No. 8 held a hand over his beating heart. A rapidly beating heart, stuck in a sickly, frail rhythm, pitter-pattering like raindrops on a tiled roof. Bile and blood rushed to his mouth, clogging his windpipe as he put two fingers down his throat without hesitation.

Vomiting.

A dry heave.

Obstruction cleared.

Tachycardia remained.

The monster felt a piercing pain radiate throughout his chest, as if a miniature sun were buried in it.

"Ugh." He couldn't help but grunt.

This was the thing he had been trying to avoid. Mercy's withdrawal symptoms. Even now, after taking the dose, its aftereffects tormented him, tearing his skin and muscle from within. It was too debilitating, so much so that the Doctor needed to drug him, particularly on the days where his reasoning would vanish completely.

It didn't matter if his mind could handle it.

His body clearly could not.

No. 8 gripped the scalpel until his palms bled, and his fingernails were coated red.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

Then he searched the bodies, both No. 22 and the Doctor's, his one eye scanning through their possessions.

But there was nothing of note. A key card. The Doctor's name tag. Fake ID. No. 22 had not brought his own weapon. Arrogant, and a fool. He unloaded the antique pistol that had shot him earlier, before crushing it into a ball of useless metal.

The surgical implement would have to do.

No. 8 got to his feet, taking a length of chain from the mangled wheelchair, and picking up the detached headrest of a surgical table as well on the way to the door. He wrapped the chain arbitrarily around his forearm. There wasn't really a need to secure it, since he required its services for only a moment.

The monster approached the door, before gently opening it.

He waited briefly. A silent reprieve, perhaps, as the timer wound down to his inevitable death.

Although the wait... was not for himself at all.

He tossed the headrest—

Bang! Bang!

And ran outside amidst the hail of gunfire.

______________________________________________________

Two Taskforce members. One to his right, and one to his left. Heavily armored. Possession of tactical rifles.

No. 8 threw the heavy lock in his hands towards one of them, then looked towards the other. They had kept their distance from the door, opting instead to hide at the halfway point of the split hallway, waiting for an ambush. Good senses.

But they had also miscalculated the distance necessary for such a method.

They were not Numbers, after all.

Crack.

He heard his projectile land square on the visor. A momentary distraction.

Meanwhile, a single bound was enough for the monster to reach the other personnel, sending the armed individual staggering backwards as he brought the scalpel down, slashing them cleanly across the neck.

Scrape.

Rip!

No blood. No. 8 noted that the cut did not go past the armor, only revealing the thick, fibrous strands of material that made their suits and vests so durable. It was obvious they had been equipped specifically to deal with him, and unlike the fool from before, would not mistake his complacency for opportunity.

The monster switched immediately to an icepick grip, plunging the scalpel directly into the opponent's mask.

At the same time, No. 8 swept the personnel's legs, sending them both onto the hard floor.

Thump!

Combined with momentum and the weight behind their fall, the monster dug the scalpel deep, and penetrated the visor.

He finally felt flesh, giving way under his weapon's now slightly blunted tip.

No. 8 held the Taskforce member's head still... push. Twist. Blood spilled, drowning panicked eyes. And then nothing more.

The monster heard a hoarse scream while confirming the kill. He analyzed the emotions hidden within, even as he hoisted the deceased body in front of him, charging forwards under the grieving man's reckless gunfire.

Ta. Ta. Ta. Ta.

Sorrow. Despair.

Ta. Ta. Ta.

Fear. And a fury that overcame said fear.

Ta. Ta.

Helplessness. He could sense it from how the scream's timbre changed, shaking ever so slightly.

Ta.

No. 8 wanted to ask if his analyses were correct. But neither of them had that much free time.

The monster barreled into the one remaining, smashing him back with the corpse of his comrade, the sheer force of that tackle snapping more than a few ribs, and crushing his sternum into pulp. Yet No. 8 was not satisfied. The monster unraveled a chain and carefully encircled the hapless man's neck, securing it well as he struggled.

Lax iron grew taut in an instant.

Snap.

No. 8 released his grip, both the chain and the human, broken in his grasp.

Systematically, he searched the bodies once more.

And once more, he found nothing. No blades. No knives. Nothing but guns, which he destroyed without reluctance. Neither one of them possessed a melee weapon. As Taskforce members? It seemed far too coincidental. Special armor, a lack of weaponry where there should be, and personnel straggling instead of coming in groups.

