***
Clank... clank... clank.
An eerie silence fell over the mini mart. A long and eerie one.
The cashier took in shallow but steady breaths. The robber stopped ranting, but in that brief pause, time stretched endlessly for Mordred.
The deadly calm before the storm, the moment before the inevitable explosion.
"Who the fuck's there!!! Show yourself or else I'm going to start shooting." The robber's voice snapped like a whip, brimming with much adrenaline and a lot of paranoia.
Mordred cursed, releasing a colourful stream of words that would make even a sailor blush. The damage had been done; there was no turning back time, for him at least. He remained frozen, hoping his inactivity would buy him some time, but all this while his brain was working through various scenarios, trying to find a way for him to acquire the upper hand.
The odds were not in his favour at all.
He was out of practice, underfed, and unarmed, while the robber had a weapon held against an innocent person - an undeniable advantage.
"Show yourself!!!" the robber roared. He whipped around, moving towards the shelves, right to the aisle where Mordred was hiding out.
Mordred let out a small, wry chuckle. It seemed like his luck had finally run out and there was no way out of this one. The robber's slow yet steady approach sealed his fate, slowly coiling around him like a python squeezing life out of its prey.
The robber turning toward the noise proved to be his fatal mistake. It was just enough to let the hostage grab a gun—a shotgun.
"KRR-CHK."
But before he could rack the slide and blast the robber to smithereens, the robber turned around.
Now they both got weapons, holding each other at gunpoint.
Finally, some light in the fucking tunnel. Mordred saw an excellent opportunity, and there was no way he was just going to let it go. His plan was to sneak up to the robber and hit him over the head with a bottle of beer he had hastily grabbed from a pack nearby.
Adrenaline pumped through his body. He tried to circulate even a bit of quin, but it just wouldn't budge. It didn't matter, though. He didn't need sorcery to bring down a mundane robber.
Mordred run like his life depended on it, because it actually did. The robber realised too late. He was too focused on keeping the cashier at gunpoint to react in time. Mordred swung the bottle with all the strength his tired arms could muster. The glass shattered against the man's skull, sending shards flying. The robber staggered but didn't fall. His grip on the gun wavered—just momentarily, just enough for Mordred to press his advantage. But he didn't go crashing, as Mordred expected him.
'Shit.' He cursed under his breath; he couldn't back down now.
Mordred ducked while circling around the robber, who was turning around to try to confront him. Mordred got behind him and locked his arms around the robber's throat, squeezing with all his feeble strength, but it was for naught. The robber thrashed, his elbow slamming into Mordred's nose.
CRACK.
Mordred staggered back. White hot pain shot through him; his hold weakened, his nose broken, and his blood leaking out onto his clothes. He tried not to let go.
Gasping for air, the robber yanked the trigger, gunfire erupted, and Mordred's vision blurred. The robber flung him off his back, sending him crashing to the floor. He was exhausted and had no energy left. Still on the floor reeling from the impact of the blow, another man, panting slightly, entered the mini-mart. A cheap mask obscured his face.
"Where's the money? Did you get it? Where's the bag you brought?" The new arrival demanded.
That voice - Mordred recognised it immediately. There were a few things one would pick up in his line of work, and this was one of them.
It was his roommate, Charles.
The pieces fell into place so fast that he almost laughed. Of course. It made too much sense.
Whispers in the dead of night. A constant stream of freeloaders. The missing car charge. The sudden money problems his roommate never explained. Ah, the cruel irony - he, of all people, should have seen it coming.
"I don't know; I think it's still behind the counter, just by the cashier I just shot." The initial robber replied. Shot? Mordred's stomach almost twisted. He darted a glance at the counter, and there he saw the cashier slumped against the wall, wheezing, hands pressed to his side, and blood pooling beneath him. A crazy amount of blood. Not dead. Not yet. But bad, very bad. Real bad.
Even before Mordred could process his next move, his roommate turned towards him.
"Who's that on the floor!!!?"
"I... I don't know!" the first robber stammered.
"Did they call the cops?"
"I... I... " Still fumbling his words up and probably horrified over his actions, the first robber couldn't provide an answer.
Mordred sensed his roommate's approach to him; he barely had time to react before he was grabbed by the shoulders and flipped over. Their eyes met, and Mordred saw the exact moment his roommate realised who he was.
Shock, then guilt, and then something much colder—determination. The icy determination that only one of them was leaving this place alive and it would be him—the roommate.
"Oh, for FUCK'S sake," his roommate hissed. "It's you."
Mordred's blood ran cold for a moment. So this was it; this was how he was going to die, killed by his own roommate on a random day after living an obscured life behind the shadows.
