— Atom —
Wave after wave, Circumtore responded to our presence.
Wave after wave, slave legions were sent to push us off the world.
And wave after wave, we held the line.
We fought at half-strength, nothing lethal in our arsenal for those forced to fight us. We subdued our enslaved enemies; we didn't flatline them. That mercy cost us good lives of the Freest Legion. But they wouldn't have it any other way.
We fought the slave legions with stun bolts, stun batons, and a Force lullaby. Every soul chained to this fight on the Shell Hutts' behalf would be spared. Thankfully, the slave drivers behind them didn't need the same considerations.
*CRAAA~AASSHH!*
Big Red's foot came down on an armored snail. Impressively, the armor held up to the first stomp. It didn't hold up against the Force that came after it.
With a powerful wrench of will, the armored shell was rent in twain. A gaping wound opened up in the reinforced metal. Soft, sluggin' flesh was exposed, from face plate to armored navel. My Mek's underarm repeating blaster pumped that soft, sluggin' flesh full of plasma.
The slug beneath the shell burned. But it didn't go quietly. Shoulder-mounted blasters on the shell turned up at the giant that stomped on it and let loose plasma payloads that splashed, mostly harmless, against Big Red's armor from within the shield envelope. A powered vibroglaive swung at Big Red's groin, seeking to carve my Mek cock off.
… Or where my Mek cock would've been, anyway. There wasn't actually anything there. I wasn't Smasher. He'd had the madmen at Womp-Rat-Works design him a detachable Mek-scale Mr. Studd for his 'free time'… I didn't want to know. Especially not with how Kiwi's 'free time' had coincidentally overlapped with Smasher's lately… To say nothing of whatever other brave souls Smasher had convinced to 'ride the steel borg'…
He could've easily transferred himself to a Gemini frame, of course. But Smasher lived big, or he didn't live at all. I knew that 'cause I had the same philosophical urge in my cloned DNA — All or Nothing, there was no other way to be.
The unrelated thoughts raced through my mind as the Shell Hutt below swung its vibroglaive in a de-cock-pitating strike. Even if I didn't actually have a Mek cock, it was the principle of the thing; I took great offense to the snail swinging for something so important on my Mechu-Deru-linked steel frame.
Big Red responded to my thoughts. Myomer flexed beyond its limits for just a moment, reacting in a blur. Steel hands caught the glaive halfway and snapped the vibrating head off the haft. I turned the still-deadly head back on the exposed Shell Hutt, slamming it into the gaping wound in its armor with the last of its cleaving vibrations.
Another barrage of Mek-scale blasterfire melted flesh and vibrating steel into a twisted alloy. The snail fell, then, finally flatlined. The legion it had been leading was already subdued by the time the Hutt fell zeroed.
The Freest Legion, kin to the slave legions on our side, had done good work and made good sacrifices. They bled for their chained siblings. But no harm came to those forced to fight. They were our priority here. More so, even, than surviving the continuous countersiege. If we won, but the slave legions of Circumtore suffered for it, we wouldn't have won at all.
Fay did good work, too. She sang the slaves to sleep. Her voice in the Force was projected over the battlefield. It was irresistible to those it targeted. As in, they didn't want to resist. The broken slaves of Circumtore were retired from the field; they were lulled into peace and then dragged out of the killing zone, so only their masters remained. Then, I had free rein to tear those masters to bits.
I did so judiciously, with extreme prejudice.
Every Shell Hutt was a sluggin' tank unto itself. Alone, they could've gone tail to tail and blast for blast with just about any armored vic the galaxy had to offer. Each shell was individualized; no expense was spared for the titular shells that made Shell Hutts so unique, so dangerous. A snail was more their shell than their sluggin' flesh.
They boasted shields and armor to hold up against starship-scale assaults. They were moved by the repulsorlifts of a hover tank, or massive skittering legs like a metal centipede, or undulating armored tails that enabled deceptively good mobility.
They bristled with weapons of every kind and caliber — blaster, ion, disruptor, flamer, scattergun, ordinance launcher, and any other deadly arsenal the snails could dream up, from mines to melee. The only type missing was lightsabers of any kind, but I wouldn't even put the nuclear option past the Shell Hutts if one was feeling creative.
… For all that lethal and protective capability, they could still be zeroed. Especially when a Gen2 Mek was their enemy.
The advanced, armored shells were beyond impressive. I'd put them as slightly better, on an individual and average basis, than our Gen3s. But our Meks weren't just 'beyond impressive', they were revolutionary. And Gen2s were still a cut above Gen3s.
