A Gambit of Guile

[Ilana Logan]

Cassia Ayelet


Though she understood that it'd only lead to further problems if she informed the two prisoners of her intentions with them, Cass still had to nearly literally bite her tongue to keep the words in. At least one of the others would help fight- she was glad Marcus seemed to recognize one. Giving the woman a nod, she winced as she noted the woman's injury. 

She didn't have time to worry about the newcomers. Cass re-focused back on the situation at hand. However, she did want to do what little she could to help. Passing by the woman with the injured arm, Cass used her free hand, the one not holding a gun, to reach into her outer pocket. A little square of hard candy- not exactly cheap to find in a world where many survived on protein packets and the like- was procured. It wasn't much, but maybe it'd be a little comfort. Unable to trust her tongue at the moment, she offered the little luxury wordlessly to 'Rina. She was clearly tired and injured, and being freed had likely been a shock. Sugar would be good to help push past the immediate exhaustion the woman might experience. 

When Marcus demanded the men tell him where the armory was, Cass saw her chance. Under the cover of the noise that followed, as well as the noise from all the freed slaves fleeing the ship, she whispered to Rina "We'll take care of those two later." How exactly was left unsaid- and really, undecided of yet in her mind, though it wouldn't be pleasant.

Two people stood, perhaps willing to fight. The younger, she noted instantly, limped. Damn. She didn't want to put someone like that in danger's way. Technically Marcus was in charge, so she turned to him, pointing at the injured man. "We could use a lookout- there somewhere with a good view we can send him?" already, her mind was rushing with calculations. The other one.... He looked old, but he seemed to still have some fight in him. Personally, she wanted to interrogate the two new prisoners, find out how many and who was returning, get some information, but with the slaves non-conspicuously fleeing, they didn't have the time. Instead she moved against the wall, near some cover. She needed an advantageous spot for when things got Luh Suh.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus was a bit depressed when only two stayed behind. It meant there were more people being shot at and spreading out the ammo. "Well. It's a start. You." he nodded at the one with the wounded foot. He pulled out the 'Pistolu' handgun and handed it to him "Head to the bridge. Straight through there. Keep a watch through the window. You see Burts give a shout. Then come back and cover the doors leading down to the cargo bay, with the old man and Rina." He made sure the two crew were sealed in the cell and gave the Mechanic's gun to the old man. "Rina, see if you can seal the portside door, if not both."

"Cassai. Time for action." He motioned for her to follow and moved out into the hall. "Go to the far end, to the door that leads to the catwalk. Close the door as much as you can while you can still see the stairs. Keep low and take aim. You see flesh, fire. Kill or be killed." He closed the door leading down to the cargo hold before he took off at a jog to the other side, throwing his bag to the ground pulling out his spare clips stuffing them in his pocket. He had two rifle clips worth of ammo beside the one left. But would he even live to use em? Time to see. He closed his door as much as needed before dropping to a crouch and taking aim. The view wasn't much, but he could see the sun coming in and the whole of the starboard stairs. 

Would this bring him closure? Killing Burts after all these years? Had he come to a decision? Was that last pull of a trigger worth five hundred credits? Had he just gotten a lot of people killed over no-

INHALE. EXHALE.

Marcus did exactly that, and his eyes focused down the sight, waiting for the break in the quiet.

[Bishop Morse]

Burts


Burts stormed down the street. He would find an answer as to why Dare wasn’t there. The thought that he might have been delayed or some issue might have occurred did not enter into his mind. Burts did not take excuses, ever. He was far from an understanding person. He instead expected people to do only what he told them, or do what they’d told him. Either way, this was unacceptable for him. He was grumbling to himself, and did not stop. He looked forward down the street. He could see his ship fairly well, but something seemed strange. He could see people moving from it rather quickly. It was unusual, and somewhat suspicious. The lens on his cybernetic eye in his left socket began to twist. He had a zoomed in visual of what was going on. And what he saw through his mind into a stint of rage.

”HOLY FUCK!” Burts yelled. ”That stupid fu… The damn prospects are runnin’. GET AFTER EM!” He yelled pointing and starting to run. There were quite a number and he didn’t know how they’d gotten out. He ran quickly, and pulled his marakov pistols from the holsters. Beside him his two crewmen ran, only they moved faster. They got very close, and they stopped.

The escaped slaves were running about all around them. Smiley and Grease weren’t sure what to do, but Grease took the initiative. He brought the shotgun up and fired right into a man walking by. The man was mangled and thrown with the force. Smiley seeing that brought his rifle up and shot a woman through the chest who was running. Both of them fell, and Grease pumped the shotgun to fire it again. He discharged another round into another man, and he fell as well.

