Violent Introductions: Fulcrum: Season One, #1

By J.J. Vega

This is the first episode of seven in the Fulcrum: Season One series.

 

Jack loves his life. Yeah, he lives at the edge of a warzone between armies of monstrosities. You call it dangerous. Jack calls it Tuesday. Folks in town aren't too keen on a fourteen-year-old running the only bar, but Jack has it under control. Maybe his customers trash the place more than he would like, but sometimes cybernetically enhanced mercenaries need to blow off some steam. With the help of Zeke—friend, mentor, monkey—Jack serves drinks to anyone who comes through his door. And for the right price, he might even sell you something with a bit more kick … something magical.

 

When Corva gets knocked through the wall of his bar, Jack decides to help her out. Sure she's being chased by a pack of bounty hunters and she's got no idea why. But she can fight. Holy hell, she can fight. Jack could use someone like that to keep a little order in the bar. That should be a win-win, but Jack's and Corva's problems are bigger than either of them can guess, big enough change the course of the war.

 

Fulcrum is a post-Armageddon dystopian science fiction fantasy with a taste of anime. Technology, magic, and a badass monkey. The drinks aren't on the house, but you're welcome to stay until last call.

 

Note: This is not a YA story. This dark future is violent and contains profanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Giant Coffee Blunderbuss
• Release date: Jul 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781943474059

Book preview

Violent Introductions

Fulcrum: Season One, Episode One

J.J. Vega

The Giant Coffee Blunderbuss

© 2022 Jason van Gumster, All rights reserved

1

Welcome to Bule

I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.

That’s Jack. He’s fourteen years old.

Jack runs his fingers through his shaggy mop of hair as if doing so would somehow wipe away the growing sense of inevitability. It seems like every time something is about to happen, he gets a little tingling sensation in his scalp, like a colony of ants is tiptoeing around up there. The sensation radiates from the roots of a white streak that starts over his right eye. It could possibly be his imagination, but experience tells him otherwise. He’s seen this story play out the exact same way too many times to second-guess his gut, or the skin on his head.

Those assholes on table five are about peaked. Cursing under his breath, he picks up another tumbler and wipes it dry. It’s a constant chore keeping this place clean, but folks get really picky when it comes to the sanitation of their drinkware. They could be covered in dust and blood and chunks of who-knows-what, but if their glass has a spot on it—

Zeke! Dry! Jack tosses the tumbler up to the ceiling trusses, but keeps his focus locked on the trio of mercs, who appear to be as heavily armed as they are inebriated. It’s only been a year since Jack took ownership of the bar, but he’s been working at the place for nearly a decade. That’s more than long enough to know when things are about to get really loud and really stupid, really quickly. And he knows those three sauced-up death merchants are going to be the catalyst.

The table is about as far away from Jack as it can be, but the drunken geniuses are loud enough that he can hear each angrily slurred word. So can everyone else.

I said you’re out!

That wasn’t the deal! You can’t cut me out. Me and mine got us that job.

I won’t hafta cut you out. Just cut—

The single gunshot reverberates throughout the bar. Heads turn as the high-pitched ring drowns out the sound of a single merc at the table slumping over. For an instant, it’s almost possible to see all the way through the gaping, bloody chasm in the dead man’s back to the finger-sized entry point in his chest. His former compatriot sits in front of him holding the handgun, flat-faced and emotionless. He almost looks bored.

Jack starts doing the math on how much the repairs are going to cost. About a gram of shock plus a couple liters of water to bleach away the blood stains.

The third merc doesn’t wait to have the gun turned on him. He launches to his feet and reaches up to grab the light fixture above the table. Tearing the light down, he uses it to trap the shooter’s hand, then pulls his own pistol, but never gets the chance to use it. The shooter stands while stepping forward, flipping the little circular barroom table and freeing his hand. Both guns slide across the floor, out of reach.

One new light fixture. Need to reinforce the wiring harness. At least the table’s still okay. As is his tendency, Jack makes up nicknames for the two mercs to use later when addressing them directly. The first one gets Shooter—obviously. The one that busted the light fixture is a bit tougher to come up with, but Jack finally decides his name is Improv.

They stand there, Shooter and Improv, hands poised over secondary weapons. Alcohol and adrenaline strain against the shackles of better judgment. Their eyes are locked on one another, attempting to anticipate whose spring will uncoil first, and whose will uncoil fastest.

Silent.

Tense.

It’s as if the entire bar has just been pushed onto a landmine.

An inhuman scream pierces the silence. It comes from the ceiling trusses where Jack had thrown the tumbler, and a moment after the scream, that very same tumbler comes crashing down on the bar, shattering. It’s a cue to chaos. Before the final shards of glass hit the bar and clink to the floor, the room transforms into a fighting pit.

The two mercs lunge. Shooter pulls a knife and holds it with a reverse grip. The blade extends back to his elbow. Improv opts for the spiked bat lying on the ground near the table. The knife and bat lock in a drunken stalemate, their masters exchanging hatred behind gritted teeth and coal-fired eyes. For a moment, Jack wonders about the nature of the deal that’d just gone south, but he has to put his curiosity aside as the other patrons of the bar get to their feet, too. They all pull back to a safe distance, but close enough to see the action. Bets are already being made on which merc will be left standing, and a circle of spectators forms around the two brawlers.

A couple more tables get flipped. At least two more broken glasses get added to Jack’s tally.

The two break, but not cleanly. Improv lowers his bat, allowing him space to drop his elbow forward and smash it into Shooter’s neck. Hard. Shooter spins from the blow, but completes the rotation and runs a mean cut across Improv’s face. Dance-like, he ends on one knee and looks up, grinning.

Without waiting a beat longer, the fighters re-engage; the scent of their own blood accelerates each one’s drive to drain the remaining five liters from the other.

One of these two isn’t going to survive. One dead body is plenty, though. Corpse disposal is expensive, and it’s not like there’s a bulk discount. Jack has had enough.

A small pop echoes through the bar, followed by a percussive whir. Mid-attack, Shooter and Improv seem to lose their