Far above the glittering orb of Nyrene Terius, a small flotilla returned to real space from the dulled blues of Jump Gate travel. One by one, a total of seven ships came into full view and sensor detection of any and all who were watching. Three Cerf-Class Frigates, R.O.N. Requin, Taureau, and Vache, two R.O.N. Aventurier-Class Destroyers, Chien and Thon, and in the center of these escorts, a modified Epaisse-Class Armored Cargo ship, proudly adorned in the colors of the Royal Orleans Ambassadorial Ministry. Their engines spun up, pushing them forward and away from the gateway, out of the entry and exit arc that ingoing and outgoing travel had to make use of.

Broadcast over an open channel, a lightly accented voice spoke in Eden-Basic, addressing any military or civilian vessels of the Councillary Confederation in the area who perhaps had taken notice of their recent arrival and new presence. "This is Capitaine de frégate Beaulieu of the Kingdom of Nouvelle. We are formally announcing our presence in accordance with Interstellar Eden Accords, Statute 13.7. We will be in orbit above Nyrene Terius for the duration of time it shall take to remove all Orleans diplomatic personnel and property from the ground side of Nyrene Terius. Such actions for the formally removal and cessation of embassy operations upon Nyrene Terius shall take no longer than seventy-six standard hours. In accordance to Clause 5 of Statue 13.7, we formally state that we shall not submit to any inspections, boardings, or detainments of Orleans naval vessels or personnel. Any attempt to impede our actions will be seen as a breach of interstellar law, and such breaches will been as an act of aggression against the Kingdom of Orleans. We are formally and decisively withdraw all diplomatic presence from this region of space and once our endeavor is complete, shall turn over control of the vacated embassy complex to the provisional government of Nyrene Terius. Beaulieu out." The communique was finished, and the open broadcast ended. Nodding to the helmsman, a message was sent out over an encrypted channel to signal forward movement to the flotilla, the gathered ships slowly but decidedly making way to orbit above Nyrene Terius.

Orleans Space
Federation Frontier Station Pathway
Ambassador's Office

"This is a troubling development..." Ambassador Yando Rev said, sifting through several paper reports brought to him. Standing before him were three Intelligence Agents. "Before we lost contact, our listing post on Nyrene had confirmed increased offworld traffic." One of the agents, Carla Ramirez, spoke up. "Soon after Confederation troops landed and took the planet within mere days."

Ambassador Rev tossed the reports aside, leaning forward, his chin resting upon his clasped talons, his eyes drifting down at his sleek desk, he and most of Eden was all too aware of the situation on Nyrene. "This is damn bold of the Confederation." He said, his eyes shifting their gaze at the agents, he sighed heavily as he took a sharp turn with his chair, spinning himself up as he walked towards the ray-shielded window, taking in the serene sight outside. The station Pathway, with the generous, if extremely cautious graces of the King of Orleans, was allowed to orbit a fringe colony world in the far edges of Orleans Space, it was a recent addition, so starship traffic was minimal, allowing the Station's crew to appreciate it's semi-primordial presence.

"What of our people on the ground?" Ambassador Rev asked, turning to face the agents.

"We've haven't heard from them since.." One of the other agents, a Dathu named Laasin spoke grimly, he was around the same age as Ramirez.

"That's troubling..but expected." The Ambassador said. "It seems that our little outreach program will have to be accelerated."

"Agreed, Ambassador." The last of the agents spoke, another human by the name of Ian Zaamil spoke.

"The Confederation's little power grab in the region may stir up quite a storm." The Ambassador paused as he return to his chair, leaning forward. "As you are all have been made aware, the political situation in this part of the frontier is....fragile at the moment."

The trio simply nodded to the Ambassador as he continued.

"Coverage of the Duron Conflict had provided excellent cover for the CCN to enact their plans unimpeded." The agents remain silent, looking to one another briefly. "Which is why I have received clearance from the Chancellor herself to arrange a meeting with representatives of King Reynaud D'Reciet IV."

The three nodded once more in agreement. "What would have us do in the mean time?" Ramirez asked.

"Continue with your assignments in Orleans, monitor the Duron Conflict closely and be on alert." The three saluted and dismissed themselves, leaving the Ambassador to his thoughts as he spun his chair around the look out into the vastness of space.

“Get that transport loaded!” Sergeant Ross yelled. “NOW!” The Commonwealth sergeant aimed at figure of a being he could make out in the misty white cloud of tear gas. The rubber bullet he fired struck the being, eliciting a yelp of pain in reply.

“Sarge!” One of his subordinates yelled. “We’re on our last tear gas grenades!”

“How much longer till that transport is loaded?” Ross asked, firing another rubber bullet into the tear gas. The transport in question was a civilian shuttle they had managed to commandeer from a Commonwealth civilian freighter in orbit.

“Sixty seconds!” A second soldier answered.

“Tell those damned fools to hurry!” Ross ordered. They had been under siege ever since the military junta took control of Duro One. At first the Commonwealth embassy guard figured it would die down. When it became clear the situation was only going to get worse they had requested an extraction, which was quickly cleared and transportation was slated to arrive within the week. When it became clear that the rioters were going to give them a week the embassy had requested aid from any Commonwealth ships in orbit. Hence the single shuttle extraction.

“Take cover!” A soldier yelled, following his own advice and diving behind some sandbags as a petrol bomb soared in the air towards him. It fell short, with only a few flames reached the sandbags and quickly sputtering out.

Ross himself was forced to dive for cover when an individual using an assault rifle fired at him from within the tear gas. He could feel the riot ramping up. Soon they would rush the embassy in mass and he wouldn’t be able to hold them back. All he had was two squads, one of which was a militia squad.

“Fire the last of the tear gas grenades!” Ross ordered. Grenade launchers answered him, launching the last of his supply towards the mass of people beyond the embassy. “I am authorizing the use of lethal force. All soldiers are hereby ordered to switch to combat rounds and shoot to kill.” He connected his radio to the embassy’s system to use its loudspeakers to speak to the crowd. “Lethal force will now be used on any individuals who attempt to enter the embassy.”

“The transport is full and lifting off now!” One of Ross’s militia reported. Good. That meant half of the embassy would soon be safe. All he had to do was keep the rioters back for one more load and then he and his men could be extracted too.

He turned to watch the shuttle lift off and start to climb towards orbit. There was a flash of movement - a missile! - and then the shuttle was enveloped in a ball of fire. It would appear that Ross and his men wouldn’t be leaving the embassy any time soon.



“So let me get this straight,” President Brown said, “we have an embassy under siege, with barely enough soldiers to secure its perimeter during peaceful times, with no means of evacuation on hand, and we have already suffered significant loss of life amongst the embassy staff. Does that about summarize the situation?”

”Um… yes sir.” The secretary of defense answered.

”Please tell me the extraction force has already departed.”

”Well sir it's taking more time then expect to shake loose the ships we need-” The secretary was cut off by the president slamming his fist into his desk.

”Our people are getting killed out there!” He yelled. ”We should have forces there already to protect them!”

”Well yes, but our navy-”

”Why do we even have a navy if its incapable of protecting our people!” Brown took a deep breath to calm himself. ”Pull ships from the defense force here. Anything that can be spared.”

”But that’ll leave our defense forces here weakened!”

”Then so be it.” Brown shot back. ”If the relief force doesn’t leave within forty-eight hours I’ll see that you’re held responsible for the loss of every citizen’s life on that damned planet. And if there are any Rangers able to send them too.”

”Yes mister president. Is there anything else I can do?”

”Yes, yes there is. You can hand me your resignation before the end of the day.”

Location:





Subject:







So I ended up taking the job, after all. Shit, I couldn’t believe it either, honestly - not at first. Lil’ ol’ Wellsley, about to take on a motherfucking Gala-Grid drone security station.

Fuck, why am I doing this?!

The debt’s already settled - they called this morning. I haven’t seen Shawn’s guards at all - I’m not being followed. Is it greed? It’s greed, isn’t it? Christ, George, why’re you like this? Is it just to see if you can do it at this point? Are you really that curious?

Alright, alright - calm down, G.C.. Pray to God that you’re not rusty. You’ve got this. You’ve totally got this.

George knuckled his way through the dark, passing behind some sleeping Raygonian bums. A distant cackle broke through the soundscape and George dove for cover.

“Won again, bitches!” the voice continued to a choir of groans. George permitted himself a peek out of the shadows. There, across the street, in the light of an exhausted LED, a Qurok, Raygonian and Putt sat playing some kind of game - George couldn’t quite make it out. To his chagrin, though, he noticed that the way to the drone station was opposite of the group - worse yet, they were sitting in an open street. His eyes scanned the area in desperate search of some manner of cover. The shadows could do, perhaps.

“Bah! Ourm, you’re cheating!”

The putt put a hand on his chest and gasped. “Now, now - I’m a businessman, mr. Hippi, but cheat? You’re woundin’ me, man.”

The Raygonian presumably known as Mr. Hippi’s fist hammered the tabletop. “I JUST drew that card! How do you have it?” Ourm shrugged.

“I didn’t do anything, though! Jerry, did you see me do anything?”

The Qurok growled a deep ‘no’. The Putt gestured to him. “See?”

“Shut up, Jerry, you’re losing anyway!”

‘Oh’, was all the response Jerry could muster, looking somberly down at his cards. All of a sudden, there came the bang of metal. All three of them turned towards the sound.

“Who’s there?” Mr. Hippi spat. He rose from his chair and grabbed a bat he had hidden under the table; Ourm unholstered a rusty pistol; Jerry flexed and unflexed his fingers, on which he clearly had been wearing knuckle irons. “Come on out!” Mr. Hippi called again and golfed a rusty can into a distant wall.

“Under there,” Ourm snapped and fired a shot. It ricocheted off the reinforced concrete behind a pile of garbage and scrap, illiciting a panicked ‘ook’. A shadow knuckled its way out from behind the garbage, tailed by a few more shots. “A god damn Simmie, holy moley.”

“You’re a shit fucking shot, Ourm,” Mr. Hippi muttered.

“Hey, it’s not like I use this thing that often.” They looked at one another. “Should we go after it?” Ourm asked.

‘Hungry,’ Jerry growled.

“Yeah, I’m with Jerry on this one, and you have all our money. I could go for a bite or two.”

“Jesus, guys, we’re not actually going to eat him?”

“No, jackass, we’re robbing him so we can get something to eat, duh!”

Jerry hung his head. ‘Oh.’

Both Ourm and Mr. Hippi frowned at him. “Alright, calm down, big guy. HappyBurger will have to do, alright? We, we don’t eat people.”

‘Ok…’

“Well, should we, y’know, give chase?”

“Yeah, sure.”

---

George had no idea how long he had been running - all he knew was that he had already passed the drone station by a long shot. He’d have to go back, and that meant sneaking past his pursuers. Christ, today of all days. Would they believe him if he said he had no money? Doubt they would.

“Come ooooout! My boys are starving, man - have some compassion and give us your money. We’ll tone down the pain if you do it right now. The longer you wait, though…” Another clang as a brick struck the very same garbage container George was hiding behind, causing him to freeze up. “... The worse it’ll be for you.”

The rip of thin plastic and subsequent cacophony of diverse falling garbage filled the soundscape, followed by two groans and a sigh. “God damn it, Jerry, look what you’ve done to yourself!”

‘Bag was older than I thought…’

“That’s always the case, though,” Ourm explained. “Nobody double bags down here. Jesus Christ, you smell even worse now.”

“We’ll pitch in. Get you a shower later, okay? This monkey better be fucking loaded.”

George’s quivering hands slowly reached down into his pocket, from where they extracted a butterfly knife. As quietly as he could, he locked it into blade mode and drew a number of panicked gasps through his teeth, praying to whatever deity was out there that they wouldn’t hear his heart jumping out of his chest.

“Oh shit.”

George held his breath.

“Yo, what’s up?”

“Sshh! Bobby incomin’.”

George’s eyes widened.

“A bobby? Fuck, of course it’d show up right now. A’ight, spread out, look busy.”

The rustle of plastic and floored garbage indicated his three pursuers went to hide or disguise themselves as upstanding citizens not in the middle of robbing someone. Sure enough, the rustling was soon drowned out by the slow, metallic clanks of robotic feet stepping through the street. Some more fierce whispering jumped between the three, sounding specifically aimed at the Qurok for some reason.

“CITIZEN. IDENTIFY YOURSELF.”

Oh, that was why.

“Uhm,” Jerry rumbled. “J-Jerry Lokamopolous Ruip III - citizen number, uh… “

“JERRY LOKAMOPOLOUS RUIP ONE-ONE-ONE.
CITIZEN NUMBER: BTC-051-143-223-768-132.
RESIDENCE: BT-BLOCK Y001-902-333.
OCCUPATION: UNEMPLOYED--”

“Don’t have to rub it in…”

“CRIMINAL RECORD:

• THEFT: 65 REPORTED CASES.
• ASSAULT: 13 REPORTED CASES.
• MURDER: 4 REPORTED CASES.

CURRENT ACTIVITY: LOITERING ON PRIVATE PROPERTY.”

“Private?”

George swallowed and looked around. As far as he could see, there weren’t any signs denoting property ownership. As quietly as he could, he opened his wristband panel, immediately breaking the quiet soundscape in the otherwise largely empty street with deafening ads. He tried as quickly as he could to close the screen down again, but the ads naturally had blockers over the exit buttons for the first five seconds of playing.

“SOUND DETECTED. CITIZEN BTC-051-143-223-768-132, DO YOU HAVE ACCOMPLICES?”

Jerry swallowed. “Nah, must be the ape.” In the distance, George could hear one of Jerry’s friends hushing violently.

“ELABORATE.”

“Chasing an ape,” Jerry muttered. George suddenly noticed a scramble of plastic nearby.

“‘CHASING AN APE’ NOTED IN CONFESSION. VIOLATION OF PRIVATE CITIZEN NAP ADDED TO LIST OF CRIMES. YOUR PUNISHMENT FOR TRANSGRESSING ON PRIVATE PROPERTY IS--”

“Wait, whose property is this?!” came suddenly Ourm’s voice in protest.

“CURRENT LOCATION: BT-BLOCK K221-015-004 “LIPGLOSS LANE”. OWNER: MAGNIFICO COSMETICS INCORPORATED. CITIZEN, IDENTIFY YOURSELF…”

Meanwhile, George was growing increasingly wary of the approaching sound. He tried to slide further away along the garbage contained, but shortly thereafter, he saw a thick fist grab onto the side of the contained. It pulled to itself a fat, grinning face with tiny, beady eyes.

“Hello, little monkey,” Mr. Hippi murmured sadistically. George choked on a scream and picked up a nearby clump of hardened sludge, chucking it at Mr. Hippi’s face. The Raygonian couldn’t dodge in time and snarled.

“UGH! Fuck, you’re fucking DEAD!” Mr. Hippi roared and began clawing his way towards George through the piles of garbage around them. George, meanwhile tried desperately to scramble to his feet, but found his tracks frozen by the approaching clanks of metal.

“COMMOTION DETECTED. EVERYONE - REMAIN CALM.” A red-coated robot fist the size of George’s whole torso grabbed the garbage contained and turned it over, revealing the Prrp & Sterlington Model 7B “Bobby” Peacekeeper Mech in all its frightening stature. Its thousand glass eyes analysed the scene, one Simmie holding a knife frozen in a crawling pose with a Raygonian grip about one of its feet. Mr. Hippi looked equally terrified.

“ASSAULT DETECTED. CALCULATING PUNISHMENT.”

“Jerry, help me!” Mr. Hippi squealed. The Qurok’s eyes darted around before he suddenly gave the robot a mighty push. The alien’s strength was actually considerable enough to cause the robot to stagger. However, the moment Jerry had shoved it, George saw that it dawned on his face what he had just done.

“Jerry, what the fu--” was all Ourm managed to get out before both he and Jerry were immediately peppered to bloody mush by the Bobby’s shoulder-mounted machine gun. Mr. Hippi drew a hacking gasp.

“G-guys?! GUYS?!”

“ASSAULT ON OFFICER OF THE LAW - PUNISHMENT CALCULATED: EXECUTION.” The machine then turned back to George and Mr. Hippi, only - Mr. Hippi had gone over to check on the mutilated corpses with teary eyes.

“CITIZEN, DO NOT MOVE. MOVING WILL BE CONSIDERED AN ATTEMPT TO FLEE THE CRIME SCENE.”

“Fuck you, Bobby! You killed my, my… Oh, God…”

George, meanwhile, tried to sneak its way up behind the Bobby. By now, the streets were slowly filling up with curious citizens looking for some entertainment.

“EVERYONE - STAY BACK. TO INTERFERE WITH BUSINESS OF THE LAW IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH,” the Bobby droned mercilessly and began stomping over to Mr. Hippi. However, just as it was about to take its first step, it stopped and droned some more, this stuff unintelligible. It stood frozen, and all the spectators eyed it curiously. Mr. Hippi mouthed some silent curses of disbelief. After a moment, a melody played.

“REBOOT COMPLETE. ADMINISTRATIVE CONTROLS GIVEN TO: USERNAME_CAESAR.”

George hopped out from behind the robot, holding a duct-taped and modified touch pad in his arms. He pointed at Mr. Hippi, whose eyes went wide with realisation, and screamed a loud “YAAAAH!”

“AFFIRMATIVE,” went the Bobby and immediately reduced the Raygonian to a carcass with more holes than Federation Cheese. The crowds, understanding what had just happened, suddenly went screaming for the hills. George took a moment to realise what he had just done, before also realising the attention he had drawn to himself. Without a moment to lose, he knuckled his way back the way he came, his trusty Bobby following along faithfully.

---

Technically, I did the job perfectly after that. Sure, the original plan was to -sneak- in and hack the place - knock out some circuits, fuck up the charging stations, same old, same old. Still, those three a-assholes put that plan in jeopardy. Like, fuck, I got seen - I’m fucking dead. I had the Bobby level everything - the station, every camera spot along the way. Fuck, was that the right thing to do? Have I drawn more attention to myself?

For all they know, it could’a just been a Bobby that went rogue. Yeah, that’s right. Just a rampant Bobby. Happens all the time, right? Giant robot cops with machine guns and fists that could crush concrete blocks like fuckin’ pop rocks. I made sure to delete the OS, too - can’t be too careful. Anyway, jobs’ done, right? Better lay low until Shawn gets back to me.

Peripheral Colony of Aquarius
Orbital Dock 14

Several days had passed since Malcolm's fateful encounter with Agent Severis, enough time to have his own affairs set in order. He and Isana of course couldn't divulge the true details of their mission to the family, all that could be said however, was that they both would be reinstated for one last mission, along with announcing a truly well-deserved retirement to New Eden, much to the pleasure of their children and grandchildren.

