I, Human

Fate of The Stranger | The Whore

She fired, ducking behind the crate soon after. And not a moment too soon, the wood above her head cracked as a bullet buried itself in it. She cursed, reloading one of her revolvers. More bullets whizzed overhead, others hit the crate, sending vibrations through her back and into her chest. She hated that feeling, reminded her of fear. She rolled sideways, grateful she had ditched the cumbersome dress from earlier, and came to another stack of crates. She crouched, raised herself, took aim, and fired. A yowl of pain came a second after her gunshot, telling her she hit her target.

In response, more gunfire came her way. She was cornered, pincered between a claw of bullets and the depths of the ocean.

"Give up the fight Nikita, you're worth more to us alive!"

"Jonathan," she whispered, "ever the whoremonger."

"What do you say?"

She lobbed a glob of spit over the crate in response. She heard a sigh before the gunfire started again. She cursed, looking down at her boots. As if in response to her scowl, the contraption of pistons and gears whistled like a kettle on a stove. "About damn time."

Nikita stood up and raised her hands as well, startling her attackers. They ceased fire and she lowered her hands, moving to put the pistols in the twin holsters strapped to her waist. She bent her knees while doing so, giving the illusion of kneeling.

"You never were one to follow through Niki," Jonathan leered.

She caught a glimpse of his gold tooth and thick sideburns. The rest of his face was shrouded by harsh shadows cast by the kerosene lamps his men held.

Nikita smiled and jumped, turning the dials on her belt. Pistons fired, pushing her higher than any human has ever leaped. She landed on a stack of larger crates on the wharf, four meters above the men below.

"Third time this week," she said in her heavily accented English, "you never were one to learn Johnny."

She sprinted off before the men could understand what just happened and raise their rifles. She ran on top of obstacles they would have to maneuver around, growing the distance between them. The thrill was undeniable, she worked the dial and leaped, darting from crate to crate while the chilly air sliced at her face. She smiled wide and her lips cracked but she didn't care. She was free.

And also, out of high ground. She brought her legs together and beneath her, hitting the ground with the shrill sound of metal on cobblestone. Something in the boots sprang free and steam scalded her ankle.

She yelped in pain, a sound that carried far in the night. The voices of her pursuers carried as well. Her fumble had cost her, they were gaining. She undid the leather buckle and dropped the defective boot, hissing as the cold air kissed her wound. A bullet slammed into the boot her foot had just vacated. She hissed again and started running, slowed by one hurt leg and one heavy one.

She was in the town proper now, a crowding of dilapidated houses that most families had vacated when the airships took over trade, rendering Dover obsolete. Nikita used that to her advantage, weaving between buildings to shake her pursuers. It worked for five glorious minutes, five minutes until fatigue made her feet feel like bricks of lead. The leather padding on the bottom of her boot had ripped off some time ago so her every step announced her position to her pursuers.

Not that she had anywhere to run. The street was blocked by a half-collapsed house up ahead. She slowed, feeling defeat. She wouldn't have the strength to climb its spiked wall.

Caught and for what? A scrap of paper, she thought as she trudged along. It was too late to turn back, Schlatt's men would be making their way up this hill.