INTRO
Callisto, some 200 kilometres from Valhalla.
15 Milometers from Nar Crater, along the rings of the Valhalla ring structure.
2350, 0900 hours.
“Grey” Outpost.
The bars doors opened with a swift hiss of air, bulkhead doors swinging in a circular motion as the retreated back into the sockets in the walls. Everyone inside turned to look at the figure, which loomed in the dark corridor which led to the bar, hands on the occupied holsters stuck to his chest.
The figure was looming, nearly 6’7 in full, military grade hard-suit. Angular face plates and armored pieces made of military-grade ceramic sat just beneath a 3 atom thick layer of graphene, which stuck up like staples lining the top of the plates, surrounded with durasteel, and plasteel layered sheets.
The armor was black, camouflaged for the Callistian environment with grey and black multicam, a bit of olive dashed in between some lines, but barely enough to be recognizable. 2, stuck-together holsters were slammed into his chestplate, each of which- held by a hand- lay a peculiar revolver design. Fully loaded with 10 rounds of what appeared to be high-velocity armor piercing 4mm rounds.
The hardsuits rig was full of equipment, antenna stuck out of some of the mag pouches, a spyglass, baton, combat knife, and night-vision kit sticking out like a sore thumb. Spare speedloaders of 4mm lined his waistband in a “belt” like fashion, and , a satchel of what appeared to be spare magazines for what was slung over his shoulder.
A rifle, heavily complex in its own design, yet sleek and modular looking. Rails for additional attachments lined its sides and top, and a long, holographic scope made up most. Along which sat a laser, a rangefinder, and a canted sight along the side of the scope. A magazine, seemingly made for 5mm, an unusual cartridge for a gun of its size, was slotted into its place underneath a large bolt, reminiscent of designs from 350 years ago.
Nobody had seen the faceplates of the hardsuit before, and as they stepped into the lit inclines of the bar, cigarette smoking trapped inside, not many returned their own gaze to the drink before them. The floor beneath the figure creaked underneath the weight of the hardsuit, the wood floors, already worn on their own accord, only barely being able to withstand the heaviness of the material.
Their gaze quickly lowered everyone elses, his helmet slowly turning as angled faceplates met the eyes of everyone around. Some wondered how they could see, as no visor was even visible, aside from some light dots along the helmets surface. Their eyes quickly settled on a figure who stared down in his drink. Clad in PMC hardsuit along with 2 of his friends. Black haired and green-eyed, he sat with his helmet by his side, enjoying a cigarette and a whiskey with rocks.
Marching over to the booth they sat it, their gaze looked up to meet his, now just feet from the booths table.
“Problem?” The green eyed one asked, looking up at the menacing figure, which misplaced the smile that once sat on his lips before they had arrived. His two friends, who sat across from him in the same model of hardsuits, looked up at him, not noticing his entrance earlier.
The bartender across the room turned off the PGR supported broadcast which was playing on a telescreen across the room, effectively putting the room into silence. The last words being heard- “Hail Galileo! Hail the republic!”.
The figure shifted some of the weight onto their right side, now leaning a bit to their right. They finally spoke in a grovelled, radio-like voice, with an accent from somewhere on Earth, probably Britain.
“You’re a wanted man, Mister Cornwallis.” The figure stated plainly, staring down at him as his two friends shuffled across the booth uncomfortably. “For crimes of conspiracy against the Peoples Galilean Republic.”
He’d chuckle, keeping up a facade that he was trained to linger, “I highly doubt that, do you have papers of proof?” He’d ask, the figure before him shuffling, reaching into his RIG to pull out a bounty chip, tossing it onto the table as it rendered a display of the man of the hour, which looked precisely like the green eyed PMC. The name was “John E. Cornwallis.” A list of crimes detailing his criminal record, and active warrant.
He’d mock-read through the information, before looking back at the looming figure. “This isn’t me, however, I would be willing to play a hand of-” The figure let out a menacing chuckle, “I am not here to play your games, PMC.” He’d lower a hand from his holsters, relaxing it. “You either come with me, or I drag you out in a stasis bag.”
The PMC’s all chuckled, “It seems to us that either way, I’m leaving here living. Stasis bag or not.” The figure chuckled after the fact, “Stasis bags are often used to transport dead.” He’d say, matter-of-factly, before leaning forwards. “And I’m willing to waste one on you.”
