Just as the glass cylinder began its descent, Jack withdrew his N-Gear and dialled Chaz's number, bringing the device to his ear. For a few seconds, it rang, before there was finally the pick-up sound.
"Yo, it's Chaz."
"Hostage situation," Jack said bluntly. "Load up Luke, James, and Josh. Bring the CPUs if you can. Planeptune markets have been locked down by guys from Earth. Huge number of hostages. I'm on my own. Get here ASAP." On the other side of the phone, Jack could hear jet engines winding up. Either Chaz had been sitting in it when he called, or he'd done his usual and pulled the multi-million pound aircraft out of his arse.
"Copy that, on my way," replied the masked aviator. "Make sure you leave some for me. ETA is one hour."
"You've got half an hour," Jack said flatly, before hanging up.
He went into his contacts again, and called IF. If anybody had a phone active at that point, it'd be her. If he could link up with her and the girls, he'd have some idea of where the enemy was.
The phone rang.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the building...
The penthouse boardroom atop the Planeptune market tower, on the 250th floor, would normally be filled with stock-market operators, opportunistic economists, and multi-billion credit businessmen, all scurrying about and trying to fiddle the system to boost their profits in any way they could.
Of course, the usual residents were all still there, even in the event of a terror attack. The police helicopters were seen through the windows, trying to look inside, and they would have seen the men all sat around the table, as well as a large number of people who were sat against the walls of the room.
They also would have seen the patrolling, towering men from Earth, rifles and machine guns resting in their arms as they paced back and forth, towering over their hostages. Every once in a while, they'd jab one of them, eliciting a small squeak or yelp of fear from the victim, and it would be caught on camera for national TV by the numerous helicopters orbiting the building.
At the head of the central table, receiving glares from every single one of the hostages, was the mastermind of the entire operation; Major Sergei Kashuba. Rather than the men surrounding him, who were all kitted up with tactical gear, Sergei had on a well-pressed black suit with a Kevlar vest beneath his black t-shirt, a pair of well-fitted ballistic guards beneath his sleeves and trouser legs, and resting against the table was a heavily customized M4 rifle. Adorning the weapon was a number of crudely scratched notches, three separate laser modules, two torches, three different sights, a vertical foregrip, an angled foregrip, a chainsaw grip, and the magazine in the well had a grand total of four other magazines strapped to it, as well as a pair of bayonets, an underslung shotgun, a knife strapped to the bottom of the stock, and a nail on the base of the foregrip.
It was quite clear to anyone who looked at the device that Sergei preferred the logic of 'I might need it at some point', and thus his rifle was effectively an entire platoon's worth of firepower.
He was only 20, and yet held a rank higher than most military operators would get. Due to his above-exceptional demonstration of leadership and combat skills during the year-and-a-half training course, he had been fast-tracked into the operation's upper hierarchy.
His job, at first, was to lead all the operators into a suitable location, radio for assistance, then help the scientists unload the equipment to set up a research outpost. After that, they would be relegated to defending the outpost from the nasty creatures that had been seen.
Thus, after entering the portal to Gamindustri, he found himself short of a number of men, who had been scattered across Gamindustri. A setback, but the job needed to be done...
...right?
Of course, when they caught sight of Gamindustri's cities, the game changed.
As any man would do with a large number of hypersoldiers and idiotic criminals at his disposal and a number of potential success opportunities before him, Sergei did not radio back to command.
He told his men not to radio back to command.
They locked, they loaded, and Sergei set about leading his men towards eventual domination of the new world. He made contact with some of the less reputable locals of the world, and began his operations out of Gamindustri.
From any look, he just appeared similar to Tommy Wiseau, but with scars. Not really threatening, but that rather unfortunate outward appearance concealed a disturbed creature beneath.
In spite of his face and seemingly careless disposition, those under his command understood that out of all of them, Sergei was the leader. No questions. He was the most strategic, destructive, violent sociopath to have ever been given a modicum of power over any people, and at that point in time, he was reclined in an office chair in a room full of hostages, scratching his chin and smoking.
The table before him was littered with phones, wallets, and the personal effects of the hostages scattered around the room. Beside his foot was a much larger phone: The hotline for the police downstairs to use for negotiations. The precious conversation had been four minutes and forty seven seconds prior, in which he warned them to keep the police and news helicopters away or he'd have them shot down.
