Mechanical Maniacs: Life After Life
By Hadrian (Hardman) Howell
CHAPTER 2: Business
Night was beginning to fall as I hit the streets again. The city buses wouldn't be running thier routes anymore, so I had to go for a different mode of travel.
No longer being a four ton engine of destruction, it turns out, makes it MUCH easier to make use of the Monsteropolis Subway system. A small fee for a ticket and minutes later I was on an automated subway train bound for the W District of the city. From there, it was only a brief walk to the South Docks District where my target, whatever it was, was apparently hiding out.
The steady rocking of the subway my only real companion, I reflected on my situation. Whoever this 'B' guy was, he had two things: Connections and knowledge. Obviously, he/she/it knew who I used to be, and was counting on my past exploits to prepare me for the job. They also had a decent amount of information on the present, since they'd supplied me with a fairly potent plasma weapon I probably wouldn't need if I still had rocket hands.
Luckily, for a man of my age, I'm in pretty good shape. I look like hell, sure, and my liver's none to happy with the life I've made it lead, but my physical frame has no real fraility to it. In muscle tone, I actually can pull off the look of a man ten years younger, and I have a unique kind of resistance to pain that I picked up during my time with the Maniacs that has pulled me out of a lot of bad situations.
Whatever this thing was that I was supposed to take out was in for a decent fight, at least.
The train arrives and I made my way through the gloomy streets, tasting the salt in the air from the ocean beyond the docks. Years ago, on a night like this, I put down another heavy hitter who was part of Dr. Wily's crew. Golemman. The idiot that never stayed down. I briefly wondered what he might be up to before I remembered what had befallen Dr. Wily.
I shuddered. No man on Earth deserves to die like that. No matter what he's done.
Stupid old man, I chided myself. No use dwelling on the past, especially now with a job to do. I crossed through the checkpoint between the South Docks and W Districts with ease, taking the time to scale the wall that seperated them instead of actually dealing with the security forces stationed there.
The city had changed, no doubt about it. The Districts that the MPD had divided the city into at the onset of Cutman's war had remained, in spirit, until the city grew too big to manage alone. Then Mayor Landigarm made the divisions official, putting up walls between the Districts and making them into tiny city states of their own. Monsteropolis had gone from being a single, sprawling city into a combination of 46 Districts, each with its own utility girds, law-enforcement forces, Monitors and populations.
I wasn't a fan of the idea when it was first proposed, but then again that may be because Garmie and I never got along. Even I had to admit, though, that crime rates had dropped along with a staggering decrease in social and political unrest. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then, I guess.
Shame he got assassinated. No, really. It was a shame. Honest.
Now came the chore of remembering what warehouse I was looking for. Apartment 24A... or was it 32A? Dammit. Stupid old man... 2. 2 was the number. Warehouse 2. Right. I made my way between two massive, probably empty buildings and took a look at the numbers. Warehouse 34 and 33. Crap. I had some walking to do.
When I say warehouse, certain images spring to mind, I bet. Larger, square buildings that exist only to protect their contents from the weather. Monsteropolis, like everything it does, does BIG warehouses. We're talking a square mile each, easily. I had a long walk ahead of me.
I ditched the bag and the papers, taking only the weapon within and my own wits with me as I moved. The VULCAN sported a shoulder strap I was thankful for, as it made carrying the 40 pound weapon much easier on my tired, old arms. I'd already resolved to leave the weapon behind when I returned to the Rezatium. Probably dump it in the ocean before I got back on the subway. No reason to lug the damn thing all the way and put any more strain on my back.
Great. I'm still 30 some miles away from my target and I'm already bitching about my back. God I'm getting old.
Voices up ahead, coming through the building fog, drew my attention back to things that mattered. The language wasn't English, which was surprising. For all its size, Monsteropolis was not very enthusiastic about diversity. No, the short, angry words were Russian. Oh, goody. A language I can't speak and a bunch of criminals that aren't my job to deal with.
