[11th] Week 271: Decimation 0.077

[Wayne]

[Entry Type 0.077]
[Sequence Initiate: Decimation]
[User Designation: Dragovich, Vitaly S.]
[General Input Coordinates: 20°21′20″N 100°04′53″E]
[Location: Vietnam-Laos Border, Southeast Asia]
[2.003]​

“Tango coming in from all sides!” Lincoln yelled into his walkie. “Cover your asses and protect the shipment!”

Things had escalated within just a matter of seconds. One moment they were riding quietly down the pathway, and then next they were knee-deep in hostiles armed with grenade launchers. The adrenaline and testosterone which now consumed the air was unmistakable, although nothing out of the unexpected. Already, half a dozen men were scorched and blown to bits, some shot through the chest and head while those lucky enough bled from their limbs and sides.

Such was the life of a mercenary.

Torres, along with the other mercs in their company began setting their stand against the attackers. Natives covered in rags though armed to the teeth stormed out from the bush, firing madly at the convoy. As Vitaly’s group had already deduced, the ambush was delivered courtesy of the local militia—the Asian cartels running the opium trade in the area. Fortified with the rage left over from the Vietnam War just decades prior, these men were far more aggressive than their Middle Eastern and South American counterparts. They were guerrilla fighters down to the bone, many honed in tactics specifically made to counter Western firepower.

Positioning themselves behind one of the humvees, the trio leading the expedition opened fire, struggling back against the hail of lead and shells.

“Hey, where’s that one dude!?” Torres yelled amidst the volley of bullets, firing his rifle overhead. “I ain’t driving once we’re done here!”

Through the smoke pouring from the gunfire, Vitaly quickly peeked out from their hiding spot, looking for their native guide. A wayward bullet managed to graze him on the cheek, singing his mask and scarring his skin. By a shrub from where a group of insurgents were holed up, he saw their driver running and yelling in his native tongue, heading happily to one of the gunners.

Lining his sights on the traitor, three bursts of ammunition left Vitaly’s piece—two hitting the exposed militiamen, and the last striking the driver dead center on the base of the neck.

As he pulled back to cover, the masked man tapped Torres on the chest, commenting, “Sucks to be you right now, then. Your ass is on the wheel!”

“Hell no, I’m calling shotgun!” called back the mercenary with the cowboy hat, still laughing despite getting nicked by the shoulder.

“Oy, you two! Help out Bravo Team and take out that fucking RPG!” Lincoln ordered his compatriots in between chucking out a hand grenade. “And give me some covering fire when you’re finished! I’m gonna get on the turret and waste these fuckers!!”

“You want me to wipe your ass while we’re at it?” Vitaly sneered right as he turned and shot back another round of slugs.

“NOW!” commanded the veteran, his voice booming out in between the gunfire.

Torres and Vitaly complied immediately, supporting the other group two trucks behind them. Rocket after rocket emerged from the forest, its source nearly untraceable amongst all the chaos and smoke. A wall of bullets razed the blockades of trees to the ground, though still they couldn’t take out the bomber. Slamming his fist against the truck in frustration, Vitaly quickly took note of his allies’ movements. Right then, as Torres was preoccupied with tracking their mark, the masked man gained a brief window to put the odds into their favor.

Placing the palm of his hand on the ground, a slightly spark flashed out from the mercenary’s fingers. On cue, from behind the bunker-like fortification hiding the insurgents, a virulent crimson luster grew, immersing and catching everyone who was close by unaware.

“Boom,” Vitaly whispered, just as a massive explosion riled and scorched the sheltered attackers.

“Whoa!! The hell was that!?” Torres exclaimed, eyes widening with surprise.

“Who the fuck cares? It took out their RPG!” Vitaly smirked before bouncing his attention to the Australian. “Lincoln, haul ass!”

Without saying another word, the man sprinted from cover to cover, reaching a battered-down humvee in the middle of the caravan. Pushing through wounded agents and the few still standing, Lincoln hopped above the vehicle as he placed himself behind a mounted turret. Gnashing his teeth as a molten round was shot into his ankle, Lincoln persevered nonetheless. A hail of lead rained down on the native aggressors, picking them off groups at a time before eventually dwindling them down to manageable numbers. Soon enough, the rebel militia was scattered, a few of them retreating back into the woods while most were shot dead by Lincoln’s convoy.

Victory in their grasp, many of mercenaries began celebrating, yelling on top of their lungs while shooting round after round brazenly into the sky. Torres was particularly cheery as he climbed up one of the trucks while carrying a severed arm from one of the natives.

Lifting the torn limb up high like some sort of grizzly trophy, he jeered, “Yeah baby! You like that, huh!?”

“You’re one sick son of a bitch, you know that?” Lincoln called to him, sighing.

“What? It’s not like he’s gonna be needi—”

Before Torres could finish his retort, he was stopped abruptly as a line of red began to trickle down his forehead. To everyone’s surprise, the blood didn’t come from the arm. His cowboy hat suddenly fell off his head, cut evenly from the middle.

“Wha... what the f...” Torres’ eyes rolled back as he collapsed, although not before his body tumbled to separate ends of the vehicle. Like with his hat, the man was cleaved almost surgically from the scalp down to the groin. A torrent of blood gushed from his remains, instantly panicking the troops.

A frigid, almost paralyzed gaze came from Lincoln as he turned to face Vitaly.

