I may make two posts after the New Year, just to make up for so much lost time. Anyway, thank you all for being patient, and as always, you have been rewarded. Happy reading!
Blue
Jeans Samurai
#6
– Rescue Mission! Tension between BJ and Pleats!
The
Pistol had managed to wriggle and struggle just enough to shake off
his gag, and had been screaming nonstop until just before his captors
rejoined him. Once the Uradana no Kunoichi had reentered the room,
he'd gone white as a ghost, and his screaming ceased instantly.
He
was not, however, completely without words. “You . . .” he tried
to speak in a deep, defiant tone that was betrayed by his blanched
skin, “. . . you crazy bitches can't keep me here . . . . I am an
agent of FIRENIGHT . . . . . I'll see that the government has you all
executed by firing squad . . .”
Cashmere
stepped forward and slammed her hand down on the back of the Pistol's
chair. “Your idle threats mean nothing!” she barked, making him
go even whiter, “If you truly value your life, you'll tell us what
we want to know, instead of making promises you can't keep!”
“Easy,
Cashmere,” Pleats ordered, “Your words are just as much a bluff
as his are.”
Blue
Jeans and Twang stood off to one side, silently observing as the
kunoichi interrogated their 'guest'. Finally, Twang spoke up, “What
is this bullshit even about? What's so special about this Pistol?
What do you want from him?”
“Watch
your mouth, little worm!” Damask growled, kunai at the ready, “You
speak when spoken to! Until then, keep your tongue inside your head!”
Twang
backed up a step, but was not intimidated. “. . . . Yeah, I'll
keep my foot inside your skinny ass . . .” he muttered.
“What
was that?” Damask challenged rather than asked, a line of kunai
laced between her fingers, “What was that?!”
“Stand
down, Damask!” Pleats commanded, “Our enemy is here, not there.”
She then turned to address Twang, “And as for you, you'd best do
as she says. All you need to know is that this Pistol holds the
location of our sister. Either he talks, or she dies.”
Taffeta
then stepped up to the captive Pistol, jumped into his lap, and
smiled sweetly, “Please, Mr. Pistol-Man? All ya hafta do is tell us
where she is! S'not that hard, really!” She kicked her tiny legs
and batted her unusually large eyes. Blue Jeans couldn't help but
admit that, were it not a government agent tied to that chair,
Taffeta's methods of appeal might have worked.
The
Pistol merely scoffed and turned his head away, “Like I said
before. Your fellow terrorist is scheduled for execution.”
Taffeta,
confronted with her failure, jumped off the Pistol's lap and pouted,
“Hmph! Jerk!” She then turned to address Pleats, “Sensei!
Can I kill this meanie? Pleeeeeeeease?”
“He
has not given us the information we want,” Pleats reminded, “You'll
just have to wait.” At this, Taffeta stamped her foot and pouted
some more.
“So,
all you need from him is your comrade's location?” Blue Jeans asked
calmly, “Why go to a normal Pistol officer for that? Wouldn't a
higher-ranked soldier have the information you seek?”
Angora
answered softly, yet with slight condescension, “All Pistols know
the locations of execution platforms. It made no difference to us who
we interrogated.”
“Yes,”
Blue Jeans began in agreement, “But he says she will be
executed. He implies his knowledge that it hasn't happened yet. This
means, of course, that unless she's been executed within the last
twenty-four hours, she is still alive somewhere, and they would thus
be holding her somewhere until her execution, most likely a detention
facility. Those
locations are only known to high-ranking Pistol officers. He's not
talking because he doesn't know.”
At
this, Twang smugly looked at the kunoichi and crossed his arms in a
gesture of superiority, “Yeah! What you got? What you got?
Nothing!”
Damask
spun a kunai on one finger, “Keep it up, dangler, or you won't be
dangling much longer.” Twang looked at her as if she'd turned as
green as her uniform, but Damask spoke no more as she pointed her
knife at Twang's crotch. In response to this, Twang was equally
silent.
“That
makes no sense,” Pleats replied to Blue Jeans' theory, “Why would
they hold her if she's to be executed anyway?”
Blue
Jeans stroked his chin in thought, “Most likely to get more
information about you. It would make sense to learn more about the
rest of the army from a single kidnapped soldier. You would all know
that.” He gestured to the Uradana no Kunoichi's own kidnapped
soldier.
“Exactly
why it makes no sense,” Cashmere said gruffly, “Our captured
sister, Velvet, is the spy of our group. She has taken a vow of
silence, so that she avoids detection by never being heard. She never
speaks, never makes a sound whatsoever.”
Twang
looked at her in much the same way he'd looked at Damask moments
earlier, “Then how the hell does she tell you what she's spyin'
on?”
“That
shouldn't concern you,” Angora muttered, “The important thing is
getting our sister back safely.”
“It's
no use!” the Pistol laughed as he sat strapped to his seat, “If
she doesn't talk, she's as good as executed. And it'll only be a
matter of time before you all join her!”
“Enough!”
Cashmere yelled, throwing a shuriken into the back of the Pistol's
chair, inches away from hitting him in the face, “If you
don't talk, you can expect to suffer the same fate!” The
Pistol merely grinned defiantly and remained silent.
