It's mission time!

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Phaaze 05: Fetcher (Part 1)

Samus had been right about the dealer driving a hard bargain. Kasha pestered us for high prices until we began haggling Dasha Silver—even that was a problem, because we didn't have any on us, exactly…folks in these parts prefer to take your pay on the spot rather than waiting to be potentially cheated. It took Nigul and me forever to finally settle with paying him later. That sleazy reptile only began to relent when we mentioned our trade job. Although Nigul and I spend most of our time Tech Hunting, Bounty Hunting often comes into the mix as well—most of the Deep Space Seekers are veteran Hunters, after all. Kasha apparently dealt with a couple of them before, and one in particular made for a really good customer.

"Which Hunter is that?" I inquired innocently at the time.

I got an answer that I was both expecting and not. "Samussss Aran; good Hunter; good sssource of income."

Thankfully, one thing led to another, and we finally found ourselves leaving with enough fuel to take us to G-07; and a curious piece of information that had the wheels turning in my head. I'm not sure how much Nigul could tell I was thinking about it, but if he noticed, he kept quiet. We were on an elevator to the highest level where our ship was in the docks before I brought it up vocally.

"Why would Samus be doing business in a place like this?"

Nigul shrugged. "Maybe something went wrong. Happens all the time with Hunters, no?"

I suppose that's true, but I'm still not ready to believe it. Maybe Samus isn't immune to scraping the dregs like the rest of us—but she's still the last Hunter I would expect to see having fallen from grace. Attempting not to peer at a situation through rose-colored lenses is difficult when it entails the legendary figure that you essentially have to thank (at least partially) for the recovery of an entire species. When a person does something as phenomenal as that, you generally tend to have expectations. Unrealistic ones, maybe; you keep forgetting that these people are only mortals made mythical. The stories one hears about Samus range from the believable to the outrageously insane.

"Time…changes people," I finally admit.

Nigul trills low in agreement.

Conclusively, I still don't have enough information about Samus' situation, and we don't have the time I would like to hang around and dig. I tried bargaining it with Nigul, and he consciously reminded me of our tight schedule. I guess I could've had some better luck there. But in truth, I do have to confess that it's hardly my business—I am not in any way personally associated with her, and given some of the stories looming over her track record, it might be wise not to get too entangled.

On top of that, carrying these fuel rations is proving to be a bitch.

"My arms hurt," I complain, shifting the three gallons of fuel I'm carrying in my arms in two separate containers.

Pointedly, Nigul sways his long arms, where he's carrying about as much as I am. "So do mine. We're almost to the ship, though; no complaints."

The Victor is a bit of a walk away to Bay A3 at the docks. He's easy to spot, however, and I'm eager to get back to him. On the outside, Victor appears to be entirely of Luminoth design: slim, long build, red lines of energy crawling over his underbelly in simple-intricate patterns, technology ancient but effective and working like a charm. Sift through his innards, however, and you find a rampant hybrid of technology. In truth, Victor is in desperate need of some upgrades, even with the Luminoth technology. We can't always afford these upgrades, however—so Nigul takes them as they come, and has been gradually reformatting the ship's make to improve its performance. That's why I say it's his technological baby. Nigul fawns over our ship quite a bit; as if he really were the Victor's father.

Upon arrival, we discover that our ship sticks out from the crowd a little more than might be considered fortunate.

Standing in front of Victor are five uniformed Kaon residents—police, by the looks of them. They're some more of those reptilian looking creatures, though these ones are a bit more humanoid. They can stand more upright and their legs aren't quite as bow-legged. They're all armed, of course, although Nigul and I are both wearing the same clueless expressions as we approach the Victor, preparing to board.

"Gentlemen…" (Because I assume they're all men,) "…Is there a problem here?"

They don't answer my question. The gruffest-looking one, puffed up with a row of scales down his spine, approaches and gives a hiss, trying to intimidate me. The rest of them sort of hang back, giving us expectant leers. "Are you Bounty Hunterssss?"

Nigul flicks his wings and I quirk a brow. "…Yes, we are, why?"

The Big Boss of the group hisses again. "We would like to dissscussss a businessss arrangement before you leave," he explains.

They want a job? "What sort of business arrangement?" I ask. I jostle the fuel. "And please be brief, these tanks are heavy."

Big Boss narrows his sickly yellow eyes and sneers some orders to his colleagues, who come and take the weight off our hands to transfer it to the Victor before we can protest. Damn, they must really want us for something—residents here have so far been less than helpful, so far as we've observed. Curious now, I shake out the ache in my arms and cross them over my chest, looking back to the leader.

