The Invincible Might of HOD
The combat prowess of Punk City’s HOD and the human boy named Horde was overwhelming. The gorilla’s plasma cutter, which had sliced a cop in half, targeted the HOD operator’s lips but was blocked by a magic field. His ironclad arm, capable of ripping cars apart, was severed at the three fingers by what looked like a tank operator. Even when the gorilla cranked his magic tattoos to maximum output, a silence field draped over him, neutralizing it completely. HOD—the police special forces unit that executed top-tier operations—each member was a walking disaster no one could resist. Once HOD arrived, the situation was as good as resolved.
Amon set down his weapon and slumped into place. The surviving cops followed suit, lowering their arms just like him. Even with the gorilla still intact, they felt safe because they knew HOD’s combat power was that absolute. In Amon’s words, HOD were the achievement whales—veterans who had to maintain a 0% fatality rate and 0% property damage record from the moment they hit the scene. Not out of some noble sense of duty, but for the brutally simple reason that bonuses scaled with performance metrics. That made HOD’s suppression obsessively thorough. They layered force fields to prevent stray bullets from harming civilians, had barrier mages on standby for potential suicide bombers, and even mind-reading psychics to anticipate traps. Perfection incarnate.
To break through HOD, you’d need a megacorp chairman’s personal bodyguard, the head of a top-security division... or maybe that thing... As his thoughts reached that point, Amon’s brain kicked into gear. Old habits die hard—a gamer’s instinctive spec-checking began. First, he imagined his combat power if he’d obtained that thing. Back then, he’d wiped out an entire HOD battalion and taken on two megacorps at once. And the ending he’d achieved? A bad end called Catastrophe.
Obviously, I’m not touching that thing this lifetime. Using HOD’s combat patterns from his that thing playthrough, Amon assessed what his current self could manage. First, take out the netrunner. At HOD’s rear lurked a hacker linking their minds like a hive. Beyond that, the netrunner hacked CCTVs to cover blind spots, unlocked sealed doors, jammed enemy comms—dominating from the backline. As long as the netrunner lived, HOD would be too tricky for Amon. Fortunately—or not—he knew exactly how to neutralize one. Destroy the special router on the airship to weaken signal strength, snag a terminal, and attempt a counter-hack. Amon lacked the skills, but he knew police security codes. Isolate the netrunner with admin privileges, and they’d be out of the fight.
Even heaven’s HOD would panic then. Suddenly severed from the shared mind, how could they not? In that window, Amon infiltrates the air vehicle. A leap from the nearest building’s window would reach it. If sniper protocols hadn’t changed, a barrier mage would be nearby. Hit their distracted backs with a sneak attack...
Yeah, right. He’d get reverse-touristed. HOD weren’t idiots; their rearguard wouldn’t fold to his current level. Snipers weren’t weak up close—their training turned average foes to paste. And the barrier mage? One punch from them, and Amon wouldn’t even react before dying. The gap between him and HOD was that vast.
Conclusion: Can’t win. No way around it. Even a whale had control limits. With a fully leveled character and prep time, maybe—but right now, Amon was no match. As those thoughts swirled, his vision flickered slightly. Simultaneously, his brain itched inside. A new sensation. But he had a hunch about the cause.
Right. There’s a psychic too. Amon finally remembered the mind-reader. As if on cue, a ding-dong! echoed in his head. His reaction to the psychic’s probe?
“Fuck.”
A curse. But not at the mind-reader invading his skull. It was aimed at himself. Cold sweat trickled down Amon’s spine.
This damn gamer brain! What luxury did he think he was enjoying, spec-ing out HOD in front of hyper-alert elites? With a psychic present, how did that look to them?