-----------------

Malcolm, Isana and the others all sat alone in the troop bay of a razorwing dropship, the four enjoyed some small talk among themselves and with the pilots, exchanging some terrible jokes here and there. Occasionally the would pester Malcolm once or twice about his time in the war with the free stars, but eventually, they had finally arrived. "Commander, we're on approach to Orbital Dock 14." one of the pilots declared, following this, Malcolm stood up and walked over to the cockpit, followed by the others. Malcolm was first to sneak in the cockpit, taking in the view as they drew closer to the installation, the docked Retribution coming into view. Caris let out a loud whistle. "Impressive ship."

"She's a beauty." Giddy said.

The dropship continued its approach, moments passing as they finally entered one of the the Retribution's hanger bays, making its slow descent to the floor, the interior of the ship making a "thump" sensation. "Well Gentlemen." Malcolm spoke. "That's our que."

"Good luck, Commander." One of the pilots said.

"Give those bastards a good beating." The other pilot said.

"Will do." Malcolm said, backing away as he and his crew grabbed their luggage. The loading ramp lowered, the four stepping out into a wide hanger bay, buzzing with life as support staff, engineers and such were going about their duties. "Departure in 0300." The shipwide intercom announced. Malcolm took in the sight, his unit had only ever been on one of these fleet carriers once, and that was back the war.

Not too long after their arrival, the Gravemakers were greeted by a small group. The group was headed by the now former Captain of the Retribution, who extended his hand to Malcolm. "Commander." He begun. "Name's Julian Tanner, formerly captain of this ship, now your second in command."

"Pleasure to meet you Tanner." Malcolm said. "You familiar with my crew?"

"That's right, sir." Julian replied. "The Gravemakers, the banes of the frontier, we hear plenty of old "horror" stories about your exploits."

Isana chuckled a bit." Glad our reputation Precedes us."

"After all the hell we raised in the years, we better!" Giddy joked, letting out his own chuckle.

Julian nodded as he moved aside to let the others introduce themselves. The first among them was a Simmie dressed in an orange jumpsuit, around his neck was an audio translation device. The Simmie oook'd several times before the device sparked to life. "Hiya Bossman." The translator spoke with a distinct Old Earth English accent, no clue what region though. "Names Alex Turner, Chief Engineer of this 'here girl." Another stepped forward, a tall, well-built young man, he stood at attention and saluted to the Commander specifically. “Colonel Xavier Sanders, sir!” He declared. “1st Joint Ground Operations Detachment and chief of security.” Colonel Sanders stood back as he allowed an older woman in a medical uniform to step forward, shook hands with each one of the Gravemakers. “Dr. Tamala Hoshi at your service. First Medical Officer of the Retribution.”

“Hmm, a pleasure, doctor.” Carris winked at the doctor with a sly grin. She simply smiled it off. Ending the brief awkward moment was the sudden introduction of another recent group of arrivals. A young woman dressed in a blue uniform typical of a field agent of Federal Intelligence was seen briskly walking towards them and with her was an entourage of armed men in similar, if lightly armored, uniforms. “Agent Silvia Connors.” She declared with an air of professionalism. “Intelligence Assault Division. I know this was unexpected, but the Director himself saw it necessary to have us assist you in your endeavors in whatever way we can.”

“I’ll take all the help I can, Agent.” Malcolm said with an approving nod, then followed by a loud yawn, stretching his arms out up in the air. “Now, if it’s all the same with you, I need shuteye.” He paused as he turned his attention onto Julian. “Captain Tanner, you have the helm for the time being.” Malcolm then scanned the whole group, nodding one more. “We’ve got good people here, and know that we’ll put to a stop to whatever the hell is going on out in the frontier.” He paused as he took a small breather. “We’ll save our people and countless others. We either go home losers and dead, or go home alive and as heroes, and I sure as hell ain’t planning on going home a dead loser, dismissed."

Orleans Space
Federation Frontier Station Pathway
Hangar Bay


“Ambassador Rev - I must again express my gratitude on behalf of my most humble soldiers that someone of your rank and stature would reach out to us. Truly, we are thankful,” burbled the Petalos female Yaenton Praetarei, CEO of SkullCorp™© Specialised Forces. Before them, in the vast hangar hall of the space station, stood a small force of a thousand human soldiers, armoured with titanium-reinforced kevlar over dark purple hyperfiber shirts. Apart from that, though, their look was far from uniform, helmets and hairstyles being completely optional. The weapon was of a single model, however - the Prrp & Sterlington Model 98 laser rifle, arguably the finest handheld weapon ever produced by that squid and ape. The soldiers gave the ambassador a proper salute despite their seemingly casual take on order and style.

“The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Praetarei.” Ambassador Rev said, dressed in a fine ebony colored suit, flanked by two guards. “Let’s discuss further details of your contract in my office, your men in the meantime can make free use of this station’s amenities.”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Force Commander - come here, please.”

The lady standing at the front of the battalion, a seemingly young human with side cuts underneath a long length of purple hair running down the right side of her head that matched her hyperfiber suit. She stomped one combat boot to the floor, marched forward until she arrived before the ambassador and the CEO, and saluted. “Yes, Ms. Praetarei?”

“Ambassador Rev, this is Force Commander Erina Thatch - she will serve as our primary representative to you once the contract has been signed, if it pleases. Commander Thatch, the ambassador has given you and your soldiers permission to use the amenities aboard the station as you see fit.”

Thatch turned so her body faced the ambassador and once again saluted. “Thank you, ambassador. It shall be a pleasure to relax after such a long jump.”

The ambassador gave a nod of acknowledge to Commander Thatch. “I’ll leave you to that, Commander.” He said, turning his attention back to the CEO. “This way, please.” A short time passes as both the Ambasaador Rev and Ms. Praetarei traversed the glistening corridors of Pathway station, passing by station personnel, all giving nods or salutes to the pair. Before long they would finally arrive to the Ambassador’s office, the doors sliding wide open to reveal a lavishly designed office space. The Ambassador took his seat near the edge of the room, a ray-shield window display right behind him. Rev leaned forward on his desk as he got comfortable. “Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Ambassador,” Ms. Praetarei said with a smile and sat down in a chair. She tapped the Raygon band on her left wrist and blinked at the brightness of the holographic display popping up before her. After lowering the brightness a little and tapping out of the ads not even her special subscription could subdue, she opened up a document on the screen, enlarged it and showed it to the ambassador. “Here we are. Everything is as we discussed pre-arrival, with one exception - after a second opinion from our arms supplier, we have decided to switch to hardier lithium-ion battery packs. That will add an additional… Let’s see here… Ah, yes, an additional five hundred thousand ITC credits to the already agreed amount. Is this agreeable still?”

“A bit steep, but acceptable.” The Ambassador said. He looked down to his desk as he pressed down a button. “Bring in the payment.” Within a few moments, a service android, one of those new models with their life-like humanoid faces, entered the room with a rather heavy briefcase. The Android approached the desk as it placed down the briefcase, unlocking it to unveil the previously agreed upon amount of credits. “Your additional payment will be transferred in a later date. I hope this will suffice for now.”

Ms. Praetarei graciously accepted the briefcase and whistled as she weighed it in her arms, looking rather strained doing so. “Oh, this will--... ‘Scuse me,” she said and deposited the briefcase back in the droid’s arms, huffing a little, “this will do wonderfully. Well, then - SkullCorp’s Fourth Battalion is yours to command, Ambassador. Is there anything else you would like to discuss? You mentioned further details?”

“Ah, yes. I did say that.” The Ambassador said. Rev leaned backed against his chair as he clasped his talons over his knees. “This isn’t public knowledge as of yet, technically hasn’t even happened yet.” Rev paused as he stood up from his chair and walked over to his wine cabinet, grabbing a glass and cracking open a bottle of Parravon wine. ”The Federation is planning to support the Orleans Invasion of Duro One. We simply await the official directive from the Madam Chancellor herself.” He paused once more, pouring the wine in his glass. “Oh, I apologize, would you like some? It’s simply exquisite.”

“Oh, why, yes, please,” Ms. Praetarei burbled happily and accepted a glass. She gave it a whiff, raised it to the ambassador and took a sip. “Oh my, that is fantastic. Mmm! But yes, if I am understanding you correctly, the Fourth should remain invisible for the time being, yes?”

The Ambassador nodded. “Correct, for now they are to remain on standby on this station. Once the Federation announces its support of the Orleans invasion and deploys its task force, the fourth will rendezvous with our forces near the planet’s orbit.”

Ms. Praetarei hummed to herself and took another sip of wine. “Understood. The message will be relayed to Commander Thatch. Does the station have combat simulation facilities? Holodecks or the like would suffice.”

Rev took a moment to sip of the wine. “The best we can offer are holodecks, your men can make use of them to their hearts desire.”

“Do these accept type 3 memory cartridges? Oh, sorry, that’s the standard in Raygon space. They’re the skinny ones, you know? Those that you put into the machine to set up a simulation?” She tried to mimic its shape with her hands. It looked square. “For legal reasons, we prefer to use our patented simulations, you understand.”
“Of course, of course.” Rev said. “Might put a bit of a strain on the system, but our holodecks are up to spec for the most part.”

“Fantastic. That should be no issue, in that case. We have to keep them in shape for the actual fighting.” She had some more wine. “Do you have any other questions, ambassador?”

“Oh no, you’re free to go Ms. Praetarei.” Rev said.” Only that I ask that this conversation stays between us. The Federation’s activities in the frontier is a…sensitive matter, I’m sure you understand.”

“Client discretion and secrecy are paramount to our company, mr. Ambassador. This conversation never happened and we’ve never been here.” Ms. Praetarei winked, downed the rest of her glass and stood up. She opened the display on her wrist, tapped out of the ads and eyed the time. “Well, then - I should be returning to Raygon. I’m certain our competitors will be tracing our ship, as usual. By the way, be on the lookout for additional offers - if the Desperados make contact, ignore them at all cost. They’ll rob you blind.”

“Duly noted” Rev nodded. “Regardless, the Federation only seeks the services of SkullCorp, your expertise is most useful in what we have planned.”

“We certainly hope to satisfy. As discussed, the Fourth thrive especially well when unseen. The model 98 fires laser beams soundlessly that can cut through ten inches of steel, so they are as useful in assassinations as they are in sabotage. Use them as you see fit, of course, but their assets will be best utilised in the shadows. They commonly operate far beyond the frontlines - separated into squads, naturally. What radio encryption does the Federation use again? Commander Thatch might need a copy of it to sync their relays.”

“Ah, my apologies, I’ll get that done.” Rev said as he took a seat once more as a holo-screen materialized before him. Pressing down several keys before a loud “bing” sound rung. “There, Federation Radio Encryptions have been uploaded into your wrist-comm. Your soldiers should have little trouble assessing fed-comms.”

“Fantastic. That should be all on my part, then. I wish you the best of luck in the coming conflict and certainly hope our soldiers live up to your expectations.” She spun around, took a step and stopped. “Oh, by the way, would it be too much to ask if you could fill out this customer satisfaction survey for today’s service?” Another “bing” sounded from the Ambassador’s screen. “It takes two minutes at the most. Thank you in advance. It has been a joy to do business with you, Ambassador Rev.”

Rev nodded. “The honor was mine, and farewell Ms. Praetarei.”

King Reynaud sat upon his throne, being briefed by a slew of advisors. He sipped a cup of coffee, listening intently to the senior staff within his inner circle. Troop movements, fleet dispositions, supply lines, casualties, and on. Important things, no doubt, but the King's mind was elsewhere. It was the request by the Madame Chancellor of Federation. Among other things, such as the CCN atrocities that were now being reported to him by the refugees that were saved from the embassy on Nyrene Terius. Holding up his right hand, he stood up from the throne, and walked towards the map table in the center of the room. He studied the layout of his forces upon Duro One. Each piece representing thousands of soldiers, men sworn to the Throne and to him. He turned to his senior Maréchal de Orleans, Vincent de Bournonville, a man who had served his own father for nearly thirty years.

"Maréchal Bournonville, you know more than most, so tell me, what will it take in order for us to bring this conflict on Duro One to a close? I do not want some drug out occupation neither. We can ill afford to expend forces playing police on Duro One. So tell everyone here, what will it take to bring that dictator to heel, and to bring him before justice?" The King's voice was calm, both hands now clasped behind him, having set his coffee cup down.

"Your grace... One Million men. We underestimated the level of resistance of President Gray. Général de brigade Marcel has offered his retirement, over this debacle, though I understand you refused it, and instead had him transferred to Headquarters duties. To defeat these terrorists, we need one million more men." He stood at parade rest, the elder officer looking at his King with respect. The other gathered officers nervously looked at one another, before peering at their king.

"One million men, granted. You will lead them personally, Maréchal Bournonville. I want you to show these Duro One usurpers what happens to those who defy the laws of Orleans, and seek to personally enrich themselves on the blood of others. When can you leave for the front, Maréchal Bournonville?" The King now stood face to face with his entrusted general. The two looked at one another, eyes locked, before the elder man smiled, "I can leave now your Grace, I will take my flagship and depart within the hour."

"Ever the Arctic Fox, aren't you? Good, good. Then you have my royal decree to take command of our forces. A further thing, Maréchal Bournonville, I want you to send a relief force to help out in the Embassy District of Duro One. It appears that local militias are trying to get a hold of foreign hostages. I will not allow foreign nationals to be used as shield against our noble cause. Understood?" The elder man nodded. "Your grace, I will send word to Colonel Cordelier, that sector is under his command. He will see to the defense of the foreigners. I will be heading out now, your grace. I look forward to seeing you once all this is over."

The elder man quickly exited the throne room, the double doors closing behind him. The king sighed, before turning to face his remaining senior staff. They were all good men, some battle tested, others rising through the ranks during times of peace. They all looked to their king, to see what would happen next. The king looked towards the map, before speaking to his senior staff. "I will personally meet with the Madame Chancellor of the Federation. The conflict on Duro One is but a symptom of a larger affliction. Those abominations of the CCN are a scourge to all sentient life in the galaxy, the longer we let them go unchecked, the longer they continue to spread their corruption. They are chaos incarnate, demons parading as sentient life, when all they care for is the death and assimilation of all life not in their image." King Reynaud walked to the map table, bringing up the digital display of Nyrene Terius.

"We were able to save some three thousand natives of Nyrene Terius, embassy staff and their families. From what they have been able to tell our intelligence personnel, those metal demons are butchering their people on a genocidal level. Furthermore, the bodies of our citizens have finally made it home..." King Reynaud grew quiet, motioning a staffer to bring up the images. He let the grisly pictures hover before everyone in the throne room. He looked at the dead with great sorrow, before speaking again, "They called what they did justice... all I see are the wanton desires of blood lusting demons." The image was replaced with a map once more. The king was visibly angry, as were many others in the room.

"Ready a fleet for travel. I plan on breaking bread with the Madame Chancellor. Her message was received, and we shall show her that the people of Orleans and those of the Federation can be worthwhile allies, in the wars to come against these agents of chaos, these demons of the CCN. I leave the rest to you for the time being, ensure that the realm continues to serve the Goddess, and I will be bringing Lady Avoleth with me to the Federation, so she may firsthand relay her experiences to the wider galaxy." The king sat back down in his throne, taking up a new cup of coffee, before beckoning his advisors and staff to continue on with their tasks. He sat, watching them, listening to them, as he prepared himself to meet with the Madame Chancellor.

They spoke of regional things, a drought here, bountiful harvest there, a mining accident, the opening of a shrine to the Goddess, a territorial border dispute between two lords, the day to day events and happenings of the realm. A small thing of note, King Reynaud took notice of, was the recent interdiction of an unregistered trade vessel that border customs had inspected, which contained thousands of tons of illicit drugs. When he got back, there would need to be an edict passed to help further protect the people of Orleans from these narco-terrorist thugs.

“Pft. No, I don’t think that will be necessary Anthony,” Lord Christoph Kempf waved his hand dismissively before the hologram sitting across from him and went on, “The drones are unpleasant at the best of times, but dangerous? They wouldn’t be concerning themselves with pretexts if they had the strength or, or the will, to be anything more than the annoyance than they already are.”

The digital recreation of Lord Anthony Hawthorn frowned, clearly unconvinced. “I can’t say I agree with that Christoph. A cancer can only be ignored for so long. The CCN is ideologically incompatible with the status quo. They’ll keep doing things like this, expecting nothing, until the day comes when, as you say, they don’t need a pretext anymore. It will be too late then.”

“They haven’t the balls, and they’re well past the point where they could grow a pair.” Lord Kempf chuckled airily before pointing to the other Lord, “But! If it will cure you of this... Anxiety, I’ll agree to your proposal. I can spare a few Men-At-Arms, and lord knows they need the experience.”

Lord Hawthorn hesitated before answering with a sigh, “My thanks, Lord Kempf. The unit I’m forming will certainly be an… Opportunity, for your troops to get real experience in battle.”

“One hopes. There aren’t enough ways to keep my men’s blades sharp. Speaking of, I trust you’re aware of the situation on Duro one? I’m thinking I’ll-” Christoph stalled as a servant, a young Ataraxian woman with long black hair, coughed into her hand behind him.

He looked positively irate at the interruption, but waved her over nonetheless. She leaned down to speak into his ear and after a brief exchange of whispers he refocused on the hologram before him and spoke again, “I’m sorry, Anthony, but something has come up, we’ll have to hammer out the specifics later.”

For his part, Lord Hawthorn only nodded before severing the connection. With a sigh Christoph stood from his chair and took a deep breath, taking in the exotic scents of the rare plants that surrounded him, before turning to his servant with a frown, “So he’s run off again, has he?”

“I’m… I’m afraid it’s not like the other times, my Lord.” The Ataraxian woman faltered, eyes on the floor.

It was, in Christoph’s mind, explanation enough. No servant of his, let alone Amelia, would be that spinelessly deferential unless the news was bad. With a grunt the Lord motioned for Amelia to follow him to the ornate windows that fenced in the lurid garden and sighed heavily when they reached them. His eyes found the Habingen spaceport, a stout building on the edge of the property. “So,” He spoke evenly, “Hans has decided to get serious.”

Amelia gulped before explaining, “He stole one of your racing skiffs last night my Lord. After last time he shouldn’t have had access but, well, he managed to take the ship out of the planets atmosphere. Your men at the port reported that he had a valid security code. No alarms were raised until one of your men at the Gate station inquired as to why a family vessel was taking an unscheduled trip to a frontier planet.”

