Marc (Big Marcy)
Marc, more popularly known as 'Big Marcy', a moniker which he hated, leaned back on his custom-made FaeCarper Executive Chair and propped his feet on the window sill, gazing at his daily view of the steel jungle of shipping containers. The gold buckle of his Tresmeni shoes, made with soft goatskin, caught a hint of the afternoon sun and gave a smart glint.
The chair was delivered only yesterday and cost him ten grand. It was supposedly made with a unique “space-age” fabric, whatever that meant, and special gel-filled its cushions that conformed to the body shape of its user. However, as he sat on it, Marc could not tell what made it worth the ten grand he paid for it. Its modern design also felt out of place in the rustic theme of his office, filled with his antique collections sourced from all over the world. He was already regretting buying the darned chair.
Other than the addition of his new chair, it was another mundane business day for Marc. Making money for himself, and for his brother who always took a larger cut of the pie.
They were twins and they divided everything equally since they were born. Up until his brother, Mark, took over the family smuggling business. From that point on, his brother’s share in everything steadily became bigger and bigger than what Marc would get.
Which was fine with him.
After all, it was Mark who established their current operation, with smuggling relegated as their secondary income source. Things could have gone differently if he was the one approached by the Supplier instead of his brother. But lady luck was fickle, and he could hardly blame his brother for that.
What Marc could not forgive was that he had to give up his name. He was named ‘Marc’, but it was too confusing to call him that when his brother was also ‘Mark’. He had no idea why their parents named them ‘Marc’ and ‘Mark’, but eventually people called him ‘Marc-with-a-c’, and it became ‘Marcy’, while his brother retained the usage rights over ‘Mark’. That was downright unfair as he came out of their mother's womb a full thirty minutes before his brother.
As he grew tall and large, people started calling him 'Big Marcy'.
He had plans for deposing Mark, but for now, he had to sit tight on his “space-age” chair for he did not know how to even contact Mark’s Supplier for their current operation.
The click on an attaché case closing told him Captain Gerald Price of the LEPD finished counting his weekly… retainer fee.
Marc straightened his Hermès tie, adjusted the diamond-studded tie bar, and turned his chair around with the grandeur of the evil boss in a movie. Childish, yes, but he always derived enjoyment from turning his chair to face visitors. “All in order, Captain Price?” he said. “Sixty grand in the bag?”
Captain Price, a jovial stocky man who had a serious shot at Police Commissioner with Marc’s backing, tapped the brown leather attaché case. “Sixty grand, yes. I seem to have gotten an increase of my retainer fee.”
“The additional ten grand is for your increased efforts in controlling your men from snooping around in our operations.”
“You mean?”
“Lieutenant Hall, he is sending men into establishments we control. We even spotted him staking out the entrance of the docks last week. You understand this is inconvenient for us.”
Captain Price chuckled heartily. “I don't know what to tell you. Hall is one of the best police officers in the city. I have to keep him around to make me look good.”
“Captain, may I remind you of our operation here. We are on the other side of the law, yes, but this is not a simple question of going to jail if we are found out.”
“I know that, Marc,” Captain Price said, aware of his gripe with his brother’s name. “You can trust me, you know that. I’ve been your reliable partner ever since, and even your father’s way back when I was a beat cop a couple of decades ago.”
“My father’s operations pale in comparison to this. Not only in terms of rewards but especially in terms of risk.” Marc leaned forward. “We can be executed without trial here. And that is why, as much as possible, I do not want to have my hand forced on this matter. Hall is the godfather of Melissa, right?”
Captain Price waved Marc’s concerns away. “It needn’t come to that. That would be too messy. Hall is popular and is an especially prominent figure in the African-American community here in La Esperanza. Hell, even the Hispanics love him. Very fortunate he's not one to aspire for Police Commissioner; that’s why I keep him close. It'd make too much rustle if something untoward happened to him. And, yes, my baby girl Melissa would be sad if something happens to her uncle Jeremiah.”
“Ten grand additional weekly, for your added efforts.” Marc emphasized the word ‘efforts’ as he felt Captain Price was not taking the situation seriously. “Keep him away from us.”
