3.12

“This city is not a city. It is an arena. One where there are no stands, and the spectators are trapped in the ring.

Well. They will have their fight.”

— Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 2

Chloe’s eyes widen, I drop the guitar, and we both lunge. Time seems to slow down as the guy hefts his weapon.

Chloe gets there first. She slams her palm into the rifle, darts forward, wrenches it from his grip and drives the butt into his stomach with a sick thunk.

He goes down. I glance around, trying to see past the panicking bar-goers, trying to hear over the screams — there. Two more, near the back. I lock eyes with Chloe.

She nods, and unclips something from her belt, twisting and lobbing it towards the gunmen. I don’t stick around to watch, but the piercing crack shattering what little calm had settled after the first guy was dispatched tells me it didn’t go exactly according to plan.

I turn, grab Sarah’s arm, and shove her to our right, pointing at the bar. Garrett, or whatever, is already moving, and he catches Sarah’s arm as she stumbles, pulling her behind the high counter.

I start to follow, pushing past fleeing customers as they crowd around the exits, when another gunman shoves his way through the clambering mass — next to the bar.

I dart forward as he arms himself. He sees me immediately, and the jolt of recognition only seems to spur him into action.

I drop into a crouch, sweeping out a leg and sending him crashing to the wooden floor. He grunts, scrambling for his fallen weapon.

Stepping over, I kick it away, and turn to slide back behind the bar, giving his head a good stomp along the way.

My sneakers slide against the floor, and I slam my back against the counter, breathing heavily. I can still hear gunshots from beyond the feeble barricade.

I look over. Sarah and Garrett are here with me, clinging to each other and looking petrified.

I feel the same way, but I try not to let it show on my face.

Further down the bar, there are a couple other people I don’t recognize, including a shorter kid with scruffy hair and tattered clothes that set off alarm bells in my head, and — Ava.

Thank fuck.

Another gunshot, the thunk of boots on wood, and Chloe leaps over the counter, landing heavily in front of me, swearing.

She regains her bearing quickly. “Stay back, dipshits! Any of you peek over the fucking counter and I stick rebar between your eyes!”

She hefts her bolt gun, the one she usually only uses nonlethally, aiming over the top of the counter.

I try to calm my breathing. It’s not working.

“We — we need to get out of here.” I glance towards the exits. The bar’s empty by now, save for… well.

The exits are unblocked, for now. I have no idea how we’d reach them without being filled with holes.

Chloe swears. “I ran out of nets — we’re pinned down!”

Fuck. I don’t — I can’t —

Boots hit floorboards. They’re advancing.

“Claire,” Chloe starts, turning to me, “can you…?”

I close my eyes. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

I hear a sigh, and open my eyes to focus on her face. She settles into a seated position behind the counter, visibly composing herself as she lays her bolt gun across her knees.

Her eyes are steely when she looks at me. “Claire —“

Boots hit floorboards. Her eyes narrow, flicking briefly over the counter. “Claire. You can’t back down, now. This is what you signed up for. And —“

Her voice trembles. “And I know it’s hard. You still have to fight. You want to change things, right? This is the cost.”

The cost. The cost. I don’t know what kind of face I’m making right now, but it must be ghoulish because Chloe’s expression starts to twitch.

I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m doing this because I want to help people — what’s the point of that if I have to maul people to do it? Does the good I’m doing outweigh the harm I’d inflict if I stepped up above that bar?

Should I really be operating off of such nebulous constraints? Good and evil can’t be empirically measured, so is there really a point in trying to do moral calculus here?

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

I turn my head. Sarah and Garrett still clutch each other tightly, desperately, really. A couple people I don’t know have dissolved into sobs behind the bar, and Ava looks…

She looks almost relieved.

I grit my teeth. Maybe…

Maybe it doesn’t have to be so complicated. I have people here, now, that need help. So I should help them.

I lock eyes with Chloe. “…Fine. Fine. Don’t flake out on me when this escalates,” I grunt, not totally sure whether I’m referring to now, or… after.

She grins. “I’m counting on it. You go play hero, I’ll get these idiots out of here. Maybe I can come back and take some potshots after.”

I nod. Breathe in. Breathe out. I plaster a fragile smile across my face, turn, and step above the counter.

There are six gunmen, all wearing patchy coats and wraps. I remember their type, from back at the warehouse. Their rifles still aren’t anything top-shelf, as far as I know, but having them at all kind of speaks to their presence.

They heft their guns, but hesitate to shoot. Do they recognize me?

I widen my grin. “What, scared?”

None of them respond, but one of them takes a step back. Seriously? I’m, like, five-nine right now.

I activate my power and perform a quick internal check. Aside from some leftover scarring over my fist from that little incident in the bathroom that I’ll have to fix later, everything’s in good condition. Muscles, check, half-finished blade, check, all four pressure boosters, check.

