The Deep Six

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The Deep Six

Post  Octie♥ on Tue Feb 21, 2017 12:39 am

Tigisis III - 11:22 LPT (Local Planetary Time), Some Time Ago...

An arid planet where no human likes to live. Yet, they found a way to regardless. A waterless planet that cannot support conventional life, the only of which it can support are those who are considered low-lifes. Tigisis and its sister planets were all equally inhospitable, and thus, equally as attractive as hideaways. Insurgents, serial killers, savages, smugglers. They all considered these places as one of their many homes.

As dust storms kicked up across the surface of Primate Rock, a convoy of armored transports sought to go against the harsh winds. For their hefty metal hulls, the gales that would send conventional civilian transports flying was of no consequence to them as they made their way to the central regions of the vast, flat bed of rock.

"... Yes, brother. I am currently enroute with the convoy. No one will mess with guns this big."

He was a wanted man. A bounty of 1,000,000 UD. Ambani Aziz, the notorious leader of a small-time smuggling circle known in the underground as the Red Letters. Originally, he served as the co-leader of the much more infamous Chaos Brigade, before he broke off to start his own business. For years, he has been involved in the illegal transport and dealing of contraband goods, including narcotics, unwarranted firearms, stolen military hardware... stuff that most sane people wouldn't lay a finger on. Hence, his high bounty was justified despite his meager business. That was all about to change, however.

They had just pulled off the heist of the century... nay, the millenium. Some ignorant warden at a local HRG outpost decided he could cut some slack in such an empty sector of the galactic region. As if some stars aligned somewhere to signify the occasion, the Red Letters floated on through and casually nabbed the goods right out of their mitts. At first, it was thought to just be something simple, nothing fancy. Just the type of thing you'd sell onto some thirsty rebellion kids at about five times its marketable price.

This was bigger than that.

Dubbed the "Package" by all involved, they didn't talk about it. That was a sure way to get killed. What you were allowed to know is that it was some super classified military tech... something that could change the way wars are fought if it were ever manufactured. Of course, if it were to circulate in the underground first with Aziz as the head of the operation... the amount of potential profit goes beyond fathomable expectations. People lusted for weapons in this galaxy, and Aziz had in his possession probably one of the most deadly and influential ones, should it hit the factory line.

This came with its risks, certainly. Henceforth, Aziz found himself coming to this forsaken planet. The Red Letter's secondary base was stationed here in the middle of nowhere, a safe place to hide while he conducts some backroom dealings... after all, the main base was a riskier place to stay. He had a target painted on his back the moment he laid his hands on the Package. He knew fully well that the government would be after him. The Human Resources Conglomerate...

Red Letter Armaments Factory - 11:42 LPT

As the thick-tyred transports continued to mow over dusty rock, the factory at the secondary base was busy at work. On the surface, they manufactured budget firearms to distribute to lower colonies that probably didn't even know how to fire one. It was a completely unnecessary line of work that costed the minimal amount of budget to their operations, for the whole purpose of throwing it to the wolves if shit did hit the fan. The lizard dropping its tail, so to speak. The factory workers were nothing but no names without anything better to do than this below minimum wage job, convinced to depart from their slumworlds and to make a living by building from the ground up in the criminal underworld. They were scum who never even considered alternatives, who felt secure in feigning innocence by using the criminal superiors as scapegoats. They worked endlessly under the brute supervision of the Red Letter officials... in their minds, it was better than nothing.

Therefore, it didn't turn any heads but those of the Red Letter supervisors when the double doors to the factory were flung open. However, all work stopped when the head supervisor raised his arm for the guards to prime the guns. The workers all stopped and looked. Perhaps a fellow worker was dumb enough to revolt against the unfairness. Therefore, it should've been an entertaining event for their dreary lives... Boy, they were wrong.

Two figures stood there as they dumped the bodies of the outer guards onto the metal grate walkway they had entered in on. The supervisors and guards armed themselves, pointing shoddy assault rifles and handguns at the would-be invaders. One was decked in a grey and blue armored suit, while the other was in a similar suit of beige and red. The suits were unmistakable; they were definitely some kind of military dogs. However, they were outgunned and outnumbered. They had stumbled into a proverbial hornet's nest, and had disturbed the drones... one of the supervisors chortled a little at how unlucky the dogs were.

