I’m not even sure what to do with this

So I’m not really sure where this came from. I wrote it a while ago as a much needed action/what in the actual fsck scene for my book, but haven’t decided if I’m using it.

Fair warning: even I find it a little gory and distasteful, given its lack of context.


 

It took a great deal to surround such an ancient and wise soldier. It took even more to gather the bravery to do so.

Smith wasted no time in deciding on his actions – that is, run until he couldn’t anymore. The enemy was spread enough that he could probably keep them in small groups. He charged the nearest combatant, closing five meters in two seconds; leapt into the air, leading with his arms. Smith grabbed at the man’s head; one hand reaching in his mouth, grasping his lower jaw – the other hand pushing against his face, using the nose as leverage. Smith used the force of his jump to push the two apart, tearing the man’s head in two.

Smith landed behind the man, holding the corpse before lifting it above him, staring down the rest of the enemy force. Smith ripped into the body, twisting it until it snapped and spilt blood over his head and coat. “That’s one,” he said, glaring at his next victim. Smith pulled his blaster and his energy sword from his belt, taking the blade in his left hand and the gun in his right. Setting both to lethal output, he fired, three shots for three kills, heads misting as he moved on.

Behind him, he slashed out wildly, taking a man’s arm before kicking him back with a well-placed stomp to the solar plexus. The arm flew past Smith in the opposing direction as he spun and ran down a lone enemy at the rear of the feeble attempt to align their forces into a battle group. The man, having some semblance of skill, took a swing at Smith with his own sword. Smith sidestepped the almost clumsy slash, drove his head into the man’s face and, firing point-blank, put a smoking ten-centimeter hole in the swordsman’s chest.

Four tried to pile on Smith, take away his mobility. Under the pile, Smith let a grenade drop just next to him. It exploded, taking the bottom two souls with it and leaving Smith with a gaping wound in his side. The two men’s laughter turned to terror when Smith stood, his wounds gone and carved them into pieces.

A shotgun blast buried shrapnel in Smith’s back and broke his sword handle in two. He stared at the paperweight, no longer a weapon, and thought of his options. He rolled, dropping his broken light sword and taking up a metal one in its place. Rolling with the steal, he took off the shotgun surgeon’s leg with a blade-ruining attack. These cheap folded blades just don’t last. Dismemberment that high was death. Smith left him to his fate and to search out the rest of his foes.

A large bullet tore Smith’s arm from his shoulder. His blaster was lost and he looked annoyed at the last few men standing. An anti-tank rifle and two submachine guns. They tore him to shreds, leaving a bloody corpse and bits of stinking, half-cooked meat. That was… before Smith regenerated. Out of ammunition, the soldiers used their guns for brute force. Smith, his weapons gone, shifted to hand to hand forms. In a manner of moments, he tore the rifle from the first man, used it to knock the second man’s head clean off and kicked the third man over, using the force of gravity to snap his neck.

“One left.” Smith glared the last man standing against a wall before pushing the rifle against its former owner’s chest. “Do not fear the carnage of the God of Death,” Smith said as he pushed the rifle into the man’s chest.

“You brought this on yourself.”

His screams blanketed the stink of the room with the last sounds it would hear. The rifle held its former owner to the wall. Smith left, face blank and blood dripping from his fingertips. Outside, his allies looked on in terror as the immortal came out.

“It’s done.”

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