Epic Death

By Mike Doom

The Hunt is on. Epic Death, Baby Doll Judah Stardust, and Peppermint White Ninja are pitted against each other to find who stole the prize for the biggest sports event of the season, the Race of the Ancients. The prize has been stolen under mysterious, and sadly not also sexy, circumstances. Official rules apply, and little else is followed closely.

Cirrhosis Induction, professional racer and retired gang-member; Sunshine Apocalypse, super model; Last Chance, technically a model but definitely a drug addict; and the most famous person in the known universe, Truckee Dumpstar are all looking for the culprit as well. Mostly because they are all implicated in the theft at some point, but let’s say it is altruism.

Running across multiple worlds, meals in zero-gee restaurants, robot duplicates, hyper-sexualized children, high-speed train crashes, flavor based interviews, and more are in store for our heroes and heroines. Oh, and there is that race that needs to be taken care of also. So get on that.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Doom
• Release date: Jul 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301642922

Mike Doom

Mike Doom is a first time author. Influences are... let's see. Peter F. Hamilton, Neal Stephenson, and William Gibson. Reads a lot of superhero comics and shonen manga. Listens to indie rock and aggressively terrible rap. Watches YouTube like its TV, KPop Videos like they are going out of style, and Twerking videos like a boss. Occasionally draws, occasionally paints, goes to the gym like a crazy person, and works those fingers to da bone. Mike Doom lives in Denver with his boyfriend of almost six years.

Book preview

Epic Death

Mike Doom

Published by Mike Doom at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Mike Doom

Check me out on Facebook at www.facebook.com/mikedoombooks

Or my Smashbooks Page at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/mikedoom

Smashword Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1-13

Chapter 13-26

Brief History

Foreword

This book is dedicated to Katie. I always said to myself growing up that I would dedicate whatever I published first to you.

I do this for two reasons:

First, because of a ridiculous sense of historical dedication bordering on the obsessive. I spent far too long pining after what was, what could have been, and refusing to let go and become the man I was destined to be. For better and worse, but mostly better, leaving was a pivotal part of my childhood that I would never take back now.

Second, having now reconnected, I dedicate this to you to wish us both the best. That what happened, as hard as it was on me at the time, everything was exactly perfect in the end.

That said, and likely poorly at that, this is my first stab at a novel. I hope everyone likes it and doesn’t rail on me too harshly for the logical inconsistencies that I am SURE still exist here, typos that I missed, and names that are too hard to say. I promise I tried my best, but that I will try even harder the next time. Know that my favorite part was naming the restaurants, and that my favorite character is Truckee because I love his name and I think he is the character I am the most (and least) ‘like’.

<1.0>

GovNet Police Report

Filed: Torrance Clover

Location: Ju-Ju Cha-Cha

Time: 9:15 PM - Selba CST

Description: Scene appears shot up. Displays of candy shattered. VI called when Owner triggered alarms. Statement of the Owner and one Witness claim a hold up by the Accused. Accused shot up store after Owner confessed to lack of physical rico on hand. Accused was prone when I arrived on scene, surrendered to authority without incident.

Accused: White male, body aged 37 years, appears complete organic human. Checked retinal files, nothing pending of interest. Small time hired man, is likely.

Nothing else to report.

Requests: VI scrub of videologs for information on possible theft. Need Auditor sent to assess damages to facilities and loss of product for insurance purposes. Due to loss of security via window alarms, stationing two police at site until glass is replaced, estimate 2 hours repair time.

<1.1>

Sunshine Apocalypse is sitting in a pool of honey. Her black dress covered in various levels of glucose, sucrose, high fructose and other various sweetening items even less related to canes and organic oils. Her blond mass of curls is disheveled, peppered with jimmies and those really, really tiny gummy bears. She assumed she would get cut with the glass, but nothing. She’s fine, if sticky as fuck is considered fine. She is sure someone would presumably pay money to see a model in this condition. She gets up and attempts to dust herself of errant Coconut Hollabacks, whilst writing a note to herself in her LiveJournal:

[Ask to buy the surveillance video.]

