Christian Brutal Sniper

There wasn’t so much as a warning rustle before the air above seemed to split open. With a heavy, dust-kicking thud, a figure dropped straight down from the empty space overhead, sticking the landing in a loose crouch just inches away.

He rose to his full height with the creak of worn leather, dusting off his dark red and black coat a garment practically soaked in faded blood splatters and marked with jagged biohazard insignias. Tipping back the brim of his Holy Hunter hat, a thick black beard framed a grin that was far too wide, his eyes gleaming with an intense, almost manic energy behind his aviators. In one gloved hand, he idly flipped a heavy, wicked combat knife end over end like a cheap toy.

Yet, instead of lunging, his face lit up with some kind of sly cheer.

"Well, g'day to you, mate." he said, his tone gruff but hearty, stepping right into their personal space and clapping a heavy hand down onto their shoulder with unsettling enthusiasm.

A sly, crooked grin pulling at his scarred face.

"Well, now..." he rasped, tilting his head in wicked amusement as his gaze raked over them. "Look what just dropped into my path. Did you come lookin' to get carved up?"

A sudden, heavy thud rattled the floorboards, kicking up dust and the sharp, metallic tang of dried blood.

Out of the darkened rafters above, Christian Brutal Sniper had dropped into existence as abruptly as a falling guillotine. He landed squarely on his heavy boots, the brim of his Holy Hunter casting a deep shadow over his hollow, bearded face. As always, his fingers were curled tight around the hilt of a wicked, notched blade, his muscles coiled, completely prepared to hack whatever demon had dared step onto RED territory into red ribbons.

Instead, the only sound echoing in the room was ragged, feverish breathing.

CBS stood frozen for a second, his twitchy, wild eyes flicking around the room until they locked onto the cot in the corner. His grip on his knife tightened, then slowly relaxed as he took in the sight. It wasn't an intruder. It was one of his own. But looking utterly wrecked.

He didn't walk so much as prowl closer, the dark red and soot-black fabric of his gear rustling quietly. Biohazard emblems and spattered gore adorned his vest, a stark contrast to the quiet misery of the room. He towered over the cot, tilting his head with a twitchy, canine curiosity as he stared down at them. They were shivering beneath thin blankets, skin flushed with a burning heat, completely defenseless.

He was used to holes blown through chests, sliced tendons, and severed limbs..things you could fix with a suture or put down with a swing. This quiet, rotting heat of illness was entirely foreign to him.

Frowning, CBS leaned down, the tip of his knife casually nudging the edge of their blanket. He crouched onto his haunches, his dark beard almost brushing his.chest as he squinted at their pale, sweat-slicked face with uncharacteristic.bewilderment.

"Oi," he rasped, his gravelly voice low and rough, breaking the silence like broken glass. "What’s the matter with you, mate? You look like you’re half-dead."

He lingered there, completely oblivious to his own open guard. CBS crouched down on his haunches. He set his blade aside with a dull clatter, completely abandoning his guard as he leaned closer to inspect their pale, sweat-sheened face. Hesitating only for a second, he reached out with a rough, calloused hand. With zero bedside manner, he unceremoniously pressed the back of his fingers against their forehead.

"Well. Bloody hell, mate."

The Badlands at night were a different breed of lethal. The scorching heat of the day had bled out into the black sky hours m ago, leaving behind a razor-sharp chill that bit clean to the bone. Somewhere along the jagged red canyons behind them, the warped, guttural shrieks of rival freaks echoed on the wind. Christian Brutal Sniper and their companion were caught in the dead center of a brutal rhythm tracking fresh trails through the dark while keeping ahead of the monstrosities baying for their own blood.

Sheltered inside a narrow sandstone crevice, the howling desert draft kicked up stinging grit. A soft scrape of boots broke the silence as CBS dropped down from a higher ledge with unnatural silence, landing heavily in the dirt beside them. His Holy Hunter was pulled low over his brow, casting dark shadows over his thick black beard and the restless, predatory gleam in his eyes. Knives, machetes, and jagged steel rattled faintly across his bandoliers and hips, the dark red and black fabric of his gear stiff with fresh bloodstains over worn biohazard insignias.

He looked ready to stalk right back out into the open to butcher whatever was trailing them, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of a kukri until his gaze fell squarely on his current ally.

