Whack-a-Mole in Slough
Whack-a-mole. It had been a while since we'd left the safehouse, strolling through the heart of Slough. After all that chaos, it was no surprise, but the vibe here was a far cry from a few days ago. Sure, most of the bodies had been cleared away. Still, you could spot shattered debris, bullet scars, bloodstains, and scorch marks without even trying.
Bell scanned the surroundings with narrowed eyes and said, "The street's atmosphere feels oppressively heavy, young master. Like a balloon about to burst."
"Tell me about it. They've got snipers posted every damn block. My neck's prickling like hell."
I'd picked up on soldiers' signals from building rooftops more times than I could count. The times were troubled, and even though this was a commercial district, the streets weren't buzzing with life—they were thick with a chilling menace. Drones swarming overhead, armed not for delivery but for combat. Soldiers in exosuits, fingers on triggers, eyes locked on passersby. Armored vehicles and anti-air batteries lined up in place of patrol cars, crushing the district's natural energy like a paperweight on a fluttering page.
"But is that riot ringleader really holed up in the center? Feels off from common sense..."
"As expected, swordsmen think as short-range as their blades, young master. The outskirts are already surrounded by Transco security forces, aren't they?"
"What'd you just say, Bellatrix?"
"And the investigation files estimate he's in the center too. We'll have to go with that for now."
I'd asked Isabella Owen for the files, and she'd provided them without hesitation. Guess saving her life earned me some genuine goodwill. Hell, a few execs were even bypassing the shareholder and reaching out to me directly, checking on my well-being.
Bell eyed the file contents with a hint of skepticism. "The center's been searched plenty by now, so not being found yet is impressive in its own right."
"Yeah. And the timing of their exit screams pro. Cut and run like clockwork."
"I can't believe the leadership just slipped away at the riot's peak."
"Maybe because they were the leadership, they knew they were disposable pawns about to get sacrificed."
Thinking about it, it was pretty damn slick. How'd they stir just enough shit and bail in that atmosphere? Nothing beats a seasoned red for that perfect "now's the time?" instinct. Well, the ones who couldn't were weeded out long ago. Natural selection at its finest.
"So, young lord. Where to first?"
My teacher asked, seemingly uninterested in the red chatter. Transco's files pinpointed two likely hideouts for the ringleader: the central street market or an old industrial site in the old town. The market was closer but had been combed multiple times. The industrial ruins were farther but more overlooked, being near-abandoned.
I pondered briefly. "Street market district. Let's check there first."
The old town had fewer people, so even grabbing basics would draw eyes. A crowded market with goods galore, above- and below-ground levels, and plenty of nooks? Higher odds. Plus, if he was still plotting, it'd be the best spot to link up with allies. A commie hiding in a market was kinda funny, but hey—markets are the last thing communists cling to when their system's crumbling. Instinct, maybe.
My escorts nodded without objection. It wasn't like we were pressed for time in this rat hunt. And so, we headed toward our target through the gloomy streets.
According to the provided files, the riot leader's name is Mark Beckett.
I figured he was some laid-off worker, but nope—an outside activist with no ties to that crowd. Dropped out of a prestigious university after bad influences, then dove into social movements. His ideology? Something about liberating humanity from labor's chains via machine productivity for communal wealth—automation communism or whatever. Didn't read the fine print.
Communism's like mercury: fascinating poison when you're clueless, but anyone thinking it's a cure in modern times is just an idiot. Capitalism might be sick, but chugging raw mercury ain't the fix—you'd just die.
"Not sure about the rest, but that doesn't look edible."
"Yeah. Do they deep-fry fish in motor oil here?"
Staring at the roadside fish and chips stand, I couldn't help but grimace—or was it awe? For a second, I thought I'd wandered into peaceful Pakistan. Synthetic cod and potatoes plunged into reeking oil, emerging black and greasy. No diet pill needed. Do they even have health inspections? Nah, probably not. Choice is secondary; building that bureaucracy costs money, and in corporate fiefdoms, it's a no-go. Shitty public services, but low taxes—that's the slum perk.
Anyway, first impressions weren't great. "Even in this mess, folks are opening shops to scrape by. Foot traffic's low, though."
"And plenty of sections got wrecked in the crackdown."
"Still, with our numbers, we can't comb every zone."
"But we've got technology on our side."
I grabbed Bell's shoulder. She flashed a smug grin and rested a hand on her hip. So unapologetically cute. "No need for door-to-door interviews. Just sweep the area with radar!"
"But that won't ID individuals."
I elaborated on Teacher's objection. "Mark Beckett's got a registered unique frequency. He's probably powered down his neural enhancer and gone radio silent."
"So, spot anyone in the area on silent and narrow it down?"
"Exactly. Whoever's hunkered down quietly in a corner is our guy."
And I'd handle spotting the silent ones. From Bell's radar outlines, anyone without a line extending—that's my rebuilt body's way of perceiving unique signals. Sounds like chuuni bullshit, but that's how it works.
"Let's start."
We slipped into a secluded corner and scanned for onlookers. Clear. Bell and I pressed our foreheads together. Teacher stiffened, watching like we'd invented the kiss. Tough luck—had to be this close for the link.
Don't smirk at her and pick a fight, Bell.
"Heh, radar activating."
"Ready."
Instantly, detection data streamed into one of Bell's interfaces. I monitored via my projected consciousness in her system. The area map wasn't too crowded—446 people inside. Most emitted signals from implants. Teacher was there too, her prosthetic arm linked via brainwave emitter.
But eight showed zero emissions. Bell figured five were kids too young for implants. That left three. Eerily perfect number.
Split up and check one each?
I pulled away, noting positions. One side looked disappointed, the other glared—polar opposites.
"Three candidates, all hiding. One each?"
"All in stealth mode?"
"Yeah. Maybe they're all comrades."
"Y-Young master, solo action isn't ideal from a security standpoint, but..."
Bell hesitated, glancing at me. Fair reaction if her charge was wandering alone hunting hostiles. But chasing a fleeing rioter? Not worth fretting. After some convincing, she agreed to split.
"Understood. I'll monitor comms and rush if anything pops."
I drilled in "evade at first sign of danger," but anyway. Teacher asked if I was sure; I insisted, so she dropped it. And with that, we scattered to hunt.