Alex Reynard
The Library
Alex Reynard's Online Books
Sulilong's head rotated to follow as the mouse was led away. He gave him a little 'bye-bye' wave. Then in a blink, his attention shifted directly to Junella. "Wake up, skunk. I was kind enough to put on a show for you."
She flinched, then snapped to attention.
"I gifted you a sample of what you came here to join. And their choice is yours now. Did you want to change your mind? Plenty of dirt out in the desert if you do." His eyes flashed fire and he ground out his next words like striking flint. "And whatever the hell you reply, have the goddamned fucking decency to keep your voice down, okay!?"
Junella felt all of her confidence drain out of her body in a puddle around her feet. How could she say anything back to this appalling monstrosity of a man? Anything other than, 'Fuck off and die'?
Unbidden, Zinc took a step forward.
He scratched at his cheekfur. "Was all that mess sposto get a reaction outta me? Seriously? They were a coupla losers dumb enough to get themselves caught. What else'm I supposed to say?"
Junella gawked at him. She kept her posture straight, but her eyes said, 'Jesus CHRIST, that was cold!!'
He flashed the absolute tiniest expression back of, 'Well, you told me to be merciless.'
And he was right. There was a greater good at stake here. Once they were in Sulilong's graces, she would be close enough to jam her cutlass straight up his winking asshole and make him sing.
She shook her head and chuckled, looking up towards the throne. "I'm a bit of a softie. I admit, that shook me up a little. But the mutt's dead on. You gave 'em a choice. It's not your fault they fucked it up."
That was exactly what he wanted to hear, and he appreciated that. "Good. See? I'm glad someone finally understands me on this." He began to clap and, after a startled beat, the rest of the crowd joined in the applause.
Junella hated all of them. Viciously and infinitely. She hated herself too for how easily the words had come, and for smiling now like she'd just won a prize.
Scaring the piss out of everyone, Sulilong suddenly stamped both his hooves against the floor of the silver pedestal. "SO! I don't like wasting time. If you want in, there's a simple test of skill first. I want to see you play with my bodyguard. He's very good." The qilin leaned down and sing-songed to the space below him, "Oh Nollacero?"
Any remaining sympathy for the doomed mice died out at the sound of that name. Drinks were raised high and the crowd chanted loud enough to shake the ceiling, "NOLLACERO! NOLLACERO! NOLLACERO!"
Junella braced herself. This was it. She'd been certain that getting in wouldn't be as simple as asking 'please'. The fact that she was standing in the spot where the crowd had been holding deathmatches all night should have clued her in already. She took the blade of her cutlass into her other hand to wipe the sweat off its handle with her scarf.
She scanned the faces in front of the throne. Which one was her target? She'd thought maybe it was the bat with the goggles. He did have a rocket launcher after all. But none of the scruffy miscreants around Sulilong's chair looked like they were even worth a bullet.
And then the silver pedestal itself cracked open. It discharged a cloud of vapor like a deep freeze unit.
The crowd's cheering rattled the chandeliers as the entire front panel hinged outward. A gush of chill air escaped, so intensely cold that Junella caught a shiver from a hundred feet away. Underlings scampered, rubbing their arms and chattering their teeth.
And then, walking without sound, Nollacero emerged.
Junella tilted her head. This was the guy?
He was a small arctic hare. White from head to toe, except for a few black marks on his eartips and tail. Vapor curled off of him like dragon's smoke. His ears were stubby, his muzzle pinched and flat. He wore a simple dark shirt and trousers. His stride was calm; each footstep perfectly spaced from the last. From his gaunt, rigid musculature, he gave the impression of a cultist fanatically devoted to training and fasting.
He didn't look like much. But Junella knew she'd be stupid to underestimate him, just from the raucous volume of the crowd. They cheered him like an unbeaten champion.
And yet, as they screamed for him and reverently parted to make a path, he never spared a glance towards any of them. From the moment the door had opened, Nollacero's eyes had been fixed unblinkingly onto Junella's.
Sulilong's voice cut through the noise like a tripwire. "Here are the rules. Skunkie, you're up first. My boy here's going to try to kill you. See what you can do about that. Impress me. Your chatterbox pal can go next, after we drag your body out of the way."
The crowd burbled giggles. Junella didn't even look up at the qilin's leering eyes. Instead she raised her sword and kissed it. "One more," she whispered. "You've slain thousands. This ain't nuttin' but one more sucker."
