The Mercenaries’ Tale – 0.00 Prologue

“You know, there’s a reason why people don’t touch this shit.”

The leather-gloved hand ran a finger through the exposed gash in the side of the parcel and skimmed off the very slightest amount of lime green powder. The hand’s owner tentatively lifted the powder-frosted digit towards their nostrils, just far enough away to be sniffed at but not fully inhaled. The owner of the hand, a man, stared at the green-smudged finger intensely from behind a pair of star-shaped frames on a set of Ray-Bans, as if trying to dissect the contents of the green dust with their gaze.

The curiously shaped sunglasses somehow complimented his choice of outfit, featuring a genuine crocodile-skin jacket with matching cowboy boots, a pink pinstripe shirt, a pair of very expensive brand new designer jeans purposely made to look as though they were second-hand where the not very careful previous owner had viciously attacked them with a pair of garden shears, a lemon coloured bowtie, a silver nose chain that hung to belt level and clasped on to the man’s purple velvet wallet that sat in his exposed underwear band, and a big floppy brown hat that could only be described to those without a detailed knowledge in haberdashery as a “pimp hat”. Those inclined to try and describe the man’s attire using a conventional vocabulary may have opted for words like “eclectic” and “unusual”, whereas those with a more blunt personality and without a thesaurus to hand might just have gone with the direct appraisal of “bloody stupid” and “fucking hilarious”, possibly even extending the description towards “where’s my camera, I’ve got to get a photo of this dickhead”.

The man may have been aware of volatile sentiments such as these against his clothing, as strapped tautly across his chest and shoulders was a battered leather holster housing the biggest, shiniest hand-cannon a person could ever see: a ¹PYK automatic laser pistol. Glinting in the sunlight, it was just imposing enough to silence all biting criticism directed towards the man’s wardrobe, or in the very least reduce them to a whimper along the lines of “you dress like a clown’s angry teenage son but that’s a very big gun and I don’t require any new breathing holes right now”. Clipped on to the man’s chest strap was a gold-plated buckle shaped into letters to spell “LEERoY”, because that’s how Leeroy Jones liked people to learn his name.

Leeroy snorted at his finger. This caused his mouth to involuntarily spasm for a fraction of a second as his nose hairs became slightly singed. It was indeed the real stuff.

“Shit, man,” sniffed Leeroy, wiping his finger into his shirt. “I’ve been looking for this stuff everywhere.”

“I’ve got a limited line on it,” said Leeroy’s newest business partner. “Some corporation’s giving it away, for the right price. It’s just by-product of what they make, but it’ll fuck you up good and proper.”

This business deal was taking place out in the middle of the Dustlands, at a long abandoned service station forgotten to time and now the meeting point du jour for all criminals on the lower-rungs of the ladder of crime; just half an hour before it had been the site of an arms deal, and fifty-two minutes before that some ravenous Gnarwurld man-eating kittens had been traded for a hefty sum between a hunter and collector within its run-down walls. Half-collapsed from age and layered with a coating of the fine dust that gave the Dustlands their name, dry vineweeds grew along the cracked surfaces of its exterior and small heat-thriving creatures lived within its niches. The building’s physical shape was perfect for crime, offering plenty of places for snipers to secrete themselves, cover for gunmen to duck behind, and fairly discrete backrooms for adulterers and rapists to ply their vices within, and all at the additional convenient bonus of being geographically positioned miles away from the nearest source of law.

Despite this potential for criminal activity, the station was empty at this particular moment. It was instead just a meeting point, and all the action was taking place outside of it, two armies of people stood by their bosses awaiting either a peaceful conclusion or a bloody climax.

