Location: Kalahari Desert, Botswana

Unit: Global Operations Unit

Date: 26th April 2025

Mclaw's unyielding gaze locked onto the General, the tension between them electrifying the air. His fingers coiled around the hilt of his blade, a vice-like grip that demonstrated his determination. Descending the sandy incline in a controlled glide, Mclaw emerged before Black, a soldier confronting his adversary. The receding sun cast elongated shadows, gradually swallowing Black's imposing figure.

A murmur, barely audible, escaped Black's lips as he uttered Mclaw's name, "Reaper..."

In a swift flourish, Mclaw's boot met the sand, launching a cascade of grains into the air. Black remained rooted in his anticipation. The fierce advance continued as Mclaw ran through the spray, his blade drawn back.

Black's attempt at a counter was met with Mclaw's agile manoeuvre, the dodge a testament to his honed reflexes. The arc of Mclaw's blade traced a path, the razor edge scoring Black's side before rebounding off resilient skin. Leveraging the momentum of his strike, Mclaw propelled himself away, his feet skimming the sand. As he landed, his gaze captured Black's smile, the chilling recognition, "You've gotten better."

A ferocious snarl contorted Mclaw's features, his simmering intensity boiling over, "I've regained some strength after last time." With eyes tightly shut, he raised his blade to eye level, an invocation on his lips, "Victoria Per Sacrificium." As his eyes snapped open, pupils ablaze in vibrant yellow, an otherworldly transformation seized him. Veins pulsed beneath his skin, their luminous glow casting an eerie aura, and consuming darkness cascaded outward, enfolding the lifeless forms of the NZA specialists in its grasp, along with General Black.

Startled by the unfolding spectacle, the General instinctively stepped back, steadying himself to assume a combat stance. His focus deepened, breath controlled, as he braced for what was to come.

Mclaw surged forward once more, a torrent of raw power propelling him. The surge coursing through his veins seemed almost tangible, his movements fueled by sheer force. Black observed, sensing the torrential energy pulsating within Mclaw's form. Recognising the surge of power, he instinctively withdrew, a calculated evasion as if confronted by a tempestuous force of nature. But Mclaw wasn't done yet. In a seamless motion, he redirected his blade, its trajectory reversing mid-flight. A fluid, acrobatic feat that culminated in a graceful arc. The blade narrowly missed Black's nose, its passage an incisive breath away from vital flesh.

Wide-eyed, the General stared at the razor-sharp edge that dared to attempt a strike on him. His heartbeat momentarily arrested, his life hanging by a mere whisper of steel. The closeness of the encounter left an indelible impact, the brush of danger etched upon his senses. A bead of blood welled upon his lips, a testament to the blade's audacity. Almost in disbelief, he tasted the iron tinge of his essence, a wry grin curling his lips, "Not bad."

Launching off the ground with an explosive kick, Mclaw began to release his grip on the blade. The General's eyes followed the weapon's trajectory, anticipating its course and sidestepping with a calculated evasion. Yet, with an almost supernatural finesse, Mclaw's index finger intercepted the blade's path, a minuscule adjustment altering its trajectory. A shockwave of disbelief coursed through the General as the blade penetrated straight through his foot, jolting him with a mix of agony and astonishment.

With a swift motion, the General yanked the sword free from his impaled foot, his resolve unbroken. However, before he could counter, Mclaw's elbow hammered into his face. In an instant, Mclaw seized his blade from the air, the gold-infused edge gleaming menacingly as it arced towards the General. Swiftly, Black raised his arms, muscles straining as he summoned every ounce of his strength to fortify his defences.

The blade's edge bit into the General's flesh, carving a pathway through his arms. Yet, inexplicably, the progress halted. A sly smile cracked across the General's face, an unsettling twist of fate. Muscles coiling like springs, he retracted his fist, a deranged grin painting his features. Mclaw relinquished his hold on the blade, the golden luminescence of his eyes receding to their usual hue of brown. But his withdrawal proved too slow. With a titanic surge, the General's unrestrained force crashed into Mclaw, a tempest of momentum that sent him careening through the sand. The impact ricocheted Mclaw like a rag doll, his body bouncing twice before settling into a sandy mound.

