Bailey Cluanaire was the best of the best. It was a fact. A galactic truth that even the number one merc’s greatest loathers had been forced to accept years ago. Pure gospel that, deep down, ate at the fun her towering, quadrupedal war machine used to bring.

Another day, another fight with all the vigor of a dying old crone trying to cross the street. Yawn. Even the evening sky and rousing, chemical flames bathing both the otherwise gray wasteland and its battlefield participants in red and orange light couldn’t make this look exciting for her. A rusty little bird against a goddess of the battlefield? Did she not deserve better than this, or was this the cost of all the other splendors she’d earned?

Bailey had gotten perfectly used to this song and dance now. The only downside of being the best is that the thrill of a true hunt was a rare indulgence. Rebellious bleeding hearts and imperial enforcers were constantly at the edge of death. Each fight meant something. Every brawl under the stars, or lack thereof, could be their last.

Bailey was lucky if her Circe needed a repaint after a week's work.

Today was no different. Circling another, weaker mech while waiting for a one-hit-kill opening? They were in mechs, not piloting some silly little battle bots from the old days. Circe’s pricey armor wasn’t making the scant shot the rusty bird could actually land feel all too impactful, either. Small clangs. Tiny bangs. Yawn.

Oh well, guess she can see if today’s contract hit had any verbal fun to offer. That was the merc’s true specialty, anyway! The little bird was getting intimately familiar with that fact. "Y'know, when they told me I was bagging a 'lethal terrorist,' I figured your tracking systems wouldn't be total dogshit, birdy!" Bailey's cruel words billowed out through the overpriced microphone in her cockpit. Even delivered via the radio speakers of decades old junkers, her commanding, cocky voice sounded like a divine whisper in a pilot's ear.

???: Gods, they were right. You never shut the fuck up, do you?

Much to her opponent's pleasing chagrin.

Like everything that BC1-Circe comprised of, the lavish audio systems crammed into her monster were self-indulgent exorbitance. She was a machine of delightfully deserved overconfidence. Four flexible legs, Small, square shoulder mounted machine guns to aid the hail of lead sprayed by her more proper gatling cannon, held by slender arms and clawed hands. Ah, and that hideous, one of a kind body she loved. Like a permissive mix of a traditional frame’s cockpit and one of those ancient Earthen supercars. All painted in a glorious, gleaming white and orange. Headless in a fashion which only made it more unnerving. Lightweight in a way that defied all reason.

All that didn't even come close to what was inside said well-guarded cockpit, too. Pure overkill. More buttons, knobs, levers and sticks than seemed slightly reasonable, all stretched across a long, spacious dashboard. Fine control was key to any mech, but how could Bailey even memorize this cacophony of lights and clicky nonsense, let alone use it?

Easy. When you've spent a lifetime's worth of coin on two additional, neurally controlled cybernetic arms, one could manage finer control like nobody's business! All the enhanced flexibility of a foolishly fatal neural link, with all the satisfaction of tactile controls. They even matched Circe's paint job. Garish and flawless, like their owner. Circe was fucking perfect. The arms were perfect.

Bailey. Was. Flawless.

"Couldn't pay me enough to try and shut it, sweetheart." Bailey loved nothing more than smugly basking in said excellence, and making her opponent wait for those teases while she admired her spoils and dinged their shitty little mech from a distance with the best bullets money could buy? That was the shit. With a dull battle like this, it was the only fun she could have! Even keeping it going this long felt like a wicked gift to her target’s fleeting life. May as well enjoy it. "Maybe I'd have to, though, if you could do anything with that tin toy of yours, no? Gonna whirl me to death… Layla~?" Oh, that'd piss her off.

Layla: How did you…? Fuck off!

Gods, that pissed her off. That was everything. Thank the heavens, it seemed to irritate her prey enough to actually do something interesting.

Bailey felt the first change in tactics of the fight, she hoped anyway. For the last twenty seconds, they'd been taking distant potshots at each other in an open, gray wasteland. Little Layla was scared to get closer. It was obvious. The stories of Bailey Cluanaire’s deadly heated whip and spewing of flames were tales of fear spread for years and years.

Was the flamethrower really so terrifying that Layla couldn’t come and give her a nice, warm hug? Precious.

