Billy, how about we give our blonde bird a proper send-off before she's gone? She's not gonna get anything good anyway, so at least let her feel a real man one last time...
Frankie, you idiot! She's a mutant, and a dangerous one at that! I'd rather shove my dick in a meat grinder than screw something like her!
Oh, come on! When else are we gonna get a chance to take down such a well-groomed bimbo? And with that collar on, she can't do a thing to us. Besides, I haven't had a woman in a month! I'm about to climb the walls!
Then climb the walls, but leave the blonde alone! The boss said if anyone so much as lays a finger on her before the sale, he'll tear all our heads off!
Pussy!
Asshole!
Honestly, this gang of blacks is like primates in their natural habitat—I've been sitting on the ceiling beam of an abandoned warehouse for over an hour, watching through my collimator sight as these urban primates pass the time at the edge of the megacity, and the whole time I feel like I'm in a zoo.
And judging by the expression on the slightly battered, caged, and bound Frost's face, the object of the amorous African-American's burning passion agrees with me wholeheartedly. It's almost a shame that the appointed meeting time is about to arrive, and soon a special ops team from the Weapon X program will come for the white-haired telepath...
Shut up, freaks! If your stupidity ruins the deal, I'll personally cut both your balls off! The leader of the gang of black thugs approaches the arguing pair and starts handing out bossy kicks.
Heh, and with night vision mode on, this spectacle looks even funnier... Too bad I can't use it constantly—despite my rebooted and fully functional augments, the sensors cranked to the max are set to monitor the immediate surroundings, and I'm keeping an eye on the black thugs Bob and Bob with my own eyes through the collimator sight of my submachine gun.
Generally, normal scouts operate in pairs or as a whole squad, but a lone saboteur has to constantly push themselves to the limit, improvising in every possible way. However, the intuition and combat augments that have returned to Walrus fully compensate for this problem, and I don't really need a spotter—I won't miss the approach of the treacherous enemy.
What's more annoying is having to give up my usual, versatile assault rifle in favor of a modified UMP-45—despite its much greater firepower and significantly superior range, the NATO cartridge is quite loud, and even with the most advanced suppressor, it makes noise... Not terribly loud, but more than the situation requires.
Right now, my main weapon is stealth. After all, Walrus is officially dead to Fury, the big shots in the Pindostan government, and even most of Hydra. The longer these freaks remain in the dark about my Jesus-like resurrection, the easier it will be to operate. Of course, sooner or later, it will come out, but as long as everyone thinks Brock is in charge of the group, I have some freedom to maneuver.
Did some fierce mercenary really screw you over? Tsk-tsk, what a shame... And why did you come to the Syndicate? What? What Walrus? Our boss has been worm food for a long time! Oh, you want to see the body? Sure, just ask the head of Frost Industries, we sold the carcass to her! The White Queen disappeared? First we've heard of it, and we sympathize with all our squads, but we're not involved at all. Better shake down the mutants—it's probably their internal squabbles...
In short, for the sake of conspiracy, I had to leave most of my arsenal at the base, because things like a wrist-mounted flamethrower or a heavy combat exoskeleton are about as subtle as a kick to the balls and don't fit the "stealth infantry" tactic at all. They could also raise unnecessary suspicions among those in the know—even in a rich city like New York, there aren't many owners of such specific toys.
So, equipped at the level of a well-off special forces soldier, Walrus, like a cowboy, jumped onto a flying bike honestly stolen from S.H.I.E.L.D., activated the cloaking mode, and took off straight into the skies... After which, enlightenment descended upon me, and I suddenly understood why Fury's department prefers to use quinjets.
Because Obi-Wan, who mentored Skovorodkin, was right when he said that flying is for droids!
In my life, I've driven almost all kinds of vehicles designed for one pilot—riding, flying, swimming, and even crawling. But this high-tech bucket of bolts quickly made it clear that past experience doesn't apply here at all, and in those few moments while I frantically searched for the autopilot button, the speeding technological marvel nearly crashed into the skyscrapers rushing past seven times!
I can't even imagine how normal pilots, who don't have augments built into their skulls, manage to control this devil-machine... However, as soon as the onboard computer of the flying bike synced with my cranial implant, the flight stabilized, and I reached the rendezvous point without any incidents.
