Drawstone

Hunter watched as Sly stayed crouched in front of the construct, showing no outward signs of being hit. The volunteers reached him a split second later, as a small storm of bullets entered the thin shaped force field. As each of the volunteer's hands touched a roughly mounted drawstone, the field became more visible. The force field was rippling, especially around the points where the bullets impacted it, the trajectory of the slowed rounds changing as they passed through the constructs area of effect.

The small team took most of the impact, but the rounds were slowed, harmlessly bouncing off the volunteers. Hunter breathed a sigh of relief.

"Cover your eyes with your free hands," Sly yelled, his voice raspier than normal. Hunter nodded. That was smart. Just because the bullets couldn't penetrate skin, didn't mean that they weren't a hazard.

Hunter approached the construct. He wanted to monitor it and prepare to disengage the safety of their surprise gift. He was careful to cover his eyes, but left enough of a gap with his fingers to watch the abolitionists do their best to overwhelm the construct with brute force. Most of them were gathering, coming into view from both sides of the hallway leading to the hostages, which meant more guns and bullets peppering the volunteers.

When they realized their guns weren't proving effective, they tried to push past the shaped field themselves. Some tried to find gaps along the edges of the field where they could aim their weapons through, and Hunter felt a moment of dread. In his mind's eye he saw the faces of the volunteers and Sly, bloodied and staring at him with gazes of accusation.

Why hadn't he thought about the width of the entrance? Would the force field be big enough?

He sighed in relief when the guard's probes proved ineffective. Hunter felt that most of his survival was coming down to sheer luck. He couldn't believe how careless he'd been.

But this wasn't the first time he'd been careless today, was it? He could have avoided this whole situation if he'd just done the smart thing and finish packing back at the hotel. Hunter glanced at Sly and saw a wet, dark streak running down his shirt. His eyes traced the streak to a spot just below the armpit of the arm he was using to shield his eyes.

Sly was watching him as well.

"Don't worry about me, Hunter. How's the construct holding up?"

Hunter forced his attention back to the construct. He was having trouble feeling it the way he usually could; as he was overwhelmed by all the anxiety and adrenaline pumping through his blood. The force field's power was so immense it warped the very air around it, muting the screams of the terrorists. He closed his eyes, deciding to trust his work, believing that he was safe enough to relax and focus, if only for a brief second.

It didn't take long. A moment to exhale and close his eyes was enough of a split-second distraction from the situation that he could get a sense of how the construct was working.

He frowned.

It was working, but it was showing some worrying signs. That being said, he couldn't say how long it would hold up for. It would hold for a little while, but whether that meant 10 minutes, or 40, he couldn't be sure.

"How long can we rely on this for?" one volunteer asked, as if reading Hunter's mind. Hunter wished he could give him a solid answer.

"I don't know," Hunter said, feeling embarrassed by the admission. He could feel a few potential points of failure in the construct lighting up as he spoke, any of which could cause a fatal cascade.

"I'm sorry, it won't hold forever."

"What do we do now?" another of them asked.

"We wait," Sly said, "Hunter, are you ready to use the contingency?"

Hunter nodded, double checking that all the battery connections were ready, and triple checking them as a precaution. Now that he had time, he noted over a dozen minor mistakes he'd made in his rush to make the construct.

He tried to etch every single one into his mind.

He tried to be fair with himself, but with his and everyone else's life at stake, each error felt like a potential death due to his inadequacy.

Sly sighed and winced at the pain from the gunshot wound.

"Does anyone here know how to treat a gunshot wound?" Hunter asked the rest of the people in the room.

"Never mind that," Sly said, raising his voice. "Everyone, there is a small room behind the styrofoam rock. I want you all to get inside and barricade the door with whatever you can find. That means you as well, Hunter."

"No, you need me for the contingency," Hunter said, shaking his head — half in protest and half because he couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. Part of him was screaming to take the excuse to run and hide. But he couldn't just leave Sly and the others here.

But what could he do to help them? His AR wasn't high enough to take over any of their positions. And a selfish little voice in the back of his mind was telling him that Sly was more than capable of managing the contingency himself.

Sly and the little voice must be conspiring together.

"How hard can it be? I just need to remove one of these little rods, right?" he asked, nodding his head towards one of the small pin-like rods Hunter had used to keep the battery's etherium buffers in place.

"Yeah, but you're hurt—"

"—then I'll get someone else to do it," Sly said, his voice lowering. He seemed exhausted to Hunter, and annoyed.

"Come on," Hunter heard someone say as they put a hand on his shoulder. It was the mother of the screaming child from earlier, whose dad was dead around the corner. Her eyes were red, and mascara ran down her cheeks, but she looked at him with a genuine warmth.

