Fall was stretching its reach, bringing cool temperatures and damp weather, and a nasty fog that crept from the cobbles late at night. When Johnny reached the bottom of the Studio steps, he realized two things. One, he had stayed much later than he planned, working on the statue for Keaton ? and two, the fog was thick enough that he could only see a few yards through the mist, at best. For another man that might have been a greater obstacle, between the dark streets and the heavy fog. Johnny simply blinked his eyes slowly, lowering the silver film that altered his vision. A twitch of the small muscles cycled through the different modes, and finally he settled on the infrared view.
It cast the world into shades of black and white and grey, and heat sources stood out black against the pale white fog. Hands in his pockets, he set off through the streets, whistling quietly and off-key to himself.
The dark shapes in Johnny's special sight thought themselves perfectly hidden by the fog, or hoped it. They darted out in front of him, only a hundred feet up the road from him, and darted across the road. Even in the cold fall weather the beings' feet were bare -- they made barely a sound as they scrambled into another alleyway, only the wet slap of skin on stone.
Not one of them spoke, and the night slid back into its eerie silence. The alley was a dead end, leading to an old, closed-off market square, unused by the local vendors for at least a decade.
And then there were other noises. These were louder. Down the hill, by the waterfront, a group was speeding their horses. The hooves began to thunder.
Details were lost in infrared, though he could see the variations in temperature where clothing masked radiant body heat, or where cobbles chilled bare feet. Johnny?s eyebrows lifted when the group scuttled from one alley across the street to another. But there was a larger homeless population than most of the city paid attention to, children and adults both, and it wasn?t a sight entirely unprecedented. His whistling died away at sound of thundering hooves from behind, though.
When he glanced over his shoulder he could see the dark shapes clearly, men and horses charging recklessly along the streets too fog-shrouded for speed to be safe. As the group thundered past he flattened himself against the bricks and just missed getting bowled over by one of the charging horses. It was close enough that he could see the fine details of muscle and vein in the equine shoulder, just by the slight changes in hue.
"STAND ASIDE!" one of the riders bellowed. Most of the group continued away up the street towards more crowded parts of the city, cracking whips and rattling chains. They were bounty hunters... more specifically, the kind that worked for slavers, or assumed the job themselves.
Four of them stopped not far from the alley. They hefted heavy clubs and crossbows and scowled at the impenetrable fog. Someone said a name, and one of them stepped away and sniffed at the air. He stopped, jerked his head, and they all ran for the alleyway.
Someone screamed.
Later, when Sianna asked what had happened, what had he been thinking, Johnny would be able to give her a logical reason for his conclusions. The whips, the rattling chains, the urgency and arrogance of the riders. But what really pushed his step forward into a run was the scream. It was so filled with terror, fear and lost hope ? he couldn?t hear that scream and not answer its call.
Most people who knew Johnny would remark about his friendliness, his cheerful optimism, his welcoming nature. Only a few had seen beneath the surface to the layers that really drove him. He could no more have passed by that anonymous, hopeless scream than he could have cut off his own head. The other thing that most people overlooked when dealing with Johnny was that he was a metalworker, and a sculptor ? and while his mods could simplify both of those, he did as much work in the older methods as not.
When he charged at the man in the rear, the one who had scented the air, it was with the full momentum of 6?2? of height and 215 pounds of solid muscle and nanite-reinforced bones. A bull-rush, he aimed to wrap his arms around the man?s arms and waist before knocking him over.
THUD! The man in the rear hit the cobblestones hard, enough to dizzy him. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth and he groaned; he gave Johnny several precious moments before beginning to fight back.
But the others reacted quickly. The people in rags huddled into one corner of the square were frightened, terrified beyond all reason, and all it took was one figure brandishing a great big flail to keep them pinned in place. His companions moved to flank Johnny from either side, and one of them spat a vicious curse and lashed out with a whip.
A sharp kick on the temple kept down the man who?d fallen, but Johnny didn?t have much time to react beyond that before there were two more coming up, armed and dangerous. The whip lashed out with a *CRACK* and tore a straight line across Johnny?s upper thigh, slicing through denim and muscle without finishing the capturing wrap around his leg.
