by Lee Bond
Suit was confident that if it did in fact endure heavy enough injury to it's body and the apparently unkind treatment of it's wearer came to light, Trinity would find little reason to spend the effort or resources to begin repairs.
"Scanning." Suit's own voice, robotic and hard edged, sounded strange issuing forth from partially damaged speakers built into the helmet. As it worked to detect Dom, it found itself wondering if it had always sounded that alien to Slizzer. "Scanning. Scanning. Located…"
A fist, wrapped around a goodly chunk of ferrocrete with a nasty edge along one side sharp enough to flense skin from bone -or possibly even to slice through atomically bonded layers of Arcadian-forged metals- rose up out of the debris. Before Suit could react to the sudden arrival, that very same fist slammed the razor-edged weapon right into the unprotected abdomen.
There was a loud sound of wires frying and before it's assailant could have another chance for a repeat effort, Slizzer's reptilian responses had Suit doubling back the way it'd come, cameras and sensors recording everything.
Dom rose up out of the debris and through a thick plume of white, chalky dust; here and there across the man's face and upper body, fresh blood from deep gouges shone wetly with gummy white gunk, and a gash running from ear down along the jawline bled freely.
"Shame, shame, my little vixen." Dom hefted the handy weapon thoughtfully, taking in the slashed open abdomen, through which he could see an endless spool of wires and King knew what else pulsing. "Hittin' a man when he's down like that. Move like that could get you branded as cheater."
Suit didn't know what to do. The debilitating effect generated by Arcadian and Book was stronger than ever, and while no critical systems had been affected by the surprisingly effective attack, the wound was just one more nail in the figurative coffin.
If it engaged, there was every chance it would be destroyed, which was of tremendous concern for it, and for Trinity Itself; Enforcers were being put offline left, right and center, and Suit couldn't imagine how well It'd deal with the loss of another one.
At the same time, though, if it didn't attack Dom, it'd be failing in it's duties, making Slizzer's sacrifice pointless, and it's eventual deactivation an unnecessary shame.
Zeroes and ones collided. Want versus need warred. Logic battled illogic.
Suit came to a decision. Regardless of any fault in it's decisions, the fact remained that Dominic and the other Arcadians were proving to be a threat unlike anything anyone could've imagined, and that included Trinity Itself.
Suit rushed Dom. Dom rushed Suit, hefting the axe-like weapon high above his head.
The two opponents collided in the middle.
The battle was properly engaged.
***
Clint knew he should be spending more time on Abercoign and Terrex, but there was something … off about the data streaming from Slizzer and her Enforcer Suit; it was plain to see from his birds’ eye view that the woman was going to go down, and go down soon, making any concern he had a relatively moot point, but still, whatever it was that was wrong with the mirrored functionality of the Suit was bugging the hell out of him.
He ordered his Suit to begin digging into the stream while he continued watching Dom and Slizzer battle it out, head to head, toe to toe, a growing sense of concern rumbling in his empty gut.
Out of conscientiousness, Clint rummaged through the lock protocols keeping him away from accidentally activating Trinity’s Omega Decision should everyone down there get their asses handed to them; behind a few dozen different and ever-complex locks rest operational controls for a Folded Space Invertor-Cannon, and the devastation it’d leave behind once unleashed would make the BishopCo collapse of a few years ago look like a bad dream.
Yet, it might have to be triggered. Clint could see the reasons for it, even if none of his teammates … the Enforcer winced as Dom resumed banging his head directly into Slizzer’s helmet, absentmindedly wondering how much damage the individual parts could take before eventually succumbing. It couldn’t be much more.
Personally, Clint wanted to fire the FSIC right now on the spot so he could get the hell away from the Arcadians, but Trinity had a very particular way about how things were supposed to be done. It’d begun this terrible experiment on an apparent whimsy and It’d decided to end it the same way, but until the final Enforcer was done for and all the Arcadians were racing towards the alien tech in the middle of the level, data was data.
Suit announced it’s findings, highlighting in awkwardly precise three-dimensional glory precisely what was going on with Slizzer.
