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Itâs been two days since our clean-up of that DeadNettle den. Maybe my babysitter voucher expired or Tamara needed them for something else; but Larkspur and Kapudal are no longer in my place, depleting my fridgeâs contents.Â
I flirt with the idea of going grocery shopping but the simple thought makes my head hurt.Â
Just as well, I donât know when Iâll get the call from Tamara. It would probably be better if I stayed at the HQ. Iâd be ready for the next step in the plan sooner.Â
But I couldnât take all those eyes on me, everyone just waiting to see if I snap. I get pins and needles just thinking about it.Â
No, Iâm much more comfortable going insane alone in my apartment. My inevitable and possibly imminent spiral into incorrigible mental instability needs no audience.Â
That said, the idea that I might slip into autonomous nothingness doesnât sit well. Itâs an excessive weight around my neck.Â
Nothing seems to take my mind off it besides physical activity. My exercise routine lets my mind drift from the dread that wants to drown my soul. But I canât do it for too long, I donât want to push it too much. I need to be in top form for what comes next.Â
I try anything else to take my mind off it. I clean my entire place, every surface, and under every object. It didnât take as long as I thought it would, but at least my place is clean.Â
I start cleaning my guns, disassembling them and meticulously wiping them down as needed.Â
I briefly think that a person sitting alone in their apartment, cleaning guns in a hidden alcove is not the behavior of a sane person. But I dismiss the idea quickly since it isnât fucking helping.Â
With everything clean and some exercise done, I have nothing else to do and there are many hours left in the day. Nothing on TV holds my attention for more than a few minutes. I feel like Iâm watching myself, watching TV rather than whatever stupid thing is on.Â
Two weeks.Â
I blacked out for two weeks. I walked, talked, ate, slept, and killed for two weeks and donât have a shred of memory of it all. The only thing I got from it is these headaches.Â
What will become of me? Will I still talk? Have feelings, think, and care for myself; but beneath it all, nothing of substance? A vase with a hole in the side can hold some water, for some time. Thatâs what I am now, I figure. But the cracks are getting bigger and bigger.Â
Iâll just be shards of what was once my mind.Â
I turn off the pottery documentary I was watching.Â
âI have to go to sleep,â I say to no one. Maybe lying unconscious will calm me down.
Getting ready for bed, I look at the unfamiliar clothes in my dressers. They arenât my style at all, so Iâm not sure what couldâve possessed me to buy them. Predictably, a sharp pain forms in my head. I shake it off and wander over to my bed.Â
How can I know Iâll stay asleep? What if I go to sleep and slip into thatâŠ
I refuse to name it. The dread that wants to spread throughout my being wonât gain a foothold. Fear can be defeated with preparedness, thatâs what Tamara always says.
I stand up and go for my tools; velcro strips, adhesive patches, and some heavy webbing.Â
Rather than sleeping in my bed, I set myself up in the corner of my room. Placing the velcro strips on the walls, I stick them to the heavy webbing to trap myself in.Â
Itâs uncomfortable, and somewhat irritating my skin, but it keeps me in place. If I slip away in my sleep and wake up, to do god knows what, the straps will have to be ripped off. That way, Iâll know if I blacked out again.Â
Maybe strapping myself to the walls is further proof of my insanity, but I donât have a shitload of options.Â
As I sit upright against the wall and try to will myself to sleep, I realize I shouldâve grabbed a pillow. Or at least took a sheet and folded it up.Â
âAhh, next time.â No one ever makes the perfect blackout tracking system on the first try.Â
I somehow manage to fall asleep sometime later. I dream about something, someone. I canât see the person Iâm talking to. Iâm not sure if Iâm just not facing them or if theyâre just not there. But I am talking to someone, and theyâre talking back. I donât actually hear the words, I just have this feeling someoneâs talking to me. Iâm not even sure what Iâm saying, really.Â
But something about itâŠreassures me, somehow.Â
I wake up, still confined in the constraints. Thereâs no sign of me undoing and then reattaching them.Â
âI made it through the night.â I sigh with relief and get out of the corner. The achiness in my neck and back makes it clear why more people generally donât sleep against a wall. Lesson learned.Â
I stretch out in the shower, hoping we get the plan moving soon. Need something to do and thereâs nothing left for me here.Â
I get dressed, slightly more tactical than street wear; in the hopes weâll start today.Â
Anxiously, I head over to the HQ. Soon as I park the car in the lot someone says to me,
âHey, Hollyhock!â
I turn to see who the voice belongs to. A woman with cool brown skin greets me. She looks somewhat familiar but her face doesnât immediately ring any bells.Â
My confusion must be apparent because she clarifies by initializing the Bay Leaf handshake; both of us using our right hands we give a tap of the knuckles, interlacing of fingers, and using thumbs to tap the otherâs digits in a specific order, ending with a double tapping the back of our hands and a finger gun.Â
The Bay Leaves may have military-grade weapons and training, but we arenât above such demotic gestures. While I know most of my fellow assassins, there are a handful who have just been out of my orbit. Being able to recognize a Bay Leaf through our handshake is a lot like meeting a cousin you didnât know you had.Â
At least, itâs how I imagine so; never having had cousins myself.Â
âItâs me, Mirabilis!â She says. That name ignites recognition in my mind. Wondering why she didnât just say that I squint at her face.Â
I swear she looks different than the last time I saw her. Her straight nose and almond-shaped eyes are familiar, but I remember the space between her features being different. Her skin also seems a slightly different shade, like her undertone changed. I also recall her having some pockmarks or something like that. Her face is now very smooth.Â
