2195 Apartheid (8)
"Fuck this shit!! Who the hell do these corporate dog bastards think they are, crawling into our turf…?! Gah?!"
A missile launcher…? Bazooka? Hell if I knew the exact name, but the Painkiller thug aiming that Middle Eastern terrorist wand right at us got a nice hole punched through his throat. He clutched at it, staggering… then tumbled out the window with his heavy weapon still in hand, smashing into the ground below.
Please be dead. Just please. Thinking back to that zombie-armed freak nearly capping me still sends chills down my spine.
KABOOOOM---!!
"What the…?!"
The surrounding buildings were crawling with criminals, so you could call it the dead center of the party. And then this hit the comms channel:
I thought some sharp-eared bastard had shut that down nicely, but apparently one team somewhere fucked up their watch, and one of our sturdy covering turrets exploded again. Furious mercenary shouts flooded the comm channel.
Especially the ones next to us—their team had lost a member pathetically to the Painkillers' initial ambush during movement, back when we got one-sidedly jumped. Their vibe was straight-up murderous.
"Ivory sis…! You okay?!"
"I'm completely fine, so quit the fuss…! And why the hell are you calling me sis all of a sudden?!"
"'Cause… you're the sis?"
He cracked himself up saying it, and Horacio and Domino burst out laughing together, hunkered nicely behind the vehicle. Omen… didn't say much, but he was subtly blocking any paths where bullets or shrapnel might fly my way with his body. Felt like more than just teammate treatment—like a real comrade.
……I'm one thing, but what the hell are these guys seeing to trust people so easily?
…They're gonna get burned hard someday and wise up.
"Hey!! Daredevil team! Recovery team…!! Fuck, quit screwing around over there and lend a hand…!! If Omen steps up, he'll just bulldoze that entrance!"
"Haha!! Then what about you? Just gonna sit back and snag the credits?"
"…Hmph! Recovery team's got no duty to breach till neutralization's done. And you ain't taking responsibility if our team hacker gets hurt, right?"
"Son of a…!"
Vrrrrm…!!
The merc kept cursing at our team's attitude—no intention of moving till formal orders dropped—and kept up the firefight. Casualties sucked, but as fellow hires, the bossing-around lacked punch.
Weeeeng…!KABRRRRT---!!
One of the turret vehicles from 7th Street rolled up to 5th, filling the firepower gap. 7th was suppressed. 6th still mopping up holdouts. 5th… stalled due to their suppression team's losses.
Even with remaining mercs and mobile batteries, the enemy should've seen the hopeless power gap and folded—but their resistance was no joke. They'd hide when the turret fired, then pop out and spray when suppression slackened as mercs tried to advance.
In a world without international law or Geneva Conventions, I wasn't expecting clean surrenders… but these fuckers hated corps with a passion, no hesitation spilling blood.
…At this point, the picture's clear. Exatech multi-launch turrets and a hundred mercs? Overkill for a slum op? Watching those trucks get shredded by blasts, barely shielding anymore—it pissed me off.
Just the bare-minimum force and budget to guarantee victory and squeeze max profit…!
No positive confirmations on securing objectives—just omens of a dragged-out fight.
As expected… this was a seriously organized outfit. Deep-hidden drug labs and safehouses. They'd seized all the adjacent outer buildings to mask their setup, with escape tunnels and passages prepped everywhere. Not amateur hour.
Paradise, realizing they might lose the target, wouldn't tolerate delays.
Orders finally dropped, and Horacio replied in a deflated tone.
…Unlike genuine worry from family or friends, fretting over a chess piece dying before its role was done? Not my jam either.
"Alright… let's get to it…."
"Hmph! You two guard Ivory and follow. …I'll take point."
"…Huh?"
Whatever, work time. As I moved to act, Omen beat me to it. He rummaged in his gear, and amid ear-plugging metal screeches, something came out.
Kreeeak…!
Too metal-heavy for gloves—more like gauntlets. Why only hands? I pondered, then realized: for geronots, arm/leg gear wasn't armor… it was weapons.
"This'll be a boring game…!"
Soon as allied turret fire paused, Omen strode out calmly but with overwhelming strides. Painkillers smirked at the suicidal idiot crossing open road bare—but the sneer didn't last.
Thud… Thud…!
"Wha… what…?!"
