Sad to say, people simply aren’t afraid of the dark anymore. Biometric scanners. Motion detectors. Garden-variety security measures. Little reason to fear that which goes bump in the night. I myself have no less than five filters built into my visor to render the bck-as-pitch bright-as-day. Thus does it fall to the enterprising soul to reacquaint any such galnts with the concept of dread.

  All in all, it is a matter of execution. Of perception. A single room. A single table. A suffocating dark. A good start. But to truly affect the affeared, one must bloody their heels dancing on the edge between the bright and the bck. With a snap of the fingers, a spotlight shines down, focused to such a degree that only the faintest vestige touches the unconscious pair situated at opposite ends of the table.

  Restrained by a cradle of cuffs and colrs, they certainly won’t be going anywhere, but keeping one seated is only part of the equation. The best directors know to guide one’s gaze. And in this case, the pair of two-bit crooks stuffed into three-bit suits will be each other’s focus. Every fold, every crease barely licked by the light, they are a salivating mess of shadows. One, a gaudy, grimey sort—the myriad rings and chains evoking a muddled air of thuggery and finery. As for the rough and scruff fellow across the table, the fanged and furred demihuman had a real macho vibe going on. Rolled up sleeves, top three—no, top four buttons of his shirt undone... got ourselves a candid canid here.

  Half-obscured from one another—neither so blurred as to be a mystery nor so revealed as to serve as an anchor—we hit our sweet spot. Constrict the body, expand the mind. Because if you give them space to think, they’ll start to fill in the gaps with all sorts of lovely terrors. Of course, that process requires one to be conscious. No, more than conscious. Can’t risk losing the opening act to a soporose stupor.

  Another snap of the fingers. This time, a pair of bck gloves emerge from the void behind each prisoner before each pressing an injector to their necks. Click. Click. And with that, they recede, disappearing into the dark. Such coordination. Such grace. I am truly blessed to have such reliable stage hands at my disposal.

  One.

  Two.

  And there we go. The surly so-and-sos awaken with a simultaneous gasp. Good. Got the chem mixtures just right. Stims coursing through their systems, they’re understandably a bit... rowdy. Immediately begin testing their bindings, rocking and writhing and flexing. But the metal bands hold fast, so we can take this slow. Let them get it out of their system.

  Eventually, they find their voices, shifting from thrashing to mumbling the usual slurry of ‘where’s and ‘what’s. Disorientation. Understandable. But it’s an alert confusion rather than a groggy one. We can work with that.

  I take a measured step forward, slinking from the void and into the men’s periphery. The spotlight reaches, but cannot take hold, revealing little more than fragments and fractions. The shimmer of a silken jacket. The glint of gold lining my sleeves. The vibrance of a visor guaranteed to reflect another’s visage before revealing my own. And yet, even with the unknowns lurking and lingering, there is a certain certainty in their eyes.

  “Amartan...” whispers the less mangy of the pair.

  Got it in one. Time to return the favor.

  “Benzi Kupka. Ferry and Freight Coordinator for the Astrodyne Transit Company.” I speak pinly. Not too fast, not too slow. Not too soft, not too pointed. Deliberate. “Which is all a polite way of saying you smuggle for the Hasakova Crime Syndicate.”

  Now, the Zethari.

  “Phen Delmyer. Also of the Astrodyne Transit Company. Also of the Hasakova Crime Syndicate. Last I checked, you oversee over a dozen ‘company’ starports—and all the illicit endeavors conducted therein. Does that warrant a special title, or are you still listed on the books as a stevedore?”

  No answer, just a sidewards gre. To be expected.

  “Well, despite the rather... disconcerting circumstances you find yourselves in, let me assure you that neither of you are in any immediate danger. And if you truly care, your abductions went off without a hitch. We didn’t have to kill any underlings or trash any belongings. I hope that, in the end, this means that the three of us can have a... sensible discussion.”

  “Sensible?” Phen finally mutters, suitably gruff. “How is any of this sensible?”

  “Trust me, there are far, far, far worse outcomes for earning an Amartan’s attention.”

