For the Sleepless
This is the kind of stuff I write in my spare (insomniac) time:
Sleep was hard to come by on New Endymion station, and people paid handsomely for the opportunity. The origins of the virus were not known, and how exactly the Sleeplessness worked was beyond any pathologist aboard. It had come five years ago, and ever since the station had been quarantined off from the rest of society, only automated supply barges allowed to moor with the station.
Salem stood beneath one of the umbrellas arranged in front of one of the nameless cafes of the main avenue across Endymion, the faux-night from the daily closing of the massive sun windows covering the interior. He clutched his attache case white knuckledly, the batch of syringes inside the black market's latest attempt to end the endless insomnia of New Endymion.
Another man approached the umbrella and Salem, a heavy coat drawn close about his face. Salem's sweat glands began to react, pumping out salty drops, and he prepared himself for the exchange. The man passed by and into the cafe without even a second glance at Salem.
He exhaled and chided himself for his childish nerves: while he worried about a harmless passerby the client could have come up right behind him and taken the goods without paying, and Salem's employer would not like that...
The knife came from behind and to the left, sliding between his ribs and gouging a hole in one lung before repeating the process on the other side. A gloved hand kept his mouth closed as Salem was gently placed in one of the cafe chairs. As the life began fading from his corpse a single macabre thought flitted across his mind: he would finally be getting some sleep tonight.
Sleep was hard to come by on New Endymion station, and people paid handsomely for the opportunity. The origins of the virus were not known, and how exactly the Sleeplessness worked was beyond any pathologist aboard. It had come five years ago, and ever since the station had been quarantined off from the rest of society, only automated supply barges allowed to moor with the station.
Salem stood beneath one of the umbrellas arranged in front of one of the nameless cafes of the main avenue across Endymion, the faux-night from the daily closing of the massive sun windows covering the interior. He clutched his attache case white knuckledly, the batch of syringes inside the black market's latest attempt to end the endless insomnia of New Endymion.
Another man approached the umbrella and Salem, a heavy coat drawn close about his face. Salem's sweat glands began to react, pumping out salty drops, and he prepared himself for the exchange. The man passed by and into the cafe without even a second glance at Salem.
He exhaled and chided himself for his childish nerves: while he worried about a harmless passerby the client could have come up right behind him and taken the goods without paying, and Salem's employer would not like that...
The knife came from behind and to the left, sliding between his ribs and gouging a hole in one lung before repeating the process on the other side. A gloved hand kept his mouth closed as Salem was gently placed in one of the cafe chairs. As the life began fading from his corpse a single macabre thought flitted across his mind: he would finally be getting some sleep tonight.