Let's see, where did we leave off? Cole's dead, Haruko's lead at Voyze's is a dead-end, and there are eleven traitors remaining from Cole's coup that stand a real chance of becoming dead. Is anyone else beginning to notice a theme here? Now we get something I wondered about for a few weeks on how to do, if I were to write it in at all: an N.O. fueled battle between two guitar wielders. I mean, how freakin' cool does that sound? Amiright? So, I hope your speakers are in working order, and your neighbors have excellent taste in Michigan-grown Music.


. . .

A dirtbike's growl filled the borehole as it started down the corkscrew earthen ramp. Haruko waited at the bottom, turning her head 'round her shoulders to watch; until that made her dizzy. At last, Rig materialized out of shadow. Now on the last turn before dropping to her level, he stopped and dismounted. At first, his garb didn't add up. He was in a usual button-up mechanic shirt with the sleeves rolled, the usual jeans, the usual motocross boots, usual G&R hat, usual pocket notepad and pen in his shirt's pocket. But a few things stood out as incorrect in her mind. The metal carabiner on his belt loop she'd only seen once before, the day of her arrival. Two canvas pouches were secured to the brackets on his belt, one for each hip. Behind the pouch on his right, clipped onto his belt, was a portable Marshall MS-2 Mini amplifier, and its cable was plugged into his guitar. The guitar he held at a modified low ready. None of it made sense, until she beheld the glowing bright blue of his eyes, two pale lanterns shining at her in the borehole's shade. Then, it clicked.

"Well, well, well. Look who it is. Ambassador of the Special-Ed Short-Bus Club that is Overwatch. To what occasion do I owe this inconvenience?"

"Space Patrol Officer, First Class, Haruko Haruhara. We have never properly introduced ourselves. I am Staff Sergeant Jeffrey Carson, of Overwatch's Section Two Hundred and Sixty-Two. You are scheduled for a flight with the Interstellar Immigration Bureau to the seat of the Galactic Republic Court, to stand trial for High Crimes; Treason chief among them. If you lay down your Guitar now, that will…"

"Look, if you're gonna talk me to death, at least quit being formal about it. Shit's reallllly annoying."

"M'oh-kay. Here's what's up, Sugar-Tits." Both felt relieved when they agreed to speak freely. "I'm gonna take you into custody so the I.I.B. can swing by and pick your sorry ass up, then drag you kicking and screaming to court; where you'll get every book thrown at you, and spend the rest of your days mining ore in an asteroid. If you ain't kosher with this, or put up any kind of a fuss, you're gonna get your pretty pink head blown off."

"Rrrriiiigghhhhtttt…yeah, sorry, no. Uh, not gonna happen. Listen Bub', I'm in all kinds of a hurry, and really, really, really, don't wanna deal with…whatever you got goin' on here." She drew circles around her own eyes, using the distraction to start getting a good grip on her guitar and slipping its strap off her shoulder. "Besides, you've got nothing personal with me, this's just business…"

"You shut that lyin' whore mouth of yours right the fuck now."

"WHOA! Whoa there, waaaaay TOO informal there…"

"Naota's house is full of holes and four dead cops, half of my house is kindling, the shop's been shot to shit, fifty plus more cops are dead on my lawn, and my Uncle is dying in the fuckin' vet's office. Now, we and all those dead cops may just be dirty, no-good, monkey Humans to you, but it's all still very much YOUR fault, and you WILL suffer for it. So quit stallin' and either surrender, or make my day and fuckin' fight me. I got myself right 'n' plenty pissed on the ride over, and I'm not letting a good blood rage go to waste."

'He's bluffing.' If he really was Overwatch as he claimed, he knew exactly what she was capable of. There was no way he actually wanted a fight, he'd have to know she would mop the floor with him. 'It's an act, a damn decent one, but that's all it is.'