”NO YOU FUCKIN’ IDIOT” He yelled whacking Grease in the back side of the head. ”YOU’RE WASTING THE MONEY!” He was absolutely furious, and there was only one way to save some of the money. He brought the Marakovs up and began firing. He hit someone in the leg, they fell. Then he hit another person in the hip, and another in the foot. Some of them were very far away. He grabbed a small child that was running by him and threw him to the ground. He quickly stomped on the child’s foot. He could feel the bones within it snap, so they wouldn’t be able to run. ”SMILEY!” He yelled towards the short hair blonde man with the rifle. ”GET IN THERE AND SHOOT PRETTY BOY” He ordered. Pretty Boy had accidentally opened up a cell once, and it there was quite an issue. If there was someone who was likely to screw up again, it was him. He wasn’t interested in definite answers, the first one was good enough. 

Smiley quickly moved up towards the ramp, stepped up on it, and headed into the cargo bay.

[Ilana Logan]

Marina Kseniya Sebastian

Rina took the gun and gave Marcus a curt nod without saying a word.  They’d have time to talk later.  If they survived.  She stepped up and trained her gun where directed and swept the two men under it with a look.  

Not the bastards who sold or bought her.  Not her problem, beyond seeing they didn’t screw up whatever Marcus had in mind.  One of them, she noted, was little more than a kid, someone in his late teens.  Dressed like a mechanic, covered in grease.  About ten years younger than her.  Despite her situation and his personal culpability in slaving, she wished a better outcome for him than this—held at gunpoint in what was obviously a raid and likely with nothing in store for him but a shallow grave.  

God, boy, but you picked the wrong damn ship to hire on to. Please don’t do anything stupid. I don’t want to be the one who kills you.  

Of the other man, she felt no sympathy at all.  He was older and couldn’t claim the ignorance of youth had landed him here. She took in the tiny details of his dress and stance.  Pilot, they said.  Nope.  He definitely couldn’t claim innocence as to what was happening and where it was going, not when he was responsible for flying it there.  No sympathy at all.

Even so, she agreed with Marcus.  Unnecessary killing was stupid, petty, and unprofessional.  It often led to more trouble and work than it was worth.  Locking the two up in a cell, as Marcus suggested, suited her fine.  Locking them up separately would suit her better—it would be easier to interrogate them for information if they weren’t together.  Rina had had time to think about what she’d do if the opportunity ever came to turn the tables on the slavers that held her, and she resolved to find out a little more about the slaver and his operation—who were his suppliers, where did they work out of?  Was there a schedule for pickups and sales?  What could she do to ruin that for them?  Shut them down and either free the people still held elsewhere and save people in the future from falling into their hands.  All it would take would be some leads called in anonymously to the authorities.  The Feds would handle the rest.  

That’s even assuming she’d be granted a chance to get the information she wanted.  This wasn’t her op.  This wasn’t her decision.  She’d mention it to Marcus if there was time to do it.  If not … Rina resigned herself to letting the opportunity go.  If the Feds were fully on their game, slavers like Burts would be caught and shot anyway.  It might take a little longer without the intel she might glean from the two men in front of her, but Universe unfolded as it would, and not as anyone wished.

A woman walked up to her, obviously someone on Marcus’s team, and offered her something.  It was warm from being in the woman’s pocket and Rina could smell the sugar scent rising off it.  After a second’s hesitation, Rina nodded and opened her mouth to take it.  In went the tidbit and sweetness flooded her tongue.  The sweet trickled down her throat and Rina stifled the cough the sugar burn started.   She held her breath until her body adjusted and when it settled, was glad to feel the boost the sugar gave her system.

When Marcus demanded to know where the armory was, hope surged bright inside Rina’s gut.  With some grenades, an assault rifle or two … But no.  No armory.  Oh well.  We have pistols. They hold, what? 8 shots, 10 shots each?  She counted the two in the young woman’s hands and her own.  24 shots.  If we need more than that, we’re in serious trouble and more bullets won’t save us anyway.  Her thoughts almost distracted her from the woman’s murmur as she passed by: 

"We'll take care of those two later."

Rina nodded to show the woman she heard, and kept her eye on the two in her charge until Marcus locked them up in a cell, then ordered her to lock down the portside door.

