FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

II - LINEAGE

TODAY'S THEME

Moth must've been moving up in the big, slummy world of Colony E33 to nab the pair a gig like this. Highway lights flickered by in passive patterns as the sleek Asuka X02 hummed along the Mega Highway, one of the various roads interconnecting the Sides in CivSector. This particular model was notable for its fully automated systems and built in security protocols, tech only available to ritzy well-to-dos and Executechs. It's slender exterior was reinforced with shock-resistant plating and a kinetic reactive hull, a fancy way of saying it responded to various impact types. An armored vehicle that looked like a sports car, and Sarin and Urakk were nested comfortably in its backseat.

Sarin popped open one of the internal compartments, the comfortable fuzzy interior lined with dim red neon. Bottles of high-quality alcohol rested in coolant. “Damn, not bad Mothy!" she commented.

This could be the one. This job could get their careers back in good standing. Admittedly, Sarin was suspect of Moth – her current Middleman – and their ability to snag high-tier contracts that wasn't just glorified runner work. Half the time she had her tits out for the jobs Moth tossed her; not exactly top paying stuff. But this little nugget of a contract arrived early in the morning with oodles of promise. According to Moth, the job was specifically in request to Urakk and Sarin. As in, the person (or persons?) putting the chips down needed them. Now, Sarin's first instinct leaned towards the explicit. Her Hangmen work, as of late, didn't involve specialized assassinations or chem specific work, and if you wanted her, you also wanted some kind of backroom deal.

But the dossier revealed otherwise. The contract praised the duo for their lengthy history of “combat specific scenarios" (heh) and “integrity in overwhelming situations." Interesting way to put things getting messy. . . but the dossier wasn't lying, either.

Filtered acid rain tapped at the vehicle windows while black, brackish clouds consumed the sky, leaving only distant towering lights to guide the way. They were headed to the North Side, holding a distinction of housing names and powers of varying affluence. While Norsec was still consumed by the miasmatic forests of mega structures, there were pockets of adequate tranquility for those that could afford it. Some built estates with enough generous space so they were not directly adjacent to enormous blocs or Corporate Colossus towers. Precisely where the two were headed. The Asuka X02 was engaged in auto-drive, escorting the pair to a wealthy, if not forgotten, estate.

Specifically, the Muerellis. The who? Accessing the Nervnet revealed pitiable dockets of information, a majority of which were blotched out or rendered useless by malicious interference. What remained revealed the Muerellis were a family with extensive criminal ties, contacts with Executechs specific to Colony E33, and even deals with Kervesky Fuel Solutions.

Mm, criminal. Liberal use of the word.

“No way, look at this," grunted Urakk, wielding an amused, sharp grin. He was poking at a control interface at his seat, which pulled open a screen and flickered through an UltraNet feed. “This thing even gets DeathBall!" The images of dull light flicked over his devilish features, dancing off his blood-red scale flesh and dark, curved horns.

His four eyes flashed to Sarin, as if looking for approval. Aw, she was happy he was happy. Normally, her big, meaty lizard Mutant could only get DB feeds from pirated signals on his AutoDEC. The bun leaned over, glancing at the feed.

One of his favorite teams was playing, the Shoreline Shredders, a healthy composition of babes who could bruise. The team captain, “Killmaster" Karla, stood proud in front of the auto-cameras, having another assortment of fresh meat for tonight's game.

“Can we just live in this?" he snorted, once again poking at the interface.

She snickered. “That wasn't in the contract, but. . . we'll see."

What was in the contract appeared straightforward. This was a bodyguard job at first glance. The deets Moth flung over via Nervnet explained the Muerellis were making a full departure from Colony E33 and were transporting high-value goods from their estate. They why wasn't important, just that said departure was done without interference. Sarin didn't need experience to know there would be– you didn't get to run rackets as a crime family with ties to a Corp Colossus without consequences. Furthermore, you didn't get to just leave the machine. Not without leaving some of yourself behind.

As the vehicle continued, the UltraNet feed shimmered, and a vaguely feminine visage overtook the onboard screens. Urakk frowned, his Death Ball binge cut short.

“Thank you for choosing Asuka, the best in premiere transport luxury and safety," said the voice, distorted by electronic static. “We are arriving at your destination soon. Please ensure all personal luggage is accounted for before exiting the vehicle. ETA is within seven minutes."

Not bad at all. Not only was the X02 capable of housing Urakk's enormous frame, it sped along the Mega Highway without interference or turbulence, a complete contrast to the clustered roads of CivSector.

Arrival at the Meurellis estate occurred precisely as the onboard AI-pilot predicted. It lingered atop a winding private street, guarded by sentry gates. But, as Sarin noticed, entirely lacking in guards. No patrols or walkers, not even a synthoid to be found. Even if the family was planning exodus from the Theseus, it'd help to at least have a squad or two minding the roads. But no, the Asuka X02 was cleared at each gate, until it arrived at the main courtyard.

When the X02 docked, the doors swept open and the onboard voice granted them a polite but forceful “goodbye." The trunk hissed ajar, allowing them to retrieve their equipment.

“Humf," Urakk said, marching to the back, his four eyes wandering over the imposing estate structure. “Where's the party?"