But to park this technological marvel on the roof of the neighboring warehouse and take up an observation position on the ceiling beam with the best view, I didn't even need to activate the new prosthesis upgrade—the ethnic gang of blacks, chosen by Sarkisyan for slaughter, consists of typical ghetto representatives, and if they know how to guard the perimeter, they don't demonstrate their knowledge in any way.
And who cares. Soon, in the best traditions of the Ku Klux Klan, the blacks will be sacrificed—they've been assigned the role of bait in the overall plan.
After Smurf and I had a good time at the facility entrusted to us, the leadership of the Weapon X program realized that hiding a secret base in the wilderness with a huge staff of maintenance personnel is somewhat useless. And after some serious brainstorming, the higher-ups decided to change tactics—this time, their brainchild is hidden somewhere near New York, and they must have realized that by making such a bet, the big shots from Washington didn't miscalculate: in one of the largest megacities on the planet, there are so many military, paramilitary, and just filthy rich companies that finding the right one among them can only be done by chance.
It's hard to find a tree in the forest.
The situation here is like with news in the information age: when something unflattering to the world's rulers leaks into the public sphere, the print media subservient to them immediately start mass-injecting other news hooks so that the compromising news gets lost in a mountain of informational garbage.
However, Viper, who is vitally interested in the success of the operation, greatly helped by coming up with a simple and reliable method of detecting the enemy's lair, like a crowbar.
First, she leaked Emma Frost, who survived the interception of my carcass and was captured alive, to one of the small New York gangs. At the same time, she gave the black criminal element the number of the right people, along with the "brilliant" idea to sell the blonde telepath for a hefty sum. And then the scheme is simple—knowing where and when Kimura's people will appear, Walrus intercepts them and tails the hunting party when they come for the live goods.
True, the gangsters themselves will almost certainly be eliminated in the process—you can only negotiate more or less with equals, and for the program's leadership, a small ethnic gang is nothing more than unwanted witnesses. But who cares about such trifles? Certainly not me... Oh, looks like the show is starting!
The augments' sensors pick up a faint sound, barely audible to the human ear, of boots on the roofing, and activating optical camouflage, I dissolve into the darkness.
Just in time, by the way. A second later, well-armed guys in tactical gear and night vision devices strapped to their faces begin to climb through the holes in the partially wrecked roof. About a dozen well-coordinated fighters... Clearly a cover team. They'll take up advantageous positions, transmit data from the cameras to the operation coordinator, and wait for the command to take down the bastards.
Classic.
But they work quickly. When I climbed up here, it was quiet outside, but now I'd bet the warehouse is already surrounded from all sides... But the black gangsters don't even twitch and continue to lazily sip their beer, discussing who blew whom yesterday and which drug gives the best high.
That's what lack of education and systematic drug use does to people...
Demonstrating quality training and the effectiveness of my camouflage system, the hunters' party silently spreads out under the warehouse roof, taking aim at most of the shoe-polish gang. However, their priority target is the cage with the nervous Frost, who, unlike her blind and deaf guards, has noticed the suspicious movement of shadows on the ceiling and isn't particularly pleased with the arrival of the long-awaited guests.
The brainless bitch knows that these aren't rescuers, and her lower ninety isn't waiting for anything good in the laboratory dungeons. Street gangsters might have just raped the pretty lady in every hole and sold her to some brothel, but the fanatical vivisectionists from the program won't care that she's beautiful and will turn her into mincemeat without a word. Ideological followers of science, they're like that... Slightly fucked up. And sometimes not so slightly.
Suddenly, someone knocks forcefully on the warehouse door, and a familiar female voice sounds in the air.
Open up, sweeties! I'm here for the present! And here's another permanent patient of the madhouse.
Grabbing their guns, the suddenly alarmed blacks scatter around the warehouse, desperately trying to look like a seasoned and serious gang, but honestly, they're doing a pretty lousy job. However, Kimura, who has entered the room, doesn't show her disappointment in any way and, as usual, flashes a smile with all thirty-two of her teeth.
Smile, it annoys those around you!
I'd love to smash this dusky bitch's jaw for giving my long-suffering carcass a lead injection in our last encounter... My hands are literally itching, but I can't. For the successful capture of the gold train, time is needed, and the longer chaos boils in the city, the higher the chance that the Syndicate won't get grabbed by the balls. But if I take the Weapon X hunters and their sadistic leader out of the game, then who will the mutants fight? There aren't that many soldiers in the city, and ordinary cops, seeing a crowd of enraged X-gene carriers, are unlikely to decide to become heroes.
