July 20 2010

  Sunday 3.30 pm- Asian Market

  I was wiping down the counter, basking in the quiet hum of the noodle shop after rush hour is done. It was 3.30 pm. Energy spent and a few char siu buns later, I'm cleaning the store like a good employee. Seems relatively simple, right?

  Nah, if only the day could go on smoothly. I get my first foray into what the ABB truly is. When the front door swung open hard enough to make the chime rattle like it was scared for its life.

  In walked trouble.

  Three of them, all in matching cheap leather jackets, hair slicked back with enough pomade to qualify as environmental pollution. The guy in front had that particular brand of confidence that screamed ex-Yakuza, the current idiot of the lot.

  He had a tattoo creeping up his neck similar to a Koi tattoo and a toothpick in his mouth like he’d read a guidebook called How to Look Like a Low-Level Villain in a generic asian crime lord, or maybe it's just the aesthetics. The Chinese call it the Laoban look. It's a trending fashion in some parts of China to wear cheap off-brand polo with office pants and wear a coat on a hot afternoon. Lots of mish-mash of different asian cultures conflicting with each other. None of the charm of Kiryu Dojima, this reject-level Yakuza is a pale imitation of what the Gokudou once was.

  The moment I saw his smug face, my internal alarm started ringing like mad. I knew a bully when you see one, that guy is ringing alarm bells like I have an inbuilt Bully radar. The name tag on his jacket, “Daiichi”, did all the confirming I needed. An old Yakuza trait they brought over since the Bosozoku days makes you wonder why you even compromise yourself with a name tag? In Japan, things run differently, of course. Being a Yakuza is a public thing.

  Having names doesn't matter since everyone knows you're Gokudou. Made man. In a sense, once upon a time, such a thing was necessary; there is honour in working for the underworld, serving society as a whole. Not anymore. The ABB didn't serve anyone's interest except their Lizard Overlord Lung.

  Madam Zhang looked up from behind the counter, face immediately hardening. “We already paid last week,” she said, voice sharp as her cleaver.

  Daiichi smiled the kind of smile that made you want to throw him into boiling broth. “New week, Auntie. New price. Business is good, yeah? You got line out the door now.” He gestured vaguely at me. “Your new boy is making you rich.”

  I froze mid-wipe while internally cursing. Great. The one time I draw attention not from giggling girls, it’s from the mob. Her husband, ever the calm one, stepped forward and leaned on the counter. “This neighbourhood is small. We just sell noodles. No trouble. We already paid for this month to ABB Mr. JiangBai. Go ask him.”

  The grin faded. “Trouble finding everyone, Ojisan,” Daiichi said, tapping the counter with his toothpick. “You pay to whom? Jiang Bai? Well, Jiangbai is dead. That old fucker croaked last week, so I'm in charge now, no problem. You don’t pay…” He looked around, eyes landing on the row of broth pots. “Maybe an accident will happen. Gas leak. Fire...your nephew dying? Who knows?”

  My grip tightened around the towel. I wanted to deck the guy right there, or call in an SCV to run him over; that would’ve been satisfying, but I kept my mouth shut. Observe first, act later. The two goons behind Daiichi started making the rounds, stopping at nearby shops and collecting. Every business owner’s face said the same thing to me: It was resignation and fear.

  And Lung loves fear, doesn't he? Runs the place with an Iron fist with fear, and everyone under him adopts it. Daiichi turned back to Madam Zhang. “You pay now, I forget to visit next week. Maybe.”

  She spat on the floor. “You think we're afraid of you? I cook noodles longer than you have been alive. Go eat your own shoe.”

  The husband groaned softly. “Ah, wife…”

  Daiichi chuckled. “Big words. Maybe we test how brave you are, huh?”

  That was about the point my patience evaporated.

  I put down the towel, slowly. “Hey,” I said, voice steady. “You done harassing an old lady, or are you still compensating for something?”

  Three heads turned toward me. Daiichi’s smile twisted. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

  I shrugged. “Guy who makes noodles.”

  He sneered. “Noodle boy thinks he's tough, huh? You dont look fully Chinese. Green eyes. A hafu?”

  I could’ve pulled the P220 from under my apron right then, but I didn’t. Not yet. I just smiled, calm, measured, the way you smile when you’ve got an orbital strike on cooldown or a gauss rifle in base, if only I could call one, I should remind myself to build an ordinance tower, so I could rain missiles on assholes like this to kingdom come. Sigh…

  The want of the heart to inflict irreparable damage and the reality of the consequences of doing one, it’s not easy to live with civility.

  Madam Zhang’s hand shot out, grabbing my sleeve. “Jason, no. You stay quiet. Not worth it.”

