“The Flying Bucket” had never been much in its life. It had started its existence shortly after the First Burning Steel War as a small cargo airship like thousands of its kind. A Stateless family had put it together, scavenging engines from destroyed biplanes and tanks from some great battle or other where the Fakonans and Lunists had duked it out.
It was a squat, barely aerodynamic hunk of welded steel and brass. New panels were added nearly every other flight, as it required improvised repairs to keep it afloat. When it flew, it resembled a giant broken bottle. However, since the entire world was hungry for supplies and goods of all kinds to rebuild itself after eight years of bitter, industrial warfare, The Flying Bucket had two distinct advantages:
Namely, that it could fly and it could carry some quantity of goods. Furthermore, its sheer ugliness meant that it had never even once been attacked by pirates, despite being active during the “Golden Age” of air piracy. Because would such a flying shitbox have anything worth stealing?
Therefore, it had generated its owners a surprising amount of wealth. And when the thing finally gave up the ghost at a Mamalokat airdock and wouldn’t fly again no matter how many spot welds and lubricant they applied to it, the family just couldn’t bring itself to scrap it. So, they chopped out all the useless bits and turned it into a restaurant.
And here it still was, some 100 years later. Not run by the same family, yet the spirit was still very much alive.
Of course, the spell was broken when one looked through the portholes. The artificial snow of Eiskat faintly resembled clouds, yet that’s where the familiarity ended. Neons adorned nearly every building taller than two stories, a bright pastel of ferric colors assaulting the eyes, which coalesced into a dirty glow the color of filthy bathwater.
Louise leaned back on the bench, which tried to conceal its quality by taking on the appearance of barrels with crates as a backrest.
The food was served straight out of the pan or in worn-looking brass bowls. Yet the chicken parmesan she was having was doubtlessly better than anything the hapless airman who’d called this bucket home had ever eaten.
The tigress was eating slowly, yet even so, she had already finished half her meal. She glanced at the entrance. It was the early evening of a working day, neither lunch nor dinner, so there were few customers.
“Where the Gehl is he?” Louise muttered, lighting up a cigarette to burn away her anger. Now that at least, the tigress was fairly certain the airmen of old had done plenty.
“Relax, Boss, he’ll show up. He always does.” Oh-One said, gleefully dousing her fries in yet more ketchup. The caracal didn’t bother with the fork, grabbing the fries with stained, greasy fingers. Her head fur was dyed deep red and black today, which matched her studded band jacket.
She was the best undercover cop the MKPD had ever had, Louise thought: no one would have thought in a million years that she was a cop.
“Yeah, but not when there’s something this urgent. Flip is the kind to be late for his monthly drug checkup, not intel that we needed yesterday.” Louise replied.
“Gimme a sec.” With that, Oh-One went stock-still, her unblinking eyes seeming to have tiny stars running across her amber pupils. If Louise would have looked close enough, she’d have been able to see that they were tiny lines of code running across them. She snapped out of it ten seconds later, releasing a tiny gasp like she’d resurfaced after diving into a pool.
“He’s right outside. Wait’s over.” With that, she reached for her third energy drink can that day and drained it. Every Forted knew the importance of consuming caffeine to not stave off fatigue or worse after using their powers. But Oh-One hated coffee. Too bitter.
Indeed, the maned wolf showed up a few seconds later. He pushed open the brass double doors, shivering in his parka. A waiter asked him if he’d like his coat and bag taken and reached for his briefcase. The poor deer almost got a smack from said briefcase for his troubles.
Flip kept marching towards the two detectives, almost every head in the restaurant turning towards him. He dropped the briefcase on the table with a loud thunk.
“Was the marching band unavailable today?” Louise hissed. “Fire a flare gun into the sky, I think that corporate airship above Ektore Street didn’t notice you.”
“Shut up. Shutup, shutup, shutup, I need to relax.” He was breathing erratically as he sat down heavily, his blue eyes watery and blinking constantly. His disheveled fur both looked and smelled like he hadn’t washed in days.
The waiter approached, keeping a six foot distance from the interloper.
“Would the uh… gentleman like-”
“Green tea and digestive biscuits.” Louise ordered for him. “And honey, not sugar, he clearly doesn’t need any more stimulants.” The waiter jotted down the order then jogged away, grateful to be away from the newcomer.
Flip fiddled with the briefcase, trying to input the code and failing several times.
“Were you followed?” Louise asked in a whisper. Flip shook his head violently.
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I felt followed, but… look, let’s just get this over with!” The CI said in an equally low, yet far more erratic tone.
It was dead obvious, yet Louise felt the need to state it anyway.
“Have you been using again?”
Finally, Flip got the briefcase open and began laying out its contents on the table. Two folders and a memory spike.
“There. That’s all I could gather. The texts are mostly shipping manifests and-”
“Answer the damn question, Flip!” She snarled. The canine shrunk back in his seat, not making eye contact.
“Khudur’s balls,” She shook her head. “I thought we were over this. You were over two months clean!” She sounded more disappointed than angry. “If you show up doped out of your mind, I don’t know if your intel is legit or some narcotic-induced fever dream. If this happens one more time, you dumb junkie fuck, I’m taking you off the CI program and-”
“Shut up!” His lips had formed into a yell, yet he caught himself, only getting the attention of the arctic wolf couple at the opposite table who seemed to be strongly debating moving seats.
“I haven’t slept in three days.” He said in a low, yet menacing voice. “I snuck into places no one is supposed to go to. Some of my oldest friends are starting to suspect I’m a rat, and they’re fucking right! This morning, Marcelo embraced me out of the blue, but he only did it to feel me for a wire. And I wasn’t wearing one only because I forgot to put it on! So excuse the fuck outta me if I felt the need to take a load off!” He kept his voice down, his hands shaking from rage and drug withdrawal. He covered his head in his paws, rubbing his eyes aggressively. His eyes were a pendulum between all the various exits. Louise had seen it before. He was losing it.