Christoph cocked a brow and looked at his servant, “Is that all? I admit, this is the first time he’s had the gall to use the Gate, but we can track the ship.”

“Ah,” Amelia pursed her lips before answering, “I’ve also been informed that, well, your investment account is missing some ten million credits.”

“Oh.” Christoph blinked before, rather suddenly, bursting out in raucous laughter, “That takes balls! Oh that boy has something coming, but that’s more than I ever dared take when I tried that nonsense.”

“Lord?” Amelia was taken aback by the laughter, and hazarded a small smile before asking, “Would you, ah, like me to dispatch a retrieval team?”

“No, no!” Christoph answered loudly, “Not until he’s had his fun. If he’s going to dig himself a hole, I’ll damn well let him dig it. Don’t tell Clara a word of this. Lovely as my wife is, she worries enough already. I’ll bring Hans back eventually, but not before the boy learns what it’s really like out there, especially for people with millions of credits on their damn personal implant.”

“Very well, my lord.” Amelia nodded, “I’ll see that we keep an eye on him, then.”

“Do so.” Christoph waved Amelia off before grinning again and staring into the expansive blue sky.

As the only door to the Old Garden hissed shut behind him Lord Christoph Kempf shook his head happily and muttered, “You’re in for it now, Hans."

---

It was yet another wait in the Nyrene system, and he Neohumans under Captain Viktor Tarau extremely bored with their experience. Waiting around was the job of Uskoks, not Reislaufers; the present company had signed up for adventure, not glorified guard duty! Much time passed before the first alert came. This was different than the last one. This was an actual fleet, even if a small one. The savages of the Kingdom of Orleans had arrived, likely upset over the animals they called proxies being slaughtered. An urge to spit was barely suppressed by the Captain, who promptly opened a line with other Councillary ships in the system.

Orders were simple, move in as close as possible. Aim weapons, and surround the Kingdom's vessels. Do everything to provoke them possible, whilst remaining absolved of any blame for potential escalation. But it seemed the diplomatic fleet had good resolve, and did not respond to the bait. "Shame." the Sergeant said. "I'd have liked to squash a few more heads. The frogs had such soft ones, very pleasant to bash in."

"No such luck Sergeant. Take us back to Sol, we're done here."

---

---

The Varangian returned to the Sol system, its home, its genesis. The crew reported for their upgrades, improvements to the genetic composition and cybernetics provided over the course of a day. Little by little, Neohumanity got better. There were new recruits to the ship, a few men fresh out of the factory, a few people simply out for adventure being tired of their quiet lives in Sol, a few people just now maturing and being told by their aptitude testing that it was a soldier's life for them. For the next assignment of The Varangian the crew would be hunting some pirates to ease in new members, just a quick few purges to get a taste of combat beyond the simulations. They refuelled and restocked, before once more leaving Sol for new space.

They were sent to a frontier system prowling for pirates. Not a system that was a tributary of the CCN, but one to welcome the free security provided by their hunting (provided of course, they didn't come in numbers to signal it was a potential invasion). They activated the stealth regime of the vessel, before settling down just by the jump gate. Now the wait begun, sorting civilian from pirate ships until some real prey was found.

Viktor was sitting in the command bay along with the Sergeant, just finishing up the activation of stealth protocols until one of the people passing through the room caught his eye. A young woman by the natural black hair, the sight of which made him lament that he hadn’t wholly reviewed the staff yet. “You there, can you come here?” he beckoned, and as the woman turned to him realization dawned; it was the same psychic as he had fought on Uracao. She avoided his gaze, having clearly recognized him first and instead looked to the ground. “It’s, it’s you… you’re different.” Viktor said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes, they made sure of that.” she replied, finally looking up. Her eyes, previously a very dark brown much like Victor’s were now glowing red prosthetics. Her skin was largely the same visually save for a few lines making her new cybernetic nature obvious. She was bigger of course, as Neohumans tend to be in contrast with their outdated cousins and her thin frame was bulked up with muscle here and there. The Sergeant looked up at the hubbub, eyes narrowing on the girl. She looked back at him, after a moment raising a finger and muttering “Y-you’re the butcher, aren’t you?” He didn’t quite recognize her at first, but in the precise moment he did his chainaxe roared into action before he even grabbed it and ran forth at her with a savage growl. Fear gripped the young woman but she didn’t panic, using her abilities to swipe the chainblade from the Sergeant’s hand. This did little but marginally increment his fury as in milliseconds he closed the distance. He flung a fist that would tear open vehicles, but it stopped mid-air by a psychic shield his quarry generated, hairs and then skin slowly burning away. Oleksandr didn’t relent though, fists cycling at the shield one by one and in moments cracking it with violent arcs of electricity across the room. Both he and the psychic were sent airborne, but before Kjaro could get up Viktor put his boot on the man’s throat. “No, stay down. Relax.”

“What? She’s one of them! She fought for them let me go! Let me go!”

“She joined us, Sergeant. Relax, before you become Private.”

Kjaro didn’t bother dignifying the Captain’s words with a response, grabbing him by the leg with both hands and sending his body flying. He righted himself and once more threw himself at the psychic. Every punch he threw was lethal and it was by pure luck the woman avoided them. Viktor grabbed the Sergeant from behind, doing his best to restrain the man. But it was pointless, for from the depths of Kjaro’s rage came strength, speed, and skill unimaginable. But what was imaginable was the half dozen Legionnaires that came and restrained the beast. Even they struggled against his violent thrashing, but he was ultimately subdued.

“Recruit… what’s the name?”

“Alyx. Alyx Fuentes.”

“Recruit Fuentes please get to your quarters I have to speak with the Sergeant momentarily and then I will check in on you. Go on.”

Watching her exit the room, Viktor motioned to the Legionnaires to let go of the Sergeant, who was no longer red in the flesh.

“Right then, Sergeant Kjaro. Tell me where all this hate comes from.”

“She fought for the Federation, for the bastards that want nothing but our end! She has-”

“No, Sergeant. Tell me where it really comes from. Tell me the story you’ve been avoiding for the many weeks we’ve been together. Tell me why is it you’re ‘the Butcher’. You rank depends on it you know, and I’ll find out anyway.”

The Sergeant spat, still shaking with desires for violence in spite of having relatively calmed down. “You want to know? Fine. It fucking hurts me you little shit, that’s why I don’t tell it but fine, just to please your little sensibilities I’ll tell it. Maybe you can learn something from it.”

---

It was a true hail of fire. Captain Oleksandr Kjaro really hadn't seen so many combatants in one place before. Like ants the Feds stormed the bunker, but valour held the position. Valour, and some really big guns. "Like water from a fucking hose!" an Uskok called out, the unending stream of fire eternally keeping him pinned down.

"Don't worry, we've had worse boys!" Captain Kjaro cried, but he knew it was a lie. The Feds really weren't fucking around.

"I see twenty more running up from the right!"

"Got four!"

"Grenade!"

Messages of this sort flew across the noosphere, but as more and more lucky shots from the enemy came the amount of outgoing messages decreased one by one. The bunker had to hold, or else the Federation would know the real item of interest on this world and then bad things could ensue very, very quickly. But with an ever decreasing amount of soldiers something had to change or within an hour this swarm would break through and a whole company of the outdateds would poke around in the… facility below the bunker.

Kjaro dropped from his spot of cover, slowly crawling into the depths of the bunker. "Sir! Sir what the hell are you doing?" Demanded an Uskok.

"Saving us, and the bunker!" Oleksandr replied.

"Sir get back here! There's too many of them, we need you!"

"Just keep your heads down." the Captain muttered, crawling on. A few bullets ricocheted at him, but they lost enough velocity to no longer even hurt.

"What the hell are you doing?" Demanded a soldier, as Kjaro went to fiddling with the bunker's defence array. The turrets were long since blown apart in the fighting but preventing a simple charge were the radioactive and sonic emanators. This insured only foes in heavy power armour could get close, but the fodder had to kill the defenders first. Slowly, he weakened it, before with slight intermissions turned these defences on and off. The region's reactor was busted, and the enemy could suppose that the defence array was losing power, in addition to receiving more and more battle damages. They could not possibly know the facility had auxiliary power. After a few more moments, Kjaro wholly turned the radioactive and sonic emissions off.

It took several minutes for the attackers to realize through the noise and smoke of their firearms that the defence keeping them at range was off. But the moment it was apparent, they were emboldened and rushed forth. Now suppressive fire was the aim, not just the result as of their shooting, men getting ever closer. They were just about in grenade throwing range with some of the foe reaching to do just that, as Kjaro screamed: "I know what I'm doing boys!" before violently turning the defence array back on to full power and then some, having spent the last few minutes overclocking it in the terminal.

The first thing the enemy soldiers felt was the series of sonic pulses, each violently rupturing organs and blood streams internal and external alike. Then the effects of the radiation was clear, more of the same happening to the attackers in addition to skin melting; the combined effects of Sonics and radiation turned the infantry to human(oid) slurries. The troops in power armour now found themselves without support against an entrenched for and those that wouldn't run didn't take long to be overwhelmed by the weight of fire.

"That wouldn't work ninety nine times out of ten Sir, you risked our lives for a gambit."

"It only has to work this time. 's why I'm Captain, you're Lieutenant. Now then Kessler, what’s the news from the rest of the world.”

From the eyes of the Lieutenant projected a hologram of the world, many key points on it being marked.

“Several counter-offensives have been met with success, I-sector parts one to thirty-nine have been retaken as well as the entirety of K sector. It seems the enemy decided to go for a heavy advance into the A-sector, an unexpected and bold push but they’ve gone very deep in mere hours.”

Oleksandr's smug demeanour instantly dropped, his subordinates for the first time seeing him unsettled. Knowing he had to keep up morale Kjaro quickly went back to his previous appearance but the veneer had cracked in everyone's eyes. "How far?" the Captain demanded.

"Kilometres. In some pockets they're about to cross into B sector." the display shifted to show precise troop movements, and a mixture of fear and frothing fury started to rise in the man. "We're only a few kilometres from there we're going to flank the enemy and assist the defence of A sector."

"Those weren't our orders."

"I am your superior, Lieutenant, and I give you your orders."

"My orders were given directly from the Governor and supercede your authority."

"Shut up! Everyone come with me!"

Oleksandr started walking off, but he didn't have to turn his head to hear nobody following. "So that's it, is it." He spun on his heels, walking over face to face with Kessler. "Fine. You want to defend this useless bunker? Go ahead. But as a defender you have no use for that jump pack. Hand it over."

"It was issued to me."

"You know Lieutenant, it wasn't a question and somehow you still managed to give a wrong answer."

A fist swung in to strike Kessler on the chin, removing his balance. With that his legs were swiped out from under him and the Captain jumped on him. He flipped the man over and his hands dug into the flesh of the Lieuyenant's back." I didn't want to do this Andrei." he said, ripping out the jump pack from the man's body with much meat still attached. "Come to think of it, might need these too." Kjaro continued, ripping off the arms and legs from Kessler. They weren't his size, but if he lost his own then they'd suffice for quick replacement. Mag-locking the limbs and necessary supplies across his combat webbing Kjaro looked up at the Uskoks with rifles upraised. He laughed. "None of you little shots are going to shoot me. Why would you? You'd only damage an already poor situation. Now if you’re all too cowardly to come with me then lower your weapons, have a rest.” Kjaro stood up, turned and after jamming the jump pack into his flesh got a running start, before soaring on wings of fire.

He flew for some time to A sector, the cold wind in the skies relaxing Captain Kjaro and letting him clear up any negative thoughts about his family’s state. They’re safe, they’re safe... he reassured himself, not even noticing the first shots that hit him. But he was soon made aware of the fact anti-air fire going at him, his flight suffering noticeably. Looking down he noticed a proper anti-air cannon taking aim, and acted fast. The soldier broke the mental link connecting his cybernetics to the jump-pack, disconnecting him from it. The pack kept on flying, taking the AA fire while the Captain plummeted towards the ground. He spun trying to slow down his flight, but it was to no avail. As he crashed through the roof of a building he hit, he at least noted he was close to his destination. This was A sector, the designation for the city of Anselm. It was one of the few true cities of the planet, a small oasis of high-life from the rough deserts of New Babylon. Naturally, the Neohuman arrivals to New Babylon of course settling here — Svetlana, Helga, Jaako, Karina and Stepan Kjaro all among them.

The Captain righted himself, checking his ocular display for his exact location. He was close to his family residence, but not close enough. Righting himself, he looked about and listened to check his surroundings. It became pretty clear he was deep in Federation controlled territory, and he had to move fast. This was the third floor of the building, and while there were no troops on it a quick scan revealed there were some on the first floor and in the cellars who were promptly going to his position. The Neohuman ran forwards to smash through the wall and jump to the street below. There were several soldiers of the Federation present, quick to their weapons. But whilst airborne Kjaro was already preparing for battle and having landed his pistol hit the first man to properly aim his rifle, before going to full-auto and suppressing the rest. In but a second he crossed the street into the building on the opposite side, the sliding doors having been blown off and on the ground. It was formerly a shopping complex of some sort, but now it mostly housed the vile invaders of this land along with a few locals or refugees.

Kjaro knew that the men from the street were hot on his trail and while he was considerably faster than them they could easily get backup to surround him, and he had to be quick. The Captain ducked into a corridor with several small shops on either side, but unfortunately man were already in it rather than just in the shops. Bullets and lasers instantly flew at him forcing him to side-step into one of the shops. He took out his own rifle and a cluster of grenades, throwing four at once with one hand whilst taking aim with the rifle in his other hand. The foe ducked for cover regardless of if a grenade was directed at them and they all handily gave him the opportunity to shoot them in the back or their sides. Rifle upraised he continued on through the corridor, breathing heavily. A man poked his head out to check why the hell was shooting happening in the zone of respite. He didn’t even have time to process Oleksandr’s presence before his head was vapourized by a laser. Oleksandr could hear men descending down stairs to open the door on the opposite end of the corridor, and knew he had to act fast. He ran past the many shops which he promptly noted had people within, but he couldn’t kill them all and he had to ignore them. Just as the soldiers on the other end were about to open the door, he barrelled into it with his shoulder, knocking down the man hit by it before falling down together with him. Being more prepared he reacted for faster than the enemy’s comrades and so he unleashed a beam of laser to the throat of every enemy. Even more were coming down the staircase and so Kjaro worked fast dropping the almost empty battery of his rifle and slapped in a new one. The wall was far stronger here and Kjaro likely couldn’t so quickly smash through it so quickly by himself, and so he threw another grenade upwards to a turn in the staircase. It forced the men above to stop their progress, and it softened the wall so that the Captain could simply run through it.

He dropped into a grassy patch below, not bothering to roll with his augmented frame. He ran forwards, noticing he was by the unloading bay of the shopping centre. Men were at rest here, having used the garage to store tanks. The man tried to crouch past them at first using the now unwatered bushes of the place as cover, but he knew the men behind him were in hot pursuit and quickly it dawned he wouldn’t be able so simply sneak past the tankists. He stood up sprinting, the enemy soldiers first not taking notice of him. But soon they did, and all had different reactions. Some ran to raise an alarm, others to weapons, while a few went inside the tank and a few simply ran for their lives. Cursing, Oleksandr fired carelessly hitting some men whilst forcing others to hit the deck. He ran towards the tank, which the Feds got operational in record time and were about to fire on Kjaro. But they hadn’t considered the range he was in, and with a jump in an underhand throw landed his last grenade down the barrel of the tank. Only one man realized what happened quick enough to hop out, the rest were vapourized inside their metal cage. The Captain felt bullets hit him in the back, but he couldn’t deal with them and he simply had to keep moving.

He ran through a smaller building with its original purpose now forgotten save “office” of some sort, this one thankfully being abandoned. On the other side a patrol was going down a street and it was through sheer luck Kjaro got behind a tree before it noticed him. The marching column of soldiers passed just in time for him to run across yet another street into a building he recognized a little more. This was formerly the police station of the city, quite a large complex, the paramilitary nature of which was clearly capitalized upon by the Federation occupants.

Through it was the quickest route to get home.

By the sound of gunfire it was clear he was reaching the frontline, a thought that did not go down well for the Captain. But he powered on, walking into the station that had it’s doors open, given this was the side upon which combat was not supposed to be happening. But he heard voices and movement which indicated that it was still heavily populated. For about a minute he hid behind the reception of the station as a squad of soldiers in power armour walked past, before continuing into the depths of the building. He held his breath (a purely cosmetic action that helped the man concentrate) crouching down a hallway, checking a scan of the building’s layout for his quickest way out. His plans were promptly interrupted as he overheard the same power-armoured squad marching towards his location, clearly a regular patrol of the building. He ducked to the side into an office which he came to realize was an interrogation room. Locking the door behind himself, Kjaro realized that perhaps this was for the best given it meant it was sound-proofed, and this would make sure nobody was aware of his coming fight with the very large, gorilla-like Simmie in the room. The beast pounded it’s chest, but in spite of its bulk it was very fast. Before the Captain could raise his rifle to fire the thing swiped it out of his hands before trying to grab either shoulder. But Kjaro was a Neohuman, and he could more than match this filthy alien! The man’s hands locked with those of the ape, and he laughed as he saw the look of surprise on the Simmie’s face when not only was it unable to push the man’s hands back, but instead Kjaro was pushing it’s whole arms back and rather painfully behind its body. It hooted in suffering, but nobody could hear it. It’s hands broke, and Kjaro let go of the thing that now tried to crawl backwards and away. It was to no use however, Kjaro wasn’t going to let it be and twisted it’s head so violently that it came off. Perhaps this moment of savagery was a mistake, as it let blood splatter onto the tiny window of the door to the room. The Captain panicked believing the patrol might be alerted by this, and seeing no other option jumped down the garbage chute of the room. He had trouble fitting in it, but after breaking a bit of machinery he quite happily slid down. This was no longer a police station however, and sliding down Kjaro didn’t hit a pile of garbage, instead falling simply quite hard onto a steel floor. But it was nothing compared to the recent trauma he took, so it was ignored. Getting upright he wasted no time, climbing out of the garbage repository and looking at the scene before him. The basement was something of a storage for the Feds it seemed, crates of all sorts about the place. From here the warrior decided it was best he go on to the sewer, perhaps cutting into the catacombs of the locals if he could find an entrance. Walking by looking for a grate or manhole he was pleasantly surprised to look into a room which seemed to be something of an armoury. Oleksandr stepped in, smashing his ammo-starved weapons before overloading their batteries so that they wouldn’t fall into enemy hands for research and development so easily. With that he grabbed a nice assortment of weapons from the cache. They were ballistics that wouldn’t stand up to the lasers he had just discarded, but they would suffice and more importantly they had ammo in abundance.