They came prepared. Urakk wore one of his favorite flak jackets, one designed for his bulk, covering his thick, muscled scale-skin in a protective bullet-resistant attire. A weapons case carried his BULLJACK, a vicious shotgun typically found on the automated CSC walkers for “suppressing violent populous outbursts." His revolver was in there too, though due to its size and caliber of rounds the Perish-99 spat out it had more in common with a stubby grenade launcher.

Urakk also brought along a customized rebreather, a physical peripheral linked directly to his Auto-DEC. A Digitally Encrypted Computer device was just that: a clunky, brick-like rectangle carrying its own Nervnet and system interface. Since his mutant biology refused prosthetics or implants, he needed a device to “talk" to the world around him. As such, his four-eyed, ghoulish mask was the perfect extremity to couple with the Auto-DEC, sporting a pair of short antennae granting him a “buggy" look.

Sarin retrieved her equipment too, putting a hand to hip as she gazed at the building. She doubted it was a trap. This would be an awful lot of trouble to go to for something like that. Still, safety first. The bun had her own flak jacket similar to her Bug, rolling with that black metal biker bitch aesthetic. But her underlayer was an elegant Xiomantis fit. Xiomantis was a PMC that never offered its equipment to civs or regs – they were strictly black market acquisitions if you weren't playing army man for the Corp Colossi. As such, the tight, body hugging suit of matte black was perfect for high-value gigs, layered with a supportive ultra-mesh and responsive gel-mold accenting her body. Urakk absolutely loved it, because it showed off her quite fetching bun body while boasting combat ready protection.

No telling how this job would go, so her equipment case contained the ol reliable – a Chemlauncher, a family of biomines, and a customized Xiomantis M-33 S suppressed submachinegun. As the two hoisted their respective gear from the automobile, the trunk slid shut and the auto-pilot hushed its engines.

“Standby mode engaged," it declared.

Sarin looked her boyfriend over. “How ya' feelin?"

Urakk strapped on his peripherals, latched the Auto-DEC to his d-ring belt, and gave Squeaky a squeeze. He gave her a thumbs up. “All good, baby," said the mutant.

She liked to hear that, long ears perking up. Not often did she get to run high-tier gigs with her Bug, and no matter the result, his company made them so much better.

But their preparations were cut off by a smooth, feminine voice, vaguely accented, her frame practically coalescing from the front gate.

“I trust your ride wasn't long?"

Urakk's gaze darted over, then down.

Where Sarin expected to see a cavalry of armed goons – or at least a party of Muerellis family members – she was instead greeted by a silhouette not too dissimilar from her own. She was a hand taller than Sarin, with the makeup of a vixen. Astute ears, long, well-kept dark hair, deep blue eyes, and a fine fur coat of gentle amber.

She had a form fitting dress of dark, frilled black fabric emblazoned with the Muerellis family sigil, arms folded behind her back, bush tail kept still in trained fashion. At first, Sarin thought her a reg in a fancy skirt. But on further inspection, she was way more than that. A weapon, in fact, wearing the pleasantries of a servile maiden.

“I trust you're the contractor?" Sarin said.

The girl did not blink.

“Not exactly. Please come with me. Time is limited."

She turned, her dress heels clicking against the pavement. The rain continued to shower down in light, frail waves while the ambient light of the massive estate building poured out along the courtyard in pale yellows.

The speaker's regard for the two were brief and disinterested, clearly focused on the task ahead. Said task Sarin only had partial details on; what might occur was left to chance. A cursory study of the greeter told Sarin a few things: she was the servicing maid and there was more to her than an elegant frame let on.

They reached the estate doors, surprisingly ornate and antiquated given the monolithic architecture of CivSector. The family sigil crested its entrance, and once open, transferred the small group into a large, ritzy interior shockingly free of the glaring neon that infested Colony E33. There, instead, were numerous statues, paintings, and cultural motifs of the family, sharing a history and tradition obliterated by time and lost history. The large paintings (actual oil canvas paintings, Sarin couldn't believe) featured prominent men and women that might claim they were the founders of the Meurellis name. But their true origin, home system, city, colony? Lost, at this point. There was no connective tissue between systems, colonies, and expanding Corp Colossi power structures. This was an estate of ghostly memories, a glorified corpse.

There was no one inside.

“Damn girl," said Sarin, canting her hip the side. “Don't tell me it's just you in this big place?"

The girl stopped, paused, and turned around. “No."

She provided a small bow and curtsy. “I will apologize for the lack of formalities and hospitality. My name is Quinnette. I have dutifully served the House Meurellis for seven years. And the House Meurellis has dutifully served Theseus for centuries."

Urakk snorted, looking around, setting down his trunk of weapons on the ground. “What, like food?"

The vixen folded her hands together, turning to stare at the sizeable mutant. “Our House has been the essential custodians of shared, forgotten history. We have maintained the thread of our heritage despite the strains of vast, nigh unimaginable distances. It is of my opinion we even have origins on Terraprimus."

Sarin hid a smirk, her ears pointing up. Oh, really? A lofty claim indeed. Quinn noticed the amusement.

“It does not matter if you believe me, only that you aid me. You are Hangmen hired out of. . . desperate circumstances."

“Aww," cheeked Sarin, “And here I thought you wanted us for our professionalism."

