Chapter Five
All the light and sound in the Garden car park was provided by a single flickering strip-light. The incessant buzzing was accompanied by flashes of light which reflected of the grey steel walls. It had taken me a good few minutes to drag the Galbadian the few hundred yards from the Quad to the relative safety of the car park--originally, I didn't think he'd go down so easily, but I soon learnt that the reality being the opposite was a problem.
"I guess it was you that ate all the mini cheesecakes," I remarked as I stuffed his prone form into the back of a car. It was a green-and-gold Garden car, so it wouldn't drive off in a hurry. I grinned as I pictured a visitor driving away from the Garden, their night of partying over, only to discover an unwanted passenger in the back. Luckily, that passenger was out stone-cold, giving me plenty of time to locate and pacify the other. Hopefully, he hadn't become as friendly with the platters of food passed around the quad. With my job done, I headed for the main hall.
It was peaceful in the main hall, given that most students and visitors were out of sight—any SeeDs who didn't feel like attending the festival holed up in the secret area. Couldn't blame them, really; the incessant blaring of polka music proved to be a somewhat unpleasant distraction, especially if you weren't feeling so good. The other sound was the gentle trickling of running water, which came from the blue fish-fountains. The steaming water was particularly refreshing on a brisk winter day; many students would lean over the railing in an attempt to shake off the chills.
When I reached the Quad, the energy of the Festival had died down slightly. The students with a tendency to drink themselves stupid were already inebriated by now, and would undoubtedly get more tempermental as the night wore on. Many of them chose wine as their weapon of choice, something I couldn't understand. To be honest, I hated the stuff. It didn't matter where you got it from, whether it was the vineyards of Timber, the snow-capped forests of Trabia, the rusty deserts of Centra—all of it tasted like vinegar to me.
Some visitors regarded me with the I-wonder-what-he's-been-up-to stare. Suspicions were easy to harbour in such a place—you never knew who'd be attending the festival with you. Higher-ranking political figures had a tendency to be followed, and although there were less than previous seasons, a few were sprinkled around the dancefloor. I selected a leather-topped bar stool, and dropped myself into it. The bartender, now grinding a tea-towel into an empty shot-glass, noticed my arrival.
"You were gone a while," he commented, placing the glass on the counter. "Thought you'd resigned."
"Had to go to the can," I explained. "You know, duty calls." The bartender seemed to know it was a fabricated excuse, but knew not to question any further. He withdrew a bottle of Trabian whisky, and filled a shot-glass.
"Here's one on the house," he declared, sliding the shot-glass to me over the polished bar. I took the glass, and tilting my head back, downed the liquid in one swallow. I was supposed to be on a mission, naturally, but Cid wasn't going to know about a slight alcohol intake. Closing my eyes, I let the tension seep from my rubbery muscles—but only for a second. The clicking of shoe-heels on marble alerted my right ear, and I whirled around on the bar stool. That better not be him—I've only just sat down.
Guess who it was?
I flung a 500-gil note down on the bar, which caught the bartender's puzzled eye. "I'm incontinent!" I explained, and hurled myself out the quad. The suited man just had to be nearby, and I wasn't going to let him escape—he only had to reach the car park, and he was out of there.
And when I kicked the double doors of the quad open, I suspected that he had evaded my chase. There was nothing there but transparent clouds of steam rising from the water. How he'd managed to bolt up the stairs, round the corner and out of sight without anyone intercepting him—it was impossible, surely?
The grinding of a circle into the base of my spine told me it was. Even though I wasn't facing my assailant, the unseen circle was undoubtedly the barrel of a gun.
"Kinneas," a cultured Galbadian voice stated. Not a question, a statement. He knew me, that was for certain, but how? Roughly, he grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. His cold, steel-grey eyes ran over mine, searching for any traces of fear. Well, he wasn't getting any from me—as usual, I was cool as a cucumber.
"Weapons," he insisted, gesticulating toward the inside of my blazer. Reluctantly, I reached inside the folds and produced a Beretta, and tossed it to the floor without thinking. For some reason, he didn't look at me strangely when I stopped there—he might have been highly trained, but he had no idea there was a Walther PPK in a holster down my trouser-leg. A professional should have known that. With his own gun pointed at me from arm's length—I couldn't define what make it was—he slowly paced backwards, toward the stairs.
"Oh yeah, I almost forgot," he sneered, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He crouched down, and took the Beretta in his free left hand. "Don't mind if I do?"
"Not at all," I replied, and as he averted his gaze to the second pistol, I planted a foot snugly in his abdomen. The blow made contact with something flat and hard. "Shi-----t!" I yelled, clutching the red-hot ball of pain that was my foot. Fucker was wearing some sort of body armour, probably Kevlar, which was unlucky for me. My opponent found this raucously funny, and as I was hopping around on my foot—the other one didn't even feel like a foot any more—he broke into a run, heading for the main hall of the Garden. Dismissing the pain as best I could, I rolled up my trouser leg and withdrew the blue-steel PPK.
The main hall was completely empty, the still of silence disrupted only by the relentless streams of water from the fountains, apart from a shadowy figure bounding toward the car park. Assuming a marksman's stance, gun held in two hands, I picked off a shot at the darting figure. Unfortuantely, the falloff distance took its toll, and the bullet ricocheted harmlessly into the steaming water. That shot had shaved valuable time off the chase, and I hoped I could reach the car park before he got away. The figure disappeared into the park corridor just as I sprinted past the dormitory walkway. The thunderous explosions sounding from the car park corridor told me he was eager to stop me tailing him—that was useful to me; he'd wasted time shooting back at me that he could've used to get out of the Garden. I needed no more encouragement, and soon found myself jerking to a halt at the carpark entrance.
Cars had filed into the marked spaces on the grey asphalt, leaving me with little peripheral vision. He could be hiding behind any one of them, and I would be none the wiser. But he practically sent up a signal flare when a gunshot sounded from behind a red sports-car. I dove to my right, behind a black saloon car, and the round ripped through plaster just inches from my outstretched feet. As I neared the end of my dive, I turned it into a combat roll, and crouched behind the back door of the saloon. I didn't want to be too near the engine, in case he got any cute ideas. Bullets hammered into the exposed side of the vehicle, accompanied by the denting of steel, but the bullets weren't powerful enough to come out my side. The Galbadian seemed to realise this too, and his gunfire eased out. The heel-clicking resumed, this time on asphalt. He knew where I'd gone...
"If you come round here, you think I'd hesitate to kill you?" I shouted, hoping to defer his intentions. A manic chuckle sounded from the other side of the saloon-
-and the next thing I knew, a pair of dazzlingly bright, blue halogen headlights erupted in the confines of the car park. A battered blue van, its mottled bodywork buffeted by salty ocean breeze, screeched to a halt as the owner slammed the brakes down, realising someone was directly in his path. The Galbadian, dazzled by the lights, threw up his hands to deflect their glare, but to little avail. The lights eventually dipped, though, and the driver stuck his head out the window.
"What the hell are ya doing!" he yelled. "You wanna get killed or—"
"Get outta the damn car!" the Galbadian burst in, firing off a shot at the exposed windshield. The bullet made a crystalline, web-like crack in the reinforced plate-glass, which made the driver throw his hands up in surrender. He slowly reached for the door handle, and before he was halfway there, the Galbadian grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hurled him to the ground. As a last gesture of kindness, he fired one more shot, this time at the master electricity switch. It fizzed and crackled with a discharge of energy, then all the lights cut off, leaving the Garden in darkness.
Shit, I don't have night-vision! I thought desperately. I should have listened to Mom—she was right about eating carrots. The blue van whirled round in a reverse U-turn, then bolted out the exit as the Galbadian mashed his foot into the gas pedal. I could see it careening round the pathway as he made his escape.
Fortunately, the owner of the saloon had—somewhat carelessly—left their vehicle unlocked. I knew from past experience how to hot-wire a car, and it wasn't long before I was swerving round the bends of the road in hot pursuit. He was a few hundred yards ahead of me, taking the path to Balamb, and under normal circumstances a pursuer wouldn't have been able to stop him from moving.
But I'm Irvine Kinneas, and these weren't normal circumstances.
My speedometer was rising rapidly, the orange needle juddering toward the white 90 marker. I shifted gears, still keeping my well-trained eye on his progress. He was merely two red squares in a blanket of navy-blue darkness. A slower vehicle appeared in front of us out of the darkness, and somehow we evaded it in opposite directions, doing a slalom round the red hatch, returning to the road just in time to avoid head on contact with another passing vehicle. As we hit a long stretch of road, I pointed the PPK out of the open window, aiming in the general direction of my foe. He wasn't that good—a well-trained professional would have tried evasive manoeuvres to stop anyone firing at him, but without them he was an easy target. I squeezed the trigger, and the shot impacted in the left rear tire, sending a burst of fragmented rubber chunks into the grass. The truck he was driving erratically swerved to the side, and he ground down on the brakes, producing sparks from the shattered back tire. I rotated the steering wheel to the right, and slammed my own brake pedal to the floor. The black saloon careened to a stop just a few feet from the side of my opponent's vehicle. He was already out of his; and was sprinting toward a nearby copse, pistol in hand.
As I found my way into a forest usually inhabited by T-Rexaurs, PPK in hand, the night air fell unearthly silent. If my foe was here, he'd stopped moving. Whether that was to throw me off the scent or to hide, I wasn't any the wiser.
A snap. Someone stepping on a twig, unaware of impending danger. Realising he'd alerted me, the Galbadian uttered a muffled curse, and tried to take another route through the forest. The rustling of leaves and branches was simply too obvious, and I trailed him through noise detection. Every step seemed to throw up more carpets of foliage, every step bringing me that much closer.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a whizzing black object missed the edge of my arm by a fraction of an inch, accompanied by an explosion. The light from the muzzle flash illuminated the forest, revealing every possible hiding place.
Big mistake.
With my gun-arm outstretched, I switched the PPK to semi-auto, and fired three quick rounds. A dark-shrouded figure near a fork in the forest path was flung to the ground, as if he had tripped over a rock. He desperately tried to scramble to his feet, but my foot was already pressing his right arm to the ground. Somehow, in an idiotic move, he'd left my Beretta behind—ironically, the weapon he could've used to kill me could cost him his own life.
"Don't mind if I do," I smirked. I kicked his pistol out of his hand, and it spun across the dusty ground. "Got any other weapons I don't know about?"
"No," he spat. He ground his teeth in agony; the well-aimed shot had drilled into a muscle just above the ankle, making getaway a statistical impossibility. I crouched into a squat, my PPK now clutched loosely; it wouldn't matter much if I wasn't on the defensive.
"So," I said jovially, "talking time. Why were you at the Garden festival? What's in it to interest you?"
The Galbadian's eyes narrowed, his stainless-steel glare focused darkly on me. "Oh, Kinneas. I would have expected more from you. After all that training we did together, I thought you'd know me well enough to know how I take my coffee."
And then, like flipping through a yellowing photo album, the memories flooded back, outlined in dull monochrome.
"What's the target distance?" I asked, my right eye cupped to the telescope. I'd soaked it in eye drops, to keep it alert and to stop me from squinting unnecessarily. Dangers turned his attention away from his rifle, the sun gleaming off his perfectly pearl-white teeth.
"Remember what I told you, Kinneas?" Dangers had an annoying habit of referring to me by last name, a trait I thought only dull lecturers possessed. "If you can see them clearly, zoom's at five hundred metres. And looking at the way your rifle's set up, your scope's only magnified twenty times." Instinctively, I placed my eye back in the lenspiece. Amazing. He was exactly right.
"Watch and learn, Kinneas. Watch and learn." The blue sighting beam of his rifle tracked a Jelleye, hovering around the rusty plains surrounding Galbadia Garden. It flitted in and out of red rock formations, but never escaped the blue spot. Completely unaware of Dangers' bead on it, the Jelleye began to drift too slowly toward the cliff we were crouching on. Dangers tightened his grip on the rifle, as if to ensure me that he was still controlling it. As the blue beam passed over one of the Jelleye's three eyes, it stopped, simply floating above the desert. It was the last mistake the creature would ever make.
The snap of a rifle round being expended reverberated from the canyon walls, rolling around and phasing out before finally dissipating. Dangers smugly unseated the rifle from the bipod, and began deconstructing it, his hands moving over the rifle's components with a responsive elegance. An untrained observer could have been forgiven for thinking the Jelleye was never a creature at all, so precise was Dangers' single shot. My shooting partner faced me with his plastered grin, the rifle now encased in a duffel bag.
"As they always say, learn from the best."
Waylon Dangers. Sharpshooter extraordinaire, Triple Triad expert and consummate ladies' man. I was unfazed in my jealousy of him; although I never regarded him as a friend, he seemed to embody everything I'd ever wanted to be. But now, as I tilted my head toward the coastline, the protege had outwitted the master. I stood up slowly, rising from my haunches, and turned to face the sea.
"You see, I've learnt a few things since we last met. I'm SeeD; you're an unambitious dropout. Okay, so you made it into the G-Army, but I've got purpose for my skills."
"But there's one thing you haven't mastered." Click. "Never turn your back on an armed man."
Somehow, my nemesis had managed to stand up and retrieve the gun I thought I'd kicked to a safe distance. I was always one to make premature assumptions. Irvine, you idiot. You never learn, do you?
Shut up, conscience, I told it. I whirled around, hand inside my blazer, and suddenly my left hand produced an enormous .50 Desert Eagle—which Dangers didn't even now I had. Before he'd even registered my new firearm, the muzzles of both pistols produced tongues of flame, the cannonlike explosion of the Desert Eagle drowning out that of the timid PPK. Dangers flew backward like a ragdoll tossed aside, red holes in his chest soaking his uniform with blood. He collapsed to the ground. As he was lying there, eyes tearing, I stood over him with both handguns aimed directly at his face.
"If there's one thing I learnt from you," I said, "it's from Triple Triad. Never let your opponent see your trump card."
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By now, Balamb Garden had reached curfew, so there was no need to call the technicians—the lights weren't desperately needed. In fact, it added to the atmosphere somewhat in the Disciplinary sector, where our other guest was securely restrained. The chamber was dimly lit in dark red by the emergency strip-lighting, powered by the Garden's main engines. Upon waking up and learning of his compatriot's demise, the other man had been only too willing to talk, especially if it negated the need for legal action.
"Now," Cid said to the man. "I think you know what's brought you here. You were a mere pawn, weren't you? Dangers had you on a leash from the start, and you knew non-compliance wouldn't be to your advantage. But now he's out of the picture, you've got a whole lot to say. Right?"
The Galbadian looked perplexed, as if he had a million things to say, but didn't know how to put the first one in words. Cid didn't take his eyes away.
"What were you doing here?" he inquired. "Surely you've got a reason. Did Dangers force you into this?"
"Yeah, I don't think he came along for the music," I snickered. No one laughed.
"Oh, come on," Cid reprimanded, in the tone of a father teaching his son one of life's valuable lessons. "We know you couldn't have masterminded this all by yourself. At least you could tell us why you're here."
"It was... it was an assassination." Forcing the words out of his mouth seemed to take a great burden off his shoulders. "The President."
