Bakkughan
patreon
Son of Sasquatch - Chapter 10
🕑 Added 2023-07-01 22:56:19 +0000 UTCI fall into a quick paced jog with Maine hot on my heels, our heavy steps echoing in sync as we race towards the front of the building. Judging from the loud shouting (and horrified screams) coming from the inside, the corpo clean-up crews are still moving steadily through the ‘hospital’, methodically making their way down the labyrinthine corridors towards the back of the building.
I’m not entirely sure what type of tactics Militech soldiers are trained in, beyond that which I’ve managed to pick up from the sim chips they use for training purposes that occasionally get released throughout Night City (either through their own officially sanctioned programs or through the black market for the enterprising solo), but I can guess they’d likely take it slow as they move through the premises.
Partly because the sheer fucking savagery I left behind in my wake would give anyone not called Adam fuckin’ Smasher pause for a second (especially considering they were now tasked with hunting the one responsible for said carnage in the first place) and partly because they were likely sent by Militech on a Biotechnica contract. Arrangements that are directly between corpos tend to be shady things, even more so than the usual business deals brokered between solo and fixer, and Militech is an old hand in taking on the delicate operations for their ‘friends’, such as covering up evidence or eliminating potential threats to their clients' interests. Which in this case, meant promising Biotechnica to scrub the place clean of evidence.
And, in the eyes of those corpo cunts, the unfortunate human test subjects trapped inside fell under evidence.
Judging by the sporadic, brief bursts of gunfire, the crew had already begun fulfilling their contract. While I hadn’t come here with a plan to save everyone that got fucked by Biotechnica (hell, I didn’t really have a plan to save Gloria, mostly flying by the seat of my pants on nothing but spite and desperation instead) I couldn’t help but grit my teeth at being confronted with yet another sign of how callously life was disregarded in this world. To a corporation, people were nothing but pawns, expendable resources like so much meat, whose lives hold no value compared to the corporate secrets at stake, and it was in moments like these that I was beginning to see where Ma was coming from when she was raving about me establishing a new world order.
Because, holy shit, fuck the one that we’re stuck with right now.
Even as we run, I turn to shoot Maine a glance over my shoulder, the man’s own eyes hidden behind his large sunglasses.
“You see anything wearing a corpo uniform?”
“Yeah Boss?”
“Shoot it.”
“Yes Boss.”
Instructions given and received, we turn the final corner and the corpo squad that Militech has sent comes into view. Well, two of them, actually, judging by the twin, armoured-up Chevillon Emperors that are left idling in front of the low steps leading up towards the ruined entrance. The Militech stamp on the side shows that these are the corporate versions of the 620 Ragnar, though of course the heavily armored bodywork, integrated Militech combat tech, and reinforced bumpers that are specifically designed to crush other cars like NiCola cans are a dead giveaway too.
While Chevillon makes the base Emperors, it’s this Ragnar version with all its deadly upgrades that gets purchased from Militech directly by the NCPD, and once sprayed over, just the sight of one of their Ironclads is enough to have people shutter their windows in even the most lawless parts of NC. For all intents and purposes, it’s a landtank that can carry personnel on the public road and cracking one is nigh impossible… unless you got the hardware to crack the surrounding five miles as well.
Hell, just look at the abuse David’s crew put Falco’s 620 Ragnar through, that thing was damn near as indestructible as the convoy transporting the exoskeleton.
And just when I decided to leave my mini-nuke at home too…
However, there is one advantage that Maine and I have here, and that is that, while the vehicles are as close to indestructible as a civilian vehicle can get, their occupants very much aren’t.
And unlike me, Militech didn’t see the wisdom in parking inside the building.
There’s a group of guards outside, but it’s light: a driver still behind each steering wheel, a soldier by each car and another pair of soldiers by the entrance. Considering even a standard edition Emperor is large enough to carry nine people (and some cargo), that means there’s likely about a dozen soldiers currently inside the building.
Good to know, but a worry for later: time to deal with the half dozen stuck on guard duty outside first.
Our feet are still hammering away at the cracked concrete as we rapidly close the distance when the first Militech soldier spots us, giving a shout of alarm as he whirls around to face us. Before he can take proper aim however, my right hand comes up with my trusty Burya clenched in an iron grip, my thick finger even now pressing down on the trigger, having already charged the Tech Revolver as it lets out a dangerous humming sound from its thick electromagnetic barrel. It unleashes its powered-up shot with a tremendous bark, the Techtronika gun trying to snap my wrist like a twig with its signature kick-back, but it barely even shifts in my enormous paw.