“In an ideal situation, the job could be handled passively and with dignity. But our House has incurred numerous foes since its establishment on Theseus."

“You only net my Middleman so many deets, foxy," continued Sarin. “Don't be so cryptic, or we can't help."

She curtsied in apologetic fashion. “You are correct. Understand it was for the protection of my House. Please, follow me, I will explain."

Urakk grunted, cracking open his weapon case and carefully yanking out the imposing BULLJACK. He opened the break mechanism and loaded in three cannister sized slugs, the weapon loaded with an imposing kathunk. Quinn watched the action, ears flattened, tail flicking in nervous fashion.

With a swift turn, the vixen proceeded down the foyer to a grand staircase which split into several chambers and rooms. Sarin shrugged at her boyfriend and they followed in dutiful fashion, leaving her own arsenal in the greeting foyer. . . for now. Once again, the halls and internal mechanisms of the estate were regal and antiquated in nature. It lacked the obscene sleek walls and hum of “life" so common in CivSector, replaced with a baroque interior for a crime family fancying themselves royalty. It did have Sarin mildly curious. To claim one had records of their own heritage and history was bold. Around here, you were born in the machine, that was that. If you sired another generation, their culture was the city. Where your “ancestors" came from didn't matter, and even if you possessed an inkling of that knowledge, the chances of you ever visiting your home colony were laughable in its insignificance.

“Here," stated Quinn, reaching a door with lines of gilded gold and royalistic fetishes.

This, however, was the only segment of the estate bearing any sign of tech. Indicated so, as Quinn tilted her head, her eyes buzzing to life in flickers of red. Sarin's own Combitronics eye pinged an alert regarding internal activation of security systems, completely custom. There were zero data tags of the diesel used to build it out, and its interface code was encrypted to a unique “language," no doubt to the Meurellis.

The door whined open. Urakk followed close behind his bun, four eyes peering through the peripheral mask in case of a trap. But what lingered inside was not another room of paintings or murals. Aside from some pleasantries and comforts, the best way to aptly describe it was a glorified life support system.

A massive, automated interface yolk sat in one corner of the room, blasting datafeeds along a dozen different screens, analyzing virtually every metric of health for. . .

For who?

Quinn sauntered inside, going to a massive, coffin-like structure. It was plated with reinforced steel, a small glass opening revealing the face of what appeared to be an ancient, withered old man. Adorning his tomb were bands and regal paraphernalia, as though symbols of honor. A chest also sat next to the massive life-support device, a tri-locked safety box. Again, custom, but Sarin recognized some of its dimensions. Something of a hybrid between Specter 7 and Xiomantis design.

Quinn put a palm on the case, looking at the slumbering man in saddened fashion. “Charmagne Meurellis," she said, her voice quiet.

Urakk eyed the body with bored disdain. “Never heard of him."

Quinn's ears flicked. An observing comment nothing short of a vicious insult to her family name.

“I suppose you would not have."

She sighed. “Tonight. . . Charmagne is making his final departure to the mother home. Azael. Where the rich origins of our family started."

She then looked at the tri-locked box. “These will go with him."

Sarin crossed her arms, starting to put a picture together. “And they are?"

The vixen hesitated, as though speaking of its contents might bring ruin to herself and her “home." That what lied within was clearly so sacrosanct to even acknowledge it to strangers was unthinkable. How ruinous things were, to rely on Hangmen.

“Our family books. Written historical records. The entirety of our family tree. Charmagne was. . . erm. Is, the custodian of these texts. We would never disgrace our heritage by loading them into the vacuous, uncaring UltraNet."

Oh. Now Sarin was actually impressed, assuming the fox wasn't lying. Books. Real documents with paper and ink. . .

“Even in his older life, I attended and assisted great Charmagne with his writing. It was my pleasure to serve. . . until he fell ill."

Urakk let off a girthy, amused chuckle. “Bahahah. That witherin' dick? Really? Yeah, betcha' really enjoyed washing that old fellers hairy balls, fox girl."

Shocked, Quinn stared at the mutant with a renewed expression of disdain, her stance rigid. “Excuse me!?"

Sarin waived a hand. “Honey, relax. Pretty little modded out girl like you 'attending' a decrepit old crime lord? With writing? Please. I mean, no judgment here. Just don't try to bullshit us on the 'honor' part. You're a glorified mob unit. Old pricks like sleepyhead over there are a dime a dozen, and what they 'want' is all the same."

Quinn hissed. “What we did is none of your concern!"

“Take it easy," gruffed Urakk, resting his herculean shotgun on his shoulder. “I wore a bunny suit in a skinhouse so I could zero an old fuck. Guy was almost fuckin' ninety, but you better believe he wanted a harem of buff, servile. . ."

“ENOUGH," she shouted. “Enough."

The vixen closed her eyes, collecting herself. In the meantime, Sarin pinged her Nervnet and spaced into the docs and data relating to one Charmagne Meurellis. Very sparse, very clandestine. But what files Sarin's Nervnet could decrypt contained the usual humdrum of a mob fit. Charmagne ran deals here on Colony E33, trafficked chems, bodies, guns, had a wife, an heir (probably back on Colony E771, Azael), but definitely got himself a squad of custom baddies while he played tinpot king. Young in complexion, those girls, wired for loyalty. Just like Quinn.

