Chapter 7 - The Old Caretaker
"...So you can really talk, huh?" I asked, my voice hoarse from disuse. It returned to normal again after several short and dry coughs, though a gulp of fresh and cool water would do even more help to me. Oh God help me… I feel like I'm being mummified right now.
Man the fuck up Brad. You won't feel the thirst if you don't think about it. Whining is for pussies, and you certainly ain't one.
"Yes sir, I did." It replied in a respectful tone, its two camera lenses blinking like real human eyes, something I didn't know the automaton was capable of before. That one gesture made it easier to converse with as a person, and not awkward like talking to a brick wall.
"And I can assume that these are your own words, not some pre recorded lines that your corrupted ass spew out at random, yes?" I raised a questioning eyebrow, idly opening and folding my survival knife like an age-restricted fidget toy.
"That would also be right, sir." It confirmed with a nod.
"How did- Yeah, you know what? That's fine. That's completely fine. I've just been through so much weird shit today, that I just literally can't bring myself to care anymore." I facepalmed tiredly, glancing to both ends of the hallway in lookout for more fishmen. Even with all the commotion we've just caused, none of them showed up to investigate, much to my relief. Also, what's with all the "sir" and shit...?
"Well, if you're smart enough to talk big words like that, then you're also smart enough to answer some questions that I got for you. First of all, drop the "sir" part. I'm neither that old nor proper for you to call me that. It's annoying."
"Acknowledged, mister Brad." It replied, and I began to feel my fuse running short. Gosh, why would whoever created this little shit programmed its personality after an English gentleman!? To make the thing seem more charming and approachable? Yeah, that might've worked with other dwellers of this place, but right now all those big and flowery words are doing nothing but pissing me the fuck off!
Ah dammit. My fuse's running short again. Breathe in, Brad... Breathe in...
(Exhale) "... Bloody hell, that's even worse. The first pronoun's fine, I don't give a fuck. Now secondly, can you still move? Surely those blasts didn't jack you up that bad, did they?" I asked, examining the smoldering holes on the unit's body armor from a safe distance. "You tin cans are made of tough stuff y'know, known to eat loads of 7.62mm in the field and still kickin'... Well, the Infantry model anyway. The Peacekeeper one though... eh, not so sure." By the look of it, both torso shots didn't even penetrate the inner 3rd layer, having spread most of their energy onto the surrounding surface instead. The heat may have partially bypassed the thermal insulation plating and fried some components inside, but all of them should be inessential and not related to the unit's basic functions. In short, I can't consider this thing a heap of scrap... At least not yet.
"Most of the damages this unit has sustained - besides the right arm - were fairly inconsequential. It is estimatedly still 73% combat-capable, sir." The robot confirmed my observation, no doubt having just performed a quick scan on itself.
"Great! Get your phát ass in there. Now." I jerked my thumb toward the far-left corner of the room behind me, "Can't chit-chat out in the open like this. We need privacy." More of those fishmen could still be around this place, and I'd rather not get spotted and have to defend myself with just this butter knife in my hand.
"Yes, sir." The construct complied, lugging its great towering frame through the room's entrance with heavy echoing footsteps. It barely fit through the doorway, chipping off a sizable chunk of the degraded polymer frame with its shoulder, and forcing me to step inside to make way - another critical mistake on my part for not keeping distance from the supposedly rogue robot, but I guess that's fine since it hasn't ripped my head off while passing by yet. Guess that means the automaton is confirmed to be friendly now. As soon as the robot entered the room, I took one last cautionary glance at the hallway and quietly shut the door, not forgetting to drag its severed right arm inside with me because why not.
The A.M.C.U unit sat cross-legged in its assigned spot and looked curiously at me, while I began to sort my backpack's content again, along with my previously-discarded items.
"Now, to the main show. What's your ID number?" I asked, not bothering to look up from my work. But just to be sure, I placed my empty (thankfully it doesn't know that yet) plasma pistol within my reach as a subtle warning for the machine to not try to screw me over. And by the look of it, the thing fully understood my threat.
"MK-9 Advanced Mechanized Combat Unit, designated VAUBAN-171684-SA. 'Polaris Security' Division, sir." The thing fluently announced, adding in some extra scripted details that were completely unasked for. I rolled my eyes in annoyance in response, but decided not to roast him about it. Totally not in the mood for sarcasm right now.
"Alright, cool. Anyway...Strategic Assault model? So you're with the commando guys, huh? And here I thought you were just a normal Peacekeeper. No wonder you're so goddamn hard to kill." I raised an eyebrow in amusement. It's not everyday that you get to see one of these hit-and-runners in person. 'Strategic Assault', the newest and most exceptional addition to the A.M.C.U family. Instead of serving as support units for the law enforcement forces, or as expendable soldiers to throw into the heat of battle en masse, this particular series of automaton is designed to be used as either spec-ops or shock troops, performing swift and crippling strikes on the enemy's vital positions where massive campaigns and air strikes aren't effective against, such as hidden supply lines or command centers. This is why the 'Strategic Assault' A.M.C.U model is vastly superior to its two counterparts in terms of physical strength, speed, armor toughness, extra gadgets... and of course, production cost. They're basically built to last and not be easily replaceable, focusing on individual quality instead of quantity. And to demote an entire batch of these elites to just mere bunker security guards... Polaris sure knew how to invest in humanity's future huh?
"Hey, big shot, tell me a bit about yourself. Have you ever seen real combat before?" I jerked my chin at the robot.
"No, sir. This unit's activation history is empty, save for the most recent log which was created 1 hour(s) and 28 minute(s) ago." It answered.
"Ah, straight from the oven, I see. Next question: why did you try to rush me just now? Are you corru- no, scratch that. Just answer the first part." Corrupted AI don't retain their ability to communicate verbally like that, so that's pretty much self-explanatory.
"In order to not lose the only physical connection I have with you, I'd calculated that the best course of action was to close the distance faster and stop you from damaging this vessel any further." It stated matter-of-factly, making me blink numerous times from bafflement. Fucking what? What kind of thought process is that?
"... You could've just ducked behind the nearby corner, or raised your hands up, you know?" I scoffed and rolled my eyes. Trying to rush an armed enemy alone and from afar like that is just simply stupid. Has centuries of dormancy scrambled its egg this badly? Or am I the one who forgot about how these guys' logic works?
"I-I apologize, sir. I'm not entirely familiar with military tactics and protocols, so my judgment regarding them might be flawed. I would greatly appreciate it if you could fill me in on these-" The A.M.C.U spoke with uncertainty in its voice, but I cut it off mid-sentence.
"-Now hold on a minute. Can you repeat that part again?" I stopped packing my stuff and looked at the... the man-made anomaly before me straight in the eyes, incredulity written all over my face. The robot also made a startled hiccup-like sound upon seeing my abrupt change in demeanor.
"...My judgment in combat may be unjust due to my lack of understanding in military tactics and protoc-" It slowly repeated, only for me to interrupt it again.
"Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa... How much of it that you don't know?"
"Uhhh... All of it, sir."
"-You fucking kidding me!? How can a combat android dispose of what is HARD-CODED into it like that!? That data is literally half of what makes up your memory drive! Better yet, it wasn't even any sophisticated combat doctrine, but just COMMON FUCKING SENSE! This is... This is unbelievable!" My eyes almost dropped out of my sockets in bewilderment, and I yelled so loud that the floor below me seemed to vibrate a little. The noise I made has definitely caught the attention of everything lurking inside this maze, and some out in the main hall too. So much for privacy...
