The Redmoon Collective

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. The screams throughout the Starscape Galaxy were loud and ever reaching. Those who called Atlantis home knew that better than most. Once a bountiful mysterious plant hidden at the fringes of the galaxy with expansive oceans and wonder, turned into a barren wasteland of lawlessness after being discovered and fought over by Atlas Corp, Prometheus, and the Rosellian Empire. Hundreds of years of war left the planet destroyed, with no resources left besides guns for hire, interest in the planet faded and it was abandoned. Only leaving the screams of those unlucky enough to not afford a ship out.

Red dust kicked up around a pair of black metal boots as they marched towards a dark cave normally hidden under the blanket of night, but stood tall and inviting in the melting mid-day sun. Few dared trek through the desert under the boiling sun, but it was the only time you could spot the cave. A tall man, in a dark unmarked Atlas exo-suit draped with a black cloak, moved steadily forward towards the cave. He pulled a coffin on a hover-board behind him. Pausing at the entrance, he took a long look through the teeth-like stalagmite that had presumably formed hundreds of years prior when the planet was still known for its vast oceans.

There was a light emitting from the back crevices of the spacious cavern, and a barely audible chanting reverberating towards the entrance, as if the cave itself had a voice. It breathed out a cool, gentle breeze. The man tightly gripped the gray metal handle of an older second generation Atlas arc-revolver holstered on his right hip. He pulled it out of its holster, keeping it at his side. A static charge ripped down the barrel as he pulled back the hammer trigger. The man started forward past the natural columns, using the light from his revolver to make his way, abandoning the coffin.

The chanting grew louder and, turning the corner, he could see a strange robed man hunched over on his knees. He was praying before a alter made of bones, overflowing with blood, a skull in the middle of the pool of blood. The words he was chanting were in the ancient Domisui, a strange cult that worshiped one of the old gods, the god of death. The man in black slithered towards the man, who was kneeling. Once he got in arm’s length, he held up his revolver pointed towards the other man’s head.

“I always suspected it would be you to come for me. Quite the bounty I’ve racked up.” The man who had been praying put his hands in the air, slowly turning to face the other as he stood up. “The Dread Baron Williams. How have you been?”

“I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you again, MishKael, but I’m an honest man.” Williams put his revolver to his head. MishKael’s face was thin. It was easy to make out the sharp lines of his skull, his cheeks being swallowed by his mouth.

“You’re the only one that knows about this place. Everyone else has been looking under the safety of the moon. Can’t find it with such little light, funny that you shouldn’t fear the day when you are the one who has the most to fear from it.”

“When you’re as old as I am, it seems like you lose common sense. Reality is I’ve lasted this long. I have nothing to fear from any sun. I would’ve already been done in if it was going to get me. Not the worst way to go.”

“How is the Domisui town, Terafor, the one I brought back?”

“All ash.”

He let out a sigh clearly upset by the news. “Best the clan’s traditions die out with me. Get to it.”

“You're a bigger purse alive.”

“Fill your empty heart with one magnificent gesture for an old friend. Hand me a over as a corpse, or I'll make it needlessly difficult.”

“So be it.” The hammer boomed like thunder, shaking dirt free from the ceiling. MishKael’s body went stiff for a moment, standing at perfect attention before collapsing to the ground lifelessly. Quick. Efficient. Tales say humane and painless, advertisements were just that though, and the marketing campaign for the new models tout how much pain the sorry sucker on the other end will suffer. It was a different time. Revenge sells.

The Dread Baron tapped on the helmet of the exo-suit just below his ear, exposing his long white hair and gruff, unkempt beard. His bright red eyes and pale skin were a dead giveaway to his identity. Tales of his infamy reached beyond the last stars. He bent down over the dead cultist and took a long drink from his neck, curing his thirst and igniting a glow in his eyes before throwing the body over his shoulder and heading back out towards the entrance.

“Don’t worry, old friend, I got you a comfortable one, just like you always dreamed of. Perhaps not as fancy or ornate as you imagined, but enough that if you wake again, your back won’t be crippled.” He said, waving his hand over a blue crystal on the long coffin he had behind him. Metal panels slid to either side, revealing the well padded turquoise interior. With little care, he tossed the corpse into the box, kicking the arm that didn’t quite find its way in with his boot. Hydraulics sounded, closing the metal panels, clicking of gears, locked it tight.