"Who, Edea?" Cid demanded. The man weakly nodded his head, then relaxed, as if that nod had dried up his last energy resources. The man seemed to have drifted off to sleep, so Cid instructed the Faculties to watch him for the night, and we trooped toward the elevator. Luckily, that was also powered by the engines. Once we reached the first floor, I stepped out of the elevator. Cid tilted his head, giving me his ruminating look. The interrogation had given him plenty to think about.
"Irvine, I want to explore this situation in a bit more detail, so I'd like you to come to my office tomorrow morning. I may need you for some more assignments. For now, you're dismissed. Go and get some rest." The doors slid closed with a whirring sound, concealing the headmaster and his Faculties.
I discovered when I walked into the pitch-black dorm that I had it all to myself. There was a piece of crumpled notepaper on the table, writing scrawled messily in blue ink. From what I could read in the moonlight streaming in through the blinds, Zack had gone to see his parents in Winhill, and wouldn't return for at least a week. Too tired even to undress, I took one look at the glowing harbour lights of Balamb, before dropping wearily onto my bed, still clothed. I lay backward, staring up at the dorm ceiling. What would people think of me, now I'd killed someone in cold blood? Selphie, Quistis, Zell—surely they'd all regard me as a heartless murderer.
Too many thoughts crept into my mind at once, and I crashed into sleep before I could count them all.
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For the first time in months, I dreamt of Galbadia Garden that night. I don't know why, but thinking of it brought back good memories, careless memories, of flirting, playing cards with friends and, erm, getting a day in the Disciplinary level for not doing six weeks of homework. All I'd got since my transfer to Balamb was masses of bullshit. Even my own so-called girlfriend didn't want anything to do with me. These thoughts somehow found their way into my dreams as well, resulting in a fitful night's sleep and me waking up to a mass of quilts when I awoke.
I began to feel a bit more human after a shower, and a change into my traditional outfit—a long, light brown trenchcoat and similarly coloured trousers, replete with my dark brown cowboy hat. So it was that I found myself seated in a plush red armchair in Cid's spacious office, twirling the hat absently round a finger. The gentle whirring told me the Garden was moving, and through the panoramic windows bordering Cid's office, sparkling azure ocean was the only thing in sight.
"Now, Irvine," Cid began in his patriarchal tone. "It looks like we've got a mission lined up for you. A client in Timber has contacted us with information regarding a rogue agent."
"Who's he working for?"
"Can't say quite yet. All we know is, this is an out-and-out assassination mission, weapons and equipment OSP. They've provided you with the locations of the equipment." He brought up a map of Timber on an overhead display, and a red circle pinpointed a location in the city's monorail district. An unsuspecting house, probably one of those you could spot from down by the pub, their brown roofs arched upward steeply. Cid then handed me a thick wallet across the table, most likely a contract and target information.
"Irvine, the client says you are to go into Timber and assassinate the target, using only the weapon provided. No collateral damage if possible, just the target. Complete mission and return to Garden by 2000 hours. Any questions about this assignment?"
"Yeah," I replied, sitting bolt upright. "What are you gonna do about yesterday's events? You can't just let that whole thing drop."
"The case is closed, Irvine," Cid said wearily. "There's nothing we can do about it right now. Those people were obviously ex-G-Army dissidents, looking to take revenge on her. Nothing more than a payback mission."
"But sir," I interjected, "Dangers had a DY 357 FX. Gold-plated. Those things cost more than a 20 rank SeeD makes in a month."
"Look, just cause he's a little better off that most, we've got no reason to suspect him. If we make an investigation while holding the other one prisoner, we could run into trouble. Regarding international treaties, mostly."
"Fuck international treaties!" I exploded. "You can't just leave this! Aren't you even a little bit suspicious? For all we know, he could've been laundering money to get that weapon, or he might be a member of the Galbadian government, a traitor in their ranks. We've got to act now!"
"As I already said, the case is closed." As I was about to interrupt again, he raised an admonishing index finger. "It's closed, Irvine. Now get on with your mission. We'll discuss this later."
