I - COLLATERAL
Story by The Brain of Lazarus on SoFurry
As a funny fella' once said, "and here we go!" The Hangman Series is my first trek into original work after a long time. It is weighty, expansive, a world directly inspired by the modern variations of Cyberpunk and all its flavors. This particular chapter I finished nearly a year ago, not wanting to begin my series until I'd built a healthy backlog and was *sure* this was something I wanted to continue. It's flawed and hopeful, my silly little brainchild, starring my titular bungal, Sarin.
Follow Sarin as her path as a Hangman, coded slang for professional mercenary in the vast, ceaseless colony city known as CivSector. A mashed mix of story, horny, sex, bouncy bunny gals, and everything my dumb little brain desires, I hope it's worth your time as much as it's been mine working on the series.
A haze of lucid, violent sparkling vapor oozes out of a small nightclub in the seedy corner of CivSector. Its once vibrant windows sporting patterned holo ads for an evening of limitless debauchery instead flicker with distorted, ruined static, intermixed with the hacking screams and coughs of the inner patrons, the targets, the gang with a contract on their heads.
In minutes, a cascade of warring sirens is heard in the far distance, a high screech above the perpetual noise of a towering, ceaseless colony city. CMPD, rushing in, beacons of blood red responding to a crisis. It is, of course, far too late. It was too late when she entered the building. It was too late when an explosive round loaded with phosphoric compounds let loose against the air of acrid chem vapor and heady hormones.
Out from the shape of black stepped a figure, her sharp bipod heels clicking against the greasy pavement. Some rounds caught her frame, tearing her violet custom Xiomantis combat suit, revealing shimmering, snow-white fur. A blitz of neon lights washed her platinum silver hair, painting her smirking visage in a mosaic of CivSector's chaotic display. A shrieking eye of venomous green glanced to the sight, tall ears pricking up, audibles tracking the approach of CMPD.
She spun her chemlauncher in victorious flair, settling it back into her strapped holster, canting her wide hips to the side. A distant onlooker spied a curvy silhouette, a petite yet buxom frame, eyes treated to a violent sight of a curvaceous shortstack eclipsed by smoky, chemical death she'd inflicted behind her. She saw the onlooker, tilted her head, and wiggled her fingers.
Sauntering away from the display of phosphoric doom, her hips tossed in inviting fashion, the slope of her backside bouncing in soft, enticing bounces. Then, she lowered. Her calves and legs flexed, muscles tensing as she sprint forward, cracking the ground beneath her in a trail of fuchsia sparks.
The onlooker watched, in disbelief, but realized it was another night in CivSector. They rubbed their head, fleeing the scene as the warring CMPD arrived moments later. They could only sort through the aftermath, only form a cursory, fragmented report: another hive of runners put down. But by who?
As the psychotic bun dashed away, using her spiked specialized heels to perform a vertical bound, leaping vertical along a distant building, she reached its top and looked out at the desperate machine known as CivSector.
Her visible poison-green eye purred to life, flashing in a miniature display of com activity. Her Nervnet, an integrated cerebral computation system, sent out details of the completed job to her “benefactor."
Sarin. A toxic organophosphorus compound. A living, breathing WMD.
This was her world. This is what it meant to survive on the colony planet Theseus, in the seizure of violence, sex, and chemdrugs.
The life of a Hangman.
*I - COLLATERAL *
“Really? An accountant?"
A pipe hisses and the sink rattles. One of the corner room lights twitches with an errant flick. Feels like the building just took a big, wheezing cough and everything went to shit.
Sarin knifed through her synthmeal dinner and gestured at the surrounding interior. “Ya' got cash lying around in that big ol' bod of yours, Bug?"
“. . .maybe."
She stared at him.
“No."
Sarin finished her plate, a measly morning meal, but it would have to do. “Well, 'til some AugTec executive comes banging on our door, this is the best I can do on short notice. Last asshole scavved us and I'm pretty sure if we don't find a mechhead the whole ceiling's gonna cave in on us."
“But an accountant?" he relented. “Scrubby little paper pusher? That's beneath you, isn't it?"
Sarin gave a helpless shrug. She leaned back in her chair, the faint array of miasmatic colony lights pouring in through the couple's small apartment window. An unhealthy mix of pinks, blues, and greens played against her coat of snowy-white fur.
“No time to be picky. Besides, easy lay, easy pay. Some middle aged twip getting in deep with the sharks. No guns, no fuss, and baby, right now, we don't need a fuss."
She offered him a smirk.
Her partner rolled his set of four eyes. “I told ya', I didn't mean to knock the whole thing down. It was collateral!"
“Yes you did. I know you."
Another pipe hissed and something in the wall loosened, an abrupt spray of chemwater and mist gurgling through the foundation.
“Ugh."
Sarin looked back at her boyfriend. “Right now, we don't need collateral. Just scratch. Kaaaay?"
That meant no double trouble, no duo-job this time. The client in Colony E33 had such little appreciation for wanton destruction and bloodshed. It was a pity, really. Sarin made her targets look so pretty when all was said and done. And Urakk? Oh, he had a spectacular brutality to him. But. . . surrounding bodies and structures didn't enjoy said spectacle as much. Neither did the middlemen. Cut pay, lost contracts, things were going south.
