. The world burned. Flames spewed from concentrated pockets in the bubbling ground. The sky, like the towering pillars of flame, glowed in chaotic red. One might assume this was hell - they would be only partially correct. This was no metaphorical place of endless suffering, this was the living plane. Why was this worse? When living, people have dreams and aspirations, people who depend on them. Before death - or during for that matter - a person reflects on all they will be losing or letting down. That alone is suffering worse than an eternity of pain. In the distance, cries of pain and agony twisted and mingled with the scent of burning flesh and ash. The fire raged and slaughtered with impunity. Age, race, gender and species weren't taken into account. At least there was beauty in the equal nature of catastrophes. From a slight distance, a man with a cigar wiped off a phone that had been covered with some debris dust. A brief typing of numbers and it was brought to his ear.
"Nightingale, 'the time to strike is midnight'." He began, pausing to enjoy his cigar. "Job completed, target down." He finished, halting the call and throwing the phone carelessly into the burning rubble ahead of him. Admiring his handiwork, the black-clad man lost the taste for his cigar and threw that too into the fray. With a turn he walked away and became shrouded in the cool sunless darkness.
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Being an assassin one learns, or is forced, to heighten their senses at any given moment in time. Staring down a scope waiting for a target to enter the reticle, against the wall near a corner before setting up an ambush or even in concealment preparing explosives to strike an armored convoy. This moment was no different than those. He had been sleeping in a dingy motel bed. When he had arrived, the entire room smelt of recently cleaned mold and stale air. If he could describe the room by its smell, it would be a room where people go to die. Ported directly from Earth during what must have been a hundred years out of fashion; corduroy curtains, tan-ish walls and pine furnishings. The bed was... Good enough, barely better than an air mattress. The sheets tried to recreate an ornate spread with square sections and intricate strips only the strips weren't intricate upon closer inspection and the entire stitch work was just sad. Two night tables sat either side of the sad resting place. One with a night-lamp and the other with a Universal Index of Religious Texts. A light scoff and the dufflebag over the man's shoulder hit the floor with a clattering fwump. Not even bothering to disrobe or set his stuff aside, he collapsed onto the bed and passed out from exhaustion.
At some point later, his keen senses snapped him from his slumber. There was no fluttering of eyelids or groggy "huh, where am I?" Which most had to deal with. This man went from unconscious to full battle mode at the slightly peculiarity. The mentioned sound, was a light creaking of glass. One fluid motion and the man drew a pistol, firing blindly at origin of the sound and hearing the telltale grunt of pain and flop of a body. If he were honest with himself, he had been expecting such a thing to occur at some point. Even in the low light dawn one couldn't help but make out angular module-based plate armor and recessed ambient LED markings. This was Octagon - the rival company of his current hiring firm. Typically where there was one Octagon grunt, dozens laid in wait behind yet that seemed to be untrue in this case. It wasn't until a gun racked itself from the other window that the assassin realized the mantra was true. His motel room was surrounded and would most assuredly be assaulted in the next scant moments. Another round found itself placed in an Octagon helmet. Etched into the side was a simple number; two. Each round and each casing was serial marked for one reason or another, each specifically hand crafted for use in a similarly custom made 45-70 Govt. pistol. With the kick of a small truck and the weight of near half that - she was a beast to be reckoned with. Seamless instinct brought the assassin to his dumped bag, tearing open the zipper and withdrawing a few items:
A detonator His rifle Magazines A small vial containing a microchip And a gre-
He couldn't fully pick up the last item, being tossed backwards violently towards and ultimately through the man-sized window at the back of the room. With the elegance of a slow deer on a sheet of glare ice, the assassin was flung from the second story with the spray of glass. Landing with similar elegance, he stood and scanned the direct area for threats. Finding none he performed a self-diagnosis and found residual shards of glass peppering his chest and exterior forearms - both used to break the fall. His coat was signed but none the worse for wear. His pis- Fuck, where had that gone? A more detailed glance told him the answer. Some fifteen feet away covered with light debris it laid. Already on his feet the assassin moved, taking a quick snap of the head to the left he was forced to slide along the concrete and capture his armament so that he could simultaneously avoid a bullet poised for his cranium. The rough snap of a super-sonic round displayed the correct nature of his decision, even if the burning of his legs and rump didn't. Crouched behind the corner of a wall, the assassin weighed his options and decided on the next course. Such a thing only took a second, hands moving with their assigned task and withdrawing the larger rifle. The pistol was nice as a hold out, but the big gun was better in every way besides maneuverability. Peeking from the corner, the contract killer went full reverse and ducked back to his safe location. He had seen one man prior, now there were six.
