[IC] The Skytower Rebellion

[Cath]

The Dream

The whitegold Alcazar sat like a smug crown on the apex of Settler's Rock. The lush, green, walled compound seemed to take all the vegetation for it self, standing out like an oasis in the desert. At each of its corners there were tiered hanging gardens; long creepers of imported plants traced the dusty rocks in their search for the ground. All around it a dirty town of circular metal huts clung to the crag like a nest of limpets. Beyond that, the roiling ocean of sand dunes stretched out for miles in all directions . The whole settlement was in motion, a sea of heads swirled around the houses as they all headed in one direction.

The sky boomed and seemed to open up over Settlers rocks; the Alcazar’s dull silver walls ran slick with artificial rain, making the multitude of arched verandas along its façade salivate with anticipation. Statues of the founding colonists dotted the gardens, striking glorious poses. Some stood with their heads cleaved from their bronze shoulders; others had people clambering up like monkeys to sit on their outstretched arms for a better view. The compounds gates lay battered to the ground and the house’s detachment of droids were scattered about the place in a multitude of pieces.

A series of devastating firestorms had engulfed sections of the citystate way across the sands before them. Countless infernos sent up colossal flags of smoke which hung limp in the air. The ground beneath the onlookers shook with the drum-like rhythm of explosions that threw up huge columns of masonry. The fragments seemed to flutter in the air like confetti. Far off in the distance, the vertical column of ash where the Skytower once stood had just started to collapse in on itself, blocking out the sun with cloying black particles.

Interstellar craft, from pootling junks to stolen military cruisers, lifted off from docking pans around the city and sped away into the atmosphere. The onlookers in the Alcazar gardens just watched. Some held hands; others took out their anger on everything around them for their home’s destruction. The ash column must have had mass because at one particular moment it seemed to give way entirely. It fell in on itself before fanning out at inhuman speed. The city vanished in the blink of an eye. A monstrous pyroclastic flow of burning rage and black soot crashed into them and-

Is this what you want? Is this what you want? Is this what you want?
Help me to be free and i will give you everything. My name is Zion.

Huxley awoke; his mouth and eyes wide open in a desperate gasp for air. Minutes past and slowly his breathing returned to normal. There was no ash cloud bearing down on him, nor was the feeling of impending death breathing hotly down his neck. He saw only the ceiling of his little cabin, covered in snaking pipes and patches of rust. The walls were similar, shadows hid in every crevice created by wheezing ducts. The meagre scraps of empty wall were plastered with faded posters and slogans. Grasping onto a cold metal pipe, Huxley hauled himself into an upright position and looked down at the cabin that had become his little world.

The ventilation ducts squeezed the room like a Python, made worse with what little furniture there was jutting out at awkward angles. The bunk Huxley sat on was little more than a metal shelf with some threadbare covers and a pillow. Underneath was a robust chest of drawers brimming with dirty clothes. On the top of the drawers was a half-full bottle of Maw Worm Mezcal; the amber liquid seemed to glow of its own accord and a shrivelled mollusc husk floated at the bottom to add flavour. An Oculus, with it’s metal casing scratched and pockmarked, clung to the ceiling like a mechanical crustacean. multiple lenses stuck out haphazardly in all directions, compressing packets of light before sending them out to expand in the air; creating a rotatable mobile of holograms, each showing a different channel. The current primary bubble was of a news channel, reporting on a conference which was happening live. Apart from the Oculus it was dim in the cabin, with only a few fingers of light tracing the thin sliding door leading to the corridor.

The whole room shuddered violently as the ship’s ancient engines strained over a sand dune; particles of dust dislodged from the ceiling and the Oculus flickered on and off violently. Momentarily the straining stopped as they dropped down the other side, Huxley’s stomach dropped but he hardly noticed it. He exhaled deeply. Blocking out the low murmur of the television, he reached down and plucked the spirit bottle off his dresser with one hand, taking a big drink from it’s cool liquid before resting it against the temple of his head. “Oh, full of scorpions is my mind.” He growled in that special morning voice. “William Shakespeare, Macbeth. Act two, scene two, page two.” An androgynous voice softly entered the room, seeming to fill every square centimetre.

Huxley ignored it, crashing back down onto his bunk; causing granules of sand to cascade from the ceiling above him. Letting go of the bottle, he massaged his face, working his way around the prominent chin before kneading the pits of his eyes, getting rid of all the sand. He had the hands of a lawyer but his body bore the scars and muscle of a worker, a soldier. His skin was tanned a deep brown and a beard cautiously grew between the infrequent shaves. Eons past and Huxley stared alternately between looking at the ceiling, the Oculus and the Mezcal bottle. With a flick of his hand the volume raised on the main hologram, it was of a conference in Actim; a huge semi circular desk of officials took questions from voracious onlookers.

“Huxley to the bridge, Huxley to the bridge.” the same androgynous voice whispered, canceling out all sound. Huxley tried turning up the Oculus more but to no avail. “Come on, get over to the bridge.” it insisted. “You might enjoy yourself.” Huxley rolled over to face the wall. “But it’s my day off.” He moaned, taking out his earpiece. The Mind just switched to real speakers. “Cesar says its urgent.” “It’s always important.” Huxley retorted, resigning himself. He swung off the bunk, pulled some shorts on and taking one last slug of his Maw Worm Mezcal, opened the sliding door and slunk out. The Oculus’ holograms blurred and distorted as he walked through them, disturbing them like a ship does a calm sea.

The Sandship’s corridor was much like the cabin; cramped by ducts and gunmetal grey in colour. The floor was harsh to his bare feet, the inner workings of the ship just visible through the mesh flooring. Strip lighting powered by recycled halogen clung to the ceiling and lit the way to either side. Setting off, Huxley looked into some of the cabins as he went, nodding acknowledgement to the ones who saw him. Most were writing in holo-journals, convening in morning prayer or watching the Oculus; the others were asleep, fighting back bad dreams like he had. Huxley walked through the ship’s canteen where a few of the crew were already gathering, down a few more corridors and arrived at some blast doors. They opened as he arrived and the Bridge greeted him.

It was a dark, spacious, semi-circular room; the curve of which was entirely taken up by a vast array of screens. Dominating the wall space was one at least ten metres wide. It was split into four sections: a camera view of the desert in front, behind and to either side of the ship. Positioned around the main screen were smaller monitors with security camera footage from the mess hall and armouries and corridors. Other screens showed blueprints and maps of the ship’s’ interior as well as interactive holo-maps of the surrounding area. Facing the vast screen were two long banks of primitive operations equipment divided into workstations. Turrets, doors, cameras etc. One bank hugged the curved wall and one was set slightly back from it. Personal effects showed they were all used but at the moment only two technicians were on duty. At the back of the room on a raised pedestal was the Captain’s chair, and filling its comfortable leather recess was the Captain.

He rose as Huxley approached his workspace. The holo-screens arrayed around him dissolved as he stepped casually from his pedestal. “James!” He boomed with a shark-like grin, slapping Huxley on the shoulder. Huxley grimaced as the man squeezed down on his sunburnt shoulder. “Good morning Cesar.” Huxley attempted a smile back but fell short. “Is there a problem?” Cesar just laughed. “No problem my friend, just thought you needed some fresh air.” He motioned for the soldier to follow him back out the way he had come. “Megara, you have the bridge.” He shouted unnecessarily back over his shoulder. “Yes Captain.”

[Siphran]

It was first light, the long shadows had yet to be wiped out by the scorching sun. Most people were still sleeping, or were just barely waking, especially this part of town. The Varmont District, home to towering buildings full of apartments, middle class, mostly white collar workers and their families. They would get up, go through their morning routine, and maybe remark on how that news reel about the gunfight had been in their neighborhood. A select few would say that they had seen the police vehicles, Babylon's finest blocking roads and constricting traffic, a good excuse for being late. They would experience it once and have a story to tell for a few weeks.

Not so for Tess. Currently laying prone on a particularly uncomfortable slab of duracrete, she mused at the benefits of a nine to five job. No getting shot at, getting adequate sleep, better benefits and severance packages. There was no excitement though, no blood pumping action and split second decisions. It wasn't the life for her, even if her current assignment was one of similar boredom. "Alfa team to overwatch charlie, eye-oh?" Her mike squelched in her ear, well her brain more like. "Charlie, eye-oh." It was game time.

Readying her weapon of choice, she centered her sights on the scene across the way. A small community garden, the kind that building owners included in the building plan to make the place look fancier, dominated that floor. A few doors adorned the far wall, lucky apartments that got a nice view. Six hulking figures filed in from the elevator, all carrying weapons. The scope automatically highlighted their outlines in a vivid blue. The scene wasn't quite right yet though. She keyed her mic. "Overwatch charlie to CP, can we get some aerial over here?" "CP to overwatch charlie, aerial is on station, casting now." The scene shifted again, three red outlines appeared against the wall on the other side of the garden, in an apartment. They shifted around, almost nervously, one ran to stand next to the front door.

"Overwatch charlie to alfa, I've got one stacking to the right of the door." The hulking figures advanced, hugging the wall as they moved towards the red outlines. Stacking at the door, they halted at her message. "Received, making a path." The armored figure on the right side of the door moved further to the right, unblocking the red outline. "Stacked and ready, on you charlie." She centered the scope on the red outline, eager to do away with it, a green laser showed the clear path to the target. She wouldn't be doing the firing though, her weapon was merely a scope. Looking ever so slightly to her right, she eyed the grey armor next to her. Completely immobile, he too was prone, holding a long rifle. He glanced sideways and nodded, behind the tinted visor, she knew he was grinning. Tess returned to her scope as a second green laser appeared, converging with hers at the target. "Clear to fire." From her right, "Firing." A distinct whirring sound, then a thud sent the projectile on its way. Punching neatly through the wall, the red figure seemed to disintegrate.

