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“Your mistake in this is believing that I view the abusers I kill as people—I don’t view the scum as people. I don’t even view them as animals. I view abusers as things, and as targets to be destroyed.”
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—Alex Westsmith to Richard Caperno in private conversation regarding his views on those he kills as Pyre.
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After telling his mother—over the phone—that Alex was staying with Richard and Rick for the night, Pyre had been briefed by Reforger via the Bluetooth earpiece Pyre wore in his left ear. He had listened to the briefing while searching various buildings for Jessica. Pyre kept playing a summary of the information Reforger had told him, over and over again, inside his own head, like an audio recording set to repeat itself on an infinite loop.
Chad Brunswick was born on December 2, 1983, in New Orleans, Louisiana, and married his high school sweetheart straight out of high school, which he graduated in 2001. His brother, Donnie, graduated from high school in 2003. Chad enlisted earlier than Donnie, but both served with the Marines in Afghanistan at different points. By all accounts, both acted selflessly while in-country, risking their own lives to save others. No misconduct was ever alleged against them from their time in the US Marine Corps, from before their time in the service, or from after they were discharged. After leaving the military, Donnie began working for Daedalus as a PMC—or Private Military Contractor—while Chad started a business teaching leadership skills to first responders and corporate employees. Donnie went missing in late 2013 and was presumed dead.
Daedalus Contracting Inc was founded by Andrew Taylor in 2006. Before that, Andrew—born on March 2, 1978—enlisted straight out of high school, where he graduated in the class of 1996, the same year he married his then-pregnant high school girlfriend, Olivia McKinley. He served three tours with our Marine Corps in Afghanistan, specifically as part of the elite Marine Force Recon—before he was Honorably Discharged in 2006. Their son, John Taylor, enlisted in the US Marines in 2012 and was reported as Killed In Action, in Kandahar Providence, Afghanistan, in 2014 while fighting against both the Taliban and ISIL. Andrew’s marriage to Olivia fell apart in 2016 when she divorced him. Daedalus operated heavily for the US Government in Afghanistan, Iraq, and—later on—began fighting jihadists and other scum in Africa, after local governments there hired Daedalus to do so. Per government orders, Daedalus pulled out of Afghanistan in 2020, and Andrew Taylor later used his influence to voice his strong opinions on Afghanistan; namely, that he felt—in Pyre’s opinion, accurately—that the US Government had betrayed the sacrifices of its troops by withdrawing its forces, which directly allowed the Taliban dictatorship to regain power—and enabling them to commit mass atrocities against the Afghan people in the process, especially women, and those associated with the American-aligned Afghan Central Government, which was overthrown, with America’s Afghan allies being left for dead in the process.
By this point, Pyre found himself within New Hellensburge’s Factory District. It was just what the name suggested—a whole city district’s worth of factories, in what amounted to a jungle of steel and concrete. That said, advancements in robotics and automation—combined with the recession of 2033, which was technically over despite the effects still lingering nationwide, as the nation recovered from the worst economic crisis since COVID-19, which itself was the worst economic catastrophe since the Great Depression—the manufacturing sector was hit hard, like most job sectors in New Hellensburge, with the lost jobs being actively replaced by machines in some cases. To make matters worse, many of the companies in New Hellensburge had either gone out of business or—in the case of big corporate chains—shut down store branches to avoid bankruptcy. Which in turn involved layoffs. No one liked layoffs, but as long as they were genuinely necessary to keep the company afloat, and not done for less scrupulous reasons by CEOs and board members—such as was often the case in Big Tech, and particularly the video game industry, where people were laid off during the same years in which the companies firing them boasted of record profits to shareholders, all to fudge the numbers so that the CEOs would get a few million dollars extra in bonuses, on top of the millions that they were already being given before the bonuses, just to be Silicon Valley CEOs. Pyre hated such greed. However, assuming that sort of greed and corruption were not involved, it logically followed that it would be the lesser of two evils to cut some jobs, rather than go bankrupt and lose even more jobs.
