C4 is basically a bunch of stand-alone stories set in the same fictional universe. Sometimes characters or events may overlap from one story to another, but there's no need to read any other installments to know what's going on in whichever C4 story you're reading at the time. Anyways, just treat this as a stand-alone short story. All comments and constructive crits much appreciated! So without further ado...
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Chronologie IV: Survivors Will Be Shot Again
An on-going sci-fi series inspired by video games, anime, Terry Pratchett, and lack of sleep.
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The first constant of the universe is that on every backwater world there's at least one not-so-backwater bar. The second one is that all who visit that world will usually, at some point in their visit, end up in that bar. The third is that when they'll get there, things will start to go horribly bad. And the fourth is that no matter how bad they will get, they can, and will always get worse (one of the universities on Epicurus actually developed an entire school of thought based on the fourth constant of the universe in this context, but since practical implementations were limited to students bashing each other in the face with a footstool, it was shortly dropped from the curriculum).
On planet Xxxxx, this bar was One-Eyed Joe's.
Much like its ocularly-impaired owner, what the fine establishment lacked in aesthetics it made up double in character. The dim-lit bar was in a perpetual state of artistic uncleanness: leather seats riddled with bullet holes, stains that were part-alcohol and part-something else on the floor, and the occasional strokes of blood-splatter on the walls to add that final touch. The bar stand invoked associations of both a giant steel casket and a nuclear submarine, and it was from behind this impressive edifice where One-Eyed Joe ruled over his domain. Today was fight night, meaning that the bar was stuffed, everyone making bets and looking at the four Nano Crystal Displays that hung over Joe's stand, eyes glowing in that sort of anticipation reminiscent of what a jackal must feel when it notices downed prey, only worse, because if jackals could stand after stomaching a couple of pints of Intergalactic's Finest, there'd be no animal life (if any) left in the universe. Tournament fights were One-Eyed Joe's patrons' favorite past-time, and when they weren't busy shooting stuff, getting shot, or engaging in political discourse (that chiefly centered on dead-end arguments about what to change the name of their planet to, and usually culminated in someone getting shot), that's pretty much all they ever talked about. The fights themselves were simple to the bone: in Xxxxx's capital, Xxxxx (that coincidentally was also the only populated city on the planet, probably so that all the other letters of the alphabet could be spared), there was a big arena-like construction, similar to an ancient Earth coliseum, only made of highly damage-resistant metal alloys instead of wood and stone. Every weekend, combatants would enter this arena two at a time and fight each other with or without weapons until one either surrendered or died. It was an aerial view of this metal coliseum that was showing on Joe's NCDs.
"Hey Joe! Another drink!" shouted one greasy semi-conscious patron.
"Larry," said Joe, his giant golden nose ring peacefully swinging from side to side, "You got a real drinking problem, you know 'tat?"
"What? No I don't. I drink. I get drunk. I fall down. No problem."
"Right."
"So, whatcha think about today's fight, Joe? This new challenger guy must have some balls going against the champ. LiDiprio's one bad-arse mother. I heard he was killing people left and right before he came to Xxxxx."
"Yeah, I heard 'tat too. And also 'tat some serious people weren't too happy 'bout it. No wonder he's a legion of bloody bodyguards with him at all times."
"'Xcept when he's shagging. Bet they're not there when he's shaggin!"
"Yeah, 'tat. Or fight' in the arena. Weird, huh? Getting all 'tat se-cu-ri-ty and bodyguards and stuff, and still not thinkin' one bit about dyin' when he's to defend him being champ. Must be one confident sanuvagun. Aye, Larry? Larry? Dang. SOMEBODY DRAG LARRY OFF MY BAR STAND!"
