Chapter Text
The night in Maracaibo is colder than what he is used to. D’Andre is staying as still as he can in the middle of the night, he’s sweating bullets (normal thing in a mission like this), Robert next to him farts, and he’s sure that he wants to bug out of this place as soon as possible. As much as he could love being a part of the best of the best in America, he could really do without all of this waiting and standing around doing nothing.
The best missions are, after all, entering a place, weapon on hand, and then blasting all of the bastards to free the people. It’s such a simple thing, to want that kind of glory, the one that you can only get in the middle of the battle, to think about the kids singing your praises, and the happiness of the freed people. He can visualize the sheer, pure joy of the women who won’t have to see their kids in prison in Venezuela, the parents who can reunite with their kids, the promise of a better tomorrow.
He fights for them, for the ones who are oppressed. This mission is key to people’s survival, to make life better for them.
D’Andre readjusts his posture. After a few days of this reconnaissance part of their mission (standing around in the dark, doing nothing, then learning the patterns of the bodyguard corps of the one and only white monster of Francisco Fernandez), he’s starting to feel antsy, almost trigger-happy. It feels like cabin fever, every moment that he doesn’t fight is another second of agony of kids and women alike. There’s a sense of urgency in his body, that his mother instilled on him by the sheer force of motherly love, that he has to, by any means possible, help other people be as free as they are here in America, for better or for worse.
He remembers the president, Marcus Bertz, talk to them during the mission debriefing, with the associate they have in Venezuela, and their partner in this mission, Madam Amelie Blanchet, political candidate in the next elections, and happy collaborator for this project. His face, somber and solemn, as they realized the gravity of the mission, what it’s at stake, and what they have to win. As the country they’re in right now has had good relationships with America in the past, they knew that rekindling the alliance that they had in commerce and tourism. So full of opportunities, they said, that after this mission, they could easily live out the rest of their lives in Margarita if they wished, and regarded as saviors of the country.
They all want that, whether it’s for personal reasons, as Marcos has, to the right of D’Andre (he can see out of the corner of his eye as Marcos readjusts his grip on the rifle, then grit his teeth, and D’Andre knows it’s personal for Marcos), for… less than savory reasons (as he knows Robert has, when D’Andre is pretending not to look, he can very much notice Robert eyefuck a few latinas in the few moments that they’re not stalking Fernandez), and for altruistic reasons (as Aaron and him have in mind).
D’Andre closes his eyes, and focuses back on what he knows is true.
He wouldn’t trade these motherfuckers for the world. With so much of their life together as a team, he definitely would want to keep them, even after this. And with this mission, he has the feeling it would be an important one.
Live or die, then that doesn’t matter, he’ll take this chance and never waste it.
In the daily schedule of Fernandez, he notices that around midnight all of the guards rotate, leaving just a few of the guards without much safety or numbers to them, as most of the daily ones are resting. There’s the flaw in their plan: a lot of attacks are better done at night, as they can use the darkness to hide better.
Next to him, Marcos’ face turns into a grimace, and hears a whispered curse word that he still doesn’t understand, but he agrees to that notion. He wants to rip enough bullet holes to qualify all of those traitors to their country as swiss cheese. In the communication device they have, and straight to D’Andre’s earpiece, he can hear the crackle of communications opening up. Hector, their designated computer guy, speaks in hushed tones.
“Ten minutes for the beginning of Operation: Bolivar,” Hector says, another crackle of the line happens, then follows up, “the plan is to get in the middle of the night, assassinate Fernandez, then get out, got it?”
That’s the gist of the plan. Simple, really. But things aren’t as simple as that. There’s more directives to the plan. Blanchet explained in clear and uncertain terms: any guards that raise fire are to be shot instantly, any civilians not related to Fernandez are to be restrained but not harmed, and Fernandez and his family are to be exterminated, no options for negotiation. Don’t shoot unless threatened, and silence anyone who may try to endanger this operation, lethally or not.
No issues so far. He reviews the rules in his head, the voice of Blanchet clearly coming through. He prepares his grip on his weapon. Adjusts his posture once again, then says:
“Roger that.”
“Very well, under my command, Team Condor.”
Hector’s voice sounds loud and clear. D’Andre thinks again of all the people that are going to be saved with his actions. Of the freedoms gained, wounds that will heal. It gives him enough strength to hold his gun tighter, fearing that any misstep may cause their demise. Numbers, as they are right now, are against them (D’Andre counts around thirty men to their measly four), but that never stopped the four of them from saving Panama from their dictatorship, D’Andre muses.
The only thing that could go wrong is that they don’t account for external factors. But Hector is there to give directives, so it’s not a big problem. He’s sure, by the third time that he repeats it in his head, that they will win, that the people of this country are going to be safe from these people, that they’ll make it out of this alive. That their next step, assassinating the president, will be successful.
As long as he keeps those thoughts deep in his heart, he’s sure that the team will triumph, come what may, God has a way of making things work for them.
D’Andre prays, if only to ask for a blessing.
“One minute for takeoff, Team Condor.”
“Roger.”
“So, you’re looking to tell me that this is what’s happening, right?” Surtr says, as he stands in front of a thousand screens, all of them showing different planes of a mansion.
Illuminated faintly by the screens, he can see a man dressed as sharp as he can, as if he’s going to a separate event.
He knows the name: Francisco Fernandez, current Mayor of Maracaibo, and actual collaborator to the current government in place. As for the reason that he’s here…
Surtr sees a group of men, back in the garden, who look very different from the guards of the mansion. As of now, they’re just in a stationary place. He can’t see much, but the phone confirms the presence of four hearts in the shrubs, at a distance. There’s not much else he can discern from the site he’s in.
Fernandez has his hands shaking, but tries to control it.
“You understand the situation, right?” His voice sounds unsure, as if Surtr is a bomb about to explode. “They’re coming for me… I need you to help me.”
It would be pitiful, the way he’s begging for his life, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s a dead man walking with the way things are going. He makes a wrong move, in or out of this bunker, and there goes his life, and the ones of his wife (way too young for a mid-fifties man), and his child (product of a previous marriage, likely).
