A lone sniper on Mars has acquired a spacesuit and plasma rifle, and has been using the two to rob Martian cargo shipments on the planet's otherwise inhospitable surface. Because the badlands of Mars lack an atmosphere, the plasma bolts fired by the sniper are seemingly too fast and too damaging to track their whereabouts. Xaara, Jeremiah, and Eiko head to Mars catch him, by setting a trap with themselves as bait.
𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐞
Poole, Gray, and Yeva head to Venus to buy some ginseng, and end up arriving at an annual rave held on the planet by a notorious drug manufacturer known as "Mister Beeftips". Seeking to cash in Beeftips' three million yen bounty, the trio disguise themselves to sneak in and crash the party.
𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐞
Following the capture of a red felon that ended in a disastrous space battle, the Absolute Magnitude is being repaired at some Martian Mechanic. The crew splits up the money, with each person earning about ten grand. To reward themselves for the difficult apprehension, they decide to spend it all that day their different ways.
Jeremiah’s lids snapped across his green eyes. He stared quietly up at the ceiling of his self chosen cell. The whirr of the ship's engines drowned out his soft breathing as he laid on top of his creaky cot, stuffed with beaten pillows and blankets. Occasionally a splash of blue would illuminate the otherwise dark room, a recoil reaction from one of the engine’s alternator coils. Of course, being the engineer of the bounty hunter ship known as Absolute Magnitude he could’ve wired the parts in such a way that it didn’t discharge, but he thought it looked cooler this way, giving the engine room, his room, a sort of futuristic lava lamp of sorts.
A sigh passed his lips, revealing that he had been holding most of his breath in. Despite his almost serene appearance amidst the mechanical clutter of the foghat grey engine room, he was anything but calm. While the engine made all its usual sounds, he knew it was idle, the ship was docked at an ISSP checkpoint on the way to Mars, and just the thought of such an authority near the ship had his chest clenching and squirming with a sloshing anxiety. One of his hands snaked into his pocket, his shaking fingers clutching a plastic bag. He let his fingers squeeze the bag into his fist, feeling the tiny blue pills inside move around his flexed palm, hoping that just knowing they were there would bring him comfort. It did not.
It was late evening and dark rings started to form under his eyes as he laid still, staring up. Shivers erupted up and down his spine as he tried his best to stay perfectly still, ignoring the itch from cold sweat drying on his skin. He knew the release from this affliction was just a pill away, but he couldn’t chance swallowing the illegal drug while he knew the ISSP was here. Even though he had gotten away with taking the pill simply known as “Joy” countless times with his shipmates none the wiser, whenever they stopped by a checkpoint, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead opting to be frozen in fear as the remnants of the last time he took the drug slowly bleed itself out of him, leaving him dry, cold and sick. He could’ve sworn he felt as if he was going to die, as every second without the sweet release felt like hours. His mind played with the anxiety, reminding him that he very well might be dying, a very common and obviously fatal effect of the withdrawals. His fist shook, the pills rattling inside his hand, just moving his bones felt like they were shattering against a thousand bullets.
He wanted to cry, he wanted to yell, he wanted to scream, he wanted to die. As he sucked in a heated breath, he felt his anxiety suddenly lift: the engines had sputtered into drive. A weak smile formed on his face, glistened with sweat as the sounds of the engine room roared his victory for him.
Slipping a shaking finger into the bag, he procured a pill. Without grace or tact, and simply slapping it to his open mouth, he smacked his face, the pill popping into his waiting maw. The pill stuck on his cotton dry tongue and he struggled to get the dissolving capsule to scratch its way down his barren throat. Then suddenly, it his his stomach like a stone.
He opened his mouth to gag, but instead he lurched forward, falling off his bed as he dry heaved. Falling to his knees he placed his palms on the cold floor, his back arching as an attack of coughs and dry heaves burned up his lungs. His eyes closed, threatening to pop out of his skull as tears dripped. He felt the room spinning as he gagged out every last bit of air his lungs had, his body threatening to expel everything while having nothing. His skin tingled and stung as if he was on fire, and he started to choke on his barren coughs, falling to the floor weakly , his eyes were scared as he felt his life being strangled away in the fit of gags. His heart pounded, fears screaming against his ears, the only sensations being his wet tears and burning body.
Suddenly his eyes closed and his body began to squirm, jerking the the left, then to the right until he was spasming on the floor in a full seizure. He convulsed violently for what seemed like forever, his conscious fading in and out as he attempted to capture even the littlest bit of air to fill his inflamed lungs. Then, suddenly, it all stopped.
Blink
He laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his chest softly rising and falling. The pain was gone, the guilt and anger was gone, everything was gone, he felt nothing. A wide white smile broke across his face, the dark circles nowhere to be seen under his glistening green eyes, dilated with ecstasy. He felt nothing, nothing but “Joy”. A giggle broke the silence as a gentle tickle rode along his spine, and his muscles pulsed with energy, burning with desire to move. He twitched and kicked himself onto his feet, standing tall.
As the blood rushed from his head he felt the cool embrace of the drug wash over his body, dousing the flames of earlier with a blanket of pure pleasure. Even his bruises from the seizure now pounded his nerves with delight rather than soreness. His knuckles relaxed and the bag of pills landed by his feet. Looking down he stared at the little blue drugs with his smile ever present.
Without a word, he slipped them into a hollowed out book labeled with only his name, the leather cover worn and old. Slipping the journal into a beat up dresser he examined himself in the square mirror he had hung above the piece of furniture.
Behind him he could see the rest of his room, the engine room not being the largest room to live in. Important parts of the every humming engine were all around, almost as if he lived in the engine itself. Gauges and pipes filled with copper wires or fluids veined the walls and ceiling, all leading the massive engine block that made up the third wall of the room. Only a dresser, a chest and a cot marking the area anything more than a maintenance room.
Focusing back on himself he looked the part. Dressed in tough trousers over steel engineers boots, he broke the formality only by wearing a casual button down shirt under a thick engineer’s vest where he kept his engineer’s key, a useful touch screen device that communicated with modern computers. But as he stood, none of this was on his mind. No, his mind was a swirl of energetic colors, too incoherent for a thought, too overjoyed to settle.
He felt a shiver crawl up his back and he squirmed in anticipation, he could feel his energy biting him for standing still for so long, and so with confident steps he made his way to the metal door that paneled the wall. Pressing a few buttons on the makeshift security system he had installed, the door beeped a tune in response before sliding open with a whoosh.
The light pierced his eyes as he exited his room, ready to face the world once again. Exiting the engine room he found himself in a narrow hallway that lead into what the crew had turned into a living room of sorts.
The common room was comfortable, a ring of chairs around a small table, terminals here and there for studying on the latest bounty. One had been left on, depicting the current target: a martian sniper who has been terrorizing the surface of the planet. Seeing the dossier brought Jeremiah’s conscious a few steps back down from heaven as reality split through his pounding energy enough to cause him to focus.
It was hard. His eyes darted to every speckle of light in the room, hardly paying attention to one specific thing at a time. His calves twitched, asking him to run. Without processing it much he started pacing around the room, tucking a hand under his chin to feign thought. Perhaps no one will question him if he was caught, but he knew it was nighttime and the chances of that were slim, or else he would've stayed in his room.
His head was a kaleidoscope, but he managed to piece together what he remembered about the bounty he and two of his shipmates, Xaara and Eiko, were responsible for. Yes, it was a sniper, yes it was a martian, and no one could quite catch the elusive killer, yes. He nodded with every sentence that found its way to his mind, the words popping in his head like WordArt. He smashed his boot against the leg of one of the cushioned chairs on one of his passes, but he didn’t register the loud crack as he continued pacing and thinking, thinking and pacing, yes.
He circled the room another twenty seven times before he decided to go counter clockwise, the rubbing of his clothes against him causing him to squirm in a strange pleasure as he turned, the drug heightening his senses. Each foot fall sent a vibration up his leg, and it twirled up his back, until it caused a small bloom of ecstasy to blossom, stretching his smile.
This went on for a while, perhaps an hour, maybe three, he couldn’t tell. Slowly the energy started to disperse, and he soon found himself able to stop pacing and sit down. Collapsing into a big red chair he sunk into the cushions. His mind slowing enough to complete thoughts. His large smile turned into a smirk of contentment. He knew he was definitely still high despite the sudden reign over his mind and body. He knew he had at least six hours before he fell into that strange in between, where the withdrawals have yet to set in, and the high has just left, that strange in between where he questions his addiction, questions everything.
He shook his head, but not right now. He smiled to himself, his eyes snapping to the open terminal depicting his bounty, definitely not right now.
Jeremiah got high, and the ship passed through a checkpoint on the way to Mars… Also I gotta say, I’m not too happy with this one, but had to start somewhere I suppose.
