Bloodhounds. The name rang hollowly in his mind. Kyle shook his head as he exited the shuttle into the spaceport of his homeworld. Ten years he had spent training for this moment. Ten years of hard, rigorous, physical training, electronics, and Mechanized Exoskeletal Combat Armor, or MECA, combat instruction to avenge the murder of his father. The Bloodhounds had all laughed maliciously as they fought against another mercenary outfit here, on Keos IV. During the battle, his father had been trampled to death by the mercs' forty-foot MECA hardsuits while trying to save his family from destruction.

Now, finally, Kyle had tracked down the last of the three remaining Bloodhounds who had survived down the years to this planet. It was somehow fitting that the Bloodhounds would die, here, on the world where the new vengeful Kyle Grale was born in his hatred for them. Kyle could see their gloating faces in his mind's eye, cruelly laughing as they slaughtered enemy and bystander alike. Those faces were here, somewhere.

Kyle continued down the corridor to the storage facilities. He had stored his hulking, full-bodied, eight-foot softsuit in the belly of the shuttle along with the luggage. Only through illegal means had he managed to sneak it past the security measures of every spaceport he had visited while hunting the 'Hounds. The suit was relatively small, compared to the usual ten to twenty foot softsuits. It was a quick, fully armed and armored protective suit, used to enhance the pilot's strngth and agility. The suit's metallic black and grey super-steel body was waxed and polished and ready for action. He quickly checked to make sure each joint was well oiled and flexible, then shipped it out before the security guards got curious about it.

He checked into a hotel and settled down in the local club to wait out the day. When night came, he could go hunting. The club was full of teens around his age, all rocking and dancing to the heavy beat of whatever band was playing at the moment. He ordered a drink and looked around. The number of adults was slowly growing as the club began to play different music. Then, he saw them. His eyes locked onto the small group that just entered. The group consisted of three people: a boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, a lady, obviously his mother, and a man. Not just any man, but one of the original 'Hounds that had killed his father. Kyle maneuvered closer to the group and listened in.

"Harry, honey, do you think we should bring Timothy to a place like this?" asked the lady.

"Oh, Trish, don't worry. We're only stopping here for a second while I meet with some friends. Then we can be on our way to the hotel." The man walked over towards a tiny table in the shadows where the remaining two 'Hound members sat unnoticed. They all greeted each other warmly, and the man introduced his wife and son. "I met them on our last visit to this world," he remarked fondly. He still remembers, the bastard! I'll bet he remembers killing my father, too! "This is Ryan and Keith. We've been part of the pack for as long as I can remember." They chatted for a little while, obviously catching up on the past couple months. Kyle paid no attention to the trivial information, but listened intently as the family, and one of the men mentioned their hotel rooms on the fourth floor of the Kilbourne. They got up and left, with Kyle silently following them out of the club.

The night was darker than Kyle thought it would be, and he could just barely make out the silhouettes of the group as they strolled down the road. Kyle followed them, making sure he knew which hotel they meant, then returned to his own hotel room. He did not see the last Bloodhound following him.

There, he slipped into his softsuit, and started it up. Quickly, Kyle made his way to the Kilbourne, sticking to the shadows. The family had already gone up to their rooms, but Kyle could make out the figure of the single man on the fourth floor through his night optics. He knew the family was also on the same floor.

It was late at night in the hotel lobby. Kyle dodged quickly into the elevator shaft, raising the alarm of the security guards and personnel alike. The elevator rose up like a shot to the fourth floor, with alarms ringing everywhere. As soon as the elevator door opened, Kyle quickly turned on his skimmers, skating down the hall towards his targets. Curious guests peeked out at the sound of the alarm, quickly ducking back into their rooms as they saw the metallic gleam of a black and grey softsuit filling up the corridor.

Kyle turned the corner and quickly burst into the room to his right. The man was in the process of dressing to find out the reason behind the alarms. The surprise of Kyle's MECA bursting into his room was evident on his face, even after he was neatly lasered through the forehead. Even before the corpse hit the ground, Kyle was darting out the door, just in time to watch the other man usher his family down the stairwell. Kyle skated forward and picked the man up by his collar and burst into another empty room. He could hear the shouts of the man's family and the man's frantic cries for mercy. "MERCY!?! Did you show my father mercy before you deliberately stepped on him?" The man frantically denied deliberately trampling anyone's father, pleading for his life, and for the lives of his family. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Why should I spare you for your family when you did not spare my father for his? Your death is at hand!" Kyle grinned savagely as he jumped out the window of the hotel room, loosing his grip on the man. He slowed his descent with his skimmers while the man plummeted to his death.

Suddenly, he was slammed backwards into the wall as a laser took him full in the chest. He looked incredulously at the small softsuit aiming a laser pistol at him, the last Bloodhound alive. "You will pay for that and my father's life with your own!" screamed Kyle, barely coherent with rage. Kyle dropped down the rest of the way, breaking his fall with a nearby car. He hadn't realized there had been people in it until he heard the cries of pain coming from underneath his feet. He brushed it off. Now was the time, the event, the moment of his revenge. His rage was insurmountable. Nothing could stop him!

He rolled neatly aside, accidently knocking over some bystanders, and dodging fire from the other MECA. "Who are you? What do you want with us? Why did you kill my friends?" yelled the man into his radio.

"Don't you remember me?" Kyle screamed. "No, of course not. You wouldn't remember a simple child like me. You were too engrossed in stamping out the enemy to notice the bystanders ground under your feet as you fought the Arctic Hawks!"

"Arctic Hawks? That battle was ten years ago. We were forced to fight in the middle of an urban area, full of people. There were some casualties, but we couldn't help it. We saved thousands of lives on that day!"

Kyle returned the man's fire, some of his shots taking out more cars, others blowing holes into store windows. "Lies! You maliciously murdered my father and hundreds of others. For them, you will DIE!" Kyle ducked under the return fire and launched himself at the other MECA in a flying tackle. He began to batter at the head of the other MECA, who futilely tried to protect his face. The faceplate cracked and shattered, and the man's eyes widened as Kyle dropped a small thermal charge into the suit with him. Kyle quickly jumped away and watched as the suit ignited into a billowing cloud of flame, hungrily licking towards him and the crowds. Pride swelled in his soul as the victory overtook him. He had avenged his father and his fellow townsmen.

Then, as if for the first time, he took notice of the destruction around him. Innocent bystanders lay torn apart by lasers and flying shrapnel. Others lay motionless, crumpled against the walls of shattered buildings. Cars were on fire, and the crowds were struggling over each other to reach safety, trampling under their feet those unlucky enough to fall. He looked up towards the night sky and saw, amidst the beautiful stars and the softly lit moon, a destroyed hotel room. Framed by a broken window, a boy's tear-stained face stared down at the body of his father, arms and legs at unnatural angles amidst the wreckage of a car. He stared at the enormous devastation and ruin surrounding him, and fell to his knees. Tears ran down his face as the sweet taste of victory and revenge fouled his mouth. In the distance, police sirens began to wail.