The Mad Gorilla's Rampage
After the possession incident involving Punk City and the human boy Jimmy, everyday life returned to the Perfumrose Orphanage. Amon and Sonia played the roles of big brother and big sister, looking after the younger kids as they all eagerly awaited Christmas. They'd already forgotten that they had been the ones receiving gifts for Black Friday; now they were buzzing with excitement over what might appear under the tree. It was a truly peaceful orphanage scene—except for Jimmy, who for some reason threw a fit whenever he saw a Bible.
In the midst of this serene routine, Amon and Sonia headed to the sword dojo, now a familiar part of their lives. The lessons, started at the master's urging, had been going on for a fortnight already. They were fully accepted as students there. Of course, it hadn't been without grumbling. Some disciples were jealous that these orphans were getting free lessons straight from the master himself. But like any dojo focused on duel-style martial arts, complaints were mostly settled in the ring. Once you got beaten to rags by Amon and Sonia, you had no choice but to acknowledge them. Before long, they had become the dojo's talented, adorable little prodigies.
The prodigies arrived at the dojo an hour after leaving the orphanage.
"Hello."
"Oh? You're here. Go change into your uniforms."
That day, sword lessons began just like always. According to the master's assessment on their first day, the training each needed was different. Sonia tended to rely too much on instinct and reflexes—a common issue with sensory geniuses. It could be fixed with psychological warfare tactics and solid basics. Amon, on the other hand, was blatantly weird even to the master's eyes.
"Why are your techniques so spotty? Like they're just slapped together?"
Some moves he had, but their foundational techniques were missing. Then suddenly, a style from an unrelated school would pop up. If you pictured Amon's swordsmanship, it was like he'd cherry-picked the flashiest bits from every school and stitched them into something with zero harmony. In other words, he'd learned swordplay piecemeal from SNS or books—and mastered it perfectly. Yet he had internalized at least partial counters for each school's specialties, making it hard to pin down. Like patchwork rags sewn together, maybe?
Most masters would call it bad habits and wipe it all clean, imprinting their own style instead. But this master was different. He saw it as Amon's unique edge, a strength, and didn't bother correcting it.
"The reason it's a mess is you never learned them systematically. Teach 'em in proper order, memorize step by step, and boom—you've got an all-rounder."
So Amon's training involved the master breaking down every form of any technique he demonstrated, drilling them systematically into memory. At the same time, he'd spar to teach variations on classic patterns, widening Amon's improvisation range. Amon loved the master's approach.
I figured he'd force some school on me.
The master had studied abroad in Japan, mastering multiple schools, and even won tournaments in China. Amon had assumed he'd get injected with faction-specific swordplay. Nope. When Amon mentioned schools, the master recoiled in horror.
"What? Factions? That's killing your individuality. I ain't teaching that crap."
He didn't just avoid teaching factions—he straight-up discouraged them. For geniuses, rigid faction styles were poison. He never taught them cookie-cutter swordplay. It stemmed from his philosophy:
By his view, weaknesses were side effects that came with strengths—unavoidable. Fix them if you could, but don't butcher your advantages trying. The world ain't a place where you do everything solo. A swordsman should master his own vessel and hand off weaknesses to allies. Try covering every gap, and you'll end up mediocre at all of it. He preferred overwhelming maximization of strengths over patching weaknesses.
This meshed perfectly with Amon's playstyle. In turn, Amon trusted and followed the master wholeheartedly. Seeing Amon grow by leaps and bounds daily, the master poured everything he had into him. Teacher determined to cultivate, student hungry to grow—their synergy was explosive.
"Winner! Amon!"
Amon's sword halted at the assistant instructor's vital point. A milestone after just one month of holding a blade. Pure technique spar—no lethal moves or body enhancements allowed. In free-for-all matches with augmentations and raw physicals, plenty could still beat him. But in straight technique duels? Only the master bested him now in the dojo.
This astonishing feat came after a mere month. Amon had to admit it: he had talent in swordsmanship. Finally, he mentally checked off "swordsmanship" on his talent list and reviewed his skill tree again. Sword and disguise. Assassin specialization, plain as day.
As he nodded to himself, solidifying his path, someone snuck up behind.
"Congrats!"
Sonia hugged him from behind. Amon nearly pitched forward but caught himself with reflexes, bearing her weight. He tapped the arm around his neck; it slipped away smoothly.
Amon gave a wry smile. "I'm sweaty as hell."
"It's fine. I'm sweaty too."
That's not much of a comeback. Amon almost retorted but played the mature adult, letting her nonsense slide without protest.
Soon they showered in the dojo's facilities, then stepped out. The usual trek back to the orphanage. The city buzzed with impending Christmas cheer. Crowds thick enough to sweep them apart—teens or not, better not risk it, especially to avoid trouble. Safer stuck together. Their hands intertwined naturally.
Gazing at the throng, Sonia marveled, "Wow, so many people."
"Don't let go, stick close."
"Yeah..."
Sonia blushed faintly and pressed against him at Amon's words. They wove through the masses toward the bus stop. The route was routine, so even in the chaos, no getting lost. But when they were just one corner from the stop, disaster struck.
