rape of Stacy’s mind, making her try to hurt the people she worked for, wasn’t enough for him. The fucker took it a sick step further and made it literal. He decided to mix his unholy business with the abominable perversion of pleasure, making her do such twisted things . . .
We take a deep breath, trying to suppress our rage, which is beginning to overflow. Rage is not helpful in combat. At least not in the style of fighting we have cultivated. We need to be assessing, analyzing, and then acting. We know that historically, berserkers always died, albeit gloriously, on the battlefield. That’s not our way. In fact, we practice something that can be said to be the opposite of blind fury. We call our style Mindful Combat . It requires a degree of tranquility. We take some more deep breaths. We mean for one person to die today, and he is in that car. We need to live on so we can hunt down and kill anyone else who’s part of this crime, this conspiracy.
We’re watching the man in the front window of his car. We’re wary. We recognize people like ourselves, former military, and this guy’s body language screams Special Ops. The way he parked away from any good sniping spot, the alert way he’s sitting. All these clues point to elite training. But this guy is not from the Special Activities Division, our own background. We’re pretty sure of that. He might’ve trained with the Recapture Tactics Team—though this asshole probably Pushed to get his way in, at least at the psych-profiling stage.
Taking a final deep breath, we shoot out the passenger window and punch the frozen Pusher in the face, knowing that the physical contact will bring him into our Mind Dimension. Killing him here is the goal. Doing it slowly, if possible, would be a bonus.
We prepare to shoot as soon as he materializes—but he doesn’t. We’re taken aback for a second. He should’ve materialized in the backseat, we think momentarily before a sharp pain in our right shoulder grabs our full attention.
Strangely, the Pusher seems to have materialized outside the car. We don’t recall anyone ever becoming corporeal in the Mind Dimension this way. There’s no time to wonder how it happened, or where he got the knife that’s now lodged in our shoulder. With this injury, our whole world becomes focused on one thing only: survival.
The burn in our shoulder is excruciating, and just holding the gun in our right hand feels like torture. Doing our best to ignore the pain, we turn around and try to fire at the attacker. He anticipates the move, and with a twist, manages to get free. If not for our injury, there would be no way he’d get away with this, but as it is, a moment later our weapon clinks as it falls to the ground. His other hand reaches into his coat pocket.
It’s time for a desperate maneuver.
We head-butt him—a move so dangerous that we normally discourage our people from using it.
The blow brings stars to our eyes, and a sense of disorientation, but it seems that the risk was worth it. The Pusher clutches his now-hopefully-broken nose. This is our moment.
Using our good left hand, we punch him in the nose—which he’s clutching with his hands—and with the injured arm, we reach into his coat pocket.
We grab his gun, lift our right hand, and let it come down. Using the injured hand this way, with the gun as a makeshift club, hurts us less than a punch would have. The heavy gun handle lands on the same weak spot on the Pusher’s nose.
He doesn’t pull his hands away. The damage to his nose must be severe.
He tries to go for a low kick, hoping to hit our legs. We move out of the way of the attack, take the gun into our left hand, and take it off safety.
We shoot his left upper arm first. He makes a strange gargling sound.
We shoot his upper right arm next. This time, he screams.
We savor the fact that his pain must be excruciating.
A shot to each leg follows, and he falls to the ground, trying to get into some
We take a deep breath, trying to suppress our rage, which is beginning to overflow. Rage is not helpful in combat. At least not in the style of fighting we have cultivated. We need to be assessing, analyzing, and then acting. We know that historically, berserkers always died, albeit gloriously, on the battlefield. That’s not our way. In fact, we practice something that can be said to be the opposite of blind fury. We call our style Mindful Combat . It requires a degree of tranquility. We take some more deep breaths. We mean for one person to die today, and he is in that car. We need to live on so we can hunt down and kill anyone else who’s part of this crime, this conspiracy.
We’re watching the man in the front window of his car. We’re wary. We recognize people like ourselves, former military, and this guy’s body language screams Special Ops. The way he parked away from any good sniping spot, the alert way he’s sitting. All these clues point to elite training. But this guy is not from the Special Activities Division, our own background. We’re pretty sure of that. He might’ve trained with the Recapture Tactics Team—though this asshole probably Pushed to get his way in, at least at the psych-profiling stage.
Taking a final deep breath, we shoot out the passenger window and punch the frozen Pusher in the face, knowing that the physical contact will bring him into our Mind Dimension. Killing him here is the goal. Doing it slowly, if possible, would be a bonus.
We prepare to shoot as soon as he materializes—but he doesn’t. We’re taken aback for a second. He should’ve materialized in the backseat, we think momentarily before a sharp pain in our right shoulder grabs our full attention.
Strangely, the Pusher seems to have materialized outside the car. We don’t recall anyone ever becoming corporeal in the Mind Dimension this way. There’s no time to wonder how it happened, or where he got the knife that’s now lodged in our shoulder. With this injury, our whole world becomes focused on one thing only: survival.
The burn in our shoulder is excruciating, and just holding the gun in our right hand feels like torture. Doing our best to ignore the pain, we turn around and try to fire at the attacker. He anticipates the move, and with a twist, manages to get free. If not for our injury, there would be no way he’d get away with this, but as it is, a moment later our weapon clinks as it falls to the ground. His other hand reaches into his coat pocket.
It’s time for a desperate maneuver.
We head-butt him—a move so dangerous that we normally discourage our people from using it.
The blow brings stars to our eyes, and a sense of disorientation, but it seems that the risk was worth it. The Pusher clutches his now-hopefully-broken nose. This is our moment.
Using our good left hand, we punch him in the nose—which he’s clutching with his hands—and with the injured arm, we reach into his coat pocket.
We grab his gun, lift our right hand, and let it come down. Using the injured hand this way, with the gun as a makeshift club, hurts us less than a punch would have. The heavy gun handle lands on the same weak spot on the Pusher’s nose.
He doesn’t pull his hands away. The damage to his nose must be severe.
He tries to go for a low kick, hoping to hit our legs. We move out of the way of the attack, take the gun into our left hand, and take it off safety.
We shoot his left upper arm first. He makes a strange gargling sound.
We shoot his upper right arm next. This time, he screams.
We savor the fact that his pain must be excruciating.
A shot to each leg follows, and he falls to the ground, trying to get into some
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