It’s Me. Hi! I’m the Villain, It’s Me.
The world wouldn’t stop spinning. He couldn’t hear the deep, victorious laughter of his tormentor, nor see the curious onlookers tentatively watching the situation from across the street. It felt like he couldn’t move much more than three bones in his body, but he still managed to point his guns downwards. He was in so much pain that he couldn’t even muster the force to squeeze his eyes shut. He could, however, squeeze a couple of triggers. With a mental curse to Pyro, Thwain pulled both triggers at once, hoping it would make the experience suck less than if he shot one gun after the other.
Two enchanted bullets ripped through skin, muscle and bone as they made their way from Thwain’s kneecaps to his heels through his legs in varying degrees of accuracy. On the bright side, the health steal from the damage to his blown-open legs applied enough general healing to his body that he could scream in pain. The downside was, well, his legs were split open like spider dogs roasting over a campfire. Meat Head the bodybuilder’s utter bafflement gave Thwain just enough time to conjure his wings and get himself airborne, lurching away in a panic. He rounded a corner just as a solid mass of man meat hurtled past, chunks of brick tumbling to the ground.
Thwain looked around frantically, leaving a trail of blood as it gushed from his massacred legs. His face was in a perpetual grimace as he flew, sacrificing grace for panicked speed. He resigned himself, knowing that he was sacrificing his morals for survival. Right when he spotted his targets, he clenched his hands, swearing. He had let go of both guns when he had shot himself, the pain had been too much. On instinct, he rocketed upwards a dozen feet while conjuring a new gun. The world spun again, black dots blooming in his vision. Was the blood trickling instead of gushing? Was that a thing? Just as he had predicted, his opponent streaked just barely under him and into an alley, propelled into the air by his impossibly strong legs.
Gun finally in hand, Thwain had to rely on his hearing to pinpoint his targets. He swallowed, feeling his disguise of supposed altruism fall away, revealing an ugly core of narcissism and self-preservation. Cursing himself for what he was about to do, he pointed his gun and slammed the trigger, spraying seven bullets into the crowd of onlookers. As red energy streamed in, fixing his body, he knew that he was just as much of a monster as anyone in that Church compound, or the gang headquarters, or what passed for the noble’s district. One more crime for the hill. As his vision cleared, he saw his opponent standing at the entrance of the alley, mouth agape.
Finally able to see, Thwain took advantage of his opponent’s shock, swooping down and planting a final bullet right between a fallen old man’s eyes. Of course it had to be a small, pitiful old man whose lips trembled in uncomprehending fear. It couldn’t have been someone easy to justify or forget, like T the Tank or some walking human waste. Nope, dramatic effect didn’t quite work that way. Thwain forced himself to memorize his features as the crowd ran for their lives: the shine of his head, the pockmarks on his skin, the laugh lines around his eyes and the short stubble of his white beard... The blue eyes that hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
It was a hard truth to accept, knowing that you wouldn’t actually take the noble route. To know that, when push came to shove, you’d always choose you. That you’d sacrifice a thousand peasants at the altar of your own survival. An all-consuming horror, slowly lurching towards his own city. Sure, Thwain felt bad. Horrible, even. But feeling bad didn’t stop him from shooting people to save his own life. He just lied to himself, justifying his actions since he was actually doing good. He was clearing slimes, climbing the Tower, killing gang members. None of these people had probably even set foot into Floor 1, so what good were they? They were probably going to die soon, anyway. The Tower would throw another curveball, kicking off the festival with an update that might decimate the entire floor. Stranger things had happened, after all. Thwain had to live so that the Slums could survive. He’d make sure that not just his family, but the entire Slums survived. No, that they thrived. Maybe the end justified the means, then. It wouldn’t actually fix anything, but he lied to himself nonetheless. And, oh, what a beautiful, elaborate web it was. Athena would be wrathful at its sight.
Thwain used his burst of stolen vitality to launch himself farther into the air and into the dawning light. He easily dodged the next pair of soaring fists, having finally given himself enough space to actually see his opponent coming. Right after he dodged, he nosedived, swooping across the broken sidewalk and scooping up his two dropped guns. He charged them again, sweating from the exertion, as he sped off down the road, gaining in altitude as he went. When the next lunge came, Thwain folded his wings inwards, causing him to drop sharply and spin around, before sending two enchanted bullets upwards. They slammed into his adversary’s ginormous chest, sending him hurtling upwards and flying much farther into the city than he was expecting.
