Chapter 2: The first god
Renan looked out from behind the dumpster. It had been around half an hour since the hardsuit had patrolled the area. He saw no trace of anything out of the ordinary. It appeared that the first battle of their little war was over; with a tight draw, it seemed. Renan wasn’t going to complain. He was lucky to be alive. He strolled out of the alley, trying to draw as little attention as possible. He melded with the crowds. The task at hand wasn’t hard to guess; he needed to get to the spaceport. It didn’t seem like a huge undertaking. But, he was broke, and he had a small debt to pay to them. However, they owed him something too. Renan hoped that they wouldn’t get greedy. He made sure his handgun was functioning correctly. He may have need of it.
A few minutes later, Renan discreetly walked into the spaceport. He approached the privately owned vessels. In particular, he was approaching a beat cargo transport. Its smooth, rounded hull was made of carbon fiber and a little bit of aluminum. It may have looked nice fresh off the assembly, but years of use had left it in need of a new fitting job. It had graffiti, pitting and battle scars all over it. It was still an impressive sight. It rose a good thirty feet into the air, and was five times as long. It was not a small vessel by any stretch of the imagination. The crude weapon implements only added to the look.
Renan stopped by the large loading ramp, and was confronted by a mohawked grunt wearing jeans and a sweaty white tank top. His visual display goggles had blood splatter decals on them.
“What you doin’ here!” he yelled aggressively, pulling out his flechette gun.
“I’m Renan Torres.” Renan said, calmly holding his hands in the air. “I would like to talk to Gatsby. He knows me.”
“You’re that Renan guy, eh?” Mohawk said, not bothering to put his gun away. “Gimme your gun first! Then I’ll get him.”
“Thank you.” Renan said. He was always careful with his words. It got him respect; put him above the slang-using punks that made up most of these gangs. He gave the grunt his handgun, and waited where he was. The mohawked man went up the loading ramp. A few seconds later, and he came back down, following another, more prestigious member of the gang.
“You again, Renan?” Gatsby said. Gatsby wasn’t his real name. It was just a gang term and a nickname for the higher class of gang member. Renan had once been called the same, until he was booted out by the man in front of him. He hated him for it, but made sure not to make any enemies. This man was still on good terms with him. “I heard about your friend in the hardsuit. You want off here, I’m guessing?”
“You’re very observant.” Renan said. “And yes, I do want a lift.”
“Sure. I’ll do that.” Gatsby said. “For old time’s sake. But, don’t bother me again. No more favors, Renan.” He gestured to the grunt. “Give his handgun back to him.” Mohawk did as he was instructed.