He put the glass down and a bartender walked over and poured another. Dylan slid the bartender a handful of bills. "Leave the bottle." He took the money, grabbed a dirty rag, and continued drying a few of the mugs that read Deangelo's on the side.
Visions of white sparks fell around him as flames ignited all along the bar. Explosions and screams filled his ears. Blackened bodies filled his reflection within the glass. He drank another shot, hoping it would go away.
A decade going from fight to fight, from war zone to war zone left him with no scars, no marks from an augmentation, only nightmares. Nightmares that visited him dreaming or waking.
From across the room, another man gazed at Dylan as he drank. His face wrinkled his hair gray for years. Various friends met his gaze and attempted to speak, but he shrugged them off and stood. He thundered across the room towards Dylan.
He leaned over, grasping the bottle of whiskey with his left hand. Only three fingers wrapped around the bottle, the other two only curved a little as they attempted to close. A scar sat under the knuckle of the middle finger. It ran up his muscular arm and disappeared under the sleeve of a stained t-shirt.
"This place is for former enforcers only. You're not welcome." He slid the amber drink towards him. The bottle only moved a few inches when Dylan's hand grab the top.
Dylan turned his head. The two men stared at each other for a few seconds. The man moved his eyes down, Dylan did the same. A gun sat in the waistband of the man's pants. He lifted his gaze staring into the man's dark brown eyes. "I have a flight at sunup to Ghana. I'm here to drink in peace."
The scar interested Dylan a little, the weakened grip more. A few reasons could explain it, but a pair of small dots on the inside of the old enforcer told of an old taser wound. A wound that shorted a wire within the body, a wire that would leave a scar as it ripped itself out. The old gangster still stood as strong as any man half his age.
As Dylan pondered the scar, the old man studied Dylan. Unarmed, always bad move in Hazard City. Muscular, but only enough to make throwing him around more difficult. He carried no scar, so he didn't have to worry about any hidden enhancements. A black tattoo of a skull with an eagle on top and the word "Sentinel" sat on his shoulder.
He paused at his eyes. Black, they stared unblinking only shifting for moments. He confronted soldiers, and old warriors before, they stared at him, and beyond. This man only looked at him. Something swirled behind those eyes, waiting for him to move. He handheld the bottle for a moment before he blinked and let go. His hands held up a little, he backed away from Dylan and sat down with his friends.
An hour passed. Dylan didn't drink much. The visions grew worse. The bar long faded away replaced with desert, fire, and blood. He kept an eye on the old thug. The drunker he god the more likely he would be back. Visions or not he could deal with him, but less so if also drunk. The massive man laughed. His hand grabbed his mug of beer in his left hand, two fingers always extended.
That thug grew belligerent as the minutes ticked on. One of the servers yelped when he extended his hand and grabbed at her. He'd be back in a few minutes to threaten Dylan again. When he did, Dylan was going to ram his head into the bar. The blood would mix well with other stains in the wood.
The bar's doors flung open. Dylan's focus shifted. A woman, dressed in a small tube top and miniskirt, limped into the bar soaked from head to toe. Her high heels clicked with each step. She stumbled around and fell into the bar pushing up against Dylan knocking his glass across the bar.
The bartender walked over. "I can't serve you. Come back when you sober up some." He walked away when she grabbed his arm.
"Please help." The woman's tears ran down her face. She coughed and collapsed back down.
The dim light of the bar hid the mud in her blonde hair, and clothes when she came in. Dylan leaned over and poked at a dark red spot on her shirt. He pulled the fabric up. Her stomach was covered in bruises, a V-shaped brand, and an inch-long stab wound. The blood trickled down past her skirt.
Dylan grabbed a towel and pressed it to the wound. He stood. "She needs an ambulance."
"They don't come here. People in the neighborhood been callin' in and robbin' the trucks."
"Where is the nearest hospital?"
The old thug shouted. "Don't tell him shit." His words slurred. "She's branded like one of Vanco's girls. If she dyin', there is a reason."
The bartender shook his head back and forth between the two men. "Let me make this simpler..." The man stood, and knocked back his chair, and drew his Beretta nine-millimeter from his pants. "You open your mouth, and I put a bullet through it."
Dylan shook his head, grabbed the bartender's hand, and pressed it on the girl's wound. "Keep the pressure on this. I won't take long." Dylan turned from the bar and took a step towards the thug.
"You got any idea who you're walking to?" the thug's eyes grew wide as Dylan continued towards him. "I worked for one of the five families, an enforcer for the Kingpin himself. People moved when they saw me. People feared me throughout the city!" Dylan stood right in front of the man. The gun pointed between Dylan's eyes.
Dylan stared at the old thug. "But then you took a taser to the arm. Your low-rent enhancements burst out leaving you nerve damage in your left arm. Now you're here, with the rest of the broken-down gangsters."
The two stood a few inches apart. "Put the gun down." The old thug pushed the hammer back.
Dylan sighed and shook his head. "I wanted one night of peace."
In a moment Dylan reached up. He hit the forearm of the gangster's forearm and pushed it off him. The gun fired. He grabbed the barrel of the gun and twisted. The gun jerked from the thug's hand.
He pushed forward and drove his head into the thug's nose. The nose shattered on impact. The man stumbled back and fell to the floor. He grabbed his nose and yelled as blood poured down his face.
Dylan walked back to the bar. He took the clip out of the gun, and cocked the slide back, sending the next chambered round flying to the ground. He pressed the button to release the slide and removed it. Dylan threw the gun pieces on the bar. "Where's the hospital?"
The bartender's eyes fixed on the thug as he wailed on the floor. "H... half... half a mile east."
Dylan took the woman by the arm. "You're going to be, OK." He led her out into the dark streets.