Striker X Novels & Stories

In the field, FPSG stood for First Person Shooting Game, which became bastardized, unofficial code across all branches of the military over the past hundred years for if you find a weapon, it’s yours to wreak havoc with. “We need to get those magic restraints off, first.” Knight eyed his team before he let his attention settle on Xander, who seemed way too tense. “They didn’t give you one.” “I told Lilia he was Strike Force, not an Awakaned. He’s not in our uniform. Guess she believed me for some reason,” Tanner explained before shrugging. “Guess I lied.” Xander and Kira were both Awakaned that's for sure, although he's still skeptical on what Kira's gifts is, he's sure that she has some pow

Emily felt a surge of pride watching them—they were her family, and together, they were unstoppable. But Xender demanded her full attention, and she quickly refocused on him as he launched a series of rapid strikes. Emily blocked the first few, but one slipped past her defenses, striking her in the side. She grunted in pain but didn’t back down, using the momentum to spin into a roundhouse kick that caught Xender off guard. He stumbled back slightly, a surprised look on his face that quickly turned into a grin. “Nice one,” he admitted, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You’re getting better.”

Finally, the moment of truth was upon them. “Do not rest the barrel—that will affect the fall of your shot.” “Yes, sir,” Jona replied, although Otto had said that many times before. “Aim for a strikethrough. If you can’t take the headshot, aim for the chest.” “Strikethrough” was Papa’s reference to a clean kill when a bullet enters the skull’s front and blows out the back—the same went for a shot to the heart. Accuracy meant slicing straight through the organ. A perfectly placed round entered at an exact angle and the mark was dead before they hit the ground.

The next building over, there he stood, leaning against his shiny, new, silver Jaguar XK coupe. The car had plenty of automotive sex appeal. It complemented him perfectly. Not too flashy, but high class and undeniably sexy. He wore midnight blue fitted dress pants, tailored perfectly to his fit physique and an ice-blue semi-casual, buttoned shirt, which complemented his striking blue eyes. The first three buttons of his shirt were undone, giving just a hint of sex appeal. His thick, dark hair was styled with a carefully undone look. His belt was understated, but with a stylish, clean rectangular silver buckle. His handsome face brightened when he saw her. The sight of him took her breath awa

If I am to see the world, I need to get stronger. I feel his stare on me. “Take a break,” X snaps. I get up from the ground, walking to the bag Emili had packed for me. X goes into the big ring. I study the movements of his back muscles, how big his arm is when he lifts up the tops, ducking down so low to step inside it. “This is a sand bag,” he turns, patting the bag. You're going to punch, kick, slap. What ever you can do,” X says, “to make sure it moves.”

The masked warriors begin to circle. Warrior 1 (under breath): "Take his legs. Make him crawl." Warrior 2: "Or let's see how long he dances." The first strike slashes his shoulder. Xavier doesn't cry out. He turns with an eerie calm. Xavier: "Who taught that move? You pivot like a drunk." Another strike. A boot collides with his ribs. Warrior 3: "He still mocks? Arrogant." Xavier (gritting teeth): "Not arrogant. Just observant."

Usually both. "So," Xavier started, a teasing grin spreading across his face like he'd just uncovered the world's greatest secret, "I'm gonna take a wild guess here and say this is all because of that stripper. Am I right? You've got it bad for her, don't you?" Something hot and protective flared in my chest. "You better stop it right there," I snapped, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. The words cracked like a whip across the empty space between us. "Don't call her that. She's not a stripper."

"Dr. Valerius is non-compliant. Engaging with stasis rounds." ​They didn't see Julian move. One moment he was standing by the shattered door; the next, he was a streak of violet-black ink. ​The first mercenary didn't even have time to raise his rifle. Julian’s hand—claws of shadow extending from his fingertips—ripped through the ceramic chest plate like it was wet cardboard. There was no surgical precision here. This was the raw, brutal strength of a man who had conquered eras. ​"Julian, stop!" I screamed, crawling out of the passenger side, my hands scraping against the jagged gravel.