"I am Captain Thorn of the KCPD," he hisses. "I and my comradessss have a very well-paying job for you that would help to ensure the sssafety of this colony."

"Oh, really…?" Not that this colony looks like it's ever completely safe. I knit my brow down the middle skeptically and my hands move to my hips instead. "What's the case, and what's the charge?"

Captain Thorn straightens and makes a rumbling sound from low in his throat, voice raspy and thin. "Early thissss morning we received a transmission from a very…elussssive Kriken criminal. He hired a Bounty Hunter to take care of a pick-up for his merchandissse…a sssmall box of ssssome sort. But he paid an unusually large sssum of money for it…"

"And…?" I lift my head a bit, exchanging glances with Nigul.

"…Judging by the money the Kriken paid, we believe thisss…box may contain sssomething that will endanger the colony. And we cannot allow it to fall into criminal handssss. We are paying you and your moth friend to retrieve it for ussss;" here, Thorn gives a split-faced smile that has me not quite trusting him all the way, "Sssso that we might properly take care of itssss contentssss."

I don't answer right away. Thorn and I have a staring contest, and he whips his noodle-thin tail around impatiently, waiting for me to respond. I murmur to Nigul beside me in Luminoth. "Can we trust him?"

"Honestly? No."

"Should we trust him?"

"I believe that is another no." Nigul quirks his wings, "But some extra money wouldn't hurt, Riina. It seems like a simple interception job to me. Keep the competition from getting the goods; bring them back to the employer."

I grin, "And retrieval is what we do best."

"Precisely," Nigul purrs.

Thorn growls at us both, "If you're finished counsssseling with your pet moth—"

"First of all, Captain," I say in warning, holding his gaze, "His name is Nigul; and he is not my pet, he is my partner. So if you want us to take this job, I would ask that you please treat him with the respect he deserves. Also…" I rub my fingers together, holding them between us at eye level. "We're some of the best retrievers in this quadrant—so I hope you've got the right price to pay for our services."

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Shit, if they're paying us 25 Grand in DSP, that box had better have some valuable treasure.

Suiting up in the Celare is routine for me by now, and on top of that, I love getting a chance to slip into it whenever I'm out on a mission. This suit was tailored from the top down by the Luminoth themselves, specialized for covert sneak-around missions that need you to get in and out of places with maximum speed and minimum mess. It's sleek and relatively plain-looking on the outside—which is the whole point. It's a work of art to me, though; just for fun, when the Luminoth were making this for me, I asked them to make it so that I would look like a Luminoth. So, the earthen browns and glowing red energy lines are exactly similar to Luminoth armor and skin, and it even has the leaf-ears on the helmet, which have extra audio technology laced into them to boost my hearing capabilities.

It can't hold a candle to the natural beauty of the Luminoth, but it comes damn near it, even for being a mock-up with human curves.

Helmet goes on last. Nigul is piloting our recently-refueled Victor and we've left the Kaon Colony, for now. About 30 minutes ago, Nigul picked up on a passing ship signal and confirmed it to be Samus Aran's. So we've been tailing her to the destination in cloaked radio silence since finding her—since Captain Thorn informed us she was the receiving end of the call in question. I spent the first 20 minutes meditating and the last ten getting ready for the possibility of going head-to-head with her, if something goes wrong.

I never imagined that I'd be meeting Samus under such desperate pretenses. It still bugs me that I don't know why she's this way now—did she botch a mission? Screw with the wrong people? Screw with the right people? Anything could have happened, although the more I ponder it, the crazier the theories become. Maybe I'm over-thinking it. Maybe this is just something so absurdly simple that I'm a certified idiot for missing it. Either way, I'm disappointed that I might meet her again as an opponent instead of a friend.

"Almost there, Nigul?"

"Just about…she pinpointed the exact meeting place about eight minutes ago."

I lean over the dash, watching as Samus' ship begins to circle for a landing in a small floating scrap yard, piled high with junk and littered with smelting pools where everything is gathered up and liquefied to slag. The smelting pools give the place an eerie orange glow; it's like a space graveyard for technology.

"Any idea who we're intercepting the goods from besides Samus?"

"Too easy," Nigul complained. "Her ship is too outdated and trashed to even come close to picking up our transmission hack."

I frown at the jab to Samus' ship. True, it's a pretty old method of travel by now—it's just one more reminder that she's not as well off as she once was. Evidence, perhaps, that she can't afford a newer model (for starters). "Anyway," I prompted, "Who's the giver to Samus' receiving?"

"A Thule named Caa'eln," replied Nigul. "A very shady character; he's been involved with a lot of underground business nowadays. My advice would be to exercise caution. The Thule species doesn't need weapons to be dangerous."