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Timber was known to many as the "locomotive town". It was easy to see why; the town was littered with trainyards, and had four different trains covering different exit points of the town, which were frequently weaving in and out of the town centre. The town was essentially a relic of the industrial era, its boundaries clouded with countless identical houses, reams of brown and grey stretching as far as the eye could see. Usually, the centre of the town was a bustling hive of activity, with shoppers frantically rushing around trying to find the thing they wanted before the retailers closed. As opposed to Balamb's chalky purple-bluish hue, Timber was from a distance a blur of green, grey and blue, as green roadways merged with the trainlines. The enormous, widescreen spectre of the TV station loomed large over the town, casting long shadows over the shopping districts once the sun was out. Unlike the beach town's relaxed, laid-back approach to life, Timber was infused with an unquestionable aura of rapidity.
From the cramped interior of my rented car, I passed under the bridge-like structure which held the infinitely revolving ship-wheel. Sure enough, my target destination was a standard house in the gritty heart of Timber, and I soon found myself ditching the car somewhere near Timber Maniacs.
When I got to the mahogany-coloured door, I was about to knock, when I realised there were no inhabitants. I lifted the doormat at my feet, and a glinting silver object was concealed beneath. The key, obviously. The interior had me lost for words—tattered, ugly green carpet with gold patterns embroidered on, ripped magnolia wallpaper, and a fingerprint-smeared window which showed a great view of the Timber Maniacs building. I headed up to the master bedroom, as that was always the best vantage point. A briefcase was laid out on the unmade double-bed, and I opened it to find a sleek, black customised version of the W2000, deconstructed and held in grey foam. Carefully, I extracted each part from the foam, sliding each piece into place, and slapping the bulbous green-lensed scope to the top. Rifle complete, I threw one of the windows open and placed my rifle on the window sill. From my post, I could draw a bead on almost any human in the city, and the pathway which forked down to the pub and the East Academy trainline was directly in the centre of my cross-hairs.
I knew precious little about my target, as the files revealed as much about him as Squall would've been able to tell me. Evidently, whoever the employer was, they didn't want anyone to find out what they were doing, or who was on the receiving end of it. But I knew enough about his appearance to know the man who turned up at about half-past-one was the one I was looking for. He must have known there'd be people gunning for him; he paced about unrelentingly, often sitting on the bench, standing up, sitting down again, walking about the path. As I watched him in the orange targeting reticle, I jotted brief notes in a pad I had taken with me for good measure.
Target is right-handed.
Target smokes a lot.
He is about five-eight, brown hair, medium build.
Never seems to sit still.
Has a Taurus PT-52 in his pocket.
Looks like an idiot.
I'd begun to get bored of his endless walking about, so you can probably imagine my relief when, at about quarter to three, a man turned up, wearing an impeccably pressed uniform. A SeeD uniform, in the dark blues of Galbadia Garden.
What the hell's goin' on?
Their five-minute meeting was not audible to me, but as it went on, the main target seemed to relax ever so slightly. Eventually, the other man disappeared down the pathway to the East Academy trainline, and I was free to take out the target. His pacing had now stopped, and he was standing over the railing of the pathway, gazing toward the trainyard. He stood still...
...now!
Following the trigger squeeze, the rifle bucked ever so slightly, the recoil absorbed by the modifications. A few hundred yards away, on the pathway, the man's head snapped backward, erupting in a cloud of pink mist. Horrified onlookers gazed toward the scene, and if any of them had been quick enough, they might have seen me withdraw the custom rifle. But no one seemed to acknowledge my location. Knowing my time was limited, I swiftly broke the rifle down into its disassembled form, inserting each one into the correct slot in the briefcase. That done, I hurled down the stairs and out the still-open front door.
I had a problem. Although I'd carried out the mission, it had piqued my inquisitive interest. The SeeD from Galbadia Garden—what was his purpose? Somehow, I had a new objective, and I wasn't going to rest until I found the SeeD's purpose. I couldn't afford to ignore it—it could be a mere cog in a much larger machination. But for now, I had to get out of the town.
