Veridian Sector, Orbit of Ifrit

Time passes quickly as money does when you're this far out in space.

The Fringe is unforgiving, and the merchants and traders who inhabit it are just as shrewd. As Dell predicted, the money from the Hayes gig, or the Mori gig as they remember it now, is spent rapidly. Unity Dollars are valuable anywhere, even deep in the void, but that doesn't mean the prices are reasonanable; if anything, the lack of supply makes everything more expensive.

Fortunately for the two bounty hunters, work is plentiful out here, both wet and hard labor. Domitia's power armor proves helpful as both a weapon and a tool—just as capable of mending the hulls of ships as it is of rending men apart.

Because of this, they sold themselves as escorts, guarding merchant vessels or pioneering settlers looking to snatch up the rare, abandoned Horizon Construction project. Fighting is rare, as they more often have to deal with the ordinary perils of the void—with aging ships and a lack of spare parts proving to be far more common adversaries than gangers or pirates.

During this time, Dell does what he does best: talking. He spends whatever time he can mingling—bending elbows with traders, greasing the hands of settlers, and playing cards with fellow mercs and bounty hunters. In these conversations, he gets what he is really after: information.

The picture of the Veridian Sector is a familiar one, yet it has its own complications. The various cliques and syndicates, each with its own spider web of alliances and rivalries, have interests in keeping what meager supplies can flow out here while also appealing to the Space Pirates.

To Dell, Veridian is to the Pirates what the Core Worlds are to the Coalition. Here, they lick their wounds, stalk up on supplies, and plot their next raids. Because of that, most clans don't seem interested in fighting, with the syndicates formed on the handful of completed stations and planetside colonies being allowed to run the show, so long as tribute is paid.

There was one caveat, one detail he managed to gleam after getting in good with a pirate of the Rusty Claws, a first-mate named Wyatt. The human had let them know that they, along with the other clans, knew damn well who they were. If they behaved and didn't cause any trouble, the clans would let bygones be bygones.

As such, hunting pirates was considered off the menu for some time until the Zavin Gang decided to cause trouble. New blood, fresh deserters from the Second Sphere who wanted to try the pirate's life.

They weren't exactly welcomed, as they were outsiders and didn't abide by the standard clan oaths, especially regarding how they interacted with other pirates. A few shootouts later, and the Zavin Gang was wanted by the clans. However, rather than have it be a scramble among the pirates, they kicked it to the bounty hunters who'd made Veridian Station their home.

This was the real stress test for Domitia's new ion lance. There had been scraps here and there, perhaps even the strange alien fauna, but not a real fight. The Zavins had shells—weaponized exoskeletons that made them much more of a challenge for the bounty hunters.

Finding them proved easy, and fighting them was an exciting challenge for the Bellator. By the time Domitia and the Zavins clashed, they had become brass fiends permanently augmented into their suits. Meat was replaced with metal, and nerves partially sparked from the strain of all those augs. It did make them dangerous foes, yet, in the end, maddened augs couldn't last against a bellator for too long. She picked them off, one by one, taking the gang leader Zavin last, his head about the only 'ganic bit of him left.

And so all that leads them here, to Ifrit.

As the Providence emerges back into real space, the first thing Dell notices is that the rads are off the charts. High levels of gamma rays pollute the scope and make it hard for him to read anything that is going on. After some adjusting, he can see the typical travel lanes. However, a good portion of his flying has to be done by his own eyes and intuition. He guides the Providence carefully, directing it to the hazy, magenta orb in the void that is Ifrit.

According to the rumor mill, the planet had been tagged as a refueling point. It would later be turned into a full-on energy exporter. Arcologies were already built to facilitate harnessing the geothermal energy from the planet's overactive core. While it would eventually fail, it was a few centuries in the future. So, for now, people would man it and sell the charged ammonia fuel to the highest bidder.

"I'm not looking forward to the fuel costs," Dell ponders verbally. We ain't exactly rolling in cash."

The swirling clouds of Ifrit become more defined as the Providence grows closer to it. The signs of deeper reds and lighter pinks act as borders between the roiling clouds of toxic gas. In places where the clouds broke, greenish spots of land or dark red lakes of liquid are seen, only for them to be subsumed underneath another storm front.

Dell grits his teeth and checks the fuel levels of the Providence. He feels them grind against one another as he sees the gauge below a quarter. He still has reserves, but those aren't supposed to be used, and even then, the ammonia within them might've begun to lose its charge, warranting him to consider swapping that fuel out. Regardless, he takes a breath and begins his descent.

Why anyone would live here is beyond Dell. As the ship breaks into the atmosphere, it becomes an even greater mystery as he feels the sheer force of the storms pound onto the Providence. He curses and keeps the ship steady; following the instruction of the contact, he keeps heading towards the center of arcology, Hengist Heights.

The ship shakes and pulls itself in unpredictable directions, as if it has become possessed by the storms swirling around it. From the cockpit, Dell can see the clouds swirling all around, angry, with wrathful lightning sparking over the shields like hoarfrost.