"I hate Venus." Poole grumbled, leaning into the wall of the corridor to let pass a pair of dark-uniformed men carrying a metal trunk. The entirety of the planet seemed to be narrow, dirty hallways connecting packed rooms with loud vendors, and tunnels leading even further underground. The air hung with the sweet rot of decaying fruit, and flies seemed to be the only thing more numerous than men. Elevators advertising cold drinks, hot dances, or goods of all kinds lined the halls, and where there was vertical space not used for an elevator shaft, walls were covered in layers of graffiti and advertisements. All around them, hundreds of conversations droned on into a single, homogenous noise.
"You know a better place to find ginseng?" Yeva piped up sarcastically, straightening a large map as she spoke. They were on Venus, though more specifically, Area 1D577 -- The seventy-seventh room on the fifth section of fourth layer of the planet's uppermost floor, closest to the planet's surface. Though Venus had been colonized by humanity centuries ago, many of the floors beyond Layer J had been deemed too hot to be made usable, leading to their use as squats. Though this meant their location was safe and clean by Venusian standards, it was still repugnant to the crew's. Air ducts lined the ceiling like rivets, clogged with velvety lines of furry debris, and every corner and edge on the planet seemed to be stained by an unidentifiable black grime.
The crewmates trudged onward, entering another room of vending stalls. Colorful tarps, tapestries, and decorative awnings lined the ceiling, blocking the air shafts and giving the cramped room a stale humidity. Each of the fabrics seemed to advertise something different, crowding capitalized words in English and Japanese too densely to read without holding up the flow of foot traffic.
"Fresh Lunarian eel fat!" A vendor shouted at Poole. "Good for muscles, good for protein! Fills the stomach!" Before he could get a chance to rebuke the man's offer, a saleswoman standing at the vendor across his stepped forward, placing a sizable pomegranate in Poole's hands. "Terran fruit! Only one hundred yen!"
"That's alright ma'am, we're not looki-"
"Baozi! Fresh baozi! Fifty yen!" Barked a third vendor. Understanding that saying anything would only attract more merchants, he handed the fruit vendor her pomegranate and waded through the crowd, bringing a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He scanned the horizon, looking for the Venusian they had come to see -- Ginseng Joji.
Yeva sniffed as she kept looking between her map and the signs, a childlike gleam of glee in her eyes. This marketplace was a place she could get lost in the crowd, backpack on her back, a couple hundred yen in hand, and spend a whole day wandering about purchasing ingredients. It wasn’t that she needed anything or had the space for it but, well, sometimes want tended to rule her spending habits.
A soft breath escaped her lips as she raised her map as if it were a shield to block out her temptations. Offers and deals caught Yeva's attention every so often as she recalled all the time she could have been studying this map-- like last night. While she was baking cookies, Yeva could have studied the map, instead of staring blankly at the oven while the treats cooked. “It’s not that hard,” she mumbled aloud. Honestly, the map was a jumble of arrows, numbers, symbols, colors, all making her head hurt, but it wasn’t that hard to figure out. Yeah?
Maybe?
“This way,” Yeva piped up and pointed at the narrow corridor between a roast duck-adorned barbecue stall and an outdated-seeming robotics repair store. The trio continued onward, with Poole and Gray closely tailing Yeva.
As the… inventor? Sure. The inventor of this idea-- this Ginseng adventure-- Yeva felt responsible for herding the seven-foot kittens that Poole and Gray represented. See, Yeva needed this Ginseng for it’s millennial old rumors of healing and curative properties. Ancient rumors, not proven by any sort of scientific evaluation, that had survived the exodus from Earth had to have some sort of truth to them, right? Plus, it wouldn’t be bad to find a root that was capable of being re-potted and rejuvenated though-- it was apparently a protocol to dry the life out of them so no one else could cash in on the market. What a selfish shame, really.
Miracle medicine was probably exactly what Yeva needed to stave off this week's coming cold. A sudden chill crept up on her-- the viruses reminding her they were watching… Waiting.
Yeva felt a sneeze coming on and made that face
"There." Poole spoke up, peering through his binoculars and pointing just beyond an elevator shaft to a restaurant. Yeva loudly sneezed behind him, granting her an obligatory "God bless you." Barely noticable in the chaos of the crowds, there was a small green neon sign flickering in the distance, with only two word to entice buyers; HERBS HERE. He could smell Joji's stench from where he stood.
"Yessir, that's right. Every last bit, first flush to the fourth. Said he was looking to make enough brews to invite the whole planet to tea." Ginseng Joji grumbled, snorting thick fumes of white smoke from his nostrils. He was a squat man of at least eighty, and a classic Venusian in every sense, or in other words, really sketchy. One hand held an old fashioned tobacco pipe, while the other was a stump capped with a trowel. He took another inhale from his pipe, and began to look into a cabinet, unintentionally -- and without realizing at any point -- puffing clouds of nicotine into the cabinet's drawers, rifling through them, and then tightly shutting them.
"I hope he means to, because that's an easy to over-steep blend he has his hands on. And quite a bit. I don't think I've ever seen a man buy so much ginseng, 'cept for myself." Joji said through an impassably thick mustache. He seemed to have aged a decade every visit, and now sported an eyebrow-mustache combo that made him resemble an abandoned lawn gnome. "He looked important enough, I s'pose. Anyway, enough rambling, let me see if I've any left upstairs." Joji brought the small bamboo-chambered pipe to his lips, sucking gingerly and pulling a stepstool from behind his counter with a twist of his trowel-hand.
"Important how?" Yeva inquired, shaking a small tin of jasmine as she gave it a brief look-over.
"He was wearing a red jumpsuit with a logo on the pocket. Only stood out on account of the ISSP pilots wearing blue jumpsuits, and I believe the Lunarian military has grey, but I don't think anyone official has red. I suppose he was makin' a whole mess of tea, to buy every last barrel. Maybe he works with the city, Venusian garbagemen wear red If'n I remember right. Then again, this was less of a maroon and more of a fire red. I never wore a lot of red, myself. You a warm colors man, Mister Poole?" Joji asked, looking one of the two towering men Yeva was accompanied by.
"I'm a hurried man, Mister Joji." grunted Poole. "The sooner we get off this planet, the sooner I can sit down."
"Ah, yes, perhaps up here." Joji craned his neck upwards, reaching up to a small wooden drawer in the wall, opening it, and sighing defeatedly.
"Looks like I was wrong, not even a pinch in storage. If you'd like, there's another herbal store on Layer Q, though you'd need a riot shield to get there."
Yeva's ears perked, and she leaned closer on the counter, eyeing the old man. "Why's that?"
"There's some hippie-dippie music festival on Layer Q the young people are all excited about. Not a single tea festivals as far as I know." Joji grumbled. "If you ask me, the young people should get more excited about tea than techno. The same festival happens every year, but nobody gives a damn about herbs."
Yeva brings a bodybuilder and a man in a robotic exoskeleton to the most crowded planet in the solar system. Evidently, there isn't any ginseng on the most crowded planet in the solar system. There might be some ginseng several layers into sketchiest parts of Venus, but people host raves and have pet hyenas and shit there.
Really. There was so much going on at any given time that he could literally turn his head and be entertained. Because really, what was that thing dangling over there?Dried axolotl frills. And that little old lady was selling what exactly?Improperly labeled soy-based supplement. And what the hell did that guy have on his face!Tumor. Hopefully. His heads up display was alive with crawling lights and translations, so many small green boxes drawing and calculating and redrawing at any given time that he could barely keep up. Mandarin, Kanji, Arabic, English, a dozen and a half different languages in the air and on the walls and--
The loud clunk of his helmet on yet another doorway brought him back to attention, his breath hot in his ears. As much as he relished the chaos, this was not a great place for Gray. Skipping the obligatory ADHD jokes, there really was just too much for him to process at any given time. While the rational part of him said that he was getting too worked up, that his heart beat was well over optimum, but he was much too busy trying to cover for the clay pot he'd broken turning to look at the seemingly endless drawers and cavities of Ginseng Joji's. The man would probably say it was hundreds of years old or something and charge them an arm and a leg for it if he noticed, but a careful navigation of a few jars had the mess carefully concealed from sight.
Gray's whirring thumbs up to Poole was very subtle.
Really this was all Yeva's doing. She was always off after this herb or that herb, and while normally Gray had no interested in hopping along for the ride he wasn't about to miss the chance to head out into the Venusian concrete jungle and muck about with the natives. It was one of the few places he didn't stand out too much at that--yes, his exoskeleton was bulky and sure, his coat tended to get caught on the odds and ends of the bizarre marketplaces and tchotchke shops, but nobody cared. They were all to busy trying not to get caught doing whatever the criminal activity of the day was to care!
