Match 23
Recap: Who’s Who
Hosted by Nero the Zero
A single screen blurred with static, crackling until it settled on an image. Colored bars, in a row, with the dim sound of a drawn out, artificial noise, that resolved itself into a voice.
“Stories start and stop all around the world. Folks of all stripes paint their marks and scrawl their words on this big, grand tapestry all of us call our history. Some leave big ones, painted treaties and written flags in black and white, while others are short, sharp, and quick splats of red.”
The image resolved again, forming into a shadowed man at a shadowed desk, smiling at the viewer. The MC’s teeth stood a stark white, framed and contrasted by his shadowed skin. “Howdy y’all. It’s been a while since you’ve had the pleasure of seein’ me! A cameo’s not enough, y’know? But let’s leave that aside. No need for reunions when we’re fixing for a recap.
“Well, not quite. Not exactly that, at all, in any way. It’s less a recap and more an incomplete explanation, an exposition on just what kinda powers run this ruined Earth. You’ve met some, but not others, and we here think it’s best you get that chance, to be informed, to know the world. So let’s start at the most relevant, cuz who gives a shit otherwise?
“The Pact. You’ve heard the name, I know you have, and you know it’s a power. The States, the Kingdoms, the Pact. The West, the East, the South, in certain terms, in certain ways of thinkin’, but we’ll get to that. The Pact is a name for what it sounds, an agreement between powers, an alliance of monsters. Some places are fine, most aren’t. Human life has value as a commodity, as entertainment, not as people livin’ lives. That’s what happens when the people in power don’t give any shits. But let’s dispense with the metaphors and get to the specifics.
“The Pact is an alliance of communities once called ‘raider tribes’, to one degree or another, that stretches across the southern hemisphere of our little blue marble. Not just one nation, but hundreds, all tied up under the influence of three names you outta already know: Paradiso, Grindhouse, and Tombstone.
“Course, most’a these places ain’t directly run by the Three Queens. Aces though they are, they’re not the ‘governin’’ types, and plenty’a these countries have leaders all their own. Hell, most are democratic! So don’t go thinkin’ the States are any kind of bastion, you got it? Corruption runs through nations like blood through a body. Or more like tumors? Yeah, tumors sound better, blood’s more beneficial, less cloggy. Oh, clots! Clots work.
“And speakin’ of blood clots, let’s talk about the first of the Pact, Paradiso. And that’s first as in first on the list, goin’ from least to most, or most to least, on account of how the ranks work. Point is, they’re the most prominent right now, so let’s talk about Slaver’s Paradise, and how it’s bein’ run. Course, they say a lot about showin’ instead of tellin’, so enjoy a few shows. I’d recommend lookin’ for the next time I talk if you’re the especially squeamish type, but then, this’s already a plenty gory story. Who knows though? Shit hits different, dependin’ on who you are.”
The screen changes, switching from the talkative host to a sequence of images. People in yellow jumpsuits, both men and women, of varying skin tones, all working. Most had their heads shaved bald with tattoos on them, barcodes at the backs of their heads, colored diamonds at their temples, things to note who they belonged to and where they worked. Some were in factories, some were in mines, some were in fields. Some got hardhats. Most didn’t.
The views panned, showing their overseers, people in white masks. They dressed differently, more appropriately for the environments they were in. Raincoats in downpours, hardhats for construction, lights for mines, sweaters when it was cold, tank tops when it was hot. Many were tattooed too, with winged diamonds on their arms. Some watched from comfortable rooms, others were right in the field, but none were laboring. They waited outside the entrances to mines, covering the only exits; they watched from hills above the fields, with assault rifles for “protection”; their hands teased at remotes, whips, switches, waiting for calls to inflict pain.
The image changed to an overseer’s bare back, focusing on it as he moved, a sharp crack echoing out as he worked with a whip. Inked on his flesh was the image of a woman, bound in a coiling snake, winding up her naked body. In its mouth, it held an apple, and she looked longingly at the offered fruit, just out of reach. Written on a banner under it, winding across his skin, was the simple word: PARADISE.
A logo was shown, displaying what the tattoo mimicked. A warmer image, of a woman reaching her hand out to a snake, lit by a sun behind her. The snake still held an apple in its mouth, offering it to the woman as it wound around the branch of an unseen tree. PARADISO was the word beneath this one, along with legalese describing the business practiced by the “Paradiso Private Employment Company” and its copyrights.
“Paradiso is a legitimate business. Fully legal in a good chunk of the world, purely for what it has to offer. It doesn’t matter how advanced mankind gets, there’s always gotta be someone doin’ the shit job. Course, you’re not likely to see Paradiso’s ‘workers’ at any fast food joint. They’re more blue collar focused than pink collar, and as for white collar...well, there’s some interestin’ bits to that goin’ on at a certain place called Cross Corp, a business that’s very enthusiastic about Paradiso’s services, but you’ll be seein’ that around the twenty-first spot, assumin’ things play out as we’re expectin’.
“But enough about that. Paradiso has earned its keep through the sale of flesh and muscle. They profit through selling workers in bulk to do the rough jobs, and they reap all the rewards just fine. You want a diamond ring? Hands caked in blood dug it up. You want a phone? A woman who can’t go home put it together. You want chocolate? You’d be fuckin’ surprised who ‘helped’ grow the beans. Suffice to say, the bird of paradise spreads its wings far.
“Course, that don’t mean they’re untouchable.”
The screen switched back to a previous sight of overseers in a security room, checking feeds in a factory when an armed squad of soldiers kicked in their door, spreading in as the slavers stood, confused, shouting about permits. The soldiers–dressed in ballistics armor akin to riot police, albeit completely crimson–opened fire without hesitation, and every overseer was gunned down on the spot.
“No one’s untouchable. Let that fact sink in.”
More soldiers, now in grassy camo, made their way through the fields, cutting the overseers’ throats. They gurgled, clutching at red ruins as their killers moved on without a second thought.
“It don’t matter how big someone is, how important, how loved, how hated, how immortal. Someone can kill ‘em.”