"Look, I'm sure that's just a coincidence. I had nothing to…"

"At three thirty yesterday, you met at Grizzly's Bar and BBQ, in Osceola Mills. Your contact was an agent of Medical Mechanica: A Man in Black. You sat in the far back corner booth. He ordered a bourbon, on the rocks. You had a Blue Moon and asked for an extra orange slice; because you like the pulp. After that you disappear and your actions at this time cannot be accounted for. Then, in the evening, you reappear at Naota's house; only to disappear again minutes later. After this, a fifty plus platoon of police roll up, and wow! You've vanished like a far in the wind! Now, what kind of a coincidence am I supposed to fashion out of that fuck-wad fantasy?"

"I dunno? Try writing it down, rolling up the paper, and then shoving it up your ass for all I care."

"Woman, don't you patronize me."

"Damn you are a pain. Almost bad enough to warrant a beating. But lucky for you…" She shifted her shoulder to show her guitar's empty amplifier jack. "My guitar's not plugged in."

"Ohhh…that's just too God damned bad." Rig turned his portable amp on and gave his sixth string a pluck with his thumb. A deep Thhuhhrrruummmm… filled the borehole. "Because MINE IS. Tell yah what. You've got 'till the end of these opening bars, and then it's Open Season on you."

"Ohhh…I'm so, SO, scar-…" BRR-RROOWWW! Rig stared playing while a strange lunatic leer began creeping over his face, eyes opening wide as he bared his teeth in a Mad-Man's laughter.

'Wait, wait, wait! I recognize that tune!' She took a step back as he marched forward, bringing his guitar's base closer to the crook of his shoulder. 'Is he…he is! He's trying to pull a Crazy Uncle Ted! We'll see about that!'

"Have it your way!" She went for her guitar just as the opening bars ended and Rig brought his guitar up in a rifle-shooting stance. Battle with an N.O. attuned or sensitive guitar is a sight to behold, more so to hear when those guitars are plugged into amplifiers. Rig's 1956 Gibson LP Standard knew its player as well as he knew it, and had already discerned his choice of tune. It continued to blast sound from the small box on Rig's belt. The entire arrangement the guitar knew on instinct, the amplification boosting its power as Rig took aim with it at Haruko's head, and fired.

*WHHAAOOOAA! Welcome to my town!

High energy's all 'round tonight!

WHHHAAOOAA! You'd best beware!

There's vi'h'lence in the air tonight! Huh!

Well, Detroit City, she's the place to be!

This Mad-Dog town's gonna set you free!

In a flash, Haruko's sixth sense kicked on, activating a product of an evolution a million years in the making. The swirling, arcing, twisting and weaving flows of N.O. strands appeared before her, connecting her to all things in an endless, fluid web. Energy surged in, nature abhorring a vacuum dumped N.O. into her; what it saw as an empty vessel waiting to be topped off. Now with her senses heightened, strength at full might, and reflexes at the razor's edge, it was high-time to address the bullet barreling towards her nose at over 1,600 feet per second. Even for her, this was going to be close. By backpedaling, she barely had enough room to swing. The edge of the guitar's body connected perfectly, and batted the bullet deep into right field. Already Rig was reloading.

Now she understood why Backbreaker was so densely heavy. Rig rotated the whammy bardown ninety degrees, unlocking the breach and body face. The face lifted away from the guitar's body, pivoting on the hinge at the back and bottom of the fretboard. A spent shell auto-ejected, the brass canister clanging on the stones as smoke roiled from it and Backbreaker's hidden cannon. Seeing the inner working, Haruko saw the instrument had been built around the cannon and barrel of a 20mm single-shot rifle, hidden inside the body, and the barrel in place of a truss rod. Rig drew a fresh shell from one of the canvas pouches on his belt. He dropped, then slammed it home, then snapped the body's face back down. Lastly, he pulled the whammy back up ninety degrees to its default position, then ninety degrees further, up and back now, until a solid CLUNK indicated the gun cocked, locked, and ready to fire.

'Close, I have to get close to him!' She started forward, keeping herself in line with one thread of N.O. The trouble of being able to see, travel along, and draw energy from, N.O. threads is they are never in a straight line; which makes for what appears to be a haphazard, erratic, and random fighting style. However, as a bonus, it does make one much harder to hit with a projectile based weapon. 'If I can get, and stay, within arm's reach, I'll be under the muzzle where he can't hit me; and I can just beat him to pulp!'

