NOVEL NEXT Chapter 436: Faction rage 2
[LOCATION: Planet Earth - Eastern Cardinal, Sector 7, Zone 12]
[LOCAL TIME: 14:32 Standard]
[TEMPERATURE: 23°C | Humidity: 68% | Wind: Light Easterly]
Earth's afternoon sky stretched overhead like blue canvas, unmarked by the storm clouds that usually gathered over the city's industrial districts. The air carried the scent of growing things mixed with the distant tang of beast processing facilities that operated on the city's outskirts.
A bar called the Wanderer's Rest sat on the corner of two streets that had seen better decades, its wooden facade weathered but solid, its windows clean enough to show the activity inside. The kind of establishment that catered to people who worked with their hands and preferred their entertainment straightforward.
Bruce Hilton occupied a corner table with a clear view of the entrance and enough space around him that conversations wouldn't carry. His beer was local brew, nothing fancy, and he'd been nursing it for the better part of an hour while watching the street outside.
A hovering transport announced itself with the whine of overworked repulsors struggling under excessive weight. It settled onto the street with a mechanical groan that suggested its maintenance schedule was more hopeful than realistic.
Six men climbed out, their movements showing the particular combination of exhaustion and satisfaction that came from successful hunting expeditions. Their gear was functional rather than elegant—reinforced leather mixed with synthetic armor plates, weapons that prioritized effectiveness over appearance, and the kind of boots that had been places civilized people preferred not to think about.
The beasts they unloaded told their own story.
The first was something that might have been related to a wolf if wolves grew to the size of small horses and developed scales instead of fur. Its hide was mottled green and brown, camouflage coloring that would have made it nearly invisible in forest undergrowth. Three rows of teeth filled a mouth that could have swallowed a human head, while claws the length of kitchen knives extended from paws that looked like they could crush concrete.
The second creature defied easy classification. It had the basic body plan of a large cat, but its limbs were too long, its joints bent at angles that hurt to look at, and its skin was the translucent blue-white of something that had never seen sunlight. Category 2 designation, according to the tags they attached, which meant it was dangerous to untrained humans but manageable for equipped hunters.
The third beast was the prize of their expedition—a Category 3 that looked like someone had crossed a bear with a bulldozer and then given the result anger management issues. Its hide was thick enough to turn small-caliber bullets, its claws were reinforced with mineral deposits that made them harder than steel, and even dead, it radiated the kind of menace that made civilians cross to the other side of the street.
"Look at that beauty," one of the hunters called out, slapping the Category 3's flank with obvious pride. "Took us three hours to bring this bastard down, and that's with Marcus throwing lightning bolts at it the whole time."
"Lightning bolts my ass," Marcus replied, securing the transport's cargo restraints. "Those were precision electrical discharges calibrated to disrupt its nervous system. There's a difference."
"Sure there is," another hunter laughed. "Just like there's a difference between your 'tactical beast analysis' and looking at the damn thing and shooting it until it stops moving."
Bruce watched the byplay with the detached interest of someone who'd seen similar scenes play out countless times. Hunters were hunters, whether they were chasing Category 2 beasts in Earth's wilderness or tracking alien threats across interstellar space. The personalities remained consistent even when the stakes changed.
The hunters secured their cargo and headed toward the bar, their conversation shifting from technical details to the more pressing matter of celebrating their successful expedition. They pushed through the entrance with the confident swagger of people who'd just completed dangerous work and lived to tell about it.
"Three rounds of whatever's strongest," the leader announced to the bartender. "We're celebrating."
Bruce tried to return his attention to his beer, but their voices carried clearly through the establishment's modest interior.
"You see that thing's claws?" one was saying. "Christ, they were like swords. Good thing we hit it from range first."
"Marcus nearly got his head taken off when he tried that close approach," another added. "Thing moved faster than anything that size has a right to."
"I had it handled," Marcus protested. "Strategic repositioning, not panic."
"Sure, Marcus. That's why you were screaming like a little girl."
