Missed out the fucking /me

/me rammed the 30-round magazine into the LWRC M6A1, pulling back the slide as he let the gun drop feeling it retort against the sling that wrapped around his body. The gun itself was entirely black, similar to his LBT 6094 Plate Carrier with Type IV Plates, and the various MOLLE Pouches attached to the front-side of the Carrier, similarly stuffed with grenades, and 30-round magazines; for his M6. He stood in the rain, feeling the water soak into his blazer jacket, becoming one with the fabric that clothed him. He drank the heat, the toxin and the over-all feel of nicotine, in from the cigarette. It refreshed him, renewed him into new life. But he knew all to well it would be a temporary thing. He wasn't the man he used to be, a simple broken sword denied his former glory. The physical scars ran chaos across his body, but the psychological ones ran deeper, searing hot sensations incapacitating him at times. But a broken sword could still kill, utilised correctly. Where he may have been broken, his blade was never dull, forever remaining in a state of readiness and sharpness. He flicked the cigarette aside, watching as the dying ember of the cigarette bounced off of the bonnet of the dark, matte black Ford Falcon XB GT 500 and dropped to the ground. He could feel the weight of the slim knife strapped to his shin as he pressed down on the cigarette, squeezing all life out of it; [i]much like how one had done to him[/i]. The M6 bristled as he gripped it, his other hand undoing the strap to the holster that housed an FN Five-SeveN. Just incase. The rain continued, the Moon remaining aloft, the eternal spectator of his Sins. The things he had done, [i]the things he would do[/i], only the Moon would truly know. Even then, somethings were best kept hidden, you can't unsee what has been seen. The Moon stayed an eternal spectator, up high above its perch amongst the dark, abyss like sky, its beaded eyes watching with utmost curiosity as he advanced. His sleeves were raised ever so slightly, and in the slim gap of exposed skin between his gloves and sleeves, there was the slightest view of ink. [i]01010111[/i]. He knew others with a similar ink pattern, though the numbers were re-arranged to form something else. The rain revealed the path for him, through the winding, broken limbs of the trees, the tall spiralling metal staircase that adorned the large, and crumbling tower. The sole survivor of what once was, everything else was simply ash and rubble. [i]Even her.[/i] He could still remember that fateful night, where the rain poured like this, where her white dress flowed in the gentle wind, and the colour drained from her body until she too was ghostly white like her dress. Her burial sight called to him. He had visited many times, but no other visit would be quite as important as this. [i]Her death anniversary. A date he had been putting off for years, too broken, too intoxicated to put up with. But now was time to make amends.[/i] He had come to terms with it all, this was his destiny. He would face the world alone, finding comfort in the cold metal of his tools. This would also be bait, a methodical plan if successful; it would rid him of the wraiths that kept coming for him. Nameless guns, itching to end his life. He stood atop the barely noticeable grave, a simple pile of rocks neatly arranged to distinguish it from rubble. This would be the last time, the final time he would lay eyes upon this soil, upon this untouched corner of the World. He dropped to his haunches, his now ungloved right hand clawing at the dirt and picking up a handful. He watched the small clumps of dirt break off from his hands, falling to the ground as he hung his head and closed his eyes. He let go of the handful, wiping off his hand and locking it back into the glove. He flicked off the safety, hearing the quite sound of leaves being crushed; someone was approaching. Nothing would be said, no witty remarks, no final callouts, nor prayers; that wasn't him.

