Private The Nalrobi Job

[Rissk]

NALROBI
CIPAC, CITY OF THE STARS
​

The back alleys of Cipac were just as startlingly beautiful as their baked stone fronts.

Everything, each stone and crevasse, each curling twist of a creeping vine or bird's nest, had a strange sort of art to it. There was a tension between the builders of the city, who wished to repel the chaos of the Atlai Forest by injecting geometric shapes into their architecture, and nature itself, proving that it could not be repelled. The back alleys were no different, except that they were shaded by buildings around them, and the calls of the merchants hawking weapons and food were dim and distant.

Dumbal could have appreciated it more, were he not running for his life.

In the shaded back street, a large form crept along the edge of the road. He was a specimen to behold, a barbed devil of a crocodilian, with glowing eyes, and the characteristic glint of a Suchur's scales. His jaws were wide open, and he was panting heavily, having exhausted himself. Dumbal had outpaced his basq in the forest, and was almost sure he wasn't followed into the city, but his people could be stealthy when going for the kill. He would know, he had done it many times.

The large Suchuri hunter had barely had time to grab anything. Dumbal was alone, with only the clothes on his back, the weapons in his hand, and the necklace he wore close to his chest. He wielded a simple bone maul, and a vibrosword, which was attached firmly to his back.

Dumbal crept around a corner, checking the sun's position in the sky before continuing. It had finally become morning, after a night of running through dense jungle. The hunter was tired, but determined. He was sure that the port was this way. He had seen ships land on this side of the city.

Dumbal knew what he needed to do, but he wasn't happy about it. He had to flee the planet, his Goddess, to escape his people.

No time to think. No time to get angry.

Just run.

- Wynter Rackham -​

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Rissk

Sometimes you had to take chances to get the biggest profit.

For instance.

On Nalrobi visitors were not allowed outside the city gates. The forests were apparently the ruling grounds of the planet's indigenous species. Wynter couldn't remember their name right now, but they were basically big arse crocodiles. And they could rip you to pieces with their bare hands. Like the Wookiees, but less cuddly and furry.

Which meant that the valuable gem trade was controlled by the cities.

A handful of ancient cartels (they were always ancient, weren't they?) who had a working relationship with the tribes outside. The tribes took the biggest chunk, the cartels took theirs and the rest was basic scrap.

No wonder Wynter was here.

The smell of opportunity had been in the air and it had been the most logical thing to start something illicit here. It had been touch and go for a moment, but they were finally loading up the crates. Nobody seemed the wiser, which was perfect. Right before Wynter could get on board however... something drew his eye.

One of those crocodiles was running.

At them.

Brows furrowed, hand on the blaster, while Wynter waved him off. "Friend, I ain't a big fan of big burly folks running right at me, so take it easy there." Of course Wynter had no idea what was chasing after Dumbal right now.

 

[Rissk]

Dumbal kept running, not sure whether it was safe to stop yet. One could never know with his people. The Suchuri were ambush predators, lying just below the surface until they could strike. They would attack again, Dumbal just didn't know from where, and when he would be safe.

Finally, the large hunter made it to the spaceport. A few off-worlders had their cargo bays of their ships open, giving or receiving tradestuffs. One of them, a humanoid individual, stopped him with a hand, and hailed him, somehow coming across as both threatening, and nonchalant. Dumbal stopped, and studied the spacer, his burning reptilian eyes difficult to read. But if the spacer were perceptive, he might notice fear in those eyes.

"I require a ship off-planet." The Suchur's voice was deep, gravelly, and matter-of-factly. "Now."

The witchhunter took a moment to survey their surroundings. No sign of Basq Pyton yet. Given, there was never a sign of Basq Pyton before they attacked.

But of course, they were there. And they would be upon them all. Soon.

- Wynter Rackham -​

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Rissk

Wynter blinked there.

He didn't often find himself at a loss of words, but this was most definitely one of those times.

"Err..." Glancing over his own shoulder. Then glancing over Dumbal's shoulder. It didn't seem like anyone was chasing him, but the big croc seemed very fidgety and concerned for some reason. "Usually I love to be the humanitarian, but..." Hand raised up and his fingers rubbed together. This was the classical and old sign of: what's in it for me?

"Whatcha offering?"

Any sentient could take one look at Wynter and know the humanitarian line was total chit.

The way his hand touched his revolver only confirmed that. Oh, he saw the haste in Dumbal's eyes, but Wynter had no idea how bad it was. No idea that even right now... there were eyes on them. Sulfuric ones, just waiting for the moment to strike.

Waiting on what? Who knows.

Maybe Dumbal's people didn't want to kill Wynter, until they knew for sure that he accepted the deal. Or maybe it was just savoring the kill.

 

[Rissk]

A stray line of blue sparks scattered off of Dumbal, an unknowable aspect of Suchuri body language that was probably lost on the smuggler. The hunter let out a low hiss, analyzing the situation. He might be able to overpower the creature before him, take the ship, but he didn't know how to fly, and the instruments aboard wouldn't respond well to him. He could force the man, but this one seemed like a fighter, and any prolonged conflict would surely get him caught by his basq. No, he only had one option before him.

Be useful.

"I cannot pay," the witchhunter stated, burying his barely-concealed pride. "But I can assist in other ways. I am strong, and I can fight."

Suddenly, Dumbal jerked his head to the side, the yellow in his eyes flaring. He... smelled his clutch-mates. Sensed them, within himself. His instincts.

A pair of long, wickedly-tipped spear sailed from an alleyway, One, the Suchur slapped away with his broad tail, making it skitter off to the side. The other was aimed directly for Wynter's center of mass, seeking the kill.