Stalking towards his downed adversary, Black's voice cut through the air, minuscule fatigue tangling in his tone, "You gave me a run for my money there, Reaper." A muted chuckle escaped his lips, the gravity of Mclaw's situation apparent, "But in the end, all those who swear loyalty to him cheat death." As his words hung in the air, Black's arm extended, the skin moulded and reconstituted, the grotesque transformation birthing a flawless arm, resurrected in its entirety. Pushing the black and gold blade onto the ground.

Mclaw's gaze transformed into one of horrified disbelief, a witness to the miraculous regeneration of the wounds he had inflicted. Amidst his astonishment, Black's voice permeated the scene, laden with a contemplative tone, "You know, after I saw what you could do in Antarctica, I got curious." A pause followed, heavy with intent, "Could I artificially create the healing abilities you possess?"

Despite the searing pain, Mclaw's determination surged. He sat up, clutching his abdomen as the layer of his skin began its rapid restoration. Undeterred, his retort dripped with defiance, "Go fuck yourself."

An iron grip seized Mclaw's head, Black's fingers encircling his skull. The General's words cut through the air, a chilling confession unfolding, "You know we did many trials, but in the end, we only had two surviving subjects, me and a very talkative man." A ferocious motion sent Mclaw hurtling against another sandy mound, a collision that would have spelt doom for any ordinary human.

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Seizing the opportunity, Mabasa appeared in a burst of movement, a torrent of flames accompanying his swift descent. The fiery blow collided with Black, forcing him to a knee. The General shielded his face from the unrelenting barrage that ensued, each blow generating eruptions of sand into the air. Undeterred by the sparks of retaliation, Mclaw re-engaged, darting forward and using Black's form as a springboard. His manoeuvre placed him in a prime position, positioning his attack for a cooperative follow-up with Mabasa.

Mabasa's clenched fist descended with purpose, an eruption of sonic force rippling through the air as it connected with Black's body. The shockwave that emanated from the blow traversed the environment, its effects palpable in the tremors that radiated through the sand.

A palpable sense of anticipation emanated through the air, a shared instinctual awareness settling over Mclaw and Mabasa. It was as if an invisible current whispered of impending turmoil, a foreboding precursor to the imminent final confrontation.

Black's external facade shifted, shedding the outer layer of skin to unveil a deep crimson undercoat. His skeletal framework lay exposed, its fragility veiled by the tenacity of the General's spirit. Cracks marred the bone structure, a testament to the brutal force they had unleashed upon him. Yet, his form showed defiance, a determination not to crumble under the assault. His breaths came in heaving gasps, accompanied by the gradual closure of his wounds. Deceased skin fragments fell from his body, littering the sand beneath him like macabre confetti.

In response to the unsettling transformation, Black's gaze remained unyielding, locked onto Mclaw and Mabasa. His retort materialised, his words etched with an air of superiority, "Not to mention, Mclaw... my healing is better than yours." The evidence of his claim followed suit as his features underwent renewal. This time, his countenance held a youthful vigour, sculpted with an air of authority and power.

Mclaw's silent nod conveyed unity and readiness, the synchronised heartbeat of their intent palpable. As one entity, they surged forth, their resolve channelled into their movements. Black's form became elusive, fading from their vision like a wisp of smoke. Mclaw, attuned to his surroundings, perceived a subtle shift in the play of shadows behind him. The sensation of impending force accompanied the movement of air against his skin. Swiftly, he dodged to the side raising his blade, the weapon serving as both a defence and a weapon.

In tandem, Mabasa's decisive strike landed—a powerful kick connecting with Black's face, jarring him and forcing a recoil. Mabasa navigated the terrain with calculated precision, evading potential counterattacks with unerring skill. The battle's balance shifted between the combatants, each movement orchestrated with the stakes of life and death.

