"FUBAR is an acronym that originated in the military to stand for the words "f***ed up beyond all repair." This is often softened to "fouled up beyond all repair" in reference to hardware. The programming and documentation equivalent is "fouled up beyond all recognition."
Gothic City 1800 hours.
The sink beneath the living weapon reeked of a noxious and aggressive bleachy smell. Peroxide. Once dark features warped to a vivid Scandinavian blonde in the mirror. The face of a man he didn't know, even more so now. His watch lighting up and vibrating set aside on the side of the sink. It was time. Grabbing a towel and drying his hair before pulling on a turtleneck and a thick windbreaker jacket, placing a balaclava in the pocket as he walked through the door. Moving like a bullet, as the crow flies through the crowds at the maximum safe speed to not draw attention. His weapons strapped to his sides with duct tape. Simple, effective, lethal.
Gothic Central Hotel 2000 hours
Sitting atop a beaten up and stolen scooter the living weapon waited for these American diplomats to leave and head for dinner. Five men one women one mission. Whirring through the streets staying just at a safe range from the secret service's eyes, the restaurant a short and risk free venture. Pulling inside an alley ditching the bike in a heap and walking straight through the side access and into the kitchen.
First the chef, slamming his bike helmet into his face following him to the floor for a second more powerful blow. Spotting movement of the second chef heading out of the larder he launched his bloody helmet with intense velocity into his chest sending his target crashing back into the wall. Pouncing with a swift and violent kick pacifying the second of the kitchen staff. Two dead , collateral damage. Kicking open the door to the closed off function a rush of suits moved towards the only manned table. Pulling his weapons from under his shirt and moving like a man possessed by the devil himself.
Uppercut knifepoint to jugular, whipped kick to the rib cage vertical stab to collar bone as the bullets began to fly. Some hit his armour some wizzed narrowly passed him. But his shots were slower precise and lethal. Two to the forehead, two the throat, two to the heart, one into the femoral artery and one to to the stomach. The special forces forces fell scattered across the ground as human wreckage.
Pulling his mask off and looking upon the final act of his mission the six true targets of this militant massacre. Spinning his knife in his hand and dashing like a feral beast, his unnatural powers rending flesh like butter showering the table with hunks of flesh and streams of blood. A flurry of strikes bringing the men to their ends. The women left to last to be his show piece. Lifting her from the cowering position off the floor to over head height with one arm before slamming his knife through her heart, pinning her to the wall. The knife's handle marked with the flag of Iceland.
Footsteps lots of umm and then a chorus of lasers lighting him up like a morbid rouge christmas tree.
"Death til Ameríku" the only words that passed the soldiers lips as he completed his mission.