Ch.118Work Record 018 – Headhunting (7)

Sometimes, I find it strange that such scenes only register as eye fatigue. I can look at a colleague who’s sprained their ankle with concerned eyes, but not at something like this.

These questions always lead to the same answer. If this is abnormal, then what’s normal? I’m probably normal. The lives of valuable people are precious, and all living people have inherent value.

Pitying those who have abandoned that value is merely arrogance. A shell casing the size of a shooter glass ejects, and the next round loads. With the main entrance blocked by debris, I aim the grenade rifle at the second floor.

Intending to empty the entire magazine, I rake across the second-floor windows. The windows, already cracked by the drone, shatter without needing a direct hit from the grenades, and explosions comparable to hand grenades thunder in succession.

With each explosion, the interior grows quieter. After emptying the twenty-round magazine, the villa’s interior is almost completely visible from this side. No people, only debris.

The Operations Chief looks at the scene with satisfaction, then steps on the scattered grenade casings and gives a hollow laugh. That laugh suited the weapon of war.

“Clean these up and they’d make decent shot glasses.”

“I’ll pass. I’ve never asked a bartender to add a spoonful of heavy metals to my cocktail.”

He smiles with just the corner of his mouth while still in his exoskeleton, then places his hand on the side of his head and begins transmitting to the gathered operations team.

“Suppressive fire ends here! Infiltrate and eliminate! Report if you spot the Headhunter, and confirm each other’s positions before proceeding! Understood?”

I couldn’t hear their responses, but they must have been loud. It reminds me of my time in the Security Department. I set down the grenade rifle and pick up the carbine. The preparations were nearly perfect.

The only thing I disliked was that Small Misdeed was too large to hang on my chest. I had to tuck it at my waist, which would cause a slight time loss when drawing it… but only slight.

“I’ll take point in this direction! Considering performance, that’s the best option!”

After speaking, I lower my anti-flash inner eyelids to show him, then open my eyes again. The Operations Chief nods lightly. I easily leap over the villa’s pointed fence.

It felt quite good seeing the Operations team in their powered exoskeletons following me, who wore only combat fatigues with bulletproof fabric and plates. It felt like proving something to people who value efficiency.

Running with them to the villa, I confirm no life signs on the second floor, then lightly jump up to the ruined second floor. As I’d seen, there was only debris, no people.

Without speaking aloud, I connect my voice module only to the communication channel and say:

“Southern entry team has entered the second floor from the south. No survivors visible. We’ll clear from top to bottom.”

Four operations team members also power up their exoskeletons and jump up. Director Yoon is still waiting on the van with a sniper rifle. Her voice echoes in my ear through the communication channel.

“No undertakers visible trying to flank. After the drone strike and that brutal grenade rifle barrage, there won’t be many survivors on the second floor.”

Hand signals remain useful even when you can communicate silently. Thinking how well I learned at Bellwether, I navigate between corpses with precisely blown-off temples and debris from the drone strike.

I grab the handle of a door with broken hinges and pull it lightly. The already damaged wood comes off with a cracking sound. I toss it to my left and rush into the corridor. No survivors here either.

It seems the claim about the villa’s structure being resistant to blast pressure was true. The victims inside were all killed by the drones. I advance first, and the operations team follows, performing confirmation kills.

I remove my voice module and place it on an intact shelf before continuing forward. The Headhunter must be alive. Those types never die until you personally eliminate them. I was certain of it.

I concentrate my senses and scan the surroundings. From the bathroom inside, I hear groaning that pierces the silence. Then muffled sounds as someone tries desperately to cover their mouth. I make a light hand signal.

Holding the carbine with one hand, I punch the bathroom’s luxurious wooden door, tearing it off its hinges. An undertaker hit by the flying door raises his hands as if surrendering. Too late.

You should have quit before coming here. Everyone acts like they can choose whatever they want when they have their first chance, then cry out after losing that chance: “Give me one more chance!”

The world is a cruel place. A place cruel to good people has no reason to accommodate bad ones. At least cruelty is fair. In short, the answer is “No.”

