A light breeze blew over swaying stalks of corn, dusting the air with a faint cloud of pollen. A slick black road luminesced in the early-morning darkness and cut through the dirt and amber fields, a futuristic sight distinctly out of place in the rustic scene.
Stefan grabbed another cup of joe- thank the Triangle for that caffeinated ambrosia. His dilapidated hover-truck trundled through the shiny road- rust began to peel away its white paint, oddly complementing the signature Assyrian dark red stripes. The fender was busted and one of the windows was spider-cracked- not to the point of hampering visibility, but noticeable. Stefan figured he had a few more months before he had to tidy it up for a vehicle inspection. Two massive, cylindrical hover engines hummed below the driver’s cabin- not loud enough to drive him crazy, but another way to prevent his falling asleep. He couldn’t say the same for his passenger.
Stefan was a yokel from the Assyrian frontier, wearing a comfortable grey utility vest and red checkered shirt that wouldn’t look out of place on a USA hillbilly. The fifth child in a rural family, he couldn’t scrounge enough money to buy some farmland or get a shuttle offworld. He thought about joining the military, but the Second Czecho-Assyrian Civil War erupted. Stefan cursed his past indecisiveness. Had he joined, he could have scored kills against the Czechs, become a war hero, pin shiny medals to his chest and pick up hot girls in the star navy. But that destiny wasn’t for him, not for poor, lazy Stefan. The thought of having to learn how to aim and handle a heavy laser rifle, of serving as one tiny and expendable foot-soldier in the massive Assyrian warmachine- he knew he’d more likely be dead by now.
Stefan sighed. He thought his predicament ridiculous. Assyria was one of the largest, most powerful, and most technologically advanced nations in the BrikVerse, and yet here he was, single and driving a truck on the rural world of his birth. He hated flipping through the Far-ums channels and seeing the affluent Assyrian businessmen and playboys showing off their wealth. Stefan dared not pollute his mind with Space Communism, but he felt he deserved a piece of the Assyrian pie too.
He activated his windscreen and skimmed through the Far-Ums. It was illegal to view media while driving, but he’d be damned if there were any Assyrian police for miles around. He turned to the D.I.E. networks- to his disappointment, no new Death Bowl episodes were playing. He supposed he could catch up on the For Great Justice series, but he didn’t want something loud enough to wake his passenger. All those lasers and explosions could stir quite a ruckus. Stefan thought for a moment of checking the news, but decided against it- as far as he was concerned, the rest of the galaxy didn’t matter to him.
Well, there was an exception.
In seemingly the only good thing to happen to him in the last five years, some Tratt had approached him. Fancy gold Appel watch, Armani suit, Rayhawk-Ban sunglasses, the whole works. Robbing the business-type seemed tempting, but even he had heard of the bad things that came of assaulting Trattorians. Besides, the Tratt had something better- a juicy business offer. All Stefan had to do was fill his truck with Monsatan seeds and drive by certain farms when the wind blew in a certain way. Occasionally he’d have to give a ride to a local Monsatan employee, like today. In exchange, he’d get a small cut of the settlement or damages awarded to Monsatan from cases against farmers on this planet. The money was enough for the basic necessities, with some leftover for pr0n and booze, and required little work on his part. He thanked the Triangle for the opportunity.
The snoozing Monsatan representative sat next to him, his muscular body bulging through a cheap black suit. He had introduced himself as Sergeant Nickson, a former Assyrian commando hired by the Monsatan Company to serve as an “investigator” within Assyria. Stefan doubted the hulking minifig did much “investigation” with that brawn and combat experience, but he didn’t question where or how his paychecks came.
Stefan noticed a few tiny buildings on the horizon, the first non-corn thing he had seen in an hour. He thought about nudging the sergeant awake to inform him about the approaching destination but decided against it. Who knew what dangerous PTSD insanity lurked in ex-military type’s mind?
As the hover-truck drew closer, Stefan could make out a maroon barn, some white grain silos, and a small two-story house. All the lights were off, as would be expected at this hour of the morning. As the truck slowed to a stop, the deceleration woke the sergeant. The latter bolted upright, grabbing his briefcase and straightening his tie.
“Thank for the ride,” Nickson commented. “You can wait here while I take care of business. From past experience, it usually takes a half-hour.”
Stefan nodded, too tired to waste words. He rested his head against the steering wheel, the warm plastic rubbing into his forehead…
---
Stefan woke hearing a scream. Turning his head, he saw Nickson opening the door and clambering into the car. The sergeant then popped open his briefcase and tried to place a bloody anti-riot tonfa inside.
“Drive, dipshit! Don’t worry about all this shit- it’s typical business, a farmer getting too worked up over the legal accusations. Happens all the fucking time. If the court asks about this I’ll say it was self-defense.”
Stefan had already turned the truck and was driving well past the speed limit on the road through the cornfields. After about ten minutes, he was sure he had outrun the farmers’ family or any police and throttled the engines.
“So, what happened over there?” Stefan asked out of curiosity.
“Well, technically, I can’t say due to that NDA,” the sergeant replied. “Those Tratt lawyers can give orks a run for their money, and Monsatan has some of the most anal I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t be surprised if lawsuits provided more revenue than their actual farm products.” The sergeant chuckled to himself.
“Don’t you have any sense of patriotism?” Stefan asked. “Not to impugn your morals, we all have to do what we have to for money,” he added quickly, “but beating up poor Assyrian farmers on a Trattorian payroll seems off.”
Sergeant Nickson shrugged his shoulders. “For the legal record, I did not ‘beat up’ that farmer. That being said, I like this job. The Tratts offer good pay and I get to do what I love, intimidating people. Including the exercise of physical force when totally lawful and justified.” Nickson winked.
“This won’t stand forever. Somebody’s going to stand up to Monsatan,” Stefan complained.
“Hey, don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Monsatan’s paying both of us- I want them to get away with whatever they’re doing so we can keep getting our money. I mean, what has this country done for us anyway?”.
Stefan agreed and grumbled to himself. Assyria didn’t help him get a farm, a shuttle, or a girl. Then the Trattorians stepped in and offered him a job and decent pay. Maybe Assyria didn’t deserve his loyalty. Assyria’s technological prosperity, military might, and economic size didn’t matter to him if he didn’t get to enjoy them.
”Triangle bless Monsatan,” he thought to himself, ”and may they continue to find success in their future endeavors and pay me,”