Chapter 106 Than You Can Chew

I remained in the abandoned building, the kind of place that still reeked of dust and mold long after the last squatters had been cleared out. Concrete walls pocked with bullet holes, shattered glass across the floor, and a wind that made the whole structure breathe like a dying beast. To my right, Lovelies stretched languidly against the wall. Her outfit shimmered faintly even in the dim light, strands of her own blonde hair woven tight into spandex. She looked like a weapon disguised as art.

Missive sat a few meters away, half-hidden behind the glow of her laptop. A black hoodie shadowed her face. Her fingers danced soundlessly across the keys, and the soft hum from her device felt like the only steady rhythm in this place.

As for me, I kept my usual fit. The black suit, the porcelain mask, and the fedora. It was my face now, more recognizable than the one I was born with. And unlike the dock raid back in Markend, I was properly equipped this time. Every hidden pocket had a purpose. Every tool was within reach.

Outside, through a cracked pane of glass, stretched a barren parking lot under a jaundiced sky. The City-State of Mendant wasn’t rich, not in infrastructure and not in hope, but their capes and SRC units weren’t to be underestimated. Poor cities bred hard defenders.

I lifted the binoculars to my eyes, pressed against my mask. A small detachment of mercenaries milled about near the far end of the lot, guarding the cargo. Their stance said routine. Their rifles said paranoia.

The plan was simple enough: use a fake job to bait the traitor, Assessor. He thought he’d be walking into a trap of his own making, one meant to kill me. In truth, he was walking into mine.

The fake job revolved around an acquisition for Mrs. Mind’s “exotic cargo,” the kind that drew attention. Enough for Assessor and the Monarchy to act.

Through the binoculars, I caught sight of Bunny. The bike, made of black armor plates, rolled silently toward the rendezvous. On it rode Courier, or rather, a hologram of him. My alias from my earlier days in the lawless. The projection flickered faintly as he adjusted his grip on the handlebars, sunlight cutting through the illusion just enough to make it look real.

Lovelies leaned closer to the window beside me, smirking. “Hah, so we really are using this strategy… I thought you didn’t like it? Imagine Thirdhand’s face if he learned you didn’t change a damn thing.”

I kept my gaze on the parking lot. “Thirdhand doesn’t need to know.”

Missive didn’t look up. “They’re here,” she said flatly. “Two trucks. Hiding behind the service building to the west. Probably planning to run over Bunny once the package’s exchanged.”

I turned slightly. “You’re sure?”

She gave a tiny snort. “Nick, I’m jacked into their comms. I know.”

Fair enough. Missive’s power wasn’t flashy, but I imagined that with her kind of powers, it wasn’t impossible for her to learn a discipline or two. If she said they were there, they were.

I went back to the binoculars. The mercenaries were spreading out now, trying to look casual. Bunny slowed the bike and stopped a few feet from the lead man, a broad-shouldered brute with a tactical vest.

Courier dismounted, every gesture carefully mapped in the hologram’s matrix.

“Afternoon,” Courier said, his tone polite. “I believe you have something for me.”

The mercenary grunted and produced a briefcase, metallic, secured with biometric locks. He glanced around, clearly expecting more movement from my side. “You’re alone?”

Courier chuckled lightly. “Always am. Makes it harder for people to betray me.”

That earned a scoff. The mercenary shoved the briefcase forward. “Here. Don’t open it ‘til you’re outta here. Boss’s orders.”

Courier tilted his head. “Of course. Would you mind placing it in the side compartment? Don’t want to scratch the paint.”

The man hesitated, then bent slightly, pushing the case into the slot along Bunny’s chassis. The hologram flickered again as the projection leaned down to watch. I adjusted the binoculars, the glass was smudged with grime. The mercenaries were shifting around their trucks again, a bit too many of them for a supposedly simple transaction.

“These mercenaries,” I muttered, still watching, “any idea who they work for? Aren’t there too many of them? What’s the need for all those trucks?”

Lovelies leaned against the wall beside me, stretching like a cat, her golden hair catching the faint light. “Mrs. Mind vetted for them,” she said, shrugging. “So it should be fine.”

I lowered the binoculars and turned my masked face toward her. “I find your utter trust in Mrs. Mind so bizarre. Are you sure she didn’t mind control you?”

