Rogues of Overwatch, Page 2

A few days later, after constant starts, idle stops, and random direction changes, the boat finally docked. Two mercenaries entered, pulled a sack cloth over Mark’s head, and dragged him off the boat. Despite his expectations of another car trip, he walked onto a metal surface and heard splashing water all around. They ushered him through a few doors and into an elevator.

  Down they went, deep underwater, and the mercenaries took the sack cloth off as they passed through many steel-gray metal halls. Then Mark was locked in a room similar to that of the boat. Only his window view consisted of dull light to the side, illuminating the bubbles floating to the surface outside.

  Was this to be his entire life now? Shuttled around, no answer given, no contact with anyone, no indication who held him prisoner or if Whyte still had anything to do with him? The entire ordeal frustrated Mark. Whenever he was whisked into another room, he vowed that he wouldn’t go quietly until he knew the purpose of it all.

  Another week passed without any interaction, sans the meals delivered to his room. Mark began to think that he could use mealtime as a way to escape.

  As he brainstormed ideas before lunch one day, his door was flung open. Oliver and a headless woman entered, both armed with assault rifles. Before Mark could speak, they fired away.

  Gunfire pinged off the walls. Mark flipped over the bed and ducked behind it. Bits of stuffing and feathers jumped out as the pair riddled the mattress with bullets. The television burst and fizzled as its screen shattered.

  “Stop!” Mark yelled at the top of his lungs. But they continued on, emptying their clips.

  When they finished, the room was quiet, and the debris and reverberating gunshots settled. Mark peered out from around the bed. Oliver unloaded his clip, stared into space, and blindly reached for another clip at his waist. “Mark?” he asked, loading his gun. The headless woman swapped clips as well. “You still there?”

  He held his breath and checked himself. All the bullets that hit him had fallen off harmlessly, leaving scattered holes in his shirt. Mark looked at the walls, afraid the guns had punctured through and into the water. “Marco,” Oliver said, creeping farther in. “Marco.”

  Mark crawled away from Oliver but pushed against the bed. With a screech, it slid an inch. “Polo!” Oliver blasted the bed and Mark covered his head.

  Oliver exhausted the clip but didn’t reload it. “You alive, Mark?” The boy stayed perfectly still, trying hard to keep quiet. “I could torch the room, if you prefer,” Oliver said. “Or we could open a window.”

  “I’m here, I’m here! Okay?” Mark jumped up, raising his hands.

  “Ah, you’re alive! Great!” Oliver held out his hands and maneuvered around the bed. He touched Mark’s face, limbs, and torso, humming and nodding to himself. “Don’t feel like you’re full of holes. Guess you passed.”

  “Passed what?”

  “Why the test, of course,” he said as if it was obvious. “Had to make sure your power was the genuine article.”

  “I already showed Whyte that it was!” Mark said hotly.

  “Sure, you survived one bullet to the head. But what about hundreds? Or all sorts of injuries? But at least you can weather bullets, and that’s one of the big ones. So now for your consolation prize.” He pulled Mark along to the door, and the headless woman took Mark’s other hand. The stump of her neck was completely sealed with skin, as if she never had a head to begin with. She angled her shoulders as if to leer at Mark, giving him a once-over with her nonexistent eyes.

  The disturbing sight pushed Mark into Oliver as far as he comfortably could. “What’s my prize?” he asked.

  Oliver smiled wide. “You’re going to meet the big man himself: Mr. Whyte.”