Welcome. This is my new blog. I can't say how often I'll post, or that you'll really care, but here it is. Thought I'd start with a little light music, and the first draft of Part I of the story I've been writing for, well, a long time.
Part I – The Bald Man and His Partner
His hands shook slightly, almost as if he were nervous, as he put the money into the bag. He knew something was wrong. He’d done this hundreds, maybe thousands of times, and never was it quite like this. Maybe the room was too clean, or the air filter worked too well. Whatever it was, he knew it was about to blow. He put the money in his light armor trench coat quickly, and turned toward Stern.
“Thanks,” he says, as the door shakes slightly. He hears the whine of the door ram charging, and in come the cops.
He takes one out as he dives behind the table. The smell of powder fills the air as the gunshot echoes through the musty room, surprising the authorities.
He always loved the old slugthrowers. There’s no replacement for the power and feel of an old Kolt 700. Even if he weren’t nostalgic, the fact that they did more damage than a bolter gun to a body, and they rip through E-shielding like it wasn’t there would have attracted him to the weapon.
The cops start shooting, scorching the air with bolter fire, taking out Stern, who got caught in the crossfire.
‘One less to worry about,’ he thinks, as he plans his miraculous escape.
His next shot takes out one of the cops’ knees. His next, another’s head. The bloody mess, he hopes, gives him enough shock value to spook the rookies, and he makes a dive behind the desk. He takes two hits on the way; one cut through the coat and got his side. He winces as it burns his flesh. He ignores the pain, knowing he’s dead if he slows down. He shoots out the window above him, another thing bolters aren’t good for, and turns to shoot over the desk. He draws his second pistol, another old slugthrower, and unloads wildly while making two careful shots with the first. One knocks out the lights, making the only illumination the dim, smog-filtered light reflecting off the Residential Cityblock structure across the way. This provides sufficient, though temporary, cover to quickly get up and dive out the window. He holsters the Kolt on the long fall to the Second City Level far, far below. Pressing a button on his left, cybernetic arm, he thinks, ‘Be there, dammit, be there.’ An air car swerves, honks, then speeds away, barely missing him. He presses the button again; ‘So this is it, I guess,’ he thinks as the ground rushes toward him. He looks up at the barely visible sky, obscured by enormous Cityblocks and thick smog as he braces himself, and he suddenly slows in his descent. The vague green haze around him allows him to relax, as the grav-ray pulls him into the cockpit of the waiting aircar.
“How’d it go?” the driver asks.
“You could have come quicker,” he replies.
“You could be dead.”
“Thanks,” he starts. “Went well; took down two that I’m sure of, maybe more. Think I shook ‘em up when I jumped. They didn’t expect that.”
“You got the money, though, right?” The bald man asks, taking the aircar into a tunnel to City Level One.
“Yeah, right here… dammit, I knew it should’ve hurt more.”
“What should’ve hurt more?”
“The bolter hit; it should have hurt more,” he says, as he pulls out the scorched remnants of what was once a bag full of money.