A/N: Apologies for the delay between chapters. Too many things going on with life these days. There aren't enough hours in the days in the weeks to get half of what I need to be doing done. On a plus note, you all are finally getting a little more info on Commander's shady past in this chapter. As always, hope you enjoy it!
Reviewers-
Pan0ply - I am as amused as you are about the progression of the story. It literally was supposed to be one-shot lemon chapters, just for fun. Then I started thinking about trying to make it all make sense. Then this whole mess happened and now I'm invested, damnit! Glad you're enjoying it, and don't worry, DSR will get another chapter pretty soon here.
Mo Eazy - I laughed too hard at your review. The scene was definitely melodramatic, in fact I think there will be a fair bit of melodrama where Commander is concerned, but that's the tradeoff you get for having a harem protag (anti)hero. :D I love the aesthetic of most of the Israeli girls. Just not quite sure the best implementation for Negev yet...
I Fredric I - Glad to see you're sticking with it! As Commander's past gets explained you'll get a little more insight into why he has that sort of opinion of humanity. I promise he's not just an angsty edgelord. He's seen some real shit in his day, and you could almost say that's broken a fair bit of his humanity, and faith in the same.
O5-7 - Glad you like it!
Kargan3033 - Mac-10'll be another 'repeat character.' She's too good a gal to only get one chapter. (Others will get some repeats too, I promise!). There's a fair bit of the human-doll relationship that I will poke and prod at over the course of the story.
Culture-Hunt3r - I haven't completed the GFL storyline (and I really need to read the manga) so I'm not familiar with those two. Gentiane might be easier to work in because good lord there's a lot of info on Ange and I'll have to look into her pretty thoroughly to figure out how to incorporate her well.
Guest - Well, I would say he's more of a sexually-liberated Frank Castle than Steve Rogers. But I can get where you're coming from.
Perspective - DSR-50
Persica's lab, Base Oberon
08:38 AM
"Physically, you're fine." Persica glanced over the edge of her computer monitor. The brilliant glow of the screen reflecting off her tired brown eyes. "Your hardware has no faults and everything is running smoothly. Software packages are up to date and your core has no defects or discrepancies. From an operational standpoint, there is nothing wrong with you."
DSR-50 frowned, unhappy with the answer. It was the answer she expected, the same answer Persica gave her every time she came in for a checkup.
But it was the wrong answer. Something was wrong with her. Something kept her up at night, leaving her restless and unable to sleep. Something ate away at her energy, sapped her strength and left her distracted and moody. Something about her was broken.
As a Tactical Doll, she had certain advantages over humans. Tactical Dolls had perfect memories, but those memories could be deleted with the press of a key. That was how they coped, how they carried on past traumatic events or painful memories. Not all Tactical Dolls chose to do so, but she had never been particularly attached to her past. There was little of importance there, so she had allowed herself to undergo a memory wipe multiple times in the past.
The trouble was, in order to authorize a memory wipe, there had to be proof of fault in the doll. One did not just wipe Tactical Doll memories without proper procedures being followed. Unless Persica gave her a faulty rating on a checkup, she could not proceed with the application. What made it harder was the memories she sought to wipe were recent, still considered in operational limits, so it would require special authorization from the base commander to approve.
"Can you run the-"
"I've run the tests three times, DSR." Persica glowered at the Rifle. If anything offended the eccentric scientist, it was the insinuation that she made mistakes. Persica took pride, rightfully so, in her work. Griffon & Kryuger hired her because she was the best. Honestly, between Kalina and Persica, Base Oberon was blessed with incredible talent. Hand in hand with talent came eccentricity and hot tempers, though. The quickest way to earn Persica's wrath was to challenge her work and claim it was subpar.
"Something is wrong with me," the Rifle stubbornly insisted.
"If something is wrong with you," Persica patiently explained, "it is neither a hardware or software issue. I am not equipped to diagnose and handle personal issues. In fact, I was firmly invited to not try counseling Tactical Dolls on matters of the heart. Apparently someone took offense to my dating advice including chloroform, rope and a paddle."
The Rifle blanched, unnerved by the manic gleam that settled in Persica's eyes.
"Matters of the heart?"
She cocked her head to one side, eyeing Persica curiously.
"Well, that's what it's about, isn't it? That's what it's always about." The scientist leaned back in her chair and huffed loudly. "If the body isn't broken, and the brain isn't broken, then all that's left is the heart."
"Tactical Dolls do not have hearts."
"No, but you've got just about a perfect imitation of one, in this sense." Cat ears twitched as Persica nodded. "It's obvious enough what the problem is, though. I don't have to send you to a counselor to diagnose that."
"If you know what's wrong with me, then why can't you give me approval?" DSR pouted, her lips curving in a bewitching frown that would have most humans falling to their knees in order to curry her favor. That did not work on Persica.
"Because in order to go through with your stupid plan, you'd have to confront the source of your problem anyways, which would likely solve the issue, and then right after fixing everything up you'd end up wiping the memory, which would be equivalent to one step forwards, ten steps backwards."
"I… the source? What is the source?"
The dumbfounded expression on Persica's face was almost insulting. There was a heavy implication there that DSR-50 was either stupid or oblivious, or both. It prickled her ego, just as DSR's question to Persica had prickled hers.
"The problem is Commander, obviously."
"Commander?" DSR blinked, and grimaced as she pondered the man's name. Since that day, she had studiously avoided Commander whenever she encountered him. Whether it was leaving the room or keeping herself busy, or sometimes even abandoning plans entirely, she made sure to never engage him in conversation.
As she considered that, and her actions the past month, she had to ask herself… why?
Why was she avoiding Commander? She was not angry with him; well, she was a little angry. But not angry enough to justify the overt avoidance she had practiced. And, come to think of it, he did linger in her thoughts quite often. Too often for her liking. It came at the oddest time, too. Some random tripping of a memory circuit would bring to mind the agonizing bliss of the time spent in his arms, and she would find herself trapped as the scorching memories of his touch burned through her thoughts.
Was it because of those memories that she avoided him? Was it fear that seeing him would make her remember how he had made love to her body, how he so thoroughly and brutally dominated her until she almost shattered? DSR had refused to think about that day, and what it meant to her. It had shamed her, embarrassed her to the point that those around her quickly stopped asking due to the glowers she cast their way.
Thinking about it now, logically and detached, DSR realized that Persica might have nailed what afflicted her on the head.
"If Commander is the problem, then I would have to speak with him for permission to wipe my recent memories."
"Correct." This time, Persica's tone was soft and gentle, like a mother advising her naïve daughter. "From my experience, the reason you are suffering is because you don't know what to do about Commander. No one is arguing that what he did to you is entirely spotless; I believe you have your own conflicted feelings on that matter. Commander was passionate with you. Far more passionate with you than he was with any of the other Tactical Dolls he has been with."
"...with me?"
"Commander is a man of passion and strength." A sigh eased out from Persica's lips, and the scientist rose from her seat. Striding over to the coffee carafe she kept on one of her lab ovens, she poured herself a now lukewarm cup and drained it before filling it up again. "From my observations, he keeps himself carefully controlled by way of strict discipline, but passion is not something that can be kept under a cover. It bursts forth, and the more one tries to suppress it, the more brilliantly it emerges. This… passionate explosion, if you will, manifests in rash acts.
"Take, for example, your situation. An ordinary man would have been seduced by your lovely face and guile, I have no doubt about that. But Commander superseded your expectations. Frankly, he exceeded his own expectations, and he let loose God knows how much lust and frustration on your delectable body. Another example would be the situation with Spe- well, we don't need to talk about that."
"You think that Commander used me as… an outlet for his lust?"
"Is that not what sex is?"
"I… I don't want to think of it as that."
"Your wants, unfortunately, aren't always taken into consideration by your partner." Persica poured a second cup and handed it to the Rifle. "I don't know what you thought, or wanted that to be, but I can tell you at least what Commander thought it was."
"You can?"
"Men are easy to understand. They are simple, brutish creatures. No matter what kind of person he is, Commander comes from the same template."
"Commander is not a brute. He is… kind, and serious, and strong, but he is not a brute."
