The dawn unveils Thornville under gray, looming skies, the city lights a dim shimmer through the morning mist. Today, there are no moving shadows, only a somber stillness. Chief Constable Bramwell, the stern-faced leader of the now beleaguered Empire's enforcement, has organized a funeral not of caskets, but of memories. In the large open square of the city, framed by ancient, ivy-clad buildings, hundreds of photographs stand aligned, each adorned by vibrant bouquets of flowers, poppies, marigolds, forget-me-nots, creating a stark contrast against the monochrome sky.
Thousands of people, citizens of Thornville, have gathered, their faces etched with grief. The crowd is a mosaic of emotions, sniffles and subdued sobs punctuating the hushed air. Among them, Empire automatons and constables move with quiet efficiency, their presence a gentle but firm reminder of order, each tasked with ensuring the smooth proceeding of this solemn event.
Chief Bramwell steps onto the podium, his visage more often associated with unwavering command now softened by sorrow. Executioner Mortimor stood beside him, looking amongst the heavy crowd. As Bramwell looks over the crowd, his eyes briefly close, gathering the strength for the words he must summon.
'Here we go.' Bramwell thought.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Thornville," he begins, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. "Today, we stand united in our grief, our hearts heavy with the loss of those who served our Empire with honor and loyalty."
His pause is pregnant with emotion, and in that silence, one hears the collective heart of the crowd, beating in sorrow. A woman in the front, holding a photograph to her chest, whispers loud enough for others to hear, "God bless their souls."
"Yes, bless them," Bramwell continues, encouraged by the woman's interjection. "Their sacrifices will not be in vain, for they represent the strongest fibers of our great Empire."
Tears spill over from his eyes, and he does not bother to wipe them away. "But today, my heart also harbors a fierce resolve. As we mourn our fallen, we confront a shadow that seeks to suffocate our spirit and dismantle our peace."
A murmur rolls through the crowd.
"The Plague Doctor, known as Gunn," Bramwell's voice grows steadier, resolute. "Many of you saw with your own eyes his supposed end... his execution. Yet, evil has its ways of mocking justice."
A ripple of confusion and murmurs dissect the crowd. "How could he still be walking among us?" someone calls out from the crowd, the disbelief palpable in their tone.
"I know your fears," Bramwell acknowledges. "It defies logic, it defies justice, but let it not defy our resolve."
"The Empire stands challenged," he says, clenched fists resting on the podium, "and as your Chief Constable, I vow before you, on this ground hallowed by the blood of our fellows, that I will put an end to this menace. The Empire will root out this plague, personified by Gunn, and bring him to the justice he escaped!"
Tears are no longer the sole dominion of Bramwell, many in the crowd openly weep, mourning both their losses and the return of a nightmarish threat.
"Will we ever be safe?" a young boy beside his weeping mother softly asks, his words unintentionally loud enough to reach surrounding ears, adding weight to the gloomy air.
"We are the Empire!" Bramwell raises his voice against the waves of despair, his tone infused with a fiery passion. "With our valiant constables and faithful automatons, we will preserve. We will protect. We will prevail."
As Bramwell steps back, his speech having woven a mix of heartache and ironclad promise, the crowd erupts in a mixture of applause and cries, a complex tapestry of human emotions. The words resonate, echoing off the old stone buildings, as if searching the very corners of Thornville for the spectral enemy they've vowed to vanquish.
In the sea of people, shared glances of determination mix with tears. Today's mourning has forged a new armor, one wrought not in the smithy, but in the collective will of Thornville's citizens.
Bramwell looked into the sky, thinking, 'I will conjure the devil for you all!'
Felix's mother and father were kneeling at the flowers and photographs, right in front of their son. They were crying, but were in a praying formation.
As Chief Constable Bramwell's speech deepens in fervor, tears stream more freely down his face, his voice rising in volume to match the intensity of emotion that grips his heart. He speaks words laden with pain and power, resonating through the crowd as they embody the fierce resolve of the Empire in the face of mourning and fear.
