Chapter Twenty-Seven - Sometimes a Girl Just Wants to Blow Shit Up

“There are ten billion people on Earth right now. And, by our best estimates, approximately one in one hundred thousand is a Samurai. That’s point zero-zero-one percent of the world’s population.

We see Samurai all over. Getting one to act as a mascot for a corporation is considered a huge victory, and even those that try to avoid the spotlight will still be plastered in gossip rags and talked about on Mesh and internet forums. Samurai are natural-born celebrities.

For all that, the likelihood of any one person actually meeting a Samurai in their lifetime is minuscule.

I think that this nearly mystical level of rarity just adds to the occultism around the Samurai.”

--Excerpt from ‘The Cult of the Samurai,’ 2044

***

I had a bit of a problem.

For one, I was on the floor, chest heaving and feeling like I was a bit past the point where I was meant to die.

I wasn’t dead though, which was nice.

That would change very soon if the turrets placed next to the doors decided to open fire again. I had no idea if they could break through my armour, and I didn’t feel like finding out. Also, one of them had shot me in the tit and I was betting that would leave a bruise.

I raised my cybernetic arm towards the door, and with a flick of my augs, had the top of it open and reveal the rocket launcher within.

The rocket came out with a sound like a hollow fart and whistled across the corridor.

Then, with an impact that made the floor skip under me, it turned the front wall of the merc’s hideout into a nice big crater.

The old lady at the nail saloon came rushing out. “What is this!”

I coughed, turned over, then pushed myself up to my feet. “Me being a bit dumb,” I said. “Myalis. A helmet please.”

Certainly.

New Purchase: Mark IV TIGER-C Helmet

Points reduced to... 8,366

A box appeared by my feet and I scooped down to pick it up.

“You’re samurai!” the lady said.

“Yup,” I said. “Nearly a dead one too.” The helmet, of course, had a pair of cat-ear slots on the top, and a sort of mask-like front with a visor over the top of the face. It was sleek, gunmetal highlights, a sapphire visor and that familiar blue steel covering the majority of it. It also had whiskers. “Really?”

Those are very sophisticated devices. They analyse the composition of the air around you and reproduce it within the helmet without any harmful effects. They also detect minute vibrations in the air, making up any losses of audibility caused by covering your ears.

I rolled my eyes as I tucked the helmet under one arm, then tied my hair back in a loose bun. On the helmet went. It was a bit snug, but not too much so. The moment it was on the insides inflated and it felt as though someone had buried my face in a layer of pillows.

It would do.

I stretched a little and pulled my Whisper off my shoulder to tuck it up against my chest. “Go hide away,” I said to the old lady. “Or maybe close up for the afternoon? I figure we’re going to have a lot of curious people around soon.”

The lady nodded and jogged off to her shop. Soon the shutters were rattling down over the front.

I took off towards the mercenary base. My rocket had really screwed up the front door. The turrets that had tagged me were scattered everywhere in bits and the heavy door was crumpled as if it was a cardboard box and someone with a bat had gone to town on it.

“Gomorrah?” I asked.

“I’m here,” I heard her reply. There was a faint crackle in the background. Gunfire? “Are you meeting any resistance?”

“Uh. Yeah. I got shot in the tit.”

“You didn’t need to be so specific,” Gomorrah said. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’m about to kick in the front door. We’re trying to keep anyone important-looking alive, right? ‘Cause I’m somewhat in a ‘blow stuff up’ mood right now.”

“I’m well. Still at ninety-plus percent with my flamer fuel. The tank’s inoperable, by the way. And yes, we want to keep some of them alive. I hope you have better luck than I have. These men don’t seem keen on surrendering.”

I brought Whisper up. “We’ll have to see. Stay in touch.”

I kicked the door. Then when that didn’t do much, I kicked it again.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

I sighed. “Myalis, I need one of those black-hole bombs.”

I think I have something for that.

New Purchase: Mark II Dimensional Shunt Bomb

Points reduced to... 8,361

I caught the grenade Myalis spawned for me out of the air and figured it out at a glance. Timer, trigger, little safety pin. Easy.

Moving way back, I flicked the grenade over to the base of the door. It rolled off to the side a bit, but that wasn’t a big deal. I aimed down the length of Whisper and waited.

The world around the door warped, shifting in on itself like looking through poorly made glass. When the twisting finally stopped, everything in a rough circle, maybe two meters wide, was just gone.

I stared at the open-mouthed face of a man with a bullet-proof vest on the other side. He raised a rifle and aimed it at me.

My finger twitched and a bolt appeared in his shoulder. And then he exploded.

“Oh, shit,” I said. I twisted Whisper to the side and opened the bolt. “What kind of ammo do I have?”

Explosive tipped. Standard explosive.

“Shit, I need something a bit less lethal.”

How non-lethal?

I blinked. “What does that even mean?”

Non-lethal only means that the person hit isn’t dead in the end. That leaves a lot of room for variation.

I started forward. “Got something like a gas maybe?”

To compensate for your awful aim. That’s a good idea.

New Purchase: Gas-Bulb, Knock-Out-Bolt

Points reduced to... 8,358

I picked up the magazine of bolts, dropped the one that was in Whisper, and slotted the new one in place. “Okay then,” I said.

I had to hop over a hole in the floor near where the grenade had gone off. I could see the floor below, but mostly just the top of some vents and such. It probably wasn’t the best thing to do to a building’s structural integrity to blow holes in it.

The entrance opened out into a lobby, a large desk, all square and brutalist, a pair of doors leading off to the back, a bathroom off to the side. No benches or anything, but then the type of people coming here wouldn’t be sitting down and waiting.

I stepped over the bottom half of the guy I’d shot, Whisper swaying from left to right as I scanned the room.

No one. I was kind of expecting someone to show up, maybe a guard or two? Or maybe they were running down to meet Gomorrah. “Can I have that security feed?” I asked.

A trio of video feeds superimposed themselves over the top of my vision. The next room over front and centre, the next rooms after in the next two boxes. That at least explained where the people were. There were guys dressed in the standard uniform of a lifeless corporate goon. Slacks, a button-up shirt with some cutesy pattern, a too-tight tie.

The vests and assault rifles they were grabbing were a bit unusual though.

The two men and one woman carrying a crew-gun to the centre of the room where they shoved aside a potted plant and hooked the gun onto a plate on the ground was somewhat more concerning than the rest.

I noticed one or two guys dressed more impressively being ushered down some stairs to the floor below.

“Right,” I said. “I guess those guys are the VIPs. So let’s go get them.”

You might want to note that the room you’re in is currently filling with a nerve agent.

“What?” I asked.

You’re wearing a mask. It’s a non-issue.

I begged to differ. It at least explained why no one was waiting up front. They didn’t want to get caught in their own gas. It also explained the masks with rebreather-looking-things the office workers were putting on.

“Gomorrah,” I said. “Watch out for gases and such. They’re using them up here.”

“Noted,” came her reply. “I’m going to pull back and buy something for that. Can you keep the pressure up?”

“Sure thing love,” I said.

The doors leading into the office proper weren’t slabs of reinforced steel, just plain old smart-glass doors, currently set to opaque.

I made sure my shoulder-mounted guns were ready, then paused. “Wait, they’ve got masks. I need a different sort of ammo. Again.”

I was going to point it out. The gas your bolts use is likely to bypass their rudimentary masks, but it will still take longer to affect them.

I sighed. “Man, I just want to blow things up. Why does everything need to be so complicated?”

***