Mars Time: 17:00, February 17, 2295

  Room 47, 4th floor, Prairie Commons, Eagle District, Xing Hong

  Sigrun's apartment door hissed shut behind her, sealing out the corridor's recycled air that always smelled faintly of rust and desperation. Prairie Commons—some Alliance developer's joke, naming a Martian high-rise after Earth's heartland.

  But the joke was on the other colonists who couldn't afford it. Sigrun's fourth-floor unit cost $2,200 monthly, but it came with something priceless on Mars: a window. Not a porthole nor a slit, but an actual window spanning the western wall, offering an unobstructed view of the neighboring Dragon District's pagoda rising like a tiered lantern against the sky.

  The main room was larger than most colonists' entire apartments. Sleeping alcove with a real bed, not a fold-down. Desk positioned to catch the pagoda's light, with her Quantum Laptop and a single photograph she kept face-down placed on its surface. Kitchenette she rarely used but appreciated having. The walls were standard polymer, but she'd mounted her weapons rack properly, added a framed landscape of Europa’s iceberg she'd found at a salvage market, and even kept two plants alive through sheer stubbornness. Everything organized, maintained, hers.

  Eleven years of double-shift economics on display.

  Her watch pinged with an encrypted message:

  [FROM: A1-11 HANDLER for BOUNTY HUNTERS]

  [New freelance contracts available at Bounty Board #7, Dragon District at 20:00]

  [Additional Warning: Recently reported for unsponsored Leased Lily services. Appeal immediately!]

  She deleted the warning and pulled up the district map. Two hours until the board updated. She moved to the window, looking out at Xing Hong's sprawl.

  The Dragon District dominated the view—that massive pagoda structure rising in tiers like something from ancient China, if ancient China had fusion reactors and atmospheric processors. Each level glowed with different colored lights: gold at the base where the markets churned, red in the middle residential sectors, ebony at the top where Prefect Dilinur held court. Beyond it, the Imperial district's needle-thin spire pierced the Martian sky. The distant sun painted everything rust-red, making the whole city look like a glorified cemetery.

  Sigrun reached into her chest pocket, drawing Baldr's silver cylinder. The weight of it—heavy, like her guilt.

  She moved to her desk, where the Quantum Laptop's screen still displayed her last browsed tab:

  ***

  [Economic class shuttle: Xing Hong, Hellas Basin → Himalia Port, Europa]

  [Current price: $1,699,900 / 1 adult]

  [BOOK NOW - EARLY BIRD DISCOUNT]

  [TRAVEL ADVISORY: Himalia Port operates under Fenris Horde territorial control. Citizens travel at their own risk. No rescue operations guaranteed!]

  ***

  The same page she checked every morning. Every night. The number never got smaller.

  Her bank checking account balance flashed: $2,150 Atomic Dollars. Not enough for rent. Yet her savings account—the hidden one, the Europa fund—sat at $847,300.

  $852,600 to go.

  She did this calculation every night. Every morning. The number that separated her from Ivar, from Europa, from the life she'd lost. It never got smaller fast enough.

  The travel advisory didn't matter. Everyone said Europa was a death trap now, that the Fenris Horde had turned Himalia Port into a feeding station, that anyone who went back was either insane or suicidal.

  Maybe both.

  But Ivar had told her to get strong. To live. And she'd done that—eleven years of bleeding and surviving and becoming something that could fight its way through anything. She was strong enough now. Strong enough to go back. Strong enough to...

  To what?

  The thought slipped away. She couldn't hold it. Couldn't follow the logic past a certain point before her mind just...stopped. Reset to the same loop: Save money. Get strong. Go back to Europa.

  Back to Ivar.

  Somewhere in the part of her brain that still worked, she knew he was probably dead. Had to be. Skarn was winning. Ivar was losing and bleeding.

  But such thinking wasn’t giving her anything concrete. So instead she had this: a shuttle ticket price, a savings account, and a mission that made sense if she didn't think about it too hard. It was that simple. Surely.

  "I want to go back to you, Ivar." The words came out cracked, barely audible. "You said to get strong. I'm strong now. I can fight them. I can…"

  Her watch chimed, interrupting the thought before it could finish forming.

  ***HIGH PRIORITY MESSAGE***

  [DISCREET INQUIRY - EAGLE DISTRICT]

  [Client requests "Bedchamber Valkyrie" for private engagement at 23:00] [Duration: 2 hours] [Payment: $3,000][Premium client - Discretion assured]

  [Accept? Y/N]

  ***END OF MESSAGE***

  $3,000. She stared at the number.

  Bounty hunting would get her maybe $200 tonight if the board had decent contracts. This booking was fifteen times that for two hours of work an average hunter could manage. Two hours of being Bedchamber Valkyrie the sex doll instead of Sigrun Fjeld the princess in exile. Two hours of sweating and pretending she enjoyed strangers’ flesh in her body.

  Two hours that would keep her in this apartment, plus another $800 toward Europa after expenses. Another day closer to impossible. Another night of not thinking about why.