***
The arena floor was sand mixed with blood, the crowd cheering, the dry air... Well, the dry air was doing whatever air usually does - just kind of floating there. But it did provide for an epic atmosphere. This was it. The main event. The current champion, LiDiprio stood on one end, and a tall long-haired man in a brown trench coat, sporting a hat and cowboy boots, on the other. His name was Revolver Tex, and he was not a very good person. He was, however, a very good assassin. The plan was to fight a few people in the tournament so he could challenge the champion, and when the time was right, press a button hidden on his belt to signal his one-man spacefighter pre-programmed to fly over the arena and drop him his guns from the cargo compartment. Shoot LiDiprio, get into the fighter, get away, get paid. Easy as murdering a hamster with a rocket launcher.
The combatants looked at each other, the champion produced some sort of a cocky smirk, and the loudspeaker said, "Figh... Er... *cough* *cough* FIGHT!"
Now was as good a time as any. Tex pushed the button. All he had to do now was not die before the ship got here. He didn't exactly lack fighting skills - not in the least. If he would've, the plan would've been doomed to failure from the very beginning. But an assassin of his calibre only leaves things to chance when he's six feet under, and even then, it's still considered good manners to set up a trip-mine perimeter around the grave. LiDiprio, even though he was well in his 50's, moved fast and fluidly, and before Tex could compare his opponent to a homicidal cat mutated from years of illegal drug abuse, or something equally frightening, he caught a fist with his jaw. The impact sent him flying on his back, but luckily, his reflexes kicked in and he had his knee out when the elderly-citizen-killer-mutant-cat-LiDiprio pounced on him the moment he hit the ground. Blocking punches and kicks left and right, pinned to the ground, he finally heard it - the peaceful humming of his fighter's engines, barely audible above the screaming spectators. He tried headbutting the champion to make himself an opening, but LiDiprio twisted his body in some weird way, caught him by the temples, yanked him on his feet, and then, before Tex could regain any resemblance of balance, roundhouse-kicked him in the face. Revolver Tex didn't just fly in the air - he spiraled into it.
Lying on the ground, his vision blurring, he could see the champion slowly walking towards him to finish him off, confident in his invincibility.
*THUMP!*
He must have miscalculated the altitude when entering data into his spacefighter's on-board computer - it didn't quite hover above the coliseum and drop him his guns per plan. Instead, it landed head first into it. And by extension, into LiDiprio, smashing the undisputed champion into the ground, splashing him all over the arena floor. Covered in his target's blood and with a mad grin on his face, Revolver Tex got up and ran to his ship.
All systems check - up, up and away!
***
Planet Xxxxx wasn't considered a backwater world for no reason: not a lot of particularly extraordinary things happened there. Sure, it had its share of murder, crime, and theft and that sort of thing. But nothing special. So when the current arena champion was smothered across the sand floor on air, One-Eyed Joe's regulars all suddenly became quiet, staring at the NCDs as if in disbelief. And then, they all started talking at once. Joe didn't mind that he'd probably be closing late tonight. All's good when it's good for business. Hours passed, and his drunk greasy patrons weren't getting any less greasy or drunk. In fact, by the time he came through the door, no-one even noticed. No-one, except for One-Eyed Joe.
"Job's done. Pay up."
"OH GODS! IT'S HIM!"
"Joe, you one dumb..."
"THE GUY WHO MURDERED THE CHAMP! IT'S HIM!"
"...$%*&#, $%*&#!!!"
"GET 'IM!"
Revolver Tex didn't even bother looking around. He just took out his guns - dual Colt Python mkIII's, the most powerful handguns in the universe (he felt like one lucky punk when he bought them) - pointed them to both sides of him and pulled the triggers. The gunfire lasted about a minute, with short breaks for reloading, leaving the bar littered with bodies and in places, body parts.
Revolver Tex leaned over the bullet-hole riddled bar stand and said, "Job's done, Joe. Pay up."
"ARRGHHH! Alright, alright! Just don't kill me! Man!" Joe threw a stack of Yen on the stand, "Please! That's all I got!"
"You know, I once heard that it's bad luck to shoot a one-eyed man."
