Bullets sparked on either side as Toran dove through the final security door—salvation at last—a sharp portal that hissed shut and nearly claimed his lower leg.

  The office's fiery light and accents washed over his senses, a mirror of the hellish dread within him. Goosebumps sprouted along his neck as the screams drew near. The last moments of trusted foot soldiers cursed to end with muffled shouts and so-far ineffectual gunfire.

  In a jumble of fingers Toran keyed the panel on his desk, releasing the spring-loaded chain-gun buried in its mahogany guts. Cold. Deadly. A thousand rounds seated in the over-sized magazine, with ornate patterns etched into the polished durtanium barrels.

  The grips felt strange as he took position, less a weapon, more a lifeline. His last hope against someone or something hitherto unseen. An abstract object of terror he'd sensed in the rafters above his head, felt peering down at him from the dark.

  Who or what could it be? An alien lifeform? A vengeful wraith here to collect for the sins Toran'd committed?

  He hadn’t the foggiest clue, and both sounded utterly crazy. Irrational doubt had begun to worm its wretched way into an ordinarily rational mind. A pall of uncertainty that made him itch.

  ...would the chain-gun even be enough?

  With a final thud, all fell silent on the other side, terribly and eerily still. Toran's harried heart beat like an angry drum ready for war, the only sound in the confined room besides his shallow breaths.

  ...

  ...

  Until a knock rang at the door. Shallow and gentle. Deliberate and slow.

  Rap, tap, tap.

  Toran nearly squeezed the triggers with unrighteous fury, but his sagacity kept him from killing what could be one of his men. And only barely.

  "Rogers, Temelen, John? Anybody?" he called out, a bit shaker than he'd like. "Make yourselves known before I make you fucking history!"

  None responded, unsurprisingly. But someone, or something else shattered the crystalline void of silence. A voice that sounded like a young woman. Calm, and laced with a macabre silkiness.

  "...Toran? Toran Calzon? Is this a bad time? Can always put us on the books for tomorrow. If you're busy?"

  Toran screamed as the chain-gun spat hellfire. "Get busy being dead, bitch!"

  A beam of phosphorus rounds tore through the door like damp papyrus. Loose documents whirled in an unnatural circular gale. His ears whistled, gun smoke choked the air, and the erratic flashes of combustion obfuscated his vision...

  ...as Toran fell into a haze of fear and murderous rage.

  Click, click, click.

  Toran clambered, knocking baubles over as he reloaded with sweaty palms. Dust peppered his sweaty sandy hair, and a strange new scent had joined the gunpowder. Not stronger, simply sharper. A mix of oil and something similar to gogi-nuts—a favored treat that was nigh unmistakable.

  Regardless, an uncanny stillness returned as the smoke thinned.

  Toran'd shot his own entertainment center to shit, among countless other prized possessions. The crimson wallpaper was riddled with bullet holes that wound in abstract lines, chaotic patterns that traced the beveled frame of the security door.

  Toran didn't budge. He couldn't.

  Not until he was utterly certain that his attackers were dead. Or had scampered off with their tails tucked. He could sit there forever, would, if he didn't know better. The enemy was determined if nothing else, they'd be back with either greater numbers or greater resolve. Whatever they were.

  Eventually, he pried his hands from the chain-gun, arms heavy as residual dread abated. A therapeutic release trickled down his spine like a cold stream, the prelude to a rising sense of courage that—

  —a blade materialized against his throat, felt long before it was seen. His stomach dropped down into his boots like an elevator, while more adrenaline gushed into his bloodstream.

  He hadn't heard a sound, hadn't sensed a breeze, or even the warmth of their body. Still couldn't.

  The blade was unbelievably sharp, firmly held with the sureness of a lethal hand. That unusual nutty aroma wafted from its cold, silver shine. Salty and undeniable.

  His left eye rested in his periphery, but couldn't see the wielder, and yet somehow he knew, like before, they'd come from above. From the rafters into the vents like a hungry sap-spider.

  Toran raised his hands, jaw tight with caution, more stoic in the face of his demise than afraid now. The silk sleeves of his amethyst shirt smoothly pooled at his elbows.

