Blue Jeans Samurai #3

This month's post is Chapter 3 of Blue Jeans Samurai!  I've been without internet for awhile, so it came a little later than I wanted, but here it is!  Happy reading!

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!"

Blue Jeans Samurai #2

Here's chapter 2 of Blue Jeans Samurai!  Took me a while to finish one of the later chapters, but I did it, and I have plenty more un-posted chapters waiting, as well as many more in the works.  Happy reading!

 

Blue Jeans Samurai

#2 – The Unerring Archer! An Unlikely Alliance!

的確アーチャー！まずない同盟！

“So, let me get this straight, Lieutenant Hammer,” said a dangerously-cool voice, “You and Lieutenant Trigger, both of you seasoned soldiers with years of experience and training, had your squadrons systematically slain by a kid with arrows and a freak with a sword?”

Lieutenant Hammer, still nursing the agony in his bleeding, handless wrists, could only nod, still shaking from yesterday's confrontation. Simply thinking about the boundless skill of the jeans-clad swordsman made him want to cry, and it took every ounce of strength he had not to.

There was a pause in the Administrator's Quarters of the Pistol Officer Camp of the Capital Continent (formerly North America). Hammer shook with fear and shame the entire time, until the Capital Continent Pistol Administrator, General Smith Wesson, spoke up again, louder than before, “You and Trigger, two of my finest men, were outwitted and outfought by a dissident with a sharp metal stick!”

“But, General, you don't understand!” Hammer wailed, still squeezing the bandaged stumps under his armpits, “He was monstrous! His skill, its like nothing we've yet seen! He fought like a demon!”

“Am I to understand,” General Wesson's voice went up higher, “that two squads of four Pistols were killed by these two piteous cretins, except for you?! That you allowed Lieutenant Trigger to be shot to death by his own men?! AND ON TOP OF EVERYTHING ELSE, YOU HAD THE AUDACITY TO SHOW YOUR FACE IN MY CAMP AFTER THIS FAILURE!?!?!””

“Please, sir!” Hammer whined, now fully cowering, “Give me another chance! With a bigger squadron of better-trained Pistols, I'm sure I can find that swordsman and make him pay for defying FIRENIGHT law! Please, General, I beg you! Give me another chance, and I swear I will find him and destroy him!”

Seated in his chair, General Wesson stood and walked, pacing slowly around his office and occasionally taking quick glances at Lieutenant Hammer. After doing this for a few seconds, he stopped, stood silently for a moment, and spoke softly once again, “You will not be given another chance, and there are three reasons for this.”

Hammer shuddered, fresh disappointment lost amidst the continued feelings of fear and shame. “A-a-and,” he tried to stutter, “a-and th-those reasons are?”

Wesson held up one finger on his right hand to signify, “One: I will be attending to our young samurai friend myself. From what you tell me, he is frighteningly well-skilled, and obviously only a man of my military genius can stop him.”

“No, General, no!” Hammer protested, “His strength is unparalleled! You must take me with you! I've seen the way he fights! You will be well-prepared if you have me with you—”

“Two!” General Wesson interrupted, sticking up a second finger to go with the first, “You no longer have hands. This means that you will never be able to hold a gun again. To me, this makes you even lower than the DDZ citizens.”

“But sir!” Hammer continued to argue, “If I may be granted cybernetic prosthetic hands, I'll be able to hold a gun! And I will be more than ready to help you kill this defiant worm—”

“And three,” Wesson concluded, quickly whipping out a .38 caliber handgun and pointing it between Hammer's eyes, “You, sadly, will not live long enough to see combat again.”

Lieutenant Hammer simply squealed one last time before Wesson pulled the trigger. The gunshot was ear-splitting in the small office, and Hammer's body stiffened as the bullet was injected into his head, blowing out the back of his skull and spraying blood, gore, and brain against the wall behind him. The lieutenant dropped to his knees, then fell forward on his face (Wesson, turning his back toward his executed underling, stepped to the side to allow the body room to fall). Blood oozed from the hole in his head and stained the carpet underneath him.

