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intergalactic, planetary
Dec. 4th, 2023 07:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
timetechs[ Dave doesn't exactly remember why he's doing this. He doesn't remember a lot of things. Shit, two thirds of his life is a fuzzy blur of events. A repetitive series of flying to one grey space station after another — they all look alike, cheap lighting and scorched walls and the teaming masses of humanity packed into too little space — and leaving a messy trail of lifeless bodies and blood in his wake as he leaves for the next. Most of the time, he doesn't know who he's there to kill. Sure, he's got the picture or the ID code or some other way to verify he's offed the dude or dudette Bro wants killed, but he doesn't ever bother to look them up beforehand. Find out their names, what they do, if they have family, if they're good or bad.
None of that matters. They still die in the end, and Dave's pretty sure if he started caring about that kind of shit, Bro'd have something to say. A lot to say. Giving a shit about anything is aggressively discouraged in the Strider household.
He has no idea if Bro is actually his brother. They look enough alike he'd believe it. Not like he can remember anyone else, so it doesn't matter. Bro gives him marching orders and he jets across the galaxy to make them happen, and they're both happy — Bro presumably because he gets paid but probably more because Dave hasn't fucked anything up, and Dave because it doesn't mean a lengthy stay in the lab for reconditioning when he's done.
This job's turning out to be one of the boring ones. Dave can't decide if he's happy about that or not — eighteen hours in a shitty little space transit just to turn up at the ass edge of the galaxy for two targets drinking themselves to their deaths in the grimiest little cantina he's ever stepped foot in isn't his idea of a good time. The sweaty, stinking press of bodies in the tiny space does nothing to stop his teeth aching with how dull the whole thing's been. If he wasn't sure Bro had some way to keep tabs on him, he'd go find somewhere to curl up for a nap and let the idiots take care of themselves. The walkways in the station are all creaking and unstable, half the safety rails rusted away, and there's no way these douchebags are gonna be able to walk straight long enough to avoid a long trip down to the reactor core.
Dave sighs and lets his head thunk onto the bar. He's wearing a jacket with a hood this time, which is the only reason he's willing to do it; there's definitely something unpleasantly sticky running across the plasteel. He stares at his targets. They're still drinking. They're not going to stop any time soon, which means he has to sit here, sip at watered down, unidentifiable sugar drink, and wait for them to get a move on to a less conspicuous part of the station. He's gonna be here for fucking ever.
And worse, he can feel the prickle of eyes on him. Probably some dickface who's decided they're gonna buy him a drink, see if they can get lucky. Exactly the last fucking headache he needs to top off the total waste of whatever counts for day in this system. ]
None of that matters. They still die in the end, and Dave's pretty sure if he started caring about that kind of shit, Bro'd have something to say. A lot to say. Giving a shit about anything is aggressively discouraged in the Strider household.
He has no idea if Bro is actually his brother. They look enough alike he'd believe it. Not like he can remember anyone else, so it doesn't matter. Bro gives him marching orders and he jets across the galaxy to make them happen, and they're both happy — Bro presumably because he gets paid but probably more because Dave hasn't fucked anything up, and Dave because it doesn't mean a lengthy stay in the lab for reconditioning when he's done.
This job's turning out to be one of the boring ones. Dave can't decide if he's happy about that or not — eighteen hours in a shitty little space transit just to turn up at the ass edge of the galaxy for two targets drinking themselves to their deaths in the grimiest little cantina he's ever stepped foot in isn't his idea of a good time. The sweaty, stinking press of bodies in the tiny space does nothing to stop his teeth aching with how dull the whole thing's been. If he wasn't sure Bro had some way to keep tabs on him, he'd go find somewhere to curl up for a nap and let the idiots take care of themselves. The walkways in the station are all creaking and unstable, half the safety rails rusted away, and there's no way these douchebags are gonna be able to walk straight long enough to avoid a long trip down to the reactor core.
Dave sighs and lets his head thunk onto the bar. He's wearing a jacket with a hood this time, which is the only reason he's willing to do it; there's definitely something unpleasantly sticky running across the plasteel. He stares at his targets. They're still drinking. They're not going to stop any time soon, which means he has to sit here, sip at watered down, unidentifiable sugar drink, and wait for them to get a move on to a less conspicuous part of the station. He's gonna be here for fucking ever.
And worse, he can feel the prickle of eyes on him. Probably some dickface who's decided they're gonna buy him a drink, see if they can get lucky. Exactly the last fucking headache he needs to top off the total waste of whatever counts for day in this system. ]
