LotS/The Story/The Right Tools/The Assassin

The Assassin
"The term is used to describe the fluctuation of murder rates within a given area caused by the arrival or departure of Artemis Kess." -- Entry for 'Kess Effect' in the New Interstellar Dictionary of Quotations and Phrases (984th Ed.)

---

You sigh as the handcuffs hiss shut around your wrists, the electrical anti-tampering fields tickling against your skin. Memories of the Child of Heaven, of the last time your hands were manacled, flood your mind in an unwelcome tide.

"It is an unfortunate necessity," Lu Bu says. "If we delivered unrestrained prisoners, it would surely attract suspicion."

"I still think this is stupid." Ragnar grunts, and gives his cuffs an experimental tug. The yellow bonds shift to a glaring red as they strain to near breaking point. "But I'll have your back in there. I've been in a lot of prisons. I know how they work."

An unpleasant mental image of Ragnar looming behind a hapless fellow convict in the showers fills your mind, successfully banishing the memories of your previous incarceration -- though not for the better.

You walk to the front of the flight cabin by way of a distraction, where Talia and Telemachus are sitting in the pilot's and co-pilot's chairs. The young prince is playing with a joystick, rotating one of the laser cannon turrets this way and that, sending the image on the connected monitor spinning. But Talia must have had the foresight to override the fire control, as no streams of energy issue forth when his stubby thumb taps the red button atop the stick. He seems content enough supplying his own sound effects in lieu of genuine laser fire, however -- accompanying each click with a 'pew pew' or 'rat-a-tat' noise that seem remarkably inauthentic.

"Your mech ready?" you ask.

"Yeah." He relinquishes the stick and swivels his chair -- always ready to talk about his favorite toy. "Wilex helped me test the new armor and shields. I won't let you down. Still wish I was going in with you though."

"Prison isn't an appropriate place for children. Well, except for the homicidal ones."

You pause, as the foolishness of the statement strikes you.

"The indiscriminately homicidal ones," you amend.

"I don't know..." Talia says. "A little jail time might scare him straight."

A blue-green globe appears through the window, a vibrant orb defying the lifeless blackness that surrounds it. Echidna III -- home to some of the galaxy's most dangerous flora and fauna. A perfect place to house some of the deadliest criminals in human space.

---

"A master of silent killing," Wu Tenchu said.

The woman's face flashed into being among the other holographic displays, shunting them aside to dominate the tableau. A somewhat handsome face, made hard and almost vicious by its expression. But then, no one looks that great in mug shots.

Talia stared at the picture, her brow furrowed in thought.

"We have assassins of our own," you said, your words directed at Master Wu but your eyes fixed on the gunslinger.

"I would never disparage the skills of our serving agents. I trained the finest of them myself..."

That statement, spoken as if it were a casual thing, caught you by surprise -- and made you look at Wu Tenchu with renewed scrutiny. The remarkable quality of his mind was known to you, but you'd never heard of his skill as an assassin. He wouldn't have made such a revelation, shared such a secret, without purpose. It flattered you that he was so keen to convince you of his practical knowledge, and demonstrate the worth of his opinion.

"But Artemis Kess was the most capable. At least for a task of this nature."

"She was one of ours?" the Princess asked.

"I knew her!" Talia said at last. "She was one of the recruits I did basic training with. But she looked different back then, and she wasn't called Artemis. And she died in a training accident."

"I identified her potential early in the process, and selected her for assassin training. The explosion during that exercise was a convenient ruse to remove her from the knowledge of her fellows."

"Why'd you pick her instead of Talia?" Telemachus asked.

The gunslinger looked at the prince, then back to Master Wu. You sensed that whilst properness and respect would have prevented her from asking such a thing of the Emperor's advisor herself, the question had crossed her mind as well.

"I deemed her... somewhat too exuberant for the role of an assassin."

Talia smiled, seemingly satisfied with that answer.

"She was called Diana back then."

"A convenient mythological shuffle," Wu Tenchu said.

"Why did she leave the empire's employ?" you asked.

"There was a dispute between her and her commander. It ended... poorly."

"She hit him?" Ragnar asked. "I know a lot of mercs who punched out their superior officers. It's sort of a tradition."

"Actually, she eviscerated him. With her bare hands."

"She's cybernetically enhanced?" Lu Bu flexed his mechanical fingers, his computerized mind perhaps pondering the biology and physics which the deed in question would have involved.

"Yes. Her fingernails were replaced with extending blades, for example."

