DISCLAIMER -- the following chapter, like the rest of the story, is a work of fiction depicting made-up future events that will not, nor should ever happen. It may go without saying, but the subject matter here may just warrant it, and I need to take a step I feel is necessary to maintain that all events in this story are satire. Unrealistic satire, but satire nonetheless.
Thank you for understanding. Happy reading!
Blue
Jeans Samurai
#8
– The Sophisticated Hitman! The Beginnings of FIRENIGHT!
洗練されたヒットマン！
FAIANAITOの始まり！
Gardenersville
was the new name for Washington, D.C., and remained a major political
city in the world. Only instead of housing the most powerful leaders
in the former United States, it housed the most powerful leaders (and
the weaponry that made them so) in the Capital Continent. On 1600
Pennsylvania Avenue, where the historic White House once stood, an
enormous, opulent mansion sprawled across the land, called 'the
Hearth'. It was the perfect domicile for the Grand Commander
himself; it stood nine stories, sported nearly two-hundred rooms, and
covered about 80,000 square feet. All of the world's riches,
treasures, artwork and historical artifacts lined the walls, hung
from the ceilings and decorated the furniture. Servants, chefs, and
luxuries beyond compare awaited in every room; in the days when
religion had legitimate control over the masses, not even the Pope
had more opulent living space.
Grand
Commander Abner Hiltov sat upright in his office, called 'Command
Central' by the staff. He had just been informed that the
Omega-Red-level traitor—the boy with the sword—was behind the
recent escape of another prisoner, set to be executed in one of the
Designated Destitution Zones of the Third Sector. He had also just
received word that his failed minion, Smith Wesson, was sighted in
that same DDZ. It was no coincidence (in his position, it didn't pay
to believe in coincidences); Wesson sought to finish what he started
and kill the samurai once and for all. Because the prisoner and her
accomplices escaped, it was not difficult to imagine that Wesson's
presence resulted in, or at least contributed to, said escape.
Fool,
Hiltov thought to himself, Untrustworthy, incompetent fool.
This is why he never trusted anyone; trust in others leads to a
shameful fall every time. This was also why he was currently seated
in Command Central, awaiting the arrival of someone whom, were he
capable of trust, Hiltov could place it in easily. Wesson was a
disgrace to FIRENIGHT, and the assassin whom Wesson had hired was a
loose cannon, too disturbed to be truly worthy. The man Hiltov had
hired personally was a far cry better than Wesson or that lunatic.
In
fact, he was the best assassin in FIRENIGHT's employ.
I
didn't get to where I am today by being subtle,
he remembered telling Wesson before sending him out to his second
failure. And neither did any Grand Commander before me,
he added to that thought as he turned to the wall on his right.
Eight portraits lined that side of the room—they were the portraits
of every Grand Commander in FIRENIGHT's history, including Hiltov's.
His rule was not a subtle one, and no potential rebellion would ever
change that. No potential rebellion would change FIRENIGHT or
destroy precedents set by these great leaders. This assassin would
make sure of that.
Grand
Commander Gardener made sure FIRENIGHT started burning. Grand
Commander Hiltov would make sure FIRENIGHT burned on.
*
* * * *
October
24th, 2017 was the day the whole world had gone to Hell.
For
ten years beforehand, the United States had seen its biggest spike in
public shootings to date. Virginia Tech; Northern Illinois
University; Geneva County, Alabama; Binghamton, New York; Fort Hood;
Sanford, Florida; the Aurora, Colorado theater; the Oak Creek,
Wisconsin Sikh temple; Sandy Hook; the Boston marathon; the
Washington Navy yard, Santa Barbara, California; and Ferguson,
Missouri were not quite enough to convince the public that lethal
weapons in the hands of maniacs was a bad idea. Riots and protests
all over the country threatened to tear the nation asunder. Despite
the tension being close to the boiling point, it seemed to increase
the number of firearm purchases over the years, and due to certain
influences in the U.S. government, it became easier and easier to buy
and keep guns.