Sighing at the sound of rotors continuing to buzz outside, he lifted his head. "Doe," he said calmly. A man on the other side of the room lifted his slightly oversized helmet as he stopped patrolling, shotgun in hand. "They have ignored previous demand. Shoot down helicopters." Doe raised a brow, grumbling and scratching his chin as his helmet swung back down over his eyes.
"I dunno," replied the gruff American. "That doesn't seem right." Sergei shot him a look.
"And when in fuck have we cared about 'right', Mr. Doe?" snapped the Russian.
"We've kept small time so far," replied the trooper. "Fighting cops and SMD agents, sure...but killing civilians? That's...you're out of your mi-"
"Go out there and destroy helicopters, or I will be of shoot you for being traitor." Doe stared at his boss in disbelief. He hesitated, then exhaled, before putting his sawed-off Ithaca shotgun on the table, and approaching one of the weapon crates that they'd had brought in via chopper when the raid had started. He flicked open the latches, swung open the lid, before removing and placing an RPG-7 rocket launcher onto his shoulder. He approached the window, then swung it open, rushing winds and setting sunlight blaring against his face as he sighted the launcher towards one of the circling news helicopters.
A news presenter was broadcasting live from inside it, in the process of attempting to explain what was going on. There was a live audience of several million watching: Many were from Planeptune, but the viewers from other nations that wanted to see a terror attack in progress threw viewership figures from the hundreds of thousands of viewers in Planeptune to three million globally.
That meant that as Doe grit his teeth, steadied himself, and released a HEAT rocket directly into the cabin of the circling helicopter to destroy it, three million screens showed the newsreader screaming as her vehicle span out of control in a ball of flames and steel, spiralling towards the ground with sirens blaring from the cockpit.
The wreckage span down into the streets, hitting a building on the way down before slamming into a number of police vehicles, skidding along the asphalt, and finally coming to a rest after smashing through the front of a nearby café.
Doe lowered the launcher and looked back at Sergei, who hadn't even bothered to watch the impact. The hostages had broken into mutters. There was the sound of crying and gibbering. "It's...done," muttered the soldier, taking the launcher back to its box and locking it inside. Sergei offered him nothing in the way of congratulations.
"Learn to aim. You were meant to hit cockpit, you fucking shit." Doe just glanced over his shoulder at his boss, sighing. "And you are of calling self a 'Soldier'? No wonder they were not of allowing you into army! It is wonder you even made it out of Chechnya, you slimy ballsack!" Sergei reclined in his seat, before finally throwing a gesture at Doe. "In fact, know what? Get out. Get fuck out of sight before I kick you in asshole. Fucking idiot. Take RPG. Shoot helicopters whilst you are at it." As Doe grabbed a bandolier of rockets, Sergei looked around the room for a moment at the hostages. All of them were cable-tied and looked rather frightened.
All of them, that is, except one.
Sat at the side of the room, shooting him a rather deadly glare, was a small brown-haired woman. She had a slightly oversized blue coat and small green ribbons in her hair.
Sergei narrowed his eyes at her.
"Doe, take that little shit with you," he demanded, pointing to IF. She looked momentarily surprised. "She is glaring at me. I do not like. I do not need that negativity in here. Take with you. Shoot her if she piss you off." Doe turned and looked momentarily confused, before finally walking over to her and getting her to her feet. IF grunted in disapproval, shifting against his grip as he guided her out of the room, taking his shotgun on the way out. God, that shit was heavy...
As the door closed, there was brief silence, accompanied by the orchestral sounds of sirens and screams below. Sergei leaned back in his seat, throwing his arms wide and grinning at the remaining hostages. "Well! Are you not lucky to be up here, no? Very nice view, yes?"
The response was the expected 'no response'. He dropped his arms slightly, standing up and beginning to walk through the hostages.
"Are you all being serious, now?" he laughed. "You are of witness to history in making! I am doing big favour for all of you by carrying out this! Has it not yet been of dawn on you all that your 'CPUs' are dictators? Do you not somehow see that all money in country belong to CPUs?" At that point, a woman spoke up.
"You're wrong!" she snapped. "The CPUs are not dictators! They give us freedom! You don't know the first thing about dictators!" Sergei rolled his eyes and turned to her, placing his hands on his hips.