But Zinc heard a tremor in her voice. She wasn't feeling her words. He gave her a nudge with his wrench. When she turned, he saw the uncertainty on her face. "Come on. Are you scared of this pencilneck? Look at him! If you can't wipe the floor with him, I'll gargle gasoline."
She'd nearly forgotten she had an ally at her side. The mutt still had his goon face on, but his eyes were clear and serious. He wasn't just talking her up. He believed in what he'd said. And while her eyes replied with a sincere 'thank you', she forced herself to point her sword at him and say, "If you're implying I'm having any doubt, I'll make you gargle that gas!"
A grim little smile. Zinc stepped backwards to meet the edge of the crowd, letting her have the floor.
Junella tipped him a last nod before returning her attention to the battle ahead. Seeing his confidence in her helped. A lot, honestly.
Nollacero continued towards his latest adversary like a straight line drawn in white ink. His expression was neither friendly nor hostile, yet neither was it blank. His gaze penetrated like an icicle. She was a puzzle he was coming to solve. A task he intended to finish.
A few mooks were pushing the pedestal door shut again. As they did, Junella caught a peek at a ramp leading down from the opening into a small frost-covered apartment. She had to admit, directly underfoot was a good place to stick your bodyguard.
Sulilong got himself comfy in his seat. Honestly, this was one of his favorite parts of the whole criminal enterprise. Winding up his favorite toy to watch him go.
Junella rolled her neck and stretched her shoulders. She swayed side-to-side to loosen her hips. Her foe had crossed the invisible circle into the arena. "So what's your deal?" she called out. "You spend all day meditating in a meat locker?"
His pace never altered. His eyes never looked away from hers. But a small, courtly smile came to his face. "Yes, actually, I do. You're very observant, which is commendable."
She couldn't place his accent, though it felt like it was from someplace cold. Even with the silver door closed, the hare seemed to emanate winter, draining and eliminating any warmth in the room. Maybe it was just his creepy stare and how he never wasted a movement.
For the first time, Junella saw he was carrying something small in his hand. It looked like a TV remote. She cocked her head at it.
"Good. You noticed." He smiled. He held the object up. It was a sword hilt. A black rectangular grip with no wrist guard. And no blade.
A murmur spread over the room. Out of an enormous assemblage of people, nearly all of them were focused on the nondescript little object in the arctic hare's hand.
Junella felt uneasiness roll through her guts. A broken sword should not have scared her. But the reaction from the crowd was like he'd just pulled out a holy relic. She tried to laugh dismissively, but it came out with a quaver. "You, uh, look like you're missing something there."
He ignored her words completely, replying immediately with, "What do you believe in?"
She was taken aback. Why was this scrawny little nobunny giving her the shakes? And why wouldn't he stop STARING at her like that!? Her fingers managed to find her grooves. "I believe in a lotta stuff. Gettin' paid. Not taking any lip. My sword."
His eyes sparkled with delight. "I'm so glad you said that. Because I believe in mine as well."
He flashed his arm out, like a fisherman casting a line, and Junella felt her nosepad and cheek split open.
The crowd burst out laughing at seeing her jump.
Her free hand shot to her face. Blood! Not a lot, but enough of her black oily essence to drip down her palm. And he'd cut her so cleanly there wasn't even any pain!
Zinc made a move to rush forward and help her. Arms as thick as anchor chains wrapped around his chest and mouth.
Nollacero did not seem to blink. His eyes were welded to his prey's. He began again to say the words he dearly loved, because it let his opponents know what they'd be facing. His matches were over far too quickly to offer any challenge otherwise. "Do you believe in your blade as much as mine? A blade that isn't there? Do you believe enough to stand with your feet in ice for days upon days, until the weeks stretch into years, swinging hundreds of times every hour at the same wooden plank? Doing so until your limbs turn black with frostbite? Until you fall dead to the ground, your only rest for the day? Do you believe enough to persist in your madness until one day, one day, you finally see a scratch appear on the bark? And from that point on, you no longer need to believe, because you know?"
Junella had been holding her nose until the vinyl sealed back up. It was a small cut; it didn't take long. She whipped the blood from her fingers, making dots on the floor. "Mister, you are crazy."
The hare did not reply to that. But his smile seemed to eagerly agree. "This fight will not last ten seconds."
Junella growled and dropped into an offensive stance. She held her sword at shoulder-height, readying for a full-on assault. Nothing would have made her happier than ending this in one rib-cracking thrust. She wouldn't even get her gun out for this. She'd beat the Cheshire sonofabitch at his own game. "Y'know, I love a polite enemy. Wanna know why?"
