The first volley hit instantly.
Rounds slammed into my chest, shoulder, arm but through Body Supremacy, they didn't puncture, only bruised. They weren't using armor piercing rounds, so there was no risk of anything hitting through me, but I could still feel them hitting my skin.
For a normal person, it would've been fatal. For me, it was pressure. Heat. Momentum.
And then it was gone. A shot flew toward my head and I tilted an inch, letting it whisper past my cheek. Anything but headshots. Better to not get cocky and risk it.
Shock rippled through the room.
"Wh—what IS he?!" someone shouted.
I walked forward.
More bullets hurtled towards me. Their shells clunk to the floor as they continued firing. I didn't bother dodging unless it was going to hit my head.
And when I did dodge, I moved like a glitch in their vision, snapping sideways before their eyes finished tracking the motion.
A guard screamed and emptied his entire magazine. I allowed the rounds to slam into my torso, and felt the ten impacts from his bullets. When his gun clicked empty, I appeared at his side in a blur and jabbed his throat with two fingers, dropping him silently.
I didn't kill him. That wasn't his purpose.
Another burst came at my head, I bent backward until my spine was nearly horizontal and vanished from sight.
Gasps erupted as I reappeared behind the line, palms slapping two helmets together with a crack that sent both guards collapsing.
One lived. One didn't. That ratio was intentional.
His men rushed me, some giving up on shooting and trying their best at hand to hand combat. Admiral thinking, but in the end useless. It was clear they were only trianed by the gun, as their attacks were obivous and easy to counter. Their numbers were their only advantage, which was quickly diminishing.
Some didn't give up on the hope that their guns would work, continuing to fire on me. However, anything below the neck was basically just a decoration.
As I moved into another room, a guard with a shotgun fired at my head. I heard him before I entered the room, his heavy breathing betraying him as I ducked under the barrel and snapped his wrist, letting the weapon fall harmlessly. He stared at me, horror dilating his pupils, before I tapped his temple and put him under.
"Y-you can't kill him!" another shouted. "Nothing... nothing's WORKING!"
Good. Panic causes mistakes and leads to blurring of stories. Once they escaped and told the story, Dagger would be a legend.
I blurred forward, appearing beside the two guards. A knee strike crumpled one. The other tried to flee and I let him. He would talk.
The next wave tried forming a firing line. I didn't give them the chance. Super-speed dropped me into their ranks as I swept legs, shattered rifles, palm-struck ribs hard enough to collapse armor. A round grazed near my temple and I twisted and it parted only air.
Someone aimed deliberately at my head. He blinked and when he opened his eyes, I disappeared. When I reappeared, I stood inches from him, his muzzle already redirected downward by my hand.
"You should've aimed faster," I murmured.
I left him alive. Barely.
Bodies littered the abandoned penthouse. Some unconscious, some shot by friendly fire in the chaos, some alive only because I chose them to be. Enough witnesses to ignite rumors, to cultivate the myth of Dagger.
By the time I finished, nearly half the Curator's forces were incapacitated. The rest were moaning in pain or crawling away from me, no fight left.
And yet…the Curator hadn't moved.
He stood exactly where he had started, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pistol set aside. He'd seen enough to know it was useless. I returned to the room, brushing dust from my mask.
"You haven't run," I said simply. "Surprising. I had expected that when the fighting started for you to sprint for the exit."
He inhaled slowly, controlled. Then he stepped forward.
"There's no more running for me," he said. His voice lacked the tremor it had before. "Not after everything. Not after what he said. Not after what you did."
I eyed him. "You really think fighting me restores what you've lost?"
"I think," he replied, tightening his fists, "that it's the only choice I haven't already tried."
Old scars bracketed his forearms. His eyes hardened, became focused on his target. A survivor of old wars, of cold streets. A man who once fought with his hands, not with money. Interesting.
I rolled my shoulders; I was going to cherish this fight. After everything he put me through, I wasn't going to end it quickly. "Then come see how far you fall."
The Curator lunged forward, his fists raised towards his face with his shoulders and back hunched. A classic boxer stance. He moved with practiced sways, showing that he was a man who was experienced in fighting.