Undoubtedly a premeditated assault. He already knew who was in charge.

[Caeleste Iudicium] No. 12, 'Tactician'. What a problematic foe.

No. 8 got to his feet, legs oozing crimson. Some ricocheting bullets seemed to have nicked his flesh. Others were buried under his skin. There was no way a small body like that could cover his entire person, after all.

As long as he retained full motion... it'd be enough.

Thus, the monster left the devastated hallway, trailing a path of blood behind him.

_____________________________________________________

"Scouting team D-6, annihilated."

"Scouting team D-7, engaging."

Ten seconds pass.

"Scouting team D-7... annihilated."

"Scouting team D-8, engaging.

A hint of awe had crept into the soldier's voice since earlier, mingling with his disbelief and uncertainty.

"They're dropping like flies." He shook his head, "Delta Taskforce B might not be Numbers, but they have been trained alongside the best. When working as a pair, they can exert a potential rivalling even us, if only in theory."

"And yet..."

"Scouting team D-8, annihilated."

The man with the black eyepatch grinned, laughing at the brutal play-by-play.

"Rivalling you lot, maybe. But Generations Zeroes aren't the same. You could've sent as many of them as you wanted, and they all would have come back deader than a doornail."

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Golden hands bled golden blood.

"At most, it might take him a while longer."

"Or do you think the title of strongest Number is a joke?"

No. 12 didn't wait for a response, weaving between the rank and file of Delta and Ophanim, shifting like a wraith, his serpentine eye flickering across their armor and status. There was much to ponder about. Much to plan. The 'Tactician's' venomous gaze gradually narrowed down, before staring at one particular Number.

"Stop shaking. I can see that. Are you really so afraid of him?"

The Number jolted, biting his lip.

It was a disturbing feeling, disgusting even. The feeling of something peering into your very nature. Cold, slimy scales, gripping his neck, just waiting for a single chance. Waiting for a mistake.

The anxious Generation Two barely held in a stutter, bowing as he prepared to beg for mercy.

But No. 12 had already left by the time he looked back up.

"Where is the target now?"

The soldier reported dutifully: "One-third of the way here, nearing the refectory. D-9 and D-10 are slated to encounter him in the next few minutes. There have been no survivors from the previous teams so far."

"Your assessment was correct, sir. The target is moving in a direct line towards our location."

"Hm." The man with the black eyepatch took out another cig, observing the vibrant red dots, blinking vividly on the monitor.

At this rate, they would encounter him in 30 minutes. No. 20 minutes? The 'Tactician' removed the cigarette from his mouth.

How unexpectedly fast. Almost as if he were charging forwards without care. An uncharacteristic recklessness.

"Sir, what should we do about D-77? 'That one' has gone AWOL ever since we breached the prison."

"D-77?" The soldier's query disrupted his thoughts. A blurry image of a sobbing mess appeared in his mind; a sunken, pathetic little thing, crying over nothing. "Leave her be. She might prove to be useful yet."

No. 12 waved away his concerns. There were important matters at play here.

No. 8's unusual aggression. Odd movements. Something... something was limiting the monster. Timing his actions.

The 'Tactician' smiled grotesquely, his scarred lips abruptly twisting into the contorted shape of a crescent moon.

"It seems the end is drawing near, old friend."

_______________________________________________________________________

Fifty-one. Fifty-two. The monster snapped the woman's neck, turning it almost 180 degrees as she flailed around futilely. Using just his bare hands was more effective, he found, considering their blatant refusal in giving him a weapon.

No. 8 slumped against the damp prison wall, still holding the misaligned skull.

Weren't the encounters becoming rather too frequent? His purpling arms screamed exhaustion.

He didn't bother checking the corpses anymore. Specialized armor, and a decisive lack of weaponry; this was undoubtedly 'his' work. The monster checked his internal clock. 33 minutes. Following the Doctor's path would have him reach the entrance with little time to spare. Seems No. 12 had realized his predicament.

As he caught his breath, No. 8 heard a pair of stomping footsteps march down the hallway facing the refectory.

So they weren't even attempting stealth now.

Very well. He got his feet. Fifty-three. Fifty-four.

The 'Beast' left the refectory then, his body slightly more bruised than before, eighteen bodies in his wake.

