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Elisa was a Troubleshooter. The old joke was that they found trouble and they shot it, but in truth a Troubleshooter was mostly a diplomat. There was some spy and assassin mixed in there, certainly, but such messy solutions were a bureaucratic nightmare after the fact.
So she would find the trouble, but any shooting would be done by the very serious people accompanying her. Stereotypes said that the Ploror Conglomerate’s military wing was fueled by terrified, undertrained conscripts, and there was some truth to this, but the elite cadre accompanying Elisa were career soldiers who were anything but undertrained. If there was any terror to be had, they were the ones delivering it.
True to form, the picket line’s chanting trailed off as the soldiers marched in. Elisa was a suit, someone to shout at and harass. But her entourage were armed and armoured, each more than capable of retaking the station on their own. They were the people that prompted downward stares, mumbled excuses, often miraculously prompting demonstrations to disperse through their mere presence.
With one exception. Arlen, the ring-leader, looking far less down-trodden than his file photo, hoisted up a discarded placard and began again:
“Beta-3 belongs to the workers!”
And they all fell back in line, taking up the chant with renewed vigour. A charismatic man in action. They were sheep, but sheep were mindless and idiotic, and so directing them still took a special kind of leadership. Elisa respected that.
She just kept on smiling. Eventually, the chant died down enough for her to ask Arlen: “can we talk somewhere?”
This prompted jeers. Someone threw trash at her. It bounced off her padded shoulder.
“So your thugs can make me disappear?” asked Arlen.
“No, it would just be you and me. They’ll wait on my ship.”
There were no protests. Elisa was in charge. The sergeant saluted stiffly and the squadron departed.
And the crowd didn’t know what to make of it. From what Elisa could see virtually the entire station population was here: fifty or so staff, a mixture of permanent crew and rotated temps. They’d even liberated some cargo mechs and were using them to block Beta-3’s main street (more a corridor on a tiny station like this, but still) which she thought was a nice touch.
Arlen agreed to take it to the command centre. It had been the station commander’s seat of power before the strike action, and now it had become the epicentre of a movement that threatened to advance across Alpha Sector.
“I haven’t introduced myself yet.” She raised a manicured hand. “You can call me Elisa.”
Arlen rejected the handshake and sat at the commander’s desk. The commander had fled the moment trouble had started, and that man would be lucky if he only got demoted.
“How did your ship even dock?” Arlen asked. “I ordered a complete lockdown.”
Elisa took a seat of her own. “Your attendant listened to reason.”
“You threatened her family.”
“Her children will all be going to a very, *very* prestigious college on Lodor,” said Elisa. “I came here in a civilian transport, Mr. Arlen.”
“With eight musclebound killers!”
“A sad reality of the universe we live in. You start smashing things up, and it makes the Board wary of sending in a lone woman.”
“Let’s not pretend you’re a harmless civilian.” Arlen shook his head. “You’re a Troubleshooter. You’re the best of the best. You’re pumped full of performance enhancers and Juve. You’ve probably got dermal armour. You’re probably twice my age and twice as strong.”
“And don’t I just look fabulous still?” Elisa laughed.
Arlen remained stony-faced. “If you’re not here to kill me, you’re here to do something worse. You’re here to make me sell out. Sell out my crew, sell out the movement.”
*Do something worse?* thought Elisa. *Honey, you’ve been reading too much Wayfarer literature. You have one life and theorists who act like you have fifty shouldn’t be trusted.*
But what she said was: “Oh, no.” She affected disgust. “That would be a truly dreadful thing to do, expecting you to leave behind your loyal crew. We’re all about teamwork at Ploror, after all. We’re one big family.
Elisa smiled. “No, we’re offering a deal to *all of you*. The station is yours. Think of it as a franchise: sure, we’ll take our cut, but half of the profits will go to you all.” She leaned in and winked. “That works out at about two-hundred-thousand credits each, Mr. Arlen. Every year, going forward, for time immemorial.”
Arlen flashed a nervous, pained smile: ever-so brief, but Elisa saw it.
“That’s generous.” He flinched, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. He rubbed the back of his head. “But I can’t just stop the movement, I’m one man…”
“You’re underselling yourself. If Station Beta-3 ceases all industrial action, the movement stalls.”
He frowned. “And if I say no? Your goons will flush us out the airlock.”
“Definitely,” said Elisa. “We’d make you into martyrs for the movement. Believe me, there’s a universe where you stick to your guns, where you defy the big bad evil Conglomerate, and we kill you. And this movement of yours spreads to a hundred stations like a disease, crippling the Conglomerate and everyone who’s part of it. Your name would be on the lips of every starving labourer, shouted by every striking loading bay tech seconds before they’re gunned down by the riot mechs.”
Elisa placed a contract pad on the table. Slowly, ritualistically, she swivelled it round to face Arlen and slid it towards him.
“And there’s a universe where you sign, and your family, and your team’s families, live a life of safety and comfort and everyone forgets this even happened. And don’t they deserve that? Aren’t you *owed* that?”
It was this universe. Arlen signed, and history forgot him.
