How Fate Works

He hit the cement a lot harder than he had intended and he felt himself lurch forward, rolling head over heels until he came to a stop. He wasted no more time and sprang to his feet, taking off once more. Growing up, he'd practiced parkor until he was doing it in his sleep but Vegas was such a mismatch of buildings that made no sense that he was constantly misjudging his distances. Worse, he'd never been pursued like this before. Each breath was labored and sent a shock of pain lacing his side. Broken ribs. The sting of each breath into his lungs would mean he'd likely pass out soon and when he did... The edge of the roof came into sight and he put all his strength into his legs once more as he vaulted over the side, hitting the roof of the next building with ease before taking off once more. One, two, three, four... Behind him, he heard each of his pursuers hit the roof and continue after him. Shit. He glanced over his shoulder as he launched himself over top of an air conditioning unit. They were gaining on him.

As he came down the other side, one of his pursuers was standing waiting for him, hands glowing red. Thinking fast, Brock twisted his body so he was somersaulting through the air. He landed beside the man instead of landing into him and turned just as his attacker charged, lashing out with his magic with incredible speed. Without thinking about it, Brock brought up his own hands to protect himself and they glowed black. As soon as his hands met contact with his opponent's bare flesh, the man dropped dead at his feet, eyes wide and staring.

Nausea rolled up Brock's stomach and he resisted the urge to throw up. Instead, he took off again. Brock had always known he was different. As soon as he'd come into his powers, he knew they were dangerous. His parents treated him like a weapon instead of their own child and raised him as such. But no amount of intense training or neglect had made him accept the power to kill instantly. His powers as a necromancer were incredibly strong and, if he were trained properly, could be a serious weapon in the wrong hands. He glanced over his shoulder at his remaining pursuers. These guys for instance... Brock had never loved his family because of his treatment growing up but when the Black Mambas had killed his family and clan simply because they wanted to get their hands on him, he was forced to hate them. They'd followed him everywhere he'd gone and now, here he was, coming into direct with them and he was beginning to find that he was on the losing side. He could already feel his strength draining.

He rounded a corner behind a helicopter landing pad and slammed into something hard, sending him flying backwards. Before him, a hooded figure sneered down at him, hands glowing green. "Just come quietly, boy. We don't want to hurt you... Too much."

Brock's heart hammered in his chest. His only real power was his power of necromancy. His second ability "The Sight" allowed him to see in the eyes of animals but it put his body into a coma state. Not exactly helpful there. He cursed and the hooded man laughed. "Such a dirty mouth! Let me clean that out for you!" He raised his hands to strike and Brock, shutting his eyes against the onslaught of tears, reached for the man's ankle, his hand glowing black and in a matter of seconds, the man dropped dead. Finally, Brock let the overwhelming nausea take over and he threw up beside him, his side screaming in agony as he heaved. He was a fucking assassin. He could sever arteries, put a bullet through a man's brain but when it came to using his power magic to take a life... It made him sick. Without looking back at the mess he caused, Brock took off once more. Two down... Two to go...

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OUTFIT
Andrei Belkov