The Legion: Heartson

Man: At last... I finally get to stand face to face with the legendary Lena once again.

Claire frowned, tightening her grip on her sword as she appraised the man before her. He was different. For one, his armor was massive, heavier than anything she'd seen on the standard Obsidian forces.

The reinforced plates covering his body gleamed even under the dim, smoke-filled light of the lobby. Segmented for movement, yet appearing nearly impenetrable, the armor looked like a perfect fusion of practicality and power. Sharp, angular patterns lined the edges, giving it a modern, aesthetic. 

Unlike the glossy, functional elegance of regular Obsidian soldier armor, his gear was bulkier, with numerous attachments that made him seem like a walking tank. 

Her chest still heaved with effort as she scanned him, sweat and soot sticking to her skin. Even her injuries screamed for a reprieve, but the sharp glint in her eyes betrayed no weakness. She straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

Claire: I'm sorry, who are you?

The man froze mid-step, as if her words had landed harder than any blade could. Slowly, he cocked his head, scratching it awkwardly with the flat of his blade. A moment later, he let out a low chuckle, his voice taking on a strangely apologetic tone.

Man: Ah, of course. My mistake.

He reached up, pulling off his helmet with a deliberate motion. As the heavy piece of armor clattered to the ground, it revealed a sharp, angular face framed by short, black hair. His black eyes gleamed with determination, and his well-built frame now seemed even more imposing without the full helmet to obscure him. He looked no older than his mid-twenties.

Claire's lips twitched slightly as she looked him up and down, tilting her head thoughtfully. After a moment, she scratched the back of her head.

Claire: Sorry, still not ringing a bell. My apologies.

The man's smile faltered, his confidence wavering for just a second before he visibly gathered himself. His lips curved upward again, though now his expression seemed more forced.

Man: No matter. This time—for certain—I'll burn the memory of myself into your head. 

Claire didn't respond immediately, her gaze darting around the room. Smoke still lingered in the air, making it harder to breathe, but she ignored the discomfort. 

Her mind was already at work, cataloging every detail of the environment: the collapsed pillars she could use for cover, the broken furniture that could be thrown as distractions, the smoldering remains of the last explosion.

She coughed into her arm, her body trembling slightly from exertion, but her grip on her sword didn't falter. 

Her eyes flickered back to him briefly, taking in his stance, his weapons, the overconfidence radiating off him like heat. She tightened her grip on her sword, a smirk ghosting across her face.

Let's see how long he lasts.

The man surged forward, his massive frame a freight train of force aimed directly at Claire. But Claire did not meet his charge head-on.

No, she refused him the satisfaction.

Instead, she pivoted sharply, her body weaving fluidly through the hailstorm of gunfire erupting from the surviving soldiers around her. If she engaged the towering man now, she knew, the crossfire would tear through her like paper.

The soldiers' bullets tore through the air, desperate to find their target, but Claire's speed was unearthly. She danced through the chaos with a grace that bordered on terrifying, flickering like a ghost through the lobby. 

A tornado of destruction followed her every move, her blade carving arcs of death. Blood sprayed, limbs fell, and armor crumpled beneath the might of her strikes. The enemy faltered, overwhelmed not just by her speed but by her sheer presence—an executioner whose every movement defied comprehension.

Her breathing came in sharp bursts, the pain from her earlier injuries gnawing at her edges. But she couldn't slow down. 

Focus. Don't lose momentum.

The soldiers were just noise. The real threat—the man in the tank-like armor—still loomed. She dared a glance at him, her eyes narrowing. He was closing in steadily, undeterred by her evasive maneuvers. 

Vice Captain—that much was certain. If that was the case, Claire understood that she couldn't take him lightly as she herself had been... 

Her thoughts cut off there as she weaved through more gunfire. She ramped up the energy coursing through her legs, her strides becoming erratic bursts of acceleration and sudden halts.

The soldiers couldn't predict her, couldn't aim fast enough, couldn't even comprehend how she seemed to vanish and reappear in a blink.

A smirk tugged at her lips. 

It was as if she was faster than the bullets. Faster than their pathetic fear. Faster even than the Vice Captain, whose movements seemed painfully ordinary in comparison.

Still, speed alone wasn't enough.

Her blade dripped with crimson as she set her sights on him. The remaining soldiers were paralyzed by terror, their guns trembling in their hands. Claire ignored them.

