Tie the Noose Chapter 32

HUNK moved first, Daniel tensing as he watched the man lift his MP5, the sleek, compact weapon gleaming in the light, his other hand rising to hit the release. It clattered to the ground unceremoniously, followed by his pistol, and the belt of grenades around his waist. He kicked them back, out of the way. The message was clear.

No guns. No grenades. Not for this fight.

Daniel loosened his own shotgun, setting it down, the Saiga sliding down to the concrete, followed by the Mare’s leg, and finally… he drew Rebecca’s pistol. This one, he ejected the mag, and the round in the chamber, before glancing at the man across from him. A single nod, he slid the empty pistol back into his holster. He wouldn’t have a chance to reload it anyway. HUNK wouldn’t let him, and the men above… they were there to keep him honest, as much as anything else.

The central chamber swallowed Daniel as the two circled. The generator rose from the heart of the room like the exposed spine of some impossible machine-god, ringed steel stacked around a pistoning core that vanished down into the abyss below and climbed nearly to the upper catwalks above. Even dormant, it dominated everything, like the chamber had been built around it, hexagonal walls feeding inward through thick cable trunks and armored conduits that converged into the towering central device. The light sticks glowed in thermal red where Daniel had scattered them, painting the concrete, the catwalk supports, and the walls in a hellish wash, as the floodlights overhead ripped into the gloom below, leaving the room bathed in a pall of white and crimson. Heaven and hell, the executioners above, ready to rain down their steel vengeance on him at the barest word, as he fought the devil below for his very life. It was almost poetic, Daniel thought coldly, if not for the butcher that stood opposite of him.

That was the crushing reality that Daniel stared down as his hands tightened around the trench knife and tomahawk. Every barrel tracked his chest, his visor, his head. He knew what it meant. If he made one wrong move, broke the rules of this little duel, tried to break away, lunged for cover, if he did anything that read as a real escape attempt, they’d cut him down before he crossed ten feet of open floor. That knowledge sat in the back of his mind like a lead weight, but it didn’t cool the fire in his blood. If anything, it sharpened it. There’d be no retreat. No room for cleverness. No fucking around. Just steel, flesh, armor, and the man advancing on him with the calm certainty of death itself.

HUNK came on without any flourish.

Quiet, focused, and lethal, the Reaper relaxed into a simple, familiar fighting stance, deceptively simple and open, no tension or worry in his steps. He simply moved, sliding into range with that deceptively modest gait Daniel recognized far too well. His knife stayed forward, point low and angled for immediate redirection, while the karambit sat back and inward near his centerline, hidden just enough to make its arc hard to read. It was textbook and it wasn’t. Everything about the stance was LINE stripped to its essence, no decorative elements, no hesitation, no second guessing, just pure instinct and reflex. Daniel knew the posture because parts of his own style had been built around imitating it. That was what hit him deepest, because he knew, now who the man standing across from him really was. He didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t let himself. He only tightened his grip and stepped in to meet it.


The first clash came fast, loose, probing in it's lethality. He drove in with the tomahawk leading from his right, a short, brutal diagonal cut aimed for HUNK’s knife arm, with the trench knife tucked close for a follow-up thrust to the ribs. It was a sound opening, fast and ugly and committed. HUNK broke it apart in two motions. His combat knife snapped up to catch the tomahawk just above the beard, not stopping the strike so much as shifting its line off his arm by inches, while the karambit whipped low and inward in a hooking slash that forced Daniel to wrench his trench knife back to protect his own abdomen. Steel rang once. The impact jarred Daniel to the shoulder. Before he could flow into the next beat, HUNK slammed a boot into his lead shin.

Pain flashed up Daniel’s leg. He had to bite off a shout of pain, gritting his teeth till he heard them grind. HUNK stamped just above his ankle with the kind of efficient, structural violence LINE loved most, attacking his body’s support trying to rob him of his ability to move. Daniel’s balance jolted sideways. In the same instant HUNK’s knife hand shot forward, point darting at the seam between Daniel’s helmet shroud and vest. Daniel ripped his head back and twisted, the blade skating hard across armored material with a shriek that rang his ears as he felt his mask jolt along the edge of the blade. A chastising blow for leaving a gap, before HUNK slid into his defenses again. He pivoted through it, karambit slashing for the inside of Daniel’s wrist.

Daniel tore free and gave ground, breaking off, making the barest breath of space between them as he countered. He let the retreat become a rotational step, spinning out and using the tomahawk’s pick to smash downward at HUNK’s forearm. HUNK withdrew just enough to keep his arm from shattering and answered by driving forward shoulder-first. The collision hit Daniel like a battering ram. The firm plating of Phalanx armor saved his ribs from caving under the blow, but the force still shoved him half a step backward and robbed him of the momentum he’d been building. HUNK was already in his chest, crowding his weapons, jamming the tomahawk handle with his forearm while the karambit carved a savage upward line toward Daniel’s groin. Daniel caught the wrist with his left forearm and brought the brass-knuckled trench knife hand crashing down across HUNK’s mask.

The punch cracked loud enough to echo. HUNK’s head snapped a fraction to the side. Not enough. Daniel followed with another, then another, pistoning the knuckle duster into the gas mask and filter housing while trying to tear his own tomahawk free. HUNK absorbed the first two and slipped the third by turning his head just enough that the brass glanced off reinforced hardware instead of vulnerable glass. Then the older man trapped Daniel’s punching arm with the crook of his knife wrist, chopped the combat knife into the bicep seam of the armor, and hammered his forehead into Daniel’s visor. Helmet met mask with a brutal thunk. Stars burst in Daniel’s vision. HUNK ripped the karambit free of the bind and stabbed low into Daniel’s thigh.

Daniel snarled and brought his knee up on instinct. HUNK angled his hips so the strike glanced off his outer thigh instead of landing center, then hooked Daniel’s standing leg with his boot and tried to dump him backward into the concrete. Daniel recognized the reap in time and widened, sacrificing posture for stability. The two of them locked there for a fraction of a second, chest to chest, weapons trapped in lethal proximity, each trying to tear apart the other’s guard with tiny bursts of leveraged violence. Daniel felt HUNK’s knife edge grinding against his armor, felt the karambit hunting for another opening.

