Persistence of Evil

[Jayce]

Once, there were upstanding men like JD Masket, officers and inspectors like Moe Knox, too-vicious combatants like Una Kidman. Sure, Nazumaki and Ishikawa still reared their heads now and then, but only to do their jobs, to the best of their abilities. Honest, hard-working Officers of the Liberty Police, through and through. Respected, even, if only by their comrades-in-arms.

And then there were "men" like Roscoe Boone. Oh, sure, on the outside, to the casual observer, there wasn't anything off about him, or the crew of the Braxton in general. Levan Harlow could attest to that. Just your average, friendly beat-cop. Maybe a bit of a loose tongue, a little too eager to key the mic, but not a bad guy. He did his job, and he did it well enough to teach others how to do theirs. A "Field Training Officer", the Company called it. Ride around with the new hires, show them the ropes, help keep them safe. To Roscoe's credit, the chiefs and deputy chiefs and middle-managers and paper-jockies all the way through his chain of command thought he was perfectly fit for the role.

The man roughly-bound to a rickety chair, hidden from view in a shipping container on some abandoned Manhattan landing pad, thought differently.

"W-when I get out of here-" He spat through a mouthful of blood and ruined teeth, words slurred by the searing pain of a cracked jaw. "I'll have your ass, Boone! You said it yourself, I'm untouchable! I've got enough dirt to bury you."

The squeak of a pleather jacket was the first response. The second, the crack of a riot baton across the back of the man's head, was significantly more painful. The third, though, was what truly set the underworld information broker on edge:

"If."

"'If?' What the fuck do you mean 'if'?" Hachiko Mori had a sneaking suspicion he already knew what the Sergeant meant. He was good for that sort of thing, knowing what people were getting at without them actually saying it. Came with the territory, of being raised by a Hogosha boss. Sure, he couldn't quite hack it in Kusari, too cutthroat, but Liberty was fertile ground for even a half-assed criminal. Still, it didn't hurt to make sure.

The sharp, angular features of his once-friendly Police contact hove into view, a devious grin tugging at thin lips and revealing teeth that could do with a check-up. "You said 'when I get out of here.' I said 'if'. You're a smart man, Chip, two and two." That's what Roscoe called the Kusarian, 'Chip'. Chip off the block, like his old man. It was supposed to be a friendly affectation, but in this moment, the word felt anything but.

A gulp, then a gag. Blood really did taste like pennies going down, and it wasn't pleasant. The once-Hogosha soon found himself considering just how many other men and women had savored that flavor after meetings with men like Roscoe. "C-come on, Boone, it was just business! You know it wasn't personal. Said yourself, 'money talks, merit walks', right?"

"Hmph. I did, didn't I? Alright, Chip. Let's cut a deal, between friends. Corporal?" Without breaking his gaze, Roscoe beckoned over a heavily-armed, heavily-armored member of his crew. 'Crew' was a good term, too. Really fit, considering the circumstances: the gentlemen (and lady!) Aboard the Braxton were barely a cut above your average bunch of Rogues, elevated by virtue of clean uniforms, and twice as vicious. The Corporal responded with a noncommittal grunt, and thrust a datapad into the abused Kusarian's lap. Displayed on the screen was a secure credit transaction menu, a pending transaction in the amount of thirty-three million Sirius Credits awaiting the source account. Helpfully, the destination was already input.

"Thir-..." Hachiko stuttered, his voice catching on a dislodged tooth. Cocking his head to one side, the offending dentition was ejected in a fountain of spit and blood. "Roscoe, we had a deal, and thirty million credits wasn't part of it, not even close!" The hair-raising sound of an energized electric baton somewhere out of view encouraged the broker to reconsider his position. "Okay, okay, fine! Fine, you win, Roscoe." Fuck. The Officer had added interest, of course he did. Well, nothing for it. Straining with effort, the expat managed to extend a finger towards a small pad embedded in the corner of the datapad, and the remainder of the transaction details fizzled to life on the screen. A confirmation, and the Credits were away.

"Excellent! Corporal, come on, let's get our good friend out of this stuffy container and into the fresh air."

Hachiko soon found himself rotating, as the pair of officers grabbed hold of the backrest, dragging the whole assembly along the rusted deck of the landing pad. He breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, the man was out nearly his entire bank account, but money came quick and easy in Liberty. A few days in the general hospital, a few weeks back in the office, and he'd be squared away, for sure. Eventually, the chair leveled off, and the man found himself staring up at his two captors. "So... We're done. Right, Roscoe? We're finished up here?"

"Yep. You're finished." Still wearing that lopsided smile, Roscoe gave his corporal a nod, and Hachiko felt a rough-treaded boot impact his chest, tipping the chair and its occupant over the edge of the platform...

...And into one of the vast storage yards of toxic waste canisters, dozens of meters below. Plastic shattered, wood splintered, flesh sizzled, and bone dissolved to nothingness in half a minute, punctuated by agonized, gurgling screams.

Someone needed to clean up this shithole of a planet. It was getting as bad as Houston.

"All in a day's work, huh, Sarge?"

"Heh, yeah. Come on, I think there's a strip joint around here."

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