NationStates Jolt Archive

Tucked away in a desolate corner of the universe, a dusty planet orbits a hot, hot sun. Minagri is one hell of a planetscape, a barren, rocky planet with few native life forms. The climate is unforgiving; most of Minagri is a desert. The few water sources that exist yield a limited crop of grass and small, desert vegetation. The weather is sparse, yet wretched. Torrents of sand cast into the wind create virulent tempests. Temperatures so hot, it could peel the paint off your starship. Which brings up the question: who in their right mind would want to set foot on this unpleasant hellhole of a planet?

Well, anyone who had profit on his or her mind. Three and a half decades earlier, a maniacal group of explorers decided to take a gander at this cursed rock. In search of any sort of use for the orbiting hellhole that is Minagri, they stumbled across rich deposits of precious metals while taking core samples. Soon, they discovered petroleum deposits. Word spread quickly throughout the sector, and eventually reached the far corners of the universe: Minagri had a profit nestled deep below its surface. So settlers with get-rich-quick schemes made the enormously long odyssey to Minagri. But they soon found out that the endeavor of effectively reaping the harvest of valuable materials was a costly and logistically exhausting one. So most settlers decided to stay put. Using the materials they had and some from the planet, they dotted the landscape with half-hearted settlements, mostly near sources of water or riches.

Oddly enough, no nation wanted the planet enough to settle it. Who could blame them? The planet was an inhospitable hunk of rock. Besides, most nations weren’t desperate enough to be seeking profit in such an isolated area. They had plenty of claims in their corner of the universe. However, unlike nations, corporations think of nothing except profit. First to arrive was a mining firm known as Tappelli Industries. They set up shop in a few areas of the planet, and settlements sprung up around them. Seeing this, other corporations followed suit, including Aurarian Mining Firm, and the Taurus Tractor Corporation (they decided to expand their construction equipment business). These corporations set up larger settlements on the planet, making them the centers for trade across the planet. But swift competition lead to limited space travel to and from the planet. The few space ports that were constructed on the planet were soon restricted to transportation authorized by the corporations. Therefore, the big businesses effectively took over the planet.

Due to Minagri’s relative isolation, resources on the planet were limited. Settlements were being constructed at a slow pace. Some settlers, specifically the more prepared, brought transportation, shelter, even terraforming equipment to create their own livable space. The habitations that were able to withstand the fury of Minagri, and avoid the ever-outstreching claws of the corporations, prospered. They weren’t without their problems, however. A lack of a military or organized police force outside of the corporations’ settlements makes the planet a haven for outlaws, exiles, and criminals.

Thirty-five years in the making, the civilization that exists on Minagri is hardly something you could call civilization. But there’s still a tale to tell on this dusty planet…


A minute speck on the horizon was slowly growing into a recognizable shape. A cloud of dust billowed behind it. As the object approached the settlement of Sanatigo, a high-pitched screech became audible behind the ambient noises of the town. It sounded like a jet taxiing across a runway. The speck had turned into an outline of a man on a speeder bike. As the bike approached the town, it decreased its speed, and the whine of the engine began to dull.

The rider was Devante Juarez. He was a 26 year old well-built man, standing at a humdrum height of 5’11”. He adorned a dark gray trench coat with matching pants and a dark blue shirt. Underneath the shirt was a well-worn flak jacket. Atop his head, a tattered cowboy hat kept his shoulder-length black hair under control. A bandana around his mouth kept the sand-strewn wind out of his face.

Devante wiped his brow of sweat and squinted as he hastily skimmed into town. He passed a ragged sign that said “SANATIGO”. The town was mostly cubic buildings made of mortar or steel. Some buildings showed signs of wear and tear. Few were blessed with an air conditioning unit. There was only one road in the town, if you could call it a road. It was more like a dusty trail that ran straight through it, passed through a grid of shanty houses, and ended at a mine. The buildings’ fronts faced these roads. There were a few hotels, a handful of saloons, and a pair of general stores. The largest building in town was the sheriff’s office, although it wasn’t much to look at. It was just a rectangular building with a few barred windows on the second floor, and a steel door on the front surrounded by a pair of Plexiglas windows.