He can say no, but something in his heart forbids him from doing so. So Surtr turns around to face him, and leans back on the console table. He relaxes his posture a little bit. He knows that lives are at stake here, but just because that is the situation at hand, doesn’t mean he can’t take advantage a little of this.
No one said that this had to be an altruistic endeavor.
“I am. Cross my heart if I won’t do that.” Surtr can almost hear the desperation of the man in question, but he raises his hand, as if to stop him. “Just because I said yes, doesn’t mean I won’t be compensated for this.”
“What—“
Surtr interrupts even further.
“This is something that is beyond my usual responsibilities. Protecting the citizens from Nightmares is my job. Not defend against assassination attempts.” At the protest that was about to happen, he tuts Fernandez. “I am not saying I will take your entire estate, so don’t cry about it. I will discuss the payment once I finish the job.”
“Thank you—“
“Hold it.” Surtr gets closer to the man. Even now, he feels taller, stronger, better than Fernandez, who, in spite of his height advantage over Surtr, feels smaller than ever. “I have a strict rule: I will restrain and apprehend them first, then take over from there. I won’t kill before I have what I want from the invaders. Such barbaric things like a bloodbath are not my style.” Surtr gets even closer, and puts a hand on Fernandez’s shoulder. “Have I made myself clear?”
A few moments of hesitation, maybe to say some slurs at his face, yet Fernandez says nothing to him, maybe because Surtr is the one with the power, as the measly thirty guards are not going to save him from a specialized assassination team, and one that very likely orchestrated the whole Panamá affair. Surtr grabs Fernandez by the balls, his grasp firm enough to make Fernandez gasp.
“One more thing.” His tone turns dark, and Surtr leans towards Fernandez’s ear. “Betray me, and I’ll make you wish these invaders were the ones to kill you and your family.”
Then, satisfied with seeing Fernandez stiffen up, and not out of horniness, he turns more gentle with his touch, and his hand leaves the poor balls of Fernandez, who is at this moment begging to have his balls freed from Surtr’s vice grip. Surtr can hear, if only a bit faint, the whimpers Fernandez makes when he’s left alone.
Poor man.
No one really asked him to do any of the things he did. But Surtr can guess that securing the life that Fernandez thinks his kid deserves is enough to justify it. Surtr won’t pry into it. He’s definitely not in the place to judge, as he’s already accepting his request.
And there’s a difference between helping a kid with their homework, and to defend a politician from a murder attempt. He definitely doesn’t like the guy, and would gladly throw him to the wolves, but…
There’s some goodwill in the guy, and he doesn’t have anything else to go off, other than his own disdain for politicians.
He stops himself from thinking anything else. He’s doing this job for now. If anything else comes up, he’s becoming a double agent. Who’s to say?
“Then I don’t have anything else to say!” Surtr even smiles for added effect to all of this. “Have a good night’s sleep, Mayor. I will make sure it’s a peaceful night for you!”
With a bow, he makes his way to the exit of the basement bunker. His step is light, and surveys the resting guards, most of them making sure to grab weapons and enough equipment to lay down their lives for their king— their mayor. Surtr turns his phone on, then opens the app. In there, there’s a new quest for him.
Battle Ready
Defeat the four invaders (0/4)
He clicks Accept, and the small jingle on the phone is proof enough that he’s committing to this course of action.
Sitting on top of a wood beam, Surtr surveys the situation at hand. No one is in here, but with the darkness, and the vent tubes next to him, he is sure that there’s no reason to despair over being seen at the moment. His breathing is even, and by now he’s holding his phone, the quest giving him a little bit of help as there’s radar-like tool in his app now. It kinda feels like other video games where you can get a map with a radar to track treasure or special things. He’s now seeing four red hearts beeping at the same time, and there’s some ten or something back in the basement, then three in the bunker. The rest are spread out.
He’s sure that those four hearts are not guards. Those are the invaders. Shit.
There’s not much to hear, and the sounds of gunshots are absent. So that means they’re already in.
Surtr moves using a pipe to avoid making any noises. The phone is off, as he’s already making way into the main room. The lack of space is starting to bother him. He starts to brush away any thoughts that are inappropriate for the moment at hand.
His body moves swiftly across all of the vents, trying to minimize as much noise as he can, then maximize his speed and distance. It is not an easy thing, even with all of the dust of the world in the place that he’s in. Probably good to clean up while he’s here.
He checks the phone. The four hearts start to separate from each other, very likely moving along each of the main stairs leading into the second floor. Perfect. He can work with this. Kazuto would very much have difficulties with making any progress with this, but he’s fine. He’s a big boy. His body can take the punishment, and he’s more than ready. Beasts made to destroy the world are the bigger threat than a ragtag pack of American war dogs will ever be.
And yet, his hands shake. He’s swallowing thickly, the thoughts of blood and corpses fill his mind. He’s not sure how many of the guards will die, and even if he is capable of ignoring any of the possible ways Fernandez would die, and he would not shed a tear for the guy if he does wind up dead, but the guards are a different story.
Nothing more than cannon fodder, ready to lay their lives down for the king…
Surtr shakes his head, and the thoughts, away. He has no time for this. The more he stalls, the more people will wind up dead.
He tracks one of the hearts, choosing the leftmost one, as that’s the slowest moving one. Easy to outspeed, as long as no fights break out. There’s a guard (now marked as a blue heart with his new allegiance to Fernandez) nearby, but Surtr is closer to the guard with the vent than the invader is. There’s also a green heart, he doesn’t know what it is.
Well, he’s sure that as soon as the invader approaches, he’ll be sure that any body is gonna be a corpse soon enough. No way to do any tricks with the Schrodinger’s Cat.
Testing the strength of the vent entrance, Surtr kicks it down and falls into the room below. One of the guest bedrooms, and the place where both a security guard, and a woman (he can assume it’s the mother-in-law, judging by the picture of the bride and herself). As soon as he lands, he shushes down the man, gesturing for him to lower his weapon.
The guy is in his early twenties, way too thin and wiry to be anything other than his first month on the job. He’s too eager to jump at the gun, so maybe that counts for something.
Surtr has some choice words for Fernandez.
“Quick, hide.” His whisper is heard, and Surtr gestures towards the bathroom as he starts to wake up the lady. “There’s an assassin approaching.”
