The bad: I have done nothing productive all month. My bad . . .
But fear not, readers. I've just been experiencing a slump, and I'll bounce back soon. And in the meantime, I still have plenty of chapters of "BJS" finished and ready to post, so there is no fear of being deprived of a blog post any time soon.
Thanks for being patient with me, everyone, and happy reading!
Blue
Jeans Samurai
#9
– Secret Mission! Infiltrate the Government Archives!
秘密のミッション！私たちは、政府の公文書館に潜入！
Ship
Argo, the capital city of the Capital Continent's third sector, was
like an oasis in an unforgiving desert. It was an enormous, affluent
city, home to millions of wealthy weapon-owners and surrounded on all
sides by Designated Destitution Zones. Skyscrapers towered over the
horizon, coating the landscape in luminescent, galvanized urban
beauty. The skyline was glorious, especially at night; lights from
the towering buildings danced and flickered all night long,
signifying the night life in the city. Loyal FIRENIGHT citizens
walked through the streets, their protective firearms on full
display, and enjoyed life without fear.
Fear
of each other, that is . . .
The
first problem for Blue Jeans and his ragtag operatives was difficult,
but doable. They had to be able to sneak into the city; using the
FIRENIGHT van they kept, they managed to get through the city border
patrol, which worked around the clock to keep the rich in and the
transients out. Gaining clearance for entry was slightly more
difficult, but still accomplished; Damask, being an infiltration
specialist, gained the opportunity to educate Blue Jeans in the art
of disguise. Using stockpiled uniforms taken from the corpses of
dead Pistols (washing and restitching them was tedious work, but
Halberd was happy to do it), six of the nine warriors had the
necessary visage to gain access to Ship Argo. Third, and most
important—locating and entering the government archives building.
This would not be nearly as simple as the directives accomplished up
to that point; Hal and Taffeta could not fit into any of the Pistol
uniforms, and were thus without disguises. This would require
careful planning and precise timing ordinarily, but this complication
seemed to distort the boundaries of the mission.
Cashmere
was working on that in the van, as the group drove through Santa
Maria Boulevard. “Our first objective is getting Halberd inside,”
she began as the group sat in a circle inside the cramped van (once
again, Angora drove, and Damask took the passenger side). “Since
he doesn't have a uniform, we'll have to smuggle him in as a
prisoner.”
“That's
gon' be tricky,” Twang interrupted, still manning the DataPane.
“The building plans say there's only one room in the whole complex
that prisoners go, and that's the testimony room on the second
floor.”
“Then
that's where we go,” Blue Jeans agreed. “I can do that, but I'd
need someone to assist me. As large as you are, my friend, it
wouldn't look quite right if one man brought you in as a prisoner.”
“Hmmm
. . .” Halberd thought for a moment, then made a suggestion, “I
wouldn't mind if Miss Velvet accompanied us—”
“Out
of the question,” Pleats immediately spoke up, shooting the
suggestion down. “I'll go with Blue Jeans to present Hal as a
captive.”
Velvet
looked up at Halberd, a bit distressed, but seeming to make sure he
did not object to this arrangement. Halberd sighed, met Velvet's
gaze for a moment, and replied morosely, “I suppose . . .”
Velvet patted his shoulder gently, as if to cheer him up and
encourage him.
“Fine,”
Cashmere acknowledged, “then the next order of business: getting
Twang inside. We would disguise them if we could, but because of the
Pistols' elitist mindset, there are limits to their selection of
troops, including sex, age and . . .” She hesitated, the
awkwardness slowly settling on the meeting.
Twang
finished for her, not at all happy with the ripples of racism left in
the Pistols' operations, “Color . . .”
“Well,
they're snipers anyway, aren't they?” Halberd asked. “Couldn't
they just stake out the area and pick off Pistols that get too
close?”
“You
idiot!” Damask barked from the front seat, “This isn't the DDZs!
If they see Pistol bodies littering the area, they'll know we're
there and lock down the whole compound!” She then scoffed and
rolled her eyes, “Men . . .”
This
prompted a fiery glare from Velvet that spoke volumes louder than she
would have if she had spoken aloud. Surprised, Damask scowled and
retreated to the front seat.
“This
is where we implement Phase Two,” Cashmere continued. “Once
Sensei is inside with
Blue Jeans and Halberd, some of the ground floor guards will be
distracted letting them in. We need to keep them all
as busy as possible, for as long as possible. That's where Damask and
Angora come in. When Sensei's
group takes the north entrance, they take the south and separate.
