[Story] The Assassin Ch.4

4
Denzel felt the skin tear away from his chest as the perfectly shaped teeth lacerated every inch of his body. He tried to resist, but it was futile. The excruciating pain rendered him immobile. His blade lay beside him, shattered into useless shards, alongside three bullets, all bent badly out of shape. As the light left his eyes, Denzel could see nothing but..
..Fire.
The beast screeched, causing the most sickening sound Denzel had ever heard. Flinging itself away, Denzel sighed with relief, before remembering his dangerous lack of skin.
"Clarice, would you mind injecting him while I hold this son of a bit/ch off?" Boomed a gruff Irish accent somewhere in the distance. It seemed to resonate all through the forest, made apparent by the sheer number of fleeing birds above Denzel. The voice was that of Mr O'Neil, and Denzel couldn't help but smile.
"Of course, Sir." Replied a soft, American accent, this time much closer to him. Balls of flame streaked past him at random intervals, followed by more screeching. Seconds later, a tall girl with ravishing beauty, no older than 16 leaned over him, smiling. She proceeded to draw out a slender needle from the bag which hung loosely from her perfectly arched shoulders.
"Lets get you fixed up." She said reassuringly, filling the syringe with a viscous liquid.
"I assume this won't hurt a bit?" Denzel managed to cough out, jokingly. Clarice giggled and brushed the hair from her eyes.
"Yeah, you keep wishing that." She laughed.
The needle plunged deep into the flesh of Denzel's arm, and he couldn't help but cringe. The result of this needle, however, were completely worth it.

As the chemical raced through the remaining blood in Denzel's body, many things happened in a short time.
Thousands of tiny, sea blue networks shot out of the ragged flesh at the top of his chest, connecting it with the bottom. These networks then proceeded to turn blood red, as they thickened into something no dissimilar to the flesh that had once resided there. Seconds later, this fleshy substance covered his chest completely, and had grown a brand new layer of skin.
Deeper inside, cracked bones were re-connected with fresh marrow. Arteries repaired themselves, muscles regained their mass and millions of impulses flooded Denzel's nerves.

In less than 8 seconds, the entire of Denzel's being had been fully repaired, now stronger than ever before. He punched the floor violently and pushed himself up, smiling almost maliciously. Before him stood a welcome sight. In his right hand, O'Neil carried a Pancor Jackhammer shotgun, fully loaded. In his left, three balls of flame, all orbiting another larger ball. Denzel laughed and cracked his knuckles.
The playing field was more than level.
He turned to tell Clarice to run, but before he could get a word out, she silenced him, drawing a pistol from her waist.
"I may look young, but I've got more gunslinger ability in my little finger than most assassins do in their body." She said fiercely. Denzel nodded in understanding.
"You mind giving me a hand with this thing?" Shouted O'Neil, reminding Denzel of the full extent of the problem. Pulling out his USP, he realized the muzzle was too damaged to work. He whimpered, before giving the beast a harsh glare.
"That was my best gun." He spat resentfully.

By now, the flames had died down, and the beast was angrier than ever. It catapulted itself towards Denzel, unhindered by the rain of bullets that Clarice shot, or the onset of flames that jetted from O'Neil's palms.
But Denzel wasn't worried. He had everything planned out.
The beast took one final bound, and as the diamond sharp teeth neared him at lethal speeds, Denzel did the most dangerous and yet most rewarding thing of his life.
He punched it.
The motion was swift and fluent. From most angles, it would have been impossible to see Denzel's left hand coil around it's neck, all the while delivering an immeasurably powerful right hook into it's jaw. For the brief second they were interlocked, Denzel could see every feature of the beast; grotesque, matted brown fur, sprayed with blood. Bulging eyes, devoid of irises, home to only pupils. The teeth, shining like the moon against the night sky.
"What a shame," He thought to himself sarcastically. "That I'm going to put you down."
The corpse slammed uselessly into the broken ground. O'Neil and Clarice stood indifferently by him, as if these creatures were a common occurrence. Flames still spun in O'Neil's palm, perfectly in time.
The story of these powers, and the liquid that had healed him, goes back to 1987, on the very same ground they currently stood.