There were many gunshots, and then there was silence.

And then, there was one last, that which seemed to ring the loudest.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams watched as Cerberus’ line of Sentrymen decimated the Enforcer’s in an almost ruthlessly efficient manner. He watched as Lieutenant Colonel Schneider walked right up to the masked man, who was doing a rather magnificent job screaming and squirming and groaning about in pain amidst the sands.

And then he watched as the bullet sailed forth.

As the girl with the yellow hair and the metal collar reached out.

As the pale man pulled his own revolver free, spent a single bullet punching one massive hole straight through the Enforcer’s less mangled hand, and then realizing rather quickly he was late.

And it was pointless.

And what’s done was done.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams watched as Lieutenant Colonel Schneider’s head reared from the impact, with his neck following suit, and the shoulders, chest, and rest of him thereafter — spare for the legs and knees.

They were still, anchored.

They kept him upright, as if he was a puppet in suspension — a marionette upon strings, leaning so far back at an impossible angle one would be forgiven to think gravity itself had ceased to be.

The yellow haired girl stopped in her tracks.

The pale man looked on in disbelief.

The Enforcer froze.

And the Wolf of Mek’shed forced his entire upper half back into place — back upright — as if he was more machine than man.

There was a bullet between his teeth.

And a disgruntled look upon his face.

“Close.”

He bit down.

The metal shattered.

The blood ran.

And it was not at all red.

It was black.

“Too close.”

So very black.

Thick.

Lustrous.

Black.

Like oil.

“Thank you.”

***

The Wolf of Mek’shed stumbled forth, zombie-like, almost as if his body was still recuperating from the bullet — from the initial shock — and it was, in fact. The programming had kicked in a split second before impact and saved his life, yes, but it had kicked in a split second too late, and now the strain was more than just noticeable.

So were the damages.

So was the taste of oil on his tongue.

The blur in both eyes.

And the ringing in his ears.

The human body — or more precisely, what’s left of one — was designed to handle only so much stress.

Only so much sudden, quick, jerking, physically impossible, improbable, infeasible movements.

The brain, the lungs, the heart — most of the internal anatomy — was fragile, prone to injury. Six inches of serrated steel, 200 milligrams of potassium cyanide, a small explosion, a hole in the carotid artery, a wrong move, a misstep, a single bullet hastily fired from the end of one concealed pistol was, more often than not, sufficient in rendering whole systems dead, offline — more so if it affected the skull region. Even if preventative measures ensured greater survivability, lesser damages, and prolonged functionality, there was infection, or sepsis, or an almost infinite number of variables unaccounted for which, in one way or another, led to certain death — decommissioning. Worst still, there was the slow passage of time wreaking havoc on all things living and breathing, and time was an adversary not so easily bested.

Thus was the frailty of flesh.

Thus was the frailty of humanity.

Life.

Man.

Always in a constant state of regression.

Decay.

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Expiry.

A slow march towards the inevitable end.

The body was a complex machine with individual cogs and gears meshing and turning in unison — in absolute perfection — to facilitate the locomotion of a far greater, completed system. A single failure in any point could prove disastrous if left unchecked for long, hence the obvious need for improvements.

Augmentations.

Or in the case of a certain lieutenant colonel, replacements.

First was the cardiac system, burnt and charred and blackened to a crisp, replaced by a prototype combustion engine.

Next was the circulatory system, torn asunder and barely functioning, restored by long lines of flexible tubing.

Then there were the rest, less-essential — a left lung, a right eye, parts of the stomach and both kidneys, a set of arms and a pair of legs — all made metal and given new expiration.

And finally was the brain.

A web of mysteries, and one not a soul from the Imperium to the Navylan to the lands beyond could even begin imagine untangling. It was a marvel of nature the most dedicated and intelligent of the empire could not replicate — let alone replace — and they had been trying, so very desperately for so very long. Yet, it was paramount the brain be fully functional — fully operational — able to support the strains of its new and improved system, and deteriorate at an almost acceptable, if not profitable, rate.

