Post
Thu Jun 27, 2019 7:50 pm
#233
by Talvieno
Turn 8
Vynkor and Sukava peer into the Markets proper, and see that cheap "buildings" have been put up inside this large area, cavernous area - ramshackle constructions of sheet metal, and, in some sections, corrugated steel. Electrical cables lie bare and unprotected on the grimy metal floor, which itself is pockmarked with scratches and dents. In some places newer metal has been laid down atop the original flooring - presumably to patch holes. It has a very patchwork, very "slumlike" feeling to it - depressing, almost, and it isn't helped by the dim white lighting strung across the ceiling.
But as Vynkor and Sukava venture into the depths of the bazaar, they soon find that the word "depressing" doesn't describe the attitude of those around them at all. If they'd visited the Downtown area, they would've seen a number of groups rushing about, purchases already in mind - but here? This is more a slowly-churning throng. These aren't businessmen or mercs, here to make a profit or stock up on goods, and then leave on the next flight out - these are people, citizens, and homemakers, poor and ragged though they may be. Families wander between the stalls and shops, chattering in unknown tongues as they appraise necessities or barter for goods, and others chatter in groups as they carry armfuls of purchases with them to unknown destinations. There are shops for pets, pasta, firearms, used parts and more... but little in the way of duct tape. That's a human invention, after all, and these are aliens... so perhaps it makes a bit of sense.
Vynkor and Sukava find hardly any difficulty blending in with the crowd. They soon slip away, lost among the locals; anyone following them won't have any luck at all - not in this sea of people.
Or at least... that's what they think.
~~~
Deep in the warehouses beneath Downtown, the trio climbs out from behind the boxes as Almina scolds them. Given how indignant she seems, they figure they should probably be glad she didn't sell them out immediately.
Now that he thinks of it, Frank begins hoping she didn't already sell them out. "We never tried to threaten anybody. We even tried to peacefully keep this situation from happening...which...didn't work out... and led to... well..." His words trail off as he notices Almina glaring at him.
"Honestly, I told the truth as much as I knew it," Caleb says, trying to pacify the girl. "I had no idea they knew we were from the Nemesis. And I didn't think telling everyone we met about that would help keep us alive."
"No, it wouldn't," she hisses, still whispering. "But you just did! ... Dia he a hso, you humans are idiots! They didn't tell me you were from the Nemesis, I guessed! Let's see here: FMU is after you in Rebirth territory, they're tight-lipped, badly want information about a group of 'people' that passed by but refuse to give any details, and you're refusing to give me any details either - what else could it be? And if I could guess, someone else could too!" Here she pauses and turns away, listening for any sign of the mercs. A moment later she spins back around, her head-tentacles whipping about. "Do you have any idea how badly them capturing you would upset the balance on the station? I bet you didn't even stop to think about that, did you? Do you know what they'd do to you? What they'd do to me?"
Caleb sighs. "I imagine we'd get killed in some painful, lingering way that they'd also use to set the entire station on fire, if we were lucky."
"They'd parade your corpses through the streets, is what they'd do," Almina reproaches, searching in a cloth pouch at her waist. Her two smaller, lower hands hold it open while she digs through it with one of the upper pair. It looks a bit odd to the fireteam, who still aren't quite used to being around aliens. The three inmates stand silently, wondering what they could say - and wondering what she's looking for. She seems like she's starting to calm down, and the inmates relax a bit. Noteworthy, perhaps, is that she's not acting remotely like she was a little while before - when she was smoking and high as a kite. Or was she high at all? the inmates start to wonder. Either the drugs are very short-lived, or she's very good at pretending, but it's not entirely clear which is the truth of it.
Finally, Caleb finally speaks up again. "Look, I'm sorry we put you in danger, but we had no other option! Those guys were going to catch us and kill us."
"You could've given me more details," Almina points out sharply, not bothering to lift her gaze from her pouch.
"Details?" Frank cuts in. "That's unfair! We could have taken time to go over the 'details' that were important, yes! Then they'd probably have gotten here, caught us, seen you, and then they'd come to the wrong conclusions. They would have thought you were with us."