“You’re not making it easy for me, you know?” Captain Price said. “If this continues, this might not even be enough for the effort.” He pointed to the bag. “That thing with Sanders mall was a pain, to be honest.”
Marc’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? The fire?”
“It was finally ruled as faulty electrical wiring, but you know the strings I had to pull to get it to that? It was obviously an arson, and not by any simple arsonist. Two people died there, Marc. Stuff like this doesn't happen in our city. The bigger the incident, the more chances someone might stick their nose into somewhere they shouldn’t be.”
“I have no idea about that,” he said. He looked at Jim Ambrose, his trusted advisor and also bodyguard who was fitted with military-grade bio-augmentronics. Jim shook his head. Marc shrugged then said, “I promise you, Captain. We had no hand in whatever happened at Sanders mall. We would have alerted you as soon as possible if it had anything to do with us.”
“You say that, but we found traces of questionable damage to several cars in the mall’s parking area that weren't caused by the fire.” Captain Price’s eyes narrowed. “As if something not human had a small scramble over there. You know the effort I exerted to have that buried and destroyed?” This time, it was Captain Price who emphasized ‘effort’.
“I assure you, we monitor our clientele very closely. I assume they have enough discretion to know to act accordingly. We will look into this.”
“I hope so. If that’s the case, then it might be real trouble then. I’ll try to keep it under wraps as much as possible and solve it locally so the BID won’t come here.”
“How about you assign Hall to that case? Get him off our backs.”
“That's an option.” Captain Price stood and picked up his money. “We're all done here? I do hope you keep your clientele under control. People with that much money want to test out what they paid for. They have to realize there are some things money, influence, and power can’t buy.”
“Therefore, we focus on what we can buy,” he said pointedly. “Thank you, Captain Price. Do update us on your investigation of that case. We are interested if it might be connected to us.”
After Captain Price left, Marc reviewed the documents on his table. There was going to be another event on Red Island next Thursday and the limited slots for the audience, who were also the bidders, were auctioned off. The usual attendees were there, but he had to investigate the new ones. Prospective clients were always welcome, but they were also possible liabilities. Or worse, they might be government agents or spies from rival organizations. As Captain Price mentioned, there were some things money could not buy. This was why Marc thoroughly vetted those coming to the Red Island, no matter how much they were willing to pay.
What Captain Price said about the Sanders fire bothered him. He was aware that a group with superhuman powers has attempted on a few occasions to sabotage their operations. He was not actually sure if they were augmented humans or former humans who have tapped on the forbidden powers of the Adumbrae.
If it was the latter, then that group was undoubtedly connected with the Supplier. Marc was sure none of their clients he personally approved was damn stupid enough to expose themselves.
Or it could be other organizations...damn those bastards.
“Sir,” Jim Ambrose said, knocking on his opened door to get his attention. “Rofi-boy is asking if you’re free to deal with the girl you ordered to be taken.” Behind Jim Ambrose was one of Rofirio’s underlings.
“About that,” Marc said. “It was Mark who actually wanted her to be taken. I am not sure why. Just keep her there.” He noticed Rofirio’s underling whispering something to Jim Ambrose. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
Jim Ambrose said, “Sir, he says Rofi-boy took one of our mutants and had the captive fight with it.”
“He did what?!” Marc boomed. “You were not supposed to hurt her.”
“Sir! Sir, that’s not what happened.” Rofirio’s underling held his hand up. “There was a guy too. When we got the girl, she was with a guy, so we got the guy too. And Sir Rofirio was bored so he said we could have a little fun, make the guy fight one of the mutants. We got no instructions about the guy, so...”
“Yes, you did not have to bring him in the first place,” Marc snapped. “Rofirio’s not thinking. Again. And, even if he is not going to hurt the girl, he is a fool for casually showing off the merchandise. Those are not toys to play with.” Marc punctuated his word by slamming his fist on his antique oak table. “Is that what you have been doing when I am not looking? Playing with the merchandise? Is Rofirio trying out his powers on them?!”
The man nodded.
