ZETA
“What the hell is wrong with you!” Hera said with utter loathing. “Are you some kind of magnet to death?”
“Hera, listen to me. This conflict is necessary. He seems insistent on only killing me, so let this be a test of will and might. If I die, take it as a sign of what should be done next.” Zeta met her gaze with cold, stony eyes. “If I die, give up. We both failed.”
Hera struggled to retort. There needed to be something she could say, but no words came to mind. Zeta took that as a concession.
“Get out of here, Harpy,” said Marc, “unless you’d rather pick a side?”
Her head twisted back and forth, seeking resolution as if somehow her stalling could delay the conflict. There was no such opportunity. Slowly, she shuffled out of harm’s way.
Marc stared him down. The thin line of shadow beneath his eyes a reticle for a menacing gaze. “While your philosophy is concerning, psychotic even, I like your spirit. You don’t see many people with a grin as wide as yours as they run to Hell’s gate.”
“What makes you think I’m going to hell?” Zeta asked.
Marc raised a finger gun, pointed for the bridge of Zeta’s nose. He spoke of an idea Hera planted in Zeta that very morning. “Where else? There is no heaven.”
Zeta sidestepped out of the way to avoid the first flurry of shots. He jumped into the alleys as the bullets whizzed behind him.
To someone normal, this fight would be impossibly out of their league, but Zeta ensured he had confidence in himself. I just have to use my brain. He noticed the alley and concocted a plan, launching himself into its dark depths.
Marc walked to the alley’s end, where the shadowed edges reached the tips of his boots. “You can’t be serious. This is the best trap you came up with?”
Out of Marc’s sight, Zeta scaled the building in absence of a ladder or stairwell, scrambling up each and every foothold he could find. Normally such a climb wouldn’t be arduous, but he had to hold his breath and tense his movements so as not to make any sound.
The bullet wounds stung his torso as he moved, but he shrugged off the pain. Unfortunately, one of his footholds was a rusted iron rail. As soon as he applied pressure, it tore off and rang against every solid object it touched in its fall.
Zeta clamored up the rest of the building as he heard Marc’s footsteps sprinting down the alley, attracted to the sound. He rolled onto the roof just as bullets clipped away at the stone edge.
Marc scoffed. “Range is my specialty, but height is no problem for either.” He grabbed the machete at the back of his belt and held it in front of him. “Dual Wield.”
A line split the machete along the edge of the blade, and Marc pulled an identical copy of the weapon into his off hand. He plunged them both into the stone wall and used them as picks to climb.
Zeta watched by barely peeking over the edge. “What a miserable way to treat a weapon! The sword is my territory!”
“Who said I was using the machetes?”
As Marc neared the top, Zeta planned to cut him down. However, Marc went flying upwards into the air, using the machetes as propellants for leverage. As he landed, his fingers were raised again, and a dozen more shots had been fired by the time he touched the roof.
Zeta rolled out of the way with ease, but then he saw Marc charging at him, wasting no moment to seek opportunity.
With both machetes, Marc stretched his arms outward, swiping with vicious blows. Zeta had his chance to fight back. I will not lose to anyone in a swordfight!
Black Meridian didn’t let him down either. With chops and cuts and slices of the machetes inbound, the sword moved with tremendous versatility. Marc aimed for every angle with his twin blades, testing every combo of swings.
What should have been random mayhem became child’s play as Zeta telegraphed every single strike. Black Meridian centered him in a shield of air; all he had to do was move his muscles.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Occasionally, Marc would try a more regular attack instead of his chaotic flurry. He’d intercede his assault with a pronounced jab, overhead, or a mighty swipe from either side that even stunned Black Meridian, but only for a beat.
One issue on Zeta’s behalf, however, was that he struggled to redirect the role of the offensive fighter. He excelled at blocking, but blocking is all he could do. Neither fighter was interested in a battle of attrition.
Just as Zeta managed to get in a solid swing, Marc backed away, dodging to the other end of the rooftop. He pushed the two machetes back together. In a slice of light, they were one once again.
In one hand, Marc had the machete. His other, posed for Impossible Shot. He’s switching up his style. The Ghost Gun charged at him again, and they resumed battle.
Now Zeta’s mind was tested by an insane exam. There was only one sword to worry about, but if he weren’t careful the other hand would puncture him with a bullet of air.
He’d fire shots through armpits, around the waist. Over the back of his shoulder as he twirled and sliced with his sword.
Even so, Zeta scraped by with his counters. What he didn’t see, however, was Marc’s kick. It landed right in the center of his gut and sent him flying…and flying. Flying further then he should have.
Oh, that’s cause I’m falling off the building.
He plunged Black Meridian into the side of the building, and it cut through the structure, bringing him to a grinding halt just steps away from the cobbled pavement.
Marc reached over the edge and fired more shots. Zeta swung himself back and forth on the sword’s hilt to avoid them. Finally, he pulled Black Meridian out and stood on the street, right back where he started.
Impossible Shots fell on the ground like rain as he ran for cover. Unfortunately, all in sight were alleys and doors, and all were in Marc’s line of sight.
Zeta jumped back and forth, side to side, ducking away, leaning front and back in an attempt to avoid the hailing fire. Quite a few bullets grazed him. He was essentially dancing to the music of death.
“Come down here and fight on equal turf!” Zeta called out.
“Not interested,” Marc replied, popping off another shot.
