Ch.54Work Record #010 – Routine Corporate Dispute (5)

After arriving at the building, I request a work zone. Though my target is solely Wolfpack Company, I need to avoid detection, so I set a wide perimeter extending a hundred meters around them.

I exit the van, push through the bustling crowd, and enter the building. Only once inside the stairwell do I take out my carbine and attach the magazine. I release the safety to full-auto and head up to the fourth floor.

The map is already committed to memory. I gently push open the stairwell door on the fourth floor. The creaking sound doesn’t echo long before the door opens. The thick metal door should provide decent cover.

Did Wolfpack not notice any signs of the impending attack? Just as I try to peek through the half-open door, gunfire erupts. They were expecting us.

I had set a wide operational zone, yet they anticipated someone coming for them? I couldn’t answer that now. I close the door and step back. The door won’t hold for long.

Think about the building layout, Arthur. The stairwell door is on the side of the main corridor. The Wolfpack men just need to stand in the corridor and shoot whoever comes out. I need to change my approach. There are windows at both ends of the corridor.

“Please cover this position for a moment. I’ll go up and infiltrate through the fifth-floor corridor window.”

“W-what? How? You don’t even have rappelling gear!”

Tara tries to stop what she thinks is reckless behavior, but it’s not reckless at all. Even if I fail, I’d just fall from the fifth floor. Not that serious.

“I don’t need any! Just wait by the door and don’t miss my signal to breach. We’ll break through soon, but don’t stand directly in front of the door!”

After finishing, I bound up the stairs lightly. It feels like I could clear half a flight in a single leap if I gathered my feet and jumped—and I probably could.

Taking the stairs three or four at a time, I reach the fifth floor and open the corridor door. But there’s rappelling gear at the end of the corridor. Someone knows. Someone is informing them. Who’s protecting Wolfpack?

I start running, shattering the corridor’s tile floor with each step. With each stride, the end of the corridor zooms closer, and I reach the window before the mercenary can climb up.

I see a hand gripping the windowsill and grab it, pulling hard. With a clean arc, I slam the person down onto the fifth-floor tiles.

The mercenary tries to say something with his face smashed into the floor. I grab him, lift him in front of me, and jump out the window while pressed against the wall.

Catching the fourth-floor window is effortless. Onlookers who saw me jump gasp in shock, then hold their breath as I grab the windowsill and climb back up.

Even in this turbulent Los Angeles, witnessing something that requires at least a Type II or III Posthuman is somewhat special. I pull myself inside.

Using the downed mercenary as a human shield, I rest my gun on his shoulder and assess the corridor. Four mercenaries are present. Two already have their guns pointed at me but haven’t pulled their triggers.

I’ve drawn enough attention. Hidden behind my human shield, I shout:

“Breach now! Watch for crossfire!”

Adding one more thing to worry about makes people terribly tired. Even as a Type IV Posthuman, my aim wavers slightly while restraining a person, but it’s not serious.

The mercenaries are torn between watching the metal door behind them or neutralizing me first… but they don’t have much time to decide. The corridor fills with gunshots muffled by suppressors.

Tara and her colleagues didn’t even use suppressors, creating a deafening roar that made my ears ring. The acrid gunpowder smell was no worse than the usual smog, so it wasn’t particularly bothersome.

In the end, Wolfpack’s mercenaries couldn’t shoot at me for fear of hitting their comrade, while I had no reason to hesitate. I pull the trigger.

Sometimes when shooting to kill, bullets seem to move in slow motion. You can tell exactly how you pulled the trigger, what trajectory the bullet took, and how accurately it flew.

And such bullets always hit their mark. The bullet pierces precisely through the back of the head of a mercenary who had turned toward the metal door. It’s devastating, but not enough to make me look away.

The mercenary staggers briefly after taking the bullet to the back of his head, then collapses forward with bloodshot eyes. The others at least fell in a state where their bodies could be recovered.

The hostage survives. I drag him into Wolfpack’s office. Tara will call Belwether’s cleanup team. I throw the hostage onto the reception sofa.

“Who tipped you off?”

Though they nearly died at the hands of Wolfpack’s people, I couldn’t help the hysteria creeping into my voice. The hostage shakes his head as if he doesn’t understand.

