For your entertainment (hopefully).
Comments and flames welcome and appreciated.
N.
“Never underestimate the value of a good pair of pyjamas.”
I turned away as the Orientan spoke, hoping to conceal my bemused smile. I got the distinct impression that this was a standard sales patter, which he was instinctively able to reel off, even at this early hour.
I checked my Chronometer. It read 08.13am. The Orientan had started to list the merits of the bizarre nightwear he seemed keen to sell me. Worse still, I was beginning to feel as if he actually believed what he was saying. Certainly the earnest expression on his lined and wrinkled face was hard to ignore.
My ears told me the old man had given up on making a sale and was taking a more direct approach.
“So how may I be of service to you, distinguished Operative of SLA Industries?”
Taken aback by his sudden change of tack, I returned my full attention to the Orientan.
“Operative Sinister, SCL 6d, Department of Investigation,” I told him, deliberately keeping a slightly threatening edge on my voice as I spoke.
“Are you the proprietor?”
The store I was in nestled on the corner of Forestall Road and Morgan Street in Downtown sector 413A. It was ostensibly a discount-clothing store selling knockdown priced versions of Orientan fashionwear. Although the store looked innocent enough, contacts I trusted assured me this was where I would get a lead on the Prop, Mocasta. Rumour had it that this was his home away from home in the Downtown of Mort.
“Indeed,” replied my host. “I am both owner and proprietor. Mian Xiaotchaun at your service.”
His tone was questioning and I could tell he was curious to know what one of Mr Slayer’s finest was doing in his establishment. I had deliberately dressed to impress and to remind Downtown’s inhabitants that despite all else, the real power still lay with SLA. A specially cut and tailored long-coat concealed yet also accentuated the custom Silverback I wore underneath. I had the comforting weight of a pistol in each shoulder holster and with my long, dark hair bound back away from my face, I suspected Xiaotchaun found it unnerving that he could see himself reflected perfectly in my silvered eyes.
I reached for the pocket in which I kept a supply of Uni’s. Though I wore clothing over my Silverback, the modifications made sure I had ready access to my arms and armour.
Peeling off 30 Credits' worth of Uni's in notes, I put the cash on the grubby plastic counter and leant an elbow on it.
“I hear this is a helpful and friendly store where a man can find exactly what he is looking for,” I said.
Though old, this wily fellow was far from slow on the uptake.
“What can I help you with Operative Sinister?” he breathed, eyes firmly fixed on the wad of cash I was tempting him with.
“I hear you don’t have much use for your offices upstairs,” I said.
“Perhaps I could rent them from you? Unless, of course, I am mistaken – is the office in use?”
I watched intently as his face became a blank mask. Evidently Mocasta was a valued customer.
“My sales office is situated on the top floor Operative Sinister. I’m afraid I couldn’t do without it. Perhaps one of my neighbours has a suitable…”
I stopped him mid-sentence by peeling off another 2000 Uni’s. I’d already decided my maximum offer would be 50 Cred’s worth of cash. Beyond that, Xiaotchaun would have to settle for a bullet and a troublesome case of lead poisoning.
I decided to cut the bullshit.
“I’m looking for a Prop who works under the name Mocasta. I understand you might be familiar with his whereabouts. In fact, I hear he often uses your office as a safe house. Is that true?”
“I wouldn’t normally compromise the privacy of my customers Operative Sinister, but your generosity overwhelms me and my family will eat well for a few weeks at least.”
I allowed him to take the money.
“Mocasta has been living in the upper office for the past few weeks, but I assure you, I know nothing about his work nor what it is that he does within my walls.
“That oversight could cost you more than the 500 Uni’s you just earned,” I told him. “Where are the stairs?”To his credit, the Orientan knew when to gamble and when to fold. He closed the shop, then led me behind the counter and into a stockroom piled high with cardboard boxes. A section of wooden crates turned out to be the false front for a small door that hid the stairway to the upper floor.
