A single tooth skittered along the edge of the sink bowl. A drop of blood followed suit not long after. Gunnar locked eyes with his mirror, moving his bruised lip to reveal the hole his tooth left behind. Just half of his teeth still had that signature yellowing of a real tooth, the rest almost plastic white in their perfection. He grunted, bemused at the sight.

‘Time for another, I suppose,’ the dejected man sighed.

He cracked his neck and stretched his well-toned arms, recounting the events that led to his loss. Another job, another measly pay, another bloody fist to the face. The amount he earned was enough for the month's bills and a new tooth, but not much more. Which meant another job was needed.

The mercenary gripped the rim of his sink and stared at his reflection, turning the tap on with his free hand. His long brown hair had been tied up against the back of his head reaching down to the base of his neck, though he had it shaved short around the ears. He had dark green eyes that could appear black in some lights and a few wrinkles under his eyes from age. He had a strong jaw finished by a thick healthy beard that still stuck close to his chin. A tattoo of a songbird sat on his right shoulder, with waves of musical notes branching off to his chest and down the arm. Even with the bruises and minor cybernetic enhancements on either side of his eyes, he still took pride in his appearance.

Gunnar also took pride in his speed on foot, combining the two got him a decent amount of work. Not modelling, he wasn’t quite that good looking, no, it was mercenary work, which Gunnar needed more of if he wanted to eat this week. He sighed, and splashed water over his beaten face. He couldn’t go and get a job looking like he failed another.

The mercenary took the only clean towel in his humble bathroom and wiped away what blood he could and took another look at his now less bloody features. Feeling satisfied with the minimum effort he put in, Gunnar left the bathroom and made his way to the kitchen. His home was small, in fact it was barely a home, it met the minimum requirements, a door, a room and a place to cook. He got it cheap, because cheap was all he could afford and thankfully, it was also all he wanted.

The home in question was an old disused control room for the city's water pipe system. In fact there was a thick metal door at the back, that curved with the twenty foot wide water pipe his home clung to. Looking in from the entrance, his bathroom was to the left of that pipe and his kitchen to the right, the exact same size either side. Luckily the bathroom came with a wall and a door at least. Gunnar had made good use of the space, turning the old machinery into countertops, tying a hammock between the two pillars that kept the structure secure. Most may think the merc lived in a depressive ruin, and maybe to them they were right, but not to Gunnar, to him, it was home, it was comfort.

There was little time to marvel at the wonders of poverty though, the man had money that needed to be made and a painful gap in his money making smile that needed repairing. He poured himself a cup of nutrijuice, gave it a swig and threw the remains into his sink. Then grabbed his thigh length coat, keys, and the rusted gun he had used for years.

Very little light reached the porch. Or any other part of the lower city that he lived in. The tall towers and walkways of the upper city blotted out most natural light the dwellers below might have gotten. It was early, as far as the artificial time went, but when you live on a tidally locked planet, time is relative.

There were two destinations the mercenary had in mind today both on Blunt Street, a neighbourhood popular with local mercs. The first being Monty’s. A place run by a man named, shockingly, Monty. He worked as a Skinner, a doctor who specialised in cybernetic enhancement. Gunnar always fell on his doorstep instead of an actual hospital, much to the Skinners' protest, he might have been a qualified doctor, but he wasn’t a fan of that fact. The man always preferred to chop off a broken hand and give you a new one, rather than following the tedious process of healing wounds.

His second destination was the Blue Barrel, the place he found his first job as a teen. A bar owned by Old Bill, one of the oldest mercs in the game. Though he had been long retired by this point. Always said his plan from day one was to survive long enough to open a bar then quit the game. Smarter than most that step foot into the business.

The few minute walk to Blunt Street was filled by the typical sounds of a Juniper City morning. The occasional gun shot or scream echoed throughout the tightly packed concrete maze. In most parts of the city, the drone of the hustling crowds could drown out the sound of gang violence. Blunt Street was not one of those population centers.