Wesson then calmly walked over to his desk and pressed the InterGram button (a device, restricted only to FIRENIGHT elite, that acted like an intercom, but worked like a hologram projector), and immediately, a miniature hologram of his secretary, a thin blonde woman, popped up on top of his desk. “Yes, General?” she said in a flighty, sing-songy voice.

“Have my weaponry prepared,” the General commanded, “and gather a platoon of my finest shooters for a special mission tomorrow.” Glancing at Hammer's handless corpse, he quickly added, “And take a note: whoever has the lowest performance after mission completion must clean the blood from by office and remove the body of Lieutenant Hammer.”

Not missing a beat, the secretary's hologram logged away everything Wesson said. “Understood, sir!” she replied with fervent pep just before the hologram blinked out of existence. Wesson then went out to the Intelligence Division of the Camp, to see if they had dredged up any information on a pair of DDZ rogues, one bearing a bow and arrows, the other wielding a sword.

* * * * *

It had been two days since the last Pistol raid, in which Lieutenant Trigger and his entire squad was killed, and Lieutenant Hammer was sent screaming, handless and bloody, out of Luster Park. Today was a day to close shop, and that left Blue Jeans free to roam, gathering materials for his forge at home and providing assistance whenever he could to his neighbors. Today would mean a particular level of caution; now that the Pistols had had a sufficient enough time to prepare, no doubt they would have more men deployed throughout Luster Park, on the lookout for a sword-wielding outlaw. Blue Jeans had killed Pistols before, but never as many in one sitting as he had that day, and that would surely not go unnoticed.

Or unpunished.

Calmly making his way down Beryllium Way, Blue Jeans heard sounds of struggling, faint and far away, but just clear enough to be heard. Taking a turn from Beryllium Way to North Iron Street, Blue Jeans followed the sounds closely, until he was one street away from where he began—Aluminum Road, the street in which he had killed seven Pistol soldiers two days ago. When Blue Jeans turned onto this road, he quickly stole behind a building for cover; the sight that greeted his eyes horrified him.

Dozens of Pistol troops, armed to the teeth, were wresting people from their homes all along the street and dragging them out onto the asphalt. Men fought the Pistols and received a beating from seven or eight of them at a time as punishment. Women who screamed and cried received slaps and kicks in a never-ending back-and-forth cadence. Children were lifted up off the ground (some even pried out of their parents' arms) and thrown bodily into the road, getting badly scraped up and bruised. Blue Jeans was horrified to see the family he'd saved two days ago, dragged, beaten and thrown into the street like dogs. The boy attempted to fight them, but was easily subdued with a kick in the face. He was thrown back by the force of the kick, his nose bled copiously, and the entire right side of his face was scraped and bruised. His mother and sister screamed in fear as they saw this, louder when they witnessed, for the second time that week, the father and eldest boy attacked by far too many opponents for them to handle.

Walking amongst the Pistols and their victims, taking in the carnage and brutality around him, was a tall, thin man with a thick, black mustache and a series of white stripes around his upper left sleeve, signifying a high rank. He wore two large, thick ammunition belts crossed over his chest, but instead of bullets, they were lined with handguns—at least a dozen, from what Blue Jeans could see. He smiled grimly as he surveyed his subordinates, unblinking as one young boy's arm audibly splintered as it hit the pavement. The arrogant authority he carried himself with was a more obvious indication than the stripes; Blue Jeans was certain that this man was running this unscheduled raid.

For what purpose, he was even surer he knew.

Once the mayhem had slowed to a dull murmur, one Pistol soldier approached his superior officer with only half the smirk. “All the citizens have been ousted, sir!” the Pistol called out with all the fervor of a well-disciplined soldier, complimenting it with a steady salute (one finger to the temple, then arm straightened out and finger pointed forward, thumb up, in the style of a gun).

“Good work, men!” the high officer called all around him, “Now, send the word out through the P.A. system. See to it that these two rogues, the archer and the swordsman—especially the swordsman—are found and brought before me! If they don't show up, then one person in this crowd will die every five minutes he fails to arrive! So I have said it, so it will be done!”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the entire Pistol platoon chanted back, and over half of them dispersed, leaving about ten left to remain with the crowd and carry out the high officer's wishes when necessary.