For a moment the two stared into one another's eyes, so close they could see through each other's visors, the cracked eye of HUNK's mask glaring into the scraped faceplate of Daniel's. The two shifted, sharply, trapped in close and not letting the other an inch, because that meant another trip, another strike, another flying blade. Slowly, Daniel felt the weight of HUNK's knife force him back, the older man's raw strength more than even he could handle. He knew he was losing, his lock slipping as the two pressed into one another. He had to do something.

So he got mean.

Daniel slammed the spike of the tomahawk down toward HUNK’s boot. HUNK yanked his foot clear, but that wasn’t the real attack. Daniel had only wanted the reaction. The instant the older man shifted his base, Daniel drove his trench knife fist up under the sternum in a vicious shovel blow meant to fold him, then spun the tomahawk free and hacked short and horizontal at the side of HUNK’s neck. The first shot landed to the body. Daniel felt armor compress, the trauma plate start to give, heard air leave HUNK in a strangled burst. The second almost landed too. HUNK ducked just enough that the tomahawk bit sparks from his shoulder harness instead of opening his neck, and as he dipped he let his whole body fall under the strike and into Daniel’s centerline.

The combat knife chopped across Daniel’s right wrist with the precise, hateful force of a guillotine. The tomahawk didn’t leave Daniel’s grip, but pain detonated through his hand hard enough to numb two fingers instantly. Before Daniel could recover, the karambit laced over the trench knife guard, trapped it, and twisted. HUNK used the hooked blade to torque the hand outward and expose Daniel’s elbow line. A heartbeat later HUNK’s shoulder smashed into that elbow from the wrong direction. Daniel felt the joint strain to the edge of damage. He tore himself loose by sacrificing the lock and driving his armored left shoulder into HUNK’s jawline hard enough to separate them.

They broke apart at last.

Daniel’s breath rattled through his respirator. HUNK’s didn’t change at all.

They circled around the base of the generator, boots scraping over concrete dust and scattered grit. Blades bared, glinting in the light, the two men watched one another with a hunter's focus. Above, the USS soldiers said nothing. Daniel could feel them leaning into the spectacle, the hungry stillness of armed men watching someone else do the killing. He hated them for it. Playing into this farce. He had to find a way out of this, somehow. He had to break away, because he was in the killing field now. Death ground.

He attacked harder.

Daniel came in behind a thrown body feint and a low-line stomp at HUNK’s knee. HUNK checked the stomp with his shin. Daniel used the contact to slingshot the tomahawk upward in a compact backhand that forced HUNK’s knife hand high, then he reversed immediately and slammed the trench knife forward under that gate, point driving for the lower abdomen. It was a classic paired entry, one weapon occupying, the other killing. HUNK answered like he’d seen it a hundred times. The karambit hand rotated inward, catching Daniel’s forearm at the wrist and dragging it off-line while the combat knife snapped down in a brutal icepick stab toward the inside of Daniel’s elbow. Daniel jerked back just enough to avoid being pinned through the joint, and HUNK used the recoil to whip his left leg up in a vicious oblique kick to Daniel’s already battered lead knee.

Daniel’s leg buckled, pain lancing white up to his hip. HUNK surged in on the break, one hand checking the tomahawk, the other slashing a chain of fast, economical cuts toward his neck, face, and armpit. Daniel blocked two with his trench knife, one with the tomahawk shaft, and let the fourth skate off the armored edge of his pauldron in a burst of sparks. He answered the graze with a brutal combination of his own. He punched the spike of the tomahawk into HUNK’s thigh, missed by an inch as HUNK turned, then buried the brass knuckles across the side his ribs again and again, each strike thrown from inches away with everything his shoulders could give. HUNK’s body rocked, off balance, and Daniel shoulder-barged him into one of the lower spindled structures around the generator.

HUNK hit the steel support hard enough to ring it and Daniel tried to finish there. Tomahawk high. Trench knife low. He hacked at HUNK’s knife arm, stabbed for the kidneys, slammed the brass across the mask, chopped down toward the collar. HUNK defended all of it inside a space no larger than a closet. His combat knife became a moving wedge, intercepting the axe, deflecting it, buying just enough room for the karambit to keep Daniel honest with short, hooking slashes that tore at his gloves, wrists, and forearms. One cut raked across the back of Daniel’s right hand, the plate screaming, the strike enough to rip away the use of his hand forever if it had found flesh.

Then HUNK headbutted him again. The impact was smaller this time and more surgical, a sudden crack into the bridge of Daniel’s visor while he was mid-motion and unable to brace. Daniel’s vision blanked. HUNK used the instant of disorientation to seize Daniel’s tomahawk wrist with a mix of strength and geometry, pinning the arm to the steel support behind him. At once the karambit flashed toward Daniel’s exposed throat. Daniel jammed his trench knife hand into the incoming wrist and felt the hooked blade kiss the neck shroud instead of sliding beneath it. HUNK bore down. Daniel bore back. The karambit point dug and sawed against armored fabric less than an inch from his vulnerable throat.

Daniel was trapped, the feeling of the blade working it's way through the kevlar threads, weakening them, parting them bit by bit as the wicked blade dug. He needed to get free, needed to break the hold he was stuck in, before he wound up breathing through a second smile.

In a desperate sacrifice, he let go of the tomahawk. The moment his right hand released, HUNK lost control over his leverage. Daniel drove the freed hand straight into HUNK’s face, not as a punch but as a gouging, armored shove that jammed fingers under the edge of the mask lenses and smashed the whole apparatus sideways. At the same time he hammered his trench knife fist down on the karambit wrist and twisted his torso. The bind broke. Daniel ripped his neck clear, dragged the tomahawk hand loose, and rammed his left shoulder into HUNK’s chest with all the ugly momentum his broad frame could muster.

For the first time, HUNK gave real ground. Only two steps, but it was just enough.

Daniel snatched the tomahawk back up before it hit the floor and crashed after him like a storm. No more testing. No more caution. He drove the axe in short, murderous arcs, one after another, never letting it travel far enough to be deflected easily, while the trench knife punctuated each beat with thrusts at groin, liver, throat, and the backs of hands. It wasn’t pretty, or measured, or practiced or patient, not any more. It was an instinctive, animalistic rage powered by adrenaline and sheet, vicious desire to hurt. HUNK retreated around the curve of the generator base, blocking, redirecting, shaving inches, refusing to let the tempo outpace him him. Daniel slashed HUNK’s sleeve open from elbow to wrist. Brass crashed into the heavy tactical vest with a cracking staccato, and the tomahawk's edge bit into HUNK’s vest rigging and tore free, leaving and open rend in the thick, cut-resistant material.

