1: The Cornerian Shootist
Back then I thought I was hot stuff. I thought I was the man, that I because I had a blaster on my hip and a jacket around my shoulders, I could do anything. I was Wolf O'Donnell, the Cornerian Shootist. Hell, I nearly did almost anything. I was on my own in that point of my life, on a wild, foreign world with little more than a blaster on my hip and a bike between my legs. Maybe it would've been better for me to stay on that farm back in Kiowa… but I don't think I would've changed a thing. No, not really.
I worked like any other shootist back in those days: I killed people for a living. It's not bad work, if you live for danger and possibly an agonizing end. All shootists live on their reputations, their reps, and mine wasn't too quick to take off, if you know what I mean. I worked long and hard to become a respected and sought-after shootist. At first it was just guarding caravans romping across the endless deserts. Then it was being hired help for small-time stick-ups or shakedowns. I fondly remember the first time someone approached me to offer me a contract.
It was dusk, and I just drove into the small town of Iverson. It wasn't much, but it was like most other Papetoonese towns back then: bar, chapel, clinic, garage, general store, some houses, a uranium mine, ranches, a few moisture farms nearby, and not much else. If it wasn't for that uranium mine, Iverson probably wouldn't exist.
Anyway, I found the bar, "Earle's" I think it was called, and went to the bar. It was small: just the bar, stools right in front of it, and a few tables and chairs scattered around the place. Most of it was made of wood with corrugated steel on the outside. My boots clunked down on the wooden floorboards, alerting the few people inside to my presence. They did their best not to stare too much, since they saw the blaster on my hip. Most people tend to not bother guys carrying. At least, most sensible people. Behind the bar was a door, and a window to look into the kitchen: I couldn't catch a clear look of the back of house, but it probably wasn't anything to write home about. I sat down in a stool and put down a bronze coin: back then most places on Papetoon didn't accept Cornerian credits. They still used hard cash back then.
"Just a bottle of beer," I asked. "Is there any place around here I can rent a room to spend the night?" I said. The barkeep took the coin.
"Yeah," said the barkeep - some sort of vulpine. "This place doubles as a flophouse: I've got a few rooms upstairs. Sorry… no Wi-Fi." I chuckled at that remark as he gave me my bottle, taking the cap off with his bare hands. "I've uh… also got a lady I know that can… show you your room. Or a guy. Whatever you want." I stared at him, gripping onto the bottle."
"I think I'll just take the room and beer," I said.
"Alright then," he said, almost dejectedly.
"Actually, I'm a bit hungry," I added. "You got food or something?"
"Yeah, just some chicken wings, fries, fried pickles, things like that."
"Can I get some wings?"
"You want regular or spicy ones?"
"Spicy, thanks."
"You got it, bud." The barkeep stepped away from the bar, and went behind the door leading to the kitchen. There, I saw him at work, putting red-colored chicken wings into a fryer. As they boiled and sizzled in the cooking oil, a sleazy-looking, yet nervous lizard wearing worn overalls, some dirty shirt, and a cap, came up to me. He must've pissed himself just standing up. I didn't even look at him at first.
"Hey," he said nervously. "Uh… are you Wolf O'Donnell? The guy who shot Nelson Wiggs back in Minstrel Canyon?" Now, Nelson Wiggs was a well-known local in those parts back then, mostly for being a big-shot merc that tended to exaggerate all of his shit… and everyone believed him. Everyone except me. I gunned him down while he tried to stick up the caravan I was riding along with. Wiggs was a complicated man, but he died like any other man.
"Maybe," I said in an annoyed tone. "Why?"
"Umm…. I've got a… a problem I think you can solve for me."
"Why would I do that?" I kept sipping on his beer, making the lizard sweat a bit.
"I can pay you. Good money."
"All money's good. The question is, is it enough money?" The lizard fumbled through his pockets, muttering to himself. He put down a pouch full of gold coins right beside my beer bottle.
"It's all yours if you do this job for me." I nodded, then finally turned to him.
"What's the job?" I asked.
