Duty Log 002 - A Fitting End (2)
The city's dazzling lights fade into the distance, leaving only darkness thick enough to blend with the black of my ballistic mask. Beyond the city, there's nothing. You just race across the wasteland until another city appears. There used to be a city in this wasteland too. Not anymore. All that's left now are occasional sinkholes and unmanned factories. Standing in a place like this, even LA's air would feel refreshing.
I had to dismount first, ahead of the others, so I was in the passenger seat. With the passenger compartment separated from the driver's cab, the only person nearby to talk to was Valentina... but she was focused on driving. Not your average focus—her cybernetic eyes reflected nothing but the road and the dashboard gauges. She really must've been a public road racer. I'd never heard of one living a normal life, though.
As we drove on for a bit, I started spotting light leaking from the Osgard Corp van up ahead. It was spilling faintly from the driver's side window. I lightly tapped the wall separating the passenger compartment from the cab. My in-ear piece crackled with the boss's voice—Yoon's. The moment the light came into view, it was go-time. No need for honorifics during ops. It used to be the calculation assist implant's job, but now I relied on the neck mic. Hand to my nape, I switched it on and spoke.
These clowns couldn't even manage their light discipline, yet they strut around playing gangsters. Ridiculous. I kept the scoff off the mic. A few drones popped out from the passenger compartment, zipping over the dark road. They returned soon enough. Kay's voice came through my earpiece—uncharacteristically subdued, not her usual chatterbox self. Ranking 46th out of 107 companies doesn't come from sitting on your ass.
No gunfire yet, so they were still handling business. We move after they're done. Rifle pointed away from Valentina, I took a deep breath inside the mask. After about 40 seconds, shots rang out from the wasteland. Full auto. Explosions followed, then return fire pouring from the wasteland. Like a damn festival. The firefight dragged a bit longer before the wasteland side went quiet. A few single shots—Osgard's mercs finishing the surrendered gang. Then comms lit up.
I have to. Hell, getting this gig is a blessing. Beats cowering behind Bola for life support pay, and I'll learn to properly wield this Posthuman IV augmented body.
Valentina unlocked the door. With the engine off, her voice turned languid, whispering as she lowered the ballistic shield over the windshield. "Go get 'em, Boogeyman." The door shut quietly behind me. Comms wouldn't leak or pick up now.
Asphalt crunched softly underfoot, drowned by the wasteland wind with no obstacles in sight. I didn't look back, but I heard the van's side door open. No rustling bushes in this barren waste. The silence's shelf life was maybe thirty seconds.
Approaching the van. The guard Kay mentioned was slumped half out the passenger door. This was the light I'd seen. Oblivious to my approach, he was yapping with the driver.
"Hey, shouldn't we hire a few more guys? How long we gotta run these grunt jobs? We even got an office smack in the market district—lowlifes buzzing around, but we're under Bellwether's wing with back-alley connections... We could be the gatekeepers bridging LA's legit side and the shadows. Clean house with the gangs, do real work. Whaddya think?"
Lame idea. Finger on the trigger guard, I raised my sights to his head. He was fully side-on, leaning against the door—close range, head's an easier hit than body. Exhale. Squeeze. Suppressor swallowed the shots into muffled thuds blending with the wind—two rounds. One to the smirking lip of his bright future, one through the temple. He slumped limp into the window.
A scream erupted. Reflexive, choked off into ragged gasps from the driver's seat—no exhale, just desperate inhales. She spun the controls frantically. "E-everyone back to the van! We're under attack! Gangs or whatever—who the fuck shot Jamie?! Get to the van now—!"
Female driver, voice pitiful. Probably just a pistol; my face was masked. Time to instill fear. Heading for the driver's door, the rear doors swung open. Someone inside grabbed a rifle in a rush, bolted out—and locked eyes with my ballistic mask. Thought it was a hallucination for a split second. Wrong. He wasn't even aiming; I grabbed the barrel, yanked it free, tossed it across the road. He clawed with both hands—useless. As he fumbled for his pistol, I lined up chest-high for easy hits, traced a straight line to his forehead: eight rounds. Vest, no helmet.
Osgard's mercs were hurrying back, so wasteland gunfire kicked up again—Bola and Eve. I stomped deliberately toward the driver's cab. Propped the descending ballistic shield with my hand, pulled. Gears ground... then it ripped free, scratching the reinforced glass. Short-haired driver aimed her pistol through the window—also armored glass. I balled my fist. She slapped her earpiece again.
"Skull mask, black gear, Bellwether carbine with Pitts & Morrison mods. Th-they found us! It's Bellwether spec ops!"
I let her report, then smashed the ballistic glass. The plastic layer buckled, cracking the pane. Down to one layer now. Her dutiful report turned to screams; one more punch, and the window shattered around a hole. First time seeing someone fist through this, probably. She dropped the pistol, hands up. Cybernetic eye—no tears from that one, just the organic. I reached through, unlocked the door. Forced her earpiece on.
No voice modulator needed. "How much protection money you charging?"
"N-not much. I-I mean, two, three thousand credits tops...."
"Pay it. Cash."
They'd know who it was on the other end. The jokes they made when this started—swore we wouldn't end like this. And most importantly... what they'd forgotten playing protected gangsters under Bellwether. Bellwether hates bad sheep.
