Diaz

He weighed his odds as he bulled a path deeper into the station. He was outnumbered, not that he minded that fact. Being alone behind enemy lines wasn't anything he new to him. A ganger stepped onto the boulevard, a crude pipe gun on his hip.

They locked eyes. Diaz shot him once in the shoulder and then in the leg. Based on the way the ganger's thigh snapped as he fell, Diaz had shattered his femur. He usually wouldn't have wasted his time shooting anything other than heads or chests, but wanton murder wasn't his objective.

Diaz left his screaming, bloody victim and kept pressing on. He had the firepower advantage so long as he didn't run into any heavy hitters or organized cops. He was well equipped for everything but blind corners between his automatic, seax and pistol. He really should have scrounged that last grenade off Princess. He shook his head and discarded the thought. She'd need the ordinance more than he would.

The locals were starting to catch on that these weren't the usual random acts of violence running ragged through the streets. He could hear the shouts and cries of outrage building behind him. Running and gunning would only take him so far, so he kept his eyes open for somewhere to hold up and dig in. Diaz slowed up ahead of a T junction, creeping close enough to check the corners and found himself face-to-face with a scrappy-looking teen.

Her eyes went wide in an instant, her hand reaching for something behind her back. Diaz rushed her, driving his swung elbow into her face. She was bowled over by his mass and the savagery he'd struck with; something metallic clattered into the distance. Her head hit the ground with a bang while her hands clutched her broken nose. Diaz didn't even break his stride as he kicked the cord-wrapped shiv further away from the girl and kept running.

Leaving a trail of corpses would have been easier, but that wouldn't be as effective. A mangled populace left in his wake would spread word about his presence faster, even if it was sloppy work by his standards. His scarred face and weaponry meant he wasn't likely to be forgotten so long as he was seen. He should have been the talk of the block by now, but something was off.

There was less resistance than Diaz was expecting. There should have been more thugs prowling, riot cops trying to keep things calm or even just desperate people doing stupid things, but there wasn't. The station streets he ran through were practically deserted of life, if not trash. He barely saw anyone but he certainly heard them, sounds of movement echoed everywhere in this damned metal bubble. He couldn't pull a single source from all the background noise, but it was enough to set his instincts ablaze.

Diaz slowed down, scanning the boulevard as it was. Four stories of balconies complete with stained laundry hanging above him, each level narrowing the gap overhead until the uppermost terraces practically touched railings. He briefly wondered if these were worker dorms or permanent residencies and just as quickly decided that was irrelevant. Dozens of abandoned market stands lined the walkway, filling the gaps between the shuttered storefronts dominating the ground level. Of all the shops in sight, three weren't shuttered with the same rolling mesh; a convenience store on an alley corner and the bar opposite it were both open. There was another building sealed by floor-to-ceiling blast doors, but he couldn't find a sign announcing what it was.

Diaz spent all of two seconds considering his options, cradled his rifle in hands still crusted with Nye's blood and walked into the ambush. He reached the bar without a single shot coming his way, setting his nerves ablaze at the anti-climax. He wasn't enough of an ingrate or a battle-junkie to shoot first though, so he kept his eyes peeled, waiting for a boot that wasn't dropping. The bartender didn't even question his battle-damaged clothes, red-died limbs or loaded weapons as Diaz stood there expectantly.

"You look like you need a drink." The Tender stated.

"Water, no ice." Diaz said, scanning the room for threats. The bar was open to the street aside from the arching ceramic pillars holding up the roof. Other than the blackened steel bartop, the shop as a whole looked more like a rundown patio than a pub.

"Don't bother. All the cowboys in this block headed for your ship." A tin cup of silty water appeared on the counter. "Fifty GSaC."

"Pricey."

"That's the price for you, Mister Diaz." The Tender flashed a smile as apologetic as it was predatory. Diaz paid the man and took a swig. Lukewarm tap water never tasted so good.

"What about the other blocks?"

"Couldn't tell you." The Tender's eyes flicked down behind the counter.

