BROKEN WINDOWS TO THE SOUL | SCENARIO #4

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TL;DR: Cole gets into a drunken bar fight that culminates into him firing his gun. The problem? An innocent bystander, a woman named Maria, was blinded by the the explosion of his gun.

Stricken with guilt, Cole promises to get enough money to replace her eyes. This means he needs to do some high-risk, high-reward work or do the thing he never wanted to do again: turn to crime.

Will your character help Cole get the money? Or will he die trying?
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As usual, Cole was half-cut and simmering in regret. A long life of regret. When he feels regretful, he drinks. So far, he was viewing life through the bottom of a shot glass. He was in one of his favorite dives in Castillo: Calaveras. Or well, it was the only one that'd tolerate his foolish ass.

To say that he was a rowdy customer in other establishments was an understatement. Here, it was easy fitting into this particular bar because most of its clientele are ex-cons or the shady sorts. Turns out that Deadlock and Blackwatch were filled with the ex-cons and shady sorts. He was right at home.

He held his sweaty face, trying to tune out some Tejano song about the heartache of love; something depressing, anyway. It felt like the hat on his head had gotten two sizes too small. His head was fiercely pounding. His hair was slicked with beer sweat and the musty air of the dive didn't make it any better.

Bartending tonight was a pretty Mexican piece by the name of Maria. She was much younger than Cole and she kept hitting on him with coy little glances every time they met eyes. Cole looked back and gave her a dark smirk. Really, the flirting just made him feel about twenty years younger: After all, Cole was an ex-con that drank and shot his way to his miserable forties.

Cole was about to say something fresh, but he noticed the reflection of another patron bending along his shot glass — a man tattooed in phosphorous ink — glaring at him from behind a drink.

Son of a bitch. It was one of the big boys from Los Muertos.

Cole might've tangled with one of their lieutenants. He pulled out his pistol, but Cole gave him the old drunken one, two... three, four... five and bottle smash over his head. He needed to get a few dozen stitches, but hey, he made out pretty well. At least, that's what Cole would say.

Another tattooed bastard approached him as Cole sat straight.

"'ey, whatcha you doin' here? Got a lot of balls to come here after what you did." The thug speaks - his breath smelled of alcohol. "You might get hurt." he added.

"By who?" Cole chuckled, liquid courage flowing through his veins.

Cole's eyes were bloodshot and carried a menacing glare. The thug was unintimiated, locking eyes with Cassidy.

"Do you think I'm really scared by a couple of glowing bitches?" Cole laughed again.

The words launched the Muertos thug into a fury, his fists flying at Cole.
His fist struck Cole squarely on the jaw and sent him slamming backwards onto the floorboards. There was a wet thud and the bartender's voice calling out his name.

The rule is: in Calaveras, nobody intervened in the fights. Cole getting tag-teamed meant he wasn't gonna win.

Cole rests a hand onto the bar counter, lifting himself onto his trembling feet. His head was swimming, his mouth tasted like iron and his teeth felt loose. A cut appeared across his chin, drawing more blood.

He stood up unsteadily, taking a swing at the Muertos enforcer. The thug easily evades it, leaning back and punching Cole across his face. This made Cole lose his footing. As he fell backwards, he slumped against the counter.

Maria rushed over to help him stand; but the other Muertos smacked Maria away. She lets out a gasping sob, landing along the floorboards next to him.

Something just snapped in Cole.

His organic hand lowered along his belt, drawing his revolver. In a single motion he pulled back the hammer and put a bullet into the Muertos thug closest to him.

Cold unerring muscle memory.

The dimly lit dive flashed with the sudden explosion of a single gunshot.

Maria was kneeling next to the revolver - having not processed that Cole drew his weapon. The gas firing from the gigantic muzzle and cylinder hits her across the eyes, blinding her. Seared.

The Latina shrieks, clutching her face. The enforcer stumbles backwards, taking a hit to the shoulder. The pain causes him to yell out.

Cole didn't think about anything for a moment after shooting the Muertos enforcer. But he soon looked to her, feeling a primal fear well deep in his chest.

Oh god.

"No, no, no... oh Jesus... please, no!"

She's bleeding from all around her eyes. He realized, dropping the handgun with trembling hands. Her upper face is covered in burns. Cole tried touching her shoulder — and then he started shaking.

The two Muertos thugs were shaken up by the gunfire, they quickly escaped.

All of the other shady patrons silently watched Cole begin to wail out for help in broken Spanish.

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A week passed.

Cole visited Maria in the backroom of a church. Her aunt was a nun and the sisterhood took care of her. Cole had gotten her flowers, but he felt damn insensitive for getting her something that she couldn't appreciate.

Maria had lost her eye sight and her face was horribly scarred. There'd be no going back on that bullet. Maria's glossy eyes would look towards an open window, hardly able to make the vague shapes of birds and clouds.

He couldn't bring himself to say hello, he just clutched his hat to his chest and stared at the beautiful Latina that he ruined. He couldn't even step past the threshold of the door. He silently left the room, leaving behind a few crumpled bills into the Church's collection's box. Cole recites a jumbled prayer and sulks out.

Cole couldn't bring himself to even show his face around Calvaeras. Guilt ate him from the inside out. She'd spend the rest of her life like this.

No, that wasn't true.

Artificial eyes. Cole needed to get them for her.

The only problem: their price was exorbitant. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars each from Vishkar.

He enters his dingy motel room to look at how much money he accumulated thus far.

With trembling fingers, he took a few coins from his wallet. A few small bills, a few large ones.

One thousand dollars from between his motel mattress.

This ain't gonna cut it.

Two thousand in the vault.

This was all the money he saved for the last six months.

It wasn't enough. He held his face. His breathing began to hitch, letting out a trembling sob - his resolve crumbling away.

He grabbed a nearby lamp shade and smashed it against the floor. He reached into his mini-fridge, throwing away cheap booze that he hoarded. Cole took an expensive bottle of whiskey, pouring it down the sink. No more.

He was a wreck. Everybody saw it. It just took Cole too damn long. He shot a man out of drunken rage. In that moment of stupidity, he blinded a woman. There was no getting away from this.

Cole was going to get that money. Or die trying.