Semiramis Natu stood at the center of her command bridge, her cold red gaze fixed on the massive 3D schematic floating before her. The holo-display showed every inch of the Blitzkrieg, the mysterious titan-class ship that had managed to evade the eyes of the UGTR for dangerously too long. A vessel of this size could bypass the strict and well-defended Sol System security scans and patrols for this long. There was a terrifying and dangerous possibility that there were unknown parties that had already penetrated deep within the Sol System that the UGTR knew nothing about.
The tactical holo-map detailed the ship’s massive size, the formidable array of weapons, and its almost mythic capability to house entire fleets within its hull. Around her, the officers of her fleet whispered amongst themselves, exchanging glances as they marveled at the data streaming across their consoles, showing the sheer scale of the vessel. Even the most seasoned of them struggled to process how a ship of this magnitude could exist without triggering alarms across the UGTR’s vast surveillance network.
"Unbelievable…" one officer muttered under his breath, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“This can’t be real,” muttered one officer, Lieutenant Dagan, his voice low but filled with disbelief. “This must be some sort of cloaking display that was meant to intimidate others. How could a ship like that exist without us knowing?”
Semiramis didn’t flinch at their murmurs. Her expression remained stoic, and calculating, as she studied the readings and data collected from the wreckage of her brother's fleet.
Blitzkrieg had left nothing but ruins in its wake.
She silenced the murmurs with a subtle hand motion, her gaze unflinching.
“It exists,” she said quietly, her voice cold and certain. “The wreckage of my brother's fleet attests to that.”
Her words cast a chilling silence over the bridge. The crew had all now knew of Admiral Vebenson Natu’s and his fleet’s demise, a crushing defeat at the hands of an unknown force—a pirate ship, no less. Thanks to the data that they had salvaged from the wrecks and the drones that were sent by Vebenson’s fleet, they were able to know in advance the known capabilities of Blitzkrieg.
Although she felt something was strange with her brother’s actions, Fleet Admiral Semiramis hadn’t shown any outward signs of grief when the news had come. What was on her mind right now was to know the real reason for what triggered her brother to seek some misplaced glory in the belt and became the very reason for his death.
Semiramis studied the schematic, her mind running through possible explanations of this ship’s existence. She already received the order to capture this ship from UGTR High Command with the priority of either capturing or salvaging the target ship, Blitzkrieg. This confirmed her suspicions about the High Command that not one of them knew of this ship until it wiped out one of their fleets.
Her officers were already making assumptions and started to suspect that the ship had come from their known adversary for centuries.
“This ship,” a bridge crew said out loud on what was in her thoughts. “I don’t believe pirates would be able to man such a massive vessel. I suspect there must be other reasons for how these outlaws captured this ship. Probably an entity had managed to build this ship and allowed these outlaws to take it as it would destabilize Sol System.”
“Or worse,” her executive officer began, “Could it have been constructed by the Colonial Alliance? They may have—"
But she dismissed the notion with a flick of her hand.
“No.” Semiramis cut him off, her voice a flat blade that sliced through the bridge's tension. “Currently, the Colonial Alliance's economy is in shambles. It is crippled by internal strife which was still one of the consequences after the war. Their shipyards have been silent for the last six months so they’ve probably halted their production of their warships. And even if they had built something like this, they wouldn’t send it into the heart of the Sol system. It would be suicidal and stupid for them to show this ship in our capital.”
Her words silenced any further speculation. The officers exchanged uneasy glances. They were used to the Colonial Alliance being a significant threat, but the idea that someone else—some unknown entity—had the resources to build a ship like Blitzkrieg without anyone in the UGTR High Command knowing? That was an unsettling prospect. The Blitzkrieg had proven capable of evading detection and wiping out fleets. That much was certain. The data that they also received from the wreckage of Vebenson’s fleet told of the same ignorance. She may have to report this directly to the Terran High Command.
“Then… where did it come from?” one of her officers asked hesitantly.
Semiramis paused for a moment, considering the possibilities.
"Either from another system, a corporate entity that or..." another officer voiced her thoughts then trailed off, her mind was racing.
In truth, Semiramis already had her suspicions. But those thoughts remained locked in the far recesses of her mind. She wouldn't voice them—not yet, not until she was certain.
Her focus remained on the situation at hand:
The Blitzkrieg had not responded to her demand for surrender.