Leeroy’s people were a ragtag assortment of thugs, eye candy and hangers-on, their gang dress-code being so loose that it practically hung off its hinges and threatened to fall into the bin, the only recognisable commonality between them all being a fondness for leather and extravagant body piercings. Every man and woman in Leeroy’s gang also had attitudes to fit snugly inside the overall shambled effect that the gang gave, ranging from sneering indifference to overconfident bemusement and arrogant apathy. This was exemplified by the way they stood around generally making the place look untidy, which was quite an achievement when you consider that they were stood outside of a building that had long served as little more practically than a public toilet. Their choice of transportation came in the form of three customised pickup trucks, each adorned with intricate decals, inordinate amounts of chrome not seen since the ‘Chrome Craze’² of 4019b, industrial-sized stereo systems and the obligatory fluffy dice hanging down from the rear-view mirror.

Leeroy’s new business partner, a Mr. Horatio Amustes, preferred a more conventional outfit and body of goons. He wore a casual polo shirt in light blue with a pair of beige slacks and brown loafers that matched his bushy brown moustache; a moustache that looked out of place on the face it sat on due to the man’s naturally greying hair being a lot lighter on his scalp than on his lip. Amustes’ crew were all men who had skipped the concept of originality and instead just plumped for black suits, white shirts, black ties, black shoes and aviator sunglasses. Horatio’s cars were all shiny black saloons with tinted windows, because unlike Leeroy he liked to be able to travel in something that didn’t naturally catch the eye at 500 paces.

“You got the money, my friend?” asked Horatio through a smile that wouldn’t look out of place in a shop window, just in front of a rack of sharp knives.

“I got the money, old man,” replied Leeroy through an equally deadly smile, this one the kind of grin that might be the sort donned by a ravenous dog just before it feasts on your face. Leeroy turned, raised his right arm, snapped his fingers and then pointed at one of his guys in one fluid dance-like motion. The man in question sucked his teeth, opened the passenger door on the purple pickup truck next to him, hefted out a large leopard-skin suitcase and shut the door with a flick of his foot. The man walked over to Leeroy in the sort of laboured walk one develops from believing that it is how people “on the streets” walk – a sort of head-bobbing slide motion that looks like a pigeon had a stroke. The goon held the suitcase out to Leeroy, who rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Open it, fool,” said Leeroy, impatiently.

“I ain’t no fool,” snorted his goon.

“Naw, you just be the fool who works for the guy who fucked your momma.”

“That ain’t cool, Leeroy.”

“Fuck you. Open the damn case for Mr. Amustes. We gotta show some class to the man.”

The goon grunted, heeding to his boss’ request. Clicking open the suitcase and turning it to display to Horatio, the insides were neatly stacked wads of 100 Kronz³ notes, all held together with elastic bands. Horatio’s grin took on a slightly softer edge, but it was still an edge you could probably nick your finger on if you weren’t careful.

“It’s all yours, guys,” he said. The goon shut the case and handed it over to Horatio. Leeroy motioned to his troupe of eclectic followers and they all scrambled over to the boxes to collect them, Amustes’ suits backing off to let them through. Horatio extended his hand to Leeroy, a friendly gesture and yet it managed to come across about as softly as a shark flexing its jaw muscles. Leeroy lowered his glasses with a finger, examined Horatio’s hand for any protrusions that might cause his own hand to be pierced and injected with various poisons. Deciding it was clean, he adjusted his glasses and gripped Amustes’ hand with his own, possibly one of the most socially reluctant and awkward handshakes ever seen.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones. It’s been a pleasure,” said Horatio. The handshake ended abruptly, and Amustes turned his attention to the suitcase in his hand. He laid it down on a nearby crate of merchandise to open it and count his earnings. “Perhaps we could undertake a similar deal in the near future, should I find anymore shipments?”

“That would be good, man,” replied Leeroy, who had his hands on his hips and was admiring the service station, his back turned to his new partner as his men started to clumsily lift and carry crates of the green drug past them towards the pickups. “Say, one hell of a place you picked here, Mr. Amustes. Gotta remember this place for the next time I need to organise a deal.”