OHHhhh, when do we mount the stage?!

Gonna cause a Mad-Dog Rage! M'whaaa-haa-haa-haa!

Whhoooaaaa, when you see my name…

Gonna set this town a'flame! That's right!

Well, Detroit City is just the place to be!

Murder Town's gonna set you free tonight!

OH! No, noooaAAHHHH! NO! Oww! Oh no!

Either Rig was a hair faster than she gave him credit, or she wasn't as fast as she thought. Either way, he still got off a second shot. Instead of the muzzle being behind and over her shoulder, it was in an uncomfortable proximity to her right ear. Half her vision went searing white, and her ear became useless as escaping gases exploded six inches away. But that would be dealt with later. She had Rig where she wanted him. It was impossible for her to miss. She swung and connected the flat back of her guitar's body centrally on Rig's beltline. Unplugged, her guitar's blow wasn't as powerful as it could have been. It was still enough to lift Rig off his feet and throw him 50 yards sideways, end-over-boots-over-end.

"And STAY down!" She commended, with one hand clamped over her ringing and bleeding ear. 'One swing, traded for a ringing ear. Not bad. Eight outta ten. Not my best…MOVE!' Another bullet streaked by. She read the rifling grooves as it passed her eyes. Rig was not staying down.

. . .

Just a minute in and I was already spitting blood. There was no way to have blocked or dodged her dash forward. I'd fired, hauled my guitar down from recoil, reloaded, and got back on the sights just in time to see a pink blur near the muzzle. Soon's I pulled the trigger, I thought: 'Fuck. I missed. This's gonna hurt.' I wasn't sure if the blood was just from my bitten tongue, or something from inside my battered gut. But my mouth was already filled with red stuff, and if my 'elephant standing on my beltline' pain were any indicator, I was probably slotted to piss and shit some blood for a week too; if I lived that long. The pain was really a bad sign. It was enough to override the numbing of N.O. This fight needed wrapped up before I bled internally to death. But I had no luxury of entertaining my own complaints. So I repacked my lip, spat blood and tobacco juice, and got on with it.

Oh, you've no doubt figured out the origin of Backbreaker's name. Shoulder-Crusher would have been more fitting. The round itself is a 20mm by 76.2mm, set in a four inch straight-wall casing for an overall six inch shell. The projectile is 2,000 grains, that's 130 grams, of hardened steel around a core of desensitized RDX explosive, with a contact fuze at its nose, all flung along at 1,607 feet per second. It's a custom piece. These characteristics make for horrendous recoil, especially in a break-action platform with no redirection of gases through a piston or inline system, nor a muzzle brake. All of it goes straight into you. However, if you can connect your shot with your target, the results are friggin' spectacular! Gallagher's Sledge-O-Matic, and they're the watermelon.

With these terminal ballistics in mind, I loosed another shot. I know, I know, her back was turned. Well…fuck that noise. I had a 50/50 guess on which way she'd flinch, and I picked wrong. Did put it right past her eyes though! She prob'bly read the rifling grooves as it went by. Deciding that last round was too close for comfort, she took for the skies. She tossed down and forward her guitar, it skimmed just shy of the ground as she hopped on and took off. Circling around my head, she could now attack from any angle; and at faster speeds than running. I had to blow her outta the sky, and bring her back to my level before she could dive bomb me ten feet into the dirt.

. . .

Even from above, she thought he looked too calm. She'd gotten a good hit on him, blood was dripping down his chin. The rising current of N.O. was sufficient to keep her aloft, so for the moment she was content to time her attack. Once he'd fired again, she would have sufficient warning and distance to dodge, she'd take the guitar in her hands and dive: pile-driving him into the ground for keeps. Game. Set. Match. But he wasn't firing? Why wasn't he firing? What was he waiting for?!

'Shoot already, you miserable little Human! Get it over with, you're taking too damn long!' Vials of N.O. were not unknown to her, other species had long been trying to match hers in means of N.O. manipulation. But she didn't know of a side effect it had on mental capacity. Rig wasn't firing because he was doing some fast math.