  I took a slow breath, easing back just enough. This isn’t worth it. “Right. Just the noodle guy.”

  Daiichi snorted and turned back to her. “You're lucky your boy listens. You pay by tonight.” He flicked a business card on the counter and started to walk out.

  I watched them leave, my heart still pounding with slight anger at the provocation. The other shopkeepers watched, some relieved, some angry, all felt apathetic and defeated. As the door shut, Madam Zhang muttered something sharp in Cantonese that definitely wasn’t a prayer. Her husband just sighed, rubbing his temples.

  Terrans didn’t take well to extortion.

  I was halfway to the door, still replaying Daiichi’s smug grin in my head and thinking about fifty different ways to flatten his ego and shove it down his face and possibly his spine when Madam Zhang called out behind me, interrupting my revenge plot-

  “Wait!”

  I turned. She was standing by the counter, holding out a folded bill. “Your pay,” she said firmly.

  It was a hundred. Real cash. Crumpled but clean.

  I blinked for a moment since I didn't expect it, not really. I mean, I got a free meal, I thought that was payment enough for helping out.“No, no, I can’t take that.” I raised my hands, backing up a step. “You just got shaken down by the ABB I’m not taking money from you on top of that.”

  She frowned. “You work. You get paid. That’s how the world works!”

  Her husband nodded, wiping his hands on a towel. “You help with lunch rush. You make noodles good. You work, you get paid, take it now.”

  “Uhh...really?” I started, but Madam Zhang shoved the bill into my hand with the kind of force that made resistance futile.

  “Take,” she said. “Is hard for everyone. But harder for someone like you.”

  That hit harder than I expected. I looked down at the money. A hundred dollars for an asian living in Southeast Asia is a lot of cash, which easily covers anything with 4x the amount due to currency change. Sending money back home was hella lucrative when I had my tourneys in Europe and America. The exchange rate made it so much better.

  , but here, now, it was… well, food. Laundry. Maybe a burner phone that didn’t look like it survived the apocalypse. a hundred dollars for just working a few hours during lunch? It does seem a lot.

  “You not have house, right?” she said, folding her arms. “You sleep somewhere safe?”

  I froze for half a second. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, I got a place. Kind of.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Kind of? I see you head to the abandoned Trainyard and deadboat docks”

  “Let’s just say it has a great ventilation system and lots of… uh, metal insulation.”

  The husband chuckled. “He lives in trainyard, I bet. Lengzhai is homeless. No need big brain to know you're homeless.”

  I didn’t confirm it didn’t need to. They already knew. Was it that obvious? Madam Zhang sighed, but her tone softened. “You good boy. Help people. But still stupid. Take money, eat something nice, buy some groceries, okay?”

  I managed a small smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

  As I tucked the bill into my pocket, I felt that weird, heavy warmth in my chest, huh..thought they dont have that asian hospitality anymore, at least not in this world in this sort of condition. Not certainly in the land of the free, I certainly didn't expect that, Universal kindness? It made me wonder if any of those held any truth.

  I wasn’t used to that anymore, and I certainly didn't expect it.

  “Come back tomorrow,” she said, wagging a finger. “Morning shift. You learn how to make chilli oil. All real men must know.”

  I laughed under my breath. “Guess I’m officially drafted into the noodle corps.”

  “Good! Better than gang, Dont let this be bad experience, these gangs dont scare me. Shouldn’t scare strong lengzhai like you,” she said, smiling and really meant it. There was a certain haunting look she had, probably seen too many young asian teenagers get drafted into gangs if they can't find work around here..

  I nodded, stepping toward the door again. “You two take care, okay? Don’t let those ABB jerks push you around.”

  She gave me a look that said, “You think I ever let anyone push me around?”

  I smiled, waved, and stepped back out into the street. The sun was setting, painting Brockton Bay in shades of rust and smoke, late evening already after all that. I didn't have to handle dinner rush. Last time I came, there wasn't much of a dinner crowd either, I guess people here only ate lunch due to work, at ate at home. Besides…Nighttime is when the asian market turned into the late-night district. Lots of open prostitution and other unsavoury businesses are going around soon.

  None of my business…not yet, at least.

  I slipped the money into my hoodie pocket. Still no phone, though. Wasn't about to buy one, not when there's just so many human scum having those, I could just nab one.

  I wasn’t a hero. I wasn’t even officially a person here. But I had a nice meal from a nice couple and a hundred bucks that reminded me people could still be decent even in this grim city. They even gave me a job, some immigrant from another world. Different world, still the same kindness for humanity.

  “Guess that’s something,” I muttered, heading away from this place.

  ..........

  Later that evening, nothing much happened.

