Foster hit the outer airlock door hard. It budged just
enough to let him know he could force it open with some effort. Effort he was
willing to give at the moment. As he shoved the outer airlock open the inner
airlock was being forced open as well. He got the door open enough to slide
through, it clamped shut on his bag and had to yank it roughly past the door.
He turned and ran into a waiting club guest. His eyes hadn’t gotten used to the
fading sunlight and he dropped his sunglasses over his eyes which reset his
headphones and restarted his music. The person he had run into was the contact
that he was supposed to meet in the first place. He grabbed the guy’s jacket. “Give
me the package!” He shouted in his face.
The guy panicked, he looked from Foster to the outer airlock
door reopening, then back to Foster just in time to catch a fist to the face.
The contact hit the ground unconscious and Foster quickly fleeced him for a
small brown package pulled from an inner pocket on his jacket. Yelling from
inside the airlock alerted Foster to the fact that it was time for him to go.
Foster pulled his minimized board off his bag, thumbed a
button on his board control and by the time his board hit the street it was
full size. He hopped and pushed the drive stick forward, taking off like a
shot. By the time the club’s guards made it past the door he was half a block down
the street. The club guards ran after him and in midstride rollerblade wheels popped
out of their shoes and they rolled up on Foster in a six man mob.
The woman in the suit emerged from the airlock and looked
down at Fosters contact who was coming back to consciousness. The woman knelt
down and the first thing the contact saw was her poisonous eyes glaring at him.
“What was in the package?” She asked with barely contained rage in her voice.
Fosters glasses showed him a rear view of the guards
catching up to him. Each was wielding carbon fiber batons that were outfitted
at the tips with any number of horrible customizations, be it electrified tips,
or blades that came a quarter inch out of the baton and were several inches
long. He gripped a gray plaststeel handle on the bottom of his jacket and
pulled, revealing a strip of inch and a half wide that went ridged as it hit
the open air. Once the cloth was completely removed he had a functional short
sword.
The first guard reached him and Foster turned around
completely to block the guard’s baton strike with his sword. In no time at all
Foster is practically surrounded by rollerblading guards trying to stop him.
Unable to fight all six guards He takes his board off autopilot with another
button press on his glove control and rather than trying to fight the guards he
uses the terrain of the alleys they are racing through to gain distance and
single out the guards as much as possible for attacks. Its tiring work, and
while the guards aren’t very good skaters or very good fighters, the cramped quarters
of the alley way allow the guards to get cheap shots in on Foster more often
than he would have liked. When he took a baton to his temple he realized there
was no way he was going to win the fight and needed to escape the guards, of
which none had dropped back even though almost all of them were bleeding
profusely.
