The rotocopter was close to touchdown. Darsa Island erected from the sea like a cancer of the ocean. Not because of its natural beauty— far from it. For the exact opposite... it was tainted beyond recognition.

  The only natural formations left were the indomitable, defiant cliff edges. And perhaps the cadavers of the beach near the shore.

  But other than that, it was plaza. Drowning, corporate plaza mixed with Roman statues of modern figures; halls and buildings of false pretenses. Red, black, maybe gold, and that was it. If this is what the rich saw amongst themselves, then it is no wonder the old world is gone. The old world was beautiful. And this? This was beautiful only if you were told.

  John saw it grow as their transport got closer. He looked out the window, and through his high-tech glasses. The sulfuric seas engulfed the false, dense horizon. And they too were being swallowed as they approach.

  Crosby was with him. As was Gilbert. As was Gary. As was Yukon. As was Chad. All armored and armed in their own separate ways, courtesy of the supplies offered by SERaMACs.

  Gary was finishing packing their weapons into each one of their briefcases.

  “How the Hell am I ever going to justify our murder of all of these people?” John asked to no one in particular. Perhaps it was rhetorical.

  That didn't stop Crosby from replying.

  “Look outside. That would be a good start.”

  John was already looking outside. John doesn't quite get why the religious man would be the one to remind him. And he doesn't have to, as Gary moves the conversation unknowingly.

  “Chad boy. You've already got your bombs set up?”

  “Yes sir.” Chad replies through their shared radio, as the helmet of his bomb suit is too thick the audibly speak through. “I'll give you the word when they're planted. You give the word when I blow them.”

  “It is a shame we have to get our hands dirty like this. But I guess that's just too bad.” Yukon comments as he straps his gloves on.

  They all dressed for what they assumed would suit the occasion.

  Bulletproof, heat retardant businessware or heavy armor.

  Chad wore the bomb suit while Gilbert wore juggernaut armor.

  Gary wore a combat turtle neck with a combat vest over it stuck to him like glue. Yukon wore the suit of an unsuspecting hitman, while Crosby wore a heavy tactical coat with a white bow-tie.

  John, still sitting and looking out the window, wears a black fitted trench coat with a black vest underneath. And a dress shirt.

  All of this clothing was some sort of woven composite designed to provide robust kinetic protection, as described by SERaMACs.

  As they begin to lower for a landing pad close to the top of the island, John reflects on it. About how these garments were commonplace during an event called the business wars. Yet more history, washed away. Only now resurfacing upon those who dig for it.

  Gary hands John a heat-retardant balaclava. Gary hands Crosby his, then Yukon, then himself. As he does, John finally stands to address his men.

  “Alright boys, listen up. What we are about to do here is not a good thing. It is not a moral thing. It isn’t… particularly reasonable. We are good men. But what we are about to do is not.”

  John doesn't much care to feign a perception as a leader. He speaks not because others might agree, but because he feels it needs to be said.

  He moves to the center of the group in the middle of the cargo bay, each standing one-by-one as they finish getting ready. The rotocopter touches down as he speaks.

  “If someone asks, you're either security or an attendee. Act like you're their friend. We're as much an enemy to them as they are with each other.”

  John grabs his briefcase which contains both his KSG shotgun, and his pistols. Gilbert’s chain cannon couldn't fit in one, so he'll open carry.

  John finishes his pep talk just before SERaMACs speaks.

  “We open fire once we reach the rave. If something isn't ready by then, that's just too bad. Chad, rig all the escape methods to blow first. Gilbert, you stay outside after following us. Gary, Yukon, Crosby, you're with me.”

  “Welcome to Darsa, valued passengers. Prepare to disembark.”

  SERaMACs says. It's message was their green light.

  “Let's go, gentlemen.” John tells them. He proceeds to the fold down exit as the door depressurized and opens downwards. It takes a few seconds to open fully, after which they all walk out from the door, onto the concrete, into the alien, sadly familiar environment.

  Lightning lit the sky like tesla coils forced to dance.

  It wasn't loud so much as it was annoying.