HUNK took it all, and then in an instant, punished Daniel for his arrogance. He lured Daniel’s tomahawk high with an exposed gap in his guard, let the axe start down, and then stepped inside it so abruptly Daniel nearly chopped his own side trying to pull the blow. HUNK’s combat knife punched into the soft pocket behind Daniel’s raised shoulder plate and bit deep enough to make him hiss through his teeth, finally finding flesh and spilling first blood. Before Daniel could retaliate, the karambit slammed into the back of his knee and hooked him, not to cut him, but to drag him. HUNK yanked his leg while driving his own shoulder into Daniel’s ribs. Daniel crashed sideways into the generator housing with enough force to send his ears ringing, as HUNK almost derisively kicked him away.

The room was silent as Daniel tried to get the air back into his chest, the agonizing burn of the cut that had dug deep into his arm leaving a red wash across the ground. HUNK stood there, watching him like a predator waiting to see if it's prey was dead or not. Daniel felt the flush of raw hate rush through him, as he forced himself to his feet. HUNK let him, let him stand, let him recover, as he stood impassively. Daniel had seen it countless times before, often accompanied by a brutal takedown of what he'd done wrong, and why he'd been laid out, but here, in this place, there was only silence as he took his stance again.

HUNK piled on at once. Combat knife to the face. Karambit to the wrist. Low kick to the ankle. Forearm smash to the jawline. Everything chained together, each beat trying to disassemble him as he fought to recover. Daniel blocked most of it through instinct and sheer stubbornness. The trench knife caught the stab and deflected it down. The tomahawk handle took the forearm smash. His armored greave absorbed the ankle kick. But one of the karambit cuts got through and sliced across the heel of his left hand, opening flesh beneath the glove. Another stab rammed into the seam under his right pauldron and lodged for a split second before Daniel tore free with a savage twist that widened the wound but saved the arm.

Blood slicked his grip. Daniel ignored it. It was just pain. Nothing vital hit. Bleeding shallow. It would hurt, but he'd long since inured himself to that. No, it wasn't even an afterthought. He'd been taught better than that. Trained better. Learned to take the pain, to use it, to focus it, and if all else failed, to blot it out of his mind. Life was pain. It didn't stop until you were dead.

He baited high with the tomahawk and, when HUNK’s knife rose to meet it, Daniel reversed his cut instead, a feint, before driving the trench knife straight at HUNK’s inner thigh where his leg joined his hip. The trench knife was built for ugly work, a brutal relic from another, older war, brass knuckles and stabbing blade designed to bleed a man out slow. This was the range it belonged to. HUNK saw it too late to dodge. The blade got in.

Not deep enough. HUNK twisted with it, turning a crippling thrust into a tearing gouge that ripped through the fabric and bit into meat without punching into the femoral artery. Daniel felt the trench knife catch, felt resistance, felt triumph ignite for half a second. Then HUNK broke his nose.

Not with a fist, but with the butt of his combat knife, whipped across Daniel’s face in a savage horizontal smash that turned the inside of his helmet into a burst of pain and wet heat. Daniel staggered. HUNK trapped the trench knife, ripped the blade free of his own leg, and drove a knee into Daniel’s gut with enough force to fold him even through his armor. Daniel answered by chopping the tomahawk at HUNK’s neck, a desperate swing. HUNK leaned just clear, and rammed the karambit into the meat of Daniel’s outer thigh where the armor coverage was weaker.

It wasn’t a deep strike, but it almost sent him to the ground as his leg lost it's strength. The exo-frame whined harshly as it took the full brunt of his weight. Again, HUNK backed off, letting him recover, letting him stand, and the feeling return to his leg. I could have ended it there. The message was clear, but the words unsaid. I would have, but I didn't. It burned at Daniel, as he felt the blood seep down his leg, like acid, pouring from yet another wound. Another mark against him. Another damning mockery.

He snarled, an ugly, angry sound, as he charged in again, the spear into his gut boosted by the titanium springs and actuators encasing his legs. HUNK’s balance vanished, the explosion of motion catching the man by surprise. Daniel didn’t waste it. He slammed forward, turning the off-balance into a brutal body tackle that carried both of them to the concrete in a storm of armor, boots, and steel. They hit hard enough to bounce, as Daniel rolled himself over and HUNK.

On the ground, the fight turned feral.

The tomahawk was lost almost immediately. Daniel lost it again, because HUNK caught the haft between both forearms and wrenched it away in the roll, sending it skidding across the floor. Daniel let it go, he still had the trench knife. The blade punched down, as HUNK caught it, Daniel putting all his weight behind burying the blade into the other man's sternum, forcing it down inch by inch. feeling it just barely begin to dig into the tac vest, slowly inching it down. Daniel was heavy, had mass, had the leverage advantage, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought it would be over.

Then it all went wrong.

HUNK fought like a machine. He didn’t panic under the pressure. He didn’t waste energy trying to buck Daniel off. He created inches. An elbow inside Daniel’s bicep to numb the arm. A heel stomped into the back of Daniel’s calf. It was enough to loosen his stance, to unbalance him, and that barest moment was enough for HUNK to fit a boot between them. He kicked hard, burying his shin into Daniel's gut, forcing him back just enough for HUNK to send a brutal knee right into his ribcage, and Daniel felt something break.

They rolled.

Daniel came up on a knee and tried to bury the trench knife in HUNK’s throat. HUNK’s left forearm checked the stab high while the karambit hooked his wrist and dragged it across center. Daniel ripped back before his own blade could be turned into him and smashed a short elbow into the side of HUNK’s head. HUNK answered with a vertical stomp-kick from the ground that blasted Daniel off him just long enough to rise in one smooth, patient motion. Daniel pushed himself up, his breath rattling, black at the edges of his vision as he felt his bones shift, but he rose all the same.

They stood, facing one another, both bloodied now.

Daniel’s right shoulder burned where he'd been bled. His thigh throbbed. His nose was pouring blood into the mask. One hand felt slick and weak, and every breath was an exercise in torture. HUNK carried less visible damage, but Daniel had marked him. The cut in the thigh had to hurt. The rigging on his vest hung half torn. One side of the mask had a crack near the lens housing and there was a dark wet patch along the slashed sleeve. None of it slowed him. If anything, it made him look more inevitable.