Then again I am losing my mind, so thereâs a good chance Iâm mistaken.Â
She has a slim build for someone in our line of work, but not much muscle mass either. But as far as I know, her physique hasnât caused any issues on the job. She offers a wide smile and I try to give a genuine one back.Â
In a recognizable gesture, she scratches her Adamâs Apple. I have no idea why that gesture sticks in my mind, but it confirms this is who I think it is.Â
âYou look like you saw a ghost,â Mirabilis says, speaking with a South American accent. Peruvian, I think.Â
I shrug.Â
âItâs been a toughâŠweek.â Iâm not really sure what day it is.Â
Mirabilis nods her head as if remembering whatâs going on with me. Thatâs when I notice the large contractor bag sheâs pulling.Â
âWhatcha got there?â I ask.Â
âAccountant gumbo,â she answers. I guess Tamara got what she needed and didnât like that he spat at her. The opaque black bag obscures the state heâs in, though Iâm guessing itâs not all in one piece. All of us are killers, I have no problem seeing or handling a dead body, but I have a threshold of how much viscera I can be around. Mirabilis, seemingly, has no such compunction.Â
I notice the smell suddenly.Â
âI gotta take care of this, Iâll see ya later!â She says cheerfully and drags the body along. I give a friendly wave goodbye and head inside.Â
As expected, HQ is abuzz with activity. Some apprehensive stares are aimed at me, but I do my best to ignore them. With the accountant dead, Tamara got what she wanted. Sheâll also have a snitch telling her whatâs going on. With everyone running around, Iâm guessing shitâs about to get real.Â
Speak of the devil, Tamara walks out from around a corner. Sheâs talking to KokiâO and they both immediately turn to look at me. The head and heart of the Bay Leaves approach me.Â
âWhat a coincidence, I was about to call you, Hollyhock. Seems youâre getting better at being in the right place at the right time,â Tamara says.Â
âTamara,â KokiâO says, giving her a small nudge. Tamara clears her throat.Â
âBut I, uhhâŠdigress. A snitch told me the DeadNettles are meeting up, just like we planned. Theyâre congregating in their lilâ clubhouse on Gladioli Drive, somewhere around ten p.m. Itâs all hands on deck, first, we get everyone fitted, then weâre going over the blueprints to form a strike plan. Weâve wasted enough time talking, get to work, killer.âÂ
She dismisses me with that. Needing no further direction, I move to help the closest person whoâs moving an ammo cache by themself. We place it with the others, stockpiled by the door.Â
From there it becomes a whirlwind of activities; which Iâm grateful for. Checking assault rifles and protective gear lets me ignore the dread being concocted in my head. The tactile, precise feeling of equipment sliding into place as it should; latches, straps, clips, grips, pins, zippers, and the various other pieces of it all. They instill a sense of definitiveness, absolute certainty.Â
âIf it is done properly, itâll work properlyâ. Words carved into us by Tamara when we trained with our weapons. She had us dismantle a gun a hundred times blindfolded before weâd ever fired a single bullet from one. Funny how much that used to piss me the fuck off then, but now Iâm yearning for the surety of the process. Not that Iâll ever let Tamara know that.Â
I assist the greener Bay Leaves with their gear, showing them the most efficient ways to do everything. Before I know it, I have a small group orbiting me. Theyâre freshly trained, yet inexperienced, and want to soak in the knowledge of a seasoned killer such as myself.
Iâm aware of my skills, and what Iâve accomplished. My reputation isnât something I particularly think about, but it obviously proceeds me; as these rookies hang onto my every word. For some, thisâll be their first assignment. And what an assignment it is for their first run, wiping out a whole group.Â
I canât help but judge the wisdom of letting newbies on an assignment like this. First jobs are almost always solo work; to see how one handles the weight of this life alone. If they fuck up, itâs their own ass to pay. Itâs how we get proven killers. But this? If they fuck up and hesitate for a moment, they can end someone elseâs life. Should the lives of my fellow seasoned assassins depend on them?
But then, maybe Iâm being too harsh on them and the more experienced killers. Weâre more than skilled enough to cover ourselves and these babies. Besides that, I suppose this is an invaluable demonstration for them. What theyâll be capable of if they can survive long enough.Â
Not that it matters what I think anyway. Tamara is doing this for two reasons, the first being that this is the fastest way for this crop of Bay Leaves to truly understand what this life means. That we arenât your garden variety killers. That we hold ourselves to a higher standard in this line of work. And that we operate on a singular mantra: Do not fuck with us.Â
So maybe she doesnât need every single Bay Leaf to arm up and storm this place. But what better show of force is there to the other powers at play in this city? That if you fuck with us; all of us will show up and obliterate you from existence. This isnât just about professional vengeance, itâs a grim warning to anyone who might even think about crossing us.Â
When everything is prepped, checked, and squared away we gather in the sanctuary. Tamara and KokiâO stand where a pulpit should be, waiting for all of us to sit in the pews. Itâs a somewhat bizarre atmosphere, us sitting and facing a solitary figure in a church. All of us, with bated breath, eager to hear from a leader. Do regular church sermons have such lethal anxiety from their congregation? Do the leaders usually have thigh holsters on? Whoâs to say? But this is America after all, so the chance isnât zero.
A projection of the DeadNettleâs HQ is displayed on a large whiteboard that we only keep around for such occasions. Even though weâve already been told about this; KokiâO goes over the blueprints, detailing entry points, blindspots, and recent additions to the building. Which is good because I didnât study the schematics at all.