Suddenly, amid the sea of solemn faces and grieving eyes, a stark contrast emerges. Dressed entirely in his all black plague doctor outfit, Gunn stands unmoving, an ominous, silent figure amidst the teary-eyed citizens of Thornville. His presence is like a shadow that cools the sun-warmed bricks of the public square. He stood in the middle of them.
Bramwell instantly spotted him. He paused, his heart pounding, his right eye twitching, a small smile curled from his mouth, but it went away.
His heart beat loudly, and Gunn just looked at him.
Chief Bramwell's words falter for a split second as his eyes catch this dark anomaly among the crowd. His face hardens, jaw clenching in barely contained anger. Whispers ripple through the public, a wave of tense awareness spreading from one to another, electrifying the atmosphere.
Among the audience, three high-ranking members of the Empire exchange quick, knowing looks, immediately recognizing the threat in their midst. The first, General Maston, a seasoned military leader with eyes as sharp as his strategic mind, tightens his grip on the ornate cane that belies his might. Beside him, Magistrate Clara Vonthal, draped in her judiciall robes, her eyes, usually calm and discerning, now spark with the fire of an imminent storm. Completing this trio of elites is the young but immensely talented Engineer Laurette, known for her ingenious creations that often blend technology with ancient alchemy.
General Maston is a towering figure, standing over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a military posture that commands respect. His hair is a crisp silver, cut short in a precise military style that speaks volumes of his discipline and order. His eyes are a piercing blue, often reflective of a stern and strategic mind. Fully uniformed, Maston wears a deep navy blue coat adorned with various metals and insignias of honor. The coat is tailored to accommodate his muscular build, and it is paired with matching trousers and polished black combat boots. On his left side hangs a sheathed sword, a family heirloom bearing intricate engravings. The dominant colors in Maston's attire are navy blue and gold, symbolizing nobility, authority, and experience. His medals gleam with histories of battles fought and won. His entire demeanor exudes a sense of regal military tradition blended with the practicality of a seasoned soldier.
Magistrate Vonthal, Vonthal is an enigmatic and ageless figure, her features sharp and her gaze penetrating. Her hair flows like liquid night, long and black, cascading down her shoulders and often stirring slightly as if alive, hinting at her magical abilities. She possesses a lithe, almost delicate frame, but her presence is formidable, filled with an ancient power. Her robes are an elegant tapestry of dark purples and midnight blues, with silver thread woven in mystic patterns that shimmer with faint luminescence when she casts spells. Vonthal's attire is a deep purple, symbolizing the mystical and arcane, accented with silver to represent her connection to the celestial and arcane powers. Her skin is pale, almost alabaster, providing a stark contrast to her dark attire and hair.
Laurette is a sprightly and inventive young woman in her late twenties, her demeanor always alight with curiosity and a knack for problem-solving. Her hair is a vibrant dark brown and green, usually tied back in a messy bun, stray curls framing her round, spirited face dotted with freckles. She wears practical clothing, a leather vest over a sturdy, light-blue shirt, and brown trousers tucked into worn boots, all complemented by various tools and gadgets affixed to her belt and vest. Laurette predominantly wears earth tones â€" browns and blues, symbolizing her grounded, practical personality.
Maston commented, "That fucking bastard…'
Vonthal replied, "We won't interfere unless provoked. That's what Bramwell ordered us. He doesn't fully know the capabilities of the Plague Doctor."
Lauretta added, "But we have to do something now! While he's here!"
Vonthal responded, "Fools! He may have a hidden card under his sleeve! What if it's what he wants?"
Maston said, "Then everyone's in fucking danger..!"
Their stares lock onto Gunn, intensity building in the air like static before a storm. The once muted murmurs of the crowd now a backdrop to a more dangerous symphony, the silent confrontation of powerful wills.
Bramwell's stoic façade now cracks, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, every word a drip of venom as he continues to address the crowd, though his gaze remains anchored on the immobile plague doctor. "We shall root out the evil amongst us," he declares, his whisper cutting through the air sharper than any shout.
