Paranormal Link-31
There were about thirty mercenaries and scavengers up ahead. Trailing right behind them was a pack of killer puppets at least three times that number. I extended my senses, and sure enough, I could feel presences encircling us tightly—no gaps to slip through.
“……!”
The mercenaries at the front locked eyes with me and slowed a bit. Did I look like some psycho swinging a sword? They eyed me warily, on full alert.
“What the hell are you dawdling for?! Damn it…! Get inside the building, now!”
That's when a desperate shout erupted from the rear, followed by a thunderous boom.
Kaboom!Kashing!
The guy at the tail end blasted his shotgun at a robot that had closed right up to his back. Two machines charging from behind tumbled as they ate the scattershot.
Snapping to their senses, the mercenaries veered around me at an angle and bolted for the abandoned building.
“...Take Blanca and follow them!”
I yelled that out while charging straight at the killer puppets instead. Sorry, merc buddies, but punching through one spot before the encirclement tightened seemed smartest. If we got boxed in like this, who knew what shit would hit the fan? Protecting the VIP—er, the client—came first, right?
Come to think of it, I didn't owe those guys jack anyway. Whatever they poked, they were getting chased for a reason—karma's a bitch. If anything, they should be thanking me for not holding them accountable.
With a single thunderous step, I sorted my thoughts and slashed at the approaching robot with my energy-infused blade.
Kachink!
“……?!”
A dull feedback jolted through my hand. What the hell was this thing made of? My blade, aimed at its neck, sank halfway into the arm it raised before grinding to a halt.
It looked like I'd sliced something unsliceable only because of my footwork's acceleration. But... was this even an arm? From the elbow down, its right limb was blatantly a blade designed for close-quarters murder—razor-sharp, honed to perfection, the epitome of a killer puppet.
Ignoring its half-severed arm, it swiveled its head—camcorder-like, with a cold, inorganic lens dead center—toward me.
Zap!
But that eye contact lasted a split second. I kicked its body, yanked my sword free, and leaped back. Simultaneously, its left arm whipped through where my head had been.
Shwick!
Air tore with a vicious screech. I surged forward again, swinging low at its leg. It countered by offering its leg like bait for mutual destruction, blade arcing for my neck.
“Knew it!”
Knowing these bastards' signature move was mutual kill, I ducked deep, evaded the blade, and severed its leg.
Crash!
The one I'd tangled with toppled minus a leg, but others were closing in. My leg strike had used inner energy, so other parts weren't as tough as that arm—but it still drained qi to cut them.
With their numbers, a straight attrition war was suicide.
Kashing!
To conserve qi, I wrapped moderate energy around my blade and parried the flurry of killer right arms swarming me, then hopped back.
“This ain't working! Abort!”
Charging in with a kid? Dumbass move! Sensing doom after just three exchanges, I tersely messaged the side-room lady: Don't bring Blanca.
Shreek!
Something pale and blurry streaked past me. As if she'd never planned to fetch Blanca anyway, she whipped her ponytail and blew by, plunging straight into the puppets.
She jammed her arm into the chest exposed by my slash. A scythe-like blade eerily protruded from her limb—just like I'd seen before.
Krunch!
Not elegant, but metal shredded with a horrific screech. The robot mid-swing froze unnaturally.
Grk... grk...
Twitching like a puppet with tangled strings, it collapsed limply.
Thud!
Heavy metal crushed trash, kicking up dust with a boom. Ignoring the fallen bot, I glanced back—the mercs and scavs were barricading the building entrance.
With us outside, the robots crept toward us instead, thickening the noose instead of storming the building.
As I sized up the scene, she spoke while fending off two more.
“Power core in the chest center. Smash it, they stop.”
With that, I lunged at her. I smacked away a blade from her blind spot, dove into the cold scrap embrace, and channeled energy into my sword's pommel.
Tang!
“Tch...!”
Aiming for the core with Weighted Palm, I realized mid-impact it wouldn't cut it. Possible, sure—but it'd drain me dry mid-fight.
Still, the hit staggered it. From over my shoulder, a pale arm shot out.
Krunch!
Silver blade flashed through its chassis like lightning, retracting. The edge grazed my ear without a nick—her cyberware out-toughed the bot's armor and blades.
Thud. Grk. G-g-grk.
The impaled puppet twitched like a dying man's death throes—eerie as hell. It powered down quick.
I turned from it. “You clear the path, I'll guard Blanca...”
Clang! Crunch!
She blocked a blade left-handed, turned another bot to scrap right-handed, and shook her head.
“No. When you charged out earlier, half the robots shifted your way. Trying to break here means focused fire.”
I'd thought they'd swarmed me, but nope.
“...Or use those guys as bait to escape.”
Parrying another flyer, she sidled close and whispered. The mercs huddled at the entrance, gripping weapons, watching us—no bots reached them yet.
“Dunno... too late for that.”
Morality aside, the encirclement was done. Rallying them to scatter might screw us grabbing Blanca. Plus, those chumps wouldn't last.
“You can pierce those damn tough chests, so I'll cover—you smash. Deal?”
“...Not the issue, but...”
“But?”
She paused thoughtfully, then shook her head faintly.
“...Never mind. Just remember one thing: comms are jammed.”
“Jammed?”
“Signal blocked. Been trying LCPD, no send.”
“...Someone's playing games.”
She nodded.
“My module's military-grade. Whatever's jamming this, no average netrunner's cracking it.”
Netrunner—cyberpunk hackers, right? Felt about right.
Anyway, if she called it top-tier, regular tricks were out. What a pain-in-the-ass mess.
“Guess it wasn't bullshit after all.”
“……?”
I shot her puzzled tilt a glance, gripped my sword tighter.
“Nah, just... yeah!”
Clang!
Parried an incoming blade, swept aside a charging scrap-bot's slash. A blade rose from her side, gutting the bot I'd locked with mine.
“Thrilling!”
That edge could've skewered me any second—chills. More than the swarm of razor rights begging a handshake, her near-room-temp body at my back was... distracting. Two... no, focus.
But she hadn't stabbed me yet. I hadn't lopped her head off either.
From that first meeting, I'd wondered if we'd kill each other someday. Now, backs together, we held a bizarre united front.
Who sicced these puppets and jammed comms? Why stick around when she could've bailed? When would that blade turn on me?
Isan, heart pounding!
Lots to think about. But more to slice.
So we stopped thinking. Parried flying blades, pierced scrap hearts.
No blood spilled, yet the air reeked metallic and coppery. Shredded metal flakes? Or ghosts of old battles flickering up—bandits on patrol? Ronin in a plot? Ungrateful allies? Nah...
Not losing it that bad. Never have.
Anyway. Foes now? Just scrap. Moving metal soon to be scrap.
So not blood—just shavings.
Achoo!