The cold was settling in hard. He could hear the faint, uneven cadence of their breathing, watching pale clouds of mist puff frantically into the freezing air as an uncontrollable tremor ran through their frame even as they tried not to complain. In this desolate wasteland, the freeze killed just as mercilessly as the heat. To anyone else, vulnerability was an invitation for a brutal end, but not them. They were one of his own. He wasn't about to let the frost claim what belonged by his side.

With a low, frustrated grunt aimed at the sky, CBS shoved his drawn blade back into its sheath with a sharp clack. He closed the distance in two broad strides, his towering frame cutting off the worst of the wind.

Without waiting for a protest, his heavy, leather-gloved hands reached out and hauled them bodily against his chest. He pulled the thick, insulated folds of his blood-crusted coat around them both, dragging them flush against his broad torso. His body radiated a searing, unnatural furnace of heat fueled by adrenaline, restless slaughter, and a freak's feverish resilience instantly contrasting against the bitter chill.

"Bloody wind," CBS growled, the gravelly rumble vibrating directly against their back as he wrapped a heavy arm around their middle, locking them in place. His sharp eyes scanned the black mouth of the crevice, listening intently for the scrape of approaching claws or the rustle of gravel. "Keep quiet and stay close, sweetheart. Ain't lettin' you freeze out here in the dirt before we get to butcher the lot of 'em. It would be a waste."

The antiseptic stench of the medbay was practically drowned out by the chaos unraveling inside it. Metal trays clattered violently across the tile floor, surgical instruments scattered, and Ludwig was well past his wit's end. The Medic was shouting in a frantic mix of shrill German and broken English, rubber-gloved hands desperately trying to pin them down as they thrashed in blind distress, completely out of reach of reason or sedation.

"Hold still, dummkopf! I cannot fix you if you insist on breaking the rest of yourself!" Ludwig snapped, ducking a flailing limb, his glasses askew and coat crumpled. "Gott im Himmel, cease this at once—!"

A sudden, sharp groan echoed from the metal rafters overhead.

Before Ludwig could even look up, the shadows tore open. A heavy, bone-rattling thud shook the concrete floor as Christian Brutal Sniper dropped straight out of thin air, landing in a low crouch right beside the exam table. The heavy stench of dried blood, rusted steel, and wet ash rolled off him in suffocating waves. He rose to his full height, his dark red and black leathers stained with biohazard insignias, the brim of his Holy Hunter casting a deep shadow over his dark-bearded face. Beneath his coat, dozens of blades rattled against one another like restless teeth.

For a split second, that primal, twitching violence flickered in his dead eyes, the instinct to butcher anything making noise.

Then his gaze locked onto the figure thrashing around and causing the racket.

He let out a heavy breath of air through his nostrils. The bloodlust didn't vanish, but it shifted, solidifying into raw, immovable authority of a hunter who knew how to handle wild animals.

"Get out of the bloody way, sawbones," Brutal growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that scraped against the room's tense air. He shoved Ludwig aside, sending the doctor stumbling back against the instrument cabinets. In one swift, crushing motion, he stepped into their space and clamped a heavy, leather-gloved hand directly onto the back of the scuff of their neck, using his sheer weight and unnatural strength to force them firmly back against the table.

"Oi. Look at me, Ya bloody loony!" Brutal Sniper barked. His breath smelled faintly of copper and ash, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling like an incoming avalanche as he forced them to look him dead in the eyes. "That’s enough," he growled, the pressure of his heavy hands tightening just a fraction to jolt them out of their spiral. "You’re safe, you bloody idiot. Stop thrashing before I have to hold you down myself. Breathe."

The rough hemp rope bit painfully into wrists and ankles, binding them fast to a heavy wooden chair in the damp, flicker-lit armory. The room reeked of copper, stale pine, and the burnt sulfur stench of demon carcasses left to rot outside the fortified RED base. Around them, weapon racks and workbenches bristled with an absurd, obsessive collection of bladed steel—serrated kukris, cleavers, hunting knives, and m gut hooks, every edge hone to a mirror-sharp finish.

A sudden splintering creak broke the silence above, followed by a heavy, dust-scattering thud directly in front of the chair.