Devante slowed his speeder to a few miles per hour. At this time his engine gave off a dull hum. He slowly came to a stop next to several speeders in front of a saloon, and a trio of steel feet caught the 3-inch decent of the bike and stabilized it on the ground.

After flicking some switches on the bike, Devante dismounted onto the dusty ground. He stepped onto the steel sidewalk that ran along the saloon and his boots made a solid clank on the surface. He untied the knot on his bandana and exposed his unshaven face. His head swiveled as he looked up and down the sidewalk, and into the windows of the saloon. It was experiencing some clientele; it must’ve been between shifts at the mine. Devante stepped into the saloon, through a pair of steel-lined wooden doors that swung back and forth in his wake.

A few of the customers gave him a look, and went back to their business. A beat-up jukebox in the corner was sputtering out a slow, Spanish tune. There were seven or so round tables surrounded by chairs in the dining area. Most of them were occupied by scruffy patrons. Devante walked over to the bar and sat on a rickety stool.

He caught eyes with the bartender and pointed to the sky. “One beer, please.” The bartender nodded and gave him a sheepish grin. He poured Devante a glass of ale and handed it to him. Devante remained hunched over the bar as he drew a few sips out of the glass.

The fighting was close now. Behind the rock, Stefan could hear the bullets whistle by his ears, they were lousy shots from far, but they're getting closer by the minute. The pistols echoed with the continuous firefight, and the bullets made the rocks ring like a bell. Accumulated discharged dust swept from the guns of his enemies. He wished he'd been able to take a scooter, but he'd never gotten the hang of operating one.

He was drenched with sweat, and his breath came in gasps. He wasn't a hero, he was an outlaw. It was just that, when he'd heard the corporation was paying a lot more than what you would get from looting the mine to protect it from the raiders, there hadn't been any other candidates. They were all dead. Right then, he'd have given anything to turn back, to forget that overheard comment, but his greed moved him into danger.

There was no way he could outrun them anymore, and the straight landscape would put him in gun range for at least another half kilometer. The gang of bandits was very close now, and moving his way, faster. The ugly muzzles of the weapons sneaking into view.

He stood, swinging his rifle up to shoulder level to aim.

Another day out with the boys, just me, mayhem and chaos.

In a darkened corner of the bar, a man sat watching Devante Juarez. "Out of towner..." He mumbled softly, before downing the whiskey he had in his glass.

"This 'in might be what I'm lookin' for." He mumbled, and got to his feet.

"Afternoon, stranger. Ain't seen you around these parts before. The name's McClusky." He held out a steady hand with a dozen tiny scars and cuts over it. "I've got a business offer you might just be interested in."

The door swung open and in walked a prideful man. In his mid twenties, his name was Sage Linner. He had orange hair, and stubbles all over his chin. He was very handsome, and very agile and rather muscular, not to mention he was very good with the ladies. He had a big white/tan cowboy hat on, along with a big tan leather coat that went from his neck to his ankles. Underneath it on the belt were two Z-90 style blaster pistols.
The two pistols had ivory handles to hold onto, smooth as polished granite, the barrels were pure silver, shining like something sent down from god. A power pack could be slid into the back of the guns.
He strode in, his brown knee high boots clinking as he walked, because of the metal spikes on the back. As he strode, his arms swung beside him caually, but his hands were ready in case anything happened.
On his hands were fingerless gloves, tan fingerless gloves.
He walked past a group of female patrons and he nodded his head and tipped his hat while smiling a big pure white toothy smile.
He reached the bar counter, and pulled out his pocket book. He sorted through the wads of credits he had in it.
"Hmm, hmm, hmm," He hummed out loud, then in a tone that was as prideful as his shape and walk was he said. "Bartender I will take a hongurias whiskey."

In a darkened corner of the bar, a man sat watching Devante Juarez. "Out of towner..." He mumbled softly, before downing the whiskey he had in his glass.

"This 'in might be what I'm lookin' for." He mumbled, and got to his feet.

"Afternoon, stranger. Ain't seen you around these parts before. The name's McClusky." He held out a steady hand with a dozen tiny scars and cuts over it. "I've got a business offer you might just be interested in."

