It didn’t matter that Grimoire’s defenders had figured out the weak spots of the enemy's armor, that the mercenaries must have been expecting pushover civilians with an uncoordinated defense, or that the enemy's morale was falling apart against a real opponent for a change. None of that mattered because the order for HDF and Remnant marksmen to switch to hard lethal ammunition. After that, the battle was all but over, with two marines for every marksman sweeping the final hallways and rooms. Any leftover mercenary that was found was immediately pinned by a threatening barrage of soft lethal, automatic fire, and soon after shot through their thick chest armor twice and once through their visor.
“I see you stole our drills.” Gunnery Sergeant Quartez said to the Remnant Lieutenant.
“More like borrowed and perfected.” Lieutenant Berg grinned.
“Stick with us, we will teach ya a thing or two.” A Remnant private yelled.
“You all took your sweet time getting here.” An HDF Corporal countered.
The exchanges were friendly enough, if you could call coked-up, bloodthirsty animals growling at each other friendly. In the very least, the mood wasn’t hostile. Something that Lieutenant Berg and Gsgt Quartez could tell by the way they looked at each other was that they were both grateful.
“Nice of your captain to finally let my guys stretch our legs.” Lieutenant Berg said to Gsgt Quartez.
The HDF non-com smiled. “Nice of you to be such a good guest and respect our hospitality.”
As pointedly posturing as each barb or verbal exchange was, the frictions between the two groups began to cool. Nothing like a bunch of knuckle-dragging pipe hitters to bond over, than by insulting each other after a mutually beneficial bloodbath.
The well-disciplined HDF marines, with their clean-shaven, manicured appearance and crisp matching shipsuits and standardized gear, contrasted with the mixed batch of hair and beards, a ragtag assortment of underarmored shipsuits that clashed with the uniformed, overarmored rigs of the Remnant marines. One thing they had in common was a mutual dedication to protect this ship, hatred for mercenaries, and a buzz from the first real combat most of them had ever seen.
“Berg, give me a sit rep,” a voice called over the radio strapped to Lieutenant Berg’s chest. Simultaneously, Gsgt checked his wrist comm as if reading an incoming priority message.
“We just cleared the last mercenaries that boarded under the cover of that missile barrage. Some definitely got away and are still roaming the ship. I'm just following the HDF's lead.” Lieutenant Berg said.
“I’m on my way with the rest of our guys, including Jessamine. We just pulled the last data spike near us, waiting to hear from the CIC if they think there are any more.” Lieutenant Heart said over the radio.
Gsgt grimaced as if he had just tasted something sour. “Might want to hurry, CIC says there are no more spike hacks, but there is a jammer, and it's moving this way.” The look the two leaders exchanged conveyed the same conclusion that the Tinman was likely heading straight for them.
Approximately 550,000 km until CANVAS REACH.
Now that the spike hacks were cleared, there wasn’t much Sara could do. She kept part of her attention monitoring the internal feeds, hoping to spot where the group of mercenaries that had all but disappeared, but there were already half a dozen watch standards on that task. Even with her nearly full access and control of the ship, she felt powerless, only able to watch the Black Dreadnought draw closer. She made one more pass at observing the sensors that could monitor the hull of Grimoire, but again, there was no sign of the missing mercenaries.
The metal monster scared her more. She had tried playing games with the door near it, but it would just tear through them, unfazed by its obstacles and unwilling to deviate from its course. She had even tried to catch it in a blast door as it crossed its threshold, but it was moving too quickly for her to catch it in that kind of improvised trap.
An incoming message caught her attention, and she chose to eavesdrop without asking permission. It was Captain Price from ARC 5, speaking to Lieutenant Heart and Captain Abrams.
“Our marines still haven't suppressed that cruiser where we know the first Tinman Signal is coming from.” Captain Price said.
“Say again, Price. I thought I heard you say the first signal.” Lieutenant Heart sounded winded as if he was running.
“We have a Tinman making its way aft towards our hangars, we think. My XO is coordinating our Marines with your Remnant Marines to try Lieutenant Heart's plan.” Captain Abrams said.
“Our úlfhéenar are your best bet, and yes, úlfhéenar Heart, I said first. A second one is coming from the Dreadnought. We think that's the one controlling the Tinman Shell you’re about to evict.” Captain Price kept talking, but Sara drew back, overwhelmed by the new information. She wouldn't say it out loud, but the uncomfortable buzz in the back of her head, fatigue, and general drawbacks from her overending with her implant. She had really pushed her implant in the first few minutes by doing so many things all at once. Even now, limiting her task to one or two at a time, she could feel the strain threatening to incapacitate her. I can't afford to pass out again, or the Captain will never let me use my tail again!
