Twenty seven bodies, twenty seven souls.

Police vehicles, from pursuit cars to armored transport vans, all screech to a halt upon cobblestone roads. Military and police uniforms deposited into the streets, their comrades found as from alleyways the movements of gun and flesh spill forth those of gangsters and civilian workers.

Unified by bright blue arm bands.

Armed with weapons crafted from ancient, divine black alloy; an entire sample population taken from the aisles of March converging together in the great mass of humanity. Southlandic bloodlines united with the Midlands and the once conquered Armin cities, twenty seven numbered.

Eyes find the presence of military style assault rifles alongside unidentifiable support weaponry, a special fear placed upon the special recoilless launchers leveled upon them. Weapons designed to kill mages and judges, the death of heroes found upon almost four heavy machine guns held by gathered crew in military uniform.

An army equipped for one purpose only.

The Five lower guns against twenty seven more, confusion the deescalation to an inter-fragmentary conflict. Silence as they watch the firing line complete itself, weapons pointed towards the five and one forms; shadows moving beneath dim street lights.

“Oh gods…” The Gunslinger whispers in faith.

“We’re gonna die, aren’t we?” The Bandit finishes.

The Judge gives the order towards familiar uniforms in dark blue, a voice box revealing a surging pain as he struggles to draw breath. A weakness towards probable reality, the words leaving his mouth in recognition of an outnumbered force. “S-stand down. Stand down no…”

Gunfire, annihilation by lead.

The entire street turns into a shooting gallery as hundreds of lethal rounds tear across open space, four shocked forms only saved by the reaction of one. Samuel’s eyes blast a pale blue as defensive augmentation throws a gravimetric wall of lead between shooters and targets, bullets caught mere centimeters away from their forms.

The roar of guns completely deafens unprotected ears, the full automatic spray of muzzle flashes forcing the critical seconds of survival; five souls diving into cover.

The Bandit lunges down behind a steel crate of stored inventory, the Lawman arriving shortly behind as he stumbles onto the dust.

The twins move, the boy with roaring augmentation stepping towards the frame of an open alleyway as the girl raises her weapon towards distorted targets. Massive explosions in response to incoming, arcs of divine firepower removing only a mere two shooters in extreme overkill as souls are eviscerated by the anti-armor rounds.

The Gunslinger tries to save the One.

A body attempting to tackle the child into cover, the mass of the creature unbudging as the man just slams against a pillar of alien steel. Physics and musculature pushing and pulling against him, the cold gaze of two blue orbs locking with the eyes of green.

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Something pushes him back, a body shoved aside by a wall of unknowable force and into safety behind brick and concrete structure.

Augmentation fails, the Mage’s projected wall shattering as he finally slips behind the alleyway.

Sheets of bullets harmlessly clattering onto the ground, lives saved barely by an immense expenditure of caloric energy. Samuel breathes forth heated air as his arms begin to char synthetic clothing, glowing eyes fading as augmentation attempts to regulate temperature.

Weapons reloaded, the force of now twenty five retakes positions as they send another barrage into the facade. Brickwork turned to dust by rounds, ancient cobblestone at their feet ripped apart through ricocheting lead. Tracers from heavy machine guns igniting the darkness in streaks of burning red phosphorus, their comrades in auto and semi-automatic rifles adding to the torrent as packed drum magazines are subsumed in fire.

The One just stands amongst the carnage, a reality folding upon itself as mathematically perfected arcs of quantum states crash together. A created miracle witnessed by all, the forms of bullets simply passing by the child’s body in clean misses despite the volume and accuracy of fire. A soul gently folding dimensions of space and time around him, the thousand expended rounds unable to pierce through the veils of inhumanity.

The dead eyes just turn to face them, twenty five crusaders gazing upon the incarnation of power, of divinity, of heresy.

A gap in incoming, the Judge peeking the corner as he ignores the miracle before him. A lever action receiver filled with lethal rifle rounds, two sent towards the distant forms hidden in cover before biology fails.

A muscle falters, electrical impulses stuttering from inconceivable punishment. Breath ripped from lungs as the old man just slumps onto the dust, a heart beat collapsing against an injection of pure adrenaline from bodily systems.

Pain, death.

The Bandit next to him gives the report, inaccurate given the circumstances. “GRAMPS IS HIT!”

Rough hand put upon the nape of the fallen Judge’s armor, pulled back into safety before the barrage returns. Bullets ripping through steel showering the world with sparks of death, the Bandit quickly turning the old man onto his side as she checks him for the wound. “Now look Judge, I know we’ve had a bit of a history but I can’t let you die. Not when I’m here.”

Hands attempting to clutch chests, breaths unable to gather air into stunned diaphragms as the old man chokes upon his own spittle. Dark brown eyes staring up towards sleeping suns above, an attempt at translating the massive pain only allowed through long grunts and moans.

An external penetration unfound as her voice is smothered beneath the crack of rounds passing mere inches overhead. “Gods damn what is wrong with you…”

The Being walks through the gunfire unharmed, stopping at the very edge of the two as he speaks the diagnosis. “This individual is undergoing fatal cardiac arrest. His death will occur within the next eight minutes.”

The Bandit leans back, staring at the child. “Are you serious?!”

The One nods slowly, the Bandit removing a single syringe from within her chest carrier. Black shape filled with unidentifiable lettering, magical implication upon its form. Taken from the divine, an artifact exposed once again to the world. “You better not be faking Judge, this thing costs more than twenty banks combined.”

A weak point in armor found between helmet and chest carrier, the injection of magical potionaries placed right upon the arterial vein of the neck in a painless flood of suspended fluids. The spirit of gods above, invisible to the eyes of modern humanity, cycles into bloodstreams; a body still clawing at his chest before their full activation.

Life returns with pure pain, electrical arcs stunning musculature as neurons almost white out in overload. A divine intervention diagnosing and treating the injury in a fully automatic process, the old heart restored to normal function within seconds of injection.

Judge John Murphy still lives.

Tracer rounds still flashing overhead, the Bandit takes leadership of a desperate situation. All five beneath the oppression of lead and death, only one solution placed before them. “We gotta get outta here!”