"Mafiablue infiltration"
23 Jun 2023Reg SHAMANAVARRE
Date: 8th February 3309, Michell Depot, Eurybia System.The elevator doors open in front of me. I walk towards the spaceport's lobby, and my magnetic boots chime on the metallic floor. The hall is filled with a cacophony of voices, music, and advertising announcements. As I descend the stairs to the bar, I take in the holographic advertising screens and the people around me going about their business. When I reach the bar, I signal the bartender and order a Harma Rum. He nods and gets to work. Amidst the music and the station's overall noise, it's hard to hear much. He places the glass in front of me, and I transfer the credits to him. I glance around and notice that some people are looking at me rather intently. I act as if I haven't noticed and, with the glass in hand, take a sip. The sweet taste of Harma coats my throat, followed by the warmth of the alcohol flowing down my esophagus. All is well, and I reassure myself that I'm here to make some money.
The person on my left stands up. Another person takes their place, and out of the corner of my eye, I recognize the guy who was giving me those intense looks when I arrived. My senses are on high alert, and I can feel my heart pounding. His gaze shifts from the bartender to me several times as he calls out to the bartender in Italian. Unfortunately, I don't speak Italian. He turns his head toward me once more, and I decide to face him. Our locked gazes meet. He has very clear, drooping eyes, the kind of look filled with sadness and hatred. The gaze of a man who has suffered and doesn't have much left to lose. The kind of guy who doesn't hesitate to resort to bullets or a dirty blade. His hand moves toward his inside pocket. Reflexively, I step back and try to sit as naturally as possible on the nearby barstool to my right. He pulls out a toothpick and puts it in his thick mouth, emphasizing his swollen, scarred face with granulated, greasy skin.
"Who are you?" he gruffly asks with a heavy Italian accent. "I don't know your face!?"
I have two choices: either I confront him and end up riddled with bullets from his buddies, or I play dumb. I choose the latter and reply, "Oh, I'm just passing through. Needed to stretch my legs, you know...," delivered with a silly grin and a hint of naivety. I finish my sentence while draining my glass at the bar.
A second character appears to my right, and the atmosphere reeks of violence. I place my glass on the bar, nod my thanks to the bartender and the gentlemen, and make my way back towards the elevators. In the reflection of the glass guardrails on the side, I notice the two troublemakers following me. When I reach the elevators, I press the call button. The doors open, I step inside, and turn to face them. The two men rush towards me, but the doors close. A hand thrusts forward and taps the elevator door, making me jump. My heart pounds, the doors open again, and the two men enter the elevator. The first guy who approached me presses the button and selects the destination. Evidently, he's the one in control. The same locked gaze between us, with his accomplice added to the mix. The atmosphere becomes tense; the elevator starts with a pneumatic hiss, filling the silence. I breathe calmly, the noise stops, and the doors open.
The man with clear eyes signals me to follow, and the tall, skinny man stands behind me. The corridor is dark, with the only light coming from a vent across from me. It smells of oil and something burning. We must be near a launch platform. The sounds of engines and announcements from the station's speakers are close by. At the end of the corridor, they lead me up a flight of stairs. We climb until we reach a landing, and a door opens for us. The door closes behind us, the guy behind me quickly draws his gun and presses it against my head. I raise my hands and hold my breath instinctively. The other guy pats me down and grunts as a warning. He feels my P15, takes it from my holster, and places it at the small of his back. The guy reaches into his jacket, but this time, it's not a toothpick he pulls out, but a profile scanner. He scans me from head to toe.
"Idalgo Svenk! Pah! Your identity has no ID; it's completely faked. Where did you get this, huh?" he says, sneering. The other guy increases the pressure of his gun on my head.
"Calm down, guys! I don't want any trouble; I'm just looking for a way to make some credits, and I heard there might be some weapons here. Don't shoot; my profile is fake because I don't want the Feds on my tail, so chill, okay?"
The man with the toothpick smiles, exchanges a glance with his colleague, and then steps to my right. I feel the gun move away from my head. I take a deep breath with my hands still in the air. I exhale. In one swift move, I pivot, using my hand to redirect the gun-wielding guy's wrist. The shot rings out, and the bullet hits the metallic wall, bouncing off and burying itself in Cure-dent's throat. He screams like a pig. Everything happens quickly. Wrestling with the tall man becomes challenging with my eardrum ringing from the gunshot. I decide to strike him with my magnetic boot on the knee. He doesn't resist and bends in the opposite direction, crying out in pain. I take the gun from his hand, finish off Cure-dent and the suffering man by administering them their respective punches. Silence returns, the ringing subsides, and the station's noise takes over. My heart gradually slows down. I retrieve my gun from the corpse, tie my hair back, adjust my jacket, and head back to the elevator.
The elevator doors open, and once again, I find myself in the spaceport's lobby. I make my way to the bar, descend the stairs, and approach the counter. The bartender, looking nervous upon seeing me, stands up and puts down his towel. He looks around for his colleagues, and in a quick glance, I see that things are getting restless around me. The music still blaring, I signal the bartender to come over and place an order. He approaches hesitantly, and I tell him, "I'll have the same thing again, please, but this time with two straws."