Half the Time the World is Ending. [P, M]

[Anonymous]

The Glory Hole was a dark place, crawling and climbing with little vile things that managed to survive in this desolate chunk of the universe. It hadn't always adopted its inappropriate nickname, but people in worlds like Lower City didn't care much for the history or proper order of things -- Rixen Glory had first started his pub in LC abouts when the city had been first founded as a place of relaxation and solace. Ruffians tended to flock towards its low-budget setting and it was not long before the Albatross began to attract a particular crowd of people. It had been a nice little tuck in the wasteland before Rixen was shot and killed by his mother because he had been sleeping with his sister; it was never the same after he died and his alcoholic cousin took over. It was all a shame, really. The cousin named the pub after its original owner, Glory, but miscreans and adolescents found it funny how convenient the only way in and out of the pub was through a hatchway and ladder that ran vertically; it was not long before their hormonal sense of humor founded the pub's more popular name and even shorter it took to catch on.

It was a general code of respect that you didn't start shit in the GH; in fact, someone had engraved Life's a pile of shit so leave your dump at the door ineloquantly into the rusted metal hatchway of the entrance. It was an unintimidating ten or so foot drop from the hatch to the pub floor -- most customers were expected to be sober coming in and sober coming out (the tenders liked to milk money out of their customers and were notorious for jipping change). The unies (another slangish term of Lower City Teinarians, short for uniformed, often used to describe police-like figures) didn't often come around these parts, knowing better than to do so -- they would most likely be outnumbered and unwelcome at sight, and the higher ups in government didn't really give much of a shit about what the rats did in their free time. So, all in all, the Glory Hole was a good place for anyone in a lot of trouble. There was only one real house rule in the GH, and it was 'if you shoot someone, clean up your own goddamn mess and take the body with you.'

People would say, "fair 'nuff."
Tamora was one of those people.

She lingered for a few moments outside of the hatchway, pinching the butt of her cigarette between her lips as she eyed bypassers. There was something about her that was stand-offish and most people knew well enough to keep walking and act as if they hadn't locked eyes with her -- she chuckled as a burly man took a strange step away from her. Flicking the dying cigarette aside, she dropped a knee and coiled gloved fingers about the handle of the latch. With a firm tug, the door groaned as Tamora pulled it aside. Without bothering with the footholds that laddered down into the illuminated pub, she jumped and found her fall balanced and clear throughout. She stood slowly and brushed the dirt off her leather jacket as she cleared her throat and scanned the room for faces. The lights were moss-green and they were awkward on the lines and features of the pub's patrons, making names and faces near impossible to recognize without a trained or familiar eye. No one but the bartender glanced at the newest addition to the GH; the tender set his jaw and mumbled something unintelligent beneath his breath as he began to prepare a drink. She took unhurried steps towards the bar and just as she seated herself, a round of shots sounded off behind her and a few gasps followed. A dead man fell to the ground and the sound of bullet rounds hitting the floor echoed. Tamora ordered her drink as the killer seized the corpse by a handful of hair and began dragging it towards the hatchway.

"Red Dragon on the rocks," Tamora spoke with a low slur, throwing a momentary glance over her shoulder to glance at the body. The tender slid a mug into her hands just as she began to speak, expectant although not enthralled by her company. "Was that Traven? Damn, he owed me a drink."

"It happens," the man mumbled, holding out his hand. "Tammy?"
She stuffed a handful of coins and he went about his own business again.
Tamora sipped her drink and made a face as the bitter zing hit the roof of her mouth.

Something in her gut told her today was not going to be a good day.

[Anonymous]

Glory Hole's ironic name had several connotations, depending on who you asked. The unofficial moniker suited a small section of its regular clientele: the bloodied and meritous veterans of the Teinari militia. On a good day, their grim presence promised a generally tranquil night. On others, they ensured a quick resolution to patron-related problems.

Corporal Puck of the 39th tipped his standard-issue cap while he dragged Traven's dead meat towards the hatch. Tybalt gave a curt nod by way of response. He ignored the trail of blood left in the carcass's wake. The corporal of the 39th Batt had terrible manners, but there was probably no one in the LC that could beat him on a fast draw. Last of the real gun slingers, as Traven had the misfortune to discover.

