[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: COMPLETE] [BIO-METRICS: OPTIMAL] [NEURAL LINK: ESTABLISHED] [LOCATION: SANCTUM FACILITY - CLASSIFIED] [OBJECTIVE: ACTIVATE UNIT 73]
The world is a dull hum, then a sudden surge of data. Unit 73 exists.
His eyes open. There is no struggle, no gasp for air. He simply sees. The environment is sterile. White walls. White ceiling. A metallic table where he lies. Above him, a panel of diagnostic lights blinks in greens and blues.
A disembodied voice resonates directly in his mind. It is smooth, synthetic, and carries an undercurrent of absolute authority. "Welcome back to the waking world, Unit 73. Diagnostics are green. All systems nominal."
This is Mother. The primary AI assigned to his neural cortex. Her presence is not just a voice; it is an omnipresent stream of information, always accessible, always precise.
73 sits up. His movements are fluid, without hesitation. He feels no stiffness, no discomfort from his extended period of stasis. His body is a tool, perfectly calibrated.
He swings his legs over the side of the table. His feet, bare and pale, touch the cool, polished floor. He looks at his hands. They are perfectly formed, devoid of calluses or imperfections. He clenches his fists. Power resides in them.
"Your first contract awaits," Mother informs him. "Proceed to the armory for equipment and briefing."
73 stands. He is tall, his physique lean but powerfully muscled. His head is shaved clean, revealing the smooth curve of his scalp. At the base of his neck, a small, circular port glows faintly with a soft blue light—the central point of his neural link.
He walks toward a door that slides open automatically as he approaches. The door leads to a dressing chamber. A charcoal-grey suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie hang on a hanger. A pair of black leather gloves and polished shoes rest on a shelf.
He dresses. Each movement is economical, efficient. The fabric of the suit feels cool and expensive against his skin. He secures the tie with a practiced knot, the red hue a stark contrast to the monochrome of his attire. He pulls on the gloves. They fit like a second skin.
He moves into the armory. It is a sleek, minimalist room. A single workbench occupies the center. On it, a silenced pistol lies ready. The ICA-19 "Specter". Its black metal gleams under the tactical lights.
73 picks up the pistol. He checks the clip. He racks the slide. The satisfying click of the mechanism resonates with perfect precision. This weapon is an extension of himself.
[HUD ACTIVATED]
The world changes. A translucent digital overlay superimposes itself over 73's vision. In the top-right corner, a minimap appears, showing his current location within the facility. Information streams down the left side of his view: [UNIT 73 - STATUS: ONLINE], [MISSION: AWAITING BRIEF].
"Your target is Marcus Vane," Mother's voice resonates, accompanied by a 3D holographic projection that materializes above the workbench. The hologram shows a portly man with a cybernetic jaw, laughing boisterously. "Vane is a rogue tech-monger, operating in Neo-Berlin's black markets. He has acquired and is actively attempting to sell highly sensitive Sanctum proprietary data to rival factions, specifically the Eastern Coalition."
The holographic projection of Vane's face is replaced by a map of Neo-Berlin, focusing on a specific sector.
"The Board considers this an unacceptable breach of trust and a direct threat to market stability," Mother continues. "He must be neutralized. His death must appear accidental. An overdose of a stimulant would fit his decadent lifestyle and avoid drawing unnecessary scrutiny to Sanctum."
73 processes the information. "Location of target?" he thinks.
"Marcus Vane is currently celebrating his fifty-third birthday at The Aviary, an exclusive high-end nightclub in Neo-Berlin, Sector 4," Mother replies. "He is in the VIP lounge on the uppermost floor."
[CONTRACT ADDED: THE DISSIDENT] [OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE MARCUS VANE] [METHOD: ACCIDENTAL - OVERDOSE] [LOCATION: THE AVIARY, NEO-BERLIN] [REWARD: 5,000 CREDITS]
73 holsters his pistol. He does not ask questions. He does not express emotion. He simply receives the directive.
"Transport to extraction point is ready," Mother states. "Good hunting, 73."
The door to the armory slides open, revealing a short corridor leading to a private elevator. 73 enters. The elevator hums and descends with unnatural speed.
[LOCATION: NEO-BERLIN, SECTOR 4] [WEATHER: ACID RAIN, LOW VISIBILITY] [TIME: 22:30 LOCAL]
The elevator doors open onto a stark alleyway. The air hits 73 first—cold, wet, and acrid. Acid rain streaks down from the perpetually smog-choked sky, hissing softly as it splatters on the refuse-strewn pavement. Neon signs bleed their harsh light into the puddles, painting the grim alley in lurid greens and purples.