His reaction is too casual. I’m working overtime with a gun after hours to get an answer to this question, and he seems to think a simple head shake will suffice.

I can’t read other people’s minds, but I can read my own rising irritation. I grab his head and lift it. The body in my hands begins to tremble.

The human body operates efficiently. When experiencing too much pain, it automatically shuts down to prevent death from shock. But memories remain.

He’ll remember the feeling of his face being smashed into the floor when he went to deal with the mercenary who had circumvented to the fifth floor. That’s enough.

“Someone’s asking you a question. You should at least think before nodding or shaking your head. Hmm? Is there a difference in how seriously we take questions?”

If there is a difference, I can make it equal. People always have ways to narrow differences of opinion. Sometimes just attempting is enough.

“I-I really don’t know! Suddenly a Belwether drone appeared and told us to… to prepare, that’s all…”

I apply more pressure to his head. He struggles, but the difference in strength is obvious.

“It could be coincidence. It could be. But I want to hear why Belwether drones would come all the way here and what the hell they did for you guys. You must know something?”

He couldn’t be that stupid. To live as a human being, one must be smarter than that. I asked with minimal faith. He stammered a response.

“W-well, we did help someone from Belwether before! Dirty jobs. He said if we killed people for him, we could keep our partnership status even while taking breaks! I-I thought he was helping us this time too! Really, that’s all I know!”

Creating inefficiency with his own hands. Instead of handling things through proper channels, they used a mercenary company as contract killers. Terribly inefficient.

“A name?”

“Like they’d tell us something like that! All I could see online was the Belwether logo, and when we actually met, they wore sealed power armor so I couldn’t see inside!”

Sealed power armor. Usually worn by Legal Assassination Team members or Security Team section chiefs and above. All team leaders wear them. For them, safety outweighs the discomfort of power armor.

“The armor was completely white. There were some black parts where cameras were attached and in a few other spots, but it was strictly black and white, and… that’s it! Otherwise, it was ordinary!”

The clues were suspiciously well-distributed. At first it seemed like Human Resources’ work, but the assassin sent after me was from the Legal Assassination Team, and they wear power armor like high-ranking Security Team members.

The most rational answer is “none of the above.” They’re just pretending to give me options. These are deliberately planted hints. I rely on the only word I know.

“Ever heard the name Walter? Even in passing?”

Now completely subdued, I release his neck. He’s thinking desperately. A mind steeped in inefficiency now craves efficiency again. That’s enough.

“Y-yes! When handling that dirty job, we had to kill a doctor…”

“Dr. Isabella Shaw.”

So they dealt with the doctor too. Fighting the urge to smash his skull with my fist, I speak calmly—or try to. The hostage nods.

“That’s right. We went to find her, but she was nowhere to be found. There was just a voice recording playing. It said, ‘I’m out of this, Walter.’ That voice recording…”

Dr. Isabella Shaw is a collaborator. That’s why she gave her cultivation tank to Jack, allowing me to be cultivated. That plan failed when I escaped, and Jack was dealt with.

The doctor must have known she was next and fled at the right moment. Jack was either imprisoned in a brain prison or eliminated. I can’t pursue him. But with the doctor… there’s at least a possibility.

“Do you still have that recording? I’d like it if you do. That’s what I’m after.”

He brings a tablet and plays the recording. I download it to my phone while listening. There were a few more lines than he mentioned.

“Looks like you sent someone even though you know it’s over. I won’t be your puppet anymore. I’m leaving LA. Still don’t understand? I’m out of this, Walter. Remember that.”

She’s outside LA. That’s the only thing I can be certain of. And from how she speaks, Walter and Dr. Shaw seem to have known each other for a long time. I recall what I heard in the cultivation tank.

Dr. Isabella Shaw was in charge of communication between Belwether and the Medical Center. If I could access Belwether’s internal network, I might be able to identify people who would know her.

Do I really need to follow Kay’s plan and access Belwether’s internal network? She needs information about the transparent eyes, and I need information about Walter. Everything is inside Belwether.

The fact that increasingly insane methods were starting to seem realistic was the worst sign. It signaled that something incomprehensible and unacceptable was happening.

