The Short Version? We're Boned
The needlepoint slid slowly into the flesh, breaking through the skin and exploring the vein that lay below the surface. The owner paused, wincing at the stinging sensation that occurred around the puncture in their arm, and then pressed down on the syringe, forcing the lethal substance within to flood in like a toxic lifeblood. They shuddered deeply, closing their eyes and titling their head back as the familiar sensation of pleasure spread all over their body, and their lips trembled in ecstasy, their vision blurring.
"Missi."
A voice cut through the haze the drug was inducing, and Mississippi looked around wildly, their pupils dilated, searching for the speaker. Zeta hung over the Freelancer's shoulder, staring down at her host sadly, watching her beloved host hurt themselves pointlessly. Her expression was laced with pain.
"Missi, you said you'd stop," Zeta whispered, wrapping her arms around her holographic waist and giving the appearance of clutching it tightly. Mississippi smiled weakly, their mouth lopsided.
"Sorry, Z…Zeta," Mississippi slurred, lifting a hand up shakily to touch Zeta's image, before moaning softly and falling forward into a motionless heap on the ground. Zeta watched silently, knowing it would be some time before Mississippi would wake up again. When the Freelancer did, though, her mood would have improved greatly, and the Spartan would be easier to work with.
It would be a while until the next fix was due.
Alabama lifted his head up groggily, staring blearily into the darkness all around him, faintly aware that his body was dully throbbing.
Where was that idiot, York?
Alabama patiently waited for the familiar pink glow of Eta appear now that he was conscious, but nothing happened. Confused, tried to move, only to realise he was bound tightly to a chair.
"Eta?" he called out, struggling slightly against the thick metal thread wire holding him in place. "Eta?"
"You're finally awake?" a voice called out to him, and a man with slicked-back, black hair stepped out from the shadows, cigarette in hand, a smirk on his face. "I thought Freelancers were supposed to handle their torture?"
Alabama pulled a face, noticing that the pain was increasing rapidly in his body as his head started to clear. He stared at the man opposite him, wary, and then finally looked down properly at himself. His chest was bare, the under suit of his armour pulled down to the waist, and his skin was coated with a red sheen of blood, littered with cuts and bruises, as well as countless cigarette burns. While his heart fluttered frantically at sight of the unexplained injuries, his training suppressed the panic almost instantly, and calm quickly washed over the soldier. So he had been through torture that he didn't remember?
No biggie.
The man signalled for someone that Alabama couldn't quite see, and large, brutish looking thug walked up to the Freelancer, an extremely long and rusty knife in his meaty hand.
"Why are you here?" he asked gruffly, raising the weapon threateningly. Alabama snorted.
"Compensating for something, are you?" he asked. The thug scowled deeply, bringing back the knife as if to slash him. The man with the cigarette, who Alabama had decided was some sort of gangster, put his hand in front of the thug, however, stopping him.
"We don't want to kill him, Curtis," he said mildly. Curtis the thug lowered his weapon.
"Yes, Mr. Romano."
"Just...cut him a little."
Curtis grinned, revealed a mouth filled with blackened or missing teeth. The thug put the blade against Alabama's arm, his eyes clearly willing the Freelancer to resist so that he could hurt him. Alabama instinctively took a deep breath as the cold metal touched his skin. He could see dried blood on the blade, and wondered, from the cuts all over him, if it was his.
"Why...are...you...here?" Curtis asked, dragging each word out slowly as if he thought Alabama stupid.
"Bite...me," Alabama replied in the same slothful manner. Curtis smirked and dragged the knife sharply across his victim's arm, causing Alabama to let out a slight hiss from between his teeth. Romano sighed, tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette into the fresh wound.
"Strange how the mind works, Spartan," the gangster said, staring down at him. "It blocks out moments of intense stress, wiping the memory as if it had never existed. Yet you lasted out all forms of torture...except one."
"And that would be?" Alabama snarled.
"The improper removal of your A.I. caused you quite a lot of pain, judging by your reaction. So, with that in mind, we proceeded to continually remove and replace the programme. Unfortunately, this little method rendered you incapable of answering our questions. Now, unless you wish to go through pain so intense your own memory abandons you, I suggest you cooperate."
Alabama laughed, throwing his head back as he did.
