Resurrect the D.E.A.D

The helicopter careened hopelessly through the air, striking the sky scraper's rooftop, Grimm City barely flinching at the ensuing explosion that sent shards of steel into the sky, noxious smoke billowing from the unrecognisable remains of the once airborne vehicle.

Two orange boots kissed the opposite side of the same building's head, a pair of slipstream navy blue glider wings compressing themselves back into the compartment they'd originated from within the centre of the Mercenary's spine, courtesy of his innovative costume, fitted with an assortment of gear and trinkets, each befitted with an individual purpose.

The menacing frame of the Shinigami strode forward calmly, each footstep clacking off of the cement with an eerily metallic sound, the battered rooftop barely trembling slightly from the sudden impact that the 'copter had dealt it, cracks and fissures littering it's texture. The Mercenary came to a poised stop just a few feet away from the charred remains of the flying machination, folding his arms across his chest coolly and waiting.

After a few seconds of terse silence only disturbed by the crackling of flames, something within the depths of the fire shifted, and like a bat straight out of hell, a figure leaped at the composed Killer Supreme, spearing the hallowed soldier-of-fortune with such force that the floor beneath his feet quivered. Both beings flew backwards, rolling across the gravel, arms moving like pistons, both individual's fighting to attain physical control of the situation. A series of grappling techniques so sophisticated only few minds in the world could grasp the complexity of it's flow were made with effortless profession, the Mercenary counter-attacking each movement with a veteran's skill, slowly but steadily gaining the upper ground.

His assailant's palm struck him across the jaw, snapping his neck instantaneously. He coughed once, then continued to fight, using an ancient martial art that involved cutting off all of ones senses and experience close quarters combat. He'd mastered it in a few days. This situation was still in his favour, as the only one of his senses that had been lost from him was his sight, the awkward angle of his neck leaving him to stare at the cement. His movements grew faster, repelling each of his opponent's assault's with increasingly brutal force, finally dealing a deft snake-styled peck at his eyes using nothing but two of his fingers. He tore the man's eyeballs out then brought his other arm up to smash him precisely in the temple, reducing the right side of his face to fleshy pulp. The Mercenary launched both knees upwards and his enemy was thrown off of his fallen figure like a rag doll. Wasting absolutely no time, the Lord of Life did a no hands kip, grabbing the base of his jaw and jerking it in the opposite direction, aligning his vertebrae to it's correct setting. He barely flinched, locking the pain away in the crevices of his consciousness, instead paving a path to let his healing factor jump straight to work and fix any hint of injury.

"Heh, got me there while I was trying to look cool. A low blow."

The Mercenary walked forwards slowly, each step laced with killing intent. He stood over the collapsed figure of his sightless opponent and flicked his eyeballs back at him, the blood dripping from his gloved fingers. The notoriously unstable gun-for-hire knelt down calmly beside the crimson leather clad man, resting on his haunches, chuckling quietly to himself.

"I'm really sorry about foiling your efforts at tearing me apart with an array of missiles and bullets, but I've got commitments that I can't go back on just yet. This was fun, though. I really wish you could go back and tell my father just how nicely our play date went down."

Each word tinged with both sarcasm and malice, the Mercenary cackled wildly at his humourless jokes, clutching his stomach as if hurt. Then suddenly he stopped laughing and stood up, turning around and striding away coldly, a fluorescent ball of stainless steel held firmly in one of his blood stained gloves. He paused at the ledge of the sky scraper, tilting his head towards the fallen man momentarily to utter a few syllables.

"I've assembled a team. A group of badass motherfuckers, each gifted a sense of morality as stellar as my own."

He dropped the sphere and it rolled back across the rooftop, coming to a teetering stop in the centre of the battered platform.

"We go by D.E.A.T.H."

Then the ball exploded and the Mercenary was gone, leaving the top of the structure in an assortment of colourful shades, ranging between yellow, orange, and of course, always,




The baseball bat drove a straight path through the air, striking his jaw with commendable accuracy, the impact screaming with a sickening thud.

"Maybe that'll loosen up your tongue a bit."

An Asian-skinned man hung upside down; naked, his forearms bound in unyielding steel chains, fastened together with a sizeable lock, ensuring full restraint. His ankle's were wrapped in more of the metal rope, connected to a large airborne platform, four adjoining steel columns beneath, supporting it's weight. The man's face was mangled, sickly purple bruises littering almost every inch of his money maker. Blood seeped from his nostrils, ears, and small rivulets of crimson liquid streamed from the corners of his swollen mouth. His jet black hair dangled aimlessly, mottled with dried blood that had dripped from his forehead. His eyes were shut tight, moisture tottering on the edges of his eyelids, his facial expression one of complete apathy. Despite his excruciating condition, he betrayed nought emotion.

