The Ronin

“They call you ‘the Ronin.’” The human guided the Warthog down a dirty Venezian road. The bulky wheels kicked clouds of dust up against the dull red sky. “What’s up with that, anyway?”
The warrior once called Roni ‘Visag glanced at his companion. His legs ached from a long, bumpy ride crammed into a passenger seat not built for a Sangheili figure. “And they call you Stray. A fitting name for small vermin such as yourself.”
Stray grunted. As always, the mercenary’s features were concealed behind a suit of battered combat armor. Ro’nin preferred things that way. Humans were ugly creatures, with their disgusting slit-mouths and arbitrary patches of hair. Ro’nin had it on good authority that Stray was not considered particularly attractive even by his own species’ strange standards. The human they’d beaten half to death and secured in the Warthog’s troop compartment was even uglier.
“They tell me ‘ronin’ were masterless fighters from one of your homeworld’s ancient warrior cultures. You humans delight in comparing my people to them for reasons that escape me. When I entered the Syndicate’s employ the first humans I worked with kept calling me a ronin. They found it amusing. So did the next group, and the ones after that. I had no need of my birth name, so I took the new one. My name ought to be a joke. Life amuses me.”
The prisoner in the backseat groaned. Stray cuffed the man behind the ear without taking his eyes off the dusty road. Today’s quarry was an arms dealer foolish enough to hawk his wares on Venezia without the Syndicate’s approval. He thought he was the first person to try landing away from the major spaceports to cut deals with local farmers. Min Ai, the local Syndicate representative, took issue with such an entrepreneurial spirit. He’d hired Stray and Ro’nin together to invite the dealer in for a frank discussion on trading etiquette.
Ro’nin had crossed paths with Stray before. The armored warrior was young even by human standards, but he was also the first warrior on this planet to give Ro’nin serious competition. He was an annoying, hungry vermin—and hungry vermin were dangerous. Ro’nin didn’t need to ask how Stray came by his own name.
They’d fought other over quarries before. Min Ai no doubt hoped a shared hunt would forge a bond that would keep his two best enforcers from killing each other. For such a ruthless operative Min was hopelessly optimistic.
“You’re the happiest hinge-head I’ve ever met,” Stray remarked.
“That isn’t hard. My people elevate joylessness to an art form.”
“What makes you so different? You’re still a vicious bastard. I saw you crush the bodyguard’s neck after you gutted him.”
“Crush his neck? Don’t insult me. My boot demolished the poor fellow’s head. But you’re a savage creature in your own right. You humans create such fascinating monsters. I like this galaxy much better under human control than I did under the Covenant. Things are more fun this way.”
“Fun?” The Warthog swerved ever so slightly. Ro’nin had touched a nerve. “That’s not how I’d put it. It wasn’t fun for the guys we killed back there. It sure won’t be fun for this moron once we drop him off. Besides, the UNSC isn’t humanity.”
“True. Your UNSC is quite adept at draining the joy from life. I sometimes wonder if they truly are human at all. The rest of your species is so much more amusing. If a Sangheili field master assigned me this task I would return to his quarters and be berated for some perceived failing or other—if he deigned to speak to me at all. I was born to a small house, you see, and most of them are dead anyway. But our current employer will shake my hand as you humans like to do. He will congratulate me on a job well done, he will pay me, and then he will send me on my way until he has need of my services once more.”
Ro’nin tilted his head back into the dusty wind. He could practically feel the credits flooding into his Syndicate account. Credits! Only humans could invent a universal currency to master the baser instincts of every creature in the galaxy. They all lived by credits now. They didn’t have a choice, with the Covenant gone and the humans holding all the cards. They were arrogant creatures, but there were worse fates. Ro’nin would rather be ruled by credits than strutting kaidons.
Freedom was yet another joke. Every creature chose the master that ruled their lives. Ro’nin didn’t mind. He enjoyed living in this brave new human galaxy.