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"Giving up is for rookies...I'm willing to go the distance. How about you?"
— Phil, (Hercules)
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"Where the hell are my guards? I told those idiots to park their butts by the warden's office, didn't I? So why the hell are there only two dozen inmates in here? Where's the rest?" snarled a small wooden puppet, carved like a 1950s Italian mob boss, its rough accent sounding way too comically exaggerated for such a tiny and 'cute' fra.
"I sent those n to sweep the high-security left wing of the building. But they should've been back by now. Useless Arican fat trash, always slacking," growled a masked, hulking man clad in heavy repainted military combat armor, a literal machine gun bolted where his left hand should've been, and a scarlet-red cybernetic eye as his left eye. His thick Russian accent cut through the room like a blade. "I'll go and drag them back here," KGBeast muttered, a flicker of annoyance in his cold eyes as he wasn't used to listening to others order him around like a common lackey. "Co with , Gregor. Sickle, you stay here with Scarface." He ordered the other two most muscular n in the room, who were standing behind Scarface.
"I told you to call NKVDemon, old man, not Gregor. If you keep using my real na and Russian Intelligence sohow catches wind of where I am, they'll co for , no matter what it takes. Unlike you, they don't think I'm dangerous enough to leave alone," Gregor muttered, his tone edged with irritation. Dressed in a similarly repainted tactical combat suit, he didn't bother to spare so much as a glance at the frail old man listening to them while clutching the wooden puppet.
And really, why would he? It wasn't like he feared the deranged old man and his "talking" puppet. NKVDemon and his ntor, KGBeast, were two of the most feared killers to ever co out of Russia. They were living weapons, honed by a secret KGB supersoldier program through the use of steroids of questionable origin, experintal serums, and cutting-edge cybernetic implants.
Even though NKVDemon saw himself as one of the deadliest assassins Russia—or maybe even the world—had ever produced, he knew his ntor was in a class of his own. KGBeast wasn't just a na; he was a nightmare, an actual beast. Almost anyone who has ever known him or crossed his path called him the most dangerous killer in Russia. At their peak, the two were top-tier operatives—the go-to executioners for missions stamped impossible.
The only reason they were now enemies of their own holand was because of their last mission—the one that changed both their lives and their fate. It was the toughest assignnt they'd ever accepted, and easily the murkiest: take out ten of the state's most powerful figures, including the president. And for the "greater good" of the motherland, they had signed on without blinking, unwilling to let even a hint of doubt stain their loyalty.
By the ti the mission failed and they landed on Russia's most wanted list, the truth hit them like a freight train—they'd been set up. Betrayed by the sa hands that had shaped them, labeled too dangerous to be left breathing. After they escaped, Russia threw everything it had at them—agents, soldiers, black ops teams—but none of it ever worked. They were simply that good, operating on a level no one else could touch.
KGBeast alone had wiped out over 200 Russian operatives sent to eliminate him, a kill count so staggering the governnt eventually backed off. Sure, he was still marked as a wanted man in Russia—just not one they were willing to chase actively anymore. However, both he and NKVDemon remained exiles, barred from ever setting foot in their holand, a fact that drove them to seek new opportunities abroad, most notably in the United States. Normally, the two would've laughed at the idea of ever crossing into Arica for anything but a mission, but desperate tis had a way of bending old rules.
And so, they arrived in the most notorious, cri-infested city the Land of the Free and Ho of the Brave had to offer, drawn by whispers of rising power plays and growing prospects in the underworld. But here, they didn't rise as feared assassins as they thought—instead, they sank as hired muscle for gangsters and cri lords. For all their lethal skill, they simply couldn't match the sheer madness of Gotham's street-level monsters—the kind of chaos-driven psychopaths who killed and tore things apart just for the twisted thrill of it.
"Tch, quit yappin' and get to work, ya blockheads! We've got a schedule to keep! You don't want us late 'cause of yer damn chit-chat, do ya?" Scarface barked, his little wooden limbs jerking wildly as if to underline just how fed up he was.
"Mmmgh… tch fine," KGBeast grumbled, voice laced with irritation. For a second, he actually entertained the idea of snapping that puppet in half—maybe even finishing off Arnold Wesker, the ek ventriloquist behind the act—for the constant disrespect. But no, not now. They were currently on Wesker's payroll, and killing your employer was bad for business, especially when that employer answered to a lunatic who was doing everything just to watch the world burn.
