I am getting too old for this. I have done this too many times. I do not think that my body can keep taking life-threatening punishment. I know that this will probably end badly. None of this will stop me. I am bringing a sword to a gunfight, but it and faith are all I have. They have been enough in the past, and they will have to suffice now.
I hate pirates. I hate people that threaten me and mine. I really hate all these heathen aliens. Motivation for violence is not something I lack.
It pains me that I am not as fast as I once was, but I am still fast. Wisdom takes care of the rest. Busy tradeports are full of crates and other assorted containers for cargo, and they provide me with excellent cover. They will not see me coming.
Of course, I am not alone. My erstwhile compatriots, who have guns and other things I lack, provide an excellent distraction. I am quiet. They are loud. The results are obvious.
Plasma and bullets flash and ricochet all around. A few noncombatants, along some people who want to play at being hero, fall.
I am no hero. I am just a man with a sword and a belly full of fiery, righteous rage. I cannot help that I jump to put myself between danger and those threatened by it. I was trained to do this task, and that makes it simply what I do. A hero is so much more.
I can smell the pirates. Rank body odor and the tang of tarnished metal armor linger in the air, occasional cut with the sharp ozone of their plasma rifles. They are close to me, so I am close to them. They do not see me.
It is now just me and my sword. It has seen me through worse than this little skirmish. An ancient blade, and the one thing I still have from home. I have met nothing more reliable, and its black metal blade will serve me again today.
The pirate does not see me. It is his first and last mistake concerning me today.
Surprise and confusion are two of my greatest allies. I am fast, though not as fast as I was before, so I wear simple armor. Leather is good for fists and knives. This is not a brawl. This is not a knife fight. I might was well be naked in a gunfight.
So I jump out from hiding, screaming something at the top of my lungs. Surprise them. Confuse them. The pirate goes down, my sword jutting through his chest. He is in worn combat armor, but he might as well have been naked.
It takes everything I have to pull the sword from the pirate and keep moving, but I do not slow down. I duck and weave, presenting a hard target. Always keep moving in a gunfight if you do not have cover.
I get to the next pirate, and he is not ready for me. It takes a simple stroke for me to decapitate him. One smooth motion, and then I am catapulting myself at the next one.
Some more of my allies have fallen, but I do not have time to worry about that. The rest, however, take advantage of my distraction. We have essentially won, but there is still more of the butcher’s bill to pay.
Surprise is no longer my ally, and this pirate is more agile and wily than his friends. He gets enough distance between me and him to avoid my swing.
Since I am amongst them, I have become the primary target. I see their leader, who has not missed a shot yet, line the sights of his plasma gun on me. I try to keep moving to make him miss. I see him pull the trigger.
Time seems to slow down a moment, and it is agonizing because the situation has a forgone conclusion. I am going to be hit, and I get to watch it happen.
Pain explodes on my side as my flesh burns. It does not take a lot of time for me to pass out, and the fight rages above and around me. One can only hope they win soon.
I knew this would end badly. You do not bring a sword to a gunfight.