A Strange Circumstance

Michael feels his eye twitching as he takes a good look at his surroundings. Soon he breathes out a reluctant sigh while pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, sensing a wave of headaches heading towards him.

"Great. Bloody great..."

He "died", again. Another Tuesday in this line of work. Although, it by no means makes this less pleasant to experience, albeit he no longer has the capability to feel any pain.

How many times is it now? He did lose count during the Vietnam War, where no end of speaking trees constantly ambushed him and his comrades whenever they travelled in the jungle.

Then again, the grim fact—which many seem to call a blessing—only serves to remind him of how further he is away from being human every day. There is a definite reason why folks like him are needed no more in this era. As somber as it seems, it always has been how the world works. The new eliminates the old, the constant evolution, usual things like that.

That said, shaking his head out of his train of mirthless thoughts, Michael starts focusing more on a more pressing matter: what, or whoever managed to put him in this state. Not that he is gloating, but he is confident to claim he is quite tough to be killed. Yet, with a gaping hole where his heart is supposed to be, that is when shits finally hit the fan.

Slightly frowning, he hums thoughtfully while closing his remaining functioning eye, recalling the events which led to this moment.

Which yields in absolutely nothing. If he has to compare, putting bluntly, the current state of his mind is no more than a blank and—rubbing salt to wound—wrinkled paper. Was his head hit that hard to guarantee an amnesia, or is this simply life screwing him over again?

Frankly, he could not care less. For it is what it is. There is no reason trying to overthink, or fume over the things which are out of his control. He found life a little easier to live that way.

Heaving a sigh through his nose, he moves his eye across the space, with his gaze growing more and more blank. White, from top to bottom and left to right, every nook and corner. A slight yet eerie silent consuming this place, always putting him on edge. Enough to let him hear his pulse drumming within him. As if there are countless eyes continuously watching, and judging his every moment.

Then, an echo, snapping him out of his uneasiness for this place. Soft footfalls slowly approaching him from behind, unhurried. The pleasant musky scent of wild woods filling the air, undeniably belongs to an animal. Still, an animal, here?

"Huh. What do we have here?" Michael turns around to face the creature, as he curves a curious brow with a smile. "Hello there, little pal. What're you doing in this godforsaken place?"

Here he is, looking at the wolf, a pup at that—a few months old perhaps—as the said creature tilts its head cutely. A curious stare. A little tail-wagging side to side steadily. A sniffing, as it nears his position. Before long, the inquisitive glint in the bright yellow eyes turns to something almost akin to... recognition? Have they met before?

"Then again, you're not the first wolf I've encountered... or worse, killed."

As Michael crouches on his knees, the wolf excitedly approaches him, wagging its fluffy tail faster with a happy bark. He softens his gaze, could not help but smile when watching the canid nudge its snout into his leg; a delighted rumble resounding from its throat.

"Well—" Michael gently picks up and brings the wolf to his face "—aren't you an adorable... lass? To be honest, your head seems somewhat smaller for a wolf. A wolfdog, perhaps?"

For the lass part? If the lack of a certain sheath means anything.

The wolfdog barks, beaming(?), and licks his nose, all the while wiggling its expressive ears.

"You know, you do remind me of a friend," Michael muses, prompts the creature to tilt her head and look at his eye. "A best friend, from a long time ago. Especially with those eyes of yours. I... do wonder if... Anyhow, just what're you doing here anyway? And why?"

He has a feeling his questions might never have answers. Similar to the nature of this place. After all, not everything can be explained by science.

His eye perks up the instant a blinding light flashing through his sight. Simultaneously, the canid let out a yawn, blinking its eyes. Exhaling lightly, he starts holding the creature in his arms like a baby, as she gradually closes her eyes, drifting off to the land of dreaming. She places her head into his chest, seemingly not minding the hole, before snoring softly. He has a fast sleeper.

"You're lucky I find you adorable, little pup." Michael chuckles. Before long he narrows his eye, moving his gaze towards the door which is materializing at the moment. A weariness glimmering across his face. He releases another sigh.

"Well, no rest for the wicked," he mutters under his breath tired, "and the dead."

Standing upright, while still holding the pup in his arms, he gives the place a final look, to which he shakes his head and starts taking gentle steps towards the door. He simply has no wish to wake her up. A part of him does not want to leave her here, alone by herself. But another realizes she might not be real in the first place.

Well, not that it actually matters in the slightest.

"Right, then. Here we go again."

He steps through the door, just as he fails to notice a pair of earnest blue eyes silently watching him from the beginning before they too vanish; with the door closing and the room seemingly shutting off the lights, gradually letting the darkness consumes everything.

====================

Michael draws up his eyelid with a grunt, feeling the unpleasant tenderness seeping deep into his muscle as he tries to move his body. Coming back from death is always not-so-enjoyable, putting it mildly. He takes in his breath sharply. The stench of blood and smoke slightly overwhelms his senses, much to his irritation. He grimaces, with a rumble escaping from his throat.

