"I will kill you someday! You can run, but you can't hide, you will die by my blade!"
-Heard by a Texios soldier on number 753. Note: the first slaughter took place.
Green stretched and massaged his shoulder. Mark on the other hand, seemed unfazed despite the red burn across his forearm and inspected the cause of the burn.
A gauntlet with a metal outside much like Mark's own, only the inside was made of some kind of flame resistant material and had a compartment for sheets of paper in the wrist.
"There's a spring trap with a thumb trigger," Mark said as a card-sized sheet shot out. "Palm's modacrylic. Pricey stuff. Explains why he could use it without the risk of scorching his hand."
Green leaned against the wall and took the gauntlet while Mark searched the unconscious bounty hunters. Finding them this fast wasn't surprising. What bothered Green was the stupidity of trying to ambush a group known for beating a chantless. They should've known better than sneaking into an inn.
The gauntlet itself was clever—clearly meant for a brawler-pulxer hybrid—but too niche to matter in most fights. Probably only useful in grappling. Green tossed it aside and hauled one of the bodies over his shoulder.
The man was taller than Green, as were most bounty hunters. But the added height gave extra weight. Weight Green was thankful for not having. While heavier bodies could help in a general fight. Kaisher responded better to lighter users.
Mark dragged the other two outside by their collars. "That's a depressing sight."
"You feel bad for them?"
"Not at all. I've done worse to men who weren't threatening my wife."
Green didn't respond.
"You're as talkative as ever. You're really committed to the brooding thing." Mark sighed. "Talking might help with whatever you're dealing with."
"What I'm dealing with?" Green asked.
"I've known you long enough. You get this extra cloud around you when something's bothering you." They reached the top of the stairs. "I'm just saying, there's nothing wrong with opening up a bit. I think—"
Mark paused when Green turned back with a hollow stare. Though covered by his glasses, Mark would undoubtedly notice.
"You don't have to pretend when she's not here." Green said bluntly. "It doesn't do either of us good.
Mark snorted, then dropped his smile. He walked past Green with an indifferent, almost hostile air, heading into his and Grace's room.
Green set the nine on Carrie's table in her room at the inn. Beside it, he placed the belt, two magazines, and the single bullet the old man had given him. He glanced at her—just briefly—then looked away and left without a word.
The hallway window bled orange light. Dusk already. Outside, the wind snapped through the street hard enough to send vendors scrambling for their stall overhangs. Green stepped out into it and drew a sharp breath as it cut through his clothes.
Bad day for a shooting competition, he thought. Good for the crowd.
The cold kept him alert. His nerves stayed tight, every sound sharp against the wind's howl. He rolled his left shoulder as sunlight flashed—and felt the dagger bite before he saw it.
The blade lodged deep. Green twisted aside as it struck, then unholstered his pistol in one smooth motion and aimed up at the adjacent rooftop.
Three men stared back. Each wore the bounty hunter medallion, twin golden blades catching the light like a deliberate taunt.
Stupid mistake, Green thought. Should've aimed for my chest.
He tore the dagger free, ignoring the blood spreading down his shirt. The other three figures stepped into view beside them. Daggers. A war hammer. A whip. Not a single gun among them.
They could have killed him. They'd chosen not to.
Green dropped into a low stance, hand clawed and ready.
The men turned and walked away.
He paused. How… anticlimactic, Green thought. He didn't relax. A warning meant more than an attack ever did.
Green moved fast after that, threading through the streets until he reached the event booth and signed his name. The fest was only a day long. Despite the bounty hunters last night and the morning before, the decision had already been made.
He signed his name off-handed, the cloth bound tight to his chest and back tugging every time he moved his shoulder. He was handed a number, an armband, and a thin sheet of rules and directions. Teams by color. Zones by floor. Advancement by points.
Green stepped aside. The paper crackled in his grip as wind whipped black dust across it. In the distance, the Iron Hollow loomed.
It looked less like a building than a carcass. A rusted dome sagging under its own weight, brick towers jutting skyward like broken teeth, smoke clinging to it as if the thing still breathed.
Teams flowed down the winding path toward it. Some walked in silence. Others laughed too loudly.
Good, Green thought. Fear kept people alive, only fools would dismiss it.
He watched hands hover near holsters, eyes flick too quickly, bodies wound tight. The overeager stood out most. They always did. He marked them without meaning to.
He felt eyes on himself in return. Some curious. Some hungry. Green ignored them and skimmed the rules instead.
No aiming at other contestants.
He almost smiled. A rule written for appearances. With this many guns, accidents would come easily. Some of them would even be honest.
He folded the paper away and adjusted his blue armband. Team colors mattered, but not enough. He intended to pass on his own terms.
"Hey."
A man had drifted close. Too close. Gangly, grinning, the look of a thief who believed himself clever.
"I've got bullets for trade," the man said, opening his palm. Nine-millimeter rounds.
"You'll be disqualified," Green said flatly. "Smuggling ammo."
The man lifted a magazine. "Issued. City stamp and all. Points for bullets. You want them, come to me."
He moved on.
Green watched the traders circulate through the crowd. Dozens of them.
After nearly an hour, the Hollow swallowed them.
Inside, it was all oil and old metal. Catwalks slick with grime. Chains hanging in useless abundance. Slag pits glowing faintly below. A warehouse stripped down to hazards.
Dexterity would have a clear say in here.
"Hear this," a voice boomed.
Green looked up, hand brushing his pistol. An old man stood on a central mezzanine, thick with muscle and scars that spoke of real war.