Still, zeroing the slave driving Shell Hutts behind each legion sent at us made me realize that they were definitely a real threat. Even if a Gonk managed to pierce the armored shell, they'd still have to zero a slug. For most people, that wasn't an easy task at the best of times. But if anyone in the galaxy could, it was us — the Gonks and Freed. We had plenty of practice, after all…
The Gonks had been forced to learn the noble art of slug-flatlining at the pointy end. And we'd gotten rather good at it. We wouldn't have secured Free Nar Shaddaa if we hadn't.
Now, though, it was just a bit strange to have the slugs actually fighting back for themselves.
The Shell Hutts were unique amongst Hutts like that. For all the species's terrifying specs, most Hutts didn't enjoy getting their hands dirty. They'd rather hire out the violence they reaped or bring it about through chains. For all a Hutt's durability, most weren't actually fighters.
Shell Hutts could still hire out or chain their violence, but they also prided themselves on being warriors like the Hutts of Old. They used their terrifying physical specs and awesomely armored shells. They trained and equipped themselves as best they could. They actually preferred to get their own hands dirty when real violence came calling.
And when five meters and two tons of slug, not including said shells, started coming at you for itself…? Well, it was best to buckle in for a proper fraggin' fight.
The slave legions of Circumtore weren't actually the world's main defense. They were maintained for internal games between Shell Hutts and shows of status. They were a sort of cruel and callous culture, chains used for fashion and social standing rather than anything purely practical.
The slave legions and enslaved supporters made up the majority of the world's 30 million population, with a few million minority of the usual mercs and other Hutt hangers-on, but that entire population existed solely for ego, excess, and entertainment; the hedonistic Hutt society of Circumtore's actual citizens.
Those actual citizens were the real fighting forces of Circumtore: some 30,000 Shell Hutts. Their warrior culture would accept nothing less than fighting for themselves when shit got serious.
When every true soldier a world could call upon was a cutting-edge tank, personally designed with all the resources a Hutt could muster, that 30,000 went a long way. They vastly outnumbered the equivalently armored units we had, our Meks and vics. And that would've been a problem… if every Shell Hutt on Circumtore had rallied as one and charged out to meet us in a single overwhelming battle.
They had not. And even if they had, I just would've had David and the Gonk Fleet rain hellfire from orbital supremacy. Instead, each Shell Hutt, each legion master, had their own thoughts on how to deal with our invasion.
Hutts, no matter their subculture, fundamentally couldn't work together, not on so large a scale or on such short notice. It was, without a doubt, their biggest weakness as a species and culture. The biggest enemy of a Hutt… was always another Hutt. That was a huge reason the Freeing of Nar Shaddaa was possible at all.
They hadn't taken me and my movement seriously, not even after the ball was rolling out of their expectations and control. 'Cause I wasn't a Hutt. Sure, I'd been declared 'Hutt Enemy #1' by their Grand Council. Sure, every Hutt I saw was gunning for me. But there'd been no unified response to that declaration or my continued actions.
Outside Hutts hadn't flooded into the system from the rest of Hutt Space to squash me in force. And even the Hutts on Nar Shaddaa and Nal Hutta had been looking out for themselves first and foremost. When they fought back, they did so according to their own plans. Solo, or close to it. Not even unified on the level of a kajidic, 'cause even within those there were divisions.
That was the best part of waging war on the Hutts. They divided themselves to be conquered. I didn't have to do a thing but zero one slug at a time.
Against their most martial subculture, that fundamental truth remained. The Shell Hutts were responding to our invasion on an individual or single-digit cooperative basis, each thinking they knew best. Even when their planned responses ended up being the same, they executed those plans on their own.
A not-insignificant portion of the legion-leading Shell Hutts decided to test our resolve with slave soldiers. To them, it was the perfect probing strike. The slave legions were entirely expendable. And the Shell Hutts driving them were of a lower caste than the ones who owned the legions: a way to get rid of fellow Hutt rivals even now.
They came in waves — one, or two, or three slave legions at a time. And we held our beachhead through the discordant countersiege, subduing the slave legions and utterly zeroing the Shell Hutt sent to drive them.
More Freed support was called down from orbit to handle just how many slave legion bodies we were carefully stacking. They were all put in peaceful stasis, but still needed to be checked over and given a place to rest until they could be fully and decisively freed.
That was up to the strike teams, wreaking havoc in Circumtore's capital and only city to ensure whatever remote chains the Shell Hutts had over their legions failed. Until they closed the contract and returned victorious, we held the line here.
