He’d warned her. At the first sign of trouble, they would step in, and Charlele’s life would not be a priority. What he hadn’t warned her of, was that he knew it wouldn’t go the way she wanted.

He didn’t want to see her fail, but failure revealed too much about a person for him to allow this opportunity to slide past him. He didn’t trust the Singer yet. She was also... hopeful. This wasn’t bad, truthfully he admired the way she empathized with those around her – it was a skill he had as well, but she used it in a way he just couldn’t manage: to find the best in them.

Charlele was too obsessed, however, and her sudden and overwhelming attack indicated she was desperate. He’d done well to put a fear of him into the lizard woman, but perhaps it had backfired and prompted this excessive amount of force. It was also good, then, that he had yet to reveal all his cards.

There was no point in holding back now, though. Charlele was surrounded, though she had no way of knowing about the Viribus Poet Warrior waiting to dive through the window over the fire escape. Not to mention the second Poet Warrior watching over her disabled companions, or the third waiting with him at the door. And she wouldn’t be expecting him, not in the way he was about to present himself.

As the Singer entered to attempt diplomacy, he had begun to pray. He certainly put no stock in what he remembered of Earth and its religions, but he did believe in ritual. Ritual could overcome fear and hesitation. Ritual could forge the neural paths in his brain into something more robust. Ritual could hone his concentration enough to call on the tiny bits of metal embedded in his spine.

“O’ Father on your distant throne, send your spirit to guide me,” he breathed. Already he could feel the edges of the hole in his mind, and the light above his head flickered. “Shine your light through me, and if this is truly the path you’ve chosen for me, guide me to its end.” The words helped to steer his mind down familiar pathways, strengthened by the ritual of the prayer. With the final phrase, he would fire the paths through his brain, which would open one of the Gates attached to his spine.

He’d never tried to open the Gate during combat before, it took too long for him to summon the concentration required. The Ritual helped, but it wasn’t fast enough for the demands of combat – unless he could begin the Ritual beforehand. And if he wanted a good chance of recovering this scenario without killing Charlele, he would need to try.

A gunshot split the air, and he spat, “Open the Gate!”

He felt something in his mind, the hole, open into something old. His vision brightened even as the lights died, his reaction time quickened, and the world around him slowed to a crawl. A whisper permeated his thoughts, dragging his attention down nueral pathways – guiding his thoughts. The paths it chose were strange and winding, but his comprehension was always complete.

Even when, for some reason, it reached through the Gate to make him view the memory of a half watched film.

From without, the hallways dropped into darkness as he stepped into the door of the apartment. There was no visible light, despite that the world took on a golden tint to his eyes, but Charlele saw him immediately. Typically, his own reaction time was nothing compared to Charlele’s, but with the Gate open, he could match her.

“In-In-In-Insufficient-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t ...”

The battle occurred as if each of them had to force themselves to move through molasses. Charlele swung her gun toward the door, firing as she swept across the opening diagonally. The Singer tore herself from Charlele’s grip, and blood sprayed from where the lizard woman’s claws grazed her throat.

He raised his gun. A large revolver with its barrel along the bottom of the cylinder to reduce flip up. It only held six shots compared to the twelve Charlele’s would have in its magazine, but he knew – through the power of the Gate still racing through him – he would hit every shot.

First, he aimed at the window and pulled the trigger twice. The flash of the gun blinded him, and the recoil bucked against his arm.

“... Pow-Pow-Pow-Pow-Pow-Pow-Powerrrrrrrrrrrrrrr ...”

His heart raced, and his vision returned as Charlele finished the motion of her arm. He hadn’t been able to count the shots, but judging by the quickly spreading warmth near his thigh, he’d been hit at least once.

The Singer could hit harder than he’d expected. The impact of her heel against Charlele’s shoulder sent a ripple through both their bodies, but only Charlele’s shoulder dislocated. Charlele was already reacting before the hit landed. She awkwardly shrank away from the blow and moved her knee into a strike to the Singer’s ribs. Awkward though it was, the impact still lifted the Singer from her feet.

“... Un-Un-Unnnnnnnnnnnnable To Establish-lish-lish ...”

His third shot exploded against Charlele’s gun, shattering the weapon in a cloud of bullet powder. Charlele barely had an instant to try to react to this before Sheh’teh leapt through the destroyed window frame. With one arm hanging limp, and the other full of shrapnel, she had nothing to stop the Poet Warrior from slamming into her with all her weight.

The world quickly began to stutter back into full speed as the hole in his mind shrank. The pathways the Gate guided him down became less and less coherent, to the point where he wondered how Dirty Harry had to do with anything.

“... F-F-F-F-F-Full Connnnnnnnnnnnnnnectionnnnnn ...”

His gun dropped to his side, and he let out a hissing breath. The world lost its golden glow, and the lights in the apartment reluctantly flickered back to life. He felt a chill deep in his spine even though the temperature in the room hadn’t changed, his breath turned to mist as it left him.

The Gate closed with an ominous, whispered declaration that only he could hear echo through his mind: “Noli timere. Petite, et dabitur.”

Pain washed up his side and pulsed with his heartbeat through his bones. His leg along that side shook. His own weight on his hip enough to flare agony into unbearable torture. Turin'eh followed him into the apartment, and his large hands clamped onto him before he could collapse. It took a concentrated effort to stay awake as the pain darkened the edges of his vision.

Sheh’teh wrestled Charlele into a sitting position, keeping her hold thanks to her extra set of arms. The sight of desperate hope falling away to the despair of failure on Charlele's face forced a rictus grin onto his own. It gave him the strength to slip the mask of the Thief-Taker back on. He stood up straight with Turin'eh's help and aimed his gun at Charlele again.

“I know what you're thinking. Did he fire six shots, or only five?”