#objective?

Target: terminated.

T8 swept left, taking out five more assailants. The pressure built in his shoulder from the aftershock of each shot, the body of the rifle pressing hard against the bruises that covered his upper shoulder. There was no time to adjust, no reason. T8 was still functional, the pain less important than the mission.

Target: terminated.

Casings fell to the floor, a bright sound of metal against a flat roof. They were barely heard beneath the fervor of chaos below, shouts and screams and mounding panic each a horrid pulse in his blood.

Target:..missed.

He grit his teeth behind a molded mask, shame tightening his chest, almost making him sick. He was no longer useful at range. Too tired, too weak, hands not steady enough to make every bullet count.

Wasteful.

-

His fist was bloodied, drenched red from the aftermath of his blade sliding through insubstantially armored hostiles. Rain ran down from his hair, making sight difficult without the mandated eye-gear affixed to his mask. 

Down to the ground, leg thrown sideways, assailants tripping beneath the sudden force. Throats dripping red and wet before he left them, moving onward, closing in on Superior’s location.

The streets were slick, the storm building, thunder almost a constant, though T8 knew not whether it was natural or a result of the crimson caped man flying above. Didn’t matter, either way gave him light, each flash glinting off a spinning shield, or more importantly off a metal arm, a beacon that T8 would never waver from.

A beacon about to be overrun.