Weâre to wait until theyâre all in, then surround the building, cutting off all exits. Dumb as they are, the DeadNettles arenât without some brain cells. In so much, that theyâll be armed. They think that someone might try something and hope to ward off an attack with a display of strength. This will take the form of several guards being posted outside.Â
Stealth will not factor into this operation. Thatâs made clear when Tamara says Kapudul is going to take the first shot and provide support with sniper cover. She gives a âWOO!â in response to this.Â
The DeadNettles might be expecting some trouble, but theyâre not prepared for the full force of the Bay Leaves. Few are.Â
Tamara starts assigning groups with leaders to take point. Iâm half expecting to be put in charge of some of the newbies that have been following me around. But all the groups are made and I donât hear my name called. As everyone gets into their cloisters I approach Tamara about this.Â
Before I can say a word, she says to me,
âHollyhock, youâll be with me, KokiâO, and Digit.â She took the wind out of my sails a bit with that announcement. Here I thought I was about to be sidelined but itâs just the opposite. Iâll be in the spearpoint with Tamara.Â
Kapudul saunters over next to me, a spliff between her fingers that she fully intends to light before KokiâO gives her a look. She puts it away in her pocket. Iâm about to ask what sheâs doing here when Digit comes over, carrying two large cases.
Digitalis is our doctor, armorer, techie, tattooist, and weaponsmith; but I sometimes forget heâs also a Bay Leaf like the rest of us. The amount of guns he has strapped to his person is evidence enough of his killer prowess. He puts one case down and presents it to Kapudul.
âChristmas came early for you, it seems.â
âOh yeah?â
He opens the case to reveal the most beautiful sniper rifle Iâve ever seen.Â
âThis is the C-Buckthorn,â he informs her. Iâm not Kapudul heard him as she stares at the dark green weapon. She might be in love.
âI might be in love,â she says. A small chuckle escapes me.
âSemi-automatic. Cartridge holds eight .50 caliber bullets, if you have a problem with 2,000 meters of this baby, you wonât have a problem soon enough,â Digit explains, but again I think it falls on deaf ears. She picks it up gently and cradles the large rifle like itâs a child she just gave birth to. Digit still has more to say, âThese are standard rounds.â he points to a cartridge on the left. âThese are armor-piercing incendiary, steel plates donât put up much fight for them.â he points to a cartridge with a red line going across it. âAnd these,â he points to the final one with an orange line across it. âAre explosive rounds. You shoot a person with one of these, youâll leave a hole you can put an arm through.â
Kapudul looks like sheâs about to cream her pants. I honestly canât blame her.Â
âYou only use those,â Tamara speaks up âIf I give the word, understood?âÂ
That gets through to the sniper, who nods her head as she looks at the deadly ammunition, perhaps envisioning all the death she will cause with them.Â
âGood, go,â Tamara dismisses. Kapudul picks up the case, shushing it.
âLet me take you away from the bad man, youâre with Mommy now,â she says as she walks away. Tamara rolls her eyes but KokiâO laughs a little bit.
âWhat do I get, Santa?â I ask, seeing the remaining case.
âYouâve been a good girl this year,â Digit says with a Santa-like voice.Â
âStop,â Tamara orders.
âYouâre no fun,â he replies. He opens the case and hands over a jacket.
Itâs black, embroidered with flowers all over. âThis one took a while, but itâs some of my best work. The extra material absorbed the treatment well. Making it leagues more durable than any other one I made,â he says, clearly proud of himself. As I take it I can feel what he means, the weight alone is proof of how the chemical blend has fortified it.
âYou picked this out?â
âNo, you did.â
âI did?â Another spike of pain shoots through my head. I do my best to hide it but KokiâO notices.Â
Doesnât seem like the kind of jacket Iâd pick out, but itâs the best I got. Besides that, it also looks pretty cool. Sliding it on, a surge of confidence fills me as that feeling of safety covers me. Itâs hard to describe the sensation exactly, besides intrinsically knowing how strong it is. The embroidery on the sleeves is especially thick and I can tell itâs extremely tough. Iâve had treated jackets before, but this one feels like more than just armor, more than safe. ItâsâŠâŠ.
I donât have a word for it. Familiar? Home? Can clothes feel like home? Maybe because itâs a tangible link to what Iâve missed.Â
âWe got a couple hours âfore itâs go time. You can ease up,â KokiâO says.
Itâs 84 degrees outside, but I donât want to take off the jacket.Â
âNah, Iâll go help out some-â Before I can finish KokiâO claps a large arm around my shoulder.Â
âCâmon, killer. Help me with something,â she says in a tone of voice that I canât refuse. Tamara gives us a nod and starts talking with Digit.Â
KokiâO takes me to the kitchen, where she already has some things cooking. Itâs an assortment of side dishes mostly, none too heavy; mashed potatoes, home fries, rice with beans, mac ânâ cheese, collard greens, and lots of other stuff. Itâs a delightful melange of aromas. Â
âStart making plates,â she orders. âNewbies are trying to go in there on empty stomachs.â
I start assembling different combinations of food.Â
âMaybe theyâre scared theyâll shit their pants?â I proffer.
âThisâll be their first time killing and seeing killing. Iâd rather them throw up something than dry heave,â she replies, going over to the stove. A silence falls between us. We can hear the sounds of everyone walking around, getting ready. KokiâO prepares more food and I keep making plates.
Then a chuckle comes from her.
