POOHEAD189

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

"As impressive as they might find them, your instincts are right. It'll take more than that to get these guys." Markus remarked, unscrewing the barrel from his Daiedron-C87 and quickly field stripping it, removing the upper and lower receivers and replacing the gas-chamber with a small squared compartment that housed the ion-chamber, quickly refitting the weapon back into its previous state. "Luckily, we have a few advantages. But first thing's first, how many jobs have you done before?"

"None," She said with only a hint of embarrassment. If Markus was a different man, he would have cursed. But she had already proven she was audacious if nothing else, and she had some skill no matter what experience she had. He merely gave a nod, his eyes clearly display the thoughts rushing through his mind. He took his hat off and wiped his forehead. Markus had the look of a louche, but he clearly moved like someone born into a world of risk, where violence could pop up just around the corner.

"Ok, let me tell you the three cardinal rules of being a merc. First, don't be a hero. Survival is more important than success, even with a partner. Second, pillage then burn. Money is more important than glory or vengeance. Here" He said, tossing her a comm link. She blinked and grabbed it, before it slipped out of her hands, but impressively she was still quick enough to nab it before it hit the ground.

"And third?" She asked, fastening it to her ear.

Markus gingerly tossed his head, his fringe slipping out of his eyes. "That which doesn't kill you has made a tactical error." He said with a muted grin.

"That's all?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Gods no, but that's the basics. As for our advantages, we have two dozen blunt instruments heading straight for the White Sharks. They'll shoot us as soon as they'll shoot the sharks, but at least we know about them."

"And the other advantage?" She asked as Markus flung his sack over his shoulder, ready to leave the lockers.

"We're going to win." He declared, as simple as that. "Come on, let's go."

Fifteen minutes later, they were in one of the smaller hangers in The God's Eye. Markus had a toothpick in his mouth, scanning the assembled interplanetary vehicles. None of them were commercial vessels of official shuttles, in fact most looked haphazardly built, with bare circuits and pneumatic systems unplated on various parts of their builds. A few lifted up with their repulsors and zipped out of the hanger, but most were being worked on by the local engineers or pilots stood around, heckling one another or arguing with droids about price values of varying parts. One of the pilots looked over at Markus and Jocasta, raising an eyebrow. Markus gestured for him to approach, and after a moment of deliberation, he did.

The man wore an orange jumpsuit, his close cropped blonde hair barely hid the bald pate of his head like loosely situated grass over a well trodden field. He looked to be in his mid-40s, though with medical science and knowing the right people, he could have been twice that. He gave Markus a leveled look, glancing at Jocasta for a few moments, no doubt thinking them lovers. Markus could read the words 'lucky dog' going through his mind. It gave the merc a small smile that no doubt looked a tad dangerous to the man.

"Need something?" He asked, his accent clipped and rough.

"Can you get us to sector 43 of Mazda in two hours?" Markus asked. "I'll pay."

"You mercs?" He asked, and when no answer came forth, he shook his head as if to convince himself, as if 'never again' was stamped on his forehead. "No, sorry, can't help you."

"We're not asking you to fly into danger. Just to touch down in Uralic city and leave." He clarified. Behind him, Jocasta fluttered her lashes at the man. He looked at her, and then back at Markus, and breathed out of his nose.

"Fine." He said, then pointed at Markus with the hand clutching the towel. "But I expect payment up front."

It was a small vessel, barely able to support Markus and Jocasta with all their gear, the two seats cordoned off behind a bulkhead of crimson steel, with a small grater between the cockpit and their seats being the only way to communicate. On the lefthand side of the bulkhead, a small screen that had lain black popped up, and a map of sector 43 of Mazda appeared on the screen. Markus placed a finger on the southern-most location, indicating the port where they needed to land.

"The plan?" Jocasta prompted in a soft voice.

"Even with two dozen mercs, the white sharks are well equipped. They have to be if they grabbed Gallanis' kid. Probably have UNSG military grade equipment. Even two dozen mercs wont take them out, so we need to be close to their rendezvous, and instead we need to go after who they're going to contact and take them out without raising an alarm. But that also means we might be hitting some targets that aren't apart of that group. Private security and maybe a few local enforcer police. Are you comfortable with that, and if you are, when the rest of the sharks arrive, can you convince them you're one of the contacts?"