The waiter arrived with the tea, served in a brass steam reheater kettle, then leaving as quickly as he could. Flip didn’t look up.
“Flip…” Louise said. “Flip, look at me.” Quivering, moist blue eyes beneath a spiderweb of veins looked up at her.
“What did the waiter just bring you?” The scrawny wolf blinked at her in confusion.
“Wha-”
“Say it. In as much detail as you can.”
He leaned back, looking at the tray.
“H-he brought me tea.”
“That’s good. What kind of tea?”
“G-green tea, I believe. Served in an old school steampowered kettle.”
“Good. What else?”
“Biscuits. Six of them. I ate at this place before, they usually bring five, but I guess they thought a number divisible by three was better.”
“Good observation. There’s one more thing he brought. What was it?”
“Honey. Three packages. 5ml each. And a-” He stopped. He now realized that his voice had completely stopped quivering. He snorted and looked at the two women.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“A trick my old captain taught me.” Louise explained. “When you feel overwhelmed, take a step back and analyze your environment. Force your brain down a new pathway with busywork.” She picked up the folders and opened it up. “So, what do you have for us?”
“The Cartel is a divided powder keg right now,” Flip said. “On one side, you have the loyalists convinced that Cazador attacked Rodrigo’s drug operation last month. Almost everyone who worked under Cazador, however, doesn’t believe it. So, when the Boss had Cazador killed in prison last month by getting a couple of mooks to douse his cell in gasoline and set it alight, it made a lot of powerful people unhappy.
This has allowed Toxtilio, Cazador’s former top lieutenant, to gain a lot of power really quickly.” He opened up another folder and spread a few pictures around. They depicted a lean caramel-furred jackrabbit, tall for his species, with half his face mangled. A long scar bisected his now absent left eye all the way down to his chin. His left ear was likewise sliced in half. It looked too neat for something from an accident or a fight: a punishment.
In spite of his small stature, his small dark eyes elicited a malice few mammals could match even through the grainy pictures.
“I know of him,” Louise said. “First hired as a hitman by the Cartel. No one sees a rabbit coming. Until he fucked up a job and his boss gave him the facelift. Then everyone saw him coming. So he had to go into a more administrative role by necessity and climbed up the food chain from there.”
Flip nodded.
“Little grass-feeder scares the living shit out of me. After he heard that Cazador died, he took his place and almost immediately stopped giving his share to the Boss. He sent hit squads to some of the Cartel’s fronts for forcible takeover, and now both sides are gearing up for war. The Boss sent a squad of sicarios to take out Toxtilio.
He and his bodyguards killed all but two of them. He then hung up the survivors on meathooks in his basement and called us all to watch. He also set up a camera to record to send to the Boss. He then stuffed a sock into each sicario’s mouth, then he took a chainsaw and… he began carving the first guy up.
Joint by joint. First the ankles, then the knee. Little shit had to use a stool to get to the waist, guy was a jaguar.” Flip did something between a cackle and a sob. “Then he did the same to the arms until… until he was just a torso.
The other guy, he was lucky. He thrashed and screamed so much that he swallowed his sock and choked to death. There was so much blood you could taste iron…”
Tears began streaming from Flip’s eyes. He gripped the table, feeling its texture.
“It’s solid oak. Old. I’d say it’s probably even from the original airship.” He mixed in some honey and tasted the tea. “It’s got something else other than mint. Something nutty and sweet. Coriander, maybe.”
The two detectives stood in stunned silence. Louise decided to busy herself by reading the documents.
Louise looked each page over briefly, yet fully, committing it to her perfect memory. Her particular Forte was both a blessing and a curse. So many things she wished she could repress… she was just glad that Flip didn’t have it.
“Since I mostly work accounting for these bastards, I was able to get all that intel,” Flip explained. “Photocopied shipping manifests, handwritten notes, orders, the works. Since both sides are gearing up for war, they need guns and gear. Not the kind you can get from your Mom and Pop sporting goods store. Automatic weapons, explosives, armored vehicles, the works. Damn near every gun runner in South Nyter is working overtime to fulfill their orders. These fucks wanna start The Third Burning Steel in this city.” He nodded to the M-spike. “That is all the computer data I could gather. That’s where most of the incriminating evidence is.”
“Good work, Flip.” Louise said, closing the final folder once she’d stored it all in her memory to peruse later. “You probably saved a lot of lives.”
“Not bad for a dumb junkie fuck, right?” He sneered. Louise sighed, feeling a rare pang of shame.
“Look… Philip,” He flinched at his real name. “I’m sorry. I put you under a lot of stress and gave you a great burden. One that damn near anyone else would have collapsed under. But you didn’t. You pulled through. And this is the last thing I will ever ask of you. I’ll see about getting you into a rehab clinic, then witness protection.”
Philip “Flip” de Silva’s eyes widened, moist and bloodshot.
“You’ll be Mr. Smith the used car salesman. Maybe find a nice girl. Maybe open up your own airship restaurant.” She held up a finger. “But you’ll need to get clean first.”
Flip drank a huge mouthful of his tea despite it still being steaming hot. He winced at the heat, then laughed. He inhaled deeply, struggling not to break down in tears.
“I… I don’t know what to say.” He muttered.
“Don’t say anything. Enjoy your tea. On me.” She smiled.
In the meantime, Oh-One had closed her hand around the M-spike. The shiv-shaped data device lit up an LED like it had just been connected to a computer. The data flashed across the caracal’s eyes, thousands of lines of gibberish code stored inside her.
Flip looked poised to scream or book it, while Louise cocked an eyebrow. “You sure you wanna do that, Oh-One? We already have the spike. You worked hard today, you don’t wanna strain your Forte too much.”