"Nice." The Niflung nodded in approval. "Would get those myself, except that scratching is girly."

"She murdered her commander?" the Princess asked, rather less impressed with such an act than Ragnar.

"At the time it was deemed a criminal act," Wu Tenchu replied, "and we sent agents to hunt her down -- though she evaded them. But later it was discovered that the commander had attempted to betray her, and orchestrate her death in revenge for a perceived personal slight. Once we learned of this I hoped to find her and bring her back into our service. However, she proved difficult to track down. We were always a step too slow, wading through the bodies she left behind."

"But now?" you prompted.

"She was recently captured, and placed in the Bloodshank prison facility on Echidna III."

"I've heard of the place. It's run by the Cerberus Corporation."

"Yes. A rather disagreeable group of miscreants, whom I would judge to be little better than the prisoners in their charge. They accept convicts from across human space, and have been known to sell them on to those willing to lay down the requisite amount of credits."

"Bloodshank is where the Prison Cage Fights are recorded," Telemachus said.

Wu Tenchu paused, and transfixed the young prince with a disapproving look.

"You should not be supporting their activities by purchasing their black market holo-videos."

"I don't! I just swipe them from the interstellar information network!"

Master Wu held the boy's gaze for a moment longer, before turning to the Princess with a more deferential expression on his face.

"In any event, the prince is correct. Prisoners who demonstrate superior martial skills are forced to fight one another for the entertainment of the Cerberus Corporation's clients."

"Prisoners like Artemis," the Princess said.

"Precisely. While her jailors attempt to incite a bidding war between those factions and organizations that would pay exorbitant prices to gain possession of Miss Kess, they have been placing her into their prizefights to gain additional benefit from her presence there."

"You want us to go and smash our way into the jail to get her out?" Ragnar asked.

"Actually, I believe the most efficacious path would be for you to simply walk into the prison."

---

"Good luck, captain."

The Princess gives a soft smile that only partially masks the concern in her eyes. Then her image disappears from the screen.

She wished to accompany you to Echidna III, but that would be risky. If the Cerberus Corporation's people recognized her, your cover would be blown. So instead she's waiting outside the system, on Wilex's cruiser. You take comfort in knowing that she's safe. The world you're descending towards is no place for a princess.

The communications console bleeps.

"You need to get out of sight," Talia says.

You leave the flight cabin, and hear her respond to the hail as the door closes behind you. It wouldn't do to let them see one of the supposed prisoners milling around next to the pilot. You have to avoid arousing any suspicions. They need to believe that you're just another criminal.

Ragnar regales you with prison stories as the two of you sit side by side in the makeshift prison room. Some are amusing, others horrific. Much like the Niflung himself. You eventually tune out his banter, focusing instead on the movements of the ship. It's descending. Talia and the forged data Wu Tenchu provided must have done the trick. You're being permitted to land.

The door to your pseudo-cell opens not long after, revealing Talia, Telemachus, and Lu Bu. It appears that the ship isn't to be searched after all.

"Showtime, captain," the gunslinger says.

Talia and Telemachus lead the way off the ship, with Lu Bu bringing up the rear -- his weapon attachments fastened to the ends of his arms. He prods you lightly with the flat of his blade as you emerge into the sunlight, for the benefit of any observers.

The sky above you is soft and cloudless. To your left and right, beyond the black square of the landing pad, verdant expanses of grass roll away towards the horizon. As you'd expect, all the trees around here have been removed -- to deprive escapees of cover. But the world's natural beauty is evident nonetheless. Until you cast your gaze ahead of you, to the lurking concrete and steel mass of the prison, and see only grim ugliness.

An equally ominous sight is approaching along the straight, broad road that cuts across the land -- joining the landing pad to the imposing edifice. The navy blue vehicle looks like a combination of a van and a weapon. A spiked, bladed ram extends from its front, each destructive implement gleaming as though in anticipation of staining its well-polished surface with blood. A cannon swivels on its roof, commanded by a man wearing security armor. Its barrel is trained on you and your companions.

The vehicle slows when it arrives at the landing pad. It turns as its wide wheels screech to a halt, presenting you with its flank. The turret rotates as well, ensuring that the gaping maw of the barrel never leaves you.

A picture of a three-headed hound is painted on its side, along with a sentence that takes up almost the rest of its length: 'Cerberus Corp.: Guarding the Gates of Hell for Over 20 Years'.

