All You Need is Lust Riley Ashford When Kira Maxwell decides to trade in her lousy sex life for a very expensive vibra Love Is All You Need · All You Need. All You Need Is Kill - Sakurazaka, medical-site.info - Free ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read book online for free. Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Hiroshi Sakurazaka was born in Tokyo in After a Look inside this book. All You Need Is Kill by [Sakurazaka, Hiroshi].
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The world is in a war against an alien race called "Mimics," who have taken over most of the world with a mission to eliminate the human race. eBOOK >>PDF All You Need is Kill (manga): 2in-1 Edition FULLPAGE Click button below to download or read this book. Description When the. DOWNLOAD in >>PDF All You Need is Kill 2-in1 Manga (All You Need is Kill ( manga)) EPUB For download this book click Button below.
They call her a badass. They call her a lot of names. Angel of Death. Mad Wargarita. Full Metal Bitch. Few know the truth. That she's all of those things. And more. And less. Even fewer know the reason why. Keiji Kiriya is about to join their ranks. This is the story of two ordinary people forced to do the extraordinary; save the human race from an alien invasion. We meet Keiji, a green Japanese recruit, "She could walk into any hell and come back unscathed.
We meet Keiji, a green Japanese recruit, on the day of his first battle. Nothing goes right. It's an ambush, a slaughter. The members of his unit are dropping like flies. After all if you are to single-handedly stop an alien invasion then at least you should do it in cool looking mecha and backed up with a story that actually makes sense. The omnibus is available on site and Viz Media sent me a copy of this manga to review. Follow me on Twitter and YouTube.
I also manage Mecha Damashii. Read my Forbes blog here. Ollie Barder Contributor I cover gaming in Japan as well as the pop-culture here. You can follow me on Twitter , Facebook or check out my YouTube videos. I also founded and continue to man Read More. If theres a heaven, its a cold place. A dark place. A lonely place. Im terrified. I grip the trigger with stiff fingers; my arms shake as I send a rain of scorching steel down onto the enemy. The rifle kicks as I fire it. A beat steadier than my heart.
A soldiers spirit isnt in his body. Its in his weapon. The barrel warms until it glows, the heat turning fear into anger. Fuck the brass and their fucking pathetic excuse for air support! Fuck the suits and their plans that arent worth a damn once the shit starts flying!
Fuck the artillery for holding back on the left flank! Fuck that bastard who just got himself killed! And more than all of em, fuck anything and everything aiming at me! Wield your anger like a steel fist and smash in their faces. If it moves, fuck it! I have to kill them all. Stop them from moving. A scream found its way through my clenched teeth. My rifle fires 20mm rounds per minute, so it can burn through a clip fast.
But theres no point holding back. It dont matter how much ammo you have left when youre dead. Time for a new magazine.
The soldier I was shouting to was already dead. My order died in the air, a meaningless pulse of static. I squeezed my trigger again. My buddy Yonabaru caught one of the first rounds they fired backone of those javelins. Hit him straight on, tore right through his Jacket. The tip came out covered in blood, oil, and some unidentifiable fluids.
His Jacket did a danse macabre for about ten seconds before it finally stopped moving. There was no use calling a medic. He had a hole just below his chest nearly two centimeters across, and it went clean through his back. The friction had seared the wound at the edges, leaving a dull orange flame dancing around the opening.
It all happened within the first minute after the order to attack. He was the kind of guy that liked to pull rank on you over the stupidest shit, or tell you whod done it in a whodunit before youd finished the first chapter. But he didnt deserve to die. My platoon men from the 17th Company, 3rd Battalion, 12th Regiment, st Armored Infantry Divisionwas sent in to reinforce the northern end of Kotoiushi Island.
They lifted us in by chopper to ambush the enemys left flank from the rear. Our job was to wipe out the runners when the frontal assault inevitably started to push them back. So much for inevitable. Yonabaru died before the fighting even started.
I wondered if he suffered much. By the time I realized what was going on, my platoon was smack dab in the middle of the battle. We were catching fire from the enemy and our own troops both. All I could hear were screams, sobbing, and Fuck! The profanities were flying as thick as the bullets. Our squad leader was dead. Our sergeant was dead. The whir of the rotors on the support choppers was long gone. Comms were cut off. Our company had been torn to shreds.