It had been more than twenty seconds since they had sent an ultimatum to the pirate ship, demanding its surrender. But there had been no response. The Blitzkrieg remained eerily silent, hanging in the vastness of space like a slumbering beast. That, more than anything, confirmed that she already knew what this pirate wanted.
“This pirate is not going to yield.” Semiramis narrowed her eyes. She turned to her executive officers. “Prepare the fleet for combat.”
“Yes, Admiral.” They saluted and then bowed their head in acknowledgment.
She turned to the tactical holo-table, where her fleet’s current positioning was displayed. The Blitzkrieg loomed in the center, a giant in comparison to the ships surrounding it, but Semiramis was not deterred. She had dealt with opponents who were technologically superior before and had come out victorious through meticulous planning and sacrifice. She was not afraid to lose ships or men, so long as the result was a decisive win.
Semiramis’ fingers danced over the tactical display, dividing her fleet into layers of flotillas and squadrons, each with a precise role. She moved with the efficiency of a machine, calculating every possibility, every counter-move the Blitzkrieg could make.
“We’ll split the fleet into three primary flotillas. Alpha will take point in a direct assault. Their objective is to engage Blitzkrieg's possible frontal defenses and force them into retaliation while advancing in a staggered formation and encircling the target ship,” she began, her tone clipped and direct. Then she started drawing her commands in her Holo that send out planned attack patterns that they will be following.
“They’ll approach from three vectors to limit the Blitzkrieg’s ability to focus fire on any one group. Have Spectral Vanguard lead the first wave with full forward batteries. Havoc Stratis and its squadron will flank from the port side with ion disruptors at maximum range. Ultronov will lead another squadron in the opposite of Havoc. These three squadrons will maintain a consistent distance from the Blitzkrieg with a synchronized orbiting offset from each other. This will allow the coverage of all Blitzkrieg. Thankfully, we can use that ship’s massive size to our advantage."
Then she continued with more planned routes of attack and details.
She arranged Alpha to have consisted of fourteen battleships, twenty-one frigates, and thirty-eight destroyers, all bristling with heavy armor and firepower. The overall command over the Alpha Flotilla was assigned to Battleship Spectral Vanguard. Unlike their sister ships in the fleet, these vessels that were assigned to Alpha were built and purposely modified to punch through enemy formations with firepower and receive the most brutal of counterfire. Their job would be to test the waters, drawing fire and gauging the capabilities of the massive pirate ship.
“Beta will form a second line of support. They’ll remain just outside the engagement zone, ready to reinforce Alpha or move in if the Blitzkrieg attempts to move out of the containment,” she said aloud, her voice still carrying an eerie calm. The second group was a more mobile fleet, comprised of twenty destroyers and thirty corvettes, designed to harass and flank their enemy, applying pressure and exploiting any weaknesses. “They will also provide long-range bombardment if needs be.”
“Gamma will hold back and create a third layer of encirclement,” she continued, her eyes fixed on the hologram of the Blitzkrieg. “They’re our reserve, but more importantly, they’ll be positioned to these coordinates to cut off any escape routes. Once the variables are met, we will send our bombers, drones, and fighters in to overwhelm their armed defenses.”
Gamma was the hammer, made up of her fastest ships and drone capabilities— twenty-four frigates thirty-seven corvettes, and thirty-six of her entire carriers, designed for speed and quick strikes. The main joint of Gamma will be the fighters, bombers, and drones that will drown out any possible PDCs of Blitzkrieg. But their main role remained as simple prevent the Blitzkrieg from retreating or escaping.
“Make sure every ship is in position. No gaps,” she said, her voice carrying an unspoken threat. “I want a net scan around this ship so tight that not even a stray signal probe escapes.”
“Understood, Admiral.”
“Gamma will be divided into two flotillas which will be led respectively by Benevente and Goldilock to guard the rear, just in case Blitzkrieg attempts an escape. Have the support vessels stay out of range but ready to move in for recovery or containment.”
Her orders were relayed across the fleet, and within minutes, the vast armada of the UGTR began to move. On the bridge’s large viewports, the stars themselves seemed to shift as the fleet reoriented around the Blitzkrieg, UGTR warships maneuvering with precision into their designated formations. The cold void of space was soon filled with the glow of engines and the distant silhouette of ships positioning themselves into a layered net of destruction.
