“Bastard!”

Upset mercenary is upset.  Not sure why though.  A Black Dragon 12.5mm semi-automatic pistol that can blow his head clean off.  Isn’t pointed at his brainpan.

*z-*

Nope.

The end of its barrel is resting on the facemask of miss mouthy merc next to him.  Miss mouthy soon to be headless merc.

*z-*

Now, I can understand why I wasn’t recognized at first.  Armed and armored Frankie and me were pretty god damn intimidating walking down that poorly lit hallway late at night on the seventh floor of this former garrison.  The “keep” of the Rockrats tribe’s Tinpan Alley “castle.”

All that armor made us appear taller and bigger than my former rough baggy civie clothes, or priest-wife’s bikini with delusions of grandeur, did.

Also made us look dangerous as hell compared to the badly equipped tribals that were shocked when we suddenly appeared among them.  We parted the hallway sea like Moses bringing a fresh keg to the party.  No one wanted to be in our way.

*z-*

So, when we reached the room that had a pair of armed and armored, “Hunters,” with their backs to the stairwell and loudly complaining?  No one recognized us.  Specifically, me.  A mistake her, for now, still attached head was probably seriously regretting.

Her first mistake was activating the slave chip.  Second mistake was loudly bitching about where the fuck I am.  Showing me which merc was her.  Not realizing I am I, math is math wise, was her third mistake.

Three strikes.  You’re out, bitch.

Unexpectedly, the promise of imminent lethal violence did not bring our surroundings to a standstill.  There is still gunfire, explosions, growling, howling, and screaming, echoing up the stairwell.  Along with clusters of tribals still passing by us, heading down towards it.

There are also warriors scrambling to defend the place.  Piling up furniture to create makeshift walls.  Mostly in front of the hallway to the throne room I violated earlier.

Translation?  They really don’t have time to deal with a spat between, what looks like to them, four hunters.

*z-*

“Why isn’t it working?”

Miss mouthy sounds frustrated, and distracted.  Which, if I’m being honest?  I, and the end of a 12.5mm’s barrel, are to blame for.  There is no way I should have been able to surprise her like this.  There is also no way I should be standing right now.

After all.  However she triggers the chip to “zing” my brain?  She’s been doing it.  A lot.  So she rightly believes I should be on the floor screaming, shaking, vomiting, and pissing myself, from the pain.

Sorry bitch.  Papa’s got a brand new bag.

Behold the power of multitasking.  And cheating.  Well, remembering how to cheat.  After my hot lips bikini babe fed me with her body and I miracle maxed, astrally molested, Digger’s nearly dead hooker sister.  I could “talk” to my itty bitty bots.

Of course communicating with all the nanos running around in me should be impossible.  That’s why they surgically install those cyber control modules in your brain and spine.  But I can.

So what do I do with this new power?

Well, besides making my wiener bigger.  Like you wouldn’t do the same thing.  I tried to bring my cheats back.  Oh, and disable that fucking pain chip.

Which, honestly, wasn’t all that hard to do.  Once I could “see” what my nanos see?  They gave me the inside scoop on my slave module.  Literally.  So a little short circuiting here?  And a little wire crossing there?  Say hello to a broken slave module.

So miss merc with a mouth is wasting her time, and patience, trying to shove my brain into the cuisinart.

And for sticking a gun in her face?  Which her probably much better cyberware than mine should have kept me from doing?  Bullet Time’s back baby.

Well a sort of version of it.  My inaccurately but cooly named cheat saved my bacon plenty of times in medieval land.  Letting me think and move much faster than most anyone else on the planet.  For a short time at least.

Becoming a nanite whisperer let me “build” a version of that ability.  Of sorts.  Its ad hoc and fragile as fuck plus burns out super fast.  Only gives me a second or two.  Even makes the muscles used sore as hell afterwards.

But it let me move a lot faster than miss mouthy could track, or react.

And seriously pissed her partner off.

“We don’t have time for this.  Put that piece of shit away, slave.  Now!”

Yeah, upset mercenary is upset.

Can’t see the expression through that mask but his body language screams that he’s barely holding himself back.  Another unhappy customer of the as seen on TV, “Surprise, Motherfucker.”  Patent pending.  Me ignoring his attempt to tell me what to do?  Wasn’t helping either.

“Maybe you’re just stupid but that pain in your brain?  Means the Oxa sold you to us.  You’re Heshen property now.”

That gets a reaction from Frankie, even if it's just a tiny jump.  But the machine pistol she’s got tucked in, covering miss mouthy’s partner, doesn’t budge.

He notices it though, and gets bolder.

“That’s right.  The Heshen.  Unless you start begging right the fahk now?  You’re dead.”

