October 11, 2111
Malcolm Richardson
Malcolm shot out of his bed to a booming noise passing over the house, sending the covers flying off the queen mattress as the house stopped shaking.
Earthquake!
No, wait. This isn't right, he shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in this house.
Malcolm, drenched in sweat, took a quick peek at the other side of the mattress; nobody was there. This was all wrong.
Malcolm slid out of bed, and his head seemed to turn upside down. He was dizzy, and everything was blurry. Stumbling and falling, he rushed out of his bedroom and into his living room. Fire was everywhere, feeding on the furniture of the house and licking the walls like a mad dog. Smoke clouded his vision further, and he gasped for each dry, smoke-filled breath as the heat baked his dark shin. He fell again to the sounds of plasma fire outside. Victims screamed in the distance from the neighborhood outside his home's walls. Despite his lungs screaming for him to give in to death, he managed to pull himself up. He could nearly taste the burning wood of the house on the roof of his mouth. He peeked through the window: More fire in the distance, roaring with town-destroying fury. Shadows and silhouettes of distant people ran and flailed their arms in terror as they fled from dytircs. Some fell, never to get up again. Streaks of plasma screeched through the air. Some passed in the distance, and others blasted through the walls of his home.
Finally, he made it into the next room. The lights were off, and a fire ate at the curtain shades. In the corner, another shadow stood there, looking down.
"She's dead!" her distorted voice repeated over and over again.
Stumbling around, he made it over next to the shadow. The image burned into his memory, forever scarring his existence.
"You didn't protect her!" the distorted voice whispered. "You let her die!"
Screaming, Malcolm shot upright after a sudden, violent awakening. His mattress was drenched in sweat, and he was hyperventilating. Realizing it was a nightmare, Malcolm began to calm down, letting his breathing slow. After letting the darkness of the room to soak in, he forced himself up and walked to the bathroom. Bearon's cargo ship wasn't designed for comfort, so the bathroom was small and condensed, leaving little room to maneuver. Inside, Malcolm stared back at his reflection. Turning on the water, he scooped up the refreshing liquid and splashed his dark-skinned face. Trying to rid himself of exhaustion, he rubbed the running water over his brown eyes and down his cornrows. Drops plopped down his neck, sending shivers down his spine.
For the next few minutes, Malcolm could only think about taking a sip of something refreshing; so, he headed to the lounge area for some ice water. Through the darkness of the lounge, he could see no farther than his hands. He refused to turn on the lights and possibly wake up people; instead, he proceeded to the Magic Meal to dispense the water into a cup.
"Couldn't sleep, Bozz?" Malcolm recognized Brad's voice.
After filling his cup, Malcolm turned to see Brad's armored boots on top of the table in the corner. Brad was leaning back in the chair, with his helmet over his lap. With his knife, he scratched into his visor. The shadows of the room hid his facial features from Malcolm's view.
"Another nightmare," Malcolm responded as he sat down across from Brad.
"Same one?"
"Yes, it was." Malcolm massaged his face with his hand.
"Wanna talk 'bout it, Bozz?"
"Thought you didn't like talking much?" Malcolm said, looking up at Brad.
"Nah. But I don't dislike listenin'." Brad didn't look up from his activity.
"I can handle it," Malcolm responded. "What about you? What are you doing awake?"
"Don't sleep much no more."
"I didn't know." Malcolm sipped from his cup.
"Yah didn't need to."
Brad finally looked at Malcolm across the table. A flare from a dim kitchen light flickered and revealed Brad's eye. Malcolm could make out a cross tattoo on Brad's light-skinned face, with his blood-red eyes at the center, before Brad looked away. Over the next few minutes, Malcolm watched as Brad skillfully slashed away at his helmet. The knife moved in fluid strokes around the visor; it was Brad's canvas.
"Why are you scratching into your helmet?" Malcolm asked him.
"Carvin'."
"Carving what?" Malcolm pushed, unsatisfied with the answer.
