The air thickened with tension as Rozhen faced down the six Presidroids, three Super Elites: Washington, Lincoln, and Teddy, and three Elites: Eisenhower, Jefferson, and Grant. Rozhen stood arrogantly, his form shifting like a glitching shadow beneath the rippling pixels of his stealth suit. He smirked dismissively at the mechanical warriors before him.
"These tin cans are the same as the junkbot I destroyed when I snuck aboard the Nightshatter," he sneered, pulling the visor down over his face, dissolving instantly into a distortion of air and shadow.
A ripple passed through the Presidroids, an unspoken pulse of shared memory and indignation. Teddy stepped forward, his normally calm optical sensors flaring briefly with suppressed fury.
"Is that right?" Teddy's voice was cool, almost dangerously soft. The air around him crackled subtly as his hands flexed, metal joints quietly hissing.
Rozhen attacked first, invisibly darting forward. Eisenhower staggered slightly from an unseen blow, followed swiftly by Grant and Jefferson. But they quickly recovered, assuming tight defensive postures. Rozhen struck again and again, invisible fists and knees landing precise but ultimately ineffective blows against the sturdy Presidroid frames.
Lincoln tilted his head minutely, speaking in his characteristic low monotone, though it now carried a lethal edge. "That's most of the data we need."
The instant Rozhen moved again, Washington's hand shot out with blinding speed, intercepting the assassin midair. Rozhen materialized with a gasp, clutching his abdomen, his camouflage flickering erratically.
"H-How...?" Rozhen croaked, bewildered agony seeping through his voice.
Washington stepped forward, eyes flaring darkly, methodically explaining in a clipped tone. "Simple. In those brief moments of your arrogant attacks, we analyzed your every movement, mapped your predictable patterns, and calculated every angle of your potential strikes."
Teddy joined the explanation, voice sharp-edged and unforgiving. "We knew you'd never strike from the front, knowing our speed would hit you on your retreat. That left you only a handful of possible attack vectors. The moment you touched us, you showed us everything we needed."
Eisenhower's metallic voice resonated coldly, finalizing Rozhen's fate. "You were doomed from your tenth strike."
Lincoln pivoted smoothly, spinning a graceful kick into seemingly empty air, but a sickening crunch resounded as Rozhen appeared again, partially phased and reeling from the devastating impact.
Lincoln's eyes darkened, his words heavy and ominous. "For our brother..."
A wave of suppressed fury surged through the Presidroids, their optics pulsing in a united, blood-red flash. Rozhen panicked, attempting to cloak and flee, but the Presidroids immediately locked formation, forming an impenetrable barrier around him. He spotted a small gap between Grant and Jefferson and desperately lunged for escape.
In an instant, Washington closed the distance as though teleporting, delivering a ruthless forearm chop directly across Rozhen's spine. The assassin collapsed again, howling in pain.
"We calculated a ninety-nine-point-four percent chance you'd attempt escape exactly there," Washington said chillingly, looming over Rozhen. "Make this harder, please. For our brother."
The Presidroids echoed as one, their voices a chorus of cold, mechanical rage: "For our brother."
Roy felt an involuntary chill ripple down his spine as the Presidroids slowly encircled Rozhen. Their steps, synchronized to perfection, were chillingly rhythmic. Even Brask's usually inscrutable expression twisted into a cruel, fascinated smile, sensing the poetic justice of what was about to unfold.
Rozhen, his stealth suit flickering erratically from the earlier damage, desperately scrambled to his feet, limbs shaking. His breathing came in frantic gasps as he assessed the tightening ring of Presidroids, their glowing eyes now narrowed into hostile, menacing slits. Rozhen had always relied on his speed, cunning, and stealth; direct confrontation was entirely foreign to him. The shadow that once struck fear into so many hearts now found himself completely exposed beneath the relentless, collective gaze of vengeful artificial intelligence.
"Enough playing," Teddy's voice rasped out in a digitized growl, eyes burning red with suppressed fury. "Show us everything you've got."
Rozhen's desperate fingers fumbled across his belt, triggering a small pouch on his side. He hurled tiny spheres at the Presidroids, each bursting open midair to release crackling bursts of elemental magic, weak flames and small jolts of lightning that danced harmlessly across the Presidroids' armored frames.
Washington's eyes briefly flickered with amusement before he spoke in a voice dripping with disdain. "Elemental magic of this level? Disappointing."
Eisenhower calmly walked through the feeble flames, his plating barely registering heat. His voice was icy, disdainful, as he shook his head in pity. "If this was your backup plan, we have overestimated you greatly."
Rozhen panicked, his stance wavering. He lunged forward suddenly, swinging his dagger wildly, blindly hoping to pierce or damage the seemingly impervious Presidroids. But Grant's mechanical hand intercepted him effortlessly, gripping his wrist with brutal force. Bones ground audibly under the Presidroid's iron grip.
"Predictable," Grant mocked coldly. With a swift, precise strike, he slammed his open palm into Rozhen's ribs, driving the air from the assassin's lungs. Rozhen doubled over, mouth gaping open, breath refusing to come as stars danced in his vision.
Lincoln stepped forward next, voice low and dangerous. "You ended our brother without mercy, without honor. We expected more strength, at least to justify our loss." His punch came as a blurred strike, a mechanical fist crushing into Rozhen's stomach, lifting him off his feet. Rozhen's visor shattered, scattering fragments of glass and plastic, revealing a bloodied and terrified gaze beneath.