  He'd faced death many times since his tumultuous youth. Sometimes simply for kicks. But eventually, if they were smart, even the most reckless of men learned when to fight.

  And when to negotiate.

  "I got fissens, elixirs, anything you'd ever want in that chest by the window. Take it, and I'll have something more for you down the line. I'm someone good to keep around. That's a verifiable, starsdamn promise."

  "People always promise things when they're about to die," the voice replied, equally silky as its predecessor, but warbled and distinctly male. "Someone actually had the gall to offer me a coupon once. Not even a good one. I've despised promises ever since."

  The security door collapsed with an almost human groan, the poor thing perforated to Swiss cheese by his rampage. A coldblooded murder that Toran immediately regretted, when he saw what was on the other side.

  A Mephistophelian silhouette stood still amongst a sea of corpses, a plume of obsidian smoke on two feet. Even under the robes the hips hinted at the woman who'd spoke before, but the tribal mask and hood made it uncertain.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  But he was certain of their humanity now. Or rather, the lack of it. Two slit eyes peered at him through the skullish white mask. Hungry, titian, and incredibly other.

  The figure dusted itself off, performative and cocky, quick to confirm her identity with each velvety word:

  "Now that was incredibly rude," she admonished. "I suppose it's my fault for expecting a warm welcome."

  A lengthy sword bobbed at her back, in rhythm with the arrogant swagger in every step forward.

  "Do you greet all your esteemed guests this way?" she added.

  A lump of spit caught in Toran's throat, slowly heated to a boil by a pang of anger in his gut—as his eyes swept over the bloody chaos behind her.

  "Rude? Guests? You charge in here, execute my men, and actually expect a warm welcome? Offered a drink and a bite to eat? A happy ending to boot too?"

  "Where we're from that's not too unreasonable. As odd as that might sound to a cockamamie neophyte such as yourself."

  He could hear the smug smile on her face. She stopped short of the desk with a calm sigh, where one long nail playfully traced the chain-gun’s barrels, practically daring Toran to lunge for the triggers.

  It was certainly tempting. But also stupid.

  Her scent hit him like the wind, a sickly iron taste that finely fit her wicked presence. The heart of her infernal eyes replete with a savage vividness—a rabid beast held hostage in human form.

  "Regardless of your poor manners, you are someone good to keep around, as you said. But we don't want your money and your silly human vices. We want something far more valuable."

  The blade left his neck in a blink, but not without drawing a droplet of blood. Toran shifted, suddenly unsteady as he stole a glance back. At a figure garbed in identical robes, with a similar sword, and an even creepier, smiling blue mask. The haunted expression seemingly carved into it with a dull knife.

  "And what is that?" Toran propped against the desk, legs oddly colder and weaker by the second. "Spaceships, vehicles, or something?"

  "Information. After politely asking your criminal peers around the system, we know you're the best broker. At least nonpareil in this inbred, cesspool of a sector."

  His eyes blurred with a throb, and Toran realized—an embarrassing minute late—that the nutty aroma had to have been a toxin of sorts. Quick-acting, but painless so far. Presumably not fatal since the conversation had taken a propositional turn.

  Unless they were toying with him.

  They were light-years beyond the typical cutthroat, but Toran knew their kind well—sociopaths loved to play games. He simply had figure out which, and play it flawlessly. Not too eager. Not too hostile either.

  "I can smell the money wafting from your robes. Better off bribing an intercorp, they've got more eyes in higher places. My operation mainly catches the scraps that fall between the cracks."

  "We have that angle covered. But thank you for your unsolicited opinion," snapped the woman. "Those we seek live in the cracks. Thrive. And besides, the syndicates and intercorps are two-sides of the same coin, hence our desire to utilize you both."

  "Who for?"

  "A mercenary unit. The Unified Clans, sometimes simply Unified. In recent times they travel in smaller numbers. And are much harder to locate. You can aim your initial search at BioMech's Heartland territories."

  "Why me? Tell me that. You're obviously capable of finding people that are hard to find. I'm not exactly listed."

