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 àrmored 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—

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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.