Damask will keep the Pistols off our tails by any means possible, and
Angora will sabotage the spotlights and security cameras.”
“And
while y'all do that,” Twang inquired, “we make a grapple line and
slip right in, right?”
“That's
Phase Three,” Cashmere confirmed. “While their eyes on the
ground are distracted, you, Velvet, and myself will have no trouble
getting past them. You just form a grapple line and take me with you
inside, and Sensei
should be waiting to let us in on the second floor.” She turned to
her youngest cohort, “Unfortunately, Taffeta, you'll have to stay
behind and keep watch. Once our mission is a success, we'll signal
you, and you can help cover our escape.”
“Awwwwww!”
Taffeta whined, “I don't get to come?! No fair!”
“What
about Miss Velvet?” Halberd asked, not bothering to hide the
concern in his voice.
Before
Damask could berate him again, Pleats comforted him, “Relax, Hal.
Being our expert in espionage, Velvet is well-trained in keeping
herself out of view. And after what happened at the warehouse where
she was captured, she has assured me that no such mistake will be
repeated.” Velvet turned to Halberd again and nodded in agreement.
“Once
the last of us are in, we begin Phase Four: finding the records
room,” Cashmere continued. “Twang has informed us that the
records room is on the seventh and topmost floor. Twang will need me
to escort him to the seventh floor with Sensei
and Blue Jeans, so the four of us will get to the records room. While
there, Damask will continue diverting the paths of the Pistols, and
Angora will keep watch over Halberd, awaiting the signal. Velvet will
scale the side of the building, an easy feat once the searchlights
are out of order, and once Blue Jeans has secured the necessary
information, he'll give Velvet the signal. She will then slip into
the building, hand us back our weapons, gather the others, and we
make our escape.”
Blue
Jeans took over, “Once we hack into the FIRENIGHT records, they'll
be wary of intruders. We'll probably have little more than an hour to
get in, out, and to the rendezvous point, which means we'll only have
five to ten minutes to find what we need and transfer it to the
DataPane. Once Velvet gathers Damask, Halberd and Angora, we meet
them on the ground floor and prepare to fight our way out, if we have
to.”
“There
are twelve elevators in the building altogether,” Angora added from
the driver's seat, “so we'll have to put them out of commission
before we take our leave. I believe I'll be the one to handle that.”
“Good
thinking,” Cashmere added. “When Velvet begins assembling us
again, Angora will cut ahead of us and shut down all but one of the
elevators. The last one working is the one Sensei's
group will use, and once we're on the ground, that elevator will need
shutting down as well. From there, it's merely a question of how
well-armed we are.”
“And
that's where I come in, huh?” Taffeta piped up, bouncing up and
down in her seat, “That's when I start killing guys in Phase Twelve
or whatever it is, huh? Huh, Cashmere? Huh?”
“Yes,
Taffeta,” Cashmere relented wearily, “you get to kill Pistols.
But only enough to make it easier for us to escape.” She then
addressed the whole group, “That's the final Phase. There is a
repulsor train line above the street two blocks from the building.
Not only do we have to stay careful and alert on this mission, but we
have to be in and out before a certain time. There's a train that
leaves the city on that track, bound for the border into the Second
Sector. We absolutely must reach that train line before
oh-two-hundred and thirty hours, and when we do, we launch a grapple
line that will attach us to the train and carry us out of Ship Argo
at about 300 miles per hour.”
“To
that end,” Pleats finished, “we have provided the whole group
with breathing masks for when we stow aboard the train. The speeds
could have an adverse effect on us, and we need to be able to breathe
while breaking into the luggage car. Once we're attached and able to
breathe, we should face no other problems, as the train line is high
enough to keep us out of the streets, and the surrounding buildings
are far enough away to not be a painful obstruction.”
Blue
Jeans took a deep breath and sighed, “This also means we'll have to
leave our homes. They may be DDZs, but Luster Park, Stoneford and
Bell DeVeere are the only homes we've ever known. Once we complete
this mission, we'll have no choice but to keep away from our homes
for the sake of remaining out of reach.” He sighed again, and his
voice nearly broke as he finished, “We'll have no choice.”
Angora
scoffed from the driver's seat, “Out of one rat hole and into
another. What difference does it make?”
Pleats
answered earnestly, “We'll also have to remain on the move so that
FIRENIGHT doesn't find us. We'll have to keep moving just to use the
information we seek to our advantage, and that will surely take time.