. . .

Target is moving…calls for Specialty Shell…Timed Fuze, left pouch. Target's speed is…rough thirty miles an hour. Thirty over thirty-six-hundred seconds, zero point zero-zero eight three….repeating of course, miles per second. Times five two eighty: forty-four feet per second. Distance to target…call it one-fifty yards even. Wind, negligible. Slow us down to…sixteen hundred F.P.S. even. Time to target. One-fifty yards, by three, four-fifty feet. Four-fifty over sixteen hundred, zero point two eight seconds. At forty-four feet per second, that's a…zero point two eight times forty-four…twelve foot, four inch lead. Okay. Round is dead on at fifty yards. Dead on at fifty, low two inches at one hundred…was nine inches low at one fifty. Okay. Speed is sixteen hundred even, twist rate of one to twenty-four, eight hundred R.P.S. Eight hundred times zero point two eight, two hundred twenty four rotations. One click on fuze is twenty rotations, so from bottom minimum of twenty, that's ten more clicks. Be 'bout four feet short at detonation. Momentum should carry shrapnel. Okay. Twelve foot, four inches in front…nine inches up…math's good, sight looks good, gun feels good. Sending it.

. . .

Rig had set the centrifugal fuze of one of his Specialty Shells to go off four feet away from Haruko. She would fly right into a two foot wide cloud of searing copper jacket razors, red-hot steel shards, and burning explosive; not to mention the not insignificant shockwave. At best, she'd be catastrophically shredded from the belly-button up. Luckily for her, for once in his life, Rig's math was slightly off. In his excitement, he'd forgotten to factor for temperature, humidity, and atmospheric pressure. Haruko was also a few feet further than one hundred and fify yards away. Rig also forgot his guitar's sighting point was several inches above its barrel. The round instead detonated two feet low and one foot behind Haruko herself. The shrapnel didn't hit her, but the impact of it on her guitar, and the shockwave, threw her off balance. Down, down, down she careened, plowing face-first into the ground. Hard.

. . .

In that moment, I knew I'd done fucked up. Her upper half hadn't exploded in a red mist, I had not killed her. I'd blown my one chance, and now I was gonna get it. Not only was she still alive…she was pissed.

. . .

"RRRRrrrrooooaaahhhhgrrrgghhhhh!" A primal roar echoed as she pried herself from the divit she'd made in the stones. The 20mm's shrapnel had cut three of her guitar's strings, damaged both fretboards, and taken a chunk from a headstock. Upon impact she'd felt a few ribs break; even she wasn't immune to damage from falling fifty feet at thirty miles an hour onto a bed of rocks. Damaged most though, was her pride. Looking over and seeing him stubbornly still not dead, reloading for another shot, and his guitar still playing, added more gasoline to her rage. Even if he blew one of her arms off, she'd pick up her severed limb and beat him to death with it.

WHHOOooaaa! Those fortified motor cars!

High energy, and it's all ours! Ha! Ha! Ha! Dig this!

WHHOOOAaaaa! Such a heavy place for the Boys and Girls!

It's the Murder Capital of the World! Yeow!

Well, Detroit City, she's the place to be!

Mad-Dog town's gonna set yah free! I say!

. . .

Like I said, I hadn't killed her; I'd flubbed the shot. Now it was a matter of holding out until she got exhausted from whoopin' on me, or maybe finding an opening somewhere if she got sloppy. I fired again, only to watch her leap up and high-jump style let it pass harmlessly under her back. As she completed the roll, she brought her guitar down one-handed and nearly caved in my skull. Only by forgoing a reload and counter-swinging did I avoid it. I figured that as long as I stayed untouched, I was okay.

It's ah Motor-City Maaadhouse! Motor-City Maaadhouse!

Motor-City Maaadhouse! (Such a Madhouse!) Motor-City Maaaadhouse! (It's a Madhouse!)

As long as I kept the music going, I'd be okay…as long as I had Sound, and she didn't, we'd at least be on relatively even footing…

Motor-City Maaadhouse! (Welcome to my Madhouse!) Motor-City Maadhouse!

