Mission Record 005 - Don't Let the Witch Live (7)
After that, he spent a brief, inefficient stretch of time. He just collapsed onto the sofa. He glanced briefly at the door his senior had fled through, then let out a sigh as all motivation drained away.
Another voice echoed in his head. There weren't just the two of them in the office. Nadia couldn't have heard their words, but she'd surely caught the sound of Eve's bike roaring off.
"Nothing's... going on outside, right?"
She could only speak; she couldn't hear. It converted sound to electrical signals and fed them straight to the brain, but not the other way around.
He staggered to his feet and shuffled into his on-call room. He rapped lightly on the thin wall separating Nadia's room from his and spoke.
You said it wasn't my responsibility, but getting wrapped up in guilt was unavoidable.
"It's not a big deal. Just... how do I put it? The situation got a bit messy. Can we leave it at that?"
A tapping came back from the other side. He leaned against the wall, and her voice filtered through, still trembling faintly. She knew all too well about the mutant hunters—Posthuman IV-clad killers dropping extra-large mutant suppressors to hunt down malformed mutants. They were the stuff of urban legends.
Overcoming fear was no easy task. Was killing those abominations an attempt to conquer fear? He couldn't say.
Nadia seemed to press her palm to the wall. He faintly picked up her heartbeat from the other side. Irregular, but not dangerously so. For a moment, he wondered if that anxious rhythm was part of her mutation.
"If no one steps in, things just stay bad. Honestly... I never expected a Posthuman IV mercenary to apologize to me first. That's why I thought you were... a good guy, Arthur. Eve probably feels the same. But the world has plenty of stories good people can't hear."
He let out a small chuckle. He could sense Nadia leaning against the same spot on her side.
"That's why I always told her you weren't a good guy. Just an ordinary one. Were you hoping for more? Not sure."
"Maybe Eve got depressed every time, realizing how high your bar is for 'good guy.' I think that's all it was. Don't worry too much."
Did he even have clear standards for a good person? He just wanted to seem like one to the people he trusted, in the moment. Maybe acting that way had raised the bar over time.
Blaming others was easy and sweet—no long-term responsibility, quick escape from guilt. But it changed nothing. Pinning down his own responsibility was the efficient path to resolution.
Having his vague hunch confirmed, he tapped the wall lightly with the side of his head. Her voice came back calmer.
"Efficient answer. Lying on the reception sofa—where exactly did I go wrong? Way more than I thought. Oh, where's Tina? You said you wouldn't leave Nadia alone."
He shifted the topic a bit. No need to dwell all day on someone else's darkness.
Nadia sounded flustered again, but not seriously so. "Sh-she's sleeping next to me. She often crashes here 'cause it's quiet..."
Wild Night was home to someone, it seemed. Same for him, right now. He'd glimpsed something in Valentina beyond her mania for leisure and speed.
He dove back into the virtual reality training ground with a relaxed mind—some hybrid of Bellwether security's mobility and assault courses, probably custom-made by Boss Yoon. Guns were tools for killing people. Security training was training to kill people. Bellwether always hammered that home.
The key was purpose. What made a life worth taking? Without grasping that value, you'd lose motivation or get bogged down in pointless guilt. Seeing someone gunned down was gruesome, but you had to think it justified.
Bellwether's answer was simple. First: order. Order protected people. Killing those who disrupted it saved more lives in absolute terms—valuable by comparison.
Second: duty. Security's duty was safeguarding other employees-citizens. Gunning down threats to them fulfilled that duty—valuable work.
But he wasn't Bellwether security anymore. For a mercenary, what made a kill worthwhile? Doing one's part to maintain this city's fragile order. A world without Osgrad, without the Battering Rams militia... without gangs... would make more people happy.
The second one? Still searching. Relying on one alone left you stalled if it failed. Always have a Plan B. Bellwether lesson, etched deep.
Eight hours later, he emerged from infiltration training. His phone showed a few missed calls—from the mercenary he'd guarded Jack with, the one he'd pulled from another agency's crosshairs. Last one four minutes ago.
He called back immediately. A couple rings, then a voice, far cheerier than last time.
"Hey, Offline. On a job? Heard you stirred up major shit at Farmers Tower today—makes sense you're swamped. Don't forget I owe you drinks. Here's the spot. Saud's here too, so come through."
Records could be censored, but not memories. Even Bellwether couldn't touch that. He chuckled softly and nodded—forgetting he was on the phone.
"Mid-training, so gonna shower first. Thirty minutes, and if you wrap up, I'll hunt you down at the office."
His laughing tone drew laughter back. Comfortable moment. Not quite enough to erase his senior's terrified, tear-streaked face.
"We'll drink till dawn, so relax and come. Partly 'cause you're official partner #46—don't think I'm just a social climber."
"Gonna upgrade that to certainty. See you soon."