In synchronized motion, as if connected by invisible strings, the eyes of the power-ranked members of the Empire around the square begin to glow red, a visual warning of the brewing conflict. The tension becomes almost tangible, thickening the air with every passing second. Bramwell kept talking under his breathe making the members/constables of the Empire slowly turn their heads to Gunn with glowing red eyes.
General Maston subtly shifts, his fingers discreetly brushing against a hidden mechanism on his cane. The device, cleverly embedded within, hums softly, its ancient alchemical symbols starting to emit a faint, ominous glow.
Badump..
Magistrate Vonthal, always composed, delicately palms the amulet hanging around her neck, whispering incantations that cause the gem at its core to pulse with a deep blue light. Electricity seems to crackle at the edges of her robes, a testament to the potent forces at her command.
Badump..
Engineer Laurette, on the other hand, subtly manipulates a small device woven into the fabric of her sleeve. It whirs quietly, gears turning and locking as tiny streams of alchemical energy begin to spiral around her, ready to be unleashed at her command.
Badump..
As the silent confrontation intensifies, every breath feels like a challenge, every blink a concession. The crowd, sensing the escalation, grows eerily silent, their cries of sorrow now choked by a collective intake of breath, awaiting the inevitable clash.
Bramwell continued to grit his teeth, screaming in his head. He wanted to immediately do something, but worried for the safety of the people.
Gunn remains statuesquely still, his mask hiding any hint of emotion or intent. His mere presence, a provocation that heightens the stakes of the moment.
'Surrounded. Possible casualties around me. If combat ensures, then they won't go all out due to heavy amounts of civilians. Automatons also do not engage full power when a target is near a civilian. The perfect opportunity, the perfect chance, I want Bramwell's head. And if civilians die in the process, it's their fault for getting in the way.'
And in this climax, under the shadow of looming conflict, Bramwell raises his hand, halting his speech momentarily. He locks eyes with Gunn, as the Imperial Elite position themselves strategically, their lethal intent clear and poised like the drawn bow of a skilled archer.
The square, filled with thousands of onlookers, becomes an arena where history will remember the silent war fought not with words but with the sheer force of wills colliding. The Empire, with its elite guardians ready, and Gunn, an enigma wrapped in black, set the stage for a confrontation that may well shape the destiny of Thornville.
The stare down was viscous, everyone was looking at each other as the crowd continued to cry. Their hearts slammed against their chests like drums, the thunderous vibrations of their temple was rapid, who was gonna make the first move?
Badump…
Badump…
…
The quiet tension shatters with the sudden eruption of Maston, Vonthal, and Laurette dashing towards Gunn at the same time at light speed.. But at that moment, a loud blast of toxic black smoke poured forth from the enigmatic figure of Gunn. The dark cloud rapidly envelops him, spreading thick and fast, a choking blanket of paralysis that quickly grips the bystanders nearest to him. Their screams are stifled into helpless gasps as their bodies lock in involuntary stasis, falling to the ground, eyes wide with terror but unable to move an inch.
"AGH!" Maston screamed as a blast of wind shot from his body, knocking him, Vonthal, and Laurette away from the fog.
Gunn thought, 'What was he thinking?'
Gunn gasped, seeing that the blast of wind opened up the fog a little, and peering through the small hole, was a constable armed with a scoped gun, seemingly similar to a sniper.
'He used his alchemy to open up the fog…'
Gunn drew blood from a nearby civilian, forming a revolver, and shot it at the constable, but the constable flipped in the air, twisting, shooting his gun once as well. The bullets collided, and there was a loud bang.
The constable was about to shoot again, but all of a sudden, a large tree made of darkness and shadows sprouted out of his mouth, killing him instantly as his body was distorted, blood seeping from the bark of the tree.
That was not Gunn's doing, and he thought, 'Tch. That damn woman. I have to move now, using the civilians as cover is a part of the plan. Even if I don't kill Bramwell, I'll kill as many of those Empire fucks as I can. Bramwell is all about protecting and serving, but instead plants fear in the hearts of many and doesn't realize it. He cares too much about these people to full on battle me here.'