  I set the hundred-dollar bill on the bench like it was a talisman and got to work, Part of me was still fuming mad at the ABB, I assure you, this is not because I wanted to start a war, but because the noodle shop didn’t deserve to be treated that way, Not even the Yakuza would do that, Respect was a creed for any good organization, even for gangsters.

  And I wasn’t about to let Daiichi keep skating. A prick like that? That's just bad for business. Bad for PR, bad for everything really, guys like that dont last. I’d spent enough nights thinking about build orders and contingencies to know the crudest truth: if you run a base, you need defences. If you run a one-man “base,” you need improvisation.

  Call it Terran instinct or plain stubbornness, call it both. As the Arcturus Mengsk once said, "I will rule this sector or see it burnt to ashes around me!" and this is my place, my sector in this tiny universe. The ABB need to go eventually. But that can wait when I have an army of my own.

  I didn’t build anything cinematic.

  Dont need to, I sat hunched over the workbench inside the depot, the little workshop light throwing my shadow across the wall. I jury-rigged and tinkered like a man who’d played too many clutch matches to trust luck.

  Late-night scrims are the worst; they take a toll on your mind and body, especially with the time zone difference in Asia. Wanna fight a grandmaster zerg player? I gotta Q up in the middle of 4 am in the afternoon because that’s when the Europeans play. Wanna go against the best Protoss in the ladder? The Americans dont wake up as early till 7 pm GMT, so it's a rush dinner then scrim.

  And occasionally, you met superstars like Scarllett, the IRL Queen of Blades, Canadian, who plays at odd time zones similar to the Koreans. She's hunting Koreans. They call her the Korean Kryptonite for a reason, and she loves trashing on Terrans. God knows I lost so many times to her. Fucking Scarlett. Another tale for another time.

  I mocked up a handful of devices, crude but effective. Blunt instruments designed to disorient and deny, not to maim. I called the prototypes Umojan Grenades because every tool in the universe deserves a dumb name. They hissed and coughed when I tested them in the backlot (safely, and nowhere near people). My first non-lethal option. It’s as good as it can get from those social idealist nations.

  What does it do? It produces a choking, bitter fog that would make anyone think twice about standing their ground. That was the point: make space, create an opening, not a funeral, dear me, I hope not. I was racking my head to find what sort of tech doesn't downright kill alien scum and is mildly safe for incapacitation. This is one of the few options I find.

  Even while I worked, the moral part of my brain, the part that used to double-check strategy sheets and call the timeout, kept muttering like a loon, I need..I need to show them the boot of my Terran diplomacy! But it wasn't meant to be. Just be glad I didn't get Warhammer 40k powers from the goddess. Those dont even have a non-lethal option. The range of Planet Buster and heretic dissolution. No in between. It's just different colours and wavelengths on how to kill things faster, messier and bloodier. And those guys are creatively bankrupt, too, in terms of skeeving off alien tech. Heresy, they say.

  Not terrans. Ablative padding from Zerg and Protoss technology is the foundation of any crack Terran doohicky.

  This is to be non-lethal.

  Not a whole lot of options under the Terran techline until I find something at the Umojan Faction. Same faction that created the Medivac dropship. Lots of non-lethal options there, too, but this is all I need.

  The Umojan Protectorate ideology opposed the Dominion and was widely considered a safe haven for individuals seeking refuge from the persecution of the Dominion and its network. It makes sense that they offer non-lethal options in combat warfare.

  Non-lethal is a slippery slope in Brockton Bay; “stun and run” can become “stun and escalation” if you’re not careful. I thought of Shadow Stalker sprawled on that alleyway, flickering and terrified, and the way my rifle’s discharge had left her helpless.

  I didn’t want to be the reason someone ended up on a funeral marquee. I also didn’t want Auntie Zhang’s shop burned down because she refused to pay protection money. That tension tightened around my chest like an overzealous supply depot hatch. So in the end, I’d have to turn it into a cape issue.

  I packed a few grenades into a padded case and slid it under the bench. They were tools, and tools require rules. I drew them up in my head like a build order: first a diversion, then a route to the register, then, if everything went sideways,

  I could just retreat. No need for heroics and stupidity.

  No need to make a statement, just a clean, surgical interference to give the ABB a target to aim for while people like Madam Zhang and the other shopkeepers some breathing room if the ABB is too busy checking in on their business, getting hit by some random Parahuman. They will forget about the people a little. At least that’s what I hope it does. Things never go according to plan, but one can hope and later plan for contingencies accordingly.

  I would probably need to update my armour too, so it won't look so mundane and civilian. But without an armoury, I can't even make a basic Marine CMC armour, let alone those fancy ghost operative high-tech suits. Light infantry exo-armor is the best I can do for now with the current fabricator.

