The sterile air in the bunker, buried deep beneath a nameless mountain, offered no comfort. It was thick with the hum of unseen electronics and the crushing weight of unspoken dread. A dozen of the world's most important people, impeccably suited, hunched over a holoscreen, their faces pale under the stark fluorescent lights.
The President, his own face a roadmap of exhaustion etched by years of carrying an impossible secret, gestured impatiently. "Play it again."
The screen flickered to life, showing grainy, amplified footage. Not of Nolan, but of a different era. A blur of impossible speed on a dusty, unnamed battlefield in some forgotten corner of the world. Henderson, the previous user of the curse, moved like a phantom against a full military offensive. He didn't run; he ceased to be in one place and instantly reappeared in another, crossing impossible distances in what the cameras registered as a mere distortion of light, a flicker that was faster than any human eye could process, leaving faint, shimmering afterimages in his wake. He weaved through hails of gunfire so dense they tore apart the very air, leaving splintered trees and ruptured earth in their wake. Explosions bloomed around him like deadly, delayed flowers, yet he was always already gone, a fleeting shadow, gone even before the concussive force could reach where he'd been. The very air seemed to crackle and then roar with the displacement of his impossible speed, kicking up dust devils that vanished as quickly as they formed.
The footage then cut, showing the gruesome aftermath. The President's voice grew heavy, raw with the memory of what the cameras had captured. "He... brutally killed a lot of humans, the soldiers."
The screen then showed dismembered limbs, torsos twisted into grotesque, unrecognizable shapes, and heads unnaturally rotated, their necks obliterated. Bodies were pulverized into fragmented ruins, their bones shattered into dust-like particles. Some were contorted into impossible angles, limbs dislocated and broken beyond repair, hinting at strikes delivered with such overwhelming force and speed that their skeletal structures simply gave out. In one horrifying sequence, Henderson was seen snatching a soldier from mid-air and, with a casual, devastating swing, slammed him into a cluster of his comrades, turning all three into a single, mangled heap of flesh and splintered bone. Elsewhere, a line of soldiers was shown, their skulls crushed inward with terrifying precision, their faces frozen in silent screams. Another clip showed a soldier, weapon still clutched in his hand, frozen mid-scream as his entire torso was ripped clean from his lower body with a sickening wet tear, his legs remaining upright for a moment before collapsing. The ground where he'd briefly stood was fractured, radiating outward from the immense impact of his movements, leaving craters where his feet had briefly touched. It was a carnage that defied conventional understanding of what a human body could endure. The other important people averted their eyes, even on screen, the horror was palpable.
The footage shifted to a long-range shot. A military tank, rumbling across the terrain, suddenly shuddered. Henderson, a barely perceptible streak, was beneath it. With a surge of impossible power, he lifted the colossal tank as if it were a toy, the steel groaning under the strain, then hurled it with blinding speed towards a hovering attack helicopter. The helicopter, caught utterly unaware by the projectile that dwarfed it, had no time to move. It exploded into a fiery ball of wreckage upon impact.
Immediately, another attack helicopter screamed into view, unleashing a volley of explosive rockets. These weren't mere bullets; they were concentrated bursts of destructive force designed to obliterate hardened targets.
"He then stood there and took explosions head-on from another helicopter," the President's voice was a low, guttural whisper, his eyes fixed on the screen as the smoke momentarily obscured Henderson. When it cleared, Henderson was still standing, but the impact was visceral. Chunks of seared flesh hung loosely from his frame, revealing glistening muscle and even glimpses of bone beneath. His skin was charred black in patches, and angry red welts pulsed across his exposed tissues. The cameras, even from a distance, showed him clutching at his visibly burned arm, the tremor now violent, his knuckles white against the raw, exposed muscle. His face, what little could be seen, was contorted in a silent scream of agony, his jaw clenched tight. Yet, he did not fall. He did not even stumble. He remained a silhouette against the smoke, unbowed, utterly relentless.
And then, the impossible happened.
A palpable shift seemed to occur in Henderson's posture. The pain, instead of crippling him, seemed to ignite a primal fury. His remaining exposed skin flushed an even deeper red, and his muscles visibly bunched and spasmed. With a guttural roar that the distant microphones barely picked up, he launched himself forward with a speed that dwarfed his previous movements, becoming an even more terrifying blur. He ascended in a near-vertical leap, closing the distance to the still-hovering, rocket-firing helicopter in a heartbeat. The pilot, caught completely off guard by this impossible counter-attack from a man who should have been incapacitated, had no time to react as Henderson smashed into the cockpit with the force of a runaway train. The helicopter buckled and twisted violently, then plummeted to the earth in a shower of sparks and debris, exploding in a secondary, even larger fireball.
Henderson, seemingly unfazed by the second explosion engulfing him, landed amidst the remaining soldiers. The fury in his eyes was palpable even through the grainy footage. He moved with a renewed, terrifying efficiency, a force of pure, unadulterated rage unleashed. There was no semblance of human restraint left. He tore through the remaining soldiers with savage abandon, his movements faster and more brutal than ever before. Limbs were ripped from sockets, heads were caved in with casual backhands, and torsos were bisected with movements too fast to track. The ground became slick with blood, the air thick with screams abruptly cut short. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of death, leaving a landscape of utter carnage in his wake, his every action screaming of pain transmuted into unimaginable power.
