Blue
Jeans Samurai
#3
– Government Treason! The Fate of BJ's Parents!
政府反逆！
BJの両親の運命！
The
dark corridors of the sewers made the late night darkness outside
ineffectual. Blue Jeans walked steadily along the straight pathways,
turning whatever corners corresponded with the streets up above, and
his new friend Twang walked behind him, not quite as silent or
well-guided.
“Man,
it's creepy down here,” Twang mumbled, “Are you sure you can find
your place from under here? These sewers were supposed to be all
blocked up years ago.”
Blue
Jeans answered without so much as glancing back, “I've taken the
liberty of freeing up some necessary space down here over the last
few years. The Pistols can be very thorough in their search for
suspects, but they'd never think to look down here. For all they
know, anyone who escapes into the sewers is just as good as
cornered.”
Twang's
mouth worked into a smug grin, “You one cool cat, BJ.”
Blue
Jeans stopped for a moment and looked at Twang with a questioning
glance, “BJ?”
“Sure,”
Twang shrugged, “Short for 'Blue Jeans'. I'd feel weird callin' you
by your pants all the time.”
Blue
Jeans merely smiled and cocked an eyebrow, “Look who's talking . .
. . Twang.”
Twang
widened his eyes, unprepared for the counter. “Okay, okay,” he
relented, returning the grin, “I see. So that's how it is.”
Blue
Jeans scoffed good-naturedly and kept walking, “My home shouldn't
be much farther away. We can rest and recuperate there. Food,
weapons, medical supplies, training space, whatever you need, I have
it.”
Twang
grinned, “Yo, man, you had me at “food”! Y'all got any pizza?”
Blue
Jeans smiled and shook his head, “Don't push your luck, Twang.”
*
* * * *
General
Smith Wesson stood in the nearly empty conference chamber of the
Pistol Officer Camp. He'd been told that he would be meeting with
someone very high in the government—the highest, in fact. Word of
Wesson's failure to apprehend the swordsman in jeans and the
rebellious archer had spread throughout camp like wildfire when
Wesson had returned two days ago, and due to FIRENIGHT regime law, he
had to report his failure to his superiors.
He
had no idea then, though, just how superior they would be.
Wesson
could just barely feel his knees shaking as he stood in the dark
room. Suddenly, a light flashed, and he jumped. One of the jumbo
viewscreens, typically used for meetings with assemblies of the
world's Regional Council, blinked on. Wesson felt strangely
insignificant, being stuck in this room that was supposed to house
FIRENIGHT's highest leaders, yet was only housing himself. He felt
even less significant when a face appeared on the bright viewscreen.
The
face of the Grand Commander of FIRENIGHT.
“General
Smith Wesson,” the ruggedly handsome face of Abner Hiltov began,
“Good of you to come.” His voice was deep, clear, and
commanding, almost like the jean-clad swordsman's had been. The
difference being: the swordsman was nonthreatening riffraff, and this
man was the unquestioned leader of the entire world. To not fear
Abner Hiltov was to be foolish, impudent, and eventually, marked for
death.
Wesson
took a deep breath before responding with a low bow, “Grand
Commander. It is an indescribable honor.”
“Let's
cut out the pleasantries, shall we, Wesson?” Hiltov's reply was
curt and direct, “I've heard news over the last two days or so that
you have failed in a recent mission. Is that not true, Wesson?”
Wesson
could feel Grand Commander Hiltov's dark, piercing black eyes boring
into him, and his answer was meek, “Yes, sir. It is true.”
“And
I understand,” Hiltov's voice was dangerously level, “That this
failed mission involved a duo of subversives in the Designated
Destitution Zones. Specifically, DDZ-110-117-3889, known locally as
Luster Park. Is this not true, Wesson?”
Wesson
was momentarily awestruck by the Grand Commander's intimate knowledge
of the affair, but it wore off quickly. One did not assume a
position of power by being ignorant of important events in one's
domain. Slowly and shakily, he answered the Commander's question,
“Y-yes, sir. It-it is true.”
