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！
“You
did WHAT!?!”
General
Wesson shook with rage as he paced back and forth in his office,
running back his assassin's report in his head. This man was
supposed to be the best; FIRENIGHT had employed him many times in the
past, not the least of those times being the first extermination of
two Omega-Red level traitors. Now, this master hitman had just
finished saying that, not only had he failed in killing the
jeans-wearing swordsman and his archer friend, but he also left
behind an important piece of computer equipment, containing
government-sensitive information, and that those two were most likely
reading everything in it at this very moment.
“I
was caught off guard,” the assassin replied gruffly from a shadowy
corner, “I didn't know the little bastards would be expecting me.
That never happens.”
“Well,
there's a first time for every-goddamned-thing, now isn't there!?!”
Wesson stopped to bellow at him, then resumed his pacing. This was
an outrage. This depraved murderer was inches away from stripping
Wesson of his title, his dignity—and possibly, his life. The clock
was ticking, and it was only a matter of time before the alarm bell
would be raised in the form of another call from the Grand Commander,
telling him he was fired and due to be executed.
Slowly
calming down as much as possible, Wesson's pacing slowed with it,
right down to a stop. “All right,” he spoke carefully, “I can
still take care of this. If I move quickly, I can exterminate the
swordsman and the archer before word of this gets out, and by then,
even if Commander Hiltov knows, my success will make it irrelevant. I
just have to think of a plan . . .”
“And
how do you plan to accomplish that without my help?” the assassin
grumbled, “You know you need me for this, and you should also know
that extra services require extra payment.”
Wesson
eyed the assassin with disdain, “I think this fiasco has more than
proven that you are not fit for this mission! I will not risk your
incompetence getting me shamed by my government!” He resumed
thinking, and found a way to resolve the matter, “Well, your
foolish blundering has at least done something for us. You've found
where the swordsman lives, and you've established a pattern in his
comings and goings. I will use that knowledge to corner them both and
eliminate them with one swift military action.”
“In
that case,” the assassin growled, “I deserve at least a fraction
of pay. Just because I didn't kill them doesn't mean I didn't do
anything helpful. I deserve something for this.”
“You
deserve nothing, freak!” Wesson thundered, “Now remove yourself
from my office before I have you removed!”
There
was a brief pause in which neither man moved, but eventually, the
assassin picked himself up and made for the door. As his hand
touched the handle, though, he stopped and spoke one last time,
“Watch yourself from now on, General. Hiltov isn't the only one out
for blood.” With that, the door opened, closed roughly, and the
assassin was gone.
*
* * * *
Three
days had gone by since the assassin's attack, and Blue Jeans and
Twang were still investigating the contents of his DataPane. They
had gone over the details of his targets so many times, they'd
memorized the names, stats and pictures of each one, and they were
fully aware that the only people on the list that were still living
were the two of them. One particular detail that continued to elude
Blue Jeans was the nature of his parents' status as traitors to the
government. He, like his parents before him, had somehow achieved
Omega-Red level threat status, despite not having done anything (or
at least recollecting doing anything) to earn it. Blue Jeans could
only conclude that his Omega-Red level status had been 'passed down'
to him, in a way, by his deceased parents, and that meant that the
reason for their status was so potentially enormous, did truly did
put the fate of FIRENIGHT in jeopardy.
Neither
Blue Jeans nor Twang could figure out what that reason was.
“Piece
of shit!” Twang yelled as he fumbled with the DataPane for the
umpteenth time, “It ain't got nothin'! We've been pulling this damn
thing apart for three days! Face it, man, FIRENIGHT just killed your
parents for no damn reason!”
Blue
Jeans shook his head, “Not possible. I'm convinced that they did
something to scare the Grand Commander. Scare him badly. They were a
part of something that could shake FIRENIGHT to its very foundation,
I'm sure of it. They wouldn't have been Omega-Red level criminals if
they weren't.”