This was all an inevitable victory for Bailey, of course. Dodging mediocre tracking rockets and recycled assault rounds was about as enthralling as brushing her teeth. The combat equivalent to rubbing shampoo in her sleek, well-cared for, dark orange hair.

She'd call her defense bobbing and weaving, but a child could dance around projectiles this worthless. It'd be an insult to the concept. Her aim was better. Her weapons were leagues above. Circe’s armor tanked whatever rare, low caliber bullet made it through. Pivotally, her tracking system wasn't pulled out of some snowy landfill back on Orsus or another dying, scavenger-infested ball of drained oil. If the fight kept going like this, she'd enjoy a myopic win in a few minutes.

It was like shooting at a parrot in a tiny, explosive cage. Boring.

Layla: Why don't any of you get it?

Her irked prey seemed to ask that with sincerity, all while their mech, a stock, gray blocky frame showing age in both rust and weapon quality, started trying to weave around Circe’s shots from side to side, while moving her mech’s body like a lumbering version of a mixed martial artist to give better odds of bullets slipping past her. Maybe even make her shots tougher to track, too? A little long-range boxing strategy to match her own, hm? Bolstered by the whines of her boosters firing up on a low-power mode. Might wake the burning factory workers if you keep that one up!

The bird’s weaving around the taller, cleaner machine wasn't exactly supersonic, but it was enough to sneak a few stray bullets into Circe's left arm before Bailey had caught on. Annoying. She was hoping repairs wouldn't even be needed after this. Bored enough to get sloppy? Maybe this bird really did have some tactical prowess. Cute, but waking up Bailey’s fight was only going to make this burn more!

"Oh, I get that your toy robot's a pile of rusting scrap. Do tell me if I'm missing something!" Bailey's toying eventually continued unabated. Her mech's thrusters were soon engaged at a similar rate of energy usage, and boy did the obvious difference in engine quality leave her feeling great. Circe was smooth and quiet as a prowling tiger, while this birdy's thrusters could wake a deaf woman, and if the shaking was any indication, could cause its pilot more than a few lost lunches.

If little Layla here wanted to see who really had the better tracking systems, Bailey was game. Little pigeon was gonna die real fucking disappointed, though.

Layla: Fucking idiot...

At this rate, it was tough for the merc to even tell who that was aimed at. The terrorist's shots had already ceased hitting reliably again the moment Bailey began mirroring her movements.

That thing was old junk, piloted by someone Bailey was starting to consider may not be used to it. Bailey’s seen decent pilots wrangle trash heaps into impressive little final battles, before she crushed them under her heel. Good kit mattered a lot. Bailey fucking thrived off it, but piloting prowess and a bond? That could win battles dressed in fine scrap… against weaker mercenaries than Bailey, at least!

A pilot and mech being so out of sync was always a lethal combination, though, and Bailey's shots once more hitting with total reliability was yet more proof of an inferior match. Sparks were back to flying off the adorable junker. Oh, no! She was getting distracted! What a shame for Bailey!

Come to think of it, though, this didn’t particularly fit this girl's limited combat logs, either. Strange. Was she shaking off rust beyond the flaky brown spots covering her mech, perhaps? It'd be sad if it wasn't so dull.

Layla: None of you get it! The UA... the rebels... m-my fucking friends...

Never mind! Bailey could stomach some slow, middling cannon fire before the finish if this amateur could at least feed her some drama. Something to sink her teeth into. Some fuel to trash talk her into an urn on a relative’s shelf, perhaps!

Layla: What Arcadium does to pilots... What my 'comrades' are going to start doing to people... If you had a soul, y-you'd care! You'd fight with me! Please…

Such pathetic pleading. Never a sign of a gal confident in a fight. My, my. Bailey's curiosity was alit and exemplified by a trail of her tongue along her dark, soft lips. There could be good information in this. Her pre-fight investigative work already strongly suggested prior rebel allegiances. But what now? Was she a scav? Part of a larger terrorist cell? Unlikely. No radio girl. Solo assaults out the ass. Had to be working alone… but why?

…

Was she the potential link to chemical warfare she was guessing about during her intel gathering?

...

She could get nosey, or she could do her job. Her coffers preferred the latter. "Sounds like your oh-so-mysterious comrades made a smart move. You don't win battles by throwing fodder like you at 'em. Whatever they’re up to, don’t think it’ll miss you, birdie~." Bailey emphasized the rich-bitchiness in her voice with a smirk that may as well have lit up her cockpit in a dazzling, joyous ray of orange. No harm in letting the bird know about her hunch if it riled her up.

