“Get him inside.” Aurora commanded one of the armour-clad figures, who promptly grabbed Dack by the scruff of his collar, and hurled him through the doorway, with augmented strength.
Dack slammed into the floor, his head thudding against the ground. His world became an explosion of bright white, his vision spinning madly. He felt as though someone had taken a hammer to his skull, as though his brain matter was leaking out through the freshly formed cracks in his cranium.
“Stand up, maggot.”
That same robotic hand hoisted him back up out of the dirt. He was powerless, a limp doll in the hands of his cyborg puppet master.
Aurora Baines gave a little wave at the dusty booths and tables which littered the inside of The Rusted Bitch.
“It's not exactly a fortress, but it will have to do,” she thought allowed, giving an empty beer bottle a frustrated kick with one booted foot “I don’t know who has orchestrated this clever little ambush, but they’ll be sorry they ever fucked with the Black Queen.”
The Brethren dumped Dack in an old booth, with a shotgun aimed squarely at his head, before they set about fortifying the old bar. Bits of debris were fastened over neglected door frames, whilst the rest of Aurora’s foot soldiers deployed whirring sentry guns, pointing them at the bar’s windows, and duel entrances.
Dack slumped, defeated and dejected. A crestfallen sigh slipped out of him.
“I’m sorry about your friends.”
Dack looked up, startled.
The figure pointing the shotgun at Dack had spoken, in a voice that was muffled by its featureless black helmet, made indistinct and genderless.
“I’m sorry about your friends,” the shotgun-wielder said again, in a quiet tone “that must have been a real knock for you.”
Dack nodded, lost for words.
“You’ll make it out of this, kid,” the figure promised “one day, one day soon, this will all be a wretched memory.”
“Aurora said she would kill me.” Dack muttered.
“Maybe,” the figure shrugged “or maybe she won’t. I don’t think she will.”
“What makes you say that.”
“I dunno, kid,” the figure replied “but if she does, you’re more than welcome to say I told you so.”
Dack laughed at that.
“You smoke?” black mask asked.
With a cybernetica hand still pointing the shotgun at Dack, the dark figure reached into one of the pouches on his belt, fishing out a silver tin. The figure slid the tin over to Dack, who pried it open, to reveal a line of cigarettes.
Dack slipped one into his mouth, and the microscopic, sensor activated, lighters inside the straight ignited, lighting the cigarette for him.
The young man took a gentle drag, feeling the nicotine high rush to his brain. He exhaled a plume of grey smoke, relaxing slightly.
“I promise you, kid,” the figure nodded “one day soon...this will all be a wretched memory.”