Is This What It Is To Make A Difference?
24 Sep 2022Samira Marx
::> Awaiting access token...
::> Retrieved.
::> Greetings Commander Marx.
::> Menu Options:
::> >Personal Log
::> =Banking
::> =Personal Quarters Menu
::> =Docks Menu
...
::> Personal Log 24 SEP 3308
::> Enter decryption key:
::> Retrieved
::> QuFCC Algorithm Detected: This is insecure! Please consider using a more secure cryptographic algorithm.
::> $ osc allow "*.qfcc" -rw -F
::> Success
::> Opening multimedia recorder with file write name SEP243308-1534890
The camera feed flicked to life with a sharp snap. The distinct interior of a Cobra MKIII introduced itself with a beautiful view of the system's sun before a figure occluded the view and sat down. As the focus and exposure adjusted, a woman with sharp, handsome features took command of the frame. A look of anxiety, however, had distorted her hard features. Anxiety and remorse. Her hands were clasped in front of her and her leg bounced up and down rapidly.
"I...I don't think he even knew who..." She trailed off. Her leg stopped bouncing and she ran her hands through her crimson mohawk. She exhaled deeply and pulled her hand down her face as if wiping away the emotion that had gripped her.
"This is Commander Samira Marx filling in Personal Log SA-96Y.007," her voice was steady until quivering slightly near the end. "Four hours ago I retrieved payment for the murder of a beloved freedom fighter whom I was directed to kill by the notorious pirate cooperative 'Black Widow'." She reached to her right—out of the view of the camera—and returned with a datapad. "These are Pete Enoch's final words."
After a tap on the datapad, an audio byte played. The desperate screams of Pete for his mother were all that rose above the sounds of kinetic ammunition cracking against the cockpit glass until an explosion and the eerie click of radioactive audio artifacts against the microphone. As the audio played Samira slouched as if the guilt and horror of having taken this man's life not only emotionally but physically weighed on her.
The clicking sound came to an end after a few seconds of dreadful length and she returned the datapad to its position off screen. "Thus ended the life of Pete Enoch. After doing some independent research, I learned he was 29 years old, fought for the Gatolla Council for 7 years, and had four living family members. His mother Janine, his sibling Quinn, and his two sons Mark and Julian—five and three respectively. His wife was killed working the docks at a Black Widow-aligned station which prompted his enlistment with the Gatolla Council. It seems I was the final move in a cover up."
She sighed once more and cut the recording off. As she stood from the bunk, she powered off the monitor on the desk and retrieved a small storage device that had been plugged into it. After putting on her boots, she made her way to the lift at the end of the corridor. The many other quarters in the station were mostly vacant. She pressed the down button on the touchpad within the lift and immediately began descending. After a few moments, the glass at the rear of the lift transitioned from a view of the internals of the structure to a view of space beyond. She turned and absorbed the view. The small station took up little of the view apart from the obtrusive rotating holoboard displaying the emblem of the Black Widow.
She placed her hand against the glass just as it returned to an internal view of pistons and cables and supporting structure. She turned back around as the doors to the lift opened and revealed another view: the hub. A few people idled about in and around the bar, the shuttle area awaiting transport to a more populated station, or near the windows thinking about who knew what.
It was the first time she had killed. And it was weighing on her terribly. She often talked about how she would kill the people who were responsible for her parents' deaths. The ways she described what she would do were as fantastic and imaginative as they were brutal. She never imagined the first blood to stain her hands would be the life of someone who had been through exactly what she had.
She found herself at the window, staring at one particular star in the abyss. A spec among tens of thousands but distinct. Its orangish-red hue and its position on the map were burned into her mind. Gatolla. She breathed in, closed her eyes, imagined it going supernova in however many billions of years. Imagined how nothing she had ever done would ever matter outside of the hundred years she might not even live to see. She imagined the voices of her friends who supported her through thick and through thin after her parents were killed, all of them telling her it would be alright. All of them telling her she would be alright. It brought her comfort once more. She breathed out as she walked away from the glass and toward another lift, this one leading down to the docks. She selected Pad #02 and descended once more, back into the fray.