"Well, you see," began the lizard, "there's this lady that lives up the road a ways, by the mine. Name's Olivia Bronstein. She's been taking potshots at us miners trying to work there for years, and now we've caught wind that she got some gunmen backing her. Now they're all holed up in the mine. That's where you come in."
"All of them gotta go, huh?" I pondered.
"Yessir," answered the lizard. "Every single damn one of 'em, Bronstein especially. If not, she'll just come back madder and with more gunmen, and we can't have that. So please. Money's yours if you do." I sat there quietly for a few more moments, letting the lizard sweat a bit.
"I'll take the job," I said affirmatively. The lizard nodded in excitement. He thanked me profusely, and gave me the money. He strutted out of the bar all proud and such. I looked down and the wings appeared before me, piping hot and covered in red spicy sauce. I chomped one, chewing the flesh. It was spicy, but that artificial, bottled kind. Not too bad, certainly not inedible. I finished the basket of wings and beer over the course of an hour or so: I was one of four other people there, including the barkeep. I guess business was slow that night. Odd, considering this was a mining town and the miners were thirsty after working all day in a hole, although not so odd since that Bronstein lady took over the mine and basically made all those miners jobless.
"Where's my room?" I asked after the wings and beer gone. I paid the barkeep for my wings. The barkeep took my cash.
"Follow me," he said. He came from behind the bar, and I got up off the stool, following him.
"Actually, hold up for a second," I said. I went outside and got my bag locked in the little satchel trunk of my bike, which was hanging off of the rear seat of my ride. I came back inside.
I followed the barkeep, and we went down a narrow hallway flanked by a few doors, and we stopped at the last door. He jingled some keys from his pocket, and used one on its own chair with this little worn number tag on it to unlock the door. He opened it, and stood aside. I stared at him for a few seconds, then motioned with my head for him to go first. He rolled his eyes and went in, and I put my hand on my blaster, ready to go.
I peeked inside: nobody but him. I stepped in, glancing at the barkeep and scanning the room. Nothing much, not even a closet. Just a bed with an iron frame and worn mattress with a flat pillow and off-white blanket, and a little wood table. The window had dirty glass on the outside, and cheap curtains on the interior. There was a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and an outlet beside the table. The room's air smelled stale, like nobody had used it in a while.
"There's a bathroom just across the hall from you," said the barkeep. "Let me know if you need anything else." He handed the keys to me, and I took them. He left the room, closing the door behind me. I sighed, taking off my boots and socks, putting them aside. I put my bag next to them. I also took my blaster out of my holster, a RAP Model 8. Nowadays, it's not exactly the best blaster around, but back then it was tough and reliable, and like nearly any blaster, it could take down someone, no problem. It had a nice comfortable grip, but a bit of a long barrel and a bit too sensitive a trigger for me, but that's just my taste. I put the thing beneath the pillow, which was almost totally flat from what I supposed was heavy use.
The room was small, probably… I don't know, 50 square feet or something? Maybe? It was smaller than a studio apartment in Corneria City, that's for sure. It was cozy, I'll give it that. Not some place I'd want to spend the rest of my days in, but it was alright if you needed to sleep somewhere for one night or two.
It was around 2300 hours or something like that, and I was lying down in my bed on my back, staring at the shadowy ceiling in my darkened room. I played like I was cool, and I played it well, but deep down, I knew one thing: I was worried. I was worried that I'd get my head blown off, that they'd jump me in that mine and I'd never come out. That's the end of Wolf O'Donnell, blasted to bits in some hole in the ground. My mind kept racing on that fact, but I breathed deeply, and remembered my training from my time as a fighter during the Water Wars. Watch your back, count your bolts, check your corners, always have another magazine ready, be quick on the draw, keep your blaster at the ready. And for God's sake, double tap. Despite my mind wandering, my eyelids felt like they had lead weights tied to them. I shut them and fell asleep quickly. I don't remember my dream – maybe I didn't even have one.
