in progress scrappy doo

Ketch Raid (Working Title)

The girl’s been smelt, of all things.

A vandal’s responsible, chittery thing, nose like a bloodhound. It waves a rifle every which way, tries to figure out where that earthy stink’s coming from. Probably just some dirt stuck on the girl’s boot.

 It’s not smelling for long. It gets two more steps down the hallway, then the girl’s knife takes its throat. Blade’s dull; barely manages to get through the vandal’s gorget. Ether screams out through the cut like steam from a kettle, loud enough to wake a man through six feets’ dirt and an inch’s oak. Girl’s off her game, getting sloppy.

Two weeks she’s hid in the bowels of the Ketch, picking away at the Fallen. It’s slow work. Real maddening stuff. One wrong step, one whiffed stab and it’s all for naught. Fighting like this needs constant focus -- no breaks, no pauses, no rest. Life support systems on the girl’s armor are worn out; even they wasn’t made to regulate this much stress.

But the girl keeps herself cool, calm. Keeps her mind empty. No worry. No fear. She’s on the last stretch. Not much farther now. The girl tucks away her old knife, the one she’s been friends with a long while. Just a piece of metal now. Maybe if they get out of this they can get cozy again.

That’ll be hard, though. No way to keep quiet with no knife. The girl tries out the vandal’s shock dagger but the thing feels clunky, alien. A blade needs to fit the hand perfectly, like an extra sharp glove. She tosses the dagger away -- can’t be used half as well as she needs to be.

Only option left is a mad dash over that last stretch. The girl goes for her gun, that old frontier trumpet. It’s tried-and-true Wilds iron, the colour of desert sunsets. That brass beast’s seen her through a thousand scrapes, but it’s only got one setting: loud. No more sneaking around.

The girl makes her way to the end of the hall, brushes her hand along some Fallen gobbledegook telling where the door leads -- cargo bay. She can hear voices on the other side, buzzing more than a hundred angry beehives. Doubt swells up in her throat, but she swallows like bad medicine. No time for doubt now -- now’s the time for guns and confidence.

Girl takes two deep breaths, gets into her groove. She cocks the hammer of her cannon and hits the door. It opens with a thump, shows her a bay bristling with Fallen. She keeps that gun steady. No time for fear. Her hands move by instinct, machines oiled by a dozen lives’ worth of gunfights.

First shot takes a dreg in the chest. Scrawny thing goes flying head over heels. A one-two drumbeat takes two more down before the rest start shooting back. By then she’s safe, huddled behind a crate. Keep pushing, her instincts say. Don’t get stuck.

Arc bolts whizz over the girl’s cover, make the air sizzle with static. She gambles a glance ahead, tries to think out a path.

Too slow. She catches sight of a catwalk in the far corner before two bolts get her in the chest, drop her shields to nill. Girl huddles up again, Tries to wait it out. Nothing doing. Armor wiring’s got no juice in it. She’ll have to do this old school.

Something club-shaped lands beside her. Shock grenade. It flares a bright blue before the girl manages to toss it back. It explodes in mid-air, leaves behind a cloud of electricity. Girl takes advantage of the light show, dives out and under the ball of lightning. Her gun’s got a will of its own, one that spits lead and thunder every which way. Two Fallen go in front of her, give her a hole to run through. Her cannon clicks empty and she reloads. Girl’s hands move so smooth that there’s no hiccup in her shooting.

She’s on automatic, weaving in and out of cover like a dancer. Bolts of arc energy fly just as quick as the girl’s bullets. Girl can’t tell if she’s being hit or not. Making good progress to that catwalk, so she figures its the latter, ‘till she starts reloading and one arm doesn’t move.

The girl ducks behind another box, fumbles with a fresh chamber. Her arm won’t move. She grabs the shoulder, finds a knife buried to the hilt in it. When’d that happen, she wonders. Her instincts kick back in. No time for worrying. She tugs the dagger out of her shoulder -- feels like burning ice -- and tosses it away. Girl knows she’s gotten short on time. She finishes reloading.

TBC