Guardian XXIII // ONC 2021

Chapter XIV- The Kiss of Death

Whatever room I'm in begins to quake under my feet like a stampede of rhinos. Thirteen warned me stay or risk getting others killed, but I don't see how that is possible if we're a bunch of immortals. In fact, I've been the one often used as bait. If anything, I may just save their lives with another sacrifice.

It doesn't take long for calamity to greet the guards below by the roaring sound of gunfire and villainous threats bellowed. Shots seem to be heard from all parts of the building, some above and some below this old structure. I'm not quite sure I know where they're coming from when a few enter through the window tearing apart at the walls and causing shards of tiny sharp glass to rain.

I belly flop to the floor the instant a bullet whizzes by my ear crawling over to the door. Soon, tiny blades of steel decorate the door frame obliterating any thought of escape as I remain a thin layer on the ground.

"Shit! Shit! Triple shit! Are those freakin' arrows?" They are, and I'm not waiting for Cupid to puncture me with the kiss of death straight to the heart.

I finally manage to open the door getting my arm nicked in the process by a steel tip blade. Luckily, small wounds seem to heal quite rapidly now. It's the impaling ones that apparently take hours for recovery.

Once I'm out of the lobby and into the hallway of some old hospital building, I make a run in the direction of the exit. Noises and shouts are heard above and below, some a little too close for comfort when I pound open the entryway to the stairs. I'm sprinting down the steps when a blade lodges in my arm propelling me down a flight of stairs.

Cupid's fuckin' arrow strikes quite a punch, but instincts have me ripping the weapon out of my flesh, clutching it closely to my chest like a shield.

A staggering sense of security washes over me. It brings forth thoughts of similar metal objects that once felt like gloves in my hand. Two matching blades. My weapon of choice—steel sickles with hilts embedded in red and black diamonds. It's as if I can see them clutched in my fists. Their holster is wrapped around each thigh where they have often been secured when in battle.

Suddenly, catching me off guard, a figure leaps off the set of stairs above landing directly in front of me dressed in a dark scarlet robe that covers most of their face. The stranger lunges at me with a blade, longer than the tiny arrow I hold in my hand, but that doesn't stop me from maneuvering away from each attack or attempted stabbing. I clench the weapon between my teeth leaping down the remaining two flights of stairs, scoring a perfect ten on the landing. Never would I have thought my body was capable of such tactics, but apparently, it is. And when the caped wearing Jedi decides to follow suit, lunging at him in midair seems like the best way to wound him, deep enough to gash a hole that spills bodily fluids.

Blood gushes out of his abdomen staining the walls in crimson streaks. Its gruesome markings are a harrowing realization of what I am capable of, and it is a grim reminder of what I am. It's taken me long to realize it, to accept that my fate has always been a Death Guard.

This is what I have been trained to do. It is what Thirteen and Death had prepared me for. The adrenaline coursing through my body has reached some sort of pinnacle that makes fighting second nature to me when another assailant decides to fire at me from the first-floor entrance of the stairs.

I sprint directly at my target while every bullet fired whizzes by my agile movements. There are seven fires before the cloaked figure runs out of ammunition. He reaches for a weapon hidden beneath his robe, and I don't think twice about fighting him for it and lodging it into his throat. But I know how easily immortals can revive. I sever arteries and twist my wrist deep into his cervical vertebrae until the blade is stuck in bone. Whether immortal or not, I'd like to see that soldier get his ass up.