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.