She laughed, a sharp, amused sound. “Pffft… if she dared try, she’d learn the hard way not to mess with me.”

Honestly, I’m not impressed. I managed to corner her rather easily in a single conversation. Yes, I came prepared, but still… she folded faster than I expected. Out on the road, Bunny made a slow, deliberate turn, heading back toward the highway. The hologram, Courier, moved just right. It was smooth and realistic.

Missive, without looking up from her screen, spoke in her usual flat, analytical tone. “They’re called the Ironmites. Scavenger group from the lawless. Small operations scattered across lesser city-states. Surprised you don’t know of them, Nick… they’re in the courier service too. Small caravans, smugglers, sometimes mercenaries.”

Lovelies made a face. “So a bunch of chumps?” She tilted her head toward the window. “Eyes on the enemy?”

Missive’s eyes darted across her screen. “They’re moving. I count twenty-four of them. And if their colors are anything to go by, red and black, I think they’re from Wrath.”

That got my attention.

The Monarchy had seven clans, each named after one of the deadly sins, their twisted sense of structure. Wrath was their combat arm. Their psychics were blunt instruments of destruction capable of melting minds, crushing bones with thought, and throwing entire vehicles with a flicker of telekinesis.

If I had Thirdhand with me, this would’ve been an easy sweep. But I’d cut him loose, intentionally. Of course, it was a necessary sacrifice for my schemes… That meant most of the work fell on me now.

Lovelies smirked. “Still can’t believe it, you know? Little Missive and the new kid, Eclipse… The two of you, working together. You in a relationship or something?”

I tilted my head slightly, deadpan. “She’s like nine. Or maybe an infant.”

Missive snapped her head up. “Hey! I’m fifteen!”

“More like ten,” I murmured under my breath. “Like the last time you told me.”

Lovelies chuckled, delighted at the exchange. “What’s the plan then, boss?”

I set the binoculars down, straightened my tie, and said evenly, “You protect Missive. I’ll handle the rest.”

Missive’s fingers paused mid-keystroke as she referred to her precognitive abilities. “Do you want to hear the results?”

“Tell me.”

“One survives,” she said, her voice suddenly lower. “Has a healing factor and can play dead with telepathy.”

I nodded once, absorbing it, watching through the window as Bunny picked up speed. The hologram leaned forward, and the bike’s engine flared, a streak of sound tearing through the still air. Without warning, two of the trucks behind him burst apart, fire and metal roaring into the sky like twin suns.

“Any sight of Assessor?” I asked, eyes still fixed through the binoculars.

Missive’s voice came from behind me, calm, focused. “None.”

That was the answer I didn’t want to hear.

Below, chaos unfolded. From the two trucks, one of them roared alive, a mercenary climbing up to the mounted machine gun. The rattle of gunfire cracked through the air, echoing against the hollow buildings around the lot. Bunny swerved hard, the black frame of the bike twisting like a dancer through the storm of bullets. Sparks spat from the asphalt where the rounds kissed too close.

The second truck joined in, a figure leaning halfway out the window, face half-covered with a red scarf. His hand made a sharp gesture, and trash bins, metal scraps, even pieces of parked cars tore from the ground, hurled forward in a storm of telekinetic debris.

But Bunny was faster. The bike darted, skipped, vanished between the projectiles like it was dancing through rain. The hologram of Courier still held form, even as the street around him turned into a war zone.

The Ironmites broke instantly from their pseudo-camp. They scattered the moment the trucks started shooting, engines roaring as they sped away, abandoning their precious cargo and their comrades alike.

Then one of the men on the truck hefted a launcher, and an RPG cut through the air.

Bunny blinked out. The explosion ripped through the lot where the bike had been. A pulse of smoke and debris rose like a dark flower, and a second later Bunny reappeared fifty meters ahead, the teleportation drive kicking in with a sharp flash of blue light.

Lovelies, who’d been leaning lazily against the wall, tilted her head. “Are you sure you don’t need help?” she asked, her tone dripping with feigned innocence. “It’s pretty heartless of you to make your partner bait, especially when you didn’t even like the plan. Maybe…” she smiled faintly, “…you don’t really think of this ‘Bunny’ as a person at all. Just a tool.”

