Hunters (5): Dutton Volunteer Light Cavalry
The names of these uninvited guests were scrawled on the tail boom of the intruding helicopter—the part connecting the fuselage to the tail rotor. N177CP was stamped on the engine side as the registration number.
Nielsen switched the radio channel to open frequency and protested furiously.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?! Get the fuck out of here!"
A man in wind goggles aboard the distant chopper glanced our way. I pulled one side of my headset off and tuned my hearing using a physical reinforcement incantation. It was an applied technique that adjusted the audible range to suppress background noise in specific frequency bands while focusing on other pitches. The sounds came out a bit distorted, but it was more than enough to catch the response leaking from Nielsen's headset.
"Whoa, easy there, friend. We just need the biggest one up front. We've been tracking it since last night, so by rights, we're first in line. Looks match the description and scars—gotta be it."
"Bullshit! You think we don't have nav radar? Those bastards were three miles out just minutes ago—what, you tracked it all night? Make some goddamn sense, asshole!"
"It's true! We lost it in a small avalanche mid-chase. No lights, fuel running low—shit happens. Hell, our thermal gear's crap anyway."
Even as they spoke, the intruders—who'd stolen our spot—were unleashing a barrage toward the center of the swirling, blinding snow.
Nielsen's face turned beet red at the lame excuse, and he exploded.
"Your shitty gear is your problem! Lost it? Then stay lost!"
Spot on. But they kept spinning bullshit.
"Lost? Why? Those bullets we fired last night are still lodged in it. And if we hadn't herded it your way, you wouldn't even be here facing it. We're talking shares, man—shares."
"Shares?! What shares?!"
"Yeah. Contribution to the situation, call it that."
"Contribution in a hunt?!"
"Whatever! You guys rolling three helos—cut us poor neighbors some slack! We need this kill or we're screwed. If it pisses you off that bad, ram us! No balls to die together? Back the fuck off! Rich pricks always bitch the most!"
"Hey!"
Nielsen bellowed, but no reply came from their end. Every time we tried to maneuver into firing position, they'd buzz us threateningly. It stalled the hunt for both sides. They had to tie up one chopper babysitting our three, and we'd lost our herding formation entirely.
In the end, the pig herd scattered, leaving four helicopters chasing a single super heavyweight Awakened Being pig.
"Fuck!"
Nielsen slammed his fist on the doorframe with a guttural curse. I reset my hearing and readjusted my headset.
Moments later, he ordered all birds to cease the dangerous jockeying. Rubbing the nape of his neck with a face full of irritation and exhaustion, he apologized to me and Kyung-tae.
"Sorry about that. These idiots who don't know basic hunting etiquette ruined your valuable experience."
"No need for you to apologize."
I replied, then asked,
"Still, I'm curious. Why are they so obsessed with that T-hog?"
It didn't add up as just bounty hunting. They weren't hauling paying clients like us, and if their overnight tracking claim held water, the fuel burn alone would've been brutal. Up this high, it was easily six hundred bucks an hour per bird. Maybe they were just too dumb for basic math, but something else felt more likely.
"Well..."
Nielsen let out a long sigh before answering in a deflated tone.
"Those psychos got government grants to start up too. Funded groups get evaluated quarterly on activity logs. High scores mean waived equipment rentals; low ones, and they repossess the gear."
"Ah."
"Plus fame and brand value. Bagging big ones like that boosts baseline pay and attracts investors."
Made sense. The Pioneer Hunter Brigade could afford top-tier gear partly thanks to their founder's local rep as a Silver Star vet. Jealous rivals nursing grudges? Predictable.
Jack growled low.
"Fuck it, just unload a mag on 'em..."
His twitching fingers said he'd pull the trigger if there were no fallout. Kyung-tae shrugged with an obvious glance.
"World's too damn predictable, hyungnim."
We'd had a similar chat back in the Giant's Forest, slaughtering devil worshippers. About environments where you could kill without forensic worries.
Brings back memories.
Back when my organization was far weaker all around, I'd hunted ancient wild ginseng as bribes for Chinese bigwigs. Stuff money couldn't buy, so I scoured North America's rugged backwoods instead of Korea. Even with my off-spec eyes, it wasn't easy.