Almina doesn't reply right away; she's finally found the small electrical device she was looking for. She pulls it out quietly, as though it's of no consequence, and fiddles with it. "You had plenty of time," she states factually. "You just spent most of it arguing about who was going to stay behind and play the hero." Here she points at Caleb specifically. "Your friends were right, you are an idiot. You were really going to let them capture you, komose? Hea hso."
"If you need details, we might have something, if we just knew what you needed!" Frank says in exasperation. "And of course, if you deem it too dangerous, we'll leave. We'll have simply come down here and passed by, and we'll do or say whatever we need to in order to corroborate the story you just gave them."
Pocketing the device briskly, the girl laughs. "Leave? You think you can just leave after this?" She takes a step back and appraises the inmates with an incredulous shake of the head, wagging her finger. "Nuh uh, no. You're coming with me. I'm taking you to my uncle. He'll know what to do, and he'll be able to explain the situation a lot better than I could."
The squadmates exchange glances with each other. Should they go with her? Should they stay? They could just try to leave, after all, but pissing off a potential mob boss doesn't sound like a very wise decision. Finally, Caleb speaks up. "That doesn't seem to have been a request."
"It was not," Almina agrees, folding both sets of arms stubbornly.
Sighing again, Caleb turns to his team. "I guess we're going with her, then. Besides, like she said, her uncle probably knows a lot more than we do about the situation here. If he doesn't just toss us out an airlock, he could be a big help."
"He could," Saoirse agrees. "And I'd love to actually hear what the iffreann is actually going on here that we get attacked for just visiting a shop." She lets her battlestaff, Spoon, click back into place and collapse itself behind her back, and asks, "So, where are we going?"
Frank adds, "And is there anything we need to know?"
"We're going to my uncle," Almina states calmly, "And please, at least try not to say anything stupid, wedoma?" Then, as she scoops up the lamplight and attaches it to a belt at her waist, she spies the blood trickling down Caleb's suit and frowns. "My uncle's people will help fix that, but try not to leave a trail of blood." She gestures out towards the center of the cavernous room, where the inmates see a few small groups of mercs combing the area, swinging beams of light that cut through the darkness. "You don't want them after us."
~~~
Even as Beta's journey has just begun, Vynkor and Sukava's little trip through the Markets comes to an end. Their ultimate goal isn't to go on a shopping spree, after all. Rather, they want to head to the Palaces, possibly in the hopes that they'll find work. It's been their goal ever since they arrived, but one thing led to another and they ended up taking... a somewhat lengthy detour.
Together, the two ladies walk down the wide tunnel towards the palaces, taking careful note of their surroundings as they go. At a wealthier point in its past, this tunnel probably could've served well as a road for hover vehicles, traveling quickly from one point on the station to the next. In fact, the more the two inmates examine it, the more they're sure that was its original purpose. There are smaller pathways near the walls, slightly elevated, that would serve well for pedestrian traffic, and the tunnel itself is divided down the middle by a series of load-bearing metallic pillars.
Regrettably, however it may have been used at some distant point in the past, it's not being used for those purposes anymore. The road is littered with garbage, much of it piled into heaps that house various skittering, unidentifiable species of vermin. At irregular intervals, the floor bears dark, black stains and smears - the bloody residue of gang battles fought over turf. This sentiment is echoed by the walls: In some places, the old metal is pockmarked with bullet holes and scorch marks. In others, the metal is so rusty that it's simply crumbling like stale bread, but no matter where they look, the two inmates see layers upon layers of graffiti. Half of it is paint, and half of it was lasered on. It's a very typical aesthetic for a gang-controlled environment... and not at all that of one that was once controlled by royalty. All that's really missing are the burning barrels - but then, that's perhaps not such a wise thing to have aboard a space station.
It's not that far a walk overall - perhaps a quarter of a kilometer - and they finally emerge into a taller, more grandiose area: a high ceiling, luxuriant balconies with hanging vines, all with intricate and unique architecture, and a beautiful stone fountain in the center of a courtyard, surrounded by massive statues... or at least, that may be how it looked in the past. Now, the hanging vines have shriveled away, and all that's left are whatever dead, woody cores are still too far out of reach for easy scavenging. As they approach the fountain, they find that it is lifeless, dry, and covered with crude red scrawling in a harsh alien script. The statues have collapsed - or, more accurately, been toppled by intent at some point in the past, and the balconies above show signs of fire. There are a number of makeshift barricades, all tall enough to provide some form of cover, facing the entrance - but these look newer (if cruder) than everything else - almost as if the current inhabitants are wary of visitors.
