Empyrean Iris Story Collection Vol. 3

Hunter and the Hunted

"You're a good boy, be sweet ok. I promise I will come back for you."

Rogue whimpered and scooted forward on his four paws, tail thumping sadly against the floor as the Marshal stood back up, and looked at the green mohawked bartender behind the counter, "Thanks for watching him. I know it's a bit of a hassle with your new baby and-"

His friend raised a hand and smiled, "Don't worry about it, we love Rogue, he's a big old softie, aren't you boy." He reached down to pat the dog's head, and Rogue licked his hand once before turning to look back at the Marshal, his glowing blue eyes wide and sand.

"Don't look at me like that." He muttered, "I shouldn't be gone long." Though a part of him..... knew.

And that part of him knew that Rogue knew.

If this all worked out, even if this didn't work out. It was unlikely he would ever see Rogue again. He waved one more time at the human and Finnari behind the bar, reached down to stroke Rogue's big velvety ears and made his way out of what had been his workplace for the last two years. At his shoulder NEMO bobbed quietly but said nothing. He looked up at the sky, wishing for rain that might match his dour mood, but despite the low ceiling of clouds hanging overhead, there was no rain.

It was dark out, and the sun orbs had been dulled to a deep blue.

He had read something in the papers abut the color choice. It was only used in public spaces and only at night, but supposedly it decreased the rate of violent crime happening after dark by a whopping 60%. It helped that Arcadia had the lecture of being very selective who they allowed on their planet, and were very liberal in who they kicked off.

On Arcadia, there were no second chances for things. Any sort of domestic violence, harming children, all of it would result in you being exiled off planet. The thought process followed that, if you could live on a planet where formal dueling, Spartan training, drev training, and martial arts were actually a religion, and you STILL couldn't control your temper, then you didn't belong planeside.

Drugs might have been a problem if the Director of Intelligence Conn didn't know exactly who was smuggling them, and had subsequently crippled whatever drug trade there might have been on arcadia. The man was a real danger, and the Marshal had done his best to avoid the creepy floating alien at all costs knowing that his cover would be blown if they ever came in telepathic range of each other. He wasn't sure if it had worked, but since he had yet to be arrested, he assumed he had managed to fly under the radar.

It helped when you actively avoided thinking about what you actually were.

He had had a job once, a legitimate one. He had been a detective in the UNSC's first interplanetary division, loaned out to law enforcement agencies across the galaxy, fighting crime in the understreets of Noctopolis, or over the sands of Irus.

He had been good at his job, had enjoyed his job mostly, had managed to claw his way up in the competitive ranks on the strength of his own merit, but it was that drive, and that skill that had caused his downfall. At one point he had been head detective of the UNSC's interplanetary investigative division, and he had enjoyed his job. It was then that Senator Hunt had come to him with a proposition.

It was a job offer that included a massive pay raise, benefits, and a promise to see even more of the galaxy.

At the time he had not expected to be groomed into a pet assassin.

But here he was, and no matter how much he wanted to leave, or how much he wished he could turn back, he knew that the potential collateral wasn't worth his freedom. He would rather exist as a servant to tyrants for a thousand years before he would let the collateral get out of hand.