Ch.105016 Work Record – New Recruitment Period (4)

Now it’s time for the power suits to make their appearance. They always showed up when people realized they couldn’t handle things with their bare hands. The security guards’ power suits here would be crude, but they were power suits nonetheless.

Soon, the mechanical clicking sounds of power suits began to echo. Though they could be called power suits, they were literally just exoskeletons without even gloves attached. One of them broke through the door connected to the stairwell and walked out.

There were three of them. Inside were workers trembling at their first combat situation, and all they held were restraint batons with excessive current flowing through them.

They looked at me desperately, as if hoping I would offer them a chance to surrender. Their expressions seemed on the verge of tears. But they too were accomplices. I couldn’t offer them surrender.

The workers in power suits already knew this much. The man who appeared to be the foreman tried to threaten me by swinging his baton, but his hands were shaking so badly that I could clearly see the electric light wavering.

“We’ll count to three and charge together! If we go up, the security guards will shoot us dead! Now…”

I interrupted him mid-sentence. I had no intention of just watching. They only had their hard hats strapped tightly, which offered no ballistic protection, but looking at their condition, I didn’t even need to waste bullets.

“Three.”

Their counting voice trembled so much that they would likely only manage to say “one” and “two” aloud, unable to utter “three,” so I said it for them. I jumped off the tiled floor and struck the foreman’s head with my knee.

The shock baton touched my body but was blocked by my insulated combat suit. Even if it had touched bare skin, with implanted neural circuits doubling as electrical conduits, current wouldn’t be much of an issue. The power suit protected neither body nor head properly.

My body, repeating actions from my past life, flailed about, and I struck the worker behind him with all my strength. I pulled the last one out of the power suit and threw him backward. I aimed and fired with Small Evil.

My vision was filled with dark red, making me feel like my eyes would easily tire. Behind me, in the VIP room, gunshots rang out as hostesses were being rescued.

Just as I was thinking about reporting to the frontal infiltration team, a thumping sound echoed from the ceiling behind me. Seems there was one more. I could hear something pounding on the ceiling, or more precisely, the floor of the third basement level.

I took two steps back and waited with a flash grenade in hand. The floor material of the research facility, left to rust from contamination without repairs for years, cracked open, and a security guard wearing a proper power suit finally dropped down.

It was a type of power suit I’d never seen before. It wasn’t Belwether’s or Fitts & Morrison’s, nor was it the design of common “homemade” ones. It had desert camouflage coloring… and a black flag attached.

It was the flag of pre-war nationalists with sixty-one stars. The craftsmanship was excellent. I thought perhaps it was a pre-war power suit that Farmers Co. hadn’t disposed of, but something seemed off.

Only the helmet was a different color. The helmet was a cheap knockoff. Had they abandoned it thinking it was unusable due to a lost helmet? No, that wasn’t it. There was a severed section visible at the neck of the power suit, wrapped with insulation tape.

Fortunately, I had an expert on such items in my head. Chance’s voice output in my mind.

“It’s an infantry drone from the war era. It appears they’ve removed the camera module, stripped out components, and forcibly created space for a person to fit inside, using it like a power suit. I’ll identify its weaknesses.”

If they had forcibly created it, that meant they had removed all the artificial muscles inside and made just the shell movable for someone to ride inside. Proper power suits were so rare that people would go to such lengths to obtain them.

“Before that, what about the AI?”

“Affirmative. It has a basic AI that can only perform fundamental commands. There’s a small main computer near the back where damage is less likely. The speaker module hasn’t been removed.”

As I saw the security guard in the power suit raising his rifle, I slid into a corner. It would be insane to engage in a gunfight without taking cover.

“Weakness confirmed. Chance, let me borrow your voice. Preset Chance.”

“What are you planning to use my voice for… Request accepted.”

I borrowed Chance’s voice. After receiving the default mechanical voice setting of the war-era drone, I spoke. Mimicking Chance’s manner of speech wasn’t particularly difficult.

“United States Department of Homeland Security drone Chance, dash, zero one three nine. Confirmed this infantry drone has been seized by Joint Forces. A Joint Forces soldier is inside. Proceed with elimination.”

An infantry model would have rough terrain capabilities and would be subordinate to Chance in the command hierarchy, who could even perform rail gun sniping and essentially artillery strikes from his back. It was as I expected.

The AI that had remained dormant even while people dismantled it and repurposed it as a power suit responded to my voice mimicking Chance.

