Ch.149Work Record 020 – Ep 14. A Brutal Solution to a Brutal Crime

“So, I told you we should’ve stopped those corporate bastards from taking over the city in the first place!”

The old man’s voice echoed through the meeting room of the bunker, built during the war era in the middle of the Detroit outskirts wasteland. Another man who had been listening shouted back.

“If we had, you’d have been the first to get your head chopped off by the FBI! If you’re going to spout such nonsense, you should’ve either done the procedures properly or not taken money from those MediTech bastards…”

Fundamental grievances erupted. Despite many traitors having been killed, the fifteen-seat meeting room was still packed. The former Detroit Police Commissioner was raging in response.

Or perhaps he wasn’t the former Detroit Police Commissioner. In the federal government’s database, he was still the Police Commissioner. Such meaningless formalities suited the traitors well.

“If you have so many complaints, Chief Superintendent, why don’t you go catch Gardner yourself? Want to turn in your rank insignia? Get out!”

The Chief Superintendent fumbled around the meeting room desk to collect his pen, but it was nowhere to be seen. Thinking that on a day of bad luck, nothing goes your way, he stormed out of the meeting room.

The bunker was quiet. As always, the air purification system was working well… and the personnel last sent by the Federal Rehabilitation Support Bureau were doing their jobs properly, except for being somewhat anxious.

Thanks to the Chief Superintendent stopping the Commissioner from saying they needed to keep sending more people, the level of anxiety had somewhat subsided. Otherwise, they would have been called cannon fodder.

As the Chief Superintendent returned to his assigned room, an agent from the Rehabilitation Bureau approached and saluted. With a gloomy expression, he reported with a devastated look.

“Chief Superintendent, one of the Rehabilitation Bureau agents on external guard duty suddenly pulled out his pistol and shot himself in the head. We’ve recovered the body, but…”

The CCTV footage the agent showed displayed a guard who seemed to be standing normally suddenly drawing his pistol from his waist, placing it under his chin, and pulling the trigger.

If he was going to shoot himself anyway, why bother standing guard until then? It made no sense. The Chief Superintendent, already prone to headaches, closed the video.

“Haa… damn it. Keep the body in storage for now, and don’t tell the other agents. If anyone asks, say he was causing a disturbance because he didn’t want to leave, so we put him in detention.”

There were numerous matters to handle. After hearing the full report, the Chief Superintendent could finally return to his room. First, he needed to find his pen. Nothing would get done without it.

Thinking he might have dropped it under his desk, he bent down to search, only to come up with a handful of dust. As he rose, he bumped his back against the desk. After a loud thud, something rolled across the surface.

When he finally stood up and checked the desk, there was his pen. It must have been stuck between some documents and rolled out from the impact.

No wonder I couldn’t find it. The Chief Superintendent’s outstretched hand suddenly froze. It wasn’t his intention. His wrist was immobilized as if caught in some solid press.

His pen suddenly levitated and pierced through the back of his neck. The pressure on his wrist disappeared, and something struck the embedded pen, completely penetrating his life support system.

The Chief Superintendent’s body slumped over the desk. Only then could he see the second set of footprints that had followed his own. That was the last thing he saw in this world.

Not long after, there was a knock on the door of the agent who had just reported to the Chief Superintendent. The Chief Superintendent’s voice came through.

“I’m here about the incident earlier. I think it might be homicide. Open the door. This isn’t something to discuss in an open space.”

It was a relief that a superior was taking interest. The agent opened the door, but there was no one there. He felt his tactical dagger being pulled from his waist.

The dagger flew through the air. Then, with a skilled and sharp motion, it sliced through the agent’s neck. Footprints appeared in the blood on the floor, but they were soon covered up. They disappeared.

Not long after, sudden reports of murders began coming in from throughout the bunker. In bathrooms, private rooms, or the cafeteria… everyone knew the cause of death, but no one knew the perpetrator.

More precisely, they all knew who had sent the killer. H-Enter had finally decided to dispose of them. They were bringing in new criminals and cleaning house before moving on to the next season.

