Huddled against the bitter wind, an old woman hobbled down the dark alleyway. She coughed weakly, her chest rattling like it was filled with shrapnel and razor blades instead of lungs. Every movement ached, but she had to keep going. They wouldn’t wait for a better day.

She stopped at the back door of a dilapidated warehouse. Her trembling hand struggled to find the hidden scanner, and it took a few tries to sync up with the outdated biometric reader. The lock disengaged, and the metal door groaned open.

Loud music blasted her ears as she stepped into a massive rave. Holographic screens flickered on every wall, neon silhouettes dancing to pulsing techno beats. Creatures of all species crowded around a large stage, where several scantily clad girls twirled about on top of moving platforms.

The crowd roared louder when one of them ripped off her top and threw it out over the audience. A dog-faced Tartarian leapt twenty feet into the air, snapping his jaw like a bear trap as he caught it between those horrific teeth. The woman grimaced in disgust as the half-demon spat out bits of fabric before howling with pleasure.

“Oy, granny! Ya lost?” The troll that blocked her path was a mass of steel, chrome, and flesh, hardly recognizable as its own species save for its deformed face. His pupils glowed red as they scanned her; he crossed his arms—each larger than her torso—and leered down at her. “Th’ fuck ya think yer doin’, walkin’ ‘round all creepy-like, eh? Private party only. Yer gonna hafta pay da toll.”

With a shaking hand, she removed her glasses, revealing a set of artificial eyes. Her gaze sharpened, turning predatory. Blue static crackled across her forehead cyberware. The lenses of her prosthetic irises dilated, and suddenly the troll found himself face down on the floor, knocked out cold by a jolt from his own implants.

Muttering something about idiots who need to learn some manners, she stepped over the unconscious bouncer and limped deeper inside. All around, strange faces stared back at her, their expressions ranging from confused to amused. As she walked past a table full of elves, one of them whistled loudly before grinning at her.

“Ey’ mamacita! Need help gettin’ home? I can take ya there, an’ give ya ride too!” He grabbed himself between the legs for emphasis, flexing his skinny, tattooed arms as he leaned toward her suggestively. It was a wonder how his neck didn’t snap under the weight of all those piercings adorning his pointed ears. “Whaddya say?”

“She could be your nieta, pendejo.” Another elf smacked him on the arm with a laugh. This one was taller and darker than the first, but also no less ridiculous. His head shaved bald and covered in tattoos, he sported a see-through mesh shirt revealing his own extensive body art. The look was completed with leather pants so tight it was probably illegal to wear them in public. “How about you go dance with those corpo putas over there and leave this chica to me, eh?”

If only she were fifty years younger. Not that either of these two pretty boys would last ten seconds with her.

But alas, she wasn’t, and right now, they were blocking her way. Her patience already stretched thin by the troll, she breached the elf posers’ cyberware defenses without a second thought. A simple nudge to their hormone modulation devices, nestled next to atrophied mana glands and a flood of adrenaline and testosterone shot pumping through their veins...

Their eyes widened, pupils dilated.

“Vete a la verga!” The first elf shoved the taller one. “I saw her first!”

“Ojalá un cabrón te meta una escopeta por el culo, hijo de las mil putas!” His friend retaliated with a punch straight to his jaw. The crack of metal meeting bone echoed as the taller elf staggered back, clutching his bleeding mouth.

With a feral growl, the first elf lunged forward, tackling his friend. They crashed into the table, flipping it over and sending drinks and dishes smashing to the floor. Their fight quickly attracted the attention of nearby dancers, who watched eagerly as the two men pummeled each other senseless.

Where was a bouncer when you needed one?

With the crowd’s attention focused on the brawl, the woman made her way toward the far wall; a slightest hint of a smile on her lips. The security camera above her glitched out briefly, fizzing and crackling with electricity before shutting off. A wave of her hand and the hidden door opened, sliding back into its slot in the ceiling above. In front of her lay an empty hallway; beyond it, another metal door gleamed beneath the harsh fluorescent light.

As she stepped into the corridor, the door behind her closed, cutting off all noise except the gentle hum of machinery.

Cutting her off from the network.

Her hands shook and the muscles of her face twitched involuntarily as the withdrawal symptoms immediately began to take hold. This ridiculous Faraday cage was why she always hated visiting this place—but she had no choice today.

Some things required privacy, after all.

But now, without access to the Net, she felt vulnerable. Naked. The silence pressed around her, suffocating in its intensity, making each step feel heavier than the last. When she reached the end of the corridor, she hesitated before pressing her palm against the reader embedded in the wall beside it. She held her breath while it scanned her biosignatures and compared them to those stored within its databank...

And breathed a sigh of relief when it unlocked with a click. So many components had been replaced in her body since she had last been here, both organic and otherwise, she wasn’t sure if the scanner would recognize her. Nor did she know how her hosts would react if it did.

The heavy slab slid back, revealing a cozy little office hidden within the depths of the warehouse. Filled with antique furnishings, old trinkets, and relics from times long forgotten, the room felt completely out of place among the modern tech surrounding it. As if the owner didn’t want any reminder of this age when he could create his own history inside these walls.

