Riotfish, Inc.: In Debt

Oliver was hiding in the sparse woods at the rear of the property. He was standing behind a tree in the hopes of not being seen.

The woods were poor for hiding in. The trees were narrow and tall and straight, with no low limbs to provide cover. Some kind of pine, Oliver thought. Moreover, the trees were spaced fairly far apart.

The only thing keeping him hidden was the failing light. The falling dusk cast weird shadows throughout the thinly wooded area, and the security forces hunting him had flashlights mounted to their rifles. The beams swept back and forth across the lawn occasionally flashing by him, making his breath stop.

His bulk bulged ridiculously out from behind the tree. He felt horribly exposed, but the guards were too close for him to feel comfortable moving any further back into the woods. He was trapped.

Theoretically, orcs were bulletproof against lighter rounds, but he'd never tested that against his own personal skin, and furthermore it looked as though the security team had had time to swap out their submachine guns for heavier rifles. There was no telling what kinds of rounds they were firing, nor how well Oliver would stand up to it.

Best to remain quiet for now.

He carefully watched the guards as best he could. The lowering sun was too dim to provide much useful light, but still fired blinding beams into his eyes when he looked in the direction of the sunset.

They were methodically covering the property, searching for him. It was only a matter of time before--

"Hey! Over here!" One of the guards had poked into the woods and found him.

Roaring, Oliver slapped a nearby tree, snapping the trunk off and leaving a three foot tall stump. The tree slammed down onto the guard, who crumpled beneath the crashing timber. It didn't even slow down on its way to the ground.

Oliver bolted.

Bobbing beams sought him out as the light faded and flashlights came on. With his long limbs, Oliver could cover a lot of open ground, but now he was crashing through the woods, trying to find a way further back into the trees to hide. He hoped that if he could get far enough back, the woods would thicken up enough to hide him. He kept caroming off trees in the uncertain light, creating a racket as he crashed through, knocking over the occasional pine. Shards of light shot back and forth, trying to track him.

He'd gotten himself turned around, and all of a sudden burst out of the woods, whooping in huge gasps, trying to catch his breath. The rattle of automatic fire sounded on at least two sides, and he bolted again.

Now out in the open, he quickly outdistanced the guards, but the rifles kept firing, and spits of dirt sprayed up around him as missed shots plowed into the landscaping.

With a little room now, but still running, Oliver pulled out his datapad. He swiped Fleer's number. He had no idea what he could say, if anything, or if Fleer could help at all, but that was his lifeline. The line buzzed for a few moments, then disconnected. Groaning and huffing, Oliver stuffed the pad away and continued on.

Despite his speed, he was only able to sprint a short distance. Huge ragged breaths tore at his throat as he slowed. He was long and powerful, but he didn't have the endurance for an extended run.

The guards were rapidly closing the gap. They had stopped firing, and were drawing closer. By design, there was almost no cover in the broad, rolling hills. Oliver turned toward the mansion. If only he could get inside, get some cover, get some help, hide, breathe.

The guards paced themselves as they closed in. Oliver's run turned into a jog, and his jog into a trudge. It was clear he was used up. Oliver reached the mansion, heaving hoarsely, and fetched up against a solid brick wall. No doors here. The only windows were a floor up. He leaned against the wall, gasping, took a couple of shambling steps and slid to the ground. The circle of men tightened around him.

"Sir, we have the big one surrounded," one of them said into his radio. The radio garbled back at him. "Yes sir, still alive." More screechy gibberish. "Understood, sir."

The guard raised his rifle. The rest followed suit. Oliver cowered.

From above came a tinkling crash, followed by a glorious sight: a dwarvish warrior flying through the air, moustache streaming behind him, shrieking ancient war cries. Every eye turned as D'khara screamed down. Oliver could easily imagine him with a wicked hooked axe in either hand, churning into the fray, ready to grind up any enemy.

With a thick whump, D'khara hit the ground nearby.

The guards stared over at D'khara. The guards looked up at the second floor. Roger's gleeful visage peered down from the broken window.

"I have candyhands!" he crowed.

"Oh cram," Oliver said, and flung himself over the recumbent dwarf.

In the darkening twilight, the guards could not see the grenades raining down, but they could hear the thuds as they hit the ground. Oliver curled into a ball over D'khara.

Realizing too late what was happening, the guards tried to scatter.

With a series of loud bangs, the grenades scattered the guards in a much more literal way.

Viewing his handiwork with pride, Roger called out, "Catch me, my queen!" and leapt from the window.

