Death of a Salarywoman
12 of 100 / In a war between two rival companies, unrequited commitment is an employee’s strong suit.
“If I had to choose, your superhero power would be making others feel like a million dollars.” Baphomet glanced at her locker mate, as she took out her protective garb. Same palette as a dominatrix’s armoire. She zipped it over the goat deity tatted between her chest, its horns ensnaring her neck.
“I believe they call that charisma,” Reaper glanced back, pulling her combat armor over her underlayer. Pockmarked with more tales of survival than a skid row resident.
Vargos pierced through the comms in a crackling of static. “I believe they call that lying. Cut the chit chat. ETA in two minutes.”
Reaper carried on, leisurely slipping her leggings over the scythes inked on her thighs. “Only a million though? Deplorable. But, in this locker room, you are the most beautiful. Everyday.”
“It’s only ever us two during this shift.” Baphomet scrunched her brow, slamming the pieces of her weapon together, long as a hockey stick. “So fuck you.”
“You could, but that’s workplace harassment.” Vargos chirped. “Drop-off in thirty seconds.”
Reaper slapped the casing onto her weapon, careful not to chip her black nail polish. “Better yet, dipping the pen in the company ink.”
“More like bumping two bottles together. With company ink dripping everywhere.” Baphomet finished lacing her boots, and both women stomped to the bay door of the transport.
The doors grinded open, splashing them with the light of tracer fire from the streets below. The transport slowed down in a wide arc and dropped a fast-rope.
Baphomet adjusted her metal facemask and pulled her cloak around her head. “Time to clock in.” Ignoring the fast-rope, she leapt out with Reaper following, their monstrous boots cracking the pavement upon landing.
The entire block was torn up in a heavy firefight. They ran up to the team pinned down at the edge of the street.
“Hit the shower boys, we’ll take it from here.”
The engagement manager turned, his cheek puckered in a sneer. “Hell only knows why the higher ups keep such faith in you fools.”
“Damn Harbingers.” An operator spat on the ground as he retreated with the team.
Reaper gave a cute wave. Then brought her rifle to bear, laying down suppressing fire for her partner to advance. Baphomet sprinted, firing at the rival operators on the rooftops. They dropped like rag-doll dominoes.
Reaper took off after her, blasting at some operators positioned behind a car. They answered with their own barrage. The shots bounced off harmlessly. Unrelenting, trademark black and facemask — Amanda Nunez incarnate. With no other choice but fear, the opposition tucked tail and fled.
“Why do they call us Harbingers? What are we signs of exactly?” Reaper picked off a couple as they ran screaming in terror. “They’re already dead, on sight.”
They chased them down a confined corridor. Baphomet threw a grenade, the explosion echoing endlessly. “I thought it was Harpies. But my hearing could be off.”
“Harpies of Horror kind of has a nice ring. But what do I know about branding?” The two emerged from the corridor and sprinted to the next block, as their competitors dug in behind cover.
“That’s way above your pay grade. Don’t even try to stretch yourself.” Baphomet slapped in another cartridge and let off a burst, flatlining more of the enemy with ease.
Their comms shrieked with static. “You two are clogging up the channel with your gibberish! This isn’t a gem and crystal meet up.”
“Shut the fuck up, Vargos. How’s your job not outsourced to an AI center in Bangalore yet?” Reaper jumped to a better vantage point on a truck. Instantly drawing the focus of enemy fire.
“Yeah, take it up to HR if you got a problem. My crystal collection does more for me than the department’s therapist ever will.” Like a lynx, Baphomet slipped through to the flank, unleashing vengeance.
The work was done.
“A bunch of contractors.” Reaper kicked one of the bodies. “Bottom-line pinching bitches. Splurge a little next time.”
Baphomet looked up towards the sky and gestured. “Vargos, you catch all that? They won’t be selling in our segment again.” She took off her cloak and facemask, sparked a light, and ripped a long drag from an analog cig.
Suddenly, screeching tires sheered through the silence. A Hilux pulled up the adjacent street. Trunk mounted .50 cal machine gun spraying, as Baphomet scrambled.
Caught out in the open, the sabot rounds knocked her down, tearing through her armor. She cowered as the Hilux saturated her with bullets.
Reaper sprang to her feet, launching a grenade from under her rifle. The Hilux erupted in a fireball. Her partner laid tattered on the riddled pavement—somehow still breathing.
“Watching over my six.” “What?” “Your superpower. If I had to choose. Watching over my ass, when the situation gets hot.”
The comms chirped. “Again, workplace harassment.”
#12 in my 100 Story Challenge, started by Zane Dickens. My previous story:
A recent one I’ve read that you should too, by Bradan Writes Stories:
