#roseacesoldier

Rays of orange and red filtered in through the abandoned bar’s windows, shards of glass scattered along the wooden floor and broken stools. The room itself was quiet, for the time being, even though moments before it had been the holding of gunshot eruptions and screaming civilians as they scuttled away from the war inside the bar.

Most of the time, this abandoned bar in Coastal City was known to be a hangout for raging teens and young adults itching to defy all rules. During the day, it was the hideout. During the night, it was a war zone. Coastal City had been divided by multiple gangs for decades, and the bar - what used to be known as Billy’s Brews - was dead center in the division of three gang territories. The Tempests, the Blizzards, and the Gales.

Tonight, the Tempests and Blizzards had clashed in the middle of a rundown college party. Only the police appearing stopped the fighting, and, now, the bar was silent.

“Shit.” Caroline hissed as she shivered underneath the bar’s counter, the smell of old beer and spoiled liquor stinging her nose. Blood seeped from the wound in her side, the bullet that sliced her skin somewhere in the center of the bar room. Her daggers lined her belt, of various sizes and brands, while her pistol, a nine mm, lay discarded to on the floor.

In the scurry to leave before being arrested, her partners, Faolan and Brandon, had abandoned her without realization. For all she knew, they were back at the Crypt, home base, only realizing now that the third member of their trio was gone. Gang master Charlemagne would not be pleased.

The silver and gold scarf tied around her neck, to symbolize her alliegiance as a Tempest, slide off at the slightest pull. Her ragged breaths became sharp and more pained as she pressed the fabric to her side, staining the scarf red. She’d need to get a new one before -

There was a noise, somewhere else in the bar room. On edge because of the battle, Caroline paused, biting her lip to keep her voice at bay.

The room was quiet again.

Adrenaline roaring to kife, she grabbed her pistol, struggling to stand with one hand holding the scarf in place. She propped her arm on the bartender’s stool, green eyes wild and searching for the source of the noise.

"Who’s there?" She called, stopping to suck in air as the pain trickled across her entire body.

One more bullet in the pistol.

One last chance to see if she would die or triumph.