"Linia!!! Liniaaa!!!! Daddy's sorry!!!"
A booming male voice roared from the stop on the opposite side of the corner. Most folks shot puzzled glances toward the source. Not Amon. From his multi-run Punk City experience, anyone bellowing in the street meant a random event—and 99% were bad news.
Shit!
Sensing trouble, Amon yanked Sonia into cover around the corner. Sure enough, gunfire erupted from beyond.
Rat-tat-tat!
Screams! People fleeing, wailing, dying in agony—pandemonium unfolded.
Amon assessed near-instinctively. They're all insane. The shooter, the situation, this world—every bit of it. He knew the term for lunatics like that and their triggers, but no time to dwell. While bystanders still hadn't clocked the chaos across the corner, he grabbed Sonia's hand and bolted.
Pretty sure this year's White Christmas.
To Amon, this block was shaping up Red Christmas. No detours—he dashed straight into the nearest clothing store. Sonia got pulled in after him.
"Sorry for the intrusion, sir!"
A kindly old man greeted them—East Asian features, by his face. Under normal circumstances, Amon might've asked about doyunokimchi, but time was short. The elder seemed oblivious, hard of hearing or just slow on the uptake. Amon quickly briefed him and they retreated deeper inside. No lingering in the open shop—too risky from stray bullets or ricochets. They headed to the attic storeroom further in.
As they moved with the owner, Amon asked, "Any back door?"
"Sorry, lad. Building owner blocked it with a container extension."
"Figures."
Amon could only tut at the landlord's blatant disregard for building codes. But heading back out now, mid-rampage? Suicide. No choice—they hunkered in the attic, surrounded by bolts of fabric and clothes. Sonia whispered to Amon.
"Wouldn't running be better?"
"Nah. This is safest now."
Fleeing through that crowd was a massive gamble. High chance of trampling, slow movement. And a mad shooter doesn't aim—he sprays. He'd likely mow down the stop's crowd, then turn the corner and grind through the rest. Amon and Sonia prime targets. He didn't spell it out for her. Just cradled her head, pulled her close, soothed her.
The shopkeeper watched, cleared his throat awkwardly, averted his eyes. Muttered just audibly, "Young love, eh."
Meanwhile, seconds after Amon ducked inside. Panic spread; people bolted chaotically. Disorder like that bred accidents inevitably. Hellscape. Corpses everywhere—crushed, shot, hit by cars? Indistinguishable.
As Amon predicted, overt runners mostly died. Everyone within a block of the stop perished; half a block out, half died. Even beyond the gorilla's range, folks dropped from mishaps. But was Amon's way the absolute right call? Not quite. Late dodgers to nearby buildings or poor hides became silent corpses too. His choice just had better odds—no guarantees. True answer? Never cross paths with a psycho like that to begin with.
"Linia... why won't you eat the pizza I got?!"
The chaos's architect wailed pitifully. Gorilla-like: shaggy fur, hulking build. Beastman or gorilla-augmented human? Unclear. But cyberware and magitech implants galore—more machine and tattoos than flesh.
The mad gorilla sprayed from his right-arm minigun, shedding bloody tears from artificial glass eyes. A baby doll strapped to his back dangled limp. He'd rage-cry wildly, then go docile at "Papa~" from the doll, stroking it tenderly. Tried feeding it pizza—doll, predictably, didn't bite. Cue meltdown.
Gorilla's rage-depression-calm cycle looped every five minutes. By then, Christmas-season-jumpy cops arrived, cordoning him with squad cars and firing back. But his hide shrugged bullets like nothing—clear ting! of unnatural resilience.
Problem: it pissed him off plenty.
"You cops killed Linia! Die, you pig bastards!"
Slurred, spittle-flying fury shifted targets.
Rat-tat-tat!
No civilian-market minigun. Cop cars shredded like paper; hiding officers dropped. Lucky ones with car+vest synergy stood back up. Unshielded direct hits, non-vital vest misses, ricochet vitals? Permanent dirt naps.
"Fuck me! That's a military minigun! Where'd he get that?!"
No one to answer. Pistols and rifles barely scratched; cops mowed like movie fodder.
"When's SWAT here?!"
"En route—"
Splat! Responder's head gone.
"Fuck!"
That was all for his partner. Heart screamed run, but the world wasn't kind to fleeing cops. Dishonorable discharge baseline; him and family doxxed eternally on SNS. Better honorable death—family gets vet benefits, tax breaks.
Badge just a month old, the young cop cursed nonstop, blindly spraying from cover. Pointless even if it hit—no aim, just poke-and-shoot. Unwise in a cordon: blind fire meant friendly mishaps or unintended hits.
Like the doll on gorilla's back.
Splat! Doll shattered.
Instant silence. A cop muttered, "Over?"
Bad call—or inevitable? Gorilla weirder now. Fake tears turned real blood. No back-strapped baby; backplate opened—weapons bay: launcher, plasma cutter. Six new arms sprouted, pounding chest.
"$#^&%@#!!!!"
One cop whispered, "Fuuuuck."
Phase 2 begun.