Twang
scoffed, annoyed “Well, if you found somethin' on this thing that I
missed, your ass better talk! There ain't nothin' in these files
sayin' why they were in that much trouble!”
Blue
Jeans agreed, but it suddenly made sense in a way. “You're right,”
he replied calmly, “It doesn't say anything like that in there . .
. . . and this is a potentially major detail . . . . something so
big, FIRENIGHT had to kill to get it, or keep it, or keep it hidden .
. . .”
There
was a brief pause, then Twang suddenly understood, “Oh, I get it.
This is some monumental shit. Ain't no low-down punk with a gun gon'
carry shit like that around with him on a DataPane.”
“Exactly,”
Blue Jeans agreed again, “That, and it wouldn't make sense for a
hitman to require a reason for termination. All an assassin needs to
know is who the target is and where they live, not much else.
Whatever reason that man was hired to kill us for, not even he knew
it. It makes it much easier to keep that secret they want so
desperately to keep hidden.”
Twang
stroked his thin beard thoughtfully, “Hidden? You sayin' they still
got it lyin' around somewhere?”
“Not
just somewhere,” Blue Jeans replied, “Somewhere important.
Somewhere guarded. Somewhere that can serve as the perfect place to
lock up FIRENIGHT's deepest, darkest secrets . . .” Blue Jeans
then turned to Twang, seeing if he had come up with an idea for such
a place. He did not expect such a wide, sly grin to appear on his
youthful face.
“I
think I know the best place to start,” Twang suggested, his devious
grin spreading as he spoke, “A few miles outside the border to the
DDZ is the local Federal Archives building. FIRENIGHT's got places
like that set up in every major city. If we could sneak in and hack
the files, we might be able to find out what happened to your mama
and daddy.”
Blue
Jeans was greatly surprised, not just by the brilliance of this idea,
but by the recklessness of it as well. “You know those buildings
are outside DDZ borders for a reason,” he answered, “We'd have a
hard enough time getting out of Luster Park, let alone getting into a
FIRENIGHT Federal Archives Building.”
Twang
shrugged, still grinning, “Well, we ain't had a problem stompin'
Pistols up until now. If we go in together, they ain't got a chance.”
“That's
not even the point,” Blue Jeans was calm in the face of his
friend's enthusiasm, “Even if we do get outside the borders, two
people breaking into a government records building is suicide, even
putting it lightly. People who come so much as ten feet away from it
have been known to be incarcerated before they can say a word, and
known criminals will undoubtedly be torn apart by bullets before they
can blink.”
Twang's
grin faded, his expression now grimly disapproving, “Oh, I see.
When the odds get too high, you give up, right? You must not think
your parents were all that important—”
“Who
said anything about giving up?” Blue Jeans replied quickly, an
equally sly grin of his own on display.
Twang's
smile returned, “Now that's what I'm talkin' about. So, what's the
plan?”
Blue
Jeans weighed the situation carefully, but one thing came to mind
clearer than anything else. “As I said,” Blue Jeans explained,
“two people sneaking in would be suicide. If we had a team
to help us, a group of the finest warriors we can find in the DDZs,
we could easily fend off the guards at the borders, and with more
warriors and a careful plan, we could get into that building with
little trouble. We'd have to find fighters that are not just skilled
in combat, but also have excellent tactical expertise and can work
with the technology of the upper class. Once we have a sufficient
group, we can infiltrate the Archives building, and then we'll be
able to find out why my parents were killed.”
Twang
continued stroking his short stubble thoughtfully, “And I know just
the guy to start with. They say he lives out in Stoneford. Nobody in
these parts ain't got nothin' on him, 'cept that he can swing an axe
like the devil!”
Blue
Jeans carefully considered this, and agreed, “Then that's where
we'll start. Melee combat isn't your forte, and my sword simply won't
be enough. We need strength on our side, and if this axe-user is as
powerful as they say, then there's no way we can pass up recruiting
him . . .” Blue Jeans suddenly stopped. Faint and distant,
noises went off outside the walls of the building. Dull, repetitive
sounds that slowly grew in volume, almost sounding like . . .