<1.2>

Peppermint White Ninja is choking an assassin. Okay, more of some douche with a gun. Douche couldn’t be more than forty in actual, wearing a suit two sizes too big and entirely too expensive for the piece of hardware he was clumsily brandishing. Pepper sighs heartily, settling into properly strangling the man. Today, started normal enough:

Pepper opened his candy store in the Astral Complex of Hojo City, a very good location for a store selling stress release foods. The business clientele tended to show up angry and leave angry with a sugar high. Pepper wasn’t terribly fond of his clientele, but a retiree has little room to talk if he gives up his main profession to work at a candy store. It’s not like he doesn’t have other options, if he was willing, but being low-rez is easier in some industries than others. Regular Thursday, until a supermodel got thrown through his front window. Speaking of, where is that skinny bitch?

<1.3>

The Legendary Transvestite Nightmare®, Truckee Dumpstar closes the case on his most prized possession. The Jewel of the Ancients is no longer his, technically. Its power meant for someone with slightly less debt, and hopefully more creativity. Truckee only asked the gem to make him a universally renowned creature of interest, and it enhanced his own innate talents to make that possible. Ten years hard living on Selba Prime, and Truckee is under twenty-two trillion rico to some interesting characters. So it’s give up the gem that got him here or give up his life.

Truckee puts the box in his wall-safe and codes it with a wave of his palm; he’s late to the marketing department. Char-els wanted his okay on the sensivise campaign for the Race of the Ancients. You see, Truckee is a woman of spectacle and no mere auction would be enough. No, he paid the Tusk League handsomely to hold a contest for the Jewel, and the product and sensicast rights are what will pay off Iced Mocha and stop the ridiculous charred animal skulls from appearing in his front fountain. Truckee is now positive that his dog was playing with a blackened Pelarian wildcat skull this morning. He had almost lost his appetite from it even. Well, whatever appetite he ever has to begin with. Girl’s gotta keep her figure.

Truckee locks his office with a simple wave as well, the optical mechanism reading the biometric wetwiring in Truckee’s wrists. He actually only has to flex his right index to lock the door, but the wave is a bit more flashy.

An icon blinks in his peripheral vision, a little purple circle. Voice-only. Probably Char.

Char-els, what is it I can do for you a mere ten steps from being in the same room as you?

We need to ki-ki about this ad.

Right... let me just pull it up...

Truckee coughs slightly, the video plays directly in his eyes. More of unfolds in a disturbing car wreck sort of way, mostly because it is of a disturbing car wreck.

Okay, so this is supposed to be what, exactly?

It’s a woman getting hit by a car.

Yes, I am fully capable of receiving lumens. Why is it a woman getting hit by a car?

It’s a race ad?

I am also aware that I asked your office to produce this ad for my race. And am presently doing you the service of ignoring how you used a speedster to promote it. For the moment.

It’s hot.

I can see her intestines.

They fall out to spell your name.

Yes, I can see that.

T-beez. Truckee scoffs at this. Char-els so behind the times.

Disregarding jargon, how does this promote the biggest event in Selba Prime’s history… exactly?

The blood spray says the date.

O—kay.

Want to see it in motion again?

I don’t think that’ll be necessary.

You could probably use it for the sensivise trailers.

Wh-What perspective did you film at?

Last Chance, the girl, she’s fully wired.

So… You filmed an ad. For my race. From the perspective of a woman getting hit by an one hundred and sixty thousand rico race car?

It’s hot.

Just throw it in post, I want this… this thing… in the world by tomorrow morning.

<1.4>

Dinner at ten, then?

Of course. Normal place?

You ice?

Frigid.

AIDS?

Full-blown.

Then normal place is fine.

<1.5>

Cirrhosis Induction is trying on his new, fully logo’d, jumpsuit. An attractive man, if you consider men who have probably seen (or in Cirrhosis’ case, definitely seen) their fair share of a scuffle. Geneering and rejuvenation can only clean a face so much. Eventually the solid stare and pugilist nose are still giving everyone the real story. He’s not what you would call a particularly tall man, six-three, two hundred and seventy pounds of usually muscle. You can tell he sees the inside of a gym on a regular basis, but has the body of someone who trains in the more traditional sense as well. Not just a pectoral delivery system. The suit seems to only be showing the small bits of fat someone holds if they don't shy away from pasta like a model to a discount retailer.