Worked like a treat, too. She could already sense the annoyance before the dusty pilot opened her mouth again. A feeling of uncontrolled rage building up. That growl she heard on her radio? She could jack it to that alone. Mph. Reel her in, Bailey.

Layla: Soulless fucking scumbag!

Reel this birdy in.

"Just don't like hearing the truth, do ya?" Bailey's joy in finding the nerve she could pull on was impossible to contain, and it only made her sound more full of shit to her opponent. Think what you wish Layla? Only brought you closer to cremation. "Your friends? They're just doing what I'd do, little bird~!" She knew she had her. Whatever got this pilot going had driven her near the brink a while back. Circe was hitting more shots than ever. Smoke was starting to billow from the rusty machine failing to dodge her. Bailey could have given it another minute… or she could really play with her opponent. She preferred the latter in dull scraps like this.

The long-range bullet-boxing ceased, on Bailey’s end at least. Confidently and slowly, Circe's thrusters initiated a steady approach towards the rusty pile of tin her target called ordnance, slowing the fire of her machine guns and sustaining small arms damage from the bird that was necessary for this plan to work. Circe flying right at her? Bailey knew fight or flight was strong in pilots like this. Trading a little damage to coax the avian dullard into a closer range strategy. Yeah, Bailey knew it’d work, especially with the prodding into her addled mind. A repairless brawl was already off the table, may as well quench her thirst for a bold finish with this angry bucket of bolts.

A few minutes of boredom mixed with a fiery finish. Was that as good as it could get for Bailey now? Maybe if she took that contract…

…

She could consider that after she seared this bird! Come on, girl. Fly towards the bait.

Layla: Screw off!!! Th-They might be doing something terrible... but you're fucking SCUM! They're NOTHING LIKE YOU!

Ah, the crackle of a subpar microphone peaking from screams of pure rage. That was the shit. That got Bailey off. Absolutely precious little dumbass this terrorist was. Spouting off sentimental nonsense, even about allies she'd long grown apart. Scintillating. "Right on that one, Lay. I'm better than every single one of your little pals combined. That's why Limbic's paying me triple to gut you like a fish~!" Bailey probably didn't need to pry into this girl further. She was prepping a boost right towards Circe's inevitable, boiling embrace. This was a finished fight.

Layla: I'LL TEAR YOU OUT OF THERE!!! I’LL RIP YOU IN HALF!!!

When your prey's giving you that for free, though... Gods, why not be an extra bit of a cunt, right?

Bailey could have just rammed this smoking, rusted robin into the gray dirt and crushed her to death with Circe's heel. This terrorist was blind to tactical sense, utterly hopeless without some radio girl yammering every last move in her ear. Dime a dozen independent ex-rebel, Bailey was sure of it now.

Bailey Cluanaire was reviled for never making a fight simple, though. Combat was a game. War was a power play. The hundreds of forgotten names on her kill list were little but her way to demonstrate superiority and get off on it.

This game was new, though. "Shit..." Bailey hissed as convincingly into her mic as she could. Her thrusters were disengaged, cut off when she flicked a few switches on her dashboard. It looked legitimate. A lesser pilot would hopefully see a grave, lethal miscalculation, especially one working alone through bitter aggravation.

Layla: Who's flying a piece of junk now, huh?!?!

What did she call Bailey again? A fucking idiot? This was pathetic, a brain drained mutt wouldn't fall for this tactic... though, this latest upgrade was brand new. Maybe she could cut the birdy some slack... "Engineers must have... I'm going to lose to you?" Nope! Not even possible, but toying with her prey was Bailey's saving grace in a fight she could otherwise wrap in seconds. Play your part, Bailey. “No. No, no… FUCK!” Play it good.

Circe stood still, slowly prepping its arms to defend the exposed body of its pilot, while this rust bucket prepped its assault. This might have been a little more annoying if they'd simply used the missile launcher on their shoulder to try and blow her to bits, but Bailey knew her bait had already coaxed out something far more fun.

The bird holstered both its rifles and pulled a heavy, rusted two-handed axe from its back, readying it mid-boost with only one target Bailey could think of. It was going for the cockpit. This mediocre pilot wanted to say she wiped out an all-star merc in one swing.