"Scouting team D-28, annihilated." The soldier bluntly stated, holding the flashing screen.

In the corridor, No. 8 repeatedly smashed a man's head against the ground, feeling it quickly pop, as viscous brain matter filled his mask with liquid and blood, squelching terribly inside.

"Scouting team D-42, annihilated."

On the staircase, the monster ripped a banister from the railing with a heave, before piercing it through the chest of another.

"Scouting team D-54 and D-55, annihilated."

They were swarming now. Pairs met and combined. Four personnel, assaulting him at once. He broke a jaw. Shattered spines. Yet still, the ones that were able charged at him, fresh hatred burning within their fervent eyes. No. 8 reciprocated accordingly.

None of them died intact.

"Scouting team D-59..."

"Scouting team D-67..."

"Scouting team D-74..."

The 'Beast' collapsed to his knees at the end of the blood-soaked hall, only tens of meters from the prison entrance.

"Scouting team D-76... annihilated. " The soldier closed the monitor at last.

"Report: Delta Taskforce B. Full Annihilation."

No. 8 felt his remaining time, pouring from his gasping mouth, dripping onto the red tiles beneath him. He tried moving his legs, but they wouldn't budge. His blackened arms dug pits into the floor. Yet he could not pull himself up. 10 minutes. 10 minutes. A sickening vertigo gripped his every sense, spinning the world round and round, though he no longer had anything to vomit out.

The monster heard a final set of footsteps approach him.

One set. Not two. No. 8 had grown so accustomed to hearing it in pairs that he almost wondered if he was hallucinating.

However, the frigid voice that greeted him there, was anything but an illusion.

"Get up."

He took a moment to parse her subdued emotion. Anger? No. Hatred? Such vitriol. This was different from the previous ones.

A hatred that had run cold. A grudge that had burnt and settled, before nestling deep inside.

Now making its reappearance.

How interesting. No. 8 titled his head to get a better look at the voice's owner. And the frail, seemingly thin woman, with streaks of red hair among a sea of grey and white, looked directly back at him.

Both her eyes were as red as his.

And her skin was painted an even darker purple.

The woman wore no armor. No protective gear.

"Mercy." He sighed, "How much?"

"...aren't you going to ask me... why I'm doing this first?" Her words were already starting to crumble alongside her flesh.

"No." The monster replied curtly, "What would be the use of that?"

For a non-Number, injecting 'Mercy' was equivalent to a death sentence, though at the amount he suspected she had taken... it didn't seem like the distinction would matter anyways. The woman was a walking corpse. She could keel over at any moment.

Although it looked as if she wouldn't do so until she killed him.

"Right, you're right." The ice-cold personnel smiled faintly, "It would just be a useless sentiment."

"So get up."

Her voice bled like the edge of a butcher's knife.

"We can all chat about it over a cup of tea in hell."

No. 8 responded by smiling a false, hollow grin.

'Could this be what romance entails? Quite indulgent.'

The monster slowly got to his feet. The woman had a standard combat knife in her hands. Serrated, naturally. How joyous. The lambs finally brought something useful for him, though this one was not a mere lamb, but a trickier wolf.

He observed the patchy blend of her flesh. Heavy, splotchy bruising. Signs of necrosis. A rapid progression of symptoms.

Two full injections. Maybe three—

No. 8 dodged to the side instantaneously, as the woman's knife whipped by, nicking bone to the side of his remaining eye.

200% efficiency. At least.

There had been almost twenty meters between them earlier. That distance now evaporated, the crazed woman's blade sinking into the meat of his defending arm. He crossed out an option. Grab, or parry. Dodging didn't seem very feasible. Either way, he couldn't risk receiving another clean hit.

Choosing the former, the 'Beast' reached for her wrist, but the woman immediately twisted her torso and threw a heavy frontal kick, retrieving the dagger while pushing him away. She knew well enough the consequences of being caught.

The deaths of 152 operatives had given her a rough estimate of the monster's ability and fighting pattern.

Hence, D-77 was sure her speed currently eclipsed his, though he could still snap her like a twig if she got careless.

But No. 8 also was sure of one thing:

The woman would not last long. Even at 9 minutes, his condition was much better than hers. Blood had already begun pouring from her every orifice. Her dark purple skin, bordering on soot black, cracked a little bit more with her every move, revealing an ugly mesh of decomposing muscle and splintering bone underneath.