Horatio guffawed, flicking a finger through the wad of cash in his hand and speed-counting. He still couldn’t believe that there were people looking to pay cold hard cash for the crap he was offloading. He chuckled some more, adding a “good one” absent-mindedly. This didn’t go down well with Leeroy, who spun on his heels and stared at Horatio with a look of aggravated confusion.

“What’s so damn funny, old man?”

“What? Nothing. Just you said that I picked this place out.”

“You did!” snapped Leeroy. Horatio frowned, threw the wad of cash into the suitcase and locked it up. Leeroy’s guys had froze with the crates and Amustes’ suited muscle had the aura of tense expectation about the way their hands were sat on their jackets, near their gun holsters. “You so did, old man!”

“Stop talking stupid, you jackass!” growled Horatio. “I got the message to meet here from your guys! One o’ your thugs in a leather jacket turned up and let us know the arrangements!”

“Man, none of my guys did shit. We had some chick in a suit turn up and tell us where we’d be trading for the stuff.”

“I don’t employ women.”

There was just the silence of slow realisation. You could almost hear a pin drop. In fact, a pin did drop – one from a grenade, which came hurtling at speed over a nearby dustdune.

One of Leeroy’s pickups erupted in a cloud of flame and shrapnel. The metallic hurricane of car bodywork that flew from the blast took out three of the gang members and the crate they were carrying. There was just enough time for several of the gang to get clear of the other two pickups before they followed suit. After the blasts there was just the groan of the injured, the sound of wind blowing across the Dustland plains and the flickering noise of fire dancing on metal.

Leeroy picked himself up and swung his oversized pistol out of its holster towards Horatio, who had taken cover behind the crate next to him.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” screamed Leeroy, who hadn’t quite caught on. The clicks of safety catches replied as Amustes’ men sprang from the cover of their cars and aimed at the head of the gang leader.

“You moron, it’s obviously a setup! Someone wanted to get us out of here to bump us off! We’re sitting ducks!” said a blustering Horatio.

“Fuck you! Your cars didn’t just get blown up!” snarled Leeroy. The members of his gang who were able to shakily joined him in aiming their guns, many of their ears still ringing from the blast.

“Fuck, Leeroy, they got Charlene!” one of the gang called out, who was checking over the casualties using their foot. “An’ Teddy an’ Bojo. Shit! They’re all over the place.”

“Goddamn you, man,” growled Leeroy accusingly.

“Fuck you boy. Calm the fuck down, it’s not me I tell ya,” replied Horatio from behind his wall of suited goons. He was staying behind the crate, looking around for a glimpse of a gunman.

“Shit, Leeroy,” continued the ganger who was still conducting their rigorous and precise analysis of the corpses, “half your ride is buried in Bojo!”

“Mr. Amustes,” murmured one of the suits, “we’ve got to get you out of here.”

“Fuck, man, Teddy’s arm is all the way over there!”

“All right, Peabod, I gettit. Our dudes be dead.” Leeroy was still firmly concentrating on Horatio, who was slowly edging his way to his cars from the cover of his men. “Mighty convenient for you, old man. Our rides be toast and most of the merch went up with them!”

“Not my problem, boy,” Amustes called back. “You want my advice? Get your head down, and get out of here.”

“Hey, where you goin’? You think this is a joke?! You think you’re just going to drive on outta here?!”

“Yeah,” smirked Horatio. “Y’see, unlike you jokers my cars are bullet-proof and bombproof. Would take a damn firestorm to even put a dent in these things-”

Which was funny, because at that exact moment a storm of green fire wrapped itself around Horatio’s motorcade and proceeded to toss the cars around like stones in a tumble drier filled with lit petrol. The heat could be felt from 20 metres away, and the ferocity of the whirlwind of flame caused everyone not caught in it to be thrown backwards. Eventually, the fire disappeared as quickly as it had come. There were four loud crashes as the cars came back to earth, and a muffled one nearby as one of the cars touched down through the roof of the station. This was followed by three light thuds as the burning carcasses of three of the unlucky suits who had been next to the cars succumbed to gravity as well.

