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TERRO DITTLEY
Terro Dittley of Freeride wasn't a cruel man. He wasn't nasty and he wasn't mean. He was driven, sure, but then who wasn't in the competitive field of Personal Armaments?
He made, forged and designed weapons for the rich and the poor alike. He also had a collection of found objects, bought from those who ventured into the Wastelands, or deep and wide about the Droke. His personal favourite was an eighteen kilogram, finned mortar. It was a relic of a time before the time before, way back before the What Came Before was even a twinkle in a cruel deity's eye. It was once used to destroy obstacles, to breach a door or a wall. In fact practically everything in his collection killed or maimed in some pointlessly destructive way. But to him, they were objets d'art; works of pure beauty.
He had tried to be an Engineer, way back in his past, but he showed no particular aptitude for it. He liked the combination of matter and machine; organic and electronic. Though he tried, failed often and still got back up and tried again, showed the courage he had inside, but it was ultimately fruitless. He just didn't cut it. He, simply, wasn't good enough. So he turned to weapons. It seemed a viable option, a possible alternative. Both involved war - both involved violence. Oh, it didn't kill the man inside. It just turned his core a little bitter. But, of course, not cruel with it. Never that.
However, there was a mysterious side to Terro Dittley - one very few witnessed.
Sometimes, people asked for rather specific types of things - things that weren't entirely sanctioned, or legal, depending on your definition. But Terro loved to make things. He needed to make his hands useful, or else he would lose the skills that took so long to accumulate.
He had been instructed by a very wealthy man to create a weapon that was both deadly and completely concealable as an everyday object, one this wealthy client could carry with impunity. Terro had set to work immediately on the project. He looked around, visited the markets, ate a delicious meal at a fine Eatery, one that had become quite popular of late; sketched, scrapped and sketched some more, until he hit upon the solution. He ventured into his workspace, below his shop, and set about manufacturing this unique object. He slaved, taking no breaks and often fell asleep at his counter above during the day. What he ended up with was a masterpiece. A thing of beauty, even to the most ardent pacifist.
Trouble was, it was too good. It was too beautiful. And, he decided, it was his. He made the decision, and that decision was to keep it for himself. He had conceived of it, made it, put his blood sweat and tears into it. It belonged to him. Sure, the price was substantial, but he didn't feel he wanted to part with it. And he wouldn't. No matter what.
A couple of days passed, and the wealthy man's representative came to the shop. He watched as Terro served his last customer, thanked them for their custom and moved to the door to shut and lock it.
"Do you have it?" asked the man, not expecting any reply other than yes.
"We have a problem." explained Terro, as he returned to the counter, tidying up the display that had been variously disrupted during the day's business.
"No, Dittley. There is no problem. You are being paid -"
"It's not for sale."
"It's not up for debate -"
"It's not for sale." repeated Terro, shrugging dismissively.
"Interrupt me again and see what happens. Go get it, and stop being a silly man."
"I made it. It's mine."
The representative walked up to the counter, picking up the finned mortar Terro prized so much. He began to wave it around, "You were paid, for a job. Having completed that job, you are to give - to me - that finished product, so that I may return to my boss with said product, because if I don't, I get to lose parts of my body that I would rather keep. Imagine with that incentive what I will do to you if you don't go right now and get my fucking product! Now!" The counter was drenched in spittle.
"You cannot intimidate me. I've seen your type come and go in this business. You think yourselves so high and mighty. You come in places like this and push people around. You, Sir, are nothing. Let me tell you something - do you know why I do the things I do? Do you want to know?" asked Terro, venom in his eyes and in his throat. He slammed his fist into the counter, rattling the objects upon it. Insanity flashed before him then, like a passing shadow or a flash of light.
"Not really." said the representative, slamming the finned mortar back onto the counter, where it flared up and shot out, colliding with Terro's chest, lifting him from his feet and crashing him into the storeroom behind him, where he exploded into pieces on the wall that he had struck. The explosion created a large hole, through which could be seen the bustling streets, and the life of Freeride beyond.
However, it can be said, though it really shouldn't, that he was literally hoisted on his own petard. Ouch.
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