The past few days had not played out how Gregoir would have preferred. His federal brethren were strong and courageous, but clearly unused to dealing with an uncooperative civilian population. The National Guard was only ever called in when there was a threat of wide-scale assault on a city. Their role was to secure the streets through superior numbers and upgrades, with their presence alone often acting as a deterrent to even the most reckless of villains.
They were not prepared to be wildly outnumbered by an angry, rioting civilian populace. The NG troops were used to being seen as liberators, protectors and saviors. They were generally welcomed with open arms, as they were only called in when a situation had escalated beyond a certain point. Had certain events not played out the way that they had, the same might have been true in Austin. Unfortunately, between the recordings of Cannibal and Champion, and this most recent tragedy, the city was no longer welcoming them.
This morning, several foolish National Guardsmen opened fire on an ostensibly peaceful civilian protest. Granted, the civilians had gathered together to specifically block the Guardsmen's patrol routes and had flatly refused to move. The exact details of the encounter were still being pieced together, but at first glance the facts seemed damning. Rather than attempt negotiations, the armed soldiers had utilized military-grade upgrades on a cluster of unarmed citizens. At least seven citizens had died, with far more hospitalized.
It burned Gregoir's guts to consider the actions of those soldiers. Though they had clearly felt threatened in some way, as the stronger party it was their responsibility to deescalate, especially against civilians who had committed no great crimes. Standing in the path of a patrol was certainly illegal, but not worthy in any way of death. That was what he'd been taught. The National Guard were clearly taught differently.
Regardless of motives, the violent act against a civilian populace had garnered an immediate response from the locals. Riots had broken out across the city, and several National Guard patrols had been attacked. One patrol had been destroyed entirely, and a brief investigation had revealed that it had been the Scales, of all thing, that had struck against the federal force. The Austin gang had kept its head down in recent times, content to allow the police and Coldeyes' Crew to murder each other. Something had compelled them to finally act, yet rather than assault the common enemy of the Crew, they'd inexplicably chosen to confront a force far greater than themselves.
Which was why Gregoir was dressed in SPEAR Team armor, and accompanying a Federal Assault Team alongside several other APD officers. FATs were essentially SPEAR Teams' bigger brothers. Everything, from their equipment, to their training, to their upgrades, was superior. They were the proverbial 'big stick' brought out to beat down the very worst villains. And here Gregoir was, by their side, as they prepped to raid a Scale sanctuary. He should be thrilled, but he felt only gut-wrenching helplessness towards the situation.
What a waste; of resources, manpower, time and effort. What a waste of life. Young men and women, soon to be dead because of vile lies and abject stupidity. He wondered how young the group of Scales that had attacked the convoy were. He wondered if it had been sanctioned, or an impulsive act of youthful insanity. So many questions that would likely never be answered.
FATs did not take prisoners, at least not on purpose. Survivors would be questioned, obviously, but no attempts would be made to produce them. The target was a pair of apartments located on the eighteenth floor of an aging high-rise. The rooms were across from each other, both with window views, and purported as the safehouse of several Scale lieutenants. Civilians lived all throughout the building. The assault would have to be swift, precise, and deadly to prevent collateral damage.
Once again, Gregoir reflected on just how little he wished to be involved in this operation, but there was no other way for him to contribute at present. There had been no luck in finding Coldeyes, and the fly-by scans of the city had found none of the unique cosmic signature that had given the Crew away the first time. They'd learned their lesson, and the pilfered weapon was either sufficiently shielded or, more likely, removed from the city entirely.
That left Gregoir with nothing to do and no way to help. Anastasia Summers had personally promised a slot on her assault team were she to successfully track down Cannibal, Coldeyes, or any of the dangerous Naturals who had been freed from the Fridge. Gregoir was certain that at least some of those men had committed few, if any crimes, but circumstances had forced his hand. He did not have the luxury of distinguishing between guilty and innocent when they both fought at the side of monsters. It would be a matter for the courts. Gregoir would do his duty when the time came, only erring on the side of capture rather than killing. Within Anastasia's team, he would have that opportunity.
That would not be the case in the present situation. The Scales had killed federal troops and revenge would be immediate and merciless. Gregoir's presence was a formality at best. He doubted more than a handful of Scales would even be standing by the time of his insertion. It was an astonishing waste of force on what were essentially gangsters enormously out of their depth.
The plan called for a blitz assault by chopper. FAT gunships and Coldwater transports had buzzed the city for the past day and a half. It would be nothing unusual to hear an approaching helicopter, and most FATs could easily engage at one hundred yards, even through open air. Few, if any, of Gregoir's comrades could say the same. It was the difference between a SPEAR Team and a FAT.
"It's time," a man said from behind an opaque faceplate. The armor was sleek and featureless, completely black except for a small patch on the shoulder bearing an American flag. The individual's outline was gender-neutral, any curves hidden by the heavy padding. These reinforced ceramics were customized for each individual, and could easily brush off high-caliber rifle rounds. The suit fit like a sleeve and continued up past the shoulders to protect the vulnerable arteries of the neck. The helmet was fashioned like a medieval great helm, fully enclosing the head and covering any exposed flesh. It was sharply angled, almost to a point, with a reinforced glass visor, completely blacked out.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
They cut an intimidating figure, these federal agents, and Gregoir couldn't help but think back to the cartoons of his youth. These men looked like they'd walked right out of a children's tale of heroism and victory. By design, he assumed. One had followed the other, but he wasn't sure which had come first. Had Daniel known this, he might have commented on how creepy it was to base children's cartoons on wetwork squads, but Gregoir was raised in Dimension A, and thus thought nothing of it. The stern, hard visages of a FAT member brought him only nostalgic memories of hope and justice.