Blue Jeans saw a few coming up the street toward him, and hid on the stoop of the building on the corner until they were out of sight. Once they were at a decent distance, Blue Jeans wasted no time in confronting this soldier-tyrant with his crimes. Jumping from the stoop and into the street, Blue Jeans stared straight ahead at the head officer and shouted, “Were you looking for me?!”

The senior Pistol and his ten-man squadron turned at the sound of his voice. The lesser soldiers reached for their weapons, but the high officer merely grinned haughtily. “So,” his voice matched his grin, “we finally meet, swordsman. I must admit, you're not nearly as flashy as was described to me.”

Blue Jeans merely grinned back, “I don't rely on any flash,” he pushed up the hilt of his sword slightly from its sheath with his thumb, “except the flash of my blade.”

“So I noticed,” the high officer retorted, “Lieutenant Hammer, the man whom you, uh . . .” he hesitated for a moment before insisting on the pun, “. . . disarmed the other day, was most insistent on your skill. Pity he couldn't be here to see me take over our battle, but in the end, a corpse is useless to me on the battlefield.”

Blue Jeans' eyes widened slightly. This was an obvious hint to the final fate of Lieutenant Hammer. The surprise left Blue Jeans as soon as it came though, “I suppose I can't be shocked at this. Pistols aren't above anything, including killing their own.”

The high officer's smirk widened, “Oh, I prefer to present it as a preview. You should thank me for giving you at least a description of what General Smith Wesson is capable of!” He then raised one hand, flat and palm forward, “Men! Show him what happens to traitors of FIRENIGHT!” Wesson's hand balled into a fist, and the Pistol troops marched forward, unholstering their guns . . .

Suddenly, a flare of light exploded in the sky above them. “Give us your best shot, bitches!” shouted a zealous voice.

Bustle among the Pistols started immediately. They looked down at the people in the street as they lay bleeding and injured, wondering if the voice that sounded off (as well as the flare that exploded above them) belonged to one of them. They stared up at the higher floors of buildings to see if they were under attack from above. They even glanced at the end of the street to see if it was their sword-wielding opponent utilizing a distraction.

Blue Jeans utilized it all right, and resolved to thank whoever provided it for him.

With a quick motion, Blue Jeans unsheathed his sword and charged into the street. At once the Pistols opened fire, and Blue Jeans swiftly slipped into an alley between two buildings. Every shot (about three or four per Pistol, making close to forty altogether) was a miss.

“Don't just stand there!” Wesson bellowed, “Follow him!” He gestured to the five men closest to him, “You men, into that alley!” then gestured to the other five, “You, cut him off from the other side!” The first five followed Blue Jeans into the alley, while the other five rushed toward the alley on the other side. As they walked though, three of them suddenly cried out in pain and collapsed; three arrows had flown in from out of nowhere and picked them off in the head, neck or back, killing them instantly.

“WHAT?!” Wesson shouted as the other two stopped, “What is going on! Who keeps doing that!!?!” He then froze for a moment, “Wait . . . . that's him! That's the archer who helped the swordsman the other day!” He then bellowed more orders to his soldiers, “Men! Find cover, and make out where you find that rogue and his arrows!” The last two men ducked low into a stoop of one of the buildings, while the five who went after Blue Jeans pressed themselves against the wall just inside the alley. When one Pistol was too slow and took an arrow as punishment, Wesson found the window from which the arrows were fired, and pulled one of his many handguns, firing eight rounds at a window across the street and two buildings down from where Blue Jeans hid.

“THERE!!” Wesson pointed at the window, “There he is! Men, converge and apprehend him!” The four remaining Pistols on one side and the two remaining Pistols on the other raced back into the street, zigzagging and keeping away from the mystery archer's arrows as often as possible.

They were too late, as well.

Bursting from the front door of the building behind which Blue Jeans hid, the swordsman himself sprang out and attacked, performing a powerful horizontal slash that killed two Pistols at once before they even knew what hit them. By the time the other two were alerted to his presence, Blue Jeans performed a forceful uppercut on one and brought the blade back down on the other in the same motion, and the four remaining Pistols on his end of the street lay bleeding on the concrete.