Daniel hated that too.

He drew a breath that hurt and stepped toward the dropped tomahawk.

HUNK didn’t let him have it clean. He lunged at the same time, knives low and hidden. Daniel changed mid-step, and slashed with the trench knife as he moved. HUNK’s combat knife intercepted. The karambit whipped up at Daniel’s face. Daniel turned his head and let the hook carve a long screeching gouge across the helmet shell instead of the lens. He scooped the tomahawk from the floor with his boot, snatched it in one hand, and came up chopping from below with enough force to open HUNK from hip to sternum if it landed.

HUNK met it brutally, countering almost lazily as he took Daniel apart. He stepped into the cut and took it on his knife arm at the forearm guard, sacrificing some momentum to slow the arc, then drove the point of his combat knife through Daniel’s right forearm just below the gauntlet as the axe completed its rise. The blade punched all the way through, and Daniel bellowed as he nearly dropped the tomahawk in response, sheer adrenaline barely enough to offset the agonizing injory. HUNK twisted the buried knife and ripped free in the same motion that brought the karambit around in a hooking slash toward Daniel’s eyes.

Daniel threw himself backward. The karambit caught his visor's edge and shrieked off, but it was a near thing, and the stumble cost him everything. HUNK closed with merciless economy and unleashed a brutal combo Daniel had no response to. Oblique kick into Daniel’s damaged knee. Knife hand checking the tomahawk outward. Karambit hooking the trench knife wrist. Forearm crashing into the throat guard. Heel stomping the instep. Shoulder driving into the wound at Daniel’s right side. Each action fed the next. Daniel tried to answer, but his leg gave under the kick, and that was all the invitation HUNK needed, as he bent the man around his foot in a crushing roundhouse.

Blood spurted from his mouth as he exhaled, the coppery tang of blood in his mouth dribbling up from his throat as his shattered nose wept. His entire body screamed at him to give, to bend, to break, and for a moment, he almost did. He felt the darkness at the edges of his vision, the steady pulse of numbing cold as he bled from a half-dozen places, and the shifting agony of every breath rattling through his chest. But still he stood. Still he rose. Still he attacked.

He came in low, a feint, a mirror of his earlier rabid tackle, but this time he let his leg give out at the last moment, and used the lower center of gravity to slam the crown of his helmet into HUNK’s sternum like a piledriver. The collision staggered them both. Daniel surged up from the crouch with a trench knife uppercut that nearly took HUNK under the chin. HUNK slipped just enough that brass clipped mask instead of throat. Daniel followed with the tomahawk, a savage downward hack at the collarbone. HUNK trapped the haft between forearm and bicep, accepted the impact, and drove the combat knife into Daniel’s left shoulder. Daniel screamed and shoved through it, literally dragging the embedded knife free by bodyweight alone as he bulldozed HUNK backward.

They smashed into the generator wall again. This time Daniel tried to use the environment like a butcher using a block. He rammed HUNK’s knife arm into the steel housing again and again, seeking the hand, the wrist, the elbow, anything he could break. HUNK took the first impact and slipped the second. Daniel trapped the combat knife wrist under his left forearm and hammered the tomahawk into HUNK’s ribs. Once. Twice. Three times. The third made a duller sound. The fourth never came. HUNK stamped Daniel’s wounded thigh with the heel of his boot, right on the fresh karambit tear.

Daniel’s leg nearly quit under him.

HUNK exploded out of the tie-up with sudden, terrifying violence. He wrenched the trapped wrist free, slashed Daniel’s faceplate with the combat knife, then dove low under the tomahawk and wrapped both arms around Daniel’s waist. The world turned over as all two hundred plus pounds of Daniel Carter was tossed into the air and dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Daniel hit the concrete on his back hard enough to knock the breath out of him. HUNK came down with him, but not into a pin. Into a mounted kill corridor, knees tight, hips heavy, one blade controlling, the other seeking. Daniel reacted purely on drilled desperation. He caught the combat knife wrist with both hands and fought it inch by inch away from his throat while the karambit opened his left forearm, then his right shoulder, then scored a nasty slice along his abdomen, a move that would have gutted him without the armor. HUNK kept attacking even while Daniel defended, never committing so fully to one blade that the other lagged behind.

Daniel bucked. Bridged. Twisted. Failed.

HUNK’s control was monstrous. He rode every violent movement, every punch or kick or strike or roll that Daniel tried to force the older fighter off, to no avail. He was trapped, he knew it, caught and weakening and bleeding out slowly but surely. HUNK had him, had trained him, he knew. Had taught him everything Daniel had known and then some, and now he was going to kill him. That was the foregone truth. So long as HUNK controlled the fight Daniel was done, because no trick, no move, no skill he knew would change the fact that for all he knew, and trained and practiced, HUNK would know more, hit harder, fight longer. He knew all od Daniel's moves. Knew how he'd respond. how he'd react.

Unless... unless he did something crazy. Unless he took the hit, and hit back harder.

It was an instinctual, desperate move. He knew that, as he let HUNK come in with a stab, one he let through his guard, let dig into his shoulder, into his collarbone, bunching through meat and cartilage as it tore deep. HUNK froze for just a moment, like he hadn't been expecting Daniel to just... take that, a stab that could have killed him, one meant to keep his arm in check while he wailed on him. While he controlled the flow. That seeming moment of hesitation was all he needed, as the trench knife, gripped tight, came up like the stinger of a scorpion, and dug into HUNK's armpit with lightning speed.

The blade went in.

Deep.

HUNK hissed, the first real sound of pain he had made all fight. Daniel shoved harder, trying to punch through under the shoulder and into whatever he could reach. HUNK responded with savage precision. The karambit disappeared from Daniel’s vision for a split second and then rammed into the meat of Daniel’s bicep. Not slashed. Driven, like a nail into a board. The shock made Daniel’s hand spasm open. Hastily, HUNK ripped his torso free of the trench knife, leaving a bloody tear in the process, and then smashed the butt of the combat knife into Daniel’s temple hard enough to turn the room sideways.

HUNK flowed off to the side and into a crushing lock that pinned Daniel’s wounded arm while his knee ground into Daniel’s diaphragm, sending a spear of naked agony into his chest. The older man was breathing harder now. Daniel could feel it. He shoved at the knee, trying to force the man off, but to no avail. HUNK answered by slicing the combat knife across Daniel’s knuckles, prying him off, and twisting. Something dislocated with a crack.

