Blind, deaf and disoriented in the teeth of an elemental barrage was a way of life on Samara. And having prepared, Jean-Luc was, unlike the rest of the room, not quite blind enough. He had ten seconds of advantage. He took them. The hellgun screamed, scorching a serpentine curve of hot ash from the bar to the chandeliers, sending one of them plummeting to the table below and felling one of Markus's thugs. La Mare felt the heat of it as he threw himself bodily into the arms dealer, sending both of them to the floor as the metal storm broke in earnest. The arms dealer had grown soft, confident, overreliant on superior firepower -- but he had still murdered his way up from the bottom through the worst scum of the Empire's underhives, and he fought back with vicious, underhanded strength, relinquishing his grip on the las weapon and instantly drawing a wicked Kroot blooding-knife from his vest. [i]Eight seconds.[/i] The two men rolled end over end behind the couch in a life-or-death melee as fragments of wood and plaster exploded from the wall a foot above their heads, the near-silence of the scene surreal in the high-pitched, ear-ringing aftermath of the flashbang. Markus grinned like a man possessed as they tumbled, dragging the hellgun's battery pack along with them, shouting something neither of them could hear as the knife slowly struggled toward its target. Tufts of stuffing and colored fabric rained down on them as stubber rounds perforated the couch. [i]Five.[/i] The gun runner stopped smiling as his airway abruptly cut off and he finally understood what was happening. In rolling, the cable of the hellgun had been wrapped around his throat like a garrote and was now choking the life out of him. Shock overtook his features, the knife abandoned as he groped airlessly at the unbreakable cord. La Mare planted his foot in his adversary's back and twisted, harder and harder and harder until he felt the familiar, tell-tale [i]crack[/i] and the even more familiar slump of dead weight. He dragged the munitions box toward his diminishing cover with his foot and put his back against the bannister, slotting bolt rounds into his pistol as quickly as humanly possible. [i]Two seconds, make them count. Hellgun powerful but will fatally betray position high ground a rational advantage but wooden balcony is a deathtrap bar bulletproof and scattergun predictable firing interim throwing knives near bannister wall servo arm is--[/i] "--other FUCKER--" [i]Comme le temps passe.[/i] He stood abruptly, the bolt pistol ringing three times with a noise like a ballpeen hammer against an anvil, a split second of surprise visible on the faces of three of the planet's most notorious slave traders before their heads and bodies exploded, coating the walls and furniture with a slick patina of blood. Everywhere, everyone was firing at everyone else. The fallen chandelier exploded into fragments of glass as gunfire raked every corner of the Last Chance saloon. La Mare kicked the hellgun into the center of the room, then spun and dove toward the near end of the bar, snatching one of the knives from its place embedded in the wanted poster, slicing open the throat of the man about to ambush him from the ice cabinet before sending it thudding into the stomach of an exposed gunslinger. Predictably, the less seasoned patrons lunged for the heavy weapon, and were cut down in a brutal crossfire, those who took to the balcony collapsing as rounds punched through the wood, taking their legs out from under them. The winnowing had begun in earnest. LaChance and his Ogryn spotted him, the desiccated drunk firing unsteady shots from his laspistol, the abhuman giant swinging its ripper down and destroying a quarter of the bar. La Mare's power sword unsheathed with a hum, shearing through the weapon and cleanly through the giant's shoulder, severing the arm with a warping hiss. The Ogryn bellowed, staggering heavily into another holdout of desperate men. LaChance howled in lunatic rage, scuttling around the rear side of the bar trying to flank him, firing wildly and screaming bloody murder, while Gideon blew a hole through one of the upturned tables, sending the man behind it flying through the window in a gory arc. The bartender whirled furiously on Jean-Luc, both of them bathed in the hard blue light of the bar's recess. "--bit off more than you can chew, boy--" La Mare hit the floor and went temporarily deaf as the scattergun discharged above him, turning LaChance into a rain of giblets. He crouched, counted under his breath and stood, his open palm finding the barrel of the gun at the moment the Volg's firing mechanism recycled. There was a thunderous detonation and the grizzled barman's jaw exploded as the weapon fired with its barrel directly under his chin. Gideon collapsed, staring in mute, numb horror. Another bolt round rang from the pistol as La Mare strode the length of the bar, followed by a second. He held the power sword bent behind his back, aiming like a duelist as his third target broke and ran. The shot punched through his back, sending him sprawling into the bright, dusty streets a second before-- "GROX SHIT!" The piano servitor smashed hard against the mirrored drinks rack less than a meter away, showering broken glass. The hulking servo-armed thug that had thrown it, almost Orkish in his modification and bearing, had finished tearing the head off an old rival and bore down on his next victim, pointing, now wielding a stolen chain-axe in a free hand. "YOU'RE DEAD FETHIN' MEAT, YOU FETHIN' FREAK!" La Mare rounded the far end of the bar, pirouetting as the mechanical limb tore through the air, cracking into the floorboards. The power sword hummed with a muted song as it cut through the air, deflecting the motorized backswing of the roaring axe, once, again, the teeth of the weapon showering sparks against the shimmering blue power-field. Another impossibly heavy mechanical blow swung horizontally toward him, checked by the flat of the blade at the whirring joint of the servo-arm and sending the attacker hurtling. The saloon shook as the enormous, augmented killer went forcefully down onto his belly. The thug rolled over, gasping, looking at his bloodied hand. The chainaxe had been caught between it and his chest as the counterblow had sent him sprawling, tearing off his fingers and rending a deep, red wound across his armored sternum. He struggled to right himself, heaving his way up the last table still standing and coating it with fresh blood. "Momentum," observed a tired, familiar voice from above him, "Your counterweight was insufficient. I apologize for saying so, but with this sort of workmanship it's a miracle you're not dead already." The raider looked up, incredulous and uncomprehending, sweat beading on his bloodstained face. La Mare drew out one of the chairs, sheathing his blade. "I believe this is where we came in, [i]non?[/i]" He lifted the chair, braced it over his shoulder. "Your table, sir." The chair came down hard with a rushing of air and a sickening crack of wood and bone. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. La Mare took a moment to catch his breath, regarding his handiwork. ...Five. [hr] The remains of the chair clattered against the bloodstained floorboards as Jean-Luc tossed it away, staring down wearily at the ruin of his final assailant. He strolled, unhurried, to retrieve the rest of his ammunition and made his way slowly back behind the bar, setting the metal box on the counter and dropping down on his haunches, searching. At last, there was a clink of glass, and he drew out a long, luminous bottle of Symic 930.M41, standing slowly and cradling it in his hands. "Ahh, Gideon, Gideon," he chided, "You were holding out on me." The bartender made a wet, rasping sound from somewhere near floor level. La Mare angled the scattergun without looking and fired, setting out a clean glass with his other hand. He cracked the bottle, pouring himself a modest sampling of the exquisite liquor. And then he lifted the glass indifferently, to the shattered, corpse-packed crater at large that was once the Last Chance saloon. "To better days," he said.