Good and Evil

When he entered the gates of the city, he knew there was going to be trouble, for there was no one there. Not a person in sight, not a single individual, no movement, nothing. In other words, they knew he was coming. He walked forward, noting that this city amazingly still had electricity, as the street lamp was lit a dull orange. He had, of course, already forgotten the name of the city, but things like that aren't important when there is work to do.

He took another step forward, and saw a poster on the ground. The poster depicted a door. The door had the words "The Swordslinger" written in bold on it. The door was standing erect out in the middle of a lake, with pink trees in full bloom about. This poster scared him, as it was obviously not Random, and so he knelt down and picked it up. At the bottom, he noticed, it did say, "Come see the Swordslinger! The Mute Artist! The Lady who casts Two Shadows! The–" A carnival. Oh, but the White is not without a sense of humor.

He folded the poster and put it in his purse, continuing to walk. Shadow enveloped the streets; every alley was black, and the faded lamps did naught but lengthen the shadow of every real thing on the road. Buildings on either side of him loomed upwards, until they became undistinguishable in the night. A gale. An identical poster blew. He caught again the stage names of the performers… "The Man in Black, and most of all, our great ringleader, Ronald F–" He again looked away with unease, realizing he had not moved in the past thirty seconds at least. He took a step forward, then another. From his perspective, the shadows moved, dancing in the night. To his left there was another street, more sinister than the one he was on. He looked for a green sign, and found one. Random Drive. Of course. Where was he? Another sign proclaimed, Randolph Freeman Avenue. This is the street he was walking on, that he walked on.

Cort had always teased him, for his dislike of guns. They require ammo, they require gunpowder, and they require more maintenance. All for range. He used swords, and steel cuts better than lead, as he always says. Graceful, balanced, and not without stealth, while a gun is loud, bulky. So he picked up a stick one day during training, and found it much more to his liking. Cort thought it would be a phase, but it wasn't, and so Cort yelled, and Cort beat, and Cort screamed, but Cort didn't understand the awesome power of a blade. No one did, not since Arthur Eld melted Excalibur down for use in his gun.

He had arrived at a saloon. A sign claimed, The Alhambra. He walked inside. There were poker cards on the table, and the oil lamp was still burning. It had been refilled not a minute ago. A jug of milk hanging on the wall had sprung a leak, a very small one, but none the less, it was depleting rapidly. The leak had to have occurred less than five minutes ago, unless it had grown since it's original spring. He knew that just before he had gotten here, this saloon had been filled to the brim, people laughing, fighting over poker (there was a royal flush on the table, impossible odds), and enjoying each other's company upstairs in the rooms. He was sure if he went up those stairs, there would be candles lighten, beds in the process of being made… He shuddered to think what power could have done this, empty an entire city. But he didn't shudder for long. He walked around the other side of the bar, ignoring the milk dripping on the floor.

He picked up a gun that was lying on the counter, made of… steel. White steel. The purest white he had ever seen. While it could not be Excalibur itself, which was buried with Arthur Eld, it was a damn good replica. It's hard to make a six-shooter out of steel. He checked for ammo; it was missing one bullet. The remaining five were all Crimson, as if painted in blood. This made him shudder again, violently, something he never did. Glancing over at the wine rack, he saw a bottle of Merlot, a rare wine from a distant world. Impossible that a tiny motel like this place could have a bottle of such expensive stuff; only Travelers can get it without the use of a door. He walked to the rack and pulled the bottle off the shelf. Uncorking it, an unmistakable stench rose to his nose. He shuddered again, a third time, and dropped the bottle in disgust. Blood, Crimson in hue, began pouring out of it. When the liquid hit the ground, it seeped through the wooden floor. He lifted the bottle up and let all the blood pour out, when he heard a metallic tink. A bullet had fallen out, but it was not red as the others were. He picked it up and danced it along his fingers. It was White, White like he had never seen. He put it in the six-shooter, and span the cylinder, clicking it into place. Maybe most guns are bulky, but… Excalibur certainly wasn't. He slipped it onto his belt, in case of emergency, and walked out of the saloon.

There was a man standing on the street, just out of the beam of a street light. It would be impossible to make out anything more than a silhouette, except that the man was facing toward the saloon. Too late to remain hidden, the man had most definitely already seen him. He was not expecting another person, and as such he was not trying to be silent, hidden. His training was slacking, apparently. The man did not move, and so he walked towards the silhouette.

"Hile, stranger! I assume you have noticed the lack of activity in the town. Do you find it as strange as I do, good man?"

The stranger remained eerily motionless. Walking towards this stoic figure, he again called out, "Good man, why do you remain speechless? If you are dumb, raise a hand, make a motion, anything!" He droned on and on to mask the sound of his sword being drawn from his sheath, which was already quiet enough, but he isn't taking any chances. After looking closely at the silhouette, he realized the man had a slight outline that was red, almost a glow, even though the street light was orange. He concealed his sword against his vest. As both were as black as the surrounding darkness, he was sure the man could not see it. Yet the man spoke out:

"Would you dare draw a weapon against me?"

