Young Writers Society

The black troika pulled up to the side of the road; Beyond the shoulder was a thick outcropping of vegetation and fallen branches. Athen and Jonathan got out and pulled two large branches away from eachother; A wide dirt path was revealed-It wound into the forest and out of sight. Jonathan and Athen got back into the troika, and the hovercar hummed back to life and eased into the dirt trail in between the thin trees.

A few minutes later the path led into a large clearing, at least a half mile in diameter. A large mansion stood in the center, surrounded by concrete walls, barbed wire, and it's walls choked with ivy.

The troika stopped in front of a wooden gate. A man with a cigar stood there on the other side. He obliged and released the lock on the gate, and waited for the troika to pass through before locking it again.

They fell in behind a large beige troika- Jonathan stopped the car, shifted to park, released the hover-pedal. The troika's humming died down and slowly fell into the dirt, pebbles popping from under the vehicle's weight.

"What do you think, kid?" Athen asked. "You nervous?"

"What about?" Aurin asked in kind. "De la Rocha or the contract?"

"Both, I guess."

"No and no."

"Go on up to the attic and see De la Rocha...He's itching to talk to you about your last contract." Jonathan said, pointing at the mansion's large wooden doors. "While in you're in there, see if you can bum some cigarretes from Tull."

"Whatever," Aurin said, "I'll be right back. Keep the engine hot."

Aurin trotted up the stairs, pushed open the doors and walked into the mansion's foyer. An old, dusty chandelier hung fifty feet above, and a large carpet lay in the middle. There was a desk a few meter away from the door; Behind it sat the receptionist- Gerard, a fat, unpleasant man with a greasy mustache.

"Ah shit," growled Gerard. "If I ever see you again, it'll be too soon."

"Bad news, I'm coming back this way to get out after I see De la Rocha. Disappointment's a big part of life and all that," Aurin remarked, and brushed past the desk, made his way up the foyer stairs.

He went through a labyrinthe of halls and coridoors, walking past hundreds of doors; The quarters of several bounty hunters like him. Eventually he came to a pull-down staircase; A misleading entrance into the Head's office. Aurin grabbed the guardrail and went up.

The "attic" was actually a concrete-reinforced, militaristic relic wonderland. Framed pictures of De la Rocha and his comrades during the Uzban war were all over the walls; Muskets and swords were nailed to the wall, and the mounted head of a Dragonkin stared bleakly down from above the window which overlooked the clearing.

At the very back, behind a dark mohagony desk, sat Ignazio de la Rocha himself. De la Rocha was a tall man, muscular and clean shaven. His silver hair stood up in the front, and a long ropy scar that resembled lightning forked its way from his hairline to the jaw under his ear. He wore a clean-looking business suit. He was writing something on a yellow piece of paper; he had not seen Aurin come in.

"Chief," said Aurin.

De la Rocha looked up. "Acolyse." He stood up, grabbed a chair and sat it in front of his desk. "Sit, please."

Aurin sat at the chair, leaned back and watched De la Rocha stride back to his own chair and slowly settle back into it. The leather squeaked as the old man readjusted himself.

There was silence. De la Rocha's solemn eyes were on Aurin for at least a minute.

"What is this about?" Aurin said, breaking the ice.

"I don't know, what do you think this is about?" De la Rocha said. His voice was gravelly.

"My last contract or something? Fuck knows."

"Ah yes, your last contract." De la Rocha leaned backwards, took a cigar and lit it. He took a long drag and after a few seconds blew a large nimbus of carbon monoxide into the room.

"You were asked to apprehend Harold Ethanari, a prison escapee and hatchet murderer extraordinaire. Apprehend him alive."

"I did apprehend him alive," Aurin said. "What are you getting at?"

"Ethanari was arrested with his leg missing and bleeding all over the place, screaming about some 'kid with a big ass machete,' and then hemorrhaged to death all over our dinner table." De la Rocha frowned, furious. "The blood stains are still on that damned table, I have to eat in here now."

"Well sorry!" Aurin cried, getting defensive. "He hit me in the stomach with a baseball bat and I fell; When he tried to run away, I stabbed him in the back of the leg. I didn't know the friggin' thing would fall off!"

"It doesn't matter!" yelled the Chief. "I gave you an order to apprehend him and bring him here, not drag him back here squirting blood all over my expensive carpet, damn near paraplegic! I pay you to do the job right, not sloppy!"

