Every ACPA pilot is taught the same thing before they ever plug into a suit: never underestimate the little things.
No matter how much reinforced armor you're packing, no matter how many tons of servo muscle you're flexing — a stray rocket, a well-placed mine, even a humble hand grenade — those are the kinds of micro-threats that can punch your coffin ticket. And the worst thing you can do?
Getting cocky.
So when the first grenade rolled in — bouncing end-over-end with a metallic rattle across the cracked concrete — the ACPA pilot didn't hesitate. The mech shifted laterally with piston-assisted fluidity, a single step carving a fresh crater into the pavement as its weight landed. The pilot's vision synced instantly: threat level yellow, explosive ID pending.
No detonation.
The grenade just clinked to a halt beside a busted gutter and sat there. Silent. Inert.
A dud?
He didn't have time to wonder.
A second grenade came flying in high and fast, spinning like a metallic hummingbird. The pilot ducked instinctively, the mech's torso twisting and stepping aside in one smooth move. Another clean dodge. Another silent thud as the object landed without detonation.
Another fake.
That's when it hit him: this merc was playing him. Toying with him. Again.
The pilot's grip tightened on the cannon mount. He remembered this bastard — Carl — too well. The same street-bred dog who jammed a bullet into the chamber of his sniper rifle, nearly popped his skull, and walked away like it was just another gig.
And now the kid was tossing dud grenades like confetti. Like some kind of chrome-jointed magician showing off cheap tricks.
His blood boiled behind the armor.
You don't make a fool out of a Corpo elite. You don't walk away from one kill, then turn around and humiliate the same guy twice. Not if you want to live.
The pilot didn't even glance back at Hanako, still slumped by the roadside like a discarded doll. She didn't matter. Not right now. The merc did.
Carl had slipped into one of the surrounding buildings — a prefab midrise, lots of glass, soft corporate bones. Nothing this mech couldn't punch through like paper. The ACPA charged forward, its reinforced limbs cracking pavement and tile as it picked up speed.
No doors. No windows. No entry points needed.
He made his own.
Steel tore like aluminum as the mech plowed through the outer wall. A blast of dust and insulation exploded outward. Concrete panels cracked. Furniture shattered underfoot.
The mech burst through the wall into the main lobby — a pristine, overly sterile reception area with glass counters and artificial plants. A half-dozen receptionists screamed as a two-ton monster tore into their world like a bomb.
The pilot didn't even blink. Civilians weren't his concern.
Carl was already halfway up the escalator to the second floor.
Got you, the pilot thought.
The mech's arm lifted, and the cannon mounted there hummed to life. A second later, it roared — a stream of tungsten slugs tearing through the escalator in a torrent of fire and sparks. Steel ripped like paper, the staircase folding inward on itself.
But Carl was gone.
No blood. No limbs. No kill confirmation.
Slippery little bastard.
But the pilot wasn't about to let him slip twice.
He broke into a sprint. The mech's footfalls pounded the floor like war drums, each impact leaving a fresh crater in the polished tile. At the base of the mangled escalator, the mech crouched — pistons primed — and jumped.
Five meters of vertical lift slammed the exosuit into the upper floor like a wrecking ball. The floor buckled under the weight. Ceiling panels rained down. Debris scattered.
And Carl was waiting.
At the peak of the jump — when the mech hit its arc, when the pilot couldn't move laterally — that's when Carl threw it.
The third grenade.
A real one.
The blast caught the ACPA midair.
Heat bloomed like a firestorm, the shockwave knocking the mech slightly off its axis. Targeting systems flared red. Pressure sensors screamed. The pilot grit his teeth as his HUD flashed overload warnings.
Before he even landed, he fired.
The cannon bellowed again, this time blind and wild — a hurricane of lead screaming down the second-floor corridor. Walls exploded. Support beams shattered. Plaster filled the air like ash.
But Carl was gone again, ducking through cover and smoke.
And the ACPA slammed down hard.
The floor groaned under the impact. Cracks spidered across the tiles. The mech stood slowly, shoulders smoking, optics adjusting.
And the pilot — elite, furious, humiliated — realized something.
This wasn't a hunt anymore.
This was personal.
He wanted Carl dead not for the mission, not for the company, not for Arasaka's honor.
He wanted him dead because no street rat should ever get this close to beating a goddamn demigod in steel.
The war wasn't over.
It was just getting good.