What
led to that fateful day in October of 2017 was the result of nothing
more than a severely overblown misunderstanding. In an attempt to
reduce the number of brutal public murders in the country, liberal
politicians attempted to restrict gun rights for the American public,
disallowing the ownership of guns for even the most steady,
sane-minded individuals. Conservative politicians, seeing this as an
attack on the rights of citizens (which really meant that it was an
attack on their influence over the NRA and other firearm enthusiasts)
fought back, relaxing the same laws in states that would allow it,
tipping the scale in their favor. Soon, liberal-controlled states
would be completely disarmed altogether, while
conservative-controlled states would have enough firepower to stand
up easily to the government they were so sure would betray them. By
2015, the country was divided; 25 states could hardly qualify for
guns, much less afford them, while the other 25 sported warehouses
loaded to the ceilings with legally purchased weaponry.
Not
one side conceded that the answer was not gun control, or even gun
safety, but gun responsibility.
Finally,
in October of 2017, the U.S. Government announced what would be its
ultimate plan for peace, but would end up sealing its own fate: the
Firearm Prohibition Act. It stated that the ownership, as well as
the purchase and usage, of a firearm by anyone unauthorized by the
government was now a felony of the highest order, and to break this
law was to earn oneself a life sentence in prison. The Act was
passed, and many people in the U.S., no matter what side of the
divide they were on, were being incarcerated for gun ownership. The
outrage was instant and frightening, not just from respectable gun
owners, but from government officials whose under-the-table dealings
were being broken by the jailing of their trading partners. Their
influence now quickly fading, the conservative party began speaking
out against the new gun law, calling it 'unfair', 'harmful', a
'detriment to freedom', a 'sin before God', and many other typical
conservative Americanisms. What they were seen doing was protesting
an unjust law, but what they were really doing was inciting anger,
instigating violence, and breeding what would soon be the largest
transcontinental riot in the history of the world.
The
riots began in Texas early in the morning of the 24th.
Many dedicated Republicans had managed to keep their weapon
collections and still evade arrest, and on that day, they would use
them. Men, women, and even children armed themselves with dangerous
weaponry—from small caliber pistols to 12-gauge shotguns, from
submachine guns to flamethrowers—and took to the streets, shooting.
At first, it was just random occurrences that left homes destroyed
and dozens of people dead in the streets. However, the riots began
to grow focused, almost cognizant in their own way, as if these
masses of living, breathing fury suddenly took on lives of their own.
That was when the riots left homes devastated and hundreds of people
dead in the streets—not just dead, but massacred.
The
man who gave these riots sentience: Brian Albert Northrop Gardener.
Born
in Corpus Christi, Texas on August 2, 1982, Gardener was not only a
dedicated right-wing conservative, but also an avid collector of
weapons. Since the beginning of the firearms feud amongst the U.S.
politicians, he'd gathered what would quickly be the world's largest
collection of firearms owned by a single civilian. He had actually
made the news several times due to this, and each time, when asked
why he was building such a collection, Gardener replied, “I just
want to be ready.” He would give no other answers on the subject.
Once the riots began in his home state, he was indeed ready; armed to
the teeth, he took to the streets and acted as an orator for the
angry masses, the general who would lead the troops. His charisma
won them over, his intellect kept them in line, and his determination
drove them forward and outward. The general was commanding his
troops for a full-frontal assault on the entire nation.
The
riots slowly turned into a bloody, savage genocide, a death march
that went from the Gulf of Mexico to the Canadian border. Rioters
swelled in numbers from the thousands, to the hundred-thousands,
until after only four weeks, the death marchers grew to the millions.
They spread west to New Mexico, east to Louisiana and Mississippi,
and north to Oklahoma, and everything in their path was annihilated.
Homes were burned to the ground and anyone brave (or stupid) enough
to stop them ended up shot to death. The police and the National
Guard became assimilated into the throng simply due to their
ownership of weaponry; Gardener's negotiations with them amounted to
not much more than 'We outnumber you. We outgun you. Either join us
or die.' As with the civilians, the police and the military were
swayed by the frighteningly convincing words of the madman leading
the charge. Citizens who managed to survive the massive onslaught
took to hiding in the wreckage left behind; robbed of everything by
this new regime, they were now at the mercy of the streets, just as
their descendants would be in the far future. There was no hope left
for them. Or for anyone who opposed the death march.
