Riddick: The Gauntlet
Oberon is the smallest planetoid in the Epsilon system. From space, with its surface choked with domed habitats and the jutting spires of hive constructs, it puts one in mind of a bulbous mollusc adrift in a dark ocean, baring its cruel spines defensively at the rest of the universe. At one time, it was a world of oceans and continents, though neither exist any longer, buried beneath the single massive city structure that claims all space on the planet. Its atmosphere is a thick, swirling mist of amber smog, illuminated with the colours of dawn from above by the single star it orbits and below by the multitude of lanterns and fluorescent signs that shine beneath the impenetrable blanket, as beautiful as it is utterly toxic.
It reflects its people; the natives are notoriously xenophobic, resisting all attempts by the Terran Federation to indoctrinate them into the democratic system of common trade laws, universal denominations and planetary senates. The aristocrats of Oberon have got it good at the top and they won't give that up for the sake of the commoners, nor will they surrender their right to own slaves and deal in narcotics, practices otherwise banned on Federation member planets.
Tourism is one of the largest industries. As much as the people hate outsiders, they will naturally make an exception for outsiders with cash and an interest in prohibited goods. The tourist district spans a considerable portion of the planet's surface and is rife with activities that even indecent people would regard with disgust, overseen by the local Arbiters, who take a small percentage from every vendor. Everyone gets rich, so nothing will ever change.
The market place is a wide expanse filled with a myriad of marquees and swimming with thousands of non-descript holidaymakers and businessmen, all wearing drab travelling clothes made of cheap, coarse weaves. Pickpockets and grifters are also common here, so dressing down is a necessity for those who want to spend their money rather than simply lose it. Beneath the dirty gold of the sky, the noxious clouds rolling across the top of the dome that keeps the air within breathable and holds the poison at bay, people in hoods and cloaks shuffle back and forth, making locating one person in particular a task akin to finding a needle in a haystack.
Anyone who cared to look could tell Moore apart from the usual individuals found on Oberon. At six and a half feet tall, clad in gleaming, power-assisted armour and carrying a full complement of weaponry, he stands out from the crowd, positioned against a wall at the market's outermost periphery with arms folded and face set. He's been on the hunt for days, no time for sleep or nourishment, and he's relying on stimms to get the job done, to keep his biology at bay while he finishes up. His eyes have dark circles under them, his blond hair is unkempt and oily, and his lower jaw is swathed in thick stubble. Not only that, but the local kids keep trying to steal his pistols and he's getting annoyed with swatting them away.
Fortunately, the older thieves know that you don't fuck with a Bounty Hunter with more bullets than patience.
A stereotypical mercenary is a man motivated by greed, embittered by the world around him, possibly a stimm junkie, definitely a hard ass. It's an archetype Moore fits quite well. He despises subtlety of any kind, and is the type of guy who'd sooner kick a door down than knock, relying on brute force or guns to get his way when the fear his reputation and occupation commands can't get the job done.
Occasionally he finds a use for some of the more cerebral devices in the Bounty Hunter arsenal, however. A small, metal sphere around the size of a human eyeball hums over the top of the crowd and approaches him, chirping quietly as it settles on the palm of his outstretched hand.
The orb locks into the recess on his gauntlet, interfacing with the enhancements of his bulky clothing and transmitting its data directly to the nano-processors threaded through it. His other hand lifts to the side of his head and moves a small square of tinted plastic to cover his left eye, a digital display flashing into life on the miniature screen that overlays his own vision. A dull haze settles over the crowd bustling around him, a visual representation of the invisible DNA trace every living creature emits, leaving it in their wake like exhaust fumes. Over time, these residual patterns fade away, but for now there are strong scents everywhere around. All prisoners have their tissue sampled for this purpose, but ordinarily only the richest or best connected Bounty Hunters can obtain a copy of those samples to use in their work.
Moore is the latter.
