The low thrumming of trucks approached their position. Stiletto glanced at the AR readout of her Krieger Kreuzzügler II. Armor piercing ammo full. Safety off. She was ready.
The makeshift barricade did its job. The first truck stopped in its tracks, heavy-duty brakes pushing out compressed air with a loud hiss. Doors creaked as they were pushed open. Stiletto counted the disembarking footfalls. One. Two. Three. Heavy boots thudded against wet asphalt.
“Sheepdog Two Actual, this is Beagle One. Come in, over.” Warbled voice. They're using voice warpers too.
Stiletto perked her ears up and continued to eavesdrop. She can't hear the other end, though.
“—just a barricade. The boys and I can clear it in—”
“PEEKABOO!” Stiletto popped up from behind cover and whipped her machine pistol in the direction of the lone corpsec, burst fire spitting out APDS rounds.
The lone corpsec officer who foolishly got out on the wrong side of the vehicle ate several rounds to the chest, staggering backwards onto his ass as his armor managed to eat some of the lethality of the blow.
‘Some’ being the keyword, given that he was now afforded a few more holes than a human would normally start with.
Her lizard brain kicked into full gear. She trained the machine pistol on the far left corpsec, letting loose a longer burst. “HAPPY WINTER FEAST!”
The leftmost security guard suffered almost the same fate as the first guard to receive the gift of Holiday spirit. The gift of eating more shit with his vest and falling backwards onto the pavement with a dull thump. Not quite finished off, but Stiletto had his number.
«NeuroLine_Onigiri → Stiletto: Aight, you got me enough time. I'm in. Shit, that sounds cliché.»
The driver of the lead truck seemed to be locked inside, his NeuroLine failing to pop the door open. Onigiri's handiwork, no doubt.
The wounded troopers scrambled to their feet, running back to the truck to use it as (shitty) cover. The only standing trooper unleashed a desperate hail of bullets at Stiletto to cover for his allies.
Stiletto's eyes went wide momentarily before she ducked behind the barricade by pure reflex, letting her makeshift blockade eat the bullets.
Onigiri took advantage of being a magical space bullshit hacker and did her best to assist in this endeavour, promptly fucking with gun of the only remaining guy who happens to be useful.
The trooper realized this as his gun fed back a notification to his AR that it was in the process of restarting. In a panic, he ripped a smoke grenade from his belt and threw it at the barricade, landing it perfectly in place. It rebounded off of the plascrete with a resounding PING and dispersed smoke across the area in a large blanket.
Which may or may not have caused his heavily wounded allies—who were unable to enter the safety of the vehicle—to miss with their panicked spraying.
Stiletto vaulted over the barricade, wordlessly running up to where she saw the last standing corpsec. In one smooth motion, she swapped the machine pistol to her left hand and drew her one of her trusty knives from inside her racing leathers with her right. No time for hesitation. She blindly thrusted it forward into the thick of the smoke and grinned underneath her ballistic mask when she felt her blade facing the resistance of cloth and flesh for the briefest of moments before plunging in unimpeded. She quickly switched her grip on the handle and dragged her blade down, slicing his torso open.
The already wounded officer practically pissed his pants as he watched the only thing resembling a savior collapse in the smoke, barely a few feet away from him. Thankfully, he didn't have to soil himself for long. The glinting knife that did his buddy in soon stuck him, leaving him dead on the ground with his entrails decorating the area.
«NeuroLine_Onigiri → Stiletto: Heads up, there's more guys comin' your way.»
As Oni said, the second team arrived, weapons at the ready. They stayed just at the cusp of the smoke. For now.
Stiletto decided now was a good time to raise her voice for the benefit of the still-living and still-breathing corpsec, the voice warper installed in her ballistic mask lending a perturbing warble to her already unnerving sing-song cadence. “Hey! HEEEEEEEY! You don't have to die, you know!”
No reaction. The second team circled the smoke in a wide and loose formation, waiting for the smoke to clear so they could open fire on the Banshees. Unfortunately one strayed a little too close...
Stiletto ran towards the vague outline of a body and stabbed forward, wasting no time to savor the confirmed hit. She dropped down and back-rolled into the smoke, running and finding cover on the other side of the truck away from the formation.
The shivved corpsec promptly dropped like a sack of bricks, holding his sucking chest wound. His nearby comrade moved in a little too late to pull him away, forced to be content with just dragging him to safety across the pavement. The rest of them took a few cautious steps back as the smoke began to clear out a little, having lost sight of the go-ganger doing her best predator impression.
Despite her instinctual move to find cover, she piped up again. “JUST WALK AWAY! GO HOME AND BE A FAMILY MAN!”
These guys must be vaguely professional, considering that Stiletto didn't get a verbal response again. They held their ground.
She looked for someone to soon stab, and luck was on her side.
The side-window of the truck promptly exploded into shards, raining bits and pieces around her. The driver, still locked in thanks to Oni's shenanigans, apparently lost his patience and fired his Krieger Zuerst through the bulletproof glass by way of holding down the trigger. He flopped out of the window, dropping down a good distance right beside Stiletto, not noticing her presence there.
