"Do you have a visual?"
"Moving through the markets now. Damn, it smells. How do people live like this?"
"This is how the world is now. How it has always been, in a sense. Stay focused."
"I am focused. You think it's easy getting around this place without getting rumbled?"
"Just keep an eye on him. We can't risk a scene."
"Please, you worry too much."
"And you don't worry at all."
- Unidentified Venusian communication
Now.
The boy watched the walls swarm up around them. He pulled the flapping coat tighter, scolding his lack of nerve.
Prospect 141's Low Tier Markets were sensory overload. Alien smells and sights threatened to overwhelm him at every turn. Low awnings of all manner of shapes, materials and colours jutted out from the buildings around him, strung with bunting and cheap metallic lights that blinked simplistic patterns or depicted the neon names of various outlets. Coarse shouting and throaty yells exchanged between bawdy drunks and soliciting merchants. No single wall surface was clear: holo-projectors blinked from one image to the next, shilling survival gear, improvised fire-arms, drug rehabilitation and promises of the better future with Anyo Corp (experiences may vary).
Steel grates hissed wafting clouds of steam that temporarily obscured all the madness from view. The boy drank it in, dumbfounded.
The most striking aspect was the poverty. Children ran by cackling, their cheap environment suits stitched together from all manner of recycled materials; shoes bound together with little more than rope and emergency tape. The elderly shuffled by, gaits twisted by ailments long untreated. Still, they managed, suffering their privation with a measure of stubborn dignity. The markets teemed with activity; bartering and low credit swaps; heated haggling and laughter. The boy noted the waiting lines for the soup kitchens were the longest. These were a lean people, long used to hardship.
Was this how the world was now? The boy had no idea what year it was, or how long he had slept. Before his time beneath the ice, the world he knew was golden and splendid. Cruel and merciless yes, but precisely so. Here, this low in the bowels of a Corpus surface city, the technology was scrappily functional and improvised. Were it not for the Anyo Corp murals on the walls and constant assault of holo-advertising, the boy would have sworn it was Grineer built. The Trade Guilds had built an Empire upon the ashes of the Old World, and these people were its lowest rung.
The boy drew stares. Details mattered. The sleeper suit he wore beneath the shaggy environment coat was much too clean, for one. The frontiersmen around him had rugged skin, tanned from snow glare and pock-marked with burns from hazardous pipework. The boy by contrast was pale and unblemished and for a teenager carried himself with a demeanour that bordered on haughty, whether he was aware of it or not.
His rebreather in particular drew a lot of unwanted attention. It was much too ornate. With a hissing click he removed it, stuffing it into one of his pockets. He regretted it instantly. Without the mask the air was all the more rank; stale, reprocessed, mixed with heady aroma of imported spices and homegrown protein mix. The boy gagged and almost retched, nostrils twitching.
His attempts at blending in proved unsuccessful. The citizens around him could spot him a mile away, swamped as he was in the flapping thermal coat. Invisible shoulders clipped him and threatened to send him spinning off his feet as the battered trio wound their way through the bustling markets; people only parting when they saw Kelpo's sorry state. Gruff or not, they took care of their own here.
The third time somebody knocked into the boy he reacted poorly. The oaf in question was left upended on a collapsed market stall, clutching a sprained wrist. Quite how this occurred was too fast to adequately process. Telin swore vehemently and dragged the boy down a side street before they attracted further unwanted attention. The boy complained indignantly but allowed himself to be hauled away.
Telin's route was memorised, but wound and double backed on itself time and time again; ducking beneath hissing pipes and stepping over gurgling coolant drains. Even the boy, for all his wits, was barely able to keep up.
They eventually came to a foreboding metal door secreted down a dingy alleyway. Any signage was unlit. Bullet holes dented the walls like punctuation.
The Mangled Moa was not a salubrious establishment. Indeed, it was barely an establishment at all.
