RESOLUTION
Highland Park – near the FEMA compound, ruined parking lot – early afternoon
Two members of the Motor City Bangers were making their rounds, ostensibly patrolling what they considered the border of their territories out on the outskirts, and the more DRB-occupied Derelict Row neighbourhoods closer to the city centre. One cradled a double-barreled shotgun, while the other shouldered a worn-out looking TMP.
"You buy it? That this dump was supposed to be a detention camp?" - one MCBer remarked to another, as the two gang members paced along the burned remains of a truck, next to the outer fence.
"Nah man… you ask me, Blazer and his crew made that shit up cuz they got too close and those government types took a few shots at 'em. Got Big Rizzle, from what I heard… Guy was always tryin' to bite off more then he could chew. Last thing we need is drawin' attention like that..." - the other shook his head, spitting on the ground.
The other MCBer reluctantly shook his head, drawing a long whiff of a cigaweed between his lips.
"I ain't sure about that… it was in the fuckin' papers too. The whole thing about how someone got down in there and found out about holding cells and all kinda shit… mayor even had to come out and make a big press conference about how it's all made-up. Almost ended up in a riot, right?"
"Papers write crap all the time, man." - the first gangbanger waved his hand. "How come that mystery-guy didn't come out and say anything about what he seen? How come nobody's got any idea who it is? Cuz it's all sensationalist bullshit. I'll tell you what this place is… some kinda National Guard depot or somethin'! And I sure hope Magnet and the guys put a crew together to bust in there… you know we need more guns to take on those Baller punks! Now that everyone's ghosted, I bet we can haul some good shit outta here!"
The first one snorted, kicking away a bent tin can on the sidewalk.
"So much for not drawing attention… yeah. Let's knock over a government depot! That's gonna go well. You know Skid, sometimes I think yo' momma must've dropped you on your head how dumb you are. Thank fuck Magnet's got more brains then you-" - before the other one shoved him.
"Fuck you! And leave my momma outta this if you know what's good for you…"
Their argument died down in a side-alley leading away from the fenced-in area. As it did, a figure squatting next to a pair of dumpsters, in deep shadow, moved, and crossed the parking lot in three long steps, before hopping up to vault over the fence.
Yelena smirked to herself. Gangers. When she was last here, she didn't think much of their outlook on life, to say the least. It was only the strict orders she was under, that kept her from hunting them for sport. Both the DRB's and the MCB's. Undisciplined… unfocused… and more then a little naive and ignorant. Filthy animals. They seriously thought, that their quaint tribal mentality had any place in this world? That their thuggish activities made them a force to be reckoned with?! It it weren't so laughable it would be pathetic.
Now, however… she considered.
They're more free then any of us. They don't answer to anybody. They don't call anybody – master. I suppose that, more then anything, is what would make someone join a gang. That idea of total freedom, that's missing in the world. Illusion of control over their destiny. Yes, they will eventually all be wiped out when the authorities decide they've had enough, but… until then, they are as free as anyone can be. And they have enough numbers and armaments to make it difficult to root them out without many casualties, in a direct confrontation.
The line of thought made the woman's dark eyes defocus slightly, considering her own current circumstances. The fact was – she had never been more free, then she was right now. Not as long as she could remember. And if everything went to plan, inside the facility, that freedom would stick.
Once over the fence, Fedorova used the row of containers and discarded packing crates, to make her way into the loading bay. Everything was pretty much as she remembered it, during their rather hasty evacuation. Up on the walkway at the far end of the bay, she spotted a pile of bones, covered by a familiar masked BDU. One of their troops, likely killed during Jensen's infiltration two weeks ago. Then suddenly, she froze in place, as her cochlear implants began picking up a slight subsonic resonance frequency, well below a normal human's hearing threshold.
Recognising it instantly, the woman bit her lip. She wasn't the only one here. Another Infolink-equipped individual was nearby, and it was a safe assumption to make, that none of these MCB thugs had anything as sophisticated as an Infolink comms implant, which relied on proprietary satellite transmissions. Suddenly, Yelena felt naked, without her pair of TMP's.
Then she scowled hard to herself. Of COURSE. The moment she stepped off that train, and was no longer covered by the interference of the neural chips in those crates – her Infolink signature must have been picked up and traced. And someone was dispatched to intercept her. She was unaware of any other Tyrant actives, operating in this part of the world, but that didn't mean anything. Need-to-know basis was the name of the game for the organization, and she wouldn't put it past Namir to have recruited some more… local asset… on a spur-of-the moment decision, to deal with her. A Belltower team? Outside contractor? A sleeper? No matter. The resonance she was picking up, meant that they were here.
