CAPITULO II: Adapt or die

Part I

The casing of the last bullet in the magazine fell with a dry, empty jingle. Bayón, leaning against the destroyed planter, listened as the bullets kept whistling close, as if the whole world wanted to erase him from the map.

“Shit… I’m out of bullets,” thought Bayón as he quickly took cover.

— He’s reloading! Flank the slave! —shouted one of the guards.

“Slave?” “That shit again…”

Bayón twisted his body, rolling to the side of the wall to avoid staying static.

He knew that if they caught him there, they’d tear him apart. He still had the gun in his hand, useless, but psychologically useful, like an empty promise he could still wield.

— “Don’t give him time, go!” —ordered the captain of the Royal Guard who had arrived on the scene—. “I don’t want to see more intestines on the ground, like with the patrol that exploded.”

Reinforcements were here.

A shadow crept from the side.

With pure instinct, Bayón pushed off with his knee and rammed the guard peeking from the edge, grabbed him by the neck of the riot armor, and dragged him to the ground with desperate strength.

The helmet fell off.

— Son of a—! —The guard tried to shout, but Bayón smashed his nose with the butt of the empty gun.

The crack of bone was followed by a jet of blood and a muffled whimper.

“I don’t have time for your shit… there are no exits… how the hell do I get out of this?” thought Bayón, scanning his surroundings. “How the hell do you get out of something like this?”

He decided to enter the building behind him, took the unconscious body as a shield, and clumsily dragged it to another cover; it was the only way to get close enough to smash the glass at the entrance.

He kept pushing forward, feeling every projectile sink into the corpse’s back.

— He’s using Márquez as a shield, he was about to retire! Shoot anyway, Márquez is already dead!

— What the fuck?!… Why is it that every time a cop dies, he was “about to retire”? Shit, Márquez sure ate well, damn he’s heavy.

He managed to reach the entrance, a burst from the guards shattered the glass, but forced him to hit the floor.

As he moved to another cover, he slipped on the spilled blood from Márquez’s body, making him drop the gun.

He swallowed hard, watching his rifle slide away.

“No way… I need another weapon, even something sharp will do, anything is good, I can’t die without even being able to defend myself.”

With trembling movements, he searched the fallen guard: vest, cuffs, rifle mags… nothing compatible, his rifle was far, under enemy fire.

He had lost the advantage.

— We got him! Cut off his escape!

A grenade rolled toward him and he moved on pure instinct — Sorry, Márquez… He kicked the body and it rolled to the right on top of the explosive.

— BOOM!

— Bastard! —the guards shouted.

— Márquez! Noooo! —yelled a guard.

He crawled, without elegance or strategy, toward a pile of rubble, a piece of metal pipe stuck out, he grabbed it, heavy, cold, brutal…

A riot commando managed to breach into the building, but they no longer found Bayón in the lobby.

He had moved into the other rooms, so the guards began to search, until they found him.

When they did, to their surprise, he seemed to surrender.

— Is that it?… All that drama for this, pig? —mocked a guard as he advanced confidently.

Bayón didn’t respond, he just clenched his jaw and waited, giving his back to the guard with his hands raised, but with the pipe between his legs.

When the man got close enough, he grabbed the pipe and swung, with the fury of someone facing death.

The pipe smashed into the guard’s jaw, a dry, dull blow; his helmet cracked, teeth and blood flew out.

— Aghghh! —The scream was pure terror.

The guards, seeing the scene, opened fire. Bayón didn’t let the body fall, he used it as cannon fodder, spinning with the body as if it were still useful.

— I’m not dead yet.

— Damn dogs!

Another guard raised his rifle.

Bayón hurled the pipe as an improvised projectile, it wasn’t precise, but enough to break his balance. He lunged at him with suicidal fury, tearing the rifle away and firing in a burst at the guard and his companions, taking down two while rolling toward the wall.

— Aaaaaaaghhh! What the hell is this bastard?! —shouted a wounded guard.

Only three remained, or at least three visible, of those who had come for him.

Bayón leaned against the wall, the rifle trembled in his hands, his face was covered in blood, an unbearable ringing in his ears, every breath was heavy.

With a precise shot straight to the head of the guard, he took down the first of the three.

—You!… Damn abnormal pig!… —whispered one of the last guards, shooting at him from the corner.

Bayón raised the rifle, only to realize… empty.

Again.

«No bullets left.» thought Bayón «not even for a mercy shot.»

—Tsk… —. Now what…?

Bayón, knowing it was suicide, lunged without a weapon when the guard came around the corner, with the scream of someone who has nothing left to lose.

The guard fired, two, three times, but the momentum drove him to the ground.

Both rolled… fists, elbows, bites, an animal fight, formless, without technique, only hatred and desperation.

