Kidnapping and Counterkill

Here was a piece of trivia that was not particularly obscure: no matter how corrupt and incompetent the noble lords of Boulder City were, a Boulder City that maintained order could still be considered a blessed haven to the wastelands of southern River Valley Province and even northern Jinchuan Province. For two hundred years, survivors had continually migrated toward Boulder City. Even now, following the collapse of the Boulder Building, that momentum persisted. Because the influx of people far exceeded the capacity of Boulder City's industries to absorb them, and the physical constraints of the Great Wall dictated that the settlement could never hold so many survivors, an entry tax ranging from one to two chips was instituted. Employed workers would not casually leave the city, scavengers toiling on the wasteland would not casually enter, and the militia stationed at the gates gained an extra stream of revenue. It killed three birds with one stone. The massive surplus labor force, along with the resulting unemployment and informal labor, gradually gave rise to ownerless enclaves—the slums. The people here usually survived on the refuse flowing out from the Great Wall, or went out into the wasteland to scavenge and hunt on behalf of the survivors inside, or took on dirty, grueling jobs that those within the walls were unwilling or unable to do. Historically, Boulder City had attempted to clear away this psoriasis clinging beneath the Great Wall, but repeated tries only proved it to be a thankless endeavor. Throwing together a shanty was a skill virtually every wasteland survivor possessed; tear one down today, and scavengers would build it right back up tomorrow. What was more, whenever the Tide struck each year, the nobles of the inner city needed these bodies to flesh out the battle lines. Even the lords who habitually wrecked economic policy knew that drafting manpower from the slums caused far less disruption than pulling skilled industrial workers from the factories to shoulder rifles. Over time, shanties spread like ringworm from the base of the Great Wall out into the wasteland, forming a buffer zone perched between order and chaos. As the years dragged on, a few fairly decent buildings even cropped up here, standing out conspicuously amidst the sewage-slicked slums. Those distinctive buildings were usually the residences of gang members or businesses they ran catering to wastelanders. Order here was maintained by gang members, who were overwhelmingly scoundrels. Not only did they trade with marauders across the wasteland, but some were marauders themselves. For the Alliance, truly liberating the nearly two hundred thousand slum-dwellers beside the Great Wall required not only finding them jobs to support their families, but also rooting out the villains hiding among them. To those lurking scoundrels, that was clearly not good news... West Willow Tavern. Sitting on the second floor, Jeff twirled a dagger in his hand and gazed out at the light snow flurries drifting past the window, a faint shadow of worry etched into his grim, dour face. As the top boss of the Dagger Gang, while his bloodline was nowhere near as noble as Lord Side's, he was still an illustrious figure in this slum of nearly two hundred thousand. Anyone who laid eyes on him had to address him respectfully as "Lord" or "Mister." By all rights, a man of his standing should have had few worries, yet the string of recent events left him with a deep, gnawing unease. A newspaper boy went missing in the outer city, a revolution erupted in Boulder City, and immediately afterward the Alliance took control—it was as if everything had been choreographed. If that had been the end of it, so be it, but things clearly had not stopped there. The Alliance had begun setting up relief stations in the slums, handing out food while registering survivors' information, pitching tents, arranging jobs, and relocating groups of people... This entire series of moves kept his nerves on edge. The Alliance was shattering an unwritten understanding that had lasted a century and a half, trying to impose a new order over his underground kingdom! Worse yet, that newspaper boy was still alive and kicking, while the assassin Lord Side had hired from him had vanished into thin air... Footsteps echoed outside the door. Jeff instinctively gripped his dagger tighter and tensed his muscles, but upon hearing three long and two short knocks, his taut nerves eased. "Come in." The door opened. In walked West, the second-in-command of the Dagger Gang. Before he could speak, Jeff immediately asked, "Any news?" West shook his head grimly. "None." Jeff remained silent for a long moment, then slammed his dagger hard into the tabletop, cursing in frustration. "Damn it..." Understanding his boss's rage, West said nothing. He sighed and walked over to take a chair. "Side was buried alongside the collapsed building. 