"Agh... Eh... Really?"
"No. Not really."
[center]_________________________________________________
Next in Chronologie IV: School's Out![/center]
[center]_________________________________________________
Chronologie IV: Survivors Will Be Shot Again
An on-going sci-fi series inspired by video games, anime, Terry Pratchett, and lack of sleep.
_________________________________________________[/center]
The first constant of the universe is that on every backwater world there's at least one not-so-backwater bar. The second one is that all who visit that world will usually, at some point in their visit, end up in that bar. The third is that when they'll get there, things will start to go horribly bad. And the fourth is that no matter how bad they will get, they can, and will always get worse (one of the universities on Epicurus actually developed an entire school of thought based on the fourth constant of the universe in this context, but since practical implementations were limited to students bashing each other in the face with a footstool, it was shortly dropped from the curriculum).
On planet Xxxxx, this bar was One-Eyed Joe's.
Much like its ocularly-impaired owner, what the fine establishment lacked in aesthetics it made up double in character. The dim-lit bar was in a perpetual state of artistic uncleanness: leather seats riddled with bullet holes, stains that were part-alcohol and part-something else on the floor, and the occasional strokes of blood-splatter on the walls to add that final touch. The bar stand invoked associations of both a giant steel casket and a nuclear submarine, and it was from behind this impressive edifice where One-Eyed Joe ruled over his domain. Today was fight night, meaning that the bar was stuffed, everyone making bets and looking at the four Nano Crystal Displays that hung over Joe's stand, eyes glowing in that sort of anticipation reminiscent of what a jackal must feel when it notices downed prey, only worse, because if jackals could stand after stomaching a couple of pints of Intergalactic's Finest, there'd be no animal life (if any) left in the universe. Tournament fights were One-Eyed Joe's patrons' favorite past-time, and when they weren't busy shooting stuff, getting shot, or engaging in political discourse (that chiefly centered on dead-end arguments about what to change the name of their planet to, and usually culminated in someone getting shot), that's pretty much all they ever talked about. The fights themselves were simple to the bone: in Xxxxx's capital, Xxxxx (that coincidentally was also the only populated city on the planet, probably so that all the other letters of the alphabet could be spared), there was a big arena-like construction, similar to an ancient Earth coliseum, only made of highly damage-resistant metal alloys instead of wood and stone. Every weekend, combatants would enter this arena two at a time and fight each other with or without weapons until one either surrendered or died. It was an aerial view of this metal coliseum that was showing on Joe's NCDs.
"Hey Joe! Another drink!" shouted one greasy semi-conscious patron.
"Larry," said Joe, his giant golden nose ring peacefully swinging from side to side, "You got a real drinking problem, you know 'tat?"
"What? No I don't. I drink. I get drunk. I fall down. No problem."
"Right."
"So, whatcha think about today's fight, Joe? This new challenger guy must have some balls going against the champ. LiDiprio's one bad-arse mother. I heard he was killing people left and right before he came to Xxxxx."
"Yeah, I heard 'tat too. And also 'tat some serious people weren't too happy 'bout it. No wonder he's a legion of bloody bodyguards with him at all times."
"'Xcept when he's shagging. Bet they're not there when he's shaggin!"
"Yeah, 'tat. Or fight' in the arena. Weird, huh? Getting all 'tat se-cu-ri-ty and bodyguards and stuff, and still not thinkin' one bit about dyin' when he's to defend him being champ. Must be one confident sanuvagun. Aye, Larry? Larry? Dang. SOMEBODY DRAG LARRY OFF MY BAR STAND!"
