Rescue Mission [End]

As the night wove its cloak of shadows and mysteries over the forest, the sound of frantic footsteps on the grass broke the nocturnal cacophony, a symphony of despair and determination. Something, or someone, moved with an urgency that made the heart beat in the rhythm of the wild run.

Two men, armed and tense, positioned themselves as sentinels of a fate that they refused to accept passively. Their rifles, extensions of their will, fired at the shadow in motion, each shot a scream of defiance in the silence of the night. But the forest, an indifferent spectator, only echoed the sounds of the battle, amplifying the drama that unfolded under its canopy.

A scream of surprise and pain tore the silence, a prelude to an abrupt end, when the visceral sound of flesh being cut announced the end of a life. There was no time for regrets or final words; only the final sound of a body falling on the wet grass.

The shots continued, a last effort of resistance, but were quickly silenced by another fatal blow, a silent execution that made it clear: the forest had a new predator.

And then, the mysterious figure resumed its run, a blur of movement and intention, jumping through the branches with a superhuman agility. As it approached the village, the light of the torches cut the darkness, revealing its identity: a young man with black hair and red eyes, wielding a gigantic sword, a weapon so imposing that it seemed to mock the laws of physics. It was Sam.

Like a comet tearing the cloak of the night, Sam threw himself towards a wooden house. The sword, immense and challenging, was not only a weapon in his hands; it was a shield, an extension of his iron will, making its way through the structure with the ease of a lightning bolt cutting the sky.

Sam crashed the henchmen's party like a hurricane in a picnic, turning the house into a drive-thru of destruction with his sword that looked more like a giant's signature on a contract with physics - an exception clause. The wood flew in all directions, as if Pinocchio himself had exploded in a pyrotechnic demonstration of black magic.

Surrounded, but calm as a cat in a fish yogurt shop, Sam spun his sword in a movement so stylish that it would make a DJ jealous, slicing the henchmen in half as if they were butter on a sunny day. The scene could be described as a live tutorial of "How to make villain sushi in one step".

Then, at the height of the party, a gatecrasher decides to bring a bazooka to the ball, because, of course, why not raise things to a completely unnecessary level? He fires at Sam, who, in a reflex faster than a teenager's decision to change course, lifts the sword and uses it as a shield. The missile and the sword meet in an explosion that throws Sam out of the house, as if he were in the world championship of flying without wings, sponsored by the law of gravity.

The fireworks show improvised by the bazooka ended with a grand finale courtesy of a precise arrow, which decided to make a stellar appearance right on the forehead of the man too excited about his big toy. And who gives the autograph on this masterpiece? A heroine with silver hair and eyes as deep as a well of mysteries, letting out a "Bullseye" with a smile that had more aim than her own arrow.

Sam, on the other hand, doesn't waste time admiring the modern art that became the head of the bazooka man. He shakes off the dust from the previous spectacle and, upon receiving the alert that there was a family in danger, decides that it's time to switch from destruction mode to gentleman mode. "Time to be polite," he thinks, probably deciding not to enter like a hurricane in a porcelain shop this time.

And while the action unfolded like an action movie of infinite budget, we have Lizy, the most enthusiastic spectator of this open-air cinema, commenting to herself with her popcorn in hand. "Sam has evolved a lot over the months. He became an unstoppable war tank." Her pride as a master is palpable, almost as much as her joy in seeing her pupil turning chaos into an art.

Turning to contemplate another spectacle, Lizy observes Blake, a true maestro of the shadows, orchestrating his own macabre ballet of rescue and destruction. "Blake is not far behind," she comments, without taking her eyes off the scene, the popcorn serving both as a snack and as a symbol of her delight. With her mouth full, she proclaims her final verdict: "I'm lucky to have them as my students."

And so, between bites of popcorn and smiles of pride, Lizy watches the unfolding of a night that would be remembered not only by the stars in the sky, but by the stars in action on the ground, proving that, under her tutelage, heroes are not only born - they are forged, with the right to action sequences that would make any film director gnaw their nails with envy.