And it's at this moment that one of said inhabitants makes himself known. He pops himself out from behind cover, aiming a weapon's barrel straight at the two wanderers, and shouts something in an alien language. When there is no response, he repeats the phrase again in a louder, more forceful tone: "Niba larbiin! Iin!" He's a nasty little creature that looks almost like a bad joke, with exaggerated features, olive skin, and bristle-like hairs ringing his squat head. His teeth in particular look fairly nasty - a jagged array of fangs that look like they could easily tear into someone's arm if he thought about it - but he's not much larger than the inmates themselves, so he might have some difficulty managing it.
The women glance at each other. They have no idea what the little guy is saying, and may have found themselves in yet another predicament.
~~~
The three inmates follow closely behind Almina as she, with the lamplight attached at her waist, leads them along the shelving and into a wide vent entrance hidden in one of the corners of the room. For a time, it's pitch dark, but at some point the "vent" transitions to a rock-walled tunnel, lit at sparse intervals with podlights - some of which seem to have died over time.
As they traverse this little winding tunnel through the asteroid, Almina breaks the silence. "You know," she admits thoughtfully, "I was really worried you were going to say you wouldn't come with me."
"It didn't feel like we had a choice," Caleb says, a bit confused.
Frank agrees. "Wouldn't you have stopped us?"
"Stopped you? With what?" Almina laughs, her voice tinkling.
"Aren't you armed?" Caleb asks, aware that if she says no, he's not going to believe her.
However, that isn't the case. "Of course I'm armed," she admits. "But if all three of you attacked me, by myself, what could I do? I wouldn't stand a chance. I'd have to let you go, or you'd kill me. If you just walked away, there wouldn't be anything I could do either." She pauses, and a note of pride enters her voice. "But I can be very persuasive when I want to be."
The group finally stops short before a dead end in the tunnel: a metallic wall, so small they have to crouch in front of it. "Here we are!" Almina says, moving her hands delicately across the metal slab. "Back in my skulker days we used to use these passages to get around the station without being noticed. But there's a trick to it." Suddenly, the wall clicks and, with some effort, spins roughly to the side. The inmates follow Almina out of the passageway and into a dim, blue-lit hallway, and wait for her to snap the metal panel back into place. "We're almost there," she says.
Sure enough, after a few more twists and turns through the sharp-cornered, graffiti-laden alleyways, and after passing countless abandoned and well-looted shops, Almina takes a final turn and they approach a doorway at the end of a hall. It sports two guards: huge, quadrupedal monsters that look so tall that they'd have to duck to even enter the doorway they're guarding. In their arms they hold some formidable-looking street weapons, and they each incline their misshapen heads sideways to appraise the group with one of their lateral eyes. It's difficult to read their expressions - if they even have any - but they seem to recognize Almina, who gives them a little wave as she approaches. The one on the right them speaks up, in a surprisingly soft voice: "Arima duyu qaang khapa ripung, Almina? Besara fal lolkha banebe arima kaebe malkosa?"
Almina answers back, her voice lighthearted, and the guards acknowledge and move aside. One of them says something over comms, and the heavy metal doors slide open smoothly. The girl them motions for the inmates to follow, and they do so.
The first room is fairly small - a sort of foyer - and there are four guards here, and several more in a glassed-off room to the side. These are shorter than the ones outside, being mostly hiltorel or plodii. One of them approaches Almina and they converse briefly in the same soft-spoken language that the inmates are beginning to recognize as hiltorel. Finally, Almina turns to the inmates. "They want you to hand over your weapons before we go on," she explains. She seems expectant. "My uncle will see you now."
~~~
Ishmael chooses not to go outside straightaway, and instead orders some food and a glass of water from the bartender of the Last Ponderance. He's starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, whether he likes it or not - it seems the stuff they serve here might have a bit more of a bite to it than he's used to. Some food should fix that straightaway... hopefully, at least. When the bartender has gotten it all cooked up, he slides it to Ishmael over the counter. "Eighteen," he states flatly. It's a good deal more than the other things he's paid for so far, but food does tend to be more expensive than beer and cheap drinks. Ishmael pays what is required, and adds another two plat as a tip. He then takes his food and carries it over to a quiet booth near the door, hoping he can hear something outside. Unfortunately, the door itself seems to serve as a good sound barrier, and he can't really hear anything at all.