Doors hiss open, and half a dozen men and women wearing the same blue and brown armored security uniforms as the gunner emerge from within. All but one are helmeted -- a woman with bubblegum pink hair and symbols on her shoulders that presumably denote her rank. The helmeted guards form a neat line behind her as she steps forward.

"Lieutenant Helmsley," the woman declares. She makes an approximation of a salute. "Data, please. For confirmation purposes."

Talia steps forward and presents her with a datapad. The lieutenant takes it from her, and glances at the screen for a few moments. Then she looks over at Telemachus.

"Not many bounty hunters employ children."

"They work cheap," Talia replies.

The lieutenant shrugs, and keeps reading. When she looks up again, it's at you and Ragnar. You adopt what you hope is a suitably criminal expression.

"So you're both multiple murderers."

"And we would have gotten away with it too," you snarl, "if it wasn't for these meddling kids!"

You growl a supply of saliva into your mouth, and spit it at Talia. The blob of phlegm splats against the back of her head.

The gunslinger whirls round and launches her fist at the side of your face. The punch smashes into your cheekbone, sending your head rolling. Either she really wants to appear convincing, or she's been waiting to hit you for a long time.

"Don't worry," the lieutenant says. "A little time in Bloodshank will knock the attitude out of them."

She presses a few buttons on the datapad before handing it back to Talia.

"Payment authorized. We'll take over from here."

The helmeted guards step forward, and hustle you and Ragnar into the back seat of the vehicle. Through the darkened window you see your friends boarding the ship once more. It takes off at the same moment the vehicle starts to move.

The short drive ends in a narrow courtyard. A moment after its engine falls silent, you and Ragnar are bustled out of the vehicle and through an unmarked doorway.

In a small room, surrounded on either side by guards holding laser rifles, the two of you are shoved towards a counter. Mesh rises up above it, extending to the ceiling -- leaving only a square of unblocked space between you and the severe brunette standing on the other side.

"Remove their restraints," she instructs.

The pink-haired lieutenant steps forward. She presses a device into your cuffs, causing the energy fields to retract and the metal to open with a clink. She pulls them away, and places them on the counter. Then she does the same for Ragnar before stepping away again.

"Remove your clothes," the woman behind the counter says, staring at you as though at some species of bacteria. "Put them on the counter."

You unzip your jumpsuit, pull it off, fold it up, and place it before her. After you've put your underwear on top of it you step back, doing your best to ignore your nudity and the leers and laughter of the male guards.

The woman picks up your clothes, walks over to a slot in the wall behind her, and shoves the garments inside. A metal hatch closes over the hole, and you hear the roar of flame. It's a good thing you didn't wear one of your favorite outfits...

She strides back over to the counter.

"And you!" she says, glaring at Ragnar.

The Niflung grunts, and strips his lower body -- his unique fashion sense having already done the same to his upper body.

There's gasping and murmuring from the guards on either side as they stare at his enhanced body. Even the woman behind the counter widens her eyes slightly.

"Augmentation check!" she says.

Two of the guards step forward from their positions at the walls on either side. They shove you out of the way, then begin to wave long, bleeping wands over Ragnar's naked flesh. This continues for several moments.

"A few standard cybernetic upgrades," one of them says, with a trace of surprise in his voice. "Nothing to be concerned about."

You give an inward smirk. The implants Wilex put into him have done their job, deceiving the scans and concealing the fact that the Niflung is essentially a walking tank.

"His muscles are real?" the severe woman asks. She stares at the big slabs on his chest in disbelief.

"Yes, ma'am."

"When he was a boy," you say, "his mother held him by the ankles and dipped him into a vat of steroids and growth hormones."

The guards share an impressed murmur, revealing their gullibility and lack of a classical education. The woman behind the counter simply snatches up Ragnar's clothes and consigns them to the same fiery destruction as yours, before moving to a shelf packed with stacks of plastic-wrapped pink material. She glances at you and Ragnar, looks back to the shelf, and reaches into the stacks with both hands. There's a rustling sound, and each one emerges clutching a folded garment. She moves back to her counter, and places them on it.

"One [Gender] prison-issue jumpsuit. Size: regular. One male prison-issue jumpsuit. Size: hulking."

She gestures, impelling each of you to pick up your assigned garment. You tear the plastic off, unfold it, and struggle your way into it. The jumpsuit is remarkably comfortable, padded in all the right places.

"The new prisoners are just in time for recreation," the woman says. "Show them their cells, and have them taken to the yard."

