The bus trundled along, its tires unevenly running against the smooth pavement. O'Della's seat felt rough and the faux leather chafed against his uniform. He sat planted like a tree against the jostling of the large vehicle. The other people on the bus were regular families, old couples, and young kids trapesing around on summer vacation. Many other passengers were having menial conversations.

"What should we get for lunch?"

"Oh, I hear that new pizza place is exceptional!"

"Lorentzo's Little Italy? I thought the owner was kinda creepy."

"No, no, no. You're thinking of Lotino's..."

The chatter behind him went on and on. It was a stark contrast to what he had been used to. There was no room for idle chitchat in basic training, let alone in combat. The best you would get is some bar time after six or seven fourteen-hour shifts. He shifted uncomfortably in his green multiscale uniform, it was hot and scratchy. He couldn't wait to take his boots off and lay down.

He looked out the window, the sight was beautiful. Small two-story homes passed by and the neighborhood street they were on was lined with poplar trees. It reminded him of the classic suburbia that had been envisioned a few hundred years ago. All the buildings looked the same, a red shingled roof with white paneling on the walls. They each had a small porch and a decent-sized yard. Most of them had a garage, but some only had a roofed outing to park a vehicle under.

His content staring was broken by a squeaky voice in the isle beside him, "Why are you wearing that funny clothing Mister? And why do you have that? Mommy told me only bad men carry guns, but you don't look like a bad man."

He looked at the voice. It was a young child no more than twelve years old, wearing a baseball cap, baggy jeans, and a graphic t-shirt. His eyes were wide and transfixed on O'Della's clothing. Specifically, the pistol holstered around his waist. He could see several people staring at him now. He contemplated his answer for a moment before talking slowly and carefully. "Your mommy was right, bad men do carry guns. But sometimes the good men need one to defend against the bad men," He pointed to a patch of the US flag on his shoulder, "This shows that I'm a good man though, and my clothes represent my plight for this country."

"Did you fight lots of bad guys? That's so cool, you're like a real-life action hero!" The kid started to hop around and made whooping noises before his mother came along. She hushed him, and gave O'Della an odd look, before ushering her son away.

He sat back and shook his head. If only she knew the horrors he had endured so that she could look at him in such a way. She had the freedom to do so because he and his friends laid their lives down. That kid had the right to picture him as a hero because of the hell they had gone through. And he had the right to think the kid was dead wrong. He was no hero, not with the things he had done.

His thought was cut short as the bus shakily came to a stop. The bus driver's voice came over the intercom, "Last stop on Cambridge Road!"

He gathered his duffle bag and coat and then got off the bus. He was a short walk down the road from his home. Warm happiness filled him as he walked through the wonderful neighborhood. It was just the way he remembered. A few new faces, but exactly the way it was before he left. As his house drew nearer, he changed to a jog and moved quickly up the front steps to the door. He dropped the duffle bag and moved his finger to ring the doorbell.

Apprehension stopped him for a moment. Would his daughter even recognize him? It had been years, and the last time they saw each other she was only three years old. He shook his head vigorously, dismissed the thoughts, and pressed the doorbell.

A white flash filled his vision. There was a lot of noise and he was tossed wildly through the air. The hard ground rushed up to meet him and he rolled through the impact. After a moment he scrambled to his feet, pulled his gun, and looked around wildly. Everything around him had changed in an instant. No longer the cheery neighborhood, his gaze was met with carnage. The trees were knocked over, screams chorused through the air, and houses were on fire. His head quickly whipped to his own home. There was nothing left, just a large smoking crater.

He ran over the edge of the crater and looked down into it, not sure of what he would find. It was empty. Maybe that was good? There weren't any bodies. Maybe they weren't there? He could have rang that doorbell and nobody would have come to the door. Right? He sighed slightly, almost relieved but still unsure of what was going on. Something wasn't right here. A small hand tugged at his sleeve causing him to jump backward and point the gun at the stranger.

What he saw almost made him puke. A small disfigured girl stood before him. Her blond hair was smoldering, her skin was burned off and only small clumps of flesh clung to her skeletal body. She didn't have any eyes and the black sockets stared deeply into his soul. Her muscle tissue limply held together what little was left of her. The sight revolted him, but he couldn't tear his eyes away for a second. Before he could make another move the little girl began to speak in an extremely raspy, but unmistakable, voice.

"Why did you leave us, Daddy? You could have protected me and Mommy if you were here."

Those two sentences broke him. He dropped the gun and rushed over, his arms pulled the small skeleton into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry! My little girl... This can't be my baby girl..." He sat there sobbing and holding the girl for a few moments.

"You said that you were going away so we would be safe. Why did you lie, Daddy..." The girl began to crumble in his hands, turning to dust. He scooped at it trying to hold his daughter together. Before he could continue the dust blew away with a gust of wind, and caused him to scream in agony. As he looked up he saw he was now surrounded by skeletal figures. Some of them looked like people he knew before the war. Others were members of his squad. And others still were people he had killed. They all accused him of different things.

"Liar!"

"Murderer!"

