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Chapter 1 part 3
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The Half-Spec Blaster
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A relic of questionable engineering, the half-spec blaster is a curious creation—neither compact enough for seamless close-quarters skirmishes nor formidable enough to rival a standard plasma rifle. Its design feels like a half-forgotten experiment: caught between practicality and ambition, doomed to teeter in the void.
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Back in my home galaxy, we had a saying: “Too big for a sidearm, too small for a rifle.” It fits this blaster like a glove. Still, in the expanse of the cosmos, a weapon is a weapon. Even a misfit blaster finds a place, though you won’t see the cadets of the Galactic Vanguard drilling with one. The Space Forces certainly wouldn’t dream of adopting such an eccentric tool.
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But call me a sentimental spacer—I have a soft spot for this oddball piece of tech. Sure, it’s clunky and its range leaves much to be desired, but a versatile weapon, even one that tries to do too much. Plus I customized this half-spec blaster for a very specific purpose. It's more versatile than it looks, especially in the right hands.
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My first encounter with my half-spec blaster was on the rust-covered docks of a forgotten outer-rim station. A dubious surplus merchant had carelessly tossed it into a dented cargo crate near the airlock, selling it off for scrap-level credits. At the time, it was barely functional. Didn't even have a power cell housing—I had to scavenge parts and rebuild it from scratch to get it working. So much for a bargain. But looking back, those rough beginnings are part of what make this half-spec blaster so special. It’s more than just a weapon to me
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"Alright then, old friend, let's dance," I muttered, patting the half-spec blaster at my side
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“Screeek!”
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The blaster’s discharge was a silent flash of light, the only sound a faint crackle through my helmet’s comms. The plasma scorched clean through the Krivven’s chest plating. Three down. One more to go. I’d already clipped its leg earlier; the creature was writhing on the ground, its iridescent blood pooling beneath it.
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Krivvens, goblin-like xeno-beasts are fast, insatiable, and notorious pests in space colonies. They reproduced rapidly, hid in tight crevices, and wreaked havoc by infesting cargo, consuming minerals, and spreading undetected through stations. Meanwhile, their smaller cousins, Skreeks, thrive in zero-G asteroid belts.
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“Hisssss…”
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“Sorry,” I said coldly. “Nothing personal. Just business.”
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The bounty, displayed on my suit’s HUD, was simple: eliminate a rogue Krivven raiding party terrorizing the outer colony sectors. The leader, a hulking brute of a Krivven, was still gasping for air just a few meters away. Cutting off the head should scatter whatever squads might still be skulking in the shadows.
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The colonists in this sector, protected by their pressurized dome shields, aren’t helpless—they can fend off raiders with mining lasers and hydroponic tools when they have to—but taking out the leader ensures peace for a while longer
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“Rest in the void," I murmured, the half-spec blaster humming faintly in my hand, almost as if it were echoing the sentiment.
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I checked my oxygen levels, making sure I had enough to finish this. I aimed and fired, the plasma bolt vaporizing its throat and silencing its hissing for good. With the job done, I knelt by their twitching bodies and pried out their ears. The stench hit me instantly. Krivven ears always stink to the high heavens—why couldn’t it have been their weird hairs instead?
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“Ugh, bio-fluid,” I muttered, grimacing as the sticky substance clung to my hands. I fired another burst of plasma into the creature’s chest, partly to clean the mess and partly out of spite. Krivven fluids are one of the few substances in the galaxy I detest more than bureaucracy.
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"...Phew. This should meet my contribution quota for the month. I'll just gather some stuff afterwards and head back to the station."
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With the grisly task done, Working with the limited dexterity of my suit's gauntlets, I salvaged a few scattered tech components and rare minerals from their gear before heading back to my shuttle. Two hours by short-range shuttle isn’t exactly a blink in hyperspace, but out here, it’s considered close by. I unsealed my helmet, sighing as the recycled air of the shuttle filled my lungs. As the engines hummed, I leaned back in my seat, letting the faint vibrations lull me into a state of semi-relaxation. It’s moments like these that remind me I’ve adjusted well to life in space.
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Back at the guild station, the air was thick with the familiar scent of oil, plasma residue, and cheap synthetic food.
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“Four chips, including the leader,” I said at the processing desk, the station's recycled air smelling faintly of ozone and cleaning solvents.
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The clerk nodded, slotting the Krivven chips into a reader. “This confirms the elimination. A-rank contribution, no issue. Good work, Narwhal.”
