The explosive blast nearly deafens the Judge as heat blisters across exposed skin, the entire hostile vehicle thrown aside from the kinetic potential of divine power. A two ton getaway car turned torch spinning out of control and into the crowded streets of the old city districts.
Judge Hoppe slams on the brakes of her armored pursuit vehicle, the mechanical steed shuttering to a stop as her exposed counterpart barely hangs onto the crossbars.
An impact site cratered and on fire, a truck’s corpse utterly wrecked as it bleeds lubricating oil and coolant onto the dusty cobblestone. Criminal forms found within the chaos, bodies picking themselves off the ground.
“Gods above what was…”
Judge Murphy gives the report. “Unknown sniper, get into cover.”
Judge Hoppe rips her door open alongside her senior, a hand upon her radio as she pulls out an acquired handgun caliber semi-automatic sidearm. Broadcasted voice enough to shake diaphragms, she speaks the words with cold order. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD. NOW!”
The response of harmless lead forces Judges into cover, helplessly watching as shadowed forms retrieve weapons; bodies at the foreground of flames springing forth into an escape. Two paths between, a single leader separating from her own gang into the darkened alleyways of the old city.
“I’ll pursue the primary suspect.” Judge Murphy orders as he turns to face his comrade, boots upon cobblestone already in the midst of movement. “Go!”
Beneath the five gods the two strands of fate are woven against three more, a string following the movement of fragments through archways and brick apartment blocks. The universe counting each individual step, each breath taken by old and young lungs, and the roaring exchanges of gunfire.
Non-lethal rounds handcrafted in the gunsmitheries of Centralis slammed into a divine receiver, electrically charged grenades compressed into bullets that are subsequently launched into the world.
Hands shaking as a diaphragm struggles against the dusty air and a sleepless night, the old man’s point of aim unable to track the escaping woman down alleyways. Two shots, arcs of lightning scattering brickwork as bullets fall in clean misses.
Streets fold into serpentine paths, the decay of the ancient city evident as the Judge nearly trips over long forgotten refuse bins and pitched shelters.
Incoming rounds defecting off of arcane shields, points of cover dived into as the chase throws itself into a now running gunfight.
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The homeless upon alleyways and bombed out apartments watch passing forms, the roads between churches and long forgotten factories a backdrop to a final duel beneath gods above.
She forces herself through a group of drunk factory workers, the side street to a tavern suddenly turned into a roadblock as angry souls begin to object. Obscenities and curses ended by a levered spray of non-lethal rounds from behind, unleashing electricity that burns neurons into unconsciousness. The Judge stumbles past fallen bodies, the divine rifle raised against a counterpart that dives to her right.
Streets fan outward, dead ends forming together like a river of eroded sand flowing into the world. A major artery cutting through the old city, a construction by the Federation crafted from ruins of ash and brick providing an infrastructure to a new age.
Lights illuminate across commercial street fronts, the traffic of a darkened evening halted against a general curfew. Trained eyes catch a familiar universe from the maze of the holy city, a previous establishment marched onward through a full day of work and sleep.
She’s trapped, the coverless streetways damning her in the final moments of resistance. A primary suspect turning against the Judge, the old man stopping at the terminus of the alleyway.
At the very front of a tavern, a long pause as eyes meet.
The million dollar bounty placed by the political elite on one of their own kin, a requirement for a living head cemented by the dynastic family name of McCormick. A lost girl in a universe of dust, of a pure soul tarnished from a lawless existence in the depths of the Frontier.
“Judge John Murphy…” The Bandit speaks to him, the smile upon her face filled with raw determination. “How you doin’ gramps?!”
Her counterpart stands there; an aged body and mind crafted from the resultance, orphans of the world; from the heart of the Federation the ancient form of Judge John Murphy calls out to her in response. Non-lethal rounds already expended, a breathing stabilizing as he catches his breath with cold order. “Madeleine McCormik, put down your weapon. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
“That the best you got, old man?!” The young woman chuckles back as she tries to catch her own breath. “Just try to take me down.”
He raises the gun, a pure black receiver of divine creation matching with a lever action drawing the eyes of gods above. The words spoken in pain stop it all. “End of the line kid. Give it up.”
A thousand criminals before her, recognition of defiance upon a cold smile. Only one solution to a standoff, a point of aim mentally prepared at the very base of the torso. A gamble, an impending life threatening wound treatable given a fast enough response.
Gathered pedestrians running into cover at the sight of seven bars and one unfired bullet; groups of lost children, off shift workers, and families peeking out of old storage crates and windows towards the lethal showdown.
With a single breath the Judge takes in the world, an observation of the target done; realization of a vicious consequence towards an impossible task. A mind demanding the impossible from an ailing, aching physicality.
The voice from a third point in the dying world speaks, the Gunslinger interrupting conflict. “Wait.”