Wood chip shrapnel burst above Andy's head as he ducked through the nearest doorway. Slamming and pressing his back against the door, he held his breath–and a bottle of beer–listening for danger as his eyes adjusted to the dark. It was quiet inside the building, only the thud of gunfire on the outside wall cut through. Okay, so there were more of them than he'd expected. Clearly, the mercs who had robbed them a few months back had more friends in Lackey's bar than Andy did. Why was that, Andy wondered? He was easy to get along with, wasn't he?
Squinting, Andy saw that he was inside a warehouse. Burlap sacks and crates were stacked to the rafters. Andy finished his beer–a nice crisp drink, locally brewed, mixed with lemons–tossed the bottle and climbed on top of a couple crates to get a lay of the room. Avenues cut through the wares, a maze of supplies–food and scavenged goods–stretching towards two large double doors at the other side, the only other exit. Light shone through a crack in the doors, and through several patches in the ceiling, illuminating sabres of dust in the air.
Suddenly, the small access door opened behind him. Three men dashed inside, each moving in opposite directions. Andy drew Julie and killed the first with a clean headshot, then clipped another in the foot as he darted for cover. A blast exploded beside Andy's head. Skidding from his perch, Andy yelped as a second blast winged him. Taking cover, Andy patted himself down. His leather jacket was poked with shrapnel, but he wasn't bleeding. The merc must have loaded birdshot, not buckshot. What an amateur. His last mistake.
Dashing around the flank, drunk as he was, Andy did not falter. When he slipped on a stray rope, he used the momentum to carry himself forward, bouncing off a heavy barrel. He did not fight against his imbalance, but rather swayed with it as a leaf upon a river of booze. Something within Andy guided him, whispering directions, tugging on him like a magnet. A pinch of instinct, a dash of practice and a tablespoon of Augmentation serum.
Andy twisted on the ball of his foot like a child's spinning toy, ready to topple, rounding on his foe's exposed position. Emptying the cylinder of his revolver, Andy marvelled at the carnage Julie wreaked. Wood chips and plumes of flour burst into the air like miniature smoke grenades. Once the barrage was over, Andy knelt in the shadows, listening for movement in the dim light, quietly reloading. There was stillness, then a dragging sound. One of the mercs must still be alive.
Andy stalked towards his prey. As the disturbance settled, he spotted a body in the wreckage. The man's face was half painted white from dust and flour like a mime's makeup. His eyes rolled in opposite directions as Andy nudged the body over, and his tongue flopped out of his shattered jaw. Suddenly, he began to dance, a brief grotesque performance of his twitching, dying body.
Nearby, tracks in the debris led towards an alcove of stacked barrels. One barrel was pierced, leaking a clear liquid. Liquor. It stung Andy's eyes and roused his stomach. Another man was huddled in the alcove, shivering and holding his wounds. He was not armed. Not a threat. Andy straightened, filling his hip flask at the leaky barrel's spurt. He sampled the booze. It was cheap and vegetably, some amalgamation of vodka. Gulping it down, Andy checked his surroundings again. They were alone, for now.
"Want some?" he said.
The cowering man's face convulsed in pain and disbelief. Andy tossed the flask into his lap. After a moment's hesitation, he picked it up with a shaky, bloody hand and put it to his lips. He was young, Andy noticed now. They were probably about the same age.
"Mercy," he said.
Andy raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
The man wet his lips and coughed. "Please."
This is how Andy was repaid for his kindness, begging. There was a code amongst mercenaries, and one rule went like this: don't expect mercy from a betrayed mercenary. Of course, the kid knew that, he was just afraid to die.
"Drink up," Andy said, pointing at the gushing tap. "There's plenty."
The wounded fellow sunk into the crates. His head dangled on his shoulders. "I don't want to die." He took another swig and closed his eyes.
Andy's Killer Instinct seized him and he drew Julie in a flash. His arm snapped around quicker than his head could turn on the intruder, and he fired without thought. The bullet pierced through a sheet of canvas, hitting the man sneaking on the other side. With a clatter, his target and their firearm fell to the floor.
Andy licked his lips, a familiar metallic taste in his mouth, like rare meat and gunpowder–the essence of his Augmentation's powers. Suddenly, he wasn't drunk, he was precise like a sharpened blade. Andy marched through the shadowy warehouse towards the new assailant. Rounding a stack of rugs standing upright columns, Andy saw the sneaky assailant propped against a thick structural beam, attempting to unholster a sidearm.
Andy shot him in his shoulder. The impact pushed the man onto his back.
"Who are you," the man squirmed. "What do you want?"
"My wheels."
The man looked confused, then his expression was awash with pain. He squirmed around making grunting sounds. A pretty undignified way to go out, but not the worst Andy had seen.
"You got my wheels?"
"What the fuck?"
Blood plastered the canvas sheet behind him as Andy pulled the trigger. It didn't bring him joy to kill–it wasn't exhilarating–it was just necessary. Andy hadn't been born a killer, but he'd adapted to the sight of death at an early age. The world he had grown up in had been a violent place. The cataclysm didn't change that, it just normalised it for everyone else.