, the blur yanked him off his feet and swung him like a bat, smashing him against the closest vehicle with force so intense that its entire structure shook while windows cracked.

By the time Wintergreen's unconscious and broken form fell, the blur had vanished once more, leaving just Fyers alone in the shine of the vehicle lights. The ex CIA operative restrained the urge to curse and scream as he whipped out his pistol to fire. Fire? Fire at what?! The question reverberated in his mind, a silent scream of internal confusion.

After a few seconds of inactivity, the mercenary leader began to regain his calm. Judging from what he'd seen, if that thing wanted him dead, he'd be dead. Since he still breathed, that meant he had something the blur wanted. He could work with that.

Seeing a light out of the pitch black tunnel, Fyers, with renewed confidence, opened his mouth to call the blur out. However, David beat him to it and emerged from the surrounding darkness with purposeful and loud footsteps. He didn't draw closer though and only ensured that the mercenary could see him clearly.

He just stood there and stared with his arms crossed behind. The mercenary didn't seem bothered by this behavior. In fact, he performed a few joyous backflips in his mind and lowered his gun, feeling his freedom draw near.

With little effort and careful movements, he dropped the pistol onto the ground and shook off his authoritative demeanor. He raised his both arms above his head and mustered the most polite and neutral voice possible.

"May I ask what it is you want?"

"...."

For a slimy and ruthless individual like Fyers, the silence might as well have been a "yes, continue." It did not deter him one bit.

"Should you spare me and point me in the direction of the launcher, I'll make you a very rich man…"

"...."

"I will give you one million dollars."

"...."

"Two million."

"...."

"Five million."

"...."

Slimy or not, everyone had limits, and Fyers had reached his. Still, despite his rage at the lack of engagement, he didn't let it show and instead grit his teeth, forcing out a strained smile as he gave his bottom line offer.

"Ten million dollars."

"...."

No matter how afraid he was, it couldn't dull his anger at the dismissive treatment. He wasn't air after all. If this freak could kill him in a flash, what was the point of fear then? Since his death was inevitable, he might as well let out his bottled grievances before he passed on.

"What do you want? What the hell is it?! You kill my men. You take my launcher and leave me standing here, alive. Was it so you could stand there and watch me? Huh?! Is this a game to you?!"

Fyers yelled with his arms spread wide, his constructed facade of civility ground to fine dust by the snide dismissals. It seemed his pride had been wounded. This seemingly brave stand however, crumbled as fast as it formed when the object of his fear began a slow, unhurried stroll towards him.

Scared out of his wits, the mercenary crouched down to grab the pistol and in the midst of doing so, had an epiphany. The realization fed his anger, and he yelled as he retreated in hopes of widening the distance.

"Y-you were toying with me!"

"Yep."

An indescribable amount of horror filled and overwhelmed Fyers, causing him to open fire with wild abandon. He couldn't be blamed. That single word conveyed more meanings than he would care to experience.

Imagine you had been cornered by a tiger with no means of escape. In such a situation, there was nothing to do other than wait for death. However, in the midst of the beast's approach, it does the impossible and talks. It describes how enjoyable it'll be to scrape your flesh off your bones.

No matter how prepared you were for death, that was guaranteed to make anyone shit their pants.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

In this situation where the option of flight didn't exist, the terrified mercenary did the only thing he could do and fought, unloading his only means of retaliation on David. Unfortunately for him, his actions had no effect and only served to elucidate him on the pointlessness of his struggle.

Right before his eyes, the freak blurred and dodged every single bullet, his stride not breaking even once. "Click click" rang out and he gave the firearm a brief look of betrayal before raising his head again, only to see the monster right in front of him.

He received a massive fright and swung the gun on instinct. With one arm still behind him, David maintained his confident demeanor and caught Fyers' arm with ease. Pulling back the restraints on his strength, he squeezed the limb with everything he had.

As his arm fractured and broke, Fyers' face took on an agonized expression and went a few shades lighter. Unable to endure the pain any longer, he screamed and loosened his grip, letting the pistol fall freely.

Ignoring the somewhat enjoyable screams, David snatched the falling pistol and kicked Fyers' feet from under him. Before the man could rejoice at being let go, the tight grip around his arm transformed into a pulling one before the force yanked him up and sent him airborne.

In that brief moment up in the air, Wintergreen's fate as a makeshift bludgeon flashed past his widened eyes and educated him on what was about to occur.

BAM!

With ruthless execution, David smashed him against the hard, rough ground. To say Fyers saw stars would be an understatement.

His whole body felt like it'd been run over by a truck, and the incessant wobbling of his brain made it feel like someone continuously took a sledgehammer to his skull. This was made worse by the contents of his stomach, which threatened to join the blood flowing down his lips.

In the midst of all this however, nothing made Fyers want to die more than his arm, if it could even be called that anymore.

Ignoring the writhing and groaning mess of the foe beneath him, David held the grayish, silver pistol with both hands and examined it, memories of his torture flashing in his mind. He stopped the examination and stepped on Fyers, muttering with a low and detached voice.

"You shot me with this."

The statement pierced through the curtain of the mercenary's agony and jolted him awake. His eyes that threatened to close shut due to the immense pain opened wide, revealing suspicion and disbelief. No way that was him, he thought. That useless pretty boy? It couldn't be!

As though he could sense this inner turmoil, David pulled off his mask and whipped his head to get the hair out of his face. He went into a crouch and gazed straight into the mercenary's eyes.

"Remember now, fuckface?"

Absolute horror took residence on Fyers' bruised countenance while the opposite crept onto David's. With a laugh, the latter straightened himself and let loose a vicious kick, sending the former tumbling and eating dirt.

"Got you, motherfucker…"