---

That night, the stage was set for a play worthy of Shakespeare, if Shakespeare were a fan of action and superpowered dramas. Lizy, with the excitement of a cheerleader on a championship day, handed out congratulations as if she were throwing confetti at a carnival. "You did very well! My skills as a teacher are really great, hehe," she boasted, with a smile that shone brighter than a Las Vegas sign. Ah, the irony danced around her like moths around a lamp.

Meanwhile, the scenery around told the true story of the night - a symphony of chaos, with the bodies of the kidnappers piled up like the most morbid of artworks, a macabre mound being gently devoured by Blake's voracious shadows. It was as if the darkness itself decided to make a feast, and the menu of the night was villainy in a sauce of justice.

The rest of the heroes, in a relaxation that bordered on the surreal, treated the scenery as a typical Tuesday episode. Sam, with a sigh that carried the depth of an ocean of doubts, thought out loud - or, well, in loud thought: "You never taught us anything…" It was a line worthy of being immortalized on a t-shirt, full of the kind of sarcasm that would make Lizy blush with pride, if she could hear.

And there was Alice, the warrior with the most complicated expression than a thousand-piece puzzle, trying to smile while her soul seemed to juggle thorns. "Are you okay?" Sam asked, with the delicacy of an elephant trying to do ballet. Alice, in response, tried to paint a smile on her face, but the result was more like a sketch of Mona Lisa made by a preschooler.

"And it wasn't your fault, you should know that," Sam tried to console, but his words sounded as convincing as a used car salesman promising that that 1995 model was still under warranty. Alice, however, plunged into her guilt like a rock star plunges into a pool of despair. "If I had listened to Blake, and had focused on eliminating the kidnappers, I wouldn't have messed you up and that woman wouldn't have died." It was a monologue worthy of an Oscar, laden with remorse and an "if" the size of a black hole.

The scene that Alice recalled was a picture painted with the darkest colors of the spectrum. Sam, in a duel of nerves against a kidnapper, the life of a woman hanging in the balance. Alice, hidden in the shadows, believed she had the chance to change the course of events with a single blow. But fate, cruel in its indifference, chose that moment to teach its hardest lesson. The trigger was pulled, and life, like a breath of wind, was extinguished before her eyes.

Sam, with the seriousness of a judge in full verdict, threw the question as if he were shooting an arrow in the dark: "Did you want her to die?" The disbelief painted his expression like an artist who discovers a new color.

Alice, hit by the question, answered immediately, "No, of course not," her words jumping as a reflex, a mirror of her own dismay.

Sam, then, wore the cloak of guilt as if it were an armor, heavy and uncomfortable. "Then, stop blaming yourself. Besides, the fault was mine, from the beginning. If I had been faster, optimized my movements, I would have been able to kill all the kidnappers before they could take anyone hostage." His hands touched his chest, a symbolic gesture of taking on a burden that might be too big for any shoulder to bear.

Alice, seeking some comfort in the immensity above, turned her head to the moon, letting her thoughts drift away for a moment. "Yeah, I know…" The pause that followed carried the weight of the world. "But an innocent person died because I couldn't protect her. That's all…"

Sam, ready to offer more words, hesitated, his momentum cut by a moment of reflection. In an almost synchronized movement, he followed Alice's gaze towards the moon, before saying, "Then, we are accomplices in this."

This statement, solemn and dark, hung between them like a dark cloud, an admission that, in wars fought in the shadows, the line between hero and accomplice can be as thin as the edge of a sword. And under the watchful eye of the moon, silent witness of countless confessions and challenges, they shared not only the guilt, but also the tacit resolution that, despite the flaws and the falls, the path ahead still required them to keep fighting, together, under the same night sky.

---

Straight to July 8th, 2087, at the Pentagon Academy, a place where even the walls have more secrets than a diary locked with seven keys.