“Surprised a CHIMERA like you even needs our help," said Sarin.

Quinn glowered. “It is none of your concern. What is your concern is the safe passage of his master's body and our familial records."

Yeah, that. Again, Sarin noted the complete absence of any protective outfit. No guards, not even any automated sentries.

“A private vessel will arrive in two hours at our private hub. Both its arrival and destination are sacred. It is not recorded. I was commanded to ensure this safe passage and protect my home in his absence."

Sarin found herself a spot on the wall and leaned, unconcerned with any of the ritzy adornings. “You're just gonna'. . . stay?"

“I was commanded to."

“Little vixy all alone in her big big home?"

“I. . ."

Sarin shrugged. What a shit deal. Spend a portion of your life riding a withered old frog only to be left behind. Typical crime family bullshit.

“You expecting company?" asked Urakk. “Shithouse is a ghost town."

Again, Quinn sighed, though her exchange in posture suggested she was relieved to change the subject.

“Malicious actors and enemies of our house may have knowledge of tonight. So yes, I am expecting 'company.'"

“And what kinda' diesel are these assholes packing? Any ideas?"

Quinn appeared puzzled. Good god.

“Weapons, honey," said Sarin, exasperated. “Synthoids? Runners? Angry family with AugTec implants? Somebody with CMPD connections?"

“I'm afraid I don't know. That is why you are here."

The bunny girl shrugged. “Okay. Fair. So, we've gotta' get geezer and his diaries off E33. Mystery contacts. You have cameras we can use? Some monitoring systems to net us an alert in case bad company shows up?"

Quinn hesitated. To have outsiders brutishly “invade" her home's internal, private systems was so unthinkable. But she promised to see this task complete.

“We do. I can grant you access to those with a token code."

Urakk grumbled. “And we'll just. . . wait around? Boring."

Quinn growled. “You are being paid a generous sum for this job. Do not disrespect the hospitality of House Meurellis any further."

Sarin giggled, nudging the mutant. “Bug, why don't ya set up back in the foyer? I'll meet you there in a sec."

“Yeah. . . alright. Maybe I can get that damn Death Ball match back on. . ."

The hulking serpent turned, exiting the room. Quinn wore a frown, her dainty black lips tugging at her muzzle.

“What a repulsive thing," Quinn commented as Urakk left. “How can you stand working with him?"

This time, it was Sarin's turn to glower. “Oh, don't you even talk shit about my Bug, pretty girl."

“He is rude, uncouth, and utterly vulgar."

Sarin pushed off from the wall. “He's also my boyfriend and partner. Why don't you drop the frilly maid act and get with the program. You want some stuffy, cock-soft yesmen, your glorified sugar daddy over there shoulda' paid his dues. But now you've got us, so deal."

“How dare you!"

Sarin wasn't in the business of getting her clients riled up, so she spared the vixen some choice words. “Dare what? This is CivSector. What, did Charmagne tell you how special you were? You're a CHIMERA, accept it. They breed us to be glorified cock-socks or walking WMDs. No amount of riding his geriatric three-incher changes that."

Quinn stuck her nose up. “I am proud to serve here, regardless of what you think."

Sarin smirked. “What I think is you're too good for this place. Just remember, baby doll, they're leaving you here when all is said and done."

She cast her Combitronic eye over the vixen and entombed Charmagne one more time. “Do what you gotta' do. I'm gonna prep this heap for whatever trouble you think is coming."

Quinn said nothing, watching the petite bun leave. Her frame remained rigid, tail swaying as she glanced between the tri-lock case and slumbering Meurellis. When it was quiet, she put a hand over the glass.

“You always said I was special," murmured the vixen. “Am I?"

-*-

The rain did not dampen. If anything, only hastened, rattling the tall windows of the Meurellis estate. The gleaming nightmare of CivSector was still visible, even from here, steel fingers dotted with gems of sickening lights.

From Sarin's perspective, attempting to manage 'security' without bodies and personnel was a waste of resources. She and Bug were good, but they weren't an army. The estate was built with romantic intent, a masturbatory exercise in its own self-proclaimed royalty. By doing so, it abdicated even the basics of good defense_,_ no doubt relying on countless masses of paid gunners and executech contacts. What led to its current, barren circumstance she could only guess at, but experience told her it was a few deals gone bad. Really bad. Liquidation of assets and owing debtors too much. Charmagne wanted to make out like a bandit in his glorified cocoon, probably hoping for a king's welcome back home.

As for the girl? Ugh, poor thing. Sarin had enough time to peruse the housed, encrypted data, thanks to Quinn's authentication token. Most records were blotched out or destroyed, but boy oh boy, videos existed in plentiful form regarding the old man's antics with the vixen. He was a voyeur, and had assembled an extensive personal list of private “shows" with the girl. Numerous recordings and pictorials put her in explicit positions and performing equally explicit actions for the dying flake.

One particularly explicit vid had a camera hoisted right in front of the young gal's snatch, her sacred pussy lips stretched wide for an observing, old master. The vid produced raw, unapologetic imagery of her petite rump bouncing on. . . eyugh, withered old mancock, bellowing and moaning Charmagne's name like he was king dick number one. No respect for her autonomy, every curve of her slender body was used, her muzzle painted with his seed and pussy pummeled with unforgiving cock.