'Little Knife' is still nowhere to be found, and Sberg is alive... But none of that matters anymore. The fatal part is that our distinguished guest from the north is dead, our Selite is dead, and after spending all that time and effort, we never found the weapon." Jeff's expression grew darker. After a long pause, he asked, "What about Weilun?" "...He apparently confessed to the Alliance and boarded a transport bound for the POW camp. Who knows how long his sentence is. I suspect he might have given up our dealings with our northern guest. That's my biggest concern." Watching the silent Jeff, West paused before continuing, "On the surface, the Alliance hasn't made a move against us... but every step they take cuts straight to our throats. I suspect that once this snow melts or the spring Tide passes, they'll settle the score with us." Jeff was wary in his heart, but he put on a sneer of contempt. "What, can they send an army to mow all of us down?" "It's not impossible," West said with a wry smile. "That construction team is already infiltrating the grassroots of the slums. The more people they organize, the less room we have to hide... I even suspect they've already set their sights on you and me." Jeff's eyes narrowed slightly. In truth, he did not need West to remind him; he had felt the same way after watching the Alliance's moves. Over the last few days in particular, he constantly felt like someone was watching him. Perhaps... he should head north to lie low. Once the shockwaves from Boulder City's upheaval settled down and the dust completely cleared, he could return. After a moment's contemplation, he asked solemnly, "What's your suggestion?" West voiced his thoughts. "Shut down the operations most likely to touch the Alliance's raw nerve—things like our 'labor dispatch' and 'organ trade.' Facilities prone to trouble, like our 'hospitals,' 'kitchens,' and 'welfare homes,' need to be closed too." Jeff's brow twitched. "That's a massive amount of money." West nodded grimly. "It is... But even if we don't shut them down, our clients have mostly been wiped out anyway. Continuing to run them is pure liability." Lately, those blue jackets had been darting everywhere like lunatics, even digging up cannibal tribes holed up in tunnels for the winter. Those maneaters were genuinely repulsive, and he did not care for them either, but doing business with them had always been rather pleasant. When they caught fat sheep like traveling merchants, they ate the meat and fenced the leftover valuables and cargo through the slum gangs. All they asked in return was a few washed-up women who could not be sold elsewhere. Unlike the distinguished guests from the north, they did not care whether slaves were pretty or not; they were not picky eaters. Hearing his second-in-command's advice, Jeff stared at the dagger on the table and fell deep into thought. Two years ago, when business in Red River Town was booming, these ventures were petty profits; he would not have cared if they were ceded to the Dean Gang or the Poison Gang. Now, however, those once-petty profits made up the lion's share of gang revenue. If they cut them off, what were he and his boys supposed to eat? After pondering for a while, Jeff said slowly, "Transitioning is fine, but we need new sources of revenue." Seeing his boss finally relent, West breathed a sigh of relief and patiently continued, "My thoughts exactly... We have enough hands. As long as we launder our reputation smoothly, we can switch to a new line of work. For example, find a way to contract legitimate engineering projects from the Alliance, or open mines over toward Xizhou City. Once the permits go through, we run things our own way. The profits might not be any less than robbery and murder." Jeff nodded slowly. "Do as you say... In a few days, I plan to visit the Free State to explain the weapon situation to our client. I'll likely stay there for a while, so I leave things here to you." "Understood." West nodded deferentially, though inwardly he curled his lip in contempt. Explaining things to the client was likely an excuse; the old fox had probably wet his pants over the Alliance and had not slept a wink in days. Still, that was fine. With this guy gone, it would be much easier for him to make his own moves. By the time Jeff came back, there was no telling who would be the boss around here. Looking at his bowing subordinate, Jeff nodded slightly. Just as he was about to dismiss him, a deafening blast suddenly roared from outside the window. Both men immediately turned toward the window. Plumes of thick smoke billowed over the dilapidated street not far away, while screaming crowds scattered in all directions. "Fuck!" His newly relaxed nerves snapped taut as a bowstring once again. Jeff cursed, rising and striding to the window. "What are those idiots doing?! Didn't I tell them to keep a low profile these days?!" Staring in the direction of the billowing smoke, West's pupils contracted slightly. "The welfare home..." At the words "welfare home," Jeff's brow twitched violently. He wheeled around, marched right up to West, and grabbed him by the collar. "Take men over there right now! Move the cargo somewhere safe! Before the Alliance gets