Goddamit, Mary thought. She tracked Canary, head squarely in the center of her cross hairs. She ducked and dived and moved as if she was the wind. Dodged one bullet. The next nicked her cheek and drew blood. The last blew apart a chunk of concrete as Canary rounded a corner, vanishing from Mary's view with a woman in toe and heavily armed men around them.

Pandemonium ensued below Mary. She stood atop a black SUV, and watched men and women in expensive clothes run and scream out into the night like frightened animals. The rain lashed at her face, making her black hair wild. She ground her teeth and glared at the Poppy Hotel, now going dark as light after light sequentially shut off.

Fine. If they want to die in the dark, so be it.

Mary slung the sniper rifle onto her back and pulled out a dual set of black Berettas strapped to her chest. Mary jumped down off the car and strode through the crowd like Moses parting the sea. She kept her eyes ahead of her, her grip on the guns so tight her knuckles turned white. She’d had enough bullshit for one day. Had enough of it for a lifetime. She had to stop acting like this was a game, like she had all the time in the world to hunt down the final five.

Her hunt had lasted far too long. Had taken far too many innocent lives on the way. It was about time she started getting serious, and it was about time she put a bullet through Canary’s skull.

The Poppy Hotel was engulfed in darkness as Mary stepped through the large doors. The glass had shattered from the sudden force of hundreds of people pushing against it in a frenzy to escape. Spartan! they cried. The devils are back! they yelled. And fuck, Mary thought. I can’t see a thing. It didn’t matter. The moonlight glimmering on the shards of glass illuminated just enough to see the shuffle of shadows on the balcony, around pillars and corners and crouched with guns at the ready.

Mary could taste the bitterness of apprehension in the air. She felt the uncomfortable heat of tension pinch her skin as she walked into the center of the lobby. Now, she was alone with the dangers in the dark. Alone with normal men and women who thought their plated armour and assault rifles would save them. That their silly notions of brotherhood would pull them through a battle they weren’t ready for.

At times like this, when the silence was absolute and her muscles burned with adrenaline, Mary forced herself to smile. A smile that reflected off broken glass and berated her for how wide and uncaring it was. It showed soulless blue eyes. It showed the face of a woman broken into a million pieces.

The glass crunched underneath her boot as she set off the first flash bang.

Gunfire exploded like thunder, and Mary dived behind a thick pillar, kicking a man in the gut and shooting him in the eye. She picked him up and used him as a shield as she charged forward. Round after round pounded into him, shredding him into bloody evisceration. Throwing his remains at a man, still wincing from the white explosion, she jammed his skull against the pillar and blew apart a chunk of his head.

She kind of liked the taste of blood that splattered onto her lips.

Mary ducked as bullets blew apart a piece of the pillar she hid behind. She counted ten men to her right, about five to her left behind a corner, providing cover fire for others slowly approaching from behind, and she spotted the glimmer of a scope on the balcony above.

Mary took a deep breath and did what she did best.

Tearing the pin off a large grenade with her teeth, she threw it to her left and shot it before it reached the men. Shrapnel peppered them, and as they reeled from the vicious eruption, Mary methodically picked them off. One in the head. Another in the knee and then the jaw. She grabbed another, forced his rifle deep into his throat and opened fire until his skull was a gory mass of brain and hanging bits of skin. One man, maybe in desperation, screamed and ran towards her with a large knife in his hands.

Faster than she expected, he sliced her arm, thigh, and cheek before she could react. She stumbled backwards, and was hit with an almighty round to her gut that blew the air out of her. Mary soundlessly screamed in pain, clutching her stomach. The man with the knife lunged towards her, and too winded to stand, Mary rolled over as he dived for her.

She heard the sniper reload his rifle.

Gasping for air, she winced as she just about dodged another knife attack. On the back foot, she lost ground and knew she was being herded to the group of ten men to her right. They weren’t firing yet, and Mary cursed them. They knew how to fight Spartans. How? The US government hardly did, but the Russian Mafia do? Force them back into a corner and overwhelm them before they could heal or think or fight. They wanted a clear shot, and the ducking and diving and weaving Mary did to avoid the blade that cut away her hair and drew long lines across her arms and cheeks made it hard to do that. Damn near impossible, even for her. All the effort and stress she was putting into her midsection felt like her torso was being torn open.

But the man with a knife was no Spartan. He couldn't do this forever.