“Shit man, what the fuck was that?” said Leeroy, sitting upright with his oversized gun across his lap.

“That’s fucking ⁴magic!” cried Horatio, weaving across the dusty ground towards the outcrop of rusted metal gantry sticking out of the station with suitcase in hand, his suits following behind. “They’ve gotta fuckin’ mage!”

“Shiiiiit!” said Leeroy under his breath, gun in hand and now pounding across the ground towards the gantry near to the one Horatio was now crouched behind. He launched himself behind the cover of the solid metal and turned to watch as his crew sprinted after him. His ears were ringing, his eyes were still recovering from the flare of the green fire that had caught him off guard, and at the back of his mind he was all too aware that this deal was not only failing to go to plan, but he was out of pocket now half of the merchandise had gone up with his convoy. His gang all secreted themselves behind other outcrops, within nearby station doorways and behind broken windows.

“You guys see anything?” one of Horatio’s men called out from somewhere nearby.

“I see jack!” Leeroy called back. The suit turned to his equally suited colleague behind their cover of a storage tank.

“Who’s Jack?” he asked.

“He means ‘jack’ as in ‘jack shit’,” his friend replied, irritably.

“Oh.” The first suit contemplated this. “Who’s Jack Shit?”

He turned and discovered that his friend had disappeared, unusually leaving his sunglasses behind. The suit shrugged, assuming that the man had ran off to find better cover.

It’s a fact of life that people don’t naturally look up, because it’s not a direction anything generally happens within, and if something interesting does happen in the direction of ‘up’ it’s usually a burning sky, or wrath of the gods, or something unpleasant that hails the coming of Bad Times Ahead. This is appropriate, because if the suit had instead looked up instead of going back to being busy crouched behind his cover looking for signs of an attacker, he would have seen the flailing feet of his colleague disappearing over the gantry platform above him in relative silence. This would have most certainly indicated Bad Times Ahead.

It went quiet for a long time, or what felt like a long time. Fifteen minutes stretches itself across half an hour when your senses are heightened and you’re expecting something to try and finish you off. Both parties had slowly and cautiously edged their way inside the station, and a makeshift fortification had been made out of the fast food serving counter just inside the station’s lobby. Leeroy and Horatio’s teams were now actively working together in order to secure the building, and were reporting back to the fast food counter where the two bosses were now stationed.

“We’ve got to make a plan,” reasoned Horatio, who was sat on his suitcase with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, just below the lip of the counter.

“Would help if we knew how many they got out there,” said Leeroy, who was sat on the dirty linoleum with his legs out and his back against the shelves of the counter, his oversized pistol in his lap.

“They’ve got a mage, at least. That suggests big money. Not that it matters, we’re trapped here.”

“Man, quit your whining. Answer’s simple. We keep our heads down, and when they mess up we do them in and take their ride!”

“What makes you think they have transportation? They’ve got a mage! They could have flown here!”

Leeroy crossed his arms and thought on this.

“…Shit.”

***

Upstairs, one of Leeroy’s guys, Peabod, was succumbing to nature’s call. The men’s toilets, a very tasteful white tiled affair that must have looked nice back when it hadn’t been covered in dust and grime, had not been functional in a long time. That didn’t stop Peabod from using the urinal, on the grounds that it was a lot more discrete than just discharging his bladder against one of the many unkempt walls of the station and besides, even thugs have standards. On the plus side, the plumbing was still sturdy enough to flush the material in a direction away from the toilet floor and, despite the ethos of grimy squalor that the station now had, the toilet cubicles were relatively clean, a nice way of saying that they weren’t completely covered in faeces and were mostly bare, if dusty, porcelain.

