"Well ain't this ironic...." He muttered lowly to himself.
He allowed the fiery vortex to carry him, moving in circles as he was gradually brought higher and higher. One hundred thousand degree Fahrenheit fires threatened the integrity of his armor. His armor's capacity to repel it slowly waning, as he'd last in this for approximately 10 seconds before it is depleted of it's ability to repel the plasma and lessen it's damage .Ambient heat alone of something ten times hotter than the surface of the sun was enough to cause it to give way. He could see nothing as his lenses protect ed him from the luminous blaze of the infected Feral Nova's flames. But, it didn't really matter how how durable his armor was. Heat can travel through all materials and eventually, it would leak inside and roast him like a lobster in a steaming kettle. But, he already knew it was going to happen. His heart beat steadily and he felt oddly at piece with being tossed around like a doll in circles. It was all apart of the plan and if it didn't work, the worst that could happen is he would die.
Soon, he felt himself soar through the sky, spinning. Sighing, the Maverick Mutant Hunter moved to right himself, the tops of buildings moving seamlessly by while he spun. Intuitively, he knew his trajectory and how much time he would need to act before he'd impact the ground. The fall wouldn't kill, more so, it was the sudden stop. A person can survive falling 10,160 meters (Around 6 miles/33,333 feet) onto snow and similar things happen with people falling into dirt. But an impact on concrete would cause a sudden stop that in most cases would cause him to flatten. It didn't really matter durable his armor was. Repel Vibranium Blades, Walk through Adamantium Bullets? Dampening concussive impact? It didn't matter. A sudden stop was a stop. His heart beat steady, but he knew that to increase chances of survival he had to act quickly.
The absence of plasma enabled radio signals to reach him.
"Bradshaw, can you hear me? Where are you?"
He stopped spinning, now in the appropriate position as he dived through the air, he thrust his hand through rushing air to reach for his CNT shoot. It erupts from the back of his armor as he raises his armored gauntlets to brace for impact.
A nameless soldier sits in wait, one of the last of those left on the ground. He idly checked his supply. The amount of bullets he had in each magazine, how many explosives he had remaining. His HUD stilled functioned, and he checked his armor's capacity. Around 3 Megajoules remaining. A rather substantial amount of energy for some but for him. The weapons the enemy carried in tandem with metahuman powers meant that the "mere mortal" was at a severe disadvantage alone. He was outnumbered and outgunned. One comrade dead, two having left the battlefield, another injured. Both the Timesiphons were of no current concern, and thus he had to spare no ammo to off Sahi with the SABR he carried. A decision he questioned.
He received the signal and stayed low to the ground, a bright flash of light appearing as a mushroom cloud shot high into the sky. Blast waves ripped through the streets as heat radiated. An impact that afflicted all in the area. Those near by, vaporized. Other ripped apart by the waves. The soldier's helmet protected him from the noise as windows burst in splinter and furniture knocked over. As quickly as it had come, it passed. He moved towards the roof of his current structure.
From behind his scope, he could survey the area. The Nuclear Weapon went off quite a distance away, but it's effects were easy to see. The nuclear bomb was fissionless, meaning that it boasted not one Curie of Radiation. All of the heat, the blast and the power, with none of the fallout. The yield was kept small, so as to limit it's destruction. Still, he could see a few bodies among the wreckage relatively near by and quite the distance away. Whether or not it had done it's job was unknown to the man, until he was contacted by the Olympus. Satar had not been killed and escaped the blast, they suspected via teleportation. Not only this, he boasted that the blast was of his own
"Guess that makes things easier..." The nameless soldier murmurs to himself.
The unsung soldier listened, receiving orders that the primary objective of his mission had not changed. While, Satar couldn't be killed, he wasn't the primary objective. She was still dueling if he recalled and their orbital surveillance had allowed them to view the outcome. But, he had to be sure. He shot a grappling device to a building as he was whisked off through the once thriving city of Madrid slowly making his way to the site of the duel.
"Well, would you look at that? Kid actually did it. Not feeling all high and mighty now, are we, goddess?"
