Friday, July 29, 2011

"Rowing Up Dead River."


An old, twitchy hand tugs on his own beard.  Ice-blue eyes dance about the cockpit controls to his shuttle.  They are glazed over; nostalgia cutting through the stale air of the ship.  He ponders life; his own, mainly, when its ending.  What will he leave behind that no smuggler or scavenger can steal away?  Has he created a legacy?  Did he leave something here for posterity's sake?

"Bulletholes…." He speaks aloud, barely audible over the idling engines of the shuttle.  "…plenty of bulletholes."  He eases back into his piloting chair, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the glass.  He couldn't find the chiseled face he once had; a smile never visits his lips anymore.


His fingers run over a keyboard, punching in a command.  He plays back the vid-input one more time.  A younger man, Gunnar, graces the screen, a thick red goatee in the way of his yellow teeth.  Green eyes pierce at the seated hunter, Gunnar glances to and from the lens, checking to see if it was recording.  If Gunnar had had a father, Hampton would have been the closest man to it. 

If one sets the chronos back a few decades, Gunnar idolized Hampton.  He fashioned most of his hunting style in Fensen's image, even having the honor of assisting on four or five hunts.  They would bond as a father and son would, spending some time together between jobs as friends, never bringing up a hunt in conversation.  And Gunnar could make a wicked brew.

"Heard about your misfortunes with Holmeforth.  Ready to give it one last go before retirement?  Got a tip that he's on an industrial backwater called Fossil, hiding out among them welders.  Got a guy who can lead you right to him.  I'd go after him m'self but years ago I promised my hide a long vacation.  Its time to collect.  Get him this time."

Fensen uplinks the necessary funds for the tip, grateful there were still old colleagues out in the Black.  Most he'd known in his time went the way of technology on the Rim Worlds: obsolete.  Only a chosen few were lucky to live past forty years old, given their chosen profession.  And as he punches in the new coordinates for Fossil, he reminds himself why he's still alive.

"I'm the best at what I take on… and what I take on isn't very nice."

The hunt begins.



Fossil is indeed a backwater.  Industrial waste litters the ground and clouds the skies, noxious gasses being kicked up as Fensen's lands his shuttle.  There isn't even a port authority to grant clearance for his ship to land.  Better for me, Hampton thinks, no one'll see this coming.  The grime settles as the landing ramp presses into the toxic soil and the hunter steps out.

He straps a rifle to his back, gloved hand unclipping the safety strap to his X-34 pistol.  A rogue wind kicks up his half-cloak as he loads a fresh ammunition cartridge into the pistol, the click slicing through the stale air before the hardware returns to its holster.  He enters the marketplace.

The work day is over; no foot traffic graces the street.  A man stands in the distance, face smeared with carbon scoring from whatever meaningless job put food in his stomach.  He meets the hunter with a large grin; some teeth are missing.


"You looking' fer me?"  Fensen motions.

The man replies with an uproarious laugh, the long chuckles echoing about the tiny vacant market.  He waves the hunter to follow, removing him from the only civilization he's seen and onto the outskirts of the area.  The walls of nearby dilapidated buildings have fallen away, frames only left in their wake from poor maintenance, terrible upkeep or chemical explosions.


Fensen's guide aims his finger to a building in the far distance. The man speaks quietly "…dere…," then hurries away back to the market.  Fensen twists to watch his mole return to town.  Man didn't even ask for payment.  Holmeforth's a real unwelcome guest.  It is a sizable building: some walls are blown out with dark vine-like vegetation clinging to the last of its life along metal supports. 



He halts near the entrance, glancing to the soft soil as his hand slides out his pistol.  Fresh tracks heading inside the building.  His prey is there.  He slid to the wall, retrieving a shock grenade from his belt.  Activating it, he tosses it inside the doorway, hearing it clank a few times before settling.


Shock.  Flash.

The hunter opens his eyes once more, the walls dampening the audible shock, leaving a mere ringing in his ears that is a welcome reminder of being on a hunt.  He rushes inside, standing in the doorway as the light dims and the smoke clears.

