Story time is here again! I swear I’ve said that more than a dozen times but can only think of so many ways of introducing these posts. Anyway, here is another Sci-Fi story, it’s about 11,300 words, I think it’s more fast paced and I want to see if this goes down how you think it will. I wish I could say more than that but if I do it’ll spoil what happens. Not sure it’ll be a surprise but hey, have to wait and see. Hope you enjoy, Blue Eyes Blind!
A heavy calibre projectile slams into the left shoulder of Naramus’ carbontanium armour. His shoulder relents against the force and is pushed back momentarily. That is his only response to the impact as the bulk of it is absorbed by the natural attributes of the bullet resistant composite. However, the bullet does not halt the gun-metal grey skinned man’s progress as he continues his forward stride. More bullets pepper him. Each does little but to act as an inconvenience, fleeting and pointless. They are all of a smaller calibre. He shrugs them off as though they hold no life ending potential.
One the shooters might be inclined, under circumstances not potentially fatal, to stare with bewilderment and wonder in their eyes. Alas, circumstances are not different and so these men and women continue firing. They need to stop Naramus. He is their enemy much like they are his. But while they are armed with guns Naramus wields a katana. Its scabbard hangs off his left hip. Currently the blade is pointed toward the floor, held down at his side. The silhouette cuts quite the imposing and terrifying figure for the shooters cannot see his faded blue eyes or his gritted teeth. Due to that he looks immovable, invincible, impossible. All they can see is a composite clad suit of armour with sword in hand coming for them, straight for them. He could rush them headlong, he is not inclined too. They cannot run forever. They started this attack but he will be the one to finish it. Of that much these adversaries can be sure of. If they are not then that is there loss. An ambush did not need to occur, but it did occur and so he will show them the error of their ways.
Another large calibre round is fired Naramus’ way. He does a quick turn while continuing to close the gap. The bullet misses, narrowly. Jaws drop, eyes go wide. Beneath the helmet that engulfs his head making it faceless, Naramus smiles. He has revealed something they were confident he could not perform. If there were chance of them surviving that might be an issue but they are not. Death will greet them, all.
Naramus reaches a small gaggle of attackers. Five swipes in quick succession that could not be prevented take the lives of those within his blades reach. Limbs are severed from the bodies they once belonged too. There are no screams of pain. The group are dead. The bullets having paused for the briefest of moments so not to hit their own roar back to full capacity. Naramus ignores them, turns and resumes his long strides. He is not a tall man. He does not have to be. Average would be the best description of his height but not his weight. He is stick thin, athletic, agile, lethal. It’s what a lifetime of training will do for you. However, his enhancements are what have elevated him to whole different level. They were, when they were installed, experimental and have allowed Naramus to remain in the field long after his capacity to do so should have expired. Death is of little concern to him. He does not fear it or believe in its inevitability. At least when it comes to his own life; the same cannot be said of those foolish enough to provoke his wrath.
Stupidly a trio of gunmen rush the sword wielding man. Bullets crash across his chest making plenty of noise but doing nothing else. Backpedalling follows, from the attackers. It does not succeed in its intent for Naramus leaps forward, slashes three times which disarms the trio. Screams follow. They are of the bloodcurdling kind. Death will be slow for them if they are left in these states. That is the intent. The sword armed man wants his enemies to know they offer no resistance. He is the blade and the blade is he. They are one. These enemies need to know that and understand how much fear should be felt by his presence for standing on his path, stopping him from his future.
The heavy gun fires again, Naramus smiles. The bullet again misses for what is now the second time. Suddenly a second shot from a freshly installed tripod mounted gun fires right after the first. Its presence catches Naramus off-guard resulting in him being hit square in the gut. He braces, accepts the strike, his armour absorbing and dissipating the energy from it. The round clatters to the concrete floor. Naramus growls irritated. His head snaps up. His eyes are glaring. They cannot be seen. He does not care. It does not matter. Ground has been lost. A snarl carves its way across his face. It remains in place. Naramus steps over the bullet with the crushed tip but does not resume his stride. Rather, he stands sword lowered, blade on display. The hail of bullets sputters to a close. His adversaries exchange confused looks shortly afterwards. They do not understand what their target is doing. Briefings informed he would be relentless, would never stop. But he has stopped, why? Little would slow him and nothing would stop him unless he is mortally wounded, is what they were told. Those exact words.
They haven’t had the chance to try mortally wounding him yet. For the moment they are focused on drawing him in. Explosives are his weakness and some of the operatives are ready and armed with something that should take him down, permanently. Unfortunately, if Naramus has somehow foreseen their intent the plan will be ruined. Surely he can’t know what the ops teams have planned. How can he? He isn’t clairvoyant. His enhancements are purely genetic, past those that were a necessity due to damage sustained prior to his improvement.
