ã€ŠLOWLYã€‹


 CHAPTER 1 - 140 MILLION MILES AWAY

    140 MILLION MILES AWAY

    The Martian sky always shimmered with a red-tinted glow, a stark contrast to the familiar blue of Earth. Roy Inman sat slouched on a worn metal bench beside a vending machine, his suit jacket crumpled on his lap. His slacks were smudged with Martian dust, his white shirt rumpled, and his red tie hung askew, as though it had given up trying to look respectable. With a soft clink, the vending machine dispensed a chilled can of some Martian-brand cola he didn¡¯t recognize. He had spent 20 creds on it. more than he¡¯d have liked, but it was a small indulgence.

    A ritual for himself after a job¡¯s done. Like a pat on the back.

    He cracked the can open and took a sip, the fizzy liquid biting at his throat. A sigh escaped him as his gaze shifted upward to the Mars Space Elevator, a super structure stretching impossibly high into the red hued heavens. Vehicles rumbled past, their hum blending into the faint murmur of the city beyond. He sat on the edge of Alba City, one of the largest metropolitan hubs on Mars, connected to its neighbors by sprawling highways and maglev trains.

    How he had ended up here was a question Roy had stopped asking himself a month ago. Earth had been his home, but now it was a distant memory, a blue dot hanging above him. One moment he was struggling to make ends meet in some forgotten corner of Earth, and the next, he was on Mars, scratching out a living as a freelancer.

    It wasn¡¯t glamorous work. His luck had been abysmal from the start when he got here.. In his first week here in Mars, he had stumbled into the orbit of the Callisto Syndicate, an organization that dominated Mars'' underworld. After a tense negotiation involving subtle threats and unspoken ultimatums, Roy found himself pressed into their service. His tasks were mundane, usually delivering physical letters ¡ª which he found an odd preference in an era dominated by digital communication. But when the Syndicate pays, it paid well, and for someone like Roy, who wasn¡¯t keen on asking too many questions and desperate, it was a straightforward gig.

    Roy drained the last of his cola and crushed the can with his hand. He tossed it into a nearby receptacle and watched as the automated system whisked it away. He wasn¡¯t proud of working for the Syndicate, but it was better than the alternative. He was an illegal immigrant on Mars, and likely illegal on Earth too, if anyone cared to check. His skill set was strangely vast, and freelancing gave him the freedom to avoid corporate slavery. Many illegals felt the same way, preferring this precarious existence over the grind of corporate life.

    The distant whir of an approaching bus snapped Roy out of his reverie. He flagged it down and climbed aboard, paying the fare with a quick tap of his cred chip. The bus was sparsely populated, and he made his way to the back, settling into a seat with a view of the cityscape. The buildings of Alba rose like jagged teeth against the red sky, their architecture a blend of Earth¡¯s megacities. Like Dubai¡¯s spires had fused with New York¡¯s towering density, creating this unholy combination. The closer they got to the city center, the louder the noise grew, a cacophony of engines, voices, and distant music that sounded like electro mumble crap to him.Stolen novel; please report.

    When the bus reached Arima Street, Roy disembarked and plunged into the throng of pedestrians. The crowd flowed around him like water, and he weaved through with practiced ease. After a short walk, he arrived at a nondescript building nestled between a noodle shop and a repair kiosk. He slipped inside, avoiding eye contact with the security bot stationed near the entrance.

    The elevator ride to the top floor was uneventful, the soft hum of the machinery the only sound. When the doors opened, he stepped into his modest apartment. It was nothing fancy, but it was his. The bed was tucked into a corner, a small couch sat across from a tiny kitchen, and a narrow doorway led to a compact shower. The walls were bare, save for a few scuffs that gave the place some character.

    Roy shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the couch before grabbing the ladder that led to the rooftop. He dragged the plastic chair to the edge and settled into it, a cigarette already in his hand. The flick of a lighter illuminated his face for a moment before the glow of the cigarette took over. He inhaled deeply and exhaled, the smoke curling into the Martian air.

    From this vantage point, Alba¡¯s skyline was a jagged silhouette against the red-hued expanse. Neon signs flickered in the distance, advertising everything from augmented reality experiences to the latest in artificial companions. The noise of the city below was a dull roar, distant enough to feel like background music. Above him, faint but unmistakable, was Earth ¡ª a blue dot suspended in the vastness of space.

    Roy found it strange how little he thought of his old life. The transition from Earth to Mars had been abrupt, but he had adapted quickly, carried along by circumstances beyond his control. The Syndicate had given him a purpose, though one rooted in necessity rather than ambition. Delivering letters and doing odd gigs for criminals wasn¡¯t exactly a dream job, but it kept him fed and sheltered in this terraformed planet.

    As the hours passed, Roy let his thoughts drift. He wondered about the lives of the people in Alba, the ones who lived in the glittering towers and the ones who scraped by in the alleys of Alba City''s Labyrinths. Did they ever look up at the same sky and think about Earth? Did they feel as untethered as he did, floating through life without a clear direction?

    The cigarette burned down to the filter, and he crushed it against the arm of the chair. He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the Martian breeze wash over him.

    For now, this was his reality.

    Tomorrow would bring another odd job, another task.

    140 million miles away from Earth, this was his life now.

 CHAPTER 2 - THE AXE WOMAN

    THE AXE WOMAN

    Roy Inman tapped his fingers against the steering wheel of the disposable car, his movements synced to the smooth rhythms of New Jazz flowing through the car speakers. The car itself was nothing remarkable, an unremarkable old sedan rented with the express purpose of being discarded after the job¡¯s done. He was parked near an artificial park off Morocco Street, one of the places where you could find a tree in the city. It was late, and the city felt quieter than usual, though ¡°quiet¡± on Mars, especially in a city like concrete, steel, and glass jungle like Alba City, was a relative term.

    The instructions had been simple. Pick up the Merc and follow her lead. Roy wasn¡¯t the type to ask questions, especially not about Syndicate business. So he sat back, waiting, the music providing a steady backdrop to his thoughts.

    A slender figure appeared in the distance, striding toward him with purpose. The woman moved with a confidence that drew the eye, her blonde-white hair catching the park¡¯s artificial lights. She wore a muted pencil dress with a low neckline that framed her cleavage, paired with a cropped jacket that gave her a curious look. Slung over her shoulder was a carry bag, its contents unknown but undoubtedly tied to whatever business they had do ahead. Her shoulder-length hair framed a pale face with red eyes that carried a frosty detachment. It was one of those Implant Eyes.

    Roy rolled down the window as she approached. ¡°You Ms. Irya?¡± he asked, his tone casual.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± she replied curtly.

    He unlocked the passenger door. ¡°Get in.¡±

    Without a word, Irya slid into the seat and closed the door softly behind her. She looked out the window for a moment, then pulled out a small mobile device, scrolling through information with practiced ease. Roy didn¡¯t press her for details. Instead, he returned his attention to the road.

    ¡°Got any place to stop first?¡± he asked.

    ¡°No,¡± she replied, her tone as clipped as before. "Setup''s done. All you need to do is follow."

    That was fine by him. Roy started the car and eased into the flow of Alba¡¯s labyrinthine streets. The city was a sprawling network of glass, concrete, and steel, its design both chaotic and deliberate, like someone had tried to recreate Earth¡¯s urban mess and accidentally added an extra layer of complexity that it didn''t need.

    The neon signs and towering skyscrapers eventually gave way to wealthier neighborhoods, where the streets were cleaner, and the buildings shone brighter.

    When they reached their destination, Irya finally spoke. ¡°I¡¯ll call you when it¡¯s done.¡±

    Roy nodded. ¡°Okay.¡±

    She stepped out, her hips swaying slightly as she walked toward the building. He watched her disappear through the front entrance, then lit a cigarette. The sharp bite of the smoke helped steady him, though he didn¡¯t feel particularly anxious. This wasn¡¯t his first odd job, and it wouldn¡¯t be his last.

    The hour passed slowly, the cigarette now only a filter. Just as he was considering lighting another, his mobile buzzed. Irya¡¯s voice came through the line, cold and flat.

    ¡°It¡¯s done. Bring the stuff to the back of the building. The service elevator should be open.¡±

    ¡°Got it,¡± Roy replied.

    He popped the trunk and grabbed the black duffel bag containing whatever supplies the Syndicate had deemed necessary for this job. Slinging it over his shoulder, he made his way to the service elevator. The building was oddly quiet. No guards, no nosy neighbors ¡ª just the hum of machinery and the distant echo of city life. Suspicious, but he wasn¡¯t about to question his good fortune or the preparation done for this job.

    The elevator ride to the third floor was uneventful. When he reached the designated door, 301, he knocked once.

    Irya¡¯s voice came from the other side, cold and professional. ¡°House service?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    He stepped inside and immediately took in the scene. Irya was standing in the middle of the room, removing a raincoat splattered with blood. In her hand was a fire axe, its wooden handle worn and the head stained red. On the floor lay a headless body, the carpet beneath it soaking up the evidence.

    Roy sighed, closing the door behind him.

    ¡°What did he do?¡± he asked as he set the bag down and began pulling on an overalls and gloves.

    ¡°He did something,¡± Irya replied flatly. Her frosty tone suggested she had no interest in elaborating. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. You look prepared. I thought you were an amateur.¡±

    ¡°I am one, that''s why they gave me this bag for this so I''d know what to bring next,¡± Roy said with a shrug. He knelt by the body and worked quickly, rolling it in the carpet and securing it tightly in the body bag. His movements were practiced, efficient.

    Irya watched him with a raised eyebrow. ¡°I see. How many did you carry?¡±

    ¡°Enough for the night,¡± he replied without looking up. ¡°Will we deliver this and move on to the next one?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the plan,¡± she said, heading toward the bathroom. ¡°I¡¯ll wash my axe first, go ahead.¡±

    Roy heard the faucet running as he finished sealing the body bag. There wasn¡¯t a drop of blood left on the floor ¡ª whoever this guy had been, he wouldn¡¯t leave much of a mess behind. Roy stood and double-checked the bag, ensuring it wouldn¡¯t leak during transport.

    ¡°This sucks,¡± he muttered under his breath.

    Irya emerged from the bathroom, her axe cleaned and neatly stored in its carry bag. Roy spotted another weapon inside. Probably a rifle, he guessed.

    She gave the room a quick once-over, then nodded in approval. ¡°Cleaners will be here soon. Service elevator is still clear, so let¡¯s hurry.¡±

    Roy hefted the body bag with one hand, surprising Irya with his casual strength. She didn¡¯t comment, simply leading the way out. They moved quickly but calmly, their demeanor ensuring they didn¡¯t draw attention. Back at the service elevator, Roy loaded the body into the car¡¯s trunk while Irya kept watch.

    Once they were both back in the car, Roy started the engine and pulled away, leaving the building behind. The drive was silent, save for the faint hum of the tires against the road and the soulful vocals of New Jazz on the car speakers. Roy didn¡¯t mind the quiet. Thankfully, his acquaintance didn''t mind his taste for music nor talked. It gave him time to process the fact that he was now, unequivocally, an accomplice to murder.

    As they navigated the streets of Alba, Roy cast a sidelong glance at Irya. She stared out the window, her expression unreadable, her hands resting lightly on the carry bag in her lap. Whatever her story was, he knew better than to ask. In this line of work, curiosity was a dangerous luxury.

    The city stretched out before them, its lights casting long shadows over their path. Roy focused on the road, his thoughts a jumble of resignation and mild amusement. This wasn¡¯t the life he¡¯d imagined he¡¯d have, but it was the one he had now. And for better or worse, it seemed he was getting used to it. Unsurprisingly, working for a Syndicate, eventually would find him in this kind of dirty work.

    What did he expect in the first place?

    ¡°Next stop?¡± he asked, breaking the silence.

    Irya didn¡¯t look at him, her voice as cold as ever. ¡°Keep driving. I¡¯ll tell you when we get there.¡±

    Roy nodded, his hands steady on the wheel.

    The night was far from over.

    <hr>

    The butcher¡¯s shop was tucked away behind a medical clinic, its mundane look concealing the operations it supported. Roy followed Irya through the cold air of the storefront, his senses assaulted by the faint metallic tang of blood. The butcher, a burly man wielding a cleaver, looked up from his work as they entered. Irya gave him a brief nod, and with a grunt, he pointed the cleaver toward a back door.

    Roy shifted the weight of the body bag on his shoulder, breaking the silence. ¡°They aren¡¯t selling human meat, right?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Irya replied without looking back.

    ¡°You sure?¡±

    She paused, her cold tone sharp as her glance. ¡°They don¡¯t.¡±

    Her confidence didn¡¯t entirely settle Roy¡¯s nerves, but he followed her through the door anyway. The narrow passage they entered smelled faintly of stale air and artificial cooling, the hum of air-conditioning units filling the space. At the end of the corridor, they stepped into a facility bustling with activity. Guards stationed at the entrance were augmented with cybernetics, the kind that tried to blend in with artificial skin but failed to hide the cold gleam of chrome beneath.

    One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a cybernetic eye,  similar to Irya''s, blocked their path.

    ¡°Who¡¯s the new guy, Axy?¡± he asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

    Irya didn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°Callisto Freelancer. He¡¯s¡­ new.¡±

    The guard turned his intense gaze on Roy. ¡°You new?¡±

    Roy met the glare without flinching. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    The guard smirked, apparently satisfied by Roy¡¯s calm demeanor.

    ¡°Good. Go ahead. Don¡¯t do anything stupid.¡± Then, after a pause. ¡°Do you even carry a gun?¡±

    Roy adjusted the body bag on his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m just here to deliver things. Might get one after this.¡±

    ¡°You and do that.¡±

    The guard stepped aside, and Irya led the way into the facility. Her hips swayed as she walked, drawing the attention of nearly everyone they passed. Unlike the mercenaries milling about in combat gear. Irya¡¯s outfit was deceptively simple. Then again, Roy guessed she have combat implants. The kind that made her confident enough to not wear any combat gear.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    They entered a room that smelled of antiseptic and blood. A man in a white coat stood by a cluttered desk, his augmented eyes whirring as he glanced up from a holographic screen. Irya pulled the head from the bag, the plastic wrap glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights.

    ¡°Let me check,¡± the doctor muttered as he placed the head on the table. He unwrapped the head, revealing a pale, lifeless face, then ran a facial and retinal scan. After a moment, he nodded. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s the one. The body?¡±

    Irya turned to Roy. ¡°The body.¡±

    Roy stepped forward and placed the body bag on the floor. The doctor studied him briefly, his curiosity clear. ¡°You got bioware?¡±

    ¡°All natural,¡± Roy replied. ¡°I think.¡±

    ¡°Hmm. Serum, maybe? Doesn¡¯t matter. We¡¯ve all got our freaks here.¡±

    Ignoring the remark, Roy watched as the doctor unpacked the body and slid it onto an operating table. The doctor scanned it thoroughly, muttering to himself as he noted the condition of the corpse.

