Two weeks later.
"Play!" whined the white-haired toddler with unique eyes containing all the colors of the rainbow, demandingly thrusting a robot toward Tony.
"I'm busy," he replied with weary resignation, soldering a new circuit.
The old one had died a hero's death during a test run, and now he had to make a new, much more reliable one. This is what he accomplished today, connecting it to the rest of the internals of his—once again modified—"Brain Upgrade 2.0" complex. This time, he took into account the mistakes of the previous design, incorporating a significant safety margin for the hardware, while simultaneously writing all the necessary programs in advance and making backups. The most terrifying thing hadn't been the equipment explosion, but the destruction of the software, of which the overconfident child was left with nothing but fragments of code—some functional, some defective. He didn't know which was which, as he hadn't bothered with labeling, settling for dates and arbitrary strings of characters generated by the computer. Well, lesson learned, lesson integrated; now he labels everything.
"With what?" Lucy inquired, tilting her head adorably, causing Stark to cast a doomed look toward the heavens, silently asking once again why they were punishing him like this.
It wasn't that Lucy was a bad girl, or that she caused mischief, but being an extremely curious and intelligent child—frankly ahead of her peers—she was a formidable "little miss why." And most terrifyingly, she never lost interest in Tony's explanations, listening intently and REMEMBERING... resulting in a literal flood of new questions. Consequently, Stark was forced to give her what were essentially real lectures on engineering and programming! All this under the adoring gaze and barely suppressed laughter of her mother, who filmed particularly "cute" moments on camera. To top it off, she always claimed it was for the family archive, having already mentally married Tony to her daughter, receiving a charmingly grimace-filled face and a fresh surge of positive energy in return. And every time, Stark would look at Lucy, think, realize that he liked much older and more curvaceous beauties, and stay silent, because something inside told him: if you say what you think, they will take terrible revenge—because Lucy, though small, is a woman.
It might seem strange that Lucy, who isn't even a year old, already speaks well and is capable of full learning, but it would only be strange if she were an ordinary child and not a modification.
Who are the modifications? People whose genome has been improved in one way or another. This is a relatively young and complex field, which began its full development only about a decade ago. If before it grew mostly in breadth, focusing on purely cosmetic changes, biological implants, improving crop varieties, and acting more as an appendage to cybernetics, now it grew in depth, shifting from extensive to intensive growth. A sufficient mass of knowledge and practical experience had simply accumulated to interest the powers that be, and scientists could respond to their wishes without astronomical costs.
As a result, genetically improved people appeared. They existed before, but exclusively in high offices or elite military departments, usually related to intelligence. Now there are many more of them, although the main list of patients consists of young people under 21. Older organisms tolerate interference in their genome more poorly and, as a result, can suffer seriously, develop malignant tumors, have a shortened lifespan, or even die. Formally, Tony is also a modification, but his genome was only cleaned of malignant DNA strands, with special attention paid to hereditary diseases, and that's it—whereas Lucy was a full modification.
She wasn't just altered at the embryonic stage; she was the result of the mother's egg and father's sperm being modified by geneticists, forming in a special incubation chamber and being improved step-by-step. The main focus was on appearance, health, intelligence, and her body's loyalty to implants. They even increased her bio-current production, as many elite models of cybernetics are powered by it. This explains the white hair and unique irises—consequences of genomic interference, extremely deep and well-thought-out, but poorly controlled in minor details. So, one shouldn't be surprised that the toddler understands things not every adult can grasp, especially now while Tony is sticking to basic concepts and images. Lucy is still a long way from the details.
"It'll be funny if she masters engineering before learning the multiplication table," Tony chuckled, realizing how absurd the thought was... at first glance. Still, basic math isn't that difficult a task when you have technology that accelerates learning, an absolute memory, and a brain literally tuned for absorbing, analyzing, and using information.
"Assembling a flow distributor to reduce voltage on the main power line. So it doesn't explode again," the young Stark finally answered the toddler's question.
"I am forced to point out that the configuration of parts you are creating is not certified by a qualified specialist and has several weak points in the design," spoke Omnissia, whom Tony had repainted red. He can't stand pink, and this way it at least fits the lore and theme. Alas, he couldn't change the holographic whiskered anime face; Claire had made a rather primitive and single-use holographic projector and placed it so that it couldn't be reached without completely disassembling the head.
