Nightclub Massacre

A willowy singer is at the back of the nightclub on a raised stage, her body clad in a tight dress a shimmering silver colour and crooning about lost loves. Scores of people are spread throughout the establishment but the singer's voice rises beautifully above their murmurings.

I have half an eye on her, my gaze wanders over her lush curves. Shaking my head I focus my attention on the woman, a contact within the military, who is sharing my table, my eyes dipping to look at the photos she'd put between us. The subject of the photos is clearly a tank, nothing else gives off such an aura of brutalist beauty, but not one I'm familiar with.

"Seems like our glorious leader has a new toy. I've got the thing's specs somewhere."

She leans to one side to start rooting around in her bag and my eyes widen as I see a trio of blondes in formal suits enter the nightclub.

I recognize one, a lover I'd left tied to our bed when I joined the resistance against the dictator ruling our nation. Her gaze finds me, a scowl distorts her beautiful features, and we both reach for our pistols at the same time. Her teammates grab at their own firearms a second later, boxy submachine guns of the kind favoured by the resistance, and my heart skips a beat as I see them tightening their trigger-fingers, as I see how this'll be reported to the masses. Bright muzzle flare lights up the nightclub, dark blood spurts from those patrons directly between me and the government agents as they're pierced by hot lead. One agent then neatly dispatches the bar staff, one waitress' head snaps back as a hole appears in her forehead, and the second turns her gun on the rest of the patrons, I see her smoothly reload before opening fire again with a grin on her face.

Women grunt and scream as they're shot. Some try to stand and run, they end up face-down on the floor with bullets between their shoulders, while others are too shocked to move, more than a few just bonelessly slumping back in their seats. My former lover stalks through the carnage towards me, her movements are as graceful as when we first met, and there's no mistaking the hatred in her eyes.

I then escape death by the slimmest margin, my contact straightening and taking the bullets meant for me. I glance around when a heart-wrenching wail splits the air, the singer is dropping to her knees as blood stains her dress before she topples backwards when a bullet tears through her throat, spasms as her life drains away.

The shooting is sporadic now, my former lover’s teammates moving from body to body and putting a bullet into anyone still clinging to life. I let my pistol fall from my grip as my contact is carelessly shoved aside, make no move to try and escape now. It's a final victory though, I see the irritation at my passivity in her eyes, before all I can see is a flash of light.