Mission Log 004 - Far Too Many of Me (8)
"Offliner escaped to the rooftop. You're clear to head up without crossfire concerns, Bola. Kay, start the internal sweep. They rejected negotiations. No prisoners."
The moment the words left my mouth, a muzzle flash flickered at the edge of my vision. Muffled by a suppressor, but at night and this distance, it was unmistakable. A split-second delay, then the gunshot echoed dully. Without that flash, you'd never pinpoint the source amid the muffled roar.
Comms crackled on.
"Central stairs secured. Clear to ascend to the third floor, Bola. Status on the second?"
Eve's voice came through the radio. No other rooftop access visible, so I kept my barrel trained on the rooftop door, waiting.
"Second floor secured. Only six kills since they ran without returning fire."
Six from me, six on the second—out of nineteen total, that left seven. If those seven shook Bola and made it to the roof, they wouldn't be militia scrubs. Bellwether would've scouted them for security ages ago.
But the in-ear chatter introduced a variable. The kind Bellwether despised.
"Five on the third floor. Hang on... two might be on the first? Jump marks, but they didn't clear the electric fence! Freaking out and lost their minds?"
There had to be a reason the full-body prosthetic merc with the machine gun bolted that way. If panic, he'd have charged the roof and stared down my barrel instead of hunkering on three. Purpose.
"Clear to vacate the roof? I'll drop and sweep. If they're that spooked, they wouldn't risk window jumps—means they had a goal."
"Approved, Offliner. Leave the roof to the remaining three."
Kay's flustered voice, knowing my position. Single main stairwell, no auxiliary—this'd be suicide in a normal building. Unless you're Posthuman IV.
"Shouldn't we tell Bola to hold fire? Wherever Offliner drops, she'll—"
I swapped mags, tone casual to ease Kay. Kept comms from flooding with her worry.
"They got down without running into Bola, right?"
With that, I vaulted the rooftop railing light as air. Body plunged toward the wasteland dust below. Ground rushed up in real-time, but no gut-lurch of a heart seizing. Like a fire-maker freed from night terrors, Bellwether's military augments liberated you from falls and impacts. Natural. And just five stories.
Landed clean in stance, shock-distributing flesh, bones, joints absorbing it all—barely a puff of dirt.
"First floor. Kay, ping exact position when you nail it."
"Whoa... got it! Far left room from front entrance! Signal strength says records room— no electronics touched!"
Shredding paper docs, then. Checked controls, thumped the mag base in case the drop loosened it, headed for records.
Small-windowed room—paper hates moisture. Spotted the one with tiny window blacked out against light, slipped to the adjacent.
Hurry, or even less salvage from the shredder. Barrel low, smashed fist through window. Shards couldn't pierce combat gear. Gripped the barred frame whole, shook. It creaked, gave. One hard yank ripped it free; climbed in.
Med bay vibe, but empty. No clone incubator—just standard infirmary. Records next to med bay? Standard.
Kicked out the med door—militiaman peeked from records at the window smash. Terror dawning behind his helmet. They'd know the bars; hearing them shatter meant I had the means.
If Bellwether-issue helmet and chest plate, hard to drop non-lethal. Their standard lid took a point-blank frag and kept your skull intact.
Gripped his barrel left-handed, rifle one-handed right. Pushed muzzle down, sighted low belly to hips, fired. Recoil manageable solo. Ballistic mask dulled the blood reek some.
Unprotected zone hit—he crumpled without scream, shock blackout. No mercy kill needed. Lucky.
His "records room"... label read Pharmaceutical Storage. Made sense next to med bay. Kay glitch?
Doubts after mission. Barrel in, booted the door. Hinges shredded; it flew inside. Sudden impact drew a scream.
One-handed, squeezed through the plain wood door at scream origin. Silence.
Tossed door into hall, scanned. Not pharma—records room. Whirring shredder, one half-gone sheet. Bellwether logo.
Considering the above, authorization granted for establishment of the Battering Rams Vigilante Militia.
Bellwether really greenlit these? Then why shred? Most logical: show us the docs.
Thumbed neck mic, eyes glued to Bellwether-logoed sheet. If Shepherd One's coup intel held, private armies rising—this militia one of them.