Credit where credit is due, however. Whatever, or whoever put him out of commission, they did come prepared—yet nowhere near enough. With another sigh, he closes his eye, focusing on the wound, the hole on his chest. The millions, if not billions of microscopic living machines dwelling deep within him get to work, patching him up. He feels his heart being reconstructed, his ribcage rebuilt, and his tissues reconnecting themselves to close the wound.

In no time, he reopens his eye, sighing in relief at his once again beating heart. He does not move nor stir. He ignores the stench of a fought battle. His nose inhales the crisp breezy air and earthly scents. His ears listen intently to the teeming lives surrounding and underneath him. His eye notes the warm licks of sunlight slipping through the crowns and limbs of imposing pines, bathing him with delight. When was the last time he has a chance to enjoy a forest like this?

Too bad a part of it must have been ruined. Most of his fights tend to get messy, after all.

As his strength slowly returns to him, he gets himself up. His hand planting against the soft surface of the ground, while the other rubbing his face. He puts his hand down, breathing out, scans his surroundings. However, bit by bit, the pleasantness on his face fades away, replaced by a frown. No signs nor traces of a battle, as though nothing ever happened.

Which is outright strange, if not downright disturbing. Most of his contracts ended up with many, many collateral damages due to the nature of his targets. Collapsed buildings, levelled roads, the whole shebang. To see this forest untouched, unpainted by blood—considering there was a large hole on his chest and numerous cuts and gashes on his body are still closing—it alerts him.

Something went wrong. The problem is he's not able to recall what happened, thanks to a certain amnesia. Though, he knows his target. But everything goes blank at the moment somebody chose to intervene, for whatever reason. Perhaps a backup? Then again, he might never know.

He does remember the chills going down his spines when his eye met that person. Does he know them? Questions; a butt-ton of questions with little to no answers.

"At least this is WAY better than having false memories planted into my brain," Michael assures himself, howbeit deadpanned. His voice flat, understandably unamused.

In the end, there is nothing he can do about situations he cannot control. So, he does something that any sane person would do:

He grabs a nearby branch and proceeds to stab it through his palm.

Oh. A little correction. He does something that any INSANE nutter would obviously do.

"Right. This is neither a dream... nor a simulation," Michael concludes, pulling the branch out of his palm. The same palm heals itself. "And I'm bloody stuck in a middle of nowhere. Brilliant!"

He drops the branch, pinches the bridge of his nose. This is one of the headaches that he foresaw back in that place, alright. It will be a matter of time before another arrives. Until then, he might as well enjoy his time here, close to mother nature. Because why not? His contract is pretty much a total failure; not that he gives a darn.

Might as well enjoy this brief moment of peace while looking for civilization.

Michael rises to his feet, dusts the dust off his tattered long-sleeved combat top and ripped pants, and discards the busted body armor, which is already damaged beyond repairable. He rolls both shoulder blades, cracking the stiffened joints, before doing the same with his neck, breathing out delightedly. Music to his ears, them joints being cracked and all.

The day is clear and brisk. The crowns of surrounding pines rustling leisurely, their limbs chiming in the wind. The same wind which is breathing into his face, waking him up from his earlier state of death. The same wind which is supplying his lungs with fresh and crisp air, vastly fresher than any air he has tasted before, rejuvenating him with energy.

"Now, where to go next?" Michael muses, eyeing his options before him.

It does not take long to answer his question, as his ears twitch slightly. He turns right, listening to the faint footsteps in the distance, humans', vibrating the ground underneath his feet. A surprised, fortunate turn of events. It appears life decided it screwed over him enough—which is great once for a while.

With the choice easily made, he starts heading towards the source of civilization, at the same time savouring the open air as much as he can before returning to the city life.

Speaking of open air, should he build a house somewhere in the woods when he retires? Granted, he has more than enough money to build one. Possibly a small cabin, large enough for him and his guest, should they want to visit. It will be a little lonely, but after everything that happened in the span of a last few decades, he needs some solitary.

Besides, his friends and family are all long gone. All he has now is some distant memories... Some faces too blurry to recall. Damn. He sure feels old now. To which he chuckles bitterly.

His sour thoughts come to a halt the moment he senses he is already close enough to the footsteps he heard earlier. Well, it was enjoyable while it lasted. Once he returns, it is going to be business again. Seriously, there is no end of works to folks like him. Even though he is no longer needed in this new world, it does not mean the government sees no use in him. For someone with certain sets of skills like him, it would be unresourceful to not employ him.

Hell, Michael would certainly do the same if he is in their position, admittedly. Not to mention—the pay is good, even if it mostly seems to be blood-money; he doesn't care though.

As Michael draws closer to the source of the footfalls, apparently belonging to a group of people travelling through this forest, his hidden thrill for not having to locate civilization blindly, with no proper sense of direction, soon turns into sheer confusion.

His presence also goes unnoticed, as several pairs of eyes turn to him. They stare at him shortly, then their lips slowly moving into grins. Malicious. As though they just found a prey.

How does he put this situation? A bunch of people wearing clothes like they are from the golden age of Vikings, arming themselves with actual axes and swords...? The said bunch is circling him from all side, except a boy looking no older than 16 standing far behind in the distance, wearing the same clothes as these... maniacs, appearing worried for him.

