Kid Ballistic: Date with a Deadeye, feat. Killshot

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Itch. Itch. ITCH.


Kid Ballistic, washed in yellow light, strolled down a lonely sidewalk in Westside. The night was young, and Sidney Mason, the kid beneath the mask, was hopped up on espresso. He was hoping for a long night. When he wasn't dishing out pounds of his new rubber ammunition, he was exploring the city. Since he was alone at this very moment, KB took a spontaneous turn on his heels, and kept right on strolling past the gate of an underground parking garage. Soft, almost green fluorescent lighting greeted him. The toll booth was conspicuously empty.


KB didn't think much of the lack of security, and decided to see just how far the structure went. His quick eyes lingered every few steps on a given vehicle. Most were pretty ugly or unremarkable machines, KB knew that, but they were all new to him, being raised abroad. So his eyes drank in the detail, as dull as it was, and his feet carried him down the first ramp.


A big yellow "01" painted on the gray wall marked his progress.


ITCH. ITCH.


Kid Ballistic was still getting acclimated to his costume. All of it was fresh and newly minted kit, so some of it was irritating his skin with that new-garment itch. All in the wrong places, too. Yes, the tribulations of a hero were already beginning to set upon him.


Because Sid was a hero now. No, a superhero. Gone were the days of making money off of war and politics, greed and creed. A merc no more! A new drill for a new thrill, a new man for a new mission: save people - and stuff. Sid had been Kid Ballistic for a couple months now, but it remained a radical feeling, wearing his blue-orange costume, trouncing about the city.


When he was with his father, he seldom remained in one place for long. And large cities were often avoided.


Now he was in Millennium City, his birthplace, by his father's account. It was the jewel of America, the greatest place on earth, by their own account. Sid believed it. The city was big, exciting, and rich. Rich with cash, beautiful women, thick helpings of outrageous food, loud music, and a mess of problems just waiting for a fixer like him.


Another level and another ramp, and still Sid was alone. His eager, espresso-jolted fingers began to tap on his blue vest, and his mouth made power chord sounds to the tune of AC/DC's Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.


"DUN. DUN-dun. DUN-dun. DUN-dun!"


The riff echoed in the cavernous garage, and Sid drove his boots into the asphalt to the beat as he made his way past level "03".


Several levels below the young hero, a meeting was taking place. Blocking one of the entry ramps to level "05", was a purple vehicle belonging to the Purple Gang. Six members of the gang chit-chat as they unloaded a purple windowless van and load it into another.


As the men labored, one stopped, hefting a crate at his waist. "So, who’s this guy making the pick up?", he asks his fellow gang member. The other gives a shrug in reply. Still in need of an answer, the unloader yells over to the man loading the other van, "Hey! Jim! Who’s doing the pick up?"


"Jim" stops, looking over to the burly unloader, "No idea, it's some new guy. Supposed to make extra sure this one makes it to the drop point." he yells back, before handling another crate.


Unknown footsteps scuffed the nearby asphalt, causing the members to freeze in place. One bearded member signaled the burly unloader to get down. After a short nod, he stepped off from the van and took a peak around the rear door. "Is that him?"


Walking towards the van was a man wearing a red trench-coat, sporting circular red shades. Underneath the opened coat was a dark grey dress shirt. A white tie swayed gently from the collar. His fingerless leather gloves were tucked away into the depths of his red coat. The expression upon his face was cold as ice, and the men could feel it from a distance. Before they knew it, the unknown man was walking beside the unloading van.


One of the more dimwitted bruisers of the bunch opened his mouth to the man, "Who the hell are you?!" The full number of Purple Gangers revealed themselves now, surrounding the man in red. They glared at him. One cracked his knuckles.


The mystery man chuckled aloud and coldly, a smirk barely warming his features. "Really, mates... Do ya think that nonsense really works?" He mocked the bunch, his accent decidedly Australian. The circle of mooks made eyes at one another, uncertain of what sort of trouble they had found tonight.


"Th’hell does this guy think he is?!"


