Ch.97Work Record 014 – Forging a Harpoon (6)

The mansion’s door was already shattered, so the car would drive straight in. I take out a modular grenade, connect the detonator, pull the safety pin, and throw it, aiming for the center of the sound.

One of the Smog Crawlers somehow heard the grenade rolling amidst the coughing sounds and tried to shout a warning, but it was too late.

The grenade explodes, sending shockwaves and shrapnel in all directions. Moving my body wasn’t much of a problem. My equilibrium organs were sturdy, and my combat suit wasn’t penetrated by the fragments. My body withstood the impact.

The van enters, rattling over the metal gate scattered on the ground. The smog disperses momentarily from the grenade’s blast pressure, revealing an eye-straining redness through the gaps.

It’s not mental fatigue, just eye strain. I aim at the survivors, push the control lever to single-shot mode, and pull the trigger. I barely felt the recoil, but out of habit, I gripped the handguard and aimed.

“Get into the smog! It’s just one person! Judging by the car sounds behind…”

I locate the voice’s position. I raise my sights and pull the trigger toward where the head should be. The voice stops. What follows after the first person regains their senses and dies is predictable—chaos and disorder.

Gunfire erupts randomly into the smog. After relaying a message through the communication channel, I identify the direction of the muzzle flashes and move to flank.

“They’ve started firing randomly. Be careful not to get hit by stray bullets. I’ll flank left and handle it, so watch for crossfire.”

After sharing my position with Kanun’s employees, I run silently. The random return fire diminishes one by one. The gunshots without even the suppressors that had to be kept muted decrease.

The last one ends with someone else’s gunshot, not mine. I hear Noah Verami’s voice in my ear. It might not be Verami, but I’ve never asked for his full name.

“Handled it! Could there be any survivors?”

I hear sobbing through the wind. I aim my gun toward the sound and fire at the consistent noise. A high-pitched scream like an animal’s wail rings out, then stops.

“All clear. Moving inside. I’ll head to the smoking room as per Jimon’s plan. The rest of you spread out on both flanks and secure the area. No need to rush. Understood?”

“Understood!”

Noah Verami was clearly feeling thirsty for action. Being able to control that would make him a good mercenary. I eject the magazine and reload. After confirming no human sounds from inside the villa, I enter.

Thick smog filled the villa’s interior as well. With my helmet on, I breathe in, letting the filter process the smoke. Chance begins to speak with a warning tone.

“The smog contains hallucinogenic gas. The concentration is low and won’t affect Post-Human Type IV, but it could affect other personnel. Do you have C-type purification canisters?”

“I do. Wait a moment! If the freelancer gets surrounded while we’re changing canisters, even he won’t stand a chance. Everyone change canisters inside the van. Stand by.”

This is a situation I trained for in night operations. Shooting the pelvis disrupts posture. Knees are harder to hit than the pelvis, but generally have fewer modifications than the spine-connected pelvis. Especially in young people.

The leader of these Smog Crawlers, who stood out among gangs enough to claim this large villa in the ruins, couldn’t possibly be someone without at least minimal modifications. I kept this in mind as I waited for Kanun to return.

“Canister exchange complete! Have you assessed the interior?”

“No human sounds detected. You’ll need to search room by room. I’ll give you my remaining grenade. You’ll need it more than I do.”

Jimon opened his mouth as if to bark an order but didn’t. I wasn’t a rookie mercenary like his employees. Or rather, I was a rookie mercenary, but he didn’t believe that.

“Give it to Wilderf. I’ve got plenty left. You remember how to connect the detonator, pull the pin and throw it, right, Wilderf?”

“I’d have to be hit in the head several times to forget that. Hand it over!”

After giving the grenade to the man called Wilderf, I lightly jump up, leaping over the moldy marble stairs. I quietly open the mansion’s rotten wooden door and slip inside.

I remembered the map. Up the central staircase and through one small corridor is the room. I lightly bound up the stairs that must have been quite futuristic and a symbol of wealth some seventy or eighty years ago.

Noah Verami’s voice comes through the communication channel. It sounded somewhat like blind admiration and was also idle chatter that shouldn’t be on the comm channel. Jimon’s voice followed immediately.

“How can he do that while wearing that…”

“Noah, focus on the job. Stop standing there gawking and follow me on the left.”

After confirming the other employees dispersing to the flanks, I approach the smoking room, my objective. Chance’s voice outputs in my head again.

