Chapter Text
It had been a shit morning from the start for Ashkal.
First he'd woken up late because yesterdays training drills had wiped out his energy reserves like always. Then he got caught stealing extra food from the kitchen, earning him a smack on the head with a ladle from the head cook. He swears that if his hair was any less thick there'd be a comical bump on the top of his head. And the cherry on the crap sundae was getting called in to Cyrus's office last minute for a job because he was the best member of the strikers currently on base.
His uncle greeted him from behind the large table that served as the older man's desk, a folder of files tagged 'Protection' already being pushed towards him. "New emergency assignment came in, top priority. I know you hate the guarding jobs but this one is too serious for personal gripes to get in the way."
Cyrus knows Ashkal too well; immediately down any complaints before they can form with hard facts. It garners an unimpressed look from the young man but it's ignored in favor of delivering the rest of the details.
"Read through the first page, don't bother with the rest for now. We're running short on time. A jet is already en route with the cargo and we're certain it's being followed by Blackwatch operatives."
Ashkal's brow raises as he grabs an edge of the case and flips it open with a quick snap of his wrist, causing it to slide into a tilted position.
"Damn. So what'd this-" He glances down, reading the name at the top in big bold letters. "Nyx person do to get Blackwatch on their ass and still be alive?"
There's a note of admiration in his tone as Ashkal takes in the whole page. A lot of it is blank. But there is something fully filled out: Occupation. Or rather, occupations. Gunslinger, bounty striker, and an information broker. Someone keeps busy.
"She has information they don't want her to have." The answer is simple, straight to the point, and bears a sense of finality Cyrus always uses when he's getting impatient with his nephew. "You need to get going Ashkal. The jet's tracker should be uploaded to your watch's GPS–"
"Yeah yeah I know how these jobs work." Ashkal interrupts to shrug him off, turning away while speaking. "I'll get her here in one piece. Probably."
And just like that, he's out the door and stalking down the hallway like an angry bison.
Cyrus sighs, watching the fading wisps of smoke that were left trailing behind Ashkal. He's getting too old to be dealing with that youngster. "What am I going to do with that boy."
The other strikers steered clear out of Ashkal's way, not a single person willing to risk poking his nerves when he's trailing smoke again. News spreads fast through the network here, Ashkal's profile status having been immediately updated to deployed before he even left the office.
He heads straight for the helicopter landing pads outside HQ, pyrokinetic energy already gathering in his palms and the soles of his feet. At least the fly to the jet should clear his mind and get him into work mode before he gets there.
"Of course I've gotta be the one saddled with this." He grumbles while putting on his aviator goggles. At least this time he remembered them before blasting off the concrete with a controlled burst of flame with the ease of having done this many times before.
The typical jobs he takes are to kill monsters to protect hundreds. It's a lot easier to take down an enemy then it is to keep one person safe. People are unpredictable, and a single protective order unheeded can swiftly result in a badly botched mission.
Amidst his internal grumbling of irritation, his watch beeps loud and fast with an incoming warning alert.
The text on the screen glows in blocky red letters. "Jet has been intercepted and engaged by hostiles, taking heavy fire."
Son of a–
Time to pick up the pace.
His ETA cut from ten minutes to four but it wasn't enough. The freshly burning wreckage of the jet looked like it had been used as a chew toy by a dog with anger issues. Taking heavy fire was an understatement, this thing didn't just have holes it was in pieces. There goes a chunk of the monthly bonus on replacing it.
With a tch of annoyance he lands at the edge of the crash site, the broken up ground indenting further beneath his boots. This is not looking good. If his charge is dead before he even meets her face to face there's going to be hell to pay. For the hired idiots who did this and him when he gets back to HQ.
Speaking of the former, as orange-red eyes scan the debris he spots several units starting to creep over one of the many piles of metal, no doubt coming in to check that the target was properly dead.
Better get to work.
A stream of flames burst to life in his hand as he lunges forward; letting it spiraling outward and stretch into the shape of a whip that crackles like a live wire with every movement. With a timed flick of his wrist it lashes out at the nearest group just as their guns raise to aim at him; training taking over their bodies even as they've clearly been taken by surprise.
But they're too slow.
When the fire whip makes contact it sends three of the five in that group stumbling back hard, and makes the other two think twice and dive for cover. No need to kill unless absolutely necessary, just stun them and keep moving. Grab the cargo or whatever is left of it and get out.
The problem is finding it or anyone alive in this chaos while defending against attacks.
That had been his original assumption. Within the next thirty seconds he was vastly proven wrong as gunfire erupted from the northwest and the enemies started running for defendable spots faster then he bolts for the cafeteria on the days they serve spicy chicken wings.
Well ain't that lucky.
In favor of being able to move faster he lets the fire whip spurt out, leaving both hands free to help control his flame-propelled movements over various obstacles between him and the ongoing gunfight.
Smoothly cresting over the remains of a propeller Ashkal is greeted with a body of some poor shmuck getting blasted straight at his face.
"Oh shit–"
He quickly adjusts to send a burst of flame to the side and get himself out of the way behind some shelter, watching as red-white electricity crackles over the definitely unconscious hired hand when they finally land in a crumple.
Ashkal actually feels a bit bad for them. Getting electrocuted sucks, especially when you're carrying metal gear and weapons. Note to self, don't get on the bad side of whoever is still viciously kicking after surviving that wreck.
Speaking of which…
Turning around to survey the raging battle Ashkal finds himself very grateful he looked at the client's files. Because if he hadn't he would've thought that black blur surrounded by that red-white electricity currently picking off units like it's just another day of target practice was an actual demon and not the neko he'd been sent as protection detail for. So much for that, she seems to be handling herself just fine.
But still, he has a job to do. And he'll be damned if he doesn't at least try to do it.