I sat alone in a corner booth, a stiff drink on the table in front of me and a pistol tucked into my waistband. In a spaceport like this, you could never be too careful protection wise; they tended to teem with your average gutter trash out to take your hard earned cash, and often armed with the tools of the trade to boot. Too often had a mercenary been fleeced of his money in a port like this because he wasn't packing, and I wasn't too keen to join the list. The rest of the guys were off somewhere else, probably taking inventory or making repairs, but since I was the only one without a real responsibility other than fighting I got the most downtime.
This was the kind of place I felt at home, in the gritty bare metal establishments frequented by the sorts of people you'd rather not meet at all, let alone in a dark alleyway at eleven at night. Neon light bathed the street outside as the occasional person filed past, dimly illuminating their features in dim colours. The bar itself stood across from me, a small counter with a few shelves full of grimy bottles behind it, and a stocky barman between them. He'd polished the same glass with a dirty rag about six times since I sat down, and seemed to be more focused on me than the glass. Irked, I gave him a glance, my eyes meeting his for a split second before he looked back down at the glass. It was starting to squeak. I reached for my glass and threw the contents down my throat, wincing a little as the alcohol burned its way down. I carried on eyeing the barkeep as he polished the glass, darting furtive glances at me as he did. I decided not to hang around, fearing the worst, and chucked a few coins onto the table as I stood up to leave, giving the barkeep a last glance as I walked out of the large, roll-up door onto the cold street, dimly illuminated by failing neon signs and the light of the stars above. I turned left towards the general direction of the port itself, starting down the street as a cold breeze blew past me.
I pulled out my PDA and fired a quick message off to Grim telling him I was on my way back, and if I wasn't back in ten minutes to trace the PDA's location and come to my aid. Deciding to take a detour, I turned right into an alleyway, not the smartest thing to do given where I was, but my better judgement was already numbed by the alcohol and I was getting sleepy too. About halfway down, I realised something was wrong and turned just in time for a hard push from behind to send me sprawling. I hit the ground in a semi-roll and pulled the pistol from my waistband, flicking off the safety catch and bringing it up to the aim. Before I could pull the trigger, however, a hard kick sent it spiralling from my grasp; it collided with a wall and discharged harmlessly into the air. I groaned as pain shot through my fingers and the back of my hand. Another kick, this time to my stomach, winded me and made me double up into a foetal position as I choked and gasped for air.
"Fuck!" I spat in desperation, trying to identify my assailant, but in the darkness it proved difficult to figure out where they were, let alone see their face. A kick to the head knocked me dizzy, my head spinning as I rolled on the floor trying to shield myself. I cursed as more kicks bruised me, finally giving up when I heard- and felt- a rib break. Another kick to the head rendered me unconscious, my last thoughts before blacking out being "That bastard barman."
AN: Yeah, pretty short chapter by all means but I just want to show I'm still alive and kicking, and also give my creative muscles a bit of a flex. Review as you wish! :D