"Trust me, Miss, I am from East Europe," he sighed, shaking his head at her. "We had Communist leaders for many year and many people starve and die of dysentery. So I think I am of know bit more about what is dictatorship than you, tiny lady." The woman glared at him as he continued to walk around the room. "Is it not pissing any of you off? You have had same leaders for many year! Have you not been wanting change at a point?" The hostages glanced at each other and shook their heads.
None of them had any problem with the CPUs. Sure, Lady Neptune and Lady Blanc appeared pretty young, but at the end of the day, the countries were being run effectively.
Sergei dropped his shoulders and sighed, rubbing his forehead. "What in shit is this..." he muttered, shaking his head. "You know, I am beginning to be of think that many of you are...how you say, 'fucking deluded'." He snapped his arms down, and leaned against the table. "How in fuck are none of you tired of this BULLSHIT? You have leaders who are children - literally fucking CHILDREN - and yet you do not see flaws in your politics system? You are all fucking delusional! You are exactly what problem was in Eastern Bloc countries, and yet you do nothing to counteract this...this shit! Take from me, comrades; You do not want one party state. One party state is call for war. Your countries have been at war for fucking centuries. You have never tried peace because your 'great leaders' have never suggested peace."
"We're in peace talks right now," a woman piped up. Sergei was quick to cut her off, marching over to her and jabbing a finger in her face.
"Peace talks orchestrated by ONE OF MY MEN!" he roared. The woman recoiled slightly. "Whether you fucking low life scum understand or not, your precious Jack London is one of my fucking men. His peace talk proposals were my idea. His speeches were written by me. He fights monsters to help me. He answer to me, he work for me, he follow orders from me. And just because he has recently been fighting our efforts does not mean he is not one of my men, and like I would with any soldier who cause problem, I will shoot him through head like fucking dog and leave for wild animals to eat."
At this point, the hostages pursed their lips and listened to the utter maniac in front of them pacing back and forwards, his mouth spewing steaming hot shit like a broken sewage pipe.
Just then, as Sergei reached his explanation as to why he was superior to them all in every way, one of IF's mobile phones rang on the table. The suited man paused, and eyed the device for a moment, cautiously reaching out and looking at the screen.
Mr. London
Sergei raised his brows, and pressed accept, placing the phone on speaker. "Hello? Is this Lon-?"
"Oi! Miss IF! Where the fuck are you and the others? There's dick'eads swarmin' the whole fuckin' tower!"
"Well, I am recognise vulgar language," Sergei scoffed, checking his nails as he rested the phone on the table. "This is Jack London, no?"
There was a silence. "...the fuck is this? Have I crossed phone lines, or summat?"
"No, no, I am assure you, this is...ah, 'Miss IF's' phone. Just not 'Miss IF' who is using it."
"Who the fuck are you? Why've you got her phones, you slippery cunt? I swear to Christ, you gimme a fuckin' ans-!"
"Tone down on vulgarity, London, that is no way to speak to commanding officer," Sergei groaned. Jack hesitated again.
"...Sergei fuckin' Crashyourmum. I should've seen this comin'."
"It is pronounce KASHUBA!" yelled the Russian. "Now you listen, you shit! You have abandoned duty to planet, your people, entire project, and me! This is major breakthrough in establishing grip in this new world and you are trying to FUCK IT UP!" Jack just laughed, the voice echoing around the windows of the room.
"Whatever you say, Comrade Cuntbag," came the snarky British reply, prompting a few silent mirths from the hostages. "Now, onto business. Considerin' what you've had the guys doin' recently, I'd say I'm within my place to tell you to effin' do one in regards to my orders. Think of it as a good thing that I fucked off early, 'cause we both know that I'd've kicked your arse and taken command myself, you dopey tosser." Sergei narrowed his eyes. "Anyway, mind tellin' me what Russian Hood and the Men in Tights're doin' in the Planeptune market buildin'?" The Russian smirked, and leaned against the table once again.
"Ahh, well," he chuckled. "We are just dealing with a few...how you say, 'financial transfers' for a client. Customer service was not of good standard, so we decided to speak with manager and bring a few other customers with us to help prove point to him." He glanced over at the building's owner, who was currently cable-tied to the chair at the head of the meeting table. "I think we make good point to him and he is consider our problem very seriously." Jack scoffed over the phone.
