Chapter 3: Prologue (3)

After sitting quietly for a few minutes, I've come to realize that this bar is nothing but a front for the Hands of death. They might think I don't realize it, but the last few patrons who walked in all took seats around me... their watching me.

The same waitress has offered me a drink several times... probably trying to loosen my tongue, mess with my thinking. Unlucky for them, I never was much of a drinker.

*

Almost an hour has passed, and all we've been doing here is sitting. Usually, trades don't take this long. They give me my payment, and I tell them the location I have the blasters stashed. Sure it requires a great deal of trust from their side, but they don't have much of a choice.

Of course, all the while I've been keeping my eyes peeled. I've heard rumors that they torture folks some times. I'd rather put metal in my brains than let them see my cry.

"Ahh, forgive my lateness," a grand voice announces. I spin around to see who it is, my hands already gripping into the darkness of my cloak.

It's a well-dressed gentleman. In fact, I'd have confused him for a Shane if not for the squad of goons around him. He's wearing a platinum black Slinger's vest, and a matching fedora. Both magic grade, I can tell by the black gems embroidered into their detailing.

"I take it you are the Merchant?" the man asks, as he walks towards my table. I've never met with any of the higher-ups of this organization, never needed to. I don't want any ties with them... apart from the money of course.

I tip my hat in response... I fear I might stutter if I say anything right now.

"A man of few words... I see you live up to your name," the man says, before gesturing for one of the goons to pull his seat for him.

Once he's seated, he inspects me for a moment. I can tell he's trying to look past the shadow of my hat, trying to look into my eyes. I heard these types can tell a man based of his eyes.

"So, do you have the blasters ready?" he asks, right as one of his goons pulls out a cigar, places it in his mouth, and lights it for him.

I tip my hat again in response. All the while, my fingers slowly inch toward my blaster. Something about this guy... something about him makes my skin crawl.

Just as I'm about to grab my blaster and swing it out, I go a little lower towards my pockets and remove a piece of paper instead.

"The location," I say, holding the paper in the air.

"And your payment," the man says, and one of the goons puts a briefcase on the table before opening it. 8 Carbonite gems, imbued with the arcane.

No amount of money could've gotten me even one... that's because the nearest mine is past the forest. I have no clue how the Black Hand got it, but it's none of my business.

"Good," I whisper, before sliding the paper across the table and pulling the briefcase towards myself.

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"You know, I could have your brains blown out right now, and just take everything for myself," the man in front of me whispers as he puffs smoke from his cigar.

His tone is... cold, I can't tell whether he's joking or being serious. But if I've learned anything over the course of communicating with these types of people, it's better to stay quiet and ready, see how things go.

"Not even a flinch. You really are the merchant of death," he says, before quickly drawing a blaster.

In an instant mine's out as well, but I'm a few seconds slower than him, and he has his pointed right between my eyes.

The goons moved quickly as well, the second they saw my blaster, I had 25 pointing right back at me. Even the so called customers who seemed like they had no affiliation with these people had their weapons drawn.

"What's the meaning of this?" I ask. I'm not going to lower my blaster, nobody is going to take me alive. I just wish that my left hand would stop shaking. If not for the weight of the blaster in my right, everyone would've seen through my charade.

"Calm down boys, he only reacted in kind," the man says to me, before lowering his blaster. The goons hesitate before lowering theirs as well. Mine's still up, in fact, I'm using all my strength to not pull the trigger right now.

"You recognize this?" the man asks, before sliding the blaster on the table toward me. I slowly reach out with my free hand, careful not to let anyone see it shake.

"This... this isn't mine," I say out loud unintentionally.

"Exactly. Someone's been forging your work... selling them cheaper," the man replies. All the while his eyes stare deep into the darkness between my mouth and my hat. He's trying to gauge my reaction.

"Well, I'd assume that benefits you, though," I reply. If someone's selling my work cheaper, then I suppose it's time to pack up shop. After all, I was never under the assumption that I was the only one who could pull this off. Maybe the first one to think about it, but not the only one.

"It would... if they worked right. These counterfeits don't fire like yours, their mechanisms are cheap, and their designs... flawed," the man replies.

I mean, sure I can see how the designs are flawed. Whoever made this, was under the assumption he had to copy mine exactly for it to work right. Sad thing is, I've been doing stuff like this since I was a boy. This isn't something you can just wake up and attempt to mimic.

"Hmm, you mind showing me?" I reply, sliding the blaster back in a cool manner.

In one swift motion, the man grabs the gun off the table and points it at one of the waitresses. She looks young, but right now, it seems that death is calling for her.

In what has become typical fashion amongst users of my blasters, he spins the barrel before squeezing the trigger. A string of clicking sounds go off, each one followed by a loud sound and a puff of smoke.

The waitress lets out a scream at every one of them, attempting to run. But like a hawk, the man follows her with the barrel of his blaster. His precision is... Shane like.

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