Mark felt heat well up in his throat as he stepped forward.
His mind stretched further than ever before, encompassing the Hounds and instilling a senseless rage.
"Make them suffer!"
The mass of men moved with his words, sprinting forward in forced vigor and crashing into the Spheks on the other side of the opening. Screams resounded in the foggy afternoon as the two sides collided.
Dean watched the whole ordeal from behind, never having moved a step from where he was before. It seems that he wasn't much of a fighter. Mark jogged up to the cacophony of pained grunts and curses.
On the other side, he could see the red-eyed lunatic smiling while being protected by a barrier of his men.
He sighed in utter relief.
Neither side seemed willing to use guns at this point. Since the two sides were already intertwined, it would be hard to fire into the crowd without hitting an ally.
Now, the Hounds can just overwhelm with numbers in fistfights. At least, that's how the plan should go from this point on. There's no telling if something will screw it all up. After all, it's the Spheks that are being dealt with. Rationality and reason didn't exactly apply to these lunatics.
Mark's perception changed when he joined the chaos.
There were sometimes one-on-one fights, there were also a lot of sights where two Hounds ganged up on a single person. Even though he had the numbers advantage, something felt wrong.
He looked closely at the wretches from the Spheks and realized what had been giving him the odd feeling. They... had the appearance of machines. Light refused to shine in their dull eyes, and while their movements had energy, there was little motivation and reason behind them.
It was like fighting lifeless beasts that refused to submit. Their tenacity never waned, but it might just be that they never had any in the first place.
The wave of passion that the Hounds carried crashed into a callous wall of unfeeling scoundrels.
Wafting through the frenzy, he looked for openings in the plethora of conflicts and at times gave a meaningful hand while making sure to keep himself out of any danger.
Throughout the concrete courtyard, he saw the same sight of the clash between impassioned and callous men. His own mental state was somewhere in the middle - nowhere as ardent as his comrades, but not in any way aloof.
Then, somewhere not so far off from his location, he saw one of his compatriots get knocked down by a short man. Unlike the rest of the Spheks, this man was smoldering with rage as he surveyed the area, and locked eyes with Mark.
The short man's eyes ignited with a frenzied glint as he lunged.
Sidestepping, Mark barely avoided the attack. Behind him, one of his comrades was fighting without regard for his surroundings.
An elbow barely missed the back of his head before he decided to retreat to a place with more space.
In front, Mark watched the short man turn around and launch a straight at his face.
He swiftly, precisely caught the arm that was threatening to collide with his eye, then with his free hand, jabbed at the short man.
His wrist was in turn caught, and the two wrestled in pace with unwavering struggle.
"Where did you put my family heirloom!?"
Mark blinked.
"What are you talking about?"
Stretching his mind, he watched as the short man became increasingly furious, nearly to the point of blind rage.
"The silver pocket watch! Where is-"
Mark quickly let go of the man's wrist and in the same motion struck the man's face.
Without hesitation, he relentlessly continued his assault and used his fist to land blow after blow. The man let go of his other arm, but he unhesitantly grabbed the wretch's wrist before he could knock him away.
Blood and teeth were knocked from the poor scoundrel's mouth, but Mark didn't stop until the man collapsed to the floor, unmoving.
'That's what you getting distracted by personal feelings in a fight.'
He turned around and continued to pick on other fights.
...
Before he knew it, fog had descended onto the scene.
Not the regular hazy fog that could sometimes give the environment a decent backdrop, but the overbearing, blinding cover that makes it impossible to see further than a few feet ahead.
Mark was a bit distant from the others. Not a single person was in his sight.
He slowly took a step back.
'Something is wrong.'
Listening, he continued to back away from the hidden cacophony. The unknown is always dangerous, it's why humans have an instinctual fear of the dark.
A voice turned horridly anxious in the distance.
"Hey, wait- what are you doing? Get away from me! Stay away!"
An agonized shriek followed.
Then another, until there was a whole chorus.
Bodies dropped to the ground.
Mark reached into his windbreaker, but the fog parted ahead of him, revealing a man not too younger than himself running forward.
In his hand, there was a silvery glint - a knife with blood seeping from it, creating a trail in his wake.
The young man thrust his hand forward at Mark's head, who tilted to the right. The blade brushed over the side of his face, cutting a scar into it while also cutting his earlobe before flowing past him.
Adrenaline surged.
He grabbed the hand wielding the knife and raised it high, but the young man was one step faster.
Mark felt something wrap around his legs, and the next second he felt his balance leave him.
His vision turned to the unseen sky as he fell to the floor, his head crashing against the concrete and momentarily stunning him.
Taking advantage of his daze, the young man moved his knife arm and positioned it right above his victim's head.
It was at that moment that Mark regained clarity of the situation, and saw the glint of death lingering right above his eyes.
He struggled with all his heart, using both his hands to try and push back the knife, but his assailant seemed to be backed by an indescribable force. No matter how hard he tried, the silvery edge wouldn't back away.
Stretching his mind, Mark tried to pull on an emotion, any emotion to get him out of the predicament.
The young man's eyes were dull, but for a moment they seemed to flicker.
"This... is for my brother."
With those words, the blade pressed further down, touching the skin of Mark's neck.
There was a cold sensation, but it was quickly replaced by the searing heat of the edge biting through the surface and entering the flesh.
'No-'
The blade entered further.
'I refuse to die here.'
Mercilessly, the silvery edge continued to penetrate his flesh.
In Mark's head, moments flashed and passed. The warmth of his childhood, the gradual process of losing it, and his mother's smile turning to an eternal frown. The momentary bliss he felt with the brunette, and how it eventually fell from his hands too.
And in the middle of it, an event insignificant to his happiness, yet just as important to his life.
He was confronted by the red-eyed leader and a pack of the Spheks.
'Kill him.'
The man had ordered for his death, but the two attendants suddenly stopped, stunned. They looked happy, confused, loathful, depressed, embarrassed, and much more - all at the same time.
Opening his eyes, Mark grumbled with unwillingness. He wasn't about to let death take him so easily.
The grumble turned into a low groan, then as he opened his mouth, an unwavering shout for his life.
He imploded the young man's mind with sentiments, from lust to hatred, trepidation, and joy, anything he could muster.
Without a second wasted, Mark kicked up and the man was pushed back a few steps, still standing.
Fishing in his windbreaker, he felt the cold exterior of his Luger and drew it with callous ease.
The young man had broken out of his trance and was rushing to plunge the knife into him.
Watching as the silvery blade came ever so close, Mark pulled the trigger.
A bullet flew from the barrel of the gun, through the air, and right into the brain of the assailant.
By the force of the shot, the young man was jerked back slightly, causing the swing of the knife to barely miss his head.
He lived.
A breath crawled out of his mouth, his arm went to cover his eyes.
"Hah, hahahaha."
Out of everything, he chose to laugh.
It wasn't even funny, none of it was. Yet, he laughed.
Laying in that spot, he played dead, listening to the cacophony of shrieks and cries within the fog around.
There wasn't much point in standing up anymore. His chances of surviving were much greater if he were to stay on the ground, but staying still wasn't going to give a lot of help either.
Flipping over, Mark crawled on the concrete surface, pausing whenever he heard someone approach from a distance.
But in the end, there was no need to move.
From somewhere in the fog, he heard an utterly low voice.
"Fire."