“Pftah," he grunted.
As if to chastise him, Sarin felt a flicker in her Combitronics eye. The enhanced prosthetics lit up a feed and blared a system alert. Oops.
“Oh FUCK I'm LATE!"
Her long ears perked and in a spring of movements she kicked away from her chair and barreled into her room, calling to Urakk. “Get someone in here about the pipes!" she yelled back.
There was something like a 'grunt' from Urakk in response.
Sarin peaked her head. “And Bug, please, don't fucking kill this one."
Another grunt, this one disappointed.
She had to make this job work, or the couple would be turning jobs from the slums real soon. Target: some low-level reg named Ken Rogier, part of Borch Brothers Finances, a street-tier loaner offering high interest cash fixes for the desperate. Unassuming man, gambled, spent his money on escorts. Married, deep in with the sharks, apparently. Wam, blam, on the floor ma'am kinda job.
His regular haunts weren't too far away, either, he was just on the other side of the Civ Sector.
Client was anonymous, typical for a job coming in from a middleman. In the meantime, she prepped up, going over notes in her Nervnet to figure out her approach. Ol' Rogier was a dive rat, snatching his evening slash and drink from the seedy streets. Got scuzzed then looked for a hot hole to pour his sorrows into, so, Sarin figured she'd lean into that.
Bat your eyes, have em' buy you a drink, put a nail in his skull, easy. Too easy, actually. This kinda work was well beneath her, suited more to runners looking for trashy jobs and simple payouts. But she and Bug really needed the scratch.
Sarin wasted no time and donned an attire appropriate for the setting. If the job was clandestine - professional assassin work - a form fitting body suit with triple-layered armor weaving for seamless flexibility and protection would've sufficed. Some demanded disguise. Others for Sarin to play the role of “social butterfly," leaning off high rollers hoping to get their rocks off before her compounds turned them into meat putty. But this job was not that.
Exotic then, that would do for tonight. What kinda' tastes ol' Kenny boy have? Biker girls with black lipstick and sharp teeth?
No time to dawdle, she had to go. Finishing up, tossing on her attire, Sarin dashed out from the apartment and took the elevator down to the bottom floor of the Civ Sector. She'd need to take Transit over to the West Side to click-in on her target. According to the contract, Ken was hounding the area pretty often the past several weeks.
Veins of the sector were dense with people, as always. Things were “civil," in that they weren't a raunchy discord of noise and violence – most of the time. Street food was plentiful, though it was protein blocks seasoned with imitation flavors or filtered chemwater. The horizon bore mountains of tall buildings and skyscrapers, either the domain of the Corp Colossus or the mega blocks housing thousands of people in single structures. Beyond the ring of the Civ Sector, the Colony planet's massive biofuel seas, the mineral rich fuel oceans egging out the primary export of the world – and the general source of conflict between the Colossi.
Sarin fit right in.
To those that caught a glance of the fast-moving silhouette, they'd see a shape of white fur and long ears dash by. Sleek, platinum grey hair swept over her face, her venomous green eyes peering out to scan the city. Petite, but curvy. Short, but fit. No one ever expected the bunny girl to whip out a specialized M-12 S and fill their chest full of hollow-tip chemical munitions. She knew how to work her jobs, and this Colony. You had to be a lot of things to survive out here – you had to be more to be anything at all.
Sarin synched her Combitronics to the Transit system and geared up for WestSec. It'd take a bit to get there, but she figured she could make it just in time. On the Transit, all manner of norms and freaks scuttled into their seats, getting off work, or just getting on. This was what Colony E33 life dredged up, a mishmash of oddities. Thanks to the Corporate Colossi entities dominating most of the Vos System, a whole toybox of potential lay at your feet what with their limitless supply of “must have" products. If you had the scratch, anyway. Most regs took the simple stuff: standard Combitronic installations for communication and interfaces. Others went for AugTec, a whole junkyard of prosthetics that could turn your arms into a tetralimb bulldozer. Military? Try Specter 7. Tired of being you? Become a genemorph or see a splicer.
The future was a nightmare, but at least you could look how you wanted.
It's why, when seated, one person next to Sarin was your basic bitch reg pooling over today's newsfeed with his Combitronic eyes, and the other was a gal with a dye job on her skin, making her look like a demonic pop star. Sarin didn't stick out at all, compared to them.
Ken Rogier, by these metrics, was a reg. Judging by the sparse profile handed over via middleman, his life was in a downward spiral, and he was looking to go all out before the reaper's final call. That worked just fine for her.
The Transit finished its cycle, dropping Sarin off on the West Side of the CivSector. She stepped out into the meaty air of whirring, miasmatic ambiance and towering city structures. For civs, this was the entertainment district. Grand spires of black, monolithic steel reflected that, wearing masks of advertisements and live entertainment feeds. News, drugs, guns, food, porn, didn't matter, it was all there. Sidewalks were crowded, inhabited by the hodgepodge of denizens. Vehicles of every make rolled along the glistening streets. Evening was setting in, a sky of brackish black-green snuffing out the remaining sunlight.