The electromagnetic forces spooling inside the massive, blocky front of the Soviet Tech Revolver basically slingshots the bullet towards the Militech guard that had sounded the alarm, and before he’s had a chance to raise his own gun, the bullet slams into and throughhis head, leaving nothing but a shower of gore shooting out from the stump that remains of his neck.
Turns out, headshots are dead-easy to line up when you got reflexes and senses like mine and don’t have to worry about annoying little things like recoil.
Plus, having trained practically since birth tends to be a factor as well.
Seeing that I’m going for the sentries by the entrance of the hospital, I can feel Maine swerve behind me, going for the guard near the nearest SUV instead. That leaves both drivers and the corpo soldier at the second car, but no time to worry about them now: we’ll get there when we get there. Gotta take it one step at a time if you wanna survive being an Edgerunner in Night City.
Locked in Maine's sights, the guard swiftly drops to a knee, the weight of his gun pressing against his shoulder. Positioned near the opened passenger door of the idle Chevillon at his back, he instinctively relies on what his virtus have drilled into his every muscle and circuit: prioritizing a defensive stance against an unexpected assailant. It's a split-second decision, a calculated move born from years of simulated training and overall, not a bad call, usually. Minimize your profile, duck for cover, and fire back at whoever’s currently trying to fill your body with an unsolicited and unhealthy amount of bullets.
Solo Handbook 101. No, really, Morgan Blackhand actually wrote that in his Solo for Dummies guide.
Sadly for the Militech guard however (and more importantly, for his driver), Maine and I are pretty fucking far from usually and it’s not like the Cyberpunk at my side needs bullets to flatline your ass.
A manic grin still on his face, Maine braces his split-apart forearm, having taken aim with his Smart Targeting Link as he ducked behind my large barreling form, just long enough for the Militech guard’s own systems to have lost him for a split-second.
A split-second was all the Edgerunner needed, the air wavering with sheer heat and force as his PLS violently discharges its explosive payload, the sound ringing uncomfortably in my sensitive ears. The rocket-propelled projectile impacts the guard square in the chest, who doesn’t even get the chance to scream out as his upper torso paints the inside of the Chevillon (and his driver) red with his giblets. The smoke and carnage are enough to stun the shocked navigator for several moments, which Maine quickly takes advantage of to pour on a burst of speed, almost managing to keep pace with me, cybernetic legs pumping all of their output as they desperately struggle to match my all-natural organic ones.
Well, considering all the hormones and drugs my body has been flooded with even before birth, calling it all-naturalmight be a bit of a misnomer, but eh, fuck it. I grew all this shit personally, no chrome replacement involved and that’s about as natural as you can get in this fucked up world these days.
The driver finally gets shocked out of his panicked paralysis (maybe literally, considering the chrome and wetware this Militech outfit might be sporting) and makes a leap towards the passenger seat, trembling hands fighting the latch on the glove compartment. It falls open with a soft click and the man’s hand desperately closes around the handle of the gun kept inside.
Which is exactly when he looks up to locate his target, only to find that his target found him instead, Maine’s other arm holding a Militech Crusher flush against the driver’s forehead.
The irony isn’t lost on the large cyberpunk, who grins as he idly tilts his head, easily handling the Power Shotgun with a single hand.
“Don’t you know that travelling by car is the least safe form of transportation? Road kill, man, these things are a hazard.” He says lazily, the driver’s eyes widening in sheer terror.
“Fuck you, you fucking-!”
“Here, let me show you.”
The Crusher roars and the insides of the Chevillon is painted in yet more crimson.
In the meantime, I’ve been closing in on the remaining guard by the entrance of the building, spotting from the corner of my eye how the corpo soldier at the last SUV has wisely decided to put the multi-ton vehicle between himself and the two insane murder-hobo’s currently turning his buddies into chunky salsa.
The guard at the entrance has less sturdy protection to hide behind, considering I took off both doors to the hospital when I crashed my dear Avengers straight through them. So he immediately dives towards the only defensive position that there is, which happens to be behind the corpse of his decapitated co-worker as it topples to the ground.