"It's certified by me," Tony replied with finality.
"The probability of the designed equipment exploding is seven point three percent. An unacceptably high risk; it is recommended to install additional fuses."
"No need, the main load will be distributed between the netrunning chair, the data center, and the adapters," Tony grumbled, but without much heat.
He didn't know what his parents had tweaked in Omnissia, but she was developing fast, even rapidly, and after a couple of days of active involvement, she could give truly good advice on his project. And she sent reports to his parents—what she recommended, what she advised, where Tony himself was taking excessive risks, and so on—and they, in turn, forced him to redo moments they considered "risky." Strangely enough, they completely trusted the machine in this matter. Although Claire checked her creation's code regularly, Omnissia was still a makeshift, hasty construction not designed for complex mathematical tasks and engineering designs. Either his mother's genius is that great, or there's something he doesn't know about the source code Claire used when creating her.
"Notification to Mr. and Mrs. Stark has been sent," the treacherous piece of iron informed him, completely ignoring Tony as she had every time before.
"And what's this for?" little Lucy poked at a microchip.
"Sigh..." Tony exhaled.
"He-he-he-he..." Alicia couldn't help herself.
Somewhere beneath the slums.
"How do you like it?" Claire asked, casting a wide gesture over the area. "Plenty of space, work can be done to expand both deeper and wider, there are three tunnels—two out of the city, one into the slums."
"Unfamiliar architecture. What is this?" inquired a well-groomed Japanese man in a signature black-and-red Arasaka suit. Ryu Kusanagi was actively scanning the ceiling and beams of the structure he saw, trying to calculate the strength of the crude but generally interesting construction. And judging by what his cybernetic eyes were showing, either his optics were malfunctioning, or the builders of this place were total paranoids.
"A Cold War era bunker," Robert answered briefly. "Designed in response to the Russian test of the Tsar Bomba in 1961."
"Tsar Bomba?" Ryu asked.
He knew little of that project, but apparently, the original design was changed; otherwise, the Soviets stood every chance of if not causing a tectonic plate shift, then triggering devastating earthquakes across the entire globe, which is why the original power was significantly reduced.
"What about Net access here?" he tossed the useless thoughts out of his head.
"We'll have to lay a cable, but no difficulties are foreseen."
"We can duplicate the connection with transmitters to satellites; that way we can provide not only communication but also power for the future laboratory. The main thing is to work well on the shielding."
"Mm," Ryu nodded in agreement.
Initially, he didn't expect much from the local gaijin, but the level of professionalism they had already shown genuinely pleased him, as did the connections acquired during this assignment. If everything goes smoothly, he will be able to take the post of director in the local branch of the zaibatsu, and from there, with luck and good work, manage the entire European district.
"What can you offer for backup power sources? The project is too important for Arasaka to limit ourselves to half-measures."
"A nuclear reactor," Claire replied. "After the failed coup, many ideological or simply dissatisfied-with-the-new-elite high-level engineers fled the Soviet Union and settled in Poland and other Slavic countries. Including those who had access to classified information."
"Not the best recommendation, considering the Chernobyl accident," Kusanagi noted.
"An early project, rushed construction. Research was conducted after the accident. And thanks to that, Russian nuclear energy remains among the best in the world... as is their entire energy sector in general."
"Hard to argue," Ryu was forced to admit.
Although he was a patriot of his country, he recognized the Russians' achievements in this direction. After all, SovOil was the first to learn how to extract highly efficient fuel from renewable resources, leaving oil for the production of complex chemicals and other materials.
"But can refugees build a modern reactor and keep it a secret?"
"They are holders of state secrets with families here. The reactor is of an old design, but the scheme is proven and reliable; it can act as the main power source," Robert added.
"Good," the corporate official nodded with satisfaction. "Saburo-sama will be pleased to hear about such capabilities from our foreign partners; there is a reason we chose your country for the project."
"Have the deadlines been set yet?" Claire asked with interest.
"The methodologies are refined, the equipment is designed; by the completion of construction, it will be free of teething problems. All that remains is to select staff of the appropriate level and future project participants," their companion boasted readily. "We can begin immediately upon completion of construction."
After all, the information is far from secret, and the Polish President's people will still need time to prepare everything.
"What about your side?"
"Everything is ready; construction crews are assembled and waiting for the signal, materials for primary construction are waiting at the docks."
