《World of Impurity: A Gacha LitRPG》0. [ACCESS PROHIBITED]
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Welcome to the IEHAR Virtual Library! Please enter a command below to get started.
>>Open Impurity-001 DB.
WARNING! ACCESS TO THE IMPURITY-001 DATABASE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED TO ALL PERSONNEL WITHOUT LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE. PLEASE PRESENT THE APPROPRIATE CREDENTIALS TO THE TERMINAL NOW. FAILURE TO COMPLY WITHIN 30 SECONDS WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE INCAPACITATION.
>>What are gods, demons and angels, but constructs of man? Perhaps they should be bowing towards us.
Credentials accepted! Proceeding with phase 2 of verification process. Please present your full body towards the scanner.
Retinal scan accepted...verified!
DNA sample accepted...verified!
Mental thoughtwaves accepted. Mental state verified in accordance with PH-LPS sanity protocols!
Pure reality cornerstone: Type ADMIN detected. Confirmed to be at stable levels!
...
WELCOME BACK, ADMINISTRATOR α. 13:04:56 HAS PASSED SINCE YOU LAST VIEWED THIS DATABASE.
>>Open File: RO-OTH-001
OPENING FILE RO-OTH-001....
PREPARING READER APP...
SPECIAL READING PROTOCOLS DETECTED FOR RO-OTH-001!
WOULD YOU LIKE TO SKIP THE TECHNICAL DETAILS AND GO STRAIGHT TO Document 1001.07.01?
>>Yes.
OPENING Document 1001.07.01...
APPLYING COGNITION AND INFORMATION RETAINMENT FILTER...
...
The interrogation room stank of sweat, grime and my own spilt blood. A man in a balaclava and goggles spat a curse at me and punched me across the left cheek. My vision spun. A few cheekbones cracked. Another wave of pain tore its way up my body, yet all I thought of was the text message scrolling across my vision.
ERROR_CONNECT_FAIL_601A: FAILED TO ESTABLISH A PROPER CONNECTION. UNABLE TO PROCEED WITH INITIALIZATION SEQUENCE. PLEASE ACCESS AN OPEN AREA FOR A BETTER CONNECTION!
The text was silvery-white and framed on a translucent, navy-blue background. It reminded me of the output logs dumped by most computer systems, including ocular augmentations. The problem was that my eyeballs were fully organic. I never augmented by eyeballs, partially due to lack of funding and partially due to the fear of a tech junkie hacking apart my vision. The message refused to disappear, even as this thread of logic reasserted itself for the twentieth time that day.
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ATTEMPTING TO CONNECT… (1/20)
ATTEMPTING TO CONNECT… (2/20)
ATTEMPTING TO CONNECT… (3/20)
And there it went again. Whatever strange augmentation infecting my brain would attempt to connect to this unknown server for the next few minutes, filling my vision yet again with more flashing junk, before failing and throwing the above 601A error. No-one else could see the message. Case in point, my interrogator slapped me again across the face as I, from his perspective, stared off into space.
“Talk, American!” He barked, his voice muffled by his baclava. It had an undercurrent of coarseness, a sign of one too many cigs. “I’m warning you, my patience is running out! Where are the goods? Where is your team?”
I shrugged, as best I could with a body that felt on fire. “Told you, no idea.”
“Liar! We intercepted transmissions! They said they’re headed past the south wastes! Where to?”
I tried to laugh. It came out as a bitter cough instead. It’s not easy to talk with a mouthful of broken teeth. “You think they’re dumb enough to head back there? It’s a dummy call, idiot…” I said. Then I hacked out a glob of blood that landed on my interrogator’s army slacks. He snarled in disgust. “Maybe if you send some guys out, you’ll get lucky and find their footprints…maybe.”
Then I held my breath for a few seconds. My head lowered, letting my dirt-matted fringe fall past my eyes. The interrogator paused, leaning in slightly.
“Also, I’m an Australian, not an American.” I added.
The interrogator kicked me in the shin, more out of frustration than anything. The light flickered. The wounds on my shoulders re-opened. I gagged and moaned as the damage reworked its way up my system. He shouted another warning, this one layered with profanity in his native tongue. German? Dutch? I didn’t have enough energy to figure it out.
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ATTEMPTING TO CONNECT… (18/20)
ATTEMPTING TO CONNECT… (19/20)
ATTEMPTING TO CONNECT… (20/20)
ERROR_CONNECT_FAIL_601A: FAILED TO ESTABLISH A PROPER CONNECTION. UNABLE TO PROCEED WITH INITIALIZATION SEQUENCE. PLEASE ACCESS AN OPEN AREA FOR A BETTER CONNECTION!
Oh, piss off. I thought. Can’t you see I’m dying to have a conversation with the man who broke my ribs?
A click rang through the air. The message vanished for a split second, revealing the muzzle of a handgun pointed to me. Black-painted, small-nozzled and a finger already on a trigger.
Well, now. This was different.
“Last chance! Intel or I sink a bullet through your bastard head!”
I stared past the barrel and towards my interrogator’s face. He was a stocky fellow with average height, outfitted with a second-rate khaki military uniform I had encountered hundreds of times during my mercenary career. Most of his skin was covered up by his uniform, concealing his ethnicity. Place this man in front of a civilian and eight times out of ten they’d scream terrorist. Of course, I knew better.
Interrogators were never the friendly sort, but this guy’s body language reeked of anger and sheer desperation. Maybe his crew’s payday depended on recovering my former team contrabands. Maybe his boss had screwed him good and he took out his frustrations on his victims. Maybe he just graduated from rookiehood and sought to prove himself, only to find a victim with nothing to lose.
Whatever the case, he was a fellow problem-solver like me. Any other day and our positions could be reversed. Put us on the same side and I’d even buy him a drink. It almost made me talk.
Almost.
He still was the bastard who ripped and broken my body, like a spoiled brat messing around with her latest toy. I wasn't about to say a damn word, if only out of professionalism and spite.
“Just get it over with.” I spat out. Every part that could’ve been damaged was. No amount of medical treatment, augmentations or therapy could restore me to a healthy condition now.
The interrogator hesitated for a second. Tough front, but slacking on a courage—seen many a rookie like that. Then, he hardened and tightened his grip. I stared down the barrel, a sense of numb peace washing over me even as my nerves pulsed with agonized electricity. Briefly, I wondered if I should provide some parting words.
Nah, it wasn't worth the effort. Besides, all the people I wanted to speak to had either exiled me or were dead.
I closed my eyes, my frayed lips curling into a grim smile. The interrogator squeezed the trigger. The bullet sank through my skull and splattered bone and fresh grey matter all across the concrete wall of the room.
I, Kyle Harris Licht—mercenary, killer and black sheep of the family—died at age thirty-five, far away from home, halfway through a job to blow up somebody else’s home.
It couldn’t have happened any other way.
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