Chapter 1.2 - "First Contact"

I laughed. It was a good joke after all, even if it came from an ugly son of a bitch like him. The bartender in this seedy little watering hole looked like he took a plasma torch in the face, but for all that he was pretty charismatic. I reached into my pocket and dropped a handful of planetary currency on the counter, not bothering to count it but judging the weight to be more than sufficient.

This was not an establishment frequented by my kind. I wore a heavy jacket that covered up the implants and jacks in my neck. It was best to avoid anybody who might be interested in my presence. The bartender got more words out of me than anybody else: 'Thukker whiskey'. I looked around the bar again, wondering how in the nine hells of Rancer this place managed to stay open on the Inner Circle station.

While it was no secret that you could bribe your way into the good graces of CONCORD and their associated organizations, it was by no means a cheap feat. Clearly this little den of iniquity had some big backers or good cash flow on the side. The few scruffy workers and shady characters could hardly be drinking enough to pay for the lights let alone weaseling your way into the bank account of some bureaucrat.

As my eyes wandered over the various patrons, rough decor, and odd assortment of stains on the metal flooring, a nervous looking ship crewman walked in. He wore decent livery bereft of any official insignias, so clearly working for somebody with wealth yet not affiliated with one of the empires. Likely employed by another capsuleer...

And clearly not part of the agreement. To make matters worse, the fool had told him who to look for, since his eyes lit up with relief when he spotted me furtively glancing at him. I shook my head slowly and sighed, spinning my stool back to the bar. I reached into my pocket and tossed a small electronic chip onto the counter.

The bartender looked down at it, squinting his eyes. The numbers were small, they were jammed in... and suddenly he gasped, seeing ISK printed beside the rather large number. Swiping the token swiftly, the scarred and ugly fellow only had time to look up and drop the chit into his pocket when he heard a violent and unexpected bang.

Old slugthrowing weapons could be made out of crude and simple enough materials that they would not set off station defense sensors. They were generally inaccurate at range, and lacked any punch against armoured targets. Modern variants of projectile weapons still existed, but not like this old hunk of metal. I actually found it in Nefantar ruins in Metropolis, and with some minor tweaking it was an ideal weapon to use onboard a supposedly secure station.

The crewman lay splayed out on the floor, having toppled back when a heavy titanium slug entered his forehead. The instructions were clear and straight forward. It seems the client required a refresher on the issue. Nothing else would drive the point home like a shot to the head.