The
rioters marched across the country, having spread far enough west to
blanket the Pacific border in carnage. Having wiped out three time
zones in the space of five months, Brian A. N. Gardner made
absolutely sure that no one's Christmas was merry, and made even
surer that the new year, 2018, would not
be happy. Finally, at the end of March 2018, Gardener made the
ultimate gambit: an all-out attack on the United States government.
With his forces now in control over munitions factories and war
vehicle plants all over the American Southwest, Gardener had the
firepower he needed at his disposal, and with 150 million people
following him, there was almost no reason for him to fail. The march
on the Eastern Seaboard was a grueling one, and homes and workplaces
across Florida, Georgia, the Carolinas and Virginia went up in
flames, matching the rest of the country. Finally, Maryland was
taken, and the U.S. government made its final stand at Washington,
D.C. on April 24. The tactics of the remaining U.S. military were
courageous and brilliant, but it was nothing before the unprecedented
strategies and ingenious cunning of the war-monger Gardener. Sites
representative of the United States fell quickly: the Capitol
Building, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the
Smithsonian Institute, and the Supreme Court Building all crumbled in
a matter of days. At last, the riot-turned-coup stormed the White
House, the President and his family were executed, and a new national
order was about to begin.
That
very night, the fall of the White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
burned. The fire raged on well into the night. It was that night
that struck Brian A. N. Gardener with inspiration. The U.S.
government as all had known it had died, in a fire that burned all
night. A fire that burned all night. Fire. Night.
FIRENIGHT.
The
surprise takeover of the United States shocked the globe; it took six
months for this vicious military prodigy, who once attributed his
expertise simply to his overwhelming collection of weaponry, to
assume absolute control over the nation through sheer force alone.
It all happened so quickly, no other country could provide relief
fast enough—or dared to out of fear, it was hard to tell which.
Despite the fear, though, it took another ten years to rebuild
Washington, and not just to the antiquated relic of history it once
was. It was now a powerhouse of military tyranny named for the very
tyrant who started it all—Gardenersville. Any armed forces sent to
quell the power-hungry new dictatorship were instantly dissolved.
Despite the fear, other nations would soon realize FIRENIGHT's true
power, and be taken, or destroyed.
The
first order of FIRENIGHT business was to eliminate immediate threats.
Gardener, now named the first Grand Commander of FIRENIGHT, saw
Canada and Mexico as little more than flaccid rat-holes due for
immediate extinction. FIRENIGHT's armed forces easily eliminated
these two neighboring countries as a threat, and they were
assimilated into the slowly-growing military superpower—the
beginnings of what would soon be called the Capital Continent. Major
cities were rebuilt as military bases and havens for the armed (by
this time, 'armed' and 'wealthy' had already become interchangeable,
almost without notice), and factories were assembled for a steady
upkeep of weapons and vehicles of war. Once the armed had even more
firepower to their name, other nearby countries, such as Greenland to
the far northeast and Central America farther south, easily fell to
FIRENIGHT, and served as more land for more weapons factories.
By
2045, resources were beginning to dwindle, and not a moment too soon.
The South American Sieges had begun, and not even a unified force of
the South American drug cartels was enough to stop the diabolical
tyranny of FIRENIGHT or the tactical genius of its leader. To
complicate matters for the new dictatorship, Europe has finally
gathered the courage and united against FIRENIGHT—a movement that
they would christen the Second Allied Forces. The superpowers of the
S. A. F. included Great Britain, France, Germany, and Italy, and the
movement received further support from Spain, Portugal, Austria,
Belgium, Romania, the Netherlands, almost all of Scandinavia, and the
Czech Republic. After Brazil had fallen to the combined might of
FIRENIGHT in 2049, Britain's Royal Air Force began its strike raids
on the Capital Continent, but to no avail; even the flawless piloting
of the R. A. F. did not factor Grand Commander Gardener's
paranoia-driven tactics. They never saw the newest technology of
FIRENIGHT coming—collapsible anti-aircraft towers that would rise
from underground and target any and every airborne vehicle. Needless
to say, the R. A. F. did not try to invade the capital again.
By
2055, the South American Sieges were over, and nearly the entire
Western Hemisphere belonged to FIRENIGHT. History had never seen a
greater divide in the world—FIRENIGHT had taken over the western
half of the globe, while the Second Allied Forces had recently
acquired assistance from the military superpowers of Africa and Asia.