    ¡°Fifty thousand,¡± he finally said. ¡°See that? Busted cybernetics don¡¯t sell much. This guy didn¡¯t take care of himself. Genitals are outdated tech ¡ª worthless. Organs? Full of toxins and chems. Yikes.¡±

    Irya leaned over the holographic scans. ¡°Well, at least I get the bounty.¡±

    The doctor smirked. ¡°Nice cut, by the way. Clean work. The co-processing chip in his head might fetch ten thousand. Get me the last one and consider this one¡¯s done. Oh, and Mica¡¯s been preying on the next idiot. So expect her there.¡±

    Irya nodded and gestured for Roy to follow her. As they left the clinic and returned to the car, she checked her wristwatch. ¡°We still have time.¡±

    Roy started the engine, navigating the winding streets of Alba to their next destination ¡ª a dingy apartment complex. They climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, the air heavy with the scent of mildew and neglect. At the door, Roy knocked, positioning himself directly in the line of sight while Irya waited in the blind spot with one finger hushing him.

    ¡°Hello?¡± Roy called. ¡°Anyone out there?¡±

    The door creaked open, revealing a heavily augmented man pointing a pistol directly at his forehead. Before the man could say a word, Irya¡¯s fire axe swung in a brutal arc, burying itself in his neck. Blood sprayed, and Roy ducked instinctively, catching the pistol as it fell from the man¡¯s limp fingers. He examined it briefly, then looked up at Irya.

    ¡°Can I keep this?¡± he asked.

    Irya yanked the axe free with a wet crunch and slammed its blunt side against the man¡¯s neck, fully severing the head.

    ¡°Sure,¡± she said. ¡°Take it as a gift.¡±

    Roy tucked the pistol into his jacket. ¡°Messy.¡±

    ¡°Cleaners will take care of it.¡±

    ¡°What did these guys do? To deserve an Axe instead of a bullet?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± She shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t care. Job¡¯s a job.¡±

    Roy hummed in agreement as Irya slipped on a pair of gloves and dragged the body into the apartment. Roy followed her inside, his gaze landing on a half-dressed woman lounging on a battered couch. She wore only her bra and panties, her eyes half-opened and her expression amused at the sight of them and almost mocking at the corpse.

    ¡°Fucker''s dead?¡± the woman asked, her voice slurred.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Irya replied coolly, dropping the corpse in the middle of the room. "You done here too?

    ¡°Asshole deserved it.¡± The woman spat on the body. ¡°Yeah, I got what I wanted.¡±

    ¡°That so?¡± Irya asked.

    The woman smirked.

    ¡°You the new one?¡± she asked, turning her attention to Roy.

    ¡°I think so.¡±

    ¡°Name¡¯s Mica. Not bad. Are you all-natural?¡±

    Roy nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    She raised an eyebrow and glanced at his crotch. ¡°Same down there?¡±

    Roy¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Nice. Need help, Irya? I got some time to kill.¡±

    ¡°Get the mop,¡± Irya said, her tone brooking no argument.

    ¡°Sure thing.¡± Mica grabbed a mop and began cleaning the blood pooling on the floor. Meanwhile, Roy donned gloves and overalls, efficiently sealing the body in a new bag. This time, Irya didn¡¯t bother taking the head and just let him stuffed it in the body bag.

    Mica hummed a tune as she worked, occasionally glancing at Roy. ¡°You know,¡± she began, ¡°this idiot was such a retarded simp. Spent all his money on me and didn¡¯t even get anything other than a handy.¡±

    Roy didn¡¯t respond, but his thoughts churned. The casual cruelty of these people was staggering, but what unsettled him more was how calm he felt amidst it all. This wasn¡¯t normal, and yet, here he was, unfazed and efficient, cleaning up someone else¡¯s mess.

    Irya leaned against the wall, silent as Mica chattered on. When the cleanup was finished, she nodded at Roy. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±

    Roy hauled the bag over his shoulder, sparing one last glance at Mica. She waved lazily, her expression smug as she went the other way.

    As they descended the stairs, Roy finally broke the silence. ¡°You people are messed up.¡±

    Irya glanced at him, her face unreadable. ¡°You¡¯re still here. You¡¯re the same.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Roy admitted. ¡°I guess I am.¡±

    <hr>

    The body hit the table with a muted thud, its plastic wrapping wrinkling under the fluorescent lights of the clinic. Roy stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from his gloves as Irya leaned casually on the operating table. She spoke briefly with the doctor, who nodded and transferred the agreed-upon credits to her account. She checked her balance on her wristband and motioned for Roy to follow.

    Back in the car, Roy drove in silence. The disposable vehicle hummed softly as it cruised through Alba¡¯s labyrinthine streets. Their destination was a junkyard, its gates yawning open like the maw of some great machine. At the center of the yard, a hydraulic compactor waited, its metallic frame silhouetted against the flickering glow of a neon sign advertising scrap for sale.

    With practiced ease, Roy maneuvered the car into the compactor¡¯s jaws. Stepping out, he watched as the machine came to life, its massive steel plates crushing the car into a compact slab of metal. The satisfying crunch of destruction sounded through the yard.

    Irya tossed her axe into the backseat of a nearby car. ¡°I¡¯ve got a ride. Let me introduce you to a good bar.¡±

    Roy scratched his chin, unsure why she didn¡¯t just drive off and leave him behind.

    ¡°Sure. Not that I have anything to do after this.¡±

    Irya led him to her car, an old but immaculately maintained Lancia Stratos. Its sleek, vintage design stood in stark contrast to the Martian vehicles of Alba¡¯s streets. Roy let out a low whistle. How the hell did she even got this in Mars of all places? It must have been expensive, transporting a car to this planet... or was it just a replica made here in Mars?

    ¡°Nice,¡± he said.

    ¡°Get in,¡± she replied, sliding into the driver¡¯s seat.

    Roy settled in beside her as she fired up the engine. The car roared to life. They drove out onto Alba¡¯s streets, Irya weaving through traffic with a confidence that bordered on recklessness.

    ¡°Wanna work together?¡± she asked, her eyes fixed on the road.

    "Huh? Where did that come from?" Roy raised an eyebrow. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re new,¡± she said. ¡°Meaning you¡¯re not fully affiliated yet. I need quiet, efficient people.¡±

    ¡°Do your jobs usually involve killing people?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Not really,¡± she replied with a shrug. ¡°This one was a favor.¡±

    ¡°Still weird,¡± Roy muttered. ¡°Asking me suddenly like this.¡±

    ¡°No man¡¯s an army,¡± Irya said. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be bad for you either.¡±

    Roy considered her words for a moment before nodding. ¡°I guess so.¡±

    The car came to a stop on Thorian Street, in a quiet alley where foot traffic was sparse. Down the narrow road stood a two-story building, unassuming and out of the way. A simple sign above the entrance read Haven. The first floor was a bar, while the second was clearly an apartment. Irya parked the car and stepped out, her boots clicking against the pavement.

    Inside, the bar exuded a cozy atmosphere. Low lights bathed the room in a warm glow, illuminating the few tables and stools scattered around. A counter dominated one wall, its surface polished to a soft sheen. Roy¡¯s eyes immediately went to the corner where a pair of arcade machines hummed quietly. Without a word, he walked over and began playing a fighting game, the familiar mechanics offering a brief escape from his bloody day.

    The bartender, a woman with long, braided hair and a red tie, raised an eyebrow.

    ¡°Who¡¯s that?¡± she asked, nodding toward Roy.

    ¡°Roy,¡± Irya replied, leaning on the counter. ¡°Newbie.¡±

    ¡°Name¡¯s Kasi!¡± The bartender called out, then turned to Irya. ¡°Need something strong?¡±

    ¡°Whiskey,¡± Irya said simply.

    Kasi nodded, expertly pouring the drink. She glanced at Irya as she slid the glass across the counter.

    ¡°Nothing bothering you?¡±

    ¡°Nothing major,¡± Irya said. ¡°You know how it is. What about this place? No one making trouble?¡±

    Kasi shrugged. ¡°Boss¡¯s keeping things quiet. Not a lot of customers, as usual.¡±

    ¡°She does business here, right?¡± Irya asked.

    ¡°Sometimes. This bar¡¯s more of a hobby for her,¡± Kasi said with a shrug. ¡°Still, no one bothers to mess with this place. Lucky for me, really.¡±

    Roy finished his game and slid onto a barstool beside Irya, eyeing the menu. One item caught his attention.

    ¡°Cola-gin?¡± he asked.

    ¡°You want that?¡± Kasi asked.

    ¡°Sure,¡± Roy replied, scanning his mobile over the payment terminal. Five credits deducted, Kasi began preparing the drink with practiced precision. She handed it to him with a flourish.

    ¡°So,¡± Kasi said, leaning on the counter, ¡°you¡¯re an Earthling?¡±

    Roy hesitated. ¡°Kinda.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±

    ¡°I dunno,¡± Roy said, swirling the drink in his glass. ¡°Hard to think about it.¡±

    Irya smirked. ¡°You¡¯re not a Cryoist, are you?¡±

    ¡°A what?¡±

    ¡°Idiots who froze their brains so they can see the ¡®future,¡¯¡± Irya explained.

    Roy shook his head. ¡°No. I am not. This is a nice place. Quiet too. Soundproofed?¡±

    ¡°Betcha,¡± Kasi said, her pride evident. ¡°Boss didn¡¯t want any noise. This is her comfy place after all.¡±

    "I see," Roy took a sip of his drink and nodded in approval. ¡°Strong. Not bad.¡±

    Kasi grinned. ¡°Glad you like it. So, you two just finished with a job? Seeing that you are drinking this late.¡±

    ¡°Something like that,¡± Irya said. ¡°It was¡­ the messy kind.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me,¡± Kasi said, holding up a hand.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t,¡± Irya replied. ¡°Not your business anyway.¡±

    ¡°Just the way I like it,¡± Kasi said, her gaze shifting to Roy. ¡°So, you¡¯re new to this kind of rabble?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Roy admitted. ¡°I owe the people I¡¯m working with.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t get indentured, did you?¡± Kasi asked.

    ¡°No. Not really.¡±

    ¡°How?¡±

    Roy shrugged. ¡°Got lucky.¡±

    Kasi¡¯s smile widened as she leaned closer. The soft lights caught the sheen of her red tie, making her look both relaxed and professional.

    ¡°Welcome to the red planet. Not that it¡¯s as red anymore. Any place you wanna visit now you''re here?¡±

    ¡°Neo Mediterranean,¡± Roy said. ¡°I heard it¡¯s nice.¡±

    Kasi let out a soft laugh. ¡°It¡¯s nice, all right. But it¡¯s a money trap if you don¡¯t have work there.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡±

    ¡°Believe me,¡± Kasi said. ¡°First-hand experience.¡±

    ¡°Must be something bad if you''re vocal about it.¡±

    Kasi only smiled, leaving Roy to wonder what she experienced there to say that.

    Irya drained the last of her drink and turned to Roy. ¡°About my offer.¡±

    Roy tilted his head. ¡°I¡¯ll accept it. Not like I have much else to do. If you keep taking me to good places like this, it might not be so bad. Just... no jobs like these.¡±

    "I don''t like like either. Like I said, it'' a favor," Irya said, a sudden faint smile ghosting across her lips. ¡°Still, you accepted, so I¡¯ll hold you to that.¡±

    She ordered another round of drinks, and the three of them settled into quiet chatter. For Roy, the night had a surreal quality. One moment, he was disposing of bodies, and the next, he was sipping drinks in a bar that felt like a Haven compared to the rest of the city.

 CHAPTER 3 - FRIENDS IN ALL PLACES

    FRIENDS IN ALL PLACES

    The Swordfish was a heavy-looking starship, its exterior bristling with weapons and reinforced hull plating that gleamed under the dull, reddish tint of Mars'' sky. Big starships like this weren¡¯t allowed near cities and usually sat just outside Alba City''s external spaceport, a hulking presence among the sleeker, more modern vessels docked nearby. It wasn¡¯t the kind of place Roy typically found himself working on, but this was Mars, and jobs were as unpredictable as the sandstorms. And as a man who lives by paycheck, he had to do this. It was either this or whacked someone with Irya. He preferred this one.

    Still, Roy wasn¡¯t entirely sure why he¡¯d taken this gig when he hadn''t done anything like this in the real world. Clinging to the hull of a starship a hundred meters off the ground, however, didn¡¯t leave much room for introspection. His mag-boots hummed softly, holding him firmly against the surface as the wind buffeted him. He tapped his visor, scrolling through AR instructions while his gloved hands adjusted the rig he¡¯d attached to a damaged panel.

    ¡°Part¡¯s done,¡± Roy said, his voice steady despite the height. He shifted slightly, securing his climbing cable as he glanced down. Below him, Earl, a new friend who told him about this job, stood on a crane-hoisted platform, his weathered face split by a toothy grin as he tossed Roy a coiled hose.

    ¡°Try not to slip,¡± Earl called, his voice tinny through the comms.

    Roy caught the hose with one hand, his grip sure despite the whipping Martian wind. Planting his boots firmly on the hull, he adjusted the hose¡¯s nozzle and aimed it at a blackened patch of the ship¡¯s exterior. A powerful stream of water mixed with soda shot out, hissing as it blasted away the carbonized residue.

    ¡°Hold up,¡± Earl said, shifting the platform slightly to counter the gusts. ¡°Wind¡¯s getting stronger. Adjusting.¡±

    Roy waited, his left hand gripping the cable as the platform settled into a new position.

    ¡°Go ahead,¡± Earl said.

    Roy resumed his work, the mixture carving through the grime like acid. His visor lit up with alerts as he moved along the hull, scanning for structural weaknesses. Occasionally, he found a crack or a weak point, marking it for repair before moving on. Most of the time, though, it was just dirt and scorch marks, the scars of countless atmospheric entries and exits.

    ¡°Done here,¡± Roy said, coiling the hose and securing it to the retracting mechanism on Earl¡¯s platform.

    Earl pressed a button, and the hose zipped back into its housing.

    ¡°All right, climb up,¡± he said.

    Roy activated the reel on his belt, letting it pull him smoothly toward the deck. The Swordfish¡¯s size became even more apparent as he ascended, its sheer bulk a testament to its purpose as a heavily armed supply hauler.

    Waiting on the deck was Captain Seth Aldo, a grizzled man whose demeanor screamed seen it all. He stood with his arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he watched Roy unstrap himself from his gear.

    ¡°Roy, you know how to fly a spacejet?¡± Seth asked, his voice a gravelly rumble.

    Roy brushed off his overalls and shrugged. ¡°I can. Anything, really.¡±

    ¡°Even a starship?¡± Seth was surprised, then pressed, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Roy replied casually, stowing the harness in a nearby locker.

    The captain squinted at him, his expression a mix of curiosity and skepticism. ¡°What the hell were you doing before Mars, anyway?¡±

    Roy paused, as though the answer was buried under layers of forgotten memories. ¡°Honestly, I don¡¯t know anymore.¡±

    Seth chuckled, a deep, raspy sound. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t really care as long as you do a good job. You¡¯re a lucky find, you know. A man who just seems to appear out of thin air and can do a lot of things? Worth keeping around. Devon still has that eye for talent.¡±

    Roy smirked faintly. ¡°That so? I thought I¡¯d be called a spy or something. Maybe an Agent of the Government.¡±

    ¡°Bah, you¡¯re not,¡± Seth barked a laugh, shaking his head. ¡°You don¡¯t glow enough, kid. And you don¡¯t have the attitude. Besides, government agents don¡¯t go walking around without implants. We scanned you, remember? No bioware, no cyberware. Not a single damn thing. Blood test says you¡¯re not serum-enhanced either or a designer baby or cryo-frozen clone either. So, what¡¯s your secret?¡±

    Roy grinned, half-joking. ¡°Just raised my skill bar to the max, Captain. All my stats are maxed so I can do this and that.¡±

    Seth took another drag, shaking his head in amusement. ¡°Everyone¡¯s got a secret. Honestly, I don¡¯t care what yours is. You do the work, you get paid. Simple as that.¡±

    ¡°Honestly, I thought you¡¯d all be cheap about this,¡± Roy said, gesturing toward the Swordfish.