Sarin picked an attire appropriate for this street-level job. Leather spiked bands around her wrists and a choker around her neck, all provocative-like. Went with that “dangerous, biker gal" look, but not too dangerous some twip like ol' Kenny would be too afraid to approach. She had a figure, and she knew how to work it. The black leather pants kept only just so much to the imagination, letting her wide hips pour out, complimenting her ample backside. Showed off the girls a bit too, her chest providing just a bit of cleavage.
Exactly how often did her target run into thrill-kill shortstack bunny girls giving you a wink and an unusual amount of attention? She guessed zero.
Once again, Sarin accessed her Combitronics and dove through the Nervnet, a sort of personal brain computer. She mentally cycled through the files and picked up her target's routine: past few weeks he'd made a habit of checking out a dive Sarin was also familiar with: Wild Wish.
Wild Wish was a rat hole to get scuzzed in, tossing down poison of your choice or sampling the latest vapor narcotics. While it wasn't a skinhouse or brothel exactly, it played to that audience on the norm, flocked to by trick-turners of every breed.
Sarin ventured into the streets, deep into the West Side – or Wessec, her boot-heels clicking against the street. For this job, she'd keep it low profile. Her jacket was biker fetish, but doubled as protection against basic firearm munitions and blades. Not that she needed it, but ya never knew. Such an outfit blended well with Wild Wish and this particular part of the West Side, sometimes nicknamed The Daemon's Playground. No, actual demons did not go trotting around in public here – but it was a hotspot for regs or genemorphs who really enjoyed looking like children of the devil. Boys, girls, theys and gays; all snagged on skin dyes of pinks, reds, blues, even greens. Horns and long hair, non-functional wings, prosthetic tails – you named it, they got it. Naturally, it was an attractive amusement park for your half-drunk suit looking to drill his dick in “devil pussy," or whatever, so no surprise Mr. Rogier was a local spook.
And it just so happened Sarin knew the local color, too. Perks of being a killer-for-hire, you got around.
Wild Wish was not a towering structure, but it stuck out all the same. Its parking foyer was dotted with timid crowds of twos or threes, the entrance handled by bouncers, scoper girls who kept out the trash looking to cause trouble. At Sarin's approach, one of the figures perked up, spotting out the bun girl instantly.
“Oh no."
Dez wore an assemblage of fishnets, fetishes, and posh-style clothing, complimented by gold pump heels and other jewelry granting her a tempting visage. Her skin dye was pinkish, complimenting the installed black spiral tech-horns with wide yellow eyes and black lips. A river of white hair poured down past her shoulders, sparkling in the sick neon lights. A slender, heart-tipped prosthetic tail curled behind her, while she crossed her arms at the incoming Sarin.
“Heeeeey Dez," said Sarin, wiggling her fingers. “How's tips?"
The morph curled her lip, her entourage giving Sarin a knowing look. It didn't take being a scoper – a bouncer-for-hire – to figure that Sarin's arrival meant trouble for somebody. And often, that somebody was Dez.
Dez wasn't the only scoper, a few others lingered near the double doors, giving a sideways to glance to their “sister."
“It's gonna be much worse with you around," frowned Dez. “Ya' know I had to clean up after you the last time you showed up?"
Sarin laughed. “Aw, Dez, baby, come on, I paid the tab."
“Yeah, but I had to put the limbs in the bag and do the mop up. Stained my favorite boots."
“You really think I'm back to just cause a problem?"
Dez was much taller than Sarin by at least three feet, but that barely mattered. Little bombshell bitch was a walking chemical nuke and Dez wasn't gonna have it tonight. She gestured at Sarin's chest. “You have a knife in there, don't you?"
Sarin waived her off. “Who wouldn't?"
The genemorph rubbed her temples. “God, Sarin, please, I swear if you're gonna' make my life harder. . ."
“No, that's your job."
“Sara."
Sarin rolled her eye and raised her hands, splaying out her digits. “Frisk me if ya' gotta, Dez. No guns this time, promise."
She glanced down and smacked her chest. “Unless you count these, heh."
“Scrap the cute bunny act. What are you here for, really?"
Pleasantries out of the way, Sarin straightened her face. “Whattya' think? Just a plain jane hit job. Want me to net the deets?"
Dez swore, sighing as she leaned against the building wall. “Goddammit. Knew it."
“Look, Dezzie, it's a clean one this time, I swear. No chem rounds, no phosphoric grenades. Just some reg on his way out lookin' to get his nob slobbed. Sooner I'm done, sooner I'm outta your hair."
Dez glared at the anthropoid. “Promise?"
Sarin stuck out her pinky. “Pinky out, bitch."
“Ugh. Good enough."
Dez considered her options: let the bun in and potentially make a mess, or send her off. . . only she'd come back and make a mess, guaranteed. Wasn't smart to get on Sarin's bad side, Dez learned that through indirect experience. And it helped to have a psycho bunny bitch as a friend in a place like the West Side.
She sighed, conceding, sensing no easy solution except to give the gal what she wanted.
“Alright. Hit me. Maybe I've seen the twip?"
At once, Sarin synced with Dez's own Nervnet and the two shared a passive info swap. Sarin zeroed over the dossier files, from pictures to Mr. Rogier's general whereabouts and hangout spots. Technically, the info was for Sarin only, but Dez was good people, and a handy ear to have close to the ground.
Dez's eyes flickered like a blue, digital candle, parsing over the information. “Huh. Yeah. This guy."
