Conor burst forth from the burning remnants of the clinic, embers flicking away from his heavy armor, making him look like a demon rising from the depths of hell. At least, that was what the two cops he had yet to notice thought about the armed and towering abomination.
The Human raised his U-15 and swept it through the smoke-filled alley, clearing both sides of himself.
To Conor’s left, toward Eivilay, was thankfully free of any first responders or others under Voodal’s thumb. He could not afford to have this alley turn into a kill zone. Conor was working on borrowed time and had to outspeed Voodal's attempts to capture or kill him.
Conor's right side was far from clear.
“Drop the weapon, Conor,” one of the trembling beat cops weakly ordered, holding his X-5 rifle shakily in his grip.
Almost rolling his eyes, Conor aimed at them. He couldn't determine their species; the heavy armored vests, matte grey uniforms, and reflective visors made them both look like clones.
Hell, for all he knew, they were clones. Both the GU and the COS could create such things, but it was generally frowned upon, even here. Something about creating artificial life like that being an abomination; Conor never paid enough attention to politics like that to care.
The cops likely were Kubitals, but Conor was just guessing based on them being scrawny humanoids and how prolific that species was. Either way, what they were did not matter. What did was the pair of X-5 slug throwers they wielded and pointed past his U-15.
The X-5 was a nasty little piece of work. It sported low recoil, decent ammo capacity, and enough modularity to fill any role, from support weapon to high-precision sniper rifle.
But none of that was what made the X-5 indeed a force to be reckoned with. That would be its eight-millimeter armor-piercing ammunition.
The 150-grain slug would rip through Conor’s NanoFlex shirt, ceramic plates, and metallic torso like a knife running through hot butter. If he had known the X-5 would be the rifle pointed at him, the Human would not have bothered with armor—at least then he could move faster.
Knowing that these two were likely under Voodal's employ, Conor did not even consider surrendering to them. He had to finish what he and Brakul started; otherwise, what was the point of him and Stitch dying?
Without saying a word, Conor depressed the trigger, sending a blaster bolt into the head of the first officer, turning his head into a smoking canyon.
With a reaction that surprised Conor, the other officer pulled the trigger and returned fire. Most cops usually ran after their friend got dusted, but not this one.
The officer's weapon angrily barked, shooting flashes of burning powder out the muzzle as his rounds whizzed over Conor's shoulder.
Both men wrenched their weapons toward the other; bullets and bolts skidded down both sides of the alley as they tracked toward the other's chest.
As Conor's first bolt made contact with the officer's chest, he stuffed the U-15’s muzzle into the scalding wound. The follow-on bolts burned away the man's armor, clothes, and internal organs.
Acrid smoke filled the air as the officer's internals boiled away and turned into vapor in a near instant. If not for Conor's mask having an air filtration system, he would have gagged and likely thrown up. There is no smell as foul as a blaster turning a man's body to vape at point blank.
Conor initially thought he had gotten out of the encounter unscathed, but no two of the dead man's slugs had whizzed through his chest, passing just below his unaugmented pectoral.
Just as the officer fell to the ground, groping at his boiling chest, a warning flashed in Conor’s HUD, bringing the reality of his injuries to the forefront of his mind through cold, calculated text.
The flashing text warned him of multiple shattered ribs, two through and through wounds, a rapidly forming Hemothorax, and that his nanite systems had activated.
“Mother fucker,” Conor spat up blood, coating his mask's insides in warm ichor.
This scenario was precisely what Conor had been worried about once he noticed the enemy were armed with the X-5. The rounds had amazing penetration, effortlessly passing through five centimeters of steel armor. The downside is that most of the bullet's kinetic energy was not delivered to the target.
As such, he was still standing and not dusted like the officers, but still, that did not mean he did not have two sucking holes in the front and back of his torso. Could the assholes have not at least had the decency to shoot him with a hollow point? Or an explosive round?
For Urla’s sake, did he not rate a quick death?
At least Stitch had hooked him up with his emergency nanite system, so he might not die.
Unlike the Nanites Stitch had used on Eivilay a week earlier that drained any remnants of Visage from her, Connors just kept him walking and fighting through the pain.
The Nanites substituted for blood, bridged gaps in veins and bones, and staunched bleeding—but that would only last so long.
In all reality, his one-time use Nanite system was the equivalent of slapping duct tape on a gunshot wound.
Conor sighed and let the Nanites work for a moment; once the feeling of blood soaking into his shirt had slackened, the Human stood up and rushed down the alleyway.
Between his Nanite's limited functions, Voodal and his goons gunning for him, and the local police now looking for him, Conor's life was measured in hours—not days.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
As Conor ran full tilt down the wet alley, he tried to ignore the throbbing pain by gritting his teeth as his fractured ribs ground together. This was impossible because each heavy footfall sent a new pang of agony crashing through his body.
Conor had been shot before and knew it likely would not be the last, but without Stitch or Brakul ready to stabilize and patch him up, he was unsure how he would survive this. As he saw it, this likely would be a one-way trip for him.
Just before Conor turned into another alley, he glanced over his shoulder to take stock of the unfolding situation. A dozen officers were already moving down the alley in his direction, ignoring the corpses of their comrades.
The local Police department's actions told Conor two things: They were definitely on Voodal’s payroll. Sapients without adequate compensation or intimidation would not ignore their allies like that, especially in places like Heavalun, where reliable allies were as rare as a good night's sleep.
It also reinforced that Conor's choice to stick to the back streets while returning to Eivilay was the right call. The police and every other mercenary in the city would be hunting him down like rabid dogs.
They would overturn everywhere between here and the upper district within the next few hours. All he had to do was be faster, have more violence of action, and keep Eivilay safe during transport.
Luckily, Conor had already devised a transport plan.