The convict he's looking for lights up green on his H.U.D, easily noticeable amid the cloud of grey emitted by the civilians around him. As luck would have it, an emerald streak is working its way towards the westernmost section of the marketplace. A trace like this is the only way to find a mark in a crowd as big as that in the marketplace, and now that he has his target the hard part is over. He doesn't waste any time before moving off in pursuit of his next payday, forcing his way through the milling bodies. Some people object and then shut right up; they don't want trouble with a man carrying that much firepower, especially when he's big enough to pick them up and break them in two on a whim.
It doesn't take him long to close the distance between himself and the fugitive, certainly shorter than it would have if he'd tried running. Instead he seems to have stopped amongst the tourists. Moore wonders why he isn't moving, though he suspects it's because he's trying to score some narcotics. Even on the run junkies can't control their addictions; he should know. He's almost surprised when he finds the escapee standing idly in the middle of the square, not engaged in any elicit transactions, just watching and waiting.
It's not too much of a stretch to say that this guy has a brass set and wants to force a confrontation here and now; his pursuer was making enough commotion moving through the crowd to alert him to the fact that he's being followed, after all. Even without the assistance of his armour, the hunter has the height, weight and power advantage, making this fight so one-sided it's not even funny. He starts smiling anyway.
The waiting man, wrapped in a dirty and inauspicious travel cloak, resonating with the fluorescent green aura of his DNA trace, looks up to confront his pursuer. Moore swats his heads-up display away from his eye, staring at the thick, black welding goggles fixed around the individual's skull. For a moment he wonders if he can even see, but the level stare he's getting removes any doubts. He reaches to his belt and withdraws the facsimile of the warrant issued by the Ministry of Justice for his capture, complete with the holographic seal of authentication floating in the air almost an inch from the surface of the nanotech parchment. The convict seems impressed with the price tag he's been attributed; he seems less impressed with the man holding it.
Moore doesn't like the tough guy act; he likes it even less when the bounty tells him where he can stick the official paper still clutched in his hand. He puts it back into the pouch on his harness and pulls out the auto-pistol from its holster on his side, the chrome finish glimmering in the broiling luminescence overhead, aiming it into the face of his antagonist. It's his intention to take this man alive and claim the full amount; the Federation prohibited executions some centuries ago, and though eliminating potential threats to the civilian populace was still rewarded, the real money was made by returning those threats to slam so that they could serve their time.
Unfortunately for him, before he can utter a word of intimidation the target steps into his reach and turns aside his hand, a razor-sharp, improvised blade slicing neatly through the relays in his upper arm and severing the power flow to that limb. The grip around his wrist is irresistible, and the hunter realises that he's sorely underestimated his quarry. He growls and the hold on his arm tightens, the pain increasing exponentially until bones fracture and tendons tear.
Roaring aloud, Moore seizes his second pistol and brings it around, no longer interested in the full bounty, but the criminal is too quick for him and blocks the upward swing of his other arm easily. Acting on impulse, the proxy law enforcer starts to fire, high velocity slugs punching burnt holes through several of the milling bystanders. Screams go up around them and people start running in all directions, most of them completely unaware of where the shots are coming from.
The two men continue to struggle, the weapon clutched in the taller individual's intact hand still blasting smouldering puncture wounds in the maddened crowd before his opponent drives the impromptu shank through his bicep, causing his arm to go limp. The knife withdraws sharply and then carves a deep groove through his trachea so quickly that the mercenary isn't even aware that it's happened when he dies. A gurgle erupts from his mouth as blood cascades across the front of his chest plate, and then he crumples onto the flagstones.
By now, chaos reigns in the tourist district's most popular locale. The Arbiters will be arriving shortly, bringing a whole host of trouble with them; killing natives on Oberon is one thing, but killing tourists is bad for business.
In the morning, official reports will detail an attack by an off-world abolitionist intent on disrupting the lawful trading of slaves, who was dealt with severely by local law enforcement at the scene, yet another victory for the planet defying the Federation.
Nothing will be mentioned of a cloaked male wielding a homemade shiv who escaped in the confusion, even before the body of his pursuer hit the ground.
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