Now, for the bad news: if I don't get a move-on writing out these un-posted chapters, I'll start running out of pre-written chapters to post. So, I have to buckle down and work, or I'll be forced to put this story on hiatus. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing, but I'd hate to disappoint you, my loyal readers.
Anyway, happy reading, and thanks for your patience!
Blue
Jeans Samurai
#7
– Another New Ally! The Kindhearted Axe Warrior!
もう一つの新しい味方！心の優しい斧戦士！
Blue
Jeans was fairly certain he had not even heard what Pleats just said.
It couldn't be possible. It bordered on fantastical. But somehow,
he was suddenly expected to believe that his mother's demise was
attributed to her last mission as a ninja for the Uradana no
Kunoichi.
“I
regret the circumstances,” Pleats continued, “But if this weapon
and your mother's death are related somehow, you had to find out
eventually. This mission could easily have made our foremothers
Omega-Red level traitors to FIRENIGHT. After she left, she married
and had you, which must be the reason her status was passed on to
you.”
Blue
Jeans was silent. He had been right all along. His parents weren't
just gunned down at random. They died for a reason.
And
FIRENIGHT knew what that reason was.
Twang
asked a question that was on Blue Jeans mind, though not the only
one, “Why'd she leave?”
Pleats
sighed, “She fell in love with a man. Our code strictly forbids
such fraternizing with men, but she wanted to leave her life behind.
My mother, the first Sensei
of the Uradana no Kunoichi, beseeched her not to go, but she insisted
on passing on what she knew to another generation. She couldn't get
married until she left, so she went away with my mother's blessing.”
“So,”
Twang continued when Blue Jeans didn't respond, “Does that make BJ
here an honorary member, or somethin'?”
“Unfortunately,
no,” Pleats replied, “We are the Uradana no Kunoichi for a
reason. 'Kunoichi”
means 'lady ninja'. Were it not for our code, though, you would be
our fast ally. The only reason we have anything to do with one
another at all is that our mothers were comrades-in-arms.”
Blue
Jeans remained silent for only a few seconds longer before finally
muttering, “. . . . I don't believe you.”
Pleats,
Twang, Velvet and Taffeta each turned to him, surprised. Taffeta,
having finally calmed down by now, responded impatiently, “What'd
you say? You're talkin' too quiet! Did you say, 'Pie won't relieve
poo'?”
“I
don't believe you!” Blue Jeans spoke up, “If it were just my
mother, I'd believe it, but both
of my parents died. It couldn't have been for that same reason.”
“Believe
what you want, swordsman,” Pleats retorted, “But your mother
discovered something massive about the government. If anything, you
should blame her for wanting to start a family in the first place. If
she hadn't, her secret wouldn't have gotten them both killed.”
Blue
Jeans' eyes were fiery, and his hand shook as it gripped his sword,
but he stayed in control. “Both of my parents were killed,” he
repeated, “and by the hand of the same man. My mother would've
known it would be foolish to risk that, and would have kept us hidden
or on the run. But if you're so sure my mother wouldn't have taken
her secret to the grave, my only conclusion is that they planned to
exploit the weakness of this superweapon together.”
“A
ridiculous theory,” Pleats rebutted, “Suppose this assassin just
killed both of your parents just as a precaution? It would make more
sense to kill them both if it was possible that they both knew.”
“Then
why keep me alive?”
Blue Jeans argued back, “I was five years old when my parents were
taken from me. Wouldn't a five-year-old be capable of at least
understanding the magnitude of this situation? And if not, wouldn't
the same precautionary guidelines apply? Face it, Pleats, my parents
were in on this together.”
“Impossible!”
Pleats yelled back, “Your father couldn't possibly have helped your
mother! It's just impossible!”
“Why?!”
“Because—”
Pleats stopped herself, and her eyes burned just as furiously as Blue
Jeans'. She didn't finish her argument; she simply stared, almost as
though she were resisting it.
Blue
Jeans was the first to relent, and sighed. “Pleats,” he said
softly, approaching her, “I can understand if it's that you think
my father couldn't be trusted. You must feel he took my mother away
from your group. But they loved each other dearly, that I cannot
deny. And I'm sure that they would have done this together. And now
that we know, we can all finish what they started, together.”
Pleats
repeated Blue Jeans' gesture of relent, and sighed. “It's not
that,” she said, her voice lowering a little at a time, “At least
not entirely. I'm just . . . . I believe no man would put a woman
before himself. I've always believed that.”
Blue
Jeans stared at her confusedly before answering, “I did.”
