The thing about time is that it’s a word with so many different meanings. Time as in measure of day, time as in father time, and time for a good old introduction. It’s as if it simply can’t decide what it wants to be. Hell, it’s around 34:31 right now, and yet truth be told, it’s a number that means close to nothin’. When you’re stuck on some planet rife in the middle of god knows where the concept of numerical time ain’t as applicable as it can be. Days, suns, moons, all those things you think are so certain suddenly differ, and bam, you’re thrown into a whole goddamn different world.
But that’s not really the point. That’s just a monologue by yours truly, a way to ease yourself into the flow of my mind and ideals. What comes next is the important part. That being an explanation of who exactly I am.
You see, I suppose I should explain I’m not well-liked around these parts. I’m a nasty person, and I’ve done quite a few nasty things. Whether it be extortion, killing for money, or displacing a galactic regime, you name it. They call me a fool, a scoundrel, and a bastard.
But I believe the proper term for my line of work is ‘well-meaning hero’.
Point is, as a result of my so-called business, I received a cryptic message this morning. Some kinda warning – I thought at first – an ill-conceived attempt at making me scared. I’m not the literary type, so it took me some time before I eventually understood.
It was a challenge. From none other than some nobody nonetheless.
Gotta admit. It caught me off guard, but I can’t say I’m opposed to the notion of it.
You see, around these parts, life ain’t so simple. It ain’t just a matter of shooting one another and killin’ 'em. You got all types – people with weird abilities, aliens, demons, you name it. Just so happens those weird people really like fighting each other.
Whether a matter of pride or simply cause they’re fucked up, I can’t say.
What I do know is that I ain’t the type to turn away from it.
Under the cloudy sky, where rain falls, and machines sing, I take a moment of repose.
Thinking over the battle, I recall the location being a city rooftop. While seemingly pointless, given that it’s right in front of me, and remains a distinctly clear memory. The type of recollection is done so out of enjoyment and not necessity. The type done so to relieve and appreciate the proper finesse and beauty of it. The type with concrete pavement, colourful lights all around, illuminated through a sheet of fog, under pourin’ rain type of deal.
It might seem real generic, but it was actually quite a rare sight around these parts. On planet Maralint, where only servants of evil gods or maniacs linger, people, much less established cities, are few and far between.
A small town or settlement here and there, sure, but a towering metropolis such as this one?
Is fortunate as can be.
But all that said, the environment is really just a setup. A mere stage for the lovely players to take center stage. Though given the lack of a curtain call, I suppose then that I’m the player and the director huh? Well, if you’re gonna put me in charge of things, then you know what I say?
There’s no better time than the present!
Jumping forward, I enter into a free fall. Pressure, like the gentle hands of a lover, shoves against my body. What an extraordinary feeling! And to think some people are too scared to even skydive.
You might be subject to aerodynamics and whatnot, sure, but if you know how to control it, how to tweak your limbs and muscles in just the right position…
Bam, just like that. There I am, landing with perfect style and comfort, with barely a bump against my body. Fist and knee to the ground, flourish of the left shoulder and looking straight ahead.
“Pardon the intrusion, darling.”
I give the best greeting I got, tipping the hat on my forehead ever so slightly.
The figure, in turn, rotates, now in parallel to myself.
“Word has it yer a wanted woman.”
His voice rings out like a crickety old phonograph. Spoken as if they’re a sick old robot dying from a combination of leprosy and puberty. Most likely, a patchwork of modular post-processing and vaguely human vocal cords.
I think it's a good sound, really. Helps set the character and mood. From a first impression alone, the possibilities their voice presents are endless. They could be a robot bounty hunter, some half-burnt cyborg with telekinetic powers, or even just some teenager with a vocal modulator.
I inhale in. My shoulders lift. They reach a height higher than my adrenaline, higher than any damn mountain out there and, then, hitting the peak, drop.
God.
What can I say?
Fun part about life is you never quite know what it’ll present. Even if you get hit by a giant bomb, the revelation your parents died, or the fact that you stepped in bird dung.
