The Hairy gang and the swordman

[Zixinus]

This is a story I am been writing a while now, as I finished another and want to figure out how to publish that. This is incomplete, thus considered a draft.

Please excuse some errors as I still need time to edit this fucker. Any feedback is appreciated.

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Space station Omaikodo, deep within an astredoid belt, a processing station.

It was one of those places.
Places you heard to be pretty fine on paper but once you step trough the security and decontamination pass, you will first see some tightly-cleaned, overpriced shops and hovels. But as you go on the streets (or their equilent anyway), towards the heart of the habitat zones, you will find a certain type of dirt on them. Or more specifically, carelessly tried to swept away but still there, either in plain sight or tuck away in a difficult-to-clean corner. Planetsiders can't really tell one kind of habitat dirt from another. Spacers like me however, can. Spacers who seen wars that opened the gates of hell especially. The dirt on the street could sometimes tell you surprisingly much by its composition, just like a planetsider farmer could tell you about different kinds soils. Whether it rains allot, whether there were fires, whether there was someone or something there. Same thing for spacers. An observant Spacer can tell you whether there is allot of drinking going on, whether there was a big party of some kind, whether animals are allowed on the streets and so on. Basically, it told you what usually happened on the streets, good or bad.

It was that kind of dirt. The bad kind.

The kind left by ashes from laser fire, gungel rounds, bombs and incineration, all soaked in blood and tears. The dirt never lies about such things. Sure, you could filter the air and repaint the walls but the dirt will always tell.

Old instincts that I normally suppress crawled up on me. I was walking cautiously, carefully choosing where I go, making a mental map along the way and alert for any treats. Paranoia, my old buddy, rang like a obedient servant. I didn't like to be alone in places like these and I didn't like to be trapped. I was after all, an unknown territory, in a higher gravity I'm not used to, unescorted, without contacts or help and poorly armed to boot. I suddenly regretted not bringing my rocket revolver with me. Not that I would particularly preferred it as weapon of choice, in such places I would walk in soft Warshell and a Reaper. It was because it was a big weapon, the type that told your average thug "wanna mess with me tough guy? bring it on!". Sometimes the best way to avoid trouble is to look like it. Thugs are like predators that way: if they see prey, they circle around it and attack it. But if they see your fangs, they back off and rather not risk getting bitten. Deep down, my little buddy Paranoia, told me that desperation was a convincing master and would say to ignore such things to the average thug, making me even more nervous. I was expecting trouble and I had only an old, semi-novelty impact-sword to deal with it. Considering that it was a glorified sharp stick in a place where possibly even the children had guns, it was not much comfort. But I decided to push on regardless. To find that address to my old comrade to give him the money I owned. The money was nothing really, it was honour and an old promise that made me go onwards unto the dirty streets, that was now in dark-time (the equivalent of night on a space station). I've been both smarter and stupider. According to Sacra, he lived close-by.

Omaikodo was one of those old stations that were likely just fine before the war, but as the Folding Drive appeared, it became obsolete and barely useful, leaving thousands of people suddenly without a purpose or job. Anyone that could have left has already left and now served functions that I am not sure I wanted to know about. Suffice to say, that legally it was very interesting on deeper examination. I was planning on doing my business and leaving as soon as possible.

So, there I was walking down the dirty and dangerous pseudo-streets of Omaikodo, expecting and fearing trouble. Trouble rang.

It was not that surprising really. The long coats (or dresses? robes? damn if I could follow fashion) were a giveaway on a day where even the locals were complaining about the heat. But what really alerted my senses first was a hooker's (pardon, cortisan's) nervous glance and body language.

She was a small thing, shorter then me yet still thinner, which was saying something and she didn't look like she was doing it out of fashion. She was bald and had her entire body painted. She wore only high-heeled shoes and a cheap dress that consisted of dark, shiny strips that were held together only by her collar and belt. And I do mean only, as below the strips there was nothing for imagination, revealing a hairless and painted body. The paint was of vivid colours that contrasted with the dark material of the strips and guided my attention to the parts of interest. Like her large breasts (obviously artificial, if for nothing else but for her back-to-breasts-ration) that hung naked, save for the paint. Her genitalia was also guarded by nothing else but a mere strip. A part of me commented that the paint was to hide the sad features of undernourishment. Undernourishment in a world where cheap, full and packed food was produced by the megaton. Even ignoring that fact, her glance was the type that made me wanting to give her a nice overall (clothes), feed her warm and spicy chocolate pudding and tuck her into a nice, warm bed with some sort of plush toy. I wasn't sure of her age from the distance, but I wouldn't be surprised if she was young enough for the plush toy to be fitting. Needless to say, she did not excite me, despite the clothing.