Everything is according to the mercenary manual: The mercenary's goal is not victory. The mercenary's goal is to make money, and the longer the blood flows, the fuller our pockets.
Who is this pretty thing here, and without any guards? And what is she doing in such a gloomy place, and in the company of so many strong men, mmm? Did she decide to change professions and become a porn star? Approaching the cage around which most of the dark-skinned gang has already gathered, Kimura mockingly taps her nail on the metal bars, but Frost, wearing a gag, only rolls her eyes and turns away from her self-satisfied interlocutor. However, the mulatto's feigned joviality evaporates as quickly as it appeared, and turning to the gang leader standing next to Emma, she asks him businesslike.
Seriously, how did you manage to catch this blonde bitch? She's a telepath, and a pretty skilled one at that.
True professionals don't reveal their secrets. If this fat, black-assed bull in a rapper outfit with a golden Desert Eagle sticking out from behind his belt is a pro, then I can safely be considered a deity of mercenaries.
Ah, so you accidentally captured her... Being an experienced mercenary, Kimura quickly realizes that such pathetic scum is unlikely to have suppressors for mutants, and Frost probably got her ass kicked by someone else, while the street scavengers just took advantage of the opportunity. This simplifies things a lot.
Taking a silenced pistol out of its holster, the mulatto simply and unpretentiously blows the brains out of the gang leader, and the hunters, having received the signal from their leader, begin shooting the papuans, and the warehouse is filled with the dry clicks of single shots.
Most of the "gangstas" gathered around Frost receive a lead gift faster than they can realize what's happening, but there are many more street gangsters than mutant hunters, and the latter don't manage to take out all the blacks in one go.
Not seeing the specialists hiding under the ceiling, the black "businessmen" start shooting at the dusky sadist, and the symphony of violence is joined by the roar of the ghetto residents' motley arsenal. However, most of their orchestra consists of small-caliber junk, which doesn't bother Kimura's impenetrable tits, and the mulatto, slightly swaying from the hits, walks unhurriedly through the warehouse with an unchanging smile, putting headshots on one black guy after another.
I hope a stray bullet doesn't hit me. According to Cable, optical camouflage doesn't handle physical impact well, and the Weapon X specialists aren't street scum—they'll spot me right away.
However, the fears turn out to be unfounded—soon the last gangster is sent to the next world, and the clicks subside... By the way, I don't quite understand why they need to equip weapons with silencers if the enemy doesn't have them, and the shots will still echo throughout the area. Apparently, the program's fighters didn't expect such a crowd and thought that the mutant had been captured by more experienced, but less numerous, henchmen of one of the crime bosses, not some scum.
In general, having dealt with the witnesses, Kimura's fighters hook carbines with ropes onto the beams and, having descended, split into two groups. The first starts walking around the warehouse and giving the corpses control shots, while the second checks the integrity of the X-gene suppressing collar, injects a struggling Frost with a shock dose of tranquilizer, and, opening the gates, drags the cage with the telepath into the promptly arrived gray van with tinted windows. Kimura steps aside a bit and takes out an armored walkie-talkie from her battle-worn vest.
Heh, even if you have an impenetrable body, you'll still have to shell out for additional reinforcement of the gear... Although, given this mulatto's place of work, they probably just issued her an analog of the ancient Nokia.
There are still advantages to working for the government.
Mr. Harkins? Yes, we're done. Object "W" is captured, no losses among the fighters. No, your fears were unfounded, and we didn't have any serious problems—most likely, the mercenaries who captured her suffered too many losses during the battle and became easy prey for the scavengers who showed up. Of course, all potential witnesses have been eliminated. Well, not all, but I won't correct you now. You'll realize your mistake later. Do we return to base immediately or... Yes. I understand. No, the available forces will be enough. Alright. End of transmission.
Pressing the disconnect button, the mulatto sneers contemptuously and, muttering something like "This lab worm is driving me crazy!" gestures to her fighters to finish the cleanup. Then a couple of fighters take out cans of gasoline prepared in advance from the car and start pouring everything around with flammable liquid.
