Nine hours earlier...
Working as a security guard made for long, boring nights -- but if you were careful about which jobs you took, it was easy work.
In terms of difficulty, the night shift for overnight passenger liners was well on the easy end. All the passengers were either staying overnight at hotels or had reached their destination at the Cradle. With that, and the fact that a passenger liner was much too big to be stolen by some punk, the only real concerns were stowaways -- and those were never really much trouble.
Still annoying to deal with, though.
Graham sighed as he saw the minor alert pop up on the monitor of his workstation. An unregistered heat signature had been detected in the cargo hold -- so either someone was trying to steal some luggage or, more likely, a stowaway had popped their head out of their den. Either way, he had to deal with it.
He grunted as he sat up from the cheap chair the company had provided for his little security booth -- he wasn't as young as he used to be, and movements that previously would have been completely natural for him now took conscious effort.
"Gonna check it out," he said out loud -- only to realise a second later that it was pointless. He was alone, after all.
Originally they'd done these night watches in pairs, but a couple of months ago the company had decided it was more cost-effective just to have a single watchman for these late shifts. He had access to the security automatics if he needed them to deal with any hoodlums trying to steal, but to be honest they rarely ever worked either. At the time of the changes, Graham had done his best to kick up a fuss -- but without a union to stand behind him, all making himself inconvenient would accomplish was getting fired.
Still, he wasn't helpless. Graham kept a steady hand on his sidearm, still in its holster, as he stepped outside of the security booth. It was just a stun pistol, but he was fairly confident in his accuracy -- he headed to the range for recreational purposes a couple of times a month, after all.
At this time, the massive hangar containing the passenger liner -- the Woven Knot -- was mostly pitch-black, illuminated only by the low-power lights built into the ceiling.
Click.
A cone of light spread out from the lamp on the collarbone of Graham's uniform, spanning over the entrance ramp to the Woven Knot. Before stepping inside, he checked his script -- the heat alert had disappeared, so whatever stowaway was in the ship had gone back into their little hidey-hole.
To be perfectly honest, that probably meant that Graham could go back to his station and say it was just a rat or something -- but he hadn't gotten this far in life by half-assing his work. Graham took another step forward, peering into the cargo hold of the Woven Knot.
His light scanned over the inside of the ship, passing over bound-down metal crates and transport consoles bolted to the walls. Usually, in cases like this, stowaways would use some sort of smuggling compartment built into the ship by unscrupulous owners -- or they hid inside one of the transport crates themselves, though that often resulted in death by suffocation.
Usually served them right: if you needed to get somewhere, just buy a ticket.
"Warning you now!" Graham called into the darkness, his voice gravelly from the hours since he'd last spoken. "I've got a gun, and I know how to use it! Make things easy for yourself!"
The only thing that answered him was silence, save for the faint humming of machinery. Looked like they were gonna make him work for it. Blowing out his breath of air, Graham unhooked his pistol from its holster -- maybe they'd get a second shot for his troubles.
He took a step forward into the ship, metal creaking under his boot.
Something rushed by his vision. A flash of silver light that shined by him in an instant, clearly the reflection of something metallic. Graham barked out a near-incoherent command, raising his arms to point his pistol at the source of the disturbance…
...only to find that both his arms had been cleanly severed at the elbow.
Huh?
That was his last thought.
The light flashed by again -- and at the very same time that the first twinges of pain began to make themselves known, Graham's head fell from his shoulders.
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Before the head of the security guard could hit the floor, it was snatched out of the air by one of the group -- and crushed between the powerful jaws of Anduan.
The hunched-over figure was naked save for a pair of filthy, torn-apart jeans, his finger and toenails grown out and sharpened like claws. His body was perpetually emaciated, ribs and bones clearly visible through the indentations on his skin -- even the shape of his skull was visible through his head. Stray tufts of black hair pooled down from his mostly bare scalp, a contrast to the grey hair poking out from between his teeth as he chewed the stolen skull. Streams of tears spilled out from his eyes as he swallowed the slurry the head had been reduced to, sobs racking his body as he gorged himself.
"Sorry," he wept, even as he dragged the rest of the body over with his hands and brought the shoulder up to his mouth. "Sorry, sorry, so sorry, oh god, oh god…"
"It's no biggie, Anduan," chuckled a suave voice from the darkness. "If he doesn't have the good sense to tell when he's in danger, he's got no business being alive in the first place."