"No , pl—" Rozhen choked, stumbling backward desperately as Presidroid Jefferson delivered an unflinching kick to the assassin's knees, forcing him to the ground in an instant. Rozhen's shriek of pain resonated clearly throughout the clearing, echoing in a stark, haunting chorus.
From Roy's side, Kaelor surged to his feet, practically roaring with delight. "Yes! Crush him! Make him feel every ounce of agony he deserves!" Roy glanced sidelong, mildly disturbed by Kaelor's bloodthirsty enthusiasm, yet unable to entirely disagree.
Brask watched intently, fingers steepled beneath his chin, fascinated and oddly respectful of the ruthlessness the Presidroids displayed. Eryndra and Zehrina exchanged glances, slightly unsettled, neither of them speaking. Even the now clear headed Warrex, typically unfazed, raised an eyebrow, watching in silence as the mechanical warriors exacted their cold revenge.
Cornered, trembling, Rozhen tried to retreat, but each time he moved, a Presidroid appeared to block his path, forcing him back into the punishing circle. His breathing ragged and labored, Rozhen reached into his suit again, pulling out a set of explosive runes, throwing them haphazardly onto the ground around him. The runes activated in desperate succession, each releasing small bursts of force and sparks.
Teddy tilted his head slightly, observing the pitiful display. "Pathetic. Do more. Do better. And do it now."
Rozhen, driven half-mad with panic, screamed in defiance, swinging his dagger in a final, futile attempt to defend himself. Washington effortlessly deflected the blade, snapping the weapon in half between his metal fingers, before gripping Rozhen's arm and twisting sharply. Rozhen's scream shattered through the forest again, echoing off the mountains, as his arm fell limp by his side, broken.
His desperation crescendoed into a final burst of reckless energy, Rozhen channeled a swirling orb of dark energy, the most powerful magic he could muster in his current state. The orb flew weakly toward Eisenhower, who effortlessly sidestepped it, voice dripping with mocking contempt. "Is this truly your best effort?"
Rozhen collapsed to his knees, the fight draining visibly from him. His entire body trembled in a mixture of pain, terror, and utter exhaustion. Lincoln stepped forward again, eyes burning with fierce intensity. He gripped Rozhen by the throat, lifting him off the ground, feet kicking weakly.
"We expected power. We prepared for a real fight," Lincoln whispered, face inches from Rozhen's bloodied visage. "You are a disgrace."
The Presidroids descended as one, a seamless wave of precise, punishing violence. Fists slammed into Rozhen's torso; elbows crushed into joints; knees collided brutally with exposed flesh. Every strike calculated, every blow deliberately painful and debilitating, each metallic voice whispering venomous satisfaction.
"This is for our brother," Washington intoned coldly, fist cracking ribs with each merciless strike.
"For our brother," echoed Eisenhower, hands hammering relentlessly against Rozhen's limp form.
"For our brother," the remaining Presidroids chorused darkly, an endless, ruthless refrain accompanying the dull, visceral sounds of metal against flesh.
Rozhen's terrified screams eventually gave way to hoarse, choking sobs as he futilely attempted to curl up, protect himself from the unyielding barrage. But the Presidroids granted no mercy, no respite. This was not merely combat, it was a systematic dismantling, a grim execution of cold, mechanical justice.
Minutes stretched agonizingly into eternity, the brutal symphony of violence echoing throughout the clearing. Finally, Rozhen's struggles ceased entirely, his limbs twitching weakly with each fresh impact until he hung limp, defeated, unconscious.
Teddy, face unreadable but posture triumphant, finally stepped forward. With a single hand, he gripped Rozhen's broken form and effortlessly flung him against a nearby tree. The assassin struck the trunk with a brutal, sickening crunch, sliding down into an unconscious heap of twisted limbs and shattered pride.
The Presidroids' eyes returned to their calm glow, their rage seemingly vented. They stepped back neatly into formation, walking silently back toward Roy's side, their vengeance exacted.
Brask quietly moved forward, kneeling next to Rozhen's battered form, checking his pulse carefully. His voice was unnervingly cool when he spoke, tinged with mild amusement and hidden admiration.
"Well, Captain Roy," he said softly, standing and dusting off his hands. "That was certainly… lively."
Roy exhaled slowly, feeling a wave of unease mixing with grim satisfaction. "He had it coming."
Greg Smith stepped forward next, confidently addressing Roy, voice brimming with anticipation. "Now then, Roy, are you ready for a repeat of our last tournament?"
Roy composed himself, forcing the grim scene he'd just witnessed from his mind. He met Greg's gaze evenly, nodding once with determination. "Limit yourself to your Earth-level strength, Greg. I've got no boosts or enhancements."
Greg smiled slightly, reaching for his mini auto-forge. "Fair enough. A rematch should be even footing."
As the Presidroids prepared the ping-pong table nearby, another base-model Presidroid approached Roy respectfully, extending a tray. "Captain, your sandwich."
Roy, momentarily jarred from the brutality he'd witnessed, smiled warmly, relieved at the return to something familiar, almost comforting. "Thanks, pal. After that display, I could use something to settle my nerves."
Taking a hearty bite, Roy glanced toward the table, gripping his paddle and savoring the familiar, reassuring comfort of his sandwich. He knew the day was far from over, but the Presidroids had made a clear, undeniable statement:
No enemy would escape justice.
No lost brother would be forgotten.
And no assassin would be spared the cold fury of artificial vengeance.