They would have to kill whatever Sharks remain with the kid, but at that point they would have the element of surprise.

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

"I am certain the High Lady Estanda will understand, dear husband." Alteima said, whipping out her fan and waving it against her heart shaped face. Somehow the air did not rustle her immaculately wrapped up hair, the elaborate bun of dark brown hair tied up, letting only a small stream of her waves to cascade down her shapely shoulder in a fashionable side ponytail. "Time is of the essence, wouldn't you agree?"

Lord Tedosion, a handsome older gentleman with a thick body, looked unconvinced at his wife's rebuttal, but did not push the subject. "Indeed, master thief-taker, your task is of the upmost importance. You came recommended highly, and for that we entrust our search to you."

"As well as the city watch, I imagine." Davin replied, giving a gracious bow to hide his grin. The thief-taker was not unused to being hired for purposes that were not widely accepted throughout the civil government. The Lady Alteima was good, very good in fact. A lovely woman with a full bosom, she had big eyes that betrayed just how clever she was, but he could tell she pushed for this in order to gain higher standing in the circle of High Lords, and her husband going against her would only cause some to question his loyalty. And yet, if they failed and it was found out that he aided in the attempt, they would both be looked upon with some small amount of scorn for not plotting with their fellow lords to being this thief to justice for the good of all. A gamble, but they had made the correct one, however. Davin Baln'ashar was very good at what he did.

"You will be rewarded quiet handsomely, of course." Alteima remarked, giving him a coy smile. Had Davin not been privvy to her machinations, he might have felt a quickening of his heart at her look, but he had his own contacts. Alteima was as cutthroat as they came, which was why her husband had taken Lady Estanda, her rival, as his lover. The money she promised, however, was doubtless very real. He smiled back all the same.

"Worry not, my Lord and Lady. I will return within three days with your quarry in tow." He promised, granting them another courtly bow.

That had been nearly forty hours ago.

In that time, Davin had pulled every stop in his impressive repertoire to pinpoint just exactly who had the gall to infiltrate the Stone of Tear and steal some of its most auspicious items. After threatening or paying off a few witnesses and guards, he had learned the most likely candidate was a woman of ambiguous appearance. Pretty, perhaps beautiful by all accounts, but it was hard to gauge if she was a local or not. Dark hair, inquisitive eyes, an extravagant if plump figure, and not very tall. Most thief-takers would have scoffed at the idea of the culprit being a woman, but Davin was from Ebou Dar, where women dueled over men and the fairer sex was innocent until proven guilty over marital disputes. Women were not to be underestimated, he had received more than a few scars from them.

He now found himself just outside of The Maule, the long stretch of docks that spanned the entirety of Tear's western coast, and it was midday. Davin had taken a lunch, and decided to eat it above an awning in the southern district, within sight of the walls of the inner city. The Fingers of the Dragon were so close, he could smell the pungent humidity from that web of rivers and waterways. It was just as he was about to take the last bite of his trencher that he saw someone step out of Coliers Street and stride into the local wine shop. Davin's sharp eyes peered below as she disappeared from view, and he rolled over the odds and the description of the culprit in his head.

He had theorized that whoever was the thief, they would not have taken to an inn, and he made certain by making sure to know all records of the local inns in the outer city. The inner city was too full of watchmen and too easily watched by the High Lords for her to stay in. Davin was certain they would wait close to the docks, but not too close so as not to arouse suspicion, but with the ships grounded, it was only from some false hope they would keep in that area; an idea of freedom and safety, tantalizing but not entirely rational, unless they got lucky. Perhaps he had found his mark?

One moment, he was above the crowd below, the next he had appeared on the muddied street, doing his best to keep the wet and the dirt from catching him before he stepped into the winery. He spied a few foreigners, but most looked like merchants from Mayene or Illian. The locals were dressed as they usually were, in loose pants and wide hats to keep the rain and mud of the less clean outer city from their hair. But then his eyes fell on the woman that, at least to his observations, stood out. A travel worn but handsome dress, a woman that matched the description he had gathered, and she sat alone. He fixed his hair, the wind doing him a small favor of making his mane look fashionably windswept, but he still smoothed what loose hairs there were before he approached her with a congenial smile.

