Part:1
I cant remember my childhood. Just like I can never remember walking.
My earliest memories are drifting in and out of unconsciousness in a dark cockpit, punctuated with flashes of searing light from arcing circuits.
My legs trapped and mangled beyond belief. I couldnt move and I could only feel the blood trickling down my face and a terrifying numbness from my waist down.
How long I was stuck like this I would never be able to say. It could have been days or countless lifetimes. I knew I was just waiting to die, to drift away into unconsciousness one last time, never to awake. There was an inner peace within me, a surety of impending oblivion.
I was dragged back from this waking nightmare by the sudden thunderous noise of a tractor beam vacuuming up the remnants of the ship. The jarring and jolting of being deposited in another ships hold.
Then silence, punctured by strange unintelligible voices, laughing and joking.
I tried to make myself heard but was unable to make a sound. Eventually someone spotted me, but my relief was short-lived. Instead of compassion and sympathy, I was met by Kusari condescension. They dragged me from the wreckage of my near tomb and threw me straight into a dark, dank cell. The only consolation I had was that I felt nothing from my legs which just hung limply from my abdomen like those of a rag-doll. I had become cargo a commodity to be sold like any other.
Part 2:
The Kusari traded me (or rather bundled me into a deal) with Rogues at Alcatraz depot. I was an unwanted part of the deal. My mangled body was useless for any slave duty, my constant need for medical assistance an unnecessary drain on precious resources. I was not worth the food, water and oxygen to be kept alive. It was only a matter of time before I was vented into the depths of space and precious little time at that.
There are many times in your life where fate intervenes. Times when a single event changes your whole life from that point onwards.
I was dragged from my cell and taken towards the air-lock. This was going to be it. However, instead of the air-lock I was bundled into a transport bound for Planet Huston. An old women sat down next to me. She looked familiar. She had been the woman washing out my cell. She had bought me for 12 credits which, as she later reminded me, was 1 weeks pay and jokingly added 11 credits too much. She told me that her family were destitute but even then she had not the heart to see me rot in the cell any longer.
They had nothing, a run down apartment in the worst part of town. Her brother, who bunked with her was a pilot for some run-down delivery service and he would take me somewhere to recover as best I could.
tbc.
part 3
The Liberty populace is cosseted and divorced from reality. Money flows freely through their hands and from that money, more money appears to magically come into existence. The problem is it doesnt. The money allows them to subdue and oppress those without it. I watch as those around me, the have-nots worked all day for the crumbs off the table of those that had. For those around me a 100 credits was a fortune.
To see traders, who added nothing to society spawn millions of credits for a single days work was obscene They were all fat, bloated, corrupt men and women without any redemption.
From within my wheelchair I seethed. I needed to set the world aright again or die a thousand deaths trying. I sat and I plotted. I needed to use their own greed against them and use it as a weapon against them.