"My, the lady has some feelings on the matter."
A coffee cup appeared before her. DSR accepted it, tipping at the tar-like liquid that was Persica's unholy blend of coffee and caffeine supplements. The taste made her grimace, but she did not refuse the drink. Every aspect of the drink had been engineered to utilitarian perfection, making it a distasteful super drink that provided nutrients and energy in equal measure.
DSR squirmed beneath Persica's hard stare. Aware of the scrutiny raking across her face, the Rifle hid behind her cup.
"Commander has become quite popular with the Tactical Dolls," Persica mused. "Conversely, he's grown somewhat unpopular with the humans, though I would categorize that under petty squabbles and the jealousy of inferior beings. What do you think of that, though? Does it bother you that Commander sleeps around?"
"It…" DSR's words trailed off, and her face scrunched up in uncertainty. Did it bother her? The answer did not come easily. On the one hand, she and Commander were hardly in a relationship. They met in his hotel room, one thing led to another, and they had a riotous sexual encounter, but that was all. No promises were made, no vows given. It was a one-night, well, one-day stand.
On the other hand, the encounter had been very… intense, both psychologically and emotionally. In fact, the encounter was so powerfully imprinted on her that she was tormented by it. She… she wanted Commander to come back to her, not just because of the physical exhilaration that he put her through, but because a small voice in her mind whispered that she had found his presence incredibly… comforting. Commander's warmth lulled her into a sense of security and gentleness. She had adored every moment of his insatiable appetite. She longed to be held like that again, to be lusted for like that again. There was a certain part of her that felt immensely pleased with how rabidily his desire consumed her.
The thought of Commander sharing that desire with others settled poorly in her belly. It made her feel queasy, made her skin feel cold and clammy even as her insides burned with an inexplicable heat. She loathed this sensation, and absently wiped at her arms as if to drive it away.
"Commander has that effect on you Tactical Dolls," Persica murmured, thoughtfully stroking her chin. "Funnily enough, I think you are the cause of that, too."
"I am the cause… of what?"
"An unusual number of Tactical Dolls have expressed romantic interest in Commander. It is always expected one or two might, but the dolls are practically throwing themselves at him in unprecedented numbers. The attraction stems from somewhere, and I had not directly pinpointed it until recently."
"You know why we- why they are drawn to him?"
"I know why you are drawn to him," Persica admitted. "And because of that, the others are affected too. Here, take a look for yourself."
The scientist strode over to her computer and spun the monitor around. DSR looked at the image on the screen, and the coffee cup slipped from her frozen fingers.
-v-
Perspective - Mac-10
Base Oberon
11:12 AM
I need your help.
When Commander told her that, Mac-10 nearly snorted in amusement. Commander, needing her help. What sort of joke was that? Mac-10 did not consider herself useful for many things outside of combat. She lacked the social skills of her more outgoing comrades. In the looks department, any beauty that came from her design lay ruined by the myriad scars on her body. Not that she minded the scars. The scars served their purpose, which was to remind her of the things she had done in the name of various past employers.
Many Tactical Dolls had sordid pasts, one way or another. Mac-10 was not blind to that, nor did she claim to be the only one with a shadowy history. For many Tactical Dolls, once the wars ended there were few ways to make a living, and those ways were often dark and miserable. She had not shied away from that darkness, choosing to take her very limited skill set and use it to the best of her ability no matter the setting or target. To that end, she had a fulfilling life. Contracts came, she executed them, and she got paid.
Did she enjoy that life? No. But it kept her alive, and it kept her functional. Sometimes the payout hardly made ends meet, especially when taking in the numerous repairs that arose after contracts, but in the end she always made it out alive. And that was how she expected to spend her days, until at least she found a contract where her target was faster on the draw.
That changed when Griffon & Kryuger hired her. Mac-10 was honestly surprised they even approached her for the job. As a private military contractor taking on government work, one would think they wanted dolls with spotless, or at least reputable, records. In fact, the majority of dolls in Griffon & Kryuger's employee were exactly that: honorable dolls with admirable history. Here and there were dolls like her, dolls that delved into the darker sides of society to stay alive in the interbellum period, but they were few and far between.
Her job here at Griffon & Kryuger suited her well. It suited her better than she expected it would. Her targets had changed, of course. Sangvis Ferri were far more deadly than the humans she hunted, but now she had a team at her side. The company copied her core and set her up with backups in case she went down, removing the threat of a single bad job wiping her from existence. The pay was decent, not that she had much to spend it on. The only real complaint she had was the fact that they bunked in dorms, rather than individual rooms. To be fair, her old place was a miserable apartment with peeling wallpaper, damp ceilings and mold everywhere, but it was at least hers.
Among her comrades, she had earned a reputation as a loner. Not in combat, per se, but in general personality. And she was fine with that. Mac-10 did not need to be a social butterfly who happily leapt into conversations and joined in outings with acquaintances. Perhaps it was because of her history, which was so dramatically different from theirs. From her studies of human psychology, she recognized a parallel well enough in her relationships with the other Tactical Dolls. Just as a human soldier kept socially distant from non-soldiers, so too did a human-killer keep socially distant from non-human-killers. That line… that sacred line… once crossed it could not be walked back.
The Griffon & Kryuger employee who oversaw her hiring knew about Mac-10's modifications. They knew that her programming had been tampered with, and that there were several things she could do that normal dolls had severe restrictions against. For some reason, they let it slide, and did not force her to change them. Now, once she went down and had to fill in a backup model, half of those modifications would go away, and there was no telling if they wouldn't go in and 'fix' her idiosyncrasies while she was bodiless. For that reason alone, she refused to abandon her patchwork body and accept a fresh backup.
When all was said and done, Mac-10 was an outlier doll. She had specific uses, and only specific uses. So when Commander requested her assistance out of the blue like that, she naturally grew suspicious. Who knew, maybe Commander did have a thing for scars. He certainly showed little reservation in his pursuit of the various Tactical Doll on base. Sorry, he wasn't the one doing the pursuing. It was all the nympho idiots throwing themselves at him like he was the last male on the planet.
She had considered turning Commander down, if only because she did not want to be bothered with whatever it was he needed assistance with. As luck would have it, though, it was her day off. Mac-10 hated her days off. She never found anything worth doing on them, so often spent them lingering around the hangar bay or in the armory. At the very least, Commander's invitation gave her something to do.
That did not mean she went to help him blindly. Before agreeing to his request, she had him lay out the details of what he wanted to do. She expected him to give her a vague answer, perhaps only a basic outline of his plan. Instead, he gave her a detailed rundown of what he planned to do. It was more than she expected, but less than she wanted, through no fault of his own. The man's plan simply had a number of unquantifiable variables to it. Simply put, he wanted to look into the rumored Tactical Doll smugglers operating in the city. And he decided she was the best one to bring along as his backup.
Whether that was due to her history, which he undoubtedly had discovered in her file, or because of the clandestine nature of her weapon, she did not know. She did not ask, and Commander did not volunteer that information. What he did was confide in her, and she accepted that as proof of his intentions.
Which was why she found herself in the passenger seat of Commander's unassuming sedan. Unlike the armored SUVs that they drove around in when on official work, Commander owned a plain and utterly forgettable vehicle for his personal use. Mac-10 had little doubt that the vehicle had secrets under its hood, but nothing about his vehicle would raise eyebrows on the street.
Commander drove them out to Senograd that morning, just after breakfast. Neither spoke during the drive, each stewing in their own thoughts as the curved roads snaked ahead of them, guiding them closer to the 'City of Sin,' as the world called it. A modern day Sodom, it was. A brutal, ugly place filled with neon signs and dark alleys. Exotic modern architecture alongside crumbling slums. No truer example of the uncontrollable decline of society could be found on the planet than here, in this city of greed and debauchery. A city where humans were snatched off the street and forced into humiliating servitude. A city where dolls were treated like discardable toys, and the law was as sturdy and reliable as a single match in a snowstorm.
