Fight Or Sunny Flight


“Put the junk down and turn around real careful like.”  A voice hissed from behind me; a young voice…


I did as I was told. I slowly set down the scavenged core-plug I was holding and then carefully turned, hands up, to get a look at my demanding offender. Standing just outside my truck, next to the open driver-side door, was a boyish young girl, hair short and tossed, clad in a shambled mess of scorched cloth and mesh. I recognized the gun she was pointing: an old, once trusty, slug-thrower I kept tucked away in case of emergency. She was holding it awkwardly.

“Tell me who you are and where I am.” Her voice and the demand mirrored her shaking stance.

I told her, “Arthur Aiden Dalaran, folks call me Aarden though. As far as the where: you’re standin’ in my garage in my house after I saved ya from wandering the dunes ’til ya became desert jerky, so how’s about we do introductions civil like and you put down that gun — ”

I took one step in her direction. She pulled the trigger and the following soft click and “pop” filled me with life-flashing dread and god-thanking relief all in one breath of an instant. She seemed as shocked as I but I didn’t give her another moment to think; I drew my pistol from the holster on my side and fired a searing shot just right of her head that punched a cratering dent into the brittle wall behind her. The echoing crack shook her and she flinched giving me the time to clear the two steps between us and wrest the malfunctioning firearm from her hands. She stumbled back, edging away, and her eyes flicked from one wall to the next but her gaze returned to center on me.

“You gave me a real good reason to shoot you, but I’m gunna let that one go if you agree to calm the hell down.”

No sooner did the words come out of my mouth did the interior garage door fly open, “Mister Dalaran!” a tall, clean shaven boy stepped through gripping a beaten metallic rod in his hands. “What’s going on?” His expression turned up, deep concern etched into his brow, as he looked from me to the girl, her back now almost against the wall with crumbling debris falling.

I kept my pistol trained on her but turned an eye to the boy, “Eizak? What the hell are you doin’ in my house?”

“Ma’am, are you alright?” He ignored me and began to cross the room toward the girl, lowering the pipe and approaching her as one would a scared critter.

“She ain’t very friendly. I wouldn’t walk up to her like –”

As soon as he stepped within her reach she grabbed and twisted his arm, stepping behind him and using him as a shield to block any clear shot I may have had on her. She stole the rod from his hands and forced him along edging closer and closer toward the now open door into my house. Eizak grunted and whimpered, pleading for me not to shoot and with her that we were not going to harm her. Either too dense to listen, or blatantly uncaring, she dragged Eizak within sprinting range of the door and then bashed him in the back of the head before scampering like a flash into the depths of my home. Eizak crumbled to the floor, cursing and gripping the back of his head.

“Maqola sirukaashaa! See, that’s whatcha get, with ya peanut head, for pokin’round in business that ain’t none of yours!”



Daily Prompt: Scamper


3 thoughts on “Fight Or Sunny Flight

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