Jack Pine
Archduke of the NDC
- Joined
- Nov 3, 2021
- Messages
- 38
- Reaction score
- 22
Medusa Subsector
NDC Space, Outer Rim
Tortuga Star System, Gas Giant Leviathan
Lunar Trench Colony “The Pit”
One could say it was a patchwork of scrap, spare parts, and stolen junk, but that would be putting it lightly. From the outside, the structure was dated by even NDC standards, but its remaining resemblance to those of orbital colony stations was still unmistakable. It however, was far from being in anything resembling an orbit, but instead buried in a deep lunar trench, of a rather minor moon in orbit of a massive gas giant. At some point, it had in fact orbited the moon, but those who had thieved the great construct, had no idea how to maintain such a position. So they did what any good pirate does best with treasures ill gotten, buried it.
They did not stop there however, as the rock was cleared around the now settled cylinder, and repaired to rotate for artificial gravity once more. Thanks to the rather small size of the moon, its own gravitational force was minimal, yet one walking the inside of the tube, would still feel that nagging faint lure to one side over the other. What was once intended to be a new home among the stars, and place of settlement for colonists, was now a hub for those who chose a life outside the law. Mercenaries, thieves, smugglers, dealers of every illicit market, petty bandits, pirates, and even those of more civilized crime circles. Kallow Kircheisten had always touted the station as his greatest victory, and tried to call himself king of this new deplorable hub.
Up until the point where those who got tired of it, and his greedy demands for power, were met with an unsavory end almost as fitting as his own character. There are legends on how he was killed, though the most popular was falling victim to being the last use of the station's large thrusters. Nowadays, the Syndicate ran things, keeping infrastructure running, and the factions inline. This was albeit, groaned about, most could not deny that they proved to be the backbone of the markets, and keeping things flowing. As extension of that respected authority, their enforcers are equally feared, hated, and respected as their parent organization.
Reynard hated the place personally, as despite how far they’d come, it was still a dirty ragged place at the lowest rungs. This could be seen down near the factory level, as well as the network of structures built into the floor and walls of the trench. Scrap made ghettos of crowded streets and alleys, where the air was almost toxic, and so were the thugs running local blocks. Most only being sad gangs in comparison to the large networks of the criminally elite living within the cylinder. It's why he hated jobs that brought him this far down, among the worst Tortuga had to offer.
But now was not the time for his own bitching, and disgust, but work. Walking the streets, those who recognized the Syndicate markings of his jacket, and those along the sheath of his blade, as if the mask upon his face didn’t broadcast his affiliation already. He was both scowled and avoided, the passersby parting in his wake, never daring to utter a word as he passed through.
Turning down one of the dirtier and darker alleys of this block, there was little to illuminate outside sparsely placed jury rigged bulbs, and the light of the main street now paces behind him. To be honest, it was hardly effective at doing its job, as heavy dust only left most of the way a veil of shadowed edges and shapes. With a sigh, Reynard pulled a pack of chem lights he kept in a hip pouch, snapping the tubes and dropping them to let the glow light his way back as he pushed on. Knowing his way from those handed down to him for his task, the dark was only an inconvenience.
After a few winding turns deeper into the dark. His gloved hand stopped to wipe some of the filth off of a door, one marked with a decrepit sign for a utility closet. Withdrawing a small black light, a quick wave of the light revealed a small iridescent red x on its frame. Putting it away and satisfied he had arrived, he leaned in close and gave a listen, the metal door unsurprisingly thin for its appearance. Something organic yet faint could be heard, muffled, even more then one would expect from the door alone.
No voices, no footsteps, or even that of machinery. The coast seemed clear for now, so with gentle hands, Rey gave the door a gentle tug. It came open easily enough, minimal squeak too, assuring him further this was the place. This door was maintained, and used, despite the filth covered surface which was likely done deliberately to make it as unassuming as possible. Stepping in and closing it behind him, the smell greeted him next, a pungent aroma of lubricants, chemicals, bare metal, a strong tinge of iron, and something disgusting yet somehow primal.