Daniel snarled and bit down the pain, and sent the powered toe of his boot into HUNK's temple, finally forcing the man off of him as the shattering crinkle of broken glass fell against the concrete. He lay there, dazed, for just a moment, as he tried to catch his breath, HUNK lain out across the ground opposite him. They lay there for a long moment, an agonizing moment. And then he heard HUNK slowly gather himself. Biting down the thousands of needles that wracked his body, Daniel began to follow suit.

They rose slower this time.

Daniel’s entire right arm felt like a bag of shattered concrete, the bone grinding against itself as his head swam from the blood loss. His hands felt weak, his back hunched, his ribs creaking and his organs pulped. Every movement, every breath, was an incalculable thrum of raw torment, even as his one good hand wrapped around his combat tomahawk once more. HUNK stood with a blade still in each hand, one arm held a shade tighter than before, blood running down his side like a slow waterfall. Looking at HUNK, a single, bloodshot eye glared back, cold and implacable as always, the lens of the mask shattered, the cool gaze monolithic in the dark.

They both knew that this was going to be the last time. The last exchange. Daniel had barely anything left in him. Just hate. Raw, exhausted hate. Like acid, it burned through his blood, pulling him back from the edge. Across from him, HUNK... no... John, stared back, waiting, watching, seeing if he had that one last bit of grit left in him. 

Slowly, Daniel reached up and hit the latch on his helmet. The cowl came loose, and he pulled it away. One by one, the catches came loose, and one by one, the wires came out. The mask hit the ground with a hollow, metallic thud, as it came off, and with it, the shell followed. Daniel, mask off, stared up at the USS soldiers that had congregated above, before staring at the man across from him, broken and bloodied as he was. Defiant. Angry. Tired. Run raw and ragged. Daniel stood, all the same.

HUNK reached up, and unhooked his helmet as well. It was a simple thing, a latch, nothing like Daniel’s own, but it fell to the ground all the same. The mask came off smoothly, next, and hit the ground wetly. Across from him was the same square jaw and tired eyes, the same short-cropped silver-flecked blonde, the same hard frown. A show of respect. A moment before the storm. His left arm hung loose, the damage Daniel had done enough to ruin his grip, but he didn’t need it anyway. The karambit hit the ground.

“What a damn shame.” John sighed, the first words he’d spoken since the first cut, the first stab, the first strike. There was something tired, and sad in his voice, as he took his stance.

“Isn’t it just.” Was all Daniel replied, his voice hoarse, tired. “Isn’t it just.”

Then the two met. No more fancy flourishes, no more clever parries, no more fast reposts. Just two men burning out as their blades flashed between them. Even with a broken arm, Daniel kept the balance of strikes and parries, the bare blade whisking to within inches of his neck as he tried to catch his mentor anywhere the axe would hook. He had to swallow the groan of agony as John landed a hammerblow across his bad arm, the limb little more than brace to catch each viper-fast strike.

He gave as good as he got though, coming in low, a hooking chop to the legs, more to shatter John’s knee than catch the leg, only for the combat knife to come down and catch it on the haft, blocking the blow. A swift rejoinder met the dagger as it stabbed at him, redirecting the strike into his abused armor, or the open air, constantly aware of the razor-edged implement’s speed advantage. Stabs, slashes, swings and more danced between the two as they jockeyed back and forth. A surprise strike coming from John’s bad arm sent a tooth flying across the room, a swift kick to the shin was the reply, sending him stumbling.

Back and forth they went, strike after strike, slower, more exhausted, but neither willing to give up. John almost took Daniel’s eye in a quick exchange of blades, only for Daniel’s tomahawk to swing up and nearly pickaxe him in the side of his skull. Strike and counter. Slash, hit, the blood spilled. Strike, cut, the flesh split. A knee here, a  trip there, despite all the wounds, the pain, the broken bones and cracked teeth, the two beat on one another. Two men who had no give, no quit, no fear and no reason to stop, and on it went.

Until it didn’t. Until one couldn’t. Until Daniel made the smallest mistake, a foot too far out of place, just enough to put him the barest bit off balance. He didn’t even see the shove that sent him to one knee, but he felt it when the combat knife punched through his shoulder, right through one of the seams of his vest, and dug deep. He gasped, his voice long since given out, as the blade sunk in.and the strength finally left him.

The combat tomahawk hit the ground with a clang, as he sank to his knees, the cold burn of metal punctured into him as John looked down with a sad glint in his eyes. Daniel tried to say something, but the words just couldn’t form, the air in his lungs wheezing out, bloody bubbles forming from his mouth as he tried. It was no use, as John’s other hand came down, almost gently, on his other shoulder.

“You got a lot of spirit, Tourist.” The words were whispered, almost lost in the sounds of boots clanging as the soldiers above descended. “And for what it’s worth, you’re a damn fine fighter. Whatever comes next, remember that.” Daniel almost blacked out, shifting his head to look up blearily at the older killer.

“It’s not your time. Not yet. Consider this my last lesson, Dan. So long as you got air in your lungs, keep fighting. No matter how hard it is. No matter how much it hurts. To fight is to live. And every step you take from here on out, take it with a smile.” Daniel didn’t see the fist that sent him into the dark, but the last thing he heard, the last memory, before the black took him, was John’s voice.

“You’re a dead man, just like me.”


000


"He's magnificent." Those were the whispered words uttered by Oswell Spencer as he watched the fight unfold across the breadth of his monitor. The screen dominated the darkened room, a massive array displaying a dozen synchronized feeds from a dozen different angles, each one capturing the mechanical brutality of the back and forth in unflinching detail. Every strike, every attack, every counter was preserved and replayed in real time, the cadence of violence unfolding with a rhythm that bordered on hypnotic. The manic, almost entranced eyes of the old man watched on, flickering from camera to camera as a brutal, bloody dance unfolded before him. The lighting from the monitors painted his features in cold tones, sharpening the hunger in his eyes as he leaned forward to take in every detail.