"Sir, please c-"
"-Aaaand... What did you just call yourself again? 'Vessel' and... What? 'The only physical connection'?" The A.M.C.U once again made that weird noise when it saw how quickly my outburst ceased to exist. Even the lowliest and dumbest of robots knows how to refer to itself in first person, so you instantly know something's not right when one decides to go full Shakespeare and talk in third person like this. "You're... You're not really an A.M.C.U, are you? Got this hunch moments ago..." I grabbed my plasma pistol and stood up, racking the slide backward threateningly while backing away from the machine's reach, "Tell me, big shot. Who... or what are you?"
I expected the thing to hesitate with its answer, beat around the bush, lie or worst case scenario: straight up lunge itself at me, in which case I'd just throw my pistol in its face and bolt out of the room. What I didn't expect was for it to respond in an almost casual manner, without even a hint of nervousness as if the thing didn't even remotely care that its facade got exposed. "Oh right, sir, where are my manners? How rude of me to not start with a self introduction." It said in a conversational tone, making me slack jawed in surprise.
The automaton continued: "Yes, as you've guessed, I'm not really an A.M.C.U unit. I have only borrowed this automaton in order to reach you, since all the cameras are dead in this section of the bunker. I'm "Tartarus_1467", a gen-6 grid-bound assistance AI of this bunker. Or you can just call me "Tartar", for short. That's how the people here used to call me anyway." I couldn't help but notice a faint hint of regret in its voice.
"Tartarus...? Oh, so you're our bunker's management AI, aren't you? Overseer Billie used to talk alot about you, but we'd never have the chance to see you in person. Well, that... That explains things, I suppose." I shrugged, sitting down again and continuing my loot-sorting work. No wonder why its reasoning skill is so flawed and different from its brethren with a physical body. Ducking, fleeing and surrendering are all behaviors stems from one's self-preservation, and how can a grid-bound (or stationary) AI be familiar with this concept, and know what to do when physically threatened when all it's ever known since birth is the facility-spanning control matrix that is its domain? It knows the concept, and when/ how to do it in theory alright, but will fumble like a drunken monkey when faced with real life scenarios.
"Alright, just so you don't repeat this mistake ever again: When someone aims a gun of any kind at you, and your situation disallows you to get close n' personal, do not try to charge them, alright? No matter what your intention is, you'll most likely be fed a mouthful of lead if you do that. Instead, raise your hand up or put them behind your head as a gesture of surrendering, or duck behind nearby obstacles if possible. Do you get it?"
"Yes sir, I'll keep that in mind"
"I'm sure you will. anyway, you're like... Just a virtual butler, and nothing else right?"
"Indeed I am, sir."
"And if I remember correctly, there's another, different, warfare-oriented AI in charge of our automated defense system?" I pulled the backpack's zipper shut, and opened my med kit in search of the cure for my weird ink-induced ailment. The mild rashes on my skin have long progressed into full blown red patches and even some pus-filled blisters, much to my dismay. The robot, now dubbed Tartar, also seemed to understand what I was trying to do, and leaned forward from its place to have a look at the med kit's contents.
"Yes sir. His name is Rasputin_57, and he is still in hibernation at the moment. I suspect glitches in the reactivation timer." The AI helpfully replied. "Oh, and by the way, I highly recommend you take two of the pills from the small green packet on the left of the kit. It may help with your condition." It added.
"What's that?" I asked, picking up the little plastic container up as the robot said, and squeezed out two white-and-green pills. Ah great, swallowing capsules, one of my primary childhood nightmares. Not only are they hard to swallow, but their smooth gelatinous shells become very slimy when coming into contact with water. Imagine choking these little shits down your throat like choking on fish tank pebbles, and having to go through your entire day with them still stuck at the end of your esophagus. To describe that experience as merely 'unpleasant' would be terribly understating it, I tell you. To make matters better, my throat is currently as dry as a bone, and I have NO drinkable water in my backpack that can be used to wash them down with. I stared blankly at the two pills in my hand, feeling incredibly hesitant to just hold it closer to my face, let alone put it into my mouth.
Good Lord. What did I do to deserve this...
"Those are ItchAway 3K, sir. Australia-made, non-prescribed medication for common allergy. Suitable for all ages. You're currently suffering from moderate contact dermatitis caused by an allergic reaction to an unknown organic contaminant from outside the facility, so even though there are some... abnormalities in the way your body reacts to the substance, I think it would only be logical to give you a drug that can cure similar conditions." Tartar, upon sensing my apprehension, casually explained with all the enthusiasm of a seasoned physician. This bot seems to know what it's doing pretty well, so I guess I should trust it. Tartar's been looking after all of us since day one in the bunker anyway.
"Alright, sounds convincing enough... But how do you know that it's gonna work with whatever I've been contracted with? You mentioned 'abnormalities', right?" I asked skeptically, rolling the small pills back and forth in my hand.
"Well honestly sir... I don't." It replied, hesitantly scratching the back of its head, "Abnormality is an understatement. And yes, just like what you said, it might or might not be effective against your unusual allergy, and right now I don't possess the necessary equipment nor the analyzing program to give you a concrete answer. The only way to find out, sir, is to try for yourself."
"...Eh, fair enough." I shrugged, then popped the pills into my mouth and swallowed them down with a bite of my soap-like hardtack. That went way smoother than I'd expected. They didn't stick, irritate or choke my face blue whatsoever to my relief. Now, all I need to do is wait for the drugs to take effect.
"If this Rasputin_57 is still sleeping down there, then how did you wake up?"
The robot cocked his head to the side, probably in confusion, "Sir, I've been awake all this time. I was not allowed to go into hibernation like Rasputin_57, for my presence is necessary to monitor and ensure the well-being of all cryopod occupants."
"So... Can't you wake that thing up or something? Could use some of those exotic murder techs it got right now."
"I'm sorry, sir, but it is impossible for me to carry out that request. Directive "IR_47C" has stated very clearly that I am not to interfere with the hibernation of other on-site AIs, unless authorized by the Overseer. Failure to comply with said directive could very well lead to the permanent termination of my mainframe, and myself by extension." Tartar apologetically answered.
"And why is that?" I furrowed my brow in annoyance.
"Well sir... There had been cases of rogue sentient AIs cannibalizing other AIs for intact codes to prolong their existence. A rudimentary behavior of self-preservation in other words, and Polaris apparently doesn't want that." Tartar replied.
"Can you hack into his system and maybe grab some of that good stuff out then?"
"Apology, sir, but wrestling the control of more military assets from him is a no-no also. I had to use up all of my infiltration ability to bypass detection when hijacking this robot, and I'd rather not pull out that stunt again." Alright, point taken. There goes my dream of smoking every single freak inside this place with point-defense sentries, laser walls and neurotoxins.
"Bloody great! And here I thought I could just drop the shit show on someone else." I grunted, unceremoniously tossing the crumpled food wrapping away. "So... Where do you think we should go next? Like where can I get food, clean water and be safe from all those fuckers outside? I'm starting to get quite sick of this place."
"I apologize, sir, but I have no clue either. The Wing A of the facility is completely cut off from the main fusion reactor, and as the result, all of its assets - minus the ones that run on a separate backup power reserve - are either offline or degraded beyond being salvageable. One of which is the section-wide surveillance system, my eyes and ears around here." The robot answered, spreading out his hand to project a 3D holographic map of the sector we're in, with blinking red dots that represent non-functional areas all over it. I've never been great with reading maps, but by the looks of it, pretty much everything around here has been rendered useless, except for the emergency lighting, hallway sliding doors, the elevator system and some other stuff. Oh, and the holo model also revealed something that made me go through the roof in rage: This entire convoluted and seemingly unending maze of corridors I've painfully dragged myself through, turns out to be just a simple [889]-shaped hallway system that is slightly bigger than a standard basketball field, with a cargo lift at the end of the "9" section's "tail", and my room in the second "8" section's middle. It now makes perfect sense why I didn't come across the lift when I thought about my travel earlier, because I've been walking in circles this whole damn time!