Landing on the roof of another abandoned building, Pyre sent a sliver of solidified fire through a skylight, shattering it before jumping down through it, and bending his knees—which almost seemed to groan in mild protest—to absorb the impact of landing on his feet from what was roughly a three-story drop. If Pyre wasn’t a Variant, he would have probably broken bones in multiple places. This was the seventh abandoned building that Pyre had searched that night. These buildings were locations within New Hellensburge that had been prioritized by Reforger, based on the likelihood that the Crimson Blades were using them to hold Jessica.
Pyre landed on the concrete floor beside the sliver of solidified fire now embedded in the said floor, glass crunching beneath his feet. Pyre proceeded to search the building from top to bottom, floor by floor, and room by room. Each room was the same—abandoned furniture, assembly lines left to rust, a small number of tools scattered about some of the workstations—left behind in a time when it was cheaper for bankrupt companies to just abandon some items. These were all smaller tools, mostly broken and rusted—left behind by any looters and trespassers who’d passed through since. Everything stood with the lonely air of a one-building ghost town. A thick coat of dust covered everything, except for the places Pyre had lain his glove-clad hands to open doors, or where his feet fell as he searched the building. Yet every nook and cranny, of every section, of every room, of every floor, turned up the same result as the previous buildings—empty, abandoned, desolate, lifeless. That is to say, no sign of any life—friendly or hostile. Unless you counted the occasional rat or possum. There was no sign of Jessica. More time wasted on another empty building, which in turn meant less time left to rescue Jessica. Meaning that there was all the more chance that Jessica would die before Pyre could reach her.
Despair and rage-filled Pyre, welling up within him like a spring of magma seeping towards and eventually erupting from, a seismic fault line in the Earth’s crust, or as boiling water would fill a kettle, before steam—or lava, depending on one’s choice of metaphor—erupted from where it lay.
Soon, Pyre found himself standing beneath the skylight through which he’d entered this abandoned structure, right between a pair of defunct factory assembly lines. Standing there, as the moonlight proceeded to pour through the skylight where the glass had been before Pyre’s forced entry, with that same glass crunching beneath his black combat boots, while the shards on the floor reflected the moon’s glow. Suddenly no longer able to contain his expanding rage or the blood that boiled in his veins, Pyre lashed out at some sort of big, boxy machine on the assembly line to his left, pivoting on his feet as he swung his right fist into the sheet metal. The metal emitted a dull thud when Pyre’s fist left a large dent in the grey material, which was so warped as to expose the innards of the machine through a crack, in what had been a seam, where one metal sheet had met another. Pain shot through his hand, but Pyre barely noticed. Pyre barely managed to contain himself enough to avoid sinking to his knees and onto the glass shards from the now shattered skylight that had coated the floor—which could have potentially injured him, and possibly caused an infection in any wounds to his knees—while screaming, even though the act of screaming would have given away his position to any criminals in the vicinity, as he held his fist there, against the dented metal.
Jessica’s chances of survival are dwindling with each passing second, Pyre thought, and here I am, searching empty buildings, helpless to find her. Reforger has yet to find any leads, and even if I do find her, will she still be alive when I get there? I swore I’d save the helpless, not rejoin their ranks! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I swear th—.
Pyre’s smartwatch vibrated, as a ringing sound emanated from the earpiece in his left ear, interrupting his thoughts. In response, Pyre rolled up the left sleeve of his jacket to reveal the smartwatch, which Pyre had strapped onto his wrist over a long-sleeved, white, crewneck shirt that Pyre wore under the jacket, to allow him to use the smartwatch without exposing the skin of his forearm to anyone who might be watching. That way, his complexion would not be known to any prying eyes, making it harder for criminals to guess Pyre’s identity. Pyre saw Reforger’s alias on the Caller ID.
Tapping the Accept Call icon on the screen of the smartwatch, Pyre heard Reforger say, “Pyre, listen up! Daedalus just forward deployed the rescue unit that they mustered earlier. The unit is en route to a group of warehouses in the Docks District—next to the Mississippi River. Records say the buildings are being rented by one David Mill. They think that Jessica’s there. I’m forwarding the address to your smartwatch now.”
Pyre replied, “Thank you, Reforger. Please, forward the address and an explanation to Specter as well, with a request for her assistance.”