âI just remembered when Tamara had that helicopter for us to practice with our wingsuits,â KokiâO reminisces. She puts the fire on low. âYou put on a brave act, but I could tell something was wrong.â She leans against the counter and looks at me.
Itâs clear what sheâs getting at; that she senses something wrong. But I wonât give it to her that easily.
âJumping out of a helicopter for the first time can make anyone trepidatious,â I say as I place some cornbread on a paper plate.
KokiâO sighs, realizing Iâm going to make her work for it.
âWhatâs the problem, Hollyhock?â She asks properly.
What should I share? My fear of going permanently insane? The dread creeping into every fiber of my being? Thatâs too heavy, sheâll go right to Tamara with itÂ
âThese headaches wonât go away,â I answer. âI donât know whatâs causing them, they come at random intervals, and havenât gotten weaker.â
KokiâO walks closer to me. A firm but gentle hand reaches out and holds my face. She starts to inspect me and I let her, offering no resistance. It makes me feel like a little kid quite frankly. She turns my face side-to-side, looking for something with an unreadable expression.Â
âHave you told Digit?â She asks.
âNo,â I mumble, her hands squeezing my cheeks. âHeâll take it to Tamara.â
âAnd maybe heâll take you to an MRI,â she retorts, letting go of my face. âYou scared, that it? Afraid to get a diagnosis?âÂ
I shrug.
âI donât know.â I know exactly what Iâm afraid of, but that isnât related to the headaches. At least, I donât think they are. âThe blackouts arenât new, obviously but the headaches are. I donât see why Iâd start getting them now.â
âMaybe whateverâs going on in here,â she says, putting a finger on my forehead âis getting worse.â
âThatâs encouraging.âÂ
âLook Holly, if I could magically take the pain away I would.âÂ
That pain shoots through my head again.
âBut I canât. You should seriously get it checked out.â
âOkay, Iâll see whatâs what,â I say. Itâs an empty promise. I have no interest in knowing whateverâs wrong with me. If thisâŠaffliction kills me or takes over my brain then so be it.
Tamara taught us how to do everything we know well, but lies can never get past KokiâO. Still, maybe as mercy, she lets it slide.Â
âAlright,â she ruffles my hair. âLetâs get back to it.â
That question pops up in my head again, but I push it away. I donât care if my brain is turning into mush; that question wonât ever be voiced. I have to keep that promise. If nothing else.
We get back to the task at hand. When enough plates are made we call down the newbies. Some of our more seasoned killers come as well. Larkspur has a pack of neophytes clinging close, much to their annoyance. At first, theyâre all hesitant to eat, but seeing Larkspur immediately grab a plate assuages them. As they all get food, a lively atmosphere comes about. Stories are told and bits of advice are shared. Youâd never think that this a pre-assault supper.
The time whittles away, but soon we start to shift. Plates and utensils get traded for guns and ammo clips. Everyone gets their pick from our arsenal; since weâre going loud a lot of rifles come out to play.Â
When I get to the armory I look over my options. So many killing tools to choose from. I grab a couple of karambits, two thermite grenades, and a tactical flashlight. With the appetizers done, I move on to the main course. To start, the Echinace-A submachine gun. The âAâ stands for automatic, this gun is made for suppressing multiple enemies. Coming standard with a double drum magazine, it has a frightening fire rate and had an even scarier flaw. The initial prototypes overheated quickly, making them useless after a time. To combat this, a liquid nitrogen cooling system was added with extreme success. The gun will be cool to the touch even after emptying its clip, earning its nickname âCold Killer.â It produces quite a bit of steam as you fire it.Â
With dessert being the Senna-68 Rifle. I imagine this weapon was designed by a sadistic hermit genius somewhere since it has little to no recoil; even on full automatic, making it damn near laser accurate as well as capable of expelling armor-piercing rounds. The yellow and dark brown weapon is easy to handle, so much so that itâs a go-to rifle for those who employ child soldiers. Itâs also been acquired by an unsettling number of such people in further unnerving amounts. With a unique sound, the Senna-68 has gained the reputation of being the gun thatâll make you shit if you hear it. This one has a heat sensor attached to it.Â
When weâre all fully equipped we get into our groups and head out before Tamara stops us all. Her voice comes through all our radios.
âWhat weâre about to do will upset the balance in this city. There will be consequences to this, but weâll handle it as we do everything. They brought this on themselves. I expect all of you to come back here, understood?â
We all give various expressions of agreement. No more words need to be said.
Nondescript black vans await us outside. As we pile in, the energy shifts in all of us. Tamara has tempered us to be cool, collected before such assignments. So, despite the heat, the air around us is ice cold.Â
Or maybe itâs the AC Digit is blasting. The four of us sit in the van in absolute silence. Digit, KokiâO, and I are all wearing helmets; though Tamara always chastises us to wear them, she doesnât have one. When I was younger I asked KokiâO about it and she said âItâs cuz she doesnât want helmet hair.â
I didnât really buy it back then, so I always assumed whatever past Tamara has influenced that particular decision. I sometimes wonder what her life was like before all of this. How it fostered that distant stare in her eyes. Sheâs sitting across from me but she might as well be on the other side of the world.Â
She notices me looking at her.Â
âYou nervous, killer?â
âNo. You?â
Instead of answering that, she leans back.
âThis has to happen,â she starts. âIâmâŠâ she tries to think of a word.
âApprehensive,â KokiâO supplies. Tamara nods. The fact that KokiâO knew the word means sheâs privy to what troubles her.
