The Beginning
The night was still. Clouds hid the moon behind a dark veil, and only acne-like light-poles threw out bars of bright sun, like pockets of day. Tiny streets were empty, the row of white-walled houses, all single-storied and small, lay dark. Clocks read twelve, and children now slept.
Which made it all the louder when the thief stepped on a branch. The crack was like a gun-shot in the backyard, in that still-soft silence, and he softly cursed under his breath. The thief, wearing all blues and blacks, became statue in soul-- stock-still he stood, unmoving and unmovable. No sound of him came, that trespasser; and he was alert, listening well to all around him.
Incredibly, impossibly, no-one moved. Despite the great shot of noise, the home's owner was still asleep. Thanking whatever might be listening, the thief walked through the lawn. Green grass muffled his steps-- his shoes were soft, and made no noise. He had an open path to the door, and to the house. Carving a path, the thief slunked about noiselessly, a straight line towards the door that had little curve to it-- a bullet's path, from where he once stood.
Finally, he reached the door and opened it. An entrance hall, you might suppose, a small chamber perhaps in that sense. A washer and dryer were stacked against the wall, silent in the night. Making his way further through, the thief opened the second door, leading from that entryway to the rest of the house by way of kitchen.
Standing there, he saw a man. No mere man, though-- he wore bright red armor, a rounded great-helm, and a fine white cape. He was mighty clad, a fearsome foe.
He saw me.
The thief took one look, and he fled from me. But as he did, he took a prized possession.
I ran after. My legs flowed like the water over the fall, pounding on grass and pavement, nothing but a few huffs escaping once ever blue moon. We ran through the yards, we two, him clutching my prize to his chest. Turning around, the thief pulled something from his pocket-- and a moment later, hot lead and fire came screaming towards me. With but a thought, my red armor flowed, and a shield came to life on my arm. I swung, and the bullet was sent out of path, spiraling into the ground by my feet.
We continued the chase, me knocking fire-lead from the air and gaining on the pursued slowly. Again and again. Bone-deep thud shook each time I blocked the bullets, but my resolve was clear-- my will was strong-- and I could not be stopped nor bargained.
Finally, perhaps two minutes after the chase began, I grew great closer to him-- and with one leap, tackled him to the ground. The item fell to the earth with a slight sound, cushioned by grass. He fell harder, but still not terribly so-- hurt, perhaps, but only broken in pride. In that short pursuit we had left the yard, and entered the next house. Perhaps a hundred feet away, there was a small copse of trees, marking where Justville ended and the wilderness began.
I weighed him down. Bending over, I grabbed the item.
Looking at it, I saw the picture of my father was fine.
"You picked the wrong house."
"I didn't pick it."
My only warning was a whine. A second later, I was flying through the air, spinning and twirling all about myself, going faster than I could think or speak or hope. I was like a slug, fired downwards from an escaping star-ship-- my speed was so great that I didn't have time to hurt.
A moment later, I hit the first tree. It exploded into wooden shrapnel, raining on the earth. Leafs fell, or some were grabbed in the impromptu vortex.
That hurt.
A moment later I hit the second tree, hard. I stopped suddenly, a crack forming-- but that old oak, huge around and taller than the houses we were not too far away from, stood. Leaves fell on top of me, lightly sprinkled like salt over boiled meat. I was not dead, not yet.
But that hurt more.
My back was like jello. My front was like someone had taken sledgehammer to every inch of skin-- except, of course, that every sledgehammer I've ever been hit with simply bent and broke. Now, instead, I was breaking; breathing funny, I stood shakily on legs that burned and arms that ached.
I managed to look at my foe. He was big in the manner of bears-- taller and wider, perhaps, than me, but that width and length each alike clearly had muscle laced and hiding under them. He wore armor like mine-- but more menacing, more cruel. Vicious, it seemed. White, it shone with malignant fervor, and there were profane symbols of slaughter etched. In his hands he held a mighty hammer, and lightning raced from it. Bolts raked the earth, charring dirt, burning grass, and leaving the scent of ozone thick in the air. They carved channels-- and it seemed, from where I sat, that there might be a design to them, some evil lurking in the details.
He Came.
Unsteadily I stood, sword in one hand and shield in the other. I hurt, from one inch to the other. He opened his moth, once:
"Be afraid."
Gallantly instead did I take up my sword, and wield it. St. Jeanne herself might have been proud at such spine as mine.
And with that I charged-- and then he the same. Combat was fierce and brutal, but swift-- two of my cuts missed, went over hid head, and a moment later his hammer slammed into my side.
It was like a lance powered by train-- the left side of my own suit collapsed into nothing, mighty blessings fading in an instant as the steel shattered.
I fell. My head lolled. I looked up at death-- and saw him raise his hammer.
--
Six Months Earlier
With a start, I woke up.
Odd dreams, I suppose.
