Dark Sanity

Bounty Hunters

The realm of deep space flickered in silence, showing its seemingly limitless stars. It was a dark realm, just as dark and sinister as those who inhabited it in the 54th century—the tribunal made sure of that. Since the end of the war two decades ago, they used their ruthless military to wipe out autonomy, preparing the human race for dimensional evolution.

Anyone who may have desired anything other than synthesis had either been imprisoned or killed. No man or woman was brave enough to shout in public that they wanted the tribunal to be overthrown unless they were ready to be gunned down by the military or bounty hunters who covertly worked for the tribunal. After two decades, however, one man was insane enough to challenge the military. He loved to shout out loud how psychotic and fanatical the tribunal had become. That man’s name was Flint Cross, and he immediately became the most wanted man in the universe.

The tribunal became outraged by the whispers of an outlaw named Flint Cross—the same fictional man they had created for the sake of showing humanity what happens to people who reject science and the next evolution of consciousness. Not only was the military searching for the avatar named Flint Cross, but bounty hunters were after him too.

One year had passed since Flint led his underworld companions to space. They’d been hoping to find refuge on a planet called Vorilian IV. As it turned out, Vorilian IV was a quadrant of space. After reaching it within half a year, Flint helped his companions settle in a world on the outskirts of the Vorilian sector, which they called New Earth. When they settled down, Flint set off on a smaller spacecraft. Since then, he’d been causing chaos in Vorilian IV.

On a dusty barren planet known as Maveron, bolts of orange lightning emerged in a spot of its fallow-colored sky. This bizarre phenomenon only occurred whenever a spacecraft was descending into the planet. Hardly any ships came to this desolate planet that looked as dead as Earth, so when the deprived people who lived there stared at the flashing sky they felt it wasn’t good since only the dictatorial military possessed vessels capable of interstellar flight.

At first it looked as though a glittery black- and indigo-tinged mountain with bornhardts for wings was descending. Mist formed and wrapped around the mountain—no, it wasn’t mist, it was smog. Patches of light burst within the whistling steam produced by engine burners of what was now clearly a spacecraft to the people who stood on a canyon full of parked vehicles.

The starship slowly reached the grimy canyon, hovering slightly above a cliff where the vehicles were parked. It gave out a vibrating hum from its engines. Then the ramp of the vessel opened. Steam billowed, engulfing the ramp. Shortly after, a silhouette of a man appeared within the dense steam. The onlookers by the parking area—ready to enter the lit-up, dingy- and rusty-looking saloon that stood across from them—stared at the man who exited the vessel, stepping onto the granite of the canyon.

His black clothes made him look like a futuristic cowboy; he wore a duster over his vest, fringed gloves, shotgun-style chaps that overlapped his jeans, and knee-length boots with silver spurs. He also wore a high crowned, wide-brimmed hat shrouding his beard and facial features. None of the people here had ever seen this man before, but the moment they saw him they knew he was Flint Cross.

The gunslinger’s spurs chinked with each step he took. His duster fluttered back while wind and dust swept about him. When steam dissipated around him, he faintly lifted his head, showing his strong, wrinkled face. As he walked toward the saloon his vessel automatically sealed and landed below the cliff on a protruding ridge.

Flint pushed open the batwing doors of the rusty saloon and entered it, finding himself in a nightclub with multicolored laser lights and people dancing wildly and sensually to deafening cyberpunk music. Though the patrons were either drunk or drugged as they elatedly danced, they broke out of their trance when Flint walked by. He didn’t even have to budge anyone to reach the counter; they simply stepped aside, staring at him as if they’d seen a man who’d been shot dead, only to rise back up from his grave.

“Holy freakin’ shit,” said a scrawny man with a mohawk, standing by the second floor’s balcony. “That’s fucking Flint Cross!”

His voice was muffled by the music, but a beautiful Tunisian woman nearby heard him, gazing down at the legendary Flint Cross who’d come back from the dead after twenty years. Most of the patrons in the saloon calmed down; they continued kissing, dancing, drinking, and taking drugs. Flint, meanwhile, sat on a stool by the bar counter. The bartender, smoking a thick cigar, observed the gunslinger and approached him.

“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender.

“Just some water,” said Flint.

The bartender raised his eyebrows, took hold of a grimy pitcher, and poured him a glass of brown water.

Flint stared at it, grimacing. “I asked for water.”

“On this planet, this is water made in heaven,” said the bartender.

“More like shit,” scowled Flint, grabbing his cup and taking a sip. Despite how filthy it looked, it actually tasted clean. “Hmm, not as bad as I thought it’d be.”

The bartender snorted and walked away, preparing a drink for somebody else.

“Wha’ tha fuck iz tha’?” blurted a man sitting beside Flint. “Ya come ‘er ta git fuckin’ drunk ’n laid, nah drink sum pussy shit water.”

