Maarg gritted his teeth, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He let out a low, frustrated sigh, the sound swallowed by the roaring flames, and began walking towards the doorway. He reached the threshold, the inferno outside casting grotesque, dancing shadows on his face, before turning back to Tara. His voice, stripped of any humor or warmth, was flat and grim.
"At least come out of the room, Tara. It's filling with smoke. You'll choke in here." He paused, letting the urgency of his words sink in. "We have someone waiting in the garage. He's leaving in five minutes, no matter what."
His gaze hardened, locking onto hers. "I will distract Gunther. You have two minutes to try and make Mark come to his senses. If it doesn't work, if there's no saving him... you have to promise me you'll leave with us. You have to." His voice was low, but every word was a steel-clad demand, a desperate plea for her survival.
Tara stared at him, her face streaked with soot and tears, her eyes reflecting the flickering flames outside. The ultimatum hung heavy in the air, a cruel choice between an impossible hope and a terrifying reality. She looked from Maarg's resolute face to the doorway, where the sounds of the brutal, inhuman struggle between Mark, Jack, and Gunther continued to rage. Two minutes. It was an eternity and an instant. Her lips trembled, but then, with a slow, agonizing nod, she finally acquiesced. "I promise," she whispered, the word barely audible above the growing roar of the fire. "Two minutes."
***
The roar of the fire was a mere backdrop to the grotesque ballet unfolding in the smoky corridor. Gunther had been fighting the abomination he had created for a whole minute, a minute that felt like an eternity. He had birthed a monster, a devil imbued with inhuman strength and speed, yet possessing just enough twisted intelligence to distinguish friend from foe. In this horrifying tableau, where sanity itself seemed to fray at the edges, any normal man would be paralyzed with terror. But not Gunther. He was laughing, a deep, guttural sound that echoed through the burning hall, laced with triumph and what could only be described as pure, unadulterated madness.
"HAHAHA, FINALLY SOME PROGRESS!" Gunther bellowed, his voice raw but infused with a chilling elation. His single eye, reflecting the dancing flames, gleamed with a terrifying mixture of scientific fascination and unhinged joy. His gaze swept over the transformed Mark, a creature of raw, uncontrolled power that was undeniably his handiwork.
He spotted Jack's axe lying on the soot-covered floor, abandoned in the sudden chaos. With a swift, powerful motion, Gunther stooped and retrieved it. The heavy fire axe, a tool of rescue, now became an instrument of twisted experimentation in his hand. With a guttural shout, he brought the axe down in a swift, practiced chop, landing a deep cut on Mark's shoulder. The blow was significant, enough to cripple a human, but to Gunther's utter delight, no blood flowed from the wound. The gash merely revealed unsettlingly pale, almost fibrous tissue beneath, not the gushing crimson he expected.
"AMAZING! GLORIOUS!" Gunther roared again, his laughter growing louder, bordering on hysterical. He seemed utterly unconcerned by the monstrous creature he was facing, his focus solely on its unnatural resilience. "YOU'RE ALREADY BETTER THAN ANY OF THE MORONS I COMMANDED!" His words were a perverse compliment, a testament to his ambition to create the ultimate soldier.
Mark, now clearly agitated by the attack and Gunther's maniacal cackling, responded with a primal roar that shook the very air. With a wild, uncoordinated strike, he swung a grotesque limb, his raw power manifesting in a brutal, uncontrolled blow. The impact with the axe was deafening, a sharp crack that splintered through the smoke. The axehead snapped clean from the handle, sent flying with incredible force to embed itself deeply in the scorched wall.
Gunther looked at the broken stump of the axe handle in his hand, a mere splintered piece of wood now, and with a dismissive grunt, he flung it away. His gaze then shifted, bypassing the roaring Mark, and landed on the owner of the now-useless weapon: Jack. Jack was struggling to stand, leaning heavily against the smoky wall, his breathing ragged, his face pale from the exhaustion of his earlier fight.
A new idea, cold and calculating, began to form in Gunther's twisted mind. A cunning grin spread across his face, replacing the earlier madness. He began to move, slowly, deliberately, towards Jack. His plan was taking shape: he would take Jack hostage. If Mark could indeed distinguish friend from foe, if that sliver of humanity remained within the monstrous form, then he would think before attempting to attack Jack. It was a gamble, a test of his creation, but one Gunther was willing to take. He was confident that Mark, this new, uncontrolled "masterpiece," would hesitate, giving Gunther the leverage he needed to escape the burning base and set his plan to conquer the Viper's base and make a safe haven. The stage was set for a terrifying game of cat and mouse, with Jack's life as the ultimate pawn.
Before Gunther could clear the distance to Jack, before his twisted plan of taking a hostage could fully unfold, a flash of silver streaked through the smoky air. A knife landed with a sharp thwack between him and Jack, its blade quivering upright in the scorched floor.
Gunther's head snapped towards the direction of the projectile. Through the swirling haze of smoke, he saw him: a boy of average stature and medium build, his spiky black hair ruffled, giving him a wild appearance. The olive skin of his arms and face was streaked with ash and soot, a testament to the inferno consuming the base. He wore a blue hoodie and cargo pants, both wrinkled and grimy from the ordeal. In his left hand, he held another glinting knife, its twin having just narrowly missed its mark.
The boy opened his mouth to speak, his lips dry and pale from the smoke and exertion. "Oh shit," he rasped, disappointment clear in his voice, "I missed."