Guys. I just discovered a pistol called the Yeet Cannon. You know what this means, right? If anyone with contacts in MICA Team happens to be reading this… make it happen.
(The Village, Early Morning)
The first thing I see when I wake up is a wooden ceiling I don't immediately recognize. Panic shoots through my veins a split second before I remember where I am: the Paskov brothers' village. My muscles slacken, and my breathing slows. I'm at the Paskovs' cabin, not another laboratory. I'm safe here.
Ugh, my head… I knew I'd regret having so much to drink last night, but hey, when life offers you authentic Russian vodka, you shut up and accept the authentic Russian vodka. Suppose I can check that off my bucket list. I really gotta hand it to Damir – the dude sure knows how to make a houseguest feel welcome.
Had the weirdest fucking dream, too, and although I don't remember much about it, I know darn well it wasn't a pleasant one. Psycho was involved in some way, I think. Can't really say for certain. It's all sort of blurred together in a twisting, formless mass– faces and voices, familiar and unfamiliar, appearing and disappearing before I could put a name to any of them. The only concrete thing I can recall is lots of noise, like shouting, along with this horrible screech near the end. And I mean truly horrifying, like the wails of eternally damned souls as they futilely try to claw their way out of the pits of Hell.
Maybe that's the reason I almost freaked out a minute ago. Geez, since when have I gotten so damn jumpy?
I don't give the dream any more thought, because sweet Lord above, I am suffering from the worst hangover since my old CO's engagement party. I force my eyelids to blink through cold sweat as I sit up and stumble off the couch I'd borrowed for the night.
"Morning, comrade."
I'm barely cognizant enough to register the accented, slightly slurred voice that greets me once I'm on moderately steady legs.
I grunt something back that might've sounded like "Hey."
Water… I need some water. I give myself a mental pat on the back when I manage to stumble my way to the kitchen sink without tripping over something. Cold liquid splashes over my face, and when I can see clearly again, I take a long drink straight from the faucet to wash away the pungent aftertaste of Russian-brewed goodness.
I meander over to the small kitchen table once I've had my fill and put out a chair. I still feel a bit groggy but it's nothing I don't have plenty of experience dealing with already. When you've seen the things I've seen, done the things I've done, you learn to put up with minor inconveniences like the morning after. Damir's seated across from me, nursing his own hangover with a tall glass of water.
The cabin itself is nothing fancy, but it's connected to the village's electrical grid, and more importantly it's spacious enough to accommodate three residents without them bumping into each other at every turn. Most of the inside space is taken up by a main living area with an attached kitchenette. A short hallway close to the kitchen table leads to a bathroom and singular bedroom with two separate beds. The whole house is actually in better shape than half the places I've lived, if I'm being honest.
"Lev made pancakes," the older twin says with some difficulty, halfheartedly motioning to a plate stacked high with the breakfast goods. There's also some freshly made butter and a bottle of syrup with a label in Cyrillic next to it. "Go ahead, my friend. Eat."
A generous offer. However, that would mean I'd have to get up and grab another plate as well as some silverware, and considering my current state, it's not worth the effort yet. Plus, after the little spectacle M249 put on with her food yesterday, I've kind of been turned off from syrup. I still feel my teeth ache at the memory even though I'm pretty sure I can't get dental problems anymore.
"I'm not hungry right now."
Damir snorts in amusement. "Honestly, neither am I."
"Where is Lev, anyway?"
"At his day job. He left about an hour ago."
"Ah." I thought I was only imagining the more positive atmosphere around here. Not that I dislike Lev, mind you, but his attitude and permanent scowl won't be winning him any friends. Dude seriously needs to get laid.
Hmm. Maybe I can subtly push him in Mk23's direction. Maybe Damir can help. It would be amusing to try, if nothing else.
The two of us sit in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes, content do nothing while we wait for the alcohol's effects to wear off. The absence of anything else to distract me gives my mind an opening to wander back to that odd dream. I can't put my finger on why, but… something about it felt more detailed than it should've. Like it wasn't entirely just a dream.
Just the thought of that makes me bristle for some unknown reason. I feel like I've been… what's a good word to describe it... violated, in some way.
The negative feeling is pushed aside when Damir tries for more small talk. "Sleep well last night?" he asks. Despite his polite tone, he's eyeing me in a curious way, smirking as though he's privy to an embarrassing secret regarding me.
"Uh, I guess so." My reply comes out stiff, awkward. There's definitely a hidden meaning behind his words – I pick up on that right away, but I'm not sure what it is and that bothers me. Did I do something stupid while I was drunk? Wouldn't be the first time. "…What's up? Did something happen?"
Still smiling, Damir sips his water, then shrugs. "You could say that," he says cryptically. He puts his water aside and folds his hands together, looking me square in the eye.
Yep. Definitely did something stupid.
"Listen, comrade, I understand you are concerned about M4." Damir tells me patiently. Before I can open my mouth to inquire what she has to do with anything, he continues, "And I appreciate you not wanting to wake us up, but if you really needed to borrow our truck, I would have preferred you asked us directly." He sighs, leaning back in his chair, somehow oblivious to the confusion etched on my face. "Lev was furious when we found your note. He had half a mind to throw the couch out while you were still on it."
Note? What note? And what's this about the truck? What the hell is he talking about?
"Dude, you're not making sense. What happened last night?"
Damir doesn't answer verbally. Instead he takes a piece of notebook paper out of his pants pocket and slides it across the table. Snatching it up, I unfold it and immediately eyeball the hastily scrawled text:
Damir, Lev:
Sorry you had to find out like this but I just couldn't wait any longer. I keep thinking about M4, and the truth is, I'm worried sick. How is she doing at base? Are they treating her well? I don't know, and it's making me lose sleep. I need to check on her. It's the only way to put my mind at ease.
I'm taking the truck to base to visit her. Shouldn't be gone longer than a few hours – with any luck I'll be back and sleeping like a baby before either of you wake up, like nothing ever happened. Hopefully the $20 I left on the table will cover the gas cost.
Again, I'm sorry for springing this on you, especially after all the hospitality you've shown me, but it's just something I need to do.
-James
"I am personally calling bullshit on the whole 'just checking up on her' thing," Damir says once I've finished reading. Completely subverting what I expected to be an angry reaction, his smirk widens into a mischievous smile that rivals Springfield's. "I am not my brother, comrade. I would not judge you if you and that Doll have a little something-something going on in private. You are an adult male, same as I, da? We have our needs. And she is rather cute…"
I'm only half-listening, pouring through the note over and over again. If I take it at face value, then sure; I wouldn't put it past myself to drive drunk to Sykes' base out of some adoptive-older-brotherly concern. Chino once noted I'm prone to making emotional decisions when I'm intoxicated.
Then why can't I remember anything that happened? My memory's not perfect anymore, sure, but it's not bad by any stretch. And I'd definitely remember writing a note this professional. There has to be a clue in it somewhere…
The fourth time I read it is when I notice the problem.
That's not my handwriting.
And I'm sure as hell that my neural connection with the N2 is the reason I automatically recognize whom it actually belongs to. My whole body suddenly turns to jelly, the note slipping from my hands to the floor. I feel like I've just taken a thousand volts to the heart.
