Striker’s Revenge
Striker was walking back to his bunk to work on his little pet project when he encountered Zhukov sitting by himself at the common table looking at his compad mumbling to himself as he jabbed at with his finger ineffectively at the screen. Striker grabbed a cup of coffee and took a seat across the table from Zhukov. A few minutes passed where Striker gazed into his cup enjoying the warmth of the beverage, he eventually broke the silence.
“This whole question about selling the Mist…”.
Zhukov looks up at him interrupting. “Don’t. Just don’t”, he said in an exasperated tone.
Striker said “It was a long time ago… It had to be done…”
Zhukov interrupted again and quietly with an edge to his voice, “I broke my code to protect you that day, and while I’d do it again, I don’t want to fucking talk about this with you. Let it go soldier.”
Without waiting for a response Zhukov got up and left the room, leaving Striker with his thoughts.As Striker sat staring into his coffee, ironically, an addictive drug itself, he allowed his mind to wander back to that day.
I was so excited to tell my family about the awesome opportunity I just received, my dreams are coming true! I’m going to be a pilot! I’ll be the best pilot in the galaxy, everyone will know my name. I just know my parents will be so proud. As young Striker enters the small family apartment on Starlight Haven, he is immediately hit with that all-to-familiar scent of residual Mist. As he carefully closed the apartment door, he looked around the home, excited to tell them his news, but dreading what he might find. It didn’t take long before he found his parents passed out on the couch, empty Mist canisters scattered around them. Their eyes dark pools, seeing things that were not there.
His blood boils, He is angry with his parents and what they have become but new this time he is angry with the system, the broken system that allowed this to happen. He could fix this.
Striker stalked into his room and pulled out the small tool chest where he kept the tools he collected from under his bed and pulled out one of the larger screw drivers and tucked it into his back pocket. As he let the apartment, he grabbed his dad’s jacket and pulled it on. Knowing it was large enough to hide the screwdriver. Feeling the inside pocket he found the wad of cash that he knew would be there and would be needed for this task.
With his tools in hand he stepped out into the hallway and gently closed the door and began his walk to the seedy alleyway where he knew he would find the supplier of the Mist. After a short 15 min walk Striker found him.
“Hey Striker!, Your folks need another fix?, heheh.”, The dealer’s husky voice only serving to fuel the rage that now had ahold of Striker.
“You know them, never can get enough”, Striker replied, having trouble keeping the rage from coming through in his voice.
“You have the money?”
“Yes, it’s right here…”
Striker reached down into his pocket and pulled out the wad of cash and looked up at the dealer who was simultaneously pulling a Mist container out of a hidden pocket. Striker using his free hand reached behind his back to grab something hard and cold, yet familiar. As the transaction was about to take place, the money handed over, Striker’s muscles go rigid, in an instant, the screwdriver goes speeding for the dealer’s neck. Once. Twice. Three times the screwdriver pierced the criminal’s neck buried to the handle. Blood exploded from the wound, spraying the wall beside him. The look of surprise etched on the dealers’ face burned into Striker’s mind. Blood still spurted from the wound as he watched the dealer slide to the floor. Striker standing above the dealer, watched as his life emptied from his neck. With the final death twitches Striker imagined the dealer attempting to run from the reaper. With the deed done Striker reached down and calmly picked up the money before turning and walking away.
After a minute his rage riddled mind cleared enough that he realized what he had done. Shit. I need help. I have to cover this up! Running through who might be able to help his friend and mentor, Zhukov, comes to mind. He thinks to himself this is going to go well or really, bad.