“And
am I to understand,” Hiltov's voice remained calm, producing a far
more sinister effect than if he had been yelling, “That a grand
total of twenty-one Pistol soldiers were killed effortlessly in the
space of three days, not the least of which was the good Lieutenant
Hammer, who's misery you have had the inauspicious pleasure of
putting him out of?”
“But,
Grand Commander!” Wesson interrupted, “Hammer had lost both
hands! He was a liability! He would never have been able to hold—”
“Answer
the goddamned question!” Hiltov's voice rose no higher than half a
decibel, but the effect was almost terrifying.
Wesson
felt his heart racing faster each second he stayed silent. “Y-y-yes,
sir,” he finally forced out, “it . . . . it is true . . . .”
He looked down at the floor for a moment in shame, but picked his
head back up quickly, out of fear of disrespecting his superior.
“One
last question, Wesson,” Hiltov's voice was back to being ominously
level, “Regarding the two offenders in question. Was one of them
wearing blue jeans and carrying a sword?”
Wesson's
eyes widened. Suddenly, he didn't think that the Grand Commander's
knowledge of this affair was restricted to mere intelligence
gathering. Somehow, he knew more of what was going on than he was at
liberty to discuss. “Yes, sir,” Wesson nodded, “it is true.”
Hiltov
paused for a moment, seeming to consider his options, then spoke up,
“Right, Wesson. I didn't get to where I am today by being subtle.
This sword-wielder is a threat to national security, Omega-Red level.
You will deal with this threat immediately, in whatever way you can.
If you fail, the least of your problems will be disgrace of the
highest degree, and at worst, you will be executed for your
incompetence, not unlike your own way of dealing with Lieutenant
Hammer. Am I understood, General?”
Wesson
swallowed hard. The Grand Commander had just delivered news of a
national security threat (once again, related to a couple of mere
transients), ordered him to eliminate it, and threatened his social
standing—and his life—in the same breath, all without so much as
blinking. Despite the General's many achievements, despite his
position as leader of the Capital Continent Pistol Field Army, Hiltov
quite obviously saw Wesson's life as inconsequential.
“Lucidly,
sir,” Wesson assured. He was deathly afraid of the Grand
Commander's words, true enough—Hiltov's history as Grand Commander
made it clear that these were more than simple threats—but
indecision at this point would waste time and display the
incompetence Hiltov had warned him not to show.
“You
will deal with the threat, Wesson,” Hiltov commanded again, “or
you will die. Your life means nothing compared to my rule, and you
will do well to remember that. FIRENIGHT, and my rule over it, are
absolute. And when something, or someone, comes along to
change it, they will be eradicated. FIRENIGHT burns on, General.
FIRENIGHT burns on.”
General
Wesson returned the international motto with a respectful salute,
“FIRENIGHT burns on.”
Hiltov's
expression had changed infinitesimally, becoming only a bit sterner,
“Take care of this threat to my empire, Wesson. Your life depends
on it. Grand Commander out.” The screen, and the entire conference
room, went black.
*
* * * *
The
assassin peered out the window of his vantage point on the fifth
floor of the building on Mercury Drive. The building across the
street belonged to his quarry, and he was determined to finish this
job perfectly. True, his methods were messy (not that he himself had
any problem with that, but his employers didn't share in his
enthusiasm when it came to the sight of blood), but he always got
results. He hadn't had a real job in years; many of his targets were
easy pickings, and often not worth the bounty he was paid for them.
The last true foes he'd remembered were a couple of sword wielders: a
strong, barrel-chested man wearing blue jeans, and a slender,
attractive woman who moved surprisingly fast in a dress. Both were
skilled opponents, worth every dollar of their posted bounty and
more, but in the end, they met a grim, gory fate.
Now,
the next generation would meet the same gruesome end.