/me [i]That wasn't W.[/i] He instead turned, heading into the burnt out ruins of what had once been a rather lovely farmhouse. Its gentle, warm red colours now scorched to an abyss black, tainted once again by his presence. He waited quietly, drifting into the shadows, and wrapping them about him. The first thing he saw was flashlights, [i]amateurs[/i], but they were soon dropped off. He almost felt annoyed, and that would've been a first. He had been quite the empty vessel of death as of late, the only true emotion was the ecstasy of ending a life. Even that was an undesirable drug, that burrowed deep into your soul and took root. He tightened his grip on the M6 and watched with quiet dark eyes, the EOTech 553 Holographic Sight itching to view its targets. They were spread out as he had predicted, an even spread of perhaps 6-8 Targets. He figured they would possibly be Ex-Special Forces. The Father wouldn't dare send his prized Orphans, not after he had mailed the fabled Zero back to the 'Adoption Centre', as it had been termed, bit by bit. So perhaps an outfit had been hired, he would soon see. His right hand itched towards the selection of grenades on his belt, there were several. He saw the signature look of a Private Outfit; mismatch of weaponry and attire. Though it was the weaponry that intrigued him. There was a french FAMAS, and an FN SCAR-L, indicating perhaps a former Navy SEAL. Quite frankly, his mind had been emptied of all thought and now he simply longed to shed blood, like a caged, feral monster lusting for the taste of flesh. So forth it began, silenced shots erupting in the dark; a shadowy embodiment of carnage drifting from body to body. The FAMAS Operator dropped first, his chest a bloody pulp of nothingness. W stepped out from the shadows, water dancing across the air and crashing into him as he advanced. He was completely open, yet he didn't miss a beat. All thoughts of self-preservation had been drilled out of him at a young age; 4 to be precise. He could still remember the rope bridge with missing boards. Exposed to such carnage since birth. He felt the rain soak into his scalp, wetting his beard as he broke from the farmhouse to a pile of rubble, various bullets chasing his legs. More suppressed shots escaped his LWRC M6 Carbine, slamming into the presumed SEAL before they scattered into small clusters of Operators. A grenade bounced off the ground, erupting into a fireball that lit the entire courtyard up for a brief second. It was as if his mind had mentally arranged a HUD for him, he could see his enemies clearly, whilst mentalling keeping a count on his ammunition. He broke forward, running with leaping steps as his gun chattered, blood splattered the dilapidated shed, bodies slumping slowly to the ground. In a matter of a few minutes, half of the Death Squad had been liquidated. He came up on the cluster of four remaining Operatives, feeling the M6 click with emptiness. He drew the FN Five-SeveN cycling rapidly as he let the M6 go, feeling it drop to the floor as he unclipped it from its single-point sling. He rolled forward, simultaneously drawing his slim blade and came out in a majestic force of death. It was truly spectacular, like the brutal, mesmerising movements of a ballet dancer, except he was more violent, more aggressive and passionate than any dancer could hope to be. He shot and stabbed, slashing his way through his enemies, his knife was already slick with blood, cutting a large ravine from the abdomen upwards, guts spilling out before W as 5.7×28mm catridges ripped apart skin and flesh, releasing the blood that yearned to be free. In that moment he was free, nothing tied him down, anchored him down; nothing. He was free. Bodies dropped, various lacerations covering them. Blood stained his LBT 6094 Plate Carrier, a slight blemish in the dark covering from where 5.56x45mm had slammed against the plates; presumably fired from one of the various Assault Rifles carried by the poor assemble.

/me would kill them all, anyone who came for him. He would rip them limb from limb. His rage burned brightly, the battle-joy clouding his judgement as he picked up his M6, ejecting the magazine and swapping it out for a fresh one, pocketing the spent magazine. He walked back towards the Ford Falcon, only then noticing the dark suit clad figure in the shadows. It was too late, this figure fired instantly upon recognition. A singular .50 Action Express erupted out of the AMT AutoMag V, entering W's unprotected side. The bullet caused all manner of chaos interally to W, but it was his killer that would do the most damage. Under the observing moonlight he stepped forward. [i]His friend. His betrayer.[/i] It truly was the hidden knife that caused the most damage, the one you never saw coming. W could feel his anger at himself, [i]how could he have trusted?[/i] From out of the shadows came the dark-eyed, rain sodden face of the sole person he could've called brother; [i]X[/i]. Not a word was exchanged as X fired again, another .50 Action Express entering his side. W was done, too tired to put up a fight as he dropped to his knees and let the LWRC M6 fall. His body armour jarred him as he hung his head, feeling the blood seep out of him. X stood over him, pocketing the AMT and kicking aside the M6 and removing W's Five-SeveN and slim blade. "[i]The Father sends his regards.. brother.[/i]" The last words were exhaled painfully for X who removed the severely creased paper that was wedged in between W's shirt and his plate-carrier. With that, the rain and the cold consumed him as X delivered a final push that would leave W on the ground, the rain mixing in with his blood. [i]How the might had fallen.