  I finished the last of the Umojan prototypes an hour ago. Now it’s helmet time. A Ghost helmet in the game is sexy and two sizes too expensive; a Ghost helmet in my depot is a sheet of bent alloy, a cheap HUD scraped from some busted motorcycle helmet I found near the docks and reworked it.

  Sue me, Blizzard, I dont have the necessary alloy or materials to build one. Function over flourish. I strap the thing on and the little HUD flickers to life, one green dot, one blinking battery icon, and my reflection looking like a cosplay dropout. Perfect. Now I have a connection to the SCV console. Here’s hoping the range covers, in theory, it should work over 10km. Without a coms tower.

  Next: the P220 silencer. The supply depot’s workshop printer coughs for a minute like it’s reconsidering its life choices and produces a crude suppressor body.

  I file it down with nano shaping tools, jam in a packing of sound-dampening composite, and attach it to the pistol. The first test shot into the old shipping container backstop is satisfyingly muted: a heavy thud instead of a bang. Still lethal if I screw up, but quieter.

  I practice the draw until the motion feels like muscle memory, not panic. Slow draw, aim centre mass for compliance shots, not that I plan to use them, but just in case, I could just drop cover, retreat like mandatory army training during my younger days in my past life.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The helmet’s HUD gives me a little crosshair for practice; I don’t use it in the field, but it helps with muscle memory. The silenced P220 still kicks. I’ve got to respect recoil. I’ve got to respect consequences. I can practice as much as I want. Got plenty of ammo to spend. P220 Ammo resembles 10mm bullets, but the chambers and ingredients of a bullet are made from neosteel, allowing and powered by vespene gas technology, except it ain't vespene gas, that's butane and propane.

  Terran Ingenuity. Adapt and survive, Xeno scum!

  Honestly, the whole thing feels ridiculous. Elegance died here sometime between the last Endbringer scare and the second round of budget cuts. Survival is ugly. Survival is improvised. I can respect the Earthlings living here on Earth Bet for their tenacity. In some odd sense of culture, they have a lot in common with the Commonwealth and Terran Confederacy. So yeah..I’ll make it from cooking gas and rusted steel. No complaints here.

  Just be glad I didn't get powers to make creepy icky zergs or those snooty ass protosses.

  I check the Umojan timers one last time, tuck a pair into the jacket pouch, and slide the P220 into its holster. The helmet fogs slightly where I breathe.

  At least it dont have the smell of oil, metal, and just my own lingering breath from Lao Zhang’s floats up in memory and makes me smile. I still smell like chilli oil and broth. Probably need another shower tomorrow at the boardwalk.

  Sigh...I can't wait for the Command Centre to finish.

  For all the nonsense, I haven’t been this focused in… I can’t remember when. It’s not adrenaline. It’s just a plan that fits into a pocket and a conscience that’s been tweaked to agree with do no unnecessary harm.

  One last look around the depot, the half-built Command Centre frame glints in the dusk. It’s almost obscene how big it turned out to be, yeah? not a skyscraper, not even close, but sprawling and confident the way an industrial building is around three, maybe four stories stacked into that squat, stubborn Terran silhouette.

  No Barracks. No marines. Not yet. I will not rush into a tech I can’t support.

  The SCV that’s been chewing through the foundation all week is tracing the final seams. Another SCV idles by the depot. It’s probably SCV1 finding butane gas, I really need to find an alternative to that if there isnt any thrown or recycled gas cylinders in the sea or in the trashyard.

  SCV1 is like a dog waiting for its owner to finish bragging. I did say to just remain Standby and protect SCV2 as it builds the damn thing solo while SCV3 is helping. If the current patrol route doesn't cut it, it's fine. Soon, there will be more SCVs around once the Command Centre is built.

  The depot itself, my glorified starter kit, sits dwarfed beside the Command Centre frame, tiny and smug. It’s ridiculous and comforting at the same time: I built a thing that looks like it belongs in a strategy game, and now it exists in grimy, smell-of-rust reality or Earth Bet. I wonder if the Sky Angel has been looking this way?

  Hey Simurgh. You up there enjoying the show yet? When’s your next fight with your so-called Daddy?

  Heh-

  Eidolon is gonna freak out if he finds out. Sigh..Everyone has Daddy issues. Poor Simurgh. Dumb fish and dumb turtle as siblings, and none the wiser to go against the conflict engine directive.

  Still wondering if I'm already part of her plan. I doubt that the Simurgh could actually read minds, but damn...just knowing a murder Angel up there is watching? can be unnerving. Note to self. Build a sensor tower as soon as available. Anti mind-reading tower seems like a damn good idea.