Though you can’t see the sneer on my face.  You can certainly hear it in my reply.

“Ugh.  Can’t you cameos come up with better lines?  Don’t threaten me with tomorrow, when you’re dying today.”

“There’s a pack of gundogs headed this way, moron.”  So?  “Fine!  Have it your way ass-”

“Dad!”  Dad?  “The chip’s not working!”

Miss mouthy’s now panicky voice stops her partner cold.  The chip not working and exposing that his daughter is under my gun?  Takes away any bit of leverage he thought they had.

Even the sounds of battle downstairs seem to pause as it gets very quiet around us.

You can feel it.  That moment when the trigger is pulled.  That last resistance before the hammer falls.  Smashing the firing pin to deliver explosive violence.

“W-wait!”

Partner slowly takes his hands off the rifle and raises them.  Leaving the weapon dangling by its sling.

“W-we can help you.”  With what, crossing the street?  “We have information on what was done to you at the orphanage.  And?  Who is looking for you.”

Frankie doesn’t turn, her gun is still pointing at partner, but speaks dismissively.

“Master.  I already have that information.”

“Master?”  Partner’s confused, but recovers fast.  “Uh.  Well.  How about a new ident?  We can get good ones that will even pass a city-state audit.”

Frankie is not impressed.

“Already have them.”

“Merchants?”

“See what we are wearing and using?”

“Hunters?”

“...”

“Ha!”

Miss mouthy’s dad is thrilled to find something he has that Frankie doesn’t.

“The Heshen are the strongest Hunter Clan in the city-state.  We can get your guild fees waived and make registration go smoothly.”  He’s sounding smug now.  “Hunting has been the ticket to citizenship for countless residents.”

Frankie seems unsure for the first time.

“You’ll need citizenship sooner or later, master.  Achieving it through Hunting?  Could help avoid certain, scrutiny.”

Partner tries to build the momentum.

“Your little girl is right.  And with th- Wait!”

He shouts when I quickdraw my left 12.5mm.

*bang* *bang* *bang* *bang*

Panic changes to surprise as he realizes I’m aiming between the two, into the stairwell.  His head spins to see an oversized, and partially metal, dog have its head explode under the beating of four heavy half-inch wide bullets.

It doesn’t even get the chance to yip.

Turn and speak to partner dad while ignoring the now trembling miss mouthy.

“We’ll deal with the mutts first.  Let’s go Frankie.”

Holster my 12.5mm’s, grip my ready slung HCR, and start moving down the stairs.  Growling and howling echoes up the well.  Is anyone down there still alive?

“Yes master.”

Frankie straps the SMG and grabs her HCR.  Then follows me down in an overwatch stance.  Movements and motions completely foreign to the priest-wife I knew.  Was she in the army here?

Sigh.

“I’m getting too old for this shit.”

---

Back at the top of the stairwell, an old mercenary holds his Hunter daughter tight as her shakes get worse.  They’ve been in tough spots before but this time was different.  He, was different.

Any Hunter worth the name used anything and everything they can to survive.  Including psionics.  He was only a “sensitive,” but that extra bit of intuition had saved his life countless times.

Tonight?  It saved his daughter’s.  The daughter he had never wanted to follow in his footsteps.  But had given in when she decided to do it with or without his support.

The veteran briefly recalled the many times he had felt “killing intent.”  Strong, weak, sharp, dull, hot, cold, it had many varieties.  But you could always tell what it was.  That death was close by, and watching.

When he felt his daughter was going to die this time?  It was different.  The unusually sharp killing intent the boy had?  Vanished.  In its place was a, thing.  A thing that did not belong in this world.

Among the living.

Death wasn’t just close by anymore.  It was there.  Standing in front of him.  Holding one of the world’s most powerful handguns to his little girl’s face and pulling the trigger.

He had the terrifying premonition that if she died, here, now.  She might lose more than just her life.  That even her soul was in danger.  And he knew his daughter, also a sensitive, felt the same thing.

*dakka dakka*

Gunfire from below interrupts the nightmarish vision.  His daughter’s shaking also eases and the old man re-convinces himself that he must have just been hallucinating.

It could not have been real.  Right?

He turns to see the 15 year old and his slave take the stairs smoothly.  Even tactically.  Killing a second gundog the instant it appeared with short controlled bursts of rifle fire.

The two are covering fire lanes and each other’s blind spots.  Any clan would move heaven and earth to recruit them after seeing such obvious skill.

But this old hunter felt like he had gotten a glimpse of what was really behind that boy’s eyes.

And it scared the shit out of him.

… 

“What really happened in that orphanage.”