#83
Discord - 1.05
There are no sirens to sound our approach, no dazzling lights or the roar of the crowd. We stepped into this place like ghosts, and like ghosts we pass through its halls. Despite that, adrenaline is pumping through my veins like never before. If the fear of death gave me my edge in the arena, then that fear is magnified tenfold now that I'm here, gearing up to fight real people. These barren corridors might not be what I'm used to, but the air is thick with the coming battle. The rest of the Crew feels it too; even Newter's stopped pissing about, instead stalking ahead of us on all fours.
We must be quite the sight, myself and Gregor, as we stride down the corridor side by side. A giant of a man, and a monster made real on all fours, closely followed by Faultline, who's so larger than life that she practically towers over us, and the diminutive Labyrinth, who is just downright creepy. I feel like I can take on the world.
We haven't been challenged yet; Faultline explained that they only have cameras at the entrances and exits, to preserve their secrets, so we won't be noticed unless someone sees us in person. That's why we came in during the early afternoon; when all the wage-slaves are stuck in their cubicles. I catch glimpses of them through small windows on the doors that line the corridor, before Gregor gums them together with an adhesive secreted from his finger. Rooms of suits hunched over desks, isolated from each other by endless rows of cubicles or working together in small groups. It's a world I've never seen; I jumped headfirst into teenage rebellion and never looked back.
Our luck can't hold forever, and soon a suited woman rounds the corner ahead of us. Without a word of command, Newter rockets ahead with an impossible burst of speed, slamming the unfortunate suit into the ground with his hand clasped tight over her mouth. The rest of us move forward as her eyes roll back into her head and Newters drugs take effect. We don't bother to hide her unconscious body; she's not coming down for a while, no matter what they do, and we'll be going loud soon anyway. Sure enough, we've not gone another thirty metres before a short alarm sounds and a woman's voice comes across over the PA.
"All personnel, intruders have been sighted inside the building. Security teams radio in, all others shelter in place."
We've kicked the ant hive, now we'll see if they're prepared to defend it. We don't change how we act; we don't gear up for battle or drop into a fighting stance or any of that bollocks. The lesson I learned from nineteen different fights, and it seems Faultline's crew have learned it as well, is that you have to be ready for a fight from the moment you get in sight of the arena. If you don't give everything you have to the fight, then you lose. That's my edge, and it's why we'll brush through these feds like a scythe through a field.
There're a thousand different things that put us above them. We're prepared for this; we poured over blueprints and maps, scheming and strategizing for hours. They're surprised; we've invaded their home in defiance of all sense and reason, they won't know what to expect. But the main edge we have is simple. They're only human, and we're not. Sure, Faultline and Gregor might have been quick to reassure me that I'm still human, but that's not true in the ways that really matter.
I'm stronger than a human, I'm taller, faster and more flexible. I don't feel pain like a human and I can control the release of souped up hormones to pushed me beyond my limits. There's not a scrap of human DNA in me, just a few strips of salvaged grey matter in place of bioware processors. These Parahumans are even further above me. The don't have to obey the square cube rule, or consume sixteen thousand calories per day. They move faster than is physically possible, slice through the air with a look, turn their body into a chemical generator on the fly or simply ignore reality in favour of their own vision of reality.
This Edge comes into play the moment we first stumble across our prey. These feds might value their secrets, but perhaps they should consider some cameras. We hit a squad from behind as they're moving off in the opposite direction, completely oblivious to the viper in their midst. Newter brings the first down without anyone even noticing, moving unnaturally silently, as I pick up speed in a charge down the hall. The feds are dressed in body armour that looks out of date to me, but perhaps that's a bit unfair, and their rifles look dangerous enough.
Most people would run, but the fight-or-flight instinct gets a little unbalanced when you're holding a gun. I remember this Razorgirl I slept with once, a dangerous piece of arse if ever there was one, geneered up the wazoo with subcutaneous nanoscales and great spikes of bone concealed within her forearms. She told me that men change when they're holding a gun, that it makes them more irrational than a man with a knife. When someone stabs her, she told me as I played my fingers across her back, they usually run when the knife doesn't break the skin, but a man with a gun will keep firing long after his weapon's shown to be firing blanks.
There's about ten metres between me and the nearest Fed, maybe enough space for them to duck into a side room, but instead they shoot. I shut my eyes and lower my head to the earth, trusting my armoured exoskeleton to catch the worst of the shots. I only have to endure their fire for a few seconds, but I can feel the bullets scraping against my bone with dull impacts. We'd never tested Khanivore against bullets, no real need to, but it's nice to know that our work can stand up against these primitive lead shots.