Sort of. Kind of. Not really. Between Poole and Gray both nearly filled a hallway each, but while the massive man had a sort of swaggering self-awareness Gray was a walking disaster. They probably wouldn't have let him come, but in a place like this--
Hippie-dippie music festival. Layer Q, Venus. Techno. Yearly.
"Tipbucktu!" Gray's vocalizer spat out, mechanically excited, as massive exclamation mark appearing pointedly across the orange of his visor. On the other side, strings of green data were scrolling invisibly over the world as page after page of young people getting fucked popped up on his visor. Not literally, of course--well, sometimes literally--but they sure as hell weren't sober. Mister Beeftips had seen to that. The orange faceplate turned expectantly towards his comrades, swiveling between them, before growing an exasperated chibi that dripped sweat above an enormous forced smile.
"Seriously? As in, you guys really don't--" As per usual, Gray didn't wait for a response. He could already tell that neither of the other two had any idea what he or the old man was talking about and was already ahead of them, pulling up one of the vid-logs he'd found and streaming it over the front of his helmet. An excited youth, some Asian variety with a tattoo instead of an eyebrow and a string of Kanji running down from below his right eye, was obviously tripping balls. Pupils the size of saucers, he was babbling almost as quickly as the voice recorder could pick up, its granulation obvious as the picture blocked and unblocked itself in odd increments. The downside of using what was no doubt a hacked wrist-com was obviously lost on him as he babbled.
--gonna be crazy tonight, man, gonna get wrecked! He was saying, chugging from a plastic bottle of water before tossing it off to the side and throwing his head back. Let's merge, babies, let the vibrations make us one! See you at Tipbucktu, losers, I am so--
"Going. We are, right? I mean, come on. We basically have to." The video cut out to Gray talking, his exoskeleton whirring to keep up with him. It was a very strange thing to see a seven-foot exoskeletal giant basically bouncing on his feet. "This thing is supposed to be ridiculous. It's the only time Mister Beeftips gives away handouts in person, the rest of the time he's like a ghost." Did they know who Mister Beeftips was? They had to know who Mister Beeftips was. It was hard to tell if Gray was more interested in the party or the bounty, but did he really have to choose?
"Forget the ginseng, let's get some Beeftip!"
Gray's a fish out of water on Venus but digging it, especially when he hears about Mister Beeftips sweet dance party down below. He's got a pimp Robot and an empty wallet and hoping to get some use out of both.
______________________________________________________________________ Episode Two: Mass Rave ______________________________________________________________________
“Tipbuktu!”
Was that even a word? Thus began Yeva’s wary squinting. Sure she listened to Gray, sort of, but her mind was already running the charts and diagrams on this situation: All results indicated “not good.” From what the old man had described, a “Rave” sounded like something that was going to be full of sweaty people, too much drum and or bass, and something she would need to get drunk to even tolerate. Look, Yeva had convinced herself that she wasn’t an alcoholic. She liked to think of herself as something of a “social drinker” which, loosely translated from Bullshitese, meant that she was a binge drinker.
Ah yes, there were the glasses of wine while cooking and the occasional beer but, for the most part, Yeva didn’t drink enough to form a tolerance. When she went out drinking it was with a group and it was to near blackout, followed by months of sobriety, simply because she didn’t go out much. Aside from the Hunter’s Lodge on Callisto, Yeva couldn’t find a bar she liked enough that wasn’t filled with people looking to fight or people that were just too energetic. And now Gray wanted them to go to a bloody Rave.
As the video of the tattooed fellow began playing on the Gray-face-screen, Yeva squinted up at Poole. While she definitely knew she would feel out of place in a Rave, Poole most certainly would too, no doubt. Maybe he would tell Gray no? Or maybe the pull of bounty money was too much-- if this Beeftips fellow had a high price on his head then Yeva assumed that Poole would likely check the box for “discomfort be damned” and go after him. This made Yeva feel something very close to irritated but she mistook it for hunger. Beeftips actually sounded like a savory meal-- oddly implied but not actually implied cannibalism aside...
Unconsciously her eyes drifted toward the exit, inadvertently sounding the silent alarm that clearly broadcasted, 'Yeva’s Trying To Ditch You Again'-- well, if Poole and Gray were familiar enough with the behavior, that is.
Indeed, Yeva knew she had a number of viable reasons as to how she could avoid going to this: They could handle this while she went to fetch a few spices and ingredients for cooking-- surely they didn’t need her, right? Or she could just walk out the door and drift into crowd-- claim separation and getting lost in the labyrinthine tunnels of Venus, which was a pretty solid excuse.
But then, echoing from deep within her soul, came the voice of her Aunt Helia, rough from shouting, scolding Yeva-- “A Calicat never leaves it’s young, even if they’re crippled or staring death in the teeth...”
But Yeva’d be damned if she hadn’t witnessed Aunt Helia leaving a box of kittens in front of the Veterinarian’s office. Was Yeva going to perpetuate the box of kittens abandonment? Were metaphorical kittens just as important as real kittens? The people that raise you shape you, don’t they?! Why were her inner questions suddenly screaming?!
“Forget the Ginseng, let’s get some Beeftip!”
“Bollocks,” Yeva muttered, raising a hand to rub at her temple. Whoever it was that bought all the stupid Ginseng was the one that needed hunting, honestly. Who in the mountain of Megabear shit needed to purchase an entire planet’s worth of Ginseng? Again, Yeva felt something close to irritation but, she determined it was probably days of her life-span being scrubbed off by the sudden stress she felt-- an oddly liberating feeling that was kind of like taking a pee from. The... uh… soul. Sure, that sounded quite right.
“Ginseng,” Yeva hissed, completely at odds with whatever anyone was saying-- Yeva was so deep into her own thoughts that she felt herself thinking while she was thinking. Her fist clenched, holding tight this forming grudge, and pressing it into a diamond of quiet rage.
Said diamond of quiet rage would fetch a pretty decent price, even if diamonds could be mined from asteroids. This was a large metaphorical object that Yeva added to every now and then with every event that forced her into her own little world. Inward debate about wither or not said own little world qualified as a meditative state often raged within, coming to no conclusion whatsoever each time. Then, like the completely zoned out person she was, reality would come trudging back to her like a drunk person to a breakfast pub at three in the morning.
“… what?” Yeva mumbled, “Huh?”
As she looked up at Poole, the crowd slowly began to fade into existence. Yeva’s eyes went wide as she shifted focus onto the moving people nearby. The Ginseng shop was apparently a long time gone at this point. Part of Yeva had no idea when and how they had got here but, she knew they had to have walked of course, and that she was possibly responsible for guiding them to this area. A voice in the back of Yeva’s head reminded her that there was probably a name for occurrences like this that some doctor somewhere probably knew. At least nothing of note had happened on the way over here, right? Hold on-- where was here, even?
“I said...” Poole began gruffly, having apparently been talking to her-- but Yeva found herself missing his words yet again. Before them was a tall set of metal doors that stretched from ceiling to floor, a set of numerals flashing at the top, and a large peeling painted Q on the wall next… to… wait--
“Blimey, it’s a lift,” Yeva mumbled in confusion. The glare of light off of something reflective caught her attention. Yeva looked over and found that Gray was maybe staring at her like she had two heads-- Yeva couldn’t tell honestly, so she assumed he was always giving her a weird look anyway, assuming he had eyes to look with, of course. And… a face. A body. Something.
Part of Yeva wanted to ask him about his anatomy just then but, the greater part of her was distracted by the soft boop coming from the elevator before them. Was the tone really necessary anymore, given the fact they could hear the scraping and grinding of the elevator’s approach?
Lost, Yeva asked the three, “Where we headed again?” When they stepped into the crowded elevator, Yeva's fist clenched... again. Next she knew the doors were opening.
Yeva immediately hates whoever bought all the Ginseng, doesn't want to go to a rave, and experiences a dissociative episode after being forced to go to said rave. The trio navigates to an elevator that goes exclusively to level Q. Yeva ignores everything Poole is saying and is also suspicious of Gray's facial expressions.
A lone figure stood in the crimson desert, walking against the sandblasting Martian winds. They wore a Lunar spacesuit, markedly different from Martian, Terran, and Jupiterean models by the off-white color of the exosuit, thick gunmetal rebreather and cyclops-model HUD eyepiece, giving the traveler a single red eye. All around, the eye dotted around the horizon, instinctively combing through the Martian landscape in search of scrubs of cacti or shrubbery. It was in vain, as it always had been. At least on Earth, the traveler thought, even the desert showed a pulse in the plants and animals strong enough to scratch life out of the arid landscape. On Mars, there was no such comfort. Any traveler could tell you the Martian desert was nothing more than a graveyard of the first Japanese colonies, mining sites, and the shells of various early robots left to erode for centuries past. It was an inhospitably dry, airless remnant of humanity's past, and for all its eerie abandonment, it had not until recently been dangerous.
