He caught the face he was looking for through the gaps in the crowd between revelers. A flat and featureless face, the eyes flat with the brow, skin scaly and dull green like a reptile. Three orange and pink spikes sticking out in a row down the back of the skull. Nine years of looking and this was the first time he’d seen the face with his own twelve eyes.
Then the gap closed, half dressed and half drunk partiers coming together before moving apart. For the few seconds the view of his quarry was blocked he feared that he’d slip away. But then a gap opened again and there he was, snacking on a deep fried insect pincer.
He would not let this opportunity pass. With all the grace his lumpy four foot body could muster, he pushed his way through the crowd. He used his strength where he could, pushing, shoving, and unbalancing when necessary, but more often being forced to move out of the way or be carried by the crowd.
The music was relentless. The dancers were relentless. But so was he, and he made his way across the floor and pushed through the crowd and came out only a few paces behind the creature. For a second a rage rose up within him. He nearly drew his weapon, hidden carefully in his garments. But he knew he couldn’t do it here. Not in front of all these witnesses. After all to be so close and lose his head at the last moment was to fail. His quarry didn’t need to be dead, but also needed to disappear. There couldn’t be a trail leading back to his tribe.
He let his rage recede, and found a table not far off. Close enough to keep an eye on his target, but far enough to hide him from the nearsighted alien. He ordered a drink when the server robot came by, but his order confused the machine.
“Unfortunately we do not serve this item,” the robot said. “Please select a different item. Perhaps something from our inventory list.”
He just ordered the first thing on the list and the robot transmitted the order before moving on to the next patron. It didn’t matter what was ordered, or whether he was even physically able to drink it. The drink was to make him look like a patron. It would remain untouched. He was only interested in his quarry.
Another robot that was little more than a tray on wheels rolled up, and served the drink. But he barely noticed. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on his target. The creature didn’t notice him. Its vision wasn’t very good. It made up for it with heightened smell, but it would not know its pursuers smell. The creature was engaged in devouring its deep fried meal, and talking loudly and boisterously to three uninterested females.
They were of different races to the target, but also to each other. They seemed thoroughly unimpressed with their patron, but as long as he was buying drinks they’d suffer his boorishness.
His target let out another round of barking laughter as oil dripped from the half-eaten insect claw in his hand, spattering the floor. The violet-skinned female recoiled slightly as he leaned too close, his breath clearly offensive even over the club’s dense air. But when he clumsily pulled a handful of shimmering credit chips from a pouch and slapped them on the table, she exchanged a glance with her companions and stood.
She looped her arm through his, more for balance than affection, and he rose with a wobble. The other two women took their drinks and scattered into the crowd looking for more savory company, glad to be rid of him.
The hunter rose, casual, invisible, and followed at a distance. Despite being twice as large as his target, he moved carefully through the crowd, following his quarry. Never once was he spotted. The female was completely oblivious to their pursuer, her focus taken up trying to keep her companions groping slaws off her body.
The two pushed their way toward the back of the venue, past dancers and smoke jets and tangled clusters of alien bodies. She was trying to guide him, but he kept veering, bumping into strangers and apologizing in a mix of slurred languages. She laughed at first, then started getting frustrated as he continued to veer off course. He tripped over an uneven floor plate and nearly fell down atop the poor girl.
They reached a quiet alcove near a service corridor. The violet girl leaned close, whispering something in his ear. His response was a loud, wet slurp, as his long gooey tongue licked one of her shoulders. She shoved him.
He laughed.
She slapped him across the face, hard, and it echoed down the corridor.
"Filthy skink!" she snapped, her voice thick with a buzzing accent. "You pay me credits now!" Without waiting for his response she snatched his pocketbook, took a handful of coins out, and tossed the rest down a dark side corridor. She stormed off in a flash of violet silk and chitin, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance.
The alien creature stood dazed for a moment, then muttered something crude, swayed, and turned, ducking into the service corridor, looking for his discarded money. The sign read Maintenance Access Only and flickered under the failing light.
The hunter slipped in after him, silent as fog.
The corridor was dim and industrial. Steam hissed from a pressure vent. Pipes clanged above. The strobe-lit glamor of the station’s streetway ended just a few steps in, replaced by shadows cast from flickering work lights.
