So, there I was, redefining the concept of "unwanted physical contact", thanks to Angel's courtesy punch. "Oh, you should have stayed on the ground, you know?" he said, as if he was offering me life advice, when, in fact, I just wanted advice on how to avoid internal bleeding.
"I wanted to, too, I was even comfortable on the grass," I replied, because, let's face it, who needs a bed when you have a soft lawn and the promise of more beating? "But you know, it's time for me to play the hero." Because nothing says "heroic moment" like coughing blood and making bad jokes.
"Hero? You just killed the president's daughter literally out of nowhere," he laughed, as if the irony of the situation was a lost episode of a dark comedy sitcom. And I, well, I could only answer: "Would you believe me if I said I was manipulated to kill her? And that the real killer is now with the president?" Because, of course, the excuse of "it wasn't me, it was my hand" always works so well in life or death situations.
"Well, I would say that's the worst lie I've ever heard," Angel retorted. And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, the classic disbelief, as common as finding someone who really believes that eating carrots improves night vision.
And it's at that moment that I realize, I'm more screwed than a soap opera protagonist. Just one punch from him almost sent me to the other side of the rainbow, and now I have to deal not only with him, but also with the other heroes and Scarlet. Oh, yes, Scarlet, the cherry on top of a plan so well designed that it would make Machiavelli look like an amateur.
At least until Alva arrives… And, considering my luck record, that will probably happen five minutes after I'm turned into human pâté.
So here I am, making lemonade out of lemons, or rather, trying to make humor out of the most absurd situation possible. Because, in the end, if you can't laugh at the imminence of your own destruction, what else can you laugh at? Oh, yes, the ironies of life, this comedy of errors in which we are all mere actors, hoping that our next role will be a little less painful. Or, at least, that it will have better dialogue lines.
In the midst of the chaos, Angel's intervention was like a fire alarm in a silent theater, abrupt and undeniably effective in capturing my scattered attention. There he was, turning the simple act of stepping on the ground into a declaration of war. And I, in an almost comical reflex, launched my "Dismantle", as if I was trying to put out a fire with a bottle of mineral water.
"Dismantle," I murmured, more out of habit than hope. And, as if by a magic trick of a fifth-rate illusionist, thousands of cuts danced around Angel, more annoying than lethal, a true symphony of cat scratches.
"Is this your innate ability? How interesting," Angel commented, more entertained than threatened, as the scratches multiplied on his skin, none serious enough to do more than itch.
"The resistance of an S-class is really impressive…" I murmured, with a smile that was half nervousness, half admiration. Ah, Angel, your ability to keep your composure under such a pathetic attack was worthy of an Oscar, or, at the very least, a consolation prize.
So, in the blink of an eye, he disappeared from my field of vision, a true magician, leaving behind only the echo of his presence. That's when Alva, always the voice of reason in my turbulent mind, shouted: "Hit the ground, Dean!" And, like a good puppet, I obeyed without question, throwing myself to the ground with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.
And by a hair's breadth, a vertical kick, with the precision of a Swiss watch, cut the air exactly where my head would be if it weren't for the divine intervention, or rather, for Alva's tip. "Huh? You managed to dodge, huh…" Angel let out, surprised, his leg still suspended in the air, as if he was frozen in a scene from an action movie — that moment before the disaster, or, in my case, before the miraculous evasion of certain death.
Back to the scene of the almost aerial run-over by a superhero's leg, there I was, on the ground, rethinking my life choices. "Remarkable dodge," I wanted to say, but my dignity was a little crushed along with my pride on the ground. So, I got up, brushing the grass off my hair, and faced Angel with what I hoped was an expression of defiance, but that probably looked more like that of someone who just realized they forgot to pay the rent.
Angel, elevating the art of "stepping on ants" to a whole new level, decided that I would be the next attraction in his show of human sidewalks. And there I was, dodging his attacks with the grace of a professional dancer, if that dancer was on fire and trying to put out the flames. The frantic speed of his movements was worthy of Eminem in a rap battle, making it clear that I was more on the playback side in this duet.
Finally, taking advantage of a gap in this deadly choreography, I stood up and launched a "Dismantle" with everything I had. The marks on Angel's body multiplied, a true fashion show of scars, but, apparently, it was all just a gentle breeze for him. And as if he was playing a game of hide and seek in expert mode, he disappeared from my field of vision.
Turning around, expecting another chapter of this soap opera, I realized that the garden was quiet, bathed by the moonlight, in a peace that contrasted absurdly with the chaos of the last minutes. And then, the silence was broken by the most sinister sound you can imagine: the sound of flesh being cut. "Huh?" I thought, confused, because, clearly, that was not in the script.