Wesson looked shocked, “WHAT!?! B-but . . . . but how?! How did you do that!?!”

Blue Jeans smirked as he whipped his sword to one side, flinging off a layer of blood. “Didn't your men see the side door in the alley?” he said confidently, “A short detour back to the street, that's all. It's not the type of breaking and entering you're used to, but it works in a pinch.”

Wesson shook with fury, “Treason! Nobody attacks the officers of FIRENIGHT! You will pay for your crimes!” He turned to his two remaining subordinates, “Kill them! The street rats! Kill them all!”

The Pistols grunted their consent, and cocked the hammers on their firearms, readying to blow their victims away, one by one. Just when they were about to comply, another arrow sailed in from nowhere and made useless contact with the ground. However, instead of just sticking into the asphalt, this arrow suddenly projected a thick blanket of smoke all across the street. The black blanket obscured everything; the Pistols, Wesson, Blue Jeans, and the DDZ citizens were erased from view by the choking blackness.

Blue Jeans struggled to see through the smoke, and above him, just beyond the smoke's obscurity, he saw the sniper's window, and the archer using it emerged at last. The daring marksman jumped out of the window and, launching another arrow to which a rope was fastened, he created a grappling hook that attached to the side of another building. Grabbing the other end of the attached rope, the archer swung down into the black cloud and onto the street, rolling over several times to soften his fall.

“Don't waste time, my man!” the archer called out through a gas mask, throwing Blue Jeans a mask of his own, “That smoke ain't gonna last! We got to get these folks outta the street, now!”

Blue Jeans was impressed by the archer's showmanship, but complied with his careful planning, “Right!” Quickly donning the mask, Blue Jeans ran alongside the archer and helped him escort the wounded citizens out of Aluminum Road. The elderly, the young, and the overly injured had to be carried, and the two made sure to take as many people into groups as possible and carry them out en masse. Blue Jeans even met the family he'd defended two days ago, but wouldn't let them waste time with gratitude and insisted they run far away; the smoke was indeed fading fast.

At last the smoke dispersed, and the remaining two Pistol soldiers were shocked to find that their targets were gone. Taking off their gas masks, Blue Jeans and the archer prepped their weapons for combat. The two Pistols fired, and Blue Jeans charged, dodging some shots and deflecting others with the broad side of his sword. Blue Jeans flew fast and stabbed, ending the first Pistol's life before he had a chance to shoot again. The Pistol farther back ran out of rounds and attempted to reload, but was killed by an arrow in the chest before he could. The archer had drawn his bow and fired just before Blue Jeans' sword struck. All of the Pistol soldiers were dead.

All but one.

General Wesson, still smirking confidently, this time had a very good reason to; struggling and sobbing in his grip was the little girl belonging to the family Blue Jeans had saved. She screamed and cried and tried with all her might to pull her arm out of his grasp, but it wasn't enough. Even less so when Wesson pulled out one of his innumerable handguns and pressed it against her head.

“Don't make me do something you'll regret, swordsman!” Wesson resumed his superior smirk, “All you must do is surrender your sword and submit to arrest immediately, and the girl will live.”

Blue Jeans felt a grimace of rage cover his face. “You . . .” he began, not sure if any insult he could use would be low and degrading enough for him, “. . . . you don't intend to follow through with that promise at all, do you?”

Wesson continued to grin haughtily, “You really won't know until you try it, swordsman.” He then cocked the hammer and slowly squeezed the trigger, “But whether I do it or not, you can be sure of what happens if you don't. Don't want to see that, do you?” The girl only screamed and sobbed louder, helpless with fear.

Blue Jeans' sword arm quivered in fury, but he knew better. Even with his incredible speed, he couldn't risk losing this little girl if he was only an instant too late. Glancing between the sobbing girl and his beloved sword, he made the decision he knew had to be made. Closing his eyes and pulling his arm back, he threw, and his sword flew through the air to his left side, clattering miserably to the ground.

Wesson's gloating grin became wider and showed perfect white teeth. “Good choice, dissident,” he snapped, “Now, I feel I must punish you for trusting an opponent's word. I think the sight of this girl's brains on the pavement will do that nicely.”