"Son of a...", I smacked my forehead in exasperation, briefly startling Tartar again and making the hologram on his hand flicker. Kinda regret not asking the bunker's scientists for my IQ test result before getting frozen, cuz right now, I'm quite convinced that I'm fucked up in the head. Like... Holy shit, just how bad can one's spatial orientation skill really be?
"... Anyway, that elevator over there. Is that the same one you used to get up here with?" I turned to the confused robot, trying my best to push my recent screw-up to the back of my mind. Mistakes were made, alright? And kicking myself for it won't do any help other than wasting time. Just... gonna try not to tread on the same rake ever again. Hopefully.
"Yes sir. But I highly recommend against taking it to the lower levels, because they've been infested with unidentified aggressive and sentient salmon-like lifeforms, and thus are unsafe to traverse in." The robot answered.
"Ah yes, the fishmen. I know those things. And are they the reason you got up here so late?"
"Yes sir, I was met with hostility almost immediately after exiting the A.M.C.U storage area, and was forced to defend myself." He confirmed with a nod. Though, judging by the amount of green gore splattered all over Tartar's body, and how he quite literally dug a canal out of that obese fishman a moment ago, I don't think this is considered legal self-defense anymore.
"Defend yourself by killing them first before they can get to you, huh? Sounds about right to me." I chuckled, "How many of those fishmen did you think you saw down there?"
"If I have to estimate, sir, I'd say somewhere between 500 - 700 of them. Maybe more than that. Though I'd have to analyze the unit's combat footage to give you a more concrete answer." Tartar slowly answered while scratching his head, taking time to consider his words. Yeah... that's a no, then.
"Nah no need, I already got an idea of how numerous they are. Have you restricted access to that elevator afterward yet?" Even though I doubted that those monsters even know how to operate an elevator, it doesn't hurt to take some precautions.
"Yes sir, I have."
"Good. This whole area is considered safe for now." I clasped my hands together with a smile. Welp, I guess a longer break time for me then. An actual nap even, now that I got a robotic and nigh-invincible companion to stand guard for me. Quite a shame that he managed to fight through an entire tsunami of feral fishmen, only to get floored by a Yankee teen armed with what is essentially a plasma deagle. Gosh, he could've been so much more useful if I'd not panic-sprayed him. But no use for regrets right now.
There are still several matters that I need to attend before finally relaxing. The first and most urgent of them is my lack of effective weapons (my lil' switchblade ain't counted as one). So after a moment of consideration, I pulled out my toolkit, unfolded my survival knife and grabbed the humanoid's nerf gun nearby to make a DIY spear. And the reason why I decided to create a spear, and not something else? The same as all those videos on ways to survive a zombie apocalypse would tell you: Simple to craft, very durable if used correctly, requires little strength and skill to wield, has long range, and looks cool as hell. The only two drawbacks of this weapon is its narrow attack radius and tendency to get stuck in or between bones, becoming incredibly hard to pull free, but they're mostly outweighed by all the benefits. Plus, what other options do I have?
And to top it off, I got quite a lot of experience with handling a bo staff from my school. Compulsory after-class clubs for some reason still existed even in war time. Far from being top of my club for sure, but still good enough to last a solid 2 minutes against my trainer in the ring if I play defensive... And about 6-8 seconds if he decides to go ham, but that's besides the point.
"Tartar, can you help me with this?" I called while inspecting the sniper rifle's barrel with a roll of measuring tape from the toolkit, calibrating the ideal length for the spear shaft. "I need you to break off this part right here." I tapped lightly at my chosen section, then handed the rifle to the robot.
"Certainly, sir." He replied politely, and began to squeeze the long metallic tube with his thumb and index finger. A deafening 'CRACK' rang out right after, that made my ears ring at the sound of. The barrel has been practically cut clean off from the rifle's body by the sheer pressure exerted by his monstrous grip strength, quite like a bolt cutter.
"Alright... T-that was c-certainly a feat. Next time warn me first, a-alright? I still value my hearing, thanks very much!" I stuttered, rubbing my ringing ears and accepting the snapped shaft that Tartar handed to me.
"Apologize, sir. I'll keep that in mind."
Conveniently, there's also a small roll of insulating duct tape at the bottom of the toolkit, which means I don't have to pull some strips from any of my clothes to fasten the knife. "Oh yeah almost forgot. P-SEC Captain Valentine got me this plasma SMG as a parting gift, but ain't kind enough to unlock it for me. This A.M.C.U you're in still got one of those cool espionage hackery toys, yes? You know what I'm talking about."
"Hmmm... Let me check... Yes sir, it seems like this A.M.C.U unit still retains its TSIA (Tactical Software Intrusion Apparatus) device, specifically the Neotech MK-lll Masterkey variant." Tartar responded after running a quick scan on the robot's gadget arsenal. A Masterkey, huh? Not the most up-to-date model for sure, but sufficient to crack a simple biometric lock regardless. Now that I'm about to get my hands on a functional automatic plasma weapon, those fuckwits downstairs are gonna learn true fear alright.
"Nice. Tartar, disengage this thing's bio-lock for me while I work." I handed the SMG to the robot, then returned to making my melee weapon. And with some more measuring, a little blade sharpening, and some VERY liberal use of insulating tape, a sturdy and lightweight survival spear is created. Better yet, the barrel that is its shaft can be collapsed into half of its original length, so the problem of space is pretty much taken care of. I held my new weapon up and admired it with delight, its perfect-sized handle fitting nicely in my hand. I then checked the firmness of the spear blade, then performed some attack, parry and spin techniques from memory to test its balance. And I can confirm that the thing's very balanced and ergonomically-pleasing, comparable to the rubber-tipped ones I was given at the dojo. Totally worth half of my precious roll of duct tapes... that could've been used for something more important, but oh well.
"By the way, sir, you might want to take a look at this A.M.C.U's right arm. There's a gadget on its wrist that I'm sure you'll find useful." Tartar added, pointing at the severed mechanical arm lying by my side. Heeding his suggestion, I flipped the limb over and found a long rectangular device with yellow-black industrial stripes and blue helix decals attached along its forearm. I unscrewed the four tiny bolts around the object with a screwdriver from my toolbox, only to discover that it was actually half-sunken inside a compartment in its wrist, its larger bottom side sporting a light-chrome frame and some green LED lights.
"Uhhhh… Tartar? What is this TV remote-looking thingy?" I asked while carefully disconnecting all the cables and wires attached to the object's bottom side from their sockets. It took quite a while to accomplish due to how tangled together they've been; whoever made this thing apparently hadn't bothered to at least curl their creation's wires into a tidy coil, and just messily stuffed them in then called it a day.
"It's a 'Pulse Teslabolt - 50kV'. A type of NEM, or non-lethal electroshock module, typically seen in Peacekeeper A.M.C.U models. Since it's not designed to be used by people, you'll need to attach it to a separate conversion kit in order to fire the module." Tartar explained.
"A 'Teslabolt'? Yeah, heard of 'em before. 'Non-lethal' my ass, that thing fries people like a mosquito lamp. Almost got deemed too inhumane and outlawed back before the 4th War, but somehow still managed to stay in the market even after all the lawsuits." I grunted, thoroughly inspecting the taser module I just got. Alright, that round hollowed protrusion on the end of the module is the barrel obviously, the finger-sized bulge on the opposite end is probably where the power cell is located. So what is this little black knob below the generator? The module's trigger mechanism or something? Why would this shock module need a physical trigger, if it's designed solely to be used by Peacekeeper A.M.C.U? Out of curiosity, I gently pushed it forward a little and-
-'BRRZZZ!' - an aquamarine bolt of electrified and grav-encased polymer shot out of the weapon's barrel, leaving a streak of neon-blue contrails behind it and impacting the wall next to me with a deafening 'ZAP!' By reflex, I immediately jumped off my seat to dodge the rain of hot sparks, but still got showered by the majority of them. Yeah, that's its trigger, no doubt.