“Nothing another Zap can’t fix!” She gestured for a waiter and ordered another energy drink, the fourth. She downed it as soon as it arrived, licking her lips. Louise began stacking the folders back in the briefcase and dropped the spike in her coat pocket.
Oh-One suddenly gasped, as if someone had elbowed her in the ribs.
“I felt an electrical spike nearby…” She said.
“Maybe the store next door blew a fuse?” Louise shrugged.
Oh-One did not respond. She went stiff again, code flashing across her eyes as she remotely accessed nearby systems. Louise could see tiny security camera images inside her pupils. The first was right outside the restaurant, neons reflected in puddles of melted snow. The second seemed to be maintenance corridors. She thought she saw a dark coat flutter by for only a minute.
Then it switched to the face of a snow lioness cook, excitedly holding a video game controller. Break time? A figure appeared behind her, the image too small to make out any details. A blunt object fell on the back of her head and the cook fell forward in a heap. It was only now that she saw that the black-clad figure was holding an assault rifle.
“GET DOWN!” Oh-One shouted, tackling Louise into the opposite booth. The double doors at the end of the corridor flew open, towering gunmen clad in body armor and unnerving ballistic facemasks standing in the doorway. The world slowed to a crawl as Louise did her threat assessment.
Four Class IIIs plus one rhino. The Class IIIs carried AKs while the rhino sported a massive machine gun that should have normally been fired from a tripod.
“Fucking rat!” The pointman growled, the muzzle of his weapon aimed for Flip. The maned wolf gaped like a fish, unable to comprehend what was happening. Perhaps he was telling himself it was all another drug-induced fever dream.
The world of simulated last century air adventures was plunged into chaos as nearly a dozen automatic weapons went off at once. The screams of the patrons and employees were drowned out by the deathly cacophony of the firing squad. The hellish noise reverberated around the hall, echoing off brass walls as bullets tore through wood, sofas and simulacros of steam powered machines. A hail of debris and shrapnel flew in the air then floated lazily like deathly snowflakes.
Flip got the worst of it. Two AKs were emptied in him, most bullets missing, yet enough finding their mark to turn his body into a mockery of torn flesh. Amazingly, he did not slump over and die, blood sputtering from his half-mangled muzzle with a broken cough. He looked down, almost in fascination, at his hand that was now a mere skeleton with remnants of skin and muscle on it.
The pointman marched over to him and pulled a knife from his boot, slit Flip’s throat. He fell forward with no further protestation, frothy blood filling his teacup.
Louise and Oh-One crawled over to take cover behind a massive steel and brass machine which had probably once been an engine. Most of the civilians had already fled, stampeding in a mass panic for the exits. The gunmen let them go. They weren’t here for them. They fanned out in a well-rehearsed formation, broken plates and wall plaster crunching beneath their boots. They knew where the two detectives were, they just weren’t rushing.
Louise tried her radio, yet all that came of it was white noise. She saw one of the gunmen place a small square device with antennae behind a wall. A jammer. She cursed.
Both women had their guns out by now, yet neither dared use it. Two sidearms against a squad of assault rifles was suicide. Louise searched her perfect memory for anything she’d seen in the restaurant they could use. She played Flip’s arrival in her mind again and saw the bartender dive his hand beneath the till when the snitch showed up. And the bar would make decent cover.
“When I take the shot, kill the lights and run like Gehl with me.” Louise whispered, pulling back the heavy slide of her GZ-75 enough to confirm that a 10mm bullet was chambered.
She put the pistol’s barrel through the engine’s tangle of pipes, took aim for the nearest target and fired. The gunman’s ballistic mask shattered beneath the heavy slug and his muzzle exploded in a red mist.
Two things happened at once: She saw the other assassins take aim towards the shot, but before they could fire, all the lights turned off from Oh-One’s Forte. The sudden darkness threw their aim off. The deafening concerto of automatic gunfire went off again as both women fled, bullets whizzing mere inches from their ears and punching into walls, filling their world with choking smoke and debris.
Louise vaulted over the bar, finding the terrified ox bartender cowering behind a solid steel refrigerator. Ignoring him, she pawed under the counter and found what she was looking for. A quad-barreled shotgun, the stock and most of the barrels sawn off. At least there was no question of its ammo capacity.
The bar was pummeled by automatic fire, the rhino’s MG roaring above all the rest, tearing tables in half with the hellish sound of a thousand sledgehammers. They were suppressing them as they were advancing. They were trapped.
“Oh-One, tell me you have your OC spray!” Louise yelled over the pandemonium.
“What fucking good is that gonna do!?”
“Do you have it?” Louise repeated.
“I do.”
“Good. On my signal, throw it as hard as you can towards the bastards.”
Louise watched the gunmen through a gap in the bar, waiting until they were within throwing distance.
“NOW!”
The hacker removed the pepper spray from her jacket, cocked her hand like a baseball pitcher, and threw.
Louise stood behind cover, tracking the small black can with the shotgun’s tiny bead sight, then once it nearly hit the ground, fired. She grunted as the brutal recoil jarred her wrist. At least one of the pellets hit true, as the canister exploded in a shower of mustard-colored mist that covered the gunmen. The assailants began coughing and retching, a few removing their masks to rub at their eyes. Louise fired twice more, the first shot blasting a man’s groin apart as he fell down with a scream, the second pummeling another full in the torso. The armor had stopped the pellets, but not their energy, as he moaned and writhed on the floor, coughing out blood.
The remaining two gunmen took cover, but not before her final shot clipped the rhino’s shoulder, his snarl of pain and rage filling the restaurant.
Louise turned with a smirk towards Oh-One. “Ever went duck hunting?”
