"Forgotten Scripts: The Buck."
Runes burned outward through the scorched battlefield beneath Truman's boots, widening until the ground began turning into a poker table. The luminous pattern cut through the grass, locked around him and the advancing army, and sealed both sides inside the arena.
A glowing translucent cube hung above one vanguard monster as the markings spread across the dirt. The horde faltered under the expanding magic, waiting for the strike that should have followed, but the arena only brightened around them, and after that first shared hesitation, the monsters surged forward again.
"Well, is anyone going to start dealing?" Truman asked, standing at the center of the glowing table while the charge bore down on him.
Through the front of the charge came the first general, his fist carrying enough force to turn a human jaw to powder. Truman's head moved only a fraction, while beneath the floating cube, the marked soldier crumpled as its ribs folded inward with a wet crack, taking the force as if the punch had landed squarely in its own chest. Roaring at the failed result, the general struck Truman again.
When the general's next blow landed, the cube snapped to another soldier, and that monster folded under the force meant for Truman, bones breaking as if the fist had found its body instead. Understanding moved through the enemy ranks too late to save them as damage dealt to Truman belonged to whoever held the buck.
"What is the objective here?" Truman asked, brushing a speck of dirt from his suit sleeve. "You are just thinning your own numbers."
"You are just thinning your own numbers," the general roared.
"Nuclear Magic: Ride of the Valkyries."
Two dozen Fat Ladys rose at Truman's back, chained together in a floating spiral that climbed above the table. They warbled softly, floating like orbs of death before the first warhead slipped loose and began to fall.
As the warhead descended, a cylindrical barrier fifteen feet in diameter and ten feet tall closed around it and Truman the moment before detonation. The barrier held the full might of the explosion tight against Truman's body, compressing the Fat Lady's yield into his chassis instead of letting the blast spread across the arena.
Above the marked soldier, the cube flared white. The damage transferred to the monster, turning him into a temporary star of burning flesh as he was incinerated beneath the cube nearly instantly.
Buck transfer. Flash. Burned away.
Buck transfer. Flash. Another body vanished.
Over the next ten seconds, the rapidly transferring buck turned the attack into a killing strobe of contained nuclear atomization.
Roy's voice came over the public broadcast channel. "A metronome of destruction! Can you feel it, friends and foes alike? The tempo of annihilation played in flawless rhythm."
The marker continued to snap from monster to monster across the enclosed table with each contained detonation resolving against Truman. Monster after monster inherited the buck for less time than it took to scream, every flash removing another body from the formation until the marker settled above the general's head right at the end of a detonation.
"Well aren't you lucky," Truman said.
"Marvelous!" Roy announced over the feed. "A waltz of nuclear crescendo conducted by none other than my own dazzling virtuoso, Truman himself. Witness precision that would shame the finest artisans. Behold judgment served swift as lightning, brightest starlight, and absolute as prophecy."
Another Fat Lady quickly broke from the chain and descended into the barrier.
When the surviving general finally understood the method of the slaughter, he threw himself at Truman with the desperation of something trying to break the table itself. With a slash of his hand he cut a hole into the barrier. He quickly followed up with an open palm strike, hitting the Presidroid's chest hard enough to shove him out of the center of the contained detonation zone, but not enough to harm him.
The barrier fixed itself the second the general leaped out of it, allowing the explosion to go off while fully contained. Truman looked down at the slight displacement, adjusted his tie, and stepped back into the nuclear fire as if correcting a small error in etiquette. The general burned for the briefest of moments before it transferred away, sparing his life, but charring the surface of him.
"Well aren't you lucky," Truman repeated.
The marker kept snapping through the ranks as the contained blasts resolved against Truman. Another soldier inherited the buck, burned away, and passed the curse along before the army could even finish recoiling from the last flash.
The general quickly drew a runic inscription into the char of his body and a metallic clang rang out. Unlike the soldiers around him, the general held together when the transfer struck him again. His boots dug into the ash. His armor glowed, softened, and began to run, but he kept screaming through the nuclear heat for four full seconds before the shape of him broke apart and vanished into smoke.
Another Fat Lady dropped from the orbital chain. Another contained detonation bloomed against Truman's chassis. By then, the table had become a dealing machine, and the cycle kept going until only one small monster remained in the ash with the glowing buck wavering above him.
"Hm," Truman said, glancing from the hovering marker to the trembling soldier. "When there is only one left, I cannot quite guarantee the deal yet. Let us make it memorable."
To make the final shot worthy of the moment, Roy sent a cluster of camera drones skimming low across the blackened grass. Their lenses tilted upward one by one, framing Truman from below until the feed made him tower over the crater and the ash field behind him.
"He holds the power of a small Starshard Cataclysm in the palm of his hand," Roy declared over the broadcast. "Today's overture was glorious, yes, but the curtain hasn't fallen. No, dear spectators, our symphony of spectacle demands one final flourish. Stay in your seats, hold your breath, and silence your fears. Truman's final act is just about to begin."
Truman raised his hand toward the ceiling as the buck disappeared. "Fission Magic: Opera House."
The remaining warheads began to fall in unison, a dozen Fat Ladys descending slowly before encircling the final monster. But there was no fear in the creature, only quiet acceptance of his fate. The simultaneous detonation struck inside the sealed table, brilliant and deafening, until the last survivor disappeared beneath the final burst and the top of the poker table shattered.
When the final detonation finished burning through the arena, the blinding wash of light thinned until only the crater remained. The poker table runes dimmed into the dirt, leaving Truman alone inside the emptied boundary.
Truman lowered his raised hand into a calm salute as ash drifted around his chassis. "The buck..."
"Don't say it..." Roy whispered over the private comms.
"...stops here."
Holding back his squeals lasted only moments before he burst. "Truman! You cannot do this to me! You know I have a weak heart for cheesy shit like that, I absolutely love it!"
The formal broadcast concluded, and the thrill of Truman's showcase gave way to the ruined sectors still waiting beyond the camera frame. Beside FDR, Roy looked deeper into the battlefield, where the Vanguard squads were pushing forward.
Roy looked down at the Allphone and through a magnified drone feed, Eryndra's fight finally came into focus. Her armored fist struck Azzemude and shook around the impact instead of driving through. The creature's defense held, turning the force aside with enough solidity to tell Roy the problem without needing a report.
"I am getting nervous," Roy admitted, keeping his eyes glued to the feed.
"Don't," FDR replied smoothly. "If it comes down to it, I will wipe this floor myself."
What FDR offered was meant as comfort, but Roy still turned enough to look at the Super Elite beside him. "If Eryndra cannot do it, you cannot do it."
"I am trying to make you feel better, Captain," FDR noted.
Only after a long breath did Roy let the comfort settle. "It worked."