The extra clarification is enough to help the guard connect the dots as he quickly moves to communicate something. He’s there to protect the old lady, Surtr assumes, which would be cute, if it weren’t for the fact that there’s an entire family in a fucking bunker downstairs in what is probably a mystery novelist’s wet dream. And of course, if you’re about to be killed by an entire American A-Team knock-offs, you’ll leave your least desired family member to work as bait.
Amazing what someone can do with so much money. And little heart. Jesus.
She’s startled, but as soon as she sees the guard, she calms down as Surtr hears some words in Spanish that he can’t quite make out. Some steps behind him as they leave.
The door closes behind the two. The bathroom has a connection with at least two other rooms, so picking anything other than this room is a fair choice, as these rooms are away from the other three invaders. Which gives them more breathing room. And he’s sure that they have guards in a lot of rooms. Probably.
He quickly checks. At least one blue heart on every room in their vicinity, so no problems there. However, the red heart nearest to him is getting so close, he’s sure that this invader heard something.
Surtr uses his sticky hands to stick to the ceiling, near the door. The more sudden his appearance can look, the better. He creates from his chest a few of these sticky hands. Pretty handy for a fight or a quick getaway. Heh.
The higher he is, the less he can be noticed. Using some force, he swings his left hand downwards, to open the door of the room as quickly as possible, and to draw attention away from the pair of runaways.
As the door creaks, the sound of boots approaches. Too quick, but he has to be even quicker. He hides out of simple eyeview.
“Francisco Fernandez, you are a dead man!” He yells, as he kicks the door open as much as possible. “You can’t hide from me, you motherfucker!”
There, a big, muscular man in what is easily a pair of dark pants and a t-shirt too tight for his own good approaches, gun in hand. Entering the room, the man looks to his left and his right, but what he isn’t looking is at Surtr.
Great. He’s got the loose cannon. Better now that ever.
Almost like a spider approaching a bug, Surtr gets a bit lower, using his right foot for impulse before the door closes completely, trapping the two of them in the room.
Surtr makes use of the surprise element and pounces on the man, a swift kick intercepted by the hand of the man, then another one to get him off and Surtr rolls on the floor as he recovers momentum.
“You should go back to the kennel, you bitch!” Is the only thing Surtr manages to hear as he sees the man pointing the gun at him.
No time to think. He uses the sticky hand number one to catch the gun, and another one to cover his eyes. Then, he pulls, his strength easily overpowers the man.
He can feel his heart beat so quickly. But he quickly receives an attempt at a headbutt from the man, as he’s now blinded. Surtr rolls on the floor again, avoiding the impact, as the man crashes into the nightstand.
Surtr uses the sticky hand number two to catch his other arm, then ties it to one of the bedposts, using the rest of the toy to pull the man towards him.
As the man stumbles backwards, he can hear a curse in Spanish. Surtr starts to feel alarmed. He quickly changes plans.
Now he uses another sticky hand, and vaults on top of the nightstand, then uses the momentum to run a few steps on the wall, and pulls the gun hand away from his face, almost eating a bullet as he shoots three times, before the man has his gun arm bent in an awkward position, and Surtr can hear an audible crack as the man yells out of pain.
Surtr takes sticky hand number three and grabs the gun, then yanks it away.
Well. This could have gone better. A lot better. But now that there’s a first shot, someone else will catch that, and it won’t be pretty.
Surtr creates the sticky hands number four and five to tie the man’s feet and torso to each other, then to the bedpost, in what is likely the most awkward position known to man.
One more sticky hand seals the deal, as he now covers the mouth.
He thinks this whole thing lasted for ages. In reality, it only lasted for thirty seconds, tops.
This ended as soon as it began. Surtr’s heart still beats fast. He’s sure that now the others are starting the pandemonium, so he starts to rummage through the man’s clothes (and why not feel him up while he’s at it, as he looks like a super hero with that physique?), and finds a small walkie-talkie. And an ID card.
In it, there’s a picture of the man, clearly done during the days as a normal soldier, as he sports the military buzzcut, his darker skin contrasting with the white t-shirt that seems too big for him at the time.
The name: Marcos José Pineda Montiel.
He hesitates to break it, as he doesn’t hear any sound of communication at the moment. But then breaking it is going to be another thing that can worsen his current position.
Other than the radar, he has no idea on what these people are like. And Google searches just give him a list of the top twenty Navy SEALs from 1980 and older. So searching anything like that is not in his interest.
The more information he has on them, the better.
He ends up keeping it, strapped on his hip, as he climbs back to the vent system.
A small ping on his phone indicates a change in the current mission. It updates automatically as soon as he defeats one of them, it seems.
He sees that the progress bar advanced at least a twenty-five percent.
So that means he’s done a good job of defeating one of the invaders. Good.
What Surtr forgets on the way up is a second ID card, falling out of the man’s pockets. This one, quite different from the one Surtr has on him, is designed with the tricolor flag, and eight stars. The exact flag from Venezuela.
Holding the gun in hand, D’Andre paces around the halls. Heavy breathing, he is still looking for Fernandez. He’s not in sight, or any room adjacent to the ones in the hall he’s currently walking by. Marcos, for some reason, didn’t reply. Not a first in these missions, as he’s the first to go all Jenkins and face off alone. He’s always come back, even while bloodied and bruised. But he’s back.
This time, a small sense of dread hits the bottom of his chest. D’Andre’s not the type to dwell on this, so he saves it for later as he turns around a corner. Marcos is fine, he says to himself. He’s always been fine.
A quick blur of white and black, and D’Andre instantly fires, watches the pink mist and a sudden thud of a corpse on the floor is the next thing he sees from the guard. It is quick and painless. One shot is all he needs, ever since the first time he handled a gun.
He hears more steps approaching, knowing for sure that there’s going to be hell on this mansion. Some words he can’t catch in Spanish, and he’s sure he’s the next target. D’Andre prepares again, hides behind a pillar as the shots pass by.
One. Two. Three, four, five. All different weapons. Five men, with a pistol each.
Leaning to his right, D’Andre shoots the biggest threats. The two first shots were closest to him. Ironically, he knows the two bodies furthest away from him are the ones he killed. The other three approach.
