[b]Location:[/b]
[indent][b]Raygon 8 - Leisure District, aka. New Macau.[/b][/indent]
[indent][b]BT-Block K376-001-019 “Laogui” Lane - 250m from nearest HappyBurger™.[/b][/indent]
[indent][i]Get 4ℭ off your next HyperMeal™ with coupon code “CoMas” - Merry Commercial Christmas! [/i][/indent]
[img]https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/015/779/637/large/alexei-bachinskii-highresscreenshot00000.jpg?1549608416[/img]

[b]Subject:[/b] 
[indent][b]George Christian Wellsley, aka. G.C. Willy.[/b][/indent]
[indent][b]Age: 27 cycles around Raygon 0.[/b][/indent]
[indent][b]Residence: BT-Block L102-071-010, “Moonlit Gardens” flat 10.[/b][/indent]
[indent][b]Occupation: Drone Mechanic.[/b][/indent]

[hr]

“Wow, that really was quite the spectacle, mr. Wellsley! You could hear the gunshots all the way over here. Almost had me thinking your enthusiasm had caused a little tier-in.” He raised his glass to his companions, one of whom was still the Cala from before, while the human had been replaced with a Misle. They clinked their glasses with Shawn’s with supportive chuckles. The bar was the same as before - deafening music, dim lighting, a faint tinge of urea on the air - however, the guests seemed for some reason to keep to themselves even more than before. More specifically, George felt an eerie lack of stares in their particular direction, despite the fact that Shawn and his companions were being quite rowdy. The Qurok bodyguards were nowhere to be seen.

Desperately, George crossed his arms and chopped them forward at the air, ooking in an anxious whisper. Shawn’s laughter dimmed slightly and he sighed. “Oh, mr. Wellsley, where’s your sense of celebration? You’ve finished your mission, you’re no longer deep in debt, and!” He tapped his wristband and brushed away the ads, opening a videofeed and flicking it over towards George. “... Congratulations. You’re famous.”

The video appeared as a small flat ray-shield hovering above George’s wristband. It displayed, very clearly, his three assailants, the Raygonian, Putt and Qurok, being absolutely annihilated by the Bobby he had hacked. Granted, the Putt and the Qurok had been killed before he hacked it, but it still appeared as though George somehow manipulated it, especially when the very, very visible remote control appeared in his hands midway through the clip. 

“That final warcry at the end, though… Mmm! Oh, that really just puts the cherry on top,” Shawn praised.

Wellsley paled so much that his fur appeared to whiten. He pointed at himself and slit his throat with his thumb, clicking his tongue hopelessly. Shawn’s smile gave way to a pair of pursed lips complementing his skyward glance. 
“Nnnno, not necessarily. Yes, you attracted a bit more attention that we had planned for, and yes, there’s a fair chance that someone or something will come after you at some point, but hey, look on the bright side!”

George raised a miserable eyebrow. A hatch opened on the table before him and unveiled a rising platform carrying a small wrapped box and a shrouded bottle. The box unwrapped itself and opened to reveal a paper note. Upon it was written a number - one much larger than any George had seen outside of price tags. The bottle unshrouded itself and the label read Dom Perignon. 

“This is your pay in advance for your next mission, and with it, you can probably buy yourself out of this little pickle, hmm?”

George nearly screamed, instead throwing his hands into the air and concentrating his every fiber on not exploding with energy. He tapped his wristband and tapped at the ads with such recklessness that he opened several to the cacophony of ad music, pitches and automated offers. Eventually, he had managed to tap into his bank to behold his balance: As the note had promised, the number was grander than any that had ever filled that account before. George popped the Dom Perignon open with the snap of his thumb, chugged down a couple of mouthfuls and slammed it to the tabletop with a deafening smack. Even Shawn recoiled a little. George flattened his left palm and struck his right index across it multiple times with rampant enthusiasm, ooking eagerly along. The Cala and Misle exchanged curious glances and Shawn leaned forward. He extracted his cigar tin, pulled out four rolls and offered one to each around the table. He then placed it on the table and activated the jammer function. Immediately, the wristband screens fizzed out. 