The rhino screamed something in his walkie-talkie. Seemed their equipment was unperturbed by the jammer. Distant rapid footsteps in heavy boots were heard. Of course they’d have backup…
“Do you have any more shells for this thing?” She asked the barkeep. The ox shook his head in horror. Louise cursed and let the sawn off clatter to the floor. It was a tool to scare away rowdy teenagers and twinkleheads, not hit squads. As she took her gun out again, she felt a gap in her jacket and felt her spine turn to ice.
“The fucking M-Spike!” She gasped. Peeking over the till, she saw the spike on the floor where she’d dropped it in her mad dash. She then saw a boot stamp down on it, shattering it.
“Well, can’t let go of the memory from it now.” Oh-One muttered. More gunmen poured through the corridor, rifles and SMGs shouldered. Louise shook her head.
“Drop it and boost my radio signal! We won’t be able to use that intel anyway if we’re both dead.”
Oh-One gave a smirk. “I can do both…” With that, she grit her teeth, every muscle and vein in her face standing out. Louise felt her radio beep to life. Not wasting any time, she beeped the transmit button with two short and three long pushes. The maximum threat signal.
“Roger that. An METF unit is nearby and they’re on their way.” Louise sighed and thanked Fakona. It wasn’t often she felt grateful to deities, but she’d need divine intervention to survive this.
The second hostile squad began laying down suppressive fire upon the wood and brass bar again. Wood splinters and glass showered Louise and she wondered how much more punishment her cover could take. Oh-One was blindly firing over the bar, not really hitting anything, but hoping it may prompt the bastards to hunker down. Slim chance, but the only one they had. Her nose was bleeding profusely and her eyes were bloodshot. The inevitable result of straining one’s Forte to its limits.
“Will the METF guys get here in time?” She slurred.
“I dunno.” Louise replied, firing herself, the pops from her pistol receiving the reply of several salvos from roaring machineguns. “Let go of the M-Spike data. It won’t do us any good if we’re both dead. Let’s try to make a run for it.”
The caracal shook her head. “Forte strain’s gotten me bad. I’d just slow you down. But… I can make sure you get away. Get ready to run for the car. Don’t worry, they’ll probably assume I’m dead.”
Before Louise could protest, Oh-One grit her teeth again and screamed in pain as she pushed her Forte for the final time. The entire dark restaurant exploded in light. Every single bulb, lightbar and neon turned on to the max, brighter than they’d been designed to handle.
The effect was not unlike that of a flashbang grenade. The approaching gunmen groaned and covered their eyes as their darkness-adjusted vision was suddenly assaulted by burning light. The two detectives were mostly protected from the almighty luminescence. Louise heard a tapping noise to her left. It was her comrade, unintentionally slamming her head against the floor in a seizure.
Oh-One was lying on the ground, nose and eyes bleeding profusely as she was convulsing.
“Korina!” Louise screamed. She undid the buttons around Oh-One’s neck and tried to make her sit up.
“F-forget it. I’ll only slow you down. I’ll… survive,” She said weakly. “Run…” With that, she lost consciousness.
Louise held her head and gingerly laid her down on the ground. She pressed her fingers to her neck. Her pulse was erratic, but it was there. She’d survive. She had to.
Rage welling up in her chest, she sprang up from cover. The pointman, the one who’d slit Flip’s throat, was just recovering and raising his weapon. She shot him in the throat and felt morbid glee as arterial blood erupted from his neck. She wanted to do that to all of them, to punish them for Flip and Oh-One, but the dazed gunmen were already starting to regroup.
She vaulted over the bar and ran for the exit, emptying her mag in their general direction. Shots rang out again and shattered the double glass doors just as she made it.
She made a beeline for her white sports car, opening her door and reaching for what was holstered on the door. She wasn’t running away. No way was she leaving Korina for those lightless bastards.
She extended the UZI’s stock and racked the charging handle. She took cover behind the engine, crouching low enough so she was barely visible, and waited.
The first two masked killers ran out, rifles scanning the parking lot. She let loose a burst of fire. The first man screamed as his arm was obliterated under a hail of 10mm +P. His buddy tried dragging him to safety until another accurate barrage tore his light vest apart and turned the wall behind him chunky crimson.
“Shit, bitch has a chopper!” One of the mercs yelled.
Bullets began tearing into her car, chunks of plastic and glass peppering her body. She winced as a shard cut her cheek. She ignored it, dumping the rest of her ammo in the fatal funnel of the restaurant’s entrance, unable to contain a smirk as she heard another scream.
She yanked a mag from the holster and reloaded with practiced ease. As she popped out again, an unmasked bull was flanking her with a massive machete. Brain matter and horn chunks exploded on the pavement.
She turned her attention to the other gunmen.
“Fuck you!” She screamed as she popped off bursts in multiple directions. There were too many of them. And outside, her defensive advantage was nullified. They began taking cover behind cars, dumpsters and curbs themselves. These were no hoods, these were trained killers. They knew when to return fire, when to suppress, when to change position to flank.
“Die, you cocksucking, dragon-humping sacks of shit!” Desperation was joining rage into an emotional cocktail which she lost herself into.
White-hot pain seared through her leg and she collapsed. She instantly felt warm blood pool beneath her.
“Oh, shit, that’s not good,”
Her face on the ground, she faintly saw legs running towards her. She sprayed her UZI under the car, seeing one of the bastards’ knees pop with a wet crack. She aimed for the other approaching gunmen and-
Click.
She reached for another mag, her vision blurry and her head light from the blood loss. Her hands slick with blood dropped the magazine. She felt her leg, three feet of snow around it painted crimson. She realized with horror that blood gushed out with each heartbeat.