Despite their activity, the Blitzkrieg remained eerily still, a leviathan in the dark, its secrets hidden within its impossibly large hull.
“Send a message to Banedog’s Backyard,” Semiramis commanded, her voice breaking the silence with stone cold and sharp as steel. “Inform them that their cooperation is expected in taking down this ship. They will comply, or we will dismantle their entire station.”
“Understood, Admiral,” her second-in-command replied, his voice filled with cold professionalism.
In less than a minute, the fleet had fully surrounded the Blitzkrieg, closing off all potential escape routes. The pirate ship remained static, its engines inactive, its black plating still shimmering faintly in the distance. The mysterious lack of movement only deepened the unease within Semiramis’ officers, but she remained stone-faced.
"Why isn't it moving?" an officer whispered, his tone betraying his nervousness.
Semiramis glanced toward him but didn't answer. She knew better than to jump to conclusions. The stillness of the Blitzkrieg could be a bluff, a prelude to a devastating attack—or, worse, an invitation for them to strike first, drawing them into a trap.
--
In the confines of the dimly lit virtual meeting chamber, flickering holographic images of the most powerful figures in Banedog’s Backyard hovered over their respective seats. Each projection represented a ruler of the criminal underworld—mafia bosses, cartel leaders, and heads of various gangs that thrived under the radar of the UGTR. Though they resided in different sectors of the station, their presence was as palpable as ever in this digital conclave. The chamber crackled with tension, as the voices of these criminals overlapped in a chaotic debate.
“We’re playing with fire if we don’t follow the UGTR’s orders. Do you know who Semiramis Natu is? She is a fucking Fleet Admiral of the UGTR Navy. Her history in the war with the Colonial Alliance is no laughing matter. She’s not someone you mess with. And most of all, she doesn’t bluff.” Vargan of the Black Sol Cartel, a large man with the hard-edged face of someone who’d seen more battles than peace, turned to his colleagues. His holographic form rippled from the impact, but his anger remained firm.
“That is why we can’t ignore the UGTR like this!” bellowed the sharp, booming voice of Marduk, the head of the Gorgon-Dust Cartel, his holographic face set in a permanent scowl. His thick arms gestured wildly, the heavy gold chains around his neck glinting. “We risk bringing their entire fleet down on us if we stay ignorant of their presence!”
“So, it seems a UGTR Fleet Admiral ultimatum was the only thing that would make you bend, Marduk.” Quevo, head of one of the major trafficking and smuggling groups called Queen Fairies, mocks the former.
“I’ll cut you to pieces, you fucking hogtramp.” Marduk glared with a genuine threat to kill.
“Ahhh!” Quevo only received Marduk’s threat with a seductive moan as if this person liked the bloodlust that everyone could feel through the digital boundaries of their holos. Then with a beautiful lip bite, Quevo replied with the same threat. “One of these days, I’ll definitely find and bed you.”
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“You fucking-”
“She expects us to just roll over and help her take down this pirate?” Gorn growled, his voice gravelly and deep, interrupting the banter between Quevo and Marduk. As a former mercenary, he scoffed at this intimidation attempt from the UGTR fleet admiral. “That is quite a high price she is asking. If we attack this pirate ship, we may trigger a hostile reaction from other outlaws. We also don’t know the affiliations of this ship and her captain. So this is a hard decision.”
Across from him, Zila, a sleek figure with dark robes and cybernetic tattoos that flickered along her skin, leaned forward. She represented the high-end illicit tech market group named EXona, and her calm, icy demeanor belied her sharp intelligence.
“We live under the indifference of the UGTR for a reason,” Zila said coldly. “You provoke them, and we become a target. They’ve left Banedog’s Backyard alone for decades because we’ve kept out of their business. Now, with that monstrosity of a ship parked on our property, of course, we’re going to be in their crosshairs whether we like it or not.”
“She’s right,” Drax, the gaunt, skeletal leader of the Betelgeuse Cartel responsible for illegal narcotics, chimed in. “We’ve made a fortune because the UGTR turns a blind eye to this station. Why give them a reason to look closer? Semiramis doesn’t make idle threats, Gorn.”
“You’re all cowards.” A cold voice rang out, cutting through the noise. It belonged to Morred Steel, leader of the Chrome Serpent, his hulking holographic form was intimidating and composed, his bionic eye gleaming red in the artificial light. “The UGTR might be asking now, but even if we comply, they will still try to claim this station, this neutral ground, and we’ll all be dragged into unwanted conflicts. You want to risk that?”
