Jerry dashed through the apartment’s doorway, favoring the left side to give Braxton enough room to cover him. Jerry grit his teeth while he shot at the table providing Bradley cover, filling it with holes. Hot, smoking brass danced at his feet like water dropped onto a hot pan. Braxton also shot towards Bradley to make sure he kept his head down.

  It worked.

  The combined force of the miniaturized fire and maneuver shattered Bradley’s drug-fueled resolve and ranting. Rather than return fire or arrogantly make demands he was in no position to make, he hunkered down and screamed in panic. Jerry stopped shooting and took cover in the hallway that led to the apartment’s one bedroom. He used this brief respite to reload his pistol with a fresh magazine.

  Taquina took the brief opportunity to get on her hands and knees to crawl into the apartment’s kitchen, leaving Shatter and Bradley to their respective fates. Shatter tried to grab her feet for help. She kicked him in the face and continued crawling as he cried.

  “Don’t leave me here to die,” he moaned. “Not like this!”

  “Catch a bullet already,” she hissed.

  “Hey, Birdshit!” Jerry shouted. “If I peek at you and don’t see those fucking hands of yours right now, my coworker and I will eventually shoot through that table you’re hiding behind.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Bradley said. “Come and get me, you fucking cowards!”

  “You bet!”

  Jerry jumped from the hallway just as Bradley stood up to resume shooting. Jerry shot once while Bradley shot at him twice, trading shots. Jerry’s shot smashed through Bradley’s right shoulder while his shots caught Jerry in the center of his chest. They went to the floor at the same time. The kinetic force of the gunshots cracked several of Jerry’s ribs.

  Jerry, unperturbed by his fresh internal injuries, returned to his feet. He saw Bradley crawling through the window behind the couch. Jerry glanced at Braxton to see what was distracting him. He was in cover outside the apartment, reloading his pistol and too preoccupied to cover Jerry.

  Jerry took a quick survey of the apartment. It was still an unholy mess, but much bloodier. Shatter was still moaning and wailing on the floor, while Taquina had run off into the apartment’s kitchen to hide. This was a fact that worried Jerry due to the established unpredictability of the situation, but her cries and whimpering also established her as a nonthreatening entity.

  "Aim a little higher next time, you little prick! That might keep me down a moment longer!”

  Jerry shot four times at Bradley’s quickly vanishing backside. Two of the bullets took the window above him out, cutting Bradley’s back with sharp glass. Misses, but the other two bullets were true hits. The first tore into his right calf like an angry Lascauxian landshark while the other punched into the unimpressive muscle of his left buttock. Bradley’s blood gushed on the windowsill as he bellowed in agony, but despite these injuries, including the gaping one to his shoulder, he kept going until he was on the fire escape and absconding down it.

  Jerry's burning excitement at fighting and effective retaliation died in his chest, replaced with a cold chunk of overwhelming confusion.

  What the Vullen was happening right now, he asked himself. Don’t normal people do that neat trick where they fall down and don't get up after you shoot them five times?

  Jerry reloaded his pistol once again. He ran towards the shattered window Bradley had escaped out of, then cautiously poked his head through it. Frigid, uncompromising wind and freezing rain typical of Astorkia’s awful Decendus weather slapped at his scarred, shaved face. He looked down to see a shocking sight.

  Crippling injuries and inclement weather be damned, Bradley moved at a panicked pace down the creaky, metal fire escape that looked like it had last been inspected two decades ago. Bradley looked up at Jerry and gasped, mirroring his shock. Jerry’s brief shock turned to black anger. He glared down at Bradley like a pissed off deity observing a disobedient disciple.

  “I know I just shot an ear off of that stupid head of yours,” Jerry shouted down to Bradley, “but I’m gonna need you to listen to me very well with the one you have left. This is your last and final chance to surrender, drop the gun, and stop fucking around with firearms! Dying cold, tired, and hungry from all that raggabush and whatever bullshit you’ve been smoking is not the way you want to go out.”

  Bradley responded by saying something rendered incoherent by the raging wind and pointing his handgun at Jerry. He emptied the rest of his handgun’s magazine towards Jerry, but missed every shot. Jerry had taken cover before sticking his head out of the window again. He aimed his gun at Bradley.

  “The Twelve damn you,” Jerry roared. "I warned you, you hopped up, druggie son of a bitch!”