The lieutenant salutes. She signals to her guards, who train their laser rifles on you and Ragnar.

"Follow me," she says. Then she leads you deeper into Bloodshank.

Jailhouse Rock

Jailhouse Rock

When you're shoved back into the sunlight, into the prison yard -- a large space enclosed by the buildings on one side and lengths of energy-tipped chain fencing on the others -- your immediate thought is that it's like your first day at school.

Men and women clad in pink jumpsuits stare at you from every side. Some are looking you over out of idle curiosity, their eyes almost vacant. Others are scrutinizing you as if you were a piece of meat they may wish to pounce on.

You glance around. There's no sign of Ragnar. He was led off to a cell in another block, and mustn't have been brought out to the yard yet.

So you content yourself with looking your fellow prisoners over in turn. Wu Tenchu was able to gather data on many of Bloodshank's other residents, and you begin to match faces to names and criminal records. There's rather an illustrious group of reprobates around you, their combined exploits probably spanning almost every crime known to human space -- from jaywalking to genocide.

You mentally mark some of them as 'snitches', based on the information Master Wu presented you with, and others as potential tools for the final phase of your plan.

A few of the prisoners start walking in your direction, straying over from the basketball court and weights or else rising from the benches and surrendering their leisured ease for the purpose of investigating you further. Your eyes fall on the nearest of them -- a man whose face is hidden beneath an incredible network of scar tissue. You remember his file. He's a rapist. No gang affiliations, according to what you read. A loner. Good. So if he-

"What're you looking at?" he asks.

Yes, there it is.

You step forward and blast him full in the face with your elbow. He crumples, his head bouncing against the ground before lying still.

As you'd expected, most of the other convicts stop approaching you -- and return to their previous pursuits like satellites yanked back into their proper courses. Some of the spectators even make approving nods.

But a few continue, creating a loose encirclement that you sense might tighten the moment you make a misstep. A large black man looms over you, apparently designating himself the leader of this welcoming committee.

"Noose you mega, chummer?" he says. "Noose that rumpling some street-scav make you mega?"

You sigh. Great... He's from Drekchester.

"Viddie yourself around here, chummer. Viddie yourself, or get rumpled. Rumpled by me."

The half-intelligible words begin to translate themselves inside your mind, albeit with a little effort. Apparently this fellow is threatening you. You look around. There are a few guards watching, keeping their distance. Still no sign of Ragnar.

You don't recognize the man from any of the files you saw. But he looks strong -- his chest and arms packed with muscles that twitch with violence preparing to be unleashed. This would be as good an opportunity as any to demonstrate your fighting skills...

"Leggie me your-"

"Shut up."

The force of your interjection, and the man's startled reaction at being so interrupted, make some of the others snigger.

"Just shut up. I don't know whom you killed to get in here, but I'll be damned if I'll let you murder the English language as well."

The man's eyes narrow into murderous slits. His hands clench into tight, angry fists. It's clobbering time...

Prison Pugilism

Prison Pugilism

The initial sequence of blows and block tells you everything you need to know about your adversary. He's strong but unskilled, lacking even the basic combat instincts you'd have expected a criminal to develop through experience. Perhaps he's too used to muscling his way through situations, and never saw any reason to change his tactics. He's a perfect victim.

Once you've gauged his capabilities, you decide to show off -- to make sure you attract the attention you desire, and impress the onlookers. You delve into the repertoire of kung fu styles you learned as a boy/girl, forms and techniques taught for reasons of tradition, discipline, and physical culture -- rather than out of the martial pragmatism which much of your later military training consisted of.

You stand on one leg and extend your arms into Crane style, lashing out with your raised foot in a trio of lightning fast kicks to the abdomen, chest, and head. As your opponent staggers back you shift into Snake style, slapping his flailing arms aside and lashing out at his face with hands that move like lunging cobras. Then come Mantis and White Ape, Soaring Phoenix and Mischievous Monkey. You unleash an entire martial menagerie on your unfortunate foe, making sure that no blow is powerful enough to end the fight.

When at last you decide to show clemency and put him out of his misery, you choose One-Eyed Tiger style for the purpose. Your shin swings round in a sharp, powerful kick to his leading leg -- cutting against his thigh and causing him to buckle as the injured limb gives way. Before he falls, you launch yourself into a flying uppercut -- catching his descending jaw and knocking it upwards again, the force of the blow lifting him off his feet.

At the apex of your jump you turn the attack into a backflip, landing on your feet next to your supine enemy.