  The sounds of the rain battled against it for the ambiance.

  The wind was rather dead here, yet the social atmosphere was alive.

  John had never seen so many people actually… talking to each other. Some in calls, others in conversations with each other.

  As they walked forwards towards a golden water jet, a man pointed at him and gave him a wink.

  “Looking slick! Expecting trouble with that old suit?”

  “I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you.” John replies. The man chuckles as he walks by.

  The people were warm and sociable. Well mannered. Well dressed. Well groomed. The only thing familiar with this place is the weather.

  John keeps walking through the weather and the well-lit plaza, his crew behind him. A lot of people here had cybernetics but… no body odor.

  No general depravity. No… cravings.

  No one was glued to a virtual device.

  No one was self-flagellating.

  No one was crying or drugged out of their minds.

  Smiles, talks or recreation all around. John's mind can’t process it.

  He can't even begin to think what the others thinks.

  “Splitting off to sabotage escape methods.” Chad says as he heads left towards the lower portions of the island. Close to the water sprout, John halts the others and speaks.

  “Copy Chad. Remember, if anyone asks, you're bomb disposal.”

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  “Got it boss.” Chad replies.

  John turns to face the others, his trench coat catching some of the wind. His face was drenched, as it wasn't yet time to put the balaclavas on, as that would raise suspicion.

  “Alright boys. We'll wait here for when Chad gets the bombs done and when the rave starts. Should be any moment.”

  He swaps the briefcase from his left hand to his right.

  They felt like they stuck out as if with a sore thumb, even if they were dressed for the occasion.

  Visibly, they did look like attendees. And if not, the security.

  Though, the security present looked like chumps. Their laser rifles would be like laser pointers to their armor.

  Some people smile at him. Why the hell would someone smile at him?

  Should he smile back? Do they want something?

  They look away right after, so what's the point? Is it a warning?

  Feeling how light their supposed armor is and how big the enemy weapons are as security walks past, doubt enters John's mind.

  But that's just too bad.

  In a life surrounded by degeneracy, there is nothing weirder than people who look well-adjusted. No less the very people who have enabled this societal rot.

  But that is just too bad too. And just a little too late as they hear.

  “ATTENTION, GLOBAL LEADERS. PLEASE MAKE YOU WAY TO THE DANCING HALL. THE FLOOR IS NOW OPEN.”

  A smooth, human voice said over the island intercom.

  The people started flocking like birds, though still maintaining their air of self-respect. The fact the crew remained unmoving only added to the alienation. They were waiting for the bombs.

  “Chad, how's progress?” John asks. Chad replies with a slight strain.

  “I've identified two docks and three helipads. The helipads are done including our one. I've painted the exit location for SERaMACs to land. Just gotta set the docks, been getting stuck in conversation with these weirdos.”

  “Hurry the process up, the rave is about to begin.” John encourages.

  The others were having a conversation off-radio, but John was too busy stuck in his head to listen; his hearing only attuned to the radio, the weather and the intercom.

  “You can head in now I won't be long. They'll be sky-high before anyone can escape.”

  “Copy Chad. Did you boys hear that?” John asked the others on the same frequency. They affirm with nods and thumbs up, picking up their briefcases again and falling behind him.

  They navigate around the spout towards the grand hall entrance.

  It was horribly understated. How could the kings and queens of excess be so well reserved? It didn't matter.

  John entered as the others did into the grand lobby. It was more like a fat hallway with places to sit and socialize. At the very end and to the left seem to be the entrance to the dance floor. The walls were toxic vermilion and lathered in alcantara.

  What they lacked in grandeur they surely made up for in raw manufacturing costs.

  What is weirder is that still, there is not a single android in sight. There aren't even any computers, at least not here. The room smelt like lost citrus, and the sound that wasn't drowned out by the far thump of music was made up of conversation, laughter and phone calls.

  John checked behind to make sure they were still following. They were, though about as distracted as he was. It would've been great to talk about the place were there not a mission at hand.

  Still no word from Chad. Oh well.

