Bitchin' Betty Ch. 01

Sergeant Darbe chewed thoughtfully on the end of his cigar, turning it in his mouth while he absent-mindedly punched a series of numbers into the glowing red keypad at his fingertips. His chewing paused for a long moment... then the keypad beeped twice and turned green. His chewing resumed. In front of him a man-sized pod began to disassemble to a symphony of clinks, clanks and hissing air. Eventually the front fell away and the thing inside made to take a step out of the chamber. Its foot halfway to the ground, it paused, spun on its heel and reached into the recesses of the pod. Darbe's brow furrowed as he watched the figure fumbling with something. He chewed some more on the end of his cigar then rolled it to the opposite corner of his mouth and chewed again. Finally the man (for it was quite apparent now that that's what the figure was) turned and stepped out of the pod, his shape no longer made indistinct by the clouds of compressed air still pouring into the room.

Darbe studied the man in front of him, starting from his feet and moving up the perfectly proportioned and well muscled six foot body. His gaze finally rested on the man's mouth, occupied by what looked to be a long-frozen waffle. Darbe sighed and shook his head slowly.

"Mnmnen caf'n," the man said before reaching up to remove the waffle from his mouth. "Sorry, evenin' Cap'n." Darbe shook his head again and corrected the man.

"It's Sergeant. I'm a sergeant, not a captain."

"Righto Cap-"

"Sergeant!"

The man stuffed the waffle back in his mouth and nodded, reminding himself: Ok, he's a captain... not a sergeant... got it. He then walked over to a nearby closet and knelt down, pulling out various pieces of armor and tossing them over his shoulder into a heap on the floor. After a minute or so his hands rested on a pair of boots and he smiled around his waffle. He turned and sat down on the cold steel floor and began to pull the boots on while he listened to Darbe muttering something under his breath about "there's got to be someone else."

He continued to struggle with his boot for a moment then paused to readjust the waffle in his mouth. Darbe looked up at the seated man and sighed again.

"Well? What do you remember?"

He appeared to have caught the man off-guard, for he just sat there with a puzzled look on his face and a thin tendril of drool escaping the corner of his mouth around the slowly softening waffle. He sat there for a couple more seconds before resuming his struggle with the boot, finally yanking it on and wiggling his toes to get comfortable. Satisfied, he reached for the other boot. Thinking perhaps that the man hadn't heard him, Darbe cleared his throat and tried again.

"Ahem. What do you remember from before the cryo-chamber?"

The man sat up a little straighter, tugged on the boot a few more times, then shrugged and took a tentative bite out of the waffle.

"Don' memmer muff."

Darbe sat down hard on a chair and rubbed his temple gently, waited for the man to finish his mouthful of waffle and try again.

Chew, chew. Swallow. Chew, swallow.

"Mm, awfully bad manners of me eating like this in front of you Cap'n, but cryo-chambers do that to ya. I said, 'Don't remember much.'"

Darbe made to correct him then thought better of it and let it slide. He leaned back and seemed to suddenly remember the well-chewed cigar in his mouth. Rolling it to one side of his mouth he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small lighter, lit the cigar, then replaced the lighter. The man crinkled his nose at the smell of burning cigar and then turned to pull out another piece of armor from the pile. His hands rested on the neoprene suit that was made to lie under the armor and grabbed it. He looked down at his booted feet, then back to the neoprene suit, then back to his boots and frowned. Darbe drew in a deep puff from the cigar and watched in amusement.

The man sat there for a few moments, his mind furiously working at how he could possibly get the suit on without taking his boots off. Finally he gave up and started to pull his boots off with much muttering and swearing under his breath. Darbe suppressed a laugh and took another puff from the cigar, blew it out in a ring of smoke and started to brief the man.

"It's 2463 AD. You've been in cryo for about 30 years."

The man paused from taking off his boots and looked up at Darbe with a blank face.

Silence.

"The Emperor is on his death bed and his nephew is taking steps to assume the throne. His nephew is corrupt and cares little for the galactic populace."

The man swallowed another bite from his waffle and continued to stare blankly at Darbe. The sergeant shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another deep puff from his cigar.

"I... that is we... we want you to eliminate the nephew before he can screw up the Empire even more."

The man sitting on the floor thought about this for a minute. The "Empire"--whatever that was-- was corrupt--whatever that meant--and these people--whoever they were--wanted him to eliminate the dying Emperor's nephew--that part he understood. He swallowed another bite of his waffle and in the dim recesses of his mind it occurred to him that he had a name. Damn cryo-chambers. His face screwed up in concentration as he tried to remember his name. D... D... Well it was D-something.

"Hello? Are you listening to me?"

The man snapped out of his reverie and looked up at the strange person sitting in front of him with a cigar in his mouth. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion and looked around him warily. Satisfied that he wasn't in any immediate danger he looked back to the man with the cigar and a name flashed into his mind.

"Darbe, hi... What was my name again? It started with a D didn't it?"

The man with the cigar looked at him strangely and rolled his cigar around in his mouth a few times. He leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes.

"Put on your suit and get the helmet on."

The young man's gaze drifted back to the pile of armor on the floor next to him, his eyes drawn to the helmet that seemed to be begging to be put on. Forgetting the lesson he had learned about the hidden order his armor seemed to have in being put on, he grabbed the helmet and slipped it over his head.

Hi Diego! piped a small female voice in his head.

Diego jumped and looked around manically searching for the source of the voice.

Stop being silly, I'm right here.

He spun around expecting to see a small gnome in a flowery pink dress behind him. Nothing. He turned back around.

Oh my, my... the cryo-chamber seems to have taken a toll on your memory.

Ok, maybe not a flowery pink dress.