Luckily, thanks to its reputation, Blunt Street was relatively safe, so he arrived at Monty’s without getting shot at. The very inviting neon sign above the front door was beginning to stutter and the door had been battered and beaten, but it still seemed inviting. The Merc pushed it open.

‘What is it now ya gobshite?’ Gunnar smiled looking over to see Monty hunched over his operating chair. His mechanised arms were specially designed for precision operations and modification, filled with various tools and miniature robotic arms that protruded from more spots than you would think possible. Monty was grey of hair and thin on his scalp, but still lucky enough to be lacking any real bald spots. He combed it, but that was about the limit of his grooming. He let a moustache grow, but refused to allow a beard to taint his chin.

‘Morning Monty, I need your magic touch again,’ Gunnar grinned, showing off the gap in his teeth. Something about the man always cheered him up.

Monty grumbled. ‘Me magic touch is it? It’d be magic if you could go a week without turning up at my doorstep,’ he scowled at Gunnar, but gestured for him to lie on the reclining chair next to him. Gunnar obliged as Monty grabbed a pair of small round glasses behind him resting them on his crooked nose. ‘So? What is it this time?’

‘Are your eyes going?’ Gunnar asked, pointing at the gap. ‘I wasn’t exactly hiding it.’

Monty rolled said eyes as he opened Gunnar's mouth. ‘I’ve told ya once and I’ll tell you again and again until you get it, you need actual enhancements.’ Gunnar tried to complain but his mouth was full.

‘You want to go gallivanting off fighting gangers and morons, ya gonna need to be on equal footing,’ he continued to lecture Gunnar, turning away briefly to rifle through a few small boxes all labeled "Teeth" on one of his many work surfaces.

Gunnar continued to smile, wondering how far to mess with the old man. ‘Just want to keep you in the business Monty. Besides, even footing? Make it far too easy.’

Monty let out a sarcastic scoff without turning, changing position to look through the various draws and cabinets he had on the wall above the teeth boxes. He paused and grumbled holding a small white box in his hands with a hand drawn logo that read “Fresh Jaw” with a picture of a fake white grin on its cover.

The patient lay back down flat against the chair, a position he had taken many times before. Monty had the new tooth clenched between the jaws of a pair of tweezers. He pushed a pipe into Gunnar's open mouth which instantly numbed the area around the new gap in his gums.

He could still feel it though, sort of, he could feel the tweezers and fingers in his mouth, something that used to bother him like it would most people, but now he found himself far too used to it. As Monty gingerly slotted the tooth into place, there was a sound akin to the snap of a jigsaw puzzle, only wetter.

‘There we are, getting easier every time. Honestly makes me wonda' why someone whose smile is now fifty percent plastic won't let me make him fifty percent metal instead.’

‘I don’t need a reason, I just don’t like it.’

Monty sighed as he leaned away. ‘Bah. Loada shite. You know how much more shrapnel you could be making?’ He pulled out a small machine behind him and dropped it on his patient's lap.

‘Speaking of money. . .’

Gunnar rolled his eyes, reaching in his pocket to fish out a small matte bar with seemingly random dents and ridges on one end. He pushed it into a slot on the roof of the machine as Monty watched a display on the end facing him. The old man winced as the machine beeped. He looked back up at his patient and raised his eyebrows. ‘See this is exactly what I’m talking about.’ He gestured towards the screen.

A grunt of annoyance escaped Gunnar's throat as he pulled his credstick from the machine. ‘Mind your own,’ he muttered, standing to his feet and giving the new tooth a quick test.

‘Going already?’

‘Like you said Monty, I need work,’ Gunnar replied with a shrug.

He heard the unmistakable sound of the older Skinner mumbling as the door shut behind him, then headed further down the street, in the Direction of the Blue Barrel. He liked Monty, that was no lie, but no one bothered him more about his lack of cybernetics than that man did.

