“Combat effectiveness is governed by many factors,
not least of which is the subject's own moral compass.
This module helps, um, remove that hindrance.”
- Doctor Gerard Jung
“Otto, come in. You know that Proxy L5? It's going off. Whereabouts are you right now?” called Simon through the commlink.
Ottavio's stomach sank a little.
“Damn it, Pan!” he thought to himself.
“In the lav, Sir, nowhere near the basement.”
“Well, zip up, meet me at the stairs, mate, I think we've got company. Norbert, grab Cass and head to the kitchen and wait for the all clear. Anyone comes in, you shoot. Lucas keep your eyes peeled for any movement on the street.”
Norbert radioed his assent.
Cassandra's voice crackled in the commlink, “Can it wait? I've just disassembled the auxiliary unit, got a fist full of wires. Leaving now will put us back at least two hours...”
“How long will it take to make it safe?”
“Eight minutes, sir.”
“You've got two. Then get your ass back to the kitchen.”
“Sir.”
Ottavio ran to the meet Simon at the stairs. Simon came back from the stairs to meet him on the landing.
“Keep it quiet, mate. I think they're kind of busy, they don't know we're here.”
“They? How many?”
“More than one. I dunno, lots. Ah, L4's just gone off, they're in the laundry area,” whispered Simon, looking at his wrist console, “Now listen carefully. These dudes are up on roids, buzz and all sorts of shit. They are not to be negotiated with. They are to be eliminated. Dead. As in, not breathing. As in hearts stopped. No life left.”
“I get it.”
“We're going to go in, neutralize the threat and get out again. Have I made myself clear?”
Ottavio nodded, “Crystal.”
“Do you have any problem with the word 'neutralize'?”
“I got it, sir!” he hissed.
“Good boy. Norbert, you guys in the kitchen yet?”
“Not yet, sir, just helping Cass tie off some loose ends...”
“God damn it! Norbert, haul ass to the kitchen already. I can't be everywhere. Bunch of clowns,” growled Simon, “Now, Otto, no crap this time. Follow me.”
Ottavio drew his pistol from his holster, turned off the safety and followed Simon's lead down the stairs.
One level down and the noise from below had gotten louder. There were hoots and yowls as the gang of rags shot themselves up with a concoction of medication.
“Yah, do it for me, man!” yelled one.
A squeal was heard over the din.
“Ha, little bugger's trying to get away. Poke him, man! Make him move!”
A raucous cheer went up as a strangled yelp gurgled its way out to the stairwell.
More hooting followed as the sickening sound of a rib bone crack under a fist brought out another squeal.
Pan. It sure sounded like him. Ottavio's heart began to throb steadily.
They went down another flight of stairs.
Simon held his hand up and paused at the bottom.
“There's your little bastard,” he grunted, pointing to a beaten and naked wretch being hoisted to the ceiling by his neck, red blood on his chest and naked loins glistening in the light of lanterns placed about.
His face had been bashed to a pulp, the rest of his body brutalized and abused.
Surrounding him were nine rags, drenched from the rain, their own sweat, and Pan's blood, clapping their hands and laughing sadistically.
One was pulling at Pan's legs, choking him further, only to lift him up again to let him breathe and prolong his pain, and their pleasure.
They yanked Pan again, making him gargle and wretch as he fought for another breath of air, while they laughed and slapped and punched him.
“Looks like they can do what you can't,” muttered Simon.
Ottavio's heart pounded through his chest. His optical display altered slightly.
Gone were the distractions of internal readouts, replaced with emphasized images of the hostiles, their range and threat level. His breathing became stronger as fizzles of adrenaline shot through him.
Another moved in, freshly shot up with steroids, and used Pan's body as a boxing bag, breaking yet another rib, finishing up with a kick to his groin.
Whimpering, gagging, choking, Pan fought through his suffering to gasp another breath.
Something inside Ottavio snapped.
Everything appeared as if in slow motion. His heart beat in drawn out thumps, echoing in his ears and up his throat. The world around him shrank away, leaving only himself and the gang before him.
Simon's voice trailed off into the distance, feeling like a memory that never happened. His pistol raised, he ran into the room and unleashed hell.
His optical display changed. The red squares around the assailants grew thicker, more bold. Faces, chests and joints became digitally enhanced, presenting distinct targets upon which to train his weapon.
Firing off three quick rounds, all piercing the skull of an onlooker, he aimed for the beefcake grabbing Pan's legs and unloaded the rest of the magazine into him.
His body was void of life before it even hit the floor.
Simon swore and ran in from behind, slashing at a surprised rag, taking off several fingers before driving the blade through his chest.