Bruce found himself half-listening to their conversation, the familiar rhythm of soldiers discussing recent action. These weren't military personnel, but they operated in the same sphere—professionals who went places normal people couldn't survive and dealt with threats that would kill civilians.
One of them noticed his attention.
"You got a problem with our conversation, friend?" The speaker was tall, heavily muscled, with the kind of scars that spoke of years dealing with things that fought back. His tone wasn't immediately hostile, but it carried the edge that came from adrenaline that hadn't fully settled.
Bruce looked up from his beer. "No problem. Just listening."
"You hunt?" another asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. "You've got that look. Military maybe?"
"Something like that."
"EDF?" The question came from Marcus, who'd apparently decided Bruce was worth investigating. "You've got that military bearing. Straight back, eyes tracking entrances and exits. Either EDF or security work."
Bruce sighed, recognizing the direction this conversation was heading. "Former EDF, yeah. Retired."
"What'd you do? Infantry? Support? Intelligence?" The questions came rapid-fire from different members of the group, their interest apparently piqued by meeting an actual veteran.
"Research and development," Bruce replied, keeping his answer vague. "Specialized equipment testing. Sometimes more,"
One of the hunters—younger than the others, leaned forward with the kind of cocky attitude that usually preceded learning expensive lessons—laughed dismissively. "Research and development. So you were one of those rear-echelon types who never saw actual combat."
"Dave, shut up," Marcus said quietly, recognizing something in Bruce's posture that the younger man had missed.
But Dave was apparently just getting started. "No, seriously, I want to know. What's the point of the EDF anyway? Everyone knows you're going to lose to the Harbingers eventually. They're stronger, faster, better equipped, and they've been conquering systems for longer than human civilization has existed."
Bruce felt the familiar tension building behind his eyes, the pressure that came when strong emotions threatened to activate abilities he'd spent months learning to suppress.
"The EDF serves its purpose," he said carefully.
"Which is what? Buying time while the rest of us do the actual work of keeping humanity alive?" Dave's voice was rising, drawing attention from other patrons. "You guys fight Harbingers once every few months when they decide to show up. We fight beasts every day to keep them from overrunning population centers."
"Dave, seriously, shut the hell up," one of his companions said urgently.
"No, I'm making a point here. EDF veterans act like they're heroes, but what have they actually accomplished? The war's still going on, isn't it? Harbingers are still conquering systems, aren't they? Meanwhile, hunters like us are the ones actually protecting Earth from immediate threats."
Bruce stood slowly, his intention was to simply leave before the situation deteriorated further. But Dave interpreted the movement as aggression.
"Oh, now you're going to do something about it? What, you going to throw some military discipline at me?"
"I'm going to leave," Bruce said quietly. "Excuse me."
Dave stepped sideways, blocking the path to the exit. "I don't think so. You've been sitting there judging us this whole time, looking down on honest working folks. I think you owe us an explanation."
"Dave, move," Marcus said, his voice carrying real warning now.
"An explanation of what?" Bruce asked, his patience wearing thin.
"An explanation of why EDF types think they're better than everyone else when they're basically just glorified security guards who happen to work in space."
The pressure behind Bruce's eyes intensified. He could feel Dave's surface thoughts, loud and angry and full of the kind of resentment that came from years of feeling unappreciated. But there was something else underneath—calculation, planning, the kind of thinking that suggested this confrontation wasn't entirely spontaneous.
"Move aside," Bruce said simply.
Dave's response was to place both hands on Bruce's chest and shove, apparently expecting to send the older man stumbling backward.
Bruce didn't move. Dave might as well have been pushing against a tree.
The younger man's face flushed with embarrassment and anger. Without much thought, clearly, he drew back his fist, aiming for Bruce's face with the kind of telegraphed punch that would have been ineffective against anyone with basic training.
Bruce caught Dave's wrist effortlessly, his grip iron-strong despite his apparent age. Before Dave could react, Bruce stepped sideways and used the younger man's momentum to send him crashing to the floor in a textbook hip throw that made the entire establishment rattle.
