Dragan Hadrien had a gun pressed against his back. Even more worryingly, it was becoming a familiar sensation.

The group of criminals marched him through the crowded streets of Breck Kor, surrounding him as inconspicuously as they could. Ruth Blaine was right behind him, the pistol she had hidden in her leather jacket poking against Dragan's shoulder blade.

The other criminal - Bruno at the moment, he was pretty sure - strolled next to the two of them, gloved hands stuffed into his pockets. Even though he'd changed into more casual garb, a black shirt and blue pants, the gloves remained. The ensemble wasn't even that casual anyway, not with the body armour obviously concealed beneath it.

Skipper walked at the head of the group, green coat spread out behind him. Unlike his crewmates, he hadn't bothered changing his outfit. Stupid or confident? Hard to say. Perhaps he was a recognizable figure, so there was no point disguising himself.

Dragan himself had been given a too-big white jacket to wear over his cadet suit. Apparently, they were keen on keeping the equipment contained inside it close at hand.

He squinted as a line of sweat ran past his eye. The multiple layers were more than a little uncomfortable in Caelus Breck's sweltering heat. The cadet suit was designed to be comfortable in a variety of climates, but the jacket just pushed things over the edge.

Vengeance, he told himself. Stay positive and focus on your inevitable vengeance.

Easier said than done. Dragan jerked his head out of the way of a particularly large bug that seemed to have taken a liking to him. The creature seemed like a hybrid between a cockroach and some flying insect indigenous to the planet; the seeding efforts of the Gene Tyrants clearly hadn't been very effective here.

They'd landed the ship in a hangar on the outskirts of the city that seemed designed to be as shady as possible. Cash passed hands, and no questions were asked.

It almost made him nostalgic for Crestpoole. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

"Left here," muttered Blaine so he could hear, as the group turned and began heading down a side-alley.

This group were well-coordinated, but in the way a squad of troops assigned to each other were. It was born from trust, rather than training. They'd been together for a year at least - Blaine slightly longer than Bruno.

The detour moved them away from the crowd, giving Dragan as much breathing room as was possible when you had a gun to your back.

"So," he said, with more bravado than he felt. "Do you actually have a plan, or are you just walking around until you get caught? Do you really think people won't recognise me just because I'm wearing a jacket? You must be pretty stupid."

Bruno shot him a glare. "Shut it."

Skipper spoke from the front of the group without looking back. "Let it go, Bruno. He's just trying to rile you up. A man after my own heart."

Dragan clenched his fists. He really didn't like it when others could tell what he was thinking. That was his role.

He went on: "That doesn't make me wrong, you know. If you don't think my face has been picked up by every camera in this city, you're an idiot. I've been counting them, and we’re in the triple digits."

Skipper stopped, his boots making a scraping sound against the concrete below as he turned. He leaned against the wall, against a patch of scrap metal a slightly different colour than the rest, and grinned.

"Triple digits, huh?" he grinned. "Well, that's very worrying. I'd be very concerned, Mr. Hadrien, very concerned - if the Supremacy were the ones in control of this city."

And with that, he tapped his fist rhythmically against the metal. A very specific rhythm - Supremacy Military Nonverbal, Dragan recognized, a way of speaking without needing words.

L-A-U-G-H-I-N-G D-O-G.

A moment after Skipper completed his message, there was a click from behind the patch of metal and the wall swung open like a door. Skipper stepped back.

Behind the door was a giant of a man - Pugnant without a doubt. Even though his presumably-golden eyes were concealed behind a pair of thick sunglasses, the maw of razor-sharp teeth in his mouth was unmistakable. The features of full-blooded Pugnant were much harder to hide than the comparatively small fangs of people like Ruth Blaine.

"What?" he said, voice a rumble, looking Skipper up and down. It seemed he had both the ability and the inclination to crush the other man's head in one of his hands.

Skipper leaned in theatrically. "Here to see the Hyena," he said in a mock-whisper. "We called ahead."

Ruth Blaine's grip on Dragan tightened just slightly, and Bruno's posture became more rigid. They weren't entirely sure they'd be welcome here. Dragan gulped; if they weren't safe here, he definitely wasn't.

One second passed, then another. A kind of bat native to the planet screeched from its nest above.

The Pugnant's eye twitched. For a moment, Dragan thought he was enraged, and braced himself for the blows that were to come, but then he realized the rest of the giant's face didn't reflect that. Not anger, then. The kind of face that came with the acquisition of information: there was some kind of display built into his eyeball.

"Follow me," the Pugnant grunted as he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the building. Skipper strolled after him - and a second after, Dragan found himself being prodded forwards by Blaine.

The building was dark, but Dragan's eyes adjusted quickly, allowing him to see the room at least a little more clearly.

The place seemed to have been an office at some point, but was now as abandoned as abandoned could get. The smashed remnants of desks were stuffed into one corner, a veritable mountain of wood and metal. Empty window frames had been filled in with planks of sturdy wood. Apart from them and the Pugnant, the only sign of life was one ambitious vine sneaking around the edge of a doorway.

