WDOG: Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter Eleven: Operation Killjoy

Chris adjusted the issued plate carrier, the weight settling like an old habit around his shoulders. The boots—standard issue—clanked as they struck the steel floor, catching the light that flickered above, fluorescent and sterile. Ahead, the door to the briefing room slid open with a faint hiss. Kowalski was already there, slouched against the wall, wore the same grimace that had no doubt etched itself into permanence long ago. The others were scattered across the room, their faces devoid of anything but a tired, listless stare—boredom, or something close to it.

“There he is,” the squad leader grunted, glancing up as Chris entered. His eyes flicked over him, a quick, disinterested assessment. “Hope you’re ready.”

Chris gave a nod, the kind of nod that came when words felt redundant. The data shards provided alongside augmentations he’d had been forced to receive, theoretically made him ready for as an operative could be. But theory, as always, was one thing. The field was another.

Fumiko’s eyes burned into him from across the room. She crossed her arms, lips set in a tight line, an expression bristling with barely contained contempt. Kowalski noticed too, though his smirk barely registered as one. “Don’t worry about her,” he said, low enough that only Chris could hear. “She’ll come around. Or she won’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Chris met Kowalski’s gaze, arching his left brow. “I never said it did.” With that, he took a seat and waited for the briefing to commence.

Seven minutes passed before the door opened again, Commander Clarke stepping through. He made a gesture. The room dimmed and a hologram flickered to life, drawing Chris’ attention—a blueprint of a three-story structure; the rooftop and two topmost floors of a high-rise apartment complex.

Clarke’s voice, flat and unremarkable, dispensed with pleasantries and rolled straight into the brief.

“Our target is John Hargrave,” he began. “Former NDI analyst. Suspected ties to the Reformists, an extremist splinter group from the No More Superiority Movement. He’s believed to have supplied arms for the Liberty Tower attack. No known family, no friends, no one’s ever heard of him until now. What we do know is he recently bought scrapped SPURs off the black market and enough equipment to repurpose them. He’s probably dug in. Your priority is to bring him in alive. If you can’t, kill him but recover all data on the scene.”

Chris barely reacted when Clarke turned to him. “Watchdog, you’re taking point on this mission.”

“...Pardon?”

Clarke’s expression didn’t change. “Planning wants to test your operational readiness in the field. This mission will serve as your evaluation. You have been tasked with breaching the building ahead of ETA. This data packet outlines your mission parameters; it will be used to grade your performance at the end of the op.”

The commander tossed Chris a black data shard.

“Would’ve been nice to know that ahead of time, Sir,” Chris grumbled as he inserted the chip into the narrow slot behind his left ear.

Clarke grunted, unbothered. “Get used to it.”

A loading animation appeared in the centre of Chris’ vision, vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a worrying list of instructions, guidelines, and constraints.

“...Is Planning trying to get me killed?” he asked, baffled.

“You’ll be fine,” Kowalski drawled in response. “Our target is a washed-up fobbit who couldn’t make it in the force. We get these losers all the time; I doubt you’ll have any trouble even if you were sent in alone as a regular, unaugmented, squishy human.”

Chris frowned at the disregard with which his squad leader spoke of the mission, but Kowalski had already turned his attention back to Clarke. “When do we roll out?”

“Report to the helipad in five minutes,”  Clarke said. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Newman?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Patch me through to Karen.”

Before Chris could respond the AI interjected, her voice reverberating via the subdermal speaker at the back of his neck. He didn’t react; her intrusiveness was annoying, yes, but he was getting used to it. “I am listening,” she said.

Clarke, unfazed, continued. “As the caretaker of asset zero-zero-one, WATCHDOG, do you acknowledge this mission is within your charge’s operational capabilities?”

“As the caretaker of the asset designated zero-zero-one, WATCHDOG,” Clarke said, “do you acknowledge this mission is achievable within your charge’s known capabilities?”

“Acknowledged,” Karen replied. “Designation zero-zero-one, WATCHDOG, is cleared to accept the charge to locate and withdraw the rogue element, John Hargrave, under censure.”

Clarke gave a brief nod and turned back to Kowalski. “Kowalski.”

The Pole pushed off the wall with a grunt. He addressed the team without ceremony. “We’re sticking to regular comms. Main channel’s TAC-1. Backup, TAC-4. Standard procedure—High-Risk Warrant Service. Regular ammo, half-load. Any questions? None? Great, let’s get the fuck out of here then.”

***

The team loaded into the aerial transport, the faint, nearly imperceptible hum of the engine reverberating through the floor as the VTOL lifted off from the precinct’s northwestern helipad. The city lights below blurred past as they silently sped towards their AO, the smog obscuring the distant sprawl of infrastructure thickening as they approached the target location in the district’s outskirts.

Five minutes passed in silence. Then, on cue, the aircraft lurched to a stop, pulling a textbook J-hook into the dropzone. Chris rappelled down behind the rest of his team onto the rooftop below. The cold night air hit him well before his boots hit the concrete. As he landed, Kowalski patted him on the shoulder, gesturing towards the building’s roof access. 

Point of Entry, he signed. You. Take Point. Breach.