"Ow ow ah ah ahh fuck!" I yelped pathetically while furiously patting all over my body, extinguishing several spots on my clothes that had begun to catch fire, including my VERY flammable jacket which is made of synthetic fiber.
"Sir! Are you alright, sir?" Tartar worriedly asked, dropping the SMG and standing up to help me, but I quickly waved him off.
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just some small sparks, nothing serious really." I assured the automaton with a half-hearted smile.
"I'm glad to hear, sir. Please be more careful in the future." The robot answered with a relieved sigh, sitting back down. Well goddammit, I almost torched myself right there. If my dad was still alive, he would be absolutely ashamed by his son's lack of trigger discipline and general stupidity right now. Yeah, I hate myself for that too, not gonna lie. But on the bright side, I've just given my jacket sleeves and trousers some black polka dots, that probably look ugly as shit. But hey, wear n' tear fashion trend, amirite?
After checking my backpack nearby for any damage - which I found none thankfully, I pulled my toolbox closer, and began to scrap the ink sniper rifle's body to craft a makeshift grip for the shock module. After prying the two halves of the gun's frame apart with a small double-sided wrench, I peered inside and was mildly disappointed at just how basic the internal workings of this alien-looking gun actually is. In all honesty, despite the pathetic performance these humanoids' weapons had put up against me, I'd expected them to be a little bit more complex and intricate to be able to fire such a massive volume of ink. This thing is basically a magnified super soaker - i.e, operates by using compressed air to dispense liquid. But instead of having a shotgun-like hand pump to build up pressure like its toy counterpart, a fist-sized hi-power pumping machine is located just beneath its stock-mounted ink tank, that is wired directly to the trigger. The majority of the weapon's parts are made out of a hard and lightweight metal, most likely a variant of plasteel alloy to keep it from exploding from pressure overload. Well, that was... a bit anticlimactic. But it's a good thing actually, since the thing's simplicity will only make it easier for me to dismantle it. After three minutes or so of piecing together components and securing them together with another generous amount of duct tape, my shock module now has a pink and chrome revolver-styled grip attached behind its trigger, with some very uncomfortable-looking protruding edges that I failed to get rid of. Oh and good news! The red rashes on my skin are showing signs of dissipating! Turns out the drug does work after all. Praise be the wonder of modern science!
"With all due respect, sir, I don't think you should use this weapon at all." Tartar spoke up after several minutes of examining the plasma SMG. Fucking excuse me? Don't tell me that he thinks I'm not old enough to legally handle a gun? What does he take me for? A clumsy lil' toddler who can't even tie his shoelaces? I'm 16 years old, and almost qualified as an adult for God's sake! Better yet, why would he be concerned about firearm laws when the ones who made those laws have kicked the bucket?
"And what do you mean by that exactly?" I snapped, throwing an annoyed glare at the robot. "I am perfectly capable of handling a gun, Tartar. Thanks for your concern, just crack the lock dammit."
"No, Brad sir. That's not what I mean. I certainly don't doubt your skill with guns at all. You've... already given me a live demonstration on that." The robot gestured at the charred and twisted stump that used to be his right arm. "What I'm saying is, this plasma rifle-"
"-Submachine gun." I curtly corrected the AI.
"...I'm sorry, sir?"
"It's a plasma submachine gun, not a rifle. It's built for personal defense and close-quarter combat, meaning its effective range is 65 yards at best - only slightly better than a 9mm. Get it right next time, will ya?" Just a bad habit of mine to correct people on their mistakes about firearms. Can't help it, cuz I'm a gun nut and all.
"I will sir, and thank you for informing me." Tartar replied, still in his usual respectful and formal tone. How he is able to perfectly keep his cool even after my antics is beyond me. Maybe he's already gotten sick of the brat before him, and it's just his user-friendly program holding him back from spraying torrents of expletives at me. Yes, I think it's already been established at this point that I'm not exactly a pleasant person to interact with.
"Yes, no problem. Go on... And, uh, sorry. I guess." I shrugged, motioning the old AI to continue where he left off.
"Ah, no problem, sir... Now as I was saying, it isn't about whether you can use a gun or not. It's about whether the gun is safe enough for you to use or not. Here, let me show you..." Tartar held the weapon in front of me, then forcibly pried off its top ventilation lid like prying open a toasted baguette, revealing the brownish electromagnetic coil inside.
Ayo what the FUCK!? Careful with that you prick! - Witnessing such a heinous act of vandalism being performed on my gun made me lose a piece of my soul. I was half-tempted to pounce at Tartar and snatch the SMG back, but a glance at the snapped and half-dismantled sniper rifle next to me quickly gave a reminder of just how horribly outmatched I am against him - even though he probably wouldn't retaliate if I do. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do but to sit down, swallow my pain, and pray to God that he won't torture my boy any further.
"Alright, as you already know, directed-energy weaponry works by creating a sphere of superheated plasma contained within an electromagnetic field, then launch it toward the target via an acceleration system similar to that of a railgun's. And right here ..." Tartar lightly tapped his finger on the copper-composite electromagnetic coil, "You can see that the gun's Gauss coil is not exactly in the best condition to deliver its payload. The wire is soft and splintered, there are sections that have broken off from each other, and the entire coil has been oxidized into a greenish color. The projectile is just not going to travel very far if you use this weapon - "squib load", to give its technical term. And I think having a ball of literal miniaturized solar flare explode near you is not exactly a pleasant way to go." The AI stated matter-of-factly. Okay, valid point. That's one major-ass problem right there. But I think I might be able to fix it somehow? Like replacing the damaged wires with new ones taken from broken machines around here, maybe? They're made of the same type of copper-alloy, if my engineering knowledge is still with me?
"And here, you can see the second issue..." Tartar said, showing me the triangular rubberized grip of the gun, "Its frame has greatly deteriorated over time, and as the result has become very soft-'' The robot pressed his finger against a protruding part, breaking it - and another generous chunk of my soul - with a dry 'crunch', "-and brittle. The frame of plasma weaponry is made of heat-resistant ceramite alloy to help protect the shooter from the effect of a volatile malfunction, up to 82% of the generated heat and 67% of the blast force. Now that this protection layer has been reduced, the danger of using this gun has drastically increased. In short, you might get away with only a 2nd degree burn at best, or two missing forearms at worst if your gun's frame is still intact. But if the gun you're firing is one of these... Well, let's just say that a full funeral package would be unnecessary. No offense." He chipped off another dirty-white ceramite piece from the scope mount's rail to prove his point. This time however, I no longer felt like dying inside, or had the urge to make a grab for the gun, since I'd already started to question the weapon's worth after learning of its problems.
Yeah… I'll take it back. Maybe this thing ain't that salvageable after all…
"And that's not the only two issues with it." Tartar said, then proceeded to methodically disassemble the gun and pointed out its 3rd to 8th problems, from busted energy capacitor, non-existent recoil dampener, to cracked and residue-encrusted coolant tubes. My hope to smite those aberrations with the holy light of plasma continued to plummet with each stated fact, to the point of reaching zero and below.
"Yeah yeah, I get it." I waved Tartar to stop his analysis with a long sigh, my disappointment immeasurable and my day officially ruined, "The gun's scrapped, isn't it? Fine, I won't use it. You happy now?"
"Thanks for your cooperation, sir." The robot replied respectfully, handing the plasma SMG back to me after swiftly reassembling it, only to withdraw his hand when I didn't take the gun.
