The Fourth Horseman

Missions are vital for a mercenary squad to survive. During peace work often comes slowly, and money can be scarce. The jobs they take and how they approach them can make or break any company. Time, resources, and relevant skills are finite and expending them wastefully is a fatal mistake.

Most employers seeking such services are rich men looking to cover up messes that would disturb the status quo, cleaning up the unwanted to make room for progress, or silencing political opponents. This is more commonplace than the general populace would believe.

In human controlled space jobs are a way to extend mankind's influence. Proxy wars fought between mercenary companies were often what determined a factions sphere of influence. As the victor would stay and hold while their employer arrived to collect the spoils. Humanities underworld elites will continue to battle for flag and profit, to fuel the war machine known as mankind.

Glory to them, and pile the bodies high.

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XJ-041 "Shikaius Prime", Human Independent Space

Four Horsemen Mercenary Company Headquarters

Standard Earth Calendar 03/05/2865

Another dreary day on Shikaius Prime, without a mission to speak of. The other two members received word a few days ago that the last order had been completed by their leader, alone. He had been gone for over two weeks before confirming the job's completion, and was now on his way back to base with their paychecks. Unfortunately, they had little to do with themselves in his absence.

This was the day he was scheduled to return, and the two woman that were left behind lounged about idly on the couch. Stale air and dust hung in the air as the luminescent lamps overhead illuminated the pigsty around them. Bags of cheap snack food littered the ground; one woman threw another bag to the floor as the other flipped through channels on their holovid projector. Both of them looked similar to the other, though one had a more mature visage. Both had green eyes and brown hair, but each wore their hair differently. The older woman tied her hair up in a ponytail, and the younger cut her hair short, her bangs draped over the side of her face like a curtain. They shared the same body type, small and petite with muscular befitting their peculiar lifestyle as soldiers of fortune. They both had small noses, bored eyes, and were completely uninterested in what was on the vidfeed.

"201… 202… 203…" the older sister counted the channels aloud, listlessly scanning for anything of interest. Cooking shows, documentaries, an old romcom… all flipped past without a trace of interest, and the other looked as though she was about to nod off, having exhausted her supply of snacks for the moment.

The elder sister scratched her back drearily and laid across the couch, draping her legs nonchalantly over her sister.

"Excuse you?!" the younger sister growled, throwing the other woman's legs off of her before resting her legs on the latter's shoulder rebelliously. She made sure that her sister's head was right next to her feet.

"Get your foot out of my face!" the older sister shouted as she threw the younger sister's foot to the floor. "Can't you let me relax for just one minute?"

Their fight started small; a little kicking and pushing took place as each tried to assert dominance over the only couch in the room. Before long, however, it started to escalate, with the younger sister throwing the older into a leg lock, sending both of them tumbling off of the couch.

This got as far as name-calling and hair-pulling before the front door beeped, the depression lock hissing and clicking as the hydraulics slid open. Natural sunlight flashed into the room, with the shadow of a man blocking the rays from entirely showcasing every bit of filth left by the sisters. A stench of stale food and old beer filled the man's lungs as he walked inside.

"Ah, just how I left it. Girls! We've got company, so make yourselves useful and clean up a room for him," the man said cheerfully as he walked in, nary a scratch on his being. He had the same colorful shirt he left home in and was pulling a green storage crate behind him on a hover jack, with a peculiar boy sitting on top of it, one arm in a sling.

"A guest? Is it a new job?" the elder sister exclaimed, pushing her sister off of her and springing to her feet before dusting herself off.

"How about you clean it yourself if you invited them in..." the younger sister grumbled, sitting backwards on the freshly claimed couch with her arms on the back rest.

The sisters noticed the boy at the same time. They locked eyes with him and stared speechlessly. The women glared at the boy, who simply stared back apathetically. His messy, matted black hair came down to his neck, and screamed to the sisters that he might have picked up a stray from somewhere. The kid wore something like a sack for clothing, with a rope belt holding it firmly to his person.

