DIVISION 52 - BOOK III

CHAPTER I

S C O R P I O N 

The beginning writes the end.

That's what they tell you. That's what would neatly create a way to full circle this impossibly complicated life we lead.

It's bullshit, of course.

Another lifetime ago I was made so acutely aware of a common human habit. The desire to control. If they can make you fantasise about fate and destiny... Well that's an outside force working against you–no one can control that can they? We may as well conform. Live within our means. Strive for the mundane... Do not over reach. 

I pass. But I sarcastically appreciated the offer all the same.

I moved quickly because I hated this job. I not only hated this job but I hated my circumstance. My rusted crap hole of a home, Sector 52, these stained floors but mostly... above all else–

"I'm not payin for ur company!" A slap went hard across my head and I bit down the urge to knee him in the crotch.

A few patrons started cackling when the mop in my hand went to the floor. I levelled the human pile of butter with a glare and his forearms tightened ready for more.

"Go on gutter rat give me a reason." He growled, waiting on any outburst that would have me lose this dead end job in this forgotten part of the city.

I put on my sweetest smile and adjusted the shit stained apron he called a uniform.

"Where are my manners, Jax? I somehow must have missed that fusion craft sized ass–"

I dodged the next slap and made my way to an angry group of customers before he could seize me and lock me in the freezer again. His own sense of humour went to the limit of 'why don't you cool off urchin?'. He really was a buffoon–

I sized them up quickly as I usually did. You had to rate threat to life pretty quickly in Sector 52... If you were slow you usually didn't get the chance to catch up.

"Sup red?"

I resisted the urge to stuff the red stained apron down his throat and ask him if it taste better than the shit lumps of food they served here but instead...

"What can I get you gents?" I returned calmly.

They were ex military types. A quick once over the holsters told me it was private security for them now. The chrome of the fusion pistols winked at me and told me only the private sector could buy those kind of weapons this deep in a nomad Sector. The envy and slight admiration burned in me. They had complete freedom. They walked into a room and people didn't question or harass them. They were dangerous and therefore powerful.

I wanted that.

But I needed the damn credits.

There was only so much the Crypt could do for you. Fights in the pit had high risk but I was good. I was fast and I ended it before they could resort to cheating... hell, sometimes I did. But they took one look at me and paid me what I was worth–nothing. 

"Nebula cake." A gruff voice cut in low. It came from easily the largest and most threatening man at the table–which is why it was so utterly ridiculous. I didn't dare laugh because his comrades did not.

The rest of the order was a blur but the dessert lad lingered in my mind as I relayed it back to Chef. I found any excuse to be near them. Even if I could just learn who they worked for. I was mopping the already clean floor a few metres away.