1990'S META'S POV:
The atmosphere in the abandoned warehouse was a predictable matrix of variables: the scent of mildew, stale cigar smoke, and the almost tangible odor of desperation emanating from the man across the table. I had assessed this engagement as a flawed tactical scenario from its inception. The man, Thanin, was an inefficient variable, his ambition far exceeding his operational intelligence. The real question was not if he would activate his trap, but at which precise, tactically unsound moment.
"Your proposal contains several interesting data points," I stated, my voice a flat line. I leaned forward, my gaze sweeping past him to the windows behind. The glint of light on metal. The silhouette of a sniper rifle. An inefficient and easily countered strategy. A classic amateur. Thanin's smile widened, a nervous twitch in his eye the final confirmation of his intent. "However, the risk-to-reward ratio is unacceptable. I decline."
That was the trigger.
The warehouse erupted in a cacophony of shattering glass and gunfire. Thanin's assets, poorly concealed in the shadows, opened fire. My own assets were trained for this. They did not scramble; they executed pre-programmed responses with ruthless precision. A few were neutralized in the initial volley, their bodies impacting the concrete with the muted thud of terminated assets. But an asset that prioritizes self-preservation over victory is a defective tool. My assets were calibrated for victory. They returned fire, their shots methodical, a systematic neutralization of hostile targets.
The engagement was a swift, brutal equation. I rose, using the heavy table as a temporary shield, the pistol in my hand a familiar extension of my will. I am a solver of problems, and Thanin was a problem that required a permanent solution. I terminated three threats with three rounds. The gunshots were a simple, percussive rhythm. Thanin, in his predictable cowardice, attempted to retreat, but was terminated by a stray round from one of his own men. A pathetic, inefficient end.
The chaos subsided to a state of near-zero activity. The silence was broken only by the whimpers of expiring hostiles. The air was thick with the scent of cordite and blood. I stood amidst the terminated variables, the victor by a significant margin, but at a cost. Out of my twelve assets, only three remained operational.
I gave a curt nod. "Assess damages and prepare for extraction."
The distant wail of a siren, followed by the screech of tires, introduced a new, unexpected variable. Another group. Their arrival was too coordinated. This was not a law enforcement response; this was a secondary assault wave. A dozen more hostiles poured from two black vans, weapons raised. These were not Thanin's amateurs. Their formation, their equipment—they were professionals. The combat variables had shifted catastrophically. The probability of winning a direct engagement was now zero.
"Objective changed: Retreat," I commanded, my voice flat, betraying no urgency.
I executed a rear exit from the warehouse, sprinting toward the river that flanked the industrial park. Rounds impacted the metal walls behind me with sharp, metallic pings. The new enemy was organized, attempting to establish a perimeter to cut off my extraction route. The river was the only viable path. I crashed through a patch of thick reeds, the cold water a sudden, grounding sensation. I required a defensible position.
My eyes scanned the opposite bank. There. A massive tree, its trunk a behemoth of bark and history. A perfect shield. A bulwark against incoming fire.
I did not think; I acted on the calculation. I plunged into the river, the cold shock of the water a harsh clarity. The familiar logic of ballistics and blood was a welcome respite, a sharp contrast to the illogical anomaly—the ghost boy—that had contaminated my recent analysis. The bullets followed, impacting the water around me with sharp snaps. I swam with inhuman efficiency, my focus absolute. I had to reach that defensible position. I had to survive.
It was the only logical outcome.
As I broke the surface of the water, a new sound cut through the air: the distant, familiar wail of police sirens. The tactical equation shifted again. The men on the riverbank, amateurs or not, were not paid to face law enforcement. They scattered, their professionalism dissolving into a panicked retreat. I used the moment to drag myself onto the bank, my body a lead weight. The sirens grew louder, a calculated distraction that bought me time. I had a narrow window.
My hands, slick with water and blood, found purchase on the gnarled roots of the massive tree. The moment my fingers touched the bark, a strong, unnatural gust of wind—a violent, invisible hand—slammed into me. The world seemed to warp, and in a blink, a new variable materialized directly in front of me.