Her perfect memory recalled a distant lesson in the police academy’s firing range. The instructor was explaining that shooting suspects in the leg to incapacitate them was pure movie fantasy. In every Bestia Sapiens species, the leg had the biggest arteries and the biggest bones in the body. You shot a leg, there was a very good chance you’d either clip an artery or send bone shrapnel flying for the same effect.
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He’d been an old bull, a veteran of the police force. He had brown eyes. His otherwise immaculate white shirt had a fresh mustard stain on the collar.
She reached for her sidearm before remembering that it too was empty, and she was in no position to reload. Weakly, she reached for the door holster again, retrieving a small utility knife.
For a second, she wondered just how ridiculous she looked, in a pool of her own blood, two spent guns beside her, a blade hardly worthy of peeling potatoes clenched like a deadly weapon.
She was going to die. But she’d take at least one more bastard down with her. She saw the long shadows of a gunman flow over her, his gun barrel protruding like a reaper’s scythe. She gripped her knife as tightly as her blood-starved limbs allowed, watching the blade shake. She braced herself for leaping at the scum, hoping she’d at least give a good final account of herself.
The gunman turned the corner, his gun barrel sweeping the area.
Tires screeched and he was atomized beneath a massive black shape, rumbling with the growl of a mechanical dragon. She saw gunmen flee from it in a panic, beginning to shoot at the armored metal beast.
Gun barrels poked from tiny loopholes in the armor, shooting back at the assailants. She saw one collapse under the barrage and two others injured as they repositioned to better cover.
She smiled faintly, the knife falling from her paw. She was so tired… she closed her eyes. Just a little rest… then she would be fine.
“Louise!” a familiar voice, dripping with worry and horror, called out. Relief flooded her as two forest green eyes bore into her own. She felt a large, powerful paw close around hers. She squeezed back weakly, trying to give him the reassurance that she would live that she didn’t feel. Then, she knew no more.
----------------------------------------
Hymer kept the wound pressed, feeling more and more warm blood squeezing against his palm, begging to be released. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let her go.
“Detective Clawson, stay with us!” He shouted.
Bones slid in next to him, firing his MP5 to keep the suspects’ heads down.
“I’ve got her!” The malamute said, wrapping a tourniquet around her upper thigh. Hymer nodded gratefully. He didn’t much care for the Lunist dog, but he was a good operative and a better medic, and that’s all that mattered in the field.
Something clattered off the hood of Louise’s car and landed at their feet.
“GRENADE!”
Hymer began dragging Louise away, realizing too late that there was no time. Sap swooped over the frag, the hyena woman grabbing it with deft fingers and throwing it away. It exploded in midair between the two sides, showering cars and telephone poles with metal fragments, the shockwave making Hymer feel sick. But he was alive. Leave it to the EOD expert to save such a situation.
The tiger operative switched positions and ran for a bulky SUV. Bracing over the hood, he aimed his MPAS-15 for the assailants. It was a massive mag-fed shotgun, looking like a rifle designed for a man twice his size.
The rhino with his massive MG peeked again. That thing could make short work of his team’s body armor.
“KACHOOM! KACHOOM!” Hymer’s shotgun roared, a thunderclap amongst the gunshots, smoky 8 Gauge shell casings large enough to mix a drink in clattering to the ground. The dragonshot tore through the rhino’s shoulder, the second blast hitting his LMG’s feed system, turning it into a useless metal heap. He repositioned to finish him off, but the SUV’s windshield collapsed beneath a hail of bullets.
Three of the suspects had circled back into the restaurant, firing from the windows.
A massive figure blocked his view of the suspects, looming head and shoulders over him and nearly as broad as he was tall. Citadel’s tower shield soaked bullets as if they were droplets of rain as she fired her 12mm SMG one handed. The “sub” machinegun tore chunks out of masonry as if hit by sledgehammers.
Hymer positioned around the bison and fired a trio of shots. He saw a puma’s arm get removed at the shoulder. His look of shock had only a second to exist before it was splattered across the wall behind him.
8 Gauge had been designed to hunt wyverns, the smaller, dumber, more predatory cousin of the dragon. It had to retain enough energy at up to 100 meters to take down a flying beast that could weigh up to one ton. If you used it against something a tenth of that weight at barely twenty yards, it turned them into paint.
He crouched behind his teammate as she kept the hostiles suppressed with her SMG and he slapped a fresh brick-like mag of shotshells home.
“Fire in the hole!” Patrone shouted. The silver-maned lion fired his grenade launcher into the building, shattering the one window which dared still stand. White smoke began hissing out of the canister, seeping through windows, doors and crevices. Coughing and retching could be heard as the remaining assassins clambered out of the restaurant in a desperate search for fresh air, some removing their masks to wipe their streaming eyes.
“Heaters down, you fucks!” Hymer ordered, aiming his motorbike-sized shotgun for emphasis. Blind, coughing their lungs out and covered in the gore of their fallen comrades, they saw sense and dropped their weapons, hands aimed for the sky.
Hymer took point and moved in to cuff them, walking by the solid brass railing that had once adorned the airship’s main deck for cover.
His breath was forced out of his lungs and he was almost knocked cleanly off his feet as a door slammed into him. The rhino he’d shot towered over him, the growl of a dying beast washing over Hymer with stale breath and spittle. The giant’s black pearly eyes glinted with rage, his useless right arm hung limp, jagged bone poking through spongy flesh. Yet in his left, a massive meat tenderizer was raised.
Thickset and stocky as he was, he was blindingly fast and the deadly spiked weapon was hurtling for Hymer’s skull. No time to block, and if he dodged, his shoulder would get… well, tenderized.
So, he Braced.
The blunt weapon smashed into his helmet. His helmet… and nothing else. Hymer felt crushing pressure on his skull and the inner padding of his Kevlar helmet pressing against his scalp, yet that was that. He hadn’t even lost his footing from the blow that would have probably caved in the wall next to them. It was as if the rhino had hit solid bedrock.
