Trump: Bounty Hunter, Hitman, Fan of One Direction

by AngusEcrivain

Impact

He watched the vessel go down, its electrical systems going completely and totally haywire thanks to the weapon he had long ago named Bertha.

One might expect a weapon monikered as such to be somewhat on the large side as the 'Big Bertha' driver, as anyone who enjoys the occasional nineteen holes is well aware, is indeed a beast of a club.

Instead, Bertha was quite compact but a precise shot from her modest barrel could bring down anything from a dropship to a planet-killer.

He was proud of that, and rightfully so.

It would not be fair to say that Bertha was the reason he was the most sought after bounty hunter in the galaxy, able to command a fee almost triple that of his closest rival, but it would not be an entirely inaccurate statement.

The vessel, mere seconds from crashing to the ground as it was, was the transport carrying the exiled Uinian Royal Family from their war torn homeworld following a particularly nasty and brutal coup.

He did not concern himself with the trivialities of politics as such things only ever got in the way of an honest day's work, however this was the tenth occasion upon which he had been called upon to take out one of the galaxy's royal families. It was also the tenth occasion he had succeeded in doing so and as such he permitted himself a wry smile, hidden from anyone who might have been watching by the helmet that completely covered his face and head.

The vessel exploded on impact. He was unaware of the specific ins and outs of the craft but he knew plenty to be confident in making an educated guess as to the cause of the explosion, and he was wholly aware it had nothing to do with the fact Bertha had shorted the ship's electrical systems, at least not directly. Of course, many things upon a ship were dependant upon electricity and his suspicion was that the coolant used to prevent the vessel's core drive from overheating got too hot too quickly. All it needed then was the right kind of spark and an impact involving the levels of torque supercars dreamed of was definitely capable of delivering such a thing.

Satisfied his work was done he activated his helmet's communication unit.

"It's Trump. Put me through." A matter of seconds later, a beep indicated his request had been granted. "The job's done. It'll take generations of geologists to separate the Uinian Royals from the mountainside of whatever-the-hell this damn rock's called."

The Walk-In Client

The vodka was going down far too easily but that was nothing new. Trump had never had any problems when it came to relieving a given establishment of its supply, especially following a job.

It had nothing to do with guilt or nerves or anything like that. He just really liked vodka, neat, and the killing of folk seemed as good an idea as any to get shitfaced.

The pub was a quiet, dingy place, and Trump frequented it often. In fact that particular ambience was part of the reason he did so. The other reason, of course, was the vodka. Unlike many of the places he visited, places in this case referring to the rather large amount of pubs, bars and other similar establishments he visited, the pub actually kept their vodka in a chiller, something every aficionado of that particular spirit will attest makes it even more delicious.

There was, of course, a downside to his frequent frequenting of the pub in question.

"I'd like to do a Trump, please." Now, one could easily be forgiven for thinking that the man at the bar was actually talking to Trump and that by asking to 'do a Trump,' he was actually asking for some kind of sordid sexual favour when in fact nothing could have been further from the truth.

"Right you are," said the barman, handing an untapped bottle of vodka, straight out of the chiller, to the man who had requested it. "Go easy though, eh? It's potent shit."

"Anyone but you, Charlie, and I'd have slit throats and removed genitalia at the merest suggestion of naming a drink for me," said Trump with a grin, shaking his head slowly from the other end of the bar.

"Ah, you know I've got your back, bud," Charlie replied, smiling. "In here, no one knows who you are except me. Well, other than anyone who comes in with a job offer for you."

"You've got someone for me, Charlie?"

The vast majority of Trump's work came through official unofficial channels but like any good bounty hunter, he understood and appreciated the value in doing a little pro bono work. It was all off the books, of course, and not only because such work never included a transaction of any kind.

"The client has been vetted?"

"Oh aye," Charlie replied. "Courtney and Cydney have given the bloke a proper going over."

Trump grinned once again and drained the bottle of the remainder of its contents before he slipped behind the bar and down the hatch that led to the cellar.

Beyond the storage area for beers, wines, spirits and any other beverage of an alcoholic nature Charlie fancied stocking at any given time, was another room that was ordinarily left empty. Moans of pleasure emanating from beyond the door told Trump that on this occasion, that was not the case.

Rather than do what might by some have been considered the decent thing, Trump opted to open the door and walk right on in.

To his right, the muscled and by far more attractive, in his most humble of opinions, Cydney, was busy tapping away at a computer, evidently researching the job that Trump would, he had no doubt, hear about in due course. She had a game of Solitaire minimised on the screen, too. Trump really could not fault her for that though, because as necessary as researching a job as thoroughly as possible was, it was also as boring as taking a shit with nothing to read.

The moans of pleasure he had heard through the door came from a man who, as far as Trump could ascertain, was yet to notice a newcomer had entered the room. That did not surprise him in the slightest, considering the less attractive, though by no means unattractive, Courtney, was resting the man's testicles upon her chin whilst, Trump suspected and having experienced much the same thing on many an occasion he was something resembling an expert on the matter, the blonde had at least two thoroughly lubed fingers deep inside the man's arse hole.