Removing one hand from his coat, he pressed his index finger on the frame of his glasses. Slowly, he began to push his shades up the bridge of his nose. "No one you know, is the answer to your question..." His tone betrays no emotion; it is flat.


As if all at once, the six snapped their eyes back to the man in red. "Okay, so why shouldn't give you the beatin’ of a lifetime, then?" one asked. A few others crossed their arms, attempting to stare down the Aussie.


The lone man could see their patience was running thin. That smirk only grew wider. "Alright, mates: ya got me." He removed his other hand from his pocket. Swiftly, his arms reached for the sky, or rather, the ceiling. "I was hired to bring a message to your boss. Paid a bit of money to do it..."


Their conversation echoed from the lower level, and up into level "04"...


"Dirty Deeds and they're done dirt cheap; dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap..."


Sid's voice was low and ominous as it can get in imitating the great AC/DC. He duck-walked down a corridor of cars, giving an impromptu performance. Eventually, he continued and descended into "04", amid a rather empty level of the garage. His sing-song trailed off, as Sid's ears perked up and realized that his wasn't the only voice in the underground structure.


Kid Ballistic came to a halt, and, hearing only a murmur, began to creep towards the sounds, making his way down the next ramp. There he found the strangest vehicle in the garage yet: a purple van, parked right in front of the opening to level "05". Then his eyes spied a second, and six men wearing purple, all encircling some guy in rich red.


Sid hadn't been in town long, but he knew these boneheads dressed in purple were playing mafioso in Westside. He guessed these vans were their way of accessorizing. What a joke. Sid adjusted his bright blue and orange chaps before ducking behind the corner of the ramp.


He drew his weapons, two .45 pistols, with Heckler & Koch stamped on their bodies; they seemed at home in the dim shade of the corridor. He peered around at the vehicle, and listened in. Quick eyes made crosshairs at the men, counting their purple-clad bodies.


The safeties came off the .45s, almost by themselves. Sid's ears were open, and his trigger fingers itched. By the time the young hero, made his way down the ramp, and got into position, something was going wrong...


One yells and the briefest of moves is made to "Get hi-!" The mystery man brings down his right arm, cutting the man short: a throwing knife was now embedded, dead center, into the skull of the commanding gangster. He began to fall to the ground.


As the Australian's right arm fell down to his side, his left arm quickly followed. He drew out two pistols, brushing his trench-coat back dramatically, before opening fire upon the Purple Gang members.


One by one, within a mere split second of each other, the gangsters fell after the each rapid muzzle flash. Six perfectly placed kill shots took less than five seconds.


The attacker rolled his neck as his guns, smoke seeping out of the barrels, lowered."Well, that was an easy one-hundred thousand..." His victory chuckle is cold and short. In a classic display, the Aussie twirls his pistols and slips them back into their cozy holsters.


Kid Ballistic's face was kissed by muzzle flashes, and he stood transfixed behind his cover, unable to look away. He'd be terrified if he wasn't awestruck. This guy knew how to shoot, and how to do it with style.


It was then that KB realized he had forgot to breathe. Because his body knew before his brain that he was also within shooting distance of this guy in red, and that meant he was in danger. When his brain caught up, Sid twisted back fully behind cover, and caught his breath, chest heaving beneath his ballistic vest for a moment.


His mind was in rapid-fire. Dread and excitement sloshed around his gut, and his fingers idly twitched at his holsters, waiting for orders, begging for action.


This was hardly his first rodeo, even in Millennium City. Plenty of professionals had fallen prey to underestimating Sid's training. Yet there was something about this guy. Sid easily placed his accent as Australian. He might've been a mercenary, or an assassin of some kind. Not to be trifled with. But even with non-lethal ammo, neither was Kid Ballistic.


He knew he'd never live it down if he ran right now. His father sure as hell wouldn't. Besides, he just witnessed a murder. Several murders. Sure, they were Purple Gang scum, but superheroes reported crimes right? They fought the bad guys, right? With or without a plan. With or without a paycheck.


Sid didn't have the time, but he wished to hell he could light a smoke right now. His heart was pounding at the anticipation of his decision.


