Colman

High above the flaming vehicle that had crashed into a ditch, a man with stark-black hair looked down at the event with annoyance twinkling in his eyes.

[“Colman, you understand the weight of this, right?”]

He could hear that grating voice of his commanding officer through the comms earpiece. Colman had always had the gnawing urge to tear it out and stomp it to pieces, but now it was biting at him two-fold.

“I understand, Commander. That Imagined world is encroaching, and the more we let him open up its doors, the more we face the threat of becoming less of ourselves…”

He let out an audible ‘tsk’, signing off with a final note.

“So don’t worry too much over it. It’s just an overweight guy. What is he going to do, crush me to death?”

[“You haven’t read his dossier, have you?”]

Even though his Commander couldn’t see his dissatisfaction, he shook his head. “I have. And nothing in there really matters. What does it pertain to in the end? That all of my predecessors were failures?”

[“They never had a chance to perform. You just saw Ejder kill himself in that vehicle. Why would he do that in the middle of a mission? Did you think Ejder was the type of person to do that? How likely is it that the eighteen people we’ve sent after this guy have all killed themselves before they even encountered him?]

“I’m not going to kill myself. Even if there’s something strange that protects him from our advances, it doesn’t matter. I can kill him from afar if I have to.”

[“Eliminate Bartholomew Wright at all costs.”]

“Yeah, yeah…” Colman clicked off the comms earpiece before cursing. He had just put in his vacation time, and now he was being forced to participate in this mind-numbing nonsense. He had certainly heard many excuses in the past for the things he and his comrades were tasked to do. Danger of political uprising, the encroachment of communism… but a fantasy world? Notwithstanding one created by an overweight internet-dwelling shut-in?

What a pathetic reason to not be in Bali at spring’s turn.

He watched through the magnified scope of his rifle as that figure— Bartholomew— slowly pulled the woman accompanying him out of the flaming vehicle. She was missing her left arm, which spilled blood unceasingly onto the ground below, leaving a crimson trail that slowly spelled her end.

There was nothing about this random woman in Bartholomew’s dossier. Whether she was a comrade of his, of which the organisation was sure that he had none, or whether she was just a random person, it was a true shame. The lives tied to Bartholomew Wright’s actions only grew with each passing moment.

Colman descended from the building down the rappel he had set up in advance, hitting the soil below with bone-rattling force. He had no time to waste, no time to needlessly preserve his health. He ran down the side of the road, heading towards an abandoned warehouse to the side. The trail of crimson had led straight towards its entrance.

Despite its ruinous state, smoke billowed out from smokestacks high above, signaling that there was some use to it still, that somehow, it was still being operated. Whether it was something being produced, or just power being made to keep it operated, there was a chance that there were people still in the building.

Which meant that the deadly fat figure was marching straight towards them.

Colman turned the corner, throwing the strap of his rifle over his shoulder as he pulled out his pistol, raising it and checking each nook and cranny in the abandoned warehouse. High above, he could hear the frantic creaking of the rusted walkways, and so it was indubitably easy to track the gargantuan target.

He couldn’t help but sneer.

Why was the organisation so terrified of this individual? Wasn’t this the sort of person that should be bullied in school, chastised online, turned into a laughingstock by the general populous? He should be the one killing himself, not forcing others to do so.

Then again, it was the habit of these individuals to retaliate. When he had been training, he was taught on how to handle a situation like that— a child who had stolen their father’s AR-15 in order to mow down their schoolyard detractors.

Maybe this Bartholomew Wright was such an individual.

It was only more of a reason why Colman should put a bullet into his skull.

He made his way up the metal steps at the side of the main warehouse chamber, keeping his footsteps light as to not scare off Bartholomew.

Colman could see the bouncing of the waddling shadow illuminated by the bare orange lights high above. He felt his limbs grow heavy as he approached the figure standing before him. It was like his veins had been filled with mud.

And he felt the most numbing apprehension he had ever felt in his life.

It wasn’t fear. It was like…

…like he couldn’t recall something he really should have.

“Turn around, Wright!” Colman barked.

The bulbous man turned around as he had instructed, carrying the limp girl in his arms. His clothes were stained with blood, and bits of his flesh had been charred over completely. He looked like a walking corpse carrying another corpse.

He raised his handgun, pointing it at Bartholomew. His grasp tremored as he reached for the trigger, so uncharacteristic of him. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead.

Why was he hesitating?

This was something he had done so many times before…

He saw the change in Bartholomew’s expression. From frantic to disbelieving.

“…DemontheDemon?”