The story on how Bett claimed his second gun.
Somewhere amidst the independent systems, is a rather secluded system (meaning that their are uninhabited systems surrounding it), an L-type dwarf star; smaller than a red dwarf and possesses a dimmer red, so dim that it made the asteroid belt in this system difficult to navigate. However, one chunky rock in particular houses a base known as the IBHC (Institute of Bounty Hunting Contracts), professionally…casually it’s Hunters Rock. The rock is lit with lights, enough for it to stand out.
Most if not all legendary bounty hunters and wannabe hunters had flocked to this rock. The institute was built by a group of aspiring businessmen, crude in their mannerisms, yet because of their tenacity and ways with persuasion, they had succeeded and laid down a foundation that most hunters follow to this day than they ever had before. A sense of order permeated the constant flux of chaos.
Inside this rock, sitting in one of its many “luxurious” bars, is Bett. Bett the bounty hunter, necking down shots, with an ear full of cheesy pop music. To the right of him is another band of hunters reveling in their shares.
“Hey Bett, I’ve noticed you’ve took that high-valued bounty. Having a few shots before heading out eh?”, a young, skinny man says and pulls out a seat to face Bett head on.
“What’s it to ya Valaron?”
The man keeps his ice cold eyes on Bett’s, unflinching, with a wryly smile. Bett has his on the surface of the table, on his silver gun, specifically. Valaron inspects it with him.
“I want it…see its quite a lot of money…and I really want it”, he answers.
“Should have been quicker then”, Bett raises his brow at the next shot he’s about to drink. A sudden bang on the table stops him from doing so. Looking over to Valaron’s side is his gun. Silver, same length, same widths, and the same design.
The DHC-3110, or, the Decimator Hand Cannon. Was a firearm developed by a single person at the end of the deuterium wars. A very long time ago. Only ten were made which makes these guns rare, and here are two men with one each. Bett bought his from a trader, “special stock”, the trader called it. The hunter paid it with the money he made from Casanova…and still had enough leftover. In Valaron’s case, it’s a mystery on how he obtained his (he’s been in the hunting trade far longer). What makes these guns stand out from today’s is their cooldown mechanism. No need to reload. Companies at present favour the plasma discharge cells.
“Oi, take it outside lads, you know the rules“, the bartender orders.
“Yeah, let’s take it outside, eh Bett?”
Bett turns to the hunters on his right and finds them staring. Then to Valaron, who now has sharp eyebrows, creases on his forehead and stabbing eyes. Bett stares back this time. Going deep into those icy eyes.
“Fine, contract’s yours if you off me”
The chairs screech back, they take their guns and helmets and leave.
They were told to take it outside…the bartender didn’t mean outside the bar.
Bett and Valaron stroll side-by-side, they keep a comfortable gap away from each other, but the men will be forced to get closer as their destination is an extremely, tight lift. They pass by shops, vendors, holographic advertisements and groups of old and young hunters as well as racers (yes even they’re here); who fixate their gaze onto the two.
A little, cranky old elevator screeches to a halt. Bett slides the scissor gate open and gestures to Valaron who just budges by without thanks. Bett wasn’t exactly expecting to get one anyway.
The lift shoots up a tubular shaft where hatches open and close as they progress. As the pair exit they find themselves to be in a decompression unit. The men put their helmets on, fasten their belts, examine their armour and their guns.
“Ready?”
Bett gives Valaron a simple nod.
Valaron engages the decompression process and the circular door rolls open. The hunters sluggishly walk out onto the surface of the asteroid that caters the base. No one else is out here, no other buildings, no markers. That lift was made for one thing only and these men are about to commence that thing. An old tradition.
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The dark red sun shines across the bleak, rocky surface they cling too, with intervals of darkness when another asteroid goes by.
“This is your last day hunter”, Valaron intimidates.
“You stay here, I’ll go further ahead”, Valaron commands and declares. He takes a million years to travel eight metres. When he does the man freezes and leisurely rotates to face his target.
Valaron nods and Bett returns it, signifying that the duel has begun. The men hover their hands over the holsters hanging from their belts. Their feet spread apart. They are out off the confines of the institute now. Which means they can do whatever against each other.
Through their visors, both men stare at one another, with drips of sweat trailing down their foreheads. Their armpits…like furnaces. Bett has an additional issue, however. He needs a piss. The man would had gone if this twat hadn’t showed up. It pushes him closer to the edge he’s already near (metaphorically). Upon further inspection it seems Valaron stands on lump, giving him higher ground. He’ll have to aim lower and Bett needs to aim higher. Another thing on their minds is the imminent collision of other asteroids, though that is at the back of their mental focus. They need not to worry. As this asteroid is protected by an energy shield.
Now it’s a matter of who draws first.
Valaron draws and Bett follows, both meticulously pulling out their guns to fire from the hip. Their fingers squeeze on the triggers…
Voooooooooom!!!
Valaron no longer stands on that lump. Bett stares ahead for a time till he turns to look left and watches a hoverbike soar till it disappears over the asteroids curvature. Bett shakes his head, awe-struck.
“Saved by a fucking roid racer?…”
He returns to the location of where Valaron stood and in the air an object glimmers…a silver object. Bett holsters his gun and “runs” over whilst doing little jumps (enough to propel him up high but not too much), his hand opens wide and grasps the object. Valaron’s gun. Now his own. Bett will need to buy a new holster.
Either he’s so drunk, passed out and is dreaming or some higher power had rolled a dice and it’s just his lucky day.
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On that note, he heads back to the bar and takes that piss he’s been dying for.
People eye him up on the way back and give him extra space from seeing two decimators dangling from his hips. Nobody utters a word. The bartender regards the hunter and nods, then carries on cleaning the glasses. Bett goes and does his business and after that; pulls a chair back at the same table he’d occupied. One eye catches a tiny glass still filled. One shot left. The one he couldn’t finish. His fingers pinch at it and jolts it back. He starts to think this isn’t a dream but if it is, he wants to make it last a little longer.
Back to the Nav-System