  The wolf looks me up and down. Seems he cks his fellow’s rather distinct sense of knowing. Again, to be expected. “I thought marties were supposed to be walking arsenals... not knock-off game-show hosts in spangled tuxedos.”

  Ouch. Some bite to this one’s bark. But what is it if not an opportunity? I lean ever so slightly forward before extending an arm, letting the golden sleeve of my oh so jingly jacket glitter and gleam beneath the spotlight. Not to mention letting the pair get a good look at the razor-sharp talons adorning my gloves. “These, my friend, are scales, not spangles. And I’m afraid I’m not in the business of doling out fabulous prizes. However... I might just have a game in mind for you two.”

  Another snap. This time, the holoprojector in the middle of the table begins to power up. The fist-sized puck opens its ‘eye’, releasing a swarm of floating, luminescent particute—a cloud of glowing grit able to take whatever shape I wished. The men had no choice but to stare, watching and waiting and wondering. Whatever would I conjure? A pnet? A person? No. A pilr. One supporting a fulcrum and two hanging bowls.

  A scale, perfectly banced.

  Then, just for that extra bit of fir, a serpentine reptoid takes shape, climbing and coiling before clenching its cws over each cup.

  “Oh... scales... I get it,” said Phen.

  “Keen. Now, my House is typically hired to... settle the score, as it were. When someone believes themselves wronged, rather than calling upon the High-Harrows to harass and harangue, me and my Knights can provide a more... measured response. As professional revengers, we consider it a point of pride to exact the exact recompense necessary to settle any blood debt.”

  Phen manages to squeeze out a chortle. “You telling me we managed to piss someone off so bad they went and broke the bank hiring you freaks?”

  I must admit, I find the man’s high spirits rather endearing. They’re going to make the eventual crash all the more spectacur. I turn toward the other crook. If not for the colr keeping him in pce, I swear he’d have slid half-way down his chair by now. He wants nothing more than to shrink and shrivel away, but we can’t have that now, can we?

  “Mr. Kupka? Care to expin the situation to your ‘friend’?” No answer, just an averted gaze. To be expected. “No worries. I’ll set everything straight. So, the House of Scales operates on a fairly simple conceit. We serve the aggrieved and only the aggrieved. And before we set out to assault, assassinate, or appropriate, we must ensure that the losses we inflict are equal to those once inflicted upon our patrons. Follow so far?”

  The wolf snarls. “Like you people give two shits about justice.”

  “Not justice, Phen. Bance. You’re right, we don’t particur care about ‘making things right’, but Mr. Kupka here hired us to—”

  “What?!” Metal bands dig into Phen’s skin as he tries to lunge from his seat. “Benzi? Benzi, what in the hell did you do?!”

  And so it begins. Tensions rising. Emotions boiling over. I draw a deep breath. Recycled air, triple-filtered by the hermetically-sealed envirosuit lurking beneath the bck and gold ensemble. Been days since I breathed anything but. Haptics and synthetic neurochems grant... fleeting tastes of the world beyond the barrier, though I’ve since grown fairly numb to them. But right here? Right now? There is a tantalizing aroma. A fvor dancing on the tip of my tongue yet reaching further beyond, its velvet touch digging into the creases of my mind. It’s electric.

  “Well, I believe it’s quite obvious what he did. The better question is... what did you do, Mr. Delmyer?”

  “I haven’t...” Phen’s eyes grow wide before immediately staring daggers at his fellow. “Don’t tell me all this is about Pamir.”

  “Of course it’s about Pamir!” Benzi shouts. Guess he’s finally found his voice. “You had CivSec breathing down your neck, so you gave up my shipment! My crew! I didn’t do shit, but who did the family bme? Me, that’s who!”

  “I didn’t ‘give up’ anything! Your boys got careless. They were marked, okay? Doomed. What, you think I oughta tie myself to a sinking ship? No. The operation comes first. And if that means making a sacrifice or two, so be it.”

  “But why was I the only one forced to sacrifice? Hmm?”