“It’s good that you’re eager, mr. Wellsley. It’s a trait every employer wishes for in an employee. Of course, the proportionality of the payment should provide a hint as to what sort of mission you’ll be assigned next.”

George simmered down, his brow furrowing suspiciously. He once more crossed his left palm with his right index finger and Shawn extracted a metal tablet from his chest pocket. He tapped a button on its side, igniting the tablet’s screen, and passed it across the table to the Simmie. George analysed the picture of the screen and the Misle and Cala both took a few hip-swaying steps over to his side to look alongside him. The picture revealed a Simmie, a scarred and beaten male gorilla with a multitude of pointy braids down his elongated skull and a white, stained tank top over his torso. It was looking away, suggesting that the picture hadn’t exactly been taken with his consent. He wore blue, ragged jeans and had gold, silver and platinum jewelry around his enormous neck and on the knuckles of both his hands and feet. His enormous arms were heavily tattooed and branded with various markings and sigils belonging to a very popular gang over in the southern hemisphere Leisure district.

“Do you know this Simmie?” Shawn asked as he leaned back into the sofa. George shook his head. Shawn tapped the table twice and the bartender hologram appeared, though it was fuzzy on account of the jamming.

“Yezzzz--... -Awn?”

“Bring me a lighter, if you would. I seem to have misplaced mine. Oh, and some more fruit gums, too.”

“Ri-... -Way!” The hologram said and disappeared. The table soon opened its hatch in front of Shawn and delivered his order. Shawn unboxed a match and lit his cigar, taking a moment to taste the smoke before fixing his gaze on George once more.

“Hou Banhei, also known as Barry Ho or just North Star. He’s the second pillar of the Celestial Dragon triads, a captain of sorts.”

George frowned. He laid two fingers horisontally and lifted them up. Then, he took his two index finger and rubbed them against each other sideways while pointing upwards. Finally, he flexed his right index, placed it on his templed and pulled it away, flexing and unflexing his finger. Shawn shrugged.

“Apparently, the nickname comes from his time in the Silverback Company. He served a long time as private police in the mining colonies on Bick-3, especially in the north. As if that planet’s not a cold hellhole already. I guess he somehow got the nickname and it just sort of stuck. Honestly, it’s not the worst name to have pursuing, well, any sort of career.” George frowned back down at the picture. Barry Ho looked like ex-military, but from what George could see, there were no signs of mechanical implants or scars from any removal of such. He gave his temple a scratch and ooked ponderously. Again, Shawn shrugged.

“That’s among his secrets. All soldiers in the Silverback Company receive mechanical enhancements to boost their combat capabilities, but our friend here doesn’t appear to have any or even have had any. This has, of course, led a few circles to speculate that his supposed membership in the company may have been a lie, but no-no, their official records state that Barry here was a member all the way up until ‘53. He got laid off with the Crash.”

George nodded. A common fate around that time. He then looked at Shawn, placed his hands on his own right shoulder and then tapped the back of his left hand his with right fingers facing forward, pinky flexed upwards. Shawn snapped his fingers.

“Roxanne, dear, would you light mr. Wellsley’s cigar for him?” The Cala courtesied, took a match from Shawn’s matchbox, placed the cigar in George’s mouth and lit it with a feline smirk about her lips. George cleared his throat sheepishly. The Misle went back to sit next to Shawn and popped a fruit gum in their mouth. “Your mission, mr. Wellsley,” Shawn began, “is to make certain mr. Ho meets with the undertaker by the end of the week. Our client was very insistent that it be by then, lest their plans would sadly be in quite the bind.”

George wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. He had killed intentionally before, but there had always been a reason for it - self-defense, anger, thievery… It had never just been “because someone told me to.” Still, the money doesn’t lie, he thought to himself, and the guy was probably scum, anyway. Who wasn’t down here?