Cashmere
fumed and turned back toward Pleats. “He won't speak, Sensei,”
she growled, “Surely we haven't run out of methods to persuade
him?”
Pleats
sighed wearily, “Nothing that won't kill him before he talks. We'll
need another approach, and fast. Time is of the essence.”
Blue
Jeans sighed as well, then blinked suddenly in realization. “He
seems to put a lot of faith in his government,” he observed, then
addressed Pleats directly, “May I?”
Reluctantly,
Pleats gestured for him to proceed, “Remember, we need him alive.”
Blue
Jeans nodded and stepped forward, eying the Pistol up and down. The
Pistol stared right back, only half his height while seated, the look
in his eyes daring Blue Jeans to make a move. Finally, Blue Jeans
pulled his sword from its sheath and swung it, cutting the ropes that
held his arms to the armrests. He did the same to the ropes binding
his legs to the legs of the chair. “There,” he said simply,
“You're free to go.”
“WHAT?!”
Cashmere screamed, “Unbelievable! How dare you free our prisoner!
How dare you jeopardize our—?” She stopped after Pleats held up
a hand, the gesture commanding her to cease.
The
Pistol stood uneasily, rubbing his red, indented wrists. “Just
like that?” he said, now eying Blue Jeans with caution rather than
defiance, “You'd release me after they've been keeping me for
almost an entire day? What's your game?”
Blue
Jeans' expression was blank, but his sword remained bared. “There
is no game,” he replied, his tone still steady, “Only a promise:
if you give us the information we desire, you can go free. If not,
you can go free. But know this: if you leave this room without
talking, you will know no security for the last, scant traces of your
life. Your troops won't save you. Your government won't save you. Not
even your Grand Commander will save you from what I do to you when I
find you. I have killed more people in my life than you've ever met
in yours. I can cause pain the likes of which men like you have only
experienced in your worst nightmares. If you leave here without
telling us what we want to know, death will be sweet as candy after
I'm through with you.”
The
Pistol's look of caution steadily worsened, but blended awkwardly
with a look of skepticism. “What makes you think I'd believe you?”
he snapped back half-courageously.
Blue
Jeans took the DataPane from his back pocket with his free hand,
activated it, and showed it to the Pistol. Displayed on the screen
was the ex-owner's information on Blue Jeans, complete with his
designation as an Omega-Red level threat to the government.
The
Pistol needed only to see that single line, and his face suddenly
went white. “Wh- . . . wh- . . . what . . .?” he stuttered, his
voice finally displaying true fear, “I-i-it's . . . . . it's . . .
it's you . . . . .”
“As
I said,” Blue Jeans said, keeping the screen held up on display,
the image and text mirrored from his point of view, “You have two
choices. Either leave now and defy an Omega-Red level threat, one
with the ability to cause unimaginable suffering to you and
your government, or tell us where your captive is, and never see or
hear from me again. It's your decision.”
The
Pistol made no move to leave the room. He made no moves whatsoever.
He simply stood where he was, sweating, shaking, and staring at Blue
Jeans in uncontested fear. The kunoichi each became more restless,
but one look to each from Pleats steadied them and postponed any
potential action. The silence dragged on, soon making even Blue
Jeans feel uncomfortable (he consciously forced himself not to show
it). The Pistol glanced around between Blue Jeans, Twang, Pleats,
her ninja, and the door, eyes wide like those of a trapped animal.
His shaking was now not only visible, but worrying even in the minds
of his captors.
SHING!
“AHHHHH!”
the Pistol screamed as the shuriken struck the floor at his feet,
“All right, all right! I'll talk! I'll talk! Pistol troop
regulations state that a prisoner can only be held for surveillance
and interrogation for up to five days, unless they give us
information. After that, they must be sent to a secret execution
point in the DDZs for termination.”
Blue
Jeans and Pleats glanced at one another. “Velvet was discovered
and captured two nights before we first met,” she recounted, “If
he's right, then they mean to execute her tomorrow night!”
Twang
then moved in close, bow at the ready and arrow pulled back, “Spill
it, jack! Where's the execution point!”
The
Pistol sang like a diva, “If she was captured in government-owned
territory, it means she'll be executed in DDZ-105-118-3893! The
locals call it Stoneford!”
Now,
it was Twang with whom Blue Jeans exchanged glances. Blue Jeans
remembered Twang talking about a powerful axe-wielding warrior who
lived in Stoneford. The circumstances could not have been more
fortuitous; this meant that Blue Jeans, Twang, and the Uradana no
Kunoichi could rescue their captured comrade and recruit the axe
warrior in a single stroke.
If
they were lucky.
“Address!
Now!” Twang continued ordering, pulling back harder on his arrow
and making the bowstring creak.
The
Pistol's legs began visibly wobbling, “4623 West Granite Street, in
the I-District! Now, please! Please let me go!”
Blue
Jeans drew the length of his sword along the top of its sheath and
re-cased it. “Many thanks, friend,” he said, the simplicity of
his voice never changing, “You've been extremely helpful.” He
then took one long sidestep, clearing the Pistol's path, “As
promised, you may leave, and we will not pursue you. Take me up on
that offer before I rescind it.”