    ¡°We¡¯re an interplanetary fucking business, mate. It¡¯d be insulting if we couldn¡¯t pay our workers. Legal or illegal, doesn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s about the transaction. It''s the damn trust.¡±

    Roy nodded, his gaze drifting toward a nearby spacejet. It was painted in a sharp, martian color scheme, its side emblazoned with the name Hammerhead in bold lettering.

    ¡°She¡¯s souped up,¡± Roy remarked, stepping closer to inspect it.

    Seth¡¯s face darkened. ¡°Best jet we¡¯ve got and no one to fly it. Damn good machine. Pilot killed himself last week from an overdose. Stupid junkie.¡±

    Roy crouched by the jet, prying open a panel and connecting his mobile device to the interface. Data scrolled across the screen as he ran diagnostics.

    ¡°Looks like it needs some tuning,¡± he said. ¡°I can fly it to Alba if you want. Will you pay me?¡±

    "Ah, sure, why the fuck not?" Seth nodded. ¡°You go ahead and do that. I¡¯ll let air control know not to shoot your ass.¡±

    Roy chuckled softly. ¡°Appreciate it. I promise I won''t steal it.¡±

    "Hah, I''d like to see you try. Would be fun shooting you down?"

    Roy grinned then set to work, his hands moving with the precision of someone who had spent years around machines. The Hammerhead¡¯s systems were temperamental but fixable, and within minutes, he had it ready for flight.

    Climbing into the cockpit, Roy took a moment to familiarize himself with the controls. The interface was sleek, simplified for combat maneuvers as much as atmospheric navigation. The cockpit itself smelled faintly of oil and ozone. It wasn¡¯t bad. He didn¡¯t bother wearing the mask connecting to the oxygen tank, preferring to use his own breather.

    ¡°Cleared for takeoff,¡± Seth¡¯s voice crackled through the comms.

    Roy gave a thumbs-up and powered up the engines. The Hammerhead roared to life, its thrusters spitting fire as it rose from the Swordfish¡¯s deck. Roy eased it into the air, the spacejet responding to his commands with a grace that belied its aggressive design as he flew it toward Alba¡¯s spaceport.

    After the short but exciting flight. In the large hangar belonging to the Callisto Syndicate at Alba¡¯s spaceport. Where there was a constant backdrop to the ebb and flow of workers and ships. Among the bustle, Roy, who just got off the Hammerhead minutes ago, sat by a vending machine, sipping on a Martian-brand cola. The fizzy drink was sharp and tangy, a flavor he was starting to associate with the red planet. His gaze wandered over the Hammerhead, its sleek frame standing out even among the high-tech vessels parked nearby. It was a beast of a machine. The kind you¡¯d want in a dogfight. Roy wondered why Captain Seth risked letting him fly it, and now he understood it. No one in their right mind would try to seal this kind of beast and get away with it.

    "Man, I need to think twice before doing this kind of stuff," Roy mumbled.

    Then, from the corner of his eye, Roy spotted a man walking toward him. Mr. Devon. The man carried himself with the air of someone who had struck deals with devils and come out on top ¡ª maybe after shooting one or two of them. His tailored suit was sharp, but there was a casual menace in his stride, as if he didn¡¯t need to flaunt his power to command respect. Or maybe because anyone with eyes could tell he had chrome underneath that fake skin of his. The kind that made you think thrice about one¡¯s life choices.

    Roy stood as Devon approached. ¡°Mr. Devon. How are you, Sir?¡±

    Devon¡¯s sharp eyes flicked to the Hammerhead. ¡°Well, well,¡± he said, his tone light but cutting. ¡°You¡¯ve got more tricks up your sleeve than I thought. Didn¡¯t know you could fly a spacejet. Haha, should have told me.¡±Stolen novel; please report.

    Roy shrugged. ¡°No one asked me if I could.¡±

    Devon barked a laugh. ¡°Fair enough. I gotta say, taking you in instead of selling your organs is turning out to be one of my better decisions as of late. Intuition, my friend, intuition. Didn¡¯t know I still had it.¡±

    Roy raised an eyebrow. ¡°I¡¯m not complaining.¡±

    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll get you some driving and flying licenses,¡± Devon said casually. ¡°All legit.¡±

    ¡°For free?¡± Roy asked, surprised.

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    A hint of worry crossed Roy¡¯s face. ¡°I¡­ can¡¯t really pay you back, Sir.¡±

    Devon waved a hand dismissively. ¡°If you¡¯re worried about debt, don¡¯t be. You¡¯ll just owe me a few favors.¡±

    Roy exhaled, wiping his face with his free hand. ¡°Okay.¡±

    Devon laughed at his discomfort. ¡°Relax, kid. So, how are you liking Mars?¡±

    Roy considered the question, his expression turning grim. ¡°I didn¡¯t plan on becoming a criminal, but somehow, here I am.¡±

    Devon smirked. ¡°Criminal? You¡¯re probably an accomplice at best. Haven¡¯t killed anyone yet, have you? Don¡¯t beat yourself up about it. Heard you handled that last job well, though. Even got the axe woman asking if you¡¯re pretending to be an amateur.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Devon said, lighting a cigarette and leaning against a nearby pillar.

    Roy shook his head. ¡°You¡¯re surprisingly kind, Sir. I don¡¯t know what to make of it.¡±

    ¡°Kind? Me?¡± Devon¡¯s laughter echoed in the hangar. ¡°You really think that?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Roy admitted with a faint smile. ¡°But kind enough to matter to me.¡±

    Devon grinned, exhaling a plume of smoke. ¡°I like that kind of bullshitting.¡±

    Roy glanced at the bustling hangar, his thoughts turning inward. ¡°Am I still going to deliver letters?¡±

    Devon tilted his head, studying Roy. ¡°We need someone to do it. It pays. You want the job?¡±

    ¡°If it pays,¡± Roy said with a shrug. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ not a killer. Don¡¯t want to be... if I can''t help it.¡±

    Devon¡¯s expression darkened, his tone shifting. ¡°I¡¯ve been around a long time, kid. Seen all kinds of people. You¡¯re not special. Plenty like you come in, swearing they¡¯re sheep, harmless as can be. But something about ticks me off. There¡¯s the way you walk, the way you look at people like you¡¯re measuring how to kill them in the best way possible. It bothers me.¡±

    Roy frowned but didn¡¯t interrupt.

    Devon leaned closer. ¡°It¡¯s like you¡¯re a killer who forgot he was a killer. Makes me wonder if you¡¯re lying to yourself.¡±

    Roy let out a soft laugh, almost bitter. ¡°To me, it was all a game, Boss. But now¡­ well, here I am. Doing this and that.¡±

    Devon smirked, shaking his head. ¡°So that¡¯s the kind of fuck-up you are. Just a game... huh?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever find the right way to explain it,¡± Roy admitted. ¡°Honestly, I¡¯m not sure I want to try.¡±

    Devon shrugged. ¡°Too bad no one really cares if you somehow explained it.¡±

    Roy¡¯s eyes tracked a Syndicate member carrying a briefcase to one of the lieutenants, the mundane motion almost soothing in its predictability. ¡°Makes me feel at ease¡­ but also like shit. Sometimes, I think someone put me in a tube and made me dream up a soul-crushing life and then woke me up so I can feel extra shit about it.¡±

    ¡°Sheesh,¡± Devon said, taking another drag of his cigarette. ¡°You¡¯ve got some complicated bullshit going on. Here¡¯s a tip thought. Don¡¯t whine about it too much.¡±

    Roy nodded. ¡°Yeah. Doubt anyone other than you would care to listen, Sir.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve got that right,¡± Devon said with a grin. ¡°As long as you¡¯re useful to me, I¡¯ll listen to your bullshit when I¡¯ve got the time. Just don¡¯t overdo it. It gets old fast.¡±

    ¡°Last time, I swear,¡± Roy said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

    He checked his mobile as it buzzed, the screen lighting up with a credit transfer notification. Payment for the job. He breathed a small sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

    ¡°Don¡¯t go blowing it all in one place,¡± Devon said. ¡°Got your gear yet?¡±

    Roy opened his suit jacket to reveal a pistol holstered securely inside.

    Devon nodded in approval. ¡°Good man. Now fuck off, will you?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Sir,¡± Roy replied, his tone light despite the command.

    He walked toward the hangar¡¯s exit, nodding to a few Syndicate members loitering nearby.

    Their knowing smirks and casual greetings felt oddly normal to him now.

    * * *

    No matter the city or planet, Roy had learned that every place had its version of a Chinatown. Alba City was no different, it had one too, a bustling district tucked away in a labyrinth of side streets with neon signs glowing in the Martian dusk. The smell of stir-fried spices and roasted meats filled the air, tempting even the most disciplined to stop and eat. Roy wasn¡¯t disciplined when it came to good food, and Chinatown always delivered.

    He pushed open the door to Lin Fang¡¯s Kitchen, greeted by the clatter of pans and the murmur of patrons. The scent of cumin, garlic, and chilies wrapped around him like a warm embrace. The owner, Lin Fang, was at the counter, his perpetual scowl aimed at Roy as though the man had personally offended him just by walking in.

    ¡°It¡¯s you,¡± Lin Fang said, his voice gruff. ¡°What¡¯ll it be? Spicy chicken? Dandan noodles again? I got cumin-spiced lamb today, too.¡±

    ¡°Just some egg fried rice and chicken, Boss,¡± Roy replied, taking a seat at the counter.

    Lin Fang nodded, turning toward the kitchen. ¡°Oi! Mei! Stop listening to your books and move! You¡¯ve got hands! Use them for once!¡±

    Roy chuckled, sipping water from a plastic cup. ¡°Still giving Mei a hard time?¡±

    Lin Fang grumbled, his scowl deepening. ¡°Girl¡¯s lazy. Bought herself an audiobook. Costs more than the book itself! I¡¯d smash her mobile if I didn¡¯t know she¡¯d charge a new one to my credit card!¡±

    ¡°Sounds like a dilemma,¡± Roy said, amused.

    Lin Fang leaned closer, his voice conspiratorial. ¡°You know, you could solve all my problems.¡±

    ¡°Yeah?¡±

    ¡°Marry my Mei,¡± Lin Fang declared, his tone dead serious. ¡°You¡¯ve got good hands, you¡¯re an Earthling, and best of all you¡¯re all-natural. No augs, no freaky bioware. You¡¯re what we call authentic. A real human!¡±

    Roy blinked, caught off guard. ¡°I think Mei likes girls. And I don¡¯t want to piss off Lisha. She might deport me, you know?¡±

    Lin Fang waved a dismissive hand. ¡°She can kiss all the girls she wants. Still needs to give me and her mother some grandchildren!¡±

    Roy smirked. ¡°Why not go for artificial insemination?¡±

    ¡°Aiya, too expensive!¡± Lin Fang barked, as if the very idea offended him. ¡°It needs to be natural. It¡¯s tradition!¡±

    Before Roy could respond, a young woman stormed out from the back, pinching Uncle Lin Fang¡¯s ear.

    ¡°Father! You share too much!¡± Mei said, dragging him toward the sink. ¡°Go do the dishes if you¡¯ve got time to share private information to people! So stupid!¡±

    Uncle Lin Fang grumbled but obeyed, shuffling off to the kitchen.

    Mei turned to Roy, her expression apologetic. ¡°Sorry about that.¡±

    Roy waved her off. ¡°It¡¯s fine. I don¡¯t mind.¡±

    Mei smiled faintly. Despite her Eastern-Earth descent, she had striking blue eyes that fit just right with her raven-black hair and jade-like skin. Her beauty was unmistakable, though the subtle bioware lines on her forearms betrayed her enhanced nature. Designer beauty was common, but Roy could still tell who was natural and who wasn¡¯t. She was half natural.

    ¡°Before you ask, I know I¡¯m pretty, but I¡¯m taken,¡± Mei said with a smirk.

    Roy laughed. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. Not interested. Your father¡¯s too lively for me.¡±

    ¡°Lively... that''s a nice way to put it,¡± Mei replied, rolling her eyes. ¡°He¡¯s at that age, you know? Wants grandkids but doesn¡¯t want to pay for them. Mankind¡¯s reached the stars, and he¡¯s still hung up on ancient tradition. Maintaining the bloodline and all sorts of nonsense!¡±

    ¡°Honestly,¡± Roy said, ¡°I wonder if he says half that stuff for laughs.¡±

    Mei snorted. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s both. It¡¯s entertaining for others and him.¡±

    Roy leaned back in his chair, glancing around the cozy restaurant. ¡°Busy today?¡±

    ¡°Kind of,¡± Mei admitted. ¡°If you want to deliver something to Feng¡¯s, though, don¡¯t ask me to give you one. I heard they¡¯re in trouble with the Callisto boys, and I wouldn¡¯t want to involve you. Especially when you¡¯re quite friendly with them now.¡±

    ¡°Thanks for reminder,¡± Roy said, nodding as he looked at his mobile. ¡°I¡¯m trying to keep my head low too because of a recent job. So dealing with all that mess is not for me right now.¡±

    Mei¡¯s eyes flicked to the credit transfer notification on Roy¡¯s mobile. ¡°Looks like you got paid. What was the job?¡±

    ¡°Cleaning a spaceship.¡±

    ¡°Guess it''s the Swordfish?¡± Mei asked, her eyebrows rising. ¡°Saw that beast parked outside. It looked beaten up. No wonder you¡¯re eating well today. You even do that kind of gig? Cleaning a spaceship?¡±

    Before Roy could reply, Lin Fang appeared, carrying a steaming plate of egg fried rice and chicken.

    ¡°Here you go,¡± he said, placing the dish in front of Roy. Then, turning to Mei, he barked, ¡°Stop flirting with the man! I¡¯ll tell Lisha you¡¯re cheating on her if you don¡¯t get back to work!¡±

    Roy chuckled, picking up his chopsticks. ¡°Glad to see you¡¯re having fun with your daughter, Boss.¡±

    "Bah. she needs to be diligent!" Lin Fang¡¯s playful scowl turned serious as he leaned forward, lowering his voice. ¡°I forgot because of my daughter. But you want a quick job?¡±

    Roy paused, mid-bite. ¡°What kind of job?¡±

    ¡°Just need someone roughed up,¡± Lin Fang said, dropping the exaggerated accent he plays for laughs. ¡°No questions asked.¡±

    Roy chewed thoughtfully before replying. ¡°He affiliated? Got any friends who¡¯d come after me? I don¡¯t want to be on the shit list of anyone, Mr. Lin.¡±

    ¡°Nah,¡± Lin Fang assured him. ¡°Just an idiot who thinks he can walk around Alba without showing respect. He¡¯s a loner, no backup. Quick job. You in? I have another person who''ll take it with you too. Good learning experience, no?¡±

    "Okay, then," Roy set down his chopsticks, considering. ¡°Send the details to my mail, Sir. I¡¯ll think about it. Right now I just want to eat.¡±

    "Good. You need a full stomach to think good. I approve."