“Expect a reward similar to what you received today. I suggest you use a good chunk of that money to buy yourself some weapons and men - good men. From what I’ve heard, Barry is many things, and unprotected is not one of them. Bribe the local peacekeepers to keep the Bobbies away and, most importantly, prepare a get-away car. Model and price is not important; what -is- important is that it runs and that it runs fast.” Shawn’s voice had grown uncharacteristically serious by now. “Take it from me, mr. Wellsley - you’ll want to prepare for this one.”

George grew anxious at the shift in tone, but blew out a plume of smoke and nodded. The night went on a little longer, with the four of them politely enjoying each other’s company.

[hr]

The same night, George went through shadowy alleys and climbed wires and pipes between the slums of the streets belong. More than once, he passed through small colonies of Simmie hobos in tree and scrap houses in the pipe and wire jungle above the street. George hadn’t had to move into one of these yet, but he had come close. With this job, though, he hoped that day would never come close again. Several of the hobos called out to him, but George ignored them all. He instead merely dove through the pipe-top towns and back into the chaotic sprawl below. 

I’ve never been to this part of town before. It’s three hours away from home, but at least my card covers the whole of New Macau. Shawn said this was where I should go - Laopao Street. It’s not the biggest gun market in the New Macau, but it’s apparently pretty safe, he safe. 

George hopped down an overcrowded set of stairs and found himself being dragged along by the crowd. The current eventually pushed him against the wall, where he grabbed onto a ledge and managed to drag himself out of the river of flesh, until he found that the ledge was a shop window, manned by a grinning Putt wearing a brown apron and a red fez. 

“Goooooood evening, honoured customer! What brings you to my little hole in the wall?”

George looked left and right before shrugging with an ook. Trying his luck, he made a gun with his right hand and snapped his thumb up and down. The Putt nodded in understanding. “Say no more, fam - you’ll find no better piece than one bought at Jerpo and Son’s. What kind do you want? Kinetic? Energy? A combination, perhaps?”

Wellsley frowned. He made a gun with his hand again, then a circle with his opposite hand which he wiggled in front of the hand-gun’s barrel. The Putt nodded.

“Of course - we have a wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide selection of kinetics in stock. What will it be used for? Self-defense? Cold-blooded murder? Driveby?”

George blinked sheepishly and dragged his right hand around his left hand as if the left hand was a round sphere, raising his eyebrow. The Putt nodded.

“You’re right, sir - all-of-the-above is a most viable answer. Handheld? Or something a bit heavier, perhaps?”

George flexed his right hand.

“Handheld it is. Let me have a look.” The Putt walked behind a curtain in the back of his shop and for a while, the only sounds were the cacophony of the street behind George. After a minute or so, though, the Putt returned with a handheld pistol about [url=https://66.media.tumblr.com/f810d94cf6a8190a3fed7b1393bb06f0/tumblr_ooclcjM4Qj1upvjnmo1_400.jpg]twice the size of George’s fist.[/url] George furrowed his brow and grabbed the weapon by the handle, turning it around in his hand to get a good look. The Putt grinned.

“PS-12 Automatic Handgun. Modifiable however you may want, comes with fully automatic sub-machine gun fire options, scope, custom clips and suppressor extensions. I’ll give it to ya for two ninety-nine, because you’re such a great customer and we have a special business offer -for- you! Buy this one and the [url=https://static.turbosquid.com/Preview/001230/037/95/cbj-ms-smg-futuristic-3D-model_Z.jpg]PS-32 submachine gun[/url] for, get this, only six ninety-nine. A steal, right?” The Putt hopped behind the curtain again and found a specimen of the second weapon. George hummed. He pressed his fingertips together into cones and pressed the cones against each other, twisting the right one upside-down. The Putt smirked.

“Since you asked so nicely - no, the extras are not included. Want me to include them?”