All that matters is the breakaway from the daily grind, a means for something fresh to erupt.
I came to that conclusion a long time ago, and my opinion hasn’t faltered since. And as far as things on a scale of freshness go, I think a mysterious, possibly automated assassin is pretty compelling.
Hah. Now ain’t that just somethin’. The more I think it over, the more exciting it gets.
“Hello”, He calls. “You there?”
“Why’d you ask?”
His shoulders shrug in a lazy motion.
“Saw ye standin’ there all silent and wanted to ask a question, that’s all.”
Hah. If only he knew.
“Don’t worry; I’ve got a voice in my head to keep me company.”
“What are you, schizophrenic?”
“No, I’m just self-aware and have a stream of consciousness, that’s all. A trademark amongst all intelligent species, really.”
I hope he took it as an insult. Which, judging from the tilt of his head, seems to be the case.
“A comic and a warrior, eh” He scoffs. “What, ye some kinda stand-up comedian turned desolate rebellious huntin’ mercenary?”
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Stand-up comedian?” That comparison makes me laugh. It strikes a chord, but for all the wrong reasons possible. “Sorry, buddy, but you got the backstory all wrong.” I brush back my hair. “Cause I’m not a former comedian or mercenary.”
I’m actually a high schooler.
“I’m a goddamn magical girl.”
I spot it.
There we go. The fear, the startle and swirl of their cloak, and the subtle shift of their feet. Got 'em’ just where I want. A battle’s more than just an exchange of bullets, lasers or metal. It’s an exchange of thoughts, will and dominance. And the first one who loses it dies.
Cosmic energy surges through my arms, threatening to rip the very veins and nerves from my body. It happens in less than a second, disappearing as quickly as it manifested. A cartoon cloud emerges in both palms. Two guns are now in my hand. Long as a person, black as midnight, and shaped like lever-action rifles. Respectively dubbed Aka and Ao.
I pull the trigger with as much respect as I can muster.
“Ready or not, your rodeo’s bout to begin.”
Recoil pumps against my shoulder as bullets exit, shooting straight and riddling the cloaked man with fist-sizzled holes, each one imbued with the power of a fallen star, and each sending him further and further away across pavement.
Screams shudder, rain falls, and all comes to an end.
Before long, a thud against metal echoes, their body now slumped against decrepit fencing.
However.
Even after all that, I can still see some movement in their body. Slight but clear as dew water.
Almost as if they’re still breathing.
Almost as if they’re still alive.
Get ready for the second entourage.
“Taste the petrichor? That’s your retribution, friend.”
I close my eyes and ram the side of my two guns against each other. Metal clangs. Individual pieces, geometric rectangles in shape, emerge from both guns, crossing into each other, building, and creating something new.
Clack.
A mechanism activates. Circles of crimson manifest on the wet pavement, enveloping me in brilliant light. Petals of crimson, dozens in their number, appear out of thin air and dance around me. My whole body is hidden, covered by a veil of flowers a dozen metres high and wide.
Gotta love it. This is why being a magical girl is great.
Soon, my once plain rags dissipate. Starting from the bottom to the top, a transformation takes over. Dissolving into pure light, a new attire takes its place—a loose-fitted dress coloured purple. Accented with yellow stitching, touching my knees, and above all else, cute as can be.
There you have it. My transformation done and dusted.
To that end, the purple petals once around me touch the ground, revealing the full extent of my surroundings. But there’s no one. The same guy, sitting in defeat a moment prior, is gone.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but that seven-word catchphrase ye got?”
His words ring from behind. Its sound no longer marred by the distinct shift of vocal modulation. Damn. It’s got me feelin’ a certain way. There’s a hole in the middle of my body. A patchwork vortex of thought and feeling pulling me in. Dunno why, but that baritone voice of his is awfully familiar, and more so, in a bad kinda way.
“Ain’t gonna cut it round’ here.”