Another swung a fist-blade, catching Simon across the torso. It cut through his vest and down to his skin, but barely drew any blood.
Simon retaliated with an uppercut to the chin, snapping his neck back and dropping him down cold.
Ottavio ducked behind a pillar as two of the faster gang members drew their weapons and opened fire.
He reloaded with a magazine of Shredders, wishing nothing more than the utter annihilation of his enemies and the freedom of the struggling Pan.
Several shotgun blasts sounded, turning the pillar into a cloud of dust and rubble.
Ottavio broke from cover and ran to the next pillar, firing his pistol with surgical accuracy as he went, painting the walls with the insides of his victims as the Shredders worked their magic on the soft tissue and bone.
An electric thrill buzzed through him as he watched the blood rain down in slow motion.
The remaining four turned and ran, but not before Simon caught one in the arm with a throwing knife.
He stumbled, giving Ottavio enough time to turn and unload three more rounds, sending a red spray out the passage way at the retreating rags.
He ran after them to the exit but stopped short, clutching his chest, feeling instantly weak and shivery.
Deflated, his optical display returned to its usual, clinical style. Time and space returned back to normal.
His head spun a little, and he leaned against a wall to catch his breath.
Ottavio turned back to see Simon cutting Pan's lifeless body down from the roof.
It crumpled to the floor in an untidy heap, a little shell that once bound his youthful spirit. He walked over and looked at the beaten and bruised body as it lay naked on the floor among the rest of the corpses, his heart unsure of what to think.
“Well, so much for that little skirmish,” said Simon, stabbing the rest of the bodies methodically.
He finished up and slapped Ottavio on the back, “Nice work. That's showing 'em how it's done! I knew you had it in you, I knew it! Ha!”
Ottavio said wearily, “Had it in me? I-I don't...”
“A buzz, yeah? A full on buzz! Woo!” whooped Simon, dancing with vigor, “Aw, man. After all that, I could do with a bite to eat.”
He pulled away as Ottavio vomited noisily.
Wiping his mouth free of vomit and blood, Ottavio looked at the mess.
What had he just done? He had felt powerful, immensely so, yet at the same time he felt sickened. The rage he experienced, the unbridled desire to hurt and obliterate, it felt wrong. Very wrong.
Simon slapped him on the back again, “Don't worry about all that, mate, the cleanup crew will take care of it. Good job, good job.”
Ottavio looked up at him in confusion. This slaughter fest before him was anything but a good job.
“Only you've got to learn to share the love a bit. You wasted far too much ammo on that one guy. You could have easily dropped another three the way you were emptying that mag. Which is why I tend to go for a blade, you know. It's clean, it's precise, and it doesn't run out of ammo. Woo!”
He pumped the air, excited to see the familiar pile of body parts, and smell the copper-like taint of blood in the air.
Ottavio did not know what to think. Was this what he was or was it the work of the Berserker module that Norbert had told him about? He shook his head and wiped his face again.
The body of Pan stared back at him. His innocence still clung to his bloody face, pulverized and bruised as it was. He was only a teenager, yet he had struggled for a lifetime.
The spirits of the town dared to look out from the walls of the ruined hotel and examine the scene. They had watched the town fall. They had watched Patrick's murder. They had watched Pan as he grew, confident that he would not have to suffer as his father did.
They watched on now, as Ottavio's form stood over him. If they could shed tears, they would have done so.
Ottavio bent down and closed his eyelids, wondering how many people had just died with him.
Simon waved his hand, “Ah, don't sweat it, mate. You'll get the hang of it. And just as a reminder, the next time you want to go diving head first into a combat situation, a little warning would be good. You know, verbal confirmation. 'Tally-ho' or something. Hell, I'd settle for a head nod...”
An explosion sounded from upstairs.
Simon looked at Ottavio, then his wrist console, “Ah, crud. L1 and 2 have gone off, and that would have been the claymore in the dining room, come on!”
They ran to the stairs.
Simon barked orders in his commlink, “Guys, get yourselves armed and ready, we're hot! Hold in the kitchen, stay clear of the windows and guard the doorway. Lucas get down here with short arms, the perimeter has been breached!”
“Yes sir, heading down now,” came Lucas' response, “You want I should call in reinforcements?”
“No. We just kicked their asses down here. We can do it again up there. Norbert, you back or what?”
“Yes, sir,” said Norbert, “Here with Cassandra. Is Emily with you? She's not answering her comms.”
“Negative,” said Ottavio.
“I'll go and grab her.”
