The "Backside of the Coin" was a bar at a failed colony on Six.
The planet used to have a name – presumably one it shared with five others – but the kind of people who still came to this place really didn't give a shit about it. Not much was left of the colony, after the planet had been hollowed out by a mining company some years ago. Most of the original settlements had fallen prey to scavengers, until only bent and broken frameworks had been left. Their sight now littered the desolate landscape like bones that had been picked clean.
Life on Six was hard. The weather sucked. It changed violently and quickly, and alternated every thirty hours with clockwork precision. Residents sardonically referred to them as "dry season" and "wet season", or more commonly as "scorching" and "sodden", and they made agriculture or any other outdoor activity an overall unpleasant endeavor.
The only town on Six, built on the ruins of a former settlement, consisted mostly of rundown shanties. The town had no name at all, at least none that was not meant as an insult, so it was just known as "the Town". Not that there was any other town on the planet that it might have gotten confused with anyway.
The Backside was really the only thing worth mentioning on Six. Not just because it was the largest and sturdiest building in the Town, or because it was the only place that had an actual name, but rather because it was a hub for smugglers, raiders, scavengers and other lowlifes that came here to do business.
And business was booming on Six, because there were no military patrols in this sector and nobody else cared that it still existed. Everybody could enjoy coming here, no matter their occupation, because even the most ruthless scum of the galaxy had put their differences aside and agreed on a strict set of rules:
No weapons allowed! Fuck each other up out in the wastes if you have to!
No sex, no drugs, no rock'n'roll out on the streets. Think of the children.
No parking of shuttles in restricted areas: BLUE sectors - no parking on weekdays, RED sectors - every day
Business tax: 10% of all dealings, non-negotiable, pay or go to hell.
Only water is for free (it literally falls from the sky so we can't really charge anyway).
Glass deposit is five bucks.
They were written out on a sign that hung above the video screens behind the bar, which was tended by an elderly man with an elaborately shaped white beard and a bushy set of eye brows. His name was Phil, and he was always tending the bar and never seemed to sleep. His brother was known as Blue Ben, a hulking giant of a man with his hair and beard dyed blue, and shoulders wide enough for two. In contrast to Phil, he always seemed to sleep, sitting in his corner at the far side of the bar, his hands folded over his big belly, with his eyes closed.
But Blue Ben was listening, and he heard everything. They said he had augments, not just in his ears but also in the rest of his body. But nobody really knew. They didn't care to find out. The man looked menacing enough in his sleep already.
While Blue Ben listened, Phil talked, and while neither seemed to do much, they ran their establishment with great success. Together, they ran the show, the whole place: the Backside, the Town. So essentially the entire planet. Nobody could set a foot on it without their knowing.
At least everybody thought so, until the day that Amy Larsson stopped by, and brought trouble to Six.
She stepped into the Backside one evening, the weather was scorching, about to turn into sodden.
She wore her signature black and white hair style and eye patch, but not her usual attire. Instead, she was clad from head to toe in a set of black combat armor. On her small stature, it looked like it should be heavy and click with every step. But as she moved through the crowd toward the bar, not even the sharpest ears would have picked up any sound, even if there hadn't been music blasting form the speakers and the chatter of the patrons.
Most people knew her and made way for her. One rather unfortunate man didn't.
"What's with the get-up, doll? Playing soldier for your patron?" he asked her, his tongue heavy from drinking too much.
She sat down at the bar and ignored him. Her face was still like a mask, and when Phil spotted her, he came over to talk.
"Amy! Haven't seen you in a while. How's business?"
"Rotten," she just said.
"That's a pity, dear. Here, have one on the house," Phil said and placed a shot glass with a dimly glowing liquid in front of her.
She reached for it and brought it up to her lips, but then she froze. For a split second, a flurry of conflicting emotions seemed to wash across her face, before it returned to its mask-like state, now with a hint of a frown. She put the glass down again with a sigh.
"Hey, doll," the drunken man next to her spoke again and inched toward her, "I asked ya somethin'."
