SHIELD Cicada PDW

(A helical PDW)

(WARNING: its gonna be a long story post, if you don't want to read it -in which case I hate you- be prepared to scroll down a bit to get to the comments.)

 

 

A light cheery synthetic bell chime told Salem that the tram had

reached its next destination. Here though, the tram stopped, while

heavy machinery beneath noisily checked, repaired, and reset the

computer to travel the opposite direction on the track.

End of the line for this car.

Both men stepped briskly out into the terminal, quickly locating the

proper tram to transfer over to for the next leg of the commute to

Salem's place. Anvil would have to crash there until he was set up

enough to get his own place. Mentally, Salem told himself he would

eagerly await that day. Truthfully though, the odd kid was starting to

grow on him, and the prospect of having Anvil as a partner was

increasingly looking to be a good thing. All the cold stiff handshakes,

formal protocols, impersonal meetings... working for corporations was a

bleak mechanical experience that made it hard to remember what it was

like to be a normal human. Smiles, laughter, the lame jokes and the

disgusting farts, all the things that showed up on sitcoms.

They talk about it, in the various locations where bounty hunters,

mercenaries, and acquisition agents pool around discussing their work

over a drink, talk about the "human factor" the need to communicate.

Keeps all the blood, bullets, and money from going to the head and

driving you insane. There are differing opinions as to if this is a bad

thing. The guys up top, the ones that talk to CEOs face to face, get

top of the line tech, get the world on a silver platter. Those mercs

are the crazy ones, the stone cold death-machines.

Salem wasn't too keen on the idea. What was the point of money if he

was a crazed nut who was only satisfied gunning targets down? It seemed

like a foolish end, a no win situation. To chase money just to forget

it once you have it.

No, Salem would take the lower level jobs, ones that paid enough but

let him keep himself. It was this part of his mind that started warming

to the newly instated agent Anvil.

The kid kept things human.

Salem checked his watch: time to kill. Not literally, of course, though

he mentally noted to save that for when a witty pun was needed. Good

way to start a fight.

He glanced around for the vending machine he knew was at this terminal.

Over towards the one door, a massive metal cube that looked more akin

to a vault. An automated gun store.

"Here kid, I hope you don't have any plans for that paycheck already,

because I'm going to show you your first expense."

Anvil looked up, startled from his thoughts.

"Ah, cool. I wasn't really sure what I was going to do with that

anyways."

"The money?"

"Yeah."

"You're crazy. Most people go through life with a list of things they

want to buy as soon as they have the money."

"That seemed like a pretty bleak way to live."

"Heh... Yeah well," he reached the machine, and thumped his hand

against it, "This won't have everything you want, but it is a start.

Here, this first one is on me."

He swiped a card, punched a few buttons, held still for a retinal scan,

and then the machine clunked and spat out a small black case.

"Weymouth Tech C3. Cheap, but reliable. Its the pistol I prefer to use

on the field. Works good, compact, and yet cheap enough you don't have

to feel bad if things get ugly and you lose it."

He handed the case over to Matt Anvil, and gestured to the machine.

"We'll want to figure out what you are good at, and what you prefer.

You'll want to get a little of every flavor. Sure, its a lot of guns,

but you won't regret it. Even if you don't like a type of weapon, never

hurts to practice and get familiar. Sometimes you don't get a choice of

what to defend yourself with. That, and like it or not, some guns have

their place that no amount of preference can replace.

"Like me, I hate shotguns, but I have to admit the things are perfect

for home defense. So I keep a shotty at home, and bring my pistols to

work, see? So we'll get several guns. The ones you don't like you can

keep for practice and for the few occasions they are best for."

Anvil nodded, and stepped up to the vending machine's screen.

"Sounds good, lets take a look here."

 

They spent the rest of the day hunting around for guns. The vending

machines didn't have a lot of variety, and were low grade in quality.

They hit bigger manned gunships of all sorts. Picked up a nice reliable

shotgun that kept things simple, but allowed for all kinds of

aftermarket modifications for later on down the road. Anvil seemed to

take a particular liking to this, his past experience being hunting

made him familiar with shotguns and simple rifles. They picked up a DMR

from another shop, to ween his hunting rifle skills into something a

little more military grade. Salem picked one that wasn't too expensive,

later on if he took well to automatic fire they may want to replace it

with a more flexible, if shorter ranged, system. They passed up on

getting any sort of machine gun, Salem figured that if they got into a

place where they needed it, they were doing their job wrong. Anvil

agreed, opting instead to purchase a small single shot grenade launcher

that'd do in a pinch if things got messy. Sure, it was pretty low tech,

but it could compact and store discretely, and was pretty light.

