The City Comes Alive
"Give me a headcount."
"Most of the mercenaries landed without a problem."
"The independents running in small parties, and a few newbies from the sloppier clans, look like they didn't grab a chute in time. Even among the ones who did, we confirmed some got eaten by the Darkzone the second they hit the ground."
"Stupid bastards. The Darkzone isn't some kids' playground. Who the hell brings newbies into a small elite party?"
Rex, a former American mercenary, clicked his tongue and scowled.
This hellhole of a prison existed nowhere else on earth, and it was crawling with men like him—ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and contract killers with messy stories and murkier records. Live long enough on the outside and someone eventually stepped on your tail. You got hunted. So they had come here, to a relatively safe prison, to stretch out whatever life they had left.
Professionals, anytime, anywhere. Absolute mongrels who would do anything if the money was right.
And someone had the gall to drag snot-nosed newbies into their sacred, noble workplace.
"Should've seen it coming the second those clan bastards started leaning on numbers and capital to steamroll everyone."
"To be fair, finding anyone who's formed a group in a place like this and doesn't steamroll people with numbers and capital is even harder."
"Fair enough."
The private military company they had belonged to in a former life hadn't been Blackwater—not the best-paid outfit on the planet—but it had still fielded capital and tech that left most mid-tier national armies in the dust.
They had hit rock bottom since then. There was no going back, so a transitional period was only natural.
Meaning: no money, no power, so for now they sat still and took it.
"...We ignore any clans and parties that aren't our problem. The clans all want the same thing anyway. Rally at a designated point, farm together, extract together. The small-party types pick up scraps in between, hoping for a windfall, or they just extract fast. Either way, no reason for them to collide with us directly."
"What if they underestimate our numbers and pick a fight first? Or try to screw with our plan?"
"Give them one warning. After that, you shoot them dead. No hesitation. We're not Clan Coalition, so we don't have to worry about sanctions. Besides, everything's going on our body cams and head cams. What the hell are they going to do with that kind of evidence?"
"Agreed."
His men nodded and checked their gear. Rex confirmed his own rifle and flashlight were working, then continued the briefing.
The spot they had landed was the middle of an empty commercial street. No immediate threats.
"We've got two primary objectives. One: intel gathering and sample collection on the Darkzone. Two: target elimination."
"Target meaning that Super Rookie?"
"That's right. But the client said we don't necessarily have to kill him. Interfering enough that they can't properly explore the Darkzone—or can't extract—would be sufficient."
"Then why lock it in as a kill?"
"Because killing is cleaner and easier than interfering."
Rex's blunt assessment drew snickers from his men as they glanced at each other.
He wasn't wrong.
Yes, the client was the one paying. But predicting how a situation on the ground would actually unfold was impossible unless you were God Himself.
And in that kind of mess, they were supposed to merely "interfere" with a hostile target? What if they got made mid-interference and came under fire? What if the target caught on early and ran?
The contract would fail. And if they were unlucky, they would die.
They had no interest in eating that kind of risk just to humor a finicky statement of work. Besides, the client had said they didn't have to kill him. The client had not said they couldn't.
So they pop the target's skull and they're done.
Contract closed easy. Future threat removed. Two birds, one stone.
If it really isn't working out, we punt the kill job to next time and focus on the intel contract. Either way, we come out ahead.
With that settled, Rex assigned positions.
"Malcolm. You're designated marksman this op. I bought you an expensive rifle, so earn it."
"Heh. You already know I'm every bit as good as most dedicated snipers, boss."
"Yeah. Next, Monty. You're recon. That drone slaved to the Smart Link in your skull should have no trouble finding our target in an urban grid like this."
"There's no dedicated signal relay out here, so the drone's search radius isn't particularly wide. Within a five-hundred-meter radius, though, we shouldn't have any major issues."
"That's plenty. Last, Nut. You're with me on the breach-and-flank."
True to his taciturn nature, Nut didn't answer. He just thumped his chest twice with a fist to signal he was in.
"According to the Darkzone intel the client paid good money for, this place is packed with bizarre traps, sudden environmental shifts, and all kinds of hostile organisms—Native Species. The outside of buildings is generally safer than the inside, and anything that makes a lot of noise or light is especially dangerous."
"Good thing we kept the flashlights off, then."
"When we were coming down on the chutes, I saw other people falling with their lights blazing. Those idiots have already been eaten by the Darkzone."
"Right. But we'll need our gear when it counts, so keep usage to a minimum—and don't hesitate when you actually need it. First order of business: we push the Super Rookie who dropped toward the city outskirts into a corner."
With that, Rex pulled an old tape recorder from his coat—the kind with a folding oversized speaker attached.
"Based on the intel I've gathered, the Super Rookie values exploration and farming efficiency over his own safety. Meaning he absolutely hates anyone who gets in his way, and he'll try to deal with interferers personally if he can. But right now he's the front-runner, so instead of hunting us down, he's more likely to take a wide detour and pick a safer route."
"You said he values efficiency over his own safety. Isn't that a contradiction?"
"Why do you think he found a chute faster than anyone and jumped first? It's proof he knows this place better than we do—and that he knows a front-runner has the advantage over the pack behind him. A guy who knows that isn't going to give up the lead just to come find us and pick a fight."
"People only give up a position like that when they've got nowhere left to retreat."
"Exactly. We keep the pressure on—track him constantly, but always leave him just enough room to fall back. Tight enough that he can't change his mind halfway. Loose enough that he can't just slip away."
And for that, they had prepared something special for this expedition.
