Page 6 of Star Claimed Omega
His tall, broad figure cleaved a path through the throngs, a moving sculpture of pure strength, sinew, and fluid motion.
His black, tailored Signet jumpsuit emphasized his lithe power, his dog tags catching light beneath the collar.
His smile, when offered, was a lopsided, charming affair.
His voice, suave and smooth as a top-shelf bourbon, carried a sensual, blended Spanish-Kwavi accent as he greeted crew members.
His skin possessed a honeyed luster, and his blackberry-dark hair, cut to kiss his jawline, framed a face so sculpted it appeared a work of art.
His demeanor suggested ease, yet the rhythm of his stride hinted at a primal, coiled potency, a predatory force that might render an assailant motionless in a heartbeat.
He enjoyed these walks throughThe Sombra’sprimary concourse.
The ritual grounded him.
It reminded him of the true mettle of the ship beneath his boots.
It was not found through a glass monitor from a command tower, but in walking the courseways of the vast dreadnought the size of a city.
He upheld the principle of never forgetting the perspective of the residents and his crew, those he served.
He clung to one custom every Wednesday without fail.
When the chrono struck 1200 hours, he navigated the vibrant arcade markets.
The ambiance was an abundant tapestry of noise, effervescence, scents, fresh broth, and roasted spices.
The best aromas, however, drifted from a hole-in-the-wall eatery wedged between a salvage pawn shop and an AI repair bar.
No hawker made ramen quite like Mrs. Li’s famed offering: hand-pulled noodles swimming in a rich lamb consommé, sauteed greens, and a perfect golden half egg resting to the side.
He had just settled in his seat, with the bowl steaming before him, chopsticks raised in anticipation, when an avalanche of shouts erupted.
Not mere panic but cries of pure, visceral fear.
Santi rose in a flash, the stool clattering to the deck at his back. Abandoning his meal, he raced toward the commotion, his gaze already calculating distances and threats.
A man, semi-clothed and sheened in sweat, stumbled into view, waving a crackling laser sword in wild, erratic arcs.
His pupils were tiny pinpricks, his body convulsed, and dark veins stood out under his skin.
He was ballin’ and tripping.
On high-gradekokofrom the reek of its fumes andfokkin’ too much of it.
The man howled, a guttural snarl, and lunged at a woman shielding a child behind a row of crates.
He spun, hacking at an older hawker’s vegetable stall in a maddened frenzy. When the vendor drew near, the drugged man swung, dropping the hawker to his knees.
The fast-growing crowd’s collective gasp froze the attacker. He rushed a group peering at him, and they scattered with terrified shrieks.
Santi swore, sending a rapid neural node comm.
:: Backup needed. Sector 4A arcade. One male, armed, totaled on koko. Civilian hazard high ::.
Santi approached his mark, his hands raised, palms presented in a universal gesture of peace.
His timbre sank into a calm and even reassuring inflection. ‘Relax,hermano. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Let’s breathe, yeah?’