The Barrel itself sat at the head of a T junction upon one of the few roads wide enough for vehicles to drive down. Not that you would get many that could afford to drive in the lower city. Opposite the barrel lay a bridge that headed over one of the few artificially formed rivers that winded through the city. Facing the Barrel, looking left took you to Monty’s and further on past the edge of Blunt street was the square where Gunnar's home lay. Heading right eventually led into the sector's downtown area where all the wealthier dwellers lived.

A faded splattering of blood had been spilled against the wall outside of the Barrels entrance since Gunnar had last visited. There was a smudged outline shaped like a body laying underneath it with a sticker slapped nearby. Another murder wasn’t even a drop in the sink. Whatever happened had already been sorted by the milita, so he ignored it and walked through the large open door at the entrance, walking straight for the bar that sat in plain view from the street. Old Bill stood behind, polishing a glass. He had a face that welcomed all comers, gentle laugh lines and wrinkles that betrayed his demeanour. A thick curly white beard rested on his chin and a surprisingly full head of hair made up in a bun at the back of his head. Bill stood quite tall for a Juniper born man, though Gunnar was still a tad taller.

The barman waved Gunnar over as soon as he entered, a warm smile on his face stretching his wrinkles just a little more. The Bar itself only had a handful of patrons at any given time, but there were a few scattered groups on each table. In particular an old man sat near the entrance, in far more elegant attire than most in the lower city could afford. Likely a noble trying to keep a low profile, not the first that Gunnar had seen. They had trouble wearing cheap clothing so just tried to settle for looking like a wealthy dweller.

Gunnar sat at the bar and nodded at Bill who poured him a drink, Fizzblink, his favourite. He wasn’t much for beer, usually just stuck to sugar and carbonation.

‘Here for work?’ Bill asked as he placed Gunnar's drink in front of him.

He returned a smile whilst taking the drink. ‘What if I’m just here to see an old friend?’

Bill scoffed. ‘Then the world must’ve already ended.’ He pressed a few buttons on the deskpad that sat on his counter. ‘Afraid I ain’t got much kid. You took the last decent job I had. I’ve got a couple to look for missing pets aaand…’ He squinted wrinkling his nose. ‘Ah, here’s one to beat the attitude out of a local thief named Cylus for going back on a deal.’

The Mercenary lifted his glass to take a sip, thinking about if any of that sounded attractive. He shook his head. ‘Nah. I need actual money, got to get ready for next month's bills Bill,’ Gunnar replied.

Bill shrugged his shoulders in response. ‘You’re not the only merc looking for work y’know. I can’t just reserve the good ones for you,’ Bill tutted. ‘Have you thought about asking the Barnetts? Might take a lil’ convincing, but they’d share their spoils with ya.’

Gunnar waved his suggestion off. ‘The sisters take jobs above my paygrade.’

‘Hmph. That’s a load of crap,’ Bill muttered before switching to his customer service mode as a few new customers entered the bar. ‘Welcome gents. Can I get you anything?’

With what could only be described as downright rudeness, the two completely ignored the barmans greeting and made their way to one particular booth. The booth that the poorly disguised noble sat in. Gunnar saw Bill's smile twitch watching the two.

They were clearly thugs, cheap pistols on their hips, ripped jackets and scruffy hair. Definitely not a part of any of the major gangs. They were either dumb kids, or just so poor and desperate that they’d go after a rich man in the middle of public. It didn’t matter, Bill had a strict no violence policy in the Barrel, it wasn't important who it was against.

The old noble seemed disinterested by the two as they hovered over him. ‘Oi. Old man,’ the taller of the two called out. Gunnar had to hold back a snort, that was the best opener this greennose could come up with? The noble continued to sip on his quite cheap swill, reading something on a small portable deskpad in front of him. ‘Oi? He’s talking to you, old man!’ the smaller wannabe thug added. Gunnar was having to hide his face now.

‘Lads. Ain’t no nonsense in my Bar you hear?’ Bill warned the two, with a barely hidden grin inching across his lips. It wasn’t the first time a couple of brats acted like idiots in the bar, it wouldn’t be the last, but it was always at least somewhat entertaining.