The traveler hunkered down, placing their rifle on the legs of its bipod and laying on the hard, red dirt. They fiddled with the sight for a moment, turning the various dials and switches on the scope as a cool, blue light began to eminate from the rifle's barrel. This continued for several moments -- The sniper would look through the sight, readjust and recalibrate, and check the scope again. Through the rifle's sight, they tracked a cargo truck some two hundred yards away, puttering down the familiar tire tracks of a trade route, steadily leading the rifle's crosshairs in front of the truck. Though the dome cities connected to one another by tunnels, the valuable oxygen therein was too precious to be used by combustion engines, and so the Martian government decreed that nothing bigger than a bicycle could be rode through the tunnels. Shipments of all kinds made their way through the harsh, unoxygenated Martian desert in windowless trucks named for their resemblance to an extinct species of woodlouse from Earth commonly called "Pillbugs". Pillbug trucks were about as long and wide as an old-fashioned commercial airline plane, using treads rather than air-filled tires, and built to be resistant to punctures from meteorites, gunfire, explosives, sand abrasion, crashes, and the melting effects of solar winds. That being said, it was not resistant to plasma. As the sniper had learned, very few things were.
The sniper kept their crosshairs steadily in front of the pillbug as the rifle's barrel continued to hum, slowly glowing more and more until the rifle's blue glow became a dull white light. The sniper's sole red eye twitched for a moment, their finger's grip tightening on the trigger, calculating the rifle's trajectory and shifting their aim in small microadjustments before squeezing, firing a bolt of plasma at the pillbug in the complete silence of the airless desert. Though too fast to track by sight, a white, glowing ball the size of a fist shot from the rifle's muzzle, tearing through the thin atmosphere with a low whistle and crashing into the pillbug almost instantly. Despite the plasma bolt's small size, it tore through the hull of the truck with the momentum of a freight train, knocking the tremendous truck to its side, spinning slowly in the red dirt as it skidded to a halt. The sniper stood up, slinging the rifle over their shoulder and stretching, before walking towards the crashed pillbug as slowly and calmly as they had been before. Within minutes, they approached the smoldering wreckage of the pillbug's hull, turning off the gravitational enhancements on the sides of their spacesuit's boots and hopping upwards onto the overturned truck's side, and into the truck's interior through the gaping hole. There were three metal crates about half as large as the sniper himself, slowly floating upwards in their newly-depressurized quarters. The sniper pressed a large button in the center of the closest crate's lid, opening it with a hiss of air.
Civorite crystals, and a lot of them, neatly packaged in hexagonal glass casing like a box of lime-green honeycomb. They were used to charge the thrusters in spacecraft engines, synthesizing with fuel to work as a "nitro boost" of sorts. Not particularly useful to the sniper, though expensive and sellable nonetheless. The sniper pulled a cord from the back of a belt around their suit's waistline, closing the trunk and attaching the cord to the trunk's handle with a small hook. The sniper grabbed the other end of the trunk, hefting it up weightlessly to their shoulder and hopping towards the pillbug's cockpit. There were two pilots, both twisted into the grotesque expressions of their final moments of depressurization. The sniper paid no mind to the bodies, floating towards the cockpit's windshield and pulling a small can of spray paint from their suit's belt, drawing a quick, precise kanji on the windshield. After examining their work for a moment, the sniper turned and hopped towards the cockpit's exit, still carrying the crate over their shoulder. By now, the rest of the crates had been floating long enough to be bouncing around the hole in the truck's side, teetering around the edges of the smoldering plasma burns of the hull. The sniper pushed them out of the way, hopping out of the truck and onto the hard martian sand, pressing the gravitational enhancement button on the side of their left boot, then right. As quickly as they had entered, the sniper began making their way away from the truck, to disappear into the Martian craters and plateaus, leaving the pillbug to erode away with the rest of the Martian desert.
We learn two things about the sniper; They are willing to kill two innocents for fuel to sell on the black market, and they can at least write Japanese.
Jeremiah landed hard into a bed of fruit, various juices splattering everywhere. He looked up, clearly dazed by the impact, pulp clinging to his face. Rolling to his feet he crouched, scanning his surroundings. Fruit, fruit everywhere. The large grey room he found himself in was filled with various fruits, and flies, the stench of fresh and rotted fruit stinging his nose, or at least it would be if not for the HAZMAT mask he wore over his face, and the one size too small skin tight yellow jumpsuit constricting his body.
He shook his head, his dizziness rattling against his skull. Colors of all kinds spotted his vision as it adjusted to the dark cell, the only light coming from the hole in the ceiling from which he fell.
He lifted his booted foot, a half a peach sticking to the sole.
"I hate peaches," He grumbled.
Yeva landed with an odd grace-- well, more graceful than the wreck that Jeremiah had been. For one, she went into the fruit feet first then ended up sitting down into it. A heavy sigh escaped Yeva as she looked around trying to understand-- “What the whole shit is going on?”
Shaking her head in defeat, Yeva stared at the peach on Jerimiah’s boot then said, “It’s a good look for you, mate. Could be the latest A.L.C. fashion craze.” Casually she picked up a fruit, some orangeish-yellow-maybe-diamond piece of something, peeled the husk back, then bit into it. “Well,” she mumbled through a mouthful of sweetness, “The wanker got us good, didn’t he?”
Jeremiah sighed, holding back a laugh. He wasn't happy, but even he couldn't deny how strange recent events have been for the two. Before he could even think further into it an intercom suddenly buzzed on.
"BAWK BAWK BAWK BAWK BAWK BAWK BAWK"
"A chicken, A FUCKING CHICKEN, REALLY? FIRST GOATS, COWS, BEARS, AND NOW A CHICKEN!" Jeremiah yelled back at the intercom, hoping it was a two way, but something told him it wasn't. "Don't forget the foam noodles," mumbled Yeva. It had been a long day, and no amount of farm animals were going to make up or it.
Yeva held a hand out toward Jeremiah in a gesture of soothing, calm, maybe even to slam it over his mouth if he continued yelling. She didn’t make a move to halt his tirade just yet.
"I'm starting to think this might not be the guy I was looking for," Jeremiah squished some fruit as he turned to face Yeva, "he doesn't really strike me as... the..." Jeremiah snapped his fingers, "kinda man I'd want to lead my scientific research. I mean, unless that research was in the affects of fruit on terrible fashion statements and taunting farm animals of course."
The squished fruit actually seemed to hold Yeva’s attention more closely than Jeremiah’s, well, anything. With a thoughtful bite of her weird-fruit, Yeva replied, “Hold on, I don’t know, don’t sell him just yet.” She held a finger up, “Consider the day’s events, right? Perhaps there’s some potential there...”
Right. The day’s events. How could anyone forget the day’s events?
Days ago aboard the Absolute Magnitude...
A tea kettle whined as Yeva fished a teacup and saucer out of a small storage cabinet. Overused and overtaxed, Yeva eyed the teacup warily, it's many surface cracks taunting her, as she poured hot water into it. One of these days the damn thing was going to spill scalding water all over her but, she always made it a point to add the tea bag last just in case-- spilling perfectly good tea would be unacceptable.
So she placed the saucer over the teacup to let it steep-- another unacceptable act would be to drink it without proper steeping time-- then she eyed the oven. Within it's warm confines there were cookies of the chocolate chip variety. Yeva's stare passed over the miserable little kitchen then. A ladder lead down to it from the common area because, truly, this was nothing more than a converted storage compartment.
The space as a whole was cramped and rather dimly lit. A lone ceiling lamp with two light bulbs did it's best to illuminate the oppressive shadows. Crates full of spices, dried things, and cooking stuff sat next to the wall-- one crate in particular acting as the occasional chair. An assembly of mismatched stools and chars sat around a card table.
Then there was the oven.
Yeva wouldn't talk too much shit about it, honestly. Though it was a welded and bolted together mishmash of various metals and wires, it had done enough justice for her that, were it to be replaced, she would give it a proper Jupiter space burial-- throw it right into the eye of the Gas Giant via propulsion jets.
About the only thing in this entire kitchen that had been purchased, by her recollection, was the refrigerator-freezer combo and the microwave-- the latter of which always ended up mysteriously broken.
What? No. Of course Yeva didn't know how it broke-- of course not. The real mystery was who the hell kept repairing it... Clunk-clunk clunk-clunk...
Yeva's eyes went toward the ladder at the sound of someone climbing down. The boots-- Yeva had an acute ability to distinguish who was coming down by the sound of their boots-- and this sounded like Jeremiah. Hopefully he didn't want cookies yet.
SLAM!
