Knife registers the bullets whizzing past head first, and dives backwards accordingly. The second thing he registers is voices, one, an angry, booming voice superimposed over the crack of an automatic rifle, the second, actually a trio of voices, from somewhere to his left, that seemed to answer with a few haphazard shotgun blasts. Knife inches his way back, before walking around and behind the trio of voices.
?Come on Ben, you know you wanna give us some of that grog you got in there.? A slender, fiery headed man yells, before ducking back down to avoid the volley of rifle fire he gets in return.
As he does, he spots Knife, and brings his shotgun to bear. ?Oi, watta you want?? He asks, aiming his gun at the Mall Fighters head.
?Nothing, just wondering what all the fuss is about.? Knife replies, unperturbed at the gun pointed at his face.
The fiery headed man lowers his shotgun a bit. ?Well, Mr Croshit in there?s got a nice supply of grog, we,? He stops and nods to his two associates, ?Just want him to share it out a little.?
Knife nods, before reaching into his jacket and slowly producing about a dozen bottles of various shapes and sizes. ?Now, I reckon you folks deserve a little taste of Sydney, don?t you think.?
The three men look at Knife with an expression halfway between horror and amazement, before silently grabbing an armful of bottles each, and speeding away, not making eye contact with Knife. The Mall Fighter slumps a little, and then gazes over to the destroyed barfront.
?Their gone now, if you wanna know.? He calls, and when he gets no reply, continues, ?I?m heading down to the docks, heard there?s a boat evac?ing people, better than hanging ?round here, right??
He?s met again with silence, and solemnly trudges his way down to the marina.