Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

The bright lights look the same. Sitting myself down on the community server bench, I lean back until my spine hits the backrest. My gear starts charging. Diagnostics start scrolling down the inner bars of both eyes. The trick is not to try and read them. You’ll only give yourself a headache.
I snap the neck off the bottle. Flashy, but I’m distracted by flashbacks of growing up.
Saturday night, beer in hand, waiting for a skimmer or a cruiser to pull up. The kids from upstate could afford the toys, but couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag. So when their egos took them places their mouths couldn’t talk them out of, they sent a driver to get some heavies.
South side of town, under the grav-ways, the jobs were dawn ‘til dusk and the pay was crappy even for overtime into the night. Sixteen-hour days for nothing much except food tubes and washhouse chits.
Those of us from that neighbourhood, we used to spar at a gym until it got shut down. After that, we freelanced: some thuggery, but mainly bouts. They hurt. First you fought the contender, then you beat the gang who expected you to throw the fight for money.
We were the Nighthawks. We didn’t do that sort of thing. Fighting was our honour. Hell, it was all we had.
I joined the army the day after Sarna died in a gang fight that nearly killed us both. Still remember standing there, both eyes blacked, ribs cracked, swearing an oath I thought I understood.
Ten years and a dishonourable discharge later, I realised it meant you’re expected to throw the fights the politicians tell you to.
I got into a special forces mob. Called ourselves the Nighthawks. I was proud of that. They took to my street corner warrior creed and went all-in. We got a reputation for being bastards to face on or off a battlefield.
Then we refused to throw a fight in Trabanth City, suspicious of the story we were being fed. Proved to be a righteous decision, but the traitors framed us. By the time the carnage got so bad the enemy intervened to save us from our own population, we’d lost eight out of ten. It’s difficult to fight when they starve and besiege you. We got some licks in, but in the end we went out on flatbeds as the ambulances had all been torched.
Spent a while under the taint of that, then someone leaked the story of the betrayal to the news. Soon after that my dishonourable discharge was commuted to ‘Discharge for Classified Reasons’. Got a letter of apology with an enhanced welfare code at the bottom.
That code got used up quick. Helped a few Nighthawks who didn’t make it out whole, and a few families who only got tags and a flag back.
Sad story, world doesn’t really care. But here I am, beer in hand, summer evening, back on home turf. Could be a lot worse.
A flashy cruiser pulls up to the kerb. Door opens.
“People who sit there settle differences, friend, and not by talking. You best be moving along.”
I bring up my tactical and scan him deep from fingertips to back seat. He squirms. Combat tech does that to cheap civilian gear.
“How much for settling your trouble?”
“Two hundred.”
Good start.
“Per body.”
He grins.
“Deal.”
Just like I never went away. Hey, this Nighthawk’s got ghosts to honour and a reputation to rebuild. Plus, I still gotta eat.