Freelancers

Outnumbered

She sprinted around a corner with prison guards in close pursuit. Perspiration fell steadily down her forehead, and her breath was rapid. Despite the frantic nature of her pursuit, she was mentally calm and collected; her legs mightily propelled her through the hallway with purpose.

I'm almost there.

Fortunately, the labyrinthine detention block had many corridors and rooms to retreat into. Where they once corralled prisoners there to meet their fates, it seemed ironic that she could choose to take refuge in them. The red warning lights danced on the metal walls nearby and began to disorient her. Emergency klaxons threatened to deafen her; the Orbital Prison was on lockdown.

Jag, what did you do?

She knew the next hallway over would lead her to elevators. Repetitive and thorough preparation afforded her the luxury of knowing her bearings at all times. Or so she thought. As Veriss rounded the next corner, she swore loudly.

Is there no other way out of this hellhole?

The lockdown's containment field isolated the detention block from the rest of the facility, which effectively cut her off from most of her ideal escape routes. Gasping for air, she quickly turned around to the footsteps of her pursuers growing closer.

There's no time. I'm not going to find Jag at this rate.

Veriss reached back and unslung her rifle. She glanced at her wrist for a quick systems check on her combat armor and weapon status. Kerren Assault platforms were designed to grant wearers maximum mobility and protection, and Veriss' heavily modified suit is brimming with high tech weaponry. Jag's combat suit is similarly modified, but both bounty hunters were not expecting this much of a setback.

The prison guards' footsteps grew louder with each passing second. She pulled a stray lock of dark, red-gold hair back to its place behind her ear. The rest of it bunched together in a loose braid behind her head. Coolly analyzing her position between a containment field and a hallway full of guards, she knelt behind a support column. Her shoulders rise and fall with each breath to slow her rapid heart rate. She raised the rifle to her tanned cheek and peered downrange through her scope as the first guard made his way down the darkened hallway to her position. She exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger. The hallway instantly illuminated with crimson blaster fire. The headless guard slumped to a smoldering heap barely two paces down the hallway. His comrades shouted in rage and blindly release a volley of their own blaster bolts towards Veriss.

She quickly darts behind the support column. She glances at her wrist once again.

Sixty seconds.

She reached at the utility compartment at the small of her back, withdrew a thermal detonator, and armed it. She blindly released several rounds of blaster fire then quickly revealed herself from cover to hurl the detonator down the hall. Shouts of surprise and fear rapidly crescendo until they are silenced with a thunderous explosion. She kneels again with her back against the support column and checks her suit's readiness.

Thirty seconds.

Her pursuers pressed their numerical advantage by sending more guards down the hall towards her. She swung the rifle around her cover, and squeezed the trigger once again. Surprised, her blaster bolts left burning holes in the hallway ceiling. A guard, at arm's length in front of her, has one hand firmly pushed up against the underbarrel of her rifle redirecting her blaster fire. With the other, he leveled a pistol directly at her torso.

Fifteen seconds.

---

It's cold.

Jag regained consciousness strapped to a frigid, steel hoverbed led by two armed guards. His head was throbbing with pain that refreshed on every twitch of a facial muscle. Any opportunity to breathe was a painful reminder of what happened. He could barely see through the dried blood that crusted over his eyelids.

That stun baton.

His arms were in mag-clamp restraints that were physically impossible to break loose from. Fortunately, they left his vambraces on. He had access to its built-in micro-torch, but was stripped of his armored chestplate and upper bodysuit.

That's fine; I still have a few more tricks up my sleeve.

The hoverbed suddenly shook. The two guards brought the bed to a stop and murmur something to the door's sentry.

The door slid open and the air was suddenly tinged with a sanitary, chemical smell that Jag could not quite identify. The sentry motioned the bed forward into the dimly lit room. Jag attempted to turn his head but could not. He grimaced in pain. Peripheral vision will have to suffice.

Medi-tanks. Containment tables. This has to be their medical ward; or interrogation wing.

The bluish glows from the med tanks cast eerie shadows that danced with the examination equipment nearby. The gray walls have shelves lined with various chemicals designed to preserve, or snuff, the lives in this room. From the ceiling, hung many different apparatuses possibly used for restraint or could easily double as torture devices. His analysis was interrupted by another sudden shake as the hoverbed slowed to another stop. A medical attendant approached pushing a cart brimming with syringes.

"Is he coherent?" he asked, barely looking up from his clipboard.

"As far as we know, no," replied the first guard.

"Skiv hit him real good across the head, so I doubt he'll remember anything. He's been out cold."

He chuckled as he slapped his colleague across the back. The attendant cast a cursory glance at Jag, who lay motionless on the hoverbed.

"I will need to run some bloodwork to verify the assassin's identity, but it shouldn't take more than a couple hours. He will be restrained here until then," said the attendant.

Skiv.

This was the only mental note Jag secured in his memory before his body recoiled and burned with pain. The attendant surreptitiously injected something into his body. Jag attempted to scream out but no sound came; half of his face was covered with a restraining mask. With wide, wild eyes, he shook violently and attempted to sit up, but a guard quickly moved to restrain him. He heard the attendant scream something.

"Get him under control!"

Skiv jumped forward in an attempt to hold Jag down while the attendant tried to inject a sedative. Jag fought furiously against his restraints and thrashed his entire body back and forth, such that his arms threatened to pop out of their sockets. Taking advantage of the confusion, Jag flicked his wrist to prime his gauntlet's micro-torch.

I only need to sever the clamp release.

Jag, flailing wildly, tried to create distance between himself and his captors as he attempted to mask his maneuvers to cut the clamp. It was over as quickly as it began. With a reverberating thud, Skiv slammed an elbow into Jag's chest and ended the struggle.  Gasping for breath and losing vision, Jag settled back onto the hoverbed, writhing in pain. The attendant calmly stepped forward to apply a sedative. A familiar darkness crept to the edge of his vision. Jag's breathing became relaxed and even, while his micro-torch slowly extinguished, unnoticed.