Now, Russia, India, Japan, China, Indonesia, Egypt, Israel, Turkey,
Pakistan, Iran, and South Korea had joined the military
countermeasure against FIRENIGHT. Hearing news of this, the aging
Grand Commander Gardener concocted an ingenious feint plan. In 2060,
he announced a full-scale assault of Africa, beginning in South
Africa—by now, it was well-known that his most common strategy was
to start from the south and work his troops northward. Seeing this
attack coming, the S. A. F. deployed every available troop to patrol
the countries of Africa; the operation was headed by the leaders of
Egypt. The combined might of the Second Allied Forces met the enemy
on the shores of South Africa—and greeted a minor division of
10,000 soldiers, ten ships and a disturbing lack of weapons.
Meanwhile,
Grand Commander Gardener had hit the nuke button.
While
the sacrifice troops distracted nearly the entire S. A. F. military,
Gardener had launched a surprise nuclear attack on all of Asia. Over
the years, he'd been constructing and hoarding a secret cache of the
most powerful nuclear weapons known to man, just for this purpose.
Nearly every inch of land in Asia, from the Dardanelles to the Sea of
Japan, from Siberia to the Arabian Sea, was razed by the unforeseen
missile strike. Evacuation was a lost cause, and the sheer size and
number of the incoming projectiles made a counterattack moot, as
well. To this day, no known survivors have been tallied.
With
Asia blown off the map in a stunning act of cowardice and cruelty,
the world now knew that there was no longer any chance, any hope, of
subduing FIRENIGHT. The remainder of FIRENIGHT's behemoth of an army
invaded the Eastern Hemisphere through Europe; Portugal, Spain,
Ireland and Great Britain fell fast and hard, and Europe was swept
away in a short three years. In the meantime, all that remained was
to blockade the entire Mediterranean Sea to prevent the distracted S.
A. F. armies from returning. Having no safe path through the sea,
and with 95 percent of Asia a smoking pile of irradiated ruin, the
only safe course of action was to return to Europe through the Middle
East—a costly mistake. In a similar fashion to the air raids of
the R. A. F. nearly fifteen years before, FIRENIGHT pilots launched a
bombing run over Southwest Asia as soon as the opposing forces were
in position. Five bombing runs were made over the land in the space
of two weeks. What was left of the Second Allied Forces were cut off
at the border between Iraq and Saudi-Arabia. They didn't last a day.
Finally,
in 2065, an elderly Grand Commander Brian A. N. Gardener oversaw
nearly the entire globe as his domain. Scant landmasses here and
there rose up to challenge him over the next ten years or so;
Australia was the most difficult to subdue, being the largest
uncontested land mass at the time. New Zealand, Oceania, the
Philippines and the remains of Indonesia quickly followed suit, and
that led to one last strike against the remnants of Japan. After the
Cook Islands had been subdued, the silencing of subversives continued
on to French Polynesia; soon enough, not even the Hawaiian Islands or
the Galapagos Islands were safe. Finally, resource expeditions were
sent into Antarctica, and whatever minute populations remained there
were captured or killed. At last, FIRENIGHT's control was absolute.
The new world order had officially begun.
In
the last years of his life, Grand Commander Gardener officially
asserted the new social hierarchy, one had not been truly new for
decades. Owners of weaponry were considered wealthy and influential,
while the poor (traces of survivors from the wars, and their
descendants) were relegated to the ruins of their own homes and
neighborhoods and towns. All those who had served him particularly
well in the War on the Nation (which referenced the six-month
struggle that ended with Gardener's takeover of the U.S.) and their
descendants had been given special honors and high positions in the
new world order. In 2077, Gardener and the seven people he'd chosen
to run each continent of the planet assembled to write an official
document that solidified FIRENIGHT's global reign forevermore. This
document became the “FIRENIGHT Constitution of World Order”, and
would go on to assert Gardener's vision for FIRENIGHT. The First
Amendment ensured that all government decisions were made by one man
and one man only—the Grand Commander. The Second Amendment made
the current social hierarchy of “weapons equal wealth” official.