Gregoir followed them to the waiting gunship. He boarded, others making way for his bulk. There were five men per team, not counting the pilot and APD attaché. It was more than sufficient for the task, but Gregoir would join them nonetheless. One could never know when they might make an impact. His presence could very well be the difference between life and death for someone. If not, then he should at least bear witness to the assault. The Scales might not be worthy of redemption, but none could call them cowards. Someone should see them fall; someone should at least carry a memory of them onwards. It wouldn't be these men: they were too hardened and cold. It had to be Gregoir.
The flight was short and direct. Subterfuge was not as necessary as speed. Mere minutes passed before the building came in sight. They approached, swinging wide towards the corner apartment. Another team in a separate chopper spun off towards the opposite side, ready to begin a simultaneous assault.
One of the FAT members in the helicopter unbelted himself, and swung open the side door facing away from the building. Immediately wind battered Gregoir's body, rattling the inside of the chopper, but the craft held steady. With a gesture from the standing fed, half a dozen flat planes of force appeared beside the hovering chopper like stairs leading down to nothing. The rest of the team freed themselves and clambered out onto open air, their boots clinging to the blurry steps as if they were bolted on. The chopper's thick form blocked sight of the assembling team, as it kept itself between them and the building.
Gregoir followed, stepping gingerly out onto the floating step. He pressed down and, finding that his foot easily gripped, placed himself into a launching position. One of the team members, indistinguishable to Gregoir, tilted his head. A voice came crackling through his earbud, distorted and robotic.
"Can you make the distance without help?" it asked, sounding surprised in a uniquely mechanical way.
Gregoir mentally judged the jump. It was easily a football field to cover, probably more. He considered himself, his reasons for being here, and what he hoped to accomplish. He felt, once again, that burning need to know why: why attack, why help your enemies, why bring this doom upon yourself? He felt his fighting spirit surge within him, flowing from his chest and down to each limb.
He nodded with grim purpose.
The fed did not ask again. They turned back towards the chopper, and spoke again, "Engage in five."
The chopper peeled away, revealing the assault force to the world. Gregoir began counting in his head.
Five.
One of the members began to vibrate furiously in place, their feet making a strained humming noise as it brushed against the ethereal floor.
Four.
Black ichor oozed from another's suit, covering their back and forming a pair of dark cylinders. Fire sparked within them, a slowly building pressure.
Three.
One man simply held out both hands in the shape of opposing L's, framing the apartment building between them.
Two.
Gregoir bent low, marshalling his strength.
One.
His fighting spirit SURGED! He exploded off the platform, rocketing through the air in a single, tremendous leap! He heard the crack of displaced air from behind him, and the glass shattered at his destination as a black-clad FAT member appeared mid-step. A heartbeat later and another arrived, tearing through the walls of the room like a drill, spinning in wild circles. Something flashed past Gregoir in a blur of black and red, and the armored figure arrived at the entrance in a gust of brilliant fire.
Gregoir landed, the floor shattering beneath his force even as he tucked into a roll. He caught sight of the empty air behind him, quickly filled by a floating, ethereal staircase as the rest of the FAT members sprinted across open sky. He came up into a crouch and took in the devastated room. Green blood coated the walls of the room, and the broken remnants of a Scale lay slumped in the corner.
Gregoir regarded the body with some small measure of sadness. Scales could not hide. It was in their very nature to be obvious. They favored overmodding, mutating their own bodies well past the point of safety or sanity. This one looked like a mix between a beetle and an alligator, his broken carapace broken by something far more dangerous than it was ever designed to withstand.
The closest wall exploded, and a deformed body tumbled backwards, flailing wildly. Spines covered every inch of his left arm and they sprayed wildly at his attacker. The projectiles glanced off the fed's armor without even leaving a mark. The Scale's right arm bulged and morphed, growing like a bright red sac as it filled with flesh and blood. A scorpion's taiil erupted from the gory chrysalis; attached in place of the Scale's arm, it stabbed out at the fed.
Gregoir leapt forward before the armor could be further tested. He seized the new limb at its base and, with a roar of effort, ripped it clean off. The Scale screamed in shock as he jerked backwards, but Gregoir's grip was implacable. He dragged the injured gangster closer and slammed his fist into the man's side. He pushed until he heard the man's spine pop, then cast his limp form onto the ground. He was no longer a threat. This one, at least, would live.
Gregoir looked around the room, ready to intercede in another fight, but the battle was already over. Dead and dying Scales lay scattered across the apartment. The walls were shattered, the glass was missing, and the floor had almost given way. But the building was still standing, no shots had been fired, so civilian casualties would be minimal. The mission was a complete success by any measure.
Gregoir glanced down at the groaning man at his feet, and wondered what, exactly, they'd accomplished.