You stand over the groaning convict, your arms raised as you pretend to revel in the cheers of the spectators -- which seem to be coming from prisoners and guards alike.

"And you'll get the same every time I hear you use a made-up word!" you declare.

You spit on the man's face, the globule of saliva striking him between his glazed eyes like a bullet.

"Good work!" a familiar voice growls from behind you.

The words are followed by an equally familiar hard slap on the back. You brace yourself just in time to avoid staggering away from its impact.

"Anyone else think they can take my friend here?" Ragnar asks. "What about you?"

The Niflung grabs the nearest prisoner -- a small, owlish looking man -- by the front of his jumpsuit and lifts him into the air until his terrified eyes are on the same level as Ragnar's glaring orbs.

"How about you? You want some of this?"

He slaps your back again. This time you slip away to negate most of the jovial blow's force.

"N... No! No!"

"I thought not!"

Ragnar tosses the man aside. He hits the ground a couple of meters away, scrambles to his feet, and scurries off across the yard.

"Roxon!"

It's a moment before you realize that the shout was addressed to you, and remember that 'Roxon' is the fictitious surname on your criminal record. You turn to the guard, who's wearing a grin in place of his helmet -- evidently more entertained than troubled by the violence which just took place in his yard.

"Come with me. The warden wants to speak to you."

You follow the guard towards the nearest door. As you go, you hear Ragnar's voice extolling your combative virtues and achievements behind you.

"I once saw him/her rip a man's throat out!"

---

The warden's office is an old-fashioned chamber paneled with genuine or imitation wood. There are recent scars in this woodwork, leading you to believe that it was installed by a previous occupant -- and has been treated roughly by its present one.

Framed photographs and medals cover one of the walls, testifying to an impressive series of military and civilian accolades. One particular photograph catches your eye. It shows a well-built man, naked to the waist, immolating a large number of screaming men and women with a flamethrower. They seem to be in a jungle, though it's hard to tell amidst all the flame and smoke. The man has a fat cigar wedged into the corner of his mouth, its glowing end matching the torrent of flame from his weapon in hue. Based on the angle of the picture, you're surprised the photographer wasn't immolated as well. Then it occurs to you that perhaps he or she was.

"That was a hell of a battle."

The man sitting behind the desk matches the pyromaniac in the photo, though he's now wearing an armored vest and perhaps an additional decade. He has an identical cigar sticking out of his mouth, as though he's never stopped smoking it since the picture was taken.

A nameplate on the sturdy, ornate, but heavily battered desk in front of him is inscribed with the words 'Warden Ramiro'.

"Cigar?" he asks, indicating a humidor large enough to function as a bludgeoning device.

"No, thank you."

"I saw what you did in the yard. You're good. Real good."

"I like to hit people."

The warden's mouth widens into a crocodilian grin.

"An unrepentantly violent murderer. I like that. So, you like to fight? That's good. Because you're going to be fighting for us from now on. You're new here, so maybe you haven't heard yet. But we run a nice little fighting promotion from this prison. And you're our latest athlete."

"What's in it for me?"

"Well, to start with, my guards won't shove a shock stick so far up your ass that it burns your tongue."

Ramiro laughs, a bellowing, rumbling laugh that undulates his stomach and wobbles his armor. The cigar slips out onto his lower lip, angled almost straight downwards, but against all odds manages to stay in place rather than tumbling from his mouth.

"But there are perks too. I like winners. You want women, men, chems, good food, a stiff drink? Whatever it is, we can get it for you. Make us money, and we'll share the wealth. Everyone wins."

"When can I start?"

"Since you've come to us so full of fight, how about right now?"

---

The basement room is dark and dingy, a filthy hole buried away from the sunlight. But it reminds you of the stadium on Hyperia, where you fought in Twisted Steel. The black metal cage that dominates the middle of the chamber has the same aura of eternal violence about it. And you recognize the bloodthirsty looks in the faces of the pink-garbed men and women around you. Their screams are familiar also, warring in the air and bouncing from wall to wall -- a roar of unintelligible enthusiasm and murderousness, punctuated by the occasional fathomable statement.

"You're going to die in here!" a woman screams.

She leans towards you, intruding into the aisle which the guards have cleared through the crowd by brute force. One of them taps her on the brow with his shock stick, and she tumbles back into the mass of criminality.

"Kill him!" another yells.

He stares at you with manic friendliness, and punches at the air. It's the same owl-like man Ragnar manhandled in the yard.

