The muzzle knife of the rifle dug into his neck, yet Mark didn't move. Richard's eyes froze in terror; he turned around and faced straight forward. Mark looked at him through the corner of his eyes.
The gunshot had sounded from the front. About eight people, completely armed, stood up, and the man who had fired the shot—their leader—nodded.
Two of the hijackers started to move towards the cockpit. There was a moment's pause, and then the sounds of shots being fired pierced the uneasy silence. Mark looked out from the corner of his eyes. The plane began to fall down. There was a small scream at this point, which was permanently silenced by another gunshot.
The plane got steady again. One of the perps probably knew how to fly the bird, or those shots were for instilling terror in the pilots.
Mark felt the pressure on his neck slowly vanishing, followed by a stream of blood that had emerged from his neck where the muzzle knife had pierced through his skin.
"NO ONE MOVES, or a bullet will move through your skull," the leader announced. People yelped, winced, but no one dared to move.
The man behind Mark had straightened up. His gun was now pointed at the crowd in front.
Drima slowly emerged from Mark's waist and made his way near Richard, where he seemed to articulate with Lena.
"I and Lena will act as messengers between you two. What's the plan?" Drima said.
"The main focus will be to get to the cockpit. I will do the fighting here. Drima, lend him daggers made out of ether. Richard will go to the cockpit. If the pilots are alive, kill or at least decapacitate the two men there. If the perps are the ones flying, come back and tell me," Mark said.
There was a moment's pause as Drima and Lena passed messages.
"He says, what if you get hurt? And also, he has no problem with killing terrorists. His father, who had sacrificed himself in the army fighting against militants, taught him that. Should he just kill them and hold the steering steady and ask for help over the radio?" Drima informed.
"Well, he—" Mark was just saying when a sudden cry of innocence and pureness interrupted him.
The baby of the woman who was sitting in front of Mark had started crying, and the woman couldn't comfort him because of the panic that had swept inside her.
"Kill them, you know I don't like loud bunches," the leader said nonchalantly.
"NO, please! He is just a child," the woman pleaded to the leader. She begged—no, she cried—yet the monster just scoffed.
The man behind Mark clicked his gun. The woman slowly turned, her face pale and livid, wet with sweat and tears.
It wasn't the time to plan. It was the time to act!
Mark channeled his energy. As the man aimed, he suddenly pushed the gun upwards with a jolt.
BANG!
The bullet pierced the roof of the plane. The terrorist lost his balance, and as he straightened, Mark shouted:
"JUST GO! Do whatever you need to in order to safeguard the cockpit!" he shouted to Richard.
Richard gave a swift nod and disappeared.
The terrorist straightened up and aimed at Mark this time.
Mark was sitting at the very last of the cabin, and thus he was safe from the gaze of other terrorists. But his shout had gotten rid of his element of surprise—not that he needed it much anyway.
The terrorist whom Mark had just interrupted was now aiming at Mark, his fingers pulling the trigger. But Mark had been in this situation before. He struck the man's elbow, leading to him losing his grip on the gun. Mark yanked the gun's aim, and the man pulled the trigger like he planned to do. The bullet pierced through the cabin and pierced through the head of the leader.
Everyone looked back to see who had taken the shots. Mark yanked the gun out of the man's grasp and struck an elbow up his chest. The man flew off his feet and struck the airplane roof, then fell unconscious with a giant thud.
Mark twirled his fingers. He rotated his arms, ether coursing through him, forming the weapon he was imagining. In the blink of an eye, there was a translucent throwing knife spinning around his index fingers.
The other officers aimed for his head. He ducked and slid the knife off his finger and threw it as hard as he could. The knife shot like a cork out of his hands and hit one of the men with crushing force in the chest. The knife pierced through him and the walls of the plane, leaving behind a hole in his target and the wall.
Three more!
Mark sped up and punched one of the men as hard as he could, protecting himself with an ether shield.
There was a loud crunch, and the passengers could swear they saw the ribcage of the man get deformed at the impact as he was lifted off his feet and smashed into the airplane wall, leaving behind a dent in the wall.
The terrorists were now the ones that were terrified. As Mark straightened up after the strike, he could feel the atmosphere change. The women were now closing the eyes of the young children, smiling at the man that might help them complete this journey and protect them from being sent on a journey to the afterlife.
