@the_psyentist:
There is was; that odd feeling at the back of his head. Sergei was not prone in introspection, so he never figured out where it came from: it could have been a result of a lifetime spent in various conflicts, a side-effect of the process that gave him his metahuman abilities, or even a benefit of serving a psychic demon. Regardless of where it originated, however, its meaning was always clear: he was being hunted.
A sadistic grin spread across his face, as he donned his gear in Avalon’s locker room. Combat was all he really knew, so the feeling that it was impending was like knowing that a good friend (not that he had any) was coming over to visit, and the two of you were going to drink and laugh and reminisce about old times. In spite of this psychotic joy, he prepared himself: he wore full body armor which, combined with his own durability, would allow himself to absorb any hit less powerful than a .50 cal like it was a punch. His ballistic knife was tucked into his boot sheath, a .44 magnum (he had always liked the Dirty Harry movies) was holstered at his right hip, and his trusty AK-47 was slung over his shoulder. On impulse, he tucked his razor-sharp Saperka shovel, balanced for throwing, into his belt. Finally, he picked up a 10-gauge Mossberg shotgun, cradling it in his arms like a babe, as he headed to the building lobby. Time to see how his hunters felt about collateral damage.
Someone was coming for him; that much he knew. Regardless of who they were or what vendetta they had, he would give them a game like no other, a game with a truly gruesome outcome.
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