Race the Date, week 3

Prompt: http://www.caramichaels.com/defiantlyliterate/2013/11/18/race-the-date-3/

Saul’s hand shook as he reached out for the drink the bartender had brought. The glass was dirty, the table was filthy, and the Denebian warlord sitting across from him was the most disgusting creature Saul had ever run across. But there wasn’t a germ in the known universe which could kill him faster than the device sitting on the table in front of him, so he downed the shot of whatever they’d distilled in the jungles outside the bar and tried to ignore the fear.

No one had ever survived a blast from a disintegration ray. It wasn’t like an old ballistic weapon, where a good surgeon could sew up certain kinds of holes faster than blood could seep out of them. When you got hit with this thing, especially the new ones with AI controls and auto-targeting, you were, to put it in the local lingo, royally fucked. And Saul was about to pick up the blaster, point it at his own head, and fire.

When he’d made the bet, Saul had planned on being ten light years away – in any direction – but then he’d met Raina, and suddenly there wasn’t enough time to get his clothes on before his launch window closed. The warlord’s lieutenant had smirked when he’d arrived at Saul’s cabin, and his titanium grip hadn’t released for a second until Saul was in the chair he’d die in.

Licking his lips, he sighed and picked up the blaster. The rules of Russian Roulette hadn’t changed in a thousand years, but you still didn’t want to go first. As he raised the weapon to his temple, Saul caught sight of a familiar face in the corner. Raina winked at him, he smiled, and pulled the trigger.


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