"I noticed," she said.
"Then why didn'cha answer? Hm? Who's your patron? I bet I can match his price."
She placed an elbow on the bar and propped her head up on her hand, looking at the drunk man from the side with her remaining eye. He looked sordid, even for this place's standards. His clothes were dusty and his face and hair just as dirty. The smell of alcohol that clung to him couldn't drown out the stench of a body that hadn't seen water in days, which was somewhat surprising considering that on Six, it literally feel from the sky half of the time. It was impossible to go for more than two days without getting drenched, unless you spent all your time indoors.
From the looks of that man, perhaps he had indeed spent most of his recent time indoors, right here in this bar.
"I'm not in the mood for this, asshole," Amy Larsson said impassively. "Scram."
"Come on, doll," the man said, his lips curling up a wide grin that revealed a surprisingly healthy looking set of teeth. He ran his tongue along them before he continued to speak. "I made quite a fortune in my last deal... So let's just have a little fun. I'll even try to leave ya in one piece for your next customer!"
"Fitch, I'd shut up if I were you," Phil recommended, shaking his head softly at the disaster he knew was about to unfold if he continued.
"Why? I'm just tryin' to have some fun, old man!" Fitch said, raising his drunken, slurred voice. Next to him, Amy Larsson stared down at her still filled glass, gripping it tightly. Around them, several people within earshot had taken note of the man's attempt at what he probably thought was flirting, and watched with morbid curiosity.
"I ain't afraid of no little girl, old man," the drunken patron continued.
"Careful," Phil warned him, "That's not-"
"Even if she tries to look all scary with her cute little eye patch and play-pretend soldier outfit," he scoffed, eyeing her up and down.
"Don't call me cute," Amy Larsson said without looking up.
"What didya say, doll?" he asked and leaned closer to her.
"I said, don't call me cute," she growled in a low voice.
Phil grabbed the remaining empty glasses that stood on the counter nearby, and took a wide step back.
"Aww, but you're so cute, doll," the drunkard sneered and stretched his arm out to put it around her shoulders. "With your little doll face, and your little doll body, all clad in that scary looking armor. I wonder what you look like underne-"
She shot up like a black arrow. Gripping his hair at the back of his head, she yanked it back forcefully, and then slammed his face against the bar. His nose hit the surface frontally, and broke with a gruesome crunch. His front teeth hit the edge, and shattered completely. The man yowled in pain, but the sound came out muffled. She was perched atop the bar stool like a bird of prey, and with her hand still on the back of his head continued to press his mashed face against the bar.
"Don't. Call. Me. Cute." she hissed.
"Amy! That's enough," Phil said, and tentatively put a hand on hers. "Please? His blood is getting everywhere. It's disgusting."
She blinked a few times, and shook her head softly, as if she was awaking from a trance, then she let go of the drunken man, who sank to the floor whimpering. With a sigh, she sat down on the bar stool again, legs dangling, and continued to stare at her glass.
Around her, the bystanders who had watched the misfortune of the drunken man shook their heads in disbelief at his stupidity. It wouldn't have taken much to read the room and understand that besides Blue Ben dozing in the corner, the five foot three woman at the bar was the most dangerous person in here.
"Amy, what's wrong?" Phil asked with compassion in his voice, as he cleaned up the mess. "You're not even touching your drink. Want me to make you something else?"
"If I asked you to make me a mug of hot milk with honey, would you?" she asked.
Phil raised a bushy eye brow at her odd request. "I suppose I could come up with something-"
"No need. Just checking," she cut him off in a flat voice.
He had known her only for a couple of months, but his position came with certain skills at reading people, so he knew that this was not just her usual run-of-the-mill bad mood. He liked Amy, she had helped them out in the past – smuggling goods into or certain patrons out of this sector. She was a woman of her word. Probably more honest than all the other people in this room combined. Surely, she was as crazy as they came, but everybody who hung out at the Backside had their demons. Among all the people who knew about Six, she was one of his favorite patrons.
"Amy, dear, what really happened to you?" Phil asked.
