Henry's heartbeat pounded in his ears as he fell prone, breathing frantically as the incoming gunfire whizzed overhead.

The rain of bullets sprayed in his direction ricocheted off the ground all around him, marring the smooth tile of the floor mere inches from his outstretched fingertips. He flinched, hastily withdrawing his outstretched hand as he rolled onto his back. The few low-caliber pellets that actually could have hurt him were only just stopped by the propped-up corpse of one of the more unfortunate defenders in front of him, who'd taken a round to the throat early in the engagement.

Not good. He was both alone, and overextended. Stuck in a no-man's land as he found himself the only active combatant on the flank he'd decided to support just a hair too late.

Originally, he'd thought he could play it safe and smart, pick his targets and help out from a distance. Sounded good, in theory. Over here in reality, though, there was too much going on, too much stuff in the way for him to properly track how the battle was playing out.

Even to just barely stay abreast of the situation, he needed eyes on every angle constantly. But peeking his head out now to get a good look was increasingly becoming highly ill-advised considering he was repeatedly being suppressed by a never-ending tide of fresh fighters. The non-combatants watching the battle unfold cried, whimpered and cowered in the remains of their cages as the jeers of the Gentleman's Club only got louder and closer.

And all Henry could do right now was grit his teeth and keep his head down.

It was a frustrating position to find himself in. In a desperate bid to gain some respite, he fired of a brief spray of blind return fire from his looted automatic weapon. It… partially succeeded, before the magazine ran dry on him. He thought he could just about make out some pained groaning from the general direction he'd shot in, but he couldn't say for sure. Still not safe enough to check, anyways. He cast the empty firearm to the side, its purpose fulfilled.

Perhaps his prior analysis needed to be re-evaluated. As he frantically searched around for another weapon to replace his spent one, he noticed that his fellow defenders were flagging much quicker than he'd anticipated. Apart from Layla, who was keeping up the pace decently at the cost of ceding ground inch by bloody inch, the movements of the prisoners who'd still been strong enough to swing a weapon around were growing more sluggish by the minute.

Their numbers were starting to get quite thin, now. The occasional lucky strikes were gradually mounting, and would only get worse from here on out.

Internally, Henry cursed himself for not accounting for the escapee's physical conditions in his initial assessment. As prisoners of the Club, they'd all been fed the bare minimum needed to subsist. He should have expected them to tire out much quicker from the very beginning!

Worst of all, he couldn't worry about them from where he was, either. His own hide was still very much a highly sought target.

Just as he found a moment to briefly peek out around the side of the corpse he was hiding behind, yet another problem reared its ugly head. Shoving his way through the crowd of gunmen, an overzealous gangster built like a rugby player and bedecked in innumerable bits of scale-like scrap metal rushed out into the empty space between the lines, bowling over friend and foe alike.

He bore down on Henry's position. With a bloodied steel club raised high from its freshest kill, the crazed lunatic actually laughed with glee as his eyes met with Henry's, who realized he no longer had room to be picky about his weapon choice. Any old pointy bit of metal will do for him right now.

There was only milliseconds to make the decision. Every muscle in his body was tense. His heart was pounding harder than a taiko drum, taking the precious few moments to act rather than think. In the barest nick of time before his head was cracked open like a coconut, he managed to pry a shortsword with damaged enchantments from the body he'd unceremoniously used as a human shield.

He let out something between a yelp and a grunt of exertion as he wrenched it free, swinging high to meet the falling arc of the battle maniac's bludgeon. The warcry of his opponent was much more intimidating in comparison.

The club's steel rivets slammed down forcefully against the flat of his blade, and Henry's left arm jolted from the heavy impact. Dull, deep-seated pain flared in his forearm and shoulder as the peal of metal clashing against metal rang out, but his guard miraculously held. The heavy steel core skittered down the length of the shortsword, a dull spark flaring from the brief clash.

The path of the oncoming weapon was – ever so slightly – deflected off course. Barely a few centimeters to his left, away from his head.

It wasn't much, but he made it work. Barely. Tilting his neck the rest of the way to clear the club's wild haymaker, his right hand yanked the knife from the sheath on his hip and thrust hilt-deep into his opponent's side, striking his fist into the crazed man's ribs like a hammer.

It almost wasn't enough. Instead of the pained gurgle he'd been expecting, Henry only received a frustrated roar in response. A second swing of the club nearly got lined up before Henry reacted on instinct and pulled off a quick headbutt. Even then, if he hadn't followed up immediately by going for the throat with the shortsword, his skull would most certainly have been split open. Didn't even have time to line up a proper thrust, he could only slash wildly and hope for the best.

The berserker clutched fruitlessly at his own neck, scarlet blood seeping from the corners of his lips as he fell to the ground, lifeless. Henry wanted to take a breath, to steady himself, collect his thoughts for the next life or death fight he was bound to face.

