Vilĉjo barely had time to blink. One moment, he was playing with someones hair, letting it slip gently between his fingers while he slipped her phone out of her pocket. The next, he was on the floor. 

Vilĉjo lifted his hand to his face, pressing at it to try and feel something other than what felt like the ring after a good hit from a sledgehammer. His vision blurred and his ears rung, his senses screaming defiantly at him as he rubbed at his face. It wasn't the first time he'd been caught, but it didn't always come with a king hit. He lifted a hand above his head, muttering out the first excuse to come to mind as his vision began to clear:
"Now hold on, let's talk abou-.." But his words fell short. As clarity came back to his eyes and the ringing slowly faded, he found several other patrons on the floor. Some hung onto the bar, others had crawled underneath tables; one of the windows was even smashed in, leaving glass about the floor.  

Vilĉjo's mind lagged. As he pulled himself up with the help of a nearby table, things started to tick into place. He wasn't the only one, others were hurt, and the window was smashed [i]in,[/i] so that meant that it was something else - something big. That meant injuries and injuries meant...
"...a nice itch in my hip pocket..." Vilĉjo finished aloud, muttering under his recovering breath. He reached into his coat, aggressively wrenching his fingers through his pockets. He yanked a small container out, his eyes glimmering as they came to the pills, before-
"You!" shouted a woman's voice, "You monster!" Vilĉjo threw his head up, meeting the bloody and infuriated nurse who stared murder at him. He looked down to find what gave him away: a small pile of mobile phones and wallets, the very same he had all hidden in his coat before he turned it upside down. 

It was hard for Vilĉjo to hurry to his feet, but he somehow made it. He threw the container back, slipping what felt like a couple of the pills into his mouth with one hand while offering a cocky, two-fingered salute with the other. 
"Just holding onto them for you, ladie-!" he started to taunt, being quickly cut off when a rush of movement out of the corner of his eye made him duck. A bar stool: it was a bar stool, suspiciously attached to the arms of a well built middle-aged man. Oh, right... he was being attacked.

Vilĉjo lifted a knee, driving it towards the mans crotch; instead, he caught his thigh while whisking up a phone and a wallet from the floor. A second and a third swing from the stool followed: Vilĉjo slipped by the first if only barely, where he then grabbed a half-filled glass and threw it at his assailant before the next. The glass shattered against the middle-aged man, warm beer with a hint of blood splashing across the bar. A hint of blood, sure, but not nearly enough; this only occured to Vilĉjo as his gaze wondered down to his metallic arm, which was left almost entirely untouched. Oh, that wasn't goo-
"Him!" shouted another voice. There were too many for Vilĉjo to keep track of now. "He planned this - he must be one of the attackers!"
"Someone get him!" pitched in a third. The cogs in Vilĉjo's mind began to turn for just a moment, before they stopped early with only one word to show for it: run. 

The bar door flew open. Vilĉjo scrambled onto the street for the middle-aged man to follow. The man had a nasty scar across his forehead and a small collection of medals across the left side of his chest. 
"Police!" the man shouted, pointing at Vilĉjo with a glass bottle. "He's with them!" The bottle followed the words shortly after, smashing on the ground a few feet besides Vilĉjo. Vilĉjo ducked as he run, where he slipped into an alley and slammed the first thing his hand could find down behind him: a garbage bin, which spilled its guts all over the concrete. It hardly phased the veteran, who plowed right through it. 

"Fuck- go and finish your drink!" Vilĉjo shouted as he ran. It didn't tempt the veteran at all: instead, it might of encouraged him, because the ground between the pair of them was getting smaller and smaller. Vilĉjo, with a grunt, felt the once faint weight in the left side of his coat grow heavier. "Shit..." he muttered, hesitating before abruptly slamming to a halt. He twisted around, presenting something new to his pursuer: a gritty looking pistol, not an entirely foreign sight to the streets with wires and diodes running along the sides. A trio of shots rocked the alley, breaking the veterans sprint and forcing him into cover behind a dumpster. A pair followed, dinging off the steel as Vilĉjo started running again. 

Overhead, a drone buzzed quietly against the rising smoke in the background. The camera lens on the robot tightened and widened inquisitively. 

[hr]
Heat had built into a painful knot in his chest. His stomach churned, threatening to empty itself if he kept going. Vilĉjo wasn't sure how long he had been running now - it could have been ten seconds of ten minutes for all he could tell. Sirens dominated the streets and smoke threatened to waft above the skyline. What a mess-

"Talei si ajirih, talei ja’aiye!" The voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Vilĉjo nearly fell over trying to stop himself so suddenly. The very visage of the sage advice his brother once told him: 'don't stick it in anything that might take it off.' The swinging chain, the fights stance, the snarl that better suited a wolf than a woman: if whoever was still after him was a rock, then she was the hard place.
"No, wait-!" Vilĉjo shouted, presenting the barrel of his pistol towards the woman as he panted. His aim was wide and wandering, erratic and wild. His eyes scanned the alley, panicked, to find only a dead end. Beads of sweat had formed on his skin long ago, but now his sweat was starting to run cold. In his panic, his body locked down, rooting him to the floor: he froze, all bar the wild aim of his gun. 

The borderline hyperventilation that followed only made it worse.