"Mr. D'angelo?" Inquired a male voice, belonging to a fair-skinned man in an expensive suit. "Excuse me.. Mr D'Angelo? Did you hear m-" He was cut off by humming from the other end of the room. Seated at the opposite end of the conference table was an early-thirties guy sporting a fiery red mohawk. An earphone of the same color was plugged into his ear. The other man tried to get his attention again, but he was hushed with a finger. "One 'sec, suit. This is the best part." With a quick movement, he was up on the table. "I'm hot blooded, I'm hot blooded, I'm hot-" And, in the middle of what was supposed to be a serious meeting, he broke out into air guitar. It seemed like he had no intention of listening, so the contractor got up with a sigh and went to leave.

"Hold it, my man." A single finger was held out. "I agreed to take the job when I walked in. Don't need to hear nothin' else. I'm just cuttin' loose before I have to get serious." The mercenary beckoned him back over, crouching on the table. "Now, you do understand I don't exactly do subtle well, right?" His face got too close for the contractor's comfort, who responded with haste.

"Of course, of course. Just at least try to make sure there aren't witnesses."

"And my payment?"

"As much as we hate to.. half has already been transferred. The rest will be wired to you upon confirmation of a body. Is that all?"

"You got it, friend. One dead competitor, comin' up!" Getting up, he slapped the uncomfortable businessman on the back and made his way out.

An hour later, on board a helicopter hovering outside of a skyscraper

Helicopter blades turned overhead, wind whipping at his face. With a wild grin on his face, he hit play on the music player in one of his pockets. Foreigner blasted into his ears, and he fired the grapple gun in his hand. The hook made contact with the building roof, and he grasped the chord, held up a thumb to the pilot, and took off. It wasn't long until his boots made contact with the surface of the skyscraper, and even shorter until he was positioned outside of the target's office.

Glass shattered and he rolled into a crouching position, chrome flashing as he whipped his guns out. A pair of needles fired out with a rapid clicking noise. Fortunately for him, neither could yell out in time. Unfortunately, it was a security guard and an intern. Swearing, Cesare got up and walked over to the desk to find the intercom. Flicking the switch on, he spoke with his best stick-up-the-ass security guard impression.

"Mmyes this is security, we have a possible intruder in Mr. Michaels' office. Some harlot walked on in here claimin' herself to be an intern. Mr. Michaels, could you please come up right away and verify this young lady's identity? Mmthank you, buh-bye." Snorting, he pointed his gun up to the door and waited.

Sure enough, some uptight, rich-looking old man walked on in to see a pair of dead bodies. His face went wide in horror, then froze when a needle bore itself into his temple, killing him. Lumbering on over, Cesare held up his phone and took a picture. Bursting up into laughter, he sent it to the contractor with the caption "LOL look at this guy's face!". And it was priceless. To him, at least. If there was anyone who wouldn't find a guy dying with an O-face expression funny, Cesare hadn't met them.

The phone pinged to indicate a bank transfer, and D'Angelo made his way back to the broken window he'd entered through. Signaling the helicopter to pick him up, he got ready to leave.

"Daddy's gonna buy himself a shiny new gun."

Private runway, Outskirts of Kabul, Afghanistan

Kabul was unusually hot. Hot enough to make hardened supersoldier Marcus O’Doherty sweat. It’d been a very, very long time since he’d put a boot down in this country. The last time being when he’d been forced to run for his life.. upon orders from his S.E.A.L.S. Sergeant. As he put his other boot down onto the runway, memories flashed through his head. Torture, death, sweat, blood.. tears.

His mask’s HUD booted up. GPS, targeting filters, the works. As he walked over to his motorcycle, he heard, and even smelled, an unfortunately familiar smell. When he turned around, sure enough, his now deceased ex-superior, Sgt. Harlow, stood there. Marcus’s eyes narrowed behind his mask, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “Sergeant..”

“Why hello there, s**t-for-brains!” Said Harlow in his loud, unmistakably aggressive voice. “Mind explainin’ to me why you’re back in Af-ghan-ees-tan when you’re supposed to be some big shot mercenary?!” Harlow had turned down at least six offers to become a drill sergeant. Why, no one ever figured out, because the mean ‘ol bastard had one of the nastiest tempers in the entire Marine Corps.

“I’ve got a contract... Sergeant.” Replied Marcus. He was lying, of course, as the contract was just a convenient excuse to put him in Afghanistan. Considering Harlow was just his subconscious manifesting itself through hallucinations, he knew it as well.