George frowned and nodded. The Putt slapped together some holographic abacus blocks that popped out of his wristband. “Right, so, extras such as scopes, suppressors and ammunition, plus the guns, will total you two grand six ninety-nine.”

Wellsley’s jaw nearly smacked into the ground. He thumbed downwards and the Putt smiled.

“Alright, alright - since you’re such a nice guy, I’ll give it all to ya for two grand four hundred, how’s that?”

Again, Wellsley thumbed down. “Okay, two grand, three fifty?”

The ape shook his head. The Putt began to tear up. “Look, here I am, trying to run a business, and I’m honestly, honestly, trying to give you the best price I can, okay?”

Wellsley thumbed down. The Putt gasped. “Shit, bro… I got a wife and son, you know that? What’re they supposed to eat? They already eat corpse starch! How low can you go, huh? You suggest a price.”

George frowned. He had gotten a lot of credits, but he should play it safe. He raised two fingers into the air. The Putt eyed them curiously.

“Two grand?”

George nodded.

“SOLD!” the Putt suddenly burst out loudly and George blinked. Before the Simmie could protest, the Putt had bagged the guns, ammo, scopes and suppressors, subtracted the amount from George’s wristband, shoved the bag into the ape’s arms and closed down the metal curtain over his shop window. Behind the metal curtain, George could hear the faint, celebratory cackles of the merchant. George opened the bag and stared at the contents. Could these be fake? He had never actually bought a gun before, so he had no idea what a “proper one” looked like. He strolled down the alley and found himself a comfortable garbage bag to sit on. He began counting the bullets he had bought, finding out that he had bought a total of three clips for both weapons. He grimaced - he would probably need more. 

He clicked a clip into the handgun and fired at the opposite wall. The loud bang followed by the pling as the bullet bounced against the metallic wall both suggested that the gun was quite real, but Wellsley would have to wonder how durable it was if the merchant had celebrated over a 2 000 credit transaction. 

Either way, that was the weaponry out of the way. Now George had to find some companions. He made his way down the overcrowded alleys, shouldering as discreetly as he could he newfound bag of weapons. 

Now where would he find those?

[hr]

“So, let me get this straight,” the bulky Raygonian across the table grumbled through pursed lips. The lighting in the Mercenary Recruitment Centre just down the street from the Laopao Street weapons market, was evidently not the focus of the company’s budget, leading everyone to wear a shadowed scowl regardless of actual facial expression. Behind the trench-coated Raygonian stood two more of its kind, plus a Qurok and an Ataraxian, all equally baffled at the request.

“You want us to join you in taking down Barry Ho.”

“Ook,” confirmed George.

“-The- Barry Ho.”

“Ook.”

“Of the Celestial Dragons.”

“Ook.”

The five mercenaries exchanged glances yet again. Their leader, who had introduced himself as Nop Slint, furrowed his brow and looked down at this twiddling thumbs. “Sir, with all due respect, we’re a respected establishment around here - pranking is not a nice thing to do, and frankly way below the belt--”

“Ook!” George protested and placed his index finger on his chin pointing upwards, then flicked it forward. Slint blinked.

“Sir, you keep saying you’re serious about this, but…”

“OOK!”

“Okay, okay! Ugh… Give us a minute to talk.”

The group huddled together and left George to scout out the dark, dank room. All around, tables with clients on one side and mercenary bands on the other were settling deals of honest pay for honest murder, all in the wonderful spirit of the Bottom Tier service economy. There were warriors from all over the cluster: deserters looking for a fresh start or just a place to hide; lifelong killing machines in search of somewhere to apply their talents; or just average cold-blooded Joes or Jennys in search of easy credits. The corner hosted a bar, as was tradition, and next to it was currently an arm-wrestling competition between a Krunt and a Qurok. It seemed the Krunt was winning.

“Right,” said Slint suddenly. George blinked. 

“Ook?”

“Yeah, no… We won’t take this mission, sir.”

