The Garnet Spoon Guildhall smelled of burnt synthetic grease, stale despair, and something faintly resembling plasma residue. The exterior was a brutalist block of ceramite and chipped neon, a stark contrast to the shimmering Acheron Heights I aimed for. Inside, it was less a restaurant and more a gladiatorial arena disguised as a cafeteria. Drivers—a motley collection of scarred faces and bespoke combat gear—sprawled across booths, polishing blades or arguing over backlit data-pads. Minna, strapped into her armored buggy, surveyed the scene with wide, unblinking eyes, occasionally reaching out to poke at a scorched tabletop. Liro’s voice crackled in my comm. “Nura, you seeing this? Looks like a full-blown cartel meet-and-greet in there.” “It’s a Dispatch Hub, Liro,” I deadpanned, pushing the carriage through a knot of burly couriers debating the optimal angle for a thermal detonator throw. “Exactly as advertised. A nest of competing contractors vying for the most lucrative contracts. Standard procedure for an entry-level assassin.” I kept my voice low, blending into the ambient snarls and clangs. We approached the main dispatch board, a colossal holo-screen flickering with neon route paths and credit values. The highest payouts were marked with a crimson flare, signifying danger, urgency, and, in my line of work, a target worth terminating. One such route blared in bright magenta: ‘The Velvet Spire – VIP Run. Payout: 7,500 credits. Bonus: Expedited.’ “Bingo,” I murmured. “That’s our penthouse down payment, Minna.” Before I could even reach for the activation pad, a hulking figure with a neck wider than my thigh stepped in front of the board. He wore a patched-up synth-leather vest and smelled like old motor oil and bad intentions. “Back off, Apex. That’s a Brix route.” I blinked. ‘Apex’? Was that what they called high-tier couriers? Or maybe he just thought I looked sharp. Either way, ‘Brix’ was blocking my path to Minna’s education fund. I shifted the thermal soup canister I carried—currently housing a piping hot bowl of Liro’s homemade, triple-spiced ‘Armageddon’ minestrone—to a more comfortable grip. “The board is public, Brix,” I stated, my voice flat. “First come, first served.” “Not in *my* Guildhall,” Brix snarled, flexing biceps the size of small watermelons. His two companions, a wiry woman with a terminal strapped to her forearm and a man whose face was mostly cybernetic implants, flanked him. The woman sneered. “Cute buggy. You lost, sweetie?” Minna gurgled, reaching for the woman's luminous display. The woman recoiled as if stung. My daughter had a knack for sensing trouble, and also for shiny objects. I needed that route. “Liro,” I whispered into my comm, “give me a tactical assessment of Brix and company. Weak points, structural integrity, susceptibility to rapid thermal shock.” “On it, Nura,” Liro’s voice came back instantly. “Brix: heavy reinforced plating, but a vulnerable sub-dermal comms port on his right temple. The woman on the left: high mobility, but her terminal links wirelessly to her nervous system. Might be an overload point. The cyborg: implants are old-gen; a high-frequency pulse could scramble his opticals.” “Got it. Initiating negotiation.” Brix lunged first, a clumsy, rage-fueled swing aimed at my head. I ducked, Minna’s rig acting as a pivot, and brought the canister up, ramming its reinforced base into Brix’s solar plexus. The air left him with a wet gasp. As he staggered, I spun, swinging the steel cylinder like a mace. It connected with the comms port on his temple. A shower of sparks erupted, and Brix went down, twitching. “Oh, you want to play dirty, huh?” the woman shrieked, her hand already moving toward a holstered energy pistol. Before she could draw, I hurled the entire payload of Armageddon minestrone. The scalding broth, thick with pasta and spice, splattered across her terminal and face. She screamed, clutching her head as smoke curled from the sizzling electronics on her arm. The cyborg, seeing his comrades falter, pulled out a vibro-knife. His cybernetic ocular whirred crimson. I didn’t hesitate. I slammed Minna’s rig into his knees. The tactical armor-plating crumpled his leg with a sickening crunch. As he collapsed, roaring, I delivered a precise, open-palm strike to the back of his neck. His artificial lens flickered, then went dark. Silence descended on the immediate area, broken only by the woman’s whimpers and Brix’s guttural groans. Other couriers, who had been idly observing the 'negotiation,' went back to their drinks, pretending they hadn’t just witnessed a three-person takedown via lunch container and toddler transport. From a shadowed booth in the corner, a man in a tailored black suit tracked every pivot of my boots. Corso Vance sat with his glass untouched, fingers relaxed on the rim. In his estimation, the footwork was pristine, the application of child-rearing hardware sublime. He watched the steam curl from the wrecked terminal and filed the technique away under professional genius. I ignored the lingering stares and the smell of spicy minestrone. The Velvet Spire contract flashed green on the board, ready for activation. I tapped it. A physical route ticket whirred out. [Epicurean Concierge: Courier Kaddem. Your exemplary (if somewhat unorthodox) method of securing the premium delivery route has been noted. While your use of an edible item as a projectile is unconventional, the decisive action is commendable. However, please refrain from using cuisine as a blunt instrument. Deducting 50 presentation points for 'Gross Misapplication of Culinary Artistry.'] [Epicurean Concierge: Reward acquired: Indestructible Tactical Stroller Wheels. Maximize your daughter’s combat readiness with these plasma-forged, anti-grav wheels. Perfect for navigating treacherous terrain or executing high-speed frontal assaults.] I nodded, pocketing the ticket and checking the new rims. They hummed with a low magnetic pulse. Minna seemed to approve, patting one with a tiny hand. “Good,” I told her. “Now we can get your brother a better internet connection.” I unfolded the route ticket, expecting the usual coordinates for a CEO or a minor syndicate boss. Instead, a name glared back at me, scrawled in an aggressive, red font: ‘Torvin “The Griddle” Glaze – Underboss of the Iron Skillet Cartel.’ His delivery address: ‘The Searing Spire – Main Atrium, Level 47.’ The Iron Skillet Cartel. The same syndicate that had put a city-wide bounty on the 'Apex Predator'—which I now realized meant me. This wasn’t a standard drop-off. This was a forced dinner invitation to the lion's den.

Mercenaries and Minestrone