After suffering from severe writers block for the last few months, I woke up today with an urge to write something. I have had a particular scene in my head for the last few weeks now, and for whatever reason I now feel able to articulate it properly. So this is part one of what I hope to be a halfway decent short story. There isn't much, I tend to write slowly, but any feedback would be great. Betrayal in Eden Two gun shots echo down the abandoned service corridors of Eden, and I stumble a little faster. The faint sound of a woman screaming follows me, resounds through gunmetal grey halls and bounces back from every direction. Another shot and the screaming is brutally silenced. My vision blurs, my legs begin to buckle and suddenly I am on the floor. Somewhere far away my muse chimes out numbers, but I don't know what they are supposed to mean. Everything feels fuzzy, even the metal grating of the floor on my cheek feels distant. What am I doing down here? Why am I so cold? Why can't I stand? I try to push myself back to my feet, but the dull throb in my shoulder suddenly shoots pain up and down my spine. I can't help but let out a terse yelp as I collapse back to the ground. Pain drifts away back into numbness, and a memory sifts up from the shambles of my mind. Fuck! I've been shot! Somewhere behind me footfalls begin to slam against hard metal that I only just managed to stumble down, and a second memory slides into focus. Someone is chasing me. Someone is coming to kill me. Why can't I remember who? Panic breaks my already brittle grip on reality and I somehow manage to heave myself back to standing. I need to get away. I have to hide. The first step seems to take an eternity, but the second comes easier. Before long I am back to a stumbling shuffle, not long after that a shambling run. Another chime from my muse and words that sound vaguely like encouragement keep me going. An arrow thrown up across my vision lures me down a side passage. I only make it halfway down the corridor before something feels wrong. A sudden silence behind and an itch between my shoulders forces me behind a bulkhead just as a hail of bullets thunder down past me. A second shot of pain from my shoulder proves too much, again my legs fail me and I tumble to the ground. My vision whites out, vomit crawls up my throat and I can't breath. A deep rumble tumbles down the corridor and sparks recognition in my mind. What? “I said 'aren't you dead yet?'. That first shot didn't puncture a lung? I must be losing my touch...” I know the voice, but my thoughts are sluggish and ragged. Wisps of a face and hints of memory slip through the heavy fog, but nothing emerges clearly. I don't know who is hunting me. I can't even remember [i]why[/i]. I've got to do something. If I stay here I am dead for sure. Grasping hands slide over my blood slicked jacket, slip underneath and come out griping my salvation. A pistol.