As he eats, he gets the idea to gently probe the leader's mind with his telepathic amp, to try to sense what the alien's intent might be... but unfortunately, the only thing he's able to sense is that the leader is fairly impatient.
Resigning himself, Ishmael begins eating his food. It's not that bad. Nothing to write home about, sure, but not that bad, either.
~~~
Across the bar, Brom, Buck, Yuuji, and Squigg are discussing plans and getting to know each other a little better.
"So," Buck says to Squigg, in a subdued tone, "I see you already dun' did some investigatin' on us, huh? Won't ask you how the hell you know any o' this crap, n' honestly, I dun' give a shit. Was hopin' y'all wasn't some ugly, tentacled ten-headed alien monstrosity, or that'd make these negotiations a lot harder, lemme tell ya." He takes a swig of the drink that Squigg brought, and shivers. It's good stuff, but thoroughly unlike most things he's had before. It does indeed taste... "green". Perhaps a bit of mint, the bite of alcohol, and something... "stretchy", for lack of a better word. As the liquid settles in his stomach, he gets a slight pleasant, satisfied feeling, the way a person might feel right after they'd punched someone in the face. It's not half bad, if you like that sort of thing, and don't mind it messing with your head a little.
"Arachrine ale," Squigg says again with a knowing grin. "Good stuff, innit?" He takes another sip of it himself.
Buck nods in agreement, and leans over towards Brom, looking at Yuuji. "So, uhh... you know this guy? Maybe he's from Beta?"
"No," Brom whispers back. "Were he from Beta, I would surely know about it."
Yuuji, overhearing all of this by virtue of being at the same table (which Brom and Buck seem to have forgotten) shakes his head and ignores their rudeness. "I came aboard with a different party with the same mission as yours I suppose? Getting work, cash and materials. I was just a tagalong to some pretty tough/experienced dudes, like they wanted to see how much i can actually do. It was starting to look like we'd managed to secure a job when suddenly all hell broke loose. I took cover behind a stack of crates, trying to find a freakin' target from there, but something hit the crates and they buried me. When i got to myself and managed to get out of the mess again all i found was flesh giblets, shrapnel, and blood, in at least one color too many. On the way back to the Nemesis I encountered our Squeaky friend here who brought me over, and here I am now."
"Squigg," the man clarifies through a mouthful of food. "Keep tellin' you that. It's Squigg, not 'Squeaky'." Nobody pays him any mind.
Buck grins at Yuuji. "Gettin' their asses kicked n' then runnin' away with their tails tucked, abandonin' a teammate? Sounds exactly like Beta! Trust me, you'll be better off with us!"
Yuuji still has not told anyone his name, so Brom decides to find out himself. "Seeing as how we've just lost contact with one of our team," he says in his most diplomatic tone, reaching out to shake Yuuji's hand, "your timing couldn't have been better! I'm Connley McKale, though most know me as 'Killshot'! You're looking at the best marksman in the sector! This here is Billy the Butcher. We call him Terminator."
The dark-skinned newcomer had been just about to shake Brom's hand when Brom mentioned their aliases. Yuuji stifles a burst of laughter. "Sorry, but... 'Killshot' and 'Terminator'? I didn't expect someone to use those names in a serious context! You know there was that early-mid cleansing cartoon show about heavy weaponry safety starring two complete dunces demonstrating all the stuff by negative examples! So many explosions! So many times where they just stood there confused with their arms missing from the elbow down! So many funny memories!"
Buck and Brom exchange sidelong glances, not at all amused.
"Anyways..." Yuuji finishes up, "my point is the two characters were called Killshot and Termimator! So that's why I was kinda amused by your names, no hard feelings?" He cracks a wide grin, which looks eerily out of sorts with the rest of his face. Buck in particular gets the heebie jeebies from it.
Brom narrows his eyes at the new guy, giving him a death glare, but says nothing. (Apparently he doesn't take insults well; he spends a lot of the rest of the conversation fuming silently.)
"You sure you aren't from Beta?" Buck asks suspiciously.
