Re: Stories From Jupiter
Dex Fitzroy
It was not long before Dex found himself in a bar. If you wanted an answer to any question, you always went to a bar. In between the slurred speech and the blurred fists, information would often be found.
“A woman, wearing a ring, a dolphin ring, seen her pass through?” Dex asked yet another patron.
“What’re ya drinking that crap for?” said the patron. “Milk won’t put hair on your balls.”
“It’s personal,” said Dex. “Thanks for the help though.”
The patron chuckled and took a swig of his drink. Dex took a seat at the bar. A TV that hung above the barmaid showed a news bulletin. The sound could hardly be heard over the barroom’s din.
“Jovian President Piper Grant has not been seen since the incident. Our top story, again, the President of Jupiter has been accused of the murder of her Vice President and four Cabinet members. It is believed President Grant is alleged to have killed them in an explosion, allegedly disguised as a separatist attack. Capital Police are hunting for President Grant. The victims were well known for their lenient stance on the Independent Satellite Movement that advocated Jupiter's moons be recognised as a separate, self governing entity. It is not known who will take over the Presidency.”
“****, even the President’s a murderer these days,” said Dex.
Dex felt something poke into his back. He immediately knew what it was. The barrel of a shotgun. A whispered voice entered his ear.
“You got a nice ship,” came the hushed voice. “Worth a bit, but not worth your life, give me the access codes.”
“I’m waiting,” said Dex.
“For what?” said the voice, the whisper raised in volume, confused.
“For the part where I should give a ****,” said Dex.
“You have a gun to your back!” exclaimed the assailant, his voice heard only by Dex.
“So?”
“So?! You’ll die, I’ll kill you!”
“Everyone dies, why should I be worried that you’re the one who ends me?”
The gunman jammed the gun harder into Dex’s back.
“All it takes is one pull of the trigger,” said the gunman.
With unexpected swiftness, Dex spun around on his barstool, grabbed the shotgun and tore it out of his attacker’s hand. Dex dropped the gun and instead grabbed both of the gunman’s index fingers. A crack came from both as he twisted them violently. Dex spun on his stool to once again face the bar.
“Good luck pulling a trigger,” said Dex.
Dex downed the last of his chocolate milk before getting up. As he started to walk towards the bar’s exit, he noticed a commotion out of the corner of his eye. It was Mia. She was talking to someone. The conversation had obviously not been friendly as Mia’s associate or acquaintance was now sprawled on the floor.
“I guess she can handle herself,” muttered Dex.
He walked out of the bar and into the next one. It was going to be a long day.
Mia Carina
“C’mon,” pleaded Mia. “You gotta give me a job. I hitched my way from Iga.”
“No. You screwed up the last job. There ain’t no work for you here anymore.”
“That job got done!” said Mia.
“After you almost got done from what I hear.”
“The job got done,” said Mia.
“You just don’t got it no more, kid. You’re not hard enough.”
“Where am I gonna go?! How am I gonna feed myself?!"
“Plenty of honest jobs out there.”
“This is all I know,” said Mia.
“Start knowing something else.”
Mia leaned back in her chair and sighed. Her companion got up and left. She looked around the bar and saw Dex of all people. She watched as he spun in his chair and broke someone’s fingers. He was arrogant and reckless, a combination that allowed him to survive in places like Ruffin. No, survive was not the right word, Mia felt. Live. It allowed him to live in these places. In the most dangerous places, where death was as regular as the sunrise, the only way to live there, to see the next sunrise, was to not care if you made it another day. Dex was a man who could stare Death in the face, smile, and tell it to piss off. As Mia was lost in thought, someone grabbed her from behind, throwing an arm around her neck. Mia was already in motion. The attacker swung a knife in their other hand, the blade rushing towards Mia’s head. The young woman raised her leg, swiftly, in an impressive display of strength and flexibility. Her leg struck the incoming blade out of the adversary’s hand. With her opponent distracted momentarily, Mia took the opportunity to throw the top half of her body forward, keeping her feet firmly anchored on the ground. The move threw the attacker over her head, tumbling to the floor. Mia delivered a punch to the stomach of her attacker, now lying face up on the floor. She straightened her clothes and walked outside.
There was a slight chill in the air. Probably a faulty circuit in the environmental systems. Repairs were rather irregular; people willing to work in Ruffin were in rather short supply. Those who did brave the lawless island were soon gone, either scared off or dead. More disturbingly, some stayed for good, their lust for violence perpetually satisfied. Mia began walking through the city. Her mind tried to think of what to do next. There was no work here anymore. No work for her. She had no place to stay. She had no food to eat. Mia found herself under a bridge. She sighed and rested her back against the wall. Her hand traced the cool cement with familiarity. She looked to the ground. The bridge spanned a concrete drain, though it usually only contained a trickle of water. Etched into the ground were some words. They were a number of years old now, faded but still visible. They read ‘Mia was here’. Mia ran her hand over the words as she sat down.
“Looks like you’re here again, kid,” she said.
She fished a small box out of her pocket. It was plain. Brown. Cardboard. She clutched it tightly, holding it close to her. A tear slipped from her eye.
“What other choice do I have?”