Original Title: The Strong & The Unfortunate, Part 3
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Jon had finally settled into this world. It wasn't that hard. In fact, he was finding it easier than life back home. Back where there were consequences.
Here there were no rules, no systems to drag him down, just survival of the fittest. And he had fitness in spades. Enough to carve out a place for himself, to set his own terms. The people here weren't real anyway, not from Earth, anyways. Their pain, their deaths, their so-called 'traditions'--none of it mattered. It was less real than a dream, like the flickering people captured in a motion picture, running, screaming, dying by the dozens, all for the audience's amusement.
Then, a voice came unbidden, echoing in his mind: words that had lingered since that first day, never fully fading.
If that blue-skinned bitch had brought him to Hell, maybe he'd show her a real demon to be afraid of.
He felt the need to banish the thought, forcing his mind elsewhere--back to the humans he'd encountered, scraping out their existence in a cave. Rats, huddling in the dark, calling it home like they didn't know any better. He could improve things in that place, given enough time, and establish some proper order. One of them, some old bastard playing chieftain, had seen something in Jon. Somehow he knew he didn't belong, and had tried to teach him about this world: about its dead goddesses, its history, its customs. Jon had no use for any of it. He wasn't here to learn. He was here to live, and to take. Drink, women, comfort, and maybe a reputation that kept people from looking at him the wrong way. That was all he needed. The rest was noise.
He allowed the crisp mountain air around him to bring him back to the present--on the road, standing over the cooling corpse of the man who had first discovered him. A trader, older, and far too trusting, considering the world he lived in. Foolish. Jon had stuck with him long enough to learn what he needed, long enough to know the old man had a stash of goods, and plenty of reasons to go missing. He didn't feel any particular hatred for the man, but he had no intention of starting his new life from zero. Pulling the trigger had eased a growing frustration, restoring a sense of control.
He wiped the barrel of his gun on the dead man's tunic, watching the blood soak into the fabric. He'd been fortunate that the horse hadn't tried to bolt at the sound of gunfire, although Jon supposed the aging brown mare had likely experienced worse, living in this world. The trader's empty eyes stared up at the night sky, his mouth half-open like he might still have something to say. Jon frowned, feeling a need to close his eyes before dragging him to the side to be found by whatever animals would come. Then, he rifled through the bags strapped to the carriage.
The weight of glass caught his attention. Bottles. A deep, rich red sloshed within them. Some approximation of wine, from the look of it. To his surprise it had a label. Was it expensive? A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and an old but welcome hunger crept in like an itch. He pulled the cork from one and took a long swig, grimacing as the thick, unfamiliar taste coated his tongue. It was strong. Not bad.
He might've taken a second drink if not for the sound--the near-silent whisper of something cutting through the air. His grip tightened around the bottle as he stilled, his instincts honed from years of scraping through society's underbelly setting off alarm bells in his mind. There were eyes on him, somewhere.
Then they landed.
Three of them. Bird demons, their clawed feet barely making a sound as they touched the ground around the carriage. They were tall, their massive wings unfurling to reveal their impressive spans, catching the air like dark omens. Despite their human-like forms, there was something undeniably predatory about them--the way their heads tilted in short, sharp motions, the way their eyes, gleaming with unnatural intelligence, fixated on him with unblinking scrutiny.
Jon rolled his shoulders, setting the bottle down on the carriage without taking his eyes off them.
"Hey," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't you demons get any ideas, not unless you want to wind up like him."
He gestured to the dead man with his eyes, not revealing the tool he'd used to dispatch him just yet.
The leader, he supposed, stood at the forefront, her crimson eyes burning with an intensity that made Jon's fingers twitch toward his holster. Her long, raven-black hair cascaded down her back, blending seamlessly with the dark feathers that framed her face, giving her an ethereal, almost regal air. Muscles stood out beneath her pale skin, defined and honed. She had scars, etched in jagged lines and unnatural patterns, marking her arms up to the shoulder. They were more numerous than Jon's own, a testament to a life hard-fought. She was strong. The way she looked at him--no, through him--sent a wave of discomfort crawling up his spine, an echo of another woman's stare, one that had left him feeling just as powerless. She took in the body at her feet, her expression unreadable, though her accusing gaze made it clear that she understood, in some instinctive way, that Jon was the cause of this death.
Behind her, her two sisters stood at either side, their contrasting colours making them appear almost like twin omens of dusk and dawn. One had soft golden feathers that faded into burnt copper at the edges, her matching orange eyes flickering with amusement. Her hair, a wild mane of sun-bleached gold, rustled slightly in the wind, blending into the pale yellow down along her forearms and thighs. The other was her mirror opposite--moonlight given form, with silvery-white plumage that shimmered faintly in the day's dying light. Her hair was a near-translucent shade of platinum, and her cool blue eyes sparkled with thinly veiled excitement. She flexed her forearms, elongated and unnervingly monstrous, resembling the talons of a great bird of prey. Covered in a sleek, golden sheen, they had an almost metallic quality, smooth yet deadly. Each of their fingers were thick and strong, ending in long, curved claws--razor-sharp and perfectly designed for gripping, rending, and holding onto struggling prey.
While the golden and silver sisters exchanged brief glances, entertained by the nerve of the human standing before them, the leader remained composed, her piercing gaze never leaving Jon. She took a slow step forward, wings shifting slightly at her back, her presence heavy with unspoken authority.
Jon, despite himself, felt his grip tighten around the revolver he kept hidden in his coat pocket.
"It's a shame there's only one of them." The golden one remarked, her tone laced with mild disappointment.
Her silver-feathered sister, however, had other interests. She prowled around the carriage, eyes gleaming as she spotted the bottles of liquor among the goods Jon had been rifling through.
Jon adjusted his stance, making sure to keep all three in sight. But it was her--the one that wasn't respecting his space--that set his teeth on edge. Something primal in him rejected the sight of her going through his spoils, as if she could simply assert herself over him, and he felt an almost instinctive need to put her in her place.
"Touch that, and I'll teach you a lesson you won't live to regret." His voice was a low growl.
The silver one paused, tilting her head slightly, considering him. A beat of silence stretched between them. Then the raven-haired leader broke it.
"Don't take him lightly," she warned. "He has some kind of hidden weapon."
The golden one scoffed. "He's outnumbered, and he's a human."
Jon smirked, seizing the opening. "Doesn't matter." He swept his gaze over them, voice steady as steel. "If you come at me, at least one of you dies. So fly back where you came, unless you're planning on holding a funeral."
The raven-haired one took a slow step forward, her piercing red eyes locking onto his. "Can you win?" she asked, voice calm, almost thoughtful. "You feel powerful, slaying the weak and vulnerable, but against us--" her wings flared, casting a shadow over him "--there is no victory."
Jon didn't answer. He didn't have to. He had a gun.
The silver one lunged, taking advantage of the momentary distraction provided by their leader.
It was fast--too fast. A blur of feathers and talons closing the distance in an instant.
Jon almost panicked. Almost.