It was reckless, uncouth, and substantially dangerous, but he could pull this off with the right reactions and a pocket full of luck.
—-
Eivilay paced back and forth in Conor's bed and dining room. The Human had been gone for several hours at this point. With her Champion having left wearing tactical gear that made him look like a monster, carrying a rifle and explosives, her mind could not help but picture the worst.
Eivilays fears were only made worse when she used the burner datapad Fae and Conor had given her and saw that shootings were going on all across the city. Not that shootings were abnormal in the Heavalun, but Conor had to be involved.
The idea of her champion being shot at wracked her mind with questions she would rather not dwell upon, but idle hands and minds are Jurela’s playthings. What would she do if Conor died? It wasn’t like she had any money, knew how to navigate the city, or where her father was.
Without Conor, Eivilay was alone in a city that would rip her apart in hours. Unlike her home of Cyruis, Heavalun was vile, nearly lawless, and undoubtedly would sniff out that she did not belong.
What would Heavalun’s residents try to do to her without Conor's assistance? Would they hand her over to Voodal? Just kill her? Or ransom her off to the highest bidder?
Eivilay sighed and looked over at the pile of garments Conor had ripped off her, thinking back to the thrill of having someone so strong yet controlled ready to give themselves unto her—and the ultimate disappointment of it.
Conor was so close to claiming her.
Eivilay was painfully close to having a man and a champion in more than just name. Was it a bit of a trick on her part? Yes. She doubted Conor would legitimately honor the Kurlatra tradition of a lady giving their first time to their champion, but once they made it to her home planet, Guelur, she could convince the Human to stay.
The tender moment of Conor readying to give her what all her sisters already had drove her wild. Eivilay had been so hot and bothered that it took an ice-cold shower to bring her back to reality.
At least the shower allowed Eivilay to clean up and change into the clothes Fae had bought for her.
Now, Eivilay wore the cutest outfit they could find in Heavaluns Grunge-chic shops. A loose-fitting aquamarine crop top offered a look at her flat stomach and a peaking view of her pert bust.
A pair of pants Fae called ‘Jeenz' complimented the top. Their dark blue color and tight material hugged her thighs and made her rump look flawless. They genuinely complimented every asset she had to offer.
The only modification she had to make was a hole for her tail, but adding that only made her supple body stretch the fabric more.
It was funny because although Fae insisted she was not well-versed in shopping or fashion, she proved the opposite true. This outfit, the negligee, and the other clothes she purchased for Eivilay all looked terrific and comfortable.
Eivilay could only dream that Conor would react like many other Champions did when returning from combat or training, wanting nothing more than to spend days in bed with their lady.
Eivilay certainly knew all her sisters and mother vanished for at least that long over the last few years with their champions when they returned from campaigns, or one of her dozens of sisters met the end through fratricide.
The idea of Conor slipping her out of these clothes and eating her cunt like dessert was titillating. She could already picture him moaning while his tongue danced inside her.
But the cold, hard reality of how brutal Heavalun was slammed into her when Conor smashed the door in. Fragments of wood and metal showered across the room, scattering everywhere.
“Why won't you just fucking die,” Conor yelled, shooting a rifle he had not left the house with back into the street.
Eivilay could not see who he was shooting at but could hear the sounds of whomever he hit screaming like a slit animal.
“What’s going on?” Eivilay frantically asked.
“We are leaving!” Conor snapped, slamming the door's remnants shut and forcing his bed against it.
A slight pause in Conor's movement let Eivilay get a decent look at the Human. She could see bullet holes in his armor, blood dripping to the floor, and several indents in his metal arm; even his mask and helmet were missing, letting dirt, blood, and sweat cling tightly to his entire face.
“Conor, what happened?” Eivialy questioned, stepping closer to see his injuries' significance.
The Human turned around like a man on a mission and grabbed her arm and bag before dragging her toward his storage room.
“Brakul and Stitch are dead, I have Voodal on my ass, and I have to get you to the upper district now,” Conor explained while forcing her inside and shutting the door behind them.
Brakul and Stitch were dead? How? They were all laughing and sharing jokes at the clinic only a few hours earlier. They could not be dead.
“But how—” Eivilay started but was cut off by Conor, who grabbed an old set of his armor from one of the safes and handed the heavy item to her. “Put that on. We will be leaving through the window.”
Eivilay wanted answers, to know why this was happening and if Conor would be alright, but knew she could not ask them right now; Conor was already tossing open the safes and filling several duffle bags with items from inside.
He shoveled cred sticks, ammo, weapons, drugs, her clothing bag, and even a few random trinkets inside the black bag, Leaving Eivilay to try and figure out how to put on the armor he had shoved into her hands.
Conor paused as he pulled Brakuls's handgun from his pocket, staring at it intently for a few moments before shoving it in the bag and turning back to her.
“Are you still not done”? Conor sighed, donning his bag.
“I don’t know how to—” Eivilay started, halfway in and out of the armored vest.
“Here, let me help,” Conor said calmly, stepping closer and adjusting the vest.
The juxtaposition of his state was impossible for Eivilay to understand. She had seen plenty of the Champions around the palace be injured or under stress during one of the countless attempts by her sisters to kill someone higher in the running to be empress—but Conor was different.
He was calm and collected despite his injuries and the exhausted look in his gorgeous eyes. Conor gently assisted Eivilay with donning the heavy armor. He even assured it was comfortable once it was on her body.
“Thank you,” Eivilay said, grabbing Conor's hand.
“It’s no problem,” Conor smiled weakly, opening the window and stepping out into the Heavalun night with Eivilay in tow.
“Where are we going?” Evilay asked as Conor helped ensure she did not fall while mantling the windowsill.
“We are going to go use my car to get you to your father,” Conor replied, leading her away from the side street. “For now, I can at least do that much for you.”