The lower levels

Thirty-second floor - Janitor Staff quarters - 23:33 Hrs




Drago shuffled his way through mass of junk he'd collected over the years, then paused, and stroked his wild , wayward, and just plain scruffy white beard in thought.

"..where'd I put the blasted thing.." He muttered to himself amid the chaos of his quarters, as if in reply, he delved into a mass of junk and began rifling through with gusto, until a shrill alert interrupted him.

Grumbling inaudbily to himself , Drago reluctantly stopped what he was doing and went to answer the door. As the door slid aside, Drago was met with a fellow Janitor, Chillik.

Chillik gazed in awe at the mess inside the man's quarters and couldn't help but let silp a smirk...before speaking to the impatient white-haired alien before him...

"..where on Astoria have you been hiding Drago!, don't you know you were supposed to be on shift an hour ago!?, if Bultar finds out, you'll be for it...I've covered for you , but this is the third time this week I've stuck my neck out for you, and I won't be doing it again!..."

Drago frowned, and slapped the top of his head in shock, realising he'd been so engrossed in what he was doing that he had completely lost track of time.
He nodded furiously in reply to his colleague and rushed away from the door to grab his things...

Chillik sighed and glanced down at his Chrono, then shook his head slowly , as the crash of what sounded like a thousand breakable objects could be heard from inside.

When the slightly dishevelled figure of Drago emerged , he was clutching what seemed to be an oversized cattle-prod of some description in one hand, and a huge net in the other...

Chillik rolled his eyes , and asked the obvious...

"..what the hell have you got that for?..." (He asked impatiently..)

"..you're going to work, not fishing...."

Drago for moment looked almost hurt, before wielding his new toy...

"..its a Bantha-prod, got it off those Mid-rim traders last thursday...I'm going to get him, and get him good, he won't get away this time..."

Chillik snorted loudly...

"..oh you've got to be kidding me!... I thought we've already been over this, there are no Alligators, hiding in the vents -- (he eyed the prod suspiciously)-- Nor Bantha's for that matter...just a load of moronic rumours started up by some bored spacer..."

As Drago locked his door, he turned back to face Chillik, with a smug look on his face...

"... thats what you think...I've seen him, almost bit my arm off too!, he's a sly one alright, I'll get him just you wait and see..."

Chillik's face was blank, he stared at the Janitor for a moment, as if deciding whether the man before him was all there or not...

"...right, well, whatever floats your boat, right now you're wanted in Section h-241, ninety-second floor, duct blockage...you'd better shift your ass!..."

Still smiling at his pun, Chillik turned and walked away, leaving the scruffy Janitor alone...

Drago watched him go , and smiled to himself, Section h-241 wasn't far from Zone RF-3...

He shivered with excitement at the prospect...then noisily gathered up his things, and made his way to the nearest shifter...

Muttering underneath his breath as he did so...


"...no gettin away from me this time ya 'crafty bugger..."

Fate. It was a term bandied by many a man, and one that the girl did not care to utter. Even as a young child it had been clear to her that terms such as destiny seemed little more than poor excuses for the foolish, rash actions of men and women alike. As she had grown these suspicions had been affirmed. A sage and contributor to the tutor annals had sat with her, on one cold afternoon, and indulged her questions with regards to so-called fate, luck, chance and so forth. From that moment, she had thought twice always before using such crass terminology. You must think first, speak second, and act last. Though your deeds may carry more weight than your words, to act on impulse is to succumb to weakness. Choose your words wisely, lest they be quoted in lieu of your deeds.

Had she been a believer in such a concept, however, the girl would have argued that it seemed to be in her fate to wander where trouble was to be found – or that trouble she wander after her. Her father, a far less educated man than the tutors, had once told her that life was something akin to a card game. She did not remember the precise explanation he had given, but knew that it went something to the tune of this – you cannot predict or prepare for the hand that you will be dealt. Though it was by no means a be all and end all solution, the girl had her ways of dealing with such things: walk softly and carry a large weapon.

On this occasion, she carried two.

Beneath a heavy dust-bitten jacket, there hung a holster at her hips. It carried two guns that were light enough to allow mobility whilst still packing quite the punch. Neither was loaded. The bandolier of ammunition that crisscrossed the lop-sided belt was empty. Casually, the girl dipped one hand into the pouch that would have normally contained cells to power the pistols. In a heady daze she had discharged over half of the cache in the town of Ben’ma. Another good portion had provided her with food for her trek across the desert. Not all had hit their mark, as she was by no means an expert sharpshooter.

Luckily, there was another implement of war on her person, one that did not require reloading. It rested comfortably against her shoulder, the polished wooden handle resting against her palm. The denizens of the Astoria eyed it with some degree of suspicion and mistrust. At one end, it bore a curved blade not unlike a hammer or spade in shape, that looked as though it could have cleaved your head from your shoulders with a well placed thrust. The opposite end was tipped with a spike, making the entire thing somewhere in the region of three feet long. The girl carried it as if it had always been with her, yet it was difficult to deny that it looked out of place against her slim frame.

The janitor, on the other hand, looked more than at home with his prod. As he shuffled ahead, muttering something intelligible to himself, the girl had to wonder precisely what he meant to do with such tool. Since her arrival on the station a short while ago she had heard many stories, most of which she suspected were the delusions of bored barfly’s, regarding creatures that dwelt in the lower levels of the self-contained society. Were even the station staff themselves susceptible to such fantasies? It appeared as such. Perhaps there was some truth in the myths. Such an opportunity was simply too intriguing to pass up and so she called out:

“How many of them are there?”