Motor-City Maaaadhouse! (It's a Motor-City Madhouse!) Motor-City Maaaaaaadd…..OW!

The lines, that how she did it. The N.O. flows, pure energy! That's how she moved so fast, why her style seemed random and erratic; and why she could dodge bullets. Now that I could see them, it made perfect sense, for what little good it did. I'm not my father, after all. At least the lines of N.O. gave me some kind of indicator where she might be coming from.

It's such a Madhouse, I can hardly get next to myself…

Swing right, blocked. Swing left, blocked. Swing suddenly reversed, fall back and jump out of the way. Get knocked down twice and thrown another fifty yards. Swing high, lean back and count the rivets as that double-body goes by and tickles your nose. Back and forth we went, with me fighting for my life, and she playing with her food. Then, as the song was entering its final crescendos, she slipped up.

OHHHH, No, No, NO, NO! Mad House! Motor-City Madhouse!

Motor-City Madhouse! (Oh it's such a MAD-House!)

Motor-City Madhouse! (Whooaa! Oh no, no, no!)

Motor-City Madhouse! Motor-City Maaaaadddd…Ohhhhhh…

Meh-heh, hehe, HA-HA! No, NO, NOOOOooo..!

She'd switched grips from left-handed to right, probably to throw my off, and swung sideways. Holding both fretboards, she was swinging at me the flat back of her guitar's body; a broad arm smasher instead of a narrow bone-breaker. I swung a bone-breaker, leading with the narrow bottom of my guitar's body. I connected dead between the Flying-V and EB-0; right on the seam. At the same time, another of her strings broke, and I hit a crescendo of drums, bass, guitar, and singing, all blasting from my portable amp. In that moment, under that much duress, her guitar fractured.

After Naota had told me how the guitar Haruko was carrying came into being, I'd consulted Tommy for expansion on the theory. He explained Guitars can be fused, but they don't usually go for it if they were single, stand-alone entities before. A purpose-built double-neck is just fine, because it was meant to be that way from its inception. A forced joining, even with a willing pair, will always have friction. Each half will be refusing to submit to the other, and trying to dominate its partner. Skilled players can keep the two halves in line, and Haruko evidently had managed to do so. But they'll always be looking to be free again, and play their own sound as just their own, alone. If subjected to too major of a stress, they will split. And with three guitar and one bass strings broken, and the hammering they had taken, the Flying-V and EB-0 came apart in a pent-up burst of N.O. that sent both Haruko and I flying.

I landed in my best Scorpion Pose; my feet actually touching the ground either side of my head! First I stood, and did my best to ignore my dislocated left shoulder. What I could not ignore, was the sudden silence. I looked down and right. My guitar was no longer plugged in. The Flying-V's notch had snagged on the amp's cable, pulling it from my guitar; then taking the cable with it, it yanked the amp off my belt. Not good. NOT good. Not GOOD. NOT GOOD. Not Good. NOT Good. NotgoodNotgoodNotgoodNotgoooodd…Okay, at least she's disarmed right? There's no way she could have held on to either of those with that kind of…fuck. The dust cleared, and she stood up. With the EB-0. Atomsk's EB-0. And you thought she was peeved, BEFORE. Now without that pesky extra weight to slow her down, I was a dead man standing. As she advanced, I grasped my elbow and reset my shoulder with a white-out snap of pain. I was going to need both hands. I managed to deflect two strikes before getting the body's heel stabbed into my chest. The EB-0 was withdrawn, then swung in a sweeping leg breaker at my femur. I tried to jump over her swing, but she caught my lower right leg on my way up. Before I went spinning sideways, I felt both my tibia and fibula break.

. . .

FINALLY. She'd put the smack-down on Rig, and put it good. Her swing had launched him a good seventy five yards this time, depositing him with a lifeless *thud*. He didn't get up, and he didn't move. Haruko was half a mind to ensure he was finished, a few whacks to the forebrain would've been enough. But her ear was still ringing and bleeding, the flesh of it throbbing, the skin prickled from the muzzle flash burn, she hadn't slept…and was just…Done. Done with G&R, Overwatch, Medical Mechanica, The Man in Black, Pennsylvania, all of it, and she just wanted to get away from everything.

