"Because..."
"From the moment I opened my eyes and looked at this world, to me, it has been nothing but one massive game."
"And a damn single-player game at that!"
"More importantly, it is a single-player game that, although I haven't played it before, I already know exactly how it ends."
"So..."
"I put on my glasses!"
"With them on, the world I see is a game. Without them, the world I see is life."
"A life I wanted to put effort into blending into."
"But..."
Locke looked with genuine interest at the dying Melinda May. She stared back at him as if looking at a complete psychopath. He tilted his head. "Why did you insist on testing me while my glasses were off?"
Melinda May's chest heaved with shallow breaths.
Locke's tone turned ethereal and haunting. "Believe me, you don't want to face a version of me that isn't wearing glasses and treats this world as a playground for slaughter."
May's voice was faint to the point of extinction. "We will catch..."
Before she could finish!
*Bang!*
*Thud!*
May's eyes remained wide as her head snapped back. A single, clean bullet hole appeared right between her eyebrows.
"Heh."
The corners of Locke's mouth curled up. He lowered his head and slowly put back on the glasses—the items that, in his view, served to seal away his explosive player-driven killing intent. He stood up slowly. "I know you people won't let this rest. But I told you this so that when you're waiting downstairs for Nick Fury and the others, you can tell them why. Saves me from repeating myself."
Was it strange that Nick Fury wasn't on this transport van?
Not at all.
After all, back in the courtroom, Locke had watched Fury walk out and made a clear throat-slitting gesture. If Fury didn't even have that level of alertness, it would be pathetic.
But...
Locke hadn't expected Fury to leave Melinda May behind as a sacrificial pawn.
Truly despicable.
How pathetic can you get?
"Heh."
Locke glanced at Melinda May's corpse, a cold sneer in his heart, and stepped down from the transport van.
In the distance!
"Halt!"
"Don't move!"
"Put your hands up!"
"Now! Immediately!"
The correctional officers who had just rushed over by car from the prison were on high alert. They leveled their pistols, submachine guns, and assault rifles at Locke. Locke, however, acted as if he were merely taking a stroll, even taking a moment to straighten the hem of his suit jacket after stepping down. "One more step and we fire!"
Locke turned his face sideways to look at them.
Prison guards, huh?
No wonder.
If it were the NYPD, they wouldn't have said a word; they would have just opened fire.
Locke shook his head, ignoring the various weapons aimed at him, and walked toward the edge of the bridge where the railing had been destroyed.
The guards were stunned. Watching Locke, who seemingly didn't value them enough to even acknowledge them, they were momentarily paralyzed by his sheer audacity. Not a single finger tightened on a trigger.
In fact...
By the time Locke simply jumped off the bridge, they hadn't even reacted. When they finally rushed to the edge to look, the surface of the river was calm and peaceful.
"Where is he?"
"Where did he go?"
"Where's the man?"
"Notify the Coast Guard! Fast!"
Only then did the swarm of guards realize what had happened, turning into a chaotic mess like a disturbed nest of hornets.
(T/N:- this was what I was talking about, as much I'd like to remove these edgy and psycho lines, if i do it'll just make issues with inconsistent mc personality. Atleast for some chapters like this. Feel free to tell if i should remove such lines even if they make him sound off or keep them when they're needed to show his true colours. I'll handle cleaning if it's just edgy takk without contributing to plot as usual.)
...
In Queens, near Rikers Island.
Locke took a circuitous route underwater and came ashore. He tossed the underwater scooter aside and immediately began stripping off his soaked suit.
Nearby, a chubby, middle-aged white man wearing sunglasses approached carrying a brand-new suit. He handed it to the bespectacled Locke.
Moments later.
Locke finished changing, took the keys from the man, and walked toward a nearly-new R8 parked at the curb. "Clean this up, if you please."
The middle-aged man nodded expressionlessly. Only after the R8's engine roared to life behind him did he swallow hard, reaching up to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead.
Inside the roaring R8.
Locke drove with his left hand while his right pulled a headset from a box in the passenger seat, plugging it into his ear. "Red, I thought you'd have Dembe come pick me up."
On the other end, Red laughed heartily. "You are my friend. Dembe, even more so, is my friend."
Send Dembe?
Outside of the Continental Hotel, Red basically didn't dare let Dembe meet Locke anywhere else.
Red shook his head and nodded to a service provider nearby.
A second later, Locke saw a red dot light up on the car's center console screen.
Red said, "The two you're looking for are already heading to a private helipad in New Jersey. You'd better hurry, otherwise..."
