On a narrow street between two bridges, an attack stalls. There is no cannon here to blast the Juror defenses, no stretcher-bound Kardon Hadi to incite fanaticism. Here is an opportunity to bypass the boulevards and reach the Hanagra, to divide the bridges and flank their defenders. The people of Nachivan have tried to seize that chance and they have died trying. The survivors of the previous assault cling to what cover they can find in the street. A baker, Aviorim Vitor, fires a shot from behind a cart. When he turns back, three figures are coming up through the smoke, drawn to the sounds of battle. One is limping, an arm around another for support.
They drop behind the cart with their fancy repeating rifles, and Vitor takes a good look. A bloodied priest, and a woman's face buried beneath gunpowder residue. And there is a third - his skin deathly pale from bloodloss, his head a mess of untreated bruises and scrapes, his face hairless and young, perhaps twenty, his pant leg cut away to reveal a bandaged thigh that will not hold his weight. Vitor's eyes widen. He has not heard the stories - but he looks at this youth and suspects he is present at the birth of a legend.
And this myth looks him in the eyes - his own cold and distant - and says, What is the situation here? And Vitor gulps, and babbles, and says nothing of any value whatsoever, and the young killer nods and looks at his companions and says, Give me five minutes so that the smoke might clear, before leaning back against the cart and closing his eyes. And the priest bellows out, Cease fire, and the fire ceases.
In the silence, the sound of Vitor struggling with his rifle's action is deafening. The young man does not open his eyes, but he smiles wearily and says, more to the air than any person, Up, back, load, forward, down.
---
The Jurors are nervous. The protection offered by the smoke is gone, the enemy is not showing himself - they come down from the crest to avoid being picked off, fearing exactly what awaits. One peers over, keeping a lookout. Suddenly, a bullet through his scalp. He falls backwards, stunned he heard the shot, stunned to be alive. The others hunch lower, but there is shouting in the street, movement. A brave man looks over and shouts, They're attacking, then a bullet splinters wood and he drops down again, clutching his rifle with white knuckles.
Evama Doron is weak. His body is failing him. And he is finding it much harder to hit a man with cover than one without. He does not kill a man until his fourth shot, when a vain opponent who thinks himself quick tries to kill him. The man falls. Up, back, forward, down. Target, upper left, peering through a gap. Doron fires his fifth round, misses and says, Rifle. Hadar hands him the second rifle.
On the barricade, word spreads. This is no attack, just harassment from a single marksman. The Juror who just escaped death has seen him, has counted five shots. He smiles and returns to the gap, taking aim to silence this pest, and falls clutching his throat. Four more shots, another Juror wounded, Zebadee hands Doron the third rifle. Silently, Vitor moves into the street, gathering the stragglers and advancing.
A gunshot. A zealot falls. Doron swivels towards a smoking tenement window directly right of the barricade - the second floor, his arms are heavy and slow, much too slow - and the Juror kills again before he is silenced. For a moment Doron cannot cover the crest. A Juror looks over, sees the mob only feet away, screams a warning. Then he is ducking, a bullet screaming overhead, but others are climbing and readying their rifles. But bullets still crack above them, three from this rifle, five from the reloaded first one. For one moment they hang back, their resolve shaken. And then the streets of Nachivan are upon them.
The trio is rushing forward now, towards that tenement, Hadar supporting wounded Doron. His good foot slips on a slick of blood and both go down. The priest is there, pulling them to their feet. Then he is ahead of them, storming inside. There is a gunshot and a struggle. When they enter, the priest is pinning a Juror to the wall, pummeling him into unconsciousness. Hadar is concerned, starts to ask Zeb if he is hurt - but there is sound from above, another gunshot, and he merely wipes the blood from his eyes and heads upstairs.
Sword-Altar has smashed a hole in the wall between this tenement and a riverfront shop. Doron readies his bloody revolver as they push through, but no one is waiting for them. The Jurors in the street are preparing a desperate defense. They are not looking this way. A saber-waving starshy is shoving his men into the fight. He falls first. Doron has only a few rounds - but the brutal melee has the enemy wavering. This unexpected blow might break them.
Even as the panic spreads, some turn to face this new threat, drawn to the gunsmoke. Bullets tear through the room. Glass shatters. From his position behind the counter, Doron picks out three men moving towards him, their bayonets like signal mirrors. He has not eaten today. He is bleeding and broken and shockingly calm. He says Rifle, and like that he has five rounds again. He aims and fires. He cannot miss.
---
(OOC: i apologize for making zeb even slightly cool, even by association, but i am enjoying streetfighter sniper man too much)
(today's pun: vasily zebtsev!)