This doesn't just mean picking up and moving. It means never having a
true home again.”
Blue
Jeans nodded in agreement, “This is an unfortunate part of our
agreement. It is impossible to tell how long it will take to exploit
the weakness of this supposed superweapon, or even to find out if it
has one. This means that it is too late for any one of us to turn
back now. We need absolute conviction from this moment onward.”
Angora
had finally parked the van in a dark, well-hidden alley; they had
found the very edge of the metropolis, and several miles of lighted road
ahead lay their target, the archives building. Once hidden and
stable, Angora and Damask were able to turn around and face their
friends in the back. “Even the thought of turning back now is a
sign of spinelessness,” Damask retorted. “We've made it this
far, and we will press on.”
Blue
Jeans looked all around the van, and the determined faces of his
eight friends looked back at him. Feeling for his sword with his
left hand, he placed the other in the middle. It was a signal for
the others to do the same; Pleats placed her hand on top of Blue
Jeans' and Twang put in his hand next. Next came Hal's enormous
hand, and Velvet's rested on top (making them both blush a bit);
Cashmere put in her hand next, followed by Damask, Angora, and
finally Taffeta's tiny hand on top. Their symbol of solidarity and
resolve was complete.
Blue
Jeans gave the last word before the team departed, “The game is
on.”
*
* * * *
A
security card was swiped, clearance was granted, and the door opened.
The Pistol allowing the security clearance was greeted by two
incoming officers—and he had to look up to see their guest.
Naturally, this made him a touch nervous.
“Where
are you taking this . . . .” he struggled for the right word before
settling on, “. . . detainee?”
One
of the arresting officers answered quickly and procedurally, “Suspect
in a Stoneford theft and murder case. Needed to take him in for
questioning.”
The
Pistol nodded, satisfied, “I'll see that you're cleared for access
to the testimony room.” He then walked away from the door, and
gestured for the two officers to follow with their prisoner. The two
'Pistols' and their 'prisoner', restraining their fear at having
walked directly into the lion's den, moved swiftly after the officer
that let them in.
In
the middle of the enormous first floor of the building were two
support columns, each doubling as an elevator (one faced the entrance
Blue Jeans, Pleats, and Halberd came through, and the other, further
back, faced the opposite direction). Computer screens were embedded
in the walls all the way across; some screens displayed images of
activity going on in Ship Argo at that very moment, while others
seemed to be recording said activity and relaying it to other
archives buildings all over the Capital Continent. Others still
seemed to be receiving the same kind of activity recordings from
other major cities, and filing the images away to be used as possible
evidence if any one of them showed a crime being committed. Pistol
troops and tech support officers stopped to check the screens'
functionality at regular intervals, and even reached out to touch
these screens to temporarily redirect the paths of information for
other purposes. It was an operation of brilliance in favor of the
destruction of liberty in exchange for protection from the eagle-eyes
of the government. No single person on those screens showed signs
that they knew they were being watched; they seemed content to be
protected by the very government that threatened them to begin with.
The
Pistol who cleared the prisoner procession of three walked up to a
side desk, tapped on a key screen (the era's equivalent of a
keyboard) for a few seconds, and a soft ring was heard from the
computer. The Pistol looked up at them and confirmed, “Access
allowed.” He then gave them the Pistol salute of one finger to the
temple, then arm stretched forward and finger pointed out gun-style.
Blue
Jeans and Pleats returned the salute and continued on their path,
escorting Halberd with them. As they walked across the pristine
white flooring, Halberd suddenly grew nervous. “This is not going
to work,” he mumbled, his voice rising up an octave.
Blue
Jeans resisted the urge to scowl as he mumbled back, “Why didn't
you say so before?”
“I
didn't know we'd be so close to the enemy!” Halberd whined back,
struggling to stay quiet. “Battle is one thing I can handle, but
espionage was never my strong point—”
“Shh!
No talking!” Pleats spoke up in a convincing male voice, pushing
him a little more forcefully. Several Pistol troops had converged on
their point as if to assist them; now, the group had grown from three
to eight.
Blue
Jeans struggled to stay calm. This was a distressing turn, but a
necessary one. Even now, it was all going according to plan; one
Pistol nodded to the others and took over custody of Hal. Just
before leaving the group with the prisoner, the Pistol looked back at
Pleats and Blue Jeans, and gave a subtle wink.