Johnny jerked back from the whip-wielder, but a glance at the other man wasn?t any better; he had a sword, the metal almost invisible in the fog to his altered vision, sword-blade matching the ambient temperature almost perfectly. At least the whip wasn?t instantly lethal, as long as Johnny could keep it from around his neck. So he charged again, aiming to catch the whip-wielder with a powerful swing to the diaphragm.
The man raised his hand to snap the whip, and Johnny struck, hard: "Oomf!" All the air left his lungs in an instant and he staggered back, dropping the now bloodied whip at his attacker's feet. "This ain't your fight, you son of a bitch," he wheezed with a hand on his knee, and glowered up at Johnny. "Last chance, partner... Just walk away." His fingers itched for a long, wickedly curved dagger at his hip; the swordsman maneuvering himself behind Johnny cackled.
?Ain? happenin?.? He gritted out the words over the slice of fire in his thigh, and ducked for the whip on the ground. He could hear the cackle of the swordsman and lunged sideways to put his back against one of the alley walls, the bloody whip now firmly in his grip. It had been years since he?d used a whip, back on Hope, but that didn?t stop him from cracking it with authority, just short of the original owner.
One would have thought, the mass of beings still huddling in the deep shadows of the square would have rushed to the aid of their would-be savior. Yet fear left them petrified and the dead end sucked all hope of escape. It would not serve them well to attempt the impossible now and receive a fresh beating prior to the punishments that would be meted out once they were returned.
One hunter danced back from the crack of Johnny's whip, but the swordsman went in for the kill. He figured, maybe correctly, that Johnny had never used a whip against his fellow man; he also figured he'd never bring himself to do it. His companion unsheathed his dagger with a hiss, stood back and waited for his next opportunity, licking hungrily at his teeth...
Something clattered on the rooftops, a loose shingle kicked down to shatter on the cobblestones. The big man with the flail guarding the slaves looked up, squinted into the fog at the rooftops, scowled and muttered about pigeons. Must not have been anything, not out this late, not this close to a fight.
From the corner opposite the flail-wielder, a murmur of weeping and hushed conversation floated heavily through the fogged air.
The swordsman had figured correctly; the only thing Johnny had ever used a whip against was cattle. But with a sword he could barely see swinging his direction, Johnny didn't have any reservations about using that whip against his fellow man. The next crack of whip was a diagonal slice aimed at the sword-wielder's chest - the largest target and easiest to see in black against fog-white.
The crack of the whip echoed like a gunshot in the dark alley, sound bouncing back off brick and stone and steel. Darting from the others, a lad of undetermined age broke from the others in a mad panic, seeming to run nowhere and everywhere all at once. His path took him dangerously on-target for the man blocking the passage.
The whip was rough and sharp, and it cut deep into the swordsman's flesh; he gasped and threw himself back into the wall, sunk to his knees and clutched at himself, dropping his sword. More than likely he would live, but he would not get back up tonight... not with that wound. He gasped and cried quietly.
The bounty hunter with the heavy flail kept his nerve. There were deductions for 'damaged goods,' but he misjudged his distance when he took a swing at the kid trying to get by. The heavy iron ball whiffed by, while the long spikes caught his flesh... Oops. Too late for a perfect bounty now. "There's more where that came from!" he bellowed at the slaves, and deftly whirled the heavy flail over his head.
Flesh, bone and cartilage crumbled as the flail impaled the boy's leg and effectively shattered his kneecap, screaming in horror at the spike poking through the joint only to be ripped out again. Unable to keep up the rate of speed, he slid face first into the slick cobblestones. Blood poured from his mouth and nose at the harsh contact with the hard surface and he wailed, covering his head with badly scraped and bleeding arms.
The third man, the winded one with the dagger, stayed still and out of the way, against the wall, still waiting for his chance. His scowl deepened as his eyes followed Johnny, and in the chaos of the melee, he did not notice the dull thump against the slick cobblestones further up the alley.
Neither did Johnny notice the thump, because the man had caught his attention with the flail and the panicked boy, who was now collapsed into a nearly-lifeless huddle, whimpering. The boy probably wasn?t much older than Caitir, and the sight infuriated Johnny. He stepped away from the wall and lashed out with the whip again, trying to catch the whirling flail and yank it from the other man?s grasp.
