FOGRUNNER – GALLEY – MORNING CYCLE AFTER THE SMUGGLER'S MALL
The lights hummed to life with a flicker as the Fogrunner coasted through deep space. The scent of synthetic bacon and burnt caf steeped into the recycled air. Julian Fog leaned against the galley counter in a ragged T-shirt that read “HARLEY DAVIDSON – EARTH’S LAST WARLORD,” nursing a steaming bulb of espresso substitute.
Nikara sat at the table, one leg curled under her, still wearing her armored jacket over a tank top. She stabbed at a plate of rehydrated eggs like they owed her money.
JULIAN (grinning): "You ever get that feeling in your bones? Like the universe owes you something and it’s finally coughing it up?"
NIKARA (skeptical): "I think the feeling in my bones is from this ship’s glitchy artificial gravity. Does that robot actually perform maintenance or just play with his sword and scream bonzai all cycle?"
JULIAN (chuckling): "He's working on it. But this feeling is different. Something’s coming. Big. Profitable. Probably dangerous. But definitely profitable."
NIKARA: "That’s what you said before the Zamori job. I still have plasma burns in places you haven’t apologized for. Your tingly bones don't have a good track record."
JULIAN: "That was a learning experience. This? This is destiny. Fog-scented, credits-lined destiny."
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
NIKARA: "You still owe me a finished date, Julian. One without bounty hunters, smuggling mishaps, or spontaneous combustion."
JULIAN: "We had a memorable night. You didn’t let me finish the fireworks show."
NIKARA: "So the hotel suite engulfed in flames was NOT part of the the fireworks show? Remember?...right before you said, 'I'll be right back' and promptly vanished?"
Julian sipped his caf with an exaggerated shrug, unfazed.
JULIAN: "Tell you what. After this next job — which I’m telling you is the one — I’ll take you somewhere nice. Classy. No explosions. Maybe."
NIKARA (staring him down): "Remember, Larkon said twelve cycles, Fog. If you’re still breathing, I’m cashing in. And no excuses this time."
JULIAN: "You drive a hard bargain, Miss Moonblade."
NIKARA: "I drive a deep blade too. Remember that."
They shared a grin. Outside the porthole, a rogue comet zipped past, its icy tail scattering across the stars like cosmic confetti.
LARKON
Breakfast complete and back in the cockpit, Julian Fog ducked under a sparking panel as the comm unit flared to life with a hiss and a flicker of pure menace.
M.O.L.L.I.E.: “Incoming message from Larkon the Unflayed. Tone: murdery.”
Julian (sighing): “Of course it is. Can we pretend we’re not home?”
M.O.L.L.I.E.: “I tried. He triangulated us using your comms signature and threatend to "rip out my core and use it for a paperweight.”
Julian: "Ha! As if he could afford paper."
Larkon’s face filled the screen, glistening and grim. He looked like someone had deep-fried a bullfrog face and taught it to sneer.
Larkon: “Fog. Good to see you. Still alive. For now.”
Julian: “It’s mutual. You’re glowing today. New exfoliant?”
Larkon (ignoring it): "I told you 12 cycles to repay your debt. After that—”
Julian: “Yeah, yeah. You’ll turn me into dust, confetti, or a warning poster.”
Larkon (grinning): “Yes. Meanwhile, the bounty hunters keep coming. Think of them as… insurance.”
Julian: “Insurance?! You’ve got half the sector trying to turn me into scrap!”
Larkon: “Exactly. Either I get the credits, or I get your teeth. I win either way.”
Julian (mutters): “So glad our relationship is built on mutual trust and dental violence.”
Nikara: (leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed): "I like my men with all their teeth."
Julian: "You're officially my favorite kidnapper."
Larkon: “Ahhh, Nikara Moonblade Voss... I see you're keeping company with fools again. That's probably for the best. This one needs someone with a brain to reduce the number of explosions in his life.”
""
Nikara: "I'm aware of that."
Larkon (menacing): "Get me my credits, Fog."
The screen went dark.
Julian: “Frazzing bounty hunters. How am I supposed to earn credits if every time I breathe someone tries to vaporize me?”
Nikara: "Let me and Zin handle the bounty hunters. You fly. I'll fire. You hustle. I'll hit."
Z1N: "I shall also hit. And if our efforts are not sufficient, the self-destruct core will give us an honorable end of runtime."
Julian: "Hey, I can fire and hit. I'm not just a pilot, I'm a marine. And nobody's runtime is ending. Especially not mine! And I want that self-destruct core locked in the hold."
