No separation between civilians and active combatants in a warzone.
Men and women in plainclothes alongside curious children watch from beyond a half-secured perimeter of police vehicles, natural instincts driven towards the observation of a developing firefight in relatively safe positions.
The sharp cracks of gunfire echo into the central quarter of March, rounds exchanged in bursts of suppressive fire between two factions engaged in urban warfare. Officers take cover behind parked vehicles, bullets snapping past barely hardened positions as they attempt to return fire with pitiful handguns.
Forms deep within the palace complex armed with fully automatic weapons and armored in white ceramic plates and identified with pale blue arm bands; immense overkill in the attack against the very leadership of the city.
Power cemented with barrages of killing potential, a current fireteam of six terrorists outside hiding behind marble pillars keeping an entire force of fourteen officers and a single judge at bay.
A single anchor to hold the line, Judge Hoppe’s revolver action carbine tears rounds down the street. Immense training regime focused upon points of hard cover, the seven chambers within the cylinder the only limiting force against the immeasurable firepower of fully automatic weapons.
“Heads down!” The young judge orders her subordinates as another blast of incoming fire rips over them, the weapon within her hands snapped open in the midst of a reload.
A speedloader taken from her belt, the seven .44 magnum rounds hastily stuffed into chambers. Metal cracks against metal, the thing returned to action with a swift flick of her wrist.
Movement to an alternative firing position, the woman sprints from her wall and outward into the world. An objective twenty feet away, body sent into motion as thin legs carry with them a soul of fire and justice.
Burst of gunfire aimed directly at her from hostiles, a killzone established as rifle caliber rounds are shot towards the judge in lethal streaks of death. Arcane shielding activates in response, lead scattering off blurring gravimetric projections as the woman leaps behind a nearby car. Tightened breaths revealing panic, vicious mental conditioning allowing for just a single swear from her lungs. “GODS ABOVE!”
Shaking body ducking even further as fire tears into the frame of her point of cover, shrapnel cratering itself into armored cloth as Judge Hoppe simply keeps her head down. Hand held to her radio, casted outward to all wavelengths. “All units be advised, situation critical! Suspects have armor and automatic weapons!”
A magazine emptied from beyond, break in fire allotted; Hoppe pulls herself out of cover. Eyes aligning with iron sights she slams lead towards assumed hostile positions, crisp triggers pulled as she tries to suppress an open target. Marble construction blasted to smithereens, pure dust covering armored forms; unbelievable conviction barely acknowledging incoming as they return fire.
One officer is caught in the barrage, his cranium exploding as the shot rips through the very basis of souls. A death taken instantaneously, the body simply flopping limp onto the earth of a dying world.
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Mind pushed to its breaking point, Hoppe’s weapon clambers out its final round as she’s forced back into cover. Weapon once again opened, the woman sending a silent prayer to gods above in replacement of law.
Beneath the glow of five dead suns the Judge open fires.
The sound of a divine monster’s arrival is heralded by an anti-tank round, the explosive power of heavy ammunition sending forth kinetic power towards hostile positions.
Golden tracer igniting the darkness, marking its path through a world watched by sleeping gods. A payload held within the shape enough to tear through layers of armor, divine intervention allowing material compression beyond the simplistic notions of matter and mass.
The warhead makes contact.
Thick plates of ceramic armor upon the terrorist ignite the shell, explosive power sending forth a cavitation fist of molten metal straight into the upper torso. Flesh shatters against insane violence, the entire top half of the targeted hostile exploding into a cloud of gore that paints white marble brackish red. Death instantaneous, vengeance enacted in the arrival of judiciary enforcement.
A lever action cycled, smoking cartridge ejected into the world suddenly reverting back to its original size and shape. Matter decompresses as divine interventions falter upon its construction, the spent brass cartridge of a massive twenty five millimeter high explosive armor piercing round expanding upon itself as it clatters onto the dust and stone.
Judge Murphy’s arrival onto the scene defined by the Lawbringer, the absolute certainty of the law exorcizing the souls of the unjust.
An open street leading towards avenues of fire, the senior Judge identifying killzones as he ducks behind a concrete lamppost.
A hand pulled to the radio at his right shoulder, transmission reaching across the airwaves of the city of March. Cold words rising above all, authority taking control of carnage. “This is Judge Murphy, responding to code red 10-65 in Palace Complex. Requesting backup from all units. Repeat, requesting backup from all units.”
Peaking out of cover the Judge takes a deep breath as sights align, aim point stabilized against another target. Eyes meet, the targeted soul only allowed a single second of deliberation before the round rips them in half.
Another bullet cycled out, the incredible power of high caliber munitions halted as the half-cocked weapon is repurposed for utility.
From his belt the Judge retrieves a single forty millimeter grenade, noxious green coloring inscribed upon its gray casing an indication of payload held within.
A divine receiver sits with its maw open, a monster of eons long past awaiting for sustenance. Seemingly bottomless; the thing holds an all enveloping darkness within it. A thirsting for annihilation only satiated with ammunition.
Forty millimeter round comically large, an impossible sight borne all to witness as the Judge shoves the launcher grenade into the receiver of his weapon.
Matter compresses, space-time folding upon itself as the projection of divine sources accepts the new offering. A round sucked into the receiver, the Judge completing the weapon’s lever action cycle as the bullet is primed for application.
A heavier round, requiring more thought to its firing arc. Judge Murphy simply holding the beast onto his hip as he finds the angle of fire.
A hundred applications before this, the Judge pulls the trigger from instinct alone. A lazy arc, the thump of a weaker propellant sounding across the battlefield as they watch it arrive.
A canister impacting marble staircases in the far distance, the chemicals held within sealed cases of steel suddenly introduced to each other as an explosive rigged tip shatters containment cells.
Sickly smoke burns the very soul, acidic gas spreading through the hostile firing line in the suppression of air itself. Lungs violently choking against an attack at the foundations of life, survival instincts overriding religious conviction.
Sinners falling back at the fumes of chemical products, coughing bodies sent into motion towards the open door of the central palace. Automatic weapons fire receding away, the creations of justice watching as the massive armored gateways are shut behind the retreating force.