  An Anti-Stranger and Master Protocol tower that also detects any seismic activity within any range would probably yield some interesting data for Anti-Endbringer movements. The stuff that can detect planetary movement. It's a good tech to share with Dragon if I ever get building such a thing.

  Eh, maybe in a week or two by the look of things, if there’s no problem. Command Centre is gonna be done soon, Tomorrow night, they tell me in neat little HUD ticks, it’ll be finished. One more night. A stupid, impossible-sounding little number that somehow feels within reach. I imagine what it’ll be like to step inside a real Command Centre.

  A building this size screams for attention. It’s a beacon as much as it is a shelter.

  ABB scouts already know the yard smells like opportunity, I'm guessing, if it weren't for Shadow Stalker takedown, they would have continued their way toward the Trainyard and find out, it's a matter of time before that got found out.

  The PRT will detect the energy signature the second the terminals boot and the Reactor comes online after the Command Centre drop. If I walk away for too long tonight to fix Daiichi’s face, I’m leaving a nursery full of questions. If I stay, I’m tempting the kind of observation that doesn’t end with a friendly knock.

  I rest a hand on the cold metal edge of a half-finished wall and feel the thrum of the metal, the heart of the Terran Operations, the heartbeat of something I created. Pride bubbles up in a place I’d forgotten it lived. One night until completion. One night to decide if I’m going to be the guy who roots this thing into the ground or the idiot who leaves it for the vultures.

  I step out into the evening and pull the hood over the helmet, the city folding round me like a bad map. Tonight’s goal is small, surgical, and utterly unspectacular: make Daiichi and his crew rethink extortion as a business model and pin this problem towards his incompetence, get Auntie Zhang a night without fear, and not get shot by a cape in the process.

  Hopefully remove Daichi in power and they put in someone more reasonable, like the late Jiangbai. Never knew him, but I heard from Aunt Zhang that some of the ABB pole leaders are quite reasonable until either that Lung or Oni intervene. Most ABB were forced to join the group just to survive in that sentiment even I can relate to the issue of survival. Things like gangs aren't so black and white like cape culture.

  If I’m doing this right, by the time the PRT notices any disturbance, it will look like these drunks fell asleep on the sidewalk and the town got lucky. If I’m doing it wrong, well, there’s always plan B, which involves a lot less dignity and a lot more defending. Let's not rely on Plan B if I can afford it.

  Either way, I’ve got my helmet, my silencer, and the dumb stubbornness of a player who’s used to coming back from behind.

  Let’s see how a Terran micro translates to street-level guerrilla tactics.

  July 20 2010

  Sunday 9.30 pm- Red Light District

  I crouched behind a half-crushed dumpster doing the stalking...but eh, it didn't pan out so well for me. You try wearing a motorcycle helmet and stalking around like a ninja on a rooftop at midnight with no training. It's not as easy as it is, so I'm scuttling on the ground like an amateur.

  And...I need to head to the gym, Gotta get back in shape, I may have my youth again, but I dont think I'm as strong as I think I am in this new body. Oh, not complaining, it's great. No back pains, no migraines, god I hate migraines...dont miss that at all. Being young again is awesome! Osteoperosis begone! Just muscle pain, those are still there after working out at the Noodle shop.

  Ugh, I'm such an old person.

  Still got that boomer mentality. Gotta focus.

  Back to the current mission at hand-

  Midnight in Brockton Bay wasn’t quiet, it never was, but the sounds here had their own rhythm when you're on top of a goddamn rooftop trying to tail some kids doing illegal shit, the low rumble of cheap cars, the click of gun safeties..these two alone make all the difference since before this, Ive live in a country with no guns at all.

  Being in America? changes your perspective a little.

  You could hear sounds of laughter that didn’t feel human echo down below, laughing their ass off as they shoot willy nilly at random targets, and those bullets hit metal and walls, ricocheting and splintering off randomly towards elsewhere with no discipline. dont these people care about gun safety? Do they not care if stray shots catch someone's butt? fuck these guys.

  No wonder there are so many accidental deaths from gunfire. It's idiots like these people owning guns.

  Guns dont kill people, Idiots do.

  And those idiots are the same dumbasses that's into selling contraband too. The black market wasn’t some cinematic den with neon lights and shady dealers behind curtains; oh, I wish it was.

  It would make a far better, interesting setup, wouldn't it? nah...It was just an old shipping warehouse, abandoned long ago, now alive again under the ABB’s ownership because the gang population claim it, and the Brockton Bay Police Department, aka BBPD, is too pussy to come here and do their job.

  Can the police even do anything? This is a world with superpowers. But even the Heroes like the PRT are too pussy even to do good because they dont wanna disturb the status quo and upset this fake peaceful balance.