“I’ll get right on it. Goodbye, and good luck,” Reforger replied, before Reforger ended the call, while Pyre hurled himself upwards with a pillar of solidified fire, through the hole in the ceiling where the now shattered skylight had been.
Now Pyre had a location at which to stage a rescue. Now all Pyre had to do was act on that information.
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Jerry ignored the fatigue and boredom that gnawed at him from the inside, as he sat at the radar station setup, which was inside a tent on top of the warehouse roof.
The recruiter had said that the Crimson Blades would do the necessary, not that it would all be fun, or adrenaline-pumping, Jerry thought.
Besides, Jerry wanted to live long enough to see the salvation from Daedalus, and other corporations like Daedalus, from their corporate overreach and the political corruption that allowed it. Like most of the Crimson Blades—or, at least, most of those Jerry had spoken to on the matter—Jerry knew that Communism was evil, that it lead to horrific rights abuses, and that it was to be opposed wherever possible. That was to say, real Communism, given that many American politicians called anything they disagreed with Communism to score cheap political points with the less intelligent, and less educated, sectors of the public, even when what they were arguing against was not Communism, and did not have even the slightest relationship to the evil of Communism. But Jerry and the others also knew that out of control Capitalism, often referred to as Runaway Capitalism, or Late Stage Capitalism, by experts, would result in workers being held in inhuman conditions, paid so little that they’d be unable to feed themselves—forget about feeding their families—and the rich would grow richer off of the toiling away of the poor, who would sink further into poverty along with the disappearing middle class. In such an approaching scenario, workers would have no real rights. Sure, they’d be said to have rights on paper, but they’d have no ability to exercise those rights in practice. Corporate Overreach as they called it. Communism was inherently evil, whereas capitalism was neither good nor evil—it was merely a neutral tool, like a gun. A gun could safeguard liberty, or enforce tyranny; it could be used for good, or evil, depending on how the gun’s owner chose to use it. Sure, Capitalism could present good opportunities if enacted within reasonable limits, but Capitalism without limits was almost as bad as Communism. The workers would still be downtrodden and abused, only by greedy corporations instead of a little red party. No, restrained capitalism needed to be enacted, a balance between corporate operations and individual rights. Yet big corporations—Big Pharma, Tobacco, and others—were eroding the rights of the individual, and becoming almost as dangerous as the Communists.
Perhaps, Jerry thought, even more dangerous.
It’s easy to stop a small bleed. But when the wound festers, and the problem goes untreated, it becomes an infection, or a cancer, fatal to what we have fought for, and continue to fight for—unless it’s fought at every turn, and the cancer is cut out violently. And a cancer isolated to the skin, which had yet to infect any other part of the flesh, the body, was simple enough to cut out. But when it spreads to the windpipe, the esophagus, the stomach, the lungs, the brain, and the heart, then it gets fatal.
Yes, whereas once it was the Communists who were the top threat to democracy and freedom—and Jerry knew that they still were a massive threat—it was now the corporate enemies from within that threatened to destroy America—or America’s people, at least. Corporations were a necessary evil but had to be kept within reasonable limits. Those that had overreached, who had allowed innocents to die—or outright killed them, like Daedalus and other PMC corporations with their atrocities, or Big Pharma with their fueling drug abuse epidemics, and pricing the poor out of life-saving medicines, all for hundreds of billions more dollars in their pockets, on top of the hundreds of billions of dollars they had already amassed—oh, they had become a cancer. And the time was coming to reel them in or cut them out—starting with Daedalus.
Oh, the politicians are even worse. They take bribes veiled as campaign contributions from big brother corporations and let the big companies ruin lives. We must stop it before it’s too late. But we need to take the first step. So, let’s start with Daedalus, Jerry thought.
Jerry wasn’t the only one in the tent, as five other Crimson Blades were present, all using fake names and numbers to identify themselves, as opposed to the system used by the Direct Action Squads. These troops were reserved by the Crimson Blades for defensive duties. For now, anyway.
Sure, Jerry’s not even my real name, but I never signed up for glory. I signed up to do what needs doing, Jerry thought with a sigh.