there! Move!" "Yes!" Recalling the Alliance's ruthless methods, West nodded nervously and bolted through the door without a second's hesitation. Watching the hurriedly slammed door, Jeff felt an uneasy premonition. He cursed under his breath, went to the table, and pulled out the dagger. Perhaps he ought to hole up in a safe house for a while. ... "Star anise, bay leaves, fennel... What do they even look like?" Clutching a crumpled slip of paper, Feng Qing walked through the bazaar near the Great Wall's gates, looking around in complete bewilderment. Roughly an hour earlier, she, Gui Gui, and several companions from the Goblin Corps had been in the kitchen of the Alliance military camp preparing delicacies for New Year's Eve. The ingredient was tentacles of the multi-legged beast. These mollusk-like mammals were typically active in the forest stretching between Dawn City and the Red River Alliance, with occasional, though rare, sightings in high-radiation urban ruins. Most wastelanders gave multi-legged beasts a wide berth because the creatures were not only exceptionally tough, but possessed astounding regenerative powers. Empty a whole magazine into one and severed limbs would litter the ground, only to grow right back a few days later. On top of that, its meat reeked horribly—smelling like eggs that had rotted for two weeks. Aside from organic acids, it likely contained hydrogen sulfide; virtually nobody would ever want to eat it. Yet their boss, Mosquito, had suddenly experienced a stroke of genius: "Since the multi-legged beast can take such a beating and its tentacles regenerate, if we can solve the taste problem, can't we farm it like leeks?!" Harvest a crop and another grows back—isn't this protein yield way more badass than chickens, ducks, pigs, cows, or sheep?! At first, everyone resisted because the stench was simply too vile, causing companions from other corps to eye them like freaks. Yet all of them combined could not withstand Boss Mosquito's stubborn persistence. "I'll figure out the toxins! Dammit! The periodic table is right there—I refuse to believe I can't cure a slab of meat!" "No way, no way! The meat stinks too bad! Even Elaina said it's a no-go!" "Commander! Give it up!" "Spices! Use spices to mask the odor! Hahaha, I'm a goddamn genius!" And so— She had been dispatched by the group to procure spices. Feng Qing did not really mind. Boss Mosquito had given her an errand fee of 100 silver coins. Reckless as the guy was, his generosity was beyond reproach. The problem was... She had no clue what these spices looked like, let alone what they were called when translated into the Human Alliance language. Truth be told, she could not cook at all. She had tried once in the game and nearly managed to kill herself. It was infinitely harder than flying an airplane... After circling the bazaar several times without spotting anything resembling the images she had looked up online, Feng Qing could not help but sigh. "Anyway, anything pungent should do, right?... I'll just buy whatever." If she had known, she would have dragged Gui Gui along. Seeing her wander back and forth in front of his stall, the condiment merchant could not resist asking, "Hey, miss, need any help?" Recognizing the Human Alliance words, Feng Qing stopped and nodded. "Yeah. Got spices?" The merchant scratched the back of his head. "Spices? I do, yes... but which kind do you want?" "Anything is fine." What the hell did "anything is fine" mean? The vendor paused, glancing up at a braid of garlic hanging beneath the stall canopy. "Would this do?" "That's garlic. What I want are spices..." Feng Qing frowned. "I think the kitchen already has garlic. I need something much stronger." Scratching his head, the merchant replied, "You said spices; garlic counts as a spice... Stronger? It would help if you could be a bit more specific." "Something rarer... does that count?" Feng Qing added meekly, feeling guilty. Rubbing his chin with an index finger, the merchant thought for a moment and said, "Rarer? Exotic spices? I heard Poluo Province produces plenty of pungent spices. A few days ago, a traveling merchant from down there was selling some..." Hearing this, Feng Qing's eyes lit up, and she leaned both hands on the counter. "Where is he?!" Pinned by her blazing gaze, the merchant shrank back half a step and cleared his throat. "He already left... Yesterday I saw his goods were sold out, so he's probably on his way back." Sold out already... A trace of disappointment crossed Feng Qing's face. Just then, a hearty shout came from nearby. "Exotic spices? I actually have some." The voice came from a slightly larger stall. The vendor was a young man in his twenties or thirties wearing a leather jacket, smiling warmly at her. He was not running the stall alone. Under the awning sat two taciturn youths—one twirling a dagger, the other eyes closed as if dozing, neither paying any mind to passersby. Feng Qing's eyes brightened, and she walked over at once. But sweeping her gaze across the wooden table, doubt crept into her eyes. "Are you guys... selling