It seems that soon there will be the smell of shashlik... However, the main performance is already over, and since the destruction of evidence, the acting troupe decided to leave to the all-consuming flame, it's time to move on to the second part of the brilliant plan in its simplicity, namely, tailing.
Waiting until the fighters of the program preparing the fire show pass by my beam, I climb onto the roof of the warehouse and quietly make my way to the flying bike parked nearby.
Outside, the mutant hunters are already waiting for a second van, and as soon as the cans are empty, one of Kimura's subordinates places a device suspiciously similar to a hybrid of a lighter and a kitchen timer in the largest puddle. Then he climbs into the car with his comrades sitting inside, and the quietly rumbling vehicles leave the scene of the failed deal.
The "filthy mutant" has been captured by the "noble defenders of humanity," there are fewer ethnic criminal elements on the streets of New York, and neither the program's fighters nor their psychopathic leader have noticed Walrus, who has taken up a position at the rear... So far, everything is going perfectly, but there's no time to relax—the main difficulties are still ahead, and given the experience of past operations with mutants, it can be said with confidence that soon everything will go to hell.
And as if confirming my thoughts, a blindingly white lightning bolt flashes in the dark clouds covering New York, followed by a rumbling roar.
As one honey lover said—it seems the rain is starting... And this is fucking bad because neither the flying bike nor the optical camouflage upgrade installed by Cable is designed to work in high humidity. A couple of drops are fine, but if a full-fledged downpour starts, then relying on the "invisibility cloak" is definitely not worth it.
And the mutant hunters, as if on purpose, didn't immediately go to the base but turned into one of the residential neighborhoods of the suburbs. Well, a typical example of the carefully promoted American dream—even streets, neat blocks, and a bunch of monotonous dwellings of the mythical middle class with perfectly trimmed lawns stretch into the horizon.
Stopping at an unremarkable house, Kimura's squad gets out of the vans and splits into two unequal groups: while the dusky mercenary herself, in the company of three fighters, heads straight for the main entrance, the rest spread out around and tightly surround the house.
Most likely, the sadist has former Navy SEALs at her disposal—their tactics are too specific, and ordinary infantry or police special forces don't operate so boldly within the city.
On the other hand, this is a residential sector with defenseless civilians, not armed criminals entrenched in a building. What's the point of hiding? So that people don't see the mutant capture? But the legal framework for this matter has already been adjusted, and this isn't a "deal with street scum," but a "sanctioned operation to capture an individual dangerous to society"—you won't get far even if you want to.
And the inhabitants of the house also perfectly understand the trick, because there is no reaction to the frantically ringing doorbell, and when Kimura, shrugging, knocks down the front door with her usual Hollywood smile, a family couple dressed for travel is already climbing out the back: a tall head of the family carries a decent-sized backpack of things on his back, and the woman hurrying after him carries a child of eight to ten years old in her arms, whispering to calm the child frightened by the incomprehensible commotion.
It's immediately clear that they knew about the possible visit and were preparing to run... They just miscalculated the degree of future threat a little and decided that the authorities of the United States would send the most ordinary policemen for them. And the mutant hunters waiting for them don't waste time and the parents trying to escape receive a bullet faster than they can realize what's happening.
Let's film this scene with the cyber-eye camera.
Compromising material is compromising material, but the majority of the population of any more or less developed country is much easier to manipulate through emotions, and here's such a colorful picture: evil soldiers with rifles surround a defenseless and screaming child from all sides, while his parents, holding hands, lie on the grass in pools of their own blood... If I weren't such a cynical bastard, honestly—I'd shed a manly tear.
Probably.
Preferably for money.
Although, to be honest, from the height of my perch, I can only take the side of the hunters: if Kimura went to this family openly, then there was a non-zero probability that the Weapon X fighters were ordered to simply take the child, and if his parents hadn't decided to play heroes, they might have been left alive. But as it is—they're evil Pinocchios themselves.
However, the newly minted orphan doesn't have to scream for long: not waiting for the child to manifest his mutant powers in a psychotic state, the hunter closest to him takes out a tranquilizer pistol and, sending the boy into Morpheus' arms, fastens an X-gene suppressing collar around his neck.
I hope this is their last stop for today, because the clouds over the city are getting darker and darker...
Pain.