Teenagers, though hiding their faces behind the seats, shouted some sound effects.
Mark caught on some of the hushed conversations between the kids.
"Did you see that?"
"So cool."
"Awesome. Pow! Bet that hurt," someone giggled.
The terrorists felt the domain of terror they had spread slowly vanishing, so they chose to instill fear again.
Suddenly, they moved. Their rotten minds seemed to think the same, because they did the same cowardly thing. They snatched up people from the passengers. Keeping a pistol on the innocent heads of the three hostages—which consisted of two senior citizens and a child—they started doing the hostage blackmail.
"NO one moves, not even you!" the man at the center shouted to Mark. "Move a limb, and I will move my finger. Keep that bag of tricks closed, or I will open this kid's head."
The child whimpered and winced in pain as the suffocating grip started to deprive him of air.
Mark put his hands up. It was more of a stalemate than a surrender, because he knew the moment any one of the terrorists moved, he would get the opening he needed.
"Richards, I could really use the element of surprise right now," Mark thought as he looked around the plane.
He could've just shot out massive ether thorns out of his palms at them if they weren't using the hostages as meat shields.
"Let them go. I have surrendered," Mark shouted.
"When did we say you're issuing orders here?" the man sneered. "Why delay? You all are dying here anyway. The only reason you're all alive is because it keeps us from getting downed by the Air Force," the man said.
"Hey, what's that behind you?!" Mark shouted.
"As if that would work on—"
Thud!
Richards had appeared when that man was explaining his reason for keeping them alive and had hit him hard in the head. A blow that was laced with ether knocked the light out of the man's eyes.
Richards proceeded to chop away the arms of the other officers with his daggers before they could take a shot. The kid kicked the men in the crotch, which made them lose their grip on the senior citizens, whom the kid escorted to their seats.
"Nice assist there, buddy," Mark said as he high-fived the kid and walked to Richards, who was now laying down the men he had knocked out.
"What's the situation?" Mark said bluntly.
"The pilots are alive. The terrorists had their guns resting on the ground. I put the lock back on."
"Did they not notice it?"
"No, I just killed out the sound. Thank Lena and me later."
"Alright, let's go to the cockpit. We're gonna drag them out by the neck," Mark said with a smirk.
The pilot's cabin was locked from the inside, and the hostess's chambers were locked from the outside.
Richards disappeared to open the cockpit, and Mark went on to free the hostesses. As he opened the door, a small green light appeared on the pilot's door, indicating it was open.
Mark channelled more of his energy. He broke through the door with a force and a noise that made everyone jump. The guns slipped out of the terrorists' hands, and passengers swore they could feel the plane nosedive for a few seconds.
Mark thundered into the room and lifted the perps by the neck. He turned to the pilots with a grin.
"Sorry for the commotion, sire. Keep her steady," he said, jerking his hand at the controls.
The pilots gave a soft nod, their heads sweaty yet relieved.
Mark and Richards escorted (more like lifted) the two men out of the cockpit and slammed them onto the wall. They fell unconscious and slid down against the wall.
"Good work," Mark said, dusting his palms at Richards.
"Well, it's not every day you get to be Yuusha's sidekick."
"Well, now it might," Mark said, grinning as he looked at the crowd, which was full of gratitude, respect, and remorse for the only person who had died.
Mark nodded at everyone. "Well, any other undercover terrorists here? Because if I see another casualty, don't blame me if your family or even the police can't find your bones." He smiled dangerously.
"Scary," said a chirpy voice behind him.
The boy who had assisted him was back, and the tension in the air shifted as everyone began to praise the kid for his help. He began to be bombarded with praises, candy, and even some money from the old people he had saved.
Mark grinned at him. "Be right back," he said to the kid as he heaved the motionless bodies of the terrorists to the back, tying them with an ethereal chain.
He turned back. Richards was sitting back in their seat, and the kid was there, but for some reason, the child that was laughing was now crying, safe in Richards' arms.
"Hey, hey, hey, what happened?" Mark asked the child as he patted his back.
The child started wailing. Mark knelt down, and the kid fell into his arms as he started wailing loudly.
"They—they killed her," he wailed on Mark's shoulder.