From underneath his palm, a blue laser shot out, connecting to the blue crystal. He gripped the leash and started his long trek back through the desert. The mid-day sun still hung in the air descending from the climax of its journey ready to once more fall beneath the waves of sand. Before the Baron would make it back to the city to claim his prize, the sun would find its way into its nightly grave. Giving rise to the well-meaning bandits and hateful shrew of jealous hunters looking to blow a fat payday at a scummy bar that sold more water than it did alcohol. Thieves and liars were the best you would run into on the cursed sands, a dead planet for the lowest misfits and unsuccessful beggars. A good place to find the best of friends that will at least give you the honest courtesy of stabbing you in the front.

Best-case scenario at night, you run into some rabble rousing jokers of the Skull Girls gang. Worst case, a herd of wild warmouths swallow you up like plankton before you realize the shaking beneath your feet isn’t just the constant shifting of sands. The ravened planet left only the most murderous beasts of animals capable of surviving its extreme climate. Venom oozed from even the small, cute ones. The only passive ones were locked in large metal coops so capitalism could thrive off of them before they went extinct from the natural fiends of Atlantis.

Soon the air would turn towards freezing temperatures as the sand cooled off, being abandoned by the heat of the sun. It became more bearable and with no direct light from the sun shinning Williams was able to release his stuffy helmet and cool himself. Taking another drink from the corpse in an air regulated coffin to keep it fresh, he heard the rumblings of sand skiffs, old Atlantan skiffs repurposed to make travel across the sands quick and easy.

Looking out towards the city in the north, he saw the metal hulls leap over the dunes, launched by their high-powered engines. The solar sails didn’t have any light to catch. While still open, the sails billowed with little to hold them taut. You could still see the always remarkable flag of the Skull Girls, the skull of a rabbit with unreasonably large breasts and the kind of cleavage that was trying to make a statement. A group of bandits that took pride in wearing their victims’ skulls. Although they were often male, no girls amongst their rank, mostly because of the smell and lack of boundaries and absurd levels of misogyny.

Williams gave the coffin a quick pat, “Don’t worry old boy I’ll have you right in the ground soon as I take care of these jokers,” he said taking his arc revolver into his right hand and the hilt of a cutlass in his left.

The whoops and hollers of The Skull Girls announced they had identified Williams as their prey. Sand skiffs nearly flipping from the tight turn they made to run him down. Standing tall and holding his ground, he flicked his wrist igniting his plasma cutlass and took aim with his arc revolver standing his ground in front of the coffin, his cloak lightly billowing from his movements. Three skiffs barreled down on him. One set its path to run him over. Getting within thirty feet of Williams, he could see the paint and decorations of their skull masks and squeezed the trigger. The electrified bullet went through the plasma connector between its two beds, discharging on the base of the solar sail. Electricity shot through the skiff using its metal plates to travel, frying everyone on it. The engine blew from the millions of volts sent through it, causing the skiff to lift and fly into the air. The Skull Girls became silent as they watched it flip through the air and come crashing down onto a second skiff, crushing everyone onboard and creating another explosion. Shrapnel flew past Williams being blown every direction. The four passengers of the remaining skiff jumped off it, letting it fly off into the dunes, spinning out but still operational.

“You killed Terrance!” One of the more burly gang members said with a shout, bringing out his own plasma cutlass. The others followed suit with more hollers and charged.

Williams pulled back the hammer with his thumb, taking aim on their lead, and shot a round through his chest. Sidestep, the second who lunged over extending and The Dread Baron’s cutlass sliced through him at the waist like butter, cauterizing him as it did. His body hit the sand in two pieces. The third had an attack aimed perfectly but was easily parried. As his arm came down, he stumbled to the side before his head was blown off by another shot from the arc revolver. The fourth, afraid of what he saw, tried to bring his charge to a stop but slid forward from the loose sand into the baron’s reach and was cut down just as easily.

