Beneath gods and against the heat of five suns Judge Murphy takes the desperate measure.
Pills colored a bright blue removed from a utility belt; a twined pair of combat drugs quickly ingested by the old man as he shakes away the fatigue of an extended operational day. Divines already completing a full cycle of life, the human moves to outlast the rage through raw will and chemical assistance.
A deep breath as neurons reignite, a tired heart moving to continue through the power of artificially assisted panic. Bloodstreams slowly take in the intrusiveness of external forces, the body awakening in artificial lucidity.
Judge Murphy watches as the crowd beyond the perimeter is shoved away by riot control officers, a world coming to fruition to watch the death of their governance in a gunpowder keg brought to the flame.
Each a single life of civil creation, the southlandic empires written upon faces in the heritage of the twelve beacons of light from the wastelands. A battery of faces mismatched, of wanted criminals compared and contrasted coming to naught as the two figures approach him through military personnel and police officers.
“Judge Murphy!”
A wide brimmed hat and scarred body armor upon the more senior yet shorter form, matched with the tight ballistic helm and fresher ceramic plating of the younger rookie.
Judge Chase’s brown hair falling in sideburns and blue eyes harkening to a mixed midland-southlandic heritage, with his cadet’s sharp features and exotic green eyes a remembrance of the northlands beyond the Salvation Line and the centralian colonists settled there.
The rough, grizzled voice of the fellow judge greets him alongside a quick snap to attention. “I am Judge Chase. It is an honor to meet you sir.”
The senior Judge dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “It’s good to meet you too Judge Chase.”
The old soul turns over to the younger one, the Cadet still remaining at attention in the presence of a god of justice. Judge Murphy speaks to him, rank and family name brought forth. “Cadet Smith.”
“Y-yes sir!” He replies quickly.
“It’s good to meet you as well.”
Cadet Smith requires a moment to process the words, a fast nod as he acknowledges the complement with a low bow. “Thank you, s-sir!”
Greetings completed, Judge Chase removes his own personal weapon from its chest carrier. A select-fire assault rifle folded in half snapped back in place with a swift flick, the portable mechanism revealing to the world a lethality in takedown. A thirty five round extended magazine taped alongside another fully loaded one, a war for order in a universe of chaos fought with superior marksmanship. All matched awkwardly by his subordinate cadet’s device.
Centralized atop a bullpup receiver, the specialized weapon of mastercrafted alloy cuts down in its spatial footprint despite the drum-like high-capacity magazine currently inserted into its mag well. Close quarters violence in a supporting role, suppression in volume by fire by inexperienced hands to ensure survivability in the deadly streets of March.
Judge Chase nods towards his senior, a pause within blue eyes as he completes the check of his assault rifle. “So when are we doing this thing?”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Soon.” Judge Murphy assures the comrade.
“Any word on Greyson?” The judge asks for his comrade. “I have not heard anything on the radios, and I do not want to assume the worst.”
Judge Murphy shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Mar preserve him.” Chase echoes the scripture of the law, a god’s name enunciated in an implied prayer. A long pause as he turns towards his rookie, spoken word given in an order. “Smith, you are with me on the line.”
“Y-yes sir.”
He turns finally to the senior Judge, a small hint of emotion arriving upon his face in the salvation of arrival. “With you here Judge Murphy, we might have a chance at saving March.”
The soul of justice simply stares at the fellow judge, a curt nod confirming recipience of the words. Boots upon dusty roads, beneath the heated air of five suns the pair of judiciaries jog off into the distant line of contact at the end of conversation.
An aged heart protesting against the arrival of chemical stimulants, Judge John Murphy forcing himself to breathe against the mild pain slowly snaking its way through his chest cavity. A universe of time coming to war against age, the broken body holding itself together from the sheer will of the soul held within it.
Cold brown eyes beneath the shade of the headquartering tent flicker in the momentary lapse in consciousness. Neurons falling beyond the walls, deep into the very bedrock of their world.
And from a distant roar of gunfire; a single tearing of rounds across the City of March does the Judge find his awakening and purpose. Radio call sent to all from a distant dispatcher, confirmation of intelligence gathered in scrying facilities deep within the leylines of Centralis.
She’s here too.
“All points advised, dispatch: 10-65 in-progress March Central Bank. Requesting response units.”
Judge Hoppe is there, a soul about to wake him from his half-sleep state. Careful words readjusted, bringing forth a briefing alongside the reunited forms of Judge Chase and Cadet Smith.
“Sir.” She speaks first. “A-are you…?”
“I’m fine.” Judge Murphy stands from the empty munitions crate, a leadership already cemented into the dust and rage of a now late afternoon.
“We have a situation at March Central Bank.” She continues the briefing as she notes all present souls of justice. “Robbery, suspects heavily armed with automatics and ceramic armor. They have hostages too.”
“Gods…” Judge Chase exhales. “This is perhaps the worst timing possible.”
“It is.” Hoppe agrees.
“Judge Hoppe.” Judge Murphy calls to her, a cold gaze held within it a reignition of tactical thought. “I need you to take charge of the situation at March Central Bank; stall them for as long as possible until we’re able to respond. Take as many officers as you need; Judge Chase and I will remain here.”
A negotiator’s talent found through the regiments and mental programming in a distant capital city, a file’s significance based upon the usefulness to enact words in a world of guns. She takes the charge, a short nod in acknowledgement of her senior officer.
They watch as she jogs away, a selection of a personal army within her hands as they watch her move towards the police line.
“Judge Chase.” Jude Murphy centralizes the power of the entire detachment with a single call, a gaze falling towards both the judge and his cadet. “I want you two to study the layout of the palace complex. We’ll be breaching by ourselves, traxin 4-51. Assuming the governor is still alive, we’ll be extracting him before the military attempts their assault.”
“Understood sir.” Judge Chase answers the standard operational code. “We will be on it.”
A dispatching of jobs left to subordinates, old eyes watch as they clear from his fields of view. Seconds pass in relative silence, the bustle of a battle to come filling senses as he simply collapses back into his seat.
Deep breaths, air attempting to maintain an overwhelming condition. A tightness in chests snaking its way through his torso and into his arms, nerves screaming in objection to a planned operation to come.
One more minute, one more hour, one more day.