She hated Senograd. All the dolls did. To them, the city was as dangerous as a battlefield. One could hardly cross three blocks without seeing a broken doll tossed to the side of the road. Though she hardly had any sense of kinship with other dolls, the city posed a stark reminder of how the majority of the human race viewed dolls. Rather, it was Griffon & Kryuger and those like them who were the oddballs.
"We're here."
That brief announcement was the first thing Commander said since getting into the vehicle. Mac-10 glanced over at him, then stared across the street at the office building. It was a simple, forgettable location. Grey walls and simple windows, wedged between a warehouse on one side and similar grey office buildings on the other. Nothing about the place stood out, though she knew that was the point. After all, even in a place like Senograd, one did not go around advertising the fact that they were smugglers. That only invited trouble.
"Before we go in," Commander said, turning to face her. The man had an earnest look on his face, a grimness that warned her to take this seriously. Not that she planned on doing less than her best. "I need to confirm two things."
"Yes, Commander."
She eyed him coolly, curious as to what he would ask her.
"First, do you still have that override code in place? Pineapple?"
"I do."
"Good. Then mark this as your revert-point."
Mac-10 cocked her head to one side, eyes unfocusing as she primed the system restore checkpoint and attached it to the rogue override code an enterprising hacker-turned-mercenary installed in her back in her darker career. The process only took two seconds, and when she finished she nodded.
"Done."
"Second point. Do you trust me?"
Commander's eyes remained fixed on hers. Mac-10 frowned, not understanding what he meant by the question. He was the commanding officer, so shouldn't she trust him? Normally, a human in charge would just order them to trust, and that would be the end of it. That, or they would hand wave any doubts aside and tell their dolls to live with whatever decisions they might make.
It was a given that Commander was different from those kinds of people. He attended their briefings, he saw the away teams off on their missions and often was waiting when they came back. He followed up with the damaged dolls. And he made himself available for those that wanted to talk to him about anything or everything. All in all, he was a pretty decent human being.
All that being said, the fact that he asked her such a question left her confused. Did it matter if she trusted him? It certainly helped, but was hardly necessary.
"You are the commander," she answered simply.
"That's not what I asked." For some reason, Commander stressed the question. She had never seen any indication that he was an insecure person. Had she, Mac-10 might interpret this conversation in an entirely different manner. Instead, she decided that there was some greater reason for his line of questioning. So, she answered honestly.
"I do."
The answer did not strike her as terribly impactful, and she did not sense a particular change in his mood. But Commander nodded slowly, and reached over to pat her shoulder. It was not a sensual move, but she had noticed Commander had become a little more touchy over the past weeks. Not with her in particular, but with the dolls on base. He was not handsy like some pervert. His touches were platonic and friendly. He interacted with the dolls as if they were comrades, friends even.
He was not that friendly with the human staffers. Apart from a handful of higher ups in the organization, Commander regarded the human staffers at arm's length. There was a chilliness to his interactions with humans that was not present with dolls. Almost as if he did not trust other humans. The thought was ironic, because usually it was the other way around. Most people did not trust dolls in the slightest despite the many layers of restrictions placed on even the most basic of dolls.
There was a strongly growing rumor on base that Commander had some sort of military past. His apparent age placed him too young to have participated in the old human-on-human wars, but there anti-aging treatments out there, and it was not impossible he availed himself to the like at some point in time. Unlikely, but not impossible. And one could not dismiss his irregular familiarity with firearms and combat courses. The man had an edge to him that humans these days simply did not have. He acted like a relic of a long lost age, a man from the pre-doll days when humanity tore at its own throat for the sheer pleasure of war.
"Thank you for coming, Ingram," Commander whispered, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "Let's go."
He did not order her to hide her weapon. Unless one walked under the harsh billboard lights of the super wealthy structures in Senograd, it paid to be visibly armed. The presence of a bared weapon, even on a doll that wasn't supposed to be able to harm a human, scared those with bad intentions away. Ninety nine out of one hundred dolls could not lift a finger against humans due to programming. Every human knew that. But what if that one doll lugging around a submachine gun was the one out of a hundred? Only a fool would trust their life with those odds.
Not that they had far to walk. Commander crossed the street, his shoulders hunched and his face hidden by the popped collar of his peacoat. Having ditched anything remotely resembling a uniform, Commander wore a simple light blue button up shirt and denim pants under a heavy navy peacoat. The kind of appearance blended into the background well, looking sharp but also not standing out.
Mac-10 walked at his side, maintaining her spot two steps bad and two steps over on his right. Commander came strapped with a G&K standard issue 9mm on his hip, but if trouble occurred it was easier for him to draw and aim left than right, so she protected his weaker side. Neither walked with weapons raised; he kept his holstered and hidden under his peacoat, and she clutched her submachine gun across her chest, weapon aimed down at the sidewalk.
A solid metal door blocked their path. Her eyes traveled across its frame, noting that the door most likely was solid metal, perhaps four centimeters thick, hanging on heavily reinforced hinges. That kind of door did not come standard in any place she could think of. It was definitely after-market, most likely installed by the current owners of the building for security.
At this distance she could also tell the windows were bulletproof. The only hint was the warping of the image on the edges, revealing how thick the panes were. It would take a high caliber weapon to pierce them, and even then she doubted these would shatter. The building had been armored up to be a small fortress.
Whatever this place was, it was not a place for amateurs. She glanced sidelong at Commander, wondering if he had misjudged by only bringing along an SMG. If something went down in here, he would be much better off with a couple Shotguns.
Undisturbed by the heavily armored appearance, Commander knocked firmly on the door. The dull boom of his knuckles against the metal resounded in her ears, the warning bells of impending doom. Something akin to a shiver raced up her spine. Mac-10 did not know why, but she unconsciously tightened her grip on her weapon. A grimace slugged its way onto her face, and she spent a moment turning in a slow circle, scanning for signs of danger.
"It's fine, Ingram."
Commander's hand settled on her shoulder. The comforting weight of his touch proved a dam against the rising uncertainty in the thoughts. For a moment she frowned up at him, studying his own grimace and noting the faintest shimmer in his eyes. There was a foreign emotion in there- no, it was gone. Was it? Had she seen correctly?
Rolling back her visual feed, she played back that split second of footage.
Yes, there it was. That emotion that showed on Kalina's face after coming back from the casino with empty pockets. Or the look on Helianthus' face after returning from an unsuccessful speed-dating dinner.
Regret
Why did Commander look at her like that? What did he have to regret?
A vision slot suddenly rolled back on the door, and a pair of dark brown eyes peered out at them.
"What do you...want?"
Commander faced the eyes behind the door. "I'm here to infiltrate the building, kill everyone inside and confiscate your inventory."
"C-!" Mac-10's eyes leapt fully open in shock. Her weapon half-rose, frozen with indecision as Commander's words hung in the air like bombs waiting to be dropped from overhead. Had she been human, she was sure she would be clobbered by the organic chemical reaction called an 'adrenaline rush.'
Despite the rashness of his declaration, Commander stood impassive, staring at the man behind the door. The man stared back, eyes narrowed in a violent scowl. She could almost hear the weapons cocking and pointing in their direction.
Then the man's eyes softened, and a booming laughter spilled out of the small slot.
"Ha! I better warn the others that death is here."
The faint sound of metal scraping against metal echoed from inside, then the heavy door swung outwards. An armed man stood just inside, his body lean and hardy, an automatic rifle held loose in one hand. In his prime, the man would have been quite handsome and rugged. Now, however, he showed clear signs of aging. Streaks of grey in his hair, a dryness to his tanned skin, the slight rounding of his gut. Despite the visible signs of age, the man had a professional attitude. Rather than showing any fear or anger at the man who boldly announced his intent, the smuggler had a broad grin on his face and gestured welcomingly.
"Never thought I'd see you again, Death. What brings you to our neck of the woods."
"I heard you were in the area, thought I'd poke in and see what you're up to." Commander responded to the unfamiliar name as if it belonged to him. Mac-10 glanced between them in confusion, unsure of what to think or what to say. In the end, she chose to remain quiet.
The man motioned for them to follow him inside. They stepped off the street, entering a typical apartment building corridor. This place had been an apartment, she realized, not an office building. The original tenants must have worked in the warehouse next door.
