Grayson's looked pretty much like any other family grocery you'd find around D. Maybe the building itself was a little nicer, the bricks painted navy blue and a big ballistic window letting anyone walking by see the food inside. Boulevard of the Hyades was plenty well lit, too, dark areas few and far between. All in all a nice spot. It was too bad I was about to do something awful in there.

That nice window of theirs made it easy to watch from across the street. There were one or two customers browsing around, a younger guy with slicked hair and a white apron running the register, and, standing out like a roach among kittens, a Blue Division soldier who'd been sipping a beer and playing on his slab since I showed up to watch. The couple of triangles inked on his face moved as he muttered to himself.

I thought about how I was going to play this and decided to see if the shoppers would get out of there. After a few minutes more, they paid up and left. I took the opportunity while it lasted.

I kept my hood up as I crossed the street, slouching in an effort to look merely stupid tall instead of stupid tall and threatening. When I pulled open the door, the Blue Div guy glanced up and gave me exactly the kind of look I was used to: boredom, followed by a double take at my height. This was the toughest part. Depending on how far the word had gotten out since last night, I might be recognized and have to do this the messy way. I kept one hand on the Slukh in my pocket, ready to draw-

But the Blue looked back at his slab after a moment, getting back to whatever video game or porn or classical literature was so urgent. Some soldier this guy was, but maybe that's why he was guarding a grocery store. Unless he was very cool under pressure and was currently calling for backup, I was home free. Once he was done looking at me, I carefully flipped the sign hanging in the door to 'Closed.' Just like The Reel did in Third Bounty. I couldn't keep a thrill of excitement from running up my spine.

On my way to the register I slouched past crates of Glowslake soda, the ubiquitous bars of raw arpaste, home-distilled vodka in reused bottles, crates full of onions and bell-peppers grown in rooftop gardens. The floors were ancient wood, gray and splintery and dry as stone. I snagged a glass flask of high-proof shine as I passed its shelf.

"Is that-" was all the guy at the register got out before he saw the finger I put to my lips.

"I'm here to inform you that the the change in management will be temporary. Play along and don't come out until I sound the all clear." His face went pale, but he gave me the tiniest of nods.

"Fuck d'ya mean, this is the strongest you got?" I roared, slurring my words. I saw the Blue Div guy look up as soon as I yelled.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but-"

"Look in back! Y'had White Ice last time! One ninety...ninetynine proof! Go look!"

"O-of course, ma'am."

The Blue soldier was already walking over as the clerk went into the back room to 'placate' me. "Goddamn pissroach don't even know his own store..." I muttered, leaning crazily against the checkout counter.

The guard stopped a few feet away from me. "Cool it the fuck down and get out of here," he said. "You don't want to make trouble in here."

I flopped myself over to look at him. "...what?"

"Fuckin' chemhead burnouts," he muttered. "Why's it always me?" He stepped closer and continued in a loud, slow voice. "I said get. out. Before there's trouble. MOVE."

I gave him my best drunk-out-of-my-skull grin. "An' what if I don't wanna?"

The soldier sighed. "Alright. I tried. Time to go." He moved towards me, ready to grab or shove-

But my left arm hooked around his back, pulling him close like a hug, while the right jammed the Slukh up under his chin - no time to hesitate now - and pulled the trigger.

There was a quiet, percussive noise, the same you might hear when clapping a friend on the back, and the Blue went limp in my arms. I caught him as best I could and hurriedly dragged him behind the checkout counter. I almost took out a table stacked high with cans of strandmeat doing it; for something so graceful when it is alive, the human body makes a remarkably awkward burden.

Setting him down, I noticed there was remarkably little blood. Just a trickle around the entry wound, and no exit wound at all. Those polymer bullets were wicked.

Okay. First step done. We're committed. I felt remarkably calm. Remarkably cool. Like things were moving around me, my body included, and I was watching. Observing. Controlling from a still and silent space within.

The door to the back area of the store was a sheet of dark-blue conplas with a latch molded into one side. I gave it a few quiet raps and said, "It's me. Clear for now."

The door cracked open and the clerk poked his head out, dark hair shiny with somekind of styling oil. "Is it-are you done?" he whispered. He was even younger than I thought, not even my age.

I leaned my face down to his level. "You tell me. How many Blues're in here?"