Suddenly, Jerry saw something approaching on the radar screen. Too big to be a bird, or—at least—the natural kind of bird. Looking closer, Jerry saw that it was actually four somethings.
“Got four potential aircraft incoming. Probably helicopters and they’re in formation. Seeking visual confirmation. Man the radar while I’m away,” Jerry told the other radar operators, before grabbing a pair of binoculars and running out of the rooftop tent.
Turning to face the rough direction that the aircraft had been shown as coming from on the radar screen, Jerry put the binoculars to his eyes, as he turned on a night vision mode—which was built into this pair of binoculars—with the press of a button. After about three seconds, Jerry found what he was looking for. There were four helicopters, painted mostly black, with the Daedalus logo of a blue rhombus being carried upwards by golden wings painted onto their airframes. It was all the confirmation that Jerry needed.
Running back to the tent with the binoculars in his right hand, Jerry used his left hand to press the talk button on the radio strapped to his chest, saying, “Eagle-Seventeen, Eagle-Seventeen, code Blue Three, repeat, Code Blue Three. Wasp D. Jerry-One-One-Four out.” Code Blue meant enemy forces were inbound, Code Blue Three, meant that they were inserting, or maneuvering, using aircraft, and Wasp, meant that the enemy was using helicopters, with the letter D indicating that there were four helicopters.
“Awaiting orders, sir,” Jerry added afterward.
Eagle-17’s voice responded to Jerry via the radio, saying, “What do you think we should do? Actually, don’t answer that. You have the appropriate weapons—use them.”
Realizing what Eagle-17 was talking about, Jerry objected, “But sir, if we do that, the potential for civilian casualties wo—.”
Eagle-17 interrupted Jerry, yelling, “Damn it! We don’t have time for this! Do it or I’ll do it over your remains! Last warning! Obey the order!”
As Jerry re-entered the tent, he heard heavy breathing on the radio, before Eagle-17 spoke again, this time at a polite tone and volume, saying, “This is war. Collateral damage is to be expected. All Defense Detail Personnel, initiate Code Amber Seven. And Jerry-One-One-Four, you have your orders. Do not miss.”
“Of course, sir,” Jerry replied, reentering the tent as two of the four other personnel in the tent readied a pair of Surface to Air rocket launchers.
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Daedalus used the same ranks as the US Army. Hence why Gary Haversack, who retired from the US Army holding the rank of Sergeant, was addressed as Sergeant First Class, given that he’d attained a higher rank in Daedalus than he had while in the military.
The personnel in the four Daedalus-manufactured Intercepter M2 helicopters were almost entirely silent, as they had already been briefed back at base. The whole of the sixteen-person squad that Sergeant First Class Haversack led was squeezed into one Interceptor. The squad was composed of four fire teams, with each fire team being composed of four operators. This op looked simple, especially from the orders standpoint—go in, rescue the hostage, kill or contain all Crimson Blade members on site, and get out. However, things involving the nut jobs that were currently on the other side tended to get screwed up and complicated. Gary still remembered the buddies he’d lost when those assholes attacked a Daedalus Research and Development lab, before proceeding to steal a bunch of experimental gear, and escape.
Speaking of equipment, there were the communications earpieces that the Daedalus PMCs had as standard issue equipment, which were paired to the military-grade, brick-shaped, DCICU unit and the smart goggles that they wore, allowing them to remotely operate the DCICU unit—and other communications equipment they had—using voice commands, or by rapidly double blinking at icons displayed on the Heads Up Display, or HUD, of the smart goggles, similar to how one would tap icons for apps on a smartphone’s screen with one’s finger to activate the applications. The acronym DCICU stood for Daedalus Contracting Incorporated Communications Uplink, although the acronym was such a mouthful that most troops simply called it an Uplink Brick, as it was shaped like a small brick, with the earpiece being referred to by most contractors as an Uplink Bud, or an Uplink Earpiece. The DCICU Uplink Brick also doubled as a tactical computer. Company regulations stated that the contractors had to keep the DCICU Brick in a specific belt pouch so that it could be retrieved from any dead or wounded contractors, thereby avoiding the equipment being captured and either reverse-engineered or used to eavesdrop on the contractors’ conversations.
