Chapter 1 part 3

The Half-Spec Blaster

The Half-Spec Blaster

The half-spec blaster is an oddity—awkwardly sized, clumsy in close quarters, and lacking the punch of a full plasma rifle. It feels like the result of someone trying to invent a better weapon and giving up halfway through. Too bulky to holster at your hip, too underpowered to call a rifle, it sits in a weird middle ground that makes most soldiers roll their eyes.

Back in previous life, we used to say: “Too big for a sidearm, too small for a rifle.” It fits this weapon perfectly. Still, out here in deep space, you learn that any weapon is better than no weapon—especially when it's the only one you can count on. You won’t see the Galactic Vanguard training with one, and the official forces wouldn’t touch it with a ten-meter pole.

But me? I’ve got a soft spot for this clunky, misfit blaster. Sure, it’s heavy and the range isn’t great, but I tweaked it for a very specific use. It's not flashy, but it’s adaptable. And when you've put in the kind of work I have, that counts for something.

I first found it on a rusted-out station far off in the outer rim, in a junk crate near a leaky airlock. Some half-suspect trader had tossed it in with old gear and busted parts, selling it off as scrap. It didn’t even have a working battery. I had to dig around the station, patch it together from salvaged tech, and reroute its systems just to get it to spark. Definitely not the deal I thought I was getting—but somehow, that struggle made it mine. It’s more than a tool now. It's a piece of my story.

"Alright then, old friend, let’s dance," I whispered, giving the blaster a tap.

“Screeek!”

The shot lit up my visor with a white flash. No recoil, just a faint crackle in my helmet’s audio feed. The plasma bolt ripped straight through the Krivven’s chest. Three down. One left. It was already crawling, dragging a damaged leg, bleeding that shimmering, sickly fluid they leak when you hit something vital.

Krivvens. Vicious little space-goblins xenobeast. Fast, sneaky, and always multiplying. They chew through wires, nest in cargo holds, and spread like mold if you’re not careful. Their cousins, the Skreeks, live out in asteroid fields—just as nasty, maybe worse in zero gravity.

“Hisssss…”

“Sorry,” I said flatly. “Nothing personal.”

My bounty was simple: wipe out a rogue Krivven pack harassing the outer colonies. The last one—the leader—was a monster of a beast, still alive and flailing. If I finished it off, the rest would scatter or die off on their own.

The colonists in this sector aren’t helpless. They’ve got pressurized domes, mining lasers, and enough tools to put up a fight. But leaders rally the packs. Kill the leader, and you buy people time to breathe.

“Rest in the void,” I muttered. The blaster gave a soft hum, almost like it agreed.

I checked my air levels—plenty left. I aimed and fired. The bolt struck its throat clean, cutting the hiss short. With that done, I crouched near their twitching forms and started collecting the proof. Bounty rules require Krivven ears—something about bio-signatures. I don’t know who decided ears were the standard, but they smell horrible. Always have.

“Ugh, bio-fluid,” I grumbled, trying not to gag as the goo clung to my gloves. I fired one more blast into the leader’s chest—not strictly necessary, but satisfying. Krivven guts are worse than red tape. Barely.

“…That should hit my quota for the month,” I muttered, pocketing the ears. I poked through their gear, scooping up some tech scraps and rare minerals. Nothing fancy, but every bit helps. 

Then I headed back to the shuttle. Two hours by short-range flight—long enough to nap, short enough to be annoyed by the wait. When I finally unsealed my helmet, the stale recycled air inside the shuttle almost felt like home. The soft hum of the engine and the gentle vibration through the seat started to lull me. Life in space has a rhythm. And somehow, I’ve found my place in it.

The guild station smelled like oil, plasma discharge, and cheap synth food.

“Four ears, including the alpha,” I said, dropping the proof at the processing desk. The recycled air had that faint tang of cleaning chemicals.

The clerk gave a nod and ran them through the scanner. “Confirmed. One alpha, three standard. A-rank contribution. Nicely done, Narwhal.”

“Yeah,” I said. Not that it meant much. The credits were modest. Krivven jobs never pay well—they’re meant to be manageable and encourage people to clean up the less glamorous messes. But the real currency here is contribution points. Stack up enough and you can skip out on the big, deadly jobs. That’s the dream.

“Still hunting Krivvens?” asked Mirai, the station receptionist, raising an eyebrow as I handed in the forms.

“Why not? Keeps me fed.”