In that bewitched moment of blindness and chaos, Gunn moves, a shadow within shadows. From the depths of the murky fog, a glint emerges: a sinister revolver formed from congealed blood glistens in his grip. With an eerie silence that belies the violence of his intent, he fires directly at Chief Constable Bramwell standing resolutely on the podium.
Bramwell's reaction is as swift as it is audacious. Staring down the approaching bullet, he commands in a fierce whisper, "Explode." The air between them shudders with the shockwave of the exploding bullet, a burst of light and force that erupts right before Bramwell's face, singeing his skin but leaving his resolve unbroke.
Bramwell said, "Putting my people in harm's way, it will never sit right with me. But after what you've accomplished, I will fulfill the wish of everyone before me, I will show you true horror!"
"Show me then." Gunn replied.
In that same moments Felix's parents still stayed in their praying formations, they chanted louder and louder, faster and faster.
Even as debris settles, a darker shadow looms, Gunn, now airborne above Bramwell, blood from the wound on Bramwell's cheek peacefully flows onto Gunn's hand, creating a blood scythe with that blood from Bramwell's cheek in that one hand and his sinister revolver re-aimed with the other. But before he can pull the trigger, the air vibrates with the heavy sound of cleaving ether.
Executioner Mortimor, garbed in vestments of twilight and obscure lore, materializes like a specter wrought from nightmares. With a pole wreathed in shadow, he thrusts it through Gunn's midsection. The impact is met with a guttural growl from the plague doctor as he is violently hurled backwards, crashing through the ancient stone façade of a nearby building.
"Get away from here, Bramwell!"
Bramwell was too angry, looking at Gunn's direction with pure rage, his eyes glowing and his body straining his veins.
He wanted to say a command that would wipe out everything, but Mortimor stopped him.
Bramwell said, "I want him dead. I have to deliver the blow."
Mortimor stated, "You're command ability, you know the risks of your speech especially when it's a severe command. All that rage inside of you will lead to something dangerous, and you will kill everyone here. Besides, we do not know the full capabilities of his power. Allow me to be the sacrifice. If I return alive, I can share intel about his power and limits to you and the advisors."
"..You can handle this?"
"I will sir. You chose me for a reason. Because I'm strong."
"You are. Now kill him, save lives."
"Yes, Chief. I won't fail you."
"I know you won't."
Bramwell was escorted away, and Mortimor walked forward, thinking, 'I won't fail him. He was the only one who would accept me. Accept this face of mine. I have it covered for years, wounded once criminals who abused their power raided me and my grandmother. That's my motivation. My motivation to be the judge of death and deliverance. Without Bramwell, who would accept me?'
The automaton constables spring into diligent action amidst the pandemonium, their metallic limbs swooping gracefully but urgently as they begin to escort the paralyzed crowd. They lift citizens gently yet firmly, whisking them to safety with mechanical efficiency.
"Move! Keep your heads down!" shouts General Maston, rallying other members of the Empire who rush to aid in the evacuation. Magistrate Vonthal, her robes now fluttering wildly in the stirred air, casts protective sigils that shimmer briefly around groups of civilians, shielding them from further harm.
Engineer Laurette coordinates with the automatons, her voice cutting sharply over the din, "Secure all sectors! Immediate threat response protocol!" Her device continues to whirr, its energy now harnessed into creating barriers that funnel the crowd away from the epicenter of the conflict.
The tension escalates into a cacophony of orders and the collective shuffling of feet, yet the central figures remain wordlessly locked in their deadly tableau. Bramwell stands his ground despite the chaos, his stare fixed on the cloud of dust and rubble where Gunn was last seen. Mortimor retrieves his pole, dark energy dissipating from its surface, his eyes scanning for any further movement.
KATHOOM!
Everyone stopped Maston, Laurette, and Vonthal turned around, and even Mortimor. Felix's parents were standing up, with tears running down their faces. They were both holding black crystals.
