SPACE STATIONS > The Libra

Putting Out Fire With Gasoline (Take 2)

(1/1)

Lion:
{Open by Request. 8D hop in!}

The job would be simple. Easy money. Credits to buy him supplies for a week. Or a gun. That...was a little more difficult to obtain. The whip at his side usually seemed little more than ornamental. It was an old Edani wrangling whip, used mainly for taking down steer or runaways by those in the trafficking business. The whip itself was sixt feet long with a barbed popper at the tip. The barb belonged to his father. The electrical switch was his own touch. A shock ripe enough to burn the hair right off your nuts.

Not that he knew from experience. Not at all.

Okay, maybe that one time. It was just a test phase.

Nero internally shuddered and tilted his head, heterochromatic eyes flickering to the neon signs around him. Directories leading to and from here and there. Docking station 34b-2 was where he was at right now, and up ahead of him was a patrol walking just right out of the doorway. The job was simple.

Get to the drop location, extract the package and take it to its destination. That package happened to be sitting in a jail cell, and needed to not be in a jail cell. It wasn’t that hard, and anyone worth their salt in the transportation business could see that. Libra station, though, not a lot of folks were up for that. Space station far too big and rigid to fit in your pocket, and it was easy to get lost if you weren’t careful. Nero was never careful, but then, what couldya do?

He shrugged out of the jacket he was wearing, the little AV logo on the left breast embroidered in raw and ruined leather. It was an old jacket and the insignia meant nothing. Where did he get it, anyway? Probably nicked it from some store when passing through Tynova. He didn’t like spending too much time in one place. Stagnancy made his palms itch, and his heart rate pick up.

He was getting antsy, just standing here, casually beside the docking port entrance and he wiggled his toes loosely in his boots. The palms were starting to itch and he glanced up at the Libra station patrol walking through the docking entrance. They were huge, a pair of them, burly and easily dwarfing Nero by a full head. Size didn’t matter to him.

And he eyed the weapons they had on their holsters, and the batons beside them. Thooose would be a bit of a problem. But then that was the point wasn’t it. Nero wiggled his toes again, taking in a deep breath and rolled his shoulders again. The duster of his jacket was off and so were his pants in layered shirt. As he stepped forward into the LED lighting, Nero held his breath, standing there in nothing more than his loosely tied boots that rose up mid-shin, the belt of his whip holstered around his shoulders and waist, and boxer briefs with the phrase “Start Fire Here” bedazzled on his ass.

“Game face. Game face.” It was now or never.

“Good Morning, Libra Station!” he cried out as he casually walked over to those patrol units, in their brazen blue jump suits and held his arms above his head. “Good morning, Officers what a lovely day we’re having, ain’t it. Lovely day to be alive. Lovely day to get in all this fresh recycled oxygen into my lungs. Love it. It’s great! Fanfuckingtastic!”

“Move along sir, this is not an area for civilians to be running around. Much less tourists in their fucking underwear!”

“I would, buuut, ya see, I kinda got lost. And lost my clothes on the way here. This place is fucking huge.”

“Get lost! We’re on duty here.”

“Looklooklooklooklooklook, I’m not trying to be a nuisance, but I mean, you’re not very good soldiers if you can’t even help a guy find his pants. Some shithole this turned out to be!” Nero grinned at the pair as one scowled and the other one glanced at his partner.

“Last warning, asswipe. Get the fuck out of here.”

A lick of his lips and he could feel his heart rate slowing down, just enough to push out everything that was kind of clouding his mind. “Come on. Show a little mercy! These aren’t even my shorts! I found them in a bar bathroom. No wonder your asses lost the war.” Nero sneered and threw his head back in a cackle, the little slits at the edges of his mouth opening a little wider.

“What the fuck did you say? Scum like you comin’ in here, talking big like that,” the soldier that was scowling stepped forward towering over Nero. “You got something on your mind.”

“You need a breath mint because, whoa, hot dogs at 7 AM. Damn!” And with that Nero rolled his wrist back and shot the base of his palm into the patrol’s nose. A shower of blood spewed out and rained on Nero’s arm, leaving the guy reeling backwards. Too close for comfort that one.

The second man wasted no time and pulled out the security baton from his belt and crashed it against Nero’s ribs. “HOLY SHIT! GAME FACE!” Nero made a high-pitched noise and staggered sideways. Two against one was hardly fair. Even if he was holding back. The baton came side winding again, this time buzzing with a mad electric spark that burn his flesh and made Nero suddenly smell burnt toast.

Nero fell this time and rolled hard to the side. He groaned, those shocks reverberating something mad. He groaned and held his gut. “Is that all you got!?” he hissed, his face red, and trying not to cackle as Mr. Bloody Nose recovered and kicked him firmly in the gut. Nero grabbed his ankle when he tried it a second time and pulled him over his torso, exposing his groin and Nero slammed his fist upward with all he had, cracking knuckles against those family jewels.

“Game face! Game face!” Another shock from a baton and Nero yelped, squirming on the ground as they plucked him up and whipped him around to place restraints on him.

“Drag this stupid fuck right off to a goddamn cell! Ugh, my fucking nose! You’re gonna pay for that one, dickhead!” The larger of the two growled, and pulled up the com on his shoulder, calling in the disturbance.  "Assault on a patrolman. And lookie here.  Armed too!" He laughed and yanked the whip from the holster on the side. "You're gonna have a great time."

Yup, the job was simple all right. So far, so good.

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