The night went quickly. I woke up to no sound, really. I just woke up. I looked at my watch on my left wrist: 0740 hours. I sat up on the bed, yawning and then rotating my head, getting the kinks out of my neck. Then I stood up, putting my morning stretching in, loosening my muscles and getting the blood flowing. I figured that the bathroom across the hall would be a small one, too small for a tub or shower. So, I took off all of my clothes except for my undergarments and took out these clean wipes from my bag, and cleaned myself. It's no shower, but it keeps me from smelling or anything like that. Since there was no mirror in the room, I used my cell phone camera to get the hard-to-reach areas and just scope myself out, checking if I needed more… touching up. Yeah, it sounds vain, but that's how I was back then. Appearances mattered for me.
Oh God, I was real young back then. I wasn't ripped, but damn I looked good. Nice biceps, triceps, abs, pecs. I was pretty athletic back then. Nowadays I can feel my age every so often, but when I was a young'un, late teens early twenties, I felt like I could conquer the 'verse. I pulled moves I'm skeptical of doing today. I wasn't the best at parkour, but I was agile enough. My biggest strength back then – and still is today – was my, well, my strength. Not to toot my own horn, but I could benchpress 300 pounds, no sweat. Sure that weight may have gone down a bit, but it comes with the territory. I'm not the same guy now that I was back then.
After ogling myself for, I don't know, a few minutes, I put my clothes back on, then my socks and boots. I grabbed my trusty toothbrush and some toothpaste and headed to the bathroom. It was empty, so I had the run of the tiny little room. I brushed my teeth, squeezing out what little paste remained in the tube. After splashing some water in my face when all was said in done, I looked in the dirty glass mirror, the tired LED buzzing as it illuminated my reflection. In a short resolute stare, I steeled myself for what was to come – wiping lives from the face of the 'verse. I smiled, excited for what I was about to do. I was almost giddy, to be quite honest with you.
I kept my bag in my room, and paid the barkeep for an additional few hours for the room, just in case the job took that long. It almost did, to be honest with you. I asked the barkeep where the uranium mine, and he gave me good directions, after which I thanked him.
"Once you head outside," he said, "take a left and keep going until you hit Mick's Garage. Then make a right, go up the hill, and keep going until you see the signs for the mine."
Making sure the door was locked and I had the key, I went outside and looked around. The streets were largely empty, the blacktop and sidewalks almost entirely devoid of life. The only thing you could hear was the wind whistling through the streets, maybe the distant car horn or engine. I went to my bike, turned it on, and drove down the street. It was early, so people just started wandering out of their homes to begin the day. Most folks stared at me as I passed by on my bike, almost knowing what I was here for. They didn't say anything, but them showing up out of their houses to take a look at me was some sort of indication, in my eyes, that they were rooting for me. I think.
I approached Mick's Garage, a humble little place in my opinion. The sign was worn and the garage door was open, and I took a glance inside. I saw some sort of guy, a bird I think, working on an old truck or something. I sped by him way too fast for him to even look back at me. I took a right, and drove up the hill. In no time, I reached a fork in the blacktop, and to the right was a sign that said "Iverson Mine" and another one that said "Private Property – No Trespassing." There was an iron gate, but it was wide open. The hill was a wide open space, holding a dominating position over the arid valley Iverson was in. It was a scenic view, the mine itself occupying a particularly picturesque vista. The hill was a gradual slope, so I wouldn't call it a promontory, but it definitely was a geographic landmark for miles around.
I pulled up to a few parked vehicles by the edge of the road ahead. There was that lizard from yesterday, and a well-dressed fox. So, I park my bike and waltz up to them, holding my blaster by its grip while it was in my holster, ready for anything. The lizard spoke first.
"Ah, Mr. O'Donnell," he started, waving at me to come a bit closer. "This is Mr. Flynn." He gestured to the fox. "Eriksson Flynn. He's the owner of this mine, as well as the town's mayor." He offered his hand to me, I shook it.
