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You're not about to take any risks. Your body knows exactly how to handle a gun even though your mind can't recall the first thing. You flick the safety off and press the stock snugly against your shoulder. Next, you take aim at the target's centre of mass and squeeze the trigger just long enough for a three-round burst. The muzzle flash lights up the night and the sharp crack of igniting powder is followed by cries of shock from the tribesmen. As for your target, he reels back from the impact and crumples.
You take a few steps closer to the naked invader, your sights still trained on him. Three spots of crimson have blossomed across his chest and grow with every second as his body rapidly loses blood. The pain seems to have snapped him out of his trance-like state, as his face has transformed into a mask of panic. He coughs and wheezes, spitting out blood and a cloud of tiny white hairs. You keep your distance. He even tries to speak, though his eyes remain unfocused and stare off into space.
“My god... M-my god, my queen, don't leave me..!” The demented ramblings of a dying man. “I wanna go back, I-I wanna... L-lemme kiss yer body one last time, please, please...” His words quickly become unintelligible.
You look up. The other slaves who were waiting by the forest's edge have vanished. Perhaps the gunshots frightened them off.
As for the Voss, they are in awe. Some of the tribesmen try to crowd around the corpse to inspect the wounds you left in it, but you stop them in their tracks. You're not sure how to explain germ theory, but you tell them that the man is sick and that his body shouldn't be touched. They should cover it and burn it as soon as possible, it's the only way to be safe. Blayz seems particularly impressed by your deed, even more than his brother. He claps you on the shoulder and lets out a boisterous laugh, leading you to one side while the others dispose of the corpse.
“Well done, Three Hundred, well done! I've never seen a man slain like that. Yer a mighty warrior an' it's no wonder why my brother thought you were a god.” He let out a low chuckle and squeezes your shoulder with his meaty hand, perhaps a little too tightly. “But I don't think the Soulless will send their slaves 'ere again. Besides, the Voss trust me to protect 'em. You're showin' me up. So if you want to stay, you better give me that thunder-stick an' show me how to use to it. Otherwise, you're leavin' in the mornin'.”
>You agree to his terms. Blayz can have the gun and you will teach him how to use it.
>You'll leave tomorrow morning. You've repaid the favour, now it's time to move on.
>You refuse. You don't care about Blayz or his ego, you swore to protect the Voss.
>Suggest an alternative. The bunker might have enough guns to arm the whole tribe.
>WIPE: Blayz will forget everything that just happened, including this conversation.