Feet.
Dozens of marching feet.
No,
Blue Jeans thought, his heart racing and his hand gripping the sheath
of his sword, Impossible. I've kept them off my trail for over
five years! There's no way they could've found me. Unless . . .
“What's
up, man?” Twang interrupted his thoughts, “You hear that, too?
Man, them Pistols better not be doin' another raid! They was here two
days ago!”
“It's
not a raid,” Blue Jeans replied, his voice ominously distressed, “I
don't know how, but . . . . I think they found us.”
CRASH!
Both
Blue Jeans and Twang dove to the floor at the sound of a shattering
window, followed by the amplified sounds of bullets being fired. The
Pistols were attacking.
“What
the hell, BJ?!” Twang shouted above the gunfire, “You said these
assholes hadn't found you in five years!!”
Blue
Jeans kept a tight grip over his sword. “It must have been that
assassin!” he yelled back, “He must've gone back to them and told
them where I live! That proves they hired him to kill us! Damn it,
why did we let him escape?!”
“That's
something we should be thinkin' about doin', man!” Twang
yelled, crawling along the floor to reach his bow, “We can't get
out through the front, and they probably got more guys guardin' the
back!”
By
now, the Pistols had ceased fire, and there was a weighty, ominous
pause in which the entire world seemed to go quiet. Blue Jeans and
Twang were both startled by the loud, amplified voice of another
person whose life they'd spared, “I told you ghetto trash I'd be
back!”
Blue
Jeans glanced at Twang, and saw the same shocked eyes mirrored back
at him through a different face. It was Wesson's voice.
“It
is useless to try and escape!” Wesson's megaphone carried his voice
all throughout the inside of the building, “My men have every
entrance to the building guarded, and I have set up a perimeter as
far back as Zirconium Terrace! You cannot fight us! Over five-hundred
of my troops have blocked you off at every turn! You have no choice
but to surrender!”
Blue
Jeans could do nothing but snarl at this cowardly act. Across from
him, Twang spoke up his disquietude, “That pussy-ass punk
motherfucker! When I get hold a' him, I'mma stick an arrow up his ass
sideways!”
“Calm
down, Twang,” Blue Jeans muttered, “If what he says is right, we
can't fight them head-on.” Blue Jeans then crawled along the
floor, toward the window. He slowly unsheathed his sword, held the
blade out horizontally, and lay on his back, angling the blade to see
the images reflected in the metal's shiny surface.
He
saw Wesson, his smug look of triumph uninhibited by the now-prominent
scar over his eye. On either side of him, shoulder-to-shoulder, was
a line of ten Pistol soldiers, guns smoking and aimed for another
round of fire. Kneeling in front of Wesson and his twenty men was
another line of twenty-one Pistols, aiming twenty-one handguns
directly into the window.
“Damn
it!” Blue Jeans muttered, “He has a whole platoon with him! We
cannot fight them without getting captured or killed.” He glanced
toward the back of the house, “And it would not be wise to try the
back door. As you said, they must have more troops stationed there,
as well.”
Twang
suddenly gained a look of clarity. “Then that means there's only
one way to go!” he concluded, gesturing toward the staircase, “Kill
the lights, BJ!”
Blue
Jeans smiled at Twang's plan, and nodded, “With pleasure.” The
swordsman then raised his weapon and threw a horizontal slash at a
solitary lamp, the only light in the room. It was severed, and the
room fell into darkness.
“Nice,”
Twang whispered, “Now, I'll keep 'em distracted while we move. I'll
give the signal.”
Blue
Jeans nodded again as he sheathed his sword, and slunk to the
staircase, leading to the next floor. Twang followed behind, slowly
pulling three arrows from his quiver. Both were startled by another
amplified order from Wesson's megaphone, “This is your final
warning! Come out of the building and surrender your weapons, or my
men will storm the place and take you by force! You have ten seconds
to comply!”