  The metal shutters were half-open, flickering floodlights rigged up to generators inside. Makeshift stalls filled the space with stacks of weapons, crates of stolen electronics, and things I didn’t want to identify. Oh, hey, they even stock bootleg stuff from other Earths, too. Now, how the hell did they get these?

  I’d been shadowing their supply runners for hours, tracking the way vans moved through the east docks and where they stopped to offload. Turns out, I didn’t need a drone, not like I could build one. The ones I know how to build are a bit bigger than and less stealthier than I'd like. Instead, I have a mini one. Shaped like a dragonfly, tiny to boot, as tiny as a mosquito. Or a fly. It's how I can take my own sweet damn time walking while the van is already far ahead. I should probably build myself a vehicle once the factory is up and running.

  That's not important. What's important ...is him.

  I found someone I knew earlier today.

  Remember the handsome kid I had some sorta beef with this afternoon? The kid from the bakery. The one with flour still stuck to his forearms, Mr Korean Oppa Saranghae with the rizz of a Sigma male and a line of exhausted aunties swooning over him every morning. That kid.

  Only now, the light in his eyes was gone. His apron had been replaced by a cheap green ABB bandanna tied around his arm. He couldn’t have been older than eighteen or seventeen, maybe nineteen at best.

  So that’s why he always looked half-dead.

  His parents must’ve failed to pay protection, and in classic Lung fashion, the gang “recruited” the kid as payment. But that didn't make sense. I thought the bakery was doing well, like the Noodle shop. So why is he here? Is he secretly an ABB mook? Doesn't seem like the type you know?

  Lung’s little empire didn’t believe in wasted manpower. Anyone over twelve was fair game for the mandatory forced labour, or be a lookout or drug runner, or worse. Well, I dont know what's worse, this is no place for a kid with a bright future in Baking.

  The kid moved nervously between a table of guns and a crate of ammunition, passing something to an older teen with a bat. His hands shook as he counted the rounds, the kind of trembling that comes from fear, not inexperience.

  I clenched my jaw and watched from the shadows. I wasn’t some superhero. I didn’t do “rescue missions.” But damn it, seeing him there hit me harder than I expected. He's probably my age, too, if I weren't such an old soul inside this new goddess's made body.

  Fucking ABB, they were just kids turned into meat shields for a monster like Lung. That overgrown Lizard dont deserve to be a warlord. Then again, what do I know about running gangs? I know about how to not exploit kids and how to empower them. Not putting them in a sweatshop like this.

  And yet, I couldn’t just charge in guns blazing. Not here. Not without a plan.

  Not without risking the bakery couple losing their son or my Command Centre back at the trainyard. Should I turn back? Should I start doing proper scouting once I have proper gear?

  Still… I had stun grenades. A silenced P220. And a strong moral allergy to slavery and messing around with them, but...having innocents involved isn't in the plan.

  I crouched lower, checking the line of guards around the entrance. Three up front, two watching the alley, one perched on the roof pretending to be a lookout while scrolling on his phone.

  Pathetic. If I played this right, I could scare the hell out of them without painting the walls red.

  The rational part of my brain whispered, Wait. Think and plan, cowboy. Dont need no Terran Outlaw to tell ya this is a bad Idea.

  The cynical, hungry, tired part of me replied, Or you could make sure Lung’s people wake up tomorrow wondering which ghost just stole their black market profits and screw with them. BE A MAN! DO THE RIGHT THING!! YOU ASIAN YOU DO GOOD NAO!

  His ancestor's inner voice beckons him to do it.

  Just..do it!

  I glanced once more at the bakery kid with his face blank, his hands were shaking, I wondered how long he had been doing this, was it every day? and I made my decision. I think I already did once I saw him involved.

  Saving the city? That’s not me.

  But maybe I could start by ruining someone’s night like dear ol Daichii. Because I saw his fat potbellied ass down there laughing while counting money, but he left in a car. Too bad, could have bagged him in the course after what I’m about to do here.

  Perhaps his leaving will be better. Then, when shit goes down, he’s gonna explain to Lung why the place he suddenly visited just got robbed. It would be a fitting problem for a guy like that.

  Yep. Let's do this. Rock and Roll Terran! Let’s roll out!

  I didn’t like the way my stomach clenched when I pulled the pins. I never do stuff like this ever, I mean, hurt someone deliberately. Even in StarCraft, you can kind of pretend the workers respawn; even if you start griefing someone, it's just a game.

  But yippe Kai yay mother fuckers.

  All your base belongs to me.

  Bombs planted!

  Breathe that shit, people, hope you dont choke on it and die, Dear god..I really hope you dont choke and really die.. What if something goes wrong? What if someone got an allergy and died? I never test such things for allergy after all. I had to do it.