The woman bowed her head, avoiding the gaze of the men coming down the street. There was eight of them and I could tell that at least four of them carried oversized weapons that bulged against their clothes. Most likely something nasty, like a Marhe or Sopniflex, big guns that made big noise and holes. Penis extension guns gotten by men who turned to crime in desperation and found the life both affordable and to their taste. They had implanted hair here or there, most particularly moustaches except for their leader.

The leader of the pact, a man with long, flowing hair and a beard, whom pushed up the chin of the woman. She gave him a lustful and playful smile that was obviously fake from even where I was standing. The woman said something in either the local's incomprehensible accent or simply spoke another language. I leaned back into the shadows that the street offered, painfully aware that my bright, reflective and obviously exotic clothing. Damn my fashion sense. The only way I could have made myself a better target is if I worn a sign. I tried to walk away slowly, keeping to the shadows while fixing my eyes on my would-be pursuers. The gang surrounded the girl, their leader leaning over her.

Then I saw the woman slapped. The woman muttered something in response. The leader shouted something about who thinks who is what, money and I caught the words "pay" and "lack mercy". The courtesan muttered and agreed with anything the man said, nodding at him every time he caught his breath. I was not familiar with the language but the situation was obvious enough. Pimp and his bitch. Then it took a new turn:

The pimp grabbed the girl by her neck and threw her across the street. Well, dragged and pushed over something that once would have been a car, minus the wheels or pretty much anything. Obviously nothing good for her would follow yet I found myself slowing my pace.

I had a quick mental discussion with my instincts. Common sense told me to leg it. Paranoia told me that they may shoot me from afar regardless. Logic argued that they are beating the woman on the street, if anything, they don't care about witnesses. Paranoia switched his goalpost and told that they might shoot me anyway, just because they can. Honour thrown in a hand grenade by telling we should attack to defend a helpless. An old, cold voice took side with that along with Paranoia, saying that we should attack before they do. Common sense shouted that would be an even worse idea. Then the chairmen cried recess as I saw the woman look at me and whimper. The leader of the pact, whom I decided to call Beardy, looked at me. I saw the glance of a hunter who has found new prey.

Krakaten (War-tongue for "clusterfuck"). I am not getting out of this unnoticed.

In response, I decided to casually put my hand on the hilt of my sabre, looked just sideways enough to not start a wolf contest and made a slow but deliberate pace towards the end of the street. The courtesan still whimpered and reached out towards me. I felt anger and emotional pain rising within me at that, with semi-suppressed flashes of my own moments of utter helplesness and doom.

"You." - said Beardy in his accented tone, barely understandable. He spoke Loj and said more then that, but the his pronunciation was so horrible that it made the rest of his words completely unclear. He did not even attempt to make them comprehensible. I acted as if I didn't hear.

"You (incomprehensible), be here." - repeated Beardy again, shouting. His grammar was obviously incorrect, the type from unfinished education. It's content was clear however: he didn't want me to walk away.

I turned, slowly. I considered taking up an expression that shown that I wanted to rip someone's face off but I decided against it. I didn't want them to think I was a lose cannon, that might blurt on them. I also found that the money I had with me was not worth trying this little pact of thugs with overly big guns. Besides, it is unlikely they will be intimidated by a low-ge-er.

"What you think? Flip?" - said Beardy is a half-mocking and half-cocky tone, pointing at the prostitute on the floor, held by two of Beardy's thugs whom mocked her as she whimpered. The paint on her body was smudged and dirty, revealing my suspicion of a underfed body. He was in control and he enjoyed it. I wouldn't be surprised he knew he was inapprehensible but tried to speak to me just to screw with both me and the woman. I decided to try an evasive tactic.

"I apologise but I do not appear to properly comprehend the context of your agenda. Would you be more unambiguous?" - I replied in a firmly polite manner, making each sound clear. However, Beardy blinked when I finished talking, my words obviously unknown to him.

I gained the hoped reaction. Beardy shouted something and the youngest of the lot appeared, a youth with a mere ponytail on his otherwise bald head. He had a wicked smile on his face, but his eyes hinted some anxiety. I decided to call him Pony in myself. Beardy and Pony exchanged some words, Beardy didn't bother to look at Pony, but Pony was nodding and at his side like a loyal dog. Beardy obviously didn't like me being a smartass.