    Lin Fang¡¯s grin returned, his eyes gleaming. He straightened up and turned his attention to another customer, shouting at them with the same mix of authority and irritation he used on everyone.

    Roy then returned to his meal, savoring the rich flavors of his meal while also thinking if he''d accept the job.

    It wouldn''t hurt to try... especially if he had another person with him in the job.

    After all, he needed the actual real life experience.

 CHAPTER 4 - A JOB OFFER

    A JOB OFFER

    The colonization of Mars began with a bang ¡ª literally. The poles were shattered, their icy caps blown apart like overfilled water balloons. The resulting ''great flood'' transformed the planet¡¯s surface, flooding the surface of the planet and carving new waterways that turned the arid red world into an Earth-like one. Oceans now sprawled where there had once been endless desert, and islands and continents rose where ancient craters once marked the Martian landscape.

    Most human settlements clung to the equator, where the seasons were mild, and the sun was reliable for powering the sprawling arrays of solar panels situated near the Martian Space Elevator.

    Alba City was one of these settlements. In fact, it was now the oldest city on Mars, situated on the Tharsis Plateau. Where from this perch, humans started spread outward, staking claims on the transformed planet.

    There was two well-known regions that humanity claimed their stakes first.

    Arcadia Planitia, a flat expanse of lowlands to the north, was now a lush region known as the Neo Mediterranean. Its reputation for massive snowfall had been replaced by rolling vineyards, verdant hills, and coastal towns thriving along the shores of its newly formed seas.

    Deuteronilus Mensae, by contrast, had become a great land of tundra. Its valleys remained scarred with the red sands and dirt of Mars, as if a reminder of the planet¡¯s arid past. Even with the successful terraforming, some parts of Mars resisted human habitation. The most extreme areas, too hot, too cold, or too volatile remained untouched, their weather systems violent and unpredictable for anyone.

    Mars was still a frontier, its land rich with untapped resources and potential, but also fraught with unanswered questions. The most pressing one lingered in the background of every conversation was, Who did Mars belong to?

    The nations of Earth skirted the issue, unwilling to draw hard lines. For now, Mars existed as its own peculiar exception, overseen by a Central Government more interested in maintaining the delicate balance on Earth than asserting control over its celestial neighbor. For many Martians, the politics of Earth felt distant and irrelevant.

    ¡°I don¡¯t even want to know.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s an Earth problem.¡±

    Roy had heard more than once.

    That sentiment had stuck with him. As a freshly minted , somewhat Illegal Martian citizen, Roy found the ambiguity strangely comforting. On Earth, people lived within the boundaries of nations, their identities shaped by centuries of borders and conflicts. They asked where you''re from and they¡¯d say their nation. On Mars, people asked where you¡¯re from, and they¡¯d call you an idiot and tell you they¡¯re obviously from Mars.

    It was odd.

    Of course, Mars wasn¡¯t free from its own troubles. Argyre and Vastitas Plateau had their share of strife, with disputes over resources and territory simmering in the background. Earth Nations, Corporations, Syndicates, Mafias, and Cartels were carving up pieces of the Martian pie, their influence spreading like weeds through the cracks of humanity¡¯s interplanetary ambitions.

    Yet, for all its challenges, Mars felt oddly stagnant to Roy. The dream of becoming interplanetary had fizzled into the mundane. Life here wasn¡¯t about boldly venturing into the unknown. It was just humans doing what humans always did ¡ª surviving, hustling, and trying to carve out a little piece of happiness until the day they die.

    Roy leaned back in his seat, staring out the window of the vehicle as his thoughts drifted. The prefab town they were approaching came into view, an oasis of human-made structures amidst the Martian plains. Apartment blocks and houses, imported wholesale from Earth, stood in neat rows like a toy city plopped onto an alien world.

    ¡°Yo, Roy, that¡¯s the place,¡± Sepp said, pulling Roy from his inner thoughts.

    Roy turned to his companion. Sepp was grinning. His enthusiasm was infectious but slightly unsettling. Uncle Lin Fang had introduced the man, and after two weeks, Sepp, without Roy¡¯s input, decided they were friends. Roy didn¡¯t mind though. Sepp was helpful, and he had a car, though Roy was pretty sure he¡¯d taken it from someone. Sepp had the energy of someone who genuinely enjoyed causing trouble. A useful trait at times, but not always reassuring during free time when all Roy wanted was to eat or drink in peace.

    Roy never took Sepp to Haven. He didn¡¯t want the man to sully the place. It was the only quiet spot in Alba City that Roy cared enough to protect. Well, maybe Lin Fang¡¯s kitchen counted, or his apartment too. And taking Sepp there? Was a big no.

    ¡°Looks cozy,¡± Roy said, glancing out at the prefab town.

    Sepp laughed. ¡°Cozy for now. Won¡¯t be so cozy after we¡¯re done.¡±

    ¡°Remember,¡± Roy said, his tone firm, ¡°no killing. Uncle Lin just wants the guy to learn what respect means and give him a job.¡±

    ¡°Haha, ain¡¯t Uncle just kind?¡± Sepp shrugged, still grinning. ¡°Fine, fine. No killing. Just a good old-fashioned lesson and a job offer.¡±

    Roy sighed and adjusted his jacket, mentally preparing himself. The job was straightforward. Rough up a loudmouth who thought he could wander Alba without showing proper deference to his elders. It wasn¡¯t glamorous, but it paid. And that was usually enough for Roy these days.

    The vehicle rolled to a stop at the edge of the town, and Sepp gestured toward a squat building with peeling paint and a flickering sign that wa.

    ¡°That¡¯s where he¡¯s holed up.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± Roy said, stepping out and taking in the surroundings. The prefab town was quiet, the streets empty save for a few locals moving quickly from one place to another. The weather was not nice.

    As they approached the building, Sepp cracked his knuckles, his grin widening. ¡°Ready?¡±

    Roy nodded, though his expression remained neutral. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with.¡±

    Together, they climbed to the floor, then pushed through the door, the faint smell of stale beer and fried food wafting out to greet them. Inside, the man they were looking for sat slouched in a corner booth, his boots propped up on the table and a half-empty glass in his hand.

    Sepp didn¡¯t waste any time. ¡°You the guy who thinks he doesn¡¯t need to respect his Elders?¡± he said, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of the man in the room.

    The man blinked, his sluggish reaction betraying a mix of confusion and annoyance. ¡°Who the fuck are you?¡±

    Roy stepped forward, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Sepp¡¯s swagger. ¡°We¡¯re the ones here to remind you that Alba runs on respect. You¡¯ve been lacking.¡±

    The man scowled, sitting up straighter. ¡°I don¡¯t owe anyone shit.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong,¡± Sepp said, cracking his knuckles again.

    ¡°Fuck you!¡±

    The man snarled and lunged at Sepp, swinging a clumsy punch. Sepp didn¡¯t flinch. His augmented arm came up like a steel wall, blocking the blow effortlessly. The man¡¯s fist connected with a dull thud, followed by a pained yelp as Sepp countered with a punch to the ribs.

    Roy winced. ¡°You broke his rib?¡±

    ¡°I might have,¡± Sepp replied, unfazed, his grin widening.

    The man doubled over but quickly recovered, throwing another punch aimed at Sepp¡¯s side. It missed. Sepp, with almost theatrical ease, pulled back his fist and delivered a brutal strike to the man¡¯s cheek. A tooth skittered across the floor, glinting under the dim light.

    Roy blinked, watching as the man stumbled, blood dripping from his mouth. Outside, the Martian rain had started, pattering against the building¡¯s tin roof. The storm brought with it a peculiar smell ¡ª a mix of wet sand and metal that seeped through every crack and crevice.

    Sepp kneed the man in the stomach, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his abdomen. Desperation flickered across his face as he reached for a sidearm tucked into his jacket. But before he could draw it, Sepp¡¯s augmented right hand clamped down on his fingers. The sound of bones snapping was audible even over the rain.

    ¡°P-please¡­ don¡¯t kill me,¡± the man whimpered, his voice trembling.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    Roy crouched beside him, his tone calm but firm. ¡°Why were you rude to Uncle Lin?¡±

    ¡°I-I didn¡¯t know,¡± the man stammered, tears streaming down his face.

    Roy raised an eyebrow. ¡°Didn¡¯t know? Uncle Lin has friends, you know. Lots of friends. Most of them would¡¯ve done worse than this. You¡¯re lucky.¡±

    Sepp crouched next to Roy, his grin fading into something colder. ¡°Yeah, they might have taken you apart. Sold what¡¯s left of you. Organs, augments, and maybe even your soul. Nothing goes to waste in Alba.¡±

    The man¡¯s sobbing grew louder. ¡°Please, man, I won¡¯t do this shit again. Let me go!¡±

    Sepp scoffed. ¡°You think saying sorry fixes this? You harass someone, disrespect the wrong people, and now you think an apology makes it all okay?¡±

    Roy patted the man¡¯s shoulder, his tone almost fatherly. ¡°Sepp¡¯s right. Actions have consequences. You don¡¯t get to pull this kind of stunt and walk away with a clean slate.¡±

    The man was trembling now, barely able to meet Roy¡¯s gaze. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean it. Please, just let me go.¡±

    Roy gestured toward Sepp. ¡°Call Uncle Lin.¡±

    Sepp pulled out his mobile and tapped a few buttons. The device buzzed for a moment before connecting. ¡°Yo, Uncle. Got the guy.¡±

    Lin Fang¡¯s voice crackled through the speaker. ¡°Ah, good. So, what¡¯s the story? Is he part of some new gang?¡±

    Roy tilted his head toward the man, giving him a chance to respond. ¡°So? Are you?¡±

    The man shook his head violently, sobbing uncontrollably. ¡°I told you, man, I¡¯m just a nobody. Please, I¡¯m not in any gang. I swear.¡±

    Lin Fang¡¯s laugh was sharp and mocking. ¡°I hear him. Whines like a bitch. Well, then, give him the offer. Don¡¯t be too rude, boys.¡±

    Roy reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded contract. ¡°Here¡¯s how this works,¡± he said, unfolding the paper in front of the man¡¯s face. ¡°You¡¯re going to apologize by working for Uncle Lin. He¡¯s a generous man, a good man, and this contract is your way out of this mess. Sign it, and you¡¯ll be part of something bigger. Sure, you messed up, but we can fix that. Now¡­ What''s your name?¡±

    The man hiccupped, barely able to form words. ¡°D-Dan Yee.¡±

    Roy nodded. ¡°Okay, Dan. You want to make this right? Then sign here. After that, we¡¯re good. You¡¯ll be working for Uncle Lin, and trust me ¡ª it¡¯s a better deal than what most people would offer.¡±

    ¡°See? You harassed a kind old Uncle and you got a job for it? What are you hesitating for?¡± Sepp asked, somewhat daring him to reject the offer.

    Dan stared at the contract, his broken fingers trembling as he scrawled his name on the dotted line. He knew he didn¡¯t have a choice. It was this or risk being sold for parts or worse.

    Uncle Lin Fang¡¯s voice came through the mobile again. ¡°Good. Now, Roy, make sure he knows the place.¡±

    Roy patted Dan¡¯s cheek lightly and placed a number he could call on the low table. ¡°Welcome to the team. Do what you¡¯re told, and you might even like it here. ¡±

    Dan didn¡¯t respond, his head hanging low in defeat.

    Roy and Sepp then stepped outside, the rain had picked up, soaking the prefab streets. The scent of wet red grass and dirt was overwhelming to the nose.

    Sepp lit a cigarette, exhaling a stream of smoke into the damp air. ¡°Another one for Uncle Lin¡¯s collection.¡±

    Roy nodded, pulling his jacket tighter against the chill. ¡°At least this one won¡¯t cause trouble again.¡±

    ¡°Not if he knows what¡¯s good for him,¡± Sepp said with a smirk.

    After the job was done, Roy and Sepp waited out the Martian rain in the prefab shelter. The rain had its own rhythm here, heavy and relentless, leaving everything coated in the red-tinted mud that defined Mars. When the storm finally let up, Sepp started the car and drove them back to Alba.

    The journey back was quiet, punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the occasional splash of puddles left by the rain. They passed craters now filled with water, their surfaces glinting under the light of the Martian sky. The land around them was a patchwork of greens and reds, contrary to the expectations of an endless desert. It was a strange juxtaposition that never felt natural. Even the grass, if it could be called that, was distinctly Martian, its reddish tint making the blades look alien. The kind you¡¯d only see on this planet.

    Was it a mutation? After Mars had been transformed after the terraforming great flood and with the ground saturated and softened, mankind sowed seeds and released genetically modified plants designed to thrive in the Martian soil. Animals were introduced into the ecosystem, and nature began its slow, methodical work. The result was a world that mimicked Earth, yet was undeniably alien and full of water. So it wouldn''t be surprising if there was a mutation.

    Roy then looked forward. ¡°Then again¡­ there¡¯s a chance they¡¯d just extend the city if the population grows. And none of their effort to make Mars green would matter in the end.¡±

    The car approached Alba.

    The city rose before them like a steel and glass mirage. The labyrinthine streets twisted and turned, their paths flanked by towering buildings plastered with obnoxious holographic and neon advertisements. At a crossroad, they paused, the glow of the ads illuminating the car¡¯s interior. Animated figures hawked everything from artificial companions to nutrient-rich supplements, their voices overlapping into a frenzied symphony.

    The car eventually rolled into Alba¡¯s Chinatown, which was alive with its usual activity. Crowds surged through the streets, their voices blending with the sizzle of food being cooked in open stalls and the rhythmic thump of cleavers on chopping blocks. The rain had settled, but the damp air clung to everything, leaving a faint metallic tang.

    Roy grabbed his coat and pulled the hood over his head before stepping out of the car. The marketplace stretched before him, a sensory overload of colors, smells, and sounds. Sepp had already started browsing the stalls, picking up a skewer of some spiced lamb kebabs and chewing on it as they moved through the crowd.

    They found themselves at Lin Fang¡¯s Kitchen, the familiar scent of cumin and garlic wafting out to greet them. There was always something about the place that felt familiar and cozy to Roy.

    Inside, Uncle Lin Fang was deep in conversation with representatives from the Feng Huang Organization. His sharp eyes caught their arrival, and he gave them a brief nod before turning back to his guests. Roy didn¡¯t want to get involved with those people so he ignored them.

    In the corner, Roy spotted Mei, Lin Fang¡¯s daughter, sitting with her girlfriend, Lisha. Mei was leaning close to Lisha, her tone playful, while Lisha maintained a faintly amused expression. She was dressed in formal office attire, though hers were more modern unlike his plain opened suit and tie.

    ¡°Hey, lovebirds,¡± Roy called as they approached. ¡°Flirting already? You two are making me blush.¡±

    ¡°Get a room, seriously,¡± Sepp grinned. ¡°Haha, don¡¯t glare. Mei, Lisha. How¡¯s it going?¡±

    Lisha glanced at Sepp with polite indifference but gave Roy a small nod. ¡°Things are fine. How about you?¡±

    Mei smirked. ¡°You finished with Dad¡¯s stupid job?¡±

    ¡°Done, took a while to find, but we did,¡± Roy replied. ¡°So payment, please?¡±

    ¡°Dad should be usually doing this, but they got his attention right now and he¡¯s prickly when business with them is disturbed,¡± Mei pulled out her device and tapped a few buttons. ¡°Thanks for getting us an honest worker,¡± she said, sending a credit transfer to both Roy and Sepp.