"Well maybe you give me shitty jobs!" Aurin yelled, back, standing up. The chair fell on its back akwardly. "I didn't join so you could make me catch boars and exterminate termites and catch stupid-ass prison escapees at three in the gods-be-damned morning!"

"Aurin, give me your badge and your machete."

"What?! No."

"Then shut the hell up and stop giving me lip." De la Rocha leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands, breathing out of his nose. "I didn't grow up in Bastille in a life of crime dreaming of ending all the evil in the world, Get drafted for the Uzban War, Petition a treaty for the creation of the Bounty Hunter's Guild of Aramis, renovate an old beat up mansion, recruit three thousand new mercenaries a week, train them, and circulate contracts damn near 24 hours a day just to hear an angsty teenager gripe and make excuses."

Aurin looked down, defeated. "Yes sir," he grumbled.

"Now with that little tidbit out of the way..." De la Rocha leaned forward. "This contract is a doozy. Are you prepared to use all of your skills for this one?"

"Yes sir."

"Good, because if I hear from Athen or Jonathan-and believe me, I have my ways of getting information out of people- That you screwed up in any way, shape, or form, you won't get a red cent of those 6 figures, do you understand me?"

"Just tell me what I have to do."

"You don't beat around the bush kid, thats what I like about you. That's why I took you in." De la Rocha leaned back again and relit his cigar, taking another drag from it. "There is this abandoned military base outside of town, right? Our scouts have reported there is some sort of activity going on out there. They see automatons walking around in front of the base, and they aren't Union-grade- And you know building an automaton without being in the military is a bad felony. Not only that but the scouts have seen these robots dragging screaming men- Most of them in prison uniform- into the base, never to be seen again." Aurin half-expected him to turn on a flashlight under his face and say Whooo, I'm a ghost!

"I'm not scared of robots," Aurin said. "Robots are scared of me."

"I'm serious." De la Rocha said, putting a fond, scarred hand on Aurin's shoulder. "We don't know whats going on in there; If you're not careful, you could be one of those men. I need you and the guys to shut whatever's going on down, and try to bring whoever's behind it here for questioning. Can you do that?"

"Damn straight, Chief." Aurin said, and flexed. "I'll trash those robots and bring you back the creep that's behind all this. Hell, I might as well bring you back take-out dinner while I'm at it."

"Then the 6 figures are yours." De la Rocha stood up, and bowed. "Be careful, squirt, I don't want your blood on my hands."

"Don't sweat it." Aurin turned around, and walked out of De la Rocha's office. "I'll be back for my money."

De la Rocha grinned and mouthed the words Douche bag, shook his head fondly, and sat back down to his work.

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Aurin stepped down the hallway, the gray light from outside filtering onto his face.

Around the corner stepped a ghostly man, though he was less like a quiet apparition and more like an angry poltergeist; Tull, the BHGA's top Espionage agent. The man wore a beat-up gray poncho, and his long black hair hung from his head down to his ass. He looked upon Aurin, and his expression immediately turned into disgust.

"Hey Tull," Aurin said. "Jon wants some cigarretes."

"Tell Jon to go fuck himself," Tull said. "You too, half-pint." He brushed past Aurin.

"Dude, the hell's your problem? You wanna throw down or something?"

"Like you'd win."

"I would. For a full grown adult, you're garbage."

Tull stood for a long while, staring at Aurin eye-to-eye. Aurin met his gaze, unwavering.

"Best watch yourself kid," Tull murmered. "Things are gonna change around here."

"Damn right. I'm gonna be rich, driving a nice troika, with an expensive watch on my wrist and a nice pair of shades on my face, while you're still crawling around in the sewer under some dude's house." Aurin turned and walked down the foyer stairs. "Peace, bitch."

Tull looked after Aurin as he pushed out of the mansion doors. "You're gonna die, that's whats gonna end up happening," he growled.

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Ignazio de la Rocha stared out the window, watched Jonathan's troika pull out of the clearing. Tull stood behind him, saying nothing.

"That brat's gonna be the end of me," De la Rocha chuckled. "I wonder if I'm the one getting the worst of it, or if it's his sister. Either way, that kid needs discipline."

De la Rocha walked over to the other side of his office. He stared upon a picture of him in his teenage youth, a musket in one hand and a helmet on his head. "Reminds me of someone I know." he murmered. "I just hope he gets out of this unharmed."

"Don't worry, Chief," Tull said. He pulled out his gun, a long silencer on the muzzle, and aimed it at the back of de la Rocha's head. "Everything's going according to plan." He pulled the trigger.