by Jack Delgado
December 30th, 2199
The everpresent clouds over Omega were lent a mauve glow by the lights of the city below, a rich and royal color turned horribly wrong, polluted by the body it was forced upon. Acid rain threatened the city, long since rendered immune to its wiles but intolerant and hateful of it nonetheless. Shards of lightning blazed off across the great plain, perhaps striking the skeletal frame of a Wraith tree somewhere in the wasteland. Thunder rumbled and a razor wind blew, dirty and ragged and cold, the wind of nightmares.
Dante jerked up from a pile of packagefoam boxes in the back alley of an old bar, the neuroalarm on his wrist sending a quick burst of pain driving up his arm like a cold metal spike. He shook his head blearily and looked down at the watch, fumbling with the deactivator and grabbing his pistols and a ring of razor-sharp steel.
“Goddamnit, Dante” he groaned, springing to his feet as the pain slowly faded from his arm, “Late again.”
He slammed through the screen door into the back of the bar, his weapon dinging off the steel door handle and leaving a deep nick in the metal. The entrance was clear across the long cook room, masked by the steam of the great grey nutria-processing vats. The room stank like a cesspit, the bare-essentials sludge rife with benevolent bacteria feeding on organic waste.
Dante strode forward between the rows of vats, making his way towards another screen door across the room and trying to decide which excuse would work best for Prophet.
I don't know, the hat trick? Maybe the mercenary-captainess would work. He’s a smart one, though. Better use the all-purpose Aaliyah excuse.
A door to his left banged open, a pair of huge, hulking shapes jostling through the door and blocking Dante’s way. The duo of security androids gleamed in the low light, clad in old-timey dress suits and poorly-hidden bulletproof vests.
"Where do you think you're going, monkey?" the android on the left called to Dante, slipping an enormous metal hand into its suit and drawing a submachine gun out of its holster.
Androids. Goddamn idiots, all of them.
Dante kept right on walking, his hand tightening around the wrapped-leather grip of the wind-and-fire wheel, his face curling into a derisive smirk.
"Stop right there or I will end you!" the other android blared, drawing his own weapon and aiming it in the runner’s general direction.
Dante slowly came to a stop, with fifteen feet of distance between himself and the two security ‘droids. The two advanced slowly, crouched down, keeping their weapons fixed on the runner. As they reached him they pressed their weapons into his jaw and his heart, keeping unwavering eye contact.
“What’re you down here for, boy?” asked the android on the left, grabbing Dante’s razor ring and throwing it out behind him. Dante said nothing, crossing his arms and keeping that insolent grin on his face.
“Don’t you know you could get hurt down here?” the android on the right said, its voice motherly and mocking.
“Well, nobody’s gonna miss you, that’s for damn sure,” growled the left-hand ‘droid, “See that armor, BK? This one’s a runner.”
BK whistled and pressed his weapon a little harder into Dante’s chest.
“Well, now,” it tinned out, “Can’t have one of you running about. It’s bad enough there are so many of you anyway. Don’t you know it’s against the law to be you, boy?”
“I also know it’s against the law to contract android bodyguards or security,” Dante replied sweetly, still smiling, “So don’t talk to me about being illegal.”
BK snarled and shot a massive metal fist out into Dante’s gut with all the strength it could muster. Immediately the android staggered back, howling in programmed pain as his mangled, smashed fist sparked and hissed. Dante sighed and rolled his eyes, feeling the hardened plate of GIACA matter subsume back under his skin.
The other android reacted quickly, cocking its gun and pushing Dante into the nearest cooking vat with an enraged shout. BK gasped and shuddered, then seemed to remember where and what it was. It staggered forward and jabbed the gun back in Dante’s face, wheezing and furious.
“I’m gonna make you regret climbing out of your momma, you free-range piece of shit!” BK screamed, its synthetic voice gratingly metallic in Dante’s ear.
Dante’s smile grew just a bit, his hands unfolding from his chest and pressing up against his thighs.
“That’s gonna be pretty hard to do,” he yawned, covering his mouth, “if your guns aren’t loaded.”
The androids froze, staring at the runner. Then their eyes traveled slowly to the bottoms of their guns, checking for the black chrome bullet clips.
Still there.
Their eyes shot back up to Dante, even angrier than before.
“What are you trying to pull, you little freak?” bellowed BK, wide-eyed with fury, “I’ll show you fucking unloaded!”
The androids’ fingers tightened, pulling back the triggers of their weapons.
Click.
Click click click click click.
“What the fuck?” whispered BK. He looked down at the submachine gun; the clip was gone from its slot. He looked back up, and the runner had vanished with them.
Then the android began to scream, intense agony bursting up and down its back as a pair of hands punched through layers of steel and plastic, burrowing in and bursting out the other side. Dante pushed sideways, pulling out with all his strength, and tore BK clean in half with a snap and a final, gurgling scream.
The other android stared at Dante in dumb terror, lowering its gun until it trailed at his side. The runner yawned and cracked his neck loudly, wiping fluid from burst fuel cells onto the android’s ripped, destroyed suit. He looked up at the android while he cleaned himself, giving the robot an unsmiling look.
"Don’t get me started on what I can do with a weapon, my friend,” he said flatly, “I think you should get out of here.”
The android nodded and sprinted for the demolished screen door, throwing the gun away with horrified abandon. Dante straightened quietly and walked to the second door, gathering up his weapon and walking down the ramshackle wooden stairs without a sound.
At the base of the stairs the passageway ended in a bright brick wall, completely filling the tunnel. No gaps or cracks. Dante strode forward and tapped on a brick with a small white notch in it, drumming out a human heartbeat for exactly ten seconds.