    Roy checked his mobile. ¡°Credit received.¡±

    Sepp, grinning from ear to ear, headed toward the counter where Auntie Lin was busy preparing food. She scolded him for his loud enthusiasm, though the exchange was clearly more playful than serious.

    Lisha turned back to Roy. ¡°Oh, right,¡± she said. ¡°Your documents are ready. You¡¯re now officially a legal citizen of Mars.¡±

    Roy let out a mock cheer. ¡°Yay. Thanks. I owe you one. Lish.¡±

    Lisha waved off the gratitude. ¡°The money was received, and the work¡¯s done. No need to thank me. I have to say, you¡¯ve really done a good job with networking. Someone paid for your licenses so it was suddenly extra work so it took this week instead of last week.¡±

    ¡°Is that so?¡± Roy said, taking a seat next to Mei. ¡°Anyway, how are things in the Central Government?¡±

    ¡°Chaotic and busy as usual. It¡¯s a Space Elevator, too. So it''s always busy. I got the time off since I had a bot take care of my work for now,¡± Lisha leaned back, stretching her arms. ¡°With how things are lately. I can somewhat laze around since the Central Government doesn¡¯t care much right now. That might change if that bill on Earth passes, though.¡±

    Roy tilted his head. ¡°Sounds exhausting.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Lisha said with a grin. ¡°It¡¯s usually easy work. Most of it is automated. We just handle the input, keep things organized, and review files when the system flags something. Occasionally, we have to deal with duplicates or spam, but it¡¯s rare.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯d think they¡¯d have made it fully automatic by now,¡± Roy said, stirring his plastic cup of cola. ¡°We can colonize planets, but sure as hell can¡¯t do things like that.¡±

    Lisha shook her head. ¡°Machines are logical, sure, but they don¡¯t have common sense. Sometimes, the smallest change can send them into chaos. The last time someone rewrote a line of code, half the system went offline. Even something as simple as removing an attachment can cause it to crash.¡±

    Roy chuckled. ¡°I guess that keeps you busy, at least.¡±

    ¡°Exactly,¡± Lisha said. ¡°People complain about machines being cheaper, but in reality? Humans are cheaper and make people feel more comfortable. A little humanity goes a long way. Back then, the CG had planned to make the reception handled by Bots, but the Bots made too many errors and sometimes the connection made them slow to accept the input. It was a mess.¡±

    ¡°Wow,¡± Roy leaned back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully. ¡°Well, anyway, if you¡¯ve got any gigs for me, let me know. I really need money.¡±

    Lisha smirked. ¡°I¡¯ll think about it. Maybe I can hire you to beat up some people or deliver something for me? I¡¯ll call and text.¡±

    Mei, who had been quiet until now, shot Roy a glare. ¡°Stop taking up Lisha¡¯s time. Also when did you get Lisha¡¯s number?¡±

    ¡°You gave it to me?¡± Roy raised his hands in mock surrender. ¡°Jesus, how about you chill?¡±

    Lisha chuckled.

    Sepp returned, devouring another kebab like a man who hadn¡¯t eaten in days and got into the crosshair of Mei who started glaring and picking on him. With their attention on Sepp, Roy placed his attention to the wall-mounted screen, where advertisements and news reports played in an endless loop. A segment on fishing mania in Ganymede caught his eye, the footage showing crowds swarming to catch genetically modified fish in the waters of Jupiter¡¯s largest moon.

    He wondered if he¡¯d ever visit the place.

    Then, he received a message from Devon, telling him about a job.

    And it was Devon requesting him for a favor he owed.

    A favor he couldn¡¯t refuse.

 CHAPTER 5 - THE FIRST CONTRACT

    THE FIRST CONTRACT

    The Callisto Syndicate safehouse was a curious combination of the past and future. Its white metallic walls reflected the cold glow of artificial lighting, casting a sterile look across the room. Yet the sterile, futuristic aesthetic was punctuated by a love for antiquity. Replicas of Roman Artifacts adorned the space, lending it an almost museum-like quality.

    At the center of this peculiar homage to history stood a mannequin garbed as a Roman legionnaire. The details were painstakingly accurate. The Galea helmet with its plume, the Pilum spear poised for battle, the segmented Lorica Segmentata armor, and the scutum shield propped beside sandaled Caligae. It was all there, a tribute to a civilization long past.

    Roy regarded the display with quiet fascination. Humanity might have reached the stars, but its obsession with the Roman Empire endured. He understood why. The Romans had been visionaries, builders, and conquerors. Their ambition mirrored the human drive to explore and dominate the cosmos.

    ¡°There was a dream¡­ a dream called Rome,¡± Roy thought and wept inwardly.

    Across the room, Irya sat on a couch, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp. She seemed to study every corner of the safehouse with a calculated air, her carry bag within arm''s reach. Roy knew what was inside the bag -- her chopping axe.

    Irya had claimed it was for intimidation, but Roy had seen her wield it with practiced ease. Making him wonder if she just enjoys axing someone¡¯s face. She was dangerous, no question about it. But she wasn¡¯t really that fixed on axing people either. She also carried an automatic rifle in the bag, a compact model that was light, portable, and deadly. But for a mercenary, she dressed surprisingly lightly.

    Tonight, as always, she wore her usual outfit. A muted pencil dress that hugged her form, with a low neckline and a cropped jacket thrown over it. Her choice of attire had always intrigued Roy. Sometimes she switched the jacket for a bomber style, which she seemed to favor when off duty.

    He¡¯d once asked her why she dressed this way. She¡¯d scowled at him before offering an answer that was as honest as it was pragmatic.

    ¡°Distractions,¡± she¡¯d said, her voice flat. ¡°Men and women both get distracted. It gives me a moment to draw my weapon.¡±

    It fit her style really ¡ª a predator who avoided direct confrontation when possible, preferring ambushes and calculated strikes. Yet, if circumstances called for it, she wouldn¡¯t hesitate to knock on a door and deliver her ¡®message¡¯ with an axe to the face. She was efficient, blending bioware enhancements with human instinct. Unlike many of her peers, she avoided heavy cyberware that involved chrome.

    Roy had learned of her implants after a long drink night in Haven. After persuading her, she gave up and told him. A Hypertrophy Regulator, Sub-dermal Armor, Reflex Boosters, Optics with enhanced night and thermal vision, and Monocyte Cells for accelerated healing. She had kept it all subtle, prioritizing function over flair. Not that he could tell at all.

    For Roy, the idea of altering his body with implants was unnerving.

    ¡°Do you need something?¡± Irya¡¯s voice cut through his thoughts, cold and precise.

    Roy wondered if he stared too much. He blinked and turned toward her.

    ¡°Does it hurt?¡± he asked, his curiosity unfeigned.

    Irya¡¯s brows knit together. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°The implants. Cyberware. Whatever you call it.¡±

    She paused, considering the question. ¡°Not really,¡± she replied finally. ¡°Anesthesia takes care of most of it. But getting your optics done¡­ it''s unsettling.¡±

    ¡°Unsettling?¡±

    She nodded slightly, her expression unreadable. ¡°The process. You¡¯re awake for it, even if you can¡¯t feel anything. It¡¯s¡­ disturbing.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve noticed most people end up with red eyes,¡± Roy mused aloud.

    ¡°Optics are usually customizable,¡± she said, her tone edging toward boredom. ¡°But combat optics? They usually don¡¯t bother with aesthetics. You deal with the red.¡±

    She studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp and appraising. ¡°I¡¯ve told you about mine. You never tell me about yours.¡±

    Roy shrugged, leaning back against the wall. ¡°I told you already. My skill bars are maxed out. That¡¯s why I can do this and that.¡±

    She rolled her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re insufferable,¡± she muttered tonelessly. Then, after a beat, she added, ¡°It¡¯s my fault for asking.¡±

    ¡°Maybe you should get an implant to fix that,¡± Roy quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips. ¡°Imagine getting outdrank by a dude with no implants. It¡¯s embarrassing, man.¡±

    Irya arched her brow. ¡°And rob me of the joy of getting drunk?¡± she shot back without missing a beat.

    ¡°Good point,¡± Roy admitted. ¡°Must suck for those who can¡¯t get drunk because of their implants.¡±

    ¡°They can turn it off, you know,¡± she said, leaning forward slightly. ¡°But it¡¯s inconvenient.¡±

    ¡°I heard it needs adjustment. Implants like that.¡±

    ¡°Implants are usually robust these days,¡± she said with a shrug. ¡°Can handle any solar system colony. But yeah¡­ adjustments are expensives.¡±

    ¡°How expensive?¡± Roy asked.

    Irya tilted her head, brushing her blonde-white hair, her gaze briefly distant. ¡°More than most people can afford.¡±

    The sound of a door sliding open broke the rhythm of their conversation. Mr. Devon entered the room, his features taut with frustration. He paused, visibly collecting himself before stepping further inside.

    Outside, the skies of Alba City glowed with a surreal, red-tinged rain. The storm swept against the windows of the safehouse, casting fractured patterns of light across the room.

    ¡°About time,¡± Irya muttered under her breath.

    Devon ignored her and focused on Roy. ¡°The job¡¯s changed,¡± he announced curtly. ¡°We¡¯re escalating.¡±

    Roy straightened, his casual demeanor vanishing. ¡°What¡¯s the target?¡±

    Devon hesitated, his jaw tightening. ¡°Not a what. A who.¡±

    Irya¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯re shifting the terms. That wasn¡¯t part of the deal.¡±

    ¡°It is now,¡± Devon snapped, his tone brooking no argument. He tossed a data pad onto the table between them. ¡°Details are there. I expect this to be handled cleanly.¡±

    Roy picked up the pad, his gaze scanning the information. ¡°A politician?¡± he said, his voice laced with skepticism. ¡°This isn¡¯t our usual line of work. It¡¯s not mine either.¡±

    Devon crossed his arms. ¡°This isn¡¯t up for debate.  I¡¯m calling your favor for this, remember? The Syndicate wants this done. And I want you on this, Roy. I want to know if you can handle this shit.¡±

    Irya¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°And if we refuse?¡±

    Devon¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°You won¡¯t. You two owe me favors.¡±

    The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the rhythmic pattern of rain against the windows. Finally, Irya stood, slinging her carry bag over her shoulder and gave Devon a signal.

    ¡°Fine,¡± she said, her voice cold. ¡°But we do it my way.¡±

    ¡°Teach Roy. Maybe he¡¯ll learn something. Time to see if he can handle this kind of work too.¡±

    She brushed past Devon without another word, her boots clicking against the floor as she disappeared into the hallway. Roy watched her go, then turned back to Devon.

    ¡°She¡¯s not wrong,¡± he said quietly. ¡°This isn¡¯t what I signed up for.¡±

    Devon¡¯s gaze was steely. ¡°It is now. You did well, for small tasks. But I want to know if you can do this kind of job as well.¡±

    Roy exhaled, his mind already working through the problem. ¡°Guess I¡¯d better get to work,¡± he muttered, slipping the data pad into his pocket.

    ¡°Good man. Just learn from her and you¡¯ll do fine,¡± Devon said, gesturing to the exit.

    Roy then followed Irya out of the room and to the garage. She sat perched on the hood of her Lancia Stratos, her silhouette illuminated by the soft, red-tinted light spilling in from the mouth of the garage. The rain beyond fell in a relentless curtain, its rhythmic pattern echoing through the exit. She stared at the downpour for a long moment, lost in thought, before turning her attention to Roy.

    Her expression was inscrutable, as always. A mix of calculation and calm that could unnerve even the steeliest of operators. Tonight, though, there was something else in her eyes, something quieter.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°This job¡¯s different from your usual,¡± she began, her voice cutting through the ambient hum of rain. She held up a data pad, the glow of a credit transfer screen reflecting off her pale skin. ¡°Taking out someone like this? It¡¯s not as easy as it looks. It takes effort. Time. And heat¡­ lots of it. A politician is still a politician. No matter how big and small. The cops will get involved if we take the shot.¡±

    Roy leaned against a nearby wall, arms crossed, his stance casual but his focus sharp.

    ¡°They¡¯ve given us funds,¡± Irya continued, waving the data pad lightly before setting it aside. ¡°But let¡¯s be clear ¡ª this isn¡¯t your usual job. I can¡¯t let you watch and learn either. Even if it¡¯s just some small-time politician, there¡¯ll be fallout. You don¡¯t usually hand jobs like this to amateurs.¡±

    Roy hesitated before responding. ¡°I don¡¯t know why Devon gave me this one.¡±

    Irya tilted her head, studying him with a look that was part suspicion, part curiosity. ¡°I¡¯ll ask again -- are you really an amateur?¡±

    ¡°Honestly,¡± Roy said, his voice trailing into uncertainty, ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    She sighed, her lips pressing into a thin line. ¡°That again, huh?¡±

    ¡°I know, I know,¡± Roy said quickly. ¡°But¡ª¡±

    Irya silenced him with a raised hand. Her movements were economical, precise, the way they always were since he had known her. ¡°I get it. It¡¯s complicated. You¡¯ve got things you can¡¯t or don¡¯t want to talk about. That¡¯s fine. It¡¯s the rule, after all ¡ª for people like us. But I¡¯ll ask you this, and only this. Can I trust you on this one?¡±

    Roy met her gaze, his voice steady. ¡°You can.¡±

    ¡°Even though it¡¯s another hit job?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    She nodded slowly. ¡°Will you follow my lead?¡±

    ¡°Of course. Like I said, I¡¯m new to this¡­ this sort of work, anyway. Simulations don¡¯t really prepare you for the real thing.¡±

    ¡°Simulations?¡± Her brow furrowed.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Roy said, scratching the back of his neck as he searched for the right words. ¡°How do I explain this without sounding crazy?¡±

    He paused, deep in thought, before finally speaking again. ¡°I spent years¡­ controlling units. Running operations. Doing things that felt real. But then, suddenly, I¡¯m here.¡±

    Irya¡¯s expression remained unreadable, though a faint flicker of confusion crossed her features. ¡°That makes no sense.¡±

    ¡°Tell me about it.¡± Roy¡¯s tone was half exasperation, half resignation. ¡°That¡¯s why I don¡¯t talk about it. It¡¯s hard enough to wrap my own head around it, let alone explain it to someone else. But¡­ let¡¯s just say this isn¡¯t my usual standard. Back then, I didn¡¯t have to deal with people with implants or hardcore cyberware.¡±

    Irya narrowed her eyes. ¡°Were you really from Earth?¡±

    ¡°I think so,¡± Roy replied, his tone tinged with uncertainty.

