The Challenger had been sat unattended for about three hours since it had pulled up outside the Downtown Disco. Naturally, Jack had managed to follow the lumbering machine all the way to the run-down nightclub in the scummier district of Leanbox, but it had taken him nearly the whole of his day just to make sure this was where Luke and Josh had travelled to.
It had to have been: Not only was there a black van down a side alley that looked markedly similar to that of the Mobsters' van on the robbery night, but Jack's two companions had entered the building three hours before, armed to the teeth. He was quite concerned. He had read up on Mobster activities in his free time, and as far as he could gather, they went around Leanbox and looted businesses, attacked locations of importance, and murdered anyone in their way.
So, Jack was sat on a rooftop over the street, looking down at the club. He couldn't see any of the white-suited men on the club's balcony or roof. Even if he did see them, what would he do? Shoot at them with one of his many unsilenced guns? So, for the umpteenth time, Jack swore to himself. "Shite..." he muttered. The notepad he had brought with him now had a page completely filled to the brim with small observations about the building's activities for the previous one hundred and eighty minutes. Not only that, but he couldn't even use it anyway: There wasn't enough light. He supposed he could have used his lighter, but then he risked burning the paper.
Instead, he opted to wait for five more minutes. Luke and Josh had been in there for too long. They liked it or not, Jack was going to go and get them out.
Five minutes later...
Hands in his pockets, Jack began to cross the road as the first signs of rain showed up in the skies above. The street lamps showed just how heavy the downpour was going to get, but Jack didn't particularly mind. He kept his steely gaze on the club's entrance, where a young woman stood, leaned against the wall. Just as he approached...
"I'm gonna have to stop you right there, pal," she said firmly. The woman was a fairly tall redhead with a hairband holding her short crimson hair back. Next to her was a guitar case, and her apparel seemed to be sports clothing. Jack cast a glance to her, as she checked her nails with a dull expression. "If your name's not on the list, you're not allowed in." Pretty dodgy security uniforms. Looks like she just finished a track day.
Jack narrowed his eyes. "That so?" The bouncer nodded.
"Uh-huh. Guys inside won't let anyone else in, and they paid me to make sure nobody tries. Come back another night. Not too complicated, really." The woman stopped checking her nails when the sound of a pistol hammer being slowly cocked rang out in front of her, and she froze. Jack kept the Desert Eagle level with her forehead.
"Alright then, you call that complicated, then I'll put it real fuckin' simple for you. You can either walk away from this evenin's events without a hole in your fore'ead," he began, keeping his one-handed aim steadily on her head but his gaze pointed towards the doors, "Or I can break you apart like I'm goin' to with these Mobsters." The woman blinked, not moving.
"...M-Mobsters?" she asked.
"Aye. Mobsters. Some of the ones you'd find on Death Row." Jack turned his head and looked down at the girl, who seemed visibly shocked at the word 'Mobsters', and offered a predatory grin as he pushed the barrel of his Desert Eagle against her forehead, causing her to visibly begin shaking and shrink back slightly. "If you're helpin' these bastards, then I'm goin' to assume you have a death wish as well." There was a pause, before the woman shook her head, looking determined.
"Are they really Mobsters?"
"Yeah, I did say that. You wanna walk away now?"
To his surprise, the girl shook her head. "I'm not walking away without bringing these guys to justice." Jack thought about this for a moment. Perhaps it'd be good to have someone watching my back. After a hesitation, he held his gun in a high-port position.
"Alright then..." he trailed off, watching as she went over to her guitar case and opened it. "You sure you wanna go through with this, though? These guys would kill Keanu Reeves' puppy if they had the chance. Don't think they'll avoid shootin' you, even if you're only carryin' a guitar." The girl smiled, hefting the massive greatsword that she had been concealing in the instrument case.
"I don't even know who Keyarnoo Weaves is!" she laughed. "So what're we doing here? Knocking them out and taking them to the police?" Jack tilted his head briefly, still clutching his massive silver handgun.
