Every time I close my eyes, I see a flash of the past. Sometimes, I see the battlefield with bodies at every step, and smoke from artillery fire everywhere you looked. Sometimes I see friends, Odin, Michael, and even Azazel. But most of the time, I...
I walk down the street, coat clinging to armor beneath, gloves tight on the worn .44 Magnum at my hip. Footsteps echo in puddles.
A sharp crack of gunfire slices the air.
I tilt my head. Instinct. I break into a run.
A few dozen armed thugs swarm the happy hotel entrance, rifles blazing.
I duck behind a car hood, fingers tightening on the Magnum.
I pull the trigger. One, two, three. Skull, shoulder, chest. They're down before they even realize it.
Thug1: (shrieking) It's him! The Harbinger of Death!
Thug2: He isn't supposed to be here!
I step over the fallen, moving like a predator. Panic's a weapon I wield as efficiently as my guns.
A thug tries to slip into the lobby. Katana comes out. Slash. He goes down.
The front doors burst open. Lobby is chaos. Splintered furniture, bullet holes everywhere.
I roll behind the reception desk. Thugs scatter. I fire. Move. Slash. Every action precise, every strike lethal.
A thug dives from the second floor, landing on the chandelier. Magnum roar. He tumbles. Glass sprays across marble. I duck. Shards scrape armor. I don't flinch.
Stragglers reach the stairwell. Katana arcs. Limbs drop. Handrails splinter. Blood on gloves. I move, I clear, I win.
I hear a struggle. Pause at the door. Breathe steady.
I step in.
Charlie's there, pipe in hand. She's smashing the last thug to death. Blood flies. Furniture bends under her swings.
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Y/N: Easy. That you Charlie? You look like you just finished bootcamp.
She doesn't answer. Only glares, teeth bared, eyes glowing.
She tosses the corpse aside.
Charlie: Did you kill those fuckers?
Y/N: No. I slaughter them.
I move closer, scanning the room. Broken glass, bruised furniture, blood pooling.
Y/N: Where are the others?
Charlie: They drove in cars. Shot everyone. Killed my... Vaggie... They killed Nifty... and the guests.
She looks feral. All that innocence replaced with rage.
Y/N: And Alastor? Why didn't he help?
She shrugs, furious.
Charlie: I don't know.
Her stance radiates strength. Demonic or not, she's lethal.
I wipe my gloves on my coat. Magnum back in the holster, Katana sheathed. Weapons worn, but functional.