“Hurry!”
Blue Jeans whispered, urging his companion, “We must leave before
they enter!”
“Keep
your jeans on, man!” Twang hissed back in the cover of the dark.
Twang slipped the arrows onto the string, pulled back, and aimed at
the broken window. A few feet behind him was a wall that separated
the living area from the second floor stairs, the only doorway
between occupied by Blue Jeans. Twang took several slow, methodical
steps back as he kept the sunlight outside from exposing him,
positioned himself close to Blue Jeans and the doorway, and suddenly
turned his head towards Blue Jeans. He nodded, the darkness shading
his stern features, and fired the arrows out the open window without
looking.
One
arrow made a distinct CLINK sound as it struck a hanging shard of
glass on the way out; a split-second later, the sound of two
different Pistols screaming in agony pierced the air. This was
followed quickly by Wesson's bellowing commands, “Fire, you idiots,
fire!” This was itself followed by the sound of six shots apiece
from Wesson's forty-one-man platoon.
By
the time they began firing, Blue Jeans and Twang were at the top of
the stairs.
Racing
across the second floor, the two warriors located another, untouched
window in the back of the house, facing the street perpendicular to
Mercury Drive. Throwing it open, Twang quickly readied another
arrow, this time with a line tied to it. “We need to stay on the
rooftops,” Twang said as he pulled the arrow back in his bow, “They
ain't gonna think to cut us off up there. Only problem is where we
gon' go after that.”
“Leave
that to me,” Blue Jeans answered quickly, “I know every secret
sewer entrance in Luster Park. If what Wesson says is true, he'll
have more men waiting for us as far out as Zirconium Terrace. If we
can get to cover in the alleys at the corner of East 47th,
we might be able to sneak into a breakaway tunnel that leads to the
sewers underneath it.”
Twang
had fired his grappling arrow by this time, and it had a firm grip in
the brick face of the building across from them. “Givin' 'em the
slip,” he grinned as he fastened the other end of the line to the
windowpane, “I love pullin' tricky shit like that!” Twang then
threw his bow over his head and one shoulder, climbed out the window,
and hung on tight to the line he'd created, shimmying along with his
feet dangling two stories above Tungsten Avenue.
Blue
Jeans tightened the line holding his sword to his waist and climbed
out after Twang. Behind him, he heard tremendous banging sounds from
the first floor; Wesson's men were breaking in. We have to move
faster, Blue Jeans thought desperately, They'll be on us in
moments!
They
both moved faster, using primitive brachiation-style swinging similar
to the primates of the jungle. Blue Jeans felt his hands cramp up
slightly within the first few minutes, but pushed himself forward.
Twang gasped a bit as the rope slipped from one hand, but he
recovered and kept moving. Blue Jeans sighed as the edge of the
building they approached drew nearer, but just when the two were
halfway across the rope, another sound made them both move even
faster; the sound of a command from the street below, “There they
are! Open fire!”
Now
only one-quarter of the way away from the next building, Blue Jeans
and Twang both gasped and swayed as they moved, dodging a series of
bullets that sped dangerously close to them from the street. Twang
cried out as one bullet went whizzing past his ear, and Blue Jeans
grunted as he swung to the right, dodging a bullet that ripped a
small hole in the leg of his jeans.
“Keep
moving!” Blue Jeans commanded and dangled by one hand, baring his
sword with the other, “I'll provide cover!”
“What?!”
Twang shouted back, staying on the rope, “How the hell you gonna
block bullets with a swo—”
PWAAANG!!!
A
bullet ricocheted off the broad side of Blue Jeans' thin blade. The
earsplitting noise went off again as Blue Jeans blocked two more
bullets, one of which would have struck him between the eyes and
killed him instantly had it not been blocked in time.
