Rotter entered the Black Irish, and at once noticed something was off. The doorman had a startled look on his face, glancing at the fat bartender then back as if he were seeking permission to let this customer in. The doorman stepped aside.

Yet, the place was empty. The locals had cleared out when he came in. "What, is there a drunk convention down the block?" Rotter joked, hoping to draw some laughter.

The barman continued cleaning a glass mug.

Rotter looked around for Warchild and walked up to the barkeep. "Hey, I'm looking for a friend of mine. Supposed to meet him here."

An eerie feeling crept into Rotter, making his scalp itch. Then he saw the girl sitting at the table, the only customer he could tell. And a real stunner at that.

She got up and approached him with a magnetic smile, "What does he look like?"

"Regular looking guy, this high."

"Lemme guess, dark and handsome, six-feet, two hundred, short hair, early thirties?"

"He ain't handsome, but yeah, something like that." Damn, did Warchild dial-in with this chick?

"I think he might be in the back," she said, glancing at the barman who nodded quickly.

"Can I get you something?" The barman rushed the order, a little too eager.

"Yeah, strongest stuff you got."

"You Irish too?" The bartender reached for the bottle under the mirror.

"Penn Dutch, baby. Why?" Rotter raised an eyebrow. Weird question.

"Your friend downed two bottles." The girl was quick to answer. "Didn't look too good after."

"Yeah, trouble with the wife," Rotter said and winked at her. "You are?"

"I'm Angie," she cooed.

"Hello, my sweet angel," Rotter said, taking her hand.

A muffled groan came from the lavatory.

Rotter perked his ears. "Must have taken it hard. You stay right there, sweetness, I'll be back after I check on my friend."

"Not going anywhere, darlin'," she grinned, a darkness emanating from her pupils.

Rotter made his way toward the bathroom door alongside a small hallway. "Hey, you all right, man?" He pushed open the door and the sight he saw stunned him.

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A big spiky blond man lay on the floor. Another had his head in the cracked urinals. Warchild was hanging on the light fixture from the ceiling, fifteen-feet off the ground, his feet walking the top of the stall walls. The remaining two dudes turned to Rotter.

This shouldn't be a contest in any measure. Warchild could have taken ten men with little effort. Yet, he held back, balancing on top of the stalls.

Rotter was about to finish what Warchild started when he felt a white-hot pain seared into his lower back. Somebody had jumped on his back -- the girl from the bar. She wrapped her long legs around his waist, and held on, stabbing him repeatedly. He twirled and kicked like a bronco, trying to throw her off. But she rode him, gripping him tighter between her legs. He crashed her against the wall, but the impact failed to dislodge her. In return, she gored him again repeatedly, slicing into his collarbone and just missing his jugular by inches. He bucked and spun to get her off, but her legs held on.

Then someone had her, ripped her off him, and flung her into the main room. It was Warchild.

The girl landed on her feet with uncanny feline agility. That was when Rotter saw her hands. She carried no edged weapon, but black jagged things protruded from her fingertips. They were more like hooks or claws, combat implants he was well acquainted with. She smiled, licked her lips and took off for the door, along with the two males, leaving the big Aussie and another behind.

Rotter leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. The beauty had inflicted three puncture wounds he could tell -- a deep pain in his lower back, another burning in his right rib cage, and lacerated collarbone, his shirt and skin wet with blood.

Warchild helped him limp toward the main room. The fat owner, wide-eyed in horror, backed off. The doorman was gone.

Warchild clutched the proprietor by his throat. "You set us up!"

"I didn't know those people, honest," he stammered, raising his hands. "You gotta believe me."

The barkeep was many things, but he wasn't vicious enough to do this, or smart enough.

Warchild hissed, "I want towels. You're gonna stop his bleeding or I stop your breathing. Understand?"

"I got a medkit in the back." The owner shuffled into his office.

"Who are those fuckers?" Rotter asked in searing pain. "Did you see her hands? She got the same -- "

"Shh, take it easy. Sit."

"Hot chicks know how to hurt you, don't they?" Rotter turned to examine his wounds. "This isn't something out of the blue. And they don't look amateur, Ken. What did you do? You owe money? This a mob hit?"

"Spaghetti boys don’t have claws. And they're not after just me."

"How do you know this?" Rotter grimaced, trying to settle into a comfortable position.

"Let's get you out of here first," Warchild urged.

"I want answers. Those two assholes in the bathroom got answers," Rotter said, thumbing toward the bathroom. He contorted in pain once his butt touched a chair. "I say we go shake it out of them."

"And if they return?" Warchild said. "Look at you, you're a bloody mess."

"I bleed for love."

"Get serious, moron. We need to scram."

The bar owner returned with a gauze bandage and disinfectant. Rotter grimaced as he sloughed off his tattered shirt. The fat man examined the wounds and said, "Hmm, bleeding has already stopped. Maybe the cuts weren't so deep."

"Oh, it's deep enough." Rotter winced.

"You're gonna need stitches, son. There's an Emergency Care Facility's near here."

"No hospital," Warchild said quickly. "Sterilize the wounds and bandage him up. And give him a new shirt. Do that and we'll be out of your hair."

"Gladly." The fat man wrapped the gauze around Rotter's waist where the wounds were vicious.

"I need your phone," Warchild demanded.

The fat man sighed. "Here, take the damn thing."

"Why do you need his phone?" Rotter asked.

"Because my Atlas is inert. And I bet yours is too."

Rotter looked at his forearm, piecing things together.

"We done?" The bartender whined.

"My ring, I want it back."

"I hope it brings you everlasting bad luck."

"Already has."

"I'm calling the cops after you two leave. So get moving."