George hung his head. Slint frowned. “You know how it is, sir. Ho’s not an easy ape to kill, and I won’t risk my squad’s safety that badly just for a lousy five grand.”

George ooked hopelessly and Slint sighed. “Mr. Wellsley, we mean no disrespect, really. Hey, we actually got a tip for ya if you’re really feeling that suicidal. Yux?”

The Ataraxian fingered a note out of her breastpocket and placed it on the table in front of George. She then pointed to a darkened door at the far end of the room. “You take this note and walk over to that door. Knock five times, wait one second, and knock twice more. Then they’ll ask for a password, which is on that note. Read it as quietly as you can to the man behind the door and walk inside.”

George frowned suspiciously and shrugged. The Ataraxian shook her head. “No questions - just do it.” As if to hurry him along, she took him by the hand and led him off his chair and towards the door. George blinked anxiously at the affair, but couldn’t quite think of what to do before he had been placed before the door and the Ataraxian had disappeared back into the crowded establishment. George eyed the menacing rusty door, and considered for a minute to just look for a different mercenary employment business. He looked over his shoulder - the exit couldn’t be seen through the crowd. He eyed the door again. This definitely leads into some fucked up hole where I’ll get shot or something, he thought to himself anxiously as he hammered at the door the exact number of times instructed.

“Password?” came a voice behind the door. George fumbled the note open and started spelling it out with his hands. When done, he waited. Nothing happened.

“Uhm… Hello? Password?” came the voice again. George blinked and looked up. After a second, he smacked his face with his palm and groaned apeishly. There was no slit through which the man could see him spell. Instead, George tried his best to scan the words into his text-to-speech app on his wristband.

“A, L, G, O, R, E, B, R, O, M, A, N,” the mechanical voice mumbled at the metal. A moment passed before the voice went, “Are you a fucking cybe?”

“Ook!” George protested. Another pause passed.

“Oh, a Simmie? Well, I’ll be damned...” The door eventually swung open and a gray hand came out from the darkness behind it to pull George inside. The door shut close after. George didn’t even have time to scream before he was plopped down onto a chair in front of a table with one flickering light bulb. George looked around in panic, but his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet. At least, not before a voice directed his gaze forward into the midst of a dark cowl with two red eyes glaring back.

“Sssssooo… In your hour of need, you’ve come to ussss… Forfeit hope, forfeit joy - avaunt be morrow, avaunt be yester! FEEEAAAR! FEEEEEEEEAAAAAAR--!”

“Jesus, boss, why you gotta be like this every god damn--”

“OH! OH! I’m sorry! Did you get us this fancy office with YOUR amazing bartering skills? No? Well, of course you didn’t - you suck!”

“This is the washroom, though--”

“SHUT!”

There came the tumble of aluminium pipes and heavy feet - presumably, someone had stepped in an empty bucket. A few stumbles later, the roof lightning switched on at the move of an unfortunate elbow, and George sat staring at a blinking, chubby Qurok in a white tanktop holding a broom, a frowning Jakai scratching her head with a claw, a Nerkin trying furiously to pull a bucket off three-taloned foot, and a small female Petalos with a black hood, looking about two inches from exploding with anger.
“This god-damn-- THING!” snarled the Nerkin and eventually just ripped the bucket in half. The room was silent for a second. George raised a quivering finger.

“Ook?”

The hooded Petalos seemed to calm somewhat, but rolled her eyes and glared daggers at her squadmates behind her. “Well, the moment’s gone, so you might as well show us what you’ve got. You need someone dead right?”

And so George explained the whole mission in as much detail as he had received himself. The four strangers occasionally exchanged glances of worry or interest, but no one said a word until George had explained in full, unless it was to ask questions. When the ape had finished, the Petalos gave a quiet “huh”.

“That sure is… Something else. Usually, we’d just get hired to settle domestic disputes, really,” the Jakai added. The Petalos gave her a glare and hushed. George frowned.