As
the assassin set up his sniper station, he thought back to that day
and smiled. His finest work went into the slaughter of those two
rebels. The man was tough to bring down; usually, only one or two of
the assassin's hollow-point bullets was enough to terminate any of
his prey. But the jeans-clad swordsman was a special case, as he had
managed to dodge those two bullets and deflect two more with his
sword. He had dinged up the blade very well this way, and it was
hardly usable in battle, which might have contributed to his eventual
defeat. This one, however, had taken four or five hollow-point
bullets before dropping dead in the street. The woman had showed
more prowess than her husband, not only being just as strong, but
even faster and more agile. His bullets had ripped into the delicate
fabric of her dress, and when the work was finished, her bleeding,
punctured and mutilated body looked so beautiful, so alluring, so
enticing under the streetlamps' glow. It was the assassin's favorite
fantasy for two decades afterwards.
He
knew it was most likely a great risk to leave their child alive. But
the boy showed promise as a warrior, and to leave him alone to grow
and sharpen his skills would produce two very large advantages. One:
he would soon require termination, which meant the government would
require the assassin's services again, which meant another sizable
sum deposited in his bank account for practically nothing. This was
a good thing; the hefty bounty he had picked up for the boy's family
was only now beginning to dry up, and he knew he couldn't go on
living in the lap of luxury, “fantasizing” about the boy's
mother's bloody, violent death, for much longer. And two: to stalk
and kill a true target was the assassin's dream, and although he
enjoyed slaying the two warriors, it simply wasn't enough. He needed
real prey. Not just an opponent to carry on some silly, elaborate
fight sequence with, but a target worth the hunt, the antelope to his
lion.
He
wanted a challenge. And the boy had surely become just that in
twenty years' time.
It
would take time, though. One did not simply “kill” in the mean
streets of the DDZs. One had to be sure of a victim's habits,
schedules, and tendencies, to know every aspect of the victim's
day-to-day activities, to make absolutely sure of every detail of
their everyday life. It made it easier to pick out one point in
their day, one innocent, easily-forgettable point in their life, to
end it. Usually, it took the assassin as long as two weeks to learn
it all with the necessary intimacy, but all targets were different.
Some were simple, and required only a week; some were complex, and
might require as many as six months. Nevertheless, they all turned
out the same way, and all were the result of a carefully-studied life
that was unknowingly scheduled for sudden termination.
And
from General Wesson's words, this target would require painstaking
study.
His
sniper station complete, the assassin sat in front of the window,
eying his quarry's building through his sniper scope, and waited.
His new target had been surprisingly secretive for many days, only
emerging with that other person (he meant nothing; only the target
mattered) sparingly, if at all. But none of that mattered now; when
movement occurred, he would see it. He would see it every day for
weeks if it came to that. But the second the target's guard was
down—at any given point in his day—the assassin would strike. It
would be as if this blue jeans samurai had never existed.
And
it would be on to the next target from there.
*
* * * *
Two
and a half weeks had passed since Blue Jeans and Twang had executed
their daring rescue of the citizens on Aluminum Road. The two had
not ventured outside of Blue Jeans' home very often, in case the
Pistols were still combing the streets for them. Over time, though,
it was strange for them to find that after all this time, the Pistols
had not put as much effort as they likely should have in finding
these wanted outlaws; they hadn't been seen much outside of their
usual DDZ raids. This puzzled and worried Blue Jeans considerably;
he knew fully well FIRENIGHT would be after him by now, and if they
weren't sending Pistols after him, who were they sending?
“You
know,” Twang said indifferently as the two sat in the living room
of Blue Jeans' home, “Being shut in like this ain't exactly my idea
of progress. How do we even know them Pistol cats are still out
there?”
“We
don't,” Blue Jeans admitted, “We have to be sure they've given up
the chase for now. Once we're sure their fervor dies down, we'll make
our way out more regularly again.”