"If that's what you wanna do," he replied, "But I'm gonna be acin' these dick'eads if they fire a shot or take a swing." The woman looked worried, before looking more composed and nodding. Just as he was about to make the initial breach, there was a cough behind him. Quickly, he turned to face the new threat that had snuck up on hi-
"Oh, hi Cave," he greeted casually. The maid obviously was not so happy to see him: Her clothing was completely drenched, with her ribbons dripping with water, her skirt dripping with water, and her wet dress tightly hugging her body to reveal her incredible curves. Jack swallowed slightly.
oh fuck she's wearing a frilly black bra that's my weakness, oh shit, look at her face
"Skip the formalities," Cave said flatly, glaring at him as she slowly advanced underneath the archway leading to the door. "I took you for someone who wouldn't simply partake in acts of violence without real planning, permission, and reasoning, Mr. Lonesome. And yet here you are, about to attack a nightclub full of gangsters." Jack considered this, and tilted his head. The redhead bouncer raised a brow inquisitively.
"Do you know this girl?" she asked. Jack nodded.
"I do: She's supposed to be keepin' me from performin' stuff like this." Cave was now directly in front of him, glaring at him. After a silence as the shorter woman stared up into his eyes, assessing his weakness, she spoke.
"Let's put this simply, Mr. Lonesome," she began, "I am here to look after you when problems arise. Nowhere in my contract does it specify I am to stop you from doing things such as this." Jack smiled.
"See, there we go, you're actually bein' fun."
"However, I do have a personal request for you in return for my protection services, considering that you intend to drag me into high intensity firefights."
"Aye...and that condition is?"
"Every time you do something as foolish as this, and I end up dragging you out of it, you will be carrying out my tasks, chores, and requests for the day after. If you persist in doing stupid things, your punishment will increase in length." Jack blinked. "Thus, in this scenario, if I save your life from impending death, which will likely happen considering the concentration of violent criminals in this building, you will be cleaning my apartment, delivering some invitations for a lunch I am planning for my free time, and taking the place of my personal masseuse whilst she is on holiday." Jack stared at her.
"...are you really tryin' to get me to give you a massage?" he asked flatly, lowering his gun slightly in confusion. Cave folded her arms, and smirked. The other sword girl watched the exchange in confusion, casting a glance to the door, then back at them.
"Perhaps. Does kneading the stress from my womanly back, shapely rear, and succulent chest not interest you?"
"Uh..." Jack felt his face going hot at the mental image of naked Cave. "...I-I can't answer that one..." he groaned, shaking his head. He hesitated, and cast a glance to the bouncer, who was idly rocking back and forth on her heels. Clearly, she was waiting to get a move on. Then he turned to Cave again, who was uncharacteristically smirking victoriously. "In fact, you know what, fuck it, sure, deal, whatever, punishment for you helpin' me, I get it. Listen, you want a chance for that massage, then you follow in after and keep an eye on me in case one of these dick'eads gets the jump on me." After another pause, Cave nodded.
"Very well," she replied, before stepping behind him and withdrawing a menacing looking pair of scissors from a disk. There was a skull on the handle: That was probably a good thing.
"Alright, then." Jack exhaled, and stepped towards the doors, taking up a position on the left side and leaning next to the wall, Deagle held ready. The bouncer did the same on the opposite side of the doorway, before looking at him rather confusedly. "Hey...what's your name?" she asked carefully.
"Just call me London."
"OK, Mr. Drumgun," she beamed, causing Jack to commit seppuku, "My name's Falcom!" He gave a nod to her.
"Alright, Falcom: You ever breached a buildin' before?" She shook her head. "It'll be like this: Once I get that door open and fire the first shot, you two rush in and get into cover. Anyone in a white suit tries to stop you, don't hold back. Gut the fucker for all I care. Got it?" Falcom nodded, and Jack smirked. "Good. Then let's get tactical, ladies."
