Mission Abort

The motor rumbles under her. It serves as a pleasant reminder that she is still alive. It's been a few close calls, so close that she has had to adorn nearly half of her body with steel. Cons of nearly blowing up. Her right hand, which revs the bike, is as mechanical as her right leg, along with a bit of her hip and half her ribs. All these had cost her everything she had, all because of handling explosives when she knew the calculations weren't perfect.

It doesn't matter anymore. She's chasing after Omnicore's truck, the dull grey-black of its exterior reflecting on her sleek black helmet along with the bright highway lights. They haven't noticed her yet, and she doesn't expect them to. Her motorcycle, Panther she calls it, is a silent one. It has multiple weapons strapped to it, all modifications made by her as she's alone and hence, her only backup.

The truck sways a bit to the right, and she follows it. It's heading for Omnicore's headquarters, and she has about 20 minutes before she misses the last exit. She speeds up a little and glances at the buttons and screen on the handlebars. She presses a button (a new addition by her mechanic), swishes her gloved finger on the screen, and a cable shoots from the front of the motorcycle attaching itself to the bar at the back of the truck. She makes a mental note to thank her mechanic for it, that evil genius; also on trial for arson, but that was beside the point. That had been for a good cause.

The cable starts reeling back until she's close enough to jump on the back of the truck. Shifting the motorcycle on automatic so it keeps following the truck, she carefully starts getting up from the seat of the motorcycle. She pulls her legs under her, keeping her balance as she squats over the seat. Then she takes a step over the handlebars with her steel leg, her preferred leg for things like this. It doesn't make her lose her balance due to rumbling as there isn't much she can feel through it. Or well, it isn't that she really felt it, it was more of a ghost. A memory.

Green glowing small numbers on her visor show her the distance for the jump as well as the angle. Unless the car comes to an abrupt stop (which would make her slam into the back of the truck and die; something she'd prefer avoiding), the calculations were perfect. Then, very unceremoniously, she jumps. She grips the bars on the doors, bracing herself against them uncomfortably, trying to find footing for her left leg that had slipped off. After making sure she is stable enough, she starts pulling herself up the back of the truck. It isn't an easy task but she makes it anyway, hoping the guards posting inside the truck haven't heard her. At least they haven't started shooting her through the door.

Yet.

She makes it to the roof, holding herself steady against the wind. The truck passes under a bridge. She crawls forward, the wind pushing her backward, so she stays flat on the steely surface. Another bridge and a curve. She'd fly off at this rate. She takes a small knife out of her pocket and simply shoves it into the truck roof where the metal is thick. It isn't a long enough knife to penetrate all the way through so guards won't be alarmed. It isn't really a knife either, something she kept for situations like these. An icepick but for truck-burglary reasons.

Before she can think of her next move, she feels a tickle in her nose. Her eyes widen and she holds her nose quickly, panic seeping through her veins. It isn't very easy with a helmet on, but she manages to slide her hand in the helmet. When she is sure it has gone, she lets it go.

Too early.

Her sneeze isn't as loud as her right knee clanking on the thin steel roof. All her plans go out of the window as she hears a shot through the roof, right in between her legs.

Improvisation it is then.

She grabs one of the hook swords strapped to her back, which starts glowing purple as soon as it makes contact with her glove, its mechanics activating with a soft warm hum. She loves her swords. She grabs the knife and pulls herself again to squat. She wanted to do it slowly and steadily but to hell with all the plans.

With the sworded hand, she reaches for the side of her helmet and presses a button. Another one of her mechanic's little tricks. A purple beam starts shooting out from the front of her helmet, eating away the truck's roof. She quickly spins around, creating a circle around herself. One, two, three, she clicks the button again and the beam stops. The roof under her feet falls inwards and she falls down along with it.

As she falls through the roof on her makeshift, a bit too-speedy elevator, she realizes her mistake. She was expecting around three to four guards for the protection of whatever's in that truck.

There are at least 10 of them.

She draws her second sword from her back, and it ignites just like the first one. She slashes. A bullet flies right past her ear. One of the guards tumbles down, the one closest to her. The numbers and graphs in her visor tell her which one of the guards is the biggest threat at whichever moment. Suddenly, a threat appears from above, prompting her to swiftly step left, slash once more, dodge, and kick, just as a guard lands where she has been moments ago.

Another bullet busts the lock on the truck and one of the doors swings open. She nearly gets caught in the wind but regains her balance by grabbing the guard next to her and flinging him off the truck. She is furious, there are way too many guards for her and she understands it now, how she should have dropped herself down from further but hadn't.

Behind at least seven guards is a case, she can see it, just a terribly normal-looking, steely briefcase, perched inside a protective glass container. That is her goal. That was the goal of this entire thing, and yet she already knows she can't get to it, not with the guards positioning themselves in a neat line and pointing their guns at her.

It's a no-go, and if she tries to stand her guard and keep fighting, it would definitely be suicide.

Mission abort.

A bullet whizzes a little too close and scratches her helmet, making her visor start glitching. She takes that as her cue to leave. Before she can hook the swords back behind her, the world suddenly tilts dangerously. Her right leg is on its knee and refuses to move. She panics, risking a glance at it, and curses. Oil is dripping from it and she can hear a tiny spark. Someone had managed to shoot it at a critical point. Her mechanic will definitely eat her ear out after drilling another hole in her wallet.

She lets out a string of curses. Pushing with her left leg, she uses a hook sword to give herself enough momentum to stand on the edge of the truck before throwing that guard out of the truck too. Then like a cat, she pounces with her left leg, using the momentum from her right one to maneuver herself back into a proper position on her motocycle. Hooking the swords back, she presses a button to dislodge the cable from the truck. Before it can return properly, a bullet intercepts it in mid-air and snaps off the end hook.

Yep, her mechanic will definitely go crazy.

She slows the motorcycle down to get some distance between herself and the flying bullets. The truck continues on its path and she takes the next exit, speeding up.

She is seething. Enraged. She wants to scream and throw her helmet at herself. She doesn't have anything to show her client now. They need proof of what the government is hiding and even if she knows about it, she can't provide proof.

This is, by far, her worst bounty-hunting experience.

-------

A/N: Hi :]

Date: 24/9/2023