"What kinda human's that size…! A robot?!"
Finally sensing wrongness as the massive frame—bigger than the turret truck's cab—closed in. I knew that perspective-fuck confusion well.
So… rest in peace in advance.
"What're you gawking at?! Shoot! Fuck, you retarded shits, shoot…!!"
Bang! Bratatat!! Dratatat…!!
Pistols to machine guns, every barrel spat at Omen. His mask ampules bubbled, slowly sucked in. Late but hearty welcome—he raised one hand to shield his eyes and accelerated.
Thud! Thud! Thud!!
"In… insane…?!"
Big target, near-all hits. His clothes shredded full of holes. But no round pierced that compound-hardened geronot skin. Glancing shots ricocheted; direct hits crumpled and dropped.
Their firepower and ammo? Tank-grade insufficient. Clack… Bazooka aimed too late—angle gone. Common sense: big frame and muscle means speed too…?
"Die, you vermin…!!"
No more hotel courtesy. No bowing or crouching. Omen plunged into 5th Street, shaking the whole block.
KABOOOOM---!!
Bomb-like roar, already-loosened entrance ripped inward. Dust billowed. Screams, gunfire bloomed inside; crumpled thugs tossed out sporadically.
Dunno what hell he wrought, but some bailed out windows from 3rd or 4th floors… only to eat suppression team lead.
Long-range disadvantage kept full power builds unpopular… but seeing raw performance? Slight regret.
If costs were worth this….
"Shall we head in too, sis?"
"…What? Where?"
"Yo, Horacio. You're way more responsive, so I'll escort sis."
"Mmm… can't argue that!"
Ignoring my question, Nocturne Domino pulled inhaler-like stims and sucked deep. His gaunt face and eyes sharpened.
Pre-fight moderate boosters? Proven historically. Solid choice. But that fish-in-water transformation? Definitely….
"?! W-wait!!"
Suddenly airborne. Arms flailing useless, I hugged his side. Where'd that power come from in his skinny frame? One arm around my waist, tucked me under his.
Confirmed: junkie trait—stats skyrocket while high.
How do all these first-time teammates ooze personality? Or do they survive/succeed because of it…?
"Watch your tongue, don't bite it…!"
"!!"
Vision collapsed. Subway-rush blur—everything stretched back into streaks. Heeded advice, clamped mouth or it'd be screams.
…!! …!
"Guh?!"
"Grk…."
Muffled hearing, blurry sight: Domino's big-bore pistol twice, two thugs dropping from untouched upper floors—crystal clear. Running one-handed with passenger, aimed shots all hits? No shooting implant, and my aim couldn't touch it.
"……Urp!"
Short trip over, inside: rainbow rose to throat.
"…! Domino! Down to basement quick. Omen's made a total mess…!"
No… put me down first, please…!
Thought my retch was from red paint and crimson bone-fresh decor…? Nah, anyone lugged like luggage would hurl.
…Mouth shut 'cause opening meant spew, not words. Definitely not spooked by their skills…!!
Skipped sparking dead elevator; stairs to basement on foot. Suppression ahead vented rage: corpses strewn, all weird states.
"……."
Veins bulging blue like bursting skin, eyes glazed beyond normal. Pro junkies, high on heavy shit for fearless fight… but what terror overrode that from our human-tank…?
"……Came? Recovery."
"Strictly? We breached first. Be fucking grateful!"
"……Asshole."
Basement with target hatch: suppression team greeted, busily torching door. Words ugly, but progress? No big gripes.
Hiiiiisss---!!
""…….""
Chat ended. Staring at flames amid distant firefights, tension building—then thud-thud stairs: vanguard Omen returned.
"…What're you doing? Campfire and tea party?"
"……Path down not open yet. Need a Bunker Buster missile for instant."
Even swapping empty ampule for new made some mercs twitch. And Omen… reacted to the jab.
"Bunker Buster? ……Step aside."
"……What?"
Team lead questioned; working merc startled, cleared torch. Fresh ampule foamed down, Omen's forearm veins bulged wild.
"Whoa……."
"…Fucking nuts."
BOOM!! Kreeeeek---!!
Fist from ceiling to floor pulverized hatch surround. Fingers in gap… yeah, like can lid, he crumpled palm-sized steel plate.
Dared more words? Omen looked up challenging.
……How much for that geronot procedure again?