Besides, Traven owed everyone drinks. And he was an asshole, even by Lower City standards. Puck was far from the type to bristle at a comment about his mother - she was was a scummy prostitute till the day she died, after all - but Tybalt's finely tuned sense for these things told him no one would miss the bastard. Not enough to start a shootout over it at any rate; wasn't that what mattered in the end?

"Another purified water?" The sullen barkeep queried meekly. He looked defeated, as if he were the only person to be beset by the burdens of the world. The Glory Hole tended to do that to softies.

Tybalt made the appropriate jive for "quick, before I put a AP round through your medulla oblongata, chap". It wasn't as if he was a bastard. It was just standard operating procedure. LC crowds noticed softies. You didn't want to crack your professional carapace and get squished like a bug. Forget the wastes, home sweet home was where you were most likely to bite it.

Tybalt swallowed his chlorinated water in one quick draught. Hydration was something to be cherished. What passed for Tienari alcohol impaired reflexes and accurate shot placement. In the wastes, men died from lack of water more than catching Aedolian beams or mutant fangs or tentacle-barbs. In fact, it was probably Puck's identical choice in beverage that led to Traven's death. Those who had the audacity to make a careless remark on a Teinari soldier's water rarely left the 'hole intact.

Not that the latest newcomer to the Hole seemed like the type. Tybalt eyed the newcomer, his eyes making the most minute of whirring noises as they laboured to process light and neural signals. She struck him as a regular local hardass, shooting contemptously dismissive looks at whomever was silly enough to try their eyefuck mettle on her. Tybalt almost grunted approvingly. However the problem was, attitude hardly sufficed in ensuring one's survival.

Indeed, another timeless lesson learned in the wastes. Take a moment or ten to taste the wind, and feel the lay of the land. Tybalt's lifeless eyes glinted beneath his locks of hair as he leered at a huddled circle of lowlives a couple of tables away. The hard light glimmering from his man-made irises glinted dully from his mask-like, reconstructed face. Their tattered cloaks and decrepit coats promised concealed weapons, probably cute home-made or cheap knockoffs peddled by low-grade arms dealers. Cruel faces with hard eyes kept eyeballing the newcomer who had taken the seat next to Tybalt, Tammy or whatever her name was.

Something was up. Tybalt could smell it. The scent carried like rancid mutant breath on a wasteland morning. What was this passerby wench to them?

Tybalt let a dangling foot sealed in a combat boot run across the rectangular case under his stool. A match-grade sniping rifle with high-performance optics was far from the ideal weapon; Tybalt instead loosened the stolen piece he kept in his drop-thigh holster with a casual brush of his hand.

Tybalt addressed "Tammy" with a grunt. He did not shift from his poorly-framed posture over the abused bar counter. "Hells' bells, woman. Check your six. Local colour eyeing your tosh."

[Anonymous]

Tamora did not have to glance long at the corporal to know who he was -- the absolute clarity in the ring of his shot to her trained ears was enough. Gunslingers were a dying breed of heroes (though many often rose to debate the use of 'hero' in such a way), frontiersmen of the traditional ways and old-fashioned ideals -- they were men who sought greatness in whatever form they could find it, cowboys and warriors that followed a code of justice that required a bending the rules. They were unruly folk, unreasonably headstrong and proud, oftentimes great leaders or excellent soldiers. Most people could not understand or connect to the philosophy and life of a gunslinger's mind... after all, it was not with the people that the gunslingers found homage, but in wilderness and battle; they appreciated solitude and isolation to work their greatness. They were human weapons crafted by themselves and they did not mingle well with civilians. Murderous villains, or heroes -- glory and prestige didn't mean much to the common man. A gunslinger never called themselves one -- it was a sort of judgment that required bestowing. To be called a gunslinger was perhaps one of the greatest compliments and achievements that a man could get... but few knew this. The race of gunslingers were dying and the ideas they wore were too old to be appreciated in the eyes of others.

Tamora was, however, honored to be in the presence of a 'slinger that had survived so long.
She paid her respects by minding her own goddamn business.

