The Gunrunner turned, and crouched to look the girl in the eyes.
"Are you okay?"
The girl nodded, her eyes shining with admiration.
"How did you do that? You- you just- kicked their asses!"
"Language, young lady! Where'd you learn that phrase? Hey, stop giggling!"
After the girl managed to compose herself, the Gunrunner took her by the shoulders.
"Are you absolutely sure you're okay? Those men over there are just an example of the types of bad men that would like to take you and force you back into slavery. You must never go off alone, alright? I don't want anything happening to you."
The girl nodded again, her expression solemn. The Gunrunner clapped her on the shoulder.
"Good. Now, let's get going."
As they left the alley and walked out onto the street, the Gunrunner couldn't help but remember her inquisitive eyes as she watched him beat up those thugs. Most kids would be covering their eyes and cowering in fear, but she had watched, as though she was completely unaffected by the violence happening before her eyes. This was more than a little disturbing, but the Gunrunner put it down as simply another aftereffect of the harsh treatment she had suffered.
They passed colorful stands advertising everything from food to ammunition, but the Gunrunner ignored all of them until he stood in front of a building, completely unmarked except for the sign above its door: Blade Emporium.
Inside was a spacious, plain white room with a black tile floor. It would be just another drab building, if not for the multitude of blades covering the walls. Simply calling the Blade Emporium a knife store would be an insult- the shop carried much more than just knives. From push daggers to longswords, the variety of blades on show were all immaculately polished.
The owner was a wiry, balding man with sharp features that made him look like one of the knives he sold. When the Gunrunner walked in, he was sharpening a butcher knife. Then he paused, and looked up from his work.
"Welcome, welcome. How may I help you?"
"I need a knife. A small one. One that would, say, fit in a child's hand."
The shopkeeper's eyes strayed to the girl, who was fingering the handle of a kukri, then snapped back to the Gunrunner. He leaned under the counter, and brought out a knife. It was designed in much the same way that the M9 bayonet, formerly used by the U.S. Military, with a curved blade attached to a black polymer handle. The Gunrunner nodded appreciatively.
"Self-made?"
"Yes. Stainless steel, all the way."
After the Scourge, many enterprising weaponsmiths had tried melting down scrap metals and forging their own weapons. Of course, most of them quit early on- usually discouraged by the low quality of their work- but some continued, and emerged successful. One of the most successful such weaponsmiths was Walden Hart, who established a company (Hart Weapons) which made guns and other weapons, as the name would suggest.
Yet more talented weaponsmiths went solo, working as freelance designers and crafters, like the man at the counter in front of the Gunrunner. These experts usually put more care into their blades than one normally would.
The Gunrunner took the knife, and tested the balance in his hand. It was weighty- but still light enough for throwing, if needed. He put the flat blade of the knife on his index finger. The balance was almost at the center of the blade. This was critical in a throwing knife, because this meant that the knife be thrown while holding the blade or the handle. An unbalanced knife would need to be thrown in a specific way, or unable to be thrown properly at all. He called the girl over, and placed the knife in her hand.
"How does it feel? Is it too heavy, or too light? Does it feel too long?"
His worries were unwarranted. The girl had a big smile on her face as she swished the blade through the air.
"That girl's a natural, if I've ever seen one. Look at the way she holds the knife- it's almost like it's an extension of her arm. If you want, come by later- I'll give her lessons. Course, it won't be free, but I can give you a discount."
"I'll think about it. You have a sheath to go with it?"
The shopkeeper tossed a simple black polymer sheath, onto the counter. It was flat and square, with a slit on one of the shorter sides for the knife. It had a simple loop on one side for use with a belt. It was no Buck, but it would have to do.
"How much for both?"
The owner put on a face of mock concentration.
"Let's see... Before the Scourge, this would have been around 120 bucks. Now, if you account for price fluctuations, it'd be worth around 150. Oh, and it's a custom job, so let's say 170 as the final price. How 'bout that?"
A sort of strangled half-gasp came from the Gunrunner's mouth.
"That's plain robbery. That's what this is- extortion!"
"Take it or leave it, pal. And methinks you're going to take it."
It was true. Even if the price was high, it was a good quality blade, and thinking about it, the Gunrunner knew that he would be hard pressed to find a better price elsewhere. So, with the audible sound of grinding teeth, the Gunrunner pulled out two hundred-dollar bills and threw them on the counter. The shopkeeper counted out three ten-dollar bills while whistling, and waved them goodbye as they left.
