Post by Taro on Aug 4, 2017 12:04:59 GMT -5
Jett took a long drag of her cigarette. Her dispassionate eyes scanned across her fallen allies. As she stared into the whites of Tom’s eyes it occurred to her. They weren’t getting paid enough for this. A bizarre grin spread across her features. Rain and blood danced as they dripped down her face. Funny, the heaven’s wept but she could not. Jett knew how she should feel. An image of a girl face buried in her friend’s chest flashed vividly through her mind. The girl was weeping. Who was she?
Her gaze turned back to Wyatt. He’d been talking for some time.
“So, we really doin’ this?”
Her fist clenched. No concern. No fear. No soul wrenching grief. All she had was a steady river of rage.
“Just draw. You motherfuck,” she spat.
Wyatt grinned that stupid cocky grin. Their eyes locked as the empty stretch of cobbled street between them grew slick with rain. The swordsman reached for his cigarette. Jett mirrored the movement. They each took a final toke.
Her hand shot to the dial. Wyatt’s fingers glided to his hilt. She burst forward. He was gone. Crack. Her eyes darted to her hand. The dial was shattered. Jett’s feet slid across the stone as she came to a halt.
The cigarettes hit the ground.
Jett whirled around to face Wyatt, now positioned behind her. His hand hovered over his hilt. Sword already sheathed, face frozen in the same cocksure grin. She took a step forward. Blood flowered from her left shoulder.
“Huh?”
What was going on? The cowboy had hardly moved. She took another step, keeping her eyes on the blade. This time her right shoulder was slammed backwards. He’d only half unsheathed the sword. She was being shot. Shot by nothing. She raised her arms crossing them across her torso as she began to sprint. Blood splattered from the tiny titan as she pressed on forward, taking blow after blow. She drew her right arm back as she neared Wyatt’s position. His hand grasped the hilt. Again he vanished. She wobbled to the right. A stream of blood plumed from her hip – the only evidence of her enemies’ trajectory. Her left leg seized as she hit the cobbles hard.
Despite her body’s protests, she managed to draw herself to a shaky stand. She turned again. Wyatt was yet again positioned down the street. Sword sheathed. She glanced once more to Tom.
“Faith,” she wobbled forward. Despite herself she could feel it. The thrill. “Who needs it?”
Again the barrage begun and this time Jett was slower. Shot after bloody shot, the human pincushion pressed on. Her vision was starting to blur. That cocky fucker was right. She was human. She couldn’t lose this much blood. She should stop. What was she even fighting for at this point? Despite the protests of the sanest parts of her psyche she soldiered on. She was almost in range. Again Wyatt’s hand gripped the hilt. It was now or never.
Winding back a fist she swung pre-preemptively. What her eyes told her was nothing; her fist told her was a lie. The wild hay-maker had found its mark and now her knuckles were buried deep in Wyatt’s cheek. His half drawn sword slammed back into its sheath as the swordsman hit the ground hard.
“Too slow!”
Jett’s fist sprung open as she clasped it around the mercenary’s neck following him to the floor. Wasting no time she drew the left hand back and began to pummel. She couldn’t afford to give him space. She’d end this here. The sound of flesh pounding flesh punctuated each heavy blow as at last, she’d wiped that cocky grin off that stupid mug.
“Die!” she screamed as she drew back to deliver a final right. She could see the fear in him now. The eyes always betrayed the dread, the shock. It spurred him to move. With both her arms raised Wyatt seized his moment rolling back and kicking Jett over head. He scrambled to his feet, hand already reaching to draw.
Jett knew that meant death. She flew forward, leading with a knee. Wyatt blocked with his sheathed Wazamono, holding the weapon vertically to stop the strike. He braced the block with his left hand toward the bottom but allowed his right to release. The sword spun as the momentum sent the weapon spiralling backward toward its wielder. Jett raised her fist. Quickly repositioning Wyatt allowed the sword to smoothly roll over his shoulder as his hand found the hilt. In one rolling motion he drove the hilt into the crazed girl’s face with a satisfying crunch, her nose was broken.
She didn’t even blink. Her fist found his skull as she sent the skilled fighter stumbling back. It was true Wyatt was quicker, better trained, more experienced – in fact he was hands down the better fighter. Jett was used to fighting better fighters though. Good fighters knew when they'd landed a solid strike. They knew that rewarded them reprieve. In fights you won moments. You broke your opponents guard. She had no guard.
Narrowly deflecting the next strike, sword still sheathed – Jett twisted into a spinning elbow. Wyatt dropped to the ground sweeping her legs, abusing her blind spot. She hit the floor but was already moving, she had to get up.
BANG!
The pain immune punk recoiled trying to keep her feet. Her back hit a wall. Full confidence returned to Wyatt’s features, all he’d needed was space to half draw. At almost imperceptible pace he slashed outwards allowing the sheath to fly from the blade. This was the first time she’d seen the blade fully unsheathed. She knew what it meant.
“Game over, little lady.”
Really, were those really going to be the last words she'd ever hear? That didn’t seem right. Her peripheral vision was fading to black. She just about managed to see it. A glint of metal to her left – it was Tom’s munitions!
“Guess so,” she spluttered eyes firmly on Wyatt. “Just one of those last request type deals? Before I go… I’d like… one… last… bang.”
With everything ounce of strength remaining in her junked out body Jett rolled to the left. Whether or not she was fast enough was irrelevant. She wasn’t going out like a little bitch.