Page 19 of Stalker

A waitress approaches, her smile faltering when she notices my bone spurs. "What can I get you?"

"Whiskey. Neat."

The Black Sun mercenaries at the bar don't bother hiding their stares. Their sneers and whispers carry across the room.

"Look what crawled in from the lower levels."

"Didn't know they let his kind in here."

"Someone should tell management about their pest problem."

The whiskey arrives. I take a slow sip, keeping my eyes fixed on the admin building's entrance. Their words bounce off me like rain on durasteel. I've heard worse from better men.

A wet sensation hits my back, followed by raucous laughter.

"Oh no, Sam. I think you just spit on that Bonehead's back."

The liquid seeps through my shirt. My fingers tighten around the glass, but I keep my breathing steady. Mother always said patience was a virtue - even if she never mastered it herself.

I toss a credit chip on the table and slide out of the booth. The smart play is to leave before this escalates. My boots click against the polished floor as I head for the exit.

The mercenaries' chairs scrape back. Perfect. Just what I need.

"Hey Bonehead, we're not done with you yet."

Their footsteps echo behind me as I stride down the promenade. The evening crowd parts around us like water around stones.

"What's wrong? Too scared to face us?"

"Bet he's running home to cry to mommy."

My jaw clenches. Keep walking. Don't give them the satisfaction.

"Oh wait, that's right. His mommy's dead. Probably offed herself when she saw what an ugly freak her kid turned out to be."

My steps falter. The rage burns hot enough to melt steel, but I force myself forward. One more step. Then another. The laughter behind me cuts deeper than any blade.

"Look at him scurry away. Just like his whore mother must have run from that raid."

My hands curl into fists, bone spurs scraping against my palms. The urge to turn and tear their throats out pounds through my veins. But I can't. Not here. Not now. Not with so many witnesses ready to blame the Reaper.

Their howls of laughter follow me down the street.

The service alley between towers beckons - a slice of darkness perfect for what comes next. My boots splash through puddles of condensation as I duck between the buildings. The darkness wraps around me like an old friend.

Their footsteps falter at the alley's mouth. The laughter dies.

"Where'd he go?"

"Can't see shit in there."

"Spread out. Don't let him slip past."

The idiots actually follow me in. Their boots scrape against metal grating, echoing off the towering walls. The sound tells me exactly where each one stands.

I count their steps. Twenty paces in. Thirty. The street noise fades to a distant hum. Perfect.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are..."