Lord Turtle the First
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🕑 Added 2025-08-12 20:25:42 +0000 UTCSalvador’s gaze lifted, looking at Kao, puzzled. “What?”
“Look, a few days ago, my girlfriend broke up with me after finding out about my second girlfriend. I felt sad for a few days until I spoke with my big brother. So if you feel sad, just speak it out. I won’t judge.” Kao’s smile was small, a flicker of genuine empathy.
This was Kao, always trying to cheer others up, even when his own life was a mess.
“My wife is sick,” the words spilled out, raw and desperate. “And I don’t know what to do. I need a lot of money for her treatment.”
Kao’s expression was visibly saddened. “How much?” he asked softly.
“400,000,” Salvador responded, the number an anvil in his chest.
Kao winced, a sharp intake of breath. “Sorry for what happened to you.” The words felt hollow, inadequate.
Salvador nodded, his head still heavy. Then, an idea, sharp and desperate, ignited in his mind. He had heard about Kao’s brother.
“Does your brother still work as a merc?”
Kao looked to the side, a subtle shift in his posture, a flicker of something that looked like shame. He offered a curt, almost reluctant nod.
“Can you arrange a meeting?” Salvador asked, his voice barely a whisper, but laced with a desperate hope.
Kao’s jaw tensed, a visible knot of conflict. "Sal... my brother... he's not like me. He always thinks he's the smartest guy in the room, and that can get people hurt. It's a dangerous world."
"I don't care," Salvador said, his voice raw. "I'm already in a dangerous world, Kao. Please."
Kao glanced at Salvador and gave a reluctant nod.
After their shift, Kao led him to a bar in the west part of the city, nestled deep within the "Undercroft," the forgotten, ground-level arteries of the old city. It was a place so expertly hidden that without Kao's guidance, Salvador would have been lost forever in the labyrinthine alleys.
The moment they stepped inside, a wave of disrepair washed over him. Cracks, like skeletal fingers, clawed their way across the grimy walls. Stains, dark and ominous, marred every surface, whispering tales of spilled secrets. A symphony of unfamiliar odors assaulted his nose—a cloying blend of stale beer, unidentifiable cleaning products, and something vaguely metallic.
As they walked to a table, a massive, heavily modded patron stumbled, bumping into Salvador hard. Salvador flinched, ready to apologize, but the man just sneered, a silent challenge in his dead, cybernetic eyes. Kao stepped between them, clapping the patron on the shoulder with a grin. "Easy there, Razor. He's with me." The man grunted and turned away.
Kao led him to a secluded table in the darkest recess of the bar. "Now we wait," he declared. He returned from the bar with two bottles of the proprietor's "personal recipe." Salvador took a sip, and the liquid burned a surprising path down his throat.
Half an hour later, the atmosphere in the bar shifted. The boisterous laughter died down. Patrons watched the door with a mixture of fear and respect. A figure emerged from the shadows, a presence that commanded attention. It was Kao's brother. He was older, with streaks of white in his dark hair. His arms were a stark, matte black, impossibly muscular, rippling with an unnatural power. He wore a sleeveless vest, a deliberate choice to flaunt the sleek modifications that pulsed beneath his synth-skin.
Kao waved, and with a slow, deliberate grace, his brother walked towards them, a predatory stillness in his movements.
He looked Salvador up and down, his cybernetic eyes glowing with a faint, red light as they ran a silent, dismissive scan. He sat down with a heavy thud, the worn-out chair groaning under his augmented weight. Kao, looking nervous, brought another round of beers to the table. Kao’s brother took out a cigarette from his vest and took a long, slow drag, the tip flaring brightly in the bar's gloom. The smoke curled from his lips, a gray serpent in the dim light.
“Brother said you wanted to meet me. Here I am,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He took the beer and popped the cap off with his thumb, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet.
“Zarthus. This is Salvador. A colleague of mine,” Kao explained, his gaze shifting nervously between the two men. Salvador tried to keep his calm, but his fists were clenched so tight under the table his knuckles were white, the wood of the table digging into his palms.
Zarthus took a long sip of the beer, lazily leaning back in his chair, the picture of arrogant nonchalance. “So what do you want from me?”
“I want to work for you,” Salvador said, the words coming out in a rushed, desperate tumble that tasted like shame.
Zarthus stopped leaning back, his chair slamming onto all four legs. He leaned forward on the table and chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “You? Work for me?” His red eyes zoomed in, the whir of their optics audible. “You even got any mods, mechanic?”
"No, but I'll install some if that’s what it takes. I'm a fast learner," Salvador said, his voice tight with a desperation that felt like a physical weight in his chest.
“I don’t give a shit if you’re a fast learner. You think being smart is all that matters in the merc game?” Zarthus scoffed. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that reeked of stale smoke and cheap synth-ale. “Have you killed someone?” he asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking for the time.
The question hung in the air, a monstrous, impossible thing. The bar's noise seemed to fade into a dull roar in Salvador's ears. “No… I haven’t,” he responded, the words a confession of his own inadequacy, of his softness in a hard world.
Zarthus laughed, a loud, mocking sound that drew the attention of the other patrons. He rose to his feet, the beer in his hand, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He turned to leave.
“I’ll work for free,” Salvador blurted, the words a final, desperate gambit that felt like he was tearing a piece of his own soul out.
Zarthus stopped mid-stride. He slowly turned around, a predatory smile spreading across his face, and walked back to the table. Kao looked at Salvador, his expression a mixture of worry and pity. He placed a hand on Salvador’s shoulder.
“Salvador…” he murmured, a silent warning.
Zarthus sat down, the smile gone, his face suddenly serious. “Here’s the deal. You’re a liability. Untested. Un-modded. You’re a risk. So you don’t work for free. You pay me. 10,000 credits. Upfront. And I will take you under my wing. And you will work for free until you prove you’re not a complete waste of my time.”
Kao’s grip on Salvador’s shoulder tightened, his fingers digging in. This wasn't a mentorship; it was an indenture.
Salvador didn't hesitate. He sent the ping.
Zarthus smirked as he accepted the credits, the number flashing in his optics. He let out a short, humorless laugh. He saw the desperation in Salvador's eyes, the raw, exploitable need. He had him.
He blew a plume of smoke directly into Salvador's face. "One job. You keep up, you don't get in my way, and you do exactly what I say. You screw up, and I leave you where you fall. We clear?"
"Clear," Salvador said, the word tasting like ash.
Zarthus leaned forward, his predatory smile returning, as he started to explain what Salvador’s first mission would be.
Two days later, Salvador sat in the passenger seat of a heavily modified 4x4 buggy, the oppressive desert heat baking the interior. The buggy was a brutal machine, with thick, rugged wheels, bulletproof windows, and a chassis scarred from a hundred forgotten fights. They were in the middle of nowhere, a vast, empty expanse of red sand stretching to a shimmering horizon. No sign of civilization for as far as his eyes could see. They were parked on a low hill, and Zarthus was gazing ahead, his red optics scanning the area with an unnatural stillness.
Salvador, with his normal eyes, struggled to see anything in the blinding glare until his gaze finally locked onto a faint plume of sand rising into the sky, a barely visible disturbance on the edge of his vision. That was their target.
Salvador checked the cheap, second-hand pistol Zarthus had given him for the tenth time, his hands slick with sweat. Zarthus turned on the engine, the sound was a low, predatory growl, and started to drive, hugging the crest of the sandy hill, his eyes fixed on the pings of the convoy on his internal monitor.
As they got closer, Zarthus’s hand moved to the console. “Showtime, greenhorn,” he grunted, and pressed a single, glowing red button.
A moment later, the desert erupted. A massive explosion tore through the convoy, the sound a deafening roar that made Salvador’s teeth rattle. A column of fire and black smoke billowed into the sky.
Zarthus accelerated, sending the buggy careening down the side of the hill. Salvador’s eyes snapped ahead. The convoy was a scene of chaos. Five vehicles were scattered across the sand, two of them overturned, their wheels spinning uselessly. In the center, an armored pickup truck was half-sunk in a crater of sand, its wheels churning desperately, trying to escape.
“Minced meat” Zarthus said, a manic grin spreading across his face as he tapped another command into his console. From the back of the buggy, a heavy machine gun turret popped up, and two smaller auto-cannons emerged from the front, all three weapons swiveling to lock onto the survivors who were now scrambling from the wreckage, their guns already trained on the approaching buggy.
Zarthus laughed as the car’s automated turrets opened up, spitting a hail of lead that tore through the sand and the bodies of the convoy guards. He slammed the buggy to a halt, kicked open his door, and jumped out, a kinetic shield shimmering to life before him as he began to return fire with his own heavy pistol.
Salvador’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribcage, threatening to jump out. He watched as the enemy’s bullets sparked uselessly against the buggy’s armor. If I don’t jump out, he’ll leave me here, he thought, his mind a maelstrom of terror. All of this will be for nothing. And Elin will die.
The thought of her snapped him to reality. He kicked open the door and jumped out, rolling clumsily in the sand. Dizzy and disoriented, he scrambled behind one of the overturned cars. He could see the bullets deforming the metal of the car he was hiding behind. His mind, used to calculating stress tolerances and material fatigue, was now processing a different kind of equation: one of trajectories, impact forces, and the horrifying fragility of the human body. He started to fire his pistol, his shots wild, all of them missing their mark.
He saw Zarthus move with a brutal, efficient grace, closing the distance to the main group of shooters. He threw a cluster of small, gray grenades, which erupted into a thick, dark gray smoke that covered the area. Salvador couldn’t see, but he heard it. The screams. The wet, tearing sound of meat being cut. The final, choked gurgles.
When the smoke finally lifted, Salvador leaned forward and threw up. The area was a slaughterhouse. The minced, mutilated bodies of men and women lay scattered in the sand.
“Hey!” a shout cut through the ringing in his ears. It was Zarthus.
Salvador wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and looked up. Zarthus was walking towards him, dragging a young woman who couldn't have been much older than twenty. She wore the tattered remains of a corporate security uniform, its gray fabric ripped at the shoulder and stained dark with blood and desert dust. Her dark hair was plastered to her pale, dust-streaked face, and her eyes—wide and a startling shade of green—were locked on Salvador, filled with a pure, animal terror. A deep gash on her leg left a faint blood trail in the sand, explaining why she was being dragged rather than forced to walk.
Suddenly, a man burst from behind one of the cars, his weapon aimed. Before he could fire, a loud bang echoed from the buggy, and the man’s head dissolved into a fine, red mist. Salvador glanced at the buggy as its weapons retracted back into their chassis.
Zarthus stopped before him, a manic grin on his face. His arms, his body, his face—all were spattered with blood. Salvador’s knees were shaking. Zarthus threw the woman at his feet. She was pale, her breathing shallow.
"This is how you earn the credits to play the hero, mechanic," Zarthus sneered, his voice dripping with a cruel, personal venom. "This is the price of your little fairy's life. Now, pay up. Take her out, you useless piece of shit."
Her terrified eyes locked with Salvador's. She was just a scared kid. He hesitated, his hand trembling. Zarthus screamed again. “Do it!”
Salvador slowly lifted his pistol, his hands shaking so badly he could barely aim. Zarthus grunted in exasperation, walked over, and slapped him hard on the back of the head. “Come on, fucking do it! I don’t have all day.”
Salvador looked at the woman, his finger resting on the trigger, and then… bang. The shot was clumsy, hitting her in the stomach. She let out a pained gasp.
“Fuck me,” Zarthus said, exasperated. He grabbed Salvador’s hand, the one still holding the pistol. He felt the cold, immense strength of Zarthus's cybernetic hand completely envelop his own, the servos whining with a quiet, unstoppable power. His finger was no longer his own. He was just a component in another man's weapon. Zarthus forced his hand point-blank against the woman’s chest. “Now!” he screamed.
Salvador winced as the weapon fired. The deafening bang next to his ear left a high-pitched, whining tone in its wake. The recoil jolted his entire arm, a phantom pain that echoed the woman's death. The acrid smell of the discharge, thick and chemical, filled his nostrils, a scent he knew would be burned into his memory forever. He fell back on his ass. He stared at his own hands, at the smoking gun. Then he looked at the woman’s face. Dead. Her eyes, wide and unseeing, stared at him, a face that would haunt his dreams for a thousand nights. The horror and self-loathing that washed over him was a physical, sickening wave. He had crossed a line. He had become a killer.
"Get used to it," Zarthus grumbled as he walked towards the buggy.
The ride back was a silent, jarring journey through a landscape that now seemed as empty and desolate as his own soul. He didn't speak. He couldn't. The deafening bang of the pistol shot echoed in his ears, a constant, looping soundtrack to the horror show playing behind his eyes.