    ¡°You¡¯re like a Cryoist,¡± she mused, ¡°but at least they retain something.¡±

    Roy grinned. ¡°I still have my skill bars maxed, so I¡¯m doing fine. Probably would¡¯ve ended up begging in the streets if I didn¡¯t.¡±

    Irya sighed, her expression as stoic as ever. ¡°It¡¯s good that you have confidence. At least when you put it in your own way.¡±

    Roy¡¯s grin then turned serious. ¡°You¡¯re the one who said you wanted me because I¡¯m unaffiliated. You needed someone quiet, efficient, and technically, I¡¯m a Callisto associate.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not a member,¡± Irya corrected, her tone flat. ¡°They don¡¯t make it that easy.¡±

    ¡°Well duh,¡± Roy said with a shrug, ¡°I¡¯m nobody.¡±

    Irya nodded faintly. ¡°Exactly. The Syndicate doesn¡¯t take people casually. Most of the time, they prefer Earthlings. Honestly, that¡¯s probably why they¡¯re being so hospitable to you. But taking you in? That¡¯s another matter. Not to mention, you don¡¯t exactly seem thrilled at the idea of joining. But¡­ if you¡¯re useful. They''ll keep you around.¡±

    Roy raised a brow. ¡°Aren¡¯t you from Earth, too?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± she replied simply. ¡°Which is why I¡¯m saying this as someone who has seen their work in the Homeworld. Don¡¯t let them fool you. You¡¯re only as useful as they think you are. And me? I might be one of the bad guys, too. You should remember that.¡±

    ¡°I mean when we first met you kinda beheaded someone, which is kinda enough to tell me what you think about morality,¡± Roy chuckled, the sound dry but amused. ¡°Ah, well, even if you really are a bad guy. It¡¯s the story of my life ¡ª always being chummy with bad women who could kick my ass.¡±

    Irya¡¯s lips quirked into something that might have been a smile, or perhaps just a fleeting shadow of one.

    ¡°I see,¡± she said, her tone deadpan.

    For a moment, silence hung between them, punctuated only by the soft patter of rain and the occasional metallic creak of the garage. Outside, the storm showed no signs of abating. The red hue of the rain painted streaks of crimson light across the floor.

    Roy pushed off the pillar and moved closer to her, his boots echoing against the concrete. ¡°So, what¡¯s the plan?¡±

    Irya slid off the hood of the Stratos, her movements fluid and deliberate. ¡°Simple,¡± she said, retrieving her data pad and handing it to him. ¡°We do this job quietly and cleanly. No mess. No loose ends. And you stick to the plan.¡±

    Roy took the pad, his eyes scanning the information displayed on its screen. The target¡¯s face stared back at him ¡ª a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a generic politician¡¯s smile. Alexander Dumas was his name.

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem like much,¡± Roy remarked. ¡°You¡¯re sure this guy¡¯s worth all the trouble?¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter what he¡¯s worth,¡± Irya replied, pulling her cropped jacket tighter around her shoulders. ¡°It¡¯s what the Syndicate wants. And what they want, they get.¡±

    Roy frowned but said nothing. He knew better than to argue. Irya turned toward the mouth of the garage, her gaze fixed on the storm outside.

    ¡°Get some rest,¡± she said over her shoulder. ¡°We¡¯ll scout the place. Dress nice.¡±

    Roy watched her for a moment, then nodded. ¡°Got it.¡±

    Irya swung into the driver¡¯s seat of her Lancia Stratos with practiced ease, the low rumble of the engine sparking to life as she turned the key. She didn¡¯t look back as the tires screeched faintly against the garage floor, the taillights bathing Roy in a red glow before fading into the rainy night.

    Roy lingered at the edge of the garage, the faint smell of exhaust still hanging in the air. He scratched the back of his neck, his gaze drifting outside. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, squinting at the direction where Irya had disappeared.

    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s time I stopped walking everywhere,¡± he muttered, the words bouncing faintly off the concrete walls. ¡°Maybe I can get another disposable car again? I wonder if they¡¯d get me one this time too?¡±

    * * *

    The rain hadn¡¯t let up. Thick sheets of water battered the windshield of Irya¡¯s Lancia Stratos as she idled at a pedestrian crosswalk, her wipers working overtime to keep her vision clear. Inside, the cabin was warm, a contrast to the cold storm outside. Irya leaned back against the plush leather of her seat, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel in time with the song blasting through the speakers. Her lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile as she sang along under her breath.

    ¡°But she doesn''t know who I am... And she doesn''t give a damn about me¡­¡±

    The song was an old one, a relic from Earth¡¯s past, but it still resonated. For a brief moment, the weight of her reality ¡ª assassinations, contract jobs, and deals with people she didn¡¯t trust melted away in the nostalgia of the lyrics.

    Her PDA buzzed, the small device lighting up with an incoming call. She frowned, muting the music and glancing at the screen. Devon. She tapped the device, connecting the call.

    ¡°Glad you noticed my tell,¡± she said, her tone neutral, professional.

    ¡°So you accept the job?¡± Devon¡¯s voice crackled over the line, calm but with an edge that hinted at impatience.

    ¡°It¡¯s good pay,¡± Irya replied. ¡°I¡¯m worried about this one, though. It¡¯s small-time, but a politician is a different case.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a professional for you,¡± Devon said, a faint chuckle underscoring his words. ¡°Let¡¯s just say your target¡­ he¡¯s a good guy.¡±

    ¡°The nosy kind?¡± Irya asked, her brow furrowing.

    ¡°Yeah. We warned him ¡ª told him to back off. But he didn¡¯t listen. And we¡¯re not killers. We¡¯re not the Cartel, either. We don¡¯t send people their family¡¯s heads as warnings. As businessmen, we were being polite¡­ but our patience has its limits too.¡±

    Irya arched a brow, staring out at the rain-slicked streets ahead. ¡°So why involve him at all?¡±

    Devon hesitated, and Irya could hear muffled voices in the background. Finally, he spoke again. ¡°Why not? He¡¯s not bad. No background at all. It¡¯s like he just¡­ appeared out of nowhere.¡±

    ¡°You think he¡¯s a cryoist?¡± Irya suggested. ¡°Or tank-bred?¡±

    ¡°Neither,¡± Devon said, his tone thoughtful. ¡°I went deep ¡ª scrolled through old databases on Earth, backlogged colonies. There¡¯s nothing on him. It¡¯s like he doesn¡¯t exist.¡±

    Irya frowned, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. ¡°Weird.¡±

    ¡°I know, right? And here¡¯s the kicker ¡ª he¡¯s good. I¡¯ve thrown all sorts of gigs his way, and he does them without complaint. Talks like an amateur, acts like a pro. And he¡¯s not lying, either.¡±

    ¡°Or we¡¯ve been fooled,¡± Irya countered. ¡°But¡­ he doesn¡¯t feel like a spy.¡±

    ¡°Exactly. No signs of covert training, no tells. If he¡¯s brainwashed, there¡¯s no trace of it. You know where I found him? Naked. In a trash disposal area.¡±

    Irya raised a brow. ¡°Really. Still, I understand why you want to test him, he¡¯s useful.¡±

    Devon chuckled softly. ¡°You don¡¯t have a crush, do you?¡±

    Irya¡¯s tone turned icy. ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Hah! I thought not. You¡¯re not that stupid. Still, he¡¯s a useful idiot, don¡¯t you think?¡±

    ¡°If he performs well, he¡¯s more than just a useful idiot,¡± she said, her voice cold but practical.

    ¡°That¡¯s why I want him on this job,¡± Devon said. ¡°It¡¯s not every day an Earthling stumbles into this shithole of a planet, right?¡±

    ¡°Sentimental much?¡± Irya asked, her lips thinning into frown. ¡°But seriously, why do this much?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the confidence,¡± Devon said simply. ¡°Does his work without being noisy. He flies a spacejet like it¡¯s a game to him. I like that. It¡¯s the kind of confidence I like.¡±

    ¡°Speaking of spacejets, I remember that John¡¯s dead,¡± Irya said, her voice flat. ¡°Overdosed. So you¡¯re looking for a pilot for the Hammerhead? That a reason too?¡±

    ¡°Maybe. Seth says he¡¯s good.¡± Devon paused, and Irya could almost hear the shrug in his voice. ¡°And no, I¡¯m not doing this out of kindness or because I want him as pilot that badly. I just think he¡¯ll be useful, that¡¯s all. It¡¯s just gambling. Don¡¯t make it sound deep.¡±

    ¡°I see,¡± Irya said. She adjusted her seating, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she understood something. ¡°I¡¯ll accept the job then. But I want half a mil. Hard cash. No credits.¡±

    ¡°Deal,¡± Devon said without hesitation.

    ¡°No haggling?¡± Irya asked, mildly surprised.

    ¡°You¡¯re technically doing two tasks for me,¡± Devon replied. ¡°Seems fair.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s it, then,¡± Irya said. ¡°We¡¯ll contact you when it¡¯s done.¡±

    ¡°As always, it¡¯s a pleasure dealing with you, Irya Malkova,¡± Devon said, his tone almost teasing. ¡°It¡¯s a shame someone with your skills prefers to stay independent. I again, will you join us?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    Devon burst into laughter, the sound rich and amused. ¡°Hah! I figured as much. Oh well. Happy hunting, Axe Woman.¡±

    Irya ended the call with a tap, her PDA¡¯s screen going dark. She leaned back in her seat, exhaling slowly before turning the music back on. The beat flooded the cabin once more, and a rare flicker of contentment crossed her face.

    She sang along, her voice soft but carrying a hint of joy. ¡°But she doesn''t know who I am¡­ And she doesn''t give a damn about me. ''Cause I¡¯m just a teenage dirtbag, baby¡­¡±

    The rain continued to pour, heavy and unrelenting.

 CHAPTER 6 - THE DUMAS JOB 1

    THE DUMAS JOB 1

    Roy adjusted his freshly dry-cleaned red tie, smoothing the lapels of his black suit, while carrying his coat on his elbow, as he climbed the stairs to the rooftop caf¨¦. The muted hum of the city below filtered through the stairwell, accompanied by the occasional splash of rain pooling on the edges of the steps. Emerging onto the rooftop, he paused to take in the view. A sea of skyscrapers cutting into the red-tinted blue skyline. The air smelled faintly of ozone and coffee, mingling with the distant din of traffic.

    He found a seat near the railing, choosing a vantage point with a clear view of the apartment building across the street. Leaning back, he let his gaze settle on the target¡¯s residence.

    ¡°An apartment,¡± he muttered under his breath. ¡°A government man living in a regular apartment on a rich street? You¡¯d think someone like him would have a gated house or something more¡­ exclusive.¡±

    The caf¨¦ door opened behind him, and Roy glanced over his shoulder as Irya walked in. Dressed in a sleek black pencil dress paired with a casual jean jacket, she carried herself with effortless poise. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, and a pair of stylish round glasses perched on her nose. She scanned the room with a quick, clinical glance before spotting Roy and making her way over.

    ¡°Always this formal?¡± she asked, nodding toward his suit as she pulled out a chair across from him.

    Roy asked. ¡°Do you¡­ like this kind of dress?¡±

    ¡°Like I said,¡± Irya replied, sitting down, ¡°it¡¯s practical.¡±

    Roy leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. ¡°I was expecting something different for a job like this. You know, the usual safehouse routine. Maps on the walls, gadgets on the table. The kind of planning you see in movies.¡±

    ¡°Sorry to disappoint,¡± she said, folding her arms on the table, raising her firm chest. ¡°This one¡¯s about patience. Watching first, striking later.¡±

    ¡°Why not just hit him at the door?¡± Roy asked, miming an axe gesture on the table with his hand. ¡°Like last time?¡±

    ¡°Last time was different,¡± Irya replied coolly. ¡°Small-time thugs don¡¯t have cops or private security breathing down their necks. This guy? He¡¯s not untouchable, but he¡¯s close. You get that, right?¡±

    Roy nodded reluctantly. ¡°Right. So¡­ what¡¯s with the glasses?¡±

    She smirked faintly. ¡°Recording our ¡®date.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Oh, so this is a date now?¡± Roy said flatly, raising a brow.

    ¡°Not in your wildest dreams,¡± she shot back.

    Roy chuckled. ¡°Okay, fine. But seriously, can¡¯t we just ¡®bam¡¯¡ª¡± he made the gun gesture again, smirking, ¡°¡ªand call it a day?¡±

    Irya gave him a long, unamused look. ¡°We¡¯re professionals, Roy. If we wanted messy, we¡¯d hire an idiot and let him botch it. But then the blues,¡± she gestured vaguely toward the street below where Roy saw men in uniform, ¡°would come sniffing. Trust me on this one ¡ª we do it clean, or not at all.¡±

    ¡°Got it,¡± Roy said. ¡°So, we¡¯re putting in the extra effort for our friend. Really rolling out the red carpet.¡±

    ¡°Think of it as a retirement gift,¡± Irya said with a faint smile, handing him a pair of glasses identical to hers.

    Roy took them, sliding them on. The lenses flickered to life, revealing a sophisticated Augmented Reality overlay. Data about the surrounding area populated his view. From building layouts, timestamps, and other useful information.

    ¡°Aw, matching glasses?¡± Roy joked. ¡°You¡¯re too sweet.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m generous,¡± Irya replied, her smile not reaching her eyes under those glasses.

    The AR display highlighted the apartment building across the street. Twelve stories tall, situated on Lesna Avenue, northwest of their current location.

    ¡°Our friend really is a busy bird,¡± Irya remarked, her tone tinged with mockery. ¡°Works too much, no time for anything else.¡±

    Roy nodded as the glasses displayed a timestamped recording of Alexander Dumas leaving the Isle Front Apartment Building at precisely 6:00 AM.

    ¡°Early riser, huh?¡± Roy said.

    The feed shifted to another clip, showing Dumas returning to the building at 8:00 PM. A third recording showed him arriving even later ¡ª 10:00 PM.

    ¡°Workaholic,¡± Irya murmured, shaking her head. ¡°What a life.¡±

    ¡°So, how do we surprise our friend?¡± Roy asked. ¡°He doesn¡¯t seem like he wants his gift to be late.¡±

    Irya gestured toward a highlighted time frame on the glasses¡¯ display. ¡°We do it between these hours ¡ª 8:00 to 10:00 PM. That¡¯s when he¡¯s most predictable.¡±

    Roy frowned thoughtfully. ¡°What about catching him somewhere else? On his way out, maybe?¡±

    ¡°Too risky. Could cause a scene,¡± Irya replied. ¡°His coworkers might not appreciate us delivering his ¡®gift¡¯ during work hours. People tend to get touchy about that.¡±

    Roy chuckled. ¡°Fair enough.¡±

    A waiter approached their table, his polished demeanor fitting the upscale atmosphere of the caf¨¦. ¡°Can I get you anything?¡±

    Roy flashed a polite smile. ¡°Cr¨¨me Br?l¨¦e and two coffees, please.¡±

    ¡°Right away, sir,¡± the waiter replied, retreating toward the kitchen.

    As they waited, Irya leaned back, her gaze lingering on the building across the street. ¡°Keeping up?¡± she asked, her voice carrying a faint edge of challenge.

    ¡°Somewhat,¡± Roy admitted.

    ¡°Well, don¡¯t fall behind,¡± she said, her tone as cold as the smile she gave him. ¡°We¡¯ve got more places to visit before the day¡¯s done, darling.¡±

    Roy suppressed a retort, watching as she adjusted the glasses on her face. Beneath the professional fa?ade, there was something unrelenting about Irya as always, A razor¡¯s edge hidden under poise and precision.

    Outside, the rain falls in heavy sheets, painting the streets with shimmering reflections of  the glass surface. The city hummed with life, oblivious to the conspiracy brewing on the rooftop caf¨¦.

    Roy took a sip of the coffee as it arrived, leaning forward slightly to peer at the apartment building.

    ¡°This retirement gift,¡± he said, lowering his voice. ¡°Think he¡¯ll appreciate it?¡±

    ¡°He doesn¡¯t have to appreciate it,¡± Irya replied, her gaze fixed on the shared AR overlay. ¡°He just has to accept it.¡±

    Roy laughed quietly, shaking his head. ¡°You¡¯ve got a way with words, you know that?¡±

    Irya didn¡¯t reply, her focus unbroken as she studied the data before them. Roy sighed, leaning back in his chair.

