Date: April 24th, 2519 A.D.
Sector: Tertius Decimus
System: Eurymaces
Location: The Orbital Station The God's Eye near Mazda, orbiting the moon Ahura.
Death.
Death was a funny thing, someone once told him. It was the last real frontier of human experience, and yet it's still the closest thing to home someone will ever feel. Without death, life wasn't worth living. The absence of it only brought fatigue and pain, and kept the particles that made up man from returning to the stars.
It was funny what hired killers and soldiers of fortune would say to justify what they did for a living. Markus wasn't cold-blooded by his own estimation, but at least he was honest. He killed for three things: money, survival, and revenge. He could get all three from the life of a mercenary, and the last seven years he had lived that life, traveling from place to place, signing contract after contract. There was no shortage of battles, skirmishes, or odd jobs in the once-vibrant interstellar conglomerate humanity once called a civilization. Luckily, the corpse was still fresh. There was still warmth in there, the various moving parts were only now starting to realize the failure of the heart. If the galaxy did not provide a shock to its system soon, there would be no turning back.
Markus had seen the Eye of Gods through the shuttle window. It gingerly spun in orbit like the rings of old saturn, lights drifting to and from it akin to worker bees and their hive. Some were likely commercial vessels, but Markus was certain the brunt of them were representatives and administrative agents, with no small amount of private security as well. The space station was a relic of the golden age, clearly made of Titanium-B, one of the most durable sets of military grade plating ever conceived. The tethers beneath it were thin at this vantage point, looking like naught but filigree in the light of the system's star. He glanced behind him, the other two men in the passenger seats uninterested in the sights. One was a bald headed man from Maladan, with a stout physique from the high gravity and a cauliflower nose from bad decisions. The other was a horn falgor, a strain of mutant that looked like a man crossed with a wildebeest, communicating solely through grunts and howls. Markus's falgor was a bit rusty, but he did not seem too rude from the mutterings he heard.
The shuttle docked without incident, the hatch depressurizing with a hiss before the light blinked on, allowing them to stand and make their exits. It was hard to question whether these two toughs were here for the same reason as he. There would be no point in two armed thugs without any sign of identification going to The Gods Eye, unless they were going for the same reason Markus was.
He stepped out into the wide atrium, and noticed with small relief he didn't stick out like a sore thumb as much as he thought. Markus was lean and fierce, with strong shoulders and long legs. The soldier-of-fortune sported military fatigue bottoms, with a multi-tool belt. At his hip was a long blade; a Secare Saber, made specifically for Terran military officers. Slung across his shoulder was a strap that looped through a Daiedron-C87, a versatile assault rifle of bullpup design. Across his chest was a composite plate of vibron-fiber, and on his head was a wide brimmed hat that shielded his eyes. He had a mane of dark hair and the beginnings of a stubble on his chin. He had a way about him that made every movement look like the prelude to something dangerous.
But in the crowd was a handful of men that looked even less welcoming than him. Entrepreneurial men and women, and even a few mutants stepped off shuttles or entered from freighter bays into the spacious lobby, filling the packed area more, but the mercs pockmarked in the flows of travelers were easy to spot. There was a central commons office to the left where a sizeable group congregated before an overworked clerk, but the rest of the area was sectioned off into two. The center lead to a bridge, made for walking and waiting, and the right and past the office on the left were numerable vendors and businesses. Food and drink and souvenirs were sold next to chip-loaders, holo-dreams, and even a droid's shop. Markus took only a moment to take stock of his surroundings, and then walked forward without even looking at the hawkers trying to grab his attention for a quick buck.
As the Red God would have it, he did not have to walk far. Once in the station proper, the polytile floors of the vast corridor were easily navigable, though fraught with business. Clerk assistants, administrative agents, and a myriad of other personnel marched past one another with barely a moment to glance up or apologize if they bumped into someone. Yet they all gave Markus and the two hunters that had shuttled with him a wide berth, along with a few other parties of equally surly looking pedestrians that walked in the same direction, like schools of fish parting for stalking sharks, ready to swim away in case any tried to take a bite. Despite the cosmopolitan nature of the station, The Gods Eye had no shortage of seedy people loitering. High-ranked gang leaders and corrupt executive assistants smoking syn-sticks with low-life courtiers and mercs around every alcove, either protecting the lanes of the station or waiting to meet the man himself to legitimize themselves into a position that might make real money.