Yes, it was as if the place had been designed specifically to look abandoned.

The Pugnant led them down a discrete set of stairs off to the side of the room - and the metal stairs went down for a long while, leading them at least below the street they'd come in from. With Skipper heading up the group and Bruno watching the back, they descended.

As they finally reached the bottom, the sound of music became audible, a deep, hoarse kind of instrument that Dragan wasn't familiar with. Along with that, there were the sounds of talking - of many people speaking at once. Not as abandoned as the upstairs made it seem, then.

Skipper leaned in. "The Hyena sure knows where to throw his parties, eh?"

Dragan didn't respond. He refused to engage in any kind of banter with these people.

The Pugnant led them through another doorway - this one guarded by two other burly guards - and into the next room.

The space was huge and chaotic, strobe lights dancing over every inch of it. It was full of people, dancing and shouting and some doing things much less safe for work. In one corner, a circle of cheering men watched two winged dog-things snap and bite at each other. In another, some kind of red liquor flowed freely into a basin through two heavy iron pipes.

Their group moved around the crowd, weaving around each crime-in-progress until they reached the man sat at the head of the room.

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The man was small and thin, but still possessed a sense of authority with his leisurely slouch. His white hair was so overgrown and unkempt that it was probably bigger than his head, while his facial hair had been trimmed to just a paper-thin zig-zag moustache. He looked up at them with two green eyes, their sclera pitch-black - the eyes of an Umbrant, designed for stealth work by the Gene Tyrants.

A young woman lay sprawled across his lap, long hair pooling on the floor below. Every now and then she would twitch violently, and her pupils were dilated to such a degree that they were barely visible. Still, she was grinning widely, and every now and then a giggle of bliss escaped through her teeth.

Dragan wrinkled his nose in disgust. She was obviously high on Bubble. That was a Crestpoole classic he didn't need a reminder of.

The man stared at Skipper, gaze impassive. His face twitched in and out of a compulsive smirk. "Apparently I'm expecting you," he said, voice doubled by the liquid undercurrent that pervaded Umbrant speech.

Skipper stepped forward, his face more serious than Dragan had seen him before. He was only annoying when it was safe to be so, it seemed.

"Our ship is damaged," he said, staring right into the eyes of the man - the Hyena, clearly. "We need repairs, with no questions asked."

"No questions asked, hm?" the Hyena chuckled, stroking the hair of his lady friend as he did. "That's a difficult ask, difficult, you know? So many people live here, and so many have questions to ask. You know? It's tough to ask no questions. That's a big ask from you, Skipper. Big ask. What would a man get in return for such a labour, hm?"

Dragan almost tuned the Hyena's speech out halfway through. This was clearly a man who liked the sound of his own voice, rephrasing the same statement half-a-dozen times like he was replaying a good song on his script.

"We have the funds," Skipper said. Apart from his mouth, he hadn't moved at all since the conversation began. A conscious effort to show that this Hyena couldn't intimidate him.

"Funds, funds, okay," said the Hyena, leaning back. "You've got funds, cool. Badass. Awesome, okay, yeah? But how much funds? How many? How much stater? One coin or many millions of digital stater? Big difference, you know?"

"Enough."

The Hyena grinned with sickly yellow teeth. "I decide how much is enough, friend."

"And how much do you decide?" As Skipper spoke, Dragan couldn't help but notice a few innocuous looking men subtly positioning themselves around the group. Hired muscle, with firearms concealed beneath their clothes. Ready to move at the first sign of trouble.

He gulped. Was he going to die because this Skipper idiot botched negotiations?

The Hyena regarded Skipper, cocking his head slightly as he looked the man up and down. He tapped a finger against his cheek - once, twice, thrice - then smiled, tongue playing against his moustache for a moment.

"Three thousand stater," he said.

Dragan winced. He didn't know anything about ships, really, but even he could tell that the repairs were not worth that much.

Skipper tutted. "That's extortionate."

"Yes. I'm an extortionist." The Hyena patted the woman on the head, and she barked out harsh laughter in return. The kind of laughter that was a biological response, not an emotional one.

The goons surrounding them visibly relaxed, one even returning to the nearby bar for drinks.

"I'll send you the deposit, then," Skipper said, fishing his script out of his coat. Some kind of accessory swung from it like a chain, some kind of bat mascot that had been popular a few years back.

The Hyena didn't even look at them as he replied. "Half the fee."

Immediately, the tension was back - and it was clear to everyone. Even the members of Skipper's group tensed up, Blaine looking like she was ready to leap into action at any second, and Serena - not Bruno - had a grin on her face that was just slightly bloodthirsty, one hand open and violet Aether crackling around it.

"I don't think that's very reasonable," Skipper said quietly.

A suffocating feeling settled over the scene like a heavy blanket, but the revellers took no notice and continued their party. As the crowd danced, the eyes of the negotiators locked onto each other, resolved to do whatever they had to do. Nervous fingers twitched against concealed pistols. Dragan took a step back, wondering if he could maybe slip away in the confusion, but was stopped by a glare from Blaine.

