Though Bryan's blown up many a military base, there's something strange about this one. It's the air. Something in the soot streaming on breezes born from burning bodies. Not the diesel stink or roar of uncontained flames. It feels...tingly.
Fury raises his head, crosshairs in his eyes glowing green. He can almost see it: a trail of vague, golden...sand? dust?, he thinks, defying aerodynamics and trailing around him as if he's a rock in a river. What's up with that? Microplastics too good for him?
He turns and follows the flow. There, in a break in the ash clouds, stands a man. The stranger's covered from the neck down in polyethylene body armor, black plates scarred with gashes and bullet holes. No text, no flag patches. His only identifying marks are his hair, a color that might've been blond at some point tied in a high ponytail, a vicious sneer, and the katana in his hand.
Bryan's blood instantly boils. "Oh, fuck off," he shouts, "Yoshimitsu's outsourcin'!?"
His augmented vision catches the slight rise of an incredulous eyebrow.
Fury lifts the minigun, realizes at the last second it's long run out of ammo. He winds up and hurls it instead. The stranger dips aside its trajectory and sprints toward him without missing a beat. Bryan grins from ear to ear, last words occurring to him before the blasting heat, floating cinders, and ramping whine of his generator render him thoughtless: this is gonna be good.
The stranger fights as well as any Tournament regular, sneaking hit-and-run swipes with his sword while dodging kicks and fists that cut channels through the smoke. Maybe that's who he is. An Iron Fist hopeful looking to score huge points on his résumé: look, Mr. Mishima, bagged myself a 'borg! Or maybe he is a pupil of Yoshimitsu's. Bryan doesn't think lily-white would've been the ninja's first choice -- but not like he has much of one anyway, does he? The thought makes him erupt with deep, cackling laughter.
The dust sweeps into his mouth, sticks to his throat.
The stranger notices. He throws himself at Fury harder, blue eyes alight with anger, but he's tiring, Bryan can tell. What'd I ever do to you? the cyborg questions, smirking as he drives an elbow into the swordsman's chest, cracking the plate. The not-blonde staggers, nearly fumbles his blade--
--no, that's a ruse, body tensing as he gathers strength for a lightning-fast slice no human eye can track--
--Bryan catches the sword in his hand, snaps it in half with a flick of his wrist.
The stranger's own eyes widen with uncertainty. Fury's augmented ears, accustomed to hearing subvocalized sounds, pick up the unsaid: the hell are you?
The crack of his jaw splintering as Bryan plants his fist in his face is much louder. The stranger drops to the ground like a ton of bricks.
The cyborg looks at his palm. A long stripe of synthetic skin flaps open. The black alloy beneath is scratched. He scowls and kneels on the stranger's chest, forcing the air from his lungs.
"Since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you before I break every goddamn bone in your body." Bryan grabs the stranger by the straps of his armor, pulls him face-to-face. "The name's Fury. And you, good sir, are my bitch."
He balls his hands into fists and gets to work.
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