I could hear their feet in the hallway, clattering towards and around the bend. That bend, a simple ninety-degree turn, was half the reason I had picked this place to wait; the other half was that the wall was too thick to shoot through.
If they wanted me, they'd have to come through the door.
They did.
They didn't look up, and I made them pay for it. I dropped the second through the door with a kick, then put my strongest left into the big white SWAT emblem on the chest of the man behind him.
One.
What that entailed was forcing a rush of energy - it sorta tingled - into my left hand, then shoving it out as I hit him. I'm told that the stuff I perceive that way - directly as my body creates and directs it and indirectly as the constant ambient washes over my own system - is, well, gravitons. The carrier particles of gravitation. Concentrating them that way accelerated my arm unnaturally, turning what would have been a slightly sluggish swing into a flashing strike too quick for most people to track.
At the speed my fist was moving at the end of the arc, and with the kilo-and-a-half gauntlet protecting it, I probably could have caved in his ribcage. Instead I pulled it a bit, and spread the impact across his entire chest rather than concentrating it to cause real damage. Killing cops causes trouble down the road - their buddies tend not to be forgiving on the matter - so I was glad that the cracking noise that resulted was quiet enough that it was likely only a couple of ribs.
Two.
He let the submachinegun fall from his hand and crumbled, face tight with pain, and I spun away and threw my other arm out to catch the first man across the temple as he turned back to face me.
Behind me, a shotgun barked, and I yelped unwillingly as the load spread itself across my kidneys. That was definitely going to bruise.
Three.
I twisted back away from the doorway, out of the line of fire, then stepped one, two strides into the room and threw myself at the wall across from me. I came through the portal at about knee height and bounced back out into the center of the path just in time for my knee to catch him low on the shin. It made a noise I'm pretty sure it was never meant to and he went down, and I swung a right up to meet him and make sure.
Four.
I twisted myself out from under him and sprang straight up and flipped as I went, to hit the ceiling feet-first with a thump and ricochet back down and into the last man on the SWAT team, fist first.
Five.
I turned and looked up, scanning the hallway for threats. Nothing, I was sure of it. Those black shades of mine might look like ordinary sunglasses, but they're actually the display element of a fairly sophisticated 'palmtop' computer with combat sensors and a surprisingly large database of its own. That didn't mean that they did any worse a job of cutting the glare from the window, of course, just that they let me be sure there was nothing I was missing.
Six.
krashWHAP!
"Oof!" I said, exactly as anyone else would when a hundred mile an hour slushball nailed them between the breasts.
Except the sniper.
Seven.
It took me a moment to catch up with what had happened, and then another to catch my breath, and then I looked down at the patch of blue paint spread across most of my chest.
"Well, shit," I said.
That won a snicker from most of the rest of the team - especially the ones I had hit. Except Mark; broken ribs shouldn't be laughed with.
Ja, -n
(wondering if anyone figured it out ahead of time)
===============================================
"Puripuri puripuri... Bang!"
If they wanted me, they'd have to come through the door.
They did.
They didn't look up, and I made them pay for it. I dropped the second through the door with a kick, then put my strongest left into the big white SWAT emblem on the chest of the man behind him.
One.
What that entailed was forcing a rush of energy - it sorta tingled - into my left hand, then shoving it out as I hit him. I'm told that the stuff I perceive that way - directly as my body creates and directs it and indirectly as the constant ambient washes over my own system - is, well, gravitons. The carrier particles of gravitation. Concentrating them that way accelerated my arm unnaturally, turning what would have been a slightly sluggish swing into a flashing strike too quick for most people to track.
At the speed my fist was moving at the end of the arc, and with the kilo-and-a-half gauntlet protecting it, I probably could have caved in his ribcage. Instead I pulled it a bit, and spread the impact across his entire chest rather than concentrating it to cause real damage. Killing cops causes trouble down the road - their buddies tend not to be forgiving on the matter - so I was glad that the cracking noise that resulted was quiet enough that it was likely only a couple of ribs.
Two.
He let the submachinegun fall from his hand and crumbled, face tight with pain, and I spun away and threw my other arm out to catch the first man across the temple as he turned back to face me.
Behind me, a shotgun barked, and I yelped unwillingly as the load spread itself across my kidneys. That was definitely going to bruise.
Three.
I twisted back away from the doorway, out of the line of fire, then stepped one, two strides into the room and threw myself at the wall across from me. I came through the portal at about knee height and bounced back out into the center of the path just in time for my knee to catch him low on the shin. It made a noise I'm pretty sure it was never meant to and he went down, and I swung a right up to meet him and make sure.
Four.
I twisted myself out from under him and sprang straight up and flipped as I went, to hit the ceiling feet-first with a thump and ricochet back down and into the last man on the SWAT team, fist first.
Five.
I turned and looked up, scanning the hallway for threats. Nothing, I was sure of it. Those black shades of mine might look like ordinary sunglasses, but they're actually the display element of a fairly sophisticated 'palmtop' computer with combat sensors and a surprisingly large database of its own. That didn't mean that they did any worse a job of cutting the glare from the window, of course, just that they let me be sure there was nothing I was missing.
Six.
krashWHAP!
"Oof!" I said, exactly as anyone else would when a hundred mile an hour slushball nailed them between the breasts.
Except the sniper.
Seven.
It took me a moment to catch up with what had happened, and then another to catch my breath, and then I looked down at the patch of blue paint spread across most of my chest.
"Well, shit," I said.
That won a snicker from most of the rest of the team - especially the ones I had hit. Except Mark; broken ribs shouldn't be laughed with.
Ja, -n
(wondering if anyone figured it out ahead of time)
===============================================
"Puripuri puripuri... Bang!"