"Alfa, breach and clear!" Her comrades below sprang into action, the figure to the right passing through the smoke and heat of the rifle round even before it had dispersed. They crashed through the door in an organized fashion, taking all of the correct positions as their green lasers swung around behind the walls, the red outlines disappeared as the green paths touched them. "Sitrep." A chorus of voices responded. "All clear." A few seconds passed, then, "Alfa to CP, we are clear, three hostiles down, no wounded. We've got crates in the back." Other uniforms, regular officers, now poured from their positions in the stairwell and behind corners to the apartment.

"CP to Alfa, received, PD will secure and handle the rest. All teams, rally next to the command van, we're done here." Tess sat up, collapsing her scope into its case, her partner was doing likewise, carefully removing the brown boxes from his rifle's magazine. Likewise, across the way the others were filing out, some with red liquid dripping down their armor as they headed to the elevator. Some of the blue uniformed officers simply stared as they passed, most ignored them or nodded their appreciation.

Four minutes later they were gathered at the command van, more of a large shipping crate painted in official colors with antennae sticking out of the top and crammed full of communication equipment. Leaning against the side of it, she realized just how exhausted she was. This had been the fourth deployment today, none of them had slept in 78 hours, give or take a few naps. Only when all twenty officers were assembled, would they be able to head back and go home. Thankfully, she could see the last two jogging up to the huddle now, gear over their shoulders. From the way they were hunched over, it was clear everyone was feeling the same. Sera stepped out of the command van, in a blue uniform, neatly kept and pressed, it was obvious she was here in more of a supervisory context.

Instead of the expected half joyful face of a job well done though, she instead wore an apologetic expression. "Get in your transports, we're being redeployed to the Scoville Market. You'll be updated on the way." She did an about face and headed back inside as a transport swooped down, securing the command van in its grips before lifting back off. There were no groans or cursing, just the occasional huff and people hurrying off to their transports. Not a few grabbed snack foods from the leftovers the command center had set up before running off. Fifth deployment, 79 hours now, as such was life. But as she watched the city rush underneath her boots, she realized she wouldn't trade it for anything.

[Leidenschaft]

The smell of blood is very distinct. None too peculiar if it’s in amounts where you can smell it, anyways. It’s similar to how it tastes, and Richard knew both well. It was surprising to Richard how easily he could block out everything happening around him if the memory is vivid enough. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant surprise, it was the second time today, the other being when he had snapped himself out of the memory of his sister’s lifeless eyes just in time to swerve back into his skylane. Now the thumping alternative music in this outer-ring Babylon club, the Golden Shovel, was completely out of existence along with everyone talking, dancing and flirting around him. Richard clenched his teeth and growled, now was not the time to lose himself in his mind. There was work to be done. He frowned a bit when Veronica spoke, “I am sensing a spike in your heart beats per minute, Richard.”
“I’m fine. Just keep an eye out for our friend. We can’t afford to lose sight of him when he gets here.” He replied. His earpiece came to life with the cooing voice of Ainsley, “You two look cute over there.”
“Instead of watching us, watch the crowd. He should be here, and soon. I told him when the meeting will be.” Richard replied, his voice level.
“No fun. I never get any. You know how he likes to be fashionably late though. Makes him feel important or something.”
“Someone should tell him it just makes him look late,” Kristof said, everyone on the link could hear the smile on his voice, “I wonder what Marcus would think of our extracurricular activities. Using Group resources to fulfill a personal vendetta. My, my, aren’t we the rebels.”
“I think he knows. I don’t think he cares, so long as our motives coincide with the Group’s. Mine do.” Richard said, looking down at his v-cig, all the calming effects of nicotine and similar herbs, none of the cancer. Even then, cancer was easily treatable.
“Cryptic.” Ainsley laughed.
“He’s walking along the bar right now. Headed your way. Should I kindly direct him towards you two?” Kristof asked.
“No, no. He’ll get here.” Richard assured, Veronica was away from the table in an eye’s blink.
“Tell me when you get h-”
“I have him. He is coming with me.” Veronica cut Richard off.
“Good girl.” Ainsley remarked.
When Veronica brought him back, he was shoved into the empty chair across from Richard with Veronica standing behind him, hands clasped behind her back.
“It’s nice of you to meet me here. Timely too. I appreciate it.” Richard said, his face unmoving to show either anger or happiness. That was a good thing, either of those could be reasoned with, a blank slate though, you could only accept a blank slate.
“No, please, the pleasure is mine. I trust I will receive a payment of my choosing. I assure you, my information is worth every credit.” Alexander smiled white, straight teeth at Richard, a sly smile. Greasy. But that’s what Richard was counting on. Good characters with integrity and ironclad moral codes were not the ones to be prancing around with their self-righteousness where it would do more damage than good. Tradecraft was dirty, quiet but dirty and none too dangerous.
“I hope it is, Mister Hohengramm. Your bodyguards are being watched. They entered one-by-one an hour before you got here. There are four of them. Two of them are of African descent, one Caucasian, the other is a synthetic. Mine is too,” Richard nodded to Veronica, “You have no reason to lie to me. I have credits. Lots of them, and every one of them is a reason to instead tell me the truth, or your part of it, at least. Do not give me a reason to have to dump your lifeless body in the wastes, Mister Hohengramm. Other than that, I feel we can gain many things from each other.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mister…?” Alexander politely waited for a name. It was too bad he wouldn’t be getting the real one.
“Victor. And no part of this is a bargain. No haggling. Do not put words in my mouth. This is strict, you give me information, I give you a set amount of credits and you leave. You forget you ever saw me until I call you again. -If- I ever call you again.” Richard spoke.
“Fair enough.”
“Yes, it is. Now, speak. You know men that I would like to know. Tell me about them.”
===Later===
“That was very uncharacteristic of you, Weiss. You sounded more like a mob enforcer than an intelligence officer. I thought Mason taught you better.” Ainsley said, looking at Richard from the backseat of the car.
“I know. I just couldn’t restrain myself. I need this information, Ainsley, more than I need manners.” Richard replied.
“More than you need an angry executive and corporate thugs snooping around for you?” Kristof chimed in, his v-cig vapor puffing from his mouth with each word.
“Even more than that. Ainsley might need target practice, though.” Richard smirked.
“And then the rabbit hole gets deeper and bigger, and easier to find, and then our tiny cell is over before it even gets to begin.” Kristof took another drag from his v-cig.
“That won’t happen.” Richard uttered.
The skycar zoomed across the skylanes of the outer-rings, back towards home. A building tucked away in the seedy underbelly of Babylon, home to thieves, thugs, gangsters, pimps and whores. There wasn’t a better place for the bunch, one could spend days sifting through every criminal and still not find Richard and the others in the pile. If there was one good thing that the Group was good at, it was good at killing. But also disappearing.

[Skull]

Babylon - Capitol District - Congressional Hall

---

The seating arrangement in the Congressional Hall wrapped around a small main stage in two semi-circles that expanded outward in waves. Divided straight down the middle sat BESC and CGB politicians in their own designated chairs, nearly filling up the entire lower level seating chart. Had this been a more ceremonious occasion, the president and his cabinet would also be in attendance on the upper balcony suite. Unfortunately for Illugia, this was not one of those days.

BESC Representative Illugia Faux strutted fitfully onto the podium. He rose a hand to shield his eyes from the flash photography bombarding him from press row. Recorder drones clicked and whined, sputtering around the rotund politician, broadcasting his irritably flushed demeanor to millions of viewers across the globe. The overhead spotlights beamed down on him like a police unit tracking a suspect. Beads of sweat began to paste his already shiny forehead. For a moment he thought his hearing had gone, until he realized that the entire auditorium had been dead quiet.

"Ahem..." He cleared his throat and shamelessly blew into a handkerchief until his nasal passage unclogged. Illugia made sure not to wipe his own sweaty forehead with the snot-drenched cloth and carefully folded it back into his pocket. "On behalf of the President, BESC prime delegates, ROC Intermediaries, and CGB politicians, I, Illugia Faux, offer my sincerest apologies to the people of Outremer. As a representative of the people, I have failed you..." Illugia's balding skull stared off into space as if searching for a miracle, or divine intervention; anything that would grant respite from this unbearable moment that would likely haunt him for the rest of his life. When nothing came, Illugia quietly sighed.

The reports and accusations filed by CGB Politician Robert Kruschev Sinclaire and his oversight committee, are undoubtedly correct. Yes, I cosigned the order of approval for biohazard experimentation on Tindrel communities from unregistered Corporations for profit. " Recorder drones honed in. Press row erupted in flashes. Murmurs, melodramatic gasps, and whispers cluttered the auditorium. "Further information regarding the misappropriation of charitable donations are also correct. Yes, I knowingly partook in reallocating funds from charitable foundations that have supported my candidacy into activities which I will not state in a public forum."

The mob grew restless. Despite Illugia's attempt to speak louder into the microphone, the chatter would not let up. "I must express my utmost regret for how I have misrepresented the President and his Cabinet Staff, but most especially, you, the people of Outremer. My role was to give you a voice, but instead, I used it for my own selfish gain and hurt so many people in the process. Therefore, I hereby resign as BESC Representative and await a public trial with the high courts for the crimes I have committed."