The
Pistol blinked his widened eyes several times, as if he hardly
believed what he heard. Taking a step or two at a time, his eyes
switched back and forth amongst his captors quickly, as if making
sure they would be true to Blue Jeans' words. He reached the door of
the back room and slowly opened it, still keeping his shifty gaze on
the swordsman, the archer and the five ninja. As soon as the door
was wide enough, though, he took off like a shot for the front door,
screaming like a madman, “I HAVE TO WARN THEM! THE GRAND COMMANDER!
FIRENIGHT IS IN GRAVE DANGER! I MUST WARN—” His words were cut
off when he suddenly seized up on the spot, freezing in place just a
couple of feet away from the front door. His limbs convulsed, he
released a choked cry, and he dropped to the floor face-first. Only
occasionally moving, the Pistol no longer made his mad attempt to
flee.
Blue
Jeans and Twang stared in disturbed disgust at the slowly weakening
body of the Pistol and his effortlessly enacted demise. They both
turned to Pleats, but only Twang spoke what they both thought, “And
what the hell was that?!”
Pleats
shook her head, “I threw the shuriken that scared him into talking,
nothing more.” Blue Jeans, Twang and Pleats then paused for a
moment, each seeming to come to the same conclusion, and turned to
Taffeta. She was staring at the ceiling and rocking back and forth
where she stood, knees pointed inwards and hands behind her back. A
distinctly irritated Pleats cleared her throat loudly.
Taffeta
looked at her with that same look of innocence on her face. “What?”
she said with immature indignity, “I didn't do nothin'!” She
held up her arms and shrugged, and clasped in her right hand was her
blowgun. She quickly glanced at it and threw her hands behind her
back again, eyes on the ceiling and a blush rising up on her cheeks.
The
other ninja sighed along with their leader, and from there, Pleats
explained, “Taffeta laces her blowgun projectiles with a special
fast-acting neurotoxin. It attacks the nervous system and shuts down
all balance and movement in the limbs. The nerves then flare up and
break down quickly, then it attacks the brain and shuts it down
entirely. It's a very quick, yet very painful way to die . . .”
At
this, Blue Jeans held back a shudder, and behind him, Twang sighed
softly, shaking his head, “Damn . . .”
Changing
the subject, Angora spoke up, “How did you get him to talk so
easily, swordsman? We'd been at him for nearly twenty-four hours and
haven't so much as gleaned a speck of information.”
“I
told you,” Blue Jeans replied, “The government has its reasons
for killing me. Highly important reasons. Reasons that, if it would
scare a lowly Pistol into telling everything he knows, would surely
scare the Grand Commander at least marginally, and at most, to
death.” He then rested a reassured hand on the sheath of his
sword, “This means we cannot waste any time. If your comrade is
scheduled for termination tomorrow night, we have to prepare and make
all haste to Stoneford. As it happens, Twang and I already have
business there, so when our mission is successful, it will be that
much easier for us to—”
“Hold
it,” Pleats stopped him, “We have made no promises to you as of
yet. We will not hold up our end of the bargain until Velvet is home
safely.”
Blue
Jeans had admittedly seen this coming, but did not look forward to
it. “Pleats, please,” he began, “I understand your fellow
warrior is in danger. But my cause is of the utmost importance.
FIRENIGHT means to kill me over something potentially destructive on
a global scale. This is not just for my sake, but for the sake of the
future, and FIRENIGHT's grasp over it.”
“I
won't hear another word about it,” Pleats replied firmly, “Not
until Velvet has been freed. You are in no position to appeal to me
right now, having trespassed, eavesdropped, and taken liberties with
our hostage. Your actions could just as easily have hurt us as helped
us.”
Blue
Jeans sighed wearily before answering, “Pleats, I can sympathize
with your plight, but—”
“Excuse
me?” Pleats retorted, as if Blue Jeans had just disrespected her,
“You 'sympathize' with us? How dare you! No member of the
Uradana no Kunoichi requires male sympathy! If anything, you
two are the ones who are receiving sympathy, and without it, you'd be
dead!”
“Pleats,
don't be unreasonable!” Blue Jeans responded defensively, “I have
no problem discussing my business at a later time, but if you want
your friend to live, we have to be able to work together!”
“Wrong
again, swordsman!” Pleats bit back, “I've kept you alive for your
assistance, not an alliance! You've proven you are
combat-savvy, but nothing else matters until you prove you can be
trusted. This means that you will take orders when given them, you
will act based on my will, and if you present yourself as
unnecessary, defiant or incompetent, you risk my sister's life, and
signal the end of your own!”
Blue
Jeans gave another weary sigh, but offered no argument. “Fine,”
he resigned, “You're right. We've done nothing to earn your trust.
Twang and I will do our best to make sure Velvet is released. But you
must understand that a battle is won, not by one greater commanding
all of the lesser, but by equals.”
Pleats
was silent for a time, but her black eyes were blazing. “We leave
for Stoneford in the morning,” she said with some finality, “We'll
have equipment prepared for you to use by then. Get some rest.”