Through these clouds of chemical wrath, he sees a shape - like a mountain of steel set against a pink horizon, the arcology can be seen. Like most Horizon Arcologies, Hengist has the appearance of cylinders stacked atop one, which grows increasingly narrow until it reaches a point, typically crowned by a comms array and a Liminal Beacon at its absolute apex. Yet Hengist's head remains barron, the very top of the arcology unfinished, the level left open to the elements. As Dell brings the ship closer, he observes that the scaffolds and cranes have decayed and rotted away, the interiors melting under the relentless magenta death that swirls overhead.

Dell makes a mental note to look over the Providence as this toxic atmosphere might've taken its toll on his ship.

He begins to circle the arcology and flip through channels to see if he can contact anyone for a possible hanger bay to land in. It takes him several agonizing minutes to finally find something akin to an open channel, although it's a grainy mess.

"Providence to Hengist control, do you read over?" Dell asks over the comm.

Something answers; it's messy, but the words "Bay thirteen."

"Acknowledged," Dell replies and begins the hunt for the bay.

As it would turn out, bay thirteen is easily highlighted by the large 'one' and 'three' written beside it in a rusting white. Dell has to circle around the arcology before he gets a good enough angle, but eventually, he finds it. Pulling the Providence into the hangar bay, it landed with a thud that vibrated throughout the freighter. After landing, the door behind him closes, and the wall in front of the ship opens up, the platform underneath rolling forward, taking the Providence inside the arcology proper.

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"Who the hell are you?!" A much more clear and much angry voice comes over the comm startling Dell, "Not expecting anyone right now; you better have a good explanation for why the fuck you're trying to land in this storm!"

"Have some biz here," Dell answers neutrally, "Meeting a Wyatt Hagen. Flying the boat, Steel Rain. Also, it ain't like there is any clear weather on this orb anyhow, chief."

There is something akin to a curse before the voice replies, "Still, storms steal any signal away; you'll need to schedule your arrival next time, Providence."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll let my secretary know next time." Dell barks back before closing the comm.

The Providence is eventually brought into a spot next to two other freighters, both ammonia tankers. Their crews scramble across the hangar bay, doing last-minute checks. Dell figures they're independent tankers as they have no company insignia, and their crew wears a motley of colors and outfits.

Dell powers down the ship and stands up in his chair, cracking his back and stretching his arms. He scratches his chin, feeling more stubble than usual. He figures he needs a shave and makes a mental note to find some razors here if they even have luxuries like that.

He hops out of the cockpit and pulls his hair back into a ponytail, as he's long since run out of hair gel to keep his pompadour up. Dell follows the sound of metal grinding against metal and the occasional grunt to eventually find Domitia.

She has taken one of the unused storage bays as a gym, the space filled with weights and a treadmill, although currently she is in full plate minus her helmet, the power off, doing one armed push ups. Every rep she alternates hands. She looks up at Dell, sweat rolling down her face.

"We're on Ifrit?" She asks, between breaths.

"We are. Better finish what you're doing; we got a date."

"Finishing up here soon," Domitia replies.

"Right, take a shower as well. Don't need you stinking up the station."

"Hmm," Domitia smiles, "Like you need any help with that."

"Har, har."

After a lukewarm shower, the pair of bounty hunters exit the ship and find that the hanger bay stretches around the arcology, with dozens of ships in various states of wear and tear lining it. The ceiling above holds great lights that shine down on every pad in dull yellow light. Despite this, the bay is still dark in some parts. Domitia can see figures huddled around in those dark corners, sharing vapor or drinks in plastic bags. Pit crews ride around on grav lifts, hauling fuel and large chests of tools as they go about servicing the numerous vessels that inhabit the hangar bay. The pair of bounty hunters find a way into the archeology via an airlock managed by a service drone built into the wall.

“W-Welcome t-t-t-o, Hengist Heights, arc-arc-arcology.” The drone had seen better days; most of the corpo approved face had been drawn over with pens, markers, and paint, with all sorts of profanities and signatures written all over it, "May-may-may we in-interest you in o-our, full-service maintenance package? It's on-only a-a-a mere, forty-five-hundred script or twenty-five hundred unity dollars."

"No thanks." Dell answers, hopping onto the desk before the drone, "How much is a bay?"

"A-a-a bay-bay-bay-bay is, three-hundred-and-forty-nine script and ninety-nine cents per twenty-nine hour cycle." The drone twitches a bit, causing Dell to step back and Domitia to rest her hand on her hand cannon, "Would you like to refuel as well?"

"Yeah, uh, how much a kiloliter?"

"F-fuel costs-costs-costs are, nine-hundred and twenty-five, script a kiloliter."

Domitia twitches, "Ridiculous."

"That's putting it lightly," Dell replies, "Fuck, this job can maybe pay to refuel us fully, just barely though."