Just like Urakk assumed, she was a glorified toy, blinded by a stream of CHIMERA command codes and “honor."

Finding deets on her was also a ziggurat of mysteries Sarin didn't have the time – or interest – for. That said, her servile demeanor hid a very, very dangerous individual indeed. This girl packed serious built in diesel and had an arsenal of simvids linked into her Nervnet. Some of these simvids were black market acquisitions too, operation manuals recorded from old expansionist combat scenarios and assault missions from a whole library of interstellar PMCs.

All that just to have her used up by a fetid old man, huh? Really, nothing new. Throw her on the West Side and she'd come out, well, a lot like Sarin. At least she'd be a living weapon with a choice.

As for defense. . . it was a wait and see approach. Get a ping for movement, act accordingly. Sarin's bio mines were hunter-killers, seekers ideal for shindigs like tonight. Especially considering coverage was pitiful. Lots of baroque windows and stained-glass fixtures just begging to get kicked in. Honestly, the whole Meurellis estate reeked of ego, established on the premise no one would dare take a swing at the “mighty" family. Sure, in his young days, perhaps this Charmagne was a magnetic, unstoppable figure. But now he was a body on borrowed time, slumbering in a glorified tomb.

Urakk was minding the foyer, his herculean physique flopped into one of the cushioned couches, the furnishing wheezing at his weight. Sleek black horns and spikes erupted from his head, complimenting the exposed scale-skin of dull reds. He was certainly bored, poor guy.

“Hangin' in there, Bug?" sarin Said, sauntering through the foyer. She went to her arsenal case, proceeding to unlock it with a Nervnet ping.

“I'm waiting," he grumbled. “And I guess I'll keep waiting."

Sarin decided to swing the conversation away from the mundane. “Yeah. What about the girl?"

“What about her?"

“She gonna' be a problem for us?"

Urakk chuckled. “You asking me to size up our client?"

The bun shrugged, withdrawing her family of mines and weapons. She tugged at her flak jacket, ensuring it was strapped properly.

“Well, I don't think she likes us."

“Hah! Me, you mean she doesn't like me."

Urakk checked his revolver, answering her. “No. Too loyal to whatever the hell this 'family' shit is."

Sarin checked the time. It was an hour off from the predicted transport, according to Quinn. She sighed. “These old mob dynamics are so tiresome."

“Don't let the fox hear you say that."

Sarin strapped on her Chemlauncher and double checked the M-33. “I don't think she cares. She's just. . . committed. Like us!"

Urakk offered a throaty, reptilian chuckle, muffled by his mask. “Brainwashed."

His eyes lingered on Sarin for a moment, appreciating the curves and shapeliness of her buxom butt. And then he stared a while longer, eyeing something. Something affixed to her torso, sliding up the sensual patterns of her built midriff and generous chest. Was she doing a thing?

“Uh. . ." he said, pointing. “You got something on your uh, your tits, Bun."

Sarin straightened, tall ears perking up. “Humh?"

Her Combitronics eye screamed with a series of alarm pings. Then, she glanced at her chest. A tiny dot of red light was running over her body.

Urakk noted her features shift, her face snapping to an expression of alarm. “HEY!" he bellowed.

On instinct the big reptile leapt over and crashed his body over the bun girl, wrapping her in his physique. The abrupt sound of angry, crackling glass consumed the estate foyer, the whining hiss of a fired weapon shattering the silence. Urakk grunted as a tiny point of white-hot pain stabbed his lower back.

All at once, gunshots reigned.

“Oh FUCK off!" roared Urakk, covering Sarin as debris and dust choked the air. Resounding fire of numerous automatic weapons stung the air. Sarin flinched, covering herself, shouting over the guns.

“Guess we're done waiting!"

The socketed peripherals on Urakk's mask chittered. The duo's Nervnets whined with ALERTS, if the gunfire wasn't enough. With morbid strength, Urakk effortlessly scooped up his bun and charged away from the shots, crashing into another open room away from the windows – the estate lounge. Gunfire settled down, accompanied by voices soon after.

Urakk released his girl and she hopped to the floor, boot heels clicking against the ground.

“You okay Sara?"

Sarin pat off dust and debris from her suit and hair. “Mmhm."

She saw her man was also pinged with a few shots. “You?"

Urakk's ravenous Mutant regeneration was more than enough to shrug off injuries of this nature, so he nodded. “You know it."

Reassured, Sarin planned their next move. At once, she readied her Chemlauncher, an improvisational weapon designed to lob her specialized chemical munitions.

“Call it, babe," she said to Bug, asking his advice. “Foxy's upstairs. Dumbasses are running in loud and hot."

Urakk glanced back to the foyer. “Go secure our payday. I'll crunch the siege, see what kinda' bullshit diesel they're packing. Might have some fuckers upstairs already!"

She didn't second guess him. Urakk was plenty capable, and a big, loud, angry fight was his specialty. But, if the hired goons that came knocking got to Quinn and the glorified corpse, their gig was iced.

The bun checked her munitions, switched to automatic, and made a dash across the lounge. There was another way upstairs. In the meantime, Urakk holstered his revolver, favoring the BULLJACK instead. His idea was to get their attention, whoever they were. It was a mystery resolved within a minute, as a canvas of voices were audible.

