Ch.337The Supporting Character’s Story – I’ll Have Coffee Again Today, Dave! (2)

In Dave’s eyes, they looked… truly like self-proclaimed revolutionaries. Their closed-circuit power armor appeared homemade, assembled from various parts, and their weapons didn’t seem particularly legal either.

He could tell just by looking at the phrase “No Gods, No Masters” etched into the gun barrel and the flashy graffiti-like paint job on their power armor. Cheap revolutionaries. People who don’t know how to change the world.

They were nothing but self-proclaimed revolutionaries. Killing Fred and massacring the security team wasn’t revolution. Setting off bombs in Belwether’s headquarters wasn’t revolution either. There was a more appropriate name for that.

Terrorism, that’s what it was. That’s why Dave couldn’t stand them talking as if there was some noble cause behind all this. Covered in dust from the explosion’s impact, Dave struggled to his feet.

He couldn’t tolerate them speaking as if they had killed efficiency with terrorism, or mocking the valiant fight put up by Fred and the security team. Efficiency isn’t an oppressor. Efficiency is an ideal. A beautiful ideal.

It was the incantation that made real the never-kept promise that if you work hard in your place, you can live happily, and Dave himself was living proof that this promise could be kept.

He had been able to live with nothing to worry about except memorizing mercenary stickers for his son’s interests, and with that freedom, Dave had been able to help others.

That’s why Dave rose with an almost sense of duty. He approached those terrorists who had started moving to escape quickly. He stood blocking their way.

Their gun barrels were pointed at him, and though he was afraid, he decided to look away from that emotion for a moment.

The house always wins. Belwether, the city, corporate governance always triumphs. But then, one of the terrorists pushed his gun barrel down.

“Are you crazy? We’re not here because we’re deranged terrorists. We’re here to change the world. The security team is a threat, but this office worker isn’t. He’s just… brainwashed.”

Dave swallowed his tears and barely opened his mouth. His hands, clutching his thermos tightly to stop them from trembling with fear, began to speak. He had to remain calm. He was the only one who could defend efficiency now.

“You came to change the world? Don’t make me laugh. You think sneaking into Belwether headquarters by helicopter, planting a big bomb, and shooting some security personnel will change the world? No. Nothing will change at all.”

The terrorists paused momentarily as Dave, whom they had thought harmless, spat out every word as if chewing and swallowing them. Dave resolved to keep talking until a bullet lodged in his head.

“Do you know what happened? Listen carefully. Efficient, hardworking company assets died by the dozens, no, hundreds… maybe more. I don’t know beyond the fact that too many died.”

Even one is too many. Dave silently repeated the security team’s motto that Fred used to proudly recite. Many. Too many. Even the seven gray screens appearing in Dave’s vision were too many.

“Now, even if you escape, the security team will hunt you down. They won’t kill you, but bring you back to Belwether to give you eternity. An eternal silence to reflect on your wrongdoings. Is that the end? No.”

“The HR team will reinforce our welfare department to comfort the terrible grief felt by the surviving employees and the families of the dead. They’ll make more temporary contracts with counselors. Is that the end?”

“No, absolutely not. All of Chicago will condemn you. Did you think nationalists would cheer you for committing terrorism against corporate governance? No way. They’ll call you terrorists too.”

Dave spoke like he was cursing, but it was true. While nationalists wanted to reclaim territory by force, they had at least stopped committing violence against civilians since their failure in Detroit.

Because they too are people who learn and progress. Because they had learned, albeit belatedly, that embracing violence with the logic of “our bastards versus their bastards” would only make them lose to corporate governance.

But not these self-proclaimed revolutionaries. They know no method of resistance except violence, and they can only see those who stand before them as enemies. Dave felt the air grow colder, but he continued speaking.

Both they and Dave himself knew very well that if he were shot now, his words and curses would stick to them. That’s why Dave boldly continued speaking. He told them the reality.

“Is that really the end now? No! Absolutely not. The purchasing department will prepare the finest funerals, and Farmers will bring in so many real flowers they could make a hill. Because that’s what respect means.”

“Belwether won’t forget the victims. They’ll create a memorial wall like they did after Zaina’s terrorist attack in LA, and the names of the people you killed will be inscribed there for everyone to remember.”

“Still, still it’s not over. You haven’t created change. You’ve created wounds and scars. Just terrible wounds and indelible scars…”

But they weren’t wounds that couldn’t heal, nor scars that couldn’t be covered. Belwether would move forward beyond the scars. They would bury the dead, wet the ground with tears, and move on.