Three agents entered the armory door without noticing the bloodstains on the ID reader, and a grenade connected to the door exploded. The armory detonated, but fortunately, the war-era bunker withstood it.

Perhaps being buried would have been better. Then this unknown intruder would have died with them. Anxiety was reaching its peak. The higher-ups had already hidden in the panic room.

Agent Michael McCauley, hiding in his room, shot and killed a colleague who knocked on his door. Agent John Donald, hiding at a corridor corner, killed the owner of approaching footsteps.

Ah, of course, the footsteps belonged to a medic rushing to tend to another accidental shooting victim. They knew nothing about the intruder’s identity.

Whether they made footsteps, whether their breathing could be heard, whether they walked with heavy steps, what they looked like… whether they were even visible. They only knew that a highly skilled agent had infiltrated.

So the owner of the footsteps probably walked leisurely around the facility. They might have walked without making a sound or bumping into anything. The situation didn’t last long.

Because the traitors could still make rational judgments. They identified themselves by name and affiliation to prevent friendly fire, and the chaos seemed to subside. No one else died.

They couldn’t tell if this meant a lull in the situation or its conclusion. The spy might have been among those killed in the accidental shootings, or they might just be taking a break.

A report came into the panic room. The Rehabilitation Bureau agents had found a plastic container. It was filled with small surveillance drones. It seemed deliberately placed.

One of the fourteen people gathered in the panic room exploded in anger. Pounding the floor with his fist, he said:

“It’s someone sent by H-Enter watching us with drones and playing games. There’s no other reason to scatter such things around. Any objections?”

Those who trusted only each other, for somewhat unsavory reasons, all shook their heads. Only the fifteenth participant seemed to have objections. Though they didn’t appear to object—in fact, they didn’t appear at all.

More precisely, not only did they not appear to object, they weren’t visible in the first place. The Commissioner’s service pistol was drawn from his waist, and simultaneously, a modulated voice was heard. It was Gardner’s.

“I do. It’s for the live broadcast.”

Thirteen gunshots rang out in succession. The decrepit former DPD higher-ups were nothing but fixed targets for Gardner. All died with their life support systems precisely pierced.

Gardner tossed the empty gun to the Commissioner. If he had loaded and chambered one round beforehand, he might have had a bullet to commit suicide or resist. A black display appeared in mid-air.

One panel became two connected panels, and they began to reform into Gardner’s silhouette. The optical camouflage stopped. The mask-like head portion was removed.

From within, Gardner emerged like a moth crawling out of a cocoon with wet wings. Only the sound of triggers being pulled in vain continued.

From the corners of the panic room, tiny broadcast drones crawled up like insects and began filming those terrified expressions.

Some DPD survivors probably felt like dying of shock. Serena certainly did. It was the moment she had been desperately waiting for—the death of the traitors.

What followed was a long take. Gardner didn’t use a single one of the hundreds of ways he knew to kill someone with bare hands. He simply threw crude punches and kicks.

The punches and kicks were obvious enough that they could have been blocked by curling up arms and legs, but they were powerful enough to shatter arm bones raised to protect heads in a single blow. Almost barbaric.

The old screams gradually became shallower, then turned into the sound of breaking bones, and soon into squelching sounds like meat being tenderized. The first traitor’s death was neither clean nor gentle.

The panic room door opened again. They believed fourteen had entered, but it seemed no one came out. Both were wrong.

A rifle placed in front of the opened panic room levitated into the air. The magazine was removed to check remaining ammunition, then reloaded before heading down the corridor following the door. Gunshots rang out.

The reserve agents, agents in trauma recovery, and retired agents remaining in the bunker could barely resist Gardner’s invisible attack. It was rather one-sided.

Soon the inside of the bunker was in such a state that jokes about a “Gardner-style red carpet” would seem tasteless. Footprints continued across the blood and scorch marks in the corridor, accompanied by the humming of a heartbeat detector.

Gardner walked around the bunker as if taking a stroll, confirming there were no survivors. By coincidence, the building shook violently from the explosion’s aftermath, and the lights began to flicker again.

