[color=696969][center][url=https://fontmeme.com/fonts/punk-typewriter-font/][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/240122/96b51cbc48bd377db299e57ead156677.png[/img][/url][/center][b][color=634533]Time:[/color][/b] A.M.
[b][color=634533]Location:[/color][/b] River Port Abandoned Storehouse
[b][color=634533]Interactions/Mentions:[/color][/b] [@Conscripts] [@mole]
[b][color=634533]Equipment: [/color][/b] Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler
[center][h3][color=634533]✠✠✠✠✠[/color][/h3][/center]

The first goon rushed him, all brass and no class.  Vasco sidestepped, spotted a crate of iron fittings on the shelf, and swung it mean. The heavy box caught the mug right in the temple, scattering metal and sending him sprawling. One down.

Nut coursed through him like bootleg whiskey cut with gasoline – burning, potent, dangerous. His bruised ribs from the lodge scrap should’ve been howling, but instead they hummed a tune too distant to catch. Everything moved like molasses – slow enough to read, fast enough to thrill.

Two more charged from opposite sides, thinking they was clever. He backed against a stack of flour sacks, waited until the taller one lunged, then dropped and rolled. The tall one staggered past while his pal pulled up short. Vasco snatched a length of steel from a broken shelf, caught the tall one before he could turn. Swung it across his knees with a crack. The other mug came at him wild and caught a backward swing to the gut that folded him like cheap laundry.

Movement caught his eye. Another torpedo charging in with a crate hook. Steel met steel, the impact jarring through bone. Vasco’s knee found soft flesh, and the man’s breath rushed out in one hard gasp. The torpedo stumbled back into a tower of barrels, bringing the whole thing down. Wood cracked, liquid splashed, voices rose in panic. His good ear rang with the beautiful chaos of it all.

A knife flashed. Vasco twisted, felt it slide past his ribs, tearing shirt not flesh. He slammed the knife hand against a beam until the blade dropped. Three strikes – liver, breadbasket, jaw – and the knife man crumpled.

Bodies littered the floor - some groaning, others silent. Blood painted abstract patterns on wood. Iron fittings from the smashed crates rolled between the fallen. Vasco wiped sweat from his brow, his hand coming away wearing victory in red.

No warning whispered through his dead right ear. No footsteps, no presence, nothing at all.

When instinct finally hollered, it came too late. Vasco turned, caught only a blur and glint of metal.

The lead pipe cracked against his temple like a thunderclap. Stars burst as his legs buckled beneath him.[/color]