The answer to all of them was made apparent with even far more clarity, as the slats passed the front door gave way to a hall. On either side were alcoves, or stalls to be more precise, each one contained women and even a few men bound within. It was one each, cuffed and chained to the tile walls, a drain beneath them as if these were once meant to be showers. Rey fought the urge to pinch his nose closed, the smell almost unbearable at the entrance, despite a vent above him that should have helped was in clear disrepair.
Further in, it was not as bad, someone having left nets full of cheap pulperie above the circulation fans built into the ceiling. The place seemed, half assed, cheap even in how hygenic it appeared on the surface which was further evident by a hose mounted on the distant wall at the other end. Most of those sitting in the stalls, were either docile, or shifted nervously, none appearing to have been well kept. The muffled sounds had been them, as they weakly stirred in their confinement, likely not even sobbing for fear of the ire of their captors being invoked. Emotions and thoughts aside, Rey continued down this corridor, before finding a door to a backroom at the right, more slats acted as barriers, but the hum of an actually working fan could be heard as it rustled them from the opposite side.
Parting them, the room beyond was far cleaner, nicer even. A warmth radiated like an aura of comfort from an unseen heating system, the space currently being yet another hall. It u-turned from the doorway, around to a t-section of the corridor. Surprisingly it was tiled floors, and drywall, something you didn’t see often down here. Straight away was a dead end lined by a closet and small bathroom by their door markings, the off-turn being one that gave the look of a cheap hotel, yet all the doors were reinforced and locked. At the end, a wooden office style door.
This was it, the final room presumably to this unsetting liminal space of a nightmare. It was a tense yet slow pace down the hall, not expecting traps, but more preparing himself for what had to be done. His posture remained upright and proud however, as was expected of him, even as his gloved hand reached for the nob. With a gun in his other hand, Rey pulled the door open, opening it with even more smoothness then that of the front door. But the sound of even smooth hinges were not unnoticeable.
Even as he was stepping through, his presence was still registered by the man he had come to see. A lean yet short statured weasel of a man, who slowly turned his head to take in rey from over an open fridge door. The space with a passing glance, was both an office, with adjoining personal living space. “Mr. Harrows, I see I find you well. I ass-”, the enforcer began before the man tried to turn quickly in effort to reach something on a nearby table. Aim was brought up, and a shot put into the extended arm that had dared leave the protection of the fridge door. As the man named Harrows jerked and stuttered from the shock round, he leaned on the fridge to stay standing.
That was the opening that Reynard needed though, as he closed the distance, and with a less then gentle boot kicked the door shut on him. A sharp grunt of pain was given by the man now pinned under it, before rey flipped it open to let him hit the floor. Grabbing him by the back of the neck and shirt, pulled him out from around and to the floor. Dropping a knee between his shoulder blades, kept him from attempting to rise, as the enforcer brought all his weight and force to bear on it none too gently. “Hey hey hey! We can talk about this! Let me up first, you’re crushing ma- Augh!”, they would attempt to protest before one arm was wrenched back sharply.
Reynard leaned down, pulling the limb as his knee was ground into his spine further. “I do not think you understand Mr. Harrows. We have no interest in excuses. You stole from the hand that feeds, and that can only be ignored for so long. You had your time to profit off your foolishness, and now we have come to collect.”
Still the man panicked and attempted again to plead, “I’ll pay whatever you want, I swear!” Reynard said nothing at first, but seemed to ease up only slightly, placing his pistol back in its holster. “Good, then I’ll just take it now,” he said evenly, the man’s face starting to relax in relief that he might be spared. But that was replaced by shock, as Rey's now freed hand found the grip of his sword. With a swift stroke of the vibro blade as it left its sheath, liberated the man’s arm that had been restrained.