Jack darted to the middle of the doorway, raised his Deagle and boot, before delivering a solid kick to the metal double-doors which buckled and swung straight open. Inside the darkened room, there was a man who was knocked right back by the doors suddenly impacting him, as well as a few gangsters sitting inside that were taken completely by surprise by Jack's breaching. Heavy bass rang through the walls, presumably from the dance floor in the next room over. With any luck, it'd conceal the loud boom of his Deagle.
The first Mobster was thrown backwards with a loud thud as the door smashed into him, Jack had his aim set straight on his forehead, firing off a shot right away and snapping the man's head back with enough force that he began to backflip. A split second later, the chamber of the Deagle was closed, and Jack could acquire his new target. He pointed the gun at one of the gangsters who was still in the process of turning around in his seat and pulling a gun, then fired. Once more, the heavy bullet smacked into his face, causing him to wince as the shot hit the side of his neck, failed to penetrate, then caused him to instantly pass out, slumping out of his chair and onto the floor.
By now, the first gangster had hit the floor, and Jack had swept into the room, crouching immediately upon hearing the clink of a knife being drawn. The blade in question swept mere centimeters over his head with a white sleeve pushing it along. Jack threw his Deagle into the air as fast and high as he could, moving both of his now empty palms to grab the man's right bicep and forearm. His thumb felt the man's elbow, and it was pointing towards the ground. Good.
Jack immediately yanked the arm down and used the top of his head as a solid point with which to crack the man's elbow onto. Instantly, there came a sickening snap as the mobster's arm bent the wrong way and a bone, now dislocated, ripped through his skin and began rapidly forming a crimson patch onto his sleeve. As the man screamed, Jack used a little bit more force to flip the man over his head, sending him crashing down onto a wooden table next to him and reverting it to splinters.
As he stood, Jack heard the sound of a rifle charging handle being pulled. Fuck. That was the sound of an AK being readied. As quickly as he could, he caught the Deagle as it dropped back down to the ground and dived straight to his right behind the nearby cloakroom counter as a hail of Russian yelling with the loud roar of Soviet-era rifle fire rang out around the room. Bullets cracked against the wood of the counter, but in slower bursts than he had expected. Obviously, they were being careful not to bring the heat by letting the neighbours hear too many gunshots.
After a brief exhale, Jack got into a low crouch behind the counter, and switched out his Deagle for his shotgun, slipping in a Buckshot shell and racking the pump. A green flechette round dropped to the floor after being ejected from the chamber, and that gave him an idea. He picked it up, with his left hand, and held it ready. Then, he waited for the gunfire to slow.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, the bullets stopped, and he heard a set of footsteps beginning to approach the counter, slowly but surely. Once he could hear that the gangster was just about to turn the corner and face him, Jack set his plan into action.
He flicked the green shotgun shell straight over the desk, prompting a shocked gasp from the Mobster. The footsteps halted, and the only sound was the shell hitting the floor.
Now, Jack had to hope the Mobster was focusing on the shell and wondering what it was.
Then the footsteps began to move away from the desk.
Perfect.
Jack silently stood up, levelled his shotgun right at the gangster's back, and let loose with a flurry of Buckshot. The bald man yelled out in pain and surprise, staggering forward and moving his left hand from the AK's foregrip to clutch at his spine. In that brief moment, Jack vaulted the low counter, flipped his gun so he could use it like a club, and delivered a solid, two-handed swing to the back of the gangster's head. There came no response outside of the man's groan, and the sound of him crumpling to the floor.
The gun dropped to the floor as well.
Jack picked it up, and examined it, eyeing the rifle. It had been barely modified; Practically a mint condition AKM, with only a few scratches here and there.
"Ohhh..." he murmured, pausing and looking the gun over. Then he nodded firmly, and stored it in his disk. "This is mine now."