White-masked slavers in offices were shot in the head. Some were left alive as a demonstration, bound hand and feet and placed in the center of their security rooms. The rooms were doused in gasoline, and the soldier with the lighter waited for the panicked pleas for mercy before he tossed the hungry flame inside.
“Death comes for everyone, and if you do evil shit, evil shit comes back around.”
A shirtless man was dragged, kicking, clawing, out of a blood-drenched room in the slums of a city. No one cared what happened in that warehouse, no one looked at the “new blood” brought in, no one cared about their “training”.
They took notice as figures in red looped a rope around the slaver’s throat, tossed it up and over a street lamp, and pulled.
“But don’t mistake retribution for justice. They can intersect, it’s a whole thing. Retributive justice and restorative justice, look it up. Point is, the evil bastard who hates my enemy is still an evil bastard.”
Fields burned, sending plumes of thick smoke into the sky. Mountains shuddered as mines were blown to pieces, deliberately caved in. Ships were sunk with planted bombs, the slavers aboard already corpses, and men with guns waited at airfields for the planes to land.
The slaves in the fields, those who weren’t killed in the crossfire, ran, desperate for a way home as the men in red paid them no mind. They did not evacuate the slaves from the mines. They did not care for the slaves on the ships. If anyone survived their liberation, fine, it was good PR.
If not, they didn’t give a shit. No one would ever know. No one would ever watch.
“Paradiso is run by its CEO, Chairwoman, whatever you wanna call her, Giselle Summerton. A hateable woman by a lot of standards, but who knows what yours might be? Course, she’s not the only top dog in the company, just the toppest. There’s a board of directors too, major shareholders who help run things smooth, and executives that handle most of the logistics. Which makes them fair targets.”
The screen showed a man in a suit with a flag on his lapel step into a limo and find himself facing a blond man with red eyes, who offered him a drink and some time to talk. He wanted to talk shop, make an offer. The man in the suit was useful, so he didn’t need to die, right? Everything would be fine if he just sat and talked things out.
So the sweating man sat, and got a bullet to the head three seconds later.
“That’s what war is. A woman’s pride is pricked, so she kills some people. A man invested in those people, so he kills more people to retaliate. So the war for Paradise continues. We’ll see if any of them make it out alive.
“On the subject, there’s another group attached to both of these proud motherfuckers. You know ‘em, to a degree, but let’s talk about the Grindhouse now, the second of our three clots, and one that’s nicer in some ways, and just as bad in others. It’s hard to be worse than slavers, you really have to try for it, but while they don’t sell slaves, the Grindhouse doesn’t have any real objection to usin’ ‘em.”
The image on the screen switched to the interior of a warehouse, where rows of people could be seen working at tables, packaging powders and dried leaves. Unlike the slaves in Paradiso’s fields, all of them were naked save for the sacks over their heads, all painted with simple smiley faces.
Around the room, guards relax, uncaring. Most smoke. Unlike the workers, they at least wear pants, though nearly all of them are topless, showing the heart symbols tattooed on their chests.
All of them have prominent veins, showing through their skin. Even those with naturally dark skin share this trait. Their eyes, when they can be seen, are bloodshot, their pupils dilated.
The logo for The Grindhouse is a simple one, consisting of an open mouth surrounding a red heart. Sometimes the heart is stylized, sometimes it’s realistic. The teeth are typically yellow, but sometimes they’re white or red. One man takes the name very literally, and wears the image of a house on his back, where the front has been torn off to show the eager jaws of an industrial grinder.
He displays it proudly as he walks through a field where naked people in burlap sacks cut and gather leaves from the crops grown there. He shouts encouragement, offers rewards, and aside from the machete sticking from his belt, he shows no hint that he may hurt these people. For most of them, the thought never crossed their minds, and for the rest, they just keep up with their work, careful not to draw attention. Work is work, and trouble isn’t worth it.
“Slavery’s a common evil, when you really think about it. Everyone needs labor backin’ ‘em up. Weapons gotta be made, chores gotta be done, and cheapass bosses never wanna pay their dues. Gigi’s wrong ‘bout a lotta things, but she’s very right when it comes to no one with power ever wantin’ to pay for it.
“Back to the Grindhouse though, the second on our list, it’s run by Vivian LoVullo, who you haven’t seen as much of. That’s not strange though, you gotta hide the bigger bosses for their big shows. She has lieutenants, named after organs mainly, and they run their own areas, holdin’ turf. Sometimes, she tours those places, makin’ sure they ain’t fuckin’ her over. Some say all the cartels in the world march to her tune, either cuz one of hers runs ‘em, or cuz they get supplied by her. It’s not true, but she’s got influence, and if things pop off between her and any other faction...Well, she does run the biggest gang of raiders out there. Turns out, people are a lot more willin’ to work for the charmin’ drug runner than the slaver or the death cult.
“Speakin’ of, how about we show you somethin’ special?”
----------------------------------------
Vivian, in full surgeon’s garb for the moment, worked casually as she spoke towards the monitor across from her, “I’m not saying I told you so, mostly because I didn’t actually tell you not to attack dear Cissy, but you really should’ve seen this coming, Gigi~”
“Fuck off!” Giselle snapped straight back, audibly irritated through the violet diamond she used for her insignia, “I swear to God, if you had any idea that asshole would start full on massacring my–!”
“Gigi, you and I both know what sort of reaction a proud man like Arcisio would have to you breaking his toys~ Boys like him are conditioned and nurtured into holding onto their pride above all else and boiling any distress into rage and violence~ It’s only surprising if you truly thought you would suffer no consequences for your actions~”
“I expected some kind of warning at least! That prick’s a fucking sadist, I guarantee that, so where the hell’s his bragging!?”
“It’s probably being saved for later. You’re squirming right now, aren’t you~? So he’ll taunt when he’s satisfied you’ll be at your lowest~”
“Gh–Fuck, this isn’t the time for this shit...Altamirano’s still alive, she’s killed Lupul, which by the way, FUCK! And I’m down all those fucking...what did you call them? Ivories?”
