[@Athinar]

[i]It'd be about the time Chico started talking again that his rifle magazine probably ran empty. 30 rounds available at 600 rpm. That's three seconds of continuous fire.

A ringing silence. Xil Gil darting again towards the retreating Chico, the fresh twelve feet between them diminishing quickly. The average female marathon runner can cover 6 feet, 8 inches per stride. Xil Gil was no professional runner, but a marathon isn't a sprint and he was a man, not a woman. He'd cross four feet with his first lunge and five with the second, resuming the chase the moment he was able to gather the momentum to fling himself at Chico again after having leapt backwards. [b][color=9e0039]"Your load is spent, old horse. Unfortunately I am in the mood for sloppy seconds..."[/color][/b]

To cross twelve feet in about a second, you need to be able to run but a paltry eight miles per hour. Even a fat child could make that cut, let alone an ex-MI6 agent.

He'd be knocking at the Mexican's front door in that second, and Chico would have only a fraction of a moment to choose a plan. Would he face the brutal cyborg head on and risk blowing himself up or being ground into taco beef? Might Chico beat a hasty retreat and try to keep Xil Gil at bay?

Thing is, there'd be no need for such a tight decision. Xil Gil was suddenly blindsided by four workmen, absolutely bowled over as the angry, large men tackled him to the ground and began beating on him with carpentry hammers.[/i]

[b][color=9e0039]"Augh! Bugger me!"[/color][/b]