As of late I’d become restless, and in my state I’d also become far more reckless. Anger had been my predominant emotion over the past few months. I was so close to the sceptre, I could taste it.
My lines could blur; some days I’d want to slink my way past guards and be as inconspicuous as any other breeze dancing through the air. Other days however held no such joy. I didn’t have the patience to tip toe and stealth my way around a once abandoned fortress. Some days I wanted to cause a scene and boy was I good at doing just that.
My rage was certainly getting the better of me, yet it was a part of me that almost felt as if it was too late to work on. I’d had enough of Ferguson’s threating but almost polite ambushes. That sceptre was mine as I was going to claim it back, even if it quite literally killed me.
After filling everyone at the security gate with lead and changing into a warmer and, quite fetching, olive jumpsuit a guard had on pre-wounds, I took the keys to one of Ferguson’s battalion of trucks and sped towards the glow of the base.
As I drove, the rage continued to build. As soon as I saw the base’s infamous glass frontage that mimicked a villain’s lair from an old Bond movie, there was no other choice. I mean, there was a choice, but my rationality went out of the window whilst I, wanting to make a statement, drove straight through it.
It wasn’t long before bullets from his goons started clattering into my vehicle. What they seemed to forget was that they were trying to strike a bulletproof truck that half of them drove in battle. Utter imbeciles. When would these so-called super villains learn? Muscle did not equal brains.
I slipped out of the back after throwing a smoke bomb, covering the lobby with a helpful haze as coughs littered the so-called reception. I managed to off a few of them quietly before the mist cleared, shooting one guy in the leg before he could radio to Ferguson and inform him of my arrival.
Before arming myself with a Desert Eagle, I smirked as I looked back at the destruction I’d left in my wake. Ferguson was a man for theatrics, this should make him feel right at home. Although, this was simply act one, for me.
I had warned him not to steal from me.
His expertise was questionable at best, much like my own reckless manner. Yet with the sceptre in his possession and the destruction I knew that could be wreaked with it and its mystery, I had to stop him. He didn’t know how to handle such power both with, or without it.
The look on his face when I’d get to his office would be priceless. If he wanted a show, he was certainly going to get one – front row seat.