Illugia searched for pity in this crowd of esteemed cohorts, but found only hellfire in a den of dragons. The entire left side of the auditorium was clamoring out of their chairs. Fists were raised, scowls and expletives were shared, and they all were aimed directly at him. The right side, the BESC side, remained as statuesque as fear-ridden greeks staring into the face of Medusa. The deed was done. Career suicide, accomplished. BESC Security Officers reared toward Mr. Faux and escorted him off stage. He took one last look into the crowd before he disappeared into the side exit. He searched and searched, canvassing out the sea of scowling faces, but Illugia couldn't find the one he was looking for.

"So the fucking bastard didn't even have the decency to show up, eh?" The BESC officers shoved him through the side exit and into a small corridor, locking the doors behind them.

"Looking for someone?" The slightest tinge of a southern drawl frolicked into Illugia's ear like a cursed spell. Robert Kruschev Sinclaire stood in a well-tailored suit like he always did, flashing that charming smile that blurred the line between mischief and genuine sincerity. Illugia's face turned bright red.

"Are you happy you smug piece of shit!?"He spat on the ground in front of Robert. The BESC security officers grabbed Illugia by the shoulders, but Robert raised his hands in Faux's defense.

"Now, now, boys. Represe-" Robert rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, mockingly chiding himself. "My apologies. Former Representative Faux means no harm. He is clearly distraught from the gut-wrenching testimonial he just confessed to the entire world. I do applaud you, fine sir, for your stalwart bravery." The condescending tone in Robert's voice was ice cold, and the echoing claps of his fake applause burned something fierce in Illugia.

"You're pathetic." Illugia grumbled. "You think this'll put you in high favor with the cabinet? You and your CGBs are piss-ants. You've got a glass ceiling over your heads and you're dumber than the Tindrels I embezzled from if you think you can gain any leverage from this. The BESC won't vouch for bipartisanship. Its sad really. You poor bastards are just wasting time and energy. "

"Oh, but I'm not..." Robert walked forward until he was face-to-face with the man, careful not to step in Illugia's spit. "Did you ever stop and think about how I had access to all of those juicy details I blackmailed you with?" Illugia grew silent. "I'm not talking about the hogwash you just spilled out there. I'm talking about the devil in the details. The stuff they'll sweep under the rug at your trial for lack of "evidence", which just so happens to be in my possession. The mutilations. The lewd sex traffick rings with unregistered immigrants. The President's-" Illugia yelled at the top of his lungs, desperately screaming out: "LIARRRR!" to drown out the rest of Sinclaire's words. The BESC Officers said nothing, but Robert could see the fire in their eyes. He turned to Illugia and stared him down with a fierceness that Faux had never seen before.

"The consequence for your wrongful doings in this world is at the mercy of my leniency." Robert reared in closer, his oaken brown eyes piercing into Illugia's shattered exterior. The man had the look of a defeated prizefighter, but Robert wasn't pulling any punches. For the past eight months he had worked to get to this moment. The trap was set long ago, and it was only a matter of time before Illugia had no choice but to off himself in it. It was the better alternative, opposed to facing more serious allegations that he went through painstakingly great lengths to keep secret. "You should know that your own compatriots played their part in priming your guillotine. I was merely the appointed executioner."

Illugia winced at the thought of betrayal. Such an act of deception from the very loyal constituents he had broken bread with for over twenty years was unfathomable. It was frightening to think that one man could do so much damage in so little time.

"You think I'm the only one that has blood on my hands? You think I'm the only one that's done wrong?!?"

Robert laughed affectionately, like a parent would to a temperamental child. "Did you really think all of this was just to get to you?" He addressed the question as if gravely insulted.

"Why then?! Why'd you target me you son of a bitch!? You think you're some kind of fucking hero or something?!" The exit doors began to jostle, followed by loud bangs and the sound of a bloodthirsty mob shouting for the former BESC Representative.

"Sorry Sir, we've gotta go." One of the officers said.

The BESC officers immediately grabbed Mr. Faux and pulled him past Robert. Just as he did, Mr. Sinclaire whispered his answer. There was no menace behind it. No searing rage, or even mild contempt. All that Illugia could read was a nonchalant indifference which perhaps made it all the more terrifying:

"I'm no hero. You were just in the way."

Cue Robert Kruschev Sinclaire's Theme Song!

[Cath]

Babylon Executive Security Command. - Here for you. The words hung ominously to the side of BESC’s gargantuan headquarters as Taliga raced over the freeway towards it. The building was eighty eight floors high and just as wide, housing a thousand years of military might and political clout. The rest of Babylon kept its distance, with a belt of artificially lush gardens and clear lakes separating it from the other towers and highways. Taliga looked down at the beautiful gardens as they cruised over, seeing ant-like men and women strolling down its white flagstone paths.

She was sharing the car with three other people. They had proposed a ‘business meeting’ on the way to work in order to ‘discuss an agenda’ but talk had quickly turned to personal matters and Taliga had lost interest. It was all ‘colonial fund investment’ and ‘holidays in Actim’. She had felt a few less than subtle elbows in her ribs for financial advice or full on charity, but had smiled them off in her usual disarming manner. They flew to automated parking and disembarked, Tali clacking off ahead in high heels with the rest scurrying to catch up.

BESC HQ was a huge complex, with a lot of open spaces filled with sculptures and impractical furniture punctuating the high tech offices. Toughened glass walls allowed Tali to look into command centres as she passed. Enormous and elaborate flagship’s in their own right; full to the brim with holograms, computer screens and rushing men and women in white shirts. One of the chief inspectors spotted her passing and raised a hand, willing her to stop and running out to grab her in the corridor. “Tali, wait!” He shouted, jumping in front of her with a holo-pad in his hand.

“I’m very busy Detective Inspector Howard, can it wait?” She enquired sweetly. “No ma’am, we have a high speed pursuit out in the Projects. We think Thegn is involved.” The moment that name escaped his lips, colour came to Tali’s impeccable cheek. “How sure are you?” She snapped, following him quickly back into the loud command centre. “It’s one of his cars.” Howard started, leading her to an array of screens which were capturing the frenetic chase live from a gunship. “Is that all? He has dozens of cars!” Tali sighed, ready to turn and leave.

“And i believe that’s him shooting wildly at our boys out of the car window.” Howard finished, squinting at the screens. Tali pushed several operators out of the way and leaned in to have a better look at the chase details. The Mind in charge of the majority of pursuing vehicles was Antelope Dreaming, and it was at full capacity keeping up with the nippy cruiser out in front. Tali spotted three men leaning out of various windows with big energy weapons and firing wildly. As she looked the Mind zoomed in and ID’d a face that was definitely Jack’s, grinning with delight.

“That’s him, get another pursuit team down there, Fang Special or someone. I want him fucking dead!” Tali fumed.

[13sparx13]

«Wouldn't it just be easier to just walk up and shoot him?»
"Shut up."
«I'm just saying. This shot's going to be hard to make with a sniper rifle.»
"And even harder when I can't think to aim, Felik." The Mind let out a mental equivalent of a sigh, and withdrew its pestering. Shifting his rifle into a manageable position- the argument with Fe had been distracting enough that he had to set his gun down- he looked back at the BESC headquarters, trying to find his target; it was sort of hopeless, really. They had no information on her schedules or anything of the sort. They had a name, picture (not even a 3D holo, just a 2D image.), and a job title. All he had past that was an assurance of, "Oh, yes. She'll be here all the time." Hardly helpful.

He knew he shouldn't be, but he was sincerely bored. The target hadn't crossed his line of sight or the cams that they had set up, and he couldn't take potshots. This was a frakken' BESC building. They would see that, and he didn't fancy being locked by the government. Then something caught his eye: A car landing, and a group of passengers getting out. And the little hasp he was being paid to kill was there, too! He didn't have enough time for a laser shot's charge up, and he couldn't switch to a particle in time, so he went a bit unorthodox and launched a tracker; sure to get found, but he'd have at least a part of a map of the building before they'd notice. Nobody looked up at the shot. It was beautifully executed and landed right on Taliga,his target. Finally. Maybe now I'll get to shoot her.

[Silver Carrot]

Marcy District. To 99% of Bablyon, it was a scummy place filled with criminals, drug dealers and hookers on every corner. To the district Taleste came from, however, it was considered quite a posh place, and worlds above the impoverished conditions of the truly lowliest districts, where the people can't even afford to commit crime. To Taleste herself, however, it was home. She had a fourth floor apartment, which was quite posh for the lower class. The general consensus is that the further up you live, the worse off you are, with the exception of the first two floors. Given the ease of breaking in, only the brave, stupid, or those without choice live in the first two floors.

'The Beehive.' That was the name of Taleste's local club. It was also the place where she went just to party. She never stole from anyone from the The Beehive. People might recognize her. No, she went further afield to do her pickpocketing. Right now, she was on a train to a nightclub called 'Ego', in a neigboring but equally seedy district. The train arrived, and straight off the bat, the people getting off the train were harassed by a desperate drug dealer, who may or may not be trying to sell rat poison and brick dust in a bag. Homeless people in the lower class don't beg for change. There's no point. Nobody has the money to spare. Instead they try and pass off whatever they can as drugs or booze, or roll it into a cigarette and try to peg it to anyone they see.

Finally arriving at the nightclub, Taleste check out the dancefloor. Grotty, unwashed people were dancing to electronic music that is really unimpressive if you're sober. Most of the people on that floor were drunk or drugged to the point they could barely stand, let alone dance. It would be funny if it weren't tragic, and it would be pitiful if Taleste didn't drink and drug her way into that state and join them in the Beehive at least three times a week.