Sarin's long ears flagged. “Ya' know him?"
“Do I. Guy's been a barfly the past two weeks. He came around once last month, then all of a sudden he's been making nightly visits. Looks worse every time. Empties his creds, buys a girl, does it all over again. Circling the drain, if you ask me."
Dez gestured at the neon lit entrance of Wild Wish, pointing at the double doors. “And, just so happens he's in there now."
Oh fantastic. Sarin needed this job to go smooth and easy. If she could just get the guy in a vulnerable spot, she'd be back in time to stop Urakk from strangling a mechhead.
“Oooo. Hmm." Sarin wiggled her brow. “Introduce us?"
Again, Dez gestured around her. “Kinda' on the clock, here."
Still, Dez thought, it would help to move this along. Kenny boy was a real drag and though his money was good, scopers didn't go for the down and desperate. Killed the vibe. Better to let this bun do her work and be rid of the sourpuss, or Dez would get an earful from the top lady.
“How about this," added Dez. “I'll net Triz. Tell er' you're comin in. Guy should be chewing her ear off at the bar, probably looking for his midnight squeeze. You roll in, flaunt your stuff, and then get him out of here."
Triz was one of the barkeeps. Good lady.
“Music to my ears," Sarin smirked, practically tasting the payday. “Thaaaanks Dez."
Dez shrugged. “Just not in the bar. Can't make excuses for you a second time."
Sarin was already past the double doors, gliding into the Wild Wish interior. It was coated with the usual neon paraphernalia; red pentagrams and fuchsia inverted crucifixes, signs depicting curvy caricatures of slender figures, Nervnet feeds scrolling over suggestive imagery with options to download “premium flix." Perfectly designed to get you tipsy and drain you dry if you weren't paying enough attention. Such a sordid, seedy backroom affair was the perfect cover for an easy job.
Wading through some of the crowds, catching some glances here and there, Sarin padded over to the barkeep, click of her boots audible even over the low thrum of trance music. Triz was an easy spot, given she was minding her duties. . . and lo and behold, there sat the target. From her peripheral, Triz spied the approaching bunny. At this, she leaned over to mouth something to one of the seated patrons.
Like most of the familiars, Triz was another genemorph that shared a demonic inspired appearance. Short black-bluish hair, scarlet flesh, yellow eyes, and a tall figure. She wore a small shirt showing off her midriff, but still maintained the air of someone that wouldn't take bullshit. More so, this was pronounced with clear AugTec mods in her left arm, indicating she was packing internal weaponry and a “will fuck you up" attitude. She was cute, she'd give you a wink, and then she'd hammer your skull in the ground if you got all grabby-like.
Sarin hopped up and plopped herself next to the “offending party," aka one Ken Rogier.
“The one I told you about," Triz said, audible over the music, as though she'd been leading into the conversation. She gestured at Sarin.
There he was, as unassuming and dull as Sarin figured. His button collar shirt was opened a bit too far and he had a shaved complexion, wearing an expression of. . . blissful defeat. His eyes were watery, a few drinks in, but he beamed at the new “company" sitting next to him. He was not protected, and even a cursory glance Sarin could tell he wasn't packing diesel – not that it would matter.
“Wow, you weren't lying Triz," chimed Sarin. “He is a cutie."
Triz gave Sarin a knowing but don't-fucking-make-a-mess type of look. “Glad I could play Cupid. Get you two a round, break the ice?"
Here, Ken spoke. “It's all on me," he said, tone young and loosened by drink. “Anything for the new gal."
Didn't even know the danger he was facing, this one. Or maybe he did, and just didn't care anymore.
“Ooo," purred Sarin, laying it on. “A man after my own heart. Hit me with a Tequila Blanc, Trizzy."
No sense in getting wasted, she had a job to do, simple as it was. At once, her arrival perked the fella right up. Whatever he was doing before left his posture in a slump, the crushing machine of life barreling down on him, but now he brightened, straightening and granting Sarin his full attention. His eyes didn't hesitate to roam right over her figure, and Sarin – in a playful way – pretended not to notice, leaning over the bar and letting her rack smoosh against the smooth synthglass.
It would be so unbelievably easy to turn, open her jacket, and take a swipe right here, right at the exposed neck. Just cleave the fella, easy. Buuut she owed Dez, so Sarin held off. For now.
“God," he bumbled. “You're something. I was just waiting for my regular fix but then. . . then Triz told me a new girl was stopping by for some fun. . ."
Ah, right. Assuming his pattern, Kenny boy planned to get skunked and then drunkenly fuck. Sarin was now playing the role of the hole. Whatever, she'd done worse.
“Oh babe, I'm nothing but," grinned Sarin, showing off her modified, fanged teeth. Her black lips shimmered in the light, but it didn't deter Mr. Rogier. Enticed him, of course, no doubt filling that dirty little head with dreams of what said soft lips could do.
“You've got a thing for dangerous girls, don'tcha Kenny boy?" she went on. He blinked, wearing a red-cheeked smile.
“How ya' know my name?"
“Oh, scopers told me there was some poor, lonely sadsack just in desperate need of a good time. Unless I got the wrong guy?"
He shook his head, as if a fish was about to escape a hook. “Wha? Nononono, I'm totally the guy."