"Criminal!"

"Scum!"

"Coward!"

He curled up on his knees, held his head, and tried to block off the accusations. Many of these things he called himself daily. They were all true, and no matter how hard he tried the voices just got louder. The skeletal figures slowly closed in around him, their arms reached out and started to claw at him. They tore his uniform off and left him bare, his flesh began to get scraped at as well. One of the skeletons gripped his right arm and tore it off. A few others grabbed his legs and swiftly ripped those off as well. Terrible pain filled his body and mind as everything he loved was taken from him.

######

O'Della shot up and swung his arms around wildly as he tried to shake the skeletons off. He sat there panting and shaking as the panic started to subside. Slowly, his hand moved to the pistol on his belt. He took it out of the holster and stared at it for a long time. A metallic sliding noise came from the well-oiled gun as he checked that a round was chambered. He deftly moved the slide back and shifted its weight in his hand, contemplating many things. It felt heavy and the cold smooth grip teased his hand as he flicked the safety off. He quickly raised the gun and put it against his temple.

The barrel of the gun caressed his head, and his finger started to move against the trigger. Visions of his life passed through his mind. He closed his eyes and held his breath. After a moment his thoughts rested on Sammy and his lifeless frame.

His finger moved off the trigger and it snapped back into place. He put the gun back into its holster and proceeded to get out of bed. His body felt haggard and the sleep had done nothing for his energy. As he moved his joints cracked and the metal limbs creaked slightly. Small taps could be heard as oil injectors fired inside his limbs, lubricating them thoroughly.

He walked over to a minifridge situated by the green couch. As he opened it a small array of food greeted him with whisps of their scent. He grabbed a slice of cold pizza and slumped down onto the couch. With the click of a button, the TV turned on and he flipped through the channels as he gnawed on the pizza. Most of them were boring talk shows, and more than a few of those were going over the proceedings of the previous day. He finally landed on a news channel he recognized and saw a picture of the bridge where he had held Sammy from a bird's eye view.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

"There you have it folks! Another glorious day in Rapforn City, and another gangbanger dead in the gutters! From what Tempest officials say, the attack on Tempest Tower was nothing more than a mindless murder. However, several conspiracy theorists state that it was a targeted attack, from within the corporation itself! Maybe we-"

A loud crack filled the air and the TV shattered into a thousand pieces of glass and plastic. Smoke drifted up from the barrel of the P99, and the spent casing clattered against the floor. "You pig fuckers think we're just gangbangers?!" Quiet fury filled O'Della's voice as he lowered the gun. "I fought a war against you once. It won't be the same this time." He got up and tossed the unfinished pizza on the ground. It would probably be the last time he saw this place so keeping it clean was not a care of his.

He tightened the bandolier and made his way toward the exit, holstering the pistol once more. With a swift motion, he tore the beam from its slot and exited the building. The bright morning sun stung his bloodshot eyes. Before he could fully understand why his body was already moving on its own, sensing something was wrong. He quickly jumped to the side, ducking behind a stack of concrete blocks. The instant after he did a hell storm of bullets impacted the area he was.

An Irish voice yelled loudly as more shots rang out. "Ah, the fucker has some moves! Go get 'im boys, and make sure you fuck 'im up good!"

'They must be friends of that kid from last night.' He thought to himself as he pulled his rifle out of the slot on the bandolier. He squatted down into a sniper's stance, resting the rifle against his shoulder and knees. The barrel pointed to the left of the concrete he was behind. A short second later two red-haired men ran past, trying to flank him. Two loud bangs reverberated in O'Della's ears, and both men fell, blood leaking from their sides.

"Shit, he got Tommy and Manny!"

There was a short break in the gunfire. He took his chance and poked the rifle over the blocks. He aimed where the voice was coming from and sighted another older-looking Irishman. With three quick squeezes of the trigger, the man fell clutching at the holes in his chest. Footsteps broke out to his right and he swung the rifle around. Another man was making a break for it down the street. He exhaled slowly and pulled the trigger once more. The last man fell, his brain matter spread about on the pavement.

He ducked back down and sat there, listening closely. There wasn't any more movement. He continued to sit, waiting for any other signs that it was over. It seemed to be done, there wasn't anyone around. He picked up a chunk of concrete next to him and tossed it up in the air. A sharp snap came and the concrete shattered in the air. He could hear a faint curse come from across the street on a rooftop. He poked the rifle back out and tried to find the sniper. A scope glinted in the sun and he squatted back quickly as a round whizzed overhead. He jumped to the side, sliding past the concrete and aiming toward the rifleman.

With a thunderous noise, the glass scope shattered and a body fell from the rooftop. It slammed into the pavement below with a loud squish, leaving a large circle of blood. O'Della stood and looked at the bodies that surrounded him. "I guess self-preservation isn't something that runs in this gang." With that, he skirted the bodies and walked toward the street. He held the rifle closely to his chest, just the way he had been trained. Tightly so it won't be taken or dropped, but lose enough that you can engage in combat at a moment's notice.