"So, you're Wolf O'Donnell," he said with a slight frontier drawl. "My great-great-grandaddy was Iverson Flynn. He founded this town, opened that mine up ahead. Fast-forward to me and all of a sudden some two-bit bitch from the burgs thinks she's all hot shit since she bought the nearby homestead. Now she stakes claim to the whole goddamn mine, and she's taken to shooting anyone that comes near that ain't her hired guns."
"How many are we talking about, here?" I asked.
"Last we saw," continued Flynn, "twenty armed men and women. We think some may be cousins or such of Bronstein's." I nodded.
"Do any of them have any sort of heavy weaponry? Heavy blasters, rocket launchers, anything?" I added.
"One of 'em's got a heavy blaster, but that's it. Just the usual stock of thugs and pistoleers. Bronstein herself is carrying a sniper rifle with a fancy scope, and she's got this stupid little hat with a feather in it."
"So, you want me to kill all of them?"
"Yes, absolutely. Every single one."
"Then whatever I get off their bodies is mine, understood?"
"That's fine with me."
"Ok, I'll be back when the job's done."
"I recommend you head up there on foot: they'll hear that bike coming from a mile away. From here it's just a five-minute walk to the parking area."
"Got it."
"Good luck, mister." The lizard gave me a nod of encouragement as I left the duo. I heeded Flynn's advice, and walked my way up.
The dry, still desert air nipped at every single water droplet from my brow and mouth. My own sunglasses protected me well from the intense sun, although the leather I was wearing was a rather poor reflector of heat. I didn't mind though – the cool factor back then was more than enough for me to suffer through getting a bit warm. Well that and the blaster by my side. God, I'll admit, I was pretty stupid thinking I was awesome back then. Although, I am still alive, so I guess I was not bad.
Anyway, I reached the edge of the giant uranium surface mine that basically kept the town alive and, well, it was giant. Huge. At least a kilometer across. I groaned, thinking that I'd have to clear all that shit out. But at least the pay was good, and I got a chance at shooting people. I just knew though that the pistol on my holster was not enough, especially considering the fact that Miss Bronstein had a fucking sniper rifle. For all I knew, she was eyeing me the moment I stepped at the edge of the mine.
I heard footsteps coming from a large slope, a sort of road that leads deeper into the mine. Two gunmen came up to me, with blasters at their hips. They both had wide-brimmed hats and ponchos on.
"Hey, you!" said the taller one. The shorter one stayed back a short bit from the taller one. They were both foxes. "Who are you?"
I turned to them and rapidly took my blaster out of its holster, taking them completely unawares. I shot dead both of them. The shots from my blaster echoed throughout the mine, and I knew everyone around heard it. From then on I realized I was in for a fight. I hurriedly walked down the slope, shooting both guys in their heads to make sure they were gone and done for. I jumped down any slope I could, and slid down, taking shortcuts.
I heard blaster fire from the other side of the mine – they were taking potshots at me. Luckily for me I found some cover behind a giant mine vehicle that carried rocks or dirt or something. I bided my time behind it, trying to think. The blaster fire continued, albeit sporadically. I peeked my head out a tiny bit to see what was going on. A couple of guys were slowly approaching me from deeper in the mine, one of them carrying a rifle. They were firing off a few shots every now and then, making sure I wasn't going to fire back at them.
Looking down the pathway, I saw another guy running towards me, periodically stopping to fire off a shot with a blaster rifle. A long arm like that would've been useful, I thought. So, I crouched low, keeping my profile away from his sights. Forcing the guy, another fox, to come closer, I readied myself, keeping behind one of the truck's massive tires. Once he got in range, I blind fired. Then I heard a groan and thud, and peeked my head out: he was dead. I rushed to his corpse and grabbed his blaster rifle, sending some shots back to the guys shooting at me from a ridge on the opposite side of the mine. I took them down, three in all. Then, I went to the rifleman's corpse, and scavenged whatever ammo he had off of him.
I continued my way down the mine, my pistol holstered. I checked the rifle's magazine and reloaded, with the mag almost totally empty.