"Only one downstairs. Did you-" He noticed the body behind me and swallowed. "Y-yeah. One downstairs, three up in the game room."

"Thanks." He looked very scared, but he'd stayed calm the whole time. "You did a good job," I told him. "What's your name?"

He looked confused, green eyes wide, but he answered. "R-rudshila. Rudshila Grayson."

"I'm Sharkie. Things are gonna be cool in just a minute. Until then, stay in there. Good?"

"G-good." He nodded quickly and closed the door.

I took a moment to reload the Slukh, pocketing the gun and the spent shell. The stairs up to the gambling room were on the back wall. I took them as quietly as I could. Reaching the top, I could hear a clacking like cutlery and the and an electronic stepper-motor growl like Dag's ancient printer. I peered around the flaking, white-painted doorway into the game room.

I never was one for gambling. I worked hard enough for my money that I didn't get any fun out of throwing it away. As far as I could tell in the dim light, there was only one game going: six guys sitting on one side of a room-filling table, playing tiles against a hulking machine. It took up one whole side of the table, a tangle of extruded aluminum arms and rubber-coated manipulators that reached out to slide and flip dominos with geometric elegance. Maybe you were betting you could beat the robot? Didn't matter.

I saw none of the players had face tattoos, and was about to step inside when I spotted a seventh man. He was in the corner, slouched deeply in a ratty chair, and looked very much like Rudshila. The senior Grayson, perhaps? He had seemed to be sleeping, but the instant my toes crossed the threshold his eyes opened. They fixed on mine for a moment, then very deliberately closed again.

That stamp of approval-or ambivalence, at least-noted, I went over to the table and crouched next to the nearest player, a chubby bald guy with skin the color of bronze. It was the machine's turn, and he was so focused on its raster-precise motions that he didn't notice me until I was right next to him.

"Where are they?" I asked conversationally.

He jumped a little. "Kings and shit, you scared - Wait, who are you?"

I placed what was left of Walker's money on the table in front of him. Even after buying supplies and the extra box of Slukh ammo, it was still a good bit. A couple of the other guys had noticed me but some sixth sense must have told them they were better off staying uninvolved.

The one I'd chosen stared at the money. His mouth worked in a little unconscious tic, making the ritual scars on his cheeks dance. "Who?" he finally said, placing a hand over the chits.

"You know who. The Blues."

He looked scared, but not surprised. "In the private room." A jerk of his head indicated a door on the back wall, mostly hidden in the shadows behind the machine. Oh. And I'd felt so suave.

I held a finger to my lips, making sure they all saw, then went over to the door. It was another flimsy piece of conplas like the one downstairs. Bac smoke and tinny laptop sound trickled from beneath it, barely audible over the machine's snarling servos. Sounded like one of the pirate channels, maybe a prizefight. "He's got Damien on the ropes! What an upset! You don't see this kind of thing every day, people. That you can bet on."

I reached up behind me, under my jacket, and pulled the glittersaw out of its duct-tape harness. I'd snapped a newly-purchased blade into it, two feet long, three fingers wide, and edged with a blur of diamond microteeth. It looked compact and vicious, more like something you'd bring to a fight in a sewer tunnel than a tool. I gripped it in both hands. My lips pulled involuntarily into a what could have been a grimace or a smile. This was it.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

I snapped a kick into the door right by the latch, blowing it open on the first try. I took in the briefest snapshot of the room's cramped interior: three guys with Blue ink seated around a tiny card table. Then I moved.

I stepped forward, jammed on the trigger, and swung the saw at the rightmost guy as hard as I could. It passed effortlessly through his neck with a sound like a whisper and chopped deep into the middle man's shoulder, severing his arm before hanging up in his chest. He had time to begin what could have been a very impressive scream before I shifted my feet and shoved my saw the rest of the way through his ribcage, bisecting him. The last guy was staring at me like I was...well, like I was a crazy seven-foot bitch who'd just killed his friends with a power tool. He fumbled around, shifted his feet, trying to pull a gun out and stand up all at once and failing at both. I brought my saw up once more and sank a cut from his right shoulder clean through to the left hip, the blurring sawblade spewing pink mist and hissing like a hungry ghost as it tore him apart.

I let go of the trigger. Three corpses hit the floor. Blood splashed in puddles, dripped from the ceiling, ran down the walls in lurid fans. A mohawked head rolled gently into my boot, earrings clinking against the steeltoe. The bodies were so soaked I couldn't tell them apart.

