Chapter 1: A Simple Job
Mark Liu was his name. Sometimes "Lew", sometimes "Bastard Lew", depending on who you asked, but always some variation of it.
He twirled a cartridge in his fingers, out of sheer boredom or hesitation. The smell of cigarette smoke and baiju filled the air. Baiju or Nuka Cola, in fact, as this part of the Yangtze controlled by the Yankee State has fused Chinese and American culture. It could not be any more evident than the live music playing in the background, which was a fusion of traditional Chinese instrumentation with Western folk melody, or the language spoken itself, which was a mixture of English and Mandarin creole.
A man stepped up in front of Mark's table. He was heavy-set, possibly in his early forties, with a visible scar on his throat. He spoke, in a raspy voice,
"So I'm supposin' you're the one they call 'Bastard Lew'?"
Mark replied, in a slightly dull tone,
"Yeah. What of it? Need something?"
The man nodded slightly,
"You could say that, I do need something."
"Alright, tell me what you want. Just take a seat."
The man pulled up a chair and sat down,
"The caravan I'm working for is headed to Shanghai in two weeks. We're running low on manpower since a lot of good men are being levied for more Yankee campaigns, and I've heard good things about you. Ever been to the Big Hu?"
Mark put down the cartridge he was twirling,
"No, never been that far east. What's it like?"
"It's… wild, to say the least. Many independent settlements, swearing fealty directly to the Lord-General himself. A lot of bandits, a lot of gangs… a lot of prospecting and a lot of trade. And that means good pay, for people like us."
Mark raised an eyebrow,
"This all sounds interesting, sure. But how much are you paying, and how long does the contract last?"
"300 brass dollars, enough to last you a couple months. Contract ends once we've reached the Big Hu, but I'll put another 300 brass if you come back with us in one piece. Assuming the merchandise stays intact, of course."
Mark leaned his head on his arm in contemplation as he eyed the ceiling. He wondered to himself whether the job would be worth it. It'd be a gamble, but gambling was his specialty. He could take the job now, or wait for another contract, which wouldn't be guaranteed. The man saw his contemplation and offered him,
"Alright then. I'll give you three days to decide if you want the job or not. Any more than that and we're leaving without you. When you want to seal the deal, just see me at the shack near the fort gate, it'll say number 88. By the way… the name's Carl."
Carl stood up and walked away, exiting the tavern. Mark watched the man leave, then looked back at his table. He saw his cartridge and his cocktail of rice wine and whiskey, and took his last sip. The cigarette smoke was getting to him and he needed a breath of fresh air. He headed to the bar to pay his tab, which was manned by a reprogrammed Mr. Gutsy. The gruff robot screamed in his face,
"PICK YOUR POISON"
Mark shook his head, and placed 8 brass coins on the countertop,
"No I'm… I'm done. Here's the money."
The robot continued screaming,
"THANK YOU FOR YOUR FINE PATRIOTIC SERVICE, SIR! HOO-AH!"
As he exited the door, a gust of wind hit his face. It had the pungent aroma of goods and livestock, as the market was only a block away from the tavern. The wind changed direction, and brought in the distinct smell of machine oil, sweat and testosterone. The smell grew closer, and so too did the sound of marching and chanting. A warlord, with his entourage of power-armored knights and common soldiers, was passing through.
Among them were many faces, some Chinese, some American, some Ghoul and some Human, in a motley assortment of raggedy uniforms, armor and weaponry, many wearing yellow on their neckerchiefs or armbands. The knights themselves had an array of accented colors, strange letters and names brandished on their power armor, symbolizing their rank and status.
Leading them was a tall, bearded blond man in an immaculately-pressed uniform, with a yellow sash draped over his shoulder. They seemed to be headed towards the fort's command center, the core of Yankee power. Mark discerned that they were likely seeking an audience with the Lord-General, but otherwise paid no special attention to the goings-on of the warlords and the State. No less was the fact he had a certain bitterness towards Yankee society for considering him an outcast.
Mark was born from an affair between an aristocratic Yankee knight and a Chinese peasant woman. His illegitimate birth meant he was barred from his father's inheritance, yet nonetheless his father tried to raise him to be self-sufficient. He learned how to survive in the wild, how to shoot and maintain a gun, how to discern friend from foe. It was why he is sometimes called "Bastard Lew", why he took on the role of the mercenary rather than the honored knight… and why he held that bitterness.
