Sherlock's Point of View: The Cyborg
He was being watched. Even without noticing the red dot of a cyberoptic’s targeting scope on the roof above, he would have known. It was one of those instincts he’d developed after his first year in the City.
The dot was gone. Gripping his stick firmly, ready to draw, Sherlock swiftly made his way down the alley to the warehouse side entrance, reflexes taught. It was only sensible to expect an ambush.
He was therefore mildly surprised, and honestly a bit disappointed, to find his pursuer standing in the open in front of the door. The man was obviously a hired killer, cyberoptic and weapon links to each of his large handguns, but his gun wasn’t even at the ready. Whoever had hired him had given the description of an unarmed man from a Colony, and the arrogant mercenary was expecting an easy kill.
Unfortunate for him.
Sherlock charged, drawing his blade, a quick thrust ending the shocked mercenary’s career. He had been too surprised to defend himself. With a regretful sigh, Sherlock wiped his sword clean, but decided to keep it drawn, just in case. He glanced up at a nearby fire escape to be sure that Wendy was in place. He had asked her to come along and be on watch, in the event something should go wrong. He stepped inside.
“They said they’d kill me,” the contact Sherlock had come to meet shouted from out the other door, “I’m sorry!”
Sherlock spun around just in time to see a second professional killer, similar to the first, step out from the shadows and take aim. He dove wildly, the shot going over him, sword slashing at the mercenary’s legs. The move forced the killer to pause, leaping back, giving Sherlock a chance to regain his feet and with a deft flick of his blade disarm the man. Another gun was drawn, so Sherlock sliced the hand that held it.
With a curse, the killer was suddenly on the defensive against Sherlock’s relentless attack. The mercenary’s body armor was made to stop bullets, not blades, a fact which the detective took full advantage of. However, he hadn’t counted on his opponent taking multiple slashes in order to get in close to him, close enough to land a punch in the diaphragm, knocking the breath from him.
A right hook sent Sherlock sprawling, his opponent drawing a knife as he scrambled to stand again. If there was any hesitation in the mercenary’s attack, it was from the cold flash of unsettling humor across Sherlock’s face. Swiftly disarmed once again and gashed across the side, the killer resorted to the basic tactic of beating his target to a pulp. He grasped hold of Sherlock’s hand, willingly taking the detective’s punches, twisting his wrist until the sword dropped to the floor.
Thinking he at last had the upper hand, the killer paused. This was his undoing. Sherlock broke free of his grip and began to demonstrate his knowledge of bare-knuckle boxing. As the mercenary retaliated with mixed martial arts, Sherlock adapted, drawing on his own martial arts knowledge, matching him blow for blow, the two men running each other down into exhaustion.
At last, the mercenary fell. Retrieving his sword, Sherlock didn’t hesitate in finishing his opponent off in a coup de grâce, elegant for all its efficiency. Breathing heavy, Sherlock went to his knees, permitting himself a moment of relieved calm.
The moment was shattered by a low laugh from across the warehouse. He sprang to his feet and spun around to face the voice, mind racing. He doubted he had the energy to fight another, he would have to identify a weakness straight away and utilize it to his full...
All thought ceased as he saw the figure emerge from the shadowed corner, stepping into the dim illumination cast by the streetlights through the warehouse windows. His - no, her - entire body was made of metal, the only part of her hinting at humanity was her face. What might have been lovely at one time was marred by the presence of a red cyberoptic surrounded by chrome. Sherlock was mildly disgusted, and a little frightened. Though he'd seen them from afar, he'd never personally encountered a full cyborg before.
I'm going to die. The thought flitted through his head before he pushed it aside, an irrelevant distraction, and focused on trying to find a way out of this mess.
“I gotta say, I’m impressed,” she said, strolling forward as Sherlock backed toward the door. “I didn’t think a guy with a sword could take either of those two down. Still, you don’t survive in this line of work by underestimating your opponent. Something the others forgot.”
His sword would be useless, though that didn’t keep him from gripping it tightly. Perhaps if he managed to reach that section of exposed neck... no, his best option was retreat, if he could just make it out the door...
She rushed him, picking him up and throwing him across the room. He struggled to stand, chest hurting. The impact as he’d hit the floor had cracked a few more of his ribs, already broken from his last opponent. A kick from the cyborg took his legs out from under him. He grimaced at the pain, one of them was fractured at least, he was certain. Still, he had to get out.
He deflected her hand as she reached for him, sword ineffectually glancing of the metal, sparks flying. She laughed.
The laugh froze him cold. There was no trace of warmth in it. No sane person could ever sound like that. He was fighting a cyberpsychotic paid to kill him, with a sword. He was going to die.
Chuckling, evil mania in her eyes, she lifted him off the ground by his coat and held him against the wall. “You know,” she said, sickly sweet, “When I was a girl, my parents always said I shouldn’t get a new toy until I was done with the first, or until it broke. So, I started breaking them on purpose, whenever I got bored.” One of her hands moved to the joint of his shoulder, making him cry in pain at the strength of her grip. She smiled. “Bored now.”
Sherlock screamed as tendon ripped, his sight nothing but a red haze of pain. He felt himself falling to the ground, heard inhuman laughter, and then blackness took him.