With that Kjaro went on, passing by a doorway into the sight of a man with a clipboard. He was open-mouthed, and didn’t utter a word before Kjaro pounced upon him. He was about to sink his razor nails into his throat, until noticing the red-cross armband he had. Oleksandr looked up, realizing this was the prisoner holding cell of the police station. The bars were cut away, and wounded were stored here. Every single man looked at him in fear, the different states of their injuries leaving them nevertheless at Kjaro’s mercy. “Please….” the doctor below Kjaro begged. “Please I’m just a doctor, these men are hurt. They’re not a threat! Please!” Looking into the doctor’s eyes and that of the men, Oleksandr didn’t know what to do. He stood up, raising his pistol and cycling his aim between the many targets he found present. The medic stood up himself and raised both hands placatingly. “Please, we won’t say anything just don’t do anything!”

“Shut up!” Kjaro replied. He rubbed his forehead, walking in a circle. “Fine, fine. But tell me where the last manhole you saw is.”

“...w...what?”

“You fucking heard me!”

Kjaro’s voice was amplified to the point of causing physical pain, but it got urgency across.

“Outside! The room, I mean. Walk out and take the first turn left; there should be one I think.”

The Captain ran out and did as instructed, glad to find the man was right. He removed the cover of the manhole, and closing it behind himself went home. It was a straight line that he went through with speed, emerging with his family’s home in his vision. There was gunfire everywhere, soldiers from both sides everywhere in his vision.

“Sveta!” Oleksandr cried out, hoping his wife would reply. He got none, but he noticed a federation soldier going by the building’s balcony and firing inside. The thought this man might be at this very moment hitting a member of his family was perhaps the beginning of now Sergeant Kjaro’s mania. Quite literally he saw red, his cybernetic ocular overlay glitching with the imbalance of chemicals flowing through his brain as an unimaginable state of rage came over him. He ran forward ignoring all the shooting coming at him only stopping to grab a Federation soldier by the neck and biting his eyes out so he wouldn’t fire his rocket launcher. The cry of pain soothed Oleksandr, but only barely. He ascended the steps to the building, smashing through the door to a scene that engrained itself in his memory to this very day. Helga holding little Stepan on the ground, whilst Jaako tried to protect them with their body and Karina lying wounded by his feet. “They’re just fucking robots.” A soldier said, and emptied a magazine upon the children of the Kjaro family. Oleksandr was dazed, and he had only one possible reaction: violence. He was a blur of movement, but with his bare hands the Captain turned each damned Fed into red mush. The perpetrators of the crime were dead, and for now that would be enough; Svetlana could still be alive. “Sveta!” he roared again, checking every part of the building for her. In a small destroyed section, he found her, or at least what was left. Her head, and the upper right part of her torso was all that he could find. The wetware records of Oleksandr Mikolaevich Kjaro showed that this was the first time in his life that he cried, but it was a cry like no others. “What have they done to you?” he said to nobody in particular, laughing blissfully as her eyes opened upon the words being said. “Sveta?” he asked, the beginnings of a smile coming upon him.

“I knew I would see you one last time.” Svetlana said, returning Oleksandr’s smile.

“No, no, I’ll get you out let me just check the scanner I’ll-”

“No, Oleksei. You won’t.” She coughed, a mixture of blood and hydraulic fluid coming out.

“They’re dead, aren’t they. I heard what happened. Don’t lie to me.”

“Yes. Yes the Fed bastards shot them.”

“I see. Then my fight was for nothing.”

“No! No, it wasn’t, please, hold on!”

“It’s too late my love. Remember us, please.”

“I will.” Again Svetlana coughed, her eyes dimming.

“Go, Knight of honour, go Knight of faith. Show them your valour, bring them their fates.”

Svetlana’s eyes closed, and that was the end of her life. Oleksandr simply remained where he was for about an hour, not caring for the fighting happening around him and he was unphased when the building collapsed with its rubble burying him. The shooting had subsided, and Kjaro got himself out of the rubble. With a thoughtful expression he went back through the sewers, again emerging in the police station turned Fed barracks. He went inside the makeshift hospital, blocking it off with a few large crates he grabbed on the way there. All present recognized the Captain, the Doctor standing up from a seat he was taking.

"We didn't tell anyone anything I swear!" He managed before Kjaro grabbed his mouth, shushing him into silence.

"I have only a single question for you. Are Neohumans, for your people, machines? Robots?"

“There’s… there’s many different opinions you can’t just reduce-”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“...Yes.”

Go Knight of Honour, go Knight of Faith.

“Good.”

Show them your valour, bring them their fates.

In a flash the Captain pulled out one of the Doctor’s ribs, and turned him over to cover his mouth so the screams of pain would be stifled.

“Now I won’t have any remorse.” He ran the rib like a blade down the length of the doctor’s back, then pulled off his skin in one great tug. Kjaro laughed, spinning the skin in a circle like a gymnast a rope. He went over to one of the injured men, placing his hands in the folds of the dead doctor’s face and doing a poor mimicry of his speech.

“I say, you seem to be afraid of your dear old medic. I think some sort of pathogen is in you, I see you’re having trouble breathing!” This was a very short foreshadowing for the skin being used to strangle the injured soldier. A similar act was repeated with the skinless body of the medic, and after that a series of brutal murders proceeded by the end of which the room was quite literally an abattoir. The Captain didn’t return to the CCN lines after this, staying deep in occupied territory leading one man terror campaign, such gruesome slaughter being his distinctive trait that gained him the moniker “Butcher”. When the war was over he finally came back to his comrades, and he was demoted to Lieutenant before promptly being returned to Captain once the full extent of his actions was discovered. It was done tentatively, but accounting for the tragedy he experienced high command was somewhat sympathetic. But in the century to come many battlefields would be scarred by the Butcher, Zion being on particular case, his actions of shoving live humans into meatgrinders for slow, painful deaths giving his name renown across all Eden quite quickly. As the Captain’s madness spiralled his actions became such that even the Councils became disgusted, demoting him to Lieutenant and more recently to Sergeant. Thus, one arrives at the modern day.

---

---

“Bloody hell.”

“Yeah, I told you so. There were about two-hundred trillion cells in the bodies of my family. For every cell must die a single Fed or other bastard. It is my life mission.”

Viktor Tarau opened a link to one of the international wikis, instantly finding “The Butcher” for a quick summary of more gruesome events.

“Bloody hell.” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

“The only have little bits of you recorded, how did she know it’s you?”

The Sergeant shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s a psychic, probably something to do with that.”

Indeed, being a psychic had something to do with it. The woman had not gone to her quarters, instead just enough distance so with her powers she could still hear them but they wouldn’t know of her ethereal presence. She couldn’t so simply let all the Sergeant said just be. She sprinted past the two Legionnaires guarding the way to the command centre, coming face to face with the Captain and the Sergeant.

“You’re a fucking madman. You’re obsessed, that shit was a century ago and you’re still murdering all that time after, people unrelated to what happened to you! Do you really think your kids would be happy to know their father ran across Eden killing random people because he’s insane?”

Until the last sentence, Kjaro was apparently calm. But when the girl spoke of his children’s thoughts and wishes he roared standing from his chair, or at least trying to. At the last moment Viktor grabbed his leg to force a fall and yelled to Alyx: “Go, go to your quarters!” Then he leaned in to whisper to the Sergeant. “She’s not wrong.” and gave the man a kick before going to speak to the young psychic.

The Captain stepped in, noting the currently unfurnished nature of the room. The woman was cross legged on her bed, head in hands. “Recruit.” Viktor said, taking a seat on a chair in the room’s small study.

“I’m surprised to see you here. I would have thought they’d do training and integration longer.”

“We did it, but they had… well, they said my situation was unique, rarely are psychic migrants found they said. They told me I’d be better off with familiar faces to help me get used to it, and that my powers were best suited for conflicts anyway. I’ll have an easier time getting eased into the Noosphere with less people at the same time.”

“I see.”

“Oh, do you?” she said, rather sarcastically.

Viktor shrugged. “No, not really. I was born into the councils, my life was so easy I got bored of it and went to become a Reislaufer just to find hardship for the first time in my life. But I said that I see because I thought it might make you feel better, instead you’re being smarmy.”

“Oh please you think I’m going to respond well to being called smarmy just after you told me how great your life is?”

“Yes. Ad Hominems, and all.”

“Shut up.”

“No, I don’t think I will. I only got you into the CCN because I wanted to save my own life. But now you’re my responsibility and I have to make sure all is well with you. So, tell me all your troubles, I can listen to another sob-story after hearing out the Sergeant.”

“Alright, alright yeah I’ll tell you. I was forced out of my previous life which was horrible, but you know what? It was mine, this new life isn’t mine, I belong to the CCN now. Everyone I knew is dead, and I’m a toy of the people who did that. You want me to say thank you? No, of course you don’t you’ll have some little clever answer. My brain, it’s tuned into this damned Noosphere of your’s, everyone feels what I feel and I feel what everyone feels. This is supposed to make me closer to everyone, right? Fat chance, everyone here looks at me like trash; your damn Sergeant tried to cut me in half. I even… I can't....”
Viktor was about to ask her what it was she couldn’t do anymore, but looking at her face he could tell what she was trying to say right away. For her new bionic eyes they had to remove her tear ducts — She could no longer cry.

“Oh.” was all that he could reply.

“All that was me before, it’s gone. I just have my memories, and apparently I’m supposed to count my blessings because I was let keep those. You’re people, Captain, those Federation soldiers the Sergeant mentioned were wrong. But you’re different, too different, you’re certainly not good humans.”

“I’m sorry.” was all Viktor could offer. Alyx couldn’t cry, but she came the closest one could without tear ducts. Perhaps it was wrong what they did to her. She wasn’t even old enough to drink in much of Eden, she was just a girl, they should have just let her work for the CCN as an auxiliary and let her make the choice to become Neohuman down the line. But they couldn’t remove the cybernetics and gene treatments, it was too late now.

“I had a piercing in my stomach, like all the girls pretending to be different back in Uracao did. They didn’t even let me keep that.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. Usually people going into processing were let keep their jewellery. He checked the roster of his crew to find Alyx Fuentes, and then opened her file. He couldn’t help but start laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded, visibly hurt at the laughter.

“I’m sorry it’s just that, well, the reason they took your piercing was that they thought it was a wound that went left untreated because of the backwardness of frontier medicine.”

Slowly, she smiled and then even giggled. Viktor was glad, moving over to sit on the girl’s bed with her and giving her a sympathetic (if not quite empathetic) embrace. Maybe you’re right, maybe the soldiers were. Maybe we’re not quite humans or even people. But that can change.

---

---

The two Aelon quietly make their way through the brightly lit hallways of the bunker, swiftly eliminating any and all opposition raised up against them, be it through their rifles or telekinesis. Eventually they make their way deeper into the facility, until finally arriving at a thick blast door with an intercom directly to the right of it, next to a hand scanner. Making sure the area is secure, the pair begin to inspect the door when the sound of static followed by a loud yet deep voice echoes from the intercom, drawing their attention.

"I see you fuckers finally caught up with me," it said, the disgust in its tone plain to hear. Although it had been months since he'd fled, the two Enforcers could still remember the holovid of his trial and there was no mistaking the voice. It was Ralor. The man they'd been tasked with hunting down.

"Listen to me Ralor," Issoth began, propping himself up against the reinforced door with his free hand. "You and I both know that you don't have the resources to keep evading us forever. Eventually we'll find you, and you'll have nothing left to throw at us."

"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I don't plan on letting you dipshits drag me back to that prison. You want me to go with you, it's gonna have to be in a body bag."

"That can be arranged," Qell remarked, drumming her fingers against the cold metal of her rifle.

Issoth glanced back at her, and she merely shrugged, though he knew she was right. They could easily kill him if they needed to, and furthermore they'd be completely within their rights as well. No government within the cluster, save for the criminally oriented ones that is, actually gave a damn about what happened to this who broke their laws. If anything, Issoth knew many officials preferred particularly troublesome lawbreakers be executed simply because of the fact that it saved them credits and resources they'd have to spend otherwise on having to keeping inmates alive in some dank cell somewhere. Still, he preferred to come back with the target alive rather than dead. It was more a matter of upholding a reputation than anything else.

Killing, after all, was easy. Capturing a heavily defended target who was also on the run without breaking so much as a sweat? Now that was far more impressive.

"Listen Ralor," Issoth went on, moving closer to the intercom. "You come back willingly and maybe we'll vouch for you. Get you a lighter sentence."

Ralor scoffed. "Has using the gates addled your mind Enforcer? Even if you did vouch for me, it wouldn't matter. It's fucking Raygon. I'll be lucky to get three years off my initial sentence with your involvement. That system they have doesn't care about the individual, and I learned that the hard way. Reason why I decided to use it to my own advantage. Look, in the end there's only one way this is going to go. Either I walk out of here alive, or you do."

Issoth paused, nodding slowly, before responding. "You sure you want it to go down this way Ralor?"

There was silence for a moment before his voice came through the intercom once more, this time accompanied by the sound of a firearm being cocked. Most likely an old kinetic variant still reliant on gunpowder or some other such explosive compound.

"Yeah," he said, his tone grim. "Hope you got a good trigger finger lawman."

Issoth couldn't help but smirk underneath his helmet. Despite the grim business they were about to get into, he couldn't help but be impressed at the man's confidence. For Ralor had been confident before shutting off the intercom. Issoth could hear it in his voice, a last minute show of cockiness in the face of certain death. Granted the bastard was scum, but at least when it came down to final stands he had some balls.

Still... that wouldn't save him.

Motioning to Qell, Issoth met her gaze for a bit as they both placed their hands flat against the door and summoned up as much telekinetic energy as they could and channeled it into the barrier, blowing the steel obstruction out of its frame. Moving in, the two engaged Ralor in a brief yet vicious firefight, before extracting his corpse and making their way back to the surface. From there the two Adjudicators returned to their ships, their target in tow, and began the long voyage back to Raygon.

Kudra Cartel

Karl snored loudly in the pilots seat of a converted interplanetary shuttle, slumped forward over the control panel. A steadily growing pool of drool had formed under his face that had started to waterfall onto the floor of the stripped interior.
The cartel mechanics turned what was a luxury shuttle into the perfect raiding and boarding vehicle. Quad thrust vectoring engines made it both fast and agile and the interior had been gutted, removing everything that wasn’t needed for survival. Unnecessary bulkheads were removed, luxury seating , air-conditioning units and even the majority of the bathroom was removed. This reduced the interior of the shuttle into little more than a grey metal box and made long space trips agonizing. This makes one ask, why would anyone want to spend up to a week inside one of these cold boxes from hell? You give them no choice.
Karl was born quite literally on the floor of some slum on the planet Yikba, the home of the Kudra cartel. To say that he grew up in poverty would be an gross understatement, food was scarce, water was near nonexistent, hygiene was absolutely absent. The only way to survive was to steal, threaten or murder and Karl became very proficient in all of it. It didn’t take long for the cartel to notice his skill and he quickly rose through the ranks to become a sicario himself. In the hierarchy of the cartel however, a sicario is still pretty close to the bottom of the barrel. For him it was either follow orders or be killed and for some reason unknown to everyone but him, he wanted to preserve his miserable life. Karl showed promise however, as much promise as a up and coming sicario can show. He ran his own team that specialized in high jacking transports and freighters bound for systems outside cartel controlled space.

The constant beeping of the vessels radar warning receiver slowly jostled the man from his slumber, prompting him with an message.

-Incoming vessel, 0.90 AU, bearing 330, 25 degrees-

This was accompanied by a small red square slowly creeping its way along the black vastness of the vacuum. Wiping the drool from his face, he lazily reached into his shirt pocket a produced an expertly rolled joint. Surprisingly, marijuana has proven to be a very resilient plant, able to grow in a growing multitude of biomes and conditions. Luckily for Karl it was his drug of choice, he didn’t go anywhere without it.
Retrieving a lighter from the same pocket, he quickly lit the joint and spun his head to the back of the chamber he was in “ Guys…..wake up, we have a ship comin!” he yelled before returning the lighter to his pocket. Inhaling deeply, he tapped a few buttons on the stripped down control panel and the interior came to life. Interior lights flickered on, revealing another three men sprawled out on what seating was left inside the vessel.

“ Whos watch is it, I know its not mine” one man exclaimed groggily, pulling his hat over his face.

Karl, exhaled a large cloud of smoke and spun his heard around again “ I said get the fuck up, theres a ship comin” he spat again, in a slightly annoyed tone, “ Get your shit on, I think were gonna jump on this one”.

“ What is it?” another voice said in an alien language

“ Frieghter, at least a C class” Karl exclaimed, looking over the radar cross section reading. According the cartel, all vessels are ranked from C to S based on their size and possible armament, C being the lowest and smallest of those. This simplified classifying ships to appoint that even drugged out and uneducated people can decide whether a ship was worth hitting or not.
The three men in the back began getting dressed, pulling on pressurized space suits crudely upgraded with armor plates and other machinery. This was a far cry from the combat space suits employed by some nations but it made the wearer feel at least a little more safe. As this was happening Karl brought the rest of the ship to life and started the engines, plotting an intercept course with the lone freighter. For security, Karl ran another radar sweep of the area, looking for other vessel that could be in range. Of course, any ship with any sort of radar masking tech would easily escape this sweep but it made him feel safe knowing that they were out here completely alone.

“ We’re all ready back here Karl, the lone xenos in the group said calmly as Karl got up to pull his own suit on before coming before coming back to the control panel.

All four men watched the heads up display as the freighter crept closer and closer before it dominated the viewscreen. Karl tapped another series of commands into the panel and opened up a short wave radio transmission channel between the two ships.

“ Freighter Captain, cut your engines and stay at current bearing. Failure to comply will result in harm or death” Karl said before sitting back and waiting, pointing towards the large sliding door towards the side of their vessel.

“ Magnetize yourself, im cutting the grav” another man said behind him before a series of thuds could be heard as boots were magnetically attracted to the floor.

“ I say again, freighter captain….cut engines and proceed on current bearing” Karl said again, sighing as he still did not receive an answer. “ Fuck, looks like this guy wants to do it the hard way”.

“You”, Karl said pointing at one of the men in the group “ Keep us next to this crate” he said as the man got up and pulled on a helmet. He floated his way over to the large sliding door where the rest of his team was waiting and nodded his head, keying the radio imbedded in his helmet.