“I
dunno, man,” Twang shook his head, concern showing in the action
and the words, “I just feel like the longer we wait, the longer
they keep watchin' us. And they're mad enough at my ass as it is.”
Blue
Jeans had to admit again that Twang had a point. All this time, the
feeling of being watched seemed stronger and stronger; he could not
quite put his finger on it, but somehow, it made the lack of Pistols
combing the streets suddenly make sense . . .
Twang
had brought up something else that Blue Jeans was curious about, “Mad
enough at you? Why? They only learned about you just recently.”
Twang
shook his head again, “Naw, man. They've known about me all my
life. They don't much like my kind, if you get me.”
Blue
Jeans looked at him, and suddenly felt a bit awkward in guessing what
'my kind' meant. “You,” he began, uneasily, “You don't mean—”
“Archers,
man, archers,” Twang clarified, grinning, “I know what you
thought I meant.”
Blue
Jeans smiled back, feeling the weight of awkwardness pleasantly
removed, “Forgive me. These are times when anything can make one an
enemy of the state, even small matters like race, nationality, or
even sexuality. Those in power can crucify you for any reason they
want. Even no reason at all if you're not careful.”
“I
get you, man,” Twang agreed, “But my folks made FIRENIGHT real
mad, and they even told us why. My family has made bows and arrows
for generations. You know, projectiles. I guess the government don't
like the competition.”
Blue
Jeans' eyes widened. “You mean to tell me,” he asked, fully
expecting the answer, “that FIRENIGHT came down on your family just
for defending themselves?”
“That's
right, man,” Twang confirmed with a nod, “Only FIRENIGHT don't
look at it like that. They see people shootin' shit, and they get
nervous. I guess they be thinkin' we just made our own guns after
they took away ours. You know, the kind with wood and strings that
don't shoot no bullets?”
Blue
Jeans chuckled, but stayed focused on the story, “So what happened
after that?”
“Well,”
Twang continued, “One night, about eight or nine years ago, the
front door done broke down, and about eight Pistols came in and
started tearin' up the place. My daddy brought out his bow and shot
about three of 'em before they got him. Then, they got to my moms,
but she didn't put up a fight. She just put up her hands and
surrendered. They both been in prison ever since.”
Blue
Jeans was puzzled, “And . . . . and your mother just let them? How
could she just let them take her without struggling?”
Twang
shrugged, “I dunno. Might've had somethin' to do with me hidin'
under the floorboard. Might've been a distraction to keep 'em from
findin' me.”
Blue
Jeans sighed, knowing he'd struck a sensitive area. “I'm sorry,
Twang,” he said in a low voice, “I know how it feels to lose
someone you love, so I should've been more sensitive. On these mean
streets, it helps to harden your heart to these things, but it's
difficult to remember compassion when you do. It's partly why I do so
much for my community.” Blue Jeans' previous words made him
tentative, but it needed to be said, “. . . you're actually lucky,
you know that?”
Predictably,
Twang rounded on Blue Jeans, “What? Lucky?! How you figure that,
BJ? My parents were locked up for no damn reason! How am I lucky?!”
Blue
Jeans' voice was morose, “Two reasons. One: you know for certain
what your parents did to invite the wrath of the government.”
Twang's
stern, skeptical face showed that he wasn't entirely convinced, “And
number two?”
Blue
Jeans closed his eyes as he continued, “Two: you know your parents
are alive.”
Twang's
sternness settled into soft realization, “Oh. I get it . . . . .”
He then followed up with all of Blue Jeans' previous trepidation,
“Uh . . . . how'd it happen?”
Blue
Jeans sighed slightly, “I'm not sure. One night, about twenty years
ago, they'd heard some noises outside our house. They put me to bed,
then they went out to see what was going on. I heard gunfire, my
parents drew their swords, and that was the last time I'd seen them
alive. I was only five years old.”