At least the physical portion of this issue won’t be as difficult as the moral one.

I step down from the bar, taking a couple deliberately slow steps closer. “Hey, if you really don’t want to, maybe you can just pack it up? We can always reschedule.”

I hear shuffling from behind me, and suppress a grimace. I’m still in front of the bar, and the gunmen’s attention is locked to me — I need to find a way to circle around, or…

One of them seems to finally pluck up the courage, and I don’t bother suppressing the way my lips stretch.

Perfect.

The guy stomps forwards, setting his rifle against his shoulder, and I lunge.

The rest react, lifting their guns while I trigger a pressure booster, letting out a sharp hiss and a small cloud of steam, darting around behind the first guy and yanking the gun out of his grip as I pass.

He grunts, turning with the motion but failing to hold on to his weapon. I reach up, snaking my arms around his torso and gripping both ends of the rifle as I bar it against his chest before he can turn completely.

The other gunmen hesitate, which is good for me when I decide to raise a leg and kick him into the gunman to my right, not sticking around to watch them topple as I dart to the left.

I duck under the man’s instinctive swing with the butt of his rifle, grabbing his ankle and pulling it out from under him. He hits the ground with a thud, and I take a second to kick his gun away and stomp his head into the ground before moving on.

The motions make me vaguely sick, but the adrenaline coursing through my system overpowers the feeling.

Three more, plus maybe one of the two that fell over, off to the side.

The gunman farthest from me manages to raise his weapon before I can slip behind his comrade, firing off a couple shots that light up the room and make my ears ring. Sharp bursts of pain pepper my torso.

A wide, black barrel aligns itself with my head.

I twist my neck, ignoring yet another burst of nausea as the gun goes off next to my face, pushing myself onward, gripping the rifle by its smoking barrel and shoving the butt into the man’s face.

He crumples, and I take the couple seconds until he hits the floor to seal my wounds and stop the ringing in my ears.

The bullets remain embedded in my stomach, for now. I’ll have to remember to take care of that.

Two more. Surprisingly, the one closest to me drops his gun, and pulls a combat knife from his belt.

I blink, but force myself into motion.

He swipes, grip straight on the blade, aimed at my neck. I pull my arm up, grunting as his arm impacts mine, lashing out with a jab at his nose. He jerks back, throwing out a clumsy kick that still catches me in the stomach.

I grunt, stepping back, and pivot around so that he remains between me and the last goon with the gun. I take a second to check on the downed guys —

They’re still on the floor. A couple are conscious, but the other two look to be out cold.

I grit my teeth and make a decision.

Darting forward, I catch knife-guy’s desperate swing on the meat of my left arm, yanking it to the side and firing a pressure booster to power a punch to his gut.

He folds, and before he can hit the floor I’ve fired the booster in my other leg, leapt to the final gunman, and fired a final booster as my fist impacts his skull.

I heave a breath and look around. All six down. The bar counter looks empty as well, so it seems like Chloe got everyone out.

Hopefully. I scowl, and stalk towards one of the back exits. Better to leave now, just in case they sent more. Thankfully, that fight didn’t take long, but I spent all of my pressure boosters, so —

A grunt, rustling clothing, the clatter of metal against metal. I whip my head around —

One of the gunmen recovered, and he’s aiming his rifle —

Bang. There’s a thud as a body hits the floor.

It’s not mine. I scan the bar, and my sight locks onto — a kid. Messy hair, ratty outfit, sooty brow. They’re holding an old firearm in one hand, smoke drifting from the barrel.

I know this kid. I take a step and open my mouth —

They turn, make eye contact for a moment, and then sprint out of the bar, letting the door slam closed behind them.

I grit my teeth. No time to follow.

—

I end up taking the back alleys back to Chloe’s shack, hoping I’m not being followed. I keep an eye out behind me and make sure to take a couple turns in the shadier parts of the city just to be safe.

After a little while, skating far enough out of the way that I’m certain it’s unlikely for me to be followed, I take a break, leaning against the wall of an alleyway.

I close my eyes.

Patches. I recognize those uniforms.

Cook. Intellectually, I know he escaped imprisonment. He seemed like the type more concerned with efficient criminal organization than anything else. I wasn’t expecting him to…

I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting this. Did I think I could duck my head and everything would work out?

…The first time I confronted Cook, I was alone. I was ready to throw everything away. I think…

I put my head in my hands. I think I have a lot more to lose, now. Tonight’s only solidified that feeling. If Sarah, or Ava, or — Chloe. If any of them had gotten hurt because of me, I’d —

I can’t lose anyone else. Keeping my head down isn’t working. I need to try something else.