I fell back behind the base camp's walls after zeroing the latest snail. Fay was riding with me in Big Red's cockpit, quite literally perched in my lap. The space was cramped with both of us, but pleasantly so. Being stacked on top of each other certainly didn't stop us from doing our jobs, though I did find it to be a bit… distracting…
Thank Force for the immortal elf ass in my lap. Life was good to me. Very, very good…
Fay was soft, oh-so very soft. If we weren't in the middle of a warzone and countersiege, there'd be a very different battle going on. Unfortunately, we were, and I had to keep that 'battle' contained to my pants.
Fay sighed and leaned back against my chest, paying little mind to our bodies pressed so close together. She was frustratingly and thrillingly innocent like that, for all her lived experience. It wasn't that she thought nothing of the close contact; she just didn't realize that it was somewhat distracting for me.
"This is troublesome, Atom. And exhausting," She told me with a slight huff. "The lullaby shouldn't be this hard to sing."
"I noticed a bit of resistance," I grunted, the conversation distracting me from my other distraction. "Walk me through it. What's the problem?"
She'd given me a crash course in the Force power. Enough so that a notification for it had popped into my mind from II+. [+0 -> Force Sleep I]. Earning skills and powers the hard way was perfectly possible with II+. I just didn't often get the time or chance to do so; with the hectic life I lived, it was better to expedite my power creep with the system.
Of course, having a teacher like Fay was almost as good as just using the system. I learnt best by doing, anyway. Fay sang her Force Sleep lullaby and easily led me into joining the song. I copied the way she weaved the Force into her voice, a comforting blanket over every mind she touched. Compared to her Force voice, mine was crude and blunt and heavy — a weighted blanket to Fay's swaddling embrace. My version still worked. But I doubt I could've initiated it without Fay holding my hand. Certainly not well enough to slumber whole legions of broken slaves.
"There's…" Fay verbalized the resistance as she felt it. "There's a thickness and, pardon the pun, sluggishness to the Force here. An unnatural weight beneath the surface; its gravity seeks to drag and drown every Force working nearby. It barely affects the more physical works of Force, but the subtle? The nuanced? The mental and spiritual? Such delicate things are much more susceptible to chains…"
"Worrying," I frowned. "But good to know. We gonna have to do something about that?"
"Surely," Fay nodded. "But worry not. As heavy as the influence is, it's also… brittle. The cracks are already showing, with stars shining through. Keep the course, Atom. These long-dead chains will break."
I couldn't help but grin viciously, "Damn straight. And we'll do all we can to speed up that shattering."
"Every sleeping sibling we remove from the equation is another crack in that lifeless mass. Every master killed is another loosening of those inert chains. Every shared star returned is death to something already dead, dreams losing their grip," Fay said, her Oracle eyes in the Force seeing more than anyone else alive.
"Living action will always trump late and unlamented influence, no matter how it attempts to cling so long past death. Press forward, persist, and we shall inevitably prevail, for our truest enemy has already perished."
Sometimes (read: always) it paid to have one of the best Force Users alive on my side. Fay was invaluable. Irreplaceable. She had been since the moment she showed up and protected the fledgling Gonk movement from orbital bombardment.
Now, that was as good a prophecy as I would accept. Reassurance that we were doing the right thing and doing it correctly, without chaining me to the specifics of fate. I didn't need my future so limited, just a second opinion on the present. Confirmation, not nebulous, chaining precognition.
I nodded in understanding, "We'll keep doing what we're doing, then. Everyone will pull their weight. Stings a bit that I'm stuck here with only brief tastes of the action… But at least the company is good."
Sitting turned and slightly off-center in my lap so we could speak face-to-face, I saw the blush that overtook Fay's face at that compliment. I was also tickled across the nose by a twitching, fluttering elven ear. And a bit of flustered shifting in my lap reminded me of the battle for immortal elf ass…
Life was good. Life was distracting. Especially since I'd likely have to wait until after Circumtore to see victory on that battlefield…
"… Atom?" Fay asked, shifting a bit more purposefully as if testing her seat. "Did you build yourself a lightsaber when I wasn't looking…?"
She trailed off, but I still answered with an amused snort, "No, I'm just always happy to see you."
Ears fluttered and flapped, "A-Ah! I see…"
A part of me still hated to miss out on the strike team action happening right now, but it wasn't all bad. I could still flatline the few snails who came to me. And I was quickly coming to find that bullying the elf in my lap more than made up for any other violence I was currently missing.
Despite standing in the middle of a warzone, despite leading a crusade, despite the chains on this world, life could still be good.
So long as we lived, tried, it would be. It was. With allies at my back, chooms by my side, purpose in front of me, and immortal elf ass in my lap… Life was good.
