2195 Apartheid (5-1)
“Brwup?!Bup!Bwoooouk…!Bwup…!!”
His arms thrashed with all their might, pounding Horatio's head and shoulders like a maniac, while his feet—now dangling off the ground—kicked wildly at his shins in a desperate bid to escape the merciless grip. But the mercenary's body, trained, maintained, and augmented to perfection, didn't even twitch at the feeble rebellion of this middle-aged broker.
“You thought booking me a hotel room out of the goodness of your heart and ordering some food would have me kissing your ass like some loyal servant? Huh? With zero awareness like that, I'm starting to worry if you even vetted this job properly… Should I just say fuck it, leave you to rot, and bounce? Huh??”
Horatio's rage wasn't a blazing inferno. It was cold, obsessive, and sticky—like tar. That green-eyed affection I'd dismissed as mere eccentricity now revealed itself in a whole new light. It was a kind of mortal venom. The symbol of a tenacity that wouldn't let prey slip away even after one or two misses, eventually choking the life out of it. This was bad. Real bad. I clocked it instantly: either the job or my jaw—one of them was getting wrecked for sure.
The broker's eyes, realizing this, flicked desperately toward Omen, the most logical one in the room.
Crunch…!!
“Hmph! Didn't you approve the on-site assignment and let him into the room? Mercenaries don't pick brokers, so brokers pick mercenaries—it's only natural. Trying to shift blame now is just pathetic. You made your choice; now live with the consequences.”
Omen crunched through the synthetic meat garnish with gusto, then resealed his mask, flat-out refusing intervention. His logic was airtight… but why the hell was this human weapon subtly siding with Horatio?
If I take the gig, I'll make damn sure to exceed expectations.
“Bwooooup!!”
Next up, plan C: Domino, who'd been chilling more comfortably than anyone in the room.
“……Well, her lacking a market ID was surprising… but asking the broker on-site like that? Means she found the code herself, no referrer, and broke into the black market. Proves her chops, I'd say. …Or maybe.”
Domino's upper body shot up from his corpse-like sprawl. His hollow eyes fixed on the man.
“You think it's okay to just ignore a mercenary's legitimate demands at your whim…?”
“Bup?!”
His dilated pupils contracted sharply, the jackknife's blade gleaming unnaturally. Sweat dripped from the broker's face as he realized even this last lifeline was a pirate ship in disguise.
In the end, his trembling gaze settled on the one accepting it all… me.
“……?”
Wait—no, looking again, all the other mercs were staring right at me. Especially Horatio—his stone-cold glare from moments ago gone, replaced by a beaming puppy-dog face begging for praise. What the actual fuck?
Since when did I become the ringleader here?! Hey!!
“…You've grasped the point by now, right? Time to talk business, yeah…?”
“Yes, sir!! ……Thank Ivory sis, you incompetent fuck.”
“Urk?!”
As if he'd been waiting for me to speak up, thud!—the broker's body hit the floor. His jaw throbbed red, limbs shaking, but he smartly scrambled to start generating the black market ID.
Beep…!
> Welcome, BMHA-7JWE7IOk!
> You have an ongoing mission. Leaving the operational zone will hold you fully responsible. Proceed with caution.
The portable scanner from his briefcase read my wrist barcode and biometrics. Moments later, an alert popped in my vision: black market exclusive ID, code, and dedicated account—all set up.
“……ID issued, and you're hired for this op. Now… about the mission brief…”
His voice turned cautious as he placed a laptop on the table in front of me. The screen showed no neat job summary—just a document file layered with double and triple encryption.
“This fucking prick…!”
“Please! Show me what you got. If this fails… I'm dead anyway. Might as well die trying…”
“…Okay.”
Horatio shut his yelling mouth, reading the thick resignation in the man's tone.
Revealing my hand in front of this crowd was a bit nerve-wracking… but I couldn't hide it forever. Plus, some here had already seen it firsthand—no real secret anyway.
I spread my palm, lightly touching the laptop keys. Then closed my eyes.
A typical hacker might dazzle with ten-fingered fury, but my style was light-years from standard.
“……? What're you doing…?”
A signal pulses from my skin; the switch in my head flips wide open. Eyes reopen… and the scene shifts. Hotel room vanishes; a vast library materializes.
Connection successful—now decrypt and search the file. I skim random pulled books—data chunks—then approach the haughty central tome, bristling with protections.
Abyss Dive? Nah. Even to prove myself, I'm not suicidal enough to drop that ace in an unsecured spot.
Yesterday's fake signal to Horatio's cyberware? A derived trick from my research—no direct hack needed for glitches.
Dr. Makarovich's focus… was the goddess. If he aimed to craft a virtual absolute, he succeeded. This is my unique hack skill, honed blowing up my birth lab's databank and running a pop-up cyberware shop at Gramps' place. Only I can wield it in this world.
The 'me' who never learned coding controls imagery to shape environments; the perfectly engineered genius 'me' computes it all into instantaneous electrical signals.
Abyss Dive's time dilation plus standard hack accessibility—maxed hybrid. How far it holds in the field? Can't say for sure. But it's my peak power, my allowed edge. No way I'm folding easy on my turf…!
“……Ughk?!”
Plop, plop…!
My bold vow shattered as the casually opened book spewed horrific image data… and a swarm of bug-viruses.
What the fuck does this psycho keep on his work laptop…!
I stomp 'em with my shoes, manipulate the library floor to delete the mess. Never poke around strangers' machines.
“Phew… good.”
Finally at the secure file, I extend both hands. No fair making my brain do all the work—offload tons to the laptop's processor too.
Decrypt structure and language. Splice severed parts, bypass blocks smoothly. Other hackers would foam at the mouth… but it's instinct—like unwrapping a gift or a kimbap triangle. Follow the faint glowing path, seamless.
Sensed time: one minute. Real time: under two seconds.
I disconnect, pull out.
“…is some stunt? Show your skills—”
“Done.”
“…huh?”
The file opens onscreen, projecting the mission as a hologram for all to see.
“Hack's done.”
Client: Paradise Corporation
Operation Name: Catch the Fat Rat (Fat Rat Heist)
Sector details… Extraction plan… Escape routes and forces as follows…
“……Impressive.”
The room gawked at the blink-of-an-eye magic, but as detailed instructions and target intel scrolled down, the three mercs' faces turned… grave.
Sector blah blah… extraction plans… escape routes and manpower like this…. Military jargon overload—I couldn't parse it.
Wait for the broker's explanation.
…But first, something I had to say.
“Um… Mr. Broker?”
“? What.”
“……I'd recommend keeping the furry, skimpy animal vids off your work laptop. …Had a ton of viruses; wiped 'em all.”
“!!!!!!!!”
The middle-aged guy's mouth flapped like a 22nd-century niche fetish busted wide open… then clamped shut. Was that shame or regret over lost data? No clue.
…Didn't wanna know either.