“You think we’re afraid of the UGTR?” scoffed Rena, leader of the Bloodhound Cartel. Her hologram leaned back, arms crossed over her chest, an air of arrogance thick around her.
“We don’t even know if this Blitzkrieg ship is a Colonial Alliance vessel. If it is, we could be jumping into a war that has nothing to do with us.” spat out Don Ross, patriarch of the Ravenvurn Family. His voice was full of contempt as he leaned forward, his red-tinted holo flickering.
“I agree. The Blitzkrieg could be a private ship!” Morred shot back, his eyes blazing. “Or worse—an independent force outside of either faction’s control. We don’t know what kind of hell we’re risking here. One of the possibilities would be the Colonial Alliance using the destruction of Blitzkrieg as another reason to attack us or to restart their war with the UGTR.”
“That’s speculation at best!” Zila shot back, her eyes flashing. “The Alliance can barely keep its shipyards running, let alone send something this size into the Sol system. If we back the Blitzkrieg, we risk open war with the UGTR right here, in their home system.”
“If we cooperate,” barked Bronko, leader of the Czacar Cartel, “we may be picking a side in a fight we have no part in.”
“The only thing that we did right here is not get ourselves involved with that ship.” The elderly hologram of Vargas, the founder of the Salvaje Cartel, tapped his cane on the floor in frustration. “But we need to decide an answer to the UGTR’s ultimatum.”
The chamber erupted in overlapping shouts, each leader throwing their weight behind one argument or another. Some argued for safety in appeasing the UGTR, while others feared the wrath of an unseen Colonial Alliance, or worse, a new and unpredictable force. The room vibrated with the intensity of the debate.
“This is exactly why we should remain neutral!” Morred slammed his fist on his chair’s arm, his hologram flickering with the force of his movements. “We’ve always survived because we didn’t get involved. UGTR, Colonial Alliance, pirates—it doesn’t matter! As long as we stay out of their way, they stay out of ours.”
“I agree with Morred,” said Green Ghost, the soft-spoken yet dangerous head of the Neonmyx, her image cool and sharp. “Picking a side could destroy us. Banedog’s neutrality has kept us alive, and if we lose that, it’ll be the end of everything we’ve built.”
“Neutrality only works if we’re strong enough to defend it!” Rena shot back, her tone dripping with venom. “You think these major powers will respect us if they see we can’t defend our backyard?”
“So right now, we’re in a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation,” muttered Red-Eye, a cybernetically enhanced mercenary leader and security group commander, Principality of Babies. His voice carried a distinct metallic tinge, as though the machinery inside him was a constant presence. “If we choose either side, we’ll never see another shipment come through this station again and we will be forced to move to a neutral or rogue system.”
The debate raged on, each side entrenched in their own paranoia and survival instinct. Every word exchanged only heightened the tension. It was clear that no one wanted to make the wrong move, yet the more they argued, the closer they came to disaster.
Then, a new voice cut through the noise—one that had been silent until now. The figure of Solis, the enigmatic leader of Banedog’s Backyard shipping and logistics syndicate, slowly rose. His image was calmer than the others, though his reputation as a master of silent moves carried significant weight.
“Enough of this back and forth. We’re running out of time.” His voice was authoritative, brokering no argument. “We don’t need to pick a side here. We don’t aid the UGTR, and we don’t provoke the Colonial Alliance—if Blitzkrieg even belongs to them. The UGTR’s attention is focused entirely on Blitzkrieg. They aren’t coming after us—at least not yet anyway.”
The room fell into a tense silence, all eyes now on Kael.
“And what’s that, Solis?” asked Vargas, narrowing his eyes.
“What you’re all missing is that there is a third option,” Solis said, his voice smooth and controlled, instantly commanding attention. “Why choose a side at all? Neither the UGTR nor the Blitzkrieg needs us to get involved. We can let them fight it out and slip away while they’re too busy dealing with each other. Instead, we prepare to evacuate.”
“And how do we do that?”
“We run.” Solis’ hologram leaned in closer, his voice low and calm. “I’m suggesting we initiate the station’s FTL Jump protocol. Banedog’s Backyard was rebuilt with FTL jumps in mind, remember?
The Circle fell into silence, their holograms turning to face him.