From the foyer, a team of roughly five to six suited figures crashed through the estate door. They were, at first glance, of no visible significance. Tall, all wearing thick visor glasses, suited, packing a compilation of Specter 7 automatic weapons.

“You missed!" one swore. “Headcount of two, could've been one!"

Angry, gruff, but young voices.

“Fuckin' cut the chatter. Team one is in, team two is dropping upstairs. Make it quick!"

“I don't see any bodies. . . we still got company. . ."

Urakk decided he was excited. He also decided he was quite ready for this gig to finish up. With a vicious, seamless charge, the reptilian Mutant bashed through one of the adjacent walls leading into the foyer. His frame crumpled the wood, sending splinters and dust into the air, met with surprised screams.

“HOLY SHIT!" one of the men yelped.

Urakk could see one of the young men in front of him and proceed to side-swipe with his free arm. His muscles tensed as the proceeding impact cracked against what felt like a rib cage. . . or maybe a skull? No, the torso. The torso, because said impact shattered the man in half, sending his upper body flailing against the opposing wall, creating a painted trail of blood and entrails.

Surprise was important. The young men shrieked, and one proceeded to retaliate with fire, sending a hive of stinging rounds into Urakk's side.

He swung his BULLJACK towards the offender, squeezing the trigger. Magnetized shells erupted from the shotgun and transformed the attacker into a mist of innards and bony fragments.

Panicked yells followed suit. One of the attackers sprang away, desperately seeking cover through the opening Urakk created. They were not, by first estimation, well trained or running serious diesel.

“EMRIS! Goddammit!" one of them said, glancing at the fleeing goon and back to Urakk. The Mutant took advantage of the judgment lapse and one-arm grabbed a nearby recliner, raising it and sending it careening down in a sweeping smash like it were a mace. It crushed the speaker with an ugly thrunk, leaving one man alive.

This one had his own shotgun, a pump action, which he proceeded to fire off in terrified volleys. A few hit Urakk on his side and face, rivers of sickly blue blood erupting from the injury.

“Fucking FUCK!" growled Urakk. “Little' scavvin' shit, COME HERE!"

The man stepped back, tripping over debris. Without remorse, Urakk towered over the attacker and slammed his clawed foot straight into the man's ribs, obliterating his torso.

Urakk took the brief pause to reload his BULLJACK, fresh shells seated with a satisfying cathunk. He didn't have long, since one of them – an “Emris" – had taken off. But he did offer a cursory glance at the corpses, all of whom lacked significant implants or noteworthy mods. Standard issue weapons. . . cheap meat. An arrogant assumption: they believed their job would be easy. It also meant they were ignorant of Urakk and Sarin's presence.

-*-

The blitz of fired rounds and destroyed furnishings sent a spike of panicked realization through Quinn. Despite her preparations and assumptions, despite her planning and anticipation. . . she couldn't believe the House Meurellis was under attack.

What inspired this? Was it true, what Sarin said? About the family being nothing more than a glorified outfit of mob men, peddlers of narcotics and black money? She gave a somber sigh, exiting the chamber and locking the mechanism behind her, sealing Charmagne. It did not matter right now, she had a duty to fulfill.

With renewed vigor, instinctual knowledge overtook her. A fight was coming. And yet, the concept put her at ease, as though she'd fought one hundred battles a thousand times over. With graceful agility she went to the second floor.

Her ears flicked from the violent raucous downstairs. Screams and cannon-like shots rang out, decimating bodies and furniture alike. She flinched at the idea the Meurellis estate suffered damage, but found resolve in that, at least, the Hangmen were doing their job.

Quinn's time to ponder the fiasco was cut short, however, when another explosion caught her ear. At the end of the second-floor hall, attackers poured in after rending the exterior asunder with some form of high-impact charge. It created a wound, and like scavenging germs men in suits rushed through. In haste, Quinn quickly put herself between them and their passage.

However, she was flanked. Another explosion consumed the air, just opposite of the intruders at the end of the hall. In a flash, there were men on equal sides, all bearing thick, black visors and suits. She did not recognize them, they bore no family insignia, and they were honorless dogs.

One of the men at the far hallway's end trained an automatic weapon at her head. “Get the fuck down!" he screamed.

“Just kill her and go," another said. “We already lost team one!"

“Fiends," Quinn countered with quiet rage. “You will leave this place."

Her Nervnet flared and her eyes lit in an electronic display of calling codes. Though it was true, the estate was not a modernized fortress fit with sentries and auto-weapons, it did carry some surprises. One, specifically, was Quinn's personal arsenal. In moments, she signaled a carriage drone, shaped like a small coffin and wearing the Muerellis sigil, a visual signal to all foes that death was coming and she would be their gravedigger.

It arrived quick enough to take the attackers offguard.

“The hell is that!?" one of them said.

“Goddammit just shoot!"

Quinn winced as a rain of bullets rang out, reflexively kicking up the steel plated object. The coffin did enough to deflect the rounds, but had her pinned down. And in a moment, the intruders on the opposite side would descend upon her too.

Save, a cloud of vicious purple and sparkling phosphoric vapor erupted, a cloud of death coalescing.

“Ah?"

Quin looked behind her. The attackers were panicking, attempting to free themselves from the cloud, but their skin ruptured and eyes boiled, suffocating as they collapsed into sputtering, oozing piles.

