Of damn, well course Hades would cause trouble in this way. From behind cover, Keaton could hear Hades aggravate and call out the patrols in the two rooms. He couldn't tell if guards came from both rooms, but however and whoever was coming, they ran quick. Daring not peek his head out, Keaton lied in wait, calming himself, slowing his breath, checking the magazine in his gun. Six shots before he would need a new mag. Hades looped the corner, giving him a wink. Next came the guards.
Three ran straight ahead and after Hades. Those three would be his work in this job. One of the patrols seemed to stop at the turn and set up for firing some high-power carbine. The remaining two were unaccounted for. Keaton hypothesized they were watching the heavy gunman's back. All of this was thought and more within the passing of a fraction of a second.
I stood in a gray room with metallic walls. Of course, this isn't the real world, simply a projection of my thoughts in an easy-to-understand format. On one wall was a green outline of me, holding the gun in the exact position as before. Before coming here? It mattered not. Panning up above my outline, I saw a light, providing illumination for the gunman with the carbine. He could be shot with my personal gun, right in the neck. The rubber could pierce into, but not through his skin, knocking him out. If not, then the shock would give me a chance to take his gun and kick him unconscious. The issue lies with the other guards, then. Keaton tried panning around the corner, outside of his view, but could not see. Only the physical realm was his limit to planning. Without being able to know where the guards were, he couldn't plan. Perhaps Hades could knock them out. Yes, that would work, should he return in time.
Keaton re-entered full consciousness, again bewildered at his power. But amazement could wait. As he heard the gunman slowing his breath, Keaton turned the corner and shot the man. However, he wore armor. As expected, the man was dazed at being shot, though physically unharmed. In that chance, Keaton rushed over, kicking the man right in the face and grabbing his rifle before turning back around the corner after hearing the other men shout at him. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Damn it all," Keaton said, holstering his pistol, knowing the next step. The pistol would not fire quick enough to take the two experienced foes out. Tears began to well up in both eyes as Keaton flipped the safety, turned the corner, and fired away.
Bullets entered the guards, leaving a red spray behind them, as if a sign for him to stop shooting, but he could not. These men were dying by the movement of simply the finger of a boy. Keaton cried out, his voice cracking as he continued to shoot at the air, now, the two men bleeding out. When the magazine was emptied, Keaton stopped for a second, watching red pools gather by the gentlemen. They were out to kill him, but that is their profession, not Keaton's. If he had time to use his pistol, they wouldn't be dead. The rifle flew along the ground after Keaton threw it. He clawed at his hair, as he leaned back on the wall, falling to the floor. They didn't need to die. He didn't cry any more; the sound would draw guards. For worse, his suffering and self-loathing was internal.