"What if I wanted another drink?" Diaz asked.

"I think something could be arranged." Another transaction and another cup of sullied water traded hands. "All the major players are after your friends. Port Hounds, Rock Hards, even the cops; not to mention every hood-for-hire and small-time thug. Without the station's comms, they've all got runners scattered all over the place."

"Gang colors?" Diaz asked, trying and failing to wash off some of the dried blood covering him without taking both hands off his weapons.

"No luck, except maybe the boys in blue." The Tender correctly read Diaz's raised eyebrow and added, "The cops."

"Thanks." Diaz backed away from the bar, as if to leave without turning his back. "What kind of piece do you have down there?" Tender's eyes flicked under the counter again.

"C-875 pump." Tender answered with his rogue's smile.

"How much for it?"

"I was thinking free, but I've recently reconsidered."

"Smart move."

With that, Diaz turned his back on the bartender— though he didn't relax his grip on his rifle until he was back on the street. He looked in the tiny corner store, contemplating the paper-wrapped sandwiches. The standard ration bars he'd been eating inside his armor were nutritious, but they were far from filling or satisfying. He scanned the streets, then darted in and snatched up a packet at random. He tore the packaging with his teeth and took a bite— some kind of soy-cheese with a tangy sauce.

"You're supposed to pay for that first."

Diaz paused mid-bite, turning to look into the wide almond eyes of a skinny girl no older than fifteen, his automatic at the low ready. He was surprised he'd missed her along with the ugly blue and yellow shirt she was wearing. She was cute, clothing aside. She might even look a bit like Nye when she grew up and put some mass on.

"How much?" He asked around a mouthful of fluffy bread.

"Fourteen." The cute girl answered, her voice shaking as she stared at his face, then his weapons, then his face again. Diaz stalked towards the counter and paid for the sandwich.

"You should close up." He said around another bite of fake cheese before swallowing. He jutted his chin towards the streets. "There are monsters out there."

The cute girl nodded so fast she looked like she was having a fit, her long black hair flying everywhere in the light gravity. The sight made him smile, which made the girl's look of terror intensify.

"Sorry." He apologized, wiping all traces of his cold smile from his face. He toasted the girl with his food. "It's a good sandwich, by the way."

An older man walked into the store as Diaz turned to leave. The new man looked at Diaz, then over his shoulder to the girl and raised his empty hands. Diaz kept him in the corner of his eye and walked out the door. The man bumped into the sandwich rack and flinched. He dropped his hands and sealed his fate.

Diaz spun on the spot, firing from the hip, stitching a burst across the older man's stomach. The man fell, the girl screamed for her wounded father and Diaz took another bite of his sandwich. It tasted off. He looked down. His bread was splattered with red.

"Shite." He muttered, extracting the soy-cheese before discarding the rest of his snack in a spreading pool of crimson. From down the street, someone cried out in alarm and seconds later dozens of others answered the call.

"Took them long enough." Diaz griped.

He sprayed a burst overhead and took off at a jog, heading deeper into the station. Everywhere he went, people started taking notice. Shadows would move behind windows, doors had their locks thrown into place, and a barking dog was being shushed somewhere close by. He took care to shoot around every runner he saw, letting each of them get a good look at his distinctive face and arsenal before they darted off.

This couldn't even be called skirmishing. The locals always went for their weapons, but they never worked up the nerve to start taking potshots at him. That was the issue with thugs playing soldier, all talk and swagger until they found someone who shot back, then they ran like the cowards they were. The thin-lipped smile on his face gained a predatory edge. It wasn't often that Diaz played the part of the hunted.

* * *

Of all the places Diaz had envisioned himself dying, a local grocery store had never even crossed his mind. It was too mundane for him to even picture before today. Getting shot on the battlefield had always been how he'd thought it would happen. The average person living their peaceful life might consider the ransacked, shot-to-shite mom-and-pop shop he was catching his breath in to be a battlefield. But he wasn't the average station bumpkin and he'd lived a life as far from peaceful as they came. He'd seen plenty of battlefields; this shop just didn't feel like one to him.