The whip caught the man's forearm instead, to devastating effect. He panicked and jerked back against it, whirling the flail in and...
CRACK! The spiked ball landed solidly on his shoulder blade, and he slumped forward with a groan. He wasn't moving.
Of course, that left Johnny?s back wide open to the man with the dagger, who he had completely forgotten about.
It cast the world into shades of black and white and grey, and heat sources stood out black against the pale white fog. Hands in his pockets, he set off through the streets, whistling quietly and off-key to himself.
The dark shapes in Johnny's special sight thought themselves perfectly hidden by the fog, or hoped it. They darted out in front of him, only a hundred feet up the road from him, and darted across the road. Even in the cold fall weather the beings' feet were bare -- they made barely a sound as they scrambled into another alleyway, only the wet slap of skin on stone.
Not one of them spoke, and the night slid back into its eerie silence. The alley was a dead end, leading to an old, closed-off market square, unused by the local vendors for at least a decade.
And then there were other noises. These were louder. Down the hill, by the waterfront, a group was speeding their horses. The hooves began to thunder.
Details were lost in infrared, though he could see the variations in temperature where clothing masked radiant body heat, or where cobbles chilled bare feet. Johnny?s eyebrows lifted when the group scuttled from one alley across the street to another. But there was a larger homeless population than most of the city paid attention to, children and adults both, and it wasn?t a sight entirely unprecedented. His whistling died away at sound of thundering hooves from behind, though.
When he glanced over his shoulder he could see the dark shapes clearly, men and horses charging recklessly along the streets too fog-shrouded for speed to be safe. As the group thundered past he flattened himself against the bricks and just missed getting bowled over by one of the charging horses. It was close enough that he could see the fine details of muscle and vein in the equine shoulder, just by the slight changes in hue.
"STAND ASIDE!" one of the riders bellowed. Most of the group continued away up the street towards more crowded parts of the city, cracking whips and rattling chains. They were bounty hunters... more specifically, the kind that worked for slavers, or assumed the job themselves.
Four of them stopped not far from the alley. They hefted heavy clubs and crossbows and scowled at the impenetrable fog. Someone said a name, and one of them stepped away and sniffed at the air. He stopped, jerked his head, and they all ran for the alleyway.
Someone screamed.
Later, when Sianna asked what had happened, what had he been thinking, Johnny would be able to give her a logical reason for his conclusions. The whips, the rattling chains, the urgency and arrogance of the riders. But what really pushed his step forward into a run was the scream. It was so filled with terror, fear and lost hope ? he couldn?t hear that scream and not answer its call.
Most people who knew Johnny would remark about his friendliness, his cheerful optimism, his welcoming nature. Only a few had seen beneath the surface to the layers that really drove him. He could no more have passed by that anonymous, hopeless scream than he could have cut off his own head. The other thing that most people overlooked when dealing with Johnny was that he was a metalworker, and a sculptor ? and while his mods could simplify both of those, he did as much work in the older methods as not.
When he charged at the man in the rear, the one who had scented the air, it was with the full momentum of 6?2? of height and 215 pounds of solid muscle and nanite-reinforced bones. A bull-rush, he aimed to wrap his arms around the man?s arms and waist before knocking him over.
THUD! The man in the rear hit the cobblestones hard, enough to dizzy him. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth and he groaned; he gave Johnny several precious moments before beginning to fight back.
But the others reacted quickly. The people in rags huddled into one corner of the square were frightened, terrified beyond all reason, and all it took was one figure brandishing a great big flail to keep them pinned in place. His companions moved to flank Johnny from either side, and one of them spat a vicious curse and lashed out with a whip.
A sharp kick on the temple kept down the man who?d fallen, but Johnny didn?t have much time to react beyond that before there were two more coming up, armed and dangerous. The whip lashed out with a *CRACK* and tore a straight line across Johnny?s upper thigh, slicing through denim and muscle without finishing the capturing wrap around his leg.
Johnny jerked back from the whip-wielder, but a glance at the other man wasn?t any better; he had a sword, the metal almost invisible in the fog to his altered vision, sword-blade matching the ambient temperature almost perfectly. At least the whip wasn?t instantly lethal, as long as Johnny could keep it from around his neck. So he charged again, aiming to catch the whip-wielder with a powerful swing to the diaphragm.
