Southside Chicago. October 9th, 2072. 5:24pm - 60th floor.
Gardener looked around in the near black of the upper floor while his radar periodically pinged. It didn't seem to pick up anything new above him, even though he was much closer now. Cubicles, chairs and old-fashioned workstations seemed to dominate this section. Looking around didn't reveal much either. He needed his lowlight lamp to see anything on the visual. thermo showed some cold spots on the floor that proved to be bio-filth from the gargoyle's long occupation of the place. Jack finally pulled himself up and was overwhelmed with the stink of the place. The smell of smoke, chemicals, and shit made him gag and slap on his gas mask. The scene was wretched. Piles of waste were festooned with little pieces of gear, clothing and bones. He didn't want to look through it, but he knew he had to. Taking out the micro-transceiver he had often used to stay in contact with his brother while guarding a shipment to the Midway airstrip, he closed his eyes and pressed the call button. In the darkness to the right of the hole, he heard its response. He knew it would be bad, coming up here. He had no idea the kind of spiraling hate he would feel in this moment, seeing this horrible place, and knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that some fucking monster ate his brother, digested him, and shat him out on the floor. His brother was a pile of crushed bones and monster shit on a filthy floor. His rifle sat on the ground, barrel bent and stock cracked from being repeatedly beat against the Gargoyle's unforgiving form. It was an exceptional rifle, which had protected them both for seventeen years. His brother had protected him, until Jack was old enough that they could protect each other. Not anymore. Not ever again. The thought felt like some sad, disgusting, horrible thing thrashing and squirming in his mind. He felt for a moment as though he might go mad from the hate, but before he was reduced to sputtering and frothing. His brain lit up with a flash, like a crack his darkening features. He turned towards the nearby stairs, momentarily puzzled, but this time he was sure. He heard it again. A short chittering screech. Jack swung his rifle around and cracked a smile like an open wound. It was like the universe was telling him that things would be okay. It had provided him with exactly what he needed at this moment, some god-fucked little monsters to kill.
Southside Chicago. October 9th, 2072. 5:24pm - 87th floor.
After another couple minutes of searching and reading, Code managed to find a trid-discussion group which wasn't absolute meme-ridden garbage populated entirely by developmentally-stunted children who list their top five movies as the last five movies to recently came out. It was a long, hard search wading through so much of that... But this one group he stumbled on seemed to care about things that happened longer than a week ago, and longer ago than the '63 Crash as well. This specific discussion was about Holland Greene's retirement in '58. The consensus was that it was odd. He hadn't released anything of note for a couple years, but he was a uniformly known as a real tradecraft guy. Few people were as into entertainment as Greene, and those crew people who had worked with him, of which there were a couple in the discussion, said that they'd never believe that the would just quit the biz. A few who watched him, take after take, doing his own magic instead of a stunt mage, attested that Holland worshiped art like it was a deity. Others suggested that, since he relied entirely on a stunt mage for his last couple of stinkers, it was possible that his magic was gone, both figuratively and literally, and that, without that wiz-juice, he must not have seen the point anymore. Code knew that the guy below certainly hadn't lost his magic. In fact, he was practically soaking in it.
Meanwhile, Devoted seemed to take the elf's words to heart and used this opportunity to keep an eye on the bugs trowing themselves against the mana barrier. They would circle and lunge, then circle and lunge. Their features were regular from one to the next. They all shared the same head to torso to abdomen ratio. They all had the same wing-length. They all gave the same sort of deeper wholly-alien impression, like what you were seeing was not really them, but what sense your brain could make of them, as if this bug-like form was just the tip of a horrific iceburg. As he watched, them bang and circle, he noticed that, every now and then, one would disappear and almost immediately be replaced by another. They were cycling in and out in a way which showed some sort of intelligence at work. With about ten of them flitting about, it was hard to keep track of just one. Each of them looked the same as the others so... Wait. There was one that didn't look like the others. It's torso and wings were larger, and its head was wider. And then there was another like that. And a third. They circled around and around, but they never attempted to throw themselves against the barrier. Now there were four of them. Machete noticed it too. He knew the difference they represented. Soldiers. The hive was turning militant. Holland stood up and walked over to the couch. "You need to get the kid out of here. You really need to-" One of the soldiers rammed into Holland with its head, sending him off balance. Another charged toward him, but he stepped aside, only to get caught in the back by a third. "You really really ne-" Another hit sent him sprawling over the sofa. They seemed to be trying to pummel the elf into submission. "Go. Go! No!" One of the bugs tried to grab him with its legs, but he slipped away. "I won't let you, you fuckers! I won't let you!"