It was, simply put, quite the impossible operation.

The technology necessary was but pure theoretics.

And the expertise required — nowhere to be found.

It could not be done.

It was not feasible.

Not plausible.

Not something within the current capabilities of the empire.

For any regular surgeon and roboticist, that is.

It was doable — child’s play, lightwork actually — for a certain psychopath doctor locked away in an unnamed Cerberus prison cell who had somehow, someway, acquired an extra hour of yard time each day. The lieutenant colonel didn’t notice, nor did he seem particularly interested in conducting an investigation into such incidental discrepancy; one could speculate he was turning a blind eye, in fact — purposely looking the other way.

But even so.

Even with the metal in his body.

The chrome in his bones.

And every conceivable piece of technology pushed beyond its reasonable limits.

The human in him proved to be an ever-pressing weakness.

A stain.

A spot.

A problem.

And one not so easily erased.

Even now, simply putting one foot in front of the other, he could feel the metal rip and stretch and fracture; he could feel whatever was left of the human body — and mind — protest. The Wolf of Mek’shed was neither hurt nor upset nor wanting to tear the squirming man before him in equal halves.

He was frustrated, more than anything else, really.

Frustrated that such a lousy attempt had been made at his life, and frustrated at himself — at the lieutenant colonel in particular — for almost having him perish in such a way.

It was pathetic.

Laughable.

A truly all-time low.

And he was not having it.

He towered over the Enforcer, casting shadows unto the man down below who, by all accounts, was still very much so bleeding, very much so squirming about in agony, and very much so making his meager existence known to the wind and desert — to everyone, everything — loudly and obscenely. It was obvious the lack of a left hand was not at all sitting well with him.

The Wolf of Mek’shed offered a boot to the chest.

The Enforcer responded with a groan.

With a cough.

And with the kicking of feeble legs.

“It’s been so long since I’ve breathed the free air. I almost forgot how it feels — how it tastes.”

The masked man was struggling still, mustering every last drop of vigor and attempting to move — to budge, at least — the boot pushing down on his chest.

Suffice to say, the boot did not give an inch.

It started pressing, actually.

Very hard.

Very slowly.

Down and into his ribcage.

Which brought out an almost inaudible crack.

And then a most audible scream.

“Oh — yikes. I apologize. It has been a moment since my last interaction with one of you humans; I remember now — how fragile your kind are.”

More crack.

More screaming.

“Oh would you calm yourself,” the boot was removed, and then promptly replaced by a grasping, clasping, clawed hand to the neck. “You’ll live.”

The Wolf of Mek’shed heaved his masked friend off the desert sands, and into the air.

And then he let the Enforcer dangle.

Bleeding.

Gasping.

Choking.

Dying.

“Though just barely.”

***

“Wolf, that’s enough. Put him down."

“I think not. He deserves death; it is a fate befitting of such fragile life forms.”

“We need him. He has answers.”

“You need him. This thing serves no use to me, and last I checked, I was in control of this putrid form you call a body.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

“Oh?”

“Put. Him. Down.”

Captain Petra approached.

Slowly.

“Wolfy?”

“And what are you going to do if I don’t? Scold me?”

“I might.”

“Hah-hah! You’re a peach, lieutenant colonel.”

“Or I might just decide to pull the plug.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Your head is as much yours as it is mine, remember?”

“How much are you willing to bet on that?”

Captain Petra stretched out a hand.

She stepped closer still.

“Anyone home?”

“How much are you? Her life, perhaps?”

“You won’t make it.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I can assure you, lieutenant colonel, damaged as it is, this body has plenty power left to spare. I’ll make the cut before we make the drop.”

“Ready?”

“Start the count, then.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Captain Petra reached for the shoulder.

“Hey.”

The Wolf twitched.