Chapter 33: [33] RUINED
The metallic shriek tore through the morning air, a sound like a train grinding itself to scrap.
CRACK.
Hardy’s prosthetic leg twisted at an unnatural angle, the main hydraulic joint rupturing in a spray of pressurized fluid. Gears scattered across the cobblestones like metallic confetti, their high-pitched ting-ting-ting echoing off the surrounding buildings.
Hardy’s scream wasn’t pain—it was pure, animalistic shock. His crushing grip around Pierre’s ribs went slack as his body instinctively tried to compensate for the sudden loss of his primary support.
Pierre dropped to the ground, his boots hitting cobblestone hard enough to send jolts up through his knees. Air rushed back into his lungs in ragged gulps. Each breath felt like swallowing fire, his compressed ribs protesting every expansion of his chest. The world spun for a moment, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision, but he forced himself to stay upright.
Hardy staggered backward, his remaining leg doing a desperate dance to keep him vertical. The captain’s face had gone chalk-white, sweat beading across his forehead as he stared down at the wreckage of his prosthetic. Oil and hydraulic fluid leaked from the twisted metal, creating dark stains on his Navy uniform. His hands flailed uselessly at his sides, grasping for balance that would never come.
"No, no, no..." Hardy’s voice was barely recognizable, a broken whisper that cracked like old parchment. "Not... not my leg. Not again."
The crowd pressed closer, their earlier fear transforming into something else—a collective intake of breath as they watched their tormentor reduced to a stumbling, broken figure. Mika’s small voice carried from somewhere in the mass of bodies, a whispered "Papa?"
Hardy’s backward stumble carried him another three steps before his heel caught on the raised platform edge. His arms windmilled frantically, but momentum and gravity had already claimed him. He crashed into the base of his monument—the thirty-foot bronze testament to his own ego. The impact was a dull, final thud. Like a sack of grain hitting a stone wall.
THUD.