~
"LET ME GO! LEMME AT HER!!!"
One of the patrons, a woman, screamed fire and brimstone as she struggled in the arms of two WC security personnel, trying her hardest to lurch for White. The latter lay slouched into one of the armchairs with a puerile grin on her face, a crowd gathered around the scene to ascertain what was going on. Some of them were tending to a waiter, the same one who had served those medallions to Frost and Wilkins, lying unconscious on the ground with a black eye.
"See ya!" White waved the handkerchief in her hand at the shrieking lady being dragged out, her voice warm and mocking. "Don't wanna be ya, honey-bun..."
"What the bloody hell are you doing?!" Frost protested the sight, after making his way to his charge. It was then that he noticed a glowing red hand-print on White's cheek.
"You said... you said to us to go have some fun, yeah?" White began to explain herself to the captain. "So this ... 'lady'..." she displayed her air quotes as a deliberate spectacle, "...is holding a flute of champagne while yakking to some other fuck elsewhere, don't care who. Meanwhile I'm stood perfectly still, yet she still manages to bump into me. But of course, because y'know, I'm the prole bodyguard and all that gunk, it's all of a sudden MY fault! So she comes up to me and goes: Excuse me, you're addressing a lady. So I responded with: I don't see any ladies around here. And then she says to me: But I'm standing right here! Me: I know that, I still don't see any ladies around here though... and she took exception to that. But you know how the song and dance goes... *HIC!*"
"Tell me how that explains the waiter," Frost demanded.
"She went to slap me, and left a nice juicy mark on my cheek," said White. "Of course, that's not going to deter Elena White, ohhhhh no. So I tell her: That's not a slap. This is a slap! Unfortunately, my riposte ended up missing the bitch and hit the waiter instead. But the guards saw her start it and ... and they dragged her out instead..." White snorted, about to burst into laughter.
"So basically the whole purpose of this was so you could brag that you started a fight at an upper-class party and got away with it?"
Before White could respond to Frost's looming query, her drunken eyes caught sight of none other than Morgenstern, looking equally jolly with a bottle of nigori in her hand. She arrived arm in arm with Rourke, himself struggling in the field of self-coordination as he held a cocktail glass of his favoured Bloody Mary in his hand.
"Magda – you're with a man?!" White stated in jesting disbelief. "Traitor! Betrayer! Judas! Or whatever the lady version is..."
"Ah, she's a right dag, 'is one!" Rourke laughed, barely able to hold himself up, let alone the woman standing as tall as him. "Best comp'ny I've 'ad in months – and I've done a lot a' travellin' in my lifetime. Fer instance, there was 'is one lass on Eunomia..."
"Theodore Rourke?" Frost's disbelief was genuine. "The most butch woman I've ever seen in my entire life hooked up with Theodore fucking Rourke?"
"Not a hookup – it's just 'at I'm no alky to be drinkin' alone!" Rourke reassured the captain with a wave, his drink sloshing in the glass. "You look like the kinda guy who gets me, ah?"
"What do you want, Rourke?" Bridger scowled at him.
"Friend of a friend thought it a good idea to send me here on a break," explained Rourke. "Do summit' different, ya know? Never been much of a fan a' these flashy get-togethers, but whaddya know – maybe I'll go travellin' further if Maggie wants ta' come with me."
"'Maggie' has work to do," Bridger stared gravely at him. "Work that is none of your concern."
"Oh, I wou'nt be so sure..." Rourke beamed at the opulently dressed Occator executive. "Anyway, I think I've 'ad enough ta' drink this eve, so I'd hand 'er back t'ya. Don' worry, I made sure she's got 'er keys – I won't come back in the night to haunt 'er, hahahahahahah!"
With that, he left Morgenstern in the chair opposite White, stumbling off in the general direction of the elevator out.
"I suppose we ought to get these two drunkards back to the hotel, then..." Frost decided.
"What about the ... you know?" Bridger informed the captain in a hushed voice, trying to navigate her way around what to mention and what to keep silent about.
"Didn't you hear Rourke?" Frost informed her. "He left Mags' keys with her."
"Oh, right!" so set in the realisation for Bridger. "Back to the hotel it is, then."