Belly flat to the ground and resting the barrel of his gun on the decapitated torso of his dead comrade, unheeding or uncaring of the pool of blood he threw himself down into: warfare tactics, no doubt about it. Either this guy is a genuine veteran, or Militech has succeeded in turning the scrolls of their combat-hardened officers into reliable virtus.
Not wanting to experience first-hand what kind of tactics such experiences have led to (judging from Johnny’s ranting in the game and the bits of lore on the Corporate Wars, I can imagine and that’s plenty nauseating as is), I squeeze off several more shots with my Burya, the Techtronika Revolver barking and blasting with glee at every powerful discharge.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the chance to charge another Tech shot, so when one of the bullets clipped the solder in the side as he dropped down, it only wounded the soldier instead of killing him on the spot, his own enhancements and body armor saving his life.
For the next few seconds at least.
I keep up my rate of fire, rapidly cycling through the bullets in the chamber, trying to keep him forced behind his grisly, impromptu barrier, but in another show of experience, the guard simply flattens himself further, head held low as he allows his unadorned Saratoga (the base model submachine gun of my own Iconic Problem Solver) to unleash an unguided spray of counter-fire.
Unlike the remaining Militech guards, I don’t have any cover to hide behind, and while I ambulletproof, I don’t really feel like testing that immunity against a veritable curtain of lead spray.
Despite putting several bullets in the corpse of the first guy I shot, causing sprays of blood and matter to splatter out across the remaining guard, the corpo soldier manages to power through, not letting up on the trigger for a second. While my shots don’t make him stop shooting, it thankfully does prevent him from actually aiming towards my position, so I go full Animal: dropping low to the ground to run on all fours, I manage to duck underneath most of the gunfire as the guard had overcompensated for my impossible size by aiming wide and high.
I eat a few bullets during my charge, but thankfully most slam into my durable flak jacket instead, tearing it to shreds instead of my skin. Getting a new jacket is easy: regrowing new skin is much more of a hassle I’d really rather not deal with.
Healing bullet wounds itch like a motherfucker, who knew?
Powering through the discomfort, I pour on more speed as boots and claws skitter across asphalt, rapidly closing in on the determined guard. Utilizing my greater mobility, I swerve wildly to the side as I turn on a dime, closing in on the building itself, before I take off with a massive leap that sees me almost clearing the ground floor completely. Doing my best Prince of Persia impression, my booted feet slam heavily into the rough concrete, one claw held for purchase sliding across all its tears and bumps as I run sidelong over its pockmarked façade, a thin trail of dust in my wake as the world blurs due to my speed.
Feeling gravity finally stop doing a double-take at my… unconventional approach, I can feel her begin to pull down on my large form again. My boots slide further and further down against the aged concrete, inching towards the ground and with a challenging roar, I push off with all my might, propelling myself like a human missile. My enormous legs muster enough power to make the wall shudder, actually cratering the old concrete and leaving a deep imprint as I crash down upon the prone Militech soldier.
The corpo soldier barely makes a half-turn as he looks up with a gaping mouth, his experience (either earned in combat or learned through simulations) failing to prepare him for an attack from an angle quite such as this. To his credit, his first instinct is to push off and roll away, but by then I’ve already closed in on him, and my legs are long enough to catch him as he starts to move.
His own initial instinct works against him, as desperate hands and elbows slide away against slick bloodied stone and then they struggle no longer. With a roar, I’ve descended upon the soldier, one foot slamming into his back and straight through his torso to smash apart the tiles underneath him as well.
Landing on my knees with a grunt, I raise myself to my full height, briefly paying a thought to the gore I’m absolutely drenched in right now.
‘Fuck… I pulled a Smasher… God fuckin’ dammit.’
The comparison to the full ‘borg makes me more uncomfortable than I’m comfortable with admitting, so I instead refocus on how Maine has been dealing with the remaining guard and driver. Which is to say, not yet, apparently. The last guard has ducked behind his massive Chevillon, taking potshots at the opposite 620 Ragnar, with Maine doing the same from his end, having taken out his L-69 Zhuo, a recent addition to his arsenal, the very first thing he bought with the stack of eddies I shoved his way when he signed up with my Predators.