  Jerry fired two final shots, striking Bradley in the left foot and his other previously unwounded left shoulder. Bradley wailed in pain and lost his footing, literally and figuratively. He went sailing off the fire escape, spinning ass over head at least twice before hitting the ground back first with a meaty smack that failed to sound productive to having a long, fulfilling life or being capable of walking ever again.

  "Vullen take my eyes," Jerry muttered to himself. He looked down at Bradley’s shattered corpse. "No wonder you took up truck robbery instead of gymnastics. That was a terrible performance. May the Twelve have more mercy on your wretched soul than I did.”

  After visually confirming Bradley would remain as cold pavement pizza, he holstered his pistol and returned to the apartment's interior. Braxton was standing in the living room, policing Shatter’s writhing body. Jerry gave Braxton a firm, congratulatory pat on the shoulder.

  “Good job, big man. Our other boy out there won’t be an issue to anybody any longer as well,” Jerry said to him. “Now let's get Shatter and Taquina cuffed and oathed, shall we?”

  Jerry entered the filthy kitchen. He made short work of pulling Taquina from underneath the kitchen table like she was a terrified, inebriated child. He took no joy in the action that made him feel like he was a home invader of some kind, which he technically was, but Taquina needed to be arrested, oathed, and possibly interrogated a long time ago.

  “No! No! No! You’re gonna kill me! You’re gonna kill me like you killed Bradley, you fucking monster!” she said while putting up a small, ineffectual fight that ended once the silver-plated handcuffs were about her scrawny wrists.

  “Relax with all that caterwauling of yours,” Jerry grumbled at her. “You have given me no reason to hurt you like your ex-boyfriend Bradley Birdsplat out there. Now shut up and listen. I have some real important things to tell you.”

  Jerry gave Taquina the Mendakian Union Oath of Safe Imprisonment then hustled her to the devastated, blood drenched living room, where there was an interesting sight. Jerry watched Braxton, big as he was, having a proper bastard of a time trying to handcuff Shatter. Shatter was quite the impressive, slippery fighter despite his immense blood loss and injuries. Jerry had to give him points for that. The man was an idiot, but a deceptively strong idiot who fought to the bitter end. For better or for worse, Jerry was able to relate well to that mentality.

  “I do not consent to my detainment! Article Fifteen, Section One-hundred-and-twenty-two of the Almandican Colonial Compact clearly states that-“

  “Stop being stupid, Shatter. The Almandican Colonial Compact is older than everybody in this hideous apartment put together,” Jerry said. “So shut up and quit wiggling underneath my poor, beleaguered partner like firebomb ants found their way down your urethra.”

  Shatter eventually deflated, giving Braxton the lack of resistance he needed to cuff him. Braxton returned from the floor with a handcuffed Shatter in front of him, then oathed him. Jerry looked at Taquina and felt bad for her. Not only was the poor woman petrified, there was a large, dark spot on the crotch of her raggedy pants that indicated she would have no need of a bathroom break any time soon.

  “How are we doing over here?” Jerry asked Braxton. "You get hit anymore?"

  "Took another stray from Bradley to the stomach,” he said with a pained grunt. “It didn’t get through the vest or suit, but I know it’s going to hurt for a few days and bruise like a bastard. You?"

  Jerry slapped on the vest that saved him from significant injury and coughed involuntarily. "Got about two or three ballistic love taps, but I'm still standing like the Twelve intended.“

  "How about asking me how I fucking feel!" Shatter shouted. His face was a horrifying mask of congealed blood and incandescent rage. “I have my rights as a free man of the fucking land! I am not a slave to your system!”

  Jerry pointed at him and barked, “Shut up! The only thing you’re a slave to is your own stupidity, and believe me, brother, it’s whipping your stupid ass new categories of red and raw.”

  "I need a fucking lawyer," Shatter continued to shout, “and I need one right fucking now!”

  "I just said shut up," Jerry insisted. "Doing a lot less of that hooting and hollering will make your head feel better."

  "It's not my fault we live in a society full of dull, glassy eyed sheep who do what they're told until they get slaughtered by Leonists like you. Does it make you feel like Billy the All-Almandican Badass when you hurt me, you Leonist piece of shit?"