Velvet
tapped Pleats' shoulder and nodded, pressing a hand flat to her own
chest.
“Hey,
check this out, y'all!” Twang called out as he looked up from the
DataPane he'd been studying, “I think BJ might be right after all!”
As he said this, though, the door to the basement opened, and
Cashmere and Angora stepped through it, with Damask leaning against
Cashmere for support. Damask's ninja pants and miniskirt remained,
but she was barefoot, and the only thing covering her toned torso was
a thin black cloth tied around her chest (covering her perky breasts)
and two layers of bandages covering her wounded left shoulder.
As
Cashmere slowly lowered her to the floor, Damask stared angrily at
Blue Jeans, “Don't say I never did anything to help you, dangler.”
Twang
scoffed, “That ain't how you say, 'Thank you'.” Damask answered
by throwing a shuriken at the wall in front of Twang's face with her
good arm.
“Damn,”
Damask muttered, “Missed.”
“Save
your strength, Damask,” Pleats ordered, then turned to Twang, “You,
archer. What is it you've found on that DataPane?”
Twang
glanced back down at it and said, “I found the FIRENIGHT Crime and
Punishment Manual online, and it says that breakin' into government
property is only a Sigma-Red offense!”
Dumbstruck,
Blue Jeans and Pleats replied at the same time, “What?”
“So,
what does that mean?” Angora said calmly, “From the screaming we
heard from the basement, I'm quite sure we missed much of the
conversation.”
“A'ight,
look,” Twang explained, “You know how there's five different
kinds of crimes, right? Gamma at the bottom,” he held out a hand
sideways, flat and palm down, to illustrate his point, “then Beta,”
he lifted it up a bit higher, doing this for each level, “then
Alpha, then Sigma, then Omega waaaaay at the top, right?”
Blue
Jeans and Pleats nodded, Angora said, “Mm-hmm,” and Cashmere
barked, “So what?”
“Well,”
Twang continued, “Pleats said that Velvet got caught at a
government warehouse, right? Well, if BJ's mama done the same thing,
then y'all would be Sigma-Red level criminals. That psycho's notes in
here said that she and her man were both Omega-Red. So how'd they get
up on Omega-Red just for breakin' into FIRENIGHT property?”
Blue
Jeans and Pleats glanced at each other, their argument resolved.
Relieved though he was that his hunch was correct, he was also
amazed. His parents really did try to exploit the weakness of
FIRENIGHT'S superweapon; it was the only possible thing they could do
to earn Omega-Red level status. It was the only thing that was just
frightening enough for FIRENIGHT to consider killing them both.
Pleats
took another heavy sigh, and addressed the entire assembly, “All
right, sisters. Our mission, such as it was, has been successful.
Velvet is home and unharmed, despite all complications that could
have been avoided,” she quickly glanced at Blue Jeans, “or
prevented . . . . . . so, we need to decide if this swordsman and
archer are worthy enough for us to keep our bargain. They have
assisted us, one way or another, so the question for us is whether we
should assist them. Sisters, let us vote.”
Cashmere
was the first to speak, “I say we stick to our principles! These
men could just as easily have fouled up this mission worse! Who's to
say it won't be worse if we continue to deal with them! My
vote: Ie!”
Blue
Jeans assumed that meant 'no', and despaired; things were already
looking unfortunate.
“I
disagree,” Angora spoke serenely, “They may be men, but they are
capable. What went wrong on this mission cannot entirely be blamed on
them. And even so, Velvet is safe. Furthermore, if they've truly set
out to finish what our foremothers started, then I say, Hai.”
“Me
too, me too!” Taffeta chirped, and when all eyes landed on her, she
added with a shrug, “I don't really have a reason. I just think
they should stick with us! I say Hai!” She then snuggled up
close to Twang again, and Twang rolled his eyes.
Damask,
still sitting on the floor, merely scowled and pointed at her injured
shoulder, “Does this look like I want to help them? Ie.”
“Well,
Velvet,” Pleats said, turning to her, “It's up to you. Do we
assist them, or do we part ways? The choice is yours now.”
Velvet
looked back at Pleats, then glanced at Angora, Cashmere, Damask and
Taffeta, from one to the next, seeing their faces. She then looked
to Blue Jeans and stepped toward him, and Blue Jeans couldn't help
but feel cautious. A split decision didn't mean that the tiebreaker
would be favorable—or without pain.
Velvet
looked deeply into Blue Jeans' eyes with a mix of sincerity and
gratitude. Not a sound escaped her lips as she mouthed the words:
Thank you. She then bent down low in a respectful bow, and
the entire room went silent with awe.