Where he was positioned, was at the T intersection of the motel. It was simple linear two story thing, but with a large hole in the center for access to behind the building. From the assassin's position, on his left and right were alley ways. His back was against the wall of this hole, and out in the front of the building - the parking lot - was where Octagon had moved in evidently. A glance down each alley to assure he wasn't being flan- What he saw, would have killed most ordinary men. A Kul in full exosuit battle gear. The.. Machine was at least ten feet tall, struggling to fit in the small alleyway with brick walls on each side. One side was a halfway however, but the statement was still there. The angular pieces jutting off its arms and shoulders scraped eerily across the rough surface and produced white sparks. There was no possible way the assassin could take such a behemoth head on. Each LED eye of the monstrosity glowed with unspent power, and the whine of its engines and hydraulics were like the tensing of a beast eager for the hunt. As if sensing its discovery, the mechanical menace clumsily strode forwards, knocking over the brick half-wall and gouging steaks in the side of the motel. Even though it was a fully functioning exosuit, the weapons had been removed for one reason or another. The assassin chalked this up to Octagon most likely wanting to capture him alive. How quaint.
Not one to hesitate, the assassin turned the corner and raised his weapon. With precise trigger work and sharp eyes, three fell before a single round was returned in retaliation. Upon hearing the first snap of gunfire, the contractor took extra effort in sporadically moving to prevent himself from taking a round. When the other three fell, he noticed that that specific tactic didn't work too well. His collarbone had shattered under the impact of a heavy Octagon round - ballistic vest taking the blow and rendering it non-mortal at least. Each movement of his left arm sent searing rods of pain through his entire core. It forced him to drop the rifle as if it was red hot. At least now he only had the Kul left to worry about. Just how bad was his career when a Kul wearing an exosuit was something normal? A shake to clear his head of the thought was all he needed to continue moving. A patting of his coat confirmed - the detonator was intact. As any good assassin would do in this scenario; he ran. Like a dog scared, tail tucked between his legs he bolted into the center of the parking lot and only turned to look back when he was a decent bit away. Just in time to see the Kul try to squeeze its overly large form into a path too small. It might have been this point - halfway through the gap - that the exosuit operator spotted the small red button held in the assassin's hand. That moment of hesitation and trepidation was enough to seal his fate. With the Kul distracted, most likely anticipating the assassin to pull some sort of mighty plan, he simply took off running. This would have surprised and thrown off the assassin himself and the surprise would have been elevated further when his thumb pressed the red button on the detonator and set off the explosives in his dufflebag. He was some distance away but with the amount he packed with him - he was far too close. Heat, sound and a shock-wave all violently tore through the city in a massive wave. Through the ringing in his ears after the initial explosion, he could pick up the falling of rubble and the total collapse of the motel as well as the tell-tale crackle of flames. Because of his close proximity, twenty five pounds of PETN explosives blasted the poor man forwards and peppered his back with various sizes of shrapnel. The entire motel creaked and lurched towards the weakest point - the passageway in the wall - and collapsed onto the Kul in the exosuit. Tonnes of concrete, rebar and wood piled onto the metal machine and smothered it in debris.