Just then, he heard footsteps behind him, and he swept his shotgun around, racking the pump as he went so he could face the threat.
It was Cave and Falcom.
Jack lowered his gun, and raised a brow. "Glad to see you contributed, girls," he said snarkily, standing up straight. "Where were you?"
"Outside," Falcom replied, "Waiting for the gunfire to stop." Jack frowned.
"Why?" Cave shot him a deadpan look.
"You may be equipped with centuries-outdated projectile weapons and grade two-A ballistic protection, but we certainly are not. We were simply being careful." Jack shrugged.
"Fair enough. Then I'd suggest you stand next to doors and keep an eye out for anyone tryin' to sneak up behind." Without further argument, he turned, and examined the room. Around the place, there lay four white-suited gangsters: Three were unconscious, and the one who had his arm broken was lying on the remains of a table, groaning and crying. The place was also a dump: In one area of the room, the guy who Jack had shot the in the neck had dragged his table and chair onto the floor with him, lying in a pile of bullet casings that were undoubtedly from the AK. The table had been turned onto its side, the smashed glass in front of it suggesting that they didn't finish their drinks before Jack kicked their asses.
The man who had been hit by the door was in no better shape: His nose was likely broken, and he was sporting a large red mark where Jack had shot him in the face. Jack frowned, and put his shotgun away, crouching down to assess the man's injuries. He gripped the lapels of the injured gang member as if interrogating him, tilting the blonde's head side to side to check what was done. Cave walked up next to him. "What's wrong?" she asked. Jack squinted slightly, poking the area where his bullet impacted.
"Mostly just confused about the ballistics, 's all," he replied, scratching his stubbled beard. "I shot this bastard with a forty-four Magnum round. I remember my Dirty Harry quotes rightly, and I'd like to think I do, forty-four Magnum is able to blow your head clean off." He cast a glance up to Cave. "This guy's head is clearly not blown clean off." Cave kept her usual flat expression.
"Well, he is level eighty nine," she said smartly. "Perhaps your bullets aren't enough to cause significant injuries to such levels of person." Jack shrugged, considering it.
"Yeah, that must be it," he sighed, pulling his Deagle out again and standing up, before turning to the bar counter and hopping it.
"What are you looking for?" Cave asked again, approaching the counter alongside Falcom, both women looking over the bar to see what their larger male companion was doing. Jack was perusing the drawers beneath the counter.
"Juuust lookin' for a way to hold these wankers down for when we get the police here," he said casually. He paused, reached further into a cubby-hole, and grinned, withdrawing a 200-pack of extra length cable ties. After a moment of fiddling, he took out eight of them, and handed them to Cave and Falcom, who both accepted them confusedly as Jack stood. He gestured to the Mobsters. "Wrap one around their ankles, and one around their wrists. Bind their hands and feet together so they can't leg it whilst our backs are turned. With any luck, they'll all still be here when the feds show up." The two redheads nodded after a moment, before running over to the thugs to tie their arms and legs together.
After she'd arrested the first Mobster she went to, Cave hesitated at the sight of the man whose arm was, quite definitely, broken. Cautiously, ignoring his snivelling, she bound his ankles together, then looked at his wrists. She couldn't exactly tie them together without causing him serious pain. She looked at her remaining cable tie. Then she looked at a nearby radiator. Then she cable-tied his non-broken arm to the radiator piping, and proudly walked away. Jack, by then, had hopped the counter again, and was reconvening with Falcom. The taller man flicked his eyes towards Cave. "You're not bindin' his wrists?" he asked, putting his hands in his pockets. Cave shook her head.
"I was concerned I might cause him significant damage by moving his broken arm," she replied, hands behind her back. "Thus, I considered that he would get no use out of his broken arm, and bound his wrist to a solid steel pipe." Jack just shrugged.
"Fair enough." He looked at Falcom. "How about you, you got your two down OK?" She smiled.