Speaking of the owner...

“Ah, Maria. You’re finally here.”

The old man smiled warmly, showing off his perfect white teeth. He put down a glass of whiskey and stood up from behind his antique desk, patting the backrest of his leather chair as he did so. His purple fur coat—a monstrosity of ostentatiousness matched only by his tastelessly gaudy hat—flared out dramatically around him, giving him a regal air. With his gray hair slicked back with a single curl dangling between his bushy eyebrows, that impossibly well-groomed mustache and the slight glint of his cybernetics showing from the gaps underneath his fancy suit, he looked nothing less than ridiculous.

In other words, he hadn’t changed a bit.

“It‘s so good to see you again, my dear. Please, come sit down!” He gestured to the velvet-covered sofa along the right side of the room, where two other women already sat waiting for her.

“Ah, Stephane. Good to see you too, handsome. How‘s business treating you? Judging from the looks of your establishment, I’m guessing very well.”

The fixer smiled and kissed her hand with a flourish. “Oh, you know how it goes in this line of work. Same ol’, same ol’. Can’t complain. Especially not when some of my favorites come out to visit.”

“Charming as always. Unlike that mess that used to guard the entrance.”

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

With a light swat to his hand, she stepped away from him and turned to greet the two familiar faces inside the room. Behind her, the old pimp lunged for the door, grumbling under his breath as he ran out to check on his boys, his ridiculous boots squeaking loudly against the hard floor.

Noise from the rave briefly filtered through the open door, and then vanished once more as it slammed shut with a metallic thunk. She exhaled a sigh and faced her old friends, a genuine smile appearing on her lips for the first time in weeks. It felt... good to be back. To remember what it felt like to belong.

But even as the warmth of nostalgia flowed through her, cold reality quickly chipped away at her brief surge of happiness. After all, she wasn’t here to catch up over a couple of drinks and a few laughs.

“Poor Stephane. Three bouncers and a bartender in a single day? That’s gotta hurt his pockets.” Grunting in exertion, a huge woman heaved herself up from the couch. “Good to see you, Mar. And even better to see you haven’t lost your touch.“

Maria chuckled and gently hugged the massive bruiser, trying not to wince as the other woman wrapped her mechanical arm around her fragile body. “You too, Agatha. Now let go before you snap me in half. Old bones don’t bend like they used to.”

“What are you talking about, Maria? We’re still sweet seventeen, aren’t we?” With a toothy grin, the tattooed woman patted her massive torso, the sound of metal striking metal ringing under her clothes. Though the wrinkles creasing her skin had grown deeper since their last meeting, Agatha still radiated the same brute energy as when they had first met so long ago. “Right, Gertie?”

Maria turned to the final occupant of the room, sitting quietly on the velvet couch, not raising her eyes from the crocheting project in her hands. As usual, Gertrude kept silent and tried to mind her own business. Even her appearance still resembled how it was all those decades ago—gaunt features, a modest dress, gray hair covering her head—except for the shiny metal implants peeking out from under her neckline, and the big rifle propped beside her.

Old habits died hard, she supposed.

As if sensing their stares, the sniper slowly raised her head and nodded without a word before returning to her craft.

“Good to see you too, Gertie. Hope you’ve been well.”

Silence... Maria sighed inwardly and seated herself on the sofa. The velvety surface felt good against her hands, but she wished the seat was a little longer so she could lean back properly. Her back ached after so much walking, and she didn’t want to jostle anything loose.

Too many years. Too many gigs. Too many close calls.

At least her wounds had finally healed. Mostly. The burns along her spine still twinged with every step, and her lungs rattled with every cough—not to mention the scars running down her chest and arms. Ugly reminders of better times, worse gigs.

The room remained quiet while Maria caught her breath and settled into her seat. Agatha returned to her previous position with a groan and a loud whir of gears inside her legs. The sound grew muffled as she sat, barely noticeable save for the way the couch sagged beneath her immense weight.

If only the others were here as well...

Shaking her head to clear those thoughts, Maria reached out to the mahogany coffee table before her. A crystal decanter rested atop it, surrounded by four glasses and a selection of cigars. Her hand trembled as she poured herself a drink; despite all the cybernetics embedded within her nervous system, the shakes still remained. Too damaged to ever function properly again, no matter how much money she poured into trying to fix them.

Better not to dwell on it. Better to focus on something else. She lifted the whiskey to her lips, savoring the smooth burn of liquid fire sliding down her throat, and breathed deeply, allowing the familiar aroma to calm her nerves.

“So. Do any of you know why Stephane called us here?”

Agatha snorted, shrugging her massive shoulders. She reached over to grab her combat shotgun and lay it across her knees. “Same reason he had always called us, girl. Someone needs someone else gone.”

“And the water is wet. You know what I mean, Aggie. Why us? Of all the merc crews working in this city, why call us?”

