Mission Log 005 - Don't Let the Witch Live (3)
I manage to pull my thoughts together a bit, so I decide to grab some sleep. I'll wake up around lunchtime, but it's a day off—no one's going to complain about sleeping in that much. I stagger back to the on-call room, shut the door, and drift off.
The boss and Tina seem satisfied just knowing I've treated Nadia kindly, like she's one of the good ones. It's hard to be cruel to someone breathing right in front of you, alive and real. Cynicism and kindness both drain energy, but kindness yields far better results. Efficiency wins.
With those thoughts, my consciousness sinks slowly. No visions of monstrosities or infiltrating Law Assassination Teams haunt me this time. I slip into sleep undisturbed. I'll deal with the worries after I wake.
It feels like I just closed my eyes, but four hours have passed. The sun hangs midway up the hazy sky. The door to my on-call room—which I definitely locked—is wide open. And Eve stands right there in front of me.
If this is a dream, it's a good one. I blink, but she doesn't vanish. Am I really awake? I flex my hand experimentally, and a soft laugh escapes—rare for Eve.
"Pfft, yeah, I'm really here. What's the deal? Came to borrow you for the day, but some interior design crew was hanging around."
My voice comes out hoarse and rough. Too many thoughts churning; even sleep wasn't refreshing.
"Had some trouble at dawn. Bellwether Law Assassination Team broke in. Dealt with them. No idea why. Bellwether's a mess... from that terrorist attack we talked about last time..."
Eve crouches by my makeshift bed and shakes her head. Her prosthetic hand rises to my head—not heavy, but I feel the gentle stroke.
Still so sleepy.
"Too much on your mind, Arthur? It's okay. Really... No injuries? You look fine since you slept it off..."
I try to sit up, and pain stabs my side. Gunshot wound. When? Probably the second guy. Blood stains my black t-shirt, but it's hard to see.
"Looks like one hit... Adrenaline fried my brain, then I crashed. First aid kit? Could you grab it?"
I peel off the bloody shirt and probe my side. The bullet's lodged in there. Glancing blow—skidded in at an angle, didn't shatter. Subsonic round with low penetration? Can't recall their guns clearly.
Eve returns with the kit, her face paling at the sight. She swats my hand away from prodding the entry point and cracks open the kit, disinfecting around the embedded slug.
I just watch blankly.
"You slept like this? Gonna pump you with painkillers, cauterize the tissue around the bullet, and yank it. Stay still—it'll hurt."
Was she a medic originally? My foggy mind sharpens a bit as the needle plunges into my side. Painkillers barely touch me. Posthuman IV bodies resist most drugs—designed for poisons, but meds aren't far off.
Sensation dulls slightly. Feels like a laser scalpel touches down, but my augmented body proves tougher than expected. Even the hemostatic laser struggles; she cranks the power to slice away the unnaturally regenerated tissue around the wound.
Oddly painless. Lingering adrenaline? Or standard Posthuman IV pain tolerance? Need to reread the manual.
The bullet pops free from the disinfected skin. She staples it shut, but the shock-absorbing dermis shrugs off the medical stapler.
I yawn through my words. "Just bandage it? It'll form a membrane and heal on its own... Infection's near impossible anyway. Manual says that's standard for minor wounds."
Her eyes sharpen coldly at my irresponsible suggestion, but showing her the Posthuman IV Augmented Body manual softens her back to worried Eve.
"If I worked at Bellwether, I'd demand dedicated Posthuman IV kits from the top. Good thing you're tough despite the recklessness, Arthur."
"You've got enough sense of responsibility for both of us, senpai... Just the bandage, please."
Thick gauze pads the wound to keep stuff out, secured with medical tape. A membrane will form soon, and it'll heal fully. I toss the bloody shirt into the laundry bin. After a week's work, it fills fast.
Grabbing the bin, I turn to Eve—who said she came to see me. Not like last time's energetic outing. Probably.
"Heading to the laundry room. Join me? Didn't want you glaring like you'd kill me if I suggested going out like usual..."
"Good you know. You nearby?"
She knows less than I thought. Hard to believe I once saw her as cold.
I smile faintly. "Walking distance. Planning to crash there till I find a place... Oh, gotta house-hunt too. Can't hole up in the on-call room forever."
"Told you, too many thoughts. If you were normal, that bullet goes clean through, and you'd have woken up in a coffin on a stretcher. Lucky the augment saved you—and you're fretting about housing?"