Even as Harrows rolled over in shock, his gaze moving up from the stump, only looked up in time to catch the last swift movement of the blade. Having left that final expression to roll mere inches across the carpet, the body was left where it lay. With a relaxed strut of work finally done, Reynard took a seat at the desk, examining the terminal there. Here lay the answers of just how deep his victim’s crimes ran, and the truth to how much damage and asset recovery the syndicate would have to undertake. Fortunately it was perhaps only minor at most, but the organization preferred to work on as absolute information as they could.
With a small cracking device plugged in, it was just a patient wait for it to do its work, and bypass the dead man’s security. Within a short passing of minutes, the login gave way to the desktop, and Rey got to work sifting files even as they were copied en masse. Sure enough, all was laid bare to the enforcer, manifests, receipt copies, sales history, inventory, and even a small floor plan of hideaway. Saving the files to the cracker, and copying the security credentials to his device, Reynard left the computer. His device was already set to dial the cleaners, even as he retread the damnable halls.
Once it was handled, all that was left was cleanup. After those who were chained up front were dealt with, the bodies could be disposed of later, and the enforcer was left to check the previously locked rooms. Most were empty rooms prepared for renovation, storage, and a larger stall like space compared to those up front that was a large shower space. One room on the map was more recently updated, and only listed as “Suite 1”, and the only room left unchecked.
Slowly opening the door, it was as one might expect of a room with such a name, a nicely decorated bedroom. Upon the bed, was a woman who seemed either asleep, or unconscious which seemed more likely with some of the drugs found in the manifest. As Rey approached, the very thing that had lead to this, was upon her neck. A collar, equipped with multiple methods of insuring against disobedience and runaway prisoners. She seemed more fresh, clean, fed, and importantly healthy.
The debate to dispose of her went on mentally for a few moments, but unlike those up front, she was savable with minimal effort. And perhaps, it would benefit them, as even positive pr was hard to come by in their realm of work. Hand leaving the pommel of his blade, Rey discarded his filthy gloves to the nearby trash can, before disengaging the collar, and scooping the woman up into his arms. “Perhaps I’m still a bit too soft”, he questioned to himself as he carried her out.
NDC Space, Outer Rim
Tortuga Star System, Gas Giant Leviathan
Lunar Trench Colony “The Pit”
One could say it was a patchwork of scrap, spare parts, and stolen junk, but that would be putting it lightly. From the outside, the structure was dated by even NDC standards, but its remaining resemblance to those of orbital colony stations was still unmistakable. It however, was far from being in anything resembling an orbit, but instead buried in a deep lunar trench, of a rather minor moon in orbit of a massive gas giant. At some point, it had in fact orbited the moon, but those who had thieved the great construct, had no idea how to maintain such a position. So they did what any good pirate does best with treasures ill gotten, buried it.
They did not stop there however, as the rock was cleared around the now settled cylinder, and repaired to rotate for artificial gravity once more. Thanks to the rather small size of the moon, its own gravitational force was minimal, yet one walking the inside of the tube, would still feel that nagging faint lure to one side over the other. What was once intended to be a new home among the stars, and place of settlement for colonists, was now a hub for those who chose a life outside the law. Mercenaries, thieves, smugglers, dealers of every illicit market, petty bandits, pirates, and even those of more civilized crime circles. Kallow Kircheisten had always touted the station as his greatest victory, and tried to call himself king of this new deplorable hub.
Up until the point where those who got tired of it, and his greedy demands for power, were met with an unsavory end almost as fitting as his own character. There are legends on how he was killed, though the most popular was falling victim to being the last use of the station's large thrusters. Nowadays, the Syndicate ran things, keeping infrastructure running, and the factions inline. This was albeit, groaned about, most could not deny that they proved to be the backbone of the markets, and keeping things flowing. As extension of that respected authority, their enforcers are equally feared, hated, and respected as their parent organization.
