Beneath the creeping dusk of the orange dwarf Prevarca, a planet of hundreds of trillions rushes on, lying, stealing, and hustling for every scrap of comfort they can obtain.

Greed and other sins are limited here only by capability.

Across the urban grandeur, multiple skyhooks launch and receive dozens of spaceships per hour. Space elevators shoot cargo into docks beyond the atmosphere. Artificial satellites record and transmit every type of data there is. Automated factories churn out hundreds of goods by the minute. Aerocars speed by in every direction, and gravrails circle the planet to bring goods and people wherever they are needed. Night falls fully upon the city-planet, yet still there is no sign of slowing down. Belying the admirable interplanetary industriousness are the inhabitants of this world: a detestable people. Crowding every corner with a scheme and a smile, any species can fall to the “rotten Kevtra spirit”, be it Human, Mantellian, Gravari, Bendet, Mostath, or other.

This is Kevtra. City of Lies.

Zooming down into the Mensogulo sector of the ecumenopolis, below the miles long buildings reaching for the stratosphere, in a dank and artificially lit plaza near the lowest level, a battle is raging. Explosions and screeches of gunfire are punctuated by a myriad of wails. The smoke of multiple fires is escaping into the atmo-scrubbers, and still a participant falls to the ground coughing, his lungs overburdened. 

“Respirators weren’t in the defense budget, I guess. Nothing left over after the autoturrets.”

Taking cover behind a shoddy prefab is the gangster Danor Tartagol Recio and a mercenary employed by said gangster. The made man Danor clears his face panel to show his eyes and built-in respirator, throwing a sardonic look at the mediacci. His face is surprisingly gentle, black hair, with a prominent brow that needs plucking. Both men are wearing power armor. One set is made of stolen gear from various police forces and private arms companies: sleek and crimson highlighted by yellow lines of energy throughout, whereas the other is obviously cobbled together over a middling career of mediacci jobs: weathered and scraped and a dark, dull grey. The mercenary stares back through his narrow black visor, the sounds of yelling and detonations filling the air.

“This is the last time I take a job for the Recios,” the merc deadpans.

The gangster chuckles and leans out from cover to take a quick shot, then another. The repeated yowling sound of his gun is followed by alien screams and alien blood.

“Cuz of this? C’mon, this isn’t so bad. Least there’s no cavalry. Just a dozen poor, dumb bastards and fucking turrets.” The man darts back into cover, his words interrupted by said turrets unleashing a barrage on the prefab factory office being used for cover.

‘Don’t tempt fate,’ the mercenary thinks, using the opening to fire off a sweeping volley of particle bolts across the line of defenders. ‘The last thing we need is an armored truck rolling in with backup.’ Screaming and turretfire respond as he ducks back into position.

"Chevauchée my ass," says the contractor. He'd been hired for industrial sabotage of the family's rivals in the metal recycling business. A simple enough task when offered - take out unaware security, plant bombs on certain expensive equipment, run like hell, and blow the charges. The Recios would muscle in on the market share while the victims struggled to get their facility working again, and mercs and mobsters would both be richer. Of course, that plan went out the window when the facility was ready for a siege upon the saboteurs' arrival. "I'm gonna expect better pay for this."

“Not an Heir or Mage for miles either,” Danor continues, half negotiating and half trying to assess the battle. His eyes scan the vicinity looking for an opportunity. “Any ideas for those turrets?”

The merc glances back to the askew shipping container to his far right where five Recio family thugs take potshots and wait for orders. Standing with them is a four-legged robot, its camera lens head staring back cocked, as if it were trying to puzzle out what is going through the mercenary's head.

‘"No Mage" is right at least,’ he thinks. Closing his eyes, the mediacci focuses on his breath. Long draw through the nose, then quick exhale from puckered lips. He opens his eyes to Inherited Power showing him the defenders clearly through any obstacles. His danger sense blares in his head while he studies the hanging guns, an internal cacophony of supernatural warning. Two autoturrets mounted under the entrance overhang, nine sentients in decent cover in front of the target building, no Empowered - light armaments on the sentients, two explosives left between them.

On their side, five goons, a cocky wiseguy, a mediacci, and a mediacci's trusty botdog.

The mediacci lets out a breath, looking over his allies one more time. He turns to the made man in his fancy armor

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“I need some cover, a few seconds. Draw the turretfire, and I’ll bring 'em down. Tell your men.”

Danor's brow raises a moment, before he nods. His face panel darkens and he turns to the shipping container and barks at the associates. They all respond in affirmative and prepare themselves for the sortie. The robotic dog lowers its front legs and drops its head, a small whine escaping it.

With Inherited Power still showing him the other side of his cover, the mercenary unclips a saucer shaped item from his belt and slides it into a launcher slot on his left bicep.

STICKNADE LOADED, his HUD flashes.

He grasps his left wrist with his other arm, nodding to himself. Falling deeper into his Inheritance, he sees the structural support of the overhang and picks his target.