"Heard you got a job running dolls, eh? Stepped back into the PMC work." The man's gaze slid over to Mac-10, eyeing her appraisingly. "That one looks like hell, though. She your bodyguard or something?"
"Or something," Commander agreed. "I heard you're in the market for doll tech."
"That we are. Always looking for new and interesting things we can move. You want the tour?"
"Not for now. You said there are others here?"
"Whole team, if you'd believe it." The man flashed a grin. "Mako, Gretchen and Tom. We keep it fairly close knit, though if you're looking to join up we can make room for you."
Her ears twitched, audio sensors dialed up to maximum. The rooms on either side were silent, though the further in they went, the more electronics she detected. At one point, three doors down, she felt the faintest change in the material under their feet, and in the layer of paint on their walls. Her sensor suite began to rebound, its range drastically cut down as they moved further into the building. It only took her a moment to understand why; why had walked into a giant metal cage. The building had been reinforced internally. The place had been turned into a literal fortress.
"I'm not looking to enter the business," Commander assured them. "But I do have a gift for you, Sam."
"A gift, eh? Can't ever say I've been disappointed by your gifts, boss."
At the man's gesture, they took a right and entered what appeared to be a suite. Taking up the space of three apartment rooms, it had been split into two segments, one roughly twice as large as the other. The smaller segment had been stripped of flooring and wallpaper, lined with sterilized plastic and centered with an operating table and numerous wheel-mounted cabinets loaded with surgical tools. The other portion of the room, separated by heavy sheets of plastic, looked more appropriate for a livable quarters. Three large sofas formed a U in the middle of the room, with the open end facing the sheets. The backwalls were adorned with amenities such as a minibar, refrigerator, pantry, bookshelves and a large mirror.
This was not where they slept, of course, but it had the materials to entertain them.
Three figures were already in the room. Like the first man, they were all getting on in years, but looked only a little past their prime. Her skin prickled at the sight of each being armed, but none of the three showed any hostility. Confusingly, like with the first man, they all leapt to their feet and grinned.
"Look who showed up at the door and said he's going to kill us all," Sam announced.
"Hoooly shit," one called out, tossing his pistol onto the sofa. "Death has arrived."
Three of the four were men. Each had a grizzled, vicious look to them, marked with tattoos and scars in equal number. The third, a slender woman, had a far less dangerous appearance, but nonetheless handled a bullpup submachine gun with familiarity.
"Been a while," Commander greeted, appearing far too comfortable with the situation.
Once again, her eyes darted over to inspect his face. He had a calm smile on his lips, the kind he wore when around the dolls. It spoke of a closeness, a friendliness that she did not recall him ever showing around the human staff on base. Almost as if these people and him went way back.
"What brings you to our humble abode, boss?" The woman practically leapt over the back of the sofa, scrambling to approach him with a skip in her step. "It's been ages but… damn, you look just as delicious as ever."
"Looks like Gretchen never got over you." The first man chuckled and shooed her back a step. "Boss says he has a gift for us."
They all fell silent, watching him expectantly. Mac-10's fingers tightened on her weapon, anticipating the order to fire. They were all armed, though these four had clearly loosened their alertness in Commander's presence. That must be what he was aiming for. To get their defenses lowered so they could kill the smugglers.
"Yes, a present." Commander's hand landed gently but firmly on the back of her neck. Mac-10 flinched, startled by the sudden weightiness pressing down on her. "This Tactical Doll is loaded up with some fancy codebreaker tech. Figured you'd have a field day with her."
"Commander!"
The word exploded out of her mouth before she could stop to consider the ramifications. Head snapping to the side to look up at him, she gaped at the man who casually revealed her deepest secret.
"Override Code Alpha Lima Tango Foxtrot Four. Initiate Passive Shutdown."
[Command Override Acknowledged. Systems shutting down.]
-v-
Perspective - Commander
Senograd
12:12PM
"Bahaha, did you see that doll's face!" Tom Cauthen slumped back down into his seat, holding his stomach as he laughed. "Shit, that was priceless. Fucking can opener didn't see it coming!"
The others voiced their amusement too, laughing at the frozen, shocked grimace on Mac-10's face. Her motionless eyes peered up at Commander, pleading for an explanation that she would not receive. When put into shutdown mode by override, the only functional system was her auditory sensors, solely for the purpose of receiving her next command. Unless he ordered her to turn herself back on, she was destined to be a statue until the end of time or her core was wiped.
"Jesus, they make them more realistic every day." Mike, also called Mako, shook his head and gestured to the minibar. "Want a drink, boss?"
"Lager would be nice," he answered, and walked past the others to claim a seat on the middle sofa. Gretchen piled in after him, sliding up against him and propping her cheek on his shoulder as she gazed at him in adoration. After a moment of hesitation, he lifted his arm and allowed her to snuggle a little closer. The soft coo of appreciation she let out told him that was not the incorrect decision.
"You'd think fifteen years would lessen the hardon Gretchen's got for you." Sam chuckled dryly. "Took her the better part of a decade to stop pining over you, you know."
"I did not," Gretchen complained, shooting a withering glare at Sam.
"She turned down an invitation by a top ranking AV studio because of you." Mako handed over a cold lager, grinning at the blushing woman. "You cost the world a fine pair of tits, boss. She'd have been a spectacular pornstar."
"T-that offer was bullshit, and you know it!" Her cheek heated up against his chest. Burying her face into his shoulder to hide her embarrassed grimace, she stuck out a hand with her middle finger raised at the others. "Fuck all of you."
"We wish," Tom sighed, a silly grin plastered on his face.
The chuckling died down, and the mood grew serious. Even Gretchen recovered fairly quickly, though she remained snuggled up against him, one hand idly rubbing his thigh as she stared adoringly up at him. It went without saying that the joyous greeting time had passed. A professional atmosphere seeped into the room.
"So, how did you find us," Sam asked. The others regarded him intently, watching him with a mix of wariness and curiosity.
"It was an accident, really." Commander shrugged, and let his hand trail along Gretchen's arm. "When I was brought on, some of the dolls took it on their own initiative to investigate the rumors of a smuggling ring in the city. That's how I met them, actually. Long story there. That clued me in to the issue, however, and some time later there was a scare on base with a few general models disappearing. Had to do some digging, and discovered you guys were in the area."
"Your company knows we're here?"
They exchanged meaningful glances. Out in the wilds like this, if Griffon & Kryuger decided their operation was a threat and decided to move against them, there wasn't much in the way of protection they could expect. The fact that they were an illegal smuggling operation aside, law and order was very strictly focused on the wealthier districts of Senograd, not the slums. A police force wouldn't even be mobilized if explosions rang out in this area. Nor would Griffon & Kryuger suffer any penalties with the local government for an op like that.
"Not particularly." Commander dismissed their concerns with a wave. "They know someone is in Senograd. I know who and where. Haven't passed that information on."
"Are you going to?"
"No." Commander gestured to the frozen Tactical Doll. "Wouldn't have brought her along if I was planning on it. Wouldn't make much sense to leave an incriminating piece of evidence like her. She stands out a bit."
"Hm… you have a point." Sam nodded and gestured to the others. Their postures relaxed, and the tension bled away. "Just had to ask."
"Understandable. I'm sure you weren't expecting me to show up at your doorstep." He used his free hand to point to the Tactical Doll. "Consider her an apology for disturbing you. Free of charge."
"You said she's stacked with codebreaker software?" Tom's eyes gleamed hungrily as he eyed the petite figure.
"I don't know all the details," Commander admitted. "She did some shady work back in the day, got herself all kinds of less-than-legal upgrades. Far as I can tell it's tied into that body too, so it won't be as simple as taking her core out."
"Mind if I help myself, then?" Tom rose from his seat and walked over to Mac-10. He circled her, eying the doll with ravenous intent.
"All yours. Is it okay if I stretch my legs? I'm interested to see what sort of collection you have. After all," he winked at Sam. "The way things are going I might become a valued customer."
"I'd feel bad selling the dolls at normal prices to you," Sam said, a shameless grin dancing on his face.