“Hm, not quite, though I do like that name better. It’s fine if you lost a few, especially since I’ve learned about their issues with heat~ I can’t very well shove my ‘ivories’ into the fires if they can’t handle it, though I’ll have to check how best I can counter this weakness...oh, and my condolences for Mihail. He was decent toy for you, from what I saw~”
“Hmph. Dumbass couldn’t come back alive, so fuck him. Sides, your replacements oughta serve me well enough.”
Vivian snorted, giggling, then paused as she noticed the accidental incision she made on her current project’s heart. Well, it was an easy fix, sewn up with an extra hand and a quick application of thread. “If that’s your way of asking if you can fuck them, I can assure you, they are very fuckable~”
“I’ll bet they are, you fucking freak.”
Ah, the disgust in that lovely voice~! She just couldn’t repress the shiver that rippled through her skin, it was just so–Ah, no, just cut the descending aorta, that’s not good... “Mh, well tell me if their equipment needs any adjusting, kay~? I did do a very thorough job, but you never know when erectile dysfunction might hit. It’s shockingly common in males like you wouldn’t believe.”
“I can believe plenty.” Oh that was a bitter tone. How cute~
“Oh, while I have you, you did send that Tusk girl my way, yes? I would’ve thought she would arrive already, and yet, here I am, lacking the presence of our new entrepreneur!”
“She’s on the way, sure. Just taking a detour on the way.”
Vivian paused, then looked at the monitor again. It was an ordinary monitor with a webcam; not everything needed to be organic, though she did still enjoy her work with organic transmitters. “Gigi, I’m not about to hurt the poor dear. I won’t even perform any surgeries on her! Well, no unrequested ones, you never know what a girl might want.”
“I know that. It’s not about you.”
“Oh? Well I sincerely hope you didn’t go back on your own word–”
“Fuck off, I didn’t. She wanted that contract saying I wouldn’t hurt her, have her killed, all that shit, and I won’t. Hell, I won’t even send her to be killed. But if Rhodes decides to test her and shit goes wrong, well, dumbass should’ve trusted my word instead of demanding a contract.”
“...She really pricked your pride that badly by looking for safety?”
“Fuck off! I’m not looking for any holier shit here, your hands aren’t clean and you’re not better than me! And if that cunt can’t handle meeting Rhodes, then she wasn’t gonna survive in this business anyway, my protection or no.”
“Hm. Speaking of survival, I wouldn’t mind–”
“Fuck you! I’m not abandoning shit! These are my lands, this is my business, and I’m not letting some upjumped country rat think she can take MY FUCKING NUMBER! So fuck off with your help, and don’t fucking forget, the two of us? We’re not shit to each other.”
“As you’ve said, sure,” Vivian replied, unimpressed with the outburst, “I’m sure you’ll throw away Wealthy then?”
“...” The screen cut out.
“Oh, that touched a deeper nerve than I thought...” She tilted her head, staring at the blank screen, then sighed. “...You’d better not fuck this up, Gigi. I already have one love I need to drag out of Hell.”
----------------------------------------
“They make a nice couple, don’t they?” Nero asked, then chuckled darkly, “Course, the Snake and the Spider aren’t just a pair. There’s a third member of their group, one who tends to talk soft and carry a real big stick, if y’know what I mean.”
A simple logo appears: A gray tombstone on a black background, engraved with its name.
“The Queen of Death, The Livin’ Massacre, The Mausoleum...Omari Rhodes. The Shark. No snake hidin’ in her den, no spider lurkin’ on her web, the shark is a movin’ woman with sharp teeth and a nasty bite who runs the third biggest gang of raiders out there. Third, because they have high standards for application.
“Tombstone doesn’t deal in human lives, not quite. It at least doesn’t sell people and everyone workin’ for ‘em is workin’ fully willingly. One or two hundred might be coerced, but even then, they have options, they ain’t full members. The thing about coercion is that you need ties to bind you for it to work. Secrets don’t mean shit if no one cares about ‘em. But that’s not somethin’ really relevant. I doubt we’re gonna look in on the life of an inspector bein’ threatened to permit certain buildings, there’s not gonna be the story of a man told to look the other way. These things happen, and they happen plenty, but as far as our world’s concerned, it’s the people with the numbers who matter, and Tombstone is run by a woman with a number.
“It’s also run by a CEO who ain’t her, to give it more legitimacy, and a board of investors who sit in nice, high offices and sip fancy champagne. It’s all a mask for them though. The board of Paradiso is one of rich men in nice suits tellin’ each other about the good ole days, when their ancestors roamed, raided, and raped, though they don’t use that last word. Negative connotations, y’know? The board of Tombstone, on the other hand, looks like rich men in nice suits, reminiscin’ about the days when you could shoot a boy in the street and no one would look twice. They talk in low tones, without any bluster, without any pride.
“To be a leader in Tombstone is to know death. No matter how rich you are, you won’t sit at their board unless you’ve been buried, been drowned, and been burned. You need to know the womb of Mother Death to know what a tomb truly is, and to claim that you are the stone that marks its place. So let’s see what that means. Nothin’ too bad yet, it doesn’t go that far. But it’s a good place to rot.”
----------------------------------------
The rain fell in a light drizzle. Enough to soak if one stood out in it, but not enough to linger if someone hurried. An umbrella and a raincoat was enough to deflect the meager droplets, and the air lacked a promise of a true downpour.
Still, one man walking across the muddy field had taken care to deflect it regardless. His blue raincoat, bright enough to be seen in any storm–and if it wasn’t, he could handle that–covered him properly, and the black umbrella he held blocked any real attempt at getting him wet.
Despite that, his glasses–professional, slightly curved frames, and with a dark pattern that resembled the rain that fell around him–still had water dripping down their glass, and his face–his skin was brown and heavily lined and wrinkled with age–was wet.
His rain boots clumped through the mud as he walked until he stopped behind another man, who was squatting, staring at a mound of dirt.
The man in the blue raincoat was known as Huzuni. It was not his name. It had never been his name. It wasn’t a title. It was a word. A noun. An emotion that had taken what he was and made him not himself.
The man in the red jeans was called Hasira. He accepted his word more easily, more readily. He found it fitting in a hateful way, in the way naming a man “Angry” could be. It was a statement of what he was, how he defined himself.
