Pretend to surrender, and make your move while they're off-guard.
If it is necessary to kill them to get away, do that. You can even steal their stuff if you have enough time.
Then run away like the wind and steal a wagon. Get out of town. And fast.
Try to take out the guards non-lethally(although a few knocks to the head wouldn't hurt) and be quiet. No gun: way too noisy.
You raise your hands, palms forwards, in the universal gesture of surrender.
“Smart,” says the militiaman, stepping forwards to take hold of your arm. “Now―”
Be bold!
Your fingers knot about his wrist and pull: half a second later, his arm is pinned behind his back and you have smashed his forehead into the pommel of his own sword. His fellows lunge for you, but you thrust the first man back in their direction and he lurches into them, groaning.
They don't fall, but they stagger – and that's enough. You have room now to draw the desert woodsman, and before anyone else can so much as blink you have swing the flat of the blade into the head of the man on the left. His head impacts on that of his colleague with a satisfying crack, and the two men hit the ground within moments of each other. Seconds later, the first man joins them.
For a moment, you are stunned. Yes, you defeated Lily easily enough before – but these were three men, and unlike her they were expecting you. And still, you floored them all without any of them so much as touching you. They were probably not well trained. Nor did they have guns. But still.
Then someone cries out, and you realise that you are standing in a busy street over the bodies of three unconscious militiamen, holding a broadsword. Dozens of pairs of eyes are on you now; you look at each in turn, and wonder what they see. A lunatic, perhaps. A monster, certainly.
You suppose you would rather be a live monster than a dead pacifist.
The harsh bark of a gun, and a star of flame blossoms on the wall next to you. Militia reinforcements are coming, then – and with houndtooth bullets, they only need to wing you to set you on fire. As charcoal sashes make their way through the staring crowd, you shove your sword back onto your back and run. People get out of your way with curious alacrity, despite the officers' shouted commands. Perhaps they are afraid – or perhaps they wish they had the skill to do what you have just done, and lay the militia out on the ground.
Or perhaps, you think, as the heat of a passing houndtooth warms your face, you ought to forget the hypothesising and focus on running.
Through the crowd and into a side-street – but here is another militia officer, her Houndoom snarling madly, and you turn right into an alley as a cone of flame bursts from its mouth and scours the dirt off the pavement. It reminds you unpleasantly of the sound that came from Zavarat's rooftop hideout, when you gave her the―
Something swoops down low over your head, cackling wildly. Wheeling around to face you, the Murkrow's eyes begin to glow, and you feel the unstoppable weight of a Mean Look settling over your limbs―
A thing like black lighting falls from the sky, and the Murkrow is abruptly hauled away again in talons bigger still than its own. It shrieks, calling out half in bird-screams and half in parroted human words, and you catch a glimpse, before a rooftop cuts off your view, of the silhouette of a great raptor bearing it away.
Your watcher, you think. Evidently it has plans for you that Stone's militia would get in the way of.
There is a howl and a crack of gunfire behind you, and you burst free of the alleyway as bullets and flame cast a harsh light on your back. You are back on a busy street – and here there are more militia still, and a few government soldiers, too. The former waste no time in pushing through the crowd towards you; the latter, confused but apparently convinced there is some crime going on, join them. How many of them are there? Has Stone pulled the entire force from their patrol routes to line the city with his traps? Maybe they aren't all after you in particular; maybe they are only chasing you because you are clearly fleeing their comrades.
You have time to think this – there is a temporary lull in the barrage of bullets and Pokémon attacks as you and your pursuers navigate the crowd. It gives you an idea; if you can get to a crowded enough place, perhaps you can lose them entirely – take off your hat and become one more citizen in the throng. With this in mind, you press south, towards the thickest part of the crowd, and unexpectedly emerge into Allomach Square.
The place is heaving. Yesterday's fair is still in full swing; citizens with nothing better to do are as fascinated as ever by the exhibitions, the merchandise, the Charizard at the centre. Here, the crowd is so tightly-packed it is a struggle to breathe, let alone move. You could scarcely wish for a better place to disappear.
Into the crowd, then, and off with your hat, tucking it under one arm. You aren't nearly so distinctive now, and you can hear curses from the group following you. The Houndoom barks; a child cries out in fear. The big dog seems to have caused something of a commotion, and its mistress is held back to deal with it. Other soldiers are having trouble getting the crowd to make way for them, and one has had to sheathe his sword for lack of space. You let out a sigh of relief. It seems like you are going to get away.
You slow down, trying to vanish – fairgoers don't run. The Charizard snuffles dismally beneath its iron mask; you glance up at it, and wander a little closer, as if curious.
A minute passes. Then another. No apprehending hands sink onto your shoulder.
You sigh again, and your heart begins at last to slow. Worming your way through the crowd, you head for the main thoroughfare. From there, you can make a long loop to the northwest and get back to the mercenary square via the back roads, or go south through the crowded markets to get to the docks and trainsheds. If you're careful, you should be able to avoid―
You halt.
There are no fewer than eight of Stone's agents posted at the west exit to the square, and they are slowly working their way forwards through the crowd.
A strange feeling comes over you. It is not fear, exactly, and not anticipation – though there are certainly elements of both in it. No, if you had to put a name to it – and you know that you could not do that without somehow spoiling it – if you had to put a name to it, you would call it
concern. Something is about to happen, you can tell. And you cannot tell whether it will be to your advantage or not.