His forearms were pierced with a variety of evil looking blades, digging straight through his flesh, tearing through both muscle and marrow. His light skin was drenched in scarlet, fingers quivering slightly, blood beginning to dry around the wounds.

The sweat and blood on his physique glimmered sourly in the obnoxious morning sunlight, the spray from the ocean wetting his body and slowly freezing his body after enduring such conditions for the past few days, temperatures ranging from 0-5 degrees Celsius the mode in this particular part of the Atlantic Ocean. The behemoth yacht's bobbing did little to settle his bewildered stomach, which occasionally forced a mouthful of bile from his lips, running over his face and into his hair.

"Get ready for another swing."

Four beings surrounded his airborne figure, three of them clothed in casual beach get-up, loose fitting shorts and armless t-shirt's. One held a bloodied baseball bat in his bronze hands, twirling it around playfully, going at the Asian with merciless brutality, giggling with each strike. The others held death-toys of their own, one carried a ridiculously lethal butcher's knife, fresh blood dripping from it's blade. The other man fingered a small pistol, eyeing their prisoner with malicious intent.

"Any time you feel like talking-"

The leader of the four, an immaculately attired woman with large shades and a shaved head, gestured to the baseball bat wielding lackey. He lashed out with the weapon, smashing it into the dangling figure's diaphragm, snapping more than a few ribs instantly. The force from the strike caused the hanging man to sway slightly, blood spilling from his lips.

"- Let me know."

She turned on her heel and strode across the deck, resting with her elbows on the banister, eyeing the waves lazily, humming a tune to herself as her minions got to their business with the prisoner. There were sounds of pain and blood splattering across the polished floors, but she ignored it casually, keeping her shaded eyes on the cool blue below. Suddenly a flicker of movement coursed through the water, bubbles rising slowly but evidently. She leaned forward slightly, unsure of her eyes. She narrowed her eyes inquisitively, moments before a single bullet tore into her skull and exploded, sending bits of her skull all across the deck, spurts of blood jutting from the crevice in her collarbone where her neck had been a few mere seconds ago.

Her lackey's stared in confusion at the sudden activity, caught completely off-guard, their predatory grins wiped from their tanned faces. They gripped their weapons with panicked composure, eyes darting around anxiously, expecting death to leap at them from their own shadows. Slowly, they drifted apart, backing away in their own directions, senses on high alert.


The butcher's knife wielding thug emitted a single yelp before his head jerked backwards with a sickening crack and his body was pulled overboard, his demise's occurrence too swift for his allies to make out. They saw his feet slip over the banister and exchanged terrified glances, turning on their heels and making desperate trails for their cabins. The captor with the baseball bat hardly made it halfway before a projectile streaked through the air and obliterated his body, sending bits and pieces of his figure into the air, blood pooling out and staining the floorboards with it's distasteful essence. The remaining man stopped in his tracks, whimpering fearfully before raising his pistol to his head and pulling back on the trigger, spraying his cabin door with his brains.

An eerily peaceful silence set about the yacht's deserted deck, even the ocean seeming to quieten down, leaving only the dangling man's raspy, ragged breathing in the air. His eyes opened slowly, struggling to readjust to the harsh sunlight glaring down at him. He glanced around warily, considering his captors with the same disinterested expression he had worn for the majority of his life.

"Still as silent as the grave, eh Fade?"

The man raised his eyes to the masked face of a drenched Mercenary, arms folded smugly across his broad chest, a sniper-rifle across his back.

"I'm glad I found you. We have some stuff to deal with. D.E.A.T.H needs you."

His bruised face softened for a moment, his eyebrows arcing slightly. He held his saviour's steady gaze for a moment before managing a weak smile.

The Mercenary smirked beneath his mask.



"A Blast from the Past" : Part 1

(To understand what exactly is being unveiled here, you'll need to check out my bio. A quick skim won't hurt ;)

The Hellfire Club, Italy.

Man oh Man... How freaking epic am I right now?... Really freaking epic.