IIIII
— V —
"NOTHING BETTER THAN BLOODSHED AT SUNRISE," Smasher gave a nostalgic, almost philosophical sigh.
"Hutt blood kinda ruins the scene," V pointed out.
It did, too. Hutts bled a sort of mottled green-brown, far from a proper crimson to match the color of the sun-stained sky. The carnage they'd inflicted all night didn't have the right color palette, though there was still plenty of it to make up for that.
"IT'S THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING. BLOOD IS BLOOD," Smasher replied.
"Just saying," V shrugged. "Could be prettier."
"ENJOY WHAT IS, V-BRAT; FUCK WHAT 'COULD BE'."
Smasher had parked his steel ass on top of a decimated Shell Hutt to watch the brief but beautiful sunrise of Circumtore. With this scene of carnage taking place on one of the city's spires, they had a great view past the urban sprawl. It was a break from the slaughter, but they could spare the short minute or so it took for the sun to rise.
The Shell Hutt had been torn open by Smasher's Mek frame. Torn open and savaged. It was almost unrecognizable, a chimera of slug flesh and armored shell. Smasher had overcome the Hutt's durability by sheer brutal force and murdering fury. And now, he took a moment to sit atop the corpse and enjoy his conquest with the sunrise.
V just stared at him for a moment, "… Alright, what the fuck is up with you right now, Smasher?"
"LIFE'S GOOD, BRAT. IT'S ALWAYS GOOD FOR ADAM FUCKING SMASHER, BUT EVEN BY MY HIGH STANDARDS, SHIT'S BEEN PRETTY PREEM LATELY. PREEM MURDER FRAME. PREEM CHANCES TO CUT LOOSE AND GO ALL OUT WITH IT. EVEN MY LEGACY'S DOING PRETTY PREEM, WITH YOU AND THE LITTLE ONE."
"And Atom?"
"… I SAID WHO I SAID."
"You're just being difficult," V snorted.
"HE DOESN'T NEED MY PRAISE OR ATTENTION. HE'S ME, BACK WHEN I WAS STILL MEAT. 'COURSE, HE'S ALSO HIMSELF, BUT THAT JUST MEANS HE WOULDN'T GIVE A FUCK IF I DID CARE TO CARE. HE'S FORGING A LEGACY ALL HIS OWN. IMPOSING MINE ON HIM WOULD JUST INTRUDE."
"So you impose it on me and Nova, instead?"
"NAH, I'M JUST CLAIMING YOU TWO AS IS PROPER," Smasher shook his steel head. "BRATS NEED A PLACE TO BELONG TO GROW OUT OF THEIR BRATTINESS. THE LITTLE ONE'S ALREADY GOT YOU BEAT FOR MATURITY THERE, V-BRAT."
"No argument," V chuckled. "Nova's pure and perfect, the best of us. I'm just a murder jock, and kinda happy that way."
"BABY MURDER JOCK. TODDLER, MAYBE. YOU'VE TAKEN YOUR FIRST STEPS, GOT THOSE MURDERIN' LEGS UNDER YOU. BUT YOU'VE STILL GOT A WAYS TO GROW."
"Say that to anyone from Night City and see if they agree," V deadpanned.
"THE STANDARDS OF FODDER DON'T MATTER FOR NOTHING. ONLY MINE."
"I chunk through fodder for breakfast."
"NO SHIT. IT'S FODDER. CHAFF. IF YOU DIDN'T, YOU WOULDN'T BE WORTH MY GODDAMN BLOOD IN YOUR VEINS."
"I don't know why I'm engaging you," V shook her head. "I've got chrome, I've got steel, and I've got murder skills galore. To anyone else who asks, I'm a Legend in the making."
"AND TO ME, YOU'RE STILL A BABE."
"If I shouldn't judge myself by the standards of fodder, why should I judge myself by yours?"
Smasher chuckled, "HEH, APPRECIATE THE SPIRIT, BUT NAH, THAT DOESN'T TRACK. FODDER'S FODDER. I'M ADAM FUCKING SMASHER. THERE'S A WORLD OF DIFFERENCE, V-BRAT. MY STANDARDS ARE THE ONLY ONES THAT MATTER."
"Fuck you, Smasher," V rolled her eyes. "I'm my own Legend."
"UNTIL YOU BEAT ME LIKE CLONE-MEAT DID, THAT LEGEND'S STILL TIED TO MINE."
"Then I'll just have to tear your fraggin' head off, too," V shot back, challenge in her voice. "And beat Atom in the process while I'm at it. You were just a 'Borg then. I'll flatline your frame while you're a Mek."