The girl screamed deafeningly and Blue Jeans gasped, knowing he should have seen in coming. Prepared to move as Wesson pulled the trigger, Blue Jeans was stopped by a shocking sight; a blur of silver flying in from his left, striking the gun right out of Wesson's hand, and sticking it into the side of the building behind him, piercing the weapon through the barrel. The shock, for Blue Jeans, came from the fact that this silvery projectile was his own sword.

The shock for Wesson, obviously, was being disarmed so easily, and through such an unorthodox method. Both turned to see the mysterious marksman, striking the pose of an archer with one less arrow. “Twang don't miss, baby,” he returned Wesson's earlier smirk.

Shaking off the surprise a second earlier than Wesson, Blue Jeans charged forward just as Wesson pulled yet another handgun from his magazine. Before Wesson pulled the trigger, he received a knee in the stomach, throwing his aim and making a bullet ricochet off a streetlight and crash through a window (the girl still screamed). Blue Jeans then threw a hard punch into Wesson's elbow joint, shattering the joint, making Wesson scream as well, and making his grip over the girl's arm slacken. When the girl took the opportunity to run, Blue Jeans followed up with a kick to the chest that forced Wesson back, throwing his new gun out of his hand. Both fighters made for their weapons at the same time; Wesson pulled yet another handgun, while Blue Jeans wrenched his sword from the bricks. As soon as the blade was free, it flew in a wide diagonal arc that struck the gun from Wesson's hand once again. A split-second later, the blade came back up along the same path, but Wesson had learned by now, and backed up a few inches to dodge. It worked, but only slightly; the tip of the sword nicked his face, carving a deep cut that went from just to the left of the bridge of his nose, over his eye, and ended above his left temple.

Wesson bellowed in pain and fell on his back. Blue Jeans pointed his sword directly at Wesson's face, ready to finish the job if he had to. Wesson backed up slowly, only to run into an obstruction. When he looked up, the archer looked down on him over the length of another arrow, pulled back and ready to find flesh to dig into.

Blue Jeans' voice was forceful and commanding, “You've lost, Wesson. No more blood need be shed today. If you leave now and never come back, we will not pursue you.”

His aim unwavering, the archer eyed Wesson with contempt. “You heard the man,” he said roughly, the stretch of his bowstring sounding off loud and clear.

General Wesson scowled, and slowly got to his feet, both warriors' weapons still aimed directly at him. After a brief pause consisting entirely of fuming stares, both sides unwavering, Wesson finally spoke, “You have half my word. I will leave now. But I will be back. Did you not forget that over five dozen more of my best men are patrolling the streets as we speak? In less than ten minutes, they will all return to this street, and justice will be served!” With that, he suddenly began sprinting up the street, turned a corner onto North Iron Street, and was gone.

“Yo, think fast!” the archer called out, and Blue Jeans turned to see a grubby dish rag thrown to him. As he caught it, the archer explained, “You better clean that mess up off your sword, man.” He then turned to where Smith Wesson had escaped and frowned, “Mmph! Mm, mm . . . guy had to give us the whole 'evil villain, you'll-pay-for-this' trip and everything! Punk-ass bitch . . . .”

Blue Jeans smiled as he wiped off his sword, and finally got a better look at the archer for the first time. He was of average height and build, with lightning-quick brown eyes and tough black skin. He wore a plain, sleeveless green vest and black slacks, and slung over his shoulder was an unusual quiver, full of arrows, that seemed to look more like an article of clothing than a quiver; it was flat, and hugged his back, instead of circular and jutting outward. He had short, wiry black hair and the small traces of adolescent stubble.

“Thanks,” Blue Jeans said, out of necessity as much as gratitude, “And thank you for your assistance.”

“Thank me later, my man,” the archer spoke quickly, “You heard him. We got less than ten minutes to get those people outta here before more Pistols show up. And I don't know about you, but I ain't got enough arrows for five dozen o' these cats.”

Blue Jeans nodded, “Right you are,” and they both hurried up the other end of the street, scanning the area for Aluminum Road's inhabitants.

Along the way, the archer spoke up, “Man, you got some sweet moves! I been lookin' out for you since that whuppin' you gave those Pistols the other day. I ain't never seen nobody take on them boys like you!”

