"Got it. Thanks for telling me. I'll make sure not to hurt her by word or deed," I replied.
"Good. We all care about her, even if I joke around sometimes. Gotta keep the mood light for the crew. And for her. Laughter's still the best way to forget at least for a while," Mike added.
"Thanks for the talk. I think I'll head out don't want to get in your way," I said. I couldn't drink, couldn't really take part in the conversation. For some reason, I just felt like leaving.
"Come by anytime. We're here often just shoot me a message first," Mike replied. After saying goodbye to the others, I stepped outside.
It was deep into the night. I walked without direction, just to clear my head.What if, one day, I stop understanding who I am or what I'm doing?Is it possible I'll lose myself completely?
Back in my apartment, I stared at the city lights flashing beyond the window… and slipped into sleep mode.
Why was I brought back?What for?
*****************
A new day, a new patrol. Standard route. Everything had been quiet since the early morning, with nothing causing any trouble. Taking a break, I stayed near the car while Damian went to grab some food. I stood there, occasionally scanning the faces of passersby, watching out for anyone who posed a threat and needed to be apprehended immediately.
"Hey, Matthew, take a breather. Even a borg needs rest," Damian said, catching my attention. He brought back noodles, a box of donuts, and a cup of coffee. He placed it all on the hood and started eating. Checking my system load, I decided not to push myself too hard after all.
"Not like there's much else to do anyway," I replied.
"That's the job. Sometimes you wish it would all just end so you could get even a minute of peace. And then, sometimes, it's just like this," Tod said while slurping his noodles.
"Tell me, where's the best place to upgrade clinics or private ripperdocs?" I asked.
"Depends on what you're after. For standard stuff, stick with clinics. They do things by the book, no screwups, and everything works fine. But if you want high-end combat implants or anything off the books, you'll have to go to a private ripper. Just know their quality varies. You never know how they'll install the gear. We've had plenty of cases where people went nuts because of badly calibrated equipment," Damian explained.
"Planning to upgrade to higher-tier combat modules," I said.
"You're up to something, aren't you?" Damian paused his meal and looked at me.
"Maybe," I replied vaguely.
"Partner, you're the first one to seriously mess with my nerves and I've got three kids, mind you. Just don't go getting yourself into trouble," Damian said.
"This isn't about the job. I'll be doing it alone," I replied.
"That doesn't make me feel any better," Damian sighed and resumed eating.
High-risk criminal identified. Lethal force authorized.
Facial recognition flagged him immediately the man was sitting in one of the trucks, accompanied by several others.
Name: Jiro Oba
Age: 31
Affiliation: Member of the Tiger Claws gang, rank Assassin
Crimes: Armed conflict, murder
Marital Status: Unknown
Recommendation: Lethal force authorized
[image]
Instead of eyes, he had red-glowing implants. A metallic mask covered his mouth, and his vest revealed tattooed arms and chains hanging from his neck. His skin was artificial, made of ultra-durable materials. He had a high-grade Sandevistan implant installed, a katana slung over his shoulder, and a pistol holstered at his hip.
"Damian, a hundred meters away, in the parking lot there's a vehicle with a high-risk target inside," I said. He immediately stopped eating and turned to look in the direction I indicated.
"Who is he and what gang is he from?" Damian asked.
"Jiro Oba, Tiger Claws," I replied.
"Tiger Claws? What the hell are they doing here? This isn't their turf..." Damian said, narrowing his eyes. "Dispatcher, suspect identified: Jiro Oba, member of the Tiger Claws gang, is in visual range. Awaiting further instructions."
"Patrol unit 4318, Jiro Oba is a highly dangerous criminal. Assault team requested for support. Pursue the target until reinforcements arrive," came the response.
"Copy that," Damian said, nodding toward the car. We quickly jumped in. "Keep an eye on them. Let me know if they make a move."
The suspects remained stationary, as if waiting for something, and made no attempt to hide. Alongside Jiro, there were six others, all armed. The vehicle had an armored body, and there was no telling what was inside. Scanning couldn't penetrate the shielding.
"All available units, respond to the area near Third Avenue," the dispatcher's voice rang out.
"Assault teams, emergency reported in Vista Del Rey," another alert followed through the radio.
Incident reports kept flooding in from across the city, one after another.
"Something's off. This feels like a diversion," I said, growing suspicious after just the first two calls. Too much was happening at once for it to be a coincidence.
"It happens sometimes," Damian replied, not giving it much thought. "Dispatcher, patrol unit 4318. Suspect is still in visual range. ETA on backup?" he asked.
"Patrol 4318, no units available. Maintain surveillance," the dispatcher responded.
Now my suspicions were confirmed this wasn't just some random patrol gone sideways. Moments later, the truck with the gang suddenly revved and peeled out of the lot.
"Damian, they're on the move!" I shouted.
"Shit," he cursed, shifting gears and hitting the siren. In my opinion, that was a mistake we'd just exposed ourselves. Now they knew we were on their tail, but it was too late to change that.
Our car sped after them. Noticing the pursuit, the truck's windows rolled down, and Tiger Claws gang members leaned out with weapons drawn. A barrage of automatic fire slammed into our windshield. I rolled down my window, leaned out, and returned fire. One of the gunmen dropped instantly, his body hanging lifelessly from the side.
But then the van's rear doors burst open, and a mounted machine gun with a metal shield swung into view.
"Goddamn it!" Damian yelled, watching as heavy firepower was now trained directly on us the gun ready to unleash a storm of bullets.