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Sometimes...

I feel remorse.

On occasion, it gets so bad it's like a bullet stopped inches away from your skull, your life hanging on by a thread, a sliver of time. You can hear it, you can see it, and all of a sudden, you feel aware. Aware of the fact that you really are going to die. You say to yourself, "Hell, it's all over."

Then you open your eyes and snap back to reality.

Life only gives you the things that you don't want or seek. Everything else, you have to take yourself, or you'll just end up straggling behind, lost in the teeming crowd of people who don't know what to do. You've got to make a life out for yourself, pave your own road, cut your own way through the dense jungle. If you don't grab life by its horns, it'll gore you through like butter.

"You done thinking?"

I looked up. The damn Rogue was still there. Gun in hand. Bullet in gun.

I was so f---ing close, standing on the point of no return, not knowing which way to go.

Sometimes...

I feel good.

There's a reason I do what I do. There's a reason they call me what they call me. There's a reason why they hate me, a reason why others adore me, and a reason why deep down, past the superficial layer of emotion that other people wear, they all wish I never existed. I don't wear that layer of lies. I just say what I mean. Call me outspoken, headstrong, or stupid. I call myself free.

I yawned and looked at the Rogue. "No."

I felt good today. But apparently, the Rogue prick with the gun in front of me didn't share my love of the world.

"Alright, you're pushing it now, Blake," said the Rogue.

He was nervous. You could tell. Well, maybe not you, but I could tell. After over thirty years of this crap, you get used to picking up on things. Twitches, gestures, tone of voice. This Rogue wasn't scared, but sure as hell he was nervous. A 56-year old Bounty Hunter in a bathrobe doesn't exactly cast the most terrifying image in the world. Besides, the Rogue was huge.

"What the hell are they feeding you these days on Buffalo, eh, meatface?" I asked.

Sometimes, my mouth is too big for my own good. I got a kick to the groin.

But after over 30 years of unsuccessful womanizing, I was used to that. It also left him terribly open. His balance was off. One leg was up, so the hand holding the gun had been lifted to compensate for the weight distribution.

It was showtime.

His leg was still up, I lifted it up as far as possible with my left hand and with the right, grabbed his arm holding the gun. Despite his size, the Rogue toppled. But my right hand was still clenched on his forearm. Sidestepping past him, I crossed my left arm over his arm, and yanked hard with my right.

There was a splintering crack, then a scream.

I let him slide the pistol into a free hand, and pointed the damn thing at him. He looked up. Now, he was scared. The 52-year old Bounty Hunter that still stayed in shape. The wonders of modern medicine?

Nah.

I call it dedication and the Atkin's Diet.

I'll be frank. He was f---ed.

When he realized what was going to happen, he became quiet, and stared up at me for a couple of seconds. I guess its the same for all people. Only I didn't hide in a shell like him.

I looked down at the Rogue and put his nose between the crosshairs of the gun. "I'm done thinking now."

I lit a cigar in the rain, shielding the tiny ember by looking down.

Only two matches left, but I didn't really give a f---. It was my last cigar. I kept on forgetting to restock. Took a few puffs and relaxed. I've smoked every single cigar in the world except for one, the one I've kept in my pocket for the past twenty years. Hell, I haven't opened the container in twenty years.

I wondered if the cigar had gone bad.

Then again, I smoked some Cretan cigar that I looted off some Corsair ship in the Malvada Cloud. It was pretty damn good, actually. I don't know how the 'sair's grow tobacco on that s---hole they live on, but they make a good cigar.

Maltese cigars, those bastards lace everything with cardamine. One thing they teach all the newbie trackers that join up is to stay away from the crap. Once you get on it, you're hooked for life. It's like getting on a one-way train that eventually goes off a cliff at the end.

Curacan ones are pretty decent too. Overpriced, but decent.

I checked my credit account. Sometimes, I swear that either the call girls overcharge, or the banks have been stealing my money. I decided I was going to shake up some Corsairs later for some smokes.