For a split second, he’s imagining he’s not in Venezuela, but instead in a mission in Central America. Back in Panamá, the same situation plays out. Three men running after him. It feels less like his own life, and more like an action movie.
He is the hero of this story, after all.
D’Andre gets away from the pillar, moving to the next one, as the next round of bullets is more ruthless than the first one. Not impossible odds. They all shoot in unison, difficult to find an opening. Doesn’t mean he can’t find one. D’Andre leans out, peeks at the quick recharging of all the weapons, then shoots thrice. No bodies are left alive. Three dull sounds and he steps out of the pillar’s protection.
It all went like this. Details blur in and out of his conscience. In one moment, he’s running away from the Panamian drug cartel they were dismantling (turns out that the drug cartel was an entire government overseeing the operations, but he’s not splitting hairs about the difference), then in the next moment, he’s in a Venezuelan mansion, sorrounded by dead bodies, the smell of gunpowder, and the wet feeling of blood on his boots. His pace picks up.
By this point, D’Andre is pushing out emotions, as he quickly recharges the gun, pulls out the other one he has in his back pocket. In the distance, far enough that they don’t notice him, but close enough to make out their general shapes, he can see at least four guards. None of them are or look experienced enough.
Panic runs in their voices and adds that edge of desperation only someone who’s a mess during a disaster would have in them. He pities them, truly.
It’s showtime, motherfuckers.
D’Andre vaults over a fallen table (used as a shield), then rolls forward, as soon as his face is clear to the men, D’Andre’s hands are quick on the trigger. It’s too late for any of them.
He doesn’t dwell on it. He’s taken out at least ten of these at the moment. Who knows how many the others got. But he’s fine with this outcome.
The halls just seem endless and more labyrinthine the more he runs across them. Left. Then right, then left. Straight ahead, then guns. Recharge. He’s breathing, moving on autopilot. His brain replaces all of the guards with an abstract enemy, back in an old simulation they played through. D’Andre remembers the image: a bunch of Communists with the sickle and hammer. The pixel art style is enough to glitch his perception of reality. Suddenly, the world isn’t in high definition, as it all turns into a 16-bit graphics game.
Three more. He barely hears anything from the other sides. No gunshots, no steps. Just the three dirtbags in front of him. They don’t have faces, lacking any kind of definition. Anonymous, like an enemy should be. Asking questions is when the mind strays from the right path. Shoot it until there’s nothing else but blood and rotten meat.
D’Andre hears the same sound. Suddenly he feels as if he got a power up, and runs across the hall like a missile. Almost cuts the air.
This level, right now, seems to be designed to test his patience. He’s still going. Don’t stop, don’t think, don’t dwell on it.
This last corner, he turns and sees the rest of the hallway. This one is the second furthest one. He stops.
His heart beats. Silence spreads across the hall. He stores one weapon. The other one stays on his hands, as he steps ahead, quietly walking. In front of him, the sight of broken glass, gunshot holes in the wall, and destroyed wood ripples across the entire screen of the level.
The level—
He snaps out of it. He’s not in the simulation anymore. D’Andre kicks the furniture away, as the rest of the damage is enough to make his frown deepen.
Just what the hell happened here?
“Red Five speaking. Alpha Red, do you hear me?” Hector’s voice breaks him out of the question. Back into the mission at hand.
“Alpha Red, copy.” His voice comes out low.
“I don’t hear anything from Delta.”
Before he even replies, there’s another crackle from communications. The walkie-talkie’s voice that comes through has interference. He’s about to ask why when he hears Robert cough.
“Beta Red, copy.” He has to cough more, most likely out of pain from a broken rib. He wheezes and whines. “Wounded. Still alive.”
“Beta Red, stay where you are.”
“Back in the room. Two suns on… the left.” Hearing the reference is easy enough to decipher that D’Andre makes sure to keep that in mind.
Maybe they weren’t as untrained and panicky as he thought.
Back in the room, he says. Back in the room. Ba th room. Bathroom. The second hall from left to right is the one Robert picked. Suns refer to the painting of the room. Second door on the left to the hall.
Enough misdirection to manage to hold some eavesdropper off, but clear enough that D’Andre understands quickly.
The halls blur amongst each other, and now he’s making his way through the mansion. No guards appear at this point.
“Alpha Red, report status.”
Without a pause, he speaks.
“Alive. No signs of the others?”
“No. I think they’re…”
D’Andre closes his eyes. This is not something he’s supposed to dwell on.
“They’re alive. I know that.”
Hector says nothing. He’s not sure of what to make of it. His heart starts to drown out the rest of the world. It almost feels as if the entirety of the world is filled with static noise. It glitches the entire system, causing interference.
Look up, his brain says.
And in a dark spot on the ventilation area, he sees a pair of red dots. Unblinking. A stare that does not stop.
It is gone as soon as he sees it.
“Hector.”
A pause.
“Hector.”
Another pause. No sounds. The hum of the air conditioner is the only thing that he can hear, distant. Like it’s on another room. As if he can sense it from a world too far away that he cannot access.
“You’re truly short-sighted, D’Andre.”
And his blood starts to run cold.
In a flash, he sees the beeping hearts again. Three left. Surtr takes a stop on top of the ceiling, by the main hall. Looking at the actual map, he notices that one of the three remaining hearts (the last one, Marcos’ heart, is now yellow) is moving very slowly. He makes a note to visit that zone later. The second one, from left to right, is approaching a pair of green hearts, and he instantly knows what it is.
Making sure to maintain his presence hidden, he moves, the silence making all of his moves even more loud, in Surtr’s mind. He’s definitely going to work on his stealth skills. Maybe putting some points into that skill, he can actually work better under these conditions. But that’ll be for later, of course.
He doesn’t notice that one of the green hearts disappears in his phone’s radar. He’s speeding to get to the room, that the idea of checking again doesn’t cross his mind.
As he approaches the room, he notices a dead body near the door. Surtr wishes he could not see the body.
He closes the young man’s eyes (he had seen him before, back with the old lady), and climbs back up. The least he can do for him is to not let him die wide open.
