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Kansas

Assess. Deflect. Retreat

03.01.10

USS Agincourt NCC-81762

“Assess. Deflect. Retreat”

 

Assess. Deflect. Retreat: Three simple words that could very well keep you alive during a combat situation.

 

Marines really didn’t do that whole retreat thing very well. But, there were times where that better part of valor was the better tactical option. If you thought that every situation could be handled with you rushing headlong into whatever, that was a very good way to end up dead.

 

During my mandatory Marine training sessions, I dealt with this one -- or maybe the proper terminology is she dealt with me -- veteran from the third shift that taught a hand to hand combat course based on the following mantra: Assess, deflect, and retreat. It wasn’t so much about getting out of a situation, but how you got yourself out of a situation where the odds were not in your favor. At times, these situations required a blatant retreat option, as much as it irked you to leave a fight.

 

Yes, I’m bullheaded. Yes, I tend to rush in where the angels fear to tread (as the Humans say) and I do it with a smile on my muzzle. I’ve been referred to as unorthodox, and I love to fly by the seat of my pants.

 

However, I now find myself caught in the middle of a bar brawl not of my own doing. When the current dustup broke loose shortly followed by Hell incarnate, I was more concerned with finding an exit (stage left) and as quickly as I possibly could. I don’t know what set off the flash fire of fisticuffs, all I know is, I didn’t start it thank you very much.

 

Then, that chair came out of nowhere and I became one with the floor. It’s a nice floor; slightly hard and unyielding, but doable. Is that a peanut?

 

The bar wasn’t even one of the more seedy dives; I’d consider it more of a modern tavern. The establishment mainly functioned as a stopover point and hangout for local and short to long term pilot contractors. These jump jocks were either passing through the Ryder-Presit system or looking to set up a business or operation permanently within the surrounding quadrants. Pilots, as a general rule, know where to go for the best food, booze, conversation, and job networking opportunities available -- I should know, I come from a long line of jump jocks and I know how they think. If there was any information to be found regarding our missing Rihan warbird class ships and the responsible parties, this pilot hangout was as logical a place as any to visit and try and gather some Intel.

 

The building itself was erected from the dull gray to green prefab construction materials that most of the offices, bars, stores and homes on Ryder Major were made of. Although, the present owner or owners had made the effort to decorate a bit and give the place some class: The walls were emblazoned with several dozen flight patches and holo-pictures that represented air wing groups or squads, both civilian and military, Federation and non-Federation alike. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it cozy, but the bar was of a more welcoming nature then one would usually consider.

 

And, I have a great view of the decor considering I’m flat on my back on the floor. I’m in that lovely in between stage of consciousness where I’m awake, but I can’t really get anything to work while my brain catches up with the situation and my body.

 

Passing out is just not an option.

 

I don’t have my Fleet ID on me, which isn’t really a problem, but anyone that does a tricorder scan on me would gain access to my Starfleet profile once the scanner linked up with a wireless node. You can change IDs, but you can’t change your DNA imprint. The whole point of the line crew from the Agincourt going undercover was so that we’d be able to canvas the planet with some sort of anonymity and find the information that we need. If I go and get made, that doesn’t bode well for the operation.

 

Well, you can change your DNA pattern, but that usually doesn’t work out very well, unless you get a really really good geneticist such as …

 

Whoa…mind is wandering…focus, I need to focus. Bar. Brawl. Leaving.

 

I need to get out of here, and that personal statement in itself speaks volumes. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about staying in the bar and causing some trouble of my own among all the other chaos; go all Devil Cat Boo Yah on the patrons, claw a few people, show ‘em who’s boss.

 

Had myself in a brawl situation like this already, and it’s a great idea…if I want to end up hurt, dead, or alerting what passed for the local authorities here. I was lucky last time around that I found myself in a bar brawl -- the only person’s attention that I alerted was a certain raven haired Marine with bad ass command vibes, which led the aforementioned mandatory training sessions.

 

Roll over. Wait for world to stop wavering. Stand.

 

Flash of incoming bottle filled with something…green. Reflexes kick in. Sideways! Turn! Bottle impacts with left shoulder. Balance is off, slam into nearby wall, slide down onto floor.

 

The floor and I need to stop meeting like this.

 

I hauled myself up off the floor -- again -- and lurched towards a side entry way door that was open. Well actually, it looked as if someone knocked it off its hinges. A big Klingon -- and seriously, just once I’d like to run into a soft spoken Pakled who can go all bat sh*t in the middle of a bar brawl. I’d pay to see evidence of the non-stereotypical brawler -- who looks as messed up as I feel, blood dribbling from several wounds, stumbles out into my path and takes a random swing at me.

 

“Rrrreeeeeeeeeeeearrrggghhhhhhhhh!!”

 

That was him screaming by the way, not me. My battle cry has more of a yowl to the vocal intonations. And no offense, screaming at someone is really no way to get the drop on them.

 

Assess.

 

He’s too big. If I go at him, I’ll lose some hide in the process, and I’m quite attached to it you know. I duck the erratic swipe and scoot back a few paces on all fours.

 

Secondary assess.

 

I could bite him…No. I don’t know where he’s been and I don’t want to go through a round of tetanus beta shots. He takes a second swing at my innocent person.

 

Deflect.

 

I feint at him and simultaneously break out a simple blocking pattern that redistributes the attackers own weight. The offensive punch is deflected with the defensive combat countermove that I use my lower arms for. I’d thank that drill instructor if she hadn’t been killed during our last battle with the Soltans.

 

Retreat.

 

The Klingon’s right side is exposed to me. I launch a round house kick, impacting my hind paw with his left flank; he goes spinning and ends up down on the floor, giving me an opening to get away. I take off at a run, going for that side entry way, dodging flying patrons and various other objects as the free for all continues in my wake.

 

I end up in a side alley roadway that on first glance seems to function as a delivery point for the tavern; a concrete ramp that leads to a locked plasti-steel sliding garage door is set up for hover trucks and flitters to drop off foodstuffs and alcohol for the establishment. The quiet permeating the outdoor area is relatively eerie as compared to the crazy pell mell noise and confusion that I just came from. The air is crisp and cool and refreshes me somewhat as a take a whiff of the night air, but the cool air sends a few minor cuts that I have on my knuckles stinging.

 

It was time to go home. It had been a long night, and I could only hope that the other Intel teams had much better luck then I had this evening.

 

Tiredly, I tapped at the civilian issue communicator badge attached to my flight jacket, signaling the transporter technician on duty that I was ready to come back on board the ship.

 

“JoNs. One to beam up.”

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You know, I've completely ceased to feel any surprise when you get into a bar brawl. Just make sure the proper reports are filed and if they're suing for damages please try to concoct a better reason to put on the requisition forms than "he needed hitting." Thanks.

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