Jeremiah's heavy engineer boots hit the ground hard as he jumped from the last few pegs. The man had a big smile on his face, but his eyes betrayed fright at the sight of Yeva. Smoothly he tossed a small frozen microwavable package off to the side and out of view. Yeva instinctively squinted at Jeremiah. "Well, hey! I didn't know you were cookin' !" Jeremiah closed the gap between then before any questions of his attempted criminal microwaving was put under inspection.
Distracting her with a friendly pat on the shoulder he peeped over to the oven, the heat spilling out of the loose rivets bathing his face, "rigging some baked goods are ya?" A devilish smile that hinted hunger spread on his face. "Cookies. Chocolate chip. If you're hungry, I'm going to start preparing Martian Calzones in a few," Yeva replied. It was a well known fact that Yeva treated herself to dessert both before and after a meal. With a small shrug at Jeremiah, she took a sip of her tea, made a few smacking noises, then began digging through a set of plastic storage drawers for the sugar-- where the hell were the sugar packets?
Mystery number two was why the sugar packets kept disappearing but the bag of sugar went untouched. That trademark low hum of suspicion left Yeva as she continued the search. Jeremiah folded his hands behind his back and leaned over to see what Yeva was looking for. A spark of recognition lighted his eyes at her hum and he leaned back into his own space, propping an elbow on the counter, "calzones sounds nice, didn't even know we had enough for a nice folded pie."
"Ah, it's an old family recipe that my Gran taught me-- have to improvise since most ingredients down here aren't proper. Bloody Martian spice stock that never seems to run out," she replied distractedly as she fished through the drawer, "And we could use with a bit of a resto-- oh, bugger it--" Yeva growled at the shelf then shut it. "Bitter tea it is then. Right," she sighed in defeat before taking a sip. Running a hand over her brow, Yeva looked at Jeremiah rather accusingly, but said nothing for a beat. "Next time we're near Jupiter, I absolutely must restock," Yeva gestured to the kitchen as if it were a grand and sprawling plain, "My kitchen is in disarray."
"Yeah, Jupiter," Jeremiah rubbed his chin and switched elbows, suddenly a thought formed in his mind, or rather a memory, "oh hey hey, Yeva!" He stood straight up, "didn't you say the other night, ya know the one, when we had macaroni and 'space' cheese, you mentioned you knew some interesting places on Callisto?" Without a word Yeva moved toward the oven, popped a squat, then stared at the cookies thoughtfully. It seemed like a general enough topic to have talked about, even if she didn’t recall having the conversation. “I guess,” she mumbled, “A few caves, burial sites, weird trees, suspicious bunkers.”
Jeremiah popped a squat next to Yeva, eyeing the cookies like a starving raccoon. The gentle sizzle of the disks of deliciousness cooking under the heat pulled Jeremiah into a sort of trance, you know the kind, a very certain kind of dream like state where the desert never ends. A wide smile formed on Jeremiah's lips as he watched the chocolate slowly melt onto the buttery-
"Oh!" Jeremiah shook his head and nodded, "bunkers! That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm actually pretty curious about these bunkers and it'd be real helpful of ya if you could lemme know any important deets, ya dig?" Of course, Jeremiah found the way he asked for her help hilarious, considering he found the vernacular cheesier than space cheese (which considering the legitimacy of space cheese, is a strange statement to make) but using Earth lingo never ceased to be amusing on Yeva's space ears.
Yeva hummed thoughtfully as she stared at the cookies. What much could she tell him? It wasn’t as if she had investigated any of the bunkers no, in fact, it had been her Aunt who directed her to one of them as a bit of a landmark when on hunts. Her aunt probably knew more about them than anyone, come to think of it. Yeva bit her lip at the thought of contacting the legendary Aunt Heila, then pulled her jacket closer to herself, feeling a sudden chill come on. Then again, maybe that was the chill of Heila feeling Yeva thinking about her… thinking about her. Yeva eyed the nearby shadows and shuddered.
Seriousness in the face of Jeremiah’s cheesy space lingo? Unheard of but here was a stony expression on Yeva’s face. “Details,” she replied before taking a sip of tea, “Exactly what sort of details? If I recall correctly, they’re nothing more than leftovers from the terra-forming.”
"Was it a-" Jeremiah scrunched his face in thought, "medical... research.. military... crazy old man predicting the nuclear holocaust 2.0 ... fanatics..."
"I guess what I'm trying to ask is what kind of bunker are we talking about?" Jeremiah's goofy facade was betrayed by the stern look in his eyes, "I need to know."
“Jeremiah,” Yeva began with a hint of warning in her tone, “If you really wish to know, I happen to have a good contact that could give you better detail.” Taking another sip of tea, Yeva continued, “However, we would have to venture to Callisto itself-- I am not allowed to contact this person via typical signal communications. I… I have to. Ah. Persuade them with my presence. And undoubtedly incur some sort of debt in the process. Why…” The word died on her lips. Yeva was almost about to ask Jeremiah why he was so adamant about knowing-- what sort of importance the information had for him. She almost asked. Instead, Yeva sipped her tea, then turned her attention back toward the cookies. To cover herself, she mumbled, “Why are they taking so long?”
"Because you won't let me tweak the oven," Jeremiah's sly smile returned, "I could have this thing as quick as the Onemomo quicktick 60, you know the one." He shook his head, "either way, if it is at all comfortable for you, I'd say we make that visit to Calisto." Letting his squat fall into a plain old sit, he continued from the floor, " I just finished tweaking the Sparrow's thrusters, we could get there pretty quick and back before the team even had a hint of the next contract."
Holding up one finger, Yeva began, "The Onemomo is a scam and nothing beats slow cooking-- all I need is a proper seal, so don't even start this again." With two fingers up she continued, "You will likely be conducting the diplomatic relations with Helia and you must listen very carefully to me..."
Taking a sip of her tea, Yeva stared over at Jeremiah with a serious business expression on her face before saying, "She can smell your fear, do not compliment her, and be straightforward on your request, once I open negotiations." Shaking her head, Yeva then put up a third finger, "The Sparrow is a one person vessel-- how do you expect two to fit?"
Jeremiah scratched his wrist, his eyes never leaving Yeva's, nodding as she spoke. He remained quiet and actually listening very closely, up until the (correct) criticism on his single flier. "Well, uh," Jeremiah sputtered, "s-storage hatch?"
A grimness settled over Yeva's presence just then. Part of her wanted to scream and another part wanted to outright slam Jeremiah's face into the floor. Doing neither and replying in the most neutral tone she could muster, Yeva simply responded, "Oh? The Storage hatch?"
Jeremiah squinted at Yeva, as if trying to read between the lines, "I mean," he started slowly, "we both could try to squeeze up front but without one of us sitting on the others laps, I don;t think that'll work-"
"Or maybe I could put a seat in the storage hatch?" Jeremiah was running out of ideas, and he sure as hell wasn't going to try and steal the Absolute Magnitude for a trip he's rather keep on the low. Scrunching his face in anticipation he scanned Yeva's face for any signs of acceptance.
A sigh, like that having built enough to expel a portion of one's soul, managed to escape Yeva. "On a scale from one to ten-- with ten being a important as your very existence--" Yeva shook her head "-- how important is this to you?" Before she let him answer, Yeva continued, "Tell me, now, have you ever stared into the eyes of death and shook hands with it? Well. If so, then you'll find that company is surely more comfortable than being in the presence of this contact, Jeremiah. This. Needs to be about the most important thing other than your birth. I'm assuming a great risk here as well, mid you. I'm willing to do this for you but only if it cannot possibly be handled any other way."
Jeremiah sighed, shaking his head, "it's a goose chase, Yeva. This could be important to me, or useless, I don't know."
He started to stand up from the floor, "I don't think it would be a good idea then, for you to put yourself at any risk for my personal chase." Dusting any kitchen dirt from his butt (as if Yeva allowed unclean floors in this her most holy sanctuary) he continued, "I think I'm more than capable of figuring the location of the bunker out on my own once on Callisto," talking more to himself than Yeva, "I really appreciate you humoring me though, it means a lot." He smiled, hiding the buzzing thoughts behind his eyes.
And in a moment that would likely be unforgettable as compellingly out of character for Yeva, she shouted to Jeremiah, “You will die if you go alone!” Yeva stared intensely at Jeremiah, hints of concern mingling with grief twisted her expression briefly before she looked away. Harshly, Yeva set her teacup on the ground, then stood. Snatching an oven mitt off of a nearby counter, she opened the oven, then pulled the cookies out. Silence occupied the space between them for the moment as she placed the cookie sheet onto the stove top to cool.
“Ensure,” Yeva began lowly, “That the storage hatch has a proper seal.”
Jeremiah stared hard in shock at Yeva, thousands of different ways of telling her to not worry about it, to stay behind, to stay safe bombarded his psyche, but neither words of expression showed any, the shock of Yeva's outburst surpassing his every instinct of not letting someone get too involved in his wild goose chase.