Smasher stood from his zeroed perch, "PROVE YOU'RE WORTH THE CHANCE."
"Fuck being 'worth' it, I'll take it from you regardless."
"GOOD. BETTER. NOVA. BUT THAT'S ENOUGH FAMILY BONDING FOR NOW. C'MON, THERE'S STILL MURDER TO BE DONE."
"Family bonding," V laughed, shaking her head. "Only you, Smasher."
"ONLY ME. ALWAYS."
V let Smasher have the last word. If she didn't, they'd never stop. Smasher's arrogance was unassailable like that. Legendary, too. As insufferable as he always was, V didn't mind. She honestly couldn't imagine her life without the grumpy steel murder monster, and not just because 'handling' him was her 24/7 gig.
He was utterly unlikable. Utterly unpersonable. And utterly unapologetic about all of it. But there was a certain charm in that, too. Smasher was Smasher. He couldn't be anyone else, and wouldn't ever try.
V mounted back up in her 'Proto' steel, and they got moving again. The sunrise had passed quickly, and their gig resumed just as quickly. There were shells to crack, slugs to zero.
V couldn't say she was all that invested in the 'crusade' aspect of this invasion, but she didn't need to be. The Freed and Freest Legion more than made up for her lack of religious fervor with their own. She was here for the Gonk side of things, the conquest and expansion. Improving the Gonk position improved her own, after all. Arasaka had firmly thrown their lot in with the Gonks, and the Core Gonks were chooms beyond that.
Plus, where Atom went, where he took his Gonks, preem action was sure to follow. The chances were too good for anyone building their Legend to pass up.
Smasher was right there; V's building Legend was firmly tied to his. But she knew she had what it took to make the cut regardless. All it took now was making everyone else see that, making everyone else see that she was a monster all her own, not just the handler to one.
Proto became her bigger body as she linked in with her Mek. Smasher was already trying to leave her in his dust. With a lazy kick, repuslorlifts boosted her after him. They picked up the rest of their strike team on the way.
"Seems even monsters need their rest," John Doe, the MaxTac samurai squad leader assigned to Smasher, commented.
"EVEN MONSTERS CAN ENJOY THE SUNRISE, MORE LIKE," Smasher shot back. "DON'T GO THINKING I'M HUMAN, WEAK AS MEAT. THIS MONSTER'S ALL METAL."
"Trust me, Smasher," John Doe deadpanned. "None of us would ever make that mistake."
"Maybe it's a sign he's going psycho, neh?" V teased.
"'COURSE I'M PSYCHO. ALWAYS HAVE BEEN," Smasher grunted back. "IT DON'T MEAN SHIT TO ME. I'M BUILT TOO DIFFERENT."
"We're waiting for the day your kill order is signed, Smasher," John Doe said, a certain eagerness and readiness always underpinning his words when he spoke to Smasher.
"YOU'LL BE WAITING FOREVER, THEN."
V found their dynamic — Smasher vs. MaxTac — hilarious. Zeroing Smasher would be the Legendary peak to any MaxTac career. They existed to one day, maybe, slay the monster. Or at least try. Being so close to their ultimate prize, in new equipment that might've flatlined the beast, must've stung.
And to Smasher, MaxTac was just more challengers coming for his throne. There was a certain respect there, as much as Smasher could manage it. But he also wasn't at all intimidated by MaxTac's psycho-zeroing rep. They might be bogeymen to most of Night City, but Smasher didn't know the meaning of fear.
Best of all, both sides were forced to play nice with each other, even before MaxTac signed on with the Gonks. Smasher wasn't some street cyberpsycho. That kill order MaxTac was anticipating would likely never be signed. But they could always dream Legendary dreams…
Since they couldn't try him directly, MaxTac resorted to conquering their once-chrome, now-steel whale through competition. They turned their newfound steel to more productive ends, with snails to keep the score. If V could see that, Smasher could too. He welcomed the challenge.
The capital of Circumtore — Circuit — was the playing field of their competing strike team. The gig was to cry havoc, loose the dogs of war, and zero any sluggin' masters that held control over the world's slave legions. Smasher and MaxTac tried their best to one-up each other in that task.
V got in on the fun, too, keeping her own tally. It was a target-rich environment, and they had Meks to rampage through it. 8 vs. 1 vs. 1; even if those 8 were all Gen3s, the scales shouldn't have been equal. But Smasher was Smasher, and V was V — nearly as good, if she said so herself.