    It was going to be a long day.

    <hr>

    The rain had stopped by the time they reached the next location. The streets gleamed under the faint sunlight filtering through the remnants of the storm clouds, a sheen of water reflecting the neon signs and sleek architecture of Alba City. Roy sat behind the wheel of Irya¡¯s Lancia Stratos, gripping the steering wheel with exaggerated care.

    He wasn¡¯t nervous about driving. He loved old cars like this, a throwback to a time when vehicles had character and substance, unlike the electric, self-driving ¡°crap¡± littering the streets of Alba City. No, his caution stemmed entirely from the silent threat sitting beside him.

    Irya. She sat with her usual composed demeanor, one leg crossed over the other, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Roy could imagine the kind of punishment she¡¯d dole out if he left so much as a scratch on her car. Probably something involving her axe.

    When they arrived, he parked across from the target building. A towering structure that loomed over the street like a fortress. It was 10 AM, and the city was alive with the bustle of people moving about. They exited the car, and Irya looped her arm through his. To anyone watching, they looked like a couple on a casual outing.

    They settled at an outdoor table in a nearby shop, their seats offering an unobstructed view of the building where their "good friend Dumas" was working.

    ¡°Lots of boys in blue,¡± Roy muttered, nodding toward the police presence.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t appreciate the surprise retirement gift,¡± Irya replied, her tone dry. ¡°We¡¯d be full of holes before we even got close.¡±

    Roy adjusted his AR glasses as they highlighted defensive measures around the building. Turrets were mounted discreetly on its exterior, with deployable ones concealed in the street. The overlay flashed red warnings.

    ¡°This place is no joke,¡± he said.

    ¡°It¡¯s the most well-defended building in Alba City,¡± Irya explained. ¡°It¡¯s suicide to try anything here. That¡¯s why I¡¯m sure that our good friend won¡¯t appreciate receiving his retirement gift there.¡±

    ¡°Guess that¡¯s a no,¡± Roy said, leaning back as Irya signaled a waiter.

    While she ordered, Roy¡¯s attention drifted. His gaze followed the waiter as he walked away, his thoughts wandering before he finally spoke. ¡°Guess this isn¡¯t going to wrap up in a week. Not that I mind, really. I get to eat free.¡±

    Irya glanced over her glasses at him, then shook her head.

    ¡°What?¡± Roy said, feigning injury. ¡°The way you looked at me ¡ª it hurts somehow. Like I¡¯m a bum or something.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen your apartment,¡± Irya replied flatly. "You are one."

    Roy grinned. ¡°Hey, I cleaned up. I don¡¯t leave a mess too.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a converted cleaning storage room,¡± she said coldly.

    ¡°Well, you¡¯re not wrong,¡± he admitted, tapping his finger idly on the tablecloth. After a pause, he wondered, ¡°I wonder how Earth¡¯s doing.¡±

    Irya leaned back, considering his words. ¡°If the stories are true, it¡¯s better.¡±

    Roy raised a skeptical brow. ¡°Really? We can barely manage things out here. What makes you think the homeworld¡¯s any better?¡±

    ¡°Space changed the game,¡± Irya said, her tone even. ¡°Making it accessible and cheap opened up markets no one could have imagined. Terraforming, space travel, new industries ¡ª it¡¯s motivated humanity in ways that might actually solve some problems. Lots of people, means a lot of people to send to outer space."

    ¡°Sure,¡± Roy said sarcastically, ¡°I bet poverty¡¯s been eradicated and everyone¡¯s holding hands, singing songs and dancing in circle.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not perfect,¡± Irya admitted. ¡°But it¡¯s improving.¡±

    Roy sighed, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. ¡°I¡¯d like to go home someday. You?¡±

    Irya didn¡¯t answer immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter.

    ¡°Maybe. Someday. We all have to go back to our roots eventually.¡±

    ¡°Wonder if my place is still a shithole,¡± Roy said, his tone lighter.

    ¡°Who knows?¡± Irya replied, her expression unreadable. "It might be under a sea now."

    Roy¡¯s attention shifted to Irya''s Lancia Stratos parked nearby.

    ¡°Is that a replica?¡± he asked, his curiosity piqued.

    Irya shot him a cold, sarcastic look. ¡°Do you really think I could afford an actual vintage car and import it to Mars?¡±

    ¡°Good point,¡± Roy admitted, grinning. ¡°Still, I¡¯d love to get my hands on a muscle car someday. Maybe a Mustang.¡±

    Irya snorted. ¡°Muscle cars are overrated.¡±

    Roy looked genuinely offended. ¡°Overrated? Don¡¯t disrespect the classics. The Lancia Stratos is amazing, but a Mustang? That¡¯s¡ª¡±

    He stopped mid-rant as the waiter arrived with their food. The aroma of fresh bread and steaming coffee cut through the conversation, momentarily easing the tension.

    Roy took a sip of his coffee, letting the warmth seep in before speaking again. ¡°So, what is our good friend doing here, exactly?¡±

    Irya adjusted her glasses, the AR interface springing to life. The function to see what she sees was fantastic to Roy.

    ¡°This building,¡± she began, nodding toward their target¡¯s workplace, ¡°is the hub for some major legislative reviews. They¡¯re discussing the Mars Sustainability Act, negotiating treaties with Earth, and mediating a water resource dispute between two colonies. Busy work, but important.¡±

    Roy frowned. ¡°And we¡¯re really planning to give this guy an early retirement?¡±

    Irya regarded him silently for a moment. ¡°It¡¯s his life,¡± she said finally. ¡°You want to back out?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Roy said firmly.

    ¡°Good,¡± Irya replied, her tone brisk. She shared the updated schedule data via their AR glasses.

    The overlay highlighted key moments in the target¡¯s routine, marking windows of opportunity. Roy studied the data silently, his thoughts swirling.

    ¡°Guess we¡¯ve still got some work to do,¡± he said at last.

    Irya¡¯s lips curved into a faint, fleeting smile. ¡°We always do. Next up is the hydroponics farm.¡±

    As they sat together, the city carried on around them. Bustling, vibrant, and utterly unaware of what they were scheming.

    By the time their plates were cleared, Roy had already slid into the driver¡¯s seat of the Lancia Stratos and was criticizing it, causing Irya to frown.

    <hr>

    The Lancia Stratos hummed steadily as it sped along the red-tinted Martian terrain just outside the city, connected to a concrete road. The faint light of the Martian Sky cast long shadows across the ground, highlighting the red-tinted, grassy beauty of the terraformed planet. Roy sat behind the wheel, his grip firm but relaxed, the car handling with a precision that matched its design despite being a vintage replica with cheaper parts.

    Ahead, the hydroponics farm rose into view, a massive dome shimmering like a mirage under the sun.

    It looked almost alien, even against the backdrop of  the city itself.

    Irya leaned forward in her seat, her gaze fixed on the structure as they approached.

    ¡°The dome¡¯s been here since the first settlers arrived,¡± she began, her voice carrying that matter-of-fact tone she used when teaching him something. ¡°Before the atmosphere was stable, this farm was the lifeline for the colony. It¡¯s probably the first structure of its kind on Mars.¡±

    She gestured as they neared the entrance. ¡°Beneath it, there are old settlements ¡ª bunkers, really. Safety shelters for disasters.¡±

    Roy parked in the lot, staring up at the dome. Its translucent panels gleamed, refracting the sunlight and casting the interior in a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. The airlock door hissed as they stepped inside, revealing a space alive with activity. Rows upon rows of plants stretched into the distance, their green vibrancy a stark contrast to the sterile machinery around them. The air was rich with the scent of earth and moisture, almost intoxicating after the air they were smelling from the surface.

    ¡°Wow,¡± Roy muttered, his gaze sweeping the massive farm. ¡°It¡¯s like stepping into another world.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a masterpiece,¡± Irya agreed. ¡°Mars might be terraformed now, but farms like this are still essential. They¡¯re backups ¡ª pragmatic contingencies in case something goes wrong and the atmosphere gets popped.¡±

    Roy looked around. ¡°I¡¯m surprised they let tourists in.¡±

    Irya adjusted her glasses, scanning the area. ¡°It¡¯s more than a farm. It¡¯s a historical site. And one of the most advanced hydroponics systems in the solar system. They can make money from it. To boast and earn.¡±

    ¡°So,¡± Roy asked, a hint of mischief in his voice, ¡°we¡¯re definitely not giving our good friend his gift here?¡±

    Irya pointed to the security systems embedded discreetly around the dome. ¡°Unless you want to end up full of holes, no. We¡¯d be swiss cheese.¡±

    Roy smirked. ¡°Swiss cheese, huh? Didn¡¯t know that saying would persist. Doesn¡¯t make much sense no¡ª¡±

    Before he could finish, Irya locked her arm around his bicep, squeezing hard enough to make him grunt in pain.

    ¡°Your biceps are surprisingly steely,¡± she said with a sickly sweet tone, her smile not reaching her eyes.

    "Well, I do maxed stats," Roy laughed nervously. ¡°You¡¯re not angry, are you?¡±

    Roy then saw someone looking at them and understood.

    Irya released him, her expression neutral. ¡°Let¡¯s go. We¡¯ve got a job to do.¡±

    They made their way deeper into the farm, blending into the crowd of workers and visitors. Eventually, they spotted Alexander Dumas near the central control hub, engaged in animated conversation with the staff. He was surrounded by his entourage, several of whom bore the telltale signs of heavy augmentation -- enhanced limbs, cybernetic eyes, and the rigid posture of military-grade subdermal armor.

    Roy adjusted his glasses, scanning the scene. ¡°So much for small-time politician,¡± he muttered.

    ¡°He¡¯s small-time,¡± Irya replied coldly. ¡°But he probably knows he pissed off Devon and got these guys to watch his back.¡±

    ¡°Then he¡¯s expecting us,¡± Roy said.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± Irya said, her tone measured. ¡°But we¡¯ll wait. Gather enough data. Find the right timing and give him a retirement gift he deserved.¡±

    Roy fell silent, watching through his glasses as Dumas moved with purpose, his every gesture precise and authoritative. There was a focus on him, almost fanatical in its intensity.

    ¡°What do you think of him?¡± Roy asked after a while.

    ¡°Personally or professionally?¡± Irya asked, leaning her head on his shoulder for the benefit of onlookers.

    ¡°Personally.¡±

    Irya hummed softly, pretending to gesture toward the rows of greenery. ¡°He¡¯s not a bad politician. Actually cares about his work. But he¡¯s terrible at managing relationships. Honestly, Devon''s family; isn¡¯t as bad as most of the others.¡±

    Roy snorted, thinking about how he first met Irya and their first work together¡­ selling decapitated bodies to some doctor harvesting implants and organs.

    ¡°I¡¯d agree if I hadn¡¯t seen what I saw when we first met.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s nothing compared to what the others do,¡± Irya said. ¡°What, you thinking about backing out?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Roy said firmly. ¡°As much as I¡¯d like to preach about morality and say this isn¡¯t right¡­ I don¡¯t have much of a choice--¡±

    Irya¡¯s gaze sharpened and cut him off. ¡°You always have a choice. But you¡¯ve chosen this. Don¡¯t pretend otherwise.¡±

    Roy sighed, placing a hand on her hip, maintaining the facade of a couple, and whispering. ¡°Maybe. But I owe Devon. They would¡¯ve gutted me when they found me if it weren¡¯t for him. I have to repay that debt.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s your choice?¡± Irya asked, her voice cold. ¡°Or are you just telling yourself it is?¡±

    Roy smirked faintly. ¡°You sound pretentious when you say it like that.¡±

    ¡°And you sound na?ve,¡± Irya replied with a cold smile.

    ¡°Point taken,¡± Roy said, steeling himself. ¡°No backing out, then.¡±

    Irya nodded. ¡°No backing out.¡±

    They watched Dumas a while longer, silently observing his movements and interactions. The man seemed utterly engrossed in his work, oblivious to the pair of eyes tracking his every move.

    ¡°We¡¯re done for today,¡± Irya said.

    ¡°Good. Man, you do realize you could crush my arm with your arm, right?¡± Roy replied.

    ¡°I could,¡± Irya admitted.

    ¡°Try it, and I swear I¡¯ll make an attempt to grope your behind before it gets crushed,¡± Roy teased.

    ¡°I dare you to try,¡± Irya challenged.

    Roy hesitated, considering it seriously, then made his move. Before he could follow through, he was met with a sharp slap on the back instead.

    ¡°Stop fooling around, let¡¯s go.¡±

    Roy barked a laugh, before following her out of the farm.

 CHAPTER 7 - THE DUMAS JOB 2

    THE DUMAS JOB 2

    Surveillance was everything. It wasn¡¯t a glamorous part of the job. Long hours of watching and waiting, scribbling notes, and observing patterns, but it was essential. If Alexander Dumas had been a nobody, they could have walked in, handled it cleanly, and been gone before anyone realized what had happened.

    But a politician? That was an entirely different game.

    Politicians, whether small-time or influential, had protection. In this case, it wasn¡¯t just the usual security detail ¡ª it was the CGOM, the Central Government of Mars. The CGOM was the governing body responsible for the smooth operation of every Martian colony connected by the vast Maglev train system connected to the Equator¡¯s Space Elevator. Food, water, power, communications ¡ª they controlled it all. Taking out one of their own wasn¡¯t just a logistical challenge, it was a declaration of war and you''d bet your ass they''d try to find the fucker who did it.

    Roy remembered Irya mentioning, in her usual detached tone, that it was often easier to kill a CEO than a politician.

    ¡°CEOs don¡¯t answer to the state,¡± she¡¯d said, ¡°but politicians do. And the state has resources that even the wealthiest corporations can¡¯t match.¡±

    She wasn¡¯t wrong. The level of preparation required to kill someone like Dumas depended on their wealth, influence, and paranoia. In Dumas¡¯s case, he wasn¡¯t just cautious ¡ª he was actively wary. Not afraid, not yet. But he¡¯d taken the threats seriously enough to contact the CGOM directly. Roy could only imagine how that conversation had gone, but the increased security around Dumas spoke volumes.

    The man wasn¡¯t stupid. He knew the Callisto Syndicate was after him, and he knew there was a bounty on his head. It wasn¡¯t a question of if someone would come for him, it was a question of when.

    So far, their surveillance had revealed no gaps in his armor. Dumas was always guarded, his every move accompanied by heavily augmented men who looked more machine than human. His own augmentations were another story. Irya had sent Roy a detailed list of Dumas¡¯s implants: A Neural co-processor, Reflex booster, Interface plugs, Internal filters that can filter out poison, Cyberoptics in both eyes, Cyberarms in both arms. He also had a Microwave/EMP shielding, and a Muscle and Bone-laced sub-dermal armor. The man could take a bullet and walked it off.

    Roy leaned back in his chair, staring at the dossier Irya had shared. Dumas wasn¡¯t just another bureaucrat. He¡¯d been a soldier. Earth-born, two tours in the Middle East, and a veteran of the Africa-China War. After leaving the military, he¡¯d transitioned into politics, eventually catching the attention of the CGOM. His role was akin to a National Security Advisor, overseeing Alba City¡¯s safety and stability.