But at that moment, a waiter shows up with a set of plates - each containing slices of Marconian cheese and skahilla meat, each about half a centimeter in thickness. Marconian cheese is a sort of alien cheese, mixed with herbs, a bit of pasta, and dried vegetables. Those familiar with it know it's well-preserved, keeping well on long journeys even without refrigeration, and that the best Marconian cheese tastes rather salty. It goes really well with meats (hence the skahilla combo), and can be used in a sandwich in a pinch, either by itself or paired with something else. Skahilla meat, on the other hand, needs no introduction. It's the meat of a skahilla. Any mid- or out-worlder would know it.
As soon as the plates are set, Squigg pulls his plate towards him and, still listening to the conversation at the table, stacks a piece of skahilla meat with one of Marconian cheese and takes a bite.
Buck speaks up. "So, you have somethin' for us?" he asks Squigg.
Squigg nods, swallows, and chews a few more times before he starts talking. "Right, right, got you fellas a job, thought you might be interested." He swallows again and takes a sip of his ale, then claps his hands together softly under the table. "Yeah, so here it is. You got a good ship, right? Ought to be able to make the jump to Irihi? Not that far away, only say..." He purses his lips for a moment. "... I reckon about two, three light years away? Like hoppin' over a puddle. At any rate, world's name is Cyburiopa. Doubt you've heard of it, not being around these parts long. Garden world - lovely place, I'm told, but lately we're getting less in the way of visitors from those parts. There are rumors why, yeah," he admits, "but my typical blokes won't head over there." He rips a piece of meat from a slab and starts chewing. "Too superstitious. An' that's where you fine fellows come in. You interested or nah?"
"We're interested, or we wouldn't be here," Buck points out. "Ya gotta be more detailed, though, so we have an idea what we're up against. What kind o' rumors have you been gettin'?"
"Doesn't matter," Squigg says, waving his hand as though to brush the question away. "I'll tell you what's important. You're better than those lowlifes, yeah? Can get a job done?"
"Maybe. What kind of job would that be you'd be asking of us?" Yuuji queries cautiously. "Explosions and gore, yay or nay?"
Squigg chuckles and grins, pointing at Yuuji as if he'd just cracked a joke. "You, you're my type o' man, that. No explosions, might be a bit o' gore. There's always shooting. But I figure you lads can handle a bit of that, can't you?"
Brom nods with a clear air of superiority. "With a team like mine, that which you're asking for will be of no issue. So, let's get down to business! What does this job entail? So that we may prepare accordingly? Additionally, how much in the way of payment are we talking?"
"Three-ninety-nine hi-plat," Squigg says in a lower voice, watching the faces of those at the table cautiously, as though trying to read their thoughts. "Not a chip more or less. Just need you to fetch some parts for me got left behind. Parts may be guarded, of a sort. Folks may not want you taking 'em. Don't want you catching the eye of anyone neither, so you go easy on the explosions," he says specifically to Yuuji. "You fellas sure you can handle that?"
"O' course we can, we're not Beta," Buck laughs, but the laugh dies away quickly, and he adds, "Or that noodle priest..."
"Noodle priest?" Yuuji asks, poking at his meal.
Buck nods. "Used to be Beta. If ya ask me, that noodle bastard should piss off to the exact opposite side o' this rock n' I'll be happy! "
But Yuuji has had enough of it at this point. "First you badmouth Beta over abandoning teammates when they get their ass kicked and have to retreat, and now you're badmouthing another mate just because you don't like him?" He takes a sip of the ale, which feels satisfyingly like punching Buck in the face.
Unsurprisingly, given how much he's had to drink, Buck completely misses the caustic undertone in Yuuji's voice. "Yep, that noodle-shagger Ishmael ain't no squadmate o' mine, so he ain't my problem either. Our actual third guy's called Hammerhead n' he ditched us, n' we can't get a hold o' him anymore."
"Look," Yuuji says plainly, his grin long gone. "Half of this station is going to kill us as soon as they notice who we are, and the other half is trying to already. We absolutely don't need any unncessary squabbles. You not liking him is one thing, but try to be as professional as you can be and work with him, right?"
"Professionalism," Squigg interjects in bland approval as he takes another bite of his cheese, hunched over his plate. "I like it. Let's stay proper businessmen, eh?"