His jab snapped toward my face which I easily tilted my head a fraction, letting it brush past my cheek. I've faced many opponents and I learned not to underestimate anyone. He wasn't slow, which didn't surprise me in the least. A man with his reputation had to fight to gain what they had.
His follow-up came instantly; a hook aimed at my ribs, which was a feint for the knee driving for my gut. The combination was clean, disciplined, and entirely useless.
I allowed the hit to go through. His knee connected with my chest, but stopped in its tracks. He froze for half a heartbeat. I didn't.
My palm slammed into his sternum, sending him skidding backward across the marble. He caught himself on a toppled chair, boots scraping, breath escaping in a harsh grunt.
He didn't run.
Instead, he surged forward again, throwing a tight elbow toward my jaw. I swayed aside, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. The pop of his shoulder dislocating echoed across the room.
He cried out, but instead of retreating, he pivoted, swung his other fist in a brutal backhand, and clipped my cheek. It was unexpected, as someone who just got their arm dislocated would have backed off. So, the attack connected.
My head snapped to the side. He grabbed his limp arm, but a grin carved across his face.
"You bleed," he spat.
"Barely," I replied.
He drove forward, feinting high before sweeping at my legs. I jumped lightly, letting his momentum drag him off balance. When he stumbled, I hammered a knee into his ribs, and he folded around the impact like paper.
He collapsed to one knee, coughing. With that hit, he had to have three or four ribs broken. He pushed himself upright again. I almost admired him for his tenacity, considering he was once a cornered rat, now a man fighting to regain his lost pride.
He charged once more, faster than before. He knew this was the endgame. Desperation adds speed. His fists blurred as he threw a barrage of strikes at my chest and throat, not caring about defense anymore. I let several hit as they hurt him more than me.
When he finally overextended, I seized him by the vest and hurled him across the room. He smashed into a bookshelf, splintering wood, staggering to his feet only to be knocked down again by falling debris.
After a couple of seconds, he slowly stood, his breath rattled, as blood dripped from his brow. But he stood.
"You're… not a man," he rasped, wiping his mouth. "You're a weapon."
"You already knew that. You just let that guy make you forget for a second.
He lunged with a wild roar and tried to tackle me. He came forward and hit my torso, but I didn't budge to his surprise. Using that momentum, I wrapped my arm around his neck, flipping him over my hip and slamming him into the floor.
The marble cracked beneath his body.
He didn't get up as quickly this time. He rolled to his side, coughing violently, then dragged himself to a crouch.
"Why…" He spat blood. "Why are you just the council's lapdog? With this much power, you could have your own seat."
I circled him. The surviving guards who had been left alive watched from the corners of the room, trembling.
"Meh, from what I've seen so far, they're no different from you. A person whose influence carries their position. Someone who grew up with scraps and the moment they gain a little power, they forget that they're human. Until someone with actual, real power comes along and shows them that they're just another nail to be hammered back into place."
His jaw clenched in rage. Through that anger, he rose to his knees and lunged at me one final time.
I didn't dodge.
His fist struck my cheek. He used the recoil to throw another. Then another. My cheeks healed on each hit and I ignored the pain.
He collapsed forward, exhausted, resting his forehead against my chest as if finally accepting gravity. I grabbed him by the collar and lifted his head so he was forced to meet my gaze.
"You were never in control," I said softly. "Not of Talon. Not of Overwatch. Not of this city. And definitely not of me."
His eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in furious disbelief. He swung one last, broken punch. I caught it effortlessly between two fingers.
And drove my knee into his gut. He vomited blood and dropped to the floor, gasping, limbs shaking, unable to rise.
The legend of the Curator ended right there, defeated by someone he never should've challenged.
I stepped away, and the surviving guards saw the miserable state their boss was in. They knew that he was Talon's property now, and that there was nothing they could do for him. They took one look at each other and ran.
I didn't pursue, whatever happened to them, I didn't care. My target was right here. Plus, I needed them to escape so they can spread the word of Dagger. The more who knew how Dagger fought, the better.
I stood watch over the Curator who lay face down in his blood as I heard his men scampering around the mansion, trying to scavenge or escape. None dared enter the room.