"Here we go," I said to myself after pulling back the charging handle. I ran to a crate full of ore, taking cover behind it as I went to a ridge or something that overlooked the bottom of the mine, which had a bunch of vehicles and a tent of sorts. There were tons of shootists, and they were shooting at me. I shot back. One guy down, another one, and another, using my commandeered rifle. They kept firing at me, missing or hitting the crate of ore, the bolts passing straight through and narrowly avoiding hitting me.
More and more of these guys I took down, all of them not scoring high in the marksmanship department, if you know what I mean. They were dressed like typical two-bit shootists, wearing cheap hats and dusters or torn jackets. Armed like them too: most had blaster pistols. A few had shotguns. They all acted like little more than armed thugs, just shooting wildly where I was.
I kept hearing their panicky shouting while I just kept shooting, and eventually I moved to a new piece of cover, another ore crate. Apparently they were shit shots, since they didn't ever hit me. Then, a big guy stepped out of the tent. I mean… huge. At least seven feet tall. He had the heavy blaster, and just started blasting at me. Full-auto.
"Oh, fuck!" I yelled as I scrambled for piece after piece of cover. Thankfully for me, the place was full of ore crates. Unluckily for me, though, as I learned quick, he had some sort of personal shields and so my shots were simply deflected. I needed to think hard and fast to take this guy down. He kept his finger down on the trigger, keeping me pinned. As the blaster bolts punched through the crate, I had to go lower and lower to the ground until I was almost laying down altogether. Finally, he stopped to reload. Peeking my head over the top of the crate, I thought fast.
I rushed the guy, hoping to use my blaster rifle as a club. I took the back end of it and swung it, striking him across the face. He stumbled a bit, groaning. I swung it back around again, hitting him once more in the face. And again. And again. And again. He took a knee, stunned. Then, out came my claws. I made an uppercut swipe with my left hand, dropping the rifle, and dug my claws into the big fox's neck. He screamed, blood gushing from the wounds. Then, I punched him in the face. He writhed on the ground, grasping at his neck, before expiring from blood loss.
A blaster shot from a powerful rifle rang out, and narrowly missed me, striking the ground not far from my feet. I flinched and cursed as I scrambled for cover inside the tent. Another bolt screamed towards me, hitting a crate of ore. It came from my upper left, no doubt from the house I saw earlier. After rushing into the tent, which was some sort of weapon workshop or something, I let myself have a few moments to breathe.
I looked around the tent, nothing much to me. Just some cheap parts scattered around the workbenches and shit like that. Nothing for me to steal, except maybe some neat-looking pistols. I stuffed them in my waistband, as well as some extra mags for them just in case. I also grabbed a few fusion batteries, for my bike, and a thermobaric grenade. I also found what to me would no doubt save my ass: a personal shield emitter.
I rushed out of the tent, the shield emitter on and attached to my wrist. The sniper, probably Bronstein herself, shot me twice, the shields deflecting the bolts effortlessly. She kept shooting me as I dashed to cover. Looking around frenetically, I found a truck. I quickly moved to it hoping it was fueled, and the keys were inside. I tried the door, but since it didn't budge, I just smashed open the window and crawled inside, some of the glass cutting my arms.
Once I was inside of the truck, I looked for keys inside the glove compartment. Lucky me, there they were, shiny and just begging for me to grab 'em. I did, Bronstein taking potshots at the engine of the truck hoping to keep me stuck. It didn't work, and I managed to start the truck and drive my way up the other side of the mine towards her house, with me crouched down, keeping myself concealed.
All the way up the road I kept hearing Bronstein's shots. You know, pap! Pap! Pap! Punching holes through the truck. I had to get lower and lower until I was literally laying down on the floor of the truck. In fact, one of my hands was pressing down on the gas pedal, and the other was on the steering wheel. I did that for around five, ten minutes. I peeked over the dashboard and saw Bronstein's house coming up, a three-story homestead, wood mostly. It looked real worn out, like it was lived in for a hundred years.