Stiletto turned her neck to look at the corpsec dropping down beside her and whispered in his direction. “Pssst. Hey. Hey. Do you want to live?”
The driver responded as he's trained to when he has someone within ‘I'm going to get sticked’ distance: by holding his hands up, letting his Zuerst assault rifle drop to the ground. In most situations, an operator would just ziptie the poor clown and leave him at the side of the road if he pulled this maneuver on them.
“Smart move—” Stiletto glanced at the name tag on his chest. “Jenkins. If you can tell your buddies to go home and let me take the trucks, that would be great. I'll love you forever.”
“Ma'am, that would be strictly against protocol. I'm not high enough in the chain of command to make that order,” Jenkins said. His own voice warper masked his voice, leaving enough bare to show that tinge of panic underlying his words. “I could, ah—maybe if you talk to the LT. He's the one with the yellow stripes on his shoulder pads.”
“Okay, I'll do that. Don't make me come back for you, alright?”
“Yes, Ma'am.” How polite. And then he folded his hands behind his back, as if he was waiting to be ziptied. After an almost awkward five seconds of holding that position, he realized Stiletto already darted away and sat down, pretending to be restrained.
He'd do a really good job at acting, as well.
The other corpsec continued their route of circling the smoke, trying to eliminate any form of cover that the Banshees could be taking.
Stiletto dashed past the dispersing smoke, knife leading the way as she stabbed her previous victim once more. Not that she would know it was the same person.
He went down like the sack of shit that he is.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
This is fucking terrifying, the lieutenant thought to himself. They were supposed to just escort cargo for some Aurora Hills rich kids. It was supposed to be a cakewalk. Easiest paycheck in the world. Now, they were stuck in the Slag, forced to deal with mysteriously malfunctioning equipment and a stab-happy knife-wielding maniac.
“Hold fire!” the lieutenant barked, his tone shaky as all hell. He just watched around half of his men eat shit and saw a crazy bitch demon fly out of the smoke and tear another apart.
“I'm stabbing, not shooting!” Stiletto shouted from inside the smoke.
“…Regardless, we're standing down. There has been too much violence.”
“Okay, we're talking now? It was hard getting your attention, you know.”
“Ma'am, you have to understand that we are only doing our jobs. We are being paid to protect the cargo.” The lieutenant lowered his gun. “And as far as I could tell, you were the first to open fire.”
“I wasn't,” Stiletto lied through bioware fangs. She stepped outside of the smoke, blood-coated knife at the ready. “But yes, can you let me take the trucks?”
“As long as you can guarantee that you'll leave my men be,” he responded after a short moment, clearly caring more about his comrades than whatever cargo was in the back of the trucks.
“Deal.” She extended the hand holding the knife for a handshake, thought better of it and sheathed it first.
The lieutenant—surprisingly—accepted the handshake with a firm grip. He slowly retracted from the handshake after a second to press a finger to his commlink; sending out a NeuroLine for his men to fall back. “My men and I are good to leave, then?” he asked. Cautiously.
“Yes, yes!” Stiletto paused before speaking up again. “I... apologize for resorting to violence immediately.”
“Forget it, Kid. It's the Slag.” He waved over his shoulder and started to beat feet.
His men gathered the dead, dying, Jenkins the dumbass who was still pretending to be restrained and headed off, disappearing in the direction they came from. There's probably a resupply point for them somewhere in that direction, so at least they won't get eaten by mutant rats or shot by other gangers.
«NeuroLine_Onigiri → Stiletto: Am I good to get up now? Is it over?»
«NeuroLine_Stiletto → Onigiri: All done.»
Right after she sent that, the two trucks rolled closer to the two via the wonder of remote NeuroLine commands.
Onigiri promptly sat up, trying to crack her spine with futile effort, and rolled her shoulders instead.
“—Fuck me, you did work, I think. No bruises or anythin'?” Onigiri finally pushed herself up to her feet.
“No, I'm okay. I think the smoke grenade ended up working for me instead.”
“Did you fuckin' see what they were packin', though? Zuersts. Fuck me. In the Slag? I've never seen a fuckin' Zuerst in person.”
“All that hardware didn't do them much good. They barely shot at me.” Stiletto looked at the truck before eyeing what remained of her Sploshee. “Where are we going to keep these trucks?”
“Prolly park them out near the shop. Maybe Hotrod's got space in her garage? Wait, no. Shit wouldn't fit there.” She craned her neck to look at the back. “Should we check the backs first? I think they got the friggin' things turned into a Faraday cage. I couldn't see anythin' in them while I was in the waves.”
“Okay!” Stiletto grabbed her Sploshee and walked over to the back of the truck.
Onigiri ambled her way to the back of the first truck, having already gotten access to the maglock on the back door during the entire ordeal with the CorpSec.
“Okay, cross your fingers and hope there ain't any bombs or anythin' inside, 'cause I can't see jack inside.” She nodded at Stiletto and popped the lock, letting the doors swing open. Two blue and orange Kamiya SR41s sat pretty in the box. Different modifications, from a cursory glance.