The speaker stepped forward into the light still shining from the corpse's collarbone, as if it were the spotlight on a stage.
There was no shortage of killers and murderers in the galaxy. If there was a human being, there was an assassin willing to take money to kill them. Among those assassins, there was no formal ranking system -- the lawless nature of their work prevented that -- but a general consensus came about whenever you had a community. Animals could sense which of them was the strongest.
In the criminal community, Eli Masadora was called the King of Killers.
As he stepped into view, the segments of the whip-sword he'd used to dispatch the guard locked back into place, and he slipped the weapon back into its holster. He ran a hand through his bleached-blond hair and wrinkled his nose as he watched Anduan quickly devour the corpse.
All in all, it took the wretch only around thirty seconds to erase all evidence of the murder, even licking up the blood that had pooled onto the floor. His task complete, Anduan curled up into a ball, whimpering to himself.
"Right, lads!" Eli Masadora called out, flipping the collar of his fur coat as he addressed the shadowy cargo hold. "Looks like we've made landfall, so if you'll be kind enough to evacuate the premises and get on with our mutual business?"
This little gathering had no leader -- they'd come together only for a mutual opportunity -- but the word of Eli Masadora held weight all the same. One by one, the assassins that had infiltrated the Woven Knot walked out, taking their first steps onto the Cradle.
It was quite the crowd: a veritable red carpet of murder.
The enigmatic King Smile, surrounded by a perpetual haze of white-and-grey Aether like videograph static, cocked the massive monitor that encased his head as he stepped out of the ship. The neon-green grinning face that flickered on his monitor switched to a surprised expression for a moment as the bizarre man took his first look at the Cradle. Then, without so much as a final word to his traveling companions, he charged off in a blur of movement.
Grotto and Samantha Helkin chuckled at a private joke between themselves, Grotto helping his wife down from the ramp with his one remaining hand. They were unusual among the assassins in the way they weren't unusual -- if you saw them in a crowd, you'd never so much at glance twice at the young couple. Dark hair and casual clothes, the only thing about them capable of drawing attention being the murderous gleam in their eyes.
Anduan, the wretched thing, nibbled at his lips nervously as he crawled out of the ship on all fours. His fearful eyes flicked in every direction, taking in every possible source of danger in a split-second. He said nothing, but the rumbling of his stomach was already audible -- the gluttonous creature was never satisfied for long.
There were more, needless to say, hired killers of every shape and size -- but they were fodder, small-fry, brought along for quantity rather than quality. There were only two reasons in this business to remember somebody's name: if they were capable of killing you, or if you'd been hired to kill them. The peanut gallery didn't meet either of those conditions.
And, of course, the King of Killers himself -- Eli Masadora stretched as he finally got out of the limiting confines of the Woven Knot, taking pleasure in the series of cracks from his tired joints. The mob of murderers turned to glance at him as he stepped out into the dark hangar, as if looking for his approval to proceed.
"Hunter Game, eh?" he mused, flipping open his script as he scanned through the rules one last time. The rates were good, and it sounded like a lark. He grinned up at his fellows. "Best of luck to you, lads. May the best man win and all that tosh."
The next time Eli Masadora left this station, he knew his blade would be coated with Oliphant blood.
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Now…
"Aunt Carla," Keiko hissed over the script. "What the hell is going on? Did you get that message too?"
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Carla swallowed as she strode down the hallway of the Oliphant compound, script pressed tight against her ear. Ever since the Hunter Game message had been sent out, the remaining family members at headquarters had been in an uproar -- they'd only just lost one family member, and already they were under threat of losing countless more.
"Everyone got it," Carla replied, her voice grim, as she paused by a foggy window. "All the family members and their subordinates, at least. Did you get one?"
With a swipe of her fingers across the windowsill, emergency measures were activated, and heavy shutters slid down to cover the potential opening. Snipers would be a serious risk going forward -- she'd need to keep her awareness as sharp as possible.
"I didn't, no," Keiko replied. "But Cottian del Sed contacted me -- apparently he got one, so whoever's doing this must know he's on the station."
"Mm," Carla nodded. "That makes sense -- I didn't consider that. Did Cottian mention anything else?"
"No, nothing…" There was a pause over the call, and when Keiko spoke again it was with a kind of dawning horror. "Oh, god. You don't think he'll…?"
Carla bit her lip as she planted her hand against the metal shutter, taking comfort in the chill that radiated out into her body.