Adorable. Precious. Utterly moronic.

Bailey was still taking a risk regardless, but risk was part of the game. If she took every fight seriously, she'd get as much joy from this as a training simulation. If one couldn't play with their food, why were they even flying, hm? If one couldn’t accept their mech may become a tomb, why the fuck were they flying one at all?

Layla: All the money in the universe...

That's it...

Layla: ...couldn't stop some low-renter...

...swing the axe...

Layla: ...from fucking ENDING YOU!

...right into her precious cockpit!

After an intense wait, Bailey saw the bird's axe make an overhead swing right towards where she was sitting. Her heart was racing. She was sweating bullets...

Layla: What are you...???

...but she knew she'd already won.

Circe was sent back a good few feet upon contact, briefly rattling Bailey around in her cockpit while she tried to recover both herself and her mech’s stability. Good thing she hadn't eaten before this.

The ACS did what it could, warning lights needlessly flashing orange around the cocky pilot, before Circe was back to standing proudly. Steadily.

Horrifyingly.

Beyond a dent in Circe's gorgeous frame, everything else was undamaged. Bailey’s extra cybernetic arms stayed steady on a new lever and joystick recently added to her already bright and overcomplicated dashboard. Double the arms had their uses beyond flexing wealth, after all, the extra stability of them let her truly abuse her newest, greatest tool.

This was all part of Bailey's latest splurge. Malleable nanotech armor built over Circe's frame, flexible enough to offer limited, near-invisible protection to the whole mech... or adjust placement to offer broader defenses to a specific section of the machine… like her cockpit~.

Bailey was still learning the ins and outs, and the actual intricacies of its design were knowledge for her favorite engineer. It wasn’t invincible, either, though, it already being paired with pricey armor made damaging Circe a fearsome prospect. And based on the shattering of her opponent's axe into a hundred satisfying shards of crumbled steel, this armor really was as advertised.

She wanted to brag about it. She'd baited this one with tech she'd barely tested yet. That was intoxicating... "What can I say? I'm just better than you, sweetheart."...but she had a contract to close... "Nice meeting you~!" …and a little bird to broil.

With her little bird too stunned to counter, Circe took a few small, extra steps backwards, then unloaded everything her beast had directly towards the cockpit of their rusted tin can. Two machine guns and her unholstered flamethrower made quick work of burning a low quality junker to a fine crisp. Molten steel and melting flesh hit her nose fast, chewing violently through a low quality scrapper with little to no protection from the elements.

Layla: Fuck... No... I... NOOOO-

The angry animal's yells of desperation were cut off by the fiery explosion of a wrecked steel deathtrap. Bailey wasn't too pushed about the lingering, burning screams, even as the ceaseless lead pumped into her far more fragile cockpit silenced any attempts at speaking proper. She could tune them out well enough by now to simply relish in the sweet flavor of victory, the warping of metal in her flaming embrace, and the disgusting scent of a bird of prey reduced to meaty ash.

Barely a few minutes, and that was all while Bailey toyed with her easy prey. She's fought with and seen plenty of rebels in her time. They could be the best... so what drove this one to pissing on a rapidly expanding corp in a shit heap made of rust and dead dreams?

Maybe she could have asked if she didn't burn them to cinders. Oh, well. That's work, ain't it?

Circe had already started navigating away from the scene, placed on autopilot and a low power booster mode, while Bailey called her boss's frequency. Not the CEO, of course. This was dirt a fine member of the upper class wouldn't dare sully her golden hands with. When the number picked up, she was talking via a video call on her viewscreen to their 'Combat Liaison' in some stuffy, well lit little office.

Not a bad looker, though, Bailey had to admit that. Skin as dark and smooth as her own on a medium-length brunette was a decent look for a corporate bag of sludge. Nice tits too. Filled out that boring black business shirt with a push-up bra almost as well as Bailey would. Could already picture Ms. Walker on her knees for her!

The usual reps were ragged, tired, or looked about five minutes from sticking the barrel of a gun in their mouth and giving her a free snuff tape. H. Walker here looked as well groomed as her, and just as awake. Probably just hid it all better, though. These fuckers? All the damn same. Doll yourself up all you want, girlie. You were still dirt on Bailey’s boots.