Alright. Let's play.
Her expression changed, into a predatory smirk, that not long ago, was the woman's signature expression, in anticipation of a kill. Despite her awakening, her killer instinct was still there… only now, she was in control of when she wanted it. For the first time, she was in control of it, not the other way around.
Engaging her cloaking system, she hopped lightly up on the awning, making her way to the far walkway where the remains of the sniper were. It would give her a good vantage point to recon the area, and also cover her from any potential threats from above.
Find a usable weapon.
Her mind slipped easily into a well-trained tactical pattern, as she squatted next to the remains of the sniper. The man's rifle was still there, lying next to the soggy, waterlogged remains of the man's hat. Picking it up, Yelena ran a critical eye over it, then unloaded the mag. Some rust was starting to gather on the receiver and the barrel shroud, and the scope was very obviously misaligned, probably from when the man dropped it as he died. Zeroing it again without a firing range, was impossible, so she decided to remove it completely. Standard procedure for their snipers was to have a laser-sight attached, for the purpose of more close-in engagement situations, as the ERASER models of the sniper rifle had no usable iron-sights.
It still worked. The expanded magazine still had four rounds loaded, out of the original six. Setting it aside for the moment, the woman dry-fired the weapon twice, making sure no rust or dirt had slipped inside the receiver. Then she popped the mag back in.
She now had a weapon. Excessively loud one, and with only four shots, but she felt more secure already.
A telltale orange indicator in the corner of her retinal readout, told her that the bioenergy levels were dangerously low. She scowled. Even with her conservative use of cloaking, it was still draining her faster then she could recharge. Dipping her hand into a satchel at her waist, she dug up another cyberboost energy bar.
The last one.
Suddenly, a shadow seemed to cross over the bay's skylight ceiling, just as she dropped the cloak. She twisted around, only spotting a glimpse of a prone figure peering over the edge, aiming something wing-shaped at her. Then it let out a soft twuck sound. She widened her eyes, even as her reflex-booster implant took over, as the trajectory-logging proximity sensor in her occipital bone detected an incoming projectile – in this case a crossbow bolt.
Without any conscious input from Yelena, the active-defence system engaged, her legs already reacting to the threat, powered by an emergency-surge of bioelectricity, sending her leaping three meters into the air, evading the bolt that ricochet right below her, throwing sparks as it skipped off the metal walkway.
With a hiss, she landed on one knee, already snapping her weapon up, the laser-dot tracking at her assailant… but the figure was gone, with a telltale shimmer of reflected sunlight around the edges of something… glassy looking. She nodded slightly, almost… impressed, as only her heroic trigger discipline kept her from snapping off a shot.
Re-cloaked already… he's good!
She didn't wait for a second attack – long experience made her dive-off the walkway, trusting her electrodynamic landing system to keep her from hitting the ground too hard, and her pelvic gyroscopic array to keep her upright on landing.
But her damaged systems failed her slightly, as she landed a bit harder then anticipated, hitting the ground hard enough to see a few stars, and hear a sickening crunch, as her right shin-leafspring bent on landing, throwing off sparks. Limping, she dashed down the loading ramp towards the elevator leading to the sublevels, even as another crossbow bolt whizzed past her ear.
"Cease and submit, Commander Fedorova. Protocol Zero is in effect!" - a distorted male voice came after her, as she heard a heavy thump of someone landing behind her back, and a telltale clack of a safety-off… an FR27 Sanction rifle, from the sound of it.
Amateur! Exposing himself. But that's not the first one. It's his backup. The first one isn't this stupid.
Lower lip twisting in contempt, the woman let herself drop into a balanced roll, letting herself slide the rest of the way down the loading ramp, as her gyrostabilized arms aimed the scopeless sniper rifle back the way she came – the red-dot settling on the chest of a black-on-red clad, full helmeted male figure, with augmented arms and lower legs, letting off with a three-round-burst from his weapon – indeed, a Sanction.
The flechettes whizzed over her prone form, as she fired, a crater of blood suddenly appearing in the centre of the helmeted man's chest, sending him to his back, dead before he hit the ground. She recognised the outfit instantly – one of the Tyrant Spec Ops support corps.