  The window behind her desk reflected the pagoda's golden lights. She'd chosen this apartment specifically for that view. To remind herself that she wasn't in some recycled-air coffin in Dragon District where the desperate and pathetic lived.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She tapped 'Y' before she could think too hard about what it cost her beyond money. Ivar wouldn't want her to be miserable. Time to stop wallowing and make some fucking money, like always.

  She set Baldr carefully on the desk—too precious for usual bounty hunting work, too loaded with memory. Her eyes moved to the weapons rack mounted on the wall.

  She hanged Járn there for fast charging, waiting. The one-handed Thermal Axe's silver double blades caught the dying light through her window, Damascus steel rippling like water beneath the surface.

  A holographic bubble formed above the dial of her Nucleus Watch: [Charging: Baldr, Thermal Axe - 88%]

  Her gaze lingered on it. Gold inlay traced Norse knotwork along the fuller heft. The weapon had cost her three months' savings, bought through Prefect Dilinur's back channels where Xing Hong liquidated "culturally inappropriate" diplomatic gifts.

  [Charging: Baldr, Thermal Axe - 96%]

  Unlike Baldr, Járn carried no ghosts. Just honest violence.

  [Fully charged: Baldr, Thermal Axe - 100%]

  She lifted the axe from the rack, feeling the familiar weight. The thermal core sat dormant in the handle—she'd activate it only if things got messy.

  Her third weapon Skuld gleamed like carved bone as she pulled it from above her hips, checking the action. The Breacher Shotgun's white composite frame bore golden filigree that spiraled along the extended barrel. Manny, her Alliance contact and repairman, had done the work himself: tightening the spread pattern, extending the effective range to twenty-five meters.

  She pressed the collapse sequence, and the shotgun folded into itself with a series of precise clicks, transforming into a brick-shaped package she could hide at the small of her back.

  Two weapons for two problems. Járn for anything that got close. Skuld for everything else. Couldn’t much rely on her spells these days, with the stunted Intellect stat.

  Baldr would usually stay in her apartment, safe from whatever stupid accidents bounty hunting would bring.

  Her watch pinged: [Reminder: Weapon maintenance - Skuld, Breacher Shotgun, requires cleaning!]

  "So soon?" She muttered as she swiped the message away. "Bet it's the barrels again. Oh, Manny…"

  It'd have to wait until next week. The price for these newer weapons' maintenance wasn't money. She'd been paying through that avenue for two years.

  Her mind felt thick, muddled—too many decisions, too little sleep. She moved back to the Quantum Laptop, needing to check if her ad was even worth the risk Nikki warned about.

  The holographic display materialized above the screen, and there she was. Or rather, there the Bedchamber Valkyrie was.

  The woman in the ad looked nothing like the one who'd just left Nikki's clinic. Blonde hair fell in loose waves that fell just above bare shoulders instead of pulled back in the half-up ponytail she wore now.

  It showed her in black leather that left little to imagination: straps and chains crisscrossing snowy skin, gold buckles shining. A blue pendant nestled between her ample breasts—those hooked her clients the most. She held a coffee cup like a prop, steam rising past her face as she gazed at the camera with allure. Those were definitely her shoulders, her arms, muscled from years of combat and weight training. But the expression was just performance: bedroom eyes, parted lips, vulnerability she'd never actually feel.

  "LONELY?" blazed in yellow above her image. "I AM HERE FOR YOU" pulsed in toxic green below.

  The transformation was courtesy of her PHC—Programmable Hair Clip—currently set to 'Civilian' mode, her default for downtime in the apartment. The silver metallic clip with its blue quantum-fiber accents sat hidden in her loose waves, but it could restructure her hair at the molecular level. Five preset configurations, each a different identity: 'Freyja' for the shoulder-length waves in the ad, 'Valkyrie' for combat operations, 'Civilian' for the rare moments she wasn't working, and more. She'd bought it as part of her Psi Lynx certification kit, but it had become essential for keeping her two lives separate.

  Or trying to.

  The ad had 8,964 views since yesterday. Comments ranged from crude propositions to marriage proposals, all from men who thought they knew what she was. She scrolled past them until—

  A new message notification blinked on the laptop screen. Not through the ad platform, but somehow sent directly to her encrypted business account. The timestamp showed it had arrived while she was reviewing the ad:

  ***HIGH PRIORITY MESSAGE***

  [ARE YOU A REAL PERSON? THAT AD IS AMAZING!]

  Hey,

  Okay, this is probably weird but I saw your Leased Lily ad and I've been analyzing it for like 55 minutes now.

  The composition follows the golden ratio almost perfectly - did you plan that or was it intuitive? Your shoulders-to-waist ratio is 1.618:1 which is basically impossible with Holoshop unless you're artifacting in the quantum pixel matrix. I checked. Three times. Most Lilies just stretch themselves into these impossible hourglass shapes that break basic anatomical physics, but you're...actually real? Like, your deltoid definition suggests actual muscle fiber development over approximately 5-7 years of consistent training! That's what my A.I. assistant's visual analysis shows. He's a cool guy, by the way.