I lower the gun barrel to his head. I pull the trigger on the undertaker who was treating shrapnel wounds on his own body. One shot was enough, but I fire two more to confirm the kill. People don’t die easily these days.

Moving to the next room. This moment reminds me of working in Bellwether’s Security Department. Since I left my voice module behind, I signal that I’ll turn the first corner, and the Operations Chief communicates instead:

“Southern entry team here. Planning to turn from the south corridor to the west corridor. Watch for crossfire.”

I hear something heavy being dragged in the corridor. Maintaining my aim, I turn the corner. There, one undertaker was moving another who was bleeding from one leg.

Seeing us come around the corner, he drops his colleague and tries to flee, but someone from the operations team pulls the trigger first.

Since bullets travel faster than sound, it always seems like the wound bursts open before the gunshot sounds. Indoors, especially with thick walls, the gunshot rings painfully in the ears, though the suppressor helps reduce it.

We confirm the kill on the injured undertaker too. The surroundings were quiet, but amid the smell of gunpowder, blood, and flesh, I could smell sweat. I heard someone swallowing nervously.

The first room on the left. I point with my finger, and two operations team members each take out flash grenades. Each connected pair was the Bellwether method. Breaching would be my job again.

This time I’d need to respond quickly, so I holster the carbine and draw Small Misdeed. I set the selector to three-round burst. There couldn’t be more than seven people in there.

I decide to use an uncommon stance. Aiming Small Misdeed forward, I kick near the door’s hinges. Any Shepherd would have laughed at this.

In the Security Department, they said breaching like this was like knocking for enemies waiting inside. Still, for a Posthuman Type IV against a wooden door, this is textbook.

The door tears off its hinges and flies inward, revealing old, worn children’s wallpaper. Two pairs of connected flash grenades are thrown into the room. I enter immediately.

I reduce my hearing sensitivity and consciously lower my black inner eyelids for flash protection. I squeeze the trigger on an undertaker who was ducking his head after seeing the flash grenades. Only muffled gunshots echo in my reduced hearing.

Another undertaker looks in my direction and tries to aim his gun, but the flash grenades explode in mid-air. I was the only one in the room who could withstand the heat, pressure, flash, and sound.

In flash grenade training, every intern makes an ugly display at least once. Everyone believes they can handle it until they understand the usefulness after experiencing tears, snot, drool, and the feeling of their equilibrium being hit.

The undertakers were the same. They didn’t even realize they’d dropped their guns, lost their balance, and were still moving their fingers as if pulling triggers. It was quite pitiful.

Despite the 3kg piece of metal spitting fire, I felt no recoil. With one shot, the body disconnected and with two more, it retreated backward and sat down as if frozen in place.

The rest of the operations team enters and secures different directions. The blood-splattered sight against what was once a child’s room with faded colorful wallpaper wasn’t pleasant to see.

I should apologize to the room’s owner. If they survived that war, they’d be well into middle age by now and wouldn’t be attached to such a room anymore.

After reporting “secured” only through the communication channel, we move on. Despite further movement, there was no sign of the Headhunter. No sound of his air gun firing bolts either.

“Southern entry team here. We’ve secured the second floor west corridor. Report on remaining situations.”

“Second floor east and north corridors secured! First floor also secured with gas grenades, but no sign of the Headhunter!”

The Operations Chief used his voice module, but the rest reported with their actual voices. I could barely hear them. There was something I could do in this situation.

I have to admit, his hiding skills are impressive. Keeping my voice as low as possible, I point to the southern corridor we came from and show that my voice module slot at the nape of my neck is empty.

I deliberately stomp loudly toward the southern corridor but don’t actually move. I’m just making sure. With my mouth closed, I connect only to the voice module and shout:

“Are you going to run away to keep that stupid nickname Bellwether gave you for one more day? Just like a bastard who shoots drug addicts in alleys, Headhunter!”

My voice echoes from the southern corridor. The north and east corridors would have heard the reporting sounds just now. The Headhunter has nowhere to run except this corridor.

If an ideological criminal who thinks it’s better to die than live without purpose wouldn’t make a last desperate attempt to survive, I’d be surprised. I understand him enough to put out this fire. His motives are none of my business.