"Get ready. We're about to turn this whole city block into a war zone and squeeze him."
Once the chaos started, the Super Rookie wouldn't be able to farm, explore, or extract.
While he was pinned down, they would close the distance and shadow him. Then he would have to deal with the Darkzone and them at the same time.
They could just interfere, per the contract. Or they could take the opening and kill him for certain. What a beautiful plan.
Rex hit play on the recorder he had set on the ground.
A booming volley of gunfire erupted from the fully unfolded dish-shaped speaker.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The gunshots rang out at regular intervals, spreading wide from the heart of the commercial district.
The Native Species that picked up the sound would come pouring in before long, smash the recorder to pieces—or start chasing whatever unlucky convicts had drawn aggro by reacting to the noise.
Anyone with half a brain would notice how staged these gunshots sound. But realistically, not many people standing in the middle of a lethal city center are going to clock a gunshot as "artificial."
Most would jump out of their skin and dive for cover, or just run as far from the danger zone as they could.
There would be more people who reasonably prioritized their own hides than there would be gutsy idiots who'd come looking for whoever was responsible.
"The Super Rookie will have heard those shots by now. He won't just hide, and he won't come looking for us either. He'll find a decent spot, keep farming, and wait for the noise to die down."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because a guy who cares about efficiency isn't going to wander around a city that's just gone to hell."
Whether he was in a rush to farm or a rush to extract, they had fired the flare first. His feet were tied. That much was certain.
But Rex's mercenary team was just as exposed, which meant they needed to find the Super Rookie's trail and close in as fast as possible.
"Deploying the drone on the move."
Monty hurled the small drone slaved to his Smart Link into the sky.
It was pathetic compared to a military drone, and it didn't have many features—but its mobility and stealth were outstanding, which made it perfect for search and tracking.
Operating a low-spec drone in a place with no signal relays and no satellites was harder than it looked, though. Monty pushed the Smart Link's parallel processing, autopilot, and signal amplification for everything they were worth, trying to stretch the drone's effective range.
"Confirmed. That fog zone we heard about isn't far."
"Distance?"
"Approximately 1.5 kilometers. We'll have to cut through a dense commercial strip. There are abandoned wrecks on the road and some collapsed building debris, but the path isn't fully blocked."
"Good. Any high-rises Malcolm can set up in?"
"The drone's lens isn't high-end enough to fully map the surrounding terrain."
"It's a commercial district. We'll find something once we get closer. Not bringing night vision was a mistake."
"Those things are expensive as hell. Night vision costs more than most high-end gear."
"That's because that Russian bastard's got a lock on certain supply chains. Damn it. Once this contract's done, I need to find someone who can run a side hustle as a broker."
Rex grumbled, but he put power into his legs and moved at a fast walk.
You only sprinted when the enemy was chasing you, or when the target was running. Burn extra stamina on the move and you'd freeze up at the critical moment and die. Simple as that.
Mercenaries were thorough individualists. You looked after your own life. The idea that the guy next to you would save you when it counted was something you had to throw away early.
The ones who thought like that were always the first to get eaten in this business.
"Native Species, sixty meters ahead, on the move. Their route overlaps ours."
"Can we go around?"
"We could, but if we duck into alleys or building gaps the drone hasn't fully checked, we risk running into something else."
"Then we drop them fast."
He had no intention of reaching for a gun just yet.
The rifles themselves were decent, upper-tier pieces. But the attachments were mid-grade at best—a mix of cost-cutting and the simple, practical problem of not having enough money.
A red-dot sight, a vertical grip, a rubber buttpad, a flashlight on the bottom rail—most of that you could cheap out on without much pain. The barrel components not being high-end, though, that was a real problem.
"The suppressors we bought were budget models. No choice there. So we avoid outdoor engagements if we can and keep it indoor. Unless we're in an environment that can actually swallow the noise, we treat the guns like they're loaded with gold."
If a clean shot at the target presented itself, they wouldn't hesitate. But getting eaten by the Darkzone before they even got that chance? Hard pass.
Rex and Nut moved up front, drawing a collapsible short spear and a machete.
They rounded the corner and, without a second's pause, charged the small pack of Native Species waiting on the other side.
Human-shaped things with heads swollen like balloons. Their weak point was painfully obvious. The spear punched through the bloated skulls and burst them. The machete took the necks in a single stroke, separating those massive heads from the bodies.
Five Native Species. Two men. Ten seconds, give or take.
A storm of cutting, stabbing, crushing, and bursting—and when it passed, all that remained were corpses that, to their credit, had the virtue of staying quiet.
Monty followed up and collected samples. Malcolm brought up the rear, covering the team.
Textbook teamwork.
Unlike the bottom-feeding street trash who had spent their whole lives as insects, these men had real combat experience and seasoned instincts.
And in this day and age, you rarely washed out from injury or age.
Injury? Get it treated. Worst case, replace whatever didn't work with an implant.
Aging? Pop expensive anti-aging drugs, or hit a boost cocktail.
The more this world advanced, the more blood it demanded. For mercenaries—men whose job was making other people bleed—it was the best era imaginable.
Rex's team was wiping the filthy fluids off their weapons, taking a one-count breather, when—
Just as the thought was forming that they could track the Super Rookie's trail and grab his tail without much trouble, the entire city suddenly came alive.
"......!"
...Waaaaaaaaail!
A sinister siren erupted out of nowhere. Buildings and streets began to twist and warp. The fog writhed and crawled. And from somewhere—no one could say where—packs of Native Species came pouring out.
The chaos had only just begun.