Seizing the Trigger
Daniel, gripping the wheel as they headed toward North Street, suddenly shouted.
"What? So you know the next terror target?!"
"Yeah. So just drive properly for now."
Daniel straightened the swerving SUV and pressed on.
"Damn it, we need to call for backup right away. They wouldn't ignore this one and drag their feet again, right? Good. All those bastards who've been ignoring me and my senior up till now—"
"No. Don't call anyone."
Daniel blinked in confusion.
"What, no... why?"
"It'll just get annoying if word gets out."
Daniel shrank back slightly at Roque's quiet tone, his lips barely moving as he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"D-Do we really need to hide it? We're trying to catch terrorists here..."
Roque didn't answer. He didn't explain the cyberdive he'd done in the dead magician's apartment. Daniel hadn't pieced it together yet, but he would soon enough. How an Aura Master like Roque, with no net socket, had hacked the dead guy's computer and pulled out that intel.
"Oh, right. You're a merc, huh? Yeah, makes sense—the cops can be a pain if you've got skeletons in your closet. But think about it. Catch the terrorists, and you might get a reward or a commendation plaque or something?"
"..."
On second thought, this greenhorn detective might never figure it out unless Roque spelled it out. He just pointed silently ahead with a finger. Drive.
"...We're going, we're going."
Daniel's beat-up SUV cut across Midland's main drag and turned onto North Street. At some point, the darkening Midland sky began to drizzle.
Roque, who had been navigating from the passenger seat, glanced back. Elizabeth was snoring softly under her blanket. Her face made all the world's worries seem pointless.
"Hey, she's really not your daughter?"
Daniel snuck the question in as he watched Roque. Instead of answering, Roque turned back to the front.
"Pull over."
"What? Oh, uh, s-sorry... I did it again, huh..."
"We're here."
"...Over there, huh."
Daniel stopped the car and huffed. Through the rain-streaked window, he spotted a factory compound with a pretty tall fence.
"What kind of factory is this?"
"Cultured meat plant. One of Isumi's subcontractors."
"Isumi? That Isumi? Ha, ballsy bastards..."
Roque checked the time. Just past 6 p.m. According to the intel, the attack wasn't due for hours. But the Tree's Children would've snuck in way earlier. Roque was sure of it—he'd confirmed the security glitches himself.
Roque stepped out as he opened the car door.
"What? Y-You're going in right now?"
Daniel, checking his pistol's mag, scrambled after him. Roque, leading the way toward the factory, suddenly stopped and turned to him.
Daniel froze, huddling under his upturned coat against the rain.
"...What now?"
"Take point, detective."
Daniel got it—his badge was the ticket in. Just get through this, he thought, sighing as he took a deep breath. Then he strode toward the main gate. Roque followed, slicking back his rain-soaked hair.
As the two approached the gate, a guard came out.
"Who are you?"
"MLPD Detective Daniel."
"Huh? Why's a cop here...?"
The guard eyed Daniel's badge skeptically, clearly puzzled.
"You know about the string of terror attacks on Midland factories lately?"
"Uh? Oh, yeah... I heard. Wait, you don't mean—?"
Daniel nodded as the guard's face paled.
"This place is a prime next target. Don't shut down operations completely yet—evacuate the workers quietly first. No panic."
"Uh... o-okay, lemme get the boss..."
"Hey, wait."
The guard bolted shakily to the guard shack. Daniel shook his head, reaching to grab him.
"This'll take a while."
Roque, who'd been scanning the factory, spoke from behind.
"Wait till all the workers are out, then come in."
"What? H-Hey!"
Roque marched into the grounds without looking back. The thickening rain soaked his shoulders.
Daniel glanced between Roque's retreating back and the guard shack, muttered a curse, and ran to the shack. He'd follow Roque's lead for now.
With the detective holding the entrance, Roque prowled the rain-slick grounds, jacket dripping. Some workers spotted him from afar and approached, but peeled off toward the gate after getting orders on their comms.
As Roque circled the perimeter, he spotted two guys arguing in what looked like a smoking area. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Found you."
The orc, disguised as a worker, wasn't arguing—he was bullying. Growling at an elf manager about ignoring the emergency evac and finishing "his business."
The tattooed orc, who'd stretched the elf's ear to its limit, spotted Roque approaching. His jaw dropped.
"You, you! How the hell—?!"
"Nice seeing you again."