Then Pony walked forward to me, his pace telling cocky confidence. He pointed at me with a straight elbow which was a very dramatic gesture and looked me in the eye. "You say what, stranger? Boss-man here is asking you a question. You ought to answer if you know what's good for you." At least I understood what he said, which is an improvement in my situation. But there was something off about his use of Loj. Granted, that could apply to everyone, as Loj was spoken in countless accents and variations, being a interstellar language and all. But, there was just something about it, maybe its tonality, maybe its emphasis that wasn't right yet familiar. It was just not the way a regular person speaks Loj.

I made a confident step forward, with a slight smile, ignoring the whimpers and tears of the woman near me. That was more hard then I thought. I was never one to judge people by their profession. For me, that woman wasn't a slut, a whore, a hooker or a tramp. She was just a woman, perhaps even a mere girl, held by two big thugs that were enjoying their power. It wasn't the fact that she was a woman; it was the fact that this was not order and she suffered for it by those who exploited it. I am supposed to be the guardian of order and I shouldn't be allowing this to happen. I shouldn't be contemplating on how to get out of this, but how I should be able to stop this. However, my common sense calmed me, knowing that this was a fight I should not risk.

I held Pony's gaze with a polite smile. His head moved backwards a bit and his smile wavered from self-assured to game-grin. I didn't have much time to weight my choices. There were increasingly fewer and I had to strike the Fine Line. I couldn't show to be too strong or they will consider me a competitor to them and kill me.

"What was the question?" - my tone was firm.

"The walker. Flip?" - he was being vague on purpose. This was a game. Their game. They wanted to draw me into it, distract me with it and then in a off-guard second, attack me.

"Flip what?" - this time I made it clear that I was impatient.

"Yes or no?" - he replied impatiently.

"Flip what?" - I said again, my tone dry and clear. Pony only glared at me with his game grin. Then I looked at the woman again and I understood. Sheer force was apparently not enough to scare the girl, so they pulled out their firearms.

I was right. The thugs were armed with Sophinex, the barrel staring at the body of the terrified woman whom watched in muted silence. Revolving handguns that fired Antror gungel-filled bullets. Big noise, big recoil but big holes as well. Guns meant not against humans, but against big animals, as defence for hunters. The gun-belt was based upon the traditional cylinder revolver, except that the bullets were in a clip that overarched the hands of the wearer. It was able to house far more ammunition than any ancient revolver. That obviously was not meant for hunting, nevermind factory-standard. What was factory-standard on a Sophinex, was the clip-skipping: moving the ammunition belt so it would go a marked spot where a special bullet would be, like a tracer. I don't know why it had that feature, not for a hunting gun anyway. Also, alike with a cyclinder revolver, the firing mechanism was either electrically-aided or purely mechenical, depending on the model. Meaning that you could pull the trigger and nothing would happen. For me, it was a bad thing: there is nothing worse in a firefight than to have a shot and find that your gun in empty. The Sophinex was a big gun, but it was still a handgun. If I wanted something with a big punch, I would have just brought a Reaper or even a Vanguard.

For a street thug, among other things, it meant it that you could play a very frightening and very ancient game. The game had many names, I even looked up the very first name for it: Russian Roulette. Of course it was also called other things throughout the Void, "flip" obviously referring to one of the local variety.

I didn't want to play. Instead I am going to make them play mine.

"How about we flip some glasses instead?" - I said in a much friendlier tone.

Pony blinked. "What?"

"I invite you all to a drink at the nearest bar. First round is on me." - I said while making a drinking gesture, or at least the one they use in gravity like this. It was something I had to learn the hard way. In a lighter gravity and another region of the Void, it was a rude invitation for a certain sexual activity. Thankfully, to me,

Pony blinked again. He was so surprised that he dropped his tough-guy posturing. He turned his back on me, a mistake indicating that he's new to the gang or just stupid. He began to translate for his boss, again in their own language or what I assumed to be. The two exchanged words, Beardy shouting something irritated. I didn't understand the words of the conversation, but body language told me enough: a friendly option was out. The way Beardy barked back at Pony made it clear that he did not want to have his round without a fight.

Pony looked and pointed at me again in his melodramatic fashion.

"Listen fool, boss-man here does not like your posturing. You should answer now or you will suffer the consequences."- said Pony and I then realized what was wrong with his speech. It was from "Vermin of the Empress's Palace".