Nikara: "Just get us where we need to go flyboy. We have a dinner date to keep after all this."
Z1N (returning with an electronic scroll): “Captain, good news! I found a transport job. Low risk. High reward.”
Julian (narrowing eyes): “Low risk. You said that last time. Define ‘low risk. And why does your holopad look like a scroll? Nevermind. What's the gig?"
Z1N: “Cargo is alive. Possibly noble. Definitely pigs.”
Nikara: "I didn't sign up for farm work."
Julian: "Welcome to the Fog economy. Who is the client?"
Z1N (reading his electronic scroll like a herald in the Royal court): “Client anonymous.
Mission: Simple livestock run to rim moon Darellian Four. Deliver to Butcher.
Payment: Half up front. Final payment collected from the Butcher. No questions asked."
Nikara: "Yeah, that doesn't sound suspicious at all. The Butcher? Capital B? And if the Butcher is not the client, then why is he the one making the final payment?"
Julian Fog stared at the contract on his display.
Julian (shrugs): “Sounds simple. Pork to a butcher shop.
Julian: “Okay get the hold ready. Find me some sedatives and earplugs. And make sure that ventilation system is fully functional. I don't want my ship smelling like a pig farm for the rest of my life."
M.O.L.L.I.E. (appearing behind Nikara and pointing):"You keep hanging out with assassins and the rest of your life might not be long."
THE CARGO
The hogs arrived in thirty large, magnetically sealed crates, and one single crate that was smaller than the rest.
Julian: "Why are all these crates so tall for just pigs?"
Nikara: (shrugs) "Airspace?"
Julian: "Let's open the smaller crate."
M.O.L.L.I.E.: "The contract does not authorize opening the crates."
Julian pulled down on the large lever on the side of the crate. The door slowly lowered like a ramp, hissing as it went.
Inside the crate a large, pink pig in a red cloak and holding what looked like a high-tech sceptre sat upright in an ornately engraved chair. The regal, menacing pig stared at Julian with a deadpan expression, fitted with what appeared to be a cybernetic monocle.
Julian (stepping back): “Mollie, confirm… that’s a monocle on a throned pig?”
M.O.L.L.I.E.: “According to this manifest. That’s Chancellor Oinksworth. Apparently not just a cute nickname.”
Julian: (shaking his head) “So he's the leader then? Every pig farm needs a leader, right? What the frazz?”
Nikara: "I'm going back to bounty hunting."
Julian: "You'll miss me."
Nikara:" "Doubt it."
Z1N (bowing to the open crate): “I sense in him the spirit of a warrior-pig. A hog of honor.”
Julian: “Great. Can he also not poop on my deck panels?”
Oinksworth: (deep, deadpan voice) "I will forgive your insolence this once."
Julian: (blinking) "Please tell me someone else heard that pig speak."
Chancellor Oinksworth: “Let me tell you a story, Captain Fog.”
“Many years ago, before the Concord of Species recognized the Swine Republic of Nebulon-4 as a sovereign world, we were seen as nothing more than a food source—sentient livestock to be farmed, sold, or slaughtered. Our ancestors squealed under the yoke of carnivorous elites, who took perverse pleasure in our suffering. But no oppressor was more brutal, more sadistic, than the man known across our archives as The Butcher.”
“General Marius Kreel. Human. Brutal. Arrogant. With a voice like gravel and a heart like scorched iron. After our collective uprising, he led the Siege of Soot-Gulch, where he personally ordered the execution of two thousand civilian sow and boar non-combatants - burned alive in salt pits to break our morale.”
“He wore our pelts as trophies. Served our flesh at banquets. His laughter still echoes in our children's nightmares. To the galaxy, he was a decorated war hero. To us, he was the architect of porcine genocide.”
“But we survived. We resisted. And eventually, we overthrew our chains and built a world of our own. A republic. A home.”
“For years, we searched for him. We thought him dead—disappeared into the void, perhaps to escape justice. But now we know better. The butcher lives… hiding behind new names, new identities. And thanks to you, Captain Fog -smuggler, racer, accidental courier of vengeance - we finally know where he is. Right under our snouts.”
“That shipment you are about to deliver? Not cargo. Not payment. Not trade. Soldiers. Every crate is a sealed pod containing 4 of our finest warriors, trained in close-quarters urban combat, orbital drop assault, and sub-zero trench warfare. The Hooves of Nebulon-4. And they’re not here to negotiate.”
“You will bring them to the door of our enemy. And now the the present will bring justice for the past.”
