Crysis: Legion Read Online Free PDF Page A

It’s all on you now.”
    He can barely stand, he’s shaking so hard. There’s a rattle in his chest I’ve heard too many times before. He staggers, turns, takes in the filth and the dereliction looming on all sides. “Look at this fucking place,” he whispers, and even above the crackling of flames and the groaning of distant wreckage and all the faint faraway screaming, I can hear him perfectly. I swear I can even hear the beating of his heart.
    “They used to call me Prophet,” he says. “Remember me.”
    And puts a service pistol under his chin and blows his own head off.

ASSAULT AND BATTERY
     
    Holy
shit
.
    What do I, what just—
    Fuck fuck
fuck
.
    A cheery little overlay pops up while Prophet’s blood and gray matter trickle down my faceplate: CN COMBAT SOLUTIONS. NANOSUIT 2.0 . Suddenly I can’t move. I’m in the middle of some kind of war zone, my entire squad has been massacred by a flying saucer from Zeta fucking Reticuli (there: I said it), the one guy who might have been able to give me some answers now ends at the mandible, and my magical new dream suit has stuck me in place like an ant in amber. Something’s stomping around on the roof, acting in no way scared or cautious or the least bit worried about being discovered. Which only goes to emphasize how very much
I
should be feeling all those things.
    On the plus side—if you can call it that—I’m not dead. And according to the medical diagnostics racing across my field of view, I should be. My back is broken in three places. My larynx is crushed. My femoral artery is torn. There’s more blood in my lungs than air. The list goes on. Nanosuit 2.0’s rattling off diagnostic and wet-repair capabilities like I’ve never seen outside a full-blown VA hospital—and while it’s got me rooted in place like a garden gnome, it’s also pumping me full of antibodies and autocatalytic fibrinogen and a dozen kinds of engineered osteoblaststo knit my bones back together. All things considered, immobilized in a custom-fitted body cast is not a bad place to be right now.
    Just as long as I’m not immobilized when the bad guys come calling.
    Eventually the biotelemetry slows to a drizzle. Scenery peeks out from behind the stats; the BUD gives up all the visual real estate except for a dusting of ice-green icons scattered around the edge of vision. Nanosuit 2.0 reports that it has INTEGRATED NEW DNA PROFILE , and unlocks.
    I can move again.
    And something up on the roof is just
waiting
for me to do that. Every now and then it stomps on the iron sheeting just in case I’ve forgotten, like the bogeyman who pushes just a little bit harder on that one squeaky stair outside your bedroom door. He
wants
you to know he’s out there.
    I
know
, already. I step over what’s left of Prophet—roaches scuttle away from my shadow, the place is infested with them—and scoop up his pistol. BUD snaps a tactical silhouette around its edges, serves up an ID: M12 NOVA AUTO LIGHT PISTOL .
    Empty. I fucking
hate
it when people use the car and return it without any gas.
    Stomp. Clatter. More dust settles from the rafters.
    “Welcome to the end of the world, marine.”
    It’s just a chip voice buzzing in my ear, but I jump anyway. I run my eyes over tactical, looking for some kind of comm link. Each icon brightens in turn as I focus on it. Saccadal interface. Cool.
    “Everything’s online,” the voice tells me. “The N2 is functioning within normal parameters.”
    Not comm. Suit AI. A bit of fuzz in the upper registers. Damaged speaker, maybe.
    It sounds like Prophet.
    “There’s been some minor structural damage to the intercostals and the Ballard-stack couplings; estimated time to suit repair is twenty-six minutes. Estimated time to host repair is unavailable at this time.”
    Scratch that; it sounds like something
trying
to sound like Prophet. You can recognize the impression, but it’s not gonna fool anyone.
    I look around for another gun, a knife. A board with a