The Third Amendment gave power to the rich based on the power and
destructive force of their weapons, thus making the one with the
largest weapon the Grand Commander, and the Fourth Amendment
officially defined what a 'weapon' was. The Fifth Amendment
established the ruins of the U. S. as Designated Destitution Zones,
or DDZs, to which all those without weapons were sent to live out the
rest of their lives, and the Sixth Amendment explained what would
happen if DDZ citizens and firearms mixed in the wrong way. The
Seventh Amendment established the government shock troops and their
rights, and breathed life into the 'Pistol' troops. The Eighth
Amendment, which wouldn't be added until 2135 (during the rule of
Gardener's own great-grandson), signed the death warrant for any and
everyone who ever dared to rise up and betray FIRENIGHT or its
iron-fisted leader.
With
this, the Grand Commander, the man who turned 500,000 random angry
rioters into the largest military dictatorship in the history of the
world, could die in peace.
In
2084, Grand Commander Brian Albert Northrop Gardener died peacefully
in his sleep at the ripe old age of 102. His daughter, 62-year-old
Felina Rachel Alberta Gardener, would inherit her father's position
as Grand Commander, and after her, there would be six more Grand
Commanders in FIRENIGHT's long, steady reign.
The
latest of whom would assume control of FIRENIGHT in the year 2222:
Abner Hiltov.
*
* * * *
Twenty-three
years later, Abner Hiltov looked up from his contemplation of
history. The door to Command Central had opened, and the man Hiltov
was expecting arrived at last. “Ah, yes,” Hiltov greeted him,
“Thank you for joining me, sir. Your timing is uncanny.”
The
man who walked in was tall and thin, with quick blue eyes and short,
strawberry blond hair. He wore an expensive black suit and tie,
shiny dress shoes, and a pair of gorgeous golden cuff links. His
face, clean shaven and strikingly handsome, was lined with faint
traces of determination. He looked astute, quick-witted, ready. He
looked perpetually ready.
That
was what Hiltov liked to see.
“An
honor, Grand Commander,” the assassin spoke with a light, almost
effeminate voice and performed a low, respectful bow, “Forgive me,
sir, if I don't shake hands. My . . . . preferred methods . . . .
keep me from doing so.”
“Quite
all right,” Hiltov replied, being averse to shaking hands anyway,
“I trust you're aware of the situation in the DDZs of the Third
Sector?”
“I
have some knowledge, yes,” the assassin confirmed, “A captured
infiltrator, sentenced to death, was freed by some street punks,
correct?”
“Indeed,”
Hiltov replied, “One of them is of particular importance. He wears
blue denim jeans and carries a sword. He is an Omega-Red-level
traitor to FIRENIGHT.”
The
assassin's eyes widened slightly, “Is that so?”
“It
is,” Hiltov assured, “His accomplices include, but are not
limited to, a teenager with a bow and arrows and a group of women
claiming to be ninja.”
The
assassin nodded, “The group from which the prisoner was taken?”
Hiltov
nodded, “I suppose you've learned for yourself what must be done
with them?”
“No
need to inform me, Grand Commander,” the assassin said, holding his
arms straight out in front of him, “I'm quite familiar with
Amendment 8.” Suddenly, a barrel to a submachine gun appeared out
from each sleeve of the assassin's suit jacket.
Now,
Hiltov's eyes were slightly wide, “Hmmm . . . . impressive.”
“This
is why I don't shake hands, sir,” the assassin grinned,
“Unfortunately for the victims of Cuff Link, the cufflinks are the
last thing they ever see.”
Hiltov
nodded again, “Remarkable. Now, go to the DDZ locally known as
Luster Park, and search the surrounding areas. Execute this swordsman
and his friends, or expect the same fate when you return.”
The
assassin, Cuff Link, didn't even flinch at the threat to his life.
“No need to give me incentive, Grand Commander,” he answered, his
grin never fading, “It will be my genuine pleasure.”
*
* * * *
The
Pistols regularly marched across the asphalt of Mercury Drive. Every
Pistol in Luster Park at the time of the swordsman's escape had been
put on high alert, and remained that way for four days. The building
that was the confirmed location of the swordsman was on 24-hour
surveillance. It was speculated that the swordsman would eventually
have to return, perhaps with his archer friend in tow; thus, it was
deduced that he would wait to strike until he was ready to try and
take back his home. Then, he would be captured and brought before
the Grand Commander.
They
predicted correctly that he would return, but not with whom.
