It tastes different from before, the liquid itself somehow more nourishing and refreshing than its rancid progenitor. Dirty water cleaned by arcane tablets, stored in the depths of their world now for raw consumption by humanity.
Samantha moves to request it, a hit of annoyance alongside burning jealousy placed on her sibling. “I require the canteen back.”
Samuel stops for just a moment, his small mouth finishing its fifth gulp of clean, fresh water. “You have already had your share.”
“I require it to carry, as was our prior agreement.” She retorts.
Samuel stops, glancing at her before handing it over. “We have agreed upon it.”
“Correct.” Samantha notes, pocketing the critical item once more.
There’s people staring at them, the entire marketplace now aware of the Judge within their midst as they walk through the location. Hostile gazes placed towards the party of four, instincts born of both danger and rage. Families brought into sheet metal houses, gunsmiths quickly selling emergency supplies of ammunition at slightly marked up prices, and realizations of firearms loaded for combat.
The fear from a street execution minutes prior falls away to vengeance, fury focused by the entire psyche of the democratic body.
Ancient seniors recovering snubbed handguns and revolvers from within safeboxes, while near suicidal youth distribute their flashy rifles and high caliber setpieces. Rusting icons cobbled together to form an arsenal of March’s underbelly, brought to bear against interlopers from a tyrannical Federation.
The instinct of the Lawman finds it first, a warning spoken in whispers to the twins and One as the streets begin to clear. “We’re being targeted. Prepare for an ambush.”
Samantha reaches for her weapon, the massive anti-material rifle about to be unholstered before the old man stops her with the wisdom of a tactical analysis. “Don’t provoke any reaction, not yet.”
The Judge feels the voice of the street, a fiber of the world speaking through his vast memory. An insight from the reactions of humanity; the hurried glances from shopkeepers, the children pulled inside scrapped out homes, and the hostile gazes from scouting gangers.
One voice from behind them cuts through the bustle of the marketplace. “Hey, stop right there!”
Its confidence from the crowd, March’s societal penchant enhanced further by the blue armband of their ring leader. She’s younger than the rest, a late teenager bearing the signs of the Southlandic bloodlines. The blonde hair and blue eyes of the Empire, born invincible from the blessings of a god emperor sleeping in the depths of their world.
Her youth betrays her, a brainwashing from ancient cults for a sleeping savior pushing her to a faith unsustainable. “You think you federal scum can just come here, kill three men and get away with it?! Give it up.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
She doesn’t know who we are. The Judge realizes.
A chanting mob of twenty behind her, a mixture of fellow youths and highly motivated workmen wielding a mess of weaponry heeding the call of a single, inexperienced leader. It's enough to overwhelm the Judge and twins given the opportunity, the old man finalizes, a caution to be held in this next engagement.
Samantha instinctively steps behind her sibling, the young mage straightening his stance alongside a deep, centering breath.
Judge Murphy readies himself too, an analysis of combat run through one more time. An opening quickdraw deemed necessary for the opening strike, followed up by the Lawbringer if necessary. A hand slowly moving over to the single action revolver held at his hip, one shot hopefully enough to scatter the rest through the application of deadly force.
There’s an awkward pause, only the sound of distant gunfire, howling wind, and whispering spectators.
“What are you waiting for?!” The young woman demands her mob. “For the Savior, for the Empire! Kill…”
The moment the Judge Murphy moves for his weapon, Samuel unleashes it.
His frail form barely registers the movement of the Mage next to him, the small body enveloped in terrible, heavy movement as small dark brown eyes ignite blue with augmentation.
A hand forcing its way through incredible resistance, a gravimetric anomaly centered upon implanted machinery dragged through realspace like an anchor through sand. Clumsiness crutched through the raw exaltation of power, accuracy and precision unneeded against a reality tearing force of unnature.
Offensive spellcraft sent out with bad form; but enough to absolutely devastate everything in its wayward path. Biased towards his right, the wave’s vector predicts a miss towards the ringleader at dead center, with a target instead obliterating the lives and livelihoods of the periphery.
A shopfront catches the trailing edge of the wave; pots and pans and porcelain bowls and an entire table literally exploding as they all are sucked towards the center of the projected anomaly.
It's the collision between realms, a ball of immaterial against reality immediately taking lives on impact.
Only one dies mercifully, one faceless member of the mob gored by the impact wave. A body immediately shattered into numberless pieces of gore and viscera, the remainder behind him victims to a much slower end.
Bodies tossed into the desert air, bones shattered, organs pulverized, and flesh ripped apart by randomly gathered metallic debris in a tornado of death. The power of a distant Collective focused upon one child, the responsibility of a body created for devastation left with the immaturity of the last losethi.
There is no dramatic end, the energy wave itself dissipating without fanfare leaving only the cries of the wounded and howl of a fast approaching dust storm. Broken bodies left choking on blood, a fast count of eight dead with just a single strike processed by the mob as they all instinctively fall back.
Faith keeps them together, just one point amongst a dying world providing the justification for martyrdom. One pale blue armband representing the speaker for one Savior, a living voice of hope and salvation for the people of March.
Faith doesn’t save her.
The crack of gunfire takes the life, a .45 caliber handgun round from the Judge’s single action revolver sending her body onto the ground with just a single shot. Spinal cord severed, pain crashing consciousness into a whiteout of simple death.
Judge Murphy’s draw much slower than any of his counterparts, but amongst the anarchy enough to sneak under the mob of humanity. Confusion, chaos, carnage; a mixture of rage and fear consuming them as their entire leadership scatters for a single, tactical moment.
One order to the three behind him, a strategy spoken of so simplistic yet devastatingly important as he turns. “RUN!”