She then turned to governor Grumman, who had observed the altercation with his hand scratching at his chin. "It has been a pleasure, governor, but we must now take our leave."
"If only I could say the same..." Grumman lamented with a grumble.
~
With the key now firmly in Morgenstern's pocket, the quintet's mission on Hygiea was all but complete, despite the setback that had been provided so kindly by a horribly wasted White. All that remained now was to return to the Twenty-forth Street, where the group's hotel was situated. Frost's plan after that was to gather their gear and check out of the hotel early, buying them as much time as possible to return to Bridger's yacht. Even though they were close to success, the threat of attack on these poorly lit late night streets loomed overhead like the ink blackness of space.
"So I wonder what Sparrow offered the Hermod chief to play spy here," Wilkins stated.
"Do you even need to ask?" said Frost. "I'd have thought it'd be obvious. Everyone knows about his greed, even those not in the higher corporate circles. She probably had to offer a pretty big crate of gold, though."
"But why would she entrust something so sensitive to a man who could so easily be persuaded the other way by the Iron Knights?" queried Wilkins.
"Why indeed?" Frost responded. "Because Sparrow is a consummate master of playing the 'completely unexpected' card. Anyone who thinks in a logical mindset wouldn't ever hand a sensitive job like this to a man like Rourke. Nor would they expect their adversaries to do the same. By telling the conventional to go screw a goat, Sparrow can keep her enemies guessing."
"I do wish you'd use a much less ... uh, graphic analogy than ... goats..." Bridger protested with a slight shudder.
"When you've seen and done what I have, Bridger, analogies will be the least of your concerns," Frost laughed her off.
Ahead of the conversing group, bootsteps could be heard from the next street over. As the noise registered as a group in Frost's mind, a three-strong security patrol rounded the corner ahead of them. When they caught sight of the quintet they stopped; on prompt from their apparent commander, they spread out and formed a rank of three, blocking the pavement.
Frost may have thought nothing of this display, had he not recognised the grim-faced glare a certain D'Amico from two days prior by a bandage covering his ruined nose. At the sight of this, his face turned sour.
"Oh, not you fuckers again," he growled at them. "Didn't you get the memo last time? White doesn't do outcalls."
"Good thing we ain't here for White then, ain'it?" one of the soldiers announced.
A brief pause as Frost surveyed all potential scenarios before him.
"Get behind me," he instructed Bridger under his breath, before turning back to D'Amico and his crew. "I'm a bit confused. I thought your beef was with White. Unless you're pissed off because I put an end to your fun."
"We're 'ere fer the big one," D'Amico announced. "She's got somethin' our bosses want."
"Apart from bad breath and beer, I can't imagine what that could be," said Frost.
Then from the corner of his eye, Frost spotted humanoid shapes shifting in the darkness. Five of them. All clad in civilian attire, from jackets and tracksuits to miner's gear, all carrying various bladed and blunt weapons from knives to a wooden baseball bat. One feature stood to alarm the captain the most, however.
Their mouths were all obscured by purple bandannas.
"You know exactly what we're 'ere for, Frost," D'Amico set loose a vicious smile. "After all, we're just servants o' da Broken Angel."
The levies moved to encircle the group with alarming speed,
severing all exits. D'Amico drew a long, serrated combat knife from his sheath, a murderous glitter in his eyes as he levelled a predatory gaze to Frost. The captain readied himself for battle, opening his palms as he awaited his opponent's first move. Wilkins, too, prepared for combat, raising his fists. Both he and Bridger, however, were close to panic.
Then D'Amico lunged. Frost, lacking his exosuit, struggled to subdue the combat-ready soldier fighting with him, but ultimately wrenched the knife from his hand and threw it aside. D'Amico's comrade rushed to his assistance brandishing a baseball bat-sized stun club; Frost managed to push the struggling soldier in his grip into the path of the club swing, prompting the mercenary to drop the weapon with a grunt. The captain was much quicker on the draw than the stunned merc, the latter finding himself on the business end of his own club as he was knocked to the floor by a hard strike on his helmet.