Maston exclaimed, "Hey, hey! Put those down! You don't know its power!"
The mother explained, "Felix was a hero."
The father explained, "He was our son."
"We told him not to join the Empire."
"But he defied us."
"You failed to defeat the one who took him away from us."
"After you all promised to watch over each other and protect one another, yet, couldn't stop one man."
"You lied to us! You all promised redemption, but where is it? If you had been doing your jobs, we wouldn't be going through this!"
Mortimor said to them, "Put down the crystals. Do not embrace them."
Immediately, the parents let go, allowing the crystals to fully embrace their being. The scene erupts into chaos as Felix's parents, consumed by grief and fury, clutch their black crystals tightly. The crystals glow ominously, transforming them into bloodborne monstrous humanoids with grotesquely detailed forms. Their first howling scream is a signal of the devastation to come.
Mortimor sighed, "We have to kill them."
Laurette spoke, "No shit. If we don't, they'll kill everyone here."
Mortimor explained to the parents, "Forgive us."
General Maston is the first to react, lunging forward with his enhanced military cane. He swings it expertly, aiming a powerful blow at Felix's mother. As the cane connects with her shoulder, a shockwave burst ripples through the air. She stumbles but quickly recovers, her distorted form barely recognizing pain. Magistrate Vonthal swiftly chants an ancient incantation, her hands aglow with shimmering sigils. She launches a barrage of arcane missiles at Felix's father, who leaps into the air, dodging with surprising agility. His monstrous form casts a shadow that briefly darkens the square. Engineer Laurette activates a mechanism on her wrist, sending out a spray of alchemical fire toward Felix's mother. The flame envelops the monstrous figure, but with a terrifying shriek, she dissipates the fire through sheer force of will, lunging toward Laurette with claws extended.
The battle intensifies as Felix's father shards his form, momentarily becoming a swarm of dark, crystalline shards that whip around Maston, attempting to slice into him from all angles. Maston rolls away, barely escaping multiple slashes that tear into his coat. From her position, Vonthal summons a protective barrier just as Felix's mother crashes into it with the force of a wrecking ball. The barrier holds but cracks spiderweb along its luminescent surface under the relentless assault.
Laurette, undeterred, constructs an intricate device from her bracelet, launching it into the air. It explodes into a net of glowing wires that entangle Felix's mother, attempting to bind her. The humanoid roars, muscles bulging as she tears through them with bloodied fists. Maston, back on his feet, performs a series of tactical strikes with the butt of his cane, targeting the humanoid's vulnerable spots learned from his military experience. Each hit is a calculated effort to slow the creature down, leaving dark, oozing welts on its thick skin. Felix's father reforms from his shard state, swiping a massive crystalline arm at Vonthal, who narrowly dodges. Her robes flutter as she counters with a blast of concussive energy, sending him skidding backwards across the cobblestone.
The air vibrates as Laurette's newly deployed mechanical drones zoom around the battlefield, unleashing a torrent of laser fire. Felix's mother shrieks as the beams scorch her flesh, her form fluctuating between solid and crystalline under the assault. When Felix's father charges at Maston, the general sidesteps and uses his opponent's momentum to throw him off balance. He follows up with an uppercut using his cane's hidden blade, drawing a spray of dark, corrupted blood.
Vonthal, her chants growing fervent, creates illusions of herself, multiplying her presence to confuse the monstrous parents. They strike out, demolishing several illusions in furious outbursts before realizing the deception. Laurette takes this moment of distraction to deploy a gravity mine, pulling Felix's mother into a concentrated spot. The resultant force compresses around her, momentarily immobilizing the distorted figure, who bellows in rage and confusion. Both parents, enraged and bleeding dark ichor, unleash a dual shockwave of raw, corrupted energy, sweeping across the square. Maston, Vonthal, and Laurette brace themselves, employing shields and dodges to deflect the bulk of the devastating power.
As the battle wages, Executioner Mortimor observes quietly from his position. Suddenly, he moves, his presence a blur. He swings his dark guillotine weapon, its blade humming with shadow energy, towards Felix's father, who barely counters with a hardened crystal arm.