Combat Liason - H. Walker: Report.

Bailey still almost took offense, but you don't get the good contracts by demanding to see the store manager. She'd deal with the commanding voice of her cute, lower-ranked boss. "Job's done. That dusty terrorist of yours won't be hitting any of your factories again." Bailey spoke with a soft, professional candor that tried to hide the joy of her battle. Poorly, of course. The merc wore a smug sense of superior pride, even after a mostly irrelevant fight, technological debut aside. A fight she’d likely have forgotten about by next week.

Most corporate jobs involved a little more legwork out of the mech, though. Espionage and terrorist cleanup demanded more than wiping some snot-nosed wannabe’s ashes all over the floor. The how. The why. The info only a personal touch can get. That's the kind of thing you get a good merc to sniff out. The reason Bailey was number one. Honestly, the part she’d grown to get more satisfaction from than easy brawls with corporate bounties and rebel hits.

CL-HW: A surviving drone at the warehouse saw the fight, yes. Exemplary work... What did you learn about our little pigeon?

Today's corp job was more of the same. The liaison's voice was confident and calculated. Whatever emotions her unreadable, brown-eyes didn't communicate were made clear by the subtle contempt in her words. Another above it all corporate rep. A dime a dozen. Superiority complexes they'd done little to deserve.

Unlike Bailey's, of course. She had the only job in the universe where a cat brings you a dead bird, and you get to thank her for it. "Ya paid for the best. Really did my homework for you~." Bailey smirked right through the woman's assumed misplaced superiority before pulling out a slim, orange datapad from a compartment near her cockpit's seat. She started flicking through the info on her screen with one of her gloved, organic hands, taking her sweet time while she did so.

“Your terrorist was, by my findings, one... 'Layla Manat.' She'd bought some busted parts under the name a few weeks ago from a scavenger camp. Fuck all relation beyond that.” Bailey swiped through her info with a fake, exaggerated yawn, skipping through the info she knew Limbic would have been able to sniff out themselves. No sense in wasting her own time, after all.

Why not waste Ms. Walker’s instead, hm?

“Direct motivation seemed unclear from what was left of her old combat logs, but she'd mentioned a grudge against past allies during my hunt.” A tiny smirk creeped up on Bailey's face just remembering the bait she used, licking her lips before continuing. "Trying to sweep both rebel and imperial troop logs showed this chick was scrubbed hard. No history with the mercenary guild, either. Whoever those allies were, they wanted any link between her and them buried good. But..."

CL-HW: But...?

That’s it, wait a second, cutie. Suspense did ya good! "They hid her record real well. A base they'd worked with prior hadn't, though." Bailey's smirk grew a little, flaunting the carrot with a few more seconds of silence before swiping to the information even an influential megacorp couldn't gather. Not in time that justified the manpower, at least. "Some rebel outpost on Orsus still had records of an old joint-op on their servers. Layla was listed as a key assaulter on some imperial wardog, logged as piloting the... CF2-Swan, which she didn't seem to be fighting in today. Her heap didn’t match its specs."

CL-HW: Your verdict?

The liaison was quick to absorb Bailey's info, and quicker to prod her for what the merc thought these buried ledes meant. She condensed info fast. Neither drained from caffeine overconsumption nor pure corporate exhaustion. Useful for Limic, but Bailey saw nothing interesting in that tidbit for her. Corporate reps were never big on chasing the carrot, and that's why Bailey loved forcing them to paw at one. "My opinion's that important, sweetheart?" Go on, kitty. Paw for her.

CL-HW: Very. Go on, Ms. Cluanaire.

So formal. No annoyance. A shame. Info time!

"I'd say... disgruntled ex-rebel. Her base, whichever nearby one it is, may have started talks with your masters for a... project. Layla here couldn't stomach it and left. She had no radio support, and I saw no signs of allies in the field nor in my findings. She was working alone. Cute little dumbass." Bailey lowly hummed after her musing, placing her datapad back in its seat compartment before resting her chin in one of her robotic hands.

CL-HW: That matches the findings of my own investigation, thus far anyway. Fine work. Payment should be in your account within the hour. Are we done here?

Bailey gave a nod to the clinical corporate suit, but did open her mouth for one last moment of chatter before the call was wrapped. "No other info I could hunt down... But..." Maybe she'd earned just a little bit more teasing. She did good today, after all.