“Voice data match. Command received. Major functions have been removed. Will proceed with basic functions only.”

The ability to think was only necessary for drones at Chance’s level. The drone-turned-power-suit began to move on its own, neutralizing the control of the security guard inside.

It raised its right hand to feel the person riding inside, then grabbed the security guard who had dropped his gun and was trying to escape. The wrist turned backward, and a scream rang out.

The twisted wrist grabbed the rider’s neck. With a grip strength that hadn’t been available when it was forcibly used as a power suit, it crushed the neck bones. He died with his neck broken by his own hand.

Only then did I emerge from the corner of the corridor. No more security guards coming down to the fourth floor were visible or detectable. After sighing, I drew out compassion I’d never felt for them before and spoke.

“Chance, it’s not worth using an artificial brain for this… Could you tell me how to decommission it? It’s been too long since Farmers dug it up and locked it away here. No enemies detected.”

“Please destroy the main computer mounted on the back. Arthur Murphy’s high-frequency dagger should be able to destroy it easily. I request use of the voice module.”

Chance said nothing about me borrowing his voice to solve the problem with minimal risk. He was no longer the property of the nationalists, after all.

“Approved. Say whatever you want.”

I approached the drone-turned-power-suit that was saluting toward where the camera device would have been attached as a head. Chance’s voice leaked from my neck.

“Infantry drone registration number zero-zero-one-one-three-one-seven-two. I authorize your decommissioning. That war is over.”

Though it was a drone without even a proper name like Chance, Chance spoke to it as if addressing himself. After quietly listening, I ran current through my neural circuits and inserted the gently vibrating dagger into its back.

The drone froze in place. The gunfire from the VIP room behind me had also stopped, and nearly a dozen hostesses had gathered in front of the elevator. The VIP floor could be considered cleared.

“Basement level 4 cleared! Support coming down from level 3 has also stopped. How’s the front going?”

“This side was handled easily too. One Vegas native got a bit damaged by an improvised explosive, but Eve patched him up enough with repair drones that he could return. Don’t forget we’re handing the pimp over to Sin City.”

“Where is the pimp? The 4th floor VIP section had quite a few rooms, but nothing special except for a small hall with a stage.”

“Seems to be on the third basement level. We’re about to finish dealing with those registered as Los Angeles citizens on the second floor and head down, so let’s meet at basement level 3.”

The expressionless Manager Carmilla approached me. After scanning the surroundings once, she nodded.

“No life signs except for the rescued personnel. Let’s go up.”

“Yes, I’ll take point. Follow me.”

This rigid attitude, in stark contrast to my usual laid-back demeanor, still felt unfamiliar. I headed up to the third basement level with Manager Carmilla. The third floor was almost eerily empty.

Well, it would have been stranger to have many guests in the VIP rooms at this hour. Normal people would be working at this time, not visiting a brothel. As was I.

A few guests emerged from their rooms to assess the situation, only to meet our eyes. They were registered as employee-citizens. I pulled the trigger and left the hostesses to Manager Carmilla.

Unlike the fourth floor, which had many sealed areas and was filled with just one hall and private rooms, the third floor was mostly open, perhaps less contaminated. I looked for an area marked “Staff Only.”

The door was locked. I smashed the reinforced glass door with two punches, then opened it from inside and headed in. This space would have looked better when it was Farmers Co.’s Wasteland Restoration Research Institute. Not anymore.

The office inside was completely empty. It looked like someone had left in a hurry, and only sobbing and breathing sounds were mixed together from inside the pantry. I approached the pantry and flung open the steel door.

The employees were gathered inside. A pistol round grazed my display helmet and ricocheted. The employee badges they wore on their chests—a trace of attempting to run things like a company—were all for regular employees.

I drew Small Evil but did not accept small evil. This was the right and proper thing to do. After changing magazines, I headed for the executive office inside. It would have been used by the research director of Farmers Co.

The executive office door was also locked. However, it wasn’t difficult to break down an office door not designed for security threats. I kicked the door, tearing it off its hinges, and entered.

Inside was a panic room, but those who had occupied this research facility building were not Farmers Co. employees. In front of the panel she had unsuccessfully tried to operate, a woman held a pistol in her hand.

She apparently lacked the courage to die. Nevertheless, when she heard someone breaking down the door, she brought the gun to her mouth, but I was faster, shooting the body of the pistol with my carbine. The pistol flew away.