With a burst of speed, she dashed toward the Vice Captain, her sword angled for a decisive strike.

The air seemed to freeze as she closed the distance, her mind locking onto the details: the slight shift in his stance, the tightening of his grip on the blade, the subtle lowering of his center of gravity. A calculated defense.

But then his armor shifted.

The metallic plates along his arms groaned and expanded, a mechanical hiss escaping as he raised his fist and slammed it into the ground with earth-shattering force.

The floor erupted.

The ground beneath Claire split apart like a faultline during an earthquake, jagged cracks racing outward with terrifying speed. The shockwave hit her before she could adjust, her balance shattering as the lobby became a battlefield of crumbling stone and debris. 

She staggered, her momentum utterly broken. 

Vice Captain: You don't get to look down on us simply because you were born lucky. I'll teach you how to raise your head.

The Vice Captain straightened, his form looming over the fractured ground. His eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction as he lifted his blade, ready to strike the moment she faltered.

And falter, she did not.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stager stumbled forward, hands raised in trembling desperation. His voice cracked as he pleaded, words spilling from his lips like a dam broken under pressure.

Stager: Cromley, please, this doesn't have to happen! I—I've made mistakes, but we can fix this. If you're unhappy with the company's direction, we'll restructure. Hell, you can have fifty percent—no, seventy-five percent! Whatever you want, just name it!

Cromley's cold gaze didn't waver, his pistol still trained on Stager's head. The metallic click of the hammer cocking silenced Stager mid-sentence.

Cromley: Shut it, Stager. Another word, and I'll put a bullet in you right now.

The sharp edge in his voice left no room for negotiation. 

Cromley: You're a thorn in my side. Promises and contracts, lies and excuses—you've pulled the rug out from under me too many times. But not this time.

His lips curled into a grim smile as he gestured vaguely to the men at his sides.

Cromley: This time, I have the backing and force to end it for good. No second chances. No loopholes. 

Stager's shoulders sagged as despair overtook him. He opened his mouth to plead again, but a sharp voice cut through the tension like a whip.

Thomas: Will you shut your mouth already?

The voice didn't carry the weight of desperation or fear. It was sharp, dismissive, dripping with disdain. Both Stager and Cromley turned toward the source.

Thomas, still dressed in his battered janitor uniform, was on his feet. His expression was one of barely concealed irritation, as though the whole situation was more of a personal inconvenience than a life-threatening standoff. He dusted himself off lazily, adjusting his uniform with a scowl.

Thomas: If you keep whimpering like that, I might just shoot you myself Stager.

The room froze. Cromley's men shifted uncomfortably, their weapons snapping toward Thomas in unison. Cromley himself arched an eyebrow, his cold smile giving way to mild confusion. But Thomas didn't flinch. If anything, he looked bored. His eyes lazily flicked to the armed men, then back to Stager, his lip curling.

Thomas: Honestly, you're all pathetic. Unless you're prepared to be slaughtered by Obsidian, I'd suggest you lower those toys.

The air shifted. That single word—Obsidian—landed with the force of a thunderclap. Cromley's confidence faltered, his smile twitching as unease crept into his eyes. His men exchanged uncertain glances, their grips on their weapons tightening but their aim wavering.

Cromley: Obsidian? What are you—

Thomas didn't give him a chance to finish. He sighed loudly, rolling his eyes as though he couldn't believe he had to explain himself.

Thomas: What, you weren't informed? After all the effort I went through to personally hand-deliver Stager to you, and you still managed to miss simple instructions? Typical.

His tone was casual, almost conversational, but there was a razor-sharp edge beneath it. Cromley's skepticism was evident, his lips pressing into a thin line as his gaze hardened.

Cromley: Who are you supposed to be, then? I wasn't told about some child being involved in this operation.

The corner of Thomas's mouth twitched. His expression darkened, the casual facade slipping just enough to reveal the irritation simmering beneath.

Thomas: Child?

He took a step forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone.

Thomas: Let me make something clear. You do not refer to me as a child. I am a soldier. No—a warrior.

His words hung in the air, heavy with implied authority. 

Thomas: A warrior of Obsidian.

Stager, still crumpled on the ground, looked up at Thomas with wide eyes, his face a mix of confusion and dawning horror.