Shame, Mary thought. They’ve fought Spartans. But not the Spartan who's killed them all.

Mary timed her attack. When the knife slashed through the air, she ducked, kicked his kneecap with enough force to snap his leg backwards, grabbed the knife as soon as his grip broke and it was in the air, and slit his throat. With deadly accuracy, she threw the knife at the sniper and watched his rifle clatter to the floor and his head snap back.

She glared at the ten men, thumbed back the hammers on her guns, and butchered them. Some eventually tried to run up the stairs, and Mary calmly followed, shooting them in the back of the heads. Others tried to fight, and she simply riddled them with so many of their own bullets as she darted from person to person, using each as a barrier. And by the time she was done and the final bullet shell skittered onto the blood slicked floor, she was panting, burning with pain, and furious.

They’d wasted her time. Where. Was. Canary?

Mary put a new clip into her guns and sprinted up the stairs, ignoring the pulsing wound in her gut. She used the pain as a distraction from the rancid smell of blood on her. Used it to stoke the flames underneath her so she could keep running down the infinite labyrinth that was the Poppy Hotel. So many corridors, each one of them the same. Dead end here. An empty hotel room there. A dining room. A ball room. And none of them were an exit.

Fuck! She punched a wall, leaving a fist sized dent in it. Where… Outside! She has to be.

Mary drew back a heavy curtain, and the sight of SUVs roaring to life greeted her as she gazed out of the floor to ceiling window. The trio of cars tore down the gravel path towards the sparkling city of Dolordiso, red taillights a trail in the darkness.

She took a step back and ran towards the window. Bursting into the air like a Banshee, the glass suspended in the air with her, her guns drawn, and her jaw clenched, Mary landed on a parked car, throwing glass into the air and denting the roof. Quickly hopping off, she threw the door open and cursed when she didn’t find a single key. She tore open the ignition, bit the wire ends until they were bare, and cursed again when the car didn’t spark to life. Of course. They’d probably cut the battery.

Get your head in the fucking game, she spitefully thought. Getting out of the car, she desperately searched for anything she could use. A motorbike. A car. Anything! But all she saw were cars with their hoods open and batteries missing. They'd riddled motorbikes with bullet holes, and all Mary could rely on was herself.

Mary had started this night frustrated, then she’d been angry, and now she was furious. Vengeful. Filled with red fiery rage that made her sprint down the hill impossibly fast. She tripped and fell in the darkness more times than she could count, but bounded onto her feet and sucked in air as her lungs demanded more. They ached in her chest. Her heart tried to tear out of her ribcage. And the grenades, rifle, and ammo strapped to her made it all the much harder to monitor the disappearing crimson taillights of the SUVs.

When she reached the town, the cars were specks in the distance, tearing down the road and forcing other cars off it. But that was good. Their tire marks and revving engines made them easy to follow. She saw a fat Latino man on a motorbike gawking at the black cars, and Mary took her chance. She’d explain later. Heck, she’d buy him a new bike, but it wasn’t the time for talk.

Mary threw him off the motorbike and leapt onto it, lurching forward and weaving through startled pedestrians. Ears filled by the screaming wind and the howl of the engine underneath her, she wildly grinned as her heart frantically pulsed and her grip on the bike tightened.

The cars neared.

She squeezed the throttle until the engine screamed at its highest pitch.

And when her front wheel almost touched the bumper of the SUV at the end of the three cars, it swerved, and Mary didn’t have the time to react. She slammed into a parked car, and she moved through the air like it was molasses. The handlebars beat the air out of her. She turned head over heels in the air. And time itself seemed to slow down. She had time to taste the sourness of blood in her mouth. Had the sense of mind to tuck and roll. And she felt the impact and heard the sickening crunch of bone as she hit the road.

Mary whacked her head against the concrete and rolled and rolled and rolled until she was aching all over and she couldn’t think right. When she came to a stop, the world was a blur and everything hurt. Blinking hurt. Breathing hurt. The thought of moving hurt so badly she almost let the darkness of unconsciousness take over her.

And she just about did until she started hearing the voices in her head again. You choose to give up now? To die on the street like the trash you are? You're going to die before you’ve even completed your goal, so what does that mean for all the lives you’ve taken? You killed and killed, just to give up now? The easy way out isn't what you deserve. You don’t deserve to stop now.

Get. Up.