How’s it fit? Are you comfortable?

It’s a little tight. You can see my foreskin through this...

There’ll be padding.

I think I brought my own. Cirrhosis jiggles his stomach using his hands. Probably about five years until he’ll need to hit the tank again.

I’ll schedule you a trainer.

Cirrhosis flexes in the mirror. Smiles. Opens his mouth fully, and then closes it to a frown.

Yeah. Like anytime after eight.

<1.6>

Sunshine manages to get most of the candy off of her, but her thousand rico black corseted day-dress isn’t going to be serviceable. And she is pretty sure she has honey all over her body. Like everywhere.

The Ju-Ju Cha-Cha looks like a supermodel got thrown at it, then like that supermodel was shot at by some guy in an ill-fitted gray suit. The open floor plan allowed for some of the displays to stay intact, but cases are shattered everywhere. The florescent lights blinking rhythmically, the owner must have triggered the alarms.

Hello? Is anyone still alive? Sunshine can barely hear her own voice. The gunfire has left her a little dazed. She tells her eButler to set her an appointment with a doctor.

Peppermint White Ninja leans up from behind a display for Coco Sexos, his long dreadlocks twisted in a knot. Just finishing up here. You okay, Miss…

Sunshine.

Pepper.

A pleasure?

Want a shot at guy here?

You seem to be choking him rather satisfactorily.

Thank you. Do you know this person?

No, actually. He’s turning a color, you should probably stop doing that now.

Such is life.

<1.7>

Cirrhosis.

Yes?

How do you like the new uniform?

Cirrhosis is in an elevator in the official headquarters for the Race of the Ancients, T-Net Tower. A five hundred story starscraper dedicated to intergalactic programming. Sensivise programs, live sports and news, advertainment, and everything else someone might be willing to pay a few rico to point their eyes at. With all his padding on now, Cirrhosis looks like a very well advertised superhero, but barely got an eyebrow raise in a building filled with model/actors and actor/models.

It makes my penis hurt.

Well, the tailor can let that out after the press conference. Do you have your lines pulled up?

Yes, I got the LiveText a while ago. Why are we even holding this, everyone already knows I’m running in this circuit.

You need to be very public for the story to come out perfectly.

Story?

Get off the elevator, Cirrhosis.

The doors slide open quickly. A man of some particular age is waiting, leaning against the wall opposite. He is seven feet tall, at least a hundred pounds underweight, and bald. He is wearing a thin suit, tailored very specifically to his awkward dimensions. His eyes are heavily lidded, like he is but barely conscious. Must be half-diving, half in and half out of the intergalactic computer network, the World, as it is known colloquially.

Vii. Cirrhosis grunts as he exits the elevator. Somehow he redirected Cirrhosis’ texts, when he actually thinks about that though… not exactly the biggest feat ever if one hacks the server of the building. Cirrhosis wasn’t even using an external line, which would have been a feat to hack. Not to belittle Vii Ariable of his skill, as Truckee has some of the best internal firewalls available. Gotta protect that IP.

Walk with me a moment. Vii gestures slightly with a long thin arm, his fingers boney and just a little on the side of arthritic looking.

To start with— Vii has a deeper voice than Cirrhosis would assume, throaty. Perhaps he chain smokes to keep his alien-ish figure. Cirrhosis knows Vii from reputation. Their circles cross, but they have never actually met. Vii came into power about when Cirrhosis started hitting the narrow.

I’m already working for Toro. I own him a l—

You own him seven million rico.

Yes. And I intend to pay him by winning this race.

That what he tells you? Vii Ariable smiles thinly, sinister and sickly all at the same moment. Cirrhosis walks along, but makes a point of putting more lateral distance between them.

He tells me what he needs to. I’m not on the take, he is legitimately backing my team.

I obviously already know that. However, I need the prize.

The Jewel of the Ancients.

Yes. And I will gladly pay Toro back for you in exchange.

And the catch is? Cirrhosis pauses, press conference is two doors away, no use being seen with Vii there. That and he smells something foul. The deal. If that gem is worth threatening him and seven-million rico in words, it must be worth much more to Toro. Enough to put a crossbow bolt in the back of someone’s neck, for instance.