And is that alcohol in their breaths? Oh, good Lord. What did they drink? Even with all the dried blood and smoke covering him, they do reek, a lot.

"Well, well, well. Look what we have here?" the purportedly leader speaks up with an ear-to-ear grin, approaches him while unsheathing her sword. "Just got out of a fight, eh? Unluckily for you, my friend. But lucky for you, we can let you go unscathed... with a passage fee~."

"...Are you seriously robbing me, woman?" Michael asks with an incredulous raised brow.

"Robbing?" she shoots back with mock hurtful face. "Oh, no. It's simply a fee to guarantee your safety. We get to have more coins to help with our lives. And you get to keep your precious life! A win-win for both of us, won't you agree~?"

The now identified as bandits surrounding him place their hands on their weapon handles—as if trying to make a point.

"You're all fortunate I'm no longer my younger self," he mutters under his breath, before sighing tiredly when looking into the leader's eyes. "Look here. I have no quarrels with you and all your friends here. I'll not kill you. But if you wish to continue this—" his voice starts taking a deep and cold edge "—I assure you that you will all want to die instead. That's my promise."

The leader, in return, snorts. "You heard that?! Handsome boy here thinks he can take all of us, like some badass! Spare me the empty threats."

"In that case, it's a shame I'm going to ruin your pretty face."

"What did you just s—"

Before she can finish her sentence, however, the leader of the bandits is sent soaring through the air, startling everyone as they all take a step back in shock. The leader in mention crashes into a tree, planting her back deep into its trunks, as blood drips off her shattered nose, out cold.

"Wh-What was that...?!"

"Did anyone see him move?!"

"How was th-that possible?!"

"Don't blame me that me didn't warn you all," Michael says dryly with a raised fist. "Here is my last warning: leave, or prepare to meet a world filled with pains."

A bandit snaps out of his shock first, then growls. "Ch-Chop the bastard up!"

"Bad choice."

The bandits unsheathe their weapons and charge at him at the same time. He dodges one, returns with a cross to the cheek. He rushes to another with a flying kick to the solar plexus, drawing out a pained gasp. He steps back, avoids a horizontal slash before roundhouse kicking the temple. A lucky one manages to land a cut on his shoulder, which does not faze him. He delivers an elbow right to the face, breaking bones; the assailant drops to the ground with blood gushing out of his nose, joining the unconscious others.

"That should do it—"

"Die, you fucking bastard!!"

A blade pierces through his chest from behind. Michael stares at the weapon for a moment, then proceeds to let out an exasperated sigh and the blade. Hardening his hand muscles to rock-hard, he puts pressure on the blade, eliciting nasty crunches. Before long the blade snaps, with one half of it in his palm. He then feels the grip on the sword loosening as he turns around, facing the one he sent flying earlier.

The trembling wide eyes looking at him fearfully, as she takes step backwards when he begins to approach him, only stops when he corners the leader into a tree, her palms against its trunk.

"Wh-What... are you...?!" the leader rasps hauntingly. Her utter disbelief is written all over a once-pretty face, now broken and tinted in her red body fluid.

"What am I?" Michael hums, dropping the broken piece of blade, whilst the sword pushes itself, along the wounds closing themselves.

He thinks for a moment, before settling with a smile which sends chills down her every bone and fiber; her instincts screaming, telling her to run away from him as fast as possible. Run away from this man... no, this m-monster!

"Well," he continues, "you could say I have a real-life plot armor. Now, go to sleep."

Which her rolls to the back of her skull, before she promptly faints in her spot.

Michael merely let out an amused snort as he watches the leader slump down from the tree and plant her face to the ground. "Heh. Never gets old."

He inhales and exhales. He turns his attention to the boy who did not join the attack; and he has already put down his weapon, a sword, with both arms raised in universal surrender. The young boy gulps down a nervous lump when his eyes meet Michael's, understandably so.

"Relax. You didn't try to do anything to me, so I have no reason to hurt you, my boy," Michael assures, studying the boy. "Moreover, you do strike to me as someone who didn't like to be with these morons in the first place. Is my assumption correct?"

He gives him a weak nod in return.

"You know you can put your hands down, right?"

Which he immediately drops his hand, though his posture remains tensed. Michael simply shakes his head, approaching the boy, careful not to spook him—considering he literally obliterated the bandits and shrugged off a blade piercing through his chest like it was nothing. Things like those are not something the boy witnesses every day, after all.

"Well, my boy, I'm Michael. But you may call me Mike," Michael introduces himself with a small smile. "What is yours, lad?"

"B-Bjorn, sir!"

"Sir?" Michael raises an amused brow. "That kind of makes me feel old. Then again, I could be considered as an ancient, given how long I've lived."

"S-Sorry..."

"Now, now. Relax. I'm not going to hurt you." Michael offers the boy a kind smile, which actually manages to let him relax his stand a little. He casually continues. "Now, please hear this old bone out for a moment. This might sound odd, but... where exactly am I?"