Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 381: Uncovering The Truth (Part 6)

Screams.

Loud. Repeated. Echoing.

They bounced off the slime-slick stone like panic made audible.

Agent Defoe currently ran at the rear of the group, sidearm drawn, boots splashing through a floor already slick with something that shouldn't have been liquid.

Ahead of her, the scientists were in full retreat. Not that they were built for it. Pale. Wheezing. Clumsy in their sealed suits, they staggered more than sprinted.

The gear strapped to their bodies didn't help—sample cases clattering, tools flapping at their belts.

Defoe could hear the creatures closing.

Fast.

Faster than anything their physiology should allow.

**RrrrrrrAAAAGHHHHRRR—**

Behind her, something snarled. Not close yet, but close enough.

She didn't slow down. Couldn't. But she did the math—these people wouldn't make it at this pace.

Not all of them.

They needed seconds.

She skidded to a halt near a narrow gap in the tunnel, aimed up—BOOM—and fired directly into the ceiling.

**CRRACK—THUD—SPLAT**

Rocks fell hard. So did other things. Chunks of rot-meat slime, pulped tissue, sticky green-blooded vines.

The air filled with the smell of sweat and iron and something… sweeter. Wrong.

She shielded her face with one arm, felt the wet slop patter across her sleeve and helmet.

Silence followed.

For a moment.

Her breath scraped against her mask.

'Okay. Bought a little time.' She wiped a streak of blood-sap from her visor and turned.

"Move!" she yelled, catching up with the others. "Don't stop."

She passed a junction where the tunnels split, barely sparing them a glance. Nothing came from either path. No snarls. No movement. Just the low, organic hum of this subterranean hellscape vibrating through the walls.

Defoe's thoughts were racing as fast as her feet.

'Please be okay, Nick. What a goddamn mess.'

Then—

They reached a bend.

She knew what lay beyond it. Or thought she did.

She rounded the corner—and stopped short.

So did the scientists.

They stood frozen, staring at what should have been salvation.

Now it was just more stone.

The exit tunnel—collapsed.

The lead scientist, a woman with wide eyes behind a fogged visor, held up her tablet. "This doesn't make any sense. This is the right way. When did it cave in?"

Defoe looked at it. Then at the wall.

She didn't say anything at first.

Thought about blasting it open. But this part of the tunnel structure seemed unstable—barely holding up under its own infestation. One wrong vibration and they'd be buried too.

She clicked her tongue and turned back. "Forget it. We'll take another path. One of these tunnels has to lead out. Let's move!"

They doubled back, reaching the junction.

Defoe paused.

Two tunnels. Left and right. Identical. Silent. Waiting.

'Which one—.'

**KRNNCH—SHHKRRRR—**

Stone clawed. Something tearing through. Not far.

No hesitation.

She pointed left.

"Let's go, now!" she shouted and bolted in.

The group followed—boots slapping, gear jangling.

All but one.

Franz, a younger man in a too-big hazmat suit, had dropped something.

A vial. Rolled from his belt. Glinted faintly in the tunnel light.

He crouched, scrambling for it.

"Franz!" someone shouted from ahead. "What are you doi—"

**SPLRRRRK—**

A creature burst past, cleaving through Franz in a blur of movement.

Blood hit the ceiling. His legs crumpled. His arm twitched once, still gripping the vial.

The scientist who'd called out froze.

The creature turned toward him.

Eyes like pits. Maw red and dripping. Its limbs were too long, too bent, claws twitching with each breath.

Another one stepped up behind it.

Mirrored its stance. Both stared into the tunnel.

Then—

"GET DOWN!"

Defoe's voice called out.

She shoved the stunned scientist aside and raised her weapon again—high, to the ceiling above.

**BOOOOM—**

The blast lit the tunnel like a lightning flash, throwing their shadows long across the walls.

The sound didn't fade— ringing in their ears like a siren swallowed by stone.

———

Meanwhile, Barclay's convoy wound through the crooked arteries of Santos Valley like an armored centipede—black SUVs, motorcycles, and the truck carrying the androids threading a slow path down the mountain road.

The night was heavy with fog. The only lights came from the vehicles themselves—bright beams cutting through the mist in cold streaks.

Trees loomed like watchers on either side of the trail, too still for comfort.

Inside the lead Escalade, Harold Barclay sat in silence, whisky glass in hand. He wore the kind of scowl that could curdle milk.

The drink burned as it went down, but the frown didn't shift.

He wasn't thinking about taste. He was thinking about Don and Charles.

'How the hell did they know?'

He shifted slightly in his seat, the interior leather creaking as he leaned forward and placed the glass down too hard on the built-in tray.

'Did that bastard Strass sell me out?'

The thought hit hard, but he shook his head almost instantly. 'No. Strass is loyal. Smart. He wouldn't risk it.'

Maybe it was someone else. 'Maybe one of the engineers?'

No. That didn't make sense either. The ones involved were too well-paid, too well-vetted, and too scared to cross him.

So how?

He looked down at his own hand, fingers curling tight against the armrest's edge.

'If those two uncover enough, the board will throw me to the wolves just to placate Graham's supporters. If he comes back, and with sympathy on his side—.' freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

His jaw tensed.

'Then Charles becomes a problem. A real one.'

Don? He didn't even factor him in. Not seriously.

To Harold, Charles played the game. He had the pedigree. The face. The means.

But Don? He was just a damn weapon for someone to use. A child in a suit with a few party tricks. He didn't belong at the table.

The more Harold stewed, the more poisonous the silence became.

Then he made a decision.

One more step.

One more drastic reach.

He pressed the embedded control panel on his armrest. The comms came alive with a beep.

"Change of plans," he said flatly. "Stop the convoy."

The reply came within seconds—a respectful but puzzled "Yes, sir."

Within minutes, the line of vehicles had pulled over to the side of the road. Tires crunching over gravel. The motorcade's humming quieting one by one until only the truck's engine idled low.

Barclay stepped out of his SUV with that same look—arms crossed, brow furrowed so deep it looked permanent.

The cold mountain air hit his face. He didn't notice.

The others had started to gather near the android transport. Some were security. Some were handlers. Two men in fitted suits opened the back of the truck.

**Click-hiss—THUNK**

The door swung open.

Inside, rows of androids stood upright, still in their inactive mode. Expressionless. Pale synthetic skin stretched tight over mechanical frames.

Barclay snapped his fingers. "Hurry the hell up."

The workers moved quickly, zeroing in on three specific units near the front. Their serial codes weren't visible, but the workers clearly knew which ones to grab.

Barclay's foot tapped once against the dirt. His eyes never left the truck.

'The timing has to be perfect.'

This wasn't a move he could afford to botch. Whatever was left at the site needed to burn. And not metaphorically.

'If this goes clean… they'll have nothing left to investigate but a pile of ash and missing people.'

He took another glance down the mountain.

Nothing but darkness.

No one to see him.

Or so he thought.

Beneath the undercarriage of his own SUV, the same entoptic crawler unit, flickered green for a moment. Silent. Watching. Listening.

The same device Gary had used on Strass.

Now recording everything Barclay said and did.

It clung to the metal like a parasite. Undetected.