"Yes, one for me as well." Davin said with a raised finger, telling the attendant before the man had fully turned away. He gave the thief-taker a nod and turned to gather the drink. Without asking permission, Davin sat next to the woman with a casual air, glancing her way as if he had noticed her for the first time.

Davin was a darkly handsome man, not as well-formed as some, but he had a chin that looked sculpted and a sharp, commanding nose. His body was trim and tall, though he was no aielman in that regard. He wore a leather brown jerkin with red trim over a white linen shirt, buttoned with the collar wide and disheveled. He had left his falchion and mace outside, but a long dagger was hidden at the small of his back.

"Ah, forgive me, I hope I am not intruding. May I sit?" He asked, but as if it was the natural flow of the conversation, he spoke before she could answer, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. "The wine here is tastes like a Saldaean's horse water, but it does it's job."

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

The lights dimmed, and an amalgamation of illumination coalesced onto the platform the four faceless guards were protecting, their heavy plasma-guns now pointed toward the crowd who's eyes were now inexorably drawn toward them. A few of the mercs growled, but most seemed content to stay silent, either unintimidated or unwilling to appear so. Out of the back stepped a well dressed man, looking as if he were in the upper echelons of middle age, in a neo-doubtlet; a leaner more stylized version of an old piece of fashion. Now that the UNSG's influence was fading, the independent systems were making their own fashion statements, particularly the very rich. A few that fancied themselves as marchions of old wore psuedo-medieval garb. Markus noticed he did not bother with the hose.

He stepped upon the raised platform, in clear line of fire from anyone in the crowd, which meant the noble was likely enveloped an in extremely expensive, transparent energy shield.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen." Adan Gallanis declared, his voice carrying from some minute device at his collar. "I hope you enjoyed the free drinks. I apologize for the inconvenience earlier, but it seems I need better security in more than one fashion." At that, a dozen eyes turned back to the woman, still dressed as a lounge singer. Markus gave a smirk, saying nothing. The Baron continued: "Now, as to why you are all here..."

Suddenly, a three dimensional holographic image in blue appeared right above the baron. Anyone familiar with the system could tell it was planet Mazda, the world located in the Goldilocks Zone that the moon Ahura, and consequently themselves, was currently orbiting. A rectangle was placed on the south eastern continent of the planet, labeled 'Yasna' by the text, zooming in to display a coastal area on its western edge, designated as sector 43.

"My son..." He said, clicking a button on the stand to triangulate the view on a city called Uralic. "...has been taken from me. He is being hailed as a double for the heir of Leto Caiba. Currently he is being held by a paramilitary group called the White Sharks, and is about to be transported south across sector 43 to a spaceport, and in 26 hours, he will he transported to an Orbital known as Wisdom's Paradise, and three hours after that, he will be gone for good. They meant to extort me for all I am worth, and instead I am turning to you. However, that means that if you do not hurry, your payday is relinquished in 29 hours."

A low thrum of conversation and trepidation rose up. A few notable individuals loudly complained, those mercs that lived the life because they had too big of an ego or too little social skills for anything else. Markus had already started taking into account the three hour journey it would take to make it to the planet, and the cost of buying a shuttle.

"The payment is 500,000 dablunz. Now, I know for a single hunter that's a big payday, but for a team of twelve it's barely worth the cost of ammo. You know the drill," He said, and at that the men and mutants began glancing at one another. Markus' eye flicked to the woman, rethinking his subtle offer, but deciding his logic was sound. Baron Gallanis's words became grave, suddenly: "But know this. That is my son down there. If you harm him in any way during this extraction, the next group of mercs I gather will be here so I can place a bounty on you, and the payday will be far more lucrative. I take vengeance very seriously... Now go, and bring my son back here. You will be informed of the comm channel you are to contact if you manage to apprehend him."

At that, the room began bustling with activity. Old rivals glared and friends began allying immediately. A few hardened gunfighters approached the Ogros even as the huge mutant peeled off strips of the dead bounty hunter's armor as scavenging scrap. A long haired spacer with a heavy lancer assault rifle, a belt comprised of huge rounds wrapped around his chest, began to negotiate with two hunters, one of them one of the few female mercs in the whole place, except for a female gunfighter, a four armed mutant, and the mysterious woman sitting beside Markus.