Chris gave a curt nod. The roof access door, silent and dark, loomed ahead of them, indifferent. He moved toward it, the team falling in behind him, SPURs in tow. The lock was nothing—a squeeze, a twist, and the metal gave a whimper before surrendering. They slipped inside, descending silently down the stairwell. 

Sixty-seventh floor. The target’s apartment. The door was locked. 

Something wasn’t right.

Chris halted mid-step, hand raised. A faint sound—a whine, like servos spooling up, hidden beneath the quiet hum of the building’s dead air. He shot a glance back at Kowalski, signalling, who, in turn, signalled Fumiko. The irate woman made her way to the tip of the formation, already pulling explosives from her rig.

The team backed up as she planted the charges. 

A timer flickered red: Three. Two. One.

Silen—

BANG!

The door blew open. A noxious gas billowed out, thick and yellow, filling the corridor. The SPURs pushed through, mechanical and unfeeling, straight into the storm. Chris and the others held back, waiting, listening to the rapid staccato of gunfire and the dull thud of explosions from the room beyond. Flashes of orange flickered through the smoke, illuminating the entrance to the room. 

Without waiting to ascertain the result of the SPURs’ breach, Kowalski Kowalski gestured again, this time towards the adjacent room.

Point of Entry! Breach! Breach! Breach!

Chris moved, kicking down the thick metal door, the team sweeping in behind him, rifles raised.  Inside, Kowalski gestured at the wall demarcating this room from the one housing their target. 

Breach, he gestured again, this time at Fumiko. 

The grenadier, grumbling profanities beneath her breath, scurried quickly to the fore. They took cover as she planted a breaching charge. Seconds later, she returned and squeezed a detonator. BANG! Another explosion, louder than the first. Before the dust could settle, Kowalski tapped Chris’ shoulder. 

Breach!

It was a mess inside. Papers strewn everywhere, notes with complex equations and diagrams pinned to the walls, flickering holograms everywhere. In one corner was a corkboard covered in maps and pictures, all connected with blue, red, and yellow strings.

Suddenly, a sputter—a turret in the corner, spitting sparks. The thing was half-dead, surrounded by the burnt-out husks of its companions. ETA’s SPUR units lay at its feet, reduced to scrap metal in the failed breach. Chris barely had time to react, dumping his magazine into the turret as four bullets thudded into his plate carrier. He felt them, of course, but the pain was distant, irrelevant. The bruises had already healed. Probably.

“Clear the floor!” Kowalski barked, his voice cutting through the haze of Chris’ thoughts. They breached the next room sweeping the corners as they went. Hargrave was still nowhere in sight, but Chris could feel him. His scent lingered everywhere but it grew stronger the further in they went.

The final door blew open with another charge. Chris’ flashbang went off. He entered moments later, the room beyond lit only by the pale glow of monitors. And there he was—Hargrave, standing amid a tangle of wires and servers, a cold, knowing smile playing on his lips. His eyes, glowing red—Cybernetics. Something black glimmered in his grasp—A detonator.

***

Fumiko blew open the last door, and when Chris peeked in—following the flashbang that Fumiko had tossed in—there he was—Hargrave, standing at the far end of the room, surrounded by monitors and servers, wires snaking around his feet. The man didn’t flinch when Chris entered. He smiled, a cold, knowing smile. His eyes glowed red: Cybernetics. Something black glimmered in his grasp: A detonator.

Chris raised his rifle, levelling it at the suspect’s face, the weight of it familiar. Comforting. He squeezed, a three-shot burst, his gun kicking mutedly into his shoulder. 

Ding!

Ding! 

Ding!

‘Subdermal Plating… Shit!’

Hargrave’s grin widened. He didn’t even flinch as he squeezed the detonator. Chris barely had time to register the smell of ozone, the ticking hum in the air. His head swivelled to the wall beside him at the sound. His body moved on instinct, arm out, shielding himself as he kicked Kowalski back into the room. 

“Get down!” 

The world exploded in orange light, white-hot pain, and noise.

***

When the dust settled, Chris blinked through the haze. His left arm was gone, shorn clean off, shards of bone littered on the floor, blood pooling at his feet. But it didn’t matter. His body was already working, healing itself at a speed visible to the human eye. The pain was fading, numbing.

“Rookie,” Kowalski’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears. “You good?”

Chris nodded, slow and deliberate, pulling himself to his feet. Around him, the team was picking up the pieces. Vasquez was busy removing a three-inch-long piece of shrapnel from Fumiko’s thigh whilst the screamed bloody murder. Alejandro was on the other end of the room, muttering to himself as he tried to salvage what he could from the wrecked servers.

The medic shrugged when caught Chris staring strangely at him. “You were healing faster than I could offer aid,” he said. Fair enough, Chris thought as turned to search for Hargrave’s body. The man was missing and there was a man-sized opening leading outside where there was previously none.

“Where is the suspect?” Chris rasped. 

“Gone,” Kowalski replied, grim. “Used something to dissolve the concrete. Clever bastard.”

Chris arched a brow at his squad leader. “You promised I’d be fine.”

“Oh, shut up. Shit happens. How do you feel?” 

“How do you think?”

“Like shit?”

“Like shit. Let’s not do that again.”

Kowalski laughed. Vasquez also laughed. Even Fumiko managed a derisive chuff before she went back to howling in pain. Only Alejandro remained silent, uncaring of their antics.

‘What a killjoy…’