Mission Log 004 - Too Many of Me (7)
My emotional side was already laid bare to the depths.
Bola raised her metallic full-body prosthetic hand lightly and spoke.
"Aren't you considering benching him from the mission? He seems pretty unstable, just like he admitted himself."
It wasn't an unfair point. If this were Bellwether, I'd have been sidelined from this op ages ago. But Yoon's judgment was different.
"No need to consider it. Offliner isn't scared of killing those people. He's scared because he has to kill them—and he will kill them. Raise any objections if you have them."
After that one trust-filled statement, no one questioned my involvement again. I stopped the pointless deep breaths too.
I stroke my balaclava and ballistic mask. Being able to cover my face is a privilege in itself.
With that, the prelim intel wraps up, and now it's the real mission briefing. A map pops up on the screen. The wasteland fringes are cheap real estate. Wasteland's useless dirt anyway—just live there and rot slowly.
Their base is out in the wasteland. A wide-open shooting range vibe, plus one big building. Four stories, like a strip mall.
The air inside that building reeks of vengeance. No doubt about it. Good things halve when shared; bad things double. A place where they keep sharing that bad shit over and over? It'll stink to high hell.
The map zooms out, showing nearby ruins and one rundown apartment block where people actually scrape by.
Yoon points to a derelict building overlooking the militia base at an angle.
"We'll use that spot for sniper overwatch and support. Bellwether specified disbandment, not extermination, so we'll need to talk. Even if it goes hot, it'll be a full-frontal fight, so prep defenses solid. Bola, add extra armor plating. Offliner, your infil goal is this side—straight into the building."
She indicates the left flank, wasteland-only, not the right lit up by the apartment glow.
I trace a line. Walls ring the militia base. Jumpable. If I can pull it off, infil straight to the second or third floor. Plenty guarding the ground level, but not above.
"Once you're in, relay Bellwether's intent via parley and urge surrender. If they refuse, Offliner takes out the desk jockeys from inside while we mop up the rest. Kay, focus on Bola support. No reinforced suit, so machine gun should cover it. Mech-prep to minimize hack risks, Bola."
Eve fills the gaps. She can rifleman up with Bola's solid bulletproofing or rear infil if Bola solos the front.
Militia headcount: nineteen. Only four ex-security team. Lucky or unlucky? Hard to say.
Bellwether had to hide the truth. The desk jockeys bought the excuses as gospel and picked up guns... Yeah. Messed up. Can't call it lucky.
The vengeful don't want much. Just simple shit—no revenge nagging, back to office life fussing over coffee machine brew. But the deeper they dive into revenge, the farther that normal slips away. Point of no return: when dropping the gun won't bring it back.
Am I the same? The closer I get to that monster, the farther from normal?
I'm still normal-ish. Merc work's a dime a dozen in LA. They'll be me soon, and I'll be them. Even down to the can't-let-go revenge bit.
Excuses off the table... but so's dropping revenge. Reason persuades; instinct thirsts. Don't wanna toss and turn nights staring at that monster's face. Don't want that Bellwether tower memory overlaying everything.
I table the unanswered question in the Wild Night office for now. Post-mission review might yield better answers.
Briefing ends. I pull on the balaclava. Strap the ballistic mask. Check the mirror. Skull-like holes for eyes and nose still give off grim vibes; blackout film for flashbangs hides my eyes completely.
Eve approaches. Wants to ask if I'm okay, but figures even that's rude. My head's not great either, but I reply in a friendly voice.
"Can't have you mission-incapable 'cause of me, right? Gotta tell the good kids there's no bogeyman under the bed or in the closet... but."
Tina, who calls me that, already swapped her legs and drapes her swapping arm over my shoulder like a Halloween prank.
"Gotta scare the bad kids straight with bogeyman tales, keep 'em from goin' off the rails. That's how it works. Our bogeyman's a pro at the job, yeah?"
Thought Eve was ice-cold, but her ice similarity's fragility, not chill. Overly worried, overly kind. No clue why she's here, but seeing her trusted nods hesitantly.
We pile into the armored van, head for the wasteland. City gunfire echoes as always. En route, comms chatter from rival mercs blasting gangs forces Kay to jam it.
Night's prime merc hours. Bola's extra-plated bulk looks twice as heavy. Head fully enclosed now—looks more K-Town guard drone than full cyborg.
One suicide drone prepped for fire support too. Enzo's doing.
Enter op zone. Yoon and I drop quiet from the van first, secure sniper perch, scout infil.
In-ear: Yoon from the rooftop. Private channel.
"Sniper nest locked, Offliner. Covering your infil. Building guards: four, two pairs on patrol. Clear LOS inside walls from here... good. Solid. I'll radio when they pass. Other ideas?"
"Non-lethals on guards, swap to their gear for stealth infil? But those look like proper Bellwether helmets. Confirm?"
Transparent visors, tight-knit militia knowing faces/voices by heart? Better skip disguise.