Yuuji turns to Brom. "Connley, I think it'd be good if you take a look after... Ishmael, was it, no? I'd go myself, but..."
Brom finally stops fuming long enough to make a cutting remark. "You would do well to remember your place, rookie. As to our nicknames, you cannot be expected to comprehend everything done by your betters, but we do expect some level of respect for you. And if you're so concerned with Ishmael's well-being, I would suggest you check up with him yourself. He's sitting over by the door, and I'm honestly surprised you were able to overlook him. Actually... no. I suppose I'm not surprised at all."
Silence falls at the table.
"Well now," Squigg says softly, leaning back with faint alarm. "Not so professional now, are we..."
Finally, Yuuji replies, his voice cold with disdain. "My place? You mean the vet squad that went out fighting while you were busy feeling important, misplacing squadmates and drinking while slumming in a bar? Get off your high horse and go check on your teammate."
"Perhaps you missed the briefing," Brom shoots back acidly, "but that squad had a different mission than our own. I would further recommend that you not try to break up my team. We've been through more than you can imagine. If you continue your attempt to separate us, I will be forced to see you as a threat."
The two inmates glare heatedly at each other. Buck and Squigg, not saying a word, glance back and forth between them. The situation is starting to feel mightily uncomfortable when finally, Yuuji gives in. "Fine then," he says quietly, getting up from his seat and taking his glass of ale. "All I tried to do was give an ally support. An ally I'd never seen and thus would have no way of recognizing. And if I'd tried to separate you from your team? You'd know." Without another word, Yuuji walks away from the table towards Ishmael.
The three still sitting there find that Yuuji didn't take the awkwardness away from the table when he left.
At long last, Squigg breaks the silence. "Hmm. Maybe you fellas can't handle my business after all, eh? Not such a tight ship, are you."
Buck shrugs. "Nah, he's just just a rookie. What can ya do about 'em. Feller don't know proper manners, is all. Exactly like you'd expect someone from Beta to act, heh."
~~~
"Heyo! I'm Yuuji! You must be Ishmael, no?"
Ishmael looks up from his meal. He's just about finished it, although he's wishing very sorely that there were some noodles with it. "I am indeed," he replies, offering a meaty hand for a handshake. "Are you from our ship as well?"
Shaking the man's hand, Yuuji replies, "Yeah, was with another squad but got separated from them. I noticed you've been kinda abandoned by our two friends over there and thought you'd be better off with a bit of support behind your back."
"I see," Ishmael says, feeling a bit pleased at this, which was surely arranged by the FSM. He's watching after all. "I actually got separated from my own squad early on, and came here on my own. I was about to get a job proposal when the landlubbers barged in sprouting nonsense from their portholes. What a troublesome bunch!"
Yuuji says nothing. Clearly, camaraderie isn't something these people value much.
At his new acquaintance's silence, Ishmael skips to the point. "I'd be fine with backup. The ugly-looking gentlemen outside asked me to come out there to talk about business. I'll go and talk to their leader. If it breaks down, I'd appreciate fire support."
"Fire support is something I can provide. Maybe stabbing support as well!" Yuuji gives a wide, nasty grin. "Let's go see what your new friends want."
~~~
"If you two really think you can handle my job by yourselves, you've had too much to drink," Squigg says firmly.
"Don't ya worry about our expertise," Buck replies quickly, brushing it off. "We might not be the most sneaky, but we sure as hell are one o' the best at killin'. Ask the squids if you dun' believe me. I'm sure you can turn one o' them news channels on to see for yourself. So, three-ninety nine tin..."
Squigg isn't letting him steer the conversation away. In fact, he seems a more than a little disgusted by their behavior. "I got a word for how you handled that. You know what it is?"
Brom and Buck don't reply.
"Horrible, is the word. You never ever talk bad about your company in front of clients. First rule o' business, that." He pauses, thinking. "Well, second rule - first is to never take 'no' for an answer, but. You think I got where I am by telling my blokes they're shit, do you? You think that'll get you somewhere? You work with them that's on your side even if you don't like 'em - that's the rules out in the wild. You make it work."
Buck and Brom take pause, suddenly realizing their job might be at stake. "Well, uh..." Buck puts out hesitantly. "I mean, he was from Beta."
