Frostburned

Ethan walked hurriedly through the city streets, heart pounding in his chest, hands shaking, and jacket pulled tight around him. His eyes darted about, in a mix of paranoia, panic, and a simmering anger trapped within like a desperate beast trapped beneath the surface of a frozen lake. With an unsteady step, Ethan slipped into an alleyway and nearly tripped over the sleeping form of a vagabond, at the sight, he gritted his teeth and glanced up, narrowing his eyes slightly at the gleaming skyscrapers and well decorate pavilions situated among the towers and their great network of interconnected bridges and suspended plazas.

His loathing of the gleaming architecture was almost palpable, but after a brief pause he continued on, exiting the alley and making for a nearby structure not much different than the rest in this forest of concrete, metal, and glass. Swinging above the doorway hung a neon sign, labeling it as one of Lumna’s countless bars. As he stepped beneath the sign, Ethan could hear its bright colors buzzing like a muffled swarm of mechanical wasps. With one hand he half heartedly pushed the door open and entered.

Even as his feet crossed the threshold, his eyes were already on the move, glancing about, as though seeking some subtle tell for a nonexistent ambush. After he’d stood there motionless for a few moments, he was brought back to the present by the gruff voice of the bartender directing the newcomer to take a seat. After another few seconds Ethan obliged the man, making his way to a seat at the bar itself, putting his elbows down on the hardwood and leaning his forehead onto his knuckles, mind racing within his skull.

Another moment passed and the bartender slid a glass of whiskey towards the distressed man. Ethan glanced up, and took it, knocking it back, breathing out slowly. As he did, he could feel both the slight burn of the liqueur, alongside the sting of the chill affecting it, the icy cold that seemed to haunt him. With his breath a thin cloud of steam exited his mouth, earning a startled glance from the bartender.

“Hey, you good pal?” The man asked Ethan, his brow furrowed, uncertain what exactly he’d just seen.

Ethan sighed, shutting his eyes, keeping his thoughts gathered, far away from where his problem had started. After a second he turned to the bartender and gave an unseemly grin, his dry lips drew back from his teeth, a sort of pain kept his eyes from forming the right shape. He looked both slightly miserable and partially crazed in tandem, and the bartender stiffened, quite unsettled.

“It’s... been an exceedingly long three weeks.” He muttered tursely, seemingly at least partially oblivious to his strained attempt at a smile.

“Right...” The bartender replied wearily, swiftly putting an end to any further discussion, as he moved to serve a woman sitting at the other end of the bar.

Once again alone, Ethan’s mind flicked back, his breathing coming a bit quicker. He shook his head, as though he were trying to dislodge the thoughts. Gritting his teeth, Ethan concentrated, fighting back the bitterness he felt from how he’d been left for dead, tossed aside. He was so tired of the lies, the false righteousness, but most of all, he was sick of feeling helpless.

Ethan was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the armed thugs walking in until one of them put a hand down on the bar. There were five or so ruffians, each was dressed in rough street clothes, but with the distinctive hexagonal plates of neo-polymer body armor under their vests and coats. Even just out of his daze his training compelled him to glance at their armaments; he spotted a Coil Rifle, a “Control Measure” Shotgun, a couple of Flux Pistols, and a Phase Burst Rifle.

Not a bad array, but nothing especially impressive, the only weapon that caught his eye was the Phase, which was wielded by the only member who seemed to stand out, a tough looking woman, somewhere in her late twenties, mechanical left arm, and bone-like spikes along the back of her ear, no doubt a hereditary mutation from the wastelands.

As he observed them silently, a tall muscular man with greasy blackish brown hair and a grimy beard to match strode up to the bar. He was scuffed up, and showcased a fair few tattoos,

Ethan suspected that he’d seen a few scuffles. With a growl, the man rests the grip of his shotgun against the counter, pointed towards the barkeep.

“Can’t this wait till later, I’ve got customers?” The bartender asked nervously, slowly setting down a glass he’d been cleaning, raising his hands in a display of non-aggression.

“No.” The brutish thug growled, and Ethan’s nose scrunched in disgust, as he caught a whiff of a chemical odor on the man’s breath, definitely a synthetic. “Your last “donation” was over three months ago.” He continued.

“And we don’t like poor investments, Harris, we gave you time, we expect the money that you owe in return.” The woman who seemed to be in charge piped up.

The Bartender, apparently named Harris, was quite pale and glanced around like a cornered rat, eyes shifting between the various lowlives surrounding him. As Ethan watched, head still low, a wiry ruffian with an eyepatch and slightly pointed ears gestured towards the door and brandished his Coil Rifle at the other patrons.

“Out!” He barked, and they all stood and scurried off into the night, not wanting anything to do with this.

All except Ethan, who just sat there, jaw set and fists clenched. This was everything he hated about the world. The powerful accumulating riches, stirring trouble, turning common folk against one another, and doing nothing as the greedy fought tooth and nail for a shred of power, of control in their lives, resorting to savagery and bullying. He hated it with every fiber of his being, and was barely able to keep it down.