It wasn't clear who he thought would catch him, since Oliver and D'khara were both still on the ground. It didn't seem to matter much, since Roger belly-flopped onto the ground from the second-story window, and immediately popped back onto his feet.

"Roger," D'khara croaked, still recovering from his fall, "you're crazy."

Mrs. Meade sat behind the wheel of the Battle Wagon, enjoying the sunset as her vehicle idled crankily. Her half-moon glasses sat low on her nose, and a gentle smile rested on her face.

It was quiet at this end of the property, and until the boys needed to leave, her work was done. She had some knitting laid aside, but the sunset was breathtaking. The console had a small, elderly picture of a man mounted in it. He had a genuine smile and tired eyes, and wore flat-topped glasses and a thin mustache.

She patted the picture with a palsied hand.

"We're doing alright, aren't we, Edgar? These boys are so sweet to me, you'd think they were our own--" She stopped with a distressed expression. "Well, they work very hard. And that Mr. Fleer was so kind to keep us on. He is a sharp young man, make no mistake."

She stroked the console gently. "I've tried so hard to take care of our Battle Wagon," she said. "Forty years and I've kept it running. It reminds me of you. Reminds me of the times we had." She blushed a little.

"I was so afraid of what would happen to it after, when I come to you. Now I know these boys will take care of it, just like they take care of me. They're good boys. All things considered, they're good boys."

Tears welled up a little, and she sighed a little as the sun slipped fully below the horizon, and the sky darkened.

A shadow moved outside near the Battle Wagon. Paused, moved again. Eventually three young men in maroon shirts slunk into the clearing.

Thomas, Richard, and Harold technically worked for Star Security, inasmuch as they worked at all. They'd found each other years before and bonded over their mutual distaste of effort, competence, and general work ethic.

As soon as the shooting had started in the mansion, they'd wandered off.

"We'll check the west pasture," Thomas said.

"Close off their routes of escape," Richard added.

"In case of... they can't... escape," said Harold, straining his mental faculties.

When they'd come across the Battle Wagon, it appeared abandoned, but after a cautious investigation, they discovered that the only occupant was a little old lady who was crying and talking to herself.

They weren't the kind to accept much personal risk, but a little light banditry was right in their collective wheelhouse. It looked like bonus time had come early for the trio.

The three briefly scouted around the Battle Wagon, but there were no guards posted, no defenses set up, nothing protecting the vehicle.

They shared a brief nod, then Thomas strolled saucily up and tapped on the window with the barrel of his pistol.

Mrs. Meade started at the noise, looked at the three, and smiled. She manually rolled down the window with excruciating slowness.

"Hey lady, this is a no parking zone," Thomas said.

"Yeah, and it's not even on the road," Richard noted.

"Yeah, and, uh, that's against the law," added Harold, who couldn't think of much else to add.

"Oh, I'm so very sorry," replied Mrs. Meade. "I just need to be here for a few minutes while the boys finish up their work. Would you all like some candy while we wait? I have some right here..." She began rooting around in her purse.

"Their work?" asked Thomas, looking over his shoulder.

"When are they coming back?" asked Richard, clutching his gun.

"Who are the boys?" asked Harold, who tended to stay a step or two behind current events.

"Oh, they're all fine young men. They're taking a delivery at the house down there. I said a few minutes, but really they probably won't be back for another half-hour or so. Do you think it would be all right if I stayed here just that long? I promise I'll leave just as soon as they're done."

The trio grinned at one another.

"Can't do that. We'll have to fine you," said Thomas with a wicked smile.

"We'll have to confiscate your van and all your stuff," added Richard, grinning evilly.

"Yeah, and... and your stuff. The best stuff." appended Harold.

"Oh, well, I... I just couldn't," said Mrs. Meade, tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm very sorry, I didn't know this was... I-- could you let me off with just a little warning this time? I promise to be more careful in the future."

The three burst out laughing.

"Lady, get out of the van," chortled Thomas.

"Yeah, this is a van-jacking," said Richard.

"Hur hur, you said 'jacking'," added Harold, exhibiting the breadth of his comedic oeuvre.

Mrs. Meade's shocked face gave the trio a fresh round of hilarity.

"You mean... you're robbing me? You're brigands? Rapscallions? Are you bad boys?" Her brows drew down in a fury.

"Come on, lady, out of the van," Thomas laughed, reaching for the door handle.

"Yeah, time to walk home," added Richard.

"Um, um, um guys?" Harold said, experiencing a rare lucid moment as the door swung open, revealing the terminal sight of a chrome-barreled Withers-Simmons .357 revolver, with Mrs. Meade's half-moon spectacles gleaming from behind it.