I'm No Escapee, Though (2)
Escape had to be swift and merciless, always.
In short, if you were going to stain your hands with blood like some movie hero, there was no room for hesitation.
Of course, you could say it was only natural—escapees were criminals, after all.
But I stood before the prison gates, turning to face the sea of eyes locked on me.
Fear, anticipation, hope, resolve.
For the first time in my life, the emotions of over three hundred people bore down on me alone. My grip tightened involuntarily on the card key.
Can I pull this off?
Even entertaining that thought was a problem.
We were at a disadvantage, sure—but they weren't sitting pretty either. Just stick to the plan.
They'd never dreamed we'd launch a full revolt.
That meant the warehouse was short on firearms, and the guards were mostly rookies from the cleanup crew—low-skill fresh meat.
Plus, they couldn't just slaughter us outright. Replenishing their secret test subjects was a hassle even for them.
I turned back and swiped the card key over the sensor.
The lock's disengaging click—once the gateway to hell—pierced my ears.
"We'll split into two teams and move out as planned."
With numbers like ours, clumping together was a bad idea. The facility wasn't that big, and herding non-combatants in one mass was inefficient as hell.
Best to lead with combat-ready fighters up front, splitting into two groups.
The garage and labs were on opposite ends, too.
So we divided the group: me with one telepath, the other side with two telepaths and Sika, establishing command chains.
"Sang-hoon here will lead this team. Just like we discussed..."
"Got it."
The middle-aged man—haggard-faced telepath with killer spatial awareness for map-making—nodded gravely.
"We'll raid the armory and head for the labs. You all follow the route we mapped out."
Everyone nodded at my words.
No clue on success odds or survival rates, but...
We'd give it everything to break out.
Resolve hardened, I bolted through the open door, squeezing the trigger at the defensive line ahead.
"You're surrounded! Drop your weapons and surrender—"
What bullshit.
The only response these surrender-barking pricks deserved from me was lead.
"Now!" "Urgh!"
Mental assault via telepathy.
Anyone but another psychic was defenseless against it. The shielded soldier staggered as the unfair mental hammer hit.
A seasoned trooper holding it together—any regular guard would've dropped the riot shield right there.
"Q-quick! Tear gas, now!" "Damn it!"
Tear gas, huh.
Figures—they weren't planning a massacre.
Replacing this many lab rats was a pain, no matter how you sliced it.
Decision made, I charged forward boldly.
My razor-sharp survival instincts whispered.
Go forward.
And—
"You little shit!"
I yanked the soldier shield-and-all with max attraction force, then blasted him back with repulsion.
Output wobbly, but my move caught him off-guard—he yielded the shield easier than expected.
I flipped it quick, gripped the inner handle, repulsion on the surface, and leaped high.
Repulsion on my torso spun me half a turn mid-air.
Body inverting. Vision flipping upside-down.
Shield covering me max.
Bullets drummed the shield like rain on an umbrella.
Main force would tank the rest with hardening powers.
Soles hit ceiling with attraction—stuck upside-down. Ceiling wasn't that high.
Perched overhead, I repulsion-kicked an incoming tear gas canister back at them.
It boomeranged—soldiers froze it mid-flight with some cryo-beam knockoff.
But even a spec-ops dirty-work squad had tricks.
Expected that.
"Everyone, fire!"
Dozens of ability users hurled rebar from ripped grates, power-forged projectiles.
Most lacked punch to breach shields or deal real damage, but the lethal ones hidden in the barrage? Unignorable.
Soldiers pulled the shieldless guy back, reformed the line.
But the corridor forced gaps on the flanks now.
"Flank 'em!"
Shields pocked with hits, I exploited the chaos—bullets poured at the shield-holders.
Tch, barriers.
Won't go down easy.
I chucked the gun, stepped forward. Ground level would've bumped their shields.
Shield angled for cover, I mind-linked the telepath again.
Shield guy once more.
Barrier guy too.
Targets locked— the alien buzz in my head cleared.
"Fuck!"
Line crumbled again.
Trained soldiers or not, direct brain-mindfuck left them helpless.
"Line's breaking! Push!"
Lines collided.
Our hardeners up front vs. their telepathy-shaken troops.
Melee brawl now.
Our turf—numbers crushed them.
Screams echoed from guards and cons alike.
Our light arms meant casualties too.
Dropped to the floor, I grabbed a gun, finished off soldiers, then checked the other team.
"Status on the other group!"
Smart piling more fighters there—smoother than expected.
"Straight to the armory!"
Cons grabbing guns and shields fell in behind me, forming up.
Shield-wall advance—we hit the labs fast. Defensive line already up, armed guards and whitecoats behind.
I sent some to pop the armory, haul weapons, then faced off.
"You think you can escape from here? When the Guard Captain gets back from supply run, you're done! Turn back now, and we'll just execute the ringleaders!"
"Bullshit."
Someone spat at the director's voice—hatred poured onto him.
The bellowing asshole paled, ducked behind troops, freaking out.
"K-kill those bastards!"
"Sorry, but looks like heaven's on our side."
Guns trained on the line.
We unleashed hell.
Bullets and powers flew wild.
Overwhelming numbers hammered their defense.
Guards threw abilities back, but couldn't flip the numbers.
We had more than just bodies.
"Lob 'em all!"
Tear gas arced over, blanketing their rear.
"My eyes!"
"C-can't... breathe...!"
Whitecoats rolling on the floor. Guards rattled.
We poked the gaps with everything—line crumbled slow.
"Damn it!"
Labs sealed tight—no retreat. We stormed in, unleashing pent-up hate. Smash, beat, shoot.
Instant bloodbath—whitecoats and guards down, minus the director.
Garage next.
"Contact B Team."
I eyed the lynched director, closed my eyes.
The message drilled straight into my skull—eerie telepathic shove.
Then another voice.
Of course there.
Shit. Figured he'd reinforce the director, not the garage.
"Guard Captain's at the garage. We need to support now."
Even if we combed labs for every last one and killed 'em, reinforcements meant game over.
We had to bolt fast—no snags at the garage.
"Some of you scour the labs, finish off stragglers. Me and a few head to garage now."
"Got it. Then..."
"Telepath me if shit hits the fan."
"Yes, sir."
Before leaving, I pocketed some vials and syringes. No idea what's in 'em, but nothing good for the body.
"Let's move."
"Yes."
Blood-soaked cons in tow, I headed for the garage.