It's a Kang Tao made Smart Shotgun, which in itself is both an oxymoron and a paradox. The Chinese corp only makes Smart weapons, claiming they see no reason why anyone would need any other type of gun. The Zhuo is their take on the idea of a shotgun, which usually aren't exactly known for finesse: while undoubtedly powerful, they often suffer from clunkiness and imprecision. Not so with the L-69, which despite it’s top-of-the-line electronics, still manages to classify as one, since it fires multiple rounds at once. Its eight barrels are attached to eight igniters to send projectiles hurtling towards up to eight different targets, guided by an ultra-sensitive radar which scans the area for you, identifying targets all on its own. A shotgun so good, you don’t even need to aim it.
A gun good enough for even Adam fuckin’ Smasher himself to have a blueprint for an Iconic version of the weapon hidden away in his secret stash on the Ebunike, the Ba Xing Chong (now sporting explosive tips! Because Adam fuckin’ Smasher, why else?).
Which, in theory, should’ve made a shoot-out like this be a walk in the park, considering Maine can easily pull a Wanted here and just shoot around the bulletproof Chevillon.
In theory. In practice, it’s a lot harder to use your Smart Link device if someone from less than fifteen feet away is using their netrunning skills and the souped-up electronics of the 620 Ragnar to blast a jamming signal straight into your fucking skull, which was what the remaining driver was frantically doing from the safety of her vehicle. Explains why she hadn’t just floored it and taken her tank to the other end of NC ASAP, teammate be damned.
Meaning that Maine would get a shot off with his Zhuo and then be stuck painfully and manually reloading all eight chambers while the hand with his Smart Link would twitch and spark violently as he cursed out the netrunning driver in no less than three languages, a linguistic symphony of profanity you wouldn’t expect from the hulking solo.
The linguistic part, not the profanity part, that is.
All the while the last remaining guard outside kept peppering the Chevillon my cyberpunk was hiding behind with controlled bursts of lead spray. Clever of them to target his cybernetics. Big guy like him, wielding a big fuck-off piece of iron like a Crusher, most people assume he’s just a dumb brute wielding Power weapons. What sets Maine apart from your common Edgerunner and made him leader of his own outfit (before I shamelessly yet selflessly poached it of course), was that he was a smart brute. Obsessive, sure, with a very limited outlook on the world that would see him and nearly everyone he cared about fucking flatlined within two years tops, but by no means as dumb as he looked. He was at least smart enough to put on both the synth-muscles needed to carry Power weapons with ease, and get the cyberware implanted to get any use out of Smart weapons at all.
Trust me, very few people ever saw a gun as advanced as the L-69 coming when you looked like your immediate ancestors still fought off the dino’s with clubs.
Which in retrospect means the Militech netrunner might’ve just decided to target Maine’s everything, considering how obviously modified the cyberpunk was. It probably wasn’t even his Smart Link they were targeting specifically, just all of his chrome in the hope it’d make his arms pop out of their sockets or something.
Would explain why his hands and arms keep twitching and sparking like that.
It takes less time for me to process all that than it does for Maine to cycle a new slot in his state-of-the-art (yet overly complicated) Kang Tao shotgun, and before he can get another shot off, I’ve moved. My attack on the doormen has taken me around the second Chevillon to their flank, and the guard needs a second to take his attention away from the cyberpunk currently trying to explode him with self-guided micro-missiles before he notices the brutal death of his comrades.
Time enough to half-charge another bullet in my Burya as my hand comes up, its barrel aimed flawlessly towards his skull. Which is when he surprises me by wildly throwing open the driver’s door as wide as it goes right when I squeeze the trigger. Like before, the discharge is immense, though I power through the kick-back with ease, but instead of reducing the corpo soldier’s head to smithereens, the powered shot slams into the opened door of the bulletproof 620 Ragnar.
As satisfying as it is to see that my Revolver managed to actually put a dent in the Chevillons vaunted armored plating, it still means the corpo soldier has managed to survive. Not to mention being briefly obscured from my vision, a brief window of opportunity that he immediately exploits by lobbing a fucking grenade over the door and towards me.
Damn, these guys are very clearly on a higher payroll than the glorified hospital wardens I tore to shreds inside the hospital.
I can’t tell what type of grenade it is, and I’m not exactly keen on finding out its effects first-hand, so I abandon my bead on the soldier for now (hey, if I can’t aim at him, at least he can’t aim at me neither) as I train my Soviet Revolver on the air-born grenade instead.