The monster would have preferred dragging matters out, simply letting her flame flicker off on its own.

If he were not on a timer himself.

Twin gazes met, and they clashed. She advanced. He retreated.

Slash. Slash. Slash. Cut. Cut. Cut.

No. 8 parried each attack as it whistled by. However, there was no perfect block. No flawless deflection. He would be cut, so he let her cut, marring the flesh of his forearm, nipping the bone of his elbow. His palms, calloused and thickened from a lifetime of handling blades, ripped open and spilled crimson.

And so, he waited. Watched her. His one eye never wavered from its target.

8 minutes.

7 minutes.

Sweat, beading. The woman's emotions, unravelling. The knife, quickening, yet becoming wilder and without composure.

6 minutes.

5 minutes.

Until the moment finally arrived.

The monster put his hand in front of the blade as it came up. And the woman, expecting another parry, simply angled that knife ever so slightly forwards, aiming to stab right through the defending appendage.

No. 8 pressed down.

Thud.

And so it did, piercing into and out of the back of his hand, with a surprising lack of resistance.

Yet wasn't it obvious that there would be no resistance? Since that hand... already had a hole in it from the beginning.

The woman flinched, immediately starting the retrieval, but it was still too late. She pulled, and the monster's claws closed shut, strangulating her wrist like an iron shackle.

Dig in. Slash out. D-77 tried manipulating her grip to escape, but there wasn't enough leverage.

She tried again, and this time, No. 8 wrenched her hand inwards, exposing the white bones of her wrist.

"Aaarggghh!"

Momentarily overcome by pain, the woman barely managed to avoid the hand headed for her throat, ripping herself away. She then retreated to the front of the hall, clutching her bloody stump. The hand left in the monster's grasp twitched as he looked at it briefly, prying the knife from its fingers, before tossing the severed part onto the floor.

D-77 could feel her fatigued heart faltering. It didn't matter if he had the weapon now, she would be the one to end this.

The crazed woman lunged at No. 8, who was stuck admiring the blade's craftmanship, her bloodshot gaze glued to his hands.

She'd take a blow. Maybe several. But it didn't matter. As long as she paid attention to his movement. As long as she made the final attack and killed him! It was an eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth!

One life, for another.

D-77 reached him. Her arm extended to pierce his throat, and the knife reacted, flashing towards her outstretched limb.

Closer and closer. But she was faster. It would land.

Closer and closer. The knife vanished. The target had vanished as well.

Closer... and closer...

Until an empty voice chimed in from behind her, overpowering the beating of her dying heart.

"Sorry. I'm not too fond of tea parties."

Carotid. Jugular. Liver. Heart. Lungs. Five strikes. The woman's blood no longer flowed, only trickling, as if the last few droplets of water, dripping from an old, broken faucet. She gasped for air, collapsing to her knees.

"So please, just go by yourself."

Scouting team D-77, annihilated.

"I have another destination in mind."

The woman's body finally slumped. It slowly fell, turning to glare at him, mouth open in a curse now forever silenced.

No. 8 stumbled too, his own wounds beginning to coalesce and harden. 4 minutes. The tips of his fingers had become charred, blackening up to the first knuckle, and losing almost all sensation. He could barely form a fist anymore. Feeling his skin rip and crack from within surely made for a novel experience, but it was not at all conducive to his current situation.

The monster got to his feet and moved on.

He passed the reception hall. One more exit. One more turn.

No. 8 soon stood in front of the last steel door, unmoving. He closed his eyes.

Then, the 'Beast' inhaled deeply, and pushed.

Boom!

The prison door busted from its hinges, creating a tremor as it crashed onto the floor. No. 8 took the first step forwards, and felt the air freeze around him, coating the final hallway with a layer of obvious, blatant Bloodlust.

Fifty-odd soldiers of [Caeleste Iudicium] stared at him from the entrance, their rifles raised and pointed.

Most of them were Numbers, the rest of them were not.

But all of them were dead silent. Save for one.

"Yo, Nyx."

The spearhead of the operation. The man with the black eyepatch. No. 12 raised his nano-fiber prosthetic in greeting.

"It's been a while."

And his serpentine smile twisted sharply, lifting into the shape of a waxing crescent moon.