by Jack Delgado
Episode 5a: Duel
Dante stood very still, holding the ring perpendicular to the bartender’s chin. He could feel the weight of the gun; big, probably powerful enough to pierce through the GIACA armor at this range. He listened closely, but couldn’t hear any noises that would give away other weapons.
He weighed his options; obviously, the gunman wanted Malachi alive. The only other option was to fight. And considering that this person had cocked a gun and put it up against his head in complete silence, that idea didn’t appeal to Dante much.
But this was also unacceptable. I hate having guns pointed at me.
He felt the gun press down on his head, forcing him to put the barkeeper down and back away from the bar. Dante kept his eyes fixed squarely on Malachi, who scrambled to his feet and went back behind his bar's fortress walls.
"You can put away the gun now,” he said to the gunman, “I let him go, like you wanted. There's no need for violence."
An instant before it exploded the cap, he felt the gun's trigger pull back. Dante ducked, barely dodging the shot, and swept his weapon upwards, cleanly slicing the gun in two with the fractal blade. He whirled the ring around, slashing at the assailant's (It's the drunk. Remember this, it caught you by surprise) exposed left hip. An unclean, unpleasant cut, but a certain kill.
A wakizashi blade materialized between the ring and the drunk’s hip, deflecting the ring off and turning the edge up towards the ceiling. Dante looked at it in surprise; the blade had come from the drunk’s opposite hand, and had managed to intercept his attack about an inch away from the hip.
His surprise turned to incredulity and he opened his mouth to congratulate, to insult, to say something. But he cursed instead, bending backwards to avoid a slash from a European-style short sword. He rolled backwards and jumped up, slamming the ring’s edge down on the drunk’s back with a wild shout.
This time both of the blades were there to intercept it, the drunk crouching down and making sure the ring hit where the two swords crossed.
Dante pulled the ring off and attacked with wild abandon, slashing and slicing the air as quick as he could, roaring and laughing at the top of his lungs as he pressed his attack. Up, down, around, sideways, it didn’t matter. Not a single blow connected with flesh, air or folded steel meeting each of his strikes.
Dante’s smile was amused and excited. Finally! Someone who can stand up to me! It feels good.
Oh, but Prophet… damn it. He’s always spoiling the fun somehow.
Dante parried a thrust to his gut and danced backwards, leaping up onto a table. The drunk didn’t follow, keeping his distance from the runner.
"This was fun, I gotta say,” Dante called to him, bowing dramatically, “But playtime’s over. You're in my way, and I need to go see someone."
Quick as lightning, Dante drew his twin pistols and blasted out a torrent of bullets, a stream of fifty caliber lead hurtling towards the drunk.
Dante emptied the clip, reloaded, and fired again and again. The pistols began to grow hot in his hand as the heat of all the shots carried through their structure. But as the chamber clicked empty on his last magazine, he was standing there with his jaw hanging and eyes buggy.
Every single one of his bullets had not only failed to hit; they had been cut or shot clean out of the air. Dante straightened up, pistols burning slightly in his hand.
"You're something else, buddy!” he said, admiration clear in his voice, “Where were you trained? I could learn a lot from them."
The figure was in a crouching position, short sword sheathed, gun extended and wakizashi held close to his body. He said nothing, seemingly staring at Dante out of the deep shadows beneath his hood. Dante cocked his head, regarding the fighter curiously.
"You fight like a runner,” he commented quietly, then shook his head, “But that’s not possible, ‘cause I haven’t done anything that would get me executed. So, you a Corporation agent? Nah, they're too stuck-up to disguise themselves as drunks. A merc, maybe?"
Silence. Dante smiled again, wry and amused. A man after my own heart.
"Fine,” he sighed, hopping down from the table, “If you won't talk, I won't ask. But I have to kill you now."
The world slowed around Dante as he kicked out hard with his right foot, launching a tattered velvet-and-mahogany armchair up into the air at the drunk. The slowed sound of shots being fired filled the air around the runner as he sprinted forward, sliding underneath the armchair as it burst and fragmented with bullets. And as he slid to the attacker’s feet, he drew his fist back behind him and jumped up, launching a devastating uppercut straight up at the drunk’s jaw.
The drunk flew back and crashed into a table, silent as the grave. Dante grinned and stretched, feeling the GIACA begin to rearrange his broken knuckles. He paid no attention; pain always takes the backseat to triumph, at least for a little while.
“That was a good little fight,” he called over his shoulder to the still figure lying motionless in a pile of splintered wood, smiling and sounding genuinely pleased. “Shame it had to end so quickly.”
He stretched one last time and turned around, grinning.
“Still, not bad for a drunk passed out on the counter-“
Dante scrambled back and tripped over a broken chair, breathing hard, his eyes wide and terrified. The punch had thrown the drunk’s hood back and torn off the cloth she had been wearing across her face.
Aaliyah was lying there, unconscious on the cold wooden floor.