When he spotted one of the Homo-54s heading in his direction, he pretended to be confused. He fussed, ran along the roof, searching for a way inside the building. Inwardly, he was jubilant — his hunt had begun.
Chapter 11. Direct Occupation
Tekot Smul quickly found a good ambush spot – a series of adjoining, uncluttered rooms that suited his task. With a predatory smile, The set about his plans. The ambush place had to be properly prepared.
“Done,” he said upon completion, pleased with his work. Just to be sure, he double-checked everything. Finding no fault in the trap he had set up, he nodded contentedly and took up a position above the doorway. Having fixed himself with special belts, he lay in wait.
“Where are you, my game?” he muttered under his breath. “Where are you, my meat, my live bait, my long-awaited prey? Hurry up, my dear… I am waiting for you.”
***
I have to hurry, AK-47 thought as he ran. Despite this stranger’s mysterious appearance on the roof, he didn’t want to miss the battle or the collecting of trophies.
AK-47 burst into the courtyard of the building and crashed straight through the broken window. With a playful intonation, he shouted, “Hey! Herald of Hell. Answer me!”
Nobody responded. But somewhere above, he heard a stomp, followed by the crunching of broken glass. He located the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Mate! Don’t be afraid of us, bro! I’m from the Ice Vigor clan, have you heard of it? Ah?” Again, no answer, but he’d already located his target well. At the top of the stairs, he saw a man with a frightened face. The stranger waved his hands and yelled something incoherent. Then he sprinted away like a frightened moose.
What a fool… Where are you going? AK-47 thought, giving chase.
Finally, the stranger headed into a dead end. AK-47 crept into the room after him. Huddled in a corner, a short, stooped man whimpered and trembled. “Leave me alone! Bad, bad people, get rid of me… Don’t come, don’t touch me, I don’t want, I don’t want… Ah-ah-ah…” he babbled.
Regret and pity swept over AK-47. He seems to get off crazy… and lose his will to fight…
He took a couple of cautious steps towards the poor fellow, showing his empty hands. Then, a tingle of danger in the back of his head escalated into a burning pain. The crying, cornered man shook like a cloth in the wind, flickered, and disappeared.
Damn it! It’s a trap! AK-47 realized with annoyance that he had stepped right into peril. He could guess where his insidious enemy was.
AK-47 lost all control of his body. Clenching his jaws, while falling, he fired a plasma burst behind his back. “Get it, you bastard!” he croaked.
Losing consciousness, he heard a painful cry. He hoped that it hadn’t come from him.
***
Tekot Smul the Many-Faced howled into the hand clamped over his mouth. “Demon! This worthless barbarian nearly killed me! Me! The Supreme Arkh!
“Uuuu,” he wheezed through gritted teeth. “Shit! Admin’s shit! If not for my suit, I would’ve died like a worm.” He touched his wound through his broken helmet. “A-a-ah, b-b-bitch! How could this bastard penetrate the most advanced of the Commonwealth spacesuits? How?”
After catching his breath, Tekot Smul glared at the man’s still form. The native radiated magic.
“Fuck the admin! He glows like a mage from Kraptro Academy! What the...?” Tekot Smul crept up to his paralyzed foe, wincing with every step. Despite his personal first aid kit, he felt disgusting. Compromised.
“Control yourself, Tekot. Don’t hurry,” he urged himself.
Close inspection of the victim didn’t clarify the situation. On the contrary, it only multiplied the weirdness and inexplicability. Tekot Smul stared agog at his victim’s form-fitting power clothing, “This outlandish outfit is tethered to magical abilities,” he reasoned. “But why did it not deactivate when he lost consciousness?”
He couldn’t understand how the man had gotten a shot off after being hit with a paralyzer based on the poison of Gray Affa. His opponent had to have the rarest skill of an antidote master and an individual first-aid kit of the highest class.
“Ha… so what do we have? Black blood! No bloody way!”
A warped, frustrated young man lay on the floor, handsome and red-haired with a scattering of freckles. Tekot Smul spat, “Tell me! How can this even be?” He kicked the debris at his feet.
Impressed, he tested his weapon with precious charges. Everything seemed normal – the weapon itself, as well as the loaded needles, each of which was worth a year’s salary of a good master.
He frowned. The poison of the Gray Affa was the best paralyzer in the worlds of the Commonwealth. However, it blocked the reading of its victims’ stats. There had to be a clue, a hidden clue. In addition, the young barbarian was clutching something that exuded magic like an ancient artifact.
An incredible symbiosis of technology and magic. This is clearly a powerful weapon. He was jubilant at the realization of how much it could’ve cost. This loot was worth all his efforts.
Now it’s clear how these natives were able to fight off the horde of the undead.
However, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t read the stats of the weapon.
“Damn it! What is going on with this gloomy, paradoxical planet? Where did these hicks get such weapons?” Tekot Smul hissed, knowing he couldn’t pluck the answers to these questions from thin air.
He shook his head and stepped back to the wall. He was angry at himself, at his paranoia, at all the surrounding space. The incomprehension, like a widening crack in front of his feet, seemed to inevitably turn into an abyss.
“Stop wasting time! Pull yourself together and work!” he spurred himself on.
First, he ordered the first-aid kit to inject the maximum dose of stimulants into