“Ooooooookaaaaaaayy
. . .” Twang mumbled, awestruck, “I guess you can . . .” Twang
then finally reached the end of the line, grabbed the edge of the
building, and hefted himself up and over, taking cover behind it on
the rooftop. “But you can't handle those assholes alone,” he
added more seriously, and pulled a host of arrows from his quiver,
“Not lookin' like that, you can't.” Twang slid the arrows home,
pulled back, and let them fly.
At
once, the shooting stopped, and Blue Jeans could safely sheath his
blade. Two of the five Pistols had been stricken in the arm by
Twang's well-aimed projectiles, making them drop their guns. One was
shot in the chest, making his breaths come out in desperate, gasping
coughs; another was stricken in the head, killing him instantly. The
last one's gun was jammed by the arrow fired at him, making it
impossible to shoot.
Blue
Jeans smiled at Twang's amazing sharpshooting, but wasted no time in
meeting the archer on the rooftop. “Impressive work,” he
congratulated with heaving breaths, dusting himself off, “Thank
you, my friend. Your ingenuity saves us again.”
“Sure,
man, I know it,” Twang replied smugly, “Now let's jam!”
“Right!”
Blue Jeans nodded, took up his sword to cut Twang's grapple line,
and raced with him across the rooftops.
They
ran across the roofs of the buildings alongside Tungsten Avenue until
reaching the first intersection at Antimony Boulevard—and another
large group of Pistols. Twang quickly deployed another arrow, this
one shattering a window in a building a few yards away, in an attempt
to distract the group. It seemed to only partially work; five
Pistols split from the group to investigate, while the other four
stayed to patrol the intersection.
This
was their chance. Sending out another grappling arrow aimed lower,
toward the street, Twang tied off the loose end of the line to a
small smoke stack and readied for Blue Jeans and himself to take to
the asphalt again. “Yo, man, we're gonna have trouble sneakin'
past on rooftops if they're on every intersection,” Twang
whispered, “We gonna have to find the sewers early. Know any good
hotspots?”
“Hmmm,”
Blue Jeans thought as Twang shot two more arrows, slaying two of the
remaining Pistols, “There's another cover at the corner of Antimony
and Cobalt Road. It's under the streetlamps, so it'll be risky, but
if we can get there and get under, it's a straight shot past
Zirconium Terrace.”
Caught
unawares, the remaining two Pistols in the intersection aimed their
weapons toward where they thought their assailant might be. Blue
Jeans then swiftly slid down the line, using his sheathed sword, and
hit the street. Once his feet touched gravel, the Pistols turned to
fire, but their guns dropped before they saw who it was, and their
bodies dropped before they could know the difference.
Twang
followed quickly down the line on his bow; when he hit ground, he
severed the line by shooting another arrow through the high end and
making it drop to the ground. “Damn, man,” he complained as he
squinted in the new direction they were headed, “You think we can
make that? Pistols got the whole goddamned slum covered . . .”
“We'll
have to hurry,” Blue Jeans assured, “If Wesson's men are spread
this thin, we have a chance, even more so if we keep our wits about
us. The streetlamps will be on any minute now, but if we steer clear
of them, the darkness will give us an advantage. Let's move!” And,
beating a hasty retreat, Blue Jeans and Twang raced between the
buildings that stood out on Antimony Boulevard. They hid themselves
perfectly just as the other Pistols returned from their
investigation, and the shadows cast by the buildings in the fading
light provided excellent cover just as the Pistols resumed their
patrol.
Still
slinking through back alleys under the cover of the shadows, the duo
slipped to the next street crossing, and arrived at Beryllium Way in
little time. Twang let loose another distraction arrow that drummed
against the side of an empty dumpster, generating a melancholy sound
that split the Pistols up five-to-four once again. This time,
though, risk of detection was minimized when Blue Jeans picked up a
broken bottle and threw it, shattering it into the street and making
the last four Pistols turn away long enough for the two to make their
way across Beryllium Way.