Finally, the guard’s helmet fell off… and Bayón slammed it again and again against the pavement, until there was nothing left but an unrecognizable face: his hands trembled, his knuckles were wounded.

—Here, Márquez Jr., respond Malaquías —whispered a hoarse voice over the radio, before cutting out.

Bayón barely turned when a third guard appeared from the right, different from the others, shorter, more robust, with a polarized visor and the rifle strapped with cloth tape, armor padded with ballistics, tactical boots, no badge, knife secured to his chest.

—Well, how interesting, are you probably from the dwarf race? Aren’t you…? —asked Bayón to the guard.

—I’m not looking for trouble, old man, this is a big misunderstanding, I was just walking and…

—No…, I’m not from the dwarf race —said the guard, clearly annoyed.

He didn’t yell, nor hesitate.

He fired.

Bayón dove to the ground, rolled behind a metal desk, bullets whistling over his head, his arm throbbing, the cover wouldn’t last.

«This bastard is different.» thought the guard.

—You’re not one of the civilians… nor one of the common slaves. —The guard’s voice was dry, sharp—. Were you military? By the way you killed the others.

Bayón didn’t answer.

He kept breathing heavily.

The guard approached slowly, rifle up, aiming calmly, not wasting bullets, he wanted to confirm the target.

Bayón waited, when the shadow marked itself in the reflection of the glass door, he turned with everything he had, throwing the metal pipe he had picked up earlier.

The projectile hit the visor, didn’t break it, but deflected it for a second.

He leapt on him.

In the struggle, the guard fired a short burst; the bullets scattered against the wall.

—Click…— the guard dropped the empty weapon and drew the knife.

Bayón barely managed to deflect the first slash with his forearm, the blade tearing his skin, the pain bringing him back, Bayón bit into the guard’s shoulder, sinking his teeth until he felt bone.

The guard screamed and elbowed him in the face.

Bayón fell on his back, bleeding from an opened brow.

Both stood up.

The third guard knew what he was doing, every punch went straight to the organs, every movement aimed to end the fight.

But Bayón was no longer fighting with technique, but with rage; he rammed him and slammed him against a column.

He kneed him in the abdomen, then landed two punches to the trachea.

The guard lost his air and tried to stab him.

Bayón grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and the knife fell to the ground.

—Die, bastard! —shouted Bayón.

And he gave him a series of short strikes to the face.

One. Another. Another.

The visor finally cracked. The guard’s face was now visible, swollen, gasping.

—Enough… —murmured the man, staggering.

Bayón grabbed him by the neck and smashed him against the wall, but didn’t kill him.

He had noticed that the guard had dropped a pendant with a photo of his wife and daughter.

He held him there, one second, two.

The guard closed his eyes. He was waiting for the final blow.

Bayón let him go.

—Go.

—What…?

—Run before I change my mind.

The man collapsed against the wall, crawled, got up and fled toward the back, staggering.

He never looked back.

«I may have been stronger, but he won the fight…»

—Hmph… he left so fast he dropped this —said Bayón while picking up the gold pendant.

Then he looked around… empty.

In silence, the patrol lights painted the inner walls in red and blue, flickering like open wounds over the white marble.

Exhaustion was a damp blanket that wouldn’t let him move, but at least he had a second to breathe.

But the silence… the silence worried him.

—Those bastards are out there… waiting for me, they don’t come in because they think I’m dead, or maybe…

«They want to make me impatient so I’ll come out.»

From his hiding place —the hollow behind a fallen planter, camouflaged by a body and part of a fractured wall.

He could see the beams of light sweeping the lobby like blades, scanning every corner.

The murmur of police communications leaked through the drones’ speakers.

Outside, the day was beginning to set, shadows of tactical uniforms crossed the exterior, he saw at least two drones, spying on him.

He leaned against a cold marble wall, breathing through his mouth as a drop of sweat slid down his temple.

—… I survived, but how long can I keep this up?

It sounded like a raw fact, but he had to accept reality, even if he could still face them.

He looked up at the pale sky of the district and sketched a barely perceptible smile.

«This isn’t over… I have a real chance.»

And for the first time since he had arrived in that damned world… he felt hope.

Part II

But as he looked at the sky, hope presented itself as a damn flying car, green, very elegant.

It descended slowly, a kind of flying carriage with gemstone inlays on its shields, a serpent crossing a lightning bolt.

And from it stepped down a man with fine features, blond hair, and long elf-like ears with a few diamond earrings. He wore a kind of martial Chinese uniform in electric green with golden details.

—Well, damn slave, you’ve already made a fucking mess, they sent me to bring you in and find out who your master is, so he can pay for all the damages you caused to the property of House Cle’PPier.

Unknowingly, the building where Bayón had barricaded himself belonged to a noble house.