A Sneaker. Of course. I'm insulted, Jaron… sending my own trainees after me?
She kept rolling towards the elevator doors, not staying stationary, fully expecting another crossbow bolt to be coming from somewhere above. But none came. Just as she got back to her feet and hit the call button, a soft clinking sound of an object rolling down the ramp, caught her ears. A grenade.
The woman caught a glimpse of a red-ringed oval object, and instantly threw herself to one side, behind a stack of packing crates. A moment later, an explosion went off, a few shrapnel showering her, but not causing serious damage or injuries.
She took cover fully behind the crates, awaiting the sound of the elevator arriving. Then she cloaked briefly, leaping up and diving through the opening doors, preemptively dropping prone inside the elevator, in case her unseen assailant took a blind shot at the doors, as she aimed the rifle back out. Just as the doors closed, she thought she spotted a shimmer of light and a glass-edged human shape, at the edge of the loading ramp. Before she could get off a shot, the doors closed fully, and the lift was on it's way down.
Letting out a sigh of relief, Yelena dropped the cloak, getting back to her feet. The predatory grin then returned to her lips.
One down… at least one more to go. But now I know who I'm up against.
If the second operative, and whoever else was up there, had any sense, they wouldn't follow her down… or at least not all the way down. It would be like walking into a killzone, since the elevator's descent was long enough for her to prepare a suitable reception for any pursuers.
The facility consisted of three sub-levels, and a fourth one, accessible by a separate elevator, below the surface. What Yelena was after, was on the bottom-most level, behind a false wall in the chamber they were assigned to communicate with OR. She was willing to bet, that neither Jensen nor anyone else who might have come down in the interim, was able to find it.
The Uplink. A secure uplink, to the Killing Floor. And her ticket off the hook, for good.
The elevator doors opened, on Sublevel Three. Yelena slipped out like a wraith, then took cover in a maintenance bot bay, inspecting her damaged foot. The leaf spring was bent, but not snapped fully. If she kept some weight off the foot, she'd be able to prevent more damage to the limb. Still, it made her scowl. That landing was rough – far too rough for her taste. It seemed her ad hoc self-maintenance work she'd done back in Montreal's LIMB clinic, wasn't as good as she hoped for. She was far from 100%.
Briefly, she remained still and silent, letting her cochlear implants get a good echo-reading of the area, for more potential resonance signals. Nothing.
So more of them didn't make their way down in advance… I'll take what good news I can get. Sloppy. Or they just got here and didn't have time to descend. Either way, good for me.
Then, quickly and efficiently, the woman set about improvising a trap, at the elevator doors. She searched the burned remains of a Boxguard, finding an active energy cell, which she wired to a proximity detonator from a mine template in one of the storage crates. Her little IED wouldn't have the same yield as a proper frag mine, but it would be a nasty surprise for anyone following her to this level.
She looked around. Aside from the burned-up Boxguard, which was likely the result of an EMP discharge, she spotted several half-decomposed bodies on the upper walkways. Jensen's handiwork, no doubt.
Alarm panels… she gave them a glance as she passed them by. None of them were triggered. Yelena was impressed in spite of herself. The man had managed to secure the bay, without any of their troops being able to raise an alarm. And had done so with a lethal efficiency that rivaled the best the Tyrants had to offer. Namely… Jaron Namir, and herself.
Her original... sexually-charged hatred of the man, back in Montreal during their duel, then replaced by ambivalence, was now replaced again, by grudging... respect.
The aquiline woman sighed slightly, realising that it was Jensen's… killing ability… that she respected. But one could only change so much. She may have been aware of it now, and regretful of it... but she was what she was. A trained, honed killer. And she respected skill in that area.
Was there ever a time when I respected anything else?
She wondered, slightly uneasily. Then she recalled Eliza's kindness, which kept her from ending herself. And the little boy's, back in that apartment, which brought more of her childhood memories, into the light. And a new perspective.
With those thoughts, she reached the locker rooms down on that level, looking through the leftover personal effects and supplies of their troops that were left behind during their rushed evacuation. She needed more cyber-energy bars, but more importantly, some adhesive and sealant, to try and prevent any more bending on her fractured right leaf spring. Managing to find one bar, she had no luck with either adhesive or sealant. She'd simply have to minimize the amount of weight put on her right leg, until she could find some.