The room suddenly felt stuffy and humid. I thought I might heave, but didn't. It smelled like the wet meat market that sprang up on Kuroi and Altdorf every few days, where were sold piebald hogs and fat lizards and hardy brindled goats. Hot blood. Open bowels. Steaming offal, rich and ripe. "Oh! Oh, Kings! A devastating knockout!" buzzed the tiny laptop on the table. "I don't think Damien's gonna be getting up from that one, folks."

That was it. Was that it? My heart was pounding. My muscles tense. My breath came in short, sharp huffs. Adrenaline banged and rattled down my nerves like bad plumbing. Was that really fucking it?

I realized that in the future, I would remember this moment. No matter what justifications I made to myself, what rationalizations I used to explain it away. I could say I had to do this to get the Holy Bones' protection. I could tell myself that they were criminals, that I was performing a public service. These things were true to some extent, but they weren't the truth. The truth was that I'd killed people and I'd fucking enjoyed it.

I backed up and pulled the door shut on the horrorshow. "I wouldn't go in there," I told the gamblers. Six pairs of eyes stared at me, their owners shocked silent. The tile machine chattered a few times. Maybe I was throwing off its timing.

Make an impression, Walker said. Consider it fucking made.

I glanced at old Grayson. His eyes were open again. They found the bloody saw in my hand, then met mine. He nodded slightly and went back to sleep. I guessed that meant things would be cool between him and the Bones. He didn't seem much interested in chatting so I left him alone.

The saw was still in my hand. Both it and my arm were bloody up to the elbow. Bring gloves next time. We were learning. I stood there like an idiot for a moment, wondering what to do with it. Then I remembered this jacket was probably ruined anyway and shoved the tool back into its hidden sling.

The gamblers were still staring at me slackjawed. I gave them a little cool-guy nod because I had no idea what else to do and headed back downstairs.

Rudshila answered the door after the first knock. "Y-you're done? Already?"

Already? Wow, I guess it had only been a couple minutes since I talked with him. "Uh, yeah. Done. Now listen," I said over him before he could ask another question, "real soon some of my friends are gonna show up to clean up the...the mess and guard the place. Alright?"

He nodded.

"I'm also supposed to tell you that you'll be compensated for the inconvenience. Oh, and don't worry about payments until next month."

"Oh, uh, okay." He looked at the floor, still nervous. "My uncle usually handles all that stuff..."

"I didn't want to wake him."

A sudden laugh lit up his face. "Of course he's sleeping! He always is whenever weird stuff happens, and then I've got to deal with it..." He glanced at the first man's corpse again and the smile faded.

I did my best to step in front of it. "I gotta make a call. Then I'll hang here til the other guys show, right?" I glanced at my feet, oddly embarassed. "Sorry about all this, Mr. Grayson." He was technically in charge here, so I guessed he rated an honorific.

It must have surprised him, for he laughed again, so suddenly it turned into coughing. "Please just call me Rudy! Mr. Grayson sounds so weird...And, uh, don't worry about it, Sharkie. I'm alive and the store's still here, so...so I guess things are better than they could be."

"I guess that's all we can ask for," I quietly replied. "I hope I'll see you again soon." He froze and went pale. "No no, I mean as a customer! I like your onions." Suave Sharkie II: The Reckoning.

"In-In that case, I feel the same. Thank you." He gave me an awkward nod, remarkably like the one I'd just shown to the gamblers, then shut himself in the back again.

Sighing, I leaned back against the counter and called Walker on the burner slab.

He answered on the first ring. "Sharkie! What's up?"

"I'm done, man. Four down and no one else."

"You serious?" I heard him striking a match in the background. "Kings damn, you're gonna make me look bad! I just sent the cleanup crew to wait on deck, but if you're done already I'll tell 'em to pull right up."

"I'll wait here to meet them?" My eyes roved over all the shelves and stacks of soda. Damn, but I was thirsty. Wish I hadn't given all that cash to the guy upstairs.

"Yep. Do that. Get 'em to to speed when they show, then come and meet me. I'm at the Nino's on Valiant. Know it?"

"Oh, I know it." All the nervous energy washed out of me, and the bottom fell out of my stomach as it realized I hadn't eaten since last night. I loved Nino's Pizza.