"And what is that?" the sisters cried in unison, unable to take their eyes away from the child's empty gaze. The boy did not respond in any way. The emotionless expression that he entered the room with remained unbroken upon his face.

"Our new Death! Found him on my last job. Saw his work, and god damn, he's pretty amazing!" the man smiled as he dropped the hover jack to the floor with a clang before strolling into the kitchen. "Did you leave any food for me?"

As the man scrummaged for food in the other room, the three were left staring at each other. The younger sister flipped the boy off, while the other used her thumb to draw a line across her throat. The boy was not intimidated one iota, and spat on the ground at them, lifting his head and meeting their gaze in an obvious show of superiority.

"Dead boy walking..." one of them whispered as the man returned back with a can of soda. He paused, noting the tension between the three from over his drink. The two girls glared down at the boy and the boy stared through the two as though barely acknowledging their existence. After a moment, his eyes fell upon the spit stain on the floor.

"Did you seriously spit on the floor?" the man said, swatting the boy across the back of the head without response. The sisters made no attempts to hide their laughs, dripping with contempt.

"These are your new partners. Their call signs are Famine and Strife," he said, speaking very slowly and deliberately for the boy while holding the back of his head to make him look at them. "The short-haired one is Famine, and the long-haired one is Strife. I know you're slow but try to keep up."

"You squalid fuck! You think this kid could replace him?" Famine shouted, chucking an empty can of beer at the man, who caught and crushed it.

"As your leader, I need to make sure this squad is fighting fit. Unless, of course, you wanna fight me for the position?" the man sneered, throwing the can with the slightest motion back at Famine, catching it and staring as menacingly as she could at him. If looks could kill, this man would be dead ten times over.

Both sisters glared daggers into his heart, but he simply smiled threateningly back at them. "Offer's open! Water's fine. C'mon and jump in." His taunts went unanswered, and they both went back to staring at the boy, the apparent new Death.

"And you… are designated War. I see. A joke, I am sure," the boy finally spoke, his voice quiet and soft. Innocence and coldness mixed together in a voice that was clear, articulate, and completely monotone. He went back to staring at no one in particular as he spoke to War. "You were lucky. Know that your life is measured in heartbeats after I recover."

A quiet snicker came from Strife as she tried to maintain her composure, but the man was more open with his laughter. "That's the spirit, kid! I have high hopes for you. I'm gonna go contact some people and get us another job. You two, take Death along with you this time," he ordered, leaving the room and waving over his head at them before leaving the base once again. "And no fighting! I doubt you two could beat him anyway."

Then the three were left alone, silent ambience filling the awkward void between them. The boy sat on his crate and refused to acknowledge their presence, while the sisters shared sideways glances at one another as they shifted about the room. They seemed to be having some sort of silent conversation on what to do with this child, making several grunts and exchanging looks of uncertainty. After a few moments of this, Strife grunted and pushed her sister lightly, who retorted with a sigh. Famine, fed up with her sister's unspoken nagging, left her seat and approached Death.

Death, who had been staring at nothing the entire time, snapped his gaze sharply towards her as she got closer. She froze, looking back at her sister, who merely shrugged and gestured for her to keep going.

"So, uh… how are you?" Famine asked awkwardly as she put her hands behind her back. The boy glanced at Famine's hidden hands now, staring intensely at her. "Um… what?"

"Are you hiding a weapon back there?" he asks without leaving his seat. "It wont work."

"Um, what?" Famine steps back and side eyes her sister. "Work? The hell are you talking about?" 

"Your hands are behind your back, and you both were talking in code. Do you plan on fighting me? It wont work. I'm only saying this since we are supposed to be teammates, at least until that dead man is buried." Death says with certainty as Famine inches away from him slowly. She opens her mouth to say something but turns to her sister, who only shrugged and motioned her forward again. Once more Famine looked the new Death over and only one thought popped into her mind, he is so weird.

"Oookay. I'm out. Good luck!" Famine threw her hands in the air and rushed past Strife, hurrying for another room down a hallway, leaving Strife alone with the new Death.

