(no subject)
Detroit, Michigan
September 1983
Domino was leaving town. Her backpack was at her feet, and she was just waiting for a bus to come and take her to the Amtrak station. Detroit was crap, the gang she'd fallen in with was crap, and the entire world could kiss her inhumanly white ass, for all she cared.
She had a Walkman in her pocket, which had belonged to the guy who'd brought her into the gang. Now that he was dead, she didn't care about any of the people she was surrounded by. The tape was a mix of punk songs and hard metal, but it didn't cover over the sound of gunfire from a nearby building.
The building was completely generic, even down to the name. The young woman perked up, interested in the trouble she might witness, and that it wasn't her at the heart of it.
She only got involved when a stray shot hit the bus stop hut, shattering the glass on one side, before embedding itself in the metal pole above her head. Domino was many things, including impulsive and unfond of being shot at.
Without a thought she grabbed a gun out of her bag and ran to the fight, which had poured out into the parking lot. A big man seemed to be outgunned by a bunch of guys in lab coats. Guys in lab coats weren't high on Domino's list of things she liked.
She crouched behind the sign for the company, sighting the men like the priest had showed her during their hunting trips. The pistol wasn't well made for it, but she did her best, and took out two of the men with a lucky shot.
The guy who had once been outnumbered took out the last one, then began looking for his helper. Domino kept her gun ready to bear, but stepped out from behind the sign, five feet three inches of attitude and curse words. He moved toward her, holstering his gun.
"Tell me you made that shot." It had been an unbelievable day for him already. What was one more unbelievable thing?
Domino looked (way) up at him, noticing how muscular he was. He's definitely her type of guy. "Sure. I'm good with a gun. Why were they shooting at you?"
He shrugged. "Can't tell you. I'm George Bridge. You. . . you're a weird little girl."
She huffed, glaring at him. "I'm not a little girl. Do these tits say little girl to you?" She indicated her rather voluptuous chest, which was under a rather tattered t-shirt advertising Ozfest.
The man just laugh. "I guess not. You'd get along well with the people I work for. What's your name?"
"Domino." She eyed him, daring him to say anything about her name. It was a lot safer to call herself that than her real name.
"Why don't you meet me at Lots of Luck. It's a Chinese food place downtown. I owe you one for saving my life, and I think I could use a shot like you around."
Domino nodded slowly. "You're not part of some kind of gang, right?"
He shook his head. "No. I work for myself, and you would too. Six pm sharp, or I'll leave without you." He turned to leave, getting into a heavily modified panel van.
Domino went back to the bus stop, noticing a bulky old man sitting on the bench. She gave him a quizzical look. He watched as she picked up her backpack, checking it carefully to make sure it had all her things in it.
"You should be more careful. Things like that will get you attention." The voice was rough, and it surprised Domino that someone's voice could sound so much like a growl.
"I don't care. I'm leaving anyway." She didn't sit again, but leaned on the lightpost close to the bus stop.
The man didn't say anything else, so Domino ignored him. she was plotting how to get to the Chinese food place on time. This George Bridge guy sounded like her ticket out of Detroit. At least, she hoped he was.
September 1983
Domino was leaving town. Her backpack was at her feet, and she was just waiting for a bus to come and take her to the Amtrak station. Detroit was crap, the gang she'd fallen in with was crap, and the entire world could kiss her inhumanly white ass, for all she cared.
She had a Walkman in her pocket, which had belonged to the guy who'd brought her into the gang. Now that he was dead, she didn't care about any of the people she was surrounded by. The tape was a mix of punk songs and hard metal, but it didn't cover over the sound of gunfire from a nearby building.
The building was completely generic, even down to the name. The young woman perked up, interested in the trouble she might witness, and that it wasn't her at the heart of it.
She only got involved when a stray shot hit the bus stop hut, shattering the glass on one side, before embedding itself in the metal pole above her head. Domino was many things, including impulsive and unfond of being shot at.
Without a thought she grabbed a gun out of her bag and ran to the fight, which had poured out into the parking lot. A big man seemed to be outgunned by a bunch of guys in lab coats. Guys in lab coats weren't high on Domino's list of things she liked.
She crouched behind the sign for the company, sighting the men like the priest had showed her during their hunting trips. The pistol wasn't well made for it, but she did her best, and took out two of the men with a lucky shot.
The guy who had once been outnumbered took out the last one, then began looking for his helper. Domino kept her gun ready to bear, but stepped out from behind the sign, five feet three inches of attitude and curse words. He moved toward her, holstering his gun.
"Tell me you made that shot." It had been an unbelievable day for him already. What was one more unbelievable thing?
Domino looked (way) up at him, noticing how muscular he was. He's definitely her type of guy. "Sure. I'm good with a gun. Why were they shooting at you?"
He shrugged. "Can't tell you. I'm George Bridge. You. . . you're a weird little girl."
She huffed, glaring at him. "I'm not a little girl. Do these tits say little girl to you?" She indicated her rather voluptuous chest, which was under a rather tattered t-shirt advertising Ozfest.
The man just laugh. "I guess not. You'd get along well with the people I work for. What's your name?"
"Domino." She eyed him, daring him to say anything about her name. It was a lot safer to call herself that than her real name.
"Why don't you meet me at Lots of Luck. It's a Chinese food place downtown. I owe you one for saving my life, and I think I could use a shot like you around."
Domino nodded slowly. "You're not part of some kind of gang, right?"
He shook his head. "No. I work for myself, and you would too. Six pm sharp, or I'll leave without you." He turned to leave, getting into a heavily modified panel van.
Domino went back to the bus stop, noticing a bulky old man sitting on the bench. She gave him a quizzical look. He watched as she picked up her backpack, checking it carefully to make sure it had all her things in it.
"You should be more careful. Things like that will get you attention." The voice was rough, and it surprised Domino that someone's voice could sound so much like a growl.
"I don't care. I'm leaving anyway." She didn't sit again, but leaned on the lightpost close to the bus stop.
The man didn't say anything else, so Domino ignored him. she was plotting how to get to the Chinese food place on time. This George Bridge guy sounded like her ticket out of Detroit. At least, she hoped he was.