“What she meant to say was, we, uh… We DOMINATE disputes! Yes, beware, all who walk the sinful world of Raygon--”

The Qurok rolled his eyes. “Boss, please, you’re scaring the client again.” The Petalos gave George a suspicious glare, receiving some anxious ooks in return.

“... How much’d you bring?”

George held up five fingers and all four of the mercenaries frowned.

“Five grand for Barry Ho? No dice,” declined the Jakai. The Petalos hushed her again and pointed at George.

“You, turn around. We need some time to discuss.” While George did as he was told, the size of the room and his proximity to the others essentially meant that, no matter what he did, he could hear everything they said.

“So, I’m thinking--”

“There’s nothing -to- think, boss. Five grand is nothing when it comes to taking out a big shot like Ho,” the Jakai tried to explain.

“I’m with Sesley, boss. We handle small fights, not triad shit,” said the Qurok.

“Well, I say we fuck him UP!” the Nerkin protested and slammed the table, making George jump a little.

“Okay, so… Two against two?” the Qurok offered.

“This always happens - every time…” Sesley the Jakai muttered.

“Shush, all of you!” the Petalos commanded and raised a finger to the sky. “This place… This place was given to us for our great efforts - this mission--”

“No, boss, we were confined here for being a nuisance, remember? Jeff here couldn’t stop assaulting the Mosley Crew and--”

“They had it coming!” the Nerkin roared and, once again, slammed the table.

“Okay, but that only enhances my point,” said the Petalos loudly, her finger still pointing to the sky, or rather, the ceiling lamp. “If we do this - and succeed - we’ll be the biggest players on the market!”

A silence followed. The first to break it was the Nerkin Jeff, who said, “Boss, you’re insane.”

Sesley sighed. “Well, I suppose I would get shot on the street for existing anyway.”

There came a weak slap and another sigh. “It’s been an honour, people,” mumbled the Qurok. “I’m in.”

“Ape. You can turn around again.”

George did as he was told - a little annoyed at the name-calling, though, and eyed the Petalos. “We have been discussing intimately--”

“Ook!”

“Alright! Alright, we’re in,” she muttered back and extended her hand. “Since we’ll be working together, we should introduce ourselves. I’m the boss of the Fairy Dusters, Oxigania Toxica.” George shook it reluctantly. Oxigania gestured to the rest of her squad.

“This is Sesley Prox, master assassin.”

“I used to be a barista,” Sesley added through a cough.

“That’s Cody Mezzanusospolimos.”

“Just Cody’s fine,” the Qurok said with a smile.

“And that’s Jeff.”

Jeff offered George a razor-sharp claw. “Pleased to be acquainted, Mr. Ape. And you are?”

George frowned and spelled out his name with his hands. The four mercenaries nodded.


“George Wellsley, huh,” Oxigania mumbled. “We’re honoured to be of service.”

“Knowing you came to us, you didn’t have another choice, did you?” Sesley asked with a smirk. George shook his head and Oxigania glared at her colleague.

“Shush, Sesley. Don’t worry, Mr. Wellsley. Everything will go just like planned!”

There was a moment of silence, once again broken by Jeff.

“So!” he snapped, “What is the plan?!”

[hr]

[hider=SummaREEEE!]
George comes back to Shawn to celebrate. Thanks to his stunt, George is now a famous man. It seems only fitting that he get his second mission ASAP, right? He got some sick cash for this one, and his next mission pays even more. Next up, he’s gotta shoot a gorilla gangster, so he goes out to buy a gun and get companions. He’s ripped off, probably, when buying guns. He then goes to a mercenary hiring place and tries to get some mercs. He’s initially refused, but is then sent to a secret crew in the back of the establishment. After some shenanigans, George teams up with the hopeless dream team of the sarcastic Jakai Sesley, the wild Nerkin Jeff, the doom-minded Qurok Cody and the theatrical Petalos Oxigania.
[/hider]