Glancing
subtly around the room, Blue Jeans felt strangely self-aware. Soon,
though, politeness forced him to return the gesture, and he repeated
Velvet's bow.
The
awkward silence dragged on even after Blue Jeans and Velvet stood
upright again. After a few more seconds, Cashmere spoke again,
“B-but . . . . impossible . . . . . none of us has ever bowed to a
man before . . . not ever . . . .”
“YAAAAY!”
Taffeta squealed, hugging Twang even tighter, “You're with us now,
fellas!”
Pleats
surveyed the reactions of her fellow ninja, and nodded. “All right
then,” she concluded the vote, “We know what we have to do, now.
You've helped us, so we will help you, at least until your goals are
met. Once you have what you need, our business with you is over.”
Blue
Jeans nodded, a bit disheartened at the limits of their assistance,
but grateful for it nonetheless. “If you insist,” he relented,
then proceeded to reveal his plans, “As I said earlier, FIRENIGHT
has taken steps to eliminate Twang and myself. This new development
more than proves why. There is still a question, though. It is no
longer what my parents did to earn the wrath of FIRENIGHT, but what
specific information they discovered to use against them, and how
they would have used it. As such, the goal remains constant, we break
into a government archives building and find out.”
“Hah!”
Damask laughed mirthlessly, “Ludicrous! Only the idiotic or the
insane would attempt something like that! Of course, look who I'm
talking to . . .”
“Bitch,
you better shut your damn mouth!” Twang barked, “I'm tired of
your bullshit!”
Damask
glared at him, as if Twang had just signed his death warrant. “You
wanna repeat that, little worm?” she spoke with a deep,
threatening voice as she spread a line of kunai into the hand of her
good arm.
Twang
stood up and reached for an arrow, “I ain't afraid of you. If you
wanted to kill me, you woulda done it by now. You still wanna? Then
go ahead. But if you don't wanna, then shut the fuck up!”
Damask's
expression went from angry to awestruck instantly. She attempted to
stand up, but Pleats held up a hand, stopping her. “Fighting
amongst ourselves solves nothing, Damask,” she urged her, “I told
you to save your energy.”
“That
goes for you too,” Blue Jeans said to Twang with a deprecating
expression, “Temper is a powerful, yet unsafe weapon, my friend.”
Twang
glanced between Blue Jeans and Damask, then sighed and put his arrow
back, “Man, there you go again, getting all deep on me . . .”
“Anyway,”
Blue Jeans continued insistently, “I had the same problem when I
brought this up with Twang earlier. I said then that only two people
could never break in and out of an archives building alive. This
remains true, even now that our number has risen from two to eight.
What we need is another capable fighter, one that can easily take on
multiple foes, far more than any one of us can. We already have
capable one-on-one fighters, strategists, infiltrators and assassins,
but when it comes to taking on hordes of Pistols single-handed, each
of us is sadly insufficient.”
Pleats
seemed to put everything together before Blue Jeans was finished,
“That's why you said you had business here in Stoneford. You need
the axe-wielder that lives here.”
Blue
Jeans' eyes widened in surprise, “You know him?”
“He
does here what we do in Bell DeVeere,” Pleats explained, “My
sisters and I have gathered only that much intelligence on him, just
to mark him as a non-threat. When we discovered this about him, we
let him be.”
“Do
you know where he is?” Blue Jeans asked, his pulse suddenly racing.
“We
can do better than that,” Pleats replied, “We can lead you
straight to him. We leave tomorrow morning!”
*
* * * *
The
Pistol raids were not nearly as severe in Stoneford as they were
elsewhere in the DDZs. News of Velvet's rescue hadn't made it to the
government just yet, which explained their lack of presence to some
extent. This also meant that it gave the small group enough time to
find this mysterious axe-user. How much time they had beyond that,
even Blue Jeans didn't know. It seemed, though, that they would have
plenty of time; the longer they walked the streets of Stoneford's
M-District, the more obvious it was that the Pistols wanted little to
do with this DDZ.
“There's
hardly anyone here,” Blue Jeans observed, “This axe fighter's
reputation must be frightening indeed.”
“Maybe
so,” Pleats spoke as they walked down the deserted streets, “But
my ninja are in place all over the DDZ, watching our every move. If
this axe warrior, or the Pistols, have the nerve to attack us, they
won't last.”
“Let's
hope so,” Twang muttered, his grip on his bow ever-tightening,
“'cause I'm startin' to think some shit's about to go dow—” he
stopped, turned his head in several directions, as if listening for
something, then moaned, “Goddamn, I hate it when I'm right!”