The orc's shock twisted into action—he yanked a submachine gun from his work pants. The elf manager froze at the sight of the black metal.
Like at the market earlier, the orc didn't care who was in the way. He squeezed the trigger, sure his special AP rounds would shred the elf and whatever Aura Master lurked behind.
Roque thrust out his left hand.
"...Huh?"
The trigger wouldn't budge. The whole SMG hung frozen in midair like it was nailed there. The orc's face went blank. Then Roque's right fist cracked his jaw.
"Gahk—"
The terrified manager bolted only after the orc hit the deck. Roque confirmed he was scampering off unharmed, then turned back.
The SMG floated midair; the orc lay sprawled beyond the shattered smoking area wall. Roque released his focus—the gun dropped with a thud.
He quirked an eyebrow at his left hand.
An Aura Master's Aura Blade—or rather, its handle—flew to the owner's will because it was linked to the wooden block and the master's spirit.
Called an aura key, formless sword wave, or Muke Tsuka depending on the region—Roque just called it the handle. It was a kind of acquired organ, forged through deep meditation until the Aura Master believed that tiny wood block was part of their body.
Of course, it wasn't actual flesh and blood, so losing or breaking it didn't mean no more Aura Blades—like when Roque summoned one barehanded in cyberspace.
But with the handle, an Aura Master's will could manifest the blade into reality.
In this modern age of bullets and bombs, Aura Masters endured not just for their superhuman bodies, but for the Aura Blade's power to cleave any foe on a whim.
Normally, though, that psychokinetic trick only worked on their own handle. Switching took weeks to years. Most stuck with their first one for life.
But Roque had just seized a gun—not his handle, not an Aura Blade grip—out of thin air.
"...Interesting."
Instinct told him it linked to today's cyberdive. Another dive, and this power might grow stronger?
"Urgh..."
The orc staggered up, gauze peeling from his forehead, blood streaming. The spot where Roque's bullet had grazed him earlier.
Baring his teeth, he glared, electronic eyes glowing red.
Roque met his gaze.
"You know me, right?"
"...What?"
"Seen me at our diner."
The orc flinched. Then his eyes widened in realization. The 24-hour joint. Late-night news. Argument with the old guy. The man in the corner getting hit on by the waitress. Weird old muscle car.
"...Son of a bitch, what was the boss thinking..."
"You're under arrest."
"A-Arrest? You fucker! Screw you!"
He yanked a short dagger from his belt where the SMG had been, eyes flicking to the gun on the ground—hoping for an opening.
Roque wasn't playing anymore. The real Aura Blade handle slapped into his grip. A gray blade hummed to life. Raindrops hitting it sizzled into vapor.
"Y-You shithead!"
Trembling at the light-blade, the orc charged with a roar. Roque's sword whipped past. The orc crumpled.
Face-down, he spotted the dropped SMG. He lunged for it.
Too late. Both arms were gone.
"A-Argh! Aaahhh!"
Terror-stricken, he screamed. Legs severed too, he writhed limbless in the rain like a worm, howling. Rain mixed with blood from cauterized stumps.
Roque watched a moment, then withdrew the blade and turned. Even a greenhorn like Daniel wouldn't lose to a quad-amputee. He'd catch up and cuff him later.
This guy from the daytime footage knew plenty—useful for wiping out the Tree's Children.
Roque left the screams behind. Time to settle his own business.
A side door to the factory interior stood near the smoking area. Noises echoed from within. Roque slipped through, emerging mid-corridor amid chaos.
Workers in hairnets, rubber gloves, and urethane aprons—reeking of fishy guts—fled en masse. Humans, goblins, trolls: Midland's bottom-rung grunts, slaving for cheap.
Roque scanned them, then headed the opposite way. Wherever they'd fled from was the terrorists' target.
Dripping from his soaked jacket, he strode on. Workers rushed past on either side, eyes sliding over him.
Soon, a wide steel door they'd poured from came into view.
Beyond it, the vast interior held rows of huge silver cylinders. Valves, cylinders, plastic nozzles hummed low; conveyor belts snaked alongside.
Harsh factory lights and the cylinders' pale reflections gave the place a cold, eerie chill. Roque's breath fogged faintly as he passed between them—actually cold in here.
At the production floor's heart, Roque halted. His gaze lifted to a fat cylindrical tank ahead.
A brown-haired figure in a mask stared down at him.