I slammed the car's door shut with my tail, slipping into the restaurant. A handful of people sat arrayed around a table. The Selector himself sat at the head, his thick patois lilting through the room. To his right was Bella, her shirt half unbuttoned as she carded through the thick plumage on her chest, laying it flatter to her body. Across from her was a plain-looking man, wearing a monochrome cloak, with golden lines etched into its heavy surface. His eyes appeared a dull brown until the candlelight caught them, glittering with gold. He smiled gently, looking no more than thirty, yet smile lines creased his face.
Maestro sat at the other end of the table, boredly picking at chicken piled on a plate in front of him, methodically peeling meat from the bone. The only other unfamiliar face was another human man, wiry with a broad, flat nose. His bald head glinted, the lines of heavy cybernetic augmentations glittering. I raised a hand to wave, surreptitiously pointing the palm of my cyberarm's hand towards him. The scanner highlighted an implanted cyberdeck and various modules that boosted mental acuity and connection with The Grid.
"Vidr, my bredda, good to see you also like to arrive early." The Selector's smile glimmered in the dark, though his eyes lacked the rich warmth of my last meeting with him. "Sit. Eat. We've much to have done, and little time to reason over it, I am afraid," he admitted. "You have met lovely Lady Bella. This is Arthur," he waved a hand to the golden-eyed man, "and this is Vsevolod." The Selector nodded to the bald man, who gave a curt nod, eating from a curry bowl.
The stitch in my side was barely a dull ache as I settled in the chair, threading my tail through its open back. "Vidr. Call me whatever. I thought people who did this kind of work all had edgy nicknames." I snorted, plucking a piece of chicken from the plate as soon as it was set in front of me by the lone server.
"We do. But that's for later, Sawbones." Vsevolod shot, rolling his eyes. "Shall we get to your 'reasoning', Selector? Or are we waiting on anyone?" Vsevolod's eyes glittered with AR light.
"You did make it appear urgent, Selector. It would be best if we dispensed with the pleasantries." Arthur mused, still smiling, hands folded on the table politely. Bella just cocked her head to listen, buttoning her shirt back up slowly.
"You are right. Let's I and I get down to business. Vsevolod, would you kindly transmit this data as needed to your new crew?" The Selector slid a data chip across the table, and the bald man lifted it and slotted it into the back of his skull. "Bella, Vidr, you both remember the Ork you shot in the E-mart last week. He was a member of the Jah-forsaken Stitchers. They have been riding the border of my Zion and their gang for months now. Finally, they have stepped too far. Claiming they have one of my staff here for the Kitchen. Only let her go if I and I let them come run their rackets and play their games." He explained in a cold tone.
A familiar itch ran through my eyes, an upload bar zipping across the room, its title flickering dully in the candlelight; //Data_upload = STITCHER_SAFEHOUSE.MLD//
"Attached to the file is a map. They have taken over a small, abandoned motel out on the edge. Maestro did some light recce, but a decker kept his drones from buzzing too close, seen? There were at least six armed men outside the building. The Stitchers think they can make a big move, and get away with it, so I and I will show them how wrong they are." The Selector stayed calm as the map itself overlaid into view.
Arthur was peering at it on a tablet in front of him, head tilted to one side as he thought. "I will ensure to do a look from the Aethyr, see if I cannot discern more sentries in wait. What shall our extraction plan be?" he asked, sitting back.
"I'll leave a van with you. Got some armor on it—turbocharged engine too. Selector has me going to stir some trouble up back at home base for them. Really show we aren't playing games with these idiots," Maestro said, dropping some keys on the table. Bella snatched them up with a grin on her snout, plumage fluffing up in anticipation.
"How long have they had the hostage?" I asked.
"At least two days now. She was off work. Wouldn't be noticed till she missed her shift today, seen?" The Selector proffered.
"Understood. We're going in quick and quiet, or loud and proud?" I churred, head tilted.
"Send a message, Vidr. The police will not come looking until well after you are done." The Selector promised.
"No reason to waste time. Let's grab our gear. Van is out back." Vsevolod said, standing. He stalked through the kitchen and out the back door. I took a deep breath, pushing up to my feet, working as though a great weight was dragging on my shoulders. I stepped slowly out of the restaurant, stopping to peer into the back of my car, meeting the blank helmet's gaze, and the hollow eyes of my own reflection. Popping the door open, I snagged the bag, slinging its straps over one shoulder and kicking the door shut again. Ignoring the biting cold, I slipped back inside.
Bella was laying out her equipment on the table. Her autopistol set to the side, a bulky-looking pump-action shotgun settled in front of her, as she oiled the action with care. Arthur sat with his eyes closed, a bronze staff across his lap, runes etched in geometric patterns across its surface. I dropped the duffel on the table, the stack of plates rattling. I fully unzipped it, grabbing the folded bodysuit from its place atop the chestplate. I threw it over one shoulder, slipping into the nearby restroom. The door's deadbolt slid into place with a click, the room smelling of drying bleach and window cleaner.
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The cold of the room bit into my scales as I pulled my heated vest and shirt away with a sharp intake of air. A patch of fresh scales glittered brightly on my side where I had been shot, in contrast to the paler, duller scales around them. The scales running along my chest and belly were a pale cream, looking almost richer, since I last bothered to pay attention. The rest were shades of a stony tan along my sides, back, and tail.
I plucked one of the orange feathers from behind one of the bony plates of my head, pale at the base, fading to dark brown at the tip. I dumped it unceremoniously into the trash, kicking off my boots. I drew my pistol and its two spare magazines from their holsters down the front of my pants, setting them carefully on the sink and working at the buckle.
