"Don't think you're important enough to dally with anyone."
-Heard by the council's left hand.
"Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the final round of the target fest!" an announcer shouted in the arena.
A crowd cheered, sitting in a stadium that overlooked a gun range and a sand covered arena. There were several people around the stadium repeating the words of the announcer.
Green watched from the large entrance from the stadium. Him and the other four contestants were waiting to enter.
This is going to be fast, Green thought. There were five metal targets in the arena—everytime the target was hit, the contestant would run to the target and replace it with a smaller one then moved back to a further line.
It was a race. After every target was hit they would engage in a hand to hand combat free for all. Meaning the first to be finished would have the biggest advantage.
The competition was designed to benefit those with multiple skills. Though the same could be said for the past two rounds as well.
"I get to kill him," one man whispered.
Green's ear twitched when he heard him. The man likely didn't know how acute Elven ears were. Though they likely didn't know Green himself was an elf.
They're all going to rush me in hand to hand combat. Green shook his head, without a gunman to provide openings, Three men wouldn't be much of a problem.
He'd break a sweat, sure, but he'd taken on three Paipites before—and despite his utter defeat—three humans weren't near as fast, nor as practiced. One of the four, however, walked up to Green.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," Green replied.
The man shuffled slightly, he was the geezer's grandson from the gun shop. He was apparently good enough to get this far.
"Look, those guys are planning to gang up on you after the target round." The man admitted.
"I know," Green said bluntly.
The man nodded, "I figured. But hey, I entered this competition for a reason you know."
Green raised an eyebrow, "we all did."
"Yeah but mine is more specific," the man said, leaning down. "Look, I'm planning on proposing to my girl. I need the five full raches to get the ring. And those guys might not want to admit it—but you could win this thing with no questions asked."
"So what," Green asked, "you want me to let you win?" The man didn't reply
"Green!" a voice shouted.
Green and the other contestants turned to spot Careless in a slightly puffy black dress and practical shoes. The mix seemed odd, but Green agreed with the choice. Though the dress was unnecessary, it was at least better to be able to walk up right.
She stopped right in front of Green.
She reached out a hand to take his, he didn't move. "You got this, okey." Careless said with a smile.
Green nodded then turned his head toward the other contestants—who were eyeing Careless. That one looks familiar, Green thought, eyeing one with an average build for a fighter. Careless let go of his hand, and put it on his shoulder.
He looked back only to feel her use his shoulder to hoist herself up, and kiss him on the cheek. Green paused and Careless took a few steps back.
She blushed, then spoke, "for good luck."
She gave a short wave, then ran off. Green put a hand to his cheek, dumbfounded. Well that was completely inappropriate, Green thought, perhaps some distance is necessary.
He nodded to himself, whipping his cheek, then walked past the geezer's grandson, "I'll think about it," Green said. The man nodded thankfully.
"Will the last five contestants please enter the arena!" the announcer shouted.
Green and the other four walked out into the arena, and Green's ears rang along with the crowd's cheer.
"Contestants, please stand behind the line!" the announcer called, putting his hand in the air.
Green stepped up to a line, and aimed right for the middle. He wasn't going to limit himself, he would hit the center of each target. In the corner of his eyes, Green spotted the announcer waving his arm to start.
Green fired, his shot hitting the target. The others did the same; at ten paces, the largest target wasn't difficult. They all bolted. To Green's surprise, a tall, dark-skinned man outpaced him to the targets.
By the time Green reached his target, the other man was already running back. Green swapped out his six-inch target for a five-inch one and ran back. The taller contestant was faster but less accurate.
Green reached the farther shooting line, twenty paces away, and aimed.
As the third set of targets was placed, three of the four other contestants missed their first shots. Only one kept pace with Green in accuracy.
And by the time the others worked down to the two-inch target, Green had already hit the one-inch, turned in his gun, and moved to the fighting arena—a sanded area beside the gun range.
He started stretching—not because he needed to, but to clear his mind. He avoided his shoulder of course, his stitches would likely undo without much resistance. That worried him.
The tall one will be relatively easy, Green thought, examining his competition for the second time. He's fit but not muscular. Considering his speed, he's likely a trained runner—he's got stamina but not much strength.
The geezer's grandson will be tougher. He's not as tall as the other, but he's muscular, and his nose looks like it's been broken several times. My guess is he's a trained fighter.
The other two have near-average builds, but their eyes are more intense than the other two. Either their law enforcement, bounty hunters, or they make a living with some other dangerous conditions.
Green got in a fighting stance. He was going to avoid using his left arm if he could, but he would have Grace re-stitch later anyway, so he could push himself if needed.
He was ready.
One of the two men with average builds got done first, but didn't enter the arena, he waited until the other three finished.