In a room so empty and white that it would make a sugar cube feel at home, we find Ellie. The artist of the moment, wearing clothes so casual that they screamed "I was just passing by and decided to paint a picture", was engaged in her latest creation. With a brush in hand, dipped in the gray color of the existential doubts of every artist, Ellie slid the tool over the canvas with the grace of a swan in a misty lake. The result? A set of scribbles that, for sure, would be the hit of the next modern art exhibition, sold for a price that would make even Jeff Bezos blink.

"Hmm, it didn't turn out the way I wanted," Ellie murmured, an artist always in search of perfection, or at least of something that didn't look like a Rorschach test.

It was then that the calmness of the room was broken, not by an artistic revelation, but by the arrival of Diana. With blond hair that defied the sun itself in brightness and blue eyes like the sky that Ellie tried to capture in her paintings, Diana entered the room. Dressed with an elegance that made her casual outfit look worthy of a catwalk, she greeted, "Hello, Ellie."

"Ohh, hi Diana!" Ellie replied, excited as someone who just discovered that the ice cream was still in the freezer. "I'm painting these pictures, look how this one turned out!" She said, showing off her work with the enthusiasm of a chef presenting his most daring dish.

"Hmm, is that a dog?" Diana asked, tilting her head with the curiosity of someone who tries to understand the fashion of ripped pants.

Ellie, with her expression transformed into a mix of shock and dismay so palpable that it could be cut with a knife, replied, all incredulous, "That's a lion…"

"I almost got it right," Diana casually let out, sliding into a chair next to the window with the elegance of someone who could be doing a margarine commercial, even in the midst of a moment of artistic carelessness. Ellie, on the other hand, let out a sigh that could easily be mistaken for the sound of an autumnal wind, signaling a mixture of resignation and surprise at Diana's apparent indifference.

"Has Sam come back yet?" Ellie's curiosity overflowed, like someone who can't wait to open a mysterious birthday present.

"He said he would be back today," Diana replied, her voice carrying a tone of someone who talks about the weather - something commonplace, yet unpredictable.

"Hmm, what kind of mission did he go on, huh… Only he and Blake were chosen." Ellie plunged into a sea of theories, sailing between waves of conspiracies and mysteries. Her chin became the support for thoughts as dense as a spy novel.

"Well, does that really matter?" Diana, yawning, let out the words with the lightness of someone who throws petals to the wind, but with a subtext that would suggest an internal storm, something not characteristic of her usual persona.

"Diana, are you okay?" Ellie's concern was visible, painted on her face with brushstrokes of genuine friendship. She put the brush aside, her art temporarily forgotten in the face of the concern for her colleague.

"I'm fine," Diana assured, with a smile that tried to be comforting, but that could easily be framed in the category "failed attempts to hide something".

"Hmm, you're very strange, you know. All smiley. You're usually a well of elegance and coolness, but it seems like today you're more relaxed," Ellie observed, her analytical gaze trying to decipher the enigma that Diana had become that day. The change was as noticeable as an elephant in a porcelain shop - out of place, but impossible to ignore.

"You don't need to worry, I'm just happier because we finally got to the holidays, a month of peace, where I don't have to take on any responsibility, that as princess of England, or student of the Pentagon," Diana spoke, her shoulders relaxing with the weight of the crown and the textbooks imaginarily being put aside. Her voice carried the lightness of someone who could finally breathe without the burden of expectations.

Ellie, with the understanding of someone who knows her friend well, nodded, "I see. I imagine that having these responsibilities makes you overwhelmed." As she returned to her painting, the words came out of her mouth like brushstrokes on the canvas of the conversation, "Sometimes I wonder what I'll be like in 10 years."

Diana's interrogation, "Out of nowhere this subject?" was like a dry brush scratching the canvas, a pause in the fluidity of that colorful dialogue.

