The sun was hot against Ellian's back, not burning—because he had a shirt on—but warming it up to the point of discomfort. As he snuck through the bustling crowds of Indan his fingers deftly pocketed six bright yellow coins from a passing lady's purse. Smirking, he continued along the road, heading to Breakneck bar, to tell stories of his meager successes and to burn off his rewards as proof.
Diffia's nose itched, blazes, but it itched. She wanted so much to scratch it, but—unfortunately—not more than she wanted to see her trap in action. She'd set it up just before the crack of dawn, and now—finally—it was time for the fruits. The man with the scar would be here any minute—the one who'd stolen her mother's locket and left her family with nothing. Three months of tracking, two weeks of planning, and every coin she had left went into this trap. This was her only chance.
The familiar smells of ale, sweat, smoke, and a nasty pungent smell he hadn't been able to place so far, greeted Ellian as he pushed open the heavy wooden door of Breakneck bar. A small rat scurried past him in a desperate attempt to get its stolen food back to its family and he cringed his foot away, like jumping back, but much less dramatic. Sadly for it, it ran headlong into the cook's leg. The cook, who was already looking for it, lifted it up, pulled the piece of meat out of its mouth, threw it out the window with surprising strength, and popped the small piece of meat into his mouth. Slightly curious, almost disgusted, Ellian continued deeper into the bar, stealthily fleeing from the weird scene behind him.
Diffia noticed the newcomer—she noticed all of them—His eyes were of a sparkling bright green variety—although sunken—were beautiful, but his majesty ended there, he had dusty, brown-gray hair, on top of a rarely washed head, worn clothes, and a slight bump in the vague shape of a flat banana with a handle under his left forearm, he threaded his way forward going toward the hallway closest to the hearth, in the direction of her traps. Her brain didn't notice what that meant until six seconds later. He was going to set it off! No. Not this one. She needed the trap intact for when Scarface arrived—her informant said he'd be here within the hour. If this idiot triggered it now, she'd lose everything. She thought as she got up, scratching her itchy nose. She analyzed the situation: The newcomer was going at a medium pace, navigating through the crowd. She would have about twenty to twenty five seconds until he would get to the hallway, there—if he entered the hallway—he would've needed to go nine more paces and then he would've hit the loose floorboard, the first of her traps, then, the bola would've shot out as the door closed and locked behind him and he would've fell headfirst onto a hidden trapdoor, sliding him down into an underfloor room with a hard wooden chair and coiled wires around the armrests to lock the victim in place. Three months of work, all her money, her last chance to get the locket back—she couldn't let some random cutpurse ruin it all. She thought angrily as she started to jostle her way forward and pulled out her harmonica.
A shadow moved at the corner of Ellian's eyes, catching his attention—there were lots of shadows, but there was something about this one's urgency, it's plain defiance of the rest of the bar, that caught his eyes—using the act of grabbing an empty mug from the table behind him, he spun around to get a better look at the shadow, the "shadow" turned out to a young woman, looking to be about nineteen to twenty two years old. She had medium-length dark brown hair, brown caramel skin coloring, and legs that were entirely too long for her body. She had a tight tunic and a hard leather jacket with a belt and satchel holding it. Her pants were the opposite of her upper-garments; thick loose overalls covering her legs. He blinked and noticed that she was walking directly at him! He instinctively reached for his left sleeve, where he'd hidden his knife, but stopped himself, she might just be going somewhere else—his thoughts fell quiet as her hand went for the satchel hanging on her belt, his mind went to the worst possible thing that could be happening, she was going for a longknife and was going stab him! Instead, she pulled out a silvery harmonica, and started to raise it to her lips. Steeling his thoughts and emotions, he pulled himself into the crowd, desperately moving to the nearest door—the one leading to the hallway—he weaved through the crowd, and while the people staggered, stumbled, and bumbled around, there was a master at work. He slipped through the death trap, planning each step, landing perfectly, and executing twists at just the right time to dodge the occasional elbow or knee, making it to the door. Only to see it slam shut with a click, just as the young woman played a sharp, shrill note on her harmonica.
Memories of pain, happiness, and nostalgia floated in her mind as the harmonica touched Diffia's lips. Tilting it slightly diagonal to the right, she slid it quickly across her mouth finding the right hole, a quick inhale of hole eight created a sharp dissonant noise, the noise the steel string was made to react to. Just as the newcomer reached the door, the sound wave hit the string, causing it to vibrate and activate the spring so it would push the door slamming it shut, locking the door to the hallway. He pulled out a small metallic thing and stuck it in the door lock, starting to wiggle it. Rage flared in her chest. Stupid guy, he's gonna wreck it! The mechanism was delicate—if he broke the lock, the whole trap would be useless. Scarface would walk right through and she'd never get another shot at him. She thought as she dashed towards him.
"Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon," Ellian murmured as he fit the lockpick into the door latch, he twisted the pin and pushed it upwards, fitting the first pin to the shear line. Only 4 more. He thought. Slowly rotating the next pin, he flicked the lockpick upwards, setting it too onto the shear line. Risking a glance at the woman; he found her dashing at him at full speed. By now she had gained an audience, people had started giving way for her as she bolted at him. Hands shaking, he went back to picking the lock. Twist, rotate, push up, set. Twist, rotate, push up, set. Twist, rotate, push up, set—The footsteps were too close! He leaped out of the way, barely missing the longknife of the young woman. So she was going to pull a longknife on me! He thought as he scrambled away from her, pulling his small blade from his left sleeve.
Diffia swiped her longknife forwards, trying to get at the newcomer's sword arm, he ducked away from the blow, still trying to go in the direction of the hallway door. She wasn't gonna let it happen, she'd worked too hard on this, no stupid cutpurse was gonna disable her trap. Everything—her mother's memory, the family savings she'd spent, three months of her life—it all depended on that trap working perfectly when Scarface arrived. She'd do whatever it took to keep it intact. She ducked in, going for a neck blow. He fumbled with his small blade, but held it up in time to catch the attack, she pressed harder, his fearful eyes widened.
Ellian gripped his blade for life, the woman was pushing on it, holding it inches from his throat, he pushed on his knife, trying to push hers back. She just pushed harder. Years on the streets gave him an escape, with one final push, he shoved her longknife back enough for him to duck and swipe her satchel off her belt, this cost him deeply, as she kicked him in the stomach, knocking him to the ground; then, raising her longknife, she brought it up and over her head and swung down on him. He just managed to hold the satchel over his head, hoping that whatever was in it would be enough to stop the blade.
Her longknife stopped short, caught in her extra wires she stored in her satchel. No! She thought as her longknife caught and twisted deeper into the wires, they coiled around it, locking it in place, she pulled it towards her, and it didn't budge, that was until the man let go of the satchel, and the force of her pull threw it—satchel and all—past her shoulder.
Seeing his chance, he dived for her long legs, grabbing them, he was able to knock her over. Then, pushing himself back with his legs, he was able to get up just before her, but his deeppocket was nowhere to be seen—and with it his lockpick—he started for the door, but the woman grabbed his legs—just as he had moments before—and slammed him facedown onto the floor. He cried for help—as the woman crawled up to him and punched him square in the nose—but the bar people were brawling as well, using his and her example fullheartedly, they knocked each other to the ground and choked viciously—the woman's fist hit his chest, then his ear, he lifted his hands in front of his face to defend himself, and rammed his knee into the woman's stomach.
Diffia grunted as the man's knee hit her stomach. I need to win this. I can't let him ruin everything—not when I'm this close to getting the locket back. Mother's locket. The last piece of her I have left. She thought. Losing to a cutpurse? Unacceptable! She threw another fist at his face and he rammed his knee into her again. Coughing, she pushed herself off him, landing on her arms and right leg, using her left leg she kicked behind her as she crawled away. A groan of pain confirmed the hit. She got up to her knees, then stood up. He was still laying on the floor. Time to finish this. Scarface could arrive any minute—I need this done now. She thought, frustrated.
No. "No!" Ellian coughed, as the woman put her hands on his windpipe, he grabbed her hands, trying to pull them apart. Failing miserably. He tried harder, he could feel his life slipping away. An idea popped into his head, a desperate one, it would never work, but it was better than nothing.
The man struggled at Diffia's chokehold, trying to push her hands apart. She pushed harder, she felt him swallow, and she hesitated. His face was horrified, it acknowledged the fact that he was about to die, but his eyes—his eyes were defiant. Slightly shook, she pushed even harder.
Now or never. Ellian thought as he let go, closing his eyes, dropping his hands, letting her feel that he was dead. Please work, pleasepleaseplease. She hesitated, as he grabbed the table leg that had rolled nearby from a nearby brawl, and rammed it into her face! Her grip loosened and he slithered out of her grip. Getting up and slamming his makeshift weapon on her head, slamming it again, he fell into a motion, not noticing what he was doing.
The table leg made a loud cracking noise, then broke, as if shocked, only responding in delay. And only then did he notice what he had did. Her head was a bleeding mess. Horrified of himself, he fell to his knees, crying.
THE END.