Missive didn’t look up from her laptop. “You shouldn’t talk like that,” she said quietly. “He might kill you.”

Lovelies rolled her eyes and snapped, “Shut up, you little bitch. You’re not the boss of me.”

I ignored them both, or at least pretended to. Bunny swerved again, narrowly dodging another rocket that shattered the road behind him. The chase was turning into a spectacle, but it was a pointless one.

No Assessor.

Not even a trace of him in the network Missive was scanning.

Bunny veered sharply, cutting through the ruins toward our building. A flicker of light, and the bike disappeared, invisible, silent, and gone. The noise of engines and chaos covered the sound of its retreat.

I stood up, exhaled slowly, and picked up one of the C4 charges lying by the wall. The small red timer on it blinked: 2 seconds.

Timing was everything.

I waited. The first truck thundered past the wreckage below, the machine gun still sweeping. The moment lined up, and I jumped.

The world blurred around me.

Intangibility washed over my body as the familiar, cold rush that separated me from the solid world. I phased through the metal shell of the truck, momentum bleeding off in an instant as I drifted inside.

It was cramped. Claustrophobic. At least a dozen bodies packed together, Wrath telepaths, their eyes glowing faintly red, their veins pulsing with psychic light.

And then I felt it.

Pressure from dozens of telepathic minds slammed against mine, trying to melt my thoughts into liquid fire. A raw wave of hostility and focus that could have shredded anyone unprepared.

But I wasn’t unprepared.

With a steady breath, I extended my empathy outward, not as defense, but as redirection. Their mental fury turned inward, reflecting faint echoes of their own pain, confusion, and fear. Combined with my intangibility, their psychic hooks found nothing solid to grip.

Their minds scraped against the void where I should’ve been.

Inside that truck, I still didn’t detect Assessor. They all wore masks, but I’ve memorized Assessor’s psychic presence with my Empathy if he was nearby, so I could tell he wasn’t here.

I let go of the C4 and watched the tiny red numbers tick down. Two seconds and boom; the blast behind me answered with a heat wave that shoved dust into everyone’s throat. I rolled along the asphalt, phasing through the truck and leaving it behind.

The truck detonated behind me in a bloom of flame and twisted metal; I used the concussion to push myself toward the second truck. My mask’s x-ray feed layered over the world, lending the math of bones and bolts to my movements. Spatial awareness hummed in the periphery, where metal was thin, where airbags lived, where a body might be half-obscured under a seatbelt, and guided my jump.

I phased through the driver’s door like a shadow sliding through glass and materialized between the driver’s seat with a surgical certainty. Empathy ticked a count at the edge of my hearing: twelve. Twelve minds packed in too close, hearts beating too loud.

“Boo…”

I made the passenger intangible and folded him into the backrest of his own seat, killing him. Then I phased the driver’s seat itself away from the chassis, like pulling a chair out from under a diner. The wheel came with it; the truck fell on itself as it swerved.

I walked to the rear of the cab as the driver went into panic. No Assessor. No signature. The thought prickled like frost in a damp coat. Disappointment burned through me.

A telekinetic hand, one of the Wrath psychics, red-light behind his lids, reached for me. His thought was pearl-simple: lock. Pin. Stop. I let myself become nothing but wind: intangible. The telekinetic’s attempt folded on itself, grabbed at air.

However, I didn’t stop with just that.

I made the floor intangible.

The few who were fast enough managed to lift their feet; the rest learned geometry too late when I snapped solidity back into the floor. Flesh and force do not enjoy that return. Their legs were amputated in the process, while the truck soon careened with its balance betrayed, crashing and overturning in a wash of glass and smoke. They tried to melt my mind with their staring. I shoved their focus back inwards, reflecting the heat and confusion they sent me until it tasted like stale air in their mouths. Intangibility and empathy together are mean tutors; their psychic knives found only my outline and slid off.

“Is that all? My turn…”

I flicked intangible beads, tiny pinpricks of nothing, at the crowns of their heads. The beads passed through flesh but interrupted synapses in the most effective way my tools allowed, without leaving a permanent stain. They toppled, some twitching as their minds recalibrated, others still breathing shallow and stubborn. Beads after beads until the truck was full of bodies that moved like puppets whose strings had been quietly clipped.