(OOC: Sorry about the late response, I have a WWII term paper due this week and I've been busy with it.) OC:

Devante turned his head and looked at the man. He stared at his outstreched hand with a look of slight disgust.

"Sorry," Devante said, "I don't really have a good record with strangers." He refused McClusky's handshake and turned back to his beer. He then asked, "What kind of business are you speaking of?"

He looked up. Sanatigo. A number of things ran through his mind.

Safety.

Water.

Sleep.

His transport had broken down several days walk from the city, and he had been forced to walk the whole distance. The only other options were to wait for help that would most likely rob him, or die. He took the vest he had bundled around his head off and put it on over his black undershirt.

Stupid idea, wearing black travelling out here.

He found a bar and stumbled inside. He looked at the bartender. "Need.........water."

The bartender looked at him oddly, and slid a glass of water his way. He drank deeply, finishing the glass off in mere seconds. "Damn it's good to be here!"

He turned around and began to walk away. "Hey buddy." He whirled around, pulling the assault rifle he carried up. It was the bartender. "Hey, don't shoot. What's your name."

He put the rifle down. "Mason Grift." The bartender held out his hand. "Well Mason, you gotta pay for that water."

Mason handed him the money and went to sit down. He slumped heavily into the chair, glad to be off his feet. When standing, he was 6'1". He looked fairly small when he sat down, and had gotten in a number of fights with guys trying to pick on 'the little guy'. He ran his hand through his black hair, combing out grains of sand.

He looked around at the people in the bar.


A man talking to another, his hand outstretched. The other man refused the offer for a handshake.

A guy that looked like he was more at place in a magazine than in a hellhole like this.

Several other patrons, none particularly interesting.

Graham retracted his hand, a slight scowl on his face. He turned and looked at the newcomer, Mason, and whistled to him. "Mason, that's your name ain't it? Come over here."

"Okay lads, I've got me a job set up. It's pretty big, but the cash will be huge if we pull this one off. Now, I'm not saying anything much in a bar, so meet me at this basement," He made a circle on a map he produced from his pocket, "and I'll go into further details. In the meantime... cheers." He gulped down his whiskey and sat back down in his corner.

Mason was surprised how quick he had gotten a job. Especially when he wasn't looking for one. "Sure."

Big cash Sage thought. Could be promising, he would be sure to be there

The bartender gave him his shot of whiskey.
"Thanks," He said gulping it down. He paid the bartender, then stood up. He stretched out. Then he sat back down. He looked around. Not very many ladies are here he thought.

James Howlett tipped his hat forward and pulled down his bandana that had been covering most of his face as he wondered into town. his eyes shifted across the dust trail that represented a road and looked at the buildings, looking for somewhere to kick back and get some beer.

A saloon took his eye and he wandered over to it. He took a keen interest in the bikes outside, it seemed to be his kind of place. Before entering, he checked his guns, still at his side incase they were needed. If the worst came to the worst he was also a good fighter. Pushing open the doors he stepped inside.

"More like home," he muttered to himself as he crossed the saloon toward the bar. "Gimmie a beer."

"I don't beleive it!" Sage said standing up. "James!? How ya been man!"
Sage ran over to him and shook his hand. "Long time no see, remember me? The old damn dam incident remember?"

James quickly took his hand back and eyed up the stranger. "Who are ya bub?" he growled, clearly annoyed. "I don't know no dam incident."

He lowered his hand down towards one of his guns. James didn't like strangers, especially when they knew his name.

McClusky gently pulled back the hammer on his laz-revolver, which rested in its holster. His gut instincts were flaring up, and he was never one to ignore them. Better being safe than sorry, after all.

Maybe life is like a ride on a freeway
Dodging bullets while you're trying to find your way
Everyone's around, but no one does a DAMN THING
It brings me down, but I won't let them

The ancient lyrics were accompanied by an attractive tenor voice singing purposefully off-key. They were interspersed with loud chomps and quieter slurps, as the singer ate his sandwich and drank his soda.

His name was Jeremy Cartier, Jeremy Theodore Cartier, people called him Steeleye, and he was a Gunslinger.

As far as this planet was concerned, he was -the- Gunslinger. The buck stopped with him, y'know?

