A Vicious Game

"You shouldn't have stunned him," someone growled, scratchy voice penetrating the nice fog Joss had found to hang out in. Joss fought the urge to shake his head. Hangovers and head-shaking never made a good combo, no matter what caused either one. Also, he had a feeling he'd rather postpone waking up to whatever this guy had in mind.

Tied to a chair, he realized. He was tied to…maybe the wooden piece of crap falling apart by Bren's front door. Gods, was he in the hands of amateurs?

"You didn't see him last time," another voice answered. "He's puny, yeah, but he's damned fast."

Puny? Puny?

"Fucking bugger," first voice growled. "And fucking wuss you, letting one gunless, gormless nancer run you off."

Yeah. Scratchy-voice was going down first. Unless the other one gave Joss an opportunity he couldn't pass up. Then he could take his time kicking the shit out of—

"He should be awake by now," second voice said. "Do you think—"

"Then let's wake ‘im."

Stinging pain exploded in Joss' cheek; his head rocked back from the blow. His eyes teared and his head swam. Full-arm slap. The print would probably glow in the dark.

Fuck. It was that game. Joss hated that game.

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