I squeeze the trigger- ‘clack!’
“Motherfucker!”
Empty. Fuck it. Now or never, that grenade is still flying towards me. Acting purely on instinct honed by a literal lifetime of combat, I don’t hesitate and hurl the heavy gun straight towards the falling incendiary.
It flies from my hand and despite its clunky size and unwieldy weight, my strength is great enough and the distance short enough, it flies on a near-enough straight line, plunging headlong into the thrown grenade. It impacts the explosive device with force, a metallic clattering sound ringing out and it ricochets the grenade right back to where it came from.
Right as it sails over the door, my heightened hearing picks up a startled “oh, fuck-!” before the grenade explodes.
‘Huh, it was an incendiary. Guess I guessed right.’ I muse to myself, blinking away the spots as the other side of the Chevillon’s armored door is briefly consumed in a massive fireball.
The Burya was the only gun I had on me (I didn’t think it was wise to bring some of my heavier gear to a diner when meeting with a couple of cops after all) and I carried no bladed weapons on me. What was the point, considering my claws?
Which meant that, technicallyspeaking I was unarmed. Not that that really mattered to me, considering my entire body could be considered a lethal weapon (and by NUSA and Border Patrol official guidelines, I would literally have to declare it as such even!), but I still approached the smoking 620 Ragnar with steady, wary steps.
These guys have proven to be a cut above their colleagues back at the hospital and I’ll be fucked if some corpo cunt will be the one to flatline me before either the show or the game has even begun, just because I got cocky enough to face-check possible surviving enemies.
Ma would probably physically drag me back from hell, just to kick my ass back down there again personally for being that fucking stupid.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Maine approach with measured steps as well, his L-69 tucked back in its holster and his Crusher back in his functioning hand, the Smart Link in his other one still sparking. Between that and the frustrated and slightly pained expression on his face, that means the netrunning driver is still alive.
Swiftly rounding the smoking door, it doesn’t take long to confirm she’s the only soldier stationed outside that’s still on this side of the living. The guard that had tried to explode my ass had been turned to bits of charcoal, the smoke acrid and disgusting, yet depressingly familiar in its sheer repugnance.
Glancing away from the smoking crater that used to be a human, I glance inside the now opened Chevillon instead. While the massive SUV was barely shook by the blast, its armor plating practically intact save for some cosmetic damages, the same cannot be said for its interior.
The seat on this side of the car is pretty much gone, reduced to slagged plastics, and smoke and soot cover that which remains.
Including the driver. She’s lost an arm and much of her hair to the edge of the blastwave that her coworker inadvertently let inside her cabin, and her remaining eye is wide and filled with unseeing panic as it fixates on my immense form.
“S-s-stay… a-a-away…” she manages to stammer out, her entire form trembling with barely suppressed shivers.
“Don’t you worry. I’ll be out of your hair momentarily. Well, what’s left of it anyways.” I rumble and I can hearthe woman’s fluttering heartbeat increase its maddened speed even further.
I know her next move before she even does it and when her remaining eye turns a burning blue, I’m already moving. A desperate hack, probably carrying more Daemons than her ICE can safely control, in a last-ditch attempt to fry my circs and have my brains leaking out my ears. A suicide attack, one I’ve seen a few times before.
Not often, a guy with my… talents doesn’t often need to go up against netrunners after all, but the fact that I saw such a desperate gambit play out multiple times should clue you in on the most important fact, one that the woman is about to learn herself as well, the hard way.
“W-what…”
Her voice is soft and paper-thin as the blue glow in her eye sputters and flickers out, confusion warring with shock in her expression.
Yeah, though shit lady, but that stunt doesn’t work on me. Comes with the territory of being probably the most ‘ganic Edgerunner since the days of Morgan Blackhand.
“What… are you-!?”
Her question is cut off as my hand closes around the burnt remains of her leg, yanking her off her seat in one mighty pull, tearing a scream from her throat. Letting her fall off her seat and almost half out of the vehicle so her butt lands roughly in the ash that used to be her coworker, I slowly sink to a knee, looming in close over the corpo soldier.
My face is mere inches away from hers, our gazes locked, and several times more, sparks and hues of blue shift rapidly across her widened eye, each failure followed by a fresh wave of sheer, mind-breaking fear.