"I'll bet he's got a Gundam Module on that thing…somewhere." She made her way to Rig's Ought-Too, looking it over. One of the toolboxes yielded a hidden ratchet similar to hers. Feeling a little better, she uninstalled from the Ought-Too its Gundam Module, this one looking more like a WW2 era G.I. Joe and painted green, and transferred it to her Vespa. It was an awkward fit, but her machine accepted the new component. Now, this was more like it. She was still furious about her guitar splitting. The Flying-V portion was nowhere obvious to be seen. She'd have to look around a little for it, and then figure out how to get the two back together. Or maybe, she'd have better luck wielding them with one in each hand? This could be a blessing in disguise, maybe the day was starting to move in a positive direction.

"…H…Hey…Hey!" That would be a no.

'Ignoring…'

"Hey! I know you can hear me!"

'Ignore, ignore, ignore. Where is the Flying-V? I've got to find it fast, try and get it back with the EB-0…where is…'

"Y-you can't even manage to whoop MY ass! Where did you get the idea you can take on Atomsk?!" She let that one go. He was just trying to wind her up and make her do something stupid. There were better, more important, things to do. "How the hell did you even get into the G.S.P.B. with a psych head case bad as yours; you bein' as nuts and bolts crazy as you are? What'd you do, suck off a few of the Commandants on the admissions board?"

She stopped. That one, she could not let go. If Rig was just trying to get under her skin, he was dangerously close to succeeding.

"And look at you now! What have you got to show for it? Jack fuckin' shit, that's what! What a waste of a good, red uniform for the G.S.P.B.; and a few blowjobs on your part. Shame, shame." She was beginning to shake and the ground under her feet tremored. The EB-0's fretboard groaned and creaked under her tightening grip. "You should've done yourself and everyone else a favor, and had the decency to die in those woods. In the Gwisyos-Kikee Bernotkiktem."

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?!"

"You fuckin' heard me." She whirled around, seeing a not-dead Rig propping himself up on an elbow; grimaced in pain. His guitar lay behind him and well out of his reach. He was being awful ballsy for someone disarmed.

"Some great, highly-evolved being you are. A proud Liberas that can't even kill a hick kid from the Sticks. You could've…" He hacked and coughed, blood flecking on his lips. "You could be with your parents right now, and saved everyone else the pain of having to tolerate your existence…"

"How do you, you, you…how do you know about that?!" She forgot all of her plans. Rig was going to certain death with each word, and he just would not shut up. She was going to kill him slowly, throttling the truth from him until his eyeballs popped. "You've got no right, NO RIGHT to say any of that! You, you take that back; right now! How do you know about the Ever-Green Forest?!" She picked him up by the throat, ready to thrash him until he told her everything, or his neck snapped; whichever came first. Bent at the waist, she stood astride him, his legs and arms dangling.

"Same's I told Naota when I met him. I have ways of knowing lots of things. I know 'most everything going on in Clearfield and Centre Counties. And, since you're IN Clearfield County: that means you too. I have your file at home, it's full've interesting bits. I also asked Canti and Josh to help me pose as a few different high-ups in Overwatch, and we sent out spoof messages to get more information. Classified psychological evaluations, for inst-…*Hack-hack*…instance. What a tragedy. No wonder you flunked the G.S.P.B. entrance battery the first time."

"You think you're do damn clever, don't you?! It's not gonna help you once I've snapped your neck in half!" She started applying pressure, determined to put an end to this living insult.

"If you do that, you won't know that At…" Rig began to say as she cut off his air.

"Atomsk?! What about him, what do you know? Tell me!" Rig tried to say, but only a mumble came out. Unwilling to relax her grip, she instead leaned closer, straining to hear with her good ear.

. . .

That's right…a little closer…a little closer…

. . .

Only at nose to nose, did she overcome her blinding rage. It was only then and there, too close and too late, that she realized his eyes were still blue.

. . .