Except for the last cubicle, where someone had carelessly been strung up from the ceiling by their belt and was now involuntarily dripping blood at a semi-constant rate over the toilet beneath them. The fact that the blood was still warm and the body was twitching with the afterthoughts of death might have alerted Peabod if he hadn’t elected to use the urinal closest to the door and had thus not been able to see the far end cubicle at the other end of the room.

Peabod was so engrossed in the task of draining his lizard that he didn’t hear the careful click of the cubicle next to the one occupied by the dead body opening. He didn’t notice the subtle shadows of the man leaving the cubicle in a low crouched position play on the walls, and he also didn’t hear the man’s carefully regulated breathing as they crept slowly towards him from behind. He did, however, hear the whirr of electronic musculature and he did feel the subsequent crash of pain through both the back of his skull and the front of his face as the toilet wall rushed to meet him. The last thing Peabod noticed was that the world was suddenly very black, very dark, and quite hard to hold on to.

***

Ten minutes later.

“Arrrrgggghhhh! Shiiiiit!” came the scream from upstairs, jolting Leeroy and Horatio to attention. Leeroy clicked the safety catch off on his pistol and pointed it upwards over the lip of the serving counter expectantly, while Horatio hid behind his suitcase against the opposite end of the counter.

One of the suited thugs ran into the room, and their reflexes kicked in fast enough to throw themselves sideways as a bolt of laser energy decimated a big chunk of doorway where they had been stood. Smoke rose from the counter, where Leeroy’s pistol was now sat. The big floppy pimp hat behind the gun bobbed as Leeroy looked up from the gun’s sights, a grin of embarrassment on his face.

“You prick,” sneered Horatio from just behind his shoulder, “it’s one of ours!”

Leeroy shrugged, and called out to the suit who was now dusting himself off following their dive.

“Sorry, man!”

The suit seemed too distracted to be too concerned, as he approached the two leaders.

“There’s two bodies up in the men’s lavatories. One of them is one of our guys, he’s been strung up from the ceiling after something crushed his windpipe and punched a deep wound in his stomach. The other guy is one of your men, Mr. Jones, and he’s face first down in one of the urinals and it looks like something crushed his skull against the wall.”

“And the scream?” inquired Horatio.

“Er…that was me,” said the suit, adjusting his tie and trying not to blush. Leeroy was seething.

“Who was it? My guy, I mean?”

“It was the man with the green Mohawk, Mr. Jones,” said the suit.

“Shit. They got Peabod.”

“Look, they’re in the building,” said Horatio, who was trying to be rational despite his nerves trying to burst through his skin and make a run for it. “We have to get out of here! I say we all split up and make a dash for it, they can’t take us all down can they?”

Leeroy frowned.

“Amustes, you can be a chickenshit and leave if you wanna, but I’m not leavin’ this here spot until you give me a fucking good reason.”

There was a sudden muffled spray of gunfire from the direction of the docking bays, followed by screams and something else, something not quite audible but very disturbing. A crash of what could have been thrown furniture or perhaps a wall collapsing, more cries of pain and then it became clear what the inaudible sound was: laughter. It was a man laughing not just out of joviality but something a lot more insidious that chilled a part of those who heard it, as it was a war cry of death from someone who obviously enjoyed inflicting it. Someone was having way too much fun.

Leeroy, Horatio and the suit were frozen in anxiety, staring towards the dilapidated archway marked “DOCKING” by a wonky sign above it. When one of Leeroy’s few remaining girls, Shandria, came running past them through the door with her forearms bent at angles that should never be applied to the human anatomy, they silently elected to vault the counter and follow her out through the doorway signposted “UPSTAIRS TO ACCOMODATION”, in the opposite direction of the laughter. And then Shandria burst into flame.

The green hellfire streamed down the staircase, enveloping the crippled woman. It lapped at the three men as they skidded to a halt in front of it. Panicked, and now in the animal state of self-preservation, they ran towards the front doorway of the station, the suit taking the lead and forgetting all sense of ‘duty’ that he might have had to protect Horatio before the devil and his laughing minions invaded the building.