"Quiet, you started it so now you'll listen to me," Ellie retorted, armed with the verbal dexterity of someone who not only painted, but also fenced with words. Diana, accepting the challenge with a smile, allowed Ellie to continue, an audience of one for her friend's ramblings about the future.

"Cough-cough, where was I? Oh yes, 10 years in the future. I'll be 26 years old, I wonder if I'll be, you know, living well, happy in that case." Ellie rambled, throwing to the universe her hopes and fears, a silent request for a brighter tomorrow.

"Hmmm," was all Diana could offer, a sound that carried both of acceptance and reflection.

Ellie, then, shared a deep wish, "I hope that in ten years, the wars against the demons will have ended, the whole world will no longer need heroes to protect them." It was more than a wish; it was a prayer for a future where peace was the norm, not the exception.

"Everyone wants a happy ending, right?" Diana echoed, her voice a golden thread weaving itself into the tapestry of Ellie's dreams.

"Maybe this time it will work. I don't want to train the next generation to fight this," Ellie concluded, her gaze fixed on some point beyond the visible horizon, where the hope of a world without conflicts shone like a guiding star.

Like an unexpected alarm that interrupts a deep dream, the subtle sound of a click followed by the opening of the door tore the tapestry of conversation woven by Diana and Ellie. Chloe, the messenger of the day, brought fresh news like a morning breeze: "Sam and Blake have arrived."

Ellie, whose enthusiasm was as contagious as laughter in a silent room, jumped at the idea with the liveliness of a squirrel on an autumn morning. "Oh! Let's go welcome them!" Her voice, tinged with excitement, instantly transformed the atmosphere from reflective to effervescent, as if someone had turned the switch from "thoughtful" to "party".

Diana, on the other hand, could only sigh, watching Ellie with the indulgence of someone who watches a favorite movie for the thousandth time. Ellie was a complex mix of emotions, an enigma wrapped in a puzzle - completely unpredictable, like a child who decides, in an instant, that the floor is lava. "Let's go then," Diana agreed, getting up with the grace of a leaf being carried by the wind, ready to follow the tide of Ellie's enthusiasm.

---

Ah, life. One moment you're having your breakfast, waiting for a boring day of training at the Pentagon, and the next, you're officially an ex-resident of the world of the living, courtesy of a gas explosion "accident" that supposedly turned you into ashes along with a whole hospital. Oh, yes, that was the official story. I bet they even gave one of those tedious press conferences with people in suits trying to look dismayed. But, surprise! Here I am, Dean, more alive than ever, and if you ask me, I'd say I'm even better than before. Sure, after spending a few months being the guest of honor at Draco's torture spa - an elf with the personality of a voice assistant without the slightest sense of humor - you learn a thing or two about resilience. And sarcasm. A lot of sarcasm.

So, where did this glorious resurrection find me? On top of a building, under a sun that seemed to have a personal grudge against me, scorching me to the bones while I waited for a target. Oh, yes, life after death (figuratively speaking) made me a freelancer for the High Court, My mission? Nothing much, just the usual request from the High Court: "Please, eliminate this Chinese guy, owner of a pharmaceutical company, who is definitely not doing anything suspicious with those drugs." Typical Tuesday mission.

"There he is." I murmured, spotting the car sliding down the street below, as unaware of his fate as a turkey before Thanksgiving. "It's showtime," I declared, an improper excitement bubbling inside as a black mask materialized, covering my face. Who needs a secret identity when you have technology that makes your combat clothes appear out of nowhere, right?

Without wasting any more time, I threw myself off the building. The free fall was the easy part; the landing, well, that was the part that separated the boys from the men. Or the living from the… well, dead again. But, as the good old Wade Wilson would say, "Finger in the ass and scream", right? Even if my humor is the only thing sharper than my ability not to die. Dean, the supposedly dead, back from the "dead" to kick some ass. Oh, it's going to be fun.

[...]

Author's note:

Illustration by alice we comments.