Within a minute, Markus found himself in a more vacant area of the station. He had just been following the signs flashing on the holo-displays above, indicating all independent contractors looking to apply for job 34-2170 merely needed to make their way to room 'Delta 17' on the main floor of the station. The archway before him flashed with D17 in big red letters, and he stepped through. To his surprise, what had appeared to be an empty room had merely been a camoflauge; a portal that simulated an image whilst hiding the truth just inside. Markus nearly bumped into an Orgos, a heavily built mutant that towered over normal men. It didn't notice Markus, too wide to see him skirt around behind him and making it to the chamber proper.
The room was large, the metallic walls sand colored and made to look fiery by the warm lights. Small marks and old dents betrayed the fact this chamber had been used to greet mercs before, in less agreeable circumstances. Bawdy music played from a small band mostly consisting of scantily clad women on the left, a small stage separated from the crowd by a small, transparent energy shield. On the main floor, there were four tables that sat four each, and small ethanol-electric droids on treads bringing drinks back and forth from a bar, a blue haired bar woman working frantically to fulfill every order given to her by the automated waiters. At the back of the room, there was a platform, flanked by guards armed with gauss-rifles. In fact even past the crowd, Markus saw there were similarly armed men stationed every five meters around the room, perfectly at attention. Fourteen in all, if he had to guess. Despite the size of the chamber, due to how heavily armed everyone was, it made the conglomerate of two dozen mercs, bounty hunters, thugs, and mutants seem packed.
Markus found a space of the wall near the bar, having just settled himself when a diminutive droid of boxy design rolled up to him. A monochromatic screen lit up at its center, displaying a selection of drinks.
"Null's Choice," He said. Voice activated, the drink lit up on the screen before it backed up gingerly and spun around to fulfill its algorithmic task.
Sector: Tertius Decimus
System: Eurymaces
Location: The Orbital Station The God's Eye near Mazda, orbiting the moon Ahura.
Death.
Death was a funny thing, someone once told him. It was the last real frontier of human experience, and yet it's still the closest thing to home someone will ever feel. Without death, life wasn't worth living. The absence of it only brought fatigue and pain, and kept the particles that made up man from returning to the stars.
It was funny what hired killers and soldiers of fortune would say to justify what they did for a living. Markus wasn't cold-blooded by his own estimation, but at least he was honest. He killed for three things: money, survival, and revenge. He could get all three from the life of a mercenary, and the last seven years he had lived that life, traveling from place to place, signing contract after contract. There was no shortage of battles, skirmishes, or odd jobs in the once-vibrant interstellar conglomerate humanity once called a civilization. Luckily, the corpse was still fresh. There was still warmth in there, the various moving parts were only now starting to realize the failure of the heart. If the galaxy did not provide a shock to its system soon, there would be no turning back.
Markus had seen the Eye of Gods through the shuttle window. It gingerly spun in orbit like the rings of old saturn, lights drifting to and from it akin to worker bees and their hive. Some were likely commercial vessels, but Markus was certain the brunt of them were representatives and administrative agents, with no small amount of private security as well. The space station was a relic of the golden age, clearly made of Titanium-B, one of the most durable sets of military grade plating ever conceived. The tethers beneath it were thin at this vantage point, looking like naught but filigree in the light of the system's star. He glanced behind him, the other two men in the passenger seats uninterested in the sights. One was a bald headed man from Maladan, with a stout physique from the high gravity and a cauliflower nose from bad decisions. The other was a horn falgor, a strain of mutant that looked like a man crossed with a wildebeest, communicating solely through grunts and howls. Markus's falgor was a bit rusty, but he did not seem too rude from the mutterings he heard.
The shuttle docked without incident, the hatch depressurizing with a hiss before the light blinked on, allowing them to stand and make their exits. It was hard to question whether these two toughs were here for the same reason as he. There would be no point in two armed thugs without any sign of identification going to The Gods Eye, unless they were going for the same reason Markus was.
