In a book series featuring a mercenary who has committed numerous acts of barbarism, this is an excerpt from when the man who was once willing to die for others finally begins to rediscover such motivation.
The siren blared, mocking and taunting in its repetition.
The emotions that had overcome the mercenary moments before were gone. To the doctor, the man before him was like he always was; cold. Ruthless. The doctor couldn’t, however, shake the feeling that perhaps there was more to the man he only knew as “Anti” in that moment. His eyes, as cliché as the metaphor was, were like that of a storm, swirling with lightning and malice, hovering stationary just on the horizon.
Dr. Skarsgard lowered his head slightly, his gaze going to the form on the bed in the other room, covered sympathetically with a bed sheet.
He did not envy those whose intrusion caused the klaxons to twist and howl.
Anti stood motionless for a moment, then with the disturbingly calm demeanor the doctor knew was every bit the façade as the mask the mercenary held, Anti leaned his head back, then circled it, cracking his neck.
A horrible habit.
The mercenary slowly, but with purpose, slid his mask back on, his face covered by the black layered fabric, taking a moment to adjust the small metal visor that covered his eyes. The light from the lensed view-holes hid Anti’s eyes, and Dr. Skarsgard was glad to not be looking into them in that moment.
The mercenary reached up, feeling that his familiar sword was secure in its sheath and that the claw was still hooked to the sword’s handle. He lowered his arms, and twitched them, alternatively extending the wrist blades and tonfa sticks that were hidden and attached, respectively, to his forearm guards. Satisfied, Anti’s hands reached down, and carefully pulled his handguns from their holsters.
On the security screens that lined the consoles next to the doctor, dozens of armored men could be seen, flanking each other down the decrepit hallways that hid the mercenary’s base from the public. Skarsgard saw shotguns and rifles and pistols and grenades; a small army was making their approach to their position.
Again, he did not envy them.
“What are you going to do?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of the computer screens.
Anti used his thumbs to pull back the hammers on both of his pistols, the chrome plating reflecting the ancient lighting back to the walls of the former bunker. His right arm moved to his left, and with a thumb he pressed a button on the left gauntlet the doctor knew was connected to Anit’s MP3 player. The faint sounds of “Under The Sea” could be heard.
Again, Anti rolled his head and cracked his neck.
“You ever watch a Godzilla movie when you were a kid?” Anti asked, his voice coming through the filter device in his mask, more dead than usual. There were no emotional inflections, and only his tone demeaned the statement a question.
“Yes,” the doctor answered, looking back at the mercenary.
Anti’s gaze leveled at the door that led to the hallway, which in turn led to the group of men entrenching upon them.