“Sorry to keep ya' waiting, foxy!"

Sarin dashed up the stairs, reloading her Chemlauncher. The brief reprieve allowed Quinn to unload her equipment.

At once, appearing from the tomb of steel was a weapon near-equal in the vixen's size. A terrible, horrifying weapon, a Havok 12-12 GAUSS, or “minigun" for slang, often propped on auto-drones or PMC level military vehicles. The 12-12 was unique, however, in that it did not fire physical munitions, but incendiary charges powered by superheated batteries paired with a cooling chamber. It spat the hymns of a dragon, and these fiends would know its fury.

She procured the weapon, bracing herself. Any reg or civ would struggle to even move the Havok 12-12. But it was like Sarin said. . . Quinn was a CHIMERA.

“Begone from this place!" she shouted, before squeezing the trigger. The muzzle erupted in a screaming light of raging oranges and reds, as though spitting liquid shells of magma. Steam hissed from the weapon's vents as a spray of molten death bellowed from the weapon, quite literally eviscerating the attacking “team two." Their bodies were ripped asunder, boiled, then reduced to ash. In moments, they were there. Now, they were not.

It happened with such vicious quickness it was hard to believe they were under attack at all. The wounded estate was splattered with cavernous holes, rain seeping in from numerous openings. Sarin's rabbit ears perked up, her Combitronics loaded with ping alerts from the estate's various security cameras. There were no other detected assault squads. . . for the moment.

“Mm. Good shooting."

Quinn sucked in gulps of air, her chest heaving as though she'd been through an extended conflict. In a way, perhaps she did. Just how long was she acting the idle play-doll to her surrogate master? Clearly, long enough that a genuine combat scenario was a shock to her system despite its CHIMERA makeup. She set the 12-12 down with grace, closing her eyes, her fists clenching her maiden skirt.

“You gonna' hang in there for me?" Sarin said, closing her Nervnet interface.

She was, however, interrupted by the harsh, high-pitched tone of one more.

“YOU! HANDS UP!"

Sarin heard the voice from behind. She attempted to shift, but heard the audible sound of clicking mechanisms and sensed a trained weapon pointed at her back.

The bun girl sighed. “Bug. You missed one."

“Don't fucking turn around!" said the voice. “Both of you! Just get your hands up!"

“Okay, handsome," chirped Sarin, keeping her motions calm and methodic. “Don't blow your load."

The speaker was panicked, clearly, so Sarin took advantage. Her left arm raised first, aiming to catch the attacker's attention, while her right conspicuously snagged a bio-mine from her belt.

“Drop it!" they commanded, referring to the Chemlauncher.

Sarin snickered. “Okay baby, which is it? You want my hands up, or you want me to toss the weapon first?"

No response. The attacker was thinking – or trying to. “Turn around!" they barked, shifting their demands.

Sarin shrugged and did as told, facing the speaker. He was the last survivor, though held one distinction: he held a Specter 7 SMG of which Sarin was not immediately familiar, but was also equipped with additional limb prosthetics. A pair of mechanic arms appeared from his long coat, robotic limbs equipped with built-in weaponry, all of which were pointed at Sarin and Quinn.

The vixen tried to move, realizing what was happening, but the panicked man, Emris, screamed. “STAY THERE! STAY THE FUCK THERE!"

His pale skin was blanched and coated with sweat. He'd lost all his support and hoped to, hmm, take a hostage or two?

“Oh don't mind her," Sarin cooed, grinning. “She's just the maid, after all."

As Sarin turned to face her attacker, she kept her arms raised. “Like this, handsome? Boy, you've really got me where you want me, huh?"

Emris clenched his teeth. “Drop them. Your weapons."

“Are you suuure?"

“Fuck with me one more time, and you're dead."

Sarin tilted her head. “Okaaay."

At once, she dropped the bio-mine. Her Nervnet pinged targeting dats, and the autonomous device whirred to life. The moment it hit the floor, the spherical, studded explosive buzzed to action. In a burst of swift motions, it bounced, then rushed towards Enris. It maintained a serpentine pattern, zoning in on the assailant. Enris had only a few seconds to process what was happening, and only when the explosive leapt toward his chest did he scream and squeeze off several rounds.

But by then, it was too late. Even as sprouts of gunfire burst from his weaponry, the bio-mine burst into a noxious hemotoxic compound. An ooze of red swam over the man, a concoction of adhesive, blood poison, and acidic mix. It ate through his skin, prosthetics, and bone, leaving him to struggle against the viscous, gooey fluids until he collapsed in a pile of bloody residue.

Sarin chuckled. Then winced. Then went to her knees.

“Oh. Fuck me. . ." she wheezed. Those random shots struck her own flak jacket and Xiomantis suit, and while the kinetic-resistant gelmold protected her, several rounds still pierced through her arm and her midriff. Little rivers of blood seeped from the wounds, her Nervnet blaring with a fresh series of injury reports.

Quinn dashed to her feet and went to the bun. “Miss Sarin!?"

The bun chuckled. “Miss?"

“You're injured!"

Sarin winced. Fucker was packing hollow points. “I'll be fine. . . gimme a sec. . ."

She pinged Urakk who could be heard charging upstairs.