“Damn it! I knew I should not have agreed to his pleading. Even drug dealers know not to sample their own wares!”
“Want me to deal with it, Sir?” Jim Ambrose said.
Marc massaged his temples. A certain level of professionalism would be appreciated even if they were working in the criminal underworld. “Yes, go ahea—” Jim Ambrose suddenly cocked his head. “What is it, Jim?” he asked.
“I heard gunfire."
“Are you sure?” Marc did not hear anything, but enhanced hearing was included in Jim Ambrose’s augments so he believed him. He held up his finger, signaling everyone to keep silent. He closed his eyes and concentrated. It was faint and muffled, but there were multiple pops. “Is that Rofirio? Is he shooting for fun or did he lose control of the merchandise? Which one did you get?”
“Just one of the normal ones, Sir, Big Marcy, Sir," said Rofirio's lackey. "We didn’t dare touch the large containers. We couldn’t fit those through the doors of Warehouse 2-B where we keep the girl and the guy anyway.”
Marc grunted in disdain. He had plenty to deal with on his plate right now. “Go knock some sense into Rofirio after you have the situation under control,” he told Jim Ambrose. “I will deal with him tonight. Do not forget to keep the mutant intact if possible. Each one could buy a few dozen of this new goddamn chair I have.”
With that, Jim left the office, Marc went back to managing the budding Mark and Marc criminal empire. Before more than a few minutes had passed, however, more gunfire disturbed him.
They were louder, this time as if they were shooting in the open, as opposed to the earlier subdued noise that sounded to have been fired inside a warehouse. There was a pause for a few more minutes, before the gunshots started again, followed by a couple of explosions. He raised his brow.
He dialed the security post near the warehouses. “Whoever this is,” he said as soon as someone picked it up, “what the hell is happening? Has Jim Ambrose passed by there? Tell him to settle it as fast as pos—”
“Big Marcy, Sir! Jim is dead! It…it ate him!”
“What? What do you mean Jim is dead? What is happening over there?”
“Jim...Jim tried to fight it, sir. It...it...the monster just ripped him apart and ate him. It’s a monster! Oh god no, it’s coming this way!” There was a scream and more gunfire before the line went dead.
An attack? No matter who it was, Marc was unfazed. He called the guards where the merchandise was kept and ordered them evacuated. Next, he called the rest of his men to join him to handle the threat. The mutants and other supplies were the priority. They had plenty of properties elsewhere, and their primary business was not located here. But if they lost the mutants and the government somehow discovered those, they would be dead men walking.
Marc pressed a secret button underneath his table and out popped a hidden drawer containing an enormous hand-gun: a Crest & Mare .500 Magnum, modified to hold armor-piercing, explosive rounds. It was heavy and unwieldy, even for his huge hands, but it was something that could surely kill a lesser Adumbrae in one, well-placed shot.
Just make sure the brain explodes and the Adumbrae would go down for good.
He descended the staircase as his secretaries and other office aides quickly packed up all the sensitive documents in his office, preparing to evacuate themselves.
Two dozen of his men waited for him at the building’s lobby. They were armed with assault rifles and powerful electroshock guns designed to fry Adumbrae brains. The trick was to expose the brain first before shooting the electroshock guns, and for that, they needed all the firepower they could get, especially if the target was one of the types that regenerated extremely fast.
Given the nature of the merchandise they kept, they were well prepared to recapture any of them in the event they escaped, and that included the hulking mutant beasts that could rival a fully manifested lesser Adumbrae.
“Boss, I think you should evacuate,” Marcelo, Jim Ambrose’s right-hand man, said. He had not undergone augmentation yet, which was a pity since they could use the extra firepower.
“No, I will stay,” Marc said, displaying his gun. “I am not one to run. Moreover, I would like to see what is attacking us. This cannot be the mutant Rofirio took out, right?”
“We’re not sure, Sir. If it becomes too dangerous, we have to evacuate you.”
Their group marched out of the building.
Screams, gunfire, and small explosions told them the threat was approaching. Several men emerged at the end of the street trying to flee toward the office building, running away from something hidden in the stacks of shipping containers.