Behind Markus, he heard someone clear his throat. Markus recognized that voice.

"You're the Wolf of Sartorius, right? Markus Sartorius?" The gruff, gravely voice of Vargo Sunder asked. He was a broad mercenary with a beard that had turned prematurely grey. Vargo was known for living through what should have killed any other man. It was a well deserved reputation. Markus had seen him get shot in the chest before and live to tell the tale. "I recognize that sword and that hat. How's about you and me team up and cut apart any of these fools who step in our way?"

"No, join me," a sibilant hiss offered. A serpent-headed mutant with red eyes had lowered its head by the extension of its long neck, nearly flicking its tongue into Markus' cheek. "I've heard of you, Markussss. I can sssslip in unnoticed and knock the boy out with a bite. He won't die..."

As a few more offers festooned Markus's ears, he had to quieten them down. "Sorry fellas, got here too late." He said behind his glass, taking another sip.

"Be smart, lad. I might not have her tits, but you'll get paid with me." Vargo rumbled, knowing what Markus implied. "Don't let this girl fool you. You think singin's gonna help you cut down twenty White Sharks?"

For the woman's part, even more were coming after her, but it was clear most were doing so for the same reason Vargo theorized Markus was barking up her tree. A few openly oggled, and a few tried to smooth talk her, while others just leered and gestured suggestively, not even bothering to ask her to partner up. Markus waited to see if she would change her mind, or if she was going to walk out of there with him.

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

Markus often felt like a pariah, unable to relate even to other mercs. Hunted by the Terran government, the people he once fought and nearly died for, estranged from his family, and unable to keep a partner because they either died, betrayed him, or were fed up with his ways. Yet miraculously, he felt a kinship with his fellow hunters in room D17 in The Gods Eye this night. Because like them, he was not averse to hot women, and uniquely, especially not hot women actively saving his life.

When the woman had come up on stage, sauntering forward in her voluminous dress, Markus had noticed her eyes darting around the room, even landing on him for a brief moment. He had initially assumed she was scanning the room to gauge if the crowd was rowdy enough to be a danger to her, but now he realized he had misread her. She had a good voice, but Markus was too on edge to really appreciate her singing, or even her beauty after a long glance, too preoccupied with his usual suspicions of keeping an eye on the room. Once he had been invited for a job with a dive gang named the Hearkeners only to realize they had been locked in with gas set on them. Markus had escaped with a few of them, only realizing later the job had been a lure to kill the entire gang by a group of enforcers acting under a loose interpretation of the law.

But he still couldn't see all angles, and the singer whom he had delegated to the background, had leaped over the crowd of mutants and toughs and had beaten a would-be assassin with a practiced skill. He might have done it a bit differently, but then again he had never taken down an assassin with a mic-stand in a dress, so he reminded himself he shouldn't judge.

The crowd had gathered around, watching her give the crowd a bow, and then shaking her head as she lifted herself up to get any potential debris from the shattered armor out of her thick locks. Markus noticed a small pistol, carefully concealed, strapped to the small of her back. The tension in the room was palpable, more than a few eyes turning to Markus when he stood up right behind her, and with a sudden movement, took his jacket off, revealing his Secare Saber, a blade that could cut through the plate of an armored transport when activate.

Instead, he gently placed his jacket on her (deceptively) slender shoulders, causing her to meet his eyes.

"Thanks," He said simply. "I'd offer to buy you a drink, but they're free here. Maybe after?"

"I might be free," She replied.

Markus took that for what it was, a subtle (albeit coy) acceptance of partnering up. If they were about to become adversaries, there would be no drinks, would there? He pulled a chair out for her to sit in.

The crowd murmured, there were even growls from some of the more bestial mutants. Markus was certain if they caught the nuance of the statement, there would be a riot. The towering Ogros stepped through the crowd, and leaned down to poke the prone body of the fallen bounty hunter. Its body was enormous, covered in thick skin like leather and a wide face that spoke of limited intelligence. "Can I has?" it asked Jocasta slowly, apparently believing her kill meant she owned the corpse now.

"Knock yourself out." She said, turning to take the seat offered to her.