“The source of the hallucinogenic gas appears to be the smoking room, Agent Arthur Murphy. Your enhanced body has resistance to this substance, so no additional protective measures are necessary.”

That means if I handle things well in the smoking room, Kanun’s employees working in other rooms can also work with peace of mind. I locate the smoking room with its partially broken door, like everywhere else.

Without slowing down, I throw myself forward, smashing through the villa’s completely unreinforced door and entering. Inside stood a man wearing an exoskeleton, the predecessor to enhancement suits.

The silhouette in the angular glass box looked just like a large skeleton with a small human attached to it. I raise my gun and pull the trigger. Bullet marks appear on the outer surface of the glass box.

Bulletproof glass. At the sound of impact, the man who had been sitting quietly in the glass box began to rise. He carried no firearms; the exoskeleton connected to his body was all he had.

Deep breathing sounds echo. Both inhaling and exhaling sounds were thick. Intoxicated by the hallucinogenic smoke, he spoke in a voice that sounded surprisingly lucid.

“I didn’t expect Belwether to send mercenaries so soon… Come in. Would you like a puff? This smoke brings happiness. And it’s free! Something Belwether would never do!”

I had no intention of talking. Conversation is only necessary when needed—when you can persuade someone to surrender completely, or when you need to turn a hostage-taker from a martyr into a failed criminal. This wasn’t such a time.

Grinning until his mouth nearly split, he easily pierced through the bulletproof glass from inside with an appendage of his exoskeleton, larger than his body. Looking closely, I saw he had completely fixed his body to the exoskeleton.

He was drugged, and his flesh was being eaten away by the metal toxicity of the exoskeleton. Even if arrested, he wouldn’t live long anyway. Not that I intended to arrest him. His nerves were completely connected to the exoskeleton through the back of his head.

His head was covered with an old-style helmet—old-fashioned only because of weight and visibility issues—making it difficult to blow his head off. I just needed to sever the neural connection, but it looked like it would be troublesome.

“Ah, I’m called Breeder. Not breed as in breeding, but… haa… breath… when you breathe… Breeder. I just want the Crawlers to be happy! You are…”

I pull the trigger aimed at his body. Several bullets lodged in his torso, but his body, already beginning to necrotize from metal toxicity, seemed to feel no pain. Targeting flesh would be meaningless.

This was a life form with only brain and skeleton remaining. The drug addict, seemingly tickled by the feeling of bullets embedding in his body, giggled briefly before suddenly changing mood and raising his voice.

“I’m trying to have a conversation here! Belwether sheep bastards never know how to introduce themselves! So! Very! Extremely rude people!”

He spoke as if barking and began charging toward me, pounding the floor with his exoskeleton. His body, poorly attached to the skeleton, kept rattling.

Since all vulnerable areas were protected by bulletproof materials, I pushed my rifle to my back and drew my high-frequency knife and Small Misdeed. A high-frequency knife is better than armor-piercing rounds for tearing through bulletproof fabric.

I dodge his downward strike with both hands by diving into his chest. Behind me, with a cracking sound, part of the smoking room floor collapsed, but I had no problem maintaining balance.

I power up the knife through the wire-cum-nervous system. As he strikes downward, bringing his head close to me, I stab the knife into the side of his head, which now undulates smoothly like rippling water.

I slowly lift it upward. With his jaw exposed, unprotected by the helmet, I feel his exoskeleton’s large hands grabbing my body. The impact of his massive fist striking me caused more vibration than pain.

I bring Small Misdeed under his chin, turn the control lever to three-round burst with my thumb, and pull the trigger. The three consecutive vibrations of bullets firing were small in my hand but not in his head.

The hands pounding my back stop, and the semi-transparent display surface is soaked with blood that has turned almost black from metal toxicity. I shake my head clear and push the exoskeleton aside. I holster Small Misdeed.

After sheathing the knife on my thigh, I tear out the neural connection at the back of the helmet with my hand. With the sound of raw meat tearing, the neural connection component is ripped out. I throw it away.

I lightly place my hand on the side of his head. What did the boss say his name was? I couldn’t remember well. If he had stayed inside the bulletproof glass box, he might have lived a bit longer.

The result would have been similar. I would have torn through the bulletproof glass with my high-frequency knife and fired inside, and he, without any firearms, would have had no means to fight back.

“Smog Crawler leader neutralized. This seems to be the source of the hallucinogenic gas, so I’ll destroy it and leave. Does anyone need support?”