Damask
was playing her part well.
*
* * * *
The
elevator slowly rolled up to the second floor in quietude; Blue Jeans
and Pleats had been silent since handing Hal over to Damask. The
first phase was done, and the second phase was entrusted to Angora
(who remained on the ground floor in order to sabotage the control
room). Blue Jeans, feeling the pressure of silence overtake him,
spoke up, “So far, so good.”
Pleats
did not even look his way when she answered, “Too good. Every
second this goes on, something else about this mission that I don't
like presents itself.”
“Relax,
Pleats,” Blue Jeans assured her, “your ninja are skilled and
smart. Once we get to the second floor and receive the signal, it's
all downhill from there.”
Pleats
turned quickly to Blue Jeans, a fiery look in her eyes. “This
mission was your idea,” she reminded him harshly. “Everything
that happens tonight is a result of your decisions. If anything
happens to any of my sisters, you will be held responsible, and God
help you when you are.”
The
door to the elevator slid open, and Blue Jeans' replied briefly and
quietly, “Trust me.” They both walked out and approached a
window in the corridor that made up the second floor. Nothing but
white ceilings and floors stretched out above and below, and a gray
wall with a series of doors running parallel on their left. The
right wall was made of nothing but clear glass, allowing a view out
to the grounds of the building. Outside, the grass and paved
walkways were swarmed with light from the searchlights marking the
perimeter wall. Pistols marched along the walkways in squads, some
carrying supplies, some delivering evidence, and others processing
criminals.
The
next phase was in motion; Pleats split from Blue Jeans to distract
any Pistols in the corridors and keep them from reaching the
rendezvous point. Blue Jeans walked slowly along the corridor,
making sure to stay visible; the plan was that Angora would disable
the cameras first, and the deactivating searchlights would be the
signal to move ahead. Just enough time had passed for Angora to get
in position, find the controls for the cameras and lights, deactivate
them, and . . .
One
by one, the searchlights scouring the grounds outside blinked off.
As soon as a third one, directly in Blue Jeans' vision, was
extinguished, a call suddenly sounded over the loudspeaker:
“ATTENTION! WE HAVE DETECTED A FAULT IN THE CONTROL ROOM. ALL
AVAILABLE PISTOL PERSONNEL REPORT TO THE FIRST FLOOR. ATTENTION! WE
HAVE DETECTED A FAULT IN THE CONTROL ROOM . . .”
Perfect,
Blue Jeans thought, and stayed in position, awaiting for the next
part of Phase Three. Surely enough, there was a hint of quick
movement just above the window and a dull, faint THUMP with it. Just
in time.
The
side of the grounds Blue Jeans viewed was already dark, and by the
time he saw a faint shape sliding down the shadows toward him, the
entire area was bathed in blackness. There was another, louder THUMP
against the glass, and Blue Jeans saw the smirk of his friend Twang,
who hung from a grapple line and produced a glass cutter from his
vest pocket. Slicing into the surface of the window, he cut an
oval-shaped hole big enough to climb through, and Blue Jeans caught
the glass cutout while Twang swung himself through it, rolling across
the floor to soften the landing.
He
grinned as he stood up straight, and whispered in triumph, “Perfect
ten, baby!”
Blue
Jeans nodded and returned his grin, and set the glass aside. In
another few seconds, Cashmere came right after Twang; she slid down
the line and entered through the same hole, landing elegantly despite
her broad frame.
Cashmere
reached back out of the hole in the glass, grabbed the grapple line,
and pulled, severing it from its higher anchor point. She pulled the
other point, pulled the rope in, and put it away as she asked
quietly, “Where's Sensei?”
As
if to answer her, Pleats arrived, coming down the opposite way she
had come. Producing a small bottle of MendiGlass (a breakthrough
product in glass repair) and a plastic glove, she lined the inside of
the hole with the substance, grabbed the glass cutout, and began
slipping it back into the hole from which it was cut. It stuck back
in place almost immediately.
“The
residue will fade in a few minutes,” Pleats explained, putting the
stuff away. “With so few Pistols on this floor, hopefully, the
path I set them on will keep them from seeing it before then.”
“Then
let's move,” Blue Jeans urged. “Angora should be relieving
Damask of her watch, so she can make sure the Pistols don't reach us
on the top floor. Pleats, lead the way.”
