Above the Blood Moon

A peculiar atmosphere, somewhere between exhaustion and excitement, permeated the Gear Tavern.

Art rested one hand on his forehead, while the fingers of the other hand slowly tapped on the virtual keyboard. He would stop from time to time, staring at a certain text on the screen in deep thought, and then suddenly seem to remember something, quickly deleting and rewriting it.

"Daikiri," At said without looking up, "come and take a look at this."

Daikiri lay sprawled out on the largest table in the center of the tavern.

He was browsing the virtual store page through his nervous system, with a semi-transparent holographic projection floating in front of him, displaying all kinds of mechanical prosthetics and weapon accessories.

When he heard At call him, Daikiri lazily rolled over, lay on his side on the table, and propped himself up with his elbow.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, his mouth still dangling half an energy bar.

Art pushed the tablet towards him, the screen facing him.

"The character background of Jockley is the final version that Margaret and I just finalized. Take a look and see if there are any obvious flaws."

Daikiri glanced at the screen.

It was covered with dense text.

"I'm not looking," Daikiri said, stuffing the rest of the energy bars into his mouth and chewing with bulging cheeks.

"These words recognize me, but I don't recognize them."

Art sighed helplessly and rubbed his temples.

"Couldn't you just buy a couple more knowledge chips and stuff them into your head?"

Art's voice was filled with deep weariness.

"Basic read and write chips aren't expensive; you can get one for 10 Star Alliance Coins, and it'll at least make you look like a civilized person."

"Civilized people?" Daikiri scoffed, sat up from the table, and dangled his legs over the edge.

"Civilized people don't survive more than three days in the Forgotten City. You know, here, recognizing guns is more important than recognizing words."

On the other side of the bar, Margaret put down her water glass.

She didn't participate in the bickering between At and Daikiri; instead, she rested her chin on her hand and stared intently at Daikiri.

Then she suddenly spoke in a cynical, teasing tone.

"Daikiri, has anyone ever told you that your eyes are actually quite beautiful?"

Daikiri froze for a moment, then turned to look at Margaret.

Margaret was right; Daikiri's eyes were indeed beautiful, with deep brown pupils that gleamed like amber in the dim light of the tavern.

His eyelashes were very long, and if it weren't for the fine wrinkles and grime at the corners of his eyes caused by years of living in radiation and dust, his eyes could even be described as beautiful.

But Dekiri was clearly not used to such praise.

His expression became somewhat unnatural. He quickly looked away, grabbed the fairy tale picture book next to him, and covered his face with it.

"You're sick." His muffled voice came from under the picture book.

Margaret burst into laughter, her clear, ringing laugh echoing through the quiet tavern, but then her laughter abruptly stopped.

The moment the laughter abruptly stopped, the atmosphere in the tavern froze again.

Margaret's smile vanished. She lowered her hand from her chin, sat up straight, and her expression became unusually serious.

"At, are you sure we really want to carry out that mission?"

Ate looked up at her.

Why not?

"Let's not talk about anything else for now." Margaret held up her fingers and counted them one by one.

"First of all, are Jockley and his boyfriend really reliable? We've only known them for a short time!"

She paused, then continued counting down with her fingers.

"Secondly, this is an assassination attempt on the boss of a company, Floyd Kearns, the actual controller of Antaeus Culture, who has at least a hundred employees and a private security team. If we're not careful, we'll all be in big trouble."

Margaret lowered her hands, leaned forward, and rested her elbows on the bar.

"At, I'm not afraid of death. You know that if I were afraid of death, I wouldn't have survived in Forgotten City until now."

A brief silence fell over the tavern.

Only the priest's soft breathing could be heard. He sat in a chair by the window, his black robe's hood pulled low, obscuring his entire face, making him appear to be asleep.

But only Jockley knew that the priest never truly fell asleep; he simply entered a deep meditative state that allowed him to rest while remaining aware of his surroundings.

Art was silent for a moment, then pushed up his glasses.

"To answer your first question, firstly, Jockley and Pilot are probably not gay, even though they are inseparable."

He picked up the water glass in front of him, took a sip, and continued speaking.

"Secondly, regarding reliability, I personally think that Jockley's reliability is quite strong."

Margaret raised her eyebrows.

"Oh? What makes you say that?" Her tone was clearly skeptical. "At, don't forget, apart from the natives of Forgotten City, every single person who came to this godforsaken place via interstellar tickets is no pushover."

Before Art could speak, Daikiri's muffled voice came from under the picture book.

"Because he will pay me back."

Margaret paused for a moment, then turned to look at Daikiri. Daikiri had moved the picture book aside a crack, revealing half of his face.

Margaret was silent for a few seconds, then clicked her tongue softly.

"That certainly demonstrates their credibility."

Art put down his water glass, leaned back in his chair, took off his glasses, and wiped the lenses with the corner of his shirt, as if he was organizing his thoughts.

Then he put his glasses back on, his gaze fixed on Margaret through the lenses.

"You know what, Margaret? Five thousand Star Alliance coins is the biggest order I've ever received since I started as a broker."

Do you know what 5,000 Star Alliance Credits mean?

Art continued, tapping his fingers lightly on the bar counter.

"A nutritional paste that costs 0.1 Star Alliance Coins can sustain a normal human for a whole day if consumed sparingly. A prostitute on the street corner earns between 0.1 and 0.2 Star Alliance Coins per client, and she also has to pay taxes to the gang behind her."

Those who squandered their entire fortunes, spending ten modification points on a single ticket to the Deep Space Graveyard, dreaming of digging up relics of a pre-existing civilization and becoming rich overnight, mostly ended up dying in the wilderness, their bodies left unclaimed.

He paused, then leaned forward.

"This mission will be divided among six people. Even after deducting intermediary fees, each person will receive at least eight hundred Star Alliance Coins! Eight hundred!! Margaret, isn't that enough?"

"I know, how could I not know? Money is everything, and everything is money. That's the only truth."

Margaret shook her head, as if trying to shake off some thought.

"But Art, you too, you've made so much money, but I've never seen you actually spend it. You don't buy new clothes, upgrade your cybernetic body, or go to Mirror Lake District to enjoy yourself. So what the hell are you saving up for?"

Art remained silent; he did not answer Margaret's question.

A few seconds later, he reached into Margaret's pocket and pulled out an e-cigarette. Art put the cigarette in his mouth, took a deep drag, and then slowly exhaled.

Smoke swirled in the dim light, carrying a cloyingly sweet scent of artificial fragrance.

"Paper cigarettes are still the best to smoke. Adding some No. 6 would make it even more perfect."

Margaret rolled her eyes.

"Those who get something for free are still picky."

She said it irritably, but the tension in her tone had clearly eased a bit.

Just then, there was a knock on the tavern door.

The priest slowly opened his gray eyes.

"It's Jockley and Iron Man."

As the door was pushed open, Jockley and Big Yellow walked in.

The appearance of the big yellow dog has changed significantly, with two missile launch ports added to the frame behind it.

Big Yellow's optical sensor flickered, and a smug emoji popped up on the panel:

"[￣ω￣]"

Ate walked behind the bar and took out five glasses from the wine cabinet, and then took out a No. 9.

"How's the mission preparation going?" Jockley walked to the bar and took a glass of wine and a storage disc from At.

Art glanced at him, then at Margaret.

"Your character is set up. Your current identity is Krijo, an interstellar merchant from the Olympus Ring on the planet Kafdia. The data has been burned onto the disk; you just need to absorb it."

Margaret raised her glass and gestured to Jokley.

"It took me a lot of effort."

Jockley nodded, feeling a little more at ease. Just as he was about to take his wine glass and plate back up to the second floor, Daikiri suddenly spoke to everyone.

"Since we're going to be doing this kind of dangerous work together, why don't we officially form a team?"

Everyone looked at him. Daikiri scratched his head, seemingly unaccustomed to being the center of attention, but continued speaking.

"What I mean is, our current mission is to assassinate Floyd. Regardless of whether we'll work together again next time, instead of just assembling people on short notice each time, why don't we formally form a mercenary team?"

Silence fell in the tavern again, and Art was the first to laugh.

"You little rascal..." He shook his head, his tone tinged with helplessness, but more so with a sense of relief.

Margaret shrugged.

"I have no objection."

The priest nodded slowly without speaking, but the gesture conveyed his attitude.

Chokri looked at Big Yellow, whose optical sensor flickered, and a character popped up on the panel:

[+1]

"Okay," Jockley said, "I'll join."

Art came out from behind the bar and handed out glasses to everyone.

"So," Art raised his glass, his gaze sweeping across everyone's faces, "what should we name our team?"

Everyone involuntarily looked towards the tavern's sign: "Gear Tavern"

Art instantly understood what everyone meant. He raised his glass high, and the others followed suit.

Five glasses and a metal can clinked together gently under the dim lights of the tavern, the crisp sound echoing in the silence like the tolling of a bell signaling the start of some kind of ceremony.

"For the gears," Art said.

"For the gears," the others echoed in unison.