Closing his eyes for a moment, Squigg pushes his plate away as though he's lost his appetite. "You know," he says under his breath, "I thought you Tartarus boys could get things done. Hell, you survived the attack by OWL and crashing your boat on down there planet. Seemed a good enough list of achievements. But your company's going straight to a fiery hell, I'll tell you that right now. And what's more, I been seen with you. Don't want that connection, none at all. It's no good."
"We came here to do business," Brom says pointedly, not liking what he's hearing. "So let's do business."
Buck nods in agreement. "Yeah, what he said. "These... parts, we're talkin' 'bout - weapons o' mass destruction? Alien whatchamacall 'em, artifacts? Augments? Or just mysterious, stamped crates? Hey, we dun' need to know every lil' detail 'bout this stuff we're fetchin', I know some folks like secrecy, but we need to know what we'll be lookin' for."
Squigg shakes his head. "You won't hear none of it. ...Hmm. Not until you do me a little task, first, see. Prove your mettle, gotta know I can trust you. Don't want you scoopin' up my goods and keepin' 'em for yourself, shy? So let's do a deal. You do this little deal for me first, I'll give you the job when you get back.
"There's a fella downtown, north quadrant. Name's Men'ko Mokila. Big fella, friend o' mine. Good friend, that, but I owe him some money for a deal. Take this plat and get it to him." Squigg pulls five 200-plat chips out of his pocket and slides them across the table. "Men'ko can be a tough guy to find, but we'll see if you can figure it out. Make sure you tell him that Etch Squiligan sent you. Come find me after you're done and I'll fill you in on the details."
Without waiting for their response, Squigg gets up from the table, straightens his necktie over his undershirt in a dignified manner, and exits the bar without looking back.
~~~
Ishmael and Yuuji follow Squigg out into the alleyway outside the door. Squigg turns left and walks off without so much as a passing "hello", headed towards the main hub of merc central. Ishmael and Yuuji, on the other hand, look around, trying to find the aliens that offered Ishmael a job.
"Took you long enough," a voice says. It's the sag-skinned alien - an azquad. A rarity in this part of the galaxy, to be sure. He steps out from behind a large dumpster further down the hallway, and claps his hands. In an instant, Yuuji and Ishmael find themselves surrounded by the thug's three companions - two fysar and a wralk, all heavily armed. As soon as they notice Yuuji, the azquad holds up a hand to halt his minions. "Well, well," he croons. "What have we here..."
The wralk speaks up with a hesitant rumble. "Hey, boss... there was suppose' to be just one of them. Why is there two?"
"Yeah, not part of the plan," another thug agrees, in a high-pitched nasal whine. "Dunno how I feel about this, boss."
"Can it, Kwisi," the last thug spits out. "Don't question the boss."
Ishmael holds up his hands for peace. "Now now, gentlemen," he says calmly. "I'm just here for the job I was offered." But the thugs don't pay him any attention whatsoever.
Kwisi replies to the other fysar's order with a whine. "But Havara, if there's two of them, what if one of them shoots at us?"
"Then you shoot him back!"
The "boss" walks over, weapon raised, and waves a hand at his goons. "It's not part of the plan, no, but look at those weapons on the new one. Looks like a plasma launcher. Style's pretty close to the XR87-11, but with a bit of the 26SGL mixed in. Not seen that make before, but it looks worth a good lump of tin. With the weapons from the priest, might even go for enough to pay Mebasha back."
Yuuji makes no attempt to reach for the weapon, not wanting to antagonize the thugs any further than they already are.
The wralk speaks up. "Want me to shoot him, boss? I could shoot him for you. Then we could get his gun too."
"That's the idea," Havara mutters. "We'd have done it already if there was just the fat one out here, but Boss told us to hold up."
Yuuji speaks up. "You do realize we can understand you, right?" As before, he might as well not even exist: as far as the thugs are concerned, he and Ishmael are just cattle to harvest.
The azquad speaks up. "It's still just the two of them. They won't give us any trouble. In fact -"
"KWARI KIIKRO!" a loud voice interrupts, booming from towards the leftmost end of the alley.
Immediately, the four thugs seem to completely forget about their quarry and cluster together behind their leader in a combat formation.
