"It's a loser's gamble, see." Maurice had a cigarette between his teeth. Clouds of lazy smoke lingered in the air around him---the faint scent of tobacco, his constant companion. He was standing close to the edge of the crowd, far enough that he didn't feel trapped, but close enough. He had a mind to catch a ship.

"Ah." The man next to him was a spice merchant by trade. They'd only just met. "Think so?"

"Six men. Can't see any guns but I'd bet they're armed." The prisoner had just made his offer. "Even if you managed to free the beastman there..." He clicked his tongue.

"It's a lot of money."

"That it is." It was, it really was. Maurice could feel his trigger finger tap away at his breastpocket. He'd crossed his arms the moment the money was mentioned. It wasn't that he didn't trust himself to keep out of trouble, not at all. But trouble had one hell of a way to find him. "Why? Are you feeling tough today?"

"What about you, gunman?" The merchant lightly tapped at the rifle wrapped in cloth at his back, the sound of the wooden cane against the muzzle was loud enough for Maurice to flinch. 

"It's that obvious, huh?" He'd thought it looked more a map than a gun. The merchant simply shrugged his shoulders---an eerie thing, beard or not, that reminded him too much of his mother. Clumsy Maurice, who couldn't fix a boiler or plug a leak if his life depended on it, she'd say. 

"I wouldn't trust you to wrap my meals, son. I'll tell you that much." The merchant patted his shoulder and limped away, just a few moments before the first shots rang out.

A loser's bet, Maurice thought. The pack with his clothes had hit the ground, and his rifle was out, before the first men began to flee. Chaos, blood and splattered brains. How quickly the scene had changed, and all it had taken was a loser with a bet to be won---a madwoman with a gun, and a hundred Dits in her pocket already.

Leave now, Maurice. It's not worth dying for. Fuck, but he really should. He pressed the butt of his rifle against his shoulder, and reached down to grab his pack... when the first of the crew noticed him. A young fellow, with a couple scars and a frightened look in his eyes. His boss's brains were splashed all over his boots, and his mate was on the ground, clutching at his busted kneecap, so Maurice couldn't blame him. But scared or not, perhaps precisely because of it, he reached for his revolver.

"Don't do it..." Maurice cursed his luck. The crewman's fingers tightened around the grip of the handgun, eyes fixed on [i]him[/i], much too scared of death to realize what a terrible misunderstanding it all was. Maurice dropped the pack, and shouldered his weapon. By misunderstandings and ill intent, the blood spilled on the wasteland could be measured.

He squeezed the trigger. Once, twice, and the bullets ripped away the crewman's face in a bloody explosion of gore. A lucky hit, Maurice lamented. He'd aimed for the man's hand.

More revolvers were drawn. Screams joined the panicked sound of boots against stone, and Maurice Pfeifer became all too aware of how exposed he was. How deep in [i]shit[/i] he was.

"Hit the fucking ground!" He set his iron sights on the next unlucky bastard to have the misfortune of being there, and hoped to mercy none of them had the balls to gamble their lives. He certainly hadn't planned to.