Mortimor's weapon clashes against the crystal with a sound like shattered dreams, fracturing but not breaking. With a swift motion, he retracts the blade, spinning it expertly before striking again in a fluid, relentless assault. Felix's mother, seeing her partner faltering, charges at Mortimor with wild fury. The Executioner meets her charge, his weapon slicing through the air and severing her arm at the elbow. Her scream fills the square, echoing off the stone buildings.
With a final, powerful surge, Mortimor activates the guillotine's special ability. A massive, spectral blade emerges, slicing through the air with precision and finality. Both monstrous forms of Felix's parents are caught in its path. The guillotine slices cleanly, leaving a moment of silence before their forms collapse, reverting to crystal that shatters upon the cobblestones.
The square falls quiet, save for the eerie ring of the spectral blade fading into the ether. Maston, Vonthal, and Laurette stand, catching their breaths, surrounded by the remnants of the battle, the shattered crystals twinkling faintly in the pooling moonlight. Mortimor, his weapon now still, gazes solemnly at the destruction they had to wreak, a necessary end to a tragic fury.
Blood, both dark and red, stains the cobblestones, a grim reminder of the night's sorrow and rage. The air hangs heavy with the aftermath of magic and technology clashing violently, the echoes of the monstrous cries and the clangor of battle slowly dissipating into the chilling night breeze.
Mortimor commands, "I'm pursuing Gunn. Take care of everything here."
Maston complained, "Hmph. We're not meant to be fighting, we're just advisors."
As the dust and debris settle, an eerie silence engulfs the blown-out building. Gunn, bearing wounds yet standing tall, pushes himself out from under the rubble. His coat flutters amidst the settling dust, and his ragged breaths are the only sound until a sudden metallic screech pierces the silence.
Gunn sat up, his hip bleeding.
"Shit. That bastard just walked right through the smoke. That's annoying."
'They took Bramwell away, I was close. I used their weakness against them to get close, but I failed.'
Gunn screamed, slamming his fists on the ground, "Fuck!!!"
He kept hitting the ground, saying, "I almost had him! What is wrong with me?! Why do I feel pathetic? Fuck this…did I make a mistake? What will I get out of this entire fight? Will I even live? Will I lose to them, or to the repercussions of my abilities?"
'Using my skills takes a toll on me, every time I use them, years come off. Dammit! I don't wanna lose, not yet…never.'
[Quest available: Have a total kill count of 10. Rewards: Crafting skill increased by 30%, level up one]
'Kill count of ten…can I do it? The hell am I saying..? I know I can. But if certain people are in the way, it's gonna be harder!'
"I got you now!" A constable yelled as he was dashing towards Gunn. "Murderer!"
Gunn turned towards him, slowly sticking his hand towards him, saying, "Foolish."
CLANG!
Landing on top of the constable, a metal sword stabbed through his back and pinning him to the ground, was, an automaton unlike any other steps into the fray. Clad in a sharp tuxedo, its form is bizarrely juxtaposed by the ferocious, jagged-edged metal sword strapped to its back. Its visage, that of a terrifying bunny with glowing red eyes, adds a layer of surreal menace. "I'm tired of everyone trying to get the glory. Damn humans," it speaks, its voice a disturbing mimicry of jovial madness, setting the stage with a chilling tone.
Gunn tilted his head, and asked, "Did I summon you?"
The automaton yelled, "No! I'm a rogue automaton, hunter for Bramwell. And everyone seems to want you dead. I don't really care, but I'm just programmed to do this."
"Killing your own, Bramwell teach you that?"
"I'm an automaton. Not a human. There's your answer."
Gunn thought, 'Using Darkness and curses and poisons against automatons is useless. I'll have to fight raw.'
The automaton charges, swift as a whip crack, sword drawn and gleaming dangerously. Gunn counters with a deft sidestep, drawing his blood revolver in one fluid motion and firing three sharp shots that slice through the air but miss as the automaton nimbly dodges.
