Supreme Disassemble: Rebuilding the World in the Iron Wastel

Chapter 4: The Price of Heroism

Suger stared at the half-mechanical woman, then at the bottle of crystal-clear water in his hand—a liquid that could make any wasteland warlord go absolutely feral. He let out a long, weary sigh that tasted like charcoal and bad luck.

Hey, genius, that voice in his skull chimed in, sounding far too entertained by his misery. I hate to be the bearer of common sense, but you’re breaking Rule Zero of Wasteland Survival: Never pick up trouble, especially the kind wearing obsidian armor and carrying a debt to the Inner City.

"Shut up," Suger muttered under his breath. He didn't bother with a cup; he just tipped the purifier’s nozzle toward the woman’s cracked, bleeding lips.

The water splashed over her parched face and seeped into the jagged gaps of her broken cybernetic arm, causing a series of angry, sputtering sparks. The officer, a Valkyrie from her markings, bolted awake. Her emerald green eye snapped open, locking onto Suger’s with a coldness that could freeze a radiator. There was no gratitude, only the predatory instinct of a dying wolf.

"Water..." she rasped, her voice sounding like two pieces of coarse sandpaper rubbing together.

"Drink it and shut up, soldier," Suger grunted, kicking her massive rail-pistol into a dark corner. "That toy is just high-grade scrap metal to me now. If you try to pull a stunt, I’ll disassemble it into a dozen very expensive bottle openers."

Suddenly, the howling wind outside the bus died down.

The wasteland fell into a dead silence, the kind of quiet that usually preceded a very large explosion. A chill crawled up Suger’s spine—a survival instinct honed by ten years of digging through radioactive trash.

Well, look at that, the Voice sighed. Twelve heartbeats, synchronized like a row of Swiss watches. They’ve got thermal scanners, pal. Right now, you look like a giant neon 'Eat At Joe's' sign in the dark.

Suger grabbed the woman by the collar of her tactical vest, dragging her toward the deepest shadows at the back of the bus.

"Listen, if you want to keep that drive in your head from being melted down for copper, stay quiet," Suger hissed, his eyes reflecting the dull blue light of his system.

The officer looked at him, a flicker of dark amusement crossing her face. "You’re just a scrapper. You have no idea what’s coming for you."

"I’m a disassembly specialist, sweetheart," Suger grinned, pressing his palm against the rusted hood of the bus’s ancient V8 engine. "Now, I’m going to give these elite hunters a little lesson in wasteland physics."

A thin, blindingly bright blue spark danced across his fingertips. This time, he didn't just rip the engine apart. He used the system’s terrifying precision to rearrange the cooling lines, the rusted pistons, and the residual fuel vapors into something far more violent.

Outside, the twelve hunters moved in a perfect crescent moon formation, their red searchlights slicing through the smog like bloodied knives. Their infrared goggles showed two heat signatures: one dying, one flickering wildly.

"Targets confirmed. Overlap detected," a hunter reported, his voice flat and robotic.

"Execute lethal coverage. No survivors," the commander ordered.

Just as the lead hunter raised his rifle to fire, Suger let out a sharp, jagged laugh from inside the bus.

"Disassemble... and Launch!"

BOOM!

The bus didn't explode in a ball of fire. Instead, the heavy engine block disintegrated into tens of thousands of tiny, needle-sharp steel pellets. Driven by a localized magnetic field Suger had whipped up on the fly, the metal shrapnel screamed out through the exhaust pipes like a localized hurricane.

It wasn't just disassembly; it was a railgun made of garbage.

The three hunters in the front didn't even have time to scream. The supersonic pellets shredded their reinforced tactical plates as if they were made of damp cardboard. Their high-tech armor was useless against a man who treated metal like play-dough.

Holy hell, Suger! Magnetic acceleration? The Voice sounded genuinely impressed. I take it back. You aren't just a loser; you’re a brilliant lunatic.

Suger didn't waste time basking in the glory. He scooped up the stunned Valkyrie officer, threw her over his shoulder like a sack of radioactive potatoes, and dove out the jagged window on the opposite side of the bus.

"Run!"

As he sprinted, he tossed a small battery pack he’d ripped out of the dashboard over his shoulder.

The moment the battery hit the ground, the rest of the bus collapsed in on itself, turning into a storm of spinning metal blades and blue electrical arcs that formed a temporary wall between them and the survivors.

Suger ran across the scorched earth, his boots thudding against the hard-packed dirt. He could hear the enraged roars of the surviving hunters behind him, their high-frequency blades buzzing like angry hornets.

"Hey, soldier! You never told me your name!" Suger shouted, coughing as a mouthful of sand tried to lodge itself in his lungs.

"Claire," she whispered, her head lolling against his back. "Where... where are we going?"

"Somewhere you can live and I can get filthy rich," Suger grunted, his eyes fixed on a dim, flickering light on the horizon. "Slum Town. The dirtiest, freest hole in the wasteland."

Deep in his mind, the system notification was throwing a party:

[Notification: Three Mid-level Enforcers disassembled. XP Gained: Massive. Leveling up to Level 7. You’re one step closer to becoming the King of Iron.]

But Suger wasn't thinking about levels. He was looking at the massive armored gunship rising from the direction of Slum Town, its giant searchlight sweeping across the plains like the eye of a vengeful god.

"Great," Suger muttered, pushing his legs to move even faster. "I knew I should have charged her for the water.