Degastani Delinquents Part 2
31 Aug 2017Stryker Aune
Black Omega’s Territorial Holding, DegastaniThis piece is part of a collaboration, between myself and another wingmate. The idea was to present the same story from two points of view.
Monolith Preachers POV can be found here.
To keep the numbering of the story consistent, this is part two in his arc, and so it is part two in mine.
The sound of heavy footfall echoed about the narrow corridor. Stryker had just left a meeting with Degginal DeVerre, Capofamiglia of the Black Omega crime family. The mechanic bodybuilder had never had a one on one with the man of power, and was surprised when he was called in for a discussion. He was not at all what Stryker had expected. Soft spoken, calm, and rational. Deggie had expressed concern to the large man about another member of the group that went by the name “Monolith Preacher.” Stryker knew very little of the man, except that he was some half crazed cultist that spread brainwashing propaganda about the organization to newly acquired systems and it was precisely the content of this propaganda that had the Capo concerned. From the meeting, this preacher was about to set off to some backwater dust ball to start the process and he was asked to keep an eye on things. If the preaching didn’t jive with Black Omega policy, his job was clear.
Stryker frowned. He had his own issues to deal with. The ore refineries on Carlisle Enterprise had slipped in productivity, and he was in the middle of motivating the work crews just to be pulled out and sent on a babysitting errand. No doubt Simon would start whining about the lack of refined metals being feed to his factories. Stryker took a deep breath and rounded a corner. Standing some distance off with his back to him was a pale man with various cultish tattoos covering what pasty skin was exposed. Stryker laid his metallic claw on the narrow bony shoulder.
“The boss said, that I’m going with you.”
The preacher turned and in a flash held some sort of knife to the large man. Then realizing who it was he placed it back in its sheath. “You speak Degistanian?”
Stryker kept quiet, the sharp claw capable of renting steel, lay resting on the shoulder. “I don’t care about them. I’m here to escort you.”
The preacher kept a cool eye on the man. “And what if we've got to move through a valley between two mountains? I could dissect you to get you through them, but I'm not used to putting people back together again.”
Stryker folded his arms. Quite the long way to sling a threat, mate. Stryker pulled a Bowie knife from his boot and spun the hilt in his fingerless gloved hand, offering it to the skinny cultist. “Check the edge, it's about as sharp as any blade in there, right?”
The bodybuilder watched the curious cultist run a thumb along the blade. Some sort of appraisal, Though Stryker thought the best way was to just ram it in someone’s gut. The preacher's voice was collected. “Seems sharp enough, what's your point?”
Stryker laughed. “Try to lug it against my pectorals, and it will bounce off.” yet the tone was not humorous, and there as was something deadly in the way he said it.
Preacher appraised the large man, his eyes wandering over the massive bulging muscles. Stryker had come accustomed to this behaviour. In his earlier years he enjoyed the attention, now it was all part of the job. He used it to intimidate and press his will upon others. Suddenly the preacher tossed the knife back, and the large man caught it between the sharp claws of his artificial hand. “At least you're dressed for the weather. We'll be taking my Python. Anything you see inside which bothers you is probably none of your business...and I don't want you injecting anything into your buttocks en route. If you want to up your rep count I'll throw you some uppers.”
His face a stone, Stryker dared not show it, but he found the offer highly offensive. He folded his arms, and walked behind the man. Good, the Preacher seems nervous. Stryker had decided that if he was going to have to babysit, he’s going to make the baby feel as ill at ease as possible. They walked along the docking bay to a neatly parked Python. The large ship was the bread and butter of the Omega Fleet. Versatile, and small enough to reach those hard to reach places. Stryker's heart, however, was set upon his own ship. The Vanguard. A hideous amalgamation of size and strength. An outward projection of his inner self. He didn’t feel, uneasy being on this ship with Preacher, but he would have rather taken his own. He noticed the cultist run his fingers over holographic panels and the bodybuilder thought back to the rumors he had heard: that this particular man used devices to brainwash the occupants held in the dingy, unkempt cells. What caught his attention was the few slaves cowering in the darken corners. Stryker wasn’t at all surprised to see them. Just like his imperial upbringing, he was use to seeing them around. However, what did pique his curiosity was one taking a break, and smoking at that. Deciding that it wasn’t his problem to deal with, he accessed the technical schematics of the ship. He needed to know what modifications were made, when, and where. He heard the slave yelp and the Preacher nabbed him about the neck, frogmarched him to an airlock, and ejected him. The hulking man thought the whole affair rather dull as he preferred a more intimate approach when dealing with insubordination.
He spent the time travelling to Degastani studying the ship schematics, the mission, and fixing various components about the ship. He was appalled to find that the fuel scoop was solely working in the academic sense of the word. It did the job, but the efficiency was poor. A mechanic at heart, the large man took it upon himself to solve the problem. A few open panels and a short visual diagnostic revealed the problem to be an impeller. He called up to the Preacher to delay a jump for about a half an hour, as he ripped the large piece of equipment from it’s housing and got to work. The strong metallic claw was put to good use, and in a way he was grateful to have it. A job like this without it would mean more equipment needed to bend and shape the metal. He did the job, and reinstalled the piece. The next star was the test, and demonstrated the hulking man’s skill. It was operating at full efficiency cutting down the time it took to scoop.