Aluminum
Road was the next street to be intersected with Antimony Boulevard
(often called the “double-A cross” by the locals). This
intersection was still four blocks away from their initial target on
East 47th Street (called “East Silver” by the locals),
thus forcing them underground at Cobalt Road, one block east of Blue
Jeans' heroic rescue weeks before. Once again, a patrol of Pistol
troops dotted the landscape, and cunning measures had to be taken.
“We'd
better get to Cobalt soon, man,” Twang complained under his breath,
“I'm startin' to run outta arrows, and these suckers are hard to
make!”
“Calm
yourself, my friend,” Blue Jeans muttered, “There's one street
left to cross before our destination. Once we hit the sewers there,
the tunnels will lead us under Zirconium Terrace and take us straight
into Bell DeVeere.”
“Bell
DeVeere?” Twang replied, a skeptical look in his eye, “The next
town over? It's good that we're not movin' into government territory,
but Bell DeVeere got some shit goin' on there too. I heard the place
is run by a group of assassins, and they don't like intruders!”
“We'll
have to take that chance!” Blue Jeans whispered back, “If the
Pistols are crazy enough to follow us, they'll be under the same
pressure to stay alive. We just have to stay—”
Cutting
off Blue Jeans' words was powerful beam of white light shining down
on the pair. Blue Jeans and Twang looked up to see, not a
streetlamp, but a searchlight frozen on their position. It was built
on top of a building on the corner of Aluminum Road, where a line of
Pistol sharpshooters stood on the edge of the building, aiming their
weapons straight at the duo. In the bright beam cast by the
searchlight, Blue Jeans could see that the number of Pistol troops
patrolling the intersection had tripled almost instantly, aiming
their small firearms and ready to fire at the slightest movement.
Blue
Jeans' mouth went dry as he finished his sentence with difficulty, “.
. . . undercover . . .”
Twang
scowled, glancing subtly behind him at the three remaining arrows
left in his quiver, “Well . . . . fuck.”
One
Pistol, who looked to be slightly higher in rank than the others,
stepped forward and muttered into a walkie-talkie, “Affirmative,
General. They've arrived, just as you said. We are sweeping the area
for sewer openings and setting up guards there as we speak . . . .
Understood, General.” He then put away the machine and raised his
own service piece, “You are hereby under arrest for high treason
against FIRENIGHT! Lay down your weapons and put your hands up! If
you do not comply, we will open fire!”
Blue
Jeans merely stood still, hand clasped over the sheath of his sword.
They were surrounded, unable to run or hide, and Blue Jeans' tunnel
network had been compromised. There were too many to fight, and even
if there weren't, the Pistols on the roof had the visibility to
eliminate them easily. What was worse, Twang was almost out of
arrows, and would not be able to last long against them even with
Blue Jeans' help. Blue Jeans sighed heavily; after all these years,
they'd finally captured him. He'd also led his friend and
comrade-in-arms straight into this trap with him. It was pointless
to resist any further, but Blue Jeans knew that it would be pointless
to surrender, as well. If captured, the only thing left for them
both would be execution.
And
Blue Jeans' parents would never be avenged.
BZZZZZZ-CRRRSSHHHH!!!
The
overhead searchlight suddenly cast a fragmented glare on the street
as cracks formed in the glass, then went completely dead, bathing the
intersection in sparks before the darkness swept the area again. In
the distance, the streetlights each fizzled out one by one as well,
and the Pistols began to mumble amongst themselves in a combination
of confusion, irritation and panic.
“You
are interfering in the affairs of FIRENIGHT-sanctioned troops!” the
lead Pistol shouted out, “Show yourselves immediately, or we will
use deadly force!” Off to their right, Blue Jeans and Twang head
the sound of a gasp, then a PLOP as a body hit the asphalt, the
obvious signal that whoever was behind this intrusion had no
intention of surrendering.
“Scatter!”