"I've got the capital," he assured them. "Honestly, when I heard it was you in the area I was already setting aside some cash. We've got some rare models on base, and backups would be appreciated if you can find them."
Sam rose, and the others did as well.
Despite having to separate while they stood, Gretchen resolutely clung to his arm, unsubtly holding his arm between her breasts. The woman had been infatuated with him, back in the day. It was an unrequited affair, one he had at the time taken painstaking care to maintain an appropriate distance from. Not because he disliked her; Gretchen was an incredibly attractive woman, with a tight body, respectable curves, and most importantly a vibrant energy that tickled men's fancies from the sheer liveliness she exuded. A single glance at her made the mind wander with thoughts of how incredible she would be in bed.
"I missed you," she murmured, her voice dripping sensually against his ear. "You haven't aged a day."
"Seriously, she's like a teenager with her first crush," Mako grumbled, leading the way out of the room.
They walked down the corridor, took a right at the first intersection and entered the warehouse through a reinforced side door. The warehouse itself had been heavily modified, with retractable jersey barriers blocking the interior side of the loading dock, cement laid out for the first two meters along the outer walls, and massive industrial fans blowing down from above. The upper catwalks had been cleared, leaving the place largely empty save for rows of shipping containers and an open-air workspace.
"You guys really run all this as a four-man operation?" Commander whistled under his breath. It was hard to believe they got all of this done by themselves.
"We hired local trash to set the place up," Sam shrugged. "Did all the security work post-construction ourselves. No one asks questions around these parts. Especially when the workers go missing after the job's done."
Commander shot the man a sidelong glance. At his side, Gretchen snickered and rubbed his arm soothingly.
"Aw, don't be like that, boss. It's not like we didn't pay their families in full before we off'd them. Well, those that had families."
"The families are better off than they were without those scum around," Mako agreed, a serious look in his eyes.
Pushing past the casual revelation, they pulled him along and walked him up to the containers. Opening them one at a time, they revealed the treasure troves they held in this secured facility. A massive shipping container loaded with shoulder-fired missiles and heavy weapons platforms. Another one full of Soviet small arms. A third filled with various sorts of explosives.
A fourth…
Gretchen dragged the heavy container door open, a triumphant grin on her face. There were no weapons in this container, but dozens of nubile figures standing in neat rows all the way to the back of the box. Their bodies had been stripped of clothes, not that they would have noticed, and identifying collars hung about their necks.
"We've got five more like this," she told him. "Forty to a container, less a few we sold recently."
"That is… a lot." Commander stepped into the container, gazing around with interest. His eyes alighted on one particular model, a thin doll with messy white hair and long, slender legs. The figure was so fragile-looking that it did not look suited for combat. Despite that, the collar around its throat marked its name and class.
"Looking at that one?" Sam leaned into the wall of the container, arms crossed and an easy smirk on his lips. "That's a rarity, practically a relic. No one makes them anymore."
Commander lifted a hand as if to brush the hair out of the doll's eyes. Before he did, a tongue clicked noisily behind him, and he obediently lowered his hand.
"Can't go touching the merchandise, boss. Especially not one that expensive." Gretchen's body pressed against his back, and her hands crawled along his waist until they met in a gentle embrace. Chin resting on his shoulder, the woman huffed and breathed into his ear. "Even the boys keep their hands off the merchandise."
"Where'd you find this one," he asked.
Four sets of eyes gazed at the doll in question.
"That? Hm…that was what's-his-face... the collector?" Mako grimaced. "Weren't they from that museum?"
"No, I think it was that French socialite." Gretchen's eyes lit up. "Remember how he begged for me to fuck him in the seat of a Model T?"
"You are both wrong," Sam admonished them with a quiet chuckle. "They're from that airport job we did three years back."
Silence greeted the man's claim.
"The one in Italy? Was that the one where Tom mined the passenger plane?"
"Oh, you mean the one where we ambushed the EMTs and used their truck to get in and out? God, there were a lot of bodies strewn across the tarmac."
Commander listened quietly, absorbing their conversation in the background as he counted the number of similar dolls. Twenty. Likely a whole production batch. Judging by the stamps on their collars, the last production batch.
"...of casualties was acceptable. Bloody polizia should have stayed out of the way. Good target practice, though."
His shoulders shook slightly, tugged by Gretchen's hands. The alluring figure slipped past him and took his hand, guiding him deeper into the container.
"Enough talk about that. This here's one I think you'll like. We found it on a job last year."
His attention was directed to another doll model. This one stood taller than the others, with rich brown hair, wide hips and impressive breasts. Its face was gentle, mature. Commander's chest constricted slightly at the sight of it, and he grimaced despite himself.
"Look at that, boss!" Unaware of his reaction, Gretchen walked up to the doll and threw her arms on its shoulders. He smoothed his reaction before she turned back to him, adopting a steady frown even as the woman watched him expectantly. "Looks just like the original, doesn't it?"
"I'll say," Mako agreed, his gruff voice rumbling from Commander's right side. "Didn't know she was used as a model for these things, but it makes sense once you think about where the dolls come from. Virtually identical to her, except the eyes and a couple tweaks here and there."
Gretchen ran her hands down the doll's inert form, smiling at Commander suggestively. "Brings back memories, doesn't it? This beauty is a first generation doll. Considered elite by most manufacturing designs. She just feels so real, you know what I'm saying?"
"Only shame is they've got such boring names. DSR-50. That's a mouthful. You'd think they could use something closer to her real name, Yuka."
"Probably a licensing issue. Besides, aren't they just named for their designed firearm? They're just dolls, after all." Sighing wearily, as if they had this conversation many times before, Gretchen eased off of the doll and made a shooing gesture at Mako. "It'd feel weird calling her Yuka anyways. Not sure boss would like people all jacking off to these artificial copies of his-"
"That's enough, you two."
Sam's harsh voice echoed off the walls, silencing both Gretchen and Mako. Despite having remained at the entrance to the container, he seemed to have sensed the mood, or at least where they were going with that conversation. Commander turned away from the doll and walked back out into the fresh air. Despite being generally odorless, the container did reek with a very real, very lifelike scent of various perfumes applied to the dolls. He stepped outside, breathed in deeply, and then exhaled while looking around the warehouse at the other containers.
"We've got one hundred ninety six dolls in our inventory," Sam informed Commander. "Mostly sell them in one-off deals with wealthy clients. More common ones get batched off to PMCs. And, don't worry, we aren't planning on taking any of yours."
"Judging from what you have in there, you have quite the eclectic collection." He gestured towards the other containers. "I would assume you are only dealing in rarities, Sam."
"Yep. Got all sorts of high value dolls. Every once in a while we end up with some common ones… collateral gains, if you will. I thought about employing them as guards around the building but they'd stand out too much. Anonymity is a powerful tool in a place like Senograd."
"Not sure there's much a doll could do that you all couldn't." Commander nodded along. "So you kill targets and steal their dolls?"
"Generally, yeah." Sam shrugged, then his brows furrowed. "Sometimes a buyer contacts us for a particular model. We look up the registries to see who has it, then find someone we can eliminate and acquire the model from. Gotta pay the bills somehow. Wasn't much in the way of employability after we got laid off, you know."
He did know. Knew it all too well. Commander grimaced, thinking back to the events that caused this team to be cut out of the company. It had been a decision made behind his back, a series of decisions. But… that was the order of the CEO and he had just been the head of operations at the time.
"Don't look like that," Gretchen cooed. "We know it wasn't your fault, Death. Hell, you paid our unemployment out of pocket for two years. If anything we should be thanking you. Loved the old job, but this one's got its perks."
"The digs aren't quite as sweet." Mako pointed in the direction of the building. "But strip clubs and casinos galore are just a few blocks that way. Plenty of ways for a man to entertain himself in the area, and we ain't gotta deal with infantry companies or armored assault columns. The only thing that's shot back at me in months were some cut-rate security guards at a private villa."
"I remember those guys," Gretchen snickered. "Didn't one piss himself before we capped him? Honestly, sometimes I miss the old days. It was more fun when the other side stood a decent chance. Killing patrol cops and hired thugs just doesn't get me off like the old days."
