Rogues of Overwatch

by Dustin Martin

“Whoa!” Oliver skidded on another patch of ice and held on to the wall for support. Up ahead, the ice girl slapped her behind and laughed at their pursuers. She had left a trail of ice patches here and there along the floor. Everyone kept hopping and skipping around and over the patches. Except Oliver. He was so eager to catch his prey that he ignored all warnings not to run around a corner or to watch where he was going.

  “I’m burning all this!” he said, opening his eyes.

  Heather smacked the side of his head and he closed them. “If you set the hall on fire, we won’t be able to chase them. And you might bring the place down.” She handed him over to the mercenaries. “Follow me.” Mark stayed beside her, dodging another ice patch.

  Ahead, the path forked into two different halls. “Olly olly oxen free!” Oliver swept his firey eyes down each path. “Which way did they go?” he asked.

  Heather whacked him again and he shut his eyes tight. “I don’t know,” she said. “We may as well go back.”

  “No way. They may know where Lydia and Arthur are. I say we split up.”

  Heather groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Mark and I will go to the right with a couple guys. You go left.”

  “Oh, no,” Oliver said. “I’ll take Mark with me. Sorry, but it’s my head if you two pull something. You understand, right?” He grinned, leering at Mark.

  “I’ll go with you instead,” Heather said. “Someone has to watch you, you klutz. Some of the others can go with Mark.” She glanced sidelong at Mark and, with a look, urged him to escape. He shot back with an imperceptible shake of his head. Not without her. Hers flashed with anger, assuring him that she would be fine. Oliver seemed unsure and hummed over her suggestion. “If you want to catch them, we need to leave.”

  “Fine. Watch him closely,” he told three of the mercenaries. He turned and walked into the wall. Heather grumbled and jerked his arm along, and two mercenaries and Roy followed behind them.

  Meanwhile, Mark and the other three mercenaries moved down the right, carefully, room by room. Every hall was dark, and the mercenaries feared some guard lurked within, brandishing a rifle, ready to pop out and put a bullet between their eyes. They shoved Mark to the front and fell in line behind him. Not that he was overly confident either. The guards could be loaded with grenades, which would take care of him. But he stepped lively through the halls, figuring if he was quick, he might avoid any crossfire.

  After several empty halls and abandoned rooms, the mercenaries grew bold and walked ahead, peeking into some of the rooms. “Where are they?” one asked.

  Another shushed them all and cocked his ear. They all did the same, and Mark heard voices nearby. They ran, turning a few corners to follow the sound, and came upon a rear exit. Outside, a pair of armed guards helped personnel and stray BEPs into a large van.

  One of the mercenaries raised his gun. “Too easy.”

  Mark stepped in front of him, holding his palm against the barrel. “They’re not who we’re looking for.” The mercenaries stared at him, and he wondered himself what he was doing. He pried his palm off the barrel slowly, then figured he had already committed himself, and pushed the gun down. He was sick of this and had to draw a line.

  “Out of the way,” the mercenary said, elbowing him aside. He trained his sights on the vehicle again, but Mark punched him below the belt. The mercenary doubled over and Mark snatched the rifle from him.

  “They’re no threat to us,” he said. “They’re just trying to escape.”

  “Looks like you signed your death warrant,” the mercenary said. “Whyte wants them all. When he hears about thi¬s—”

  “Shut up with Whyte,” Mark said, aiming the gun at the mercenary’s chest. “I’m tired of hearing about Whyte. He isn’t here. I am. You can’t call on him like he’s your dad.” He gripped the gun tighter, holding it awkwardly at his shoulder. It was enough to scare them, and the other two mercenaries aimed their guns. “Go ahead. Let’s see who gets killed first.”

  Inside, his frightened bones rattled fiercely, asking what he was possibly thinking, manifesting in a slight tremor in his arms. The unarmed mercenary caught it and walked forward. “Look, give me the gun.”

  “Back!” Mark said, pushing the barrel out and shaking the gun threateningly, and then retreating a few paces. “I’ve had it and I won’t take anymore.”

  The mercenary reached out, hand extended like a peace offering. “Hey, we’re all on the same side here. We’re cool, right? Look,” he said, raising his empty hands. “Cool? Give me the gun and we don’t have to tell Whyte about this.” At the mention of Whyte’s name, Mark saw a destroyed car outside the exit, Heather dead, and the insufferable Whyte laughing. Mark growled, stopping the mercenary. The man’s face showed he was dead as soon as Mark pulled the trigger. His body flailed in a hail of bullets and fell over.

  The other mercenaries fired at Mark, the bullets pinging off his skin. He turned the rifle on them, and the recoil kicked his arms upward. But seconds later, they fell over, too. Mark kept the rifle raised and surveyed the three. Completely dead, no doubt about it. He dropped the rifle, but its strap clung to his shoulder, and he dragged the barrel across the ground.

  One of the mercenaries’ walkie-talkies clicked. “Hey, we’re upstairs. Can’t find the brats,” Oliver said. “Someone said they heard shooting near you guys. Did you find them?”

  Mark picked up the walkie-talkie. “Hey.”

  “Hey, what’s the story?”

  He licked his lips and kneeled down. What should he say? His mind was blank, absolutely barren of excuses. “Nothing,” he said. “Just…” Slaughtered everyone? Got fed up with this? Hate all of you? “,,,found my motivation.” A wry smile curled up his cheeks, and he didn’t even hear the pounding footsteps until someone kicked him across the face.

  “Don’t got time for you,” the person said.

  Mark fell and turned to the fleeing feet. Lydia, with a body slung over his shoulder. “Hurry up!” she yelled to a boy behind her. He flopped on the floor like a seal on his flippered limbs, scooting around the dead bodies. She scooped him into her empty arm and they left, warning the guards that Mark was in there.

  For the first time in a long time, Mark chuckled.

  * * *