"Such a life it has been." Mordred said under his breath in exasperation.
"Sorry, Mordred, I don't have a choice." His roommate said, his voice cracking up but the icy determination to end Mordred's life never leaving his eyes.
A choice - oh, there was always a choice. His roommate was just a fucking coward. The cold barrel of the gun pressed against his forehead. Mordred's heart screamed, urging him to run, but his mind told him to wait—to wait for the right time and hope that he wouldn't get his brains blown out before then.
"Charles, you can't be serious. Please think this through." Mordred hissed, a hit of panic creeping into his voice. He wanted to run, but he felt paralyzed, frozen like a deer in headlights. Charles shook his head slowly, the weight of inevitability settling in the air and pressing against Mordred.
He could feel it in his bones and deep within his soul, burning like a dying ember yet calling him. And he answered it. It was a painful process, but pain was the price one had to pay for life.
Focusing all his will, he pulled, pulled on something that was both tangible and intangible, real, but imaginative. He pulled on the very fabric of reality, the essence of life. He pulled on his quin, desperate, reckless - anything to survive.
Mordred felt a burning sensation within his chest, a sensation that slowly crawled through his chest into his arms, through his veins and out of his fingers, bending the laws of reality to his will.
The pain was unbearable, but he embraced it. He had to.
The hammer snapped into place...
And then chaos.
An unknown force smashed into the front window, shattering it into a million pieces and spraying glass and metal everywhere. The impact had thrown both robbers against the ground, sending them sprawling. The gun in his roommate's hand flew into the air, spinning wildly before falling to the ground just millimetres out of reach from Mordred.
He didn't hesitate. He moved as if by instinct, like he had done this a thousand times, rolling to the side and scrambling for the weapon. His roommate did the same, but Mordred was faster. He grabbed the gun and turned it on the man he once called a friend.
Well, not a friend per se, but more of a passing acquaintance. For a moment, neither of them moved. The hum of the flickering store light, the smoke drifting lazily through the air, the shallow breathing of the cashier, the first robber passed out in the corner and the static of the holo-ads—everything else faded into the background.
It was just the two of them. A classic standoff. Charles raised his hands slowly, eyes darting between Mordred and the exit. He was weighing his options. Mordred could see it in his face. He could smell it in the air, the fear, the desperation and, most of all, the dread.
With nothing left to lose, he bolted out of the door, hoping that Mordred wasn't as coldhearted as he was and thus wouldn't pull the trigger. And his gamble paid off; running through the street and disappearing, whispering a silent prayer to any god that would listen.
Mordred should have shot him, but he couldn't. His hands, steady as they once were, wouldn't pull the trigger. This wasn't because of the goodness of his heart—if he had any left. Instead, he let out a slow, shaky breath and quickly threw away the gun.
It clattered to the floor, revealing a gaping hole of where the chamber should have been - warped and useless. It was all a farce; the gun wouldn't even be able to save his life if push came to shove. It was just as busted up as he was, probably even worse.
The store alarm blared in the distance. The piercing wail of sirens followed. Behind the counter, the cashier groaned in pain, his grunts snapping Mordred back to reality.
Mordred moved quickly, tearing a piece of his already ruined shirt, and pressed it against the cashier's wound.
"Hang in there, man. Someone is coming to help." His own hands were shaking, maybe he wasn't as detached as he thought he was. Reality blurred with illusion. His mind playing tricks on him.
In his arms was a fair lady. Her red hair cascading down to the ground like rivers of blood. An ugly wound marred her side, but the bright and brilliant smile would never leave her lips.
The distant wail of sirens meant that the authorities were near. He exhaled sharply and looked around, scanning for anymore threats. If the wrong people showed up first, he would have ended up in more trouble than the criminals who just fled. His past had taught him that much.
He needed to decide - stay and explain himself, or disappear before anyone asked too many questions. His gut screamed at him to leave, disappear like Charles did. He considered it for a second.
But the cashier wheezed, his blood soaking through Mordred's fingers. His visage overlapped with a beautiful redhead, and Mordred found himself rooted to the spot.
"Damn it."
A flickering holo-sign buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the floor. Mordred's mind raced. There must be a way out, there was always an angle. But this, this felt like a trap, a vice, slowly clamping in around his neck, threatening to snap it in two.
Outside, the city pulsed with life, indifferent to the chaos that had just unfolded. Hover bikes zipped past, their riders enjoying the ecstasy of pure speed. Neon lights flickered in the smoggy air and the hum of machinery filled the air. This was just another day in a world that had long since stopped caring.