"Bloke's got some staying power," said Cydney, turning in her chair to greet Trump, nodding towards the rather noisy sexual engagement as she did so. "She's been at that for over an hour. Her jaw must be fucked, but I think it's a matter of pride now, more than anything else."

Trump shrugged. "Who is he?"

"He says he's the last remaining member of the Atchuin Royal Court, and to be fair I can't find anything to contradict that. There's been some kind of takeover."

"Was it something I did?" At the end of the day Trump did not care either way. The jobs he did were just that; jobs. They were his way of paying the bills and ensuring he had enough in the bank to buy a small planetoid outright, should he ever have the desire to do so.

He did, however, have a strict policy of not getting involved with one side of a conflict when he had already been involved with the opposition. Doing so was far too messy for his liking.

"No," Cydney replied as behind them, Courtney choked and gagged whilst going about her task. Cydney screwed her face a little, as such a thing was quite off putting. "It was, well... I don't actually know. The Atchuin doesn't know, either. He said whoever it was arrived unannounced and set about taking over. The locals fought back but were defeated within a week."

"I assume the reason we haven't heard about this until now is because the aggressors took out all methods of communication first." Trump stroked his chin, thoughtfully. "I'll admit I don't know much about Atch. They're no less advanced than any other world in the galaxy though, right?"

"I've already tried to hack a satellite," replied Cydney. "Everything's been encrypted with code like nothing I've ever seen."

"We need eyes, Cyd," said Trump. "I'm not going in blind, not for a freebie."

"Isn't there a mining outpost on one of the Atchuin moons?" asked Courtney as she got to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she did so. She then turned to the man who at that very moment was in the process of hurriedly buttoning his fly, and repeated the question.

"Yes, yes..." he replied, somewhat flustered. "It is impossible to access the facility remotely."

"Then I guess we're going mining," said Trump, shrugging. "Let's get our shit together, ladies."

Hi Ho, Hi Ho

Slayer's War Ensemble blasted through speakers situated all over the vessel. It really was quite the impressive sound system, and something upon which Trump prided himself greatly.

The ship itself was a heap of crap. True enough she was just about space-worthy, if one step away from being held together with duct tape but she did a job and was both quicker and safer than walking.

Atch was renowned for few things, but one of those things was the amount of natural orbital bodies circling the planet. Most of its moons were tiny, only a few metres across at most, but there were three that would have been classed as planets, had they not been in orbit around a world themselves.

It was one of those larger moons the vessel was approaching and as they broke through the incredibly thin atmosphere, the next track on Trump's playlist began to play.

Cydney cocked an eyebrow. "One Direction? Really?"

"Yeah," the bounty hunter–cum-hitman replied. "What of it?"

"Oh y'know," replied Cydney, glancing away with a roll of her eyes. "Nothing, Trump. Nothing at all, it's all good."

There was nothing else said about Trump's questionably-diverse taste in musical entertainment. In fact the remainder of their descent to the moon's surface was carried out in absolute silence.

"We only have gear enough for two," said Courtney, flicking through the stock levels on one of the computer terminals on the bridge. "Our Atchuin friend is going, obviously, so the final suit is up for grabs."

"I'll take him out," said Trump. "Once we've accessed the systems here we should be able to upload everything to the ship, which'll save being out there for longer than is absolutely necessary."

"Be careful," said Cydney. "Looks like there's a big storm building up a few clicks north of our current position. Pretty sure you don't want to get caught out in that."

"I'm pretty sure you're right," Trump replied. "No fucking around with my playlist whilst we're gone."

***

Trump and the Atchuin approached the elevator that would take them down to the mining facility situated several miles beneath the moon's surface.

The suits made it slow going which would not have been so bad had there been anything by way of scenery to look at but the moon was as bleak as shit, its surface raped on a near-constant basis by the vast amount of solar radiation that found its way easily through the scarily thin atmosphere.

Eventually, the two of them reached the elevator and took the long, arduous journey down. The machinery itself did appear to be in decent condition, which Trump took as a sign that everything had been maintained as it should have been.

"This way," the Atchuin said as he and Trump alighted the elevator. "We're not quite as far down as is possible to go, but this is the living and maintenance level."

"Can't imagine living deep below the surface of a moon," Trump replied. "I figure it takes a special kinda' person to do so. My hat's off to them, for sure."

"Well, the people who lived and worked these mines are the reason Atch is one of the quietly-richer worlds in the galaxy," said the native. "The reason the place is empty is because all personnel were called back to help out with the defence of our planet."

"Waste of time, that was," Trump said, quietly. "Should've left a few up here, at least."

"Yes, well... " replied the Atchuin. "Hindsight is a wonderful thing."

They entered a room full of consoles and servers and he took a seat at the nearest one. Deft fingers danced across the keys and within the merest of moments the screen before him came to life though Trump wished that it had not.

"Yeah..." Trump muttered, letting out a low whistle as the satellite the Atchuin had managed to access zoomed in to show an army, enormous in number, assembled upon the deck of an enormous sky-based aircraft carrier as cloud milled around. Much to his surprise, the tops of the very tallest buildings rose high above the carrier. "Well I see what you mean about Atch being quietly rich..."