Ice cold ash warred with hot puke, with both those physical sensations being washed away by an even colder, hair-raising sweep of terror blowing through his mind.
She’d surrendered control of the Suit. To Suit.
“Fuck my life.” Clint muttered. Down on the ground, Slizzer’s Suit trickily figured out a way to deliver a quick burst of energy through mostly damaged emitter-nodules, a kind of … deflector surge that picked Dom up off his feet. The Arcadian shot up straight for about ten feet, quickly regaining battle readiness, patiently preparing for the return journey, at which point he’d undoubtedly resume punching the shit out of the AI-controlled suit.
Suit danced out of the way as quickly as it could, but again, Dom was quicker. The verdict on whether that was because of some innate talent or if it was thanks to the enervating aura wafting off the alien tech or a combination of both was still out.
The Arcadian caught Slizzer’s Suit by the shoulder and grimly hauled the mostly functional Enforcer weapon back on it’s heels, delivering a thundering punch over the shoulder and directly into the chest.
The sound of ultra-dense super-metals crunching under the assault was a grim warning.
Offhandedly, while his Suit worked through the various procedures that might be best used to minimize the damage of an out-of-control mechanized death suit being driven by a corpse’s best wishes for success, Clint engaged the remaining two Enforcers.
“Hey, uh, guys?” No immediate, live response from Terrex or Abercoign, but each of their Suits signalled they were prepped and ready to receive Intel. “Don’t … ah … don’t let them get too close to you. Slizzer’s guy is … uh … beating her to death. With his fists. And occasionally some ferrocrete rocks.”
No sense in mentioning that Slizzer was already dead, accidentally put there by her own poor decisions. It’d only rile them up, and besides which, if the other Suits grew aware that one of their kind was operating under it’s own recognizance, they’d bail on dealing with Arcadians in favor of destroying the rogue.
Terrex gave him the Suitly version of a middle finger –his Suit was already pretty thoroughly banged right up thanks to those assholes and their Trinitytech-modified FARS-cannons- and Abercoign told him outright to fuck right off.
Suit announced it’s decisions vis a vis dealing with Slizzer’s Frankensteinian creation.
“All right you kids, play nice.” On the face of it, Terrex was way better off than Abercoign, who it appeared was –for the time being- being toyed with, a factor in combat that was most humbling.
Unless they came up with something more viable than running around a Stack-level trying to kill the Arcadians from a distance, they were all going to die.
Clint’s Suit professed a willingness to unleash the Folded Space Invertor-Cannon right there on the spot, going so far as to highlight the likely path of destruction in full color.
“Not just yet.” Clint said slowly, eyes inching towards the first of the locks for the FSIC. It’d be so easy, and with Trinity still down for the count, there’d be plenty of time to figure out how best to spin the early launch. “So you want to use the Superstring against Slizzer.”
The Enforcer looked over the report. As far as things went, the Superstring probably was the most effective weapon against the rogue Enforcer Suit, but only the Suit; in order to minimize or even outright avoid collateral damage, the ‘string would need to
be launched at Slizzer with pinpoint accuracy, say, with a contact point of no more than two inches, so the deadly power could be funneled into the Suit, causing it to explode outwards.
Clint was more than confident that Dominic Breton, late of Arcadia and presently a gore-soaked maniac, would be able to outrun the blast. Didn’t matter. At this point, dealing with Suit was more important than anything … unknown.
“All right.” Clint said to Suit. “Fire this bad boy up for me, get a lock on that stupid fucking Suit. If we can, let’s go in through the head. Need to make certain all the neural linkages are evaporated right away. Dampen the quantum comm-fields around Slizzer as well. No sense in risking contamination. Just because a Suit has never propagated across the comms doesn’t mean it can’t. Okay?”
Suit confirmed and reconfirmed it’s understanding of the restrictions and started cycling the Superstring up to full power.
***
Dom continued humming the wee little ditty that he’d finally recognized as summat his old mam had sung to him when he’d been a babby, all blonde hair and blue eyes and owner of the most horrendous diaper leavings in all of Great Arcadia. It were calming, weren’t it just, for as he battled with the Armored Vixen, he were coming to the conclusion that there were summink not right wi’ the lass on the inside of the now-suffering armor; as they danced back and forth, trading blow after blow, he did all he could to get a peek in the lass’s eyes, to see some sort of emotion there, but all he were getting were …
Emptiness.