The furthermost guards are already at the cage. A couple of them unlock the heavy gate and pull it outwards, opening your path into the place of battle. A similar portal, this one still closed, faces you on the opposite side of the cage. It's where your opponent will enter from.

There's a clang as the gate is pushed shut behind you, followed by a number of thick metallic sounds as it's locked. Then the guards move away, and the tide of spectators surges forward like a released ocean.

"Tear his head off!"

Ragnar has shouldered his way through the crowd, and stands right behind you -- gripping the bars of the gate with his meaty hands.

"Rip him in half!" he adds.

"I'll see what I can do," you reply.

The crowd on the other side parts before the shoves and bludgeoning of a second group of guards, and the opposite gate is opened to admit your adversary.

He's a swarthy, dangerous looking individual -- his body scarred and tattooed with the reckless abandon of a lifelong prisoner. But you've fought worse.

The other gate is locked in turn, leaving the two of you alone in this clear space that's surrounded by screaming, raving humanity.

Your enemy's eyebrows, moustache, and mouth all conspire their way into a look of surly disdain as he eyes you up and down. Then a buzzer sounds from somewhere in the room, and he strides forward.

Killer in the Cage

Killer in the Cage

"One... Two... Three..."

Convicts and guards shout together, like enthusiastic schoolchildren counting along with their teacher.

You pull your enemy back, controlling him with the hammerlock and the grip on his long, greasy hair, and relish the anticipation of the crowd. Then you slam him forward once more, smashing his head into the bars again, and again, and again.

"...Four... Five... Six..."

He's all but unconscious, and only your insistent grip stops him from dropping to the floor. A soft groan escapes his lips. Blood's pouring from his skull, creating a widening, splattering pool at your feet. But you have no sympathy to waste on him. You've seen his record. You know what he's in here for.

"Seven... Eight... Nine... Ten..."

The counting becomes perceptibly quieter, as some of the prisoners exhaust their store of numerical knowledge. But the rest continue, and the innumerate cheer with each successive number as though celebrating the acquisition of fresh knowledge.

"Twenty!"

By this point there's brain matter on the bars, so you decide to call it a day. You release your grasp, allowing his corpse to fall and rest in the blood and gore.

---

There's a respectful silence in your cellblock that night. None of the other convicts seem inclined to trouble you, deterred either by the guards' batons or by memories of the violence you inflicted in the cage. So you enjoy a good night's rest, and sleep off your exertions.

No one harasses you in the showers on the following morning either. In fact, a couple of prisoners even offer to be harassed by you, as it were -- offers which you decline without thanks.

After a good breakfast, conspicuously better than those of your fellow diners, you head out into the yard to meet up with Ragnar. Then begins the next step of your plan.

Wu Tenchu's intelligence reports, combined with the psychological evaluations he made of the prisoners based on them, give you a good place to start. And after a little time in the yard, talking to its inhabitants -- most of whom seem honored by your conversation -- you gain a good understanding of the various networks and alliances which bind them together.

So it's easy enough to find openings, groups and individuals who might be tempted by the possibility of an escape attempt.

Ragnar leaves you to do the talking, accepting that your tongue is somewhat more silvery than his. He contents himself with keeping an eye on the snitches, and ensuring that no unwelcome ears overhear your words.

You're engaged in this pursuit when one of the guards approaches you.

"Bad luck, love."

You fix him with a questioning stare.

"You haven't heard?" He pats your shoulder in an unmistakable gesture of commiseration. "They're putting you up against Kess today."

"Sooner than I expected," you say, after the guard's walked away -- the other prisoners dispersing also, as though wishing to leave you alone with your newly discovered misfortune.

"Probably the way you broke that last guy's head open," Ragnar replies. "Bet the fans loved it. They want to see you against a tougher fighter."

"We haven't got much time. Have to do whatever we can before the fight starts."

---

The excitement, the bloodlust in the cage room is even greater this time. You hadn't thought that was possible. Throats that were previously strained with the force of their screaming now seem on the verge of exploding. Everyone's looking forward to this fight -- for more reasons than one.

"I'll be here when you need me," Ragnar whispers, pressing his mouth between the bars of the gate. "If she doesn't listen, and you want me to come in and take her out, just say the word."

You nod your thanks. If Kess is as deadly as Master Wu seemed to believe, you might need all the help you can get.

It's the noise of the spectators that alerts you first, before you turn around and see the crowd being bisected by the guards to create an aisle on the other side of the cage.

