You want to charge over and take them down right there, but you hold back. They're an organization. If they're planning an attack on the concert, they definitely have backup plans.
To make absolutely sure, you spend three million credits without hesitation on the black market for a top-spec military life detection scanner.
Back in the bathroom, you switch on the scanner. Then you activate stealth. Your reflection vanishes from the mirror entirely. The device, sensitive enough to detect a rat thirty feet underground, stays dead silent. Not a single alarm.
Confirmed. A vicious smirk tugs at your lips.
The next afternoon, ticket in hand, you stroll confidently into the concert at the Dome Entertainment Complex. Pop idol Lena Park, dressed in a princess gown, sings and dances across the stage.
But after just one minute, your face changes. A sharp, needle-like pain stabs through your brain. What ordinary people hear as pleasant singing is, to your enhanced senses, wave after wave of ultra-high-frequency sound carrying mental interference.
This Lena Park. She's a sonic type gene warrior too.
A wave of disgust hits you. You turn and leave without hesitation.
Outside the venue, your mind races. Count Crimson said the night after tomorrow. That means tomorrow. You've checked the schedule. Tomorrow night, Federation senators will attend the show in person.
These lunatics are planning to take high officials hostage tomorrow. Everything clicks into place.
That night, you go to the exhibit hall to clean as usual. The moment you walk in, you snap a barely audible finger click out of habit.
The sonic feedback returns instantly, and your pupils contract sharply. The mechs that were just dead scrap a few days ago now have every internal circuit fully powered. Even that beat-up Blade mech is on standby.
They must be planning to seize the mechs for an assault. If these terrorists mount high-frequency laser cannons on the building next door, the entire entertainment complex becomes a slaughterhouse.
After your shift, you don't go home. You strip off your clothes right there and activate stealth. Like a nonexistent ghost, you make your way straight to the door of the apartment Count Crimson's group is renting.
Your sonic radar confirms the room is empty. You press close to the lock and snap a silent finger click. The lock's internal metal mechanism shatters instantly.
You push the door open. The room is spotless, but your gaze locks onto a black case on the table. A custom-coated box from Dimension Corp.
Carefully, you pry the latch open. Inside lies a device the size of a car key, embedded with a shimmering energy stone. It holds the mech they were keeping as a trump card.
You stare at the strategic-grade piece of black tech. Your heart pounds like a drum, but then a cruel, exhilarated grin spreads across your face.
You pull out a high-quality fake button from your pocket, the one you bought earlier today for 800,000. You pocket the real device and place the fake one back exactly as it was.
You think of Count Crimson's arrogant face talking about selling you off for thirty million. You smirk out loud. Want to rob people? Want to act tough? I just stole your entire trump card.
You turn and slip away, leaving no trace. Tomorrow, when these guys try to pull out their mech for a massacre, you can't wait to see their faces when they press the button on a worthless plastic toy. Pure despair and confusion.
Back home, you grip the stolen spatial button tightly, your hands and feet trembling uncontrollably. Not from fear, but pure exhilaration.
You can clearly feel the world-ending power coiled inside the energy stone. Compared to this, your usual rechargeable battery is pure garbage.
Can you absorb it directly?
Your eyes harden and you drive the power within you straight into it. The next moment, pure raw energy floods every limb and muscle like a broken dam. A surge of explosive strength fills your entire body. The pleasure is almost enough to make you growl out loud.
With this thing, you're basically a walking nuclear reactor from now on.
The next evening, acting like nothing happened, you show up right on time at the Dome Entertainment Complex.
As expected, Dimension Corp's exhibit hall is sealed shut. The executives inside have lost a priceless treasure. They're probably ready to throw themselves off a building.
Director Yu pulls out a termination contract for you to sign. "Honestly, what is Dimension Corp even doing?"
You sign your name, smirking inwardly. Their ultimate trump card is sitting in your pocket right now.
But just as you're about to leave, the bulletproof glass shatters into dust as a massive blue mech bursts through the wall like an enraged beast. Several figures in strange medieval armor, blond hair streaming, charge into the crowd like reapers.
"The Crimson Count!" Director Yu shrieks, his voice cracking. All pretense of authority gone. He abandons you and bolts.
You're swept backward, trapped inside a wall of panicking bodies. You glance back. Several high-frequency laser beams flash, and gene warriors who try to fight back don't even get a chance to react. In the extreme heat, they erupt instantly into balls of fire.
"Everyone inside. Anyone not in the concert hall within twenty minutes gets executed on site." The mech raises its cannon, letting out a cruel mechanical snarl.
Meanwhile, the massive hologram screen at the center of the complex flickers on. Count Crimson, the arrogant red-haired man you saw back at your community, appears. Beneath his boot is a heavyset man, ashen-faced, the director of the Federation Central Hospital. He holds a knight's sword glowing sapphire blue, pointing it at the kneeling executives and officials beside him.
"The Crimson Count has been silent for centuries. Today, we announce our return through action."
Count Crimson laughs with deranged glee and, without hesitation, swings the sword down. The head of a bank shareholder flies off, blood spraying. The crowd erupts in screams of pure despair.
Trampled by the chaos, you're shoved right beside the standby Blade mech. Fire suppression systems blast white foam from the explosion, turning the scene into chaos. The moment your hand touches the cold mech armor, the spatial button in your pocket resonates fiercely, as if this multi-ton steel beast has become part of your own body.
You remember Count Crimson's arrogant boast about grabbing you for research. A vicious, frigid glint flashes in your eyes. Love terrorism? Do you love acting tough?
Cursing them silently, you activate the spatial button. Right under the terrified gaze of tens of thousands, hidden by the swirling fire, the terrorists' backup mech vanishes into thin air.
Let's see what you fight with now.