A writhing mass of burning flesh hit the ground near them as they made their exit, screaming as it fell from the gantry above. Hammering out across the plains as fast as they could run without losing balance and falling over, the three men ran for their lives. Leeroy’s sprinting jog had a forward lean to it as he carried his pistol, Horatio’s laboured gait had a backwards-lean as the suitcase hung from his clenched fingers, and the suit had the perfect running posture of a man taught how to be a proper bodyguard, even keeping posture when his life depended on him getting the lead out.

Half a mile out, they ran out of breath. The screaming and gunfire was all behind them now, quite the distance away. As they turned to watch the building, they could still see green flares in some of the upper windows. The laughter couldn’t be heard all the way out here, which was a relief.

“Ha…*pant*…hahahaa!” Leeroy guffawed, sliding his gun back into its holster. “We made it!”

“Not…*puff*…yet…*pant*…we still need…*puff*…to get to civilisation,” said Horatio, near-collapsing from the sprint and doubled-over with his hands on his knees, the suitcase resting against his right leg. An evil grin came over Leeroy’s face.

“Which reminds me!” he exclaimed, unholstering the PYK and pointing it at the winded Horatio. As if second nature, the suited thug’s pistol appeared in his hands and took a sudden position aimed at Leeroy’s temple, the thug still himself recovering from the run but keeping enough composure to do his job.

“What are you doing?!” cried Horatio, backing away, using the suitcase as a shield.

“All my merch is back there, and most of it went up with my crew and my ride. I want my money back!”

“Now be reasonable! *Puff* You can have half!”

“Nahhh, I’ve gotta better idea, man,” said Leeroy. He turned his head slightly to acknowledge the suited thug with the gun at his side. “How about you and me do in Mr. Amustes here and split the cash?”

Before the suited thug had a chance to even consider, Horatio spat out his offer:

“Kill this idiot and I’ll triple your salary!”

Leeroy and Horatio watched the suited thug, who had a poker face that could chip granite. Seconds passed, with only Horatio’s laboured breathing making the major contribution to environmental noise. The suited thug decided on his allegiances.

“I think I’ll-”

There was a dull pop as some of the suited thug’s brains elected to leave his skull through a small hole in the side of his head, accompanied by a fair amount of blood. As the body collapsed to the floor, there was just enough time for Horatio to yell “SHIT IT’S A SNIPER-” before his brains decided to do the same. Leeroy’s crotch simultaneously erupted in a fountain of mutilated tissue and blood, leaving the gang leader to fold up and collapse to the floor, his face contorted into a twisted grimace of agony and only a high-pitched whine from his lips as he slipped into unconsciousness, the blood running down his trousers and pooling out on the floor.

There was more prolonged gunfire and the green flare from the direction of the station, but it wasn’t long at all before the sound of the wind reigned as the only noise over the Dustlands again. Eventually three figures emerged, two from the carnage at the station and one appearing seemingly from nowhere, having been merged in with the rust-coloured rock.

They converged on the three prone figures out in the dust; a man, a woman, and an indistinguishable person whose body was entirely hidden by robes. The man stared at the gang leaders and the dead bodyguard for a few seconds before succumbing to laughter, almost doubling over with the act.

“What’s so funny?” asked the woman. The man gained his composure and sniffed a few times as he calmed down.

“Fuck. I know we didn’t have to kill Leeroy but you didn’t have to blow his fuckin’ nuts off.”

“Oh I did,” replied the woman. “I really did. That’s a nasty scratch on your neck.” The man raised his hand to his neck, his right hand. It had to be his right hand, because the left one was mechanical and couldn’t feel anything.

“Heheheh, that bitch back in the station. Got a swipe at me with her nails as I was dealing with her mates.”