“Right,” she said.  She kept the pistol and hustled for the door in question. It was an old style wheel-lock pressure door and she would need at least one hand free to operate it.  Rina engaged the safety on the pistol and tucked it in her left armpit, got her right hand on the wheel and put her back into it. It groaned and squealed but she got the job done. Looking around, she found a length of pipe rolling loose on the deck and she threaded it through the wheel and jammed it.  No one turning it from the outside would get that lock opened.  Knowing Marcus’s plan must be to seal off all entrances to the ship except the one he wanted the enemy coming through, Rina took care to lock down the other doors as directed.  Some were touch pad driven, some were wheeled.  All she managed to either disable or jam with debris lying at hand.  

She worked as quickly and as thoroughly as she could. Her limbs were trembling from the effort when she was through, the boost from the candy long since depleted.  Rina took her pistol back in hand and rejoined the woman who’d shown her that kindness.  If there was one thing Rina hated, it was flying blind.  Perhaps the other woman might be able to fill Rina in on how Marcus had found the slaver.  Rina knew better than to ask Marcus.  She’d seen the look in his eye.  Best not get in his way until he got what he came for.

“Hey,” she said quietly when she was a few paces away, giving the woman warning she was there.  At the woman’s glance, she nodded and crouched at her side.  “We aiming at the bottleneck?  Shooting any slavers that get past Marcus?”  


Nasty business, but slavers were nasty.  The less you left alive behind you, the less you had biting your ass the second your back was turned.

[Ilana Logan]

Cassia Ayelet


She wanted to be cautious, but the woman appeared to be someone Marcus knew- which meant she was owed a bit of trust. Not to mention how recently she'd been a prisoner- If she'd been held captive and suddenly, unexpectedly free, Cass knew she'd be more than eager to know the plan.

"Yeah," she confirmed. A soft sigh- she hated to admit it, but.... Keeping her voice down so others wouldn't hear, she admitted quietly, "Done my share of fighting, but I've never killed anyone." And, to be quite honest, she wasn't sure about starting now. It was strange, the realization that it might bother her to think of killing- her plans for the slavers, any of them who survived the confrontation, weren't pretty. Especially after seeing what they'd done... She wanted to laugh aloud at the thought, the realization that torture and vengeance were certainly on her mind but killing apparently was still a bit nerve-wracking, but the new woman likely wouldn't appreciate her laughing like a loose-brained loony. "I'm hoping we get most of them alive." Amusingly, considering her thoughts, the phrase came out in quite a soft, relaxed tone. Then again, her tense face probably gave a more honest picture of things than her tone. Cass wasn't the sort to yell when she got angry- sometimes she was physically violent, but she didn't raise her voice. She simply got very, deathly calm.

Then it occurred to her- she didn't know who the hell the woman was, and vice versa. "I'm Cass," she said. It wasn't much- she knew well that a name held nothing of a person- but it was a start. Whoever this woman was, she was a friend of Marcus', and willing to fight slavers despite recently losing an arm. That made her worth knowing.

[Ilana Logan]

Marina Kseniya Sebastian


Rina's brow raised along with her estimation of the woman.  She'd done her share of fighting, she'd said, but she didn't want to kill?  She hoped to get most of them alive? That spoke well of her, by Rina's lights.  She didn't have to worry about this woman going trigger happy on her and the fact the woman wanted the slavers alive hinted that perhaps this woman had plans to get intel from them, too.  Again, a mark in her favor.  Rina swept her with a look.   The other woman was young, in her twenties, but she held herself  well.  She was no stranger to guns, apparently understood tactics and the need to have a chain of command.  Took orders well.  Was calm, not inclined to being jittery--if everything Rina had seen so far was accurate.  Hard to tell, given the circumstances of their meeting.  

"I'm Cass," the woman said to her and Rina's estimation of her went up another notch.  

"I'm Rina," Rina said in turn with a nod, not bothering to foul either of their gunhands with a handshake. "Been flying with Marcus long?"  Even as she asked it, Rina was struck by the fact she had absolutely no idea what day it was or how long she'd been unconscious before waking up as a prisoner.  All she could use to gauge the passage of time was the healing rate of her stump and that was only a thumbnail gauge at best.  Too many factors could influence it and throw the timing off.  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Cass the date, but Rina stopped herself in time.  She'd ask later--if they survived, it would be relevant then. If they didn't, it would no longer matter.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus could hear the shooting outside, and the screams of the people. His stomach rose to his throat and he felt inclined to hurl. but he'd refrain. When one of the men started walking up into the ship, he drew a bead on him as best he could. He was near the middle. Man had a rifle... He hissed across the walkway, the chaos coming from outside probably obscured the sound but he could hope. He looked across the way and saw two people there. THE HELL is Rina doing? It didn't matter. Rina should be down there. Waiting with the old man in a great ambush position! Things were going to turn into a shooting gallery soon and NOT in their favor.

