In the immediate aftermath of the perimeter being breached, an almost palatable silence settles over the bakery — even the sounds of gunfire from the front seem to fade away, and the boy's ragged breathing has evened out — giving a sense of eerie calm in the process. However, I know that said calm is only the prelude to a really nasty storm, and it's simply a case of each side waiting with bated breath for the other to make a move.
So I use this brief moment to take out Measure No.3, all the while keeping my ears out for the slightest aberration in the current quietude. And soon enough, that aberration comes in the form of a crunch of a shoe meeting debris, as well as the slight creak of the floorboard under pressure, and it's sufficient as any to serve as a signal to commence.
So without further warning, I pivot on my right foot to whip around the corner and let of the first salvo. Due to the cloud of dust kicked up from the perimeter breach, I can't really see anything and don't even bother to aim; however, with the pull of the trigger, a clap of thunder is followed by a cry let out and the vague silhouette of a form toppling to the ground seems to hint that I at least got a partial shot in.
It vaguely occurs to me that this likely the first time I'm directly taking a life, but I don't have time to think upon that fact as I pivot back behind the wall before a hail of gunfire is released in the general direction of where I was just at. What those gunmen don't seem to have notice is that, right before I took the shot itself, I made sure to roll a little gift towards them in the form of the third measure: a flashbang grenade.
As I hunker down, I plug my fingers into my ears and squeeze my eyes shut; even with that precaution, the ear-splitting report is still almost overpowering to the senses, and a corner of my eyelid-obscured vision goes briefly white. In the meantime, the gunfire has ceased from this end; in its place is an overlapped and shouted string of cursing, as well as uneven staggered footsteps mixed in with the sound of walls and furniture being bumped into. Oh and one of those footsteps is coming closer.
Thus it's time to issue Measure No.4, and with a press of a button on the wall — there are several at key points just in case, and they are only able to be activated when the first measure is issued — a wire is lifted out from between the floorboards to be set at ankle-height in the doorway. It's not exactly the sturdiest precaution put it place, and it snaps once the half-blinded intruder crosses the threshold, but it still does its job.
The gunman trips and topples in a sprawling heap as his gun clatters to the floor and slides away, and without the slightest bit of hesitation I raise my own gun to aim. As I do so, the kid turns to face my way — it occurs to me that he can't be any older than Rory, but I immediately force that thought down — and his vision must be good enough because realization sets in on his features as he raises a hand to scream, "WAIT—"
Another clap of thunder drowns out the exclamation, and an expression of wide-eyed terror is illuminated for just a small fraction of a second before turning into a cloud that paints the near section of the room in a rain of crimson and pink.
While the body collapses and twitches, I don't have time to dwell on what I just done; hell, I don't even have time to reload. Because, even as I eject the spent shells, it turns out that I have company… and they look a bit pissed. So it's time to get a little hands-on.
With the shotgun held ahead and perpendicular to me as a shield, I lunge forward. This time, the two kids in front of me are close together and practically back-to-back; normally, this would give them a greater collective range of vision and firing area, but as they are still disoriented, it provides me with a key opportunity. So as I crash into them, I manage to knock one down to the ground so that her head hits the doorframe; from the groan, it's not enough to take her out for good, but what matters is the integral seconds obtained from this to deal with the other guy of note. Said guy has not been taken to the ground but instead is merely shoved against the wall as I try to throttle him with my shotgun while keeping his SMG from being pointed at any part of my body. At this moment, he's trying to a—AACK!
Fucker just kneed me in the nuts…
Maybe it's because of a collection of all my experiences — from wrestling, to the Games, to teaching wrestling to someone who does nothing but fight dirty — throughout the years, but somehow I don't curl up into a gasping fit despite the spots swimming before my eyes. However, it's still enough to give the intruder enough of a window to push me back so that I'm now against the counter, and I have to drop the shotgun to put all my focus on keeping that SMG from— SON OF A BITCH!
New fact of the day: having a gun go off near your ear sucks. Same goes for a stream of spent ammo cascading upon your face.
Still, I manage to have the gun aimed away until the only thing I can hear is a slight ring in my right ear that has just compounded the previously-fading ringing from the flashbang. Just for that, I kick my assailant in the shin… with my left leg. Upon contact slight crack is heard followed by a howl of pain, and in that moment, I get an idea and use that opportunity to shove past him — in the process my elbow is added to his face — to make a beeline straight for the stove. I don't even check on the status of the contents in the pan on the still-active burner; I just grab said pan by the handle, take a quick glance to see if the assailant is facing me — he just turned to my direction and is reaching for a spare magazine of ammo — and swing my arm out to let loose the pan's contents in his direction.
Vick tends to overestimate his measurements quite a bit whenever he makes anything sugar-based, be it icings, fillings, or caramel. Fortunately for me, today is no different — How much butter and sugar did he put in there? I was only going to make one pie, not the entire inventory of a candy shop. — and the solution is early enough in its caramelization process to be released from the pan as a golden arc and splatter against the gunman, with the majority hitting his face; unfortunately for him, his eyes are wide open at the time.
Let me tell you something: sugar burns hurt like a bitch. Not only are you getting something akin to boiling water on your skin, the stuff also sticks there like culinary napalm. Suffice to say, getting a liberal coating of caramelizing sugar on your eyeballs probably results in an express trip to a really unpleasant experience.
Yeah… judging from the screams emanated as he crumples to the floor where he writhes around while trying to dislodge the compound — already it's starting to deform and blister his skin as well as… um… whatever's left of his eyes — this kid's definitely not having a good time. And for the briefest moment, all do is simple stare at the scene — the worst thing is that I still don't feel anything about what I just done, beyond the horrifying nature of the maiming itself; granted I'm not sure how long that will last — as the remaining intruder, who has just recovered, rushes to his side; pragmatism states that I should just finish this right now while she's distracted, but I don't have the heart to so.