Twang's
eyes widened at the last sentence, and he let out a long, heavy
exhale before answering, “. . . . That's messed up, man.” He
paused for a second, thinking, then added, “You sure it couldn't've
been just some punk who done stole some Pistol's gun? There's a lot
of freaks out there on the street, you know.”
Blue
Jeans shook his head, “I doubt any Pistol soldier would be stupid
enough to allow the theft of a firearm loaded with hollow-point
bullets.”
Twang's
eyes widened even more, “Hollow-points! The hole that makes, you
could put your hand through that shit!”
Blue
Jeans nodded, “To this day, I'm sure it wasn't just an accident. No
normal Pistol troops walk around with weaponry that dangerous.
Someone wanted them dead, and I intend to spend my entire life trying
to find out, if I have to. That's part of the reason I train in
swordsmanship. I want to find the people who killed my parents, and
make sure they feel the pain of my blade, like they were supposed to
feel my father's blade all those years ago.”
After
a brief pause, Twang took a steadying breath, then rested a hand on
Blue Jeans' shoulder. “You'll get 'em, man,” he assured, “After
seein' you fight, there ain't no doubt in my mind. I'd hate to be the
son-of-a-bitch that killed your mama and daddy, 'cause they got some
serious shit comin' to 'em.”
Blue
Jeans looked at Twang with a smile, “Thank you, my friend. That
means so much—” he suddenly stopped. The feeling of being spied
on had suddenly grown stronger for some reason, and it was perhaps as
a result of this that he'd had a sudden flash of clarity. There was
a reason the Pistols had less incentive in the last weeks. There was
a reason they felt like they were being watched. And there was
a reason they hadn't been found.
Yet.
Getting
up slowly, Blue Jeans stepped away from the front window, aimed in no
particular direction. “Twang, listen,” he said quietly, moving
his lips as seldom as possible, “I want you to follow me outside. I
need your help with something.”
Twang
suddenly backed away in his seat, looking apprehensive, “What? Man,
are you serious?! Spend two weeks with a guy without goin' nowhere,
and what happens? He got to come out the closet to ya!”
“Shh!”
Blue Jeans quieted him, “Try not to move your mouth too much. We're
not alone . . .”
Twang
looked dumbstruck, “. . . . . Man . . . . . role-play and shit . .
.”
Blue
Jeans picked up his sheathed sword from the wall it leaned against
and, avoiding the window as much as possible, made his way carefully
to the door. He fastened his sheath to his waist, placed a hand on
the doorknob, and subtly motioned for Twang to follow.
Twang's
expression slowly became sterner with realization, “You serious,
man?”
Blue
Jeans merely nodded, and after a short pause, he opened the door
slowly, stepping out onto the stoop of the building. Twang quickly
grabbed his bow and followed, but froze when the swordsman mumbled
through clenched teeth, “Turn around! Face the door!”
Twang
turned, then saw Blue Jeans do the same, and curiosity promptly took
hold, “Man, what's goin' on, BJ? Talk to me, man!”
Blue
Jeans simply unfastened his sword and slowly held it up before their
eyes. Still maintaining subtle movements, he unsheathed two inches
of his sword, adjusted the angle, and whispered, “What do you see?”
Twang
glanced at Blue Jeans before staring at the sword for a few seconds.
He glanced at Blue Jeans again with a combination of pity and
wariness, “Uh . . . . that's a sword, brother . . .”
“No,”
Blue Jeans whispered, then reiterated more forcefully, “What do you
see?”
Twang
was about to answer with how he believed Blue Jeans had gone crazy,
but stopped. He did see something. Something faint. Something
unusual. Something viewable in the reflective surface of the shiny
metal.
Movement.
FWIP!
Both
Blue Jeans and Twang jumped sideways off the stoop just in time,
landing on the sidewalk. Something small went whizzing past the duo
and struck a part of the brick face of the building; a second or two
sooner, and it would have struck the back of Blue Jeans' skull.
