THE FIRST CONTRACT

The Callisto Syndicate safehouse was a curious combination of the past and future. Its white metallic walls reflected the cold glow of artificial lighting, casting a sterile look across the room. Yet the sterile, futuristic aesthetic was punctuated by a love for antiquity. Replicas of Roman Artifacts adorned the space, lending it an almost museum-like quality.

At the center of this peculiar homage to history stood a mannequin garbed as a Roman legionnaire. The details were painstakingly accurate. The Galea helmet with its plume, the Pilum spear poised for battle, the segmented Lorica Segmentata armor, and the scutum shield propped beside sandaled Caligae. It was all there, a tribute to a civilization long past.

Roy regarded the display with quiet fascination. Humanity might have reached the stars, but its obsession with the Roman Empire endured. He understood why. The Romans had been visionaries, builders, and conquerors. Their ambition mirrored the human drive to explore and dominate the cosmos.

“There was a dream… a dream called Rome,” Roy thought and wept inwardly.

Across the room, Irya sat on a couch, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp. She seemed to study every corner of the safehouse with a calculated air, her carry bag within arm's reach. Roy knew what was inside the bag -- her chopping axe.

Irya had claimed it was for intimidation, but Roy had seen her wield it with practiced ease. Making him wonder if she just enjoys axing someone’s face. She was dangerous, no question about it. But she wasn’t really that fixed on axing people either. She also carried an automatic rifle in the bag, a compact model that was light, portable, and deadly. But for a mercenary, she dressed surprisingly lightly.

Tonight, as always, she wore her usual outfit. A muted pencil dress that hugged her form, with a low neckline and a cropped jacket thrown over it. Her choice of attire had always intrigued Roy. Sometimes she switched the jacket for a bomber style, which she seemed to favor when off duty.

He’d once asked her why she dressed this way. She’d scowled at him before offering an answer that was as honest as it was pragmatic.

“Distractions,” she’d said, her voice flat. “Men and women both get distracted. It gives me a moment to draw my weapon.”

It fit her style really — a predator who avoided direct confrontation when possible, preferring ambushes and calculated strikes. Yet, if circumstances called for it, she wouldn’t hesitate to knock on a door and deliver her ‘message’ with an axe to the face. She was efficient, blending bioware enhancements with human instinct. Unlike many of her peers, she avoided heavy cyberware that involved chrome.

Roy had learned of her implants after a long drink night in Haven. After persuading her, she gave up and told him. A Hypertrophy Regulator, Sub-dermal Armor, Reflex Boosters, Optics with enhanced night and thermal vision, and Monocyte Cells for accelerated healing. She had kept it all subtle, prioritizing function over flair. Not that he could tell at all.

For Roy, the idea of altering his body with implants was unnerving.

“Do you need something?” Irya’s voice cut through his thoughts, cold and precise.

Roy wondered if he stared too much. He blinked and turned toward her.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his curiosity unfeigned.

Irya’s brows knit together. “What?”

“The implants. Cyberware. Whatever you call it.”

She paused, considering the question. “Not really,” she replied finally. “Anesthesia takes care of most of it. But getting your optics done… it's unsettling.”

“Unsettling?”

She nodded slightly, her expression unreadable. “The process. You’re awake for it, even if you can’t feel anything. It’s… disturbing.”

“I’ve noticed most people end up with red eyes,” Roy mused aloud.

“Optics are usually customizable,” she said, her tone edging toward boredom. “But combat optics? They usually don’t bother with aesthetics. You deal with the red.”

She studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp and appraising. “I’ve told you about mine. You never tell me about yours.”

Roy shrugged, leaning back against the wall. “I told you already. My skill bars are maxed out. That’s why I can do this and that.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable,” she muttered tonelessly. Then, after a beat, she added, “It’s my fault for asking.”

“Maybe you should get an implant to fix that,” Roy quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Imagine getting outdrank by a dude with no implants. It’s embarrassing, man.”

Irya arched her brow. “And rob me of the joy of getting drunk?” she shot back without missing a beat.

“Good point,” Roy admitted. “Must suck for those who can’t get drunk because of their implants.”

“They can turn it off, you know,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “But it’s inconvenient.”

“I heard it needs adjustment. Implants like that.”

“Implants are usually robust these days,” she said with a shrug. “Can handle any solar system colony. But yeah… adjustments are expensives.”

“How expensive?” Roy asked.