"If I'm not going to remember it, then by all means, torture me! What makes you think it won't be a repeat of last time?"
"Oh, I don't doubt it won't be a repeat of last time," Romano replied, a slight smirk on his shadowed face. "But how could I derive myself the pleasure of hearing a Spartan scream and beg for mercy?"
Alabama watched him carefully, knowing his captor wasn't lying. Curtis produced a syringe, digging it into the Freelancers arm and forcing the clear substance into his veins. Alabama shuddered, a feeling of cold washing over him.
"As I said, Spartan," Romano continued, "the mind is a strange and curious thing. However, as I am part of a family that indulges in the business of crime, torture has become an almost daily routine. I've had many of my...subjects lose their memory whilst torturing them. This is...or should I say was, a problem. How can we get the required information if our subject cannot recall it?"
"Enlighten me," Alabama spat, suddenly having a very bad feeling about the substance that had just been injected into him. Romano laughed.
"Well, I spent some time with a team of respectable scientists...but respectable or not, when people fall into hard times, they will do almost anything for money. They made a specialised serum for me, which can force the mind to bring back any memory, no matter how stressed the body is by it. Of course, it still needs refining. All memories of the subject return, instead of specified ones, but it is a start."
A pressure started in Alabama's head, just behind the eyes, and panic began to rise up in him. Within minutes he was gasping in terror at what was lying in wait for him, should he choose not to speak. Romano flicked his finished cigarette stub at Alabama's pale and sweat-ridden face, finding amusement in the soldier's pure, unrestrained fear. He leant forward slightly, making his cold, green eyes level with the shaking Freelancer's.
"What are you doing here?" Romano asked, deliberately pronouncing each syllable distinctively. Alabama paused, biting his lip to try to calm himself down. Then he glanced up at Romano, before spitting straight into his face.
Romano slowly straightened up; his features twisted into intense displeasure, and produced a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, wiping away the blooded saliva that was dribbling down from his eyes and onto his cheeks. Then, moving so fast he was almost a blur, he hit Alabama across his face with the back of his hand, breaking the silence with a loud slap.
"Give him ten minutes," Romano hissed, producing the Eta A.I. chip and handing it to Curtis, all the while eyeing the Freelancer with deep loathing. "Then see if he talks."
"Get gone, York!" Alabama yelled, firing his gun at anyone who got too close. "I'll follow when I've dealt with these assholes!"
York nodded, opening the hatch and swinging into it, sliding down the steep metal flooring, the sound of gunfire growing more distant with each passing second. Keeping his balance perfectly as he slid deeper into the sewer systems, sparks flying out from under his feet, he waited for the clang that would signal Alabama had made it through. After a few minutes, however, a huge explosion sounded, shaking the entire structure York was on. York himself was flung forward, landing on a carpet of slime present on the slope and spinning wildly around. As he tumbled, he managed to steer himself around long enough to see the hatch he had jumped down through had collapsed, and huge parts of the ceiling were now freefalling right behind him. He needed to get off the slope as quickly as possible, before he was crushed by a wayward slab of concrete. York scraped his hands along the steel, doing his best to drag himself to the walls, which had bars. If he could grab one, he'd be able to pull himself to safety. As he reached out for a handhold, however, a chunk of debris hit him across the head, stunning him. He could only watch, dazed, as the end of the slope drew nearer and nearer, a dark waiting to swallow him whole.
For a moment, York felt the strange sensation of weightlessness, something unheard of for a soldier who wore such heavy armour. His stomach churned as he plummeted, and he took a deep breath, waiting for the impact that would kill him.
York gasped in shock when he hit the body of water below that the darkness had hidden, the unexpected mercy taking him by surprise. However, as he began to travel down like a stone through the sewer waters, he realised death was simply being postponed. He had two hours worth of oxygen in his suit before he would suffocate, and his armour prevented him from swimming back up to the surface.
Looks like I'll be walking out of this one, he thought to himself as his feet hit the ground, sinking slightly in the layer of sludge that lay on the bottom of the water. He switched on the light that was on his armour, illuminating the thick drifts of murky water around him, and took a slow and laboured step forward.
"D, is there any way out of here?" he said, grunting with effort as he forced his other leg forward.
"Scanning," Delta replied, and his green colour momentarily flashed to blue.