Also, KGBeast didn't want to take an unnecessary risk because there was an additional third player in the room. He wasn't trained like they were, not even close—but when it ca to brute force, Sickle left them both in the dust. A forr circus strongman, obsessed with that massive, curved blade of his. KGBeast has heard from so of the prisoners that Sickle used to share the stage with his conjoined twin—until a few years ago, when they separated through surgery and both went down the path of cri. This man could hoist and toss elephants like juggling pins, crush diamonds between his fingers. KGBeast suspected that he was one of the freaks of the city with tahuman blood, maybe even Russian roots, judging by his heavy accent.
But of course, it wasn't his nationality that irked KGBeast. The real problem was Sickle's blind loyalty. He and his brother served the real mastermind—the one pulling the strings behind Scarface and the ventriloquist—and they'd throw their lives on the line without a second thought just so that he could get what he wanted. Sure, KGBeast and NKVDemon could probably take Sickle down with enough effort and tricks, but doing it clean, without injury? That was another story. Like it or not, Sickle was the trump card in this whole operation—the real ace that he had left inside Arkham to make sure everything went just as he planned.
"Co with , Gregor," KGBeast ordered, using his protégé's real na once again, drawing another visible flicker of annoyance from NKVDemon. But the younger man just exhaled sharply and fell in behind him.
"We should've never co here. This city's crawling with psychos and freaks… Honestly, I miss Russia," NKVDemon muttered as he followed his ntor's heavy footsteps. "Are you sure they wouldn't take us back if we turned ourselves in, on our own?"
"They might. But you and I both know we can't gamble our lives on that. Best-case scenario, it's life imprisonnt behind bars. We were the best once, sure. But tis change. Now they want weapons they can leash. I've heard the whispers—tahumans are the new wave. Us? We're just old relics to them. The cybernetics they once called cutting-edge… now they call them obsolete... and ugly even. To them, we're just discarded hardware." KGBeast's voice carried a grim weight as he spoke with his thick russian accent.
"Yeah… but at least back ho, they don't punish traitors by skinning them alive and tossing what's left in acid," NKVDemon shot back, his voice tight as they passed a cell. Inside, chained and bloodied, was a pale-skinned woman in a half-shredded lab coat, blue shirt, and slacks beneath. A gash split her forehead, scratches ran on her arms and legs, and her lip was split deep, raw from a recent brutal beating. NKVDemon's eyes lingered on her just a second longer as he gulped.
"Honestly, I almost feel bad for the doctor. Even if she didn't feel the sa way he did, she should've just run the hell away when she had the chance. Can't believe she tried to kill him instead, right when he was coaxing her to jump into that chemical pit. And she even ca closer to ending him than anyone ever has.
Did you catch the look on his face when it hit him—that she never loved him, not even once, just used him for… god knows what? If Sickle's twin brother, Hamr, hadn't shown up when he did, pulling him out of that vat, he probably wouldn't have made it. No wonder he beat her up the way he did—and then ordered she be skinned alive before dumping her in actual acid." NKVDemon let out a tense hum.
The Russian assassin had seen his share of death, blood, and betrayal. But there was sothing about that guy that unsettled even seasoned killers like NKVDemon and KGBeast. He wasn't just another lunatic. No, he was the lunatic. He carried an aura—sothing dark and unpredictable—that left everyone around him on edge, always wondering what fresh horror he'd unleash and what monstrosity he would commit next.
As the two assassins were speaking, the woman stirred. Slowly, her head lifted, strands of blonde hair streaked with gri falling from her bruised face. Blood trickled from the gash on her forehead as her still sharp eyes locked onto KGBeast's before a wild, crazed smile ford on her lips as if she found this entire situation funny.
Then the lights cut out.
A heavy thunk echoed as the entire warden's wing was plunged into pitch-black silence. Ergency lights flickered, then died. Even the air turned weird since the electronic ventilation system stopped working. KGBeast and NKVDemon tensed as the electronic lock on the woman's cell gave a faint click and the iron gate creaked open on its own, groaning on its hinges due to the abrupt power failure.
But neither man reached for a weapon, nor did they so much as glance at the woman bound in the chains, since they knew that an untrained girl like that wouldn't be of any threat to them. They were far too skilled for that. Instead, their instincts, razor-honed by years of blood and survival, scread in unison, drawing their attention in the opposite direction—this wasn't about her. No.
Sothing else was here.
Sothing was moving silently through the dark.
A presence they had never felt before, sothing lethal, and far beyond even the murderous monsters they'd known and fought for their whole lives. They could sense it. A predator was in Arkham tonight, and for the first ti in years, the assassins felt the whisper of sothing they hadn't faced in a long ti. Fear for their lives.
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