Chapter 17

♪You've got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, and know when to run...♪

Colin sighed moodily at the latest song to appear on Dragon's cultural conditioning track list. He had asked for her help in solving some of his more glaring social issues, but was experiencing limited success thus far. It appeared to be a common trend for all of his recent endeavors. He had utterly failed to achieve anything of note during the Empire raids earlier in the week, and now the entire organization had seemingly vanished into the woodwork.

Colin had been so close. Another minute or two, and both Hookwolf and Alabaster would have fallen. He could have left containment to the PRT troopers, and moved on to the next fight. Perhaps, without outside interference, he could have made it to Triumph's fight in time to provide some desperately needed support. Bringing in four Empire capes in one night, assisted or not, was no small feat, and while it wouldn't stop his inevitable transfer, it might have bought him some small favor with the upper echelons of the Protectorate, some small hope to cling to.

Life, though, was rarely accommodating towards Colin Wallis. For perhaps the first time in his entire life, Lung had a strategic idea that wasn't chargegrowburnsmash! Oni Lee's bombing run only brought down three Empire capes before he stopped his assault, or perhaps was stopped if the report about the new independent was true, but that was more than the entire Protectorate. It didn't matter that Lee only succeeded by picking off Empire members while they were engaged with Protectorate heroes. No matter how loud Colin protested, the fact that Oni Lee interrupted winning fights would always be overlooked. The public would see the numbers, would hear reports of Oni Lee practically rescuing Triumph, and would judge the Protectorate as weak, faltering. It didn't matter that Lee was a psychopath, a cold, determined serial killer. This week, he killed Nazis. This week, he would be praised.

People were stupid like that.

So, there was no glory for Colin, no final battle to redeem himself. He couldn't even throw himself into tinkering, as his budget had been cut down to the bare minimum, just enough to maintain his current gear. It was the reason why Colin was out on his motorcycle, patrolling ABB territory, rather than examining Bakuda's temporal tech with Dragon.

Colin was distracted, ill at ease as he contemplated his own grim future. His 'patrol' was little more than excuse to keep himself busy. Tinkers were not made to bear idle hands. Still, his attempts at self-distraction were failing miserably. The streets had quieted in the days following the raids, as if the criminals of the city had, as one, taken cover from the Protectorate's fury. It shamed Colin to admit it, but he found himself hoping the peace would end before his transfer at the end of the month. While the Protectorate had failed to remove the majority of the Empire capes, they had managed to seize a ludicrous amount of assets, and dozens of mundane gang members. The scum of the city had been cowed, but the week was ending and gangsters had short memories. Beating down common thugs would barely count as an achievement, but it would at least allow him some measure of repentance, would let him achieve some measure of good in the city before his exile.

He banked his motorcycle through empty streets, winding through back alleys and broken roads that he knew like the back of his hand. He listened to the low thrum of the engine, remembered the exacting care he'd put into building each and every piece of his magnificent machine. He dreamed of better times, of days where the death of a child did not weigh down on him, where he could place blame for his mistakes on youthful exuberance rather than simple arrogance. When had he changed? When had his drive to protect become a need to surpass? Did his ambition, blazing strong even now, lead him down this path? Questions, doubts, self-examination, Armsmaster had no time for these things. Armsmaster had a war to win, an eternal battle against the very concept of crime, a fight that would take him from city to city for the rest of his life. Colin, however, had all the time in the world. Perhaps it was time to ponder the questions he had disregarded for so long?

It was as Colin decided to contemplate these deeply personal and life-changing questions, that the apartment building a block away from him decided to explode. The side facing his street burst open like a ripe melon, spraying concrete and glass onto the sidewalk, before a rush of fire filled the gaping hole.

Armsmaster's response was instinctive and immediate, swinging his bike to a stop, double checking his GPS, and snapping a quick report off to whoever was manning the comms, "This is Armsmaster, an apartment building just went up in flames at my location. Cause unknown, but appears to be an explosive of some sort. Moving to assist civilians." He moved forward with purpose, taking just enough time to unfold his halberd and seal his mask against heat. Exactly where said civilians were, he did not know, but these apartment buildings were not abandoned, and he wouldn't just stand idly by while- His thought process screeched to a halt as a storm of gunfire erupted from within the building. Armsmaster dove behind the nearest alley wall, taking a brief moment to call in backup, and peeked around the corner. His armor was bulletproof, but he wouldn't willingly throw himself into hot lead.

Armsmaster's first assumption was a simple gang fight. Bakuda had already proven herself willing to hand out her tinker-tech weaponry, and a nervous gangster could easily trigger a bomb in blind panic. Caution, however, was rarely the wrong decision. He deftly spun his halberd, pointing the bare end towards the closest roof. With a twitch, the hidden grappling hook rocketed into the concrete wall and reeled him upwards. He pulled himself onto even ground, automatically reloading his grappling chain, and briefly surveyed the rear parking lot.

It was amazing what a little bit of height could reveal. The back of the building was a veritable war-zone. Dozens of men and women in Empire and ABB colors tore at each other in a fierce melee. It appeared that, in such close quarters, guns were quickly discarded after an opening salvo. Armsmaster could see body parts strewn across the bare concrete, presumably ripped free with the force of the recent blast. Within the the horde of bodies, he could barely make out a blur ripping through the crowd that looked remarkably like Krieg, if he had spontaneously developed super-speed. Another quick scan of the crowd, there! In the back, protected on all sides, a flash of red: Othala.

Armsmaster stayed hidden, crouching down against the ledge of his roof, "I've have a visual on two Empire capes." he whispered into his helmet mic, "I repeat, Othala and Krieg are at my location, engaging with unpowered ABB gangsters." And thrashing them, unsurprisingly. Which made the fact that the Empire seemed to be retreating, all the more confusing.

A soft whomp put his confusion to rest, as a grenade arced out of the burning building's back door, and slammed into the thickest clump of people. A sickening squelch, a flash of light, and a dozen bodies were converted into a horrific amalgam of organs and blood splatter.

Armsmaster remained in cover as Bakuda charged into view, hefting a grenade launcher that seemed entirely too large for her short frame, screaming all the while. His HUD automatically translated angry Japanese into a string of invective, as he shifted his halberd into both hands, blade pointing forward. He took aim, and in a motion practiced thousands of times, fired a tracer into Bakuda's boot.

The enraged tinker failed to notice anything amiss, instead choosing to fire on Othala. The Empire trump screamed, and a blurred figure caught her around the waist and dragged her out of the blast zone. Her 'guards' failed to escape in time, and seemed to wink out of existence as the grenade detonated. Krieg stopped for a moment, Othala still in his arms, and seemed to consider Bakuda. Armsmaster could clearly see him gazing at the grenades on her belt, before turning to retreat.

The remaining Empire gang members broke as Krieg left, scattering in every direction, frantically seeking an escape from the clearly unhinged bomb tinker, who was, still, screaming curses in Japanese.

With the short battle mostly over, Armsmaster silently made his way down the roof, and towards his motorcycle. He would circle around the block to wait for backup, and, once Bakuda thought herself safe, once his tracker showed her immobile, he would strike.

There was still some good left for him to do in this city.