Reynard hated the place personally, as despite how far they’d come, it was still a dirty ragged place at the lowest rungs. This could be seen down near the factory level, as well as the network of structures built into the floor and walls of the trench. Scrap made ghettos of crowded streets and alleys, where the air was almost toxic, and so were the thugs running local blocks. Most only being sad gangs in comparison to the large networks of the criminally elite living within the cylinder. It's why he hated jobs that brought him this far down, among the worst Tortuga had to offer.
But now was not the time for his own bitching, and disgust, but work. Walking the streets, those who recognized the Syndicate markings of his jacket, and those along the sheath of his blade, as if the mask upon his face didn’t broadcast his affiliation already. He was both scowled and avoided, the passersby parting in his wake, never daring to utter a word as he passed through.
Turning down one of the dirtier and darker alleys of this block, there was little to illuminate outside sparsely placed jury rigged bulbs, and the light of the main street now paces behind him. To be honest, it was hardly effective at doing its job, as heavy dust only left most of the way a veil of shadowed edges and shapes. With a sigh, Reynard pulled a pack of chem lights he kept in a hip pouch, snapping the tubes and dropping them to let the glow light his way back as he pushed on. Knowing his way from those handed down to him for his task, the dark was only an inconvenience.
After a few winding turns deeper into the dark. His gloved hand stopped to wipe some of the filth off of a door, one marked with a decrepit sign for a utility closet. Withdrawing a small black light, a quick wave of the light revealed a small iridescent red x on its frame. Putting it away and satisfied he had arrived, he leaned in close and gave a listen, the metal door unsurprisingly thin for its appearance. Something organic yet faint could be heard, muffled, even more then one would expect from the door alone.
No voices, no footsteps, or even that of machinery. The coast seemed clear for now, so with gentle hands, Rey gave the door a gentle tug. It came open easily enough, minimal squeak too, assuring him further this was the place. This door was maintained, and used, despite the filth covered surface which was likely done deliberately to make it as unassuming as possible. Stepping in and closing it behind him, the smell greeted him next, a pungent aroma of lubricants, chemicals, bare metal, a strong tinge of iron, and something disgusting yet somehow primal.
The answer to all of them was made apparent with even far more clarity, as the slats passed the front door gave way to a hall. On either side were alcoves, or stalls to be more precise, each one contained women and even a few men bound within. It was one each, cuffed and chained to the tile walls, a drain beneath them as if these were once meant to be showers. Rey fought the urge to pinch his nose closed, the smell almost unbearable at the entrance, despite a vent above him that should have helped was in clear disrepair.
Further in, it was not as bad, someone having left nets full of cheap pulperie above the circulation fans built into the ceiling. The place seemed, half assed, cheap even in how hygenic it appeared on the surface which was further evident by a hose mounted on the distant wall at the other end. Most of those sitting in the stalls, were either docile, or shifted nervously, none appearing to have been well kept. The muffled sounds had been them, as they weakly stirred in their confinement, likely not even sobbing for fear of the ire of their captors being invoked. Emotions and thoughts aside, Rey continued down this corridor, before finding a door to a backroom at the right, more slats acted as barriers, but the hum of an actually working fan could be heard as it rustled them from the opposite side.
Parting them, the room beyond was far cleaner, nicer even. A warmth radiated like an aura of comfort from an unseen heating system, the space currently being yet another hall. It u-turned from the doorway, around to a t-section of the corridor. Surprisingly it was tiled floors, and drywall, something you didn’t see often down here. Straight away was a dead end lined by a closet and small bathroom by their door markings, the off-turn being one that gave the look of a cheap hotel, yet all the doors were reinforced and locked. At the end, a wooden office style door.
This was it, the final room presumably to this unsetting liminal space of a nightmare. It was a tense yet slow pace down the hall, not expecting traps, but more preparing himself for what had to be done. His posture remained upright and proud however, as was expected of him, even as his gloved hand reached for the nob. With a gun in his other hand, Rey pulled the door open, opening it with even more smoothness then that of the front door. But the sound of even smooth hinges were not unnoticeable.