“Retreat? You think the UGTR will let us go?” Zila’s brows furrowed.
“If we act quickly, we can disappear before anyone even realizes we’re gone. They’ll be too busy dealing with the pirate ship to bother chasing a neutral station. We jump to an outer system or at a space away from here, wait until this mess clears up, and return when it’s safe.” Kael shook his head.
“And what about the station? A full FTL jump could damage the internal infrastructure. The habited districts will take hits.” Rena looked skeptical.
“We’ll lose a lot more if we’re vaporized,” Solis said coldly, waving off the concern. “The station was designed for this. Some districts will suffer structural damage, but nothing we can’t rebuild. The key is our survival—and our neutrality. Running allows us to keep both. It’s better than being obliterated or dragged into a conflict that isn’t ours.”
There was a long silence. The weight of the decision hung over the Circle, each leader calculating the risks, weighing their options. The ruling circle slowly absorbed Solis’ words. One by one, the leaders nodded in agreement. The third option—running—was their best chance at survival.
“Then it’s settled.” Solis sighed.
“And the UGTR?” asked Vargas.
“We send them a polite refusal,” Solis replied, his voice tinged with dry amusement. “They’ll be too busy to care anyway, and by the time they realize we’re gone, it’ll be too late.”
With a collective sigh of relief, the decision was made. Green Ghost then took over.
“We will initiate station-wide measures for an FTL jump within the hour. Make sure the civilians and crew are informed. We all have one hour to prepare, everyone.”
The station-wide alert went off moments later, echoing through the crowded districts of Banedog’s Backyard.
“Attention all residents and visitors of Banedog’s Backyard,” a calm, female voice said over the station’s intercom. “This is a station-wide announcement. We will be making an emergency FTL jump in approximately one hour. Please secure your belongings, brace for loss of gravity, and be prepared for structural shifts. That is all.”
The announcement, calm but urgent, sent ripples of panic through the population. An FTL jump of a station wasn’t uncommon, but the short notice and the sheer scale of the jump had many on edge. In the docking bays, workers and ship crews scrambled to secure their ships and cargo. In the residential blocks, civilians and outlaws alike braced themselves for the inevitable disarray that came with a sudden FTL jump.
But in another place, two people were ignorant of the events that were happening on the station. A nightclub was a wreck. The air inside the establishment was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and gunpowder. Smoke curled from shattered glass and broken lights, casting jagged shadows across the floor littered with the bodies of those who had dared stand against the two attackers. The place, once vibrant and filled with music and neon lights, had turned into a slaughterhouse.
Two women in combat suits, both stood amidst the carnage, their sleek black uniforms pristine, despite the violent combat that had taken place. The twins are identical in every feature except for the styles in their combat suits.
The twelve surviving staff members—mostly cybernetically enhanced combat-heavy male and female guards and personnel—were lined up against the cracked walls, some slumped and bleeding, others with their augmentations sparking erratically. They had all fought hard, but it wasn’t enough against their two attackers. Their bodies were damaged from the fight, but still alive enough to be questioned. The twins, cold and efficient, moved among the defeated staff like reapers, their eyes glowing faintly behind cybernetic augmentations.
One of the twins stepped forward, her eyes cold as ice
The one standing on the right glanced over the first survivor with dispassionate eyes. She grabbed the guard by the chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. The heavily augmented woman with metal arms and a shattered visor, glared back defiantly despite her wounds.
"Where is Crow?" Theta asked, his voice cold and mechanical.
"I don't know what you're talking about," the woman spat, her cybernetic eye twitching as she tried to move.
The twin didn’t hesitate. With a swift motion, she pressed the barrel of her pistol to her forehead and fired. Her head snapped back as the bullet tore through her skull, her body crumpling to the floor like a rag doll.
Her other twin moved to the next one. A tall, muscular woman with multiple augmentations glared at them with a mixture of hatred and defiance. Her arm had been blown off in the earlier firefight, wires still sparking from the stump.
“Crow owns this place. We know that. So where is he?” the second twin’s voice was equally monotone, the question delivered as if it were a formality.
“I don’t know any Crow,” the woman growled through clenched teeth. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
This twin didn’t also flinch. With a fluid motion, she brought down her blade—a sleek, cybernetic katana grafted into her arm. The weapon hummed as it sliced through her neck with ease, the head hitting the floor with a metallic thud.