She doesn’t just see me as I sit there, flesh and blood: her cybersenses see me as something more.
“What are you?” the question comes again, but this time it’s almost pleading, ending in an uncomprehending sob.
Not breaking our gaze, I slowly rise back to my full, immense height as I take a half-step back, my voice low. My hand comes up, resting on the blackened door frame.
“I’m… built different.”
“Wha-?“
I slam the door shut, the woman’s body barely even an obstacle as it blurs closed, nearly bifurcating her. I look on for a moment, before Maine’s voice brings me out of it.
“What’s next, Boss?”
“My car.” I respond immediately, turning on my heel and making a beeline for the hospital entrance.
We need to hurry. The fight was quick, probably not even as much as a minute had passed since I unleashed that first full-powered shot, but it had certainly been loud. Even if the other Militech soldiers hadn’t noticed that one, they had definitely heard the explosion from the grenade going off. Considering this was their extraction point, they would be hauling ass to secure it ASAP from possible assault.
Which meant it was time for us to delta. Running through the ruined entrance, I immediately make my way over to the driver’s seat of my waiting Avenger, a sense of relief blooming in my chest when I notice that Militech hasn’t disabled it as a precaution.
There’s no guards in the large entry hall, the rest of the company probably having moved further into the building already and trusting their rear-guard to keep the area secure. Which is what they would be doing, if they, you know, weren’t just absolutely massacred.
I swiftly jump over the myriad bodies scattered across the grimy hall, not sparing them so much as a second glance, but I can hear Maine falter behind me.
“Maine!”
The cyberpunk is still looking at the sheer amount of blood that covers everything and I try to pull him out of it. Don’t you dare judge me, you cyberpsycho-in-waiting. Today, it’s me, so that tomorrow, it doesn’t have to be you.
Doesn’t have to be Dorio.
“MAINE!”
My roar shakes both the dust from the ceiling and the cyberpunk from his shock and I point towards the hallway that David had escaped through.
“Cover fire!”
The Edgerunner nods, one hand coming up with his L-69 at the ready and the other unfolding to show his Projectile Launch System spooled up and waiting. Between the Kang Tao hardware and the Arasaka cyberware, his Smart Link will be overloaded, meaning he won’t be able to aim both properly at the same time.
But within confined quarters like these, things like “aim” and “properly” become unneeded luxuries and he trains both weapons steadily on the entrance of the hallway as I get behind the wheel of my beloved car. I was no time in turning on the ignition, my Avenger’s massive engine roaring to life with a bone-thrumming rumble, before I floor the gaspedal with enough strength that it makes me glad I splurged for internal armor plating as well, or my foot would’ve gone straight through the undercarriage.
As it is, the sudden acceleration causes squealing wheelspin as I leave thick skid marks on the old tiles of the entry hall. A wild pull on my steering wheel brings my Avenger into a half-spin, ejecting the mangled arm from the front wheel arch like a beast spitting out the bone it had been using as a toothpick. Right as I’m turning, the first of the Militech guards storms down the hallway, but Maine’s already spotted them before I need to alert him.
His PLS barks loudly and if he were a smaller man that shot probably would’ve gone wide just from the kick-back. As it is, the projectile sails down the hallway, before exploding in a massive show of fire and force as it fills the corridor with sudden death. A cloud of smoke billows from the entryway and into our hall, so Maine folds his arm away again as he steadily walks forwards, his Smart Link activating as I complete my tight turn.
Maine barely even pauses in his stride as the patented Kang Tao radar picks up its victims and eight barrels unleashed their guided payloads, uncaring of the obscuring fog of war. More screams ring out from the crumbling hallway, and I’ve finished my 180, leaving long tracks of rubber and blood smeared across the cracked tiles.
“Maine! We’re delta-ing!”
The Edgerunner unloads his L-69 once more, its reload massively improved now that his chrome isn’t being hijacked, before he practically throws himself in my Avenger and I once again fucking floor it. We roar through the ruined entrance to the hallway, swerving narrowly through the gap between the now unmanned Militech Ragnars idling outside. Tires hit tarmac and then we’re off, speeding away over NC’s roads, like Dorio first making our way out towards the Badlands.
We’ll have to lie low for a bit before we can make our way back into NC proper if we want to avoid having every NCPD squad car sicced on our asses. I’d rather not have to run River off the road if I can help it after all.
