You are Sandy, lean, mean killing machine. Under your belt are countless dozens of fisticuffs, firefights, barbrawls and desperate struggles for continued survival. Currently you are between gigs, as they say. Sitting in the "Vibe", a bar you like, just scanning the crowd.
You sit in a corner booth, with your back against the wall (naturally) and your legs on the bench, with your left hand resting easily on the table, nursing a plastic jug of synth-beer.
You are wearing black cargo pants with multiple pockets, black t-shirt, kevlar vest and a black hoodie over it. Your underwear is black as well and sensible, considering that you might end up in fight at any time. Your fake-leather coat is on the bench next to you. Hidden inside the hoodie is your trusty pistol and your pants hide a knife as well. Rest of your hardware is safely locked away in your hideout.
You lazily watch the people around you, there's nothing obvious so far though few of the patrons look good enough to fool around.
That is, until someone walks up to your table! |