Don't freak out, Alcatraz. Not freaking out is your number one priority. You don't want a repeat of the farmhouse incident. Remember what they taught you in the Ar- in the Marines. Losing your shit won't solve anything. Keep your head clear, process the situation, and don't do anything to jeopardize yourself and the team.
"Comrade? What is the matter?" Damir's voice sounds like it's coming from underwater.
The team… or in this case, Damir. One of the precious few lifelines I have in this changed world. He's… I wouldn't call him a friend yet, more like friendly acquaintance, but the simple thought of alienating him if I blow my lid is enough incentive to force myself back to a functional state.
That doesn't mean I feel any better on the inside, however. My stomach churns to prove the point.
"I think I'm gonna be sick," is all I say to him before hauling ass to the bathroom. The door slams as he's in the middle of needling me about not being able to handle my vodka.
The next five minutes play out eerily similar to an occurrence or two from the Sangvis facility. Once I've become intimately familiar with the toilet bowl, I drag myself to look at the dingy mirror above the sink. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me. Those eyes… those fucking blue eyes, the only part of my physiology that doesn't match my original human form. They're a constant, nagging reminder of what I really am. Of what's inside of me. Who's inside.
So I try to fix it. I grit my teeth, concentrate with all my effort to correct the color, and for a fraction of a second, I might've seen a spark of green but it disappears so quickly I could've just been imagining it.
The effort is more taxing than I'd anticipated and I'm burnt out after a while. The exertion leaves me panting like a dog in summer heat, the thump-thump-thump of my heart pounding against my ribs echoing in my eardrums. Okay, so the eyes aren't going anywhere. Fine. Whatever. At least I'm still seeing my own face in the mirror, and not his.
I've had my suspicions, but…
"What's your fucking goal here?" The glowing orbs in the mirror threaten to burn holes through me, not that I care. I'm not speaking to my reflection right now. "Why can't you just let go? The Ceph are done for. Your war is over, and your reason for living with it." Harsh and petty, I know, but it's also true. Can he even hear me? No idea.
A low, frustrated growl rumbles in my throat, aimed as much at the universe in general as him. Why is it so fucking hard for me to find some peace? Just when I think I've got things handled, just when I'm beginning to scrape together a decent life in this messed-up future, an unpleasant reminder of my past waltzes up and threatens to tear it all down. And that's all Laurence Barnes is to me – an unwanted presence, like an asshole relative who suddenly wants to be involved in your life after you win a ton of money.
"So why?" I watch my reflection's eye twitch. "Why are you still holding on, Prophet? Why?"
No answer is forthcoming from the mirror or the man within me. My hands grip the sink tighter; it takes conscious effort not to shatter the porcelain. I lean in closer.
"Let's make something clear here, Barnes. You might've owned the suit first, but this is and always will be my body. You got that? Mine. Even a fancy billion-dollar Nanosuit is nothing but a useless piece of hardware without a human to drive it."
Still no answer. Classic Prophet, I think with a light snort. Either he's adhering to that strict 'need-to-know basis' bullshit mentality that frequently put him at odds with Psycho or he's just too much of a pussy to show himself.
Whatever the case is, he's in no mood to talk. I leave the bathroom with a parting warning:
"Pull a stunt like that again, fucker, and I'll make you wish you'd moved on."
I meander back to the kitchen, finding Damir's helped himself to a pancake while I was away. The older twin gives me a concerned look when I come into view.
"Feeling better, comrade?"
No.
"A little." I allow my inner fatigue to show, if only to sell the story that I'd simply had too much to drink. "Thanks for asking. Got any plans today?" I continue, eager to push the parasite called Prophet out of my thoughts.
"Da, I plan to bring you to work with me. Do not give me that look," he chuckles at my surprised expression. "You thought you could, what is word, 'chill' here without pulling your weight? Nyet, my friend. Even my charity has its limits." He gestures with his fork to the pancakes. "Now dig in and make yourself presentable within the next hour. Time is money, so they say, haha!"
I oblige without complaint. Should've expected something like this, really – the Paskovs seem like they're getting by comfortably, although it would be stupidly presumptuous of me to believe they can support a house guest long-term. Depending on how difficult that is, and whether or not Lev can forgive 'me' for taking the truck, I'll try to be out of their hair and on the road by the day after tomorrow.
And if Prophet decides he has an issue with that… well. He once told me that if I'd really wanted to take my body back, I would've done so. He'll eventually learn, one way or another, that I don't plan to give it up a second time without a hell of a fight.
The note is forgotten as I dine and chat with Damir.
(The Village)
Two days turn into three, then four, then six. Before I know it over a week has passed, and I find myself settling into a routine.
Life, for the first time in God knows how long, is normal: no aliens, mercs, or rogue T-Dolls. Just a couple of Russian dudes and a crash course on repair work.
Damir serves as the village's handyman, fixing up tools and appliances for a fee. My assistance for the first week, if you can even call it that, was minimal. I was relegated to watching him work and taking notes as he lectured me about which doohickeys in a power drill go where and why propane grills are easier to clean than charcoal ones. I stopped calling him Hank Hill after it became clear he didn't understand what I was talking about.
Even though I slightly bungled my first project (in my defense, who uses the low power setting on microwaves anyway?), it's honest and practical work, which I can definitely get behind. I've always liked doing busywork. It gives me something to focus my energy toward, lets me tune out the background noise.
My free time is split between household chores and poring over documents at the tiny local library. Makeyeva is the village's official name, I learned early on, named after the dude who founded it in the early 2030s. Story goes he was one of many disgruntled laborers who sought to escape CELL's monopoly on the energy market by creating their own places where modern technology usage was limited. In hindsight, very smart move. Prophet's war with System X likely played holy hell on the world's power grid; while the major cities would've been left in states of catastrophe, little nowhere villages like Makeyeva would've been inconvenienced at worst.
I finally found out where I am geographically, too: forty miles east of Berdychiv, which puts me in Ukraine. That confused me for the longest time. I'm in a village populated by Russians. M4 said I was in Russia back at the farmstead. Was I missing something?
Then it hit me: Ukraine was a part of the previous Soviet Union. Even after its dissolution, Russia's hard-on for its former territory never wavered. It's painfully easy to envision Moscow seeking to re-conquer the NSU's old stomping lands, especially when the the rest of the world was shaken by the triple calamities of ELID, the Ceph, and World War III.
I'd thought about traveling to Kyiv and catching a flight back stateside. For now though, I'm in no rush to leave Makeyeva. I'm coming to like the simplicity of the place. It's bigger than the abandoned village where M4 and I first met the twins, but not by much. No one raises a fuss about a Yank moving in. I continue to work with Damir, who I'm beginning to see as a brother figure.
For the first time since New York, I can relax and indulge in some good old normalcy without any looming sense of danger clouding my mind. It's a refreshing change of pace.
Now, you might be wondering Where does Lev fit into all this? Well, I'll tell you:
"Just when I am beginning to think our customers cannot possibly be any dumber… 'Do you sell flowers?' Do we sell flowers?! Ugh, does it look like we are in a florist's shop, you old crone?!"
Yeah. Never said it would be pretty. Luckily for me, his hatred of his job eclipses his anger at 'my' midnight joyride.