Stiletto peered inside, whistling when she spotted the cars. “These are far icy – wait a minute, why do these cars look familiar?”
“Beats me. Wonder why they had them set up in a Faraday cage if they're just friggin' cars?” Onigiri scratched her head, obviously avoiding stepping inside to get a better look. “Maybe they're hot or somethin'.”
“Hmm, maybe. You think the other truck also has cars in it?” Stiletto glanced over her shoulder to look at the second truck, the wiggling of bat ears betraying her excitement at their haul for the night.
“Shit, I'd hope so. What else are they gonna be transportin'?” Onigiri pivoted to tally her way to the other truck, disregarding the two SR41s in the process.
Stiletto closed and locked the doors of the first truck, hiding the Kamiyas from view once more. “Maybe a tank. I hope it's a tank.”
“…why would they be transportin' a tank to Aurora Hills?” Onigiri glanced over to Stiletto with a raised brow. “Unless they're doin' crazy shit there that I'd wanna be a part of.”
Stiletto popped the lock on the doors and aped Onigiri by letting them swing open of their own volition. “Maybe because they need a—”
Her words were cut off when the stench hit her, and then the sight. Definitely not a tank.
There were about a dozen people inside, restrained to the interior of the trailer. They didn't look like they were willing passengers, and from the smell alone, it was pretty obvious that they'd been in here the entire trip.
“They need a what?” Onigiri didn't notice at first, considering her attention was largely fixed on Stiletto. And then she saw it too. “Uh... I ain't sure if I should call Switch on this one,” she said, eyes staring dead ahead before her attention locked back onto her partner.
“You probably should. I have no idea what… this is all about.” Stiletto pointed back and forth between the various passengers.
Onigiri put a finger to her ear. A practiced gesture, considering that her commlink sat on her wrist and she didn't even need to use that.
«NeuroLine_Onigiri → Switch: Hey. Quick question. What are we supposed to be doin' when we come across a case of potential metahuman traffickin'? A dozen cases, that is.»
A brief moment later, a reply came in.
«NeuroLine_Switch → Onigiri: If they would be of any use to us, offer shelter and protection. If not, set them loose and let the Slag sort them out.»
“Kuso.” Oni sighed loudly, glancing back into the trailer. Her attention on the NeuroLine dropped for long enough to look at Stiletto. “Switch is sayin' to offer up shelter and protection if they wanna be useful, otherwise uncuff them and let 'em run.”
Stiletto turned to look at Onigiri, one foot already climbing inside the trailer. “Useful how?”
“Fuck if I know. Maybe they can help around the floor or somethin'? Or even point a gun.” She paused to emulate a machine gun. Nice. “Even staff at the Veil. Dunno what Viola would do with 'em, though.”
«NeuroLine_Onigiri → Switch: They're lookin' pretty shitty, Switch. I ain't gonna leave them out here if they turn down the offer. You think it'd be fine to drop off anyone who ain't willin' at the Night Market? Least they'll have a chance instead of gettin' their asses eaten by critters.»
«NeuroLine_Switch → Onigiri: I trust your judgement call.»
Very helpful, Switch.
Onigiri skipped a beat and slowly reached up to close the doors, rudely not acknowledging the trafficked metahumans. Well, it's not like they seemed all that aware of what's going on at the moment, likely sedated or locked up under a Scrambz chip to keep them quiet. “—Prolly should question them one by one somewhere that ain't in the open. Whoever was doin' this might have trackers on them, so I'm gonna have to fuckin' check every single one of them.”
“Okay, so what's the plan now? Drive the trucks back to our turf?” Stiletto clambered down from her half-perch on the trailer's lip. “Might have to shove our bikes inside with the cars if it fits.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I'm thinkin' we drive back to the club house and sort them out there.” She paused to pat Stiletto's shoulder when she stepped by, making way for the driver's side door of the trafficker-mobile. “You get the honors of shovin' the bikes in, Strongwoman.”
“Okay!” Stiletto hopped off and went to do just that. She cleared the road of her makeshift blockade, carelessly leaving the barricade and barrels by the curb. Two back and forth trips of loading bikes inside a truck later, Stiletto hopped into the car-truck's driver seat, rubbing her hands with glee as she studied the layout.
«NeuroLine_Stiletto → Onigiri: Ready to roll?»
«NeuroLine_Onigiri → Stiletto: Always am. Lemme pass you the permissions. Guess we gotta figure out what to do with these big ass pieces of drek when we get back, too.»
A second later, Stiletto passed all of the necessary authorizations to drive the truck via NeuroLine. And for once, Onigiri decides to be the little shit that raced ahead, considering that she had the luxury of starting up her vehicle first.
That'll show everyone.
Even though she's in a slow ass truck.
Driving like a Sunday driver.
Stiletto will probably catch up and overtake her in no time.
They drove off into the night. All of the issues, problems, and prizes of the evening can be sorted out another time.
Stiletto casually inspected the cab of the truck she's driving. A black credchit with fancy ivory trimmings glinted atop the dashboard. Looks like Jenkins completely forgot to bring his team's payment with him. As they say, what is yours is mine.