Knowing he was beyond the point of weaseling Yeva out of this situation, he simply nodded, "you can count on it."
Jeremiah and Yeva are in a horrible fruit tank. How did they get there? Flashback to earlier. Yeva and Jeremiah discuss going to Callisto in The Sparrow, a one person ship, with Yeva stuffed into the storage hatch. They are in pursuit of science and bunkers.
The elevator doors opened with a hiss of condensed air, opening itself to the sensory assault that was Layer Q. It was immediately apparent that it was a much warmer layer, and a more foul-smelling one, with a stale smell of sweat in the air. It was also dimmer, lacking the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, though there appeared to be scattered fires in oil drums in the distance. Where Layer J was uncomfortably crowded, Layer Q was uncomfortably empty, with scattered figures shuffling in the dark in between tents, campfires, and constructed buildings made of plywood and unpainted sheet-rock. It was hard to make out faces in the dark, though the visible details; gelled mohawks, gas masks, long coats and threatening, spiky boots, gave each of the layer's denizens a uniform ugliness to their appearance. Directly in front of the elevator, waiting to make his way back up, stood a young man wearing only leather pants, a brown fedora, and cowboy boots, with his nipples visibly pierced by golden crucifixes. As the trio made their way past the cowboy, it was Poole who spoke first, perhaps incited by the man's choice in jewelry or to comfort his comrade, who had unintentionally lead the group from safety.
"You see what kids think they can wear on hot planets? You wouldn't see guys in rodeo clown getups on Titan, no sir."
Poole chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck for a moment, peering out into the distance. The layer seemed more like an infinite parking garage floor the more he looked at it, with small, trash-covered shacks congregating around the rows of support pillars. Before either of his comrades could respond to his poor joke, one of the shadowy figures walked towards them from just one such of those trash covered shacks. It was a man in a green windbreaker, with a shaggy grey beard and black shorts. In one hand he brandished a meat cleaver, and in the other a bottle of Black Eel in the other. His teeth, and most of the stains at the top of his shirt, were black where they had hardened and gray where they were still wet. Despite his drunkenness, he made his way to the group through the shadows quickly and quietly enough that by the time he had been noticed, he was within feet of the trio.
"Hey man, you got any spare change? My girlfriend just kicked me out of our house and I'm trying to get another 600 yen for the bus to my mom's."
Poole looked down to the man's knife, and then to the drunken softness of his face, and finally to the electronic "ONLY 5.75¥" tag flashing on the man's inky black bottle.
"Sorry brother, only got a bank holocard on me."
"That's okay, I got a swiper on me." The bearded man said, pulling a small black box from the pocket of his jacket.
"That's..." Pool said, scrunching up his square face with a pause, "Questionable."
Poole turned back to his two comrades, nonchalantly grabbing the drunkard's knife-wielding hand with a white-knuckled grip, causing him to drop the cleaver almost instantly. Fortunately for Poole, his only response was to give a half-hearted whine of disapproval.
"I'm gonna talk to Mister Eels for a second. The only signs I can see are for the Sakura Club and the, uh. That one." Poole grumbled, pointing to a painted red-and-yellow sign that simply read "CHEAP CHIX HERE"
"Of the two, the "Sakura Club" sounds like a better place to get information, so you two should check it out while I find out what I can from this guy." He nodded his head towards the club in question -- built into the ceiling and floor from what looked like several welded-together shipping containers. On the outside, a man in sunglasses wearing a leather vest decorated with long silver spikes stood reading his cellphone, smoking a cigarette. He had slicked back hair, dyed bright blue, and had his cigarette-hand on the leash of a hairless black hyena, who paced in front of him frantically. Of all the details, the hyena seemed the least unnatural.
"Six million?"
"Nine and a half." Beeftips said, puffing away at a cigar. He and two other suit-clad men sat in the dark of his study, illuminated only by the wall of cameras in front of them. In front of them was a long coffee table, wider than it was tall, holding up a small flower and vase, two bottles of beer, and a tropical coconut drink, umbrella and all. Mister Beeftips could be discerned from the other two, even in the near-invisibility of the darkness, by the red paisley pattern of his suit in lieu of a traditional grey, black, blue, or even pinstripe.
"Tipbuktu: Nightmare of The Surface World was five years ago, it cost half as much and gathered six million. This is Tipbuktu: Return of The Jade Empire, and it has gathered nine and a half million." Beeftips said, running his fingers through his hair and leaning back. "With two days left, mind you."
"Incredible. What about the juice?"
Beeftips peered past the smoke of his cigar at the fluorescent blue screens. "Funny you should ask, I spoke to the guy one last time this morning, and he said to not use juice on account of the sugar. He advised hiding the taste with bitterness instead."
For quite some time since the spaceport landing, Yeva had led Jeremiah on a long hike. Up mountains, through woods, over and sometimes into small streams, and all of it had amounted to what? They were still walking on. While on this long hike Yeva’s endurance for the trek truly showed. Even though she had a small backpack on her back and her crossbow, Yeva’s pace neither slowed nor stopped-- well, except for when Jeremiah asked for a break, seeking privacy beingd a large outrcropping for just long enough to cause a slight worry, luckily he emerged smiling and very energized before any questions formed. Truly Yeva navigated the wilderness of Castillo as if there were paths and roadways laid out that only she could see.
Hours passed, the sun crept into a noonish position, before the ground finally began evening out once more. Ahead of them, a small plume of smoke could be seen, and the woods gave way to large fields with houses lurking at a distance. The small plume of smoke could eventually be tracked to a chimney.
Said chimney went to a log cabin made from absolutely massive tree logs-- their width and berdth stretching taller than any human. A worn and weathered sign lurked outside of the cabin, painted with the words: “Hunting Lodge #4” and a painted bear’s head on a shield stood out in blue with a white background. Yeva stopped once they were within thirty paces of the cabin, then dove behind a nearby tree and bushes-- probably an odd behavior to... Jeremiah.
"Come here," Yeva told him in something of an elevated whisper, beckoning heavily. Jeremiah slipped quickly to Yeva's side, a hand slipping into his pocket and feeling his small bag of pills, one missing from earlier.
"What's up?" He whispered back, scooting further behind the bushes in case of danger, his other hand feeling the cold handle of his pistol tucked away in his belt.
Yeva fell quiet for a moment before whispering, “I fear we’ve already been sighte--”
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP-- The ground near the tree became splattered with a wide array of different colored paint-- the tree itself fell victim to the barrage. Yeva put her arms and hands up protect her face and neck until the noise halted abruptly. A distant voice that sounded as if it came from someone who had smoked far too many cigarettes, came from the direction of the cabin, and it was laughing. The look on Yeva’s face was one of terror. Numbly, she reached toward Jeremiah, to keep him from moving.
“Well well well,” shouted the voice, “Ye bring yer sorry ass back ‘ere, ‘ave ye? Come out, Yeva. C’mon out n’get ye ol’ Aunt a hug, eh?”
Jeremiah cocked a brow, more confused at the paint-day surprise than anything else, he pointed at the various colors and opened his mouth to question, leaving it open in silence just in case he wasn't suppose to speak as well as move, which probably was a yes.
Yeva shook her head at Jeremiah then called out, "Ah--" she cleared her throat "-- Dear Auntie Heila. I have a man here that wishes to speak with you. About them bunkers, you know the ones?!"
"A MAN? Straigh' to business, are ye now lass? Incredible, truly. While we've been worried about you having been eaten by a heard of Calicats, ye come back with a BLOODY MAN?!"
More paintballs burst off of the tree before Heila screamed, "SEND 'EM OVER, RIGHT?!"
"Remember what I told you," Yeva warned Jeremiah, "Be straight, be fearless, and don't compliment her."
Upon the porch stood a woman-- grey streaks in her wild hair and a twisted smile on her face. Her left eye was covered by an eyepatch, two jagged and deep scars trailing from her left brow down to her chin. This is Aunt Heila-- the grim reaper herself, or, as some would call her, the bane of Megabears. A strong smelling cigar was held loosely in one hand and the high powered looking paintball gun in the other-- seriously, the damn thing had a scope attached.
Her single eye was narrowed upon Jeremiah as he approached with a look that said you are not fucking worthy. All this and she stood even at an intimidating height-- probably just a little shorter than Poole, actually. Were it not for the cooking apron tied around her, she looked as if she were ready to conduct a night-operations tactical mission.
Jeremiah soaked in the mess before him, what kiind of quest did he start? He sucked in a tiny breath, as if he had much to say about the true start of this kinda quest. Forming his trademark smile he took another bold step towards the towering woman, "Hello, I'm Jeremiah, here for the aforementioned bunkers."
Taking a pull from her cigar, Heila eyed the man's smile with a harsh expression. "Which bunkers, Jeremiah," she asked exhaling smoke, "Which bunkers specifically?" Oddly, she seemed rather calm, from the previous fire with which she had berated them only moments before. Was it a trap?