Palms sweaty, he drew his pistols, quick as a blink, and stood on his feet. They carried him around the corner, pressing forward towards his new adversary.


"How's this for easy!?" His fingers squeeze his triggers in quick succession, loosing several rubber bullets in a spray of hurt towards the man in red. KB didn't have great aim, but he had fast fingers.


Taken by surprise, the man in red quickly looked towards the voice. Muzzle flashes aimed at him. Acting without thought, in a display of agility, the Aussie sprang over to the other side of the van. He tucked his arms and legs close to his chest in mid-air to dodge any possibility of his limbs being hit.


Who the hell is this? It sounded like some teenager. Do the Purple Gang hire kids?


He shook his head free of the ideas, because it didn't matter. Someone was shooting at him, but there was no indication of penetration from the rounds. Rubbers?


The lone gunman, laughed aloud once it sunk in. A young vigilante came late to the rescue. "Rubber bullets?!" He reached into his coat and took a canister in hand. "Gonna need more than little rubber bullets to stop me, kid!" His other free hand reached for a pistol, arming himself once more.


OK. Sid wasn't dead. This was going well. For now.


The taunt, shouted from behind the van, was a sign that Kid Ballistic had more time. It also lit a burning fuse in his head. Better? I'll show him better.


Sid broke into a sprint down the ramp and towards his own car for cover. The old teal station wagon looked like it had survived the apocalypse. Here's hoping that it had one more night left in its rusty chassis.


Sid had the guy taking cover. His training screamed at him to keep the pressure on, in his father's voice: "You let up, you die", it said.


Sid holstered his empty .45s and jerked a stun grenade off his belt. Just like he had been taught, he ripped the pin, and in mid run, he tossed the little cylinder towards the van. At this distance, he threw better than he shot, and he hoped the little party favor would make its way under the van, perhaps even past it, on the side where his foe was waiting.


Sid dived for the old station wagon, but misjudged his tumble, and ended up crashing shoulder-first into the vehicle. "UMPH!"


Something was rolling, towards the Aussie. Great... Springing into action once again, he leaped out and threw his own cylinder towards the sound of the young vigilante. Sid’s grenade went off behind him, pounding the purple van with light and sound. It roared and echoed throughout the garage. Close call. The man in the red coat rolled into cover behind some wheels.


"You're a bit too predictable!" As if on cue, the Aussie’s canister bounces off the ground, before sliding towards Ballistic. Seemed like the canister was beeping, with a little button vehemently flashing red.


Rubbing his shoulder, and grinding his teeth, Sid shuffled upright against the car. He would have reloaded his weapons, if not for the unwelcome guest that landed right next to his boots, beeping at him, another taunt that only drove KB further up a mental wall. He'd be angry if he wasn't on the verge of panic.


Scrambling, Sid kicked the grenade, though only a couple feet, and stood upright, sprinting away from the device, towards another car, three vehicles down. It was a brown hatchback, but anything would do. KB needed cover and he needed it now.


The young hero only made it two cars down, before the grenade went off. The explosion was violent, as it sent the teal deathtrap spinning upward into the air. The sheer power of the shockwave threw Kid several feet from where he stood. The Duke of Demolitions, betrayed by his subjects! Heat flashed across his skin, light washed in from his peripheral vision to his pupils, shutting his eyes in short order. As he was flung about, the wind was knocked from his lungs, and his ears rang out in a painful song.


An untrained bystander would have been a ragdoll to all these physics, but Kid Ballistic was no bystander. Still, his attempt to recover from being thrown ahead and into the air was only partially successful, and he landed roughly onto his knees before clumsily rolling out the rest of the fall. He stops on all fours in the driveway between vehicles. Despite his tough boots, his knee was biting at his nerves, and the scrapes on his arms weren't much kinder.


The blast shook the vehicles nearby, causing them to collide with their neighbors. A cacophony of car alarms joined in on their shared symphony of destruction. The man in red seemed to be maestro at this point, however.