  They continue down the hall towards the dance room. A few people came with them in close proximity, but didn't pay them any attention. Looks like these people are keen to get a dance on.

  These people have wants, y'know.

  Looking to the left, the dance floor is revealed. Flashing beacon lights on the roof. A black, red and cyan neon-grid dance floor it is.

  As they enter, there's some slightly raised pavilions to the left and right. There's a few railings, and on the far end of the room was the DJ booth— a huge psychedelic screen behind them covering the wall.

  It was overstimulating for sure, yet still a far cry from the Hell of what they know is normal. They get deep into the dance floor, the flock of people getting denser and denser.

  “Do we have to worry about friendly fire?” Gilbert asks, thinking of his auto gun. Gary replies for John. “According to our robot overlord, it shouldn't be. Spray like you're watering the plants.”

  “Heh. I miss watering plants.” Gilbert jokes, only because the context makes it a joke.

  The density of the bodies is increasing as they get deeper into the group. Now they're moving people out the way, yet still given no attention. The techno-music is thumping, but seems to be winding down.

  As John pushes a lady out the way, he looks down, to see the black grid light up with each step that is taken.

  He tip-toes over the heads of everyone to try see them entrance. They're quickly being enveloped by people, though the flow at the entrance is starting to thin. More and more people have poured in, making this the most populous place on the island. And security still looked minimal.

  “When the Hell do we start opening fire?” Crosby asks, annoyed.

  John tries to get an answer from Chad.

  “Chad. What the Hell is taking so long?”

  Chad replies out of breath.

  “I'm— I'm trying boss. Just got one more to go.”

  Whatever music was playing reaches its end, as Chad finished speaking. Just as John and the others arrive at the center of this huge crowd. And, just as the DJ speaks to those attending.

  “Alright alright folks! That was just a teaser for what we've got tonight. Remember to save some energy for the owl brings later tonight. I'll be back with you in just one second!”

  “Chad! Hurry up!” John pleaded.

  “I'm trying!” Chad yelled back.

  Gary comes over the radio too. Though his voice sounds more concerned.

  “Boys, these people are armed. I think most of them are. I can feel their holsters when I bump into them.”

  The lights died down by this point, the only light reaching the dance floor either coming from the floor itself or the raised islands to the sides of the room.

  With the dimmed lights came the lowered conversation of those present. It was so quiet they could hear the rainfall outside.

  Still. Even here. They can hear the rainfall.

  The air is electric with anticipation, palpitation, excitement, dread, everything in between. The fate of the world could be in the hands of anyone of these world leaders, and yet, he John finds himself. A nobody among… eerie similar giants. People who don't seem to give in to the stimulation.

  In the darkness, John is ripped back into his mind.

  What separates him and them? The biggest difference he can find is that they've found a purpose. He didn't, at least for the longer time. The world would be so much better if people were as outgoing as this, even if the weather is eternally shit. Would he have done as they have if he was in the same position? If he could have, would he have become them?

  It matters. But there isn't any time.

  “CHAD! WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE EXPLOSIONS I'M NOT HEARING!”

  “BOSS! I'M TRYING! I'M— I'M… I'M ALMOST— THERE.”

  Chad desperately replies, sounding like he's in a marathon. The bomb suit wouldn't be helping. That's supposed to help with the second part… but that second part it taking too long.

  The lights start lighting up again. And with them, the DJ speaks.

  “Aaaaaarightt alrighty ladies and gentlemen! Every man, woman, and enby a king as the great Gauth Van Hulsieg would way! Before I begin, a huge thank you to our patrons from the Kubaal Aetheon Trust for supporting this event as per usual! Couldn't have done it without them!”

  The crowd quiets down in anticipation for the music. The lights light up more, and the back screen ignites.

  “CHAD!!!” John yells at the top of his lungs over the radio. He gets no answers. Just a few odd looks from the people near him.

  “Everyone, put on your masks and open your briefcases… fuck knows what's happening to him.”

  They all comply, throwing the masks on and unlocking the cases.

  Though, they don't equip just yet. Juuuuust, yeeeet…