âAbout what comes next.â Tamara expands.Â
âWith the Argonos?â I probe. Tamara nods, somberly.
âYou know how many people Iâve killed?â She asks. KokiâO and Digit both perk up at the question.
âWell, at least three,â I joke.
A very rare chuckle comes from Tamara.Â
âYouâre not wrong.â She sits silently for a moment. âSome kills were moreâŠconstructive, than others.â
Now I wonder what the actual number is, but more than that I want to know what she considers a âconstructiveâ kill. And a non-constructive one.Â
But her distant stare returns and I know I wonât get an answer. KokiâO and Digit divert their attention back to driving.Â
With only the inside of the van to look at, itâs hard to tell where we are, but then the road smooths out under us. Tamara briefly looks out the windshield and grabs her radio. I turn mine down before she says,
âWeâre coming up on the targets, heads on a swivel, no one but us leaves that building. Understood?â
A litany of confirmations comes through the radio.Â
âUnderstood,â I say to her directly. I turn my radio back up and go to look out the window.Â
The DeadNettles may be organ stealing, drug dealing, human smuggling assholes, but they at least have some style. Their headquarters was once the most influential building in Oleander City: The Aurinia Exchange. Itâs a massive building that dwarfs most other structures built around the same time. Â
It was created during the Gold Rush which saw a massive increase in population around here. The building was designed with a dual purpose, a gold exchange and refinery plant. People would come with whatever nuggets of gold they found for money, and the plant would create gold bars and coins.Â
With a healthy amount of gold to be found here, business was good; so good that the owner opened a mine under the building. That was initially successful, but greed kills. Cut corners and poorly maintained conditions, along with an earthquake, led to the mine collapsing. 13 miners were crushed immediately, and another 20 starved to death as they were unable to get out.Â
Between the payouts to the families and people losing faith in the place, it soon went out of business. Most of the equipment inside was sold off, or stolen. But the structure itself stands strong. Itâs three stories tall and built with brick and mortar, but Iâm willing to bet thereâs some asbestos in there.
How exactly the DeadNettles got their hands on it is beyond my interest. Since then theyâve repainted the white pillars out front purple and have thrown up their insignia all over the place, the earth turning purple instead of blue.Â
After tonight that symbol will be a grim reminder if anyone remembers it at all.Â
This place has its own road, so we park near the street to block it off.Â
All of us get out and perform one last radio check, weapons, and gear.
Kaadupul gets into position with her new baby.
âFormations, now,â Tamara commands. We all comply, getting into our groups. I go over to Tamaraâs left, her right reserved for KokiâO, with Digit at our rear. âAdvance.â
All Bays Leaves maneuver to their designated entry points, with us taking the front door. Â
There are two guards at the ready at the front. Though âat the readyâ seems generous as theyâre both on their phones, the one on the left watching a loud annoying video.
She laughs like an idiot too.Â
âKaadupul, when youâre ready take out the one on the right,â Tamara orders.Â
âLeft,â I suggest. She briefly looks and sees what I mean.
âActually the one on the left,â she adjusts. The soon to be dead DeadNettle burst out laughing again, annoying her fellow guard.Â
âEveryone else when you hear that shot, and you will hear the shot, do what we do best.â
There is no need for confirmation.Â
Like a crack of thunder, Kaapudulâs new toy fires our opening shot. The guards donât have time to react to the sound; the one on the left is thrown against the wall where a sizable hole has excavated her forehead. KokiâO fires a burst shot into the chest of the rightmost one.Â
The slaughter begins.Â
Like wolves, we quickly advance on our prey. Digit shoots six shots through the front door, hearing people approach. Three more bodies fall before weâve even stepped foot inside.Â
Tamara shoves the door open and we enter the final night of the DeadNettles.Â
All around us, Bay Leaves have ingressed and started wordlessly killing. There is confusion, desperation, and fear spreading through our targets, making them all the more vulnerable.
No time to bask in it, I get to work. My Senna-68 rifle finds a victim whoâs slightly less disoriented than the others. Doesnât stop me from putting four bullets through his chest though. I pivot as I notice a motion to my right. Another one, getting their gun ready, the trigger gets squeezed and their blood decorates the walls behind them.Â
Thereâs no time to think, anyone not wearing a helmet, save Tamara, is not a Bay Leaf.Â
And that means they die.
We advance, putting down targets left and right. We keep a tight formation, but Tamara walks like this is a Sunday stroll for her. She knows weâll eliminate anyone to her flanks and no oneâs been unfortunate enough to get in front of her yet.Â
I kill five more as we get further into the building. By now some semblance of organization has infected the DeadNettles, they rashly form groups or find cover. It hardly matters though as weâre still advancing and have a clearer understanding of whatâs happening. Lambs can crowd together all they want, doesnât make a wolfâs fangs any less sharp. I hear a shot from Kaapudulâs rifle and two DeadNettles that were crouching next to each other have holes through both their necks.Â
Seems sheâs in the fight too.Â
Ahead and above us is a catwalk connecting the two sides of the building. A group of DeadNettles rushes out onto it, thinking the height will give them an advantage. It normally would over any regular person, but a combatant like Tamara is not your average killer. Barely looking up, she takes out her sole gun.