No chances like that on a battlefield, unfortunately. He had about a half second to recollect himself, before being forced back into cover around a corner by the redoubled gunfire of the Gentlemen who'd been lining up a clean shot.

Shit! I can't hold out like this for much longer!

Henry pulled himself behind a pillar a few meters off to the side. Chips of plaster and concrete were scattered to the wind as continuous fire started to slowly eat away at his only line of defense.

Time for a new assessment, he decided as the gunmen continued their creeping advance past the gatehouse. Or maybe some help!

Not much thinking needed for this particular strategic analysis, really. They needed to turn this around now, or they would all be overrun. Simple as. Which meant Henry needed to give the Club a reason to turn back, or die.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Some sort of target juicy enough that taking it out would make these thugs think twice about pushing in without a care…

Which, again, meant he needed eyes on the unfolding situation. Or ears, in a pinch. He wasn't picky, but that last one was probably even less likely given that he'd been fighting mostly without ear protection for a while now.

… He'd definitely need another check-up at the Palatial Remnant's camp, after this. Having the single greatest healer in the entirety of Hallow London as they did, Henry had become something of a repeat customer around there. After all this was said and done, he was overdue for a trip back… though that would mean he'd be getting his ears boxed for destroying his hearing again.

By his reckoning, it was bound to be about the… sixth time he'd go in for a patch job? If he made it out of this alive.

Worries for later. Right now, I've got more immediate concerns.

A chunk of drywall from the facade of the pillar he was stood behind came loose and nearly hit him in the face, as another bullet tore away at his cover. Revealing the smooth concrete below to the naked eye. It wouldn't be smooth for long.

He needed to move. Anywhere was better than-

Before he could act, a sickly green pulse of light flared from under the wrappings concealing the crystal in his chest, and Henry's legs gave way out from under him as he broke out into a cold sweat.

The side effects couldn't have hit at a worse time if they'd tried.

< -|- -|- >

­-an apartment complex in Greenwich loomed in front of him and Layla. Not his own, but one near enough that they'd been able to see the red flare of light descend down from above attached to a crate on a parachute. Supplies. Something they'd begun running desperately low on. His broken arm chafed in the makeshift sling they'd assembled, a dull ache blossoming once again that he could only grit his teeth and bear with. Painkillers ran out weeks ago-

< -|- -|- >

-He shook himself back to the present, retching as the vision-like memory threatened to force him to his knees.

"No, no, no, NO! Not NOW!!"

A few cockier Gentlemen thought they'd managed to hit him and had started dashing forward. The first of them realized the error in their judgment a mere second too late, as a shortsword's blade ran him through the stomach, Henry's wiry body pushing behind it like a man possessed.

The world became a blur. A smear of multifaceted color in Henry's vision. His body practically moved on its own, snatching weapons, using elbows, feet and knees to keep at least one other in the advancing crowd discombobulated, as well as between him and the many guns pointed in his direction. They held their fire, not wanting to hit each other as they moved to surround him.

Henry had no such qualms. The impaled Gentleman's gun sang like a battle hymn as more of Henry's past experience slammed into his psyche.

< -|- -|- >

-"Say, we weren't expecting to see another friendly face here in Greenwich!", the cheerful man in front of Henry exclaimed as the two of them entered the building last. Four other survivors – along with Layla, who was having a similar conversation with an elf with military-style white hair – headed deeper into the building as they shut the front doors behind them.

"Seems like every which way you look, it's either another one of them wolves looking to get into a scrap, or a gang of even worse hooligans! Been wondering if there was anyone sane left, honestly."

"You and me both," Henry agreed. "Pleased to meet you, mister…?"

"Ah, forgive me-

< -|- -|- >

-His mind resurfaced for air, finding many thugs dead at his feet and a blade in each hand. Where was he? He was bloodstained from head to toe, but he couldn't tell if-

< -|- -|- >

"-my name is William. William Henwood. And, likewise, pleased to meet you."

"Thanks. Name's Henry, by the way. I'm sure we'll all know each other's names by heart by the time we have that crate up top split up evenly, no?"

"Hah! Eye on the prize, eh? Can't say I blame you, though. Crate that big s'enough to have even Cecil over there salivating."

"Cecil?-

< -|- -|- >

"Just SHOOT the damn kid already!", an unknown, gruff voice shouted from within the gatehouse. "I don't care if there's people in the way, I don't care how many of you have to get Fauna Domain treatments later, just DO IT!! DO IT NOW!!"

Several armaments of both mundane and magical varieties snapped up in his direction, aiming through their comrades he was tangled with in hopes of taking Henry down. Steam smelling faintly of ammonia hissed from beneath the wrappings around the crystal, mixing in the misty air with the scents of metallic blood and petrichor.

The club had listened to orders. Someone was calling the shots here.

"Found you."

Henry blitzed in-

< -|- -|- >

-as it turned out, Cecil was indeed the elf that Layla had been talking to earlier. William didn't stop the introductions there, listing off the others in the group as they climbed the stairwell leading to the roof of the building.