"That's what happens when you downgrade from being a part of the most badass merc unit on the planet to being highly-trained acquisitions specialists," Sam chided. "Eh, enough reminiscing, though. I'm starting to feel like we're part of a cutscene or something. Death, you wanna rest your feet? We can discuss business while Tom treats you to a live show of how we strip the merchandise of trackers and whatnot. He should be about ready by now."
"I have to admit, I am curious." Commander fell into step beside him. "So you scrub the dolls thoroughly. Any way for them to be traced back to their previous owners?"
"No." Sam shook his head. "Even if there was, it's not like they're around to claim them. We file the serial off any and every hardware, and Todd's worked out a software spike that wipes their system registries and replaces it with a dummy. One hundred percent untraceable and unrevertable."
They rejoined Tom in the lounge. In the short time they were out, Tom stripped Mac-10 and put her down on the operating table. Her clothes and weapons were laid neatly aside, well out of reach, though that was a rather unnecessary precaution considering how dolls were programmed. The attention to detail was a stark reminder of how good these guys were at their jobs. Back in the day, they had been one of the top teams in the company. Their efficiency and ruthlessness were well known in circles on both sides of the conflict.
"I have no idea what this model went through," Tom said, speaking to them as if he had been involved in their conversation the entire time, "but it is quite the beauty. Externals are a mess, visually, but internals are masterful. It's loaded with aftermarket upgrades, the kind you don't find through anything resembling official channels."
He said all this despite not having put a scalpel to Mac-10's body. The various imaging devices and scanners surrounding the table told him everything he could want to know at a glance. After a thorough inspection, however, came the hands-on part. Which was why he had an array of surgical knives laid out on a cart.
"Knock yourself out," Commander offered, and eased down onto the middle sofa. Once again, Gretchen joined him, though this time she slid onto his lap, sitting sideways so she could watch the others while cuddling into his chest.
"Seriously, boss. I don't know what time you plan on leaving, but for the love of god will you just fuck her already? It's been twenty years of pining for your cock!"
Not bothering to address that remark, Gretchen again shoved out her middle finger in Mako's direction. Her thighs twitched back and forth, rubbing lightly against his legs. "He's just jealous of your caliber, Death."
Tom picked up a diamond-tipped scalpel and stood over Mac-10's body, eyeing it with clinical interest as he sized up where to begin his incisions.
Commander glanced over at the refrigerator. "I reckon I can stay until evening. They'll wonder if I'm later than that. Gives us some time to iron out the details of what comes next. In the meantime, who's hungry? I'm in the mood for pizza."
"Pizza sounds good."
"I'm a bit peckish myself."
"Only if it's authentic Italian."
"Oh, shut up," Mako complained, glaring over at Tom. "There is no such thing as authentic Italian pizza.' It was created in America."
"Bullshit," Gretchen joined in, grinning at the two. "It became famous in America, but it came out of Naples."
"That's a folklore tale made by the Italians trying to preserve some of their shattered national dignity," Mako argued with them both, but his eyes twinkled merrily. When you were around people too much, fights became natural occurrences. One either grew bitter about those fights, or learned to enjoy them. He was clearly the latter. Thinking back on it, he always had been one to wade into a fight and defuse it by making more and more absurd arguments until all sides eventually realized how silly he had turned the discussion.
In the background, Tom lowered the scalpel, setting it against Mac-10's sternum.
"Enough." Sam once again quieted them down. "Pizza works. There's a good joint not too far from here. We'll place the order, our treat. What kind are you interested in?"
Commander settled backed in the chair, snaking one hand around Gretchen's back. His hand wormed under her shirt, settling on the small of her back, fingers brushing against the warm steel of the sidearm she kept tucked in her pants. Gretchen let out a sound that was not quite sensual.
"I've always been a fan of controversial flavors. Let's grab a Hawaiian, load it up with the works. Bacon, ham, pineapple."
Tom's hand jerked suddenly, and he took a half-step back from the table. The dark, artificial blood of a doll clung to his knife. "What the-hrrrk!"
Silently, like a cat pouncing on a mouse, Mac-10 rose up to a sitting position and snatched up one of the spare surgical knives. Her arm flicked across her chest, accompanied by a gout of blood as Tom's throat sprouted a new mouth.
It was Sam who reacted the fastest. It was always Sam. The quickest on the draw, the calmest of the team. Sam's experienced leadership and uncanny talent made him a rising star in the company. Had things not turned out the way they did, Sam might have been poised to be one of Commander's close staff, given a couple more years.
So while Mako and Gretchen turned to gape at the suddenly active doll, a doll who just broke the most basic of programming restrictions and harmed a human being, Sam's gaze leapt to Commander's face. His dark eyes narrowed, focusing in on his target, and in scouring Commander's calm face he realized he had made a terrible mistake.
Credit where credit was due, Sam had his weapon drawn and aimed by the time Commander did. But where Commander had the interference of Gretchen's weight on his lap and had to deal with the awkward angle of drawing and aiming her hidden sidearm, Sam was standing with feet planted and easy access to his holster. There should have been no comparison. Sam was lightning on his feet and an expert firearms handler.
Commander was just better.
Ruthless as Sam was, efficient and cold as Sam was, he hesitated for a fraction of a second as he tried to line up a shot that would not strike Gretchen. Commander had no such restriction. Her sidearm barked three times. Firing blindly from behind Gretchen's back diminished his aim, but only slightly.
The first bullet plunged into the wall. The next two rounds punched into Sam's shoulder and throat. The man's body jerked backwards, and his return shot clipped Commander's ear rather than claiming an eye. The fourth shot caught Sam under the chin, blowing out the top of his skull in a glistening fountain of viscera.
Mako was half-out of his seat, scrambling for his submachine gun, when the gunshots went off. Shock, disbelief, and rage warred across his face. Caught between two threats, he hesitated, and that indecision cost him his life. Mako stood much closer than Sam had been, and he was completely in the open.
Commander unloaded the rest of Gretchen's sidearm into his chest, placing four rounds in his upper torso and sending the man's corpse tumbling to the ground.
Then there was one.
Shocked by the doll's sudden waking and gruesome assault, then stunned by the chaotic flurry of events playing out before her, Gretchen remained tight against Commander's body, her arms frozen stiff around his neck as she stared disbelievingly at the carnage. Her sweet lips fell open, uttering a silent scream as the men she had worked closely with for decades now lay dead.
Frozen stiff by the brief and murderous affair, the battle-hardened woman struggled to understand what had just happened. It was not fear that left her motionless, but the overwhelming influx of data as her mind struggled to field a thousand different pieces of information.
He had seen this happen to her once before, on a job many years ago. The column of APCs they were escorting took sudden losses as a torrent of short range anti-tank missiles erupted from alleys and rooftops, wiping out an entire company of soldiers in the blink of an eye. Gretchen froze then, remaining utterly motionless for five seconds. In those five seconds, more people died, and the situation started to spiral out of control.
After five seconds, her analytical mind finished processing, and the woman sprang back to life like a goddamn wrecking ball. In those five frozen seconds she identified the point of origin of every single missile team, and in the following hundred seconds she killed every single team with murderous, inhumanly fast shooting and maneuvering, leaping through the wreckage like a monkey as she charged straight into the ambush and came out the other side covered in cuts and wounds but boasting a kill count of twenty five.
Once her mind kicked back into gear, she became an unstoppable wrecking ball. But in those five seconds, she was completely helpless. The others said they only saw her freeze like that the one time, but that was more than enough for her to earn a fearsome reputation.
Knowing this, Commander tried to extricate himself, but he found himself pinned down by her body. The position he had allowed himself into offered no leverage, and with her hands locked tight around his beck he could not move in the slightest. Uncertainty flashed through his mind as he mentally counted off the seconds. From this angle, he could not strike her in the head or go for a disabling blow. He had seriously misjudged how hard it would be to shake her-
"Bitch!"