"Huergh?" It grumbled, clearly confused by the turn of phrase.

"It means yes, ya moron." A hardened mercenary remarked, his 6-gauge combat shotgun ready in case the Ogros took offense to his insult.

Markus returned to his seat, glancing at a diminutive morlock that had almost snagged it for himself while the merc was away. The short mutant blanched and lopped back into the crowd, unwilling to remain under his gaze for too long. He took his seat again and grabbed his drink. Right now, any of the hunters that were still watching likely thought the two of them were about to flirt, both being relatively good looking (especially for this crowd) but that was the furthest thing from his mind. Whoever she was, she wasn't a singer. Well, not one hired for here, anyway. Which meant she was skilled in infiltration and subterfuge. She handled herself relatively well in close combat, and she was well informed. All good traits to have in a partner for a job as lucrative as this was likely to be. There were a few bounty hunters here that might be able to replicate those skills, but most were blunt instruments through and through, and the fact she had saved his life meant he trusted her more than the bounty hunters that were likely to shoot him in the back.

Plus, he had to admit, he was intrigued on how she knew what to look for and why she saved him. Was the bounty hunter a plant? Was this woman secretly working for the UNSG? Probably not, but even if she was an agent for the latter, he preferred to have his enemy in his sights than somewhere in the shadows. And if she was just a beautiful woman and a hunter like him, then he really did owe her for saving his skin.

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

Galt was not completely lost to what Vincent was talking about. He even understood his side, to a limited degree. But that by no means meant that he agreed with it. The new fiance did not think a marriage was meant to be scrutinized in this particular way other than under the most dire of circumstances, but he also understood there was trauma there, in both Silke and Vincent to some degree, and it would not be so easy as to talk it away. This was something Galt and Silke would have to endure, meaning Vincent's protests. But Galt also knew there really was nothing Vincent could do, short of challenging Galt to a duel or abducting his sister. Granted, Silke wasn't quite as staunch in her certainty as Galt, but the newly christened noble knew Silke felt the way he did.

"Do you think it's only been agreement and smiles since I've known her?" Galt asked, almost laughing. "You've known her your whole life. When was the last time she was engaged? You have to fight her to get her to sleep at a reasonable hour, you think this was easy? Of course she was apprehensive about it, but I wasn't forceful either. We spoke like adults and she agreed, and then we rode together and spent the afternoon in the cabin. But even before our ride, do you really think if this was something Silke knew in her heart was wrong, that she would have gone through with it, anyway?"

Galt shook his head, knowing in his heart that what Vincent was asking for was not rational. That this stemmed from a place of pain as much as Silke's experiences did. "I might be born a commoner, but I know marriage is not happiness all of the time. Nothing in life is. I used to think if I had money and position that all of my problems would go away, but the nobility are as miserable as anyone, just in a different way. I look at your sister and I see someone that works and stresses just as much as a farmer delayed with his monthly rent, managing people's lives and trying to keep his head above water. But you listen to me..."

Galt poked Vincent's chest. Not in an aggressive manner, but to gather his full attention lest he be lost in thought of making up a rebuttal. "She works herself ragged staying here, and you've never been able to convince her to stop. The only thing new in her life, the only thing that's had her take stock and turn in early to get some much needed sleep, is me. You're a fine man, Vincent, but if you really cared about her, and I know you do, you'll see this is something you don't want to ruin. Her life before today would see her hair go grey before she sees fifty winters. Let her live a different life, or you'll only end up grinding her until there's nothing left. And if Silke insists on losing her health in her work and worries, you're damn right I'll fight her, for her sake. I've done it ever since I've met her, and I'm willing to live the rest of my life doing it. You want me to ask her what her plans are? I will when I feel the time is right, but only then, because this is a happy occasion, and I hope sometime you look back and realize that."

Galt quieted, breathing through his nose as he looked at Vincent. "...Now, she's not the only one that's had a long day. I know we both have. Regardless, I appreciate your honesty, let's both think on what the other has said and get some sleep."

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

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.