Dave hit hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs in an explosive wheeze. He tried to push himself upright, confusion and rage warring in his expression.
The other hunters were on their feet immediately, hands moving to weapons with the kind of practiced motion that spoke of real experience. Beast hunting required people who could react quickly to sudden threats, and they'd apparently decided Bruce qualified.
"That's enough," Marcus said, his voice carrying authority. "Dave, stay down. Everyone else, weapons down. We don't need this kind of trouble."
But Dave wasn't listening. He rolled to his feet, his face twisted with humiliation and fury. "You think you're tough, old man? Let's see how tough you are when—"
Bruce's patience finally snapped.
The telepathic abilities he'd spent months suppressing erupted outward like a dam bursting, his consciousness expanding to encompass every mind in the immediate area. Surface thoughts became as clear as spoken words, deeper intentions revealed themselves like open books, and the careful mental barriers that protected people's privacy simply ceased to exist.
"When what, Dave?" Bruce's voice carried a cold precision that made everyone in the establishment freeze as he spoke. "When you follow through on your plan to drug your teammates' drinks so you can sell the beast cores separately and keep the profits for yourself?"
Dave's face went pale. "What—how did you—"
"Or maybe Marcus should know about your arrangement with the black market dealers who've been paying you to report on successful hunting expeditions so they can hijack other teams' kills?"
Marcus turned to stare at Dave, understanding and betrayal warring in his expression. "Dave, tell me he's lying."
"I'm not done," Bruce continued, his telepathic abilities reaching deeper into the assembled minds. "Marcus, your wife thinks you don't know about her gambling debts, but you've been covering them for six months. Tommy, your brother's been skimming from the shop's receipts. Carl, your girlfriend's been sleeping with her ex-boyfriend every Tuesday when you think she's visiting her sister."
The hunters stared at each other with growing horror as Bruce systematically revealed the secrets they'd all assumed were safely hidden. The atmosphere in the bar had shifted from hostile to terrified as patrons realized they were in the presence of someone with abilities that made privacy meaningless.
"Stop," Marcus said urgently. "Whatever you are, whatever you can do, just stop."
"He's a telepath," one of the other patrons whispered. "Jesus Christ, he's reading our minds."
Bruce felt the familiar satisfaction of watching people confront the reality that their thoughts weren't as private as they'd believed. After months of suppressing his abilities, using them felt like stretching cramped muscles.
"You wanted to know what I did in the EDF?" he asked Dave, who was backing away with obvious terror. "I extracted information from enemy prisoners. I mapped alien consciousness patterns. I spent three years inside a Harbinger's mind, learning how they think, how they plan, how they view humanity while I was sat in a chair, connected to tubes that fed me fluids and ones that passed out my fucking shit!!!"
"You know why? The minds of those fucking monsters are much more complicated than you'd think. One mistake and I'd have been killed or we lose valuable Intel!" Bruce continued, eyes roaming around the patrons.
The establishment had gone completely silent, every conversation stopped as people realized they were in the presence of someone with abilities that existed mostly in rumors and classified reports.
"And sometimes," Bruce continued, his voice carrying the weight of terrible experience, "I had to go places in those minds that no human consciousness was meant to visit. So when punk kids like you want to lecture me about not seeing real combat, it tends to irritate me."
Dave had reached the wall, his back pressed against wood paneling as he stared at Bruce with the expression of someone who'd just realized he'd picked a fight with a natural disaster.
That's when something happened.
Purple energy tore through the air near the bar's entrance, reality folding in on itself as dimensional boundaries collapsed. The energy intensified until it was almost blinding, then collapsed inward to reveal Noah stepping out of what looked like a wound in space itself.
He took in the scene—Bruce standing in the center of a terrified crowd, hunters backing away with weapons half-drawn, the general atmosphere of barely controlled panic—and his expression shifted to mild confusion.
"Okay," Noah said conversationally. "Wrong time?"