She headed to the bar. This was where the real action was, for her. This was where the people with money came to lose it, loading up on cheap beer and pain thinner passed off as proper spirits until they were ready to join the dancefloor, or destroy their liver trying, which only happened to the occasional newbie as people in the lower class districts had livers of steel. Taleste spotted a mark. He was in a leather jacket, which weren't cheap. He looked like he'd already had a couple of drinks. She slid over to the bar and sat beside him.

"Nice jacket."

---

Taleste has the man's wallet, and his wearing his jacket. She had taken him behind the alley. He lies there, passed out and jacketless, and with his wallet stolen. But Taleste had given him ten minutes of her...'time', and he hadn't been very good. He deserved it. She boarded the train and headed back towards Marcy District, happy with her new ill gotten gains. She knew a guy who could get her a women's leather jacket if she gave him this one. Trade was common in these districts, because money wasn't always a viable trading resource, hence the phrase 'trading old shoes for bread,' which in this part of Babylon, meant 'taking the quick, cheap option instead of waiting patiently and getting a better result'. The reasoning behind that expression being that it would be smarter to get the shoes repaired and sell them as new, which would earn you considerably more money., but if you were starving, there wasn't really a choice.

[Cath]

The Projects were the creation of a housing conglomerate that supplied dirt cheap accommodation in the most economical way possible. They have sprung up in several places around Babylon but they all look identical, which is why you never hear the District name alongside it. Normally said district wants nothing to do with the Projects. Geometrically perfect tower blocks in square grids, connected up by a web of walkways and gantries. The hallways, bridges and lobbies are full of ramshackle markets selling everything from shoes to pharmaceuticals, the grounds around it are full of ganglands and decrepit leisure facilities. The inhabitants are from all over the known galaxy, mostly migrants who came from nothing and in order to pay for their living space must work in sponsored factories or positions.

A black and yellow hover cruiser, long sleek and dangerous, screamed through the Projects; zigzagging faster than any normal mind could comprehend to avoid walkways, buildings and other hover cars. It span, ducked, dived and raced with inhuman accuracy through every nook and cranny of the superstructures. Behind it swarmed an immense cloud of BESC pursuit vehicles; blue and red lights blaring an intolerable screech as they struggled to keep pace with the black and yellow bumblebee which kept flitting improbably from their clutches. Three of the four windows were down and men in black clothing desperately sprayed BESC with a blistering volley of energy fire. Well, two of the three gunners were desperate. One of them was enjoying himself immensely, firing intelligent missiles from a disposable launcher into the throng of vehicles.

With a ping, the launcher announced it had run out of missiles. Jack Thegn the Third tossed it aside and ducked back inside the cruiser. Loud and hectic music was vibrating the whole interior. It was synthesized using a mixture of the car Mind’s brain activity, the rhythm of the energy rifles and the pheromones released by the men themselves. In the back were two of Jack’s lieutenants, big bruisers with a penchant for heavy weaponry. They were head and shoulders out of each back seat window and the boom of the guns was loud. In the drivers seat was his ‘chauffeur’, Ling. He had an access port at the back of his skull which connected via a scraggle of snaking wires to the dashboard in front of him. He was talking to the car’s brain with incredible fidelity, in effect they had merged. His hands were manipulating the steering wheel and various other controls with lightning fast dexterity, turning the long beast into a sparrow as it wheeled through impossible gaps, forcing BESC to take longer routes.

Littering the floor of the cabin was an arsenal of weaponry that would put the Sand Pirates to shame. Assault rifles, good old fashioned rocket launchers, particle accelerators, energy weapons. They rustled around the car’s floor as it flew. Leaning out of his seat, Jack plucked up a beefy looking specimen and inspected it closely. “Jack, they’re all over us, and they’ve started firing!” One of his henchmen shouted over the din. “That’ll be Tali trying to kill me again. More speed Ling!” Jack yelled absently, turning his new toy on. It glowed with a green light. Jack fiddled with a few more of the guns controls before leaning back out of the Cruiser’s window and firing it at the cars behind. Four brightly illuminated shells flew out of the gun’s barrels and knifed away, leaving trails of smoke behind. They were ungainly and wobbled massively, but their payload was devastating.

All four hit a target, including the gunship which held the mind Antelope Dreaming. The projectile clipped one of it’s jet engines, taking it right off; the ship began spinning radically to one side, crashing into another squad car before disappearing through the wall of an apartment building with a giant rending sound. Three other fiery explosions filled Jack’s vision. He began laughing triumphant, shaking his free fist at the BESC pursuers before another explosion, much closer this time, shook his very core. The force of the blow first knocked the gun from his hands, it went spinning off to hit the ground. There was only time for a momentary glance at where the back of the car had once been, and how it had been replaced by a blazing abyss before he was next; his grip shaken loose as his cruiser began losing altitude rapidly. Before he knew it he was out of the window and hanging onto his car for dear life.

[Siphran]

Deployments usually had them zipping across to the other side of town on a daily basis, and this one was no different. Normally, it would take thirty minutes to arrive at Scoville Market, in police gunships, that time could be shortened to ten. Ten was a long time when you just came out of a combat situation though. Then, the unusual happened. "D Platoon, we're getting a priority divert from main HQ. We're to respond to a high speed chase four klicks of here. Five to prep."

Tess could see the helmets around her looking at each other in confusion. It was understandable, SRTU never got deployed to car chases. Their gunships were not pursuit vehicles, and the team was pretty much useless weight while sitting inside as the ship juked around. Either it was something serious, or it was going to become a ground game soon.

The roster then updated, assigning roles to each member of the twenty strong platoon. There was only one part of the roster she was interested in.

Foxtrot (Overwatch)
J. Bines
A. Jou

"Damnit." Looking around the gunship, she located her assigned partner, the same one as last time. The other six officers in the ship were assigned to Alfa, the entry team. Jacob Bines, the big stick, the one with the Man portable Magnetic Mass Marksman Rifle, was her partner. They were on overwatch, again. They would most likely spend the whole deployment covering the entry team as they chased the rats into whatever building they decided to hole up in. She was sick of drawing the short straw.

Then, yet again more surprising news. "Bines! I need you in side saddle." It seemed like they would be participating in the pursuit, in a different way. The side saddle, or hot seat, was more of a platform with a harness that hung off the side of the gunship, to the right of the large deployment doors on the side. When these were military vehicles, gunners would sit there with the mounted machine guns, to provide fire support. They were generally useless on police gunships unless you wanted to get shot, or were using it as a sniping platform.

Nevertheless, Bines stood and grabbed his rifle, worked his way over the the door, and gingerly pulled himself onto the side of the gunship and down into the seat, belting himself down before grabbing his rifle from a teammate. "Alright boss, now what." The gunship throttled to a halt. "Three quarters of a klick south, your target is a black and yellow hover cruiser. You are to disable it." Staring down the scope, Bines nodded when he had seen the craft. "Thats a tall order sir." He still continued to track it. "Thats why they called us. Fire when ready." A second passed, then four, eight.

"Firing." The voice was detached, trance like. The barrel twitched with almost imperceptible movement. The whining noise came, then the zap. The ferrous tungsten round was accelerated at speeds easily exceeding the speed of sound, the trail of superheated gases it made was a good indicator of its path. Though nobody save for Bines and CP could actually see the target. "Hit. Im getting flames off of the rear of the vehicle."

"Good shot, D Platoon, prep for deployment. Alfa and Bravo are to secure the crash site, Charlie, Delta, and Echo, take up supporting positions. Foxtrot, you'll be next to drop." Bines glanced over his shoulder, eyeing Tess. He knew. Everyone knew. She was furious. Four fucking deployments in a row, and I'm benched for three of them. It was ludicrous.

She was still fuming as Bines came to sit next to her, and as the gunship settled on a landing platform of some building to deploy Alfa, and still more as they took up a holding pattern. When the time came she would snap to it and do her job, but for now she was pissed. Jacob didn't even try to reason with her, as the platoons expert marskman, he was used to being a distance away from combat. "Alfa to CP. Crash site secured, there are occupants in the vehicle. Beginning arrest." If only she could get into the fight.

"Alfa to CP. Additional hostiles, automatic weaponry. We're retreating to the stairwell."

"Bravo to CP, lost the crash site and contact with Charlie. Cant get past the foyer."

More radio calls of more fighting. No one could move, everyone was getting shot at. No one had any idea where the occupants of the hovercraft were, or could even still see where it went down. What a clusterfuck, but on the upside, they could get deployed any second now. Tesla could only hope.

[Endgame]

If there was one thing Astarte had learned to hate over his years of living on Outremer was the sun. It’s omnipresent heat covered the entire desert allowing no escape from its burning clutches. And in armor? Well, that's a whole new level. As Astarte sat on a tan rocky outcropping he pondered why he put himself through this. He was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of an engine. He pulled up his magnifying goggles and looked out in the distance. He saw a large cloud of dust passing through a canyon. As the dust settled he saw a large Sandcrawler hovercraft moving across the land. Astarte pulled up his datapad to compare it to the his provided description. A perfect match. He grinned. The hunt was on.

As Astarte sprinted toward the Sandcrawler he went over his briefing. His target: Marcus Flint. Flint is the leader of a drug smuggling ring that brings many types of drugs in and out of the city. He uses the desert as a vast headquarters for his operations. He is well known in the underworld for being the one you go to get a quick, expensive, fix. An anonymous client came to Astarte asking for his services. He said something about him being a competitor in the drug business that needed taking care of. The reason for a hit never really mattered to Astarte, just the payout. He was told that Flint would be moving goods through the desert and would be vulnerable to an ambush when he passed through the canyon.