You fight your way over to the other side of the square, and see, as if in a mirror, another cordon of eight officers coming towards you.
The north, you know, still has your original pursuers. South? You are already certain of what you will find there. But you try anyway, only to back away as a line of soldiers rises to meet you.
You head to the centre, uncertain of what to do. The feeling that something will happen is getting stronger; your vision seems to blur and your head shakes as you look up, searching for the bird in the ocean of sky above.
There it is, circling as ever – an angel of misfortune, riding post before the tide of future evil. Sweat prickles on your forehead like warm needles. The air is hot and tense. The militia are not far off now. The air is too dry to breathe. The militia are not far off. Your vision shimmers. The bird shimmers. The militia are not far off.
Your head pounds.
The air chokes you.
The militia are close.
The militia.
Are here.
Then get out of town any way you can.
The bird suddenly glides out of sight, and your senses return to you with what feels like a palpable blow. You stagger under the imagined impact, and the fence surrounding the Charizard cage digs into the small of your back.
What happened? What did the bird do? Where did the last couple of minutes go?
“There!” cries someone, and you see the militia advancing very fast now, only a few yards away. They lie on all sides; the only place to go is over the fence, and so you vault it. There: another half a foot between you and them. But what good is that? Where else is there to―?
Time seems to slow. A bullet ricochets off the bars of the cage. You barely notice.
You draw your gun and put three rounds into the shackle of the padlock confining the Charizard.
Its head rises instantly, alerted by the noise. As the shattered lock falls away, you drag the heavy bolt across, hardly daring to believe you are doing what you are doing. People are shouting now; they back away, trying to get away from the door you are shouldering open. Most of the militia are caught in the tide, but one or two make it over the fence. There are no more bullets. They simply fling themselves against the cage door, trying to force it shut again – but you have slipped through, and are standing by the Charizard's great foreleg, slotting a houndstooth into your gun as the iron-bound head snakes back and forth above you, questingly, warily.
You raise your gun.
Someone yells at you to stop.
You fire into the hasp of the muzzle.
The Charizard's head rocks with the impact, and in sudden panic it tries to rear up, forgetting the cage. The metal bands begins to glow where the bullet hit, a deep orange red – and as its horns jostle the roof, the whole contraption slips an inch.
The dragon freezes.
It snuffles.
And it puts its head against the ground, plants its claws on the muzzle, and
pulls.
As its neck arches with strain, its back lowers. There is a half-second chance here. If you take it, you are reasonably sure that it will probably kill you.
But if you don't, the militia certainly will.
Be bold, be bold …
You holster your gun, put one foot on its knee and jump up onto its back. Its skin is hot as metal in the sun, and it burns even through your clothes – but you grip the scaly nodules of its hide, clambering up and between its shoulder blades, in the hollow between its neck and its wings―
Abruptly, the Charizard's head snaps back, free, and its whole body jerks with the force of the movement. It nearly throws you off, but you wrap your hands around two of the fox charms attached to its neck, pieces of carved bone pierced through the flesh, and though you are lifted up and into the air you slap back down onto its back again a second later. It feels like being punched in the chest by a Magmortar – but you are still hanging on.
Dimly, through the pain and the effort, you are aware that the crowd is scattering; that the militia are staring, appalled and astonished; that the Charizard is rubbing its long-blinkered eyes as they adjust to the glaring sun. People are screaming.
And then the Charizard roars, and there is no other sound in all the world.
Your ears bleed and your face seems to sizzle with the heat and volume of the sound pouring out of the dragon's mouth; pigeons rise up into the air in clouds that should clatter but cannot, because all the noise in the world belongs to the Charizard's roar, every shout and curse and footstep, every gunshot and beating wing, everything is caught up and drowned out in that bone-shaking sound―
It walks.
Lumbering forward, it butts its head against the door and smashes it wide open, knocking a man flying and tearing a hole in the barrier fence. Someone shoots at it – or you think they do; you can hear nothing but a steady ringing in your ears – but it doesn't seem to care. It lurches out of the cage, unstoppable, and soldier and citizen alike scatter before it. Clinging tightly to the piercings on its neck, you feel like a mosquito caught up on the back of a hurricane.
And then it rears onto its hind legs and spreads its wings, and somewhere in the spinning morass of terror and awe that is your brain you realise what is about to happen―
You don't hear the displaced air. But you certainly feel it.
The vast wings beat, and a hot wind tears at your face as the Charizard rises. You are half certain that the impact has knocked your mind out of your brain, and left it pooling in the dirt while the rest of you ascends, so that the flight is a tangle of sensations without any connection between them―
―burning scales beneath and seething air above―
―blood trickling from your ears―
―rooftops spiralling away into a desert-coloured hole―
―the sky turning grey and narrowing to a pinprick―
And then, blissfully, nothing.
*
It is quiet here.
Beneath the earth, there is no fire or wind, no sound and fury. There is just you and the stones, and the shadowed figure with three eyes who stands opposite you. Or perhaps the figure
is the stones; they seem to flow out of it, an extension of the earth. They are old, that much is certain. Even without seeing them, you can tell that they are old. Their bones are those of the soil itself.
The figure watches, and says nothing.
Perhaps the time has come for you to speak first.
Note: Oh man. You have no idea how glad I am that you went down this route rather than the other two. This was by far the most exciting way you could escape Scourston. Also, Deadly: apologies, but it's hard to dual-wield guns when you only have one firearm.