There’s a voice inside of the room. No gunshots as of now. Radar shows that he’s on time to at least save the old lady, but not sure if that’ll be for long.
“Leave me alone, please..”
Begging for her life, the woman pleads in broken English. Surtr leans over the vent entrance in the room. He unscrews it as fast as he can, but makes a gesture of silence to the lady, if she can see him.
Thankfully, she does. For a brief, if painful, moment, she recognizes Surtr and decides not to scream, but gets a slap with the butt of the gun for her troubles.
“Cat got your tongue, bitch?” At her whimpers, Surtr can hear the man laugh. It is an ugly, deep laugh that someone who wants to hurt others for its own sake can do. “You’re disgusting, ya know? Looking to get some young ass dick.”
Whatever he says, the lady still has some fighting spirit in her. Her face twists in anger, then slaps the man back. Surtr will hand it to her, at least she has the balls to face death with rage.
“Don’t say anything else about my kid.”
A chuckle comes out of the man’s mouth.
“Or what? He’ll shoot me dead?” The man gets closer, his hand preventing almost all air from reaching her lungs. “Your baby is already dead, you dumb slut.” A pause, that the man uses to lick the tears on her face. “But maybe at your old age you can work as my baby maker, huh?”
Okay, that’s enough. Beyond the pale.
Surtr drops from the ceiling, falling on top of the man. He tries to reach the gun, but Surtr’s quicker as he puts a foot on top of the hand nearest to the gun. As soon as he makes eye contact with the woman, he yells.
“Run!” Surtr points at the door of the bathroom, and the lady is slow to pick up the pace.
He lets off the head of the man, only to drop his foot harder on the back of his neck, if only, to make him suffer.
The man is struggling a lot more, and Surtr thinks quickly and ties one of the man’s hands with the bedpost, just like he did with Marcos.
An animalistic growl almost comes out of the man’s mouth.
“Leave me alone, you bitch!”
Surtr receives a nasty kick to the face, and as he recoils from the damage done, he ends up grabbing the boot that kicked him. He creates another sticky hand and sticks it to the wall. In short, incapacitates the guy with just one arm and one leg available.
“Like I would ever do that.” Surtr, taking another one of the sticky hands he makes, uses it to tie down the man as if he were a roasted pig over the bonfire. “One thing is to go around here and shoot to kill. Another one is to go ahead and try to rape a woman.”
At this, the man just laughs, in the most disrespectful way he can manage. Like raping someone is just a prize.
“C’mon! That woman was going to die anyways, at least let me have my fun…” And then, as if he were a pouty child being denied their favorite toy, he speaks. “That old hag was already beyond her prime, so it’s not like she was going to be a good mother for my kids.”
In a true display of what can only be described as acrobatics, Surtr decides on kicking down on the man’s nose. It breaks and starts dripping blood as soon as his shoe leaves the man’s face. He winces at the sight, or at the mere fact that he’s just with him in the same room sharing air. Disgust comes to him either way.
“Say one more word and you’re dead meat.”
It’s an empty threat, as he doesn’t plan on doing so, but seeing as he cannot do much, the man settles on spitting on Surtr’s pup hood. At the very least, he can grant the guy that. He’s, if anything, compliant. The ugliest grin appears on the man’s face, and he really, really wants to wipe it off his face with another kick.
He holds back on the venom. He’s not worth the time, nor breath. That man will get a worse punishment. Whether it’s from God, or himself, it’s up in the air.
Surtr checks on the man’s pockets to find a wallet and the walkie-talkie. He takes both things with him, not before turning off the latter.
Just as he closes the door with a lock and sticks the toy into the ceiling vent’s entrance, he turns back to face the man in question.
“I’ll be honest with you. Not only do you come into this country to murder people, but you also planned on raping the women you find…”
“That was just a bonus—“
Surtr swings himself up just to give him a kick straight into his teeth. The man swings and jerks up and down on his makeshift hammock.
“Shut your mouth. Forever.” There would be words, paragraphs even, that have all the venom Surtr wants to spew at him. He decides it’s a waste of time. “You’re just despicable. Why even do this for? Freedom and bitches?”
“I couldn’t have said that better.”
Okay. Okay. Fuck this guy, in particular. At least he made an attempt. But it seems that he, specifically, wanted to fuck with him.
Surtr decides to leave him there. It’s worthless to try and escape for the man, as every struggle makes the stickiness worse, so he settles on finding the last two of the men. It’s a better use of his limited time, anyways.
He hears another ping from his phone. Very likely an update on the quest that he has. But this time, there’s an added bonus.
Subquest Completed!
Achievement Unlocked: Upstanding Citizen!
A pop-up appears, saying that he can unlock a special skill to use on enemies. As he checks it, there’s a bright pink button on the middle of the screen. Surtr knows that wasting time is not recommended, but he pushes it anyways, as there’s a flash of pink light that blinds him. It is gone in an instant, and now he’s looking at a tutorial.
“Congratulations on unlocking the Hypno Master branch…” Surtr reads the first sentence of the actual thing.
The pop-up is quite interesting, and even if now he hasn’t noticed any physical changes, he does scroll through a lot of it for now. There’s a small activation prompt, but he decides on ignoring it, because it’ll be saved anyways on the tutorial section.
The rest, however, is a very detailed explanation of what it is, and it reads as follows.
Using these powers, you can create many Pup Helpers, who will follow your every order. To create a Pup Helper, just look deep into their eyes. They’ll find themselves unable to resist looking back!
(Keep in mind that the enemy must be within grabbing distance to become a Pup Helper, and as the effect is permanent, try to use it on your enemies only!)
As you complete more tasks and help more people, you will get more space to store the data of more Pup Helpers, so keep on working as a Hero!
Huh. A small, almost sadistic smile appears on his face. Oh, man. This is good. Very, very good.
Surtr stores his phone in his leotard. It is easier than sticking it up his ass, at least. But now he realizes that he didn’t check the radar. The mistake makes him facepalm and take out the phone again. This time, he opens the radar, and while checking through the rooms, he makes sure that there’s two more to go. One’s closer to him, so he decides on doing that one first.
