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The first mark that came about on his left palm appeared small and unassuming, bearing resemblance to a ink blot. No matter how long he let water run over it the stubborn stain refused to vanish. Brushing it off during that time as he had a busy day ahead. He only realized too late when those marks began to surface on other parts of his body with small raised portions of skin, resembling vines, snaking across the surface of his body.
Now, HUNK stood stooped over his bathroom sink, his hand hovered over to the straps of his FM12 which he began to unbuckle. The balaclava came off next as he did a sharp intake of air, somewhat relieved to no longer be breathing within the confines of that mask. A scarred face stared right back at him through the glass, his paler complexion had become even more noticeable. The mercenary wasn't much for managing his looks but the drastic changes on his body had him somewhat intrigued — his hand ran down a particularly large bruise on his neck with morbid curiosity. Next, he felt at his face to confirm that no other marks had developed there overnight, unconsciously tracing a couple scars he sustained from previous missions. He couldn't exactly place a finger on which job in particular he got it from, most of them had begun to blur together from how monotonous they had become.
Lowering his free hand, HUNK stared at the gloved palm where the unassuming mark had manifested itself. His heart sank the minute it was exposed. It covered nearly his entire palm with the bruise having spread further down to his forearm and elbow. A sigh of relief left his lips when he curled his hand into a fist, continuing to repeat the motion of furling and unfurling. The previous day he nearly smashed one of his glasses while in the process of retrieving a drink, the appendage in front having gone mostly numb. Out of desperation, he had even made an incision a couple hours earlier in hopes that the pain would bring back some feeling to it.
A loud buzz as his phone nearly threatened to slide off a table, he shot a glare toward it though made no effort to pick up whoever was calling him. He already had a good idea who it was in the middle of the night. HUNK could only scoff, he really couldn't enjoy a moment of peace these days, even during his supposed breaks. The mercenary had only just gotten off a mission, yet the interior of his own apartment brought little respite. Mission breaks only served to increase his restlessness — a colossal waste of time now that he knew what was to come. Yet, part of him had accepted the grim reality that not much was going to be changed even without him sitting on his ass.
Slowly, his gaze drifted over to the open window as he overhead the loud traffic coming from the outside. HUNK stuck his head out with his eyes darting around, getting a good look of the various people still wandering the streets. It was only eight in the evening, at least that's what he read on his watch the last time he checked it, so it was far from the dead of night. Random civilians just living out their lives not plagued by constant worrying that they could drop dead at any moment. He never had much of say in where his own life would go. The mercenary could feel his chest tighten. A twinge of envy as he continued to stare out. Not now, HUNK couldn't just forego everything after how far he'd come along, it was out of the question.
The mercenary's vision swam as that familiar wave of nausea struck him. Clamping a hand over his mouth, he keeled over the toilet. HUNK clenched his eyes shut while he felt that acidic sensation on his tongue before he expelled the contents of his stomach from that earlier dinner he had. Quickly flushing the toilet as he slumped against the wall, his chest rose and fell in an irregular rhythm while he rasped for air.
HUNK could only hang his head low in shame, he hadn't' felt this pathetic in a long time. He was at his wit's end. The past having come back to bite him back in the ass, the mercenary had only assumed he had completely left Raccoon City behind. Memories of that cursed incident, the countless deaths and destruction that he had a hand in, he swore under his breath while he sat on the cold floor. Even with all that protective gear he had worn on the day and the countless decontaminations after each job, he felt even more idiotic for having assumed he was in the clear. He thought he had done nearly everything right yet here he was. HUNK mused that his all luck had probably been drained over the years with each grueling mission he had barely pulled through. It had to expire at one point. Of course, he was aware that death was inevitable to all. It was a matter of when, but he never guessed it would end like this for him. Slowly rotting away at the mercy of this unknown infection.
A bead of sweat dribbled from his forehead before it plopped onto his lap, the top of his uniform clung to his torso completely damp. HUNK found himself snapped out of his line of thought as the mercenary was drenched in a cold sweat. He began to undress, his eyes caught glimpses of the black marks that littered his chest which he attempted not to dwell on for too long. Changing into a gray tank top and some loose sweatpants.
Why am I still alive?
His attention landed on his belt which he'd casually tossed to the side, the karambit still sheathed. The fluorescent lights above bounced off the surface of the blade when HUNK slid it out from its leather confinement, causing him to involuntarily squint as the glint hit those green eyes of his. It glided across the skin, positioned right above the jugular, no blood was drawn yet. With a shaky grasp, he pressed the knife harder against his neck. Biting down on his lip in the process to suppress a shudder as the ice cold steel sent a chill throughout his body. Feeling a warm viscous liquid travel down his neck, he didn't know what went through his head as a loud clatter sounded.
The knife rested on the sink, small specks of blood dotted the white surface. That familiar burning sensation arose at his neck area. HUNK's fingers felt at the now closed wound — he had stopped before any real damage had been done. But why? A vacant look in his eyes as he stare at the blade in front, the small object seemed to tempt him to pick it up once again. Yet, he couldn't follow through.
HUNK suddenly barked out a dry laugh, a strange sound to his ears, one that he rarely let out. The whole situation was hopeless. Even if he did follow through, the laceration would have closed up in a matter of seconds. The various viral enhancements that coursed through his system, which had saved his life multiple times during missions, was now his greatest undoing. His body was in a constant cycle of destroying and rebuilding itself, prolonging the infection which initially sounded like a blessing in disguise, but HUNK knew it was only there to make his inevitable death more drawn out and excruciating. The mercenary was fighting a losing battle that he couldn't willfully withdraw from. The irony of the situation superseded the earlier bleakness he had felt, a temporary distraction from the pain while his lips tugged back to form a wiry smile.
Another thought crossed his mind, if there was a god up there, he contemplated this was likely some divine punishment. Comeuppance for his sins and complacency for thinking there was a light at the end of that tunnel. With everything he's done, the chance of any sort of absolution had diminished. He knew better than to have any false hope, the notion only leading to further disappointment.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he shoved the door open to take a step outside the bathroom. HUNK stumbled through the spartan interior of his living room toward the kitchen as he halted by a wooden cabinet. Without much care, he hastily grabbed a whisky bottle and a glass to carry back to the dining table. HUNK thought to himself that it wouldn't be too costly to let himself go for tonight, he felt it was deserved seeing as he was dying soon. Swiftly filling the glass with the amber liquid before he took a large gulp, wincing slightly at the strong taste.
In the corner, the television was switched on with a male news anchor droning on about today's occurrences. He didn't know why he had picked that channel in particular but the silence in the room was considerably more dreary than that nasally voice on screen. The incessant buzzing of his phone came about once more from the bathroom. With his brows furrowed, he fumbled for the remote on the table to turn up the volume. HUNK's ear picked up on a few sentences, the topics mostly dull as they concerned about today's weather forecast and a robbery, with the remaining of what was said being drowned out by his own thoughts.
The mercenary knew he couldn't do it himself, the way his hands shook back in the bathroom out of hesitation. He hadn't anticipated that fear would grab his heart at the last second. It came to him as a surprise, with next to nothing to live for, why was he still so stubborn to stay alive? HUNK thought that when his time would come, he'd accept death with open arms, yet earlier proved otherwise. The mercenary seldom took time to ponder what was potentially on the other side. He was beginning to doubt that even dying would be a true escape from his troubles.
The Grim Reaper. A nickname that had been given to him by his various colleagues and employers, his very presence in a mission being a bad omen. Now, even the harbinger of death needed a reaper for himself.