That I will kill you if you refuse. Enjoy the press, Mr. Induction. And with that, Vii turns his back on Cirrhosis and walks down the hall back the way they came. Cirrhosis grits his teeth, fiddles with his zipper and pulls up the speech from his LJ.

<1.8>

Truckee, why is it you are giving up this gem of—

The Jewel of the Ancients. Truckee leans in on the mic, the increase in his voice negligible, the room is crowded with reporters, some from the Low Tech prefects using actual cameras, most using wetwire sensivise rigs, recording the event with full-reporter-emotion and displaying that nearly instantly on the World, and then through ansible to the Federal Colonies at large. All in all, twenty-five billion people are logged into this broadcast in its many forms. Truckee has his eButler pull up the feed on the girl questioning him, her heart is racing. A pretty little girl if not a little too ordinary, brown hair, frail, with a smallish nose. Slight imperfection to her left eye, not enough to be interesting and therefore attractive, just enough to be lop-sided and thereby somewhat unattractive. Fucking commoners and their hack-job genetherapy.

Yes—Why are you giving that item as the prize?

Because I want the Race of the Ancients to be the biggest event in the Colonies. This year, or any year. And to promote the Selba Tiger himself—Truckee looks over his left shoulder and an aide or bodyguard or whathaveyou, opens the door and in walks Cirrhosis Induction, Champion. Selba Tiger. Human Billboard. VI relational software generates billions of advertisement messages keyed to the billions of viewers, instructing them to visit their local Captain Suzaku’s Hot Pick’n Go-Go Chicken and pick up one of the several commemorative holostills of the Selba Tiger doing various media friendly sporting poses. The reporters clap to a satisfactory level, general emotional feedback is positive and relatively excited.

Hello, everyone. It was my sincere goal to take the title again, and get this prize for Toro Intergalactic.

Truckee raises an eyebrow slightly, and looks Cirrhosis in the face. A handsome man, if a little testosterone heavy, he has full five o’clock shadow and Truckee is positive he had this man shaved and tailored not four hours ago. His jaw is clenched and his blue eyes focused firmly on the crowd.

Mr. Induction, did you say—

Yes. I am sorry, but do to circumstances beyond my control; I must pull out of the Race of the Ancients, immediately.

<2.0>

Selba Prime Concern - Kids Corner

Word of the Day

LiveJournal (n): LiveJournal is a core product of Asynk Core's Biosynch technology. LiveJournal, or LJ for short, is the memory core for an individual user. LJ can be used to store emails, texts, voice messages, or any other file. Size limits vary with the memory core of the user, but tend to be around 10 terabytes to start.

<2.1>

Last Chance is covered in her own blood, her intestines spilled all over the simulated concrete. Her heart rate is nearly twice normal as she bleeds out in the grooves cut in the road. Her hair is spun like a pinwheel about her head, falling expertly over her face. Not covering her eyes or mouth, just framing the horror in her eyes, as they glaze over with her blood continuing to spill and her heart starting to slow.

Then the director yells cut, and she gets picked up by a stage doctor who helps her adjust the bio-logic software on a small robot servitor, and it quickly steadies her vitals and cranks in her lower intestine. The squat machine hovering over her, small arms and gadgets probing her all over.

All in all, easiest ten-thousand rico Last has earned. A real break. Billions of people will see her intestines spelling out the name of the Transvestite Nightmare® herself. Like a dream, really.

You did good out there, Last. I really think the audience will park-out over your performance. Insta, the director, says while coughing. The most he’s said since she got here. Last can’t really remember how she got this job, it was in her LJ the last time she detoxed enough the read it.

Thank you, sir. I’m just happy to be here, really.

Well, take your time healing up here. I need people wrapping this up, like ago! He says only half looking at her. Stage hands of all sorts start tearing down the backdrop and moving the sense-receptor machines to this and that set. The moment of her death gone, as quickly as it happened. Hoses washing the blood over to a corner drain.

