Mission Log 005 - Do Not Let the Witch Live (1)
Back at the office, they piece together the shredded documents. Thanks to Bola and Kay, whose heads are crammed with arithmetic augmentation implants, it doesn't take long.
The first two sheets are lists of militia members. If we're acting as proxies for Bellwether Corp, they must have shredded them to protect their identities—their former comrades or families could get hit. Bellwether knows who they all are anyway. And Bellwether doesn't usually touch families. That's the kind of shit Pitts & Morrison pulls. To a regular employee, the corps probably look the same, so they shredded them. Or maybe they just shoved everything they could grab into the shredder.
They set those two aside and check the remaining pair. Those are printouts of transaction receipts from an auction site. The margins are huge—probably not meant for printing—which made matching the shreds a pain. No real need to print them when they're stored online anyway... but the items make it understandable why they bothered.
The militia bought Bellwether Corp standard gear and rifles through the auction site. Suddenly it clicks why armed mostly with Bellwether kit despite only having ex-security types. But that's not important.
Compared to the last document I pick up—the one shredded into floppy confetti—those smuggling lists are nothing.
The Bellwether Los Angeles Branch fully acknowledges that the security team's handling of the Natural Humans Are Beautiful membership may appear insufficient in the eyes of some employees.
It's polite phrasing, but the meaning doesn't change. Simple: the branch is publicly declaring no confidence in its own security team via official memo to all staff. And just admitting that would at least bring in the Market Keepers... but the memo authorizes the Battering Rams vigilante group under that pretext.
This is the branch openly rebelling against HQ. Obvious to anyone, so once the sheets match up, everyone goes silent for a long stretch.
Best not to meddle. Reporting straight to HQ is risky; handing the docs to the no-confidence security team and bailing is the smart play. Wild Night can handle a twenty-man militia easy, but not a full war with a mid-sized corp's 150-strong guard force. Especially not against Bellwether.
Problem: how to hand off to security without getting burned. Can we trust the security chief? Shepherd One is trustworthy, at minimum, but I have no way to reach him. I never worked at Bellwether. No clue if they're still watching me. At least Assault Team 1 wasn't waiting at the office, so gag order surveillance must be over.
No one has answers when Yoon stops rubbing her brow with that milky prosthetic arm and speaks.
Responsibility always falls to the boss.
"I'll handle this document. Before retiring, I'll contact my old Mobile Unit colleagues and deliver it straight to the security team that's effectively been no-confidenced. Minimal entanglement with Bellwether—nobody else here has connections there anyway, and since I picked the job, I need to clean it up properly."
Was grabbing the shredder tray my fault? I think for a second. At least now we know what's brewing and can dodge it. Without this, we couldn't.
"No guilt, Arthur. An ignorant shrimp dies crushed between whales when the sea darkens. A shrimp that knows the whales' feud can at least swim toward safer waters. Knowing beats time healing it—if it ever does."
That's my line. So what happens to the shrimp clinging to a whale with better odds? Ends up dodging another whale anyway.
I try not to dwell on the negative. She wraps it up neatly, but her face stays dim. Tough situation. My fault or not, hearing otherwise means it's valid to think that way.
It's the day before a holiday, but no drinks—everyone heads home early. Big job done, bigger one looming; better rest up. I agree.
From the office window, I watch Kay scurrying home to her apartment complex like always, then lock up and head to the on-call room. Tina's already out. I lie on the cot, but sleep won't come.
Not the bed—uncomfortable ones help me sleep better. It's past 1:30 a.m. when I get back, but by 4:30, still awake. No energy lost, no motivation gone or gained—just staring at the ceiling.
Body's finally tiring. Did I hear wall-tapping while lying there? Can't recall. No bandwidth to think about surroundings. Forcing sleep on a body that won't shut down, then—tap tap from the wall again.
Usually one or two taps and done. Tonight, every minute. Real sound or my anxiety glitch? Hard to tell. I shut my eyes. Need sleep first. Wasting time inefficiently hurts worse than insomnia.
Finally drifting—then scratching turns to pounding from beyond the wall. Eyes snap open. Something's there. Grab the pistol.
No footsteps from me, so tapping grows louder. Suddenly, Yoon's voice echoes in my head—like when she told me to eavesdrop on Eve.
"Arthur, wake up. It's me. Unidentified van approaching the office. Get up and prepare. Almost here."
Mutant. The word hits; the voice turns foul. I yank the carbine from its case, aim at the wall.
"Trying to fake comms, huh? Too bad—I don't have an arithmetic implant in my skull. And Yoon doesn't call me 'kun.' Answer or I go full Bellwether."
Do not let the witch live.
Bellwether's creed. Mutants are variables. Inefficiencies. Human-shaped, but they don't act human.
My sharp tone quiets the head-voice. I approach the wall, tap it far from my body—hollow echo inside. Focus, max out hearing. Breathing from the wall—opposite where I'm hiding.
But not just that. Tire screech of a bulletproof van braking forward—heavy chassis pitching. Matches the voice. Near the office. Not Wild Night's van. No other merc firms in the building. Real?