“What
is it, Twang?” Blue Jeans asked concernedly. A few seconds after
he asked, though, he began to hear it, as well, and he and Pleats
glanced all around, straining their ears. In the distance, perhaps
five or six blocks away and closing, was the roar of an engine and
the roll of elastium tires (elastium was a synthesized nonmetal that
had taken the place of rubber in this day and age). The sound got
closer, and all three warriors bared their weapons, ready if trouble
presented itself. About a block out, a large transport van turned a
corner and onto the street the trio was on, headed straight for them.
The speed and maneuvering it displayed showed that whoever was
driving had lost control.
The
group split up and jumped out of the road, but not before Pleats
threw a pair of kunai and Twang launched an arrow. Both sets of
projectiles were aimed at the tires of the vehicle; the weapons
themselves didn't penetrate the elastium surface, but a wrong turn
while the van rolled over them did. The turn of the tires caused a
rip in the front right tire just minute enough to make it burst, and
the van's wide, chaotic swerve turned into an even more chaotic
tumble. It rolled down the street, passed Blue Jeans, Twang and
Pleats as they lay in the sidewalk, and struck the pavement on its
side, roof, opposite side and tires again, rolling completely over
twice before at last slowing to a stop, having landed on its side.
Blue
Jeans, Pleats and Twang converged in the street once again. “You .
. .” Blue Jeans huffed, gaining back his breath, “. . . you both
thought . . . the same thing I did . . . . didn't you . . . ?”
“Damn
right, man!” Twang confirmed, “Only rich people have cars like
that, and what rich fool gon' be drivin' through the DDZs in a white
van?”
“One
of only two,” Pleats added, “Either a delivery truck for the rich
neighborhoods, which is highly unlikely, given their route, or . . .”
They
all finished Pleats' thought together, “FIRENIGHT.”
“Only
a government van would try to keep a low profile in the slums,”
Blue Jeans deduced, “They must have weapons or food in there for
government officials.”
Suddenly,
Cashmere sprang from a nearby alley without a sound, and joined the
trio in the street, “Sensei, we saw the disturbance. The
others are on standby right now. Are you injured?”
“No,
Cashmere,” Pleats assured, “but that crash will definitely bring
witnesses. Pistol witnesses. Have the others set up a perimeter, make
sure to either divert them or thin their numbers.”
“Hai,
Sensei,” Cashmere bowed quickly and disappeared into the alley
again.
At
the sound of marching feet, Blue Jeans and Twang turned toward the
end of the road from where the van had come. “I think they might
be too late,” Blue Jeans said grimly, “The noise is drawing them
closer.”
“What
the hell, man?!” Twang roared, plucking another set of arrows,
“This place was deserted earlier!”
“They
must be here about Velvet's escape!” Pleats guessed, “They must
have just gotten here right after us! This means we have less time
than we thought!” Indeed, the sight of marching Pistols
accompanied the stamping feet; they were about two blocks away and
getting ever closer
Twang
squinted slightly as they approached, assessing the horde, “Looks
like about twenty of 'em! I think we can take 'em if we move
quickly!”
“We
can't risk it, Twang!” Blue Jeans denied, “We still haven't found
the axe fighter yet!”
Just
after Blue Jeans finished speaking, the Pistol troops stopped a half
a block away, and a voice from a megaphone rang out across the
street, “You are interfering in official FIRENIGHT affairs! Drop
your weapons and put your hands in the air, now!”
Blue
Jeans glanced between Twang and Pleats, and saw that neither of them
looked as though they were ready to surrender. Blue Jeans gripped
his sword, Pleats crossed her blades in front of her, and Twang slid
another arrow into his bow. If their hand was to be forced, then so
be it.
Just
before mobilizing, the group froze at a strange movement in the
Pistols' ranks. It was as if someone or something behind them was
pushing through the crowd, trying to get through them. When the
shoving stopped, Blue Jeans could hardly believe his eyes as he
observed who was doing the shoving. It was a man, but the height
suggested he was really a monster, at least seven feet and towering
over the Pistols. When the enormous man stopped, he was in the
middle of the troops, but they had little time to react when another
unbelievable event occurred; the man swung around a titanic stick in
a full, wide circle, swatting away the Pistols like a swarm of flies
and sending them flying into buildings or flattening them into the
asphalt.