"And what about the churchmen? I heard their head is not very pleased with our agreements."
"Cardinal Lewandowski will not be a problem," Robert assured the important trade partner, his face unchanging but internally grimacing. "He is needed for influence over the masses, but he has no real political power in this matter."
"I certainly hope so," he was answered with a calm nod. "Otherwise, Arasaka Corporation will have to protect its interests, or, in the case of excessive costs, terminate business relations with the government of the Republic of Poland. I assume that is not in your interest." The most obvious threat fell from Ryu's lips as easily as a breath.
He was willing to endure much for career growth, but only from his corporation and subordinates; someone else's lack of professionalism drove the cold perfectionist out of his mind. Usually, blood followed such moments. And the blood of a bunch of fanatics who reject technology and blindly follow an outright heretic—he would pour it like water if even a hint of trouble appeared from their side.
"The Cardinal will not be a problem. His power over the crowd is great, but state and shadow structures are outside his zone of influence."
"I hear you, and you have heard me."
Poland. Warsaw. Electronics Market. Two months later.
"How much!? I could build an adapter myself for that money and still have half left over!" complained the almost nine-year-old toddler (birthday in a couple of weeks), currently being held in Omnissia's arms, where he had been forcibly placed due to his hyperactive nature and the large crowd.
"Boy, this isn't just an adapter, it's the latest Petrochem model! They put these little things on their stations! It's not just a piece of plastic and copper; it's a complex mechanism with specialized software for redistributing energy flows. This takes the load off the main system and saves computing power by not overloading the main server with thousands of discharge operations," a somewhat plump, balding, but still sturdy man in his fifties assured Tony.
"Yeah, and then replace them every month," Tony snorted dismissively. "I'm telling you in plain language, I need a simple adapter with voltage adjustment, not these newfangled gadgets! Simple, reliable as a stick, and cheap! So that if it breaks, I can just throw it away, not grit my teeth repairing overpriced trash made of copper and plastic for a pile of eddies!"
"I just don't have the model you need, kid. I don't!" the seller threw up his hands. "Everything I had was sold long ago, and there won't be new arrivals because it's discontinued."
"Omnissia, is this true?" Tony asked his robot-nanny, equipped with sensitive enough sensors and a lie-detection program.
"No," the robot replied.
"Then, if he lies again, break his arm," Tony replied, squinting with satisfaction. The nerve, people trying to scam kids for overpriced junk.
"Accepted," she replied with barely perceptible satisfaction in her voice. Tony glanced at his protector-jailer but decided he had imagined it, though he mentally resolved to dig into her head when possible.
"Hey-hey, take it easy!" the trader nervously threw up his hands. "I really don't have the model you need, but I have the materials for it!"
"Hand them over," he was answered with a gracious nod.
"Thirteen eddies," he replied, laying out a kit for assembling one adapter.
"How much!?" Tony protested, making the trader wince. "I could buy a new, already assembled one for that and still have change!" And so the argument entered a new round.
Actually, Tony was a frequent guest at this market. Warsaw was rich in various markets, and they all stood out for having a variety of high-quality goods at relatively low prices, which could be lowered even further if you knew how to haggle. Tony knew. He was especially good at it when a two-meter heavy piece of iron with smooth lines, a shotgun on its back, and an automatic pistol on its belt loomed behind him. Especially at the electronics market, where sellers, due to the nature of their goods, understood technology and could immediately identify a custom-made model looking after an obviously rich boy. How did they know he was rich? By the clothes and the cleanliness of his face.
The first was Tony's own merit—he knew how to dress and appreciated good things; the second was solely the merit of Alicia Kusanagi, quite the clean-freak and a fan of slobbering over other people's faces. Before meeting this woman, Tony could afford to walk around "brutally" with oil or some other technical fluid on his face; now, to avoid the humiliating process, he was forced to always be clean and tidy, even in his own home.
As for the traders... Tony might have come from a wealthy family, but he knew the value of money. He knew how to save and didn't like it when people tried to cheat him, causing all the market inhabitants who dealt with him regularly to wail. Little Stark's particularly troublesome character had become unbearable in the last month, as he was almost, almost finished with his installation—which this time definitely wouldn't burn up! If only because this time he was paying much more attention to the material science of the parts, assisted by Omnissia with a direct link to the Net and a whole array of engineering programs.
