The job was simple. This guy knows another guy, who knows some other guy who’s got this big job that needs to get done, quick-like. Like, tomorrow morning 9am sharp and no fuck-ups, see? Half now, half later, here’s the activation code and the package coordinates, make it happen.

Simple, right? So far so good.

Just so we’re clear, mercs don’t give a rat’s ass who gets hit or who the money comes from: this side, that side, who gives a damn? Creds are creds, and the bigger and more untraceable, the better. That’s our guiding principle.

Look at me, talkin’ big words like ‘principle’ when I’m setting up a freaking nuke; down in the old subway tunnels, deep under the Rebel HQ MileHigh, set to go off at rush hour. BANG! What a smokin’ crater this thing is gonna make! Too bad about the people, but everyone knows you take your chances livin’ in the city. It’s not safe here.

Now, we don’t supply the actual materials, see? Just work with what ‘they’ give us. Do the job, get paid from a safe distance. And believe me, we’re ready for the safe-distance bit—these old concrete tunnels, they go on for miles, and some of ‘em still hit the surface way out in the Pastures, what used to be ‘burbs, way back. Don’t know why the Alliance jerks didn’t rip ‘em out with everything else a hundred years ago, but it works magic for the three of us as an exit stage left.

“Damnit, Mel, focus! What the hell is up with you?”

Oh, here we go. I don’t jump when Snark barks at me—that would be unprofessional. He’s got good instincts, but it’s all talk talk talk when he’s nervous. And this place echoes, so it’s like there’s three of him.

“I’m already not liking this job,” he whines. “It’s too easy, and you poking around a nuke like this isn’t making me any happier.”

I turn my head and just stare at him for a good 30 seconds. He hates it when I do that, see?

“Snarkimus, my dear fellow,” I finally say in my best Pompous—ooh, he really hates that. Good. “I am endeavoring to install this rather complex detonator to activate this rather large explosive device. So myself and our esteemed colleague—” I give a sharp nod toward Rat, leaning quiet-like in the dark against the tunnel wall “—would appreciate it ever so much if you would kindly shut the hell up.”

He snorts in triplicate and looks away, but of course Rat also has to share his thoughts, meager as they are.

“He’s right, Mel. I got a bad feeling about this,” he squeaks. “Can we just get the hell out of here?”

I stare at him, too, and almost laugh at the cliché. His eyes glow back at me from the dark—I always hated that about him. Freak.

“If you two assholes are through, I’d kinda like to finish this job,” I said. I turn back to the nuke and focus on the detonator. “I’m almost done, here.”

Jerk-offs. Don’t they know the creds are worth a little extra nerves? Islands don’t come cheap anymore, what with the sea level so high. But we’ll afford it after this.

The detonator is classic Alliance tech, smooth and black and shiny, like there’s a million-cred finish on the thing. It fits into the open cradle of the big nuke shell and seals itself up without a seam. Sweet.

And then it starts ticking.

Oops.

“Oops? What the hell do you mean ‘oops’?” Snark shouts. God, I hate his voice.

“Oh, did I say that out loud?” I don’t bother getting up—too late, now. “Nothing ticks anymore, Snarky. This is obviously meant for us.”

And Rat's running down the tunnel, now, abandoning ship. Doesn’t know he's already dead, I guess.

I'll admit it: I flinch when the bomb starts talking. The countdown projected on the ceiling is a nice touch, too.

“Welcome, gentlemen!” it shouts, too fucking cheerful by half. “The Rebellion thanks you for your previous service! Too bad about your taking this job, though. Have a nice day.”

The spoken countdown from 5 echoes like those old-time rocket launch vids. Of course it isn’t a nuke, but the blast pressure and heat concentrated in these tunnels will do the job on us, easy.

I look up from the bomb. “Sorry, Snarks.”

He looks at the bomb, then at me. “You fu—”

BANG!