She gave him a devilish look as Triz returned with Sarin's shot glass and another round for Ken.
“ That's what I like to hear."
Sarin downed her poison with brisk ease, quickly earning the admiration of her fellow “patron." Guys always got dick-crazy when a girl could hold their own with drink. Ken returned the favor by slowly guzzling back whatever his order was, before gasping and wiping his mouth. He looked stable, but loose, growing unsteady.
“Brg. Maybe it's just the drink talkin', but you've got nice tits. . ." he said, kinda slurring. Oh baby, it was way too easy with this one. But he wasn't exactly high-class target, so.
She leaned into it. “Oh babe, they're just the best. Kinda' heavy though. Tired of being all cooped up, I can tell you that."
Sarin calculated in brief just how far she wanted this go and where it would go. Honestly, an alley would do. Brutal end for a no-luck reg like this guy but hey, if it wasn't her, it'd be a runner. Gangbangers for hire who took street contracts loved roughing up mooks for spare change. They'd beat him to a pulp for the fuck of it. At least she was gonna' give him a little bang for the night, right?
In the meantime, Mr. Rogier must've assumed Sarin was his wild biker bitch escort, as he proceeded to withdraw actual paper scratch and stuff a thick wad of bills straight into her cleavage. Uh, wow.
“Oh man you're just so perfect," he said, grinning like a fool. “I've been seeing the same girls over and over, it was getting old, but you. . . awgh that goth look. . . and. . . and you're like. . . kinda small but not really?"
Sarin chuckled and gave a lustful 'mmm' as the cash snuggly dug itself between her hefty front. “I'm a shortstack bun bitch, so I've been told."
At about 5'1, not a soul would assume Sarin was often sporting chemical rounds designed to peel skin off bone or lace the air with lung-arresting nerve agents. They thought she was just another thick bottomed bunny who did what bunnies did best. Well, she was, but the dangerous kind, the only kind.
“Ugh I've had it so rough, I needed this," continued Ken, drowning his woes. “What a shit set of weeks right, haha? I'm livin' it up now! Livin' til' I'm done! Those sharks can eat my dick! I'm free, baby!"
Her nose wiggled at his stench of cheap cologne and body spray, but she paid it no mind, continuing her act. Sarin showed off her pearly blade-like teeth. “You keep the hundies' rolling and we'll make it one you'll never forget."
She stuffed the cash in her inner jacket pocket, careful to keep the knife hidden, gesturing around her. “Look, if ya' wanna' smack these tits around, among things, I'd looove to oblige handsome. But maybe somewhere ya' can have me all to yourself?"
Extra cash would be nice. Tips, especially. Call her deranged, but despite it all, Sarin kept things professional. Reputation, in fact, was very important. She did the job she was assigned to do. In other words, theft of personal property wasn't part of that job. In other other words, she wasn't gonna' kill the guy and snatch his scratch. . . easy as that might be. If middlemen – your contractors – found out you were peeling off loot when that wasn't cleared, you'd get a bad rep fast. Unreliable, kleptomaniac, that stuff. Sarin did what she had to do to make a name and survive. Picking pockets? What was she, some two bit thief?
Buuuut if a side gig should just so happen to present itself, ala Mr. Rogier looking to get some good-good before wearing a red necktie, well, who was she to deny parting him with his creds?
It worked, of course. Kenny boy was knee deep in drink and looking to drain his boys, didn't take much to sort that out. Her words lit a fire in him and his expression went wild.
“Oh baby, fuck yes," he groaned. “You have no idea how much I need it."
She could get an idea.
“Then why don'tcha show me, Kenny boy."
He looked around, indeed realizing a couple of seats at a popular bar dive wasn't the best spot for what his mind screamed for. Much to the relief of Triv (and others), Ken stood up, wobbling, adding one last scratch tip.
“I've got. . . my car just parked around. . ." he said with a wavering gesture.
Sarin feigned excitement. “Oooh, show me the ride, hot stuff."
And lets get this over with, huh?
She followed the wobbling, less-coherent Mr. Rogier outside, back through the front double doors. As they exited, there was a relieved stare from Dez as she watched the pair pad off, around the corner. Sarin shot Dez a playful finger wiggle before returning to the “assignment," which could prove more profitable than first thought. Those pipes and cracks back home weren't gonna pay for themselves.
As they walked, he continued to murmur and mumble about his life slowly falling apart. But he was nothing special or unique within the world of Colony E33, or the Civ Sector. Sorry hun, if you wanted salvation, you didn't tangle with demons. More to the point, life was a pathetically expendable currency. The Corp Colossi had maintained sway and ridiculous leverage when it came to just about everything, so your only choice was to be a dutiful cog or break off the machine. Survival was everything. Maybe in some other life the guy woulda' kept a happy marriage and made an easy living being a water jockey, probing orbiting ice rocks or something. But not down here. Only angel you got now was a bun gal with a big rack and a knife in her jacket.
His unassuming Viktor Speedster 302 – a galumphing vehicle – sat isolated, far enough from prying eyes (as if it would matter). When they reached it, he pressed his palm against the side, wobbling again, trying to keep his stance steady.
“Aw, don't fizzle out now baby," encouraged Sarin. “We just got here."
