There’s a thin, dark alleyway just a few steps behind me. But I’d never reach it in time. I’m facing down fifty gunmen, fanned out in the square.

Seems like I lost my rifle in the fall. My two revolvers are still intact, but they’re both empty. Sword feels like it’s still there, strapped to my back. For whatever help it could possibly be in this situation.

Dying in Rithium means waking up. It means having to wait twenty minutes before being able to log back in again. Which, I wouldn’t be able to, anyway. It’s over.

Only, it isn’t. The others are waiting on Curly, and I don’t think she’s ready to send me on. It won’t be enough. I can see it mapped out on her face, the way her brows are knit together and her jaw keeps clicking back and forth. One of her friends is dead, and in her mind, it’s because of me. This brief moment where I’m in her power is almost over, and she doesn’t want it to end.

But it will.

Curly clicks back the hammers on her shotgun. “One last thing before I send you on, yeah?”

“Incoming party request. Do you accept?” Janice’s sudden announcement cuts through the awkward silence, making me flinch. Only I can hear it, but for some reason I look at Curly’s face to see if she did, or if she can tell if something’s off.

Well, she probably can now, genius.

No idea who the party request is from. But at this point I don’t think it matters. No time to ask, anyway. Whatever buttons are left on the console, I’ll push them.

“Yes?” I say.

“Confirmed.” Janice says. Then, she goes quiet.

I have to stop myself from looking up, trying to spot my new party members. Whoever they are.

“Incoming voice chat.” Janice says, once again startling me.

“Don’t look up.” A new, unfamiliar, female voice says. “Stall.”

“Why don’t we make this interesting.” I say, eyes locked on Curly, interrupting whatever she was about to say. I’ve got an idea forming. It’s not ideal, but it’s something.

One of Curly’s eyebrows lifts upward. “What, are we playing games, here?” But the barrels of her shotgun droop a little.

She wants more from this. She wants to defeat me completely. To humiliate me.

“One against fifty isn’t much of a game.” I say. “Hardly fair, anyway.”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“It would only take me. The rest of them just got in my way.”

“You a good draw?” I say.

“Better than you,” she says. She turns to the nearest Rifter, scowling. “You. Give me your iron.”

After seeing the look on her face, the Rifter doesn’t hesitate. He unclasps his gunbelt and hands it over.

Curly hands the Rifter her shotgun. She straps on the belt at her waist, holster resting against her thigh. She draws the revolver and spins the cylinder, checking to make sure it’s full. Satisfied, she sets it back down in the holster.

“Load up, little man.”

I’m a fast reload. This comes from years of practice inside Rithium, as well as researching world-record techniques on YouTube. But right now, the game is to stall.

Every movement is a calculation. A test to see how slow I can move before being called on it. Each individual bullet carefully grasped by my finger and thumb, raised up to chest-height, hesitating for a couple seconds before being dropped into the next cylinder.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Curly yells, as soon as I’ve loaded my second bullet. She’s shifting weight back and forth on the balls of her feet, practically bouncing.

“Just give me a second.” I hope she thinks I’m nervous, shook up. She wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

If she wasn’t so worked up, she would probably be able to hear the sound of the party that’s slowly spawning in, descending from the sky. I can hear it, but mostly because I’ve been waiting, listening for it. It’s a faint whistle, echoing down from above. Barely discernible.

Yet.

As I go to load my third bullet, my hand ‘slips’, dropping the revolver onto the dirt, spewing the once-loaded bullets onto the ground.

“Seriously?” Curly says.

“One second,” I say, leaning to pick it up.

“Nope.” Curly says. “Stop. Kick it over. This is ridiculous. I’ll load it myself.”

I shrug. “Okay.” I pull myself back up to full height. I kick the revolver. It skids, bounces and scrapes across the dusty, uneven cobblestones, coming to a stop when it hits Curly’s boots.

She snatches it up. “Geez. It’s like you’ve never played this game before.” After opening the cylinder wheel, it takes her a little under six seconds to load it, deftly snapping up each individual bullet and clicking it into place, spinning the wheel as she goes.

Once she’s finished, she closes the wheel with a sharp clack. “Here.”

She tosses it.

I move to catch it, but instead I let it bounce off my hand and onto the ground.

At this point, Curly is scowling. “You’re beginning to make me wonder if there’s even any point to this. Winter.” There’s a mocking edge to the way she says my name. The name of someone she used to work with and look up to, but has now turned his back, and is going to pay the price.

The whistle coming from the sky is getting louder. I lean to pick up my gun. Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the Rifters tilting his head back. The person next to her follows suit, followed by several others. By the time I’m upright again, revolver in hand, dozens are now gazing up into the sky, toward the loud whooshes of air, growing closer every second.

Everyone except Curly. Her eyes are still on me.

“Forsythe!” Someone yells, which is apparently Curly’s name because he reaches out and grabs her by the shoulder.

She shrugs him off. “Don’t touch me—”

I angle the revolver at waist-height, aiming at Forsythe’s face, and pull the trigger.

Her head snaps back, face concave, gore slingshotting out the back of her skull.

I squeeze the trigger again, aiming for the guy who grabbed Forsythe by the shoulder.

I hit him in the neck, causing him to choke, knocking him backward into the crowd of Rifters, just when the rush of air from above starts to sound like a speeding car, the Doppler Effect in action.

Then, the street explodes.