So that's how Astarte got here. Running through the dusty desert with the hot sun over his head. The plan was to run up to the Sandcrawler and grab on to the bottom. After doing so he could infiltrate the crawler and kill Flint. The client stated that there would be an extra sum added to the final payout if the goods were destroyed. That's where the satchel charges came in. After planting the charges and killing Flint Astarte would leap off the huge crawler and blow the sumbitch into kingdom come. At least, that was the plan...

[FortunesFaded]

The warm, fragrant desert air went still, as if an invisible gargantuan entity held its breath in anticipation. The only sounds present would be the slow, thudding flap of a nearby Phalanx Nymph's wings, and beating of your own heart. It always felt that way before a job - before blood would soak the sands. Miles Clarke knew that feeling well, and it was on a quiet, peaceful midweek morning that the mercenary found himself waiting in ambush along a trade-route miles from civilization. Beside him, sheathed, his rapier glistened in the sun, and caught his near-black eyes in a moment of distraction. Beside it, a holster held his laser pistol: the tool of his trade. Tucked behind a dune out of sight was a small land speeder, modern but not showy, courtesy of his part time employers, the Babylon Advanced Armaments Corporation. It was because of them that he was in the desert that morning. A faction of bandits had stolen a weapons shipment en route to Edessa, and were now transporting them along the road toward one of the shadier Tower villages. BAAC intelligence estimated a resistance force of half a dozen; as Miles peered out from cover toward the oncoming convoy, he determined nearly double that.

Across the road, he got the attention of his partner for the mission, John Hu. Hu was a friend and associate, not to mention a skilled mercenary, and the BAAC often sent them on missions together. John nodded at him, and readied his laser rifle at the convoy. Miles could see that the weapons container was bringing up the rear - in front of only a small speeder much like his own, and guarded in the front by two more speeders and a smaller, modified sand skiff. This made their job easier, but messier. The convoy got into range, so close now that Miles could hear the conversation between the two bandits at the helm of the sand ship.
"... to go into thuh city sometime. And I look to him, and I sehs', yeah I sehs' to him, 'why go there when I gots a bottle a' Mezcal right here?!'" The other bandit chuckled.
"He's nuts! And who'd wanna go into the city, anyway? A buncha wusses in there. Can't shoot for shit, can't work for-"
The explosives buried beneath the dirt road blew the front of the skiff to pieces, obliterating any evidence of the first man, and blasting the second clear off the vessel. One of the accompanying speeders veered off the road in an effort to avoid the wreckage, and the pilot spun out and hit his head on the wheel, knocking him unconscious. Miles and John stood from cover and opened fire, catching the recovering bandits completely by surprise. The bodies began to fall. The rear speeder attempted to make a getaway, but John adjusted his aim, fired, and nicked the pilot in the shoulder, forcing hum off of the vehicle. By this time only four bandits remained in fighting condition, and they began to return fire with their antiquated weapons. Miles maneuvered around to the side, hitting one, then two with his pistol, before boarding the rear of the sand ship and dispatching the last two with a series of deep slashes with his sword. The battle was over. John secured the shipment and began to loot the vessels, while Miles checked for any survivors - taking the dead's belongings as a bonus. Such was the life of a mercenary. You never knew when you'd have another job, so you milk every contract you do get for as much as humanly possible.

Miles approached the body of the man from the sand skiff who had been thrown at the start of the firefight, and who now lay crumpled facedown in the road. The mercenary made it to within four meters when he saw the body shift. Miles saw it just in time - he unholstered his own pistol just as the bandit flipped himself upright with a weapon in hand, and shot the injured man twice in the chest. The life drained from the criminal in that instant, and for a moment Miles felt sorry for the man - for all of them. But his job demanded stoicism, and his face quickly returned to the mask it had been, and would be until he received his payment. John returned to his side dragging an unconscious bandit - the last survivor. The two mercenaries looked to each other, silently agreeing on what they needed to do. Then, without another word, they left the man and his belongings untouched by the side of the road with his undamaged speeder, solemnly leaving the burning remains of vehicles and human corpses and the one lone survivor for the city of Babylon, in all its grace and depravity.

[Cath]

Back at BESC HQ, Tali leaned in even closer to the console. “We have a confirmed hit, the cruiser’s trajectory indicates it will crash land forty two floors up on the south face of Project Tower V1115.” The operator opened up a 3D model which showed the black and yellow hover car’s descent, marked with a looping red line. It then cut back to a live camera feed from a pursuing squad car. Huge gouts of flame were erupting from the aft section of the vehicle, spewing black smoke which obscured much of the view. Just before the squad car was forced to make evasive maneuvers to avoid a Tower, it zoomed in to ID Jack’s face as he clung to the side of his cruiser; legs dangling into the abyss below.

Tali straightened up, her eyes tracking all of the data as it poured in from various sources. Unsatisfied, she ordered “Get me our fastest car, i need to oversee this personally.” She then made to leave the command centre. “Tali, i strongly advise staying here to-” Howard protested, trotting after her. She turned around to face him, seemingly growing by eight inches in a split second; her countenance mirroring the greatest of storms. “This man has evaded capture four times now, each of them on your watch Detective Inspector Howard. Now you will accompany me and if he escapes this time, it will be on your head, do you understand me?” The little man shrunk even further, his cheeks losing all remaining lustre. “Yes Supervisor Laurent, this way.”

A blistering wind rushed past Jack, flattening him to the smooth metallic side of the cruiser. His white knuckle grip on the door handle was slipping fast. He used his left hand to grope around blindly, desperately searching for a hand hold. “Come on!” He shouted into the wind, his teeth gritted. Maybe this was it, a thought flowered at the back of his mind. Maybe i should let go. “Take my hand!” A voice shouted from above him. Opening his eyes, Jack found Ling hanging out of the open window, and couldn’t help but laugh. “WHO THE FUCK IS DRIVING THIS THING?” Ling smiled, his blind eyes locating the source of Jack’s voice. “The Mind is dead, i can’t see anything anymore; take my hand mister Thegn!” Jack grabbed one of the man’s outstretched hands and discovered the man possessed strength that didn’t match up to his spindly frame. With an almighty heave the driver pulled Jack back through the window and they landed in a heap on the car’s floor.

Untangling himself from the lanky chinaman, Jack took a look through the cracked windscreen at where they were headed. The ominous shadow of a Project tower loomed up ahead like a cactus, with snaking walkways and bridges as its bristles. They were going to crash straight into it. Jack looked at Ling but the man already knew. “Hold tight mister Thegn.” He shouted over the din of crackling electronics and roaring fire in the back. Leaning back in his seat, two fasteners shot out and secured him firmly in an X shape, Jack did the same. The tower blocked out all light as it charged headlong toward them. They were both screaming. The cruiser clipped a walkway before flipping over and crashing like a lump hammer through the side of the tower, bringing huge chunks of masonry with it. Inside the car, Jack and Ling were flipped over as the car somersaulted several times through the air before finally landing the right side up.

Taliga Laurent, Detective Inspector Howard and several armed bodyguards piled into a black dart-like hovercar that had been hastily prepared in one of the launch hangars. Seconds after the doors closed it lifted off and shot out of the doors, headed for the crash site. Inside was a full suite of equipment which allowed them to keep track of goings on in the command centre, as well as direct forces at the crime scene. The Projects in question were a hundred miles away, but the Dart could reach speeds exceeding three thousand. It weaved through traffic like a missile, flashing blue and red lights to warn other craft that couldn’t track it of its presence. Tali scanned a holographic model of the Tower, complete with architects notes and exit routes. “SRTU teams are on route to the tower, ETA two minutes. They have orders to secure the crash site and arrest everyone in the Cruiser.” Howard announced, listening in via a headset. “Excellent, full ahead both.” Taliga said, watching a live feed as armoured carriers descended on the Tower.

The dust settled slowly. After the rending scream of metal on metal the relative silence descended like a cloak of iron. The cruiser had landed in the middle of a courtyard. Scraggly shrubs in raised planters, benches looking out onto the city outside. Sets of concrete stairs led off all over the place to different parts of the Tower; lines of washing streaked across balconies and litter covered the floor. A small fire still blazed from what was left of the cruiser’s aft section. A ragged tear showed where a section of the craft had been blown clean off in the pursuit. Inside the cruiser, the metal chassis creaked and moaned as its on-board maintenance system tried vainly to rectify the massive physical damage that had been sustained by the car. Sluggishly, absent mindedly, the spiderweb crack which covered the windscreen began filling in on itself.

A thick string of foam dripped from Jack’s open mouth; his head was thrown forward, held to the seat by the fasteners. The blare of sirens registered at the back of his mind and Thegn jerked awake, his eyes wide and staring as he looked all around the cabin. His hands shaking and clumsy, he popped his fasteners and started shaking his driver by the shoulder, just as the sound of hobnailed boots began reverberating around the courtyard. “Ling, wake up. Ling!” He hissed, trying to see through the cracked and dirty windows. He was about to check the man’s pulse when he noticed a patch of blood blossoming under his shirt. Pulling away his jacket, Jack found the jagged edge of a stanchion sticking out of his chest. Glancing behind the chair, he found the rest of it had impaled his seat from behind.

“This is Babylon Security. Come out with your hands up.” A voice called from just outside the cruiser. Looking round, Jack could make out faint shadows all around the car. “Shit.” Jack whispered to himself, sitting back in his seat and raising a comm channel via his earpiece.

“Thegn the Second.” said a voice inside his ear.

“Dad, listen to me, i need evac from-..”

