The metallic tang of burnt ozone was already thick in the air, a prelude to the storm Brick was about to unleash. Ghost, a phantom born of shadows and calculated violence, moved with a predatory grace that was the antithesis of the hulking brute lumbering behind him. This derelict construction yard, a skeleton of forgotten ambition, was Ghost's chosen arena. Skeletal concrete pillars reached for a bruised sky, scaffolding clung like metallic ivy, and the hulking forms of massive concrete mixers sat like dormant beasts.
"Come on, Brick," Ghost's voice, a low growl barely audible over the din of Brick's heavy footsteps, was a taunt. He kicked a loose piece of rebar, the sharp clang echoing through the skeletal structure. He hurled a heavy wrench across the yard, the metallic shriek a deliberate distraction. He needed Brick here, away from the flickering, nervous presence of the Tinkerer, who was still hiding where he left him.
Brick responded not with words, but with a guttural roar that vibrated through the very concrete beneath their feet. Rage was a palpable thing emanating from him, a furnace stoked by Ghost's subtle provocations. His plasma repeater, a weapon that spat bolts of pure blue annihilation, came to life. He didn't aim; he simply unleashed. Arcs of incandescent energy tore through the air, gouging the concrete, vaporizing metal. Scaffolding shrieked as it buckled and fell, collapsing in a cascade of twisted steel and dust, briefly illuminating the yard in the unholy blue glow of destructing.
My breath hitched, a shallow gasp I immediately regretted. The sheer force of Brick's fury was terrifying, a primal force unleashed. I pressed myself against a rough concrete pillar, the chipped surface scraping against my worn tactical gear. Brick was a force of nature, a walking embodiment of brute strength, and I was… well, I was a Ghost. Speed, precision, and the understanding that even the mightiest of trees could be felled by a thousand precise cuts.
The moment Brick's barrage sputtered, I moved. Exploding from my cover, I flowed like water around a discarded I-beam. My knife, a wicked sliver of sharpened steel, flashed out, a shallow cut across his forearm. The plasma rounds, fired with more intent now, spat from my pistol, peppering his heavily armored chest. They stung, perhaps, but for Brick, they were no more than persistent gnats.
He roared again, a sound of pure frustration, and swung. His massive arms, thick with corded muscle, moved like wrecking balls. I dodged, the rush of displaced air a chilling testament to the power I'd narrowly avoided. As he reeled from a missed swing, I darted in again, another quick slash across his leg, this one deeper, drawing a grunt of pain. He stumbled, his immense weight barely contained, and lunged.
I was a blur, slipping beneath his clumsy grasp, but he was faster than he looked. One massive hand closed, and I felt bone grind against bone as he slammed me against the rough concrete pillar. The world exploded in a flash of white and agony. My ribs screamed in protest, but raw instinct took over. With a surge of adrenaline, I twisted, leveraging my body, forcing myself free of his crushing embrace.
It was a brutal dance, a sickening ballet of speed and brute force. I was the hummingbird, darting and weaving, landing quick, stinging blows. Brick was the enraged rhinoceros, each swing a testament to his power, tearing through the environment around him. He smashed through a stack of rebar, sending shards flying. He clipped a concrete pillar, a chunk the size of a car breaking off and tumbling to the ground. The yard was becoming a ruin, a testament to his destructive rage as much as my calculated attacks.
But this was exactly what I wanted. I feigned a retreat, luring him deeper into the labyrinth of unfinished structures. As he lumbered after me, his eyes fixed on my retreating back, I reached for the lengths of industrial chain I'd stashed earlier. With a flick of my wrist, I looped one around his outstretched arm as he reached for me, anchoring it to a protruding length of rebar.
He thundered, ripping at the chain, his strength incredible. The metal groaned, the rebar bent, but the momentary resistance slowed him, his momentum carrying him forward in a desperate lunge towards a section of the yard that looked… less stable. As he fought against the chains, I was already moving towards a massive, corroded valve on the side of a cement mixer. A well-aimed burst from my pistol shattered it.
A thick, grey slurry of wet cement gushed out, coating the ground in a treacherous, slick sheen. Brick, still struggling with the chains, lost his footing. His massive boots, designed for solid ground, found no purchase on the suddenly treacherous surface. He stumbled, his rage momentarily forgotten as he fought to regain his balance, his powerful frame swaying precariously.
That was my cue. I had maneuvered him beneath an overhanging slab of concrete, a behemoth held precariously by a network of cracked, stressed beams. It was a calculated risk, a gamble on the structural integrity of this forgotten place.
He was struggling, his massive hands now scrabbling at the slick cement, trying to find purchase. I closed the distance, my knife a blur. I slashed at his leg, a quick, deep gash that drew a pained roar. He retaliated, his impossibly strong arm smashing down, catching me on the shoulder and slamming me into a twisted mass of rebar. A sharp intake of breath, a metallic taste of blood in my mouth, but I didn't falter.
As he tried to wrench himself free from the cement's grip, I was already planting the charge. It was small, potent, salvaged from Whisper's scavenged gear. I pressed it against the weakest-looking of the supporting beams, the one that was already spiderwebbed with cracks.
Then I ran.
The explosion was deafening, a concussive roar that ripped through the construction yard. The cracked beam splintered, unable to bear the sudden shock. The overhanging slab, tons of concrete and steel, began to descend.
Brick looked up, his rage replaced by a dawning horror. He roared again, this time a sound of pure agony and desperate effort. His monstrous strength, the very thing that made him so terrifying, was now pitted against an impossible weight. He strained, his muscles bulging, the ground beneath him groaning as he tried to lift the crushing burden. But it was no use. The concrete and steel settled, pinning him, burying him beneath the weight of the decaying structure.
I approached, my own body aching, blood seeping from a dozen cuts. I crouched beside Brick's trapped form, the air thick with dust and the metallic scent of his blood. His bellowing, once a sound of rage, was now a raw, broken cry of pain.
My knife was in my hand, its edge gleaming dully. I could end it. A quick, merciful finish. But mercy was a luxury I couldn't afford. It wasn't efficient.
"Dead men can't scream," I whispered, my voice cold, devoid of emotion. Brick's eyes, wild with pain, locked onto mine. "You'll serve me better alive."
His roars intensified, no longer just of pain, but of pure, unadulterated fury directed at me. "DEADSHOT!" he bellowed, the name echoing through the comms network, a desperate, broken plea. "BOSS! HE'S HERE!"
I knew, with chilling certainty, what that sound would do. It would draw Deadshot. It would make him reckless, his loyalty to his enforcer overriding his usual calculated approach. It would make him predictable. And predictability was an assassination waiting to happen.
The Tinkerer's shuddering breaths crackled over the comms. He had seen it all, the calculated brutality, the strategic manipulation. His fear was a raw, untamed thing.
I rose, wiping my bloodied knife on my gear. "That buys us time," I told him, my voice devoid of any triumph. "Move."
Behind us, Brick's voice, broken but still booming, continued to fill the comms. "Boss! He's—" A sudden burst of static, sharp and final, cut him off. The silence that followed was almost as deafening as the explosion. The construction yard, now a tomb for one monster, became a stage for the next act. And I, the phantom orchestrator, was already moving to the next scene.