The assassin stood up from his position, and turned towards the blaze. His lips smiled, and he started to walk from cover, facing the flames. The burning crater reflected off his red shades. Raising his arms wide out to both sides, "So what were you expecting to accomplish 'ere? To take me in?!" He began to laugh again, and put his free hand into his coat. "Did you really think you could take me head on, and win?!" His other hand returned to the fray, armed like his twin. He was setting in on the vigilante.


Sid could barely make out the words from the screech going on in his ears. He coughed and gasped for air again, and managed to look up at his aggressor.


It wasn't the first time he had looked death in the eye. It was the first time he had done it alone.


Panting, he dared a reply, even a smile. "Yeah, I kinda did." He saw a hand delve into the red coat, and his bullet senses began tingling. KB swallowed, and made for a roll behind the nearest car, having to cover some distance to do so.


Noticing movement from the young hero, the red antagonist raised his left hand up and began to fire upon him. Bullets pierced into the vehicle, as he timed his shots slowly. It was all part of his game plan.


Sid heard gunshots roar and bullets zip at his heels as he rolled and crawled behind the car. The vehicle took some of those rounds for him, and Sid was thankful. Sid tore his Mossberg 500 from his back and -


Holding up his right hand, angling his clinched fist downward, a grappling line shot out! The line pierced up into the concrete ceiling above the vigilante. Zipping to a new vantage point, the Aussie had his eyes fixated upon Sid's cover.


Sid's ears recognized a strange shot, not like the pistols he had been running from. The CLINK in the concrete above him served as a final clue, and perhaps the final nail in Sid's coffin. Frantically, hurriedly, Sid fell onto his back and squeezed buckshot at the ceiling as the man swung overhead, ejecting red shells to his right; his hands were quick at the pump action. This ammo was rubber too, but he hoped some of the pellets would find something unprotected on the man. There was a severe deficit of pain on his part; Sid demanded equal pain, lest he die in this one-sided shootout without leaving so much as a mark on this sonofabitch.


As soon as the man in red came into visible range, his eyes widened behind those shades. He disengaged the line, as it zipped back to his gauntlet under his sleeve, but it was a little late. There was a loud thunderous sound from the shotgun, as pellets flew up to man in red. He managed to avoid most of them, as he dropped, but a good few blasted him in the face. His sunglasses cracked beneath the force of a select few.


"Ha!" Sid grinned in triumph as his flurry of rubber made its marks.


Being knocked backwards, the antagonist kicked his legs back with him to at least land on his feet. He managed it, sliding a little with the landing. A slow exhale escaped Red’s nostrils, and his hand rested on his face for a moment. With his gun still in hand, he took hold of his broken shades and removed them from his face.


"Fuckin' 'ell..." He muttered to himself, as he dropped the broken glasses to the ground. Lifting up his boot, he brought down to crush what had been lost to him.


The bruises on the man's face were very visible, for the split moment Sid got to see them. Kid Ballistic almost started thumbing more shells into his weapon, but didn't bother, as the man's bruises, once a sign of progress, melted into healthy skin before Sid's eyes. His jaw dropped. He had heard of plenty of metahuman abilities, but had seen few up close.


"Do ya have any idea of who I am, boy?" Now he sounded upset. The bad guy rolled his neck once more.


"Son of a bitch. How’d you do that?" Kid Ballistic began back pedaling, discarding his shotgun and drew a pistol, hoping to slap a fresh magazine into it.


That was a mistake. As soon as the man in red saw him going for the pistol, he lifted his gun and quickly squeezed the trigger. A bullet flew out from the barrel, zooming its way to make contact with Sid's handgun. It flung out of the young gun’s hand, painfully. The man in red now held his SIG Sauer at the ready, and casually approached the young hero.


Closing in on Sid, still wearing his obvious displeasure on his face,"I am the thing that puts fear into heroes... And I wouldn't even bother to attempt anything else, because I have a much faster draw and trigger finger than you do, kid..." The man tilted his head, watching for the boy in blue’s next move.


