Another quiet night at the bar passes without instance. Old men converse
about times when they were the adventurers, rather than the reckless space-
voyagers they now criticize. They are delusional and desperate to live
those days over again.
Spike Spiegel is one of those criticized adventurers. An ex-syndicate, now bounty-hunter, Spike is someone that cares about very little but himself. In a world that is constantly rearranging, Spike retains his composure of calmness.
The door. Three men. With masks. Full-autos. Holes in the ceiling to make everyone scared. Spike is unperturbed by the incident, and continues to sip his yellow drink, his posture leaning over the bar.
The three gangsters approach the barkeep and demand every last woolong they have, and of course if he doesn't comply, his young, beautiful blond waitress will be very dead.
The money is liquidated unto the criminals, and they begin to flee. But one of the assailants turns and fires a barrage of shots before exiting the bar. Bullets careen off of walls and objects as frightened patrons scream and duck for protection.
Spike continues to drink until his glass is shattered into a hundred shards of clear glass.
He rises, a stern look upon his face.
The remaining gangster sees Spike walking towards him and begins to aim his weapon.
In a flash, Spike draws his handgun and the threat, if there ever was one, is slumped to the floor–red seeping from its shoulder.
Spike bends down to the degenerate and grabs him by the collar.
With a quick motion Spike slams his prey into the wall, his eyes deepen and his brow heightens.
"I really liked that drink."
The wounded is thrown to the floor again, the ventilated door opens and closes.
Spike Spiegel is one of those criticized adventurers. An ex-syndicate, now bounty-hunter, Spike is someone that cares about very little but himself. In a world that is constantly rearranging, Spike retains his composure of calmness.
The door. Three men. With masks. Full-autos. Holes in the ceiling to make everyone scared. Spike is unperturbed by the incident, and continues to sip his yellow drink, his posture leaning over the bar.
The three gangsters approach the barkeep and demand every last woolong they have, and of course if he doesn't comply, his young, beautiful blond waitress will be very dead.
The money is liquidated unto the criminals, and they begin to flee. But one of the assailants turns and fires a barrage of shots before exiting the bar. Bullets careen off of walls and objects as frightened patrons scream and duck for protection.
Spike continues to drink until his glass is shattered into a hundred shards of clear glass.
He rises, a stern look upon his face.
The remaining gangster sees Spike walking towards him and begins to aim his weapon.
In a flash, Spike draws his handgun and the threat, if there ever was one, is slumped to the floor–red seeping from its shoulder.
Spike bends down to the degenerate and grabs him by the collar.
With a quick motion Spike slams his prey into the wall, his eyes deepen and his brow heightens.
"I really liked that drink."
The wounded is thrown to the floor again, the ventilated door opens and closes.