It only takes a second for me to close the distance, though I'm still not as fast as Netwer's near instant movement, and rather than opening my eyes and fighting I simply keep going. I stop when the uneven surface gives way to smooth flooring, and turn my head to see Newter wiping his greasy fingers all over the team of armed bruiseboys I just trampled. Faultline and Gregor are as expressionless as ever, but Newter's lunatic grin looks like it's about to fly off his face. He stays behind to finish doping up the groaning figures, while Faultline and Gregor simply step around the bodies. Labyrinth follows a pace behind Faultline, gingerly stepping over the still moving forms.
We haven't gotten far when a familiar orange blur shoots past us to take point again, this time wearing a pilfered headset. For all his nutjob ways, Newter apparently knows how to be professional when he needs to be. He rarely uses the floor, switching between the walls and ceiling as the mood takes him, and flits from place to place with bursts of his bullshit speed. He's our scout, driving us away from the largest concentration of enemies and directing Faultline to collapse certain corridors.
Faultline's power is as terrifying as it is impossible. With the lightest of touches, she can send cracks through any surface, shattering through steel and concrete. Right now, she's scoring crosses into the ceiling to collapse the floor above, blocking off certain corridors. She's not even using any visible weapons to do it, just caressing her fingertips against the walls, or sending crackling lines of shattered masonry from her feet. The whole crew, myself included, are moving like a well-oiled machine.
Eventually, our wanderings bring us to our destination. The door is identical to every other door in this bloody place, but there's a small plaque drilled into the wood that reads 'server room, no unauthorized access'. There are many ways we could enter. Faultine could cut the door in two, Gregor could concoct some strong acid and melt through the lock or Newter could hunt around for a key. Instead I move up to the door, leaning back onto two legs and placing my right hand against the wall, and simply slam my crest into the lock.
We never really went in for horns, they provide an easy handhold for other Beasties, but the smooth spike that runs along the length of my head saved my life against Turboraptor, and it splits apart the door like an axe through wood. The remaining bits are ripped out of the frame by my hand, and I gestured with the other arm like a hotel dogsbody ushering in an honoured guest. Faultline nods in thanks and steps into the server room as me and Gregor keep watch. What little I can see of the room looks nothing like the intricate computer stacks Wes was so proud of; everything here's a lot more rugged looking.
Faultline's back out in less than sixty seconds, swinging the bulky hard-drive onto her back with the aid of a sling. This would be the difficult bit; fighting our way back out. Newter's still listening to the radio, and pulls us up before a large set of double doors.
"They've got an ambush through here. It's a short hall with a balcony on either side. One squad on each balcony. How do you wanna play it, boss?"
Faultline looks up at me, an unspoked question on her lips. I rap an armoured fist twice against my breastbone, and hold up a single finger. My mouth opens in bloody anticipation and the small antennae on my head flared outwards in an involuntary action. She simply nods in return.
"White, you take the balcony on the right. I'll handle the one on the left. Breach in three… two… one!"
Another blow, another door downed. That's the real purpose of my crest, more than the spike at the end. It's like a helmet with a guard that runs down the length of my face; it lets me tank hits to my face that I'd have otherwise avoided. I hear a crash off to the left of me, but that's not my concern. Instead I split my tail and use it to catapult myself into the air. The spikes of bone drive into the floor with ease, and I ascend half again as high as my natural height. The four tendrils are usually concealed within my tail, and I can see a look on the Fed's faces that I haven't seen since we first revealed this little trick.
Fear. Abject fucking terror. I drink it in even as they leave my field of view.
I land with a tremendous crash, gripping two helmeted heads in my taloned feet and bringing them down to earth. I spin right, as my tail reforms into one thick limb that slams four of the feds against the wall. That leaves one bastard in front of me, his gun held loosely in his arms as he shits himself in fear. I have moments before that fear kicks him into action, but moments are all I need as I snatch the rifle out of his hands, snapping it in two with my own, and bowl him off the balcony using my head as a blunt instrument.
He'll live, probably.
With a graceful vault, and a quartet of coiling tendrils to slow my fall, I descend back to earth, noting that Faultline had simply collapsed the other balcony entirely. We book it out of there before the millicents get their bearings back, and Gregor spits out a globule of custard-looking paste that evaporates into an anaesthetic gas. Good night sweet bitches, and may flights of Beasties sing thee to thy rest.