  "As much as I would love to debate my political leanings with bloody faced perps who live in festering apartments, I'm not gonna partake in that particular waste of time tonight," Jerry said. "Now shut your mouth or I promise I can make your night worse for you than it already is."

  "I'd like to see you try," Shatter said. "Bradley already did that. I can't believe he left me all alone with you Leonist pigs instead of having my twelvedamned back! I can’t believe he tried to make me a hostage! I can’t believe he threatened to kill me!"

  "And I can't believe you thought he would have your back when his was pressed against the wall," Jerry said. "Even if you ignore everything I tell you tonight, listen to me when I tell you that the only people who believe that there’s honor among thieves are terrible crime fiction novelists, children, and idiots such as yourself."

  "I want a lawyer," Shatter repeated. "I want-"

  "Our kind and benevolent state will provide you with one in due time," Braxton said while patting him down for any unwanted surprises. "So just relax for the moment. Have you got anything sharp, poisonous, explosive, or otherwise dangerous on your person that might hurt me, friend?"

  Shatter snickered. “I sure do! If you reach deep into my pants, you can grab my prick.“

  Jerry grabbed Shatter by the chin, alarming Taquina and Braxton. He forced him to look deep into his wide, blue eyes. The fear in Shatter’s eyes was so acute, Jerry failed to hide his sadistic, dog-toothed grin at seeing it.

  “Let’s establish some very simple ground rules, you grating Native Almandican piece of…person. You can say whatever off color bullshit you want to me, and the worst I’ll do is give it right back to you. I’m a quippy cunt like that. But the moment you try that smart-mouthed shit with my partner? You better start figuring out how to appreciate the culinary arts of soups, smoothies, and puddings because I’ll feed you those rotting pieces of shit in your mouth you’re stupid enough to call teeth. Got it?”

  “G-got it,” Shatter said, gulping air. “Please let go of me.”

  Jerry did so roughly. He patted Shatter on the head like he was a slow dog that learned a new trick. “Good boy. Now shut your ghoulish looking gob and let Braxton do what he’s supposed to do.”

  Braxton finished his search of Shatter and found nothing interesting on him save for a burned, heavily used crisk pipe and handwritten notes full of nonsense. He moved to Taquina, who was somehow clean of contraband. After Braxton finished these searches, he regarded Jerry with one of his signature stares for a few moments. Jerry noticed this and asked, “What? I got some spinach in my teeth or something?”

  “We’re going to have an important chat later.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Jerry frowned. Even if putting his hands on Shatter felt great, Braxton putting his critical eyes on him did not. “You got it, big man.”

  Braxton and Jerry worked together to bring Shatter and Taquina to the apartment's kitchen, where they seated them at a sticky table equipped with three rickety, wooden chairs. Jerry made a call to the gendarmerie barracks of New Chemeketa with the kitchen's pleasantly anachronistic landline to inform them of everything that had occurred. The female dispatcher was rude and curt, but considering how much people in her position got paid to interact with the public at its worst on a daily basis, Jerry didn't fault the dispatcher that much.

  With the help of leather over latex gloves on their hands and two medical masks on their faces, Jerry and Braxton carried out the search they intended to execute before the unexpected gunplay took place. Jerry knew that even if he couldn’t be infected by anything on a dirty needle jabbing him, he would still do something terrible to Shatter or Taquina if one pricked him good.

  Following no needle incidents and a few moments of searching, they found a bounty of contraband: Several handguns with the serial numbers filed off, dozens of luxury wrist watches, hundreds of golden necklaces, Leonist literature banned by the Mendakian Union, glass vials of crisk, and numerous pinkish packets of a new designer drug called pearl dust.

  “You gotta be shitting me,” Jerry said when he and Braxton had found the illicit drug. “How is this pink poison everywhere, but nobody has figured out where it's coming from yet?”

  “I’m afraid not even the special agents of the Supernatural Substances Eradication Division could answer that question, but I suppose the regular stuff isn’t doing it for the addicts anymore.”

  “I miss the good ole’ days when drugs were normal and didn’t kill you, make you crazy, turn your bones into goo, or make you think having a shootout with federal agents was a good idea.”

  “Was that ever a time?”

  “You tell me, big man. I’m not a druggieologist.”

  “Is that a real field of study or did you just invent that?”