Oswell had laughed, a dry, pleased sound that echoed faintly in the room. He cheered when first blood was taken, a moment that marked the escalation of the fight from it's probing beginnings to unto a vicious ballet, and his attention sharpened all the more for it. His eyes lit up with every landed blow and every riposte, tracking movement with the focused obsession of a man seeing his every dream come true. There was no wasted motion in either combatant, no hesitation, no fear or concern, and that alone was enough to hold his fascination. Yes, as he watched the fight unfold, Oswell Spencer was delighted to see Project D truly come into his own, to witness his raw potential refined into something far more dangerous. It was confirmation, validation, and discovery all at once, and he savored every second of it.

When he'd discarded the man all those months ago, truly, he'd nearly lost a diamond in the rough, and that realization had ignited something of an almost fatherly regret in the man. It had been a calculated dismissal at the time, a decision made with incomplete data and an underestimation of what lay beneath the surface. Now, watching the culmination of that oversight play out in real time, he could see just how close he had come to losing something irreplaceable. It was only through the machinations of his mysterious trader friend that such a truly magnificent specimen had managed to be recovered, and preserved long enough to reach this point. That thought alone amused him, a quiet acknowledgment that even his own designs were not beyond correction when he'd let himself be blinded by the failings of his lessers. To the end, the result was what mattered, and the result standing before him, even through a screen, was nothing short of extraordinary.

"He is a very impressive my master," the hissing voice of Spencer's erstwhile protégé said as he stood in the shadows behind the elderly man, his presence little more than a silhouette against the dim glow of the screens. "I must admit, when you spoke of his prowess, I had my doubts, but truly, he's shown himself to be... quite the impressive subject. His list of accomplishments grows, despite his ignorance of your will, master."

Oswell hummed in contemplation as he leaned back, folding his hands over the armrests with a measured, almost languid mien. His gaze never left the monitors, though, his narrowed eyes taking in every movement like he was drinking the finest wine. He watched the fight grind toward its conclusion, each movement slower now, heavier, yet no less deliberate. The bloodied and battered form of Daniel Carter remained upright through sheer refusal to fall, his body pushed far beyond what it should have endured. Even through the screen, the strain was evident in every motion, every attempt to raise his guard, every stagger that threatened to become a collapse and yet never quite did. There was pain there, undeniable and all consuming, but it did not own him, and that alone held Oswell's attention.

"Yes, he is a creature of phenomenal willpower, exceptional drive, unfaltering determination. It was short-sighted of me, I can admit, to discard him as I did. Has the room been prepared?" He asked, his tone calm, measured, almost casually dismissive, if one didn't know the subtle intricacies of the man. His second, though, was one such person, having learned at his feet for decades already, and well versed in the hidden meanings behind each syllable.

The man beside him inclined his head at once, unnoticed but not unseen. "Yes, master. The machinery was moved in once our operatives cleared the facility." His voice carried a quiet certainty, the assurance of someone who had overseen the work personally and found it satisfactory. After all, it wouldn't do to fail Lord Spencer at this critical moment. It was, in many ways, literally unthinkable.

"And do you have the prototypes?" Spencer asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied a particular angle of the fight, like a curious child.

"Yes, master. Everything has been prepared according to your will. The D-virus has been prepared. All three injections readied, along with the stabilizing agent." There was a faint edge of anticipation in the reply, a restrained eagerness that didn't quite breach the surface. Lord Spencer had long since made his distaste of such brazen displays known.

"Good. You have yet to fail me, Victor, and I expect great things. Make sure that his operation goes off without a hitch. Prepare a few IV bags of the herbal tincture as well. His body is damaged, but that's a temporary issue. He's already been shown to be marvelously resilient to the negative aftereffects of concentrated usage, and we should take advantage of that. We want him in fighting shape as quickly as possible, after all." Oswell pondered, imagining the show he was soon expecting to enjoy. Truthfully, the mine had been something of a boondoggle from the get go, and despite the warnings provided, it seemed those in charge of the M Project had reached too far beyond their grasp. Now all it would be is a proving ground.

"Of course, Master. I will see to it that it's arranged," Victor Gideon said with a bow, a practiced, if dramatic, motion. Oswell turned to look at the pale scientist a moment, judging him. Victor remained motionless, until Oswell's eyes drifted back to the screen. "What of Viperstrike Team? Recent reports have been showing that MacKinnon has become... unstable as of late. Should we have them removed?"

Spencer hummed contemplatively, a low sound that Victor knew spelled an ill for the European blackops team. Still, it was something of a surprise when Oswell spoke next. "What about them? They've served their usefulness. Let them remain on site, make up some excuse, I don't care what. It will prove to be an interesting test for Project D." There was no hesitation in the answer, no trace of concern, only a keen interest in a new potential datapoint.

"You aren't concerned they might do something... Rash, master?" Victor asked, his tone carefully neutral, though the question on it's own was dangerous, and it was. Spencer had little tolerance for anything but pure academics, and none and all if challenged. 

Spencer chuckled, a quiet, humorless sound, and even to Victor the raspy, empty sound was chilling. "I suspect it won't matter if they do or don't once the injections have been administered and the tinctures have run their course. We will wake him and see how Dhampir performs. He's shown to be remarkably resilient to infection already, even though it's clear he's beginning to show the hallmarks of mutation."

"I was made aware of the testing master. The girl is proven to be a rather useful, if unwitting, accomplice." Victor said, his tone carefully measured, though there was a quiet fascination beneath it that he did not entirely bother to conceal.

"She has," Oswell agreed, the faintest hint of approval coloring his voice as his eyes remained fixed on the screen. "We ought to do something nice for her. For without her sending those tests off, we'd have no idea about the beginnings of his P-virus mutations. It seems there was a dormancy period as his body adjusted to the more caustic hallmarks of the prototype." The old man hummed to himself, as he rested his chin upon a balled fist, "From what we've seen, not enough of the plague remains in the system to cause any kind of widespread damage, which has left him able to adapt to the core markers without suffering the more deleterious effects of a full-blown infection. Different viral types nominally don't play well with one another, which makes his continued stability all the more interesting with his exposure to the T-variant left fallow at the Arklay Hospital." Victor lifted a file from the table at Spencer's behest, flipping through the thick sheaf of papers.

"I understand, master. Curiously he isn't particularly spectacular aside from having the RNA receptors for some of the more exotic BOW mutations." The pages shifted as he lifted one, then another, "It is curious that he seems to have markers from an older version of the fertilization treatments, and the control vector blockers. It's made something of a mess of his code. Without intervention I suspect he might start seeing the same cancerous growths that caused the widespread collapse of the W Project."