Arthur took this coincidental event as a directorial cue and began turning off his optical camouflage in sync with the flickering. Footprints appeared on the floor as his body was revealed piece by piece.

And after the next, slightly longer flicker… nothing remained in that spot. Not even footprints continued, as if Gardner had evaporated, leaving only silence.

The small drones were filming an earpiece placed before them. The urgent voice of the Executive Producer could be heard. He too had to act a little.

“Excellent, both as an operation and as a finale. Return now, Gardner. Gardner?”

A classic direction, perhaps? Arthur, still hidden by optical camouflage and clinging to the ceiling, thought quietly. The broken garden has been fixed, a successor has been created, and Gardner, having completed all his tasks, now disappears.

That should have been enough. But what Arthur heard upon returning to Detroit was mostly voices of protest. Essentially, protests demanding proper respect for Gardner.

Arthur only briefly thought about how he had already succeeded in becoming the remarkable person he had planned to be. Just enough not to become arrogant, then he returned to the penthouse. The Executive Producer was waiting.

Arthur, wearing Gardner’s disguise, turned off the optical camouflage, threw off the mask-like face portion, and asked. His voice was relaxed and comfortable.

“There will be additional filming in the evening or dawn, right? Perhaps with Serena appearing before Gardner as he quietly leaves against a skyscraper backdrop?”

“Our concept is a bit different. We place a note saying ‘To Gardner’ on a Smog Piercer on the outskirts of Detroit. We even pretend to remove the cameras.”

“Ah. So Gardner, still in optical camouflage, approaches, reads the note, and leaves a reply. Something like ‘The place for Ryland Winters’ belongings is only in Ryland Winters’ garden,’ right?”

The Executive Producer felt a strong urge to suggest a career in professional acting again but decided to keep his promise. Instead, he played along.

“Gardner is an educated barbarian. He might have said something much cleaner, like ‘Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.’ What would you prefer?”

“The company’s suggestion is better. A short line is better for concluding a series.”

“I’ll miss these meetings. Why don’t you take a few more days off from your company and stay here before going back? You’ll need time to wrap things up, and Serena and Lobringer should thank you properly.”

That was the biggest offer the Executive Producer could make. Arthur didn’t refuse this one. He nodded briefly and smiled.

“I originally planned to visit Nationalist territory to see the ocean… but I guess the ocean will have to wait. I should enjoy this freezing second home a bit longer.”

“Then come back sometime later and visit the museum. The Call Sign Gardner series was profitable enough to warrant a special exhibition hall. Regarding compensation…”

Originally, since it was just a two-week supporting acting job, there was no offer to share part of the series’ profits. It was a kind of poison clause, but Arthur didn’t mind much.

“From learning to use a one-handed high-frequency blade to everything else I learned while working as Gardner… I learned enough not to worry about not getting a few percent of the profits.”

For Arthur, even the amount written in the original contract was unprecedented. It was slightly more than twice his annual salary at Belwether.

Arthur was at least keeping his promises to Günter. He was thriving as a freelancer recognized by the chairman of a mega-corporation. Proving one’s worth is immensely satisfying.

The first line was being written in his career record: “Successfully completed two weeks of security work in Detroit owned by Heroism & Hope Co.” The logo of Heroism & Hope Co. was also stamped behind it. A kind of endorsement.

Although it was Belwether that granted Arthur his freelance contract rights, Heroism & Hope Co. was officially agreeing to that grant. He was now a mercenary recognized by two companies.

The federal government would now dislike him twice as much. He would have to go through two or three hours of screening to enter areas under federal control. He would also be called a corporate dog twice as often.

Still, it was amusing to think that someone from Belwether would find the term “dog” offensive. Arthur’s call sign was proudly Shepherd Six.

Yoon’s call sign was Harrier One, and the one who saved Arthur was Border Collie Seven. All dog names. So Arthur decided to stay comfortably for two more days.

Even if he used all two days, he couldn’t create a perfect farewell, but there’s no such thing as an eternal goodbye that requires a perfect farewell when airline staff greet you as soon as you step into the airport.