The voice seems to come from a particularly nasty-looking bipedal lizardlike creature with four arms, ringed by a group of four other nasty-looking individuals. One of them is even human - although he barely acts it. He's naked but for a pair of briefs and a belt, and heavyset with enormous muscles - but he's drooling and has a strange, gleeful expression on his face. None of the new alien's crew are holding weapons, but all of them are armed.
"Mebasha!" the azquad boss laughs lightheartedly, seeming a bit nervous. "I was just talking about you. See, we were just getting ready to pay for that loan you gave us, but we needed to take care of a little business first."
"KIIKRO," Mabasha booms again. "You knew the terms of our agreement."
"I did, I did," Kiikro admits. It's a bit odd to see the big wralk hiding behind the little azquad in fear.
Mebasha turns his head sideways; the skin on the sides of his neck seems to flutter slightly. His lips twitch as though with anger. "You were supposed to meet me with payment, at the shop behind Roonib's Stripbar. Did you forget where that was?"
Kwisi, the nasally fysar, pipes up in an attempt to be helpful. "Eleventh floor, just past Markasil's!" The wralk elbows him in the side to shut him up - it practically sends the little guy sprawling.
Slowly, Mebasha's eyes shift from Kiikro, to Kwisi, and then back to Kiikro. "You did not forget," he states slowly.
"No, I didn't. Kiikro shifts his weight uneasily. "You see, there was just a little hiccup -"
"- That was TWO DAYS AGO, Kwari Kiikro! You did not even mention you would be late. Explain that to me. Did someone buy you out? Were you not even intending to pay for that shipment of kraakweed serum?"
"Uh.... No?" Kiikro says, trying to appear innocent. "I mean, uh, of course not - we just needed time!" He glances about himself rapidly, as though looking for a place to hide, and his eyes fall on the two inmates, Ishmael and Yuuji. Seizing the opportunity, the azquad points at them. "Couldn't we have done this somewhere private? Now these people know about the kraakweed smuggling too!"
For the first time, Mebasha seems to notice the existence of the two inmates. His eyes rest on them briefly, and then he reaches for his weapon. "Then we will kill them," Mebasha says simply. It's the logical option to take.
As soon as Mebasha's fingers touch the hilt of his weapon, the tension in the alleyway snaps like a cut cable, and all hell breaks loose. The thug leader shouts orders, and he and his minions leap into cover - except for the wralk, who pulls out a massive gun from behind his back and starts firing. Mebasha seems to forget the inmates completely and readies a weapon of his own, even as those around him open fire. His weapon charges up and unleashes a hellish shotgun blast of glowing yellow plasma that virtually incinerates a good portion of a dumpster not five meters from Ishmael, and takes a sizable chunk out of the far wall. "Mivitarta!" Mebasha shouts, his personal shield flickering blue. "Hachon!"
At this order the huge human snatches a number of syringes from his belt and jabs them into his arm. The thugs seem legitimately terrified by this action, and not without good reason: the man suddenly charges forward, screaming like an animal, moving with an inhuman speed. Bullets rip through his body with sprays of blood and gore, but he doesn't even hesitate, and it's hardly an eyeblink before he reaches the wralk. The wralk swings a massive, powerful fist at the beast with enough force to bend a steel beam - but drug psycho braces his legs and catches it like it's child's play. The wralk swings his gun in melee, but the man dodges it, grabbing the wralk by the arm and lifting him entirely off his feet with a wild throw at the crates on the left side of the alley. From this close, Ishmael and Yuuji can see the druggie's body is a haphazard mishmash of bodyparts that only "mostly" seem to go together - a real Frankenstein's monster of a man.
"FMU PEACEKEEPERS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" a new voice shouts from the left - echoed by the same in several different languages. A group of officers have appeared at the end of the alley and they aren't even waiting for a peaceful resolution to the confrontation: they've already started firing. Suddenly Mebasha and his crew are fighting in both directions, and Kwari Kiikro is attempting to flee - although one of his thugs gets snatched up by the psycho and ripped limb from limb.
Ishmael and Yuuji decide it's high time for a tactical retreat. They duck back inside the bar, hearts thumping, and listen to the chaos just outside as the door slides shut behind them. The rest of the bar patrons don't act like it's that big of a deal - most of them don't even glance in their direction as they return.