Sure there were leaking bodies slumped between the aisles. Sure there was the reek of human entrails, hot blood and gun smoke hanging in the air. But that's about where the comparisons stopped. Every body on the ground or draped on a shelf was freshly dead. None of them were the week or even month old rotting carcasses he'd rested beside as lead and light flew overhead in his youth. Aside from spilt crimson, none of them wore matching colors or shared the same heritage. They didn't even particularly smell similar, aside from their exposed insides that stunk of meat— hell, even their shite smelled different.

The tiny grocery store reminded Diaz of another market he'd attended some time ago. Opperation Market, so called because the brass had thought a lightning offensive would be as easy as picking up fresh ingredients for supper. Grunts like him remembered that op for another reason. Everyone who went to market, ended up buying something. Most even bought the big one during those desperate charges. It might have been bravery that drove them onward, but it was closer to a soldier's insanity. Alone as he was, Diaz was relieved he wasn't fighting soldiers anymore.

Diaz wasn't repelling an overwhelming army, defeating a ragtag band of noble protectors or even stalling a handful of stupid patriots. He was slaughtering people. Individuals who all wanted something and needed something else and feared one thing. They all feared death because ultimately they were only here for themselves and death was the end of that. He couldn't stop himself from morbidly chuckling at the idea.

A valiant, unified front could have easily overwhelmed him. A foolishly noble charge would have foreseeably seen him slain. Even the heroics of a few morons fighting for something bigger than themselves might have been enough to drive him from his current bloody bolt hole.

Instead, they cowered outside of his field of fire, waiting for someone else to lead the charge over the corpses of those who'd tried before them. They saw what needed to be done, yet they still hesitated. Which was exactly what Diaz was counting on. Every second these wannabe toughs dithered, he won a victory by inches. Princess would get her window. All he had to do was keep the locals occupied, so that's what he'd do.

Diaz crawled closer to the storefront, blood and broken glass sticking to his arms and legs as he did. Shooting out half the street lights on the flight in had left the boulevard in the eye-straining murk of cheap blue-white fluorescents that left more darkness than it illuminated. The local thugs who'd used flashlights indiscriminately had been the first to fall. The rest kept their lights off, too scared to light the way of others at the cost of themselves.

The side street was built like most other stations Diaz had seen; everything from the walls to the shops to the streets was made of dull metal. Crowded was the word that came to mind when he peeked out at the tumorous buildings that seemed to be spilling into the street. It was a far cry from the planet-side city streets he'd been raised on. Back then, everything was straight and precise; he could walk down the road and see for miles ahead and behind him. In this station, he could never see more than a hundred meters at a time, and that's when he was lucky.

Diaz wasn't watching long before he saw movement, the impatient twitching of a nervous foot, which led his rifle to its next target. He couldn't tell if the homemade weapon in the youth's hands was supposed to be a long pistol or a short rifle, but the weapon paired with his shifty movements were all Diaz needed. He lined up a shot, resting his finger on the trigger while he scanned for his follow-up target.

Shifty kept twisting his head, looking at something across the cramped, dead-end street. It took a few tries, but Diaz managed to follow Shifty's gaze up to a third-floor balcony across the way. He couldn't see anyone, but Shifty could, which was enough for Diaz. He slowly released his breath, pausing halfway just long enough to lovingly squeeze his weapon's trigger.

A single round ripped through Shifty's temple, painting his brains on the wall behind him. Diaz was already aiming at the balcony when another tough stood up, holding an idiotically long rifle. Longarm was dead before he could get the rifle to his shoulder, his impractical weapon clattering as it fell. Its owner clutched at his throat and teetered for a few seconds before joining the weapon, landing headfirst with a wet snap.

"Bastardo acaba Jamarcus!"

