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With darkness descending: The story of Triss Nighthunter. A furry fiction by Rocko Wallaby

This story series is Part 1 of the "New Worlds" saga.

DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 1: Blood in the gutters.

Triss sighed, as he leant back in the darkness for a moments rest. He'd always assumed the whole "life flashing before your eyes" thing was a load of bullshit. I mean, you hear of it in vid's and holo's, but to actually feel the life draining from your veins?

Poetic license gone stupid there, somewhere.

But as he sat there in the dark; in this stinking, filthy alley, with blood seeping from his shoulder wound and down his arm to pool on the concrete beneath his fingertips; he had to smile grimly at his predicament.

Why did it always end with blood?

Plus, it was raining again. He hated the rain. Not to mention the cold. He'd always hoped that if he was to bleed to death in some dank, festering alley in the arse end of nowhere, he'd be warm at the time! Or, more preferrably, not dead at all.

His mind was wandering again. Not a good sign. Damn feral, shithole planet. Backwater to nowhere. Deserves a good nuking.

He got to his feet cautiously, the bricks at his back pressing coarsely through the thin fabric of his shirt. Looking up into the soaking rain, he could barely make out the boarded up windows of the buildings, which stared vacantly over the streets below. Water from the rusted guttering far above continued to trickle down his neck and arms, mixing with his blood to form dark tracks through the muddy concrete at his feet. The nearby dumpster stank of the detritus of its users; the filthy waste of a filthy city. He hated cities in the fringe worlds. Nothing but scum, sewerage, and the offal of civilization.

Shifting the pistol to his right hand, he pressing the button on the side of the grip, checking the level of charge remaining. The dull red display shone briefly, dimly illuminating his face in the surrounding darkness.

Shit. Only 5 rounds left.

That wouldn't put a dent in them, when they caught up with him.

Oh well. It was inevitable they would. Chaos had always followed him, and eventually was bound to embrace him. Besides, he wasn't afraid of death. Especially his own.

Checking the surrounding area carefully, nothing caught his attention. Only the sound of the dripping rain broke the noises of the night. This batch of marauders was clearly more skilled than most; a testimony to his current predicament, and copious blood loss.

He began carefully inching through the darkness and filth towards the alley entrance, keeping close to the building walls and stepping lightly to avoid splashing the tainted water pooling at his feet. Where were they? The prickling skin on his neck gave warning they were close; far, far too close; but he could see nothing moving in the dark streets ahead.

Suddenly, a muffled noise broke the silence; a rasping cough, quickly suppressed. They were here, then. Well within range. Scanning the darkened street carefully, he peered into a small area of parkland that encroached on the urban jungle opposite his position. A slight movement from within the trees drew his attention. There!

After a few moments, a dark shape detached itself from the protection of the overhanging foliage, and moved forward to scan the streets before it. Eyes like fiery gems peered out from the confines of its hooded robe, taking in everything. Clawed hands clutched a pulse rifle to its chest as it hunted through the darkness for any signs of movement: of him! Pressing back into the darkness against the wall, Triss felt his heart beat erratically, hoping his blood was sufficiently diluted by the evening rain to mask his scent from the hunters, while he took a moment to look for the others.

There were always others. Marauders never hunted alone.

To the left, two more shadows detached themselves from the surrounding buildings and converged on the first.

Three of them, then. Shit!

Bad enough one, but with an arm shredded and useless, and half his lifeblood spilled onto the street, it was as hopeless as he'd feared. Guess they really wanted him dead this time. It was almost worth it to being taken seriously, for a change.

Triss considered his options. With the limited munitions remaining at his disposal, he had little chance of destroying all three. Marauders were fast; way faster than most assassins. He might have had a chance of putting down one, or possibly two, had he been in reasonable condition, but with the wound and the cold sapping his strength, taking out all three was unlikely. Regardless, no alternative presented itself; he had to attempt killing all three in his initial attack, as he had no further strength for a prolonged standoff. Tensing in readiness, using the grimy wall as support, he silently raised the pistol into position, taking a bead on the closest of the hunters.

Without warning, a com chime shattered the silence. Triss froze, as did the marauders. After a moment, the first reached into its robes, pulling out a small com unit which it flipped open and brought to its ear. Harsh, guttural voices speaking corrupted universal broke the silence, growing in both volume and intensity as the conversation continued. The marauder, obviously unhappy with the way the discussion was heading, ended it with a harsh grunt, before thrusting the unit back into its robes with a clawed hand. Turning to its companions, they conversed briefly in hushed tones, before all three faded back into the parks protective cover and vanished from sight.

One final rustle of branches, and they were gone. Only the relentless hissing of the rain striking the pavement broke the silence.

Triss waited, muscles tensing for the attack that he feared might still come. Blood continued to seep wetly down his sleeve, forming a slippery mess on the guns grip. He tightened his fingers expectantly, waiting for them to return for him.

Nothing broke the silence of the night. They were gone.

Heaving an exhausted sigh, he rested his gun on the dumpster lid, and reached across his chest to tear the left sleeve off his shirt, wrapping it roughly around the long, jagged wound on his left arm. While it wouldn't hold for long, he prayed it would buy him enough time to make it back to the cache, where he could treat the injury properly. After a few minutes, the bleeding slowed enough for him to slip another length of fabric over his head in a makeshift sling.

With one last searching look down the deserted streets, he retrieved his pistol, returning it to its holster, before melting back into the darkened alley towards safety.

Continued in Chapter 2: Beginnings.