Kid Ballistic took that last bit as a challenge. He went for his other .45. The kid was quick. It was perhaps his greatest talent. It often made up for his mediocre aim. He could outdraw even his father in the old days. But he had no idea if he was faster than this guy. And there was another problem.


His second .45 was empty. He didn't plan far ahead.


His enemy was at the point where he was close enough to Sid that he simply dropped his weapon and clamped a free hand onto KB’s throat. With impressive strength, the kid was lifted right from the ground. Without shades to mask the aggressor’s eyes, they made eye contact, and it was as if they were looking into Kid Ballistic’s soul.


"You're gonna remember the name Killshot. Because next time I see you, you won't get off as easy..."


As Killshot, freshly revealed, grabbed at Sid's throat, Sid tosses his gun and tries to avoid it, cursing himself for even letting the assassin get this close. The full weight of the revelation simply didn't have time to fight past the adrenaline and the fear. Sid's heart was beating for survival now, nothing more.


Gritting his teeth roughly against one another, and swiftly losing breath, Sid lifted his boots towards his chest. Frantic hands dug into the space between their boron-carbide shell and his chaps. His right hand found a small, matte black revolver. The other, a Gerber combat knife, double edged.


With the last bits of consciousness he had left, Kid Ballistic jammed the nose of the revolver into Killshot's side. His other hand moved the black blade to slice at the deadly hand grasping his neck. But black beat him to the punch, and flashed across Sid's eyesight. His mind went quiet; the struggle and pain of his encounter fled from his nerves.


Killshot laughed, and dropped a slumped Kid Ballistic to the asphalt. "Stubborn bastard..." he muttered, before leaning down to pick up his empty pistol. Standing straight again, he arched his back, causing it to crack several times. The sound that emitted from his back was strangely metallic in nature.


The assassin spun about, his coat tail twirling with him, and he made for the exit. His guns found their holsters without ceremony. Killshot shook his head. "Anklebiters, I fuckin' swear..."


Kid Ballistic awoke moments later, his head throbbing. He tried to steady his breathing, to get oxygen back into his brain. The car alarms shocked his ears, worsening the headache.


He pulled himself up, and swept his surroundings, bleary eyes looking down the iron sight of his Smith & Wesson Governor. He hoped that Killshot had vacated.


Killshot. Sid had just fought Killshot. The name was a whisper in the underworld, but he had heard it before. Few had seen the man and wanted to speak openly about it. Fewer still had seen him and survived. Killshot’s reputation was that of a professional killer, unerring in his mission and his aim. Sid knew enough to know that the only reason he was alive was that he hadn’t been a target.


But he had taken pot shots at the assassin and lived. Sid wasn’t sure if this was a feather in the cap, or a kick in the head. It sure felt like a kick in the head. He fought with every ounce of will to ignore the headache he was feeling.


Kid Ballistic climbed to his feet, and gathered his strewn-about arsenal. Each time he bent down for a belonging, his head thumped harder. Training demanded that Sid reload his weapons, even if the danger had passed.


As he slapped a magazine into the .45, and began pushing shells back into his Mossberg, Sid’s eyes wandered the corpses of the criminals at his feet. He knew the police would be on their way. Nobody would miss the shots fired or the grenade detonations. And nobody would miss these poor purple chumps either.


Purple Gang or no, these guys died in front of him. A veritable supervillain had done it, and here was Kid Ballistic, wearing a superhero’s colors. Exhaustion blew out of Sid’s lungs. Regret pooled in his guts. Sid had seen people die before, but his stomach wasn’t as strong as his father’s had been.


The adrenaline had burned all the caffeine from his system, and in a painful, exasperated shuffle, Kid Ballistic made his way out of the parking garage. If he ever ran into Killshot again, he had to be ready. The assassin’s taunts mingled with the headache in his brain, driving plans of the training to come. He had to sharpen his aim. He had to be faster on the draw.


For now, he had to get home. There was a bottle of whiskey at the Boom Cave, and Sid imagined it was getting lonely.


“Hold on sweetheart, I’m comin’.”


((Special thanks to @SonofAsgaard as co-author!))