“ You ready?” Karl said, receiving a few nods for answers before pulling the door control lever. A hissing sound could be heard as the oxygen inside the vessel vented before the door abruptly slid back, reveling the port side of the freighter. Just as the door opened, the three men jumped out accompanied by tools and cutting saws and torches.
Smacking the side of the vessel with a thud, they slowly climbed their way to the top of the freighter before locating an access hatch. The hatch was standard for most freighters, a wheel latch controlled the locking of the door while a simple terminal sat just next to the door for remote access, this was their way in. Karl pulled a crude looking machine from a pouch on his chest and slowly extended a wire from it, looking for a place to plug it in. He quickly found one and pressed another series of commands in before the machine began vibrating as it worked, escalating into it violently shaking just before the door handle.

“We’re in” he said over the radio before another man pulled the door up and they all slipped in.

As they closed and locked the hatch behind them it became eerily quiet, the pilot most definitely knew they were inside but they heard nothing. Usually when they had to break in, people would be scurrying about, or at the entrance begging them for mercy. As they waited for the airlock to pressurize they checked their weapons, nothing more than small pistols and knives. It was clear to the boarders that something wasn’t right and as the airlock slid open they moved with caution down the corridor.

It wasn’t uncommon to have only one live person on a freighter, most were automated beyond the pilot. Usually the bigger freighters had more crew but this was normal for a vessel of this size. The silence was eerie however, usually the pilot would be running around hiding or begging for is miserable life. To hear absolutely nothing was odd and might of spooked all but the most drug afflicted, but not Karl.

“ Maybe he had a heart attack?” one member of the group quipped with a laugh

The thought of finding the pilot slumped over the command console clutching his chest made Karl, chuckle as they lazily rounded the corners leading up to the bridge before finally coming to the closed bridge door.

“ You might be right” Karl said “ The door hasn’t moved since we got here” he finished pointing towards the alien member of their group and nodding his head towards the door.

The alien group member calmly walked up to the door and pressed the open command button, making the door shudder slightly before opening just a fraction.

“ Shit….” the alien said quietly as he moved to physically pry the door open “ Maybe, he fell against th--------” the xenos sicario got out before a deafening explosion was heard.

Bone, brain matter and blood sprayed the two other stunned men as the alien took a staggered step back before slumping against the half open door in front of him, clearly missing the majority of his head.

“ Fuck you pirates, you picked the wrong ship to rob!!” a voice yelled from inside the bridge, before two more shots rang out, the kinetic rounds slapping the wall behind them.

Karl fell backwards stunned after the first shot, looking wide eyed at what used to be his alien crewmember, unable to move due to shock. The other human crew member jumped into action, seemingly taking the shock of sudden violence better than most. The human sicario quickly stuck his head and arm into the door way and let off a few shots before the pilot shot back, clearly striking the other sicario in the upper chest, sending him reeling.

As Karl’s hearing returned he quickly picked up on two noises, the screaming of his injured crewmember and the loud grunting of the pilot. ‘Was he injured too?” Karl thought, jumping to his feet and peeking into the doorway skittishly. Although valiant, the pilot was not a trained combatant and was currently dealing with a malfunction of hit weapon, loud slapping could be heard the pilot tried to fix the afflicted weapon.
Sensing this was his chance, Karl stepped into the doorway and leveled his pistol at the pilot who quickly dropped his weapon and threw his hands up.

“ Look, im sorry about your friends, you guys scared me. You’d do the same thing in my position” The pilot said shakily, clearing trying to beg for his life after the fact.

“ They are not my friends” Karl said flatly “ But you made on hell ova mess, one that im gonna have to clean up. All you needed to do was be compliant” he finished with a sigh before shooting the pilot twice in the stomach.

The pilot dropped to the floor and began screaming, frantically reaching for the jammed weapon on the floor. Karl took another few steps closer and kicked the weapon farther away from the man before shooting him twice again, killing the pilot outright.
Karl let out another loud sigh as he looked back at the shitshow in the hallway, blood had begun to pool under the alien sicario and mixed with the blood of the human, still screaming from his wound. ‘ This is going to take ages to clean’ he thought before kneeling down to dig through the pockets of the dead pilot, retrieving his ID and transport license.

“ Karl!....I need help, im bleeding out….” The human sicario screamed, trying to contain a gushing chest wound.

“ Yea, give me a sec, just gonna have to make copies of this ID so we can get into Federation space” Karl answered dismissively as he walked out of the door and over his two , soon to be former” teammates.

“ You cant leave me here, you fucking bastard…help me!!” the human screamed again, trying to reach out for Karl as he walked past.

“ Well, maybe y’all shouldn’t of gotten shot then hmmm” Karl answered with a chuckle as he shook his head “ Play stupid games, you get stupid prizes, dumbass” he finished before walking around the corner and out of site.

Karl grabbed the radio from his pocket and brought it to his mouth “ Hey, dock the shuttle at bay 2 and start unloading that shit, also call the boss and tell him we need a copy and clean up crew.” He said calmly

“ Why….” The remaining human sicario said over the radio, sounding quite taken aback by what was supposed to be an easy job.

“ Timbap and Geoff are dead….and so is the pilot” Karl answered flatly before turning off the radio and walking back to the bridge.

The errie silence of the ship returned as he stuffed the radio back in his pocket and rounded the corner to find both sicarios dead and laying in a pool of their own blood. As Karl stepped over them again and made his way into the bridge, he eyed the pilot who was in a similar state.

“ What a mess” Karl quipped before walking up to the command console and keying in the docking procedure, opening up the bay for their shuttle. It would be a couple hours before the clean up crew got to them, so they had time to decompress.

With a deep sigh, Karl retrieved another joint from his pocket and brought it to his mouth. Waiting for the consoles successful docking message before lighting it and taking a huge drag.

“ What a fucking mess….” Karl said again as he exhaled, spreading a large cloud of smoke around the bridge.

---

---

Issoth winced slightly as a sea of lights finally pierced the cloud cover surrounding his gunship, signaling their arrival on Raygon, one of the largest human hives in the core. Transmitting a landing request to the proper authorities, the two Adjudicators made their way down towards the surface-or the outer layer of artificial construction that served as its new surface anyway-deftly weaving through the congested airways filled with the hulking frames of various vehicles and transports. Each ferrying either people or commodities to various parts of the planet. Moving downwards even further, the pair eventually found the place they'd been instructed to dock at. It was a rather small steel box hanger in which multiple ships were packed side by side in rows, supported by interior and exterior reinforced steel beams and flanked by a series of green light strips emitting short bursts one after the other to mark the main entryway to one of Raygon's many cramped immigration ports.

Issoth shook his head at the sheer volume of traffic occurring within the port, wondering just why the person who designed the city thought it prudent to have such tiny ports for foreigners to dock and be processed at. Not to mention taxed to high hell in certain cases. Granted he didn't know the first thing about managing a city himself-especially not one that was planet wide-but that didn't get rid of the fact that it all seemed so... inefficient. Still, to each their own, he supposed. If people liked living in a place that took their money as fast as they had earned it, then who was he to judge?

Shrugging internally, he turned his attention back towards finding an empty spot in the sea of metal. A few agonizing minutes later, and Issoth managed to find two spaces, he and Qell just barely beating a large cargo ship. The owner of which started to curse them out from within the safety of their rickety vehicles, only to fall silent a few seconds later as the two Enforcer's stepped out of their respective ships, revealing themselves fully. Upon seeing their armor, the pilot-a rather lithe man with scraggly hair-seemed to pale before swiftly pulling away to find another, seemingly less dangerous spot to park. Issoth let out a brief chuckle as he went back inside his ship and pulled out Ralor's corpse, which had been wrapped up in black body bag as he'd predicted and placed onto a gurney of sorts that operated on anti-grav lifts rather than normal wheels, carefully maneuvering it to the hanger outside after making sure his ship was secure. Even after all these years he wasn't quite used to how people treated those within the organization. It was an odd reaction that mostly bordered on varying degrees of fear or defiance, with most leaning towards shitting themselves, while others like Ralor stood tall with both fingers raised in grand gestures of defiance to the Arbiter's wills.

All things considered though, it wasn't that bad of a response. Least it let him have a clear line dividing who to track down and beat the shit out of, or eliminate in certain cases, and who to leave to their own devices. Course the politicians and leaders of the various factions inhabiting the cluster, that's where things got blurry, and at times he wondered just how the Arbiters managed to avoid going insane from dealing with them all...

"Hey daydreamer," Qell said, her modulated voice breaking his train of thought. "You coming or what? We have a dead gang leader to deliver remember? Plus, staring off into nothingness with a corpse isn't exactly a "good look" as the humans say."

He blinked, though the action went unnoticed due to the suit. "Sorry," he said, getting in a position to transport the deceased convict. "Was busy thinking."

She chortled, "I noticed. Anyway let's get a move on. Our clients and the Adjudicator dealing with them won't wait around all day."

Issoth gave a quick nod, and the two Aelon began the long trek through the rows upon rows of vehicles packed together like sardines in a can, eventually coming to the back of one of the many snakelike lines that stretched out from the five main access points standing between them and the consumerist dream of a world beyond. Slowly moving along, they received more than their fair share of concerned glances from nearby bystanders, and more than a few odd looks from the onsite security-privatized of course, like almost everything else in the massive planet city-which were quickly redirected once the onlookers had fully comprehended what they were looking at.

The two Aelon remained impassive, however, most of their focus was currently being directed towards staving off crippling boredom as the people in front of them slowly shuffled along, each one being thoroughly processed and logged after paying a disconcertingly flexible entry fee.

"Huh. Suppose they're not as inept as I thought," Issoth mused, watching the checkpoints with mild interest. "Still, considering the state of perpetual flux the city seems to be in on a daily basis, that's not saying much..."

A few minutes pass.

Then, an hour.

And after what seems like an eternity, the pair finally arrive at their lines checkpoint.

"Please state your identities and the purpose of your..." the woman manning the checkpoint began, gradually trailing off as she caught sight of the body bag. Eventually she regained her composure, restating her previous query. "Please state your identities and the purpose of your visit today."

"Enforcer's Issoth and Qell," Issoth remarked casually, gesturing to himself and Qell. "Returning from the find and capture of a rather... uncooperative target."

He jerks a thumb in the direction of the corpse.

"I... see," the woman replied, turning back to the terminal off to her left and entering some info.

A few seconds later the console emitted a pleasant chime as a section of the display flashed green.

"Looks like everything's in order Adjudicators," she said, shifting her attention back to them. "Good luck with your..." She casts an uncertain look at the body bag. "Case."

Issoth inclined his head in acknowledgement, before positioning himself behind the gurney once again, pushing it through the checkpoint and out into the crowded walkways beyond, Qell following close behind.

From there they made their way into the city proper. A place where lives could be made and destroyed in the blink of an eye. A place where fortunes were slowly leeched away from all sides by profit hungry corporations and street level con artists. A place where one could find every vice and virtue imaginable.

Even if one ignored all of that and the sea of beggars lining the streets, or the blast of advertisements as offensive to the ear as radio static, thundering between the towering buildings like shockwaves, Raygon was still a very unique experience.

Location:







Subject:

---

“By Allah, that’s quite a story, Lobby…” Mohammed Sahar gave his ayran a sheepish sip. “You, uh… You need a hug or something?”

“No, I don’t need a fuckin’--!” Zigg stopped himself mid-fit, dipping his lips into his cup of gutter ale and bubbling angrily. The small, copper hand of his colleague squeezed his shoulder supportively.

“Okay, soooo… How about we take this slowly, alright? How, uh, how do you plan on handling this? Hmm?”

Zigg kept growling into his drink. Mohammed turned his shoulder squeeze into a pat. “Buddy?”

Zigg finally withdrew the cup from his lips and sighed. “I don’t know, Mo… I just don’t fucking know. My options are… Pretty much nonexistent.”

“Okay, let’s take a deep breath and--” He shut up upon seeing Zigg’s surly expression. “Right, uh-hum. What’re your options, then?”

Zigg downed his ale. “Well, for started, I could go to the bank--”

“Oh, biiiiig no-no.”
“Exactly. Getting a loan to pay off a debt’s a death sentence. Which is why I thought of going to Laogui--”

“LAO--” Mohammed’s face darted around and he tried to the best of his ability to hook his arm around Zigg’s neck and pull him down to his face for a whisper, “The fucking triads?!”

Zigg wrestled himself loose and nearly knocked the small man off his bar stool. The man corrected his balance and furrowed his brow disapprovingly. “Lo, you can’t be serious.”

“Well, there’s always a third option.”

Mo gave his ayran another sip, grimacing slightly at the sourness. “And that is?”

“Hopping on the first ship to the Federation. Settle on some corner planet in the periphery there, make a new home and--...” Zigg quieted down at the sight of Mohammed’s expression and shake of the head. “... Yeah, I figured.”

“You’re already branded, man. AB’s got its eyes on you wherever you go. Your every transaction, your every paycheck, your every Allah-damned breath belongs to them now.”

“Well, how do I fix this, Mo?! Tell me!” Some heads turned in their direction. The bartender hologram gave them a glance before returning to polishing some abstract holographic cups. Zigg stared suspiciously back at the others before hunkering down to Mohammed’s level. “... Got any bright ideas, Mo?”

Mohammed tugged at his bushy black beard pensively, mumbling something to himself. “Well, uhm… Would you get enough if you sold your flat?”

“Well, I don’t -own- the flat. I rent it,” Zigg replied hopelessly. Mohammed nodded understandingly.

“I see, I see. Uhm, how much was the deposit for it?”

“Ten kay or so. What, you’re not honestly suggesting we move out, are you?”

Mohammed shrugged. “Well, it’s either that or the squad for you and your debt for your family.”

Zigg raised a finger in protest. “I might not get the squad.”

“Getting sent to Ripp-5 to mine uranium sands is essentially the squad, man.” The two of them deflated and said nothing for a while. Mohammed took another sip of ayran. He then tapped the bar counter twice and the bartender appeared before the two of them in an instant.

“Yes, mr. Sahar?” she cooed with mechanical enthusiasm.

“Another one for the large gentleman here. I’ll have a falafel plate.”

“I’d like a döner, too, actually,” Zigg added.

“Of course, gentlemen. Will you be paying for all of it, mr. Sahar?”

“I’ll cover the döner,” Zigg declared. Mohammed nodded.

“As you wish,” the hologram said with a smile and materialised the bill in her hand. The two of them touched the bill with their wristbands, making the little “boop!” ring out with its gentle, yet eerily annoying pitch. The bartender then blinked over to the other edge of the bar to simulate tapping another ale. Before a minute had passed, she had already appeared before them again, placing the ale down on the counter before Zigg just as a hatch opened on the counter surface, lifting up a tray with a pint of the goo-like yellow brew and a smoking piece of carbo-gluten pita stuffed with fried and hacked protein farse, some corn and cucumber gums, spinach and enough “white sauce” to make those ingredients nonexistent. Mohammed got something similar, only the protein farse had been replaced with greasy clumps of breaded soy bean mash - essentially the exact same thing as protein farse, but (supposedly) less recycled proteins.

Zigg picked up his overfilled vessel of food, half of which seemed to spill back onto the plate as he did his best to keep it in one piece. Mohammed took a piece of falafel, broke it in half and dipped one half in some of Zigg’s spilled sauce, mumbling a friendly “thaaaank you”. Zigg rolled his eyes and bit into the slab of food.

They ate their food in silence, both of them contemplating their exchange and what could be done about the situation. It didn’t help Zigg that Neo-Turkish döners also were incredibly rich and made talking a feat of strength. However, once they had finished eating, Mohammed sighed.

“I’ve heard there are -some- good places in the Bottom Tier--”

“Jesus Christ, Mo, you’re actually suggesting it.”

“I’m just saying, alright? Bring your belongings, get a good flat in the bottom tier. Rent’ll plummet and you’ll only live slightly worse off than you do now.”

“Not. Happening!”

“Well, why not?”

“I’ve been stabbed once already - if we move to the bottom tier, we’ll be lucky if that’s the worst that’ll happen to us.”

Mohammed picked at a sad piece of damp spinach on his plate. “O Allah… Okay, look, I’ll-- I’ll get in touch with some people, ask around. They might be able to shelter you for the time being, and--”

“Mo, you don’t have to. They’d just be putting themselves in danger. No, no, I’ll have to talk this over with the wife. She’ll-- ugh!” Zigg clutched his abdomen and keeled forward, slamming his face onto the bar counter. The holographic bartender appeared with a smile, which suddenly disappear. “Oh my, had too much to drink, sir?”

“Shit, get a doctor, lady!” Mohammed called out as the patrons of the bar slowly began to turn their eyes to them. The hologram simulated holding a smartphone.

“Of course, sir. Which insurance company do you--”

“NO! No, no more hospitals. M-Mo, in my pocket - the right one. A small packet.” Zigg tried to lean in a direction that made it easier for Mo to reach his pocket. Mohammed hopped off his stool, skipped to the other side of Zigg and reached into his pocket. Sure enough, there was a metallic packet there, labeled “Rejectionol: Kidneys” and offered it to Zigg. In a swift motion, Zigg fingered the box open and extracted a syringe, which he promptly stabbed through his shirt into his belly. A minute later, he lifted his head off the counter and began dabbing his sweaty face with the hem of his shirt. Mohammed frowned.

“So… That’s why you can’t go down there, huh.”

Zigg nodded and took some panting breaths. “Rejectol is impossible to get down there - well, the real stuff, anyway. Usually doesn’t get this bad, but my body’s not accepting this new cybe kidney. I know that’s a common thing among cybes, but shit… Never knew just how painful it is.”

“That, uh, rejectol. How much did it cost ya?”

“Remember how I said my debt to the hospital was fourteen grand?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m currently sixteen grand in overall debt.”

“Fuck…” Mohammed sat himself back on his stool. “Who the fuck lets companies manage the sale of critical medicine?”

“You know where you are, right?”

“Listen, I pay my zakat like any good Muslim - if I was richer, I’d buy a lifetime supply of Rejectol for all cybes and sub-cybes on the planet.” Mohammed raised his ayran cup proudly and chugged down the rest. “This world’s seen enough unfairness. Whatever happened to respect and common decency?”

“Again, you know where you are, right?” Zigg rolled his eyes with a smirk and gave his wristband a glance. “Shit, that time already, huh?”

Mohammed gave him a glance. “You heading home?”

Zigg got up from his chair and tugged his jacket on properly. “Yeah, gotta discuss what to do with the wife. Kids’ll want to know, too.”

Mohammed sighed and placed his hand over his heart. “Alright, Lo. Stay safe, okay?”

Zigg nodded and returned the gesture. “Yeah.” As he spun around to walk out, though, Mohammed called out.

“Oh, Lobby!”

“Hmm?” Zigg hummed and turned back.