  This was necessary.

  Three grenades, timed and tossed to fan out across the warehouse interior of the place, the part where the merchants were huddled around crates and cash boxes like it was a picnic, drinking their Moutai, were laughing and gambling, playing cards like nobodies business, those were the people in charge here, I reckon.

  I lobbed them into the open, then ducked behind a stack of pallets and hoped my aim wasn’t complete trash.

  They went off like someone emptied a soda machine into an industrial fogger. A bitter, chemical hiss rolled out with the signature green if it were Vespene. Since I had to improvise, the effect isn't as great, but at least the gas is colourless, and then the air thickened with Butane, pressing the oxygen below.

  A choking laugh of smoke that smelled like burnt citrus and bad oranges lingered. The effect spread faster than I expected, slithering through gaps in the boarded windows, under a door, and along the floor like it knew exactly where people breathed.

  The coughing started.

  At first, a single, surprised bark, so they didn't notice it. Then a chorus. Eyes watering. Their eyes began to panic like they knew something was wrong. Some people got it right and were stumbling for the exits. A teen in a red bandanna shoved a crate and tried to run, and promptly collapsed on his knees, hands clawing at his throat. That's when everyone started to really panic.

  The bakery kid, the one with the flour on his forearms, coughed once, twice, and then went limp, head falling forward on his folded arms on the table. God, that hurt to see.

  I kept my head down. It's non-lethal; he should be fine.

  The helmet HUD fogged at the edges from the grenade plume; my throat tickled, and I felt my lungs tighten in sympathetic protest until I slapped the little respirator to my face. No heroics today, Gotta pay attention to the heat signature in the room too, and the CCTV. Gotta disable that first.

  But at least the grenade works.

  It worked too well, maybe.

  People convulsed into coughing fits, then slumped over unconscious in a way that looked, to an unpracticed eye, a lot worse than it actually was. My Umojan profile was designed to incapacitate for hours, not to kill.

  That was the line I’d drawn for myself. But lines are slippery things in a city like this, and watching half a dozen kids and grown men drool on the concrete still felt like stepping over one when they ran the story differently through PR lenses.

  So "Dreamhack" had to change its Modus Operandi. At least it's gotta look like it came from someone else. Instead of the Hoodie and cloth mask, I'd go with someone on a motorcycle helmet in case I was caught on camera. With the lack of overwatch, there’s not much I can do against anti-surveillance. Another reason why I need the Command Centre up and running.

  I moved through the haze as quickly as I could, ducking under low rafters as I checked people as fast as I could roll them to their sides, clear airways, pinch a nose closed if they were gasping, the basics, even with thick gloves I'm wearing, it wasn't that hard to do.

  The warehouse reeked, and the smoke made everything look surreal, like a bad dream dressed up in crates and gunmetal.

  One of the leaders had a fancy phone, so I swiped it. got myself three brand new phones. Dont know what brand it is, seems Japanese made, it didn't matter. I need this more than they do. Swipe a couple of hundred bills from their wallet, too.

  The bakery kid was breathing shallowly. That was the good news. I swept his bangs off his forehead to see his face; it was pale, yes, but he was alive.

  I dragged a clean jacket over his shoulders and propped him against a crate so he wouldn’t choke on his own in case he started vomiting. Around me, others were in similar states: knocked out, coughing, but breathing. Nobody was convulsing excessively, nobody’s skin was turning shades of extremely wrong green. My hands shook anyway.

  Sensors in the helmet are picking up the gas plume and flagging it as hazardous. It emitted an obnoxious beep and started recording everything with the sort of clinical disinterest only a rudimentary tech can achieve.

  Good. Evidence, if anyone asked. I hoped “anyone” didn’t mean the PRT. I didn't have a storage device, so the SCV is the temporary hard drive until I have a Command Centre.

  The safe looked laughably odd one out in the middle of the room, like some prop from a movie, except it was real and heavy and full of other people’s money. I didn’t waste time being saintly.

  Inside was worse and better than I expected: stacks of bills, the kind of cash that meant families paid for weeks of protection, and a handful of gold bars. Thirty grand in messy cash, plus metal that could buy me stuff when they only trade in gold. This is very useful. Lung isn't gonna like this one bit when he finds out.

  I moved fast. I rigged a few cheap wet sheets as makeshift vents to push the fog out of some windows, nudged unconscious bodies into semi-recovery positions, and, where I could, slipped small packets of neutralising powder I’d cobbled up into their mouths to speed clearing.

