Just Cause 3: The Black Hand's Soldier

Prologue

Imagine being the average guys on the ground.

Imagine this little speck flying toward you.

And then it erupts in bullets and blue missiles.

Eventually, through the fighting, you realize it's a man, not a drone…

As he lands by slamming a grappler into your sternum.

And your last image is his boots coming for your face.

1

Miraculously, you awaken. You're in a hospital. You're in pain through the meds. The world has changed; the regime has fallen. You see that man on the news. He's being hailed as a liberation front hero. You pass out again.

Your recovery spans months, and you have little else to do than watch the news and read social media. The liberation front is being hailed for the new age of prosperity. You never really believed in the old regime; you went to fight for them like any soldier looking for a steady income and roof over their head. None of it really bothers you, except… that man.

His face is everywhere, though he rarely gives interviews. Rumor has it he's moved on to destabilizing some other country. He must be a mercenary, you think. Your research mostly dead-ends, or leads you to some crazy conspiracy theories. What the hell is Bavarium? And the Black Hand? They couldn't come up with a less comic-book name for a villain squad? And controlling the weather is so 1960s James Bond, come on. Finally, though, you get a name: Rico.

Unfortunately, this work has taken you so long that you've completed rehab. They're finally releasing you from the hospital. It should be a cause for celebration, but the stress of reintegrating into the outside world is too much. You give up your search for a few months. You're so distracted with learning how to complete everyday tasks with your broken body that you never notice them watching you.

2

Finally, the knock at your door comes. You think it's the caregiver who comes to check up on you periodically, and open it without a thought. Why would you second-guess it? You're expecting them, and the world free from the Medici is a far safer place than you ever imagined. To your surprise, a tall figure all in black stands before you. "You're coming with us," are the only words it utters in a chillingly flat synthesized voice.

You always thought being kidnapped by special forces or mercenaries would be interesting, but the car ride is long and excruciatingly boring. No one talks; you sit between identical figures in black tactical gear. The ride gives you ample time to think about cause and effect. You start to understand how conspiracy theories are born.

By the time you reach the docks, you're suspicious that the Black Hand exists, and has their hands on you. The black, unidentified boat you're loaded onto starts confirming your suspicions. Its windowless below-deck also explains why they never bothered with a bag on your head. Anyone would know where the dock was; what happened on the open water would be a mystery to anyone without eyes on the internal radar display.

Proving exceptionally speedy, the boat docks to a floating facility in a surprisingly short amount of time. Emerging from the hatch, you're greeted with a massive black platform that seems to be floating on the ocean. Eyes adjusting to the midday sun's glare, you take in what looks like extensive construction work, and some damaged towers under repair. Between your reading on conspiracy forums and the people who take you inside, you're starting to wonder if the Black Hand really had a sea base that could control the weather. No, that last bit… it's too much.

You're greeted by suits; they know who you are. They offer you, of all things, revenge on the man who destroyed your body. Knowing you have no choice, you play along. Even knowing what you're getting into could never have prepared you for its effects.

3

You don't know how long has passed. You don't quite know everything that has happened. You know there are parts of your body you can't feel, and parts that you never stop feeling. The greenish glow never goes away, even when you sleep, and you feel the need for that less and less. They've been training you, testing you, running trial and error. Every new graft and reprogramming seems to hurt less, even though it really does hurt the same.

Surprisingly, you can remember who you are. Your time in the hospital recovering from your smashed sternum, ribs, and face prepared you for this saga. You have no idea how long you've been at their facility; you only see sunlight when they take you out to test your new modifications: flight, impact, body armor, aiming. They're working on secondary life support systems now. Those hurt less; there are less nerves inside you, or an abundance of scar tissue. The tests leave you tired though. Dying and waking back up repeatedly takes its toll.

Somehow, though, you seem to be retaining your sanity. You're happy to let them believe you're fueled by the revenge they offered you. You remember the Medici, you remember the Black Hand, you remember the Liberation Front. You joined up because you needed to then. Now, you're gaining the skills to make a difference.

4

Finally, the day comes. You're deployed. The airship ride is long; you're not given a destination but you know you're not in your part of the world anymore. The mission is simple: cause chaos and destruction. You're given targets: power plants, propaganda machines, military officials. Not keen on killing civilians, you make good use of your targeting systems. After all, you were a soldier. You understand that anyone who signed up was prepared to die, or should have been.

After a few more of these types of missions, your handlers talk to you about the miraculously low civilian headcount. You grunt at them when they tell you to cause more fear, and they take it as your assent. You're not killing civilians, even if you have to lie about targeting or fake another malfunction. Your life has been painful for so long, what are a few more modifications and calibrations?

The situations and targets escalate; you're deployed to more military style bases and the risk of civilian casualties decreases. Better than any testing ground could ever be, these bases let you start testing your modifications in earnest. After your superiors take the time to commend you, you realize you've been reveling in your new abilities perhaps too much. You hope the time will come soon.

5

Midday. Havoc mission. City in between bases. You're just starting out, flying between buildings and disabling communication before getting the fireworks started. Your HUD picks up another flying object heading your way; it's too big to be a bird. You alight on a rooftop, turn toward it - and it happens all over again.

This time, the grappling hook punches into the subdermal plate armor grafted to your repaired sternum. Instead of gaining purchase, the force sends you reeling backwards, and his boots never have a chance to connect with your face as you reel backwards over the side of the building. The secondary life support systems gives you a shot of adrenaline, and you right yourself and slap open your wingsuit, quickly maneuvering to rocket back to the rooftop.

Of course he's waiting for you there. And of course The Black Hand can see through your eyes. HUD wasn't the only modification they gave you. Everything you do is recorded and sent to them, except your thoughts. Time to gamble.

Hand to hand, you're surprised at his strength. All the intel they gave you indicated that he was just your average battle hardened mercenary. Well, average means human. He's more skilled than any opponent you spared or killed. Even with your enhancements, you're not having to fake losing.

Nonetheless, you have a plan. You're just looking for an opportunity. Take a head impact or get hit by a flashbang and switch a system or two off. You'll only have a second if you're going to make it look like their tech malfunctioned, but you've rehearsed your line for months.

This is taking longer than expected though. Letting yourself take hits or not, he's driving you toward street level. You're not keen on slamming into civilian property, but you may have no choice. Surely he's a good enough fighter to notice how you keep maneuvering the fight away from crowded areas. Surely that will reinforce your message.

Finally, you get the chance. A homing grenade to the chestplate, a split second to throw yourself in the right direction. Release one of your own flashbangs, let your systems pick it up, target where he is, shut it all off for a moment.

Purely human sense restored, you can't tell if it's more sensory input or less. Either way, disoriented, you barely hear yourself with your human ears bellowing, "DISCONNECT ME! I CAN HELP YOU!"

You snap your systems back on, take the next integrated shot of adrenaline, and punch him in the stomach.