Why didn’t I just stand there holding my gun like a bystander at a terror suppression, you idiot!! A whirlwind of thoughts flooded Amon’s mind. His psyche splintered into fervent debate. Should I apologize now? Would they even accept it? They’re mind-readers; they’d know it’s sincere, right? But can they execute just for thoughts? It was only thoughts... Wait, this is cyberpunk. Hold up. They read thoughts? How far did they read? Did they get my past-life knowledge? No way—then they’re reading this too? And past-life intel includes Pentagon secrets! Oh, we’re fucked...
Amon squeezed his eyes shut. He tried reining in the overflowing thoughts, but they wouldn’t obey. Like telling someone not to think of a pink elephant—they couldn’t help it. Humans weren’t wired for thought control.
This is why I hate psychics. Depending on skill, their ability to pluck uncontrolled thoughts made them the ultimate weapon in an info-driven era. Countermeasures existed, but Amon had never prepped for them.
I’m screwed... His world’s secrets leaking over something this stupid. Amon preemptively apologized to the Goddess for the global chaos ahead. Like a condemned man awaiting execution, he braced for HOD’s judgment. CIA, police HQ, Pentagon—wherever they dragged him, his future looked grim.
Just then, an operator finished analyzing the gorilla’s corpse and approached Amon and the inspector. In a low voice laced with mechanical tones, he introduced himself.
“Greetings. I’m the team leader of HOD Squad 14. I’d like to thank you for your cooperation, but per protocol, I can’t disclose my real name—my apologies.”
Amon shoved his anxiety into a corner of his chest and nodded stiffly. The leader’s gravelly tone drilled into his ear.
“An intriguing strategy. Destroy the router, neutralize the netrunner, then snipe the air vehicle’s gunner. Solid approach.”
I’m done for.
“We just got ‘I’m done for’ from our psychic.”
Oh, Lord.
“Calling on God in this mess? Deep faith there, kid.”
Sorry. Can’t control my past-life knowledge.
“Thoughts don’t come with an off switch.”
They must’ve read all of America’s top secrets... I’m toast.
“What’s ‘toast’ mean?”
...? A question mark floated over Amon’s head at the leader’s last words. Their conversation suddenly felt off-kilter. Testing it, Amon cycled through thoughts: this world’s trivia, past-life lore, this world’s horrific bad ends, police HQ secrets, even the infamous info-polluting tactical nuke ‘HAL-KAS’.
Cough! The nuke’s power was insane—even the caster got hit. But the leader just blinked, unmoved.
Confirmation.
Past-life knowledge is unreadable. Related thoughts seemed auto-edited or censored. The nuke was forum lore from his old life, so no reaction. It made sense.
The Goddess is omnipotent. No way she’d send him down without safeguards against lowly human psychics breaching her blessing. Relieved, Amon freely recalled past memories.
Hallelujah. I worship You always, O Goddess. He began praising her fervently. To the leader peering into his edited mind, Amon’s out-of-context goddess-worship was horrifying—more unhinged than the dead gorilla. He stepped back warily.
Then Amon snapped back to reality.
Right. Past life’s past life. HOD’s still HOD. The spec for killing them hadn’t vanished. Fresh sweat soaked his back. Eyes darting, he groped for words—hoping sincere apology might save him.
The leader watched, then—
“Pfft!”
Burst out laughing. As Amon lagged behind, the leader clapped his shoulder.
“Kids like you are a dime a dozen on scenes. Pubescent brats all do it—‘How would I fight? What if it were me?’ Mercs too. Even the cops behind you are thinking it right now?”
“...”
“That last bit was a tease—don’t sweat it. We can tell killing intent from battle lust.”
The leader slapped Amon’s shoulder good-naturedly. A heartwarming adult soothing a teen. The cops, knowing HOD humor, watched fondly. But Amon alone couldn’t relax.