Custom like her brass knuckles, her weapon is a fully automatic pistol that she simply calls âRueâ. The exact specs on it are a mystery to me, which seems to be the point as it has a thumbprint scanner. Only she can fire this gun. With a sweep of her hand and the squeeze of a trigger, she puts a bullet through either the head or neck of the seven elevated attackers. Some fall over the railing and crash in front of us. Not losing her stride, Tamara tucks the weapon away and steps over a corpse.Â
We keep advancing, sweeping through this first floor. In the distance, I recognize Larkspur with their group of newbies. Lark, of course, is efficiently killing everyone. One of the newbies catches a bullet from somewhere, falling over. Lark quickly turns to find the shooter and eliminates them. The newbie is okay, the vest protected her. She gets back on her feet and Lark taps her shoulder twice, signifying for her to get behind them. For a moment, she hesitates but obliges.Â
The momentary distraction isnât enough for whoever gets the drop on me to get a clean shot. A bullet whizzes by and hits me in the elbow. In the split second it made contact, I feel it gets deflected by my treated jacket. It hurts like I just hit my ulnar nerve really hard, but tolerable. I spot who fired the shot. This time their aim improves, landing a round in my left shoulder. Again the jacket does its job, spectacularly at that. The bullet spins and gets redirected elsewhere. The shooter hesitates, thinking I should be down or at least hurt. I donât let them get another shot off, emptying the clip in their torso.Â
âYou good?â I hear Digit ask while I reload.
I quickly inspect the spots where I was shot. There aren't even signs of damage to the jacket itself.Â
âIâm good. This jacketâs the shit,â I reply.
âNo chatter,â Tamara interjects.Â
We both nod.Â
The cacophony of bullets and screaming continue all around us as we advance upstairs. There are double doors to a corridor that Tamara opens.Â
Almost like she has a sixth sense strictly for violence, she immediately ducks and dodges a long knife wielding DeadNettle. She spins and delivers a swift uppercut to his elbow, making him drop his weapon. Now that I get a second to look at it, I see itâs a machete. This motherfucker actually had a machete and thought this was the best time to use it.Â
Tamara doesnât give him long to regret the poor decision. She grabs his chin with one hand and his shirt with another. There are other DeadNettles in the corridor but they watch the ensuing gore in horror. Her teeth get flashed and close around his throat. He can only scream out in pain for a moment. She bites harder and harder and shakes her head side-to-side.Â
The voyeur DeadNettles learn the absolute difference between them and us. They are only killers with guns and knives. But people like Tamara? Sheâll kill with anything at her disposal; teeth included.
Maybe thatâs why she doesnât wear a helmet.
With a sickening sound, she tears his throat out. The would-be attacker falls over, blood gushing from what remains of his neck. The leftovers are firmly between Tamaraâs teeth. She spits it out and the bit of viscera lands just before one of the DeadNettleâs feet. She doesnât need to say anything, the message is clear.
If they had any will to fight at all before that, it evaporates as they throw down their weapons and put their hands up in a universal sign of surrendering. One guy even pisses his pants in a further sign of submission.Â
Tamara wipes her mouth, only getting some of the blood, to finally say,
âKill them.â
With no wavering, we tear them to pieces. No one leaves this building but us, that includes cowards who might try to get revenge later. Other Bay Leaves catch up to us, none commenting on Tamaraâs red mouth.Â
We advance further, Digit and I keep vigilant.Â
âI havenât seen you do that since-â Tamara cuts KokiâO off.
âNo chatter,â she says, a little less stern.Â
I briefly wonder if sheâs a vampire or a zombie.
My head spikes in pain, but I endure it.Â
We all continue throughout the building, encountering laughable resistance. Coming up on a hallway, Tamara sees something we donât.
âMOVE!â she shouts.Â
We jump to the sides before a flood of bullets rushes where we just were. Gaudy stone pillars provide cover as an insanely huge woman is firing a Bradford Pair minigun at us. A dual four-barrel rotary machine gun that can shoot bullets for days. Typically mounted on a vehicle, how the fuck sheâs carrying it let alone shooting it would be impressive if we werenât aimed at us. Even over the rapid firing, I hear her laughter.
âNOT SO TOUGH NOW, ARE YA?âÂ
Bullets continue to fly, we have cover for now but sheâs walking closer and closer.
âKAAPUDUL, WEâRE PINNED! SECOND FLOOR, HEAVY TARGET, EXPLOSIVE ROUND!âÂ
We suffer three more seconds of the hellfire. On the other side of the hallway is a large window overlooking the city, from there we hear another thunderous shot. Gunfire stops and its sound is replaced with a meaty thud. I, tentatively, look out from behind the cover. The walking turret is indeed dead.Â
âWOOOO! YOU SEE THAT SHIT?!â Kaapudul says through the radio.Â
There is a crater big enough to stick a fist through where her chest should be. The explosive round did its job aggressively. All the Bay Leaves break out into cheer for our sniper.Â
Tamara silences it immediately by raising her hand and making a tight fist.
âAnyone hurt?â She asks. Two of the newbies got grazed, one in the leg, and another in the side. Nothing serious.Â
âWe celebrate after. Finish the job.â
Going throughout the rest of the building we encounter laughable resistance.
As we enter one room, the DeadNettles inside try to take cover by flipping over a table and ducking behind furniture. Theyâve seen too many movies, thinking wood and couches are bulletproof. Holding back a chuckle, I unleash the Echinace-A on their dumbasses.Â
On the third and final floor, we take out the last handful that were running around. The last room we havenât cleared is the bossâ office. Large oak double doors, engraved with an idealized scene of people first coming here to Oleander City to secure their future. Bunch of bullshit if you ask me.Â
Among all the DeadNettles we took out, no one confirmed their leader was among the count; so he has to be behind these doors. All of us wait for our leader to open the doors. The second she does we all pour into the room, checking for any threats. To our surprise, thereâs only one man in the room. Heâs leaning over his desk, not facing us. There is no reaction from him as the entirety of the Bay Leaves surrounds him.