This inhuman yet efficient, this massive machine would repair the damage and pain, adapt to never suffer such damage again, and roll on like yesterday. It was both terrible and beautiful.

The words about wounds and scars being all that remained deeply embedded in the terrorists’ hearts. It was painful. This wasn’t what they had prepared for. They viewed Chicago’s partial fall to corporate governance as corruption.

Corporate governance is a symbol of greed. Corporate governance is a symbol of oppression. If their streets look clean, it’s just a clean and quiet hell, not heaven. The nationalists had taught them hatred.

It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t special either. Corporate governance wasn’t much different in that it taught hatred toward nationalists. The only difference was the attitude of those who received it.

There were only beasts and subhuman individuals who weren’t strong enough to break through that shell of hatred, nor adventurous enough to be curious about what lay beyond that thin eggshell, yet wanted to become heroes.

Everyone lives with prejudices. Most prejudices break down when living alongside their targets, but some people burrow deeper into the comfort of that hatred.

The tragedy was that such fragile humans had the ability to assemble power armor and weapons, had experience living as mercenaries, and had time to disguise their weakness as strength.

As the terrorists’ thoughts filled with that foggy grayness, Dave spoke while barely holding back tears. He began saying what the terrorists themselves couldn’t or wouldn’t answer.

“There are many possibilities. Maybe you’re restorationists following federal government orders. Then all this would have been something planned. At least that would be a clear act of hostility.”

Dave’s voice grew sad because he knew this wasn’t true. If the restoration government had acted directly, it might have been this violent, but it would have moved with a clear purpose.

But these terrorists seemed satisfied with just detonating a bomb and were trying to leave the building. That’s why they were now facing Dave.

They might have believed that setting off a bomb would sound an alarm to the world, but all that rang throughout the city were funeral bells.

“Or maybe someone sent people to drive a wedge between nationalists and Belwether. Some idiots who came without disguise, still wearing mercenary decals, pretending to be nationalists…”

Dave’s voice choked before he could finish. That wasn’t likely either. If that were the case, they would have either convincingly pretended to be nationalists or disguised themselves as mercenaries from another corporation.

They had done nothing. They came here with anarchist slogans etched on their gun barrels and power armor decorated with graffiti-style decals as if they were punk samurai.

“You know better than anyone that none of this is true, right? So answer me. Does all this wounding and scarring seem like ‘revolution’ to you? Or even in your eyes, is it just a really, really childish and purposeless act of terror? Answer me!”

Dave pleaded. He hoped that all this tragedy he experienced wasn’t simply due to the revolution of stupid self-proclaimed revolutionaries, but they were all averting their gaze. A desperate attitude.

They were avoiding eye contact. They needed to be heroes and revolutionaries here, which is why this office worker they had spared instead of killing indiscriminately like villains was now speaking to their conscience.

The mercenary at the front, holding a shotgun with “No Gods, No Masters” etched on the barrel, raised his gun toward Dave. He… just wanted to feel like a hero of the times again.

He wanted to dream again of the childish dream of becoming a symbol of resistance by planning and attacking Belwether headquarters by helicopter.

For that to happen, this powerless Belwether office worker who spoke of the bitter reality and the fact that those killed by their heroic actions were not monsters but people, had to die.

Even the mercenary who had shouted about revolution and insisted they shouldn’t shoot Dave because they weren’t villains was just watching the scene. In fact, he was ignoring it most actively.

Dave clutched his thermos to his chest, bracing for impact. He closed his eyes, thinking it would be a much stronger impact than the recoil he felt during pistol training. At that moment, a gunshot rang out.

But Dave wasn’t hit by a slug. A black full-body cyborg was shielding him. It was a Special Operations agent. The Special Ops agent, who hadn’t drawn his high-frequency blade, was covering Dave with his body.

Thanks to hitting the spine, which had additional armor plating and was originally the most durable part, the Special Ops agent’s full-body cyborg was still moving fine. Another shot was fired, but this time it dug into the armor plating.

There was no problem with movement, and the Special Ops agent continued his assigned task. Holding Dave in his arms, he threw himself in one swift motion behind debris that had fallen outside the lobby. Dave was now safe.

The Special Ops agent didn’t say anything heroic. He merely transmitted a very conventional and efficient report through the communication channel. To Dave, that seemed more heroic.

“Survivor secured. Permission for discretionary engagement granted.”

The moment those words fell, Special Ops agents who had been waiting in the dust cloud for survivors to be secured sprang into action. The company’s force began to move.

