Evening Glow

The back of my head itched. The sniper's gaze, maybe. They'd be a fair way off. I couldn't feel a presence anywhere near me. Distance, then. Had to be. With a sniper rifle in hand, there was no reason to come in close.

Not so far I couldn't see them, though. Thumb Man had told me to turn and look behind me. That meant eyeshot. This was a wide plain, opened where a Giant Rod had come down, and a sniper had nowhere to hide on it. Flat on their belly, most likely, pressed to the dirt.

I said nothing and stayed still, and I watched the tension ease, little by little, out of Thumb Man's face. Did he think fear had stolen my tongue?

"Your bag's stuffed pretty full too. Doesn't look like it's all mail."

Completely at ease again—and Backscratcher was still aimed at his forehead.

"We'll get a look at whatever you've crammed in there soon enough, won't we? Heh!"

Grinning, he dropped into a squat and studied the commando's corpse. Backscratcher followed him down, drawn like iron to a magnet.

"Tsk, tsk. Poor bastard probably came all this way thinking the kind Mr. Postman was going to patch him up."

He went through every pocket on the commando's clothes, rummaging through them deftly with the one thumb he had left.

"Couldn't even smell the obvious play. Walk him out where there's nobody, then kill him. Tsk. Pitiful. Just pitiful."

The pockets gave up nothing worth taking.

"How somebody with a head like that lasted this long, I'll never know. Oh—right. That's why he's dead."

He brushed himself off and stood. Time to get this moving.

"You're going to attack me? A civil servant?"

"Tsk. Civil servants have had it soft this whole time, haven't they? Us? We've got nothing left to be afraid of."

A man living like there was no tomorrow. That much, at least, checked out.

"I'm curious how good a shot your friend is."

"Friend? Please. More like an ally."

"They can actually hit something, though?"

"Sniper rifle, a range like this, and you still miss? You even human?"

A sniper rifle is fussier to keep than an ordinary one. Amateur hands struggle just to hold it in condition, and the ammunition is another matter. The rifle only does what it should with rounds made for it, and those are expensive, so people feed it ordinary rifle ammunition instead, and the accuracy falls off a cliff.

And if the rounds are homemade? Then the accuracy is worse than hopeless. He'd probably chambered homemade ammunition. An advantage this overwhelming, and there was a good chance he'd decided the expensive rounds weren't worth spending.

"I could yawn and still put a hole through your forehead."

Backscratcher and the man were barely a meter apart.

"That so? Hole in my forehead, and the back of your head gets one right after."

Still sure of himself. He wasn't even holding a gun. Whether the sniper could hit me or not, if he died first, none of it mattered. All of this was just a way to keep eating, wasn't it?

Which means it's bluster. Bluster that doesn't shake with a muzzle in your face is a high art of survival. That bluster was probably why this bastard was still alive.

"Hey, civil servant. Want a fun little fact?"

Here came more of it.

"That sniper rifle my ally's holding? Semi-auto."

Every shot, gas pressure chambered the next round on its own. The cycling kicked up a wobble and dragged the accuracy down further, but in exchange you could fire in a fast string.

"First round misses, you just keep dumping them, and eventually one lands. That it?"

"Exactly! Look around."

Thumb Man spread his arms wide and grinned.

"Well? See anywhere to hide?"

Open plain. The only obstacle on it, a Giant Rod, stood planted a few paces behind his back. However fast I moved, the sniper would pull the trigger before I got behind it—three times, at least. And if Thumb Man blocked the way so I couldn't break for cover, there was no answer at all.

"Nowhere for you to dodge. However lousy my ally is, they hit you in the end, don't they? Still sound like a bluff?"

It rolled off his tongue too smoothly for a speech he'd given once or twice. Not his first robbery of this kind, then. Maybe running into them here hadn't been chance at all—the two of them idling in the Truce Zone, looking for prey, then following it slowly out to this place.

"So you're the scout, sent in to see if the mark is worth robbing. Sniper watches from behind. You split the work."

"Shame my hands aren't what they were, or we'd have swapped. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I used to shoot too, you know."

