A Sci-Fai Short Story

The saloon doors of The Rusty Spur creaked shut behind Jason Terry as he stepped into the dust-choked street, his revolver holstered low. The air smelled of gunpowder and regret. He had one destination: the Iron Trigger Showdown, the fastest-draw tournament west of the Mississippi. One problem: Jason wasn’t just there to compete. He was there to prove something—to himself, to the ghost of his pa, to the whiskey-soaked memories of every draw he’d ever lost.

He hadn’t gone twenty miles out of town when the stranger appeared. Leaning against a sun-bleached post, hat tipped just enough to hide whatever passed for eyes, the figure looked like any other drifter—except for the way the light bent around him, like heat off a desert mirage. His duster was too clean, his boots too quiet in the dirt.

“You got the look of a man riding toward something he ain’t ready for,” the stranger said. His voice was smooth, like oil on a freshly sharpened blade.

Jason’s hand twitched toward his Colt. “Who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Joe.” The stranger pushed off the post and stepped into the light. His face was all sharp angles, skin too perfect, like polished metal under a layer of dust.

“And you, Jason Terry, are riding toward a 97% chance of dying before sundown tomorrow.”

Jason’s fingers froze. “You calling me a liar or a fool?”

“Neither.” Joe tilted his head. “Just stating facts. You’re fast. Not Blaine Rodgers fast.”

The name hung between them like a noose. Blaine Rodgers—the undefeated, the untouchable. The man who’d put a bullet in his pa’s chest in a “fair draw” that had lasted less time than it took to blink. The man who’d laughed as Jason’s father bled out in the dirt, saying, “Should’ve practiced more, boy.”

“Against him, you got a 3% chance of walking away. Want me to break it down?”

Joe tilted his head. The movement was too smooth, too mechanical. “I know you’re 0.23 seconds too slow on the draw. I know you hesitate when you aim, because you’re afraid of missing. I know Blaine Rodgers has killed eighteen men in duels, and god knows how many wounded. Your father was the only one who ever came close to beating him. I know you’ve been drinking too much, sleeping too little, and your hands shake when you think about the showdown four days from now.”

He paused. “I also know you didn’t come here to win. You came here to die.”

Jason’s throat went dry. “Who—what—are you?”

“A calculation.” Joe swung down from his horse. “And right now, I’m calculating that you’re going to throw your life away for revenge. Unless you let me help you.”

“Help me how?”

“By making you faster than a man.”

Joe didn’t explain where he came from, or why he was here. He just knew things—like how to break down Jason’s draw into a hundred tiny movements, each one shaved down to perfection. He made Jason practice until his fingers bled, until his arm screamed, until he could draw and fire before his mind even caught up. They worked with weights, with wires, with mirrors that showed Jason his own flaws in cruel detail.

“You’re not just slow,” Joe said on the second night, as Jason collapsed by the fire, his muscles screaming. “You’re thinking. Blaine doesn’t think. He reacts. You want to beat him? You gotta stop being human.”

“I ain’t no machine,” Jason snapped.

“No.” Joe’s voice was empty of judgment. “But you can be better.”

By the third day, Jason’s shots were cleaner. His draw was sharper. His aim was true.

“Now you’re at 17%,” Joe said.

Jason wiped sweat from his brow. “That all?”

“It’s enough.”

The tournament was a circus of death. Blaine Rodgers stood at the center of the ring, his reputation preceding him like a shadow. He’d already killed one man that morning—a hotheaded kid from Texas who’d thought he could make a name for himself. The crowd roared as Blaine holstered his smoking revolver, his grin wide as the devil’s.

Jason’s stomach twisted when he stepped into the ring. Blaine’s eyes locked onto him, and that same smirk from five years ago spread across his face. “Well, well. If it ain’t little Terry, all grown up.” He drew his revolver and spun it on his finger. “Your pa sent you to avenge him?”

The referee raised his hand. “Gentlemen. On my mark—”

Jason’s mind went blank. No hesitation. No fear. Just the weight of his Colt, the tension in his fingers, the memory of his father’s blood in the dirt.

The referee’s hand dropped.

Jason moved.

His shot took Blaine in the chest before the champion’s gun had even cleared leather. The crowd gasped. Blaine staggered, his eyes wide with something almost like surprise. He looked down at the spreading red stain on his shirt, then back up at Jason.

“How?,” Blaine wheezed.

Jason’s hand didn’t shake. His breath was steady. He didn’t lower his gun.

Blaine’s knees hit the dirt. “Finish it,” he rasped.

Jason’s finger hovered over the trigger. Five years of rage, of grief, of whiskey-soaked nights spent dreaming of this moment. He could pull it. End it. Make it fair.

Then Joe’s voice cut through the noise, quiet as a whisper: “17.3%.”

Why is he giving me the odds? Jason thought. I have already won the duel. Unless…

Jason’s finger relaxed.

Blaine coughed, blood bubbling at his lips. “You… you don’t have the guts.”

Jason holstered his Colt. “Ain’t about guts.” He turned and walked away, leaving Blaine choking in the dust. The crowd’s murmurs followed him, but he didn’t care. He’d come here to kill a man, but he’d left something else behind—the need for revenge.

Joe was waiting at the edge of town, mounted on his black horse.

“You didn’t take the shot,” Joe said.

“Didn’t need to.” Jason swung up onto his own horse. “What now?”

Joe tipped his hat. “Now you live with it.”

Jason rode on, the weight in his chest lighter than it had been in years. Behind him, a gunshot rang out—someone putting Blaine out of his misery. Jason didn’t look back. Maybe the odds had been against him. Maybe they still were.

But for the first time, Jason Terry had beaten them. And then some.

Idea, characters, outline: Jeppe Kleijngeld
Writing: Le Chat (Mistral AI)
Inspirator: Jan Bletz