What the hell—murder machines. His gamer brain auto-recalled HOD lore. No justice or duty behind their joviality. Cops of the people? Duty? Nah. Logically, with that power, why stay in underpaid, high-risk police spec ops instead of megacorp/mercs/gov black ops? One reason:
To kill legally. Trigger-happy, murder-lust, assault fetish, voyeuristic memory-peepers, sadists—they were twisted desire incarnate. They knew unchecked indulgence meant short lives, so HOD let them kill lawfully. Low pay? Who cares. More work? Awesome! 0% deaths? Feels good to min-max achievements! Police HQ cherry-picked these psychos. To civilians, HOD were elite patriots sticking with the force out of altruism. But Amon, knowing the truth, couldn’t trust the hand on his shoulder. These pleasure-killers could snap and pulp his skull for fun.
Past-life tie-in seemed unreadable; the leader just grinned and chatted on. But Amon’s tension held, so he scratched his cheek and pointed one way.
“Anyway, we’re not hauling you in. Your girlfriend’d have my head.”
Girlfriend? Amon glanced. There stood Sonia, maaaaeow-ing murderously at the leader. Per him (via psychic relay), she’d gone feral thinking they’d arrest Amon.
Wiping sweat, the leader ended it, shoving Amon toward her.
“Whew, too much pressure—your stop. Console your girl.”
He left. Amon shuffled to Sonia. Her face brightened stepwise as he neared, arms linking at arm’s reach. Back to normal, she clutched like she’d never let go, scanning him.
“Hurt anywhere?”
“Just grazed.”
“What was HOD’s arrest play?”
“Joke, just a joke.”
“Phew...”
Sonia relaxed. The faint killing intent from her back vanished, leaving usual Sonia: bright, cheerful, quiet but kind to all. Amon stroked her hair as they left.
Afterward, they escaped the gruesome scene for a new bus stop toward the orphanage. En route, Amon remembered the old man.
“The elder?”
“Transfused and much better. No organ damage—just chronic fatigue plus anemia made him drowsy.”
“Good.”
Bonus: insured. No dying broke after surviving. For Amon and Sonia, the incident’s close was optimal—not satisfying, but acceptable. Chatting amiably, they soon walked from the bus toward home.
Normally, Sonia would pester him relentlessly in bubbly vibes, but today she was quiet.
Did I worry her too much...? Amon fretted inwardly, eyes glued to her face. Her iron grip screamed never again, numbing his arm—but he couldn’t ask her to let go. When he finally turned to beg relief, she stared up wordlessly, arm-in-arm.
“What?”
“N-nothing.”
Weirded out by his own speechlessness under her gaze, Amon kept walking.
Meanwhile, eyeing his cheek scar from tumbling in the gorilla fight, Sonia bit her lower lip—unseen by him.
I’m too weak... Leaving him alone today drove it home. If she’d soloed the gorilla, no risk to him. Gun recoil control was trivial in this brutal world. Protecting Amon needed real power.
And those HOD... When they seemed to arrest him, her mind blanked white. A joke, sure—but the hollow aftermath lingered too vividly.
Not enough. Too many unbeatable foes. She couldn’t beat cops, gorillas, or HOD. Couldn’t protect Amon in this wicked world. She figured the time to match a HOD squad: decades, maybe lifetime. Didn’t matter. Amon said a gentleman’s revenge was never too late. If protecting him lagged, she’d grind endlessly for vengeance.
Teach ’em what happens when you point guns wrong. Plan: wipe the framing squad. Execute the order-giver. If jailed, kill the judge too. Her eyes darkened. But negativity halted—his warmth in her hand melted it away.
No. This isn’t what Amon wants. He was kind. He’d ache seeing her change for him. She wouldn’t wish that on him. Loving meant respecting. Forcing her heart was selfishness. Honoring him, she discarded the dark, filling the void with peaceful, happy days together.
Yeah. This is what he’d want.
On the road home, the day’s events scarred a girl’s heart deeply. Not just hers—Amon’s, the city’s too. Victims’ families wailed, but the callous city turned away. Sympathy meant compensation payouts, so it was filed as tragic accident. No elections for fake tears; families buried grief in apathy. Time marched on indifferently, leaving unspeakable wounds and scars.
Soon, Christmas Eve approached.