The room has been decorated with a lot of East Asian art. Iâm no anthropologist, so I canât nail down which culture it is exactly. Though, the giant painting of Genghis Khan Iâm just seeing now makes me think itâs Mongolian.Â
Still leaning over his desk, he sighs. I notice a knife sticking out of his back pocket.
Heâs dressed in black sneakers, black jeans, and a red shirt that ombres into purple. Quite a collection of tattoos he has on his arms as well. One on his bicep is a depiction of a young man. âR.I.Pâ is written under it.Â
He stands up straight and turns around. He doesnât seem fazed by all of us aiming guns at him. Maybe he has a brain cell or two, unlike his subordinates. He knows heâs outnumbered, outgunned, and frankly outclassed. But thereâs a look of indignation on his face. Absolute rage in his eyes as he scans over all of us.Â
âWhich one?â he asks. I know heâs talking about me. He overlooked Tamara, searching for someone specific. I step forward, unlatching my helmet to expose my face.Â
âYou,â he says with bitter hatred towards me.
âMe,â I say, cooly, since I donât know what his fucking problem is.Â
I only know him by reputation. He goes by âAcerâ Ginn. His real first name is unimportant to me. I know the relevant stuff; though heâs heavy into his Mongolian heritage, he was born here. Got the nickname âAcerâ âcause he always came up with good ideas. But if the current state of things is any indication, Iâd say that heâs run out of them.Â
He continues to stare at me with the rage of a man wronged. I still donât know why heâs pissed, his crew is the one that tried to kill me.
âWeapons down,â Tamara says. All Bay Leaves comply. Itâs obvious whatâs about to happen. I hand my helmet to Tamara, my guns to KokiâO, and step into the impromptu cage match.Â
He has to know heâs not leaving here alive. But he still wants a piece of me.
His mistake.
I walk up to him and he grabs a saber off his desk. I roll my eyes so hard that they almost fall out of my head. My hands grip my karambits. He gets closer and I have a proper look at him.Â
Heâs unkempt, his hair and beard are out of control. It might be because of our incursion, but something tells me heâs been worse for wear for a while now. The young man tattooed on his arm looks similar to him.Â
Acer is tall, he has a few inches on me, with a solid build. 210 pounds, if I had to guess.Â
Iâd be more worried about the sword if he wasnât so clearly furious at me. He thinks anger will benefit him in this fight, but it wonât. That and this is the 21st century, not sure who told him a sword is cool.Â
âPizda,â he curses at me.Â
I just raise an eyebrow at that.
This is my chance for revenge but I still donât feel anything.Â
He swings his sword at me, bringing it horizontally. Copying Tamaraâs move from earlier, I duck and spin under the blade. Instead of a punch, my karambit slices the inside of his elbow.Â
He drops his sword, but I kick the handle so it comes back up. I catch it and examine the blade. Itâs finely made but is still impractical. Thereâs engraving along the back of the blade but I canât understand it.Â
Flipping the sword to a reverse grip, I toss it to the side. One of the newbies catches it. Their first souvenir.Â
âThat all you got?â I ask, putting my knives away. I donât need them anymore.Â
âGichii!â He yells.Â
âHuur.â I only know how to insinuate someoneâs death in other languages. With that, he tries to deliver some hooks at me. Heâs holding nothing back, theyâre strong but slow. I almost want to let him hit me, so I could feel a fraction of the anger heâs putting out. But cold indifference has an ironclad grip on me, years of training has me dodging his attacks with little effort.Â
He tries a haymaker but I step into it, his fist harmlessly flies by, and I bring my right hand to the back of his head. Grabbing a fistful of hair, I slam his face into my knee. I let him go as he recoils in pain.Â
I look around at my other Bay Leaves, hoping theyâre enjoying the show. But it seems they already know the outcome of this fight. What theyâre really waiting for, what Iâm waiting for is the end. After I beat the anger out of him and he can talk.Â
Until then, this beatdown continues.Â
He rushes at me with his face freshly bloodied. Rage makes him dumber but not faster, throwing a jab that I sidestep. I counter with an uppercut to his chin, with some restraint since I donât want his jaw broken. Iâve learned that lesson the hard way, interrogating people with broken mandibles isnât fun or effective.Â
He reels back from the punch and I grab his shirt to pull him in for a knee to the gut. Heâs hunched over in pain and I slam my elbow into the back of his neck. He crashes onto the floor. I take a few steps away and give him some space and time to gather his rage.
He gets back up and shouts at me while going for another swing. I crouch down and give a punch of my own to his right knee. Some blood from his mouth drips onto my sleeve. He folds and I rise to give another uppercut. Now that heâs standing I start to traumatize his chest. Three punches in I feel a rib or two crack. His stamina is depleted, but Iâm just getting started. I raise my foot to stomp on his uninjured knee. It twists at an unnatural angle and he yowls out in pain. He falls over again, holding his leg.Â
I look at the knife he still hasnât pulled out.Â
âTired yet, champ?â I ask more genuinely than sarcastically. But I guess he doesnât see the difference. Some immutable part of his soul compels him to stand. Itâs almost admirable.Â
Almost.Â
He hobbles over, desperate to land a hit. Maybe he thinks heâll get lucky. Like one punch of his will make me explode.