There was a boom of a shotgun that went with Burt's Markov's. It wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to deal with inside the ship.

One shots all I'm going to get. Once they know I'm here.

He could see the open starboard side door, and the man would hopefully go for that instead of the closed, and hopefully sealed portside door. As soon as the man was at the top of those steps, he shot the bastard times. Torso shots, no funny stuff. Hopefully one of the women or the old man would be smart enough to finish the guy and take his guns if it came to it.

[Bishop Morse]

Burts


Smiley stepped up onto the cargo ramp and into mouth of the ships cargo bay. He took about two steps forward before suddenly something happened. The fizz of a weapon discharge echoed. But it didn’t come from outside, and it wasn’t a weapon he was familiar with. It was a more powerful sound then that of his own rifle, and it seemed to come from in front of him. Before he could even turn his head, a round hit him in the chest. He reared backward, but then came two more. Both hit him at different places on his chest. From the holes in his clothing was a stream of blood from each. He couldn’t look down to see the wounds, as he was falling backwards. He had taken a slight step backward, and the bullets carried him the rest of the way to ground. Smiley hit hard with a heavy clump. Bang! His rifle discharged and the round soured and hit the ceiling, getting lodged up inside the metal. The body flopped on onto the floor and slid down the ramp a little bit, but Smiley was long since gone.

Burts and Grease both stopped shooting the moment they heard the shots. They both knew that such a weapon wasn’t one of theirs, and that it had come from behind them. They both whipped around their weapon forward to watch Smiley hit the ground. The first thought that went through Burts head was that either Pretty Boy or Mr. Black had done it. But that weapon that had first fired wasn’t one of theirs, and neither of them was a good enough shot to put Smiley down like that. The thought that he’d lost a man hardly even occurred to him. ”GO!” He yelled to Grease pointing to the starboard side of the ship. Burts and Grease moved quickly to each side. They couldn’t even see what was inside the cargo bay, but that also meant that whoever had managed to get in there couldn’t see them either. Burts kept his back against the front of his ship, and looked out. Some people were still watching. ”THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN’ AT!” He yelled pointing the pistol in his left hand forward. He squeezed the trigger six times, hitting two people who were then running for their lives, and then the gun was empty. He quickly threw the empty clip on the ground, shot twice into the ground to empty the other one, and into both loaded a new one. 

Grease snapped his fingers a few times to get Burts attention, it worked. Grease pointed at the wall behind him, held his arms out and shook his head as if to say “what the hell is happening.” Burts rolled his eyes, and the came over to the edge of the cargo bay, but didn’t expose his face at all. ”I ain’t got a bit a figurin’ on who the FUCK you think you are! But yer gonna die! You know that!? You aint got a spits worth a knowin who yer fuckin’ with!” He said. He then leaned back in and kept his guns ready, trying to figure out what he wanted to do. Grease loaded in a few shells into the shotgun and pumped it. If there was so much as a sound of movement in the cargo bay, they’d come around and blow it to pieces.

[Ilana Logan]

Cassia Ayelet


There had to be an alternative. Truth be told, Cass knew she'd shoot, but if she didn't shoot to kill... And THAT was the issue. Could I kill someone? What's the alternative? We could go off in the ship, let them chase us somewhere we choose to fight on our terms, but it'd take too long now to get this go se off the ground. They know where we are, too late to try to ambush them on the ship. There's no good hiding spot we could find that they wouldn't already have known of, anyway. But... The proverbial light bulb went off. Their rooms. There could be something useful there, weapons or something. The ship's design was fairly basic- and besides, Marcus had been there before, right? He'd know where to send her if she wanted directions to the bunks. Then it occurred to her- she'd seen most of the ship when they're freed the slaves. How much more could there be to a boat like this, anyway? Hell, the ship was standard. She'd know where to find bunks.

Moving quietly toward Marina, Cass offered her the gun and ammo Marcus had lent her. "I'm going to go find their rooms, search them for anything useful. You might need this." As soon as Marina took the gun, she could head off down the halls for a quick search. There was all sorts of useful gear or weaponry that might be found there. And if nothing else, she was sure she'd find some alcohol- a wonderful makeshift explosive. If there was one thing her time in Ezra had taught her, it was how to put together a nice 'boom'- but only with the most basic of things. 