CL-HW: ...but...?

There was that little tinge of impatience she craved, but she could revel in better things later. Curiosity struck the merc as much as the rep, and she might as well see if it can be sated. "Why spend the big bucks on small fry like this? Little bird was so pathetic, I'm pretty sure you could have gotten in a mech and taken her." Bailey toyed with the rep, throwing in a jab like she always did with that petty smile. Employers like this didn't respect her anyway, was it not fair to make that feeling mutually known?

No growl? Unshakable, this one. Felt like she could get anyone to do that. A beacon of her position as a predator in a world of meek cats. Another predator perhaps? A delicious, but doubtful premise.

Bailey waited for an answer. The silence left her pondering how much she was going to get. Was she going to uncover the whole conspiracy right now? Get a taste of it? A tease? It looked like the rep was deeply contemplating what she should say to a merc whose contract was already closed.

The rep rested her own chin on the backs of her hands, letting a rare, oddly lurid smile sneak up on Bailey before hitting her with the simplest, vaguest truth she could.

CL-HW: To test you for when I really need your skill set. Until then, Ms. Cluanaire.

With those words, the call was closed, leaving Bailey with more questions than answers to weigh up. Test? Curious one, ain't ya, Walker? What are you scheming…?

Bailey always liked the prospect of a good, repeat customer, especially one paying her obscene rates without as much as a grumble. Pretty face and a good rack to look at while she did it? Delicious little bonus.

None of this truly mattered, of course. Corporate warfare was an avenue for a pay bump, little more. Similarly, the rumored human weapon research Arcadium engaged in was a known fact to Bailey. Another pay bump looming.

Somewhere, somehow, that had to be Walker’s true, likely motivation…

Just like the UA, if in a less militaristic coating. One doesn’t retain control of almost an entire star system through basic combat and cold smiles. Bailey had met, fucked and torn apart enough of the United Arcadium’s best to know those fascist mutts played dirty. Real nice and filthy, actually. Pent-up little perverts they were. Wonder what a good base of gals like that got up to with a brainless zombie of a pilot?

Arcadium were easier to think about. Their omnipresence was hard for even the least morally righteous to ignore.

Limbic had hardly taken up space in her mind off the clock, though. A mineral mining and chemical research company with the UA’s demonic talons plunged deep into every orifice, talons she assumed were shared in mutual contact. Their face was that of a chemical weapon monopoly. Lethal combat gases for field use and the like. That impression was half-right… but the UA didn’t need a shell to make simplistic infantry weapons. They were more wicked than that.

Though, simply put, Limbic being unpopular and United Arcadium creating brainfucked zombies was of little interest to the merc beyond the finances. Old news. Yawn.

Typically, Bailey didn’t interest herself in these matters. Background facts in her infinitely more important life…

…but that little bird... an ex-rebel attacking Limbic factories because of her comrades. Undoubtable that ol' Layla was talking about some decently funded rebel squad, and one with talents impressive enough to scrub almost her entire existence from the universe itself…

…and Ms. HW… did she maybe have her own angle beyond UA’s growing empire of ‘rumored’ brainwashing, or was she another cog in Limbic’s ongoing, broader corporate game? Was she something more…?

Maybe the bender she'd been offered by that raggedy rebel raven's nest was worth considering. If the tides of war were turning towards two sides of chemical experimentation, with an unknown corpo element in play to boot, then Bailey wanted to know about it, or at least feel satisfyingly prepared for shifting tides.

Complacency killed, after all. Bored the fuck out of her, too. She needed something exciting. Something different from the same old.

Corvis Base… cute little name, but those rebels loved their birdies, didn’t they? Maybe a little variety like that was just what her life needed for a bit…

…maybe she’d still be there…

...

Bailey pulled herself together and let stray thoughts of the past wash away. She'd mull the contract over for a bit. After a boring battle like that, she'd earned some of her trademark fun to wash things down with. She needed a rager before committing to the dull thralls of rebel life for a bit.

Besides, Circe required a few repairs, and she needed a drink. That axe dented Circe’s body good, even if the nanotech did its job in letting that ballsy move work.

Should have charred the bird slower for denting her beast, but she'd get over it... in time… with a good drink…

…and some fun with the animals in that bar she likes…~