"Hm. Nice bluff."

"I'm serious. Back in my day—"

"Not that. The thing you said before."

The part about spraying rounds until one of them found me.

"Maybe I'm not the one blowing smoke. Maybe you're just stupid. I lay it out simple, and that thick skull of yours still can't follow."

"No. The problem is you've got nowhere to hide either."

That was why it was a bluff. A round that missed me had to go somewhere. It might cut empty air. It might just as easily hit him. And if the two of us tangled and started grappling, it would be pure chance who caught the bullet.

"So what? We test our luck against each other? I'm feeling good about mine."

I'd known he would go there. This was their method. Not many people gamble with their lives. The bluff was obvious, and still they ended up on their knees—two against one, a sniper drawing a bead, and the weight of that in your head.

"Guess a shakedown like that has been lucky enough to work. Until now."

I was different.

"From where I'm standing, your luck just ran out. You met me."

"Look who's bluffing."

"When it comes to luck, I don't lose."

I raised my right arm, very slowly.

"……What are you doing?"

What mattered was spreading the hand and making a show of it being empty. Move too fast, and a startled sniper pulls the trigger.

"I said, what are you doing?"

Once the arm was high enough, I bent it and set my hand against the back of my head.

"Itchy back there? Want me to scratch it?"

That ease of his was finished.

"Hey."

"What, you want a scratch?"

"Ever seen one of these?"

I clenched the hand behind my head. With a metallic clatter, the folding shield mounted on my wrist snapped open.

"Wh-what the—"

The gunshot that should have come at once didn't. Cocky enough to have been aiming at my head, apparently. Seeing the shield cover it, they'd be walking their sights down onto my torso, and that bought me one second for the next move.

"Ghk!"

My left hand shot out and clamped hard around his thin neck. The sniper would have finished re-aiming by now. It didn't matter. Hunter-grade body armor was covering my torso. A direct hit from a sniper round would still hurt, but homemade ammunition I could take.

Crack. The sniper pulled the trigger, and the round thunked into the shield. A shot meant for my torso, no question, and the accuracy was a mess, just as I'd thought. That the miss had still managed to fly at my head—call that their luck, if you liked.

"Guhk!"

I hauled on the hand locked around his throat and ducked in behind him, turning his body into a meat shield. At the same time the shield on my right arm covered both our heads. From the sniper's view it would be Thumb Man's unprotected torso, and only a sliver of me hidden behind it. His slight frame wouldn't conceal me completely. Every vital point, though, was covered, and then some.

Crack. Another report rolled out across the plain, and then, off to my left, the sound of air being split. A clean, generous miss.

"Khek—khek!"

The man I was choking thrashed as if he had something to say. Unless he wanted to die along with me, he was begging to be let go. Not a chance. The sniper, meanwhile, had stopped firing.

"Hehk……"

When the shots didn't continue, he quit thrashing, as if relieved.

"Too early to relax. You think they stopped because they don't want to hit you?"

The shield over my head kept the sniper out of my sight.

"Want me to guess what they're doing?"

Guessing wasn't hard.

"Loading their ace round. They need something that'll punch through you and reach me."

"Ghk! Ghk!"

They'd have kept properly made, high-grade ammunition for an emergency. Anyone who owned a sniper rifle had at least one trump card like that. It would draw out the rifle's native accuracy, and the penetration would pass clean through a person without effort. A round like that would hit hard even through hunter-grade armor. If it had to go through a body first, though, the force would drop.

"They'll be aiming around the ribs and the spine, to keep the penetration up. Tighten your gut."

"Khek-khek!"

He thrashed, hands raking backward, trying to claw me. All he had were thumbs.

"Kheek!"

I wasn't standing idle either. With only my left hand, I just managed to kick Backscratcher into its emergency hollow-point feed. One pull of the trigger from here would do it. Click. The standard round already in the chamber ejected, and the single spare hollow-point seated itself in its place. Penetration would suffer, but the round would lodge, shatter inside the body, and deal pain past enduring. Catch someone anywhere but a vital, and you could still put them down.