Twang,
like the kunoichi, had been awed into silence by the exchange between
Blue Jeans and Pleats, but as usual, he shook it off the soonest.
“Uh, so . . .” he began tentatively, “whe-where're we gon'
sleep?”
Pleats
stared daggers at him, “You both sleep on the roof. I'll have no
man sleep under the same cover as my sisters and me. Now leave us,
and be ready to travel by morning!” And with that, she turned and
exited, her dignified stride detracted only by the dainty movement of
her pleated skirt.
Angora
followed suit with a quick nod. “Good night, gentlemen,” she
said before leaving, with a tinge of humor, no doubt at the fact that
the two men would be sharing the same sleeping quarters. Damask
merely stared at them bitterly, scoffed, then followed Angora out the
door.
Cashmere
was next, her face expressing more disgust than hostility, “What
Sensei sees in you, I'll never know.” She trudged out the
door, keeping her eyes on them as long as possible until she was
gone.
Taffeta,
however, raced to Twang and gave him a squeezing hug around his
waist. “Good night, cutie!” she said delightedly, “Kill ya in
the morning!” She then turned around and skipped out the door like
a carefree schoolgirl.
Blue
Jeans and Twang stood in silence for a while after their unusual
company departed. Finally, in a rare moment, Blue Jeans turned
toward Twang and said with a grin, “That young Taffeta seems to be
quite attracted to you, my friend.”
Twang
looked back at him skeptically, “You gon' do this, ain't you? After
what I seen between you and Pleats, you ain't got nothin' to say to
me.”
Blue
Jeans was taken aback by this subtle accusation, but let it pass him
by, “From any woman, I'd much prefer a hug over an argument.
Wouldn't you agree, Twang?” He continued his sly grin.
Twang
looked back with a scowl, “Fuck you, man . . . .”
*
* * * *
The
procession of Pistols marched through the streets of Stoneford's
I-District in the dead of night, two lines of ten on either side.
Between them, their prisoner, a young woman in a dark blue ninja
uniform and matching tight miniskirt, walked solemnly while staring
at the road. Her long, perfectly straight hair was dyed blue to
match her uniform, and her eyes shone with an abstract sort of
sadness, as if this ending were bittersweet for her somehow. The
shackles binding her legs made her stride short and confined, and the
heavy chains that held her arms weighed them down behind her. She
looked as though she were in enough pain to look forward to her
impending death.
Far
above the street, six shadows lurked across the rooftops.
Blue
Jeans studied the situation, hand firmly gripped on the handle of his
sword. “The Pistol spoke the truth,” he confirmed, “They're
headed for West Granite Street right now.”
“We
can see that,” Cashmere snapped from behind him, “So just keep
moving. If your legs are as slow as your mind, we'll lose them!”
Twang
glared at her and bit back in an insulted tone, “We can leave right
now and let her die, you know. You want that?”
Angora
answered in a near-inaudible whisper, “About as much as you
want to die.”
“Quiet,
all of you!” Pleats hissed, then studied the procession as they
moved, “All right . . . . . if they keep on Pumice Avenue and take
the next turn on West Granite, it'll take five minutes to get to the
building. Once there, we make the first move.”
“What's
the first move?” Blue Jeans asked, “It'll be difficult to fight
our way through the building if we don't know what floor they've
taken her to, and we're not even sure how many men are in there.”
“Simple,”
Pleats responded, “You'll find that Damask is not with us. She is
masquerading as one of the Pistol soldiers you see marching in the
street as we speak.”
“Then
why doesn't she let her know she's there?” Twang asked, “And why
don't we just bust in there, kick some ass, grab her and run?”
“You
men truly are fools!” Cashmere said acidly, “If we alert Velvet
to our presence, her behavior changes, however small they may be,
might tip off her captors! For that matter, an attack like that will
risk getting Velvet killed before we've freed her, and even if we do
escape with her, the Pistols at the execution point will know
something's wrong if their prisoner doesn't show up! Your asinine
plan will get someone killed, and the rest of us hunted like dogs!”
Twang
growled back, “You mean 'hunted like bitches' . . .”
“Twang,
steady,” Blue Jeans calmed him, then mapped out the plan for
himself, “So, we wait until they've taken her inside, find the
floor she's on, then begin felling the troops until there are no
witnesses. It will take them much longer to realize their prisoner is
gone if there's no one to report back.”
“Exactly,”
Pleats confirmed, “Now, let's move! They're almost at the corner!”
The
six of them resumed tracking the procession down Pumice Avenue,
staying atop the roofs and crossing streets using Twang's new
grappling line arrows (lent to him by the Uradana no Kunoichi). The
procession finally turned onto West Granite Street, and the group
turned accordingly; they dared not take their attention off the
marching Pistols until, at last, the procession began to split up at
the front of a building at the very address given to them: 4623.
Four Pistols marched their prisoner inside through the front door,
while the remaining six were joined by another group of troops, and
the men stationed outside began acting as sentinels, keeping watch
with their weapons at the ready.
