(A slow beat fades in alongside a gentle synth pad. After a few seconds, a young man's voice begins to sing:)
The bartender tightens their grip on the revolver. Your eyes go back and forth between the gun, the tape, and the rest of the bar-goers. You need that tape.
(Hold up, just stop for a minute please; I didn't catch your drift.)
You hold up your metal hand instinctively, arm outstretched, in a "stop" motion to the bartender. He doesn't lower his gun. Your other hand passes behind you, brushing up against the wall. You can feel the tally marks, each one the life of a Conean that this man snuffed.
(More death than legs on a millipede, and you call it a gift?)
"Look, I'll just leave, okay?" you say, voice shaking. There's a slight echo to your voice that only you seem to catch. The edges of objects have a faint chromatic aberration to them -- colors bleeding ever so slightly, as though not fully attached. Your heart beats faster and faster, and your head pounds painfully.
(I've been waiting, for so long. Waiting, to hold on.)
"Too late. You were dead the moment you walked through the door." His finger begins to squeeze. So do your eyes, tightly shut, arm still outstretched.
(So keep your ears to the ground, 'cause twenty million miles will never hold me down.)
Blink, and you'll miss it.
(A fast beat kicks in, along with a hard synth that crescendos upwards in volume.)
A gunshot. You open your eyes. No longer are you against the wall, but instead right up in the bartender's face. Your metal arm is twisting his gun-hand to the side, and a bullet hole has been punctured through the bartop. Your head is pounding, rhythmically. Each 'pulse' of your head, each beat of your heart, and you see the colors in the environment pulse as well. It's like a filter has been put over your eyes... or perhaps the filter was already there, and now you're seeing things as they really are. The world's heart is beating. Each object, the walls, the floor, the tables and chairs, all with their own heartbeats. All in sync with yours.
"Ah, fuck, they're a Warper!" one bar-goer says, pulling out a pistol. You still have the element of surprise, particularly on the bartender, whose face is still in shock.
(Forget about choices, just get to it.)
You grab the bartender's head with your other hand and slam it down onto the still-hot grill. He screams, face burning on the electric stovetop, and drops the revolver. You pull him back up just as one of the pool players fires at you, striking the bartender twice in the chest.
(Blame it on the voices that told you to do it.)
Who was that, on the radio? How did you move so fast? You take cover behind the bar, shoving the dead body to the side. The heavy revolver lies still on the linoleum floor, the cracks of which are now oozing with blood. You'll have to think later. For now...
(You've got a revolver and some bullets.)
There's the revolver. Five shots left. Ten opponents. Your weapons are over by the wall, out of cover. The men all shout at you, and a bullet smashes one of the taps, sending a small spray of pressurized alcohol streaming across the kitchen area.
(Reach for the trigger... and pull it!)
You grab the gun, jump up, and take your first shot. One bar-goer, wielding his own revolver, gets a bullet directly in the neck. He stumbles backwards, gurgling.
(Dubsteb with a heavy drum-and-bass backing begins to play. It's very hardcore. It's possible to hear Elek and Tronika vibing along with the music, humming electronically along with the melody.)
Four bullets. Nine opponents. More shots ring out, slamming into the wall behind you. A man grabs one of the pool cues and snaps it over his knee, making a jagged, sharp point. He charges towards you and thrusts. You simply outstretch your metal hand and grab the tip head-on, which splinters harmlessly. You wrench it from his grasp, flip it around, and shove it into his chest. It pokes out his back, dripping with blood. Holding him upright, you use him as a shield against a few more shots, then take aim at another opponent. Headshot. They land on a table, which snaps in half as they fall through it. Glasses, bottles, and silverware go scattering everywhere with a loud tinkling noise.
The pool-cue man's eyes are glazed over. You grab the part of the cue sticking out of his back, pull it all the way through, and throw it like a spear at another opponent. It gets them in the stomach, and they fall to the ground. They're not dead, but that's one less person to worry about right now.
One of the pool players begins to reload. You take advantage of that, firing your third shot. It gets him in the hand, and he drops his gun, cussing up a storm. Fourth shot gets him in the ribs, which crack sickeningly. He falls over, still.
(The beat slows as the chorus plays once again, then picks up once more as the second melody plays.)
Fifth shot, a bar-goer who scrambles for the gun on the ground. It strikes him in the spine, and he screams. "FUCK. FUCK! I CAN'T FEEL MY LEGS! I CAN'T --"
Now out of bullets, you throw the gun at the screaming man, striking him in the head and knocking him out. You vault over the bar and weave between tables as you rush for your weapons. The second pool player fires at you, nicking your arm. Searing pain shoots up the arm as blood drips from the near-miss. You push one of the circular metal tables over and roll it across the floor. Bullets ping into it, pushing little dents through but thankfully not penetrating. First, your machete, which you unsheathe immediately, spinning around to face a knife-wielding man. He swings wildly, you jab your blade into his armpit, snapping through the ribs and out the opposite clavicle. You pull the blade out, using your foot on his chest to yank it free, and he crumples in a heap on the ground.
Five opponents, one of which is still recovering from your spear-like throw.
(Once again, the beat slows, and the initial lyrics are sung. The beat drops, the synth crescendos, and the music continues even harder. Reach for the trigger, and pull it.)
You grab the Wetwork, flick off the safety, and switch to automatic. A horizontal spray --
Pfut-ut-ut-ut-ut!
-- catches three more in the chest and stomach, all of whom fall, clutching their wounds and writhing in agony. The remaining pool player attempts to shoot your kneecaps, but remembers too late that your legs are metal. You still get knocked off your feet, but at least you don't bleed. The flattened bullets fall to the ground, leaving behind gruesome dents. Another burst, and your assailant gets several shots to the chest and head.
Slowly, you get up, gather your rifle, and walk over to the remaining man, who still has the shattered pool cue in him. He crawls towards the exit, sputtering cuss words and spitting blood. "You fuckin' animal... rot in hell..." he says, every word accentuated with the stickiness of blood. You switch the safety back on the Wetwork and sling it over your shoulder. This would be a waste of bullets.
No, you simply slam one foot down onto his neck, then twist your leg sharply. He stops cussing and crawling, but continues to bleed. They all do.
(The beat fades, and the gentle synth pad comes back in, signalling the end of the song.)
The colors around everything settle back into place. Your heart is still beating fast, but your head no longer hurts. Your arm definitely stings, though, where the bullet nicked you.
You walk back behind the bar, climb up the counter, and grab the tape. You also take a moment to go through the cash register, taking any bills. You leave the coins, though, and you stare down at the dead bartender.
"Keep the change," you mutter, spitting on his corpse. You vault back over the bar, step over the bodies, and open the door into the fresh air.
The radio continues to play.
{...And that was Trigger by Fox Stevenson. Hoped you liked that one, Pat!}
[Yeah, that song's a real killer!]
