Chapter 16- Soiree Incident Pt.7

The vehicle was a boxy, angular design, a stark, imposing shape. Atop its armored roof sat a rotary machine gun turret, its barrel menacingly prominent. The vehicle rode on large, aggressive off-road tires, promising superior traction and stability even on the roughest terrain.

Jermaine, surveying the devastation that had overtaken the city, let out a low whistle.

"Sheesh," he breathed.

The trunks door slid open, unveiling a hefty figure in a camouflage tactical jacket. His Afro, complete with a fro pick, and black leather gauntlet wristbands stood out against the chaotic parking lot.

"Come on in, boys," he said calmly, his sharp eyes scanning the scene.

"Where's the Inspector?" he inquired, his gaze sweeping for the familiar figures amid the disorder.

Miguel stepped forward, his expression grim. "He stayed to fight Brooks."

The agent let out a short, humorless chuckle. "That dude's as good as dead."

Jermaine chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Brooks is kinda strong, though."

"Well," the agent replied, his tone laced with a grudging respect, "the Inspector's stronger."

Malachi, gripping the car's reinforced bar, leaned in. "How's Deon doing?"

The agent's expression clouded with concern.

"I'm working on healing him," he said, voice tinged with uncertainty. "He's messed up pretty bad, but he's going to be alright."

Malachi turned from the jeep, gazing at the chaotic cityscape. "What the heck is going on?" he wondered aloud.

Suddenly, a sharp thwack echoed as Vance's combat machete struck the bulletproof window, sending cracks spidering through the glass.

Blood bloomed against the pane, a stark reminder of the unfolding chaos.

Malachi turned and saw Brooks standing at a broken window high in the hotel, the truth crashing down—Vance was dead. Miguel's face filled with shock as he stared at Malachi, shouting, "Mal, wait!"

But Malachi had already yelled and taken off, leaving a rush of wind and chaos in his wake.His mind reeled, barely grasping the truth that Brooks had killed his godfather.

Noah narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on Brooks.

"Hold on... if he's here, does that mean you killed the inspector?"

Jermaine, standing nearby, shook his head in disbelief and said, "Did you see that? Malachi's on a whole other level right now."

At that moment, they watched Malachi drag Brooks down the hotel walls, the destruction marking their path like a scar in the air. The atmosphere grew dense and heavy, an unseen energy tingling across their skins.

The agent turned urgently to Miguel. "Go, do something. Try to control him before he..." His words faded, lost in the tension.

Miguel sprang into action, sprinting a short distance before flames erupted from his hands. With a fiery leap, he took to the sky, propelled by the blazing trail of heat behind him, ascending toward the chaos above.

Noah stepped forward, urgency clear in his voice. "Why did you send Miguel after Malachi?"

Jermaine and Fabian exchanged curious glances as the agent replied, "Because Miguel is Malachi's twin. Only he can calm him."

Jermaine looked surprised. "Twins? I didn't know that."

The agent explained, "Malachi's anger leaves a mark, a kind of spiritual scar. It's not just something he feels; it ripples outwards, affecting everyone around him."

Fabian questioned, "What kind of mark? Why does his anger affect us?"

The agent remarked, "You guys must've just awakened."

With a fiery streak blazing across the sky toward the hotel, the agent's voice was sharp with urgency. "Did you... just become Enlightened?" He saw their lost expressions and continued, "Look, there's something called Spiritual Energy—it's like a life force, tied to everything we do and feel.

Some can control; we call them enlightened humans or the more fancy name Superhuman.

Malachi is one, and now so are you. His rage explodes this energy, leaving a spiritual scar."The group realized calming Malachi was crucial to stop his rage's physical toll on everyone.

Jermaine, curious, asked, "So, it's like using your soul?"

Before the agent could answer, a deafening *boom* from Malachi and Brooks' collision shattered glass and sent a shockwave through the parking lot, rattling nearby buildings. The chaos underscored their urgent mission to stabilize Malachi.

Dust and debris swirled around them as they landed in a chaotic heap of twisted metal and broken concrete.

Brooks, amidst the wreckage, let out a harsh laugh, the sound oddly defiant considering the circumstances.

Shadowy tendrils, thick as pythons, uncoiled from his body, rising like dark smoke from a smoldering pyre.

The valet placed his hands on the hood of a car, rolling his neck as the cuts on his skin slowly healed.

his voice ragged with pain and exertion. "You need to slow down, damn it!"

Malachi, ignoring the throbbing in his own bruised knuckles, stood, his eyes narrowed. "After you're dead," he replied, his voice low and dangerous.