Twang
looked up over the lip of the roof the group had stopped on, counting
the number of Pistols outside the building. He turned back and
reported, “Looks like there's about twelve guys altogether. We can
take 'em by surprise real easy!”
“Don't
be a fool!” Pleats chastened him, “If they know we're coming,
they'll kill her sooner!”
Blue
Jeans completed her thought for her, “Whereas if they only think
we're coming, they'll wait until necessary preventative measures are
taken.”
“Very
good,” Cashmere said sarcastically, “Perhaps you're not as dumb
as your sex presents you to be.”
“Quiet!”
Pleats hissed again, then she scanned the face of the building for
something. Time seemed to run much slower as she did this, but still
she waited, and her ninja, Blue Jeans and Twang waited with her.
Finally, they all saw what she had been waiting for: a bright
pinprick of light flashed twice from a window on the top floor.
“That's
Damask's signal,” Pleats explained, “Velvet has been taken to the
top floor. This is where we act.” She turned to her youngest
ninja, “Taffeta, you will take out one of the Pistol guards with
your fukiya. Only one. Understood?”
Taffeta
grinned and squealed in delight, “Yaaaaaaay!”
Pleats
continued, “When he falls, Damask will alert the firing squad to
the fallen officer. When that happens, they will send guards from the
inside of the building out to investigate. When they do, we strike.
When all of us have cut the guards down to a number one of us can
handle, we leave Cashmere to finish them while the rest of us move
in. We repeat the process on each floor unless there are too few to
worry about. Meanwhile, Damask will stall and obstruct the firing
squad, free Velvet, and they will meet us on the way down.”
Finally, she turned back to Twang, “You stay on the roof and act as
a sniper with Taffeta.”
“EEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Taffeta shrieked, not entirely quietly, and hugged Twang yet again,
“Our first date! We're gonna have so much fun!” Twang could do
nothing but scowl, as if he were plotting his revenge on Pleats at
that very moment.
“Wait
for the next signal,” Pleats ordered, and the group waited, all
staring at the same window at the same time. Only a few seconds went
by, and the tiny flash of light went off again.
Pleats
turned to Taffeta and nodded her head, and Taffeta carefully loaded
her blowgun with one of her toxic needles, stuck it in her mouth,
aimed, and blew. Two seconds later, one of the Pistols, the one
closest to the door, seized up and dropped to his knees. Pleats held
up a hand to steady the group, and a few seconds later, ten more
Pistols came out to investigate: three from the left side entrance,
three from the right side, and four from the front.
There
was another quick flash of light from the same top floor window, and
Pleats reacted, “That means the plan is working. Let's move!”
On
her command, Cashmere launched a kunai at a nearby streetlamp, the
only source of light on the block. Twang then fired another arrow
with an attached line, and Pleats, Blue Jeans, Cashmere and Angora
slid down the line and into the street. The siege had begun.
Blue
Jeans pulled his sword and strained his eyes for movement; he had
trained himself to see better than normal in the dark, and had
assumed the ninja could do the same. The Pistols all activated
flashlight attachments on their service weapons, and one Pistol used
it to spot Blue Jeans. He aimed his weapon, but Blue Jeans slashed
it out of his hands and cut the Pistol across the chest with another
strike in the opposite direction. He turned to see another pair of
Pistols groaning in pain; their hands had been struck by one of
Twang's arrows, making them drop their guns. A horizontal slash
brought both down at once. Blue Jeans saw a fourth Pistol aiming at
the roof, seeming to have found their mystery snipers. Blue Jeans
launched a powerful downward slash that severed both Pistol's hands,
then slashed his throat before he could scream.
Pleats
stabbed two Pistols from behind with both of her short swords and
sent two kunai into the chest of a third, and Cashmere charged two
more, skewering them both on her bisento. Angora used her
kusarigama's sickle end to disarm her opponents first, sent her
shuriken and kunai to finish the job on another two, and strangled
another one to death with her chain. Finally, when another four had
been killed from above (two by Twang's arrows and two by Taffeta's
needles), Pleats made the command, “Phase Two! Go!”
Cashmere
stood by the entrance, allowing Pleats, Blue Jeans, and Angora to go
in and keeping the remaining five Pistols from following before their
deaths. Inside, the building resembled a vast warehouse, and the
first floor appeared musty, decrepit, and deserted, so the remaining
group scaled the stairs with swift, quiet feet. The second floor
yielded five guards, and all saw the intruders the second they
arrived. Pleats and Angora quickly disarmed them, both with their
kunai and Angora with her chain, and Blue Jeans and Pleats quickly
slew them all.
Pleats
looked out the window toward Taffeta and Twang's position, and saw
another flashing light, similar to Damask's. “Taffeta has word
that the firing squad is down,” Pleats interpreted the signal,
“Velvet is safe. Keep moving!” The group moved up to the third
floor, and found a great deal many more Pistols, about twenty total.
Many
of the same tactics were repeated by Blue Jeans and the kunoichi;
Pleats and Angora disarmed the Pistols first, and the trio proceeded
to slay the Pistols one by one before they could re-arm themselves.