“What’s wrong with doing our old thing? Sure, we’re getting a little long in the tooth for this kinda work, but we’re still plenty spry. At least enough to give some gang kids a dose of lead.“

Gertrude said nothing. Just stared silently down at her needlework. In her hands, the green yarn slowly formed a curious pattern that looked almost like the beginning of a sleeve.

“Fair point. Except I doubt Stephane would just drop a routine hit on our laps. He‘s got plenty of young bucks for that kind of thing. Not a room full of vintage meat suits like us.”

“Hey. We ain’t vintage. No car’s gonna make it to a hundred thousand miles without some replacements.”

“Exactly! So again: why us? Something’s off here.”

“Ladies, ladies...” The doors slid back open and Stephane strutted in, a cigar hanging from his mouth. With a bejeweled hand, he rubbed his chin as if in deep thought. “No need to jump to conclusions. I called you here because of our long history together. Surely you didn’t think I would forget all the great times we’ve had together, yes?”

His smile was too wide, too forced, not a shred of kindness or honesty in those bright eyes. Like a predator waiting to pounce on some gullible prey.

“And the even greater favors you owe us. You can stop dancing around it, Mr. Cappari. What’s your offer?”

Bouncing on his heels for a second, the pimp finally gave in and dropped his silly act. The glittering coat fluttered to the ground as he slipped it off, revealing his perfectly tailored, but still just as gaudy, suit underneath. His hat followed the coat shortly after as he combed his thinning hair with a silver comb from his inner pocket, revealing a long surgical scar at his temple.

His smile fell away, replaced by a stern frown. His brow furrowed in concentration. And his eyes... his eyes hardened. Those familiar, cunning eyes of a cold, calculating operator.

Now, this was the real Stephane she remembered.

“Fine. Straight to business, then.” He cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. “Right. So, a few months ago, an old business associate—felicitations to those of you who may remember the good doctor—gave me a tip on an emerging contender in the manufacturing of illicit substances.”

“Drugs, then. Old, familiar turf. Doesn’t sound like something worth dragging us back into the thick of it for.”

“Ah, but you see... The new deal doesn’t involve drugs. Well, not exactly.” Stephane took a long drag from his cigar, holding the smoke for a second before blowing it out in a billowing puff. “It’s bigger. So big, in fact, that the same associate used some very... shall we say ‘informal’ avenues of communication—despite my wishes to the contrary—to bring this delicate matter to my attention.“

“Fancy talk for ‘Your little buddy is getting impatient, so you better move your sweet ass,’ eh?”

“Let’s just say, this... individual was rather adamant about letting me know that this is the opportunity of the century. She did not exaggerate.“

He circled the desk, sitting down on the expensive leather chair and putting his feet up. Crossing his ankles, he adjusted his shoes, dusted his pants, and lit another cigar before finally continuing his pitch.

“So. Since I am such a generous man, I decided to share this vital information with all of you. Mostly because I like you, obviously—who wouldn’t?—but also, it might be mutually beneficial if we work together in this.”

“Stop stalling and spill, jackass!”

Maria shot the ever-impatient Agatha a warning glare, but decided against elbowing her in the ribs—she’d probably end up breaking her arm on those metal plates covering her muscular torso.

“Fine. No need to get upset, Aggie dear. The task is quite simple, really. All you need to do is infiltrate this organization, steal their recipe, and eliminate their leadership.”

“Simple, my ass! You’re asking for a herculean fuckin’ feat with this bullshit!” Agatha slammed her hand on the mahogany coffee table, smashing it to splinters and sending the crystal decanter crashing to the floor. Whiskey pooled around the pile of debris, seeping into the priceless Persian rug, darkening the pattern into an indecipherable mess.

Stephane didn’t even blink as he stared at the ruins of his furniture. He simply put his hands together and leaned forward, his expression calm. “Quite understandable, but these are my terms. Feel free to decline and return to whatever retirement scam you were running before I called you.”

Agatha glared daggers at the fixer, opening her mouth to give him a piece of her mind—or likely several—but Maria held up a finger to silence her. Ignoring the hot-headed bruiser’s fuming, she considered the man’s words carefully.

“We’re not getting any younger, Mister Cappari. Why should we go to the trouble of taking on such a dangerous job now, at our age?“

Stephane exhaled a long stream of smoke, his calculating gaze focusing on her. “Well, for one thing, money is money. And a lot of it. Enough to fund your grandchildren’s way into a high society. All of you.”

Of course he knew about their families. Old dog, older tricks. But still just as effective.

“But more importantly, this time you might find the job a bit... personal.”

Stephane tapped on his desk, and the hidden holo-projector turned on, showing an image of an old abandoned church, partially burned down, partially collapsed. Around it were scattered bits of trash, rubble, and rusted metal scraps. It looked like a complete dump.

Just like them. How fitting.

A graffiti on the side depicted a beautiful butterfly inside a cage. Next to it, three words were painted in bold green letters.

 ALL GODS

 DIE

Her fingers twitched at the sight, but she remained silent. Neither of her companions made a sound, but she could feel their rage rising at the familiar sight.

They knew that church. That image. And they knew what it meant.

They knew who was responsible.

Who had betrayed them.

Who had to die.