The dense urban sprawl they rampaged through was familiar in nature, if not in the detes. Twisting, turning streets and alleys and airways. Levels to that shit, without much of a border between under and upper city. Instead of districts or gang turfs, Circuit was sectioned up by Shell Hutt and their slave legion.
That last, thankfully, made rampaging through the city rather straightforward, especially since they didn't have to discriminate at all. If it was a Shell Hutt, if it owned a legion, it was free game to be zeroed and zeroed hard.
Their strike team picked up right where they left off. They worked their violent way down the city spire Smasher had stopped to watch the sunrise from. They competed by section, with Smasher getting half the MaxTac 'support' and V getting the other half. It seemed some of their rivalry with Smasher had bled over onto her.
That alone was a thrill, having the attention of MaxTac. She wasn't about to go psycho, but MaxTac was Legendary for a reason.
*SHOO-CRK! SHOO-CRK! SHOO-CRK! SMAA~AASH!*
Proto's Gauss auto-rifle let out a quick triple burst. The dense slugs accelerated from the barrel near-silently, barely a whisper until they went hypersonic with resounding cracks in open air. Quicker than a chrome blink, the slugs crashed into the armored shell before her.
Even on Mek-scale, V still had her preference for projectile-based iron. She had shoulder-mounted blasters, too, and an ion-pulse underbarrel shotgun, and a lethally silent beamer mounted in her torso, but for her big iron, it could only be Gauss.
The Shell Hutt she was shooting at charged forth on skittering metal legs, more a creepy crawler than a snail. Its shield took some of the hypersonic punishment, but the dense slugs still slipped through, 'merely' supersonic before impact. They cratered the armored shell. One ricocheted to trip up those skittering legs.
Still, the Shell Hutt danced. Skittering legs caught its weight and continued its charge at V. The thermal lance in its hands was lowered into the charge, tip burning blue.
V side-stepped. Her free Mek arm came up, and a steel mantis blade sprang from its forearm. She'd included it just to fuck with Smasher, usually much preferring versatile monowire.
The lance was slapped to the side, steel sliding against steel. Proto stepped into the charge with a mere twitch of V's mind. The beamer mounted in her torso flicked on at close range. It didn't even hum. But that silent beam was still Hell on anything 'ganic.
Proto's reactor kicked into overdrive. Enough energy to power a starship, hyperdrive and all, poured forth, unseen and unheard. The beam bypassed physical armor completely, and with the shield already down from her Gauss burst, the slug within its creepy-crawling shell began to cook.
The flesh rebelled, but the slug still powered through to fight. All along the side of its shell opposite the thermal lance, half a dozen blaster cannons buzzed and snapped, barking brutalizing bolts.
They were shot within Proto's shield envelope. V contorted her steel frame as easily as she would her real body. With mere inches to spare, the bolts slipped past her. All the while, she kept the slug under her cooking beam.
Slug meat evaporated within the sealed shell. V saw the glow of heat transfer to the metal from within. The Shell Hutt's vaunted shell became the not-so-slow cooker that would be its tomb.
Pressure built until the sealed shell burst at the seams with a thunderous blast. There wasn't even any flesh left to be forced out with the pressure explosion. Just meat-turned-steam-and-smoke.
Hutts were durable in the extreme. But even they couldn't survive being high-energy nuked within a sealed shell.
V scored the lead Shell Hutt of the section for herself, but her MaxTac 'support' wasn't far behind in claiming the other Shell Hutt present. She still beat them for style, though. They'd just blasted the thing until it stopped moving. V had made Hutt roast.
Over comms, V heard Smasher add 2 out of the 3 Hutts present in his section to his score, describing how he zeroed them in brutal, visceral detail.
"BEAT A HUTT WITH ANOTHER FRAGGIN' HUTT. SMASHED 'EM GOOD. AGAINST EACH OTHER. THINK THEY'RE SO HOT, BUT STEEL USED THOSE SLUGS LIKE IRON. CRACKED 'EM OPEN ON EACH OTHER AND SPLASHED THE MEAT LIKE LIQUID. BEAT THAT, MAXTAC."
"We got the last," John Doe reported. "'Nade overload, nothing special. Just make a hole in the maw and start feeding the slug all your ordinance. They chunk it like candy. Thermal detonator candy… Vaporized from the inside out. Serves their gluttony right."
Chuckling, V called her own flatline over the comms, "I made myself some Hutt roast, not-so-slowly cooked within its artisanal shell. Anyone hungry?"
"MAKE THAT ZERO GOURMET," Smasher chuckled.
"Not bad, not bad," John Doe praised.
"There's some good irony in feeding a Hutt their doom, too," V returned the compliment.
