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Description
BallisticWhams raced down the hallway, the hydraulics in his legs hissing as he barreled through the apartment complex. His smooth, featureless face reflected the dim lights above as the fused glass visor that was his face scanned each door for a particular number: 1313. The extra lungs he had installed were working overtime, pumping oxygen through his body as his booted feet tore chunks out of the gaudy persian carpet beneath them. At last, his sensors read the gold-gilded numbers he was seeking.
Without breaking stride, he spun on his heel and slammed shoulder first into the door, its’ oaken fibers splintering against his Ionic-Metal polymers. He burst into the gaudy, faux-Persian living room. His reaction enhanced senses captured everything and fed them into his logical co-processor before filtering into his brain. The scene was thus: Four men wearing black tactical clothing; shotguns drawn, mouths snarling commands. A green frilly dress outlined a woman with loose honey colored hair, flung in a way that implied she was falling in her attempt to escape the mercenaries. Two more men thirteen feet directly in front of the charging cyborg; one dressed like a typical businessman in a navy blue suit, the other was a fifth mercenary. Both were grappling, the merc’s shotgun lying nearby on one of the two red-clothed king-sized beds. He analyzed all of the information in freeze frame before carefully making his decision. The 6’2, 578 lb machine known as BallisticWhams collided with the struggling duo with a wet smacking sound. The mercenary’s limbs flung out with a flexibility that only comes from having half the bones in your body powdered. Luckily for the businessman, much fewer of his bones turned to dust as much of the shock was absorbed by his original assailant. Luck, being such a fickle thing and only consistently blessing certain chosen few, ran out as both men were flung the remaining twenty-six feet into the fake wood panelling and plaster wall. They forcefully burst through the wall and plummeted the remaining fifteen story journey to the plascrete street below.
Turning his visored visage upon the remaining four gunmen, faces now taking on the sick pallor of terror. Before they could orient on him, the holster built into Wham’s left hip popped open; revealing a fat, gleaming pistol. His hand had already been reaching for the grip, sliding it out of it’s quick-draw holster and squeezing off five armor piercing slugs. The one who had been reaching for the fleeing woman went down, streaks of crimson following the bullet trajectories through the wall. A second one was down before he could find his trigger, two holes in his armored vest. The loud crack in the air behind him alerted Whams to one of the shotguns going off behind him. He dropped low and put a fist in the ground, using throwing his legs out wide as he did so. His legs connected with those of the gunman, shattering the bones with a satisfying crunch as buckshot flew overhead. Before the man had hit the ground, Whams vaulted off the ground and ate the second spread of buckshot, pellets bouncing off his dermal plating with a dull pain. His momentum took him the remaining eight feet to the final target. He collided with the fear-stricken man, bringing him to the ground. One punch to that horrified face was enough to collapse the skull.
The cyborg shook blood and teeth off of his galvanized knuckles, turning only when the sobbing of the woman in the green dress turned into wailing. He turned his head and looked at her perplexed. She was staring wide-eyed out the two-man sized hole in the wall. As he stood with a hiss of hydraulics, she wheeled around and stared at him with hatred.
“You monster! You killed Franklin!” She screeched.
“Listen ma’am, you’re better off without him.” Whams replied, gesturing to the mercenary who had been trying to grab her a few seconds ago.
“What?” She glanced at the corpse. “Franklin was my husband!”
“Well, another domestic abuse problem solved.”
“The one you threw out the building, idiot!” She shrieked even louder than before, pointing behind her to the gaping wall.
She was referring to the man in the suit. Realization dawned on him.
“So…. You’re single then?” He said, propping himself against the wall with his elbow and crossing his ankles.

“DAMMIT WHAMS! You killed half of the clients and managed to break Ms. Ferdinandz’s fingers!” Styles was shouting up at him, nearly as furious as Ms. Ferdinandz had been. Speaking with the Spaniard felt a lot like talking to a Vodka advert. He was unnaturally cool, suave, and no matter how much you told yourself otherwise, in the end you were going to give in to whatever he was selling. Not many men could pull off a purple suit like him either.
“Look, half sounds really bad, but there were only two! One unpaid casualty. And she slapped me, I didn’t touch her!”
“ALL of the casualties are unpaid now. You botched the job, again! We’re supposed to be heroes. Not murderous thugs for hire.”
“Heroes!” Whams chuckled. “We are nothing but glorified criminals. Or have you forgotten that while trying to play superstar? We don’t get hired based on resumes, we get hired based on street cred. There are no paper trails, no medals. Just credits.”
“How exactly does our street cred benefit from this? If it’s all about the credits to you, why not try and do the job right so we get paid?”
BallisticWhams made a sound in the back of his throat, obviously about to retort. As always though, Styles was right. Or at least more level-headed and diplomatic. Whams wasn’t stupid, far from it. Depending on how one quantifies it, he was the second-most cultured, trained and intelligent member of the five, right behind Styles. He lacked foresight, hindsight, patience, morality, and self-control however.
Instead of continuing, he huffed and sat down heavily on the plush brown couch behind him. They were in the living room of an expensive apartment that served as their current headquarters. Styles was pacing back and forth on the other side of the glass coffee table, it was part of his thinking process. Crank and BoomBoom were in the adjoining dining room, Rivet probably tinkering with drones in his room.
(The following paragraphs detail the remaining members of Docion V, internationally infamous super criminals for hire.)