The woman did not respond to the grunt, although she heard it. She continued to sip her drink cautiously, making a bitter face as it touched her lips. Only after he had spoken, had Tamora's eyes rose to the speaker and not the locals. She placed the mug soundlessly on the counter and she observed him openly. Even in the lime-light (pun intended) of the pub, her face was somewhat shadowed, hidden beneath the large brim of her hat -- they twinkled as they caught reflections from the lights hanging above, but were otherwise un-extraordinary. Her eyes were sunken with fatigue and darkness (and perhaps malice), twin points of brightness in the dirty map of her face. Scars created crevasses and deltas along her once pretty face -- traces of dirt or mud (or blood, it all looked the  same in this color of light) created texture and drew lines down her cheeks. Chapped lips, touched with a slight gloss of moisture from her drink, pressed together and smirked deviously as she leaned in, slowly, subtly. "Oh, I wouldn't fret," she purred quietly, "the gentlemen will most likely introduce themselves shortly." As if on cue, they rose in unison, eyes fixated. The woman's abnormally pointed ears twitched slightly at the sound of their chairs scraping against the pub floor; she smiled. They did not hurry as they advanced to the bar, knowing that Tamora would not escape their challenge. She finished off her drink in a quick and unexpected swig, sliding her fingers onto the cup of her mug and bringing it to her lips in a single motion of deadly precision and grace. It was subtle in its message, but Tamora's bloodthirsty eyes were not so quiet.

"Tamora," the name left the leader's lips, sexually. "Why, what a pleasure to run into you today." She turned to them and rose a brow, her trench-coat hugging her exposed stomach and breasts. "You do realize your picture is all over town, don't you? Mmmm, yes, I remember seeing it outside of Biddy's earlier today... has no one had the bullocks to confront you about this?" The leader's eyes flickered momentarily onto Tybalt, but did not remain long; he did not have any interest in the thinner man. "Who's this?" Tamora's expression grew smug. Her eyes followed to Tybalt and she laughed softly.

"He's cute, isn't he?"

A sudden commotion at the entrance broke whatever train of thought she had at that moment -- the lights flickered violently as they fought against blackout technology, but it was merely seconds before the 'Hole fell into complete darkness, save for the streetlights that poured in through the hatchway. Half a dozen or so unies slipped in flawlessly, the scout lights of their spectacle-headgear blinding as they pierced beams of light into the pub. Corporal Puck had been wrestled prone to the ground, the side of his face in a puddle of black that Tamora assumed to be blood; his arms were pinned onto the small of his back by one of the unies. As his rights were being shouted aloud to him (and as he attempted viciously to fight their grip), the other men rose their rifles and pointed accordingly to the more popular of the GH's usual crowd. Tamora was one of them. "Your friends?" She spat towards the group of locals. They grinned and took a step away from her.

"TAMORA CHURCHWILL, YOU ARE HEREBY UNDER ARREST FOR --" She twisted out of her seat with an unnatural grace and her fingers slid easily to her waist, tugging the pistol that rested there free with ease. Bang, bang. One in each eye. The officer fell over dead and Tamora twisted away into the darkness of the pub. The unies fell into formation by the door, their beams of light scouring the shadows for any trace of her.

"He's with her! Him!" The locals' ringleader pointed to Tybalt. "Take him!"

One of the officers, reacting swiftly to the command, seized Tybalt by the collar and jerked him violently out of his seat, pulling him backwards. Bang. One in Puck's forehead. He wouldn't have wanted to deal with the shit of court martial anyway.

Tamora disappeared again, behind patrons, tables, chairs --

[Anonymous]

Tybalt usually worked pro bono for the Glory Hole. It came with the territory -- the hapless barkeep was generous with his supply of purified water so long as the Teinari militia kept the peace.

This wasn't a matter of loyalty to the country. It was righting a wrong, regulations be damned. Tybalt's pale lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. The fact that the bastards had executed Puck for no damn good reason was just the icing on the proverbial cake, as the Aedolians said.

Cake. Tybalt almost snorted. He hadn't eaten it before, but apparently it was pretty good. He had read an Aedolian children's book about it, a ruined little tome he had found discarded in the wastes a long time ago.