“Ahh, Jack. A car is on its way. Thirty ninth floor, north side. Ten minutes.”

The earpiece clicked to indicate he had ended the call.

The voice from outside shouted ‘You have ten seconds!”

Jack looked behind him at the floorful of powerful weaponry then up at the car’s ceiling, where the damaged alloy sunroof let a sliver of sunlight in from outside. BESC officers rarely made arrests on their own, and besides how did they even get up to the forty first floor? Militias kept most regular police patrols away. He must have landed via transport or squad car, which means there were at least two enforcers outside. Jack was a lucky shot but he didn’t fancy his chances without at least seeing what he was up against. Making a snap decision, he pressed a button on the display but the damaged sunroof didn’t budge, instead squealing loquaciously, remaining stationary.

The door it is then. Avoiding sudden movements, Jack opened the butterfly door and ducked out, his hands raised. He counted six heavily armoured BESC soldiers; all but the one addressing him had taken up defensive positions around the cruiser, weapons pointed at the mass of locals that had apparently crawled out of the woodwork. They were a faceless sea, moving slowly towards the crash site nefariously. No shots had been fired yet, but Jack could feel the tension building. The soldiers were fidgety, they were waiting till the mob got within specified boundaries to begin shouting at them to get back.

Before Jack could react, the arresting officer shoved him up against his car and secured his hands with holocuffs. “Jack Tiberius Thegn, you are under arrest for-” He never finished the charge as a round went through the side of his head, he was dead before he hit the ground. Jack realized what happened and knew what came next; wasting no time, he dived back into his car as an almighty cacophony erupted. The faceless mass surged forward, those who had weapons firing fervently, those who didn’t using debris from the crash. The BESC men and women returned fire, mowing dozens of locals down indiscriminately before the rest could find cover. Jack heard one of them scream “Urgently requesting back-up at the crash - we are being fired upon by automatic weaponry.”

[Silver Carrot]

Tal was not fond of the Projects. They were not fond of her. She was from Marcy. A slummer. Still, they did not let their sectarianism get in the way of business. Tal thought the Projects were full of angry immigrants who looked down on the district people, but she was happy to trade with them. Their black market was more prosperous here than where she lived. In her district, people don't have there money to buy a leather jacket like this! Only trade it... No point trading old shoes for bread when some real dough could be made by taking a trip to the Projects.

She knew which building to go to. Thirty Ninth floor. Flat 39026. That's what her friend Silvia told her. She knocked on the door.

"Who's there?"

"My name's Taleste. Silvia told me about you. I have a leather jacket to sell."

"Come in."
.
She enters the flats. It wasn't a house. The hall looked like an office. Every room in the flats was filled with cardboard boxes. At the far end of the hall was a desk, and sitting at it was a bearded man wearing a long coat and a trilby. There were several burly men behind him, holding guns.

"Hmm, that is a fine quality leather jacket. How did a slimmer like you get the money to buy one?"

Tale was quiet.

"Just kidding. I can see 'thief' all over your face. It would be better if you gave me nothing. Both you sand that jacket are less than nothing. I can't sell that! I may as well moon the Authority! Get the fuck out of my office. But leave the jacket.""

Taleste opens her mouth, but the big men stare menacingly at her. She shuts her mouth, and takes the jacket off. Tears were practically forming in her eyes. She was going to have a strong word with Silvia about this. That was when one of the men whispered in the boss' ear. They all headed out straight after, leaving Taleste alone in the office.

That's when she heard the explosion,.

[Leidenschaft]

Babylon, for all of its soaring towers and bustling skylanes, was still not without the small ma and pop establishments sprinkled about its outer-rings. The more in the center of the large city one went, the more corporate it became. Out here in the outer-rings, with smaller buildings barely fit to scrape a heel, much less the sky in comparison to the colossal towers of crystal that jutted up out of the ground and into view. It was brick and concrete in the outer-rings and the people shuffling by or seen in their beat-up skycars were as tough and grizzled as the streets they walked on. The people inside the Rolling Dice were no exception. Tipping back frothing brews or searing spirits, every so often they would whisper about the pale fellow with the blonde hair.

“Drink?” Asked Kristof, sliding over a pint to Richard. The man was too busy staring off into space, running circles in his own head, to pay attention to whatever Kristof said.

“Oh, sure.” Richard said, smiling. Kristof wasn’t too bad once one got past first impressions and assumptions. The man looked sleazy, which he was, but no one in Richard’s line of work wasn’t to some degree, and he was a bit blunt, not one to beat around the bush if something was stupid. That last fact was a good thing, though, made him a good man and a good Coordinator.

“Well, there it is. So, are you having fun chasing after whatever you’re chasing after?” And his voice reminded someone of what a snake would sound like if they could talk. Each word seemed to slither out of his mouth, a bit breathy.

“Not so much fun as,” Richard paused, not knowing what it really was, then his eyebrows perked, “obligation.” The word seemed to flit from his mouth on wings of velvet.

“Obligation? To whom, may I ask?” Kristof said, taking a swig from his pint. Its counterpart was left undrank by Richard.

“No, you may not. I can tell you that they’re important. Tell me, Kristof, should personal problems ever cross over to work?” Richard asked. He knew that it would be far easier to achieve what he needed if he managed to get his cell to go after his problems with him. Something about it just seemed a bit wrong, though, selfish. He felt manipulative at that moment, but it was his job to sway minds to the cause. Well, his cause, really. The Group was all about justice for the downtrodden, and the child Richard once had been was very downtrodden. You couldn’t get more downtrodden than having your family killed right in front of you and being sent to the hospital.

Downtrodden definitely was going through surgery to have a foot of intestine replaced, facial reconstruction surgery and having your own half-working eyes replaced, as well. Downtrodden was having your spinal cord cut out and a cybernetic one put back in, it definitely was having the muscles in your legs completely replaced by synth-muscle to keep up with the demand of the new cybernetic CNS and every other muscle in your body reinforced with the stuff. Normal people, normal children, don’t have to go through physical therapy to relearn how to walk while the others played soccer. If there was anyone Richard knew who had suffered under injustice, it was him. It was his sister, his parents, every one of the android workers he had once loved like family.

“We are to remain professional in the face of what might make others zealots. We are not the bleeding hearts, we are the hands that tear the cold hearts from the chest of corrupt individuals. That’s what Marcus told us, anyways. I agree with him, for the most part,” Kristof looked at his friend, “Are you alright, Richard? I always knew you to be the brooding type with something to hide, but you seem more distant than usual. What did that Alexander fellow have to say to you in the club?” Kristof asked, trying to get some form of conversation out of his colleague.

“He told me about Mason. They’d talked in the past. He told me to see a man named Frederick Mause. I don’t know if I can even trust this source, yet,” Richard looked at his pint that he had yet to take a drink of and then did just that before returning it to the bartop, “If Mason talked to him, he at least has something useful about him.”

“I was brought on after Mason left. Who was he to you? Marcus says that he was a good man and Ainsley can only vouch for him being a good Intelligence Officer.” Kristof said, taking a drag of his v-cig.

“He’s both. He taught me everything he knew. He taught me patience, told me to use the asset’s emotions, greed, anything you can to establish some form of trust. He was pulled in by Babylon military police and none of us have heard anything from him since. I think he’s dead. The fact that our cell has yet to be raided and none of us have noticed any prying eyes is a good thing.” Richard said before taking another drink.

“I bet. So, he was a good mentor, I’m guessing?” Kristof replied, taking a drink in turn.

“Safe bet. He was. I once entertained fantasies of trying to get ahold of old friends from the Military Academy, see what they knew about a prisoner named Mason Moore,”

Richard shook his head and took another drink, “Nothing could be worse. Me, a dead man come knocking at a few doors asking about another dead man. If that wouldn’t have raised a few flags, then I don’t know what will.”

“True enough. Maybe one day he’ll turn up.” Kristof smiled, slapping his colleague on the back.

“Ainsley would probably say I’d sooner grow a second penis and then get the President to kneel down and-”

“Okay, okay. Jesus, even when Ainsley isn’t here I have to hear her damned mouth. You’d think it wouldn’t hurt a lady to be feminine and kind.” Kristof grimaced.

“She kills people who hurt others on the sole principle that that’s what she was hired on for. I found her in a bar, tried to be a gentleman and get her to come to our side that way. She only slapped me and then laughed at my expression afterwards. Mason told her that she’d be payed and then he told me that I was using the wrong technique for the wrong kind of asset,” Another drink, “I was still learning.”

The two shared a laugh before their PDAs vibrated in their pockets. They didn’t have to look at them to know that it was Marcus, calling to get the chickens back into the coop. Maybe he’d pegged a suitable goal to try to accomplish. Blackmail a politician, kill a mining-rig manager, clear out a wind-farm to send a message to some corporation. Any kind of fun stuff. Whatever it was, it would have to wait a quick trip on the skylanes as Richard and Kristof pulled the doors of the skycar closed.

“Are you okay to drive?” Kristof asked. Richard only paused to look at him for a few seconds, considering the situation. They didn’t even get to finish their respective beers.

“I would think so.” Richard said.

“I would hope so.” Kristof muttered.

[13sparx13]

«Target's leaving» Felik told Re.
"Where?" he said, with a brief mental connotation that he meant where she was leaving from, not to. In response, a red outline- harsh against the relatively clean BESC buildings- moved to a car. Half smirking and half ready to swear, Re stood up from his sniping roost. He was greeted by a bullet cutting through the roof above him. Now he swore. They had found him. But what about the tracker? It was the only way they could've known where he was. He'd thought no one had seen the shot, but they must've assumed it hadn't made it all the way to any human flesh. Or they'd moved the tracker onto another, more expendable employee.