The hunter moved quickly now. Purposeful. He would not get another chance.
Up ahead, the target was mumbling to himself and fumbling at the ground, picking up credit coins. The hunter closed the gap.
“Don’t turn around,” the hunter said in his own tongue before the translator on his collar spit out the translation.
His target froze, slowly raised his head, half-glancing over his shoulder. “Whuzzat? Who ‘er you?”
His breath came in heavy, ragged wheezes. His stance was off, drunk, slow, unarmed. The hunter stepped closer.
“You don’t know me,” the hunter said. “But I know you.”
“Yeah?” the target chuckled. “You some kinda fan?”
“No,” the hunter replied. “I’m a survivor. I’m from Ralclow.”
There was silence. Then a pause, then a subtle shift. Recognition flickered across the creature’s dull green face. Not of the hunter himself, but of the species. Recognition dawned on the drunken creature’s face. “War’s over,” was all he could manage.
“And we made peace,” the hunter said coldly. “With your government. Not with you. Even they couldn’t stomach what you did. Even they want you dead.”
His target stared drunkenly at the hunter. His eyes shifted trying to find a way out, but there wasn’t one. Fear entered his eyes, and also something else, something dangerous. The look of a cornered beast. His hand twitched toward his side.
Too late.
The hunter moved with fluid certainty. A dart, coated in paralyzing resin, embedded itself in the soft skin just beneath the creature’s third rib. His eyes widened. He stumbled back against the wall, claws scrabbling at the dart, legs going stiff.
“What…what did you…” he choked.
“A paralytic,” the hunter stated.
The creature slid down the wall, landing hard on the floor, muscles locking up. Not dead. Not yet. But he knew he was going to be taken, likely from the station into deep space. Nothing to trace. No trail to follow.
The hunter stood over him looking down at his quarry at last, breathing evenly. Nine years of patience. Of pursuit. Of preparing. He gave his target a look of pure hate. “You won’t be able to move,” the hunter said, “but you’ll be awake, and alert. You’ll feel everything that’s about to happen to you.”
The hunter then placed a repulsor belt on his target, which lifted his limp form in the air. He guided him away towards the spaceport. No one gave them a second look, just another drunk being taken home by a friend. Nothing to see at all.
Then the gap closed, half dressed and half drunk partiers coming together before moving apart. For the few seconds the view of his quarry was blocked he feared that he’d slip away. But then a gap opened again and there he was, snacking on a deep fried insect pincer.
He would not let this opportunity pass. With all the grace his lumpy four foot body could muster, he pushed his way through the crowd. He used his strength where he could, pushing, shoving, and unbalancing when necessary, but more often being forced to move out of the way or be carried by the crowd.
The music was relentless. The dancers were relentless. But so was he, and he made his way across the floor and pushed through the crowd and came out only a few paces behind the creature. For a second a rage rose up within him. He nearly drew his weapon, hidden carefully in his garments. But he knew he couldn’t do it here. Not in front of all these witnesses. After all to be so close and lose his head at the last moment was to fail. His quarry didn’t need to be dead, but also needed to disappear. There couldn’t be a trail leading back to his tribe.
He let his rage recede, and found a table not far off. Close enough to keep an eye on his target, but far enough to hide him from the nearsighted alien. He ordered a drink when the server robot came by, but his order confused the machine.
“Unfortunately we do not serve this item,” the robot said. “Please select a different item. Perhaps something from our inventory list.”
He just ordered the first thing on the list and the robot transmitted the order before moving on to the next patron. It didn’t matter what was ordered, or whether he was even physically able to drink it. The drink was to make him look like a patron. It would remain untouched. He was only interested in his quarry.
Another robot that was little more than a tray on wheels rolled up, and served the drink. But he barely noticed. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on his target. The creature didn’t notice him. Its vision wasn’t very good. It made up for it with heightened smell, but it would not know its pursuers smell. The creature was engaged in devouring its deep fried meal, and talking loudly and boisterously to three uninterested females.
They were of different races to the target, but also to each other. They seemed thoroughly unimpressed with their patron, but as long as he was buying drinks they’d suffer his boorishness.
