Panni's speech will from here on out be distinguished by *”dialogue.”* ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Is that why your last shooter sold you? Cause you're nothing but a self-centered bitch who cares only for herse-" >The last thing you see is a gloved fist rocketing towards your face. >Your vision is filled with the fist of your Barrett, your eyes screwing shut as you brace for impact. >Nothing. >You wait a moment before gradually opening your eyes, only to find Panni's fist hovering just half an inch from your face. >Slowly, you take a small step back and to the side, expecting a seething weapon spirit to fill your non-fist filled vision. >Instead, you find her with her head hung low, looking down at her boots. >Tears dot the concrete. >You deflate, temper instantly dropping. "... Panni?" *"... Cancer."* >She's barely audible, but you just catch the C word. Her arm outstretched arm falls back to her side, fist sliding into her jacket pocket like its compatriot. "Excuse me?" *"Ol' Alfie has the cancer, he's all banjaxed up and shite... Had to move into hospice care full-time, sold the house and such..."* >You're shocked by this bit of news, information you hadn't been aware of until just this moment. >However, you're more shocked by Panni's reaction. The last time you'd seen her show any kind of emotion outside of teasing and hostility was when you caught her with the violin. >You watch in silence as she sits down on the bench, another cigarette now hanging from her lips. "Panni, I- " >She lifts her head, peering at you over her aviator shades, eyes slightly glistening with silent tears. *"That man was me only family and friend left in this worl', O'Connell... An' he sold me ta the highest bidder."* >It clicks at that moment. This is why she had no desire to grow close, become more than just rifle and owner. >Because the one she thought she could trust the most left her. >It's obvious to you that there's no way he could have kept her, being in hospice and all, but she doesn't seem to fully grasp that. >Sighing, you approach and sit next to the Irish woman on the bench. "I'm sure he had his reasons, Panni, but I'm not gonna try and excuse away what he did. What I can tell you, though, is that he does care about you, as is evident by his screening of me... " *"The feck are ye on about?"* she grunts, clearing her throat. *"The tool sold me off without a care in the world... "* "He made sure you went to someone that fit the bill of an ideal owner, meaning a Catholic Irishman sheriff's deputy. And who do you think told me about what food and beer to have for ya?" *"... He's still a piece o' shite,"* she spits, rubbing her eyes beneath her sunglasses. "I'm not saying that excuses what he did, far from it." >You hesitate for a moment before gingerly placing your hand on her back. >She starts slightly at the unexpected contact, looking over her shoulder at your hand then back to you, eyebrow raised. "I'm just tryin to let you know that he cares enough to make sure you'll at least be comfortable where you wind up. Which is part of the reason I've tried to actually get to know you, so that you'll feel like this is your home, and not just a place for you to eat and sleep." >She sits in silence, quietly taking drags from her smoke. Removing your hand and standing, you attend to packing up the range gear while she thinks. >You pack everything away and load it in the truck, all the while she continues to sit and stare at the ground, cigarette long extinguished. >Turning back to the bay, you see that the Barrett is slowly making her way towards you, hands tucked in her pockets. “You gonna be alright?” >She snorts at you, giving you a playful punch on the arm when she’s in reach. *”I’m feckin hungry, ye best be planning ta feed me.”* >Back to normal already. “I figured we could just order a pizza or two. How’s that?” *”Aye, sounds like a treat! Pineapple and ham on mine, eh? And maybe some Jameson and coke?”* >You can’t help but smile, nodding your head. “Sure, we can swing by the liquor store on the way home.” *”Ye damn right we will,”* she says with a pointed finger. “Can we go now, your majesty?” >You feign a bow, gesturing to the opened passenger door. *”Feckin muppet,”* she says with a roll of her eyes, climbing into the truck. >That evening is relatively quiet, at least as quiet as it can be with an alcohol soaked Irishwoman. >The two of you sit together in the living room, she in the recliner and you on the couch, watching Siege of Jadotville while dining on pizza and booze. >While not much is said, save for the occasional drunken quip at the mercenaries and U.N., you can’t help but feel that there is a little less tension between the two of you after the conversation earlier in the day. >You decide it best to not press her about telling you more about herself, instead opting to allow her to tell you once she’s good and ready. >As the movie closes and credits roll, you look over to see that your Barrett has passed out, slumped back in the recliner while cuddling a half empty bottle of Jameson. “How she never gets a hangover from all this drinking is lost on me,” you mutter, standing and popping your back. >You toss a blanket over her before heading to your room to catch some sleep yourself, although not before pulling up your email on your phone. >Amidst the usual newsletters, special offers, and other junk are three messages that truly pique your interest. >Two are those that you had previously looked at, one regarding the final interview for a job with a long, drawn out hiring process and the other stating a package was ready for pick-up at a nearby gun store. >The third is from a college friend that lives not too far away. He himself had recently acquired a new job that would potentially have him moving to the same city that you would be based out of should you be offered a position. >While you’re eager to split the cost of rent with someone you know, you now have the issue of Panni. >You highly doubt she’d just sit in her case while your friend is home, and passing her off as your girlfriend would be a nightmare. >Locking your phone, you deem it best to wait till tomorrow to reply. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- >Early the next morning, you find yourself sitting in your squad car in one of the quieter patrol grids. >You have to fight the urge to dose off multiple times during the first hour, but thankfully relief soon arrives. >Tap tap tap. >Looking over through the passenger window, you see your partner holding two cups of coffee and a bag of pastries from the bakery around the corner. You eagerly unlock the door for him. “Bout time, Hank.” “There was a line, sue me,” he says, handing you your cup of caffeinated heaven and an apple fritter. “If by that you mean you were flirting with the girl at the counter again, I’ll see you in court.” >You flash a knowing grin from behind the foam cup, Hank’s cheeks reddening ever so slightly. >The two of you sit in silence for the next few minutes, only the sound of chewing and sipping breaking the quiet as you both enjoy the warm breakfast. “So, what’s this about you snagging yourself some Irish gal, eh?” Hank asks, tossing the wadded up paper bag into the floorboard. >You choke on your coffee, a portion going down your windpipe at the mention of Panni being your girlfriend. >You’d forgotten up until that point that word of you having a new girlfriend had probably spread like wildfire through the department. >As you rack your brain for a response, the radio crackles to life as dispatch calls through. -“Dispatch to 501, come in 501.”- >You snatch up the mic, glad for an excuse to avoid a very undesirable conversation. “501 to dispatch, this is O’Connell. Whatcha got Betty?” -“Corporal, is Deputy Hill with you?”- >You cast a questioning glance over to your partner who answers with a shrug. “Roger that, dispatch, he’s right here with me.” -“Chief Williams is placing him on desk duty effective immediately.”- “Copy that, dispatch, mind if we ask what for?” -“The cashier at the doughnut shop is the Chief's niece. Have Hill back in station as soon as possible. Dispatch out.”- >The moment the words are uttered, you roar with laughter, tears streaming down your face. Hank’s face, on the other hand, consists of a gaping mouth and wide eyes. “B-But… I-I… “ he stammers, at a loss for words. “Sucks to suck, haha.” >You put the cruiser in gear and pull out from behind the abandoned hardware store, heading back to the station. >After dropping off a very disappointed deputy, you relax knowing you’re free from Panni related questions for the remainder of your shift. >As you drive towards your new posting for the remainder of the day, it occurs to you that the gun shop holding your package is along the way. “Well, a quick stop couldn’t hurt,” you think aloud, turning at the next traffic light. >A few minutes later and you’re walking through the front door of Heimlich County Guns and Ammo, the smell of iron, steel, and gun lube filling your lungs. >The aroma is relaxing. “Ah, Officer O’Connell, I was wonderin when you’d darken my door,” calls the man behind the counter. “Mornin Jeff. Yeah, I was passin by and figured I’d go ahead and pick it up.” >You shake the owner’s hand as you reach the counter, moving to browse the handguns as he goes to retrieve your package. >He returns a moment later carrying a long cardboard box, setting it down on the counter before you. “So where’d you get this beauty?” he asks, sliding the required paperwork across the counter. >You take up a pen and sign off and initial where needed. “Grandfather left it to me when he passed a few months back, been a time and a half tryin to get it down here.” “That’s right, he was up in Boston, wasn’t he?” >Jeff takes the form and absentmindedly slides it into a folder of similar paperwork sitting on the counter behind him. “That’s right, about lost it due to my cunt of a sister trying to turn it in to the cops up there since it wasn’t registered,” you grunt, sneering at the thought of your libtard of a sister. “Dad thankfully set her straight, threatened to kick her out of the house.” “Sounds like your parents at least have their heads on straight,” he nods, leaning forward on the display case. “Would have been a loss, this one.” >He lays a caring hand on the box as he speaks, a normally simple gesture that you can’t help but feel means more. >You brush it off as your radio crackles to life. -“Dispatch to 501, what’s your 20?”- “501 to dispatch, I’m en route to Stevenson and Barlinson, over.” -“10-4, possible 10-56 at Barlow and Rogers, reports of an aggressive individual attacking passerby and standing in the intersection impeding traffic. 10-39, please respond, over.”