I Don't Care, I Love It

[Beowoof]

Fondor


The shady woman sat in the back corner of the grungy cantina, facing towards the opposite end of the barroom with her chair leaning back against the wall. The silky smile she held was not exactly comforting to her comrades about the table.

The truth was, no one was in this bar at this time of day. It had been easy for her to persuade the barkeep to head to the backroom, him being the only occupant outside her posse. But now they had the room to themselves. Just a simple game of Balmorran roulette was at hand. Someone was going to die.

The first contestant took the revolver with shaky hands, the clack-clack-clack of the pistol clearly audible to all as its more mobile components chattered in his unwieldy grasp. The Duro had obviously never fired a handheld firearm before, based on the limp wrist he carried the gun with as he brought the barrel to his forehead. Either that, or he was very scared about this. Perhaps.

A tiny click sounded from the hammer fall as he finally pulled the trigger. The first contestant was spared.

She continued to creepily smile as the revolver was passed along to the Bothan.

 

[Beowoof]

Of course, the odds were now less in favor of the Bothan surviving this round, with one empty chamber already claimed. Six-in-seven.

It took him much longer to build up his nerve and suppress the trigger. She perceived that the Duro had less to lose, or the seven-in-eight odds seemed much more favorable to start with. There was a slug in there. She had made sure of it. But the subsequent click of a hammer without ammunition proved his life was safe--this round.

The gun was passed to the Rattataki woman next to her. She never let her insipid smile fade as the exchange of the weapon took place. They thought she was crazy. She was their host, after all, and she had put money on the table and required no entry fee from the others in turn. Something was very wrong here. Something was very wrong with her.

Click.

 

[Beowoof]

Now she had the gun. It was her turn to bat. But the eerie smile never was lost.

The ominously glib way she accepted the weapon into her gloved hand and placed the firing end against her temple could only be described as surreal by the other three, as if she were absolutely insane. She had not carried herself in the composition of an insane person before they had entered the cantina--mysterious, perhaps--and this was understandably uncomfortable for them. However, they were also the ones who had agreed to a little game of chance with irreversible consequences. Maybe they were crazy?

No, more like desperate. Only desperate people would play this 'game'.

Except for her. She showed no signs of desperation at all. The stakes were all on her.

Yes, she must be insane.

She took a fleeting, smug glance at each of the three 'comrades' at the table and then closed her eyes. She felt her way around the chambers, searching for that one. Oh, it mattered little which chamber the bullet was in, so long as it was not this one. And that much she could feel without hesitation. No, she had to find it. There was more to this game than a cheap laugh at a wasteful death.

It seemed like she would get the slug on her second time, the round being situated in the eighth of the chambers. How lucky for the rest of them. Maybe.

Click. She passed it along, back to the Duro.

 

[Beowoof]

Two more times the trigger was pulled--though after several minutes of heavy breaths and the shaking of clammy carpals around the grip of the gun. The Duro and the Bothan were spared. Luck, as most might say. Perhaps it was. Maybe.

She crossed her arms as the Rattataki took the weapon and smirked. Of course, everyone at the table was well aware that the odds were not really good for the chalk-white woman. It was quite obvious in her demeanor. Over fifteen minutes passed before any motion actually took place--and she just sat there, smiling darkly through the silence.

The bullet was in the final chamber. That meant that she would be dead when her turn came. Lucky Rattataki.

Not really.

While the trigger was finally compressed by the Rattataki, the mysterious woman's hand twitched in an odd manner, like she was opening a doorknob that was hot. The revolving cylinder rotated one more chamber than normal in that instant, the trigger fully compressed and the hammer slamming down at the moment the seventh chamber was skipped and the eighth chamber was under the pin.

Bang

Cleanup would be interesting for the barkeep tonight.

 

[Beowoof]

There was nothing holding her back any longer. She had had her fun.

Scooping up a pair of silver-cast bullets from one of her pockets, the dark woman arose from the table and loaded them into the cylinder and spun it until they were next in line to be fired. The Duro and Bothan both knew what that meant. Or did they?

The Bothan had the brains to run without hesitation, immediately darting for the door without so much as a glance back. He must have rationally judged that he was already dead, but the only chance to not be was to run like survival was attainable. Indeed, it was. The woman did not even pay attention to him as he sprinted away. He would be fine--for now.

The Duro, on the other hand, had the audacity--or the desperation--to grab some of the pot before beginning his bound for the door. Sadly, that was his mistake. The woman unloaded both rounds into the back of the Duro, her gloved fist curled about the grip of the pistol turning blood-red as a stream of intense electricity emanated from it. Her hand burned and she let out a brief cry of pain before dropping the weapon and removing her glove. Some skin peeled off in the process. That was going to leave a mark.

She was not done yet, however. If, at first, you don't succeed... Her right hand now reached out and released another burst of lightning from her fingertips, the charge focusing on the conducive projectiles embedded in the fallen man's body. The sparks singed her carpals and felt like needles through the tips, but it felt so good at the same time. She had achieved what she had set out to accomplish.

His heart palpitated furiously from the enormous charge of electricity being channeled into his body. It was not long before there was little doubt that the Duro was dead.

So was the Bothan. He just did not know it yet.

The woman kicked the hot gun to the middle of the barroom floor and carelessly walked out of the building. Her fingerprints would be found nowhere.

 

[Beowoof]

She kept her singed hand inside a pocket in her cloak and sloshed about the chattering street as the rain bombarded the pavement of Fondor City. It had not been raining when she had brought everyone in for the commencement of her 'game'.

It was unfortunate, really. The Bothan would be soaked by the time he got... wherever he would be going. Surely he would not tattle! It would be self-convicting to do so--admitting to participating in some Balmorran roulette could potentially lead to charges as an accessory to murder. No, that drenched, furry guy would be fumbling about town for a good place to hide. She would get away without a word. It payed to have morals.

After walking for a few blocks, she removed her reddened hand from the pocket and held her palm up and open to accept the drops of water plunging from the clouds. It felt relieving to the throbbing and resurgent sting that had not abated. She needed the pain to flee in order to carry out her true plans for the day.

The best made plans always are carried out in a storm. It just makes for the best cinematics.