The pain came before the understanding, a sensation that something very wrong was happening. And as I looked down, the reality of the situation revealed itself in a plot twist worthy of a psychological thriller: an arm, that definitely was not mine, pierced my belly. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it seems that I became the magician of the party, only that the trick was to turn my abdomen into a stage for presentations of "how to pierce solid objects with body parts".
At that moment, the only thing that went through my head, besides the shock and the pain, was: "I hope this is worth at least some loyalty points in the superhero club." Because, let's be honest, if you're going to end the night with a new hole courtesy of an S-class hero, you at least deserve to get something out of it, right? Maybe a t-shirt that says "I survived Angel and all I got was this hole in my belly".
Angel's voice, with his characteristic coldness of someone who checks out bodies on the weekend, resonated behind me. "You resisted well." Ah, Angel, always so kind with your farewell words. Almost makes you forget that you just turned me into a human skewer.
"Calm down, calm down, calm down. I can't die yet!" My brain, in a frenzy of denial, clearly did not get the memo about the current situation. It seems that when I was catapulted to this world, I forgot to read the fine print in the contract that said "may include premature death by superheroes".
"Dean! Don't lose consciousness." Alva, always the voice of reason, shouted in my mind. But, seriously, why am I feeling so sleepy all of a sudden? Oh, yes, it must be because Angel decided that it was time to turn me into a lifeless puppet.
He pulled his arm out of my body with the delicacy of a chef cutting a steak. And then, the sweep. Oh, the sweep. In one moment, I was trying to balance on the tightrope of life, and in the other, I was a nearly lifeless doll, sliding in the air as if I was participating in a failed audition for the role of Peter Pan.
And then, Angel, in a move that I can only describe as the final dance of an animated villain, held me by the head and, with all the breath of his being, threw me to the ground. My head hit the ground with a theatrical thud, one of those that, in movies, is usually followed by an awkward silence and someone saying "he's dead".
And so, on the stage where tragedy and comedy collide, Angel finds himself in a moment of epiphany, as dramatic as any Shakespearean twist. "How boring…" he laments, the air of disdain enveloping his words like an invisible cloak. After all, for a being of unimaginable power, what else is life but a series of predictable events, a narrative already written where he is both the protagonist and the uninterested critic?
"Okay, now… Let's check how the president's life is–" The sentence, suspended in the air like an unfulfilled promise, is abruptly cut off. Angel's instinct silences him, a primal warning that resonates in his being with the urgency of a fire alarm. It is the silence that precedes the storm, a moment of quietness charged with tension.
The feeling of hiding under the bed, while the danger wanders uncertainly, fills Angel. It is a return to the most primal fears, to the childish vulnerability of believing that, if we can't see the monster, maybe he can't see us either. But the illusion of safety is broken by the imposing presence that rises behind him, illuminated by the moonlight, an ethereal and terrifying vision.
The girl, an apparition of hair and eyes as white as the purest snow, dressed with elegance that defies the simplicity of her menacing presence, stares at Angel. Her eyes are those of a predator that found its prey, a wolf contemplating a rabbit too paralyzed to run away.
"My senses tell me there's something behind me. But why can't I turn around? No… I can turn around, I know I can. But fear won't let me!" Angel battles with himself, trapped in an internal conflict where logic and instinct collide. It is a deadly dance between the awareness of his power and the sudden realization of his own mortality.
And then, cutting the tension like a sharp blade, Alva's voice resonates, cold and relentless. "I told you not to lose consciousness, idiot." Her words are like a final blow, uttered as she observes Dean's lifeless body on the ground.
---
In the maze of corridors that form the veins of the White House, the president navigated with the urgency of a man aware of the weight of his crown, flanked by four human sentinels. Scarlet, always a step behind, painted a picture of loyalty and vigilance.
They turned a corner, opened a door and went down metal stairs that groaned under the weight of history and secrecy. At the end of this descent, a door presented itself as the portal to a new dimension — a dimension of metallic corridors, poorly lit by the frugal light of a solitary lamp.
But, ah, the instinct of a leader never sleeps. The president felt the icy whisper of danger caress his nape, making him turn around in search of the sentinels who were supposed to be his shields. What he found, however, was the cold embrace of nothing. His heart, a war drum in his chest, pulsed with the urgency of an impending storm.
"Where are the other guards?" The question escaped his lips, but as he turned, the emptiness answered with a cutting silence. The guard who led the way had dissolved into the darkness like a ghost at dawn.
And then, as if to seal his fate, the only lamp witness of his agony went out, leaving him prisoner in the claws of complete darkness. Despair, a rider without reins, drove him to run back to the light, to safety, to anything that would take him away from that palpable nightmare.
