Mission Log 003 - Too Many of Me (2)
The flashbang I toss lightly traces a clean straight line toward the clone's face. No aiming assist, but the Posthuman IV Augmented Body moves exactly as I intend, down to the millimeter. Reveling in its performance, I consciously blink once more. A dark, translucent membrane descends inside my eyelids for flash defense. The burst will end in a blink for me, but for her, it'll drag on forever. This augmented body is prepared for every contingency.
Two flashbangs detonate almost simultaneously, flooding the room with blinding light and deafening blasts. Sealed indoors, the shockwaves hit even harder. The clone hostage-taker staggers, out of her mind. She's long since dropped her pistol, now trying to steady herself by bringing her feet together—but her right one doesn't touch the ground. Her balance is shot; her body's already tilting. Can't kill her. I glide over the windowsill toward her. Oblivious to the gun slipping from her hand, she swings wildly at the air. I catch her nape lightly. A clone's internals match an unaugmented human's. I clamp the carotid. Her trembling hand grabs my wrist, but she can't resist. Airway open, she gasps desperately—but it's useless. The blood vessels carrying oxygen to her brain are blocked. Can't let her brain suffer, so I release after ten seconds. The feeble struggle fades after eight; by nine, her body goes limp. I yank a zip tie from my tac vest and bind her wrists. Second job clean and done.
I thumb the neck mic button and report, not bothering to pin the unconscious clone with my knee.
"Capture complete. Mission ends at secure; handing victim check to Window Watch. Can you call security?"
"Perfect. On it. Open the door, link with Enzo, and hold."
"Roger." Clean report. Victim's not our problem, but I approach the tear-streaked one huddled in the corner anyway, offering a hand. I help him up easily. He bows repeatedly in thanks, clueless we weren't here for him. Just threats and a few punches—no life-threatening injuries.
"Thank you. Th-thank you. Bitch was a nightmare at night, then morning comes and she's waving my own gun, telling me to stand against the wall... The more I think, the more it pisses me off. Can I shoot the slut? I'll pay damages."
"Sit tight. Clone's Window Watch jurisdiction. Not our lane. Heading out, Enzo. Don't... shoot."
The victim lurches toward the gun. I cut comms, step over first, and pin the pistol under my boot before he can grab it. Repeat the warning. Bellwether protocol said twice verbally for impaired judgment. Twice max. Turns out it's handy everywhere.
"Sit. Down. Window Watch will handle the clone, damages too. Our job wasn't killing her."
"You saved me from an armed bitch? Say she resisted and you shot! I can't stomach that fucking cunt walking out alive. Gonna beat the client target? Merc?"
Twice verbal. Still no draw, but hand on neck mic: "Victim attempting to kill client asset. Neutralizing."
Boss's voice chills. He's not the target. Secure the clone—that's it. He's irrelevant. Better alive, but no big power. "Permitted. Minor injuries report as hostage drama. Neutralize firmly."
He never dreamed his excuse for murder would boomerang. Words failed; now fist time. I snatch his right wrist as he swings for my cheek. Yank him into me, exposing his side. Augmented strength drives a heavy uppercut into the void. Fist sinks like into gelatin. Gelatin rebounds; ribs don't. Three, four cracked easy. He crumples clutching his side, scream choked. Tac boot sole crushes his nape. Carbine from back to front, muzzle on skull.
"Hands behind. Our goal was securing the taker, not rescuing you. Pitied your shivering ass on the floor, stood you up—don't act boardroom now. Got it?"
He nods frantically face-down. Compliant after. Zip-tie his hands behind, toss by the bed. Open the door, link with Enzo.
Two Window Watch guys peek in, see the victim prone too. They eye me expectant. I scoff.
"Thought we came for him, went berserk to kill the clone taker. Neutralized with permission. Chill."
Enzo sighs relief. Eve quietly rights the clone taker, pity in her eyes. She says nothing—no cutting ties, no med call. Business is business. Private lives exist, but no one botches the job. She speaks coolly, emotion tempered just enough.
"Clean capture, offliner. Reliable. You're on-site lead; handle questions. Can you?"
"Of course."
Career says "expunged," but work's work.
A frantic Window Watch suit hustles in, offers handshake. I grip firm. Can't ID him; glance at Enzo. He nods.
"Damn, calling official contractor was smart. Resolved in under ten from report. Yakyeong next time too. Weird name had me hesitating."