"I need a ride," he said again, wrenching the vibroblade from his back, and activating it with a hum.

"Now."

- Wynter Rackham -​

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Wynter didn't quite notice the sudden jerk at first.

He was in thought as they say.

No payment wasn't ideal, but Rissk did look rather fierce. It would be beneficial to have a murder croc in your debt. It looked capable of ripping you in half, which was ideal. A sigh there, shaking his head and stretching deeply. It was a long night, after all. Who could have known that stretch would save his life?

Instead of the second spear impaling him through the chest? It cut through his side. Leaving an angry line against the armor-weave. The velocity caused the skin underneath to burn and Wyn grunted.

Pain flared.

It was only luck he wasn't shiskebab right now.

"Feth me- IN THE SHIP, NOW, EVERYONE!" Out came the revolver, gesturing for Dumbal to head on in, while the rest of his crew rushed into the cargobay themselves. One shot. Lucky (but Wynter had always been lucky) roared into the air. A warning before Wyn retreated himself. He didn't know that this shot somehow managed to drop one of the croc's stalking them from a distance.

"What the kark did you got me into... you?" Wyn hadn't asked for his name after all. "And what's your name anyway?" The cargo door starting to close, but outside he could hear the angry roaring.

Even as the ship engines roared up in response.

 

[Rissk]

Dumbal spun around quickly, vibroblade in his hand, crouching low. It seemed his former group had decided to make themselves known. That was likely Vier and Trakala; they were always rather poor with the spear.

Then the call went out, to leave, and the ramp into the ship began to close, trapping Dumbal within. All of his training, all of his experience, told Dumbal to leap out before it shut, face his problems head on, with honor and courage, like a Pyton.

But something held him back. It wasn't his rational side; in times of stress, that was often the first thing of his to leave him. It wasn't even his feelings, his senses, that told him to hold back, that everything would work out if he fled. No, he was too scared to leave.

"Dumbal basq-Pyton," the large Suchur said, jumping forward just as another two spears were launched into the cargo bay. He surprised even himself when he caught them both, and flung them back, all in one fluid motion. Of course, he missed, no one was that lucky. "And that is basq Pyton. We are witchhunters."

He didn't want to say more. Didn't know if he could.

"Can this thing move any faster?"

- Wynter Rackham -​

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Rissk

"Well, nice to save ya an' then meetcha Dumbal... bas-Pyton." Probably butchering the pronunciation at the same time. More thunks against the metal hull of the ship. Spears no doubt. Blow-darts. The whole she-bang. Luckily this was a modern-era ship and wouldn't crumble that quickly. Wynter noticeably relaxed even as Dumbal remained tense.

Which made sense to Wyn.

Clearly these indigenous species weren't that great with technology.

"Oh, dun' worry, once we are in the air it will zip right away." Wyn said calmly, finally breathing out and grimacing slightly at the cut on his arm. "So, y'all witch-hunters, but why they attacking ya... and me?"

The ship suddenly lurched in the air.

Wynter blinked, glancing to the side, Dumbal momentarily forgotten.

It lurched again, then a fist-shaped imprint appeared in the hull of the ship. "What... the ... feth. Y'all can punch through durasteel hulls??" More imprints like that popped up. The ship shuddered as multiple crocodiles had jumped onto the ship. Trying very hard to rip through and get inside. It didn't matter to him that this was a modern-era ship.

They'd murder them all all the same.

 

[Rissk]

Dumbal frowned as best he could through his crocodile grin, feeling through his instincts the mounting danger. He didn't feel safe in this ship. He began to pace the ship, noting with some discomfort that his feet were magnetically sticking to the floor, and took effort to raise up.

Why were they chasing him? "I... I don't know," he said, semi-truthfully.

Then, Wynter noticed what he had already surmised; they were, indeed, in danger. His basq didn't give up a kill that easily. The crocodilian looked at Wynter, his voice entirely frightened, and a little bit angry. "My people possess a natural magnetic field. If they get near the fine instruments in your ship, your controls will malfunction."

Dumbal walked towards the exit ramp, frowning. "How fast can this ship... 'zip'?"

If they could not make it to space, they would have to get basq Pyton off another way.

The craft began to list to the right.

- Wynter Rackham -​

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Rissk

Before Wyn could properly respond the ship shuddered harder than before.

This time he was send into a nearby crate, where he just barely managed to catch himself. "Feth's sake." He growled, before pushing his heels down and enabling the magnetic seals of his shoes. It stuck him onto the platform almost as well as a Suchur's natural magnetism. Then again Wynter wouldn't be trapsing about outside of a ship while it was flying.

So maybe he needed to ask for an upgrade himself.

"Well, I did the Keeta Run in six parsecs, so you tell me!" Which didn't actually mean anything. A parsec wasn't a unit of time, it was a unit of distance, but most land walkers didn't know their quantum spanners from their uni-tools, so Wynter wasn't too concerned that Dumbal might call him out.

Right now he barely had the time to explain that this ship was fast as FETH.

"A natural magnetic field. Of course y'all got fething sticky feet for metal, why wouldn't that be the case?!" Wynter growled sarcastically, before stepping on over to the crates nearby. A different smuggling mission. He unpacked it and threw a weird looking rifle at Dumbal. "Can you use this? It's sonic-based, big arse hard sounds. They won't drop holes through the hull, but it might be tough enough to throw your friends off mah ship."

A shrug there, if Dumbal questioned it.

"We are already hitting close to atmosphere, but I don't wanna take chances with these magno fethers. Ready?"