- “Copy that, dispatch, 501 en route, over.” >You quickly grab up the box and begin rushing for the door of the shop, stopping as Jeff calls after you. “O’Connell, box of shells on the house.” >He tosses a small cardboard box of 20 rounds across the store, which you easily catch with a word of thanks before bolting out the door. >Tossing the boxes into the passenger seat of the cruiser, you send gravel flying as you peel out of the parking lot, siren blaring. >Weaving in and out of traffic, you take turns as quickly and carefully as possible. As you near the area, you find yourself entering the… less than desirable part of town. >Enter, the hood. >Soon enough you reach the intersection and spy the subject that spurred the call, running after a screaming woman carrying her toddler. >Recognizing the best option, you swerve the Crown Vic in their direction and hop the curb, skidding to a halt between the assailant and his target. The brush guard roughly hits the brick wall of the housing building as you block the perp’s path. >THWAM. >The suspect runs right into the hood of the cruiser, slamming himself onto and over the hood, tumbling over the car and to the passenger side. >Stepping from the Ford, you draw your sidearm, a Glock 21, and bring it to a low ready as you put distance between yourself and the suspect while slowly rounding the vehicle. “501 to dispatch, on scene. Suspect possibly injured, might need an ambulance.” >You let go of the radio as the man, slowly standing up, comes into view. “Sir, I’m gonna need you to stay on the ground and show me- “ +”Ffffeeeeeed…. “+ >You stop speaking, mouth slightly open as you try and process the half moan, half speech that had just been uttered by the man before you. “Sir…?” >The man shuffles in place for a few moments, his body movement lanky and uncoordinated, head lolling and rolling from side to side, eyes dilated with a distant look about them. >Blood drips from his mouth and stains his clothes, yet he seems covered in only superficial wounds, minor scratches and scrapes. >He takes a step towards you, eyes zoning in on you. “Step the fuck back and get on the ground!” >You bring your Glock to bear on the lunatic, finger resting on the trigger and depressing the safety. >He ignores your yelling, instead crouching like an animal preparing to pounce. “SIR, THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!” >You begin to slowly step back, distancing yourself from the animalistic psycho. >For a moment, it seems as if he is considering complying with your orders. >That’s when he throws his head back, mouth agape. >A guttural yell, nay, a screech, escapes from deep within him. +”FFFFEEEEEEEDDD!”+ >You fire. >BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. >.45 rounds impact and pierce the man’s flesh as you riddle him with bullets at near point blank range. >Unfazed, he lunges towards you. >You’re mid reload when he tackles you, sending you both to the ground and your sidearm skittering across the asphalt. >You roll to the side as he recovers and attempts to grapple you, just avoiding his clawing hands. >Staggering to your feet, you draw your baton and extend it in a smooth flurry, readying yourself. >As the fucker moves to his feet, you quickly grasp your handset and yell into it. “501, SHOTS FIRED, SHOTS FIRED. OFFICER NEEDS IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE.” -“Dispatch to 501, additional officers en route. O’Connell, the hell is going on?”- >You don’t have time to respond before you’re being lunged at again. >This time, you’re ready and manage to dodge to the left. >The baton makes impact with the back of the man’s skull as you take advantage of the opening. >He crumples to the ground behind you, blood pooling from the gunshot wounds. >Unmoving, it seems as if he’s down. You move in to cuff him, baton at the ready. >He springs to life like a piston under pressure as you move to pin him with your knee, turning the tables in a flash of blood soaked clothes and animalistic screeching. >Unhuman strength has you pinned to the street as he claws and slams against your chest, your body armor thankfully protecting you from the brunt of the assault. >You try to shove him off with your arms and knees, but he somehow stays locked onto you with his own legs. >His face surges for your throat, teeth bared like a wolf. +”FEEDFEEDFEEDFEED!!”+ >Your hands lock around his neck as you hold him back with all your strength, his own hands doing the same to your own as he attempts to pull you closer. >His grip is tight, you can feel oxygen draining from your lungs and strength leaving your body. >His blood soaked face is growing closer. >Your vision darker. >Strength leaving your arms. “So this is how it ends… “ >Chakchakchak >The body atop you lurches, grip loosening as automatic rifle fire pierces the air. ~”And it’s down along tha Falls Road, that’s where I long ta be,”~ >Chakchakchak >More rifle fire pierces the air, your assailant staggering atop you as he attempts to turn and face the new threat. ~”Lyin’ in tha dark with a Provo company!”~ >Chakchakchakchakchak ~”A comrade on me left an’ another one on me right,”~ >Chakchakchakchak >The cannibal rolls off you, hissing in pain and anger, crouching defensively. >You gag, precious oxygen filling your lungs, vision coming back to you. >Rolling onto your side, your clouded vision is filled with the site of what appears to be a rifle wielding woman, slowly moving towards your attacker and firing in short, controlled bursts. >And… singing. ~”And a clip of ammunition fer me little Armalite!”~ >Chakchakchakchakchak >She drags out the final note while finishing off the mag, the final rounds implanting themselves in the psycho’s cranium. >Brain matter and blood splatter across the asphalt as the man finally falls for good, unmoving. >You roll onto your back, still regaining oxygen and on the verge of passing out, trying to gain a better look at your hero. ~”Aye, would ye feckin lookin’ at that! First day back together an’ I’m havin ta save yer life ye feckin sham!” she laughs, kneeling next to you. >Donned in all black, her ginger blonde hair sticks out as it falls just below her shoulders from under her beret. Her hazel eyes gleam with compassion as she begins to look over you, checking for wounds. “W-Who,“ you choke out, still gasping for air. ~”Aideen, my dear, the Armalite 18 yer dear ol’ grandad taught ye how ta shoot with.”~ “Lord have mercy… “ >The sound of approaching sirens can be heard as you finally pass out in the middle of the street.