Something caught Yelena's attention, a picture ducttaped to the back of one of the lockers. She smirked, shaking her head slightly. It was her. Severely photoshopped image of her, especially her bust, that that particular soldier clearly used as his personal jack-off material. Her smirk turned into a slightly annoyed expression, followed by an eyeroll.
Really?! You thinkI'm not busty enough? Oh please. I SO am! I'd squeeze you SO hard you'd BEG with your last breath to get between these, mister...
Annoyance turned into irritation, as she stalked out of the locker room at a clipped pace, almost petulantly, a catty look in her eyes. Yelena liked male attention, even if it was usually mixed with unease on their part. That just added to the image she liked to present, keeping them… simmering yet vaguely scared of her, a seemingly untouchable ice-queen, until she chose her prey for the night. The idea that some guy didn't think she was perfect already… grr. It did bruise her vanity, ever-so-slightly.
But the brief moment of emotional self-indulgence passed, and the woman's face refocused into a determined expression. Now wasn't the time to get sidetracked. Next stop, the armoury. As she ascended the stairwell just above the row of holding cells, she took notice of the hacked security terminal there. That didn't encourage her, since that terminal controlled the armoury doors. Did someone already raid it?
Sure enough, the camera inside was offline, and the shelves were mostly empty. The only item remaining was a lone Buzzkill stun-gun, and a single box of six electro-darts for it. Everything else, the pistols, the rifles, even the ammunition, was gone. Scowling, she took the stun gun and the ammunition for it, since it might come useful, and not just for its obvious use… the thing was highly effective at momentarily scrambling electronics and security bots, as she knew from personal experience. It was a handy weapon and tool to have, for it's versatility.
At that moment, her enhanced hearing picked up a distant detonation, coming vaguely from the direction of the loading bay and the elevator, at the other end of the level.
Enough… time to get below.
They were definitely coming down. Whether anyone was in the elevator, or a decoy was sent down in anticipation of a trap, she was on the clock. If they remembered their training, they would've sent a decoy drone down first, to trigger any mines or traps she might have laid.
"Three, sitrep."
"No contact. No EM signatures. Nothing showing up on my thermals. Permission to advance into the server room?"
"Negative. Hold position and wait for me. You saw what happened to Two up there. She will resist." - quietly.
Signing off, the black-on-red clad, helmeted man advanced stealthily alongside a tarp-covered row of packed Boxguards, trying to stay as much in the bots' shadow, as possible, his suppressed Sanction at the ready. He had set his helmet visor to Thermal mode, hoping to pick up Fedorova if she was under cloak. He himself was also under cloak, and that, coupled with the plentiful shadows in the access corridor, he hoped would be enough to conceal his approach, in case she was somewhere up ahead, lying in ambush. His unit had trained with her often enough, that he knew how perceptive she was. Cloak was by no means a guarantee she wouldn't spot him. As far as he knew, her augmentation suite didn't include Smart Vision – at least none of the Sneakers had ever seen her use it, during assignments - but her natural eyesight was exceptional. The way she instantly took a bead on him back in the elevator, the moment he came into the open – still cloaked – left no doubt of that. He would need every trick in the book, if he had any chance of sneaking up on her.
Trying to put himself into the woman's mind… even if he knew full well how futile that was. Yelena Fedorova's mindset was an enigma, for as long as he had served in the Tyrants. She never spoke. She never let on what she was thinking. The only way she ever gave orders, was via written instructions or short, to-the-point Infolink communiques that gave nothing away but the information required. He was trained to PsyOp the enemy. Get inside their head. Anticipate them. Strike where they're weakest. That philosophy by itself, was Fedorova's MO, that she espoused to her unit. And she was VERY good at applying it to her targets.
With Fedorova, there was no chance of doing that. She may as well have been a robot, for the amount of personality he'd ever seen from her. Just that empty, hollow gaze, that pierced through.
So far, standard tactics seemed to apply, however. She had set up a crude trap, back at the main elevator. He had anticipated that, and sent down a recon drone first. They lost the drone, but cleared out the way down.
Their progress through Level Three, all the way to the separate elevator to the sub-basement, has been uneventful. Almost suspiciously uneventful. She hadn't tried to ambush them, she hadn't set up any more traps… not that they would know if she had, as they used the vent shafts to descent, not risking the elevator.
Now in the sub-level, Three's all-clear report didn't make him any less uneasy.
Where the hell is she?!
