Patches O’Holahan cautiously moved through the dimly lit corridors of Port Wander’s lower decks. Here, all of the detritus of the upper station collected where it was recycled by the denizens of the decks. He had been interrogated for three days by that bitch and her pet astropath before they had gotten what they wanted, and dumped him naked into this hell hole. Of course his own Captain had left him marooned him without any attempt to recover his missing crewman. That had been almost a month ago. In the early days he had attempted to return to the upper decks. He had quickly learned that without credits or a valid ID (he had been left with neither) he had no way to get past the security patrols and code locked bulkheads. After several unsuccessful l attempts which had left him beaten, bruised, he had temporarily given up hope of getting topside, and possibly acquiring another berth on a ship. Now his focus and energy had focused to survival, that and planning revenge against those who had wronged him.
Moving like a shadow in the dimly flickering light he moved towards his prey. He had only discovered his target recently, and had spent the past days carefully stalking to old man. His victim was another of the inhabitants of the lower decks; he made his meager living selling fortunes and advice for food and protection from some of the larger gangs. Patches knew the man’s talent for fortune telling must be false, or otherwise not affect him; else his prey would have been more alert to what was coming next.
Leaping from the darkness, Patches struck. He used a scavenged piece of conduit piping to deliver a powerful blow to the side of the man’s head. The vibration from the impact cased the weapon to drop from Patches’ hands, but this didn’t ease the ferocity of his attack. Abandoning his weapon, Patches threw himself on top of the prone older man; clutching the head of his victim, he began pounding it against the hard metal deck plating. Each wet thud bringing Patches closer to his true goal – killing the witch who had delighted in the mental anguish he had caused Patches.
When he staggered away exhausted, the old fortune teller’s face was a bloody pulp, and his clothing was soaked in enough blood as to be unrecoverable. Patches didn’t care – he had rid the world of an evil, and he wanted to do it again. Taking up his club, he wearily made his way back to the corner he had taken to calling home. There he would be able to sleep, protected by the other members of his new gang. When he woke up, he would begin hunting his next target.