A man named Fury was not unheard of. A man named Sorrow was not unknown. They were more common than men named Joy.
“You won’t find that here,” Huzuni noted in a language that was not English. A set of subtitles shown on the screen, explaining his words, making it easy. “This is a cold place.”
“Colder than you, sure,” Hasira replied, not averting his eyes from the mound he watched, “But I’ll bet more life springs from it.”
Huzuni acknowledges the point with a noise that could have been agreement. His eyes were brown. His head was shaved. Age creased under his eyes and around his skin, pulled taut to withered muscle and bone. He stood without issue. He would not pretend at frailty in this place.
Hasira stared at the mound of earth, his eyes a deep, dark brown. His hair was black and coarse, and he had a thick beard covering an old and wrinkled face. The hair on his head was bound tight, compared by some to candle wicks. His bare chest was broad and fat. Black tattoos spiraled all across his skin, curving in on themselves around his muscles as though his own skin was winding tight and forming into a solid thickness that no blade or bullet could penetrate. He would know. Many had tried.
He still stared, waiting.
“She’s dead,” Huzuni stated, though he could know no such thing.
“Many ‘she’s’ are dead,” Hasira replied, “You will have to be more specific.”
“The one you watch for. I don’t care for her name.”
“You dislike it, or you didn’t bother to learn it.”
“It could be both. Stocks are up. We’re facing competition with Koroshi for the Kingdoms. The war for Xintong requires weapons, and the Rose’s insistence on entering the fray means the Soshi Conglomerate no longer cares if that kingdom survives.”
“...”
“Morikawa is an interesting brat. The eternal one oh eight, or so they say.”
“If the road we walk wants him dead, then he’ll die. Why are you yammering at me?”
“I thought I’d share some conversation. You don’t share much.”
“I share what I want. Struggle more. You want to live, so struggle.”
“Careful now. You can’t put undue pressure on the young. The providence of the aged is to suffer for those who come next.”
“You are young, so you can live. Life is yours, fight for it! Reach up and grasp it, tear your way out!”
“Pace yourself. Rest. Don’t destroy yourself in a fruitless struggle.”
“Do not listen to the voice advocating hesitation when you’re drowning in soil! A chick dies in the egg she does not break!”
“And a baby dies in the womb it does not leave. The earth is the womb of the dead, young girl, and their birth is the blasphemy of robbed graves. To be born is to be dying, to stay dead is to never know pain. Death in the womb is the kindest fate we could give you here, for this is not a road of quiet passing.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“You already committed violence, you already know its life! If you seek to live, to know of true life, do not give, but take!”
“A baby is not born alone. It does not force its way into existence. It is given aid. In this, we ask much of you already. We demand you be capable when we acknowledge you are helpless. True independence is a fruitless goal, for the road you walk was paved by another.”
“Struggle all the same! Leave your mark, or die as nothing!”
“Or die as nothing. Sink into the womb and never live. We are the stones that mark its place. If you cannot leave that tomb, you cannot enter the world. You slithered with diamonds, now swim with spades. There is much in this life, and you might just reach it.”
“But you never will if you do not stand!”
“But bowing is far easier.”
The men watched as a hand ripped through the dirt and a woman shoved her way out, coughing and choking and vomiting up thick, dark mud. She was drenched and cold and coughing hard, trying to clear the mud from her eyes, feeling it cling to her skin, and when she wiped her sight clean, she saw a woman standing over the grave she had been buried in.
She stood tall in the rain, unbothered as it dripped down a ruined face. She smiled; she had no lips. She heard the new one’s shallow breaths; she had no ears. She smelled the decay in the air; she had no nose. And she watched with pitch black eyes, unblinking as she stared at the bare and bedraggled woman staring up at her.
“...w-w-why?!” Tusk finally managed to demand, trying to...she didn’t know yet. Her hands hurt with the effort of tearing her way up and she–she wasn’t even all the way out yet, she needed to get out–
And Rhodes extended her hand to her. A glove covered it, but her arm was bare up to her shoulder. Her skin was blue-gray. Dark and pale. She wore a gray tank top and cargo pants, patterned with a gray and blue camo. Her boots stood atop the mud, not sinking in.
Tusk’s hand was in hers before she realized it, and Rhodes pulled her up.
Hasira and Huzuni stood back, watching as their queen took the newest of their faith with her.
“She won’t be one of us. She’ll wander to the spider, and see what the web may give her,” Huzuni muttered, watching the woman with a mammoth’s shadow, “She is attached to comfort and ease. I doubt anything we have done has stirred her to action.”
“Well damn,” Hasira grunted, turning with a frown to the next mound in the row, “I was at the wrong grave.”
“...What?”
But he was already walking, squatting down at the next grave in the line and speaking encouragement to the next newborn to come. Or not.
The camera pulled back to show a wide view of the muddy field, dotted by well over a hundred mounds. Some bulged from beneath. Some tore open, hands reaching for the sky, desperate laughter spilling into the air as their second birth was achieved.
Most were quiet.
----------------------------------------
“Somber shit, huh?” Nero had a lazy smirk on his face, looking unimpressed. “Some people worship death. Not always in the ways you’d think, but for the stones, they aim to seize life by nearing death. It takes a lot to become immortal, but not dyin’ is a decent enough way to achieve it.
“As for Tusk, she has more to go if she really wants that strength. Course, she didn’t want it. That’s an important part to all this. She walked a path that went in a direction she didn’t expect, and now she needs to walk on glass to find where she’s goin’. Passed from queen to queen, because when you’re low on the pole, everyone else kicks down.
“That aside, now you know. Paradiso, the slavers, the sellers of labor to those who want to own. The Grindhouse, the dealers, the sellers of pleasure to those who want an escape. And Tombstone, the weaponers, selling death to those who want to feel big. They’re all lined up, and soon enough, they’ll be fallin’ down. But we’ll see when that happens. And there’s others to go.
“Tusk ditched Altamirano early. That might’ve been a big mistake. Maybe she’ll die bad for it. Maybe she won’t. We’ll see how things play out for her, same as everyone that matters. Speaking of, why don’t we see what Nim’s doin’?”