Though she wasn't overly enamored with fire or things that exploded, Cass found herself desperately wishing she had more knowledge of explosives. Unfortunately, her interest in science had extended only far enough for a basic medical-aid course one summer, never to chemicals and such. Why bother? She wasn't involved in the war, and her fighting was typically done hand-to-hand, or on Ezra, with a knife. Explosives had never even entered her mind before. Now, she was regretting that. Marcus was a soldier- when we had time, if we survived this, I'll ask him to teach me whatever he knows about explosives. For the moment, however, she stuck to looking for things that even she knew would make a nice makeshift grenade, like a bottle of booze.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus couldn't help but smile as the first man went down. He'd hoped for Burts himself, but that was death, live, and the chances that carried one from the other. Burts and the remaining man had gone into cover. That'd be trouble, from this angle. Rushing in would be bad. But if he moved in from the starboard side he might be able to get whoever was ducked back on the port side.

Angles and crap.

When Burts shouted into the cargo hold, that old problem child Marcus called his mouth started acting up again.

"AW, BURTS! You're hurtin' my feelings! Don't tell you don't remember kid that left you dead in the dirt on Whitefall? I never did pay much attention to your rants on being 'definitive' with my duties."

He immediately took off after that. Down the hall and around the way, passing the hall that lead to the bridge he saw Cassia doing something with the dorms. 

"The hell you doing?" he hissed. "Loot when they're dead." Women. He took position at the door, using the wall that led down the hall to cover most of his body. He crouched down and minimized what was visible. 

He could BARELY see the ground outside, and someone's leg. He fired two shots, aiming for the leg. Give me something, old man.

[Bishop Morse]

Burts


The words went into his mind, but it took Burts a moment to put them together. It was as though he’d been told that wasn’t possible, like suns orbiting planets. Such things just didn’t work. So when he was hit with this one, he tried to fully comprehend it. He took the words in, and looked over at Grease. He didn’t seem to understand it, but he did. He grasped it suddenly, and a hate washed over him. He moved his hand up a moment subconsciously towards his left eye. The cybernetic implant adjusted itself, and suddenly he snapped back to the reality. ”MARCUS! YOU SON OF A BITCH!” He yelled. He hadn’t forgotten the name. How could he? He’d nearly died sitting on the sand watching the little bastard run away after having just shot him and his crewmen. It took him a rather long time to tie up all of the loose ends that had created, like getting a crew, or even the prosthetic eye.

His teeth were together and he was squeezing with his jaw. His breathing through his mouth was rather loud. His eyes moved about the sand as he tried to think of something. He moved about a bit, going around the outside of the visual range from inside the ship. Marcus wasn’t on the lower deck, if he had been, Smiley would have killed him. So that meant the upper deck, and he could move out of the visual range of that. As he’d gathered his thoughts he came back to his position at the port side of the freighter. As he came around there were a set of gunshots. The bullets struck very close to his foot, but since he hadn’t stopped moving yet, he got lucky. The dirt they kicked up and the hole they made told him that rifle that he was dealing with was extremely powerful. 

Grease was leaning by the metal wall created by the front of the ship, the same as Burts. He was looking at him for some sort of direction, but Burts really didn’t seem to be in the mind to be doing that. He was clearly fuming with rage, and he wasn’t really acknowledging him at all. And what he did confused him. Burts fired round on the ground with his right pistol, on accident. It was like his finger twitched. Then, for anyone standing inside the hanger, a lower arm came around on the port side, fully exposed, with a black pistol in hand. 

[Ilana Logan]

Marina Kseniya Sebastian


It became apparent that the shootout was stalemated. Neither side was willing to expose itself to the other.  Rina checked her six and saw it clear ... and thought how few people ever checked their twelve. 

Huh. How do I get there?  Do I even want to go there?

Then again, there was that lone hatch Marcus had ordered her to leave unlocked.  Worried now that the enemy might be sneaking aboard to attack them from behind, Rina cautiously moved from her sheltered position for it, taking care to keep as much of the ship between her and the hostiles in the cargo bay as possible.  If she was lucky, she could find a fire position under cover and shoot the slavers as they came through the hatch.  Not much of a plan but it was a start.  Moving silently in her bare feet, Rina looked for a way down that didn't leave her exposed.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus passed Rina who was moving toward the door he'd shot from. That'd suited him just fine. He heard Burt's shout echoing in, and was crouched in the door frame opposite from where he'd first shot the rifle man. He heard a shot and drew a bead on the door. He could once, again, barely see anything. Except for a hand and a gun.

The red dot sight eclipsed the hand. 

Exhale. Focus. PULL.

One shot. He wouldn't kill whoever that was. But if that hit. It'd be a world of hurt. Marcus swung back and let his back hit the wall. 

There was a feeling of nausea that had been crawling up his throat since he stepped of the postal shuttle. He exhaled and inhaled. Focused on the breathing and remembering the moment.

