17: Crescent Moon

The crackle of electricity accompanies the thumping sounds of combat. Jack and the Guardian face off in the moonlit hallway, their gazes locked in each other’s movement. The Guardian drifts with lightning speed, blurring against the background, their movements masked under the pale light. Their glare matches that of a predator as it locks onto the agent, sending a chill down his neck. There is a sickening malice, yet also elegance, that cloaks their ghostly figure. Jack grips his revolver tightly, his heart pounding in his chest as he dodges the first sickle slash. Whirling around, the Guardian bolts forward. The sickle flashes in the moonlight as they close the distance at blinding speed. Jack reacts instinctively, whipping to the side by an inch of his hair, just enough to avoid the blade’s crescent arc.

Drunk with adrenaline, Jack retaliates with a quick succession of shots while maintaining distance from his opponent.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

But the Guardian twists and bends their body at impossible angles, dodging the shots with ease, their movements almost airborne as the bullets ricochet off their curved blade.

Gunpowder fills the hallway. The smoke gives way to the chime of metal as Jack and the Guardian engage in a deadly waltz. The Guardian picks up their speed, gaining enough momentum to leap onto the ceiling. They hook onto the edges of the scaffolding and pull themselves upward. Planting their feet firmly, they begin sprinting across the metal poles. Using its iron surface, they propel themselves at Jack, ready to pierce through. As Jack narrowly zips away from the plunging attack, he looks in horror as the Guardian's impact cracks the concrete floor. The sentinel immediately whips around and jumps again at him, trying to pierce through his defenses as they rocket back to the scaffolding. This bastard will do it again, Jack figures as he aims at their afterimages.

Bang!

The repeated zig-zagged movements grow in intensity, essentially creating an omnidirectional game of tag. Jack huffs in heaps of gunpowder smoke, sweats tearing off his skin as he struggles to keep up with the sentinel.

Clang!

The sound reverberates through the hall as Jack parries the sentinel’s blade with the hilt of his revolver. The Guardian falls on their back and aims the sickle at its target. In one motion, they catapult upward and pierce through Jack’s vest, leaving sparks of energy in a gaping wound. Jack’s vision spins and blurs. Flames sear through his body as it grapples the cold bite of the sickle. The Guardian dashes back as they watch Jack stumble backward, his grip on his gun slipping from nerveless fingers. He collapses to the ground. Blood pools beneath him, staining the pale floor crimson as Jack struggles to stay conscious, his vision swimming in red. Agony pulsates and vibrates through his veins, disconnecting his very lifeline.

Gasping in smoke and dust, Jack bites his tongue to focus, his head swirling in disarray as he formulates a plan of action. But what plan could he form? The opponent is clearly leagues above him. With a shaky hand, Jack reaches for his gun, his cold fingers wrapping around its familiar weight as he prepares to make one final stand. Running isn't an option, Jack spits out blood, his eyes glinting with a death glare.

The Guardian is in front of him. Jack closes his eyes and blinks. The Guardian is no longer there. In less than a blink, the sentinel reaches behind him, their sickle aimed at his head this time.

But Jack knows better than that. Any third-rate assassin would know the basic trick of ambushing behind one's enemy. The element of surprise. And so he whirls the revolver behind him. Last microsecond.

Bang!

The shot rings true in the air, echoing in the fading moonlight as the lead finds its mark on the Guardian. The figure staggers backward, their movements faltering as they reel from the impact.

Only one shot left, Jack checks the chamber. Putting his gun in its holster, Jack places his hands on the ground, pulling one foot back. Surging with adrenaline, Jack pounces forward, his body protesting with each movement as he struggles to maintain his balance. This is the opportunity he has been waiting for.

With bleeding knuckles and nothing but resolve, Jack hooks the Guardian right in the chin, clawing his nails across their face. Blood sprays across the smoke. The Guardian screams in pain as they raise their arms to defend, but Jack continues his onslaught. He swoops down and pivots his body clockwise, stretching his right leg out as he sweeps their feet off balance. "GraaAAH!" He kicks the assassin with a force that sends them soaring toward the window, impaling the Guardian with the shattered glass shards. Jack huffs and puffs as he dashes straight in that direction. His determination is burning brighter than ever.