The Hyena put a hand to his chin, rubbing it pensively as he considered his options. His mouth opened and for a moment Dragan knew - he just knew - that the man was about to order his men to open fire.

But then his demeanour shifted just slightly, and when he spoke it was with a conciliatory tone: "One third?"

Skipper nodded. "Now that seems reasonable." He tapped a finger against the screen of his script, transferring the funds.

The Hyena laughed, returning to the slouched position he'd been enjoying at the start of the conversation. "Sorry for the unpleasantness, friend. Apologies, apologies, I apologize. This is a rough town, rough planet. You need to let people know you are not to be pushed around or else you will be pushed around, yes? I had to let you know that. A team of my engineers will be around to fix your ship - quietly, without them asking questions. Drinks?"

"That's okay, thanks. We need to get back - I know it looks effortless, but I need my beauty sleep."

The crime lord frowned a little when his hospitality was rejected, but shrugged all the same. "Do what you want. My boys will call you before they arrive."

With a nod, Skipper turned around and began walking out, swinging his arms with a feigned lack of care. "Come on, y'all. Daylight's burning."

Serena followed after him, followed by Blaine - for a moment Dragan stayed still, still focused on the tension that had pervaded the air, until a tap from Blaine's pistol jolted him back into reality.

The moment he jumped, just slightly, the Hyena's eyes flicked to look at him. They flickered through emotions - curiosity, recognition, and then a sense of smug satisfaction.

Had he recognised Dragan, then? Had the Supremacy put out an alert for him after all? If they were offering a reward for his return, there was a chance he'd be better off in the hands of someone like the Hyena, who'd be interested in the money, rather than Skipper's gang. Should he say something, then? Kick up a fuss?

As he was trying to summon up the resolve to act, Dragan's eyes drifted down to the woman on the Hyena's lap. She was giggling still, each laugh like the sound of cracking ice, and white foam was spilling through the gaps between her teeth.

Unwelcome memories rose back up to the surface. Familial hands wrapped around his throat, eyes staring at him wide with hatred. Spiteful, ruining words.

This crime lord was just like the ones who had made Crestpoole a hell. There was no way he was throwing himself back into that willingly.

A ghost of the prior tension followed the group as they walked out of the underground club, led by the massive Pugnant who had let them in originally. Even when walking up the stairs, Dragan was tense, expecting gunfire to start up any second. But it never came.

More than once he caught the Pugnant looking at him, though.

As the scrap door opened, letting in the blazing sunlight, Skipper bowed theatrically to their escort. "Thank you, thank you, my friend. We appreciate your hospitality, Mr…?"

The height difference made it hard to tell, but Dragan was sure that the Pugnant rolled his eyes. "Guimo."

"Thank you, Mr. Guimo."

"Just Guimo."

"Mr. Just Guimo?"

"Fuck off."

And with that, they were thrown back out into the boiling streets of Breck Kor.

-

The Hyena looked up as Guimo returned. It was a rare event that his best enforcer came back empty-handed, but it seemed that this was one of those occasions.

He leaned forward, letting the girl on his lap topple over onto the floor. Two assistants dragged her away by her legs, her choked laughter growing quieter as they pulled her into the back. That was fine: he'd gotten tired of her anyway. These slumfolk could only handle three or four pure doses of Bubble before their reactions stopped being amusing.

"You didn't get an opportunity, Guimo? Sad, very sad. There was no chance for you, then?"

Guimo shrugged. "The boss had his guard up. Tough customer. Didn't want to fight him in enclosed space. Property damage."

"I see, I see, I see, I see. Interesting. And the boy?"

"It's the guy he told you about," Guimo nodded. "Dragan Hadrien. No mistake."

The Hyena sat up in his chair, clapping his hands together with a resounding slap. "Badass! Georg, get my pet on the phone! He will want to know about this A-S-A-P! As soon as possible!"

Georg said something muffled into oblivion by his gasmask - and as he did, the guards ushered the crowd of revellers out of the club. Some whined, but none dared to disobey the Hyena.

The moment they were clear, Georg tapped a leather-gloved finger against his script and a massive holographic screen flickered into existence in front of the Hyena's throne. On it was the sweaty and piggish face of Lord Mayor Rikhail, gaping humorously.

"I told you," he hissed, eyes flicking around. "Never call me on this number. There's a Special Officer poking his nose around, for Y's sake!"

The Hyena raised an eyebrow. "Swearing to God, Lord Mayor? Calling upon the lord? I thought the Supremacy was supposed to be self-reliant, no? Able to rely on themselves?"

The Lord Mayor looked like he was about to shout some expletive, but he clearly didn't dare. Instead, he spoke quietly, an animal long since broken in: "What do you want?"

That was his pet. The Hyena smiled. "A young man named Dragan Hadrien just walked into my place of business."

The pig perked up, leaning forward with such speed that he almost bumped his face into the screen. "You have him?" he said, spittle artillery escaping from his mouth.

"No, no, no, no. But I can get him, grab him, snatch him, find him, seize him."

The Hyena's smile spread into a grin.

"For a price."