Beating his wings with all his might, Thwain rocketed back towards the Church’s Cuisine before his brutish opponent had even landed. He would have one pass, if Brother François was even still there. He charged one of his pistols, not daring to spend his mana on the second. Every flap of his wings drained just a little more of his precious reserves. Cresting the final building, he locked his gaze on his target. Brother François was hurriedly dishing out food, trying to calm the fearful crowd that had amassed in the square.
“No need to worry, friends. It will all be sorted out, soon,” the man lied. Or hoped. What was the difference, really?
Thwain tucked his wings in tightly, increasing in speed as he shot like a bullet into the square. He flipped his uninfused gun over, using the handle as a bludgeon and smashing the clergyman in the face as he passed. As expected, a yellow-tinged shield phased into existence right before the strike. Still, the momentum of the blow was enough to carry François along, smashing him into a hard concrete wall of a nearby building. The force of the strike was so great that it cracked bones in Thwain’s own arm. Thwain ignored the pain and the crowd’s shrieking as he awkwardly landed, pointing his infused weapon at the trembling man’s forehead. His vision blurred, overlapping François’s quivering face with the old man’s unseeing, uncomprehending gaze.
Then, there was a gunshot. And a second. A bullet ripped through one of Thwain’s wings, shredding the dark membrane and causing dark blood to leak out of the wound. Another bullet slammed into his back, penetrating deeply before ripping out the front of his chest, sending a gout of rich red blood and chunks of skin to coat the ground and the nearby wall. Thwain quickly retaliated by pulling his own gun’s trigger, splattering brains and fueling his own recovery even as his back arched in immense pain.
“P-” he started yelling before cutting himself off. “Blood Oats, mission accomplished!” He yelled as loudly as he could. Then, not even daring to look at the crowd, he sent the rest of his gun’s shots at knee-height, then flew off, a trail of red energy rushing after him.
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Pyro, meanwhile, was standing calmly in his labyrinth under the square, waiting as his opponent slowly suffocated. Of course, the brute wasn’t going to go without a struggle. The Tower-damned thing was almost swimming through rock and dirt as Pyro liquified stone and shifted a seemingly never ending tide of earth onto his opponent. He even made sure to always leave the man’s face completely encased in earth, though it barely seemed to faze the monster of a man. And so they warred, mana versus stamina, the mutant’s Sysiphus to Pyro’s suffocating boulder. Every time the bodyguard gained ground, Pyro would sink him further down into the depths, just to have him claw his way back up.
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The Geomancer had tried reinforcing and compacting dirt and stone, but to no avail. His opponent tore through it all with just as much ease as if it were tissue paper. Eventually, though, the man’s struggles grew weak. Quite frankly, Pyro was impressed. Exhausted, but impressed. It had been well over half an hour before the man showed signs of tiring. When his adversary stopped struggling, Pyro waited a few more minutes, guiltily and metaphorically holding his breath. Before he could confirm the kill, gunshots rang out from above. He tensed, about to surge upwards when he heard Thwain’s voice.
“Blood Oats, mission accomplished!”
With a slow, understanding nod, the Geomancer followed his tunnels out of the square, emerging from (duh) a dark alleyway a ways away, way away from the carnage. Looking around a bit to catch his bearings, he hastily made his way walked in darkness, headed directly towards the portal to Floor 1.
Pyro nonchalantly walked into the portal square, still wearing his stolen Blood Oats robe and festival mask. Thwain perched on a nearby rooftop, watching from above while waiting for his friend to arrive. Even in the glow of early morning, there were people in the square attentively watching the portal. It left a bad taste in Pyro’s mouth, seeing all of the vultures. The feelings came from a mix of places, none of which being the root cause. A lifetime of frustration at these people’s inaction blended with bitterness from being ganked when they entered with too much loot. The fear of how long they had left before the Tower’s collapse, the anger at seeing people so eager to farm humans instead of slimes, and the fear that once his family got classes that they might be next to get a belly full of lead in a cheap ambush… It was all too much.
He looked around. There were three roads leading into the square, with buildings on three sides and the portal on the fourth, inset in a solid wall of the same dark stone that ringed the portal in Floor 1. Pyro stood off to one side, watching the onlookers. They were all leaning forward, evidently waiting to pounce on whoever was on the other side. He sidled up to the closest goon.
“Who’s the mark?” He asked.
“Some kid. Walked in alone. Been a lot of those lately, and they’ve all come back with arms full of goods,” the woman said, a pistol gripped loosely in her hand. She shot Pyro a grin, exposing a few missing teeth. “We decided that kill shots get first pick of the loot, so best be ready. He’s been in a while, gotta be comin’ back soon.”