The roars and screams shift and settle, gathering together in unification -- all voices linked in one single purpose. The sound is incomprehensible at first, a wordless expression of portent. Then it settles, deciphered into three repeated syllables.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

You look around. Anticipation is scrawled on each face.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

The words are simple, unimaginative and uncreative. And yet there's a power in them.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

It's the cry of an ancient tribe, a collection of savages invoking their goddess.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

The guards draw the gate open, then move aside to reveal her. A woman in a pink jumpsuit, with death written in her eyes. Thick, armored gloves encase her hands. The curling and twitching of her fingers reveal that these aren't garments of protection. They're objects of restraint, imprisonment -- designed to contain the violence that chafes against them.

"Kill-er Kess! Kill-er Kess!"

So forceful is the chant that you have to force yourself not to join in, to add your voice to those beckoning your destruction.

At last the call gives way to a corrupted silence, a still murmur as the gate closes and is locked behind her.

Artemis Kess gives you a cursory glance, not even meeting your gaze, before turning and thrusting her gloved hands through the bars of the gate. One of the guards reaches out, and fiddles with her gloves. Then he jumps back as though in mortal terror, as the gloves come away.

The assassin turns back to you. This time she stares straight into your eyes. It's like looking at the edge of a sharp sword.

Her fingers twitch, and her nails extend -- each becoming a short but lethal blade. This isn't even vaguely fair...

The buzzer sounds, and Artemis leaps.

Prison Break

Prison Break

You dodge and weave, duck and parry. A dozen strikes, each promising death or disfigurement, slip within centimeters of your body -- thwarted by well-timed sidesteps, or by one of your forearms deflecting hers.

From the first exchange you understand her vicious skill, and know that this fight might be your last. The woman's a whirling engine of annihilation, her mind and body focused on slaughter alone.

You need to bring her close...

Kess leaps at you, a tigrine pounce. Her claws shine in the chamber's dirty light.

Now or never...

You step towards her, grabbing at her forearms -- allowing the claws to rake against the outside of your upper arms, shredding pink material and skin. Your face presses close to hers, hidden from the audience by the sweep of her void-colored hair.

"The Emperor needs you, Diana."

The woman freezes. Her clawed fingers stop within the bloody channels they've carved in your flesh.

Her leg hooks yours, tapping against it once before completing the sweep. You capitulate, allowing her to take the limb out from under you. The two of you fall to the floor, your body stretched beneath the assassin's.

Artemis' hair cascades down around you, the waves of silken blackness veiling both your faces. Her hands are at your throat, but there's no pressure there -- no fatal wounds to spill your blood and life upon the grimy floor. You place your hands on her wrists in simulation of a struggle.

"Who are you?" she hisses.

Around the cage the crowd are screaming, baying for death. But their noise is muffled, made inconsequential by the intensity of her stare in this enclosed world of bright eyes and dark hair.

"[Name], captain of Princess Illaria's bodyguards."

"What do you want with me?"

"To get you out of here, so you can help us save the Emperor's life."

"You have a way out?"

"Perhaps..."

A faint smile crosses her lips.

"Tell me."

The two of you buck and pivot, rolling on the ground like murderous lovers as you continue your mock combat. All the while you whisper in her ear. When you're done, you look to the gate you entered from -- at the burly Niflung. And you nod.

Ragnar roars, his stentorian cry tearing through the shouts of the crowd. His knuckles whiten around the bars of the gate.

There's a grinding, and a wrenching, then the sound of agonized metal. And finally a series of snaps as the locks give way and he tears it from its hinges.

The prisoners around him fall away, the crowd surging back for dear life as he lifts the gate above his head. But two of the guards aren't so cautious. They run towards Ragnar, brandishing their shock batons.

The Niflung swings the gate at them as if it were a bat, sending both of them flying into the crowd -- where they disappear from sight in the mass of excited humanity.

Violence is erupting elsewhere now. All around the cage men and women are hurling themselves at the startled guards. This is what they were waiting for, the jailbreak they were told about. They aren't going to let it go to waste.

"Come on!" Ragnar yells. He tosses the gate into a group of guards, smashing and scattering them, then gestures to you.

You and Kess run towards him.

The powerful Niflung shoulders his way through the crowd, the two of you following in his wake and lashing out at anyone who tries to get in your way.

Scores of prisoners have already broken through the doors, a pink tide surging over the guards -- clawing, tearing, gouging, stabbing.

As you mount the staircase, picking your way over dead or groaning forms, you hear the boom of distant explosions overhead.