"That Atomsk's gonna pulverize you into this planet's core, if a million-year, under-evolved monkey like me can do THIS. HUUUUAAAACKKKK!" Haruko's world went black. Her eyes were on fire, searing acid eating at her corneas made for a crippling agony. Rig had spat his mouthful of tobacco plug, loose leaves, tobacco juice, blood, spit and all, onto Haruko's face and into her eyes. Now even the Copenhagen Company was involved.

She let go with her left hand, keeping a tight grip with her right, and tried to clear her eyes. Doing so opened her left side, Rig's right side. She managed to half-clear one eye, both streaming with tears to flush the offensive fluids, but she still couldn't see what Rig's right hand was doing. It was reaching behind him for the small of his back. But she did hear the very distinctive Cli-Cla-Clack! of a revolver's hammer being thumbed back.

A revolver's soulless black hole of a muzzle wavered into view. There wasn't any time. Rig's finger punched the trigger and Haruko heard the hammer drop, slam into the firing pin, and it connect with the round's primer. The revolver was much too close. A flash appeared at the cylinder gap. Did she even have time to flinch? The jagged crown of a hollow-point bullet emerged. She at least had to try. Propellant gases followed the bullet and exploded in dazzling miniature sun. She let go of Rig and tried to turn away. Now Haruko's vision went blinding white.

. . .

"Sergeant Simmons!"

"Sir."

"I require…oh! Captain Chojnacki. A pleasant surprise, certainly. But you really ought to be resting." The Man had caught the haggard Captain approaching on his peripheral. The right half of Chojnacki's face was swollen and bandaged, a sunken hole where his right eye had been. From head to toe, the Captain ached but knew he must make an appearance.

"Some things you have to see for yourself." Chojnacki looked upon what remained of Cole. No one had been ordered to remove the corpse from center court; and no one was volunteering. "Is he dead?"

"Thoroughly so." The Man was clinical. "It has been…" A quick pocketwatch consultation was performed. "Exactly ten minutes since his heart stopped. Are you pleased with this?"

"No. But I am not saddened either It's just such…such a…"

"A waste."

"Yes. What of them?" Chojnacki nodded at the eleven chained to the fence. "Acid as well?"

"In the interest of efficiency, and considering their lesser involvement as only followers and not leaders, I was about to ready a Firing Squad. Unless…you think acid would be better served?" The Man cocked an eyebrow. "They are your troopers, after all."

"No, I agree." Chojnacki looked each of the elven over. He recognized them all. Two he had interviewed personally. They had shown promise to make Sergeant someday. "But only I will command it. They are my troopers, after all."

"Very well." The Man graciously bowed himself out. "As you wish."

"Think we ought to give them a last cigarette? It is a tradition here on Earth."

"Absolutely not! The Red Star forbids smoking; it is a vile and disgusting habit. Now, make hast Captain. The day is young and there is much to do."

"This won't take long." Chojnacki promised. 'I can't bear doing this…so let's be over with it and be done!' For a fleeting moment, he wished Cole had been a better shot. "S…Sergeant Simmons!"

"Yes, Captain."

"I need eleven men, with M16's, chosen at random."

"Understood, Sir. Okay ladies and gentlemen, line up! Gimme two rows, quickly now!" With everyone lined up, Sergeant Simmons began counting. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Isaac. Front and center. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Nielson. Up you go." And up and down he counted until he collected the unfortunate delegation. "Nine, ten, eleven. Hynen. You're the last one. Have Ross lend you his rifle and a magazine. One row now, dress-right-dress. Rank, forward! March!"

. . .

Hynen thought he was going to throw up. He managed to keep in stride with the rest, a borrowed rifle leaned on his shoulder. This standard M16A4 weighed only seven and a half pounds, but to him it felt like sixteen tons.

"Squad, ready…halt!" Sergeant Simmons ordered and they stopped a mere fifteen yards shy of the fence. At this range, Hynen reasoned he could throw the rifle and hit someone. It would be impossible to claim they missed.

