Ficlet: Special Delivery (Weiss Kreuz, PG-13)
For lauand
Crawford/Schuldig, prompt "In the middle of it"
250 words of them at work
Special Delivery
Crawford reloaded, shot four times, sank back to one knee behind the pillar. Only one of those shots would be a kill, but the others would keep the rest of his opponents under control a while longer.
Speaking of reminders - I hope you're bringing more ammunition.
I thought you just wanted the paper and some milk! Hell, I'll go back if you want, though I think the newsagent probably won't have the right calibre.
Another shot. A satisfying, cut-off noise. If I have to do all the work I'll take the whole payment.
There was only silence in his head, then, There are another six out here.
Crawford sighed. He had five shots left. He needed these fools' weapons. He closed his eyes a moment, letting the futures roll out before him, all the ways in which he died the moment he moved an inch from safety, or somehow got to the door with a lead-shattered knee. Hopeless. In all possible futures his suit was ruined.
He opened his eyes and smiled as the sound of automatic gunfire started outside, was running straight at the nearest fool immediately. Two shots: chest, head, catch up his gun before he'd finished falling, turn, shoot, another down. One left, backing away, turning as the door opened.
Schuldig watched too many movies. But Crawford had to admit he did look pretty good against the light with a machine gun. The noise was deafening.
"Hey, baby," Schuldig said, stepping over the corpse. "Skimmed milk OK?"
Crawford/Schuldig, prompt "In the middle of it"
250 words of them at work
Special Delivery
Crawford reloaded, shot four times, sank back to one knee behind the pillar. Only one of those shots would be a kill, but the others would keep the rest of his opponents under control a while longer.
Speaking of reminders - I hope you're bringing more ammunition.
I thought you just wanted the paper and some milk! Hell, I'll go back if you want, though I think the newsagent probably won't have the right calibre.
Another shot. A satisfying, cut-off noise. If I have to do all the work I'll take the whole payment.
There was only silence in his head, then, There are another six out here.
Crawford sighed. He had five shots left. He needed these fools' weapons. He closed his eyes a moment, letting the futures roll out before him, all the ways in which he died the moment he moved an inch from safety, or somehow got to the door with a lead-shattered knee. Hopeless. In all possible futures his suit was ruined.
He opened his eyes and smiled as the sound of automatic gunfire started outside, was running straight at the nearest fool immediately. Two shots: chest, head, catch up his gun before he'd finished falling, turn, shoot, another down. One left, backing away, turning as the door opened.
Schuldig watched too many movies. But Crawford had to admit he did look pretty good against the light with a machine gun. The noise was deafening.
"Hey, baby," Schuldig said, stepping over the corpse. "Skimmed milk OK?"