I opened the truck's door, and crouched down behind it, carrying the heavy blaster. Then, I stepped out into the open, blasting the front of the house with a full mag of blaster fire. Once empty, I dropped the blaster to the ground, and rushed to the front door with my blaster pistol in my hand. I looked in the door's glass window, and shot off the knob. Opening it, I checked the hallway leading to the rest of the first floor as well as the staircase. Suddenly, a sharply-dressed fox with a shotgun popped out from the back of the house, the kitchen, and fired off a shot. Luckily, my shields managed to hold of that fire, and I stumbled back behind cover.
"You messed with the wrong folk, boy!" the fox said.
"It's just business, buddy!" I yelled. "Now come on out so I can blow your head off and get paid for it!"
"Got a mouth on you, huh boy?!" said the fox. "Don't worry, ol' Liv and I'll teach you a thing or two in manners!" The fox fired off another shot, but by now I moved around the back of the house to the door where the kitchen led to a patio. I did my best to keep quiet as I carefully edged to the door, and through screen windows I saw that fox. I pointed my blaster pistol at him and fired off a few shots. I hit him in the back, but of course he had shielding. He was startled, but quickly swung around and fired off more shots with his shotgun. I crouched down out of sight and darted to another position.
"Gee! I wonder what you'll do now!" he yelled, taunting me. I decided enough was enough: and instead of playing some sort of hide-and-seek game I'd just end it there and now. I took out my thermobaric grenade and activated it by pressing the two detonation buttons, one after the other, alternating, in quick succession, for a total of two times in one button and three in the other: a failsafe in that particular model just to make sure you didn't blow yourself up if you accidentally sat on the thing. I smashed open a window to the living room and tossed it in. I think the grenade landed on the couch or something, because I didn't really hear a resounding thud. I rushed away from the house and dove to the ground, not really caring if Bronstein herself spotted me from her position.
"Oh shit! Bomb!" yelled a voice, the voice of the fox with the shotgun. Barely a moment later, I heard perhaps the most satisfying explosion of my life up to that point. The deafening boom, the intense heat, made me realize that the house was gone, a theory confirmed once I turned around and got up to gaze upon my work. The building was on fire, the first floor totally blown out. The house promptly collapsed on itself in a blazing heap.
Then, I saw movement from the flaming pile of rubble. Unbelievably, Olivia Bronstein herself was still alive, crawling forth from the flames, tossing aside debris and wiping fire off of her clothes, which were burned. Her skin was also burned away, revealing biomechatronic components: she was a cyborg. At least 90% of her boy was mechanic, artificial, manufactured in some lab or workshop or factory or something. Probably the only parts of her that really were her were the internal organs. She held a sniper rifle in one hand, and upon examining it, she realized it was bent to hell, and tossed it.
Smirking, with my blaster pistol in my hand I aimed it at Bronstein's head. I squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. I looked at the pistol and realized a very simple thing: it was fucking empty. I rushed to find extra mags, which spurred Bronstein to run towards me. Like a goddamn rookie I fumbled as I took the empty mag out and loaded in a fresh one, but by the time I did she was on top of me, and punched me straight in the face with a mean right hook.
Recoiling, I almost fell over on my ass, but kept my balance. She punched me again with a savage left, then another right, then another left. Pretty soon my face was a pummeled mess. Bronstein threw another right punch, but I blocked it and countered by throwing one of my own. She blocked it like nothing, and she started crushing my right hand. Then, she headbutted me, and I finally fell to the ground, my back on the hot, dusty ground. I was stunned, so I couldn't really do a thing when she put her boot on my neck, and started pressing down.
"Who are you?" she asked. I didn't say anything, mostly because her foot was on my windpipe and partly because I didn't feel like telling her. Dissatisfied with my silence, she grabbed me by my jacket and tossed me at least thirty feet to my left, again hitting the sandy ground with a loud thud. Coughing and crawling away from Bronstein, I was thinking what to do. Then I remembered those neat-looking pistols. I reached down to my waistband and pulled a pair some shiny-looking revolver blasters. I pulled back the triggers, the bolts flying out of the barrels, and the recoil kicking the blasters back considerably. Twelve shots, and about half missed Bronstein entirely. The few that did hit her apparently did real damage: she stumbled, and fell to a knee, her personal shielding broken. She took a deep breath, and got back up, walking towards me with a noticeable limp.