The wall-slumped clone stirs then. Spots bound wrists, kicks futilely—muzzle trains her quiet. Suit bows again.
"Clean work. Uh, guest still here. Security duo, escort to medbay, call legal. Good."
Visored guards haul the whining side-clutcher out. Suit whispers: "Could Yakyeong hold her a few days? Brass wants it buried fast—'Clone killed, full breeding probe.' No probe. Dumb, inefficient."
Inefficient. Market Keepers' turf, but... client didn't hide it. No duty to call them.
"Brass locked it, no objections. Kill another Bella as demo, dissect original quiet. My dime, but extra pay generous. Record all you want. For real."
Accountability like this? Unexpected.
Yoon arrives with Bola, projects recording hologram.
"No Bellwether contractor rule breach. No duty to report employer inefficiency, nor to enable it fully. Protection fee proposal?"
"Uh, fifteen hundred daily. Storage cheap, but merc silence costs. Pickup in three."
Handshake seals. Bola kneels the clone, bows her head, zips simple, bags in her reinforced tac bag. Perfect fit. But handles like cargo. Unmodded clone bruises easy. I take the strap.
"Protection gig—can't return battered. I'll carry."
"Right. Flesh bags bruise on bumps. Tsk. Inefficient. Thanks, offliner."
Contract signed. No betrayal. Hand-off complete; new job from client after.
"Glad you reason. Seven-three-seven, to that Bella's spot. Zip tie borrow? Turn away. No need to see; best skip uglies. Thanks for cooperating."
Boss okays; I hand zip. Identical Bella—face, build, voice—sits. Team binds her wrists behind. Substitutes abound. Brass sees corpse, happy.
"Kneel. Head down. Don't wanna see sorry. Good. Sweet dreams, seven-three-seven."
Pistol draws, aims skull. Execution unfolds. Eve's turned away, ears plugged—but indoors, sound leaks. I set clone bag down, approach, bare hands visible. Whisper:
"These block speaker noise perfect. Let me meddle?"
Eve nods dazed. I cup her ears airtight. Not perfect, but best. Shot cracks. Bella flops dead, no fight, no fear. Room reeks like my vague death-smell. I lived; she won't. Trained not to flinch, saw it all. Gut churns; I hold.
Team bows head brief. Clone or not, human stuff, human death. Heavy voice: "Emergency resolved. Clear to RTB. Thanks, Wild Night."
One hand clone bag, other Eve's as she squeezes eyes shut. Out we go. Eve exhales huge post-door. Emotion ends. Silent thanks, silent van ride. Glances at bag occasional. Van's safe, shielded. Time to unpack.
Drop mask, balaclava, face bare. To boss: "Three days bagged, circulation fails—too damaged for client scan. Undo neck-ankle hogtie, seat her?"
"Do it. Return healthy."
Unzip, snap the kneel-head-down straps easy. Posthuman IV laughs at those. Clone lifts flushed face strained. Bola's gag holds. She seems clueless—why red-faced, dizzy, vision shakes? Sentient clone's 98% human. 2% short, raised as thing among things, no body know-how. Pin her wriggle, say:
"Calm. Calm before blackout again. Head down too long, blood rush. Sit brief, fine. Yeah. Outside shop now. Wall outside. Get?"
"Outside" hits like new world. Head whips windowless-van style. I grip, recenter.
"No windows. Sit. Plan?"
Turn her face to Yoon. Sniper eye locks, she speaks soft:
"No hostage now, no name—number temp. Ok, 7436?"
Hates numbers but knows no alternative. Nods quiet.
"Good. Heard the job? Wall-side days ahead. Cooperate, more freedom; no, sedate, bag-corpse ship. Arthur, ungag. 7436, speak."
Remove gag; no bite, no freak. Hope-mixed hopelessness nods.
"Saw other Bella die—feared same. Don't want flashbang hell again. I think. Not dumb-clone stupid."
"Smart enough to listen. Figure bag-time on unload? Client killed Bella to preserve you."
Office: she self-kneels, bags. I tote up. Uncurtained office, extract. Wrists-ankles bound, but Valentina's spare sweats on. 7436 gawks wonders: world not bed-display loop. Outside walls not glossy white. Faces vary, not endless hers. Trifles, marvelous to her.
Three-day freedom. Life. Maybe not. Thirty days back, I'd be cultured Posthuman IV scrap in trash. Sitting here now. Scan office quiet... Eve eyes 7436 same as me. Why? Guessable, but won't.