A dull, meaty thudechoed in the sudden quiet of the late afternoon. The former Mayor of Cinder Town, Andrew the Panther-kin—a man who had, until recently, commanded fear, water rights, and a functioning tank—was unceremoniously dumped in the dust before the town's main gate like a sack of particularly unlucky potatoes. His considerable weight, well over two hundred pounds, sent a small cloud of ochre dust puffing into the still air.
The gate, once again, was barricaded by the rusted, immobile hulk of the Greyhound bus. From behind its scant protection, the handful of remaining defenders—five in total, each bearing the fresh, glistening wounds of the day's battle—peered out, their faces draining of what little color they possessed. The sight was not merely shocking; it was a fundamental violation of their understanding of the world. Andrew, with his battle-qi, his M16, his tank… defeated. By this? A scrawny human in odd clothes and the very Ogre who had nearly leveled the town weeks prior.
The figure standing beside the Ogre, hands planted defiantly on his hips, was instantly transmuted in their eyes from a puzzling mark to a being of profound and terrifying mystery. Their immediate future, however, was a more pressing concern than philosophy. Death in the wastes was commonplace, but the idea of their corpses ending up as the main course in an Ogre's feast added a uniquely horrifying flavor to their fear.
It was then that the mysterious human decided to speak. To ensure his voice carried the requisite authority, he fumbled in his garish striped sack and produced a small, battery-powered megaphone. He raised it to his lips, and when his voice emerged, it was tinny, amplified, and brimming with a bravado that seemed both absurd and terrifying.
"Attention, inhabitants of this settlement!" the voice crackled, echoing off the corrugated metal walls. "The tyrannical reign of Andrew is at an end! I, Harry Potter Michael, in my boundless mercy, offer you a choice!"
He paused, letting the absurdity of the name—a strange, poetic incantation from a forgotten world—hang in the air. In his mind, it sounded imposing, mystical. Back in his world, hadn't a man named 'Zhao Si' become the 'Asian Dance King' simply by appending 'Harry Potter' to his name? Mystery was a weapon. And 'Michael' alone sounded too… ordinary. Too vulnerable.
The megaphone squealed with feedback as he continued. "Option one: my associate, Zach, reduces you to a cautionary tale, and I assume control of this town over your cooling remains. Option two: you pledge your loyalty to me, your new administrator, and I graciously allow you to retain your previous positions, with the potential for improved conditions. The choice, as they say, is yours."
As the words left his mouth, a surge of pure, unadulterated triumph flooded Michael's system. After weeks of being chased, scrounging, terrified, and used as a human speed bump, he was finally calling the shots. The feeling was intoxicating.
The defenders' deliberation was brief. Survival, in the calculus of the wastes, was a compelling argument. The bus was laboriously shoved aside once more, and the five wounded men emerged, dropping their weapons in the dust. At their head was a familiar, if battered, figure: John the Minotaur. His right arm was crudely bandaged, a relic of his last encounter with Zach, and a fresh gash adorned his brow. Yet, he lived. Luck, it seemed, was a fickle companion.
Seeing Michael, John's single visible eye widened slightly in recognition, then shuttered into an expression of immediate, groveling submission. He dropped to one knee with a wince, his horns dipping low.
"Hail, O most esteemed Master!" he boomed, his voice finding a formal, almost liturgical rhythm. "Lord of the blasted plains, the Scourge of Andrew, the new Sovereign of Cinder Town, the great Harry Potter Michael! Your humble servant awaits your command."
The title was ludicrously long, dripping with a feudal pomposity Michael had only encountered in bad historical dramas. And yet… it didhave a certain ring to it. A flush of pleasure warmed his cheeks, quickly cooled by a more pressing priority: loot. Andrew's hoard.
"John," Michael interrupted, his voice losing its amplified grandeur and turning brisk, businesslike. "Andrew's valuables. His treasury. You know where he kept them?"
John's head bobbed eagerly, the perfect picture of the newly converted zealot. "Of course, Master! In his office on the third floor of the tavern. Shall I escort you immediately?"
