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A Traitor and a Job
Wed Oct 5, 2011 6:51pm

Cass ran, her artificial lungs burning inside her. Her bare feet slapped sharply across the cold marble floors. Behind her the hot whine of plasma filled the air with electricity and the tang of burnt oxygen. She heard Rav scream in pain then the steady chugging of his gattling buster.

Wan you bastard.

***Twenty Minutes Earlier***

“Cass in position.”

“Rav in position.”

“Wan in position. Go.”

Cass smoothed a hand down the front of her silk dress and strode confidently across the marble floors, her heels clicking sharply. She knew she cut an amazing figure. Her body purpose-built to be physically perfect in every way. High breasts, a lean torso flaring into full hips with stunning legs that ghosted in and out of sight thanks to the strategic slits in her dress. She had done her blonde hair to hang down in a gently frothing wave of platinum sheen. Her blue eyes crackled thanks to heavy mascara.

Baron Rischler won't know what hit him.

Ignoring the hungry eyes of the lesser nobles that parted before her Cass made her way to the dais. In front of it stood the Baron, his blood red tunic easily spotted and festooned with medals. Standing beside him.... Wan? That wasn't the plan. He should be watching their exit. Cass watched as the Asiatic reploid's eyes found her and a snake-like smile spread across his thin lips like poison.


The Baron looked towards her as well, mechanical eye burning like a hot coal in his socket. “You must be the assassin.” He announced in a booming voice. “A pity. You are very beautiful.”

In that moment it felt like time slowed to a crawl. Cass watched as the Baron's massive arm swept upwards, the lightning gesture seemed to take minutes instead of seconds. She saw Rav slapping his armor recall. Watched the party guests fly backwards as her teammate was engulfed in light and a shockwave of energy slammed outwards. Heard the sharp blast of thrusters flaring.

She looked up.

From the shadowed upper balconies massive purple figures lowered themselves, their feet blasting double furnaces of brilliantly blue flame. Before the mechanical juggernauts' feet touched down they started firing. Time sped up. Party-goers burst into clouds of gore all around Cass, dyeing her white dress red.

***Twenty Five Minutes Later***

Wan brushed a fleck of human gore from his shoulder and fastidiously stepped over a puddle of blood on his way to Baron Rischler's dais. Twenty steps above him the ruler of Troska City ruminated over the bloody chaos of his court. No doubt pleased by what he saw. The traitor examined one of the Baron's impressive Imperial Marines as he passed. A monstrous cyborg standing nine feet tall and composed of purple tritanium plates. It was said the only thing human about the Imperial Marines were their brains. Encased in solid spheres of Varnum, a derivative of the miracle metal Omnium. Forced to serve their Baron eternally. The traitor mercenary allowed himself a smile at the thought. The Baron's humanocentric lean amused him.

At the base of the podium he knelt. “M'lord.”

“I trust you found your former comrade turncoat?”

“I did.” Wan lifted his left hand to display the makeshift bag dripping heavy too-dark red fluid onto the soiled marble floor. A deft movement let the cloth fall away and Cass's lifeless eyes stared up at the Baron.

“Excellent.” The Baron rumbled. “Now to make your employers pay.”

“You will send the Imperial Marines M'lord?”

“No. For this I require more... cunning. I will use Quell's own plan against him.”


“Mercenaries turncoat. I will hire mercenaries.”

***The Stomping Grounds, Free Zone (formerly Nevada)***

Axel Cossack spat a vehement curse and slammed his hand down on Giles' desk. “Not a chance!”

Giles steepled his long, pale, fingers and stared up into Axel's eyes over them. His rheumy gray eyes displaying all the emotion of a serpent. A perfect contrast to the rolling storm of emotions burning just behind the Russian reploid's startlingly blue orbs. “We need the money.”

“Then we'll do some work for the Hunters. They always need mercs. I will not work for that Siberian murderer!”

Before Giles could reply a dark voice rasped from the door. “You won't have to.”

Axel turned to glare at Damien. The demonologist turned Mercenary CO stood his ground, eyes inscrutable behind mirrored sunglasses. “You're off the mission.”

“What!? Who else is gonna run it!? We're not exactly bursting with Executive Officers.... sir.”

“I'm sure I can find someone.” Damien nodded to Giles and left him to deal with the torrent of Slavic curses and furniture-rattling kicks and slaps Axel executed as he fumed.

***Stomping Grounds Garage.***

Demios forced back the urge to step in as he watched his 'daughter', Aurora, work. “Not like that.” He coached. “You never put the power relays directly into the blast core like that. Makes the whole unit unstable.”

“But the power output is doubled.” Aurora countered.

“Trust me. You won't care a lick about that when the damn thing explodes and your arm goes with it. There's nothing pleasant about losing a limb.” Demios's tone went dry. “Trust me.”


“Damien.... I mean.... Boss. What're you doing down here?”

“Promoting you. Temporarily.”

“Oh. Well. That's really an honor and all. -Ah- Sir. But I mean. It's just really not my bag.”

“You mistake me mercenary. I am not offering you command. I'm forcing you to take the position. This is a direct order.”

“What about Axel? Maq? ...Kail!?”

Damien shook his head. “Axel and Maq are too soft for the work and Kail has stepped out. Not that he was every very good at leading a team. No... You're the one. I've reviewed your performance records. You have the perfect sense of amorality for this.” The CO of the Freelance Reploids handed Demios a paper file. “Info's all there. Gather your team. Conference room three is all yours for briefing. I've had the requisite files loaded to the room's computer.”

Aurora waited until the creepy CO was well out of earshot before shivering. “Geez. Guy is a definite Creeper McCreeperson.” And more quietly. “I could feel his eyes. There's something bad inside him.”

“Yeah. It's called douchebaggery.” Demios replied with a sigh. “Damn it. I hate Russia.”

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