Sequel to Hacking the Sun. [Updated every Tuesday].
In 2130, the world is still reeling from the collapse of the largest corporation. A recent crime wave has rattled the denizens of the old sprawl. Meanwhile, in the Union, terrorism is on the rise...
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Before chaos could grip the city that day, a small fleet of medivac airships converged upon the Hall of Memories. No one would remember the aftermath, except for one person. The diplomats backed away from the landing pad as Lon'minar stepped forward, and yet, she, too, was surprised when the first rescue crew disembarked. They were not paramedics, but gunmen, covered in black tactical gear. Moreover, all of them sported the Asgard emblem. If that wasn't weird enough, they leveled their guns at the crowd and kept them at a distance. More of the old Goliath lackeys dropped from the ships and, gradually, began surrounding the summit. It was at this point the many ambassadors began to throw suspicious looks. And as soon as the Congolese ambassador tried to step aboard their ship, he was shoved back, snapping with "What are you doing!"
That's when Lon'minar was shot in the back. Not everyone saw.
Asgard, armed with military-grade rifles and silence, encircled the envoys in the old routine of a death squad. A slow second passed, giving enough time for reality to kick in. They were all sober for a moment, then Amon's heart sank. He grabbed the young North American ambassador, Alexandra, and dragged her to the ground. Then a thunderous choir drowned out the nerves.
A hell of muzzle flashes followed.
When the shock began, the bodies fell. And when they fell, they were torn apart. Their faces ripped, flesh and bone split across the sky-high paradise. The victims let out many cries, searing indiscriminately before a crescendo of an explosion blasted a hole through the biodome. Amon was thrown off his feet, thanks to the sheer force. Everything after that was a blur.
A new airship nosedived through the destruction—down then out—to drop another squad of Asgard pretenders, and they hit the ground shooting. No one was allowed out alive, and there were many diplomats. At the same time, there were enough guns to enforce a full cleanse of the entire floor. No prisoners. Asgard fired and advanced in the opposite direction of remorse, efficient and ruthless. It was so quick, no one could register the gravity or the horror. And as quickly as the carnage had begun, the death rally faded to silence.
Pulses.
Crawling away minus the use of his legs, Ambassador Robespierre met the hollow barrel of a rifle. He was crippled, bleeding below his torso, and non-threatening. Yet even as the ambassador seemed ready to beg, the gunman casually blew his head off. The rest of the massacre played out in the same fashion. Those who could barely move were delivered their last bullet. In a casual patrol of the top floor, Asgard's death squads carried out summary executions. Gunshots rang out sparsely, and the victims' hoarse, final pleas scattered in every direction of the wind. There was nowhere to hide.
When Amon came to, his ears were ringing below the tremor of a turbine. Through a haze, he witnessed a black suit. All of diplomats should've been dead, yet there was one man in a suit stepping aboard the medical ship. It had a red cross on its robust rear end. He was being escorted by the killers, Asgard. Quickly, his blood caught up with his adrenaline; he ran his hands along the ground for his glasses. He felt them with his fingertips but trembled, barely able to hook them over his ears, and saw they were cracked. Yet with the lens capturing the lower half of the terrorists, there was no face but a voice, a voice that coldly whistled through the noise.