"... Ahem."

The one in beige and red stepped forward, waving his hands about as if he were some form of negotiator. To some, they thought he was about to plead for their lives, or even kindly ask to return what they had stolen. If only.

"Attention, assholes. You have something that is ours. Now, this is how things are going to go down."

He had no weapon, and their armor suits completely concealed their identity with visored helmets. The beige soldier shook his head and clapped his hands together. He seemed too happy to be there, and that unnerved just a few people. The grey soldier stood still, a pair of guns on his back as he chose to remain silent. The beige soldier continued after a lengthy pause.

"As stated in section 17C of the Human Resources Conglomerate Collateral Damage Agreement... Any and all military-owned or military-authorized or military-funded operations and personnel are not subjectively liable to the responsibility of damage to any types of civilian goods, components, facilities... or personnel."

A couple workers gulped in anticipation, as a few of the guards cocked their weapons and aimed. The beige man did not panic, however... instead, he sighed and looked at his partner, before looking back to them all.

"... Ah, that's not right. To add, 'during military operation hours'."

"What are you waiting for?! Shoot these idiots already!"

The leading supervisor yelled out, pulling out his scattergun as if to do the deed himself. However, he paused as the beige soldier raised his hand.

"If I may stop you... allow us to commence these festivities when military operation hours begin. Which should be in about..."

He looked at his imaginary watch, counting down the imaginary seconds as the Red Letters grew weary of these games... they once again aimed and twitched their fingers against the triggers of their firearms.

"... 3, 2... 1...."


"Oh, wait. I lied, they started 10 seconds ago."

A symphony of controlled bursts later, several bodies dropped from the walkways and into the worker populace before, instigating a clamor of gasps and unrest. The grey soldier stood there, dual-wielding assault rifles with smoking barrels.

"Nice and prompt as always, Dallas."

"You run your mouth too much."

The deep, disgruntled voice of the one called Dallas was not amused by this playing around, as he rested both those guns on his shoulders. Suddenly, there was movement on the walkway of hanging corpses as a surviving guard swiftly stood up and pointed his gun at them wildly.

"You bastards!"


The guard flew back with a fresh ballistic wound to the head, before flopping over the rail and falling onto an inactive machine. The beige soldier mockingly blew smoke off of the barrel of his pistol, before twirling it around his finger... and dropping it.

"... well, almost ten out of ten. I guess ol' Vegas has to do clean up here and there, eh?"

"You try decisively shooting down ten targets at once."

"You're the one with the systems for it. What was it called again... an aimbot?"

"Target lock, it's not hard to remember. Let's just go already, the others are waiting on us."

Dallas passed his spare rifle to Vegas, who reluctantly accepted it. After a swift reload, the two of them looked over the unruly workers who were panicking and trying to trip the alarm switches... to no avail, as some of them looked up at what might as well have been a pair of grim reapers to them.

"Seems like Chicago did his job too. For once. Say, what should we do about these innocent civilians down here?"

As Vegas contemplated on that question, the masses gazed up as they fell into silence. Of course they would be let free, they were just cogs in the machine. They were persuaded and blackmailed to be there, they had done nothing wrong whatsoever. Of course... if only they had lived in such an ideal world.

Dallas scoffed as he unclipped something from his belt, before casting it down below. Confused grunts turned into screams, followed by a loud explosion that shook the foundations of the factory. To end off, a few shots to kill off the stragglers, as Vegas watched on in disbelief.

"You know, I really was considering letting them go... they looked so helpless."

"No you weren't."

"... Yeah, you're right."

Another shot, at the last survivor who was simply attempting to crawl away to nowhere. It hit him in the leg as he cried out in pain. The final worker would never have expected to have left his slumworld to meet this cruel end. In his final moments, all he could think of were his struggling family back home at-


"Die already! Jeez..."

-To be continued-

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