Incursion (II)

Vroom!

The throttle of a combustion engine roared. As much of a rarity as they were these days, it wasn't the engine itself that had caught Cyril's, as well as the other pedestrian's attention. Right as he reached a broad intersection, his gaze was forcibly drawn up the road, locking on to the oncoming procession of vehicles he was all too familiar with seeing—Longinus' emergency response vehicles.

Two armored cars, both tinted black, were speeding down the road at a frightening pace, fervently trying to keep up with a double decker bus leading them on. The armored vehicles resembled modified APCs, and though the road itself was somewhat clear, the stoplight was currently on red, but that seemed to matter little to the tinted cars, they would let nothing disrupt the conclusion of their heated pursuit.

Cyril watched the strange scene unfolding before him with obsessive interest. He knew full well that the risk of direct harm would only increase the longer he stood there, and yet, his perception of time was starting to slow the more he observed the situation.

Several things were either out of place or just didn't make any sense at all. The first was the way the armored vehicles were acting, the transport cars would slam into the side of the double-decker bus at every given opportunity, occasionally drifting off course and smashing through anything that was nearby—lunch tables, other vehicles and clueless passerby's. Even if the ones inside the bus had actually broken the law, using such a reckless tactic in a public space was bound to do more harm than good.

Considering the fact that neither of the armored cars had managed to put more than a few scratches on it, the bus itself must have undergone some form specialized modifications for it to be able to outrun emergency response vehicles to such an extent.

Horns blared as the vehicles approached, prompting whoever was nearby and resourceful enough to react in time to seek cover through whatever evasive maneuvers their bodies would allow.

Regardless of whether they were superhuman or not, it was a bad idea to stand in the way of something so dangerous. The red double-decker smashed through the stoplight post with a thunderous crash, unable to maintain a steady course after being dealt a coordinated blow by the armored pursuers closing in.

A screeching sound tore through the air, driven by the shrill cry of the bus's thick tires clawing at the asphalt as it swerved into the intersection. The driver had to be skilled—somehow, he managed to channel the vehicle's drag into the rear wheels, using it to initiate a masterful drift. Thanks to the earlier sway, he realigned the bus's course and angled it perfectly for a sharp turn.

But just before he could follow through on the escape plan, a new variable crashed into the equation.

Cyril's body moved before thought could catch up. Without wasting a second, he turned toward the highest vantage point in sight—a two-story family restaurant—and scaled it with enough finesse to embarrass any primate.

Then came the dealbreaker, barreling into the scene like a bullet train. Another double-decker, flying in from an adjacent road, slammed into the fleeing bus and flipped it over like it was nothing more than an empty barrel. The impact shook the darkened streets with a thunderous boom, sending metallic scraps, glass shards, headlights, and all manner of mechanical debris whirling through the air. Shrapnel sliced through the wind and tore into the banners of nearby businesses lining the road.

A rain of fragments began to fall, slow and chaotic, soaked by the drizzle of evening rain—one thunderous roar fading into another. When the tremors subsided, all that remained besides the wreckage was a bit of smoke, the toppled double-deckers, and absolute chaos.

The sound of the collision alone was enough to scare off the onlookers nearby. Ravenspurn being the educational sector meant that it naturally didn't have many civilians that could respond to such high-octane situations lurking on every street corner. It was thanks to the demographic being the way it was that no civilian cars were directly caught up in the collision. There weren't enough cars around for that, and the ones that were present had already sped off down the wet roads.

Cyril slowly lifted his head over the edge of the rooftop.

He could hear the faint sounds of panic reverberating through the family restaurant he had scaled earlier, but so far, no one had come out to assess the situation directly, and for good reason. A few armed men emerged from the armored Longinus vehicles—four in total, wearing equipment that strongly invoked the image of riot gear, but instead of carrying shields and batons, their hands rested comfortably on the rubber grip of modified assault rifles.

Their backs were turned to him, but he was close enough to see that their equipment eerily resembled the gear used by Longinus' suppression units.

Who are those guys?

He would have loved to ask them that question directly, but considering they were the ones chasing the double-decker to begin with—and given their casual, almost contented demeanor—he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. For members of law enforcement to remain so unfazed in the face of such devastating wreckage was unheard of, no matter how you looked at it.

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The men briskly approached the toppled double-decker, their downturned weapons barely swaying in hand as they marched towards the wreckage. The resulting crash earlier had produced two drastically different outcomes for both vehicles, despite them supposedly being of the same build.

The bus that was desperately attempting to shake their pursuit had toppled over onto its side after being rammed at full speed, however, aside from the impact sending it skidding along the asphalt, the double-decker had suffered no major deformities to its structure. Even the windows and windshields—some of which were cracked but not broken—could only loosely be described by the word 'damaged".