Blue Jeans slashed through two Pistols at once with one long
horizontal slash, jumped forward and cut down another behind them,
then jammed the point of his blade past his hip and into the chest of
another, incoming Pistol, killing him without even seeing him.
The
number of Pistols was quickly reduced from twenty to five, and Pleats
gave the next command, “Phase Three! Go!” With that, Blue Jeans
and Pleats raced up the stairs, while Angora finished the hordes on
the third floor.
On
their way up, Blue Jeans could not help but sense something unusual.
“Something isn't right,” he spoke up about it, “You said Velvet
was free. This should mean that she and Damask should've joined us by
now. What could be keeping them?”
“You
skirt the line of defiance, swordsman,” Pleats warned, “Don't
presume to question my sisters' abilities.” The two finally got to
the fourth floor, and froze in shock; the bodies of seven Pistol
troops lay strewn all over the floor.
“What
. . . ?” Blue Jeans nearly whispered it, his eyes wide with awe as
they fell upon body after bleeding body, “How . . . . who could've
done this . . . ?”
“As
I said,” Pleats shook off the surprise much sooner, “My sisters
are not to be underestimated. Now, let's keep moving!”
“Wait!”
Blue Jeans tried to stop her, and ran after her when he couldn't,
“These are not blade injuries! There's no evidence of a ninja
attack! There are no sword slashes, no knives, and no shuriken! It's
as if they'd all been killed by—”
They'd
reached the fifth and final floor by this time, and a similar sight
lay before them. In a line on one side of the room, the Pistol
firing squad lay still and drenched in blood. All six of
them—including Damask, whose wild blonde mane had been shaken
out—sported the glassy, blank eyes of death.
“Damask
. . . .” Pleats mumbled, her voice sporting true emotion for the
first time since Blue Jeans had met her, “. . . . no . . . . .”
“We
meet again, ghetto trash.”
Blue
Jeans instantly recognized the voice, and turned toward the shadowy
corner from whence it came, sword at the ready. Stepping out from
the shadows was Velvet, arms bound behind her and a gun pushed into
her head by a new captor.
Smith
Wesson.
“I
knew I'd find you with them,” he grinned, his wicked gaze and
superior smile moving the scar over his eye, “Word on the street
was you'd been hunting for these witches, no doubt to build up your
own little army against our good government. When I'd remembered we'd
already captured one of them, I figured they would try to rescue her,
so I waited here for them to show so I could get them to tell me
where you were. What a surprise to know I'd get to see you sooner
than expected!”
Blue
Jeans' shock continued to grow and spread like wildfire. He thought
back to the dead Pistols on the floor below, and realized that his
earlier hypothesis had been correct; they'd all been killed by
gunshots. “You did this,” he finally said, “You killed
them just to get to me. You slaughtered your own men—”
“They
WERE my own men!” Wesson bellowed, his gun shaky in his
hand, “And until you came along, they would obey my every
command! Now, they'd easily kill me for treason, just as they would
you! I've lost my rank, my reputation, and my freedom, and it's all
because of YOU!” He then glanced at his hostage, and his
grin returned, “But when I bring your body, and the bodies
of your friends, before the Grand Commander, I get my old life back.
He won't be able to resist reinstating the man who saved the world!”
He cocked the hammer of his weapon and pushed it harder against
Velvet's temple, “Drop your weapons, or she dies. Now!”
Pleats'
fists were clenched tightly over her swords, and shook with her
growing fury. “You . . .” she growled, the smoothness of her
voice completely extinguished, “You killed Damask . . . . you
endanger my sister over some foolish vendetta . . . . I will rip your
spine from your body!”
“NO!”
Blue Jeans shouted, grasping her shoulder, “Don't be a fool,
Pleats! One wrong move, and Velvet dies! I've seen him do this
before!”
“Unhand
me!” Pleats spat back, roughly jerking her shoulder away, “I told
you to act according to my will! If I say he will die, then he will
die!”
“Enough
blood has been spilled tonight!” Blue Jeans replied desperately,
“If you rush in, you will both die. I won't have your blood on his
hands, or on mine!”
Pleats'
black eyes burned, and she slowly raised one sword, pointing it
between Blue Jeans' eyes. “If you continue to interfere,” she
warned, her voice as much an inferno as her gaze, “I will kill you
without a second thought. I don't care whose son you are!”
The
argument was cut short by the firing of Wesson's gun into the
ceiling, causing a mist of plaster and mason to fall. “I won't
wait forever, my street-dwelling friends!” Wesson taunted, pressing
his gun back to Velvet's temple “How many of you will sport bullet
holes before the night is over?!”
Blue
Jeans simply stared back at Pleats and sighed, his determined gaze
hiding his growing fury. He then slowly knelt down and set his sword
on the ground, pointed toward Wesson. He hoped Wesson wouldn't
notice the sword's direction; he had a plan, but it would require
careful precision and timing—something that the current situation
placed monumental stress on.
“Release
them, and you can have me,” he said to Wesson, “They are not a
part of this. Keep it that way.”
Wesson's
grin widened, “All in good time, my slimy friend.” He then
turned to Pleats, “You next, my dear. Or will your friend suffer
from your mistakes?”