Shame.
Despair.
These three words fully described... Not even life—existence of the young girl sitting in a solitary cell.
"Five hundred fifty-two..." A slight movement of her palm was enough for the extended claws to run along her wrist, and hot blood gushed onto the tile floor covered in crimson streaks. However, the regenerative factor that kicked in closed the wound of the unlucky suicide in a matter of seconds, and the cycle of meaningless bloodletting went into another round. "Five hundred fifty-three..."
X-23 knew perfectly well that opening her veins wouldn't do much good, and yet she continued to inflict wounds on herself time and again, because pain was the only way for the mutant to remind herself that she was still alive, and the surrounding nightmare was quite real.
And Laura could only cause herself pain, because this time the tormentors in white coats weren't in a hurry to torture the Wolverine clone with endless experiments. As Kimura, who occasionally visited her toy and mocked her relentlessly, said, the scientists finally realized that X-Twenty-Three was defective material, and from now on, her fate was to be a training dummy for testing live weapons of the new generation.
And since the dark-skinned mercenary was forbidden to abuse her former ward physically, the mulatto didn't deny herself the pleasure of breaking the mutant morally and told Laura a lot of interesting things about one bald cyborg: it was thanks to her tormentor that the mutant learned that Walrus, whom she considered a traitor who had cynically taken advantage of her hopeless situation, was in fact just as much of a test subject as X-23 herself.
Only that program was called not Weapon-X, but Omega-X. And unlike the Enterprise, where the abuse was the manifestation of sadism by individual personalities, there they deliberately gutted people for the implantation of combat augments, and the head of the Syndicate's prosthesis was installed in the man exactly there. Moreover, forcibly and against the will of the mercenary himself.
Oh, I can't! Did you really think this bastard was working for us?! When Striker died, he ran away from the government agency even before the old man's corpse had time to cool down! And a piece of trash like you was picked up like a puppy, out of pity! Fed, raised... And the puppy turned out to be a bitch and bit the master in the balls! Ha-ha-ha!
Over the years spent in the dungeons under Rice's care, X-23 firmly understood that the ever-smiling mulatto could only be trusted in things that caused her suffering—the seasoned sadist took great pleasure in telling the truth if it made Laura suffer.
But the most unbearable torment was born in the girl's own mind.
When the bloody veil lifted from her eyes and the animal rage stopped pressing on X-23's mind, the girl, to her own shame, realized that she had killed the only person close to her, apart from her mother. Moreover, she had done it by believing the word of a complete stranger, who didn't even try to hide her hostility.
From the realization of this fact, the mutant first tried to kill herself, but first the regenerative factor, which in the past had been a saving blessing for the girl, turned into a terrible curse, and then... Then Laura stopped caring.
The deed was done. Walrus was dead. And even if X-23 could somehow miraculously transfer her ability to the corpse, it wouldn't bring him back to life. And all that was left for the doomed girl was to drown in her own despair, hoping that this nightmare would soon end and... fearing that Hell would turn out to be real and that the slain head of the Syndicate would be waiting for her there.
"Five hundred fifty-four..."
Once again slashing her veins and watching as the wound closed under the effect of the healing factor, the unlucky suicide sighed wearily and, hugging her knees with her bloodied hands, was already preparing to start a new round of self-flagellation, but... Suddenly, X-23's nightmare was diluted with familiar things.
"...we have test subjects for the testing department here. In order to develop the perfect hunter for any X-gene carrier, we decided to abandon testing prototypes on robots and use the developments of previous versions of the program. Such as... " Jumping up from her place and in an instant covering the distance to the door leading into her cell, the petite mutant extended the claws on her feet and, nimbly climbing up to the small barred window hanging above, looked out.
X-Twenty-Three!
At the sight of X-23's emaciated, crimson-streaked, and wild-eyed face, the delegation of scientific staff walking down the corridor recoiled with frightened cries, while the soldiers accompanying them instantly aimed their raised assault rifles at the mutant. But the Wolverine clone didn't care.
The girl's heightened sense of smell caught a familiar scent, composed of notes of fresh blood, metal, and expensive alcohol, and Laura's nostrils fluttered wildly, eagerly drawing in the inhaled air, while her gaze darted crazily from side to side, searching for the owner of such a familiar aroma... Searching and not finding.