The star port on the local planet was named after some ancient explorer. Preacher tried to explain it to his enforcer, but Stryker could have cared less. The port was hot, dusty, and the winds were always blowing. To make matters worse, he had the job of making sure the filtration units on the suits they wore were operating within specifications. He embraced the menial task, and took to checking their suits before traversing the ramp out into the barren and stricken wastelands.
Preacher knew his job, and Stryker followed along. They would stand at checkpoints and checkpoints they would stand, and Stryker kept an eye out for trouble while simultaneously keeping an eye on the Preacher. He noted that the man was quite observant, taking in every minutia the locals were doing, assimilating it, and incorporating into his own oratory stylings. He had to admit, it was very clever. As the Preacher continued to spread the words of his wisdom, or whatever it was, he noted that as the Black Omega cultist learned more about the culture, the more he would use it, and twist to make his message more appealing. This, however, did not go over well with the fundamentalists. A particular group of radicals called themselves the Fredegi, and they wore a sort of ceremonial headgear.
Deggi had been displeased with how these fundamentals were disrupting Omega mining operations, and that was why they were sent there. Preacher was to convert them into Omega ways of thinking, and Stryker was to make sure that the Preacher wasn’t starting a cult of personality and he had personal orders from Deggie to remedy that situation if that was the case. He had been assigned other duties as well such as personal protection, and assassination if need be, so Stryker kept close tabs on the doctrine his counterpart was sharing with the locals. They we’re not having much success, despite the Preacher’s use of customs and expert forms of persuasions, until they came upon a tantalizing lead from a dingy bar.
Preacher had negotiated for the requisition of the information. Some goods were to be traded, and when all was said and done, they had a contact. Stryker resented the fact that the Preacher enjoyed yammering on about all sorts of inane things. In this case, some long drawn out story about that shit outpost orbiting Proxima Centauri that really no one gives a rats ass about, besides for some cheaply made mugs with scrawlings like “I’ve survived the trip to Hutton Orbital” on the outside. He had been told that it was important to establish good relationships with the local merchants. Stryker thought it was all a lie, and found from personal experience that good relationships involved fear and consequences.
They had a name and place, and as they made their way out of the city some fanatic threw themselves upon the duo, with arm outstretched and knife held tightly yelling some local death curse. Stryker was not at all amused. Having spent time in the fight pits back on Clair Dock, coupled with martial arts, close quarter training, and his own titanic brute strength, he caught the Fredegi by the throat and slammed him to the ground. A well placed jab to the helmet, and the duraglass shattered, sending spindles spewing into the dusty air. The now familiar and wanting sensation of complete power and dominance washed over the large man. He sneered behind his mirrored visor. He brought his fist back into the face of his subject, and revelled in the joy of feeling the facial bones crack under the blow. He found his fist raised again. The Fredigi had posed almost no threat, but Stryker was going to teach this person a lesson. In the last moments of his, or her life, they would know who was in control, and who held the power. Stryker felt the fist make contact again. The bones had completely shattered, giving the head a kind of soft gel like substance to it. He moved the onslaught to the body proper. Anger, rage, frustration, joy, power and control washed over the man as he broke limbs, snapped bones, and raked the ragdoll teen about like some ferocious animal with its prey caught in it’s maw. Guards had thrown themselves upon the bodybuilder, but for all the effort they put into stopping the man dismember the the Fredegi, it accounted for nothing. He shrugged them and their blows off as if they were nothing. Reaching his crescendo, like some sort of perverted sexual climax, Stryker ripped a clean hole through the ribs and tore the bloody mess of a heart out. Standing, he shook the guards off and held aloft the crimson pulsating globe in the clawed augmentation and gave a deep roar. He tossed the bloody organ at their feet before pulling out some credentials. The guards backed off slowly, unsure as to what the huge brute would do next. Stryker stood, his massive chest heaving, blood oozing along the sharp metal claws dripping into dusty puddle at his boots. Without a word, he wiped the claw clean and made his way towards the waiting SRV. waiting just long enough for the Preacher to climb inside before veering off out of the settlement.
The Preacher broke the silence between them. “I'm always glad you like to drive these things. I feel better flying than I do behind anything with wheels.”
Stryker’s attention was fixed on the destination, and he said nothing.
“So is that your usual method of dispatch? It seemed to take a bit longer than I'm used to...”
The muscular man broke him off. “It was … enjoyable.”
The Preacher said nothing for the rest of the journey back to his Python. Once there, Stryker was the first out of the cramped compartment. He stretched his arms and legs, and surveyed another moving dust cloud off in the distance. As it approached he made out an SRV which finally came to a halt by the Python. A Fredigi stepped out. Stryker saw the Preacher raise his hand in the customary way, and the Fredegi did likewise. Suddenly, from camouflaged foxholes in the ground, more Fredegi popped up. Preacher glanced at the large man, “I don't suppose you can take the twenty or so on the right if I can take the twenty or so on the left?”
Stryker’s gaze didn't falter from the new arrivals. “I think you should start praying, Preacher man.”