Bearing his teeth in a malicious smirk, the tall one pulled his gun on Bill, his friend following suit shortly after, though with a far less confident expression. Bill just sighed and looked over to Gunnar who was still sipping his drink. They locked eyes and the barman raised his brows, motioning towards the kids. Gunnar stopped drinking and looked over to the two of them, clearing his throat.

‘If you wanna threaten Bill, you’re gonna need an actual weapon.’

‘What the fuck did you just say to me?’ The tall one tried his hardest to seem threatening. It was getting a little grating now.

‘I was basically saying this,’ Gunnar replied as he pulled his own gun from inside his jacket before the two youths could react, firing off a burst of bullets at both of their trigger hands.

Blood burst from the hand of the taller thug, causing him to drop his gun and scream. Luckily for his shorter friend, just his gun was hit, breaking it apart like the cheap toy it was.

‘The fuck!?’ The small thug exclaimed. He dropped the remains of his weapon and didn’t hesitate in sprinting out the door, followed by his friend not long after who gripped his bleeding stubs, gasping for air. Gunnar glanced at their poor choice of weaponry on the floor and clicked his tongue, a single bloody finger remained jammed against the trigger of one of them. He leant down to pick them up then immediately threw them in a bin sitting behind the bar.

‘Sorry about the mess Bill.’

Bill placed another Fizzblink in front of Gunnar with a smirk. ‘I chose brown carpet for a reason.’ The bar that had fallen silent when the gunshots erupted into conversation once again.

As he took another sip, Gunnar heard footsteps behind him, he already knew who it was. ‘I uh. I wanted to thank you young man.’ It was the old noble, a group Gunnar generally steered clear from.

‘It’s fine. Just keepin’ the Barrel safe,’ Gunnar replied without turning around.

The Old man cleared his throat. ‘I overheard you were looking for a job. I might just have one that could interest you.’

Gunnar turned around to give the nobleman a once over. Old, well kept and not a scar on his face. A little portly, but he looked mostly healthy and well looked after.

‘I don’t generally deal with nobles.’

He didn’t seem bothered by Gunnar calling him out, taking a seat next to him. ‘Well if you already clocked what I am, then you should know that I can pay well.’ Gunnar took a small breath and swivelled on his stool to give the man his full attention.

‘I have… Interests in the area and those interests are being damaged by a particular posse belonging to the Thyrsus Society. If you need to hire more mercenaries to assist, I can pay them too.’

‘Just one posse?’ Gunnar shook his head. ‘With Thyrsus that wouldn’t be a problem.’

He clapped his hands together. ‘Splendid. I can sen-’

Gunnar held up his hand for the man to stop. ‘I didn’t say I’d take the job. I want to ask you a few questions first.’ He paused to gauge the nobleman's reaction from his interruption. The old man just looked mildly offended at most.

‘Why this one posse in particular and why is a noble invested in any part of the lower city?’

At this point, Bill had wandered further down the bar, serving another customer. It was just the two of them. The old noble sat back, pulling his portable deskpad out of a sidebag he had hanging at his waist and dropping it on the counter top. He tapped a few buttons to show pictures of a grimy syringe, they had been taken in militia custody judging by the setting of the image.

‘Have you heard of Dropshot?’ He asked. Gunnar nodded. ‘This posse that calls themselves “Le Grande Merchants” are the main distributors of the drug in this sector. My investment in taking this drug off the street is a private one, but be assured I do want it gone. And I mean properly gone.’

Dropshot had only surfaced recently and had grown in popularity with the truly downtrodden. Its name came from its sheer potency. One shot was enough to make you drop to the ground, unable to move or escape the trip your brain was taking. Vivid, rapid and over in less than a minute it led to people only wanting more and more. It was also incredibly dangerous, one shot could also make you drop permanently. Gunnar couldn’t deny that he wanted it out of his home, death had already had a firm grip in the area without the extra help.