"SMASH 'EM, SALT 'EM, STICK 'EM IN A STEW," Smasher encouraged, reveling in the murder.
"Shit, salt! Salt the slugs!" V exclaimed. "Does that work? Is anyone carrying, like, industrial quantities of salt by any chance? I feel like that deserves to be tested."
"Unfortunately, salt isn't in my usual mission loadout," John Doe deadpanned.
"IF WE'RE ZEROING SLUGS, IT MIGHT HAVE TO BE FROM NOW ON," V could hear the vicious grin in Smasher's words.
That became part of their competition after that: the style points. It wasn't just how many Hutts they flatlined; it was how nova they looked while doing it. They had to get creative with their violence. And that just made everything more fun, more preem. They worked their way through the strike mission, securing increasingly elaborate zeroes everywhere they went.
"Cut a Hutt in two, shell and all," V reported in another section, securing another zero to her score. "Both halves were still squirming. Anyone know if that's how the slugs breed?"
"Wouldn't surprise me too much," John Doe chuckled.
"IF IT IS, JUST MEANS YOU GET TWICE THE SLUG TO STOMP," Smasher said.
MaxTac followed her example, 'experimenting'. They used their numbers to surround a Shell Hutt, and then used their Gen3 strength to grab and pull in every direction. Boosted by repulsorlifts and myomer, eventually, something in the Hutt gave. Arms, tail, torso, head, bits and pieces went flying with MaxTac's cruel tug-of-war until even Hutt durability couldn't keep Sluggy Dumpty livin'.
Smasher, as always, forged his own way through violence. He peeled a Shell Hutt legion leader out of its shell. Then, he threw the meat to the waiting legion; these fighting slaves were almost ferally broken at the slug's whip. They fell upon it without hesitation once the slave controllers in its shell weren't there to keep them in line. That legion all but freed themselves with brutal mob violence.
V used Proto to disarm a Shell Hutt, tearing every weapon from its shell. Then, she hopped out to get her hands dirty in the chrome and flesh. Scrambling all over its shell untouched, her monowire diced and diced and diced away until only even, uniform chunks of slug meat remained.
They were showing off just as much as they were closing the contracts they'd been given. Unstoppable, they worked their way down the city spire. A dozen, two, ten Shell Hutt masters fell silent along their warpath. Then more and more, until Smasher, V, and MaxTac had all racked up triple-digit scores. Even then, they didn't stop.
They were there to strike. To decimate and obliterate and zero to their hearts' content. Every Shell Hutt was free game, all acceptable targets. They didn't much concern themselves with the aimless slave legions they left behind. Their unchained siblings of the Freed and Freest Legion would be coming in behind to clean up; V, Smasher, and MaxTac were just there to get violence done.
That wasn't to say the Shell Hutts didn't put up a good fight. Each was dangerous, each was a test of their murder skills. But their strike team was just too good to be caught up, bogged down, or even think of losing.
A Shell Hutt missile boat, carrying enough ordinance to zero a capital-class starship and enough reloads to take on a whole fleet, tried its luck. It thought itself safe in its shell, able to rain hellfire upon all comers. The strike team was ambushed by them while moving from one section to the next. Instantly, they switched targets to the source of the concussion missile hail that devastated their surroundings and splashed their shields.
The Missile Shell Hutt perched itself on a higher level of an adjacent spire, entirely willing to bring down the whole thing on the strike team's head. But in doing so, in firing, it exposed itself. MaxTac coordinated perfectly, with John Doe calling the shots. They were a lethal, cyberpsycho-zeroing unit, and they turned that teamwork to zeroing slugs.
A single shot from each of their Gen3s' big iron blaster rifles — every one found its mark on the Missile Shell Hutt. They sniped the threat from afar, even under the hail of shattering firepower. Its shield fell. Its armor failed. Plasma penetrated into the missile magazine. For just a moment, the Shell Hutt became a star in its tower.
At the top of the second spire they cleared, two sections of Shell Hutts teamed up to try them. Five in total, but they were actually working together. Or trying to, at least. They had nothing on MaxTac's coordination, or on V and Smasher murdering as one.
V flatlined the systems of one Hutt's shell with an overcharged pulse of her underbarrel ion shotgun. With a crash, the shell's repulsorlifts failed. It was rendered an immobile brick of armor, sluggin' flesh trapped within. V left it like that, moving on to more interesting targets.
A trio of MaxTac Gen3s broke down another Shell Hutt's shield. Scattershot and blaster bolts, they overloaded it in a beautiful scene of overwhelming firepower. V swooped in once the shield fell, Proto's mantis blade slicing straight into the Shell Hutt's skull. That didn't kill it, of course, but the heavy blaster bolts she sent into the wound certainly helped the zero along.