—I am Torgann, champion of House Cle’PPier.

—I’m not as compassionate as my master, you ruined my training, they interrupted me because of you.

—I was asked to bring you alive, but I think you deserve a lesson, a slave must know his place —As he approached, lightning sparked from his fingers.

«Ok, here we go, it’s all or nothing,» thought Bayón. «Didn’t expect them to send a damn electric dog, I guess I could match him if I manage to get some kind of insula…»

But before he could finish the thought, the guy disappeared and reappeared in front of him.

His lightning magic allowed him to move at great speed, he appeared wrapped in sparks and grabbed Bayón by the neck, mercilessly electrifying him.

—Slaves are nothing but our pigs, feel honored to experience the magic of a champion.

—Regionals are just around the corner, so die already, I need to get back to training —said Torgann with an indifferent tone, releasing more power with the intention of killing.

The surge of energy made Bayón’s body convulse violently, but he didn’t faint; the amount of pain was overwhelming, but something this painful couldn’t compare to the agony he had experienced with the regeneration upon arriving in this world, so with the strength he managed to gather, he struck Torgann hard on the jaw, forcing him to release him.

The man quickly turned his gaze back to Bayón, but Bayón didn’t waste a second and unleashed a flurry of punches to his face, making Torgann step back, though it didn’t cause much damage, it only made him retreat.

—Damn pig… how dare you bite me —Torgann once again moved like lightning, appearing and disappearing, each strike resounding like thunder.

He struck directly at ribs and stomach, his skin beginning to burn; his movements were highly coordinated as he kept hitting at high speed.

—Look at the difference in power, damn it! Kneel and beg for mercy!

—Rot in hell! —Bayón spat, blood vomiting from his mouth, but he remained standing.

The electric charge shook Bayón’s entire body violently, his blood boiling, not only from the electricity but from the rage of not being able to land all his punches. He kept fighting, connecting some —hit, miss, hit, miss— and then, by reflex, he landed a blow that barely grazed Torgann’s face. It didn’t do much damage, but it frustrated him for not being able to take Bayón down quickly.

Bayón’s knuckles ached.

He no longer knew how many times he had hit him in the face, or if it even mattered.

Each punch was like throwing himself against a storm dressed in nobility.

Torgann stepped back half a pace, his eyes fixed on him, without a drop of respect.

—Don’t you ever tire? —he asked in a low, dry voice. There was no amazement, only annoyance.

Bayón could barely breathe.

—I don’t… have time… to listen to your delusions —he gasped. It didn’t even sound defiant; it was just a fact.

The noble did not reply immediately.

His face no longer showed mockery or sadism.

—This is not a fight. You’re nothing but a distraction.

At that moment, he disappeared—not completely, only enough for his figure to flicker with the light, and the next impact came from an impossible angle.

An electric discharge tore through Bayón’s body from collarbone to hip, and then he was mercilessly hurled out against a lateral magic barricade.

His body slid across the ground like a battered sack of meat and crashed against one of the sides where several patrols were already formed, and some civilians watched from a distance behind the officers.

The impact destabilized the containment generators.

—The barriers are shutting down! —one of the guards shouted, stepping back as the blue filaments that protected the perimeter flickered and fell with a buzz.

The crowd, on the other side of the security line, began to scream.

—Back! Everyone back! —the guards ordered as they tried to reactivate the perimeter.

In the middle of the chaos, Bayón tried to get up; his left arm was barely responding.

And then he saw her.

A young woman stumbled in her attempt to retreat; beside her, a boy no older than six had been trapped between two loose metal plates of a barrier unit.

The boy didn’t scream, only trembled with wide eyes.

Bayón turned his head, searching for Torgann—nothing, he had vanished from sight again.

Memories burned in his mind, memories of the war in his world: people trapped, people forgotten, people no one saved when he couldn’t either. Because, despite the evil for which he was condemned, he hadn’t set out to do harm. His primary desire was to help others, but it was his environment that twisted his actions.

“If I die… I don’t want it to be knowing I let a child die like this.”

He crawled—not with honor, nor with strength.

With need.

One knee, then the other, the metal plate was hot, his skin stuck to it, but he lifted it, just a few inches.

—Get him out! —Bayón shouted with what voice he had left.

The woman, sobbing, pulled the boy into her arms and ran. She didn’t say thank you, she didn’t have time.

Bayón collapsed onto the same metal he had lifted, his breathing heavy, his vision clouded by blood.

And then, Torgann appeared through the smoke, walking calmly, sparks still dancing on his fingers.

—Now you see all that you’ve caused… damn pig.

Bayón stood up again—not straight, not whole, just enough.

Rage didn’t give him strength, and fury didn’t make him invincible.

But it kept him alive.