Another
bullet was fired once the boys hit the concrete, but Blue Jeans was
prepared this time; he jumped to the side once again, dodging another
round from their unseen attacker. Twang was more prepared by now, as
well; he had drawn an arrow a split-second after the first shot was
fired, spotted the high window in the building across the street in
which he saw movement, and fired off his own projectile. The
sharp-pointed arrow shattered the glass of the window, and more
movement was seen for only a second before returning to vacant,
immovable space.
The
two stood in the sidewalk and waited, weapons drawn and at the ready,
for several more seconds. Soon, it became clear that this mystery
assassin, whoever he was, would not be firing any more surprises at
them. Blue Jeans quickly made his way across the street, shouting
back to Twang as he ran, “Stay here! Let me know if you see
anything!” Twang nodded, and Blue Jeans reached the building on
the other side of the street, opening the rusty-hinged door and
racing inside.
He
jumped up the stairs three at a time, remembering the floor the
sniper's window was on and staying aware of its position
relative to his own. He finally reached the fifth floor, the level
from which the shots were fired, and found the exact position of the
room it belonged to. Sword drawn, he steadied his grip on the hilt,
sharpened his wits, and kicked the door, breaking it in and making it
clatter noisily to the floor.
The
room was empty.
Blue
Jeans scanned the walls and floor of the cold, musty room, his only
light coming from the sun in the broken window. There were faint
footprints set into the dust, and shapes that were more clearly
defined (and thus, were fresher) gave the impression of other body
parts, such as hands, elbows, knees and legs. Next to these marks,
directly in front of the window, was a series of small dots set into
the dust, too small to be human and set in a triangular pattern.
Blue Jeans guessed that this was the sniper's position, and it had
been ruined by Twang's timely interference.
That
very interference—Twang's arrow—lay strewn amongst a cluster of
glass shards from the window, bathing in the sunlight from outside.
At first glance, there didn't seem to be any other evidence that
anyone could be living here, but on more careful observation, Blue
Jeans found that one piece of glass was perfectly rectangular and,
oddly enough, surrounded by its own small metallic frame.
Blue
Jeans sheathed his sword, brushed carefully through the shards of
glass, and picked up the device. It was a DataPane; much like the
iPad and Kindle devices of old, the DataPane was a far more advanced
piece of computation equipment. It had nearly limitless data
storage, a powerful wireless connectivity signal, and processing
speeds that made the Microsoft and Apple computer software in the
past look like typewriters.
Blue
Jeans saw that the glass touchscreen, which took up most of the area
on the six-by-four inch device, was open to a list of some sort,
headed by the word: 'TARGETS'. From this, Blue Jeans concluded that
the person in this room was indeed an assassin, and that this
DataPane must keep records of his kills. At the top of this list was
the phrase 'jeans-wearing swordsman - son', and Blue Jeans tapped the
words on the screen. In an instant, a full-size picture sprung up on
the left-hand side of the screen; every detail was so accurate, he
could swear he was looking in a mirror. On the right of the screen
was a series of statistics, which were mapped out as such:
GENDER:
Male AGE: 25 HEIGHT: 6' 2” WEIGHT: 185 lbs.
PREFERRED WEAPON: Katana
COMBAT
STYLE: Speed and evasion tactics; powerful strokes that cut through
Pistol-sanctioned armor; quick-wits and tactical knowledge
disassemble opponent's strategies and expose weaknesses
FIRENIGHT-RECORDED
HISTORY: The son of two well-known criminals, born in Designated
Destitution Zone codename DDZ-110-117-3889; orphaned at the age of
five after parents were eliminated; trained in swordsmanship,
hand-to-hand and weapons combat, and blacksmithing; repeatedly
interferes with Pistol troop missions; wanted for assault and murder
of several elite Pistol squads, disobedience, theft, insubordination,
treason against FIRENIGHT
SECURITY
THREAT LEVEL: Omega-Red STATUS: Living
Blue
Jeans stared at that last line with an awkward combination of shock
and pride. 'Omega-Red' was the designation for national security
threats of the absolute highest degree. Long ago, when previous Grand Commanders of FIRENIGHT were still seizing control over
fractured nations that had yet to submit, any country that
still hadn't been assimilated into FIRENIGHT was considered an
'Omega-Red' level threat. This was because only nations that had the
necessary military strength or firepower to fight back were the only
true threats to FIRENIGHT rule, and would thus be either assimilated
into the government, or blown off the face of the earth by
FIRENIGHT's superior weaponry.
