The riot was in full swing, the tipping point fingered so hard it'd split all the way to the navel. The quarter million homeless and half million ironically homeless had broken the faux steel barricade separating the two groups, and both had converged into a massive brawl/orgy, stinking, social vagrants mixing with stoned, academy elites. The neo-humanist pacifists had taken this opportunity to strike; they'd triggered several neural paralysis bombs, causing huge sectors of the riot to fall helpless, their bodies strewn like corpses in the middle of the puke and cum soaked faux concrete mega-highway.
I drop my steel visor over empty eye-holes and link with the task force. Our ten sleek, silver drop-ships, from four different mega-city municipalities, buzz around the massive, angular body of a skyscraper sized warship. The monolithic cube of raw military angles and dark maroon hues rumbles the very air as it hovers slowly into position over the mass of gestating humanity.
"Bitches." Team leader stalks the drop-ship bay behind us. "Rip-check." I draw my mind back into my body, pressing my forehead to the drop-ship doors. I flex everything in an attempt to psyche myself up for this mission; suit tight, harness tight, armor tight, weapon tight, network link strong, camera...
... Off. No matter how subscribe-able or marketable, no one is allowed to record what we do here tonight.
"Xara, up." I sound off, followed by the rest of the team.
"Durmion-ready." The male voice sends shudders down my spine; I felt his words inside my mind, the military commando's addition to our unit a small sign of what will take place here tonight.
"Drop- zone Assessment." I can hear the fear in team leader's voice as she tries to go through the motions. "I'm reading a mass of bio-signatures on your selected landing spot-"
"I know." His response is highlighted by action; I feel the massive warship light up like a strobe, thousands of thin red lasers tracing across the crowd.
Data replaces doubt as the commando's brain rapes information into my empty skull. Three hundred and seventy-two personal IDs indicate concealed weapon's permits, and cameras on the warship feed over three hundred images across my eyes: faces of men and women, grid-coordinates of the owners, X-ray feeds of said weapons, and information on most-likely-courses-of-action if engaged.
Another thousand of the people are open carrying, standing out in the open with assault rifles across their chests and pistols along their genitals like fucking idiots. "Confirm." Another male voice comes at me from the other side, double loading me with more info. "Population armed. Collateral damage limits are reascended."
"Xara, confirm." I quiver as another male enters me, demanding a response.
"Yes." I coo. Four men inside, and we're just getting started. How many fucking people will I get to kill tonight?
"Confirmed." Jesus fuck, another male voice piles on. "Engaging."
"What?" I'm not ready; We haven't counted off. Or, did we? Fuck, I can't think while taking it from so many commandos.
"Stand-by, please." Team leader's voice sounds like she's in the middle of getting it from the two guys who sell funnel-cake and flavored condoms on the corner of 66th and 218th. "We still need to-"
My eyes dilate, my groin aches, as the tic-tac-snap of automatic fire rattles across our drop-ship. The door vibrates from the impact, which rattles against my visor, which shakes my forehead.
"Faugh, God!" Dara falls down, legs crossed. I instinctively link with my team mates, partly due to the threat of enemy fire, but mostly just to pony off of Dara's orgasm.
"Fuck, go go go." Team leader signals the pilot. I tighten my thighs around my rifle and close my eyes, as my helmet needle ejaculates drugs through the slit between my spine and skull into the base of my brain.
The drop-ship door in front of me opens to the orgy of flesh and lights, the massive riot below a speck before the titan skyscraper lanes and highways stretching as far as I can see. No starlight can survive the whorish red/blue/green lights of the city, and only the wind whipping across my body and through the open drop-ship is any indication that we are even in the real world.
I look down and leap out with my team, all of us linked through the network and military males. Dara is behind a pace due to her combat 'high', but quickly recovers and rolls out. We fall as one, five shooters and one team leader. The wires tighten ten meters from the ground, teens and twats below yell and gawk, scrambling to get out of our way as we fall. We un-sling our rifles together, all six landing in a tactical crouch inside the heart of the riot, weapons tight to cheeks and eyes.
A flash of light in the middle of our circle startles me, but then I feel him. The commando teleports right into our fucking center, a barefoot, muscular monster with harness, armor plates, no weapon, gas-mask, and empty pits for eyes. He points at the group of junkies to our left, and the red lasers from the warship thicken and shine. The beams flicker at a million flashes per-second, and all hell breaks loose.
I watch, mouth agape, as the beams cut down ten, twenty, a hundred rioters effortlessly. Meaty chunks fall into piles all around us, and a red mist rises from the crowd. I see a fifteen year old drug dealer, 3D printed pistol between his ass cheeks, get cut open from ball-sack to lip ring, his body cooking and blistering open. He pops like a meat balloon with half a gallon of milk inside, baked, stinking innards sloshing on the filthy faux concrete road.
"Focus right!" Team leader skull-fucks my head into the game. We all aim down our sights to the right and adjust our formation. An emaciated, male rioter is screaming at the warship above, two halves of a dead woman cradled in his quivering arms, lasers criss-crossing across his body harmlessly. Tears stain his cheeks, literal plasma burning inside his eyes.
"Cyborg!" Our male commando yells. "Engage now-" His voice is cut off as he jukes left, leaping thirty meters and out of sight in an impossible blur. A massive crash sends me to my ass, as the emaciate rioter smashes in our midst where the commando was a split second earlier. I spin around to face him; everyone else is down. The rioter faces me and jumps again.
I close my eyes, settle my hand around my weapon, and take a quick network minute to download a hand-to-hand combat program. The science and subtly of cybernetic alteration is difficult to master, and those who undergo the dangerous surgery require much more that simple medications and alterations to function with the enhancements. Copious amounts of training in the use of super-human strength, as well as simple lessons in physics, are required for a cyborg to have any hope of functioning in a useful manner.
With the initial shock of his presence passed, I can tell from the way he moves, the way he strains against the ground with his jumps, that this illegally altered rioter has no idea what he's doing with his enhancements. He's no better than a red-neck with a sawed off shotgun shoved down his pants, the presence of steel and weight nothing more than a poor man's male enhancement.
The monster lands at my feet and swings, telegraphing his attack every time he shakes the ground. I roll away, the punch lands, and I ride the shock-wave up to my feet. I land in the weaver stance, weapon tight, and fire full automatic into the side of his head.
He jerks away reflexively, no drugs or training protecting his nerves and mind from the instinctual fear of an unexpected attack. I lick my lips; automatic fire makes me cum every time, and my military bearing is broken ever so slightly as my knees turn in instinctively.
I'm no fool. Apart from some brain stuff I'm a vanilla human; fucking white bread. He'd probably kill me if I was alone, but I'm one of six hard bitches and one nightmare, and we're all recovered and hungry for fuck. Dara shoots his cock, Lara fires at his head, and team leader is already closing the distance. As he turns towards me, team leader dives hard and grabs his right knee, just the right, and twists her whole body like some half-snake half-pitbull bitch. The leg snaps, the rioter screams and buckles, just as Mara leaps and wraps around his face and neck.
Our male commando returns, teleporting, walking, fuck if I know, and again I feel his mind fucking every cybernetic brain within a ten kilometer radius. Even as we tear down the hostile, the commando reaches and rakes through the network, lobotomizing this emaciated, homeless cyborg, frying his brain and erasing everything that makes him anything but a vegetable.
I reload my weapon and savor the throbs of pleasure as I feel his brain waves sputter and flicker out. Nine other teams of bitches and military males descend from the drop-ships to subdue the riot. I cum, like, so much, you guys, and later that night I ride one of the military cyborg dudes in the showers for a fucking hour.
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