I don`t know who got off the first shot, but I know sure as shit that neither one of us hit the other. The bartender and patrons dive for cover. I do the same, tipping over a table for a lack of anything better to hide behind. Not that a piece of wood is going to do much besides to slow down a round from an M9. At least it`ll obscure me for long enough to figure out what the hell my next steps are going to be.

　　THUK-THUK-THUK-THUK.

　　The table starts to splinter around me. Those rounds aren`t the heaviest in the world, nor the fastest, but he`s got enough of them in a mag that he`s going to hit me sooner or later. Me, being the dumbass I am, didn`t think to wear my 鄏mored jacket when I was just going out for a drink. And in contrast to him, I`ve only got four shots left to make it count. I take a quick glance around my ad-hoc form of cover. The brief glimpse tells me that he`s done the exact same thing, except on the other side of the room. For my efforts though, I get showered with a faceful of wood splinters as he blindfires another shot around the table. Fuck it. I draw back the hammer on my revolver, and I aim around the table.

　　KA-BANG.

　　I just reminded myself to never single hand this thing ever again. Feels like I might`ve sprained my wrist. Sounds like I might`ve shut the prick and his little yappy dog of a pistol up, though. Just as I prep to stand up to see my handiwork, I hear him rushing towards me. I brace—

　　Only to hear the chiming bell attached to the door as the guy boots it out of the bar. Standing up, I notice that I took a solid chunk out of the corner of the table. No wonder he ran. My table looks like it`s been wrung through the cycles a few times, but I make the effort to re-right it. I`d chase after that asshole, but I`m not too keen to follow him into the night where there might be more than one dick waiting to shoot me in the chest. I guess I could take time to apologize to the bartender by increasing his tip just a little bit more, and accounting for the tables that we just destroyed—This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

　　My commlink chirps as I put another chit in the tip jar. I can wait to check that. I lean over the counter to wave at the bartender. He offers me a shaky wave in return

　　My commlink chirps. Again. And again. I sigh, and finally flip open my messages.

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　　Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

　　I take off through the door. Fuck. This was a bad idea. I couldn`t have known, but I should have realized with all the corpsec skulking around that it was only a matter of time. I don`t care if someone is going to try and jump me. I need to get back to the garage as fast as I can. I`m sprinting way harder than I should, considering each footfall is making every ounce of my body burn. At least I can quietly thank the synthmuscle for carrying me as far as I`ve gone. Even with the augs, I can`t keep up this pace. Can`t? No. Shouldn`t. Not letting this happen a second time.

　　It feels like it`s been hours of running, but I know it`s only been minutes. There`s no way I`d been that far off from the market. And there`s no way I could`ve sprinted for longer than that. Fuck. Good way to get sober quick. My lungs burn and my stomach isn`t agreeing with the cheap booze, but I`ve only got a block to go.

　　I draw my revolver, popping the cylinder and loading the missing two rounds back in. Clack. I snap it back in place, and give it a spin for good luck. If I get out of this alive, I`m swearing off cheap alcohol for life. Okay. Maybe not life. A few days.

　　The garage. I drop to a hurried shuffle on the approach. Things aren`t looking promising. The door looks like it`s been hit a few times by a breaching ram. Fuck. They`re already inside.