The pain is immediate and overwhelming, a searing agony that eclipses everything I've ever felt. It's not just a graze this time; I've been shot, truly shot. My body reacts instinctively, blocking out the pain, but the shock is still there, a cold realization that this is real, this is happening. I can feel the blood, warm and sticky, spreading across my skin, soaking into my clothes.
I try to move, to get away, but the pain is a weight, pinning me down. Mr. ESP's face is a blur below me, his expression unreadable in the dim light, as he holds the flashlight to my face, trying to blind me. I'm vulnerable, exposed, and for a moment, I feel a wave of helplessness wash over me. But then, the adrenaline kicks in again.
"A moment, Mrs. Small?" He asks, like he's asking a favor, as the magazine slides out of his pistol and clacks against the floor. He grabs a new one from his belt, loads it in, and the animal fear inside me reignites like a fire.
Lacking options, I punch him in the face. The teeth in my knuckles pop open his skin, raking against his flesh, opening pretty little holes, but the pain doesn't seem to deter him from trying to bring his pistol back to bear against me.
As Mr. ESP and I grapple on the damp concrete floor, my mind races back to the aikido sessions with Rampart. I try to recall every hold, every pin he taught me, but it's hard to focus with the pain screaming through my body. Mr. ESP is strong, his muscles straining against mine, but I rely on my agility and the sharp teeth emerging from my fingertips.
Our struggle is a brutal dance, a contest of technique against brute strength. My makeshift claws dig into his skin, tearing through fabric and flesh, trying desperately to gain the upper hand. We roll, each trying to overpower the other, our movements erratic and desperate.
In a fleeting moment, I see an opening. I shift my weight, trying to maneuver into a position where I can use my head to knock the gun from his grasp. It's a risky move, but I have to try. My head snaps forward, aiming for his hand, but at the last second, he twists away, and the gun remains firmly in his grip. The struggle continues, each of us fighting for survival in the suffocating darkness of the abandoned subway.
Blood drips and ebbs out of the holes in my stomach, right where a boat tore my guts out what feels like a lifetime ago. I'm not concerned about my own survival. I've survived worse.
In the heat of the grueling struggle, I channel every ounce of strength and focus into my body. My entire form tenses, the muscles in my arms and back coiling like springs. I concentrate, willing the sharp, tooth-like protrusions to emerge from my palms, right where they can inflict the most damage.
The teeth break through my skin, a familiar but never comfortable sensation, like needles piercing from within. They dig into Mr. ESP's wrist, which I have firmly gripped. The pain must be intense for him, as his flesh gives way to the sharp points, blood welling up around the wounds. I can feel his grip on the gun weakening, his resolve faltering under the relentless assault of my new teeth.
Finally, with a pained gasp from Mr. ESP, the gun slips from his grasp. Wasting no time, I kick it away with all the strength I can muster, sending it skittering into the darkness of the tunnel. For a brief moment, there's a sense of triumph, a small victory in this brutal encounter. Mr. ESP's head reaches up to meet mine with a loud CRAK!, and I stumble back, reeling, dazed.
The gun is lost, light jostled off in the struggle, leaving the two of us in total darkness. Behind me (ahead of me?), further down the subway, Jordan and Spinelli jostle for position with Mudslide. Jordan keeps his mud traps away from anyone's feet, while Spinelli is grappling and choking, attacking the way you'd expect any long-limbed monkey to attack.
"How's it feel to get made a fool of by the same bunch of kids over and over again?" I ask, feeling safety in the dark, even as the blood oozes out of my wound.
"It's not a huge deal. We've got more important irons in the fire. Frankly, we don't think about these minor setbacks much at all." Mr. ESP says, moving slowly, arms up. He's getting defensive, physically. "There's about a dozen men with guns aboveground on both ends of the subway. If the soldiers can't finish you off, then it's whatever. You're not really our objective here, anyway."
"Right, you're here for… Illya," I say, feeling awkward about the name all of a sudden. Weird time to feel awkward about it, but whatever, brain. I jab a fist out, just to test Mr. ESP's defenses - and his night vision. Minimal. He can't even see me coming to react in time, only brace himself once he feels the teeth cutting into his skin and his clothes.
Those cut-resistant suits are pretty nifty, though. The only really vulnerable spots on him are his wrists and his face - nowhere else is exposed enough that I can jab him open. But his forearms keep both of those things handled. And, bluntly, his injuries are much less severe than mine. I think there's a pretty high likelihood I'm about to pass out if I don't finish this in the next couple of minutes.
Mr. ESP and I both freeze, alerted by the ominous sound of something heavy approaching from down the tunnel. The air seems to thicken with anticipation, and I can almost feel the vibrations through the soles of my feet. My blood sense flares up, detecting the distinct signature of white-hot, bright white blood in the distance, a sure sign of Chernobyl's approach. My heart pounds in my chest, a mixture of fear and resolve coursing through me.
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I turn my attention to Jordan and Spinelli, only to find them limping and bloodied, their bodies bearing the marks of a losing battle. New wounds bleed profusely, and bruises begin to form under their skin, painting a grim picture of their encounter with Mudslide. While I was busy verbally sparring with Mr. ESP, Mudslide got one up on them.
And he's coming. Chernobyl is coming.
I brace myself, every muscle tensed, ready for the confrontation. My mind races, trying to formulate a plan, but the options seem bleak. Mr. ESP, still reeling from our recent tussle, slowly gets to his feet, his expression one of wary anticipation. "Mr. Chernobyl!" He calls down the tunnel. "We're here to discuss business."