While the combatants engaged in this electrifying dance, Mclaw recognised the limitations of Mabasa's flame-infused prowess. The elemental power that fueled Mabasa's onslaught was a finite resource, and the General's resilience was boundless. As dust and sand swirled around them in the fierce flurry, Mclaw observed Black's unwavering stance amidst the chaos, untouched by the tempest of blows.

An electric tension hung heavy in the air, an anticipatory aura enveloping both Mclaw and Mabasa as if the environment itself held its breath. Their shared intuition carved a connection between them, heightening their senses for the imminent clash that loomed ahead, a sinister overture to the unfolding battle.

Mclaw's retreat was swift and instinctive, a realisation of danger spurring his movement. However, his respite was short-lived, as an abrupt and powerful blow struck his shoulder with merciless force. The impact launched him backwards, his form colliding with the gritty terrain, once again succumbing to the dominion of the sand. His voice, a mixture of pain and determination, pierced the turmoil, "Shit." A desperate shout rent the air, a rallying cry amidst the chaos, "Now..." It heralded a torrent of gunfire, a storm of lead raining down upon Black. The task force's ammunition surged forth in a relentless onslaught, in an attempt to draw the seemingly invincible enemy general away from Mclaw.

Mclaw's focus sharpened, a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions converging within him. His battle-hardened arm extended, a conductor for the remnants of his sword's strength that still coursed through his veins. With a purposeful grasp, he seized his lighter, a tool imbued with mystical power, the emblem of his tenacity. The incantation flowed from him, a command imbued with both desperation and resolve, "Niji Control Monstrum."

In a swift and mesmerising display, the lighter's dormant energy ignited, birthing strings of searing flame that lanced through the air. These fiery tendrils transformed into a curtain of inferno, their fierce embrace directed at Black. The enemy general recoiled, his formidable countenance betraying a flicker of vulnerability as the flames licked at his form. The searing pain of the flames etched their mark upon him, a testament to Mclaw's unyielding pursuit.

Mclaw's battered form rose from the sand, his voice exuding a blend of defiance and triumph, "Surprise." The tempestuous clash unfolded against the backdrop of the blazing spectacle, a symphony of power and persistence that reverberated through the desolate landscape.

He maintained a firm grip over the flames, orchestrating their dance with a determined resolve. The fiery tendrils swirled and twirled, each arc accompanied by a searing impact as they repeatedly impaled Black's form. Each instance of contact birthed fresh wounds, a ballet of violence and heat that triggered spurts of crimson. The blood, like an unholy offering, ensnared the flames momentarily before dissipating into the fiery vortex. This gruesome cycle played out without respite, an unrelenting assault on every facet of the enemy General's being.

The onslaught unfolded with a savage rhythm, the flames tearing through the very fabric of Black's existence. The agony etched across his features bore witness to the torment he endured, as the flames consumed him piece by piece. The inferno first devoured his head, a relentless barrage that eroded his defences and left behind only scorched remnants. Downward, it descended, a cascade of fiery ruination that spared no part of his form. The body was next, ravaged by the all-consuming conflagration, and then the limbs followed suit, leaving nothing but a charred, desolate aftermath in their wake.

Mclaw's understanding was crystal clear – any vestige of Black's being could spell doom for them all. And so, he persevered, his control over the flames unwavering. Mabasa, recognising this was the moment to end this, added his flames to the fray. His incendiary power merged seamlessly with Mclaw's, a united front of relentless destruction against a foe whose very essence was being consumed by the inferno.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the torrent of flames ceased. The conflagration's fiery roar was replaced by a silence that echoed across the desert expanse. Amidst the dissipating smoke and the lingering scent of charred remains, the task force operators stood in stark contrast to the devastation they had wrought.

Mclaw's weary but triumphant nod signalled the end of the tumultuous battle. Collapsing onto the sand, his laughter rang out into the aftermath of chaos, "Well shit lads and lasses. How the hell did we pull that off?"

Mabasa, his breath ragged from the exertion, sat ahead of him, grappling for composure amidst the aftermath, "No clue, John. No fucking clue." The shared sentiment encapsulated the incredulity of their victory, a testament to their indomitable spirit in the face of the impossible.