A
company of ninety men marched across Mercury Drive altogether, most
of them guarding Blue Jeans' home/shop. The weapons he'd kept to
sell to his neighbors remained in the shop, but the Pistols had found
the explosives and ammunition under the floorboards, confiscated it,
and added it to the charges on which they would arrest him. Even so,
the melee weaponry was enough of an incentive to get him to return,
the bait for their trap. Now, all there was to do was to wait and be
ready.
As
two lines of Pistols marched past each other on Mercury Drive, one of
them suddenly started jerking convulsively, then dropped in the
street. The Pistols in his squad surrounded him to check up on him,
but it was too late. He was dead.
The
alert of an officer down went rolling through Luster Park almost as
quickly as two more Pistols dropped dead in the street. The ones
remaining finally found the cause of death in their comrades: a long
needle. This was all they needed to know; there were traitorous
rebels in their midst. The command was made to spread out thin and
scan the area for snipers, but before the Pistols could enact their
orders, three more dropped dead in the street. One of them died from
the same poisonous needles as before, but the cause for the other two
was far more obvious: each had an arrow sticking out of a vital area
on their bodies.
Across
the street, a second-floor window suddenly broke, and the Pistols had
their target in sight: “There! Fire, men, fire!” The Pistols
pulled their service weapons and blasted away, but there was no
reaction. When two more Pistols were felled by the mystery snipers,
several of them called for backup, and twenty more Pistols changed
the direction of their march, converging onto Mercury Drive, in front
of Blue Jeans' store. Another window broke, on the third floor of a
different building on the opposite side of the street, and the
Pistols aimed at it. They realized quickly, though, that it was some
sort of diversionary or intimidation tactic, so none of them fired.
None
but one.
One
Pistol suddenly rounded on the others and began firing, hitting seven
Pistols in the head and killing them instantly. Once the Pistols
realized one of their own had turned on them, they turned to fire,
and knew nothing else from that point on.
Out
from the shadows of the alleys, Blue Jeans, Pleats, Halberd and
Velvet sprang into the street. Halberd swept his axe in a wide arc,
cutting down six Pistols with one stroke. Blue Jeans and Pleats sped
into the fray in curving paths, quickly slicing down five Pistols
each, and Velvet launched her kunai into the heads, throats and
chests of four more Pistols. Pleats threw out a smokescreen, and
they vanished in a puff of smoke, retreating inside Blue Jeans' home.
The remaining four Pistols were shot down by Twang and Taffeta, just
like their teammates.
“We've
made it,” Blue Jeans breathed, relieved and exhausted at the same
time, “Now, no time to waste. We need to get these supplies out of
here before more Pistols arrive.”
“No
kidding!” Damask said sarcastically, beginning to sweat under the
heavy leather of her Pistol disguise, “I'm already running out of
ammo for these disgusting things, and I wasn't able to carry my own
weapons under this uniform! I'm glad you figured out that a quick
getaway is in our best interests!”
“They
will have heard the shots, so we don't have much time,” Pleats said
seriously, “Damask will keep watch and eliminate any stragglers
Taffeta and Twang missed. Velvet and I will make sure the building is
clear. You and Halberd start moving the cache.” With that, Pleats
and Velvet departed, weapons at the ready.
Blue
Jeans and Halberd quickly made their way to the storefront, and began
carrying boxes of weapons, armor and supplies from it to the front
door. Halberd's generous size made him a bit cumbersome going in and
out of rooms, but his ability to carry three times what Blue Jeans
could hold more than made up for it.
“What
a collection!” Halberd found time to say as they moved one haul at
a time, “The people of Luster Park must defend themselves well
thanks to you, Blue Jeans.”
“All
the more reason for my guilt,” Blue Jeans answered morosely, “These
were meant for my neighbors, and to take them now puts them at risk.
Maybe if the Pistols keep searching for me, they'll ignore them . .
.”
“Your
guilt party doesn't help us, swordsman!” Pleats shouted as she
returned with Velvet, “The building is clear, but Damask and the
others won't be able to handle those reinforcements for much longer!”