Even as he was stepping through, his presence was still registered by the man he had come to see. A lean yet short statured weasel of a man, who slowly turned his head to take in rey from over an open fridge door. The space with a passing glance, was both an office, with adjoining personal living space. “Mr. Harrows, I see I find you well. I ass-”, the enforcer began before the man tried to turn quickly in effort to reach something on a nearby table. Aim was brought up, and a shot put into the extended arm that had dared leave the protection of the fridge door. As the man named Harrows jerked and stuttered from the shock round, he leaned on the fridge to stay standing.
That was the opening that Reynard needed though, as he closed the distance, and with a less then gentle boot kicked the door shut on him. A sharp grunt of pain was given by the man now pinned under it, before rey flipped it open to let him hit the floor. Grabbing him by the back of the neck and shirt, pulled him out from around and to the floor. Dropping a knee between his shoulder blades, kept him from attempting to rise, as the enforcer brought all his weight and force to bear on it none too gently. “Hey hey hey! We can talk about this! Let me up first, you’re crushing ma- Augh!”, they would attempt to protest before one arm was wrenched back sharply.
Reynard leaned down, pulling the limb as his knee was ground into his spine further. “I do not think you understand Mr. Harrows. We have no interest in excuses. You stole from the hand that feeds, and that can only be ignored for so long. You had your time to profit off your foolishness, and now we have come to collect.”
Still the man panicked and attempted again to plead, “I’ll pay whatever you want, I swear!” Reynard said nothing at first, but seemed to ease up only slightly, placing his pistol back in its holster. “Good, then I’ll just take it now,” he said evenly, the man’s face starting to relax in relief that he might be spared. But that was replaced by shock, as Rey's now freed hand found the grip of his sword. With a swift stroke of the vibro blade as it left its sheath, liberated the man’s arm that had been restrained.
Even as Harrows rolled over in shock, his gaze moving up from the stump, only looked up in time to catch the last swift movement of the blade. Having left that final expression to roll mere inches across the carpet, the body was left where it lay. With a relaxed strut of work finally done, Reynard took a seat at the desk, examining the terminal there. Here lay the answers of just how deep his victim’s crimes ran, and the truth to how much damage and asset recovery the syndicate would have to undertake. Fortunately it was perhaps only minor at most, but the organization preferred to work on as absolute information as they could.
With a small cracking device plugged in, it was just a patient wait for it to do its work, and bypass the dead man’s security. Within a short passing of minutes, the login gave way to the desktop, and Rey got to work sifting files even as they were copied en masse. Sure enough, all was laid bare to the enforcer, manifests, receipt copies, sales history, inventory, and even a small floor plan of hideaway. Saving the files to the cracker, and copying the security credentials to his device, Reynard left the computer. His device was already set to dial the cleaners, even as he retread the damnable halls.
Once it was handled, all that was left was cleanup. After those who were chained up front were dealt with, the bodies could be disposed of later, and the enforcer was left to check the previously locked rooms. Most were empty rooms prepared for renovation, storage, and a larger stall like space compared to those up front that was a large shower space. One room on the map was more recently updated, and only listed as “Suite 1”, and the only room left unchecked.
Slowly opening the door, it was as one might expect of a room with such a name, a nicely decorated bedroom. Upon the bed, was a woman who seemed either asleep, or unconscious which seemed more likely with some of the drugs found in the manifest. As Rey approached, the very thing that had lead to this, was upon her neck. A collar, equipped with multiple methods of insuring against disobedience and runaway prisoners. She seemed more fresh, clean, fed, and importantly healthy.
The debate to dispose of her went on mentally for a few moments, but unlike those up front, she was savable with minimal effort. And perhaps, it would benefit them, as even positive pr was hard to come by in their realm of work. Hand leaving the pommel of his blade, Rey discarded his filthy gloves to the nearby trash can, before disengaging the collar, and scooping the woman up into his arms. “Perhaps I’m still a bit too soft”, he questioned to himself as he carried her out.