Mac-10 appeared in front of them, the bloody surgical knife in one hand. Her body had been cut open from sternum to navel, loose flaps of pseudo skin hanging like discarded pennants from her belly. Eerily lifelike organs and the like could be seen pumping and undulating inside her. Some dolls were built with more lifelike internals than others; Mac-10's design had realistic internals, though each 'organ' was just a different part of her doll's functionality.
Ignoring the wound which would have been just about fatal on a human, the Tactical Doll grabbed Gretchen by the hair and yanked hard. The violence of the assault tore her from his lap, and she tumbled with a quiet grunt right into the waiting knife. It was an ignoble end, and one that struck him as profoundly unsatisfying for the colorful life she had led.
Gretchen's body slumped lifelessly to the floor, and Mac-10 glared at Commander, knife still clutched in her bloody fist.
"That," Mac-10 growled, her yellow eyes gleaming with anger, "was a dick move."
"But necessary." Commander raised his hands apologetically. "They weren't going to accept me that easily if I just showed up. I had to offer them something to ingratiate myself with. And I needed your reaction to be genuine."
The Tactical Doll continued to glare at him for several more seconds. She showed no shame at standing nude before him, her petite body a tapestry of scars and disrepair. Retained damage to her pseudo skin gave her a dark allure, contrasting with the smallness of her body and the highly visible studs gleaming beside her perky nipples. It was like looking at the body of a rebellious teen, but one who survived horrific warfare since the day of her creation.
"...still a dick move." Mac-10 dropped the knife on the ground, then leaned in to wipe her hand against his shirt. She intentionally smeared blood across his mostly pristine shift, daring him to say a word about it. "I'm hungry, by the way. Pizza sounds nice."
"Pizza, eh?" He sighed heavily and looked around the room.
Excusing herself without a word, the SMG padded back over to the other side of the room and dawned her clothes. She made no show of hiding herself, presenting her pale and muscular butt as she leaned down to put on her panties and shorts. Once that was done she inspected the array of tools and used a stapler to seal up her stomach.
While the Tactical Doll fixed herself up, Commander policed the weapons from the dead and laid them to rest in calmer, gentler poses. There was only so much he could do about Sam. The man's skull had been shattered, and his face wriggled as his body was disentangled from the messy fall. The stench of gore quickly filled the room. Commander did not think much of it, and Mac-10 ignored it.
The SMG walked past him, still topless but with her clothes tossed over one shoulder. "I'm grabbing a beer. You want one?"
Commander looked up at her from over Sam's corpse. "No."
"Suit yourself." She opened the refrigerator, inspected the contents with a grimace, and pulled out a bottle. "He put his finger in my mouth," she complained.
"He could have done worse," he admonished.
"Yeah."
Her familiarity and ease with the situation told Commander he had made the correct choice of companion. In truth, there were perhaps two others he might have thought up to the task, but Mac-10 had been the only one he knew for certain would be able to follow through. After all, plenty of dolls had a shady history. Griffon & Kryuger more or less adopted a 'no questions asked' policy for their past, providing it did not cause problems down the road.
"So… how did you know?"
The SMG's question rang out in the quiet room, the silence broken only by the sound of her chugging the bottle.
"Persica."
His answer was greeted by several seconds of silence.
"Figures."
Moving methodically from one to the next, Commander collected the weapons, communications, and any personal information from the four former-mercenaries. He gathered their belongings and set them in a pile near the door.
"What now?" Mac-10 eyed him sidelong, having procured and drank two more beers during the time it took him to complete his task. She also finished dressing, and her legs kicked idly as she sat on the back of a sofa.
"I have a couple calls to make," Commander answered. "Would you go search the building? Be wary of traps, but I want to know everything that's in here. Don't worry about the warehouse."
"Got it."
She dropped the bottle alongside its comrades and hopped down to the ground. Clutching her submachine gun to her chest, she gave the room one last glance before heading to the door.
"These guys, they were your allies, once?"
"They were."
"What happened?"
It was not a rhetorical question, or a taunting one. The SMG turned back to ask, and her face portrayed only a serious desire to understand. A hint of cynicism lurked in her eyes, but she did not show any sign of judgement. It was clear what she meant by the question.
Had he changed, or had they?
"Humanity happened," Commander answered. "It trained them to be peerless killers, then it cast them aside and left them to fend for themselves. When all you know how to do is use a weapon, well… everyone needs guidance. They lost theirs."
"Hmm…" The Tactical Doll considered what he said, then nodded. "I'll give you a few minutes."
"Thank you."
The doll closed the door on her way out. Commander listened to the soft footfall of her disappearing steps, then pulled a little notebook out from his pocket, flipped to the latest page, and marked the page four times.
-v-
Perspective - Mac-10
Senograd
04:12 PM
Mac-10 opened the door, revealing the fully armed squad of humans wearing heavy carapace marked with the word Interpol. There were ten here, each armed to the teeth and ready for combat. Half of them watched the windows and surroundings. The other half pointed their guns straight at the Tactical Doll.
"Come in," she told them, stepping to the side. "Commander is waiting for you."
The first two swept past her, weapons aiming down the hallway as if expecting trouble. After those two came a third man; this man did not have a helmet on, but showed his face. It was a nice face, Mac-10 though. Tired, old, with wrinkles around his eyes and lips, but still exuding a liveliness that contrasted sharply with the grey hair crowning his head.
"I am Inspector Callen," the man said, holding out his hand.
She stared at his hand, debating whether to accept the handshake. Most humans did not treat Tactical Dolls with that level of civility. Was this a refreshing change of pace, or not? No, she was overthinking it. The SMG accepted his handshake, carefully matching his strength, and started walking. The man walked alongside her, eyes darting here and there, not taking his attention away from the hallway.
"So he goes by Commander now," the Inspector chuckled. "Old habits die hard, it seems."
"Old habits?" She eyed him curiously.
"Nothing, my dear."
The man followed her into the lounge. Commander was there, sitting on a sofa, staring at the four bodies lined up on the floor. Ordinarily, Commander had a stern expression, but the face he showed here made Mac-10 hesitate before entering. There was a solemness to his aura, a subdued grief that he- that no human could ever admit to. She understood why he felt this way, and had made no mention of it while they waited for these men to arrive. Whether the four deserved to die or not, Commander had some kind of history with them. She listened to them while in passive shutdown mode, absorbing the conversation and digesting what snippets of information about Commander that she could.
"That's them, eh?" Inspector Callen nodded along to his own question. "Gretchen, Mike, Tom and Sam. That's quite the number on Sam. Did this all by yourself?"
The man's head turned, gaze resting on Mac-10. She returned his stare coolly, betraying no emotion or expression. At Commander's insistence, she washed the blood from herself and doused her skin in rubbing alcohol to ensure no trace of it remained. He did not want her implicated in the incident; that would raise unavoidable issues with an agency such as Interpol.
"Just me," Commander told the man.
"Hm… sure." Inspector Callen had the look of a man who knew he was being lied to. He knew it, and he did not care. At least, not enough to press the issue. "Well then, give me a minute to take some photos and blood samples. This shouldn't take long; it isn't as if I have to send off their info for verification. You don't forget the faces of those you fought alongside for as long as we did."
The Interpol agents moved about the room and through the building, taking photos and confiscating devices. Commander had set aside a handful of personal items: dogtags and the like. At Inspector Callen's command, that small pile was ignoring by the forensics team that followed in behind the armed agents.
After setting his subordinates about their tasks, Inspector Callen pulled a beer from the refrigerator and sat down opposite Commander. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, which had ridden up because of the bulletproof vest he wore, and groaned.
"Miserable work, this. Putting down a team of familiar faces. Can't say they didn't earn it, though. You were spot on with suspecting they had warrants out. Between the four of them… Jesus, they got really nasty with their freedom. I emailed you the full list. Numerous counts of murder-for-hire, dozens of law enforcement killings, hostagetaking, acts of terror. They went down a really dark path."
"They didn't have much of a choice, did they?" Commander's shoulders rose, then dropped in a heavy breath. The moodiness struck her as unnatural; she had never seen him like this before, nor heard of him being this depressed. It stood to reason the act they committed together bothered him, though. She wondered if she should go sit beside him. Comforting a grieving person was not something she excelled at, and she knew it.
