Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere
Chapter 662 - 672: Alpha-Squad Seven (Part 2)
It took Don and his squad roughly a minute to reach the transport zone.
The area had clearly been a parking structure once. Faded lane markings still cut across the concrete beneath rows of military floodlights, though now the entire upper level had been converted into a makeshift landing field.
Thick chalk lines stretched across the ground in intersecting patterns, guiding incoming and outgoing helicopters through organized chaos while UPSDF crews waved illuminated batons beneath the rotor wash.
The noise never stopped.
Engines idled in every direction. Another squad hurried past Don’s group toward a neighboring transport bird.
Webb never slowed.
Their designated transport sat near the eastern side of the structure, a dark UPSDF chopper already running hot with both side doors open. A soldier stood near the skid counting heads as groups approached.
"You Seven-Alpha?" he shouted.
Webb lifted two fingers.
"Move then!"
The tattooed civilian climbed aboard first without hesitation, jaw still locked tight.
The bruised woman followed behind him, one hand brushing the side of the cabin for balance like her body was moving entirely on habit now.
The younger guy nearly caught his boot against the landing skid while climbing in. He stumbled hard enough to slap the side of the aircraft before catching himself awkwardly.
Nobody commented.
Nobody spoke at all.
Don entered last.
The cabin was cramped, loud, and built for transport rather than comfort. Bench seating lined both sides while red emergency lights cast dim color across helmets, rifles, and reinforced plating.
Don took a seat near the open side door as the last soldier climbed aboard behind him.
A second later the door slammed shut halfway.
The helicopter lifted immediately.
Don felt the weight shift beneath him as the transport rose out of the parking structure and banked hard toward Santos City.
The view outside the open side hatch stretched wider than anything he’d seen from ground level earlier.
The city was still burning.
Not everywhere anymore. Just scattered sections now. Fires burned across rooftops and intersections while columns of smoke drifted between blackened buildings below.
But what stood out more than the destruction was the traffic.
The skies were crowded.
Helicopters crossed through the airspace constantly, some descending toward rooftops while others climbed away carrying underslung cargo crates beneath them.
Fighter jets tore overhead at higher altitude, vanishing too fast to properly follow.
And between all of it—
Movement.
Dozens of silhouettes crossed through the night independently of the aircraft.
Superhumans.
Some flew outright. Others leapt between rooftops or propelled themselves through the skyline in bursts of light, fire, or kinetic force.
Don spotted one armored figure dragging a suspended cargo net behind them while another landed briefly atop a tower before launching again.
The response had arrived.
Really arrived.
Whatever chaos had swallowed Santos City earlier in the night had finally met organized resistance.
The hordes were likely being contained now. The infected too. Major sectors were probably already secured or in the process of becoming secure.
It wasn’t optimism.
Just observation.
Practical assessment.
Across from him, the tattooed civilian stared out through the hatch with narrowed eyes like he still didn’t trust what he was seeing.
The bruised woman refused to look outside at all. Her gaze stayed fixed on her boots while her fingers rubbed absentmindedly against one knee.
The younger guy kept swallowing repeatedly, throat bobbing every few seconds.
Webb scanned all three civilians in sequence before raising his voice over the rotors.
"Listen up!"
Everyone looked toward him.
"We’re professionals. They’re scared civilians. You keep your heads straight and this goes smooth."
Webb adjusted the rifle hanging across his chest before continuing. "Watch your sectors and don’t let the atmosphere get to you."
A couple soldiers nodded immediately.
The civilians didn’t respond.
A burst of static interrupted the moment before the pilot’s voice crackled through the overhead speakers.
"Approaching Maple Street Church. Infrared shows no visible threats in the immediate area. Ground is clear. Touchdown in thirty seconds."
Some shoulders loosened slightly after that.
The younger civilian exhaled hard through his nose like he’d been holding his breath the entire flight.
No visible threats.
Visible being the important word.
Don rested one arm against the side of the cabin while the helicopter descended lower between rows of darkened residential buildings.
The church came into view seconds later.
Then the chopper dropped fast.
THOOM~
The landing hit harder than expected, skids slamming against wet asphalt while the entire cabin jolted violently. Before the aircraft fully settled, the side door slid open with a metallic CLANK~
"Move move move! Go go go!" Thompson shouted over the rotor wash.