  I take a step forward. And with a solitary tap on the table... silence. The sharp clink of a metal talon—not just striking, but piercing the surface—was enough to regain control of the room. It’s quite hard, you know. To maintain a presence that is intimidating without compromising one’s ability to conduct sensible business. Most Amartans are known for their mastery of the bster and the bde. They wear their weapons with the comfort of a cozy bnket. But I see no reason to bare arms when but a single finger will do.

  “Now believe it or not, our work doesn’t always call for get-togethers such as these,” I expin. “When everything goes right, we get our contract, our payment, our target, and simply go to work. But every so often, something goes... awry.”

  “Is... is this about the payment,” Benzi stammers. “The creds should have gone through. If they didn’t, I swear it wasn’t my—”

  I raise a finger. Don’t even have to sm it back down to silence the smuggler. “Your payment went through just fine. I’m afraid our troubles... your troubles, stem from nature of your target.” I turn back toward the wolf. “You see, as revenge for his losses, Mr. Kupka here asked that we eradicate your entire base of operation on Pamir. Something well within our power, but...”

  “Are you kidding me? One lousy shipment and a crew of clunks ain’t worth the loss of a whole starport!”

  I nod. “On that, we agree.”

  “Wait, what?” the pair reply in unison.

  With a snap, the holographic wyrm clenches its hands, motes of light dripping like blood into the suspended bowls. Eventually, the scales begin to tip in Phen’s favor. I then turn toward Benzi ever so slightly, waiting until I’m absolutely sure his eye are locked with mine own faceless visage.

  “We were rather emphatic about our terms when you hired us, Mr. Kupka. You had ample opportunity to inquire, consult, and devise a suitable target, but you overextended.”

  “Bullshit!” Benzi fires back. “I have suffered ir-re-vo-ca-ble losses. Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose the family’s trust? For something you had no shot at preventing?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. And you know why? Because I do my research. Before I arranged this meeting, I apprised and appraised all that I could about the syndicate. Its assets. Its structure. Its culture. And I came to the conclusion that as far as value is concerned, Astrodyne’s loading and offloading operations stand leagues above transit.”

  “You gonna stand there are tell me the smuggler isn’t important to the smuggling operation?”

  “Logistically, yes. Now if you were in charge of the entire shipping-ssh-receiving chain, that’d be another story. But as it stands... the ball is now in Phen’s court.” I turn back toward the hound. “Thus, I offer him the same opportunity to suggest how we achieve a sense of bance.”

  “I... are you serious?” He’s taken aback. Fbbergasted, even. I offer a quick nod. “Then just... just wipe the ste clean. Keep whatever Benzi paid you, we’ll settle things in-house.”

  And there it was. Inevitable, really. Almost have to stifle a chuckle.

  “Oh. Oh no. No no no. Once something is offered to the Scales, it cannot be taken back. Just as you cannot undo your betrayal, neither can that port be spared from annihition. If you’d like, I have a list of Mr. Kupka’s assets and associates if you need help deciding—”

  “Fine. You want blood? You’ll get blood. Hadi. I want that plod gone.”

  “Wait. Waitwaitwait,” Benzi tries to protest, but the dragon bleeds and the scales tip—ever so slightly back toward other crook.

  Again, Phen’s jaw drops. “You’re joking. One guy? One heavy is enough to push it toward him? That’s... it’s rigged, this is all just one big farce...”

  “Oh, did you not know Benzi and Hadi had a fling going on? While I’ve no qualms in severing such connections, I cannot deny that they raise a person’s stock. No two lives are worth exactly the same. Imagine if I just let people treat spouses and siblings as equals to fleeting acquaintances. The entire system, the entire concept falls apart.”

  Benzi’s hands tighten around the chair’s arms. “Bowman. Take out Bowman.”

  A profile fshes in the corner of my HUD. They can’t see me reading, but they can see me stalling. Have to be quick. Can’t lose momentum. “I’m afraid he’s stationed at Pamir, so his blood has already been offered to the Scales.”

  “Mox and his boys, then.”

  Clean-up crew. Looks like a roster of only five permanent names but a lot of temp muscle moving in and out. Tracking them all down could be a hassle, but we can make it work. With a mental whim, the wyrm does its thing and that scales tip back toward Phen.