Blue Jeans called, and he and Twang took off into the street,
listening and squinting in the dark for their Pistol enemies or this
new entity assisting them. As Blue Jeans raced across Aluminum Road,
he turned his head up toward the building upon which the
sharpshooters were perched, and saw ten shadows, just barely visible,
silhouetted against a midnight-blue backdrop of sky. For a few
seconds before he turned away, he saw an eleventh shadow slip in
amongst them, and three of the shadows disappeared amidst cries of
pain. Another, much louder PLOP of human body against asphalt made
Blue Jeans shiver unconsciously.
“What
the hell is this shit!?!” Blue Jeans heard Twang's panic-stricken
voice in the dark, “Who's attackin' who around here?!”
Blue
Jeans was at a loss for an answer, but suddenly remembered Twang's
commentary about a group of assassins that ruled the Bell DeVeere
DDZ. The answer was improbable, perhaps fantastical, but the only
one within plausibility.
“The
Uradana no Kunoichi . . .”
“Speak
up, man!” Twang shouted, his voice moving as he did through the
darkness, “You know what's goin' on here?!”
“It's
the Uradana no Kunoichi!” Blue Jeans shouted back, also maintaining
movement, “Remember the sect of assassins you mentioned earlier?
This must be them!”
“WHAT!?!”
Twang replied with a scream of incredulity, “What the hell are they
doin' so far out west, then?! And what the hell does that even
mean?!”
Blue
Jeans was now struggling to hear anything over the sounds of firing
guns and gasping Pistols, “It means 'Lady Ninja of the Slums'! My
parents talked about them when I was a boy. I don't understand what
they're doing in Luster Park, though! I had no idea they were even
still active—” Blue Jeans' words were cut off again. Movement.
Behind him. The metallic scrape of a sword being drawn quickly,
followed by another. Blue Jeans' felt his reflexes fly, unsheathed
his own sword, and sparks flew from the parried blow.
CHIIIING!!
The
warrior's twin blades, slightly shorter than Blue Jeans' sword, were
crossed in an X-shape in front of Blue Jeans, blocked from
decapitating the swordsman scissor-style just in time. Blue Jeans
took in the presence of the warrior as well as he could; the
assassin's black uniform fit over a toned, obviously feminine body
(evidenced by the rounded protrusion of breasts in front). Her mask
covered all of her face, save a fierce pair of eyes and one lock of
dark hair poking down between them from the top of the mask. Her
uniform sported sheaths for multiple blades, various equipment that
called back to the age of the ninja, and, strangely enough, a short,
black, pleated miniskirt.
With
only a moment to react, the ninja's swords flew, and Blue Jeans
jumped backwards, following their faint reflection in the dim
moonlight. The right blade slashed downward diagonally, and Blue
Jeans sidestepped it. The left blade made a horizontal swipe, and
Blue Jeans ducked just in time. The right blade repeated its twin's
attack, making Blue Jeans crouch down low, only to get back up and
stand straight when the two blades slashed down vertically on either
side of him. The right, followed by the left, made another
horizontal cut at him each, and he parried them both with his own
blade. Blue Jeans saw the blades make another angled swipe and a
left-to-right cut at the same time, and bent backwards, dodging them
both in the same motion. Finally, after missing another
double-vertical slash by jumping backwards again, Blue Jeans' sword
clashed with the ninja's blades again, and both warriors were locked
in a power struggle.
“Do
. . . do Pistols carry swords?” Blue Jeans strained as his blade
pushed against hers, “The Pistols . . . . mean to kill us all . . .
.we . . . . are not your enemies . . . the archer and I . . . . ”
After
only a few more seconds, the ninja pushed off from Blue Jeans, and
the two warriors stared each other down. Then at last, a smooth,
mid-tone female voice issued from the mask, “. . . . You're right.
You're not the target.” Blue Jeans was suddenly aware of a
ghoulish silence that penetrated the area as deeply as the darkness,
save for one voice; a muffled voice from somewhere in the murky
blackness.