Whimpering, she rolled over onto her stomach and pressed her knuckles into the road. Her arms shook with exertion, like she had several tons on her back. Everything hurt. Bones and joints didn’t feel right. She was so scraped up; she didn’t know whether it was her blood covering her or the blood of the men she’d slaughtered. Her arms buckled, and she collapsed again, and yet again, Mary forced herself upwards with the strength of someone with the impossible weight of guilt on her shoulders and burning resolve in their gut.

Mary took a knee and hefted her sniper rifle. Her vision wasn’t clear, and her hands weren’t steady, but she took the shot at the middle SUV as they rounded a corner. There she was, Canary. Her beautifully dark locks, those sharp, angular eyes, that brown skin that caught moonlight and made it glow. She didn’t shoot her directly, no. She shot the tires, and when the car sharply turned, it flipped and rolled and crashed into the side of a Spanish restaurant.

Swaying, she stood and dropped the now empty rifle. It clattered to the ground at the same time she reloaded her pistols. Mary dragged her right foot down the road, blood flowing down her forehead and forcing her to use one eye. Her left arm pained like it was being crushed. And Mary focused only on Canary, now trying to get out of the car alongside a pretty blonde woman.

The other SUVs stopped and armed men leaped out and shot Mary. She didn’t bother dodging; she didn’t have the strength. So she took the shots, and she fired several shots back. Ten rounds for ten heads, and now ten bodies laid on the street, dying the gray tarmac a scarlet so eye-catching Mary caught her ghastly reflection in it. Cut up. Bruised. Empty eyes and an even emptier, twisted smile.

Mary stopped in front of Canary, still trying to help the unconscious blonde woman. She looked down at her. At her large doe eyes and elegance and Mary couldn’t help but wonder, why her? Why the woman who got out of this entire life? How did she get away from it all?

Simple, the voices in her head said. She deserved happiness because she gave back to the world, where you take from it. Take, take, and take like a desperate, filthy fucking thief.

And Mary was here to take once again.

“Wait!” Canary said. “You… We don’t have to. Please. Just let me go. I will not fight you. We're sist--”

Mary shot her in the forehead. She watched her body slump against the car and knew she had to act quickly. Canary would heal soon enough, and she was one of the best. She probably was the best assassin known to any Spartan. She was quick. Mary was smart, but Canary was smarter than her. After all, her kill count was far, far higher than Mary's. Around a thousand, the last time Mary checked. The part that Mary feared the most was that none of the bodies had ever been found, army or otherwise. And Mary wasn’t sure if she could actually win a hand to hand fight with her, anyway.

Plus, the remaining Spartans would hear of this, and they’d be coming. They’d come to Dolordiso, and Mary wasn’t ready for a war yet. She’d hardly survived this battle, and this was just trying to get one Spartan. Let alone a Spartan who didn’t want to fight. But if Canary fought when she woke up, then Mary’s life would get a lot harder.

She swayed on her feet as a gust of wind rocked her world. Mary convulsed in pain as the adrenaline wore thin. As her heart slowed and the world became a muddled mess, she fought to remain on her feet. She wanted to sit down beside Canary and wait for the sun to rise. Wait until her wounds healed. But she couldn’t. She had to—

Mary dodged a silver arrow that cut so close to her neck that strands of her hair were neatly sliced. The arrow pounded into the twisted black steel of the car and came out the other end, slamming into the pavement.

She turned her head to see rooftops lined by dark figures in white cloaks. Too many of them to count. So many of them in the shadows and windows and crouched in alleys that they seemed to multiply right in front of Mary’s eyes. Their presence choked the air. The shadows receded, as if they feared them.

Mary’s blood turned cold, and she clenched her fists to stop them from shaking.

The Hunters of Artemis were here, and Mary turned to face them with a wry grin on her face. Fear made her smile. Terror made her twitchy and deeply scared. She wanted to run, but to where? Even if she was fine, she wouldn’t make it far. She knew they’d catch up to her eventually, but today wasn’t the day. Today was not the time for them to descend from the lofty darkness of the sky like vultures, eager to rip her apart.

Two figures stood in the center of the road, the streets now devoid of pedestrians smart enough to run away. One was taller than the other, but the shorter one held the large silver bow, notched with an arrow that could easily cut through Mary like she was butter to a hot knife.

“Stand down,” the shorter one called. A feminine voice. Regal. When she lifted her face, her eyes glowed gold like that of a wolf’s in the dark. “Though if you wish not to, then we will use force.”