They were less lethal than cards, I thought as I worked… Cards had a wider surface and a different brutality. Probably, it could incur more physical trauma. The beads took longer to kill; they simply made things inconvenient for me.

I phased through the truck again, stepping across the steel ribs as if walking through fog. The smell of gasoline and singed cloth stuck to me when I passed.

Outside, the lot was a land of overturned metal and screaming tires.

The truck I’d blown with the C4 burned bright enough to paint the road in gold. The fire was loud, alive, every flicker gnawed at the black smoke rising above it. The air smelled of oil, melted rubber, and carbonized flesh.

The second truck, the one that had skidded sideways when I phased through it earlier, sat smoking a few meters ahead. I crouched beside it, letting my empathy spread through the metal shell like sonar. Faint heartbeats. One presence, alive, barely. The others were fading embers, the residue of pain and confusion still clinging to their minds.

I drew my handgun, lined up the barrel to where the survivor sat slumped behind the cabin’s plating, and fired an intangible bullet. The shot passed through the wall without noise, cutting through thought and tissue alike.

But even as I lowered the weapon, something tugged at me… an itch in the back of the skull, the kind of instinct you learn to trust after years of surviving liars and traps. These Wrath capes… they felt wrong. Their psychic signatures were off. They were shallow and hollow, like echoes of what they were supposed to be. Wrath operatives were supposed to be storms of mental violence, not this half-dead haze.

I straightened, my mind scanning wider through the broken air. That’s when I felt two psychic signatures cutting through the noise, crisp, familiar, and undeniable.

“Fuck…”

When I turned, the sun caught the shimmer of purple.

A man stood on the cracked asphalt, dressed like a parody of old-world refinement wearing purple suit, tophat, and monocle glinting against dark skin. The grin on his face was too smug to my liking.

“Assessor.”

And beside him was…

“John,” I said flatly. “Wolfe.”

John looked exactly as I remembered him: trenchcoat, gray at the temples, face set in that permanent mask of exhaustion. “Eclipse,” he said, my other name, the one the SRC still kept on file. His tone was clinical. “You are under arrest.”

I chuckled quietly, half behind my mask. “Still working the same script, huh?”

Assessor threw his arms out theatrically, his grin wide. “Hah~! Today, I’m going to prove my greatness by taking my revenge on you!”

I tilted my head. “Assessor, you betrayed us for the SRC?”

He smirked. “Isn’t that obvious?”

Before I could reply, John lifted a hand slightly, gesturing to his chest. My eyes followed instinctively as two red dots blinked against my own torso, climbing to my chest right where my heart should be.

Snipers.

I looked up, the glare of the sun stabbing through my lenses until the mask adjusted automatically, darkening the feed. Two shapes glided in the sky, rifles drawn steady.

“Nullifier-rounds,” John said evenly. “Not even your intangibility could resist those.”

Around us, more presences flickered into range, fast-moving, disciplined, and converging. SRC troopers. A few capes, too, judging by the flickers of enhanced thought and structured energy signatures registered by the mask.

I sighed inwardly. “So this is it, huh?”

There was no completing this mission anymore. The fake job, the bait, the setup… all of it burned down the same way the first truck did. Still, instinct demanded one last act. I flicked a card from my sleeve, let it shimmer through the air, and drew my gun in the same motion, both aimed for Assessor.

Before the card even reached halfway, John’s telekinesis lashed out. The bullet veered wide; the card spun back, useless.

Sniper fire cracked a half second later, but the shots missed as a blur of motion slammed into me from the side.

It was Bunny.

The black bike roared out of nowhere, cloaked engines whining as its frame shimmered back into view just long enough for me to grab the handlebars. My boots scraped the asphalt as I swung astride.

Then the bike screamed, the nitro feed burning blue, the air tearing around us. The world blinked once as Bunny’s teleportation core pulsed, and the next moment, everything went quiet.

The SRC’s comms chatter spiked behind me with confusion, recalibration, and orders shouted too late.

I tapped my earpiece. “Everyone, abort,” I said, voice steady. “Assessor’s alive. SRC’s here in force. Mission’s over. Get out, now!”