----------------------------------------
Nimia took a slow breath, in and out, as she felt for what fire was inside her. It was easy to find, easy to touch, but hard to grasp, to keep a hold of…
“Your mind is more than just your brain. Your brain is physical, tied to the world. It is the home of what you are, what you think, what you feel. It holds your will, but your will may reach beyond it. It is the core of your body, but your body is not all you are. Free yourself from that physicality, let your will stretch outward, and you will find a greatness you always knew, yet were unaware of,” Wright intoned, his voice calm and even. He sat cross-legged on the grass, same as her and Greenie. They formed a triangle of meditation, centering themselves to find what was lying within.
The field next to a roadside station wasn’t exactly the best location for psychic training, but hey, it did seem to be working pretty well as Milgram and Shelburn bought some snacks for the road. Oh, and Lou was around too, hanging out in the van. Still in eyeshot, because duh.
“Isn’t there an implant or something to make this go faster?” Greenie griped, apparently disagreeing. Though she might be sour in general because of the consequences of her lost bet, which took the form of her having to wear a crop top and shorts in order to show off the various doodles Nimia had drawn across her belly, back, legs, arms–everywhere appropriate, really–with the word LOSER doodled straight across her forehead, several drawings of flowers and butterflies across her visible skin, and the phrase “Property of Nimia Altamirano” printed on her lower back. Could be either, really.
“Sure there is.”
“What??” Nimia wasn’t opening her eyes, but she could tell Greenie had. “Wait, then why are we doing this?”
“Because tech like that is restricted to Bureau operatives. Civilians, or outside operators, need to learn the old-fashioned way. Or the new-fashioned, old-fashioned way, since we don’t push you to the edge of death through pain or starvation. Unless you want to join up?”
“...ffffhhh...hey, Boss-”
“No.” Nimia tried not to smile when she heard Greenie grumble under her breath. It wouldn’t do to be too mean to her minion. “Just try to focus, Greenie. Reach inside yourself and find whatever acid power you probably have.”
“Why is that my default?? I worked for a mercenary company, and sure, we used corrosive weapons, but that doesn’t mean I’m tied to corrosives any more than...whatever elemental stuff goes on here! Speaking of, what’s with the metal and paper for the other two??”
“Metal is a standard element in Eastern philosophy,” Wright replied. After waiting a few seconds for Greenie to start frowning, he continued. “The manifestation of your own internal energy is not necessarily tied to a conventional element. Psionics are not a fully understood science, especially with the overlap it has into other unexplained phenomena.”
“Like magic?”
“Like Miss Altamirano’s magic sword, yes.”
“Does that mean I can’t turn into a psychic fire woman?” Nimia asked, not completely joking.
“You might still be able to. That type of technique is more advanced though. For now, just focus on spreading your mind and reaching out.”
Greenie sighed. “Fine, but I expect to be able to astral project by the end of the day.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Except he wouldn’t, at least at the moment, because Milgram called out from the station’s convenience store. “HEY WRIGHT! WE HAVE ANOTHER PROBLEM!”
The large man paused, his eyebrow raised, before he pushed himself up and moved towards the store, sparing a glance to his “students”. “We might need to postpone this.”
Nimia was already up and following him. “You got it, sifu. I like being in the know though, you know?”
His lips twitched in amusement, though they dropped into a deep frown the instant he saw the tv screen in the corner of the store. On it, a woman in a blue suit could be seen, reading from a set of papers as a crawling line of words spelled out, in clear letters, why Milgram considered there to be a problem: NS PRESIDENT ASSASSINATED, BUREAU BETRAYAL SUSPECTED.
“...Well crap,” Wright muttered, studying the screen as the anchor went into details.
“Yup. Yup, yeah, so, that’s problem one. Probably the biggest, but not the only one,” Milgram explained, glancing to Shelburn, who was sitting on the counter and eyeing the portly cashier, who–in turn–was grinning very nervously and very slowly edging towards the backdoor.
“Problem two is that, apparently, no one can find the Director and half the Decagon is up in flames,” she continued with a scowl.
“And the third problem is that.” Milgram jerked a thumb back at the screen as the anchorwoman continued.
“–have opened bounties for agents Wendell Wright, Garret Milgram, and Noemi Shelburn at eighty million, sixty million, and fifty million respectively, with an additional bounty of five hundred million to be paid for the safe return of their captive, Luigi Scorava–”
Nimia whistled. “Damn, that’s pricey. Hm, I should check my bounty, see if it’s gone up…”
“Probably has,” Shelburn muttered, glaring at the screen, “Why the hell is mine the lowest…”
“We do have bigger issues to worry about,” Wright pointed out.
“Yeah, we need to think of the bigger picture here. We can’t get distracted by the tiny details,” Milgram agreed, then added as an aside towards Shelburn, “Third place.”
“I can and will smack you.”
“Huh, free service.”
Nimia cleared her throat, getting the trio to look at her. “So, hey, sounds like you guys are currently outlaws and need a place to hide out. Meanwhile, here I am, a wealthy independent who you already owe a helicopter, which I do still want if we can get it, and who is super open to hiring you guys! And also keeping Lou safe, if you three still want to do that.”
The trio glanced among each other and Milgram shrugged, scratching at his head. “I can’t say I’d feel too good about ditching the kid after all this. And I’m pretty attached to these two, so...fuck it?”
Shelburn huffed in amusement. “God, you really have a weird way of looking at things. Right, here’s my take: all this just came crashing down on us out of nowhere, and if it weren’t for me literally being trained to compartmentalize, I’d be losing it. As is, I’m still angry at being screwed over, and Scorava’s the asshole who did that. So keeping his son away from him and working with someone who will inevitably kill the asshole on her way sounds like a good idea to me.”
“Hm. Two votes for yes already.” Wright sighed, then nodded. “We need to talk this through more thoroughly. If we leap for our first option, even if it may be a good one, we risk causing larger problems in the long run.”