"Don't forget about the offer for the lessons! Have a great day!"
"That cheeky little shit..."
The Gunrunner tugged the knife out of the girl's hands, put it in the sheath, and handed it back to her.
"You shouldn't pull out a blade in public- it makes people scared. You should put it in your pocket, and only take it out when you have to use it."
"Okay..."
The girl grumbled in assent, and the Gunrunner smiled.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Now, let's go find a place to rest for the night."
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The Stalker had found himself a place to stay for the night. Although he could simply have paid for a room, he had been unable to stop himself from committing another murder. He would have the Gunrunner's blood on his knife soon, and the thought excited him to no end. He had killed many people, from vastly different walks of life, but he had never killed a living legend before.
He had knocked on the door, an angelic smile on his face, and when a middle-aged woman opened the door, had stabbed her neck with the knife in his right hand. His left hand, holding a towel, came up under the woman's chin to neatly catch the gout of blood spurting from her neck. He had walked into the apartment casually, still supporting the woman's corpse, and closed the door behind him. When he was sure the bleeding had abated somewhat, he laid her corpse on her back, the towel still on her throat, and dragged her further into the apartment.
The Stalker had been delighted to discover the woman had lived alone. The apartment was sparsely furnished, but had all the essentials. He left the woman on the floor and checked the tracker. The Gunrunner was still moving. Good. That would give him plenty of time to do what he needed.
First, he wrote a suicide note for the woman. Because he didn't know any of her personal circumstances, he went with a template. He tweaked the details a little, and rewrote it on different pieces of paper until he was satisfied. The previous revisions would be burned later.
Next, he took a look around the apartment. He found nothing of interest in the bathroom cabinet, nor in the bedside drawer, but he struck gold in the kitchen. Beside a small bottle of aspirin was a bottle of thyroxine tablets. The woman had most likely had them prescribed due to thyroid problems- most likely hypothyroidism- but they were also occasionally taken as anti-depressants. The Stalker tipped half the bottle into his hand, which he emptied into a plastic baggie, and then purposefully spilled some on the ground near the kitchen table. He left the bottle open, with the cap next to it.
He then checked on the corpse. The blood on the towel was starting to dry, and he removed it from the woman's neck to allow some of the congealing blood to gather on the carpet. He arranged the woman's hand in a way that made it seem as though she had been holding the towel to her neck, but had dropped it when she stabbed herself. He left the knife as it was, still sticking out of her neck- he had chosen an ordinary kitchen knife for this purpose, knowing that anything else would be suspicious. Of course, this scene would never hold up to careful examination- but he didn't think the police would have enough time for suicides, especially since the rate had gone up astronomically since the Scourge.
He checked the tracker again. It was time to go.
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The Gunrunner checked in to a seedy-looking hotel. Hotels, like factories, had come through relatively unscathed- albeit extremely understaffed. Judging from the look of this one, it could even lack basic amenities. It couldn't be helped, though- and besides, they were only going to stay the night.
The youth in the bellboy's uniform behind the counter was pimply and sullen, not looking up even as the Gunrunner stepped up to the lobby counter and cleared his throat.
"Each night's 80 dollars, checkout before noon. No meals included. You pay when you checkout, not before."
Said the pimply youth as he tossed the Gunrunner a key ring with the number 451 on it. The Gunrunner stared at the youth, one eyebrow raised, then shrugged and turned away. As the elevators were nonfunctional, the Gunrunner and the girl were forced to climb the stairs up to the fourth floor. By the time they reached their room, the girl was panting, although the Gunrunner didn't show any signs of exertion.
Their room was small, cramped, and had only one bed. The Gunrunner would have to sleep on the floor. He hoped there weren't any bed bugs in the mattress- although there was an ominous, brownish stain on one corner.
The girl fell backwards onto the bed, kicked off her shoes, pulled up the covers, and fell asleep almost immediately. Not too long after, soft snoring sounds began to emnate from the slightly bulging covers. The Gunrunner smiled, and sat down in a rickety wooden chair that creaked as he leaned backwards. Although sitting down wasn't his favorite way to sleep, he preferred it to sleeping on the dirty, matted ground. He closed his eyes, and relaxed.