A slight nod is my only response. The Thule is an odd hodgepodge sort of alien species, dubbed so because of their resemblance to nightmarish creatures from a very old story about the end of the world. They are often difficult and frightening to describe and the most challenging species to classify; they branch off into different species types that number well into the hundreds. It's very rare to run into a Thule out in the open; they prefer to take their prey from the shadows. Thule species often drift through space at random, usually becoming Space Pirates or low-end workers filching off of crappy jobs because there's something valuable to them attached to the labor. No one quite knows where they originated from; few often live to share their stories.

Circling just on the rim of the junk yard, Nigul opens up the elevator on the belly of the ship. There's just enough atmosphere to create an air current, our ship hovering between bare-minimum life support and the deep vacuum of space. "This is your drop, Riina. Look for a large spider-like creature with a humanoid face. That's Caa'eln. The exchange has been scheduled to take place on a catwalk mid-way between where Samus lands her ship and where our Thule friend stored the goods."

"Got it," I reply, though I have to shout over the rush of the wind as I drop onto the elevator. Nigul puts the ship on auto-pilot long enough to peer down at me as I look up.

"You won't be able to take the goods away from Caa'eln without making a distraction and snatching them directly," Nigul calls back. "Be careful, Riina."

He can't see me grinning under my helmet, but I give him a wave.

"My middle name!" I declare, and that being said, I let the minimal gravity drag me down through necessary atmosphere. I freefall, arms spread, plummeting to the ground, and for a moment the rush of wind around me lets me feel like I'm flying. I count in my head. Four…three…two…one…

At that moment, I activate a button on the back of my suit, just below my neck, flipping in mid-air to face my back to the metal earth below. The soundless air pack on my back kicks to life and warmth spreads through my spine as it manipulates the current and particles in the air to soften my landing. It allows me to levitate—and, for brief periods, float, if I have to—about three minutes is my record without it sputtering from overuse.

Using this method, I'm able to make a softer landing when I end up in a mountain of scrap metal and spare parts. Not exactly smooth, but better than crashing to my death. The suit's stealth cloak and radar scrambler are turned on as I come out—no one would see the reason behind the scraps falling down the pile, and if any locating systems happened to be in operation, all they would find is a rebounded echo of empty space. I am now, for all intents and purposes, completely invisible.

In other words, nary but a shadow!

And now, as I sniff out my target, I play the waiting game.

Crawling through this mess is easier said than done, especially since half the ground I walk on is covered in glass, sharpened pieces of metal and other such knick-knacks—things that crunch—and that is very bad for the whole "stealth" part of the operation. Not to mention murder on my grav-boots. Ultimately, I end up finding the nearest catwalk I can and hitching a ride on its support beams. If I were visible, the soles of my boots would have a slight glow to them; but right now, as far as anyone's concerned, there's just a discolored patch of paint on the poles. Any workers hanging around don't even bother to note how it seems to be jumping from pole to pole, catwalk to catwalk.

Walking the beams and supports makes navigation and searching easier, and rewards me at last when a skittering noise reaches my audios. Turning my head to have the suit better pinpoint its location, I find it: the rapid, light-footed scratching of a spider's walk on metal. But this spider is not a tiny spider, it's a big one; and it seems to be in a rush. Or maybe that's just the way it's walking. There's also a nasty wheezing sound. Has to be Caa'eln—and he's just due south of my position. South it is!

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Every bone in my body tells me that something isn't right.

When something isn't right, I get tense. I'm as alert as I could ever be, eyes shifting, stance disturbingly still. What's wrong with this picture? My eyes and ears say "absolutely nothing." My heart and gut tell me "definitely something." They also say "don't trust your eyes and ears, because you know how they love to lie to you."

It's not because I'm in Federation territory. Okay, maybe it is, a little bit. But it's not the full reason why I'm so damn nervous right now. Something just feels off. The minimal air in the atmosphere swirls softly over my armor in a breeze I can't even feel, but I power up my cannon to fire anyway, twisting about-face; energy coursing through my weapon, aimed at my ship.

Not even a leaf.

Christ, I shouldn't be here in this state.

The pessimism hits full force even while I purposefully subject myself to standing still and meditating. Something will happen. For better or for worse, something will happen.

I try not to think about it.

Breathe, Samus. Clear your head. Just…breathe.

Breathe.

The world blanks out around me; soon I'm feeling much better. Alert, but not tense. Ready and relaxed. Calm…composed. How I should be.

