OK, below is my entry for my Claws/SR scrapper,
Bladeranger. The story comes in at 1,497 words (whew!), counting the title and such.
Here's a pic of Blade's main look:
---
A Tall Tale of the West
The Story of Bladeranger
The tall man in the cowboy hat looked out of place in the Paragon City History Museum — and considering the city was full of aliens from strange planets, wizards from parallel dimensions and otherwise ordinary joes who made tights and capes a fashion statement, that was saying something. He wore his hat down low, obscuring his eyes, which were covered by a small red domino mask. He was focused intently on a display of tattered and aged journal pages displayed in a glass case.
A museum attendant gathered up the courage to approach the masked man. “Can I help you, sir?”
“No, thanks, partner,” the man said congenially. “But I’ll let ya know if ya can.”
The attendant left the tall man alone to his reading. He wondered what was so engrossing about some old journal in the Tall Tales exhibit — the guy had been the only visitor in at least a week.
The man in the hat smiled slightly and went back to his reading. He knew the attendant would probably mention the encounter to his buddies over a beer at the local watering hole sometime after work, but he was used to that.
After all, he’d been the topic of conversation over many a drink for — oh, goin’ on 120 years or so now. As the gentleman in this here diary could attest…
(From the diary of Billy Denton)
I’d been hearing the stories for months. Folks from Texas all the way to California had been talkin’ about a lawman who could run like a tornado with no need for a horse. Who could dodge a bullet before it had ever left the barrel it was fired from, with a set of blades so fine and sharp that folks said couldn’t have been crafted by a human hand.
Bunk, most people said — though they used language that ain’t fit for writin’ down here.
But I know different. And, near as I’ve been able to figure, this here’s the first recorded appearance of that lawman — the man they call Bladeranger.
It was July 23, 1885. I’d been on a cattle drive through most of Texas when it happened. The other guys stayed back at camp, but Andy Patterson and I decided to head on into Laredo for a couple of beers and to try our luck at some poker. We went in the local saloon, sat at the bar and ordered our drinks. Just then, we heard a voice behind us.
“You’re in my seat, runt.”
I turned and saw a massive man — easily six and a half feet tall (if he slouched) and around 300 pounds, and that wasn’t countin’ the heavy iron he had strapped to his hip.
I got up to move, but ol’ Andy — always did have more guts than sense, that Andy did — kept himself firmly planted. “Don’t see your name on it, friend. And which one is your seat, anyhow?”
The big man laughed, and it sounded like a bomb going off right there in the bar. The place got deadly quiet. “They’re both mine. In fact, ain’t no one allowed in here ’cept if I say so, and I don’t say so for you all. Best be gettin’ along now ’fore someone gets hurt.”
I moved toward the door, but Andy wouldn’t budge. “Our money’s as good as yours, and we ain’t movin’.”
The bartender, who had been trying hard to look like he wasn’t listening as he had been polishing the same spotless shot glass for five minutes or so, finally spoke up. “Hey, Jack, don’t bust up the place too bad, now. I just fixed the bullet holes in the walls from last time, y’know?”
Some town, Laredo, I thought.
Should have stuck with bathtub gin and beans at the campsite.
Andy’s brain finally caught up to his mouth. “Oh, Lord — you’re Big Jack Henderson, ain’t ya? Killed 12 men, robbed the Pine City Stage, wanted for horse thievin’ in nine cities…”
“You forgot cheatin’ at cards,” another voice said. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s a card cheat.”
Every eye in the place shot toward the middle of the room, where there now stood a man just a hair shorter than Jack himself — though this fella looked a lot more intimidatin’. A white hat pulled low over a tanned face, with a little red mask hidin’ the eyes. A gray leather riding jacket stretched across shoulders at least a mile wide, with a badge on his chest. Worn blue jeans with what looked to be every speck of desert dust from Laredo to San Antonio, and white leather boots and gloves as crisp as Boston snow at Christmastime.
“Reckon this ain’t your affair, dude,” Jack said menacingly, though he shrank back a bit when the masked man met his stare. “Best be hightailin’ it outta here if you know what’s good for you.”
“Anytime there’s a murderer loose, it’s the law’s affair — and that makes it MY affair,” the man replied coolly.
“Lawman, huh? Well, you just made a bad mistake, partner.” And quicker than a rattlesnake, Jack’s hand flashed down toward that cannon he had holstered at his side. He fired off three shots —
BLAM BLAM BLAM — before any of us had the good sense to duck.
The masked man somehow moved even faster, which shouldn’t have been possible. One second, those three bullets had all been perfect headshots, dead between the eyeholes of the fella’s mask. The next, he’d zipped clean outta their way, letting them impact in the wall 10 feet behind where he’d been. Meanwhile, Jack’s gun was now in two neatly sliced pieces on the floor, with a fair amount of blood as well.
The masked man leaned back against the bar and tipped his hat back a ways with the tip of a blade held in some compartment on the back of one of them fancy white gloves. The blade was as black as the ace of spades, apart from the spatter of blood on one edge.
“Now I had heard tell that it’s a fool who brings a knife to a gunfight,” the masked man said with a smirk. “Guess it ain’t so dumb after all — right, Jack?” The masked man retracted the blade back into his glove and produced a length of rope from his belt, tying the now-whimpering Jack’s hands behind his back as he shoved him out the door and into the hands of the waiting sheriff.
Andy quit while he was ahead and went back to camp. I stayed behind and watched the lawman scoot out the back door, stopping to refill a small canteen at a horse trough. I approached him with my hands held up.
“I don’t want no trouble,” I said.
“Got no problem with you, partner,” the man said. “Only trouble I got is with lawbreakers.”
“I been hearin’ stories about a fella like you out on the cattle trail,” I said. “About a fella named —”
“Bladeranger,” the man confirmed. “I heard them tales too. Nine feet tall, a voice as deep as the Grand Canyon and able to blot out the sun with his hat, so I heard.”
I laughed. “So, are you him?”
He nodded.
“I ’preciate the help — Lord knows Andy and I were sure in a world of hurt back there.” I stuck out my hand to shake his. He took it and shook — as powerful a handshake as I’d ever felt — when his glove made a weird “beep” sound.
“Well, partner, duty calls. Y’all be safe out here, all right?” I nodded dumbly, and he touched a spot behind his wrist. A golden light appeared out of nowhere, and I could have sworn it almost looked like a snake shaped like an “8.” He tipped his hat to me once and then disappeared into the light.
I never saw him again. But I ain’t never gonna forget that man — the man they call Bladeranger.
The man smiled again as he finished reading the diary. He knew Mender Lazarus would tell him he shouldn’t be here, but what ol’ Lazzie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Besides, he knew it was almost time for this trip “back East,” as he referred to it, to come to its close this time around. Bladeranger walked out onto the street from the museum, adjusted his hat on his head and triggered the Ouroboros portal. From there, he would be headed back home — the open plains of the Old West.
Bladeranger checked the small calendar display Lazarus had given him to make sure he always returned to the proper date. It read July 22, 1885. I was over in Virginia City when I made this trip,
he chuckled to himself. Seems I’ve got a bit of a run ahead of me when I get back.
With a smile on his face, Bladeranger stepped through the golden portal and vanished.
---