"You've done enough to help us. You need to trust that it'll all work out," she said. Hunter couldn't believe the words coming out of her mouth. Was she delusional?

"Hunter, go!" Sly snapped, "I swear I will let go of this construct and drag you there myself. Is that what you want?"

"Fine!" Hunter relented. He allowed the woman to help him stand. The bruising from earlier was affecting him now that their lives weren't in immediate danger. "You better be alive when we come back out."

The woman brought him to the room, which was already almost filled. As the door closed, he saw a sly smile on his bodyguard's face.

Maybe that's why his friends' called him that.

"I've survived worse than this, kid," Sly said as he contemplated the growing group of abolitionists on the other side of the force field. Now that he was sure that Hunter wouldn't die from the hail of bullets that would inevitably meet them once the construct failed, he felt himself relax a bit. The wound under his arm was annoying him, but at least he had a moment of relative peace.

It was important to notice those moments and appreciate them when you could.

A change in the abolitionists posture attracted his attention. All the terrorists were straightening their backs. A few were even saluting and making way for a someone that he recognized. It was the lady who'd taken his gun.

She walked up to the force field and sneered as she pressed at it. She shot at him and the volunteers a few times with his pistol. He gave her the most bored look he could as the bullets flew around them.

He wouldn't even care if he lost an eye to his bitch. If she managed it, he'd even smile at her. In fact, why wait?

He flashed the most brilliant, full-toothed smile he could manage.

This, he thought to himself as she pulled the trigger faster, until the magazine was empty, is what separates you from the pros. Lack of discipline, letting anger get the better of you and showing all of your guys just how unreliable you are.

Muffled gunshots and explosions from the walls alerted him to their limited time. Given what he knew about these terrorists, they would fight to their pointless, miserable deaths. Twisting their survival instinct into a twisted idea of honour. But before they did that, at least one of them would turn their aggression and resentment onto the hostages.

He'd seen it happen before. Sly had witnessed much human depravity firsthand, or had been sent to swiftly end it. He wished he'd had someone like Hunter on his team back then. He would have saved a lot of lives if he had the capacity to puzzle together shield constructs out of spare parts.

Hunter's quick construction time had made him question the construct's durability. However, Sly was impressed by the kid's inventiveness. The construct had saved their asses so far, but at this point, it didn't matter how long the construct lasted. The Oberon Guard were picking their way through the rest of these guys. Or else, this chick wouldn't be here trying to fight a force field that had proven effective over the last couple of minutes.

Their motives at this point were one of two, as far as he could tell. They have a choice to either kill all the hostages as a final act of defiance against their unavoidable fate, demonstrating their perceived power, or to keep the hostages as a buffer while they make their last stand.

They hadn't thought through their plan. These people did not know how to use hostages. He hadn't been sure at first, but their in competencies ran just as reliably as well-maintained clockwork.

Sure, they'd caught him and the boy twice. But they'd also had an unfortunate knack for letting themselves get distracted. So far, he'd been relying on that to survive and protect his charge. He won't be able to get away with it again, but it spoke of an even deeper problem in these guys' organization. They weren't prepared to handle the unexpected. They were undisciplined.

He considered the contingency which Hunter had installed into the force field's emitter. He'd been underestimated until now. That was his advantage. He had one last card to play, but he wasn't sure when he should play it. If he were in her position, brandishing a gun and giving orders, he would have used the hostages to negotiate their escape.

And by negotiation, he meant he'd have used them as body shields, leaving behind some of his guys to make it seem like they were going to stick around and offer resistance, while he and the most useful of his underlings snuck away. Oberon would position one or two ships to cover the sky and surround the museum, leaving only a few options open to the abolitionists. Like the exiting through the sewer system or disguising themselves as survivors barricaded in a room, feigning gratitude to the strong law enforcement officers who rescued them.

Were they winging it? It seemed to be all or nothing with the abolitionists. They hadn't thought ahead. They must see a symbolic target in the museum, a shared history which the abolitionists had grown to despise. It had probably been a split-second decision made by the higher-ups, and he imagined they'd all congratulated themselves on the sheer tactical brilliance of attacking a domain's historical aggregate.

He could admit that it wasn't a terrible target, but they were the wrong people for the job.

There was nothing more frustrating and insulting than sufficiently motivated amateurs.

But what they lacked in discipline, experience, and foresight, they made up for in danger. Although he could predict their actions and play their inexperience against them to an extent, he wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating them the same way that they did him. An animal backed up against the wall was not one you wanted to fight against without preparation or numbers.

He had instructed his larger force to barricade themselves in a room—a decision he didn't regret. His preparations were meager, only a force field with a self-overload function. That spicy little function however, would provide a chance for Sly to do something special.

At least, that was the hope. This could all continue to go very wrong and he would die a painful death at the hands of a gang of unruly children.