"(As we know from the medical reports recovered later, he sustained third-degree burns across a significant portion of his body, muscles were torn, and yet he continued his rampage for days)," the President added, his voice grim. "(Our current subject, Nolan, endured four direct pistol shots that lodged deep within his chest just yesterday. They were… an inconvenience.)"
"Almost immortal," the President murmured, the words heavy with bitter, hard-won knowledge. His gaze swept over the bewildered, pale faces of the other important people, their collective genius rendered utterly useless. "The more he's hurt, the more his adrenaline and momentum increases. It seems like there's no limit. And this… this is just the human form."
One of the important people, his face contorted with a mixture of rage and profound terror, slammed a fist lightly on the polished table, the sound dull and flat. "We would need a huge explosion, literally one he cannot outrun. Something that would decimate a city block!" His voice rose to a shrill, desperate pitch, bordering on a scream. He pushed back from the table, trembling, visibly more afraid than angry now, his eyes wide and unfocused.
The President regarded him, his own expression a grim mask. He simply nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. "Then we will all die. Cool. Great idea, friend." His voice was laced with a chilling, detached sarcasm that was far more terrifying than the other man's outright panic. The angry important man, still trembling violently, could only stare, his earlier fury now completely consumed by a profound, silent horror.
"Sir, we've explored various avenues. Tranquilizers, neurotoxins, even compounds that could put a blue whale to sleep..." another important person offered nervously.
"And yes, poison, venom, something that can put even animals to sleep—no," the President cut him off, his voice flat with the bitter taste of repeated failure. "It's ineffective. Nolan's curse… it's aware. It would definitely just increase the adrenaline and momentum, and create the most realistic hallucinations to keep him awake and relentless. Simply said: the more he's hurt, the more angry he is. It overrides his biology. It overrides his mind. It wants to survive."
The important person who offered the suggestion blanched, his composure cracking. "Sir, this is not funny. We cannot handle this no matter how much you'll pay us. You're saying our tools, our best science, are ineffective? That this is beyond us?"
The President leaned forward, his eyes burning with a desperate, ancient weariness that spoke of years of sleepless nights. "I just wanted to know if you, my so-called best people, had some sort of solution. I can't sleep knowing this man might kill me today or tomorrow. I'm happy, truly, that right now he's going after… scum…" His eyes hardened, shifting from weariness to a chilling, absolute authority. "Corrupted politicians, ruthless gang leaders, human traffickers, murderers… he calls them 'bastards.'" He straightened, the weariness briefly replaced by that steely resolve. "Anyways. Tell your sons, daughters, relatives, I don't care. Don't draw the attention of Nolan."
The President gestured towards a second screen, larger and even more high-definition than the first. This one displayed a different video, clearly taken with even more advanced technology. The image was disturbing.
"Let's see the true form," the President said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
The screen flickered, then resolved into a terrifying image. It was still Henderson, but transformed. He was now a 7ft Monster, a grotesque parody of human anatomy. Huge muscles bulged and writhed across his frame, far beyond any natural human limit, making him appear impossibly broad and powerful. His skin seemed stretched taut, almost translucent in places, revealing the unnatural network of veins and fibers beneath. The creature moved with a fluid, unsettling grace, a predator at the peak of its power.
The monster moved with a speed that was beyond its human form, possibly faster than beyond hypersonic. It wasn't just fast; it was too fast for annihilation of everything in its path. The camera struggled to keep up, blurring as the creature shifted its weight, a testament to its impossible speed, leaving behind streaks of distorted reality.
The President sighed, a sound that held the weight of centuries. "See how fast this guy is? Now it's also effectively immortal and relentless?" He shook his head slowly, a gesture of utter futility.
The video then shifted, showing a rapid, dizzying montage of targets. First went after the President and Vice President of that country, then the Commander of their military. The footage was a blur of impossible speed, but the impact was sickeningly clear: no defense was fast enough, no security strong enough.
Then the targets changed. The video showed the monster sweeping through the terrified populace. Men. Women. Elders. Children. Animals. There was no discrimination, no hesitation. The chaos was absolute, the destruction instantaneous.
"It just... consumes," the President whispered, his voice hoarse, the sheer horror of the true form's indiscriminate rampage evident in his eyes.
Around the table, the reactions were immediate and visceral. One important person, a hardened general, suddenly clutched his stomach and retched, a pathetic, choked sound echoing in the silent bunker. Another, a usually unflappable diplomat, visibly swayed, his face ashen, before collapsing back into his chair, eyes wide and unfocused. Several others were openly trembling, their hands clenching white-knuckled on the table's edge or burying their faces in their hands. A low, collective whimper passed through the room, a sound of absolute, primal fear. The hum of the electronics seemed to mock them, a steady presence against the unraveling of their reality. The air grew heavy with the smell of sweat and fear, a tangible oppressive weight. For several long moments, no one spoke, only the ragged sounds of their desperate breathing filling the void.
Then, one of the important men, his eyes still wide with disbelief, let out a shaky, bewildered laugh. "Can we talk about why, in our country, when it's just 1 AM and 2 AM, there's already some sunlight? Every day?" The question hung in the air, a bizarre, stress-induced non-sequitur that only deepened the unsettling silence.