Flint heard every single word that the scrawny, tattooed man beside him said. However, he didn’t turn or tilt his head. He acted as though he were deaf and continued to drink his water in peace.

“Ehey, I’ma talkin’ ta ya, old man,” said the scrawny patron. “Oh, ‘n wha’ tha fuck iz thiz, Halloweeeen?” He stared hard at Flint who paid no mind to him whatsoever. “I don’t lik’ when beaople ignor’ me.” The drunkard clenched his teeth, watching Flint finish the rest of his water. He then pulled out a sleek knife. “Eh, ‘re ya fuckin’ deaf?”

Flint spun out a magnum, shoving its muzzle down the drunkard’s mouth. The scrawny tattooed man floundered and dropped his knife.

“I suggest you leave me alone,” said Flint.

The drunkard shuddered, falling off his stool. He got back on his feet and ran out of the saloon. Flint holstered his magnum and slammed his glass on the counter. The bartender refilled his cup.

“Thanks,” said Flint.

He was about to gulp down his water in peace when the Tunisian woman from the second floor advanced, seized him, and made out with him passionately. He didn’t know why a stranger would do such a thing; then he felt her shove something in his mouth with her tongue.

“Je suis désolé, monsieur, j’ai pensé que vous étiez quelqu’un d’autre,” she said, gazing at him sensually, only to walk away.

Flint raised an eyebrow, watching her approach the dance floor. She started kissing a blonde woman, grabbing her breasts. Flint shook his head, turned back to the bar counter, and felt something in his mouth. He glanced around, making sure no one was looking, and let what was in his mouth fall on the counter. It was a folded piece of paper with crinkles. Flint waited a few seconds and then unfolded it, noticing a sentence written in English:

If you want to know about Hamarah, take care of those six bounty hunters on the second floor and find me downstairs.

The moment Flint saw the name Hamarah, he felt his stomach twist, and his heart began to beat with a pounding that matched the electronic music. Reading the rest of the note made him squint. He dared not glimpse at the second floor. Flint stayed still for a while. He eventually put the note away and drank his water as if nothing fazed him. Afterwards, he gave the bartender ten credits and stood up from his stool. He then casually shuffled out of the saloon.

When he stepped outside, he continued to walk in an oblivious manner. Several passersby stared at him with absurd expressions. One of the half-naked women giggled, pointing at his hat. Flint walked over to the cliff and pulled out a charcoal chip, clicking it. Upon doing so, he heard the batwing doors slam open. He stared at the dusty panorama of Maveron, a seemingly endless valley littered with naturally carved canyons, sandstone spires, towering mesas, and skyscraping bornhardts. And as he gazed at it with an arrogant look on his face, he heard a bunch of footsteps crunch against the sooty, dirt-covered ground.

The six men behind him wore rusty red-brown armor. None of them wore helmets. They appeared to be fairly young—in their thirties—and looked extremely rugged and crude. One of the six men spat on the ground. The others either grimaced or sniggered at the sight of Flint and his ridiculous clothes.

“Joey sends his regards,” said the man who spat.

That instant, Flint jumped off the cliff while clicking his charcoal chip again. The bounty hunters stared at him with dumbfounded expressions, watching him jump to his death. Just then, they heard the bustling sound of a reverberating engine. Running to the cliff, they saw Flint rise on a hovering soal-fueled motorcycle that billowed searing steam into their faces. They screamed in pain and withdrew.

Only one of them managed to lift his hands, firing dimensional beams from his armored forearms. The violet-colored beams, however, missed Flint.

“Get him!” exclaimed the unharmed man.

The group of bounty hunters strode over to where their vehicles were parked. As soon as they approached their automobiles, the roofs opened, allowing them to jump into the driver seats. Once the vehicles started, they shifted into aircraft-shaped vessels and took off, tailing Flint into the elongated valley.

In the meantime, Flint flew his hovering motorcycle through a steep-sided canyon filled with rock arches and dust devils. The brim of his hat flapped as he sped forward with a grin on his face, waiting for the bounty hunters to approach. And approach they did. Cannons the size of Flint’s hovering motorcycle jutted from the wings of their vessels. The bounty hunters launched multiple dimensional beams at him. These lethal rays were twice the size of those fired from their armor.

Flint veered left and right, swiftly dodging the deadly beams. He checked his rearview mirror, pulled out one of his magnums with his right hand, and fired over his shoulder without looking. Four of the six soal bullets he fired pierced an engine of a vessel, causing it to explode. The bounty hunters looked pale at the sight of their comrade’s demise and decided to take Flint more seriously.

The bounty hunters continued to fire but from a distance. Flint continued to evade their beams. He quickly holstered his empty magnum and took out his other, firing over his shoulder again. This time none of the bullets hit his foes. One of the bounty hunters laughed and zoomed forward, riding alongside Flint. He lowered his window and aimed his dimensional pistol at Flint who pulled out a shotgun from within his duster, blowing the man’s face off.