If she didn’t have the courage to live, she should have found the courage to die quickly. I grabbed the back of her neck and dragged her out of the executive office. The moment of downfall was quite fragmentary.

Unable to enter the panic room without authorization, she had been scratching at the steel door when her neck was grabbed and she was dragged out.

I dragged her from the executive office to the staff area, and from there to the corridor, where I threw her in front of Manager Carmilla.

Lives that rode on others’ achievements fell so easily. Manager Carmilla caught her, pulled the military AI chip from her neck, and inserted it back into the storage device on her wrist.

“How many Christmas presents am I getting? You’ve kindly worn your employee badge, so I should check… No, never mind. No need to check identities. We’re going to kill everyone anyway.”

All that mattered was that no one inside survived. I raised my hand to my helmet again, tapped it lightly, and reported.

“The pimp has been arrested and handed over to Manager Carmilla. Where is the frontal infiltration team?”

At that moment, there was a loud knocking sound twice from the door of the stairway leading down from the second floor to the third. Vola’s voice was heard.

“Here. Third floor stairway entrance. We’re coming in, so don’t shoot.”

After a confirmation reply, Vola pushed open the door. Looking at the scene inside, he surveyed the surroundings as if sniffing, though his face had long since lost anything resembling a nose.

“Clean work. Yes, President Yoon. Third floor is cleared. Seems all the employees working at this brothel have been eliminated too. Please declare the operation complete.”

“Not yet. Some employees might have disguised themselves as hostesses and evacuated together, so check the staff roster against the hostess list and compare with the rescued individuals. Deal with anyone who doesn’t match. Understood?”

If that had really happened, it would have been clever thinking even in the midst of chaos, but it wasn’t that brilliant a move. I found the employee roster and hostess list from the document storage in the staff area and compared them with the rescued individuals.

One of the rescued hostesses kept nervously rolling her eyes, and as soon as someone said, “She’s not on the list,” she denied it, claiming it couldn’t be true, as she was dragged away by the Sin City bitches. Everyone else matched the list.

Only after double and triple checking did the job properly end. President Yoon sighed lightly as if finally satisfied and said:

“I declare this operation complete. Mercenaries affiliated with Sin City’s bitches may now disable your personality adjustment devices. This time I’ll call Farmers Co.’s cleanup team instead of Belwether.”

Farmers Co. would spend money on permanent closure after internal cleanup, if only to prevent such incidents. That meant one less ruin in the wasteland where people might gather.

If, by some extremely unlikely chance, someone had survived somewhere in the building without encountering the mercenaries… it wouldn’t matter much.

Even if they came out late, they’d be killed by Farmers Co.’s security team, and if they remained quiet, they’d sleep eternally in the wasteland along with the permanently closed research institute.

That would be the crueler death. Once Belwether attached the reason of “public safety violation,” it was better to give up on living, yet they chose starvation over a bullet—how strange.

Sin City’s bitches sent a new vehicle. Not the armored car we came in, but a van. It probably had bulletproof capabilities, but it seemed designed with cargo space in mind for business use.

More than anything, it had large windows that would compromise its bulletproof performance, allowing even purebloods to see where the car was heading, and inside the passenger compartment was a small refrigerator with a note saying “help yourself.”

It probably contained just water, but at minimum, it meant that whatever happened, the owner of this van would not harm the passengers. Most such minor amenities served that purpose.

I came outside and shook myself off. The smell of gunpowder and blood was masked by the acrid smog smell. After shaking off the bodily fluids on my helmet, I approached Ms. Eve, who was helping the pureblood hostesses into the car.

They wouldn’t want a mercenary reeking of blood to offer a helping hand, so I didn’t extend mine. Ms. Eve glanced at me briefly, then earnestly turned her attention back to the purebloods.

“Okay. Just this once, I’ll act differently, Eve. Okay… So, Arthur, how many did you save today?”

“You don’t need to force yourself, you know. According to the roster, fifty-seven people.”

“Someone might think I’m saying this to avoid saying something unpleasant to you.”

“Anyone would see you’re doing this because you don’t want to say something unpleasant to me. Besides, the deaths were going to happen anyway. These people being rescued wouldn’t have happened without us.”

Ms. Eve, who had been about to puff her cheeks, sighed a little at my words. She leaned against me slightly, taking her share of the gunpowder and blood smell. This was definitely progress.