Getting up and shaking the blurring from his eyes, the assassin turned and looked over his handiwork with a sigh. It was unexpected that Octagon would send such a force against him. Men were one thing, but a full war suit was on another level. In the midst of dusting himself off, a feeling of dread stirred deep within. The whir of hydraulics pierced above the crackling flames. With a face of befuddlement, plans on how to make it out of this alive tried to force its way through his skull. The Kul was wounded, sure. Three of its arms were crushed and hanging a rigid-limp. Sections were flapping freely while others were locked in place. It was as if the machine lost control of itself in sections. The legs were mostly unharmed but the central core - the torso - was gouged in several places. A piece of rebar was brutally slammed diagonally from left shoulder to right hip. The path it traveled was obvious, as it cut open a swath of bent metal plating to reveal the Kul inside. Like a bull in full rage it charged with mechanized clanks. Dumbfounded, the assassin took a second to simply stare intelligently. "Tch!" He grunted, setting his face in determination. Using the strength remaining in his legs the murderer moved into a less crowded part of the parking lot away from the Kul. Speaking of cars, one was sent flying as it was batted aside by the Kul's remaining arm. There was only forty feet between the two and it was rapidly diminishing with each second. Options were limited, nothing in the assassins arsenal could pierce the exosuit's carapace. Maybe if he could get a round off in the open sec- A cold metal hand suddenly wrapped itself around his waist, since when could exosuits move that fast!? Hydraulics clenches and whirred, a brutal crack of several bones. The assassin's vision - now a tunnel - was hazed in red and rapidly fading to unconsciousness. His hips were shattered, legs most likely the same. He would never walk again even if he were to survive this encounter. At least his dying move could put this son of a bitch down with him. The Kul harshly pulled the contractor back towards itself, as if the pilot inside was attempting to determine exactly what made this fleshy thing so special to Octagon.
The pilot's interest in their captured target distracted them from noticing the pistol being withdrawn from underneath his coat. With fury and the thought of revenge, the assassin stuffed the barrel into the gash made by rebar, nestling the cold iron against the crystalline skin of the Kul's visible head.
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The Assassin was found later, hardly alive but still desperately clinging to life. Within the metal hand of a downed exosuit with his pistol ten feet away, he was the perfect candidate for a negotiation.
The UFH had found him after three years of dedicated search. The same informant who tipped off Octagon had also notified the UFH, only their response was slightly delayed. In either case, the second to arrive had actually captured their prize. Yet the UFH did not want to kill the Assassin, no. They wanted him to work for them as a proxy freelance agent and the offer was rather one sided.
Agree to work with them, or die in the parking lot.
With a start he awoke, cold sweat on his forehead and an odd feeling of nostalgia. That dream was... It had only been...
It didn't matter. With a great breath and a wipe with the back of his hand, he looked around to make sure his exhaustion hadn't been noticed - it hadn't. Underneath where his head had been, the documents he had been running over. Another contract, as any other, but with a peculiar addition. For the first time in his hiring he would be accompanied by a partner. The details weren't included in this basic coded outline but one thing was for sure. Two people were going on this mission... To be honest, he didn't know how to feel about that.
His room was dark, seeing as how the curtains were closed and the lights were off. A brief check of the time revealed it to be seven at night. To be fair, that was a perfect time for his "work" to begin, and he couldn't have asked his body to perform any better in this sleep cycle. Performing some waking stretches, joints and sore muscles popped and set themselves into place. With a start he suddenly lifted himself from his chair and moved to the bathroom. After running a hand through his hair and brushing his teeth he looked his face over. Dark, sullen eyes stared back - the colour of charcoal. It was hard to tell where the iris and pupil separated, however that lack of color matched his hair. A dark ebony black that was rather flat and dry looking. He hadn't cut it in years, so wild patches and spikes flew off in every direction haphazardly. Some fell off the side and front of his head as one would expect; others stuck directly upwards. Stubble covered his entire face, spotty and with some patches of greater length than the other to add to his disheveled appearance. His face was jagged, for lack of a better word. Angular jawline with scarring at random intervals. A bent-straight nose that was obviously victim of a bad setting job, cheekbones visible from malnourishment and pallid skin.
With a grunt he turned from the mirror and left his room, wandering down to the meeting area thirty-five minutes early to sit in silence and run over the mission briefing again. The briefing room was spacious enough. A large sixteen person table of smooth metal with an integrated display of some sort. Windowless walls and a large projecting screen opposite the entrance doorway. Chairs sat in varying states of use - some pulled out slightly, others rolled out considerably and some still in their ordered place. The assassin took a seat closer to the back corner, stopping only once to read a name on card stock. "Tarx Vim-" was as far as he got before it was torn into a hundred confetti sized pieces. His name was confidential, throwing it around like that was unprofessional, idiotic and downright rude. Settling into a chair, he kicked his feet up on the table - which were clad in steel toed black boots - and opened up a folder he brought down with him from his room so he could wait for the other members of this meeting with at least something to do.
