Prologue: Coup de Grace

Cobalt-blue snow flickered through the door of the command bridge as Osmond stepped through. The snow immediately melted into warm water on his pale blonde head, almost Belsaran-white in colour. The cold warmth of the cruiser's citadel enticed him in as the door sealed shut behind him. The derelict wreck he and Leon used as their headquarters was far from perfect, but this dead-hulk had enough rations to keep their people alive. Starvation might be a better fate than old, crusty rations. The only saving grace was an arsenal of merchandise, relics from the war - enough to keep them in business for decades.

The hulk stuck out like a sore thumb in the frozen slum-scape, but it's been there for nearly thirty years. Leon turned towards him across the room, his piercing eyes stinging Osmond as he looked him up and down. They were both artificial, a mess of cybernetics…

"You're late," said Leon, looking at Osmond with a bloodied fringe and eyes, with a puff of red crytera inhaled through his mouth. Osmond shivered at the sight. Leon was holding onto one of his revolvers.

Such a sight reminded Osmond of their past group, the ethnic Theonar, Osmond; the hot-blooded Anagoran; the thieving turquoise head Punikan boy and the two red-haired Trasians, only Leon and Osmond remained.

The Imperial Slab-earpiece uplink attached to Leon's left ear was buzzing with a low red hue. "Your… uplink…" Osmond muttered.

He shook his head. Osmond tried to avoid certain things in the room. "The engineers have the uplink channels online again… We are thriving once again! With that comes new opportunities…"

Leon slowly placed the revolver down on the table of the command room, staring at Osmond. Yet Osmond avoided his glare, glancing towards the two bloodied seats beside the command table… Two corpses sat on them. Their heads had been blown out - he could never get used to Leon's actions…

"Pay these two no attention, Osmond. They were conspiring to damage our people. Use these two as prime examples for your… subordinates." Leon grabbed hold of his shot-axe, a combi-weapon stolen from the Imperials, made for combat engineers, where bloody melee meets brutal buckshot. It was large, the size of his torso, but it was powerful - the combination of a melee axe and a shotgun.

"Of course," said Osmond. His chest tightened as he forced his eyes off the corpses. Slowly walking across the room, he sat on one of the empty seats, far from the corpses. He hid his quivering hands in his pockets.

Regret slowly crept onto him… so many dead, yet too many to give up. The endless blizzard outside raged onwards, the famous Narisan 'winter'. The violent storm covered the command window with frost. Walking around, Leon walked to one of the free seats, walking by a corpse and pushing it to the ground.

The body made a small thud noise as it crashed into the steel deck.

"Our shipments to Anagora. They've been stopped."

"I am aware… of that," said Osmond, taking a glance at a holo-photo hidden on his watch… He hoped it would give him strength, but the holographic visage only gave him regret. Those three… he wondered where they are now.

"So you are aware." Leon gestured to the dead bodies as blood dripped out of their bludgeoned wounds. He continued, "They stopped the shipments to the Loyalists. Why would they?"

Leon puffed another inhale of crytera, using the stimulant to keep his paranoid mind ready. Osmond's heart sank at the sight, but he steeled his voice. "No idea, Leon."

"The Loyalists were good customers… The Mischief Board knew well who to pick." Leon pondered for a moment, yet even as he thought Osmond could feel his glare ever-present - locked on him. Any sudden movement might be his last.

Sliding his watch underneath his sleeve, Osmond maintained a steady facade. "Yet they lost, those Contract-Breakers must never learn of our involvement."

"But perhaps with our weapons, they would still be afloat - and still willing customers." Leon precisely pressed down the command table's interface and a screen popped out. It showed the recent battle on the Ptolemy-2 Station. Osmond felt… relieved that the Loyalists lost. He still couldn't stomach all the deaths. He wondered if those three left because they found out… Probably not, not even he knew until years later. The tape showed the Contract-Breaker slicing through the Loyalist lines, with insane precision. "The loyalists were ill-equipped…"

"Maybe because they spent most of our cargo luring the AGENCY to that skyliner? And we cannot focus on them anymore—" suggested Osmond, speaking out of turn instinctively.

Leon's bloodshot eyes glanced up at Osmond, through the recording. Osmond felt the agony and adrenaline pump through his heart as he quickly backtracked.

Did someone tell him? Did they rat? Osmond's eyes couldn't help but glance towards the corpses, for a brief moment. "—We must direct our attention elsewhere, right? Right? We must make profit for our people… dead Loyalists are not good customers for us." Osmond blabbered on, trying to explain himself… His heart continued to pump.

