A/N: Sorry I'm a bit later with this chapter but I've been wrangling my weekly shop on-line. Now let's see Dean in action as he hits lawless territory...

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 4: Dark Side of the Moon) by frostygossamer

Dean slips under the stupidly ineffective security perimeter of Boristown, leaving the brace of ugly ruffians on guard patrol dropped where they stood. From inside a ramshackle cantina, comes the jangling discord of loud music squeezed from an old-style nickelodeon. The raucous mirth of what Dean judges as, give or take, two dozen people can be plainly heard, even above the racket.

He marches right on in. A moment of hush descends on the patrons in the cantina. Shrewd eyes assess him as he passes, then the chatter resumes. Dean walks up to the ramshackle bar and the scruffy, stubble-chinned barman fixes him with a leery glare.

"Whaddya want?"

Dean affixes a cold smile to his face. "Gimme a shot."

He leans on the counter. The guy's hand hesitates for a second over a bottle of whiskey then goes for the one behind it. He pours a slug and sets it on the bar in front of the new arrival. Dean tosses down a coin which spins on its edge for a second, distracting the barman's eye. Suddenly Dean has him by the throat.

"You wanna make that a whiskey? Because this-"

He picks up the glass and knocks it back in one gulp.

"-this toxic crap ain't so smooth."

The barman's eyes grow big as saucers. Dean snickers as he releases him. He loves what that does to people. Doped up on YED, there isn't a lot his body can't assimilate, snake venom, battery acid, even lyefish. The guy's eyes flick over Dean's shoulder as a big shadow looms up behind him and places a heavy mitt on his shoulder.

"What business ya got here, stranger?" the gravelly voice demands.

Dean turns his head to find a huge, squat hulk of a man standing beside him, a big, ragged scar right across his face. An eyepatch hides what is left of a shrivelled socket. The guy bares his teeth and snarls.

"You're gonna wish you'd stayed where you belong, citizen."

Dean gives him an assessing look. "You Boris? 'Cause, if that's you, I got a sweet deal you won't wanna miss."

Pulling a machete from his waistband, the guy brings it down on Dean's arm where he leans on the counter. The knife cuts through to bone with a sickening thunk. Dean looks at the blood seeping through his sleeve for a moment while the grunt grins down at his nasty handiwork.

"Now that's gonna smart." Dean flexes movement back into his fingers.

He makes a mental note to get the damage to his favourite jacket invisibly mended when he gets back to Serenity.

The guy drops his machete in shock and Dean takes the opportunity to reach back and pull his scattergun off of his back. He aims it at the guy's balls.

"You wanna take me to your leader? Or have you always had a hankering to sing soprano?"

A couple guys rush him from behind and he flings them both off bodily like they are stuffed with feathers, laughing grimly. Things are kicking off and he's so ready for this. Chairs scrape as other guys rise to their feet keen to join in the fray. They crowd in toward him, but he isn't worried.

He has done this before so many times.

=O=

Outside in the can, Boris's ears shoot up at the sound of gunfire. Grabbing his pants, he hurries, as fast as a scared-clumsy guy can, back toward his office out back of the bar. He gets inside and is busy stuffing his pockets from the safe when the inner door flies open.

Glancing up, he sees a handsome-faced Adonis, clothed in tight leather and dripping with other guys' blood and brains, standing in the doorway with a pepperbox in each hand. He's blocking the light, but only enough that Boris can still make out the flames that are already beginning to engulf his bar.

"Hi, I'm Dean, your nemesis. You Boris?" The guy's voice is a deep, rasping growl.

Boris feels he really shouldn't answer that question, but his face does the job.

"You holding a kid here? Couple months outta Terra, long streak, floppy hair, big sad eyes?"

That much Dean got from the mugshot Jo wired him.

The rubber-faced, bushy-haired guy squints. "If I am?"

"Then, trust me, you don't want him around. I'm the vanguard, buddy, and you gotta know Hell is on my heels."

Boris would quake in his cowardly boots if he hadn't left them behind in his dash from the primitive comfort station.

"Oh yeah?" He lifts his scrubby chin defiantly, but trembles all the same.

"Hell yeah. You got him, you wanna hand him over. While you still got your knees."

Dean gestures with his pistol as the shorter man draws in a sharp breath. Boris's eyes dart toward his desk. He has a loaded twin-barrel in the top drawer if he can get to it. He takes a wild lunge and a bullet chips the wood of the desk right beside his ear.

Dean tuts, shaking his head. "That's the kinda move'll get ya dead real fast."

Boris is a heap on the floor. "OK. Loft above the floating ironclad hangar. There's some kid up there Milo brought in. Maybe he's your guy?"

Dean gasps, impressed. "You got a freakin' hovertank?! Awesome!"

With Boris lying cold-cocked across his blotter, it doesn't take Dean a whole lot of time to locate a military hovertank on the property.

They aren't so easy to hide.

=O=

The ladder leading up to the loft creaks loudly as Dean places his foot on the bottom rung. He slides back in the shadows as a scruffy head appears through the ceiling trapdoor and peers around suspiciously. Milo presumably. The head withdraws without a word, telling Dean that the guy is on guard duty up there on his own. Great. Easy win.

Dean bobs down, picks up a discarded wrench from the dusty floor and flings it against the opposite wall. The head appears again, this time looking more concerned. The trapdoor is fastened back and Milo steps down onto the ladder.

"That's right," thinks Dean. "Come on down. Check out the frisky moonrats."

The guy hasn't put foot one down on luna firma before he has a spike stuck between his shoulder blades. He falls limp into the dust at Dean's feet like a sack of moon rock.

Dean toes the body to one side before shinning up the ladder. He pokes his head up through the trap warily. Maybe there IS a second, perhaps Trappist, guard up there, but there's no sign. Only one empty plate and tin cup stand beneath the weak oil-lamp on the small rickety table where Milo enjoyed his last meal.

The coast seems clear.

TBC

A/N: What's Dean going to find in the loft? I promise I'll be faster with the next chapter. More coming soon.