“Wilderf here! Clearing the right side of the mansion, currently at… first floor, third room! These bastards are gathered in groups of ten or twenty! They’re inhaling hallucinogens and partying, so now…”

Gunfire erupts continuously. The bulletproof shield won’t be effective for long. Bulletproof shields don’t have immunity to bullets; they’re tools to buy a brief respite.

“Connect the detonator to the grenade and throw it into the room, then move away from the landing point. Just keep the shield up while connecting the detonator. Don’t forget to get far enough away…”

“Damn it! I got it!”

Seeing his lack of composure, I felt I should go help. While this mercenary company knew at least the basics, it might have been better if Jimon had led three people to methodically clear each flank.

The only consolation was that if Jimon was at least a thinking person, he wouldn’t try to pick a fight with Fitts & Morrison with mercenaries like these.

I take a light step forward. I break through the door with my arm leading. Wilderf’s voice comes through the communication.

“Throwing grenade!”

An explosion that seems to shake the entire unstable frame of the building erupts from the floor below. I punch through a corridor window and say:

“I’m jumping down from the second floor and heading to the third room you indicated. Watch for crossfire.”

It would be best if they didn’t shoot at all. I lightly jump down onto the garden where nothing remains but dried-up soil where grass once grew, and enter the third room, which is now broken with smoke flowing out.

I finish off a Crawler who is trembling on the floor, his tattoos covered in blood, as he tries to pick up a gun, shooting him in the head with Small Misdeed.

There were quite a few survivors due to people being piled on top of each other, but none were in good condition. Most were half-torn apart by shrapnel and blast pressure.

I crush the brazier burning hallucinogens in the room with my foot, then step out through the door that had fallen outside, riddled with holes from the explosion’s fragments. Wilderf and Evelyn were waiting.

At least they hadn’t thrown the grenade at their own feet, leaving me to deal with all the Crawlers in the room by myself. I switch my display to combat mode, smile, and ask:

“What about the other rooms?”

“All empty. This was the only crowded one, so we came here last… and we found the right place. Damn. I should have thought of the grenade…”

“You threw it well. All I had to do was confirm the kills. Wilderf’s team has completed the sweep. Is the operation finished?”

“Operation complete! Meet at the entrance.”

Jimon’s team is at least reliable. I raise my finger briefly to signal for quiet and scan the surroundings. After checking with my enhanced senses and confirming there’s not a hint of human presence, I clap my hands.

“Really no one left. Let’s go.”

Evelyn takes out a cloth from a pouch on her bulletproof vest and hands it to me. It seems to be for cleaning, and it was obvious what my body was covered in. I take it and nod lightly.

I wipe the decaying blood affected by metal toxicity from my display and throw the cloth away. Belwether’s cleaning team will come to clear it up, though they won’t renovate the villa.

The ruins were the gangs’ territory. Unlike territories, surviving gangs don’t necessarily become stronger. They become wounded beasts, using this villa as a hideout, throwing their weight around for a while before dying.

Fortunately, real estate in the ruins always had new occupants. Except for houses near the smelly beach where Ms. Eve was hiding. Those places were relatively quiet and safe.

We meet Jimon and Noah at the entrance. Noah… at least wasn’t trembling like a child experiencing combat for the first time. I hadn’t made such an expression since middle school.

Jimon sighs again. He lightly pats my shoulder as if to say “good job,” and takes out a cigarette before remembering he’s wearing a gas mask and slaps his forehead over the mask.

“Damn. I’ll have to smoke inside. Anyway, this place will stink of rotting corpses for a while. Hey, freelancer. Do those Belwether guys send cleaning teams all the way out here?”

“Of course. It’s one of the official privileges for partner companies. Freelancers are also treated as individual partner companies. Chance, call a cleaning team. Tell them there’s a lot of organic waste.”

Jimon carefully pushes the cigarette he had taken out back into the pack and says with an exasperated expression, though his tone was quite sarcastic:

“What have I been doing for 13 years? Discriminatory bastards.”

“You know they’re meritocratic, right? Let’s go in. The job went well.”

Sincerity shows in his expression at those words. He looks at me with an expression that seems to ask if this really looks like it went well.

It was true that with my freelancer strength, I had pushed through a situation where several people might have died without me. It also seemed like a job they wouldn’t have taken without me in the first place. I answered with a friendly expression.

“You should enjoy good luck when it comes. You can complain when we review this job later.”