General Release | Chapter 0: Prologue (Patreon)

Landin liked to think he was a consummate professional.

Get in, get the job done, and get out before the priests come sniffing around. He traded in death, and business was always good on the third Ring spinning around Jupiter.

The job tonight was simple. Some unnamed drunkard had pissed off a gang of tech-heads, and they wanted him dead. Landin had done his research. The mark always went to the same watering hole and, when suitably shitfaced, always took the same route back home. The fool didn’t even stick to crowded areas, preferring to go down dark alleyways.

The job seemed fishy at first, who hired a Blackjack to take down some random civvie, but after observing his mark for over a week, all that he could see was a man who was trying to kill himself one drink at a time, barely talking to anyone. Landin had no idea who this guy was, or why the tech-heads wanted him dead that badly, but his job was not to ask questions, only to be the solution for when someone wanted someone else dead.

He knelt on his perch above the alleyway and opened his briefcase. His trusty companion, the rifle that had taken many a life, greeted him with its customary dull black sheen. It wasn’t a cheap piece of kit, but custom hardware rarely was.

As he assembled his weapon, for a moment, he heard a pitter-patter noise from the alley. He glanced down but saw nothing. Were his nerves getting the better of him? He took a deep breath to clear his head, took position, and looked down at the sights, holding still as a statue. It was only a matter of time and patience. An hour later, he heard his target drunkenly singing a sad tune from around the corner. Poor bastard had no idea what was coming to him.

‘Sorry, fella,’ Landin thought. ‘There’s no mercy on the Rings.’

---

“Fuckin’ bullshit,” I muttered to myself as I stumbled down the street, holding on to a bottle that could make a man go blind.

Tonight had gone the same as every other night in the past two years. Leave home, go to the bar, and try not to think about, well, anything. Whatever shreds of pride I allowed myself to keep were raging against my current state. Raziel Ibicas, the great Rust Reaver, reduced to this state. But, like people once said in Lost Terra, “You reap what you sow.”

I started loudly singing a sad song Silvina had taught me a lifetime ago. I wasn’t great at singing, but I was even worse tonight. After all, I had an audience.

As soon as I turned the corner, I threw the bottle up in the air and whipped out my revolver from beneath my coat, aiming, shooting, and covering my eyes with my free hand, all in one smooth motion. The bullet flew true, and the bottle exploded, releasing its contents into the air and, with them, a blinding white flash.

Two cries of surprise and pain echoed through the alley, one low and grunting came from above me to the left, one small and high-pitched came from behind. I turned to the source of the sound above, the subroutine in my jacket moving my arm on its own, adjusting my aim. I looked down the sights and fired three times at the blinded man sent to kill me.

His corpse dropped at my feet, a bullet through his head and two through his chest; his face contorted in a grimace of shock and pain.

“Sorry, fella,” I told his dead body. “There’s no mercy on the Rings.”

A system message alert rudely interrupted my lame attempt at a cool one-liner.

---

[WARNING]

Please be aware that the following licenses will expire within this month:

Bounty Hunter Licence

Detective Licence

Mercenary Licence

Following the expiration of these Licenses, you will be unable to cash in any more bounties.

---

I waved the message away with a scoff. I started rifling through the assassin’s stuff. This guy’s weapon was bio-locked. Damn. Still.

I touched my watch to his, and smiled as I saw a small bundle of valuable items and equipment enter my account.

Good.

Combined with the bounty of this Blackjack Assassin, the items were enough money to keep Hob operational for at least a year. I had to keep him on. I promised. I couldn’t let the last of Yora die.

The last thought seared its way through the rest of my thoughts like a meteor, and I reflexively reached for my flask. The burning liquid chased the memory away.

I looked down at the corpse, my vision growing hazy.

Damn it.

I turned to the street urchin behind me, who was rubbing her eyes.

“Damn it, kid. I told you not to follow me.”

“Sorry, mister Raziel, I just wanted to see what you were gonna do,” she said in a squeaking voice.

I shook my head and sighed. “Your job was to let me know if you saw someone in this alley and then run away.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” the twelve-year-old sniffled, still rubbing her eyes.

I squatted in front of her and softened my voice. “Hey, it's okay. Why are you still rubbing your eyes? Your implants should have restored your vision by now.”

The kid lowered her hands, I sucked in a sharp breath, the haze of alcohol disappearing in an instant. Her eyelids were swollen, and her corneas looked like fogged glass. As if…

“You haven’t gotten your corneal implants yet,” I stated, doing my best to keep my voice level.