There she lie, in a pool of her own blood and her grandson next to him. His eyes instinctively scanned the area for nothing specific as he moves over her corpse, flashing pictures as he confirmed the death of Ziccarra Liafadors. However, he noticed something particularly odd with the palace's carpet, whittled and torn. It was strange, but it wasn't his mission to investigate it nor did he feel anything of a personal obligation to investigate that. His eyes went over to the young knightfalls body.
Wonder how much he's worth.
He was limping, Maverick's most infamous Cape Killer. He'd come to overcome much, but he was less than ideal condition. His body had been artificially aged by a Timesiphon and his mind struggled to maintain it's previous level of sharpness. His seemingly iron like body still held up, and the titanium in his bones in tandem with training to increase the bone density, the two being his saving grace as he'd tumbled previously without his armor able to solidify to help distribute the impact. In it's current state, a single shot from an enemy could kill, given the weapons they had.Not only this, but artificially induced metahumans. Men turned to something seemingly more at the cost of being a slave to simple pill. For all he knew, someone could kill him by staring at him.
But, to him it wasn't that much different from the conventional wars of old. One shot, one seemingly simple mistake would've meant death in the older wars. A man died from something as simple as pointing a weapon to someone and slinging some supersonic lead his way. Could step on a mind or an IED,and it wouldn't be like the movies back then or like how it is now, where armor had gotten advanced enough for him to survive an explosion. Back then, it'd just be red mist. He was accustomed to the ever looming threat of death, and the prospect of what walked among the battlefield. He'd little to fear. Nothing to lose.
He stopped. Feeling a presence converge on him, a tingling in his mind as something attempted to penetrate it. However, artificial aging negated not his will nor his training. At the level of the telepath present, he didn't even need to actively resist. Whoever it was, was an amateur. Trying to shoot a tank with a handgun. But, he still had a presence and they knew he was there. The wall burst as someone punched their way through. He attempted to grab for something he'd lost sight of. He didn't even have time to react before he'd fallen to the ground, his throat slit and nerves severed with numerous cuts.
Others followed, one by one. He didn't know the powers they'd had or even if they'd had any. He didn't give them the chance to use them. Only one had managed to react in time to bring them man to a halt. He stood there, in front of a woman who could manipulate water. Only after using it for so long could she figure out what that had also come with. The Ultimate Infantryman finding himself unable to move, his blade right in the face of the woman who had figured out how to manipulate the blood that resided in the body as a solvent in all carbon based life forms. She watched, having him frozen in her grip. He watched her, his face and muscles, loose and his face harboring an expression of a tranquil fury. Channeled anger that didn't make him reckless. A little bit younger and he might have struck her down. And if he'd not held back earlier he might have still had more than a just a combat knife. Or if he wasn't battered, injured and fatigued. But, nothing could change that now. He was forced to his knees, despite his muscles resisting.
He looked at her, a cold air emanating from his visor, met by the water manipulators yet fiery gaze, she shouted at him in Spanish and he could barely make out what she was saying, all he really knew is that she was apparently pissed from what he'd drawn as his slaying of her comrads. Blood vessels in his eyes burst and crimson streams down his eyes, and his response is scoff. She clenches her fist, as he feels a gripping discomfort in his chest his heart stopped and clenched, tight to burst in a fractions of a second with the flick of her wrist. Or, that was what would have happened.
An expression of shock, confusion and utter horror creeps onto her face as her upper and lower body is forcefully separated. A streak flying through her at supersonic speeds, accompanied immediately by the noise of the fired shot. The woman's giblets fly about as she stains the mortal man's armor with her own blood, reaching towards him as she falls into two pieces, she dies before she hits the ground, her eyes pale. Limply, Bradshaw falls to the floor on his knees and keeping himself propped up with one hand, breathing heavily.
There is gunfire, in the background as he looks up and he sees him. The nameless soldier stooping down to Grim Gunslinger. "You look like hammered sh**."
The nameless man smiles at him as a VTOL uncloaks, able to seen and heard, appearing seeming from thin air to the outside observer. The man helps up his squad leader, slinging his arm around his neck as he gave him support on his way towards.
"Kept you waiting, huh? The mission's complete. Ziccarra is dead. Killed by Nox. Let's go."
Bradshaw's eyes move from the soldier who saved him, to the city around him, to the bodies, to the woman and to himself. His hand covered in blood that wasn't his.