"Why?" he asked, savoring the game before the game.
"It's fun to watch 'em get mad when I fight dirty!!" Her other hand flew to the grip of her weapon and she charged. Her feet thudded hollowly against the hardwood. The goddamn snowbunny didn't even flinch as she ran like a steam train straight at him. Just kept drilling his eyes into hers like an owl.
She roared in perfect silence and jumped, aiming for an overhand strike that would split his head in half. But it was actually a beautiful feint. Her tail whipped sideways and she pirouetted midair to slash at the rabbit's legs.
Nollacero's hand moved.
Then Junella was crashing to the ballroom floor, sending strobelight flashes of pain through her shoulder. The two neatly-sliced halves of her cutlass clattered down a moment later.
Rage flooded her soul. She wriggled upright to face her enemy. He was still standing in the same damn spot, as if nothing had even happened. The sight of her sundered blade was impossible.
"Get up now," Nollacero said, "or I'll put this through your heart." He held up the empty hilt. Then he made sure she could see as he ran his finger along absolutely nothing, and it was cut.
Growling, Junella somersaulted to her feet. She whipcracked her arm out and dumbfounded a new sword. The halves on the floor remained, but would disappear shortly once no one was paying attention to them. "Thanks, dummy."
He blinked. "For what?"
This time she didn't finish the quip. 'For letting me know you bleed,' she said in her mind. She ran at him again, but this time threw her sword at his face, then ducked into a sliding splits. A third sword appeared and she swung at his ankles.
She popped back up into a defensive squat. She hadn't hit him, but she'd made him jump out of the way. A first step, at least.
The hare looked disgusted with himself. He rotated his hilt, loosening his wrist, and strode towards her with a narrowed glare.
It was Junella's turn to smile. 'Got him mad already.'
'She thinks my emotion is real,' he mused, almost disappointed in her gullibility.
The crowd roared for blood as Nollacero lunged. Junella flung herself out of the way, but still felt a thin line trace across her back. She scrambled away on a diagonal. The circle of slovenly underlings gave her only a few hundred square feet of space to make use of. For now she wanted as much of it between her and the hare as possible. Distance meant time to think and plan.
Of course that was a ludicrous hope. The sonofabitch had an invisible blade. No, worse than that. It was a blade that didn't exist. If what'd he'd said was true, what he was actually wielding was his own manifested willpower. That shouldn't have been possible. All of Phobiopolis ran on will, yet it always needed something to ground its power. Imaginite. A wand. A willwell. Even if the rabbit had been flicking his hilt around for a century or so, how the fuck was he cutting her with nothing? And how the fuck was she supposed to dodge something she couldn't see coming!?
'There's gotta be a trick to it,' she told herself.
But he saw what she was thinking. It was easy. So many others had shown him the same screwed-tight mouth, the squinting eyes, trying to convince themselves that he hadn't told them the plain and simple truth. Nollacero walked towards her briskly. She scuttled backwards, keeping pace. He only had eyes for her.
He held out his hilt and waved his other hand around and over it. "There is no blade attached, but there is also no blade anywhere else. Why should it matter where the blade is or isn't? What makes the handle so important? Or rather, what makes the air above the handle any more useful than the air anywhere else?"
Having persuaded her into a pattern, he circumvented it. While Junella continued retreating counterclockwise, he lunged towards the space he knew she'd evade to and drew his sword across it in a vicious slash. The skunk was just quick enough to drop to the floor and avoid losing an arm, but the mooks standing directly behind her weren't so lucky. They became a barbershop quartet of red waterfalls.
Junella barrel-rolled out of the way of their falling, gagging bodies and sprung upright again.
Nollacero caught her gaze. "Because I choose for it to be. And it obeys."
Her breath was ragged already. She could feel panic crawling up her back, and did her best to rip it off and stomp on it. Hot anger would get her killed right away. She needed to burn cold now. Colder than this googly-eyed sideshow freak. Staring right back at him, she shouted behind her, "Hey Sulilong!! I'mma guess the rules say that whoever dies first, loses?"
"That's about the gist of it, yeah," the qilin called back.
"Just checkin'." She shot towards Nollacero like a fired cannonball. She swung with all her strength, but didn't really intend to hit. Her focus was on dodging. She watched his arm swoop low like a clock pendulum. Her tail counterbalanced her out of the way, but she still felt a nick along her leg.
'Good, good. Teach me, you tightass.'