His vehicle, that is, the thing he was driving, was pretty unique too. An Armel Heavy Industries 'Rangeman' Armored Battle Vehicle, a light tank in all but name.

It mounted five inches of armor, and a 10cm main gun. Auxilaries were in the form of twin tri-barrels fixed forward. The AA and assisted blastin' was taken care of by a pod of twin 20mm autocannon on either side of the main turret. The Rangeman was capable of being controlled by one person, but in order for turret rotation to be enabled, a separate 'gunner' was required to complement the driver/commander.

Yeup. Pretty dern bad ass, y'know?

Tag for later, gotta write up a post...

Graham retracted his hand, a slight scowl on his face. He turned and looked at the newcomer, Mason, and whistled to him. "Mason, that's your name ain't it? Come over here."

"Okay lads, I've got me a job set up. It's pretty big, but the cash will be huge if we pull this one off. Now, I'm not saying anything much in a bar, so meet me at this basement," He made a circle on a map he produced from his pocket, "and I'll go into further details. In the meantime... cheers." He gulped down his whiskey and sat back down in his corner.

The map was a wrinkled piece of paper with a few tears in it. A crudely drawn blueprint of Sanatigo was etched into it. The building McClusky was speaking of had a big, red circle around it. Devante briefly studied the map, and turned the offer over in his head. He then looked up at McClusky, and said, "I'll keep this in mind."

McClusky walked back to his corner and sat down. Just then, a conversation was going awry behind Devante. He turned and saw a man reaching for a gun. Devante quickly scanned the bar and then reached into his overcoat, feeling the handle of his .50 caliber revolver in its holster. Usually he doesn't bring out the .50 cal, but this situation could need a lot of power, fast.

Graham stood up and drew his revolver slowly with one hand, his other high in the air to show he wasn't a threat. "Lads, calm yourselves down. Buddy, I think you've made a mistake. This guy don't know you, so back on down. Let's keep this bar tidy, yeah?"

Mason sat down and rested a hand on his assault rifle, which he had dubbed "Ares" a long time ago. He watched the heated conversation, ready for shooting to break out.

"Oh I know him alright," Sage said, smiling at James. "This is James Howlett, me and him knew each other way back when. There use to be a dam, was gonna flood a town, we blew that sucker sky high, became heros for a little bit, then split up."
He put his hands on his hips, making it look casual his hands were ready for his guns through.
"Obviously he doesn't remember, though I don't see how he can't remember," Sage looked him in the eye, his face was grim now. "Obviously hes been up to something or other."
He glared at James, then a giant smile came over his face. "Just like him."
He turned and walked away, back to his stool.

The tension began to ease in the bar. Devante's hand remained on his revolver as the members of the argument restrained themselves and went back to their business. He wondered why a man had just walked into the bar and drew an assault rifle on the bartender. What further boggled his mind is why he didn't rob the place if he was going to do so. Perhaps there was something else in that water.

Devante shrugged off the thought, and went back to his drink. He was now using the map he received from Graham as a coaster. Water condensed on his glass and formed a moist ring where the glass had sat. Devante peered at the map through the bottom of the glass as he took another sip. He decided that perhaps he should go along with this McClusky fellow. Usually he could smell trouble from a mile away. Maybe he felt assured that McClusky wasn't part of the gang he had a run-in with many years ago. Maybe he thought that McClusky couldn't put up much of a fight if things turned sour at this meeting place. Or maybe Devante was turning over a new leaf and was beginning to trust people again. After all, it had been nearly 10 years now...

James growled, still annoyed as he went and downed his beer. He was sure, no knew, that he had never met this man before. After all he had not been here long, maybe a couple of weeks or more. That was after he had been forced to flee his home.

When the man left to go back to minding his own business, James was glad. Looking down at the beer in front of him, it was almost empty. "Another beer my good man," he told the barman. "That's what I hate 'bout strangers, they always try to make out they know ya."