He crawled back out of his post. Arrogant hasps hadn't bothered to cover exits. They thought he'd go down from the first shot. He slid down into his own hidden car, a battered looking Racer-class. Prepping the repulsor engines, he heard a faint sputter. Felik jacked into the systems, running diagnostics. Shortly after, the engines gave a satisfied hum. The car jumped forward, locking onto the BESC car's exhaust fumes. Fancy stuff, he had to admit. There wasn't much to track them on. "Jey," he commed back to the Rebellion's headquarters. "In pursuit of target. Think you can authorize some special things in the skylanes?"
"Nope," said a voice in his head. "Not after last time. However, we are picking up chatter about a crash. I'll send you the details. I'm sure Guide can overlay the info into your display." Wishful thinking, really. Last time had involved a few more things breaking than the amount that should've broke. Sighing, he leaned back and looked at the data Distol had sent.

[Siphran]

A block away, a large shipping container like portable structure sat in a half empty parking slot, all color of law enforcement buzzed in and out, much like angry bees protecting their hive. In the middle of the storm though, there was calm. Inside the structure sat six men and women, all staring intently at multiple monitors. They analyzed, predicted, and relayed information. They were the ones with the bigger picture, and their job was to give everyone else a overarching view of the situation. One among them was also charged with making life changing decisions. And after a brief period of calm observance, the orders came. "Get Alfa and Bravo to make a hole and stay safe, see if Alfa can find a clear LZ for medical transport, have the transport stand by at the edge of the cordon. Prep gunships for offensive deployment, and get Foxtrot on the ground, see if they can clear an LZ for Alfa and keep tabs on the suspect. Give Foxtrot command priority over Echo and Delta."

Orders were relayed, gunships were prepped. There was one thing left to do. She needed permission for drastic action. "HQ, this is Platoon D Command Post. We are at risk of losing the subject. We can take a defensive stance and extract out forces with minimal damage to both civilians and our men, or take the offensive and attempt to apprehend. Either way I am going to need permission to use close air support via gunships."

---

Bank on scene, Tess got the news she had been waiting for. "CP to Foxtrot, prep for drop. You are to take command of Delta and Echo to secure a landing zone for Alfa's extraction, find Charlie, and attempt to apprehend the suspect." She punched the air in joy. "Foxtrot received CP, we're on it." Tess made her way up to the cockpit, switching channels as she did. "Take us down, drop us on the fourty sixth floor south landing pad." She saw the helmeted head nod. "Got it. Good luck down there."
Bines was looking up at her expectantly, as if waiting for her to single handedly complete all of the objectives. Instead, she pointed at the rifle in his arms. "Get rid of that thing, we're going to get nice and cozy with these jerks."

The landing pad was relatively empty, most of the occupants of the building were either shut inside or shooting at the abundance of moving targets four floors below. As per her orders, both Delta and Echo had managed to detach from their overwatch positions and meet her there. The gray suited warriors faced the interior of the building, rifles ready. They had heard the bloodshed happening, and were not keen on turning their backs to it. The second Bines and Tesla joined formation with them, they started moving. All parties had already been filled in on the plan. It was to be quick and hopefully painless. With Alfa pinned in the stairwell with two men down, they could not be relied upon to fight their way out. Bravo was armed to the teeth and ready, but the brunt of the attack seemed to be on them.

And through all that, no one had eyes on the man in the hovercraft.

They arrived at their positions, her and Bines were at the railing, looking down on the ruined park four stories below. Right under their feet, armed men and women rushed around, firing sporadically in many directions. The crashed hovercraft sat a few yards away, behind a stand of trees, smoking. All the dead she saw were gang members or armed civilians, Alfa must have taken the body with them. " Fox One, this is Fox Three, we're in position. Waiting on you." A voice panted over the radio. They'd been faster than she had anticipated. She and Bines clipped carabiners to the railing, tested the coiled line at their feet, and waited. "Fox Three, on my mark." She motioned to her partner, and they sat on the railing, legs dangling over the four story drop.

Grabbing the static line in her left gauntlet, she pivoted to her boots were braced against the railing, her weight supported by the anchor that was a concrete pillar, Bines did likewise. Okay, deep breath. "Three.... two.... one.... Mark!" Below, the steel doors to an elevator blew open, spewing metal fragments across the courtyard. Four metal giants burst through the debris. Firing as they moved to cover, behind a planter.

At the same time, Tess coiled up, then pushed away from the railing. Her right hand gripped the static line behind her back, while her left gripped it infront of her. It sped through her right hand, zipping through the descender, and through the left. Her stomach dropped, blood pumped and adrenaline surged as the world sped by in a dizzying array of colors. It was moments like this that she lived for. But then it abruptly ended, she pulled the line behind her gradually up to the front of her body, the descender heated and her descent slowed just in time as he boots pounded on the ground. Bines was seconds behind.

Hell was about to break open, and its harbinger, a grinning bolt of armored lightening.

[Cath]

Tali and company arrived at the crime scene in the Dart, it was a mess. The cruiser had taken down a walkway on it’s arrival as well as destroying most of the bay window it had come in through. Looking through to the crash site, they could see what was left of Alpha team struggling to fall back. BESC forces had cleared one doorway and were providing covering fire, but it looked like Alpha were truly pinned down. As she watched, another soldier took a round through the head and his brain activity scan ceased. “We have a man down, man down!” a ragged voice yelled over the intercom. “Stay down! We’re coming to get you!” The rebels were edging closer to the downed ship, the volume of masonry being thrown was increasing. One of the soldiers had been shot in the leg and he leaned with his back against a planter, firing over his shoulder.

Locals had gathered on the viewing gantries of neighbouring Project Towers and begun shooting sporadically into the courtyard. The squad cars had retreated under fire to a safer LZ but the Dart was armour plated. It hung over the abyss, spinning slowly on an invisible axis as it identified all the shooters and marked them for arrest. Inside, Taliga and DI Howard were in a frenzy of activity; tending to multiple displays and talking to multitudes of people. “Platoon D Command actual, you have a green light to engage, be advised that we are danger close, over. Taliga confirmed, bringing up the 3D model again. Teams were preparing to breach the courtyard and a gunship was moments from hovering into view and letting loose with both barrels. It was then that Tali realized how important this was. Not just for the people below but for her.

If it didn’t come out right, it was her that had just given the order to attack. Part of her wanted to back down now. Let Jack live to fight another day and focus on getting everybody out alive. “This is KR14269. ETA thirty seconds.” Another voice chimed. “Acknowledged, your primary target is Jack Thegn the Third. He has resisted arrest and killed a pursuing officer.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Jack lay across the two front seats, struggling with the holo-cuffs behind his back. The battle raged on outside and he could hear it drawing steadily closer. Nearly breaking his back with the exertion , Jack grabbed hold of the weapon nearest to him (he couldn’t see what it was but it felt small and hefty.) and carefully lined it up so it would shoot through the metal holding the two holo-bonds together. Through the open butterfly door, Jack could see locals spilling into his line of sight. One of them saw him and began rushing towards the car, eyes wide and mouth screaming an incoherent tribal chant. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” Jack hissed, closing his eyes and pulling the trigger.

The bang reverberated around the cruiser’s interior, temporarily deafening him. Through the ringing Jack experimentally pulled both arms, and they came apart! Through squinting eyes, Jack desperately brought the gun round to bear. The man was closer now, he wore no shirt and waved a sharp piece of metal in one hand and his eyes were mad and drug fuelled.The chair’s headrest got in the way but somehow it appeared in front of him and Jack pulled the trigger over and over again. The first shot stopped the local in his tracks, the following six or seven made him jerk around on the spot before finally flying back with a shot to the cranium. The noise was intense, Jack dropped the pistol and covered his ears, whimpering like a dog at the savage ringing.

Time to leave. Jack thought, forcing himself to sit up as an incredibly loud sound invaded the whole courtyard. Peeping out of the butterfly doors, Jack discovered a large and heavily armed gunship had hovered into view outside the bay windows. It spoke. “This is Babylon Executive Security Command. Return to your homes or we will use deadly force.” The roar of the crowd outside increased, as if trying to outdo the thundering engines. “Jack Thegn, exit the vehicle with your hands up and you will not be harmed.” The ship continued. Jack grabbed two pistols firing ballistic rounds, stuck them into the holster before turning on his cruiser’s own tannoy system. “This is Jack Thegn, focus your fire on the gunship if you want to live!” He implored the crowd. “This is your last warning.” Taking a deep breath, Jack lunged from the door of his car as all hell broke loose.

[Silver Carrot]

Gunfire and shouting. That was what Taleste was hearing now as she sat alone in the room. She was scared. It sounded like a truly massive battle was taking place. She had to get here right now! Although...they had left her in here, in this room, with all their loot..It'd be a shame to let it go to waste...

She entered a room, and started quickly rummaging throught the boxes. When a box contained nothing she fancies, she'd push it away, spilling its contents. The next box was the jackpot; dark clothes in her size, very sturdy boots, and a thermal hoodscarf, as well as a lockpicking set and a brass knuckle. She quickly took her party clothes off and changed into her new wardrobe, and slipped the knuckle on her hand. She felt safer already.

