Big Damn Heroes - Prologue: Back in the Saddle
08 Oct 2016Anna Reid
This was written in conjunction with my friend Calhoun, please go check his side of the story.My active call alarm is shrill and grating, jolting me awake and sending sharp pangs of throbbing pain through my head. It takes all of my self control not to throw something at my desk. Instead, I cover my face and ears in a pillow to muffle a scream of frustration.
It can’t be much later than eight in the morning, and last night had been a wild one. I don’t remember much, but there was a lot of booze, a lot of drugs and a lot of guns. I vaguely recall holding a gun to a partner's head, sat on his lap and grinding out the deed right in front of a cheering crowd. The gun was to challenge him to maintain his "focus". I wish I could say it was the craziest thing I'd ever done, but it would be a lie.
Merc parties, especially with the degenerates I slum around with, are some of the wildest, most deviant things a person could attend. Not knowing if you could be dead tomorrow, or if you’ll be shooting at one of your buddies on your next contract, combined with mountains of disposable income tend to breed a bit of a no-holds-barred attitude towards partying. Not that I’m complaining
Well, I am now, but… You know what? Fuck you, you know what I meant.
I throw the pillow across the room, and it bounces off the edge of my desk and flops impotently to the floor.
What? I never said I had much self control. I kill people for money, you can’t expect much from me.
Despite my best efforts to will the call alarm away, it continues it’s shrill attack on my brain. I swear, a rogue AI wouldn’t need to hijack our military infrastructure to wipe us out; the only thing it’d need to do is make our alarms go off all the time. We’d murder each other within the month.
“Alright! I’m coming! Just shut the fuck up, would you?” To my intense dismay, it doesn’t, so I’m forced to untangle myself from my sheets and roll off the bed onto the floor. I lay there for a few seconds, allowing the cool tile to soothe the raging headache shredding my brain from the inside.
Once the tile loses its magical cooling effects, I grope blindly across the floor until my fingers clamp down on a clump of crumpled fabric. Drawing it to my chest like a safety blanket, I sit up and lean against the bed frame, my legs crossed below me. The more I try to get up and answer the call, the harder it is to do. All I want is to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. Getting back in bed is just too much work at this point.
But every time I close my eyes, that fucking alarm comes roaring back in like a runaway T-9. The only way to turn it off is to physically walk over and hit a button. I set it up like this to address this very situation; I’d missed out on too many very lucrative contracts because I would cut the call with voice. It was a decision that kept me swimming in credits, but a decision that, in the moment, I was kicking myself for. Well, not literally. Kicking is an activity that requires at least two cups of coffee before I will even consider engaging in.
Letting out one last frustrated groan, I stagger to my feet and make my way over the insurmountable distance to my desk, pulling the shirt I’d grabbed from the floor on as I go. The thing smelled like I’d been doing cardio in a dog pile, which, to be fair, might actually have happened. Like I said, last night was crazy.
Somehow, I get all the way to my chair and plop down into it before lowering my head down onto the cool glass of my desk. Without looking, I probe for the ‘accept call’ button and, upon finding it, slam my hand down on it.
The alarm blissfully stops, replaced by the soft accented voice of Gita, my handler. Gita searches the galactic boards, both legal and super-extra sketchy, for contracts that I or the six other mercs she works with might want. In exchange for a cut, of course. She might not pull the most lucrative work, but her jobs get the bills paid.
“Anna, I’ve found somethi- Oh.” I glanced up when she started talking, and my murderous expression must have startled her. That, or my smeared makeup, tangled hair and general air of disheveled-ness. I like to think it’s the former, though.
She recovers quickly, however, and adopts her signature cheery attitude. The bitch. “Well you look like shit, don’t you?”
Gita, on the other hand, looks flawless, as usual. I have no idea how she does it, and she flat refuses to tell me. She parties just as hard and long as the rest of us, but somehow manages to stay chipper no matter how hung over she should be. I suspect it’s heavy consumption of military stims and consistent progenitor cell use. I’ve got no proof, but what else could it be?
I answer her with a glare and a snarl, and with my overall appearance coupled with my reputation, I must have looked positively menacing. Gita is used to my bullshit, though, and continues with nary a stutter.
“I’ve got something you might like; pay's good, and it’s relatively straightforward.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and let out a long sigh. “What’s the job,” I yawn.
“Wet-work.” She says the word with an air of calm matter-of-factness that you wouldn’t expect from someone that could be your kid sister. If I was anyone else, it might unnerve me. “The target is one Conrad Komisch, ex-mental patient and member of-”
I cut her off with a wave of my hand and a grunt. “Please, no. Just send me the dossier and my advance. I’ll figure it out for myself.”
“I’ll just shoot that over to you then, shall I?” I just grunt and lower my head again. I can’t see her, but from the tone of her voice, she’s giving me one of her patented judgmental once-overs. “I’ll just, uh, get out of your hair. You look like you need some sleep. And a shower.”
I look up and scowl. “And you look like you should be giving a tour of the base to a bunch of kids on their field trip.”
