Afterimage

[Chrysalis]

Pulling into the hangar and settling onto the force field as if on a cushion, the Poltergeist creaked. Time had worn down the tried and tested fighter, and Jason contemplated a visit to the mechanic. But other needs brought him to this "Freeport" in the outer Omicrons, irrational desires of the soul, and everything else had to take a backseat. It is only here, under the noses of the increasingly paranoid, yet increasingly corruptible security staff, that what he looked for could be found. He departed his ship, and fixing his worn jacket's hood over his head, he moved into the station's interior.

The corridors and chambers, though not exactly exactly empty, were practically deserted in comparison to what the station was years prior. The paranoia and the oppressive fear of alien attacks hung like a cloud in the air. The faces of the passerby, those who remain in spite of everything, looked hollow and deprived of hope. Few looked his way as he moved into, over, and down into the lower levels where the object of his desire resided.

"ICTU OCULI - PORTABLE XENOBIOTICS DETECTORS - NOW ONLY 355 SC PER UNIT." - An advert sounded as a holographic projection of the supposed infectee detection device appeared on the station promenade walls, the visage of the beautiful woman holding the object shone neon bright over a staircase leading down. He paused for a moment, observing the advert as it played out - the happiness on her face like a cruel parody of consumerism trying to squeeze out the last drops of profit from the constant misery. He let out a sour chuckle, readjusted his clothes and went ahead and down.

Traipsing through the lower levels, the tone shifted. Here, the same misery resided, just without any pretense of false of hope. No fresh coat of paint over the blood. Just the gritty reality of constant threat of death, the accompanying poverty and the occupants' will to survive in spite of it. At any cost. The graffiti filled walls of the poorly illuminated, trash-filled corridors were like a maze filled with street urchins - but all lead to the same place. The back-alleys and dead-end marketplaces where what he wanted could be found.

Arriving at one such spot, Jason scanned his surroundings, looking for any sign of the locals. A certain less-than-reputable 'entrepreneur' was supposed to meet him here, to deliver the thing he traveled all this way for. Half an hour, one, one and a half. Nothing. He tapped his foot idly while scowling, growing more infuriated by the minute as he courted the possibility of having to leave empty-handed. Footsteps, he winced and turned around.

"Got the creds?" - A youthful voice inquired. Turning around to meet it, he was greeted with a silhouette of a thin, tall man, followed by equally thin but comparably shorter shades. Eyes darting from one to other, he struggled to make them out, but to no avail. As they got closer, the entourage stopped behind, the apparent leader walking the final stretch alone.

"Oh man, I thought this was charity tuesday, my bad." - Jason replied sarcastically through his teeth. Tapping his left jacket pocket he nodded his head upwards in a questioning motion. "Took you long enough. You got the stuff?"

"Princess doesn't like to wait, huh?" - The young man snapped. - "This ain't your comfy military base. These are the bowels of the 11. You Order types think everything's gotta bend your way."


"What's that supposed to mean?" - Jason crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

Stepping into direct light, the young man revealed his scarred and pale face, his right eye missing. Attached to his belt a bag with nondescript contents. Jason locked his eyes on the bag immediately. - "It means you want everything served to you without lifting a damn finger. You take but you don't give nothing back"

"That's bullshit and you know it - Do you know how much we sac-" Lifting his gaze from the bag, Jason tried to finish his sentence but was interrupted.

"You know what though? I think you gotta taste your own medicine." - The dealer continued, taking up what he considered an intimidating stance, his entourage scuffling slowly towards him. "We could just take everything you have. And why shouldn't we."

Jason took a deep breath, his arms untangled and dropped down to his waist. He shook his head in an almost pleading way, glancing to the man in front of him, the approaching figures and the satchel. Aiming to utter a warning, his breath was cut short as he spotted a glitter in the darkness emerging from one of the figures, then another, then another. With automated instinct, he reached for his belt, pulling out the blaster and unloading all in one quick and fluid motion. His hand pointed from one to the other like in a pre programmed motion, the flashes of laser fire illuminating their targets for split seconds after each shot. Faces agonized and bewildered, falling down one by one. His hand was pointing and rhythmically squeezing the trigger long after they all dropped, and long after the powercell was exhausted.

Silence reached his conscious mind at last. The churning of the station's bowels and the electrical sparks from the shot-through circuitry the only sensory input. Stopping and putting the gun down shakily he inhaled a deep breath, and winced in pain shortly after. Lifting up his pockmarked jacket, he saw the offending area - his right abdomen edge, grazed and shot clear through - the wound already partly cauterized. He uttered an expletive through his teeth and moved towards the scene of carnage, holding the area with his free hand.

Inspecting them one by one, their forms and faces illuminated periodically by electrical sparking, he realized most of them weren't even what you could consider men. All street urchins of various teenage ages. All dead, eyes glazed over, riddled with laser fire. His laser fire. He stood among them for a dozen long seconds, eyes blankly shifting from one to the others - not moving an inch, but still clutching the lowered gun. Cold sweat rolled down his forehead. A sound broke through his daze. A wheezing breath, and he turned around on his heels to face it.

One of them, impaled on a broken pipe through his abdomen, next to a bundle of broken wires shooting red sparks. He limped towards him with as much speed as he could muster. He reached towards him, and grabbed the pipe, as if to somehow help him. But too late. He sighed his last breath through his blood filled mouth. He retracted his bloodied hand. He dropped his gun, his knees buckled. A pouch on his belt attracted his attention. He reached inside automatically, removing a few tiny glass vials. Miniature droplets of precious purple fluid - The Nox - the object of his desire, small enough to fit into his palm.

He dropped to his knees in front of his last victim, the vials clutched in his hand. The rhythmic crackling illuminated the wall above him, upon which the graffiti read:

"In the night
In the bowels
Misery sticks like blood."

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