  “You really want to do this, punk?” The wolf bares his fangs. “You’ll run dry before you so much as even put a dent in me. Say goodbye to Vandor and his cronies.”

  Beautiful. A little bit of back and forth, and already they’ve lost track of the central conceit. The scales swing back and forth, neither interested in seeing them settle. Offering after offering, fathomless bowls destined to never overflow. A part of me wants to take a step back, slip back into the shadows and see if they even notice I’ve disappeared. Another knows that any movement might knock them out of their blood-drunk csh. When met with a raging river, do you try to overpower it? No, you go with the flow.

  But eventually, there’s a shift. Almost imperceptible. Manic hearts repced with racing minds. The passion is still there, but there’s a distinctly bitter aftertaste. Now I’m no psion. I cannot read minds and—honestly, even were I capable—I wouldn’t want to. But I’ve treated myself to enough of these feasts to know when something is amiss. Overly long pauses. Surreptitious gnces. ‘Hidden’ signals. They’re up to something.

  The hound’s muzzle twists into something resembling a smile. “Alright, Benzi, how’s about The Scirocco? What do you say to that?”

  The smuggler’s wearing a smirk of his own. “Then my response has got to be Caldorf Station.”

  Finally, the back and forth comes to a halt with the pair turning their attention back toward me. Oh dear oh my, it seems they’ve happened upon a revetion. They aren’t the first. They won’t be the st.

  I direct the hologram one st time before the scales finally even out. “Congratutions. It appears that we’ve achieved bance.”

  “Yeah, now you and yours just have to take down... what was it, Benzi?”

  “A heavy fortified starport, five hit squads over a hundred strong, a fully-armed light cruiser, a nigh-impregnable space station... you know, not much all things considered.”

  “That’s right, we figured out a way to beat your little ‘game’. You’ve already been paid, so I figure what’s the point of goading us into giving you more targets? Y’all are a subsidiary of the Harrows, right? That makes you a bunch of glorified pirates. Scavs looking for something to pick clean, but without the usual pushback. Gussy it up all you want with some spiel about bancing the scales or whatever, but that’s the truth, right?”

  He’s got a point. That earns him a nod.

  “But the fact that you guys even need a gimmick must mean you don’t got the resources or manpower to operate like the big boys,” Benzi adds. “So all we had to do was offer more than you were capable of.”

  “Because I certainly ain’t telling my men to stand down.”

  “And from what I remember of your charter, being bound to the original blood debt, you can’t kill either myself or Phen here.”

  I turn toward the wolf. “Do recall that this man hired us under the assumption that we would simply take out a starport of yours. These negotiations was never a part of the initial deal.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be something we come to terms with in the future. But way I see it, man knew not to go after me directly. And though it pains me to admit, I can somewhat understand where he was coming from.”

  “So, way we see it, you can try to fulfill the contract, which at this point would mean waging a war against us. Or you could just walk away from it all with no one the wiser. Hell, I’ll even let you keep your payment.”

  “Mighty kind of you,” I reply. As usual, not too fast, not too slow. Not too soft, not too pointed. Deliberate. Something tells me they expected more of a reaction. A breakdown of sorts. At the very least, some recognition for outsmarting the nefarious ne’er-do-well. It’s not the only outcome of these little meetings—but it’s certainly my favorite. Thus do I lean precipitously forward, bouncing my attention between the two. “But I’m afraid we will be fulfilling our obligations.”

  Benzi balks. “Are... are you insane? Even if you could win, there’s no way it’s worth the effort.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. You boys have some solid tech at your disposal. Probably can’t pilfer the starport without upsetting Hasakova, but everything else should be fair game. And of course, there’s more to this than just the material rewards.”

  “Big man tryin’ to make a big name for himself, that it?”

  “In part.” I pause. “But the fact of the matter is, the mundane jobs? The ones where everything goes ‘right’? They simply aren’t enough to get by. Sure, we get paid, we get our scraps, make our tribute, keep the Nobles sated... but there’s a certain something that’s missing. Without the spectacle, a certain... yearning begins to take hold.”

  “A yearning?”