When
no Pistol moved, the giant with the massive weapon raced toward Blue
Jeans, Twang and Pleats. Their weapons still at the ready, Blue
Jeans suddenly thrilled at the fact that they might not need them;
the stick that the giant carried was almost as long as he was, and on
one end was a huge metallic axe head. This was the man they'd been
looking for.
“Wait!”
the giant boomed, holding up one hand in a stalling gesture, “Please
. . . . . . stop.”
Still
keeping their weapons out, the group slowly lowered them when they
saw that the axe-user was not a threat. In fact, he seemed to do
everything within his power to present himself otherwise. He was
indeed over seven feet tall, and his bulging musculature gave the
illusion that he was nearly as wide; he had short, spiky black hair,
a well-defined chin, and a bared barrel chest that would have shown
even in the thickest shirt. He wore dark green military-style slacks
and thick combat boots, and the axe he carried looked to be well over
a hundred pounds (amazingly, though, he carried it with one arm). In
spite of all of this, that hand gesture, and his bright, deep,
heartfelt blue eyes made Blue Jeans believe instantly that he was not
a threat.
“We
. . . we have to speak with you,” Blue Jeans started, struggling to
retain diplomacy, “We're not FIRENIGHT. We're not enemies. We . . .
. . we wonder if we could ask for your assistance?”
The
giant slowly lowered his hand, seeming to relax. His eyes moved back
and forth in his head and his brow furrowed; he was obviously
considering what he'd been asked. Finally, at the sound of more
marching feet, the giant looked back over his shoulder, then looked
back to address the trio, “May I ask for your assistance first?
Please?” His voice was deep, but also soft and gentle.
Blue
Jeans, Pleats and Twang glanced amongst each other again, but there
was no time for anything more. “What do you need of us?” Pleats
asked.
“I've
been tracking that van for the last few hours,” the giant
explained, “It's full of food and supplies that I was planning to
pass out to the people of Stoneford. When I found it parked and
refueling, I snuck by to sabotage the van and stall them, but the
most I could do was disable the brakes before they spotted me, and
they raced away. I hoped I'd cut it off here and steal the supplies
before the Pistols arrived, and I thought it was too late before I
saw you three. I won't be able to carry all of those things out alone
with the Pistols coming. Could you help me?”
Again,
time was too short for words, leading to another series of glances
amongst the trio. Finally, Blue Jeans nodded, “We'll help you.
We'll carry as much as we can out of the vehicle.”
“My
sisters have the area surrounded,” Pleats added, “They'll make
sure only a fraction of them make it to us.”
Twang
collected two more arrows and loaded them, “I'll be your eyes and
ears from behind. I got your back.”
The
giant's eyes seemed to brighten in response. “Thank you,” he
said, his low voice even softer now, “This means so much to me. I'm
Halberd, defender of Stoneford, at your service.” He performed a
low bow that was somehow enough to make his massive form
submissive-looking.
“I
am Blue Jeans,” he introduced himself, then gestured to his
comrades, “this is Twang and Pleats. Whatever you need done, we'll
do it.”
This
was the command that began the operation; all four of them approached
the upended van, Halberd pried open the back with his axe, and the
trio proceeded to empty the van of various boxes, large and small.
Some of them contained rope, and Blue Jeans proposed they all use it
to strap these boxes to their backs, which they did. Easily being
the largest of the group, Halberd took the most boxes, strapping
nearly half the total number to his back and keeping them lifted with
ease.
“I
know a building we can take all of these supplies to,” Halberd
informed the others, “If we can avoid this incoming blockade, it's
only three streets over, to the east.”
“Excellent,”
Blue Jeans replied, “We can avoid them effortlessly if we stay
quick.”
“My
ninja will report back to me after a certain amount of time,”
Pleats added, “We'd best make sure we don't work as hard as they
have to.”
“Thank
you, my new friends,” Halberd said in his sweet, low tone, “Now,
we have to move, they'll be coming this same way shortly.”
“Uhhhh
. . . . fellas?” Twang said, his voice unsteady, “They done
showed up already . . .”
Indeed,
twenty more Pistol troops, accompanied by four or five stragglers
that had survived their encounter with Halberd, lined up in the
street a few yards away. Their guns were aimed, and another
amplified voice issued commands. “This is your final warning! Drop
your weapons and surrender now, or we will open fire!”
There
was a pause in which neither side made a move. Blue Jeans, Twang,
Pleats and Halberd gripped their weapons, but did not attack, and the
Pistols stayed equally still, their weapons stationary. The tension
could be measured by the pound, and Blue Jeans was afraid that, after
too much longer, they would all be crushed by it.
POOF!