His eyes were wet from the dryness of the ship. He swept his eyes dry with his thumb, and rubbed the moisture into his trigger finger.

Four shots left. He thought for a moment before ejecting the clip and clearing the round from the rifle. He slapped the new clip in and cocking the rifle. It took all of three seconds. 

"Fear no darkness..." Marcus whispered as he reading for the next smattering of violence.

[Bishop Morse]

Burts


The scream was harsh, and loud. Quickly and terrible it flew out. It went into the cargo bay, it went out across the street. It was a high pitch, like a mixture of fear and confusion. The blood flew out quickly, shooting down onto the dirt. The force caused the portion it struck to be tugged and jerked. The displacement of energy caused the victim to be brought forward. And falling in front of the hanger was the little boy whom Burts had knocked to the ground.

Burts had run back and lifted the child up quickly. Though the child struggled to get free, but he couldn’t break the brutish mans grip. Burts had snapped his arm at the elbow to get it to stay in place, and covered his mouth so that it would remain quiet. He put in the boys hand his left pistol. The arm snapped and he forced his fingers around it. ”Hold it, or I’ll kill you!” He hissed out through a wheezy sort of whisper. The boy didn’t have really any options and his eyes were fading due to the shock of it all. Burts fired a round out of his other pistol to make it seem like he was ‘coming in swinging’. This had confused Grease, and he moved the child’s arm out, making sure to stay back himself. The child couldn’t move, and didn’t have any idea what was coming when a single shot flew through the air and tore into his arm. Burts had gotten barely a glimpse of where it had come from, but it was enough.

”LEFT!” He yelled to Grease as he threw the child to the dirt. He brought his right pistol up and fired quickly at the door. As he did Grease came around his side and fired up at what he could see. Grease kept his eyes ready, and fired again. Burts did the same. If anything so much as moved he’d kill it.

From on the catwalk just above them the old man with the pistol leaned over and shot. The rounds came close to Grease, and one tore his jacket. Grease quickly adjusted his shotgun and fired a heavy blast into the man. It took him straight in the chest and he fell off the catwalk, colliding hard with the ground. The kept their weapons ready, Burts focusing towards the starboard catwalk way. The child on the ground slipped from consciousness and a puddle of red formed at Burts feet, as he scanned looking for something to kill.

[Bishop Morse]

Dannie Shutter


The small coffee mug clinked on the round dark stained table, the black liquid swirled around the white mug giving rise to a thick steam. The sound of the mug had woken Dash up rather abruptly. His hat was covering his face while he slept and his arms unfolded to give way for his right hand. Dash waved the waitress away with a grunt and propped his hat up with his index finger. The smell of the Irish coffee had made his eyes open slightly and he reached over to take a small sip. The alcoholic caffeine fix moisturised Dash’s chapped lips as he carried on drinking. 

The bar to the hotel was more alive than it was from the other night. In fact, Dash had not moved from the table for several hours. The chime of crockery and the smell of fried substances led Dash to believe that dinner was being served to whoever was ordering it. Laughter and small talk littered Dash’s ears as he started to wake, his eyes winced slightly as he took a glance outside at the busy sunburnt dirt track, and the green curtains blew softly from the cool dry air. Dash’s eyes were fixed at the entrance for a while as he was drifting in and out of thought. He was daydreaming towards the entrance with the coffee mug resting on his bottom lip, a young boy walked in inspecting the table tops were people once sat, the boy started stuffing crumbs and food of sorts into his coat pocket. A shout came from the open spaced kitchen and the kid had looked up quickly then jolted. Dash smirked at the sight.

As time went on Dash had finished his drink and had picked up his rifle to accompany him to the bar. He tried to order another drink with little success, the bar tender was not going to open a tab to a stranger with a strong stench of whisky in his breath. As the argument pursued Dash and others around him heard the dispersal of several shots and his head turned to pin point the origin of the sound. Many people in the area ducked, followed with outcry and shouts of panic. The screams from outside got louder as people started running away from where the shots had taken place.

Dash had turned around to continue arguing with the bar tender only to find he had disappeared, so naturally he leant over the bar and pulled out a bottle of wine, he then made the decision to toss it away and other numerous bottles until he found some whiskey, as his fingers eventually wrapped around the neck of a whisky bottle a loud scream was heard, the cries of a child. He pulled out the cork with his teeth, started swigging, then he had made his way to the door frame to take a closer look.           