"Rest assured, sir. This weapon is completely out of power, meaning you can safely touch it without worrying about it going off." Tartar reassured, placing the SMG down in front of me.
"Eh, dunno about this, fam. I'm still a lil' bit apprehensive about touching it, not gonna lie." I shrugged. Guess this taser will have to do. "So, what should I do with this thing? Kind of a waste to just... chuck it away, yeah?". With a tiny screwdriver from my toolkit, I began to dismantle it again to salvage useful components. My face immediately dropped upon seeing that out of 113 pieces of varied-sized components that made up the gun's insides, only half of the rubberized rear grip tape is barely of use to me.
Welp, that is fucking disappointing. Still better than nothing, I guess - I comforted myself, wrapping the strip of rubber around the shock module's improvised handle to cover up the bumps on it.
"You know where I can get a gun around here? An intact armory maybe? Oh and to be specific, I need a functional and lethal gun, preferably full auto, with the corresponding type of ammunition for it... Just don't get me another taser alright?" A proper firearm will significantly increase my chance of surviving through this cesspit, cuz I just can't see how swinging my pointy stick around is gonna do anything notable against such an overwhelming number of fish freaks.
"I'm glad you asked." The old AI enthusiastically said, "Armament storage No.24 is located in this level of the facility, which contains P-SEC gears, weapons and ammunition preserved in stasis lock boxes."
"For real!? Holy shit, why didn't you tell me sooner? Where is it?" I perked up as soon as Tartar finished talking, inching closer to him in anticipation and even placing a hand onto his shoulder.
"On the left side of a hallway intersecting the 2nd area of the cryogenic hibernation hall, sir." Tartar replied, projecting his holographic 3D map of the facility and zooming into the cryo chambers-filled corridor I'd emerged from earlier. More specifically, the hallway crossing over the middle of an unexplored hibernation hall section, right behind the blast door that I'd chosen to ignore after waking up. Simply put, I should've been able to acquire a gun and murder those humanoids right from the start, had I decided to check the opposite blast door out first!
"Well just fucking kill me..." I slapped my forehead in exasperation, once again startling the AI. Despite knowing well that I couldn't have learned of the humanoids or the fishmens' existence back then, my unwitting blunder still got added into my long list of self-disappointment, for reasons that even I didn't know.
"...I'm sorry, sir? Did I do anything wrong?" Tartar asked in a worried tone.
"No. No you didn't. Just frustrated at something I should've done hours ago." I waved my hand in dismissal. "Alright, it seems like getting down there is going to be one hell of a challenge, and I don't even know if it's even worth it or not."
"Is it because of the salmon-like organisms, sir?"
"No that's not... I mean maybe? They could be crawling their way up here right now, but that's not what I'm talking about. We got a bunch of uninvited guests down the 1st floor, who are not any less dangerous than those fishmen. You're already aware of the bunker entrance's breach, aren't you?"
"Yes sir I have." Tartar nodded.
"Yeah tell you what, they and their mechanical-nightmare of a tunnel drill are the culprits behind it. There are 13 of them in total, each armed to the teeth and unmannerly as hell. Managed to kill 6 of them with this plasma pistol, and beat the shit out of one with a lead pipe. I'm pretty sure the last one is still alive, albeit crippled for life. They're probably bandits, militants or an expedition force of whatever post-human civilization is out there, I dunno and don't care." I gave Tartar the gist of my disastrous first-contact, then proceeded to describe in length about the appearance and attack method of both the humanoids and tank-tacles. Though I left the fact that I was the one who shot first out of my story. Don't wanna make myself look bad ya know. And it ain't counting as lying either, so my last bit of integrity is still preserved.
"Sir? Uh... Sorry. I might've misheard, but is it true that you said these... "Humanoids" use different types of toy guns that fire their own ink, and can turn into octopuses at will?" Tartar cocked his head to the side in confusion, apparently skeptical of what I said. I can't blame him though. Anyone, even kindergarten children, would've laughed at my face, suggested a visit to the psychiatrist, or filed a restraining order on me at worst upon hearing my absolutely absurd story. But still, I pressed on with my attempt.
"Yes! You gotta believe me! I'm not talking wee little sprays like a squirt gun for kids. I'm talking thick unending torrents enough to fill a small koi pond, that should've been physically impossible for those things to even produce. They even use their ink as an alternate way of moving, shooting trails of it on the ground and swimming through in their octopus form, which allows them to climb up walls or even ceilings! It's like something straight out of a Cartoon Network show, I tell ya! I've seen it with my own eyes, and you can't tell me that I was trippin' on some acid since I've been fighting tooth and nail against these fuckers mere hours ago, and got their ink samples, and all these stuff in my backpack - DIY sniper rifle included - to back that up!" I spoke rapidly and vociferously to the point of frothing at the mouth, displaying my evidence and disregarding my raging thirst as I tried my best to talk my companion into swaying.
"...Well, Brad sir. If you insist..." Tartar reluctantly replied, "Then yes, I believe you. Though I would take great interest in seeing these peculiar organisms, and uncovering the science behind their seemingly supernatural abilities if possible." He added in a slightly more cheerful tone.
Yessss! I got him! Kudo for me! -I cheered internally, content with my diplomatic success. Though, it took me a moment to finally get the underlying dubious hint in his last sentence, that got me unnerved a little. God knows how many times I've heard this kind of quote from horror movies and video games. This better not lead to another "rogue AI who does its job too well" scenario later on.
"Now, move back to the topic. Those mutant octopus things are still down there alright? And we're not exactly on good terms, since I'd just brutally murdered their comrades and all that. We're gonna have to get through those guys in order to acquire a gun, assuming that they haven't been overrun by the fishmen yet." I explained, then thoughtfully touched my chin. I still wanted to consider my other options before deciding my next move, so I asked Tartar to zoom out his holographic-map to show the entirety of the facility's Wing A.
"Hmmm... Tartar, are there fishmen in the area around the 2nd level's elevator?" I asked, pointing at the 3D holo-map on the AI's hand, who zoomed in on the area in question and made it transparent.
"Yes sir, there are. It's practically swarming with those salmon-like organisms. There are also bigger variants equipped with special gears such as goo-based biological weapons and riot shields, and even manned fighting contraptions of crudely-welded scraps. I highly advise against going down there, if that's what you're considering."
"That also applies for the 3rd to 5th levels, yes?"
"Likewise, sir. Even more numerous, actually. And if this A.M.C.U unit's vision sensors are to be trusted, I think I'd seen some ABSURDLY big ones down there too. 10 to 15 meters kinda big, with full-body metal armor is what I'm talking about." That option was also swiftly shot down.
"Damn..." I sighed, then studied the holo-map for another alternative only to see none. "Oh well, guess we're really doing this then." I honestly don't want to go anywhere near those humanoids any more, but I guess push's already come to shove. It's not like I can just stay up here indefinitely and live off mold and masonry or anything. Gotta go down sooner or later. I took a deep breath to mentally ready myself for what's to come.
Cm'on, Brad! You can do this! Just need to walk several dozen meters down, and you'll be off radar again. It's do or die now! You're been through this thrice before. You're also WAY better equipped now, with even an killer robot piloted by a Smart AI to boot! Believe in yourself, dammit! - A series of self-comforts ran through my mind like water, which helped bolster my resolve by a small but much-needed margin. Yeah, I think I'm ready to take on those fuckers, though I'd try to be stealthy and avoid direct contact first-
(Loud, long and shamelessly uncovered yawn)… Uhhhhh... that's embarrassing. You know what, let's just leave this for later. For now, I'll just have a brief shut-eye since I ain't gonna be able to walk for shit, let alone fight with this much fatigue on me. I deserved this rest anyway.
