Day 2 - Lylat System
Fox McCloud settled into the seat of his Arwing, taking in the vast expanse of space. It would be a few hours more before he reached the checkpoint in Beta Sector, no need to worry. On his starboard side he could see a star forming in the distance, with flares shooting up from its surface. Always in flux – the universe was always in flux.
He breathed in. There was peace.
"Fox! FOX!" a voice squeaked out on the comms.
There went the peace. Fox breathed out, then tapped out a command on his dashboard and spoke. "Slippy, what's up?"
Some static. "...Got a transmission... Assignment... Off the books... Someone named Hand..."
Tut, tut. How many times had he told Slippy to keep his communication gear in check? "Slippy, you're going to need to try again. I'm getting massive interference on my end."
More static, then his squeaky-voiced comrade's voice shot into his ears. "Fixed it. Like I said, we got a transmission. Someone's offering a paid assignment, very low-key. It's from someone named Hand."
Fox's eyebrow rose. "That's not unusual. Why bring it up now? I'm less than four hours from the checkpoint."
"Fox, he asked for you."
Somewhere in the vicinity of planet Elysia
Samus downed another glass of whisky, savouring the burn as she would a warm shower or a good meal. She could taste the oak barrel it was stored in, the oats and grains processed in order to produce it. It was among her favourite liquors, and a fitting release for her recent turmoil.
They all died.
She'd lost friends before, and she'd lose friends again. She didn't live fifty harsh years just to give up because one mission turned sour.
The bar in which she'd commandeered a stool was empty, save for a balding male bartender who seemed deeply invested in shining one particular beer mug. Occasionally when she looked down at her glass, her peripheral vision indicated the bartender was sizing her up – trying to see more than one angle of her, Samus reckoned. He kept his vision fixated on her rear, she had noticed, though the lazy left eye and slightly delayed motor skills certainly didn't help matters.
She smirked. Every time...
There was a time and place for such devoted attention. A public setting in which you, the worker, are obligated to respectfully serve patrons is not what she had in mind.
She was drifting in thought again, drifting from the memories of her friends. She remembered their names, their faces, how they laughed, how they cried, the amount of pressure they put in their handshake – but then she would move on to another topic, and the memories got filed away in her subconscious. Was it to protect herself, or to avoid dealing with her problems? Maybe both?
It was like with her parents. Or the Chozo. Everyone she'd loved, filed away like paper work in her mind.
But in this line of work, dwelling on the dead and gone could be dangerous. It was a distraction when work needed to be done.
How about now? No work in sight...
The door chime rang out. The sound of footsteps grew louder, and the slightest of chills ran down Samus' spine. Not out of fear, but from her weighing the possibility that she had tempted fate – and was about to reap the rewards.
A figure passed by Samus and settled in the stool next to her. Samus inhaled slowly, and her peripheral scan commences.
It was a man, an elderly one at that. He walked in with confidence, but each step sounded a decibel different depending on which foot had pressure placed upon it – he'd been dealing with a limp, she deduced, perhaps from war or accidental injury.
No – no, it had to be war. The way he sat down was the clue; this man had seen military training of some sort. He maintained a straightened back and an attentive stance even on the stool. No ordinary citizen gets on a stool and treats it like a guard post.
Beyond that, she could only speculate. His eyes were an unsettling shade of yellow, along the lines of mucus left to dry and filtered through sunlight. What she could see of his face (for he had elected to wear a cloak that covered all but his mouth and chin), she determined to be in good shape – no discernible sunspots, little wrinkling, a scar or two faded along his neck.
Conclusion? A very calculating man. Potentially dangerous. Strike that – very clearly dangerous, but electing to act mild-mannered at the moment. She knew the type, but not the reason for this particular person showing up as he did.
A million possibilities filtered through her mind. Casual bar goer? No – again, the demeanour didn't match up. Still he was at attention and sizing up the room, though oddly not glancing at her at all. Real estate broker, interested in the bar? It was in the middle of nowhere, and no one had showed up on a Saturday. If he was a broker, he was the crappiest one she'd ever encountered. Bounty hunter, hiding out after a mission? Possibly – but something was off. Bounty hunters had an unspoken policy to announce themselves to one another, attempt to establish pleasantries as a professional courtesy. This guy had simply walked in, sat down, and didn't say a word.
Now she was nervous. Was this a hit on her? Retaliation from the Space Pirates? Or maybe the Federation was cutting down bounty hunters?
Samus shrugged it off. There was being tactically inclined, and then there was paranoia. All of a minute had passed and the man had done nothing. What could she do but engage and adapt, as she always had?
Screw it. She turned to the cloaked man. "Do I know you?"
A tiny smile appeared on his face, though he still faced forward rather than turning to Samus. "No, no you would not. But I know you, Miss Aran. Top of your class in the Federation's First Battalion. A member of Adam Malkovich's Damned 52. And the best of the best in the realm of bounty hunting, as I understand. A legend in every sense of the word."
Samus chuckled halfheartedly. "In order to be a legend, I'd have to have been dead a long time. And I have no intention of doing anything but living for the foreseeable future."
"Indeed," the man spoke. "Then, would I assume you have no interest in a... business proposition, if it meant peril and the potential for death?"
"Depends," replied Samus. "What's the job and what's the pay?"
"The job is rather straight-forward: find a man, kill a man, reap the rewards." The man gazed down at his hands, flexing his fingers and appearing engrossed with every detail. "The pay is not insubstantial."
Samus did not tolerate word games, not when it came to her livelihood. "Define the mission, friend, and I'll be glad to tell you if I'm available."
The man paused for a moment, seeming to turn to her. Then, out of nowhere, he began to laugh softly.
"Ha – I see why he wanted you for this," the man noted, regaining his composure. "You are truly the consummate professional. The way you analyzed me the second I entered this place, for instance. Oh," he said, "don't think I cannot recognize a keen eye. I've heard stories of your particular method, how you measure a room's threat in the course of five seconds. I bet you even toyed with the method in which you would dispatch me, didn't you?"
Punch to ribs, headlock, twist and release. "It's more like seven seconds. Humans have their limits, after all."
"Certainly, we have our failings. But you are something else," the man said. He removed a small white envelope from his cloak, and slid it across the counter.
"What's this?" Samus asked.
The man smirked. "Advance payment. One hundred fifty thousand credits. One third of what you'll get if you take the job."
Intrigued, Samus opened the envelope. Indeed it did contain one hundred fifty thousand credits' worth of paper notes – she'd have to exchange it for digital currency, but she couldn't deny the amount or its validity.
"Alright," Samus said while placing the envelope in a leg pouch, "you've peaked my interest. Who in the universe is worth four hundred fifty thousand credits?"
The man looked up, his jaundiced eyes glistening. "I'm glad you asked." Then he removed from his cloak a hologram projector, and pressed a silver button along its side. The image projector fired up, and a body and face formed.
Holographic text wrapped around the figure, identifying them by name. Samus' blood could not have run more cold.
Lunan Pax. Wanted Dead Or Alive.
"So, Miss Aran," the man asked, "do I still have your interest?"