The moment the three gunshots rang out, Abigail started kicking her legs free of her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. She stuffed the cigar cutter into her pocket and rested one hand on the table whilst her eyes darted around the building. She was acting purely on instinct alone; being the underdog made her much more jumpy when it came to the slightest hint of danger, and where most folk looked puzzled or alarmed at the bangs, Abigail was already trying to choose between making a break for the stairs or rushing to the toilets.

Abigail was still making up her mind as the Fiends burst into the building, hollering for none other than Mr. Schmidt himself. This gave her pause; she didn’t dare to move her head, but she knew exactly where Redding was - sitting right next to her Brooksy. Her jaw clenched. She grabbed the table even tighter. This brought Abigail back to her Freeside days, but she’d never been caught in such an...extreme situation. She could count over 10 armed mercenaries, all crammed in the dingy bar and just itching to turn the Desperado into the Mojave’s biggest sieve. Anything caught in the initial wave of bullets was sure to be decimated...and worst of all, she was right in their sights.

Another gunshot made Abigail flinch as a the drunkard with the pocket watch took one for the team, crumpling up and hollering in pain. The very moment Redding cursed and launched into the air, Abigail wrenched her arm upwards, toppling the table to make a quick barricade  - or a quick distraction - and pelted it towards the nearest door she could find.

It didn’t take long for the bullets to start raining down where Abigail once sat, aimed in the general vicinity of the bar. With the mercenaries’ attention firmly fixated on Redding, Abigail was able to shoulder barge into the next room and slam the door shut behind her. It was abandoned, of course; a half-finished game of pool was left on the table and shattered glasses as the two patrons must’ve sprinted off to hide somewhere a little way off from the action. Behind the table were two large bookcases, full to the brim with dusty boxes, books and other knick-knacks which Abigail couldn’t care less about.

Barely thinking, Abigail leapt onto the pool table and ducked on the other side of it. She scooped up a pool ball on the way over; if push comes to shove, she could call someone’s bluff and pretend it was a grenade. Her breath was rattling in short, shallow pants and her eyes were wide. Now that she was in relative safety, the reality of the situation crashed down around her; she was cornered, hiding, and unable to tell what is going on. The only visible exit was blocked by a small platoon of bloodthirsty gunslingers, and Brooks was probably rubbing shoulders with the only man they’re fighting to get rid of. This wasn’t her first gun-fight, and it wouldn’t be her last...in a vain attempt to regain some normality and maintain composure, Abigail checked herself over for wounds.

She was bruised and a little windswept, but otherwise managed to get out of the firing range unscathed. Whether her luck would persist was another matter entirely; Abigail knew she was running on borrowed time here. She entered the fight exhausted and her calves were already burning and throbbing from such a short sprint. Half of her shivers were the protests of her strained limbs, the other half were out of sheer terror. She felt like there was a bottomless chasm in her stomach gnawing away at her last reserves of strength, and even though she wasn’t at all sleepy at the moment she knew it would creep up on her when she least expected it.

The goal was simple - get out of the bar and hide until Brooks made it out, because Brooks always made it out alive. Sure, sometimes he was bleeding or wounded but he always, always found her. Abigail knew he wouldn’t die. She just did. That was why she ignored the little voice of reason which tried to worm its way into her head and suggest, god forbid, that Brooks may not be able to find her this time. One hand plunged into her bright backpack (which was now impaled by debris) and grabbed a revolver, checking the chamber’s fully loaded. She snapped the safety off, pointed it towards the ground, and clutched onto the gun with two trembling hands.

The plywood door did very little to hold back the onslaught of bullets crashing into it and Abigail tugged down on her motorcycle helmet, shaking violently. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t make a single noise - her throat closed up and she felt she couldn’t breathe as her body took over and controlled her frantic, shuddering gasps. She felt like she was on autopilot, powerless to resist what has been drilled into her for as long as she could remember yet grateful that she didn’t have to think about it. There was a brief pause in the carnage, long enough for Abigail to hazard a peek from beyond her hiding place.

The door had been blown to splinters and hung pathetically on its hinges. Abigail saw Teresa skip to an old jukebox and give it a kick - then she turned to face Abigail. She turned in her direction, she could be looking right at her--...Abigail inhaled sharply and jerked her head back. Her grip tightened on the revolver sitting on her lap, every muscle tensed, straining to hear the slightest movement or approach that could be discerned through the chaotic bangs of 15 guns firing all at once.