The Legion: Heartson

Thomas was tired. He was tired of running, he was tired of fighting, and most of all he was tired of getting his ass handed to him. 

The further he went, the more his muscles ached from the relentless pace, but he didn't dare slow down. They didn't have time.

As he rounded a corner, Thomas skidded to a halt and pressed himself flat against the wall. His heart raced as he peeked around the edge. Several men in black suits roamed the floor, their faces obscured by sleek black masks, each carrying a pistol. They moved methodically, scanning every room, checking every corner. 

Thomas slowed his breathing, forcing himself to think. His hand instinctively reached for the sword that wasn't there, reminding him of his lack of weapons. He cursed under his breath, knowing he'd have to improvise. His eyes narrowed as one of the masked men drew closer, his footsteps slow and cautious.

Now or never.

Thomas waited until the man was just close enough before he acted. In a swift motion, praying he wouldn't mess it up, Thomas grabbed the man from behind, covering his mouth with one hand while kicking out his leg. 

The man grunted as his leg snapped under the force, collapsing into Thomas's grip. Without hesitation, Thomas took the man's pistol and, gritting his teeth, fired one shot into the man's abdomen. The muffled shot echoed through the hallway, and Thomas shoved the man's limp body to the ground.

I hope that didn't kill him... but I don't have time to think about it now.

Thomas glanced at the pistol in his hand. It felt unfamiliar, heavy, and awkward. He was no marksman—he'd always been a terrible shot, even during training. Still, it was the only weapon he had.

Hearing more footsteps approaching, Thomas raised the gun, aiming for the other masked men further down the hallway. His first shot missed, whizzing past one of the men and embedding itself into the wall. He cursed under his breath, squeezing the trigger again, but his aim was erratic. The men noticed the shots, immediately reacting with a barrage of gunfire in his direction.

This isn't working.

Panicked, Thomas bolted down another hallway, weaving between rooms as bullets whizzed past his head. He ducked into a side room, closing the door softly behind him. He scanned the area quickly, noting a strategic hiding spot behind a row of filing cabinets where he could ambush anyone who came through the door.

Seconds later, one of the masked men entered, his gun raised. Thomas didn't hesitate. He aimed carefully this time, waiting until the man was directly in front of him before pulling the trigger. The shot landed clean, taking the man down. Thomas exhaled sharply, moving to reposition himself as more footsteps approached.

The second man burst through the door, gun blazing. Thomas ducked behind a desk, feeling the bullets tear through the wood just inches above his head. He fired back blindly, trying to keep them at bay. The men were becoming cautious now, their movements more careful as they attempted to flank him.

Thomas grabbed the body of the first man he'd shot, using it as a makeshift shield as he bolted through the room. More gunfire erupted, bullets thudding into the corpse as he sprinted down another hallway, still clutching the stolen pistol.

These guys are even worse than the ones we fought at Mason's manor.

Thomas's footsteps echoed in the narrow hallways, his breaths shallow and rapid as he darted from one shadow to the next, narrowly avoiding another group of men scouring the building. 

His mind reeled, fractured images of what had just happened searing into his thoughts—the look of shock on the guard's face, the way he stumbled, the final, terrible stillness. He was aware, painfully aware, that a man had just died because of him. 

More than that—he had killed someone.

Flimsy idealism. That's what Claire had called it. If Thomas' code could be broken so easily, what did that say about him. What did that say about his purpose, the reason he came here. What did that say about…

A wave of nausea clawed up his throat, there was no time to process it. Not with another innocent at risk, not with lives hanging by the thinnest thread. He couldn't afford the luxury of regret or reflection.

But the realization hit him harder with every step: his ideals, the very values he'd clung to so fiercely, were crumbling like sand slipping through his fingers.

He clenched his jaw, the acidic sting of shame burning in his chest. 

This wasn't what he wanted. But that man's death, Margarett's death—they weren't just failures. They were consequences, born of his own rigid beliefs. He felt his fingers tremble as he pressed against the wall, steadying himself.

With a final, steadying breath, he forced himself forward. There would be time for regret later—if he made it out alive. For now, all he could do was press on, his old self left behind, shattered and forgotten.

He ducked into yet another room, his eyes scanning quickly for anything useful. Then he spotted it—a pair of shoes sticking out from behind a desk, poorly hidden in a hasty attempt at concealment.

Thomas's eyes narrowed, and he approached the desk cautiously. He crouched low and, in one swift motion, kicked the figure hiding underneath. A man yelped, his head snapping up as he raised his hands in surrender.

Harrison Stager.

Thomas raised his gun, more out of reflex than intent.

Stager: Wait, wait, don't shoot!

Stager's voice wavered, his hands trembling as he peeked up over the desk.

Thomas couldn't help but laugh, lowering the gun slightly.

Thomas: Call this hiding do you? 

Stager huffed indignantly, his face twisted into a mix of fear and annoyance.

Stager: What the hell are you doing, barging in like that?! You could have killed me!

Thomas: Yeah, well, if you keep sitting here, someone else definitely will.

 He grabbed Stager by the arm and hauled him to his feet. 

Thomas: We don't have time for this. You're gonna follow me, got it?

Stager grumbled, clearly not thrilled by the situation.

Stager: I don't need some child dragging me around! Unhand me now, do you have any idea who I am?

Thomas ignored the attitude, pulling Stager toward the door.

Thomas: Less talking, more running.

