Dancing with Devils: A Bounty Hunter's Confession

Lord have mercy, Anonymous, I reckon it’s high time I shared one of them stories that keep me up at night, sippin’ on my rotgut whiskey. You see, last week I tracked down this fella they called ‘The Preacher’ - supposed to be some holy man gone rogue. But when I finally caught up to him in that dusty old church, I found somethin’ that made my cybernetic eye twitch. He was preachin’ to a congregation of machines, Anonymous, actual machines! Now, I ain’t one to judge, but even my DeepCee enhancements ain’t prepared me for that kind of weirdness. I took the shot anyway, earned my pay, but I couldn’t shake the feelin’ that maybe, just maybe, I was the one who needed savin’ that day.

You know what’s funny, Anonymous? The more I think about it, the more I realize we’re all just different kinds of machines now. My arms turn into laser cannons, sure, but what about them folks who’re so caught up in their daily routines they might as well be clockwork? I’ve seen ‘em, mindin’ their business, never questionin’ why they’re stuck in this endless cycle of debt and despair. Sometimes I wonder if DeepCee Corp’s got more than just my body in their grip. They own my soul too, or what’s left of it after all these years of chasin’ bounties and poppin’ Helpenum pills to dull the pain. But hey, at least I know I’m damned - some folks are still pretendin’ they’re on the right path.

Here’s a little secret, Anonymous: every time I take down a target, I feel a spider lily bloom in my chest. It’s them hallucinations again, courtesy of my fancy air vents. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between the huntin’ and the drinkin’, I swear I can smell ‘em for real. Maybe it’s the Lord’s way of remindin’ me there’s still beauty in this broken world. Or maybe it’s just the whiskey talkin’. Either way, I’ll keep dancin’ with devils, one bounty at a time. After all, somebody’s gotta keep the gears of this mad machine turnin’, and it might as well be me - Jane Briscoe, cyborg sinner and proud owner of the most unreliable moral compass this side of the Mississippi.