Oaths Are for the Obedient

[Fab]

Serrano unglued his eyes from the terminal just as his designated contact approached. The agent introduced himself with clipped efficiency - callsign only.

"Dagger-2."

That alone told Serrano plenty. Codenames were the currency of serious players. But they also meant one thing above all else: mistrust. No real names, no accountability. He wasn't dealing with a rookie. He was dealing with an asset.

Serrano:
“Yes. That would be me. Preston Serrano. Serrano Private Investigations.”

He adjusted his jacket, casually scanning the diner’s interior. Still low-profile. Still quiet. But the temperature had shifted.

Dagger-2 wanted more. A profile. A read. He needed to be sure Serrano wasn’t just another unhinged conspiracy-chaser with a data pad and a theory. Serrano obliged - measured, but direct.

Serrano:
“I’m glad you asked. I run investigations in and around the Edgeworlds. I mainly deal with information the Bounty Hunters Guild finds most useful. I track down their targets, sell them the intel, and they do the dirty work.”

He let that hang for a moment, then leaned in - voice low, steady.

Serrano:
“Lately there’s been a rise in attacks across the Omicron systems. Not your usual pirate mess. These were planned. Coordinated. I started digging... and that’s when I found the first traces of the infected.”

He tapped the side of the terminal with two fingers.

Serrano:
“Didn’t take long for the bounty boards to light up. Credits on the table, but the kind of contracts that make people disappear. I got curious. Learned what to look for - garbled transponder responses, unregistered transit, captains with no records, patrol routes that didn’t make sense. Started building a profile. My own little bingo card for infected suspicion.”

He turned the machine around. The screen now faced Dagger-2, its glow casting sharp shadows across the table.

Serrano:
“Here. His name’s Heiko Riegel. Freighter pilot. Looks legit on paper - until you read between the lines. Check his departure logs, travel times, cargo discrepancies. He vanishes in the Omicrons, reappears without scans, and nothing adds up.”

The data didn’t lie: travel intervals that defied engine capabilities, time gaps that couldn’t be hand-waved as nav delays, and freight inconsistencies that screamed staged manifests. The Liberty customs net had no record of Riegel’s reentry.

Serrano:
“What do you say, Mr. Dagger?”

He leaned back into the creaking red leather of Stall 18, just as the waitress arrived with his order - grease-streaked tray in hand. The scent of seasoned waffle fries and syrupy citrus filled the air, momentarily masking the tension across the table.

It had to be enough.

Serrano kept his voice even, but there was a pull behind his eyes - a tension just shy of panic. This was more than a lead. More than a job.

Too many strings had been pulled to get Dagger-2 to this booth. Too many eyes waiting for results.

Failure wasn’t a closed case. It was a closed door. And he knew exactly who would be on the other side of it.

He wasn’t afraid of vanishing himself. He could live with that. But his daughter, still planetside in Liberty’s heart...

No.

This had to work. One way or another.

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