The operatives are not forced to wait long for an answer as Naramus, in the blink of an eye, throws himself forward. If anyone else tried the manoeuvre they would fall flat on their faces having forgotten that humans cannot counteract gravity. Yet, that does not seem to be an issue which afflicts the katana wielder for he flies through the air as if he has wings. It’s miraculous and terrifying. The first few operatives react too late. Naramus lands amongst them and begins to slash. Hesitation from the other operatives follows. They don’t want to unload onto their own until an order demands they, “Open fire!”
With that the mass of hurled bullets resumes. It pours upon Naramus’ location. He ignores it and continues his slicing, slashing motions. Few of the operatives he jumped into the middle of are left standing now. Most have been dismembered by his blade. The bullets have only helped to further shred the meat that at one time were living things. Still, Naramus does not see their deaths as a great loss. They are the poison, the disease which has grown unchecked. Like any diseased entity, such as a tree, the best way to ensure the survival of the whole is to strip the afflicted sections away. Such things are for the good of the whole. People never think twice about pruning a plant or herd of the leaves, branches or specimens which would pollute the rest, until it comes to people that is. Then there seems to be an issue. Naramus sees no issue. And again, the operatives were the ones who started this. He was minding his own business when they attacked. That has been their mistake, a final one. Something he will prove to them, here, today.
The heavy guns on tripods fire again, simultaneously this time. Naramus dodges, throwing himself up and into the air where he does what would best be describe as a pirouetting backflip of such perfection that it would put any Olympic competitor to shame.
Landing, the katana wielder explodes into a sprint. The heavy guns missed their mark. He is inclined not to permit them another shot and so he rushes past, slashing all those between him and the emplacements. Sadly, the more bodies he cuts down the more that pour from… He doesn’t know where they are pouring from. If he did he would stem the flood permanently but alas his focus must remain on that which serves as his largest threat, the tripod mounted cannons. He is closing upon them. Bodies lie in his wake. His blade is slick with crimson. It will need a thorough cleaning once this is over. The blade is his most prized possession. He cannot and will not live without it. Some might call it an obsession but they understand little of its importance. Without this sword he would have died thousands of times, long before he was ever granted these unnatural gifts he possesses.
The towering black and grey walls of the building foundations and sub-levels which are funnelling him forward are of little consequence to Naramus. Much like this city as a whole holds no importance or connection. It is a place. One he is passing through. Like all of the cities of the world it is a corrupt broken remnant of a time when humanity still had the chance to prosper. Instead mankind squandered their chance which is why they are trapped on the planet of their birth. These cities having been built upon the bones of what stood before. It’s why exposed foundations and avenues such as this one exist. Rubbish; discarded, rusted and mangled, lies strewn about in much the same way a cat might litter wherever it likes if it is not trained and provided a litter box. Naramus has no feelings as to whether this is a fate humanity deserves or not. He does not care. It is the fate that exists. In his eyes all you can do is live through what you are offered. Some die, others live; he has been and done both. But he cannot refute that plenty of rot has remained which should have been stripped away.
Reaching the mounted cannons Naramus makes quick work of those protecting and operating the weapons. Screams fill his ears. Many of those who meet his katana make no sounds, for they are dead. The rest are left as reminders. Yet, they will not survive the night as the sun falls ever closer, and seemingly quicker, toward the horizon. The sky a definite rust red colour; Naramus carves the mounted guns into sections. Each piece tumbles off the raised worn, stained, cracked and crumbling sections of concrete that serve as platforms. They once formed a drain. During the rainfalls three times a year they serve as such things still. However, now they appear more like storm drains when the rains come.
Igniting the ammunition crates stacked around the base of the tripods results in an almighty double explosion. Naramus completes a triple spin in the air only to land a good distance outside of the effects of the blast, unharmed. He made sure to throw himself clear moments prior to the detonation. He knows his limits, his weaknesses. Of all those that might afflict a person he thinks an inability to sustain oneself successfully against detonations is the least abhorrent trait one can be burdened with.
Back amongst the funnel that is the trench with exposed foundations the operatives collapse upon him, not literally but figuratively. All the weapons fire at their disposal pouring upon his position. Naramus cackles as he whirls, spins, slashes, slices and cleaves at those encircling him. He thinks them mad for they appear to be offering themselves up to his blade. He cannot fathom as to why anyone would subject themselves to such things. They have seen what he is capable of, witnessed it first hand, suffered it and yet still they continue determined. He will not refuse their wishes nor offer them mercy if that is what they are hoping for. Truthfully, the operatives are expecting no such thing as mercy. Rather, they are aiming and, slowly, succeeding in driving Naramus into position. Just a little further and they’ll be able to put an end to his murder once and for all. Sure, they sprung the trap, deployed an ambush but they are not the monsters here. Naramus is a dangerous man, nothing like… Well, it doesn’t matter who he is nothing like. Suffice to say that there is another who is the complete antithesis of he who is wielding this katana bathed in blood and wrapped in carbontanium armour against them.