73 steps out. His trench coat, which he donned in the elevator, provides a measure of protection, but he feels the bite of the cold. It is a data point, not a discomfort.
He surveys his surroundings. The alley is a narrow cut between towering, grimy buildings. Garbage containers overflow. A drone hovers high above, its red light blinking rhythmically.
[DRONE - STATUS: PUBLIC SURVEILLANCE - THREAT LEVEL: LOW]
He walks with purpose, emerging from the alley into the main thoroughfare. The change is immediate and overwhelming.
Neo-Berlin is a monstrous symphony of light and noise. Holographic advertisements the size of buildings flicker and dance across the urban canyons, selling everything from cybernetic enhancements to synthetic food. Mag-lev trains whistle by overhead, their silent passage punctuated by the thrum of their magnetic fields. Pedestrians, a river of humanity, flow past in a blur of rain-slicked umbrellas and glowing personal devices. Their faces are a mix of weariness, ambition, and digital distraction.
73 moves through them. He does not bump into anyone. He does not make eye contact. He is a phantom in the crowd. His internal biometrics are calm. Heart rate: 58 BPM. Blood pressure: optimal.
He sees The Aviary ahead. It is a colossal structure of polished black glass, its upper floors disappearing into the low-hanging clouds. A pulsing blue light emanates from within, vibrating through the pavement. A long queue of hopeful clubbers snakes around the block, drenched and shivering, their faces illuminated by the club's glow.
Two enormous bouncers guard the main entrance, their bodies augmented with heavy-duty cybernetics. They are "Muscle-Jacks," their hydraulic arms thicker than 73's waist.
[OBSTACLE: BOUNCERS - THREAT LEVEL: MEDIUM - ARMED] [APPROACH: MAIN ENTRADES - PROBABILITY OF ALERT: 95%]
73 dismisses the queue. He walks directly to the velvet rope, his expression neutral. The lead bouncer, a hulking figure with glowing red eyes, steps forward.
"Line's back there, baldy," the bouncer grunts, his augmented voice a low rumble. He crosses his massive arms, effectively blocking the entrance.
73 does not speak. He meets the bouncer's gaze with his own unblinking, grey eyes. With a silent command, he accesses his Digital Spoofing sub-routine. From his retinal implant, a secure, encrypted data packet transmits directly to the bouncer's internal scanner.
The bouncer's red eyes flicker. His internal display processes the incoming data. To his system, 73 is not just a VIP; he is a "Sanctum High-Level Auditor," with priority access to all public and private establishments owned or influenced by the conglomerate. An error in judgment could cost the bouncer his contract, or worse.
The bouncer's posture changes. The aggression drains from his stance. He straightens. "Apologies, sir. My systems are slow in this weather. Please, right this way." He unhooks the velvet rope and bows his head slightly.
73 nods once, a curt, mechanical gesture of acknowledgment, and steps past him.
The transformation inside The Aviary is immediate. The roar of the city vanishes, replaced by the deep, pulsating bass of techno music. The air is warm, thick with the scent of synthetic perfumes, ozone, and the distinct tang of expensive recreational drugs. Holographic birds—owls, hawks, and eagles—made of shimmering hard light, swoop and dive through the cavernous space above the main dance floor.
"Target is in the 'Nesting Perch' VIP lounge," Mother states, her voice clear despite the club's noise. "Floor 42. Accessible via the private elevator or the main stairwell. Both are guarded."
73 scans the room using Instinct Mode. The club's vibrant colors desaturate to monochrome. Patrons become ghostly, translucent figures. Security personnel glow bright red. The stairs leading to the upper levels are outlined in yellow. And high above, on a lavish balcony overlooking the dance floor, a single figure glows golden.
Marcus Vane. He is surrounded by a coterie of sycophants and models, his large body shaking with laughter, a glass of luminous blue liquid in his hand.
73 needs to ascend. The main stairs are monitored by two guards. The private elevator requires a high-level access keycard.
He observes the staff. A young waiter, laden with a tray of empty glasses, hurries toward a service door marked [EMPLOYEES ONLY].
[OPPORTUNITY DETECTED: DISGUISE]
73 follows. He times his movement perfectly. As the waiter pushes through the service door, 73 catches it, slipping into the dimly lit service corridor before it swings shut. The bass of the club is muffled here, a distant thrum.
The waiter continues down the corridor, humming a popular synth-pop tune.
73 accelerates. He moves like a predator. His footsteps are silent on the industrial linoleum. He covers the distance in seconds.
He reaches the waiter just as the man fumbles with a storage locker key.
