ZETA

Marc Crue faced him with a scathing gaze, his buccal gash dripping into a miniature waterfall of red. Such rage did not intimidate Zeta, however, and he met that bestial glare with one of his own.

Zeta looked up to the new foe sitting atop the roof, legs dangling in the wind and a devilish, twisted grin. “You! I demand to know who you are.”

The stranger smiled. “You demand? Very well then. Terrent Gust. A pleasure to meet you! They call me the Curved Storm. Here’s why.” He held up an oversized scythe.

Zeta pointed to Marc and then to him. “After I beat this man, you’re next!”

“I can’t wait,” Gust said dryly.

“Are you seriously blowing me off?” Marc asked with utter contempt. He fired an Impossible Shot to signify that emotion. “Kid, you’re a deer in this game, and I’m starving for venison.”

“Then starve. I don’t care,” Zeta replied. “But I can’t let you win. Not if you’re going to betray Hera!”

“Oh, God, not you too,” Marc sighed.

Zeta continued. “In fact, forget the duel. It’s taking too much time. You, Gust or whatever, come fight me too. I’ll take you both on.”

“At the same time?” Marc said, incredulous. “Did those seconds beneath laundry rip your common sense to shreds?”

Gust simply shook his head. “No thanks. Unlike my compatriot down there, I actually enjoy one on one fights, especially with blademasters. I’ll wait.”

“Now you care?” Marc asked.

“Suit yourself then, I’ll make this quick,” Zeta said, facing Marc. “Do you have any more sigmas I haven’t seen? Use them now. I’m curious.”

“I’ve got one more, and you’re not worthy of touching it,” he said.

“If you say so.” Zeta jumped forward on the balls of his feet, practically sliding through the grass towards the Ghost Gun. Marc returned Impossible Shots, but Zeta mastered how to sidestep them.

But Marc had also adapted to battling with a blade. The machete was already drawn by the time the two of them were close enough to connect them.

Zeta kept his posture low. First, to keep his eyes on the finger gun with greater ease, and second, to push Crue’s machete upward, making an opening for the finishing blow.

He also decided that his turn for an offensive flurry was long overdue. Using the same angles as Crue, he struck from every side in a random pattern. Unfortunately, Black Meridian wasn’t as short as the machete. It would be a little slower–

–if it had a different owner.

Marc strained. His breath grew heavy as Zeta maintained a sustained barrage. The Impossible Shots he did manage to fire off had no sense of aim, rhyme, or reason. They bounced off and bashed against all kinds of environment, from potted plants to plaid curtains.

In a bid to relief himself, Marc hopped back so he could aim with more care. But when he looked up, Zeta was gone. He narrowly used to machete to shield his face as Zeta struck downward from the air.

Then Zeta used a gambit of his own. Before his feet touched the ground, he reached for the hand that held the machete. He gripped the wrist and twisted, and Marc dropped his weapon. Not wanting to slay the man, Zeta turned his sword to the flat of the blade, swinging it along the length of the arm and towards the neck.

With primitive instinct, Marc grabbed the blade barehanded. As blood seeped from his palm, his grip did not loosen. He and Zeta wrestled for Black Meridian, culminating with Marc kicking Zeta in the stomach to make him let go.

Zeta got up, furious that Black Meridian had been taken from him. Marc tossed the sword to the side, which angered him even more. Treat that blade with respect.

“Funny. I tried to break it, but the stubborn blade wouldn’t budge,” Marc said. “Reminds me of the owner.”

“Black Meridian would never succumb to someone like you.”

“The stupid piece of crap has a name?” Marc shook his head. “I can see why Hera hates you. You used the flat of the blade. Do you have any intention of actually killing me, or am I a joke to you?”

“Kind of.”

Marc lowered his guns ever so slightly and fired both. Unfortunately for Zeta, Marc now had the distance he desired.

Zeta predicted the bullets were pointed at his left foot, so he raised it, but one missed while the another hit his right foot. In distracting agony, he started hopping around on his right leg.

“Prance, bird,” Marc said, firing shots so close to stimulate the odd movement.

It went on for a while, but Zeta had enough. He pushed through the pain and made a grab at Black Meridian. However, Marc saw that coming and fired in his path. As Zeta had his hands on his sword once more, both bullets grazed him. Each successful hit slows me down. I need to end this.

A tiny shed was behind him, so Zeta scrambled to his feet, kicked in its door and ran inside for cover. Unfortunately, it was made out of an old, rotting wood, a shield slightly more useful than nothing at all.

“You’ve just entered a slaughterhouse!” Marc called out. As fast as he could, Marc shot off Impossible Shot after Impossible Shot, ripping the shed to splinters with his bullets. There was only one exit, and Zeta didn’t come out by the time the hut collapsed.

Marc was content that it was finally over, but as the last dust piles simmered down on the shed’s wreckage, Zeta burst through.

“How about it, Marc? One last bout against your gunsword combo!”

Marc ignored him and continued shooting. Zeta charged, ducking through each and every shot. Marc picked up the machete next to his feet and readied for another round of close combat.

Zeta watched Marc raise the blade, ready to bring it down in anticipation of another flux of attacks. Zeta readied Black Meridian to strike as well. Marc brought his down, expecting Zeta to block, but he didn’t.