The same couldn't be said for the other vehicle, the one that flew onto the scene shooting like a bullet train. It was virtually a complete replica of the bus it sent flying earlier, but unlike that one, which had suffered only minimal damage, its front end was shattered beyond recognition—crumpled up like an old aluminum can. It had also toppled over from the impact, still wisping black smoke from the engine groaning out a low rumble.

An alarm had sounded from the crash—an incessant blooping noise designed to draw as much attention as possible. Cyril recognized the sound. As he moved closer, something about the wrecked vehicle immediately caught his eye.

A laterally mounted device was bolted to the top of the destroyed bus. Though damaged, its purpose was still clear: a three-dimensional radar system that mapped its surroundings using sound waves and a suite of other scanning technologies.

If it had equipment like that, then it could only mean one thing.

That bus is automated. But if that really is the case, it shouldn't have come speeding in like that.

Ravenspurn, with its low vehicle density and large student population, was no stranger to automation. Vehicles like this were common on its streets, used for a variety of different purposes, including simulations and experiments. However, while they were often seen in the area, they weren't manufactured there. Most of Babylon's logistics and industrial production took place in Sector Four—the sprawling maze of metal and concrete officially known as Wharram.

It wasn't strange for an automated vehicle to be in the school sector, however, the fact that it had deliberately used itself as a battering ram against the suspiciously durable double-decker still couldn't be overlooked.

Even with all the experiments done in Ravenspurn over the years, such a thing had never happened before, the biggest malfunctions automated vehicles had nowadays came down to simple glitches like them occasionally taking a wrong turn somewhere.

The men in black crept closer, drawing Cyril's attention as they moved to confront the downed driver. It was another man wearing military gear, who had crawled through the open window on the driver's side of the toppled bus. The driver's slow, terse movements utterly betrayed his condition, upon raising his head, the first thing the man saw was the muzzle of a dripping assault rifle—hovering mere inches away from his forehead.

When faced with something like that at point blank range, the cracked helmet covering the top half of his face couldn't offer much protection.

Cyril heard a loud groan, as if someone's failed attempt at a shout had been stifled prematurely, then the lone blast of a single gunshot rang out, lulling the downpours drab melody for a brief moment. In the hundred or so years since Ragnarok, research into the various methods capable of bypassing the aura of magical entities were explored, and in modern day, the culmination of those efforts led to the creation of bullets capable of doing just that.

Morphonic Projectile Rounds.

Bullets made of mithril—a lattice formed from the most resilient dungeon material, hailed for its rate of high magical conductivity and structural resonance. The bullet tips were coated with mithril, and upon making contact with a deviant's aura, it would siphon off just enough mana in a fraction of a second for the bullet to pierce through.

MP rounds were only effective up to a certain extent— their functionality dropped sharply past certain thresholds. The decline was disproportionately steep—B-rank deviants would sustain only minor wounds from a direct hit, and A-rank entities and above radiated auras so dense that the rounds' siphoning effect became virtually meaningless. In such cases, the efficiency of M.P. rounds dropped by over ninety-nine percent, far below the acceptable margin for a weapon meant to counter magical threats.

Evidently, the driver hadn't been blessed with such resilience—fragments of bone, flesh, and brain matter floated in the viscous red pool, stirred by the relentless rain

Bearing witness to the execution made Cyril's eyes widen. That was a normal human reaction after all, but the parameters of the word 'normal' varied greatly when applied to him. Witnessing murder firsthand would certainly be traumatic for any other teenager, as it once was for him, but humans had a surprising way of acclimating to things with time.

Unless he found himself in a situation that truly pushed the bounds of his 'normality', the boy wouldn't be so easily shaken by something as trivial as murder. After dispatching the guard, the armored men gathered around the bus and heaved it upright with their bare hands, a feat fueled by a level of physical strength outside the bounds of normal humans.

The rain was starting to pour down harder, and yet, despite being on top of a roof in the dark, braving the tempestuous winds, Cyril couldn't find the strength to tear his eyes away. Far too many irregularities were afoot for him to simply just turn tail now.

After two of the men commandeered the tinted double decker bus, the other two returned to the nearby armored vehicles. As they passed by the building he was seeking refuge on, a snippet of their conversation drifted into Cyril's ears, fueled by the dread lurking in the man's voice.

"We need to move, they've probably caught onto us by now, and the last thing I want in this weather is a Saint on my ass."

"Agreed" the other man retorted languidly, though Cyril didn't seem to register his input. He lowered his head at the slightest mention of a 'Saint' and instantly reached for the phone tucked in his blazer pocket. To his knowledge, only one such entity existed within the bounds of the city's walled perimeter.

The screen lit up, pelted by the ceaseless rain, but Cyril paid it little mind. His fingers were already moving—fervently tapping across the glass, as if guided by muscle memory rather than thought.

He instantly dialed a number and lowered the volume, taking the time out to wonder why he didn't have her on speed dial. The phone rang for less than five seconds before Alice's voice beamed through the speaker.

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