Lev's a clerk at a gas station convenience store, and if the stories he brings home in addition to the groceries are even a third true, it's a pretty shitty place to work. His manager apparently rules with a tyrannical iron fist – not even a discount for the peasants slaving away under him. Throw in the whole Mk23 thing and there's really no questioning why the younger twin is always in a foul mood.
More than once I've floated the idea of paying his boss a visit and teaching him a little humility. What always stops me in the end is the worry that Lev, whom most folks know by now is associated with me, might take the brunt of the fallout, and he's under enough stress as it is.
His customers aren't exactly the brightest bunch either, I'm learning as the three of us walk down a dirt street with our guns slung over our backs. Damir invited me to go hunting with him and his brother today. I agreed, and now we're on our way to a gun shop to grab some ammo for what will likely be an all-day excursion.
It also says a lot about the state of the world and the country we're in when we can carry instruments of murder unconcealed without anyone batting an eye. Reminds me of the good ol' US of A back in mid-2020, but let's not open that can of worms.
Lev turns to me. "Who was that man, the one who believed in survival of the fittest?"
"Charles Darwin?"
"That is him, thank you Rodriguez. Well you know what? Darwin was wrong! How can there still be so many idiots left after ELID killed billions? I'd quit retail for good if I could find a better job! Arrgh, the unfairness of it all!"
"Do not be so quick to judge, my brother. I would bet that even a total imbecile can achieve great things if they put their mind to it," Damir chips in, and let me tell you, he hits the nail right on the head. Look at me, for example.
Lev snorts in disbelief. "You say that, but you are not the one being hounded by wastes of skin who refuse to do the world a favor by dying. Goddamn parasites…"
He has no idea how much I can sympathize. There's been no further activity from Prophet since the first night – a blessing if I've ever experienced one. Maybe the bastard's too chickenshit to try anything else now that he knows I'm aware of him.
Whatever shenanigans he got up to that night haven't caused any lasting damage, however, so I'm willing to tamper down on my grievances and let it all slide. Just this once.
"Oh da, I almost forgot! We are scheduled to visit Griffin base soon." Damir sends a conspiratorial wink in my direction. "Your girl will be very happy to see you again, no?"
Except that part. That part makes me want to breach wherever Prophet's essence is hiding and wring his digital neck.
Damir's been grilling me about my relationship with M4A1 since the minute we left base, and Prophet's activities only added gasoline to the fire. He's adamant that she and I hold deeper feelings for each other than we let on no matter how many times I tell him otherwise. Unless I want to tell him none of that was actually my doing, that my body's on a timeshare program with another person – sure, because that sounds more believable – I'm forced to play along with Prophet's excuse. It gets taxing at times.
I do kind of miss M4, though. Suppose it would be nice to pay her a surprise visit, see what she's been up to over the last week. I wonder if she's made any headway on finding her lost sis-
AWWWOOOOOOOOO!
Then a siren ear-rapes the whole village and Lev shouts something but we're all too deaf to hear it and my little bubble of normalcy abruptly bursts. From the central town hall's loudspeaker, someone hollers an announcement in Russian. Translations appears in my eyeballs:
"Sangvis Ferri forces have been spotted from the north and are advancing! Repeat, Sangvis Ferri is approaching from the north! Assemble the militia! Defend the walls! All non-combatants, stay calm and evacuate to the town hall! Griffin & Kryuger has received our distress signal and reinforcements will arrive within the hour! Until then, people of Makeyeva, WE MUST HOLD!"
My first thought is admittedly, This place has a militia? Followed by, It's Soviet Russia; of course there's a militia. But even when you factor in the 'kill all humans' agenda, why would SF choose to attack a village that's strategically worthless?
Damir, face paling, echoes my thoughts: "I… I do not understand! Why have they come for us?!" he cries as the street around us descends into a weird type of controlled chaos. The civvies, surprisingly, follow orders instead of immediately regressing into panic mode; most of them make a beeline toward the relative safety of the town hall, the only building in the village made of high-grade concrete. A few people lag behind to assist the elderly. Several men of varying ages, all armed with rifles and pistols, burst from their homes and haul ass to the northernmost part of town.
Why do I have a feeling they'd rehearsed for this scenario?
"Who cares why they're here? We must get to safety, now!" Lev cuts in, pulling his distraught brother by the sleeve.
I watch as the gun store owner, a WWIII veteran with streaks of gray in his hair, hobbles out of his shop lugging a whole ammo box with him. My augments instantly see through the brave front he's putting on – in reality he's one scare away from wetting his pants. I look at the battered AKM resting on his back. I look at my shotgun, stained in the coolant of countless Sangvis mooks and one Ringleader. Realization hits me.
Holy shit. It's not the village Sangvis is after – it's me.
There's no other explanation. Somehow they must've tracked me down, assembled an assault force and plan to pick up where they left off in the facility. Their master must still be chomping at the bit after the trouncing I gave her flunkies.
I fucked up, oh god I fucked up. I should've skipped town a week ago, stayed mobile, stuck to the old plan. But I faltered, I allowed myself to grow content, and now they've found me and I've put a whole village of innocents in danger, and it's all my fault and-
"Comrade James! Where are you going?" Damir's call is left unanswered. I sprint north just fast enough to not draw suspicion to my true nature, although it's still some impressive leg power.
I hear the twins' brief struggle even though I'm a block away.
"Comrade James!"
"Damir, what the-?! Hey! Leave that dubiina alone and get back here! We are hunters, not soldiers! GET BACK HERE!"
(Ten Minutes Later)
I had no trouble finding the wall or convincing the militia chief to let the odd Yank participate in the defense. The criteria to join could be boiled down to two things: Got a gun? Want to kill some SF? If the answer to both these questions is yes, then great; now find a spot and hunker your ass down.
Quick geography lesson: Makeyeva's original settlers cut down every tree in a half-mile radius, using the lumber to erect fortified barriers that encircle roughly three-quarters of the village. In addition to being too high to climb over from outside, wooden platforms and walkways were constructed on the inside portion to allow the defenders a key advantage of longer sight lines – especially advantageous when the attackers' only cover is dead tree stumps. Obi-Wan Kenobi would be damn proud of the architects who realized the significance of the high ground.
Even though it was built with ELID's snot zombies in mind, the defense is holding up remarkably well in this dustup against Sangvis. SF is packing some big numbers and they're not shy about using them, but if they want to take this village, they'll have to cross a veritable no-man's land guarded by almost two dozen pissed off Russians plus me.
To some, it's a serious fight for survival. To others, however, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to go totally apeshit, stupid as that is.
"Kooshay govno sooka!" Damir cheers as a lucky shot from his FY71 finds its mark in an advancing Ripper. "You want some more?! I will gladly give you more! Have at me, cuchka derganaya!"
I could tell right from the opening volley that he's never seen combat before. He's been gung-ho from the get-go, laying down long bursts of suppressive gunfire when he's not hurling insults at the Dolls. I made an honest effort to convince him to turn away before the fighting started. He'd had none of that, stating with conviction that Makeyeva was his home and he'd defend it to his last breath. Okay, whatever. It means I won't take the blame if he gets himself killed.
From his spot to my right, poking the barrel of his Grendel through a hole in the wood, Lev hisses, "Stop insulting them and get your head down! You're going to make yourself a target, opezdol!" He punctuates his statement with a loud crack from his rifle.
