Dictators of the Stardirt Wasteland

by DoublePwned

Risk of Rain: The Universe is colonized, Capitalism is enforced, and corporations have taken control of the farthest reaches of the Stardirt. One man, on a mission to deliver mail, tells you the story of being an interstellar badass on a planet where the least dangerous things are the purple anthropomorphic lizards. In pauldrons. With 20 foot tall, firebreathing grandparents.

"INTERSTELLAR STATION: 49 - DESIGNATION: KYLN"

"PURPOSE: DATA ACCUMULATION, LAW ENFORCEMENT, SLAVE MARKET"

"I.I.D. ACCESS LVL: 7"

"WELCOME TO I.S. 49, ENJOY YOUR STAY."

"This stupid damn station is sooo outdated," he said. "I'm sorry sir, but the new A.I.s haven't been sent this far towards Gibraltar's Wisdom yet." The other replied. He scoffed, "I know that you scab-scum. Did I ask you a question? I don't think so." "Sorry, sir." The merc apologized before they deactivated their Comm. System.

The bay doors opened to the class 6 freighter, and it entered easily. Hundreds, if not thousands of ships were docked to all the outlet bridges littering the wall. After all, Kyln was famous for it's Collar Market, and even more famous for it's position in a No-Warfare Sector. Not that scraps, scuffles and brawls weren't off limits, just any battle including 63,000 men or more on both sides was immediately vaporized by a Rolling Thunder Fleet Destroyer, or R.T.F.D, equipped with a Planetbuster designed for any conflict covering 300 million duske, give or take a couple thousand. Kyln was practically the safest nest to lick your feathers for any bounty hunter or Collar-catcher.

Despite it's wonderful reputation among many, this was the place to go for your Collars. No warfare meant less chance of death, and assassination was practically unheard of here, so the rich and powerful come to trade their power and riches for extra muscle. The suppliers knew this, and it's been Collar's trading hub ever since.

After dropping off the passenger and his mercs at the Collar Market Bay, the ship pulled out and sped to the Main Docking. The men disembarked from the freighter, scurrying off to get a taste of the artificial air and gravity. The shifting mass of people and Collars and robots was like watching the tide; if the tide looked like a 6 year old's fever dream and dressed like a stoned astronaut.

That's the thing about this damned universe; everyone looks like Superman in a spacesuit, and they all have some weird-ass gimmick, or something. You really start to wonder what kind of person they are if they think some green fluorescent lights on their Hello Kitty O2 Tank would be neat, or if their company-mandated Railgun needs some stickers. These people are supposed to be paid professionals, after all, and hot pink with hints of red-orange will not look good during an interview.

I get off of the freighter, letting the station engineers do any necessary repairs. My appetite for relaxation is rumbling in my mind, so I wander to the nearest sign that says "Alchohol". A stout bird asks me for my order. "One shot of Frog Bomb and a glass of Pineapple Tapp." I don't plan on going to sleep sober tonight, and my pockets are feeling a little heavy. One good haul is enough to wake me up with a hangover for half a month, or keep me fed for two. Capitalism is a man's best friend, and money is sweet, sweet, platonic love.