"Out like lights."
"Perfect. So for the next bit, we have two choices." Jack began, gesturing to the staircase on the other side of the room. "First option, we head upstairs towards the dance floor, where undoubtedly there'll be a ton of gangsters." Falcom squinted.
"That doesn't sound like fun," she noted.
"Alternatively, we go that way," Jack continued, gesturing to a corridor that was set to the right of the bar. "I'm gonna make a guess that it leads to the upstairs private rooms. Closer quarters. Probably gonna have less gang members, too, and it'd likely lead around as a good flanking method for the dance floor." Falcom nodded, placing her sword on her shoulder and left hand in her pocket.
"Yeah, you're right," she interjected. "Upstairs, there's the kitchens, manager's office, and the six private dance rooms. Also leads to the DJ booth on the other side of the dance floor, so you can use that as a vantage point."
"Private dance as in personal disco?" Cave asked. Jack waved his hand dismissively.
"Nah, I think she means small disco floor," he replied. Falcom shook her head, smiling and scratching the back of her hair.
"Uh...no, they're...not those kind of private dances." Jack considered this. Cave considered this.
"You mean like lap dances and strippers?" Jack asked. Falcom chuckled.
"Yeah...you got there in the end, I guess." Jack, however, folded his arms.
"Why's a nightclub got private dance rooms?" The two redheads cast confused glances at him, and paused. "What?" Finally, Cave grabbed his biceps, forcefully turning his body to look down at her.
"This is a strip club, Mr. Glovebox," she said calmly and clearly. "I had first assumed you has come here to indulge in your strange fantasies, but obviously I was wrong." Jack stared at her in surprise, then smirked.
"Well, if this is a strip club, then I think I've already indulged in some of those 'strange fantasies' you said I've got," he chuckled, brushing her grip off. "For instance, I've severely injured four Soviet gangsters in a nightclub, and I'm about to partake in a hostile takeover using an AK rifle."
Cave raised a brow at the suggestion that this was his fantasy, but opted to question something else. "It was never specified that you had an 'Ay Kay'," she noted. "It's been confirmed that you have a 'portable David Cameron removal device'-"
"Double-barrelled shotgun." Jack corrected, scratching his stubble.
"-a 'pump-action shit slapper'-"
"Mossberg 500 tactical shotgun."
"-the 'handheld fuck-you device'-"
"IMI Desert Eagle forty-four Magnum handgun."
"-the 'world's best Vietnam simulator'-"
"Dragon's Breath shells. Those don't count."
"-two 'brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrts'-"
"Huh? Oh, the Skorpions. I still have those, I think. Have I even used them?"
"-and your two knives, plus your extendable black stick."
"It's a baton," Jack said firmly. "A stick falls from trees. A baton is used to beat people senseless after you've dropkicked 'em to the ground when they were five meters away from their escape van."
"You still do not have the 'Ay Kay' you mentioned," Cave interrupted him, folding her arms. "If it is mission critical information, then I suggest you explain." Jack sighed, and gestured to the doorway leading up to the manager's offices.
"Then I'll explain on the go."
The next floor up, five minutes and thirty seven seconds later...
"...designed it in such a way that the Automat Kalashnikov family of rifles is difficult, if not impossible to jam or break," Jack explained. He leaned back to avoid a golf club being swiped down at him, bringing his right knee up hard into his opponent's right ribcage and causing a satisfying crack. The man staggered back slightly, dropping his weapon and turning his head towards the source of the pain. Jack took advantage of this, flicking the machine-gun in his hands so that the bottom of the solid wood stock bashed straight into the Mobster's head, with an almost sickening splatter of blood jetting from a few orifices of his face and sending him straight backwards, screeching Russian obscenities.