He sputtered, before straightening. “Ung. Hey. Don't worry 'bout me, I'm more than ready."
Like a man on his last line, he turned to her, wearing a dumb grin. “How much for the tits?"
Before she responded, he shrugged. “Ah shit, who cares right?" Another healthy wad of blls manifested in his hands and he wiggled it in front of her.
She could split him right here, right across the neck and be done. But she liked the prospect of extra, much needed scratch, and it wasn't like this was her first rodeo with a “pay for pussy" type of fella. That's how she got close to some prime contracts out here.
“I love how you think," she chided. At once, she tugged at her black shirt, pushing aside her jacket, pulling up to expose her gently toned midriff, flicking it up in one brisk motion. Her hefty tits fell free in a less-than-prudent clapping motion, bouncing with seductive wobbles. Her black nipples touched the cool evening air, both pierced with spiked studs. By the guy's reaction, he was pleased.
Certainly feeling it, he pressed the bills and placed them between Sarin's waist where her leather pants hugged her frame. She offered a catty giggle, letting him get nice and comfy. Let em' loosen his wallet, or what was left of it.
“Now, don't be fucking gentle, handsome," said Sarin. This command, at least, was honest. She wasn't an easy goer, she liked her company vicious. Not like ol' sadsack here was any of that, but Sarin planned to get a bit of fun in herself before all was said and done.
He didn't manage a response, just a series of drunken grunts and chuckles. Those aching hands sprang out and grabbed harsh handfuls of Sarin's buxom front, gripping and toying with the ample sacs spilling into his palm. “Whatever you say. . ." he rasped.
Ooo! Not bad. He indeed gave her tits a workout. Tossing and throwing and slapping them together, stroking his hands along every conceivable shape and slope of her front. He had to lean down, but clearly didn't mind. Sarin, in the meantime, propped her fists against her hips and watched him “go to town," which was mostly just a dog with a bone at this point.
“Well, stop fucking around," she added. “Go on, give em' a twist."
The words appeared to briefly stumble the guy, as if the idea never crossed his drunken mind. But he smiled at the idea, and indeed obliged Sarin, gripping her nips with harsh force and squeezing, pinching, and twisting. He yanked at the piercings, releasing them, the tits bouncing back with another series of lewd, fleshy applause. At this, Sarin hissed with a pleased groan, feeling that dark mix of painful pleasure radiating throughout her torso. Her head leaned to the side, watching the drunken manic fondle and fool about with her bust, getting his money's worth.
Ooo he was a bold, handsy one. She leaned forward, lettin' Kenny boy get his scratch's worth. He tossed them in hard, forceful motions, letting his hands stroll and wander over the massive curvature of her bust. Her diamond hard nips bristled against the cool air of the CivSector evening, punctuated by her client's throaty groans of obvious pleasure.
“Shit, girl, h-huge. . ."
Sarin chuckled and raised up her arms, letting her chest toss in little sweeps and bounces. “Wanna' see me make em' clap?"
Fascinated, Ken stared as Sarin made good on her suggestion. His hands briefly departed the sloping mounds as Sarin took her own palms and slapped the fat slopes together, creating soft, audible smacks with each thick collision. She kept her eye to his, dark lips painted into a devilish smirk. She proceeded to bounce on her heels, a skillful display as her generous bosom formed rounded, bouncing patterns, once again creating a pleasing, enticing fleshy applause.
“Fffuuck," he stammered. “Can't take this. How much ya' want so we can skip to the part where I'm fucking these things?"
Hahah, these things. Not the most flattering way of putting it, but. . .
“Well, that depends, stud. How much ya' really want it?"
Oh, he was all in, that was for sure. His pants were a clearly pained tomb, “little Ken" quite eager to break free. But, Sarin had to consider. . . did she really want this guy fucking up her face? She had nothing against a reg, but he wasn't exactly her type, and cleaning spunk off her face wasn't on the agenda, either.
“Ya can have it all, hottie," he groaned. “Everything I got. Who gives a damn! I'm screwed, so I wanna screw! Who cares, I'll tell you everything!"
He struggled with his pockets, pulling out a few more bills. “What do I even call you, angel? Might just keep you around for a while. . ."
“Call me whatever you want," winked Sarin. “But if you really wanna be palsy. . . it's Sarin."
He nodded. “Heh. Sarin. I like it."
And then he paused.
And then he frowned.
“Sarin?"
“Mmhmm."
He straightened, his complexion changing. “That sounds kinda' familiar. . ."
But before another sprawl of words could escape his mouth, before another alcohol-laced thought could run through his Nervnet, Ken went silent. He straightened, and his eyes went black, staring out in the bleak, neon-lit horizon of the West Side. His free hand went to his neck, and he gasped.
“Oh my god. . . oh my god I fucked up. . ."
Sarin blinked. Huh?
“I got in so deep."
Here, Ken gasped, the oxygen in his lungs sucked right out of him. The gruesome stench of a biofire lit in his lungs hit the air, and smoke gurgled up from his throat. He screamed, quick and brief, as a spider of electric crackles ripped out from his neck and then into the feed interface installed on the side of his head. His eyes blackened and like a fucking light he was out. Out. Fried from the inside. One second he was on top of the world, getting grabby handfuls of Sarin's juicy tits, and now he was on the ground. Flatlined.