I started searching through other job files on the tablet. The remaining data was trivial—just records of what jobs they did and how much they were paid… nothing of value.

I quietly put down the tablet with no more information to extract and stand up. The carbine’s selector was already switched to safe. With a sigh, I said:

“I’ve asked what I needed to. Kill him or spare him as you wish. Please deposit my payment into my account.”

It might be better if he were gone, but the right to kill him belongs to those directly harmed. Tara racks the slide of her pistol and gives me a light wave.

“Good. Thanks for making this job easy—I’ll call you again if needed, Cowboy. Good work, now get going!”

The warm farewell doesn’t last long. As if emptying all positive emotions with those words, Tara’s voice turns vicious behind me.

“Fredo, Mo. Grab this bastard.”

It took about five seconds from entering the elevator and pressing the virtual panel’s first-floor button until the doors closed. A gunshot rang out during that time.

Not the kind of noise requiring hearing reduction during a firefight. Just a single gunshot echoing like a distant memory.

Though I wasn’t certain, I thought I understood why people working for mercenary companies might crave alcohol and cigarettes.

Still, cigarettes are poison. The liver can process alcohol’s toxicity, but the lungs were already working at full capacity processing the smog-filled air. No need to add more burden.

My faith in Belwether was weakening, but not my desire for efficiency. Belwether was simply too large an organization to operate at peak efficiency. People could still rely on efficiency.

But sometimes I wondered… isn’t something strange? Chance expressing bewilderment at my words was odd. Strange to hear such things from an unmanned aircraft, a weapon from that war.

Even so, there was nothing to rely on besides efficiency. Only the thirst I felt with my colleagues under the night sky, and the sense that I had found somewhere I belonged offered any alternative.

That wasn’t important now. What matters is resolution. Finding out who Walter is. It’s clearly not Security, Legal Assassination, or Human Resources. I need to think completely differently.

It’s not strange to feel tired. I headed to the apartment complex to meet Kay and discuss breaking into Belwether’s internal network. I opened the door to Gunter’s shop.

One wall still displayed harpoons, with holographic scans of fish he’d caught glowing beside them. The shop had an unusually old-fashioned feel.

A delivery drone flies through the drone entrance with several packages attached. Seeing this, I smile at Gunter behind the counter.

“Business seems good. I’ll have my usual sandwich.”

With most of his body replaced by cybernetic implants, Gunter showed no signs of aging. His metal joints move smoothly as he lightly taps the counter.

“Hardly a ‘usual’ when you’ve only been here two or three times, Metzgerhund.”

“I brought a new customer last time and ordered the same thing. Cut me some slack. You even remember me well enough to give me a nickname.”

I watch him briefly as he enters the kitchen. His food preparation is full of care. Gunter also talked about Berlin, didn’t he? It must be the care of someone trying to recreate a restaurant from his memories.

While watching him, I turn back to look at the harpoons, photos, and taxidermy. I’d fired guns many times, but couldn’t remember the last time I’d thrown something by hand.

As I quietly look at the photos, Gunter brings my sandwich. Following my gaze with his own, he says:

“You seem unable to take your eyes off the harpoon, Metzgerhund. Is there someone you’d like to skewer?”

Though joking, it didn’t sound like a joke. I would kill Walter with my bare hands—with the Type IV Posthuman strength he gave me—so I waved dismissively.

“Of course not. I’m just curious. The Pacific Ocean I remember was a stinking, rotten sea, but it looks blue in these photos. What kind of fish can you catch with a harpoon like that?”

Gunter asked without hesitation, as if everything I asked was too basic:

“What kind of fish are you interested in catching?”

No names came to mind. Unless you worked for Farmers Corp, there was no need or reason to know many fish species in this world. I answered jokingly:

“The only one that comes to mind is a whale…”

I laughed at my own silly remark, but Gunter responded with hearty laughter, as if he approved. He seemed even harder to read than Eve.

“Going straight for the biggest creature in the sea. I like your ambition. A whale, eh? You could certainly catch one.”

I couldn’t grasp how large whales actually were, but it sounded like a lie—like saying you could kill a person with a toothpick.

Still, Gunter’s shop was a place where I felt at ease. I could at least alleviate my complicated feelings before going to find Kay.