The white-clad shadow slithered down the finely designed corridor, his footsteps whispers in a wind that was not blowing, his breathing more so. The excited heart that bounced around his rib cage edged him on, heightening his senses and amplifying his adrenaline. Tenfold. The almost cape-like cloak that was draped around his broad shoulders trailed along behind him, leaving little evidence of it's existence. His alert eyes scanning every nook and cranny, always on the lookout for any other patrons that might have decided to break off into this particularly secluded section of the esteemed Club. So far, so good. His orders were to get to the target, eliminate him, then get the hell out of there. Simple stuff, really. It seemed like an age for the rookie assassin as he made his way towards the large doors. He had graduated from D.E.A.T.H's trainee program just a month or so ago, and already the old man had given him the chance to shine. He didn't want to disappoint. Mainly because he preferred his handsome face in the condition that it was in now. That was why he had decided to become a mercenary after all, hadn't it? He had the looks of a model, the muscles of a Schwarzenegger, he just needed the money of a Trump. The chicks digged those kinda dudes. They did. Erik Dowdy had joined the gun-for-hire organization years ago, taking on the alias of Powder Puff. At the time, it had sounded badass, it matched with his stealth expertise. But all those years of ridicule and torture at the silly name had finally payed off. Powder Puff was going on a mission.

He unclipped his dual Puffers, a pair of modified silencer handguns, from their holsters, raising his arms slowly to point out ahead of him. He had read the report on his target. A feisty old man with a mean streak. Also, he occasionally set his entire body alight and burned down villages. A fun guy, really. Powder Puff took a final breath before entering the room. He would need it.

His eyes glazed over, turning white, his teeth sharpened to look similar to that of a dog's canines, and his face contorted into a look of ugly and ready rage. All this was happening beneath his mask, of course. His leg's tense once, and single foot shot out, tearing the sturdy door from it's hinges as if it were nothing but a cardboard box. His senses peaking already, he stepped into the room, Puffers blazing a trail of deadly lead projectiles aimed at a figure that stood with it's back facing the doorway. He didn't stop firing, he didn't release those gloved fingers from the triggers until his cartridge ran out and wisps of weary smoke drifted form the weapons' muzzle's.

His adrenaline buzz clearing slowly like a fog, his white eyes returned solemnly to their regular shade of grey, teeth becoming blunt once more. Every muscle in his young body still rippling and tensing, Erik Dowdy couldn't move for a moment. A bead of sweat that had prowled down his masked forehead broke his statuesque stance and his eyes snapped wide, a breath being exhaled slowly. On the other side of the room lay a bloodied man, a tattoo of holes riddling his previously clothed spine. He was an old male, grey hair sitting perfectly positioned on his head. His face turned away, Powder Puff was glad not to see the look of lifelessness that would be displayed. He had always hated it. The smell of death and the sight. The worst things, ever.

Shiiiiiiiiit man.... I'm a damn beast!

He nodded to himself slowly, an awkward grin leaping out across his features. He holstered his weapons and wiped some swag off of his shoulders. He had enough, already. He was about to break into a little jig of victory when he remembered his orders and turned to exit the room.

"You didn't bother to silence your rather loud entrance, and you were rather reckless with your termination. I bet I can find at least five holes in that now disfigured wall. Also, after disposing of your target, you didn't make sure that you were still alone, and everybody knows you don't leave the same way you entered. Neandrathal."

Powder Puff staggered backwards, his excited demeanor eradicated. An enormous shadow shone it's dark light down across Erik from the doorway.

"Huh?... Boss? M-M-Mercenary?"

Could it be? Had the founder of D.E.A.T.H come all this way just to witness Powder Puff's first mission execution? No ways... Surely he had better things to do. Either way, Erik Dowdy was trembling in utter and unadulterated fear at the powerful figure's aura as it reached out to fiddle at the corners of his mind.

"Hmph. Don't you dare compare me to that impudent little amateur. I am a force far greater than he, this I will show you."

The once fearless Powder Puff fell over backwards, landing in a pathetic heap on the darkened room's carpeted floor. A sad little whimper escaped his person. He was afraid.


A rush of air and his perfect face was torn apart by a cluster of otherworldly claws that seemed to appear out of thin-air. A dry sob of pain and his head fell apart, flayed by the sudden attack. His body reduced to a limp pile of flesh, it slumped lifelessly against the floor, blood seeping from the exposed neck wound. A large, hairy foot stepped down on his chest, pushing straight through to crush the entire rib cage. The once jovial heart spilled out and rolled across the torso, still. The massive shadow moved into a sliver of light and it's face was illuminated, for a brief but lingering moment.

"I was once called Kusagari Yamamoto... I'm looking for my son."