<< Hey, Bug? You might want to call our butcher. >>

The lizard mutant was audible, even from the upstairs hallway.

“WHAT!? WHAT HAPPENED?"

Sarin swung her gaze down, hand on her abdomen. Five in the arm, three or so in the stomach. One in the thigh!

Sloppy.

-*-

It was a bizarre thing to see.

The filtered rain lightened to a gentle, listless drizzle. A group of figures stood outside the estate gates. One silhouette kept her eyes locked on the Meurellis home. The other two busied themselves with a new arrival.

Sarin and Urakk suffered injuries, but the former required medical attention. But on Colony E33, there were no emergency services available to the public, not without compensation. Gigdocs, or “butchers," patrolled CivSector, freelance medical services operating on their own terms. There were dozens, perhaps hundreds of individual responders, all with their own ethics and price points. Woe to thee who could not afford one.

Quinn had never seen such a thing. The vessel arrived from the air, a pale, white shape of slender metal, like a floating larvae. When it landed, Sarin and Urakk met the figure like an old, reliable friend. He was covered in medical devices. His head was sealed by a polished, white helmet with octa-feed eyes, red holes burning with a constant influx of biometric data. Sarin sat on a produced medical bed at the edge of the vessel, her suit off so the gigdoc could attend to her injuries.

He was fixing her, but not Quinn's home.

Home?

The deed was already done. Nigh an hour had passed, and the Meurellis family arrived to claim their prize. They retrieved the Charmagne body, and his books. They came in a black, vulture-like ship. They regarded Quinn with indifference. They instructed her to mind the estate. And then they left.

She was naught but a footnote. She was never thanked.

Her duty had been fulfilled.

“Hey kiddo," said a voice like warm thunder. It was the Mutant.

Quinn turned to face the herculean figure. “You want a freebie? Eid's offerin to look at ya."

Quinn blinked in slow fashion. “I. . ."

She glanced at her hands and dress. She was not physically injured, but she felt hurt nonetheless.

The vixen didn't even register moving to the vessel. Eid, the gigdoc, had finished pulling out the hollow point rounds from Sarin, providing her painkiller injections and tissue regenerating IVs. Once done, they gazed at Quinn, family of octafeed eyes drilling into the vixen's state.

“Nice moves," complimented Sarin.

Quinn said nothing.

Then, after a moment.

“You were right. You were right, damn you."

Sarin tilted her head. “Ah?"

“I was nothing to them. I was nothing to him."

Sarin produced a synthcig, pursing her lips and taking a pull. Bluish vapor escaped her mouth as she exhaled.

“What am I going to do?" said Quinn, pleading. “I. . ."

“Oh. Foxy."

Sarin cleared her throat. “Quinn. Quinnette. I don't have a good answer. But, the way I see it, you're free."

Quinn's eyes stung with tears. “Free!?"

“I'm not a therapist. I'm just a bun with a gun. But I'm a CHIMERA, and so are you. You don't have to play 'the toy' anymore."

Urakk came over too, budging past the vixen. “Ey, Eid, you got any more of those pain nukes?"

Eid was still studying the vixen, not regarding Urakk. “I don't toss those out for free. And you're not in any immediate pain."

“I'm in so much pain!"

Quinn looked between them all. How did they do this? Shrug off such violence and go on like this was nothing? Like it was another casual night?

Sarin ignored them, hiding a smile. “Girl, you've had a shit day. Don't try to figure it all out now. I'm not gonna' pretend I know how you're feeling. I just know I used to be in a similar ditch. Waaaay before I got on this Hangman racket, I had to do all sorts of shit. Been around my fair share of old skeeze bags too, you know?"

It made Quin sick, to hear this. To know that she had similarities to someone like Sarin. That her family was not of honor, but indeed, a mob of crooks.

The figure dancing with innumerable biometric and med devices approached and studied the vixen maid.

“Spike of nausea, elevated heart rate, patient presenting symptoms of emotionally induced trauma. . ." said Eid, monitoring Quinn.

“Hey, if you need it," Sarin said, her voice shifting to a surprisingly gentle, caring tone. “You can hitch with us for a few nights. We've got the space."

The vixen wiped her eyes. “No." A sniff.

“No. . . no thank you. I need to think. I need to think for a long time."

Sarin took another puff. “You think for as long as you need to."

Quinn gazed at the rabbit. “May I stay in contact with you?"

The rabbit blinked. “Aha? Really now?"

She chuckled. “Sure. Anytime."

It did not soften the devastating blow Quin suffered, but, it helped her feel much less alone. Then, she straightened.

“Thank you. And, oh. Your compensation."

Quin's Nervnet buzzed to life and shot over the compensation for the job. Twenty-fucking-thousand Interstellar Credits.

Eid's meters whined in alarm. He glanced at Sarin.

“Your heartrate spiked."

Urakk looked alarmed, having pulled off his mask. “Sara?"

She sputtered, eye going wide. “O-oh. Shit."

Quin provided a small, but somber, smile. “The Meurellis Family thanks you for your services."

The words were for the Hangmen, but for herself too.

Quinn took one last look at the estate. It was an injured body bearing multiple wounds, bleeding out, its essential organs torn away. But it would receive no help. She would let it go. She would let it be a corpse.

On Theseus, the Meurellis were no more.