Job Record 005 - Don't Let the Witch Live (6)
The closed-type reinforced suit had limbs powered by servomotors, reinforced joints, and no exposed parts to stab a blade into. True to its name, it created a space completely isolated from the outside, immune even to gas attacks, and boasted superior combat endurance compared to regular employees—or even unaugmented Posthumans. The only comparable aspect was raw strength. The heavy reinforced suit driven by servomotors could match the power of a body where every muscle fiber and tendon had been replaced by Bellwether's research masterpieces.
Regular reinforced suits came loaded with safety features to protect the user. An augmented body like his let you focus purely on performance. And that's exactly what he was using it for in close-quarters combat.
Fortunately, that heretic inquisitor's closed-type suit had one fatal flaw. The helmet couldn't see forward. Whether he saw himself as a herald or something, it had a display showing the cult leader's face. Inside, he'd have to rely on cameras to see out. For that purpose, it would've been simpler—and far more efficient—to overlay a hologram of the leader's face over his own instead of wrapping the front in a display. But apparently, that would've been blasphemous.
The price of that inefficiency was steep. The inquisitor seemed baffled that Arthur wasn't even staggering after taking a direct hit from the suit's fist. His voice boomed from the speaker.
"That woman's a witch! She invaded the home of our serene leader, who lived peacefully in the wasteland, and shot him in the back—proof she's a mutant with seductive powers! Have you forgotten Bellwether's tenets, employee of a Bellwether contractor? Don't let the witch live. You've surely heard that before."
Arthur snorted derisively. He nudged his senior back a bit and prepared to charge. Time to end this. Better to be kind to humans. Humans only.
"Mutants can only disrupt neural signals through various sensory organs. And what? Seductive powers?"
The inquisitor, expecting a war of words, froze as Arthur kicked off the ground and lunged. He leaped lightly. Gravity couldn't hold him. Grabbing the man's head, he slammed a kick into the display-packed helmet.
"So, have I been using my 'make-you-feel-like-shit' power until now, and just switched to 'numb-your-face' mode? Before you go crying 'witch' or 'magic,' maybe do some research..."
The once-uniform white display shattered halfway, flickering faintly. The man shook his head, vision clearly impaired. When you didn't know which part was the camera, smash it all.
Pushed back a step, but the acolytes with submachine guns knelt as ordered, praying fervently. The crowd was starting to gather. You didn't see Hollow Creek heretic inquisitors getting smacked around every day. And nobody minded the sight. Most hoped for it.
"Way more efficient. In Los Angeles, you follow Bellwether's rules. Efficient is right, inefficient is wrong."
Arthur stomped the nozzle of the flamethrower the inquisitor was reaching for, crushing and twisting the end. Unless he wanted a flambé right here, that trigger stayed untouched. A flamethrower was inefficient to the point of nausea—only useful against foes you couldn't ambush or neutralize the gunner. Not a combat weapon. Perfect for roasting lambs who didn't want to go home.
Stepping forward, he followed with a punch. The man toppled backward. Now only a third of the display flickered dimly. The inquisitor, who had so stylishly told his acolytes to pray, now turned toward them, as if calling for help.
Arthur chopped both sides of the neck lightly, smashing the speakers. A Posthuman IV couldn't demolish a closed reinforced suit outright, but it was strong enough to wreck protruding gadgets. The man tapped the ground frantically, summoning the acolytes, but they stayed locked in prayer. Even the laypeople were the most fanatical zealots Arthur had ever seen.
Planting a knee lightly on the chest and mounting him, Arthur watched as the man drew a Hollow Creek standard dagger from his waist—sized for the suit's hand, like a one-handed sword. It thrust horizontally for his head.
Arthur extended his hand, grabbing the wrist. He pried the fingers off the dagger one by one. Taking it, he looked down. He smashed the remaining display with the hilt, blinding him completely. Arthur had no sympathy for seeing the world through auxiliary chest cams now. Inefficient. Unnecessary.
Instead, he raised the dagger high. The inquisitor crossed his arms in an X, writhing on the ground to shield his face at least. Arthur drove it into the ground beside the man's head.
A heavy silence descended. Then, green face shields for anti-mutant closed suits descended. The assault team. Bellwether security's elite.
His Posthuman IV could brawl this inquisitor, but not against Assault 1 with Posthuman III and matching suits. Good thing he didn't need to.
With muzzles trained downward, Arthur saluted crisply in Bellwether style before the descending team. They identified first.
"Bellwether Los Angeles Branch Security Assault 1, Mastiff Unit. Report the situation, Yakyeong mercenary Arthur Murphy, general employee."
"Off-duty, spending time with a fellow company colleague when a Hollow Creek heretic inquisitor attempted unauthorized arrest. I resisted and neutralized non-lethally. Any issue?"
A chuckle leaked from the assault leader's speaker. Mocking, but not at Arthur—at the inquisitor floored by an unaugmented merc.
"None. And you, Hollow Creek heretic inquisitor: Background checks on Bellwether contractor employees are Bellwether's authority. In the city, arrests are exclusive to LAPD, Bellwether, and Pitts & Morrison. Understand? Ah, right. The helmet's the problem."
Knowing Arthur had smashed the cams and speakers, the leader hauled the man up and gripped the helmet... ripping it off effortlessly. Something Arthur couldn't do.
"Ears still work, I assume. Answer what I said earlier."