“Thanks for the skiff girls.” Williams said to himself, putting his weapons away and making his way through the debris and bodies towards the lone survivor of the brief fight. The engine was still roaring, and solar sail still out, no anchor to keep it in place yet it was still patiently sitting on the side of a dune. Williams raised the hover board carrying the coffin onto the back of the skiff before climbing aboard himself. Taking the wheel, he push accelerator to its maximum setting. The engine roared louder, and the skiff started pushing through the sand. He pushed the button on his suit to close his helmet to not get dirt in his face as the skiff rocketed forward, navigating the direction they had come in which would lead back to one of the few remaining cities, Macoba. Haste was necessary as the sound of fighting and smell of fresh meat would attract warmouths.

Macoba was the largest city on Atlantis. Known for its several sinful attractions, gambling, drinking, and, of course, the famous intergalactic red-light district. All sorts of sludge made its way from all corners of the galaxy, solidifying Macoba as the number one pile of trash. There was only night life. Bar fights were a constant. If you didn’t see at least four bodies while walking the street, you were probably one of them. Constant shouts of unsavory drunken waste filled the night air. If you are looking for an easy way out of this life, Macoba was the best place to get violently maimed over something as small as a scuffed boot. There wasn’t a single, honest man in the city, and very few men at that. Many species that had been pushed out of their homes from the mega corporations running the galaxy, or worse the Holy Rosellian Empire, a theocratic hell hole run by an enlightened prick with a decorative taste for the macabre, or as others would more accurately put it a vile, twisted, unnecessary, visceral genocide fetish.

Atlas Corp was just as bad, albeit didn’t do it under the guise of an all knowing God who determines the fate of all life. They were simple, not so much in their tactics. Backroom dealings could get quite complex, but in the end goal. Which was to simply put it, make the most money. Competing with other arms distributors, mainly the I.N.K and Prometheus, stuck in a furious race chasing us all to an earlier grave. Although they had immense power, it was not about control, at least not for Atlas, its corruption only saw green. Power was just the most assured way to push the numbers. Over the years, Williams had worked under both Atlas and Prometheus, performing many jobs from raids to heists and assassinations. Overthrowing governments and installing new ones that they owned was commonplace.

The city of Macoba broke over the horizon, towering buildings covered in neon signs illuminating the surrounding air with a bright shade of violet. The city could be seen from the planet's red moon that orbited around it, and even further out from space. When navigating you would look for the purple in a sea of brown to find the space port, other cities weren’t quite as welcoming of visitors, mostly run by gangs if you didn’t have an invitation you were inviting trouble. The planet dealt in secrets considering it was the center for most illicit activity in the galaxy, consumers didn’t want other to know what they were paying for, and producers weren’t about to tell what was coming out of the small businesses they built.

Getting closer, Williams abandoned the sand skiff, not wanting to be mistaken for one of the Skull Girls. Even amongst the trash of Macoba, they were not viewed well. Often being attacked on sight if found in any of the major cities, they lived in caves on the outskirts. One day, someone will get bored and wipe them off the planet for good. They certainly weren’t strong enough to defend themselves from other gangs, and their loose lips didn’t make many friends wanting to come to their rescue.

The light of the neon, drenched Williams in many vivid reds, blues, and purples. He released his helmet again, breathing in the stench of drugs and alcohol, tugging the coffin behind him. He went down a nearby staircase, the bar that had put out the wanted poster, owned by a prominent member of upper Macoba, hid a lot of his affairs in its underbelly, along with his connection to the old town of Terafor that worshiped Domisui. Williams was unaware of what that connection was, just that he didn’t want any possibility of anything getting out. The town had been laid to ruin decades before. The necromancer in the coffin brought them back, knowing he would be soon dead and hoping to bring back any chance that Domisui would still be worshiped in his passing.

Past some unsavory members of society, tucked in the darkness of the under works there it stood. Its neon sign illuminating the alleyway it occupied, loud, aggressive music blasting away, a few drunks lingering at their parked hover-cycles loudly enjoying themselves. One had made a nest in a pile of nearby trash, likely a bar fight or two had already been missed. The place smelled of oil and alcohol, full of bounty hunters and other low grade criminals looking to feed themselves, the pride of the under works The Renaissance.