"Coward! Get back here!" Strife shouted after her sister in vain. She glanced sideways at the boy and faced the doorway her sister disappeared out of. Death stared back emptily, clearly bored of the situation.

"Okay..." Strife's voice trailed off slowly as she raised her hands, showing plainly that she was not holding anything. "Your… room." Her reluctance was clear and painful, and she was not interested in bothering to hide her disgust for this new Death. "Is on the left, second door. Clean it yourself," she said quickly, sighing in relief as she flung herself back to laying across the couch.

"Very well. I will not be staying here long anyway." He hopped off of his storage box and left through the same hallway as Famine, going past her door and into the room specified. She watched the door shut and waited to make sure he wasn't going to come back out. After a moment of confirmation, she was alone. Alone with this strange box. Temptation and curiosity took control. Surely this boy must have secrets, and they might be hiding in this box, perhaps even a way to get him to leave for good. Strife jumped from the couch and went straight for it. Whatever secrets he had were clearly not well-guarded. The box had no lock, or even a latch keeping it shut.

"Alright, brat, let's see what you've got," she said under her breath. After opening the box, she surmised that its contents were seemingly not special. Stacked on top are clothes, all his size. They looked freshly bought, and many still had tags on them. All of them were thrown out and onto the messy floor.

"He did not seriously go out shopping for this pest..." her hushed tones grew frustrated as she dug deeper. After the piles of new clothes, she found a ragged, hooded cloak. It would be quite short for her, but long enough to cover this boy's entire body. She held it up, an eyebrow cocked. Just then, something caught her eye at the bottom of the crate.

"What do we have here?" she said, grinning mischievously. A small memory drive sat at the bottom, perhaps dropped out of the rags she picked up. She greedily snatched it, running back to the couch and leaving the mess strewn about behind her.

It took her a second to find her datapad buried under all of the refuse left behind by their messy living habits, but once she did, she plugged in the data stick and rubbed her hands together mirthfully.

Several folders popped up, organizing different sets of information probably pertaining to the boy's juicy secrets. The first folder contained medical information. It largely went over her head, but there was something about muscular augmentation, plans for another memory wipe, and data logs keeping track of his mental health. All areas of his status were reported satisfactory, except for a missing file on the scheduled memory wipe.

The second folder held logs for battle data; a high-res recording of a Mobile Armament Suit about 6 meters tall fighting hand-to-hand with others of the same make and model. All-white, rectangular armor plating covering their arms and an elongated chassis hinted that this was some new type of armor system. Everything was slick and smooth, with no parts needlessly jutting from the frame. Their movements were swift and precise, unlike the standard models. If she had to guess their quality, she would wager these new types are high grade, about the same as their own suits. Not many mercs have suits at that grade, so wherever he came from was definitely funded by someone powerful.

One of the mechs struck the other several times in the body with its bare fists, flipping it over its shoulder with a grab on its chassis, with one hand, and slamming it hard onto the ground. Thankfully whoever was filming them gave the camera a good look at the helm, its single optical sensor shining red at its fallen opponent. The helm of this new suit was streamlined and sleek like the rest of its body, and similarly was all-white except for the black visor and crimson eye.

A horn was sounded, and the both of them stopped fighting. As the winner helped the other stand with an offer of its hand, words could be seen on the left shoulder of each unit. The losing mech bore the inscription of "Whisper", and the victor was "Siren".

Looking at other videos shows the "Whisper" unit dominating the other combatants with matchless aggression, ripping arms off and crushing the helms of the armored systems, but each time it would fight "Siren", it seemed to hold back.

Then came the third folder, which was labeled 'Mission Logs". Strife attempted to open it, and her datapad seized up. A red screen with white error messages rapidly displayed from top to bottom.

"Shit, shit, shit!" she exclaimed, unplugging the memory drive quickly and snapping the datapad over her knee as fast as possible as in a blind panic. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" she repeated to herself over and over as she scrambled to return the boy's belongings to the box, and she ran frenetically to her sister's room.