Within five minutes, Last Chance is walking out of Stage 16 and down the hall. Her coat pulled tight against the air-conditioning, the saline in her blood giving her the chills. Last is pulling up the number for her dealer, just to get a little back in her system after all the cleansing, when she sees her.

The halls are dark, the building on its night-routine, encouraging wandering employees to exit like ago. Last is at a corner office, taking a spoke-like hallway coming from the center of the building. A center room is a necessity for a stage as it needs the room and lack of windows of the central pillar of the building. Down that hall, by that corner office, Last sees Sunshine Apocalypse as clear as day.

A fellow model. Sunshine and Last have been rivals. Well, if you consider a successful supermodel and a downed supermodel to be rivals. They went to the same high school, at the very least. Vindictive bitch stole Last’s boyfriend, and took him to a rival school’s prom. Leaving her alone, well not alone, but incapable of making him jealous with the date she did get. He may have been borderline psychotic, but he looked nice, and it would have been fine as long as no one talked to him. He did not like to be talked to.

Last clenches her fists, and walks slowly closer to Sunshine, trying to stay out of her peripheral vision. Sunshine is wearing a black, fuck-me-now-pay-me-later dress with strappy boots that make her look like a five-rico hooker in some cheap blue sensivise. Her hair is busted as well, all curly and knotted to one side. Last grins to herself, victorious.

Then the alarms go off.

<2.2>

Cirrhosis manages to slink out of the press conference without Truckee using his face as a napkin, but he is well aware that Truckee Dumpstar is not a woman… to be messed with.

Cirrhosis chuckles slightly as he exits the elevator. He’s been trying to get a hold of Toro, to explain, but the net has been jammed. Truckee is probably putting the building on lockdown after his little stunt. Regardless, Cirrhosis is headed to the main office to drop off his code-key and be rid of this whole thing. Toro will protect him, he’s sure, because dead he isn’t worth seven-million rico.

Cirrhosis rounds the corridor and there he sees Code Name walking out of Truckee’s office. Code is a thirty something anglo-ethnic who is prone to wearing closely tailored suits in exotic colors and materials, today he is wearing a gunmetal number that makes him look like he’s in armor. Not exactly a popular look, but Cirrhosis remembers them being big about two years ago. He’s carrying a small red box. Cirrhosis swears he saw that box, that box with the elaborate gold trim, somewhere before.

Then the alarms go off.

<2.3>

This had better be good news, Char-els. I’m not in the mood for more ridiculousness.

I got the ad from Susa-no, Sunshine looks beautiful getting humped on the horse.

Just as I said she would. Board has been forcing Truckee to do two ad-campaigns for every one project, citing Truckee’s creative proclivity to extreme creative proclivity. You do one solid gold billboard and you never hear the end of it. He has to run two campaigns past two boards, in hopes that one makes it into post. Allegedly keeping him busy will keep him from getting over encumbered in a more fiscal sense.

How did you get her? Isn’t she filming something on Isis?

Hiatus. Timor Allude is in some sex scandal or something. Truckee had thought more of Char-els. Not knowing basic celebrity gossip is tantamount to flagrant incompetence, particularly in their line of business.

Right. Caught blowing some endangered species.

No. A sentient non-contact species. Broke several Federali sanctions. Low-Tech sentients are required to be left completely alone to their own devices until they are capable of spaceflight beyond their home-system. After which, there are sanctions involving levels and trade that Truckee is completely unaware of. Just knows that some alien technology you can buy at a store, some you buy from a van.

Well, it’s going on the World as we speak.

Beautiful, Char-els.

About Cirrhosis, sir...

Dead to me.

He’s getting us ridiculous press.

Stunts always do. I’ll do a talk show whirlwind in a few hours. Get me a recording studio and a transmission staff deploy. I’ll have my secretary get me on the evening news a couple of places. Soak it up.

Consider it— Char-els cuts out. Truckee tries his eButler, but the World connection is down. Truckee curses to himself. He is presently in an elevator headed to the seventieth floor, the mood-lighting of the night mode is as soothing as it is cost-effective. Truckee isn’t one for soothing, but the Board liked the decreased energy bill, and Truckee really doesn’t care enough to fight over something as trivial as blue-lighting. Too busy keeping the Race on schedule. The door slides open on the fifty-third floor, Truckee’s main office. He tries to remember if he pressed the button on accident, then the door opens and a man is standing there.

