Before the Eclipse.

Recreational Violence

John Merrix was halfway through rolling a joint when the universe decided to remind him that it hated peace.

He sat on the hood of a stolen-but-returned pickup truck at the edge of a town that barely deserved a name, boots dangling, coat open to the cool air, fingers working with the lazy confidence of a man who had done this exact ritual in worse places. The paper crinkled softly. The weed smelled sharp and green and merciful.

He breathed in. Let himself enjoy the quiet.

No screaming heavens.
No screaming gods.
No screaming anything.

Just wind, distant traffic, and the faint hum of power lines overhead — which were buzzing at a frequency John didn't like, but he ignored it. He was trying this new thing. Letting stuff go.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, licking the paper. "Behave this time."

The joint sealed perfectly. John admired it for a second, proud in the way only a man who'd lived through cosmic annihilation could be proud of good craftsmanship.

Then the air tightened.

Not the Eclipse. Not gods. This was smaller. Cruder. Human.

John sighed. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Black SUVs crested the road like a bad idea given wheels. Six of them. No sirens. No plates. Windows tinted so dark they were practically apologizing.

John didn't move.

The weed stayed unlit between his fingers.

He counted doors opening. Boots hitting gravel. Safety catches clicking off.

Amateurs.

He finally slid off the hood and raised his hands lazily, joint still pinched between two fingers.

"Fellas," John called, cheerful as a man greeting neighbors. "If this is about parking, I swear to God—"

"John Merrix!" a voice barked through a loudspeaker. American. Federal. Nervous. "Hands where we can see them!"

John blinked. "You can see them."

"Drop the object!"

John glanced at the joint. Looked back up. "Mate, if you shoot me over half a gram, history's gonna remember you as a twat."

Silence.

Then: "Target confirmed."

John's smile widened. Not happy. Not angry. Just... amused.

"Oh," he said softly. "You lot know who I am."

That was new.

Or rather — that was old, finally catching up.

The first shot cracked the air.

John felt the bullet hit his shoulder and flatten like a bad thought against a wall. He flinched out of habit, not pain, and stared at the embedded lead for a second before flicking it away.

"...rude," he said.

Then the world exploded into gunfire.

John dropped, rolled, and laughed as bullets tore through the space he'd just occupied.

He moved without thinking — not fast, not slow, just inevitable. Telekinetic force rippled outward as instinct, snapping rifles sideways, yanking men off their feet, pinning them against vehicles like ugly fridge magnets.