He stepped out into the wide atrium, and noticed with small relief he didn't stick out like a sore thumb as much as he thought. Markus was lean and fierce, with strong shoulders and long legs. The soldier-of-fortune sported military fatigue bottoms, with a multi-tool belt. At his hip was a long blade; a Secare Saber, made specifically for Terran military officers. Slung across his shoulder was a strap that looped through a Daiedron-C87, a versatile assault rifle of bullpup design. Across his chest was a composite plate of vibron-fiber, and on his head was a wide brimmed hat that shielded his eyes. He had a mane of dark hair and the beginnings of a stubble on his chin. He had a way about him that made every movement look like the prelude to something dangerous.
But in the crowd was a handful of men that looked even less welcoming than him. Entrepreneurial men and women, and even a few mutants stepped off shuttles or entered from freighter bays into the spacious lobby, filling the packed area more, but the mercs pockmarked in the flows of travelers were easy to spot. There was a central commons office to the left where a sizeable group congregated before an overworked clerk, but the rest of the area was sectioned off into two. The center lead to a bridge, made for walking and waiting, and the right and past the office on the left were numerable vendors and businesses. Food and drink and souvenirs were sold next to chip-loaders, holo-dreams, and even a droid's shop. Markus took only a moment to take stock of his surroundings, and then walked forward without even looking at the hawkers trying to grab his attention for a quick buck.
As the Red God would have it, he did not have to walk far. Once in the station proper, the polytile floors of the vast corridor were easily navigable, though fraught with business. Clerk assistants, administrative agents, and a myriad of other personnel marched past one another with barely a moment to glance up or apologize if they bumped into someone. Yet they all gave Markus and the two hunters that had shuttled with him a wide berth, along with a few other parties of equally surly looking pedestrians that walked in the same direction, like schools of fish parting for stalking sharks, ready to swim away in case any tried to take a bite. Despite the cosmopolitan nature of the station, The Gods Eye had no shortage of seedy people loitering. High-ranked gang leaders and corrupt executive assistants smoking syn-sticks with low-life courtiers and mercs around every alcove, either protecting the lanes of the station or waiting to meet the man himself to legitimize themselves into a position that might make real money.
Within a minute, Markus found himself in a more vacant area of the station. He had just been following the signs flashing on the holo-displays above, indicating all independent contractors looking to apply for job 34-2170 merely needed to make their way to room 'Delta 17' on the main floor of the station. The archway before him flashed with D17 in big red letters, and he stepped through. To his surprise, what had appeared to be an empty room had merely been a camoflauge; a portal that simulated an image whilst hiding the truth just inside. Markus nearly bumped into an Orgos, a heavily built mutant that towered over normal men. It didn't notice Markus, too wide to see him skirt around behind him and making it to the chamber proper.
The room was large, the metallic walls sand colored and made to look fiery by the warm lights. Small marks and old dents betrayed the fact this chamber had been used to greet mercs before, in less agreeable circumstances. Bawdy music played from a small band mostly consisting of scantily clad women on the left, a small stage separated from the crowd by a small, transparent energy shield. On the main floor, there were four tables that sat four each, and small ethanol-electric droids on treads bringing drinks back and forth from a bar, a blue haired bar woman working frantically to fulfill every order given to her by the automated waiters. At the back of the room, there was a platform, flanked by guards armed with gauss-rifles. In fact even past the crowd, Markus saw there were similarly armed men stationed every five meters around the room, perfectly at attention. Fourteen in all, if he had to guess. Despite the size of the chamber, due to how heavily armed everyone was, it made the conglomerate of two dozen mercs, bounty hunters, thugs, and mutants seem packed.
Markus found a space of the wall near the bar, having just settled himself when a diminutive droid of boxy design rolled up to him. A monochromatic screen lit up at its center, displaying a selection of drinks.
"Null's Choice," He said. Voice activated, the drink lit up on the screen before it backed up gingerly and spun around to fulfill its algorithmic task.