I gasped. For them, it registered as a signal of fear as I realized that I am in trouble. Beardy even smiled satisfied and the other gang members now focused on me. In reality, it was just surprise and an attempt to prevent myself from bursting out with laughter. I have seen some pretty bizarre and weird things in my life but this was new.

A regular, average person in the Union usually starts learning Loj as soon as they get in school or the equivalent. Children learn languages more easily than adults, in any genva. If taught properly and encouraged to be used, people grew up speaking and knowing this language all over Union space, having thousands yet one vocabulary. Trade, education and diplomacy, even dates and relationships were settled in this language, completed with Loj's elder, extremely precise and scientific brother, Logan. It is such a standard that even several great movies were done with the actors speaking Loj at times.

Pony was quoting lines from a movie. That's where he completed his vocabulary and spoken to me. In a less threatening context, it might have been hilarious. Now, however, it made an already bad situation worse because I didn't know how much got trough to him or worse, him getting the wrong massage.

For example, it might have made him thinking that he was very successful and wanting him to play on me more. Like, pulling his LX-31 (a weapon used by Imperial officers) out and pointing it at me while shouting:

"You better answer now!"

So, I decided to go for my last option.

"I don't want any trouble. I will give you all my money, just please let me go." - the last option was begging with a soft, low voice. Hey, better a gutted purse than a gutted stomach. I even put my hands out defensively.

Pony gave a wicked chuckle as he relayed my answer, turning his back again to face his boss.

It was then I noticed that there was a twitching in Beardy's face. It very specific, recognisable twitch I have seen many times in my nightmares, unmistakable for a mere twitch for any genva. By the endless void... He's QVAR (an acronym for a battle-tongue phrase, roughly meaning "avid void sun-bather") and the rest of the gang either didn't know it or worse, knew it. I don't know how I didn't notice, it must have just started kicking in.

The guy was on Dead Man's Blood. It was a battle-drug in the last war, only used by the Empire's soldiers. It was meant to make soldiers fight like wild animals even when they were in the state of begging for their mothers and sucking their own thumbs. Union forces forbid its use because it made soldiers psychotic and irrational, even after it wore off. Possibly a replicate or weaker version given on the street and regularly used by these thugs to be tougher.

Any room for escape closed finally, leaving me with only one, sure method of survival.

I didn't like it for more reasons than just moral principles but in that split second of a chance I had, I took it.

I closed on to Pony and reached for his shoulder in one hand while unsheathing the impact-sword with the other.

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Dictionary for foreign words:

-Genva = genetic variation, that is, a collective term for humans of significantly different genetic ancestry. It is more polite and correct than "race", as some genva are different in only minor things while others can be considered a different race altogether.
Void = Spacer term for outer space. Roughly used the same way as seamen talk about the sea. It can also mean the universe.
-Krakaten = Clusterfuck
-Planetsider = a person born, raised, genetically engineered or modified and adept to living on a terraformed planet.
-Spacer = someone born, raised, genetically engineered or modified to live in spaceships or space station. Not to be confused with Cylist.
-Cylist = some born, -=- to live on in artificial habitat worlds, such as O'Neill cylinder or Stanford torus. Genetically, Neg is a cylist but grew up as a spacer.
-Gungel = a more powerful, stable and controllable version of gun-powder. It only ignites on spark but not to heating, at which it can be formed easily but without loss of quality. In fact, damaged bullets will not fire, for which modern weapons can compensate.
-Vanguard: A versatile laser "rifle" that has become standard among regular infantry troops. It is famous for its modifiability and various settings, which includes stunning and combustion.
-Reaper: A very powerful, electrically-aided, mechanical assault rifle that fired gungel-filled caseless ammunition and 40mm slugs (which can be anything from grappling hooks, to shotgun shells to grenades), used during the Legion war. It is renown for its incredible reliability and firepower, requiring very little maintenance despite its complexity, fully functional even without a power source (not counting the recoil, what some models even used to charge the battery). It is considered a symbol of humanity's fight against the Legion.
-Warshell = A full suit of soldier armour, which includes body armour, a battle-computer (which must be able to do communication, navigation and ballistics) along with full spectrum goggles, among other possible things. Warshells can be either conditional or universal. Environmental means that it is specified for one set of environments. Universal means that a Warshell can be adopted to fighting in an urban environment to fighting on the side of the moon within minutes.
Warshells are classified into two categories: Hard and Soft. Hard is meant against riots, possibly environmental hazards and wildlife, or even against the Legion. Soft is meant against bullets, fragmentation, heat, fire, explosive shockwaves and laser fire.

[fgalkin]

*Punts to Fanfics*

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin