Do you know how much you're worth? In flesh and blood, in how you work? Do you know how much you'd pay To go your own way -
Are you right - your life's well spent? Holding tight to every cent - You don't own it, you just pay rent And they'll send their best just to collect -
The price of you It's higher than you think You've gotta tear your chest wide Just to meet that obligation and when You're all through Blood filling up the sink Can you look into your mirror's eyes And tell your own reflection I am you
Betters thrive to roll their dice Raising lives - to pay the price "Buy it out, you're just a dime But I'll charge to keep you mine!"
We're all worth the debt we owe Raise the stakes - they reap, we sow And when the king's pot overflows They're scrambling to hold it in -
The price of you It's higher than you think You've gotta tear your chest wide Just to meet that obligation and when You're all through Blood filling up the sink Can you look into your mirror's eyes And tell your own reflection I am you
And you'd think those strings are gold When you bite the hand that holds them They're puppets, bought and sold - Can you blame the mouth that told them? Can you blame the mouth that told them?
The price of you It's higher than you think You've gotta tear your chest wide Just to meet that obligation and when You're all through Blood filling up the sink Can you look into your mirror's eyes And tell your own reflection I am you
If you’ve found this book in your hand, you’re likely one of two people - a young punk thinking they can make it big, or a critic trying to take my book off store shelves. Either way, it makes no difference to me, the fact you’re spending time reading through what might be my legacy means more than you know. So whether you’re here for advice, comfort, or just curiosity - stick with me, you might learn something.
My name is Kaz Okara, I am a mercenary.
I prefer being called a soldier of fortune, it just sounds more romantic. It isn’t too bad of a job, as long as you have the knack for it. I guarantee you’ll never go for broke. The sad truth of this galaxy is that war is a universal constant.
War is hell, I’ve seen more than enough in my lifetime to know - but I’ve come to the conclusion that war can be necessary. I wish this wasn’t our lot in life - but it’s a waste of salt crying over the truth. Wars need warriors, and I provide such a service for a reasonable fee. I’ve made this my life’s work - to take up arms for others. Wherever you are, wherever you want me, I’ll be there with a gun in my hands and a grin on my face - fighting for you and your war.
Some people will criticize and look to call out the cruelty of my work, I don’t blame them for trying - but I ask, dear reader - what’s wrong with being a mercenary?
Is your war not worth fighting? Is your home not worth saving? If it is, why does it matter who fights for you? Am I not imbued with the righteousness of your cause when I take up arms to defend you? If you think your war is so noble and so necessary, why don’t you fight it for yourself? Would you rather your own people die for this cause?
Think on that before you spit on my boots.
“But you fight for money?” No, I’ll fight for you - the money fuels our crusade. Wars live and die off money. Empires rise and tyrants fall when gold changes hands. You want freedom? Peace? I can’t give it to you, but I can give you the skills and manpower to take it - as long as in the end my sacrifice is repaid. When I fight for you, I throw my entirety into combat. Pay me, and I’ll take arms under your flag. Your comrades are my comrades, your home is my home, and your cause is mine. This is my way, others may call it foolish and greedy - perhaps even you, dear reader.
It makes little difference to me what you think. This is the path I walk, and if you want to follow be my guest. It’s a long lonely road that we walk, it’s always better with friends.
Okara, Kazuhira. (3042). Chicken Soup for the Mercenary's Soul. New Voxas: Farthest Star Publishing House.
VORAAN KELL has been indicted on the following charges:
INTERGALACTIC COMMERCE PIRACY, ILLEGAL DEEP-SPACE SCAVENGING, SUBSPACE-JUMPING WITHOUT PERMIT, SPACEPORT LOITERING, GAMBLING, RECKLESS SUBSPACE-JUMPING, RESISTING ARREST, ASSAULTING A GALACTIC PEACEKEEPER, DISTURBING THE PEACE, FAILURE TO PAY SPEEDING FINES IN EXCESS OF 30,000 TKs, JOYRIDING, GRAND PROPERTY THEFT, FAILURE TO USE MERGE SIGNAL IN HYPERSPACE LANE, ARMED ROBBERY, VANDALISM, DESECRATION OF A SENTIENT AND SELF-DETERMINING AUTOMATON, VIOLATION OF SPACETIME PEACE LAW, and TAX EVASION.
He is to be considered ARMED and DANGEROUS. The suspect is a known affiliate of the ANDROMEDA FREEBOOTERS, an intergalactic marauder group based out of the M31 SPIRAL GALAXY (Andromeda). A recent inter-systemic effort from the Mayall-II and G76 Peacekeeping Forces has resulted in the successful neutralization of the group. VORAAN KELL is considered to be the sole surviving member of the group, and will be persecuted until processed. Last-known whereabouts place him at the edge of the ANDROMEDA GALACTIC COLLECTION, within the satellite galaxy M110; available eyewitness reports suggest that he has left the system entirely, yet remains within the LANIAKEA SUPERCLUSTER. Coordination efforts with neighboring Galactic Groups are underway to extradite the suspect when captured.
Due to the suspect's armed and armored nature, approaching is NOT advised. Please contact your nearest PEACEKEEPER AUTHORITY, or closest law enforcement analogue, if this suspect is sighted. VORAAN KELL is outfitted with a personalized U-77 EVA TECHNICIAN RIG and attached life support, along with a SHAPED PLASMA BLADE and U-25 PEACEKEEPER SIDEARM. The suspect has advanced mechanical aptitude in robotics and knowledge of spacecraft, including internal components, navigation equipment, piloting, and engine repairs.
The suspect has been characterized as extremely unstable and, according to eyewitness reports, "oblivious". Still, Peacekeepers and bounty hunters are advised to approach with caution, as instability causes unpredictability.
"πάει πέρα από τα αστέρια" FILE COPY - TYCHE ENTERPRISES - SENSITIVE DATA ENCRYPTED
Imagine, if you would, being born in an age of intergalactic travel, where explorers cross stars instead of seas and find entire worlds in stead of landmasses. Imagine living in a time where ships can move faster in the void of space than your thoughts, where infinite varieties of life forms interact and communicate and share resources and knowledge. Imagine, a perfect universe of harmony and discord playing out on an infinite stage of endless space.
Now imagine there is a planet at the edge of the known universe, small and easily missed ringed by so many stars and moons. The density of this compacted planet is so great, as a result of its origin, that it becomes the center of its own planetary system. Though surrounded by celestial bodies, imagine if this planet gave birth to life.
Sigma-47 N-44 is just such a planet, so far removed from most star systems that it rarely receives otherworldly visitors. A super dense remnant of a red giant, everything born on this planet is incredibly tough, including the one race of backward humanoid that calls this planet home.
The Alaandra are preternaturally strong, incredibly fast, and covered in microscopic scales harder than steel. These scales are individually capable of changing hue and are even maneuverable to a point, allowing the Alaandric people to survive by blending in to their environment with almost perfect camouflage. Despite these advantages, however, the race is far behind in terms of their own developing technologies.
Still stuck in the Industrial Age in their most advanced strongholds, the Alaandra are held back from further technological progress by the plethora of dangerous fauna which control over 78% of the wild planet. Most Alaandric travelers are thieves and smugglers, sending advanced resources and information back to their home to help their people survive.
Laurel Mason joined the Lykaian Outworld Navy at seventeen cycles, one of only seventeen youths offered in a goodwill exchange with her home to prevent their classification as a hostile planet. Of those seventeen only four made it into the ranks, and of those four only Laurel had lived to see her twenty fifth cycle. Due to their natural abilities the Alaandric soldiers were put on the most dangerous missions of stealth, information gathering, and destruction. Laurel was a fast learner, a natural leader, and a deadly assassin.
That didn’t stop them from cutting her loose after she had miraculously survived an op gone sour that took the lives of all of her team. It didn’t stop them from restricting her travel to and from designated planets despite releasing her from duty. It didn’t stop her from vanishing completely off of their grid.
For two years Laurel has worked as a mercenary, keeping her jobs low risk/low reward to maintain her cover from the Lykaian Outworld Navy but squirreling away every (token credit ticket monies) she could with the eventual goal of returning to Sigma-47 N-44. Any official travel to the sector was expressly cut off by the LON but there were always other, if unfortunately more expensive, options.
Equipment: Most of Laurel’s gear is designed to be portable and easily hidden save her pistol. Her LK-1711 is a customized sidearm of the Lykaian Outworld Navy’s standard issue 1611. Firing titanium alloy bolts at unprecedented speed, the customizations she has altered it with allow for less recoil, more powerful impact, and higher penetration value. Her shaped plasma blades can be programmed to a variety of different forms, most often as swords or daggers. She usually has a variety of different explosives, equipment for setting and detonating them, as well as tools such as a pick or a shovel. Four silver disks compose her ballistic armor, each one capable of activating full body condensed gravity shielding capable of stopping even heavier rounds of most types.
Appearance:
Laurel’s natural appearance is that of a young woman with long, snow white hair, high cheekbones and a fair complexion. Though she can change her coloring at will, her striking red eyes cannot be changed, and so in her natural state she appears much like an albino human. It is rare for anyone to see her in her true appearance, however, and so each person might recall a slightly different girl.
Nothing goes right in this accursed universe. The more you live, the more you realize there is darkness in every corner. And no one wants to do a single thing about it. Just huddle together and bow their heads down. Turning their eyes away, pretending to be blind and leading others into their self-determined blindness.
No one is ready for the truth. No one asks for it. No one wants it or needs it. But it's there. Hidden under the grime and filth no one else is willing to trudge through. And to be perfectly honest? Even Hankshaw does not find it all that worth it, not all the time at least. But he does it regardless. Because that's his job. Whether he likes it or not, it simply must be done.
Born in the standard industrial pit of a planet, Detective Hankshaw grew up in the mediocre dredges of society. The people who made up the workers who either had it or did not. In a world where automatons provided as many benefits as much as rewards, work was hard to come by but not impossible. And from those dregs, Hankshaw determined to make something of himself. Even if it was not pretty.