“That is bulls**t and you know it soldier.” Shouted Harlow, as Marcus mounted his rather expensive-looking motorcycle, and revved up the engine. Just as he was about to continue his rant, the motorcycle shot off at maximum speed.

Kabul, ten minutes later

The motorcycle pulled into town, its speed drastically reduced. While he didn’t care much about what happened to the crowds, he didn’t need the publicity that came with mass murder. As he reached his destination, a back-alley restaurant, he made the bike swerve left, hitting the brakes at a speed that would send most normal humans flying from the bike. Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he dismounted the motorcycle and walked over to the door. As he entered the door, the pained screams of an American echoed through his head. The scream got louder as he entered the crowded restaurant. Parts of the room began to warp, shifting. Blood stains appeared on one wall, the screams still increasing in volume. Right before he started to experience the worst parts of the memories again, he shook himself out of it. “Fuck.. maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea..”

He sat down in a chair in the clichéd dark corner of the room, and checked his phone. A recent e-mail from his contact put the man five minutes away. Opening a flask of whiskey, he took a drink. As the liquor went down his throat, a group of Arab men, early twenties, walked up to him. They started shouting at him in Pashto, shouting various insults as they got close.

He capped his whiskey and started to stand. One of them made the mistake of pushing him. Marcus let himself move back an inch, giving the idiot the temporary ego boost of pushing someone twice his size. Marcus held his strength back and punched the male in the jaw. Even did his best to make it look amateur, again making them think they had a chance. Predictably, it pissed the first one off, so he swung first. Fist went clear past his head, making him vulnerable. He waited a few milliseconds for his buddies to start to go into motion, and then struck. Grabbing the arm by the wrist, he pulled it to the point of dislocation, easy for someone with his strength, and brought his other elbow down on the male’s upper forearm, right below the elbow. The result made the entire arm come off in two parts. The shoulder to the elbow fell backwards, while everything else flew past Marcus. Moving quickly, he capitalized on the shock of the opponent, and delivered a knee strike to the ribcage. A punch to the male’s chest sent him flying at a wall fast enough to send him clean through. His buddies hadn’t even processed the events by the time their heads were smashed together. When they were thrown across the room, their heads were caved in at the point of impact, and their spines had been almost liquefied. Marcus cracked his neck, focusing on the last one of the bunch. He let a couple seconds pass by, allowing events to sink into the man’s mind. When they did, indicated by the growing stain at the crotch of his pants, Marcus grinned beneath his mask. “I’ll let you run a bit before you die..”

As if commanded by Allah himself, the little runt ran. Grabbing a table leg, he walked outside, flipping it so that the jagged edge would be pointed towards his target. Stepping back and dropping into a throwing position, he let the man get a couple yards away, and then hurled the leg. It rocketed towards his target like a wooden missile. Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance of escaping. The leg shot through his torso, taking out several arteries in one shot, and even taking a tiny portion of the heart with it.

“I see that you’re still violent as ever.” Said a male voice from behind him. “And your... abilities, seem to of increased”

Marcus turned, the adrenaline wearing off. He saw a short, thin man standing behind him. His black hair was streaked with gray, his face permanently drawn into an expression of bland disinterest. His clothing was stereotypical of an American tourist, which was possibly done on purpose. The man’s name was Thomas Abrams. He was technically dead, and was unofficially the only scientist to survive the Ares Serum incident.

“Did seem to hit a couple tons harder than usual, but-“ Marcus was cut off by Abrams, much to his annoyance.

“But that might be an indicator of you-know-what. We talked about this, re-“ As if returning the favor, Marcus promptly cut him off.

“Not relevant. When do I hit the place?” A “but” came out from Thomas, but Marcus repeated his question. “When do I hit the damn compound? Also, did you bring my new gear with you?”

Thomas sighed. “Yes, I brought the gear. It’s in the trunk of my car, in its storage case. As for when you go in.. midnight.

“Alright. Get yourself set up in the hotel two blocks over, I’m gonna need intel.” Marcus started to walk off, but Abrams set a hand on his shoulder. “Marcus, maybe we should call this off. I’m noticing some instability-“ Abrams was taken aback by a venomous glare from the hulking mercenary. “No. I came here for a reason. I’m not backing down because you think something’s wrong.” Marcus shrugged the hand off and kept walking.

“Go get set up. I want a live intel feed by the time I’m out of Kabul.”