Day 7

Fail fail fail.  Failed.  Utterly failed.  How long has it been since the last post?  25 days.  3.5 weeks.  @.@

But I'll keep plodding.  Not so much the quality of writing I'm after now but the actual continuation of the story.

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Karussin stared incredulously at the deranged figure Icard cast.  An old man in a charred labcoat, crimson staining one pantleg, both hands clutching a handgun, standing unbalanced in the most inappropriate way for firing a weapon.  Not to mention the odd boxy camera with hooks and antenna-like arms perched on his shoulder.

"Stop what you're doing."  Icard barely heard his own voice utter the command in a surprisingly steady voice.  Internally, his neurons were sounding the alarms.  It's not working! he screamed to himself.  He's insane, just looking at me like that with a gun in my hand!  I'm insane, trying to threaten an insane bomber!  But all he could was stand his ground.

If you later asked Icard what happened in the next second, he would say it for sure took several minutes.  Karussin correctly calculated Icard's incompetence and whipped out his own pocket semi-automatic, banking on the doctor's lack of training for those microseconds.

Icard had not even realized Karussin's arm moved when a blunt tip slammed his head sideways.  A sudden burning seared the skin above his ear.  A crack resounded.  Was the roof falling?  Did a bone break?  His befuddled brain eventually matched the sound to a gunshot.

Karussin didn't, no, couldn't believe it.  In the split second before he pulled the trigger, the camera had pushed the old man's head aside, allowing the bullet to whiz by uselessly.  What was that thing?

The time he took to ponder those thoughts cost him.

Icard had barely recovered from that second's events when the bomber's head suddenly snapped back in a spray of blood, and then he heard the second gunshot.  He staggered back, and realized the gun was not in his hand.  A gentle whirring is his ear reminded him who was sitting on his shoulder.

The little computer let the handgun fall to the floor, and requested that the residual blood be cleaned from his lens.

321 words.

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In seven days of writing, one day in plot time, at least 3 people have died.  That is what happens in life.  It's amusing and sobering at the same time.

Day 6

This took forever.  Because I was trying to avoid it.  And I had lots of work.  And not enough sleep.  Ohhhhhhhhhh, snap!

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The full extent of the damage became clear as Icard turned the corner.  The dim light from his private room illuminated the charred and shrapnel-studded walls of the hallway.  Blackened junk littered the floor.  He shuffled carefully through the mess, wincing when glass shards tinkled underfoot, hoping the rock music would mask his approach.  At times he was unaware of the gun clutched in his grip, and had to catch himself when it slipped in his sweating hands.

He didn't really have a plan.  In a perfect world, the intruder would cower as soon as he saw the gun, the proper authorities would take him away, and everything would go back to normal.  In the real world, if the intruder had the gall and guts to explode a bomb in such close quarters, he would likely have no trouble laughing at an amateur awkwardly wielding such a comparatively smaller weapon.

Icard arrived right by the doorway.  It was now or never.

***

Karussin drummed his knuckles, out of sync with the beat, and most certainly out of sync with his head-banging.  He was good at that--multitasking his brain and physical extremities.  Not only was he enjoying himself, but also he was growing increasingly frustrated at the length of time it was taking to decode the second passlock.  His ears twitched at a crinkling in the distance, but he paid little attention.

"Stop-stop right there!"

236 words

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NOOOOOO!!!!!!  I can't make 300 words.  I can't.  It was either sacrifice 300 words or miss 2 weeks in a row.  Life kills....