"This time, everything should work!" Tony thought with a fearful sense of anticipation, pressing his purchases tighter to his chest. He didn't know why he had fixated on this technology, didn't know where this determination came from, but he was certain: as soon as he underwent the intended procedure, everything would change. The secrets that had weighed on him since childhood, the dreams full of feelings and emotions, the incredible knowledge surpassing so much of what exists today—all of this would receive an explanation the exact moment he turned on his device. The main thing was to build it.
Meanwhile, the child in the robot's arms left the market. Another peaceful day in the expanses of Warsaw, whose residents are among the few in the world who can say they live not much worse than their ancestors from the end of the 20th century. All thanks to the firm hand of the current President and the Polish Church, who hold power and prevent chaos from overwhelming the streets of Polish cities. Only a lone priest shouts at the entrance, dressed in rags and using a couple of connected pipes instead of a cross.
"Listen to me, servants of His, listen, for I speak the truth to you! Renounce the excesses of technology, stop replacing the flesh granted to you by God with vile metal, for this is the path to Hell! Forsake Evil, rise against the corporations, overthrow the Devil's henchmen, and turn your gaze to the true Light..."
But no one paid attention to the madman. He had long since become a local landmark, regularly coming to this exact market for his sermons until the police would take him to the station, hold him for a few days in a cell, and let him go. After all, he didn't hurt anyone.
Only a few noticed that, for some reason, he wasn't being touched anymore.
Even fewer saw in this the first seeds of a storm.
Republic of Poland. Warsaw. Home of the Kusanagi family. One year later.
Located opposite the Stark home, the standard European-style house was quite tidy, well-maintained, and not very flashy, giving absolutely no impression that its owner handled multi-million financial turnovers. For better or worse, Ryu Kusanagi was a patriot to the bone, trying in every way to match the image of a samurai from his homeland's past, only instead of Japan, he considered Arasaka his home, and Saburo Arasaka his master. Which was the norm for a hereditary corporate employee.
The Kusanagi family had joined Arasaka back during the time of Saburo's father, Sasai Arasaka. It cannot be said that over these years the family had risen significantly, if only because dozens of such "dynasties" existed in the Japanese branch, but the Kusanagi family managed to secure a place as valuable, loyal, and most importantly, successful cadres. Ryu was the new generation—young, ambitious, and not yet having proven his usefulness to the corporation to the proper extent. Successes existed, of course, especially in the military field, but they were quite insufficient for him to be appointed to the post of head of one of the corporation's strategic projects. Semi-legal, dangerous, located far from blessed Japan, but even so, had he not been a Kusanagi, he wouldn't have seen such a post for another twenty years. His appointment was an advance and the result of trust earned by his name over two hundred long years of service to the Arasaka family. And he understood this. Understood and appreciated.
Sitting in his office, Ryu read the research group's reports. The task before them was phenomenal, complex, and thoroughly illegal: to raise a group of netrunners who could successfully extract data from behind the Blackwall. That is, they must be able to pass through this barrier in both directions, know what to look for, download it quickly, and return, while avoiding feral AIs. A difficult task. Problematic, but promising enormous prospects for both the company itself and Ryu Kusanagi.
According to the original plans, it was intended to use experienced netrunners who had proven their effectiveness, equipping them with advanced chrome almost to the point of becoming a borg, where only a fragment of the nervous system and the brain remain of the human. A simple but reliable idea, but there was a problem in the form of a small number of candidates. Adam Smasher is not valued so highly in their company's ranks and gained world fame for nothing; far from every person can endure the procedure of full body replacement with implants, and even fewer maintain even a drop of sanity. Smasher is a unique case in this regard, remaining himself even when moved into a jar connected to a cyber-body. Finding even one such unique individual is a non-trivial task in itself, but turning him into a borg loyal to the corporation? Practically impossible, considering WHAT tasks would be before him, and this is despite the fact that such a specialist would be much more useful in other areas. Then Ryu decided to change the approach, correctly reasoning that no one would give him a second Adam Smasher; he needed to grow one himself. Ideas ranged from cloning Arasaka's famous borg to creating a neural computer based on his DNA and then using it to penetrate the Old Net. Alas, all analyst forecasts showed either too little efficiency or unjustifiably large expenditures of time. And while they are treading water, Militech has its own projects for extracting knowledge from behind the Wall. But Ryu managed to produce a project that turned out to be that very golden 20/80 rule. 20% of effort brings 80% of results. Project "Umenoko Tomo Ta Chi" received the green light and the highest praise from Saburo Arasaka himself, who appreciated not only the effectiveness but also the value of the idea. The possibility of raising loyal and skilled netrunners who would have no equal among their peers could reflect very well on the company's security and methods for subtle target elimination.
