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I had once acquired a small bit of rumor that indicated
many of his victims included popular proponents of the
very unpopular Black Sun Theory—the tedious and vastly
incorrect notion that a heretofore unseen phase of the sun
caused the Great Darkness, its unusually high output of
some type of radiation or another driving us all mad, and
then saddling us with amnesia once the unique solar phase
concluded. If the Mad Merc had indeed performed such a
service, I would view his deeds as rather practical and not
insane at all. Still, there was certainly some kind of madness
upon him—in him—but it was frozen into a killing thing,
disallowed from spilling out uncontrollably, channeled by
skills that had been perfected over a lifetime of professional
murder. Whatever his past, at that moment he was a large
and volatile shadow, one with a heavily modified stun gun
at his side and a smile painted across an otherwise ordinary
gas mask.
Magnificently insane and incredibly crafty he may have
been, but he wasn’t particularly fast. My left hand crushed
the gloved fingers around his weapon as my right denied his
windpipe air, all before his eyes could do more than widen
in shock. I slowly lifted him from the floor, my fingertips
registering the intricate snapping sensations of his collapsing
throat. Unbeknownst to me, his free hand had been busy
clawing for the machete strapped to his leg. The weapon
cleaved into my side, sending blood rushing down my leg
and onto the floor. I was not amused by his willpower, or
even his resourcefulness, so I kicked him unceremoniously
down the aisle and into the sliding door at its end, hoping the
resulting impact might take the fire out of him.
He tumbled past the rows of seats, catching himself with
outstretched hands. However, my time with his throat in my
hand had not been spent idly—I had successfully dislodged
my sister from his chest armor. As he dropped into a crouch,
my sister took him in the gut, just below his chest armor.
I was unsure if she had managed to find a vital organ, but
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