She went back to the desk, and checked the drawers. She wanted a pen and paper. What she actually found both pleased and scared her; a nine-chambered revolver and ammo. She took them and stashed them in her back pocket, then found some pen and paper and wrote a note for this bastard, provided he wasn't dead already. It read;

"Sorry, I got bored waiting, so I stole from you and left. You can keep the jacket, though. xxx"

In the room behind the desk, she found a portrait from her dreams. Bags full of money were piled on top of each other. There were so many bags! She took one over her shoulder, and one in each hand, and exited the apartment, heading briskly towards the elevator as she heard the dropship make its ultimatum. She better get out of here fast...

[Maxxorlord]

Earlier that morning...

It seemed that Grak was destined to move up in the world. No one thought that some small time arms dealer from the tower towns would go anywhere. They were wrong, though. All of Grak Kla’chyu Ruo’s hard work was finally starting to pay off. A large militia group (it seemed more like a barbaric tribe of primitives to Grak) had contacted one of Grak’s brothers, and wanted to make a bulk purchase from Grak’s Guns. At first, Grak thought this deal would be what brought him into the big time. The militia worked out of the Projects, acting as a sort of quasi-police force and rebel group. Never before had anyone from Babylon itself wanted to buy from Grak, and these people wanted to buy hundreds of weapons. It was too good to be true, yet Grak didn’t doubt his luck too much. That is until he actually met the leaders of this ‘rebellion.’ Of the five men he met, Grak found that only one of them seemed to have any sense of civilization. They were all loud, mentally disturbed, and frightening people. Grak steeled himself to these traits, however, and went on with selling the weapons. He’d do anything to get his business in with the other criminal organizations that ran Babylon’s underbelly.

Grak and five of his Chirix bodyguards/advisors sat within one of the towers in the Projects. The room they were in was rather spacious, however most of that space was filled with either bodies jockeying for a better view or piles of boxes and crates. The walls were a drab gray, as well as the ceiling and the floor. In the middle of the room sat a round table, surrounded by chairs. Grak and his gang sat opposite a man in civilian clothing, whose face was covered in tribal markings and tattoos. Grak adjusted a small metal device attached to his cheek. The translator’s light flicked on, causing it to begin to glow a dim green.”Let us begin.” Grak spoke, and everyone who heard his words heard them in their native tongues. The white-headed Chirix motioned with his hand towards one of his men, and they retrieved a sniper rifle from one of the many crates in the room. Grak took the weapon, and held it up.”This is a particle beam sniper rifle. Its maximum effective range is five thousand meters, and can burn through a BESC standard issue helmet and a skull with a single shot, and come out the other side.” Grak gave the weapon back, and another was handed to him.

For the next hour or so, Grak showed off a number of different weapons to the militiamen. Negotiations were going poorly, though. The leaders didn’t seem all that impressed with the guns (Grak believed they merely couldn’t comprehend the power these devices held.) In an effort to salvage the situation, Grak brought in his trump card. The largest crate the Chirix had brought into the room opened, and out came a mech .”You’ll like this. I guarantee it.” Grak nodded, gesturing towards the machine.”This is an old navy-style assault mech, which was originally used by the first men who colonized Outermer. It has been repurposed, and I personally outfitted it with quad-linked heavy machine guns. Its systems include internal targeting, interior and exterior heating and cooling, and a power supply that can operate for twenty four hours straight. The battle suit’s shoulder panels can be flipped and used to absorb solar power.” Grak smiled smugly as the warlords whispered to each other. Eventually, one stood and spoke.”You have a deal.” The two men shook hands, and their subordinates made the exchange of equipment for money.”Come, my new Tindrel friend. Let us show you how we party here in the Projects.” The tribal man smiled, and led Grak out of the room. Minutes after being brought into a ramshackle dining hall, Grak found himself drinking an oddly colored liquid and forgetting where he was and what he was doing.

Later, one of Grak’s brothers tapped him on the shoulder while he was in the middle of pulling himself together.”Brother.” The Chirix began in their native tongue,”Something has happened in one of the nearby towers.” Grak looked to his brother and nodded.”Show me.” The two Tindrels left the room, moving to a large section of glass on the side of the tower that overlooked a number of the other towers. Grak was handed a pair of binoculars, and his brother pointed him towards a large hole in one of the other towers. There was some kind of gunship hovering outside the hole. On the inside, Grak could barely make out a number of BESC troops being attacked by local forces.”Interesting…” From his vantage point, Grak could make out some of the militia in the tower he currently occupied moving out onto balconies with guns. The guns he had sold them.”Sir, if we stay here any longer we might be dragged into the fighting…” Grak’s brother began.”I know, Raz, I know. But this is too good an opportunity to pass on. We get to see our weapons in use against BESC! We’ll leave if the fighting gets too hot.” With that, Grak went back to observing the conflict.

[Skull]

R. Sinclaire said The damage is far from done, but it may very well be the proverbial nail to Illugia’s ramshackled coffin. It took me eight long months to bury his lackluster career as BESC Representative, but it was time well-spent and effort well-placed. My call to arms against his preposterous mishandlings in office has rallied the CGB to my cause in restructuring our military dictatorship that play pretends democracy to keep the ‘peace.’ By getting rid of Illugia, I’ve also swooned key politicians in the ROC and BESC branches, who were too cowardly to oust the bastard themselves. Everything is set into motion. The coming weeks will be paramount to the overall success of my plan, which, rest assured, will be nothing short of grandiose. Welcome to my world.

---

Babylon. Capitol District. Congressional Hall

---

Robert Sinclaire exited the Congressional Hall from the back entrance. His Secondary Security Chief, Haseji Machiko, awaited his arrival around a sleek Vivaldi luxury transport module.

“The prodigal son returns!” She smiled as wide as the blocky frames of her black sunglasses.

“I don’t think you’re using that phrase correctly.” Sinclaire said, slightly offended.

“Probably, sir. Apologies.”

Sinclaire grinned as he approached her. At 5’7” with a slimming frame, she wasn’t physically intimidating like the others of her trade. In fact, in many public outings with Delegate Sinclaire, she was often mistaken for his personal secretary, or worse, girlfriend. However, compared to the other politicians who felt more secure hiring seven-foot, geno-fixed muscle men as bodyguards, Robert felt just as comfortable, if not more, having Haseji at his side. It was in Sinclaire’s style to hire someone like her; to stand out and be unorthodox. To make you underestimate what you can’t even begin to understand. Such follies often resulted in irreversible consequences. Just ask Illugia Faux.

“Where’s Kruger?” Sinclaire asked, knowing what answer would follow.

“Here, sir.” Sinclaire turned and saw flashes of light refraction coalesce around the 6 foot frame of Kruger Valens, Sinclaire’s Primary Security Chief. The light reflecting stealth systems died down to reveal a man in desert camo fatigues. A slim mechanical support frame latched onto his upper body like an external skeleton, reverberating in low hums as he articulated his arms and hands.

“That’s pretty good.” Sinclaire nodded as he stared into the armored mask where Kruger’s blue eyes would be. “Were you with me the whole time? I couldn’t tell..”

“Only when it mattered, sir. From your exit from the main room floor at the Hall, to Illugia spitting on the floor, seven inches from your foot. I was mainly circling the perimeter to make sure no demonstrators got through.” Where Haseji was employed for her unique appearance, Kruger Valens was recruited for his complex and often peculiar methods of security, which embodied all that was unorthodox.

Together, the pair worked in tandem; Haseji in the public eye as Robert’s physical bodyguard, while Kruger remained discreet in the shadows, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Their stellar dynamic has put Robert at ease for over four years now. It’s to the point where he considers them more than just subjects under his employ; something he has never experienced since hiring security teams back in his CEO days. It’s why he allows them to be so incredibly unprofessional, at least when they’re away from the public eye.

“He left out when you took a leak in the restroom, sir.” Haseji joked. Robert suppressed his chuckle. He didn't in fact use the restroom at all since his time at the Congressional Hall, but he wouldn't put it past Kruger to take such a precaution, even if it was uncomfortably awkward to think about, let alone an invasion of the Delegate's privacy. It wouldn't be the first time its happened.

“Hey princess, you take the Vivaldi for a wash like I asked you, or were you too busy painting your nails again?” Kruger shot back.

“Oh don’t be so uptight. I had time for both.” Haseji said, nonchalantly.

“Okay, children,” Sinclaire interrupted, motioning for the door handle. Just as he did, Haseji immediately grabbed it first and pulled the sliding door back for Sinclaire. “Watching Illugia Faux publically castrate himself has put me in high spirits.” Robert grinned as he entered the plush grey leather interior of the Vivaldi transport. “I think a celebration is in order.”

Kruger entered at the front passenger seat across from the driver. “Rolling Dice, sir?” He called out from behind him. Haseji closed the Delegate’s door, then walked around and entered the vehicle from the opposite side and sat next to Sinclaire.

“Let’s try and get there quick. I’ve got a meeting with the committee later on tonight.”

“You got it.” Kruger peeled back the hood of his cloak and clicked a button on the side of his mask, collapsing it to reveal a thickly bearded face. “You heard the Delegate, Max, let’s get moving.”

The driver nodded his head, both to Kruger and to Mr. Sinclaire. Max was an older gentleman, somewhere in his 50s, but he still had a spring in his step. Like Robert, Max was geno-fix free, and was as healthy as a prime adult for his age. “We’ll have to detour through the backroads, sir. There’s a high speed chase going on that rerouted all the traffic to the main highways.”

“That bad huh?” Robert snapped his fingers, triggering the motion sensor of the ceiling holo projector to come to life. “Search news report: high speed chase in Babylon. Current time.” Robert said aloud, ordering the search engine of the projector to filter out the desired result. He made a swiping gesture with his hand until the projector illuminated a news reporter who was live on the scene...