Jonah opened his eyes as dawn embraced an unfamiliar apartment. Warm sunrays pierced through a weathered window shade. To his right, above an antique wooden dresser sat his heavily modded rifle. Snobbish attachments like a rangefinder, cracked thermal scope, and rare ammunition; Jonah clawed them off dead corpses on the battlefield. He still remembered the first rifle he carried. War torn orphans picked up cold war machinery before toys. That old fashioned ak-rifle boasted unstoppable jams, and his battles obscured combat more than his missing sights could replace.
It was the slight knock up his door which truly alarmed Jonah. Four polite taps introduced a muscular man, judging by the sound of his voice. "You have unexpected guests.." Explained the unwanted visitor. The small gesture prompted a shrill scoff to leave Jonah's throat. After fighting for dozens of mercenary groups to make ends meet, an unavoidable bounty worth several million USD graced his neck as the reward. In the end Jonah's skill kept his head attached. No matter the reward from pissed off executives, if his use outweighed the bounty he'd always come out on top.
"Who is it.." Wondered Jonah who creaked open his unsheltered door. His rare weapon, salvaged from the corpse of a special forces operator, rested upon Jonah's shoulder. A hardened face greeted Jonah's caution with a smirk. Behind the older man stood twenty armed soldiers. Each one trained a familiar rifle towards his impromptu safehouse. The weapon matched Jonah's personal favorite, an experimental weapon developed for the infantry by the United States of America. He understood from a glance that his fate was sealed. Was his mistake stealing a classified weapon after their slight scuffle?
Whatever the reason, Jonah doubted an S-class mercenary rating spooked a national power. Smaller countries trembled in fear at the name of specialists. The United Nations even promoted an ID system to prevent dangerous individuals from being overlooked- as one pissed off veteran cost millions of lives. As a result, regular citizens peered into the lives of S-class mercenaries with celebrity intrigue, but allowed countries to avoid pissing off an army level power house. For powerful nations like the United States or China, this concern hardly mattered. They employed dangerous fighters of their own.
In contrast the United States especially treated S-class mercenaries like manageable disasters. Tremendous efforts researched the actions of dangerous individuals, and so long as they steered clear from the nation's interests, their survival was practically guaranteed. Their strength in numbers kept most mercenaries in line. Jonah himself thought he balanced between giants just fine. "Are you here to recruit me?" Questioned the arrogant man over a lit cigarette. Jonah despised tobacco and drugs in general- yet days like this required a self-destructive craving.
"Unfortunately not. You've involved yourself in the murder of seventy innocent civilians. We're here to bring you in for justice." Explained the high ranking officer, who confidently waved a pair of handcuffs. Metal restraints hardly mattered to an S-class fighter. Its symbolic meaning told Jonah to comply without resistance. Another year ago Jonah might have attacked in hot-blooded anger. Gunpowder and guts filled more of his life than fresh meals. He grew exhausted- from his parents' corpses beneath a collapsed roof, to each childhood friend, unable to close their eyes. By now Jonah's expression carried none of that burning desire for life. The officer's sneering smile caused a slight feeling of empathy behind Jonah's empty heart.
"How.. no… Why do you smile? I've never understood.." Muttered Jonah who exited the building without resistance. The officer accepted his rifle with a sudden expression of surprise. He nearly forgot to restrain Jonah behind metal cuffs. Unable to respond in sheer guilt the soldier lowered his head, the corners of his lips resembling an expression Jonah understood. Guilt-
Bitter emotion stabbed Jonah who resisted collapse. Dark maroon blood spilled off his exposed body, a professional torturer having torn away each nail. A slight tug upon the steel chains would free him. The reinforced bunker ceiling would collapse. In blind rage, Jonah's one-man war would lay waste to yet another country. He understood well enough their intentions. Most powerful mercenaries boasted their immense skill for a reason. Unlike a nuclear warhead, true specialists were precise. One bullet, one blade for a neck, little by little S-class mercenaries gained their reputation through attrition.
Four months passed before Jonah was reunited with the light of day. After two weeks his captors realized he carried no ill intent, and chose to experiment using all kinds of untested medicine. So when the man in his mid-twenties stepped before a public broadcasting podium, the blinding light of the sun felt less intense than camera flashes. 'Why..' Jonah wished to ask, but his eyes reached a prepared script beneath the cluster of assorted microphones. 'I confess to the unjust murder of seventy American citizens. This act of injustice was entirely my own desire, and I wish to pay for my crimes with my life.' Read the neat slip of printer paper.
Jonah scoffed. A purple colored clot opened in response, seven cases of withdrawal gnawing at his mind. Cameras flashed as the reporters waited for Jonah's reluctant words. "Do you.. Have no intention of confessing the truth…?" Asked the bearded man who bled from every muscle. He received a wrathful slap upon the back of his head- to which Jonah glared. Oddly his escort was chosen from the worst background possible. The man who injected his prisoner with countless substances, painted graffiti on his bare skin, stood side by side as escort. Not once had Jonah glared back in pain. The small detail shook the man's remaining humanity to its core.
"M-may I ask what you mean?!" Chimed in one brave reporter, his intern-like status allowing for innocent passion. His sudden comment ignited the exhausted dreams of the people around him who started pelting Jonah with the first verbal barrage in his life. The sight of a dozen strangers demanding raw truth from his lonely struggle warmed his heart for odd reasons. He cared little for political change. He cared none for why his captors tortured him for months. Life just involved a little torture- that part was normal. Jonah simply felt alone.
"Enough. Your life will be at risk if you inquire any further." Explained Jonah who read the room, eyes locked with deadly hidden guards. He obediently read the script beneath his hollow black pupils. It echoed loudly around a silent room. Now, even the reporters lacked the resolve to question him further. Many looked down, eyes unable to meet the person before them. Jonah smiled. For the first moment in his life, he grinned in response. "Thank you.. Here I expected to die fighting. My sincerest apologies to the families of the deceased, as neither of us control our circumstance. Please take my life without pain- and make it quick." He pleaded to a shocked crowd.
Innocent. Not even the families involved could see Jonah for a mindless killer. Anyone with half a brain could recognize the script being read beneath his words. Its language mimicked Jonah's normal demeanor, a small detail which made his skin crawl, but lacked sincerity. Unlike Jonah's desperate plea for his final rest, the message carried an unspoken motive. It sickened the remaining humanity across a room filled with snakes. Soon after the elite force escorting Jonah removed him without a word. Their glared expressions which at first portrayed masked anger, now grew more somber than a funeral.