Gunn flips backward, gaining distance, and swiftly conjures a blood scythe from his own blood midair. The automaton rushes forward, sword raised for a heavy downward slash. Gunn spins, the scythe whirling dangerously close and clipping the automaton's shoulder, drawing sparks instead of blood. Gunn's movements are blurred, a dance of deadly precision. He advances, revolver and scythe alternating in rapid succession. Each gunshot echoes loudly against the metal frame of his adversary, who, despite its bulky appearance, evades with surprising agility, its sword sweeping in arcs aimed at disarming Gunn.
The bunny automaton leaps, utilizing jet boosters hidden beneath its tuxedo tails. From midair, it launches a flurry of sharp metal carrots like shurikens. Gunn, eyes narrowing, slashes through each projectile with his scythe, each movement a perfect blend of elegance and brutality. Landing, the automaton spins, extending its sword to catch Gunn off-guard. Gunn blocks with the scythe's handle, the clash sending a metallic ring echoing through the chamber. He counters with a headbutt, the impact resonant but futile against the automaton's armored head.
The automaton attempts a low sweep with its sword, aiming to knock Gunn off his feet. Gunn jumps, flipping over the blade, and while airborne, fires two more shots from his revolver. The bullets embed in the wall as the automaton rolls away, unscathed. As more automaton replicas flood into the room, each as menacing as the last, Gunn's stance widens, revolver and scythe ready. The first pair approach in synchrony, swords aimed at his chest. Spinning, Gunn uses the scythe to bat away one sword while he shoots the other automaton in the joint of its arm, its weapon clattering away.
Trading weapons to his other hands, Gunn ducks under another sword swipe, his own scythe slicing upward in a brutal arc. The blade cuts through the arm of an automaton, severing circuits and wires that spark wildly. The automatons regroup, circling Gunn. They charge simultaneously. Gunn leaps, somersaulting over them, landing behind. Before they can turn, he unleashes a barrage of gunfire. Each shot is precise, aimed at critical joints and mechanisms, effectively slowing them.
One automaton, faster, catches Gunn from the side, its sword pointed threateningly. Gunn blocks with the scythe, the metal clashing loudly, then kicks the automaton's knee, bending it backward unnaturally as he retreats from its falling frame. Blocking a high sword swing with his revolver, Gunn retaliates with a rapid scythe slice across another approaching automaton's torso, carving a deep gash that emits arcing electricity.
As two automatons flank him, Gunn pivots, revolver hammer smashing against one's sensor-eye. It reels back as he sweeps the legs of the other with the scythe, its body crashing heavily to the ground. An automaton lunges, overextending. Gunn grabs its arm, redirecting the momentum to throw it into another. Both collide with a resonant crash, momentarily entangled in each other's limbs.
Gunn's movements are a blur, dodging slashes and stabbing his scythe with mechanical precision. He fires his revolver without looking, each bullet finding its mark in the optical sensors of the automatons, blinding them in quick succession. Finally, surrounded by the twitching remains of his metallic foes, Gunn stands alone, unscathed. The last automaton lunges weakly, dragging itself towards him. Gunn steps forward, scythe raised, and with one clean swipe, decapitates it. The head rolls to a stop at his feet.
Shifting the blood scythe to his back, Gunn wipes a smear of grease from his cheek. His eyes, laser-focused, scan the environment for any further signs of disturbance. The room, with its walls pocked by gunfire and floors littered with what was once considered biting edge technology turned into scrap, seems to hold its breath, the aftermath of the battle settling like dust in his wake.
'I rushed into this without a plan. My only set up was to try and kill them while using the civilians as bait. I got prideful, cocky. I let it embrace me. Am I just eager to get revenge? Scared of what the repercussions of my skills are gonna do to me? Wasting time it feels like. The fear of not knowing when you'll die, but you know you will, tugs at my soul.'
Gunn wanted to get angry, but he clenched his fists, then released it.
'At least let me gain something from this. Don't let it be a waste.'