“What did you do to her?” asked the woman, already having some idea as to what happened.

“I broke her arms. And then, and here’s the really funny bit, hahah, she runs straight through the foyer past these three jokers,” the man motioned to the three men at their feet, “with her arms all flappin’ around uselessly, and they brick themselves. She runs straight past through a door and straight into Archie’s flamethrower magic. Damn near pissed myself laughing, saw the entire thing from up on the balcony.”

The figure covered in robes stirred from its silence.

“My name is not Archie,” it said, in quietly menacing tones.

“He hates it when you call him Archie,” said the woman, dismantling the sniper rifle in her hands and tucking the pieces into her coat.

“I don’t like it much when this ape decides to abandon our plans, either,” the robed man added. The woman nodded.

“I was wondering about that too. I thought the plan was that you were going to be all stealthy and try to take them down silently one-by-one. I don’t remember the part about gunfire and going on a murderous rampage,” she said. The man shrugged.

“I got bored.” He sniffed, looked at the unconscious but still bleeding body of Leeroy and burst into more laughter. “That’s still funny as hell. Always thought he was dickless when we were tracking him, and now he is.” The woman smiled as she finished hiding her gun into the recesses of her coat.

“One bullet, too, for both him and Amustes,” she beamed. “Found a great spot to camp down out over by that dune, perfect alignment.”

The man clapped the accomplishment with a smug grin, and she bowed emphatically. The man sighed.

“Oh well,” he said, fishing around in his jacket pocket, “can’t stand around all day admirin’ our handiwork. Better collect on the pay.” He fished a small camera out of his pocket. It had a small radar dish affixed to its top. The man proceeded to photograph the three bodies at their feet and then started to walk in the direction of the station, talking over his shoulder to his colleagues.

“We’ll stop by the bar when we get back,” he announced. “My treat. I’ll just go and finish photographing what we’ve done so the client can get on with wiring our fee to our accounts, while you go fetch the car.”

“Okay. We’ll need to stop by the clothes rental so I can return the suit from earlier,” the woman called back.

“Shame! You looked good in it, Love!” replied the man. The woman frowned.

“I hate it when he calls me that,” she growled.

“I could set the meat-bag on fire,” offered the robed man. The woman sighed.

“No. No, you’d better not. We’ll just have to put up with him as usual. Could you do us a favour and check to see if there are any crates left intact? He seems to forget that the client wanted them incinerated.”

“Your word is my command,” said the robed man, folding his arms. He moved away in a manner that was quite unusual, in that his feet were not touching the ground as he did so. He was levitating just about ground level and moved like a skater cruising on invisible ice.

The woman bent down next to Leeroy and patted him on the head, like an adult humouring a child. He was pale from blood loss and would probably be dead soon, but that wasn’t her concern. She smiled as he groaned in his deep, painful slumber.

“No offence Leeroy,” she said. “It’s just business.” She stood up and started the long walk to the car, which was parked a couple of dunes away.

If you’re in the favourable position of having lots of money and connections, there are means to ends in terms of solving problems with a minimum of fuss via the medium of cold hard cash. If you want someone tracked down, you hire a bounty hunter. If you want someone dead but want the act to send a message, you hire a hitman. If you still want someone dead but would rather keep your name out of the picture, you hire an assassin. And if you want a shipment of highly toxic by-product stolen from one of your highly illegal and very traceable chemical factories tracked down and burned, the thieves responsible killed in graphic displays of violence and anyone associated with the thieves given a message via equally fatal or horrible acts of brutality, with photographic evidence of the deed transmitted directly after said deed had been committed, then you hire mercenaries.

These three individuals are mercenaries. This is their story.

---

Post by Sean Patrick Payne | October 8, 2013 at 11:37 pm | The Mercenaries' Tale | No comment

Tags: Dustlands, guns and weaponry, Horatio Amustes, Kronz, Leeroy Jones, Peabod, PYK, the Mercs

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