“I don’t... what the fuck... what’s... what happened?” he asked in a confused, although more terrified tone.

Pointing to the back of the convoy, Vitaly replied in a disturbingly casual voice, “That happened.”

The rest of the mercenaries were being lifted up by an invisible force of some kind, crushing them in its grasp. The men squealed in agony, their bones crushed inside their bodies as blood spewed from their orifices. In but a matter of seconds, a malignant force was doing to the mercenaries what the native insurgents could not. One by one, sometimes by three, the men were either torn from limb to limb or crushed to death by the invisible entity. As some of the men fled maniacally in terror, Lincoln and Vitaly were left practically by themselves.

“D-Dragovich... what...” Lincoln muttered—his entire body petrified from head to toe. “How the fuck can you stay so goddamn calm whe...”

Yawning, Vitaly scratched the back of his head as he stood up from where he sat. With a dismissive shrug, he commented, “You shoulda ran. It would’ve left you alone, that’s for goddamn sure. Ah well, tough shit.”

The Australian’s chest bore a medium-sized hole, his innards beings pushed to the sides by what appeared to be an unseen claw. In an instant, before the man could say another word, his body was whipped away, flung helplessly to the side like a ragdoll. Lincoln’s body slammed headfirst against a stone mound, breaking his spine on a dime.

Dusting his hands together, Vitaly approached the impalpable marauder with the look on his face still as casual and relaxed as could be. “Am I really shitting out that much reiatsu? Huh. After all this time, you’d think I’d know how to keep that in check. Whatever.”

Though invisible to everyone else, to Vitaly, the creature was as clear as day. The masked man stared down the masked devil, both their eyes interlocking together like chains creating a fountain of sparks. In the most basic sense, the creature appeared ape-like... although contorted and disfigured in every way possible. From its back came six appendages, tentacles with pointed ends. The monstrosity released a harrowing roar, sending shockwaves to reverberate all throughout the jungle floor.

Unfazed, Vitaly merely smirked apathetically, cracking his knuckles together.

“Well fuck you too, big guy.” He outstretched his arms to both sides. “I wrecked tougher shit like you before. You want some of this? Then come at me, bro.”

The primate brought up its hands and pounded them vigorously against its own chest, accompanied by a stern battle cry. Charging forward, it brandished an open hand attempting to crush the masked man in place. Retaliating with a closed, tightened fist, Vitaly pounced, striking the monster’s massive palm. The earth beneath them shook, ripples from the impact traveling through the vehicles’ steel.

“I could’ve sworn that would’ve killed you.” Vitaly squinted, though still smiling. “Meh. I broke your arm though. That’s still something. Why don’t we up the ante, eh?”

Before the creature could proceed any further, yet another scarlet light illuminated the area, its reach now covering the entirety of the ape.

[Entry Type 0.077-2]
[User Designation: ???]
[General Input Coordinates: 40.765201°N 73.979166°W]
[Location: 157 West 57th Street, New York, United States]
[52.3 Hours Later]​

From atop a penthouse suite overlooking Central Park, a man clad in a gray business suit with slicked back white hair sat idly amidst the dim-lit room. The walls were made entirely of glass, allowing a nearly bird’s-eye view of the entire city down below. It appeared that the only source light, save from those outside, were from an open laptop situated just to the side of the man’s metal desk. On the computer’s screen were numbers and charts, updating constantly on what appeared to be in connection to the US stock market. Off to its side was a company logo—a single stylized font bearing the letter ‘W.’

The door far off in the corner creaked open as another individual stepped foot inside the condo. Glancing at the half-empty wine glass in his hand, the white-haired man welcomed his guest.

“Arthur. Back from Hong Kong, I see.” His voice was relaxed and calm, though strangely unnerving.

“Yes sir,” the visitor replied, nodding. “I would have arrived sooner had it not been for some... unexpected delays.”

The man appeared unabashed by the report. His eyes were concealed by the glare on his reading glasses, although he seemed to have turned his sights away from Arthur. “Ah, the Golden Triangle expedition. A shame. Although I am curious... how has Mr. Nguyen taken to the loss of his shipment?”

“He’s quite relieved actually. Despite the loss of nearly all the mercenaries, the supplies were still delivered. All of them.”

“That’s a surprise. I never expected such efficiency from a group of hired guns.”

“Hired gun, sir.” Arthur placed his hands behind his back. “Only one individual survived. Some Russian fellow, if I recall correctly.”

A brief silence followed. The white-haired man took a sip of his wine before finally responding, “You seem troubled, Arthur. By all means, please share what’s on your mind.”

Walking to the opposite end of the room, Arthur stood by a wall looking down on the streets below. “I knew the man leading the convoy... a former SAS operative by the name of Arnold James Lincoln. There was no possible way his men could have been dispatched by a mere group of natives. I suspect something else entirely.”

“And that would be...?”

“A Titan, sir. The group was attacked by a Titan.”

With a pomp chuckle, the white-haired man replied dismissively, “Why must you call them that? Why needlessly complicate things when you can simply name them by what they are. Hollows.”

“My apologies. Attacked by a Hollow.”

Placing the glass back on the table, the man crossed his legs as he leaned back against his chair.

“Everything seems to have played out just fine, then. Nothing to worry about. Inform the others: Project Zero Valhalla is moving on schedule.”