  “I’m inventing it right now like the trailblazer I’ve always been,” Jerry said. “You see, a druggieologist is like a normal chemist, except they smoke everything they invent and have lab assistants on hand to save them from overdoses and remind them that there aren’t any spiders hatching underneath their skin.”

  “Insightful commentary as always,” Braxton said. He looked at Shatter and Taquina. “Well, let’s ask these two fascinating characters some questions.”

  Braxton cleared the messy table in front of Taquina and Shatter. Jerry placed some of the contraband on display, grinning like he was a child that had handed their father a piece of macaroni art. Taquina and Shatter, though divided by their mutual loathing of one another, united in going pale at the damning sight.

  Jerry grinned at Shatter. "Is that paleness on your face from the blood loss or do you know some interesting things my friend and I would like to know?”

  "Everything but the pearl dust and guns is my business. I only do drugs and would never sell them," Shatter admitted. "I’m Bradley’s fence for everything else, though.”

  “I think the proper term is ‘was’ his fence,” Braxton said.

  Shatter’s face scrunched up like he was about to cry.

  "Rookie mistake," Jerry said. "I got a wise saying from the many lives I lived before this one. Want to hear it?”

  “Go ahead,” Shatter said. “You’ll threaten me again if I say no.”

  “You’d be correct about that,” Jerry said. “When you shit where you eat, people will smell a lot more than breakfast, lunch, and dinner on your breath."

  “That makes no sense,” Taquina said. “Nobody eats where they shit. That would be a stupid thing to do.”

  Braxton shook his head. “That was something called a metaphor, Taquina. Then again, I am shocked you draw the line at literally shitting where you eat considering the state of this apartment.”

  "Well, what the fuck now?" Shatter asked Jerry and Braxton, his voice tight with panic. "You got us. What now?"

  "Us?" Taquina hissed. "Go to Vullen, Shatter! I didn't know shit about any of this. I’m not going down with you!"

  Shatter laughed bitterly. "Yeah, right! You don’t even have a job, so please tell the two nice men in our kitchen where you found those pretty rings on your fingers or those necklaces around your neck, you lazy, lying bitch!"

  "I found them up your mother's cunt, you sleazy piece of shit!"

  “Get my mother’s name out of your drunken whore mouth!” Shatter rushed to his feet and spat a bloody glob of mucus onto Taquina’s face. He laughed at her. “I hope you liked that. There’s more where that came from!“

  Taquina stood up as well and leaned over the table until she headbutted Shatter. Shatter cried out in pain while Taquina returned back to her seat. She was dazed from the sloppy, self-inflicted impact, but laughed at her opponent’s night of unending agony.

  Braxton pulled Shatter away from Taquina while Jerry did the same with her. "Break it up," Braxton shouted. "I said break it up, you overgrown toddlers! We don't need this kind of headache inducing bullshit right now."

  "I can't believe this!" Taquina started to weep so hard, it made Jerry uncomfortable. "My life is ruined!"

  "You ruined it yourself by screwing Bradley," Shatter roared. "Now he's screwing all of us!"

  “Like you’re one to talk about him screwing people!” Taquina’s crying intensified, making Jerry even more uncomfortable. “I’ve seen what you two get up to when you think I’m passed out on one of the couches. Now I really understand your name. You love getting that moon of yours shattered, don’t you?”

  “You’re just imagining things with that sick, alcoholic mind of yours! And even if I was exploring some things with Bradley, what’s wrong with that? Sodomy is perfectly legal in the Mendakian Union, and it’s not my fault Bradley had certain needs you couldn’t satisfy!”

  “I just said break it up, you two.” Braxton groaned in frustration. “Nobody here is paid enough to play couples counselor to whatever lunatic love triangle shit that was cooked up in this drug-fueled den of iniquity”

  "Hey, waterworks," Jerry said to Taquina. "There’s no need for all of this booing and hooing and headbutting people over…whatever this situation is." He got a cloth napkin that looked clean enough off the kitchen table, then tried to wipe the tears and Shatter’s spit off of her face. She pulled her face away and glared at Jerry. He huffed. "Have it your way, lady. You couldn’t pay me to have any man’s spit on my face."

  "I WANT A LAWYER," Shatter yelled. "NOW!"