Pleats
glanced from Blue Jeans, to Wesson, to Damask's body, then back to
Wesson again. Still staring furiously at Wesson, she slowly knelt
down, much slower than Blue Jeans had been, and placed her weapons on
the floor.
As
she rose back up, Wesson's eyes glinted victoriously. “Excellent
choice, my friends,” he said giddily, then turned his attention to
Velvet, “See that? Know that your friends made the right decision .
. . before you die!”
SHING!
A
second before Blue Jeans acted, a kunai struck the ceiling above
Wesson, and he quickly glanced around, aiming his gun at whatever
dared to sneak up on him. Blue Jeans seized the opportunity and
enacted his plan; he kicked the hilt of his sword, sending the blade
flying into Wesson's leg.
“GAAAAH!”
Wesson screamed as his balance wavered and his leg bled, and his arms
flailed as he attempted to regain his balance. The gun went off in
his hand and struck the ceiling again, but this was the final straw
for the old building; another, much larger rain of plaster, paint,
wood and masonry tumbled down and struck Wesson, injuring and
blinding him.
Velvet
slipped out of Wesson's grasp, pulled a horde of kunai from her own
uniform, and sent them flying into the nearest window, shattering the
glass and creating an escape. Gesturing her head for Pleats and Blue
Jeans to follow, she raced to the window, produced a grappling hook,
and dove out, hooking the device to the windowpane on her way out.
Blue
Jeans glanced at Pleats, and found her slinging Damask's arm around
her own shoulders; Damask appeared to be alive, but very weak. “Go!”
Blue Jeans shouted, “I'm right behind you!” Pleats carried
Damask to the window, and Blue Jeans quickly raced toward Wesson,
grabbing his sword. He saw the former Pistol leader reach for his
dropped weapon, and stamped his bare foot down on Wesson's arm.
Blue
Jeans pointed his sword at Wesson as he struggled and cried out in
pain. “I let you live once as a warning,” he said, his voice
dangerously low, “I let you live now as a lesson. Threaten my
friends again, and you will know no mercy.” Blue Jeans then swept
his blade down, just barely missing his own foot, but severing
Wesson's right hand. Leaving the former general half-blind,
bleeding, and screaming, Blue Jeans re-sheathed his sword, ran for
the window and jumped, grabbing the line and sliding all the way
down.
*
* * * *
“You
are lucky I don't gut you here and now!!” Pleats screamed with rage
once the group had reunited in an abandoned building in Stoneford's
S-District, “My explicit orders were to kill that freak, and now
you tell me you've left him alive?!”
She
and Blue Jeans stood in a ground floor room with Twang, Cashmere and
Taffeta. Velvet, safe and unharmed, was in the basement helping
Angora treat Damask's wounds; after giving Velvet her weapons and
grappling hook, she'd been shot in the shoulder by Wesson, and had
cleverly faked her death in order to facilitate their escape.
Despite their success, though, Pleats' expression was less than
celebratory when she'd been informed of their attacker, his origins,
his purposes, and his state of being when Blue Jeans left.
Blue
Jeans' expression was unmoved, “There is nothing to be gained by
screaming. He will threaten us again at his own peril. That is, if he
can with just one hand.”
“That
is no excuse!” Pleats retaliated, “You defied my command after
promising you would follow it! I warned you that this direct
insubordination was punishable by death! And to think you actually
left that psychopath alive after he'd threatened my sisters! Only a
man would have done something so pathetically halfhearted—”
“Enough
of your gender bias nonsense!” Blue Jeans finally roared, “Smith
Wesson is a deceitful scourge, and whether we had surrendered or not,
he would have killed us all! If you would bother to set aside your
insufferable pride, you'll see that we are all alive, and that we
rescued Velvet successfully, together! The only reason we haven't
gained your respect now is your bad temper and your overinflated
ego!”
Pleats
stared back at Blue Jeans with a combination of shock and rage, as if
he'd committed the highest level of blasphemy. Slowly, her hand
pulled one sword from its sheath, and Blue Jeans responded by doing
the same. But before either warrior could bare their steel halfway,
Taffeta walked in the middle of them and glanced between one and the
other. “Please don't fight,” she pleaded to them both, “Please?
Velvet's home. Everything's all better now. No more fighting . . . .
. .” Tears began to well up in her eyes, and she hung her head
down, gently sobbing. Cashmere surprised Blue Jeans and Twang by
coming to her and holding her close. She pulled Taffeta away from
Blue Jeans' and Pleats' argument, consoling her all the while.
“She's
right, man,” Twang added, both confidence and relief in his tone,
“Mission accomplished, right? We on easy street, now.”
“Hardly,”
Blue Jeans shook his head, “Eventually, FIRENIGHT will find out
what happened here, and it won't be long before they find us. And if
I know Wesson, he'll probably take a chance and tip off the Pistols
about where we are . . . .” He cut himself off, suddenly feeling
guilty at showing that scum mercy a second time.
Pleats'
expression softened into a light glare, “I'll let my sisters decide
what we do with the two of you. When Damask is well enough, we'll put
it to a vote. For now, we must see what Velvet has uncovered.”
