Memories of a firefight in the alleyways of a distant city long ago; the subtle movements of booted feet throwing themselves between the shadowed forms of buildings and cover. A recognition of accumulated sand and graffiti; a hunt within the borderlands of the Federated Cities.

A younger heart pumping with adrenaline, the familiar rifle within his hands jostling in movement. Beneath the darkness of dead suns the Judge flanks between corners, gunfire growing closer as back alleys betray criminal elements.

The stench of dried vomit and urine stinging nostrils, the armored form stopping behind a wall. Breathing slowed, hands steady as he leans from the corner.

Long coats and bright blue arm bands, religious certainty intermixed in the gunfight. Attentions raised to the Officers in front, unaware of a lethal threat upon their flanks. Sights aligned with the target, a hand resting on the trigger for execution.

Judge John Murphy, the old man, wanders the streets of March.

Five dark suns hang in the sky, rounded forms cooling from a day’s operation. The bustle of a city echoes through the structures of concrete and glass; civilization distilled to a droplet within an empty wasteland.

The sounds of young couples in conversation within coffee cafes drifts upon dry air, the honking of motor car horns disrupting thoughts as they pass by on busy roads. Stalls of food vendors sell the southland cuisine of fried matter, a culture derived from eons of time and the desperation of a starving people.

Neon lights illuminate streets, the Federation’s hand found through wide avenues and well maintained habitation complexes. Residential, commercial; general stores, hydroponic facilities, and apartments mashed together from the mind of some long dead urban planner.

No one pays heed to the Lawman within their midst; his form seemingly blending into the movement of bodies.

Armor and weaponry carried openly, Judge Murphy slipping between glances as the golden badge flashes reflected light under dimed street lamps.

A city growing older, a more ancient body than before. The work of privatized planners and social developers giving way to the chosen of monarchs; their abilities demonstrated in utter incompetence.

Streets grow tighter, traffic jamming in back alleys as people are funneled from sidewalks and into busy roadways. Rundown apartments placed next to massive cathedral churches, slums built within the sides of charitable foundations.

Industrial operations crushed between the blocks; the legal forges of steel reclamation facilities hidden within them the workshops of illegal gunsmiths, toxic waste from both dumped into hidden sewers and side alleys.

Eyes gather towards the old man within their midst; glances held in deep stares in the recognition of a foreign being among them. Almost seventy years of history unable to erase the image of victorious conquerors, passing time festering untreated wounds between the citizens of the city.

An ancient instinct is triggered as a group of young men strolls down the sidewalk, the Judge immediately analyzing the oncoming threat. Long black clothing rugged yet somewhat standardized, organization found in the small scale socialization of a gang membership.

Seven total, three visibly carrying guns.

Two single-shot rifles with barrels sawed off are held in plastic pistol holsters between a pair of similar looking individuals, and a single crude four chambered revolver is carried by the shortest among the seven. The rest; either armed with lethally sharp blades in sheathes or unseen firearms, take pause as an unheard message is passed between them.

Seven pairs of eyes lock with the old man, a plan within plans as the group separates out. Four into the depths of a dark alleyway, the rest loitering on the sidewalk in an attempt at casual separation.

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The old man doesn’t react as he moves himself towards the ambush, a hand held within his abyssal blue duster coat against the biting cold of a wasteland night.

A badge barely visible in darkness, the sight lost beneath gods as two gang members shove the old man into the alleyway’s maw.

Insane reflexes keep two feet planted on paved earth, the scent of garbage permeating the tight space between burned out church and apartment complex. A laughter echoes within the confined space, a surrounded victim standing hunched as the final avenue of escape behind him is closed off by human bodies.

A voice begins behind him, tone rough from abuse. “Alright grandpa, Fed like you gotta have some cash on you.”

The cold steel of a gun barrel touches the back of Judge Murphy’s head, the thing pressed hard as a thumb moves to cock the shortened rifle’s hammer. “Ain’t gonna…”

A wound spring brought into action, weapon of flesh and sinew coming to life as neurons pull triggers.

Movement trained from decades in the frontier; a soul of justice bathed in darkness and unbreakable purpose.

The gloved hand shoots out, grabbing the unreadied weapon as the Judge rips it from criminal hands. From the other a serrated combat blade is drawn from body armor, the leading edge tearing through unclothed flesh.

Blood pours from the slash wound on the gunman’s throat, the form stumbling back as eyes widen in shock.

Words gurgle out orders, voice lost to a lethal injury as the Judge moves against criminal force.

A demon in darkness, words of panic screaming as the monster takes its first step.

One tall southland male, wearing a black long-coat with a bowler hat and one hand reaching towards the short-barreled rifle at his hip.

Judge Murphy beats him to the punch; drawing his sidearm from its holster with incredible speed. Silver single action revolver aimed directly at the forms within the depths of the alleyway fifteen feet away, he speaks the words with a harsh tone. “Don’t mo…”

The suspect reaches towards something at his hip, a weapon unseen in the milliseconds of action. A crack of gunfire echoes through the old city as the Judge executes the threat, .45 caliber round sent into the world as justice lunges back towards the opening of the alleyway.

Two remaining forms block the entrance.

One form; large build, mix Southlandic-Armin male. Gray shirt, unarmed.

A single gloved fist crushes the windpipe, the choking soul falling onto his back as the final individual at the mouth of the alleyway raises his weapon.

Short, midlands male. Black coat, armed with a revolver.

The criminal element takes his chance, desperate bullets sent to the blurring form in darkness.

The first round cleanly misses its intended target, rusted lead bullet instead catching the body of his comrade behind the old man; lethal crossfire taking life.

A second shot fired with panic, unaimed yet holding true to its mark.

Implanted within ceramic armor the arcane device activates. A thousand invisible eyes track the projectile as it carves through space, the calculation of ten thousand variables executed in the thin borders between reality.

The first line of defense slams shut.

Gravitons billow forth, an impossibly thin wall of enslaved gravity projected directly in the path of the bullet. A barely perceptible distortion found within enveloping darkness and between the nanoseconds of reality; gods watching death in silence.

An explosive flash of light, lethal round scattering into a harmless storm of sparks.

The Judge cocks the hammer, a fresh chamber rotated in as his hunched form rolls to a kneeling position; weapon sights aligning on center mass.

The bullet takes life instantly, the short individual collapsing onto the ground in a wordless exhalation.

Light streaming into the alleyway from an open window barely catches the golden badge as the sound of gunfire echoes into nothing, Judge John Murphy snapping towards the remaining gang members with weapon in hand.

The power of law, words barked with absolute authority. “GET ON THE GROUND, NOW!”

Compliance without thought, survivors dropping onto the dust of paved earth.

“HANDS UP! I SAID HANDS UP!”

Judge Murphy continues as he steps over the empty corpse, a reflexive announcement of scripture activating within an ancient mind. “You have committed a felony under penal code two hundred seventy seven, section zero one: the attempted murder of a Judge. The sentence is life in prison without parole.”

He reaches for the arcane radio at his shoulder, keeping his weapon trained upon criminality. An orange circle igniting blue in transmission, voice transmitted into the world. “Dispatch this is…” A pause, an obviously identifiable radio tag unacceptable under circumstances. “This is a primary judiciary point; priority one. Require medical and transport: seven convicts: multiple wounded, one D.O.A.”