    ¡°This guy¡¯s small-time?¡± Roy had muttered under his breath.

    The more he learned, the more questionable the contract seemed. Irya had mentioned a conversation with Devon about it ¡ª a conversation Roy hadn¡¯t been privy to. But from the fact that the contract hadn¡¯t been pulled, he could guess how it had gone.

    The deal was still on.

    If Roy had the cash or the credit to walk away, he might have. Dumas wasn¡¯t the kind of target you approached lightly, and the deeper they dug into his background, the more the risk seemed to outweigh the reward. But Roy didn¡¯t have the luxury of second thoughts. He simply didn¡¯t have the credit and cash to skip out on this job either.

    Gaius Devon, as far as Roy knew him, wasn¡¯t an impulsive man. He wasn¡¯t some street thug running a disorganized gang. He was the head of the Callisto Syndicate¡¯s operations on Mars, handpicked by the Man on Earth himself. A multi-planetary syndicate didn¡¯t run on chaos ¡ª it thrived on meticulous organization and pragmatic ruthlessness.

    Dumas was too well-protected to make this contract worth the effort. There was no deadline, no pressing urgency. It felt less like an assignment and more like a test. One Devon had orchestrated to see if Dumas could be taken out. Roy suspected Irya was being paid more for her involvement, though he lacked the nerve to ask since she seemed to be in a bad mood after her last talk with Devon.

    It was a mess.

    It became a complicated, tangled affair that left Roy questioning every move they made.

    Which was why, after another day of watching and waiting, Roy found himself sitting at a desk in a cramped office, filling out a job application. The apartment building where Dumas lived had strict access controls, and the easiest way in was to become part of the staff.

    ¡°You really think this is going to work?¡± Irya¡¯s voice crackled in his ear through the commlink.

    Roy glanced at the camera mounted above the desk, then back at the application form. ¡°Got a better idea?¡±

    ¡°Plenty,¡± she replied, her tone cold. ¡°None of them involve pretending to be a janitor.¡±

    Roy sighed, finishing the last of the required fields. ¡°Look, you¡¯re the one who said we needed more access. This gets us that.¡±

    There was a pause, followed by a soft laugh. ¡°Just don¡¯t trip over your mop, amateur.¡±

    Roy scowled but said nothing.

    When he returned to the surveillance spot later that evening, Irya was already there, sitting cross-legged on a worn-out couch, her AR glasses glowing faintly as she looked across the street where Dumas¡¯s apartment was.

    ¡°How¡¯d it go?¡± she asked without looking up.

    ¡°Application¡¯s in,¡± Roy replied, dropping into the chair beside her. ¡°Should hear back in a day or two.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± Irya said. ¡°You use that fake ID?¡±

    Roy nodded, his eyes drifting to the AR display showing Dumas¡¯s latest movements. The man was back in his apartment, surrounded by his usual guards. The sight of him ¡ª calm, composed, seemingly untouchable made Roy¡¯s stomach churn.

    ¡°You think Devon¡¯s setting us up?¡± he asked after a while.

    Irya finally looked at him, her gaze unreadable. ¡°Course¡¯ he is. It doesn¡¯t take a genius to understand what he¡¯s doing. Using us. Honestly, I¡¯m a bit bothered, but nothing can be done about it. He¡¯s the head of a Syndicate and we¡¯re just the Freelancers getting paid for it.¡±

    "I see."

    The room became quiet for a moment, except for the faint hum from above. Roy leaned against the chair, fiddling with his tie as he watched the sparse flow of pedestrians on the street below. No rain today. Irya sat beside him, her arms crossed, her gaze distant but focused.

    ¡°So,¡± Roy began, his voice low but curious, ¡°you think Devon¡¯s just poking the bear?¡±

    Irya tilted her head slightly, her hair swaying with the movement. ¡°At first, I thought he was just trying to take out an annoying politician,¡± she said, her tone even. ¡°But it wouldn¡¯t surprise me if he¡¯s holding back information. Either he doesn¡¯t know everything about Dumas, or he¡¯s deliberately keeping us in the dark.¡±

    Roy smirked faintly. ¡°Guessing Dumas¡¯s bodyguards set off some alarm bells?¡±

    ¡°Exactly,¡± Irya replied, her voice cold, as though stating a fact she¡¯d long accepted. ¡°Most of them are Earthlings. PMC types. And not just any. These guys come from companies that have been around since the start of the 20th century. Their track records aren¡¯t spotless, but they know what they¡¯re doing.¡±

    Roy whistled softly. ¡°And we¡¯re still calling him ¡®small-time¡¯?¡±

    Irya¡¯s lips curled into a humorless smile. ¡°The fact that we¡¯ve been snooping around without anyone noticing? Yeah, small-time. If he were a big-timer, we¡¯d have been ID¡¯d already. A drone would be trailing us as we speak.¡±

    Roy glanced around reflexively. ¡°You think we¡¯ve got drones on us now?¡±

    Irya pulled a small, handheld device from her pocket and held it up.

    ¡°Got a jammer here,¡± she said. ¡°This beauty knocks out the signal controlling them. It hasn¡¯t picked anything up, though.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s... comforting,¡± Roy said, though his voice betrayed lingering unease.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°This is bigger than you thought, isn¡¯t it?¡± Irya asked, her tone almost accusatory.

    Roy hesitated, then nodded. ¡°Killing someone ¡ª it¡¯s not exactly small potatoes.¡±

    Irya¡¯s gaze hardened.

    ¡°Killing anyone is never ¡®small,¡¯¡± she said, a trace of irritation in her voice. ¡°Unless you¡¯re a psycho, it¡¯s a big deal. And Dumas? He¡¯s no pushover. You underestimate people too much, Roy. A man who¡¯s fought in wars, survived battlefields, and clawed his way into politics isn¡¯t someone you take down easily.¡±

    Roy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. ¡°So, if we had hired some gangsters to do it? Would that have worked?¡±

    ¡°Not a chance,¡± Irya said flatly. ¡°Dumas would¡¯ve shot them himself. Military types like him don¡¯t crumble under pressure ¡ª they thrive in it. Knowing his background complicates everything.¡±

    Roy frowned, his jaw tightening. ¡°And Devon didn¡¯t give us the full picture. That seems careless.¡±

    Irya shrugged, her expression unreadable. ¡°Careless? Or calculated? You can¡¯t easily trust people like Devon. This job? It¡¯s probably not even his top priority.¡±

    Roy looked at her, his brows furrowed. ¡°So what do you think?¡±

    ¡°About this contract?¡± Irya said, her tone clipped. ¡°I think it¡¯s a mess. Dumas¡¯s background makes it not worth the price Devon¡¯s offering. But here we are.¡±

    Roy raised a brow. ¡°And you¡¯re still doing it.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a favor,¡± Irya said simply. ¡°And we might not even get the chance to pull the trigger.¡±

    Roy scoffed. ¡°Then why are we putting in so much effort? I¡¯m not exactly rolling in cash over here.¡±

    Irya¡¯s lips quirked into a cold smile. ¡°Is that why you applied as a janitor? Trying to earn credits while planning an assassination?¡±

    Roy shrugged. ¡°Kinda. Unlike you, I¡¯m broke. I was cleaning spaceships, delivering letters, and taking any gig I could get before this. Now I¡¯m here, scheming to ¡®retire¡¯ a politician. It¡¯s one hell of a leap.¡±

    Irya studied him for a moment, her gaze piercing. ¡°Want me to lend you some money?¡±

    Roy shook his head quickly. ¡°No, thanks. I¡¯ve got enough to eat, and Devon¡¯s apartment doesn¡¯t cost me rent.¡±

    She didn¡¯t respond immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, almost reflective. ¡°Your situation is strange, Roy. I¡¯ve seen a lot of freelancers come and go in this city. None of them started like you.¡±

    Roy sighed, looking away. ¡°Guess I¡¯m just lucky.¡±

    * * *

    The call came early in the morning, breaking through the stillness of his apartment. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, he stared at the ceiling, wondering if he¡¯d dreamed the vibration of his PDA. Then it buzzed again, more insistent this time.

    He groaned, reached for the device, and squinted at the screen. The caller ID displayed the name of the apartment manager.

    ¡°Roy speaking,¡± he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.

    ¡°You applied for the janitor position, right?¡± came the manager¡¯s voice, calm and efficient. The man sounded as though he¡¯d already been awake for hours.  Roy couldn¡¯t pinpoint his accent. Then again, he always wondered if he could say that it¡¯s Western or Eastern Accent here on Mars.

    ¡°If you¡¯re still interested, I need you here at eight.¡±

    Roy checked the time ¡ª 7:15 AM. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll be there.¡±

    The manager reminded him of the address and hung up.

    By the time Roy arrived, the morning sun was just beginning to crest over the towering skyline of Alba City, casting long shadows across the street. The apartment building was ahead, its concrete fa?ade warming with under the soft light.

    Inside, the manager was waiting. A short man in his forties with sharp eyes and a demeanor that exuded quiet authority. He introduced himself as Mr. Nakamura, speaking with the clipped precision of someone who¡¯d explained the same routine a thousand times before. He almost looked bored doing it. But he was a professional, the kind that had committed the routine to muscle memory.

    ¡°Your job is simple,¡± Nakamura said as they walked through the building¡¯s pristine hallways. ¡°Floors, walls, common areas. Everything spotless. We have standards here, and I expect you to meet them.¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Roy replied, nodding along as Nakamura handed him a set of overalls and gloves.

    ¡°You¡¯ll start on the first floor. Don¡¯t disturb the tenants, and don¡¯t dawdle. Understood?¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Roy repeated.

    Donning the overalls, Roy made his way to the first floor, bucket and mop in tow. He blended into the routine easily, keeping his head down and moving with the quiet efficiency of someone accustomed to thankless work. There was a strange peace in the monotony of scrubbing floors, wiping down walls, and ensuring every surface gleamed.

    Here, at least, there was no risk of being shot, no pools of blood to mop up, no precarious spaceships threatening to fling him into the air. He was so focused on his work that he didn¡¯t notice the two men approaching until they were nearly upon him.

    ¡°Hey,¡± one of them barked, his voice sharp. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    Roy froze, his fingers tightening on the mop handle. The two men were built like tanks, their movements precise and deliberate. Roy was focused, but he really didn¡¯t hear them approach at all. Both wore combat vests over civilian clothes, their demeanor screaming private military contractors.

    ¡°N-new janitor,¡± Roy stammered, seeing them take the safety off their weapons, adopting the nervous tone of a man unaccustomed to dealing with authority. He had to play the part of a helpless janitor, the kind that you¡¯d think of nothing more than a decoration.

    ¡°Who are you guys?¡±

    The first mercenary didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, he gestured to his companion, who pulled out a handheld scanner. ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± he ordered Roy firmly. ¡°We¡¯re running tight security here. Just cooperate, and this¡¯ll go smoothly. Any attempts to move will be considered as refusing this. Before you spout your rights, we have the right to apprehend anyone. Sorry, mate, we had to do this.¡±

    ¡°O-okay, I understand,¡± Roy said, raising his hands and fumbling for his ID card, which he handed over with exaggerated nervousness. It was the fake card Irya had made for him.

    The mercenary scrutinized the ID, flipping it over twice before handing it back. He turned to his partner. ¡°Results?¡±

    ¡°All natural,¡± the second mercenary said, studying the scanner¡¯s readout. ¡°No implants.¡±

    The first mercenary frowned, his eyes narrowing as he looked Roy up and down. ¡°You a purist?¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Roy asked, his voice edging toward confusion.

    ¡°Don¡¯t like implants?¡± the mercenary pressed. ¡°One of those types who thinks they¡¯re unnatural?¡±

    ¡°No, nothing that complicated,¡± Roy said quickly. ¡°I just¡­ I don¡¯t have the money for that kind of thing.¡±

    The mercenary raised an eyebrow. ¡°Most workplaces cover basic implants. What, you afraid of a little chrome?¡±

    Roy forced a sheepish smile. ¡°It¡¯s not that. I just don¡¯t like the idea of putting something inside my body, you know? Maintenance and all that¡ªit¡¯s expensive. I¡¯m barely making ends meet on this planet. A gun is enough for me. Oh, I have a gun here, Sir. Want to check it?¡±

    His partner inspected the pistol, ejected the magazine, and immediately noticed the absence of a serial number. It was an illegal weapon, but judging by the mercenary''s calm reaction, it seemed far from unusual.

    The mercenary then grunted, crossing his arms.

    ¡°Guess that makes sense in a way,¡± the mercenary said. ¡°Not much use for implants in your line of work, anyway. No offense, mate.¡±

    ¡°None taken,¡± Roy said, shrugging. ¡°It¡¯s honest work at least. But¡­ well, you gotta have some protection, right?¡±

    ¡°You from Earth? You sound like one, at least the accent,¡± the mercenary asked suddenly, his tone shifting to something more conversational.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Roy said. ¡°New to Mars.¡±

    ¡°No shit,¡± the mercenary said, his expression relaxing slightly. ¡°No wonder you don¡¯t have implants. Most Martians are all about that stuff. Us Earthers? Not so much. We got ours because we served, but I¡¯d rather have bioware than chrome, you know?¡±

    Roy nodded, trying to appear casual. ¡°I haven¡¯t been to Earth in a while, though. They froze my ass, you know? Cryo and all that nonsense.¡± He laughed nervously. ¡°Too bad they stole everything I had while I was out. So here I am, working as a janitor, 140 millions away from earth.¡±

    The mercenary¡¯s demeanor hardened again. ¡°Cryoist, huh?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Roy said with a shrug. ¡°Apparently I was too broken to fix, so they stuck me on ice. Not my idea, believe me. Woke up with nothing and had to start over.¡±

    ¡°Happens,¡± the mercenary said coldly. ¡°Not as common these days, though.¡±

    ¡°Is that right?¡± Roy asked, keeping his tone light. ¡°And here I thought I was somewhat special. Figures.¡±

    The mercenary nodded. ¡°Lot of you guys froze yourselves to see the future. Plenty of scumbags in the mix, though.¡±

    Roy tugged at the collar of his overalls, feigning discomfort. ¡°So, uh, should I be here? Sounds like you guys are working on something. Don¡¯t want to get in the way.¡±

    ¡°Just a routine job,¡± the mercenary said, waving him off. ¡°Sorry for stopping you. Hey, is he clear?¡±

    The second mercenary looked up from his scanner. ¡°Clear. You need a vaccine, though.¡±

    ¡°A vaccine?¡± Roy asked, furrowing his brow. ¡°What for?¡±

    The mercenary shrugged. ¡°Earth standard scanner, so it shows. But it shouldn¡¯t matter here on Mars. Sorry to hold you up, citizen.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s no problem,¡± Roy said, forcing a smile. ¡°I just hope nothing happens.¡±

    The two mercenaries moved on, their boots echoing against the polished floor. Roy watched them for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest then calming to a still. Then he turned back to his work, gripping the mop handle tightly as he resumed cleaning.

    His mind raced as he scrubbed the tiles, replaying the encounter over and over. He¡¯d managed to get through it without raising suspicion, but the close call had left him rattled. He could still feel their eyes on him, scanning him for the slightest slip. They¡¯d been ready to draw their weapons at a moment¡¯s notice. Professional and cautious.

    If they caught wind of his real purpose, this would all be over.

    For now, though, he had a job to do.

    Scrub the floors, clean the walls, and play the part of a janitor.