Finally given a chance to speak, the inquisitor looked ordinary. A somewhat effeminate blond man. Reminded him of Jack—minus the massive cheek bruise, sweat-matted hair, and sparking cybernetic eye.
"Th-the leader contacted Bellwether..."
"Branch president refused. Precedent of outside megacorp security operating arrests in Bellwether territory would be long-term inefficiency."
The efficiency zealot gets shit done when it counts. Was his zero-tolerance for Arthur good management too? Hard to say. But wallowing in old memories wasn't efficient, that much was sure.
"And en route to inform of the refusal, you assaulted our contractor employee. Well... you got in at least one hit. Maybe he took it so you'd call Mastiff instead of Border Collie."
Laughter rippled from the crowd. His senior didn't laugh—just exhaled in shaky relief.
The leader shoved a holographic document at the inquisitor. Probably an expulsion order. Another power shared by Bellwether, Pitts & Morrison, and LA City.
"It's long, so summary: Don't ruin the healthy, efficient Bellwether-Hollow Creek relationship. Go home. No trouble here. What did Farmers' cleanup crew ever do to you?"
Helmetless now, even a fool could guess fighting twelve Assault 1s after failing against one Posthuman IV. The inquisitor boarded his van by the roadside and fled.
The commotion faded, silence returned. The assault team lifted off to Bellwether HQ... and a reporter charged in. Drone cam hovering beside her, no ballistic vest for easy running—straight into a spot where reinforced suits and augments had just clashed. One of the special-obsessed maniacs.
Round-faced with oversized smartglasses already editing docs, straight black bob, cybernetic eyes with blatantly exposed camera lenses instead of pupils. A war correspondent, charitably. A lunatic dodging bullets for interviews mid-firefight, uncharitably. Sanity was rare in this city.
"Hi! Fastest reporting! Most accurate! Daily Los Angeles, Rachel Liu! You just fought a Hollow Creek heretic inquisitor—interview?"
Her words cut off as a big X flashed on her glasses. Media blackout. Report the incident, but not who was involved.
"Ah, you Bellwether bastards! Censored. Blackout. Can't say '20s male Bellwether contractor employee...' That too?! 'Bellwether contractor male downs Hollow Creek heretic inquisitor!' Okay, that works. Anyway, scram. No interview, no point."
Her attitude turned rude in under half a second. Typical trash journalism. They prized scoops over lives, but it rarely passed for "journalistic spirit."
Arthur left with his senior. Onlookers, seeing their footage censored live, lost interest fast. Still, they'd heard his report—affiliation and name at least. Should've slipped the inquisitor some credits as "ad fees"? Idle thought. Back to the cafe, mount the bike. "See you at the office." Short exchange, then separate paths.
Bellwether issued guidelines, but media giants ignored them often. No harm in caution. Long detour to the office. Quiet here, at least. Dismounting, he remembered no charge. Palm to face, up the stairs to the office.
Senior was waiting. No bike talk, as agreed. The reception sofa—swapped by the interior firm—was new-firm, leather and cushions firm.
Senior sat in the corner, patting the spot beside her lightly. Felt like an obedient dog, but he sat. Her head naturally leaned on his shoulder. Heartbeat palpable this time. She stifled a giggle, then spoke. Light tone, forcing levity before the real talk.
"It was funny. Heretic inquisitors are terror symbols in Hollow Creek. Never imagined one getting wrecked in a straight brawl. But..."
Silence fell. Over ten seconds—eleven-ish. Not total quiet; just her lips smacking as she chose words. Or steeled herself. More afraid than facing the inquisitor—bracing to reveal something she feared worse.
The vague hush passed. She spoke softly again.
"You didn't care about the charges he yelled? Just... curious. Like always."
"Escaping for freedom isn't a crime. Just like Helen—7436—living normally somewhere in this city."
Head on his shoulder, she shook it. Shifted, leaning lightly on his arm, looking up. Eyes close. Heartbeat every three and a half seconds.
"I don't think that's a crime either. No—the shooting the leader. You heard. Right?"
The leader... probably the fanaticism's founder in Hollow Creek. If she met him fleeing the cult's yoke, shooting was the only choice. No choice, no sin. Like getting this copycat augmented body.
Or maybe he wanted to believe that.
"Killing and fleeing punishment? Fine otherwise. I kill a few per job anyway. Wasn't that?"
Five dead this morning. If not for Eve's words, he might've killed the inquisitor in front of Farmers. Dagger in the ground was mercy.
Senior looked down, shaking her head long, very long.
"Not that. Didn't flee to avoid punishment for killing. Anyway, no. My fault. Ugh. Too soon. Words won't come. Okay?"
This was the bottom. Why she loathed killing, yet lived as a merc facing it— all rooted here. Basement door locked tight. But leaning on him, she trembled. First time seeing her this fragile.
Hand to her head to calm— she swatted it away reflexively. Unconscious. Panicking, shaking her head, breathless, no words.
Closeness shattered, distance returned.
"Sorry, sorry. Arthur. Just... scared. Stay longer, I'll regret. Yeah. G-gonna go. See you tomorrow..."
Not a one-day fix. More like unchanged since escaping Hollow Creek. But sending her off was all he could do. He left Bellwether knowing only how to be a Bellwether employee. She hated Hollow Creek but learned to be human there.
They were trying. He hadn't snitched on Nadia against Bellwether tenets; she was opening up about her Hollow Creek days as Eve. Hoped this was just trial and error, not festering rot.
Through the office window, her bike's roar cut sharply across the road.