Propelled by the handle-powered spring, the ball raced across the playing field. It hit shiny iron pins, and flew around the board—free but mistreated, above the hole of all ends. After a wild dance dodging the narrow upper baskets, it struck a medium-sized cup which triggered a muffled sound through the time-worn built-in speakers.

  A dozen marbles loudly fell into the ceramic receptacle above my knees. High on natural dopamine, I shyly chuckled. I later chained for nearly an hour the addictive cigarettes as quickly as the balls.

  I only stopped because of the never-ending chortle coming from Keigo. It’s through a pyramid of wobbly glass that my advanced optics witnessed the young man draining a seventh pint under Kuma’s disapproving look. The mustached tapster laughed at my associate and his well bounced belly full of alcohol. Another gaijin, a lady of the night accompanied the ribbing while boorishly chewing a handful of 3D-printed peanuts.

  I rolled my eyes, which probably flickered in red. An issue from my old software. I decided to intervene before Keigo could bring a new large pint to his lips. Yet, I stepped back halfway through and leaned against the steel pillar crossed before. My foolish partner deserved this moment—as a reward for his years-long loyalty on Neptune.

  A last marble rolled between my fingers. Mentally preparing myself, I cracked his vertebrae’s metal frames.

  But something else immediately caught my attention. Behind the windows fogged by Keigo’s dishonorable aerobics appeared two shadows wrapped in long dust covers. Screwed on their heads, broad hats with raised rolls drew demons’ horns over those silhouettes assembling on both sides of the front door.

  The jukebox made a click. My heart stopped at the same time as the music. My gaze slid from the main entrance to the bartender. The publican froze, and a pearl of sweat ran over his temple. Feeling observed, he anxiously glanced, before glimpsing back at the gate.

  A second later, the dastard ducked behind the counter.

  My cyber-mind displayed an ominous warning. My vision turned fully red as the main door flew open, jumping from its plastic hinges. My hand automatically reached for my shoulder holster, dropping the pachinko ball. “Keigo! Kuma!” I yelled, hurrying behind the pillar.

  The glass on Keigo’s lips exploded, as did the mirror and half the taps adorned with some local beer levers. In the cold brown rain, my mortally wounded associate staggered before falling backwards.

  Sharper, our pilot turned—foldable Uzi in hand. His shoulders with subcutaneous Kevlar-pads had taken the lead storm’s brunt. He aimed at the man standing in the doorway; but his arm being outstretched, he left his torso open for a different shooter on the other side of the exploding window. After four rounds whose detonation would deafen the whole moon, Kuma went down on our table.

  Swearing, I jumped from my cover. Caught off guard while stepping over the wide frame, the second gunner stared at me; his silver-circled iris glowed beneath his frond dip. IR-linked to my brain, the wired Beretta fired by itself, hitting the assassin in the guts.

  My target fell backwards in agony. But I couldn’t deliver the fatal double tap. The first shooter at the door retaliated. I managed to take cover again. The anti-tank rounds dug wide half-melted cones in the column sheltering me, vaporizing the enticing Polaroids.

  Breathing heavily, I reloaded clumsily. White blood trickled down my trembling fingers as I inserted new purple cartridges into the magazine. “Who the hell are you? What is it you want?” I asked first in Japanese before translating into Solarian English. The elusive survivor I hoped to save time, but also to learn my attackers’ position.

  “We’re just lazing about, lad…” replied one of the assailants with a thick Essex accent.

  The nasal voice didn’t arise from the door nor behind the shattered windows. It came from a third man, casually leaning on the pachinko in front me. In the shadows, the Englishman held between his gloved fingers the last marble I had dropped. His other hand remained hidden in his dust cover’s left pocket.

  Still facing me, the space cowboy introduced the steel ball into the slot. He calmly sat on the creaking plastic stool. On the wooly lapel of his greatcoat shone the round palladium badge of the Alliance of the Auxiliaries of Justice.

  “Bauntihantā…” I growled.

  The bounty hunter pulled the rusted handle. Livid, I cocked my bloodstained Beretta. But as I aimed at my enemy, the arcade began to play a jingle while brightly glowing.

  “Bingo!” the smiling stranger uttered shortly after. His winnings poured onto the tile floor like a waterfall.

  The racket covered the shot that hit me in the throat.

  I dropped my weapon. Brought both my hands to the flowing wound. The vermilion blood spilled onto my white shirt. I slid down the perforated pillar.

  Struggling to breathe, I rolled on my back among the steel balls, my faltering gaze lost on the bouncing marbles chaotically banging into each other. These kept clashing as the man approached but got slowed in the sticky red plasma and my ivory cyborg fluid spreading all over the tiles.

  “That’s what you Nips say, innit? When you win…” Reaching above, the justice mercenary pulled his hand from his dust cover’s pocket. Snickering, he spun the still smoking sawed-off shotgun he slyly fired.

  “No—no…” I coughed, spitting blood. I felt the fool-tasting cyber-plasma running down my throat.

  My mind wandered. The man insisted: “Then… what do you say?”

  “You—you just collect your reward…”

  I had trouble distinguishing the hunter as static invading my red vision, but I heard him chuckling: “We’ll certainly do that too, lad.”

  The shadowy figure finally disappeared behind a dark double muzzle. When the Englishman pulled the trigger, I was already gone.

  I, proudly carrying the name of Ulysses, had failed. Failed my clan, my mission, my master. Forgive me, Monsutā-sama. May the tides of destiny keep carrying you further.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or genuine events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Quentin Raffoux

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  First Edition

  April 2026

  raffouxrossi.com

  Cover art by Théo Saragas

 

 

  Quentin Raffoux, KITTY KITTY

 

 

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