"Hurry up, D," York grumbled. "I don't want to waste time going in the wrong direction!"
"Travelling at the pace you are now in your given direction, I estimate a total of hundred and twelve minutes until you reach water shallow enough to surface from."
"Nearly two hours?" York groaned. "It's cutting it close."
"Well," Delta continued, "it could have been one hundred and twenty-one minutes."
Had York not known his A.I. as well as he did, he wouldn't have recognised the subtle joke thrown in. The Freelancer grinned, blinking as sweat dropped down from his forehead and onto his eyes, stinging slightly.
"If I make it out of here alive, D, it'll be a miracle."
Alabama opened and closed his mouth soundlessly like a fish out of water, the burning sensation in his head so strong words couldn't form from his lips. Sound ceased to exist when his own head was crippling him as it struggled to adjust to the A.I. relentlessly ripping its way through into mind. What he wouldn't give for it to stop, but at the same time, his pride prevented him from betraying the others. Curtis yanked the chip out carelessly from a specialised 'host' band that had been placed on the Freelancer's wrist, and the agony returned in a fresh, raging wave. This time Alabama did make a noise – a hacking, choking sound, similar to those on the verge of death. Alabama knew he was dying.
He could feel the strength leaving his body, his sight abandoning his eyes, the terrible, terrible pain rising until he could bear it no longer...
And then it was gone.
The Freelancer gasped in sharp, shuddering breaths, the absence of the pain a sudden and shocking relief. Curtis watched Alabama pant and shiver, his shoulders heaving as he tried to regain his composure. Soon the chip would be put back in again, but maybe there was a way to reduce the effect it had in him...maybe...
Alabama attempted to cast his thoughts on other memories, but the only one he could focus on was the mission he had screwed up. It was better than nothing, though, and so Alabama concentrated his thoughts as best he could.
"We didn't involve ourselves in drugs!" Alabama bellowed, slamming his fist on the banister with a loud bang. When he moved his hand away, the wood had buckled, leaving a sizable dent behind. Alabama took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "We didn't involve ourselves with drugs. I personally made sure of it."
"Alright, alright!" York replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Why you so worked up about drugs, anyway?"
"None of your fucking business, asshole," Alabama said sharply. "Let's just get this damn mission done as fast as possible so we can get out of here."
York nodded and continued along the landing of house, opening an unlocked door and stepping into the dark room behind it. Alabama followed, falling into his thoughts once more.
His street gang had been the best of the lower gangs, unlike the big boys, the Kawashimas and Romanos, who could wipe them all out with a click of their fingers. They'd only kept the smaller gangs there for amusement and trade, as well as allies and thugs. The two families had often called upon them for small time jobs…and if you refused…you would probably end up dead.
Alabama couldn't believe he was breaking into the Romano offices. Had he done this back in his youth, he would have been caught and shot.
It suddenly occurred to Alabama that he'd still be shot if he was caught here.
You can become a badass, cyborg-armoured solider and still be treated like a damn street rat, he thought to himself, slightly annoyed by this revelation. He watched as York leant over a computer on a polished, wooden desk, both clearly expensive objects, the Freelancer tapping lightly at the keys as he accessed the files present. He removed a small chip, pointing it at the computer, a small blue light flickering on for a moment.
"Done," York said, stowing the chip away in a small compartment in his armour.
"Done what?" Alabama asked, confused. York glanced up at him as he logged the computer off and checked his gun.
"The chip is wireless, Al. I've just streamed the entire of their databanks onto it."
"Oh." Alabama paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "That seemed almost...too easy."
York shrugged. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth."
"...what?"
"Never mind. Let's just bail, okay?"
"Fine by me. This place sets me on the freaking edge."
A sudden bang of a door being flung open in the wide hallway below made the two Freelancers whip around with speed, guns raised at the source of the unknown disturbance. There was a brief silence, before Alabama turned slightly to York and nodding his head with minimum movement, indicating he was going to go ahead and investigate. York returned the signal, stepping over to the wall and pressing his back against it, crouched low to make his visibility minimal.
Alabama stalked carefully out into the open corridor, keeping the tread of his walk soft and light to avoid noise. With caution, he slowly looked over the banister that gave a clear view of the hallway, and to his horror, saw members of the Romano family congregating down below. He stepped back sharply, returning hastily to the room where York was.