His stumbling was cut short as Cave extended a leg, tripping him over and through a glass side table with a loud smash. The moment he'd hit the floor, Cave was ready, stepping to the side and delivering a kick to the side of his face. After a loud grunt, the man lay still in a pile of glass, groaning and bleeding onto his white suit jacket. The next room over, a loud commotion could be heard amongst the pounding bass from the dance floor. Jack lowered his AK, and looked to Cave.
"You want me to keep explainin' why this gun's fuckin' great? Or was me bashin' his fuckin' teeth down his throat enough?" he asked, smirking. The woman gave a deadpan look.
"The information will not affect me in any way, shape, or form," Cave sighed, shaking her right foot slightly to alleviate a throb that had arisen from kicking the gangster in the teeth. "If anything, it only makes this situation more ludicrous."
"How's it ludicrous?" Jack demanded. "This is crime-fightin'!"
"Vigilantism is the correct word," she retorted, narrowing her eyes at him. "Vigilantism, if not properly supported by the basilicom, Lady Green Heart, or a member of the RRoD, is theoretically illegal."
"Good thing you're a member of the RRoD, then," whistled her gun-toting companion. She groaned, and questioned why she'd leapt at the chance to look after Mr. Glovebox. Between the two as they stood in a room with a stripper pole on a stage and an unconscious gangster, there was silence. They hadn't exactly planned to end up in such a room, but it was part of the plan to surround the main dance floor, where they'd seen a lot of gangsters standing around from the manager's office upstairs. The next room over, there was the sound of men screaming, things being smashed, and a sword being swung around quite audibly. "'sides, Falcom sounds like she's doin' alright, think we should help?"
Gunshots rang out, and Falcom yelped loudly.
"Fuck, let's go," Jack said quickly. Cave nodded, and Jack sprinted over to the door into the next area, introducing his right foot to the lock and sending the wooden door flying off its hinges. The gunfire suddenly roared into a much louder existence, as well as the Russian yelling become much more clear.
Marching into the DJ's booth, he racked the bolt on his new AK (which he had practically fallen in love with at this point) and scanned the room. Either side of the booth, there was a bar counter, behind which there was situated about six or seven mobsters either side. All of them had their guns trained on a single plant pot that was surrounded by about thirteen injured gangsters, all in varying states of damage.
Presumably, behind that plant holder was Falcom, curled up in a ball and shaking. And Jack wouldn't be having that, because that would be sad.
He turned, and looked back at Cave. "Vault behind the counter on the right and drop 'em," he ordered. "I got the dick'eads on the left." Illuminated by the blue lights in the DJ booth, Cave nodded, and moved up next to the control panel, crouching behind the wall similar to how Jack was doing opposite her.
There was a hesitation. Jack grinned. "I love this fuckin' song," he said calmly, gesturing to the iPod that was connected to the mixing desk. "Solid tune. Fits what we're doin'." Cave was about to reply with a witty insult, but stopped. That was a fair point: The music was quite good.
"Ready?" she asked, stooping low and drawing her scissors once more.
Jack nodded, and got into a similar crouch, raising his AK. "Ready."
"Let's go."
Cave turned to vault her low wall, and Jack stood and brought his AK to bear on the gangsters, who were all in a line behind the counter. Without any of them noticing him until it was too late, he squeezed the trigger and began to unload dozens of seven-six-two rounds into the group of thugs, catching them all off guard. Each of them fell, one after the other, in a pile of broken glass, ruined suits, and cheap booze. However, the thug furthest from Jack's hailstorm of lead managed to use his nearby man as a meatshield, and one-handedly swung his M249 to face the booth, before beginning to shoot from the hip, Jack's shots impacting the man in front and swiftly knocking him unconscious. As the bullets snapped and pinged around him, Jack was forced to get back behind cover.
On the other side of the booth, Cave kept low with her scissors drawn, ducking beneath an initial shot from a thug's pistol and sweeping at his legs with her sword. He yelled in pain as his feet came out from under him, sending him tumbling jaw-first onto the marble worktop with a loud smash of bone. Cave slid underneath him as he fell, using her momentum to cut upwards at the second white-suited man, knocking the half-opened butterfly knife from his hand. She followed this up by bringing her other leg up after her strike, kicking him straight in the face and sending him backwards into his fellow man.
