[TN: Four chapters for the three chapter last week and yesterday]
[Electromagnetic Lock System Damage: 9.61%]
[Electromagnetic Suspension Minor Fault: Front coil fluctuation increased, resistance rising, possible coil melting]
[Main Drive Motor Temperature Elevated: 144°C]
[Integrated Control Platform Block C-06-2 Response Lag, CAN bus error rate increased]
[Warning Code: ECS-003 — Suspension precision degraded]
[Warning Code: ECS-004 — Abnormal suspension vibration, possible mechanical damage or sensor drift]
[Warning Code…]
The combined hundred-plus klicks through the Badlands and Santo Domingo hadn't hurt the Legend nearly as much as that bridge jump and hammer strike.
Three octo-arms deployed specialized soft diagnostic probes and maintenance manipulators, inserting themselves into narrow "service channels" no wider than a finger, distributed throughout the electro-control platform.
Even with performance and EMP resistance baked into the design, there were still plenty of areas that simply couldn't be serviced while in motion.
"That hammer really that nasty?"
"Extremely nasty," Leo said sincerely. "Anyone else taking that hit would've been scrap."
Full-body conversions using ultra-heavy melee weapons had one unavoidable limitation.
Your skeleton might be mechanical.
Your muscle synthetic.
Your nerves wired.
Your skin ballistic-rated.
But your brain?
That still had to be mostly stock.
Soft neural tissue doesn't love shockwaves or high-G acceleration. Polyurethane foam, non-Newtonian gel layers, nano-absorption systems — all mitigation. In high-intensity combat, neural trauma was practically guaranteed.
The Hi-Hammer's density and hardness meant most targets absorbed the recoil. But in a truly matched collision? That feedback became nearly suicidal for the user.
In that regard, the Lizard Berserk module wasn't as fast as a Sandevistan — but it did reinforce neural tissue resilience directly.
Jackie's mid-air posture correction had been reckless. If anything, it had been more dangerous than the hammer wielder's own move.
Now he just patted his head.
He definitely had mild cerebral hemorrhaging. But at this level, the berserk serum would regenerate the damage over time.
"Guy was good," Jackie said, still fired up. "If he'd been clearer-headed, maybe it plays different."
"It plays that our gear is better."
"I got a question," V raised her forearm, Mantis Blades retracting with a click. "If—"
"Pure tungsten hammer wins on composite metrics. Most importantly — don't parry a hammer with a blade," Leo said flatly, not even looking up. "You needed to ask that?"
V rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah."
Then she squinted upward.
"…What's that in the sky?"
Big Mac's amplified voice boomed.
"Bombardment detected!"
Haywood.
A place where towers gleamed in the north, corporate corridors thrived in the west — and the south rotted in poverty.
To corpo commuters, there were no "poor victims." Only "the poor."
Valentinos ruled here. Tight-knit, culture-heavy. Outsiders didn't get in.
And not everyone poor was Valentino.
In a cramped Santo apartment unit — two coffin-beds built into the wall, air thick with stale beer — a father shouted at the screen.
"Holy shit that's badass!"
On-screen, the Legendary Mackinaw plowed through opposition.
His teenage son stood at the window.
Not cheering.
Just watching.
The father swigged from his can and drifted into memory. He'd once stood like that too — watching Samurai's final show outside Arasaka Tower.
His own father had gone.
Then the nuke dropped.
He'd lived.
Sometimes he wished he hadn't.
He moved beside his son and wrapped an arm around him.
"…Maybe I should've gone too."
The boy turned.
His face was almost entirely synthetic. One arm, one leg fully prosthetic — congenital deformity.
Then he said something that froze his father's blood.
"Why did you have me? So I could see this?"
He pointed outside — neon glory and filthy streets.
The father's brain stalled.
His son pressed a palm against the window.
Crack.
Tempered glass spiderwebbed instantly.
The father lunged to grab him — but couldn't.
For a split second, he thought he saw his son smile.
His chest device flickered.
Spray-painted across it in crooked lettering:
Midnight Sudden Death.
Then the boy stepped forward into open air.
And detonated.
All along the street, bodies followed.
Some jumped screaming.
Some dragged unwilling victims with them.
Some rolled in wheelchairs off the curb.
Thermal spikes lit up Leo's HUD.
There was no time to react.
BOOM.
The first body-bomb detonated above the Mackinaw's roof.
The blast wave rolled through the street.
No warning. No targeting. No angle to counter.
"Suicide bomb strike!"
Fireballs cascaded between high-rise shadows.
And more joined in.
Midnight Sudden Death had entered the race.