The soldiers exited first.
Webb jumped down and immediately raised his rifle, sweeping the parking lot while Kowalski moved opposite him to establish perimeter coverage.
Thompson followed beside them while the civilians spilled out less gracefully afterward.
The tattooed man landed cleanly.
The bruised woman nearly slipped on the wet pavement before catching herself.
The younger guy clutched his hand while looking everywhere at once.
Don dropped down last, boots splashing lightly against asphalt still damp from a burst pipe somewhere.
Or blood.
"Bright! On me!"
Don moved immediately toward Webb’s side as the sergeant advanced toward the church entrance.
Webb’s movements stayed controlled the entire time. Rifle raised. Muzzle shifting across windows, corners, parked vehicles, blind angles.
Every few steps he signaled something silently with his free hand instead of speaking aloud. Stop. Move. Watch left.
Don watched all of it carefully.
The breathing too.
Steady.
Not rushed despite the pace.
Filed away for later.
Questions for later.
Their formation settled naturally as they crossed the church grounds.
Webb led with Don beside him while Thompson and Kowalski covered wider angles along the flanks. The tattooed civilian stayed behind them while the woman and younger civilian remained closer to center. The last soldier covered rear movement.
The church itself looked modest. Old brickwork. Narrow stained-glass windows. A small parking lot lined with overgrown landscaping and neglected hedges.
Or at least it had looked modest before tonight.
Now abandoned vehicles sat crooked across the lot alongside scattered debris and dark smears stretched across sections of pavement.
Don’s eyes shifted toward movement near the side entrance.
Not movement.
Blood.
A streak dragged across the concrete several feet long.
Fresh.
Still wet enough to reflect the light faintly.
Don pointed without speaking.
Webb followed the gesture instantly and stopped mid-step.
His expression tightened.
He’d nearly missed it.
A second later his fist closed and rose.
Everyone halted immediately.
Webb tapped his ear.
"All units, stay sharp," he said quietly into the comms. "Possible recent activity near the side entrance. Maintain visual coverage."
The atmosphere changed immediately afterward.
Rifles rose higher.
Footsteps softened.
The younger civilian’s breathing picked up audibly behind them.
Simple.
Right...
They reached the church entrance without contact.
The front door had already been propped open, likely by the earlier scout team. Webb entered first with rifle raised while Don followed close behind.
The stairs downward led into older sections beneath the church proper.
Stone walls replaced painted drywall while emergency lights had been strung along the ceiling with temporary wiring.
The air cooled noticeably underground.
Musty.
Dry.
Their boots echoed softly as they descended deeper into the catacombs.
The underground chamber itself wasn’t dramatic.
No skulls.
No crypts.
Just a broad storage area with low ceilings and reinforced stone support beams running through the center.
Folding chairs had been pushed against one wall beside shelves packed with canned food, blankets, and stacked outreach supplies. Portable lanterns provided enough light to navigate safely.
Near the back wall, civilians huddled together beneath blankets and jackets.
About fifteen total.
Mostly women and children.
A few older men.
They looked up instantly when Webb and the others entered.
Fear.
Hope.
Exhaustion.
All of it crossed their faces at once.
"You’re okay," Webb said immediately, lowering his rifle slightly. "UPSDF extraction. We’re getting you out now."
Movement spread through the group almost instantly afterward.
Don moved among them first.
He crouched beside an elderly woman struggling to stand and guided her carefully upright by the elbow before steering her toward the stairs.
"It’s alright," he said evenly. "Just keep moving."
Nearby, a young father holding a sleeping toddler grabbed Don’s arm briefly as he passed.
"Thank you," the man whispered hoarsely.
Then Webb redirected him toward the exit.
"You’re safe now. Follow the soldiers outside. Stay together."
The extraction moved quickly after that.
Quietly too.
The civilians complied without resistance while the soldiers guided them in organized waves toward the stairwell.
Don worked alongside the others naturally by this point, helping lift supply bags aside, supporting slower civilians, directing children forward when they hesitated.
Nobody needed to tell him where to stand.
Maybe this really would be simple.
Then the comms exploded.
"SHIT—CODE RED! CODE WHITE! IT’S—"
The voice cracked high through the earpieces.
The younger civilian.
Then screaming.
Not civilian screaming.
His screaming.