“You could take the Silver-tier test,” she said, tapping her pad. “More pay, better work.”

“No thanks.” Bronze tier suits me fine. Silver sounds good on paper—more prestige, bigger rewards—but it comes with more risk and way more hassle. I prefer staying under the radar.

“Figures.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Back to the bar?”

“Of course. Care to join me?”

“Still on duty,” she said with a smirk.

“Tch. No fun.” I shrugged. She’s sharp, polished, and way out of my league. Receptionists like her are basically the face of the guild—cool uniforms, cool demeanor, and zero time for slacker bounty hunters like me. I don’t take it personally. There’s comfort in knowing your place.

I dropped my helmet onto the common area table. “Drinking time~ Drinking time~”

“Narwhal, done for the cycle?” The voice was unmistakable.

I turned slowly, still adjusting to gravity again, and saw Burger’s wide frame filling the hallway, backlit by flickering signs.

“Yo, Burger. Yeah, cleaned up a nest. Got the points. Sent the last one off with a warm plasma goodbye.”

“Nice. Same spot as usual?”

“You treating?”

"As if I could afford that!" He snorted, his strange beards twitching with amusement. The cantina’s stale air smelled like spiced fake ale and fried space squid. "Pay your own tab, you moocher."

Burger is… well, he’s something to look at. A rough-around-the-edges space traveler with gear so beat-up that any newbie would write him off: a banged-up shield strapped to his side and an electric spear that’s clearly been fixed way too many times. But behind that plain look is a fighter who’s seen more battles than most. He’s been a mid-tier guild veteran for years, getting by on toughness and steady skill instead of fancy tricks. When I first washed up on this station, lost and straight out of some nowhere colony, Burger was the one who taught me the basics. Out here, he’s like an older brother—gruff, no-nonsense, and always teasing me about my bad decisions.

Now we’re just two lonely space drifters, sipping cheap fake beers and trading tales of small wins. The cantina’s air vents buzzed softly under the steady thump of electronic music.

“So you’re still dragging that thing around?” Burger asked, gesturing at my blaster.

“You got a problem with it?” I grinned. “I’ll use it until it crumbles.”

The half-spec blaster might not impress anyone, but it’s mine. A project. A symbol of making the best out of scraps. I’ll keep upgrading it until it can’t shoot anymore.

“No problem,” he said, beards twitching in disbelief. “Just saying—it’s a mess of a weapon. Too big for a pistol, too weird for a rifle. Like using a welding torch to cut steak.”

“Once you get the hang of it, it works fine,” I said, patting it. “It’s got personality.”

Burger gave me a long look. “That’s the most nonsense thing I’ve heard all week.”

I just smiled. Some things don’t need to make sense to anyone else.

We made our way to the usual dive—a dim bar with sticky floors, dim lighting, and synth-music pulsing low enough to rattle your bones. The air smelled like recycled grease and burnt protein. Dinner was synthetic beer and skewered meat substitute. Not glamorous, but it beat rations. In space, luxury means having something warm in your stomach and no one shooting at you.

"To another day alive," I said, raising my mug. "And to working oxygen filters," Burger added, clinking his against mine.

“Cheers.”

Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, victory tastes like cheap beer and grilled cubes. And that’s enough.

Author's Note:

Ah, welcome back, dear reader, to another thrilling installment of "Why Settle for a Normal Weapon When You Can Have a Half-Spec Blaster?" If you thought our protagonist's adventures were all about mopping floors and punching idiots, think again. This time, we dive into the delightful world of oddball weaponry and intergalactic pest control.

Yes, you read that right. Our hero is back, and this time, he's not just cleaning up messes—he's making them. With his trusty half-spec blaster, of course. This weapon might be awkwardly sized, clumsy in close quarters, and lacking the punch of a full plasma rifle, but it's got personality. And in a galaxy full of danger, personality counts for something.

Now, you might be thinking, "But why would anyone use such a clunky, misfit blaster?" Oh, dear reader, you underestimate the power of adaptability. Our protagonist might not have the flashiest or most powerful weapon, but he knows how to make it work. And when you've put in the kind of work he has, that counts for something.

So, sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. Watch as our hero takes on a pack of vicious Krivvens with nothing but his trusty half-spec blaster and a whole lot of attitude. And remember, dear reader: when the stars are full of danger, it's better to be overlooked than overestimated. But if you do find yourself in a fight, make sure you've got a weapon with personality.