I'm calling bullshit on his claim of not being a fighter. The younger brother's turning out to be a naturally gifted marksman; every pull of the trigger reduces another Doll to a lifeless shell fit for recycling. He'd have made a fine candidate for scout sniper school if he were in the Marine Corps.
"Shit, more Dinergates!" The militia chief's voice can barely be picked out through the cacophony of gunfire and profanity. "Kamayev, Rodriguez!"
"Da, on it!"
I grab a lemon grenade from a crate sitting so close it rubs against my leg, which a) is absurdly dangerous, and b) has me wondering what else G&K trades with the villagers under their umbrella of influence. No time to ponder that: I've got visual on a pack of thirty Dinergates rushing us. I pull the pin and let it sail, Kamayev mimicking the action from further down left.
Swarms of the critters have been showing up every minute or so. My guess is they're meant to throw off our focus, because the first time they showed up, the militia shifted most of its fire toward them. That was a costly fucking mistake; with our attention turned on their pets, the Dolls had room to regroup and reorganize.
We lost a guy in the counterattack, cutting us down to seventeen men. We'd started with twenty. Remember, Makeyeva's in the middle of bumfuck nowhere – the population doesn't exceed sixty.
Sangvis can afford to take casualties. We can't.
So we put our heads together and improvised a quick solution. Kamayev was selected to be the main grenadier; apparently his throwing arm stems from a love of American baseball. So far it hasn't proven to be a bad decision.
I was also chosen because, well, I'm the only fucker on the wall with a shotgun, and shottys aren't exactly known for their ability to lay down continuous suppression. I tried switching to slug rounds earlier but that was only a marginal improvement. Oh well. Grenades are more fun, anyway.
Both 'nades hit the dirt, bounce, and roll into the stampede before detonating, momentarily drowning out the noise of our never-ending barrage. The explosion rips over two-thirds of the Dinergates apart, sending twisted metal and fried electronics flying in all directions. And at first I'm thinking, that's okay, we got most of the pack and there aren't enough left to pose a threat, right? We've already got a few robo-doggos directly under us anyway; survivors from previous swarms ineffectually pawing and ramming at the solid wood barricade.
But something's different this time. My augmented eyesight catches a still-operational Dinergate limping toward us through the chaos of battle. It looks bulkier than the others, like someone put a brick on top of it. It's also close enough that a slug round should be able to take it out if I aim carefully.
And I definitely hit it alright, because the little toaster from hell explodes.
"Fuck! That was an IED!" I shout in warning.
"I-E-what?" Damir asks.
"They strapped bombs to the damn things!"
Suddenly the Dinergates move up a few notches on our priority targets list. We're forced to divert more manpower toward them, which SF immediately capitalizes on. The Dolls push closer, and the militia tries to force them back the best they can but between the return fire and having to deal with suicide Dinergates, our holdout strategy is slowly but gradually beginning to crack.
I load and fire the Marshall as fast as possible – SF is so close now that I'm actually getting kills, which is deeply worrying – while more and more militiamen abandon their guns altogether and start chucking grenades like hot potatoes. Then the guy standing next to Damir suddenly takes a shot to the dome, and his face just melts; you can see the cooked meat underneath, you can see his eyes boiling in their sockets, sizzling like eggs in a fucking pan. The smell is ungodly. He takes a second hit, dead before he topples off the side of the wall.
"Cyka blyat! Pyotr!" the older Paskov cries. Snarling viciously, he dumps a full mag into the advancing horde of machine women, paying absolutely no heed to his own safety. "He was my friend, you demons!"
"Get down!" I yank the guy into cover a second before he's riddled with plasma bolts. "The fuck was that about, huh? You gonna die and leave Lev by himself?" I scold him, pausing to peek over the wall. That has to be close to a hundred SF closing in on us. "Fucking hell…"
Damir takes several deep breaths while he slots a fresh magazine into his rifle. He faces me once he calms down, and for the first time since we've met, there's genuine fear in his eyes. "This is bad, tovarisch," he says through the screaming and explosions. "I hope Commander Sykes' forces get here soon, otherwise we will not last another half hour!"
From my other side, Lev adds, "My idiot brother speaks truth. At this rate I would be happy to have little cat tramp here!"
Another few minutes of fierce fighting pass, and true to Damir's prediction the situation is looking increasingly grim. Our already low numbers are whittled down to a measly nine. Kamayev and the militia chief are among the dead. Our supply of frag grenades, the best defense we have against Dinergates, is nearly exhausted.
"Last mag!" Damir shouts.
"Son of a-!" A superheated projectile singes Lev's sleeve, forcing him to duck behind cover. "This makes no sense!" he rages. "Forget their motive; Sangvis could have wiped us out in the first minute if they really desired! Why are any of us still alive?!"
He raises a very good point, actually. Even if the terrain isn't working in their favor, SF possesses far superior weapons and numbers. They could've rushed the barricade all at once, or flanked us, or any other number of tactics. Instead they've been sending their units out in waves from one direction. The question is, why are they drawing it out? Why fight a lengthy battle of attrition when they could easily crush the resistance? What's the point?
Are you forgetting this is your fault? a mocking voice in my head interjects. Who cares about the why? You still brought them here. But it's not too late. You can end this right now, if you stop being a chickenshit.
…I can break the siege right now. It's so fucking obvious in hindsight. Sangvis came here for me, right? All I need to do is show them Nanosuit 2 and book it out of the village within their line of sight.
Losing them would be a chore. But if I can lure them away from the village, let them chase me like wolves after a rabbit, then the fighting would probably stop. I just need to summon the combat threads.
I just need to reveal my darkest secret to the Paskovs.
Uh… yeah. I mean, I've thought about telling them before – maybe not the full story, but enough so I wouldn't become a monster in their eyes. I just… never got around to doing it, that's all.
Should've expected that reluctance would come back to bite me in the ass, I muse silently as I feverishly work to extract a misfired shell.
Another scream, another thump of a fresh corpse hitting the earth. I feel my teeth grinding together. Dammit, Alcatraz, stop being a selfish asshole and do what's right! This is about the survival of an innocent village! Man up and put on the fucking armor!
The shotgun's back in working order and freshly loaded. I swallow heavily. "Lev, Damir… it's been a pleasure knowing you guys, but I-"
"They're retreating!" a shout of palpable relief interrupts.
Wait, what?
I risk poking my head over the wall. A couple other militiamen do the same like a family of curious meercats.
And I'm thinking holy crap, the town crier is right: Sangvis Ferri is pulling back; they're beating a methodical yet hasty retreat back to the forested perimeter they'd been pouring from. The damaged Dolls are left behind, perhaps unsurprisingly. Even the Dinergates suddenly stop charging, turning to run with their non-existent tails between their stubby legs.
The few surviving militia don't question the odd stroke of luck. Thunderous cheers break out as the last SF units disappear into the trees. We did it, we drove them back, and we're alive holy shit we're alive. Damir embraces his brother and starts crying in a mix of happiness and post-combat clarity, the realization that he'd been fighting for his life and survived when others didn't. Lev quietly returns the hug and pats a comforting hand on his twin's back, though his shaking hand gives away his own emotional state.