"You break the rules, you're out. We're watching. Some of us you'll see. Some you won't. Any death will be judged as murder."
The man turned and left.
A horn sounded a moment after.
Green bolted, ignoring his frozen team mates. Slipping his handgun out of its holster, he quickly spotted his first target, a manikin with a target drawn on its head. He aimed, then fired, favoring his wounded shoulder.
His shot hit dead center, which caused him to bolt once again. On his way he spotted the closest untouched target, shooting with barely a glance.
He skid to a stop grabbing the marked stone, then bolted for the next. Again, on his way to that one he spotted his next target and fired. He continued this while trying to avoid too many people. He only hit five however before he started for the stairs.
He ran in a crouch, hoping to avoid any flying bullets on his way to the second floor. Though "floor" was a generous term. Mezzanine surrounded the edges of the building, along with several in the middle areas, showing an open top.
Most targets hung where there were no floors in the shape of a large coin. They were smaller, but held more valuable stones.
The stones would drop from the targets into a small bag and getting to it was a whole separate challenge. Green aimed, taking more than a moment due to the target's smaller size and the fact that they hung by a single chain. This allowed them to swing and spin.
Green squinted, then fired. His shot hit the target dead center once again. He holstered his gun, climbed over, then focused his gaze.
There were dozens upon dozens of large chains that held no target and were longer than the ones that did. These were there to swing your way over to get the stone. He clicked his tongue in frustration at his glasses obstruction, taking them off.
He jumped, causing his chest to lurch as he did so.
He was used to having forty or more pounds strapped to him. With that gone his body was lighter than he expected and subtle confusion took a hold of him when he nearly missed the chain in surprise.
He hung for a moment, using his legs and left arm to keep him from further irritating his knife wound. Though he did swing his legs when he got a good grip with his left hand.
His body jumped to the next chain without thought. He caught the chain, then refocused his eyes, and began swinging again.
After grabbing the stone however, he flinched when the striking sound of a bullet hitting metal sounded just above him. Green looked up, spotting a man on a mezzanine aiming directly for him.
Green's body instinctively let go of the chain, but was immediately reminded he couldn't use his powers.
Green looked down at a fifteen foot drop.
Training took over. Green twisted in the air, trying to spread the impact and redirect it into a roll. He hit hard—too hard—the shock blasting up through his legs. The world flipped, then he slid to a stop against the pillar, breath hammered out of him.
Green quickly discarded the moment, someone had just tried to kill him. The likelihood of it being an accident was next to zero. The skill of the action is proof enough it was intentional, Green thought.
He glanced around, but quickly gave up when he realized the person could easily have gotten away by now. He began a sprint yet again, ignoring the attention he drew, hoping it would pass quickly.
A gun fired close by. Another blue armband.
"I'll give you three shots for ten points."
Prices had climbed. Green checked his count. Not enough to coast. Too much to waste.
He traded. Three bullets heavier. Forty points short.
The higher floors still held targets. The red team was stripping the fifth clean, but Green stayed lower. A bounty on him made ambition expensive.
His legs protested as he climbed. The fall lingering in every step. His shoulder wasn't doing too well either. The tunic was being slowly turned red, and the constant favoring of his left side was fatiguing.
On the fourth floor, the distant targets still swung. He found one other had missed and fired. The hit rang true.
Someone else moved for it.
"Oh no you don't."
He jumped—now used to his decreased weight—he leaped a good ten feet before catching himself on a hanging chain. Even without the arts, his elven blood gave him athletics few humans could match.
He got close, one more swing from… his chain suddenly shook. He looked down to find the man who Green had assumed had been racing him for the stone.
He climbed the chain and grabbed Green's leg. He began dangling from Green's foot and even tried climbing him. Green winced as he felt his sore leg begin to slip out of its socket.
He started shoving the man with his foot, but the man was stubborn, and grabbed a hold of the chain once again. He climbed up and around Green, and the two began to struggle.
Green kept his left eye closed and tried to hold onto the chain while defending himself. A sudden piercing pain caused Green to again let go.
He realized his mistake a moment later—the man's teeth sank into his forearm, the same arm he needed to hold the chain. Green grabbed for the man's shirt, clutching a handful of fabric. The shirt tore, threads snapping, but the two of them still dangled there for a few straining seconds.
The man looked down at the same time Green looked up. Their eyes met.
The man froze, letting go of the chain, causing both to fall. The man's eyes looked at Green in horror, screaming and trying to shove him away. Green glanced behind himself—locking onto a chain—then back at the man.
He was crying now, Green paused, then shook his head and kicked off the man, catching the chain he'd spotted and began sliding down.
His legs and arm wrapped around the chain and Green clenched his teeth against the pain. He saw the ground once again and let his mind follow his training. Holding onto the chain had slowed his descent enough to land relatively safely.
After several moments of stillness Green sat up. His legs ached and flared and his hand cooled itself with blood against the burns.
Looking around, Green found what he hoped he wouldn't. The man who'd attacked him laid dead on the ground. His blood began to flow from his head, and his chest was flattened.
Green closed his eyes, a familiar weight settling on his shoulders. His mind began moving. Even after all these years, he'd never gotten used to it.
I did not cause this, he told himself. He attacked me, he forced me to let go, then let go of his own accord. The logic—though valid—seemed weak. If I hadn't kicked off him we would have both been flattened. He could have slowed himself if he wanted to.
Nevertheless, Green felt his eyes begin to well up. He gripped his bloodied palm, shoving any hint of emotion down as he put his glasses back on.