“Oh,
yeah!” Twang said in realization, “Your last mission! What was it
all about, anyway?”
Pleats
showed bitter hesitation before continuing, “We infiltrated a
government warehouse to find blueprints for weapons. Our goal was to
build them ourselves so that our community could defend itself
better. Velvet had stumbled upon something of that sort just before
she'd been captured.” She then turned to Cashmere, “Take over
for Velvet.”
Cashmere
bowed, “Hai, Sensei,” gently released Taffeta, and walked
toward the door to the basement. Taffeta, still upset, then sought
comfort from Twang and hugged him. Annoyed at first, Twang soon
simply rolled his eyes, shrugged, and stroked the young girl's back
comfortingly.
A
few seconds later, Velvet, tall, willowy and quite lovely when seen
close up, entered the room. She approached Pleats and bowed
respectfully, and when Pleats returned her bow, the two women hugged
each other. Blue Jeans was surprised again; he hardly thought any of
these kunoichi were capable of true affection, least of all Pleats.
Pleats
and Velvet separated, and the leader questioned her follower, “Can
you tell me what you found out?” Velvet, without speaking a word,
proceeded to relay her information through movement. She stuck out
the side of her head and twisted her fingers around, as if opening a
vault, then reached out and mimed the movements of one taking
something out of this make-believe vault. She then held her hands up
and her arms out, as if measuring something gigantic, then swept her
arm in a wide horizontal arc. She then stepped closer to Pleats,
gestured to herself and to her leader, raised a hand, bowed again,
produced her pretend vault findings, turned her head behind her and
gestured in that direction, made a gun motion with her hand, then
drew it across her throat.
Pleats
translated the entire time, “You broke into a vault . . . and found
some important documents . . . about a colossal weapon . . . .
powerful enough to destroy anything and everything in its path . . .
. our sisters before us . . . . discovered this information . . . .
before they died.”
Blue
Jeans and Twang both stared, utterly confused. “Uhhh . . .”
Twang began uncertainly, “You . . . you got all that?”
“Of
course,” Pleats answered, “What sort of leader would I be if I
couldn't?” She then turned back to Velvet, “How do you know our
masters found this out before us? Did it say so?” Velvet nodded,
and Pleats continued to inquire, “What was it about these
blueprints that was so important to them?”
Velvet
threw up her arms again, but then made a miniscule measurement of air
in front of her with her thumb and forefinger, then made a sweeping
gesture with both arms, as if in dismissal.
“Hmmm,”
Pleats muttered before figuring, “A flaw in the design! Like, a
weakness?”
Velvet
shrugged slightly, indicating the possibility was just that.
“I
trust then they had a specific 'plan' for the discoverers of this
secret?” Pleats asked, and Velvet nodded morosely. “Well, then,”
Pleats took a deep breath, “I suppose we have no choice but to stay
on the move.” She continued hesitantly, “Were you able to tell
which of our foremothers discovered this information?”
Velvet
readied her hands for explanation, but when glancing at Blue Jeans,
her eyes rested on him for a while, as if she'd just noticed he was
here. After a few seconds of this awkward look, it changed to a
shocked look in a flash, as though Blue Jeans had just transformed
into some deadly monster. Velvet slowly raised her arm and pointed
her finger directly at Blue Jeans himself.
Blue
Jeans was confused and astounded by Velvet's gesture, “. . . . Me?
What? What is she talking about?”
Twang
followed up by voicing his own confusion, “Girl, you crazy or
somethin'? BJ wasn't no damn 'foremother'! He ain't even 'fore'!”
Pleats
gave another deep sigh. “I suppose I had better explain,” she
said with that same note of hesitation, “She means that you are
involved with this superweapon, Blue Jeans.”
“But
how?” Blue Jeans asked, his confusion unresolved, “What do I have
to do with a weapon I know nothing about, discovered by the ancestors
of a group I've only known for two days?”
Pleats'
reluctance clearly reached its peak, but she continued, “Through .
. . . . well . . . . . through your mother.”
Blue
Jeans was dumbstruck, “. . . . . . . . What?”
Pleats
forced herself to go on despite her trepidation, “It was the reason
I opted to spare your life when you came to us. I had seen it on the
DataPane. You see, Blue Jeans . . . . . . . your mother was a member
of the original Uradana no Kunoichi. She discovered this superweapon,
and . . . . . that must be the reason she was killed.”
--------------------------------------------------------*
* * * *--------------------------------------------------------
"Another new recruit!
As Blue
Jeans deals with the shock of his parents' past, he and the others must venture back into Stoneford to locate this mysterious axe-wielding warrior. When they find him, they discover his ferocity in battle, as well as his gentility of heart. He requires their assistance in an important mission for his own people, promising his services if they do.
Can the group complete this mission? Will this new warrior prove himself to be everything the rumors say? Can they avoid the danger of crossing the Pistols?
NEXT TIME! Blue
Jeans Samurai #7:
Another
New Ally! The Kindhearted Axe Warrior!
もう一つの新しい味方！心の優しい斧戦士！
Don't miss it!"