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

Brief Summary

In the 2050s, archaeologists discover old star maps located within derelict ruins within caves located in the scottish highlands, with a strange, crisp atmosphere. Among the ruins were old coordinates, which were deciphered to indicate three points in the Sol System. Venus, Mars, and Titan.
In the following century, genetic engineering goes rampant, creating various strains of mutated humans. Artificial Intelligence beyond basic functioning droids and algorithsm go berserk, and later it is discovered that an alien frequency hailing from across the milky way is causing a virus in AI models, making them functionally insane. However before that, in the early 22nd century, men discover a base under the surface of mars, hundreds of thousands of years old. Probes find satellites above Venus that manufactured its incredibly dangerous and toxic atmosphere, essentially a biological and atmospheric weapon, and a small abandoned facility of unknown origin is discovered a mile beneath Titan's ice, housing various specimens of ancient earth life. The oceans of the moon itself is also home to organisms of possible alien origin. Before the end of the 22nd century, the wars on earth and the mutant riots put a strain on humanities civilization, and space colonies are formed while vast arks of mutants are sent to colonize worlds in other solar systems. Decades later, base-line human explorers and sent with similar goals albeit with more safety measures and equipment. After reverse engineering technology from the xenos bases, humans are able to make small jumps across space, able to travel within 200 lightyears from earth and back without needing to be gone for more than a month. A new golden age arrives, cue mass effect space opera. The earth is able to grow crops on other planets, terraforming slowly but surely, and the 23rd and 24th centuries are a silver age of growth and exploration. The alien tech is still studied, but no signal sent into the cosmos has been answered. The 25th century rolls around, and men begin meeting again with the ARK crews, finding new human civilizations and mutant hives hostile and suspicious of humanity. On earth, the wars for resources that were silenced by prosperity, suddenly become conflicts of trade and ideology. Distant colonies, both loyal to earth or long abandoned, become homes of inurgents and system-wide wars spread out. At the crux of this, another eldritch signal is discovered, this one destroying the capabilities of the jump drives. What once took a week has now become a year's journey, and even without the signal, humanity was beginning to once again dry up on resources. The Space Opera, once majestic and glorious, is now decaying. The wars between the UNSG (United Nation Space Government) and the insurgents have become bitter struggles, now over things like grudges and money rather than independence or ideology. Many insurgent factions are now simply independent dukes, and the UNSG is a capitalist republic with a monopoly on the core systems, the council and the officials now scheming against one another if it means more power or prestige.

We find ourselves in the year 2519, in a fictional solar system at the edge of the core worlds, hired by (insert powerful benefactor here) wanting a two man team to capture and return his long lost son and to kill his captors, however unbeknownst to us, his 'son' is the heir to a rival dynasty, and he throws us under the bus and are sent to jail, needing to rely on one another for escape.

Technology: Las weapons, modern day firearms, specialized melee weapons (aka power swords or vibro weapons). Ships that can travel between planets easily and solar systems with the right drive. Basic star Wars style droids.

Religion: 'God' so we can use stuff like 'goddamn' but there is a penchant for neo-paganism, as if the abrahamic god is a central figure but people can invoke other deities like the dark lady. Perhaps planets of different environs have different shrines.

Style: Cowboy Bebop meets Mass Effect and rock and roll. Obviously we can have some star wars or 40k influence, beyond what I already talked about.

Aliens/Non-humans: Ancient alien tech is prized, mutants are seen as 2nd class citizens and pirates, or warbands. Limited cybernetics is possible.

Dramatis Personae:

Markus (of) Sartorius

Patron: Baron Adan Galanis
Target: Idan Galanis

The Artemis
The Layout

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

Whilst I was perturbed at Emmaline's quick usage of her will to dominate a subject, I reminded myself he was either a worshiper of the great enemy, or someone aiding in its cause. As long as she did not shatter the fool's mind until I found out, I would bite my lip for now. Rather, I holstered my pistol and kept my powersword under the fabric of my cloak, concealing it along with my armor. Voidships were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of meters in length, but I was intimately familiar with the design of the majority of Imperial warships. It was required in order to continue the alias of Blasius Deckard, who grew up amongst the Saturn naval shipyards in Sol. We had arrived in the engine deck of the ship, and if I was correct, we needed only to travel a relatively short distance to reach the captain's deck.

I ordered Clara to lower her rifle and conceal it, and the three of us followed the mesmerized spacer.