"That is nothing, the buildings you see have been there for generations."

"Is that carrier yours or theirs?"

"It is theirs," the Atchuin replied. "I do not know how many of them there are, but we can find out."

Again, his fingers danced over the keyboard as he set about accessing more Atchuin satellites and again, Trump wished that he had not done so for the information before him showed there were over one hundred of the invaders' carriers. The satellites showed several large destroyers in a low orbit, too.

"Well this shit just got real. You're sure you don't just want to turn around and leave them to it?"

"That is my homeworld," was the reply. "My people, if any of them are left alive, are down there. I will not turn away."

"Just checking," Trump replied. "Now listen, I do have an idea... If we follow through with this idea though, I can't promise your planet will be the most liveable of worlds."

"Will it rid my world and my people of the invaders?"

"Pretty sure it will," said Trump with a grin. "Can you get a link up to the ship?"

"Of course," said the Atchuin and within seconds, the requested link was active. "Go ahead."

"How's that storm looking, ladies?"

"It's within a click," Courtney replied. "Gotta' be honest, you don't have time. I wouldn't even bother trying until it passes."

"That's not what I wanted to hear. It looks like they're preparing for something pretty big down on the surface, and I'd rather like to put a stop to whatever bullshit that might be before they get started." Trump paused, sighing heavily. "You're gonna' have to deal with this one, girls. Thing is we don't have numbers on our side so we're gonna' have to think outside the box."

"How far outside of the box are we talking here?" Cydney asked. She knew Trump well enough to know when he was about to suggest something batshit crazy, and less than a moment later the man obliged, with interest.

"All of these tiny moons... We're gonna' bombard the planet with them."

"Well," said Courtney, chuckling. "I've heard crazier ideas. Not many of them, granted, but still..."

"It should be easy enough to pull one of them out of orbit, drag it towards the planet and let gravity take over," he replied. "Once that... distort... orbit and... rest..."

A Bit of Bad Weather

"Signal's dead," said Courtney. "I guess we've got the storm to thank for that, but I think I got the gist of Trump's idea."

"As did I, but I'm fucked if we're doing that," Cydney replied. "If we can work out the weakest point of the orbiting field, I mean they're mostly just asteroids, after all, a directed nuclear blast ought to do the trick and send thousands of rocks straight towards the surface, taking out anything they come into contact with."

"You think such a blast will pull enough of them out of orbit?"

"Maybe," she replied. "Fuck, I'm hoping it pulls all of them out of orbit. The little fuckers, anyway."

"Here," said Courtney, pointing to a particular spot in the mass of orbiting bodies. "It's the highest concentration of moons-slash-asteroids, but it's the narrowest point, too."

"That should do the job nicely."

Cydney jumped into the pilot's chair and quickly took the vessel off the ground and towards the upper echelons of the thin atmosphere. From above the girls could see just how big a storm it was. In fact, had they not left the surface when they had they probably would not have been able to do so.

"Makes all other storms look like a bit of bad weather, doesn't it?"

"I'll say..."

***

A little over half an hour later they were in position. Some distance before them lay what for all intents and purposes looked just like any other asteroid field in any other star system, but that was soon going to change.

They held station a safe distance of five clicks away.

"We're sure about this, aren't we?" Cydney said, quietly.

"It's unlike you to have second thoughts, Cyd," Courtney replied.

"I know, but we're talking about completely fucking up a star system. There's no guarantee Atch will even survive what we're about to do, and even if it does it probably won't be a liveable world for a generation or two."

"The alternative is that we do nothing, and whoever-the-fuck the invaders are will take further worlds as trophies. I dunno' about you, Cyd, but I reckon that's bullshit so yes, we're sure about this."

With a nod, Cydney launched the payload.

***

The sky, scarred as it was thanks to the inordinate amount of explosions where vessels had been destroyed, and what were essentially skid marks where asteroids had torn through the atmosphere as a hot knife through butter, was an unfamiliar one for those who had called Atch home for their entirety of their lives.

Unfamiliar it might have been but it was still most definitely theirs and though their world lay in ruins, areas of it uninhabitable thanks to the enormity of an impact or two, there was not a single Atchuin citizen who exhibited any kind of sorrow.

It was, in fact, a time for celebration by way of a shindig to end all shindigs, but that would follow the ceremony.

And it was Fret Mirdig, the Atchuin who had possessed the foresight and courage to seek outside help in the form of Trump and his team, who led proceedings.

"As the most senior member of any political party, of the Royals and of Atch in general," he said, pausing that he might look out upon the incredibly large crowd gathered, "it is my absolute pleasure to award our highest military commendation to Trump, to Cydney and to Courtney for without the three of you, not only would Atch have fallen but I fear the whole galaxy would have, too, in time."

With a smile, he turned to each of the three in turn and pinned a medal to their respective jerkins, shaking each of them by the hand as he did so. When the task was complete and he stepped aside, the gathered crowd cheered raucously.

"What happens now?" Trump asked, just loud enough so that only Fret could hear.

"Now, we rebuild," he replied, happily. "But before that, we party."

And party they did.