As the Guardian regains their footing and prepares to launch another attack, Jack braces himself for the inevitable showdown.

The Guardian lets out the primal howl of a wounded wolf. They charge at Jack head-on, shifting directions to lure his eyes. The dull light gleaming in the predator's eyes is the only thing indicating their approach, so Jack tracks that light's movement instead. He weaves through the sickle as the Guardian struggles to land a single hit, growing desperate with each slash. The wretched wolf swings their hideous fang over and over, drooling in thirst and hunger as they try to bite the prey. Jack has seen the bite coming, so he returns it with a blow straight into its cavity, splitting their teeth and snapping their jaw into a lopsided shape. The wolf cries in agony, vomiting blood as they try to twist the deformed jaw back to normal. Upon failing to do so, the malformed creature tears off its jaw completely. Damn, that's freaky, Jack grips his knuckles in anticipation.

Gasping and heaving, the Guardian starts pulling chains from behind their back and connecting them to a small peg under the sickle's hilt. Winds of dust blow in Jack's face as the chains begin swirling and twirling in a ferrous tornado. Jack wheezes and coughs harshly as he braces himself for the onslaught. As the chained sickle approaches him and his adrenaline tenfold, Jack ducks under it. But to his surprise, the sickle whirls around and cleaves him in the face, missing his neck by a micrometer.

The storm rages on as Jack tries to find an opening through the Guardian's defensive tempest. Middle? No. Sides? No. Jack sprints around the gale of chains. Up? Jack holds out a hand to measure the length of the floor distance from the Guardian's current location to his. My hand is about 8 inches, roughly equal to my foot. So, about... 15 feet of distance. Just barely enough to miss, Jack calculates, grinning at his rough approximation. Only 15 feet. The last time he checked, this hall's ceiling was 20 feet.

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Jack pulls out his revolver from the holster and checks the chamber. Only one shot, he inhales in the last fresh air available amidst the dust. Putting his hands on the cracked floor, Jack pulls one leg back and places the other forward. He dashes straight toward the storm of chains, leaving clouds of dust in his momentum. His body is just barely grazing the chained sickle as he launches himself upward, directly on top of the Guardian. There it is—the eye of the storm, Jack lines his gun directly at their head.

Bang!

The Guardian staggers backward with a strangled cry. The cyclone dissipates almost immediately as the predator reels from the gunshot's impact and crumples to the ground, lifeless and unmoving. Smokes of gunpowder and dust begin to dispel as the moonlight fades away, clouded by darkness. The beast has finally been slayed, at the hands of the hunter.

***

Adrenaline continues to course through his veins. Jack limps forward, feeling the mountain of fatigue rocking down his back. He quickly looks down to check the gaping streak of flesh across his stomach. This damage warrants immediate care, but Jack is nowhere near a hospital. So he decides to create a makeshift bandage. Collecting some torn papers and taping them around his stomach wound, Jack winces, groans escaping his lips as he tightens the paper bandage. In Jack's five years of expertise and operating undercover, this is definitely not his best idea, but this is an emergency. Jack lays down to rest for a moment. As the adrenaline clears, pain dominates his body, sending spasms along his fibers. His nerves seem to scream at him, begging him to stop, and for once, Jack cannot help but agree.

Rustling around his coat's pockets, Jack pulls out an SOS tracker. Agents down on their last legs are advised to activate this tracker, so backups can be sent to the tracker's location. Never had to use this before, Jack muses. Guess there's always a first time. He pushes the button, and it starts beeping in Morse code, spelling out: "HELP." Message should be sent any moment now, Jack sighs as he slumps against the wall. When was the last time he had a well-deserved sleep?

The faint sound of footsteps echoes through the dark hallway. Jack jolts upward on instincts, then immediately regrets it as he reels back from pain. The footsteps grow louder, until they come to a stop. Right, there was the other guy, Jack huffs, his face wincing as he breathes.

"I heard the gunshots," the cloaked figure begins speaking. "Looks like a lost child has wandered its way here."

Despite the gnawing pain, his adrenaline surges back as Jack prepares to face… the figure. Without hesitation, he reaches for his holster and pulls out his empty gun, hoping this feint will cause the enemy to retreat.