Pleats
gestured for the others to follow her, and Blue Jeans, Cashmere, and
Twang obeyed. Racing through the corridor along the same path Pleats
took, the four reached the next elevator, boarded, and pressed the
number for the seventh floor—the records room.
*
* * * *
The
elevator made the swift trip up, and Blue Jeans, Pleats, Twang and
Cashmere found themselves in a room that took up the entire top floor
of the building. Computers similar to the ones on the ground floor
were spaced against the walls, acting similarly to the file cabinets
of old times, housing holo-files instead of paper files. Desks
loaded with recording equipment and hologram projectors filled the
vast, vacant area, and inside each wall rested a vault, each perhaps
filled with the most valuable information FIRENIGHT could ever hold.
“Good,”
Blue Jeans said as he surveyed the place, “it's empty. Damask must
have made sure the place was clear before we arrived.”
“I'll
see if I can crack the safes,” said Cashmere. “We must hurry,
though. We have only twenty minutes. It's more time than we
predicted, but it's still short.”
The
group split up once again; Cashmere ran to the nearest safe, against
the wall of the door from which they'd come, and Blue Jeans took
Pleats and Twang to the nearest computer. “Twang!” Blue Jeans
called, “Did you bring the DataPane?”
Twang
dug into his vest pocket and produced the small machine, “Don't
leave home without it, brother.”
Blue
Jeans took the DataPane in one hand and began tapping at the key
screen of the computer with the other. The screen hummed and blinked
to life, and a security scan prompt presented itself. Blue Jeans
looked around for the ID card that came with his disguise—the same
card that got the group inside—and scanned it across the screen.
The
machine buzzed, and the words “LEVEL 2 SECURITY ACCESS: DENIED”
flashed in bright red on the screen.
“What?!”
Blue Jeans yelled, glancing between the card and the screen, “Level
2 access? How can this be?”
Pleats
pushed him aside, “Here, allow me.” She produced her own card
and scanned it the same way, and the machine bleeped merrily, the
phrase “LEVEL 4 SECURITY ACCESS: AUTHORIZED” flashing at the same
time.
Blue
Jeans put away his own card and went back to the computer, tapping
the screen and navigating his way through the programming. “Why
was that necessary?” he asked irritably. “Why give yourself the
higher security clearance pass?”
Twang
scoffed, “I ain't surprised.”
“It
doesn't matter!” Pleats urged, “Just navigate your way through
the security programs!”
Blue
Jeans nodded, and took the DataPane in both hands, using its powerful
interface signal to circumvent the numerous hack prevention programs
and firewalls. Each one had at least one hole in the code, however
small, that the DataPane was able to exploit. Finally, the programs
were exhausted, and Blue Jeans was granted access to the FIRENIGHT
information database.
“All
right,” Blue Jeans cracked his knuckles, “let's begin with
'Secret Files'. That might give us something.” Blue Jeans typed it
into the computer's main program index, his fingers gliding easily
across the glass screen. The search yielded nothing.
“Of
course they wouldn't mark their secret files so obviously!” Pleats
barked, aggravated. “Your mistakes are costing us precious time!”
“Kindly
let me focus!” Blue Jeans growled, then keyed "Weapons Files" into
the search engine. Over three hundred holo-file designations sprang
up, each containing about a thousand holo-files, one for each
individual weapon sanctioned for use by FIRENIGHT authority.
“Three-hundred
designations?!” Twang yelled, incredulous. “Shit, ain't nobody
got time for that!”
“We
certainly don't,” Blue Jeans agreed, typing 'Superweapon' into the
search. One file designation came up, containing another thousand
holo-files that were no different than the ones seen in the previous
search; the sole difference was that each just happened to have the
word 'super' somewhere in the file description.
“This
is getting us nowhere!” Pleats said scathingly. “We're wasting
valuable time! If we don't leave soon, the Pistols will corner us
here!”
“Girl,
chill out!” Twang snapped. “We'll find it! We just gotta—hey!
BJ, try lookin' for people instead of weapons! Try lookin' for your
moms and her ninja! They found this stuff before we did, right?”
Blue
Jeans shared Twang's epiphany, “So, my mother's files in the
database will almost certainly have a link to the information on this
superweapon! Twang, that's brilliant!”
Twang
gave a singular laugh of triumph. “Hear that, Pleats?” he asked
her confidently, “'Brilliant'! Mm-hmm!”
Pleats
rolled her eyes, “Whatever. Just hurry!”
*
* * * *
The
glass fell.