The only reason I was still alive was because Id been taking cover when Yonabaru bought it. While the others stood their ground and fought, I was hiding in the shell of my Jacket, shaking like a leaf. These power suits are made of a Japanese composite armor plating thats the envy of the world. They cover you like white on rice.
I figured that if a shell did make it past the first layer, itd never make it past the second. So if I stayed out of sight long enough, the enemy would be gone when I came out. I was scared shitless. Like any recruit fresh out of boot camp I could fire a rifle or a pile driver, but I still didnt know how to do it worth a damn. Anyone can squeeze a trigger. But knowing when to fire, where to shoot when youre surrounded? For the first time I realized I didnt know the first thing about warfare.
Another javelin streaked past my head. I tasted blood in my mouth. The taste of iron. Proof that I was still alive. My palms were clammy and slick inside my gloves. The vibrations of the Jacket told me the battery was almost out of juice.
I smelled oil. The filter was on its last legs, and the stench of the battlefield was fighting its way into my suit, the smell of enemy corpses like the smell of crumpled leaves.
I hadnt felt anything below my waist for a while. It should have hurt where they hit me, but it didnt. I didnt know whether that was good or bad. Pain lets you know youre not dead yet. At least I didnt have to worry about the piss in my suit. Out of fuel-air grenades. Only thirtysix 20mm slugs left. The magazine would be empty in five seconds. My rocket launcherwhich they gave each of us only three rockets for anywaygot itself lost before I could even fire the damn thing.
My head-mounted camera was wasted, the armor on my left arm was shredded, and even at full throttle the Jacket was only outputting at 40 percent.
Miraculously, the pile driver on my left shoulder had survived without a scratch. A pile driver is a close-combat weapon that uses an explosive charge to fire tungsten carbide spikesonly good against enemies within arms reach.
The powder cartridges it fires are each as big as a mans fist. At a ninety-degree angle of impact, the only thing that can stand up to it is the front armor plating on a tank.
When they first told me its magazine only held twenty rounds, I didnt think anyone could live long enough to use even that many. I was wrong. Mine had four rounds left. I had fired sixteen times, and missed fifteenmaybe sixteen. The heads-up display in my suit was warped.
I couldnt see a goddamn thing where it was bent. There could be an enemy standing right in front of me and Id never know it. They say a vet who is used to the Jacket can get a read on his surroundings without even using the camera. Takes more than eyes in battle. You have to feel the impact passing through layers of ceramic and metal and into your body. Read the pull of the trigger. Feel the ground through the soles of your boots. Take in numbers from a kaleidoscope of gauges and know the state of the field in an instant.
But I couldnt do any of that. A recruit in his first battle knows shitall. Breathe out. Breathe in.
My suit was rank with sweat. A terrible smell. Snot was seeping from my nose, but I couldnt wipe it. I checked the chronometer beside my display. Sixty-one minutes had passed since the battle started. What a load of shit. It felt like Id been fighting for months.
I looked left, right. Up, down. I made a fist inside one glove. Cant use too much strength, I had to remind myself.
Overdo it, and my aim would drift low. No time to check the Doppler. Time to fire and forget. Thak thak thak thak thak! A cloud of dust rose. The enemys rounds seemed to ride the wind over my head, but mine liked to veer off after leaving the barrel, as if the enemy simply willed them away. Our drill sergeant said guns could be funny like that.
You ask me, it seems only fair that the enemy should get to hear shells screeching down on them, too. We should all have our turn feeling Deaths breath on the back of our neck, friend and foe alike.
But what would Deaths approach sound like to an inhuman enemy? Did they even feel fear? Our enemiesthe enemies of the United Defense Forceare monsters. Mimics, we call them.
My gun was out of bullets. The silhouette of a misshapen orb materialized in the clay-brown haze. It was shorter than a man.
It would probably come up to the shoulder of a Jacketed soldier. If a man were a thin pole standing on end, a Mimic would be a stout barrela barrel with four limbs and a tail, at any rate. Something like the bloated corpse of a drowned frog, we liked to say.
To hear the lab rats tell it, they have more in common with starfish, but thats just details. They make for a smaller target than a man, so naturally theyre harder to hit. Despite their size, they weigh more than we do. If you took one of those oversized casks, the kind Americans use to distill bourbon, and filled it with wet sand youd have it about right.
Not the kind of mass a mammal thats 70 percent water could ever hope for. A single swipe of one of its limbs can send a man flying in a thousand little pieces. Their javelins, projectiles fired from vents in their bodies, have the power of 40mm shells. To fight them, we use machines to make ourselves stronger.
