The metal room stood eerily quiet as the now hulking man in loose-fitting clothing surveyed the young men who stood nervously around him, shakily pointing their guns to his chest which continued to powerfully rise and fall. With each second of silence, another outfitted grunt-worker would glance over at their comrade, too tense to speak but still silently prompting some sort of action.
“Go on,” growled the monk, his kind face now stern and weathered in contrast to its jovial roundness not a minute before. “Hit me. I dare you. Just one of you, use those damn toys you're trying to threaten me with,” his fists clenched into knuckled balls of bone, and he leaned forward tauntingly, “Or I’ll rip your hands off along with that scrap!”
Everyone in the room leaned back at this, as though pushed aside by a bubble emitted from the bulky fighter.
He grinned, deep contours bringing a new air of menace to the situation.
“All you're good for is letting off a bit of steam.”
He sprang forward like a jaguar, heavy feet pounding the steel floor. Although muzzles flashed and bullets flew, the hands that shot them were unsteady and unsure, rocketing the rifles into the faces of their wielder with the recoil. Daisy grabbed the neck of the first young man he came to, cracking the armor’s thin guard and lifting him off his feet. The monk spun in a flurry of fabric, sending the poor boy into a group of his comrades who had huddled together like frightened animals in winter, and like a comical game of snooker they skidded into the walls of the warehouse.
As though a padlock had been un-latched to let loose a torrent, panic and chaos flooded the rookies’ ranks. Each ran for their own corner which they thought safest, without being given time to realize that they had trapped themselves in a box of death of their own design.
The monk leaped to his side and clutched the arm of one of the fleeing men, dislocating his shoulder with a quick tap, and in three powerful strokes swung his victim above him like a lasso. Daisy lifted off the balls of his feet and secured his foot into the man’s back, ripping the armoured arm from its socket and letting the corpse, head lolling side to side from whiplash, paint the floor in a strip of red. A volley of shots fired from across the room, and as though the moves of the dance were already in motion, each bullet which sought with any hope to find its mark found itself instead lodged into the disembodied appendage. Using the momentum, Daisy tossed the arm at a low angle, entangling the shaky gunners’ legs as they flopped to the floor like toppled toy soldiers. The monk’s feet circled each other, each movement adding force to his step, until one left the ground. All who dared to watch could have sworn that they saw, for the first time in their lives, a man flying.
His fist just barely missed the helmeted face of a man struggling to his feet with his back against the wall, promptly sending him back to the ground in a puddle of piss. The monk’s devilish grin was showcased once again as his head swiveled around to the other end of the warehouse, where it met the many gazes of soldiers trying to find their bearings. The monk ripped his hand free of the concrete and steel, gripping a chunk of mortar riddled with copper rods, and in a single movement replaced the brain matter of the man on the floor. Without missing a beat he lodged his heel in the corpse’s crotch, bringing his whole body to a pivoting point before the visceral chunk of mortar, barreling through the air towards the other side of the room, splattered a man’s stomach fluids across his comrades with its impact. All of them were too shocked, or on the verge of faint, too see the monk’s outstretched arms, billowing in their sleeves, pin all of their necks to the wall with a muffled crunch.
Slowly peeling himself from the wall, The monk looked to his sides to see the other men along the side of the room pointing their muzzles towards him, every one centimeters off their mark; but none of them fired.
Bringing himself to a complete stand, Daisy surveyed the room with mild surprise painted across his features.
“Huh? Where did I make my mistake? You should all be shooting each other in panic by now.” As his gaze blanketed the room, he paused on a skinny soldier close to the centre of the room, gun rattling in his shaky hands, but barrel cold. “Ah, it's you,” Daisy growled with a smirk. “You came all this way to try to stand up to me instead of firing the first shot like you were supposed to? I seem to have misjudged you. You aren't as chaotic a being as I first surmised.” He lightly tilted his dreadlocked head, feigning a casual demeanor. “You ruined my chaos,” he sang in a voice an octave higher than his demonic growl. “My beautiful chaos. The chain of mental explosions, of boiling blood, of blind screams. All undone,” his feet settled back into his fighting stance, his face returned to the horrific grimace that had become the poster of the chaos, and his voice once again harmonized as the orchestra of mayhem “by the weakest link that was its magnum opus!”
Flying into a full flurry of movements, the monk quickly descended upon his target. The unfortunate victim was swiftly knocked above the monk’s head and brought to a halt with a crack. Punch after punch made dents in his stomach, keeping him afloat like a balloon being bounced in the air. One of the punches broke his flesh, folding the skinny man at his spine, and a fist emerged with a handful of guts and viscera. Jerky movements brought the still-conscious man to a spin, each rotation pulling his insides further outside, until his body was hanging by a thread of intestines. At the moment this thread snapped, the chaotic monk slid under his victim and brought his heel into the man’s back, folding him in the opposite direction, snapping his spine and bringing the back of his head to a meeting with his boots. Finally, the corpse was thrown across the warehouse and bounced off of the far side wall with a splat, sliding across the blood-slick. The monk brought the mangled entrails to a halt under his bare foot, crushing the ribcage and popping the lungs like a balloon in a final display of absolute dominance.
When cleanup workers arrived later in the day, prying open the electromagnetically-locked blast shield and reeling at the sickly waft of the smell of death, they were responsible for the identification of the bodies of several men who had been massacred beyond the point of identification. Their job was made much easier, however, by the bodies of men, pistols and rifles in hand, who had pulled the trigger on their temples.
ns 172.70.127.17da2
and then Add to home screen.