"Abandoned ones, particularly eerie, mysterious, and worthy of a visit to Calisto," Jeremiah answered, "the kind that makes you wonder what the hell it was even for."
Heila hummed in a particularly eerie manner, very similar to Yeva, but very off-putting given the raspy quality of it. Squinting down at Jeremiah she replied, "Calico Silo-- so named 'cause it's in the middle of a bloody Calicat hunting ground. Tell me, Jeremiah, do you fear death?"
Jeremiah's eyes narrowed at the question. After countless nights approaching the topic of death, he didn't know exactly how to respond. Did he fear death? and if he did, was it his own? No, it was another type of death that kept his eyes open at the twilight hours, it was a different pale face that haunted him in the cold sweat of his withdrawals, to him, he knew only one answer.
"There are greater things to fear," Jeremiah answered in a flat tone.
Heila smiled like a shark looking upon it's next prey. "Yeva does not fear it. Honestly I'd be surprised if ye didn' already know this," she told him, then put her paintball gun down. She reached behind herself, then pulled a small GPS device off of her belt. Idly she typed a few things as she asked Jeremiah, "How has my sweet niece been holdin' up, eh?"
Jeremiah went to lean but nearly tripped remembering he wasn't near anything to lean on. His slightly dilated eyes fluxuated and fixed back onto the grizzly aunt, obliging the small talk, "not only is she holding up, but she is also holding up a few appitites with her recipes."
"Her reciepies-- bah," Helia replied, "Her gran's the one responsible for all her skills-- ungrateful little wench. She should be here doing such a thing." A beat passed then Heila held out the GPS device toward Jeremiah, "There. Go get yerself killed but be sure that Yeva'll survive, even if you don't. She's lucky like that."
"Too bad you're not!"
There wasn't even time for Heila to turn before the door to the hunting lodge opened behind her and Yeva came out and open fired. Paint splattered and burst all over Heila before she knew what was going on-- she lept to the side and took cover behind a nearby rocking chair. Inconprehensiable curses came out of Heila in an epic and colorful stream that probably made a child cry somewhere.
Yeva shouted, "Run Jeremiah!" As she kept the weapon pointed toward Heila, then, actually, began running herself. This very well could have been the first time Jeremiah has ever seen Yeva run.
Jeremiah's fingers tightened around the GPS and a suspcious wry of a smile formed on his lips as he ducked his head and began his retreat. Out of all the firefights he has been in, this was by far one he wouldn't mind remembering. Shoving the GPS deep into his pocket, he followed Yeva loyally, his mind slowly dipped away from the current situation, and his stomach began to flutter at the thought of what the coordinates might hold for him.
While they ran, Yeva dropped the paintball gun somewhere up a tree. Dropped? No. She launched it with all her might, actually. Once they were away from the cabin, down a small hill, into the thick of the woods, and behind a very large cluster of obnoxiously purple-green trees, Yeva decided now as as good as time as any, and her pace slowed to a halt.
“What are the coordinates? Are they sound, by chance? From here on,” she breathed, “I’ll help you navigate the path but, if I tell you we need to go around something and you don’t understand why, just do as I say. Would hate for you to get mauled out here, gov.”
Jeremiah's senses kicked into full gear for a split second at one particular word he heard. He quickly looked up from his hand holding the GPS and the cold fear disappeared as his eyes found Yeva, "of course, no problem." He said plainly.
"Coordinates seem to be pretty okay as far as an unknown location goes," Jeremiah shrugged and tossed the small device towards Yeva.
“That’s Heila for you,” Yeva spoke up before catching the GPS. For a moment she gazed at the screen, analyzing the grid, turning the device a few times, glancing up at the terrain every so often, and narrowing her eyes at mountains looming in the distance.
This was going to take longer to reach than Yeva expected. While she wanted to tell Jeremiah she also absolutely was not going to tell Jeremiah. By her best estimate, Yeva knew it would take at least four hours to get there. Yeva had no reason to doubt Heila’s coordinates. Without a word Yeva started walking off.
Jeremiah shrugged as Yeva walked off, assuming everything was going as planned. He shoved his hands in his pockets, one fondling the bag of pills, the other flicking a piece of lint as he happily followed his companion.
Callisto’s wilderness could be described as a very inviting, if not strange, place to walk into-- despite the dangers of Hyper-Intelligent Megabears and groups of Calicats that liked to gang up on people. Each of Jupiter’s moons were terraformed and the soil gave odd effects to the plantl ife that grew. On Callisto, everything looked as if it were desaturated slightly then ran through a slightly pink color filter.
This moon was also known for its rugged terrain. Over 70% of Callisto’s total surface was mountainous. Undoubtedly, on hour three of their adventure, Jeremiah was well acquainted with this fact, as they went up hill far more than downhill, sometimes even having to walk sideways across hills. Whatever the terrain that needed to be crossed, Yeva didn’t seem to mind or make note of it, other than to orient the map every now and then.
There was something in the way that Yeva carried herself that spoke of a quiet confidence at odds with hyper-vigilance. She scanned and looked about every now and then, came to a halt here, examined a tree there, and even stopped to stick her finger into a mega-pile of Megabear shit, all without a single word of note, even when she was asked about it. Though she didn’t exactly tell Jeremiah to not talk, Yeva had become barely responsive, without much more than a grunt or hum every now and then.
Such was the journey until they came to a hilltop and Yeva crouched low and halted.
The formation of mountains they had marched over was somewhat crescent shaped. In the valley between them loomed a large cement structure claimed by vines and moss with two rusted doors shut tight. Reaching back for her backpack, Yeva detached a set of binoculars, then began staring through them in cautious silence.
After a moment Jeremiah nudged Yeva and she handed the binoculars over. Propping the lenses to his eyes, Jeremiah saw exactly what he had hoped to see, or rather, not see. The old vine covered structure was label-less, with not a sign, letter or mark to indicate its affiliation, but Jeremiah knew. His stomach twisted into a knot and any chance of joy from finding this structure formed rather as a sickening paranoia and worry. Was this what he really wanted?
Jeremiah steeled his resolved and put the binoculars down, this was exactly what he wanted. A hand snaked into his pocket and gripped his bag of pills tightly, but the touch of the pills only served to throw coals on a burning anger that began to reemerge in his stomach.
Without warning he pulled his gun free from his belt and held it up, a finger switching off the safety, "ready?"
Yeva regarded Jeremiah with a solid expression of disapproval. Placing a finger to her lips to indicate that he needed to maybe shut the hell up, she also firmly took hold of his elbow, then shook her head. Tapping two fingers to her head, she made a sharp movement toward the bunker with her hand then-- wait. Shit. Frustration twisted Yeva's expression when she figured that Jeremiah probably wasn't familiar with the hand gestures and movements of Jupterian Hunter Speak.
Thinking quickly, she began smashing buttons on the GPS, typing out the message: "If you shoot something loud you attract the six to ten calicats around. I have not got a good count of them. Could be more." She showed the message to Jeremiah and waited for some expression of recognition.
Jeremiah pursed his lips, flicking his dafety back on. His eyes betrayed reluctance. Softly taking the GPS he typed out his own message.
"I need to get inside." The message was short, simple, and accurately displayed what the conclusion to the swarm of invading thoughts in Jeremiah's mind boiled down to.
While holding her sigh in, Yeva typed out the words, "Slowly not stupidly." Then stood up slightly. Eyeing the terrain, she figured that there weren't many spaces to hide or duck away from the sigh of the Calicats. The likelihood of them seeing their approach was very high but, still, she had to at least attempt surprising them instead of being on the wrong end of the cat.
She pointed to the ridgeline-- specifically the treeline to the side of them-- then pointed in a manner that indicated they were to follow the treeline then cut inward toward the cement bunker at the last possible moment. This plan would clearly take a bit longer than the most direct route, that much was obvious. She looked to Jeremiah for a symbol of understanding.
A look of frustration crossed Jeremiah's face as he nodded in compliance. The anxiety of waiting for what laid so close bubbled in his stomach. He motioned for Yeva to lead.
Without hesitation, Yeva took point, then began making her way along the treeline. Here and there she halted, waited, and seemed to be listening or looking deeper into the surrounding underbrush. A tenseness accented her posture every time she halted. Subtle signs that something was lurking within the forest were there-- the movement of a few leaves or the crunch and snap of twigs. This was going to be a slow process, slowed even further by Yeva's caution. Part of her expected Jeremiah to just bolt and run toward the bunker and be promptly shredded in the process. She pushed this paranoia deeper into her mind in favor of focusing on reality.