In the vent’s there’s at least space for him to actually move around comfortably, so he’s swinging by with a lot of ease. There’s an eerie silence in the halls, as he peeks through the vent grates and sees a few dead bodies. No doubt there’s a few dead guards in there.
He has to move on to the next spot. The same.
The more he moves, the closer he gets to this man. It’s only when he sees the actual bald head moving across the halls that he gets to stop and pause. Dressed in all black, like the other ones. But he doesn’t seem to be easy to trick. He almost catches Surtr peeking through the ceiling vent. He looked up to the ceiling
Almost. He waits a few seconds. There’s no sound. But suddenly he feels the bullets graze the pup hood. And now that means another fight, and by the looks of it, that one is very likely to start as soon as possible.
He rolls on the vents, and as he finishes rolling, he quickly falls down to the hall, where the man is pointing the gun and immediately shooting back.
Now, Surtr’s on the defensive. He quickly rolls to one side and rolls forward again. The bullets avoid him by a wider margin. He’s able to recover a bit. Thinks to create something, but the ducky bombs are the first thing on his mind. Out of the question, as they don’t work at all in this.
So he thinks of the opposite. A flashy grenade. The kind that looks like it would send shrapnel flying around. That’s the one.
He gets hit by not one, nor two, or three bullets. He gets hit by five. It does sting like hell, but it seems like the superpowers help to lessen the pain a bit. Surtr bites the inside of his cheek to avoid making any sounds. It instead makes the pain worse. He bears with it. There’s a stinging sensation in his body, as if he’s being attacked by wasps.
Surtr makes use of the fact that the man needs to recharge to act quickly. Prepare the arc, then throw the grenade, as it falls right in front of the man. Quickly, it lights up and starts to leave out smoke.
He throws another one, for good measure. Ducks out of the way of a few bullets. No easy way to dispel the smoke coming out of both grenades, he starts to pick up speed, then uses the current momentum to start scaling the wall, and jumps out with the impulse he just took.
The man reacts quick enough and tries to intercept the first kick that Surtr sends.
Surtr was never aiming to hit with that first kick. Instead of going high, his body falls quickly to the ground as he spins to hit with the second kick, trying to hit the ankle. It works, if only because the confusion allows him to do so.
However, Surtr gets hit in the back with a round kick. Surtr tumbles forward, the impact still stings, but he’s not worse for wear. The man, on the other hand, is.
Great.
Throw another one. His mind starts to go on autopilot. The either runs away or starts to charge at him. No doors on this side of the hall. And jumping up to the vent is not something he can allow himself to do.
A plan that can work. He throws the grenade at the man, immediately blinding him. Then a sticky hand, and using his own body as an anchor, Surtr pulls the man towards him.
One punch to the smoke, in his general direction. He rolls to his side, then pulls again. Surtr uses this chance to take another sticky hand out, then ties both hands together.
Said man tries a kick, and Surtr rolls forwards once again. Once more, another pair of sticky hands and the man falls to the ground in a dull sound. He can hear the man struggle to get out of the awkward, almost uncomfortable situation.
It’s not like he’s going to let him even try. Using the grand total of five sticky hands, he manages to tie the man up like he’s a pig at a state fair. Which is great, because with the piece of meat he can glimpse.
He can’t resist whistling, even if it’s inappropriate.
Surtr really wants to linger with this view: a handsome, roughed-up man is struggling in his bondage, while he can see the huge muscular frame that has each muscle bulge with each movement.
Ah, how he wishes he can—
Well.
He can.
Surtr has the beginnings of an idea forming up.
He grabs the man, and using a sixth sticky hand, starts to drag him across the floor. His screams and grunts be damned.
He makes sure to grab the other two in a similar way. And once all of them are staying in the same room (with each guy tied up into each other, all weapons and possible equipment like the walkie-talkie that the bald guy has are confiscated to avoid any funny business, and all boots taken off), he climbs up to the floor.
The second to last ping happens in this night. He checks it and sees that he has three out of the four, as the progress has also been updated at the same time.
Good. He makes sure to keep all of this in mind, as the plan he’s imagining starts to develop more in his head. Maybe it’s a good thing that the hypnosis reward came in such a moment.
“You’re truly short-sighted, D’Andre…”
Those are the first words Surtr says before leaping over to the man in question. He does not make any other questions or ask motives. That time has passed long ago. He’s now pissed, he hasn’t had a single bite in this whole night, and he’s pretty sure that he’s going to have a horrible night of sleep after this.
At least the idea he has—
He decides not to think much about it. Exhaustion is setting in. He barely hits D’Andre, and it’s not enough to even topple him over. He rolls over the floor, then settles down, facing his enemy.
Just like now, D’Andre doesn’t think things too much, he is the one who’s on the offensive. It is easy to see why he racked up such a high death count with all of the guards. No hesitation behind his hits. His footwork is that of a boxer, swift and lethal. D’Andre makes three jabs at him. Left, right left. Then up.
He avoids the first three, the uppercut leaves Surtr open for a straight jab at his face.
Surtr uses his back foot to regain balance. He thinks quickly and leaves a grenade down there.
As he feels the sensation of his bodysuit being grabbed, he head-butts D’Andre in the nose. All of his body is a weapon. He somehow gets the energy to do a back flip, and avoids a barrage of bullets while making distance between himself and D’Andre. It is enough to gain him some time.
Think of a plan. This is not a man with an easy weakness in battle. Someone who thinks only of causing pain and finishing off quickly, but with enough stamina to hold off for a bit longer.
Surtr sighs. He gets nowhere with this. There has to be another way. Provocation may work. But it can also make everything worse. Rage is a powerful motivator when focused in.
“That all you got? Or did the Americans just teach you three moves?” Surtr prepares himself in a battle stance. He focuses on the sounds. His best ally.
One kick, Surtr avoids. He responds with a move of his own, by swiping his leg to drag him to the floor as he trips on it. D’Andre responds by jumping over his foot.
Surtr doesn’t play fair, as he uses the momentum that D’Andre loses in his favor, and delivers a kick in the balls as soon as he notices the opening to strike.
It is enough to give him a tip in the scales, slightly in his favor now. But nothing else.
“You communist pigs like to play dirty.”
