Victory Day

Two minutes ago—

"Ha! Local tough guys, huh? Eat shit!"

A Colby Mule tore down the rain-slicked street. The man in the back seat was grinning like a fool, turning around to flip the middle finger at the 6th Street gang they had just left in the dust.

And then—

BOOM—

A motorcycle shot past them like a rocket, roaring off toward the battlefield.

The man flipping the bird blinked, baffled.

"What the hell was that? Did you see that?!"

"Looked like a rocket?" The driver, suddenly serious, frowned.

That… that shouldn't be in the city, right?

But they'd soon realize exactly what it was.

BOOM—

A second motorcycle exploded onto the scene from around the corner, leaning into a turn at an impossible zero-degree angle.

Now, from a normal perspective, this bike at least looked like it followed Earth's laws. Its movement was visible—comprehensible.

But in a rainy night like this, making a turn at that angle should be completely impossible—

Unless something was giving it a centripetal push.

BOOM!

The motorcycle suddenly burst into fire, jumped slightly from the force, then immediately returned to its normal posture.

"It's a fucking bike!"

The engine screamed. In an instant, the motorcycle caught up to the truck going 70 mph. Rain forced its way through the cracked Colby's windows—

And along with it came Jackie's cold, inhuman stare.

Rain streamed off his helmet, and those "eyes" weren't eyes at all—just glowing red lenses on his sensor array.

That red glow, in the stormy dark, was blinding—and deadly.

No one could ignore the monster armor he wore.

This steel-clad knight raised a massive fist.

On the truck, two mercenaries saw him and panicked.

"Shit! They've got powered armor!"

As they raised their weapons, the driver reflexively slammed on the brakes. Guns up—reflex. Brakes—instinct.

BANG!

Their guns were powerful, but the bullets only dented Jackie's armor slightly—no real damage.

Jackie didn't bother dodging.

Twelve 14mm caseless rounds flew out in two bursts—emptied in one second, shredding the cramped interior of the truck.

Metal slammed into metal, lighting sparks. The doors, already falling apart, exploded; the windshield shattered instantly.

The truck spun out on the slick road, out of control.

SCREEEECH—

A deafening grind echoed down the street. Jackie shook his head in frustration—his augments weren't optimized for extreme reflexes. He couldn't correct fast enough while the vehicle was braking.

His bike slowed quickly. Jackie looked at his hands.

Time to do what I am good at.

Miraculously, the Colby Mule, after a full 360-degree spin, returned to driving straight.

The relief barely had time to settle when—

THUMP.

The truck sank suddenly.

And so did their hearts.

He's on the roof.

BOOM!

Second volley. Jackie emptied another 12 rounds from his other arm. The bullets tore through the roof, cracked the chassis—the vehicle scraped against the road, trailing sparks.

The driver was obliterated.

The guy in the passenger seat? Still alive—but consumed by fear.

What do I do?

CRUNCH!

A massive fist punched through the roof—heated from stored thermal energy—smashing into the man's face and distorting it grotesquely.

His alloy skull stopped the bones from completely shattering—but the warped plating mashed his brain into mush.

One punch.

Jackie leapt off the truck.

BOOM!

It exploded just as he landed.

As the burning truck burst, V caught up to him.

"Woohoo! That was f***ing awesome!"

V took her hands off the bike's handlebars, yelling in pure joy.

Jackie wanted to let loose, too, but his gear didn't let him move like that.

Instead, he pragmatically leaned forward and slotted his arms into the bike's side ports to reload.

"Haha!" V laughed, then shouted over the rain:

"You know the look those out-of-towners had when they saw this gear?"

"Like they'd never seen the real world! I swear, I was afraid they'd ask, 'How can you just shoot people in the streets like this?'"

Jackie chuckled:

"Not gonna lie—back in the day, I was one of those bumpkins. Never thought I'd ride a beast like this in my life."

"Who didn't?" V grinned, standing up.

Her static grip boots locked her into the seat. The bike's smart system stabilized automatically.

Rain pelted her face. She opened her arms like she was embracing the storm.

From the dark buildings, she could see the faces of those watching: Fear. Disgust. Envy. Awe.

All those feelings reflected onto her, but no matter what they felt, they were all just caged birds too afraid to fly.

She remembered what she always said back on the street:

"I'm gonna be the biggest legend in this city."

And this?

This was how the biggest legend should be treated—

Do whatever the fuck she wants.

"WOOHOO!! THIS IS FREEDOM!!"

V screamed into the storm. Wind and rain didn't push her down. It was like she was embracing them.

FWHOOOSH—

The wind roared.

"Shit…"

Woodhaven Street – Morton stared at the fresh bullet hole beside him, wiping rain and cold sweat from his brow.

The gunfire was loud, but couldn't pierce the sound of this downpour. All people saw was the burning oil drum beside him suddenly flash.

The EMP had wiped out all the lighting and music.

But in this poor neighborhood, they could barely afford power anyway—light wasn't a luxury; it was optional.

So people used anything to light the street—often burning trash in old barrels.

The firelight flickered as people stared at the sergeant.

What now?

Morton was asking himself the same thing.

Normally, under sniper fire, you'd retreat—find cover—neutralize the shooter.

But this wasn't just a battlefield. Or rather, it was a different kind of battlefield.

Alcohol fogged his brain, dulling the near-death instinct. His mind was full of those maniacs from earlier—laughing, singing, dancing like fools.

He remembered decades ago—when 6th Street first took control.

They celebrated victory with wild, chaotic parties.

He hadn't lost. He was still alive. And he could still win more.

It had been so long since they'd held a real event like this.

The EMP had fried bio-monitors, so he didn't notice how off his own vitals were.

His serotonin was spiking. Dopamine out of control. His cerebral cortex was lighting up unnaturally.

In a daze, he saw those first comrades—those who built 6th Street with him—back in the beginning:

Just a few guys, a few guns, and a dream of freedom and light.

"We…" he stepped forward.

No one saw his cybernetics starting to glitch.

His face flushed crimson.

He raised his drink, and shouted above the storm:

"We keep going! TODAY'S FUCKING VICTORY DAY!"

"Victory Day is for defending the SECOND AMENDMENT!"

"DRINK! GRAB GUNS! SHOOT SHIT! If some jackass gets in the way—blow his goddamn ass out!"

"DUN DUN DUN DUN—!!"

He downed his can of tequila in front of the crowd.

This was strong stuff, competition-level booze. Two shots, and most people would see stars.

"Boss is a legend!"

"LONG LIVE THE SECOND AMENDMENT!"

"Shooting's f***ing awesome!"

No one cared if his rant made sense. They just cheered, drunk and wild.

Alcohol numbed logic, let them dream of lawless fun.

With a roar of approval, the sergeant finished the can and hurled it into the sky—

Then, like a classic cowboy, he drew his pistol—

BANG!

The can exploded mid-air!

"6TH STREET NUMBER ONE!!!"

A second bullet hit the wall behind him.