Irya tilted her head, brushing her blonde-white hair, her gaze briefly distant. “More than most people can afford.”

The sound of a door sliding open broke the rhythm of their conversation. Mr. Devon entered the room, his features taut with frustration. He paused, visibly collecting himself before stepping further inside.

Outside, the skies of Alba City glowed with a surreal, red-tinged rain. The storm swept against the windows of the safehouse, casting fractured patterns of light across the room.

“About time,” Irya muttered under her breath.

Devon ignored her and focused on Roy. “The job’s changed,” he announced curtly. “We’re escalating.”

Roy straightened, his casual demeanor vanishing. “What’s the target?”

Devon hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Not a what. A who.”

Irya’s eyes narrowed. “You’re shifting the terms. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“It is now,” Devon snapped, his tone brooking no argument. He tossed a data pad onto the table between them. “Details are there. I expect this to be handled cleanly.”

Roy picked up the pad, his gaze scanning the information. “A politician?” he said, his voice laced with skepticism. “This isn’t our usual line of work. It’s not mine either.”

Devon crossed his arms. “This isn’t up for debate. I’m calling your favor for this, remember? The Syndicate wants this done. And I want you on this, Roy. I want to know if you can handle this shit.”

Irya’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And if we refuse?”

Devon’s expression darkened. “You won’t. You two owe me favors.”

The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the rhythmic pattern of rain against the windows. Finally, Irya stood, slinging her carry bag over her shoulder and gave Devon a signal.

“Fine,” she said, her voice cold. “But we do it my way.”

“Teach Roy. Maybe he’ll learn something. Time to see if he can handle this kind of work too.”

She brushed past Devon without another word, her boots clicking against the floor as she disappeared into the hallway. Roy watched her go, then turned back to Devon.

“She’s not wrong,” he said quietly. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”

Devon’s gaze was steely. “It is now. You did well, for small tasks. But I want to know if you can do this kind of job as well.”

Roy exhaled, his mind already working through the problem. “Guess I’d better get to work,” he muttered, slipping the data pad into his pocket.

“Good man. Just learn from her and you’ll do fine,” Devon said, gesturing to the exit.

Roy then followed Irya out of the room and to the garage. She sat perched on the hood of her Lancia Stratos, her silhouette illuminated by the soft, red-tinted light spilling in from the mouth of the garage. The rain beyond fell in a relentless curtain, its rhythmic pattern echoing through the exit. She stared at the downpour for a long moment, lost in thought, before turning her attention to Roy.

Her expression was inscrutable, as always. A mix of calculation and calm that could unnerve even the steeliest of operators. Tonight, though, there was something else in her eyes, something quieter.

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“This job’s different from your usual,” she began, her voice cutting through the ambient hum of rain. She held up a data pad, the glow of a credit transfer screen reflecting off her pale skin. “Taking out someone like this? It’s not as easy as it looks. It takes effort. Time. And heat… lots of it. A politician is still a politician. No matter how big and small. The cops will get involved if we take the shot.”

Roy leaned against a nearby wall, arms crossed, his stance casual but his focus sharp.

“They’ve given us funds,” Irya continued, waving the data pad lightly before setting it aside. “But let’s be clear — this isn’t your usual job. I can’t let you watch and learn either. Even if it’s just some small-time politician, there’ll be fallout. You don’t usually hand jobs like this to amateurs.”

Roy hesitated before responding. “I don’t know why Devon gave me this one.”

Irya tilted her head, studying him with a look that was part suspicion, part curiosity. “I’ll ask again -- are you really an amateur?”

“Honestly,” Roy said, his voice trailing into uncertainty, “I don’t know.”

She sighed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That again, huh?”

“I know, I know,” Roy said quickly. “But—”

Irya silenced him with a raised hand. Her movements were economical, precise, the way they always were since he had known her. “I get it. It’s complicated. You’ve got things you can’t or don’t want to talk about. That’s fine. It’s the rule, after all — for people like us. But I’ll ask you this, and only this. Can I trust you on this one?”

Roy met her gaze, his voice steady. “You can.”

“Even though it’s another hit job?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded slowly. “Will you follow my lead?”

“Of course. Like I said, I’m new to this… this sort of work, anyway. Simulations don’t really prepare you for the real thing.”

“Simulations?” Her brow furrowed.

“Yeah,” Roy said, scratching the back of his neck as he searched for the right words. “How do I explain this without sounding crazy?”