Abruptly, Gary heard someone yell something over the Uplink Earpieces that they wore under their helmets, in their left ears. The words were broadcast on the Mission Channel—a communications channel dedicated to the current mission specifically, and open to all field and non-field personnel associated with the mission—while sending a chill down Gary’s spine in fractions of a second.
Those words were, “RPG incoming! Flares deployed!”
Another voice yelled, “They aren’t working! Take evasive ac—!”
Whoever was speaking was then cut off by the sound of an explosion—or a detonation—which was followed by the sound of something crashing. Then, a second explosion followed that, with what sounded like an avalanche, or a building collapsing.
Andrew Taylor’s voice was then audible over the Uplink Earpieces, barking out the words, “Pilots, status report! We’ve lost the GPS signals from two choppers!”
More voices followed over the comms.
“Quiver One, intact. Looks like Quiver Four took a direct hit, sir. The flares they deployed failed to save them.”
“Quiver Three, sorry about that. Our beacon’s down. Looks like a malfunction!”
“Quiver Two, intact, and awaiting orders.”
There was no response from the pilot of Fourth Squad’s helicopter.
Gary thought We’ve lost Fourth Squad! FUCK!
Andrew Taylor spoke again. “All remaining choppers, take evasive maneuvers and land in the streets, then have two squads proceed to the objective on foot. Divert a squad to Squad Four’s location for security and casualty management. Once they reach the crash site, they are to begin triage and secure sensitive equipment. Remember, no explosives are to be used except for breaching ordnance. We don’t know where the hostage is. Extreme use of lethal force is otherwise authorized.”
Gary felt their helicopter begin to descend as the Second Lieutenant in charge of their platoon asked in a stunned manner, “Sir, you want us to attack the objective at half strength without using heavy ordinance?”
“Did I stutter,” Andrew Taylor replied, prompting the Second Lieutenant to state in a compliant, yet irritated manner, “Understood. We will execute your orders as issued, sir. Please note that I am requesting reinforcements, effective immediately, Command.”
“Request noted. We’re working on scrambling your reinforcements now, Lieutenant,” Andrew Taylor said over the communications channel as the chopper’s side doors slid open, revealing the city streets as the aircraft landed.
Unstrapping himself from his seat, Gary thought, It’s time to finish this.
Bolting upright, Gary yelled out over the comms, “Squad One, with me!”
The Second Lieutenant’s voice called out over the Mission Channel, “Third Squad, get to the crash site! XO, go with them, and assess the situation!” Gary knew that XO was an abbreviation for Executive Officer, or second in command, as the Second Lieutenant continued, “First and Second Squads, we’re haulin’ ass to the objective! Let’s move!”
Running out of the Interceptor M2 helicopter’s side doors—which, like almost everything about the Interceptor, were very similar to those of an American Blackhawk helicopter, albeit both less noisy and slightly larger (allowing the Interceptor M2 helicopter to hold four more operators than a Blackhawk could)—Gary began running in the direction of the objective—they’d studied maps of the city extensively while waiting to be ordered into action so that if the hostage was being held anywhere in the city, they would be able to navigate to and from that location proficiently. On the flanks of the aircraft were traffic jams of obstructed vehicles, honking their horns, probably just annoyed to be delayed.
As if their business is nearly as important as the mission—if they even have any business, Gary thought, superbly annoyed at the civilians in question.
Wild-eyed civilians stared at Gary and the other PMCs, some pulling out their phones—probably recording videos, or taking pictures. Just as well that all the PMCs were wearing combat scarves, masks, and helmets—obstructing their faces and necks above and below their eyes. Their eyes were covered by smart goggles. There were a few startled shouts from the civilians, but they were generally smart enough—or scared enough—to move out of the contractors’ way. Admittedly, that wasn’t a high intellectual bar to pass, but still, it was something, or so Gary thought. Gary barely noticed the civilians though. His attention was elsewhere—there were objectives to be seized, hostages to be rescued, and enemies to be killed.80Please respect copyright.PENANAndPq9eEhVd
Let’s get to work, Gary silently told himself.80Please respect copyright.PENANAnrLlaoN0HM