“I can understand that,” Nimia replied. The three agents were professionals, but it was easy to see that Shelly and Wright felt tense; the former kept looking back to the tv, her lips twitching in aggravation as she kept her arms crossed close to her chest, while the latter has his hands at his sides, clenched hard into fists. Even Mills seemed like he was anticipating something; he was relaxed, but she could see a sheen of metal at his fingers. “So I’m not going to try forcing you into anything. I do have a follow-up point though, and that’s that a henchwoman of mine stole my boat. Now, I don’t know for sure where she went, but she’s a raider, and the next ranked on my list is one of the raider queens, so hey, best case, my boat’s at her place. Worst case, we could probably still rob her.”
“...Would the ‘raider queen’ in question be Giselle Summerton?” Wright asked.
“Yup.”
He nodded firmly, then stuck out his hand. “I look forward to working with you, Miss Altamirano.”
Nimia smirked and clapped her hand in his, shaking it firmly, “Right back at you, Mister Wright.”
And unnoticed by either of them, the anchorwoman finished her report, “–will be expected to take office effective immediately, though there are some fears of further violence directed at government officials for the time being. For now, we’ll just have to wait and see what happens. Back to you, Near.”
----------------------------------------
“Thanks, doll,” Nero replied, grinning at his own viewers before he clapped his hands together, “The States are a power. A young one, but with a history. It’s in the name, the familiar name that indicates everythin’ it’s all about. One that’s gotten sick quick, but really, that’s the consequence of history. What we are, where we come from, what sins we carry, they seep into what we make, no matter what it is.
“Even now, this young land is rotting. Too many tries at the same thing, not enough movin’ away from what they were. A nation is like a species, and it needs to adapt to its environment. Thirteen nations that’re willin’ to call themselves states for the sake of unity. They want more, of course, because who doesn’t? But the world is big, and the world is small, and tryin’ to become a superpower is hard when your coasts are small and your people want quiet. Liberty is important, but so’s community. And the two have a rough time meetin’ in the middle.
“Corporations are big things, and they take power through different ways. All through sale, but what they sell varies.”
A red rose on a white background. It has no stem, but thorny vines bathed in red creep out from under its petals.
“Giochi Sanguinosi is an entertainment company. They’re a legitimate conglomerate with a lotta fingers in a lotta pies, but entertainment is their bread and circus. Everyone likes a story to feel good, or feel bad, or even feel angry. People like violence and romance, things to get the blood pumping, and tragic circumstances to make their hearts twist. As long as the ending fits, people will like it. It’s gotta fit what’s there, feel natural. And the Don provides!
“And the Don makes stories. Not just in rings where the boxer at the bottom rises to the top or at tracks where the racer at the top suffers a bad crash! He makes stories outta the governor with dark secrets she doesn’t want to be told. He makes stories about a man who says too much and breathes too little. His story is a big one, and we’ll get around to it eventually.
“For now, let’s take in a scene from it.”
----------------------------------------
The restaurant was lavish. Round tables covered in red tablecloths took up much of the space. Well-dressed waiters attended to patrons in fine clothes bedecked in jewels.
A man entered the restaurant and walked past the maitre’d without a word. The maitre’d did nothing to stop him, because he knew the man in the red suit.
He was light-skinned and dark-haired, skirting a line between brown and black. His hair was long and pulled back in a ponytail. He had brown eyes and sharp features, with a natural glare that set those around him ill at ease. A short beard covered his chin and did not extend further up. His suit was completely red, as was his tie, though he wore a black undershirt.
The table he approached had two occupants. One, a woman with brown skin and short, orange-blonde hair, who wore a red shirt and black pants with suspenders. She ate her steak casually, only glancing up with a single gold eye. She paused, washed down her meat with wine, and grinned.
“Hey Dominic! You come by to see how I’m doin’?” the 25th, Ofelia Russo, greeted him cheerfully, not minding the serious expression on his face.
“...I wasn’t aware you would be here, so no,” came the reply. Dominic spared her a look, noting the black eyepatch crossing over her face. On the right side, where her tattoo was. “I see your jaguar ate your eye.”
“Pft, ah, yeah, should’ve figured it would happen at some point,” she joked, before looking to her employer, “Would you like me to leave-”
“I did not ask you to, so no,” her employer echoed, before he looked to his adoptive son with his two red eyes, “Hello Dominic.”
“Don Scorava.”
Arcisio Scorava did not look like an old man. It wouldn’t make sense if he did. He was immortal. But that didn’t mean he looked natural.
His hair was white and looked as though it was meant to be cut short, though it looked more like a false grass than a natural lawn. His crimson features looked as though someone had built a hard man’s face out of red steel. Lines carved through portions of his face, segmenting it to give it a full range of motion. His red eyes were cybernetic by this point, solid with irises that bloomed like flowers on a bloodshot backdrop. He wore a pair of round glasses with red lenses, a black, pinstripe suit with a red undershirt, and a black tie with a rose pattern on it. Each of his hands wore two rings, on the middle and at the ring, in platinum and rose-gold.
He twirled a fork through the noodles on his plate, brought it to his lips, and began to eat, not looking at his son. He chewed, swallowed, took a sip of wine, and looked at him again. “Are you going to sit, or does my boy need an invitation now?”
“No.”
Arcisio shrugged to that and speared a bit of sausage, bringing it to his mouth and savoring the taste. “Mm...What do you want, Dominic? I cannot read your mind.”
“Altamirano is climbing fast, Don Scorava. She’s killed four of our own and that demands retribution.”
Arcisio glanced at him, then to Ofelia. “Ofelia, when are you going to kill Altamirano?”
“I’d go after her now if you give me the order,” she replied.
“I do not doubt you will. I do doubt you are recovered. Eat. Young women need meat on their bones.”
Dominic didn’t change expression, though his hands, gloved and clenched into fists at his sides, tensed further. “Sir, we cannot let something like this stand, especially when she’s defending a traitor and aiming at one of our top earners.”
“Our relationship with Miss Summerton has changed, Dominic. She has become an issue. Altamirano does need to die for killing my own. Miss Summerton sent her dog after my operatives though, and that requires a retribution.”