“You should come over some time. Bring your family and I’ll have Ayiisha cook us some machboos.”

Zigg smiled. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Mohammed grinned back, though somewhat forced. “... Yeah. Please stay safe.”

“Sure.” Zigg then left the bar and walked into the blaring noisewall of advertisements and city chatter.

Duro One
Federation Embassy

"We got hostiles on advance!" Captain Ross Dodgers shouted out while firing from cover along with several others. “Hold the line!”

"Come get some!" One of the captain’s men taunted the duron soldiers, firing a heavy machine gun towards the charging enemy. "I can do this all-day assholes!" He continued unloading lead on the enemy until he heard several clicking sounds. "Reload!" He yelled out, but before he got the chance, he was pulled down. "Masu!” Private Oriana shouted as she pulled him down with all her might behind the safety of the makeshift barricades they set up. “Get in cover you crazy idiot!". She paused as bullets flew overhead. "You're a sniper's magnet!" She shouted over the gunfire. Masu simply smiled. "Hah! I’m a man of pure steel, ori! I'd say let 'em try!"

Oriana simply rolled her eyes at Masu’s overly confident attitude but couldn’t help but worry for the fool. “…Just please stay alive." Masu replied with a simple wink as he reloaded his gun, stood up and unleashed another volley of lead. Oriana crawled through rubble, blood and bullets as she reached the captain’s left flank. “How much longer we gotta do this, sir?!” She cried out; her voice nearly drowned out by the fighting. “We’re getting our asses kicked!”

Captain Dodgers didn’t need to answer, he immediately placed two fingers over the right side of his head. "Shra, ETA on those civvies?”

----------------

Elsewhere in the city, a small convey of federation Humvees and cargo trucks sped through the war torn, battered streets of the capital, making their way towards the embassy, followed by hostile vehicles not too far behind. “No straight answer, sir!” Shra replied, static and gunfire dominating his end of the commlink. “Roads are blown to shit and we got tangos hounding our asses!”

“Just get those people to safety, transports will arrive in ten! Over and out!”

--------------

Captain Dodgers turned his attention back to the fighting at hand, pro-regime guerrillas and soldiers slowly encircling their position. The Captain then turned his gaze back to one of his soldiers, a Simmie tinkering with a power generator, pressing down keys, all the while letting out frustrated ooks and shrill yelps. "How are those Auto Turrets Amy?"

"Working as fast as possible Cap!" Amy ooked several times at the captain, her translator collar letting out a feminine, yet frantic, digitized voice. Her frustration reaching the boiling point as she begun to smash the damned controls, inaudible screeches sounding from her collar. In her recklessness she was out in the open briefly and was shot in the arm. Letting out another yelp as she fell to the ground in agony. "Oh fuck…Medic!" The Captain cried out, and without delay, a human, private Jenkins, rushed over and dragged the injured Amy away into cover. Captain Dodger proceeded to fire blindly at the attacking fighters, more pouring out from nowhere. “Captain!” Private Shra called on the commlink. “Get clear!”

From behind the mass of regime soldiers came the evac convey, the auto turrets on the escorting Humvees unleashing hell on the ill-prepared infantrymen. Mowing them down in the dozens as they trampled over their fresh bodies. Without hesitation shra and the rest of his unit rushed out of their car. “Cover the civvies!” Shra ordered.

“Yes, sarge!” His men replied in unison as they ran to trucks, terrified federation citizens pouring out from the back. “Let’s Go! Go! Go!” one of the soldiers ordered the civilians. The surviving regime soldiers running for cover and returned fire on the new arrivals, several of the fleeing civilians killed in the crossfire. “Cover them and fall back!” Shra ordered, aiming for the attackers, he and his men slowly backing away towards the embassy. The roaring engines of a lone transport craft could be heard overhead as it soared through the skies, circling around the LZ. “This is it ladies and gents!” Captain Dodgers screeched over the comms. “Civvies go first, then they come back for us!”

Shra’s squad and the remainder of the Embassy’s security regiment formed up in a renewed sense of hope as they took their positions at the barricade and gave it their all. Pinning down the regime soldiers as the last of the surviving civilians all swiftly stacked up in the transport ship. “Civvies are clear! I repeat! Civvies are clear!” The captain declared as the transport’s engines roared once more as it lifted off towards the sky. “This isn’t over people!” the captain shouted. “We gotta hold off until our ride gets here! Just a bit longer!”

-------------

A short while passes as the fighting dies down, the regime forces moving to other parts of the capital, giving the much-needed breather for the embassy guards. In the wide main entry hall of the building, several dozen federation soldiers laid across room, some badly wounded from the fighting, others shell-shocked from the surprise attack, the few medics on hand tending to the wounded. Captain Dodgers, Sergeant Uhan Shra and the others stepped in victorious as the last of the regime’s soldiers fled. “Your timing was damn close sergeant!” The captain exclaimed with a wide smile on his face. “You did good.”
“Thank you, sir.” Shra said. “That bird can’t come soon enough.”

“It’s all silent on their end, but they’ll get here event-.” The captain was interrupted by several loud beeps coming from his commlink, a wide smile forming. “Speak of the devil, that must be our ride.” He said cheerfully. “I’ll be in the office, rest up while you can.”

---------------

“Jesus Christ, Masu.” Oriana protested, pushing the large man’s shoulder. “Don’t go pulling stunts like that on me.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry about that…” Masu half-heartily apologizing, clearly seeing the worried expression on Oriana’s face, the adrenaline rush of combat wearing off. “It was the rush of it all.”
“Yeah…I get it, but please be careful time.”

“Can do, ma’am.” He said with a mock salute to ease the tension of the situation, getting a small chuckle out of her. Although that would be short-lived. The captain’s could be heard from the ground floor of the building, clearly sounding distressed and angry. “That doesn’t sound good…” Masu said.

-----------

“Sir, You can’t be serious…” Dodgers said in protest.

“Afraid I am, captain.” Colonel Gabriel Ironside said remorsefully on the other end of the line. “Your unit is to remain on Duro One for the foreseeable future. Reinforcements will arrive in due time.”

“Colonel, we’re in no shape to do anything at the moment, that last fight spent us good!”

“I understand your position, I do…but High Command see it fit that all federal military personnel on Duro One are to assist in the war effort.” The other end was silent, the captain speechless. “Look, the best you can do is get you and your men out of the city, rendezvous with Orleans forces elsewhere. Until reinforcements arrive, that is your best bet.”

“…Understood sir, we’ll do our best.” The captain said, a sense of dread looming over.

“If this were my call, I’d have you and your troops out this moment, unfortunately, the Generals see otherwise..”
“it’s alright sir, we’ll make do, over and out.”

----------

Some hours pass and the fighting in their part of the city had died down for the most part, the Orleans invasion taking focus away from the embassy, a fortunate circumstance for the captain’s men. In what was formerly the Ambassador’s office, Captain Dodgers and his top men convene to plot their next course of action. “Alright…any hope of getting off this rock is a bust.” The captain declared, much to his men’s displeasure. “Colonel Ironside has suggested we move out of the city and locate friendly forces. Won’t be easy with all the wounded, but once we’re out, we can manage.” All was silent in the room, disappointment and fear filling the air. “How far can the Humvees and trucks get us?”

“Far enough, sir.” Shra replied.

“Good enough.” Dodgers said. “Lets stock pile our weapons, munitions, and rations. I want all able-bodied soldiers to man the cars, while the wounded are holed up in the trucks. We’ll move out in the dead of night. Any questions?”

The room was silent once more, the captain looking at the determined expressions on his soldier’s faces. “Good, let’s get to work people.”

I could give you something about how I had a troubled childhood, or a particularly good ne, I don't know I only lived one life so I can't really measure it against much. Won't say I can't complain though, if I had nothing to complain about then I wouldn't have had the rest of my story. Anyway, point I'm trying to make: if they tell you some long background about me it's just filler for the sexy movie they make about my life. Everything before that day didn't matter much, all the made me go down my path happened on that day. Wasn't even a very long day at that.

Woke up, mom was making something to eat, I honestly don't remember what. It was good, or maybe it wasn't, all of my mind was on that damn test. It's a little funny to me that I still remember all those equations and formulae. Catch that? I said formulae, not formulas. Still a little smart-ass, me. Anyway I got on my little trike and got to school, didn't even wave to the kids on the bus even though I usually did that's how hyped I was for that Goddamn test.

I got to school and parked, grabbing my bag and running to my first class. Got through the first three periods like usual, then came the long awaited third. Or rather, it didn't. Everyone was outside of class on their mobiles, at least those that were still here instead of going home or to eat. "What's happening?" I asked. Lucia, she just pointed to a paper taped to the door after stepping aside. Devices out of order, test cancelled, come Saturday at four for extra credit it read. I was pissed. I studied the hell out of that unit and knew every bit of it and it was the largest one, hence it'd be worth the most. But it was gone because the electronics at the school were out of order, which in turn was because the people far away in their spires of gold couldn't be bothered to send a man for just a few hours to figure out why some kids couldn't get the fucking learning they wanted. "Bullshit. Alright so what do we do? You coming Saturday?" I asked Luci. She shrugged in response to me. "No." I didn't like that about her, she didn't seem to care about school despite having a Doctor and lawyer for parents. Maybe that was exactly why, come to think of it. "Jesus Christ what the fuck do." I moaned. "They sound up your alley." she said, not realizing the rhetorical nature of the question. She pointed to a little poster on the wall opposite. I don't really remember what was on it. Probably something about justice and society, it was advertising a place for people to spill their grievances. In retrospect, I was really stupid not to think it wasn't a trap for what some might call dangerous people. Well I recorded the address of where the meeting would be and went home. Dad greeted me, asking why I was home early. I said last class was cancelled and there was a makeup test on the weekend I would go to. He said that it was good that the test was cancelled because I could then help him on the fields and I wouldn't go to the one on the weekend because we had to dig a new line for irrigation. Well we got in a big argument, one that made me really fucking pissed. The crux of it was something like this:

"Why? I need it for extra credit. I need those marks dad."

"No, you don't. You're going to be a farmer like me."

"I've got the grades to enter any place I want for Engineering. I just need a little more for scholarships and this test will get me that."

"Look, Felix, you got a talent. But it's going to be wasted. Let's say you get to some big shot core university. So you become an Engineer, you get back home and what? You spend your days fixing trikes and trucks until some idiot like Miguel sends you a real messed up one that blows up in your face. All the while you were working for half the pay I make feeding them core whoresons, breathing in all the dust and shit from the parts and you're dead at fifty but you wish you died at twenty."

"Thats not fucking right. I'm good at all this stuff I can fix our tractors and I built that damn warehouse all by myself I-"

"It's not fair? Come on boy you knew that was wrong the moment you said it because life's not fair. It's great you can fix stuff up you'll have a much easier time around the farms when something makes a funny noise. But this is the life that's for you, there's no way around it. Some day you'll see your grandkids be big farming barons but now you do what you're told. Now go get some fuel cells, tractor's dry."

Well, so I went. But as I said I was pissed, and on the way back a little reminder pinged on my mobile. The meeting was that evening, and after all dad said I felt I really had to speak my mind some more. So I finished the day, but rather than going to bed I told dad I was going out with some friends. Yeah bare with me I'm not at the cool shit yet, but I'll get there soon.

Walton Industries
Paradiso System
Western Regions of New Eden.
Kyle Walton, CEO and namesake of the fledgling, but quickly rising Walton Industries, stood in watch within an observatory, viewing below a battered and scarred simulation room where experimental military androids of varying design were undergoing extensive combat scenarios, pitted against rather convincing holo-projections of a wide array of enemy combatants ranging from Commonwealth soldiers, to Confederate Reislaufers, and Brotherhood Insurgents to name a few. The finely man dressed nodded and smiled, some models proving to match his expectations, others unfortunately, not so much, but it was a work of art in progress. As he continued to observe his experiments, just as he had felt the door behind him sliding open, his secretary, an Ulex woman stepped in. "Mister Walton, you have an unexpected guest arr-." she spoke before being interrupted by the rather abrupt entrance of a Dathu dressed in the traditional, ornate garbs only worn by Nobles of his homeworld.

"Senator Garui, checking up on my little project again I see?" Walton asked, his irked tone easily detected by the Senator. "Come now mister Walton! What's with that attitude?" Garui replied with his own question, putting up a facade of "kindness". "And here I thought wee were friends!"

Walton's expression remained static. "While I am grateful for you and your committee's finical support in this project." Walton said. "But I know all too well, this is but one of many cards for you to play in your little games in the Senate."

"Anything for the sake of my constituents, of course." Garui said, pacing around the room as he too observed the combat androids at work. "And this is far from trivial, my good man, this could be one of many drops that changes the face of the federation, and I plan to be at the helm of it."

"Such a grandiose vision." Walton replied, not so amused.

"Think what you will" Garui said, turning about to face the CEO. "But change is coming to the cluster, and we best be ready for it." Garui paused, turning back to face the androids. "But enough about that. I came for a quick update on the Centurion-series and I'll be on my way."

"A work of art is not simply something to be rushed, senator." Walton stated. "But if you must know, the Alpha stages are near completion, and I can deliver a working prototype within a year, maybe two."

"Good enough." Garui said with a slight grin. "Continue your good work and I'll see to it Walton Industries skyrockets even further in the stage among the likes of Gala-Grid and Cognito."

---

"So we can just... drive to the base?"

Well, 'drive', Adrian was sitting shotgun in what seemed like the most primitive of pick-up truck loaded with supplies, second in a column of 6 led by a similar pick up but with a machinegun mounted on top of it. This 'drive' was by no means a walk in the park and the man driving knew that other vehicles wouldn't pass the 50 meter mark before sinking in the mud, these vehicles were somewhat of s specialty of the locals as normal ground vehicles would sink while hoover crafts would suck in so much dead vegetation they'd fail after a while.

"Sure! People were intimidated at first by the big bad Black Sun, but we did like humans always did before."

Adrian raised an eyebrow, thinking about how violent humans were with each other throughout history when they first met a different tribe. The driver looked at the incredulous face of Adrian and showed a bright smile.

"They got thirsty for a beer and went to the nearest pub, so we socialized!"

This seemed unbelievable, considering all the things people said about the Black Sun, what kind of sick person could do a tenth of what they are rumored to do and just go on with their lives to have a cold one in the village nearby after? It was amusing since some people thought the same of the people in Zion with how they could make a family member vanish if he did not fit in, but Adrian didn't realize. Still, if they got drunk...

"Did... you learn anything during those nights?"

The driver shook his head negatively as he slowed down to take a particular sharp turn, causing Adrian to hold on for dear life as he looked down the ravine they narrowly missed.

"They drink to unwind, not to get shit faced. Its something we all appreciate, they don't cause any problems but I haven't heard anything interesting."

As mysterious as ever then. Maybe he could dig up more, try to find a girlfriend or a mistress, he was confident that if he searched he'd find something that could be useful but for now he hoped he didn't need to do so.

"There, look."

Turning his eyes to where his chauffeur was pointing, Adrian squinted his eyes at first to see through the thick foliage of the local jungle to see the buildings of the base that soon came into full view as they entered a clearing with stumps all over, visibly a firing line cleared to better spot intruders. If this was anywhere else this would look like a colony like any other, for some reasons some spent generations in these prefab buildings, but for Zionists you couldn't call something like that a home, it was too... impersonal, temporary.

The guards otherwise seemed relaxed despite the arrival of the convoy, obviously this scene happened regularly. The pickup they were in accelerated and overtook the lead to then slow down in front of the gate, the driver passing his head through the window. "HEY! We've got your stuff! And get someone in charge, we've got business to talk about... Business that involves me and the guy who runs the show okay? Just go get him!"

Just like they they were allowed in, not that this revealed anything special. Everything important must be indoor or... underground. Still, looking at the size of the operation, Adrian figured the local militias could handle things should they had to evict their guests forcefully.

After short walk around the site, Adrian and his chauffeur find themselves being escorted inside a small dark room, with a shadowy figure standing opposite their side. From where they stood only the black boots of the figure was lit by an overhanging light, and it appeared well-polished; too polished for someone who's living in the middle of a jungle. The room looked empty due to the poor lighting, but it didn't feel as such. Something or someone else was with them, but the two couldn't put finger on it.

"Search them." A distorted voice utters.

And as if on cue, two guards wearing high tech exosuits slowly stepped into the light, and began frisking the visitors. The men looked and acted like professionals, running their hands on every nook and cranny with complete disregard of the visitor's personal space or comfort. To them it was a job needed to be done, regardless of how often they did it. After all, they work for the Black Sun, and the Black Sun is not known for lacking discipline.

A gun is found in the driver's coat and was quickly taken by one of the guards, only to be dismantled fluidly with precision a few seconds after. "Non Arma" the guard says, before moving towards the sides of the door Adrian and his driver entered from.

"We're not expecting visitors today.. nor are we expecting deliveries.." Uttered by the same distorted voice. "So it's either you're here to sell us slaves, or you're here for some other business.." The figure takes a few steps forward, revealing a man wearing an all black military uniform, a cape, and an enviro-helmet which resembles an officer cap from Old Earth.

"So.. state your purpose."

Adrian raised an eyebrow as he turned toward his driver who merely shrugged as an answer. Ah well, there he went.

"Shalom! I am uh, a representative from the people of Zion, for the moment ignore the crates if you would. I am here indeed to talk about business, namely the terms of our present business. As you know, we lease you this land under the condition of payment, but also that your 'business' doesn't affect the lives of the tribes of Zion. I am here about that last part. As I think you probably know, there have been suspicious disappearances of many people lately, many of my own kinsmen in fact. It is something we cannot abide and so, I have come here looking for answers."

"Disappearances you say?" The man uttered after pressing a button on the left brow section of his helmet, emitting a light that projected a holoscreen in the middle of the three. His fingers hovered in front of them, emulating the pressing of a button on the holoscreen. He enters a sort of combination; of symbols not numbers or letters, that sent them to a page where tiles of images can be seen. The images showed different locations and people being corralled by Black Sun men, either unconscious or forcefully.

"New Eden... Raygon 8... Wosmo... Dothan... Parravon... Ascia... I don't see Zion on the list. Been off this list for decades in fact, ever since your people made that deal." The man says in confidence, even after just incriminating himself and his organization in front of Adrian. In his head, no sane mind would snitch out and cross the Black Sun, or so he thought.

Was this man serious? They did check Adrian for weapons but he could have any amount of spy gear to record this information and while the reach of the Black Sun was long, it barely extended to Ascalon or Zionist space in general. Still, this was leverage and Adrian would enjoy the stupidity of anyone if it helped him and his people. Ultimately, he shrugged at the answer.