“Not that you’re much better. Ever thought of what your teammates were about to do?” Surtr’s voice, though accusatory, was dripping with venom. “One of your packmates was just about to rape a woman. Wonder why the Americans love their sex crimes.”
As the smoke begins to appear, he makes sure to drop another one behind him, for good measure.
“Only someone like you would lie about it. Our cause is just.”
The small grin that Surtr feels appear on his face should not be this noticeable. And yet, he still wants to suppress it. Oh, how good it will feel to make this man submit. A just cause? The language of knights and doomsday preppers, not the words of a soldier.
“We’ll see about that. You’d only buy time with the blood you’ve spilled.”
“Very high and mighty words. You ever wanted to make a poem with those?”
Surtr laughs. It doesn’t even hurt at all, quite the opposite, in fact. He relishes on the fun of the words that he trades with D’Andre. Someone with less stakes in a game of chess, playing against someone who takes themselves so seriously, that they cannot imagine ever losing against someone worse than them.
“I live to write them.”
“Only faggots and women would say that.”
Okay. That’s enough talking. He’s also shutting this man too. Surtr uses the wider hallway in his favor. There’s no furniture he can throw, but the grenades work as a nice distraction, too. He throws one, then two more, and then one more for good measure. Then, he uses the walls as a platform to jump off of, and runs a little on one of them to give himself some high ground over D’Andre.
He shifts the strategy a little, as he has to avoid more bullets. The more he uses bullets, the easier for him it’ll be to nail the recharge time. He has to look for more bullets. Surtr then uses a small ducky bomb, and throws it as bait. Since the size is adjusted, the strength of the explosion is adjusted too.
The impact makes Surtr back away a little, but it sends D’Andre backwards even further. The boom of the explosion is heard everywhere else.
Surtr recovers quickly, getting back on his feet and getting a sticky hand on the ceiling. He takes a few steps back, feels the way that the sticky hand is getting tighter, and jumps with the extra impulse to help him out.
It is enough to kick D’Andre, but not enough to fully incapacitate him. He’s back up and tries to hit Surtr back with a punch.
Surtr ducks, and at this point he becomes even more aware of how tired he feels. The need to end this as soon as possible gets stronger than before. His body feels cramped and tired, and by now, two hours into this mission, he wants to go to sleep as soon as possible.
But good money is good money. He needs it to help out Akio.
And he knows for a fact that D’Andre will not take this one lying down. Surtr is aware of this. So he avoids the hits that D’Andre is trying to land. Right fist. Left fist. Jab, jab, jab. Then a kick, and Surtr keeps playing keep-away from him. His body begs for him to stop or rest.
When he ends up standing up again, he throws another grenade, which this time receives a bullet, making more smoke appear in a cloud, expanding itself throughout the entire hall.
Surtr decides on ending things as soon as possible, and throws out one sticky hand, hitting the boot of D’Andre. Pulling it, he feels the resistance coming from the rest of D’Andre, and then confirms his general location. He makes sure to send out two more, this time, aiming upwards. And by luck, they hit on one wrist and the chest. Currently Surtr has one sticky hand handle on each hand, then another one in his mouth.
He ties the ones that he has on his hands and then moves them to just one hand. The other now holds the fourth one.
Surtr runs forward, sliding under D’Andre’s feet, and as soon as he feels the sticky ropes tighten with the stress he’s putting them into, he throws the last one, and it hits on the back part of D’Andre’s other hand. He throws another one on the wall, and ties that one to the one on the hand.
By virtue of being the creator of the hands, he is the only one who can recall them at will. So as soon as he hears the sound of boots stomping on the tile, he disappears the one on D’Andre’s chest and then ties one hand and one foot on the same side, and he can hear how D’Andre falls on the tile, a loud enough sound that he can use to confirm where he is.
There, Surtr ties down the remaining limbs so that D’Andre cannot escape from them.
He sighs with relief, because this now means that he’s done with the job. Checking his phone back again, he sees that the app has a new update for him.
On the screen, it reads:
Congratulations on beating this quest! As a reward, you gained: 4 Training Collars, and 4 Chastity Cages!
You have also unlocked a new feature: Pup Management! Check it out once you have created your first Pup!
He ignores the tutorial for now, but judging by how D’Andre looks at him, he’s pretty sure that he, and the others, are expecting him to bring them to Fernandez.
“You have been such a naughty boy… I think it’s time to bring the four of you to justice.”
And as much as D’Andre protests against that treatment, Surtr just places the collar on him, and drags his body along the hall. He’s not too worried that D’Andre gets unruly, as his idea will take fruition very soon, and Surtr just smiles, knowing that his reward will come soon enough.
It takes a few mind-numbing minutes of walking (well, more like dragging a living man across an entire mansion), he arrives at the place that Surtr used as a hideout for the other three members of the squad. In there, on top of the ceiling tile that he used to hide in, there’s the rest of D’Andre’s squad: Robert (the one who tried to rape the old lady), Marcos (loud and angry, even tied up, he’s cursing at Surtr in Spanish and he can only make out every other word), and Aaron (who seems exhausted and resigned to his fate). The look on D’Andre’s face shouldn’t fill him up with so much glee, but he’s still rejoicing on this.
But first, to collect the payment.
He makes sure to take away any hidden weapons, to which only D’Andre and Aaron still had some on them, like a pair of army knives, and a whole revolver in Aaron’s underpants (really?), but he also gets the IDs of each of them. Maybe he can give it to Fernandez and use it as a sort of war prize, considering the hell the Fernandez family went through.
Speaking of, the man in question gets inside of the room now that the coast is clear. Still accompanied by the surviving group of guards, he walks into the room, in what seems to be some sort of relief.
“Good job, dog. You have saved me, and all of our citizens.”
Surtr just shrugs, but shows the IDs of all the men in question. He hesitates to throw them at Fernandez, but he settles on extending the hand that holds them.
“Thank you. While helping the citizens of Maracaibo is part of my job description, you understand that this is me asking for payment, so can we settle that now? Or do you prefer to hear my offer?”
The man just surveys the four new prisoners that Surtr just got, and nods.
“You’ll get rid of these, right?”
Surtr nods.
