“Oh I’ll do more than hit you, son. I plan on fuckin’ killin’ ya.”
The large man was now inches away from Johan, rot and beer on his breath. With a quick awkward motion he grabbed Johan by the scruff of his woven shirt and lifted him off the ground, other hand moving backward in what Johan only assumed was a windup to a nasty left hook.
As he followed through, Johan felt the grip on him slip just enough to pull up his arms and slip out, landing on the ground, dagger (strategically removed as he fell) in hand. The motion was so quick the large man lost his footing on the follow-through, stumbling a few steps to the side as he regained his balance.
To Johan it was still a blur, the alcohol winning over the adrenalin rush, but the speed and power were with him as he brought the blade about. His right hand sliced across the shadow of his assailant. He felt no resistance as he moved, and at first, he thought he had missed the mark, but then there was a howl of pain and the sound of something hitting the ground with a thud. Johan jumped back, and from what little light he had to work with, he saw the dark man hunched over grasping his arm.
With the next turn to the left, Johan saw he had no arm left to grasp. Now the sound of blood hitting the ground in spurts was audible as the man stumbled back in agony.
No way! thought Johan. No way did I just do that. I didn’t even hit him!
But the proof was right there. He had hit him clean just below the elbow. He even could make out the arm on the ground, fingers and all.
“Take his fucking head!”
The others rushed Johan. The adrenalin began to win what battles it could over the booze and he ducked down, spinning between them like a seasoned dancer.
Screams of something unintelligible (and likely murderous) echoed behind him when he turned to run, and he knew he was in a race for his life. If only he had a way of knowing where he was. Johan was constantly afraid of running into a post or a person or something. Any idea would…
*BANG!*
Something very loud and very close exploded behind him. It threw him off for a second and he hit a bench on the street side, causing him to tumble. Limbs flailed and skin burned as it hit the packed dirt ground. In moments his pursuers were on him, stomping loudly as they came to a stop.
There was more light here, spilling out from local homes. In ribbons of illumination Johan saw what appeared to be a gun in one man’s hand. Basic firearms were still widely used, though not often, as the ammunition was difficult to come by. This man didn’t have a regular gun. This man had what illogically looked like an Ark 1 high-energy confined-beam pulse gun, a small but very powerful handheld weapon that used unbelievable amounts of power to produce a razor-thin beam of compressed energy for less than a millisecond, more than enough time to create a long and damaging stream of particles that could cut through almost anything with explosive results.
This was ridiculous. He had to be seeing things in his drunken haze because although they were once very popular, Ark 1s were long gone from these lands. They were as foreign and frightening as any mechanical beast that populated the army to the south, but here it was in the hands of an unkempt attacker in a small town, right in front of his eyes.
“An Ark 1? How the hell did you get an Ark 1?”
The gun made a low grumble as it leveled at Johan’s face from a few paces back. “Shit, son, you have no time for questions after that stupid little stunt back there. You’re lucky it’ll be so clean.”
A soft click and the grumble stopped, followed by the brightest light and the loudest bang anyone who had witnessed it had ever experienced.
-----------------------
He had been afraid he’d be hard to find. Doubly so when night fell. The hustle and bustle of this lively town made it that much more difficult when he and his gimpy companion sauntered into town in the late afternoon. Asking around was quick to yield little results. Everyone was too preoccupied with leaving as soon as possible to answer him. It was incredible how much this place had changed in so little time.
Aryu’s first thought was to make it to the bar. Should he be here, he’d likely follow the plan. Gods knew he needed a good drink himself.
The trip back to here had been quiet and disgustingly uncomfortable. Esgona did nothing but hang his head and hobble along, refusing outright to be carried aloft by Nixon (which was fine by Aryu. Fools walk). That had added unnecessary time to the trip; however, Aryu was pleased to see the limp didn’t hold him up much. He’d clearly had the wound long enough to be comfortable with it, and even though he was so hang-dog, Aryu suspected that a large part of Esgona refused to yield any more perverse satisfaction to Aryu. Bullies never enjoy losing a battle, emotional or otherwise.
Aryu kept his mouth shut for the trip, talking to neither Esgona nor Nix unless the need was urgent. He had nothing more to say to Esgona, but Nixon seemed to be lost into himself. Something within Aryu told him that he was not free from fault in that
