Paranormal Link-30
Spending over thirty days stuck in this scrap dump with nothing to show for it wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs. Especially since there hadn't been any real gains after the first day. It was only natural that the number of people digging had dwindled. Most of them had just joined for kicks because they had time on their hands anyway. And so, the ones still hanging around were either riffraff or deadbeats chasing a big score. The guy currently excavating a mountain of junk was no different. Not quite a deadbeat, but definitely riffraff. That's how he saw himself—a member of a merc crew formed by gutter kids from Runner Road who didn't want to join a gang.
"Bent over all day like this, my back's killing me!"
He grumbled, thumping his aching lower back sore from endless shoveling.
"Damn it, I thought we wouldn't have to dig today..."
He was sick to death of trash and shovels. Fishing a cheap synthetic cig from his jacket's inner pocket, he lit up and kicked a random piece of junk. Whatever appliance part it was clattered noisily into the distance, burying itself in a heap of garbage.
Truth be told, up until yesterday, his crew had been ready to pack it in. Word on the merc nets and among the crews was tilting toward, "The implant in Iron Valley is just some fixer's hoax to cover up another incident—they spread the rumor for that." The number of mercs working the area had visibly dropped too. ...On the flip side, scavengers had increased, but that was just because the risk of bumping into mercs had gone down. Those guys probably didn't have access to solid intel anyway. And the scavengers coming here were all riffraff to begin with. The "real" ones made junk from scrap, not picked it up.
"The others are probably knocking back drinks somewhere. Sigh..."
As he puffed on his smoke, he pictured the mercs who'd bailed yesterday, muttering about grabbing a drink tomorrow instead. They weren't around today either. If a crewmate hadn't spotted a scavenger nearby digging up what looked like an arm, they would've done the same.
"If it weren't for that killer rack, no one would've bought it."
Inhaling deeply from his lit cig, he recalled the crewmate's figure as she ranted, "Implants exist for real!" They'd known each other forever, so it wasn't new, but damn, what a body. That's why this all-male crew was still shoveling one more day on her word alone.
"Hah, what a pain in the ass..."
They'd agreed to dig one more day and bail if nothing turned up—maybe pick up day labor. For him, a near-newbie, he just wanted today over quick. A big score would be nice, but they needed to build rep with steady gigs right now. Wasting time here sucked. Their luck had gotten them into the Guild through connections, and their rep was shaky enough already...
"Find an implant, hawk it to a fixer or something... What the hell are we even doing? Tsk..."
As he took a break, flicking his spent cig to the ground and grinding it out with his boot—
"...Huh?"
A sudden electronic beep from underfoot made him lift his boot. Right where he'd kicked the trash away, exposing empty space, an electronic panel gleamed—totally out of place in this dump.
"...!"
He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the urge to yell for his crewmates, quickly tapping his neural terminal to send the message.
A moment later.
"See? Told ya it was around here!"
"...You been drinking?"
"Nah, just a sip!"
"Face red from getting smacked or what? What the hell..."
Starting as neighborhood buddies—bros, sisters, kids—their reunions always devolved into chaos.
"Shut it!"
"Yeah, asshole!"
"Even if no fights break out, bragging about boozing on the job?"
"Just one swig... You're only ragging on me."
*Yeah, 'cause you chugged it.* The retort nearly escaped, but he didn't want more noise. He just pointed quietly at his feet.
"See this?"
"Whoa...?"
"Damn...!"
*Shut up!* Plugging the woman's gasp with his hand, he signaled the crew's netrunner kid.
"Hey, check if this hacks. Could be corpo—be careful."
"Got it."
"Rest of you, dig around here meanwhile. ...And you, piss off."
"Aw, why?"
"Worried you'll smash someone's foot with that shovel. Go sober up. Might need to slice you open later."
They were riffraff, sure, but he didn't want to die careless. At least he knew that.
"And Jim, where'd you pawn the rifle for a single pistol?"
The others seemed oblivious.
"Why drag a gun to dig? You soldier boy?"
"...Could clash with other crews—gear up, remember?"
"Pistol's fine. Just riffraff here."
*Us too, dumbass.* Rubbing his brow at Jim's casual shrug, he sighed wearily.
"Anyway, stay alert..., start digging..."
[Beep. Bleep. Bleeep.]
"...Dave, I didn't say open the door yet."
He shot a sighing glance at the beeping panel and the kid.
Her reply snapped him alert.
"N-not me...!"
"...What? Everyone back off!"
He retreated fast, gaining distance. Most shuffled lazily, not taking it serious, but the kid and woman bolted back on cue.
Grind, grrrr. Rumble!
Whatever was buried below was huge—the panel-linked door slid open, and surrounding trash avalanched inside.
"What...? Auto-open?"
"Don't know—stay sharp."
Gripping his shovel tight, he stared at the pit now filled with collapsed junk. Jim popped up beside him.
"Pfft, scaredy-cat. Move."
"Hey, Jim!"
Shoving past roughly with his own shovel, Jim climbed atop the trash-choked container entrance.
"See? Nothing. Probably just scrapped implants—what's with the panic? That's your problem~ Not bold enough."
"......"
No comeback to the mockery—Jim grinned.
"Gonna stare all day? Come clear this...?"
Whoosh! Something furry-hemispherical burst from the heap, sailing skyward.
"...?"
No one grasped what happened. Even chatty Jim probably didn't.
"Kyaa...!"
Her belated scream sliced the air—he swung his shovel on reflex.
Clang!
"...!!"
Numb shock jolted his hands—he dropped the shovel, yanking his slung shotgun and blasting.
Boom!
12-gauge thunder hurled it back.
...Yeah, "hurled it back."
Pop, pop. Trash heaps stirred everywhere, things emerging.
Seeing it, he spun and bolted, yelling,
"Run!!"
///
"Wh-what is it? Fight broken out?"
"Doubt it."
"Probably not."
My voice crossed Blanca's at her question. After the first gunshot, a few more rang out, then detectable presences thinned sharply—the survivors kept moving. No real battle shaping up.
Problem was the direction: every presence headed straight our way, no matter how you sliced it.
We eyed each other; I stepped out of the derelict building first.
"Stay inside for now—hug the door, ready to bolt. Good cover."
Hearing the woman's warning to Blanca, I exited. Chaotic human presences, trailed by eerily precise ones. The humans were mercs and scavengers who'd camped here; the others... uncanny. Like jiangshi or puppets? Varied, but united in lifeless yet human-mimicking motion. Especially creepy via ki sense—mimicking human moves without life signs. Some evaded detection entirely.
These riot-makers weren't stealth types, but there were too many.
Outside, I turned toward the approaching presences: desperate mercs and scavengers fleeing this way, with a legion of murder puppets swarming behind.