We're abandoning all pretence of subtlety. Gunfire shoots out at us from unexpected corners, only to cease within moments as Faultline simply collapses the corridor. We're tearing our way through the building like a bull in a china shop, and our enemy are responding in kind. They've brought out the big guns now, grenades and armour-piercing rounds, but we return fire with flashbangs. It doesn't feel right to fight an enemy that's so determined to kill me, without trying to kill them in return. The balance has shifted; now their fear is their edge. It's the reverse of how it was in the arena. The other Baiters weren't trying to kill me, it was just a game to them, while I was always fighting for my life.
Eventually our damage manages to distance us from the fight, and we return to the same blank wall we entered from. The feds can't get to us here, not without taking a much longer route, but we still have to wait the couple of minutes it takes Labyrinth to make us an exit. Those two minutes stretch into an eternity. I've never waited this long in the middle of combat before, and the adrenaline is still pumping through my system like I'm in a fast-paced arena match. I consciously enact my will on the modified bioprocessors that link my mind to my body, slowing my heartrate and reducing the risk of cardiac arrest.
Even eternity ends, and soon we're all piling out through a rickety wooden door and into the still-open door of our waiting van. Gregor leaps into the driver's seat while the rest of us clamber through the side door, Newter crawling along the ceiling before settling into the front passenger seat. I pick up Labyrinth as I leave, leaping into the van which rocks as I land, and set her down onto one of the vehicles few rear seats. Faultline steps in as Gregor sets off, and pulls the large door shut as the van drives off into the city.
Behind us, the building shows no sign of the pitched gunfights or wild destruction that had occurred within, and no vehicles drive out in pursuit. I duck down as low as I can, only able to see the blue sky far above us, as we drive through the city streets. The van is dead silent, everyone's still on edge and waiting to see if we've been made. For a few wonderful moments I delude myself into thinking we've got away, when the all-to-familiar wail of sirens sounds behind us. Gregor chances a glance into his mirror before speaking in his usual, matter-of-fact, tone.
"Local police, two of them, pulling up behind us."
"How far?" Faultline's tone is a masterwork of professional unconcern.
"The nearest car is four yards directly behind us, the other is off to the side and another six yards back."
What the fuck's a yard?
"White, bring down the closer vehicle."
Faultline steps over me to the rear of the van, and I cotton on as she twists the rear door handle. It takes some effort to turn myself around, this van isn't exactly spacious by my standards, but I manage to lever myself around and separate my tail into its tendrils, holding the point of each by the doors, ready to strike.
Faultline twists the handle and the doors fly open as they're caught in the wind. She sits at the edge of the van, the heel of her boot scraping against the asphalt. Turns out four yards is pretty fucking close. I can make out every feature on the two millicents in the black and white car, including the familiar signs of fear on their face. Before they have a chance to react, I send my spiked tendrils shooting forwards with near-pneumatic force, driving them over and over into the car's engine block. Beasties aren't allowed to contain mechanical components, but that doesn't exactly matter when bitek bone can be grown to the toughness of most any metal.
I can feel the moving parts of the engine through the bone, scraping against the surface as they began to shake out of place. I think I cut the fan-belt, but the real damage was done to the pistons. The police jar judders and slows, spraying fluid and shards of metal across the road. Faultline is more direct with her car, and I laugh as I see it plunge into the sewers as very road itself cracks open, the rear end sticking out of the pit like the titanic.
In the background, the sirens begin to disappear until silencing entirely, but none of us are naive enough to let our guard down quite yet. Gregor and Newter are scanning the roads, while me and Faultline are braced in the back like tightly-coiled springs. Only Labyrinth is out of it, staring straight ahead, and completely unreadable beneath her ballistic mask.
However, all the wariness and intuition in the world can't prepare you for the unexpected. There's a tremendous crack in the distance, going almost unheard, before the van drops to the left as a horrific impact runs along our wheels and chassis. The air is filled with the sound of screaming metal and we slide along the earth for a few horrifying moments before a second impact sends the van tumbling and crashing into the pavement.
Woke up at five AM today and couldn't get back to sleep, so I decided to write instead. Enjoy the first proper fight scene I've ever written in first person.
Any of you know if Faultline has a canon name? Or generally accepted fanon? Asking for a friend