Myra waited in silence. That was the whole point, but it was still frustrating as all hell. She did have company, but they had to keep every bit as silent as she, so there wasn’t much in the way of conversation.

The banks. The Green Bomber had screamed that he would shift his attention to the city’s banks as part of whatever lunatic quest he was on. It was certainly a break from random violence and murder, but more importantly it gave an actual way to be ready for him.

So here they were, inside probably the largest bank this side of the river. She didn’t know if the man truly was more likely to attack the biggest, most notable one for a more grand display, but it felt slightly more likely than not. And she wanted him.

Myra had some new aches from that whole business at the chemical plant. At this point she had a damn calendar of bruises and cuts, counting time backwards depending on how much they’d stopped hurting. But the real pain was inside.

He’d gotten away. Again. She’d really thought she had him, and then fired upon a damn reflection. She’d left that little detail out of her report, going for as vague a description of events as she felt she could get away with.

She shifted restlessly yet again where she said, seeking a position that didn’t hurt too much, and looked towards the man entrance.

She had managed to cost the bastard his magic wand, as Chief Matew had repeatedly stressed to her by way of consolation. It was locked up at the station, and the Bomber was done doing whatever the hell it was he’d been doing. No more damn blasts. No more collapsed walls or roofs. It would hopefully just be plain old regular weapons now, which was a game she and the six uniforms with her were ready enough to play.

The general assumption was that he’d show up at one of the banks with a jerrycan and try to start a fire. He didn’t seem anywhere near sane enough to mix explosives, although the mystery of his rod and all that time he’d had undisturbed in a chemical plant worried her a bit.

What was it about that damn rod? she asked herself. Why did I react that way?

The issue kept coming back to her, infuriating her with the fact that he’d probably escaped specifically because of it.

As before, she squeezed her eyes shut and shifted her focus to the present.

If the Bomber was to be believed about anything at all, then he would attack one of the banks. And inside of each bank was a large group of cops who’d had enough of him.

This madness would end tonight.

# # #

Petyr was barely aware of the walk away from the Woodforth Building. In part he was simply stunned. His mind was still processing what had just happened. Puzzle pieces were being thrown onto a table; more and more tiny hints, just not numerous to imply the full picture. Not just yet. But aside from all that he was simply focused. He had a goal, and his mind was there well before his body was.

So when he stood in front of Champion’s Bridge it almost felt like waking from a dream. The cops who had been guarding it were gone, swept up in the operation that had the city holding its breath.

Petyr gazed through the metal tunnel that the bridge formed, and at the other side were the tall, brightly lit buildings of high town. It was the city’s shining crown, and the immensity of Sentinel Tower was its jewel. However much he tried he still couldn’t remember when exactly he’d been over there last.

He kept his toes just behind the line between street and bridge, like a runner waiting for the start signal, and did a quick assessment of himself. He found his mind still simmering, the various ingredients in the pot not fully joined together yet. His body had some aches, now that it occurred to him to pay them any attention. He’d taken hits in that fight and he thought there were a few bloody spots on his clothes. But he was doing this. His heart burned with a drive, a will to unravel this mess once and for all.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He stepped onto the bridge. Somehow he felt almost cheated that real life didn’t provide a musical note or something else dramatic to go with his feelings. There were just the faint steps and noise of the river, a gentle din in a city that had gone silent.

Petyr kept to the middle of the road, moving with slow, measured steps as he scanned the other side for movement. There was none to be seen. Somehow he didn’t have it in him to be surprised when the only signs of life proved to be closer.

They emerged from behind the bridge’s steel pillars as he was halfway across, with those fake fur collars, nasty faces and street-fighting weapons. Wolf struck a pose in the centre, directly in front of Petyr, with six of his men at his back.

“Guess I didn’t hit you quite hard enough,” Petyr said. He slowed his steps down before coming to a stop a few metres away from the man.

“End of the road,” Wolf said angrily. The usual flair was gone from his voice.

“No,” Petyr said simply. “I don’t think it is.”

He readied his weapon, smoothly limbering up as he moved it through the air, ending in a ready combat stance.

“No hiding places for you this time,” Wolf said. “No doors. No terrain to mess around with.”

“And no patience for your shit,” Petyr told him firmly.

“Are you going to take us all out with your cane?” the man sneered.

“Drop the pretence already,” Petyr said. “It’s coming apart anyway.”

The gang leader tried displaying one of his big, happily murderous grins, but abandoned the attempt after a couple of seconds.

“You should have left things be,” he said.

“And you should have ambushed me,” Petyr replied. “Your chances to kill me have come and gone. Too much drama. That’s your problem. Too much posturing. That’s why you’re dead.”

Wolf raised a hand and opened his mouth for a shouted command, but Petyr reacted first. He sprinted across the distance between them, weapon raised for a strike. The man darted to the side, but Petyr nimbly shifted direction, catching the man on Wolf’s left by surprise. He died in a boom and flash of blue.

The Hounds reacted, but got in one another’s way for a moment, allowing Petyr another free kill with his second blow. He kept up the assault rather than go on the defensive, fighting to keep them from circling him or launching a coordinated attack. He swung in one direction, did a quick three-step and feinted in another, then swung against an axe that came at him. The weapon shattered from the force of the energy he let loose, and Petyr then whirled around and clove apart the head of the man who’d been going for his back.

They dropped their guises. There was no transition, no visible stretching of form or limb. Suddenly they were just the grotesque shapes he’d only glimpsed so far, and it wasn’t weapons being swung at him.

He evaded a claw-swipe from Wolf himself, but failed to connect with a counterattack. Two others rushed him simultaneously and Petyr was finally forced to fall back. A third one came leaping over the other two, soaring like a raptor in flight and descending with talons held out.

Petyr narrowly shrank away and the foot-long blades cut into the concrete. He thrust, and the blue sent his weapon straight through the fiend’s head, splintering it.

Wolf came in with another swipe and now cut into Petyr’s sleeve as he darted to the side. He couldn’t tell if the man-creature actually cut flesh; his blood was burning too hot. He simply feinted towards the bastard to hold him back for a moment, then launched his real strike at one of the other two. He clove through an arm, then a chest, then a head, in a quick flurry that left him with only two enemies.

Wolf’s last enforcer came in a desperate rush, trying for sheer size and force as a trump card. Petyr’s dodge was only half-successful and took the impact on his left side. He managed an inelegant counterattack before his foe managed to turn, hitting him in the back.

Wolf came in for a triumphant killing blow, striking out as his enforcer died in a blue crackle and Petyr remained off-balance.

The claws glanced off Petyr’s chest with a metallic screech and a small shower of sparks.

“No!” Wolf shouted, just as Petyr recovered from the impact. He swung at the gang leader’s arm, severing it. Then he stepped forward as Wolf tried to step back, and severed the other one. Wolf fell up against the bridge railing, flopping down into a sitting position.

There was no final exchange. No posturing. Petyr simply drove his weapon down, cutting through the metal railing and Wolf’s head at the same time.

He stood still for a few breaths, taking this all in. Things were still boiling, but he had a few more puzzle pieces, and it occurred to him that those metaphors didn’t match at all.

“That’s that,” he said to no one in particular, and continued on towards High Town.