He waited for the man to continue, but he didn't. "We must be careful in these dark times. I'm sure you realize the same, sir, and were you in my position, you would do something similar, would you not?" He managed to say this calmly, but he was nervous. Very nervous. Not Cort himself could have seen the sword, nor hear it be drawn. Few things were more perceptive than Cort.

"So you would dare, then."

After a moment of thought, he answered, "Yes, I would draw a weapon against a stranger, in a recently-ghosted town. Especially one with a red glow."

"Few are so perceptive as to see it. Few are from Gilead, I suppose."

The man began to walk toward him. "I know why you are here, while you do not."

"That is not true. I am here because I was sent here."

"Ah… but you do not know why you were sent here. Slinger,–" He gasped at the use of this name, as it implied knowledge not only that he was a slinger, but that he was not a gunslinger– "there is much you do not know."

"Then teach me."

"First of all, I did this. To the city. It could be called witchery, yes, but so is your Touch, no? Second, my red glow is caused by that which is Crimson. Third, you were sent here to die. Yes, to die, sent to die by your very own Gilead."

"That's impossible. They would not sacrifice a gunslinger on a whim… That just doesn't happen."

"You aren't a gunslinger. You never were, and that's the problem. Do you know why King Arthur dropped the sword in favor of the gun? No, of course you don't. You, like all gunslingers, are ignorant in the ways of politics, no matter how well versed you are in survival. His followers thought that his sword was too powerful. Much too powerful. It was blessed, you see, by the fourteenth color."

"There is no fourteenth, there are only the Thirteen."

"The reason why there are only thirteen is because the fourteenth was destroyed when it's power was transferred to Excalibur. I'm sure you see why they decided it was too dangerous."

"Well, of course… The power of any color embedded in a weapon would be too awesome a power for any. But the gun he made from the sword would still have the same power, would it not?"

"He didn't wield the gun that had the color in it. He sealed it away, saying that he had wish he had kept the sword, which he believed superior. He had already converted all training from swords to guns, and the first line of Gunslingers was well under way. It was too late to go back. So he hid the gun, and it's location was believed to have died with him. I'm sure you see where this is going."

He looked at the gun. The gun on his belt. The gun made of white steel. He switched his sword to his left hand and took the gun out. Opened the cylinder. The bullet. It was the same color as the steel. The bullet was made of steel… The same material the gun was made out of, with the same texture, the same shade of White. He sheathed his sword and popped the bullet out.

"Yes… You're beginning to understand. The gun is not made of steel, but rather of glass. Wizard's Glass. The Glass of the Fourteenth Color. I have lived in this city for many years, fighting the power of the color… I haven't gotten very far, as you can see. Just five bullets. No, not very far at all. After all… the White is very powerful, more than I."

"What are you implying? Surely not that the White is a part of the Rainbow."

"Indeed, I am. Gilead doesn't know this, of course. They also don't know where Excalibur is. They sent you here because you use the sword, and they believe this is blasphemy. Why else would Eld himself abandon the sword? They sent you here because they knew I was here. They sent you here to be killed by me." The red man began walking towards him. He redrew his sword and walked towards the man, closing the gap. He was not afraid of this man surrounded in Crimson. Then the man pulled out a gun. Oops. He rolled to the left behind a barrel, only as a gunshot echoed in the streets. He dived into a pair of doors next to the water barrel, and another gunshot cracked out. The barrel began to leak. He pulled Excalibur off his belt, expertly. His gun training apparently had not worn off yet. Another gunshot, and a glass window broke. He glanced up. The man was standing outside, about to fire off another shot. He ducked, and felt a bullet go through his hair. He stood up, held the gun up, and shot the man. In a blinding flash of red light, he suddenly felt a bullet shoot into his hand, and back out the other side, putting a clean hole an inch into the webbing of his thumb and index finger. He had a small amount of time to think, "Wait… the bullet went through the gun and then through my hand… why is the gun still operational?" when he shot another shot. Another flash of Crimson light. He moved his hand, and felt a bullet go whizzing by it. Of course. The bullets were red, the man was red. He ducked, opened the cylinder, and spun it until the white bullet was at the top. He stood back up and fired. There was a flash of white light… and the cylinder didn't spin. He fired again, and there was another flash of white light. The man was gone. Vanished out of thin air, apparently, but there was something glowing on the ground. He walked outside and looked at it. Not surprised, he picked the Crimson Wizard's Glass up and put it in his purse.

Opening the cylinder of his gun (with his left hand), the white bullet was still there, still at the top. Astounding. He clicked the cylinder back in place, aimed for the ground, and pulled the trigger. There was quite clearly a dent made in the ground, but no bullet. There was blood though. Oh right. He was bleeding. There was a bullet in his leg, and a bullet had gone straight through his hand. He was slacking that he hadn't taken care of these yet. He tore a piece of cloth off of his shirt and wrapped his leg. He would need some water to wash it out, but he could evidently walk on it, so he did just that. Right out of the gates. He sat down against the wall, and examined his hand. Damn that it would be his right. "At least I jerk off left handed," he said out loud. He stood up.

Noises. Behind him. Turning around, he saw a crowded street, full of people, fully and completely unaware of how close their city had come to utter corruption. He smiled.