[Marcus O'Terra]

The feeling in Marcus's gut became a hurling force that brought up an amber sludge of protein bar and whiskey. This was followed by swearing as bullets rained on his position. He ambled back and out of sight down the hall to the airlock door that led down the stairs. The place the first man had fallen dead. There was the sound of a body falling to the ground, and Marcus assumed that someone must have gotten himself killed., 

This is getting ridiculous. Burts has more ammo than you, and that old mudder had to play hero. WASTE OF A GUN. Should have kept the folk in their cells, shot Burts FIRST. So many mistakes. How much would it cost him? More lives on his head.

He should have run to an abby once he got out of Burt's clutches. But then I never would have gone to Madame Hulahan's place That was a thought for another time.

He reached the door and from there could see a large man with a shotgun. He brought up his rifle and fired twice at the man's chest before he dove down the hall and out of sight.

[Bishop Morse]

Burts


Burts eyes moved about the cargo bay, his cargo bay. It was still after the firing had stopped. His eyes moved quickly towards the body of Grease’s kill. He looked back up, his pistol ready. He picked up his other weapon from the boys hand. The breathing of the child wasn’t audible from his level. He quickly brought it back up and he and Grease both continued to look about the cargo bay. Burts’ mind had moved to wondering how this could have even happened. He had come here to pick up a crew hand, his old friend no less. Now he was trying to defeat an infestation on his own, of a little rat that had cost him a lot of money and his eye. The anger he felt for that was intense, consuming even his breathe as it was strained with his rage. There were a number of places from which he might suffer another attack. He couldn’t be sure which would be the next point from which fire would come from. He separated his weapons and had them on two doors at a time, waiting for whatever would come.

Grease looked around. He had a serious anger in his head as well, for watching Smiley die. His friend, though he was a rough man, was still one of the only people he’d had. And with him dead he wasn’t sure what to do. Smley had been a tough fighter through the years, and watching him fall so quickly was odd. He said nothing because it might distract him or Burts from whatever was around. He moved weapon to point at the door in which the last attack had come from. He didn’t see anything but the holes that were created when they’d shot. Then there was a sound, a quick and loud echo, followed by an identical one just after it. He was struck in the chest and he began to stumble back, the second one hit a bit lower because of his quick reaction. His feet dragged back and he hit the dirt. He’d squeezed the trigger when he was hit the first time because his body had tensed up, but he hadn’t even noticed the sound. He was on the ground and started to grumble out half words. He had absolutely no idea what to do, and he could hardly move. Grease brought his shotgun up onto his chest. His breathing was slowing down. The only thing he could think to do, was what he was trained to do. He’d fired a shot, he had to ready the next one. He mustered all of his strength to work the pump beneath the weapons barrel. You could hear his strain as he finally pumped it, and it gave a satisfactory click. He began to raise it as though he was to fire it again. But his arms finally gave out, and it smacked against the ground. His finger worked the trigger as it hit the ground, but it only gave a minor click as the weapon had lost all its shells. 

Burts saw the movement in the cargo bay instantly. His body snapped with reaction to bring his weapons to the ready. He saw the weapon, but was not nearly quick enough to stop it from firing. He didn’t count its shots, only readied his own. As the body pulled back, he squeezed his triggers. One, two, three, four. Two shots from each pistol. He could hear a ping on the back wall as the last two had missed. But he aimed for the same piece of the mans body. The center of the chest. He knew he’d hit, and his jaw went forward as he had a big smile form on his face. In the same second he heard the shotgun blast beside him. ”Shit!” He yelled stepping back to his position. He came back this time to make sure he wasn’t exposed at any point.

”Grease! Grease! Get the fuck up!” He yelled. Grease was moving but it was a though he couldn’t hear him. Finally Grease’s arm fell and he Burts saw he was dead. Though Grease was dead, he himself was not. He’d hit the man in the chest, hopefully the dead rat Marcus. He didn’t know what else was there, but he was down two men. But he wasn’t exposed. He took the clip out of one of his weapons and began to reload it, keeping the other ready in case he needed it. He still had them cornered, and that advantage was strong enough.

[Bishop Morse]

Dannie Shutter

Dash stepped out from the door way and out onto the dusty timber floor panels, his spurs resounded into the now abandoned street and his rifle swung leisurely at his side. His brown tattered coat moved with the small breeze as he slowly walked from the shade and onto the sand blasted road. He took another swig of the bottles substance as he maintained eye contact with the open cargo bay, Dash noticed the long haired man bend somewhat to pull a pistol from the child’s twisted arm. Then the other rough looking man suddenly hit the ground. The gunshots pounded through the street as fighting still pursued. Dash still kept his eyes solid to the event, his chapped lips curled and he turned his head slightly to let out a small amount of the whiskey, it sprayed onto the dust beside him and the dark bottle soon accompanied it to the floor. Thud, thud the bottle hit the ground and rolled to one side leaving a trail of whisky behind it. 