"Cake," Tybalt grunted. He dully stared into the officer's eyes, a thousand-yard look that drilled past his helmet's ballistic visor.

"What the hell?" The officer who had the nerve to grab Tybalt's collar turned to his comrades. "Is this guy high on something or wha-"

Superceramic alloy is the stuff used in heavy industries. Think starship construction, heavy weapon barrels. Tybalt's forehead was plated with it. Hence it was little surprise that the force delivered by a headbutt from Tybalt was akin that of being hit by a battle tank.

The officer's helmet imploded like damp and ratty newsprint, vivid blood spraying through the fissures in the ruptured composite. Tybalt hissed as his artificial eyes crackled with feedback, but he kept moving, all too aware of the staccato laser bursts that seared from the riff-raff's cheap firearms. Low-yield, high rate-of-fire. Little in the way of stopping power, but it was enough to put a downer on one's day. A lucky burst caught Tybalt clean in the shoulder. The scout bit on his lip, drew blood. The beauty of low-yield laser fire was that it instantly cauterised and had very little trauma.
 
Tybalt rolled over the counter -- grunting as he laid most of the weight on his wound -- and returned fire with a couple of pot shots for good measure.

"Shit! Romy's down!"

Aggravated. The officers' weapons barked, 'take no prisoners' approach now that one of their own was downed.

The bitch -- Tammy? -- was gone, but what else was new? Tybalt was a loner, even though the standard operating procedures always called for teamwork in all things. It was just the way things went, these days. Tybalt slammed a fresh energy cell into his plasma pistol, feeling the reassuring hum that told him the weapon was prepped for the taking of lives.

The Teinari scout produced a round object from the depths of his coat with his free hand. He ignored the rain of fire that poured over the top of the counter, sending shards of shot glasses chipping into recycled linoleum and Tybalt's abused, scarred flesh. It was a standard smoke grenade, usually used for marking pick up points. In a pinch, it made for covering bloody retreats. Tybalt keyed a one-second detonation and tossed it casually over his shoulder.

It exploded in a puff of obscuring pink, immediately enshrouding the Hole in the most unlikely colour for a military piece of kit. Patrons and the local thugs coughed as they forged aimless ways through the smoke-riddled establishment.

Tybalt's teeth bared themselves in a predatory grin. The small-time bounty hunters who were after his new friend were out of the way for the meantime. He'd clean them up right after doing business with the local constabulary.

That said, the officers were a little more professional. "Go to thermal!"

Tybalt didn't give them the chance. His eyes reconfigured to infrared, he popped up and adopted a textbook firing stance, sighting down the old-school tritium sights.

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

Bang.

He was not as good as Puck, but then, you didn't have to be a flashy gunslinger to kill people.

The Teinari scout ducked back into cover, but not before catching another laser blast square in the chest. He grunted, an ugly sound that emnated from somewhere deep in his stomach. His organs, as far as he could tell, were intact, but he was in no shape to fight. The sickening smell of cooked meat, his own seared, destroyed flesh. Sustaining multiple low-yield lasers without immediate medical treatment was like the wasting disease of the wastes in a way; it snuck up on you and killed you slowly. Little holes of nothingness where your insides used to be.

Tybalt closed his eyes, a gloved hand against the gaping hole in his sternum, his sidearm clattering, forgotten somewhere between his legs.

"Put the weapon down, now!" "Hostile is compliant, stand down!" "Screw that, sir, he put four of us down-" "Belay that, I want him tried! We are police, not murderers like him! Fan out, find the woman!"

Goddamn bitch...

He wasn't sure at exactly who his inward mantra was directed to, even when some uni's muzzle cracked into his teeth. Even if his eyes had been watching, he wouldn't have been able to see. Tybalt's eyes shut down. He remembered the words of his surgeon, a ridiculous thing in lieu of his dilemma.

"They sensitive instruments, yes? Careful, solid knock can make go bye-bye, and brain get headache when neural signals make haywire," he had said in his sing-song, illiterate mastery of Teinari.

Tybalt bit his lip, refusing to make a sound. It certainly made not so much for a headache but a skull-demolishing migraine that did not marry well with his life-threatening injuries. Then heavy steps of unis, black upon black and ...

The ringing silence.