The man is tall and thick, not fat or overweight. Just thick. His face is very angular, an anglo-centric gene-line, with a brutish nose that shows wear-and-tear of a man with commonly broken cartilage. Truckee would remember if he was a racer. This man isn’t a racer. Perhaps some sort of action star? Truckee smiles as if to begin talking, and the man stands still. He looks Truckee Dumpstar in the eyes, raises his right hand in the shape of a gun, cocking back his finger as the doors on the elevator start to close and just as the doors touch—

Bam.

Then the alarms go off.

<2.4>

Cirrhosis is following Code Name down the yellow-tinged corridors. The mood lighting going all pissy with the alarms. Code is running with that box under his arm. The prize Toro wanted Cirrhosis to win for him. His seven-million rico meal ticket. Cirrhosis has no plans of letting that box out of his sight. It is apparent quite quickly that Code is running from Cirrhosis, not the alarms. Cirrhosis hadn’t thought to yell anything, so he wasn’t sure the chase was official until Code threw a knife at him.

The knife missed horribly, but alerted Cirrhosis to the fact that, he too, was being chased. A man in an ill-fitted gray suit was running behind him.

What the fuck you want?

Vii. The man grunts, pulling a gun out of his baggy jacket. Cirrhosis has to admit, Vii is a man of his word. He doesn’t, however, feel obligated to get shot to prove that point. He dodges in to a corridor to his left and then takes the first door to his right, locking the doors behind him with his code-key, a dull green plastic octagon dangling about his neck.

Code has to be heading for the elevators; Cirrhosis just has to get there first.

<2.5>

He locked the door behind him, sir.

And you’ll be punished for your malfeasance at a later time. Change of assignment.

What? The man in the ill-fitted absently scratches at his balls with a loaded gun.

Sunshine Apocalypse.

The supermodel?

Yes. She is in the building. A zeroin-whore by the name of Last Chance has her placed at Truckee’s safe at the time of the alarms—

She has the thing? He is confused, almost positive the guys he was chasing had the thing. Not sure which guy, but definitely one of the two of them.

So you aren’t completely inconsequential? Find her.

And when I do?

Take what I want. Do what you will with her; just leave no messes for me to clean, will you?

Yes, sir. Shrugs, turns around and heads for the direction Vii sent.

<2.6>

Last Chance exits the building through the side entrance, as per Dynamite’s instructions. Her dealer perked up quite a bit when she told him what she saw. Last rightfully assumed Sunshine was up to something and is being rewarded. That bitch has finally proved worth something. The package she is to receive is reported to be most generous and on the house, both of which sound beautiful to Last. She is to meet Dynamite outside the Suzy-Q’s Bar & Stew across the street. Which is good because Last is starving. Dying can really take a toll on a lady.

<2.7>

Epic Death and Baby Doll Judah Stardust are sitting at the booth closest to the windows and bar. View and decent bartending, being the key factors to a successful date between the Federation’s two most noteworthy bounty-hunters. Suzy-Q’s is your typical chain restaurant, all flashy lights and waitstaff that point at you when they speak. Epic and Stardust pick this place for two reasons, one being that they don’t water down their whiskey and two being that this is the location of their first Hunt. Together, at least, which isn’t common or generally legal, because like most things that are enjoyable in life, GovNet has lawyers writing scripts and guidelines and memorandums of understanding and bills and contracts with big elaborate seals on them requiring everyone to register and tow the proper line. All just to allow a simple man the right to kill someone for money. Generally, you are only allowed to work in groups with Federali approval, unless you are handling a case above a certain level, and then there are allowances for absolute age. That said, Epic and Stardust were first-lifers back then and Selba was a bit seedier back then as well. So allowances were made, seals were affixed and cc’s were b’d.

The cook was on the take, and was funneling munitions off-system from the Hinterlands. Easy first catch, but you always remember your first. Well, Epic actually doesn’t remember his first. Was some guy in a gang on Chotella 7, ended up bagging seven people that night. Either way, this place never did find a guy who could make a steak like that one guy. Damn shame.

