The movement of the chilled crystals was inspired by an outside force. The container and its contants were swirled lazily about with the slim grasp of a woman that many would consider to be odd. That is, they would consider her odd if they noticed her to begin with.
The hands were slender and, from a distance, seemed devoid of flaw. It was only as one came intimately close that they noted the myriad network of tiny scars and the distinctive calluses upon fingers and hands that clearly spoke of how she habitually used them.
Her long, straight hair fell about her, seeming as if blood silently pooling onto a darkened floor. The face was hidden in the shadows of that dark mane, giving her already tan face a darker shade.
Her hand tipped up to her mouth and the elegantly formed face was thrown back in a careless manner, letting the liquor contained within the glass burn its way down her throat to her stomach. Then the glass was set aside with a dismissive snap.
Her other hand slipped within her jacket, past the holstered pistol hanging under her shoulder, and retrieved a small paper box of cigarettes. She flipped it open and frowned upon discovering the single lonely roll within. The woman removed the cigarette and secured it into her mouth.
"Do you need a light, china doll?" some man sitting next to her at the bar asked.
The woman turned to face the man, who was just reaching the point of drunkeness where one begins to become aware of things that may or may not have been truthfully there. Even in his state of drunkness her opinion of him was quite clear.
"Japanese-Irish," she said simply as the cigarette spontaneously burst into a small flame. She turned back to the mirror behind the bar as the man toppled off his stool and spilled onto the floor.
The bar goers laughed at the man as he picked himself up in a state of panic, but somehow missed the attractive woman sitting at the bar who was the cause of the man's fall.
"They're on their way," a small voice crackled into her ear as the disturbance around her calmed down, the drunk unable to find the apparition that had frightened her. "Are you ready, Keegan?"
"Aye," she said, Irish brogue slipping out, standing up and moving to a corner of the room. "What's the count?"
"Five," the voice on her radio said.
"Understood," she said, checking her pistol before drawing a tanto and slicing a seperate intricate pattern into each hand. Patterns that bled and healed, leaving a mark of blood upon each.
Morrigan Keegan readied for battle as five figures slammed into the bar, and the majority of the unaware peons fled out of the room. Leaving behind a group of ten to face the newcomers.
See other episodes by Thrythlind
(Posted Mon, 10 Jan 2005 18:34)
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