He would not starve or die like the rest. Not keep his head down. Everyone wanted to get out of their lot in life. Few ever do, and even fewer had the will or means to get out of it by their own power. No, John would not wait for some godsend to help him. So he enlisted.
For a time, it kept him from drowning and kept his head above the water. Even with the injury, the stress, the augments. Until he met her. And then he could breath so easily now. Stay afloat. Settling down for a badge and smaller instrument of death, John found himself slowly envisioning the life he dreamed of.
Who wouldn't? A home. Someone who loved him. A possible family. And he kept doing the work that he was good at. And it happened to just so make a small difference, here and there. Enough for him to feel better about himself. It felt good. It all felt right. And he was beginning to step more and more out there. Perhaps he could do a little more as a detective and do something decent.
Until she began not answering her texts. Her calls. Not for a full 24 hours. Then they found her body.
Take hope and love away from a man and beware the consequences. Especially those of men pretending to be good, trying to be good. Take hope away from John Hankshaw and who knows what he would do.
The man suspected to be responsible found himself full of holes not even three days afterwards. Everyone in the precinct suspected. After all, all those cutting-edge para-military cybernetics surgically grafted onto him. The same augmentations fitted with forensic tools and other armaments that came with his job as a detective. The genetic tampering and chemical cocktails needed to run those mechanical rigs without fail for extended periods of time.
The man had the means and time, certainly, and the motive could not be questioned. Not like there would not be much reason for him to not break every single rule. Rules that did nothing for the victims but kept the masses in line and complacent.
But did it matter much if he did it or not? Perhaps he was allowed this.
No matter the case, the suspicion mattered enough. If not enough to punish him or push him out of the force but perhaps instead move him somewhere else. Whether they meant to put John somewhere that would allow him to fully operate and deal with the scum as needed or perhaps they figured a cop like him would not last more than one day in such an environment, the higher-ups saw it fit for him to be sent to Sargasso.
At least he could focus more on work and keep his head above the water that way, if nothing else.
Do you still believe
the lies they tell you?
Name: Johnathan Luther Hankshaw Nickname/Alias: Hankshaw, John, Detective Origin Planet: Tamoran B-0F81 ID Number: HE6KD7HOCC Gender: Cis-male Age: 36 y/o Birthplace: District 74WB4 Immediate Family: Adam Hankshaw (Father), Karie Hankshaw (Mother) Distant Family: Reginald Hankshaw (Maternal Grandfather) Species: Human (Posthuman Cybernetic) Ethnicity: Terra Tamorian
Nationality: Tamerajoren Blood Type: O- Hair Color: Black-Brown Eye Color: Blue-Grey Height: 6' 1" (1.85 m) Weight: 182 lbs (82.55 kg) Body Type: Mesomorph Current Residence: Living Unit D-537, Sargasso Occupation: Detective Rank: Detective I, Homicide Organizations/Affiliations: Peacekeeper Authority
Last Edit: Apr 2, 2023 18:40:23 GMT by Paperbag Fill
[attr="style", font-size:20px]There’s only three things that a man truly needs in this world to be happy: a fresh smoke, a stiff drink, and the freedom to enjoy both whenever and wherever he pleases. Or at least, that’s what Erin Blackwater, nickname Six, would tell you. A colonial by blood, Six prefers to refer to himself as a drifter, having visited each of the Colonies of Sol, before setting off into the universe at large. It was there that he found that not everyone had the same lackadaisical nature to laws and governance as the Colonies, and it wasn’t long before he’d found himself in trouble with the law. One drunken brawl in the wrong system landed Six in a prison for the better part of a month.
Fortunately, he was no stranger to prisons and the like, and made some friends over the course of his stay. One such fellow, by the name of Antioch, was in for murder, although he insisted he was an assassin and a mercenary. Others had told Six that Antioch had been saying that ever since he came in years earlier and would probably cling to it until the end of his sentence. But it was enough to give Six an idea, a rare and often dangerous occurrence. He’d seen the law turn a blind eye many a time to illegal activities, so long as either their palms were greased with enough tickets, or if the person was working with them. Thus, Six became an agent of the law, a bounty hunter. He originally used the license merely to skirt the law, but when ticks ran low, he started paying the undertaker’s dues.
Six took his name from his weapon of choice, an illegally modified Magnum Gauss hand cannon, refitted to shoot kinetic projectiles in the style of a six-shot revolver. The ammunition itself is of questionable legality, but as long as Six aims for center mass, it shouldn’t mess with his bounties. The recoil itself is the primary danger, but Six’s got that covered. A few years back, after a particularly nasty bounty, he found himself with more ticks than he knew what to do with. So he spent it on what anyone in his position would: cybernetically enhanced arms and wrists, designed to absorb and compensate for the recoil produced by his firearm, as well as a couple extra features.
Six rose to prominence, becoming somewhat known in criminal, bounty hunter, and merc circles alike. While some scoff at the idea that the colonial dressed in a shabby duster and a cowboy hat with an old cigarette hanging off his lip is of any real threat, those who recognize him can only hope that he’s there for a drink, and not for their head.