As for me, I'm suspicious. There's no way that should have happened, fortuitous as it was. Sangvis threw in the towel when they were on the cusp of victory? I'm not buying it. This can't be over yet.
I stare out at the edge of the field where the rogue Dolls retreated, preparing myself for whatever else they're planning, and to my surprise it's SECOND that gives me a clue. The AI picks up and decrypts a radio transmission coming from approximately a mile away:
"Excellent job, all of you! You played your roles perfectly. However, I've grown terminally bored sitting back watching you indulge in all the fun. I think it's time I gave this new body some exercise, AHAHAHAHA!"
Wait. I recognize that voice.
Damir shakes me by the shoulder before I attach a face to the audio. "Why are you not celebrating, comrade James? We have won!" he insists. My eyes are kept firmly on the outskirts. Tension builds up inside of me.
"We haven't won," I warn him, "not yet. Grab your guns!"
He's ready to question me further when I spot something: a black blur bursts from the treeline at an insane speed, ebbing and weaving like water through the carnage littering the battlefield. The entity uses a tree stump as a springboard and takes a fantastic leap; it vaults right over our heads, we crane our necks upward to see what the fuck this thing is, and for a fraction of a second I make out flowing hair and a monstrous arm through the afternoon sun silhouetting it.
The Doll clears the barricade with no effort and lands fifteen meters behind us. She stretches to her full height, mechanical joints creaking and whirring noisily, then turns to face our ragtag group with a smug grin, resting her massive greatsword over her shoulder.
"Human militia!" she announces. "You insects fought better than I'd expected, and for that I commend you. However!" She pauses to twirl the sword in a circle with her oversized hand. "I'm afraid I have no further use for you. Make peace with your human god, because your end has arrived!"
"Executioner," I whisper without thinking.
What the hell? I scrapped that bitch personally a couple of weeks ago. I ran her through with her own sword, for chrissake! How in the honest-to-god fuck is she alive?
I see Damir glance at me out of the corner of my vision. "You know this tramp?"
"We've been… acquainted." See, this is why I don't talk much. My mouth is a fountain of trouble. "She's a Ringleader – one of the toughest and nastiest Dolls in SF, kinda like their special forces."
Lev looks at Executioner, then to me, then back at her. He sums up our new dilemma in one very appropriate word:
"Blyat."
While the villagers nervously prep for battle, my mind's working overtime processing the situation. Shit. Okay. Executioner – what do I know about Executioner? Close combat specialist, illegally fast, and harder to put down than a goddamn cockroach. Possibly into BDSM, still haven't confirmed that yet.
Who do we have left? I check out the remaining militiamen. Nearly all of them are hunters or sport shooters, not trained soldiers. The gun shop owner's still alive, and he's the only dude left with real military experience, but that won't mean much against a Sangvis Ringleader. Overall they'd last maybe twenty seconds in a fair fight.
Crap. Guess we'll have to settle this the hard way rather than the impossible way.
"This was my fault, you guys. I'm so fucking sorry." I meet two confused sets of eyes and give them orders: "Take the others and get to safety. I'll stall Executioner until help arrives."
"How, comrade?" Damir immediately protests. "She will surely kill you! You are only human!"
Familiar white-hot needles poke my brain but the pain is secondary to the memory. Glimpses of a beach: Three pairs of dog tags, thrown into the still waters of the ocean where they can rest easy. An acceptance of the unforgivable sins committed.
"For now, the war is over. I made mistakes along the way. But after all… I'm only human."
"Not entirely."
I hit the dirt, stalking toward Executioner, ignoring Damir's panicked call of "Comrade!" and the rest of the militia's confused mutterings. I stop midway between the civvies and the Ringleader, ready to shield them with my body if need be. She raises a thin black brow but doesn't lose her smile.
"I dunno how you survived our scrap in the facility, or how you tracked me down…" It could just be the anticipation speaking – and I seriously hope that's all it is – but I almost sense Nanosuit 2 rippling, like it's impatiently waiting for me to let it out so I can tear this bitch a new one. "But if you think I'm gonna let your android ass drag me to the operating table without a fight, you're dead fucking wrong."
Executioner cocks her head, crimson eyes boring into mine. Her reply throws me for a loop:
"Have we met before?"
…What?
Does she somehow not remember me? I find that hard to believe. She's seen me naked, for crying out loud!
"Don't recognize my face, huh? That's okay. Maybe this will help jog your memory."
Jet black bioengineered material creeps like vines over my skin. My form grows larger, bulkier, stronger. I rip away the plaid shirt that was already failing to contain the synthetic muscle mass and titanium exoskel framing my pectorals. The overalls and boots are equally disposed of to make way for Jack Hargreave's billion-dollar masterpiece; the culmination of a century's worth of alien R&D.
Executioner's not the only one shocked by my sudden shift from human to golem. Evidently the militia's taking their sweet-ass time evacuating. Behind me I hear several gasps and surprised cries:
"What in God's name is that thing?!"
"C-c-comrade James…?!"
"I knew it! I knew there was something off about him! This is what you get for blindly trusting strangers, Damir!"
Although my focus is steadfastly kept on Executioner, I wince on the inside. That cut deep, deeper than I'd thought it would. Can't afford to wallow about it right now, though – I've got more pressing concerns.
"Hold on a moment… is that the CryNet Nanosuit 2?" The swordswoman doesn't give me time to answer before throwing her head back, letting out a deranged laugh. "Oh, this is perfect! Yes, it's all coming back to me now. You caused our master quite a bit of trouble after-"
BANG!
Buckshot embeds itself in the flat of her blade, brought out to shield its owner at the last moment.
"DON'T INTERRUPT ME WHEN I'M MONOLOGUING!" she screeches.
Crap, I thought I could catch her with her guard down. I miss Destroyer's grenade launcher. Whatever; every second Executioner wastes flapping her gums is another second closer until Psycho's underdressed band of misfits gets here.
"Sorry. My finger slipped." Her flat expression says she isn't buying my bullshit. I couldn't care less. "Continue."
She harrumphs but prattles on. "Master warned us our target might prove to be… troublesome. She'd ordered Scarecrow, Destroyer and I to back up our digi-minds before departing in the unlikely event we failed. I'd laughed it off at the time, of course. There was no way even a hybrid freak like yourself could stand alone against three SF Ringleaders!"
And yet, I did. It took plenty of underhanded tactics and a bit of luck, but I escaped them. I killed them.
Executioner widens her grin, seemingly having read my mind. There's no warmth in that smile – just cold, quiet animosity. "The next thing I remember is waking up in a spare body, along with my partner and the munchkin." Slowly she begins to strafe me. We circle one other like sharks that smell blood in the water. "Agent was furious. None of us could understand how a simple capture mission could've ended with the loss of all units. Master deemed you a problem for a later time after we lost track of you, and instead returned our attention toward annihilating Griffin & Kryuger."
She laughs again. "But look at where we are now! I'll bet neither of us expected to bump into each other in this backwater village, huh, Alcatraz?"
Okay, lots of info to digest here.
One: Sangvis Ringleaders can apparently pull a Nanosuit 2 and cheat death by storing backup copies of their minds. I shouldn't have to explain to you how bad that is.