She checked the external sensors one more time, only adding to her unease with not knowing where those last mercenaries were. She tried distracting herself with that word úlfhéenar. She kept healing. She had heard it in the medbay with Nick, but had been so embarrassed that she never read the rest of her translation.
She found úlfhéenar was a Vik term similar to berserker, but berserker was specifically a bear embodiment.
Her attention began to draw to the distances of the closing dreadnought, but she pushed it away, grappling with her powerlessness to do anything about it. She focused on her distraction. úlfhéenar was just a wolf embodiment of the shamanic warrior cast. Sara recalled that Liutenat Heart was a úlfhéenar, but if her understanding of her distraction learning was correct, úlfhéenar did not work well alone, either seen deployed as pairs or small packs. So how many úlfhéenar are there on Grimoire?
Something new drew her attention, and she gratefully focused on it. It was bizarre, multiple far-off signatures of small 4th-dimensional emergences anywhere from one to three light minutes away. Even as she called out the emergencies to Captain Abrams and the CIC, there were more showing up within that range of one to three light minutes. She kicked herself for not knowing what the ships were. As she was digging through the archives, something else drew her focus away for a second.
The Vik ship Wojtek was doing something bizarre with its gravity drives, accelerating towards Grimoire, its gravitational readings pushing starboard and port at the same time, conflicting with itself in a way that would only strain the superstructure, and not provide any maneuvering benefit.
The second it took her to analyze Wojtek, she found the designation of the growing swarm of ships. She shouted with surprise and a growing concern. “The ships in the distance, they’re all–”
Approximately 478,000 km until CANVAS REACH.
úlfhéenar Berg waited for the next input from his pack mate úlfhéenar Heart.
“Lieutenant Berg, while I believe you and Maverick Canine that we won't be able to kill this thing outright, what does setting up this ambush do other than needlessly risking my men's lives?” Gunnery Sergeant Qurtez said in a hushed tone so that neither of their Marines could overhear.
“One more time before we start getting painted. These things, most of the time, tend to get tunnel vision, and–”
“No offense, Lt, but our Maverick already trained us up and down about these things, only he made it really clear not to get bogged down and stay mobile. So what are we doing after we are engaged? I got a whole playbook to run instead if you're not going to share your full plan.” Gsgt Quartez asked, meaningfully looking at his Marines now mixed in with the Remnant Marines.
Something clicked for Lieutenant Berg that hadn’t earlier. Canine was such a common word that he hadn’t recognized its significance next to the unfamiliar term ‘Maverick’ that the gunney kept using. “Hang on, do you mean Sinni Canine Jerik trained you for encountering these Tinmen?”
“Canine Jerik did, yes, I don’t know about any sinni. Also, what the hell do you mean by us getting painted?” Gsgt Quartez asked.
Lieutenant Berg laughed, startling not just the gunney but some of his and the HDF Marines. “Remnants, watch these HDF boys, and follow their lead when maneuvering. This isn't just their home turf, but the god damned Hrafn trained them himself to fight these monsters.
Gunnery Sergeant Quartez had only enough time for one last question, and the only one that slipped his tongue was one he had been asking himself ever since the undercover Maverick had joined his ship. “Who the hell is this Canine Jerik guy, and why does he have so many different names?”
The Remnant Marines had mild reactions of disbelief, jealousy, and some looked at the confused HDF Marines with a new sense of acceptance, bordering on admiration. “I never knew him personally, but he's a legend. He was on the founding table of the Remnant Militia, which later became the Coalition, and hell yeah, they call him the man of many names because he garnered so many titles and nicknames over the years, even before the Freebird event on C32. Rumor is that Dragon Foot was considering making him a úlfhéenar, but no one thought he would make a good wolf. Too much like a bird when he fights, like a raven. So in some ways, Canine is like úlfhéenar Heart and me. Hrafn Jerik, friend of the clans, Berserker’s Bard, war dog of C32, and most commonly, everybody's buddy.”
Lieutenant Berg could tell by Gsgt's face that he had more questions than answers now, but there was no time for questions, only actions. Just as the first shot rang out from the forward team ahead of their position, the radio on Lieutenant Berg's shoulder pauldron crackled. The fight was on.
