Samael peacefully waited outside the office building. His foot tapped rhythmically against the luxeriouse marble floor as he disassembled and reassembled the P2011 again and again.
It was a low-powered weapon, yes, but its simplicity made it reliable and adaptable while being easy to conceal. It could be modified in countless ways yet still used anywhere. Unlike heavier weapons like an anti-titan grenade launcher or a sniper rifle, this small sidearm worked effectively at close and midrange, and more importantly, even a child could use it.
"Ohh, they're here." Samael's emerald eyes drifted to the glass doors leading into the establishment. By now, the plaza beyond was abandoned, emptied by the emergency sirens. A hollow stillness hung in the air, broken only by the faint flicker of neon signs and the low hum of distant generators fitted witg large green battaries.
Behind the glass pane, two crimson eyes approached, carrying with them the silhouette of a man beaten and bloodied. Cuts crisscrossed his face and arms, one limb bent grotesquely backward - a ruin of twisted muscle and useless bone.
With a single, careless toss, Albreck hurled the broken man through the glass. The sound of shattering panes echoed through the silent plaza, fragments skittering across the floor like tiny blades. Coincidentally, he landed directly before Samael, the grand statue of Heinrick rising behind him like a silent, indifferent witness. The towering IMC skyscraper loomed further still, its steel and glass cutting into the sky like a dagger, casting an oppressive, artificial shadow.
Orange streams of light from the emergency status screens painted jagged patterns across Samael's face. The eerie glow made his pale features seem almost otherworldly as he crouched, lifting Arthur's chin with detached ease.
"Did you have a nice trip down? I'm sorry if my companion harmed you; he can be rough at times." Samael consoled, his voice carrying a disconcerting calm, entirely devoid of sarcasm and disturbingly sincere.
Arthur wasn't moved. His body lay shattered, teeth partially knocked loose, yet hatred burned in his bloodshot gaze. He spat out a thick clot of blood, staining the sterile floor a deep crimson. "Fuck you. Every Hammond deserves death for their crimes. You're all monsters."
"Oh my." Samael frowned faintly as dark streaks of blood ran down the waterproof material of his coat, reflecting the flickering light. "You definitely hate me. But why? You're not a mercenary - they wouldn't carry this much anger. Are you Militia?" The thought lingered in his mind as he gestured to Albreck, who methodically unlatched the confiscated briefcase beside them.
The metal clasps clicked open, revealing a pristine Longbow DMR resting inside. Its matte, gray, rust-resistant surface gleamed under the emergency lights, marked with the unmistakable decal of Vincent Dynamics. Most telling was the weapon's experimental digital threat scope, its lens still active, painting any nearby figure in a phantom red glow.
This wasn't a common weapon. The digital threat scope had barely seen use even during the Frontier War, let alone fallen into civilian or mercenary hands. Gear like this only surfaced on the black market when entire factories' worth of the stuff were in circulation.
"Vincent Dynamics' pristine factory Longbow DMR," Samael mused aloud, studying the weapon's fine craftsmanship. "Fitted with an experimental digital threat optic. The Militia couldn't have gotten their grubby hands on this yet. So how did you?"
The question hung heavy in the stale, stagnant air. Arthur glared up at Samael with eyes like fire, lacing his words with vitriol,"I'm not telling you a thing."
Bang.
Arthur's scream tore through the empty plaza. Smoke drifted lazily from the P2011's barrel, its sharp scent mixing with the rain-soaked air.
A gaping hole had been torn through Arthur's kneecap, bone and sinew exposed in a grotesque mess.
"I think you will," Samael replied coolly. "Or soon, I'll let my friend here play with your joints again." He cast a knowing glance toward Albreck.
A droplet of rain struck Samael's brow. Overhead, the clouds thickened into a roiling ceiling of ash-gray, and thunder rumbled somewhere far off — a low, angry growl.
"You've got a decent shot, haven't you?" Samael said, absently watching the bruised figure writhe. "My guess is you're IMC and got the gun while in service. You didn't defect to the Militia; they don't assassinate children. But you've got a personal vendetta against me. No, not just me - Hammond Robotics itself."
Arthur's chest heaved with ragged breaths, pain twisting his features. His body trembled, trying to shift away, but the searing agony in his shattered knee made even stillness unbearable.
"Fine," he spat out viciously. "I'll tell you who I am. I'm Private Arthur Lee. My sister, Emma, was taken into Hammond Robotics' precious Simulacrum Program after she died on the frontier." His voice cracked as it lowered. "Do you know what your company did to her, boy?"
"Keep going," Samael murmured, leaning in as though savoring the confession, the phantom weight of popcorn in his hands.
"They stuffed her mind into one of those…those mechanical bodies. When she woke up, she wasn't the same." Arthur's face contorted in anguish. "She went into psychosis - the pain from that body drove her mad. She killed five researchers before… before turning the gun on herself."
Tears cut fresh tracks down Arthur's bloodstained cheeks. "And your company expected it. They left out the hundreds of other failed experiments. Lied to me. Tricked me into signing the contract."
Samael nodded slowly, his mind wandering to the details of the Simulacrum Program.
It was a process that transferred a human mind into a robotic exoskeleton. By all accounts, it worked - almost always. It provided a digital backup for those who died. The flaw lay in the human mind itself, which inevitably rejected the truth of its new condition, trapped in cold, unfeeling machinery.
This often led to psychosis, suicide, and uncontrollable violence.
The only functional Simulacrums required an ego-retention system. A clever psychological tool that tricked them into believing they remained flesh and blood, altering their senses and perception so they'd see a human reflection in every mirror and surface.
It didn't fool anyone else, but to the victim, the lie was absolute.
"I see, your independant and working alone. Your nothing but a traitor." Samael exhaled, standing as the distant sound of VTOL engines rumbled overhead, like mechanical beasts stalking the storm-laden skies. He craned his neck upward, watching as four transport vessels broke through the clouds. Their white and red paint glistened wetly under the storm's gathering gloom, the IMC emblem bold on each hull.
One craft hovered lower, its cargo hatch yawning open.
Standing within, trench coat billowing in the storm's rising winds, was his father. Spectre units flanked him, their metal stood bodies motionless. Each gripped the standard-issue IMC R-201, the cold steel of the rifles catching the sporadic lightning.
The remaining three transports hung ominously above, autocannons aimed at the ground prepared for anything.
One thing was certain: Hammond Jr. was not pleased.
Samael offered a wave, met only by silent, unwavering eyes.
As Hammond's transport finally touched down, he descended the ramp with steady, predatory strides. The rain came heavier now, and each step taken by Hammond caused strong ripples in the pudlles beneath him.
He walked directly past Samael, ignoring him, reaching into the belt beaneath his coat.
His gaze never once left the assassin.
Arthur trembled, This was most powerful man in the history of human society, and the architect of countless attrocities commited on both the frontier and even in the core systems. The most ruthless man to have ever existed.
"To hell with you all!" Arthurs voice was thoroughly laced with venom, his final act of defiance.
But it wasnt long lived.
There was a sharp, blinding flash, followed by the wet, ugly squelch of flesh giving way to a bullet. In less than a second, Arthur's body went slack. His head struck the cold marble floor with a dull thud, a single round from a wingman revolver lodged in his skull.
The plaza instantly fell silent save for drops of rain meeting the ground.