"So you're robbin' the place?" he sighed. "Trust the fuckin' Communist to try and take money from hard-workin' people..."
Sergei sat up, and jabbed a finger at the phone. "Hey, first, I am support 'democratic socialism'. It is different from communism."
"It ain't, but go on."
"Second," he continued, ignoring the fact he was being laughed at by his hostages. "I ask you simple question, London: You are trying to stop me, yes?"
"Damn right I am."
"Then how will you deal with many hundred well-armed and trained men of your skill, or higher? Your refusal of cover and idiotic strategies will be downfall, asshole! You will not even make it to ground floor alive!"
Jack raised his brows as the elevator door slid open, allowing him to walk into the ground floor's main lobby.
"Ahhh, already done. On the ground floor right now. Bunch of cops outside. Any more questions, dickhead?"
"What the FUCK?!" Sergei screamed, slamming his fists on the table. "How in fuck are you down there?! I was place many number of men around elevator shaft and you still get down?! My men are fucking failures!"
"Your entire plan's a fuckin' failure, you smarmy twat," Jack retorted, standing in the middle of the lobby and looking up.
Floors, floors, floors.
So many floors.
About a quarter of the way up, he could see blue bolts of energy blasting across the atrium, and hear gunfire above, accompanied by American and Chinese yelling, mixed with chuuni statements and entertained laughter.
Well, at least MAGES. and Falcom were probably holding out alright. God knows how Falcom ended up with MAGES..
"Turning to mindless insults, London?" Sergei sneered over the phone. Jack sniffed slightly.
"Nah, just fillin' time whilst I look for a way up."
"Good fucking luck getting here, you British asshole. There are hundreds of men between you and me, and all of them will fire their guns at you." There was a pause, as Jack stopped at the base of the staircase leading to the way up. "Face facts, London: It's over."
Jack smirked, starting up the stairs.
"Oh, it's not over until I teabag every last one of you backstabbin' motherfuckers."
He closed the phone, leaving just the dial tone on the other end as the penthouse room went quiet.
The hostages bristled with excitement.
Mr. London was coming to save them.
Meanwhile, two hundred floors down...
As far as Jack had gathered, there were no hostages remaining on any of the floors he'd passed.
Well, even if there were, it wasn't like he was gonna just...like, help them or anything.
What the hell was he going to do? He didn't have a means of evacuation, and the elevator had already gone right back up to the top floor. There was no way he was gonna be babysitting for dozens of screaming women whilst trying to escort them out of the building in the midst of a full-blown terror attack by a few hundred men that could each forcibly bring down a military state if they wanted to.
Not ideal, especially considering he had no armour on him.
That in mind, he pressed on to the fiftieth floor, bounding up five steps at once with his Deagle drawn. A few floors up, there was a bit of a scuffle going on, in what he assumed was MAGES. and Falcom against a mob of armed men. Judging by the sound of swords hitting things and loud magic noises, accompanied by loud screaming, his two female friends were doing remarkably well against the project's finest.
He wasn't about to let them go it alone, however; He picked up the pace as much as he could, racing up the spiral staircase that ran around the inside edge of the entire market tower. It was a very good design; It didn't take up too much space, and the fact it was a constant incline meant he would always be travelling upwards. His current running speed was pushing about fifty miles an hour.
Perhaps he still had some STR potion lingering in his system?
Whatever it was, it meant he was covering floors at a rate of knots.
And like he'd said to Uni a while before: Who complains about an advantage for themselves?
By the time he reached the destination floor, he'd swapped his pistol for the AK and began running around the large marketplace floor, circling around to get to where MAGES. and Falcom were holding out.
Lying bleeding on the floor, taking cover behind fallen stands, or making tactical advances on the two Makers, there were about eight to ten soldiers. He recognised the three still standing as ex-military; South Korean army, Japanese Self-Defence Force, and one Vietnamese trooper.
"Here comes another Chinese earthquake!" Jack yelled, completely ignoring the fact that none of those three were Chinese as he immediately began firing at the Vietnamese soldier. Before his squatting opponent could even give a response to Jack's blatant racism, he was being pelted in the face with 7.62 rounds, prompting him to cry out in pain and drop his SKS, staggering back from the market stand he was cowering behind and falling over. He only successfully withstood six rounds before the bullets actually ripped through his uniform and skin, resulting in him doing a bullet-riddled spasm on the floor as Jack dumped part of his seemingly bottomless magazine at him.