An
enormous smoke cloud materialized and clouded around Blue Jeans and
company. At this, the Pistols reacted immediately, and opened fire
into the smoke.
They
were gone long before the bullets could reach them.
Obscured
by Pleats' smokescreen, the four had taken cover in the same alley
Cashmere had appeared in. “That was too close,” Blue Jeans
sighed heavily, “They'll be on us any moment. We have to keep
moving.”
“Like
I said,” Halberd reminded them, “If we can cross three streets
from here in an eastbound direction, we'll reach the building we want
in no time. Let's move!” The group then fled deeper into the
alley, coming out on the other side of the block.
The
street they left, Marble Avenue, paralleled with the street they were
headed for, Slate Boulevard. On Slate, a squad of five Pistol troops
approached the group just as they emerged from the alley; Blue Jeans,
Twang and Pleats were suddenly startled by Halberd's rumbling call of
“GET DOWN!”
But
'get down' they did, and Halberd was now free to swing his axe in a
wide horizontal arc. The blade cut down three Pistols, and the
handle knocked the other two to the ground, all of them floored
effortlessly by the same action that would have taken two men Blue
Jeans' size.
Blue
Jeans gaped at Halberd's performance, “Impressive. Your reputation
is well-earned.”
Halberd
glanced down, looking modest, “Well . . . I guess . . . .”
Pleats
then leaped toward the two unconscious Pistols and stabbed them both,
one with each sword, in the chest. “Enough!” she bellowed, “We
must keep moving! The fewer Pistols we leave alive, the better!”
Blue
Jeans frowned at Pleats' tactic, and Twang audibly gulped, “. . . .
Damn, girl . . .” But they pressed on immediately; as Halberd
said, only two other streets remained before their destination.
The
four exited another alley and onto Quartzite Road. There were far
fewer Pistols here than elsewhere, only two, and both were taken by
surprise by Twang's arrows. “Uh, guys?” he said uneasily to the
others as they crossed Quartzite, “I can hear 'em comin'. They're
trackin' us right now. And unless your girls come back, Pleats, I
think twenty is our limit.”
“Relax,
Twang,” Blue Jeans assured when they reached the next alley, “One
last street beyond, and our mission is a success.” He looked up at
Halberd for confirmation, “Where exactly is the building?”
Halberd
smiled warmly, “The building we're looking for is right on the
corner of Greenschist and Blueschist. Once we cross Blueschist Road
and reach the corner, we'll be—” They had reached the end of the
alley by this time, and all four had stopped just before entering the
street. By the bitterest of coincidences, a fifty-man platoon of
Pistols was marching along Blueschist, headed toward the corner,
likely in the direction of the I-District. They saw Blue Jeans,
Halberd, Pleats and Twang as they passed, and froze just as
instantly. In less disastrous circumstances, the awkwardness would
have been much stronger, perhaps even laughable.
Immediately,
the officer leading the Pistols commanded his troops to aim their
weapons, then his commands were aimed at the four. “Freeze!” he
shouted, the only welcome detail of him seeming to be his lack of
megaphone, “As an agent of FIRENIGHT, I order you to submit to
immediate investigation! Drop your weapons and put your hands in the
air!”
Twang
looked up at Halberd irritably. “You wanna finish that?!” he
griped, referring to the last thing Halberd had said.
Halberd
simply stared worriedly into the crowd of Pistols, as if seeing
through them to view the building on the corner, “. . . . . No . .
. . .”
Blue
Jeans steadied his grip on his sword, while Twang visibly resisted
the urge to pull another arrow. Pleats made no move at all; she
glared defiantly into the faces of her would-be captors. Halberd,
overcoming his sudden anxiety, muttered to the others, “I don't
think we can take this many. And the ones we lost are on their way.
Anyone have any ideas?” One could feel the hope draining from
their situation as no one replied.
FWIP!
One
Pistol suddenly grunted in pain and collapsed in the street,
convulsing and gasping for breath. Panic started to waver the
platoon, and when three more Pistols dropped dead in the same way, it
became outrage.
“Resistance
is punishable by death!” the higher-ranked Pistol bellowed, “Ready,
men!” The remaining forty-six Pistol troops faced Blue Jeans and
his group, cocked their weapons, and prepared to fire, when—
POOF!
Another
smoke cloud burst up from the ground, this time from beneath the
Pistols' feet. This cloud was much bigger, though, and obscured the
whole platoon in less than two seconds. Instinctively, Blue Jeans'
group spread out and began their attack, weapons ready and seizing on
their unforeseen advantage.