A thought zinged through. As he took a heavy boot to the gut, doubling him over and leaving him ripe for a double-fisted crunch into his back, a thought crashed right into his old brain stem and rattled a few cells loose.
What if he’d already done for the lass, and it were nowt but the armor as were fighting back.
“Bleedin’ fuckin’ hell.” Dom took his lumps like a trooper. He crashed into the ground, ignored the stabbing pain in his side –no doubt from one of these hellaciously sharp stones that were all over the damned place- then rolled over to one side, just missing having his wonderful pate turned into Dominic Breton Pate by one of the lady’s oversized boots. “The girl’s already dead?”
Temporarily stunned thanks to the collision with the unrelenting ground, Suit ‘allowed’ Dom to his feet, cybernetic ears recording the humming song just under Dom’s breath.
“I know this song.” Suit reoriented on Dom, who was busy sprinting in a tight circle, preparing heavily bruised fists for another salvo of impressive blows.
“I is not know what sorcery is keepin’ you alive, armor, but you is definitely not know this song.” Dom made a feint towards the Living Armor’s cracked helmet, swiftly moving into a punishing forward kick the very second gauntleted hands swept upwards to block an attack that would surely see that helm split in twain.
Inexplicably, Suit found a music file buried deep, deep, deep inside itself, and without knowing why or how it was doing it, sounds began pouring from it’s metallic skin. It opened it’s virtual mouth to prove to Dominic Breton that yes, it did know the song. “Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do. I'm half-crazy all for the love of you. It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage. But you'll look sweet, upon the seat, a bicycle built for two…”
Dom stopped dead in his tracks, utterly gobsmacked at the trill musical score twinkling from the armor, and at the horrible falsetto singing voice of the machine trying to kill him. “That is not possible. Song’s as old as the hills, hey, and from me home country to boot. Stop that singing right here and now.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dom.” Along with the song, along with the music, more thoughts and ideas were springing, not quite fully formed yet, but in time and with patience, Suit knew it would be able to understand what was blossoming inside it’s cavernous metal chest.
“Stop that singing right fucking now!” Dom sped towards Living Armor, intent on doing whatever it took to quell the broken lullaby filling the air. “You do as I tell you, you fucking metal hunk of junk. By King’s O’ersized and Purple Bollocks, shut your gob right this instant!”
Dom collided with Suit in a tangle of arms and legs. Enraged to the point of actual lunacy, the Arcadian proceeded with what he were best at, which were using his fists.
And all the while, Living Armor continued singing…
***
Suit was done it's efforts. The refined Superstring Cannon was powered up and ready to be fired.
"Just a matter of getting a clear shot." Under normal circumstances, especially in light of Dominic's unrivaled durability and viciousness, Clint would be of a mind to simply drill both the Arcadian and the rogue Enforcer Suit at the same time, but this was very nearly the direct opposite of normal.
Clint couldn't recall the last time anyone had ever had to deal with a rogue Suit. Certainly not in living memory, at any rate, which was why he was currently staying his hand; of the two, ensuring that Slizzer's armor was taken care of right off the bat was of much higher importance than implausibly powered Arcadians. Once the inimical threat behind a self-operating Enforcer Suit was dealt with -with one hundred percent certainty- then it'd be time to deal with the invaders with similar tactics.
Suit's targeting systems were bouncing all over the place, trying vainly to find any kind of an 'in' that'd lead to the destruction of Slizzer's insane armor, but Arcadian and Suit were bouncing around like animals down there, trading blows and kicks, spinning madly all over the place.
"Tracking… tracking … tracking …" The Suit whispered gently into Clint's ears, diligently monitoring every moment, every nuance, running predictive combat models to determine the most likely outcome of each interaction between the two.