His target let out another round of barking laughter as oil dripped from the half-eaten insect claw in his hand, spattering the floor. The violet-skinned female recoiled slightly as he leaned too close, his breath clearly offensive even over the club’s dense air. But when he clumsily pulled a handful of shimmering credit chips from a pouch and slapped them on the table, she exchanged a glance with her companions and stood.
She looped her arm through his, more for balance than affection, and he rose with a wobble. The other two women took their drinks and scattered into the crowd looking for more savory company, glad to be rid of him.
The hunter rose, casual, invisible, and followed at a distance. Despite being twice as large as his target, he moved carefully through the crowd, following his quarry. Never once was he spotted. The female was completely oblivious to their pursuer, her focus taken up trying to keep her companions groping slaws off her body.
The two pushed their way toward the back of the venue, past dancers and smoke jets and tangled clusters of alien bodies. She was trying to guide him, but he kept veering, bumping into strangers and apologizing in a mix of slurred languages. She laughed at first, then started getting frustrated as he continued to veer off course. He tripped over an uneven floor plate and nearly fell down atop the poor girl.
They reached a quiet alcove near a service corridor. The violet girl leaned close, whispering something in his ear. His response was a loud, wet slurp, as his long gooey tongue licked one of her shoulders. She shoved him.
He laughed.
She slapped him across the face, hard, and it echoed down the corridor.
"Filthy skink!" she snapped, her voice thick with a buzzing accent. "You pay me credits now!" Without waiting for his response she snatched his pocketbook, took a handful of coins out, and tossed the rest down a dark side corridor. She stormed off in a flash of violet silk and chitin, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance.
The alien creature stood dazed for a moment, then muttered something crude, swayed, and turned, ducking into the service corridor, looking for his discarded money. The sign read Maintenance Access Only and flickered under the failing light.
The hunter slipped in after him, silent as fog.
The corridor was dim and industrial. Steam hissed from a pressure vent. Pipes clanged above. The strobe-lit glamor of the station’s streetway ended just a few steps in, replaced by shadows cast from flickering work lights.
The hunter moved quickly now. Purposeful. He would not get another chance.
Up ahead, the target was mumbling to himself and fumbling at the ground, picking up credit coins. The hunter closed the gap.
“Don’t turn around,” the hunter said in his own tongue before the translator on his collar spit out the translation.
His target froze, slowly raised his head, half-glancing over his shoulder. “Whuzzat? Who ‘er you?”
His breath came in heavy, ragged wheezes. His stance was off, drunk, slow, unarmed. The hunter stepped closer.
“You don’t know me,” the hunter said. “But I know you.”
“Yeah?” the target chuckled. “You some kinda fan?”
“No,” the hunter replied. “I’m a survivor. I’m from Ralclow.”
There was silence. Then a pause, then a subtle shift. Recognition flickered across the creature’s dull green face. Not of the hunter himself, but of the species. Recognition dawned on the drunken creature’s face. “War’s over,” was all he could manage.
“And we made peace,” the hunter said coldly. “With your government. Not with you. Even they couldn’t stomach what you did. Even they want you dead.”
His target stared drunkenly at the hunter. His eyes shifted trying to find a way out, but there wasn’t one. Fear entered his eyes, and also something else, something dangerous. The look of a cornered beast. His hand twitched toward his side.
Too late.
The hunter moved with fluid certainty. A dart, coated in paralyzing resin, embedded itself in the soft skin just beneath the creature’s third rib. His eyes widened. He stumbled back against the wall, claws scrabbling at the dart, legs going stiff.
“What…what did you…” he choked.
“A paralytic,” the hunter stated.
The creature slid down the wall, landing hard on the floor, muscles locking up. Not dead. Not yet. But he knew he was going to be taken, likely from the station into deep space. Nothing to trace. No trail to follow.
The hunter stood over him looking down at his quarry at last, breathing evenly. Nine years of patience. Of pursuit. Of preparing. He gave his target a look of pure hate. “You won’t be able to move,” the hunter said, “but you’ll be awake, and alert. You’ll feel everything that’s about to happen to you.”
The hunter then placed a repulsor belt on his target, which lifted his limp form in the air. He guided him away towards the spaceport. No one gave them a second look, just another drunk being taken home by a friend. Nothing to see at all.