  Sorry, I'm getting carried away. What I mean is - it's like finding out Cosmic Viking Woman has a Lily ad, except Cosmic Viking Woman probably doesn't need the money because she's fictional and also probably doesn't pay Mars rent.

  The lighting angle suggests professional equipment but the metadata shows it was taken with a standard Nucleus Watch? That's either incredible skill or incredible luck. Both are statistically improbable!

  I do bounty board scanning as a hobby (yes, that's a hobby). Will be at Board #7 in Dragon District 8-9pm if you want to discuss...photography? Combat techniques? Why someone who looks like they could kill a Bone Fiend with her bare hands is working as a Lily? (Not judging! Everyone needs to pay oxygen tax!)

  I'll be the nervous guy in the beige puffer jacket with a green hoodie underneath. I'll have my teammate with me (he's small and likes to draw, you'll love him).

  F.Y.I.: Dragon District has 47% more scam attempts than other districts according to my calculations. Also the food carts near the board use recycled protein that's only 23% actual protein.

  From your cheekbone angles, I calculate a 69% probability you're Nordling. If yes, I'm sorry for what happened to your moon Europa in '84. Hope your families and friends are staying safe out there.

  You probably think I'm insane now. That's statistically likely.

  Still worth the attempt though!

  -X

  PS: The way you hold that coffee cup…intentional? It's weirdly calming.

  PPS: Delete this message after reading if it's too weird. I'll understand.

  ***END OF MESSAGE***

  What kind of nerd wrote essays to prostitutes? This wasn't a booking request! It was some kind of...appreciation letter? Analysis? The rambling style, the bizarre compliments about her shoulders, calling her "Cosmic Viking Woman"…that ridiculous superhero icon in old era cartoons…

  And of course this weirdo would be at Bounty Board #7 tonight. Exactly where she needed to go. No avoiding him.

  Anger flared hot in her chest. Her fingers moved to delete the message, then hesitated. The Extranet was always filled with fucking losers like this. Deletion wouldn't help. Neither would blocking. He could just make another account.

  She needed to send a message to this 'X' person. Make it clear she wasn't interested in whatever game he was playing.

  Sigrun stood, moving to the weapons rack. Time to prepare for the bounty board—and deal with this stalker if necessary. Her fingers found the controls on her PHC, tapping through the preset configurations. The clip hummed against her scalp as quantum fibers restructured her hair—loose waves pulling up into the tactical half-up ponytail she preferred for combat.

  [+ Engaged: Hamr, Programmable Hair Clip, Nordling variant. Slot: 'Civilian' —> 'Valkyrie']

  A faint lavender scent released as the transformation completed, one of the clip's programmed features for this mode.

  She pulled on her beige trench coat, checking Járn's weight against her ribs. The thermal axe hung perfectly balanced. Skuld, folded into its brick configuration, clipped to the small of her back beneath the coat.

  [Equipped: Járn, Thermal Axe, one-handed, Nordling variant (Manufacturer: Imperium. Warranty unavailable)

  [Equipped: Skuld, Breacher Shotgun, unregistered variant (Manufacturer: Alliance)]

  Both weapons were hidden but accessible.

  Her Nucleus Watch chimed: [Transport to Dragon District - $45 AD via autocab]

  She confirmed the booking and headed for the door, pausing to look back at Baldr on the desk. The cylinder made its usual subtle blue light, and for a moment she could almost see Ivar's hand placing it in hers.

  "You want to meet, huh?" She turned away, speaking to the empty apartment. "Fine. I'll show you exactly what I am."

  The autocab waited outside Prairie Commons, its hydrogen engine humming. She slid into the back seat, watching Eagle District's sprawl pass by: neon advertisements that were less creative than her own, oxygen bars, the endless parade of colonists pretending Mars was home.

  Dragon District's pagoda loomed larger as they approached, its tiered lights shifting from gold to red to violet. The bounty board would update in an hour or two. Enough time to grab street food, scope the contracts, and make this 'X' person understand that the Bedchamber Valkyrie wasn't some girlfriend to string along.

  She touched Járn's handle through her coat. The message needed to be clear. Direct.

  "Whoever this weirdo is, Ivar," she whispered to the Martian night beyond the cab's window, "I'll make him understand what I am. Then he'll know to stay away."

  The autocab descended toward Dragon District's chaos of lights and shadows, carrying her toward a meeting she thought would be simple intimidation.

  It wouldn't be.

  But Sigrun Fjeld, Psi Lynx, bounty hunter by day, prostitute by night, and survivor of eleven years on Mars, had no way of knowing that yet.

  Drop by the series' official site if you'd like to know more about the universe. It's recently updated with lore on factions and items, and more will come each week.

  Desktop browsing is recommended.

  The site is built and maintained entirely by the author (as in, myself).

  Now, you may be wondering about this 'holographic ad' that Sigrun runs. Is there an actual artwork for that one? How would it look, conceptually?

  Turns out, there is!

  While I don't have a holographic screen, this following artwork should give you a good idea what it'd look like on a 23rd Century device, and help you see what Sigrun's night time job involves.

  With that, I'll see you in the next chapter!