So began a blindingly-quick dance between the two of them. Nollacero was skilled beyond compare, but Junella's strength lay in her quickness, her adaptability, and her drive to prove herself superior whatever the cost. Now she ducked, squiggled, darted, hopped, and zoomed. She was accumulating quite a lot of cuts, some of them pretty nasty, but that was all part of the plan. She would take him at his word, granting that the bladeless blade was real. So if he was making it exist through sheer belief, that meant he'd have to keep a solid image of it in mind. That meant the blade couldn't stretch and squash willy-nilly. It had to have a consistent shape. And with each one of his attacks that hit or missed, she was getting a feel for that shape.
It did not take long for Nollacero to figure out her angle. It wasn't as if no one had ever tried this strategy before. And it fit her well. The skunk's plastic skin seemed particularly resilient. It healed almost as quickly as melting wax. So she could afford to take small hits. He let her continue taking measurements until the point he was sure she'd be distracted by her thoughts. His sword arm thrust towards her right lung.
She wasn't distracted at all. She aimed for the sword that wasn't there and parried.
Or tried to. Her cutlass sailed through empty space, and it was only her total surprise and subsequent clumsy pratfall that saved her from choking to death on her own blood.
She smacked into the ground and was quick enough to turn it into a bounce. By inches, she dodged the spot where Nollacero drove his blade six inches straight into the hardwood.
On all fours, she skittered to a safe distance. 'Dammit, that should've worked! If it's there, why couldn't I hit it!?'
Automatically, he turned his head towards her. He effortlessly pulled the hilt up and out of the hole he'd left in the floor. "Of course you can't block it! There's no sword there, you silly thing!" He laughed a single bell note.
This time she stayed put. She kept both hands on her hilt and let him come to her. The slashes on her arms and sides hissed with pain. Not life-threatening, but they were annoyances. Focus-stealers. She clutched the leather grip harder and readied her stance as he came at her again.
He saw, within the small few seconds it took to cross the circle, that she didn't plan to swing. Her eyes showed something else in mind. He was interested to find out what it was. He raised his blade to kill her.
Junella had not chosen her spot blindly. She'd made a quick scan of the crowd, locating the skinniest guy in sight. Someone light enough that she could suddenly drop her sword, turn, and hurl him by his shirt and jeans straight into the arctic hare's path.
It takes much more time to shove a body than it does to swing a sword. Nollacero recalculated his attack with ease when he saw the hapless man toppling towards him. His run became a slide. He limboed backwards. His blade passed through meat and bone with as little resistance as a soundwave. It cut through the distraction, then it opened Junella's abdomen in a foot-long slice.
As before, Junella felt no pain. Only a sensation like a bowling ball landing with a thud in her guts. Probably because they were now on display.
The goon had only time enough to realize he was flying sideways, then he split into halves from shoulder to groin.
Nollacero swung again, and it was reflex alone that saved Junella from having her throat slashed too. She created another sword and flung it clumsily towards him. As in drunken boxing, the move was so uncoordinated, Nollacero was unprepared. Junella stumbled away, crashing against the crowd who shoved her back forward like a pinball bumper.
Nollacero touched the place where her flying sword had torn open his shirt, leaving a triangular gash along his pectoral. He sighed in mild frustration. It was more of a victory to end a fight unscathed. But it was a rare opponent who could manage to tag him. He had to respect her for that. And this match had already lasted much longer than he'd predicted. Of course, it was not going to last much longer now.
Junella's belly had a gaping smile. Inky blood came sloshing out like an overfull rain gutter. She clutched an arm over the wound, trying in vain to keep it closed. The total lack of pain was surreal. She was probably moments from dying and it hadn't even stung.
The hare's gaze, as always, was locked onto hers with steel precision. He began to walk towards her. Not even a run, just a lazy stroll.
Her teeth gritted. Somehow his lack of urgency was what put her over the top. The very idea that someone could look at Junella Fucking Brox like she was harmless. Like no threat at all. Her inner fire turned sapphire blue.
'You're dying, you fucking idiot. No way this is gonna heal up. And you ain't got no bigass Band-Aids. You've only got seconds left to live, so use them. I don't care how, but you are going to figure out a way to take this joker down with you. Because no matter how much better he is with a sword, no one is better than you at sheer blackhearted meanness.'
For a heartbeat she considered whipping out her revolver and putting bullets into him until his corpse stopped twitching. And she certainly could have. No matter how fast this bunny could hop, a bullet was always faster. But this was a contest of swords. Her gun would mean a forfeit. No way in hell.
