Dies to Removal

"Don't move!" The gruff shout came from a short, broad man with no neck. The night was not too dark to make out his brown and red uniform, name tag and badge, or the assortment of weapons hanging from his belt. His shirt appeared to be a size smaller than it should, seams stretched tight by bulging muscle. As he stepped out of the passenger seat of the matching brown and red truck, its suspension recovered at least two inches.

"Think you could skirt around the Old Manhattan checkpoints?" The driver of the vehicle hopped out and spoke now. This man was taller and thinner than his partner, but likewise uniformed. He spun a small, hood mounted flood light towards the shore.

The bright cone illuminated the crouched figure of a man by the edge of the water. Obeying the command, the man stayed motionless except
for the slow rhythm of heavy breathing. Glimmering in the light, droplets clung to his black cape that draped to the sand, hiding all but the dark red metal helmet. He wondered how his approach could have been spotted on such a dark evening. Most likely, it was just the dumb luck of a passing patrol. Regardless, he was glad he added an hour into his travel calculations for speed bumps like this. The man offered an explanation, his voice even and somehow polite, despite coming through a distortion device, "Quite the contrary, I've been here for weeks, just returned from a leisurely swim."

"Relax, pal. We don't need a story." The tall one spoke this time as he produced a tablet computer. "This happens more often than you'd think. Just give us a name. We'll register your visit and you'll be free to go."

To properly address the inquiry, the man rose to his feet. As he did so, the cape parted, revealing metal plates that armored his body. Most of them were
flat black, dimly reflecting the flood lamp, while those on his side matched the shade of his helmet. At a height well past six feet, his posture was impeccable, neither hostile nor yielding. With a slight bow that did not lower his eyes, he replied, "I prefer the name Deathgrind."

The tall one only snickered as he entered the name into his tablet; the short one was hardly so gracious. Snorting, he prodded, "Lemmie guess, all the good ones was taken?"

"This coming from a pair of freaks working for a company named Brutes for Hire." A dismissive tone was apparent through the distortion; the retort was followed by an indignant scoff.

Growling, the short brute took a menacing step forward, poised like a bull about to charge. His shirt looked about to burst as he brought his hands together to crack his knuckles. Deathgrind remained still, not even adjusting his footing. The lack of reaction only spurred further fury. Tension grew. Through clenched teeth the brute threatened,
"I could crush you an' your suit like a can of beer."

"System says he's a strength mutant. Can't be stronger than you, Flint." The words came from his tall partner, "Just take 'im. There's a decent bounty on this punk."

Flint's clenched teeth twisted into a grin at the mention of the bounty. Excited, he vaulted forward, spraying sand back at his partner. He was airborne the entire distance to Deathgrind, his enormous arm chambered. The punch came at a blinding speed, fueled by the jump, but it missed the target. As fast as the combined motion was, Deathgrind was faster. Not just in reaction time, but the movement itself was fluid to an extreme degree considering the armor which should restrict his movement. When Flint landed, he found Deathgrind standing to his right with a hand gripping the inside of his elbow.

The next strike came from Deathgrind, driving his metal fist into the captive elbow. The joint shattered with a sickening crack that
rang over the scream of pain. Deathgrind then pulled on that arm as he crashed his heel into Flint's knee. This impact caused a sound similar to the last, although there was no accompanying scream. Instead, Flint crumpled with no more than a whimper. Not yet finished, Deathgrind maintained his grip on the elbow, tightening and twisting with every word he spoke, "One. My metal is far stronger than a can of beer. Two. Canned beer? Have some class. And three. I. Like. My. Name."

Releasing the broken man, Deathgrind turned to the remaining brute. A heavy caliber pistol boomed once; Deathgrind found himself looking at the sky as his head snapped backwards from the force of the bullet. Two more shots were fired, both ricocheting off the same metal plate of his chest. With these, he took a step backwards before righting himself. Rolling his neck and shoulders, he asserted, "Excellent aim. You must be an aptitude type. Only a class four, of course, else you'd have a better employer. Now,
you could fire again, but the worst it would do is crack my visor. Or you could reach for your stun gun and hope that I'm not insulated. Either of those options ends with me fairly angry and you fairly dead. Collect your partner and get out of my way."

Without any further interference, Deathgrind walked past his former assailant and stepped into his new truck, quite happy the gentleman had left it running for him.