It pains me that we can’t do anything for the people trapped in the hospital, other than taking care of as much Militech soldiers as we can and hoping that the intel we lifted is enough to run Biotechnica into the fucking ground. There’s simply no time for anything more, considering the remains of the Militech squad looked like they were out for blood.
Case in point:
“There they are.” Maine speaks up, already hanging outside my passenger side window from the moment we left the building, cybernetic eyes trained unerringly on the hospital as it shrinks behind us.
Looking in my rearview mirror, sure enough I spot them: the remains of the Militech death and/or clean-up squad. Same thing really, as far as those corpo cunts are concerned. They quickly spot my speeding Avenger, and even from this distance I can make out how they shout and gesture at each other to quickly file into the waiting Chevillons.
One of the soldiers is quick to follow orders, booted feet stamping carelessly on the ashes of what just this morning was his colleague as he opens the door I used to cut another co-worker of his in half. As he throws the door open wide, the lower body of the woman slides listlessly to the floor, and the soldier bends down to do away with the torso as well.
Which is when the little ‘present’ I had slipped into the woman’s vest detonates: two incendiary grenades of my own. Sure, I said I left my heavier ordinance at home, but I was just talking guns. An LMG might be difficult to conceal from two cops when you’re sitting down at the diner table with ‘em, but smuggling a few grenades on your person is much easier when said person is my size.
The blastwave of the hastily hidden grenades (slipped into the woman’s pockets when I leaned down beside her) easily takes out three more corpo soldiers and knocks a good half-dozen more flat to the ground. The inside of the Chevillon is thoroughly ruined now, basically turning into a massive block of several tons of unmoving metal.
No way that they’ll ever get it to drive again, or at least definitely not with field repair, meaning they’ll need to pile into the second one (easy enough to do, considering how Maine and I have culled their numbers), but after all the explosions they’ve been through, they’re understandably wary of walking face-first into yet another fireball.
Which means they’re forced to give up any hope of pursuit as they methodically start checking their remaining vehicle for traps and bombs and they swiftly disappear from my rearview mirror as we roar across the wide tarmac of the Badlands, exchanging the city skyline for sprawling desert.
The wide-open surroundings and the familiar thrum of my car’s steering wheel resting comfortably in my hands allows me to finally start to relax a bit as the adrenaline slowly leaves my system. With it come the aches of battle and the stinging pain of the bullet wounds I suffered, but I’ll just take it as a sign of still being alive.
A low, rumbling sigh escapes me as I settle in a little more comfortable in my chair. Or, well, try to anyways. I’m a huge guy, sure, but Maine isn’t exactly a slouch himself neither and it’s getting rather, uh, cramped up in my Quadra.
Let’s say I’m really hoping that’s just a gun in his pants whenever I’m forced to shift gears, inevitably brushing up beside him (even more). Sitting shoulder to shoulder like that, I can only imagine we look like some bizarre, futuristic Mad Max counterpart to how Mr. Incredible looks like whenever the superhero is stuck in traffic.
The ride is smooth and, thankfully, silent despite that, and I can feel myself relaxing even further as the battle high leaves me completely for the first time since I left Chunky Buffalos.
“Ehm, Boss?”
That is, of course, until Maine breaks it and judging by the way he attempts to scoot a bit away from me (almost hanging outside my window again for all his troubles), the growl coming from deep within my chest is a bit more audible than I had intended.
“What is it?”
“Just… wondering.”
“Hmm?”
“The civvies we had to extract. I mean, kid’s right. You’re ganic. And certainly don’t need a medic, or at least not one from outside the Animals.”
“So?”
“So how the fuck do you know Gloria Martinez?”
“… ahh, about that…”
//
Fun Fact: Adam’s Iconic version of the L-69 is named the Ba Xing Chong, which translates to Eight-Star Blunderbuss. Make of that what you will.
Comments
Ha! This is hilarious, I might actually use that for the follow-up chapter!
Nope, but it's not that big a deal, it's just a regular version.
Javidom
did he pick his burya back up?
asdo
"How I know about her? You think I don't do background checks on my pack? Do you not think Corpo 101 is not targeting those you have connection with? I knew she was your girl so I kept an eye on her and your kid for ya, you're welcome, though I gotta say never really thought of you as a player like that with a fine lady like Dorio around....why are you looking at me like that?"