The question was rhetorical. Michael was already moving. He tossed a few quick orders over his shoulder as he strode towards the looming, three-story building. "You lot—round up some townsfolk. Get this mess cleaned up. Tend to the wounded, ours and theirs. Zach," he pointed a finger at the Ogre, who was eyeing the kneeling men with a speculative, hungry look. "You guard the gate. Once they're done, seal it. No one in or out without my say-so."
He took a few more steps, then stopped, a thought occurring to him. He turned back to the Ogre, his expression stern. "And Zach? No eating the townspeople. Understood?" He let the threat hang for a beat, watching the color drain from John's face. "Unless, of course, something unfortunate happens to me. Then… enjoy."
Zach, who had been surreptitiously licking his lips, looked momentarily disappointed, then brightened. "Worry not, Master. My people do not favor human flesh unless truly desperate. The flavors are… stringy. And often bitter with fear." He cast a fond glance towards the striped sack, which still held a few precious packets of instant noodles. "I have developed a taste for your world's delicacies. They are far superior."
Michael blinked. "Right. Good. Stick with the noodles." He turned and followed a visibly relieved John towards the Honey and Maiden.
The tavern, in the battle's aftermath, was a tomb of spilled ale and overturned stools. The only movement came from behind the bar, where Old Gimpy was frantically stuffing bottles of murky liquor into a burlap sack. The old man hadn't heard the proclamation at the gate; he was operating on the oldest instinct in the book: grab and run.
"Stop!" Michael's voice, without the megaphone, was less impressive but carried enough authority to freeze the bartender in his tracks. "Who said you could touch my property?" He didn't wait for an answer or the wheedling, ingratiating smile that was already contorting Gimpy's face. He headed straight for the stairs, John clomping dutifully behind.
The third floor was a world apart from the grimy bar below. The hallway was cleaner, the air less thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and despair. John led him to the door at the very end—the same door Michael had eavesdropped at during his first, disastrous visit.
From within, the unmistakable sounds of frantic activity could be heard: drawers scraping open, objects being moved, hushed, urgent whispers.
A cold, possessive fury ignited in Michael's chest. After all he'd been through—the terror, the debt, the betrayal, the tank chase—the idea of someone else pilfering hishard-won spoils was unacceptable. Forgetting entirely that in a straight fight, most of the women downstairs could probably tie him into a knot, he acted on pure, outraged instinct.
He raised the empty M16, aiming its ominous barrel at the door, and kicked. The flimsy lock gave way with a splintering crack, and the door swung inward violently.
"FREEZE!" he roared, doing his best impression of a SWAT team leader he'd seen in movies. "Nobody move! I will shoot!"
The scene inside was one of panicked looting arrested mid-action. Several of the tavern's female staff were there, caught in the act of ransacking the modest room. Drawers hung open, a small strongbox had been pried at, and shelves were in disarray. Two faces he recognized were in a state of partial undress: Lynda the Wolfkin and Faye the Foxkin were hurriedly trying to swap their revealing tavern outfits for more practical, less provocative traveling clothes.
Their plan, evidently, had mirrored Old Gimpy's: capital flight, wasteland-style. Michael's dramatic entrance had just crashed their economy.
At the sight of the rifle muzzle, hands shot into the air. All except Lynda's, who, in a flash of modesty, instinctively crossed her arms over her chest.
Michael let the barrel of the gun dip slightly, a slow, assessing smirk spreading across his face. He eyed the wolf-woman, recalling Old Gimpy's earlier sales pitch about her… formidable legs. The power, the absurdity of the situation, the sheer novelty of being in control, all coalesced into a heady mix.
He gave a low, appreciative whistle, the sound utterly out of place in the tense room. "Now, now, madam," he said, his voice dropping to a mock-stern register, his eyes never leaving hers. "I distinctly saw you moving. We're going to have to have a little chat about that." The empty rifle felt suddenly very light in his hands. For the first time since arriving in this godforsaken world, Harry Potter Michael felt truly, deliciously powerful.