“No,” She whispered. “Mister Sherso has us save money for them ourselves, and I haven’t gotten enough yet.”

Shit. For that flashbang to work on someone with augmented eyes, it had to be powerful enough to scorch the corneas of anyone without implants.

She would go blind. At best, this was a death sentence for a street urchin of Sector 16, at worst...

“Ow, everything is blurry,” she whimpered and rubbed her eyes again.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I had to fix this. This was my fault. I should have paid more attention. Heard her footsteps following me. My fault. What was I, an amateur? Fuck.

I opened my eyes and gently rubbed her head. “It’s okay. I know a good doctor. He helped me plenty of times. He can fix you up in a jiffy, and give you your implants too.”

“But… I can’t afford the implants,” She said, crying.

Yeah, and to heal corneas was far more expensive, too. I looked at the still-open inventory window and the number showing how many credits I had to my name.

“Don’t worry, I can afford it, no problem,” I lied. “You save that money to start a better life somewhere else, yeah? Tell your boss I gave you the implants to thank you for a good job. And if he touches the money you have saved up, I will break his neck.”

“Okay,” she nodded, her long brown hair waving wildly.

“Here, climb on my back. I’ll take you to the doctor.” I turned, knelt on the concrete alley, and grabbed her hands, guiding her up my back and helping her wrap them around my neck. With the trembling little girl secured and comfortable, I clenched my jaw and steeled my resolve.

Even with all the loot from the assassin, this would almost bottom out my finances. I’d have to start selling off trophies from my glory days, but if that’s what it would take to keep my friend alive, then so be it.

Hob would never forgive me if I chose him over anyone else’s life, let alone a child’s. Don’t think I could live with myself either.

I started walking towards the main street. The clinic wasn’t too far away. “Oh, and tell your boss I’m coming by soon to discuss his duty towards his employees to provide them with the basic amenities, like corneal implants.”

Despite the little girl’s pain, a hint of a smile coloured her voice. “Okay, mister Raziel.”

I sighed and shook my head. Thankfully, whoever sent that poor sap hadn’t cheaped out, but…

--

“What a mess,” Elisa said, licking sticky-sweet sauce off her fingers. With a grunt of effort, she shifted in her levitating seat and peered down at the trembling man. “Is that it?”

The man flinched away from her slightly-too-big eyes. “Y-yes, ma’am.” He stammered. “The Electron Jaws said their hired hitman had failed and had died for it. They ask for more money to hire better help. That’s all the message said.”

Elisa shook her head and leaned back, picking up another slice of meat and shoving it whole in her mouth. A mouth that was slightly bigger than expected and filled with jagged teeth. With a sneer, she struck the wine glass on her armrest, sending it flying from the levitating chair that was cradling her emaciated body to the floor.

“Bah, and now they made me waste some of my precious wine,” She said petulantly. “Barbariccio, what do you think we should do?”

Barbariccio, clad in his customary sleek black nanoweave coat, stepped out of the shadows cast by one of the pillars in Elisa’s ‘Throne room’ right behind the trembling underling, causing the terrified man to jump and let out a squeak of fear. He made no noise as he moved, and his stance was relaxed, but he felt like a panther, coiled up, ready to strike at any moment.

He gave Elisa a smooth bow, straightened up, and stared at the spilled wine.

Elisa followed his gaze down at the puddle of wine and glass shards. She stroked her chin and hummed. “We’ve wasted too much money as is. Even if we keep going, the reward won’t pay enough to recoup the costs. Well, I'm sure he’ll be dead soon enough without our help. He’ll either piss off the Ecclisiarchy, or someone else is going to punish him for past good deeds.” She let out a sigh and rolled her eyes. “Very well. As for you.”

She turned to the henchman, who was almost foaming at the mouth, having found himself between his Otherlord and her Executioner, people who could and would make his entire bloodline disappear on a whim.

“Y–yes?” He said, his knees trembling.

Elisa pinned him with a long, considering look. “Bring me some more wine. Then get back to work.”

Elisa looked at the back of the retreating man with contempt. She turned to Barbariccio and smiled genuinely. “Say, how about a bet?”

Barbariccio was still as a statue except for one eyebrow, shifting upwards ever-so-slightly.

Elisa giggled and clapped her hands. His sister loved games. “Right. I bet you one million credits that the Rust Reaver will die within a year.”

Barbariccio shrugged noncommittally, a note of respect in his dark, smooth voice that rankled Elisa.

“Or maybe, he’ll defy all expectations, again. You’re on.”