Fallout 4 Mercenary 소설 & 이야기

I see him standing in the snow, looking at me with those guarded, beautiful eyes. I can go home. The thought is so intense, so overwhelming, that it’s almost painful. It burns through the rage, leaving me hollow and shaking. I look back at the mercenary. He’s crying, waiting to die. "You're lucky," I tell him softly. "What?" he whimpers. "You're lucky I need a voice," I say. "Because otherwise, I would tear you apart for what you did to those boys." I drop him and he collapses in a heap, coughing.

“Who are you?” The man stopped near the bottom of the stairs. “Director Adrian Mercer.” Mercer. The name meant nothing to me. But Lucien physically flinched. And Cameron ... Cameron went still in a way that made my wolf uneasy. Not because he recognized the man. Because he recognized the title. Director. Not Commander. Not Council member. Not even a general or something like that. He was something above standard military structure. Mercer folded his hands behind his back almost casually. “I oversaw the Blackridge behavioral adaptation initiative during the border wars.”

Chapter 24: The Butcher of Life Nine ​The rain didn't just fall on Julian; it seemed to avoid him, parting around his frame as if afraid to touch the darkness radiating from his skin. The "Cleanup Team"—six men in tactical grey ceramic armor, wielding high-frequency pulse rifles—halted ten yards from the wreckage. They were professionals, trained to bag supernatural anomalies, but they weren't prepared for the ancient pressure now flattening the grass around the car. ​"Target identified," the lead mercenary barked into his comms. "Dr. Valerius is non-compliant. Engaging with stasis rounds."

Tires shrieked violently against the pavement outside the warehouse. Three black SUVs drove through the entrance, accelerating across the open space and stopping to block the main doors entirely. Fifteen men wearing heavy tactical gear stepped out, raising automatic rifles and aiming them directly at my position. They wore unmarked black uniforms, identifying them as hired mercenaries rather than official pack soldiers. Selene dropped to the ground and crawled rapidly behind the back tire of her sedan.

The shortest amongst them held a blue print, the others huddled over him. Leaning casually on the car opposite them, I raise my voice. “Such cautious employees you all are, studying the blue print of the company to perhaps learn the emergency exits in case of a fire outbreak or a rogue attack?” The blueprint was immediately crumpled and hidden. The short one went back, while the two came forward. Dim eyes. Light footsteps. Barely audible breathing. No visible logo or badge. The Red Fang Mercenaries. I thought they were extinct. They rarely take jobs.

That woman is Janus! The submachine gun that had been in the mercenary leader's hand a second ago hit the ground with a loud thud. He stared at me as if I were a monster, his legs going numb as he fell to his knees before me. "J-Janus…" his voice shook violently. "We didn't know it was you… Please have mercy on us…" Josie, who'd been cackling maniacally earlier, now choked on her laugh. I looked down at the mercenary trembling on his knees and smiled. "Your cipher is a joke."

"Let me go! I don't want to go there. I don't want to!" Bianca fell to her knees in front of me and grabbed the hem of my pants with shaking hands. "Please have mercy on me, Anna. I'll never bother you ever again. Please forgive me! "Have you forgotten that we grew up together? I'm willing to do anything as long as you set me free! I mean it! I'll even grovel at your feet for your forgiveness!" Bianca started knocking her forehead against the ground. Fresh blood spurted from the point of impact, but she seemed to be oblivious to the pain and continued knocking her forehead against the floor with all her might.

Soon, everything would fall into place. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and the mercenary walked in. He was exactly what I expected: Tall, broad-shouldered, with a burly frame that filled the doorway. His clothes were simple, rugged, and stained with the dirt of many roads. A thick scar ran down the side of his face, disappearing into a tangle of unkempt hair. His eyes were cold and calculating, the eyes of a man who had seen and done things that would make most people shudder.

His silver-mesh armor was caked in white alkali dust and the fresh blood of the resistance fighters, his amber eyes completely swallowed by the pitch-black void of his feral beast as his dark scent of cedar and copper flared intensely through the plaza. "The frontline border guards didn't just fall back, Lyra," Killian growled low, his deep, chest-vibrating voice dropping into a register that made the loose iron framework of the vault rattle in its hinges. He didn't look back, but his massive, calloused hand slid violently around my waist, his thick fingers digging deep into the leather of my trousers to pin my hips hard against his frame for a heavy, possessive second—a public reassertion o