The corruption that had twisted them pulsed through their veins like venom; their monstrous forms were silhouettes in the encroaching darkness, shadows eager to smother the light. But Beckham was a maelstrom of ferocity, and she was not without her own dance—a deadly ballet with bullets and blood as her partners.
With honed reflexes, she pivoted on her heel, the golden revolver singing as it heralded the demise of those who dared to cross the threshold. Each pull of the trigger was a requiem for the fallen, as bullets found their marks with unerring precision, exploding through the skulls of the corrupted, painting the decaying walls with a macabre fresco of carnage and finality.
The air was thick with the scent of iron as one after another, the fiends crumpled lifelessly, their approach now a symphony of grotesque motions met with Beckham's ruthless tempo. The dance was intoxicating, her movements an extension of her weapon—fluid, yet sharp enough to cleave the air in twain.
Then the unexpected struck, a harrowing crescendo to the night's wicked symphony: a sepulchral howl cut through the maelstrom, and the ground beneath their sanctuary convulsed. The house, already bearing the scars of battle, began to give way, its foundations shaking as though the earth itself sought to claim it.
With the boy tightened against her, Beckham leapt, a specter of grace amidst chaos, her golden revolver a beacon amid the shadow. As the floor beneath where they had stood fractured, sending plumes of dust and splinters skyward, Beckham landed softly, rolling to dissipate the shock, and immediately regained her footing.
Undeterred by the pandemonium, she continued her defense, the golden revolver's wrath now mingled with the defiance of a guardian protecting her charge. The floor continued to groan, threatening to collapse entirely and plunge them into the abyss below, yet Beckham's determination was as unwavering as the light of dawn that now began to pierce the gloom.
In the chaos that the creaking house bore, the very bones of the structure were now an adversary in Beckham's fight. The relentless assault from the corrupted surged like a tide against a cliff, but there was an indomitable spirit within those walls, one honed by gunpowder and resolve.
Beckham's attire, the distressed leather, was now adorned with the blood of those who had succumbed to her golden revolver. But each bullet spent was a ticking clock counting down to the inevitable. Knowing she could not hold out forever, she holstered her weapon for a brief interlude and drew a gleaming blade—her movements as fluid as the river's flow.
As another twisted body lunged through the doorway, Beckham deftly sidestepped, allowing momentum to be the foe's own enemy, before swiping cleanly across its neck. A spray of dark ichor followed the arc of her blade, like brush strokes on the grim canvas of the night.
Above the fray, the child clung to her with a death grip borne out of innocent terror. His eyes were shut tight, but his protector was a relentless maelstrom, and he could feel each calculated movement as she danced the edge of life and death.
The ground quaked again, a secondary heave more violent than the first, and a large crack snaked its way up a load-bearing wall. Dust and small debris rained upon them, but Beckham used the environmental chaos to her advantage. As one of the unholy creatures staggered blindly through the gritty cloud, she leapt up, bracing against the wall and using the elevation to thrust her blade downward, piercing the abomination through its heart—or whatever semblance of it that remained.
Beckham was not just defending; she was a storm pushing outwards, the rooms of the house a battlefield that ebbed and flowed as she moved through them. She shifted the boy higher onto her back, whispering a calming shush, a stark contrast to the violent ballet she wove.
The revolver was back in her hand in a blink, firing at the shapes that burst through windows, walls, and doors. Shell casings rained on the wooden floor, tinkling like chimes of war to the rhythm of her gunfire. The boy, peering from behind her leather clad shoulder, could see the iron in her eyes, the fire in her soul that feared neither hell nor its denizens.
In a deft maneuver, Beckham slid a table against the main point of entry, if only to buy a handful of seconds. As the creatures clamored against the temporary barricade, she took the brief respite to reload, her fingers deft and sure on the cartridges, each one a promise of survival.
As the final bullet clicked into place, the barricade gave way. With a swift pivot, Beckham fired, the golden revolver's bark a familiar song amidst the dissonance. Each round was a condemnation, sent with equal parts rage and mercy, returning the corrupted to whatever peace they could find in oblivion.
Then, in a blaze of defiance, Beckham spun, her coat billowing like a cape, the revolver extending towards a new wave of attackers. The cacophony of the clashing immortals outside was a fitting score to the crescendo of her onslaught. Each step, each bullet, each swing of her blade was a testament to her role in this night—protector, warrior, avenger cast in golden fury beneath the rising dawn.
Her face was covered in blood, and more corrupted people arrived, and Beckham smiled, "HAHAHAHA! Keep em' coming! I'm not losing in this shitty rich neighborhood! I'm Superintendent Beckham, dammit! I never miss! I'm exposing everyone!"
Back at the battle, Kazelle had his umbrella pierced through Raccun's stomach, and Raccun had his sword pierced through Kazelle's stomach.
Raccun and Kazelle, dripping in blood, both were smiling heavily.
Kazelle laughed, "I've never had this fun in a battle, you're lucky I'm weaker now, but…haha…I'm enjoying this..you just won't die, will you?"
Raccun added, "Now you see why I've always hated you, you're too damn good even when you're weaker. Killing you would bring me everlasting pleasure."
They both began to laugh loudly:
"HAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAA!"
Their smiles were menacing, as both of them began to get more bloodthirsty.