***
The arena floor was sand mixed with blood, the crowd cheering, the dry air... Well, the dry air was doing whatever air usually does - just kind of floating there. But it did provide for an epic atmosphere. This was it. The main event. The current champion, LiDiprio stood on one end, and a tall long-haired man in a brown trench coat, sporting a hat and cowboy boots, on the other. His name was Revolver Tex, and he was not a very good person. He was, however, a very good assassin. The plan was to fight a few people in the tournament so he could challenge the champion, and when the time was right, press a button hidden on his belt to signal his one-man spacefighter pre-programmed to fly over the arena and drop him his guns from the cargo compartment. Shoot LiDiprio, get into the fighter, get away, get paid. Easy as murdering a hamster with a rocket launcher.
The combatants looked at each other, the champion produced some sort of a cocky smirk, and the loudspeaker said, "Figh... Er... *cough* *cough* FIGHT!"
Now was as good a time as any. Tex pushed the button. All he had to do now was not die before the ship got here. He didn't exactly lack fighting skills - not in the least. If he would've, the plan would've been doomed to failure from the very beginning. But an assassin of his calibre only leaves things to chance when he's six feet under, and even then, it's still considered good manners to set up a trip-mine perimeter around the grave. LiDiprio, even though he was well in his 50's, moved fast and fluidly, and before Tex could compare his opponent to a homicidal cat mutated from years of illegal drug abuse, or something equally frightening, he caught a fist with his jaw. The impact sent him flying on his back, but luckily, his reflexes kicked in and he had his knee out when the elderly-citizen-killer-mutant-cat-LiDiprio pounced on him the moment he hit the ground. Blocking punches and kicks left and right, pinned to the ground, he finally heard it - the peaceful humming of his fighter's engines, barely audible above the screaming spectators. He tried headbutting the champion to make himself an opening, but LiDiprio twisted his body in some weird way, caught him by the temples, yanked him on his feet, and then, before Tex could regain any resemblance of balance, roundhouse-kicked him in the face. Revolver Tex didn't just fly in the air - he spiraled into it.
Lying on the ground, his vision blurring, he could see the champion slowly walking towards him to finish him off, confident in his invincibility.
*THUMP!*
He must have miscalculated the altitude when entering data into his spacefighter's on-board computer - it didn't quite hover above the coliseum and drop him his guns per plan. Instead, it landed head first into it. And by extension, into LiDiprio, smashing the undisputed champion into the ground, splashing him all over the arena floor. Covered in his target's blood and with a mad grin on his face, Revolver Tex got up and ran to his ship.
All systems check - up, up and away!
***
Planet Xxxxx wasn't considered a backwater world for no reason: not a lot of particularly extraordinary things happened there. Sure, it had its share of murder, crime, and theft and that sort of thing. But nothing special. So when the current arena champion was smothered across the sand floor on air, One-Eyed Joe's regulars all suddenly became quiet, staring at the NCDs as if in disbelief. And then, they all started talking at once. Joe didn't mind that he'd probably be closing late tonight. All's good when it's good for business. Hours passed, and his drunk greasy patrons weren't getting any less greasy or drunk. In fact, by the time he came through the door, no-one even noticed. No-one, except for One-Eyed Joe.
"Job's done. Pay up."
"OH GODS! IT'S HIM!"
"Joe, you one dumb..."
"THE GUY WHO MURDERED THE CHAMP! IT'S HIM!"
"...$%*&#, $%*&#!!!"
"GET 'IM!"
Revolver Tex didn't even bother looking around. He just took out his guns - dual Colt Python mkIII's, the most powerful handguns in the universe (he felt like one lucky punk when he bought them) - pointed them to both sides of him and pulled the triggers. The gunfire lasted about a minute, with short breaks for reloading, leaving the bar littered with bodies and in places, body parts.
Revolver Tex leaned over the bullet-hole riddled bar stand and said, "Job's done, Joe. Pay up."
"ARRGHHH! Alright, alright! Just don't kill me! Man!" Joe threw a stack of Yen on the stand, "Please! That's all I got!"
"You know, I once heard that it's bad luck to shoot a one-eyed man."
"Agh... Eh... Really?"
"No. Not really."
[center]_________________________________________________
Next in Chronologie IV: School's Out![/center]
幻術
