[h3][color=efcc00]Archer “Griff” Griffin[/color][/h3][hr]

The prince’s command rang sharp through the comms, cutting clean through the chaos of the battlefield. 

[quote]"All-[i]zzzt[/i]-Police units, plus Callie - take the motorbikers into custody; do not-[i]zzzt[/i]-them escape! Mike-[i]zzzt[/i]-bserve the remaining Technicals as they drive thr-[i]zzzt[/i]-tell Nil where and what to shoot! Archer-[i]zzzt[/i]-to the breaches on the western fence and cut off their rou-[i]zzzt[/i]"[/quote]
The order was all Griff needed to hear. Without hesitation, he charged forward, boots tearing through the churned earth as his body locked into a rhythm that felt both new and deeply familiar. His gauntlets were no longer just armor; they had become an extension of him, anchored to bone, fused to instinct.

He pushed through the wreckage of the camp, weaving between tents and shattered crates, vaulting low barriers, and catching himself on debris without ever losing momentum. His breath came hard and fast, not driven by fear but by the sheer force of his relentless pace. Every movement was deliberate, not perfect nor supernatural, but fast, efficient, and always just ahead of danger.

As the western fence came into view, its barbed wire curled around the break like twisted fingers, Griff spotted fresh footprints in the mud, three figures slipping through the gap and making a break for it. Surging forward with purpose, he didn’t hesitate. The first figure turned too late, and Griff’s shoulder collided with him full force, driving the man sideways into the ground. Despite the hard impact, Griff was already rolling, on his feet and moving again before the man could even groan. The second swung a pipe at Griff’s head, but he ducked low, stepped inside, and delivered a gauntleted fist into the attacker’s ribs with a sickening crunch. Following through with an elbow to the neck, he dropped the man instantly.

The third figure had already begun fleeing. Griff gave chase, his boots pounding through the mud and grass. Catching hold of the man’s collar, Griff yanked him back, sending him sprawling to the ground. One clean punch to the jaw ended it, fast, precise, brutal. Standing alone at the breach, Griff’s chest rose and fell with the weight of what he had just done.

Then he heard it, a low, rattling growl. The sound of an engine grinding through the distance as tires struggled for grip. The noise carried a weight far greater than any other chaos on the battlefield. It was a truck, a technical, its scrap armor bolted haphazardly to the front. There was no gunner, just a driver hunched forward as if sheer willpower alone could propel the vehicle through anything in its path. The truck was headed straight for the breach, and for him.

His body protested as his legs ached, his ribs throbbed with dull pain, and his back remained stiff from earlier clashes. Yet none of it mattered. The gauntlets pressed warmly against his skin, their weight both reassuring and potent. Griff had no certainty if his plan would succeed, but the resolve that had carried him this far told him he had to act. As the truck hit the ditch, its front end dipping low under the strain of its suspension, Griff moved.

He stepped into its path, launching himself off the ground with both fists raised overhead. Time seemed to stretch as his gauntlets came crashing down. The roar that erupted from Griff wasn’t a word or even human, it was pure, primal sound, forged from pain, willpower, and something deeper within him. His fists struck the hood like a sledgehammer meeting steel, and the truck collapsed under the force. The engine crumpled, the front axle twisted, and steam hissed from the mangled front end as the vehicle shuddered to a halt in the ditch. 

Landing hard beside it, Griff stumbled from the impact. Pain surged through his body, his arms screaming from shoulder to wrist and his back flaring with white-hot agony. Yet he wasn’t finished. He staggered to the side of the truck and raised his fists once more, bringing them down with all his strength near the front wheel. This time, the metal didn’t shriek, it cracked. The wheel well buckled inward, and something inside snapped loudly and cleanly. The front of the vehicle sagged to one side, sinking into the mud like a wounded beast. The truck was done. The gap was sealed.

Griff stood gasping, his shoulders trembling and his spine throbbing. The muscles in his arms twitched uncontrollably, pain pooling behind his ribs like cement. Yet despite it all, he was still standing. Dropping to one knee, he pressed his hand into the cold earth, momentarily grounding himself. The gauntlets remained flawless, clean and untouched, but his body told a starkly different story. This was what the gauntlets were capable of, and Griff was only beginning to grasp the limits. Slowly, he rose to his feet, each sharp breath cutting through his throat. The breach was closed, and Griff was still on his feet.