“Sir, you’ve already destroyed most of her operations worldwide. Companies who used her business are distancing themselves to avoid your wrath and two thirds of her organization are dead already. You’ve chastised her enough.”
“Perhaps.” He began winding spaghetti around his fork again. “We no longer support slavers in our family. If she wishes to enjoy what I have, she should stop being a slaver. And if she does, I will welcome her with open arms.”
“But what if Altamirano kills her before–”
“Then she is dead, and the opportunity is lost. That can happen.”
“...I realize the transgression must be answered. My issue is with allowing Altamirano to live even a moment longer as she approaches us.”
“I realize. And yet, we do still have time.”
“Time that is growing shorter by the–” His hand moved quick, darting forward as–
Dominic clutched at his broken nose, stemming the flow of blood with a hiss of pain. His head swirled, bright spots in his eyes as he tried to push himself back up, off the floor.
“You break my heart, Dominic.” Arcisio sighed, looking down at the mangled fork in his hand. The spikes that had attempted to pierce out of it were all bent. Nearby, a set of large, sharp nails were stabbing into the wood of their table. One had pierced through the bread basket. “You come to me like this? Without even a thirteen on your neck? You insult me.”
He sighed again, then glanced to Jaguar, who was tense, but not yet leaping away from the table. “Ask the waiter for another fork. My son ruined mine.”
“...ah, yeah, of course, sir.” She raised a hand, flagging down one of the staff as Arcisio glanced towards his boy.
“Stand up.”
Dominic stood. He let his hand drop from his nose, ignoring the drying blood.
“You chose to place this high. I chose the two hundreds for a reason. High, but not so high that any would want a place there over somewhere higher. An acceptable height, where those low in position would know we are greater. You chose to be the seventeenth. That was your decision.
“Do not cower because a threat approaches. You are a Scorava, blood of my blood.” For the briefest moment, a burning crimson seemed to envelope Arcisio’s body. “Act like it.”
And then it was gone, and Dominic swallowed his instinctive terror. “...I understand, father.”
“Aw, don’t be too hard on yourself!” Then a hand clapped to his shoulder and a blond man with red eyes of his own was grinning at Dominic. “If you want to skip ahead so bad, I’m always open for an attempt~”
“Oh great, it’s Vick,” Ofelia muttered as Victor Song, wearing a pure white suit with a bowtie, immediately turned his grin towards her.
“Felia~! I see you’re still kicking! Rocking an eyepatch now too, interesting! That oughta help you terrify small children much easier!”
“Eh, I wouldn’t want to cut in on your hobby. Hey, you gonna want anything–Ah, wait, right, Don-”
“Take a seat, Victor,” Arcisio ordered, gesturing to a fourth chair now at his table, “Tell me how your work has gone.”
“Better than Fifi’s, I can tell you that,” Victor joked, earning a one-eyed glare from his coworker as he walked right past Dominic and took a seat, opening up the menu to start taking a look, “Oh wow, they have chowder here? Damn, might need that…”
Dominic watched for a moment longer, considering matters as Victor chatted casually about the man he’d murdered earlier that day and continued to poke his success at Ofelia’s failure while she retorted with past fuck-ups of his own. There was a chair open, but he turned and left regardless. He needed to think.
If his father needed anything, he would answer that call.
----------------------------------------
“Hey, fun fact from your ol’ pal, Victor’s red eyes have absolutely nothin’ to do with the Scorava family,” Nero stated as the screen switched back to him, “Some people just have the same eye color, and the modern era, that I’m livin’ in at least, has a whole lot more natural eye colors out there, so it’s really not that weird.
“Y’know what is weird? Hittin’ your kids. Don’t do that folks, it’s no good. Granted, if they’re tryin’ to murder you to lower the chances of their own deaths, that complicates things, so maybe don’t get life lessons from killers. The Scorava Family might run a lotta shit right now, but that don’t mean they’re morally right, and it definitely don’t mean they’ll always be on top. They already got plenty of rivals lookin’ to take what they’ve got.
“And the biggest one’s a name you’ve heard before, not least cuz they’re givin’ some, conditional, support to our girl Nimmy! That’s right, we’re talkin’ bout the Soshi Zaibatsu, consistin’ of Bokushi Enterprises and Koroshi Industries and run by the Morikawa Clan, though don’t mention that last part. They like tryin’ to seem legit.”
The next logo was a very simple one: a violet sun against an orange sky, setting into the blue sea.
“Now, I could spoil what they’re up to, or maybe show you some cute gals hanging out in a noodle shop, but...hm, yeah, good point, you’re real right there, we oughta go with the second! So roll the clip, and enjoy.”
----------------------------------------
Two women sat in a noodle shop, on opposite seats in a booth. Both ate from bowls of noodles and pork, chatting about the food, about the city, and about the company they both worked for.
One woman had dark brown skin, the other had light skin. Both wore black wigs, styled in short bobs. They dressed like office workers, with white shirts and black skirts. The only thing that could be considered off about them was that one woman had a yellow eye, and the other had green. Which wasn’t particularly unusual, particularly since their eyes were clearly cybernetic, and Crow quite clearly retained one brown eye. Her right eye had survived the fall. Not much more of her had, and that was why she was working for Koroshi Industries, even as a murderous rage boiled under the calm surface she put on.
The woman across from her was named Na-rae Gyeon, though her “working” name was Kikyo Kamakiri. She’d suggested a similar name for her coworker, something with Karasu, but had been rebuffed, for the moment. That was fine though, probably, it didn’t mean anything bad, necessarily.
She looked very natural, sitting and speaking casually in spite of the terror she constantly felt. Only the minute twitches of her pupils signaled her constant watch of their surroundings, the slight motions taking in every potential movement and threat.
Her eyes paused on the men entering the restaurant even as she continued to speak casually, without any change in diction or hitch in breath. She moved her hand as she spoke, communicating that there were five men present: 1 target, 4 guards.
It was intended as an easy starter job with an individual Koroshi Industries, or more specifically the Morikawa Clan, wanted removed. Crow didn’t care to know the context, but the captions on screen provided a context for the audience regardless. The target was Shogo Ryugami–a punk with slicked back blue hair rocking a blue tracksuit and ranked 464, who was doing things the clan disagreed with, such as harassing waitresses, underpaying contractors, and, worst of all, trying to open a deal with Cross Corp.
