3.16
“Violent and extremely dangerous. Still, not as unstable as some of his ilk — can be counted on to act predictably in regards to his employer.
The employer in question is a more pressing matter. He is vain, egotistical. A megalomaniac. It should not be this difficult to pin him down.
And yet, that acquisition last night…
I’ll remain vigilant. For the first time in a long while, I feel as though I’m close to piercing the veil.
It isn’t… a good feeling.”
— Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 22
I take in the situation. Four militia, total. I need to neutralize the ones closest to the hostages immediately, and find a way to defend them from the remaining two by the door.
Chloe partially solves that first task. Her bolt gun whips up with startling accuracy, bolt springing from its casing with a thunk and embedding itself into the closest militia’s arm. Blood sprays. I ignore it.
The guy drops his weapon, screaming, and I dismiss him. The henchman right next to the hostages is raising his weapon.
I make a quick risk-assessment, fire a pressure booster in my leg, and engage the blade hiding beneath the skin of my right arm.
A long spire of bone pierces through my middle and ring fingers, bisecting my forearm and extending to twice its length before locking into place. I don’t bother taking the time to seal the wound — losing blood is still losing mass, but ideally this fight will be over before I need to do any serious healing.
For now, speed over resilience. I cross the room in under a second, steam trailing behind me and bone-sword pulled back behind my head.
I swing, dragging the blade across the man’s chest, catching against his arms and tearing the firearm from his grip. Blood sprays.
I ignore it.
Before the other two can react, I dart around the injured henchman, hook my blade around his torso, and pull him to the side, effectively covering the hostages with his body. He struggles, and the blade bites deeper.
A flash — a sharp staccato of light and pressure, repeated — and the body jerks in my grip.
Blood — not now.
I can’t tell whether any of the bullets penetrate. I push the body forward, planting a boot on its back and leveraging it into another dash. From off to the side, another bolt lodges itself into the left militia guy’s shoulder. He screams, stumbles, and I write him off temporarily.
My blade swings right, carving through the man’s forearm, and just as I do, I register a reedy voice, muffled behind nearby concrete.
“Listen, Doc! If ya wanna keep the street rats right-side-out — !”
I tune him out. So he was able to follow us? He must have coordinated.
Not well enough. There aren’t any windows here.
“Shut it, lapdog!” I bark, ensuring my voice is projected before I plant my feet, activate another pressure booster, and leap clear of both remaining henchmen.
Not a moment later, the wall between Suckup and our little room shatters, rows of stone spikes cleaving concrete like wet paper and engulfing the henchmen in a thick cloud of dust.
They’re —
I heft the arm-blade, leaping above the spikes and landing in the newly-made entrance to the building, stepping carefully across stone spires and ducking under falling rubble from the impact.
My eyes adjust quickly to the outside light, and —
The street is empty, save for Suckup. The wave of rippling stone solidified immediately after it formed, and as such it transitions into a malformed ramp at the man’s feet.
Suckup’s scowling, as I make my way past the settling dust. I keep my gait steady, slowly picking my way across the disturbed terrain, until the sun hits my face.
Then, his expression changes. I can’t identify it. Maybe he’s… angry? His henchmen are indisposed.
His outfit, adorned with metal canisters, is lacking. He’s down to… seven, total, along with a crumpled one resting discarded on the street next to him.
I shouldn’t assume he can’t use his power without them, but he’s been using them for a reason. I take a step.
Suckup takes a step back, snatching a canister from around his waist. “Y — you!”
…What? This doesn’t match any of his previous behavior.
He visibly steels himself. “You got a lotta nerve, missy!” He shouts. “Cook ain’t one ta’ take kindly ta’ wastin’ assets!”
The man grins, even as his posture screams tension. “But, ah, he’s not the unreasonable type, ya’ see? Maybe if ya’ lay down willingly, he’ll stay away from those street rats you’re so fond of!”
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Empty, baseless promises. Cook isn’t someone to respect the wishes of a dead woman. I take another step.
“Heh,” Suckup chuckles. “Don’t, ah. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
His hand clenches around the canister, and with a heavy crunch, it warps under his grip. He slides a boot forward, and from under it, a smaller cluster of spikes break the pavement.
I dart to the right, blade skimming the ground as I turn on my heel, lunging into a full-body thrust at his torso.
His hand tightens again on the canister, the material seemingly being pulled inwards towards his palm. A thick wall of gray stone pulls up between us, my blade cracking against the makeshift barrier, but not shattering it.
The stone at the base of the barrier ripples, and I lean back, watching as another spike shoots past my nose, displaced wind blowing against my face.
Interesting. Does he have more precise control over materials closer to him? He couldn’t produce spikes past walls earlier, or he would have —
I cut that train of thought and leap backwards, sneakers skating against shattered concrete as the spike above me expands into another cluster, smaller spines piercing outwards like some kind of deranged sea urchin.
I break into a run, circling around the cluster, and see Suckup cast aside another canister. I take note. Six left.
He snatches up another one, and it crumples immediately as a low rock wall bursts into place some distance around him, adorned with nasty-looking blades held high enough to prevent me from jumping over.
I narrow my eyes. He’s made a fortress in the middle of the street, and he’s the only one with a ranged option, here. I could get past his fortifications, but not without sustaining significant damage.