Sage couldn't help but laugh What insane treatment did he go through? he asked. Can't even remember his own cousin when he sees him
He stood up, he was still gonna meet them in the basement o wherever but he wanted to check on his speeder bike first. He walked outside, over the wooden porch, and to his bike, it was a new ROLTEX type bike, a very sleek figure, tan, with a red zizag going along the middle of the sides. Three engine, able to go up to 300 mph, and it had a blaster cannon on it, under the front stabalizer.
He hopped on it, and patted the side, a little compartment came out, with his double barrel TT-D type blaster rifle in it, on that baby with the power all the way up he could blast down doors and everything.
He pulled out a cigar, and rested on his bike, taking in deep breaths.

"Right lads," Said Graham, standing up and finishing his drink, "I'll be seeing you around." He wandered out the bar, carefully pulling back the hammer on his pistol as he left the bar.

"Right lads," Said Graham, standing up and finishing his drink, "I'll be seeing you around." He wandered out the bar, carefully pulling back the hammer on his pistol as he left the bar.

Some time had passed since Devante had entered the bar. He turned to look out the window. Looked like it was about 3 o'clock. He swiveled in his stool to face the bar, quickly took the last gulp of his ale, and removed a pair of coins from his pocket. He dropped them onto the bar and thanked the bartender, then stood up and walked out of the bar.

Outside was a row of speeder bikes with a man smoking a cigar on one of them. He looked at him, and then down the sidewalk. Graham McClusky was strolling down the sidewalk to somewhere. Across the street, there was a decent looking hotel. Devante figured he would be staying in Sanatigo for at least the night, so he needed a place to stay. He crossed the road and entered the hotel.

The doors made a loud thump, and a man in front of the clerk's desk swiveled with an angry look on his face, and a pistol in his hand. Devante walked right into a holdup. Behind the desk was a frightened woman shoveling money into a sack. She stared at Devante with a panicked look on her face.

"Get outta here, boy!" the man shouted, and pointed the pistol at Devante. He had a black bandana around his mouth, hiding half his face. The woman ducked behind the counter.

Devante calmly put his hands up, and replied sarcastically, "It's alright partner, I'm leaving." He looked at the assailant's pistol. It wasn't cocked yet. Plenty of time.

"Go on!" the robber shouted, "Git!" He motioned Devante to leave with the pistol.

Just as he did, Devante made his move. It almost seemed like one swift move. He reached into his overcoat, grabbed his .50 cal, pulled the hammer back while pulling it out of the holster to meet the bandit's center mass. Devante fired.

BAM! The shot echoed off the buildings outside. The bandit was rocked by the shot and stumbled backwards. He hit the clerk's desk and his back arched over it. His knees bent and he slid off the counter and tumbled onto the floor. Blood had spattered on the wall behind him, and he was leaking badly. The clerk slowly peeked her head up from behind the desk to see Devante standing there, backlit by the light coming from the doorway. He was a silhouette of a desperado gripping one formidable revolver. A hint of smoke was rising from the barrel. He lowered the gun.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" Devante asked. His voice was gritty.

She stumbled for the right words, "Y-yes..." she said. "Thank you!" She had a noticeable Spanish accent.

It had been a while since Devante had seen a woman. Not too many were on this planet aside from the settlers' wives. And of the few that he had seen on Minagri, none had looked as good as this one. She was a young Hispanic woman with long, wavy black hair and deep brown eyes. Devante must had been enveloped in her stare for a while, because he didn't seem to notice the pistol pointed at his head behind him.

"Disarm yourself, boy!" a deep voice said behind him. He heard the hammer pull back.

The woman behind the desk spoke up, "It's okay, sheriff," she said, and pointed to the masked bandit motionless on the ground, "He was just taking care of a shady customer." She looked at Devante and gave him a grin.

The sheriff lowered the gun, and Devante turned to face him. The sheriff was an older man with plenty of facial hair. Moustache, muttonchops... someone should tell him that it was no longer the 1800's. Although history seemed like it was strangely repeating itself.

The sheriff sighed, and said to Devante, "That's some fine work," he reached out his hand, awaiting a handshake from Devante. He hesitated, and then decided that the local law wasn't anything to fear. He shook his hand. "What's your name, boy?" the sheriff asked.

"Devante," he replied.

"Devante..." the sheriff said, "Nice to meet someone working for the law. We'll get someone in here to clean this up." The sheriff turned and exited the hotel. Devante swiveled and looked back at the woman behind the counter; she was in a daze. She wore a curious smile on her face. When she saw that Devante was looking at her, she snapped out of it and blushed. A soft giggle came from behind her teeth.