Mac-10 knew how to kill, be it machine or human. That was all she was good for. Commander knew that, which was why he brought her along. Neither needed to say it aloud. Had she not been there to back him up, he might not have walked out of this alive. He barely did as it was. Had Sam been a hair faster on the draw, had his aim not leapt up from the impact of being shot, had Mako not frozen in hesitation, had Gretchen not…
"Speaking frankly? That's bullshit. They had a choice." Inspector Callen glared down at the dead. "There is always a choice. They could have found a private gig, retired from the life, you name it. It took very specific choices to put them where they ended up. No one forced them to do any of the things they did."
The man's words seemed to reach Commander, whose shoulders straightened slightly. But the Interpol agent had not finished. Though he changed the topic, he did not stop talking.
"Now, I'm not going to ask what's going on next door in that warehouse. I definitely am not hearing what sounds like heavy duty trucks picking up a bunch of unregistered shipping containers filled with god knows what. Because in accordance with the Registered Private Military Corporations Act, you'll write up a receipt for all the items you are confiscating in addition to the bounties offered for the execution of these four. Am I right?"
"Yeah, I'll get right on that."
Commander looked over at Mac-10. "Would you please assist Inspector Callen?"
"Yes, Commander." She bowed her head and moved to stand behind the agent.
"I'll take that as my queue to scram for a few." Chuckling to himself, the Interpol agent stood up and slapped his thighs. He waved for Mac-10 to follow him and headed back into the hallway.
Once in the hallway the man's cheery expression faded and he grew somber. It was not a devious change of mood; more like a man surfacing for air after staying underwater too long. Like a great weight tumbled from his shoulders, he sighed and stretched his arms.
"Fwaaa… he's gotten older." Inspector Callen gave a few orders to the nearby agents, then turned to face Mca-10. "Taking on a whole team of killers by himself, with no help whatsoever, that's the man I remember, though."
"You worked with Commander before?"
"I did," the man confirmed. "Served under him for five years during the war."
"The… war?"
"World War Three."
Mac-10 gazed at the man doubtfully. That world war happened a long time ago by human standards. She could believe this agent had been involved, but that was because of the weathering of his body. He had to be near retirement age, despite how spryly he moved about. He looked at least two decades older than Commander. It was strange to think of these older humans having served under Commander, unless Commander had been some child prodigy.
"He's older than he looks," Inspector Callen assured her.
"Commander fought in the war, then."
"He did."
The Tactical Doll spent several seconds pondering the concept. The rumor had floated around enough within the dolls, so it was not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Inspector Callen did not have the grizzled, dangerous aura of the four, but he had his own exuding strength and charisma. The people around Commander had not been ordinary men and women, that much was for certain. And they all had clear respect for him that had not faded even in over a decade of absence. What had Commander been? What had he done to earn that respect and loyalty?
Meeting five people that knew Commander's past left her a little dizzy with information, but she stoically pushed past her confusion and focused on what she knew. Mercenaries, that part stood out to her. Commander had not fought as a national soldier, but as a gun-for-hire. His age was still up for debate, but at least she knew he was that old. And those he had served with ended up in relatively high-ranking or at least powerful positions. Even the four here could reliably be said to occupy somewhere near the top of the criminal food chain.
"Can I ask a question?"
"You just did." Inspector Callen chuckled to himself, amused at his own joke, then relaxed his smile and nodded. "Go ahead."
"What did he do in the war?"
The Interpol agent's expression tightened. There was a spark in his eye, one of recognition and regret. Curious as to what caused such a reaction, Mac-10 held her silence and allowed him to process her question. It was a simple enough question, but she knew better than to assume it would be a simple enough answer.
"The war was a long time ago. Does it matter?"
Her pointed gaze did not allow him to evade the question. After several seconds of silence, the man shook his head.
"He didn't tell you about his past, did he?"
"Commander's past was withheld on his hiring," she answered. "We do not have access to that information, and he has not volunteered it."
"I see, I see…" Inspector Callen stroked his chin, eyes gazing at the ceiling. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with apology. "I'm sorry, but that is something I can't answer. If he doesn't want to tell you, then I'm not poking that bear. I promise you though, he was not a bad man. If that's what you're worried about."
Mac-10 stubbornly crossed her arms. "They called him Death."
At that name, Inspector Callen froze. He remained motionless, eyes locked on hers, a thousand thoughts rampaging wildly behind his brown eyes. She had clearly caught him off guard, and he was frantically trying to come up with a proper response. That was good. She might be able to get something out of him this way.
"They called him that, eh?" The man exhaled loudly. "Whew, that's a name I haven't heard in a while. Bet he hasn't either."
"Why?" The SMG glowered up at him. "Why did they call him that?"
"Why did they call him Death? Hm… I think I can at least-"
"They called me Death because that is what I was."
Commander's voice snapped coldly from behind them. Mac-10 shivered, her shoulders bunching up instinctively, and she turned back to look at her commanding officer, who somehow had appeared behind them without either one noticing. Inspector Callen himself had paled, and offered a crooked grin at Commander.
"Hey, uh, boss. I thought you were in-"
"There were many opportunities for… glory… in the war." Commander's expression twisted in distaste as he said the word. "Notoriety was the lifeblood of mercenaries like us. We- I, used that notoriety as a weapon. Before the war ended, every soldier or mercenary on the battlefield knew that once Death arrived, their fate had already been decided."
"You were a mercenary," Mac-10 repeated, eyeing him thoughtfully. She had been unnerved by his stealthy approach, but she felt no fear in his presence. Even with that bitter expression on his face, because she knew it was not directed at her or Inspector Callen. That bitterness was directed inwards at himself.
"You make it sound so droll." Inspector Callen laughed, a nervous sound that grated in her ears. "He was the mercenary. Him and his brother founded Gehenna, the premier merc outfit before, during, and after the war. Boss here led the ops-side of things and was an absolute mons-"
"The past is best left buried," Commander interrupted, silencing the Interpol agent with a glare.
"Yup. Just what I was thinking too." The inspector nodded furiously, then shut up. It was almost amusing to see a high-ranking agent like him being so subservient to Commander. Then again, it also felt natural. Commander had that way about him, with people and with dolls. It felt normal to obey, to listen to him. Whether because of the weight of experience he gave off, or the overpowering nature of his authority when he wanted it to show, he acted like and was treated as a leader.
"Everything is wrapped up on my end," Commander informed them both. "So we'll be heading out now. Pat, you know where to find me if you need anything further."
"Will do, boss." Inspector Callen held out his hand. "Once the paperwork's through, we'll send the funds and transfer rights."
"Thank you for your time."
"No, thank you, boss. It's good to see you again, circumstances notwithstanding."
The two shook hands, then Commander turned to leave out the front door. Mac-10 hurried along beside him.
"Oh, Commander, one last thing."
Both stopped and eyed the Interpol agent, who stood sheepishly in the hallway, his hands tucked in his pockets.
"There's a bounty out for a rogue Tactical Doll, you know. Goes by the name Ingram, and is said to be operating in this area. It's supposed to be loaded with black market upgrades and is even capable of killing humans." Inspector Callen's gaze fell on Mac-10. Her skin prickled at the intelligence in his eyes. There was no mistaking that look. He knew who, or what, she was. "You'd best take care, and keep your own Tactical Dolls safe. Our orders are to capture and decommission that doll on sight. Best we don't have to worry about accidentally eliminating one of your own, eh?"
The inspector pulled his hands from his pockets. "I just realized I never got your name, miss."
"Her name's Mac," Commander answered, placing his hand protectively on her shoulder. Mac-10 glanced up at him for a moment, heat rising in her core in response to the comfort of his touch.
"Good. Just wanted to make sure."
The Interpol agent lifted his hands apologetically, then waved goodbye and disappeared into a side room. Mac-10 let out a quiet breath, then followed Commander out to the car. They got in, buckled up, and drove back to base. Mac-10 stared out the window, then at Commander's profile, watching the minute details of his expression as he watched the road. At times she thought she noted a hint of sorrow in his eyes, other times anger.
Neither said a word the entire drive.