“Greg, Motley, you guys are up,” Marcelo barked. Two men carrying shoulder-fired rocket launchers with anti-tank warheads knelt. “Wait for my signal.” They mounted the launchers and stilled, eyes trained on the containers. For a moment, nothing, then something huge came into view.
Marc was barely able to process what it was when Marcelo said, “Fire!”, without any regard to the men who were running away from the monster.
Two missiles flew and hit their target, blowing apart the containers on its either side. Howling filled the air and chilled their hearts in fear. Steel, debris, dust, and smoke filled the air. A couple of the fleeing men were also caught in the explosion, making Marc cluck his tongue in disapproval.
“Apologies, sir,” Marcelo said. “That thing apparently killed Jim Ambrose. We have to damage it as much as possible before it reaches us. Reload, Greg and Motley.”
“Good judgment call, Marcelo,” Marc said. He held up his gun and aimed forward.
A creature burst from the smoke. A werewolf was what came to mind. It was more than ten feet tall with long, blazing red fur coiling around its body and waving all over to a nonexistent wind. Unforgiving fangs bared, rows of knives ready to rip anything apart. It was bloodied and bruised from the explosion, but it did not look like it was going down any time soon.
Spotting one of Marc’s men on the ground, it picked him up and nonchalantly bit his head.
“Damnation to all.” Marc realized what was happening. “It is regenerating by eating people.”
It turned its attention to them. It dropped the body it was snacking on and rushed in their direction, first starting to run on two legs, then dropping down to all fours. Muscles rippled all over its body, giving power to its arms and legs as it bounded closer and closer, its huge claws gripping the pavement, propelling it further with each step.
“Shoot! Shoot it!” Marc ordered. “Kill it now!”
Temple
Big Marcy doesn't use contractions in his speech, and since this is his POV, there are also no contractions in his narration. Do point out if you find errors. He also uses his real name, 'Marc', in his POV narration, even if people call him Big Marcy, to show his disdain of the nickname and the hidden desire to be the 'real' Marc/Mark.
Marc (Big Marcy)
Marc, more popularly known as 'Big Marcy', a moniker which he hated, leaned back on his custom-made FaeCarper Executive Chair and propped his feet on the window sill, gazing at his daily view of the steel jungle of shipping containers. The gold buckle of his Tresmeni shoes, made with soft goatskin, caught a hint of the afternoon sun and gave a smart glint.
The chair was delivered only yesterday and cost him ten grand. It was supposedly made with a unique “space-age” fabric, whatever that meant, and special gel-filled its cushions that conformed to the body shape of its user. However, as he sat on it, Marc could not tell what made it worth the ten grand he paid for it. Its modern design also felt out of place in the rustic theme of his office, filled with his antique collections sourced from all over the world. He was already regretting buying the darned chair.
Other than the addition of his new chair, it was another mundane business day for Marc. Making money for himself, and for his brother who always took a larger cut of the pie.
They were twins and they divided everything equally since they were born. Up until his brother, Mark, took over the family smuggling business. From that point on, his brother’s share in everything steadily became bigger and bigger than what Marc would get.
Which was fine with him.
After all, it was Mark who established their current operation, with smuggling relegated as their secondary income source. Things could have gone differently if he was the one approached by the Supplier instead of his brother. But lady luck was fickle, and he could hardly blame his brother for that.
What Marc could not forgive was that he had to give up his name. He was named ‘Marc’, but it was too confusing to call him that when his brother was also ‘Mark’. He had no idea why their parents named them ‘Marc’ and ‘Mark’, but eventually people called him ‘Marc-with-a-c’, and it became ‘Marcy’, while his brother retained the usage rights over ‘Mark’. That was downright unfair as he came out of their mother's womb a full thirty minutes before his brother.
As he grew tall and large, people started calling him 'Big Marcy'.
He had plans for deposing Mark, but for now, he had to sit tight on his “space-age” chair for he did not know how to even contact Mark’s Supplier for their current operation.
The click on an attaché case closing told him Captain Gerald Price of the LEPD finished counting his weekly… retainer fee.
