6 - Familiar Face

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"Did we miss something?" she asked, her eyes lingering on the scattered polyethylene takeout boxes—some left with half-eaten food, others smeared with dried sauce.

"I love takeout."

"There's quite a few boxes," Jah pointed out, stepping into the light.

Captain Lee approached the table, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

"You had friends over..."

Jeremy's friend shook his head as he entered the building—though no one saw the motion—before quickly disagreeing.

"I eat a lot, unfortunately." His gaze shifted from her to the concrete floor, then to her boots before reluctantly meeting her eyes.

Cass raised an eyebrow. Too much evidence pointed to a group being here earlier.

Jeremy stepped forward, confronting him. The man stiffened.

Captain Lee pulled out a chair, moved out of the light, and slumped into it, resting his head against a concrete pillar.

Jah exited the building, the metal doors clanging shut behind him.

"We were told you had info for us?" Cass appeared beside Jeremy.

The man glanced at her, then at Jeremy, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle.

"Uh… care to share what kind of info you're talking about?"

×××

A Few Minutes Later

I can't find anyone. Was he—? No, maybe I'm going the wrong way. His thoughts were cut off by the figure leaning against the towering oak tree, its sprawling branches casting a shadow so thick no light pierced through.

"Ohhh, you're finally here. I was getting bored."

The hooded figure stood slowly, dusting himself off before flashing Marek a grin.

He was massive—broad-shouldered, muscular, clad in camo cargo pants with an excessive number of pockets. But what caught Marek's eye was the duffel bag at his feet.

"So..."

Before the man could finish, Marek rushed him mid-yawn.

"Oh—kay, well, I was—"

A fist crashed into his face with a sickening crack. He slammed into the tree behind him, leaves shaking loose and drifting to the ground.

"I don't want to know. Let's hurry this up." Marek rolled up his sleeves, loosened his tie, and stepped closer.

"Oh, worried about your master?"

The hooded man grabbed his own head—twisted unnaturally to the side—and wrenched it back into place with a series of pops.

"I'm not worried. Frankly, I'd prefer an accident."* Marek's fingers glowed. "But I need his help, so let's skip the chatter."

A beam of energy blasted forward. The figure rolled back, barely dodging, then leaped for a branch, hauling himself up as the tree absorbed the scorch mark like it had never existed.

"A bit rash, aren't we?"

×××

Meanwhile...

He whistled as he strolled through the forest, savoring the rustling leaves and distant animal calls.

Two figures emerged—one in a black hoodie and track pants, the other in a flowing cloak—but he paid them no mind, continuing his tune as he passed. Their faces twisted in disbelief.

"Where are the enemies?" he mused aloud, scanning the trees.

"Oi. Oi! Behind you!" one snarled, hefting a sniper rifle.

"Oh. Didn't notice you."

The cloaked figure scoffed. "Notice us, you little shit. Just because you've been holed up in a library—"

"No, really. You're like ants in a jungle full of anteaters." He giggled, still wandering aimlessly.

"Ants?!" The hooded man yanked down his hood, revealing gray hair and a jagged scar. His eyes locked onto the man—then widened.

"Hmm… was that supposed to do something?" He rubbed his chin.

The scarred man staggered back, teeth grinding. "Maybe that library's rotted your brain. Damon Smith. Ring a bell?"

"Nope."

Mr. Smith smirked. "Then I'll knock it into you. The older, the stronger." He stepped forward, his presence flaring—sparks flickering around him, the forest itself reacting like kindling to flame.

(...) bent down, picked up a stick, and pointed it at Mr. Smith and his cloaked partner, Davis.

Mr. Smith froze. Davis frowned. "Sir?"

Recognition flashed in Damon's eyes. He grabbed Davis and hurled him forward, both barely dodging as—

A white glow erupted from (...), swelling into a translucent dome.

"You made it out." (...) twirled the stick, sighing.

"Mr. Smith, what's happening?" Davis panted, scanning the empty air.

"You can't see it… but you should feel it." Mr. Smith crushed a leaf and tossed it toward the dome. It vanished mid-air. "Anything that enters gets shredded. And it's stronger than before."

Davis paled. "We're supposed to fight that?"

Mr. Dmith forced a grin. "Age always wins." He charged, ignoring the dread clawing at his gut.

"Solidify." His palm struck the dome. Cracks spiderwebbed out. He punched—

His fist broke through.

For a split second, nothing happened.

Then—

Hundreds of slashes erupted across his arm. Blood sprayed. He gritted his teeth as his flesh stitched itself back together.

"Wow… you remember?" (...) sounded amused.

"I'm ending this." Damon ignored him, firing a shot aimed for the eyes. (...) didn't flinch—the bullet clattered harmlessly to the ground.

Damon lunged, grabbing his head—

"Duck."

A fist smashed into (...)'s face, sending him flying. Simultaneously, gunfire ripped through his shirt as he crashed through trees.

"Damn… my locs." He sat up, his mini globe leaning towards the right daring to untangle and flow to the ground, dusting himself off, bullets tinking to the ground. "Not even a dent."

Mr. Smith wiped blood from his mouth. "Davis, stay back—"

Too late.

(...) snatched the branch and swung.

A wet thunk.

Davis screamed.

His arm hit the dirt. Blood gushed from the stump.

(...) stared at his blood-soaked books. "Aww, man. They're ruined."

He grabbed Davis by the hair—

SLAM.

The forest's pressure crushed Davis like a vice. His screams turned ragged, then silent.

Mr. Smith's vision blurred. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

"HOW?!"

It kicked in, the hole rapidly closed as he breathing slowed, sparks danced from his fingertips.

Mr. Smith's finger tips stretched out, showing a tint of red at the base of his fingers.

He vanished—

And reappeared in front of (...), unleashing a barrage of searing beams.

I've never seen that before, he used Rushmore without moving his legs beforehand.

He appeared, arms outstretched as well as fingers as (...) could feel the heat radiating from his fingertips, beams blasted straight at him at blinding speeds.

Instantly (...) raised his arms blocking his face as the beams pushed him away from Davis as Mr. Smith let out a loud raw unleashing all his rage into this attack. (...) noticed he was slipping back as his arms were still raised he looked down, the heat finally making it's way onto his skin leaving a tingling sensation.

He lifted his left foot then his right foot and continued repeatedly and disappeared and appeared skiing behind. Mr. Smith closed his hands the red tint leaving his finger tips, steam slowly releasing from his palm as he fell to his knee. His legs shaking from his move to get close up wasn't or shouldn't be possible to do without movement.

That surely left him hurt, he thought, Mr. Smith looked at Davis's mangled corpse—his face plastered with fear.

A single tear fell.

×××

"Further than I intended," (...) muttered, weaving through the trees, returning to where it all began.

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