The man raised his hand to snap the whip, and Johnny struck, hard: "Oomf!" All the air left his lungs in an instant and he staggered back, dropping the now bloodied whip at his attacker's feet. "This ain't your fight, you son of a bitch," he wheezed with a hand on his knee, and glowered up at Johnny. "Last chance, partner... Just walk away." His fingers itched for a long, wickedly curved dagger at his hip; the swordsman maneuvering himself behind Johnny cackled.
?Ain? happenin?.? He gritted out the words over the slice of fire in his thigh, and ducked for the whip on the ground. He could hear the cackle of the swordsman and lunged sideways to put his back against one of the alley walls, the bloody whip now firmly in his grip. It had been years since he?d used a whip, back on Hope, but that didn?t stop him from cracking it with authority, just short of the original owner.
One would have thought, the mass of beings still huddling in the deep shadows of the square would have rushed to the aid of their would-be savior. Yet fear left them petrified and the dead end sucked all hope of escape. It would not serve them well to attempt the impossible now and receive a fresh beating prior to the punishments that would be meted out once they were returned.
One hunter danced back from the crack of Johnny's whip, but the swordsman went in for the kill. He figured, maybe correctly, that Johnny had never used a whip against his fellow man; he also figured he'd never bring himself to do it. His companion unsheathed his dagger with a hiss, stood back and waited for his next opportunity, licking hungrily at his teeth...
Something clattered on the rooftops, a loose shingle kicked down to shatter on the cobblestones. The big man with the flail guarding the slaves looked up, squinted into the fog at the rooftops, scowled and muttered about pigeons. Must not have been anything, not out this late, not this close to a fight.
From the corner opposite the flail-wielder, a murmur of weeping and hushed conversation floated heavily through the fogged air.
The swordsman had figured correctly; the only thing Johnny had ever used a whip against was cattle. But with a sword he could barely see swinging his direction, Johnny didn't have any reservations about using that whip against his fellow man. The next crack of whip was a diagonal slice aimed at the sword-wielder's chest - the largest target and easiest to see in black against fog-white.
The crack of the whip echoed like a gunshot in the dark alley, sound bouncing back off brick and stone and steel. Darting from the others, a lad of undetermined age broke from the others in a mad panic, seeming to run nowhere and everywhere all at once. His path took him dangerously on-target for the man blocking the passage.
The whip was rough and sharp, and it cut deep into the swordsman's flesh; he gasped and threw himself back into the wall, sunk to his knees and clutched at himself, dropping his sword. More than likely he would live, but he would not get back up tonight... not with that wound. He gasped and cried quietly.
The bounty hunter with the heavy flail kept his nerve. There were deductions for 'damaged goods,' but he misjudged his distance when he took a swing at the kid trying to get by. The heavy iron ball whiffed by, while the long spikes caught his flesh... Oops. Too late for a perfect bounty now. "There's more where that came from!" he bellowed at the slaves, and deftly whirled the heavy flail over his head.
Flesh, bone and cartilage crumbled as the flail impaled the boy's leg and effectively shattered his kneecap, screaming in horror at the spike poking through the joint only to be ripped out again. Unable to keep up the rate of speed, he slid face first into the slick cobblestones. Blood poured from his mouth and nose at the harsh contact with the hard surface and he wailed, covering his head with badly scraped and bleeding arms.
The third man, the winded one with the dagger, stayed still and out of the way, against the wall, still waiting for his chance. His scowl deepened as his eyes followed Johnny, and in the chaos of the melee, he did not notice the dull thump against the slick cobblestones further up the alley.
Neither did Johnny notice the thump, because the man had caught his attention with the flail and the panicked boy, who was now collapsed into a nearly-lifeless huddle, whimpering. The boy probably wasn?t much older than Caitir, and the sight infuriated Johnny. He stepped away from the wall and lashed out with the whip again, trying to catch the whirling flail and yank it from the other man?s grasp.
The whip caught the man's forearm instead, to devastating effect. He panicked and jerked back against it, whirling the flail in and...
CRACK! The spiked ball landed solidly on his shoulder blade, and he slumped forward with a groan. He wasn't moving.
Of course, that left Johnny?s back wide open to the man with the dagger, who he had completely forgotten about.