On the harsh planet Phox, Agent Bond infiltrates a warehouse, ready to complete his task with deadly precision and a touch of theatrical flair.
Today was going to be a good day for Bond. He was certain of it. Today would see the completion of his fiftieth assignment. This is a milestone no other agent had ever reached. Today was going to be a good day - an epic day. He was certain of it.
Delivered on a cold breeze, there was a whiff of sulphur that choked the air and stung his eyes. Phox is a major manufacturer and exporter of Sulphur. Chemical shit used to make fertiliser. A grimy, shit place that made shit. That's how Bond viewed it. No class. No elegance. A barren, chemical-shit mining planet.
In the frigid night sky, a ceaseless procession of shuttles raced back and forth, transporting millions of barrels to the orbital port. From there, massive freighters carried the cargo to the galaxy's inner regions.
Historically, these ships would land at stations scattered across the planet's surface. However, the chemical fertilizer mining industry had become a brutal battlefield, dominated by criminal syndicates vying for control of the supply chain. As rival gangs fought for their share of the profits, murders became commonplace, making life on the planet increasingly dangerous. Governor Narell was forced to act. Construction began of an artificial moon, Phemea, positioned opposite the planet's natural twin moons. The almost complete Phemea now serves as the sole authorized port, where all ships must dock, allowing for tighter security and regulation of the volatile industry.
Despite these measures, the damage to the planet's society proved to be irreversible. The majority of law-abiding citizens had already fled to safer worlds, leaving behind a desolate landscape. The surface population now consisted primarily of two groups: prisoners sentenced to hard labor in the mines, and desperate individuals lured by false promises of quick riches.
For these unfortunate souls, escape was virtually impossible. The planet had become a de facto prison, with Phemea serving as both port and warden. Most of those trapped on the surface had resigned themselves to a grim fate. They toiled in the toxic mines, slowly poisoned by the very chemicals they extracted, their lungs rotting with each labored breath.
The once-thriving world had devolved into a bleak outpost, where hope was as scarce as breathable air. The constant stream of shuttles overhead served as a cruel reminder of the freedom that lay just beyond reach, ferrying away the fruits of their fatal labor to fuel the prosperity of Empire.
Escaping Phox wasn't going to be a problem for Bond. He was resourceful. Well-schooled in the arts of evasion, surveillance, and assassination. He had been an agent for longer than he remembered. He knew exactly what he was doing. And he had a ship.
The three moons lit the surrounding buildings, casting eerie shadows. Across the street stood a tall warehouse, darkness inside. No sign of movement.
As Bond stood motionless in the shadowed doorway, his mind drifted, a distraction from the oppressive atmosphere. Unconsciously, his hand slipped into his pocket, retrieving a small bag of nuts - an essential part of his mission kit. The high-protein snack provided essential energy, and anyway, Bond loved their taste. To pass the time, he'd devised a simple game: toss a handful of nuts into his mouth and see how long he could resist chewing. It was the only challenge he enjoyed failing.
When this diversion wore thin, Bond's thoughts turned to darker things. He mentally catalogued the myriad ways he could complete his assignment, flipping through the arsenal of weapons and methods at his disposal.
Being so close to the settlement, a Sonic Blaster would be way too noisy. Enforcers, or worse, would be on him before his victim hit the floor.
A Krillian mace, favoured by barbarians back in the Terric Wars, would certainly be effective, but it wasn't Bond's kind of weapon. He'd long since become desensitised to the sight and smell of internal organs detached from body, but these days he considered himself way too sophisticated to use a mace. He has his standards, and after all, he wasn't an barbarian.
Perhaps a Spine Slayer? Now that's a real doozy. A pure weapon of retribution primarily favoured by torturers, not skilled agents such as he. The Spine Slayer would be way too slow for this job, taking up to an hour for the full effect. A slow, weapon, for a slow, agonizing death. Tonight he wanted to be in and out with minimal fuss. He had a date to go to: a concert followed by a cosy dinner and then who knows where it will lead. If he was lucky. Anyway, the mission brief didn't call for pain, just death. Send a message.
Bond thoughts were interrupted by the flicker of a green light coming from inside the building. Game on.
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