Breaking through the stressful monotony, Leon sighed. "You make a fair point there… Fine. This time, I will heed you. But what of the AGENCY?"

A near decade has passed since Leon broke down, and it's been downhill from then on. The only thing that remained was their shared dream: Narisa alive. Their planet rebuilt… clear of all taint from the war. If the AGENCY arrives, it'll all be for nought.

"My friends in the Mischief Board tell me it's just a rebranded Clandestine." Osmond started. Leon was reloading his revolver, yet one eye glared at Osmond upon the mention of the word 'friends'. Osmond corrected himself. "Associates… however, I believe we cannot negotiate with them."

"Why not?" asked Leon, sliding the revolver beside other pistols along his vest-plate. "Clandestine were good buyers from our past, given their situation they'd probably like a few extra guns… Do you not concur?"

"The Contract-Breaker will not know of our old deal with Clandestine, but engaging in talks may lead one of his talons or agents to it…" Osmond started to excessively worry, overriding any sense of fear. "He was, as the Board put it, 'greatly affected by the attack'."

Leon snarled, slamming a fist down, "Yes. The Mischief Board is right about him… he's stone-cold. No negotiating—"

Osmond felt a wave of relief come over him, it seems some of the old Leon was still in him.

"—Therefore: we must eliminate him, before he does us."

Osmond raised an eyebrow, then sprouted upwards, leaving his seat. "Wait, hold up!—"

Leon gave him a glare, posturing his hands in a calm but threatening manner. Yet Osmond had to get this off his chest.

"—We need to lie low… Small deals, nothing too big to attract their attention. And this is the fucking AGENCY! ENFORCERs are bad enough if they get involved, but they send in these mercs when shit needs doing…"

"No." stated Leon, "I have assurances, and a deal. The AGENCY may be strong, but they're not invincible."

"I—but, these are ex-Clandestine, who themselves are ex-military, navy or whatever. They have the equipment and the money to back up their skill… Look, please! These assurances can not protect us from a whole fucking army." Osmond thought for a moment, before giving an educated guess. Clandestine had a reputation for being brutal in its judicial enforcements… and considering that the AGENCY is directly controlled by a Seven Merc, he would hazard a guess that they were just as lethal or even more so. "Can we really trust the Mischief Board?"

"They are not involved. Neither are my assurances from the Seven Crims."

"Then who gave you these assurances! They might not be trustworthy…"

The Mischief Board helped regulate criminal activity… much like how the BCA did with contractors. They helped their operations before, especially in conjunction with the Seven Criminals, the board's counterpart of the Seven Mercs, but on one occasion they sold to them as well…

Leon slowly pushed himself upwards, standing taller than Osmond. "My sources are reliable, and they speak sense to me. End of," he said. "We have to do what we can to survive. The dream lives on, but never if we all perish."

"I'm not questioning you, I'm just worried." Osmond stood up, even slower than Leon, "Just… how are we going to take them down?" Assurances? This was madness. But he can't talk Leon down from this… He's too far gone in the head; and Osmond knows that.

"All armours have chinks, my source has told me of one. We eliminate that chink, and the Contract-Breaker presents himself." Leon gave off a cruel smirk, unnerving even Osmond. "I don't care where those three are… we were stronger together. But you and I? We were the bedrock of it all. You are my second, Osmond… forget that not."

"Things… things haven't been the same since that explosives deal…"

"But I still have you," said Leon, giving a rare nod to Osmond.

Osmond grimaced slightly, the thought of responsibility was hard. He was never one for that, he was always the planner of the group, Leon was the charismatic leader… Riharia was their cool-head, Petra the hot-head, whilst Quinn was the pointman, their best gun.

But times have changed, they're gone to the wind. And now, without them, Leon is leading his people into the jaws of the Eclipse Maelstrom…

"Then what are your orders…"

"Take the fight to them." said Leon, "The AGENCY is still young. After what happened on Anagora, they'll be swamped with bureaucracy. Hit them whilst they are weak, kill the fourth of the seven…"

"We… nevermind, I see the logic behind your point." Osmond realised that it was pointless to object. It'd been years since Leon ever listened to his planning advice, at least to the point that it changed anything.

Leon gave Osmond one final glare as he ignited a cigarette with a simple rub of the tip, the friction and paper-mechanisms ignited the end. "Good. I will contact our fixers under the Board. Our weapons, their men."