I could do it, but I’d be down a considerable amount of resources.
Suckup laughs, tossing away the used canister and taking another one. Five left, but…
Another wave of spikes, and I lean into my run, muscles burning, stone breaking stone just behind me. Bits of shrapnel slice my clothes, carving thin red lines across my skin.
No time to seal any of that. The wave halts, Suckup tosses away a canister, and I slam my boots into the ground, forcing a stop. I reach back, grabbing hold of a spike with my not-blade hand in order to haul myself on top of it in one smooth motion.
I need to get closer. Laser-focusing on the structure of the wave before me, I sprint along the warped stone wave, aiming for the place where it intersects with Suckup’s little makeshift wall. If I can just cross the distance before he can —
I’ve already used both the pressure boosters in my legs. He doesn’t even take the canister off his belt before another cluster of spikes erupts from under me, and I’m having to throw myself off-track.
Pain blossoms along my side, alerting me to a series of long gashes torn along my torso.
I grit my teeth. Not fast enough. Not close enough. I —
I hit the ground, ignoring the shock of pain that jolts through me and darting back to hide behind a cluster of spikes.
“Hah! Finally running away, missy?!” I scowl. I’m missing two pressure boosters, and the amount of blood leaking from my blade-arm is becoming unconscionable. I have no way to reach him without sustaining serious damage. I might have been able to outlast him had I gone into the fight with that kind of mindset, but now…
I jam a hand into my pocket and extract my phone, dialing a number my parents had forced me to learn by heart just last month. The device buzzes, and I take the time while it connects to seal some of my external wounds.
I take note of the egregious internal bleeding still present in my organs, but I don’t have time to do anything more than push things around a little.
The line clicks. “USMC Emergency Hotline, please state your emergency.”
I clear my throat. “Hi, I’d like to report a disturbance involving a super on —“ I cut myself off, lurching away from my hiding spot to duck under another array of spikes shooting out from behind me and curving inward, nullifying my attempt at escaping.
“That’s not gonna work on me!”
I resume speaking, sprinting through rough terrain in an attempt to avoid Suckup’s grasping spines. “Involving a super on downtown 5th street, by the intersection.”
“Ma’am? Ma’am are you alright? What’s —“
“Please send powered authorities to contain the situation as soon as possible,” I state, hanging up. A particularly vicious cluster sprouts next to me, and I twist instinctively to minimize the damage. I sustain injuries across my forearms, and a thin slice against my cheek. I stumble.
I don’t know how long it’ll take before the USMC arrives. The commotion during the call should lend my report some credence, but response times in downtown areas are infamously slow. I don’t know if —
Another cluster, off to the side — is he getting desperate? I go to sidestep the growing spikes, and —
Pain, blossoming, curling outwards through my gut. I glance down.
I’ve been… impaled. The spine twists through the air with more precision than I thought the man capable of. I’m surrounded by malformed spikes, and Suckup is only barely visible through his manufactured forest, some distance away.
“Heh,” he mutters, voice echoing through the empty alleyway. “Gotcha.”
He likely thinks he’s killed me. This isn’t the case, obviously, but it could be, very soon. I take a moment to stem the bleeding from my wound, making sure to keep it visually similar, and gather my resolve.
I need to keep him busy.
I open my mouth to reply, and dissolve into a fit of coughing, gritting my teeth against the sharp jolts of pain wracking my body.
“Not so scary now, huh, Doc!” The guy looks almost ecstatic. How do I get him to keep talking…?
“So, uh,” I start, digging through my memory for anything that’ll get him to respond. “That offer from earlier still open?”
He laughs. “You’re a funny one! Nah, nah, that ship sailed a long time ago, sweet-cheeks!”
Ugh. “Why even offer it in the first place? You seemed pretty confident earlier.” I try not to rasp, but it’s getting to be a little difficult, forcing words out.
Suckup’s grin falters, even as he hunches his back in a futile effort to cover it up. I catch it anyway.
“Th — that’s — !” He sputters. “Can’t blame me for tryin’! These things are expensive, ya’ know!” Motioning to his remaining canisters. Four? Five? He might have one clipped to the back of his belt, I don’t remember.
“I’m sure the boss will be thrilled to fork over a couple more,” I deadpan, and — there. Some kind of unintelligible expression darts across his face. I try to drive the point home. “Maybe if you were actually any good at this, you’d have been able to do it without using any. You already know he only keeps you around because you’re easy to —“
“Shut up!” He screeches. “You don’t know shit, you fuckin’ bitch! If the boss wasn’t so busy palling around with his new friend, he’d — !”
I blink. Friend…? Is this — I may have accidentally stumbled across something important. I could free myself now, use this distraction to slip away, but…
“Oh, so he’s found a replacement already —“
Suckup screams, grabs a canister from his belt, and — I’ve pushed him too far. I start to haul myself off the spike, sliding my torso backwards and attempting to not jostle the wound —
Even as I move, Suckup’s already stomping the concrete, throwing forth another wave of spikes, and in the split second before they reach me, I realize I won’t be able to dodge.
And then — a blur, pain against my gut, arms around my waist — I struggle, twisting my neck upwards to get a good look at my abductor, and —
Olivia. Jet. They’ve arrived.
Somehow, the realization does not fill me with relief.