Gunfire erupted through the comms immediately afterward.
Several shots in rapid succession.
Muffled.
Close.
Don’s body locked tight instantly. Muscles coiled beneath the vest while his head snapped toward the stairwell.
His fists clenched hard enough for tendons to rise beneath his skin before he forced them open again.
The civilians reacted worse.
A woman gasped loudly near the supply shelves while another froze halfway up the stairs clutching a child against her chest. Someone started crying near the back of the chamber.
Webb’s hand immediately pressed against his comm.
"Status, Kowalski. What’s happening?"
More gunfire answered first.
Then Kowalski’s voice.
Breathing hard but controlled.
"Kid got spooked. Saw infected near the parking lot. Tried to run—it went after him. We put it down but he’s—he’s in bad shape. He’ll live, but he’s hurt."
Webb’s jaw flexed once.
"Copy. Get him stable. We’re finishing extraction up here."
He lowered his hand and turned back toward the civilians.
His expression changed slightly.
Not softer exactly.
But calmer.
"There’s nothing to worry about," he said steadily. "Just clearing some infected outside. That’s why we’re here—to keep you safe. Now let’s keep moving. Everyone stays together."
The civilians listened.
Fear stayed on their faces, but they moved again.
Don guided the final few survivors toward the stairs without speaking.
They emerged back into the church parking lot several minutes later.
Chaos had already settled into organized movement.
A second helicopter now occupied the lot beside their original transport while soldiers directed civilians aboard both aircraft.
Medics crossed between landing skids carrying equipment bags and stretchers.
Near the parking lot entrance, several infected bodies lay beneath dark tarps.
Not human casualties.
The younger civilian was being loaded onto a stretcher nearby.
His borrowed combat gear was soaked through with blood near the ribs while one medic pressed thick bandaging against his side. His face looked pale .
Barely conscious.
As they carried him past, his eyes found Don briefly.
Fear.
Shame.
Guilt.
Then the stretcher disappeared into the transport chopper.
Webb watched the scene with a tired shake of his head.
Behind him, the tattooed civilian scoffed quietly.
"Should’ve just left the kid back at camp," he muttered. "Fucking amateur."
Webb turned immediately.
"Watch it."
The man raised both hands slightly.
Not apologizing.
Just backing off.
Webb exhaled heavily and looked away again.
Don stayed silent.
The man wasn’t wrong.
But he also wasn’t helping.
Then Webb froze.
His hand rose back toward his ear while he listened to something through the comms. The exhaustion faded from his posture almost instantly.
"Alright," he said, turning back toward the remaining squad. "Listen up. New orders."
Everyone gathered closer automatically.
"The hell now?" The tattooed guy muttered under his breath.
"We’re diverting to assist another squad. Four-Bravo." Webb checked something briefly on his wrist display before continuing.
"They’re pinned near a residential complex a few blocks east. Infected on the ground, but they’ve got it contained. They just need more numbers to finish extraction and pull out."
Nobody answered immediately.
Then the bruised woman shook her head slowly.
"No," she said quietly. "I didn’t sign up for—I did my part. I’m done."
Webb looked at her for a second.
Then toward Don.
Then the tattooed man.
"I don’t mind," Don said first.
"I’ll go," the man added almost immediately afterward.
Don glanced sideways toward him.
The anger was still there.
But there was something else underneath now too.
Maybe pride.
Maybe guilt.
Maybe he just needed to prove he wasn’t dead weight.
Interesting.
Webb nodded once.
"Thompson, you stay with the extraction transports. Get these civilians back to camp." He looked toward the bruised woman afterward. "You can go with him."
She left immediately without arguing.
No hesitation.
No looking back.
Webb turned toward the remaining three.
"Bright. You’re with me. You too—" He pointed toward the tattooed civilian. "What’s your name?"
"Vance."
"Vance. You’re on me too. Stay close. Don’t do anything stupid."
Vance nodded stiffly.
Webb gestured toward Kowalski, who was already checking the magazine in his rifle.
"Let’s move. Four-Bravo’s waiting."
Don adjusted the front of his chest plate once before falling into step beside Webb again.
Their reduced squad moved toward the eastern side of the church grounds beneath distant helicopter noise and drifting smoke.
Four people.
No transport.
Walking through a district that supposedly had infected activity minutes ago.
Simple.