Two: The assault on Makeyeva wasn't my fault. Executioner confirmed she hadn't known I was here. Which leads me to number three…
I just gave myself away by accident.
Nice job, Alky. Way to make an already FUBAR situation worse. But hold on, if I wasn't the goal here…
"Why did you attack this village?"
"Hmm… I'm growing tired of chatting." Executioner chuckles. She flourishes her blade, readying herself for battle. "Tell you what: I'll let you in on the plan, if you can defeat me. You're clearly a strong opponent – I'd love to know how you overcame us the first time!"
Ceph energy and a giant-ass turret, neither of which I have now.
It's not like I'm defenseless however, fuck no. In fact, I might be better off now than I was in the facility: There are no alien jammers disrupting my suit, and Executioner's fixation on tussling with me one-on-one means she's unlikely to call in reinforcements. Also, there's a reason the pump-action shotgun's been around forever.
Bring it on, tin can. I'll put you down like a sick pig.
"Prepare yourself, Alcatraz!" the Ringleader announces. "I, SP524 'Executioner', shall hold nothing back!"
(Fitting Battle Music: The Duel [DMC5 OST])
Primary: Defend the Village: Defeat Executioner
Here we have it, folks, the long-awaited final showdown of this season's Rage in the Village, where we're pitting two of our strongest and meanest fighters against one another with the grand prize being the winner's continued survival. Grab a seat and some popcorn, because this is a fight that you're not gonna want to miss!
In the blue corner, clocking in at 230 pounds of nano-knotted nastiness, we have our reigning champion: A blast from the long-gone past who proved his mettle last season using some very controversial methods. Question is though, can he pull off a repeat victory? That's what we're all here to find out. Introducing the Madman of the Marine Corps, the Slayer of Space Squids, and the Dismantler of Dolls; the Man with No Plan, the Suit Guy, the Golem Boy: James – "Alcatraz" – Rodrigueeeeezzzz!
And in the red corner, weighing in at – I dunno, probably a lot less, is the T-Doll toting a ridiculously huge sword and an equally large grudge that she's intent on settling in today's match. She's got the muscle and the motivation, no doubt about it, but will those two things be enough to dethrone the champ? I bring you the challenger: The Bitch in Bondage Clothing, the Strongarm of Sangvis, the-
"Here I come!" Executioner suddenly takes off at Mach fucking 1.
Oh shi-
I don't even have time to aim. Armor mode's engaged a nanosecond before her Hedge Trimmer of Doom impacts my schnozz: The world tumbles end over end, can't tell where the sky separates from the ground, I'm either kissing the dirt or watching the clouds. Eventually I stop bouncing when I collide with something that feels a lot like metal and roll over it to lay on the street.
Ow.
SECOND crunches numbers on a tactical overlay while I regain my bearings. Oh, would you look at this – Executioner's capable of performing actions at a speed of 0.008 seconds. It perfectly matches the Nanosuit's reaction time. And holy crap – that one hit knocked off 70% of my energy bar.
Well, I never anticipated this dustup would be easy.
I climb to my feet, a little dazed but unhurt otherwise. Turns out my out-of-control momentum was arrested by one of Makeyeva's grand total of five cars. My impromptu landing caved in the driver's side roof; too bad no one in this village has auto insurance.
Ah, fuck it, it's a Civic. I practically did the owner a favor.
That also means I have no reservations about using it as a projectile. Amping strength to maximum, I kick that old clunker down the road at Executioner, then follow up by grabbing the closest available object – the village's only mailbox, the really bulky ones – and throwing it after the car for good measure.
Executioner evasively leaps, and to my astonishment, springboards off the car hurtling toward her. She brings her sword down vertically, cleaving the mailbox in two before nailing the landing. Dozens of envelopes and colorful postcards flutter to rest around her feet. Behind her, the car smashes the wall's inner platforms to splinters before coming to rest on its roof.
I work very, very hard to keep my attention on the enemy, not on the sound of snapping bones or the growing pool of red around the impact site. The living militiamen might've evacuated the ramparts, but the dead were left behind.
Executioner cackles. "My, you really are strong!"
She charges me again, sword poised to strike, although this time I'm ready. I duck out of the way right as she brings her sword down; I take a second to scoop up the Marshall I'd dropped earlier, spin to aim at her and-
And immediately notice she's struggling to maintain balance, digging her metal heels into the soft earth to keep herself from careening farther down the road. I smile wickedly under my helmet. Executioner's faster than a cheetah and hits like a dump truck, although even with her superior combat frame she doesn't seem to have perfect control over her raw speed. Every missed charge leaves her a sitting duck.
I celebrate this discovery with a bang, shooting her twice in the back. Her equally absurd constitution means it's not enough to kill her but you can tell she felt the pain.
She switches tactics, whipping out her energy pistol and laying down fire of her own, using her sword to absorb some of the buckshot flying her way while she zigzags closer to melee range. Okay, two choices here: Play the endurance game and pray my shotty offlines her faster than she can hurt me, or widen the distance and hopefully buy myself a few precious seconds to cobble together a less suicidal plan.
In the end I'm just not the type of soldier to take unnecessary risks.
I sacc' the cloak icon and disappear.
Executioner's not concerned in the slightest, however. "A cloak? What a cowardly tool." She says mockingly. "Though I am pretty excited to see what you'll do next. Where will you strike, I wonder…?"
From the high ground, where else? It was a fine strategy earlier. Unfortunately, when I power jump to the nearest rooftop to get into position, the shoddy construction knocks a few shingles loose… noisily.
"There you are! AHAHAHAHA!"
No time to reposition, I can only attempt to weather the storm of plasma bolts peppering my hiding spot. Most of them miss wildly but a few lucky shots connect; the pain's minimal but the capacitors are drained, the cloak's been disrupted, I'm exposed and vulnerable up here. Can't find cover, can't escape. Can't do anything except attack and try to force her on the defensive.
The charge bar crawls up to ten percent – hardly enough to cloak again, but I'm not planning on cloaking. Instead I divert that power to my legs and jump, angling myself above the Ringleader and arching back my fist to piledrive her into oblivion.
It doesn't work, of course. Wasn't honestly expecting it would; I just needed her to stop shooting. She sees my painfully obvious attack from a mile away, falling back a safe distance from ground zero long before the Nanosuit-shaped meteorite crashes down and leaves a shallow crater in the earth.
Neither was I expecting her to not retaliate the moment she found an opening.
She puts the pedal to the metal and charges me a third time as I right myself. The suit's recovered enough juice to ensure I won't automatically get cleaved in two but a lot of the damage is sure to bleed through. No way I'll be able to dodge, either; she's too damn close, I've got maybe half a second to hatch an idea and roll with it.
When she's within spitting distance, I turn up strength once again, duck low, and shoulder check the bitch right in the abdomen.
My left arm stings. Don't think about the sword embedded in it, it'll heal and you've gone through so much worse; think about Executioner. She's winded from the blow, which means she's not attacking. Gotta keep the pressure going. I jam the Marshall point-blank into her gut and slam my finger on the trigger.
Executioner cries out, yanking her blade free and slashing blindly at the source of her pain. Too late, bondage freak. I've got you right where I want you. Her fate will be cruel and unusual after what she did today. I fire again, relishing the shotgun's kick as the blast strikes home, muffled by synthetic flesh…
Except is doesn't. The gun didn't even go click. I risk glancing at it.
