Chapter 19 – Stinger.
--/Day 9 10:12 Hours/--
--/Level 11-108 Fighting Pit Gamma/--
‘Risk', as he liked to be called, was a canny opponent, pretty quick and always liked to operate from the defensive rather than the offensive. He'd had a string of minor victories and a few memorable bouts, never participated in a death match and nobody blamed him for that. He was considered pretty good and a had a fair few supporters on station. People still talked about how he'd gotten lucky and decked Gigor, but that was a long time ago he liked to say. He was fit and ready and always in line for a good fight, especially one he was going to win.
Grissom took him apart in less than two minutes. He'd been under strict instructions from Jaguar not to kill this one if he ever expected to take himself seriously as a pit fighter, and Grissom had agreed. He'd entered the ring to muted cheers, many of them remembering what he did to Matchstick, but by the end of it, they were shouting his name again.
Grissom's final blow slammed against Risk's chin. Risk slumped to the ground.
"And the winner is... GRISSOM!!" The announcer's voice cut over the cheering. "Second fight for the Nasty from Nethrek and we're all just glad that he hasn't snapped this one's neck!" Grissom, breathing heavily, almost smiled at that last comment. He looked up to the crowd and waved at them, then turned back to his waiting chamber. Behind him, two medics were running out to pick up the unconscious Risk. His hand clasped to his ribcage, Grissom entered the chamber, reaching to his locker and his armour. There was a note tacked to it, from Davan.
‘If you're still in, I could use your help on this. Meet me at my place later around 13:00, a few things we need to discuss. Davan.' It read. Grissom nodded slowly to himself. Hell, he considered to himself, how many other chances was he gonna get to break into the station commanders' personal quarters. He put his armour on.
--/Level 7-170 Rental Workspace G Apartment/--
Tenzanin pulled on his security jacket and strapped his sword belt around his thin waist. Like all his race, he was skinny, very skinny, almost to the point of malnourishment, despite his best efforts. He finished chewing the faeroot he'd been munching on and swallowed. He was cutting it close, he should be at work soon he knew, but Corporal Haine was a forgiving sort. He began to head out of the apartment when Torn emerged from his room.
"Have... have you seen Davan?" Torn asked. The young Nethrek looked as if he hadn't slept well. Tenzanin paused for a moment, then shrugged.
"Nope, not since last night." Tenzanin replied, then turned away and moved to the stairs. He descended out into the workspace and out of Torn's sight.
"Ok then." Torn said quietly, knowing that Tenzanin wouldn't hear him. He moved over to the communications unit that they had on the wall of the kitchen area and stopped in front of it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled contact card. It was for an apartment in 15-169, the card said Donal Samerro, but it wasn't the Fruit Tradesman that Torn was interested in contacting.