They were on their way to a place Salem knew where they could get a

hold of a nice quality sniper rifle, when they came across a little

shop off a side street that caught Anvil's eye. Salem had walked past it

a hundred times and never noticed.

The place was full of military surplus, discarded and battle scarred

gear. Weapons and armor filched from firefights before the respective

corporations involved could get in to clean up the mess.

They browsed through it. A lot of good stuff for a little more than

they wanted to pay. Salem had corporate level connections that he could

access most of the gear through more legal means. A lot of the stuff

was broken, or very questionable. Brands, companies, and corporations

that Salem had never heard of, and screamed of being fake rip-offs.

Anvil was drawn towards a dark green crate towards the back.

A Shield Weapon Crate.

How the vendor got a hold of one of those, Salem couldn't imagine. It

was pretty well useless like this. Shield was a subsidiary of Green

Corp. managing their external security. This meant running the entrance

checkpoints to Greenwall, handling and exterminating and attempts at

smuggling through the wall, and protecting Green Corp execs when they

left their isolated Greenwall Zone to attend a meeting of any sorts.

They had some pretty fancy tech. Most of their weapons were stored and

transported in special crates, like this one here. Basically a complex

puzzle-box. Entirely physical mechanics, no electronics involved besides

a few side elements that had nothing to do with opening the crate. An

encrypted ID tag, a tracking chip that had been crudely dismantled by

the shop owner, and a small glowing holograph of the Shield icon.

That was it. Nothing to hack, and the crates were highly resilient to

most kinetic energy. They were designed to resist up to a point, but

anything over what they could resist would blast through like butter.

This posed an interesting problem to would be looters. To get enough

power to break it, would be more than enough to incinerate whatever was

inside. The charges, or whatever was being used, would just melt

straight through and decimate the contents as soon as it reached past

the resistance point of the crate.

The shopkeeper noticed Anvil studying the crate and yelled out, "That

piece of junk? I thought it'd bring me a fortune, but the damn thing

can't be opened. I wish I never laid eyes on it." Anvil only smiled at

this, and the shopkeeper grew angry. "You think that is funny? Think it

is that simple? The stupid thing is designed to destroy the contents if

you try to blow it open. Tell ya what, if you can open it, you can have

it!"

Anvil grew serious suddenly. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. Its worthless to me, worthless to everyone. You can have

it! Hell, I don't even care if you can open it anymore. Just take it,

let it be your curse. I need the shelf space."

"Thank you sir, but I couldn't take it without paying."

"Its worthless."

"Only because it is shut, the contents could be priceless."

"Yeah, that’s the problem ain't it? I don't care anymore."

"Then at least let me pay you a little."

"Its your money boy, I ain't gonna complain if you throw it away. But

that thing is worthless."

Anvil only smiled and payed the man.

He left with the crate, and carried with him the rest of the way home.

They bought a sniper rifle, and like the other guns they sent it home

on a PackBot Delivery Unit. But the case Anvil kept with him, insisting

on carrying it personally.

It wasn't until they got home to Salem's apartment that, once sure no

one was watching, he set the crate on the table and let his finger rest

on the top, feeling the plates of its surface.

"You can really open that?" Salem's voice communicated skepticism as he

made his way to a small fridge and pulled out a carton of milk.

"Shh." Was the only response he got.

Slowly then, as if following a pattern painstakingly memorized, Anvil's

fingers pushed and rotated the circular tiles, building speed until his

fingers were moving faster and faster in complicated patterns. Salem's

eyes couldn't keep up, and gave up watching to finish pouring a glass

of milk. When he looked back the crate was open. Anvil stood before it,

holding a helical SMG of sorts emblazoned with the Shield trademarks.

Salem barely caught the carton of milk before it hit the floor.

"How... I don't... Never mind, I'm too tired for this."

 

*NOTICE: The above text is a work in progress trial run for a planned

literary work. Though subject to change and alteration, it represents

the majority of planned content for the final product. As such, the

ideas, characters, setting, and story written above is reserved as

intellectual property of C. J. King.*

 

Feedback and comments on the story are more than welcome, wanted in

fact.

 

Credit to Xan for inspiration on the sight.

Done