"This here is my lovely daughter, Grace, and back there is Elias and Guy. Guy doesn't talk, but he's been okay with the name we gave him, so it just kinda stuck. He's a real scrounger, through and through. Watch out for Elias, though. He gets jumpy real easy, and trust me, you don't want to be on the wrong end of that English longbow he's carrying."

William pointed discreetly down at his bandaged foot, wrapped loosely in a white cloth with a faded bloodstain through the top.

"He's… a bit of a hardass, but he's a deadeye with that weapon and has saved our hides more times than I can count already. My advice, if you can make a good first impression with him, you'll have done better than I did, haha!"

They walked and talked a while longer until they reached the top landing, just before the stairs to the roof. A faint rumble of engines in the distance caught Elias's attention, his unkempt gray hair flailing wildly as the old man dashed for the window at a pace that defied his apparent age.

"Shit, we got company!", he cursed "It's the bloody Gentleman's Club-

< -|- -|- >

"Out of my way."

One by one, Henry found himself slicing his way through the horde that had seemed so daunting to him just minutes before. His body moved practically on autopilot, pulling from a well of experience that held a sense of weight and familiarity, but at the same time was utterly alien to him.

This wasn't his doing, was it? There's no way he could have survived in the open this long.

No matter how many times he told himself that, it simply didn't line up with what he was seeing.

Every situation held a solution. Duck low to avoid the cone of fire of that man, as well as a bit to the left to narrowly avoid another three. Twist around, stab upward through the underside of the chin to finish off the immediate threat swinging a machete for his throat. Pull the pin on the homemade grenades on this man's chest, then kick him back and roll into cover there. Cause, and effect. Problem, and solution. Again, and again. And again.

He wasn't escaping each engagement unscathed. Actually, he was trading damage with his opponents just as often as he took them out of the fight. Sometimes even more often. The only difference was the severity involved.

A shallow cut on the arms here, a bare nick from the tip of a knife there, and it would pass by with only a brief flash of pain to ever indicate it had happened. More deadly strikes, such as bludgeons or bullets aimed at his vitals, were caught by the reactive shield his crystal provided. Bright light strained at the creases in the wraps, threatening to spill out and blind them all. The scent of ammonia overpowered all else.

I must be dreaming… I must have died already and this is my mind playing tricks…

And still, he pushed forward-

< -|- -|- >

-the bells of Big Ben tolled as Henry and Elias fought the Gentleman's Club from the top of the stairwell. Everyone froze in fear for the briefest moment, glancing around their own.

A second Witching Hour. None of them had thought it possible, but now that it was here, nobody wanted to be wolf chow, either.

"Scatter!", the head biker assaulting them told his men. "You all know the meeting point, show up there in a day's time if you're not dead!"

Henry let them go, the lead pipe he held in his one good hand dropping down the stairs with a clatter. In pain and out of breath, he could already feel new bruises forming under the sling where he'd been hit repeatedly by chains, clubs and other blunt instruments as they tried to force their way past him to get to Elias.

Everything felt heavy. He could kill for a nap right now-

< -|- -|- >

-"No! Oh, God, please stop! Demon! DEMON!!"

The Gentlemen's sergeant was a blubbering mess by the time Henry's mind came back to the real world. No knives left on his belt, he found. Hands empty, curled into fists and caked in blood both dry and fresh. Source unknown, but easily inferred. His opponent in question was pinned to the ground beneath him, locked into place by him with both legs straddling the man's stomach.

Body was still in the throes of whatever fugue had taken hold of him, but his mind could process what it was seeing clear as crystal once again. One fist slammed into the man's jaw, knocking loose teeth and pulping gums. The other reached back behind him, withdrawing the enchanted revolver and jamming the barrel into the sergeant's ruined mouth.

"Open wide."

Henry's words growled out, seeming to hang in the air. His index finger curled just a touch, and they both watched the hammer of the revolver slowly slide backwards, then snap forward with a click as he pulled the trigger.

Bulging from the overpressure a moment before the weapon's report, the thug's head popped like an over-filled water balloon. Ringing filled Henry's ears as yet another spray of blood spattered across his face and torso.

His breath came slowly, one motion at a time. Breathe in, breathe out. It was all he could focus on as he found that there was suddenly no more fight left to participate in.

A simple exercise. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat. He probably would have kept doing it forever if Layla hadn't rushed up behind him and pulled him to his feet. She checked him over – multiple times – to make sure he wasn't about to pass out or die on them, but… to her surprise, he was fine… for the usual sense of the word.

He barely even noticed her triage. Now that he was pulled away from the body, he had the chance to turn around and see the bloody path he'd carved into the gatehouse while he'd been on the brink.

"Did… did I do this…?"

Picking through the marsh of fallen bodies, the other defenders stared back at him with unrestrained fear.

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