He reached the end of the row of Boxguards, flattening himself next to a corner. Listening hard. His own cochlear implants were decent, but probably not on the same level as custom-manufactured ones for Tyrant elite operatives like Fedorova.
Nothing. The silence in itself, was menacing, as he slipped away from cover, still trying to stick to the shadows, and silently made his way across the hallway, to the back door to the server room.
"In position. Ready to breach-and-clear, on my command." - he commed the other Sneaker, via Infolink.
"Copy, One. Now at main entrance. Give a count." - the other man's Infolink-relayed voice came back instantly.
Counting back from three, he palmed a flash grenade in one hand, unclipping it from his belt satchel. When the countdown reached zero, he hit the door-open switch and tossed it in. Upon hearing the twin sonic booms from within, he burst in, dropping to one knee and sweeping left-right-left with the Sanction, keeping his Thermal sight on.
Aside from the other man – nothing. Just a computer console in the centre, surrounded by high-tech looking circuitry that neither of them had any idea what it was for. But the room was empty… other then a mid-sized, tarp-covered, irregular looking object lying next to the computer console. It was too small to be a body…
"What's this…?" - Three murmured out loud, approaching the object, and pulling the tarp slowly back, by the barrel of his own Sanction, to reveal it…
"Don't touch it!" - One snapped, on sudden flash of instinct… but it was too late. A powercell rigged to what looked like a Buzzkill stun weapon, stripped down to a photosensitive sensor inside, let out a rapid series of beeps, then… a thermal-flash, powerful enough to overload their helmet vision systems, blinding them and scrambling their sense of balance.
He felt himself… floating… barely on his feet, dizzy, as suddenly, a long, limber leg came out of nowhere, to kick the Sanction out of his grip, sending the weapon spinning off to land next to the wall. He spun around, snapping his arms up on reflex and adopting a stance, his extensive hand-to-hand training taking over… but there was nobody there. Just a whisper of displaced air… over his head...
"Watch ou-" - Three's voice came from somewhere off to the side, before it cut off in a choked-off gurgle, mixed with faint snapping of vertebrae.
He spun around again, a full 360 arc, scrabbling for his Zenith 10mm sidearm… to see the tall, limber shape of Fedorova standing over Three's crumpled body, the dead man's Sanction rifle in her arms, aimed steadily at his face.
He froze. Hand hovering over the Zenith. A long pair of moments stretched.
"What're you waiting for, Commander?" - he finally asked flatly. A half-dozen scenarios flashed through his head in a microsecond. All of them statistically ended up with him being shot before he could finish drawing. If it was a regular combatant… he might have risked a dive-and-draw, hoping to throw off the aim for the moment it took him to fire. But against Fedorova? No.
The woman's head tilted slightly to the side, in a non-verbal signal he instantly recognised – he was instructed to receive an external Infolink comms – no doubt hers.
~"Leave. Now."~
He frowned slightly under the helmet. She was… letting him go? What the hell…?! This was not the Yelena Fedorova they've all come to know well. Suddenly, the dive-and-draw idea looked a bit more feasible to try. Has she gone soft?
"I'm under orders, Commander. Protocol Zero." - his flat tone not changing, not giving away any emotional intent, through his voice. Then, he let his feet collapse under him, throwing himself sideways, yanking out the Zenith in the same instant, bringing it to bear…
The gun was out of the holster, midway through the drawing motion, tantalizingly close to a workable firing solution, before a flechette intersected with the front of his helmet visor, piercing it, and his face, right to the brain. He finished his drop – already dead. The gun being clutched in his suddenly numb hand.
Yelena's lips only pursed slightly, her expression not changing, as she lowered the Sanction, and stepped towards the computer console.
I tried.
Not giving either of the bodies a second look, she sat down at the Uplink console, and entered a complex series of code-phrases and numbers. Then she put a VR headset lying next to the console, onto her head. It was finally time to do what she came here to do – sever the last link they could use, to track her.
The Killing Floor. And while she was inside… maybe find out what really happened to her, that day. The Killing Floor was much more then a cyberspace platform for the distribution of assignments.
It was a repository. A repository of lost memories, a database that contained personal recollections of every member of the Tyrants. Those that were – segmented – out of their minds, during the conditioning process. Namir had never allowed her to access that section of the Floor. Her, or any of the other operatives.
It was now, or never.
/ To be concluded in the final installment – Sins Of A Mother /