He paused, deep in thought, before finally speaking again. “I spent years… controlling units. Running operations. Doing things that felt real. But then, suddenly, I’m here.”

Irya’s expression remained unreadable, though a faint flicker of confusion crossed her features. “That makes no sense.”

“Tell me about it.” Roy’s tone was half exasperation, half resignation. “That’s why I don’t talk about it. It’s hard enough to wrap my own head around it, let alone explain it to someone else. But… let’s just say this isn’t my usual standard. Back then, I didn’t have to deal with people with implants or hardcore cyberware.”

Irya narrowed her eyes. “Were you really from Earth?”

“I think so,” Roy replied, his tone tinged with uncertainty.

“You’re like a Cryoist,” she mused, “but at least they retain something.”

Roy grinned. “I still have my skill bars maxed, so I’m doing fine. Probably would’ve ended up begging in the streets if I didn’t.”

Irya sighed, her expression as stoic as ever. “It’s good that you have confidence. At least when you put it in your own way.”

Roy’s grin then turned serious. “You’re the one who said you wanted me because I’m unaffiliated. You needed someone quiet, efficient, and technically, I’m a Callisto associate.”

“You’re not a member,” Irya corrected, her tone flat. “They don’t make it that easy.”

“Well duh,” Roy said with a shrug, “I’m nobody.”

Irya nodded faintly. “Exactly. The Syndicate doesn’t take people casually. Most of the time, they prefer Earthlings. Honestly, that’s probably why they’re being so hospitable to you. But taking you in? That’s another matter. Not to mention, you don’t exactly seem thrilled at the idea of joining. But… if you’re useful. They'll keep you around.”

Roy raised a brow. “Aren’t you from Earth, too?”

“Yes,” she replied simply. “Which is why I’m saying this as someone who has seen their work in the Homeworld. Don’t let them fool you. You’re only as useful as they think you are. And me? I might be one of the bad guys, too. You should remember that.”

“I mean when we first met you kinda beheaded someone, which is kinda enough to tell me what you think about morality,” Roy chuckled, the sound dry but amused. “Ah, well, even if you really are a bad guy. It’s the story of my life — always being chummy with bad women who could kick my ass.”

Irya’s lips quirked into something that might have been a smile, or perhaps just a fleeting shadow of one.

“I see,” she said, her tone deadpan.

For a moment, silence hung between them, punctuated only by the soft patter of rain and the occasional metallic creak of the garage. Outside, the storm showed no signs of abating. The red hue of the rain painted streaks of crimson light across the floor.

Roy pushed off the pillar and moved closer to her, his boots echoing against the concrete. “So, what’s the plan?”

Irya slid off the hood of the Stratos, her movements fluid and deliberate. “Simple,” she said, retrieving her data pad and handing it to him. “We do this job quietly and cleanly. No mess. No loose ends. And you stick to the plan.”

Roy took the pad, his eyes scanning the information displayed on its screen. The target’s face stared back at him — a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a generic politician’s smile. Alexander Dumas was his name.

“Doesn’t seem like much,” Roy remarked. “You’re sure this guy’s worth all the trouble?”

“Doesn’t matter what he’s worth,” Irya replied, pulling her cropped jacket tighter around her shoulders. “It’s what the Syndicate wants. And what they want, they get.”

Roy frowned but said nothing. He knew better than to argue. Irya turned toward the mouth of the garage, her gaze fixed on the storm outside.

“Get some rest,” she said over her shoulder. “We’ll scout the place. Dress nice.”

Roy watched her for a moment, then nodded. “Got it.”

Irya swung into the driver’s seat of her Lancia Stratos with practiced ease, the low rumble of the engine sparking to life as she turned the key. She didn’t look back as the tires screeched faintly against the garage floor, the taillights bathing Roy in a red glow before fading into the rainy night.

Roy lingered at the edge of the garage, the faint smell of exhaust still hanging in the air. He scratched the back of his neck, his gaze drifting outside. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, squinting at the direction where Irya had disappeared.

“Maybe it’s time I stopped walking everywhere,” he muttered, the words bouncing faintly off the concrete walls. “Maybe I can get another disposable car again? I wonder if they’d get me one this time too?”

* * *

The rain hadn’t let up. Thick sheets of water battered the windshield of Irya’s Lancia Stratos as she idled at a pedestrian crosswalk, her wipers working overtime to keep her vision clear. Inside, the cabin was warm, a contrast to the cold storm outside. Irya leaned back against the plush leather of her seat, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel in time with the song blasting through the speakers. Her lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile as she sang along under her breath.

