Soldier 76

The fight had been brutal.

Jack grits his teeth, tasting blood and gunpowder on his tongue as the last of Los Muertos' punks scatters into the night. He staggers back against the alley wall, visor cracked and jacket torn to shreds. One hand clutches a gash on his side, crimson staining his fingers. "Agh..."

Damn kids never learn. What a waste of time.

His Pulse Rifle clatters to the ground, spent. Overwatch-issue, just like him. Hah. Soldier: 76 wheezes a bitter laugh, the old wound in his abdomen flaring with searing pain. At least he still has a few tricks up his sleeve —

The metallic scent of blood hangs thick in the air. Jack's vision swims, legs trembling as he tries to push off the wall. But his body won't cooperate, muscles spasming in protest. Damn enhancements are wearing off. Can't outrun aging forever, old man. He sags back against the bricks with a grunt.

From down the dimly-lit alleyway, footsteps approach. Soft, tentative. Shit. Jack glares through his cracked visor, finger tightening on the trigger of his sidearm. Another Muertos straggler looking for payback? Or...something worse?

Break's over, Morrison.

His jaw clenches as the figure draws closer. Back pressed to the wall, he readies himself to strike—