In the brief moment of respite, Cave decided that she could spare no expense against the remaining four men: Standing firm, she extended her right arm, and summoned the five mechanical focusing devices around her wrist. Then, she cleared her mind, and let a slow expanding ball of crackling green energy appear in her hand. Her opponents couldn't think of a suitable reaction. However, one did think of a reaction.
He wiped his mouth clear of his wounded friend's blood, and raised his shotgun to aim at Cave's face.
Cave's blood went cold.
She could barely utter a weak "No..." before a hail of pellets smashed into her head, throwing her back onto the first thug and sending her scissors flying. The five drones dispersed. She couldn't hear clearly or see straight as she looked to the ceiling, with the bass being muffled and the disco lights blurring into an unrecognisable mess above her. She couldn't move.
She could feel her breathing speed up, then a sharp pain in her ribcage as someone kicked her. Cave let out a loud scream of pain, but it didn't stop the next set of kicks that attacked her ribs again, her stomach, her face and back, unrelenting in their beating as six mobsters all quickly gathered around to beat her into submission.
She had never experienced anything this painful, and she didn't know if it was going to stop. She continued screaming, hoping that Jack would hear.
And hear he did.
Through her blurred vision, the gangster who was raising his boot above her head to finish her off was suddenly pulled to the side, before a loud bang rang out and he jolted the other way to the ground. The kicking stopped, and a black and green blur marched over her, grabbing another thug and slamming a fist into his face with a muffled thud. He kept his hand there for a moment, before sharply pulling it away and kicking the gangster backwards. There was a purple flash in his hand, and a large grey shape appeared. Jack's muffled voice said something, before he began to move away from Cave and swipe violently at a nearby mobster. The man had no time to react: The grey shape hit his shoulder for a moment, held in place, before having it suddenly pulled free and kicked away. A moment later, there was another loud boom, and Jack staggered back. In response to the shotgun blast, he raised his right hand, and began firing a gun.
Again. And again. And again.
He wasn't stopping.
A few moments later, which had melded together in Cave's stunned mind, the gunfire stopped, and Jack ran straight over to her. His image was rather clear now, but the edges of her eyes were blurry. Goodness, she'd been crying. After a moment, she felt herself being moved to the wall behind the counter and sat up by Jack, who began to assess her face. "Fuckin' hell, Cave, speak to me!" he yelled. The woman groaned, and looked at him.
"I-I'm..." she stuttered. "I-I'm fi-fine..." Jack let out a sigh of relief, and leaned back slightly.
"Jesus fuck..." he whistled. "Don't scare me like that, alright?" Cave stared at him in a daze.
"...y-yes...sorry..." There was a quiet moment between the two. Over the room, the machine-gun thug yelled out in pain as Falcom let out a fearsome cry of rage, swinging her sword into his legs and pommel-smashing him in the face. Jack began going through his bag, and looked back at Cave.
"You're not bleedin'," he said, "But as far as I can see, you might have an 'orrible concussion." Cave nodded, and sniffed. Jack sighed. "Fuckin' hell, don't cry," he muttered, rubbing his eyes, "Otherwise I'll end up cryin'. Anyway, it's over. I dealt with those fuckin' cunts." A brief gesture over to the pile of bodies nearby indicated that he hadn't just knocked them out.
The one she thought he'd knocked out with a pistol shot to the head had a massive, ragged hole through the side of his skull, leaking bits of brain onto the floor. Another who she had seen being punched, sported a thick red wound down the center of his face that dribbled blood and gore over his pristine white blazer. It went on like that.
All six of the men lay dead in extremely gruesome ways.
She held back vomit.
Was she going to cry?
She had a reason to, now.