Marc straightened his Hermès tie, adjusted the diamond-studded tie bar, and turned his chair around with the grandeur of the evil boss in a movie. Childish, yes, but he always derived enjoyment from turning his chair to face visitors. “All in order, Captain Price?” he said. “Sixty grand in the bag?”
Captain Price, a jovial stocky man who had a serious shot at Police Commissioner with Marc’s backing, tapped the brown leather attaché case. “Sixty grand, yes. I seem to have gotten an increase of my retainer fee.”
“The additional ten grand is for your increased efforts in controlling your men from snooping around in our operations.”
“You mean?”
“Lieutenant Hall, he is sending men into establishments we control. We even spotted him staking out the entrance of the docks last week. You understand this is inconvenient for us.”
Captain Price chuckled heartily. “I don't know what to tell you. Hall is one of the best police officers in the city. I have to keep him around to make me look good.”
“Captain, may I remind you of our operation here. We are on the other side of the law, yes, but this is not a simple question of going to jail if we are found out.”
“I know that, Marc,” Captain Price said, aware of his gripe with his brother’s name. “You can trust me, you know that. I’ve been your reliable partner ever since, and even your father’s way back when I was a beat cop a couple of decades ago.”
“My father’s operations pale in comparison to this. Not only in terms of rewards but especially in terms of risk.” Marc leaned forward. “We can be executed without trial here. And that is why, as much as possible, I do not want to have my hand forced on this matter. Hall is the godfather of Melissa, right?”
Captain Price waved Marc’s concerns away. “It needn’t come to that. That would be too messy. Hall is popular and is an especially prominent figure in the African-American community here in La Esperanza. Hell, even the Hispanics love him. Very fortunate he's not one to aspire for Police Commissioner; that’s why I keep him close. It'd make too much rustle if something untoward happened to him. And, yes, my baby girl Melissa would be sad if something happens to her uncle Jeremiah.”
“Ten grand additional weekly, for your added efforts.” Marc emphasized the word ‘efforts’ as he felt Captain Price was not taking the situation seriously. “Keep him away from us.”
“You’re not making it easy for me, you know?” Captain Price said. “If this continues, this might not even be enough for the effort.” He pointed to the bag. “That thing with Sanders mall was a pain, to be honest.”
Marc’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? The fire?”
“It was finally ruled as faulty electrical wiring, but you know the strings I had to pull to get it to that? It was obviously an arson, and not by any simple arsonist. Two people died there, Marc. Stuff like this doesn't happen in our city. The bigger the incident, the more chances someone might stick their nose into somewhere they shouldn’t be.”
“I have no idea about that,” he said. He looked at Jim Ambrose, his trusted advisor and also bodyguard who was fitted with military-grade bio-augmentronics. Jim shook his head. Marc shrugged then said, “I promise you, Captain. We had no hand in whatever happened at Sanders mall. We would have alerted you as soon as possible if it had anything to do with us.”
“You say that, but we found traces of questionable damage to several cars in the mall’s parking area that weren't caused by the fire.” Captain Price’s eyes narrowed. “As if something not human had a small scramble over there. You know the effort I exerted to have that buried and destroyed?” This time, it was Captain Price who emphasized ‘effort’.
“I assure you, we monitor our clientele very closely. I assume they have enough discretion to know to act accordingly. We will look into this.”
“I hope so. If that’s the case, then it might be real trouble then. I’ll try to keep it under wraps as much as possible and solve it locally so the BID won’t come here.”
“How about you assign Hall to that case? Get him off our backs.”
“That's an option.” Captain Price stood and picked up his money. “We're all done here? I do hope you keep your clientele under control. People with that much money want to test out what they paid for. They have to realize there are some things money, influence, and power can’t buy.”
“Therefore, we focus on what we can buy,” he said pointedly. “Thank you, Captain Price. Do update us on your investigation of that case. We are interested if it might be connected to us.”