So as those screams fade into groans and whimpers, so fades the window of opportunity. And as the girl whirls upon me with her gun and a hateful expression — honestly, I find it a bit hypocritical all things considered — I realize that I didn't even use the time to grab ammo, and I'm definitely too far away to go close-quarters. So all I can do is grab the sugar jar, chuck it with the intention of beaning her, and use the distraction to dive for… dammit, it's a bit hard to find cover where I am, and I should have jumped over the counter.
That's when, as a string of shots go over my head and sends shards and splinters raining down upon me, a save comes from an unexpected source… and one who I really shouldn't be out here right now.
I don't know how he got back up and snuck up behind her without being noticed by either of us, but at this moment, Vick is hanging on with an expression of determined fury as he has his apron wrapped around the intruder's face as a combination of blindfold and restraint; no matter how much she struggles to try to throw him off her back, he keeps a firm hold.
Unfortunately, my brother's upper hand doesn't last long, as the intruder runs backwards to slam against the wall. I can hear the air being forced out of Vick's lungs in one rush, and he lets go to crumple to the floor in a grasping heap. So after throwing down the apron with no small amount of frustration, the girl glares at her most recent attacker and—
DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE YOU BITCH!
I don't know where I get the energy from when I launch myself at the intruder; in all frankness, and as my vision clouds, it doesn't really matter. What I know is this: from the moment this bitch raised her gun to point it at my brother, any trace of empathy that I might have felt when she was at her comrade's side has evaporated.
The bitch barely has time to notice my approach and begin facing me when I slam the base of the pan into the side of her face. The pan is still hot enough that, as I pull back for another swing, chunks of skin stick to it and provide a bit of resistance for a fraction of a second before being torn off. I don't give her a chance to scream as I bring the pan down upon her skull again and again… and again…
ALL… YOU… FUCKS… LEAVE… MY… FAMILY… ALONE!
I don't know how long I go at it — actually, everything is almost as if it's shrouded in a haze — but I don't stop until I hear my name being cried out and feel something light bounce off my forehead. It's enough to derail my current train of thought, and my vision clears to reveal Vick in front of me — granted, there's a couple meters between us — with his eyes wide and hands held forward in placation. "Uh… Peet, I… I think you're done."
His gaze shifts downward, and I follow it to see that he's looking at my hands and the improvised weapon I was just wielding; turns out that I had shifted the pan in my hands so that the handle could be used as a bludgeon. When I look down further at the body in front of me, I'm presented with my handiwork. Just like that, all of the energy had been flowing through me ebbs away to leave me utterly drained. Even with the remaining assailants still active out front — though a couple look like they have been taken out — I just don't feel like doing anything right now.
How twisted have I become these past few years?
I know that I' m probably going to ask myself that a lot later, but still now's not the time. So, after making sure Cohen's still alive and as I rock backwards to take a seat on the floor, I try to keep my focus on my brother while asking something fairly important: "Did you just bean me with a loaf of bread?"
"Well, it looked like someone needed to snap you out of it, but I sure as hell wasn't going to get within arms-reach," Vick notes — pretty smart move on his part — before shaking his head. "Honestly, has anybody told you that you can be pretty scary sometimes?"
"Actually, they have." I can't help but think of what Gale called me when we were taking back this district. Despite the nostalgia, I release a regretful sigh. "I really wish you didn't see that."
It's clear that he's rattled by what he just witnessed — or the whole thing, judging by the way his eyes are flitting to the other bodies — but instead of affirming that, Vick gives what I suspect he thinks is a lackadaisical shrug while saying, "It's not like I haven't seen the Games… or a ton of Peacekeepers wiped out brutally by Central. This isn't too different." Despite his attempts at brushing everything off, the crack in my brother's voice betrays how he really feels. However, I know that it's probably that combination of pride and denial that's the only thing allowing him to keep it together, and for his sake, I'm not going to jeopardize that.
The thing is… there is a difference between watching a broadcast and actually witnessing something happen in person, no matter how high of a definition that broadcast may be; it's one of those things that I suspect allowed the Capitolites to be completely detached from reality during their support of the Games. And while those in Twelve are no strangers to death, there's still also a difference between the usual occurrence in this district and what I just did.
Part of me wants to admonish Vick for not following my direct orders and almost getting himself killed in the process; hell, if he wasn't careful, I could have accidentally hurt him. However, another part knows that without his intervention, I'd likely have several bullets within me. In any case, and before I can say anything, he beats me to the punch: "I made sure Beth and Posy were safe where they were and locked the door behind me." That my brother takes that into consideration without me even bringing it up is something I'm grateful for. That's when he fidgets and looks at me with such apologetic earnestness that any previous desire to admonish him abates. "I'm sorry, Peet. I know that I was supposed to wait downstairs, but hearing what was happening… I-I just couldn't… You could have… I—"
"—don't have to say anything," I finish with a smile. "We'll probably talk about this later, but right now, I'll just say thanks for saving me in more ways than one. Seriously, you did good."
The last few words of my statement is enough to enough to make Vick perk up a bit. However, his eyes widen in alarm as he points at the right side of my face and exclaims, "You're bleeding!"
Sure enough, when I raise my hand to where he's pointing at, I feel a parallel and wet set of superficial gashes along my cheek, as well as the wreck that used to be a perfectly intact right earlobe; it dimly occurs to me that it's a result of the SMG's firing. Still, despite how much of a mess I probably look, I try to assure Vick that it's no issue at all; he doesn't buy it and, with a concerned expression, stands up to trudge my way.
"Stay there. I'll—"
My brother doesn't get to finish his sentence. Because the moment he crosses in front of the doorway, several bullets tear through him.