I turn directly to face him. Sure enough, some slick-lookin’ bastard is there. Leanin’ against a wall, posin’ cooly, and holdin’ some kinda crimson patterned axe with a barrel attached to it.
Shimmerin’ under the light, the blade of his axe, strikes me as particularly evil.
“Transforming before the battle, you violatin’ magical battle etiquette boy!”
Taking in the sight, I gotta admit it wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. Long hair, androgynous looks, and a shit-eating grin? Now, wait a minute. Ain’t this who I think it is?
I aim my gun and yell, “So what, our galactic emperor goes round’ crossdressing and fightin’ aliens now?”
Light erupts—a rotating magic circle at the barrel of my gun.
If he’s gon rush at me, all I gotta do is stop him fore’ he does!
“Rural Void Cannon!”
Beams, each the size of a person, launch his way.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Each is cut down by his weapon. And the ones that he can’t cut in time? Well, he darts from one side to the next – avoids them all the same.
He’s an arm's length away from me now.
Clash.
A crimson axe rubs against an even larger gun.
“Just so ya know, in numerous galactic communities, men do wear skirts and colourful accessories!”
The interchange of metal sparks little motes of orange. Through a clockwork rhythm, we attack, parry, and attack yet again. Each strike, each blow, and each exchange furthers our understanding of each other.
“Yeah, none who wear frilly red bows or cute little rabbit accessories, though!”
“Animals are unisexual, ya uncultured fookin’ outback knobhead!”
Our exchange grinds to a halt.
Starin’ me in the eye, he surges back. And with one movement, kicks my gun. With enough force that he sends me sprawlin’ back – enough momentum that he backflips.
Dumbass. If he’s usin’ a melee weapon, then I’m in the best position possible.
At just the right range, I prep my gun.
Through the power of magic bullshittery, the weapon elongates even further. To the point where it rests on my shoulders and to the point where it’s damn well longer than I am.
He’s just looking back at me. No fear, no nothin’, just the same old grin. Only now, he’s pointin’ the barrel of his little axe pistol against me. Crimson light imbues it, sending ripples of energy through the weapon and rabbit keychain.
“RURAL VOID”
“CONQUEST BULLSHIT”
Our words battle for dominance. At an impasse, our yells intersect.
“CANNON.”
“BEAM.”
I barely see what happens next. There’s so much light everywhere – blinding me. My heart races as some inklings of sweat trace down my forehead. Furthermore, my legs are so stiff that I can barely move. Truth be told, though, the battle’s over.
“Darn, it.”
Something wet stains my waist. It’s warm, red, and damn well smells like iron. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it is. The pride of my high school self vanishes. A shudder of cold brings goosebumps to my skin, like a wave of needles on every surface of my body.
Goodness gracious me, I’m getting all dramatic.
I topple to my knees, clenching at my body in some wretched cry of instinct. It hurts. It hurts so damn bad that I lack so much of the energy to move from my position. Everything, from my knees, hands and neck, all of it suspends itself in motion.
But even so. I don’t care. Dying ain’t all that scary to me.
It’s being forgotten, that is.
“My catchphrase”. I sputter out, “Did ya remember it?”
In response, he meets me in the eye and smiles.
“Taste the petrichor; that’s your retribution, right?”
Guess I was pretty memorable after all.
“Heh, close enough.”
My body falls like a loose domino. Thud. Wet rain on my face and blood from my wounds stain the ground like some avant-garde painting. So ends my story, I suppose. Kinda unfortunate to kill a character as cool as me, but it happens. Ideally, I would’ve been the protagonist or even the side character that everyone likes, but I guess this is fine too. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll resurrect or somethin’, but for now, there ain’t much else to it.
Though, if anything, I sure ain’t dyin’ like some two-bit punk. If I’m gonna go, I damn well will with a bang. Even if my death is just character development for someone else or just a setup for a cool punchline, I’ll take it.
“Just tell me one thing.” I muster. “What the hell are you?”
“Oh, me.” He says, looking to the sky. “I’m a goddamn magical boy.”