But
for a single person to be an Omega-Red level threat? It was
unprecedented . . .
Blue
Jeans resumed viewing the rest of the 'TARGETS' list, found a file
entitled 'archer' directly below his own, and knew immediately that
it must be Twang's information. Indeed, when he clicked on it,
Twang's full-body picture and statistics appeared on the screen:
GENDER:
Male AGE: 16 HEIGHT: 5' 11” WEIGHT: 165 lbs. PREFERRED
WEAPON: Bow and arrows
COMBAT
STYLE: Long-distance combat with projectile weapons; avoids melee
combat whenever possible; pinpoints weak spots in opponents with
masterful aim and steady precision; prefers to distract opponents
with loud, obnoxious voice
FIRENIGHT-RECORDED
HISTORY: The son of criminals to the government, suspected of
building projectile weapons to challenge the authority of FIRENIGHT;,
born in Designated Destitution Zone codename DDZ-110-117-3889;
parents incarcerated at the age of eight for aforementioned crimes;
trained in archery and marksmanship; repeatedly interferes with
Pistol troop missions; wanted for assault and murder of several elite
Pistol squads, disobedience, theft, insubordination, treason against
FIRENIGHT
SECURITY
THREAT LEVEL: Sigma-Yellow STATUS: Living
Blue
Jeans was confused at the last section of Twang's stat page. His
security threat level was 'Sigma-Yellow', which was usually saved for
individuals or groups, considered traitors to the government, that
were powerful and difficult to subdue. This was the level Blue Jeans
himself believed he was labeled, but Sigma-Yellow was well beneath
Omega-Red. And if the information was correct (and due to Blue
Jeans' experiences working with Twang, he was predisposed to
believing it was), the two were wanted for the exact same crimes. It
made no sense to rank the two on such starkly different security
threat levels. Furthermore, Blue Jeans was reminded of one other
difference between the two, one he had realized earlier, but thought
nothing of until seeing it here today. Twang's parents had been
arrested; Blue Jeans' parents were murdered. It somehow increased
the level of priority between Blue Jeans and Twang; somehow,
FIRENIGHT seemed to think of Twang as nothing more than some punk kid
who'd been trained well and was lucky enough to live this long. At
the same time, they seemed desperate to rid the world of the
swordsman, as if he were a genuine threat to the world government.
But why?
Blue
Jeans had a bad feeling he was about to find out.
Returning
to the main list, Blue Jeans scrolled down, seeing names and
designations that he didn't recognize, until he saw a label he was
sure he knew. At this time, he heard steps behind him, and he
quickly shoved the DataPane into his pocket and drew his sword just
as the intruder entered.
“Yo,
man, watch where you puttin' that thing!”
Blue
Jeans sighed and sheathed his blade, bidding Twang entrance, “Sorry,
but I thought you were still in the street keeping watch.”
Twang
looked apprehensive, “I was, but I found somethin' down there that
you might wanna look at.”
“I
found something, too,” Blue Jeans replied, and pulled the small
device out of his pocket, showing it to Twang.
The
young archer stared at it for a moment, recognizing it quickly,
“That's a DataPane, isn't it?”
Blue
Jeans nodded, “No doubt left behind by our would-be assassin. It
has detailed information on all of his targets, including the two of
us. Look.” He scrolled back to the top of the list, tapped his own
and Twang's names on it, and brought up both profiles at the same
time.