No one.  A sleeping bag, change of clothes, loose credits, extra pair of boots.  He runs past all his prey's belongings to the rear door.  He raises a heavy, metal-coated combat boot kicking against the thin metal grating, wounding it bent and chipped.  He rams it with his shoulder, finally removing it from its rusty hinges.  The metal slab hits the ground outside, kicking up the dirty grime and surface soil as he steps out.


There he is.  Thirty yards away.  Fleeing for his life.  The bounty, Davion Holmeforth, scurries to safety across the industrial wasteland, seeking cover in another building.  Fensen is in tow, originally taking aim from such a distance but realizing its futility.  His heart races underneath his chest armor as he takes flight, quite speedy for a man of his years.  Holmeforth seeks shelter in another building.  In his stride, Fensen holsters his pistol, removing the rifle from his back, holding its body in his run.

The sounds of rotating gears take precedence over his own breathing.  The entrance was getting smaller and smaller at Fensen's approach.  The rust-stained duraplast doors force shut with much haste, giving the bounty hunter one split-second at freedom or isolation.  Firing off two rounds from the rifle into the door, he dives in, making it inside just in time, rolling to a steady crouch as he scans the perimeter.

Holmeforth sprints like mad through the abandoned factory, hurdling assembly line belts and dodging the massive metallic drums, not even grazing one.  He starts up a ladder, surrounded by protective bars and far enough out of Fensen's range.  His boots click against each metal rod, a close ricochet echoing in the vacant complex.  Apparently, the hunter didn't think he was so far away.

Dav reaches the roof of the complex, running to the edge and overlooking the drop.  He wouldn't survive that jump.  But what choice does he have.  He twists back around to witness Fensen ascending the roof, pistol already trained on him.

"I wouldn't…" The hunter negotiates.


Holmeforth displays an emotionless face, stepping off the edge and facing Fensen fully, walking out from behind a collection of barrels.  He breaks into a dead sprint, with his endpoint at the hunter.  Fensen takes no chances anymore, unloading two rounds into his oncoming target.


Its as if time slows down.  Fensen's eyes widen as his bullets pass right through Holmeforth, a violent burst of yellows, red and oranges silhouetting Dav.  The barrels explode, the quake destroying what stability the roof had.  What is he, a god?  Fensen asks himself as he feels the floor give out from under him.

Davion reaches outward to catch something to grasp, but fails, his body falling through and landing atop the small collection of rubble.  Fensen attempts the same, not finding anything.  Dropping a few feet, the strap to his rifle gets hooked on a support rod, leaving him dangling there, inspecting his motionless prey below.  He retrieves a combat knife from his forearm guard, lifting it over his head to find the rifle's strap.

A few cuts later and Fensen drops down into the room, rifle still stuck above.  Within a moment of landing, the hunter aims his pistol at his fallen target, walking around the body.


"And so it has finally come to this moment.  My last bounty.  My last job.  The final delivery to my final client.  The Holmeforth family will be proud to receive you.  Well, whats left of them.  As he told me himself, you and your brother certainly have some catching up to do."



As Fensen takes a step forward, the fallen man blinks and flickers, flashing a hue of blue, scan lines filtering down his translucent body.

"Gorram….. hologram!!"  The hunter spits to the ground.

Two footsteps pierce Fensen's eardrums.  They approach closely from behind.  The barrel of a pistol connects with the back of his head, to the right of his ponytail.  It taps the rough flesh.


"Its called a mechanized projected image..."

The bounty hunter ditches his weapon, raising his arms in defeat.

"…this is called an ambush…"

The pistol's hammer is cocked, the unflinching metallic sound echoing in his cranium.  The real Holmeforth speaks from behind the bounty hunter.


"…and I'm calling you dead."

_________________________________________________________________

Very special thanks to:
 -Imrhien Fargis for letting me use her land for the opening ship shots.
 -Cody Winterwolf for doubling as the welder.
 -The crew at InSilico for letting me use the North and East regions of their sim.

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