A few hundred years ago, Bonechill stopped caring about the state of his exosuit, and today that decision came to strike him back with a vengeance. It had taken him a few tries to find the nearest exosuit emporium; the Junovian language was unfamiliar and unintuitive for him to read. Once he had found a nest-structure with suits displayed in holographic splendor in the "windows", he knew that was the right place.
The price was never going to be an issue. He had more than enough funds during his centuries-long execution assignments. The real issue, however, was justifying that to High Chancellor Waylon, who, among many other brown nosers in the System Collective, had a fun habit of tracking every credit Bonechill earned or spent. It was just one of the many reasons why his exosuit and starskipper were in such disrepair. The less money he spent, the less headaches he would have.
This expenditure was unavoidable, however.
The rouge's explosions hit hard, tore through the shielding of his old exosuit, leaving it as mere tatters and rags that loosely hung from his body. Bonechill's exposed ribcage, femur, and wrists were decent motivation for an upgrade in technology. Something more durable would suffice. Something that could withstand the continued onslaught of point-blank explosions from an enemy, maybe even sustained starship fire if he could find the tools to tinker with it.
The exosuit Bonechill settled on was a mix between forty-third century Inner Rim retro and the modern, sleeker design of the Outer Rim suits. It was black with gold trim, the emblem of the System Collective and the Parthan System embroiled onto the breastplate in their respective gold and orange. There were holsters for both of his plasma pistols on his thighs, though there wasn't an over-the-shoulder strap for his laser rifle like on the old exosuit. Another modification he had to make, eventually.
The visor was fresh, one sleek piece of one-way black glass, obscuring Bonechill's face if he put it up. A small quality of life feature, he supposed, but he wouldn't have minded shilling more credits for an alternative.
Shortly after leaving the emporium, Bonechill's communicator lit up a brilliant amber. He sighed, "High Chancellor."
High Chancellor Waylon spoke, his tinny voice coming through the speakers in the exosuit helmet. A hologram of his bust manifested in the projector on Bonechill's wrist.
"Three hundred thousand credits?" The High Chancellor asked incredulously.
Bonechill shrugged, "A necessary expense, sir. My old exosuit was compromised."
The High Chancellor laughed, more to himself than to or with Bonechill, "Tell me that Junovian is dead at least?"
"Working on it, sir."
"Working on it..." The High Chancellor let the words hang in the air, "How long do you intend to 'work on it', then?"
"As long as it takes, sir."
"Hurry the fuck up, then. We need to shut down the warp gates ASAP. That whole system's about to go into quarantine and I need my ace."
Quarantine? The word lingered in Bonechill's head. The System Collective helping him personally isolate a target? It was unprecedented, surely, but maybe after four hundred years he'd finally gotten back into their good graces.
Not likely, he realized, shaking the thought from his head. Something else was going on.
"Who requested the quarantine?"
"Just kill the fucker and warp outta there. I got another call, we're tracking that purple haired bitch from Aegis II."
"I-" But before he could finish his thought, the communication line died.
The hunt was back on.
Bonechill
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by 3 Armored Kittens · Prodromos v.1.1 - World Anvil 0.9.15.045 © 2017-2024 [en] | Anvil Time: 23:14, Apr 5 2025