Rage turned to fear-filled confusion as the giant looked down at the mallet, which was now slightly bent. Knowing he couldn’t pull that stunt twice, Hymer swung the butt of his rifle into his opponent’s face. The rhino grunted as his jaw slammed into his head, teeth scraping in an awful cacophony, yet the behemoth barely took a step back. Yet that was enough for the tiger to swing the shotgun around and fire it point-blank into his ankle.
The ogre shrieked as he collapsed on the cobbles, the stub where his foot had once been spraying the already crimson snow.
The scuffle had gotten the attention of his teammates. Disciplined and well trained as they were, they’d heard a comrade being attacked. Instinct demanded they at least assessed the situation then made a decision.
And that was all a single hitman needed to make his move.
A surrendering panther picked up his SMG and fired towards the officers. They were forced to take cover as they returned fire, giving him an opportunity to flee. A trio of impacts like hammers the size of wasps smashed into Hymer’s vest. He growled in pain and almost doubled over. The other hitmen began to have the same idea, but a blast from Hymer’s shotgun that left a smoldering pothole in the pavement quickly quelled the thought.
The panther quickly fled to the street, putting cars and people between him and the police. Smart bastard, Hymer thought bitterly. He dodged several cars which hit the gas the moment they saw the armed criminal. However, he eventually settled on one, spreading his arms, an eighteen-wheeler with no trailer braking hard and honking a ship-like horn to avoid pasting him.
Not wasting anytime, the gunman aimed for the driver. The deer trucker exited his vehicle and fled in terror. Hymer hoped he at least had the common sense to take the keys out of the ignition.
The panther clambered inside and the big rig roared to life again.
Dumbass.
“Trailers, one of the suspects is escaping in a civilian truck! Request roadblocks on 7th and 9th right away!” Patrone shouted into his radio as the rest of the team ziptied the suspects before they got anymore funny ideas.
Forget it, Hymer thought, that giant hunk of steel would plough right through them. And trying to ram it off the road, even with the armored van, would be an exercise in futility. It would be a long and messy pursuit.
However, the one advantage they had was that the truck would be slow. Very slow…
Hymer’s ribs ached and breathing was just a little bit painful. He coughed into his fist. No blood. Good enough.
The tiger slung the shotgun on his back and took off in a sprint. He ignored his comrades’ shouts behind him. Slow as it was, he still couldn’t catch up to the truck by chasing after it. He tried remembering the local street layout.
After driving for a couple of blocks, there would be a T junction. Left or right. A binary choice. Fifty-fifty split. Except it wasn’t.
The man had fired his weapon right-handed. Yet that was no confirmation. He was almost definitely South-Nyteri, and their archaic armies mostly still taught their soldiers to fire right-handed, regardless of preference. Instead, he focused to remember the man’s gear, sorely wishing he’d been born with a perfect memory Forte instead.
His knife had been on the left him. Set for a quick dominant hand draw. Left-handed.
Most people went with their dominant direction. Chances were, he’d go left, where the road twisted left again, practically going in reverse parallel to the road he’d started on. Running straight forward to cut the bastard off could work, if he was quick enough.
Hymer cut through a dank alleyway, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he drew in deep lungfuls of icy air. He came across a wooden fence. It was about ten feet tall. It’d take awhile to climb in all his gear, plus his injury. But exposed to the Eiskat elements as it was, the wood was damp and black with mold. Not slowing down, he angled his shoulder forward and braced for impact.
The rotten wood collapsed beneath 350 kilos of Silerian Tiger and he nearly tripped over a homeless raccoon sleeping beneath a fire escape. He ignored the curses of the unfortunate as he ran on to street level.
He heard distant, yet approaching horn blasts, followed by the terrible screeching of tires and twisted metal as the truck simply ploughed through the cars too slow to get out of the way. Hymer cringed at his inability to help those people, his only power being a quick prayer that they’d escape with a few bruises.
The police roadblock had done a good job of clearing the three-lane boulevard of cars. Unfortunately, what it wasn’t good at was stopping an 30.000 pound truck. The officers fired their sidearms at the truck, a few smartly aiming for the windshield or the tires. However, the suspect ducked under the steering wheel to avoid the gunshots and the giant tires were protected by steel skirts.
The cops fled their roadblock as its futility became clear. A squad car was launched into the air like a broken toy, toppling a light pole before landing upside down in a heap of broken metal and shattered glass. Another was pancaked by the monstrous wheels, the truck sagging and groaning, yet it past the barricade with only a broken headlight to show for it. The exhaust pipes coughed black smoke and the engine roaring like a charging feral bull.
Hymer faced it down, unslinging his shotgun. He ejected the box magazine and reached into his webbing for a thirty round drum. The clockwork steel shell container required a few encouraging slaps to seat into the magwell properly with a metallic crunch. The drum was full of alternating red and green shells. Dragonshot and slugs.
He cocked the weapon, loading the first shell. The truck sped for him, the driver’s almost white eyes showing no qualms about the prospect of smearing Hymer across the front grill.
Hymer aimed the first shot for the engine bay and fired. The shot peppered the front grill in quarter-sized holes, the engine sputtering and smoking. Second shot was a slug. He fired again. A hole the size of a baseball crunched through the hood. The roaring engine coughed and retched like a dying dragon. Yet it was still coming for him.
He fired the dragonshot round into the windshield, destroying what was left of it and showering the driver in broken glass. The truck wobbled violently, sending a parked convertible into a nearby storefront.
Hymer aimed the slug for the metal skirts. It hit true, piercing the metal like a pickaxe and tearing apart the vulnerable rubber below. The truck sagged on one side and sparks trailed behind it like a flamethrower as it grinded on bare rims. Hymer aimed in the general direction of the truck and kept firing. Shot and slugs turned the formidable maw of the truck into a heap of smoking, twisted steel as it lost control. He fired all he had with the shotgun’s semi-auto firepower, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and his ribs.