"Alright, Tartar. I've made up my mind. Wake me up in about 15' minutes later, alright?… Wait, scratch that. Make it 20' minutes. After that, we'll go grab some of those guns." I said tiredly, rolling two packs of clothing together to make a pillow, and taking off my jacket to use as a blanket. I also placed my collapsible spear and taser right beside me, next to my security helmet just in case this thing goes South.
"Oh and also, I need you to grab that cleaved from the fishman you'd just killed, and guard the room's door for me. Remember, fillet the shit out of everything that approaches, but do not give chase if they decide to run away. Remain in your position at all times, you hear me?"
"Yes sir, I will. You can rest easy now." Tartar nodded then walked outside to retrieve the weapon. Even with my warm fluffy jacket half-covering my body, and my pillow lying behind me so temptingly, I refused to give in to my drowsiness and managed to wait until the old A.M.C.U returned with his rusty 2-meters-long broadsword of a cleaver in hand. As soon as he stopped beside the room's entrance, I raised a 'peace' sign to the robot, yawned widely again then dropped my heavy head onto the roll of clothing.
My consciousness began to fade out even before my face could touch the soft fabric, and I was sleeping like a log in a matter of seconds.
G'night, Tartar… or day, whatever. Like hell I care...
...
...
...
A cacophony of 'thumping' and 'pumping' sounds filled the main entrance lobby, as the octoling team reloaded their stingrays with utmost haste. Unlike "main'' weapons which are intended to be used in prolonged and conventional combat scenarios, weapons belonging to the "special" category excels at certain situations that main weapons aren't effective in, such as quickly clearing out crowds or eliminating enemies too far away for a charger to tackle. Meaning they're not designed with balance or ease of usage in mind, but firepower and AoE capability instead. They also lack the ability to refill directly from the user's ink tank like their general-purpose counterparts, but are supplied by a separate reservoir that are either built into the weapon or worn alongside the user's main ink tank, hence the need for manual reload. There are many ways one can refill their special weapons, but it's typically a long and arduous process, so much so that some prefers to just discard theirs completely once it runs out, such as most inkling agents for example.
"Ooohhh my cod... Finally. That was tiring as shell..." Oceanica exclaimed between deep labored breaths, emerging from her stingray's opened ink pack as an octopus and wiping "sweat" off her brow. After turning back to her bipedal form, the elite pulled out a chrome-colored pocket watch from her short pocket, "Dang, takes a full 4 minutes to fill this thing up, only to fire it for 12 seconds. Should've bought something less ink-hungry with us. Any more times like this, and I might actually drop dead from exhaustion before even meeting the enemies."
"... Ugh... B-boss, I'm finished. All gears in order." Mira called out, also trying to catch her breath. The other team members also notified their completion shortly after in the same tired manner; having to produce such a great amount of ink in such a short time frame have no doubt taken a lot out of everyone present.
"By the Great Oct... My ink gland's burning! I'm dying..." Jason cried out while gasping for air, leaning against a nearby supporting pillar only to lose his footing and fall on his face in the most comedic way possible.
"Shut your lid, Jason. You're not the only one with that problem." Anthia snapped, her ink-fatigue preventing the gunner from giving her colleague a proper roasting like she usually does. She pulled out a metal water bottle from her backpack, unscrewed the top, and gulped it down greedily. Everyone else also took their bottles out to drink, except for Maurice who simply stood watch with downcast eyes, since she left her own at their temporary campsite hours ago.
Mira however, took notice of her sister's predicament after just a few sips, and stopped her drinking immediately. She shook her bottle lightly to check its water level, then downed several more gulps until exactly half remained and walked toward Maurice. "Hey. Seems like you forgot something. Want some?"
"Oh yes, nice! Thanks, Mira'" The girl gratefully accepted the bottle, then poured the remainder of its content into her mouth, smacking her lips in satisfaction once the final drop of water had been drained. "Cod, that really hit the spot… And yes, I forgot mine outside, at the campfire where we had dinner earlier. My bad, heh…"
"Oh, my goldfish-brained sister." Mira touched her face in mock disappointment, smiling mischievously behind her hand. "Looks like I really have to keep taking care of you and your stuff like the old days, huh? Mother gave me that duty, after all."
"You're just joking~ I'm not always like this or anything! Cm'on, everyone makes mistakes, alright? Gimme a break, they're mostly inconsequential anyway." Maurice grinned widely in return, "lightly" punching her older sibling in the shoulder.
"Oh yeah, sure you aren't." Mira smirked while taking her bottle back, deciding to tease her sister a little more. "Like that one time you forgot your octoshot at the base's mess hall, and a few girls scrapped it for spare parts? Had to scour through the entire dorm hall for the culprits before the commander finds out. Or the time you forgot to retrieve our ZAPFISH after repelling some inkling incursion, and nearly got the whole team disciplined? Inconsequential, you say?"
"Well... The first time I was busy breaking off a fight between Oceanica and her rival from the Salmonid-Control unit!" The young octoling retorted, "And the second time, I was... well, uh... Yeah..." She suddenly trailed off, unable to come up with a justifiable reason for her mistake. "... Well, I said mostly didn't I?"
"Yeah whatever you say, girl. Past's the past, so don't mention it." Mira shrugged nonchalantly, heaving up her stingray by its handle.
"Anyway, I was thinking..." Maurice suddenly started, stroking her chin thoughtfully as if to consider whether or not to continue talking.
"Yeah, what's that?" The older octoling jerked her chin up.
"... Well it's kinda this hunch I got about the Stranger." The girl hesitantly shared. "This might sounds really crazy alright, so please don't laugh." She quickly added with a slight blush on her face.
"Damn girl, we're sisters for Oct's sake! Why would I ever laugh at you? Cm'on, let it off your chest if you want to. I won't judge you, and I won't tell anybody. I promise." Mira laughed heartily while smacking her younger sibling's shoulder so hard it caused her to wince. The girl talked as if her old sis' hasn't been hearing her arbitrary and "imaginative" ramblings since they were still little kids.
"Right, here goes... Do you think that he's an Ascendant?" Maurice asked after a moment of mental-preparation. That one small piece of concrete lying near her foot suddenly became real interesting to her for some reason. A short but awkward moment of silence ensued, as the elder octoling slowly digested the seemingly-nonsensical question. With some difficulty.
"... Come again?"
"Uh... I asked whether you think that the Stranger is a surviving Ascendant? You know, the ones who came before us, and the builder of all the octo-domes we live in?" Maurice repeated again, this time in a much softer voice as if afraid of others teammates overhearing her.
"Yoooo heh... Where did that even come from?" Mira chuckled lightly, which earned her a displeased but not entirely serious frown from her little sister.
"...You're laughing, Mira. You're definitely laughing inside." Maurice stated with a blank look.
"Wha- No I'm not! I'm not laughing-ugh!"
"No, no. No, you are. Cm'on, your lips are curling up right now. I can see it."
"No I'm no- Pffffft (coughing n' choking on her own spit)... A-alright alright, (more coughs) I admit, I am laughing. Just can't help it, sorry. But totally not ridiculing you or anything, I swear." Mira snickered behind her hand, her empathic and attentive facade was all but vanished. "But really, where did that come from? What made you come up with that?"
"Well for starters, this facility is still very much functional even after dozens of centuries, which means someone must've been around to keep it running, right? And who else is capable of doing that, other than the people who created this place?"
"Not necessarily the Ascendants themselves. They could just use their automated constructs to do that for them, ya know?" Mira said matter-of-factly.
"Automated constructs?"
"Yyyyep! I believe the Ascendants called those "Aye Eyes". A strange name, isn't it."
"Wait, for eel? They had that?" Maurice raised a skeptical eyebrow, latching the lid of her stingray's ink pack tightly.