“Now!” He yells, and in response an associate on the far side of the shipping container pivots out, crouching, and unleashes an entire magazine, glancing off a mostly-recycled spaceship wing with a defender behind it, a turret swiveling to the associate’s location and responding with full force. The associate shies back, shooting around the corner, trying to keep the turret focused on him at the same time Danor steps out, particle bolts racing out of his rifle towards the hanging gun. The second turret is lightning quick in response, super-heated bolts dragging across the prefab cover until landing a hit on Danor’s energy shields. Another associate fires while kneeling at the left turret, confusing its targeting computer for a fraction of a second before it refocuses on Danor in his power armor. Two more of the men pivot out over their kneeling comrades, lead bullets screaming towards opposite turrets but striking only armor. One of the defenders senses an opportunity and makes to throw a grenade, but Danor’s response is instant, beaming the man with two to the chest and one to the head. The grenade falls from his hand blinking. The defenders are suddenly all yelling over each other, and that’s when the mediacci glides out.

Two steps, turn, square the feet, raise left arm, close right eye, and shoot. The projectile whistles through the air and hits its target dead-on. The merc dives back into cover, the left turret swiveling to his location, the right turret butchering the leg of a family associate. Three slow beeps of the sticknade, then a roaring boom. The family soldiers all step back in unison, one dragged by the scruff of his armored vest. Danor and three of the associates reload their guns, while the fourth associate tends to the last’s bleeding stump.

Seconds going by, the mercenary draws his rifle, straining to listen before remembering he can look through cover. A slow, drawn out creaking comes from the overhang. The defenders are hunkered down and staring at the building above them. Just as one starts to yell a warning, a devastating crash interrupts him.

“Turrets are down! They’re scattering!” The mercenary yells, stepping out to unleash controlled bursts of subatomic mass, quick and calm. His gangster allies follow suit, picking targets and popping heads. Dashing for cover, one defender shoots at the merc, but he only hits the power armor's shields before getting a deadly response. The mediacci swivels his head, briefly joking to himself about turning into one of those damned turrets, before realizing it’s done.

He takes a deep breath of relief. The battle was over, and his botdog didn’t even get scratched. He should probably get around to naming that thing.

Two of the associates take the wounded man, a ‘Dvicha’, back to the parked aerocars some ways off to get him to a family doctor. The rest of the crew hurries about placing charges on machines worth millions of d-currents each. There's a bit of arguing over where exactly to place them to maximize damage, but the task is eventually complete and the crew evacuates to watch the fireworks.

In the aftermath, Danor sprawls out on the floor, and lets out a laugh. He’s shaking slightly as he slips his helmet off. With practiced ease, he pulls out a burnstick and lights it in his mouth. A few long draws and additions to the overbearing smoke filling the level, he turns to the mediacci.

“I got to hand it to ya. You saved this fiasco from turning into a disaster,” the gangster says. He offers a burn stick to the merc, who shakes his head. Danor continues puffing for a couple moments before standing up and squaring towards the mercenary. He takes one last drag and returns the stick to an inner chest pocket.

“You know the Chief Administrator’s sick? Some super exotic shit, really giving the City’s doctors a headache.”

The armor-clad mediacci grunts at the non-sequitur, a prelude to something, he’s sure.

“I’d heard some rumors,” he replies.

“Yeah, well, take that to the bank if you want. A shitshow, apparently. City Officers are at each other’s throats while the alien bastard takes leave.” The mobster pauses, looking for some input or maybe thinking over his next words. “Captains of the family think its opportunity to make some big plays. Underboss agrees, already working on some ideas.”

The mercenary shifts slightly. The City Administration was in disarray and the Recio family was gearing up for a street war. That was good news for his line of work. Bad news for the rest of the city-planet.

“So, you did good. Pay that was promised plus some extra. Should be in your account by tomorrow morning.” The mercenary interjects with a silent nod, and Danor continues, “Family could use some more people like you. Underboss wants me to extend an offer of retainer for opportunities coming up and even beyond if you’re interested. Stick around long enough and do good work, could even get made. Now, I’m not gonna be the one paying your contract, so you want to negotiate before you commit, we can go to the underboss tomorrow and you can talk to him.”

The mobster stops, obviously looking for a reply or some hint of interest, but the mercenary is staring forward, not moving a hair.

DON’T TAKE THE JOB, the mediacci's HUD says. The display isn't a message from someone, but a notification straight from the helmet’s operating system.

‘What the fuck?’ The mercenary thinks.

He looks up to Danor’s face, who is waiting expectantly, but is unable to form a reply. He would have to get a professional to check on his armor, the merc decides, as he silently studies his HUD. Was he being hacked? 'There goes most of this job's pay.'

DON’T WORRY, YOUR ARMOR’S FINE, says a new HUD notification.

“Look, take the day to think about it. We'll go talk to the underboss the day after tomorrow. Just don’t talk to anyone else about this. You wanna get some of your merc buddies hired, discuss it with the underboss before anything else.”

The merc nods, turning sharply without a word and walking off to the nearest elevator to his home level. His botdog has to dash to catch up. It follows along behind, camera head tilted up towards its owner. The mediacci looks down at the small four-legged robot.

“Lyka,” he says suddenly. The botdog cocks its head to the side in response, almost questioning. “That’s your name. Lyka.”

The botdog’s head tilts down, searching for something on the ground, before perking back up again. Its antenna tail whirring softly behind it, it lets out a mechanical yip. The mercenary turns his attention back to his HUD while Lyka runs a few happy circles around him.

“System, run a diagnostic, scan for intrusions, then activate purge subroutine,” he says to his armor.

LET’S MEET UP, is the only reply he gets from it.