"Thanks!"
Locke arched an eyebrow, his left hand whipping the steering wheel. With his Advanced Driving skill at full power, the R8—already a sports coupe—became a blur in Locke's hands.
*Roar!*
The R8 thundered toward the tunnel connecting to New Jersey.
...
At that moment, Nick Fury—who had stripped off his prison uniform and put on his signature trench coat—was moving quickly under the arrangement of New York S.H.I.E.L.D. agents toward a plane bound for the D.C. headquarters. His phone rang urgently.
"Boss."
Sitting in the passenger seat, Phil Coulson—also changed, but still unkempt with a weeks-old beard—handed the phone over. "It's Commander Hand."
Fury, watching the scenery blur past the window, took it.
Connect.
In the S.H.I.E.L.D. Operations Center, Victoria Hand stood in the hall. She stared at the big screen where a helicopter was circling above the bridge, broadcasting footage of prison guards carrying a body out of a bus. She said in a heavy voice, "Agent Melinda May has been killed in the line of duty."
Fury's lone eye constricted. "Where?"
"Five hundred meters shy of Rikers Island. The Peerless Assassin blocked the path."
"...Where is Locke Broughton?"
"In school."
"No anomalies?"
"None!"
Fury took a deep breath. "Have someone arrest him. Send him to the Vault."
*I'll entertain him personally.*
But...
Commander Hand said directly, "I'm sorry."
Fury frowned. "What?"
"You've been relieved of your post, Nick."
"...And?"
"Under the requirement of the Security Council, Councilman Alexander Pierce has taken emergency control of S.H.I.E.L.D. Councilman Pierce has ordered that we do everything possible to suppress the fallout of this incident. Furthermore, without concrete evidence, no arrests are to be made. In half an hour, I am required to recall my agents. That is an order!"
"You know his true face!"
"We have no evidence!"
"He killed Megan Walsh! And Melinda May!"
"I have to ask, Nick—why didn't you take Melinda with you?"
"...It was her own request."
"Was it?"
"Son of a bitch!"
Fury cursed and took a deep breath. "I will catch that guy."
With that, he hung up.
Just then, the car slowly entered an inconspicuous small airfield. A business jet was already idling on the tarmac.
"Sir."
The two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents disguised as gate guards seemingly didn't know about the news in New York. They looked at Nick Fury as he rolled down the window and prepared to salute with excitement.
*Bang!*
*Thud!*
Nick Fury, sitting in the back seat, watched as the head of the agent in front of him exploded like a burst watermelon. His eye shrank as he whipped his head around to look back.
A silver R8 came thundering toward them.
"Sir!"
"Go! Move!"
"Hostile! Open fire!"
*Rat-tat-tat-tat!*
*Rat-tat-tat!*
A dense hail of bullets slammed into the body of the racing R8, instantly pockmarking the nearly-new frame with craters and holes.
"MMP..."
Locke pulled the handbrake, kicked the door open, and ducked out of the car. "When I have time, I am definitely ordering an armored R8."
Though...
Locke felt that was likely just talk.
All things considered, the number of R8s he had totaled in his hands was probably closer to nine than five.
It was all that damn Cross's fault.
Fuck.
If Cross hadn't dropped a corpse from the sky and crushed his R8 that day, would any of this even be happening?
Locke flicked his right hand, and a pistol—not the Silver Dancer—appeared in his left hand. Then, in his right, the Silver Dancer appeared as well.
Rise.
Fire!
*Bang!*
*Bang!*
*Bang!*
A few "flick shots" later, the world around him quieted down significantly.
Soon, Locke tossed aside the empty pistol from his left hand and walked into the parking area. He looked up just in time to see the business jet on the runway. The cabin door hadn't even closed properly yet, but it had started its engines and begun to taxi.
The corners of his mouth turned up.
*Whirrr!*
The jet's engines spun faster as it began to gain speed on the runway.
*Thud!*
Locke flicked his right hand, and with a heavy sound, a massive weapon case was retrieved from his Inventory.
Open.
Inside the case lay a "Bolt Surface-to-Air Individual Missile," a masterpiece from Stark Industries!
"Beautiful!"
Stark weapons—power aside, the sheer aesthetic was worth a hundred thousand dollars.
Locke hoisted the Bolt onto his shoulder, flipped the sight open, and locked onto the business jet that was beginning to lift off for a rapid ascent.
A second later.
Trigger pulled!
*BOOM!*
Instantly.
The fireworks ascended!!!!
***
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