“But she doesn't know who I am... And she doesn't give a damn about me…”

The song was an old one, a relic from Earth’s past, but it still resonated. For a brief moment, the weight of her reality — assassinations, contract jobs, and deals with people she didn’t trust melted away in the nostalgia of the lyrics.

Her PDA buzzed, the small device lighting up with an incoming call. She frowned, muting the music and glancing at the screen. Devon. She tapped the device, connecting the call.

“Glad you noticed my tell,” she said, her tone neutral, professional.

“So you accept the job?” Devon’s voice crackled over the line, calm but with an edge that hinted at impatience.

“It’s good pay,” Irya replied. “I’m worried about this one, though. It’s small-time, but a politician is a different case.”

“That’s a professional for you,” Devon said, a faint chuckle underscoring his words. “Let’s just say your target… he’s a good guy.”

“The nosy kind?” Irya asked, her brow furrowing.

“Yeah. We warned him — told him to back off. But he didn’t listen. And we’re not killers. We’re not the Cartel, either. We don’t send people their family’s heads as warnings. As businessmen, we were being polite… but our patience has its limits too.”

Irya arched a brow, staring out at the rain-slicked streets ahead. “So why involve him at all?”

Devon hesitated, and Irya could hear muffled voices in the background. Finally, he spoke again. “Why not? He’s not bad. No background at all. It’s like he just… appeared out of nowhere.”

“You think he’s a cryoist?” Irya suggested. “Or tank-bred?”

“Neither,” Devon said, his tone thoughtful. “I went deep — scrolled through old databases on Earth, backlogged colonies. There’s nothing on him. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

Irya frowned, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Weird.”

“I know, right? And here’s the kicker — he’s good. I’ve thrown all sorts of gigs his way, and he does them without complaint. Talks like an amateur, acts like a pro. And he’s not lying, either.”

“Or we’ve been fooled,” Irya countered. “But… he doesn’t feel like a spy.”

“Exactly. No signs of covert training, no tells. If he’s brainwashed, there’s no trace of it. You know where I found him? Naked. In a trash disposal area.”

Irya raised a brow. “Really. Still, I understand why you want to test him, he’s useful.”

Devon chuckled softly. “You don’t have a crush, do you?”

Irya’s tone turned icy. “No.”

“Hah! I thought not. You’re not that stupid. Still, he’s a useful idiot, don’t you think?”

“If he performs well, he’s more than just a useful idiot,” she said, her voice cold but practical.

“That’s why I want him on this job,” Devon said. “It’s not every day an Earthling stumbles into this shithole of a planet, right?”

“Sentimental much?” Irya asked, her lips thinning into frown. “But seriously, why do this much?”

“It’s the confidence,” Devon said simply. “Does his work without being noisy. He flies a spacejet like it’s a game to him. I like that. It’s the kind of confidence I like.”

“Speaking of spacejets, I remember that John’s dead,” Irya said, her voice flat. “Overdosed. So you’re looking for a pilot for the Hammerhead? That a reason too?”

“Maybe. Seth says he’s good.” Devon paused, and Irya could almost hear the shrug in his voice. “And no, I’m not doing this out of kindness or because I want him as pilot that badly. I just think he’ll be useful, that’s all. It’s just gambling. Don’t make it sound deep.”

“I see,” Irya said. She adjusted her seating, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she understood something. “I’ll accept the job then. But I want half a mil. Hard cash. No credits.”

“Deal,” Devon said without hesitation.

“No haggling?” Irya asked, mildly surprised.

“You’re technically doing two tasks for me,” Devon replied. “Seems fair.”

“That’s it, then,” Irya said. “We’ll contact you when it’s done.”

“As always, it’s a pleasure dealing with you, Irya Malkova,” Devon said, his tone almost teasing. “It’s a shame someone with your skills prefers to stay independent. I again, will you join us?”

“No.”

Devon burst into laughter, the sound rich and amused. “Hah! I figured as much. Oh well. Happy hunting, Axe Woman.”

Irya ended the call with a tap, her PDA’s screen going dark. She leaned back in her seat, exhaling slowly before turning the music back on. The beat flooded the cabin once more, and a rare flicker of contentment crossed her face.

She sang along, her voice soft but carrying a hint of joy. “But she doesn't know who I am… And she doesn't give a damn about me. 'Cause I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby…”

The rain continued to pour, heavy and unrelenting.