Eventually they came within a few paces of the bunker, allowing a closer inspection of it. A black camera, covered by a plastic barrier that was fogged beyond repair, loomed over the doorway. An intimidating slab of steel that served as a high security door stood under the camera, rust having cemented it to the wall itself from misuse. A large crack had formed in the cement surrounding the door-- it was large enough for them to probably climb through.
With a slight nod, Yeva pointed to the crack, then began moving slowly forward. So far, their trek had went easier than she had predicted. Jeremiah was oddly good at not making a lot of noise, despite his heavy engineer boots, it seemed. Any small sound could draw the attention of one of the eight or so Calicats Yeva had managed to recount, so they moved slowly toward the bunker. Now that the treeline was no longer there to shelter them, caution was needed more than ever. Briars sprang up out of the ground the closer the got-- dried leaves and twigs threatened to give their location away.
A breeze picked up, rustling leaves, and Yeva swore the stupid leaves were trying to give them away. She could see the light shining into the darkness of the bunker’s depths from here. Scratches were around the entrance to the crack, raising Yeva’s suspicion that, at some point, the Calicats had tried to claw their way in-- but why? They were no more than thirty paces away now, creeping slowly, attention raised, for all it took was a misplaced foot and the Calicats would be upon them, fang and cla--
“BAAAAHHH!”
Yeva very nearly turned into stone at the sound.
“BAAAAAAHH! BAAAAAAH!” Belted a noise from-- Where?! It was loud, somewhat muffled, but it echoed as if it were right next to them.
Frantically Yeva looked around then she spotted movement in the treeli-- “BAAAAHHHHH!!”
“Damn it all-- run for it,” Yeva spoke up loudly as the first Calicat lept over the bunker.
As large as an earth-tiger, with the build of an earth-cheetah, and the spotted, striped, and patched coat of a Calico house cat, Calicats fit their name properly but, Yeva always thought it a bit too cute for an intelligent but murderous brute. There wasn’t much time for such thoughts howe-- “BAAAAAAAAAH!!”
A tug from Jeremiah as he passed Yeva brought her thoughts back to her companion, "Come on!" Jeremiah urged as he passed, Yeva could see his finger playing with the safety on his gun, and his patience for whatever was inside the bunker was wearing thinner.
Truth be told, Jeremiah's patience was thinning for a few reasons. As the crisp air whizzed by his face, he couldn't help but feel light headed. He couldn't quite remember how long it had been since... well. His muscles were beginning to ache and his headache wasn't helping either. Every step sent a shock of pain out of his head and down his spine-
"BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!"
And that certainly wasn't helping.
A crazy aunt, paintballs, massive space cats, and a mysterious baying by an abandoned super secret bunker, must read to believe.
Gray had to admit, when he heard 'giant rave party' he hadn't exactly pictured 'endless parking-garage full of sketchy hovels'. Well alright, he sort of had, but he'd left the creepy ninjas with teeth the color of eel-water out. Or maybe he'd just expected them to be balanced out by more other people. Whatever. Either way, he was happy enough to let Poole handle the guy--it wasn't that he was scared or anything, but when you've got a guy like Poole on your side you learn to let him do what he does best. Meanwhile, Gray was working on doing what he did best to try and figure out all sorts of reasons to get them into a club with a fucking hyena in front of it.
Venusians liked hyenas. Maybe it was their street-smarts, the way they could figure out even complex coordination problems faster than even most pre-gene-tamped apes. Maybe it was that they were survivors, ready, willing, and able to chow down on anything that may remotely have been alive (and plenty of things that weren't) until there was literally nothing left to waste. Or maybe it was that even the females were dicks, or at least had something like one. For not the first time Gray quickly deleted the term 'pseudo-penis' from his search history, preventing one of a dozen little viruses from reading the extranet query and supplying him an unsettling number of suggestions related to the term. It doesn't do to be caught by one's own little traps.
While one small window scrolled through known facts and anatomical configurations of crocuta crocuta, a significantly larger one was pulling information on the Sakura Club. Venus was a hodgepodge of different security levels, security systems about as secure as a five year old's vid card lined up next to cutting edge Zaibatsu work ripped off for some criminal who meant business (or thought he did, or was sufficiently paranoid, or wanted to show off, or, or, or...). The Sakura Club was one of the latter, its own books and internal servers off-net and protected by a not-insignificant Vorsicht Gruppe security suite--that meant money, the kind that you didn't get by catering to guys buying 5.75¥ eel juice.
All of this, of course, took place in the second or two while Poole was talking. Visibly, a bright exclamation point popped up on Gray's helmet as he made for the bouncer and his pooch excitedly. Beeftip might not be here but someone who knew where Tipbuktu was going down would be, and even then this place seemed awfully big-fish for a neighborhood like this without someone pulling in the big bucks. One servo-enhanced hand had even taken Yeva by the wrist, half to drag her along and half to make sure she didn't run off. Even Gray knew that the last thing they needed was him alone in the middle of a rave trying to hunt down a notorious drug dealing. Most things that started off with "Gray on his own" didn't end particularly well.
Entertainingly, yes, but not well.
Over the speakers in his helmet came a sudden series of low-pitched, staccato grunts a bit like a laugh. It wouldn't make much sense to the bouncer, but his hyena might perk up a little. Standard vocal response to a hyena approaching another of a different clan with deference--they used the same things for lions, once upon a time. For his owner, his response was much the same.
Episode 2: Mass Rave As soon as the elevator doors opened, Yeva slammed her hands over her nose, and inwardly screamed. What was that smell? Where was it coming from? Who died last week up here to make it smell this bad? How many? Were it not part of her responsibility to make sure Poole and Gray didn't end up compromised, Yeva would have stayed on that elevator. What sort of horrible place was this? While she had visited Venus before, Yeva never went beyond the main marketplaces. She heard a lot about these layers-- the dirty, empty, sketchy holes that they were-- and didn't see it ever necessary to go to one. Whatever a heyena was, Yeva didn't want to find out but, it seemed, today she didn't have much choice. What a shame that was.
And then came the beggar.
Nervously, still with her hands covering her nose, Yeva moved, to put the wall of man that Poole represented, between her and the apparent danger. Why was this place to empty? A horrendous tickle began to creep it's way into Yeva's nose, then over her shoulders, and then she had a full chill-- wait a second, was she getting sick? With a notable amount of fear, Yeva put her fingers to a small device on her wrist, then began pressing buttons frantically. The small black screen eventually displayed--
HR: 118
BP: 130/88
O2: 97
T: 101.0
Grimness set itself over Yeva's expression as she dropped her hands to her side. That ginseng was her last hope for staving off the cold-- for shortening it-- and here she was, feverish already. As another chill caused goosebumps to rise all over her skin, Yeva wished the worst misfortune upon whoever it was that bought all the damn ginseng on the station. She wanted to see them. She wanted to look into their stupid face and smash it in with her bare hands-- make them shit their teeth-- make them bite their tongue off-- rip out their intestines, wrap it around their throat the--
"Wha--" Yeva piped up as, suddenly, she found herself walking. Ah, Gray. He was dragging her along to... oh no. Pulling against Gray's grip a few times, Yeva knew it was a useless action, and he probably didn't even notice her efforts-- ah, yep. He didn't notice at all. As soon as Yeva took one look at the heyena, she began a fit of sneezing. Tears welled up in her eyes as the sneeze counter went over eight-- that must have been a pure Earth-bred animal. There was something about Earth animals, specifically the purebred ones, that made Yeva have a mild allergy attack. How unfortunate. Clearly Gray was trying to, uh, 'Gray Talk' his way into the club, and Yeva knew her sneezing was probably doing nothing to help his cause.
Well. Had Venus not run out of ginseng, they wouldn't even be in this predicament. Yeva wiped her nose and stared at the ground, also coming to the conclusion that, had Venus not run out of ginseng, this allergy attack would not have been exacerbated by her apparent illness. She stared deeply into her palm full of boogers, evaluated them, then clenched her fist tightly. Yeva furiously asked herself, Who did this to me? Because it was now, officially, their fault. Sure, she was going to get sick from coming to Venus anyway and sure, she was already a little bit sick before they landed but, ginseng... GINSENG.
"Sup homie, we in?" Asked Gray.
Yeva bared her teeth then glared at the bouncer before, with a decent amount of concentration, forcing the expression into a grin. Once more, Yeva tested Gray's grip, and once again found it too strong to pull away from. With a deep sigh, she gave herself in to her fate and another fit of sneezing but, this time, she was going to wipe the boogers onto Gray's sleeve-- because that's what he gets. She had told him before not to hang on to her like this, but Gray never generally listened maybe. Or perhaps he had listened and was doing this just to spite her?
Well joke's on you, booger sleeve, Yeva thought with inward maniacal laughter.
Yeva is sick, allergic to Hyenas, contemplates murdering the ginseng bandit, and has wiped boogers on Gray because she is a mature adult.