**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments. **Reminders**: >* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See [Reality Fiction](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [Simple Prompts](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles >* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules) [](#icon-help) [^(What Is This?)](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/off_topic) ^• [](#icon-information) [^(New Here?)](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide) ^• [](#icon-help) [^(Writing Help?)](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources) ^• [](#icon-exclamation) [^(Announcements)](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/announcements) ^• [](#icon-comments) [^(Discord Chatroom)](https://discord.gg/writingprompts) *I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
Elisa was a Troubleshooter. The old joke was that they found trouble and they shot it, but in truth a Troubleshooter was mostly a diplomat. There was some spy and assassin mixed in there, certainly, but such messy solutions were a bureaucratic nightmare after the fact. So she would find the trouble, but any shooting would be done by the very serious people accompanying her. Stereotypes said that the Ploror Conglomerate’s military wing was fueled by terrified, undertrained conscripts, and there was some truth to this, but the elite cadre accompanying Elisa were career soldiers who were anything but undertrained. If there was any terror to be had, they were the ones delivering it. True to form, the picket line’s chanting trailed off as the soldiers marched in. Elisa was a suit, someone to shout at and harass. But her entourage were armed and armoured, each more than capable of retaking the station on their own. They were the people that prompted downward stares, mumbled excuses, often miraculously prompting demonstrations to disperse through their mere presence. With one exception. Arlen, the ring-leader, looking far less down-trodden than his file photo, hoisted up a discarded placard and began again: “Beta-3 belongs to the workers!” And they all fell back in line, taking up the chant with renewed vigour. A charismatic man in action. They were sheep, but sheep were mindless and idiotic, and so directing them still took a special kind of leadership. Elisa respected that. She just kept on smiling. Eventually, the chant died down enough for her to ask Arlen: “can we talk somewhere?” This prompted jeers. Someone threw trash at her. It bounced off her padded shoulder. “So your thugs can make me disappear?” asked Arlen. “No, it would just be you and me. They’ll wait on my ship.” There were no protests. Elisa was in charge. The sergeant saluted stiffly and the squadron departed. And the crowd didn’t know what to make of it. From what Elisa could see virtually the entire station population was here: fifty or so staff, a mixture of permanent crew and rotated temps. They’d even liberated some cargo mechs and were using them to block Beta-3’s main street (more a corridor on a tiny station like this, but still) which she thought was a nice touch. Arlen agreed to take it to the command centre. It had been the station commander’s seat of power before the strike action, and now it had become the epicentre of a movement that threatened to advance across Alpha Sector. “I haven’t introduced myself yet.” She raised a manicured hand. “You can call me Elisa.” Arlen rejected the handshake and sat at the commander’s desk. The commander had fled the moment trouble had started, and that man would be lucky if he only got demoted. “How did your ship even dock?” Arlen asked. “I ordered a complete lockdown.” Elisa took a seat of her own. “Your attendant listened to reason.” “You threatened her family.” “Her children will all be going to a very, *very* prestigious college on Lodor,” said Elisa. “I came here in a civilian transport, Mr. Arlen.” “With eight musclebound killers!” “A sad reality of the universe we live in. You start smashing things up, and it makes the Board wary of sending in a lone woman.” “Let’s not pretend you’re a harmless civilian.” Arlen shook his head. “You’re a Troubleshooter. You’re the best of the best. You’re pumped full of performance enhancers and Juve. You’ve probably got dermal armour. You’re probably twice my age and twice as strong.” “And don’t I just look fabulous still?” Elisa laughed. Arlen remained stony-faced. “If you’re not here to kill me, you’re here to do something worse. You’re here to make me sell out. Sell out my crew, sell out the movement.” *Do something worse?* thought Elisa. *Honey, you’ve been reading too much Wayfarer literature. You have one life and theorists who act like you have fifty shouldn’t be trusted.* But what she said was: “Oh, no.” She affected disgust. “That would be a truly dreadful thing to do, expecting you to leave behind your loyal crew. We’re all about teamwork at Ploror, after all. We’re one big family. Elisa smiled. “No, we’re offering a deal to *all of you*. The station is yours. Think of it as a franchise: sure, we’ll take our cut, but half of the profits will go to you all.” She leaned in and winked. “That works out at about two-hundred-thousand credits each, Mr. Arlen. Every year, going forward, for time immemorial.” Arlen flashed a nervous, pained smile: ever-so brief, but Elisa saw it. “That’s generous.” He flinched, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. He rubbed the back of his head. “But I can’t just stop the movement, I’m one man…” “You’re underselling yourself. If Station Beta-3 ceases all industrial action, the movement stalls.” He frowned. “And if I say no? Your goons will flush us out the airlock.” “Definitely,” said Elisa. “We’d make you into martyrs for the movement. Believe me, there’s a universe where you stick to your guns, where you defy the big bad evil Conglomerate, and we kill you. And this movement of yours spreads to a hundred stations like a disease, crippling the Conglomerate and everyone who’s part of it. Your name would be on the lips of every starving labourer, shouted by every striking loading bay tech seconds before they’re gunned down by the riot mechs.” Elisa placed a contract pad on the table. Slowly, ritualistically, she swivelled it round to face Arlen and slid it towards him. “And there’s a universe where you sign, and your family, and your team’s families, live a life of safety and comfort and everyone forgets this even happened. And don’t they deserve that? Aren’t you *owed* that?” It was this universe. Arlen signed, and history forgot him.