He was raising his arm to swing. Without a plan yet, her only option now was to go on one-hundred-percent defense. She glanced around at where she was in relation to the crowd. She hurled herself backwards, well out of Nollacero's reach. When her feet hit the ground, her wound hiccuped what felt like a gallon of blood.
She could taste it in her mouth. 'Clock's ticking.'
The hare swung. The skunk jumped. The hare swung again. The skunk jumped again.
Nollacero showed a very brief frown. "This is undignified. Are you only going to leap about like a frog and wait out the clock?"
Both hands were busy holding her sword and holding her stomach, so she tossed back a shrug that said, 'Hey, why not?'
Glaring daggers, he came at her again.
She nearly lost her life as he jabbed four times in quick succession, but even in the midst of finally realizing his weakness, she was fleet enough to weave around his strikes. She could almost see his blade now. But that wasn't the really important thing. She tried with all her might to keep the smile off her face.
Junella flung her sword again. Utterly without grace, it wobbled through the air like a wounded goose and the flat edge whanged against the hare's blocking arms. He never took his eyes off hers except to blink. His expression very clearly said, 'Stop that.'
With a hand now free, she scratched along her side to ask, "Just outta curiosity, what would happen if I swung that hilt instead of you?" Her voice was slightly slurred. With as much ink as she'd lost already, she could feel her fine motor control starting to lag.
Nollacero returned a look that let her know what an embarrassingly stupid question that was. "Nothing. Obviously. Because you don't believe."
She nodded slowly. "Allright." She tucked her hand behind her back. When she brought it out again, it was holding a rectangular black hilt. The hand holding her stomach reached down to her thigh to add, "Wanna bet?"
(A few of the more eagle-eyed minions standing behind Junella saw what she had done. She had not abracadabra'd the hilt out of nowhere, but rather, dumbfounded a chunk of imagine from her 'pocket' and willed it into the shape of Nollacero's weapon in the space of seconds. A pretty nice trick, and a fine display of her own considerable will.)
However, Nollacero not only didn't take the bait, he was disgusted at even being shown it. "You're embarrassing yourself to think that will work. It took me more years of practice than you've likely been alive."
She kept her face slack, letting the strain of merely staying upright show itself. She tried her best not to telegraph the move as she held his gaze a moment longer, then chucked the fake hilt at his hand.
When a furson has something thrown at them, is an ingrained reflex that they will either try to duck it or catch it. Nollacero had been certain his opponent was getting lightheaded from blood loss and would actually attempt to turn his own technique against him. And in a way, she did. He was surprised enough at her throw that his hand reacted on instinct, tried to catch the second hilt, and fumbled both of them.
Junella giggled to see his befuddlement transform into total exasperation as he dropped to the floor and started feeling around for his weapon. Some of the crew even shared her laugh. But what the skunk was really the most pleased to see was that he groped for his weapon by touch alone. At no point did his eyes leave hers.
Nollacero stood up stiffly. He dragged in a deep breath, let it out, and tried to steady himself. "That was infantile."
Junella smirked. A bit of blood and drool leaked down her jaw. "Are ya sure you got the right one, chuckles?"
He glared viciously. "Of course I am. I know the weight of my weapon to the atom."
"But are you suuuUUUuuuUUUuuure?" she sang, in her most childishly mocking tone.
She actually got him to snarl at that.
'Perfect.'
Then he blitzed towards her, weapon raised. From the intense rage creasing his face, it was clear he intended to end this fight with one final blow.
Letting go of her wound, Junella wrapped both hands around her sword hilt. She stumbled backwards in a dazed panic. Blood geysered out of her stomach cleft. Buckets and buckets of it. And she was really feeling it now. Like she'd just lost two-thirds of her inner gunk in one gargantuan sploosh. Like there was nothing left inside her from ears to knees. Like she was just a big ol' hollow chocolate Easter bunny.
She was friends with Mia Xenoiko.
Mia ran the Tatterdemalion. She did this because, like many other Phobiopolans, she had certain specific requirements. Mia chose trade instead of violence to acquire them. In her own case, she needed to drink fresh heartsblood regularly to maintain her form and sanity. Junella, consistently being equal amounts fearless and broke, often paid for her room by letting Mia punch through her chest and suck her ticker dry. They'd been through this transaction so many times, it was almost becoming banal.