I hear someone crawling slowly along the corridor ceiling, trying to minimize noise by using both hands and feet. He hid in the attic. While everyone was searching rooms for hiding places, he found the perfect hiding spot.

Now he’s trying to make up for his mistake. Contrary to before, I fully utilize my enhanced body’s shock absorption capabilities to follow the sound coming from above. I stand where I can’t be seen from the attic door.

The attic door opens quietly, and the Headhunter with his skull-marked helmet drops right in front of me, checking his surroundings. I immediately grab the back of his head and slam it into the floor.

There’s no grand escape. No coincidental gap in the encirclement. Though his helmet cracked, he immediately raised his air gun toward me. I grab it but don’t break it.

I pull lightly. The servos in his prosthetic forearm whir as he tries not to let go of the air gun, but the difference in strength was stark. After taking the slaughter air gun from him, I grip the handle. The Headhunter cackles.

“Going to shoot me with that? If you’re living a more excellent life than me, then I’m just livestock for life! Then…”

I throw the slaughter air gun toward where the operations team is waiting. I also knock the pistol he drew from his chest out of his hand and throw it out the window.

I lightly grab his helmet, crush the outer shell with force, then remove and throw it away. I make eye contact with a middle-aged man with a bushy beard but otherwise ordinary face.

I release him now that he has no weapons left. A voice reaches my ear. It was Kay’s.

“I think I know what you’re doing, Arthur? His name is Jeffrey Long! He was from Farmers Company Security Team, Livestock Facility Security Department. That’s him!”

“It’s quite enjoyable to see you crawl like a dog when called by name, Headhunter, Jeffrey.”

Becoming the wanted criminal Headhunter, following the absurd ideal of delivering death to useless lives—these were his choices. This time I understood. But he was Jeffrey Long.

I loosely roll my shoulders and lightly push his back. The operations team just watches quietly. Jeffrey has nowhere to run now. I continue speaking to the confused man.

“But I fucking hate when criminals clinging to some stupid philosophy act all relaxed like the world is on their side. Bellwether feels the same way.”

This time the insult came from understanding him. Jeffrey, who had been laughing off my previous surface-level insults, now drew a short knife and swung it at me.

Enjoying the feeling of the metal cables implanted in my forearm from the Chairman’s cultivation tank being pulled taut, I struck him. Jeffrey drops the knife and tumbles to the floor. He gets up with a slightly fractured, swelling face.

I walked slowly toward him. What he needed was humiliation—to be stripped naked outside his logic. With all my malice, I struck the middle of his right arm as he raised his guard.

“So, I’m going to beat Jeffrey Long to death here and write an incident report. Not hunt the Headhunter and receive a reward. Understand?”

I looked down at Jeffrey, who collapsed with a scream as his wrist bone broke. As he tried to speak with a resigned expression, I stomped on his face with my heel.

“No, don’t say anything, Jeffrey. I don’t care what circumstances led you to this state. Or how you avoided life sign detection. No one cares about your talk of the value of life or your dog-shit philosophy.”

The world’s warmth and attention were insufficient even for good people to share. There was none for Jeffrey. Now, as he began crawling down the corridor with his broken forearm, I grabbed his ankle and lifted him slightly.

Holding him with both hands, I flip him over my back and slam him onto the corridor floor. His death cry, like air escaping from a balloon, cuts off midway, and a mixture of mechanical parts, whitish fluid, and pink color stains the corridor.

Only then do I pick up the air gun thrown on the floor. I show it to the Operations Chief and ask:

“Should we take this as evidence?”

“Why bother? Your visual confirmed his identity.”

“Then I’ll tell the cleanup team to dispose of it.”

I bend it in the middle and toss it aside. The Operations Chief laughs out loud this time, kicks the broken air gun toward Jeffrey, and says:

“The wanted criminal is also eliminated! Since he avoided life sign detection, others might be hiding too! Seal the building and re-search each floor! Understood?”

I was glad I could put the result of understanding him to good use. This moment was as enjoyable as showing the highest respect to an employee who demonstrated maximum efficiency.

Fortunately, Jeffrey was the only one who evaded life sign detection. The Information Processing Team’s Autopsy Department will figure out how he did it.