Pyro simply nodded before moving back, observing the crowd. There were more people than usual. Maybe twenty to thirty total, all of which were fingering pistols or melee weapons. One even had a sort of javelin cocked back and ready to throw. Pyro slowly withdrew, walking down the short road that led out of the square. When he got to the archway at the end, he slowly and methodically raised a stone wall, careful not to make any noise. He didn’t care if Thwain refused to help him, he’d take care of the problem. No more half measures. Then, he navigated around to the second entrance, then the third, repeating the process of sealing off the archways.
The Geomancer created an earthen stairway, easily walking up and onto a roof. There, he huddled next to Thwain and discussed, forming a plan.
“I sealed the exits,” he explained. “They could still hide inside buildings or use ‘em to escape, but I figure most of ‘em’ll try the roads first.”
Thwain simply nodded emotionlessly. No revisions, no calls for mercy. Not even a suggestion to give them a chance for once.
Thwain’s lack of protest gnawed at Pyro. He had always been the sensible one of the group, the one advocating for smart moves if not peaceful ones. The fact that he was just accepting the plan instead of telling him to give them a chance was… New. Not wrong, maybe not even worrisome, but new. Pyro searched his friend’s eyes, looking for a hint of what had changed. Two orbs of darkness stared back, a hint of what might have been red or purple deep within. Still, he felt like he needed to justify the plan, maybe even for his own sake.
“They ain’t waitin’ for their turn ta farm, they’re waiting ta kill fer loot. I’m not sayin’ we rampage through the Slums or nothin’, but these guys stop too many people from comin’ back with food ta help encourage others ter do the same. Heck, maybe slimes ain’t that bad, maybe them’s the ones killin’ more than slimes ever did.” Ok, maybe it was freaking him out a little bit, his accent slipping out more and more, reverting to how thick it used to be when he was a Tower-spawned hellion of a kid.
Still no response from Thwain other than a clenching of a fist over a gun.
Having said his piece and not wanting to babble more, Pyro wreathed his body in stone and took a gun from Thwain’s outstretched hand. He left the tip of his index finger uncovered, giving it the mobility it needed to pull the trigger. Thwain also held two pistols, focusing on them to make them glow menacingly, charging them with mana.
Pyro stepped to the edge of the roof, then, with a dramatic flourish, dove. He landed in the square with what he hoped sounded like a [BOOM]. There was a satisfying crunch as he cracked the stone beneath his feet and his fist as he landed on one knee, a fist planted into the cobblestone street.
As most of the thugs turned towards Pyro, Thwain opened fire, not bothering to pick his shots or to shy away from the return fire. He shot a mustached man in the face, a rugged woman in the leg, a man in the back, and a few of them in the arms and chest, regaining health almost instantly the second he lost some. Thwain had killed innocent people today. Actual, run of the mill people who probably hadn’t ever done anything wrong other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time. His empowered bullets met no resistance, passing straight through limbs and muscles just as well as organs. Maybe if he killed enough bad people, it would skew karma back in his favor. He chuckled bitterly, knowing he didn’t deserve it, knowing that he was just another thug on a power trip, pretending to have a mission to save the Tower.
People fled in every direction, panicking. A few ran fruitlessly into what used to be the three exits as others ducked into the nearest building they could find. Pyro picked his shots more carefully, aiming for those who tried entering buildings since they would be the hardest to track down. When his gun was out of ammo, he simply walked around, shifting earth to create domes of stone around people, letting them slowly suffocate. This caused more than a few people to shoot at him, but most of the bullet ricocheted right off his armor’s hard stone. Trapping his victims didn’t work more than twice. People, even unclassed, were just too fast and weren’t willing to simply stand in one spot and wait for the dome to be finished around them. Only those with leg wounds found themselves encased in forever-homes.
Screams rang out as people scrambled for their lives. Still, Pyro plodded along, executing person after person, experimenting with different ways of taking down foes. The javelin guy gave him an idea. He stretched out a piece of stone into a jagged spear and hurled it at people’s backs as they fled, pinning them to the ground. Thwain spread his wings out, taking to the air and picking off anyone that made it out of the square through buildings. He gunned them down easily as they ran out into the streets. Gunfire filled the crisp morning air as vulture after vulture, scumbag after scumbag met their end.
When everything grew eerily still, Pyro started laboriously dragging corpses to the portal, sending them through one at a time. He stacked them, raising pillars and shifting dirt to carry his burdens for him. Then, as his work was wrapping up, he raised two massive stone walls in front of the portal, forming a V. He hoped it would at least give them some amount of cover for when they entered the Slums next time. He also left the arches filled with stone, wanting to delay any curious onlookers as much as possible. It wasn’t like there was a chance that their firefight had gone unnoticed.