"As I thought. Its been years, breaking your deal now, with your assets exposed as they are make no sense, when you think about it... The problem is that a lot of people don't think about that. They only think about how there are people disappearing, that you have a reputation of making people disappearing and that traces of weapon discharges and supplies used during the attacks match that of Black Sun operations. If it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck... It is probably, a duck as the saying goes. Now... my theory is that someone is... framing the Black Suns. Its convenient if you`d want to kidnap people en mass... but they bother to use Black Sun equipment, which is not cheap so not within the reach of your average pirate. Plus... I'm guessing you keep a track of sales, so it would be the matter of finding a client who buys stock from you, uses it frequently so either buys in bulk or relatively often..."

Adrian crossed her hands behind his back and shrugged. "I'd suggest you cooperate since even if you say you aren`t responsible, someone needs to take the blame. The simple thing would be to ask you to leave and of course break any future possible dealings, you know how we in Zion are with that. Or, I ask for increased surveillance to find the real guilty and this means much more people seeing and much more equipment recording what's happening in the colonial system, meaning a lot of records and eyes on ships I presume we all would wish would remain unseen and unheard of so they remain unspoken of." He said, implying the possible leaks this could naturally lead to.

"So... I think it would be best to work together to find who's trying to profit from our friendly relations, yes?"

The man stood in complete silence for a minute, before suddenly speaking with the same distorted voice. "Very well, we agree to that plan. I'll inform the men to make preparations for an investigation. Anything we gather we'll relay immediately to you." The response sounded scripted for some reason, but still sounded convincing. "In show of good faith, please allow me to give you something for the trouble caused. I know it can't replace the people you've lost, but I hope it would show our investment in this deal we have." The man commented before pressing a few buttons on his wrist console.

The ground shook seconds after the man responded, as if an earthquake had hit their location. After a while the ground came to a halt, and the man clad in black raised his hand and gestured towards the door. "Please, have a look."

Adrian turned toward his driver who shrugged in ignorance. He turned back to the man with a visibly displeased look on his face. "Among the disappeared was family, sir. You can never replace family." Having said that though... he still advanced toward the door. He half expected to be thrown in a meat grinder honestly but it would be stupid not to accept a possible gift.

"You'd be surprised on what the Black Sun can do." The man says after exiting the door. Five hulking walkers stood in front of the three, with their weapons primed but lowered. The walkers looked new, with the plates still glossy, and the gears still silent. The dirt beneath the walkers appeared loose without tracks leading to where they stood; implying they must've been kept underground. Who knows what else the Black Sun kept beneath the dirt hidden from prying eyes.

"These are the latest walker models the four-eyes in Arcadia Engineering came up with. Their documents stated that they were not for public sale, and was a direct commission for some warlord in the fringe. Too bad their security isn't as good as the things they make." The man walked towards the walkers before pressing a few more buttons on his wrist console. "These things could wipe settlements off the map, and disappear without a trace."

With the last word spoken, the five walkers slowly disappeared from Adrian's sight; as if a mirage in a hot desert or a reflection on the sea. "There's fifteen more waiting in a cargo ship in orbit. They'll follow your ship when you depart." The man slowly walked towards Adrian and his driver while pressing buttons again on his wrist, and with that the walkers came back to sight like a slow haze forming into a solid matter.

"Don't worry.. Adrian.. we'll find Shimon." His head tilts lightly to the side, as if trying to express a smile through his helmet. He removes the wrist console from his gauntlet and motions it in front of Adrian.

The Zionist didn't appear impressed for a second during the presentation and looked down at the console and back up at the man with disdain. His driver though, he couldn't help but give a whistling of admiration. "With that, I'd like to see any scumbag try to fuck with us!"

This ticked Adrian. This thing... it could be a trap, if it was the Black Sun that was responsible, they might just be automated to turn against the defenders during an attack and even if it was not, it didn't mean there weren't any tricks attached. Trackers of all sorts, trojan worms that could infect computers in Zion should they try to analyze the thing for reverse engineering... and overall, there was the matter that Arcadia wasn't from Zion, accepting these mechs meant buying ammunitions and other things from Arcadia on the long term. Worst of all however, accepting this gift would morally mean that Zion accepted a compensation in exchange for Black Sun to take its time to look into it, which was unacceptable. Lives were at stake and Adrian wanted answers NOW.

"I have contacts with mister Laurenstein from L&G armament, I'll make sure they send more weapons here, but we won't accept this."

Adrian crossed his arms behind his back. "I don't know if you personally will get what I am saying, but I think your organization will. Zion doesn't deal in goods. We deal in trust. You being here, Arcadia and Black Sun using special banking services and the secret that we give, we allow not just because of material benefits, that would make us like any company on Raygon. We deal with you because of trust, trust that since we have your best interest at heart, you will have ours in yours... I need answers and a stop to the attacks. I don't know what involvement your organization has, but it has at least some and if there is another attack before we find what's going on, the families of the victim will blame the most obvious suspect and will act in consequence. You know how far family ties run in Zion... If there is nothing else, I will leave. I instructed my men to tell yours how to contact me."

"If you're really decided to learn of the truth.. take this."

The man returns his wrist console to his gauntlet before pulling a small chip from it. He tosses it towards Adrian after a long sigh.

"Inside you'll find information about the culprit's location. That's all I can say. Black Sun's contract was to merely cover up for them." His voice sounded monotonous, his confidence gone and replaced by defeat. "I always forget how principled and troublesome you people are."

The man turns to his wrist console before speaking again. "Now, it's best for you to leave."

In a flick of a button the dirt beneath the walkers began to shake and split apart, revealing a massive hold beneath the ground. A glimpse inside the hollow pit reveal numerous lit rooms and parked vehicles of varying sizes. Men armed to the teeth patrolled the narrow walkways, while workers kept routine maintenance to the assets. The walkers slowly sank to the newly opened pit and before a minute could pass, it was gone. The ground closed right after the walkers have returned to the Black Sun's underground hold, without leaving a trace other than a few displaced rocks.

"And don't forget to take your gun with you."

Location:





Subject:

---

“Wow, that really was quite the spectacle, mr. Wellsley! You could hear the gunshots all the way over here. Almost had me thinking your enthusiasm had caused a little tier-in.” He raised his glass to his companions, one of whom was still the Cala from before, while the human had been replaced with a Misle. They clinked their glasses with Shawn’s with supportive chuckles. The bar was the same as before - deafening music, dim lighting, a faint tinge of urea on the air - however, the guests seemed for some reason to keep to themselves even more than before. More specifically, George felt an eerie lack of stares in their particular direction, despite the fact that Shawn and his companions were being quite rowdy. The Qurok bodyguards were nowhere to be seen.

Desperately, George crossed his arms and chopped them forward at the air, ooking in an anxious whisper. Shawn’s laughter dimmed slightly and he sighed. “Oh, mr. Wellsley, where’s your sense of celebration? You’ve finished your mission, you’re no longer deep in debt, and!” He tapped his wristband and brushed away the ads, opening a videofeed and flicking it over towards George. “... Congratulations. You’re famous.”

The video appeared as a small flat ray-shield hovering above George’s wristband. It displayed, very clearly, his three assailants, the Raygonian, Putt and Qurok, being absolutely annihilated by the Bobby he had hacked. Granted, the Putt and the Qurok had been killed before he hacked it, but it still appeared as though George somehow manipulated it, especially when the very, very visible remote control appeared in his hands midway through the clip.

“That final warcry at the end, though… Mmm! Oh, that really just puts the cherry on top,” Shawn praised.

Wellsley paled so much that his fur appeared to whiten. He pointed at himself and slit his throat with his thumb, clicking his tongue hopelessly. Shawn’s smile gave way to a pair of pursed lips complementing his skyward glance.
“Nnnno, not necessarily. Yes, you attracted a bit more attention that we had planned for, and yes, there’s a fair chance that someone or something will come after you at some point, but hey, look on the bright side!”

George raised a miserable eyebrow. A hatch opened on the table before him and unveiled a rising platform carrying a small wrapped box and a shrouded bottle. The box unwrapped itself and opened to reveal a paper note. Upon it was written a number - one much larger than any George had seen outside of price tags. The bottle unshrouded itself and the label read Dom Perignon.

“This is your pay in advance for your next mission, and with it, you can probably buy yourself out of this little pickle, hmm?”

George nearly screamed, instead throwing his hands into the air and concentrating his every fiber on not exploding with energy. He tapped his wristband and tapped at the ads with such recklessness that he opened several to the cacophony of ad music, pitches and automated offers. Eventually, he had managed to tap into his bank to behold his balance: As the note had promised, the number was grander than any that had ever filled that account before. George popped the Dom Perignon open with the snap of his thumb, chugged down a couple of mouthfuls and slammed it to the tabletop with a deafening smack. Even Shawn recoiled a little. George flattened his left palm and struck his right index across it multiple times with rampant enthusiasm, ooking eagerly along. The Cala and Misle exchanged curious glances and Shawn leaned forward. He extracted his cigar tin, pulled out four rolls and offered one to each around the table. He then placed it on the table and activated the jammer function. Immediately, the wristband screens fizzed out.

“It’s good that you’re eager, mr. Wellsley. It’s a trait every employer wishes for in an employee. Of course, the proportionality of the payment should provide a hint as to what sort of mission you’ll be assigned next.”

George simmered down, his brow furrowing suspiciously. He once more crossed his left palm with his right index finger and Shawn extracted a metal tablet from his chest pocket. He tapped a button on its side, igniting the tablet’s screen, and passed it across the table to the Simmie. George analysed the picture of the screen and the Misle and Cala both took a few hip-swaying steps over to his side to look alongside him. The picture revealed a Simmie, a scarred and beaten male gorilla with a multitude of pointy braids down his elongated skull and a white, stained tank top over his torso. It was looking away, suggesting that the picture hadn’t exactly been taken with his consent. He wore blue, ragged jeans and had gold, silver and platinum jewelry around his enormous neck and on the knuckles of both his hands and feet. His enormous arms were heavily tattooed and branded with various markings and sigils belonging to a very popular gang over in the southern hemisphere Leisure district.

“Do you know this Simmie?” Shawn asked as he leaned back into the sofa. George shook his head. Shawn tapped the table twice and the bartender hologram appeared, though it was fuzzy on account of the jamming.

“Yezzzz--... -Awn?”

“Bring me a lighter, if you would. I seem to have misplaced mine. Oh, and some more fruit gums, too.”

“Ri-... -Way!” The hologram said and disappeared. The table soon opened its hatch in front of Shawn and delivered his order. Shawn unboxed a match and lit his cigar, taking a moment to taste the smoke before fixing his gaze on George once more.

“Hou Banhei, also known as Barry Ho or just North Star. He’s the second pillar of the Celestial Dragon triads, a captain of sorts.”

George frowned. He laid two fingers horisontally and lifted them up. Then, he took his two index finger and rubbed them against each other sideways while pointing upwards. Finally, he flexed his right index, placed it on his templed and pulled it away, flexing and unflexing his finger. Shawn shrugged.

“Apparently, the nickname comes from his time in the Silverback Company. He served a long time as private police in the mining colonies on Bick-3, especially in the north. As if that planet’s not a cold hellhole already. I guess he somehow got the nickname and it just sort of stuck. Honestly, it’s not the worst name to have pursuing, well, any sort of career.” George frowned back down at the picture. Barry Ho looked like ex-military, but from what George could see, there were no signs of mechanical implants or scars from any removal of such. He gave his temple a scratch and ooked ponderously. Again, Shawn shrugged.

“That’s among his secrets. All soldiers in the Silverback Company receive mechanical enhancements to boost their combat capabilities, but our friend here doesn’t appear to have any or even have had any. This has, of course, led a few circles to speculate that his supposed membership in the company may have been a lie, but no-no, their official records state that Barry here was a member all the way up until ‘53. He got laid off with the Crash.”

George nodded. A common fate around that time. He then looked at Shawn, placed his hands on his own right shoulder and then tapped the back of his left hand his with right fingers facing forward, pinky flexed upwards. Shawn snapped his fingers.

“Roxanne, dear, would you light mr. Wellsley’s cigar for him?” The Cala courtesied, took a match from Shawn’s matchbox, placed the cigar in George’s mouth and lit it with a feline smirk about her lips. George cleared his throat sheepishly. The Misle went back to sit next to Shawn and popped a fruit gum in their mouth. “Your mission, mr. Wellsley,” Shawn began, “is to make certain mr. Ho meets with the undertaker by the end of the week. Our client was very insistent that it be by then, lest their plans would sadly be in quite the bind.”

George wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. He had killed intentionally before, but there had always been a reason for it - self-defense, anger, thievery… It had never just been “because someone told me to.” Still, the money doesn’t lie, he thought to himself, and the guy was probably scum, anyway. Who wasn’t down here?

“Expect a reward similar to what you received today. I suggest you use a good chunk of that money to buy yourself some weapons and men - good men. From what I’ve heard, Barry is many things, and unprotected is not one of them. Bribe the local peacekeepers to keep the Bobbies away and, most importantly, prepare a get-away car. Model and price is not important; what -is- important is that it runs and that it runs fast.” Shawn’s voice had grown uncharacteristically serious by now. “Take it from me, mr. Wellsley - you’ll want to prepare for this one.”

George grew anxious at the shift in tone, but blew out a plume of smoke and nodded. The night went on a little longer, with the four of them politely enjoying each other’s company.

---

The same night, George went through shadowy alleys and climbed wires and pipes between the slums of the streets belong. More than once, he passed through small colonies of Simmie hobos in tree and scrap houses in the pipe and wire jungle above the street. George hadn’t had to move into one of these yet, but he had come close. With this job, though, he hoped that day would never come close again. Several of the hobos called out to him, but George ignored them all. He instead merely dove through the pipe-top towns and back into the chaotic sprawl below.

I’ve never been to this part of town before. It’s three hours away from home, but at least my card covers the whole of New Macau. Shawn said this was where I should go - Laopao Street. It’s not the biggest gun market in the New Macau, but it’s apparently pretty safe, he safe.

George hopped down an overcrowded set of stairs and found himself being dragged along by the crowd. The current eventually pushed him against the wall, where he grabbed onto a ledge and managed to drag himself out of the river of flesh, until he found that the ledge was a shop window, manned by a grinning Putt wearing a brown apron and a red fez.

“Goooooood evening, honoured customer! What brings you to my little hole in the wall?”

George looked left and right before shrugging with an ook. Trying his luck, he made a gun with his right hand and snapped his thumb up and down. The Putt nodded in understanding. “Say no more, fam - you’ll find no better piece than one bought at Jerpo and Son’s. What kind do you want? Kinetic? Energy? A combination, perhaps?”

Wellsley frowned. He made a gun with his hand again, then a circle with his opposite hand which he wiggled in front of the hand-gun’s barrel. The Putt nodded.

“Of course - we have a wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide selection of kinetics in stock. What will it be used for? Self-defense? Cold-blooded murder? Driveby?”

George blinked sheepishly and dragged his right hand around his left hand as if the left hand was a round sphere, raising his eyebrow. The Putt nodded.

“You’re right, sir - all-of-the-above is a most viable answer. Handheld? Or something a bit heavier, perhaps?”

George flexed his right hand.

“Handheld it is. Let me have a look.” The Putt walked behind a curtain in the back of his shop and for a while, the only sounds were the cacophony of the street behind George. After a minute or so, though, the Putt returned with a handheld pistol about twice the size of George’s fist. George furrowed his brow and grabbed the weapon by the handle, turning it around in his hand to get a good look. The Putt grinned.

“PS-12 Automatic Handgun. Modifiable however you may want, comes with fully automatic sub-machine gun fire options, scope, custom clips and suppressor extensions. I’ll give it to ya for two ninety-nine, because you’re such a great customer and we have a special business offer -for- you! Buy this one and the PS-32 submachine gun for, get this, only six ninety-nine. A steal, right?” The Putt hopped behind the curtain again and found a specimen of the second weapon. George hummed. He pressed his fingertips together into cones and pressed the cones against each other, twisting the right one upside-down. The Putt smirked.

“Since you asked so nicely - no, the extras are not included. Want me to include them?”

George frowned and nodded. The Putt slapped together some holographic abacus blocks that popped out of his wristband. “Right, so, extras such as scopes, suppressors and ammunition, plus the guns, will total you two grand six ninety-nine.”

Wellsley’s jaw nearly smacked into the ground. He thumbed downwards and the Putt smiled.

“Alright, alright - since you’re such a nice guy, I’ll give it all to ya for two grand four hundred, how’s that?”

Again, Wellsley thumbed down. “Okay, two grand, three fifty?”

The ape shook his head. The Putt began to tear up. “Look, here I am, trying to run a business, and I’m honestly, honestly, trying to give you the best price I can, okay?”

Wellsley thumbed down. The Putt gasped. “Shit, bro… I got a wife and son, you know that? What’re they supposed to eat? They already eat corpse starch! How low can you go, huh? You suggest a price.”

George frowned. He had gotten a lot of credits, but he should play it safe. He raised two fingers into the air. The Putt eyed them curiously.

“Two grand?”

George nodded.

“SOLD!” the Putt suddenly burst out loudly and George blinked. Before the Simmie could protest, the Putt had bagged the guns, ammo, scopes and suppressors, subtracted the amount from George’s wristband, shoved the bag into the ape’s arms and closed down the metal curtain over his shop window. Behind the metal curtain, George could hear the faint, celebratory cackles of the merchant. George opened the bag and stared at the contents. Could these be fake? He had never actually bought a gun before, so he had no idea what a “proper one” looked like. He strolled down the alley and found himself a comfortable garbage bag to sit on. He began counting the bullets he had bought, finding out that he had bought a total of three clips for both weapons. He grimaced - he would probably need more.

He clicked a clip into the handgun and fired at the opposite wall. The loud bang followed by the pling as the bullet bounced against the metallic wall both suggested that the gun was quite real, but Wellsley would have to wonder how durable it was if the merchant had celebrated over a 2 000 credit transaction.

Either way, that was the weaponry out of the way. Now George had to find some companions. He made his way down the overcrowded alleys, shouldering as discreetly as he could he newfound bag of weapons.

Now where would he find those?

---

“So, let me get this straight,” the bulky Raygonian across the table grumbled through pursed lips. The lighting in the Mercenary Recruitment Centre just down the street from the Laopao Street weapons market, was evidently not the focus of the company’s budget, leading everyone to wear a shadowed scowl regardless of actual facial expression. Behind the trench-coated Raygonian stood two more of its kind, plus a Qurok and an Ataraxian, all equally baffled at the request.

