Arthur's body slumped to the ground, any sign of life snuffed out the moment the bullet tore through the fragile tissue of his skull. A faint mist of blood hung in the humid night air, quickly swallowed by the relentless downpour hammering against the concrete floor of the plaza.
Hammond Jr didn't spare a glance at the fallen man. Instead, he turned, his pale eyes narrowing with something close to frustration - though it was carefully smothered beneath the calm veneer of a corporate overlord.
The rain slicked against the broad shoulders of his trench coat, beads of water racing down the fabric and vanishing into the gloom.
"You… this time, you went too far, Samael."
His hand moved deliberately to a side compartment on his long coat, fingers tightening around a cold inside. Around them, neon signs buzzed and flickered, casting half-lit shadows across the blood-smeared ground.
"How many times will it take before your suicidal behavior actually gets you killed?"
The storm hissed against the towering megastructures that framed the plaza, the constant drone of rain on metal forming a relentless, suffocating backdrop. Samael lowered his head, his damp hair clinging to his face, strands plastered to his skin by sweat and rain.
Now, he could be honest and tell the truth, saying that he found it beyond entertaining to mess with the assassin, and the thrill of being inches from death was so powerful it was like a drug.
Or… lie through his teeth.
"But Father, I haven't done anything. This man must have been drunk and slipped…"
Hammond's frown deepened, the lines of age and authority cutting deeper into his features.
"And I happened to be in the sights of his Longbow sniper when he fell on the trigger."
Samael rattled on, his voice a half-hearted attempt at innocence. But his father wasn't fooled. The elder man's sharp gaze didn't miss the way Samael's pupils had dilated to unsettling proportions, the color of his irises all but consumed by the pitch-black void. It was a clear side effect of prolonged adrenaline exposure and that Samaels condition was worsening.
The boy was almost flawless, truthfully one of Hammonds greatest achievements. Unfortunately, he was suffering from a brain defect that cuased his self preservation instincts to fail. I stead, he would seek out dangerouse sitiations and essentially 'flirt' with death.
Hammond made his decision in a fraction of a second. He swung his arm around, fingers tightening on a small syringe of clear liquid, and drove the needle into Samael's neck with the precision of a surgeon.
"Huh?"
Samael stumbled back as the world around him bent and twisted. The neon skyline warped, the glow of towering billboards bleeding together into a kaleidoscope of sickly colors.
His muscles weakened and lost their power.
His father's iron grip caught him before he collapsed onto the blood soaked marble floor.
"Y-you're sedating me…" Samaels words slurred, his lips struggling to form coherent sounds as his heart rate plummeted, each beat slowing until it was a faint, distant echo inside his chest.
Within seconds, darkness claimed him.
Hammond let out a slow sigh and hoisted Samael's limp body over his shoulder. The discarded vial clinked against the soaked ground.
The heavy, synchronized stomp of the Spectre units drew closer, their metal feet splashing through shallow puddles, the water unable to wash away the crimson stains.
The faceless and expresionless machines moved, gathering the civilian corpse and the fallen traitor assassin like refuse to be swept from the scene.
This was Hammond's preferred way of doing things. Clean, Efficient and Methodical. No theatrics or lingering words. If a life had to be ended or a city leveled, it would be done without hesitation or flourish.
He wasn't some comic book villain - he had a society to run, and he ruled it with an unflinching, ruthless hand.
Without a word, he began walking toward the waiting transport vessel. The rain rattled against the ship's red and white titainium hull like static on an old comm line.
Behind him, Albreck fell into step, the towering synthetic's metal limbs hunched as though burdened by failure. Even the bright gleam of his paper white chassi looked dulled beneath the moody sky.
His clawed feet splashed heavily through waterlogged cracks in the ground, yet no amount of rain could wash away the bitter taste of guilt clinging to his proggramming.
"Albreck," Hammond's voice cut through the ambient storm, low and sharp,"Why didn't Samael take his neurosuppressants today? I remember giving you explicit instructions - make sure he took them."
The towering AI hesitated, systems working softly as his photoreceptors dimmed.
"Sir… I decided to entrust his medication to him for one day. I wanted to see if he would exercise responsibility." The synthetic's voice was steady, though tinged with regret. "However - just like when you caught him playing Russian roulette at four - he still decided to play with fire and gamble with death again."
"This will not happen again, Albreck." Hammond's tone remained as calm as ever, though the quiet threat beneath it cut deeper than any raised voice could. "If it does, you'll be recycled and your body repurposed into a Marven-class labor unit. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." Albreck replied, logging the directive to permanent memory. As the most advanced AI soldier in the galaxy, he had no desire to be reduced to a menial labor construct. Especially not after being personally designed by Hammond - who, for all his ruthless pragmatism, was a far better scientist than he was a politician or leader.
The same could be said for Samael. Although where Hammond led the IMC, Samael's DNA sometimes seemed unnaturally born for battle with a soldier's body housing a mind better suited for building machines than following orders. A mind plagued by a hunger for adrenaline, yes - but a powerful one, nonetheless.
Stepping onto the transport, Hammond gave a silent nod to the pilot, who returned the gesture before activating the thrusters. Quad jets roared to life, the force kicking up a spray of embers and rainwater across the ruined plaza floor, briefly illuminating the statue of Heinrick in a flash of amber light as the ship began its ascent.
As the city lights shrank beneath them, Hammond leaned back in his seat, Samael still unconscious beside him. The rhythmic hum of the engines provided a steady undercurrent to his thoughts.
Keeping Samael confined within Concordia was like throwing a wild animal into a sensory deprivation tank and hoping it wouldn't tear itself apart. The current situation was untenable. He needed to distract the boy, or at least redirect his endless, suicidal hunger for danger.
"The Titan program… or pilot training?" he mused aloud, the words barely audible over the steady thrum of the ship. Both options, in his mind, might be enough to challenge Samael's chaotic nature.
The Titan programs were scattered across various off-world research facilities - some nestled within the Core Worlds, others hidden in military installations on the outlands on the edge of the frontier. Titans themselves were still in a somewhat crude state, limited to three primary classes.
The Atlas class - medium armored, adaptable, balanced in damage output and resilience.
The Strider class which was fast and agile, capable of unleashing devastating close quaters damage but fragile, a glass cannon in every sense.
And finally, the Ogre class - walking fortresses with impenetrable armor and monstrous damage output, but cumbersome to pilot and easily outmaneuvered by anything faster.
"Maybe if I put him on the Atlas-class R&D project, he wouldn't be so… bored," Hammond muttered, nodding to himself. It was a controlled environment. Heavily fortified, patrolled by rigorously disciplined soldiers and some Titan pilots. No room for assassins or easy exits. The facility on Gridiron should be suitable.
"Master," Albreck's low, metallic voice rumbled from across the hold. The synthetic's massive frame seemed ill-suited for the transport's narrow bench seats, his bulk an awkward presence in the confined space. "Might I suggest Titan development and pilot training together at the same time?"
"It should be possible," Hammond admitted.
"Most pilots train in dangerous, high-risk simulations or in real conflicts. We'd have to find someone suitable to oversee it. Real combat is out of the question - I can't have him dying on some worthless backwater planet. At the very least, with pilot training he can defend himself if this situation happens again."
He fell silent for a moment, then reached up and triggered a retinal implant with a twitch of his eye. A private digital interface shimmered into view, visible only to him - an encrypted data feed floating in his line of sight.
Names, Faces, Stats, Achievements and Psych profiles. He scrolled through them at near superhuman speed, each dossier processed and dismissed in less than a second. Until one caught his attention.
"Kuben Blisk," Hammond murmured. "Mercenary. Born on Earth - South Africa. Veteran of the Thunderdome games in the Outlands. Multiple commendations for bravery in the Titan Frontier Wars. One of the most skilled and vicouse pilots in the world."
He kept reading, his expression never changing.
"Currently freelancing as a pilot-for-hire. Being considered for an advisory position under IMC Admiral Graves."
A cold, calculated nod followed. Hammond knew the difference between elite pilots and regular pilots. Elite pilots where monsters, with a combat effectiveness over 95%, amd someone like Blisk would not take any 'unruly behavouir' from his son.
Luckily, from the records Blisk was fully reliable so long as he was given enough money, so he would not betray you or suddenly take a job that was against your instrests.
"This could work. Albreck - get him on the line. Tell him I have a contract offer for him."