  "Will you quit that?" Jerry begged. "Braxton and I gave you the Mendakian Union Oath of Safe Imprisonment. That means you don’t even need to say another word, but here you are, screaming like I put your nuts in a red hot vise."

  "The Mendakian Union is a false, illegitimate institution," Shatter shouted with renewed hysterics. "It was made by fake revolutionaries who took part in a fake revolution to prop up a fake government that is actually an armed, autocratic corporation for the purposes of theft through taxes. You bastards are nothing but the hired thugs for this corporation!"

  "If it's all fake, then why would I need to give you what I assume would be fake legal representation?" Jerry asked. He found himself sincerely interested in Shatter’s delusional worldview despite how irritating of a person he was. "I might as well bring in a clown with a big red nose here to hit you in the face with a lemon meringue pie before having him shoot you behind the ear."

  “You would like somebody to shoot me behind the ear, wouldn’t you?” Shatter asked. “That’s the only kind of people the Mendakian Union employs. A bunch of sick bastards that love violence!”

  “For the non-existent record, I don’t think you deserve a shot behind your ear,” Jerry said, unconsciously scratching behind his own. “Maybe a good, hard smack behind the ear to put some sense into that hollow head of yours, but you’re not quite summary execution material to me.”

  "Stop engaging with him," Braxton said. "Arguing with nutcases like Shatter is like wrestling an alligator in the water. They'll drag you down with superior experience so they can eat you alive."

  "Do I look like a nutcase to you?" Shatter asked.

  Braxton stared at him until Shatter looked away in shame.

  “I DO NOT CONSENT. I DO NOT CONSENT. I DO NOT-“

  Jerry lost his patience with Shatter. He grabbed him by the throat and thought about squeezing until he would never open his blabbering mouth again. “Shut up! What is wrong with your head? Did that table break your brain or something? Or are you like a broken radio that needs to be hit to work properly?”

  “Don’t be a coward, you crazy, blue-eyed fucker! Use your fists to make him see the faces of the Twelve,” Taquina shouted. “Hit him, then hit him again until he bleeds! Hit him like he let Bradley hit him from behind!“

  Jerry released Shatter’s neck, letting him breathe despite his overwhelming desire to have him not do so. He pointed at Taquina then towards the one bedroom of the apartment. “Enough of this tedious back and forth bullshit. Brax, take her in there and keep a close eye on her, please and thank you.”

  “Don’t need to tell me twice.”

  After Braxton finished this task, Jerry sat down with Shatter at the table. He stared hard at him for a few moments. The fear refreshed in his eyes.

  "Let’s be sensible, you and I," Jerry said. "If you want to really prove you're not a nutcase and not get threatened by me yet again, I have a suggestion you should take."

  "Like what?" Shatter asked, his voice trembling.

  "Tell me everything you know about everybody linked to what you and Bradley were doing here," Jerry said. "And as long as you're being truthful, I could work something out to lessen the time you will spend in prison, busting your ass with restitutional labor.”

  "You're lying to me.”

  "I swear on my father’s immortal soul that rests in the Twelve’s Eternal Arcadia that I am not lying to you,” Jerry lied. “As a matter of fact, I’d argue my partner and I are two of the most honest Triple I agents you’ll ever meet.”

  Little did Shatter know, Jerry, like usual, was lying whenever his thin lips moved. Beyond arresting suspects and handing them to the proper authorities, Triple I field agents had little to no authority beyond testifying in tribunals. In fact, at the only campus in Warsharkton where all Triple I field agents were trained, they were instructed in advanced deception and manipulation tactics. Then again, this was not something Jerry needed much training in considering his colorful background and fluid morality.

  "Let's pretend you aren't lying to me right now," Shatter said. "How much time could I get off my sentence if I talked?"

  "I'm glad you asked! Even though our now dearly departed friend Bradley is cooling in the rain as we speak, if you tell me about something I find fascinating, I could easily ask the five officers in your upcoming tribunal for leniency."

  “Really?”

  Jerry tilted his chin towards his chest and grinned like a starving wolf coming upon a lamb with a broken leg. “Do I have the face of a lying bastard?”

  "Alright." Shatter inhaled and exhaled a shaky breath. "Do you have any pen and paper"

  “I got something special for this.”