It was time to make his way over to Noki's. No more distractions and no more needless violence. The only thing on his mind now was getting that money and finding out why the job went south like it did.

# A few hours later #

The rifle was slung over his shoulder again as he entered Noki Gang territory. He didn't feel safe perse, but he also knew nobody would fuck with him here. The few people on the street just ignored him. That was probably for the best. He didn't think he could control himself right now, at least not with someone he didn't know. His eyes drifted up and down every stranger he passed, sizing them up. Nobody looked like a threat out here. Well, besides the gangsters clad in blue.

The men on the porch of Noki Noki bar eyed O'Della cautiously as he approached. Many of them drew their weapons, but none of them made a move on him. Kira's eyes widened when he saw him. He quickly ran around the back of the building, while he held his bandaged hand. O'Della smirked at the sight, happy that Kira finally learned his place. His happiness was short-lived as he entered the bar.

The sight brought back memories of how he had shared drinks with Sammy here not that long ago. In fact, this was their favorite spot when they first came to Rapforn. Many good nights had been spent in this very bar in those early days. He shook off the memories and moved over to the bar, and to Noki.

The thick Asian accent broke the silence. "So, you're back. I heard about Sammy. I'm very sorry my son, he was like a child to me."

O'Della leaned against the bar. "I'm just here for the money. Let sleeping dogs lie, Noki."

"Of course, I meant no harm, I just wished to give my condolences. I hope all of this was worth it," Noki paused for a moment looking down somberly, "Wait here I'll bring the case up." He backed away from the counter and entered a combination on the keypad behind him. The trapdoor behind the bar opened up once again and Noki descended into it. The wait was not long, but it was rather awkward. Many gang members were staring at him. There were whispers of how 'Mad' O'Della had shot up Tempest Tower, and lived.

Noki climbed back up the stairs and the trapdoor closed behind him. He slid the case across the counter to O'Della and grabbed himself a drink. "I do have one request, O'Della."

O'Della's voice radiated with malice. "What could you possibly want?"

"Never show your face here again. I don't need Tempest banging around here. Very bad for business."

O'Della just nodded, grabbed the suitcase, and left the bar. It was unlikely he would live long enough to come back anyways. He made his way to the road and pulled up a map on his ND overlay. He detested doing so. Finding shit was Sammy's job, not his. His eyes flitted over the map as he searched for a nearby bank. As much as he hated using the ND he had no choice now since Sammy was gone. Sammy loved the damn thing, but it only made sense. It was the last remnant of his father that he had.

Sammy's father was an extraordinary man in the Free Mason Corporation. He worked on ND technology for many years before the Second Civil War. The current form of the ND was heavily based on his first drafts. In fact, the hardware itself was practically identical. A few choice things had been modified, however, such as all services on it being provided by F.M.C. But still, he needed money and had to have a way to use it. Most businesses no longer accept cash or the dated plastic cards of the twenty-first century. Everything ran on the ND now.

He finally found what he was looking for and made his way down the street toward the bank. It was time to get things rolling. Twenty thousand wasn't a lot but it would be enough for now. After a pretty short walk, he arrived at a seedy-looking bank. It was obviously run by a gang but they should still make the transaction for him. Albeit at a higher transfer rate than usual. At least they wouldn't question his guns.

He entered and walked straight up to the first teller he saw. The man was fat and greasy, his black hair was slicked back with pomade. he twirled his pencil mustache in his fingers and looked O'Della up and down. "What can I do for you, my fine Sir? You look like a man of distinction, perhaps you need a loan?"

O'Della knew how bad of an idea it would be to take a loan from these men. He scoffed and threw the suitcase onto the table. "I'm not here for your loan sharking. I need money deposited into my ND account, no questions asked."

"Of course! Well, we can do that, and make sure the tax man turns a blind eye... For a price." The oily man opened the suitcase and quickly counted the money. "So, you want fifteen thousand deposited, correct?"

"Fifteen thousand?! You're telling me there's a five thousand fee for this tiny ass sum?"

"Well, if you don't like my offer," the man snapped his fingers and handed the suitcase to a thug behind him, "You're welcome to leave. But I'm afraid all transactions are final. And seeing as how you already handed over the money..."

O'Della sucked air in through his teeth and tried to stay calm. "Fine, fifteen thousand. I'm waiting."

"Very good!" The man's eyes glowed slightly as he accessed his ND.

A transfer notification popped up on O'Della's overlay and displayed the fifteen thousand dollar deposit. He swiftly turned around and left the bank, grumbling and cursing through gritted teeth. This was shaping up as well as he thought it would. At least he didn't get straight-up robbed, but at that rate, it was close enough. He moved toward the street and flagged a passing cab. It pulled over in front of him and the door swung open to let him inside. The ugly robotic driver swiveled around as he clambered inside.

"Thank you for choosing Auto-Express! Where is your dropoff location today?" The same pad as before popped out of the seat as before. He punched in the location of The Concave and pressed his finger against the ND pad. The driver continued its usual spiel and O'Della closed his eyes, resting through the drive to the bar where all this started.