Sarin frowned, watching her prey collapse. Well. Shit. She knew she had a nice body, but it never killed anyone like that.
The bunny girl lowered her top and got her girls back in order, before kicking at the body. “Uh. Kenny boy. You with me?"
No response.
She crouched down, looking him over. Her Combitronic eye did a bioscan, getting a network of terminus pings. What the hell? This man got hijacked. Someone remotely injected a malicious bio-malfunction code, started a literal fire in his lungs, then for good measure, shorted out his entire Nervnet. Uh. But why?
Personal records were privatized, so she couldn't go digging into the man's history – not that she wanted to. But this guy was a telemarketer, he fed loans to desperate twips. This kinda remote assassination was uncanny for a lowbie like him. Again, the hell?
Experience told her this was the beginning and end of it, and there was way more to Mr. Rogier than his initial dossier led on. A man with nothing to lose and ready to spill it all, including his money. By that metric he was hiding something else, some info or secret that was meant to stay with him. What was the plan? Spill his nuts on Sarin then blabber about a big conspiracy? Those were everywhere. Poor dumb bastard. She almost pitied him.
The only other “interesting" detail catching her info-feed was his cerebral implant. It was a Specter 7 model, way above a reg's pay grade. Military level stuff.
Yeah. That checked out. He was in deep with the sharks, all right, but not your typical runners looking to collect on a loan. And whoever they were, they had the resources to launch a remote biostrike.
“Sorry babe," she whispered, taking the scratch she was rightfully paid. “Mighta given you a wild ride."
But by all metrics, the job was done. At once, Sarin straightened and pinged her Middleman.
The Combitronic eye danced with a call feed, and after a few tones, a cryptic voice poured through. Middlemen were shady by nature and offered themselves a level of anonymity to keep things running smoothly. You didn't really shoot the messenger, even runners knew that. But when you played with lives in Colony E33, even they had to watch their backs.
Her current fix went by “Moth."
“Ah. Sarin. I suspect this is about your current job?" said Moth, his voice vaguely distorted with electric static.
“It's done," she said, blunt. “Nothing special. No muss, no fuss."
Here, though, she hesitated, but decided to inquire further.
“So, this Rogier, you sure he was just some run of the mill reg with a streak of bad luck?"
“Asking questions isn't part of the job," came Moth's icy response.
“Well, neither is some white-collar twip hooked up with Specter 7 tech. Look, if you wanna throw me to the wolves, at least gimme' a heads up."
“There were complications? You encountered resistance?"
Sarin glanced down at the lifeless body. She had to go soon, Cleanup would be on the body in a few clicks. Or scavengers.
“No, but whoever wanted Kenny boy put in the ground may not have been totally honest about his background. Someone put his insides on fire, had him hooked up for a biostrike."
Moth paused, considering.
“It's not my business to offer details outside of what was agreed upon. He is dead. Your job is complete. Payment is incoming."
Connection severed.
She sighed. “Nice talkin' with ya too."
The mystery wasn't all too important aside from formalities. If he was linked up to some tinheads sporting serious firepower, Sarin wanted to know beforehand. But these days, she had to work with what she got, and Moth was the best thing, for now. In the meantime, creds fed into her Nervnet account, and that was that. She sauntered away from the scene, boots clicking against the ground, meeting up with Dez one last time for the night.
Sarin filled in her demon-like friend about the deets, to which Dez appeared nonplussed.
“Some twips just don't know when to stop," Dez commented, finishing her shift with a synthcig. Trails of pinkish vapor escaped her black lips as she spoke.
“Least you kept it clean. For you, anyway."
“Told ya," Sarin said, offering a wink. “My word is good."
“This guy," continued Sarin. “It was just him hanging around like a barfly, right? Nobody else?"
Dez shrugged. “Nothing that stood out. Not with military grade amps or tech, we'd have picked up on somebody sporting that kinda' diesel with our system checks."
“Why?" she asked. “Gonna' be a problem?"
Sarin shrugged and smirked. “When is it never?"
The bun was more than ready to rub her hands clean of the affair. This was the Colony for you. One wrong step and you hit a landmine. There was no telling how deep a hole went if you fell into it.
“Keep those perky horns up if ya' see anything stranger than usual, kay? But I've gotta shift. Make sure Bug hasn't split anyone in half."
Dez blinked, noting Sarin's lack of auto. “No prob. You uh, taking Transit? Don't you have a set of wheels?"
Sarin sighed. “We're just a little behind."
“Shit, Bun, just how bad did that 'collateral' job cost you?"
“Enough that I'm paying you a visit."
Dez switched off her cig and gestured. “Well. I'm off the clock in a few. Need a lift?"
Sarin briefly considered, but decided against it. She had things to consider, despite this “job" being a simple one. “I'll hold ya' to it for next time, Dez. Thanks babe."
Dez rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, anytime."
Sarin pranced away and checked her Nervnet for the local Transit times, catching the evening ride to return to her apartment bloc on the opposite end of West Side. On the Transit, the dull sky turned into a blemish of blue and black, where tyrannical metal spires stood high in a seemingly endless horizon of steel giants. Skeletal antennae relaying petabytes of endless information poked out from structures of varying sizes and shapes, married to thick lines of ultra-weave cabling. Eyes of furious red and blue lights blipped and ebbed, dotting the vista in a cascade of unfeeling eyes. Sometimes this side of the Sector looked beautiful.