After Captain Price left, Marc reviewed the documents on his table. There was going to be another event on Red Island next Thursday and the limited slots for the audience, who were also the bidders, were auctioned off. The usual attendees were there, but he had to investigate the new ones. Prospective clients were always welcome, but they were also possible liabilities. Or worse, they might be government agents or spies from rival organizations. As Captain Price mentioned, there were some things money could not buy. This was why Marc thoroughly vetted those coming to the Red Island, no matter how much they were willing to pay.
What Captain Price said about the Sanders fire bothered him. He was aware that a group with superhuman powers has attempted on a few occasions to sabotage their operations. He was not actually sure if they were augmented humans or former humans who have tapped on the forbidden powers of the Adumbrae.
If it was the latter, then that group was undoubtedly connected with the Supplier. Marc was sure none of their clients he personally approved was damn stupid enough to expose themselves.
Or it could be other organizations...damn those bastards.
“Sir,” Jim Ambrose said, knocking on his opened door to get his attention. “Rofi-boy is asking if you’re free to deal with the girl you ordered to be taken.” Behind Jim Ambrose was one of Rofirio’s underlings.
“About that,” Marc said. “It was Mark who actually wanted her to be taken. I am not sure why. Just keep her there.” He noticed Rofirio’s underling whispering something to Jim Ambrose. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
Jim Ambrose said, “Sir, he says Rofi-boy took one of our mutants and had the captive fight with it.”
“He did what?!” Marc boomed. “You were not supposed to hurt her.”
“Sir! Sir, that’s not what happened.” Rofirio’s underling held his hand up. “There was a guy too. When we got the girl, she was with a guy, so we got the guy too. And Sir Rofirio was bored so he said we could have a little fun, make the guy fight one of the mutants. We got no instructions about the guy, so...”
“Yes, you did not have to bring him in the first place,” Marc snapped. “Rofirio’s not thinking. Again. And, even if he is not going to hurt the girl, he is a fool for casually showing off the merchandise. Those are not toys to play with.” Marc punctuated his word by slamming his fist on his antique oak table. “Is that what you have been doing when I am not looking? Playing with the merchandise? Is Rofirio trying out his powers on them?!”
The man nodded.
“Damn it! I knew I should not have agreed to his pleading. Even drug dealers know not to sample their own wares!”
“Want me to deal with it, Sir?” Jim Ambrose said.
Marc massaged his temples. A certain level of professionalism would be appreciated even if they were working in the criminal underworld. “Yes, go ahea—” Jim Ambrose suddenly cocked his head. “What is it, Jim?” he asked.
“I heard gunfire."
“Are you sure?” Marc did not hear anything, but enhanced hearing was included in Jim Ambrose’s augments so he believed him. He held up his finger, signaling everyone to keep silent. He closed his eyes and concentrated. It was faint and muffled, but there were multiple pops. “Is that Rofirio? Is he shooting for fun or did he lose control of the merchandise? Which one did you get?”
“Just one of the normal ones, Sir, Big Marcy, Sir," said Rofirio's lackey. "We didn’t dare touch the large containers. We couldn’t fit those through the doors of Warehouse 2-B where we keep the girl and the guy anyway.”
Marc grunted in disdain. He had plenty to deal with on his plate right now. “Go knock some sense into Rofirio after you have the situation under control,” he told Jim Ambrose. “I will deal with him tonight. Do not forget to keep the mutant intact if possible. Each one could buy a few dozen of this new goddamn chair I have.”
With that, Jim left the office, Marc went back to managing the budding Mark and Marc criminal empire. Before more than a few minutes had passed, however, more gunfire disturbed him.
They were louder, this time as if they were shooting in the open, as opposed to the earlier subdued noise that sounded to have been fired inside a warehouse. There was a pause for a few more minutes, before the gunshots started again, followed by a couple of explosions. He raised his brow.
He dialed the security post near the warehouses. “Whoever this is,” he said as soon as someone picked it up, “what the hell is happening? Has Jim Ambrose passed by there? Tell him to settle it as fast as pos—”
“Big Marcy, Sir! Jim is dead! It…it ate him!”
“What? What do you mean Jim is dead? What is happening over there?”