  By the time the last of the affected were propped and breathing without the coughing spasms, night had thinned toward four in the morning. My hands were greasy, my helmet lenses smeared with a film of chemical residue, and my throat felt like sandpaper. My chest was heavy with a tiredness that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

  I slipped out through a side door while the fog still clung to the rafters, feeling ridiculous and monstrous at the same time. I dont think I'm cut out to be a villain after all, if I can't even do a simple thing like this.

  My conscience is really telling me I should feel bad, but logically, my brain tells me...hey, nobody died, so it's fine to feel bad. Oh, a conundrum, I know. Whatever should I do to justify this?

  You just dont.

  You just move on and keep moving on.

  Shit is done.

  Outside, the alley was silent except for distant traffic and a few muffled thumps from within the building, the sound of people breathing, the sound of my own consequences. I leaned against the cool brick, the echo of coughing still in my ears

  Regret came like a second wave, right after the adrenaline.

  I knew, cold and clear, that I’d made the right tactical call for Auntie Zhang and a dozen terrified shopkeepers. I also knew I’d potentially screwed up a whole stack of lives for the night if this got a blowback retaliation, and I didn’t relish the idea of explaining that to anyone.

  I did this; whatever comes out of it, I too will deal with the consequences. Hopefully, by tomorrow, I will have the power to rectify the issue.

  Two things, then: get everyone to a safe place to recuperate and get the hell out before a patrol or a cape found the scene and decided I’d made it someone else’s problem.

  That said, I didn’t try anything clever. I didn’t pick locks with hairpins or recite saboteur poetry. I found the recorder, fumbled with the cruddy interface until the little red light blinked uselessly, and then pried the feed loose.

  No need for any technical manual, just me, some stubborn hands, and the satisfaction of watching pixels go black. Evidence: gone. Proof: evaporated.

  I stole one final look at the bakery kid before I left.

  He’d rolled onto his side, eyelids fluttering, as if his body was trying to decide what reality to wake up to. I didn’t know if he’d thank me. I didn’t know if he’d resent me for putting him in danger. I checked the bakery kid once more through the slatted window. He was curled up, arms around his stomach, breathing shallow but steady. He’s fine.

  Id find out tomorrow and see how it all plays out.

  ...............

  July 21 2010

  Monday - 9 am

  I changed into a clean set of clothes. Just a simple shirt, jeans, and the same hoodie I'd come to favour. New enough not to look homeless, old enough to blend in. No matter what my age is, I love hoodies. What's not to like? It's comfortable and has head protection and stealth!

  As stealthy as a mundane human can be. It was servicable. New enough not to look homeless, old enough that no one would give me a second glance. I might need a second opinion on my fashion sense.

  By the time I reached Lao Zhang’s Noodles, the familiar clang of the wok and the couple’s back-and-forth chatter echoed from inside, warming my heart. Dont know when, I dont know how..but I've come to like the Wife and Husband duo; they also pay me and feed me, so there's really no downside. It was weirdly comforting. Aunt Zhang was barking orders in rapid-fire Cantonese, and her husband was pretending not to hear while clearly hearing everything, cutting onions and preparing the broth.

  I slipped in through the back,

  "Haiya, Jason, eat some char siu and help out later, ok?"

  "Sure thing" Guess this is my part-time job then.

  rolled up my sleeves and started helping with the prep. Knead the dough, roll it flat, slice it thin. Two days and I already know my way around their kitchen, they dont seem to mind, the rhythm was easy now, almost meditative. The smell of flour and broth hung in the air, beef and Szechuan spices. And of course, the signature Chilli oil. Can't forget the damn Chilli oil.

  Still, something felt off.

  The bakery across the street was closed. No smell of fresh bread and definitely no line of aunties and schoolgirls teasing that poor Korean kid behind the counter. No sound of his tired sighs as he worked himself half to death making buns. Did something happen to the kid? Shit.

  “Aunt Zhang?” I asked.

  She didn’t look up from her chopping board. “Mn?”

  “The bakery’s closed today. Did something happen?”

  She froze for a second, sighed, and said, “Ah… that boy. He’s in the hospital. Family close up to see him.”

  That made me stop what I was doing. “Hospital? Why?”

  “ABB business.” Her knife hit the board a little harder this time. “Those bad men got hit by someone last night. His father tried to talk to them, but they hit him. The boy got hurt.”

  Fuck...that's my fault, isnt it?

  Crap. That thing was non-lethal! He should be up and running after the gas wears off! The husband, Laozhang, even chimed in and nodded, "Yeah, a lot of ABB boys now at the hospital. Nobody knows. They say it was some sort of Gas Attack. Some boys in the know here said it was a Cape! Haiya...Those boys are still coughing and wheezing at the hospital. Some still in the ward, can't go home. Have acute breathing problem."

  huh...

  I might have underestimated how effective that Stun gas is.

  woops?