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7/24/2025, 8:16:23 AM
>>6279661
Dutifully retrieving the warm shell casings from the ground, you stick them in the backpack pocket with the rest of the spent shells. You were sloppy when you first arrived, but the jet-lag’s gone now. You’re still not worried about running out of ammo, but, well…
‘Better to have and not need…’
Sticking your blade into your friend Muuzi’s neck on the way over, you get to work relieving the made men of their worldly belongings.
Leather armor. Curved blades of all shapes and sizes. A hook-shaped mace belonging to the tusked terror in the back. Sacks of spice that makes your nostrils itch. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, chunks of card-sized metal with those rough surfaces… Oh, and more pouches of those jingling things you keep finding on these freaks. Money, most likely. Must be up to four-thousand of the damn things by now.
You take the smaller stuff. Even if the armor fit you, it wouldn’t do much that wasn’t already being done. And besides-
You put that thought on hold when you notice an error in your count: Silent Shades. Big-Man Biiba. Leader Lido… Messed-Up Muuzi…
SSHCK.
A cold, thin blade gets acquainted with your side.
“How’s that feel?”
...Needo.
The small slasher doesn’t wait for your response before going to town–sticking your side like a kid making airholes in a jar for his new bug pet and laughing all the while.
“MUUZI! SHADES! LIDO! BIIBA!” The lights are on, but nobody’s home. Guess there is honor among thieves…
Loyalty, maybe.
Your pint-sized perforator only realizes something’s wrong when you turn around to face him–your stony expression no worse for wear… and his blade never sinking further than skin-deep. Picking him up by the scruff of his surprisingly-fluffy neck, you bring the murderous little stoat to your eye-level.
“Da’ Hells..”
One more time, you drone as you stare a hole through his trembling eyes, with feeling.
Needo tries, of course, but the stab is uncertain. Frantic. By the time the blade is halfway down in its arc, you’ve already flung the fuzzball into the trees.
He lands in the snow about ten feet away, give-or-take. By the time you’ve retrieved your knife from Muuzi’s throat, Needo’s still on his ass.
His pupils are pinpricks. Body’s quaking. Poor bastard: he’s not used to being the scared one. The two of you stare each other down like statues before you break the ice:
Go on, you tell him in the usual lackadaisical tone,
Run.
And they’re off, you think as you watch the mobster scamper off into the woods. He has a head start, but he’s scared as hell–his tracks’ll be easy to follow. Cracking your neck, you load a few more shells into your Chinchill.
You hungry?
Your answer comes in the form of a raspy laugh.
”Always! Oh, and darlin’…
Call me RED.”
END OF PART 5!
Dutifully retrieving the warm shell casings from the ground, you stick them in the backpack pocket with the rest of the spent shells. You were sloppy when you first arrived, but the jet-lag’s gone now. You’re still not worried about running out of ammo, but, well…
‘Better to have and not need…’
Sticking your blade into your friend Muuzi’s neck on the way over, you get to work relieving the made men of their worldly belongings.
Leather armor. Curved blades of all shapes and sizes. A hook-shaped mace belonging to the tusked terror in the back. Sacks of spice that makes your nostrils itch. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, chunks of card-sized metal with those rough surfaces… Oh, and more pouches of those jingling things you keep finding on these freaks. Money, most likely. Must be up to four-thousand of the damn things by now.
You take the smaller stuff. Even if the armor fit you, it wouldn’t do much that wasn’t already being done. And besides-
You put that thought on hold when you notice an error in your count: Silent Shades. Big-Man Biiba. Leader Lido… Messed-Up Muuzi…
SSHCK.
A cold, thin blade gets acquainted with your side.
“How’s that feel?”
...Needo.
The small slasher doesn’t wait for your response before going to town–sticking your side like a kid making airholes in a jar for his new bug pet and laughing all the while.
“MUUZI! SHADES! LIDO! BIIBA!” The lights are on, but nobody’s home. Guess there is honor among thieves…
Loyalty, maybe.
Your pint-sized perforator only realizes something’s wrong when you turn around to face him–your stony expression no worse for wear… and his blade never sinking further than skin-deep. Picking him up by the scruff of his surprisingly-fluffy neck, you bring the murderous little stoat to your eye-level.
“Da’ Hells..”
One more time, you drone as you stare a hole through his trembling eyes, with feeling.
Needo tries, of course, but the stab is uncertain. Frantic. By the time the blade is halfway down in its arc, you’ve already flung the fuzzball into the trees.
He lands in the snow about ten feet away, give-or-take. By the time you’ve retrieved your knife from Muuzi’s throat, Needo’s still on his ass.
His pupils are pinpricks. Body’s quaking. Poor bastard: he’s not used to being the scared one. The two of you stare each other down like statues before you break the ice:
Go on, you tell him in the usual lackadaisical tone,
Run.
And they’re off, you think as you watch the mobster scamper off into the woods. He has a head start, but he’s scared as hell–his tracks’ll be easy to follow. Cracking your neck, you load a few more shells into your Chinchill.
You hungry?
Your answer comes in the form of a raspy laugh.
”Always! Oh, and darlin’…
Call me RED.”
END OF PART 5!
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