Diaz followed the voice and saw a face poking through a window. He released the rest of his breath and squeezed the trigger once more. It wasn't a clean shot, but listening to his target scream bloody murder had the desired effect of further persuading his most recent aggressors that he was more trouble than they could presently handle. They scurried away, making sure to keep out of his killzone.

He waited long enough to be reasonably sure this wasn't a false retreat before crawling away from his detritus-sprawled vantage point. Once he was further into the shadows, he rose to a low squatted crouch and pressed himself into the rear left corner of the store. Tactically, his position was terrible. It was effectively a long rectangular box with the front end open to the street. The only reason he'd chosen this death trap was because the locals had already ransacked the joint well before his arrival, allowing easy albeit restrictive access.

Gachunk

Diaz froze in place, scanning the room for the noise's source, but darkness worked both ways. His assailants couldn't see a thing inside the blackened storefront, and neither could he. Metal was bowing somewhere nearby, then a click, then a squeak.

He could place the last noise. Metal on metal, like a rail or a hinge. Diaz turned his gaze upwards. After steadying the grate three meters above him, something caught the street's dim light as it was drawing back into the ceiling. Diaz slowly, silently, got his sidearm in hand and pointed upwards. Against the soundless background, the dusting of broken glass and blood trickling off him was almost deafening. He peered into the featureless murk, waiting for a target to present itself.

A flash of gunfire registered in his eyes as his torso tugged to the left. Diaz saw an overlarge head on scrawny shoulders behind the pistol. He didn't hesitate to return fire, feathering the trigger five times in rapid succession.

Three of his rounds hit metal, clattering around his target in sparking ricochets. The other two thumped home into meat before doing the same in the narrow air duct his target was hiding in. His mark spilled from the vent, the too-light gravity slowing dragging the silhouette of a child across the bloody backdrop. It hit the ground with a whimper that only intensified as seconds marched on.

Diaz grabbed the long straight knife from his boot and stalked closer to the rising sobs. He couldn't see the child's face, but from the pitch of its sobs, Diaz guessed it had seen less than a decade. He half-remembered one of the spacers from the Shadow mentioning how skinny kids cleaned the airducts. It wasn't a bad way to get into places, but the noise drew too much attention. It would be better to get in early, lay an ambush then make your escape. Covertly appealing, tactically disadvantageous, Diaz idly noted.

Something rigid repeatedly clattered on the ground, failing to rise. Diaz planted a boot on the shape of a gun to the sound of glass shards being driven into crushed fingers. The child's sobs turned to messy bawling, Diaz clamped his offhand over its mouth to muffle the sound. He lined up the tip of his knife with the child's collarbone while its head shook meekly.

Times like these were when Diaz hated being able to do what it was he did. Not that the act itself brought any sort of uneasiness to mind. He could only smile his morbid lifeless smile, the twisted reflection of his broken soul, before driving the blade down into the pleading child's madly pounding heart. It was the fact that he didn't have any emotive response—that he didn't 'feel' anything—which created the vague sensation of dissatisfaction under his ribs.

Diaz didn't enjoy killing the weak, nor was he particularly displeased with his kill. He took no perverse pleasure from the act, as he would have in years past; neither did he feel the fleeting sensation of sadness or regret because of his actions. Such simple emotions were what made a person whole—what made them human—and they were beyond his capacity to create in all but the most extreme scenarios. Even the feeling of the child's pulse growing weaker with every throbbing convulsion stirred nothing within him. He was broken. He knew he was broken, and it was because he was that he never hesitated. It was a fact he cursed twice as often as he thanked.

"What sort of monster kills children without remorse?" Diaz uttered the words, searching for something within him to protest the statement. Yet nothing did, though he finally noticed the feeling of hot blood running down his flank. "Nice shot kid."

The corpse gave no answer.

Diaz probed the latest in a growing list of flesh wounds. A through and through running just under his left side floating ribs. Given how nothing inside of him was screaming in more agony than usual, it was just muscle and fat that had been blown out of him. He started heading back for his corner while administering his fourth—or maybe fifth—dose of painkillers. Between his injuries, combat fatigue and the drugs flooding his system, he was starting to loose his edge.