The heavy footsteps grow louder, closer, a steady, relentless march that echoes through the tunnel. My blood sense hones in on the approaching figure, a beacon of danger that I can't ignore. The pain from my wounds throbs in time with my quickening pulse, but I push it to the back of my mind. It seems like Chernobyl, judging from the cuts I can smell on him, hasn't been having a great day either, but it means so little in the face of such pure… presence. Lights - dozens of them - blink on at once, filling the subway station with glare like from a floodlight.
I step back, inching closer to my battered teammates, while Mudslide raises his fists defensively, like he's getting ready for a fight. I climb up onto the platform, stumbling to my fellow Auditors, and grabbing them, letting them lean on me for support.
"Sorry, boss. Think I have a concussion," Spinelli says, clearly dazed.
"You don't have a concussion, darling," Jordan hisses, squeezing close to my side. It's as if we've stopped existing to the two operatives - which, well, I guess we might have. It's not like we can stop them from making contact now.
"Stay out of this," Mudslide growls at us, "and maybe I'll consider letting you leave intact."
That's it. We lost.
"As a gesture of good will, we've already prepared a fake ID, travel documents, and 200,000 hryvnia for your wife and daughter." Mr. ESP shouts to the approaching goliath, who barely appears to notice him, each lumbering step dragging his bright lights closer and closer.
"God damn," Jordan gasps, in a mixture of lost breath and awe at Chernobyl's vast mechanical armor - all the dents and injuries left by Liberty Belle patched over and buffed out, like they never even happened.
"Is that…?" Spinelli mumbles, his face pressed into my shoulder.
Clumpf-HISS. Clumpf-HISS. Chernobyl, slowly, painfully, comes face to face with Mr. ESP, looming over him. Like the size difference between you and your labrador. "You're not an easy man to track, Mr. Chernobyl. Apologies for the state of my dress and face - as you can see, we've had a run in with some… juvenile ruffians. But it's handled now."
"I'm aware," he replies, his voice not modulated, but instead crystal clear, through upgraded speakers. It sounds more real than everyone else's voice, more clear, more… present. Like he's the only person really anchored to reality here, and everyone else is part of his dream. His helmet tilts slightly, like he's examining Mr. ESP. "Tell me, do you think you are a funny man?"
"Anyone got a band-aid? I've been shot," I mumble, trying to keep myself up despite the growing pain in my abdomen. As the adrenaline leaks out of me, so too does the pain resistance, and the fact that there is, like, one-and-a-half holes directly through my body is becoming increasingly apparent.
Jordan nudges me in the side, making me wince. "Should we bail? Mission over?"
"Hold on," I whisper back.
"I didn't say anything that was intended to be a joke, Mr. Cher-" Mr. ESP starts, only to be interrupted quite suddenly.
Chernobyl reaches out and grabs Mr. ESP by the head, all of his fingers wrapping around his skull like it's a tomato, or an apple. My heart drops. I immediately think of the piledrivers in his palms - from this distance, on something as soft as a human skull, they'd almost certainly crack Mr. ESP open like a coconut dropped from a great height. Chernobyl lifts slightly, and Mr. ESP comes up with him, writhing like a worm attached to a hook.
"My name is Illya Myronovych Fedorov. If you must affect these false pleasantries, a 'Mr. Fedorov' would be appreciated. I do not respect, nor do I enjoy, your usage of this taunting name that your government has given me. 'Chernobyl'. Chernobyl!" He says, visibly squeezing Mr. ESP's head. "No, we do not have a deal. If I were Japanese, would they have named me Hiroshima? Would they name me Herr Three Mile should I be American? What a farce."
His servos whirr, and before I can realize what's happening, Mr. ESP goes sailing, smacking into the nearest concrete pillar. Not from the piledriver, but just the force built into those hydraulic muscles of his.
Then, he turns to me. "You. I recognize you. From where?"
I swallow harder than I ever have before in my life. "The day you killed Liberty Belle. I was there."
I can feel his smile, as he bears down on me, staying on the rails - his suit too tall to fit on the platform. "I recognize you. I told you not to follow me. And yet, here you are. Why is that?"
Mudslide is standing there, agape, tending to Mr. ESP. I can't tell if Mr. ESP is still even conscious, but I can tell ESP's got a nasty head wound from that throw, and Mudslide is doing his best to patch it up. Audibly muttering to himself, having entirely forgotten his goals.
But I haven't.
I shrug Jordan and Spinelli off of me, and turn to Jordan. They know what I'm going to say before I even need to say anything. Spinelli looks between the two of us, trying to detect the psychic communication.
"If you die, I'm going to be so mad at your funeral," Jordan says, scooting backwards two steps, then three, wrapping Spinelli's gangly arms around their waist. "Come on, love,"
"Huh? What's going on?" Spinelli asks, as they shuffle further down the tunnel, further away from the entrance, further into the dark - where it's safe.
"Sam's about to do something stupid," I hear, out of the corner of my ears, as I hop down from the platform, staring Chernobyl - staring Illya down. "Like a superhero. Let's get you patched up, man,"
"Well, young one?" He asks, kneeling down to get closer to eye level with me.
"I'm here to bring you to justice," I respond, trying to ignore the slowly-closing hole in my abdomen. I crack my knuckles, ignoring much more successfully how my teeth bite into my skin. I've cracked pumice stone with these new tools of mine. I can punch a hole in a jaw-strength-meter, even the really hard ones made of metal, so his armor should be no problem.
And sharks are immune to cancer. That's what they say, anyway.
"Good," he replies, standing back up to his full height, as the sound of gunfire begins to echo from above the tunnels. The shootout between the NSRA and the Kingdom, I'd imagine.
The cavalry's arrived, but I won't need it. This'll be over before then.