But fate, always a playwright, had other plans. The exit, the promise of freedom, proved to be an illusion. The president, in his frantic escape, found not salvation, but an invisible wall that greeted him with the brutality of a punch. The sound of the impact, a dull thud, was the prelude to his fall — not only physical, but perhaps of everything he fought for.
In that veil of darkness, Scarlet's words wove a plot as complex and obscure as the scenario itself in which it unfolded. "The leader of the free world, at this moment, seems to be as vulnerable as any of his citizens." Her voice, a ghostly whisper, was the only light in that encompassing darkness, a light that did not illuminate, but revealed deeper shadows.
Ethan, desperate and confused, clamored for answers. "Scarlet? What's going on here? Help me!" His voice, laden with despair and disbelief, echoed in the void, seeking a beacon in the midst of the storm.
But Scarlet's laughter, cold and distant, was the only answer he received, a cruel echo of mockery amid the silence. "You know, when I found out that you had hired a High Court assassin, I immediately thought of using him as a scapegoat."
"What are you talking about?" Ethan got up, the adrenaline cutting through the veil of confusion and fear that enveloped him. The reality of the situation began to take shape, a sketch of betrayal and manipulation so intricate that it defied comprehension. Where were his guards, those corridors, the stairs that he so clearly remembered having gone down? Everything had disappeared, swallowed by the darkness.
"From the beginning, you were never escorted by anyone, only by me." Scarlet's words, a bombshell revelation, hit Ethan like a punch in the stomach. A surprised "Huh" escaped his lips, the only expression possible in the face of the magnitude of the deception.
At that moment, Ethan realized the reality that surrounded him: he was alone, wrapped in darkness, in a game where the pieces had been moved without his consent. Scarlet, the one he considered a pillar of strength and loyalty, was the master of ceremonies of a macabre spectacle, where he was both the audience and the involuntary protagonist.
Ethan, his voice permeated with disbelief and anger, struggled to understand the web of betrayals that unfolded before him. "Why are you doing this? Do you know the consequences this will have for you?" He was not only speaking as the president of a nation, but as someone who felt deeply betrayed.
The answer came cold, calculated, a blow as accurate as any weapon. "Don't worry, no one will find out it was me. I've orchestrated my plan so that the High Court will take the blame. Making the United States break any ties with them and declare the High Court enemies of the nation." Her words were like poison, distilling a plan so Machiavellian that it would make the villains of history books blush.
"But, what do you gain from this? Answer me! Why are you doing this?" Ethan insisted, his need for answers as palpable as the fear that surrounded him. "You were the heroine I trusted the most and gave everything. So tell me, why are you betraying the United States?"
The question seemed to intrigue her, as if the idea of trust and loyalty was an alien concept. "Do you really think I'm Scarlet?" she asked, her voice tinged with a cold curiosity. "Scarlet has been dead for a long time."
This revelation hit Ethan like a tsunami, sweeping away what was left of his hopes and certainties. The enemy was not only inside his territory; he had disguised himself under the skin of someone he considered an unshakable ally.
Scarlet, or whoever she was, threw laughs, each sound a nail in the coffin of Ethan's reality. "With your death, it will become clear that your presidential rival must have orchestrated your assassination, making his popularity plummet and, probably, the vice president of this country win the elections, since he is the one who will replace you."
The plot was worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy, with betrayals, disguises and a power struggle that threatened to tear apart not only Ethan's life, but the fabric of the nation he swore to protect.
Ethan, finally understanding the magnitude of the betrayal and the danger he faced, had no words to describe the figure before him, only managing to whisper: "You are a demon."
"You figured things out quickly. The vice president is one too," she revealed, her laughter cutting the darkness like a sharp blade, foreshadowing the chaos that was about to unfold.
"From today on, the United States is ours…" Scarlet's words, laden with triumph and venom, were the prelude to a new sinister dawn for the nation. A dawn where the light of freedom and justice was threatened by shadows of betrayal and unbridled ambition.
The revelation hit Ethan like a slap in the face, his eyes widening in disbelief. The plot was deeper and darker than he could imagine, a conspiracy that not only involved him but that infiltrated the veins of the very country he swore to serve. The vice president, the missing piece in this macabre puzzle, was also a traitor, a puppet in the hands of those who sought to subvert the order and sow chaos.
But before Ethan could fully process the magnitude of the betrayal, before he could formulate a plan, a strategy, anything, the darkness swallowed him completely. The sound of flesh being torn filled the air, a grotesque chorus accompanied by desperate screams. Screams that, Ethan soon realized, were his own.
At that moment, the president of the United States was no longer a leader, but a symbol of everything that was about to be lost. His fall was not only physical, but symbolic, marking the beginning of an era where the shadows dominated, where the traitors walked freely through the corridors of power, manipulating the fate of millions with cold smiles and colder hearts.