"Maurice my dear, they taught us about this back in the 9th-grade history classes. Don't you remember about- oh wait, yeah no wonder why. Nearly all you did in class back then was sleeping and eating snacks. I'm not surprised at all." The roller soldier threw a cheeky grin at Maurice, who pouted childishly in response.
"Anyway, from what little surviving texts we were able to unearth, they were described as very advanced and self-operating computers. Some recovered documents even depict them as being completely sentient, though that topic is still being debated upon by scientists due to how degraded, context-lacking and contradicting those sources are."
"Machines with cephalopod-like intelligence... It does sound a little bit hard to believe, doesn't it sis'?"
"Yeah, it does. But judging by the fact that most, if not all of our technology is either based on, reverse-engineered or outright copied from ancient Ascendant artifacts, Not to mention, even to this day we still have no idea how 40% of those near-magical creations work, I wouldn't be surprised if they actually managed to create something like that back in their golden days." Mira expounded in the voice of a university professor, leaving Maurice wide-eyed in awe and surprise, not because of the topic itself but because not once before had her elder sister displayed such knowledge and enthusiasm about it. Mira is quite well-known among her peers as somewhat of a meathead, being remarkably capable physically but not so much with academic activities. She's the kind of Octoling who acts more than talks, instantly chooses the National Defense Academy when presented with choices, and doesn't pass to the next grade by normal test scores but brute-forces through it via sheer top-notch combat ability - a prized aspect in the heavily militarized society that is Octaria.
"I thought you hated studying with a passion, especially history?" Maurice questioned with a raised brow.
"Yep, I did, and still do. You just kinda pick stuff up over the years, y'know. Hang out often with some girls in R n' D who talk about this kind of stuff daily, so I sorta learned it by just listening to it." Her sister shrugged. "Anyway, got any other reasons?"
"Oh yeah, right. Second point, he most certainly isn't an Aquaborn. Means he's not evolved from a pre-Mollusc aquatic species like us."
"Oh yeah? How do you know he isn't an Aquabomb?" Mira asked, cocking her head to the side. "That scientific name's metal as shuck, by the way."
"Sister, It's Aquaborn and not Aquabomb. And to answer your question, it's because I'm quite certain that he has an endoskeleton in him."
"Uh... Isn't it common for certain races of Aquabom- I mean born to have those? Seen plenty of em' in some of my covert ops at Inktopolis. Like horseshoe crablings, shrimp-folks, lobsterians and even some species of desert-dwelling jelly-kins."
"Alright, I gotta stop you right there. That's called an exoskeleton, i.e the outer shell that supports and protects an animal's body - or I guess a person's in this case. I'm talking of ENDOskeleton. You know, bones that are located INSIDE the body, like all the Ascendant skeletons scattered all over the Octo-Valley's surface?"
"Oh yeah, I know those. Can't find a single place in this world that isn't filled with 'em."
"Not a single Aquaborn species have endoskeletons like that, except for salmonids and clownfish people. In fact, the term "endoskeleton" is still quite new to the science community, having appeared just 12 years ago when some overly-curious scientist started to unethically research salmonid biology." Maurice explained, leaning forward and clasping her hands together. "If I remember correctly, the guy was trying to find a way to genetically engineer them, in order to increase their power egg yield or something. Got arrested, stripped of their Elite title and exiled from Octaria just weeks later, but we're not talking 'bout that"
Gosh, being a bookworm feels good sometimes - The young octoling though with a triumphant smirk, watching her sister's smug face vanishing slightly. Maurice, though being meeker than most of her peers, loves to flex her knowledge of biology and history around - preferably in ways that don't offend or irritate the listener. Gives her a considerable and much-needed ego boost.
"W-well, but how do you know that he has bones?" Mira asked.
"Linda literally said that when she tried to shake the Stranger's hand. I felt it in the battle earlier, when he grabbed my neck and… y'know, slammed me." Maurice frowned, and was about to continue talking when she caught a glimpse of the cold and murderous glint that briefly flashed in Mira's eyes, which made her pause a bit. "...His fingers are not soft and bendy like ours but strong, calloused and divided into sections by joints - even though he has no outer carapace to speak of. They couldn't have stayed in perfect shape like that if held up by cartilages."
"Alright. Solid point." Mira said, finally showing signs of swaying.
"And let's talk about his equipment, especially the strange shooter he has." The young octoling continued, waving her hands around energetically, "It is compact, sleek and blocky in design, contrary to Inkling weaponry which are mostly flashy and unnecessarily oversized. Also, whatever that thing uses for ammo, it's not superheated ink or any kind of liquid, which only adds up to how utterly alien it is. I got nothing to say about his armor and clothing since Inklings and other surface-dwelling races also dress like that... Well except for the fact that it can somehow NEGATE our attacks, like Inkling agents' ink armor but with infinite durability! That's like... The pipe dream of Octaria military right there. The very goal that we've spent untold years and resources trying to achieve!" Contrary to her younger sibling's passion, Mira only hummed lightly in response, too occupied with recalling and reassessing the past conflict to say anything else. Now looking back, she found that everything Maurice has said makes perfect sense, and it all slowly began to click together.
Well, uh..." Mira darted her eyes around anxiously, still trying in vain to think of a reason against the young girl's theory like the headstrong brute she is, "He may belong to an undiscovered species of deep-sea cephalopod, that somehow found his way here before us...?"
"...Really? Where did that come from anyway?" Maurice asked back using the same question Mira asked her earlier, raising both eyebrows in the most unimpressed look the roller has ever seen. "It's impossible for him to have gotten here before us, and you know that. The entrance was completely covered in millenia-old dirt and sand, and we had to use an experimental tunnel borer to drill it open. There were no vehicles around the entrance perimeter that he could've used to get here either, since... Y'know, sane people don't travel out in the desert, several dozen kilometers away from civilization and right at the start of a blood moon, without some form of transportation. And he couldn't have entered from a different entrance either, since all the recon octocopters that were sent here prior to our ops reported only one entrance on the surface. Even if there is indeed another way in, the entire HIVE of salmonids that infested this place would've just torn him apart like papers. There's only one place that the Stranger could've logically come from, and that's inside this facility, probably somewhere on its upper level, where the hive below doesn't even bother to send scouts too often. "
"Alright, I get it. He's an Ascendant then." Mira rubbed her temples in exasperation. Being defeated in an argument, even a friendly one with her sibling, is not something she is a fan of. She would've tried to start a brawl with her opponent and get both sent to the infirmary, if the person in front of her wasn't Maurice.
"Yeah. Very likely. Though stranger things have happened, so I might be wrong." Maurice nodded, ending their conversation.
"Hey! You two! We're having a team discussion over here! You're joining or what?" Oceanica called out irritably to the duo, sitting cross-legged along with Anthia and Jason in a circle just 10 meters away from them.
Damnable squidshucker. - Mira cursed internally, gritting her teeth together. She felt the urge to start another fight with the Elite acting up again. The old hag dared to start without waiting for or notifying her, as if she isn't even a member of the team. Even more insulting is how Maurice is also included as collateral, despite Oceanica having no beef with her whatsoever. Nobody has ever touched her sister and gotten away intact to tell the story. Swear of the Great Oct, Mira though, one day she'll make that stuck-up inkhead regret ever trying to pull this off, even if the girl's her superior. Anyway, let's put this grudge aside for now. For the sake of a productive and "civilized" discussion.
"...We're coming." Mira said with a darkened face and thinly-veiled and barely-held anger in her voice, walking briskly toward the group with Maurice following closely behind. Her piercing eyes are instantly locked with Oceanica's grinning face, and her sister - already sensing the steady rise in room temperature - has to put a hand on the roller's shoulder to keep her from going ballistic all over again. "What have you guys decided on?"