'Why me, why me, why me…oh-why-oh-why-oh-why me?!' Now the urge to vomit was replaced with jitters. His body wanted to let go of all tension building in it and jellify. He'd never shot anyone in the line of duty. Actually, now that he thought on it, he'd yet to even draw his pistol and aim it at anyone. 'It wasn't supposed to be like this!'

"Officers Ames, Heenan, Lindh, Walker Junior, Philby, Burgess, MacLean, Blunt, Cairncross, Dorr, and Browne." Captain Chojnacki stood between them and the firing squad. "You stand accused of having committed Treason against this department, Insubordination, and Usurpation of your commanding officers. You have also committed Treason against The Red Star of The Solar Federation, broken your vows of servitude to The Temple of Syrinx, and rejected the Benevolence of The Priests. Finally, betrayal of the highest and worst order: murder of fellow Patrolmen. All acts were witnessed by the entirety of this department, and are indisputable. How do you plead?"

"Guilty, Captain." Patrolman Browne answered for the group. "We plead guilty."

"Thank you, Officer Browne. With a guilty plea, Pennsylvania law may allow for life imprisonment in place of execution. However, law under The Red Star does not suffer Traitors to live. Punishment shall be execution by firing squad. If anyone wishes to speak last words, speak them now."

"Goddamn, we were fuckin' stupid huh?" Officer Walker Jr. shook his head. "I knew I wasn't destined to grow old; just not like this. Oh well. Let's get this over with, these cuffs really do start to chafe after a while."

"Anyone else?" The rest were silent. Except for Burgess. Her eyes were clenched tight and lips moved in silent prayer. Oh Heavenly Father, forgive me, for I have sinned… "Very well. Sergeant Simmons, proceed at your discretion."

"Squad, ready! Present, arms!" They snapped their rifles to their front. Hynen's mouth went dry.

"Mount, arms!" They raised their rifles to their shoulders. Perhaps if he fainted, they would drag him aside and replace him?

"Make ready!" Eleven clicks sounded as the safeties were flicked off.

"Take aim!" With no blindfolds or hoods, Hynen got a good look at his target. Patrolman Ames. 25. Mousy brown hair, brown eyes. 5'-11". Medium build. Thin, long face. Cleft in his chin. Dimple on his left cheek only. Hynen knew him from pick-up basketball games on this very court. Ames drove a Dodge truck, grey. He was married, Karla was her name. Both had been trying for a child. Why had he thrown all that away? A lapse of sanity? Had that been Cole's real power: bending anyone to his bidding? Hynen swallowed hard and steadied his aim. The front sight post settled onto Ames' third shirt button; his X-ring. If Ames hadn't turned, if he'd stood up and said 'No!'…If he'd grown a spine and done the right thing, Hynen wouldn't be randomly picked, and aiming a rifle at him. Why had Ames just gone along and done nothing; even if he knew what he was doing was wrong?!

"FIRE!"

The morning calm shattered at the crack of eleven rifles.

. . .


Songs:

*Motor City Madhouse - Ted Nugent

I hate to do it, I really do; I really, really do. But I'm gonna make you hang on that cliff of Haruko Hill for a while. I have to keep you coming back emsomehow.

Here's to hoping you noticed I have started to sprinkle in a few words here and there of the language spoken in The Red Star, and by the Liberas. I am not going to go full Tolkien and completely invent a brand new language just for this story; I have found a reliable generator to use. No! I am not sharing haha! But since I plan to begin bringing M-M into more prominence, it seemed odd that all of them would conveniently speak flawless English, or at least would for some reason speak it to each other; especially in company of Humans.

Patrolman Hynen is going to serve as a perfect window into the police viewpoint on things. He doesn't feel like a good or bad character, just someone who made the wrong decision in a difficult spot. We find him not happy with where he's wound up, and he can't figure out if he would be better served getting the hell out, or just hunkering down and riding it out.

I think that is all for now, please feel free to let me know if I have forgotten anything. A challenge in my life is working up the nerve to attempt an original book/novel/story/what-have-you of my own, so really please do tell me where and what I can improve; and what works too! Hopefully the crud I have clears up and I won't make you wait months for another set of chapters. Many thanks again!