He was being watched. Even without noticing the red dot of a cyberoptic’s targeting scope on the roof above, he would have known. It was one of those instincts he’d developed after his first year in the City.
The dot was gone. Gripping his stick firmly, ready to draw, Sherlock swiftly made his way down the alley to the warehouse side entrance, reflexes taught. It was only sensible to expect an ambush.
He was therefore mildly surprised, and honestly a bit disappointed, to find his pursuer standing in the open in front of the door. The man was obviously a hired killer, cyberoptic and weapon links to each of his large handguns, but his gun wasn’t even at the ready. Whoever had hired him had given the description of an unarmed man from a Colony, and the arrogant mercenary was expecting an easy kill.
Unfortunate for him.
Sherlock charged, drawing his blade, a quick thrust ending the shocked mercenary’s career. He had been too surprised to defend himself. With a regretful sigh, Sherlock wiped his sword clean, but decided to keep it drawn, just in case. He glanced up at a nearby fire escape to be sure that Wendy was in place. He had asked her to come along and be on watch, in the event something should go wrong. He stepped inside.
“They said they’d kill me,” the contact Sherlock had come to meet shouted from out the other door, “I’m sorry!”
Sherlock spun around just in time to see a second professional killer, similar to the first, step out from the shadows and take aim. He dove wildly, the shot going over him, sword slashing at the mercenary’s legs. The move forced the killer to pause, leaping back, giving Sherlock a chance to regain his feet and with a deft flick of his blade disarm the man. Another gun was drawn, so Sherlock sliced the hand that held it.
With a curse, the killer was suddenly on the defensive against Sherlock’s relentless attack. The mercenary’s body armor was made to stop bullets, not blades, a fact which the detective took full advantage of. However, he hadn’t counted on his opponent taking multiple slashes in order to get in close to him, close enough to land a punch in the diaphragm, knocking the breath from him.
A right hook sent Sherlock sprawling, his opponent drawing a knife as he scrambled to stand again. If there was any hesitation in the mercenary’s attack, it was from the cold flash of unsettling humor across Sherlock’s face. Swiftly disarmed once again and gashed across the side, the killer resorted to the basic tactic of beating his target to a pulp. He grasped hold of Sherlock’s hand, willingly taking the detective’s punches, twisting his wrist until the sword dropped to the floor.
Thinking he at last had the upper hand, the killer paused. This was his undoing. Sherlock broke free of his grip and began to demonstrate his knowledge of bare-knuckle boxing. As the mercenary retaliated with mixed martial arts, Sherlock adapted, drawing on his own martial arts knowledge, matching him blow for blow, the two men running each other down into exhaustion.
At last, the mercenary fell. Retrieving his sword, Sherlock didn’t hesitate in finishing his opponent off in a coup de grâce, elegant for all its efficiency. Breathing heavy, Sherlock went to his knees, permitting himself a moment of relieved calm.
The moment was shattered by a low laugh from across the warehouse. He sprang to his feet and spun around to face the voice, mind racing. He doubted he had the energy to fight another, he would have to identify a weakness straight away and utilize it to his full...
All thought ceased as he saw the figure emerge from the shadowed corner, stepping into the dim illumination cast by the streetlights through the warehouse windows. His - no, her - entire body was made of metal, the only part of her hinting at humanity was her face. What might have been lovely at one time was marred by the presence of a red cyberoptic surrounded by chrome. Sherlock was mildly disgusted, and a little frightened. Though he'd seen them from afar, he'd never personally encountered a full cyborg before.
I'm going to die. The thought flitted through his head before he pushed it aside, an irrelevant distraction, and focused on trying to find a way out of this mess.
“I gotta say, I’m impressed,” she said, strolling forward as Sherlock backed toward the door. “I didn’t think a guy with a sword could take either of those two down. Still, you don’t survive in this line of work by underestimating your opponent. Something the others forgot.”
His sword would be useless, though that didn’t keep him from gripping it tightly. Perhaps if he managed to reach that section of exposed neck... no, his best option was retreat, if he could just make it out the door...
She rushed him, picking him up and throwing him across the room. He struggled to stand, chest hurting. The impact as he’d hit the floor had cracked a few more of his ribs, already broken from his last opponent. A kick from the cyborg took his legs out from under him. He grimaced at the pain, one of them was fractured at least, he was certain. Still, he had to get out.
He deflected her hand as she reached for him, sword ineffectually glancing of the metal, sparks flying. She laughed.
The laugh froze him cold. There was no trace of warmth in it. No sane person could ever sound like that. He was fighting a cyberpsychotic paid to kill him, with a sword. He was going to die.
Chuckling, evil mania in her eyes, she lifted him off the ground by his coat and held him against the wall. “You know,” she said, sickly sweet, “When I was a girl, my parents always said I shouldn’t get a new toy until I was done with the first, or until it broke. So, I started breaking them on purpose, whenever I got bored.” One of her hands moved to the joint of his shoulder, making him cry in pain at the strength of her grip. She smiled. “Bored now.”
Sherlock screamed as tendon ripped, his sight nothing but a red haze of pain. He felt himself falling to the ground, heard inhuman laughter, and then blackness took him.