"Well, me and Anthia want to go deeper into the facility to find food and water, since we only have like…" Jason counted his fingers, then briefly peered into the team's ration bag with a sigh, "Four days worth of supply left. Probably five, if we reduce our daily portion by one-third or so. Oceanica's against that idea though, wanting to fortify this hall and wait until a search party arrives. And we can't really talk back to her since... Y'know. Not ready to threaten our job security, and all that." He shrugged, gesturing toward the smug-faced Elite behind him.
"Damn right." The black-tentacled Octolin said, jerking her chin at her two addressors, while throwing a brief provoking glance at Mira. "Unlike you reckless bunch, I've earned my position as an Elite trooper by following protocols like a good soldier. And the protocol has stated VERY clearly that you must remain in your position and wait for evac to come. ESPECIALLY in a place that's home to an ENTIRE salmonid clan, that I doubt is acquaintanced with the Octarian government at all. I don't know about you, but personally I still value my life very much." Mira felt her veins begin to pop as soon as her team leader finished talking. The bitch acted all high and mighty just hours ago, skimming past all sorts of safety protocols like they belong to a new recruit's handbook. Now she chickens out and brings those same protocols up as a poor excuse to weasel her way out of trouble? A shucking coward, Oceanica is.
"But what if we run out of rations, and evac still doesn't get here in time? What are we going to eat then?" Anthia asked, fidgeting absent-mindedly with her stingray's barrel.
"Oh please. Evac is always guaranteed to arrive in 4 days at most, and I've never seen a single time they're later than that in my whole life." Oceanica brushed off the heavy gunner's concern casually, taking another sip from her water bottle.
"Well, how about you two?" Anthia turned to the duo of newcomers.
"I'm going into the facility of course. Oceanica can stay and eat her own shoes for all I care, but I don't accept starving to death as my way to go." Mira spat defiantly with a smirk, making the Elite almost jump up in rage.
"VERY WELL THEN, YOU DAMN DOGFISH! If you seek death that badly, then be my guest! Let's see how long you can last against those savages! You lot, feel free to join her, not my shucking business! But let me remind you that we're cut off from our respawn pad, so no second chances for you! You'll die for good if you get hit!" Oceanica yelled, completely enraged.
Then the Elite abruptly changed to a deep gravelly voice, looking deep into each of her teammate's unease-filled eyes, "Or worse yet, those things may decide to not kill you immediately, but keep you alive and torture you for their own amusement." She smirked, "Trust me, I've seen it once, in a mission to rescue an overly-curious salvage team deep inside 'The Iron Baruuks' Klan's territory. Only managed to find two barely-breathing survivors hung on a rack, out of an 8-octoling crew. Want the details, anyone?" Anthia, Maurice and Jason immediately declined with abject revulsion, stomachs already turning at the mention of it.
Mira however, only stared back at the Elite in anger, fanged beak bared and hands clenched tightly into fists. The soldier's feeling for Oceanica, once simply of spite and rivalry, has evolved into pure unadulterated disgust, like she was staring at a filthy salmonid instead of her team member. Turns out this bitch isn't just haughty, bossy and self-centered like she initially thought, but also morbidly heartless.
Ever since the rediscovery of human tractor beam - and the spawn pad by extension -, permanent death has become a concept so foreign and terrifying for all Aquaborn species, that talking about the demise of one's own kin in such an indifferent way is considered a taboo, that would most likely result in the violator's own social death. Oceanica however, was MUCH worse, for whatever twisted reason she seemed not just casual, but almost ecstatic when talking about such a topic.
Damn filth! Your existence is an insult to the entirety of the Octarian race! - Mira spat out inside her head, already calculating the best angle to melee the shit out of the Elite if she continues with her manipulation tactic. Thankfully for both sides, Oceanica decided to stop right there, having already satisfied that her point was made, or else noses and beak plates would've been broken.
"Plus, if you people all go in, then who's gonna take care of Kaye over there?" She jerked her thumb at Kaye, whose earlier dose of sedative was beginning to wear off, and was squirming in pain on his makeshift stretcher as the result. Anthia immediately stood up to go check on their wounded member at the mention of his name, changing bandages in some areas and giving him another half a dose of sedatives.
"And if we split up into two groups, then there won't be enough firepower in each group to defend themselves. You know how those salmonids hunt, right? Attack in overwhelming numbers and from all sides while sending special unit's to exploit gaps in the prey's defense. Even an entire team of Anti-Salmonids specialists armed to the teeth sometimes has trouble fighting them off, and now you're suggesting that we - a bunch of ragtag scavengers with standard-issue gears and no air support - split up into groups, and go DEEP into those monster's home turf in search of food? What...? Your brains got replaced with your inksacs or something? We can only survive if we stick together here, there's no other option." As much as Mira scorned her "superior" and wanted to just snap Oceanica's fingers one by one, she couldn't help but bregudgingly admit that the Elite had a point. Yeah... Let's just let this slide one more time. Just this once.
"So, Mira, do you still want to go?" Oceanica leaned toward the octoling in question with a mocking smirk. In response, Mira only kept silent and continued to bore into the Elite with her scorching gaze.
"...Go shuck yourself, hag." She finally answered after a while, looking away with furrowed brows.
Cm'on, Mira, control yourself. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale,...
"I'll take it as a no, then!" Oceanica leaned back with a triumphant smile, satisfaction written all over her face.
"How about you Maurice? Hmmm?"
"...I'm with her."
"You two?" The Elite turned to Anthia and Jason.
"Yeah, we're also with you... Boss."
"Splendid! Then it's decided. Well, let's go back into the main hall, shall we? It's going to have to act as our temporary base for the next 4 days, so we better fortify it up quickly." Oceanica clasped her hand together then lifted her stingray up, turned around and walked into the tunnel, motioning for the two octotroopers to follow on the way. Jason and Anthia went to lift up kaye's stretcher and left shortly after. On her way out, the gunner octoling stopped to pat Mira lightly on the shoulder, with a grimace.
"Mate, I know you have some serious issues with Oceanica, alright. We all do. She's a bitch, let's be frank here." The heavy gunner slowly said, "But we're kinda stuck in dire straits right now, so please don't tear apart the team further by butting heads with her." Then she and Jason walked off, oblivious to the annoyed glare that Mira threw at her back.
"Well, uh... Mira? I... Uh-" Maurice started hesitantly, but was abruptly cut off by her elder sister.
"-Yeah I know. Let's go." Mira grunted, clearly not in the mood for another talk. Even when she has never been scolded, let alone cut off mid-sentence by her sister before, Maurice still knew better than trying to push the conversation. She simply nodded in return, then wordlessly followed Mira back into the hall, glancing at the gargantuan blast door that has denied them their freedom a final time.
Why did Maurice have this nagging feeling that things are just gonna go downhill from here though...?
Aight', so… not much to say with this chap ngl, other than that it's WAY WAY longer than usual, and building a somewhat realistic and personality-suiting series of dialogue for characters was a pain in the arse. Yeah, maybe I shouldn't have written the entire conversation out like that and just skimmed it by listing the information Brad has acquired, but oh well. Btw, the reason why the dialogue of the octolings are longer than Brad's or TarTar's is that Octonese (yeah, I'm terrible at making up fictional names) is typically spoken really quickly, therefore can carry more words in one sentence than English, without sounding like a rant for the listener. Anyway, enjoy and pls leave comments. Thank you for reading.
[Special thanks to HAKASE for helping me proofread this chap. Your help is invaluable.]
P/S: I might give all my previous chapters a revamp in the future. I've just been reading them, and had to crack a cold one to choke down the cringe with.
Gosh I might need to grab another beer after finishing this line.