"Ah tribute mask. My adoptive dor'o father tol' storiez 'bout dat shit. Kind of pissed me off actually. Dat dick." Brad retreated into his memories. He stopped speaking and went silent.
"And what's a tribute mask?" Malcolm pried.
"My father rambled 'bout ol' traditionz from hiz gang in da past. Da mask waz one of 'em. Said shit like: It waz supposed tah be somethin' yah wear when yah kill your rivalz. Well, da hell I know?"
Malcolm couldn't keep Brad's attention, so he stopped asking him. Boredom set in, and Malcolm reflected on his nightmare.
"I reckon I heard some voices." Bearon strolled into the room. "What y'all fellas doin' awake?"
"Sleep issues," Malcolm answered. "You?"
"Omelics don't hit the hay as much as humans." He took a seat in the only remaining chair. The dim room light cast shadows over his face, hiding most of it from Malcolm's vision. "I supposin' we should talk business, Malcolm?"
"I got nothing better to do," Malcolm answered.
"Mighty fine. Now that our deal is certain, would you care to elaborate on Erryn Wolph?"
"Erryn Wolph is aiding a squad of five individuals trying to travel to Delkeedo. Once she's there, I theorize there's a sixty-five percent chance she'll help those individuals break out someone from the Grando. Afterwards, she'll be their escape plan. Once we arrive on the moon, I'll personally help you find out where Erryn will be and present you with an opportunity to capture her. Is that all clear?"
"Clear enough. I look forward to showin' Erryn what's what."
"That bartender mentioned you carry a personal interest in Erryn. What did he mean?" Malcolm took another sip from his cup.
Bearon pulled out a few bullets from his utility belt and stood them up on the table for Malcolm to see. Carved into them was Erryn's name. "These bullets got Erryn's name on 'em."
"Clearly."
"That bitch shot down my brother in cold blood - her own father. Now it's time for justice to be dispensed, and I'm gonna give it to her - just a matter of time." Bearon pulled out a cigar and lit it.
"That explains her bounty."
"It's far more than a bounty to me. Posters say she's wanted alive. I may have a second opinion on that. You wouldn't mind, would you?"
Malcolm shook his head. "No. It would make my job easier."
"Much obliged." Bearon took a smoke. "Speaking of such, what is it you got planned anyhow?"
Malcolm had had a generous amount of time to go over everything Brad retrieved and started turning it to his advantage. Tribes, the territories, schematics on the prison; all of it.
"First thing first, Brad found us a gem. Somehow, the Immortals discovered a frequency that, when used, can alert us to the location of Erryn Wolph's ship once it activates its stealth drive. I'll have Brad help you install a device in this ship that can use that frequency to do just that."
"Look forward to it. Where do you reckon she'll land?"
Malcolm pulled up a map of the area of interest from his cyberwatch. "Between the Fallen and King territories is a scrap yard. I place a sixty-one percent chance they land there. It's hidden away, not too far from the Grando, and most importantly, they won't have to worry about patrols. Then again, if they take a riskier approach, they may choose the open field just outside the prison. I place a twenty-four percent chance on that option. In any case, we'll know for sure and adjust accordingly. What's more important is that we know their targets. First they'll raid the shield station, then the prison."
"Sounds to me like you got it all figured."
"I do need to know how you plan on smuggling us onto Delkeedo?"
"In a cargo crate. I'll unload y'all at a cargo yard three kilometers out yonder from the Grando. Any more questions?"
"Don't they check the crates?"
"Hehehe, not at that area. Them dytircs consider the place too low-risk. Hell, it sure ain't a pretty sight to look at. Might even consider it a graveyard with them worthless tribes. At the very least, they left quite a supply of deserted structures for us to use."
Malcolm zoomed closer to a structure that was still mostly intact. "Already got one picked out."
"Hehe, there ain't never a dull moment in the life of a bounty hunter!" Bearon put out his cigar and smiled. "Erryn, your reckoning draws near."
"I, for one, can't wait to make the legionnaires a prime example of what happens to those whom cannot be true soldiers. We are the nightmare they never dared to dream." Malcolm smiled at his brilliance.