Within armâs reach, he swings again. I duck under and drive my fist into his side for a devastating punch to his right floating rib.Â
He falls over, folding onto me but I roll him off my shoulder.Â
âYouâŠfuckingâŠbitchâ he groans.
âThat'd sting more if your mouth wasnât filled with your own blood right now,â I counter. He growls, trying to muster some strength to stand. But his rage gets drowned in his pain. I stand over him.Â
âWanna tell me what your problem is yet?â
He answers in the form of trying to spit at me, but it doesnât get far, landing on his chin.
I offer a rebuttal by pressing my foot on his left knee. Some pain to clear his mind. He yowls out again.Â
âIâm sure this wasnât how you wanted this to go, but pretty much everyone else here knew this would happen. You decided to fuck with a Bay Leaf and youâve almost paid the price in full. I heard youâre the brains around here, so I really need to know why you thought that was a good idea.â
Heâs silent for a moment.Â
âYou donât know?â
âKinda why I asked.â
He huffs. In my peripheral vision, I see KokiâO moving to be closer.Â
âFuckingâŠbitch.â
âReal original. You come up with that all by yourself?â
He seethes lying there. His fury radiates out in palpable waves.Â
Iâm starting to think a beautiful friendship isnât going to blossom between us.Â
âThree months agoâŠyou killed my younger brother,â he manages to spit out between rage-filled breaths.Â
I wait a moment to see if heâs going to add anything to that, but only silence follows.Â
âThat it?â I ask. âThatâs the reason?â
If this guy wasnât mad at me before, he is now. He tries to swing a fist at me that I casually sidestep, and he ends up hitting the floor.Â
âIf I killed your brother-â
âAinât no âifâ about it. I know it was you,â he interrupts.Â
âThen he was a grown ass man. I donât kill kids, so I donât see what the issue is.âÂ
I donât recall killing anyone particularly special these past few months n
âHe-â I interrupt him this time.Â
âYouâre not a fucking idiot, you knew doing what youâve done in Oleander City had these risks. Any day of the week you can get shot, by another gang, by the cops, or if youâre really unlucky: by us. Yours isnât the first brother or sister Iâve killed and he wonât be the last. So I donât know whatâs got you feeling so goddamn unique that youâd go against our rules and try to fuck with the Bay Leaves.â
The heartlessness of my words doesnât elude me, but this is the reality of our shadowy world. People who live this life might get killed.Â
âYou probably felt like you were on top of the food chain for a while. Made some money, killed some people, mightâve even fucked some bad bitches.â
I kneel down as a sharp anger rises within me.Â
âAnd Iâm sure when I killed your brother that it rocked your pathetic little world.â I canât keep the venom out of my voice for this man I bloodied. That such a reason is what brought us all here today irritates the fuck outta me. âIt was a reminder of the life you actually live. That no one is above having a price on their head in this city. Your brother's death might have been the most transformative experience in your wasted years on this earth; but to me? That shit was just another job.â
âBut it wasnât another job,â Acer informs me. He takes a shallow breath. âThere wasnât a hit out on him, bitch.âÂ
âWhat does that mean?â I ask.
âYou donât even remember, do you?â He coughs. âPsychopath like you probably kills so often that the faces start to blend together.â
I want to break his sternum for saying that but I need him to elaborate.
âYou killed him in a bar, in front of dozensâŠsmashed his face in, all cuz he got handsy with some young thing. Nobody did a damn thing to stop you either. That ringing any bells?â
I canât remember doing anything like that at all. Not a single shred of that event comes to mind. I want to believe heâs lying but what possible reason could he have to do that? To get him and all the DeadNettles killed by us? Thatâs why they were hiring us so much recently, to find me specifically. The dread I was hoping to quell lurches deep inside me.
âSounds like he had it coming,â I reply to Acer, ignoring the terror building in me.
He regained some strength during our little talk, grabbing the knife in his back pocket and hoping to slash my throat.Â
I lean back out of the way and see KokiâO toss me my Echinace-A. Catching it without looking, I turn the safety off and unleash a fusillade of bullets into Acerâs torso. At this range, the blood splashes on me as I empty the clip.Â
That click resounds throughout a now eerily quiet room.
I let the empty clip drop and load in a new one. Then I expend it again into the corpse before me. When that one is done, the pile of gore at my feet doesnât even resemble a human body anymore.Â
With that, the last DeadNettle is gone, my revenge complete, and Iâve never felt so empty inside.Â
âMy fault,â I mutter. âThis is all my fault.âÂ
I caused all of this and my piece of shit brain couldnât be bothered to hold on to the memory.
A sick laughter erupts from my mouth, itâs the only sound filling the room.Â
âTHIS IS ALL MY FAULT!â AND I DIDNâT EVEN KNOW IT!âÂ
I drop my gun as I hold my sides from laughter.Â
âMY BAD YâALL! THIS ONEâS ON ME!âÂ
Tears roll down my face and I can barely keep myself up. Iâm barely getting enough air in my lungs to continue laughing. A quick look around and no one else is laughing at this hilarious turn of events. Even through their helmets, body armor, and my tears, I can tell theyâre all feeling some kind of way. I canât tell what that way is exactly because I canât stop laughing. I fall to my knees, staining my pants with blood. My cachinnation is met with a very troubled expression from the only other exposed face: Tamaraâs.Â
Why isnât anyone else laughing?Â
Ch. 25 End
I think you need some mental health help asap bud
She has a classic case of âCursed by witch and doesnât even know itâ