Approximately 393,000 km until CANVAS REACH.
Whatever was happening in space didn’t matter to the joint HDF and Remnant Marines.
Huge rips in the second blast door were torn open like gashes of hate. Nothing had prepared them for how the metal monsters sounded with every movement of its strange bands of metal that made up its bodies. The bands were more like ribbons snaking around the body, resulting in a frustratingly flexible and durable opponent. Still, a 40mm grenade shot at almost point-blank range was enough to give it pause, even if the Marines closest suffered disorienting effects even through their especially sealed armor. Even from down the hall, over a hundred yards away, the shockwaves of the 40mm made the Marines with less armor dizzy, and their bodies felt like jelly. Even with the mitigating effects they had learned from the VI, Maria wasn’t enough to prevent damage to soft targets like flesh and blood.
“Fall back, fall back. Second team, get ready to light that fucker up!” Gsgt Qurtez yelled.
Lieutenant Berg shouted into his radio. “Grenades are a no-go, repeat grenades are a no-go.”
One of the remnant Marines was lying down with a large rifle with a revolver-style mechanism they called a York. Before the Marines near the blast door with the Tinman were even ten yards away, the Marine opened fire. The rocket-propelled munition split the air with a loud crack. The tin man pushed back from the hole it was carving through the door. The retreating Marines ran past the York sniper fireteam in a single file line. With them fully out of the way, two more Marines opened up with rapid-fire machine guns.
As the metal monster made its way through the rents in the door, guiding hands tapped the machine gunner's shoulders, signaling them to go low and retreat. Without missing a beat, a second York sniper farther down the hall near the intersection fired from a standing position, leaning on the corner. Two other Marines grabbed the mat that the first sniper was on and started pulling him and his York rifle down the hall. Still firing as he was pulled back, the auto loader attachment whirred as it fed more rounds into the ammo cylinder. The Tinman advanced with a loud screeching noise emanating from its mouthless metal face, but it fought for every yard as the Remnant and HDF Marines gave it hell for every inch.
Wednesday starting point,
Note: Canvas reach is the effective ship weapon range for an effective hit chance over 90%. i.e., they can't dodge the bullets. If you are a fan of The Expanse, it's like “hammer lock” range.
Approximately 301,000 km until CANVAS REACH.
Gsgt Quartez watched the progress of the forward elements of his and Lieutenant Berg’s marines through his helmet's heads-up display, or HUD. The feeds from their suit cameras and a few surveillance cameras are more than enough to inform him of any issues if they should arise.
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Taking his attention away for a moment, he regarded the colored cartridges he and his best marksmen had been given along with rifles from the Remnants Marines. He ignored the general shit-talking as the Remnant Marines familiarized themselves with the HDF rifles they had swapped for. The colored cartridges genuinely reminded Gsgt of Crayola crayons, only metal and no paper label. The damn coloring tools weren't the kind of far-gone earth history someone in his profession could avoid.
“How close are you, Heart?” Lieutenant Berg asked over his radio. Not for the first time, Gsgt Quartez wondered whether the Remnant Coalition was too cheap to afford better helmets for their grunts and officers, or if they all used external radio setups.
“2 minutes out, Jessamine says, green team, I think that means friendly is green.” Lieutenant Heart said.
“You think?” Liuetanat Berg's voice pitched.
The radio cracked again with more background noise that sounded like chanting or rhyming. “Yes, green, Fuck bro, just pop the dust before we get there!”
Without another word, Lieutenant Berg took a cylindrical grenade off his belt and jabbed one of the green crayon-looking things into its bottom. Gsgt Quartez nodded at the grenade and asked. “What's that for now?”
“Sorry, you did ask earlier what I meant when I said we get painted. Jessamine, our friendly neighborhood Thraug, is going to come through here any second, and anything green she's going to associate as friendly.”
Gsgt Qurtez noticed other Remnant Marines doing something similar with the green cartridges and a grenade. “What is she got bad eyesight or something?”
“Have you ever seen a thraug go into an intentional furry rage?” Lieutenant Berg answered with a question. When Gsgt Qurtez shook his head, Berg continued. “She's going to break anything that gets her way and have one of the meanest cases of tunnel vision you can imagine. Though she might moderately be in control by resetting one of her ad-lib poetry, it's always better safe than sorry.”