Green couldn't fight them until they entered the arena, so going along with their plan to team up against him, they entered at the same time. This would be a challenge.
Take them one at a time, he thought. Drop the weakest first. Don't get cornered.
They fanned out around him. Out of the corner of his eye, Green found his first target—the tall one. Green feinted a charge, and the man flinched. New blood.
Green struck—palm to the gut, then a sharp kick just above the knee. The man crumpled, clutching his leg.
He turned to the others—two left, not counting the old man's grandson. One lunged for his throat while the other swung wide to flank him. Green slapped the first man's hand aside and pivoted, lunging at the second. The second reeled, then recovered fast and threw a punch at Green's chest.
Green caught the motion, guided the arm past him, and slammed the same fist into his face. The blow staggered him but didn't drop him.
Behind him, the first attacker grabbed Green's leg mid-kick, trying to twist it. Green spun on his grounded foot, jumping and driving a heel into the side of the man's head. He bent back into a onehanded handstand and flipped to his feet.
By then, the tall one and the second man had recovered—bruised, but standing. Green exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The warm-up was over. It was time to stop playing basic.
He would win. Though constantly trying not to move his shoulder was taking its toll. That said, his only worry was the geezer's grandson—he hadn't entered the fray.
Had they kept him back to finish Green once he was spent? No—it would make more sense to rush Green in four-on-one. So why wait?
Green shelved the question. Intending to keep enough strength for whatever came after.
He slapped the tall man's hand aside and closed the distance to the second's fist. With regret, he used his other hand to yank the smaller man between himself and the taller brute. He shoved them together; bodies collided.
Green felt the stitch move as he shoved off, dropped low, and caught himself in a squat, feet wide.
A palm drove into the first man's stomach; the man doubled. Green worked like he had on the Paipite in the train—shoulder, chest, arm, leg—each contact purposeful, finishing with a palm to the forehead. He spun, letting the man fall limp. Every hit carried his weight; bruises would follow.
The second was first to rise, and he pulled what looked to be a dagger from under his shirt. He swung this when he got close. Green stepped back as the man hid most of the blade in his hand.
The taller man grabbed Green's arms from behind. Causing his shoulder to scream in agony.
The other smiled wickedly as he charged with a thrust. Green lifted his legs up and around the tall man's neck. They rolled with Green on top.
In a last desperate attempt, the other man threw the knife, sticking into Green's stitched shoulder. Green bolted, and seized the man's face, hooking a leg behind his, and brought him down hard, slamming the back of the head into the dirt.
He then got up to find the taller man staring at him. Before Green could move though, the tall one turned and ran. Leaving the arena meant disqualification; Green let him go and refocused on the grandson.
He was in pain, the knife in the wound he'd suffered before. I knew that man was familiar, he knew I was injured there.
The grandson stepped forward, smiling, then laughing. "I knew you'd make them eat dirt," he said, hand to his brow. "What now? Can't beat you. I was hoping they'd wind you. But your breath's not even heavy." He laughed again.
Green closed the distance, leaving the knife inside his shoulder until an arm's length remained.
"Leave the arena," Green said.
"What?" the grandson blinked.
"Leave the arena," Green repeated. "Do it and I won't hurt you."
"My woman's watching," the man said. "Pride's on the line." He squared into a boxer's stance. Green dropped into his own ready posture—hands open, fingers clawed, weight low.
Blood strickled from his shoulder, and the pain seemed as if it were telling Green to leave. He ignored it, his torture training hadn't at all been a waist.
The grandson stepped in and swung, putting his whole weight behind it. Green pivoted at the wrist; the force glanced off his palm. Not the hardest blow he'd parried, but enough to register the man's power. A nod of acknowledgement—respect didn't factor into his objective.
He slipped the follow-up, then jabbed under the arm into the brachial artery. The strike numbed the limb. The grandson tried to counter with his other hand and a kick; Green wrapped an arm around the incoming arm, stopped the kick with his thigh, and drove a palm into the man's chest to wind him.
They locked eyes. Green read the struggle on the grandson's face—then noticed the change: brown to blue.
Green's eyes went wide. The man responded faster than he had any right to. He grabbed Green's arm and shoved, catching Green's leg and ripping his balance. The world tipped; Green hit the ground.
Not this time. Green wrapped an arm around the man's head, seized an ear, and started the twist that would turn the skull and bring the body with it. It would open a clear shot behind the ear—a knockout that risked coma or worse.
He hesitated, thumb pressing at the cartilage. Then he loosened his grip and let the pantomime linger, long enough for the crowd to think the grandson had the upper hand.
Green tapped out.
The announcer called the match. The grandson's hand was raised. Green stood, took the humiliation cold, and left the stadium.