Chapter 29: Vodka's Unstoppable Massacre!
Nagoya Station.
Vodka leaned against a platform pillar, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was bored. He unconsciously fiddled with the dark gray Soul Gem in his pocket. He hated the dress, but the power it gave him was intoxicating.
He noticed the station was quieter, emptier than usual, but his absolute confidence in his newfound strength made him dismiss it as a normal fluctuation in passenger traffic. The Boss's missions are always such a pain, he thought. Just blowing up one little station...
Suddenly, he froze. The feeling of being watched intensified. The atmosphere shifted. It wasn't empty anymore; it was a cage, and he was the one being stared at by a hundred hostile eyes. The faint, acrid smell of gunpowder was in the air.
In the next instant, as if on cue, the trap was sprung.
SHIING!
From every direction, the black muzzles of assault rifles appeared. Dozens of heavily armed tactical officers materialized from the thinning crowd, forming a perfect, inescapable kill box.
"POLICE! DON'T MOVE! HANDS IN THE AIR!"
"DROP YOUR WEAPON!"
"ON YOUR KNEES, NOW!"
The cold, authoritative commands boomed through megaphones.
Vodka blinked, then a slow, cruel, mocking grin spread across his face. A trap? For me? With these toys? He didn't even bother raising his hands, just contemptuously spat the cigarette butt onto the ground and slowly reached into his coat.
That single, deliberate movement was a death sentence.
"HE'S REACHING! OPEN FIRE!"
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The world exploded in a deafening roar of gunfire. A storm of metal tore through the air, converging on Vodka's position. Any normal man would have been turned into a red mist. Bullets ripped through his coat, sending up small puffs of blood. For a split second, the officers thought they had him.
But Vodka didn't even flinch. He looked down at the bleeding holes in his body with an expression of pure annoyance, as if he'd been bitten by a few flies. "Tch... what a nuisance..."
In the next second, a brilliant gray light erupted from his body, forcing everyone to shield their eyes. When the light faded, the man in the coat was gone. In his place stood a figure in a heavy, gray, lace-trimmed maid's dress, a grotesque and comical sight.
But no one was laughing.
Because they were watching, in horror, as the bloody bullet wounds on his body writhed and sealed themselves, leaving his skin completely unharmed.
"MONSTER!" someone shrieked, and the fragile dam of discipline broke. Panic ripped through the ranks. What were they facing? How could anything survive that? Were the survivor testimonies... true?
"FIRE! KEEP FIRING! FIRE!" the commander screamed, his voice trembling. The gunfire resumed, but now it was laced with desperation.
"You pathetic insects..." Magical Girl Vodka's voice was a low, distorted snarl. "Are you ready for hell?"
He moved. There was no fancy magic, just pure, contract-fueled physical power. He charged into the hail of bullets like a cannonball. The rounds that had torn through him moments before now simply bounced off his magically-hardened skin. He crashed into the police line.
CRUNCH!
The officers in his path were swatted aside like dolls, their bones shattering on impact. Riot shields crumpled like paper. It was a slaughter. A one-sided, merciless massacre. His every punch, every charge, was an unstoppable force of destruction. He reveled in their fear, in the sound of their hearts hammering against their ribs before abruptly stopping.
"AAAAAHHH!"
"IT'S A DEMON! RUN!"
The platform became a charnel house. Blood pooled on the pristine tiles. Severed limbs and shattered equipment were strewn everywhere. The remaining officers broke, their training and courage utterly consumed by a primal, existential terror. They threw down their weapons and ran, but there was no escape. He was a cruel child playing with ants, laughing as he ran them down, sometimes kicking a man so hard he simply exploded into a shower of gore, other times literally ripping them in half.
Suddenly, he paused. His senses, sharpened by magic, detected other hidden threats.
The FBI.
A new, even more sadistic grin spread across his face. He stomped his foot, and the concrete platform cracked under the force. He ignored the last few whimpering policemen and charged toward the FBI's ambush point like an out-of-control freight train.
"HE'S SEEN US! OPEN FIRE! STOP HIM! GET THE DATA OUT! GET IT OUT NOW!" the FBI commander shrieked, his voice cracking with terror.
A new, even more intense storm of gunfire erupted. Armor-piercing rounds whined through the air. Grenades exploded against him.
But it was useless. Absolutely useless.
A thin, shimmering gray aura now surrounded Vodka's ridiculous dress, deflecting every bullet, absorbing every explosion. He was completely unharmed. He was upon them in an instant.
"Your turn, bugs," he roared, the smell of blood thick on his breath.
The FBI's heavy weapons, their superior tactics, their years of experience... it was all a pathetic joke in the face of this absolute, supernatural power. An agent with a reinforced alloy shield tried to block him. Vodka punched straight through it, his fist embedding itself in the agent's chest. Another agent was about to fire a grenade launcher when Vodka's hand closed around his head.
SQUELCH.
A headless corpse slumped to the ground. The rest of the elite team was wiped out in seconds, their bodies twisted into unnatural shapes, their blood painting the station walls. It wasn't a battle. It was an extermination. The last surviving agent, his shoulder shattered, lay on the ground, babbling incoherently.
"Monster... demon... please... I didn't see anything..."
Vodka loomed over him, a playful, cruel smile on his face. "Run," he chuckled. "Why aren't you running?" He raised his heavy boot. "Don't worry," he said, the smile widening. "Soon, you won't have to know anything at all."
He brought his foot down.
CRUNCH.
The screaming stopped.
Silence fell over Nagoya Station. Vodka stood amidst the carnage, the bodies of Japan's finest police officers and the FBI's elite agents piled around him like broken toys. His gray maid's dress was now soaked a deep, dark red, dripping with gore. He was breathing heavily, not from exhaustion, but from the pure, ecstatic thrill of the slaughter.
His eyes scanned the abattoir he had created. He was sure of it.
Not a single survivor.