Marines from the forward positions joined them, now all in various degrees of out of breath, but some still had the right of mind to point their rifles back the way they came on edge. Gsgt Qurtez grimaced at how many men were missing or marked flatlined in his HUD. The radio crackled again, “Purple is punchable, and red is lead.” That is the best I can understand from the translator and her. I guess red is the guidance, then that leaves purple as hostile. Your call, brother, but about 20 seconds out.”
“You heard Lieutenant Heart, paint yourselves green!” Lieutenant Berg said as he pulled the pin on his grenade. The resulting explosion was a sticky cloud of green dust that stuck to everything, including the assorted Marines. “Load rifles with purple!” The HDF Marines that were given the Remnant rifles stared at the Remnant Marines as they loaded the purple crayon cartridges into a unique port between the barrel extension and the breach. Hesitantly, they copied the action, except for Lieutenant Berg, who loaded a red crayon cartridge instead of purple.
The sound of the tin man was heard a split second before the two York snipers opened fire on the metal monster. From the opposite direction, an even louder booming noise nearly drowned out the bangs from the Yorks and the screeching Tinman.
“Marksman, keep pegging that thing! And for the love of all that is holy, everyone hug the walls!” Lieutenant Berg yelled. Like clockwork, the marksman lit up the Tinman, who was struggling to advance under the rhythmic beat of the York's higher caliber rounds. With every hit from a marksman rifle, a bit of purple marked its impact. The booming charge of the massive, grey, and black-skinned Thraug matriarch barreled towards them. Her deep black eyes glinted with the reflection of the purple blotted Tinman. A Remnant Marine was leaning over her shoulder, firing past the Tinman, and as she passed, Lieutenant Berg vaulted onto her back to join his fellow úlfhéenar aback the Xeno bulldozer.
Approximately 205,000 km until CANVAS REACH.
You never realize how strong a Thraug is until you witness one of the gentle giants in a furry rage. Like you know by looking at their size, they must be strong, but their undefined muscles, soft, supple skin made them more reminiscent of a large Earth whale in terms of how unthreatening they seemed. And Thraugs were docile, peaceful folk, regardless of whether they carried the frenzy gene or not. It was hard to make them mad, even harder to make them mad enough to flex their mighty muscles in hostility.
The Tinman had crossed that line a long time ago, and Jessamine was the instrument of retribution for all her kind. úlfhéenar Heart knew that better than his packmate Berg. He had been there when the Thraug matriarch had escaped The Roost Massacre with her family, at the cost of most of his men. Riding on Jessamine’s shoulders, he and Berg fired their rifles ahead as if lighting the way for the enraged Thraug. Their mutual vendetta against these metal monsters had spirited them forward, like so many others that formed the cornerstone of the Remnant Coalition. The weight of more than two men was on Jessamine’s shoulders today.
It was hard to stay on, even with the special harnesses made for every Thraug in the Remnant Coalition. To call the ride bumpy was an understatement. Jarring as it was, with practiced hands, he handed his last magazine to úlfhéenar Berg and slowly climbed down the harness to Jessamine's ribs. The joint training had called for a pack of four úlfhéenar to ride with a Remnant Thraug, but circumstances and Jessamine's persistence had led to this variant of a maneuver, and the growing trail of red Thraug blood.
Jessamine's improvised use of every corner of the turn as an opportunity to smash the Tinman as if it were an air bag, but at best, it had only slowed down its clawing, gutting attacks. Clearly, her armor was starting to fail, and there had been no úlfhéenar to defend her. He would have to fill the gap, and Berg would have to manage on his own.
The ballistic spear had gone through many design iterations, but the úlfhéenar had certainly driven most of the variants into existence, or in this case spearheaded its R&D. úlfhéenar Heart didn't care for the name, mark, or what numbers or letters the egg heads had assigned the Ballistic Spear he drew from his back, only if it worked. The basic concept was the same. Strong metal head and shaft that could penetrate a target, and a firing mechanism that could fire whatever shell he deemed necessary. Certainly, the Tinman was resilient, and even skewering it all the way through did little to damage it. Still, its ribbon-like skin was susceptible to piercing, damaging or not, a pole sticking out of it would certainly slow it down.
úlfhéenar Heart took one of the shorter 3-foot-long variant spears, forgoing attaching it to its other half, and blindly stabbed around Jessamine. Aiming for an area a foot ahead of Jesamine paid off, as his spear felt resistance and then yanked out of his hand. If the head deployed like it was supposed to, there should be a 3-foot-long impairment stuck in the damn thing.