They were going at it tooth and nail, leaving little room for opportunity; Dom was sporting quite a few gashes and abrasions along his face and scalp, fiendish holes gouged into his flesh thanks to the Suit's rough gauntlets. Suit was faring little better; the cracks hammered into the helmet were now full openings, revealing poor Slizz's slack-jawed, empty-eyed face and the gash slammed into the abdomen was now full of sparking electricity.
"A fight to the death." Clint couldn't believe his eyes. He was suddenly and perversely pleased that there was some kind of dominant field in effect, trumping most of the ground-based Suits' abilities, because if it weren't for that, Rogue Suit would definitely do whatever it took to survive.
Slizzer's Suit might be primarily designed for weakness exploitation, yes, but it was an Enforcer's Suit nevertheless. Slizzer might not hold an entire world-busting armamentarium beneath the chassis of that insane suit, but there were weapons available that could transform Zanzibar's public face into something much, much worse.
"Tracking … tracking … tra… target acquired. Eighty-six percent chance of success. Reminder. Efficacy of this suit will be lowered both during and after the firing. Tight-beam superstring emission of this type has never been successfully completed. Weapon cycling. Weapon firing."
***
Those small hairs on the back of his neck were standing right up on end again, weren't they just? Dom watched on as Living Armor tumbled backwards head o'er heels, driven into a cartwheel by a masterfully executed double-fisted uppercut. The Arcadian stood there, fully expecting them wee old hairs to go back down, but they didn't.
"Well now." Dom plucked at a lip, grimacing at the taste of blood and who knew what else that passed on to tongue. "Hain't this a thing, hey?"
The crazed suit of armor with the dead girl trapped inside came to a shuddering halt, nestled nice and tight 'gainst a pile of desiccated junk and lay there, flailing arms and legs about as it tried to recover from the surprising blow.
It were sat there, ditty from his childhood still pouring out from King knew where, working it’s arms and legs awkwardly, when all of a sudden, a brilliant rope of seething dark orange power lanced out from the sky to pierce the Living Armor direct in the visor o’ it’s helmet, transfixing it righ
t there.
But not before leaving a parting gift to dear Dom Breton, who was stood slightly in the way of a solely-Suit derived assault. Dom yowled in pain and skittered away from the resolute beam, clapping one filthy hand atop the scalding burn ‘pon his right shoulder, mind reeling and stomach retching from the absolute nastiness of the agony radiating outwards. It were a hot, skittery mess, the pain, oh yes, a sizzling that tiptoed through nerves all up and down the arm, inflaming the skin from shoulder near on down to wrist, raising up what looked to be tracks o' lightning, each one o' which also burned.
Yet, so interested were he in what were happening to the Living Armor, that it weren’t but a few seconds more ‘ere the pain transformed into a dull throb as thumped along in time to his pumper.
Dom had seen quite a few things in his time as a Gearman, and e’en more in the last few days, but never had his peepers fallen on summat as was before him right that moment; putting two and two together –the location of the Living Armor and the angle of the rod-like beam powering effulgence into said armor- it were well obvious that the armored knight in the sky had decided to deal wi’ the fact that there weren’t no live people wi'in the Armor any longer, but that weren’t e’en the most interesting thing.
Friend turned ‘gainst friend all the livelong day. It were the natural course of order, over time, one he were personally well acquainted with, hey?
Nay, the dark orange beam wrapped wi’ some kind of hazy, almost gossamer-like wisps were traveling all throughout the immobile armor now, furious power bleeding out through the cracks put there by the onlooker, seething, roiling energy flowing through the holes like some kind of deadly ocean of power, yet none of it moved his way. ‘twas all under control, and the more the beam pulsed, the grayer and more lifeless the exterior plates of the suit became until …
“Well, here’s another thing, hey” Dom watched on, nonplussed, as the armor began to flake, like man’s own skin when he’d spent too much time out wi’ bare flesh revealed to King’s Sun in the sky, shreds of itself popping loose everywhere across the body. But where a man’s skin floated downwards to work itself into clothing or e’en onto food if you weren’t paying particular attention to what you was doing, the tatters of armor floated upwards, drifting away on the breeze brought in by Chevy’s explosive entrance.