“You want us to join you in taking down Barry Ho.”

“Ook,” confirmed George.

“-The- Barry Ho.”

“Ook.”

“Of the Celestial Dragons.”

“Ook.”

The five mercenaries exchanged glances yet again. Their leader, who had introduced himself as Nop Slint, furrowed his brow and looked down at this twiddling thumbs. “Sir, with all due respect, we’re a respected establishment around here - pranking is not a nice thing to do, and frankly way below the belt--”

“Ook!” George protested and placed his index finger on his chin pointing upwards, then flicked it forward. Slint blinked.

“Sir, you keep saying you’re serious about this, but…”

“OOK!”

“Okay, okay! Ugh… Give us a minute to talk.”

The group huddled together and left George to scout out the dark, dank room. All around, tables with clients on one side and mercenary bands on the other were settling deals of honest pay for honest murder, all in the wonderful spirit of the Bottom Tier service economy. There were warriors from all over the cluster: deserters looking for a fresh start or just a place to hide; lifelong killing machines in search of somewhere to apply their talents; or just average cold-blooded Joes or Jennys in search of easy credits. The corner hosted a bar, as was tradition, and next to it was currently an arm-wrestling competition between a Krunt and a Qurok. It seemed the Krunt was winning.

“Right,” said Slint suddenly. George blinked.

“Ook?”

“Yeah, no… We won’t take this mission, sir.”

George hung his head. Slint frowned. “You know how it is, sir. Ho’s not an easy ape to kill, and I won’t risk my squad’s safety that badly just for a lousy five grand.”

George ooked hopelessly and Slint sighed. “Mr. Wellsley, we mean no disrespect, really. Hey, we actually got a tip for ya if you’re really feeling that suicidal. Yux?”

The Ataraxian fingered a note out of her breastpocket and placed it on the table in front of George. She then pointed to a darkened door at the far end of the room. “You take this note and walk over to that door. Knock five times, wait one second, and knock twice more. Then they’ll ask for a password, which is on that note. Read it as quietly as you can to the man behind the door and walk inside.”

George frowned suspiciously and shrugged. The Ataraxian shook her head. “No questions - just do it.” As if to hurry him along, she took him by the hand and led him off his chair and towards the door. George blinked anxiously at the affair, but couldn’t quite think of what to do before he had been placed before the door and the Ataraxian had disappeared back into the crowded establishment. George eyed the menacing rusty door, and considered for a minute to just look for a different mercenary employment business. He looked over his shoulder - the exit couldn’t be seen through the crowd. He eyed the door again. This definitely leads into some fucked up hole where I’ll get shot or something, he thought to himself anxiously as he hammered at the door the exact number of times instructed.

“Password?” came a voice behind the door. George fumbled the note open and started spelling it out with his hands. When done, he waited. Nothing happened.

“Uhm… Hello? Password?” came the voice again. George blinked and looked up. After a second, he smacked his face with his palm and groaned apeishly. There was no slit through which the man could see him spell. Instead, George tried his best to scan the words into his text-to-speech app on his wristband.

“A, L, G, O, R, E, B, R, O, M, A, N,” the mechanical voice mumbled at the metal. A moment passed before the voice went, “Are you a fucking cybe?”

“Ook!” George protested. Another pause passed.

“Oh, a Simmie? Well, I’ll be damned...” The door eventually swung open and a gray hand came out from the darkness behind it to pull George inside. The door shut close after. George didn’t even have time to scream before he was plopped down onto a chair in front of a table with one flickering light bulb. George looked around in panic, but his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet. At least, not before a voice directed his gaze forward into the midst of a dark cowl with two red eyes glaring back.

“Sssssooo… In your hour of need, you’ve come to ussss… Forfeit hope, forfeit joy - avaunt be morrow, avaunt be yester! FEEEAAAR! FEEEEEEEEAAAAAAR--!”

“Jesus, boss, why you gotta be like this every god damn--”

“OH! OH! I’m sorry! Did you get us this fancy office with YOUR amazing bartering skills? No? Well, of course you didn’t - you suck!”

“This is the washroom, though--”

“SHUT!”

There came the tumble of aluminium pipes and heavy feet - presumably, someone had stepped in an empty bucket. A few stumbles later, the roof lightning switched on at the move of an unfortunate elbow, and George sat staring at a blinking, chubby Qurok in a white tanktop holding a broom, a frowning Jakai scratching her head with a claw, a Nerkin trying furiously to pull a bucket off three-taloned foot, and a small female Petalos with a black hood, looking about two inches from exploding with anger.
“This god-damn-- THING!” snarled the Nerkin and eventually just ripped the bucket in half. The room was silent for a second. George raised a quivering finger.

“Ook?”

The hooded Petalos seemed to calm somewhat, but rolled her eyes and glared daggers at her squadmates behind her. “Well, the moment’s gone, so you might as well show us what you’ve got. You need someone dead right?”

And so George explained the whole mission in as much detail as he had received himself. The four strangers occasionally exchanged glances of worry or interest, but no one said a word until George had explained in full, unless it was to ask questions. When the ape had finished, the Petalos gave a quiet “huh”.

“That sure is… Something else. Usually, we’d just get hired to settle domestic disputes, really,” the Jakai added. The Petalos gave her a glare and hushed. George frowned.

“What she meant to say was, we, uh… We DOMINATE disputes! Yes, beware, all who walk the sinful world of Raygon--”

The Qurok rolled his eyes. “Boss, please, you’re scaring the client again.” The Petalos gave George a suspicious glare, receiving some anxious ooks in return.

“... How much’d you bring?”

George held up five fingers and all four of the mercenaries frowned.

“Five grand for Barry Ho? No dice,” declined the Jakai. The Petalos hushed her again and pointed at George.

“You, turn around. We need some time to discuss.” While George did as he was told, the size of the room and his proximity to the others essentially meant that, no matter what he did, he could hear everything they said.

“So, I’m thinking--”

“There’s nothing -to- think, boss. Five grand is nothing when it comes to taking out a big shot like Ho,” the Jakai tried to explain.

“I’m with Sesley, boss. We handle small fights, not triad shit,” said the Qurok.

“Well, I say we fuck him UP!” the Nerkin protested and slammed the table, making George jump a little.

“Okay, so… Two against two?” the Qurok offered.

“This always happens - every time…” Sesley the Jakai muttered.

“Shush, all of you!” the Petalos commanded and raised a finger to the sky. “This place… This place was given to us for our great efforts - this mission--”

“No, boss, we were confined here for being a nuisance, remember? Jeff here couldn’t stop assaulting the Mosley Crew and--”

“They had it coming!” the Nerkin roared and, once again, slammed the table.

“Okay, but that only enhances my point,” said the Petalos loudly, her finger still pointing to the sky, or rather, the ceiling lamp. “If we do this - and succeed - we’ll be the biggest players on the market!”

A silence followed. The first to break it was the Nerkin Jeff, who said, “Boss, you’re insane.”

Sesley sighed. “Well, I suppose I would get shot on the street for existing anyway.”

There came a weak slap and another sigh. “It’s been an honour, people,” mumbled the Qurok. “I’m in.”

“Ape. You can turn around again.”

George did as he was told - a little annoyed at the name-calling, though, and eyed the Petalos. “We have been discussing intimately--”

“Ook!”

“Alright! Alright, we’re in,” she muttered back and extended her hand. “Since we’ll be working together, we should introduce ourselves. I’m the boss of the Fairy Dusters, Oxigania Toxica.” George shook it reluctantly. Oxigania gestured to the rest of her squad.

“This is Sesley Prox, master assassin.”

“I used to be a barista,” Sesley added through a cough.

“That’s Cody Mezzanusospolimos.”

“Just Cody’s fine,” the Qurok said with a smile.

“And that’s Jeff.”

Jeff offered George a razor-sharp claw. “Pleased to be acquainted, Mr. Ape. And you are?”

George frowned and spelled out his name with his hands. The four mercenaries nodded.

“George Wellsley, huh,” Oxigania mumbled. “We’re honoured to be of service.”

“Knowing you came to us, you didn’t have another choice, did you?” Sesley asked with a smirk. George shook his head and Oxigania glared at her colleague.

“Shush, Sesley. Don’t worry, Mr. Wellsley. Everything will go just like planned!”

There was a moment of silence, once again broken by Jeff.

“So!” he snapped, “What is the plan?!”

---

Location:

---

The sickly, chipped metal of the surrounding acid-burnt buildings drifts lazily on the industrial winds in this part of the city. The crusted sewage smears up against the foundations of structures much taller and much older than what could ever be considered safe, and the air is so polluted that one couldn’t see further ahead than one’s own outstretched arm. Crumbly asphalt, or what had once been it, roughly outlines what had once been a road network, down here, but now one can barely walk straight along it, let alone drive on it. An endless network of pipes and roofings forms a low skydome over the area - in every sense, this part of the Bottom tier is essentially a network of tunnels underneath a grander city. The temperature is unbearable down here, being deep underground and overclogged with hot fumes.

Yet despite all these factors that should approximately equate this area with the surface of a gas giant, it is vibrant with life. Lackluster life, yes, but life nonetheless - millions of outcasts from various societies gathering in one place to live out their misery as a single group. These people are weakened by harsh lives and a harsher environment, starved with little to no access to even the most basic necessities. Members of every race, human and xenos, all gather around relief centres, religious communes and soup kitchens to live another day.

This weakness makes them apt targets for kidnappers and flesh traders.

Grigo Pizarro flicked on the infrared vision on his gas mask. Behind him sat squatting a bunch of equally equipped thugs wearing black suits and wielding stun guns. Pizarro scanned the open street through the fog - infrared wasn’t an ideal spectrum to use when scanning down here, considering the heat of the air. Still, it was the best they had, and these cooled suits their buyer had offered them made this work so much easier. His eyes fixed on a crowd surrounding what looked to be a rabbi holding a sermon before an improvised synagogue altar. His crowd appeared sufficiently large, and their security was nonexistent.

With a quiet signal, Pizarro and his thugs snuck their way over through the smog. Their approach was completely unseen, and it wasn’t as though anyone would warn the praying crowd if they saw them, either. The first thugs to break through to the crowd opened fire on whoever was in range. A panic immediately broke out, making them all the more easy to round up. Before long, Pizarro and his thugs had caught most of them and were tossing them into the back of a truck. A few more trips like this, and then they could return to their buyer with a proper offer.

---

The Mykola Gogol docked at the southern surface port of Raygon’s leisure district, before several smaller flyers broke off from it to go down into it’s vile depths. It was a rather large rectangular prism pattern of vessel, the geometric nature of the ship easily marking it out as originating in the Councillary Confederation of Neohumanity. Anyone acquainted with the CCN would know that prisms were typically transport vessels. This one was of an intermediate size, clearly not carrying something in true bulk like loads of cheap consumer goods but at the same time it wasn’t to be carrying just a few luxury baubles.

The flyers that descended were cargo carriers each and every one, the security of the LZ being assumed. Nevertheless they kept radio silence and activated their quasi-stealth protocols. It was just in case, for one never really knew what sort of nastiness was around the corner. Besides, the CCN wasn’t particularly keen on any journalists one way or another happening upon the trade here. Although any economic relationship with Raygon was by definition immoral in the median sensibility of Eden, people only really paid attention to things like human trafficking to cause scandal. To Neohumans, this was somewhat puzzling, for the calculated suffering produced by things like buying simple toasters from Raygon was projected to be far higher than the place being drained of a few of its lowest wretches. Really, the outdateds were so unreasonable!

Still, they were the main population of Eden and their sensibilities dictated what had to be hidden and what could be done publicly and though they didn’t like it, the Confederates stuck to following this duality. All of this raced through the head of Vilho Bulow as his craft made touchdown. Today he was getting a very, very valuable cargo. The CCN always needed more people, exponential growth being one of the defining traits of the state. But mommy cyborg and daddy cyborg could only do so much, and even the mass kidnappings, adoptions, and willing immigration was still not enough to satisfy the demand for the population in the Sol system. Besides, Raygon’s people had thanks to natural selection developed quite some interesting genetic traits. Oh, it wasn’t anything particularly noteworthy, but it was still a matter of scientific interest and would make the sum Neohuman population a little more genetically diverse. In return, the gangers of Raygon would get something very juicy, oh yes. The scum of the planet would be very surprised to see other scum use the fancy toys brought here. As vehicles that carried the shipment of cryoguns, radcannons, sonic emanators and other esoteric weapons made by Neohumanity came behind Vilho, he checked the time and coordinates to make sure he was in the right place. He wanted to finish the transaction as fast as possible and begone. He could easily breathe the toxic air and bear the extreme heat of this place, but that didn’t mean he liked it. It was dark, but from soft but deep red glows in Vilho's irises the Raygonians would be able to see him.

“Eyo, mekanikk kopeng. Dis fine day fo’ lil’ trade, yah?” A skinny, lanky man, a mere ant compared to the wonderous fusion of machine and flesh that was Vilho, came out of the smog with gloved hands extended out to the side. “Mi called Grigo Pizarro. Welcohme to de Jank Ya’d.”

The red irises focused on the fellow identifying as Grigo, scanning him for weapons and analyzing heat signature, as well as facial expression and other factors to determine if this was friend, or foe. "It is… a pleasure to meet you." Vilho said, his voice smooth and silky but possibly synthetic. Save for the irises he was fairly human looking, although this was perhaps a little misleading. Save for his brain and skin grafts to hide and protect the cybernetics beneath Vilho was entirely machine. "You may call me Vilho. Do you have the product?" he asked, except, not quite. The universal translator implanted in him would have done the work of perfectly expressing his intended meaning in whatever the dialect that Grigo used was.

“Oya, kopeng Vilho, you kno’ Pizarro oh’ways delivah, yah. Right in dat dere trukka, yah. Fifty-six ‘a dem, drengens ‘n pikas, yah - ol’ ‘n youngs.” He gave an impatient whistle and waved over an approaching truck, flanked on the sides with thugs equipped with improvised and home-engineered guns, wearing the same cooled black suits as Pizarro along with shabby gas masks.

Pizarro cursed under his breath. “Oya, oya, oya - hurry de fuck up, yah! Kopeng here busy man, yah!” The truck stopped a few metres away from them, backdoors facing Vilho and him. A pair of guards each grabbed a door handle and pulled it open. A crowd of terrified civilians, both human and xenos, screamed and tried to escape, but froze in their steps upon seeing the rest of the guards aiming pipe guns and rusty pistols at them.

“Oya, stay de fuck down, yah,” one of the thugs warned a teenage human as she attempted to jump out of the truck. Pizarro rolled his eyes behind his mask and thumbed at the crowd while facing Vilho. “Dis wha’chu want, yah? Proppa’ flesh, dis - best mi find down ‘ere.”

“Yes, yes I’m sure he does.” Vilho said, sighing as he walked over to the truck. As it opened he looked inside to examine the contents of it. He took about a tenth of a second to count and recount all fifty six to make sure he wasn’t being gypped, and satisfied he went on to take a look at the individuals.

One he picked up by the neck with a hand, raising the poor fellow to Vilho’s towering eye level of two hundred centimetres. In a flash several surgical tools sprouted from his back which took off the man’s head, then cut a small circle in his scalp to throw aside and remove his brain with. Like a cashier’s barcode scanner wide lasers came from the eyes of the Neohuman to analyze it. “The usual contaminants. We can deal with that though.” he muttered, and another small mechanical limb came from Vilho’s back to seal the brain in a plastic-like material, before yet another cooled it. Another Neohuman came from the lander with a box in which the remains of the dismembered fellow along with the sealed brain were placed, and then he went back inside.

Vilho took yet another look at them, scratching his chin with one of the cybernetic limbs. “The mean phenotype is semitic and expressed stronger than usual. I take it they’re largely from the same place?” he asked, picking up yet another by the neck to turn this way and that, before dropping her. “For the future it’s better if they’re different. The more different, the better.”

“Yah, mi keep dat in thinka’, kopeng,” Pizarro promised faithfully. “Mo’ not de same, de betta’, yah.”

He hopped up on the truck, noticing one of the aliens. “This one is a xeno. We’ll take it, but it’ll fetch you less. For the future, it’s better if you grind down any xenos you bring us, they’re easier to transport that way.” The Neohuman might surprise even the Raygonians who had seen his kind before when he A) demonstrated the sheer amount of his hidden limbs when one emerged for every single xeno and B) demonstrated the strength in the otherwise thin and frail looking cybernetic tentacles holding the aliens up in the air well above him.

“Still, this is a good batch.” the transport cars that were behind Vilho opened and in either hand he place rather large and very strange looking weapons. “Your pay is here. It can be tested, if required.”

“Oya, kopeng, you too kind, yah,” Pizarro said and accepted one of the weapons. He aimed at a nearby pile of trash and unleashed a cone of ice that instantly turned the garbage into fragile blocks of frozen sludge. The thug let out a crazed cackle and cocked the weapon. “Oh, shazza! Dis gon’ wreck dem Hermanos Pendejos, yah! Aight, both’a dem for dis batch, keh?”

“Yes.” Vilho said. “There’s also a few radcannons and sonic emanators. I hope I don’t need to tell you: ‘don’t point them towards your face.’ Ideally, the radcannons and sonic emanators you shouldn’t be using without protective suits or power armour, but if you’re careful you can make sure the last thing the enemy hears is rock music just a little bit too loud without your own ears bleeding. What I’m saying is be careful. I don’t want such good partners to accidentally bake themselves alive; it would be very, very unfortunate.”

The several Neohumans stepped out of the lander to carry the weapons out of the cargo cars before sending a signal for the vehicles to change their functionality to instead store live people now. While the exchange of products happened Vilho looked back to Grigo. “So, when might we meet again? We’re always happy to take a few souls and hand over these toys.”

Through his gas mask, Grigo was grinning from ear to ear. His thugs were already grabbing and marvelling at their new weapons, showing them off to each other with mad laughter. The bandit leader stretched out an open hand and let out a flattered laugh. “Oya, kopeng, don’chu worry ‘bout us. We seen ‘nuff radiashan ta know when git out, yah. ‘Bout dem new batches, mi give ya comm a lil’ ring-ring when we ready, yah? Should be some time next month, ke. For now gotta lay low - let dem bilgeas come outta dem homes again, roam de streets, yah. Makes dem easy peasy roundy uppies, yah.”

“Right, notify our representatives at your leisure then. Oh, and make sure to let us know when your little friends get accustomed to your new weapons. We’ll make sure to bring in something else then, chem dispersers and arc weapons. We may well want to one day put this partnership on an even larger scale, if that becomes possible.”

Grigo snickered. “Sure t’ing, bossmang.”