The headless bounty hunter slumped against the door, his vehicle crashing and exploding on a mesa’s summit. Flint, meanwhile, flew his steam-powered motorcycle between two narrow escarpments. The bounty hunters recklessly followed him. After firing a few beams, one of them accidently bashed a wing against a protruding ridge, causing him to spin out of control and blow up against the rocky cliff.

Flint swerved through the curving ravine while the three remaining bounty hunters tried to shoot him. As soon as Flint passed the ravine, he reached an area in the valley decorated with clusters of arched rocks. He easily flew through the loops. Two of the three bounty hunters rose from the region and stayed in the sky while the other stayed below, tailing Flint. A few seconds later, however, he entered a loop slightly smaller than the previous ones, and the wings of his ship tore off against the sides of the arched rock. The archway collapsed, and the bounty hunter’s vessel plummeted. He screamed and covered his face with his arms, exploding when the vehicle hit the ground.

The last two bounty hunters remained in the sky, waiting for Flint to leave the cluster of arched rocks. When he flew through the last one, he steered his motorcycle skyward in a loop, aimed his shotgun at one of them while upside down, and blasted the engine. The ship instantly blew up. Flint reloaded his lever-action shotgun with one hand and shot at the remaining bounty hunter, flying his steam-powered bike straight toward him.

It looked as though they were performing hawk-dove, shooting at each other while on a collision course. One of the beams eventually zapped through Flint’s motorcycle, splitting it in half. Flint quickly stood up before it disintegrated and jumped onto his enemy’s vessel.

“What the fuck?” said the bounty hunter, aiming his pistol at the roof and firing.

The beam missed Flint by a hair, at which point he slammed his fist through the roof. He grabbed the bounty hunter and snapped his neck. Not a second later, the ship started to aimlessly descend. Flint tore off the top with his unnatural strength, flung the lifeless bounty hunter into the valley, and took control of the craft.

Flint smoothly turned the vessel around and flew back to the saloon. After a few minutes, he reached the cliff and landed in the parking lot. Several people outside stared at the half-ruined ship in dismay, many gasping when they saw Flint emerge from it. He fearlessly walked past the patrons who looked like they were either thugs or drug addicts. Only a few stood by the door, not moving out of the way.

“If you don’t want to get brain-fucked by the tribunal, step aside,” grumbled Flint.

Although many of the thugs and prostitutes maintained a deadly glare, they decided not to interfere, walking away. Flint reentered the saloon. The cyberpunk music wasn’t loud to him anymore. Once again, people stared at him as if they saw a wraith. And a wraith he was, dressed in black, jostling through the crowd with wrath in his eyes. Not one person got in his way while he approached the stairs in the back.

Flint went down the steps, finding himself in a brothel. A man with a dark complexion was having sex with an Asian woman in the hall. They didn’t seem to care if someone watched. The naked woman, lifted against a wall, screamed wildly while her client penetrated her. Flint, slack-jawed, raised his eyebrows at the sight and walked by them without a word. Others were having sex in bedrooms that had no doors.

Eventually, as he walked through a graffiti-covered corridor, the Tunisian woman who’d given him the note peeked out of a bedroom and pulled him in. She only wore stockings, panties, and a nearly see-through bra with her nipples poking out. The woman rubbed his chest, smiling while giving out a faint moan. Flint, however, grabbed her hands and pushed them away.

“Thanks for the tip,” he said. “But I’m not here for sex.”

“Of course you’re not,” said the Tunisian woman with a French accent. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to live…I’m glad to see you again.”

“Forgive me if I don’t remember you.”

“It’s me, Anissa,” she said.

Flint stared at her blankly.

“So, it’s true,” she added, “they took your memory away?”

Flint nodded with a regretful sigh. “Yes,” he said. “Though, over the past few years I’ve been able to remember certain things. Hamarah’s death being one of them.”

“She’s not dead,” replied Anissa.

“What?” he said, gazing at her in disbelief. “That’s impossible. I remember everything from that day as though it happened yesterday. She was waiting for me at the command center, hoping to discuss a new strategy when the military surprise attacked us. Andrew Browder and I were running through the trenches, making our way to her. Then a battleship came. It descended and destroyed the building.”

“Maybe you thought she was there,” said Anissa. “But my sister is very much alive and hiding with the resistance.”

“My goodness,” said Flint. “You’re her sister?” Before she could nod, he added, “Wait a minute, did you just say—”

“Resistance,” she said. “It isn’t much, but yes, there is a resistance.”

“Can you take me to them?”

“Take you to the resistance?” she said crudely, putting her hands on her hips. “Look at me, Ethan. I’m just a prostitute. I don’t have a starship.”

“But I do,” he said, grinning.