We climb into mechanized armor Jacketssciences latest and greatest. We bundle ourselves into steel porcupine skin so tough a shotgun fired at point blank wouldnt leave a scratch. Thats how we face off against the Mimics, and were still outclassed. Mimics dont inspire the instinctive fear youd expect if you found yourself facing a bear protecting her cubs, or meeting the gaze of a hungry lion. Mimics dont roar. Theyre not frightening to look at. They dont spread any wings or stand on their hind legs to make themselves look more intimidating.
They simply hunt with the relentlessness of machines. I felt like a deer in the headlights, frozen in the path of an oncoming truck.
I couldnt understand how Id gotten myself into the situation I was in. I was out of bullets. So long, Mom. Im gonna die on a fucking battlefield. On some godforsaken island with no friends, no family, no girlfriend.
In pain, in fear, covered in my own shit because of the fear. And I cant even raise the only weapon I have left to fend off the bastard racing toward me. It was like all the fire in me left with my last round of ammo. The Mimics coming for me.
I can hear Death breathing in my ear. His figure looms large in my heads-up display. Now I see him; his body is stained a bloody red. His scythe, a two-meterlong behemoth, is the same vivid shade. Its actually more of a battle axe than a scythe. In a world where friend and foe wear the same dust-colored camouflage, he casts a gunmetal red glow in all directions. Death rushes forward, swifter than even a Mimic.
A crimson leg kicks and I go flying. My armor is crushed. I stop breathing. The sky becomes the ground. My display is drowning in red flashing warnings. I cough up blood, saving the rest of the warnings the trouble. Then my pile driver fires. The blast throws me at least ten meters into the air. Bits of the armor plating from the back of my Jacket scatter across the ground. I land upside down. Death swings his battle axe.
Metal screams as he cuts through the uncuttable. The axe cries out like a freight train screeching to a halt. I see the Mimics carapace sailing through the air. It only took one blow to reduce the Mimic to a motionless heap. Ashen sand poured from the gaping wound. The two halves of the creature shuddered and twitched, each keeping its own strange rhythm.
A creature humanitys greatest technological inventions could barely scratch, laid waste by a barbarian weapon from a thousand years past. Death turned slowly to face me. Amid the crush of red warning lights crowding my display, a sole green light winked on. An incoming friendly transmission. A womans voice. Impossible to make it out over the noise. I couldnt stand. The Jacket was spent and so was I. It took everything I had left just to roll right side up.
Upon closer inspection, I was not, in fact, in the company of the Angel of Death. It was just another soldier in a Jacket. A Jacket not quite like my own, as it was outfitted with that massive battle axe where the regulation pile driver should have been. The insignia on the shoulder didnt read JP but instead U.
In place of the usual desert camouflage mix of sand and coffee grounds, the suit shone head-to-toe in metallic crimson. The Full Metal Bitch. Id heard stories. A war junkie always chasing the action, no matter where it led her. Word had it she and her Special Forces squad from the U. Army had chalked up half of all confirmed Mimic kills ever. Maybe anyone who could see that much fighting and live to tell about it really was the Angel of Death.
Still carrying the battle axe, the blazing red Jacket started toward me. Its hand reached down and fumbled for the jack in my shoulder plate. A contact comm. Theres something Ive been wantin to know. Her voice filled my suit, clear as crystal. A soft, light tone, at odds with the two-meter axe and carnage shed just created with it.
Is it true the green tea they serve in Japan at the end of your meal comes free? The conductive sand spilling out of the fallen Mimic danced away on the wind. I could hear the distant cry of shells as they flew. This was a battlefield, the scorched waste where Yonabaru, Captain Yuge, and the rest of my platoon had died.
A forest of steel shells. A place where your suit fills with your own piss and shit. Where you drag yourself through a mire of blood and muck. Ive gotten myself in trouble for believing everything I read. So I thought Id play it safe, ask a local, she continued. Here I am, half dead, covered in shit, and you want to talk about tea? Who walks up to someone, kicks them to the ground, and then asks about tea?
What was going through her fucking head? I wanted to give her a piece of my mind, but the words wouldnt come.
I could think of the words I wanted to say, but my mouth had forgotten how to work a litany of profanities stalled at the gate.
