Trustless Shadows, CH 07 (Patreon)

The bar is located halfway between the warehouses and my apartment, in a section of the city Robert described as “middle-income”. I had no idea what that meant at the time, but now, after being here for all these months, I get a sense that it means the people living here have enough money that they can afford to spend on more than the minimal necessities.

The bar is quiet as I enter. It’s a workday, so not as many people come. It’s the only time I come, after a fight, on nights I know there won’t be too many people. I’ve burned off enough of my anger by the time I reach it that the smell of the people and the soft conversation don’t make me want to run in the opposite direction. 

I think of Juliette, how she asked me to meet her in a place like this, the conversation we had. I wonder how she’s doing. I look around the large room as I walk to the bar. Only three of the dozen or so tables are occupied. I know it can’t happen, but I hope for a familiar face. Someone from my old life, Juliette, one of the guards—I’d even take Jason, and his constant talk about how to be human.

I sit on a stool and the woman behind the bar brings me a beer. I pay her, and she walks away. She’s familiar, but I don’t know her. I don’t know anyone here.

Homesickness is what this feeling is called, I know now. What I don’t know is why I feel this way. There was nothing worth longing for back there, only lies and betrayals.

The television in the corner is on, but the volume is low. Probably low enough no one can hear it, even in the relative quiet, but I listen as the voice talks about the epidemic spreading through the Anounga District. The television shows hospitals filled with patients. Experts discuss where the sickness came from, how it’s spread. How long until a cure.

I turn to my beer and sip it. I wonder if I can drink enough of it, fast enough, to feel it’s effect. Maybe I’ll try it one day.

“You look like you’re having a bad day.” The woman is back in front of me. She’s never spoken before. “You do know, it’s customary to tell your barman your problems.”

“Is that going to help fix them?”

“You never know.”

Part of the problem is that I have no idea what to do with myself. What do humans do with all this time when they aren’t working?

When Amanda controlled my life, I always had something to do. When I wasn’t out hunting demons, my days were filled with tests, evaluations, training. The little time I wasn’t doing that, I ate, caught up on news of what happened outside the city, and slept.

Now I no longer hunt, there are no tests or experiments, and there’s only so much training I can do by myself and without weapons. Maybe I need to start looking for demons, if only to have something to do.

“You know,” she says, “it’s been at least eight months since you’ve been coming here, and you never talk with me. I don’t even know your name.”

“Does that matter?”

She shrugs. “Just trying to be friendly. You looked like you could use someone to talk to, that’s all. But you’ve paid for the beer, so I’ll leave you to it.”

I should have taken a booth. She wouldn’t have tried to have a conversation with me if I’d been in one. But they remind me of Juliette. How is she doing? Did Claws continue to give her money now that I’ve left? Presumably, he left too. She’d mentioned how helpful it was to her and her family. Are her children suffering because I left?

The longing comes back. She was one of the only good humans I knew there, and I might have made her life more difficult. The urge to get out of here takes me. Not just to leave the bar, but to leave the city, to go back and find out how she’s doing.

I don’t move. She doesn’t want me there, I don’t want to go there.

Someone pokes my shoulder. “Hey, I know you.”

“No, you don’t.” I don’t turn. I don’t even look up from my glass.

“Sure, I was at that fight, last week. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

“Yeah,” another man answers. “We saw you beat the crap out of the Judge.”

One of them leans in close and whispers, “We liked the Judge.”

“Then I hope he gets better soon.” I take a long swallow of my beer.

“You cheated,” he continues, “I know it. There’s no way you could take him down. He’s the best fighter there is.”

I snort.

“You had to prove you were better than him, so you cheated. Was it the only way you could make yourself feel like a man?”

I don’t smell beer on his breath. This kind of behavior is usually associated with men who drink too many beers. It usually happens a few times as the night progresses.

I turn on the stool, and the man has to step away. He’s tall and muscular, but only humanly so. He has no hair, but a thick black beard. The other is squat, with greasy blond hair going to his shoulders. His chin only has a few sprigs of hair. They probably impress normal humans by their size.

Too bad for them I’m not human.

“What are you trying to do?” I smile at him.

He frowns. I’m not behaving the way he expects. “I’m thinking we need to teach you a lesson about respecting better fighters than you.”

I nod slowly. “There aren’t any.” I turn back to the bar and take a swallow of my beer.

He grabs my shoulder and spins me so I have to look at him.

“You three!” The woman cuts off whatever he was going to say. She also keeps me from smashing the glass I’m holding on the side of his head. “No fighting in my bar. Take it outside.”

“That’s a great idea.” He pulls me off the stool and I don’t resist. “Let’s take this outside.”