He couldn’t make out the shouts from the snarling man, apparently shouting at his fallen comrade. Dash was getting to adequate distance, he took his right hand and pushed his hat forward to cover his eyes from the glare of the sky, and his thoughts became one of aggravation in seeing such acts take place. He slowly placed both hands onto the rifle in turn lifting the rope over his hat. His blood shot eyes turned to slits as he focused his frustration at the long haired man. As he did this his voice rattled inside in his head. “No man should harm a woman, and NO man should harm a youngin!” 

Dash stopped and so too did the rattling spurs when taking stance in the middle of the dirt track. He took his left hand and propped the tattered brown rifle up onto his hip, flicking his long coat accordingly with his right hand to give access to his belt and bullets. He then started to load the 44. Cal shots into the chamber with his yellow thumb and forefinger. Click, click, click, click, click. Clunk! Dash had loaded five bullets into the chamber and pulled the finger lever to load a bullet. He lifted the slender object up onto his right shoulder and took aim with one eye crunched up to make use of the rear and front sight. He levelled with accuracy and his finger squeezed then hesitated. Dash blew off a bead of sweat dangling from the hair of his top lip, then he aimed again at the chest of the middle aged man:


POW, clunk, POW, clunk, POW, The rifle recoiled and dust escalated off the barrel as Dash fired off three rounds. His heel boots dug into the sand as the pressure forced him back slightly.  

[Bishop Morse]

Burts


Burts finished loading in the new bullets into his weapon. He brought both pistols up beside his head and was ready to shoot at anyone who would come out. He wasn’t sure how many had been in there at all. One person taking them all down, it wasn’t inconceivable if they knew what they were doing. Right now it seemed as though he had none of his crewmen left. He had only to stand outside waiting. He hoped that there would be some sign that it was either clear, or that someone was left. There were quite a lot of dead people all around, but he didn’t care, he didn’t even notice. What mattered was getting the ship back up in the air, and cutting his losses. He couldn’t hear anything from within the cargo bay. He kept his back to the wall, and his breathing was heavy. He wanted to know the moment anything happened. But he was still fairly confident that he’d killed the one responsible. Unfortunately there was no way to be sure without going in there. He was intensely angry, and didn’t stop to catch his breath even for a moment.

Suddenly there was a crack, and a sharp pain in his chest. He felt himself thrown hard against the front of his ship. A sharp pain was in his chest, and he didn’t even see what happened. He looked down immediately at the pain and saw a whole with blood pouring from it. ”No!” He yelled as suddenly he was thrown back again. This time his legs gave out. Another hole, this one in his stomach. ”Gah, fuck!” He spat desperately, as he hit the ground. He was still up and he pushed himself back up and leaned back against the front of his ship. How could this happen? No one was a better shot then he was. He’d had the advantage, he’d had his opponent cornered. There was no where else he’d missed. He never missed anything. Then he was hit one more time, right in his chest. 

He could feel the pain all through his body, and he could feel the liquid from within him spilling out his front and his back. His mind was running with thoughts as to what he could do. How could he get away, how could he keep fighting? But there was nothing. His body was giving out. He felt himself falling over, and his head collided with the cargo ramp, his cargo ramp. All the decades he’d spent running the ship, all the things he’d done in his life, and it was at its end. Burts spat a bit of blood. His vision faded, and one eye began to close. The other, with the artificial implant, still remained open, still receiving images until finally he let go. A bloody mess, laying opposite his mechanic Grease, with his head upon the ramp of what had been, his ship.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus swore as the bullets hit him in the chest. But the combat mesh did it's job. It kept the bullets from penetrating, in exchange for a nice bruise and a kick in the chest. Each. He was on his back but after a moment he was back again, nodding to Rina or Lior or the last slave or whoever was there. He didn't care. Burts was alive, and armed and-

Who the hell was shooting? The sound of a rifle or something like it resounding and Marcus caught Burt's screams. Someone was helping them? Killing Burts?

Not dying in this charlie foxtrot situation?... yeah that's worth five-hundred. As the shots continued Marcus made his way down the steps into the cargo bay, but remained out of sight and on the steps.

When Burts finally fell to the ground, just inside Marcus's sight. He almost walked out to the man. There had to be something he could say. Something pithy and profound.

"Well that's it then." He sighed. He turned his head toward the open cargo doors. "Now I'd like it very much if the shooting stopped here. So can we agree not to kill each other if I step out there?" Whoever did this was armed at least as well as Marcus and, if the bullet holes were any indication, knew how to use what they had at least as well.