"First-floor records secured. Grabbed their shred target too. Third clear?"
Bola crisp. Still all business. Mission ends on boss's call.
"Five resistors on third, all terminated. Docs? What kind?"
"Unclear, but Bellwether logo. Says 'considering above, authorize Battering Rams Vigilante Militia.' Bringing to van."
Boss's voice, groaning displeasure. Faded quick.
"Need to verify docs. Mission over. Calling Bellwether cleanup. All back to van."
Safed the controls, shouldered rifle skyward, returned to van. Wiped mask blood with glove pre-entry... still reeked.
Bulletproof screens up, Valentina leaned from passenger window. Knew why I hovered awkward.
"Need a wipe rag, Boogeyman? Walk in like that, Kay'll smack your back yelling 'clean up first!'"
"Yeah, please. Close-quarters quiet work. Powder stink masks, but blood clings."
Tossed me a cleanish rag from her wipe stash. Better, but iron tang lingered under cordite. Bellwether security rite of passage. Ignored for efficiency.
"Yeeah. Race crash, fuel burns, frame shreds, metal stink everywhere... nobody misses blood. Not yours, though, Boogeyman. Gimme."
She snatched the rag like routine, binned it passenger side.
Eve and Bola approached as I wiped. Bola brushed her extra-plated armor—bullet pocks everywhere—mech hand scraping metal whine, then her laugh output.
"Not one peeled this thin skin. Virgin militia scrubs, all the same."
Absurd from her quarter-face remnant. Eve puzzled, no smirk. Blood faint, or drowned in trio's powder barrage.
Finally boarded, ditched mask and balaclava. Boss arrived same time. Armored van's hard seats felt plusher than a hotel bed right then.
Handed half-shredded sheet. Boss's face twisted again.
"Hoped fake Bellwether forgery... but paper's their secure print stock. Verify proper back at base. No puzzle in a van. Head out, Tina."
Hold up. If Shepherd's coup plot real, Wild Night tangled since job accept—not from showing docs.
Chill crawled spine. No fall from five stories matched it. Post-discharge, no more "nah, probably not."
As doubt deepened, seated Yoon spoke.
"Table till base... Arthur, Bellwether trains acting and rhetoric separate? Kay reported—you aiding that merc... and Half & Half infiltration? Nailed it."
"Uh... no formal training. Just improv on the fly."
That impressive? Seconds to fit words to scene. Basic social, survival.
"Still, sharp improv... Anyway, suggestion: recorder. Your CQC's solid; focus support gear. Perfect for non-lethal infiltrate you favor. No rush—consider."
Recorder... Half & Half, mimicked some Frank guard's voice lucky match. Won't repeat.
One certainty: luck peeks only in hopeless rat holes.
Plus, grenaded office worker still drew pistol—couldn't hide intruder vibe.
Posthuman IV shock absorption silenced stealth rears fine, but indoors? Infiltrate often impossible.
Voice module ideal, but swapping vocals risks Offliner role. Stuck with this shell.
Recorder most efficient? Likely. Study use, but boosts rear sweeps clear.
"Voice modulator implant'd seal it... but radio-sniff easy, right Kay?"
"Probs! Ditch neck thingy and in-ears, you're near radio-silent now. Unless drone cams patrol, hard trace. Mod implant? Cake. Recorder! Your improv slays—good enough?"
Chuckle, spread arms like look at me.
"If I were peak 40s merc grizzled twenty years? 'Deep voice, hmm. Solid.' But Bellwether security grad, twenty-two. Merc week-plus. Looks good... no instant use cases pop."
Cheap add-on, easy yes. Risk: over-reliance.
Bola's words on Hive gun run flashed: mercs rookies and psychos; rookies turn psycho quick. Me worst, playing normal.
Maybe no laugh. Bellwether days: new helmet? "Nice." Now doubting recorder.
No paranoia. Best survival: trust vetted reliable folk.
"Still, scenarios where it'd smooth things flash up. Cheap support—I'll try."
Mission clean, rest distant. Time to unpack shredder bin, puzzle silk-thin strips. Posthuman IV aced precision repetition fine.