Rusty nodded, and then melted into the shadows.
This, truly, was where he belonged, skulking in the darkness. He didn't mind looking after the Captain so she could have a little fun every now and again, but it wasn't something he enjoyed. The crowds, the noise, the constantly looking out for potential threats, it was at once boring and nerve wracking. If he had a nervous system, he'd probably have developed a nervous twitch.
Although there were no shortage of opportunities for mayhem with the Captain, there was precious little time for the one thing he really enjoyed: the hunt.
And now, the hunt was on.
===========Three hours later===============
The target fled through the darkness, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He wasn't sure what had gone wrong, but there was no denying that his life was in danger.
John Makers had been in his usual penthouse suite at the casino, overlooking the spaceport. Watching the craft come and go had been one of his few pleasures as a child of rich and distracted parents. He quickly discovered a talent for recognizing craft, and had an eye for picking out rare and valuable ships from by eye. His father, eager to distract the precocious young boy, had allowed him to indulge his hobby, and had even given him an expense account to buy his first ship at the age of 10. He was never allowed to fly on it, but he had been allowed to hire his own crew, and he took great pride in managing their affairs. The crew had been reluctant, at first, but they quickly realized the boy who owned the rare YT-1300 they flew was a virtuoso when it came to moving cargo around and making money. They were making money hand over fist, and were always happy to regale the young master with tales of their adventures in far flung corners of the galaxy. John didn't care that none of it was news to him; he had wired the ship with discreet holocams and could tap into the sensor feed whenever he wanted. If there were a few stunningly attractive women on board, what of it? Watching the feeds was never so exciting as hearing the stories, even if he knew they were mostly fiction.
Five years later, and one ship had turned into a small but highly lucrative business. John Makers had established a reputation for moving rare and delicate cargoes in equally rare ships, and if there was something rich people loved, it was watching their precious valuables arrive in a ship so old it belonged in a museum.
At the age of 18, John was disowned by his father, who insisted that he stop this silly business with antiques and come work for him. John, realizing that his father's business only grossed thirty percent more than his own, and netted far less, declined. In ten years, he declared, Makers' Rare Transports would double his father's gross, and in fifteen, would be powerful enough to buy it out. John's father scoffed at the idea and kicked him out of the house. Fifteen years later, John showed up on his doorstep with a notification that, not only had he bought out his father, he had convinced the board to sell him all the company's residential property, including the home his father and mother lived in. Kicking them out to the curb was the happiest moment of his life. His sisters he allowed to stay, on the condition that they became household servants.
It was now seven years after that, and Maker's Rare Transports was only a small part of John's business empire, but still his favorite. Even here, on vacation on Zeltros, he kept a close eye on the skies, and spotting that 3-Z brought a familiar tingle of excitement. 3-Zs weren't as rare or desired as YT-series craft, but they were one of his cheaper options, and were always popular. He kept the price high enough to retain the illusion of exclusivity, but just low enough that an upper middleclass businessman could splurge and hire one without too much financial hardship. They were popular enough that, despite the rather rough condition of this specimen, he was willing to pay top credit for it. When the unreasonably stubborn captain and her robot or possibly cyborg henchman had turned him down, they had forced his hand. He needed that ship.
Which is why he was staring out over the balcony, listening to the events unfolding. Everything had been going to plan, until a series of thunderous concussions shook the building. He was knocked unconscious by a piece of masonry shaken loose, small enough not to kill him, but big enough to knock him out.
When he came to, there was nothing but darkness and a familiar pair of silver orbs.
"Hello, John," he voice rasped. "Don't bother asking where you are, or why you're here. All you need to know is that you have thirty minutes to escape this building, and then I'm going to kill you. Time starts...now."
There was nothing resembling mercy in those cold argent eyes, or that raspy, metallic voice. If anything, the voice conveyed a certain intimacy, whispers to a lover in the darkness.
John didn't know how long he had been stumbling in the darkness. His chest, legs, and head ached. Blood streamed down his face from no less than three scalp wounds, and poured down his right arm from a gash he had earned from a jagged piece of metal that he didn't see in the nearly impenetrable gloom.
This place was a maze, filled with machinery of some kind, all of it dormant. There was no artificial illumination, only the occasional beam of moonlight from a window that was too high to reach.
Reluctantly, John concluded that escape simply wasn't an option, not in the time he had left. He could either surrender and beg for mercy, or fight. There was only one option, one way out of here that his pride would allow. He began groping around on the ground for a piece of pipe, or maybe a discarded tool.
"Time's up, John."
His hand exploded in a wave of fire as a heavy boot came crashing down on it. The owner of the boot leaned down, silver eyes staring right into his.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to take things from others?" asked his hunter, silvery knife gleaming in his hands.
The hunter didn't bother to wait for an answer. For John, there was nothing else in the world but those eyes and that knife. That, and the pain.