seasonings?" The stall was piled with miscellaneous junk: eyeglasses, rings, jewelry, assorted rifles and mixed-caliber ammunition, clothes, and backpacks. There were even several cybernetic prosthetics and mysterious electronic components. Nothing here looked even remotely like condiments. It did not even qualify as food. "Snow's falling from the sky. Naturally, we can't leave delicate, precious stuff out in the open," the man said with a smile. "The goods are back at the inn, not far from here. If you're interested, you can come with me to pick them up." Feng Qing asked worriedly, "Are they expensive?" "Not at all, not at all! You can definitely afford them!" Seeing the fat sheep take the bait, the man chuckled and kicked the teen playing with the dagger, leaving the stall in his hands. Slipping out from behind the counter, he said obsequiously, "Follow me, I'll take you there." "Mm-hmm!" Feng Qing nodded eagerly and followed behind him. Seeing this, the condiment merchant opened his mouth hesitantly to speak, but glanced around and shut it tight. The man was clearly from the Dagger Gang, and the miscellaneous items on the stall were plainly fenced loot. The merchant was here to make a living, not look for trouble; he had no desire to have his throat slit in the middle of the night. Watching the pretty young girl trail behind the gangster and disappear past the edge of the market, he shook his head and clicked his tongue. Quite a lovely girl. "What a pity." Reaching the edge of the market and seeing the NPC head toward the slums, Feng Qing tilted her head in confusion. Looking toward the towering building beside the overpass, she remarked, "Isn't the inn over that way?" She recalled that NPCs usually stayed at the Faraway Winds Hotel. The man chuckled. "That's where wealthy traveling merchants stay. Small-time peddlers like us could never afford a luxury hotel like that... Come along, it's just ahead." Luxurious...? Feng Qing glanced at the skyscraper rising as high as the Great Wall. Aside from its height, it looked fairly average to her. But remembering that this was the wasteland, she let it go. Just in case, she figured she ought to message Gui Gui. With that in mind, Feng Qing tapped her left arm's VM with her index finger and typed out a short message: [Feng Qing: Looks like I triggered a hidden quest while looking for spices! So hyped!] Drafted— Sent! Moments later, a reply came through: [Gui Gui: Hey, wait, what about the spices?! What about the spices? We're all waiting on you!!!] Feng Qing grinned and tapped out a few more words: [Feng Qing: Don't panic, don't panic.] (Failed to send) Huh? Seeing the little bubble error icon after the text, Feng Qing paused. Is the signal really this trashy? ... After leaving the bazaar, the two walked deeper into the slums. The surrounding shanties grew increasingly dilapidated, and the alleys narrower. At last, the man stopped before a rusted iron gate, unhooking a ring of keys from his belt and sorting through them. While he was occupied, Feng Qing took in her surroundings. Before her was a narrow little courtyard choked with weeds, behind which stood a three-story red-brick building. Each floor had five or six rooms, their windows hung with ragged curtains. Rather than an inn, it looked more like a dormitory or a school. Soon, her eyes caught a line of text on a rotted wooden sign—something something Welfare Home. So it really was not an inn. Pensatively shifting her gaze from the weed-choked courtyard, Feng Qing looked across the alley and met the eyes of an old woman shoveling snow. She was about to offer a smile, but the old woman's expression twisted as if she had seen the plague itself. She jerked her eyes away and ducked hurriedly into her home. Feng Qing faintly heard the thunk of a wooden bolt sliding shut. Strange... From earlier on, she had suspected she might have triggered a hidden quest; otherwise, why would there be so many armed people around? Now she was increasingly convinced that this was no inn at all, and the guy who brought her here was definitely up to no good. "Miss, you're a Vault resident, aren't you?" Hearing the man address her, Feng Qing pulled her gaze back from the alley and nodded. "Yeah. How'd you tell?" The man chuckled. "Your accent and that unique temperament of yours gave it away... Common wastelanders can't hold a candle to you." This NPC sure knows how to flatter. Feng Qing flushed slightly and smiled. "You're too kind." Having finally located the right key, the man pushed open the creaking iron gate and stepped inside first. The guy did not seem at all concerned that she might run off. Then again, it was not every day she stumbled across such an unusual quest. She had zero intention of running and followed him with curiosity. The two crossed the overgrown yard, followed a flagstone path up two steps at the entrance, and reached the front doors of the red-brick building. The man signaled for Feng Qing to wait a moment, stepped up to the wooden door alone, and tapped twice. As though waiting right behind it, the wooden