The monorail was seething with passengers, as it always was. Even when the town wasn't in the midst of rush hour, everyone seemed to be moving from station to station. Luckily, I managed to find a vacant space in one of the red cabs, and stood up using the post as support. The cab was still filled to capacity, mothers filing into seats with their children and shopping bags in tow; businessmen clutching leather briefcases. My briefcase was very well-considered—I blended in pretty well with the rest of the crowd, only my cowboy hat standing out.
For a while, the monorail journey passed without incident. But once we had passed a couple of stations, and were in the longest stretch of rail, I noticed people shuffling through the thronging crowd. Ordinary people, so to speak, but they had hands inside their jackets, keeping something hidden from the unaware onlookers. And there was only one thing they'd possibly want to hide.
As quickly as I could, I wove in and out of posts and passengers, muttering excuses as I went. As I passed through, heading for the door to the next carriage, there was a muffled spit, and warm liquid splattered across my face and neck. The marksmen, aiming for my head, had accidentally exterminated an innocent bystander. I cast a gaze over my shoulder, and saw the suited men advancing toward me, pistols clenched tightly. The guns were silenced, and looked like Beretta 92s—the type I carried. The cab erupted into anarchy, as the other civilians saw the downed passenger, blood leaking from an open wound behind his ear. Motherfucker! They'd just killed an innocent, without blinking. Surely they wouldn't hesitate to kill me here and now.
The bastards had thought out the plan impeccably, as the long stretch of rail meant that we woudln't stop for at least twenty minutes. Certainly enough time to dispose of me. But I had other ideas. The emergency exit was a feew feet in front of me, and I crashed my shoulder into it in a barge. The hatch detached from the carriage and ripped away into the city streets. The howling wind whipped my face, almost detaching my hat from my well-maintained hair. Just as I placed a hand on each side of the exit hatch, I heard metallic footsteps, signifying that the marksmen had located me.
"It's no use running, SeeD," one of them said. A thick, Estharian accent, with less emphasis on the "s". "You're cornered." Just as I was about to turn round, a district of closely-packed houses came into view, no less than a few feet below. Timber Maniacs was no more than a few feet away!
And a gun barrel placed against the back of my skull, cold and unforgiving, a silencer threaded to the end. "There's no way out."
"That's what you think," I retorted. Without a second thought, I hurled myself into the city air, seeing the roof of Timber Maniacs below me. A guttural cry of "Kill that son of a bitch!" followed me from the emrgency exit, and silencer coughs sounded behind me. I landed on the roof and did a comnat roll, to take the momentum out of my impact. As I did so, more rounds splattered into the roof, sparks erupting by my feet. As I came to the edge of the roof, the street just below me, I hesitated for a split-second too long, giving the marksmen a perfect opportunity. A Beretta round rocketed into my exposed shoulder, slamming in with a spray of blood. In fact, the shot caught me off guard, and with all doubt forgotten, I hopped off the roof. By the time I reached the ground, the red-and-silver train was too far away for the hitmen to get a decent aim, and I wasn't going to wait for them to come back. Heading for the darkened navy-blue of the Deling City line, I rounded the corner into the alley. The grey pathway was cutoff from the street, littered with cardboard boxes, drained bottles and discarded newspaper.
Just as I turned into the alleyway that led to the Aphrora pub, a black shadow crashed into my temple, impacting with a crunching blow that had me reeling. For the last few seconds of consciousness, I was able to ascertain that it was a pulse rifle of some sort, with an orb launcher slung underneath the barrel.
It was the last thing I knew before I crumpled into blackness.
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Phew, that took a while, but it's finally out. Hey, that chapter was really fun to write! I've been looking forward to doing an action-packed chapter like that for a while, but I needed to get plot details down.
Anyway, Chapter 6 will be up pretty soon. Got any questions? Criticisms? Praise? Just click the "Go" button below.