I thrust the arm holding Backscratcher out past the shield and pointed it toward the sniper. I still couldn't see ahead, not with my head behind the shield. It didn't matter.

What were the odds Backscratcher actually connected? I'd never attuned to the sniper's body beforehand, but reading the probability was no problem even so. A fixed target. Attunement was prep work, a way to predict variables. Once you'd attuned to someone, the way they moved became something you could forecast in probabilities. This one, though, was a sniper, holding a firing stance and not shifting from the spot. No variable of a changing position, so I could read a clear probability without an attunement.

Odds a hunter-grade handgun hits any part of the sniper's body……

A miserable hit rate. I was shooting blind, with the shield in the way. Of course it was. And it was exactly the miserable figure I'd been hoping for.

Flip it, and I'm good. I still wasn't used to inverting a probability, though, and the preparation took time. While the number before my eyes bled toward red, I bit the inside of my mouth ahead of time and started the bleeding.

In that span, the sniper fired first. Crack. A wet, heavy punch.

"Urgh—urgh……"

The round that had punched through Thumb Man's abdomen reached me. Meat shield and hunter-grade armor both, and the impact still landed heavy—far harder than I'd expected. Purpose-built ammunition? Even so, it hadn't pierced the vest. In the next instant the number went fully red, and I swallowed the blood at once.

I win.

The sniper's next shot was faster. Crack. A round coming in right beside where the last one had struck. The blow felt like a fist, and I could already picture the bruise it would leave, broad and dark. But this was as far as I took a beating.

My turn. I put strength into the index finger resting on the trigger. Thumb Man, gone limp, seemed to catch the intent, and his eyes went to my left arm stretched out past the shield.

"Don't worry. I'm ambidextrous."

Bang. Recoil shoved at my wrist.

"Gyaaah!"

A scream filled the plain. I lowered the shield a fraction and saw the sniper far off, rolling on the ground. The shield clapped shut. I flung Thumb Man aside, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠took Backscratcher in both hands, and settled into a true aim. A fair distance, but for this much, trusting my eyes and my hands was enough. Twenty-three years of nothing but shooting.

Bang. The round punched through the crown of the rolling man's head. He didn't even manage a scream. He simply stopped.

No getting careless. I walked in slowly, Backscratcher in both hands and still trained on him. Up close, he really did look dead. No need to rush ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a confirmation shot, then. It wasn't by the book, but if I could save ammunition, I saved it. Steel whispered free of the sheath, and I opened his throat with the knife. Making certain the breath was gone was mandatory.

I went through his belongings. Nothing worth adding to a pack already on the verge of bursting. The sniper rifle he'd used was modified past any hope of recognizing what it had been, and it wasn't worth what it weighed anyway. I could leave it. I gathered up only the ammunition, turned, and—

Not dead yet.

Thumb Man was squirming on the ground, blood pouring off him. Two through-and-throughs in the abdomen. The sniper's ammunition had been something special after all. Ordinarily an entry wound doesn't open larger than the exit, but a conspicuous hole had been torn in Thumb Man's belly.

Leave him, and he'll die on his own. The only thing that bothered me was the commando's bag, soaking up his blood. All I meant to take from it was an electric razor, but the mess still sat wrong. As I drew closer, his voice began to reach me. He'd been muttering for a while, too quiet to catch.

"Fuck…… ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Not dying…… like this……"

His hand was inside the pouch at his waist. I'd taken it for emergency cash. A last struggle, then?

"Cut the dog tricks and get your hand out."

I didn't want to waste a round on a man already dying, but you prepare for the if. I stopped where I was, drew Backscratcher, and aimed at his hand.

"Heh heh…… It's already…… started."

Green light flashed like lightning. My eyes squeezed shut on their own. A phenomenon I had seen somewhere before.

He used a Core. A Core gives off light in only one case—when an Ability Core activates.

"Not…… dying……!"

He forced himself up on legs that trembled, and something pattered out of the hole in his belly in wet clumps. As he straightened his back, the hole showed even clearer. It was bored so clean that the light beyond passed through it and reached my eyes.

It was the evening glow.