The rifleman cocked his head to one side like a confused rodent, some sort of gutter dweller, seeming a bit taken aback by Ethan’s unresponsiveness. “You deaf?” He demanded.

“Just leave, I don’t need anyone else getting dragged into this.” The barman asked, a pleading edge to his voice, but he just shook his head.

“I really don’t see the issue here.” Ethan said evenly, slowly standing, back towards the various cutthroats, eyes fixed on the reflection in one of the liquor cabinets. “After all, you’re just making money, and it’s not like they own the land, why should they get a cut?” He continued, a slight tremor in his voice, portrayed the boiling emotion within, and a chill passed through Ethan’s body.

“Look smartass, I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but his block is our turf, and we’ve got the guns, so anyone who wants things to run smooth best play along, now I suggest you move your ass along before I have my boys here drag it out for you!” The leader growled angrily.

She glanced at the burly thug a few feet from Ethan, and gave him a nod. As the man moved towards him, Ethan felt his vitriolic fury rise to a crescendo, and then he felt a cold viciousness wash over him. The icy energy that’d been lurking inside of him since he’d awoken alone in the wastes surged through him, and he moved with incredible speed and yet an effortless calm at the same time.

From within his coat he drew a handgun with an upper and lower section, electricity humming between them as he raised it and without hesitation, fired three thin flashes of crackling plasma into the approaching brute. One glanced off his thigh, putting him off balance. Another pierced his neo-polymer vest, the light armor of little good this close up, puncturing a lung. He let the last fly when the weapon was level with the scoundrel’s lip, close enough that the man could practically have read the engraved name off the side of the gun before everything went dark, and Ethan sent a bolt whizzing through his vertebrae, killing him instantly.

The remaining four thugs scrambled back in shock, aiming their weapons at the man who’d just killed one of their number, and the bartender dove for cover. Before the first man had even hit the ground, Ethan pivoted to the side, and hurled a blade with a glowing edge with frightful accuracy, catching another hoodlum in the throat. The man gurgled and choked as the blade sizzled in his neck, dropping to the ground.

“Shred him!” The woman roared, as the three still standing opened fire.

Ethan felt the searing energy of their rounds as they caught him in the shoulder and the knee, and he began to fall to the ground. As he did though, he fired another shot off into the shoulder of a short but tough looking lowlife who yelled in pain. More shots connected, and tore holes into Ethan’s body, riddling him before he finally fell to the floor.

“Fucker...” Gasped the thug who’d just gotten shot in the shoulder, spitting blood.

Ignoring him, the leader gestured for the wiry half-elf to investigate. Dutifully, he scampered towards Ethan, steam was still rising from the gunshots when the man poked him with the barrel of his Coil Rifle.

Suddenly Ethan’s gun-hand darted up and shoved the barrel aside, the steam pouring from his wounds turned cold. The holes and gashes twisting and knitting shut. His other hand shot out and grabbed the shocked lowlife by the throat, a pale lattice of ice crystals slithering across the man’s quickly blackening flesh.

“It’s scum like you lot that make this place such a cesspool!” Ethan growled, an animalistic hiss underlying his every word. “You perpetuate the same filth and corruption as the oligarchs in their shiny tippy top palaces and for what? Your own worthless pride, some paltry cash to pretend that you’re anything more than a mouse pretending to be a manticore? But me, I can tear the corruption out by the roots!” He spat, as he did he swung the all but dead half-elf between him and another round of fire.

With a flick of his wrist, he snapped his victim’s frozen neck, and tossed him aside. Wordlessly, he fired three more shots into the man he’d wounded earlier, dropping him before he turned coldly to the leader, her eyes filled with terror.

“Get the fuck away from me!” She yelled, scrambling backwards, turning to run.

“I won’t let you get off that easy!“ He hissed venomously, spreading his fingers as long spikes made of ice formed between them.

Slinging his arm around, he clenched his fist, shattering the main portion of the ice, which sent the spikes shooting towards his target, impaling her in two places, the life behind her eyes extinguished.

He stood there for a moment, his breath ragged, then he eventually crouched down and checked over the bodies. He didn’t even bother to look back at the trembling bartender as he tossed a few credits from the thugs pockets back toward him.

“I suggest you take care of the mess, sorry for the trouble...” He murmured, holstering his gun and making for the door.

“Hey, not even going to give me a name?” Harris demanded, inhaling sharply when Ethan paused, as though afraid he was about to be on the receiving end of his savior’s ire.

But he just chuckled softly. “Call me... Frost.”

He left without another word, walking back through that same alley, now carrying himself with the confidence of a predator on the hunt. As he passed the homeless man, he tossed a pistol at the vagabond’s feet.

“Make them pay for what they did to you.” He commanded, a cold glimmer in his eyes, as he kept walking, finally ready to make a difference.