What's left of it, I should've said. The Sangvis T-Doll's reckless swinging somehow managed to cut the Marshall in half right near where the trigger guard is. It couldn't function as an effective club now, much less a firearm.
Really, universe?
Really?
There's a microscopic moment where I realize I should've brought the M12 along when a stabbing pain in my chest brings me back to reality. I look through BUD's flashing warning lights and find the hilt of Executioner's sword intimately touching the space between my pectorals. She twists, then pulls the blade out in one smooth motion. Crimson stains the length of the normally black shaft, dripping precious lifeblood onto the soil.
I have enough presence of mind left to engage armor mode before she swings for the fences and sends me rolling down the road like a fucking tumbleweed.
Breathing becomes hard. I feel weakness settling in. Bad sign – it'll take the suit longer to fix a fatal wound like that, longer than I have time to wait. I crawl to my hands and knees, aware of my arms shaking. Executioner starts laughing from nearby:
"Aww, did I break your favorite toy?" Her laughter increases, then descends into a small coughing fit. She's not much better off than I am: Her normal-sized hand is clutching a small hole in her stomach area. Coolant leaks through her fingers and drips down to intermix with my own blood. The sight of it sends shivers down my spine for some inexplicable reason.
I'm back on my feet but they're unsteady. Can't afford to stop now, though, I can't stop fighting until I either scrap her myself or the friendly neighborhood mercs arrive to do it for me. The villagers won't be safe until then.
Weapon, weapon. I need a weapon. I'd scavenge one from a corpse but Executioner's blocking the path. I'm cloaked before the android can think of closing the gap between us again; I retreat into a cramped space between two shops, head on a swivel, desperately searching for any object that looks even remotely useful. Nothing in this tiny alley but overfilled trash bags and discarded junk.
My eyes keep wandering back to one particular item, though, thanks to its bright color causing it to stand out against the other bits and pieces of crap like a lighthouse. Hmm.
Ah, why not?
'Bamboozled' is a good way to describe Executioner's facial expression when she notices an orange traffic cone float out of the alleyway seemingly by its own power. She lets out a hearty chuckle when I decloak, eyeing me in amusement.
"Seriously?"
"Bitch, I've killed people with coffee mugs. Don't even try me."
Then, in a move that's three parts insanely stupid, a terminal breach of my 'take-no-risks' policy, and a total reversal of what's been happening up until now, I charge at her. Not even using armor mode – I need mobility, and a heavier suit would crimp my speed.
She's all too happy to meet me in the middle. I hear her delighted laughter as she rushes me – good. I need her to believe this is my final, desperate gambit; that I'm a mortally wounded gazelle fighting until its last breath. And I am hurt, pretty badly in fact. Still can't breathe without glass shards poking at my lungs. However, contrary to what a regular squishy human might think, I've still got plenty of fight left in me.
I throw myself into a slide just as she abruptly sidesteps to her left. The sharp whistle of her sword cuts the air above my head. Dammit, she's getting smarter. She's always been consistent with her bull rushing. Meanwhile, she'd anticipated, correctly, that I had a trick up my sleeve.
That doesn't mean it's now off the table, though. The power slide still caught her by surprise, and just like before, she has to tame her momentum before she can attack again. It's an opportunity I probably won't get twice.
I recover first. I close the distance in two seconds flat, give her a good whack on the cheek when she turns to face me – there's a little snap, it's kinda creepy – then finish off by ramming the safety cone over her head with all my strength.
She hollers through the plastic: "HEY! What the hell-?!"
A forearm at maximum armor blocks a clumsy swing. I knock the bitch's sword out of her grip and start wailing on her: Lightning fast punches every half second, not aimed anywhere in particular but strong enough to dent steel. Blind rage consumes me. She sent an army to attack a peaceful village, she wanted to crush the last of its resistance by herself. She was outright fucking giddy about the carnage. I'm not even thinking anymore, man, my instincts have totally taken over. My instincts; not the suit's, not Prophet's; and right now every instinct in my body is screaming at me to beat this tin cunt to within an inch of her miserable life, if for no other reason than to make sure SF can't resurrect her a second time.
I shouldn't have to put up with this. I shouldn't have to fucking deal with Skynet rejects after all the horseshit I went through beginning in New York. After getting shot countless times by dumbass mercs, forcibly interfaced with alien calamari, going into cardiac arrest at least twice, and cursed to spend the rest of my existence in a fuck-ugly Nanosuit inhabited by a damn body snatcher, the absolute last thing I need is to be hounded by robot sluts like Executioner who pop their lady boners at the thought of killing!
Ahem. It's possible I got a bit carried away. Sorry about that. Looking back, maybe it was a good thing Executioner snapped me out of my fury by punching me in the face.
She used her giant arm, too, and I belatedly realize I'd used up all my power in that beatdown – which means I have no way to counter the five titanium knuckles slamming into where the N2's nose should be.
I'm flat on my back, stunned and helpless as the Ringleader pries the cone off and tosses it away. She glares at me as she retrieves her greatsword. Her expression conveys pure, murderous rage.
"Grrr… YOU'LL PAY FOR THAT!"
She lunges. I have no energy to spare; I can't cloak or armor up or do much of anything except try to scuttle away but suddenly she's right there. She pins me to the dirt, first with her foot, then her sword. She stabs me over and over and over again. BUD's flashing like crazy, False Prophet drones on about Operator health at critical condition and Seek distance from enemy combatant. Stuff I fucking know already but I'm powerless to do anything about.
The Ringleader stops after what feels like the twentieth thrust but who knows how many it actually was. The suit locks up; I can't move. My chest cavity is ruined. I can't even work my lungs properly. The suit's NOM function is the only thing keeping me on this side, absorbing carbon from the fallen militia and converting it into emergency backup power for life support.
In the darkest recesses of my mind, a small part of me insists it's not worth it and tells me to just shut it all down.
The tip of Executioner's blade touches my throat. "Any last words, Nanosuit warrior?"
Actually, yeah. I try to ask her what Sangvis Ferri was hoping to achieve when they built Dinergates. The word that dribbles out of my mouth instead sounds like "Glurple."
She brings her sword up, and I mentally apologize to M4. Guess I won't be paying her a visit after all…
"Comrade James! Hold on!"
"You have finally lost your mind, opezdol! Why do you have death wish? Why?!"
A sudden, and more importantly familiar pair of shouting voices gives Executioner pause. Big mistake: A storm of 5.45mm bullets slams into her, forcing the Ringleader to bring her sword up in a defensive posture and back away. She yells something about insects but I'm in too much shock to make it out fully.
Damir, that crazy son of a bitch. Holy fuck. He came back for me. And where he goes, Lev's not far behind.
"He is hurt! Lev, keep the Ringleader busy!"
"And just how am I supposed to- Gaaahh, fine!"
A head of blonde hair appears in my vision as ballistic and plasma fire is exchanged in the background. The older twin shakes me gently, not that I feel it. "Comrade James? Are you alive? Speak to me!"
I wish I could, Damir. I really do wish I could. I'd chew you out so goddamn hard for recklessly putting your life on the line, you'd drink yourself into a coma. Alas, I'm not exactly in the best of conditions right now, as you should clearly see.