Shadow whips curled around the car as if alive, forming effortlessly from the valet's hands. With a wild laugh, the valet hurled the vehicle at Malachi.

As it flew towards him, Malachi met the car with a powerful punch, redirecting its trajectory back at the valet. The valet dove aside just in time, jabbing a finger at Malachi and shouting, "Boom!"

A dark streak of lightning crackled past Malachi, striking the hotel with a thunderous boom.

Glass shattered in an explosive symphony, and a burnt hole gaped ominously in the second-floor window, framed by licking flames. Glancing back at the destruction, Malachi quickly refocused his attention on the fight.

Brooks zipped towards him, but Malachi deftly weaved aside, maintaining a cold, intense glare.

As Brooks stumbled past, Malachi leapt, his foot crashing down mere moments after Brooks rolled out of the way. Brooks flipped up with a chuckle that quickly died under Malachi's unwavering gaze. Brooks tilted his head with a smirk, "You walking on air or what?"

For a brief moment, Malachi wondered if Brooks was touched in the head. "Does it *look* like I'm in the air?" he quipped back, irritation sharpening his words.

Malachi zipped past Brooks, who dived in for a punch.

Malachi fluidly dodged under Brooks' hook and slammed his fist into Brooks' chest, shoving him backward.

Brooks staggered, his chest bleeding, trickles of crimson beginning to stain his mouth.

"God damn, boy," he wheezed, wincing from the impact. "The hell have they been feeding you?"

Without hesitation, Malachi seized Brooks by the face and slammed him into the ground with brutal force.

The earth cracked beneath the impact as Malachi relentlessly bashed his head into the ground, again and again, blood splattering with each vicious strike.

Flames erupted, engulfing nearby cars in a fiery blast before spreading rapidly.

Miguel emerged from the fire, his fiery hair now subdued, his expression grim.

"Hey, take it easy," Miguel urged.

"This bum killed Vance," Malachi shot back, rage simmering beneath his words. "The only other father figure we had left. And you expect to take it easy?"

Miguel held his gaze steady. "That's not how we do things. Besides, didn't God say vengeance is His? You don't want that blood on your hands."

Malachi paused, his gaze steady and cold. "God gave us these powers, didn't He? It's only right we use them to slay our demons."

Before the conversation could deepen, they both looked up, stunned by flashes and blasts echoing from the city.

Helicopters and gunfire filled the air. Miguel shook his head and asked, "Okay, what in God's name is going on now?"

A fierce wind erupted from Brooks, enveloping the brothers in its icy embrace and forcefully pushing the twins back.

Brooks lay on the ground, screaming in torment as his chest heaved, his body writhing with violent spasms of agony.

"Please, just end it!" he gasped, desperation dripping from every word.

Clutching his chest, he struggled for each excruciating breath. "I'm begging you, Man, make it stop!"

Miguel turned to Malachi, urgency sharpening his voice. "Yo Mal, Stop the man is begging!"

Malachi looked at Miguel, his eyes filled with confusion and dread. "I'm not doing this," he whispered, a hint of fear in his voice.

Brooks held his face, yelling in agony as an unsettling transformation took hold.

Malachi felt an evil presence ripple through the air, its dark energy pressing heavily on his senses.

The sound of bones cracking echoed ominously, causing Miguel to wince and make a face, his instinct to help clashing with caution.

Turning to Malachi, Miguel asked hesitantly, "Should we help him?" Malachi, shaken by the aura of malevolence emanating from Brooks, shook his head.

"I don't know about that," he replied, uncertainty lacing his words.

As they watched, Brooks transformed, a guttural scream tearing from his throat as black blood erupted from his mouth.

A single, crimson horn curled from his forehead. His eyes became voids of black.

His skin turned ashen grey, and his limbs hardened, ending in sharp, clawed hands.

A long tail unfurled behind him, tipped with a deadly, red-tipped spike.

The transformation was accompanied by a violent convulsion, his body wracked with the effort of the change as he vomited more black blood.

He looked down at his clawed hands, flexing them with a chilling grace.

A chilling whisper, a breath on the nape of the neck, slithered directly into their mind: "Freedom."

The word hung in the air, heavy with promise, as a spiked tail unfurled behind the speaker, a menacing counterpoint to the seductive lure of power and control.

A hiss followed, the word "At last" dripping with malicious intent, a promise of damnation.

The creature's gaze was sharp, analytical.

He studied the brothers, weighing their strengths and weaknesses with cold precision.

"So, this is the pinnacle of human evolution?" he mused, his voice a low growl. "Mhmm. Intrigued," he said, the word betraying none of his true intentions.

His mind was already calculating strategies, plotting their demise or their potential use as tools.

To be continued...