The sound of gunfire gained the attention of the two other Eastern men, who quickly span and began firing on Jack.
For some reason, Jack hadn't expected this unusual development, and let out a yelp of surprise as the massive rifle bullets slammed into his body, knocking him off his feet. There came a loud shattering sound as his body armour plates completely smashed under the repeated bullet impacts, followed by the loud snapping of the weaponry breaking his ribcage.
Upon landing flat on his back, he rolled to the side, but-
"AGH! Fuck!" he screamed, shrinking back from the pain as he landed on the broken ribs. Thankfully, falling over had managed to land him behind a market stand, and shielded him from further gunfire. It hurt to breathe and move.
That pain he'd felt before from one cracked rib was nothing compared to breaking what felt like five of them.
Luckily, his high level meant they didn't penetrate him and get his heart, but there was no way he would be moving.
In-between his pained groaning, he heard the enemy's footsteps getting closer on the other side of the market stand he was behind, and all there was only one thing going through his mind.
That was fucking stupid.
He'd been too arrogant to think before he acted, and it had cost him dearly.
Judging by the sound of the guns he'd been shot with, they were M1 Garands. That meant they had a good amount of power, they'd shot him about sixteen times, and they were probably going to shoot him in the face...
...he was going to die.
Christ, this was his second arsekicking in twenty minutes. He was getting fucked today. Perhaps he would have fared better if he'd been allowed to keep himself sharp on Dogoos or Dragons or something, but no: "Go on a holiday, it'll be good for you, don't fight any monsters".
Bullshit.
Ultimately, the CPUs' attempt to make him feel better had gotten him killed.
His hearing was becoming more muffled by the second.
Were those helicopter rotors he could hear?
Finally, the moment came. The Japanese and Korean men came either side of the market stand, rifles raised.
Yep.
Garands.
He was about to get a face full of 30-06.
The Japanese soldier did as he'd been trained; He kicked Jack's AK away, then delivered a boot to his abdomen. Jack curled up in response, spitting out a mouthful of blood onto the floor as the two men broke into laughter, saying stuff in Japanese.
Jack knew the language, and translated.
"[Welcome to the rice fields, motherfucker!]" shouted the Japanese man, stomping on his stomach again. Jack yelled in pain, which only made his rib pains even worse.
"[I am moderately alarmed by the concentration of salami on this motorway!]" added the Korean, fistbumping his compatriot before clutching his rifle like a club and giving a solid swing into Jack's face.
Now that hurt him.
The edges of his vision went dark, and blood (probably his own) splashed at his eyes. He blinked a few times to clear it up, then looked back up at the two men.
The Korean tilted his head, raised his boot, and brought it down hard on Jack's left kneecap. Jack screamed in pain, trying to reach down and grab it but being held back by the injuries to his stomach and broken ribs. Instead, he lay on the floor, spitting blood out and groaning in pain, unable to do any movements except convulsing.
The Japanese man had pulled a bayonet, and was crouching over Jack, hovering the knife over his exposed chest. He smirked, then looked Jack in the eyes. "[I find sexual arousal from pictures of plastic buckets...]" he said calmly. Jack glared at him with what strength he had left.
"[Go and...devour several orphanages...of squirrels...]" he hissed, coughing more blood.
His two opponents laughed loudly at his threat of violence. The Japanese man raised his bayonet over his head, and prepared to bring it down on Jack's sternum.
Of course, he would have brought it down.
A deafening boom from outside accompanied the sound of breaking glass as the man's hand literally exploded into gore, the knife flying straight from it and embedding itself into the Korean's thigh. Both men screeched in pain, stumbling backwards in an attempt to dodge their new attacker. A half second later, there was another loud boom, which accompanied the Korean flying backwards with a perfect three inch hole through his chest. Another half second, and the Japanese trooper's head completely detonated, flinging him backwards like a ragdoll before he finally landed in a heap on the floor.
Jack could barely piece together what had just happened.
The silence that accompanied it was almost as deafening as the sound of his own heart beating.
Turns out that movies and games weren't exaggerating that part.
He could hear the sound of the helicopter rotors much clearer now.
And the sound of footsteps coming closer over glass.
God...he was getting cold.
Maybe...
Maybe he could just...
...close his eyes for a little while.