Perhaps it was lucky Emmaline had reacted as she had, for as soon as we turned the corner there was a congregation of enginemen welding a coupling the size of an old terran bus, whilst beyond them, maintenance crews marched across the breadth of the deck, methodically checking for leaks or tweaks that needed to be made to keep the ship at optimal operation. Sparks flew as the engineers shouted to one another, the ship's thrumming louder now that we passed by the main power of the ship.

We arrived at the plaza that was made before the lift that rose to varying levels. A handful of deckhands walked passed, intent on their work and only granting us a cursory glance. The baroque archway was alight with ethereal lights of operation. A sudden woosh of air brought our attention to the lift, and from above, the platform lowered down. Upon it was an officer, a small contingent of what looked to be militarum irregulars, and a tall, lithe, and very alien figure dressed in obsidian armor. Framing the visor were two pointed ears, and above was a tall head of dark hair tied in a ponytail. I remained impassive, not having expected one of the blasted eldar but having already prepared myself for the unexpected. Clara shifted uneasily but did not comment.

The xenos glanced in our direction, but mercifully followed the officer and the handful of men as they marched down the gangway from whence we came.

"This is the way to the captain's deck, mistress..." the man said, bowing low before Emmaline.

"Take us up to the correct floor." She ordered.

"A thousand apologies, but I do not have the access. It is the top floor however..." He said sheepishly, lowering himself from the shame of not fully providing for his new master.

"Who does? Speak!" Emmaline demanded, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

He abased himself, and I grew more nervous at his mannerism in front of potential eyes. "The officers, mistress. The closest would be Lieutenant Officer Naftor Sybdol, the man who just walked out of this area. He could help you ascend, please do not throw me aside!"

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Boris stared at her for many long moments, his blue eyes alight like small flames. He truly did have a penetrating gaze. Perhaps the rumors of him being one of Ulric's chosen was true.

It was hard to decipher what exactly he was thinking, but finally, mercifully, he looked away from the buxom woman's face and turned to Kasimir. "It seems you've pissed some people off."

Kasimir noticed Eleanor had to bite her lip to keep from giggling, either from nervousness or the abrupt manner in which he spoke after hearing her out. The hawkeyed bastard turned to his father, the two now close. It was clear Kasimir presumably favored his mother in many ways. His hair was darker than Boris's, as was his unshaven chin that threatened to form into a rough goatee if he didn't cut it soon. He was also of a leaner build, but both were tall and strong men, and Kasimir had a bit of Todbringer's cheekbones in him.

"I've always had that gift," He said, and his eyes flicked at Eleanor as she was one of the most recent aristocrats he had annoyed. Odd, he always seemed to be inciting incidents with nobility but he got along with the common folk just fine. Strange that, he thought whilst hiding the wry smirk that was beginning to form.

"Well, luckily for you, it did not lead to your death or imprisonment this time. But seeing as you're here and now involved, I will grant you leave to aid in investigating these matters." The graf rumbled, which brought a raised eyebrow from Kasimir. His father grunted. "You've precious little left to do but cause more trouble, and I imagine you would rather busy yourself than sitting in your room all day and attending the occasional banquet. Whether you were framed or not, there is still a killer about."

Boris turned, his resplendent red cloak swaying as he did so. Without looking back, he added: "Oh, and it seems the lady here is a potential victim or associate in these matters. Since her host is dead, you will accompany her to whatever matters she requires, keep her from harm, and make sure she also stays out of trouble."

"What!?" They both exclaimed in unison. Kasimir was a bit too put off to notice the small amount of Imperial creeping into her voice.

Boris laughed like a donkey, the sound echoing across the stone chamber. "Until she returns to her homeland once the snows melt, she is without a host or guide, and you represent me, as much as we both are not keen on that idea. See to it, boy, or you'll be thrown into the dungeons for an entirely different matter than murder."

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren skipped a rock into the water. Buri let out a soft whistle, his darkvision letting him see the entirety of the stone's flight.

"Strong as an anvilgard," Buri compliment, referring to the esteemed, heavily armored tunnel fighters of his kin. Beren doubted that, but it was nice to hear. Buri groaned and got off his rump, dusting himself off before he began rummaging in his pack for something to eat. "What I wouldn't give for a pint of Dromegar's Finest with some salted pork."