One time, just as a fun little change in routine, Mia had challenged Junella to try to stay alive long enough for her heart to reform inside her. For a normal furson of flesh and bone, this would have been impossible. But Junella's transformation to vinyl had also changed her inner workings. She didn't have bones anymore, and she didn't have organs aside from her heart. Nothing else inside but a sloshy black soup. So as her feline friend drained her heart into a smoky-clear withered husk, Junella watched and tried her damnedest to convince herself that, if the rest of her remained intact, the loss of one little part didn't matter.
The fourth time they had tried this game, Junella had won.
Now she was playing a new variation: convincing herself that she could lose three quarters of the blood in her body and still function.
Her head was an empty balloon. Her heart was bobbing around in her right thigh. She kept her hands glued tight to her cutlass, ready for one last swing.
Nollacero almost felt bad about this. It was no longer a competition, it was putting a delirious nonev to sleep. The skunk's determination was the only thing admirable about her. She was sloppy, stubborn, and rude. He could see on her face that she could barely keep herself conscious. And yet, she held on to her weapon. Deluded into thinking she could possibly counter his attack. He'd make this quick. Not even out of respect, but because this fiasco was beneath him.
She watched his eyes blazing with a madman's concentration. An engine devoted entirely to driving his belief-blade straight through her heart like a vampire hunter's stake. Never looking away. Never seeing anything but his prey. Not caring if his attacks hit any of the spectators. Not turning his gaze to pick up his weapon. And not paying attention to his surroundings.
She wasn't backing up to get away from him. She was creating an oil slick between them.
She watched him charge like a maddened bull. Then saw his fury tumble into surprise and horror as his foot skidded sideways on the greasy, oily Junella-blood he'd stampeded into.
Junella swung her cutlass with every ounce of strength left in her body. Several spectators 'Awww'ed in disappointment when her strike didn't pass within a foot of Nollacero's fumbling advance.
But she wasn't trying to hit him with her sword blade...
He realized, too late, that she was using the momentum of her feigned attack to spin herself around with deadly momentum. Her tail rotated into sight. A tail bristling with hundreds and hundreds of jagged, razor sharp broken LPs.
...she was trying to hit him with aaaalllll her other blades.
Nollacero had just enough reaction time to recalibrate his swing and chop her tail in half. But his blade always cut without friction. So it did nothing to slow its target's inertia. All he managed to accomplish was getting mauled to shreds by two masses of record shards instead of one.
Junella finished her spin, noticing vaguely that her ass had gotten suddenly lighter.
She heard the crowd's silence. She lurched around to look.
For a second time, Nollacero's hilt had fallen from his hand. The hare was still standing, albeit slumped and pigeon-toed. From his eyebrows to his bellybutton, the left half of his torso was a grotesque red bouquet of dripping blood and vinyl daggers. He looked like he'd tangled with Satan's pet porcupine.
Nollacero twitched a bit, but the pain had left him paralyzed. Any tiny movement sent throbbing lightningcracks rocketing along his nerves. He couldn't count the number of barbs sunk in him. They were in his eyes, in his cheeks, all along his ribs and shoulder. There wasn't even room in his mind for thought. He had been rendered entirely inanimate.
For now, both fighters remained on their feet. One of them would drop first.
With every eye upon her, Junella dragged one foot, then the other, around towards her foe. It was like wading through concrete. Her vision swam and tilted, more blur than sight. Still, she could tell she'd made the poor rabbit reeeeeeal ugly.
Through a crimson veil, he saw her coming to end him.
It wasn't so much a grapple as just losing her balance and falling against his chest. A few of her own shards dug into her tits, but c'est la vie. Wrapping her free arm around his shoulders, Junella gathered the last of her energy and delivered a vicious uppercut to his stomach. Except she was still holding her cutlass. The metal traveled easily through Nollacero's abdominal muscles, onward up his throat. She felt it scrape against his clavicle.
He gurgled. He puked a streamer of blood down her back.
She held him close like they were hugging goodbye. And in a way, they were. Nollacero juddered like a gasping fish. Junella held on tight and kept twisting her sword until everything in him stopped moving. Until she was absocompletely sure the resilient little wabbit was well and truly cacked.
She withdrew her cutlass and let it fall to the floor. Nollacero's corpse spilled out of her grip and crumpled beside it. Despite a significant case of the woozies, Junella managed not to topple onto him.
Somewhere far away, people were cheering.
With barely a shred of consciousness left, the skunk's hand flopped towards her grooves for a final assessment of her defeated opponent.
"Nuttin' but a... one... prick... tony..."
Then Junella Brox collapsed to the floor with a loud wet smack. Dead as disco.
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