[Zeshin Morikawa really hates Charles Crosswhite] the captions helpfully explained as the casually dressed men walked to their table, sitting without being seated as Crow stood and walked straight towards them.
She smashed the first man’s head straight into the table, hard enough to crack the wood and smash his nose, then shoved him behind her, throwing him out of his chair. She kicked the table across the room as the men scrambled to their feet, the second closest trying to pull a knife and getting his arm snapped in two for his trouble. Her palm smashed into his jaw and he snapped back as she kept a tight grip and slammed her fist into his chest, smashing his sternum as he choked on blood.
The melee was short and brutal as Crow vented her burning rage, tanking punches, slashes, and stabs from the men desperate to live. Her foot snapped a throat under it as she shoved her fingers through a man’s eyes; her fist broke teeth as she clutched a tearing t-shirt, punching again and again with her free hand until it broke skull; and her head crushed a man’s nose before she gripped the sides of his head and squeezed until it–
[This broadcast has been censored for graphic violence.] the captions stated as a rather ineffectual mosaic censor manifested and cheerful music began to play in the place of screams and begging.
Instead, the shot lingered on Mantis clapping, a twitching smile on her face as she tried to display some type of appreciation for her partner. Not that she didn’t appreciate her work; it was well done, certainly sent the message well enough. Of course, Mantis hadn’t had much to do, so she’d taken the liberty of taking one unimportant bodyguard, crumpled and bleeding already, and having a brief snack. As much as she enjoyed her meal, blood always made her peckish, and it was very easy to take a broken man and drink deep of his fear and pain, particularly once she showed him what lay beneath the false face she wore.
Regardless, the job was done, and Crow was instructed on the proper way to remove a head for a contract collection, helpfully aided by a hacksaw and her new partner, who felt like she should be happy about her fantastic progress.
She couldn’t be, not properly, but she felt like she should.
----------------------------------------
“And it’s the thought that counts,” Nero said, nodding to his own statement, “Intentions matter a lot. Course, so do outcomes, and methods. You can pave a road with intentions, but you still gotta travel and reach its end. Why you travel, how you travel, where you travel...that all matters, and somethin’ as simple as carin’ can be a journey all its own.
“We live a world that pretends it doesn’t care. Thinkin’ it really doesn’t is all a part of the illusion. People care, and they’ll do terrible things because they care. They’ll do great things too though, and it’s bound to be messy when those two impulses collide. Cruel because you care, kind because you care, shit’s complex, and people make bad choices all the time. That’s why the numbers are here. Cuz accountability is important, and no one dies until they pay for their crime.
“But hey, I didn’t start shit. I don’t know for sure. But I’ve heard. I’ve been told. And the world doesn’t bow to me or anyone else.
“But bowin’ is different from havin’ your legs cut off. A dragon about to die mentioned the Huoxing. Our little dirt ball has a strange brother out there, where the wealthy fled.”
Two stars in a black void. One blue, one red. A crossed cage covers the former, sealing it in. A great tower pierces from the latter, standing as a spear, rigid and off center.
“A man dies on Mars today. He committed a murder in cold blood for cruel pleasure and gained a number on his neck. But he hid it, because that number was a promised punishment. But he couldn’t help himself.”
The number 999 sits on the cheek of a man in a mask. He wears a well-tailored suit of an extraterrestrial material, and his smile shows through his mask as he wraps his hand around a throat and squeezes.
“A man on Mars sits in a prison, and the 11th just walked into his cell. His name is Kojo, and he walks unknown and unbothered. A sword is at his hip, and he cuts with his fingers.”
999 has cuffs on his wrists. They bind his hands together, and he jerks back, slamming against the wall of his cell, panic showing in his eyes, through the mask he wears. He is afforded dignity, so he is still covered, though his suit is white now. He tries to speak to the man standing in the doorway, attempts to plead, and his head slides free from his neck.
“A man died on Mars to keep peace on the planet of war. A world that exports war to keep its sister down hard. The red world wants the system to itself, and it’s further out. It can take and take as its sister slaves for its wealth. A paradise world, tiny and self-important. It’s lasted long, and it’s had a good run.
“But in the end, everyone gets held accountable.”
----------------------------------------
A harsh snort cut through the quiet following the broadcast’s end, and a click of a remote shut it off entirely. A man grunted, and stood from a messy bed, grabbing a can of beer from the nightstand, and drinking. His scarred throat bulged with every gulp, and he let out a slow sigh, crushing the can in steel fingers.
He walked through the filthy hotel room, crushing a roach under his foot, until he reached a suitcase. The man crouched, opened it, and assembled the rifle inside.
The room was stained. The carpet, the walls, the torn drapes fluttering by the balcony; dust and filth coated it, and the man worked without pause amid the filth. An open pizza box lay on the table, food for whatever insects flittered and skittered through the ruined place.
The man stood, and closed the clean, black suitcase with a bare foot. Scars cut over his ankles and up his calves. His skin was full of holes, and he adjusted the rifle with a practiced ease, before stepping to crush an ant crawling for his leg. His eye flicked down at it, the crosshairs in his pupil shifting as he looked, before he snorted again in derision and contempt.
The man, fully nude and heavily scarred, walked out onto the balcony. There were holes in his hands and holes in his feet; to say his body was scarred was to pretend there was any part of him that was unmarred.
He flicked a cigarette out into metal fingers and put it to his mouth as he sat on the rusted chair out there. In some ways, it matched him. His rust, his marring, his ruin.
The cigarette lit in the heat, and he leaned back on his chair, putting one foot up on the railing and pushing back, balancing on the back legs as he brought the rifle to his eye, staring through the scope at a dusty, yellowed sky, where the sun hung far too close.
The man with the 19 on his chest let out a low, slow breath, and fired up into the vast sky up above.
One shot. One death. That was the guarantee he was promised.
The rest was up to luck.
“Accountability...what bullshit.”