"That'll be Talia!" you shout.

The Cerberus Corporation's fighter pilots, used to picking off escape ships or helping to track down fugitive prisoners from the air, don't stand a chance against her.

You emerge into one of the cellblocks, coming out at the end of a long corridor where guards and prisoners are exchanging weapon fire and other assorted brutalities.

"How're we going to get to the ship?" Kess asks.

A moment later there's a crash.

"That's how."

Telemachus' mech storms into the corridor far ahead, bits of rubble and trails of dust falling from its frame.

Guards with heavier weapons are running towards it from the opposite end of the passage, screaming and gesturing. Others, those armed only with batons, seek easier targets instead -- and move to intercept the three of you.

Warden Ramiro

Warden Ramiro

"Ragnar, back Telemachus up!" you yell.

"Got it!"

The Niflung charges, shoulder lowered, and ploughs his way through the guards -- sending them flying in all directions. He sprints down the corridor, towards the mech and the swarming enemies besetting it.

Kess strides along the passage, towards the nearby guards still tottering from Ragnar's impact. Her right hand lashes out, and one of them falls -- his fingers clutching his bloody throat in a vain attempt to prolong his existence. Another swings his baton at her. It hits nothing but air. She drops, spins, kicks his legs out from under him, then rises just in time to take his throat with an upward arc of her left hand as he falls.

She walks through the dead and dying like a vampiress through fields of blood, dark and unstoppable.

You follow, kicking out at a guard who tries to grab hold of you. He tumbles into one of the cells, and lies still -- either incapacitated or simply deciding that he's had enough.

A muzzle flash and rattle of machinegun fire from ahead show that Telemachus came bearing gifts. Ragnar has his weapons in his hands, and is putting them to good use.

The prince turns in his cockpit as you draw near.

"Take it!" he shouts.

A hatch in his mech flips open, and a pistol shoots out from the exposed compartment. You snatch it from the air.

"I just get this?"

"Ragnar's stuff took up the rest of the space!" He turns away for a moment, just long enough to direct his laser-edged chainsaw through a hapless guard's riot armor, flesh, and bone. "Talia's landing. You guys go out to her. Me and Ragnar will stop them following."

You nod, and lead Kess through the hole made by Telemachus' mech. It leads out into the prison yard. Into hell.

Bodies are strewn about the place, both guard and convict. And the killing is far from over...

"Burn, you sons of bitches!"

A torrent of flame, a cacophony of screams, and the stench of charred flesh fill the air. Over them all rises Warden Ramiro's horrendous laugh.

The warden's cigar end glows amid the fire-licked haze, above the spitting inferno at the nozzle of his flamethrower. A pile of charred corpses burns before him. More of the impromptu funeral pyres are spaced across the yard, marking the path from his office.

"This is my house! No one riots in my house!"

His eyes meet yours. His finger twitches on his trigger, and a spurt of flame licks the air in anticipation.

---

You pivot, step and kick -- a powerful thrusting sidekick that catches the warden square in the chest.

He groans as the air rushes out of his lungs, and the force of the blow sends him flying backwards. He lands atop one of the pyres of burning convicts.

A howl of anguish, both comical and horrific in its intensity, tears from his throat. Ramiro leaps to his feet like a tumbling acrobat, and runs off across the yard -- arms flailing, voice shrieking, flames dancing across his clothes and armor.

"They won't be following us," Ragnar says.

The Niflung and Telemachus' mech are emerging from the prison, the boy casually dislodging another section of wall as he comes.

"Anyone left out here?" the prince asks.

You look over into the distance, where a burning man is disappearing round a corner.

"No, we're good."

There's a whoosh of thruster engines, and a shadow falls across the yard.

"Is that our ride?" Artemis asks.

"That's it," you reply.

"It can't land here! There isn't enough space-"

As if on cue, the ship spins in the air -- and its blaster cannons fire. Energy barrier fencing is scattered to the four winds with a series of precise shots, the glowing trails on its metal vanishing as they're deprived of the power running through their bases. A second volley of blaster fire scatters the nearest pyres.

"That seemed unnecessary," Artemis remarks.

"She likes to show off."

The ship spins once more, like a pirouetting ballerina, before settling down atop the cleared space. A large hatch slides open, providing access to one of the holds.

"Is it always like this with you people?" the assassin asks, indicating the totality of things with a sweep of her hand.

"No. It's usually much more chaotic."

She laughs, and runs towards the ship.