"The Romanos," Alabama said in a low voice. "They're here."
"What?" York hissed. "How could they be here? They weren't supposed to return for another week!"
"I don't know," Alabama said, shrugging and glancing warily over his shoulder, "but we'll probably find out when we get back to Kawashima. Where's the location of the emergency exit?"
"Downstairs by the main entrance, behind some painting of a girl in a dress"
"Great. That's exactly where they're all standing."
"Well, we'll just have to hide until we get the chance to move-"
A group of gangsters walked past the doorway, forcing York to cut off his speech immediately. Luckily, they were too busy with their own conversation, and didn't notice.
"...so she won't stop sending those letters?" Alabama heard one of the men outside the room say. "Damn, she is persistent."
"Does Mr Romano know about it?" a voice replied.
"Unfortunately, yes. It's distressing him greatly, which is unsurprising after what happened to dearest Ash--wait."
The footsteps down the corridor stopped, and for the briefest of moments, Alabama thought that someone may have seen them, but only had just realised.
"Why is this part of the banister crumpled like paper?"
Alabama froze. York glanced at him, glowering.
"I don't know. It wasn't like that when we left."
"...it seems we either have an intruder in the house, or there has been one previously. Check everywhere, including the databanks!"
"Yes sir!"
The two Freelancers barely had time to react before a young man ran into the room they were in. He stopped and stared at them.
"...shit," Alabama muttered. As the man reached for his gun, York quickly raised his silenced pistol and shot him down. He fell backwards into the computer, knocking it over with almighty crash. York sighed, putting a hand to his head.
"This mission is officially screwed."
"You've only just noticed?" Alabama snapped back. "I say we make a run for it. We've got all the info we need."
"Good enough for me!" York replied, jumping up into a sprint and barrelling his way through the door just as some of the group returned to investigate the noise. He sent them flying in all directions before vaulting over the banister into the hallway below. Alabama quickly followed his example, jumping over the men knocked over as he did. York ripped the painting off the wall and quickly accessed the security panel to the door blocking their escape. Within seconds the door opened, the speed of his companion impressing Alabama.
The two of them set off down the tunnel, their adversaries not far behind. After a few minutes of continuous running, the narrow tunnel opened out into a wide room, with a single hatch in the corner, surrounded by crates.
"That leads to the sewers below," York said, kneeling down to open the hatch. As he did, however, Romano's men began to clamber into the room, opening fire, forcing Alabama to duck down behind the crates. He loaded his gun and then stood up again, shooting those who got too close to him.
"Get gone, York!" Alabama yelled. "I'll follow when I've dealt with these assholes!"
York nodded, opening the hatch and swinging into it, disappearing from sight. Alabama smiled to himself. He hadn't planned on escaping. There were too many, and the information York had was the most important thing for the time being.
Alabama had screwed up the mission, and he intended to put things right.
Removing two plasma grenades from his belt, he activated them and tossed one up to the ceiling, and the other on the edge of the hatch, before diving out into the open. A large section of floor and ceiling collapsed as the grenade exploded, blocking off the entrance to the hatch. There was no way to give chase to the escaped Freelancer.
Furious, the men turned their guns to Alabama, not shooting, but instead waiting for their boss to arrive. Romano stepped out from the group, his face twisted in distaste at the destruction Alabama had caused.
"Take him up to the torture room," he snapped.
A hand clamped on Alabama's chin, dragging his head up sharply. The Freelancer blearily opened his eyes, squinting up at the smirk of Romano.
"I thought you may have passed out," he said, digging his nails into Alabama's skin. "Seems I was wrong."
"It doesn't matter what you do to me," Alabama mumbled, his eyelids drooping, "I don't have the information you need."
"It's not the data you took that I want to know about; I am well aware of that. No, I want to know whom you work for and why my father's home was your target. How did you find out the house would be empty at that time?"
"Yeah, well we obviously didn't, did we? You came back..."
"There was an unexpected change of plan." Romano's tone was sharp and harsh as he began to shake Alabama violently, the volume of his voice rising. "Who. Do. You. Work. For?"
The Freelancer slowly forced his eyes open, staring at Romano. His dry and cracked lips opened slightly, and a small and bitter laugh emerged from them.
"I think you already know."