So I just flew back from Toris. Caught a bitch there worth ten-million rico. Apparently, this fat cunt had strangled like two congressmen in one weekend. Flew back being a more rote blanketing of probably stopping at three stations, switching flights, etc.

Stardust is extremely rash, but always intelligent enough to keep it frozen when it comes to escape plans. No Federali protection is given between assignments, and both Epic and Stardust technically have rather high hits on them. The nature of being an active Hunter is being sued by the families of the criminals they catch. Usually they evaporate, as almost everything they do is officially sanctioned through the Rules of the Hunt, but like everything else, it takes time.

Toris is a shit-hole, serves them right.

But get this; bitch was hiding inside a missile.

Epic snorts his drink a second, Stardust giggles at him and looks away while he wipes up.

She—what?

I was looking for her all over that damned asteroid cum-dumpster they call their LaGrange, people said they saw her, but nobody knows where she was. Run around, run around, ask this fuck to talk to that bitch and then that cunt needs ten blood-elf tears to complete the quest or whatever. Typical bullshit. Checked all the manifests, nobody. Checked all the hotels, nothing. Then I’m at a dock at like three-am, drunk off my ass—Stardust sips her cocktail, some bright red concoction of grapes, vodka and tastes-like-gasoline. Stardust likes her drinks like her men, stiff and unapologetic about it.

"This hatch is open on a cargo flyer. I hack the server, more for fun than anything else. It’s like a million years old and my dive software can barely even talk to the thing.

The AI tells me the fucker is full of beets. Bitch puts up a manifest for seventeen thousand KILOS of beets, like that isn’t suspicious at all.

Who the fuck eats beets anyway? Epic laughs, eating his substandard steak through a grin.

Farmers? This fat bitch, bitch must have weighed five-hundo. Must really fucking shovel those beets in the old feed hole. Anyway, so I go in with my gun out and lo and behold, no shit-ton of beets.

Epic gets an LT, a little red dot appears in his peripheral vision. Epic tells his eButler to read it and file it, and sips his beer.

So I go in this hold and the AI is still swearing up and down this thing is full of crates and there isn’t shit in there, but a missile the size of a fighter.

A fucking de-commissioned D-Stroy?!

This psycho spent probably like three hundred thousand on this missile, a classic if you like fusion weapons from two hundred years ago.

A hundred and seventy years ago was the last big war. Bunch of planets in the Sprawl wanted the Hub worlds to eliminate the tax on fuel at the LaGranges. Hubs weren’t in for free rides. A station got hit. A war started. Epic’s father fought in that war, and he’s never heard the end of it. Oh, you just killed forty gang members? Well, I decimated an entire planet and I did it for my country. Etcetera ad nauseum.

"And so. I’m of course really interested now. I mean what if I open this thing and it blows the station? What if it really is some beet-missile here to blast us to kingdom fucking come with dirt-flavor?

So I get a flame-welder to open this thing, had to pay him out the ass to come this late, and what do I find? This chick has built a mother-fucking HOUSE inside this missile. A three-bedroom, one bath, missile.

What did she do when you busted in?

Get this— She yells at me for not using the door.

I got a mail; eB tells me it’s urgent. Epic grunts, the red dot growing a circle around it.

Me too, full-blown... Fucking can’t wait till I finish my cocktail.

They’d be waiting forever. Epic lifts his glass to toast.

True. Stardust clinks glasses with him as they both smile.

Epic closes his eyes, easier to focus on the words.

[Epic- I heard you were on planet. I have a big favor to ask you. Meet me at Isshin in one hour. Come alone, but be sure to be armed. -Truckee]

Fuck. Epic slams the rest of his beer. Stardust opens her eyes and grins slyly. She has an amazing smile. Like she has the purest form of happiness anyone can find, even though she probably had to fucking beat someone to death with her shoe to get it.

Sweetheart, seems we have a caper.

Yeah. Who got you?

You know I can’t say. Stardust licks her lips and bats her lashes. Epic has an urge to fuck her on the table. Settles for ordering shots.

These meets.

Short and infrequent.

Fuck.

Hope to see you soon? Stardust shrugs.

Fine. Normal rules apply. Epic says as they both raise