The next staff member trembled, his cybernetic legs twitching involuntarily.
“We... we don’t know! No one knows who Crow is! He’s... he’s just a name to scare new hires, nothing more.” The first twin tilted her head slightly as if considering his words. Then without hesitation, her hand flashed out, a blade hidden in her wrist snapping free and slitting the woman’s throat. The guard gurgled and collapsed to the ground, his enhanced body twitching in its death throes.
The second twin moved to the next guard in line, a hulking figure with mechanical arms and a scowl etched into her features. He had a deep gash across his shoulder, oil, and blood mixing as it leaked from his wound.
“Where is Crow?”
“I told you,” the guard rasped, “I don’t know any Crow. I’m just security.”
A gunshot rang out. She fired a round into the guard’s head, dropping him like a broken machine. One by one, they moved down the line. Each guard, each combat-enhanced staff member, gave the same answer—no knowledge of Crow, no idea where he was. Some resisted longer, but all met the same fate: a bullet to the head or a clean, brutal beheading. There was no room for mercy in this interrogation. The twins were methodical and patient in their questioning, but it was clear that they had little tolerance for the lack of useful information.
As the final staff member was dragged before them—a sleek, heavily modified woman with cybernetic legs and glowing red optics—the announcement echoed through the ruined club:
“Attention all residents and visitors of Banedog’s Backyard,” a calm, female voice said over the station’s intercom. “This is a station-wide announcement. We will be making an emergency FTL jump in approximately one hour. Please secure your belongings, brace for loss of gravity, and be prepared for structural shifts. That is all.”
The twins exchanged a glance, their emotionless faces momentarily betraying a flicker of interest.
The woman, despite her injuries, smirked.
“Looks like you’re out of time.”
“Where is Crow?” the first twin asked, her voice eerily calm.
“Crow... isn’t here,” she muttered, barely audible. “He doesn’t... live here. We just... manage the club for him.”
Their eyes flickered with data as she processed her words.
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know. No one knows. He’s a ghost.” The woman winced.
“Ghosts can be found.” The second twin turned to her, her blade still slick with blood.
“Not this one,” she rasped, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “You’re wasting your time. I never even saw him. He just sends his lackeys to manage this place from somewhere we don’t even know. So yeah… kill me.”
The second twin holstered her weapon and brought her blade down in a clean arc, beheading her in an instant. The last survivor slumped to the floor, lifeless and headless. The twins cleaned their weapons, stepping over the bodies without a second glance. The nightclub was now a graveyard.
Without another word, the twins turned from the carnage and strode toward the exit of the club. The smell of smoke and blood clung to them as they left the establishment.
Outside, the station was in chaos. Crowds of people run through the streets, panic setting in as the announcement of the FTL jump spread. Rushing to prepare for the jump—gathering belongings, locking down equipment, and securing themselves in their rooms. Panic buzzed through the streets. Civilians, merchants, and criminals alike pushed and shoved their way toward the safety of shelters or their ships, desperate. Meanwhile, the twins walked calmly through the madness, their cold eyes scanning the chaos around them.
Both activated their holo-interfaces, syncing their data feeds. Information streamed across their vision, the latest news flashing with urgency.
“The fleet’s here. So that’s why they’re jumping.” The first twin scrolled through the updates. Her sister nodded, but before she could respond, both of their holo-screens blinked red. A new directive flashed across their shared interface. Written in an old language in Terra.
Neue Direktive: Aktuelle Operation einstellen. Sofortiges Ziel neu zugewiesen.
(New Directive: Discontinue current operation. Immediate Objective Reassigned.)
Ziel: Geisler Ericht. Sichern und Festnehmen.
(Objective: Geisler Ericht. Secure and arrest.)
Letzter erfasster Standort: Sklavenlager - Banedog’s Backyard
(Last Tracked Location: Slave Enclosure – Banedog’s Backyard)
“Another old language… this is Gehrman right?” one of the twins asked her sister.
“Probably, this also meant that Lady Erika just took over the operation.” The other twin replied. Both exchanged a glance and felt something may have happened. Their current target was a Priority II, and this cancellation meant that there was an escalation in their pursuit. Then both returned to their interface and accepted their new assignment.
“Acknowledge. Pursuing new target.”
“Acknowledge. Pursuing new target.”
The two disappeared in the alleys that led them back deeper into the depraved levels of the station.