door opened a crack to reveal an irritated face. She was a woman in her twenties or thirties, with messy hair and freckles beside her nose. Her features were actually quite pretty, but a burn scar on her forehead ruined the effect. Her name was Horaka. She had been a prostitute, an enforcer, and a mistress to the Dagger Gang's boss. Now, she was the head of the Gray House Welfare Home. Everyone in the slums knew her. Whenever someone's kid went missing or a girl never came home, they had either run off with a wastelander or ended up here. "Miles... what are you doing here?" Horaka kept her hoarse voice low, full of annoyance. "Didn't Mr. West say we're on pause these days?" Miles made no effort to conceal his smugness, whispering excitedly, "He did say that, but the opportunity was too good to pass up." The woman darted a glance at the young girl looking around behind Miles, and her eyes narrowed dangerously in the shadows. "A Vault resident? You're insane..." She could tell at a glance that this girl was no ordinary wastelander. "She's alone, no companions. I've been watching her for a long time. Don't be such a coward. There are at least tens of thousands of Vault residents in the northern suburbs. By the time the Alliance realizes one is missing, it'll be days later, and we'll have long since flipped her. Didn't our northern client always want to buy one?" Seeing the crazy woman glaring daggers at him, Miles chuckled hastily. "Relax... I flipped on the jammer. No signal is getting out." He naturally knew that Vault residents carried Vitals Monitors (VMs). He also knew two VMs could track each other's location—common knowledge across the wasteland, just like the blue coats worn by those "blue moles." But so what? Jamming a signal was vastly easier than tracking one. The moment they left the bazaar, he had activated the jammer. The sharpness in the woman's eyes softened slightly, and she widened the door. "Come inside to talk." With that, she looked past Miles toward Feng Qing, who was fiddling with her VM, and cleared her throat. "You come in too. It's freezing out." "Okay!" Tucking the signal-less VM back into her sleeve, Feng Qing smiled, nodded, and followed Miles into the building. The front hall was spacious. Directly opposite the entrance was a wooden stage bearing two cages welded from rebar. Shackles hung from the bars, smeared with dark stains that could have been rust or dried blood. Probably blood. The moment she stepped in, a faint stench of rotting grease hit her nostrils. Below the wooden stage sat a dozen chairs. It looked like some special show had been staged here; judging by the paddles discarded beside the chairs, they were bidding placards used for auctions. Thick dust blanketed the chair legs. This creepy facility had evidently sat idle for some time. As for how she could see all this so clearly, that went without saying. Flying hundreds of meters in the sky, she could pick out heads buried in trenches; there was no way she would miss details right in front of her face. "Excuse me, are the spices here?" Even though she knew it was pointless, she asked gently anyway. Horaka glanced at Miles, who froze for an instant before bursting into laughter as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world. "Spices? Hahaha! Hey, hey... little girl, you can't seriously still be this oblivious, can you?" Before the words finished leaving his mouth, he drew a pistol, leveled it at Feng Qing, and sneered, "Seeing this piece, you should get the picture now." Standing to the side with arms crossed, Horaka chimed in with mocking amusement, "In your next life, remember to keep your eyes open. What a waste of being reincarnated into a Vault... Don't feel too bad, though. Those lunatics up north might be wild, but it's still way better than rotting out on the wasteland." "Honestly, if you didn't have spices, you could have just said so. Got my hopes up for nothing." Instead of showing fear or panic as they expected, Feng Qing smiled faintly, pulled out a grenade, and dropped it at her own feet. "As for reincarnating... why don't we go together?" "Holy shit!" Seeing the pin bounce onto the floor and the grenade rolling toward him, Miles's face contorted in sheer horror, and he dove backward to the ground. This lunatic! Has she lost her mind?! Horaka reacted the same way, scrambling frantically to the side in terror. Almost the exact instant they hit the floor, an ear-shattering blast roared through the hall. A burst of blinding white light approaching ten million candelas forced their eyes shut by instinct. Not that it helped. Leaving aside that no one could blink faster than light, a blast of nearly ten million candelas was not something mere eyelids could block out. "Fuck! A flashbang!" Prone behind the stage, Miles bellowed in blind rage and terror, rubbing his burning red eyes with his left hand while firing wildly into the dark. Gunfire echoed through the hall, but he could not hear a thing; his brain felt like it had taken a sledgehammer blow, and his sense of balance was completely shot. At that