I didn't know why the hell that Rogue came after me. Fat bastard, really. I was surprised he fit in one of their dinky little scrapheaps. I should have told him to go on the Fanken's diet, just to inject a little humor into his day. Too bad he was lying in the Apollo Hotel with a cauterized hole in his face.

The Apollo is really a funny place. It's right across from the Artemis, a supposedly classier place, but it's really just the place where the rich folks who don't want to be see come down to have a good time with the girls. The guy who owns the Apollo owns the Artemis too. Derek Gunthram, good guy - used to be a Gaian. Nowadays, he stays on neutral ground. He's only got a head, an arm, and a leg. Rest of the stuff got sliced off by these insane Outcasts called Reapers. For your sake, I won't go into detail about the stuff he doesn't have. I can trust him to get the Rogue removed off the floor without me asking.

The Apollo is toned down a bit. It's got your regular amenities, fridge with complementary drinks, HV, phone, decent bed, and decent bathroom, but nothing too fancy. Nothing fake, like the Artemis, which is just a crap exterior over the stuff that goes on inside.

Regardless, few people know that I stay at the Apollo. The Rogue got in touch with someone on the inside. To be honest, I didn't really care who he got in touch with. I just wanted to enjoy my cigar, kick back, and relax.

Not much to hope for...except I was standing in the rain.

Manhattan's a good planet, with some space in between the places you gotta walk around in. But if there's one thing I hate about Manhattan, it's the LPI. The bastards are either too fat or too lazy to do their jobs right, and end up arresting loads and loads of drunks, homeless, and loiterers. Worst of all, they're privatized, so they compete with us.

Now you know why they're aren't too many Hunters in Liberty anymore.

We started off in Texas, but the LPI more or less took over the operation from there. Now, the place is essentially their prison system. You got two Max's right there, but they aren't half as bad as the Vierlande, and a lot better than the Newgate, where they lock up all the nutcases and the terrorists.

The LPI weren't too excited when they saw me walk into the room. Of course, I had my BHG uniform on, only I wore it the way I liked. A few buttons unbuttoned, had the straps hanging loose down the sides. And of course, my trusty manual blaster at my side holster. I already took care to toss the Rogue's gun in the nearest dumpster.

Immediately, one of the LPIs started to get up, but nearly knocked over all the drinks on his table because of his rather prominent beer belly. I didn't even bother. Walked over to the barkeep. Looked like a pretty decent, cheery guy.

"You got Dublin Classic?" I asked.

"Nope. No whiskey here, bud," he replied, "we just got Liberty Ale."

Okay, he really wasn't that great of a guy.

I winced. "Yeah, fine."

He poured me a glass, and I noticed that he was leaning backwards. The f---er knew it was bad, and he was still dishing it out like some parent gives their children brussels sprouts. I hate brussels sprouts. If you want to choke info out of me, no better way than to give me brussels sprouts.

I decided to chug it. It tasted like crap and felt like drano going down. No wonder Liberty is the number one House when it comes to liver transplants. I decided to leave the rest of it there and just chomp on my cigar.

But the damn LPI managed to get out of his seat and walked over. He tapped me on my shoulder. Again, I didn't really bother.

"Buddy, you're under arrest."

It was then that I stiffened up. "I'm what?"

The fat LPI decided to sass. "What, you dumb or something?"

I chomped on my cigar and took a puff. Blew the smoke right in his face. "It's actually called deaf. Dumb is when you can't speak. Why the hell am I arrested? I'm a bounty hunter, on your side?"

The LPI laughed this really pig-like, porky laugh with snorts in between. I rolled my eyes.

"Buddy," said the LPI, who was now joined by his partner, "Don't give me that crap. You're under arrest, you've the right to a lawyer. Anything you saw may be used against you, yada-da-bla."

I was more concerned with the other LPI, who's hand was on his stun baton.

"Why am I arrested?" I asked.

The LPI pointed at a dingy sign that was obstructed by the clock the bartender had nailed over it.


I looked at the bartender. He half-smiled and shrugged.

That guy wasn't great at all.