Then I heard the engine of the truck. Something big, army surplus, no doubt. Could have been a tiny four wheeler, and I still would have resolved to steal the thing. It had wheels and a motor and it'd get me down to Warehouse 2 before dawn. THAT was the point.
Besides, I was apparently liscensed to carry this big, shiny toy and it'd be a TERRIBLE idea to take it into a hot combat situation without at least testing it. A grin crawled across my face as I readied the weapon. A long subway ride meant I had plenty of time to review the instruction manual included in the folder.
It hummed under my fingers, a low, primal growl. My mind briefly flashed back to the days when I had a jet engine running through the middle of my body. Ah, them good old days.
I put on my best scary face and stepped through the fog. "Evenin' gents."
Only two of them noticed me, and they both looked confused. Hired muscle. I recognized one of them. They called him Timmy, and he was about a dim as they come. He was local, though, and not all that bad a guy. Just someone who needed cash. Like me. The other one was a bit more alien. Russian descent obvious around his nose and chin.
The other two were still... I'm not sure if they WERE arguing, Russian being as angry a language as it is, but their body language was translating a clear disagreement. It took to Russian lackey saying something to bring their attention around to me.
"Don't know 'f ya c'n un'erstan' me, 'n frankly, I don't care. Takin' yer big truck here fer a quick spin. Don't gimme any trouble over it, and I'll have it back to ya 'n an hour 'r two, no questions asked." I hefted the VULCAN for effect and widened my grin. "Anybody got a problem wi' that?"
There was a short silence before one of them, again painfully obvious about his Russian-ness, pulled out a pistol and waved it around for effect, shouting at the other man. He'd probably failed to understand me and assumed I was a third man working for his rival/business partner/whateverthehellwasgoingondownhere type, and ergo breaking their deal. The other man, however, plainly American in his posture and mannerism, simply took a long draw off his cigar and smiled.
He said something in Russian that shut the other man up quickly before focusing his attention on me. "An old man? Alone out here in the middle of the night?"
"I'm not THAT old," I countered.
"Still," he chuckled, "there must be some important business if you're willing to ignore such an obvious black market deal to simply borrow a vehicle for a short while."
I shrugged my shoulders, more to reposition the shoulder strap than anything else. "Look, kid, I c'n respect a cert'in amount a entrepreneurship 'n this city. You got yer business, an' I got mine. All I'm askin' fer is a small favor."
"And what do I get in return?" he asked in the smug tones of a man who though he had the upper hand.
"Well, fer starters," I grunted, "I don't blow yer head off."
"Tough words, old man. Can you back them up?"
Amatuers. Freaking rookies, the lot of them. I knew what was coming before I'd even started talking to tall, self-confident and criminal. His lack of total and immediate surprise at my presence tipped me off to the fact that he DID have a third guy waiting in the wings. Someone who had been, clumsily, trying to come up behind me.
I swung the VULCAN backward on the shoulder starp, my elbow sinking satisfyingly into something soft and abdomen-ish. The American went for a weapon at his side, but he missed the fact that my finger never left the trigger of my much larger weapon, and it whined to life as the barrels rotated and spat four bolts of plasma.
It wasn't accurate, but it sure was effective. Two shots missed. The other two took an arm and a leg.
He screamed as he went down, his missing limbs already cauterized. It was a good scream. Girly, high pitched. The kind that breaks the morale of everyone around him. The Russian guys immediately threw their weapons on the ground, Timmy whimpered, and the guy behind me decided it was smarter to stay down on the ground where he'd fallen.
He kept screaming as I walked over to him, standing over his fallen, smouldering form. I smiled the smile I've always smiled when I get the perfect chance to utter some cliched old guy line.
"Kids taday. Ya got no respect fer yer elders."
Laughing, I climbed into a truck loaded with god knows what and drove away from the scene, toward Warehouse 2.