He was a ghost. A phantom. But he was also... me.
My heart, a mechanism I had long believed to be purely biological, stuttered to a complete stop. He was the man from my dreams, the one who stood in the shadows, his presence a constant, illogical anomaly. The man I had seen arguing with me in my own consciousness. My strategic mind, trained to process and categorize every threat, failed completely. This was impossible.
He was shocked, but not by my gun. He was shocked by the situation itself, a look of profound, devastating sadness in his eyes.
"You..." I forced the word past my lips, my hand instinctively raising my pistol. My deduction process, cold and precise, re-engaged. If he was the one from my dreams, the one who tried to protect that ghost boy, then he was the enemy of my objective. The one who had the other book. The other piece of the puzzle. I held the gun steady, aimed directly at the space between his eyes. I was the weaver of fate, and this was an error I needed to correct.
He did not flinch. His lack of fear was a chilling, new data point. He was a wolf in my own skin, and the predator inside him was not intimidated by a bullet. He held my gaze, a mirror of my own cold, calculating eyes, but his held a sorrow I had never felt.
Another violent gust of wind hit, stronger this time, and the world seemed to ripple around him. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, a phantom dissolving into nothingness.
Am I hallucinating? The thought, a contaminating variable of pure illogic, flashed through my mind. Was this the result of a concussion? Or was this something... supernatural? I did not have the time to process this new data. The sirens were now close enough to be a genuine threat. The primary objective had not changed: survival and escape. I needed to leave this place and re-evaluate my entire operational matrix. Now.
I swam to the opposite bank, the siren's wail a constant, piercing threat. As I pulled myself from the water, my mind was already racing, analyzing the new variables: the ghost of myself, the sudden appearance of police, the supernatural elements. I moved with a renewed urgency, my wet clothes heavy and cold, toward the pre-arranged extraction point where Sakda, my driver and second-in-command, was waiting with the getaway car. I had instructed him to hide the vehicle in this area as part of a contingency plan for just such a tactical failure.
Even as I moved, a new sensation, an illogical pressure, settled over me. It was a feeling I had known ever since I encountered the "ghost boy"—the awareness of an unidentified variable, a hostile presence, a sensor somewhere in the periphery. Someone was watching me. The feeling was a low hum of static in my operational matrix, a contamination I couldn't isolate. I decided to deviate from my planned route, moving toward a desolate, open area, away from the civilian population. I needed to isolate and neutralize this threat.
I stopped in the center of the clearing, my back to a wall of overgrown concrete. My voice, flat and devoid of emotion, cut through the quiet air. "You can terminate your surveillance now. I am aware of your presence. Show yourself."
I waited, my senses on high alert. No one appeared. But a rustle of leaves from behind a large rock nearby confirmed my hypothesis. My tactical calculation was complete. I sprinted toward the rock, my pistol raised, ready to engage the hostile target. I rounded the corner and saw him—a figure, small and panicked.
I fired a single round, a non-lethal shot calibrated to hit the shoulder and disable his mobility. The shot landed with a soft, sickening thud, but instead of falling, he dove toward the river. My eyes widened. A drop of blood fell from his wound, a bright red smear on the rock, and a crimson trail bloomed in the water where he had disappeared. But he was gone. He had vanished the moment he hit the water.
My mind, for a brief, shattering moment, seized with pure, unfiltered illogicality. The sirens were closer now, a chorus of approaching law enforcement. The sound of my gunshot would have been a beacon. I had to terminate this engagement. I turned and ran, my feet pounding a frantic rhythm toward Sakda's location.
The situation was escalating beyond my comprehension. The person spying on me, a new unidentified variable, had vanished just like the ghost of myself. My operational matrix had a gaping, bleeding hole in it. There had to be a deep connection, a single, unifying equation that linked these two illogical variables. And I would find it. It was no longer a matter of survival; it was a matter of solving a problem that defied all logic.