úlfhéenar Heat swung to the other side of Jessamine's back, aiming to repeat the process on her left side. He stabbed, and again felt a distinct bite of metal piercing metal before the shaft was ripped from his hand, lodged in the monster.
“We are coming up on the air lock! The CIC is opening it now!” úlfhéenar Berg yelled over the stomping feet and the hallways rushing past.
Or was that the air being sucked out of the hallway? No time to warn Jessamine, or check my suit. Gods, I really hope these cheap ass things really are vacuum rated! úlfhéenar Heart thought as he readied his grappling kit. Barley had time to do even that before the white, grey hallways of HFS Grimoire were replaced by the velvet black expanse of pinprick lights.
Approximately 120,000 km until CANVAS REACH.
Commander Price’s worried attention towards the growing gravity well around Wojtek was ripped away as Meric called out excitedly. “Three Remnant IFFs, they got a Tinman grappling with them!”
A muted cheer died out before it could start as the image of the two úlfhéenar and Thrag Matriarch appeared on the main display. It was bad. The Tinman had Jessamine grappled, unwilling to be let go. Three ballistic spear shafts stuck out of it, and as they watched, úlfhéenar Berg and Heart skewer it with a fourth and fifth spear.
“Meric, get us bow on, weps get a torpedo ready to fire on my mark.” No one argued with the Commander. All of them understood his intent and were thankful that the responsibilities were on him. A mix of determination and resignation filled the room. A Tinman had never truly been destroyed before, and most on the bridge of ARC 5 had seen firsthand the resilience and resourcefulness of those metal monsters. They couldn't survive an annihilation torpedo, though, but then again, neither could anyone else. There could be no hesitation now.
“Jessamine and Heart have broken away. They are being reeled back towards HFS Grimoire by a grapple!” Sensors called. A few fist pumps and utterances of excitement, but no cheating, as úlfhéenar Berg was still tangled with the Tinman after wrestling it away from his comrades. The man and monster flipped end over end, quickly approaching the minimum safe distance from HFS Grimiore.
The seconds felt like minutes as úlfhéenar Berg dodged the death blows of the Tinman, somehow avoiding being crushed by its metal hand. Air seeped out of his suite where the claw had grabbed him. But mercifully, a heavy strike with the back end of one of úlfhéenar Berg's spears caught the monster off guard. He stuck the tip into the hand that held him and fired. There was a small flash that obscured the hand, and then Berg was away. He sped away from the Tinman, but the distance between him and it was growing too slowly.
“Fire the torpedo, auto detonate half a kilometer from the Tinman.” Captain Price yelled.
It was still guaranteed to hit the Tinamn, but still risky for the drifting úlfhéenar.
When the massive volley of missiles was launched from the Black Dreadnought, straight towards Wojtek, everything seemed to freeze on the bridge of ARC 5. The annihilation torpedo closing on the Tinman, and their commrade, the growing wave of missiles that dwarfed the earlier assault on HFS Grimoire, the shrinking distance for the Dredanought to enter Canvas Reach range of Grimoire and her escorts. And at the back of some minds, where the marcinarses escaped to, and where was the other Tinman that the second signal implied was still out there?
Approximately 20 minutes ago, when there were 550,000 km until CANVAS REACH.
Amidst the eternal waves of time
From a ripple of change shall the storm rise
Out of the abyss peer the eyes of a demon
Skulking in the deserted starboard habitat, the intruders closed on their objective guided by the last traitor that had evaded detection after the failed takeover and bombing of Grimoire.
“This one, it should be empty,” the only unarmored man in the hallway said. His friends had called him Slim, but they were all dead now. When he was taking this job, he had been unaware that the implants in his chest doubled as bombs. He knew we probably would have taken the job anyway with the rest of his friends. They were the only family he had, but now they were gone. He swore to himself that after this, he would disappear on some random Humanity ship and stay on the straight and narrow, quietly avoiding this sort of life for the rest of his days. He just had to get through today and get paid.
“Out of the way.” One of the mercenaries' armored gauntlets grabbed him and moved him to the side of the door. The other two casually held their rifles ready. The one that had moved slim out of the way had placed some kind of device on the door that had already bypassed its systems. There was a distinct click, and the door slid open. The room inside was dark, and the flashlight on the merc's muzzle showed it empty.