A look of amusement crossed Gita’s face as she looked at me sideways. “You know I love our little chats. Heard about you and Drake, by the way. Word is, you were going to blow his head off one way or the other. At least you’ve got a nice, juicy career as a high-rent callgirl if the whole merc thing doesn't work out, right?”
I rubbed some sleep out of my eyes as I fumbled for the disconnect button. “Go eat a dick, Gita. For once.”
My handler simply smiled, infuriating me with her morning perkiness even more. “Not my style. Now get cleaned up. I’ll be standing by.”
The screen flickers off, and I shake my head, mouthing her final words to myself.
‘I’ll be thdanding by!’ Fucking bitch.
I snort in equal parts derision and aggravation. She really is insufferable sometimes. Can’t really stay mad at her, though; while she had woken me up, she’d found me a job, and that was all that mattered. That, and sleep. Mumbling something incoherent, I allow my head to fall onto the surface of my desk.
The first thing I’m aware of is the smooth glass against my cheek, followed closely by a grinding, aching pain in my neck and lower back. Groaning in discomfort and dissatisfaction, I straighten up gingerly, my spine stiff and sore. I grimace as pins and needles rush into my arm as blood rushes back into my stagnant veins. A string of drool connects the corner of my mouth to the desk. I wipe it away with the back on my limp and numb hand.
“Oh, God, Why?”
I slump back in my chair, my arms hanging at my sides and my eyes squeezed shut. My mouth is as dry as a spaced corpse, and I hurt all over, especially my legs, which feel like the muscles have been shredded in an industrial meat grinder; teach me to bounce up and down non-stop for an hour straight.
After a few minutes of feeling sorry for myself and vowing over and over I’d never touch alcohol again, I gather enough willpower to reach forward to the small metal box on my desk and pull out a plastic bag packed to bursting with fine white powder. Upending it on the smooth glass, I separate it into several thin lines and, with the help of a thin metal tube, inhale one of the lines.
After an infinitesimal delay, my vision pulses as my heart carries the drug rich blood to my brain. All at once, the various aches and pains fade into background noise; not quite gone, but easy to ignore. My exhaustion is swept away by a jolt of sizzling, high voltage energy. I inhale sharply through my teeth and slam my fist down onto the table.
Propelled by the rush of endorphins, I spring to my bare feet and rush off to the kitchen to make some coffee. While the pot is boiling, I call the dossier up on my arm’s holo display.
The guy is a real piece of work; recently released from a high security mental institution after being declared “cured,” by the staff. Got picked up by one of those organizations that’ll take just about anybody to pad their numbers, and used their philosophy to commit a series of thefts, murders and kidnappings over a the course of eight months. His most recent crime, and the catalyst for this contract was the kidnapping of…. Mining magnate….
Son of a bitch.
Cutting the feed, I storm over to my desk and call Gita up again. My steel fingers tap a cold rhythm against the glass as I wait for the call to go through. After an infuriatingly long time, she picks up, a smile fixed on her lips.
“Anna! It’s great to see you up and about. What can I do for you,” she purrs.
“What the fuck, Gita?” I snarled through clenched teeth. “You know I don’t take rescue missions, especially not some rich cunt’s twat daughter.”
Gita’s smile slides right off her face at my words, replaced by the stern expression she gets when she’s reprimanding one of us. “Anna,” she scolds in a motherly tone. “You already took the contract. The money’s in your account. You can’t back out of this now.”
“Oh no no, this is on you. I am not rescuing some spoiled little brat, and I’m certainly not letting her on my ship. Find someone else.”
“Like I already said, the money’s in your account already, and the contract is in your name. Besides,” she looks down and nonchalantly brushes something off of her desk. “The guys are already tasked out. So you’re going to either do the job, or you’ll be in default.”
I can feel a vein in my temple pulsing as my impotent fury builds. Lost for words, I point at the screen, mouthing silent curses at her.
Before I can have an aneurism, she cuts in, a smug little expression on her face. “Of course, we can always subcontract somebody. Have them handle the rescue, while you do the rest.”
I regain my voice at her words. “Hell no! I’m not splitting shit with anyone.”
“Don’t worry about that; We’ll talk with the client, have him set a separate bounty.”
Well shit. She’s backed me into a corner here. Either I rescue some mewling damsel in distress, or I work with some rando do-gooder. Well, I could default on the contract and have every bounty hunter in the sector gunning for me, which isn’t the most ideal situation, if I’m being honest with myself
Grinding my teeth at the humiliation of the situation, I answer her. “Fine,” I growl.
The smile returns to Gita’s lips, this time tinged with smug satisfaction. “What was that?”
I glare at her, murder in my eyes. “I’ll do the thing.” The next part is physically painful to say, but with a huge amount of willpower, I choke it out. “With a Partner.”
Gita is almost giddy with excitement at my uncomfortably. “Wonderful! I’ll contact the client and get this all set-”
I cut the call. My eyes closed, I take several deep breaths in an attempt to calm down.
It doesn’t work. I slam my left hand onto the glass of my desk, sending a spider web of cracks across it and a couple shards tumbling to the floor.
Well, shit.