The chat eased his gut a little anyway. Quick rinse, then out into the muggy night air. Hazy streetlights blurred the skyline; cigarettes glowed like will-o'-the-wisps amid the phantoms.
He headed into that glow. Up close, it lost its magic—nothing special, just everyday night. The bar smelled of frying oil—not chicken, quail. Fitting end to a merc's day.
Flash his mercenary license at the door, citizen and adult scans cleared, inside. A merc with familiar triple-concentric cyber eyes waves from their spot.
He waves back and heads over. One merc still sports a cast on one arm. Already buzzed, the guy nudges him with it.
A leaky chuckle escapes. "You look way better suited up. Was gonna squeeze you for breaking my arm... but you saved Tara, so drinks it is, asshole. Hard to snap a guy's arm and score booze, yeah?"
He shoves a synth ale his way with his good arm. He takes the glass. Synth ale was no different from regular beer. Or after five self-hypnotic chants, you could pretend.
Half the price, though—better to master the hypnosis.
"So, Tara forgave you? Or you already paid in full?"
"Latter. Barely talked her down from torching the whole company. We got hit too, so she simmered once she heard."
She'd planned to sink the company entire. Their raid was probably fallout from him reviving as Posthuman IV—they'd been too close.
Say it? Still just suspicion; better keep quiet. They'd pick a fight with innocent Bellwether, things could escalate.
"What about the company?"
Arm-in-cast slams the table lightly with his cast. Thud echoes.
"Soon as this heals, we raid 'em—show what a real hit feels like. Fucking bastards... Me? Not generous, but a broken arm? Booze covers it. But those pricks tried to wipe us like we were a gang. Gotta teach 'em."
Normal company would've logged it; emergency jobs especially precise. Unless Bellwether classified it secret.
To blend in: "Need a gunhand, call me. Pays back the arm, pads my personal log."
Guy loves it—raises his glass for a toast. Clear clink on impact; synth ale cool if tasteless.
Sets it down, crunches a quail chunk bones and all. Swallow, then:
"Sharp bastard. Like it. Nah, people are fine. It's the goddamn synth ale and quail over chicken. Thanks for feeding 3.7 billion post-war, but time to step aside for juicier shit, yeah?"
Buzzed, he eyes the quail chunks. The triple-eye merc across from him flashes her new prosthetic arm.
"He talks shit, but we owe you. Posthuman IV versus helmeted merc? You'd kill ten times over, but you just subdued. Listened to the auto-message, came and saved her ass. So take every credit—no 'paying back the arm' crap."
"Gonna need a contract for that here. And it'll squeeze every cent."
Shrewd seemed right now. She refills, clinks again. Big swig, quail crunch—less oily than chicken, but close. Nutty fat and crispy batter crumbling with bone. Brief bliss.
Bellwether's one letdown was food joy; good to reclaim it post-exit.
He wouldn't stay Bellwether retiree forever. More used to "Offline" than Shepherd Six anyway.
But living in LA meant no full goodbye. Had to root out the pus inside—HR? Law Assassination Team? Security itself?
Blind trust 'cause he was in it, had a boss who trusted him? Inefficient. Suspect everything. Trust later.
Luckily, these folks gave a shot at tracing Bellwether LA Branch's festering wound.
Everything converged on one point. Jai-in-ah's terror profited someone big. Someone at the wound's origin.
Security lost trust; didn't get Posthuman IV as planned, but bought time for the rest to flow naturally.
It was Walter. Find Walter, beat him bare-fisted to death.
Good fades on recall; bad sharpens. He stokes hate anew, drowns the rising fire with ale. Sigh, refocus—not revenge, the drinks now.
This scene would blur on replay. He relaxes his stiff face, spends the night there.
Work tomorrow—needed efficiency, wash away unease. Drinks ran to dawn.
Posthuman IV shredded alcohol perfectly; only he and Tara stayed sober. The other two face-planted on the table.
Tara pats her side with her prosthetic, grins. Buzzed flush on her.
"Why I swapped my liver. Can you haul these idiots to a taxi? Mine's daily-use, and gotta settle up."
As requested, he grabs their clothes, lifts easy. Tara whistles low. Nothing new for this augmented strength, but funny scene.
Pays nothing—his tab covered—loads them gently into the waiting taxi out front.
Tara wrestles them seated, climbs in. He smiles.
"Rough drop-off at the office. Safe travels. Call for payback."
"Damn right. Chance to show those ragtag-hiring fucks Bellwether bioweapon. Password when?"
Closes door, leans on lowered window. Driverless—no annoyed honk to move.
"Wednesdays and Thursdays. Weekdays daytime mostly free... but public jobs might block."
Tara waves thanks; taxi pulls out.
The boisterous haze that'd dulled his senior's stab of guilt evaporated.
Checks his pistol in his pocket, walks back to the office.
Midnight past, temps over 59°F, roads jammed... faint gunfire nearby, merc agency on duty.
No shootout in sight, no rain—decent night for the trek.