This wasn't that time, it was a heaving, Corp Collosi controlled corpse. If ol' Kenny boy's end was any indication, he was just another unlucky twip in a series of unfeeling, disconnected days. One might think his death tragic and remarkable, but it was the norm, and there were worse ways to go, easily.
Sarin returned to her Mega Bloc and rode the elevator back to her apartment. It was a temporary fix, for now. Her cache of stock weapons and chemical munitions were hidden in secret drop spots or held by dealers for a rental fee. She and bug used to have something “nicer."
Speaking of. . . returning to the apartment revealed no signs of wanton destruction. That was a good sign. Her Nervnet synced to the door's security login and it hissed open, revealing a peaceful interior. No leaks or broken pipes!
“There's my girl."
His voice cut the air with a cold, pronounced masculinity, his silhouette immediately visible in an otherwise small apartment. Urakk was Sarin's squeeze, her big guy, her brute, her “Bug."
He was double her height, an imposing specimen of bioengineered muscle and features similar to a lizard (of various species). To Civs and Colony E33, he was a Mutant. Four studious eyes mounted his head accompanied by curved, winding horns and a body bearing impressive musculature, patterned with deep red scales and a barrage of frightening scars, slash marks, and tattoos. To him, most things were paper and glass, little obstacles he had to mind lest he shift and “accidentally" turn bone to confetti.
“And there's my guy."
She granted him a little bess and sighed, sauntering to their couch and kicking off her boot heels.
“I have good news," he said, thumping over to her. “ Maybe."
“Maybe?"
“Well, it depends if yer' job went right, otherwise we'll get blacklisted by the local mechhead. Again."
She smirked. “Bunny's got the money, if that's what you mean." Sarin produced the scratch.
“A little extra, too. Our boy was so generous."
Urakk was relieved, watching Sarin place the dosh on a side table. “Goood. Tinman fixed the pipes and rerouted some shorts, installed a filter for that chemwater. . . but he did it on 'good faith.'"
“Meaning he wants to be paid. Nooot a problem. What's the damage?"
“I 'coaxed' him down to an even thousand."
“A THOUSAND?"
Urakk sat next to Sarin, his weight causing the furnishing to wheeze in protest. “A problem?"
“Well that's what the whole fuckin' job paid, so I'll say."
He chortled, crossing his trunk-like arms. “We don't have to pay."
“No, no, give the twip his due. He'll scav us if we don't."
Sarin sank further into the catch, tossing off her jacket and knife. Her eye flickered to life, Nervnet activating with the apartment's built-in ziggurat of entertainment feeds. A projector opened from the ceiling, filling the living room with a rotation of holo-screens.
“How'd your 'lucky' accountant fare?" asked Urakk, staring at no screen in particular.
Sarin chuckled. “Deep fried from the inside out. Guess there was more to him than ol' Mothy let on. Hooked up with Specter 7 and some custom biosof, hit with a remote nuke."
Urakk made a grumble. “Augh, woulda' killed to see that."
“Oooh you'd be so proud," chimed Sarin. “Guess my tits really did him in. He knocked em' around for a bit and then had his lungs cooked."
Bug snorted. “Wahahat? Really?"
“Pfft. No. I wish. More'n likely he was about to spill on something outside his pay grade, thus the implant. Made my job nice and easy, though."
Sarin grabbed her custom synthcig from the table and clicked it on, taking a long drag. The sublime narco vapors washed over her, the bun puffing snaky plumes of sparkling, bluish smoke.
“Here's hoping Moth hooks us up with something nice, though. Can't chase these lowbie regs forever."
She leaned into Urakk now, her smaller, softer frame embraced by the promise of his immense silhouette. His arm looped around her shoulder – and most of her side – forming a protective bulwark of scale and muscle.
Another hardy chuckle from the mutant. “We could always get naked."
Sarin offered her own sharp grin. “We're not desperate Bug. . . not yet."
“Awww."
“We do that plenty enough."
He spared a chuckle, as one of the holo-feeds flickered to one of the Colony's “popular" infotainment feeds. A screen wearing the image of a dazzling stage and applauding crowd came into view, where a lean, feminine figure waved to the audience, wearing a scarlet suit. She blew kisses and sat at her desk, bearing a wide grin.
“It's time, everyone, it's time! Your favorite feral feed featuring the biggest drops all across the Colony! Hope ya' got your bingo cards ready, cuz' we're about to start. . ."
She waited for the audience's cheerful cries!
“BODY COUNT!"
And, just like every night, a hectic feed of names, numbers, and locations scrolled by. Like the name implied, it was a glorified obituary. Sarin pointed as she recognized a familiar catch.
“Oooh, lookie, there I am. Right outside Wild Wish."
Urakk blinked. “Just one, huh? You're slipping, Sara!"
She nudged him. “It was a favor."
One Kenneth Rogier appeared, lingered for a few seconds, then was overtaken by another series of names. On Theseus, it was the only mercy granted to an otherwise unfeeling machine.
But hey, at least he got to grab some tits before he went. There were always worse ways to go.