"You know," she said, "That man has hit this place twice before." She looked at the dead bandit lying on the floor.

"Third time's a charm," Devante quipped.

The woman let out a chuckle, and asked, "Are you looking for a place to say?" her left eyebrow arched.

"Actually," Devante responded, "I am. Just for the night." His footsteps made loud clunks on the wooden floor as he walked up to the desk.

The woman reached under the desk and pulled out a key. She held it out for Devante to take it. "Here you are," she said as she dropped the key into Devante's hand, "Room number four. No charge."

Devante paused, and said, "No, ma'am. I can pay for it." he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a fistful of dollars. He went to hand them to her, but the woman refused.

"No," she said, "It's alright." She reached out and closed Devante's hand for him. "Visitors who save my life stay free." She smiled.

Devante smiled too. He smiled for a long time. First time he had done that in a while. He looked at his hand and noticed that the woman was still holding on to his hand. She recoiled, and blushed once more.

"If you need anything, my name is Madeira," she said, "I'll be here all night."

"Thank you," Devante said. He turned and walked to his room. When he reached it, he unlocked the door, and turned his head to look at Madeira once more. She was still looking at him, smiling while leaning over the desk. Devante couldn't help but notice her well-formed figure. He nodded with a smirk and entered his room.

The room was a simple one. A single bed with a desk & mirror, and chair. A sink was in the corner with a faucet. Running water: there must've been a well in this town. He looked closer at the sink and noticed a price listing next to it. Two dollars a gallon. The faucet was coin-operated. Water was rare in these parts. There was a high, barred window near the ceiling sending in a thin stream of sunlight. There was a ragged lighting fixture on the ceiling, and the wall was cracked. But it was a room. He took off his overcoat and threw it on the bed. It made a few rattles from the various objects in the pocket.

Devante stood in front of the mirror and inspected himself. Two gun holsters slung over his shoulders, and one on his hip. The left side was his .50 cal, the right side was a small sawn-off shotgun. On his belt was his trusty .45, also a revolver. Perhaps he carried too many firearms, but after what happened 10 years ago, he figured he would need them.

He reached into his pants pockets to empty their contents onto the desk. He pulled out a few bullets, some coins, and a small piece of paper. He opened the paper as if he had never seen it before. It took him a few moments, but then he remembered McClusky. Something more recent was on his mind, and he had forgotten about his meeting that night. Devante decided to take a brief nap, and then go see what kind of business the man in the bar was talking about.

Devante heard a calm conversation happening in the hallway. He could make out Madeira speaking to two men about the robbery. It must've been the people the sheriff sent to clean up the mess.

(OOC: A cookie to whoever caught the Clint Eastwood film reference in this post)

Graham walked into a his home, the cellar of which was going to be used a great deal that night. Graham flopped onto his matress and started sleeping. He needed to be wide awake tonight.

Once James had downed his last beer, he paid the barman and stood up. Making sure his guns were still at his side, he put his hat back on and left the saloon.

--Night time--

McClusky wandered into his basement and flicked on a few lamps. The power cores inside them were failing, causing a flickering effect in the room. He unrolled some maps on the table, and checked their was plenty of whiskey ready. Just in case, he kept his pistol with him. People could be stupid.

He was all set.

The rain was heavy. A storm had been brewing all afternoon, and when nightfall came, it had unleashed its fury. The heavy drops fell upon Devante's head, water trickling into his eyes. His vision was blurred. He could make out his parents, bound with their hands behind their backs. Two figures were leading them past the wooden fence that surrounded their homestead. Devante tried to rub his eyes to see what was going on, but he noticed that his hands were bound behind his back as well. It was at that time he could see the outline of a tall, dark man who was clutching Devante's arm, dragging him along. The occasional flash of lightning would illuminate his face. He could see a deep scar running vertically down his right brow, connecting to his cheek. His deep-set eyes were hidden from the light. He was gruesome.

"Mom! Dad!" Devante shouted. He was only seventeen, his voice cracked. His parents did not turn around.