Drawing
two arrows and firing, Twang called out from within the smoke, “Nice
save, Pleats! You got some smokescreen skills, baby!”
“This
one isn't mine!” Pleats admitted as her twin swords dug into the
backs of two more Pistols. Another three collapsed, screaming in
pain, and Pleats saw five new shadows streak through the smoke.
“We
didn't see them until after we set up the perimeter!” went
Cashmere's voice amongst the chaos, “I had to make a difficult
call. I know it was against your will, but your safety was more
important! Forgive me, Sensei!”
Pleats
swept the ground with her twin kodachi, cutting the legs out from
under four Pistols. “Cashmere,” Pleats called back, “Apologize
for nothing other than having impeccable timing!”
Blue
Jeans observed for a moment as Halberd fought alongside them. The
hulking warrior spun his axe expertly in one hand and brought it down
on a Pistol, slicing deeply into his chest. He then swept the axe
into a wide arc that cut down six more Pistols, kept up the momentum
of the swing, and brought the blade down in another vertical slash on
another Pistol. Still maintaining momentum, Halberd spun the axe in
one hand again and walked forward, each downward rotation of the
weapon slicing into another Pistol. For the little time he was
allowed for it, Blue Jeans was struck with awe; Halberd's tenure on
this team would not be wasted.
All
nine warriors began panicking at the sound of gunshots. Two went off
in loud, echoing spurts before Blue Jeans located their source: the
high-ranked Pistol commanding the platoon. He had been slashed in
the leg, and was on the ground, but it had not stopped him from
firing indiscriminately in one direction. In response to a third
gunshot, a voice screamed out, “GAAAAAH! Fuck!”
“TWANG!!”
Blue Jeans called out, then raced toward the assailant. Before the
officer could fire another shot, Blue Jeans swept his sword across
the Pistol's shoulders and beheaded him in one blow.
“They're
firing back!” Halberd called, “Time to disappear!”
“Taffeta!
Velvet!” Pleats commanded, “Cover our escape!” When the two
girls agreed, they took to the corner of the building and began
firing off projectiles, preventing the Pistols from retaliating,
following, or observing.
Blue
Jeans stumbled through the fading smoke and saw Twang on the ground,
groaning and clutching his leg with his free hand. The boxes he'd
been carrying broke free of their ropes and lay strewn on the
concrete around him. “Goddammit!!” he cursed, “Son of a bitch
clipped me!”
“Hold
on, my friend!” Blue Jeans assured as he grabbed Twang under the
arms, stood him up, and threw one of his arms across his own
shoulders. Two Pistols saw them escape into the building and
reacted, but both dropped instantly.
“Hurry!”
Taffeta squealed as she reloaded her fukiya, “Save him!” Velvet
nodded and urged them on with her hands, then launched a set of kunai
into a charging squad, bringing them all down.
Blue
Jeans ran to the door of the building, carrying a limping Twang with
him, and shot right through it. He had to stop, though; the ground
floor of the building was missing a floor, and immediately gave way
to an empty basement below.
Halberd
moved past them and jumped, surprisingly nimble for a man his size,
and crouched down low to soften his fall. “Jump, Twang!” he
called up, “I'll catch you!”
Twang
glanced between Halberd and Blue Jeans, then sighed in aggravation,
“Uuuugh . . . I shoulda stayed my ass in bed!” He then sprang
into the gaping hole with his good leg, falling fast until Halberd
caught him in his arms.
One
by one, Pleats, Cashmere, Angora and Damask came in, carrying Twang's
fallen load, and followed Halberd and Twang into the hole. Before
jumping, Pleats called out, “Taffeta and Velvet are right behind
us! Hurry!”
Blue
Jeans obeyed, and they both jumped into the basement just in time to
see Halberd push against the stone wall. A rectangular section of
stone gave way, forming a deep hole in the stone. On the left,
inside the hole, was another hole that formed a passageway. “This
way!” Halberd beckoned, “The Pistols won't follow us, and it
leads to my home! Come on!”
Pleats
and her ninja went in first, with Twang now being propped up by
Angora. Velvet and Taffeta finally leaped into the basement with them
and rushed into the passageway (Halberd's surprised eyes locked onto
Velvet for a long while). Finally, Blue Jeans raced into the hole,
and Halberd went after them, staying behind just long enough to heave
the impossibly heavy stone back into its proper place.
*
* * * *
“OOOWWW!
What the hell was that for?!”
