Flash Fic- Always Have an Exit Strategy
Another Chuck Wendig flash fiction challenge. The original challenge can be found here.
Tom woke up to the sound of gunfire. His eyes snapped open and he found himself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. There wasn’t that crack that ran toward the corner, threatening to spill the ceiling down on top of him. There wasn’t that water stain that kind of sort of looked like Winston Churchill if you squinted real hard. He was also on a bed that he knew wasn’t his. For one thing, he was on a bed. His bed was so infested with vermin that the only way to deal with it would be to set it on fire, except he was worried that the bugs would suddenly mutate into flame-resistant vermin.
He tried to sit up, tried to get a better perspective of where he was, but there was something large and heavy pinning his arm down. He started to panic, as the sound of gunfire was growing louder, and he had a vague sense that he was supposed to be somewhere. Somewhere that wasn’t a soft bed where he’d been tied down by one arm. One arm? That meant he had other arm free. He twisted his body and began to push, but whatever was on his arm protested and snuggled in closer? Wait? Snuggled? Tom was a hard bitten cyber-augmented mercenary who lived in a firetrap, vermin infested flat and killed people for other people who had the chronic habit of occasionally trying to kill him. He wasn’t the sort of person that you snuggled with! Just how much did he have to drink last night? His mouth did rather feel like something had curled up to die in it, and the little men with their hammers and picks were doing a number on his temples so the answer to that was probably quite a bit.
“Do you have to go?” the person on his arm asked, her voice a soft sleepy purr. He risked looking down, saw a mass of red hair and cotton sheets. He tried to remember her name.
“Err…” he said. He tapped the side of his head and his heads-up display came to life. A few eye twitches and blinks later brought up his calendar for the day. Turned out he had a noon meeting with his new employer. His heads-up conveniently told him that it was eight in the morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he was awake at such an unholy hour of the morning. Well, that wasn’t quite true, except that he was usually going to bed soon after.
“Why not stay for breakfast?” she asked, snuggling closer, placing her leg over his. That made Tom realize that she was naked, and so was he. “I can make pancakes.” She nibbled on his ear.
“Do you hear gunfire?” Tom asked. He searched his internal memory, but evidently he had turned off both video and audio recording last night. So much for figuring out what her name was. Still, he was a hardened professional. He should be able to make it through the morning just fine.
“Oh, that’s just Sam,” she said. “Probably watching a Western. He just loves old movies.”
“Sam?” Tom asked.
“My son. He’s about ten.” There was a pause. “Oh, his daddy is long gone and out of the picture. So how about it? Pancakes?”
Tom tried to remember his training. Sure, there were protocols for dealing with enemy agents, explosive devices, and hostage situations. Surprisingly enough, there were very instructions on how to deal with one night stands other than “Don’t.” Tom knew he needed an exit strategy. You were supposed to always have an exit strategy.
“Sure,” he said.
“Great,” the woman said. She got up, and walked over to another room. Tom looked over, admired her form in the darkness, her back, her ass, her long long legs. She was shorter than him, but not by much. She turned, winked at him and disappeared into the shower.
Tom jumped up, found his clothes, got dressed. His clothes smelt like lavender and tequila, but he should have time to get back to his apartment and get dressed. He picked up his boots, figuring he would carry them until he was out the door before putting them on. He pushed open the bed room door and stepped out to see a little red-headed boy with eyes the color of spring grass staring at him.
“Hi Mister.”
“Uhm… hi.”
“My name is Sam.”
“I’m Tom. Is that True Grit you’re watching?”
“Yep.”
“That’s the original isn’t it?”
“Yes it is.”
“Cool. You mind if I watch it with you?”
The boy nodded his head, went back to sit on the couch with his bowl of cereal.
“Hey, your mom says she’s going to make pancakes.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
Tom put his boots down and sat on the opposite end of the couch from Sam. “Really.” Sure, it was important to have an exit strategy, but when there was True Grit and pancakes in the offing, well, suddenly it didn’t seem as important.
“Hey Sam?”