Devante and his captor had reached a shed on the property. The captor whirled him around and grabbed Devante by the shoulders. He hoisted him up to meet him face to face, but the night sky still concealed most of his face. The shed doors banged behind Devante in the wind.

"Your mother and father owe us a lot of money!" the evil man shouted, and threw Devante backwards into the shed. The doors abruptly closed with a loud BAM!

--

Devante quickly sprang out of bed. He was in a cold sweat and breathing heavily. He shook his head to pull himself out of the nightmare. It was cold. In the darkness, moonlight from the window cast an eerie glow into his hotel room. He could see his darkened reflection in the mirror. His hands grasped the edge of the bed, and his shoulders rose and fell as he drew deep breaths.

Devante wiped his brow and let out a sigh. He got out of bed and pulled a shirt over his head while he stood up. The meeting that was arranged earlier in the bar had to be happening soon, it was well past sundown. He picked up his flak jacket that was hanging on his bedpost and strapped it on. Then he adorned his weapons, his trench coat, and hastily placed his hat on his head.

In the lobby, Madeira was cleaning up. She was surprised to see Devante leaving his room at this time.

"It's past ten," she said, as Devante entered the lobby, "Where are you going at this hour?"

"I have some business to attend to," Devante replied.

She nodded, displaying a concerned look, and asked, "What kind of business?"

"None of yours," Devante snapped, and left the hotel. Madeira watched him walk out of sight through the window. She shook her head and went back to cleaning.

---

There wasn't much to be seen at night, so Devante had to go by memory. The rough sketch McClusky had given him pointed him to a house within walking distance between the town and the mine. However, in the dead of night, walking wasn't the preferred method of travel. Devante broke into a brisk jog and headed toward McClusky's place. A few lights from the homes helped him along the way.

Finally, Devante approached McClusky's house. He readied his .45 in case of trouble. He deftly made his way to the rear of the house and approached the basement doors. He took one last look around to make sure the coast was clear, and knocked on the cellar doors.

McClusky was pouring himself a drink when the knocks came. He placed down the bottle and drew his revolver. A lot of people wanted him dead, and he wasn't planning on letting them.

He reached the cellar doors and took a deep breath. One, two...

He yanked open the doors with tremendous speed, and had his pistol ready to fire. He quickly realised it was one of the people he had invited to join him that was there, so he holstered the pistol, stood back and said, "Come on in. There's drinks a-plenty, but the others haven't turned up yet."

James stood across the dirt road from the saloon and lit a cigar. He was bored and thought there had to be something to do around this town. Since he was going to be there a while, he hoped to find something to pass the time.

Mason eventually came to the place he had been shown on the map. He saw someone enter from a distance, so figured he would just go up and knock. He came to the cellar doors. He knocked firmly, and stood back.

(OOC: Whoops, this was supposed to be after Dreguk's most recent post)

Devante cautiously stepped into McClusky's basement. The rickety, wooden stairs creaked underneath their combined weight. A stale smell of rotting wood filled the air and the dull lamps cast an ambient glow on the stone walls. McClusky pulled up a chair to a shoddy table; it made an obnoxious creak as it was dragged across the floor.

McClusky offered Devante a drink, but he refused, and sat down in another chair.

Graham repeated the same act he went through with Devante when Mason knocked at the door. Once again, he was being overly-cautious, but he didn't mind.

"Right lads, pull up a chair to this table here and we'll get straight to business."

Graham sat down and took a swig of his drink.

Devante crossed his arms and leaned back. He eyed up Mason and Graham, pondering what he would be dealing with in the near future. Depending on what Graham had in store, this could turn into profit, or possibly a way to track down the gang that had murdered his parents. Nothing would make him more happy if he could.

He leaned forward an asked, "What do you need us for?"

"I've got me a serious piece of worked lined up." Started Graham. "We're talking big. We pull this yin off, we can spend the rest of our lives like kings. Kings of kings.

"A superfreighter touches down on this rock in 2 days. Officially, it's carrying papers for a new irrigation project. It's so boring, no self-respecting thief would attack it.

"In reality, the beast is carrying a hefty amount of cash, bound for one of the outer colonies. That cash is going to be used to build a super-structure of some sort.