The last few shells finally killed the engine, which caught fire, and took out another wheel, causing the big rig to list on its side like a sinking ship and collapse. Hymer jumped out of the way just as the destroyed truck, still sliding forward on sheer momentum, screeched by him.
It bulldozed through several more parked cars and light poles, metal shards, glass, plastic and engine parts littering the street in a macabre spectacle of destruction. Thankfully, it came to a stop not before long, silence filling the empty street, save for the blaring alarms of totaled vehicles.
Hymer approached the smoldering truck, gun raised. The overturned door was kicked open and out climbed the panther, bleeding from a head wound.
“Throw out your gun and come out with your hands up!” Hymer ordered.
“It’s somewhere in there, probably toast, wiseguy.” The panther spat back. Hymer kept his weapon trained on him as he jumped down. The smaller feline landed with a grunt, clutching his leg.
“Fuck, I think it’s broke-“ In an instant, his pant leg was raised and a subcompact pistol appeared in his paws. Hymer raised his own much heavier weapon. The two fighters stared each other down as they both pulled the trigger simultaneously. Click.
Hymer’s shotgun was empty and the subcompact had a piece of shrapnel lodged in the slide. The panther cursed, throwing his useless weapon away before diving his left hand for his knife.
The tiger threw his own shotgun, only he did so at the panther. He ducked beneath the massive weapon, yet it bought Hymer precious seconds to draw his own knife.
Hymer wasn’t sure why he’d gone for his knife and not his sidearm. Maybe he’d appreciated that his opponent was well within the “safety zone” and could close the distance before he could get a shot off. Maybe he thought it’d be faster. Or maybe it was pure machismo in not wishing to bring a gun to a knife fight.
The two men had their knives drawn, but neither dared lunge for the other. They sized each other up. Hymer’s blade was a trench-style knife with its brass knuckle grip and bayonet length. His opponent’s blade was shorter, with a rubberized grip and a thin, double blade. The Dekianis Fighting Knife. The choice of someone who picked a blade because he knew how to use it rather for intimidation purposes. His stance confirmed it; low, knife hand tucked in, off hand extended for defense.
Hymer’s stance was that of a boxer. The knife was an extension of his meaty fist rather than a weapon. Though that mattered little. A good boxer was also a good knife fighter. The basic principles were the same, the only difference being that the first punch usually ended a bout.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Hymer began. “you’re better with a blade than I am. You probably are. Your arms are also about half the length of mine. And my neck is a foot above yours. Quite the disadvantage. You shot me in the vest, which hurt, but it’s bruised ribs at worst. Your head wound is gonna mess up your depth perception and reflexes big time.”
The panther said nothing, crouching down further, weighing up the best attack strategy.
“Lemme give you a hint: nowhere in the chest region. I’m wearing hard plates. You’re only wearing soft armor. Which this here implement can go through like a mosquito net.
Oh, and lastly… you shot me. And you made me run. And I hate running.” Hymer growled, twirling his knife in his hand almost almost casually.
The hitman grit his teeth. His honor and desire to not end up arrested wrestled with his self preservation instinct.
He gripped his dagger tighter, switching his grip to drive it upwards into the tiger’s groin. Hymer stiffened himself, holding his trench knife pointed downwards to finish the fight in a single, brutal stab.
The panther’s perfect guard, however, wavered. He had to shift his feet to not wobble and he blinked every second. Damn, seemed the filth was right about the head wound…
“Fuck this,” He threw his knife down in disgust.
----------------------------------------
Hymer sat on the steps of his armored car, nursing a cup of coffee and pastry that the restaurant’s chef had gratefully prepared for all first responders. It was good. He’d have to remember this place for when they reopened.
The blaring lights from dozens of cop cars, ambulances and a single fire truck lit up the night, overwhelming the ever-present neons and holo-ads, even if just on his single street. Even a dragon unit from the Air Patrol had made an appearance, the armored flying beast hovering over the controlled chaos. The firefly-like visibility lights around the leathery wings fluttered loudly in a spectacle of sound and sight, like tiny shifting red stars. There was little need for it. It was more a display. It said “We have this under control” as much as it did “Don’t fuck with us.”
It wasn’t a display for the civilians, or even criminals, Hymer thought. Off in the distance he saw a group of Royal Guards, snowy capes fluttering in the wind, animately arguing with the city cops manning the barricade, presumably about jurisdiction. One of them was pawing the hilt of his saber. Thankfully, however, they saw sense and left in a huff after some further shouting. They mounted their equistilios, the reptilian mounts pattering away.
Hymer frowned. The conflicts between the MKPD and the mercs serving Eiskat’s self-appointed monarch grew daily. So far the worst had been a few skirmishes that resulted nothing worse than broken bones on either side, but every day that could change.
The restaurant had been sealed off with over a hundred feet of yellow tape, police officers directing traffic away or keeping back the gawkers who inevitably assembled at any such event. Though they quickly lost interest: just another night in Mamalokat.
Six corpses lay before the ancient airship, covered in white tarp, congealed pools of dark red surrounding them. A crime scene photographer, his species impossible to discern thanks to his white coveralls, was snapping pictures of a corpse’s face as another held up the tarp.
Ambulances had treated the civilians of their various minor injuries, who were now sitting at the back of the vehicles, blankets draped over their shoulders and styrofoam cups clutched in their paws. Miraculously, no ‘good guys’ had died. Two detectives were seriously injured, but the paramedics’ rapid response had saved them. Well… that and the proximity of a Paladin.
“Crazy fuckin’ stripe-brain.” Patrone grinned as he approached Hymer. “I dunno whether I should put you up for a commendation or a disciplinary board.”