No, Zeta let the machete burrow into his shoulder to Marc’s perplexed horror. Zeta grinned as he cut his target too.

The pain was severe, burning, but the pleasure of success kept him going. While Marc was stunned, Zeta moved for the other digit. Another successful cut.

Zeta jumped back and pulled the machete out of his shoulder, which hurt significantly, spilling blood all along his arm and torso. Marc was also spurting blood…from his severed index fingers.

“What the hell have you done!” Marc cried out in agonized terror.

Zeta regained his composure. His confidence served as a painkiller for his shoulder, his stomach, and everywhere else with injuries. “A couple days ago, Hera explained to me the basics of sigmas. All except Dormant sigmas require two things to work, the proper pose and voice command. If you can’t perform the pose, you can’t perform the sigma. No more guns for you.”

“Aaaaaaagggggggghhhhhh!” Marc screamed with agonized rage.

“Those shots were getting annoying. Losing your index fingers is a small price to pay for me to spare your life. Now get out of here, we both need medical attention. Oh, and hand over your sigmas.”

“Like hell! After all this, you want to spare me. You wish to humiliate me? That I will not allow!”

“Then fight me blade to blade,” Zeta said with a cough of blood. “If you still have the stamina.”

Marc grimaced with a raspy whisper. “No need. I don’t need Impossible Shot to kill you.” He raised the palm of his hand, where a massive hole opened like machinery. He used his other arm to grip it for recoil. A modification, Zeta realized.

Whatever it was, it looked like it came straight out of the Technocracy. Not something Zeta expected to encounter out of a man like Marc.

Marc fired one shot from the palm of his to the other side of the plaza, where a massive explosion wiped everything out, scorching the area and blowing open the ground floors of every nearby building. A demonstration.

“Maybe you’re worthy of this fiery hell after all!” he said in mania. Marc aimed his next shot at Zeta. “Meet my pride and joy, Zeta! Chaos Railgun!”

Zeta burst forth to stop him, but Marc winced as if he received a brain freeze. A moment later, he blood gust out of his mouth, Black Meridian plunged into his chest.

Zeta sighed amidst his panting. “There’s a family of three in the building behind me.”

He removed the sword and held his opponent upright. Death was never Zeta’s prerogative, but he expected it was an inevitability. When in doubt, go for the heart. It’s the most humane way to take a life for men like you and I. For all his excessive training and complicated methodology, Zeta would never doubt Sir Kagan’s comment on the matter.

“Why do we humans struggle with trivial things like pride and honor? I didn’t want to do this, Marc, but your options ran dry,” Zeta said. “I hope you find peace with another cause. In another life, should you be permitted one.”

He let go. Marc spurted blood from his mouth, gagging on it with a clotted throat. The suffering stopped soon after, and he slumped to the ground.

The thrill of victory soon wore off, so Zeta kneeled to manage his pain. Above him, he heard clapping.

“That was amazing!” Terrent Gust declared. “Absolutely astonishing display! The Ghost Gun, completely and utterly beaten. I never thought the day of his death would come.”

Zeta pointed Black Meridian at him. “You’re next. Let’s go.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” said Gust. “Not a chance. Look at yourself. There’s my answer. If you want to fight me, fight me with your organs intact. Actually, it’s best if you don’t at all. I may have enjoyed the spectacle, but the Lion definitely will not. Neither will many of our associates. You really need to leave Aspic if you value your life.”

“Why?” Zeta asked. “I’m not finished here.”

“Now, now. Stubbornness is brave and all, but let’s think rationally. Personally, I’d say I’m stronger than Crue, and you barely beat him. I actually wield a blade, the same as you, so you’ll get a run for your money.”

Zeta nodded. “You’re right, so I’ll just be stronger then.”

He looked down at Marc’s body, where four sigmas were lying. Impossible Shot. Dual Wield. Chaos Railgun and another, but Zeta couldn’t read what it said. Regardless, he picked them all up.

“I overheard you say that you had been itching to fight Marc Crue. You were ready to do so on a moment’s notice.”

“Yes, and its a shame that dream is lost,” said Gust. “Not to fear. I’ll find another.”

Zeta shook his head, gripping tightly to the unknown sigma. “No, it’s not.” He squeezed and crushed the sigma, then he pointed at Gust. “You’ll have your fight with Crue. Fight me instead. I’ll master his sigmas by tomorrow.”

Gust stood up, grinning widely. “So you’ll be able to replicate a fight with the gunslinger? No, dear friend, you are wrong, such a fight would not be a replication.”

Leering at Crue’s dead body, his smile widened until the edges of his gums were visible. “With your skills, it will be so much better!”

Gust used his towering tornado to lower himself back to the ground, then he started leaving the plaza. “You have my attention! Tomorrow it is, then! Don’t worry about a place to meet up. Trust me, I’ll find you.”

The Curved Storm said something else as he exited, but Zeta didn’t get to hear it. The pain became too unbearable, and he passed out.

Chaos Railgun - Devastation: A blaster is embedded within the skin and bone of the user's forearm. Can fire moderate explosions from the palm of the hand. (5320).

(A) Point and shoot with an open palm. A blast takes between three to five seconds to fire. Explosions consume a radius of approximately 10 meters. Fireballs do not ascend very high. Consumes portions of the user's energy. Not recommended for overuse in a single setting.