Broaden your Perspective Part II of III

Broaden your Perspective     Part II of III

The metal hand kept opening and closing like it had a will of its own.  Resting it on the scarred table of the dimly lit bar, McTeague watched it as if it was some kind of alien flower which had just bloomed on the end of his arm. He wondered how he could make it stop itching.  He ignored the part of his brain that said it was wires and metal and couldn’t itch, as he ignored the fact that he’d had the prosthesis for 8 years and should have lost the “phantom” pain long ago.  Resting the cyberhand  palm down on the table he looked up to scan the Drygulch bar.

The Drygulch was not a pleasant place. The “Sweep out the eyeballs at the end of the night” sign for the staff was literal.  The tables were all bolted to the floor and the chairs were of the collapsing plastic variety to deny the patrons obvious weapons.  Beer was all draft served in plastic cups because glass bottles and steins made good weapons. When the second set of shot glasses needed reordering one week early on, the owner decided plastic cups could be used for all drinks.

The place was kept dim to minimize the amount of cleanup required. The clientele, well suffice it to say that with monotonous regularity some evolutionary throwback was vivisected by close range shotgun blasts as he/she/it tried to come over the bar.  Wait service was as laughable a concept as Emergency medical service pickup. In fact, the fine print on DocWagon’s contract now mentioned the Drygulch as one of 3 places in the sprawl where the company was exempt from supplying service.

Sticks relied on the lowlight imaging in his right cybereye to navigate through the bar. He had enough street experience to know that a fall, or any sign of weakness would cause the mob to pounce. He ignored the catcalls and attempts to trip him in the dark and wove his way to where his trainer was sitting.

Sticks wondered if he’d be alive at the end of whatever lesson McTeague was teaching here, but took a grim satisfaction in the knowledge that Max would use his wide array of contacts to insure that if Sticks didn’t survive McTeague wouldn’t either.

The teenager noted again at the dark glasses his trainer affected even in near total darkness, but refused the offered chair to sit with his back to the crowd. Without a word the trainer slid an identical pair of shades across the table. Sticks put the glasses on and found himself in a well lit, if filthy, bar. 

“Look down left” McTeague said.

“With your eyes, not your head.” The trainer amended impatiently.

Stick shifted his eyes and a small rectangle opened up in the lower half of the glasses.  In it the teenager had a view of what was going on directly behind him. As he moved his head to change what he saw the slide effect of the images in the top and bottom half of the glasses made him dizzy.

“Get used to it” was all the helpful advice McTeague gave. “You observe others, they observe you.”

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Sticks couldn’t imagine what he had done to provoke the orc, but the metahuman’s approach of the teenagers unprotected back, revealed in his new shades was clearly in preparation for a knife attack. Palming his collapsible asp baton the teenager used the precious seconds of the orc’s approach to form a battle plan.  When the orc “stumbled” behind Stick’s chair, the escrimador spun away and to his left. Simultaneously flicking the telescoping baton to its full length while removing the disorienting double image sun glasses, Sticks continued the motion of leaving the chair into a spin which brought the baton down on the knife wielder’s wrist.

Surprisingly, the shattering blow did not incapacitate the attacker whose front kick caught the teenager in the chest as he was refocusing in the suddenly poor lighting. Fortunately, Sticks was thrown between tables rather than into another patron.  While the orc grabbed his blade with his other hand and prepared to jump on the prone teenager, Sticks reached into his pocket. Screaming in order to surprise and disorient his victim, the orc took a step forward as six rapid pops were heard. The orc stopped in his tracks and slumped to the floor as blood and pieces of skull fell around him.

Happy for Max’s insistence that he carry the old hammerless “Air Marshall” revolver in his pocket, Sticks let go of the old wheel gun and drew his Predator II before getting up. He scanned the crowd as he moved back towards the table mentally comparing the loss of his shredded jacket vs the possible cost of his life. Something of his regret over the loss of his leather must have distracted the teenager because he jumped at the loud boom when McTeague fired his weapon.

Sticks turned to see another dead orc across the room. The teenager’s cyber ear had picked up 3 distinct explosions in the big “Boom” that had made him jump. He surmised that the stacked barrel weapon in his trainer’s hand was a “Metal Storm” pistol designed to fire 3 rounds electronically and so nearly simultaneously that the pistol did not recoil until the third round had been fired. He tried to remember the details of Max’s handgun analysis when McTeague said.

“Pick up the glasses. We’re done here.”

Sticks complied quickly as McTeague tossed a few scrip bills to the bartender for cleanup.

“Get used to wearing the shades” McTeague said in the alley outside the Drygulch. “And don’t ever assume your club is gonna stop a guy with pain. Metal arms, metal legs, metal heads- if your going to use a stick, have a next move. And always figure the other guy has backup.”

After the speech, the longest string of words the teenager had ever heard from his trainer, McTeague said “Be ready for my call” and sent Sticks off with a gesture.

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