Augmented |18+|

Consequence

2099 UNPC Universal Calendar.

—

Dr. Raine stepped into Kate and Anton's barracks room. She said nothing, not to the unmoving Kate, who looked up over the book she read, propped on her knee as she lounged in bed, nor to the equally motionless Anton who turned around to see who'd barged into their room.

Dr. Raine left a manilla folder on the coffee table, turned around on the ball of her foot, and left. Kate could tell by the gait of the footsteps from behind the door as it closed that Triple A was acting as her personal bodyguard that day.

She and Anton traded looks, then stood at the same time. They looked the files over at the same time, passing information back and forth, pictures, chat logs, file counts. Jesus christ, 300 gigabytes? That's at least a thousand hours of video..... Of... I'm going to be sick.

The landline phone rang. The phone was hardened from EMP, the line it was connected to thick, double insulated with an aluminum sheathing inside the cable. The unmistakable speaker warble it made drew the attention of them both, the ringtone invoking memories, dumping adrenaline into their blood like an air raid siren.

Now remember, if you hear that, you pick up the phone.

Why is that phone so important?

Because if someone's calling, it's urgent, and you need to jump. All augments have them in their rooms. They're commonly used for regular conversation, or at least as 'regular' as conversations between augments are.

Anton picked up the phone, waiting the customary 5 seconds for the clicking and hissing of the encryption modules of the secure line to pass before it connected. When it did, a familiar voice greeted him. It held the kind of tone that told of the speaker wanting desperately to talk about anything but the topic at hand.

"You see the shit in that folder?" Tim "The Terror" "Bravo one" Wright asked. Then the telltale sound of lips popping against a cigarette as the inhale was retained and the lips parted from around the filter. These stale ass newports taste like shit.

"Yeah." Anton said, pressing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger, taking a deep breath.

"Good to go for eleven o clock?" He asked. Anton checked his watch, even though his subconscious told him the time already. It was one of those engrained unconscious movements that you just do automatically.

"Yeah." He said. Terror then hung up, and Anton sighed.

"I don't even want to look at them." Kate said, sorting the papers into the folder, then closing it.

"It's best if me and him handle it." Anton said, "that way you don't get caught up in this disappearing act."

"Who's 'him?'" Kate asked. Anton gave her one of those blank stares he gave when she asked about classified information that he couldn't tell her. She frowned, but nodded.

"Got it." She said.

—

The door of the truck clicked open with the dull rasp of a heavy spring detent against sheet metal. The door of the office was sleek in comparison, hissing as it was drawn against the breeze, the cylinder at the top of the frame pulling it closed slowly, the two augments stepping through the lobby. The ring of their boots echoed in the cavernous room, the cooled air smelling of cleanliness and efficiency.

Anton waved casually to the receptionist as he walked right past her, Terror following. They both wore their ECA system, sans helmet, and carried their weapons. Anton had his signature V-06, and Terror his Benelli M4 with about a million miles on it. Both weapons were wortorn and had small cities worth of bodies on them.

I'm telling you, if you replace every part twice, it's no longer the same weapon.

What kind of overlap are we looking at here? Twenty years between lower receiver swaps is more than long enough to count as the same gun I think.

That's not how it works, it's not the same gun. You've had like 4 by this point.

Whatever.

The receptionist looked perplexed, watching the two augments, 6'8'' and 6'6'' respectively, clad in armor that cost as much as three battleships walk past them. Far and above my pay grade.

Anton opened the door of the office casually, walking right in like he owned it, even holding the door for Terror before closing it behind him.

Anton sat on the edge of the desk, looming over the man, now in front of him. The office chair creaked as the man leaned back, bumping the cabinet behind him. That's the biggest man I've ever seen.

"So kids, huh?" Anton asked casually, his rifle across his lap, the picatinny rails resting against the canvas clad armor plate of his thigh armor. He said the words quietly, they tasted bad, and it took an ounce of control for him to not let the cringe he felt affect his expression.

"Uhh-IIIII" He started saying, sounding like he was being choked. The lump in his throat probably made it feel that way. The phone ringing made him jump like he'd been shocked. Terror and Anton stayed motionless, Terror's eyes watching from across the room, his back against the wall right next to the only door out of the office.

Anton reached over and picked up the phone, putting it to his ear, listening for a moment. "Apologies ma'am, they no longer staff this node." He said, then listened for about 3 seconds. "You can direct your call to [REDACTED] their dial out is four-six-two-two." He said the numbers clearly, his radio operator tone slipping through as he spoke. He then listened for another 2 seconds. "You as well, ma'am." He said, then hung up.

"I made a mistake." He said. Anton looked down at him from where he leaned against the desk, his face utterly unreadable, bored looking, even.

He held up a single finger, making him stop his blabbering. With the same hand he reached into a pouch of his armor, removing a rectangular plastic box. Small, about one inch by one inch.

The box opened like a clamshell. Anton took the unadorned gray capsule out with his thumb and forefinger, holding it out to him.

It took him the width of three heartbeats to understand, at which point all color drained from his face, his eyes widening.

It's better than he deserves.

It's easier to explain than a 12 gauge to each kneecap.

His breathing was shallow, he licked his lips, his mouth dry and gummy, his jaw tight, his gaze fixated on the pill.

Anton breathed in, blinked once, then exhaled, his face still unreadable. The only thing that moved was his eyes, his gaze moving from him, to the pill, then back to him.

He started hyperventilating, reaching for the pill, shaking. He took it, then looked at it in his hand with dread.

"Will there be pain?" He asked. Anton had no answer, just the same blank, expectant stare. The man sighed deeply. The augment looked on, still motionless, besides the occasional eyeblink.

The man seemed to come to terms with it. He placed the pill on his tongue, and swallowed quickly. Anton watched, wise to any tricks, any slight of hand.

It didn't take long. He passed out there in his office chair, a Herman Miller, simplistic and ubiquitous behind nearly every desk at the coalition. Anton reached forward, and checked the man's pulse, then withdrew his hand to wait a little longer.

Once more he checked, and when he withdrew his hand this time, he stood, and made for the door. Terror stood motionless, then followed through the door, closing it behind them.

The receptionist? They were the only one to see us, and they couldn't have known. No one knows besides us, and her.

Bit of a coincidence.

Who's going to draw that conclusion? The word of one against the word of two of the UNPC's best? With alibis?

True...