ACT ONE

Scene Fifteen:

"The Last Drop"

The gun clattered on the bar counter, glinting in the afternoon light that streamed in from the windows. The Last Drop wasn't open yet, no customers were present, but half of the Jets were mingled inside.

Deckard, Action, Tiger, and Numbers stood behind their young leader. Jinx sat at the bar, unconsciously choosing the same familiar barstool she'd always picked to sit at when visiting.

Ever since the bar was changed to new management, it was never quite the same without the previous owner's warm presence.

Jinx frowned at familiar watermarks stained in the wooden countertop in front of her. She missed getting her usual drink from Vander. But she doubted they still carried the ingredients to mix the 'Powder special.'

Behind the counter stood a bald, middle-aged man, with badly healed burn scars across the side of his body and face. The lower half of his face was covered by a handkerchief. One of his eyes was milky and half-lidded, but he didn't bother covering it with an eyepatch. Whatever was hidden under the handkerchief must've been brutal.

Otherwise, he dressed like a normal guy. The rest of his thin body was layered with an apron over his golf shirt and slacks. A hairless cat prowled in the background, licking from a bowl of milk behind the bar.

Jinx didn't know his real name, only that he was referred to as 'The Doctor'. She'd bought some weed off him a couple times, but that was the extent of her of knowledge on him.

Seated at the bar, next to Jinx, was a new face; a dark-skinned woman who Jinx regarded with a sneer.

This lady was obviously this man's new muscle.

Jinx couldn't tell if she was Puerto Rican, Native American, or any other black race, and she honestly didn't care to know. Jinx regarded her with more distaste than she did to Babette.

The woman had short, black hair, with the top half tied back, and the rest of the fringe hanging down. She wore black leather, like a biker, although Jinx didn't see a Harley parked outside. And despite the heat, she wore a poncho that covered her left arm.

Her dark lips frowned at everything as she flicked out a lighter to light a cigar she put in her mouth.

Jinx wrinkled her nose, slightly recoiling at the distinct smell. It reminded her of Vander.

She liked him as a foster dad. She missed him a lot, but she didn't want to think about painful memories right now. Now, she had to focus.

"You ever fired a gun before?" the burned man asked, his Eastern European accent thick.

Jinx straightened a bit. "Sure, 'course I have," she said, chewing on a toothpick, straightening her back to appear taller, even as she slouched against the bar, nonchalantly.

"What kind?" he asked, obviously testing her.

"Colt. Revolver." Jinx answered shortly, calculatedly.

"That so?" he said, looking her up and down, "What d' it shoot?"

"Bullets!" Tiger tried to add helpfully.

Jinx and the singed man both stared at him until he shrank away, his ears red. Although Jinx could've been annoyed at his interruption, it gave her a chance to think.

".32s," she answered the man.

The woman beside the bar huffed a smoke ring. "Colt shoots .22s," she said with a smirk.

Jinx pursed her lips. "We got money," she said, pulling out a roll of bills.

The man shared the same expression as his partner and shook his head. "I don't sell heaters to unscrubbed kids," he said.

Jinx tapped her fingers on the bar. "These guys, the ones we're rumbling with, they're bringing heat," she said.

"– 'Cause they think we're bringing heat," added Deckard.

"So, we need to bring heat, so they know that we ain't defenseless," Jinx finished. "And vice versa."

Action stepped closer. The woman held her cigar between her teeth and put her hand up, blocking the girl from coming any further.

"Mutually assured destruction," she chuckled.

"I don't know what that is," Jinx said with a smirk.

The woman nodded to the gun. "That's a Smith and Wesson, Model 10. Classic of its kind," she said, running her hand over it, gingerly.

The poncho shifted slightly, and Jinx realized there wasn't an arm underneath. She caught a glimpse of something made of leather, a cable running along it, and a flash of two metal hooks in the light.

The side of her mouth tweaked a bit.

A Bowden prosthesis. Nice design. A war veteran? She couldn't be sure.

Noticing the girl's hesitation, the man shrugged. "If you want it, take it, why don't ya?" he asked, leaning with his hands on the bar.

Jinx looked at him and cocked her eyebrow. The Jets held their breath. The two adults watched her, intently.

After a long, confusing pause, Jinx tried to reach for the gun on the counter.

The man was faster. He picked up the weapon and pointed the barrel straight at her head.

Jinx didn't move.

Action sprang forward to defend her, but the woman stood up and pushed her back, with surprising strength with only one arm.

The Jets froze, waiting.

"Fires trey eights," the woman said, giving a glare to the kids before leaning over Jinx's shoulder. "Makes quite a hole for a little gun," she said in her ear.

Jinx never moved. She stayed very still.

"It's loaded," the man said, nonchalantly. "You don't gotta cock it, even. You just squeeze the trigger and –"

Jinx never lowered her gaze. She stood up from the bar stool, leaning closer with her forehead, the point of the barrel between her eyes. She looked at him with a level gaze.

"You might as well," she said, in almost a whisper.

After a moment, the man chuckled behind the handkerchief covering his lower face.

"You remind me of your dad," he said, finally.

Jinx wasn't sure which dad he was referring to, but she didn't ask. He nodded, thinking to himself, then decided to set the gun down on the counter. The Jets behind her relaxed a little.

Jinx casually rested on her elbow and held out the roll of bills.

"Leave it on the bar," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Like he said, Jinx dropped the bills on the counter beside the gun.

The singed man put the gun and a small box of ammo in a brown paper bag, handing it over to her across the counter.

Jinx took the bag, a tiny bit surprised at how heavy it was. She almost thought the flimsy bag would rip right out from under it. But its heaviness just made it feel even more real, more… powerful.

Business concluded; Jinx motioned for the Jets to leave. As they shuffled out the front door, Jinx heard the black woman chuckle behind her.

"I used to know your old man."

Jinx stopped her gate and slightly glanced over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes. Without a word.

The woman casually drew in a breath on her cigar. "'THE HOUND OF THE UNDERGROUND'…" She chuckled a little, but it didn't seem disrespectful. "Quite the boxer…" The woman nodded slowly. "Shame what happened to him. He had a lot of respect around here."

Jinx still frowned but shifted her weight on her back foot. "You knew him?" she asked.

"In passing," the woman replied, "Different times… Different wars… Different turfs…"

Jinx didn't know what to make of that.

"He was a good man," the woman said with a long look and a sincere nod.

Jinx turned her back on her, adjusting her black vest.

"He was a good father," she answered, shortly.

Then she walked away, pushed open the door, and left the bar. Squinting her eyes in the harsh light outside.

/