“Jim...Jim tried to fight it, sir. It...it...the monster just ripped him apart and ate him. It’s a monster! Oh god no, it’s coming this way!” There was a scream and more gunfire before the line went dead.
An attack? No matter who it was, Marc was unfazed. He called the guards where the merchandise was kept and ordered them evacuated. Next, he called the rest of his men to join him to handle the threat. The mutants and other supplies were the priority. They had plenty of properties elsewhere, and their primary business was not located here. But if they lost the mutants and the government somehow discovered those, they would be dead men walking.
Marc pressed a secret button underneath his table and out popped a hidden drawer containing an enormous hand-gun: a Crest & Mare .500 Magnum, modified to hold armor-piercing, explosive rounds. It was heavy and unwieldy, even for his huge hands, but it was something that could surely kill a lesser Adumbrae in one, well-placed shot.
Just make sure the brain explodes and the Adumbrae would go down for good.
He descended the staircase as his secretaries and other office aides quickly packed up all the sensitive documents in his office, preparing to evacuate themselves.
Two dozen of his men waited for him at the building’s lobby. They were armed with assault rifles and powerful electroshock guns designed to fry Adumbrae brains. The trick was to expose the brain first before shooting the electroshock guns, and for that, they needed all the firepower they could get, especially if the target was one of the types that regenerated extremely fast.
Given the nature of the merchandise they kept, they were well prepared to recapture any of them in the event they escaped, and that included the hulking mutant beasts that could rival a fully manifested lesser Adumbrae.
“Boss, I think you should evacuate,” Marcelo, Jim Ambrose’s right-hand man, said. He had not undergone augmentation yet, which was a pity since they could use the extra firepower.
“No, I will stay,” Marc said, displaying his gun. “I am not one to run. Moreover, I would like to see what is attacking us. This cannot be the mutant Rofirio took out, right?”
“We’re not sure, Sir. If it becomes too dangerous, we have to evacuate you.”
Their group marched out of the building.
Screams, gunfire, and small explosions told them the threat was approaching. Several men emerged at the end of the street trying to flee toward the office building, running away from something hidden in the stacks of shipping containers.
“Greg, Motley, you guys are up,” Marcelo barked. Two men carrying shoulder-fired rocket launchers with anti-tank warheads knelt. “Wait for my signal.” They mounted the launchers and stilled, eyes trained on the containers. For a moment, nothing, then something huge came into view.
Marc was barely able to process what it was when Marcelo said, “Fire!”, without any regard to the men who were running away from the monster.
Two missiles flew and hit their target, blowing apart the containers on its either side. Howling filled the air and chilled their hearts in fear. Steel, debris, dust, and smoke filled the air. A couple of the fleeing men were also caught in the explosion, making Marc cluck his tongue in disapproval.
“Apologies, sir,” Marcelo said. “That thing apparently killed Jim Ambrose. We have to damage it as much as possible before it reaches us. Reload, Greg and Motley.”
“Good judgment call, Marcelo,” Marc said. He held up his gun and aimed forward.
A creature burst from the smoke. A werewolf was what came to mind. It was more than ten feet tall with long, blazing red fur coiling around its body and waving all over to a nonexistent wind. Unforgiving fangs bared, rows of knives ready to rip anything apart. It was bloodied and bruised from the explosion, but it did not look like it was going down any time soon.
Spotting one of Marc’s men on the ground, it picked him up and nonchalantly bit his head.
“Damnation to all.” Marc realized what was happening. “It is regenerating by eating people.”
It turned its attention to them. It dropped the body it was snacking on and rushed in their direction, first starting to run on two legs, then dropping down to all fours. Muscles rippled all over its body, giving power to its arms and legs as it bounded closer and closer, its huge claws gripping the pavement, propelling it further with each step.
“Shoot! Shoot it!” Marc ordered. “Kill it now!”
Temple
Big Marcy doesn't use contractions in his speech, and since this is his POV, there are also no contractions in his narration. Do point out if you find errors. He also uses his real name, 'Marc', in his POV narration, even if people call him Big Marcy, to show his disdain of the nickname and the hidden desire to be the 'real' Marc/Mark.
