Whack-a-Mole 2
My assigned spot was a tobacco shop located near the back entrance to the ground-level district. Checking the map, it looked like a prime position—if things went south, I could easily slip into the underground or bolt topside. The other spots had similar traits, spaced out at regular intervals. Coincidentally enough. It was like they'd arranged it so if one got nabbed, the other two could still escape clean.
"Hey, handsome student~"
"Pardon? Me?"
The voice calling me belonged to the pie shop lady near my target spot. Her words pointed straight at me, so I froze mid-step. Well, truth be told, I was the only young guy around who could pass for a student. Anyway, she came over with a cheeky grin.
"You look like you come from money. What's a fancy kid like you doing in a dumpy market like this?"
I couldn't exactly say, "Unauthorized search and seizure without a warrant." So I played it cool.
"Just passing by and thought I'd check it out."
"Oh really? Our pies are killer—wanna try one?"
"Thanks, but I just ate."
Nope, this was straight-up hawking. I tried to brush her off politely and keep moving, but she stepped out from her stall, closing in with relentless sales pitch.
"Come onnn~ Things have been crazy lately, business is dead~"
"Ah, yeah. Sorry to hear that—"
"So since you're here, just buy a box. Come on? Gotta eat to live, you know."
"Ughhh..."
She was practically in my space now, leaning in like we were old pals. Man, I missed Bell already. Felt like I was in deep shit—should I call her? Sure, she'd tell me to blow off the pitch and walk. But... easier said than done. I'm an extreme introvert; this crap drains me.
"Fine, one box."
"Aw, bless you. You'll be rewarded, kid."
In the end, to escape fast, I cracked open my wallet. Fine. Noblesse oblige—call it a public service.
A box of meat pies landed in my hands. Tasted like soy protein mixed with mystery scraps, but my appetite had tanked after those fish and chips earlier. Whatever. Once I nabbed the suspect, I'd use this as a bludgeon.
"Sell lots, okay?"
"Oh yeah, kid—are you here alone?"
"Pardon?"
"I mean, you're tall and handsome—don't got a girlfriend tagging along~?"
Huh? What the—brain freeze. But then I caught it: her face twitched unnaturally. A stiff smile, dragging out the chat with nothing to say. She had an agenda.
I flicked my eyes around quick.
"!!!"
Someone was slinking out from the tobacco shop—the target building. Hooded head to toe, massive backpack. Suspicious as hell. She'd spotted my approach and stalled to cover his exit.
"Son of a—you're in on it!"
"Wha—kid, why the—kyaak!!"
I chucked the pie box at her face and bolted. The shady figure flinched, then sprinted for the underground passage. He vaulted the stairs in a blink, vanishing below. Probably holed up in the maze down there.
But I'd sniff him out quick. I'd clocked his neural accelerator firing when he ran—that unique signal from the intel.
Pabababam!
I dashed toward the fading ping. He hadn't gone far.
This bastard... daring to spring an introvert trap like that on me? You're not getting off easy.
The inhuman criminal scum got cornered in a dead-end alley soon enough. No movie-style chaos of flipping carts and trash—thank god. He was hunched over, hands on knees, gasping.
I strolled up slow, casual.
"Greetings. Mr. Mark Beckett. Who'd have thought I'd bag you specifically."
"......"
Silent heaving still. How I'd ID'd him? Simple—matched the unique frequency from his implants in the data. Revolutionaries like him probably bolt a lot, so his were booster-heavy: speed rigs on the neural accelerator. Downside: wrecks the body. That's why he could barely stand.
"Anyway, come with me. Got questions."
"...."
"Oh yeah—any other pals of yours around he—"
"........that's what you think."
"What?"
He peeled off his mask slow, locking eyes. The black-haired youth from the files. In the underground gloom, his eyes glowed red. Whether dyed in workers' blood or not, the mocking sneer was clear.
"You didn't catch me. I lured you here."
"Heh, our revolutionary got a divine vision on who'd come nab him?"
"Nah. But camera feeds tipped me off. Saw your flashy crew—figured you weren't shopping."
Hm. Fair. Me, Bell, and Master? We screamed ulterior motives.
Meanwhile, he fiddled with the golf bag on the ground, head low. Out came a long cylindrical launcher. Familiar—I'd seen it before.
Mark aimed it my way, smug as hell.
"Anyway, worked out perfect. Got a prime hostage for negotiations. Right, Straford Earl?"
"You know me?"
"Who doesn't? Hereditary noble, financial robber baron—the worst of the elite. First to purge for the new world."
"Says the guy sparking riots with megacorp backing?"
He scowled, clicked his tongue. Then spat it out, dripping disdain.
"Outsiders always nitpick motives and purity. What's wrong with owning reality's flaws and using power dynamics?"
"Funny when the guy flipping the board with one megacorp shakes hands with another."
"Transco fired workers, stole lives. They paid the price."
"But you bailed when it tanked. Stirred shit, skipped accountability?"
Mark's face flushed beet red. Time for kinetic ideology fixes, huh. He bit his lip, eyes narrowing.
"Never expected words with noble trash. Get ready to play hostage."
"What makes you think I'll fold?"
"Heh. Confidence. Know what this is? EMP launcher. Lessons for chromed-up punks like you."
That chromed-up gear fried ages ago. He probably pegged me as a modded rich boy, so he flashed boldly with this ace.
"......"
Silence hung. His finger hovered the trigger. Then—
BOOM!
Battery-looking blob, like the bacteriophage before. Upgraded: faster muzzle velocity, wider pulse spread. Useless on me, though.
Clang!
I swatted the incoming round barehanded. It crumpled on my knife-hand strike, sparking on the floor.
Mark's face went slack-jawed, but he kept firing anyway.
So I kept batting them down.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Four legged cylinders now rolling. Five-round mag. Last one, I caught—chucked it back.
Thwack!
"Grahk!"
Smacked his dome dead-on. Blood—red with commie spirit over hemoglobin—sprayed. Nose and front teeth probably mush.
Closing in, he was still groping the floor, trembling. Grabbed a brick, swung wild.
I snagged his wrist mid-arc, squeezed light.
"Agh, aaaah!! Let go! LET GO!!!"
"Gotcha."
"Let me go!! I—I can't get nabbed here—"
Ignoring him, palm to his head. Linked to my computation enhancer, severed every implant link but life-sustainers.
That smug sneer? Gone. Just terror staring up.
Hand still on, I asked.
"Two more rats besides you? Planning ambushes like this?"
"N-no, they were stalling till I nabbed a hostage..."
"Good. Lucky for them."
From their side, yeah. Bell and Master? One twitch, and it'd be a limb apiece minimum.
Anyway, mission success—I pinged Bell's freq.
Her pattern flickered back—panicked. Something up her end.