Amy didn't answer, but she looked up from her glass. Her one-eyed gaze went past him, and fell on the screen behind him that ran a news broadcast. She pointed at it, and lowered her head again. He turned around and recognized the broadcast about a terrorist attack on Aenara that had been running on a loop for the past hours. They hadn't yet released any details, only that-
"That was you?" he asked, and his second eyebrow joined the first near his hairline. "Seriously?"
She nodded.
He stared at her for a moment, bewildered and dumbfounded, and then he broke into roaring laughter. In the far corner of the room, Blue Ben lazily opened one eye halfway and threw a glance in their direction.
"I can't believe it, you're really something else! But why are you so glum, dear? Looks like you stuck it to them assholes pretty good," he said and smirked at her.
"I don't even know," she said in a low voice. "Perhaps it's the weather..."
Outside, scorching turned to sodden, and a downpour began to batter against the windows of the Backside and bang on the metal roofs of the shacks. The streets turned into muddy trenches in a matter of minutes.
Next to her, another man stepped over the sobbing pile of misery whose face she had crushed, and took his seat. He looked much less shabby, but his ragged black clothes told tales of some unfortunate encounters in his past, too. His leather jacket was decorated with countless studs, patches and buttons, and his jeans had several tears. Dark purple curls covered the top and one side of his head, the rest was cropped short and adorned by an elaborately shaved pattern. His skin was naturally tanned, which made the fine white scars that criss-crossed along the backs of his hands stand out as he reached for the glass that Phil poured him without asking for his order.
"Larsson," he greeted her with a nod and an amused smile, casting her a sideway glance with dark brown eyes.
"Nova," she replied impassively. "What do you want?"
He took a sip, and turned to face her with a smirk on his lips.
"What happened to your signature outfit, Pirate Queen?" he asked.
"Persistent blood stains," she replied curtly.
"Hm. I overheard you talking. So... Aenara. Impressive. Is that where you got the blood on it, Pirate Queen?" He threw a glance at the video screen, and then returned his attention back to her, eying her up and down. "Well, I like this one too. It suits you. But the black-and-white one compliments your hair better, obviously."
"Are you trying to give me fashion advice, Nova?" she asked, and a hint of a smile flitted across her face. "Didn't you see what happened to the last guy?"
"Oh, I saw that. But he also went about it totally wrong," Nova noted with a grin. "Fitch should have known better than to call a woman of your caliber 'cute'."
Nova was a smart man, not like Fitch. He kept his distance from her, he stayed just out of reach. But he also liked playing with fire.
"Careful Nova... she's in a foul mood today," Phil warned the man, while wiping some remaining blood from the counter.
"No kidding..." Nova muttered, and turned back to Amy. "So tell me, Larsson. What happened to the last guy who told you you look beautiful?"
She turned her head slowly to throw him a bored-looking glance half over her shoulder.
"I planted a bomb in his house and set it all on fire," she replied meekly, before turning back and letting her gaze rest on the video screen. Nova followed her glance and raised his eyebrow surprise.
"I... see..."
For a moment, he seemed flustered, but it only lasted a split second before he returned to his usual charming demeanor.
"Well, good thing I don't have a house then," he said and the corners of his mouth curled upward in a mischievous smirk again, "But you're welcome aboard my ship any-"
A deafening sound outside interrupted him mid-sentence, drowning out the ringing of the raindrops on the metal roof and the hubbub of the patrons. Thunderstorms were not unusual when it was sodden outside, but that sound had not been the sound of something natural. Duels in the nearby wastelands were also not exactly rare, but that sound had not been the sound of gunshots fired either. The bar had fallen completely silent, even the music had died, and only the rain could be heard as it continued its violent assault against all man-made structures on this planet.
In the far corner of the room, Blue Ben rose to his feet. His eyes, of the same bright electric blue as the lines that now ran down his cheeks like two glowing streaks of tears, were wide open. His low voice carried weight and volume as he spoke aloud what every other covert augment in the room had already felt a second before.
"Scandroids."