This
seemed to be the ninja's signal, and she leaped backwards several
feet before calling out, “Chimu! Kieru!”
Blue
Jeans watched as four more shadows leaped nimbly from all sides and
converged at their leader's position. At the very second the five
shadows were within inches of one another, the leader produced a
small object in her hand and threw it to the ground; a massive cloud
of smoke burst forward, covering the area even more thoroughly and
allowing the five warriors to escape.
Blue
Jeans crouched down to avoid the smoke, coughing as it forced its way
into his lungs. Resheathing his sword and covering his face in his
hands, he looked wildly around to see if Twang was still around, but
it was no use. The night was darkening the sky even more, and the
smoke brought all possible visibility down to nothing. The only
thing that could be seen was another bright light in the distance,
this time on the ground, powering its way through the smoke. Blue
Jeans quickly leaped for cover in a nearby alley, avoiding the light
by hiding amidst a cluster of trash cans.
The
smoke was beginning to disperse when the searchlight brightened up
the entire intersection, and Blue Jeans saw another Pistol patrol,
around fifteen in total and including General Wesson, hauling another
searchlight with them, which had its own set of four wheels for easy
mobility. When Blue Jeans saw what the light was cast upon, he
scanned the area; more than three dozen Pistol troops lie dead in the
street, the light reflecting brilliantly off of bright scarlet pools
of blood. Blue Jeans studied the scene carefully, hoping not to see
Twang's body among the carnage. When it was obvious that the only
bodies there were Pistols, Blue Jeans had a new fear; just before the
Uradana no Kunoichi disappeared, he'd heard a muffled voice, and
deduced that they must have a hostage . . .
“Yo,
man, you made it!”
Blue
Jeans turned at the whispering voice behind him, and saw Twang appear
amidst the cans, a little bruised up but otherwise accounted for.
Blue
Jeans breathed a heavy sigh of relief, “Thank providence you're
alive, my friend. Did you see anything out there?”
“Man,
that was some messed-up shit!” Twang whispered back, “Last thing
I saw before that smoke cloud came up, those crazy females done
hog-tied a Pistol and ran off with him! I hate to know where that
poor fool is going . . .”
Blue
Jeans disagreed. They kidnapped a Pistol?
he thought, trying to make sense of the situation, but why?
What good would taking a hostage do for them? They had the advantage,
and basically nothing to lose.
The more Blue Jeans thought about it, though, the more sense it made
for another reason. Maybe simply having a hostage wasn't their goal;
maybe they absolutely needed a Pistol officer for some reason. It
would explain why they needed to travel so far outside their own
territory; the Pistols weren't known for attacking other slums nearly
as often as Luster Park. But no matter what angle was considered,
the question remained: why?
Then
something occurred to Blue Jeans. He and Twang were on the hunt for
very sensitive information, but were going about it on a much grander
scale. Maybe the Uradana no Kunoichi were on the same quest. Ninja
never took hostages unless it were absolutely necessary, so was
possible that they needed a Pistol (or perhaps any agent of
FIRENIGHT) to give them something. Or, maybe, to tell them
something. Something highly important . . .
Blue
Jeans definitely disagreed. He wanted very much to see where 'that
poor fool' was heading.
--------------------------------------------------------*
* * * *--------------------------------------------------------
"Search for the ninja women!
Blue Jeans and Twang scour Bell DeVeere for their strange new allies. The Uradana no Kunoichi are strong warriors, and will surely be an asset to Blue Jeans' mission. There is only to find them and appeal to them. But the leader of the group is firmly against the aid of men! How to appeal to someone so stubborn? Through battle!
What can Blue Jeans expect from these lady warriors? Can they be trusted? And what has become of the disgraced General Smith Wesson . . . . ?
NEXT TIME! Blue
Jeans Samurai #5:
Approaching a Potential Ally! The Skirted Ninja!
ポテンシャル味方に近づいて！スカート忍者！
Don't miss it!"