“Enough so that you can rest easy. They won’t hurt you, nor anyone else after I’m done with them.” Surtr’s voice sounds so eager to do this that it makes him look more glad to be around him. “I think my requests will be simple enough for a man of your caliber to fulfill.”
“You have even saved my mother in law, so go ahead. Whatever you want is yours.”
Surtr has a small chuckle escape his lips.
“Good. Because first, I want you to take these,” Surtr hands the IDs to Fernandez, “and do whatever you want with them. Use them as proof of your attack and reassure the public, or just get them to look like your spoils of war.”
“We are in the midst of an economic war…”
“I understand, and I know that. So, all yours.” He makes a gesture with his right hand, then points at the guys. “I want them stripped of their clothes, get them to a hotel room, no witnesses, and of course my guarantee that they won’t bother you ever again.” Then, as he hears the mouth of one of them get free from the sticky hands, he closes it with his hand. “And of course, the money. And a car, maybe a Lamborghini.” A small pause. “Just joking about the car, by the way.”
As he hears Fernandez laugh, he receives a handshake from the man himself.
“Consider it all done. The room, the money, and the car, even.”
And he feels himself record scratch mentally.
“Wait— “
“I know. But, you did save my life. There’s no price for a life.” Fernandez gets his phone out and looks around the room to the guards. “Now, the rest of you, get moving and strip these guys. Surtr, just take a breather, I’ll get the room nice and ready. And maybe a delivery meal, you more than earned it.” Fernandez leaves the room after getting Surtr’s QR Code for the payment.
Surtr feels weird, but happy at the same time. The payment is in his bank account, and it is displayed with the name blurred out. His name and Fernandez’s name.
He does think a little of what Fernandez said. About not putting a price on a life. Or rather, for certain lives. He’s trading away the money for what is essentially, four men’s lives. But somehow, he finds it difficult to care. These four, as he sees them, have already caused enough damage, killing what is around twenty-three people. And if they’re hitmen, that raises the kill count by a lot. They know enough about murder, and what it takes to do it, that Surtr is cold at the idea of murdering them back.
That would be too easy, he thinks to himself. Death can happen in a moment, and after that, the body is limp and cold.
There’s a better use to such meat than letting it rot on the ground. Maybe he can use them to his advantage, as the idea fully grows and takes room in his head. Making these four into his pups, to help defend the city from Nightmares sounds like an incredible idea.
Just shifting the targets.
He watches as the guards roughly strip all of them, but stop at the underwear. Surtr stands up. He really wants to see them naked. Besides, it’s not like they deserve clothes, anyways.
“Get them naked, it’s better that way.”
The guards look amongst themselves, but shrug as they rip the underwears of all four of them, leaving them naked and with only a few scraps of fabric, not covering anything.
“Much better.” And Surtr stands up, checking them all out.
The guards give him space to do some up close inspection. And when it comes to muscles, Surtr is right that these four were eye candy. All of them have very muscular and ripped bodies, to varying degrees. Robert, out of the four, was the chubbiest, but had the smallest cock. On the other hand, Aaron was the leanest, but his cock, while soft, is the biggest, dwarfing all of them. Almost rivals Surtr’s. But of course, he has already something to invalidate that.
He sees the reaction his continued visual contact has on them, as they have distinct reactions, between trying to turn away from his sight, to making themselves smaller, or just getting redder and redder with each passing second under his view. Of particular interest is Marcos, who just glares at Surtr.
“And what makes you look at me like that?” Surtr’s voice sounds so innocent in contrast to what he’s actually thinking. His foot is touching Marcos’s dick, which is quite cute for how soft and small it is. Totally the opposite of what you’d expect a man like him to be packing downstairs.
“Don’t you dare look at me, you perverted faggot. If you even think of putting your cock in me I will— ”
Surtr ignores him, presses harder on his very small balls, and sees the small penis flop under the top part of his shoe. It is enough to make Surtr giggle, the movement being quite noticeable.
“I’d not be saying things like that if I were you. You’re not in any position to argue.” Surtr bends forward, to have the view from above and get closer to Marcos. “Besides, you’re really thinking you can have any kind of bravado with that tiny thing?” An ungodly snort comes out of Surtr’s mouth, and as he sees the reaction on Marcos’s face, he taunts even further. “You’re really no match for me, and after I’m done with you, you’ll be begging so much for my cock, it’ll make you look stupid, princess.”
There’s a teasing edge to Surtr’s last word, that he knows for a fact will make Marcos rage even more. Though it is infinitely funnier in his eyes.
“You take that back, you little—“
“Stop, Marcos.” D’Andre surprises both of them as he speaks, his voice sounds even more resigned than the other two. “There’s no need to argue. Not worth it.”
“See, princess? You should pay more attention to your boytoy,” Surtr sees the vein that is almost going to pop out from Marcos’s forehead and the sight of his small cock starting to raise from his sleep, “and stop trying to fight. You’re no good in those situations. At least not with real men.” Surtr feels his cock start to harden at this. “Maybe you should stick to just sucking cock, like a good girl should—“
“You’ll swallow—“
“Not worth it, Mark.” D’Andre interjects again, then he turns to look at Surtr, as if supposed to negotiate with him. “If it’s money you want, the United States can give you more than enough. This is a matter of—“
“I don’t want anything to do with America. Truly.” Surtr cuts the conversation short. “You’re not doing any good from this.”
“We’re the ones saving people!” D’Andre’s voice cracks a little as he says this. “If anything, you’re just a pervert—“
D’Andre receives a kick on the stomach for his troubles. He winces at the sudden hit, then freezes up as he gets a gun pointed at his head. Surtr just waves his hand at the guard and he reluctantly gives up on that, backing away leering at D’Andre.
“I am a pervert, you’re just murderers with an excuse. Out of the five of us, I don’t have blood on my hands.” He looks away, considering this done, as he lifts his foot and kicks Marcos in the face when he starts to try and argue with him. “I’ll wait outside of this room. Don’t shoot them, just get them ready for the transportation. Is that alright with you guys?”
The guards nod, and with that, Surtr leaves the room, with his phone in hand and the tutorial on how to make more Pup Helpers on the screen. If before any of this he was unsure on his actions, now he wants more than anything to just turn them into his Helpers.