He kicks the door open, shoves me out, and follows me, about to say something, but again he’s interrupted. This time it’s by the sound of eight machine guns being cocked. I have my back to the sound, but was able to catch a glimpse of them as I was pushed outside.

I look over my shoulder to confirm what I’d seen. Five men and three women wearing dark-gray armored uniforms stand in the street, pointing their weapons at us. Each also has a handgun holstered at their hips, and a sheathed knife. The two men before me have turned pale and have their hands in the air.

“We were just kidding around,” the tall man says.

“Yeah, we didn’t mean anything by it.”

One of the women, the one directly behind me, listens to instructions. I guess they are instructions—the words are too faint for me to make out. I’m surprised by that; my hearing is good enough I can normally hear earpiece conversations.

“You two, get out of here,” she says.

They run off, and I turn to face the greater threat.

She’s of average height. Her armor makes it impossible to tell how muscular she is, and the helmet hides her hair.

“The target has been located.”

She listens to the answer. It doesn’t matter I can’t make them out. I can figure out the intent.

She nods, then gestures to the others. They move to form a semi-circle. They’re blocking all escapes, except the door to the bar. If I wanted to run, I’d have to go in a room with even fewer escapes than here.

Fortunately, I have no intention to run.

“You are to come—”

I’m already next to the man on my left. I have his machine gun in hand. I pull that down, and the straps going from it to around his neck force him down too. My knee goes up. His chin meets it halfway, with enough strength that teeth break. He slumps to the ground.

“—with us.”

I rip the strap off and aim the machine gun at the man opposite me. I shoot him in the knees, noting the bullets in the guns aren’t irradiated. He goes down with a scream.

“Don’t kill him!” the leader says. I think that’s directed at me.

I shoot the woman next to him. I aim for the knee also, but she moves and the bullet hits her calf. She still goes down.

I look for another target, but they are all moving. They have training, and never pause as they come at me. They drop their machine guns and pull batons off their back. 

I find a target, but before I can pull the trigger, a baton hits my weapon. A shock makes me drop it. No time to think about it. I drop as two batons come at me. I catch one and use his arm to block the other. The baton comes close to my face. I smell the ozone from it—electrified.

I grab the man’s collar and pull him in front of me. I let go just as the baton hits him. He tenses, shudders, then crumples to the ground. I punch the other soldier in the face. Cartilage, maybe also bones, break. She should have closed the visor.

She puts a hand to her face to try and block the flow of blood. I relieve her of her baton and press it against her chest.

Another woman comes at me, baton in the air and coming down. I sidestep and strike her arm hard enough I hear her Ulna and Radius break. She screams, and I strike the side of her helmet. She goes down. 

I now have two batons, and I use them as I would swords. I block the next two attacks, slicing at those men. I lunge.

The last woman, their leader, keeps away. She watches as I get through one man’s defenses and touch his throat. He tenses, then falls down. He might not be breathing, but I don’t have the time to worry about it.

The last man comes at me like a demon: without any finesse or thoughts. He swings left and right, and while I block with ease, his rage gives his strikes more strength than I expect and I’m forced back. I can’t use my usual tactic of taking a few blows to get inside his guard. Based on the way the others reacted to being struck, there’s enough voltage to take me down.

Fortunately, he’s only human. He quickly runs out of strength and his movements slow. I slap his baton aside and hit him in the neck with mine. I hit him with the side of the baton to keep him from getting stunned, and pull my blow at the last moment to keep from breaking his neck. He staggers, then falls. 

I kneel next to him and make sure he’s alive. When I look up, she’s doing the same to the man who got a shock in the throat. She hits his chest hard, and the man gasps for air.

We stand at the same time.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

She looks at the unconscious or groaning people around us. “You didn’t kill any of them?”

“I don’t kill humans.”

She nods. There isn’t any of the fear or worry I’d expect from someone who’s seen me take down seven trained soldiers.

“Take the shot.”

Before I can move, something stings my calf. I throw myself to the side, grab the machine gun, and roll on my back looking for the shooter. I don’t see one. I look at my leg. No blood, but there’s something embedded in it. Black, the size of a revolver bullet. I drop the machine gun and reach for it.

Pain erupts through my body. I’m ramrod straight, every muscle straining. My jaw clenches so tight I feel a tooth crack.

She speaks, but I don’t understand the words. The pain increases. I want to scream, but my lungs and throat won’t cooperate. 

I focus on moving. I need to take it out. If I can to that, this will stop. I order my body to do it, but it doesn’t move. I plead with it, make demands, promises. Nothing. I am a prisoner inside myself.

And I realize my thoughts are fuzzy. I know I want my body to do something, but I can’t find the word. I know what it is, but the word itself is gone. Words are vanishing, as is the little I can see of the buildings and sky.

The last thought I have is more an impression than anything else. I have the sense that it’s been a long time since I took a breath.