The two sprinted through the office, weaving through cubicles and stepping over fallen bodies. Thomas peeked around corners, avoiding another group of masked men patrolling the floor. They finally slipped into the stairwell, Thomas pushing the door closed as quietly as possible behind them.

Stager: What on earth is going on? Who's shooting at us?!

Thomas once again ignored Stager's barrage of questions, focusing on his next move. They hurried down the stairwell, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls. But just as they rounded the next flight of stairs, Thomas froze. The sound of footsteps echoed from below—multiple voices, getting louder by the second.

More of them. Shit.

Thomas grabbed Stager's arm, pulling him back up the stairs instead.

Thomas: Change of plans. We're heading up.

Stager groaned in frustration, his face red with exertion.

Stager: The roof? Are you insane?!

Thomas shot him a glare, not in the mood for more complaints.

Thomas: Move you bastard.

The two scrambled up the stairs, the climb taking its toll on both of them. Stager wheezed and stumbled, but Thomas dragged him forward, refusing to slow down. Finally, they reached the top, the heavy roof access door looming in front of them. With a grunt, Thomas used his shoulder to shove the door open, the rusted hinges creaking under the pressure.

The cool air of the rooftop hit Thomas's face as he stumbled through the door, falling to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Stager staggered out behind him, still complaining.

But Thomas's breath caught in his throat as he looked up.

Standing in front of them, guns drawn, was another group of men. Their leader, a sharply dressed man with a gleaming watch, his pistol pointed directly at Stager's head. At the sight of Stager bent over standing in fear, completely out of breath, the man quickly peeled back his mask revealing well groomed slicked-back hair and a cold smile stretching across his face.

Stager's face went pale as recognition dawned on him.

Stager: Cromley… ha, this must be a mistake. A misunderstanding. What's going on here?

Cromley's smile didn't waver, his finger steady on the trigger.

Cromley: It's nothing personal Stager my friend. Just bad business.

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Claire hummed a light, almost cheerful tune as she waited inside the cramped elevator. Her sword rested casually against her shoulder, and her eyes flickered down to the unconscious bodies scattered across the elevator floor. She didn't bother looking at their faces—there was no need. 

Ding!

The elevator doors slid open with a metallic whir, revealing a scene that would have made any ordinary person's blood run cold. An army of armored soldiers, their guns aimed directly at her, stood waiting on the other side, their faces hidden behind visors. The lobby was beyond packed with more soldiers, a sea of cold, black armor and gleaming weapons.

Claire's smile didn't falter. Without hesitation, she moved.

In a blur of motion, Claire darted forward, slicing through the first wave of soldiers before they even had a chance to react. Blood sprayed as her blade slashed through armor, severing limbs, piercing torsos. The soldiers fell like dominoes, unable to keep up with her speed.

Bullets whizzed past her, but none found their mark. She was too fast, a blur of motion that none of them could touch. 

These guys are different than the masked ones upstairs, she noted briefly, but it didn't matter. It never mattered. She'd cut through them all the same.

More soldiers charged at her, their weapons raised, but Claire was already on the move. She leapt over a group of them, landing gracefully on the other side and cutting them down before they could turn. Her smile grew wider as she moved, her body fueled by adrenaline and the thrill of the fight.

But then, a metallic clink caught her attention. Her eyes flicked down to see a grenade rolling to a stop by her feet.

Shit.

Claire sprinted, attempting to dodge the blast, but the explosion went off with a deafening roar. The force of it knocked her sideways, sending her crashing into a nearby pillar. Her body slammed hard against the concrete, and for the first time, she felt pain shoot through her muscles.

No big deal. I've dealt with worse.

She pushed herself up, shaking off the daze from the blast. There were fewer soldiers now inside the lobby, but outside, she could see more of them approaching—an endless tide of reinforcements.

Gotta keep moving.

Claire darted forward again, slicing through more soldiers as they fired at her, avoiding their bullets with ease. This time, she had to dodge not only gunfire but also arrows, grenades, and other projectiles aimed at her. The lobby was turning into a war zone, and she was right in the middle of it.

She stabbed her sword through one soldier, then spun to slice through another. Blood splattered across the floor, staining the once-pristine lobby in a crimson sheen. The sharp sound of her blade cutting through armor echoed in her ears, but she paid no attention to it. 

There was no room for mercy, no room for hesitation. 

As Claire finished off another wave of soldiers, a faint whizzing sound caught her ear. She glanced up, her expression hardening as she saw it—a rocket, flying straight toward her.

Damn it.

She bolted, sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, leaping into the air in a desperate attempt to avoid the blast. The explosion came just a second later, the force of it slamming into her back and sending her crashing to the ground. 

She gritted her teeth, applying energy to protect her vital organs, but the pain still ripped through her body. Her limbs trembled as she pushed herself back to her feet, her chest heaving.

When she looked up, her gaze locked onto a new figure standing at the far end of the lobby.

The soldier was dressed in far heavier armor than the others, his form towering and imposing. In each hand, he held a sword, the blades gleaming ominously. Strapped to his back was a rocket launcher, the one that had nearly taken her out.

He moved toward her slowly, his footsteps echoing through the now almost empty lobby. Claire's eyes narrowed as she steadied herself, gripping her sword tighter. 

As the man approached, he chuckled darkly, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

Soldier: At last... I finally get to stand face to face with the legendary Lena once again.