Hymer chuckled, taking another sip. Damn, it was good. Strong, close to boiling, no sugar or milk and a hint of cinnamon.
“Why don’t we meet in the middle and do nothing at all?” The tiger proposed.
His team lead laughed his boisterous guffaw again.
“Well, I’ll at least buy you a drink sometime. That was some initiative! Never seen someone ballsy enough to stand in front of a speeding big rig and stop it! Or dumb enough. Take your pick.”
“As I said: I’ll meet you in the middle.” Hymer laughed, then grunted at the pain in his ribs. Damn, he hoped it was nothing serious.
He looked beyond the lion to one of the ambulances. Louise was sitting at the back of one, her leg in a tight tourniquet, propped up on a stretcher. A tall, lean canine in strange attire was watching the exchange with some mirth.
Patrone looked back at what his comrade was watching and smirked.
“Wanna go say hello?” He asked. With a wordless tired smile, Hymer finished his coffee and marched over to them.
Louise looked up at the approaching METF operative, offering a weak smile. The skin underneath her fur was visibly pale from blood loss, her one good leg filled with cuts and bruises, and a deep gash ran across her forehead. Despite this, her violet eyes, blazing like the bark of a Purpur tree ready for harvest, were as lively as ever.
“It was you who was driving the van when that bastard got pasted, wasn’t it?” She said instead of ‘hello’.
“How’d you guess?” The operative asked.
“Just heard that a certain someone stopped an eighteen-wheeler with a Light-damned auto-shotty. Figured it was good odds that the same jackass made his entrance by turning a gunman into a smoothie.”
Hymer put his hands up in mock surrender.
“Thanks for that, by the way,” She added quickly, her smile fading.
“How’s your partner?” He asked tentatively.
Louise pursed her lips and Hymer wondered about the wisdom of that question.
“She’s… fine. Forte strain is a hell of a thing. She’ll be out for a few days, at least. Thankfully, she managed to avoid a stroke thanks to Ixtil here. Saved my leg too.” She nodded to the coyote.
The canine was tall and well-built for his species, a woolen duster heavy with snow adorning his frame. He was openly armed, twin large bore single-action revolvers on his hips and a lever rifle slung on his shoulder. Obsolete weapons by most standards, yet Hymer was sure that Ixtil was deadlier with them than he was with any of his modern weapons. The Paladin badge gleamed on his shoulder pridefully, setting him out as an ally of the City and the UIN government. However, Hymer noted that it was relatively new compared to the rest of his gear.
The Shaman had been active far longer than he’d actually been a Paladin, and therefore on the “right side” of the law.
“I managed to stitch the artery back together and repair most of the tissue,” The ‘yote explained in a voice acquired only by years of smoking or gargling gravel. “,but she’ll still need a couple of weeks of bedrest and walking with a cane. Real lucky I was nearby. She’d have probably lost the leg otherwise.” He opened his tobacco pouch and popped a piece of gum into his mouth.
Hymer nodded. Shamans, like their Fakonan or Lunist counterparts, the Druids and Magisa, were incredibly powerful magic users. It made his or Louise’s Fortes look like cheap parlor tricks. But even they had limits.
“One of the bastards shot me in the vest. I think I may have cracked a rib. Think you can-”
“What, you think I’m a walking charity?” The coyote sneered as he chewed. “I’m here for emergencies. Suck it up, you oversized pussy. Get drunk or pop painkillers like candy or whatever it is you cops do for pain.”
Hymer was about to respond with one of the choicest and most vulgar rebukes he’d ever cooked up, yet Louise’s chuckle stopped him.
It was a sincere, joyful laugh. The laugh of someone utterly exhausted, yet ecstatic just to be alive. He caught sight of her violet eyes. They glinted like steel and the fur around them was puckered with premature crow’s feet from years of seeing the worst that Bestia Sapiens had to offer. Yet there was a kindness beneath it all which surfaced every now and then.
She was beautiful.
“Hey… does anyone have a smoke? I could use one or five right about now.” Louise brought him out of his trance.
“Sorry. I’m trying to quit.” Ixtil said, gesturing to his gum-filled tobacco pouch. Hymer cocked an eyebrow.
“Can’t you literally fix your own lungs?”
“Yeah, I could also cut my fingers off and regrow them, but I don’t do that shit, now do I, cop?”
Louise sniggered behind them.
Tyras reached into a pocket and withdrew a large cigar. It somewhat resembled the shotgun shells on his bandolier.
Louise cocked an eyebrow.
“I thought you didn’t smoke.”
“I don’t.” He answered. “Stopped puffing ciggies years ago to get into shape for METF school. But, I make an exception: whenever I do something really impressive, I allow myself one good cigar. Difficult mission went without a hitch? I light one up. I add fifty pounds to my barbell? One smoke. But just one. Maximum of once a week.”
“Huh.” She grunted.
“But now… I think that honor belongs to you, milady. You held off an entire squad of sicarios until we showed up. You could have gotten into your car and retreated, and no one would have thought less of you if you did. You didn’t. You stayed behind for your partner, and to keep the bastards in place till the cavalry arrived.” He held out the cigar. She took it, regarding it like some alien artifact.
“Never had a cigar before.” She shrugged and patted her emptied pockets, sighing. “Do you have a light?” Hymer fished in his pockets, yet Ixtil flicked one finger and the cigar lit.
“Show off.” Hymer muttered.
Louise took a deep puff, exhaling slowly. She seemed to be trying to make smoke circles like in the cartoons, but couldn’t quite pull it off. She licked her fangs and smacked her lips, considering the taste. She took a second puff.
She looked at the burning stub and shrugged. “I think I still prefer a 5$ pack of Reds.”
Hymer laughed out loud.