A/N: Another chapter to get the story moving. Dean's got some preparing to do for a trip to the Dark Side to find his runaway. Bit of backstory...
The Pompatus Box (Chapter 3: A Man of Steel) by frostygossamer
Back aboard ship, Dean sloughs off his jacket and unbuckles his thigh holster, dropping into the big armchair in his oak-panelled library. It's time for his next shot. He trips the hidden catch on the side table and removes the black velvet bag that contains the gear he needs for his fix.
A tooled leather case contains five vials of the precious golden liquid xanthophthalmodaimonide, commonly known as YED. The 'Yellow-eyed Demon' is a powerful poison in the wrong hands, a cruel addictive in evil ones.
Dean slots an ampoule into his piston syringe and sets it down while he rolls up his sleeve and prepares his arm with a tight tourniquet. He watches without pleasure as he pushes the precious liquid into his veins. This is the same routine that he has had to perform daily ever since the age of sixteen.
That was the age when he escaped from the cold-hearted institution he grew up in. He took with him only a few credits and a handful of synth-YED tablets. He isn't proud of what he had to do to earn his first real hit, but from that day there was no going back.
Releasing the tourniquet, he sighs and sinks back into his chair. He can feel the welcome flow of narcotic entering his system, searching his veins for the receptors that linked directly to his brain and spinal cortex. It fills his body with the galvanic power that fuels his supernormal stamina and revitalizes his entire physiology.
Without this Dean can't be what he is. He can't be a daring adventurer scared of nothing and no one. He can't wade through blood and crap and disaster and bring back what other men can't from places even the brave fear to tread. And without this he would be dead.
Dead like his father, the military hero poisoned by Lunan anarchists on his first diplomatic assignment. And dead like the innocent toddler son who stole food from his plate would have been, if one of the conspirators hadn't taken pity on the four-year-old.
That guy gave the boy one more dose to keep him alive until help came. Sometimes Dean hated him the most.
=O=
General John Winchester was a hero, a much decorated example to both his men and his country. How justly proud he was to accept his royal appointment as Ambassador to the Satellite Moons. But unrest seethed as always beneath the quiet surface of intrasystem relations.
There were mutterings about precedence between Luna and the two artificial satellites, Eno and Emo, and even of a will for independence from the mother planet. There were always parties less than content with the status quo.
When he received an invitation to a banquet in honour of the new Lunar Viceroy, John little expected anarchistic activities would cause such an abrupt end to what should have been a joyful event. And to his life.
Xanthophthalmodaimonide is a curious poison. Easily identified by its luminous golden colour, hence its street name 'Yellow-eyed Demon', it is nonetheless undetectable when added to food. Invented during a previous war, it was intended as a dietary supplement for the military forces. The wonder drug grants enhanced strength, endurance, alertness and has an astonishing ability to heal the human body on a cellular level.
The miracle drug's only drawback turned out to be that volunteers tended to drop dead the very moment their next dose became overdue. So not practical on the battlefield. As a consequence, YED was banned and its manufacture went underground. An individual dose can command a premium price, but it may still be obtained, with the right contacts.
John's son Dean was a bright little boy. His doting father brought him along to the celebration as a gesture of trust. No one had meant to harm the child. But Dean was ever a greedy little thing and his father had indulged him, allowing him to share from his plate.
Right after midnight the alarm was raised. A maid discovered John's body stretched out on the bed in his guest suite in an attitude of silent agony. His son lay in his cot apparently fine, a broken ampoule of YED on the floor by its side.
For political reasons the crime was hushed up and kept out of Satellite News. No one wanted the anarchists responsible to gain from their atrocity. Dean was checked over and shipped off to a secure orphans' asylum, where he was destined to spend his entire gray childhood.
That wasn't the end for the plucky teen Dean grew into. When he reached sixteen years, Dean grew tired of his drab existence, maintained as it was by synth-YED. The inferior synthetic drug kept him alive but with none of the magical effects of the real thing. The day after his birthday he was out of there. From then on, he was on his own, illegal and outside the law.
Dean now trades for his YED on the black market, something that requires a source of credit beyond the average man's ability to lawfully earn. Credit of that level can only be obtained in exchange for the most dangerous work, something that YED enhancement fits Dean for exactly. A vicious circle.
That is why Dean became the adventurer he is today and why he needs a fast rocketship armed to the teeth. It's also why he maintains a cover as a royally commissioned rocketeer and why he never asks questions if the pay for the job is right.
The darkside of the Moon can be a very dangerous place. But Dean isn't afraid. This and only this is what he lives for.
=O=
When Dean awakes from his post-fix doze, his timepiece tells him he should make a move. He punches in the coordinates Ash gave him, and then returns to his closet to kit himself out for the perils ahead. Invigorated by the YED, he feels more than ready for the challenge of going to the darkside.
An hour later, Dean is standing by Baby's exit port surveying the scrubby vegetation that is the only perceptible indication of the terraformer's art that survived on this side of Luna. The darkside is faintly illuminated by orbiting reflectors channelling light from the lightside. Yet somehow the genetically adapted plant life still will not thrive. And neither will the human population.
The scum of Terra were recruited to work this God-forsaken side of the Moon. Prison refuse, crazy-eyed drifters and assorted filth not fit to sully the beautiful boulevards of Dianapolis, Serenity and their lawned suburbs. Out in the boondocks, men live on their wits and life is often bloody and short. A stranger in these parts is considered a pigeon to be plucked. Only a brave man would venture this far into the blackness.
Dean is such a man.
He has eschewed his tweed overcoat and light shoes for a tight fitting leather jacket and stout calf-length, button-up boots. An ammo-belt is buckled around his waist and a bandolier over his left shoulder. Both thighs sport holsters carrying matching mother-of-pearl inlaid pepperbox pistols, his favourite Bowie knife is in his belt and a shotgun is strapped to his back.
As he steps out onto the Lunar surface, whatever he finds out there he's ready for.
TBC
A/N: The darksiders don't know what's coming. More drama tomorrow.