"Militia's armed with Bellwether standard kit, Offliner. Disguise infil's tough... but if doable, efficiency skyrockets. Chat post-op."
Current infil: Posthuman IV speed and silence—run, vault, done. Better way ups efficiency.
Priority's this job. Militia walls topped with electrified bars. Three meters—no sweat for a jump. Posthuman IV doesn't fly 'cause Bellwether respects gravity, that's all.
Van hits the base front now. Militia lights it up first.
In-ear: "Infil now, Offliner. Guards pulling to front on the mystery armored ride—safe window. No dawdling."
Knees flex, leap. Vault the three-meter-plus electric fence cat-silent, absorb impact, land whisper-quiet.
Lights on third floor. Hackers probably dark fourth. Desk jockeys in safest spot: basics.
Pad silent. Wasteland dust: no muddy prints.
Carbine to auto, finger on trigger guard.
Voices above.
"Cops? Cops'd bring more than one ride! All hands to posts! Lights out, barricade the second-floor hall! Two to fourth! Security sys on!"
Too late. Guy was black-clad in lit hall; now shadow in blackout.
Heading to second? Not here. Duck to rear window, shut it, vault to third sill.
Wall beyond: frantic movement. Once past, one-hand hang, tap neck mic.
Security sys on—report and breach.
"Desk jockeys on fourth. Lights-out order, most massing second-floor barricade. I'm on third exterior."
"Copy, Offliner. Switching AP rounds. Stay off second."
Bola's voice—synth output, not spoken.
Haul slant to dark hall—empty. Pry window, slip in.
Outside window: Yoon's voice. Not from van, but hers.
"This vehicle belongs to Yakyeong Mercenary Agency, official Bellwether contractor. Do not fire. Bellwether acknowledges Battering Rams formed to uphold its values—but public terror threats undermine those values. On Bellwether's behalf, Wild Night urges disbandment."
Intruder sensors ping then. No more window-touching.
Stairs up quiet. No guards.
Bellow from below: megaphone implant, non-security male.
"So Bellwether letting heretics off sans bylaws fits its values? Brushing off dead heretics as 'fine' rational?!"
Bellwether never brushed it off. Just classified beyond their clearance. Can't say it; they refused disband. Whose fault? Not ours, that's enough.
Megaphone guy continues.
"And we got Bellwether clearance! Said our goats got more loyalty than the soft security team they coddled—backed us!"
Ridiculous bullshit. Corp knows everything. Knows how many heretic members—guilty or not—security wasted. No way they greenlit.
"That statement logged as refusing disbandment, forwarded to Bellwether LA Branch. So..."
Van speakers cut. In-ear instead.
"Talks broke. Executing op. Total wipe per plan."
Glide to fourth stairs. Silent steps, eye corridor end: two militia aiming windows outward.
No intruder alarm yet. Rifles can't pierce armored van—waiting someone out.
Suppressor or not, indoor shots reveal floor. Sneak that far?
Yeah. Posthuman IV handles.
Draw Bellwether tac knife. No blood-worry this time.
Creep mute— no rifle clunks. Close, then floor-kick.
Tiles shatter. Near guy's head-turn: throat stab. Blade punches through. No scream.
Yank blade out—finish. Neighbor swings barrel—body gap too wide. Empty left grabs muzzle, shoves wide, flanks ribs.
Blade sinks deep past vest. He stiffens, tilts wounded—frozen. Voice quavers out.
Muzzle full aside, too close for rifle—left hand seals mouth. Clean neck-side pierce instead of cruelty. Textbook.
Snag his modular frag from belt, pull pin, toss guarded door.
Frag. Wall-lean, brace blast.
Posthuman IV near-invulnerable to shrapnel—but not point-blank.
Building shakes. Muffled ears tank boom, breach.
Room: armored plates—but not frag-proof. Three desk jockeys atomized instant. Torso-display-blocked woman: alive. Barely.
Heavy bleed. Eyes bulge at me. Reaches for issued pistol—headshot. No desire for bullet scars closing her eyes.
No sigh despite the mess. Unreported, but van doors hiss—blast was report enough.
Bola draws reinforced MG, shreds second-floor barricade. Grenade-loud scrape racks building. Muffled again.
No hack? Frags won't stop her. Covers Eve, strolls van— incoming rifle fire just plates' scratches.
Leaking flank/neck militia's in-ear: frantic.
"Fourth, what was that boom! Report! They got full cyborg, fuck! Full cyborg! Evac desk jockeys back door!"
Yank his in-ear, mic to mask mouth. Slow whisper.
"Shoulda flipped intruder sensors at dusk. Too late."
Crush mic, rear window out. Vault roof pre-radio.
"Morale break done. Herded to fourth. I'm rooftop standby. Bola pushes ground to roof funnel."
Then haul roof. No radio? Yoon might've popped me.
Night's merc hours. Wild Night cleans house tidy.