The narrow alley had become an arena. The air grew thick, choked with the acrid smell of gunpowder, cold sweat, and the animalistic fear radiating from his besiegers. At both ends, dozens of feral eyes glinted from behind the animal masks, reflecting the dancing torchlight and casting long, menacing shadows against the stone walls. The sound of rifles being cocked and restrained snarls filled the tense silence.
Oldred surveyed his surroundings with a terrifying calm, his head moving slowly, scanning every threat, every opening, every possibility. With a deliberate motion, he pulled his left steel arm free from the sleeve of his thick military coat, the fabric rasping against the cold metal. A few of the most nervous cultists immediately leveled their rifles straight at his chest, their fingers trembling on the triggers, waiting for a single wrong move to cut him down.
Then, Oldred did the unexpected.
CLANG! THUD!
He dropped both his weapons, the cleaver and the heavy meat hammer, onto the grimy ground. The sound of metal hitting stone echoed in the narrow alley. The cultists lowered their weapons slightly, a collective, almost inaudible sigh of relief rippling through their ranks. They thought he was surrendering. A fatal miscalculation.
In the blink of an eye, Oldred lunged down. The claws on his steel fingertips hooked and gripped the ankle of the cultist's corpse before him. With a single, brutal explosion of strength, he spun and hurled the dead body like a sack of meat toward the line of riflemen behind him. A wet thud was followed by shocked cries and the clatter of dropped weapons. Several of the armed men stumbled back, others tripped and fell, and most importantly, their aim was broken.
It was the opening he needed. Meanwhile, his right arm (the steel one) had rapidly shed his coat, brandishing it forward like a matador's cape, shielding his face. Just in time.
BANG! BANG! BANG-BANG!
Gunfire from the shooters in front erupted. Bullets tore through the thick fabric of the coat with muffled thuds, others slammed against his steel arm with a deafening PING!, and a few more struck his steel mask and the side of his thigh.
Oldred let out a low hiss, a searing heat like a fresh brand spreading through his leg. But there was no time for pain. As he peeked from behind the coat, he saw the melee-wielding cultists now charging him, taking advantage of the moment while the shooters reloaded. Oldred slung the coat over his shoulder and charged forward like a bull. An axe swung for his neck, but he parried it with his steel forearm. The sound of metal on metal rang out, striking sparks. Without losing momentum, he stomped on the cultist's foot, throwing him off balance, and followed through with a hard shoulder check to his chest, crushing his ribs. Just then, a bullet from another rifle slammed into his left shoulder.
A dull impact sent him staggering, followed by a sharp, piercing sting. Gritting through the heat, Oldred didn't retreat. Instead, he grabbed and spun the cultist he had just hit, hoisting the struggling body up and using it as a human shield. Several bullets meant for him now punched into his shield's back, which promptly went limp.
Oldred let the dead man drop, shoving him toward a shooter behind him before pivoting to parry a machete blow from the front with his steel arm. He had a split-second opening as the cultists worked their rifle bolts. He bulldozed forward, shoulder-first, while his other arm snagged an axe from a cultist who had been shot. He ignored the melee attackers swarming his sides; his eyes were locked on the remaining riflemen.
He shoved one cultist aside, then swung the scavenged axe in a low arc, tearing through the tendons behind a shooter's knee. The man screamed and dropped to his knees. Oldred didn't stop, immediately stomping his face with a heavy boot before snatching the rifle from his limp hands. With mechanical efficiency, he racked the action—a satisfying KLIK-KLAK—before firing on the other rifle users, dropping them one by one in blasts of fire and smoke.
Dodging a machete slash from the side, he kicked the attacker away, then continued to carve a path forward, clubbing with the rifle butt and using his steel arm as a mobile shield.
The way forward was still blocked. So he chose another path. Upwards.
With an explosive leap, he launched himself at the stone wall of the adjacent building. The claws on his bionic arm extended and dug into the stone with a crack, arresting his momentum. Before the cultists below could react, he kicked off again, propelling himself from the wall and reaching the rooftop with ease.
He landed with a soft thud on the fragile tiles, glanced back for a fraction of a second at the anthill he had just kicked over, then vanished into the labyrinth of rooftops under the pale moonlight.