Don't worry about her, she won't escape from her cell anyway... Stepping back from the initial shock, Adam Harkins—the short, fair-haired man in charge of the program, adjusted his slipping glasses and, with a gesture, ordered the soldiers to lower their weapons. He calmly asked Laura, "X-Twenty-Three, is something wrong? Your feeding is only in an hour."
Unlike Zander Rice, who headed the Enterprise, this scientist treated the mutants captured by his fighters without particular sadism. However, at the moment, Laura was much more concerned with the scent coming from an empty space, whose owner she had recently sent to the next world.
As you can see, even with the calmest test subjects, you should be on your guard. Usually, X-Twenty-Three behaves much more calmly, but sometimes we have such incidents. Not receiving an answer from the girl, whose gaze was drilling into the air, the project leader shrugged and, with an inviting wave of his hand, beckoned the junior scientific staff. Now let's move on to the place of your future work...
Now let's move on to the place of your future work...
How about we first run to the nearest restroom?
Seriously, this little brat's jump was so sudden that I almost emptied the entire magazine of my submachine gun into Laura's carbon copy, and if it weren't for my intuition signaling the absence of a threat from the girl, Shurik would have been exposed quickly.
Well, how else should I react? So, Walrus tailed the hunting party to a lab located in the suburbs, which they disguised as a factory with the overly clichéd name "American Chemical Industries." He snuck inside the hidden underground part, performing acrobatic miracles and making full use of new gadgets. He inconspicuously joined a group of recently arrived scientists, whom the local boss decided to give a tour of their future workplace.
And then—damn it! A flash to the right! From the cell, a bloodied actress from "The Ring" reaches out to you! And I've never been a fan of ghosts and other mystical nonsense since childhood, because ordinary bullets don't bother them much, and who the hell knows how to kill this otherworldly scum!
In short, I almost had a heart attack because of this little brat. And she's clinging to the bars and staring right at me. At least she had the sense to keep her mouth shut...
No, generally, no one forgot about the heightened sense of smell of the clawed regenerators, and I had the idea to use a spray that masks all odors. It's just that this thing is even more conspicuous than a wrist rocket launcher, and a knowledgeable person will quickly put two and two together.
Phew... Okay. I'll hope that Laura decides she imagined it all, because I definitely can't kill her now—the carbonadium bullets I have left are only for the Blob, who didn't survive the kamikaze tendencies of the clawed girl and died a hero's death in an unequal battle. And since this gun was custom-made, there's no second revolver like it in the Syndicate.
In general, we work quietly, and we leave in the English style. The Wolverine clone doesn't know where our main base is, she can't fly, so this half-finished death-seeker won't get to me. Although maybe she won't even try—mutants already have enough problems without chasing after a half-dead mercenary.
Settling into the tail of the flock of scientists, I walk past the cell of the wild-eyed terrorist and quietly move along behind the men of science.
In general, the new Weapon X base turned out to have a pretty good security system: a bunch of cameras covering all approaches, about two companies of marines as guards, about three dozen automatic turrets, and all this equipment is studded with a whole bunch of various sensors and detectors... Most of which are necessarily turned off at the moment the maintenance personnel pass through.
As always—only people let us down.
The base was built quite recently, and due to the large staff and actively ongoing research, something is constantly being brought here—so at the moment of equipment delivery, the guards are forced to create a window for passage. No, they're not complete idiots and serve especially zealously at such moments, but what can you do against a tandem of optical camouflage, which easily deceives normal vision and the visor of the cyber-eye, which notices a potentially dangerous sensor a kilometer away?
At most, release the dogs. Or one rabid mutant girl. But the local scientists aren't that sick to use various beasts as weapons, right?
Now let's move on to the main thing! Gentlemen, I am proud to present to you the crown of our work! The perfect hunter for any X-gene carrier! The delegation stops at a large panoramic window, behind which is a spacious hall, and pressing a button on the remote, the bespectacled manager of the base opens the massive doors located at its far end, behind which swirls impenetrable darkness. The sensors pick up the movement of something large, after which two huge red spotlights flare up in the darkness. He will pursue mutants tirelessly and without fear! And he won't rest until he finishes off the last of the enemies of humanity!
Okay, I take back my words—these local Mengeles are completely fucked up! What the hell is this chupacabra?!