“We didn’t hire you because we liked you, Captain. We hired you because no one would suspect you - a washed-up merc with a fast ship and a debt to pay - of transporting an entire death squad of weaponized pigs.”
“The Butcher’s compound lies just a few klicks beyond the cargo depot. And by dawn, it will be nothing but ash. The Butcher will make his final payment.”
The crew stood in stunned silence, Oinksworth's deadpan gaze locked on Julian.
Julian (unfazed): "Final payment. Clever. What if we skipped the cargo depot and airdropped you right into his compound for say...double the payout?"
M.O.L.L.I.E.: "Captain, if your connection to this attack is made known to the Galactic Council, you could be labeled a war criminal."
Oinksworth: (sneering) "The Butcher is the war criminal!"
Julian: "I know just the right people to bribe, Mollie. Don't sweat it."
Oinksworth: "Your terms are acceptable. Credits are of no concern to us. Now release my warriors that they may prepare for battle."
THE BUTCHER'S FINAL PAYMENT
The FOGRUNNER hovers in low orbit above a dust-blown, rocky moon, its hull camouflaged and glowing faintly with heat distortion. Below, the Butcher’s compound sprawls like a cancer—spiked towers, electric fences, automated gun nests, and an army of mercenaries bristling with hardware.
Julian Fog (over comm): “Alright, piglets… it’s go time. Try not to turn this place into a bacon factory.”
Z1N (stoic, tightening his sword harness):
“Captain, I suggest a haiku:
Steel rains from above—
justice squeals across the wind,
ham-fisted vengeance.”
Julian (sipping caf): “You are man of letters Zin. A metal man of letters.”
120 elite warrior pigs stand shoulder to shoulder, armor matte-black and marked with tribal carvings. Each carries advanced plasma rifles, vibro-axes, and explosive charges. Nikara, in tactical gear, checks her sidearm and nods to their leader: a grizzled, scarred boar named Sergeant Trotter.
Sgt. Trotter (gruff): “Voss, on point with me. Snouts down, boys. We’re not just takin’ a compound; we’re takin’ history. Drop in ten. Pigs… to glory!”
Mollie (dry): “Deploying drop pods in ten. Probability of survival: 38%. But hey, pigs are statistically too stubborn to die.”
The launch sequence begins.
Julian: "Missiles away!"
The Fogrunner shimmers into view over the compound. Four Ripfire missiles streak toward the two gun nests flanking the compound.
One hundred twenty drop pods eject like falling stars. Streaks of red and gold rip through the twilight.
As the gun nests explode into magnificent fireballs, the pods slam into the outer yard. Explosive charges blow the doors open before the pigs even hit the ground. They emerge firing in perfect formation, squealing battle-cries, plasma bolts lighting up the dusky evening.
Mercenaries scramble. The Butcher’s private army—grimy ex-marines and bounty scum—respond with high-powered railguns, drones, and mech suits. Chaos erupts.
Nikara (leaping from a pod, twin pistols blazing)“For the record, I still haven’t had dessert with Julian!”
She lands beside Trotter and dives into cover.
Sgt. Trotter (snorts): “Then let's finish this quickly, sweetheart.”
The pigs rush forward in coordinated waves, using trench tactics and pulse grenades. They break the outer perimeter with minimal casualties.
Approaching the compound doors, automated turrets mow down 2 pigs in the lead while the two behind disable one turret with a grenade launcher. Nikara rolls under the second turret, jamming a detonator into its base. It explodes in a fiery rain of parts.
Two mech suits stomp through the rubble, crushing another pair of pigs before they could react. Z1N leaps over the troop formation, boot jets flaring. He slices through both mechs with his plasma katana, and quotes Sun Tzu.
Z1N: “Victorious warriors win first, then go to war.”
In a rush the swine formation pours through the outer doors of the main building, pulse rifles dropping undisciplined mercs with precision. It was clear the hired guns never anticipated a full on assault from elite forces, swine or otherwise. The compound falls silent. The Butcher and the last of his guard are holed up in the inner sanctum.
Six pigs stack outside a large reinforced door.
Sgt. Trotter: "Battering pulser!"
Two armored pigs rush the door with a large, pipe-like cylinder with handles middle and rear. The pipe slams the door as a large blue pulse shimmers over the door with a loud "BANG!" The door rockets into the room like a bullet.
Sgt. Trotter: "Frag out!"
Trotter tosses two flashbang grenades and the pig warriors quickly follow, pulse rifles blazing.