Stager: What the hell are you talking ab—

Before he could finish, Thomas's fist lashed out, connecting squarely with Stager's jaw. The man crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain as Thomas shook out his hand, flexing his fingers as though the punch had been more inconvenient than anything else.

Thomas: Keep your mouth shut or I'll lose my patience.

Cromley's men glanced at each other, clearly uncertain. Their eyes darted to Cromley, who remained rooted in place, his pistol still raised but his confidence visibly shaken. Thomas turned his attention to the two men, his gaze cold and calculating.

For a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the city below and the faint rustle of the wind against the rooftop. Then, with deliberate slowness, Thomas cracked his knuckles.

Thomas: So, gentlemen. What's it going to be?

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, nothing moved. The rooftop was eerily silent save for the faint whistle of the wind and the distant hum of the city below. Cromley, his cold, calculating gaze locked onto Thomas, raised a hand slowly. With a subtle motion, he signaled his men to lower their weapons.

Cromley: Fine. I'll bite.

The tension shifted, but it didn't disapear. The men exchanged uneasy glances as they cautiously lowered their guns. Cromley stepped forward,his watch catching the dim light as he broke the silence.

Cromley: Let's make this simple. What exactly is your position in the process? Why wasn't I informed about… you?

Thomas rolled his eyes, a deep, exaggerated sigh escaping him as he crossed his arms.

Thomas: Do I look like I have the time or patience to explain what I've already gone over?

Cromley's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his sharp features. But before he could speak, Thomas straightened up, adjusting his collar with mock dignity.

Thomas: Since you're so insistent, I'll humor you. My job is simple—deliver Stager here to you, and then you take care of the rest. Dispose of him. Clean up the mess. The usual.

Cromley frowned, his brow furrowing as the pieces didn't quite fit together.

Cromley: Dispose of him? That doesn't add up. The point of this operation was capture, not execution. What do you—

His hand twitched almost imperceptibly, his fingers brushing against the trigger of his pistol. His mind raced, and in that instant, the realization dawned—a realization that froze his blood. His eyes widened, flicking toward Thomas, who crouched low in a flash, moving faster than Cromley could react.

In a single, fluid motion, Thomas pulled a pistol from the inside of his jacket. The gun fired three rapid shots, the cracks echoing across the rooftop. The first two bullets struck Cromley's men in their legs, their cries of pain ringing out as they collapsed to the ground. But the third bullet veered off course, missing Cromley entirely.

Cromley, recovering from the shock, raised his gun to retaliate, his aim steady despite the chaos.

Thomas squinted, closing one eye to focus, and fired again. The bullet grazed Cromley's eye, forcing him to flinch and miss his own shot.

For a brief moment, everything froze. Cromley clutched at his face, blood trickling between his fingers, his teeth bared in a snarl. Thomas adjusted his stance, raising his pistol for one final shot. He pulled the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. The chamber was empty.

A fleeting flicker of frustration crossed Thomas's face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Without hesitation, he dropped the gun, his movements seamless and unrelenting. His hand shot out, grabbing Stager by the collar and dragging the stunned man to his feet.

Stager: W—what is going on?!

Stager's panicked voice was little more than background noise to Thomas as he yanked the man toward the stairwell. Behind them, Cromley, still clutching his eye, staggered upright, his rage bubbling to the surface.

Thomas: Move, dickhead.

With a final tug, Thomas threw open the heavy stairwell door and dragged Harrison inside, the clang of the door slamming shut behind them echoing across the rooftop. The two stumbled down the stairs, their frantic footsteps drowning out Cromley's muffled shouts from behind.

Thomas: Keep moving.

His eyes darted down the spiraling staircase ahead.

But Stager wasn't built for this. The man stumbled, wheezing like an engine on its last legs. They couldn't afford delays, not when death could be waiting just a flight below.

Stager: Are you... are you with Obsidian?

Thomas froze mid-step, his shoulders stiffening. Slowly, he turned his head to glare at the man dragging behind him. His lips curled into a scowl so sharp it could have cut through the tension hanging in the air.

Thomas: Of course not, you wanker. 

He slowed his pace, ears straining as a sound reached him. Footsteps. Approaching from below.

Thomas raised a hand, motioning for Stager to stop. The older man looked confused, but he obeyed, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. 

Thomas, meanwhile, pressed his back to the cool concrete, closing his eyes for a moment.

What a shit show.