  We’re approaching the endgame now. With another snap, the houselights finally shine to reveal the ‘room’ in its entirety. The void did a lot to sell the expanse. Without it, things were immediately starting to feel cramped. Four walls of thick, corrugated metal. Retively low ceiling. Chamber’s far longer than it is wide or tall. Even if the pair didn’t immediately recognize the make and model, they’d seen enough shipping containers to put the pieces together. Though at the moment, their deductive faculties might have been a bit compromised by four other Amartans that had been lingering in the dark this entire time.

  Bck helms and reinforced envirosuits accentuated with the full bevy of tactical gear; myriad bandoliers holding myriad ballistics. No spangled game-show hosts here. I twirl my finger and the squad of Knights moves toward the ‘front’ of the container. The crooks flinch as they pass by, but they don’t so much as earn a second gnce. Their minds are elsewhere.

  With one st snap, Phen and Benzi’s bindings pop loose. Fortunately, cooler heads prevail and neither decide to do anything incredibly, incredibly stupid. But as they scratch their wrists and rub their necks, I provide one st offering. Reaching into my breast pocket, I return with a phone in hand.

  “Block E. Stack 13. Bottom crate.”

  “You... you brought us to Pamir?” asks Phen.

  “How long were we unconscious?” Benzi follows up.

  “Long enough,” I reply before sliding the tablet toward the wolf. “The walls are soundproof, but you should be able to get a signal in here. So call your men. Tell them to come save you.”

  He looks at the tablet then back to me. Then back to the tablet. Then back to me. Finally, yet another deep, manly growl. Ooh. “Why should we do a single god-damn thing you tell us to?”

  “Because me and mine are itching for a fight and it’d be the considerate thing to do. And if you don’t, well... I may not be able to kill you, but funny thing about our line of work is that you become intimately familiar with how much punishment the human-and-or-demihuman body can take.”

  Already, I can feel the confidence slipping away. ‘Should I really do this’? ‘What if it’s a trap’? ‘What if there’s a tracker’? ‘Why would they need to track us, they’re already here’? Confusion. Uncertainty. ‘Give them space to think’ and all that. Eventually, Phen snatches up the comm. His hands are shaking. Can barely cradle the phone to his ear—this is the fvor we were looking for.

  “No no no, just... just listen. Listen! We’re... there’s going to be an attack on the starport... rally everyone you can... it’s... shut up! Inside one of the containers. Block E. Stack 13. They’re waiting inside. No... no! You can’t just blow it up. Because I’m also inside it! It’s... it’s a long story.”

  Phen does his best to expin the situation. The kidnappings. The wacky Amartans and their wacky rituals. I don’t envy his position. Sounds like they’re sending drones in first. Ah, well, it is what it is. We’ll get our feast sooner or ter. Guess I ought to get ready. First, I shut off the holoprojector. Then, I turn the table over on its side. Benzi understands, immediately crawling behind the makeshift barrier. Phen hesitantly follows suit.

  “Yeah... yeah... seven vital signs? Yes! That’s the one!” he ‘whispers’ rather loudly into the receiver. Find it rather amusing he thinks there’s anything we can keep from each other at this point. “Just... just make sure the bots register me as a grade-zero protectee. Prime directive, I mean it.” A pause. “Oh, and Benzi Kupka as well. It’s... yes, it’s also a long story.”

  “I believe they’re primed to breach,” I call out to my fellows. Immediately, they ready themselves—though not by raising their carbines or drawing their knives. No, their preparations were entirely mental. And I’m not talking about simply psyching oneself up.

  The crooks duck their heads and wince as the echoes of a controlled explosion ring out from the phone’s speakers. Seems whoever was on the other end was keeping their distance. Though judging by the utterly ck of our container’s door being caved in, so were we.

  Shots fired on the other end of the line. Some nasty sounding whirrs and whistles. Think that’s the vanguard dealt with. Wait for it. Wait for it. Ah. There they are. The screams. The snarls. The oh so sweet symphony.

  “Bowman?” Phen calls out. “Bowman, what’s going on?”