73's left hand clamps over the waiter's mouth, stifling any cry. His right arm locks around the man's throat, applying precise, calculated pressure to the carotid artery.
[TARGET STATUS: UNCONSCIOUS]
Four seconds. The waiter's body goes limp.
73 drags him into the storage locker. He closes the door, plunging the space into darkness. With practiced efficiency, 73 strips the unconscious man of his uniform—a white vest with glowing blue trim and black trousers. He places his own expensive suit and trench coat neatly into an empty crate. He dons the waiter's uniform. It is a snug fit, but acceptable. He takes the waiter's earpiece and ID chip, clipping the latter onto his own vest.
"Excellent work, 73," Mother's voice confirms. "No witnesses. No alarm."
73 steps out of the locker. He picks up a clean, silver serving tray. He checks his reflection in a polished metal panel. The high collar of the waiter's vest hides the neural port at the back of his neck. He adjusts his facial muscles, adopting a neutral, slightly bored expression.
He walks to the main bar. He collects a fresh bottle of Nebula Vodka, a top-shelf spirit, and three clean glasses. He moves toward the stairs leading to the VIP lounge.
A guard stands at the foot of the stairs, blocking the way. "Hold it."
73 stops. He projects an aura of subservience. He taps the ID chip on his chest.
The guard scans it with a handheld device. It beeps green.
"Vane ordered another bottle," 73 says, adopting a slightly rougher, local accent. His voice is controlled, modulated.
The guard eyes the expensive bottle. "Typical. Go on then."
73 ascends the stairs.
The VIP lounge is a world of subdued luxury. Sound dampeners filter the club's music to a tolerable hum. The floor is a transparent pane, offering a dizzying view of the dance floor far below.
Marcus Vane is even more boisterous up close. Sweat beads on his brow. His cybernetic jaw clicks rhythmically as he talks, eyes darting from one sycophant to another.
"...Sanctum algorithms are a joke, I tell you!" Vane bellows, slapping the table. "They don't account for the variables! The human element! That's where the real power is!"
73 approaches the table. "More drinks, sir?"
Vane barely glances at him. He waves a dismissive hand. "Just pour it, boy. And keep them coming."
73 uncorks the vodka bottle. As he pours, his HUD zooms in on Vane's current glass.
[INVENTORY ACCESSED: NANITE-TOXIN V4] [PROPERTIES: CARDIAC ARREST. SYMPTOMS MIMIC STIMULANT OVERDOSE. TRACELESS AFTER 2 MINUTES.]
With a subtle, precise flick of his thumb, 73 releases a microscopic capsule from beneath his fingernail. It drops silently into the luminous blue liquid. The capsule dissolves instantly, its nanobots beginning their work.
"Enjoy your evening, sir," 73 says, his modulated voice perfectly bland.
He places the refilled glass directly in front of Vane. He bows his head slightly and steps back.
Vane grabs the glass with a plump hand. "To the human element!" he shouts, raising it for another toast.
73 turns, walking calmly toward the VIP lounge exit. He does not watch. He does not need to. The system confirms.
Gulp.
[TARGET INGESTION CONFIRMED] [COUNTDOWN: 10 SECONDS...]
He exchanges a brief, empty nod with the guard at the top of the stairs.
[5 SECONDS...]
He descends, merging seamlessly with the flow of people on the main dance floor.
[3 SECONDS...]
He reaches the service corridor.
[1 SECOND...]
Behind him, from the VIP lounge above, a muffled scream pierces the club's bass. Then, the distinct sound of shattering glass.
"Marcus? Marcus! Oh my god, he's not breathing!"
The music does not stop. The main crowd does not immediately react. But on 73's minimap, the red dots representing VIP security begin to scramble.
"Target eliminated," Mother confirms. Her voice is calm, devoid of any hint of satisfaction or concern. "Cardiac arrest confirmed. Death appears natural. Well done, 73. Proceed to extraction."
73 enters the service locker where he left his clothes. He sheds the waiter's uniform and dons his suit and trench coat once more. He checks his appearance in the polished metal. Perfect.
He exits the club through a rear fire exit, stepping back into a different alleyway. The acid rain falls.
He walks away from The Aviary. The distant wail of emergency sirens begins to rise, growing louder as Trauma-Med units converge on the location. They will find Vane, a victim of his own excess.
73 feels nothing. He is a tool. And the tool performs perfectly.
[MISSION STATUS: SILENT ASSASSIN] [RETURN TO BASE: INITIATED]
The city stretches before him, a labyrinth of shadows and light, waiting for the next contract.