"I suspect that the D-Virus will repair whatever broken markers remain, smoothing over the inconsistencies, refining what was previously unstable... as well as adding its own load of interesting changes to his phenotype. It's all terribly exciting." Spencer chuckled coldly, a dry, rasping sound that held no humor in it, only quiet anticipation.

"Do you think that wise, master?" Victor asked after a moment, his head tilting slightly as he considered the implications. "There are countless additional variables that we won't be able to account for without a more controlled setting. Perhaps taking him to NEST 1 or even the main facilities in France would be preferable."

"Perhaps, Victor, perhaps, but we've seen the greatest advances in several of our more long-term projects by letting them flourish in a more chaotic environment. After all, it's those factors that spur the most interesting changes in natural evolution." Spencer said, almost idly, as though the observation held little weight in the grander scheme. "And we both know that the endgoal of all of this is the next stage of human evolution. it wouldn't do to create a greenhouse princess while trying to curate perfection."

"Even then," he said finally, his voice soft but certain, "Even then... we will have him under surveillance. We'll be able to monitor him at a range, track his movements, observe his responses. In truth, leaving him in the wild may result in some rather interesting advances in our own work. Controlled environments have their uses, but unpredictability has its own value. It is, after all, part of the testing process, don't you agree, Victor?"

Victor smiled widely as he bowed his head, the expression just shy of reverent. "Indeed, master. I'm once again humbled by your brilliance. As it stands, I beg your leave. I would like to make sure that everything is in order for when we make our way to the facility. We don't want MacKinnon doing anything untoward before we have the opportunity to share your gift with Mr. Carter."

Spencer chuckled at that, nodding faintly, his gaze never leaving the battered figure still struggling on the screen. "Yes, it would be inconvenient if he managed to recover faster than our projections might have implied. Daniel has surprised us before, hasn't he? And even now, he's shown to be remarkably strong, both in body and will. It would do to take extra precautions."

"And what if he dies, master?" Gideon asked, and though his tone remained controlled, there was an unmistakable edge to it, something that bordered on anticipation. At that, Spencer merely shrugged, a small, dismissive motion that carried an edge to the ancient eugenicist.

"If he dies, he dies, and he was unworthy... but I suspect he'll surprise you, Victor. Daniel Carter is a stronger, more dangerous sort than you might think, and what we've seen thus far only scratches the surface of his potential." Oswell said with a wry grin on his face, only matched by the enthusiasm his favorite pupil showed in response, once again proving to the old scientist that he'd chose well in her personal disciple. "That said, once your task is complete, I expect you back at headquarters immediately. I remember you mentioning that your blood-memory transference project has been showing promise, all the same, and I want that momentum maintained. I'd like for you to continue pushing the boundaries there. It's a novel approach to the programming issues we've been running into with the T-series, and it may prove to be the key to resolving several persistent failures. I expect a full report upon your return, comprehensive and precise, detailing the current status of your work and any deviations from projected outcomes."

"Of course, master," Gideon said, acquiescing at once, his head dipping in a smooth, practiced nod. "Your will be done." There was no hesitation in him, no reluctance, only a quiet eagerness that hid the delight he felt at being acknowledged.

"Then go, Gideon. Act in my name and make me proud." Spencer's voice did not rise, did not sharpen, and yet the weight of the command settled heavily in the room, final and absolute.

With that, Victor slipped from the room, his departure as silent as a ghost, leaving the old man alone in the dim glow of the monitors. The hum of the equipment seemed louder in his absence, filling the space with a low, constant thrum. On the screens, the image of a broken but unbowed Daniel Carter lingered, frozen in a moment of perfect, unflinching clarity, defiance in his eyes even as the light was stolen from them.

"I don't know where you find it in yourself," Spencer said quietly, his voice softer now, almost proud as he studied the image before him, "but you're truly proving to be everything I had ever hoped for. And I hope you continue to impress, Daniel. You grow ever more important to my plans, and it would be a shame to see that squandered." His gaze traced the lines of the battered figure, noting every injury, every sign of strain, and yet finding something far more valuable beneath it all.

His decrepit hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against the screen as if the contact might somehow bridge the distance between observer and subject. He framed Daniel Carter within his grasp, Project D as he'd been classified, and in that moment felt a deep, insistent urgency take hold. It wasn't panic, not quite, but something close to it, as he felt his body ache and his lungs struggle, the only thing giving him relief being the oxygen mask that filled his failing lungs with one more fresh, pure breath.

Daniel truly was a miracle, a literal one in a billion, and as much as Spencer was loathe to risk that investment, that rare, impossible chance, he knew he couldn't afford any hesitation. There was no time left for half-measures, no room for caution, for pause, for safety. There was no time left for anything at all, really, not in the way there once had been. But he would make do. He always had, and that had been enough thus far.

And in truth, he was curious to see what the Dhampyr would do to someone who had already shown themselves to be so potent on their own, to observe how far the transformation might go and what it might produce. The variables were countless, the possibilities expansive, and that uncertainty was part of the appeal.

Yes, this experiment would be enlightening indeed.


000


The calm of Wesker's gait belied the raw anticipation building beneath the surface, a steady pressure that had been mounting ever since one of his contacts had delivered a particularly interesting piece of footage. He moved with the same measured precision as always, posture straight, steps even, expression composed, yet there was a current beneath it all that refused to settle. It had been a some time since anything had managed to capture his attention so completely, and he found himself replaying the images in his mind with an almost clinical fascination. The video had been crude in its sourcing, multiple angles stitched together from surveillance feeds and helmet cams taken barely a week prior, yet it had been more than enough. In truth, it had been perfect.

A masked, armored man, locked in a desperate, brutal engagement with the Reaper himself. There had been no mistaking the intensity of it, no mistaking the precision of the movements or the sheer refusal to yield that defined every second of the encounter. It hadn't been something so crude as a fight, no. It had been a contest of mastery, of endurance, of will. And through it all, the figure at the center of it had performed admirably even against someone Wesker was willing to admit, if only to himself, was a better fighter than he.

Seeing Daniel Carter finally unmasked, validating every theory, every carefully constructed conclusion, every quiet certainty he had carried regarding the man's identity, had been a moment of quiet triumph. The confirmation hadn't been necessary, not truly, yet it had been satisfying in a way that few things ever were. It had been the culmination of observation and deduction, of patience rewarded, and Wesker valued that above almost anything else. He didn't often indulge in outward displays of satisfaction, but the slim, victorious smile had been hard to wipe from his lips.

