So, I'm Dead

[dessysalta]

INITIALIZING BOOT SEQUENCE...
UPDATING DRIVERS...
WORKING...
...COMPLETE.

WELCOME, CONTRACTMONGER
YOU HAVE ONE (1) NEW MESSAGE. OPEN?
(N)
>>> (Y)

DISPLAYING INFORMATION:

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The display flickers as it swaps from unicode characters to a video screen. Not ASCII characters that rapidly swap to give the illusion of a video, but a real video. You're surprised the monitor works at all, surprised to see it after so long, and surprised whatever this message is hasn't been corrupted. It's been a couple of years, at this point, and would have been more if not for the favors you pulled after selling that purple gold you managed to snake out. God, was that a pyrrhic victory. You were alive, though, the only one that hadn't been killed or captured- it made you grateful, if particularly bitter and a myriad of other things.

No time to mourn. You watch as the video flickers to life...

...

It's the Wolf Den. You can recognize the background noise, that harsh gruff-puff of steam and failing water pipes being fixed, turned off, turned on, and being fixed again. It was something that drove several crew nuts, nuts enough that they had to be jettisoned out before they caused a ruckus or, heaven forbid, tipped off those pricks near the Hegemony and caught the attention of Kataphracts. Though, it wasn't a room you recognized. This one was spacious compared to the crew bunks, about the size of a college dormitory and filled to the brim with various punk, rock, and anti-corporate paraphernalia along the walls—not to mention the stray cans of booze and horribly-made bed.

On the bed was a darkskinned woman with glorious, cybernetic, and golden eyes. Her hair was long, black, and curly—incredibly curly. You instantly recognized her, at least—Olivia Sanchez. She was your captain. Was being the key word, though you didn't need to linger upon that fact for very long as she broke the silence of the video, blowing smoke from her cigarette.

"Hey. If you're watching this," She pauses, leaning forward with a bit of a smug smile on her face. "I'm dead. Took 'em fuckin' long enough!" She laughs boisterously, starting strong and slowly inching towards nervous, before finally landing on dry, upset huffs.

"I'll keep it a hundred. I knew this was gonna happen. I wish I didn't, but shit, it probably had to. I'd like to say I've made my peace with it, but I really haven't." A flick of the wrist, and the cigarette flies off screen. The pirate captain opens her mouth to say something, then mutters something particularly obscene as she hops up from the bed and pats something just out of view several times. When she comes back, she has a morose, possibly irritated look. "Haven't learned that, either, it looks like. Magazines catch fire, who knew?"

The air hangs for a second. It's awkward, watching her shift back onto her bed and cross a leg over the other. For thirty seconds, it looks like she's trying to find a comfortable position to sit in, all the while stop-starting and trailing off from her sentences.

"...I know one of you'll see this first, so I'ma be a real pisser and not name any names- you know who you are. Real quick, Robot-Kisser, you were my favorite. I hope you find that Z.I. or whatever the fuck it was you were interested in- and to my dear, sweet Hairline, you are the meanest motherfucker I've ever met. I love you like a brother, man."

This chuckle is a little more genuine; longer lived. You almost don't notice the tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. "The rest of you, I love you, too, but I'ma not say that shit here because I know this is the only holotape we can afford and it is shiiit, so we only got a few minutes on it."

She shifts a bit, leaning forward.

"If you were expectin' business in this tape, you're wrong. It's gonna be me lamentin' and feelin'. Y'know, like how I said I don't. I guess this'll be the only time I'm really open, at least when I'm not drunk or high off my ass."

This pause is much longer. For a crude tape—and the emphasis this woman just placed on that fact—you're surprised to see it run a minute of silence, followed by a few seconds of her lighting up again.

"I need one or all of you to say sorry for me. I'm assuming you were caught, seeing as it'd be divine intervention if only I died. So to our last few guys, or whoever else makes it out, or fuck it, all of you if you managed it and I just went and kicked it for whatever reason, there's a letter taped to the underside of my desk. Maybe it's space dust, now, but if it ain't by the time you're watchin' this, I want you to send it to my mom. I know, I know, I said no outgoing mail for a reason, at least not when we're fucked off from the Badlands, but this is important." 

She pulls from her cigarette, licks her lips, then repeats: "It's important. I need them...I need her to know I'm not a monster. She's one of Salvo's girls, she'll get it, I hope. Then again, Biesel might have burned her place down, so if there isn't an address..." Another stop-start as she trails off, rubbing her face. This time she puts her cigarette out on the ground. 

"...Alright, I lied, I do have business for you."

The woman stands, grabbing the camera and repositioning it. After several seconds of blurriness, it clears to reveal a detailed map of the Horizon, decks, hardpoints and all.

"This big fella. I said we were gonna hit it, right? Hell, maybe we did, I dunno how I died. If I go out, I want you to hit the fuh-huck out of the thing. You hear me? I've got a safe under my bed- the code is six-one-four-two. It has credits up the ass. Plenty to cover a few loans for killbots and probably enough to get a few more people on our payroll. Get everyone you can, and head to these coordinates."

Numbers flash on the screen, too fast to read...the terminal interprets them as soon as they're finished.

"It's an armory. One last ditch effort. Rob the fuck out of it. I don't even care what you steal, take one of their crew members, robots, fuckin' coffee maker- anything. I want those corpos bled until they can't bleed and then squeezed so you can suck out the drops. Fuckers deserve it for what they fund back home."

Olivia grunts, steps in front of the screen, and gestures to various different points on the Horizon vaguely. A moment later, she's pointing at the screen. "And don't give me shit about it being a suicide mission! We've hit bigger and worse than them. I want them to feel this. I know you all do, too. Besides, I'm paying the fuck out of you and have been for years. This is my last wish, honor it or I'll haunt the fuck out of you. Capiche?"

Yet another pause. Something seems to be setting in as she paces back and forth; you can hear it in her tone. She's angry. Afraid. "Better yet, make it a contract. Tell our buddies in the Sparring Sea we've got plans and they can get in on the loot if they lend a hand. Forward it to sixty-four-tan and get a black market hitman or two. Find a particularly pissed off cat that wants to scratch something, I don't care. I bet the Horizon has a ton of enemies that'd like to see it go up in flames. So fuck, if you're watching this and don't know me, consider it a bounty, too."

The laughter returns. It's like she never left.

"It's my wish, dammit. Honor it or I'll haunt you. Scrape-face, I know you'd prolly do it for free. So do it."

After wiping her tears and heaving out one last sigh, the video cuts to black.