Blue Jeans nodded again, “Well, I have to stay strong. Killing Pistols doesn't change a lot, but my parents would've wanted me to help my neighbors. So that's what I do.”

There was a pause as they continued running, turning a corner at Antimony Boulevard and spotting the assaulted citizens dotting the concrete a few blocks away. Finally the archer answered, “I like the way you think, brother. What do they call you?”

The swordsman turned toward the archer as they ran and introduced himself, “Blue Jeans.”

The archer looked back at him questioningly, as if he'd given some other color as the answer to the 'what color is the sky' question. The look was fleeting, though, and they kept running as he replied, “Hey, I don't judge, man. They call me Twang.”

They had stopped by this time, just before approaching the crowd, and now it was time for Blue Jeans to question the answer, “Twang?”

Twang grinned and pulled three arrows from his quiver. Pulling them back in his bowstring, he aimed them straight upwards and let go, and they sailed into the air with a loud TWANG sound. Twang then turned around, positioned himself two steps away from his firing spot, and bent his head forward. After a few seconds, one arrow turned around and sailed straight back down, and it fell directly back into Twang's quiver. Twang took a quick step to the side and caught the second one just as easily, in the same manner. He reached a hand out at the same time. Between two fingers, he caught the third arrow, spun it expertly in his hand, and slipped it back into the quiver from whence it came.

Blue Jeans' eyes widened. Clearly, this young archer was skilled, perhaps as skilled with arrows as he himself was with a blade. “Most impressive,” Blue Jeans congratulated.

Twang kept up his showoff's grin as they approached the weary crowds, “You damn right!”

* * * * *

It was late, and the night sky was dark and starless. The blood on the carpet had dulled from a vivid red to a rusty brown. The Plasmoff (an indispensable chemical clinically proven to permanently remove bloodstains with no lasting residue) smelled strongly and punctured the lungs and throat with an alcoholic pain.

And General Smith Wesson had never been angrier in his entire life.

I'm a man of my word, he thought angrily as he scrubbed at his office carpet with his good arm while massaging the pain in his face with the other (his casted arm, where the swordsman had broken his elbow, was almost too stiff to move at all). Indeed, before leaving, he had decreed that the soldier with the lowest performance after the mission would clean the dried blood from his office. As he had been the only survivor of this horrific debacle (and after all, dead Pistols could hardly follow orders, could they?), this made Wesson the odd man out, and forced him down on his hands and knees with a brush and a bottle of Plasmoff like some sort of DDZ grime-cleaner. It forced him to drag the decaying, foul-smelling body of Lieutenant Hammer out of his office. It forced him to scrape dried bits of gray matter off the walls.

It forced him to plan more carefully about causing unfathomable pain to that impudent sword-swinger.

I'm a man of my word, he repeated to himself as he scrubbed. He and his men had searched the entire DDZ from afternoon well into the night, and the more they had searched for the two defiant warriors, the more likely it was that they had vanished into thin air, the angrier Wesson had become. From the moment he was forced to retreat, he'd made a promise to make sure that swordsman and his foul-mouthed archer companion would burn. They would burn, screaming and pleading for mercy, until there was nothing left but the charred bones left in the wake of FIRENIGHT dominance.

And his slowly-building anger branded that promise into General Smith Wesson's mind permanently.

I'm . . . he thought once again . . . . a man . . . . . he coughed as the Plasmoff settled into his lungs again . . . of my word . . . .

 --------------------------------------------------------* * * * *--------------------------------------------------------

"Assassin!

After reporting failure to the Grand Commander of FIRENIGHT himself, Wesson employs a hitman to eliminate Blue Jeans and Twang.  He's willing to hide in the shadows and wait as long as it takes to make the perfect kill—just like he waited to kill a certain pair of sword-users twenty years ago . . .

Meanwhile, Blue Jeans and Twang learn that they have more in common than they ever knew.  Will their newfound bond distract them from the doom that awaits?

NEXT TIME! Blue Jeans Samurai #3:

Government Treason! The Fate of BJ's Parents!

政府反逆！ BJの両親の運命！

Don't miss it!"