Expectations flew high when your name dripped off the top dog's lips not unlike a second drool. The display caught John's attention; heat waves so perfectly controlled they were clean distortions and not the chaos of normal heat's optical tricks. Raw destruction was expected. This finesse, however, assured John this man's name was as sweet as Babylon's mayor made it out to be.

	[i]But is it worthy of the title of 'King of Earth'?[/i]

	He couldn't help but smirk a cheek-wrinkling smirk. "Impressive. Now make it hurt."

	Fah fired a shotgun blast—John would answer with artillery. Withdrawn were two revolvers larger than legalized, gazing like snake eyes with .65 caliber barrels, smooth bore. He stopped one arm, which stopped the other when his wrists collided. The heavy chunking sounds of each gun clacking against the other were like factory machinery. They were blocky and had no hammers (nor, for that matter, visible safeties); in that case, they might've been semi-automatic.

	Most curiously, fitted to these silvered foot-longs were chambers of unfortunate shape—neither cylindrical nor hexagonal, but resembling a miniature twin-drum magazine that secured the ammo in a figure-eight or infinity symbol pattern. Unfortunate, of course, because that design realistically wouldn't function and even if it did, there couldn't be room for more than the usual number of rounds anyways. Not if these were [i]mundane[/i] weapons, that is...

	Right when the glass gusted forth, Rexhep returned fire. Both triggers at once. Spheres, almost nuggets, of tungsten-gold alloy rocketed towards Nudara on winds of blue-white flames that became one and the reverberations quaked through the surrounding walls, the surrounding rooms even. The air pressure, for an instant, increased dramatically. His blood did too, in instinctive preparation for combat. The twinned blast shoved his upperbody away, arms stiff throughout this unreal recoil that carried him back ten feet, and should his shoulder-first flight remain uninterrupted, he would crash into the wall; his bones ached but not in warning of breakage or dislocation.

	Somehow, also, the hat stayed on.

	The slugs pulverized chance projectiles—the rest of the glass either diverted by the same force that drove them mach-speed onward to Nudara or, as the majority did, passed them by and grazed the slimmed profile of John's midair-proning body; his knees blocked a few from striking the groin but themselves got scraped and dented, and the same unto his other weapons; aforementioned silver rose into the path of headshots, saving his mug—the same for his other gear and hips together hiding his charm box and blood vials.

	But his exposed abdomen, pelted and punctured, some glass cubes embedding halfway into his flesh. One tumbled up and took his right ear. Blood exploded out similarly to champagne and some showers of it ruined the snakeskin coat's lining. Unbothered and unblinded by the faux blood mist spritzing into his eyes, but the glass? Hurt like hell. Earlier prayer answered, pain turned his smile crooked.

	Still, it was a smile. He wondered how Fah might catch up on the tiled floor where friction sabotaged acceleration. If he didn't move at all, who knows the damage those cannonballs would do, princely strong though he might be, to his ribs.

	The double bang alerted John's companion. A roaring, growling engine started up again and heralded an aggressive arrival in the next thirteen seconds. A lot could happen in that short a span of time, John knew. He was going to enjoy this.

	"Name's John—[i]prince[/i] under [b]Kishar's Crown, the Crust of Mother's Corpse, soon shall She rise again[/b]!"