The Revolver Gambit

The Colt Python.

Its silver frame gleamed coldly in the dim light, lying quietly beside the leather-bound books and the cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. It looked like a carefully polished tool waiting to be used, or a suggestive prop that had wandered into the camera frame by accident.

A show of force? A declaration of resolve? Or some deeper metaphor for probability and risk?

A revolver. The symbol of Russian Roulette. An utterly primitive, brutal game that surrendered life and death to luck and probability.

What was he implying? That our contest was about to enter a more direct, more dangerous phase? That he was willing to stake everything, including his own life? Or that he had seen through some "pattern" in my judgments and was trying to drag the situation into a contest of "probability" he could better control?

There was no way to be sure. But the gun's appearance was itself a powerful signal of escalation. He was no longer satisfied with contests of data and psychology. He had begun introducing physical threats.

Ryuk, in the corner, showed an intense interest in the gun. His crimson eyes nearly pressed against the phone screen, which had already gone dark. "Oh? Things are getting real now? A revolver? I like it! Bang! One shot and it's over. Nice and clean! Much more interesting than you lot dawdling over writing names!"

I ignored him. My fingertip traced circles on the desk without my noticing.

A response. I had to respond. I couldn't ignore such a naked threat of physical annihilation.

But not with fear, not with retreat, and certainly not with some childish standoff where I pulled out a gun of my own.

My response had to be more elegant, more brutal, more... beyond the physical. I had to tell him: the physical power you take such pride in, or hope to intimidate me with, means nothing before my judgment. Your revolver can't even protect your most insignificant follower.

I needed a target. Someone closely tied to "armed force," "might," and "physical threats," whose manner of death would utterly negate the value of force itself. Someone steeped in the aesthetics of violence, only to be destroyed by entirely nonviolent means.

My gaze swept past the reports of international disputes sparked by the exposure of the drone control base's coordinates and turned toward more direct forms of violence. Private military companies? Extremist armed groups? Or even... violent units within law enforcement?

I found one.

Braxton Rex, founder and CEO of the private military company Thor's Hammer. A war profiteer who organized military veterans, mercenaries, and even former criminals to provide "solutions" to the highest bidder. His company was known for its efficiency, ruthlessness, and willingness to use any means necessary, operating in conflict hotspots and dark corners across the globe. He personally worshipped force, collected vast numbers of antique firearms, and took pride in how many "hard targets" his company had "dealt with." He was the embodiment of might worship, the ultimate representative of violence monetized.

His death should be... the annihilation of force. An ironic spectacle in which he was ended by wholly nonviolent means in the lair he was proudest of, surrounded by symbols of violence.

I walked to the desk and opened the Death Note. The pen came down, steady and cold.

[Braxton Rex]

Cause of death: loss of strength. Time: tomorrow at precisely twelve noon, in his private office deep within the fortress of his company headquarters, surrounded by displays of antique firearms, while negotiating a new contract with an important client over an encrypted connection. Cause of death: all skeletal and cardiac muscle in his body will undergo instantaneous, irreversible hyaluronic acid gelation, a mutation associated with an extremely rare hereditary disease, accelerated tens of millions of times. His body will collapse like sludge, unable to move, speak, or breathe, while his consciousness remains fully intact until he suffocates. Before his death, all surveillance and communications equipment in his office, including the active encrypted connection, will remain operational. The client will witness the entire process as he changes from a roaring beast into a voiceless puddle of flesh. The last thing he sees will be his most treasured antique Colt revolver, not a Python model.

No wounds, no blood, only the absolute loss of strength. I would let him melt away completely before his client, before the weapons he regarded as totems.

Mentor, you showed me a revolver.

I showed you...

The extinction

Of strength itself.

The next day, at precisely twelve noon.

At Thor's Hammer headquarters, inside Rex's office, which resembled an armory.

He was facing a blurred figure on an encrypted display, waving his cigar as his voice boomed.

"...Don't worry! There's no 'problem' we can't handle! As long as the price is right, even a rat hiding in a base like 'Ghost Rider,' we can..."

His words suddenly caught in his throat.

An indescribable, absolute weakness swept through his entire body in an instant! He tried to grab the edge of the desk, only to find his fingers as soft as modeling clay, incapable of exerting any force! Like a sack of flesh stripped of its supporting framework, he slid from the broad leather chair and collapsed onto the carpet.

He tried to shout, but could produce only faint, rasping breaths. His eyes widened in terror as he watched the hands that had once easily crushed walnuts spread out like melting wax.

On the encrypted display, the blurred figure seemed to freeze, then appeared to realize that something terrible was happening.

The office surveillance cameras faithfully recorded it all: the once-arrogant war profiteer became a faintly trembling puddle of flesh, slowly losing all signs of life. His eyes turned in final desperation toward the gleaming, meticulously maintained antique Colt revolver in the glass display case.

A deathly silence hung over the encrypted connection, broken only by those faint, dying gasps.

In my room, the screen displayed a brief news report about Thor's Hammer founder Braxton Rex dying in his office after the sudden, rapid deterioration of a rare hereditary disease. Details were vague, but the phrase "unusual circumstances of death" was obliquely mentioned.

Ryuk stared, dumbfounded, forgetting even to bite his apple. "...He... rotted? Like fruit gone bad... he rotted?" For the first time, his voice carried a tremor of something approaching... awe. "You humans... you really can do anything... to your own kind..."

I waited.

I waited to see how the man who had just displayed a revolver would face this ultimate mockery of "strength."

This time, the response came with astonishing speed.

Within mere minutes of the news breaking.

The phone screen lit up.

No image.

No sound.

Only a line of white, faintly trembling text, as though every letter had taken an immense effort.

[...Bullet...]

[...Misfire...]

The text remained for three seconds.

Then went dark.

Dead silence.

I stared at the black screen for a long time.

A cold smile slowly curved my lips.

A misfire.

Mentor.

So,

In your revolver gambit,

The first round

Was a dud.

How does it feel?

This gun from a higher dimension-

Its recoil,

Can you still withstand it?