Luckily, it's about that time when I see an ominous black spider-figure approaching me. (I didn't even notice the time passing by…) He skitters over the catwalk, stick-thin black legs making scratches in the metal. The thing stands at least seven or eight feet the way he is now, coughing into a three-pronged hand and wheezing thickly. Extending from his fat black abdomen is a giraffe-like neck covered to the teeth in oil-slick armor, and at the end of that neck, a deformed, monstrous sort of human face. It's the only part of Caa'eln's body that's white as paste. His eyes, however, are as black as the rest of him: four sightless holes in his skull, two slits in the very center of his face for a nose, and a mouth that peels open like a melted marshmallow when he speaks.

His language is a broken, jumbled mess, and my translator can only get a few words out of it. "Samus," "Shield," "Box." I nod for a confirmation, glancing nervously to the dark-blue briefcase in his hands. (It's not a box. Shield said it would be a box. Technically, briefcases aren't boxes, I don't think.)

Caa'eln hisses—I seem to be getting a lot of hissing lately—and clutches the briefcase beneath his long neck, leering down at me with it. I am unafraid to admit that the gesture is somewhat disturbing. "Pay," is the word I get through the translator.

My mood tanks at that. "Shield didn't say anything about—"

Caa'eln screeches like an unholy thing. "Pay!" gargles the translator.

Everyone wants to be a sleaze today…argh! I have no patience for this! Restraining every tendon in my frame, I meet the Thule's chilling glare. "Shield will pay," I tell him. What this guy wants is none of my business. I just need that briefcase and I need to get the hell out of here.

He isn't convinced, apparently. "Shield?" he sneers. "Transfer?"

"Yes," I growl, temper barely in check. My right arm twitches, and thus, so does the cannon.

"Lying!" Caa'eln just about snaps at me and skitters backward. "Shield no money!"

Damn it, this thing is persistent. Growling, I raise up my hands. "Alright, alright…" I look at him, "…I'll pay." He eases up at that, starts to wheeze and cough as he moves forward again. I hold out my left hand. "But you give me the briefcase first."

He snatches it back against him, snarling.

I might not be thinking straight at this point in time—all I want is to get out of here with my prize and go home with the money I need to survive. "I'm Samus Aran," I state simply, knowing that name still holds a lot of power. "I'm a Hunter of my word. Give me the briefcase and I will give you your money."

Something taps the metal and it's not Caa'eln's feet. It takes all the willpower I have not to jerk my head, simply to scan with my eyes. I still see nothing in plain sight, but I know I heard something. My gut instinct acts up again, tells me that something is about to happen. In the meanwhile, my stubborn client is shuffling around hesitantly, moving his head in long swaying motions, trying to see if I'm telling the truth. He's wasting precious time; I shake my hand a bit where it's extended to show I want him to hurry.

"The briefcase," I prompt him.

I don't even have time to see any sort of reaction from him before something round flies up and drops, snapping to the metal between us on the ground. I look down long enough to register blinking green lights rapidly flashing to red.

Before the light blinds me, the only thing I can think is, Shit!

The world bleaches to the color of stars in space and I can hear the Thule screeching in horrible agony. Light-sensitive, I would gather. I register a whoosh of air and peel my eyes open with poster-color spots still peppering my eyelids to see the flash of a small darkish figure. I still can't see straight because of the flash grenade, but it doesn't stop me from shooting at the darting shadow dancing across my field of vision.

My arm drinks up on pieces of the energy roiling through my cannon with each shot. It disorients me further, makes me irritated with myself and breaks my focus. I try to ignore it, spacing my shots so my trigger finger doesn't get too itchy. It's more difficult than it sounds.

Caa'eln is screaming something and swiping blindly around him, and I don't realize it until he's sliced open a piece of the shoulder in my suit. I clear a wide berth to allow him his space to act like a bumbling fool. When my vision clears up, I have a better idea of what's going on, but the first thing I see is Caa'eln. He's spitting corrosive silk from his mouth and cutting the ends with his teeth to start each spin anew. He's melting the catwalk. I can feel it shaking where it's starting to give—like everything else in this junk yard, the surface I'm standing on amounts to one big, steaming pile of crap.

"Stop that, you idiot!" I cry. It's a sizable drop to the jagged scraps below, and I don't look forward to a fall like that. I manage to catch a flash of something out of the corner of my visor and I snap my head around, cannon raised.

An earth-brown figure alight with red energy lines is balanced on the railing of the catwalk like a gymnast, legs split from front to back, the boots glowing faintly. On the bottom of one is the briefcase. The figure rolls off the railing with a kick of its legs and lands on the catwalk, picking the briefcase up in hand. Then it catches sight of what Caa'eln is doing, and promptly leaps backwards off of the surface.

It's hard not to be pissed off when you've just been swindled out of your one and only ticket to a few months of precious, livable peace.

Also, the ground just gave out beneath me.