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The Stalker was at the entrance of a hotel. According to the tracker, this was where the Gunrunner was staying. It took 5 minutes for the Stalker to come up with a plan to kill the Gunrunner. He would disguise himself as room service, and use the same tactic he used for the woman he killed earlier the same day.
He walked in. Again, the pimply youth made to simply toss him a key ring- then froze, as he felt the cold steel of a knife tickling his Adam's apple. He raised his hands, not daring to swallow.
"Strip."
The youth shot the Stalker a horrified look, and hesitated. The knife dug in slightly, drawing a single bead of blood. The youth winced, and began taking off his pants.
After he had taken off his entire uniform, leaving him only his underwear, the youth shivered, more from his terror of the knife-wielding man in front of him than the slight chill of the evening.
The Stalker contemplated the figure in front of him. As much as he did not like leaving a trail of bodies, he would have to silence the boy. Yes, he would. If he didn't, the terrified idiot would start blabbering a mile a minute, and the police would start to suspect a connection between the murder of the woman and the murder of the Gunrunner.
He motioned at the door with his knife. On the youth's face was an expression of relief, and he began turning to face the door, hands still in the air.
As soon as his back was turned, the Stalker stabbed his knife in the small of the youth's back. He dropped without a sound, his limp body thudding on the ground.
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The Gunrunner woke from his doze at the sound of knocking at the door. Who would be looking to visit at this time of the evening? Certainly not the pimply youth at the lobby.
"Who's there?"
He called out, and received a response from a masculine voice:
"Room service."
His suspicions were now like flies, angrily buzzing around in his head. Room service? This seedy hotel had room service? He didn't think so.
He took a look at the peephole set in the middle of the door. He could see a man, wearing the same uniform as the youth, holding what looked like a stack of towels under one arm and an out-of-sight tray in the other. He made to unlock the door- and hesitated. With one hand on the revolver, he turned the lock, and opened the door.
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The Stalker was frustrated. Why wasn't the old man opening the door? He'd thought his disguise was convincing enough. His right hand, gripping a hidden knife under the stack of towels, was starting to hurt from holding it too tightly. His left was holding a tray- but an empty one. He had purposefully stood in such a way that only the edge of the tray would be visible through the peephole.
At last! The door started to open. Wait, he told himself. Wait. The door opened wider. And wider still, until he could see the Gunrunner's face. And then he struck.
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With almost superhuman reflexes, the Gunrunner flinched out of the way, which saved his life. Had he been a moment too late, the knife would have gone through his cheek, and into his brain. As it was, the knife only grazed his right cheek.
Before he could slam the door shut, the unknown assailant wedged a metal tray between the door and its frame. That bought him enough time to step into the room.
The attacker's features were unidentifiable in the dim lighting of the room, but the lithe grace with which he moved was unmistakeably that of an assassin. He struck again, this time a wide swipe at the Gunrunner's chest, and the Gunrunner jumped backwards into the wall. He drew out his pistol and was about to pull the trigger, when the assassin grabbed the barrel and diverted the gun to discharge harmlessly at the ceiling. At the same time, the knife moved forward, aiming for the Gunrunner's chest.
With his left hand, he grabbed the wrist of the knife-wielding hand and twisted it, forcing it to drop the knife. The other man, to his credit, did not even wince- he simply let go of the gun, and with his suddenly free hand punched the Gunrunner in the face.
The Gunrunner, stunned, slid down against the wall, his revolver held limply in his right hand. The attacker kicked the gun out of his hand, then reached down to grab the knife. At that moment, the Gunrunner lunged, tackling him to the ground and knocking the knife away. He began to punch at the assassin's face, but after the second blow they were easily blocked by the younger man, who punched the Gunrunner's face once again, this time producing an audible crack. With blood streaming from both his mouth and nose, the Gunrunner swung away at his opponent until he felt something hard impact his neck.
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The Stalker felt the Gunrunner go limp, and let out an exultant roar inside his mind. He crawled out from under the other man, and looked for his knife- he couldn't see it. He would simply have to use his fists, instead. He began to strike at the limp body of the old man.
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The girl silently slipped from beneath the covers, hands tightly gripping the handle of the knife the Gunrunner had purchased for her. The assassin had failed to notice her, thanks to her slight frame. Softly, she tiptoed up to the man, distracted in his fury against her benefactor. She closed one eye, aimed, and thrust.