What happened next was fast.
Far too fast.
So fast that even that guy—you know the one, the fella who wears a black trench coat his entire life and won’t take off his sunglasses even on the toilet… the guy who usually dodges bullets like they’re drunk flies—
even he’d lit a cigarette in slow-mo and whispered:
“…Holy shit…”
Precise hits.
Not a single wasted movement.
WHAM— the fat one shot two feet up and three feet back, like he briefly overcame the planet’s gravity through sheer stupidity.
CRASH—the tall oily-faced one folded in half like paper and dove face-first into a puddle.
BAM— the crack of bones was so crisp that even Blindy, still on the ground, clenched his teeth in sympathy.
CRACK SMASH CLANK
Ragged breathing, metal joints ringing, muffled groans.
Bodies hit the puddles one by one, as if someone was turning them off sequentially.
Within seconds they all lay sprawled on the wet street, moaning and cursing the day they decided to go outside.
Blindy tried to get up, clutching his face.
“Shit…” he muttered. “Why the hell’d you hit me? Damn… think I lost a tooth… again…”
Zeros replied flatly:
“Combat protocol for engaging hostile human group #5.
T-position…”
Blindy spat blood, winced, voice cracking through the pain:
“The hell’s that— you learn that in the Kama Sutra or somethin’?”
Zeros said, coldly:
“Distraction maneuver, idiot.
Needed to confuse them.
Though honestly, maybe I just wanted to hit you.
I told you not to waste our c-bucks on dumps like this.
And yes—you also gambled away my money.”
“One day you gotta teach me them positions— I mean… maneuvers…” Blindy wheezed.
“C’mon… help me up, yeah? Take me back to the bar… please.”
Zeros sighed heavily.
“I don’t understand why I waste processing power on you at all.
I’m just increasing my carbon footprint for no reason.
Filthy, useless piece of shit…
FINE.”
He hoisted Blindy over his shoulder like a bag of trash and walked off down the wet street, ignoring the groans behind him.
Blindy dangled there, looking like he’d been assembled from luck, stupidity, and some stubborn brand of optimism that refused to die.
Alive, scuffed, slightly filthy—and smiling.
A smile that said:
Yeah, I screwed up again.
And yeah, I'm having fun.His face was honest, cocky, beaten by life but not broken.
His eyes—sly, alert—the eyes of someone who survives not because he’s smart, but because the Universe occasionally forgets to kill him on schedule.
His jacket was old—not stylish, not fashionable, just… surviving.
The fabric worn, patches peeling, symbols long meaningless.
It looked like he didn’t buy it so much as repeatedly lose it, find it, steal it, find it again—
and call it “a wardrobe.”
Under it were bullet straps, but instead of professionalism, it looked more like a desperate attempt to seem tougher than he actually was.
And of course, the haircut.
He cut it himself.
With a dull knife—a small one—that he won in a card game.
His single victory in life, which mistakenly convinced him he might be lucky forever.
Since then he’s lived like a man who believes in his own lucky destiny simply because once, the Universe accidentally sneezed in his direction.
His hair stuck out like he slept in a fight every night.
Short patches, long patches—all of it looking less like he styled it and more like he survived it.
And the smile…
Blindy’s smile was like a cigarette in someone’s teeth:
not because it looked cool, but because it made living without thinking about consequences a little easier.
Overall, Blindy looked like someone capable of losing everything—
honor, dignity [which he never had anyway], money, teeth [he stopped counting after losing thirty-eight], plans, ships—
and somehow still ending up the winner at the end of the story
…by pure accident.
Zeros muttered, carrying the battered menace on his shoulder:
“I truly…
…truly hate all humans.”