"W-would y-you like to fuel up now--"

"No, no, thank you." Dell answers, "Let's get paid first," He then goes ahead and pays for a bay for the day, upon which he curses, "We forgot the head."

After retrieving the head of the late Zavin, the pair of bounty hunters pass through the hanger bay's airlock and into the arcology proper. The spire's interior is as broken and beaten up as the autonomous attendant who let them in, although it holds a charm.

The cold, grey steel walls have been made into murals of vibrant colors and styles, illuminated by fading orange lights that shine overhead. The aisles that Domitia and Dell walk down are mostly empty, with occasional passersbys giving them a wide berth and curious looks at the head in a jar they carry along.

The level they were on, according to their contact, had been earmarked as a shopping area for the eventual residents of the arcology. With shop spaces built into the walls, although they hold no corporate brands. Some have been turned into homes, bars, or a mixture of both, while others remain empty, save for the trash and filth thrown in there.

It's one of these abandoned, empty shells of businesses that Domitia and Dell arrive at to meet their contact. This particular one still has its roll-down door pulled over it, and a pair of augs lean against it. One of them, a human, has what remains of his 'ganic flesh tattooed with purple and red patterns that start from the crown of his bald head, then roll down his shoulders, ending where his augs begin. The other, a konii, has his fur dyed a deep red, the edges of it shining almost pink; one of his cyber eyes keeps track of Domitia and Dell while the other scans the hall for anyone else coming.

The human pirate lazily looks over to the two bounty hunters, slowly putting a hand on an inactive plasma blade that rests in a sheath on his chest. He raises an eyebrow, grins, and saunters over to them, his gaze fixed not on either bounty hunter but on the head in the jar.

"Well, well, well, ain't it, Zav!" He gets down on his haunches and taps the glass of the jar. "Not very responsive, must be a sleep."

"Oh, he's taking a big sleep," Dell says. "Wyatt in there?"

"Sure is," he knocks on the roll-down door, which begins to rise. "Go on in."

Inside, the store space has been converted into a crude saw-bones hutt. Wyatt is at its center, laid on a table, a wiry grumlian working on one of his cyber arms. Hanging from hooks and mounted on walls, a plethora of augs of all kinds can be found, most of them looking like they had been taken off the dead. At least that's what Domitia thinks, judging from the blood stains. At the back and in the corners of the shop, more pirates waited. They appeared relaxed, sitting down or leaning up against the wall, but all got irons on their hips and watched the bounty hunters like birds of prey.

"Right, where is he?" Wyatt asks, puffing a cigar as the saw-bones ply his trade.

Domitia saunters forth, dropping the container and holding Zavin's head on a table next to the pirate. Wyatt looks over, puffing a few times as he examines the head. At that point, the saw-bones finishes up, the cyber arm letting out a click as it reactivates. With a groan, the pirate takes the cigar out of his mouth and puts it out on the container.

"Fucker got what he deserved. Mess with the best, die like the rest." Wyatt looks up to Domitia and asks, "Didn't think to take him alive?"

"He was blitzed out of his mind, Wyatt," Dell chimes in. Taking him alive wasn't an option."

"That's a shame," Wyatt answers, "Cause I gotta only pay ya half then."

"Half?" Domitia asks.

"Oh, come on, Wyatt, you can work something out for us, right?"

"'Farid, I can't," The pirate goes on, "I put my neck out for y'all, and the Cap was clear. We wanted him alive so we could give him a proper punishment. This," He taps the glass with the finger of his steel arm, "Fucks with that."

"You don't think we didn't do the same? He had a whole host of brass fiends backin' him up." Dell retorts. "C'mon man, at least give us fifty. Fuel is fucked here, and you know it."

"No can do," Wyatt stood his ground, he pauses, clicking his tongue, then whistling, his crew then file out one by one. He looks to the grumlian saw-bones, handing him a fat stack of script, "Scram. Need your shop for a moment."

He stands up, pulling his coat back on before sitting on the slab, "Do have some info, I'd consider it worth ten-gs."

Domitia looks to Dell, raising an eyebrow. He replies with a snort, shrugging, and clears his throat.

"Alright. What is it then?" Dell asks.

"Got it from a good buddy of mine that Sassia was disowned by his clan." Wyatt says, "Serious shit. Sounds like a coup."

"Well, that's fun," Dell remarks.

"Trouble in the Fallen Stars?" Domitia asks.

"Something like that." Wyatt leans forward. "Last I heard, he made it out to here. I can't say if he's got anyone in his corner anymore. From what I heard, Fallen Stars are going back to the Second Sphere. There is serious money to be made being mercs out there."

"Guess it's full circle then," Domitia says with a hint of a chuckle, "Mercs to pirates, then back to mercs."

"Such is the life cycle of a shit-bag," Dell adds.

"Point is, I don't think you'll have to worry about his ass anymore. Heard he was back to merc-work, so hopefully, he gets zeroed, and we can all forget about him." Wyatt says with a laugh, "Anyway." He produces an envelope from said jacket and hands it to Domitia. "Pleasure doing biz."