Also, your rifle's empty. Not sure if you're aware of that.
Apparently he is. He looks from my visor to his FY71, tosses it aside and draws a MP-446 Viking pistol he'd somehow acquired without my knowledge.
"I do not care what my brother or anyone else says about you." He tells me while gunshots continue to ring out close by. "You fought for Makeyeva, and that makes you a true comrade. Sit tight, my friend, and allow us to finish this what you started." He takes off to join the battle, leaving me laying there feeling incredibly guilty about hiding my true self from him.
False Prophet chimes in a few moments later to inform me Preliminary repairs complete, and a second after that the suit unlocks. I'm still weaker than a ninety-year-old paraplegic but at least I can move again. My head rolls to the side, observing the fight between Executioner and the Paskovs.
I want to tell you they're winning. The pair have a rudimentary strategy going: They've separated, one brother firing at Executioner while the other reloads. They run away from the return fire and flank her whenever possible. Lev actually manages to shoot her sidearm out of her hand, although I can't say for certain whether it was through skilled marksmanship or sheer dumb luck. Factor in the damage I'd caused and she's in a bad spot.
Tragically, for all their bravery, it still boils down to two squishy hamburgers against a very angry killing machine.
"ENOUGH!" Executioner screams, finally choosing a target and rushing them. The only reason her swipe didn't decapitate Lev is because he slipped while backing up. Shrugging off the pistol rounds impacting her spine, she grabs the younger man's hoodie with her monstrous hand, lifts him up, spins him around in a full circle and throws him at Damir. The two collide with pained shouts, hitting the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Executioner's already on top of them before they can get up.
I hear metal carve into flesh. A scream of agony. Something pale and fleshy hits the ground a foot away from my visor. I crane my neck to look at it.
It's someone's forearm.
No – that's Damir's arm. That's Damir who's screaming. That's Damir bleeding out on the soil nearby.
My vision explodes into red.
I… can't really recall what happened over the next minute. All I know is that one moment I'm laying there broken, and the next I've got Executioner pinned beneath my weight and I'm doing my damnedest to smash her head into paste with my fists. Her skull or whatever equivalent dents in a little more with each enraged strike, each hate-fueled blow until, finally, it caves in under my assault. Her struggles cease but my grief and anger refuse to diminish. I keep punching, reduced to little more than a savage.
Damir got hurt trying to protect me. Damir could die.
Voices, coming closer. My attack grinds to a halt. I turn to see the remaining militia and a handful of civilians approaching. The sight of the violence's aftermath, or maybe just me, visibly shocks the group and brings them to a stop several meters away. Damir's passed out from shock or blood loss or both; the stump of his arm is gushing. Lev's crouched over him, screaming and pleading for him to wake up, please wake up, please don't die on me.
Somewhere in the distance a helicopter's rotors can be heard.
"Ha… ahahaha…"
Weak giggling snaps my attention back to Executioner. Her lips – the only recognizable part of her head left – split into a malicious grin.
"Congratulations… you beat me. I guess… I guess I owe you an explanation, huh?" Despite her eyeballs making up some of the synthetic goop coating my hands, I have the sensation she's looking straight at me. "Like I said… you being here was a coincidence. My real target… escaped to that Griffin base. Master… Master thought that attacking this village… would lure them out… lure her out..."
"What are you talking about? Who else are you after?"
She barely has enough power left to shrug. "I doubt you'd know her. Black hair, skull bandana… uses an M4A1 carbine… Ring any bells?"
Sangvis was after M4? Wait, is this related to the data she was carrying when I met her? No, that can't be. She delivered it to base over a week ago. So why keep targeting her? Revenge? Or something else entirely?
Executioner coughs wetly. "No answer… didn't think so. But now that I've pinpointed your location… I've already relayed my combat information over... to Agent." Her grin is full of shattered teeth. "Master is eager to learn about you… Alcatraz. We will not stop. We will not rest. We will hunt you to the ends of the earth…"
The helicopter's getting closer. A couple of civilians have huddled around Damir, doing their best to stabilize him. A militia member tries to escort Lev away but he's resisting.
"It's almost funny… You and I… are so similar." She sighs and relaxes, content in her final moments. "We're both machines… doomed to fight… to kill… until the end… of our… days…"
My reply comes out scratchy and painful. "I am nothing like you."
Executioner's already expired before I finish my sentence. I stagger to my feet, acutely aware of the fire in my lungs. Lev is back at his brother's side. Forget SF's plans, my buddy's fucking dying in front of me. Maybe I can help.
I take three steps forward-
BANG!
And bite back a yell when a 6.8mm hollow-point round digs into my already wounded chest.
"STAY AWAY FROM HIM, YOU FREAK!" Lev shrieks hysterically. One look at his wild eyes immediately makes it clear he's finally broken in the head. The still-smoking barrel of his rifle is kept pointed toward me.
Several people start berating him, asking what the fuck he's thinking. Meanwhile, I'm stunned into silence. Lev just shot me… I know he didn't trust me, but I never imagined he would…
"FREAK! MONSTER! GET OUT! LEAVE THIS PLACE AND NEVER COME BACK!" He takes a deep breath and bellows, "I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!"
Holy fuck this guy's unstable. I've got half a mind to snap back, let him know I wasn't responsible for today's shitshow, but he's got a loaded gun and he's looking for an excuse to use it. As for his claim that I'm a monster… well… it's something I've long gotten used to. Let's leave it at that.
The chopper's landed somewhere down the road. Almost a dozen T-Dolls haul ass out the side door, and I pick out a few familiar faces among them: FAL and Five-seveN. Springfield and Mk23, the latter crying out in shock when she sees her crush aiming his Grendel at some weird-ass creature.
M4. Until an hour ago she was the only one privy to my secret. She knew how much I wanted it to remain that way. Muted horror flickers over her face as she takes in the sight of my shredded abdomen, along with the Paskovs' conditions.
"Alcatraz…?"
Too much, it's all too damn much for me. Damir's fading faster each moment. Lev is a crazed mess. I'm injured, distressed, and surrounded by people and Dolls who all thought they knew the real me until today. Lev is right – I need to leave, now.
I cloak and hobble out of Makeyeva as fast as my wounded body allows. No one pursues. The suit drops a nav marker pointing eastward, and with no other options I follow it to the given destination: the city of Berdychiv.
Dark chapter is dark.
An explanation for why this needed to happen: Alcatraz currently has no interest in joining G&K. Obviously he's not on bad terms with them; however, besides sharing a mutual enemy in SF (and he didn't fully grasp the scale of their threat until now), he doesn't see much reason to work for a PMC, especially when you factor in his hatred of CELL. This chapter will help nudge him toward the path we all want.
As for why he can feel pain, I like to imagine the N2 evolved that function back. Pain is important. It's the body's way of saying, "Hey, that cut you just got? That's not good for you. Try not to let it happen again." That said, he'll only really start feeling it if he racks up a lot of damage without sufficient time to regenerate.
Don't worry, though. Things will soon get better for our favorite Nanosuited Marine… at least until I find a way to shove him into the wedding gacha mini-event. That's the only instance I can think of where he'd gladly let Prophet substitute.
Make sure to drop a review, and I'll see you all next time. Peace out.