"The only reason this beaut is landing on this rock is because it needs a li'l top-up to keep it going. That's how we get in.

"There are 3 mechanics that re-fuel the ship. They'll need a drink at some point, my guess is right after they land. We intercept 'em, knock 'em out and take their uniforms. We'll then arse up the re-fueling, keeping the ship grounded. We'll say there's an engine problem, board the ship and take it over from the inside out. Grab the cash and start our new lives."

"Any questions?"

(Damn....I'm not gonna be around a computer til the 20th.)

(OOC: If Sigma isn't going to be here until the 20th, then make that 2 mechanics)

Devante took a moment to process the plan. He could use the cash, but was it worth going through all this trouble? What if Graham was one of them? He could be trying to kill Devante in some sort of ambush. If so, perhaps this could lead to sweet revenge for Devante. If not, it will be a big payoff.

"Yeah, I have a question," Devante said, "How are we going to pose as mechanics? Wouldn't they be able to tell the difference between us and them?"

OOC: Agreed.

IC:

Graham grinned at Devante and said, "I'd been worried about that problem fer a while. That was before I saw this."

He shuffled through the various pieces of paper on the table, before producing a colour photograph of a man boarding a massive hulk of a spacecraft.

"They wear full face helmets. They're a paranoid bunch, drinkin' up all the rumours about mutations that can be caused by inhaling unfamiliar gases too quickly. They won't know the difference."

(OOC: Very sorry. I just started summer vacation and I've been doing millions of other things that have distracted me fro NS entirely.)
IC:

"This looks promising," Devante said, and grinned. "I'm up for it." He held out his hand for a handshake. He decided to put his trust into Graham.

"Good lad!" Said Graham cheerfully, gripping his hand and shaking it a few times for good measure.

"Get yourself geared up. The ship lands tomorrow at noon."

(OOC: Writer's block... and laziness. It's a deadly combination.)

After staying for a few more minutes and enjoying a couple of drinks, Devante decided it was about time to check in for the night. He bid farewell to Graham and exited the basement. The doors slammed shut behind him, and he heard the latch engage. About half an hour had passed, and it was nearly pitch black. Only half of one of the two moons was lit, and the lack of civilization left the desert cold and black. It wasn't too safe to be wandering about in the dark, so Devante swiftly made his way back to the hotel.

When he got there, the door was locked. He rapped on the door and waited. A light turned on in the back room and Madeira's head poked out from the doorway. She spotted Devante through the window and motioned him to wait. Devante nodded, and she shut her door.

Devante looked at his boots and kicked a small rock against the door. Perhaps he should get some new boots, they looked pretty ragged. And they were getting pretty small. If him and Graham can pull off the heist, he'll have plenty of money for that. Maybe a new speeder bike, too. What about some new weapons? He pulled out his ragged .50 cal and eyed it up. It was showing a bit of corrosion, but it still worked like a charm. What was the need to get rid of it? After all, he felt an attachment to this weapon. It was his father's gun, he used it to keep his family safe. Now there wasn't a family left to protect.

The front door opened abruptly, startling Devante. Madeira was a bit surprised when she saw that he had his pistol drawn and pointed right at her.

"Oh," Devante said, "Sorry, I was just checking my gun." He reholstered it.

"Phew," Madeira sighed, "For a minute there I thought I'd have a second robbery in a day."

"Life's a bore, isn't it?" Devante said. Madeira smiled and let him in. She closed the door and locked it behind him.

"So, you mind telling me why you're out on the town at this hour?" she asked, "And why I'm being disturbed to drag your ass in?"

"I just had to speak with an old friend," he replied, "And I woke you up because the damn doggy door is too small."

Madeira sighed, and rolled her eyes. She nonchalantly strolled to her room, while saying "Just get back to bed you mutt."

Graham stayed up for a few more hours, guzzling whiskey and reviewing his plans. It was a risky job, but by God it would be worth it. If it worked.

Eventually, Graham dragged himself onto his mattress and passed out from a mixture of exhaustion and booze.

The next morning, Graham's eyes flicked open at half past 7 the next morning. His awakening was accompanied by the usual scream of pain from the terrible hangover he had.