“Yeah Tom?”
“What’s your mom’s name?”
Tom woke up to the sound of gunfire. His eyes snapped open and he found himself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. There wasn’t that crack that ran toward the corner, threatening to spill the ceiling down on top of him. There wasn’t that water stain that kind of sort of looked like Winston Churchill if you squinted real hard. He was also on a bed that he knew wasn’t his. For one thing, he was on a bed. His bed was so infested with vermin that the only way to deal with it would be to set it on fire, except he was worried that the bugs would suddenly mutate into flame-resistant vermin.
He tried to sit up, tried to get a better perspective of where he was, but there was something large and heavy pinning his arm down. He started to panic, as the sound of gunfire was growing louder, and he had a vague sense that he was supposed to be somewhere. Somewhere that wasn’t a soft bed where he’d been tied down by one arm. One arm? That meant he had other arm free. He twisted his body and began to push, but whatever was on his arm protested and snuggled in closer? Wait? Snuggled? Tom was a hard bitten cyber-augmented mercenary who lived in a firetrap, vermin infested flat and killed people for other people who had the chronic habit of occasionally trying to kill him. He wasn’t the sort of person that you snuggled with! Just how much did he have to drink last night? His mouth did rather feel like something had curled up to die in it, and the little men with their hammers and picks were doing a number on his temples so the answer to that was probably quite a bit.
“Do you have to go?” the person on his arm asked, her voice a soft sleepy purr. He risked looking down, saw a mass of red hair and cotton sheets. He tried to remember her name.
“Err…” he said. He tapped the side of his head and his heads-up display came to life. A few eye twitches and blinks later brought up his calendar for the day. Turned out he had a noon meeting with his new employer. His heads-up conveniently told him that it was eight in the morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he was awake at such an unholy hour of the morning. Well, that wasn’t quite true, except that he was usually going to bed soon after.
“Why not stay for breakfast?” she asked, snuggling closer, placing her leg over his. That made Tom realize that she was naked, and so was he. “I can make pancakes.” She nibbled on his ear.
“Do you hear gunfire?” Tom asked. He searched his internal memory, but evidently he had turned off both video and audio recording last night. So much for figuring out what her name was. Still, he was a hardened professional. He should be able to make it through the morning just fine.
“Oh, that’s just Sam,” she said. “Probably watching a Western. He just loves old movies.”
“Sam?” Tom asked.
“My son. He’s about ten.” There was a pause. “Oh, his daddy is long gone and out of the picture. So how about it? Pancakes?”
Tom tried to remember his training. Sure, there were protocols for dealing with enemy agents, explosive devices, and hostage situations. Surprisingly enough, there were very instructions on how to deal with one night stands other than “Don’t.” Tom knew he needed an exit strategy. You were supposed to always have an exit strategy.
“Sure,” he said.
“Great,” the woman said. She got up, and walked over to another room. Tom looked over, admired her form in the darkness, her back, her ass, her long long legs. She was shorter than him, but not by much. She turned, winked at him and disappeared into the shower.
Tom jumped up, found his clothes, got dressed. His clothes smelt like lavender and tequila, but he should have time to get back to his apartment and get dressed. He picked up his boots, figuring he would carry them until he was out the door before putting them on. He pushed open the bed room door and stepped out to see a little red-headed boy with eyes the color of spring grass staring at him.
“Hi Mister.”
“Uhm… hi.”
“My name is Sam.”
“I’m Tom. Is that True Grit you’re watching?”
“Yep.”
“That’s the original isn’t it?”
“Yes it is.”
“Cool. You mind if I watch it with you?”
The boy nodded his head, went back to sit on the couch with his bowl of cereal.
“Hey, your mom says she’s going to make pancakes.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
Tom put his boots down and sat on the opposite end of the couch from Sam. “Really.” Sure, it was important to have an exit strategy, but when there was True Grit and pancakes in the offing, well, suddenly it didn’t seem as important.
“Hey Sam?”
“Yeah Tom?”
“What’s your mom’s name?”