Thats the thing with books. Half the time the author doesnt know what the hell hes writing aboutespecially not those war novelists. Now how about you ease your finger off the trigger and take a nice, deep breath. Good advice. It took a minute, but I started to see straight again. The sound of a womans voice always had a way of calming me down. The pain Id left in battle returned to my gut. My Jacket misread the cramps in my muscles, sending the suit into a mild spasm.
I thought of the dance Yonabarus suit did just before he died. Hurt much? What do you think? My reply wasnt much more than a hoarse whisper. The red Jacket kneeled down in front of me, examining the shredded armor plate over my stomach. I ventured a question. Hows the battle going? The st has been wiped out.
Our main line fell back to the coast to regroup. What about your squad? No use worrying about them. It pierced the front, but the back armor plate stopped it. Its charred bad. How bad? Fuck me. I looked up at the sky. Looks like its starting to clear.
I like the sky here. Whys that? Its clear. Cant beat islands for clear skies. Am I going to die? Yeah, she told me. I felt tears well up in my eyes. I was grateful then that the helmet hid my face from view.
It kept my shame a private thing. The red Jacket maneuvered to gently cradle my head. Whats your name? Not your rank or your serial number. Your name. Keiji Kiriya. Im Rita Vrataski. Ill stay with you until you die. She couldnt have said anything Id rather hear, but I wasnt going to let her see that. Youll die too if you stay. I have a reason. When you die, Keiji, Im going to take your Jackets battery. Thats cold.
No need to fight it. Let go. I heard an electronic squelchan incoming comm signal in Ritas helmet. It was a mans voice. The link between our Jackets automatically relayed the voice to me. Calamity Dog, this is Chief Breeder. I read you. All business. Alpha Server and vicinity under control.
Estimate we can hold for thirteen minutes, tops. Time to pick up that pizza. Calamity Dog copies. Running silent from here in. The red Jacket stood, severing our comm link. Behind her an explosion rumbled.
I felt the ground tremble through my spine. A laser-guided bomb had fallen from the sky. It plunged deep into the earth, piercing the bedrock before it detonated. The sandy white ground bulged like an overcooked pancake; its surface cracked and sent darker soil the color of maple syrup spewing into the air. A hail of mud splattered on my armor. Ritas battle axe glinted in the light. The smoke cleared.
I could see a writhing mass in the center of the enormous crater left by the explosion: the enemy. Red points of light sprang to life on my radar screen, so many that every point was touching another. I thought I saw Rita nod. She sprang forward, flitting across the battlefield. Her axe rose and fell. Each time it shone, the husk of a Mimic soared. The sand that poured from their wounds spiraled on the whirlwinds traced by her blade.
She cut them down with the ease of a laser cutting butter. Her movements took her in a circle around me, protecting me. Rita and I had undergone the same training, but she was like a juggernaut while I lay on the ground, a stupid toy that had run down its batteries. No one had forced me to be here. I had dragged myself to this wasteland of a battlefield, and I wasnt doing a damn bit of good for anyone.
Better Id gotten plugged alongside Yonabaru. At least then I wouldnt have put another soldier in harms way trying to protect me. I decided not to die with three rounds left in my pile driver. I lifted a leg.
I put a hand on one knee. I stood. I screamed. I forced myself to keep going. The red Jacket turned to me. I heard some noise over my headphones, but I couldnt tell what she was trying to say. One of the Mimics in the pack stood out from the rest. It wasnt that it looked different from the others. Just another drowned, bloated frog. But there was something about it that set it apart. Maybe proximity to death had sharpened my senses, but somehow I knew that was the one I was meant to fight.
So thats what I did. I leapt at the Mimic and it lashed out at me with its tail. I felt my body lighten. One of my arms had been cut off. The right arm leaving the pile driver on the left intact. Lucky me. I pulled the trigger. The charge fired, a perfect ninetydegree angle. One more shot. A hole opened in the things carapace. I blacked out. It was a mystery novel about an American detective who is supposed to be some sort of expert on the Orient.
I had my index finger wedged into a scene where all the key players meet for dinner at a Japanese restaurant in New York.
The detectives client, an Italian, tries to order an espresso after their meal, but the detective stops him cold. He starts on about how at Japanese restaurants, they bring you green tea after dinner, so you dont have to order anything. Then he veers off on how green tea goes great with soy sauce, and oh, why is it that in India they spice their milk tea?