moment, another, much larger grenade clattered right up beside him. The split second he made out its shape, his face twisted in horror. An explosive fireball erupted skyward. A visible shockwave ripped across the wooden stage, shattering even the curtained windows beside the entrance. Miles was killed instantly, without even the time to utter a dying word. Horaka slumped on the floor, looking completely paralyzed with fright. Every drop of color had drained from her face, and a puddle of yellowish liquid soaked the boards beneath her. She had been an enforcer for the Dagger Gang and had killed people, but that was back in her youth. Even back then, it was just trading handgun fire with rival gangs in the streets—she had never been hit by artillery-grade explosives! Prone in the corridor along the hall, Feng Qing shook her groggy head and pushed herself up against the wall. The flashbang had affected her as well, but nowhere near enough to take her out of the fight. She was a veteran of the battlefield, after all. Even if she could not match the heavy hitters of the Burning Corps, she was not about to wipe out against two petty thugs. Surveying the wrecked hall and the scorched floorboards, Feng Qing drew her pistol and chambered a round, muttering under her breath, "Was that explosive payload a bit overkill?" With that kind of concussive force, shrapnel felt practically redundant... Finally shaking off the aftershocks of the detonation, Horaka crawled up quietly from the floor, hoping to slip out of the ruined front hall. Yet before she could find her footing, a cold muzzle pressed against the back of her head, followed by slightly broken Human Alliance language from behind: "Don't move. I'm an Awakened, after all—I'm definitely faster than you." Horaka raised her hands slowly, trembling from head to toe. "D-Don't shoot!" For the life of her, she could not fathom how a girl who looked so polite and demure could possess such brutal, savage combat power. "I surrender!" Feng Qing stared at her and asked, "Are there other people here? Or just you?" "I-In the basement there's some cargo... no, some slaves—I mean, prisoners," Horaka stammered. There should have been more enforcers stationed here, but with business paused lately and no clients to entertain, she had been left alone simply to feed the merchandise. To avoid drawing the Alliance's attention, the Dagger Gang had disguised this place as an abandoned building. Thinking of this, she inwardly cursed the idiot who was now a corpse several times over. Had he survived, Mr. West would have chopped off his limbs and fed him to the hounds. Unbothered by her frantic slip of the tongue, Feng Qing glanced at the VM on her left arm. Still no signal. It seemed this building was equipped with jamming gear as well. Just then, hurried footfalls and shouting came from the courtyard outside—at least a dozen or twenty people had arrived. "Looks like I dropped straight into a bandits' nest." If she had known this hidden quest would be this thrilling, she would have brought Gui Gui along. Looking toward the entrance, then back at the red-named NPC shivering with her hands over her head, Feng Qing murmured to herself. Just as she readied herself to engage the enemy, a massive explosion erupted outside the windows and doors, showering snow and dirt like rain into the building. "Aaaagh!!!" Her terror completely uncontainable, Horaka was knocked to the floor and shrieked at the top of her lungs. But a moment later, a heavy strike cracked against her skull, and her eyes rolled back as she passed out cold. "So noisy." Having knocked the marauder unconscious, Feng Qing stayed low and hurried to the window. The moment she peered outside, her eyes went wide. "Is that... a missile?!" The entire front yard looked as though an excavator had torn through it, leaving a massive crater several meters wide stamped dead center. Though the blast debris had left a mess of the surroundings, none of the adjacent buildings were damaged—even the courtyard walls remained standing. Such a precision strike clearly had not come from regular artillery! Beside the crater lay several corpses scattered haphazardly, along with a few gangsters missing limbs who curled up and whimpered feebly. The detonation had occurred in an instant, far too fast for any of them to react. Through the rolling smoke in the alley outside the courtyard, intermittent gunshots and screams rang out, only to be cut short cleanly and ruthlessly without exception. The battle was completely over. A figure with a shapely silhouette crossed the dust-veiled courtyard, striding steadily toward the red-brick building. Taking in the contoured alloy cuirass, the mirror-black helmet, and the riot shield and rifle held in the woman's hands, Feng Qing's eyes shone with uncontrollable admiration. "So cool!" she could not help but murmur. What kind of gear was that?! Wait, could it be cybernetics? X-16 glanced at the Vault resident pressed against the window and lightly tapped her helmet with an index finger. "Target recovered—" "Mission complete."