"Wh-who uses cash these days...? I-I can wire it right now to your acc—"
I cupped her entire head now, not just the ear. Time for her fitting end. "How'd you handle the ones who stiffed you with excuses like that?"
No second chances. I'm no saint. Just a Wild Night drone, Bellwether dishonorable discharge, lone merc. What right do I have? No snide remarks—she didn't need them. Her hands gripped my wrist desperately; it didn't budge. Head locked, I slammed her face into the wheel with full Posthuman IV strength. Crash-like crunch, crash-like mess. The horn wailed nonstop, signaling driver down.
Spun the controls, reconnected comms. To the boss: "Office staff handled. Efficient enough?"
Remember: other merc firms end like this, pathetic. Bellwether respected me as an insider; Wild Night kicks me out, it'll be the same. Eve's words echo—not a bad guy, stay that way.
Mask still on, heading back to the passenger seat—Valentina snickered, pointing behind. "Needed those Posthuman IV eyes for the grab, so I put you up front, right? Boss wants you, Boogeyman. Hop in back. Handle my share of beers!"
She offered a fist bump; I tapped gently, careful with strength—felt like I was the fragile one. Opened the rear doors. Inside, tales of valor were already flowing. Issue: Kay was spinning them.
"Told ya! Our Offliner's got debts from mercs he spared—walked right up to two without drawing, kicked their shins yelling 'Bellwether Manpower Division Chief whatever-the-fuck!' Perfect for the role! If I hadn't tipped the boss, he'd be tailing Bola's ass right now!"
Boarded, ditched mask and balaclava, let out a hollow chuckle. All bluster, ego overload. Bragging for others, so no one minds. Wait—no, that last bit was pure self-praise. Annoying but not hateable—close enough.
"None of that's true, Kay... Not a merc I spared—he's one whose arm I broke. Didn't claim affiliation—that's impersonating Bellwether staff. No fake names, no shin-kicks—just helmet-smack."
Kay stomped; van didn't budge. Bola clamped her prosthetic over Kay's mouth, shook her quarter-face like "busted." "Don't sweat it. We believe Kay only as much as her body's not her face. Here, boss."
Boss handed me Enzo's ever-ready non-alcoholic beer. No help on watch, but... nah, it was non-alc. Screw fake platitudes. Miss real beer—inefficient craving.
"Thanks, Bola. Flawless op. Three targets neutralized without firing a shot, none spotted Arthur coming. Excellent."
Op eval done. Boss relaxed: "Non-alc here, but back at base, gear off, real drinks. Sound good? Review tomorrow."
Eyes on Enzo. He shut his, crunched credits mentally, then fidgeted under stares. "Op bounty plus scraps... covers five, six rounds of drinks. N-no worries...."
Pretend we finally heeded the guard chief's "grab a synth ale after shift." Made the non-alc tolerable. Van rolled toward city. Bola nodded at Kay's word-wall, sensors off; Enzo and boss on business. Eve silent as ever.
Passenger seat seemed better—then Eve beside me turned quietly. Her voice, cool as always: "Arthur."
Straightened up to meet her gaze—height diff made slouch better. "Y-yes, senpai?"
"What'd you kill?"
No clue what she wanted; honesty it was. People. Wrong choices. Not the choice—the choosers. "People. Ones who made bad calls."
Her face flickered—relief? Disgust? Both? She spoke softly: "Honest. Matter-of-fact."
Expected more; she just rechecked her rifle safety, leaned it beside her, eased posture. Good answer? Who knows.
Back at base, fast food and beer chased op afterglow—surrogate booze grub. Off tomorrow, so loose vibes. Kay bailed early—"hackers work dawn"—but office didn't feel empty. Good night. Shame the one who'd love this ditched first for "boring job."
Wild Night no weekends off—busiest then. Days off: Wed-Thu. Busiest days, least incidents? Nah, 107 affiliates rotate. Two straight "weekend-ish" days? Merc life luxury. Breaching "work means go" even briefly? Sweet.
Informal drinks wrapped at 3 a.m. Not fancy bar, pro bartender, top-shelf whiskey—but solid. "Newbie handles trash," I said, dumping bags by the building's dumpster. Turning... unexpected company.
Eve. Moonlight halved twice by smog-choked air, but her dark blue bob unmistakable. Quietly: "What do you hate, Arthur? Just... curious."
"Just" fit her least. Pondered; honesty again. "The ones who tanked my resume—not hilariously bad, just... enough. Folks preaching 'natural humans are beautiful.' Still green—gonna dig reasons. What happened to me... can't say, but absurd. Hate carrying it forever; start tomorrow. Day off."
She mulled seven seconds flat. Silence broke. "Need intel assist? Can help if you want."
Gut-punch question, gut-punch reply: "Uh... honestly, dunno why. Probably tedious circles."
"Fine. Just curious again. Won't ask if no. Personal."
First since leaving company offering to dive into my mess. Others took "Bellwether records wiped" hint. So, just curious it was. Picked words; nice-guy default won. "Sure. Better than solo?"
She shrugged like "who knows," lips twitched half-cm smile—third expression I'd seen, after forehead-frown. "Some folks gotta go solo, no dragging others, Arthur."
"Uh... you offered first—not worried I'd drag you into my personal shit?"
Right lip half-cm up, headshake. "Nah. You seem trustworthy. Probably."
Not babied—first day off won't be lonely or quiet. Good.