Beren tossed a stone up and caught it casually, doing so over and over as he responded back to Buri.

"I'm hungry too, but I'm more tired than anything, I think." He admitted, and glanced at Jocasta's slumbering form. The light wind brushed against his skin lightly, and it felt good. He briefly wondered if they were exposed out here, just by the lake. They had opted not to make a fire, but see by the very soft light from small crevasses above. Once you were in the dark long enough, even human eyes could become used to such an environment to a point, but even so he knew he was more used to it than any man he had ever met. Jocasta was out of her element down here, no wonder she was tired.

He turned to Buri, the dwarf pulling out a bit of his beef jerky and scarfing it down. Beren knelt beside him, and the dwarf gave him a guarded look. Beren raised an eyebrow, and after a few long moments the fat merchant sighed and handed him a few scraps of the meat. Beren gave him a thanks in dwarvish and popped them into his mouth, and the two took turns taking swigs from the water flasks.

"'Least we can refill them," Buri whispered in dwarvish.

"Aye, Runar's blessing." Beren agreed, and then gave a grunt for a laugh. "This adventure's been about as smooth as a donkey's ass though."

"And half as valuable," Buri complained. "But we're not fermented yet. Though what I wouldn't give to be back in my storeroom counting the stock and coins. Druge, Fahke, Hrom..." Beren recognized those are various terms for gold, specifically numeric representations of gold. Dwarves coveted the mineral so much, they even had a separate, holy counting system for coins of that most precious of metals.

"I would like to see you in your element," Beren laughed. "If survival isn't your strongsuit, you must be a great master of goods."

The dwarf snorted. He was the first to admit he was not a warrior dwarf like the rest, save perhaps Varin the beardling. He stood up once more, attempting to tower over Beren, though even sitting down, they were nearly eye level. "Boy, I could sell the shirt off yer back and the teeth out yer mouth before you even knew we had begun negotiating!" He boasted, fat hands on his hips. "The old priest brought me here so I could appraise what riches we found, but it feels like that won't be happening anytime soon, Woegrim take me."

"You're not done yet. We just need to-" Beren glanced back at Jocasta to keep an eye on her.

She was gone. He blinked, and his fine eyes caught a shape in the shallows of the gently lapping water. He gasped when he saw the white hand of Jocasta slipping beneath the surface, her silhouette drifting deeper into the waves. Beren scrambled to his feet, and like a hound on the chase, he did not think twice. The eru'dai sprinted to the edge of the lake and dove in, hands together and body streamlined as any born swimmer did. It took him all of three seconds to reach her, grabbing her arm. To his distress, her eyes were still closed and bubbles lazily floated out of her mouth. He pulled, but something kept her down. Panicking, he grabbed the axe at his belt, ready to chop off whatever tentacled monstrosity had her in its grasp, but when he looked passed her, he was shocked to see she had been snagged by a small torrent of swirling water.

Suddenly it yanked the both of them deeper, and soon the faint light from above was gone. Beren felt cold water flow past him as the two of them were dragged inexorably down, down into the unknown depths where horrible, nameless things dwelled. Beren suddenly felt an immense pressure on his skull, and the last thing he remembered was letting go of Jocasta's hand, a feeling of despair welling up inside of him.

---

The floor was mostly smooth stone, though the occasional barnacle and crawling, alien crustacean meandered about. Where the light came from, it was hard to gauge. Somehow, her immediate surroundings were visible and alight. Water slowly dripped onto the floor, and Jocasta lifted her head to behold what lay before her.

All around her were the walls of broken sea vessel, having fallen to the depths of the lake long ago. The design was unknown to her, derelict and wrong in appearance. The material was not made of wood, and it curved where it should have pushed out, and looked bloated where it should have swept inward in its build. It was easy to see she was underwater, because by some strange magic, a wall of water a few meters before her was kept at bay, and it was the same behind her. Beside her, Beren lay unconscious beside her, but thankfully when she checked, he was breathing and alive. In fact, it seemed only the inside of the strange ship had breathable air, where the pressure was somehow equalized. As she looked back at the front barrier of water, she gasped. Beyond it was a vast figure, just at the edge of her vision.

"We will speak, woman. You have been marked, and must answer my questions..."