“Damn it.” Zeta glanced at a nearby shop, its door locked. Sir Kagan, forgive me. Sprinting for the entrance, he cut down the door in one swing. The wind of bullets passed his rear as he entered.
He ran through a couple rooms, then stopped dead in his tracks as he encountered a family of three, huddled in pale horror. The father pointed a broom at him, jabbing the air as if it would make him go away.
“My apologies. Is there a back door?”
Shaking, the father pointed. Zeta hopped over tables and chairs to reach the exit.
He entered a cluttered, abandoned plaza of grass that reminded him of when he was initially assaulted by Hera and her partners. Broken trees, trash, and stonework covered in overgrowth infested the scene. Many clotheslines hung in the area, along with troughs and other peasant accessories.
In the corner, a cart of laundry covered in flies. The whole place smelled awful, but the root of the stench came from there.
Well, it was better than standing in the open.
MARC CRUE, the Ghost Gun
Marc took his time climbing down the building. This Zeta character was bound to re-emerge soon. After all, he had his pride to save.
To teach him a lesson, Marc wanted to steal that away. Oh, his life too.
The Harpy tried to stop him at the street level. She ran in front of him and begged, “Please, Marc! If he needs to go, let me be the one to get rid of him.”
This woman couldn’t be serious. “Sorry, Harpy. I can’t let this transgression slide. He wanted a battle, and with both our heads at stake I will honor it.”
“He…he doesn’t understand anything! He’s overzealous, brash, and overall ignorant when it comes to the nuances of the Sigma World. Should he deserve to die if he can’t comprehend why?”
Marc sighed. “Regardless of what he knows about sigmas, you, me, or anyone else in our damn organization, he should’ve known about Aspic. He should’ve known how things work here.”
“And I’ve been trying to teach him. He’s a slow learner. Please don’t do this!”
She gripped his arm, but Marc shoved it off. “Have some self-respect, Harpy. I’m doing this for you.” That wasn’t necessarily true, but she was growing annoying. When she shut up, he marched to the toppled door.
There was a family inside. They were already distraught and probably encountered Zeta earlier.
“Did you see a–” he started. The father was already pointing to the back door. Marc flipped him a coin. “Good man. Have a Nibble.”
The plot out back was the nastiest yard Marc had seen in months. He may have traversed every nook and cranny in Aspic these past years, but this area was by far the worst. Of course, the cocky ballsack ran here.
There were so many opportunities for ambush; Marc could spot Zeta’s game. Like hell he’d fall for this.
A shadow moved in the center of the yard, and instantly Marc sent a series of Impossible Shots its direction. The target jolted, but a second later the figure was obscured by a miniature tornado flying Marc’s way. What the fuck!
The tornado tore up everything in the yard, broke the windows and doors of the nearby buildings, and sent Marc flying to the other side. Just as quickly as it touched down, it disappeared.
“A little jumpy, aren’t we?” came the voice of Marc’s irritating associate. “First, you shoot up the street. Next, you try to shoot me. Are you feeling alright?”
“Gust. What the hell are you doing here?”
The Curved Storm emerged from the shadows, a fresh smile on his face after ripping up the lot. “It’s not every day that you hear the news that the Ghost Gun is wreaking havoc, especially since a quarter of Aspic is already in lockdown. Mind telling me if you’ve lost your mind?”
“Go away, Gust. I’m in the middle of something.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I’m disrupting you disrupting business for Mr. Rex and I. Crue, give me one good reason to off you, and I will not hesitate to do so here and now.”
How frustrating. “Ugh. Did you see a swordsman run through here? Black sword? Black hair?”
“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”
“I’m not in the mood for games, Gust. He challenged me, so I have to kill him.”
“And just who is this individual?”
“It’s the Harpy’s ‘new addition.’ The kid’s a psychopath. When I came to meet him, he nearly lopped off her head. Now we’re supposed to be dueling, but the coward ran.”
“Probably because you didn’t fight fair,” Terrent said. He faced the vacant environment, raising his voice. “If you can hear me, challenger, I understand your dilemma! Crue sucks, doesn’t he?”
“Ass. Will you help me find the cunt or not?”
“You said it yourself, Crue, this is your fight. Although, I don’t understand why you care that much. So what he tried to kill the Harpy? If not him, then us. We know she’s behind several client disappearances. God knows what else she’d do if left astray.”
“Shh! Don’t say that aloud, he might still be around.”
“And that won’t be a problem, because you’ll kill him, right? Get to it.”
Terrent took his scythe, faced the ground, and started spinning it. “Windspin Tower.” Another tornado formed beneath him, lifting him in the air without moving anything else. Terrent stepped off and sat at the edge of the roof. “I want to watch.”
Marc scoffed. “There won’t be much to see. I’m finishing this.”
“No, you won’t!” cried another voice.
Bursting out of the nastiest pile of laundry in the whole lot, black sword extended and shining with violence, Zeta slashed with a blinding light.
Marc gripped his face, where suddenly the heat of pain appeared. When he removed his hand, a thick red substance slathered his fingers.
Impossible Shot - Arcane, Offense: User can fire an intangible pellet from their finger with the same severity as a regular firearm. (640).
* (A) Make a finger gun. Using either the index or the index and the middle finger is sufficient.
* Sigma use is ambidextrous.
* To shoot, the user should cock their finger gun backward. This fires a single shot.
* A skilled marksman can speed this process up if they can move their hands quickly.