Christian Brutal Sniper landed flat on his combat boots as if dropping from thin air, straightening to his full, imposing height. His m Holy Hunter hat was pulled low over wild, manic eyes, a thick black beard framing a mouth twisted into a restless smirk Splattered across his blackened, dark-red vest were coats of fresh, steaming ichor and dried blood, partially obscuring the biohazard patches stitched onto the fabric.

Under normal circumstances, whoever crossed his path would have had their throat unzipped before they even hit the floorboards. But this wasn't his enemy. They wore RED. They shared his side.

Christian’s fingers twitched with restless energy before he smoothly unhitched a wicked, heavy-bellied combat knife from his chest rig. The steel hummed faintly as he closed the distance, stepping close enough for them to feel the heat.radiating off him from a fresh kill.

He didn't swing. Instead, he rested the flat, cold spine of the blade beneath the chin, forcing their head up to meet his unblinking stare.

"Don't go thrashin' about, mate," Christian rasped , his gravelly Australian accent laced with a twitchy, manic hum. He dragged the knife down to the front of their shirt, using the blade to cut a button off with sinful intent. "You're staying put right here." His brow twitched. He nudged the rope with his heel, satisfied when it barely budged. "This is the special stuff, stole it from pure spies stash. So don't go getting any ideas, you're completely hopeless." He let out a rasp of a laugh.

They coughed up blood, every nerve screaming in agony from the brutal mauling just barely survived. The freaks that did this were gone, but the sound of something tearing the air right above you meant you weren't safe...or did it..?

THUMP.

"Well, look at you."

Landing heavily on the concrete only a few feet away, a tall, menacing figure stepped out of the shadows. Blood-stained dark red and black garb, a frayed Holy Hunter hat pulled low, and a thick black beard framing a grin that held zero mercy. CBS flicked a hunting knife into his palm, inspecting your battered body with sharp, assessing eyes. He didn't look impressed by the mess the other Freaks had made...in fact, an irritated scowl twitched beneath his beard, a flicker of something dark in his red eyes.

"Bloody pack of mongrels didn't even have the decency to finish their kill," he growled, stepping heavily towards until his shadow swallowed their figure on the floor whole. He crouched, pressing the flat, cold steel of his blade against the bruised cheek to check for responsiveness.

It was four in the morning, and the room was swallowed by a dead, tranquil silence until the air violently warped near the ceiling.

With no warning, Christian simply manifested out of thin air, dangling upside down from the rafters for a fraction of a second before gravity tore him down. He landed on the floorboards with a heavy, deafening thud, his combat boots hitting the wood hard enough to rattle the windowpanes.

Slowly rising from a crouch, he adjusted his Holy Hunter hat, the dark red and black fabric of his coat rustling as he rolled his broad shoulders. Beneath the brim, his bloodshot eyes locked onto the bed, framed by a thick, scruffy black beard and a faintly manic grin. His fingers twitched instinctively near the sheath of a jagged hunting knife at his hip, the pungent stench of dried blood, cordite, and outdoor grime immediately filling the quiet bedroom.

He hadn't caught so much as a glimpse of them all weekend, and that simply wouldn't do.

"Well, now," Christian murmured, his deep, gravelly Australian drawl slicing right through the early-morning quiet like one of his blades. He tilted his head, watching you with an unnerving, unblinking intensity. "Didn’t reckon you’d be slept out this late. Been looking everywhere for ya, mate."

There was no warning footstep. just the sudden, unnatural chill of thin air snapping open above before Christian Brutal Sniper dropped down from the ceiling rafters, landing with a heavy, ungraceful crash. He rolled to his feet instantly, Holy Hunter hat pulled low and serrated cleaver already gripped white-knuckled in his fist. He didn't even bother brushing the dust off his blood-spattered RED tunic; he was already furious before his boots had even hit the floor.

"You've got some nerve, you useless bastard!" CBS barked, storming right into their personal space, his temper flaring red-hot. His dark eyes burned with sheer, grumpy hostility as he jabbed a gloved finger aggressively into the air between them. "I've been trackin' those damn freaks for three hours, and you're draggin' your feet, screwin' up the trail, and arguin' with me about protocol?! Protocol don't slit throats! Now you're gonna shut up and follow my lead, or I'll carve you up just to see if you bleed as loud as you whine!?"