"I don't think he'll go after either of us," she said slowly, turning the words over in her mouth experimentally. "Seeing as he's already getting a paycheck out of us. He'll want to double dip if possible, going after other targets while working for us at the same time…"
"Well, we can't let him do that!" Caution was absent from Keiko's voice as she cried out. "What if he goes after Chloe or Rico or Scout, or someone else from the family?!"
"Relax." It was Carla's voice to hiss, to remind Keiko of the secrecy of their endeavour. "We can still manoeuvre this. We'll feed Cott minor subordinates, ones we know can't be trusted not to participate in this game, to keep him happy. Then -- as soon as we figure out who he was working for last year, we eliminate him."
"Won't he figure that out, though?" Keiko whispered anxiously. "He's not stupid."
Carla's next words were hurried -- there were two people walking down the hallway towards her, and she didn't want to be overheard. "We'll play it by ear. Gotta go. Love you."
She clicked the script off, turning to her siblings as they reached her -- the muscle-bound Roy towering over the robed Valentina.
"Hey Carla," Roy rumbled, his arm around his younger sister. "It okay if we talk for a sec?"
"Y preserve..." Valentina was muttering, her own arms pulled tight around herself. "Oh, Y preserve…"
Carla had always been somewhat distant from her other siblings -- there wasn't much of an age difference between them, but they were from different generations all the same. She'd been born in the time before their father Abraham had started really putting effort into building up his dynasty: the child of a prostitute, rather than a partner selected for the resources they could provide for the syndicate. As such, she was more of a direct subordinate to their father than the head of a subfamily like the rest.
That was an advantage in some ways, a disadvantage in others. Like now -- her own siblings approaching her like they were making a petition to a superior.
"What's up?" Carla asked, slipping her script into the pocket of her skirt.
"Rico," Valentina said, her ringed fingers fidgeting. "I haven't seen him since Jacques… well. Nobody's seen him, nobody knows where he is. And this message -- if he's out there, in the city, he's in danger."
"Shit," Carla clicked her tongue. "He left right after the murder?"
"I haven't seen him since then," Valentina repeated.
Roy jabbed a thumb at himself, his brow furrowed seriously. "I already said I'm willing to go get the kid. There's nothing more manly than looking after your own, but you said we should set up shop like this was a siege. Staying in a secure location with only our most trusted subordinates, right? But I'm going after him if you think it's the right call."
It was unlikely that those playing the Hunter Game would be able to take out Roy Oliphant-Dawkins easily, but still…
"Go get him," Carla nodded. "Bring him back here safe -- but try to avoid letting anyone see you. Can't be too careful."
Roy nodded, grinning, but it was obvious that none of Carla's words regarding caution had actually reached him. Like a big child, he bounded down the hallway, arms pumping as he ran on his way.
"He'll be alright," Valentina muttered, more to reassure herself than anything else. "Rico, I mean. He'll be alright. We've taught him well, paid for the best tutors. He knows how to look after himself. It'll… it'll be alright…"
Carla opened her arms to give her younger sister a hug, pulling her close. "That's right," she whispered, rubbing her back. "It'll be alright..."
It was a lie, of course. After a night like tonight, she doubted anyone would be alright.
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Their little group -- Dragan, Ruth, Bruno and Rico -- charged down the street, trying to ignore the curious gazes of the countless merchants and passers-by of the marketplace. Heads stuck out of stalls, eyes tracked them, and Dragan couldn't help but feel like there was a flash of greed in most of those looks.
Had they received the Hunter Game rules, too, then? There was no way of telling how far that had been circulated. The second page of the document contained names and faces for all the direct family members and their closest subordinates, so anyone who had gotten them would know Rico Oliphant-Blanco on sight.
A number of main roads had been closed -- probably by design -- immediately after the Hunter Game rules had gone out, so they were being forced to take a circuitous, roundabout path to get back to the Oliphant compound.
Dragan grimaced as they reached the end of the marketplace, seeing the next street they'd have to make their way through. It was absolutely packed with people -- an ocean of bobbing heads. If they tried to move through that, it would be child's play for someone to just shank Rico as they passed by.
He jerked his head over to the side -- towards an alcove adjacent to the marketplace -- and the group made their way into it.
"This isn't gonna work," Dragan said seriously. "We keep going this way, we're just making ourselves easy targets."
