Day 3, 0029HRS

Reload, the magazine’s empty. Take out guard from above, bam! Head explodes like a coconut with sticks of dynamite shoved in those three holes at the top. Zip like a mad man and run forward, firing as I go. The patrolling sentry slumps to the floor, daddy, why won’t you wake up?

Line up the dug-in Alabama tick with my assault rifle.

A precision shot, and he’s down for good, night night. I kick open the door, the checkpoint’s been passed. Nobody other than me is leaving this airfield alive.

I’ve still got tranquilizer ammo, but why bother? They’ll just wake up again at some point and continue to pollute the atmosphere with their respiration. Plus it costs more than my house. Better this way.

Don’t give them a chance. Don’t be subtle when you can be thorough.

This time when I rise up behind an unsuspecting guard like a particular malevolent troll under a bridge I have a knife in my hand. Dig dig, splurt. You got blood on my blade, you bastard.

Alright. Calm down. Need to be calm. Rifle ready, magazine topped up. In we go!

No alarms go off. As soon as one spots me, the telepathic link alerts them all across the building. They don’t have time to pull the switch, because I’m making them do the chaingun-cha-cha. Room to bare, identical room I move between, mowing down unsuspecting haters of liberty. They’ll burn in hell and the universe will thank me.

Last one, up in the tower. Neck, meet knife. Pleased to make your acquaintance, kniARGHGARGLEGARGLE.

We both lost, Obsidian. I’m Agent Michael Thorton, master spy, and I need a bigger gun.

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