"You're an a--hole," I said to the bartender.

He shrugged again.

"Alright, one more word outta you, and you're going to the Huntsville. Consider us being nice for just putting you in lockup overnight," threatened the fat LPI in a very overdone way. He pointed his finger at me menacingly.

I looked at him.

He lifted his finger up and pointed it at me again.

There was an awkward silence as I began to ponder upon whether or not the creator - if there was one - would have committed suicide after witnessing some of the things that went on in this life.

The LPI repeated the gesture. His partner simply stood behind him, hand on the hilt of his stun baton.

I decided to help them out. "This is the part where you handcuff me and take me away."

"Shaddap, smartass!" exclaimed the LPI suddenly. He swung at me and knocked my cigar onto the ground.

Now I was really pissed. But taking into consideration that my Manta was still in an docking platform swarming with LPI and the fact that this entire system was swarming with LPI, I decided to give in. It wasn't the first time a hunter got arrested. Besides, the guild had their ways of putting pressure on the authorities. We just ask for a private call, and tell "Aunt Sally" that we're fine but we'll be late for dinner.

I held out my hands and let them slap the cuffs on. The other LPI unholstered my blaster.

"Careful with that, it's a manual," I warned.

"I know what it is, dawg," said the LPI, "You just worry 'bout walkin' now, aite?

I nodded and the LPI's grabbed me by the arms and led me out.

Hell, and to think that I just wanted to relax and smoke a cigar.

"No personal call?" I asked.

I didn't particularly care. The BHG did have it's way with dealing with arrested Bounty Hunters, since it was actually a common occurrence. Even though the LPI hated us as competition, the Liberty government still valued our contributions to them. The LPI don't know about the jump holes, and the BHG intended to keep it that way. The few that did know little tidbits kept their mouths shut.

"You'll get your personal call as soon as we write you up," said the fat LPI that had arrested me.

I sighed. The holding cell was pretty much empty besides me and a scrawny Xeno with multiple body piercings in the corner. He stayed out of my way. At 6'2" and 280lbs of bulk, I cut an impressive figure. I don't mean to be arrogant, but I have kept in fantastic shape for a 56-year old.

I leaned against the wall of the holding cell. It was one of at least 200 in the LPI Prison Unit on Manhattan. They used the cells to match up criminals so that no one ends up getting decapitated or worse. Hell, it sure looks different from the other point of view. Not that I had never been arrested before... I've got 5 counts of Aggravated battery in Liberty, I'm more or less blacklisted from Rheinland, a few unproven charges of assault in Kusari, and a few disturbing the public peace charges in Bretonia.

The fat LPI walked over. "Alright, you can have your call. Remember, it's personal. Know what that means to us?"

I nodded. It was standard LPI procedure to consider arrests part of business and not personal issues. As a result, personal calls actually could not involve anything regarding your arrest, or it would be considered breach of privacy and leakage of company affairs.

"No mention of anything that happened, no arrest, no detainment, no bail," I began.

"Yeah, yeah," said the LPI impatiently.

It was really disgusting, in reality. Just another way the LPI sought to slap heavier and heavier fines and sentences on the people they arrested. At least us hunters just turn them over.

The LPI opened the force field enclosing the holding cell, keeping a wary eye on the Xeno inside. They played it rough-n-tough in the bar, but here, they knew that I wasn't the priority prisoner. He led me to a small holophone unit. I punched in the number and held up the receiver.

"Hey, Uncle Mike?"

The LPI stared at me strangely. I shrugged.

"Yeah, it's me, Dan," I said. I abruptly stopped. "No, the other Dan. Dan Blake."

"That's right, Uncle Mike," I continued, "Yeah, and old friend of mine's visiting Manhattan, and I haven't seen him in years. Yeah. Okay, yeah. I'll definitely make dinner next weekend."

A voice across the line responded. "We'll get you out in a bit. Hang tight."

The line clicked dead.

I turned back to the fat LPI. "Thanks man, didn't want to keep the old man waitin'."

He simply shook his head and led me back to the holding cell.