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Soldier, Poet, King

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Michael Jones found a sword.


It wasn’t intentional that he stumbled upon it. It was entirely an accident. Michael did of course have a love for weapons. The shiny guns, the gleaming flamethrowers and the many many knives gracing his home proved that. But there was something strikingly different about the sword.


For one thing, he was a criminal. Not some knight in Camelot or some shit like that. A sword was vastly unimpressive considering the badass weapons he had seen. He had a flamethrower for Christ sake. He had every weapon he could ever want at his disposal, Geoff made sure of that. Any heist, any project, the crew got any weapon they could ever want. One time, Gavin had even requested a silver bullet and it had been provided, with a lovely silver pistol to match.


A sword would also be grossly inadequate for the work he did. High speed chases on motorcycle or hanging out the back of the cargo bob are both common occurrences. He couldn’t just whip out a sword in the middle of a heist. The cops would still die, but probably from laughter. A drug deal or a meeting with any rival gangs with his usual pistol replaced with a sword would be hilarious. Michael was sure that no one would take him seriously with an unwieldy sword.


On top of the sheer impracticality and ridiculousness the sword provided, it was not the most well-kept weapon. Michael prided himself on his meticulousness of his work. His weaponry was spotless, unlike Gavin, who very often just forgot to clean his weapons, or Ryan, who relied so much on his brute strength and skill, a dirty weapon wasn’t as much a hindrance. Michael however took great pride in his well-kept armory. Cleanliness was next to godliness, and Michael was nothing if not godly. This weapon, on the other hand, was shoved in a box, poking out of the corner of the room. It stuck out among the rifles, pistols and other modern weapons. It had a fine film of dust on it, with a handprint smudged on the sheath, like someone grabbed it and tossed it in the corner. There was no ceremony in its keeping.


The sword was a little more than two feet long sheathed. The hilt was made of faded and roughened leather. It was in a crucifix like shape, but with small semicircles around the hilt , to protect the hand he assumed. The blade was dull in color and sharpness. It had hints of rust and the leather grip was cracking and dry. The sheath was also leather, but cracked and dried beyond repair, it nearly fell off on its own. It was smeared with an all too familiar blood stain.


The idea of Michael carrying a sword was almost too good to miss. He hefted it in his hand, feeling it weigh in his hand. It felt well balanced, and the grip seemed to fit perfectly in his hand. His fingers followed the contours of the wear in the leather. If Michael believed in God, he would say this sword was his in the past life.


It was as if a ghost propelled him to take the sword with him, after he tossed the rest of the stolen weaponry in the back of the truck driven by Jack. He sat in the front as they peeled out of the empty warehouse lot, sword tucked securely at his feet. Jack looked at it quizzically but said nothing as Michael unloaded the wares at the base and took to sword to his apartment.


Michael found out, through much research, the sword was called a Bastard sword, or a hand and a half sword. It was a common sword. It wasn’t too heavy to bear one handed but the hilt was long enough to use two handed. He cleaned the rust off and oiled the hilt. He polished the blade until it gleamed in the afternoon sun. He sharpened the blade until it was sharp and wicked like every blade Michael owned. He commissioned Trevor to help him find a new scabbard, leather again but brand new and deep brown.
Then he had to learn how to use the sword, which was the hardest part. Michael Jones couldn’t necessarily walk into a class on sword fighting, despite not being hard pressed to find one in Los Santos. So, he didn’t. The sword sat safely and securely in his armory.


Every day Michael pulled it down and cleaned it, but he never dared really learn or venture out with it. Until one day, Michael and Ryan were sent on an intimidation mission, and on a whim, Michael hooked the scabbard to his belt and met up with Ryan. Ryan wouldn’t care, he was known for his unique weaponry and creative murders. And it’s not like this was a dangerous mission, Ryan more than anyone could hold his own in close quarter fighting, and why not try out the sword.


The man who owed Geoff money was a scrawny ugly man, the kind of man that seemed the complete personification of Los Santos, and the complete opposite of Geoff. He hid behind his men. All eyes widened when Michael and Ryan entered the room.


The skeevy man addressed Michael, and they completed their business, Michael’s hand resting easily on the hilt of the sword, and the men tripped all over each other to please them and return the debt safely to their pockets. And when one man dared question Michael, he cut him down with the blade faster than anyone could compute. The next day, whispered words of his new weapon gracing Michael’s arsenal were whispered on the side streets.It became a thing.


Everywhere Michael went, the sword went.


He very rarely used it, that one time was the only time blood splattered the blade. Michael had no desire to be a master swordsman, but the sword became as synonymous to his appearance as his wolf jacket.


He had Mogar stamped across the leather scabbard, and the hilt remained well oiled and worn and Michael’s hand was often times seen gripping the leather.


No one asked him how he found it, and no one asked him to prove himself with it. He enjoyed the power the sword gave him, but how he never really had to hurt anyone with it. Because as much as Michael was a cold-blooded killer, and he didn’t mind doing it when it needed done, there as a certain power to intimidating a man with nothing but a dusty old sword he found by accident.


One day, Geoff asked how he knew how to use it.


“Star Wars,” Michael said with a shrug.


And no one questioned the soldier with the mighty sword.