Ruth nodded grimly -- her face was still concealed behind her Skeletal mask, but Dragan was willing to bet her expression was just as grave. "What do we do, then? Move onto the rooftops?"
Dragan shook his head. "You'd probably be able to make it back quick if you were on your own, but if we're moving as a unit that's just gonna slow us down. We'd be easy targets for snipers."
Rico frowned. "Well, what, then? We can't go forward, we can't go up…"
Dragan put a hand to his chin, mulling over their options. His eyes flicked over to Bruno, who was still holding his script in his hands. "Any luck?"
Bruno scowled. "Nope. Skipper's still not picking up no matter how many times I call."
Damn it. What the hell was that idiot doing? Dragan looked back to Rico. "And your script isn't making calls, right?"
"Stopped working right after receiving the Hunter Game rules," Rico sighed. "Maybe there was a virus attached with the file or something? What do you think?"
Why the hell would I know?
"Doesn't matter," Dragan grunted. "We'll just have to go about this another way. If the rest of us can find another hiding place to keep safe for the time being, one of us can quickly move back to the headquarters, get some help, and come back to get all of us safe."
"You want me to head back and get Skipper, then?" Ruth asked.
"Maybe not. If the two of us stay with Rico, my Gemini Shotgun can handle defence and you can handle offence. Bruno and Serena have offence and defence all in one body, so they're probably the best to make the trip back." He turned to them. "Is that okay with you guys?"
Serena nodded happily. "Sure! We're real fast, so we can be back in a flash!"
"Right. Get going, then."
The del Sed pair didn't need anything more than that. With a flare of violet Aether, Serena leapt up off the ground and pulled herself up onto the roof of the adjoining building, disappearing from view.
"Okay," Dragan went on, eyes flicking between Ruth and Rico. "Now we find somewhere to lay low."
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Bruno could understand why Ruth liked this sort of thing so much. Up here, away from the hustle and bustle on the streets, there was a distinct sense of freedom -- he imagined the only thing above this sensation would be actually flying over the buildings.
He drew on freerunning training he'd received from the UAP as he manoeuvred across the rooftops, barely touching the ground for more than a moment at a time as he hopped from foothold to foothold. Moving this way, it wouldn't take too long to reach the Oliphant compound no matter how quickly he went, but he didn't want to waste a second where the others could be in danger.
Most of this area was under construction, so there wasn't much in terms of people to watch out for -- a few workers coming off of their shifts, maybe, but their eyes were easy to avoid. Bruno dropped into a roll as he leapt from a communication tower onto the second-story of an apartment building. The entire complex was coated in a thick layer of dust that would surely be scrubbed away when construction was completed -- but even so, it made his footsteps feel heavy and clumsy as he continued to run.
His script rang.
Mr. Skipper! Serena cried enthusiastically. He finally got back to us, Bruno!
"Took him long enough," Bruno muttered, skidding to a halt as he put the script to his ear. "Skipper, situation's bad. We need you to --"
It wasn't Skipper.
"Yo, Bruno," said Cottian del Sed.
Bruno's eyes widened -- and in the very same moment, a bullet slammed into his foot at sickening speeds. He was immediately sent sprawling down onto the floor, the front of his left foot utterly demolished by the blow: the projectile had gone right through his Aether defences, mangling his toes and lodging into the flesh.
Cott, the Hunter Game, Dragan and Ruth, Skipper, the attack, the bleeding… all the different concerns swirled around within Bruno's skull, and for a moment a distinct sense of nausea welled up in his throat. What was happening? What the hell was happening?!
His vision swam unclear, as if he were about to pass out. Every breath felt like he was vomiting up razors.
No. Bruno shook his head, trying in vain to clear out the cobwebs of confusion, but it was no use. All of this was too much. All of this was too much. Long dead hands were tearing out his fingernails. Black blurs were burning at his eyeballs.
Bruno del Sed fled to the back of his own mind and slammed the door shut behind him.
Cott…
Serena del Sed stood up to face the enemy. Pain was no object in her current state of mind: she stood as heavy on her damaged foot as she did on her good one. Her eyes were wide with fury, pupils dilated to their utmost, angry saliva dripping from her bared teeth.
Her enemy wasn't visible, but she knew that it was here.
"Cott!" she screamed out into the night, with the hatred of a feral dog. "Kill you! Kill you!"
Swords sharpened in her hands, ready to taste blood.