The PMC’s facade broke, his smug look turning into a smug look of defeat as he reached down to his waist band. “You do not scare me, bounty hunter!” He’d pull something from the holster along his waist, which was strapped to his hardsuit, drawing his handgun in a meager second before firing 2 shots into the figure’s chest.
Sparks flew across the room as the rounds slammed into the figures chestplate, smoke slowly clearing after the fact, revealing the figure still standing, 2 tiny, charcoal black marks laying on his chestplate in the form of what remained of the 2 cartridges.
“Bad idea.” He said, having not even shifted from his other position. Quickly drawing one of the revolvers from the holster, within half a second, the barrel was already on the PMC, who was recoiling, prepping another shot. Before he could properly let off another round, the figure fired a single round into his chest, right into the heart.
Piercing straight through the ceramic and plasteel chestplate like butter, the round, travelling at 4,500 meters a second, the sabot-shaped round passed through his body and out the other side in a millisecond, tearing through his heart, and killing him instantly. His two friends reached for their handguns, on of which had a PDW leaning against the wall, underneath the booth table. Before they could however..
The second revolver, now unholstered just as quickly, bared down on them. “Move, and you’ll end up like him.” The figure spoke, voice slightly garbled in the static of his hardsuit, and they froze in place. He’d jolt his handgun to the door while retaining his aiming position, they both sprinted out the bulkhead, down the corridors of the outpost. Holstering his second revolver, the figure flourished his two, before holstering them both, popping his neck as he did so.
The room was silent, everyone inside staring at the scene which had just unfolded before them. Smoke from the fired cartridges lingering in the room, as the figure grasped hold of the body, holding his wrist up to his face, and making a scan of the lifeless vessel of what used to be a man.
The laser-based scan-display quickly shined green, and, looking at his wrist-mounted tablet, a confirmation read out along the screen- that was his guy. Walking up to the bar, his faceplates retracted, revealing a handsome, blonde man with deep green eyes, a slight smirk resting on his lips.
“I’ll have a stinger, oh- and-” He’d reach into his rig, pulling out a card labeled “50. G’s” and placing it on the bar. “For your trouble.” The bartender took the card, glaring at him with a scared expression as he slotted it into the G register.
The figure leaned against the bar as a Galilean cleanup crew arrived, aiming their weapons at him. Taking a sip out of his newly made Stinger, before raising his hands, cocktail in hand, slowly but surely. His debts repaid.
LANCER
Afterglow of the RIC
Universe, Story, and Characters created by Miller W. Wellington.
2351, a year of relative peace, as reported by USF funded newspapers, sites, and stories.
What a lie.
As tensions continued to heat up the friction along the Solar Space between The United Solar Federation, and the Peoples Galilean Republic (founded 2349), all who lived in Galileo, and its sister moons, knew of the burgeoning, almost impossible to avoid possibility of a continuation of the 1st Galilean War. The Galilean Military was already regrouping, a prepping for a continuation of the conflict, and the USF… well, lets just say they weren’t exactly happy to give up one of the most wealthy, productive, and vital pieces of Solar Space.
However, our story does not take us to the place of politics or war, we are taken to the underground. Specifically- the criminal world of Callisto, which, after the Galilean War’s economical, social, and political impact, exploded in a criminal renaissance, racketeering, theft, organized crime, and hard drugs were widespread across Valhalla, Asgard, and the Callistian plains. Poverty, poor welfare, and overwhelmed police forces was barely scraping by in handling such daunting criminal enterprises.
To combat this, however, they hire mercenaries to boost their manpower, PMC’s to boost their influence, and, most notably, Bounty Hunters and Bail Bonds to capture key individuals, or hunt out larger-scale crimes outside of the mainstream megacities of Valhalla and Asgard, on the Callistian plains and rocky surface, barren as ever. Leading to a rebirth - the reemerging of the Bounty Hunting world in human history. 700 years ago, bounty hunting was common practice until it was snuffed out by police forces, but now, under a new rule, it was reborn.
However, not all is fair in the field of a supposed “Socialist Dream” the PGR promised, and as the year began to set, one man is given a choice, in a lowly interrogation room in the middle of Valhalla city.