  Jerry produced his Paimonian Technology Assisted Legal Pad and placed it on the table before Shatter. Jerry produced a lancet pen. He used it on his index finger, then pressed the bleeding finger onto the paper of the PTALP. The bound demon, a shapely entity made of blood and black ink hidden within the yellow pages, was activated. It hopped off the brown binding on the top of the PTALP and made a series of small, uncomfortable moaning sounds. Mentally unwell and concussed as Shatter was, he had the sense to freak out at the sight of the minuscule demon.

  “What the fuck is that thing?”

  “You’re not at liberty to know. Now hold still. I think a man like you might produce a hit with this.”

  Jerry took a sample of blood off of Shatter’s face, then pressed it onto the PTALP to obtain any available information on him. The PTALP had the ability to not only record genetic data from all sapients, but inform the user about anything previously recorded about them. Using the PTALP’s scale-downed abilities, Jerry asked it for information on Shatter Moon. With a great amount of physical discomfort, the PTALP’s bound demon crawled up Jerry’s hairy arm and slipped into his ear like a silverfish between old book pages. Jerry grimaced, but held himself together as the demon injected itself into the auditory cortex of his brain.

  “Paddington, tell me about this man,” Jerry said to the demon currently nestled in his brain matter. “I know there’s gotta be something juicy on him.”

  The bound demon whispered, giving him a wealth of information about Shatter Moon that was unsurprising.

  Shatter Moon’s real legal name was Shaun Moonstone. He had made several attempts to legally change his name to Shatter Moon, but was rejected on the basis of having too many previous run-ins with the authorities that included petty theft, tax evasion, failure to produce a Mendakian Union ID, possession of stolen property, offense against the Mendakian Union, resisting arrest, public urination, Class A narcotics possession, and assaulting a gendarme.

  “Shaun Moonstone, is it?” Jerry asked the so-called Shatter Moon before him. “This might sound rich coming from a self-admitted blackguard such as myself, but Paddington told me you have quite the criminal record on hand. Are you playing some kind of losing game with yourself to see how many times you can get in trouble until the wrong person catches you?”

  “Shaun Moonstone isn’t my real name. That’s my paper person name, which means-“

  “Nothing that meshes well with consensus reality. Let’s cut the bullshit, Shaun. I’m gonna give you three choices. The first choice is to say something that actually matters to me so I can help you. The second choice is to not say a damned thing, which I would appreciate. And the last choice is to rant and ramble about paper this, and people that until the gendarmes come to take you away for what will certainly be a long, long time.” Jerry leaned in towards Shaun Moonstone. “Which choice are you going to pick?”

  “I…I pick your first choice.”

  Jerry leaned back in the creaky chair and grinned. “I guess I was wrong about you, Shaun. You’re actually quite the clever man. Now start talking.”

  When Jerry’s PTALP finished recording the deluge of Mr. Moonstone’s testimony, there was a series of firm knocks on the apartment's door. Braxton and Jerry glanced at one another.

  "New Chemeketa Gendarmerie!" a masculine voice bellowed. "To anybody inside, announce your presence and have your Mendakian Union ID cards present for examination."

  "Triple I special agent Jerimiano Genovesi.”

  “Triple I special agent Braxton Olumana.”

  "We're here with two suspects related to a serious criminal matter,” Jerry said. “Their names are Shaun “Shatter Moon” Moonstone and Taquina Longface. Fair warning about Shaun, though. He’s such a fascinating character, I think somebody should extract what’s left of his brain into a jar and study it."

  “Uh, good to know,” the gendarme said. "Now make way. We're coming in."

  Three gendarmes with dark green body armor, tricornes, and Hurz-Marshall-244 rifles filled the apartment, crowding its already cramped interior. One of them sporting a thick mustache and a small scar across his dark-skinned face nodded towards Jerry and Braxton. According to the metal insignias pinned on his shoulders, he was a sergeant. Jerry and Braxton saluted the gendarmes.

  "Good evening and better blessings from the Twelve,” the gendarme sergeant said to them. “Forgive my frank manner of speech, but this place is a fucking mess."

  "And even better blessings from the Twelve to you," Jerry said. "Try experiencing this apartment’s filth while you’re being shot at in it, sir. Did you recover Bradley’s body yet, or do you and your men need some of my elbow grease to help scrape him off the ground?”

  “We looked.” The sergeant’s mustachioed face darkened. "There was no body to be found.”