[center][h1]Chapter 1: Cash for Blood[/h1][/center]

[center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VqQg6xglhzs[/youtube][/center]

"We've got Baator Brew, Black Spire Stout, Blurrgfyre, Toniray White, Andoan White, Moogan Tea—with or without alco—" 

"I'll take... Taranis Tall and a Black Spire Stout." The merc said. Even without his armor, Markus knew they could tell he was a hunter.

The east-wing barman placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, a tattooed woman wearing a black crop top and shining leather pants appearing from the back to help the merc with his order. The sound of billards balls clacking and glasses being placed on rusted plasteel tables was almost comforting to Markus. The room was fraught with the smell of freshly cooked food mixed with alcohol, and a chemical tang to the air, like as not from having just cleaned up something less than savory. The holodisplays placed above the bar and across the room where the billiards and card tables were being held showed the previous day's Mechball matches, with text from local system news sources sliding across the bottom. Men laughed and jeered, swearing and swapping insults and slurs of the strangest sort from across the old empire. Many were freighter captains, old luggers that spent their lives moving from place to place. Others were local scoundrels or heels, and some like as not wanted to experience some night life off-planet. 

The cantina, called Dagda's Cauldron, was huge. It was three stories, and about forty thousand square feet of public space. It took up almost the entirety of the central floor of Kario Space Station, and everyone passing through, from gangers to smugglers stopped by for a drink or to swap stories. At the center of the Cauldron was an inner atrium-turned-arena, able to be viewed from all three stories, where mutants or hard men down on their luck could fight to the death and win prizes or take a sample of the winning bets. Even at the edges of the cantina, their cries of victory or defeat cut through almost any noise.

Markus squeezed passed a number of rowdy locals, halting as a waitress sauntered past him and expertly ducking under a thrown bottle. Voices were raised, and he stepped past the walk between the tables just before the bouncers rushed to halt the altercation. At the next table, a cabal of bounty hunters spoke in hushed tones and drank their beers, some still wearing bits of their armor. One of them still had his helmet on. Across the way, a band of mutants played a multitude of instruments on stage, a younger man with eyes completely polished black singing in the mic.

They had been lucky, Markus and Jo. The two had escaped without much injury, and found space to make a jump before pursuit could be initiated. He had given a rare laugh when he realized the Huntman's capabilities. It was the size of a freighter but handled like a starship fighter, and its sensors were immaculate. Jocasta also gushed over the showers working, and Markus had to agree that was a perk. Jo had checked the kitchens and found there was a little food, and after eating she had found a bed and fell asleep for what seemed like half a day, while Markus checked the integrity of the ship's systems and kept an eye on the slipspace stream. Then he showed her how to monitor the ship and what to press to get on the comms, once she had woken up fully, and it was his turn to conk out. Ten hours later, Markus found a place to exit their the stream, and found they had arrived in the Tuthanin System, with three habitable planets, two biologically habitable and another under a biodome.  

They had hardly talked since their quick exit, but now it was time to actually clear the air, make plans, and decide their association. But not before Markus made good on his promise. 

He slid a Taranis Tall to her, which she caught expertly. She had procured a small, tall table for them across the floor, half a dozen meters to a Holodisplay and equidistant to any other party, save the occasional staff member rushing by. Markus took his seat across from her, his hair newly washed from a couple of hours ago, but still relatively unkempt as he had to pilot almost immediately after, and what brushes there had been had smelled...used. He sported 'freighter fatigues,' more commonly known as smuggler trousers, essentially faded out, drab cargo pants one could wear to anything and hide any number of weapons or equipment in. His belt hung loosely at his waist, and he wore a black shirt that hugged his torso, with a 'Dead Men don't run very fast' stamped at its center, with the logo of an old, famous bounty hunter named Davik Sunder, who coined the quote back in the 24th century. Hanging loosely around his neck were two, faded dog tags. He felt sore, but it was a good sore. Rewarding, in a sense.

"Have to say, I half expected you on stage by the time I got back." Markus said.