D'Amico recovered enough to lunge for the captain, once again brandishing his knife. Frost responded by powering up his club, the weapon erupting to life with a sparkling crack. The captain had only to prod the soldier in the chest, electrical energy rocketing through his body causing him to spasm as he stumbled backward. A hard swing to his side was sufficient to set off an arc blast, sending D'Amico crashing through the window of a hardware shop.
"Wilkins," Frost barked, searching for the soldiers at his side, "get the girls to safety!"
He paused his order to make an overhead swing of his stun club at a levy charging for Morgenstern, shattering the attacker's skull into red paste with a steel-hard blow from the blunt side.
"There's stims in the hotel room!" he continued. "Sober them up, gear up and get back down here! I'll clear a path for you!"
"On it, boss!" Wilkins acknowledged. He still held White and Morgenstern, both oblivious to their surroundings in their stupor.
"Bridger!" Frost called out for the executive, nowhere to be found. "BRIDGER!"
Bridger had backed herself up against a brick wall as the fight transpired around her, face stretched with grave concern. Two of the remaining three levies had borne her fear for her life into the real world, one of whom carried that wooden baseball bat. While one of the levies kept Bridger restrained with her own fox fur collar, the other raised his bat and launched into a bone-shattering swing aimed at her head, too fast for a horrified Frost to intervene.
A shattered bat took shape where the captain had fully expected a pulverised skull. So too did a bald head, a black wig falling to the pavement unveiling a barcode tattoo strung across the back of Bridger's skull. The fear for her life vanished, supplanted by a murderous smile as her eyes began to glow.
"That was a bad idea."
Before the shocked levy could even register Bridger's remark, the fighter restraining her unleashed a piercing scream, both of his arms having been torn from their sockets. The levy who had made the stupid mistake of striking her found his own head being bashed into bonemeal by a pair of detached arms, both of them now in Bridger's hands as she fought her way out of the ambush. The last unscathed levy ran at her with a long knife, only for his berserk roars to turn to choking screams as he staggered back, blood streaming from his slashed throat as Bridger dropped his knife to the floor.
D'Amico, only now staggering to his feet after Frost's terrific club strike, turned to investigate what was going on, only to see the corpses of his men. More concerning still was the emotionless, flaring green eyed woman marching towards him with obvious intent.
"No, wait, I was just followin' ord-!"
He never finished his panicked screed before Bridger grabbed his neck and tore out his throat with a flick of her wrist.
"Wrong orders," she stated.
The last sight in the mortal world he saw was a part of his windpipe being crushed into pulp in her fist, before he flopped to the ground dead.
"And here I was thinking I'd seen everything..." Frost stood dumbstruck by this sudden display of great strength from the unlikeliest source.
"You've seen nothing yet, Frost." Bridger sounded far more authoritative and sincere than before, shattering the illusion of a corporate princess like glass as her green eyes glowed brighter than previously. "You said it yourself – my creator likes to play the unexpected card."
"Creator?" Frost uttered, his confusion only magnified by the statement. "Just what the fuck has Sparrow been-"
"On your knees, hands behind your heads!" A sharp voice of authority cut him short from behind. "Now, or we will open fire!"
Frost and Bridger spun around expecting another group of levies, only to be greeted by more green combat fatigues. Six of them – a Wayland security patrol, having clearly overheard the commotion transpiring around the street corner, arriving on short notice to resolve the apparent crisis. This time it was a genuine patrol, their assault rifles trained on the pair.
"About time you showed up..." Frost rolled a bitter remark off his tongue. "You even almost made it to the fight!"
"I said get on your-"
Heavy footsteps of ironclad boots boomed through the street to interrupt the trooper's command. A mechanical whine served to precede each thumping step of their march, every step taken with perfectly syncretic distance from one another. The figure then emerged from an alleyway, the same from whence those levies had come. Fully power-armoured in brilliant white, breastplate embossed with the bright silver visage of a wolf's head, cinnabar red cloak draping his left shoulder, and the dread maw of an eyeless beast on his armoured helmet...
"Oh, fuck..." Frost gasped. Bridger's reaction was invisible, but raw terror could be sighted in the eyes of every security trooper that had arrived. Only the ghostly cascade of infernal breaths wailing from the Hound's mouth grill killed the silence.