Twang
read through the information, and his face showed the same
shock-pride combination that Blue Jeans had worn moments before. “That's
messed up, man . . .” he muttered again before adding, “But
that's a pretty good picture. They got my good side!”
“And
this isn't the worst of it,” Blue Jeans continued, “Look at
this.” Returning to the list, Blue Jeans scrolled down to the
position he was in before Twang arrived. Tapping the name that had
stopped him, he brought up the profile of 'jeans-wearing swordsman -
father':
GENDER:
Male AGE: 31 HEIGHT: 6' 3” WEIGHT: 220 lbs.
PREFERRED WEAPON: Katana
COMBAT
STYLE: Speed and deflection tactics; powerful strokes that cut
through Pistol-sanctioned armor; tactical knowledge reverses or
cancels opponent's strategies
FIRENIGHT-RECORDED
HISTORY: The son of swordsmiths, born in Designated Destitution Zone
codename DDZ-110-117-3889; at the age of nine, father killed by
Pistol troops during routine mission; orphaned at the age of ten
after mother died of illness; trained in swordsmanship, hand-to-hand
and weapons combat, and blacksmithing; wanted for ultimate treason
against FIRENIGHT
SECURITY
THREAT LEVEL: Omega-Red STATUS: Terminated
And
the profile beneath it, that of a 'dress-wearing swordswoman':
GENDER:
Female AGE: 29 HEIGHT: 5' 5” WEIGHT: 110 lbs.
PREFERRED WEAPON: Katana
COMBAT
STYLE: Speed and evasion tactics; quick, light strokes that wear
opponents down over time; quick-wits and tactical knowledge
disassemble opponent's strategies; psychological strategies weaken
opponents' resolve
FIRENIGHT-RECORDED
HISTORY: The daughter of Pistol troops, both disgracefully discharged
for treason against FIRENIGHT; born in Designated Destitution Zone
codename DDZ-110-117-3889; orphaned at the age of seven after parents
were eliminated as traitors to FIRENIGHT; trained in swordsmanship,
hand-to-hand and weapons combat, and blacksmithing; wanted for
ultimate treason against FIRENIGHT
SECURITY
THREAT LEVEL: Omega-Red STATUS: Terminated
Twang
looked at the pictures and statistics, and realized right away that
they were the profiles of Blue Jeans' parents. He looked them both
over again, did a double-take at the woman's picture, and suddenly
wore an impressed look, “Is that your moms? Mmph! She was fine,
man!” Blue Jeans simply responded with a sour glare, and Twang
backpedaled a bit, “Oh . . . forgot about that. Sorry, BJ.”
Blue
Jeans looked over the profiles himself once again, “There's no
doubt now. The person who left this here is either the assassin who
killed my parents, or knows him. FIRENIGHT hired him to kill them,
and now they want us dead as well.”
“That
ain't all, man,” Twang added, digging into the front pocket of his
slacks, “I found this outside after you went in. If you weren't
sure before, you oughta be now!”
Blue
Jeans held out a hand, and Twang placed the object he'd recovered
into his palm. Blue Jeans studied the small object for a few
seconds, and gasped when he finally realized what it was.
It
was a dented, scratched-up bullet with a hole in the tip and a
hollowed-out center.
--------------------------------------------------------*
* * * *--------------------------------------------------------
"Chase through the streets!
Now that Blue Jeans is sure his parents died for a reason, he must assemble a group to help him find out what it is. But he and Twang have been discovered by Pistol troops, led once again by General Wesson, and are pursued through Luster Park, dodging bullets and jumping rooftops to keep themselves alive!
Before assembling their group, the race is on to dodge the eyes of the vengeful Pistols—and a mysterious group of warriors lurking in the shadows . . .
NEXT TIME! Blue Jeans Samurai #4:
Seeking the Truth! The Mission to Build a Coup!
真実を求めて！クーデターを構築することを使命！
Don't miss it!"
