| Barcrawl, page 2 Somehow, though, I got the feeling that this guy did mean to play "just for the hell of it." It was challenger's right to break, and I allowed myself a small smile as my first ball sailed in. Solids have always been lucky for me. I sent two more balls into welcoming pockets before I miscalculated a shot and missed. My turn to sweat. Shorty lined up to take his first shot, and as he sank it in, my heart sank with it. He continued to systematically place his balls, calling corners where I would have gone for sides, and pulling fancy shots where I would've kept it simple. Finally, he got down so that the only balls on the table were solids...and the 8-ball. He lined up to take his shot, and I was preparing myself for defeat, consoling myself that at least I wasn't losing what little money I did have, when he looked straight into my eyes...and deliberately missed his shot. Can you catch up, kid? his eyes seemed to say to me. I accepted his unspoken challenge gladly, and proceeded to catch up by being careful. It was as I was calling the 8-ball and leaning down to take my shot that the shit hit the fan. A sudden pain in my shoulder, a red flash, and the 8-ball was gone. "Shit!" I screamed, as I dropped into a crouch and dove into the crowd. I knew that that shot had been aimed for me; there was a hole in my jacket, and my shoulder was still healing the hole that had been put in it. As I watched, my skin formed over the wound and regained its natural color. Skin, schmin. I was pissed about the jacket. I started scanning the ceiling near the opposite wall: more likely than not, the sniper had probably been in the support beams over the speaker in the left corner. As I looked, I tried to keep moving in the crowd, making myself a harder target, trying to sneak to the side exit, but the crowd wasn't obliging. They parted like the Red Sea before me, fleeing behind me to the front and back exits, as two men in gray uniforms stalked towards me, both leveling guns at my head. Suddenly, I felt a prick in my right shoulder. I sank to the ground as I yanked the tranquilizer dart out. Man, it must have been some strong shit: it actually made me feel dizzy. I kept the balls of my feet under me, but slumped forward enough so that I knew it looked as though I had passed out. I could smell them coming, and was fully recovered by the time one of the idiots grabbed my jacket and started to haul me to my feet. *Snikt, clang!* I sliced their guns through the stocks on my upsweep. *Slllllliiiiiiiittttt!* I got their belts and a good portion of pantlegs on my downsweep. I re-sheathed my claws, dropped and reverse-sweeped 'em. I would've liked to watch them struggle around for a bit (it is awfully hard to stand up when your pants are tangled around your legs), but I knew that I didn't have the time. The only side of the Sailor that didn't have a door to the outside was the door the bar was along, so I ran into the kitchen. There was a window in there, and I leaped up and through it. Not the smartest thing to do, but I hadn't had much of a choice. I smacked into the building next door, bleeding from half-a-dozen cuts that were already healing around the bits of glass I was yanking out of them. It hadn't been a fun ride, but cuts and bruises never stay around long on me. Luckily, the alley between the buildings had enough junk in it that it was easy to sneak to the front of the bar where I'd left my bike. Not that I wouldn't leave without it, if necessary, but I'd put a lot of work into my baby, and I wasn't about to foot it unless I absolutely had to. I pulled a compact from my pocket, and used the mirror to look around the corner. Hey, if my head ever gets blown off, I'm pretty sure it won't grow back. Damn!!! Two more of those gray goons were guarding the front door. I guess whoever wanted me was finally starting to figure out that I wasn't easy prey: the last time they'd gone after me, there had only been three of them. *Sniff, sniff* I whirled around, claws popping out, as the guy with the piercing eyes stepped out from behind a Dumpster. I'd only been out here, what, maybe 20 seconds? Shorty wasn't slow, that was for damn sure. "Whoa, darlin'," he said, holding his hands up in the "peace" position, "I ain't gonna hurtcha, I just thought you might like a little help with those assholes." "And just why would you want to help me?" I growled, pride forcing me as well as curiousity. He pulled one hand into a fist, the hand still in the air but with the back now facing me. *Snikt!* Sweet Jesus, this guy had claws at least three inches longer than mine! "Because" Shorty growled quietly, "it looks like some asshole did to you what was done to me." *flash* We were running and I was trying not to scream. The guys behind us were huge, fast, gray... *flash* The feral grin on the gray soldier's face as he grabbed for my companion... *flash* The look of horror on the same soldier's face when he looked down at his chest and saw my claws sticking out of it...the look of terror in his eyes as the life slowly drained out... I shook my head to clear it. I had no memory how I'd gotten my claws. I had just woken up one day in the middle of the woods, about a year ago, with no memory of where'd I'd been or even who I was. I didn't know what I had been doing there. Hell, I couldn't even remember my own name. I hadn't even known that I had claws until that soldier had jumped me... Damnit girl! I told myself sternly. Pull yourself together! I quickly made up my mind. This guy was obviously a fighter, and I stood a better chance of getting my bike back and getting out alive if I was with him. Talk about having your cake and eating it, too. I noded quickly. "My bike's out front, and I'd like to get it back." A grin spread across Shorty's face. "The blue Buell?" he asked. Surprised, I nodded. "Don't worry darlin', it's right next to my Harley. Whaddya say we ice those goons and blow this joint?" It was hard to resist that feral smile, and I caught myself returning it. ~ Continue ~ |