A Special Ops agent who had been clinging to the ceiling above the revolutionary hero guarding the rear dropped down and grabbed him by the nape. He extended his high-frequency blade and collected his head.

Another hero of the age tried to return fire, but the Special Ops agent who had collected the head used the body of the terrorist whose neck had been sliced as a shield and charged. The movement seemed inhuman.

And when attention turned to the charging Special Ops agent, a heavy anti-power armor armor-piercing round tore through his shoulder. There was a sniper too. Our heroes weren’t composed enough to locate the position.

He tried to draw his high-frequency blade with his remaining arm to resist, but the Special Ops agent with extended blade tips completely sliced through his high-frequency blade, exploiting differences in material and vibration frequency.

This was exactly why the security team had desperately held on, delaying death. If they could buy just a few minutes of time, the company’s force would arrive, and the survival rate of the remaining survivors would dramatically increase.

The destroyer of oppression whose high-frequency blade had been sliced off stepped back, but it didn’t last long. He didn’t have to face just one Special Ops agent. A hand extended from behind him.

A Special Ops agent had thrust that sharp hand into his back. In front of him, as he coughed blood into his closed power armor, the fingertips of another Special Ops agent pierced his neck. A Special Ops agent leaped up.

They were here under orders not to kill. The Special Ops agent who climbed onto his shoulder like a mollusk sliced his neck and preserved the head in a preservation fluid container. They would become the immortals of this age.

The revolutionary who had stood at the front, once full of confidence and without doubt, was now hiding behind the ruins of the building, trembling like a frightened dog. His power armor helmet was already cracked.

The moment he tried to emerge from behind cover, a sniper’s shot fell, and a Special Ops pistol, better known as “Small Misdeed” used by the Boogeyman, had already put a hole in his hand.

He caught his breath. He didn’t know how many of his comrades were still alive, but there must be some way to escape. He forcibly sealed his wound with preservation fluid and grabbed his shotgun again.

But what Chicago’s revolutionary saw when he rose was… only black enhanced bodies surrounding him. There was no final battle, no heroic resistance.

He tried to raise his hand holding the shotgun, but nothing was raised. Both hands holding the shotgun were already rolling on the floor. He couldn’t even properly track the movements of the Special Ops agents.

The seemingly emotionless full-body cyborgs of the Special Ops agents swarmed around him. Surrounded by Special Ops agents, the Special Ops captain stepped forward and collected his head with the high-frequency blade attached to his fingertips.

The Special Ops agent who had been guarding the area next to Dave with twenty-one others holding Special Ops pistols only relaxed a little and looked Dave over after hearing that all heads had been secured.

“Do you need emergency medical assistance? The medical department is currently at capacity, so we’d have to follow triage protocols, but…”

Dave waved his hand as if returning to being an ordinary citizen. He had only rolled on the floor a few times. It was an extremely minor injury considering an explosion had occurred inside the headquarters.

“No, no. I’m fine. Really, I’m not hurt at all.”

Only then did the Special Ops agent stand up again. Even though the engagement was over, they would have much to do, but he had enough time to kneel on one knee in front of Dave and say a few words.

“These words won’t fill the void of loss, but still… you bought us time until we arrived, prevented those terrorists from escaping, and prevented additional casualties. Thank you.”

With those final words, the Special Ops agent saluted with three fingers extended in the headquarters style, then lightly jumped up, grabbed the broken and collapsed wall of the headquarters, and launched himself into rescue operations.

Efficiency is about not resting, not giving up, and ultimately getting things done. Dave wasn’t sad but proud that the Special Ops agent who had saved him disappeared like that.

Watching the spot where the Special Ops agent’s back had vanished, Dave could think of his own method of revenge. The best revenge he could take would be to do as he had said while swallowing his tears.

Not immediately, and perhaps he would need treatment for a while, but Dave would someday return to being the manager who buys banana mocha lattes for his colleagues. He would make silly jokes again.

He would memorize mercenary logo stickers to match his son’s interests again, speak to interns in a treasure hunter-like tone again. He would chat over coffee again.

He would thus prove that the terror had changed nothing except leaving wounds and scars. Instead of hating those who caused pain, he would learn to live with that pain.

That is efficient, that is following the beautiful ideal he believes in, and thinking this way seemed to be the only way he could smile and make bold promises as usual at the funerals of his team members and Fred.

That’s why Dave rose from the debris. He had no intention of waiting and crying until the day he would hear “Get me coffee today too, Dave!” ringing in his ears again. As he always had, he headed toward where help was needed.