Everyone else—from Nadia beyond the wall onward—talks about my Posthuman IV shell. Eve never does. Feels oddly normal, yet not.
"You're right. Body changed, and now even 'natural' feels off. Laundry first, then crash hard..."
I tuck the pistol from the desk into my waistband, seal the bin, and stand. Pat the side wound twice, open the auto-door, and step out into the acrid air. Smoking rates make sense now—instinct to mask foul with less foul.
The 24/7 self-laundry for round-the-clock mercs is quieter mornings. I stumble in, dump clothes in a washer, and slump on the chair nearby. Just us inside.
Even maxing Posthuman IV hearing, only washers hum—no dawn gunfire today. Peaceful.
With Eve, it's always like this. Nothing great happens, but nothing worsens. Status quo is luxury.
But today, she showed unannounced. Somewhere she wants to go? Curiosity hits late; I turn.
She's savoring the quiet, a faint smile—rare expression shifts for her. Feels sinful to break her profile.
Curiosity beats inertia.
"You usually plan ahead. Last week, you even asked if it was okay to tag along. Sudden today... Somewhere in mind?"
She finally looks, rolling her eyes slowly. No destination?
After silence, she sighs. "Figured seeing you would make one. Like, 'Gotta investigate this today? I'll go. Or day off, hitting this spot? Mind if I join?'"
Is this no-plan life, or am I her plan? I chuckle softly.
"Bellwether was my whole world—no spots in mind. No car either. Was saving for a junker... Bellwether broke silence first. Want the rundown?"
Laundry CCTV's audio-free. No eavesdroppers if empty. They breached first.
Eve hesitates, fingers ticking like gathering courage—wants to hear, but shouldn't.
I count inwardly. At eight:
"If you're okay. Overheard you with that Shepherd One guy. Terror hit, something killed you... but didn't. Can't return to Bellwether."
I raise my Posthuman IV hands, mime clawing from a pit.
"Clawed out of the hellhole they tossed me in. Security glitch on my watch. Killed external terrorists, but internals freed lab rats—experiments for this body. Ex-people. Escape from my site; I led, couldn't stop it. Probably."
No Francis mention. Not his fault. Knew it even in despair. Grenade in the maw—only clear memory.
Eve's face darkens. Then... something light touches my shoulder. Pulse there—one per second. Her hair. She's leaning.
Straighten up—tension. Duration? Lost track.
Her voice: "Anyone call you brave? Amazing? Grateful? Words you earn doing that."
"Supervisor did, at Bellwether. 'Best Shepherd Six I ever saw.' Grace period short—one line, but enough."
Washer hums till now; focus on contact, sight dulls. Senses trade off.
Posthuman IV counts seconds perfectly. Sixty make a minute, sixty minutes an hour. Now? Off.
"One time's not enough, I'd say. Sacrificing for others? Unthinkable. People only save themselves. Wait... no."
I know the rest. Beer chat clicks: you're not burdened like others; you're other.
"To you, I'm the counterexample?"
"Yeah. Sharp, Arthur. Talk too much Hollow Creek? Gotta again."
I shake my head instead. Her hair brushes my cheek each time. She feels it.
"Hollow Creek, everyone acted ready to die for the cult leader. Made me think living for others is horror, for self is right. Learned self-only sucks too... Wasn't sure which, but you show me."
Laugh slips. Not life-advice material.
Her illusion-shatterer, but: "First post-discharge? Harassed old coworker who thought he got me killed."
"Why?" Curiosity, not disappointment.
We defy our scripts.
"Mad. 'I end up like this, you only suffer that much?' Petty revenge. Dumb—quit quick."
"Every time you say 'I've got my shameful side,' I feel smaller. You do it on purpose."
Not sharp—just sleepy-kid grumble. Easy reply.
"Deny hard, you'll say 'As expected, amazing.' So I'll laugh it off. Cool?"
Leaned head nods.
Snap to—wash done minutes ago. Time flies. Shift load to dryer; return, her head's back on my shoulder. Hold words; whispers post-sit:
"So, sly, irresponsible, tough, unremarkable Arthur... Lunch?"
Feign flinch. Laugh in tone—she knows no real worry.
"Not picking dinner too?"
She squirms comfy, rare laugh again. How many hear this? Dizzying.
"Obviously. I'll pick late-night. Wait—no. Girl who can't pick beer? Weird snacks. You handle late-night too, Arthur."
Bellwether cafeteria guy who said "usual" picking three decent meals? Near-perfect day off. Early crash, waking to "Why bandage?"—all things considered, flawless.