Wesker was not a man given to strong emotion. He experienced joy, hate, and the occasional flicker of excitement, yet all of it was distant, muted, as if it had to bleed through the haze that seemed to consume his deepest feelings. There was no chaos in him, no impulsive surge that dictated his actions. Everything was measured, deliberate, controlled, and almost mechanical, yet beneath it all, he was still a human. For now.

No, his one true passion, the only thing that stirred anything resembling intensity, came from success and the confirmation of it. It was like a drug to him, seeing the fruition of his grand masterworks, his brilliant deductions, his carefully laid hints and whispers that came together in an intricate web that only he could see. It was why he felt so vindicated at being proven indelibly correct on the identity of Mr. Carter.

Watching Daniel fight, seeing that blend of instinctive brutality, unyielding endurance, and mechanical precision had been the last thing he needed to see. There had been something almost elegant in it, a perfect synthesis of efficiency and violence that few could ever hope to achieve. It wasn't simply skill, either. It was refinement. It was potential. It was the proof that showed him that Daniel would indeed be the perfect candidate for his Operative, perhaps even his Right Hand, even more than the Chinese spy that had shown so much promise.

The fact that the man had been captured didn't concern him nearly as much as it might have once. If anything, it served as a catalyst. It meant the timeline had shifted. It meant that action would need to be taken sooner rather than later. And while he didn't currently possess the manpower required to execute a direct extraction on the scale that might be necessary, that didn't leave him without recourse. He had options. He always had options. The only limitation would be how quickly he chose to act.

Chambers would work, desperate as she was to find Mr. Carter. It would take barely any effort to get her moving, and she was driven enough to give it her all. He allowed himself a moment to consider her reaction, the nature of her involvement, and by extension the involvement of the others. It would complicate matters, to be sure, and introduce variables he wouldn't be able to fully control. It might even compromise their value as long-term data points for later testing, but in truth? He didn't really care. He had long since abandoned the notion that S.T.A.R.S. was a disposable asset in that regard, and the lot of them would be incredibly malleable if handled carefully.

There was something amusing to him about that. Turning STARS into his personal attack dogs, sending them to strike at the targets he deemed necessary for his future goals and ambitions while convincing them that they were bettering the world in the process. It would be a necessary fiction, the varying members of the team in it for the good they could do, as much as the adrenaline rush, but aside from a select few they were all so delightfully corruptible, and the few that weren't could be kept in line through other means. After all, all it really took were a few small acts to start them down the dark path, and before too long what's necessary won't necessarily be what's right.

He had already begun shifting toward alternatives, toward plans that offered more long-term viability. The idea of sacrificing them in a controlled demonstration had once seemed acceptable, a means of showcasing the effectiveness of his BOWs. He had prepared for it thoroughly. The environment had been selected with care. Isolation without complete containment, terrain varied enough to produce meaningful results, structures that allowed for both engagement and evasion. It had been efficient. It had been effective. It had been discarded.

There was no point in dwelling on abandoned plans. The opportunity before him now was far more interesting. It a chance to reshape the trajectory of his work in a way that aligned far better with his greater ambitions, ones he had thought might not be viable for some years. All it would take is a little... push. A trip to a place full of secrets to save a man who in truth Wesker doubted would need it, but made for a convenient excuse to get his chosen candidates initiated.

Arrangements would need to be made. Equipment sourced. Transportation secured. Extraction planned. None of that was beyond him, of course, even on such short notice. The networks available to him were extensive, and thanks to William's funneling of Umbrella's slush funds, he was flush with hidden capital. There would be questions, but with a bit of creative reinterpretation of his role in things, going from one of the controlling heads of the cerberus to the secret rebel fighting the corrupt company, he would craft a brilliant piece of theater. But that would be for later.

For now, he had some calls to make. Ultimately, he would guide them. Position them. Lead them, whether they realized it or not, to the point where they could recover the one asset that mattered to him. In doing so, he would expose them to a reality they had no idea existed, stripping away whatever illusions remained, exposing them to the world both he and Daniel already existed in.

He didn't consider himself a sadist, not in the traditional sense, yet there was something undeniably compelling in watching those moments of realization, the shocked understanding that what they thought they knew was all just a pretty lie, a candy coated topping on the world of shit below. A bit of trauma was good for the soul, in that way. It hardened the heart, fed the spirit, and would give them a reason to dig deeper.

Spencer remained a major complication, though. The man would be watching, Wesker had no doubt of that. Exposure was a real risk going forward, and it was inevitable that he would need to be on the ground. There were too many variables to handle things remotely. Measures would need to be taken to prevent himself from being identified, and for the STARS by extension. Equipment and weapons needed to be sourced in a way that couldn't be traced, and he needed as much obfuscation between his cashflows as he could make.

It was another complication. Another variable to account for, but that was simply the nature of the game. If he intended to preserve STARS, or at least those within it that retained some kind of value, then preparation would be everything. They would need to be readied, positioned, and guided in such a way that their survival was paramount. But if it all came together the way he wanted it to? Then it would let him move his timetable up by years.

And that was too tantalizing to pass up.

Wesker exhaled quietly, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the room, and allowed the faintest trace of amusement to surface. Undermining Umbrella, outmaneuvering Spencer, there was a certain satisfaction in it that never quite faded. It was not enough to simply succeed. It was the manner of that success that mattered.

Perhaps it was time to adjust his approach. The role he played didn't need to be fixed. There was utility in flexibility, in presenting one face while concealing another. There was something undeniably appealing in the contrast, in stepping into the role of savior when it suited him just as easily as he could assume the role of executioner. The theatricality of it held its own appeal, even if he would never admit that aloud.

He sat at his private desk, the room sealed away from the rest of the world, and withdrew a secured phone from a hidden compartment. There would be a number of calls he'd have to make before the night was over, but there was one he was looking forward to with an almost euphoric relish. He dialed a number he knew well, had memorized knowing he would have a use for it, and as he flipped the switch to activate his voice masker, he grinned to himself, as the sound of the line lifting filled the receiver.

"Hello?" Came the tinny, tired, voice of a certain STARS medic, too worn to be wary.

"Rebecca Chambers? I need you to listen very closely. I know where Daniel is, and he needs your help."