He waited for the entourage to pass, and headed on his way to the market. A dazzling array of pre-war and post-war goods and wares awaited him, each stranger than the next. Equally strange were the variety of foodstuffs, meats, and mutant parts being sold. Everything from scavenged electronics parts, rusted-out kitchen utensils, mutated fungi, vegetables and bags of mutant rice, two-headed cattle, feral pig, mongrel dog, even the chimeric, mutated descendants of animals once considered endangered like pangolin and salamander that have since thrived among the radiation of the post-apocalypse. Nothing is off-limits in the struggle for survival and the search for profit.
Mark cut through the noise and looked for a certain shop. It was a rather unassuming shack made of wood and corrugated metal, not too distinct from the rest of the marketplace, with a sign over it that said "Wang's Guns & Repairs" in crude handwriting. Below the sign was an old ghoul wearing a tattered and greasy work coverall was inspecting various firearms with an unusually glum look on his face. Mark approached him and greeted,
"Hey old man, it's been a while since I've visited."
Wang looked at Mark, and grinned in relief,
"Oh, Lew! What can I do for you?"
Mark pulled out his semi-automatic rifle from his back non-threateningly, pointing to the receiver,
"My rifle's a bit busted, I'm thinking it's the trigger assembly. I might need a replacement part, and maybe an inspection to make sure everything's in working order. Got a new contract, and I can't do my work without it. You know how it is."
The old ghoul took the rifle from his hands, set it on his vice, and inspected it closely with his glasses. He took out his tools and stripped the gun, focusing his attention on the aforementioned trigger assembly. He told Mark, rather bemusedly,
"Yes… you were right, the issue is in the trigger assembly. It's all rusted and bent, but the barrel's also corroded... what the hell did you do to this thing?"
Mark chuckled,
"Well I might've picked it up somewhere… and bashed it a couple times… you know how it is."
Wang looked at Mark and gave a rather judging stare for a second, only to burst out in laughter. As he gathered his wits, he said,
"Alright, I can fix the gun. But I have a favor to ask of you…"
His face turned serious, and Mark looked on attentively.
"A ruffian's been extorting me lately… threatening me and my foster son if I didn't give him brass every week… and I'm not having any of that."
He motioned towards Mark, and silently asked,
"I want you to kill him."
Without even a hint of hesitation or moral qualm, Mark simply said,
"Alright. I can do that. But how would I know who he is?"
"He's tall, well-built and dark-skinned, not so different from you. Of course, unlike you he's bald, has a tattoo on his face and wears sunglasses. I think he was just trying to look tough. Last I saw him he wore a bomber jacket and had a necklace of bullet casings. Hell these repairs are on me, and I'll owe you a favor as a bonus. Please take the job... do it for the kid at least."
"I'll do it. I only have three days though, so give me some pointers on where this son of a bitch might be."
"Couldn't be far from Fort Washington, that's for sure. But where in town, I can't say. I'd imagine he's part of a gang, but I don't know which… maybe you could check out the chem dens in town… he looked pretty messed-up and jittery last time he came here."
It wasn't much, but Mark took whatever clues he could get. He knew his target's appearance, and he knew a good place to start. Before he could even get a chance to leave, the old ghoul's hand held his shoulder, pulling him back in.
"Look… please be discreet. I don't want the entire town guard on your rear, no less mine."
Mark already thought of the discretion required of his task however, and thought of an idea to dispel some of the heat from such a dirty job. He reassured Wang, and grabbed some dice from his bag. They were chipped and dirty, but still used post-war for games and gambling.
"Could you load these dice? I need them for something."
As expected, Wang looked puzzled at the request, but begrudgingly accepted the request regardless. He took the dice and a hand drill and began working on the dice. After a couple test runs, the dice had been loaded, and he was ready to test out his plan.
It was a crazy plan, all things considered. He assumed that his target would be a gambler like him, given the likelihood of his criminal affiliation and affinity for addictive habits. If he could convince his target to play a game of dice with him, he could trap his target into attacking first by being accused of cheating. Given that this all depended on the success of him convincing his target to play with him, then provoke his target into attacking first, and then assuming that he was quick enough on the draw not to get killed, thiswhole setup in itself was a massive gamble.
Gambling was his specialty.