04-15-2018, 03:54 PM
Mik tilted his head back slightly, eyes shut, allowing the room to wash over him, sensing the currents and eddys of the storm. After a moment, he seized the power, felt it rush into him.
It was as if he could see the entire room using just his senses, the old scents of the wooden stools and bar top and smoke and food and alcohol weaving through the sounds of conversation and laughter, the clink of glasses on tables, the constant sound of washing and cleaning from the bar keep.
And in the distance the sound of a gunshot. Clear. Golden. His call.
His eyes flicked open, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. He could almost see the goddess behind the face of reality, dark raven hair, sharp green eyes, holding back the curtain, inviting him to join in the fun. For some reason he had never seen a face before in his imaginations.
Without a word to Dangerous Sipper he slipped out of his chair, slipped by Kat to peck her cheek and headed out. He could hear the melee from here, the power making it sound like the roar of battle.
He pulled as much power as he could hold, felt it buck and kick and fight him, as he turned the corner. There he saw a shitload of Kolos and gopniks. Scattered among them were the three Yakuza, the two guard dogs trying to keep the old guy safe against a large SUV. Not that his knife didn't flash from time to time too.
He was surprised not to see more guns. But close quarters was bad for guns. You could hit the wrong person. And despite the original shot, no one wanted the police around.
Another knot of gopniks, silver red and blue Addidas tracksuits marking them out as much as their black boots and shaved heads, encircled someone else. Scarface.
Bodies littered the ground but numbers were numbers. They were going to lose.
And that made the choice for him. He didn't care about the Yakuza and he sure as hell didn't give two fucks for Scarface. But in the fight of many to few, he always chose few. It was more fun that way.
The power writhing in his grasp, Mik began hurling small fireballs that exploded into the backs of the group around the Yakuza, casting sprays of sparks and smoke into the night sky. He couldn't help but laugh maniacally as he kept them coming.
Despite everything, they weren't morons. Five or ten detached from the group and came at him, guns pulled. Another weave of fire like a whip swung out, tearing at hands and arms and legs and nicks, leaving deep burning slashes and smoking clothes.
He spared a glance for Scarface, holding his own for now. After a moment, he sent a few balls in that direction. He wouldn't save the guy, exactly, but he'd even the odds at least. Games were more fun when the teams were close.
Screams and the flashing lights of flames and smoke filled the air, the scent of meat and burned polyester filling his nostrils.
Mostly, now he felt like a spectator. Or perhaps a referree. He just kept things from getting out of hand.
Games that lasted the longest were also more fun.
It was as if he could see the entire room using just his senses, the old scents of the wooden stools and bar top and smoke and food and alcohol weaving through the sounds of conversation and laughter, the clink of glasses on tables, the constant sound of washing and cleaning from the bar keep.
And in the distance the sound of a gunshot. Clear. Golden. His call.
His eyes flicked open, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. He could almost see the goddess behind the face of reality, dark raven hair, sharp green eyes, holding back the curtain, inviting him to join in the fun. For some reason he had never seen a face before in his imaginations.
Without a word to Dangerous Sipper he slipped out of his chair, slipped by Kat to peck her cheek and headed out. He could hear the melee from here, the power making it sound like the roar of battle.
He pulled as much power as he could hold, felt it buck and kick and fight him, as he turned the corner. There he saw a shitload of Kolos and gopniks. Scattered among them were the three Yakuza, the two guard dogs trying to keep the old guy safe against a large SUV. Not that his knife didn't flash from time to time too.
He was surprised not to see more guns. But close quarters was bad for guns. You could hit the wrong person. And despite the original shot, no one wanted the police around.
Another knot of gopniks, silver red and blue Addidas tracksuits marking them out as much as their black boots and shaved heads, encircled someone else. Scarface.
Bodies littered the ground but numbers were numbers. They were going to lose.
And that made the choice for him. He didn't care about the Yakuza and he sure as hell didn't give two fucks for Scarface. But in the fight of many to few, he always chose few. It was more fun that way.
The power writhing in his grasp, Mik began hurling small fireballs that exploded into the backs of the group around the Yakuza, casting sprays of sparks and smoke into the night sky. He couldn't help but laugh maniacally as he kept them coming.
Despite everything, they weren't morons. Five or ten detached from the group and came at him, guns pulled. Another weave of fire like a whip swung out, tearing at hands and arms and legs and nicks, leaving deep burning slashes and smoking clothes.
He spared a glance for Scarface, holding his own for now. After a moment, he sent a few balls in that direction. He wouldn't save the guy, exactly, but he'd even the odds at least. Games were more fun when the teams were close.
Screams and the flashing lights of flames and smoke filled the air, the scent of meat and burned polyester filling his nostrils.
Mostly, now he felt like a spectator. Or perhaps a referree. He just kept things from getting out of hand.
Games that lasted the longest were also more fun.
"Good and ill.
We're like the wind,
we blows both ways."
- Mad Sweeney, American Gods
- Mad Sweeney, American Gods