The smile across Naramus’ face is so wide his facial muscles are beginning to ache. He hasn’t seen this much action for quite a while. He had forgotten what the heat of combat, the thrill of dispatching foes en masse, was like. To be honest he has missed it. Not that these operatives offer much in the way of challenge. They fall to his blade pitifully. The concrete at his feet drenched in a swamp of blood piled high with the bodies and dismembered limbs of those foolish enough to have provoked him. Yet, the man with the katana is unaware of how far he is far from where he started. He should be aware but is not for he has become lost in his slaughter.
If he were aware he would realise that no longer is he stood out under the falling sun and the rust red sky. Rather, he is stood within the ancient guts of what once served as a depot. It is largely empty now and has been for a long time, for it has long been forgotten and built upon to form the city that towers above. If this event were not on the periphery of the city named Rendition then the sun would not have been visible for the cities monoliths obscure any such view.
“Just a little further you bastard.” The Commander-in-Chief, Stewart Legg, of the operative group mutters under his breath as his brown eyes remain locked on Naramus while he butchers the brave men and women who volunteered for this detail.
Stewart rarely goes into the field anyone. As the head of the private security firm, Raven’s Eye, his presence is principally required by the corporation who owns a majority stake in the private company. Yet, Stewart would be lying if he did not admit the field continues to bring him exhilaration. Especially in place of the boring corporate meetings, dinner invitations, private functions, parties, soirees, balls, dances, or whatever else the multi-trillionaire’s of the world like to partake in. None of it is his scene, not one iota. To him it is wasteful, pointless, sickening and yet he keeps his mouth tightly shut throughout it all. Like a good soldier, in the eyes of the ultra-rich, he rarely speaks unless questioned directly. His paymasters wouldn’t like what he’d have to say if he didn’t wait to be spoken to first and instead voiced his opinions. Not something he’s paid for.
“Fire!” Stewart roars at the top of his lungs a few short moments later. Thankfully, his voice will not have to be heard above the sounds of screaming death and gunfire for he bellows the order into a microphone planted on the underside of his jaw.
In an instant the few operatives still alive surrounding, loosely, Naramus dive away. The katana wielders face twists with confusion as he does not understand what is going on. Not an affliction he is forced to suffer for long as explosives rain down on him. His eyes go wide; he curses, condemns, congratulates and swears this is not the end as detonations tear at his armour, eviscerating sections of his midriff, arms, legs and face while he is flung through the air.
When finally his body returns to ground it does so with a sickening thud. Bones shatter, organs rupture but Naramus hangs onto life and his sword. Much of his face, what remains of it, is on show. He cackles impressed while operatives surround him with levelled weapons and poised trigger fingers. Through the crowd comes Stewart Legg. Naramus does not know the grey haired man with a typical military style cut. However, he does recognise the insignia which denotes the man’s rank. At the sight of it Naramus’ top lip curls in disgust. This Commander-in-Chief is everything he hates and spits painfully, the muscles in his neck and chest barely functional.
“Naramus, you knew this day was coming. Do you have any last words?” Stewart asks ready to give the order that their target is finished once and for all. He will do so with a quick hand gesture hence why his left is raised, two fingers aloft and ready to curl to give the signal. In any other state Stewart would not be this close to Naramus or confident that a hand signal would be the best of choices but their target is down, hard. He isn’t getting up. He is barely breathing. Death will claim him soon and this time they’ll be no way back.
“This isn’t the end.” The injured man wheezes.
“Yes it is Naramus.” Is the assurance the Commander-in-Chief gives a second before his fingers begin to curl to give the final order.
At that very same moment Naramus manages to spring to his feet. His muscles scream, his stature is greatly diminished, his balance unsteady. All those before and around him are startled, stunned. This cannot, should not, be possible and yet it is. With a quick flick of his blade Naramus slices, severing Stewart’s index and middle finger from his left hand. The Commander-in-Chief growls, grabs the wound, spins away and demands, “End this.”
Without pause the surviving operatives of Raven’s Eye do exactly that and open fire. The bullets tears into Naramus in all the places his armour has been stripped away. He feels each and every one of them. The pain should strip him of consciousness but it does not.
He stumbles away. His escape cut short when bullets rip the remains of his legs out from under him. His jaw shatters against the concrete.
Swiftly a shadow appears over him. Naramus doesn’t need to look he knows it is the Commander-in-Chief. No words are exchanged but a pistol is raised and levelled at the back of Naramus’ head. A single sniff is heard and then the trigger is pulled. A shot rings out. It burrows through Naramus’ head. He flops, flat and lifeless. Stewart breathes a sigh of relief.
“What should we do with the body sir?”
“Dump it.” Stewart answers turning, tossing the pistol he claimed off one of his operatives and beginning to walk away. He needs to get his hand fixed and count his losses now that this is over.
As he departs he hears, “You heard the Chief, dump the body, on the double, get it done.”