Ascending, I drew one of my GuardianTM pistols from within my long-coat. My BPN told me that Mocasta was not to be underestimated. Apparently, he had accepted off-world weapons technology as payment for his part in the assassination of Sapphire, Nova and Harlequin.
The assassination attempt had been an abject failure. That much was clear, as all three were alive and well despite DarkNight’s best efforts. The would-be assassins had scattered to the four winds but as far as I was concerned, Mocasta hadn’t scattered far enough. I took the last few steps two at a time, to minimise the potentially dangerous squeaking of the stairs under my weight. At the top, a quick motion scan revealed nothing moving in the offices beyond. Removing my SCL card from my breastplate, I swiped it through the reader on the lock-plate. It took the mechanism’s hard-wired electronic brain no more than a few seconds to confirm that my security clearance was more than two levels above that of the tenant. The door clicked open.
Dropping into a kneeling firing stance, I pushed the door open quickly but gently. A short passageway decorated with Gorezone promo posters and spotted with patchy brown stains opened out into what was now a small living area. The accumulated detritus of life, including worn clothing, half-read magazines and empty take- away food cartons, was scattered across the floor and the back of a tatty orange sofa faced the hall.
I rose, pushing off with my trailing foot and pivoting on the ball of my lead foot to swing around into position against the corridor wall beside the open doorway. I couldn’t go directly into the main room, because doors opened off of the passageway to both the right and the left. I would have to clear the rooms beyond first.
Training took over as I moved quickly but silently to the left-hand doorway. The door to the room beyond was already slightly ajar and I pushed it open further with my free hand.
The small bathroom looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned for a while. The water marks around both sink and bath were tinged slightly red with blood, betraying the fact that wet-work was a part of the occupants life. The floor was littered with empty toilet roll tubes and pornographic magazines. A life-size inflatable of the villain from 901’s summer blockbuster grinned maniacally at me from the foot of the bath but the room was otherwise empty. Across the corridor, the other door opened into a sparsely furnished bedroom. A grimy window overlooked one of Downtown’s many elevated walkways and the sounds of a fistfight filtered up from below. An assortment of clothes hung from a simple rail and Mocasta’s burgundy piecemeal armour was arranged on a tailor’s dummy.
A large double bed and a simple wooden nightstand dominated the room. A small alarm clock and a stack of leaflets topped the nightstand, but it was the figure on the bed that drew my attention. Covered in only a thin sheet and illuminated by the neon green of the clock’s read-out, the shape was unmistakably that of a woman. My eyes traced the outline under the sheet, which clung to every swell and curve of her body. Either this was Mocasta’s mistress or a whore he’d been spending his hard-earned Uni’s on.
A shrill blare broke the morning silence.
I tensed and my eyes flicked to the alarm clock. The digits read 08.30. It was inevitable she would wake. If she saw me and cried out, Mocasta might appear from wherever in the apartment he was lurking.
I turned side on, so I could see both the bedroom and the main living area. With my free hand I drew my second GuardianTM pistol. With a gun barrel covering each door, I glanced back into the bedroom where the alarm clock still blared. The woman had not moved and my instincts told me something was very wrong.
For what seemed like an eternity I waited, but there was no movement from either the bedroom or the lounge. The alarm clock finished its clarion call and silence returned to the apartment. It was a silence I now found unnatural.
Reholstering the second pistol, I abandoned stealth, strode into the bedroom and kneeling on the bed, rolled the woman onto her back. A star shaped bullet wound and a large dark stain beneath where her head had lain confirmed my fears. Somebody had beaten me to it, and unless this was Mocasta’s bizarre way of getting off, the chances were whoever had gotten to the girl had gotten to my target.
A slight noise behind me stirred me from my reverie. Cursing myself for a fool, I whirled quickly back toward the bedroom door, bringing my pistol up to bear. The barrel connected with the torso of a man who was standing no more than two feet behind me.
Unfortunately, the barrel of his rifle was millimetres from my nose. He had the upper hand and he knew it.
“Drop it,” he said. “Then tell me who the fuck you are.”