It was only when Telin banged a gloved fist on the door that a woman's muffled voice called out.
"We're closed!"
Telin banged again. A view grille set into the door slid open. A bitter laugh split the air.
"Oh no. No-no-no-no." She fumed. "Not you."
The viewport slammed shut.
Telin sighed and banged his fist again. The viewport remained closed.
"Go away!" the woman's muffled voice snapped.
"It's Kelp, Neera." Telin there was no masking the hoarseness in his voice. "He's hurt."
A pause. The viewport snicked open. Even in the gloom, the boy could make out the woman's eyes, studying the weary scavengers. The concern in them when they saw Kelpo, ashen faced and battered. A heaving sigh filled the air.
There came a series of popping sounds; of heavy bolts being lifted; an energy emitted powering down; then padlocked chains being popped and sliding to the floor.
The door banged open with a metallic squeal. Neera was Telin's age; with red hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun. Pretty; hard as nails. The scowl she fixed Telin with softened when she saw Kelpo's condition.
"Inside, quickly." She ordered, before stabbing a finger at Telin. "Don't think for a second this means we're cool."
The glare found itself fixed on the boy next. For all his martial ability, the boy felt three inches tall.
"Who's this?" Neera asked suddenly, only noticing him now. There was no hiding her shock at the boy's strange appearance.
"He's with us." Telin replied.
Neera eyed the boy warily.
"Huh. Looks weird."
"He is weird." Telin confirmed as he lugged Kelpo through the doorway. The boy froze in place, utterly unsure of himself under her withering stare.
"Well what are you gawking at?" the woman barked. She kept to the point.
"I'm Neera. Bar's mine. Inside now."
The boy shuffled through, thoroughly told.
Neera took a final suspicious look out into the alleyway behind, then clanged the door shut behind them. A chorus of rattling chains, bolts and clicking locks followed. With a pop and fizzle a sorry little shield generator cranked to life, covering the doorway in a Sorry We're Closed hologram.
In the shadows, a gleaming pair of yellow eyes winked into life, then vanished once more.
The men assembled on the landing pad below were united only by their dishevelled appearance. They were local guns; cheap muscle and lone brokers for the most part. Long coats and clunky respirators; or bare-chested tat-fiends big on piercings and low on subtlety. Some even wore the box helmets of the Corpus Navy, albeit customised and stencilled far beyond immediate recognition. Only the hulking Grineer mercenary's presence kept them in line. They eyed the massive clone with fascination.
Brakarr for his part showed no expression; ruined face hidden beneath his battle mask. He dwarfed them all.
Above them all, the Severance Package sat docked in its berth in the Mid-Tier Hangar. Kahrl Brahvic stood atop the ship, overseeing his crew; who were scrambling to and fro; attaching fuel hoses and supervising drones scrubbing the plating down.
"Remind me again why we're hiring these Low Stack trash?" Brahvic began. "Isn't that what I'm paying you for?"
Terrenus Vern stood by his employer's side, arms folded across his chest.
"Consider it a necessary expense. My team is for frontier work." He gave a slight shrug. "Terrain has changed. City like this? We need numbers. Close routes, box the target."
"It's expensive."
"Also dangerous." Another shrug, this one more expansive. "Unless you'd prefer to use your own crew?"
"No." Brahvic shook his head as he scratched at his jowls, "I need 'em here. Do it your way."
"Understood." Vern flashed a thumbs up to Isolde and Parson-Luk, who waited below with the mercs. Isolde nodded coldly and turned to the drone representative from Disposable Solutions, finalising the deal.
"Should we notify Anyo Corp?" Vern asked, thumbs hooked on his holsters.
Kahrl Bravic sniffed and spat on the deck.
"Only when we've something to tell 'em." Brahvic grunted. "No more mistakes, Vern: we lose this asset and the whole Corpus Fleet's gonna be breathing down our necks real fast."
Vern nodded coldly, ever the professional.
"Consider it done."