Slim knew better than to open his mouth at how lazy these so-called professionals were. The first merc walked in by himself, his hand disappearing into the room as if searching for a light switch. Slim looked at the other two mercs, who were more concerned about either end of the hallways than the room their comrade was searching. In the room, a distinct hiss followed by the sound of something cracking under intense pressure, like a construction tool used to punch rivets or holes in solid metal. His eyes were drawn back to the noise to see the merc still standing in the doorway, a new dark mass sticking up from his helmet.
No, it was reaching down from the ceiling, and he wasn't standing. He was suspended.
A clawed hand anchored firmly to the merc’s helmet. Slim's stomach flipped as a long, slick, shiny rod withdrew from the helmet. The hand that braced the retracting rod as much as held up the dead man released the corpse. The dead merc fell like a sack of starch flour. A black figure dropped from the ceiling. There was a hissing noise like a radiator venting or steam letting off heat. The black figure sprouted protrusions from its shoulders, glowing red heat sinks quickly cooling to the same gunmetal black of the rest of the exoskeleton.
Slim fell back, screaming. He recognized that thing from the high-value target Dossier. Oh, gods, not that thing! He thought, but only one thing came out of his mouth.
“Razgriz! Razgriz!” Slim cried.
The wing-like protrusions were retracting into the demon's shoulders as the second merc crumpled to the ground from the armor-piercing rounds from his own dead comrade’s pistols. The Razgriz disappeared back into the doorway as the third mercenary fired full auto into the room. The hard lethal, high-velocity rounds tore into the room and tore into neighboring compartments. The quiet that followed was only broken by the hissing of pipes and the crumbling furniture. The mercenary reloaded his rifle, but was too slow. The Razgriz lunged out of the doorway at blistering speeds, flame shooting from its hips and legs. It smashed into the merc, his rifle sliding away.
Slim's adrenaline rush was feeding his panic rather than helping him get away, struggling to force his legs to run. He could still hear the brawl behind. The sickening snapping noise of bone and sinew spurred him on. He flailed his arms forward as if to pull himself out of this nightmare, but then the ship's blast door closed right in front of him. The solid wall blocking his escape stunned him, or maybe it was the shock of his arm being gone. Slim screams of terror found new heights as his arm pumped his life's blood out of the stump of an arm. I’m going to die at the hands of this demon!
“Ra…Ra…Razgriz!” Slim stuttered. The Razgriz appeared over him as if answering its name, the mercenaries nothing more than mangled slabs of meat. The demonic thing unplugged a cable from its back, pressing the end against the bulkhead next to Slim. The white metal sizzled and sparked, heating a cherry red. “Razgriz, you’re the Razgriz!” Slim mulled, not noticing the warm wet sensation spreading through his pants, and the stench of his own defecation.
The Razgriez tilted its head, stooping over Slim. “No, but I get that a lot. Now bite this.” A distorted voice spoke through speakers. Slim didn’t have a chance to respond before something hard was shoved into his mouth, and he was picked up off the floor. Slim could barely breathe through the improvised bite guard even before the demon shoved his stump of an arm against the bright, hot metal.
Agony, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. He knew he screamed, but the white-hot shock of his arm being cauterized overwhelmed his mind with life-saving suffering. He couldn’t perceive sounds, sight, or even taste his dry tongue. Everything was dominated by mind-numbing pain for the brief remainder of his lucidity, lasting far too long to save him.
Behold the Razgriz, its wings of black sheath
Bounty card Red Joker dossier
- Identity: unknown Race: unknown, possibly artificial in nature Threat: level: 2
- Priority: 1 wanted dead with proof of death. Unless the existing contract is also a priority 1, any mission failures for any current contracts will be excused, and full payment will be given upon proof of death on top of bounty rewards.
- Red Joker's most popular alias is Razgriez, roughly translated as “Plan Wrecker”. Identification is best determined by observing its particular movement set and signature weapons. Observe its fighting methods to best determine how to eliminate it. Note that while this one used to be an Ace of Spades, it has been moved to Red Joker, as it is a variable that can not be predicted or accounted for. Make no mistake, its importance may not match its threat level, but anyone who dispatches it will earn a guaranteed spot on REDACTED. Martyrs can be accounted for. This target can not. Kill it at all costs and exercise extreme caution. It is unpredictable and constantly evolving.
- Open the Red Joker bounty card for further information. Contract courtesy of the House