Even then, he didn’t want to accept it outright. ‘How much shrapnel are we talking about?’

A smile curled at the corners of the nobles mouth as he leant forward, ushering Gunnar to do the same. ‘Would one hundred thousand creds suit your tastes?’ He whispered.

Gunnar couldn’t stop his eyes popping, he sat back and nodded slowly, trying to contain himself. His monthly bills were averaging around two thousand creds, that much would set him up for a while, but, it would also make him… Complacent.

‘Generally, that’d be difficult to turn down,’ he replied.

The old noble slapped his thigh. ‘So we have a deal then?’ He stretched out his hand, waiting for Gunnar to shake it.

Though hesitant, Gunnar smirked. ‘Nah. I’m good.’ He swivelled away and turned back to his drink, waiting for a reaction.

A hand retracted from the corner of the mercenary's vision. ‘Hmm.’ Gunnar chanced a peek. To his surprise the noble had a slight smile, studying him.

‘Regardless of your personal feelings, can you really turn down such a lucrative job?’

Before he could respond, a rough hard hand made contact with Gunnar's poor handsome cheeks, he gripped the bar edge to stop himself falling.

‘Ah! What the fuck!’ He turned to see Bill matching his glare with a raised brow.

‘Really Gunnar. You know you got a bar tab right? You really gonna turn that down? You want to die with debt?.’

‘Listen to your friend, mercenary.’

Gunnar was flabbergasted. He hadn’t expected to be teamed up on by two old men, he absolutely intended to take the job from the beginning, his curiosity had gotten the better of him if nothing else. He just wanted to torture the noble a little first.

He looked between the two then felt the credstick in his pocket.

‘Fine. Yeah. I’ll take the fuckin’ job.’ Greed was a deadly fucker in Juniper City and he could smell it all over that kind of shrapnel.

A wide smile spread across the old noble's rosy cheeks. ‘Excellent. Hold out your cellpad so I may take your information.’

Though hesitant, Gunnar did as asked, with the noble pulling his out soon after. As soon as the code had been taken, another individual appeared at the entrance to the Barrel. A man no older than Gunnar wearing a long suit and a flatcap, panting heavily. He held a bladed cane in his hand.

‘Sir! I heard the shots, then I saw some thugs walking past the truck are you alr-’

‘I’m fine Oswin,’ the noble raised his hand to shut the man up, he turned back to Gunnar. ‘My driver and long-suffering assistant. He worries far too much.’ He looked back to Oswin. The panicked man still seemed very much panicked. ‘I’d best go. Meet me back here in two days. If the job is done you get your pay. If it isn't, I'll look for someone else.’ He stood up with a groan, leaning against the bar.

‘What about the details?’

The noble smiled as he started his walk to the front door. ‘Honestly the only thing I know is that it's somewhere in Sector fourteen. Think of it as part of the challenge. The pay is worth it, right?’ he grinned as he left.

Almost everything about this job stunk, Gunnar wasn’t stupid. Even if he wasn’t lying about his good intentions, the nobleman was hiding things, including his own name. He didn’t even hint at it. Didn’t ask for Gunnar's name either. On top of that the money seemed far too good for taking out a posse belonging to the Thyrsus Society. Their fighters weren’t generally the most skilled.

‘You’re really accepting it kid?’ Bill asked him.

Gunnar slowly turned his head to the old man, mouth agape. ‘Weren’t you the one pushing me to?’

‘Aye, but I was expecting you to fight back a little bit more.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Ah,’ Bill expressed understanding. ‘Something about it got your nose twitching, huh?’

Gunnar smirked. ‘Yeah alright. Can’t deny I’m curious. Far too easy on the surface for that kind of money.’

‘Just be careful. That curious streak of yours has caused you more harm than good. You got a plan?’

Gunnar thought for a moment then finished the last of his drink, its wannabe-fruit taste filling his mouth. He dropped a few pieces of shrapnel on the table. ‘Think it's time to visit the Undercity Front,’ he replied.