I clashed with armed herb poachers multiple times. In lawless deep wilderness, they shot first. North America has ginseng, sure—but relatively speaking. Rare roots fetched thousands to hundreds of thousands per pound. Human life? Bargaining chip at best.
I avoided rivals when possible, but those dogging my trail got killed and buried. In dense, obstacle-filled woods, my superior eyesight made blood inevitable.
Those two 1.4-pound (635g) heaven-grade roots netted a premium Kwangsi plot and Macao casino rights. Worth the hassle.
The "Dutton Volunteer Light Cavalry" were cut from the same poacher cloth.
Militiaman Jack was still fuming—a prophetic rage. Stack these experiences, and even the selfless lose restraint to greed.
Brigade leader Nielsen cautiously polled us.
"Mr. Kim. And your colleague. Shall we yield to those thieves and herd fresh quarry? Your thoughts?"
"No."
I answered almost instantly.
"Mind if we watch? Quite the spectacle, that."
Hunting was sideshow. Priorities: observe and catalog "codes," recon the area.
The life-hanging pig was maxing its circuit output. Even if it shook pursuers, it wouldn't last long. I memorized the wild mana surges flickering under its bristly hide, recalling the knight commander I'd slain in Puerto Vallarta cathedral.
Like that false knight's boss at the end, this massive omnivore might reveal limit-breaking mana use in its final moments.
"I see..."
Nielsen looked troubled. Suyeon and her security detail in the other bird would've deferred to me, so majority ruled my way. The bickering couple in the third? Probably raging.
My assigned militiaman sneered pityingly.
"Those retards shoot like shit. Wouldn't catch it sleeping another night."
As the militiaman said, the self-styled cavalry's marksmanship was laughable. Subpar positioning, pilots ignoring gunners' sightlines—short hunt impossible.
Fame they can't back up.
Fine by me; longer showtime. Just meant refocusing as distance to the superheavy pig grew.
But...
The drive direction was off.
"Huh?"
A groan from the copilot seat.
"Those morons... We gotta block the forest path first!"
Too busy tailing ass or blocking us, their leaderless bunch left an opening to the thick woods.
Made me grimace too. Blood pressure spiking higher, Nielsen spewed urgent curses over open channel.
"Hey! You brain-dead cock-sucking fucks! Accelerate! Get ahead and cut it off! You deaf?!"
No response. Groaning, he ordered one of our light helos— the bickerers' bird—to intercept instead.
The onboard militiaman rebelled immediately.
"Why the hell help those pricks?!"
Nielsen's face crumpled.
"You think I wanna? If it escapes, who knows who gets hurt next! Think of the members who trust us—our members!"
Oho. Thinks that far in this mess. Quality human.
But the idiots rejected even that courtesy. Finally clocking it—or deeming our aid an intrusion—the Dutton side surged, barreling collision-course at our herder bird.
"Evade! Evade!"
Chase altitude was standard. Crossing paths at similar heights, the two helos grazed by a hair—split by three meters via one climbing, one diving.
Skill? Nah, luck. Same maneuver both ways, and it'd be fireworks.
Caught in each other's wash, both wobbled like crash-bound before barely stabilizing.
"Whoa..."
Kyung-tae's clenching-unclenching hands glistened with sweat. Sudden adrenaline rush, yeah.
Wouldn't have happened with a competent Dutton pilot. Our herder sure didn't expect the charge.
"Bird Three. You okay?"
Nielsen radioed, half-dazed, then nodded in relief.
"Yeah, yeah. Lucky break."
But his face twisted horrifically again.
"What the—? Who let the prey escape, huh? Eat shit, you bastard spawn!"
Blame-shifting over open channel, apparently. I skipped tuning in to the pathetic drivel, staring at the absurdly freed observation target instead.
I figured it'd bolt clean, but...
What the hell?
The massive hybrid pig, bleeding from multiple wounds, crouched low in tree shadows—staring straight at our airspace. Precisely, the cavalry's chopper direction.
They say pigs can't look skyward. Neck bones won't lift heads far enough, vision too poor for distant objects.
Overstated. Sky's not just overhead. Circuit-etched souls likely bypassed vision limits.
My gut confirmed it. The dark-furred pig was glaring at its pursuers.