"It’s over!" He yells. "At this very moment, agents are rushing toward this site. Once they get here, everything will be swept clean."

Iron chains start materializing seemingly out of thin air, snaking and coiling around Jack. He is immediately restricted and his weapon is snatched away by the chains. The chains slowly strengthen their hold, squeezing every last blood droplet out of Jack. He screams and huffs as the pain throbs from inside and out. Jack quickly stops moving, realizing that the chains can tighten their grip if he struggles too much. Survival is much more significant than victory right now.

The figure continues speaking. "See? Don't try too hard, child. You are not going to take even another step forward."

Glaring at the figure, Jack spits blood in their face. The figure recoils in surprise. A visible disgust plays across their features.

“Ah, a defiant child,” the figure wipes the blood off their hood. “This deserves punishment.”

Jack takes a whiff of the air. It is unusually thick, and he is quite familiar with this sensation. Sleeping gas. The one from earlier. A strange thought starts to race in Jack's mind. What if the chains aren't... real?

What if I am hallucinating?

Despite the threat of being squashed like an orange under the chains, Jack stops breathing and focuses all his attention on testing his theory. Ignoring the physical sensations of the chains constricting around him, he closes his eyes and clears his thoughts, reaching out with his physical senses to probe his surroundings. To his surprise, Jack finds that the chains feel strangely insubstantial beneath his touch, lacking the weight and solidity he would expect from real metal. And luckily, he is an expert in recognizing metal. After all, his wound was left by a metal blade. What he is experiencing may be nothing more than an illusion crafted by the unseen gas.

With a forceful mental effort, Jack envisions the chains melting away like smoke in the wind. To his satisfaction, he feels the chains around him begin to fade. The moment Jack wrenches free from the last few illusory chains, he immediately takes hold of his empty gun, aiming it at his assailant, who has been quietly watching in amusement.

"Bravo. You have escaped the chains. None has ever done that before." The figure claps soundlessly.

“Lift that hood,” Jack demands. “Show me your face.”

Jack’s finger rests firmly on the trigger. “I’m not gonna ask twice.”

The figure holds their stomach in laughter, wheezing up and down. Wiping their tears, they slowly lift the hood as if to invite anticipation. Jack braces himself for the reveal, knowing that whatever this person looks like, he will thwack them in the jaw. But to his astonishment, there is nothing there—just an empty void where a face should be.

Jack gazes into the abyss. It glares back.

But before he can fully comprehend the figure's appearance, something inexplicable happens. The empty void begins to contort and shift, morphing into the face of Jacob.

"Oh, you bastard," Jack widens his eyes, "I should have shot your ass when I got the chance."

"See, detective?" Jacob replies. "There was nothing to be gained in delving further into the mystery. I warned you."

"Warning me, huh?" Jack balls his hands into fists, blue veins popping from his skin. "I bet no one warned you of these hands."

"It's futile, Jack," Jacob stares at Jack's white knuckles, "'I' can't be hurt, for there is not a definite 'me' inside this vessel."

"Allow me to show you, spoiled child."

The void starts contorting once more. This time, it is transforming into the visage of... Vincent Lacroix? Wait, what?

Jack's breath catches in his throat as he stares into the reflection of the notorious thief in confusion and utter disbelief. One question dominates his mind: How is this possible?

Vincent's face continues to contort and shift with an eerie fluidity, morphing seamlessly from one familiar feature to the next. Jack finds himself in disarray in the sea of faces—all of them belonging to people he has encountered throughout his life. Director Eralane's stern expression gives way to Joe's friendly smile, which in turn transforms into Zero's stoic gaze. Then, Jack recoils in confusion at the forming of an unfamiliar face. Where has he met this person before?

However, if there is one thing that Jack has always been extraordinary at, it is his unbreakable determination. The more perilous a situation gets, the more Jack is determined to win. He winds his arm back as far as he can, and gives his chin the hardest hook of the century, forcing himself to focus and pushing his questions aside for later.

Jack puts his revolver back into its holster. He will not need it for the time being.

"Child, you could not possibly understand. I can become you. Kill you and take your place. JUST LIKE THE OTHERS."

A familiar face starts to form. Jack's.