A bullet spinning as it rips through the City of South, stability from its twirling shape providing unparalleled accuracy through raw aerodynamics. The perception of flesh isn’t even able to comprehend the path of travel, the insane velocity of the round coming to fruition right at the edge of the projected shield.
Lead alloy spiked with arcanite dust, the .306 caliber bullet contacting the massive layers of weave-matter with terrifying consequences. The very strings of reality bend, a woven fortress sucked towards the incoming projectile’s null arcane charge.
A scientific property exploited in the creation of deadly weapons; weave energy attempting to transfer to a lower state of excitement completely forgetting the actualized purpose of its creation in the world.
No service, no protection from the arcane; only its own wantant, selfish needs fulfilled.
The bullet passes through the shield of abjuration magic as it rips through destrung energy, a center mass of armor and flesh now the only obstruction in its path of annihilation.
There is no pain.
In the novels, the plays, and even the motion-pictures; it always was acted out as painful. Soldiers, civilians, police officers all screaming to the world as lifeblood spills into the world; a vicious death sparking some sort of sick narrative excitement in readers and audiences from a fictional reality.
But there is no pain.
Jason Ford just simply collapses onto the cold, wet cobblestone; a body going limp as his redundant nervous system automatically shuts off all stimulus. The brain suddenly left to its own devices in the seconds of cognizance, a sort of peacefulness washing over life in the realization of its current, nonoptimal situation.
A body completely broken by a single bullet; armor plating shattered and organs pulverized by the raw kinetic potential of an age of industry.
He instinctively identifies the weapon as he begins to fade out, a great irony in both its manufacturer and its targeted target. A Thakkar Steelworks Amphiptere Rifle, breech loading and rifled for maximum accuracy in flight. Firing a lethal .306 caliber round, he remembers an article on Daily Mechanics complaining about the notorious unreliability of the cardboard cartridge in the fields of actual battles far away.
Oh my God you got fucking wasted.
A literal death, a final end to the story of Jason Kurash Ford. Twenty one years of existence in South ending among the filth of Diamond Bay.
He hears voices, a connection to the city transferring the panicked barks of combat chatter and weave dispatches of comrades. A world distanced from his current position, like listening to an argument through walls his soul just hears them speak.
The halfling yells out his report, a panic obvious despite the distanced censorship and the concentration of spell casting. “GUN, GUN!!!”
The half-drow party lead gives the order, an immensity to the situation suddenly dawning on her. “GO LETHAL!!! GO LETHAL!!!”
The weapon within the hands of the tiefling woman next to her transforms, a clockwork head revealing deadly sharp edges. Two slashing strikes upon her bodily form shrugged off by rage as four standing gangers attempt to take her down all at once, her wordless response felt as she barbarically sinks the sharpened edge of her maul into a living being’s neck.
Jason Kurash Ford listens to the weave, the voice of the party lead reaching out into the vast city. “DISPATCH RED RED, H.R.D. OFFICER DOWN ON AUGUSTINE ROAD!!! OFFICER DOWN!!!”
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
A panic on the other side felt upon the strings of reality, a consciousness calling forth an army into action. “All call, all call; priority red, priority red. Officers initiated on Augustine Road, officer down, repeat officer down on Augustine Road.”
In his state, the young soul still recognizes the pieces of an arcane cast. A vial of oil brought forth from a utility belt as a component for a familiar spell, the halfling mage bringing an insane power to the world as he plunges both hands into spellcraft. A three level sequencer circle drawn in less than two seconds as an overt complexity to the crafted initiation and concentrator verbal syllables maintains an insane amount of control over a terrifying state of matter.
Five motes of flame burn at insane temperature, plasma igniting the world powerful enough to vaporize falling raindrops. Five bolts that are sent straight towards the shooter.
Streaking forms leaving burning red trails through the night; three blasts of fire striking true. A priority target literally combusting like an oil stained torch, a deadly weapon dropped and body sent into panic as a blood curdling scream echoes across Diamond Bay.
Jason Kurash Ford watches it all quietly, a coldness enveloping his mind in an unacceptable peace. Blue eyes stare up at the rain, at the gray skies; a life slowly slipping away from him.
The body doesn’t let him die.
An organ placed next to his now activated axillary heart does its duty; a storage unit dumping pure adrenaline into the young man’s bloodstream. Suffering suddenly overwhelming senses in a tidal wave, a consciousness comes to life as he screams to the universe in mind shattering pain.
A bloodline barks at him, some terrifying orc ancestor deep within his genetic memory sending the body into action. “Get up Kurash. Get up and kill.”
Carnage brought to life through unrestrained rage, a lifetime of training wrapping itself around pure instinct. A form extends its soul and flesh into the living world as he pulls himself up. A fallen sword three feet away recalled with a single thought, the lethal shape of enchanted steel leaping from cobblestone and into wet hands.
Jason Kurash Ford is a creation of sinew and neurons, a body pushed beyond its limitations with overflowing adrenaline. Breaths filling lungs with air, oxygenated blood flooding into musculature as he spots them with bloodshot eyes.
Two targets in front of him, two monsters to die today.
A pitiful slash towards him, the half-orc responding wildly at the ganger with a cut aimed directly at the incoming shortsword. Steel disintegrates as the counter strike shatters the mass-produced blade down to its hilt like broken glass, brilliant shards of metal reflecting a dying sunset above as the fighter moves in with his own attack.
A side step to bring forth the profile of a hostile humanoid, a mind somehow finding a non-lethal target amongst the fragile body. One strike from below is enough, the blade sharpened beyond natural properties easily cutting through poorly made leather gauntlets and calcified bone. A two handed longsword singing with a clean slice, an arm amputated and sent flying into the City of South.
The next monster tries to follow up with a wide undefended swing, the savage simply slashing his sword right into center mass. Armor of half plate barely stopping a full bifurcation, the longsword instead sinking halfway through the body and severing a spinal column at the waist.
A weapon ripped out from flesh, the savage soul watches as two bodies collapse onto the street of South; new targets to be found as he turns.
Three remainders, three gangers engaged with an instinctively allied comrade.
A second wind flows through his veins, augmented by arcane energy from a healing word. Golden light reaches deep into his body, a semi-destroyed heart reforming itself as his half-drow comrade eases suffering with a gentle medicinal power.
He is Jason Ford, a mind regaining itself as a drowned consciousness reaches out from an ocean of adrenaline, rage, and pain. A realization of self held back, a mind remaining focused on the combat at hand to be thought of at a later date.
Three more targets remaining, an academic step forward as the soul moves to engage.
Two orcs and one human, a ganger’s focus towards Sergeant Jarka interrupted by a devastating arcane strike. Bodies suddenly sent flying ten feet from a wave of thunderous power, the glowing blue arcane rune atop Ford’s fist dissipating as energy cracks across Augustine Road. Three souls slam onto cobblestones, scrambling back up as they regain footing alongside comrades entrapped in personal hells.
An entire police division standing to face them, four armed and armored forms prepared to kill as they ready weapons and spells.
Sergeant Jarka brings forth absolute intimidation as she drops the enchantment upon the five enraptured gangers, eight total suspects now suddenly aware of their own predicament.
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS, GET YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR NOW!!!”