"Run like buggery!" Frost waited not for the Hound's next move, sprinting straight for the alleys with Bridger in tow.
The security troopers only saw the Hound draw his huge square hand-cannon with a flick of the right wrist, as if breaking a neck. The street was filled with the roar of assault rifles as the soldiers unleashed bone-shattering fury on their adversary; as their magazines expired, the aftermath of their attack proved to be little more than a fountain of sparks erupting from the nightmare in shining armour before them. Their desperate last stand had simply broken against the metal demon like waves against a cliff.
Before so much as a scream could pierce the stale air, the Hound raised his own weapon; from the maw of the thick-barrelled piece spewed a blazing fireball red as burning blood, discharged with an electrical thud. A mere second later, six plasma bolts had reduced his enemies to molten sludge, the reek of burning flesh and ozone filling the air with a battle miasma.
The Hound's dragon snapped to fire at the fleeing Frost and Bridger, two seething plasmatic fireballs striking the corner just as his prey disappeared into the alley out of sight. Not to be deterred, he gave chase at once, the battlefield once again dominated by giantesque bootsteps. Arriving at the alley to sight his quarry, his plasmacaster raised once more, a third volley of fire rolled into the passage. Had Frost not pushed Bridger into an alcove, they would certainly have been melted. Though the crash of a door being shoved open gave the giant an idea of where they were headed...
"Fuck!" Frost snarled, seething as he glanced at his right shoulder. Sustaining plasma burns was nothing unfamiliar to him, having received his fair share of war wounds in his heyday, but that was no change to the reality of their devastating power at close range.
The racket of something crashing through the brick wall, followed by the short sight of two hell red optics piercing the resultant smoke, proved that injury from a fulminating ball of gas was the least of his problems.
"Get yourself back to the hotel," Bridger ordered, two kunai blades flicking out of her dress into her hands. "I'll hold him off."
Confident in the executive's recently discovered combat capabilities, Frost nodded and proceeded without her.
It was only then that he noticed where he was – an upscale c
lothes shop, a sight most curious in such a utilitarian settlement as this. The presence of this shop was as clear an indicator as any that Frost was now in the city's tourist district, with the hotel he was after not being far from here.
Sure enough, the hotel turned out to be right across the street, separated from the road by a mooncrete plaza with a square fountain at its centre and ringed by flower-filled planter boxes. Frost stumbled into the plaza, suppressing the tremendous pain emitted by his burn wound, the only sight on his mind being the appearance of Wilkins who came rushing out to his assistance. The soldier was fully geared up for battle, having hastily exchanged his suit for his blue plate carriers and his exoskeleton.
"Frost!" Wilkins called out to his commanding officer. "Your gear's in the lobby!"
"Don't bother with the rifle, it'll just make him laugh!" Frost bellowed as he blundered through the glass door, kept upright by the soldier. "Hand me my pistol!"
"Make who laugh?" Wilkins pitched a confused ask, before widening his eyes at the plasma burn on Frost's shoulder. "What the bloody hell happened to your shoulder?!"
"We're about to be paid a visit by the Lord and Master of All Things FUBAR!" Frost ignored his concern, more worried for the lives of his subordinates at present. "Gimme a stim!"
On command, Wilkins handed the captain an auto-injector, the latter jabbing it into himself. Once he had done so, he slipped into his exoskeleton, the wiry frame snapping shut over his suit. With his handgun in his right hand and the stun club in his left, Frost stood far better prepared to face the Hound, facing the shop from whence he had come.
"Frost!" White called in through the radio hidden in his suit. "Are you there?! Where the hell's Bridger?!"
A figure dressed in finery crashing through a window served as the answer to that question. Bridger's face was caked in a viscous dark gold substance, her arm had been shattered, her leg was visibly broken and part of her brain could be seen through her battered skull. Before Frost could investigate, an armour-clad gauntlet burst through the gap, clutching her midriff; a second grabbed a part of her close by. Then, with a mighty wrench, the unscathed Hound simply ripped the woman in half like a phone book, the ground at his feet being drenched with yellow blood and entrails.
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