Pushing the pants aside, I began working on the bodysuit. Wrestling my tail through the hole in the back, I zipped it up to my neck with a sigh, ignoring the feathers at the back of my head caught under its collar. Grabbing my discarded clothes and pistol, I wandered back out, setting the weapon and its magazines on the table. The clothes were shoved into the duffel bag with little ceremony. Piece by piece, the armor came on. Each one brought a fraction of cold surety. As I fought to clip and tighten the heavy plate carrier into place, a clawed hand swatted mine away.
Bella had come up behind me, tightening the straps correctly and freeing trapped feathers from the collar of the bodysuit. It left me nearly frozen as she worked. She grabbed one of the last pieces of the body armor, a sleeve for my tail covered in bags and spare equipment. Once it was tightened down, she gave a squeeze right at its base, sending a shudder up my spine that I bit down, giving a halfhearted scowl at her smirking snout. "Take me to dinner first, marshmallow." I hissed, though the words held no heat. She winked, giving a last yank on the straps to check they were tight enough.
Finally, I picked up the helmet. For a moment, I was back on the Ferryman. The dull of the broad fans overhead mimicked the slowing of a gunship's rotors. It died as soon as the helmet locked around my head, clicking into place. Amber readouts flooded my view as the cameras flickered to life. The cold black of its dead sensors vanished. I slotted six magazines for the shotgun at the bottom of my duffel bag into the carrier rig, slinging the weapon. My pistol slid into a thigh holster with practiced ease. By the time I turned to face Bella, her unease was poorly masked.
"Come along, love-raptors. We have a server to save." Arthur chimed with a soft chuckle, his staff ringing with each step as he stood to walk away. Bella's tail swished flamboyantly. If she felt any embarrassment, I didn't see it. Under the helmet, I didn't feel it myself.
"I wouldn't say we're that far along, Arthur," I said, near monotone. "Though I'll admit she's pretty." I finished with a bored chirp, pushing into the kitchen. It was bustling with staff cleaning up for the night, but none paid us any mind. The heavy back door swung open, a dark grey panel van idling just outside, back doors open and waiting. Bella slipped past me and around the driver's side. I clambered up and sat right next to the door. Vsevolod was lying down, as Arthur sat beside me.
A scratching inside my ears drowned out the engine as Bella tested the throttle. Vsevolod's voice chimed from inside my skull.
"Understood. Plan is simple," with a twitch of my eye, both Arthur and Bella's eyes glimmered as I sent a pop-up from the data file Vsevolod had distributed. "This is the patient. Current status is unknown; no biomonitor access. Chances are she's hurt and in general poor health. Six booster contacts are arrayed outside the front of the building, but with the thirteen motel rooms, as well as the lobby, office, and small dining area, there could be between eighteen and twenty contacts at worst." I chattered, the car trundling onto the street, the back doors slamming shut with an easy pull.
An image of a member of Zion's Kitchen's serving staff flitted into view. She was a plain-looking elf. She'd served me food when I had first arrived. "We do not have a precise location of the patient. My guess is either in the far back corner, in room 108, or secured in the office. We lack solid details on the back alleys, so we should be cautious. A frontal approach is dangerous, but it will send the appropriate message that The Selector has asked of us." I tittered, looking down at my carrier rig's mag pouches. Three magazines of red buckshot. Two of blue cased slugs. One magazine of black dragon's breath.
Carefully, I canted my shotgun, hooking a pinkie claw around the charging handle, half pulling the action back to see the brass end cap and blue plastic casing of the slug shells loaded inside. It fell home with a metallic . Lastly, I drew my pistol. The van bucked over a speed bump as I wrapped the first two fingers of my hand around the rear sight, half-pulling the slide back to check. I thought to myself.
"Systematic breach and clear. If you haven't done it before, just follow me. Arthur, any ranged weapons?" I asked, meeting his golden gaze with a blank faceplate.
"I have some ranged spells. However, I am most proficient... up close and personal." He admitted with a soft chuckle. "In the field, you may refer to me as Bulwark. Bella is Quill. Vsevolod is Conduit." He informed. He held his staff easily, leaning on it in his seat.
"Understood. Guess that makes me Sawbones." I sighed. I kept the thought to myself. "Check corners. The eastern side door will pose a problem. When advancing down the corridor, we will have to exercise caution against a pincer attack. Quill, pull us past the motel, and stop just past the building to its west, into the alley there. We will approach on foot from there. Conduit, can you disable the lights for the parking lot in the Grid?"
He chimed in my ear.
"Fine." I fell silent. Twenty minutes passed as we pushed through traffic. It got sparser and sparser as we approached the edge of The Selector's territory. It felt like an eternity, especially as Bella rolled us past the motel and the building next to it. We slowly pulled into the alley, the engine dying with a low whine.
Conduit warned.
"That's fine. Quill, Bulwark, with me." I pushed the back door open and began walking, turning the corner onto the sidewalk and stalking along the office building where we had hidden the van. My safety clicked off as I knelt behind a large planter on the corner of the office building. A dozen cars sat haphazardly in the parking lot, six men idling amongst them. Mostly humans and orcs. Each one was highlighted in pulsing red boxes, their weapons lit up with identification windows—mostly S&W HL-74s. Chrome as a jetliner and twice as loud. Two men had AK-219 assault rifles. "Hit it, Conduit," I whispered.
Thirty long seconds ground by. Finally, his voice came into my ears again. The entire parking lot went dark as the overhead lights died. Two beams of light stabbed into the dark from the ones armed with rifles.
"Engage," I ordered, standing fully, smartlink reticle landing on one of the riflemen.
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