  Between the strings of expletives, I can hear the man gasping for air. He’s on the run. Thinks he can hide. But there’s no hiding once we’ve got the scent. Stammers something about the ongoing danger—about the beasts. But before he can properly elucidate the situation, he’s overtaken by that primal need to wail and cry in the face of death. In the mouth of death. In the stomach of death. I lick my own lips, only to taste a hint of blood. Cryptosomatic sensations spreading across the neural network. They must really be having fun out there.

  Finally, a knock on our container’s doors. With a heavy groan, the sbs begin to part before revealing a sixth Amartan on the outside. The squad filters out, eager to get to work. I, meanwhile, am left with the shaking and shriveling pair as the echoes of guns and gore are allowed to personally reach their ears. It takes almost no effort to reach over the felled table and pluck my phone from Phen’s hands.

  “To be fair, I never said we were in that crate,” I say, not too fast, not too—actually, you know what, this time I do drag things out a bit. I’ve earned a bit of taunting and teasing at this point. “Shame your warning didn’t amount to much.”

  The pair turn around, stricken with that unfortunate blend of ferocity and futility. They want nothing more than unch themselves at me. To try and take me down with their bare hands, probability of success be damned. Hey, maybe there was a sliver of a chance they mustered the strength to act on such an impulse. Sadly, I’d never know, as the opportunity immediately evaporates with the sound of talons meeting the container floor behind me. Those clicks and ccks drain every st vestige of resistance left in the forlorn pair.

  Turning around, I’m greeted with the presence of my better half.

  Five meters tip to tip—granted most of that was tail—the reptoid was a thing of beauty. Honed and hewn. Strong and sharp. Hide bck as tar with simirly dark scales throughout. But when the light catches the quadruped just right, there’s this brilliant golden hue reflecting off of every fringe and fnge.

  As I press my head to hers, I’m granted fleeting fshes the past. Waiting cooped up in a crate with an Amartan and five of her fellow dragons. Going stir-crazy as she senses the mental anguish I’m inflicting half-way across the starport. A fsh. A bang. A charge. I can taste the oil and metal in her mouth as she tears through an automated sentry. I can feel the wind against her face as she storms the backline of defenders. Our doorman wasn’t halfway to our stack and she’d already torn through seven men. I couldn’t be more proud.

  I break our embrace, but continue to scritch the dragon’s neck, her hide more than able to withstand mine own talons. At the other end of the crate, Phen and Benzi continue to peek over the table. Guess if they expect to die, they at least want to see it coming. Can respect that.

  “Are you familiar with the Uromastigus Saevis? The Kalitor Dragon? The uncommon cousin of the common Whip-Tail? Extraordinary creatures. One of the few naturally cryptocognitive species in the gaxy. Psionic lizards, imagine that. Now, while there’s some debate amongst scientific circles, many have called for them to be cssified as a kind of... I believe the term is ‘pavovore’. They feed on fear. Well, if nothing else, they can certainly sense it.”

  I take a step toward the crooks.

  “You were right, you know. We can’t operate like the ‘big boys’. But these lovely creatures allow us do so much more. Let the High-Harrows pilge and plunder across the five nes, because they’ll never know the same satisfaction we do. You know why? Because greedy as they are, they’ve forgotten what it means to hunger.”

  Another step.

  “Most Amartans, they get used to the suits. The isotion. But by opening our minds to the Kalitor, we get these precious... glimpses of the world beyond the boundary. Through them, we are party to sensations that our fellows cannot begin to imagine. Sensations we have to work for. Sensations we have to cultivate and harvest ourselves. Unfortunately, opportunities to truly indulge are few and far between. We don’t have the luxury of sanctioned terror missions, not when we have bills to pay. It’s a tantalizing yet frustrating myth the Nobles have cultivated for our House; the Knights and their Dragons bound by blood, shackled by creed; sworn to pursue bance above all else. Fortunately, ‘bance’ can be rather subjective, can’t it? And when folks like you try to give us a fight we can’t win, well... let us just say, from the bottom of our hearts: thank you.”

  One final step.

  “So run along. Gather the rest of your forces and prepare... because we will be coming. Though if I may make a suggestion, don’t be there when we arrive. Because we have tasted the both of you, and we could track the scent across the gaxy if we wanted to.”

  With that, we leave the container behind once and for all.

  Far too te in the day for any natural lightning, the dock’s myriad mps illuminate our surroundings. The rain-slicked crates, cranes, and concrete. The mangled machines. Oh. And the bodies. The many, many bodies.

  The distant roar of an engine draws our attention skyward. A compact VTOL strafes above the stacks, spinning out of control as a dragon tears into its roof. Further down, teams of man and beast carry out a tandem dance of death and destruction. Bullets do little more than stagger the shielded port defenders, but that’s enough for their partner to bridge the gap and tear into their foe. Elsewhere, a thundercrack rings out as a Whip-Tail earns their moniker by cleaving a man in two. Those that aren’t torn apart are turned to paste as they crater the side of a shipping crate.

  It’s a banquet and our mouths are watering. Not wanting to be left out, me and mine join the carnage. We seek and we sate. We rip and we tear. Before long, our talons are stained red. But there’s more work to be done. We were hired to take out the port. So long as a single defender draws breath, we have failed to live up to our promise. Can’t have that, can we?

  Bit by bit, the chaos gives way to a more concentrated prowl. And while the stage may have fallen silent, yet more actors lurked in the wings. With each breath, we catch another hint of fear. Another syndicate member trying to hide in a crate or under their own fallen fellows. Takes some doing, but in the end, none escape. None survive. End scene.

  But it seems a curtain call was in order. Descending from the sky was a shuttle, far rger than the unmanned drones we’d taken down prior. We tighten up, twelve-strong in the center of the starport. Five Knights, five Dragons, arranged shoulder to shoulder behind me and mine. As the vehicle touches down, the side hatch slides back to reveal a full squad of armed and armored enforcers. But though they point their guns at us, none fire. In fact, none even step off the shuttle.

  Instead, but a single figure makes their approach—an android wrapped in a suit that put the pair of flunkies’ to shame. Sprouting from the automaton’s colr was a faceless helm not unlike our own, but rather providing little more than a bck void, the machine bared a videoscreen. One that soon dispyed the withering visage of an older gentlemen.

  I take a step forward to meet the proxy, flicking the blood from my fingers along the way. “Hasakova, I presume.”

  “Not in name, but affiliation, yes,” the man’s electronically-tinged voice spills from the machine’s speaker. “Amartan business, I presume?”

  “Correct. House of Scales.”

  “Might I ask who hired you?”

  “One of your own. Internal squabble.”

  “I see... has it been handled?”

  “Still more to do I’m afraid.” I tap the side of my helm. “Sending a copy of our updated contract and a supplementary recording.”

  “Kupka... Delmyer...” The elder ducks his gaze, likely toward whatever desk he’s broadcasting from. After a short perusal, his eyes nearly bug out of his head before he remembers he should probably keep a straight face. “I see. Are the two still around?”

  “They should be.”

  “Any objection were I to kill them here and now?”

  “I’m afraid they’re protected by the charter. That said, shouldn’t take us more than a week to fulfill our end.”

  “Very well.” With that, the proxy turns back toward the shuttle. “Do as you will. Just... try and leave before CivSec arrives. I’d rather not deal with that fallout.”

  Sloppy footfalls spsh across the concrete; Phen and Benzi rushing toward their boss's stand-in. Begging. Pleading. Messy business, that. I know the smuggler’s a lost cause, but it seems the wolf’s part in the negotiations earned him no favors. The android kicks them both to the ground before boarding the shuttle. And as it lifts up toward the sky, the pair are left stewing in a wet heap.

  With that, we’re done here.

  Well, not quite, I suppose

  With a twirl of my finger, my fellows start the harvest. A feast of figurative carrion. Weapons. Gadgets. Impnts. They grab whatever they can pluck and plunder from the fallen forces. House needs its tribute, after all. As for the dragons... well, they were a bit more literal, selecting a treat to bring back with them. Most were content with a hand to gnaw on, but my greedy girl returned with an entire leg in her mouth. Guess she’s earned it.

  And with that, we’re done here.