Simon, in a jog, replied, “The Hell you will. You just stay in the kitchen! We've got this covered.”
Lucas met up with Simon and Ottavio as they hit the top of the stairs.
“Let's go!” yelled Simon, running toward the kitchen.
Their boots thundered through the hall as they pelted toward the annex.
They met Cassandra inside, pistol at the ready. Emily was not there.
“Where's Norbert?” asked Simon.
“He's gone after Em. She's at the auxiliary unit!” said Cassandra, looking behind her. Norbert was just leaving the hallway.
“Norbert! Get back here! You and Cass stay put in the kitchen, we'll go. Otto, Lucas, get in there and guard L2!”
Lucas ran on to the double doors that led to the western wing of the building. They had long since fallen from their hinges, having been riddled full of holes from shotgun blasts and borers.
Inside was a dancing hall, surrounded by broken chairs and tables, mud and vegetation whose spores had floated in from the broken ceiling.
On the remains of the stage crouched Emily, working at a bunch of wires linked up to an array of blinking devices. Simon and Ottavio came racing in behind Lucas.
She looked up in annoyance.
“Hey guys, you couldn't be a little quieter, you think? What's cracking?”
Ottavio ran across the broken glass on the dance floor and took up a position guarding the entrance to the north, the location of the L2 proximity sensor.
“Hey, what's going on?” she asked.
Simon paced over to her, “Come on, Em! We're leaving!”
As he grabbed her arm, the stage disappeared in a flash of light, accompanied with an ear piercing explosion.
Ottavio covered his searing eyes, scorched from the detonation of two flash-bangs. He ducked down instinctively.
When his hearing and sight started to return, he saw a team of rags pouring in from the northern entrance.
Trying his best to focus, he let fly with a few rounds from his pistol. Two rags dropped messily, and another screamed in agony as a bullet ripped through his thigh. Lucas had drawn his sub-machine gun and was picking off rags as they scrambled through the doorway.
Simon had scooped up Emily and was pulling out across the stage, back toward to the safety of the kitchen.
Several rags had taken shelter behind some of the grand marbled pillars, and were hurling grenades back at Lucas and Ottavio.
The explosions rocked the room, throwing dust and shrapnel about, adding to the confusion.
Unsafe where he was, Ottavio ran from cover and fell back. A volley of bullets chased him as he jumped, ducked and rolled behind a pile of tea trolleys.
Shells pinged and sang as they whizzed past him. Lucas, happy for the distraction, put several grams of lead into three of the aggressors, dropping them like skittles.
His efforts were rewarded with a hail of bullets, several flying a little too close above his head.
“Cover me, guys!” grunted Simon, hauling Emily's limp frame out from the room.
“Pull back!” he yelled, running back to the main complex, “Pull back and guard the double doors!”
Lucas provided cover while Ottavio sprinted a retreat to the doors. He reciprocated the cover, dropping another rag while Lucas ran back.
“You go, guard the hall,” said Ottavio to Lucas, cracking off a round at a rag that broke cover, “I'll rig up a couple of mines to guard the path. It'll slow them down a bit.”
Lucas nodded and tottered down the hall, turning into the main area and taking up a defensive position while Ottavio set about laying the traps. He finished up and ran back to Lucas.
“We're clear,” said Ottavio in his commlink, “You want us to hold the entrance way or make back to the kitchen?”
“Shut up for a second! Em's been hit!” shouted Simon, “Cass, what's she looking like?”
“She's not good, sir!” sobbed Cassandra, her voice sounding warped in the commlink, “She's losing blood, I can't stop it. It's her liver! Norbert, put pressure there! No, No! Put your hand there!”
A cold chill rippled through Ottavio's veins.
“Bloody shit, Norbert, call in that medic!” yelled Simon.
“Already done, sir,” said Norbert, “ETA is ten minutes, but the storm's going to make the landing hard...”
“Alright, Otto, Lucas, pull back to the kitchen and guard the hall. If anything moves, I want it dead!”
Ottavio and Lucas alternately guarded the other's path as they worked their way back to the kitchen. The rags, however, did not approach.
“Damn it,” came Cassandra's voice, “Damn it! I've only got one blood pack left. Norbert, how long?”
“Seven minutes, Cassandra,” said Norbert.
“That's about four minutes too long,” she whimpered, “Hold this. Come on, Em, stick it out! Just a bit more, babe. Hold on girl, just, hold on! Damn it, why won't the needle go in?”
“You're missing the vein,” insisted Norbert.
“No, it's collapsed,” yelled Cassandra, “She just doesn't have enough blood! For fuck's sake, come on, Em!”