Ga-chunk, tingtingtingting

He dropped to the ground and ducked behind something solid on instinct, his mind digging through thousands of hours of combat to place the familiar yet foreign noise. The flying mass of former wall section and follow-up pressure wave helped speed the process along. Oh right, a door opener.

His ears were worthless, but enough stomping reverberated its way up his arms to paint a picture in which he was thoroughly screwed. Something small was tossed into the aisles behind him and he quickly covered his eyes with his elbow. Another concussive wave smashed into him as his bolt hole filled with enough light to momentarily dazzle him, which didn't stop him from blind firing his automatic over the freezer he was ducked behind.

From there, things got hectic.

Blue and black armored figures rushed the gap while their colleagues were perforated inches away. His automatic clacked empty at the same time the bodies started to slump onto their comrades or the scorched wall behind them. The weapon-mounted lights flooding the room intensified and shifted, a second angle introduced from the shop's front swiftly banishing the room's darkness. Diaz took it all in within a quarter second, years of combat experience overriding his lagging brain. Someone finally sent in the cops, he distantly realized. No way out but through.

Diaz vaulted over the freezer, rushing the badges who were storming the breach in the shop's rear right corner. Six were through the gap so far, four of that number sagging on the remaining two. The lights behind them promised more, but it was less than would be swarming the exposed shop front in a matter of seconds.

Diaz closed the distance before the survivors could break clear of their wounded comrades, spearing his rifle's muzzle into the gap between the leader's body armor and his helmet. Diaz was only planning on crushing the cop's windpipe, but something in his target's throat gave and the rifle sank all the way to the foreguard. Bloody skinny spacers.

Sole survivor finally shoved the sagging and extremely dead faceless cop #3 at Diaz to bring her shotgun to bear but only succeeded in giving Diaz a large—if exceptionally leaky—bullet sponge to duck behind. A point-blank spread of pellets punched through cop #3's backplate, pulverized his already perforated insides and mostly caught on his surprisingly intact chestplate.

The force of the blow was still enough to drive Diaz back a step he couldn't afford to lose. A pistol whipped out from behind his human shield and emptied the last seven rounds in its magazine into sole survivor's faceplate. Another shotgun blast hammered into Diaz's human shield, this time evaporating the bullet-riddled remains of its right shoulder in a cloud of blood-mist and flying strands of meaty bone fragments.

As his meatshield fell to the right, Diaz darted left, an empty pistol in his right hand and the full length of his bloodied seax in the other. Sole survivor blindly flinched their shotgun up into a cross guard to protect their throat, only to have 14 inches of alloyed steel buried in their armpit. The blade's tip momentarily bounced off their ribs before the edge finally stuck home, severing her spine just above the heart.

The swarming lights in the room started funneling onto Diaz and the brutalized forms he was virtually dancing through. The final two officers in the breaching stack stared at the carnage smeared before them— the men and women they'd known for years who'd been cut down in the span of a single breath. Diaz couldn't blame them for freezing up. That's what happened when peaceful normalcy was suddenly replaced with brutal savagery.

Diaz couldn't see their faces, but he imagined a look of surprise as he kicked a fallen SMG into his hands and emptied the entire magazine into their chests. Both went to the ground clutching their bullet-riddled body armor. They'd survive, probably. He certainly wasn't going to stick around and find out.

He tore his knife from its most recent target, scooped up a loaded carbine from the squirming rearguard and bolted through the grocery store's recently added backdoor, massed gunfire shredding the air behind him. This place was some kind of workshop, maybe a seamstress or a tailor based on the rolls of fabric he was flying past. Diaz slowed his pace long enough to cut himself a long bolt of red cloth and fire a suppressing burst at the blasted threshold behind him before resuming his flight. A grenade would have made a perfect parting gift.

He really should have at least lifted a flashbang off the breaching stack. No time for regrets now. He could deal with them later. So long as he lived, there was always later.