As
if in the nick of time, a revving sound roared in the distance. From
the window, Blue Jeans could see the vehicle sounding off as it raced
up the road, squashing over Pistol bodies and running down live ones
in the street. The van that had been full of supplies yesterday,
that had been crashed and subsequently robbed by Blue Jeans and his
group, stopped in front of the building, fully repaired and awaiting
transport. Angora was behind the wheel, Taffeta bounced up and down
in her seat yelling “SHOTGUN! SHOTGUN!”, and the back opened,
revealing Twang and Cashmere.
“Come
on, move your asses!” Twang shouted over the roar of the engines,
“There's more comin', and we all out of ammo!”
Without
another word, Blue Jeans and Halberd began stacking the supplies into
the back of the van. As more Pistols arrived, Pleats led her able
ninja into the fray, ducking and dodging fired shots, knocking guns
from hands, and bringing down Pistol after Pistol. They came in
waves of ten or so at a time, with each wave more numerous than the
last, but the Uradana no Kunoichi held their own.
The
fourth wave sported fifty men, incoming on both sides of the street,
and the group could no longer hold their own for the foreseeable
future.
“”We're
done!” Halberd called and jumped into the van, only barely fitting,
“Get in! Let's go!”
Blue
Jeans, Pleats, Velvet, and Damask heard and acted; the former two
jumped into the back, while the latter two boarded in front
(upsetting Taffeta). Angora stepped on the gas, Pleats tossed a
smoke bomb out the window, and the van roared off while the incoming
Pistols coughed and sputtered, disoriented and defeated.
In
the van, which sped east down Cadmium Lane on the way back to Bell
deVeere, space was limited, but relief was abundant. “Now we're
far better prepared,” Blue Jeans sighed, sheathing his sword
carefully, “Once we return to your base and resupply, we'll have
everything we need to—”
“Oops!”
Halberd said, blushing and inching away from Velvet as much as he was
allowed, “Did I bump you? I'm sorry, miss . . .” Velvet merely
smiled and tapped his shoulder assuredly.
Blue
Jeans resumed quickly, “To break into the archives building. But
even with our team complete and our equipment sufficient, it will be
dangerous. Each of us has to be absolutely sure in his or her
conviction.”
“We've
come too far to stop here,” Pleats replied, “Besides, your mother
was one of my predecessors, so I want to avenge her as much as you
do.”
“Man,
you ain't gettin' rid of me that easy!” Twang grinned confidently,
“We got this, brother. I know we do.”
Damask
scoffed, “Your opinions of our collective abilities are as unstable
as your genetic code.”
Twang
eyed her scornfully, “Or your hormones . . .”
Cashmere
answered next, “We have to stick to our goals. If we don't, we lack
discipline and respect for the ones that came before us. We must
press on.”
“Yeah!”
Taffeta squealed, “Ya gotta finish what ya start! It's only fair!”
“I
would agree,” Angora muttered, “But I'd rather focus on the
road.”
“You've
proven that your intentions are the purest, Blue Jeans,” Halberd
added, “Where you go, I'll follow.” Velvet glanced up at Halberd
before looking at Blue Jeans and nodding, determination shining in
her eyes.
Blue
Jeans looked from one face to the next inside the van (except for
Angora, who remained behind the wheel), and smiled. “Thank you, my
friends,” he answered their loyalty with heartfelt sincerity, “I've
never known such unshakeable resolve. We'll find out why my parents
were killed, and we'll finish what they started, even if it means
bringing down FIRENIGHT once and for all. I'm surer of that now than
ever before.”
--------------------------------------------------------* * * * *--------------------------------------------------------
"The mission begins!
The team is complete. Preparations have been made. Now, at last, Blue Jeans, Twang, Pleats, Halberd and the Uradana no Kunoichi make their plans to sneak into the government's archives building and learn the truth behind Blue Jeans' parents' deaths. Pistols on patrol, danger around every corner—it's going to take careful planning, focus, and skill just to come out alive.
But what happens when things start to go wrong? Every step has been planned to ensure success and survival, but one anomaly may endanger—and perhaps end—the lives of the entire group. Will this ragtag team of rebels find what they seek? And will they dodge the watchful eyes of FIRENIGHT's newest assassin?
NEXT TIME! Blue Jeans Samurai #9:
Secret
Mission! Infiltrate the Government Archives!
秘密のミッション！私たちは、政府の公文書館に潜入！
Don't miss it!"