The brick slid away and two yellow, diseased eyes gazed at him through the hole. A wheezy, Cockney voice greeted Dante, loud and sickly and unpleasant.
“Does your mother know you're down here, boy?" the doorkeep asked loudly.
Dante's lips twitched in irritation, but he kept his voice level. “Let me through. I need to talk with Prophet."
"I ain’t never heard of no Prophet,” wheezed the doorkeep, “and we've got a full house tonight anyway. There's no room for yeh, boy."
Dante rolled his eyes and sighed disgustedly.
"First of all,” he said, his tone sharp and annoyed, “Mal never lets in more than 10 people, and even then just for the occasional old-comrades party.”
The eyes widened in surprise and Dante kept on talking.
“Second, you're a terrible liar. You’re shifty-eyed and don’t breathe evenly. I know there's nobody in here. Third, do you know what I am, and what I can do?"
The doorkeep's eyebrows rose.
"And why should I let some fool kid like yourself in, even if ye are sharper than the average bloke? What the hell do you think you are?"
Dante fell silent, considering the yellowed eyes with a strange expression. Then he took a step back, a smile growing on his handsome face. His GIACA, having ordered itself into a jacket, shirt and jeans when he walked down the stairs, began to shift and ripple. The jacket and shirt dissolved beneath Dante’s skin as the eyes watched, leaving his chest bare in the pale light of the overhead lamp.
“You want proof?” he asked. A grey coloring seemed to be spreading from his fingertips, cove
ring his hand and then his forearm with a strangely leisurely flow of dark color. The doorkeeper gulped; he knew the penalty for stopping a runner.
Dante drew his lips back across his gums, baring his teeth as the GIACA ran out across them and turned them into fangs.
“There,” he roared, “You’ve got it! Now let me through!”
The door flew open with unnatural speed, the doorkeep scampering down a side tunnel, wailing softly. Dante suppressed a chuckle and walked off down the hallway, whistling a pop tune to himself as he went.
At the end of the second hallway stood another door, red and painted with a white, baroque hexagon. Dante pushed through and stepped into the bar, swinging the door shut behind him with a loud bang.
Molly's Saloon had a hundred different kinds of booze and a limited clientele, mercenaries and crime lords among them. The velvet and wood were stained, and lion’s heads and the padded backs of armchairs broken and torn, decay present everywhere. But the thing that had always stood out to Dante was the stench; like sour wine and spilt blood and regret. He wrinkled his nose and looked around. The bar was deserted except for one drunk, passed out on the counter, drool slowly pooling around his head on the stained oak wood.
And the bartender, Malachi Sweeney, pulling a pistol out from behind the bar as he stared at Dante in fear and loathing. Dante moved forward slowly, spreading his hands and fastening his weapon onto a pair of GIACA hooks on his back.
"Hey, Mal,” he called to the bartender, “What's with the piece?"
"I was told I shoulda been expecting free-range meat tonight,” Malachi said curtly, glowering at Dante over the bar, “What the fuck do you want, Soldari?"
Dante tsked, still advancing. "I'm here to talk to Prophet, but that gun's making me jumpy. Why don’t you put that down and tell me where he is?"
Malachi advanced a step, hatred running across his face in a visible tide.
“Give me two good reasons I shouldn’t kill you for what you did to her,” he growled, cocking the hammer and taking careful aim.
Dante’s face hardened, his fists clenching at his sides.
"I’m not going to justify my actions to you, Malachi. What’s done is done,” he replied, fighting hard to keep his voice stable, “I can’t take back what I did. I would if I could.”
“But here are two reasons anyway,” he continued, not waiting for Malachi to respond, “You won't hurt me with that and you know it. And it’s not worth the effort it would take to kill you if you did shoot me. So why don't you just put the damn gun down, let me go about my business, and go back to cleaning your faux-Victorian bullshit?"
A deafeningly loud shot rang out across the bar, jerking the drunk up an inch.
Dante stood absolutely still, hand coiled around the handle of the wind-and-fire wheel. A small drop of blood was trickling from a hole near his collarbone, the surface of the grey armor hardened into a thick shell around it.
The runner looked down at the bullet, looking surprised to see it there. As both men watched, the grey mass constricted in around the bullet, forcing it up and out. Within the space of a few breaths the bullet slid out and clattered to the floor, the tip covered in a slick of blood. Dante returned his gaze to Malachi, who drew his greasy bulk up against the liquor shelf, his eyes wide and his mouth working silently.
In a flash Dante was at the bar, reaching over and pulling the bartender effortlessly onto the counter. The ring swept up to Malachi’s throat, biting into skin and stopping just before the cut could threaten the man’s life. Malachi quivered in terror, prying vainly against the runner’s inhumanly strong hands, alchohol clattering to the floor as he kicked and struggled
"An added benefit to being me is that my armor, loving bitch that it is, can protect me from everything short of a goddamn artillery shell if I see it coming," Dante whispered in his ear.
Dante's eyes blazed with anger, his teeth bared in a bestial mask, and he seemed snarl rather than talk. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply for a second. Molly’s struggles slowed to a feeble pull, strength evaporating in mortal dread.
"Malachi,” the runner resumed quietly, “you've been fucking with me since the day I met you, all those years ago. But you’ve never tried to kill me before.”
Dante drew the ring back behind him, keeping it at a 90 degree angle to Malachi’s throat.
“So, think quickly now,” he growled, “Give me one good reason I shouldn't spare myself a particularly frustrating pain in my ass."
Malachi gulped like a fish out of water, grasping for words that weren't there now that his control had been taken away. Dante grinned and spoke in a ferocious undertone.
"That's what I thought. Pray to whatever devil you want, whichever one you sold your balls to. He's gonna be roasting your soul shortly."
He drew back the ring back to make the final cut, and felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press against his temple.