Never heard of helpful mutants. When I threatened Bellwether treatment, it fled instead of arming up or attacking. Wall sounds harmless now. The van's the threat. Really here? Or the wall-mutant faking it like voices? No—mutants can't mimic machines. Real.
Gag order not fully lifted? Did today violate it? No. Never broke it.
Decide: shoot into wall or handle potential intruder? Alone, wall first—but not alone. Tina next door. Wild Night's tangled in big shit today. I choose: trust over doubt yields better results.
Tap the wall lightly, speak close. "Fine. Heard it. Won't pry who you are... or rather, I'll trust you. Just intruder count and position. That's sound?"
"N-no. Not sound. Direct to brain... Three in the van. One driver, two in back."
With an implant, I'd buy the comms ruse. Posthuman IV body ramps to max from threat detect. Muscles tense. Same play: hit 'em from behind.
Target me or not? Wall-mutant's abilities unknown. Focus on mine. This is Wild Night space. Killing illegal intruders is no crime, whoever they are—even Bellwether's chairman.
New mag in carbine, chamber round. Explosives with boss—no flashbangs. IR goggles on them? Darkness not my ally. Deep breath.
Voice again: "Not door. Front wall. The big reception window wall."
Soon after, curtained window—clank on building's stone railing. Window entry planned. Can't stay in on-call. IR can't see through glass. Ease door open. Hope I'm not marching to slaughter.
Before leaving, to wall: "Window entry. Mutant, what can you do?"
"V-voice signals to electrical... send and sense... that's it."
Directly stimulating my auditory nerves, then. Like the Ja-in-a terrorist messing with nerves—but lower threat. Abnormal mutants handle stimuli/signals. Hallway one did visual; this, audio. Similar. Hers strong enough to hijack nerves; this weaker.
Weak signals aren't useless. Replaces flashbang sans one. Good enough. Half-baked talent's still talent if usable. Bellwether creed steels me.
"When they're fully in, blast the loudest noise you can into their heads. Can do?"
"C-can... try. Just... signal."
Only send/sense? Convo over. Carbine ready, slip to office. Hug wall by door, wait.
Assault Team outside? Propellers. Mobile Unit? Surround, rappel from roof. Small team of two, quiet window entry. No metal clinks or joint whirs—no aug suits. Law Assassination Team most likely. They come if you breach contract.
Good—no sealed exec suits. Grunts. Gag order hit? Prep anyway. Meaning irrelevant vs. survival.
Rappel hook on upper railing. Auto-wind pulls two up smooth. Pause to wait.
Could wake Tina—no time to explain. Solo.
Endless wall-taps today—sensing/warning of visitors? Unknown. Ignorance just pisses me off. Bite lip, check mag. Window lock snaps faint. Too quiet to pinpoint.
Window creeps open. One grabs curtain—no flap. Both feet inside... window shuts. Both fully in Wild Night turf. Pure illegal entry now.
Flip to full auto. Voice cracks from tension, but I yell: "Now!"
Won't go down easy. Not waiting for the goddamn disciplinary board slaughter like last time.
This is my psychosis. Certain now.
Law Assassination grunts have no reaction time. Gunfire erupts—not at my yell from wall-back, but ceiling-ward. One screams.
"Gah, fuck, aaagh! Cut audio link! We prepped for EW, shit!"
Why mutants are variables. Can't EW-counter them. That's why exterminate—and why useful.
Half-exposed behind door, brace and sight. Both staggering. Even cutting audio/deaf-mode, head-grab with one hand, flailing shots with other—no aim possible.
Confirm both armed visually, sight upper chest, squeeze. Posthuman IV crushes recoil. Just enough not to snap trigger.
Sofa fluff sprays from ricochet. My shots shatter window, whip curtain. Quiet dawn shatters with gunfire.
Wind floods shattered window, fluorescent streetlight spills through fluttering curtain. Eyes lock with respawning Law Assassination grunt—pain and noise be damned.
He clocks me too. That stare feels eternal. His shaky aim steadying, my barrel swinging—endless. Nah. Half-second max.
Muffled suppressor bark loses direction. Both silencer-equipped. I just prepped better.
Eyes won't bloodshot in time, but life fades quick. His dull. Slumps forward.
Side burns—not pain, heat. Adrenaline queues it. Dash shattered window, land hard on parked van roof. Chassis bucks; driver visible inside.
Unknown face—relief? Too soft? He slams armored panel button one-handed; I jam it, cock fist. No drop for backup means they see us as pure meat-grind.
Pent-up rage erupts. "Wrong call, you Law Assassination fucks! Sending assassins to a contractor? This Bellwether's way?"
Smash edge. Crack webs armored glass. Two more—front cracks wide. Shove hand in, yank full force. Edge buckles; seam gaps.
Driver hyperventilating now. Want to taunt casual instead of curse... but heart hammers, words spill.
"Hey. Call Stephanet, get security. Bring the chief—show rappel scars, bullets in contractor office from your assassin shits!"
Can't stop thinking. Keep thinking. Bellwether's safest endgame—but call them, hide the mutant. Bellwether says kill witches, but I won't sell out someone who bought my neck another day. Never.