  "When hunting prey, my father always emphasized casting a wide net. Wider the better. Taught me all kinds of little things like that. Stars, I'm not ashamed to say I miss that man."

  She giggled, a soulless, frosty sound that could rob a blaze of its heat. "Little did he know he'd be caught in one of mine at the end. Poor soul. Nor that he'd scream so much."

  When the casual patricidal aside fully registered, Toran's estimation on surviving became grossly less optimistic.

  "Like I needed reminding of father today of all days," the man growled, suddenly at his—sister’s?—side. No warning, no sound, just there like before. "Keep him from your lips. I'm not in the mood for an argument."

  "Then still your tongue and don't start one," Sister hissed, folding her hands into her sleeves. "Especially not in front of our new friend."

  "Whoring yourself out in our Lord's bed does not place you in charge. Am I or am I not firstborn?"

  "By three starsdamn, Noct?zeu-cursed minutes! I take charge when tact is needed! Everything ends with us soaked in viscera without result when left to you!"

  They exchanged a chorus of heated and colorful words, some Toran had never heard before. Alongside a stare that practically oozed sibling discourse. Not quite loud, yet somehow noisier than a firefight.

  Might've been funny under normal circumstances. But not here. Not now. Not after they butchered his men, not when one wrong move spelled decapitation with a capital dead.

  After a long bout of bickering, Brother turned away, muttering under his breath. Anger diminished, but not quelled. Toran resisted the urge to speak first, lest any residual ire be aimed his way.

  "Apologies, friend. A family that argues together stays together, as they say." Sister continued, sweet enough to rot a tooth. Then retrieved an intangidisk, and keyed in a string of data. "But we'll get out of your thinning hair. You have a daunting task ahead of you."

  "Apparently," Toran growled. "Thanks for dropping by."

  She tossed it over with a smirk in her eyes. "Anytime. But may I offer you some friendly advice, Toran? We are friends right?"

  Toran grit his teeth with a slow nod. "Sure."

  "Next time invest in a maid. It's rude to have a messy house when expecting company."

  "Expect—I wasn't—you're the one—?!"

  He bit his tongue to keep a suicidal retort at bay.

  Brother wrenched the chain-gun from its mount, then walked away like it weighed nothing. Either to keep from being shot in the back or simply as a souvenir. Sister gave a mirthless wink in goodbye, then followed, like old friends that had stopped by for a drink.

  But they were so incalculably far from friends, it hurt. Not even viable as potential assets or associates. These were inhuman, dangerous, monstrous enemies. Creatures. Devils.

  Toran had heard of mythic assassins capable of the impossible. Many. Shadows, if he recalled. But even with his resources it had always come back as fiction and rumor. Too difficult to substantiate and often sourced from drunken or irrefutably foolish speculators.

  Until now. Until they'd made a show of him.

  If his bosses heard of this incident he'd lose irreparable face. He had to cover it up. No mistakes. And when the chance to double-cross arose, and it always did, then he'd take a shot at them. Before they could. Hard enough to shake the stars.

  But he couldn't miss. No. Not even by a wamu-rotten millimeter.

  "Wait." Toran stood taller as his legs began to warm. "I'm a businessman. If I'm not making enough money, I'll be replaced. And in my business that usually means killed. You just took out all my biggest earners. I need some extra capital to grease the wheels."

  They stopped a little outside the doorway, didn't even glance back. Sister let a fistful of fissens clatter at her feet—small, but sizable monetarily. While the imprints were barely legible from this distance, Toran had an incredibly keen eye for money.

  "We'll call you for progress reports. And if you bear results you'll earn more fissens, like a good boy. Then you'll never have to see me or my brother again. You'll never even learn our names. But, if not? You will know them, and know them well. For they will be the tortuous preamble to your death rattle."

  They stalked on side-by-side, stepped over the trail of dismembered and contorted bodies—Rogers, Temelen, John—and faded into the shadows at the curved breadth of the corner. Into the dark expanse of Toran's once lively, sterile warehouse...

  ...now a quiet, and bloody mausoleum.