“Oh, cut the crap,” the taller one said. He threw off his hood, revealing a man with brown skin and tied back dread locks. With gold metal canines and a glimmer in his eyes that told Mary he was a fuse yet to be lit, she stood stock still. She knew nothing of the hunters. Only of Artemis herself, and only whispers. Whispers that she wasn’t even real. That she was a shadow. That she wasn’t even a she but was an entity; an elite group of hunters almost as superior to Spartans. “Let’s just kill her here and now. Grab her whilst we can.”

“Apollo,” the woman said. “Stop.”

He stepped forward and brandished two black knives. They hummed with electricity as he flipped them. “C’mon. She isn’t all that. Look at her. Bleeding and staggering and oh, such a sight to see an apex predator so shaky in her knees. What’s wrong, Spartan? Do you fear us?”

Mary signed, where’s Artemis? That’s who she was afraid of. She’d heard terrible things. In truth, Mary hadn’t captured all two hundred and ninety-five Spartans. She’d stolen them from the Hunters and finished them herself. She was both a poacher and a hunter. But she’d found Spartans in a state of dismemberment so disgusting Mary had cried one too many times at night thinking about it. Spinal cords torn out of bodies with their heads still attached. Rib cages opened to expose organs. Sometimes they'd be strung up like puppets, with every bit of them on a wire.

And each of them would be branded on their still beating hearts with the bow and arrow symbol of the Hunters of Artemis. Mary would carve out that part of flesh and burn it. Spartans should die, yes, but not with the mark of their torturers still on their corpses. Their souls shouldn’t be eternally marred.

Only Mary’s should, and she was prepared for that.

“What did the bitch say?” Apollo asked.

“She’s asking where Lady Artemis is.”

He spat on the ground. “What, you don’t think we’re enough? You think you can steam roll us like you did these pitiful bastards?”–he kicked a man Mary shot–“Well, Spartan, you’re wrong. We’re more than enough for your godforsaken species.”

“Apollo, wait—“

The woman was cut off as he darted towards Mary.

She dodged his first strike, spun around, and kicked him into the side of a car. He crumbled to the ground, out cold.

Tell me, she signed. Where. Is. Artemis?

A gentle breeze flowed through the street, making her cloak buffet. She was silent for a long time. So long, Mary thought she hadn’t understood her. But, finally, she strung her bow onto her back and looked at Mary with those sharp, intelligent eyes.

She kneeled in front of Mary.

All the hunters kneeled.

Mary blinked, confused. What was going on? They didn’t move. It was like they were sculptures, with one fist on the ground and the other over their hearts. The woman in front of her had her face too low for Mary to read her eyes.

She didn’t know what was going on, but she took it as her chance to grab Canary, whose bullet wound was already healing and trying to push the slug out between her eyes.

Mary reached for her and paused when the tips of her fingers fell off her hand. She looked at her hand for a minute, confusion writhe within her, and then she yelled out in pain. The stumps of her fingers oozed blood down her arm. She shook with fear as she searched the hunters, but none of them had moved. That meant… meant…

Heels snapped on the tarmac to her right. Each sharp click echoed in the eerily silent night. The air stilled. The smell of smoke and the crackle of fire fell away. Mary couldn’t smell anything else other than the poignant scent of a perfume so strong her sinuses burnt and her eyes watered. No, not perfume. This was a scent she’d smelt before. Just once. But that smell had died along with its owner. That fragrance was an aroma only a Spartan could smell.

It was the smell of Number Three Hundred.

Mary turned to face the woman standing tall in the middle of the road. Hair white like fresh snow with a streak of red along it, her eyes a piercing blue sharper than the glimmering thread she wrapped around her fingers, dripping with Mary’s blood. She was stunningly beautiful. Artemis had the wild allure of thorns on a rose, of golden bullets in a loaded gun, of the serene smile a deadman wears as his body finally relaxes.

How… How are you…? Mary’s hands shook with too much pain and shock to finish her sentence. She was sure she’d killed her. She was the first. Mary could still see the long, jagged scar along her neck that curved up to either side of her ears. A second smile. No, the first and only. The woman’s large red lips did not move into a smile or even a frown. They pressed together like they held a secret. Like they held the perfect set of words to kill a man in one sentence.

“It’s been a while, Number One,” Artemis said. She had such a lovely voice, Mary wondered if she’d actually slit her throat. “And it’ll be my pleasure to make it our final meeting.”