Making
the same cuts along the oval shape, he made the hole reappear in the
glass, and the cutout fell, shattering against the floor. Climbing
the rest of the way up his grapple line, he slipped inside, unhooked
the rope, and brought it in. Learning of a new procession of troops
coming in with a prisoner was almost too good to be true; even better
when he learned that they were driving a government van that was
known to have vanished in the DDZs some six days ago. With such an
easy lead, it was only a matter of time before he'd find them. He'd
never expected, however, that they would be stupid enough to attack a
government archives building.
This
was going to be easier than he'd thought.
He
heard something whiz past him, and saw for a split-second that it was
a needle stuck in the wall, launched from God-knew-where. He moved
quickly down the hall, hearing the clink clink clink sound of
more of those mysterious projectiles knocking against the glass
(shattering it in some spots). At last, he reached a corner and
turned, running far enough up the corridor that his assailant could
not reach him. Seeing an elevator, he made his way to it and pushed
the button for the sixth floor. It would be more climbing from
there.
Well,
he thought, intrigued, Maybe I'll get a challenge from this
after all. Perhaps these street punks aren't as moronic as I
envisioned?
He
smiled and adjusted his golden cuff links before the elevator door
closed.
*
* * * *
“Eureka!”
Blue Jeans cheered as he found the file he'd been looking for, and
enlarged it. A camera embedded in the wall above the view screen
projected the holographic file, showing pictures, schematics, details
and related statistics in three dimensions.
Cashmere
returned to the group by now, exasperated. “Nothing useful in the
vaults,” she reported, “let's gather what we came in for and
exit, quickly!”
“Easy,
Cashmere,” Pleats calmed her, “we've found the data, but it will
take time befo—” She cut herself off with a glance out the
window. She saw a small, flashing white light—a signal from
Taffeta. “No!” she yelled, “Impossible! We've been
compromised!”
“What?!”
Twang replied, unable to believe. “You gotta be kidding! Who the
fuck knows we're here?!”
“I
don't know!” Pleats said, “but that signal means it's something
we're not prepared for! We have to pull out, now!”
“Not
yet!” Blue Jeans urged. “We've only just found what we need! We
need to keep it!” Blue Jeans found a download option on the
DataPane and pressed it; it would be a few seconds before everything
about this superweapon would be theirs.
“We
don't have time!” Pleats argued, enraged. “Whatever is happening
here, we risk our lives by remaining here long enough to see it! We
go now, or we die!”
“Not
yet!”
“BJ,
man, I think she's right this time—”
“Not
yet, damn it! Not yet!!”
Only
a few more seconds. 'Download: 89% complete', it said. 90%. 92%.
94%.
“Blue
Jeans, I swear to you, if you don't listen to me, I will kill you
before the Pistols do!”
His
rage finally overtaking him, Blue Jeans reached out and grabbed
Pleats by the front of her uniform and pulled her in close. “I
TOLD YOU TO WAIT!!” he thundered. “WE ALMOST HAVE WHAT WE CAME
FOR, AND WE'RE NOT LEAVING WITHOUT IT!!” He pushed her away and
continued with the download. It was almost through; just a little
longer.
97%
complete.
98%
. . .
99%
. . . all the time remaining in the universe seemed to go into
waiting for that last one percent . . .
At
last! 100%! Download completed!
RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT!!
The
farthest window shattered, and Cashmere yelped in agony and seized up
inexplicably. Blue Jeans, Pleats and Twang turned to her as she
gasped for breath, wide-eyed, before she slumped forward, dropping to
her knees. “S- . . . Sen- . . . sei . . .” she coughed,
spewing up blood with each sound she made. She fell forward, landing
and lying still on her face, her own blood pooling underneath her.
Her back had been torn apart by dozens of small bullets.
“CASHMERE!!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
--------------------------------------------------------* * * * *--------------------------------------------------------
"A desperate escape!
With one member of the team dead, Blue Jeans' group must fight hard and stay sharp to get away. But their fear and potential for division and self-destruction may stop them from seeing clearly, and the assassin stalking them has proven to be a far more competent adversary than anyone Blue Jeans has ever faced.
With no other options and nothing to be gained from their mission, the group must face the capture of some of their own, and one of them may need to make the ultimate sacrifice to ensure the survival of those that remain.
NEXT TIME! Blue Jeans Samurai #10
Escape
from the Archives! A Friend's Sacrifice!
アーカイブからの脱出！友人の犠牲！
Don't miss it!"