Twang
had complained in response to Pleats poking his gunshot wound
exceptionally hard. He was laid up in a medical cot, with Velvet and
Angora treating his leg with some of the medical supplies taken from
the FIRENIGHT van. Elsewhere, in the lobby of the building they hid
in, on the other side of the M-District, Halberd, Cashmere and
Taffeta were passing out food and other supplies to various
inhabitants of the building—the only ones that lived in Stoneford.
Pleats
roughly gave her reason, “Don't you ever call me 'baby', ever
again!”
“Pleats,
please,” Blue Jeans calmed her, “He's injured. Try to have a
little compassion.”
Damask
snorted, “Well, if he hadn't gotten himself shot, he wouldn't be
suffering, would he? Idiot . . .”
Twang
rounded on her, “Hmmm . . . so, how much less of an idiot would I
have been if it was my shoulder?” At this, Damask could only
seethe.
“You're
lucky it wasn't your shoulder,” Blue Jeans told him somberly, “If
it had, you might not be able to fire an arrow again.” Blue Jeans
then sighed, “I'm sorry, Twang. If I had reacted sooner, this
wouldn't have happened to you. It's my fault.”
“Please,
friends!” Halberd boomed merrily as he came back with another empty
box, “Let's not show any confrontation or sadness today. Let's
celebrate! We've done some good here for these people, and we worked
together!”
Blue
Jeans looked up at Halberd's lively face, unable to help a smile.
“Indeed, we have,” he replied, “We are all amazed by your
battle prowess. We all look forward to working with you.”
“And
I'm amazed by your golden heart,” Halberd beamed, “All of you.
You've shown real righteousness, and that's good enough for me.
Whatever you ask of me, I'll do.” He then took Blue Jeans and
Pleats into his arms for a powerful hug, “Thank you, my good
friends!”
Blue
Jeans was suddenly short of breath, but he knew Halberd meant well,
“It . . . was . . . nothing . . . Halberd . . .” Pleats wasn't
quite as thrilled about Halberd's friendly gesture, but did not
protest. She did, however, glance for a split-second at her sheathed
swords when Halberd's hand came a bit too close to her backside.
“Oh,
please,” Halberd relented as he released Blue Jeans and Pleats,
“You can call me Hal. Everyone in Stoneford who knows me calls me
that.” He then picked up another box of supplies and began to pass
them out.
Pleats
then turned to Blue Jeans and asked the necessary question, “Well,
your so-called team is complete. When do we begin this operation of
yours?”
“First,
we need more weapons,” Blue Jeans answered, “We have to be
well-equipped enough to do it. We have to return to my home in Luster
Park, there will be more than enough weapons for all of us to use.
The Pistols may have the place surrounded, so we'd best be prepared
for a fight.” He stopped when he saw Halberd again, and directed
Pleats' attention to him.
“Hello,
miss,” the large warrior said shyly to Velvet, who had picked up a
box and resumed helping, “I . . . I wanted to thank you for
covering our escape. You . . . you must be very strong . . . . . and
very . . . very beautiful . . .”
At
this, Velvet's eyes widened slightly. She touched her fingertips to
her mouth and began to smile, a blush warming her pale face.
Pleats
was flabbergasted. “Oh, no,” she complained, “No. No, I cannot
allow this. I will not allow this. This goes against our
code!”
Blue
Jeans shrugged with a smile, “Would that be such a bad thing? Love
is a rare commodity nowadays, Pleats. It will keep them strong, I'm
sure of it.”
“And
cloud their judgment!” Pleats argued, “One of them may put the
other above the mission, and I will not let that happen. Once our
mission is underway, don't expect me to do the same for you!”
Blue
Jeans leaned toward her slightly, “No one's asking you to. In fact,
no one's even mentioned it.”
From
behind them, Twang suddenly belted out, “Bow-chicka-bow-wow!”
At
this, Pleats scoffed, went to take another box, and left. Blue Jeans
simply stood there, slowly shaking his head.
--------------------------------------------------------*
* * * *--------------------------------------------------------
"The birth of tyranny!
The Grand Commander of FIRENIGHT, Abner Hiltov, is incensed with his military's progress in killing Blue Jeans and his friends. Finally fed up, he hires the one man whom he believes is best for this job—an assassin in a suit with golden cufflinks, and an obvious aversion to shaking hands.
Hiltov reflects on the glorious history of FIRENIGHT. Many Grand Commanders have taken his position before him, but the first was arguably the greatest—a man whose unprecedented military brilliance turned a transcontinental riot into the largest, most unshakeable military kleptocracy the world has ever known . . .
NEXT TIME! 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！
Don't miss it!"
