One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 8

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Pí‘oro Kılímo had trouble on his hands. The foreign kid wasn’t listening to reason, that blonde girl was acting just as obstinate, and now some other young punk arrived in a stolen Colonial Enforcer cruiser. The girl screamed and disappeared into the desert. The cruiser skidded to a halt. Bhanar still had his gun leveled down the driveway, looking a bit twitchy.

“Calm down, son,” soothed Pí‘oro. “You can’t go around shooting at people.”

But Bhanar snorted and didn’t change his aim.

Should I tackle him? Knock his gun aside? But Pí‘oro didn’t want to get involved. He was there to help victims, not get caught between two rival aggressors.

Bhanar didn’t shoot the blonde. He won’t shoot this punk.

The foreign kid fired his rifle.

Pí‘oro cursed, “Plague of Rívorí.”

A dark hole appeared on the punk’s wrist. His handgun clattered on the gravel. The kid had actually hit him.

Bhanar turned to Pí‘oro and snapped, “Bullets! Give bullets to me.”

Thank you, Névazhíno. The kid was out of ammo; he was unarmed. Pí‘oro could focus on the other punk. He finally had a victim to help, even if the Huro-type had stolen an Enforcer auto.

Shaking his head at Bhanar, Pí‘oro started walking down the driveway. His strides weren’t long, but they were purposeful and fast. As he approached the stolen Enforcer cruiser and its incoherent, screaming driver, Pí‘oro kept his rifle pointed skyward.

“Hey!” shouted Bhanar. “Bullets to me!”

But Pí‘oro ignored the kid. Still twenty meters from the police cruiser, Pí‘oro growled, “Get out of the auto, now. We’re going to help you.”

Just because he was going to help the punk didn’t mean he had to treat him nice.

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