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“Yeah,” I muttered. The reward was predictably modest—some credits and contribution points. Krivven bounties rarely paid well, but they were set up to encourage guild members to handle unglamorous but necessary work. Contribution points, after all, are the lifeblood of surviving in the guild system. Stockpiling enough of them keeps me off the roster for large-scale operations, which are as dangerous as they are unpleasant.
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“Still soloing Krivvens, huh?” The receptionist, Milene, gave me her usual raised eyebrow as I turned in my paperwork.
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“Why not? Keeps me busy,” I replied.
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“You know,” she said, tapping a stylus on her data pad, “you could just take the Silver-tier promotion exam already. It’d mean better-paying jobs.”
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“No thanks.” Right now I'm Bronze tier. They say reaching Silver will let me take on more rewarding work, which does sound nice. But that's a pain in its own way too. The missions get more dangerous, and annoying obligations crop up. For a lazy life, staying Bronze is optimal.
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“Figures.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Back to the bar?”
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“Of course. Want to join me for a drink?”
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“Still working,” she said, her voice dry.
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“Tch, no fun,” I muttered. An unremarkable face, a work ethic as shaky as a low-grade reactor core, and the ambition of a slumbering sloth-beast. It’s no mystery why women like her—elite guild station receptionists with sharp uniforms and sharper reputations—don’t give me a second glance. And honestly? That’s fine by me. There’s a strange kind of comfort in the predictability of rejection. It keeps things simple.
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I pulled off my helmet, setting it on the table in the station’s common area. “Drinking time~ Drinking time~”
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“Narwhal, done for the cycle?”
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The station's artificial gravity felt heavy after a day spent in low-G. I turned my helmet, the motion slow and deliberate, to see Burger through my visor, his unmistakable silhouette framed by the flickering neon of the corridor signs. His voice resonated like the hum of a low-frequency gravity stabilizer.
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“Yo, Burger. Yep, finished up. Racked up some contribution points taking out a few Krivvens. Gave ‘em a warm plasma farewell.”
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“Good work. The usual spot tonight?”
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“Let’s do it. You treating?”
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As if I could afford that!” He snorted, his weird beards rippling in amusement. The cantina’s recycled air carried the scent of spiced synth-ale and fried space squid. “Pay your own tab, you freeloader.”
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Burger is... well, he’s a sight. A grizzled spacer with the kind of unimpressive gear that would make any rookie underestimate him: a dented shield generator strapped to his side and an ionic spear that looks like it’s seen one too many repairs. But behind his plain exterior lies a fighter who knows his way around a battlefield better than most. He’s been a Silver-ranked guild veteran for decades, relying on grit and steady, reliable combat skills rather than flash or flair. When I first stumbled onto this station, lost and fresh from some backwater colony, it was Burger who showed me the ropes. In this sector, he’s like an older brother—grumpy, practical, and prone to ribbing me over my questionable life choices.
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Now we’re just two sad, unmarried spacers, nursing synthetic beers and swapping stories of minor victories. The low hum of the cantina’s ventilation system blended with the rhythmic pulse of synth-music
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“So, Narwhal, you’re still lugging that half-spec blaster around?”
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“You got a problem with it?” I replied, smirking. “I’ll keep using it ‘til it falls apart in my hands.”
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This half-spec blaster's more than just a weapon to me. It's a project, a testament to what's possible with a little ingenuity. I’ll keep using it, keep refining it, until it can't fire a single shot more.
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“No problem,” he said, weird beards waving in what I assumed was mild exasperation. “Just saying—it’s a headache of a weapon. Heavy for one hand, awkward as a rifle. Feels like using a plasma welder as a scalpel.”
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“Once you’re used to it, it’s fine,” I said, patting the blaster slung at my side. “I’ve grown attached to the half-spec design. It’s got character.”
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Burger’s eyes looks toward me, and I could feel his confusion. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
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I shrugged, grinning. To each their own.
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We headed to the usual dive—a dimly lit station bar where the air smelled faintly of coolant and the synth-music thrummed with just enough bass to vibrate your teeth. Synthetic beer and protein skewers were tonight’s bounty. It’s not glamorous, but out here, luxury means survival and a full stomach.
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"Cheers to another day alive," I said, raising my mug. "And to functioning oxygen filters," Burger added with a chuckle, clinking his mug against mine.
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“Cheers,”
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Tomorrow’s work can wait. For now, victory tastes like cheap beer and grilled protein cubes.
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Author's note : wanna read future chapters earlier? visit :15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC7MZixzdTK
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