The inner sanctum: a dimly lit control room stacked with relics of the Butcher’s past—trophies, skulls, holo-photos of conquests. Six mercs lay still on the floor, still smoking from various pulse rifle wounds.
A lone figure, standing over a tactical display. General Marius Kreel, a.k.a. The Butcher—older now, scarred, but unrepentant. He turns slowly, arms raised in mock surrender.
The Butcher: “Well, well. The bacon finally comes home to roast.”
Trotter rushes with blinding speed. Leaps the tactical display table, hind hooves slamming into the grizzled general's chest, rifle butt connecting with his twisted smile. His body slams to the ground, his head violently colliding with the hard floor. Blood and dust mix. The Butcher coughs, smiling through broken teeth.
Sgt. Trotter (snarls): “You’re lucky we need you alive for the Chancellor’s call. Otherwise I’d gut you now and hang you from your own ego.”
Trotter pulls a small black cube from a belt-pouch behind his back. A blue projection flickers to life. Chancellor Oinksworth appears, solemn and regal.
Oinksworth (calmly): “Marius Kreel. You stand in the belly of your own sins. You have been judged guilty. Today payment will be rendered. Do you remember the children of Soot-Gulch? Do you remember their screams?”
The Butcher (defiant): “Filthy animals. I’d burn ‘em again if I could.”
Oinksworth (with cold precision): “You won’t. This war ends as it began - with you.”
Sgt. Trotter: “Chancellor… orders?”
Oinksworth (pauses, then): “Execute him. But make it clean, Seargant. We are not him.”
Trotter raises his rifle. The Butcher doesn’t beg. He just sneers one last time.
The Butcher: “You’ll never be more than talking meat...”
One shot silences him.
The room goes still.
Julian (over comm, deadpan): “Pretty sure we just made the top ten most wanted… again.”
Nikara (panting): “Worth it.”
Z1N (bowing slightly): “Justice has been served. Medium rare.”
Outside the compound, the warrior swine gather solemnly around the few fallen, lifting their dead, singing a low, rumbling war hymn in their guttural tongue. The Fogrunner lowers to pick up survivors as fire consumes the last of the Butcher’s hideout.
Oinksworth: "Captain Fog, your assassin and robot warrior fought heroically. And several of our warriors will see their piglets thanks to them. Credits cannot repay our debt to you."
Julian: "Oh boy! Please tell me I'm getting paid."
Oinksworth: "Our deal will be honored. But know that you are now an honored boar for your part in this historic day. Your enemies are our enemies. You and your descendants have the covering of the Iron Hooves of Nebulon-4 for all time."
Julian: "Um. Thanks. So these hooves are for all my enemies?."
Oinksworth: "We are in your debt. You and your sow are our kin."
Julian: (scratching his ear) "Okay. I like it."
ITCHY BUSINESS
It wasn’t long before Julian noticed the rash.
It started behind his ear. Spread to his neck. Then his armpit. Then his self-esteem.
Julian (scratching furiously): “Mollie… please tell me I haven’t caught space herpes from a herd of bloodthirsty pig soldiers.”
M.O.L.L.I.E.: “It’s technically called Zoonotic Aeroswine Dermatitis. Highly contagious. Very itchy.”
Julian: “You couldn’t just say no?”
M.O.L.L.I.E.: “I like being thorough. Also, your eyebrows are falling out.”
Julian: “FRAZ!”
Nikara: "You look a little piggish yourself."
Julian: "You're still here?"
Nikara: "Someone has to protect you from yourself. And apparently I'm your sow!"
M.O.L.L.I.E.: "I was taking care of Julian just fine before you arrived."
Nikara: "Yeah. I can tell."
DATE TIME
Julian sat on the cargo bay floor, bandaged, itching, and covered in glitter for reasons no one could explain.
Z1N: “I have learned much from the hover hogs. Mainly humility.”
Julian: “I’ve learned they are contagious.”
M.O.L.L.I.E.: “I’ve learned you’re developing a resistance to antihistamines.”
Nikara: "I've learned the pigs' payout can pay for a nice date."
Julian stood, scratched one last time, and cracked his neck.
Julian: “Okay. I like the big payday. But we drop these pigs off and no more livestock. Ever. Next job—simple, clean, no hooves. And it's time for that date. You're gonna love it.”
Coming Next Week: Episode Five – “Love, Lavafalls and Leather. ”
Julian takes Nikara to an exotic world for their date. However, he may have other plans and another hotel room may need to have fire extinguishers ready.