"Good. I'll see you in...half an hour, say? Shouldn't take the boys more than fifteen to get to you."

"Make sure they have a couple pies ready for me. I'm gonna throw the fuck down."

Walker laughed. "I'll have 'em bust out the slop trough. Seeya."

As it turned out, 'the boys' made it in just under ten minutes. They rolled up in a rust-brown six-wheeler van, the kind set up like a ratty apartment inside. Four guys jumped out wearing disposable biosuits and carrying bins of cleaning supplies. Their leader, a wiry guy with coppery skin and a receding hairline, introduced himself as Irgen and asked where the bodies were.

"One behind the counter," I told him. "Bullet wound under the chin." He and his guys were remarkably chill. Irgen waited patiently for me to finish while the guys behind him passed a cigarette and joked in low voices. They shared his complexion and narrow face, and I wondered if they were cousins or something. "The other three are upstairs in a back room. They're...a mess."

All four of them perked up at this. "Define 'mess,' if you would," said Irgen.

"Err..." I felt bad for making work for these guys. Wasn't that odd, when I didn’t have much sympathy for the victims themselves? "Like, bring mops and garbage bags."

Irgen's eyes narrowed. "You didn't melt them, did you?" His three helpers shifted with a crinkle of plastic.

"What? No, I didn't melt them!" What the hell did that even mean? Like...actually liquefied? "They're cut up, is all."

"Oh, thank the Kings." He shook his head in relief. "Not much of a mess at all, then. "Aisin, grab the stiff down here. Nurhag and Gend with me." They set to with professional speed. Now there was a job I was not jealous of.

Also in the van were three guys and a woman who were very obviously Holy Bone soldiers. Two men and the chick dressed a lot like Walker, jeans and leather, with the addition of aramid vests and very poorly concealed firearms-plus a thigh-length tomahawk on the lady's belt. They immediately took up guard positions within the store, one of them stepping around Aisin to tell Rudy they were here. The third guy wore shorts and a sleeveless hoodie, showing off matte-black bionics. High-end Gyeoksungs, if I peeped the logo right. Nice chrome. He flipped his hood down and I saw his dark hair was shaved into patterns, leaving swirls and stripes of tanned skin.

This last one came straight up to me. His legs were digitigrade like a cats, and we could very nearly speak eye to eye - or eye to cybernetic optical housing, as it were. It covered the top half of his face like a set of mirrored goggles screwed to his skull.

Cyborgs didn't offend me, exactly. More like confused, and kind of scared. Take this guy for example. What if his interfaces corroded, or someone hacked his limbs, or his body suddenly rejected them? He'd be a cripple locked in his own carbon-ceramic cage, blind and limbless. Not that the human body was infallible or anything, but still. Brr. Just imagining it made me shiver.

He just stood there for a few seconds appraising me. Or appraising the wall behind me. Or watching tomboy cuckold hentai drilled straight into his optic nerves. Who the hell knew what was happening behind those mirrored lenses.

"You're Walker's new one, are you?" His voice was surprisingly soft and high, entirely natural.

"Yeah. Sharkie." I stuck out my hand, hoping I wasn't fucking up some unwritten gangster etiquette code.

After a slight pause he took it and shook. His artificial limb was cool, its surface unsettlingly grippy. I noticed silver inlay on the back, a skeletal design like Walker's tattoo. "Alton. Good work. I was expecting a much bigger mess."

I took a moment to remind myself that he has no idea who I am and no reason to trust me. "Walker told me to be careful. And I got no reason to bust up someone's store anyway."

"I'm glad to hear it. Be careful around Walker, though." He started moving past me.

Oh, no you don't. Nobody gets to drop a cryptic warning then walk away from Sharkie.

"Alton!"

He stopped and turned around, waiting.

"What the hell do you mean, be careful?"

He rubbed his chin, actually considering. "Just...Walker gets big ideas sometimes. Real big, too big. Try not to get caught up, is all I'm saying." He turned and went upstairs, his uncanny feet going ss-thunk ss-thunk as they hit each riser. Still vague, but better than just 'be careful.' I pinched the bridge of my nose. A headache was coming and I needed food and drink. Time to bounce. I borrowed a towel from one of Irgen's guys to clean my hands. Pizza was calling, and I left Grayson's to answer.