Brain stabbed and half-vaporized, the Shell Hutt still turned on V with a great swinging vibrosword. It carved a deep gash along her steel arm and side torso. Her MaxTac 'support' rushed in beneath the Shell Hutt's shifted focus. They planted thermal detonators everywhere they could reach, six lethally blinking lights. V flipped away from her new target just in time to be blinded by the contained nuclear blast.
Nothing remained of the Shell Hutt when her vision returned. MaxTac had stolen that flatline from her. But fair was fair; V had tried to steal it first.
A third Shell Hutt had already fallen by the time V looked for another zero to add to her score. It went the way of Death From Above. Four MaxTac Gen3s flew themselves high and crashed down on the armored slug. They took turns about it, moving from their impact the moment another fell to take their place, crushing the slug again and again until there was only sluggin' pulp left.
John Doe was taking on the fourth Shell Hutt alone. That one moved more like a giant metal snake than a slug or snail. The MaxTac sergeant took it upon himself to box the 'snake' with steel hands. Man vs. Monster, just what he lived for. He ducked and weaved; the snake couldn't touch him. And while it didn't look like he was doing much damage, he was clearly having fun.
Smasher, meanwhile… V turned to his fight just in time to see him grab his Shell Hutt by the tail. He planted his steel feet. His whole torso began to turn, dragging his captured prize into the rotation. Shaking, quaking, spinning like nothing else, Smasher built momentum until he and the grabbed slug were a blur.
Then, once he was seemingly satisfied with the momentum, he pitched back and released. The slug was thrown high and far. It didn't seem likely to come back down. It disappeared from view quicker than a blink. Proto's systems tracked the accelerated flight and projected the trajectory. Up, up, up…
V realized… Smasher had just thrown an armored slug, impossibly, at escape velocity.
Then, V heard Smasher call in his Hail Mary over comms, "YO, FLEET-MEAT. THERE'S A LITTLE PRESENT COMING YOUR WAY. OBLITERATE IT FOR ME, WILL YOU?"
"What?" David's voice replied over comms, sounding understandably confused. "What are you talking-…? Oh. Oh, I see it. That… That's a Shell Hutt. That's an orbital Shell Hutt. How the fuck-…?"
"DON'T QUESTION, JUST OBLITERATE. I PITCHED THAT ONE UP TO YOU ALL EASY LIKE. UNLESS YOU CAN'T HIT THE SHOT…?"
"Fuck off, Smasher! I can hit that with my eyes closed!" David snapped back, distracted from the impossible by Smasher's challenge.
"THEN HIT THAT SHIT, FLEET-MEAT."
Above, along the trajectory Proto projected for the flying Shell Hutt, there was a burst of turbolaser red. Then, the impossible was no more. Launched like a rocket, blown to bits like one, too. Smasher flexed his steel like he was stretching, casually adding the latest zero to his score.
"Right," V decided, then and there. "I think that means Smasher wins. There's no topping that."
Smasher just chuffed, "'COURSE I WIN. I'M ADAM FUCKING SMASHER. AND IT'S GOOD TO BE KING."
"You don't make it easy to forget," V deadpanned.
"HEH. LIFE'S FRAGGIN' GOOD, V-BRAT. BUT MURDER IN STYLE CAN ALWAYS MAKE IT BETTER FOR MONSTERS LIKE US. REMEMBER THAT. NOW, C'MON, SAMURAI. THERE'S STILL MOST OF A CITY TO BURN. OUR GIG AIN'T FINISHED YET."
IIIII
[AN: Alright, y'all. There will only be three more chapters of this for now (including this one), enough to finish off the Circumtore arc and get Fay the smut she deserves, but then, that'll be all for KYBER-PUNK for now. It's been a good run, but I do have other projects I want to focus on. Like The Grind, Dead End, and most immediately, something new. I'll come back to this story eventually, though.
My next project has already been started on my patreon (pat reon.com/dryskies_btb) if you're interested in reading it early. It's a Worm fic titled 'Greater Wyrm', my Dragon-in-Worm idea from a while back. The first arc of it is already done, and I'm really liking it so far. Hopefully, you all will too.
It should start going up publicly the week after next. Since I forgot to post last Sunday, this will be a three-chapter week to finish off KYBER-PUNK. Then, I'll take a week off before posting Greater Wyrm.
Anyway, that's just an update on my writing agenda. As always (and since I haven't said it in a while), thank you all for the support. I can do what I do because of you :]