I tossed the now empty revolver blasters, and patted my jacket to find any other weapon. I whipped out a fancy looking disruptor pistol and fired it. The bolts left the pistol, smashing into Brosntein's chest. Again she fell to a knee, and groaned considerably. The thing overheated, though, and I threw that weapon aside.
Finally, I found the last blaster I took from the tent: a Self-Defense Hand Blaster, or SDHB. Cornerian, made by Allied Military Industries. Don't let the name deceive you, the thing's a hand cannon. It's one of those classic movie blasters that's just so big and heavy, but it can put any being in the 'verse down in a few shots, and most of the time even one. I guarantee it.
Bronstein took a few shots to the chest before taking yet another knee. But this time, both of us knew she wasn't going back up to her feet. So, I did. Holding the cannon in my hands, I walked up to her. Her breathing labored, she looked like shit, full of blaster holes, scorch marks, her clothes a tattered mess. She took off her hat with the little feathers in it.
"At least answer my question," she hoarsely.
"I'm Wolf O'Donnell. Mayor Flynn paid me to get rid of you."
"My name is…" started Bronstein. She took a deep breath. "Olivia Bronstein. That… is my name. Olivia Bronstein." She stared at me, almost silently beckoning me to repeat her name. I didn't have anything to lose from it, so I said her name.
"Olivia Bronstein." She nodded.
"You freed me," she said. Then, she fell onto her back, dead. I was puzzled for a bit by that, but I didn't care much to think a lot about what she said. At least, not until I got older. But back then I barely cared at all about what she said. I rummaged the pockets on her corpse and found her wallet and some jewelry. I looted both of valuables, but kept her ID in her wallet, and here wallet on her body, since I didn't really need that. I grabbed her hat as proof of the kill.
I took the next hour or two picking clean the corpses strewn around the mine, twenty in all, not including Bronstein. Cash, jewelry, ammo, snacks and other supplies. I also scavenged a sizeable gym bag – probably the big guy with the heavy blaster's – for carrying the loot. Along with the heavy blaster, I walked out of the mine loaded with around six thousand credits in cold hard cash, coins, and chips, and a whole lotta ammo and a few neat blasters and explosives. I kept the hat off of my head, just so nobody would shoot me thinking I was Bronstein.
A few minutes of walking and I met up with Mayor Flynn and the lizard, who seemed a bit on edge, most likely because of the shooting that probably everyone for miles around could hear.
"I take it Bronstein and her gang's done for?" asked Flynn.
"That's right," I said, handing Flynn Bronstein's hat. He nodded, appearing to be very pleased.
"Pretty good, Mr. O'Donnell," he said. "Pretty good. We appreciate your services. Tim, the money." He looked to the lizard, who was apparently named Tim. The lizard gave me the pouch of gold.
"You've done us a mighty fine service, sir," Tim said. "A mighty fine service." I stuffed the pouch in my back pocket.
"You dropped a lot of people today, O'Donnell," said Flynn. "Folk'll be talking about this for miles around."
"Indeed," I said. "Tell 'em Wolf O'Donnell's always looking for work… for the right price."
"I will," answered Flynn. I hopped onto my bike, and nodded my head.
"Gentlemen," I said. Then, I rode off away, away from the mine, and from Iverson, without so much as a parting word other than "gentlemen."
Deep down, I felt – no, I almost knew – that this job was just the start. It was the start. The start of all of the new opportunities, a new fresh start for me. I'm almost thankful for Iverson and the mayor for giving me that job, but there's nobody to thank to anymore. Just dust and echoes of a place I really was meant to leave behind for other things. Newer things. Dare I say, greater things. After all, a person can't live in the baby cradle forever.