He was given everything necessary: genetic laboratories, medical databases, the best specialists, and unlimited supplies of test subjects from the overpopulated streets of Japanese cities. Only seven years of research, and he was able to obtain a stable result in raising the best netrunners in the world—those who are an order of magnitude superior to all others. Give them a server, equipment, and access to the Net, and they will be an unstoppable force. Genetic modifications ahead of modern analogs by at least half a century, specially designed implants—more than half of which are responsible for the correct formation of the organism—serums, hormonal complexes, and a set of vitamins that draw the maximum out of the user's artificially expanded genetic potential.
The result is a netrunner with a strong body, good compatibility with chrome, improved heat exchange, a nervous system eight times superior to the standard, and brain tissue whose density exceeds base indicators by three times. Genius, accelerated maturation, improved body control, low sweating, and extreme reaction speed turned out to be just a pleasant bonus; the true potential of the children he created will be revealed only in a netrunning chair, when connected to a powerful data center and suit.
Ryu couldn't resist; he set aside the documents and pulled up a view from a surveillance camera on his desktop screen, which displayed his daughter Lucyna. The toddler was in a netrunning suit and chair, connected to the Net. He switched to another screen showing what was happening in their home digital fortress. His daughter, his greatest triumph, was currently resisting several combat scripts. Resisting successfully! What not every adult, albeit mediocre, netrunner could manage, his daughter solves without any particular difficulties. He hadn't just created the best netrunners; he had created a new kind of human, the next stage of evolution. Stable, devoid of mutations, the best in everything. Lucy is the Alpha and Omega, the best of the new seed. The one who received the best set of genes, the one whose birth is the result not of chaotic evolution, but of human genius. Unlike her future brothers and sisters, she was ALREADY born superior to the rest—better, stronger, tougher, and more resilient. Simply more beautiful. The progenitor of a new species. And someone like her, the best in everything, is already preparing for all procedures, already taking precisely calculated supplements, already accepted the first development control implants into herself to become EVEN better and more perfect.
Ryu clenched his hands, steadying the trembling.
He longed to see what the new generation of the Kusanagi family would grow into, longed to sire those who would exalt their name and place it at the top of the corporate hierarchy. And Lucyna would be the first. The first, but far from the only one.
At the same time. The Stark home.
"Master Tony, it is time to wake up," the annoying mechanical voice of the hellish machine—only masquerading as a robot-nanny—tore him from a pleasant dream involving himself and a pair of models in a jacuzzi.
"Be gone," he muttered, not particularly believing in gods but attempting to summon higher powers out of desperation, wrapping himself tighter in the warm, soft, and cozy blanket.
"Master Tony, it is time to wake up," Omnissia repeated. "According to the established schedule, you must begin your morning workout in seven minutes and twenty-four seconds; otherwise, you will be late for breakfast."
"Seven AM," groaned the martyr, victim of the soulless piece of iron, peeling his eyes open and looking at the time. "Why do you do this to me?" Tony asked, questioning either a non-existent god, the universe, or Omnissia.
At 9 years old, young Stark understood one important thing about himself... he is a night owl. A textbook one. He could fall asleep at three, four, five in the morning and wake up at 11:00 or 12:00 fresh as a daisy, except he'd want to go to sleep earlier by nightfall. But if he woke up even a bit earlier than ten AM, no matter how early he went to bed, he would be sleepy, sluggish, and generally squeezed dry like a sponge until lunch at the best of times. Alas, he can't have coffee due to his age, nor energy drinks; the former washes calcium out of the bones, the latter is poorly tolerated by a still-young organism, so he suffers.
And up to a certain point, this wasn't a problem, but at some point, his parents got it into their heads to engage him in additional training—as if he didn't have enough already! He is already remotely completing programs from several European universities and, unlike other idlers, he isn't tested by a program or a teacher via online link, but by Omnissia and his parents. Three judges, like the heads of Cerberus, closed the passage to the world of idleness, cheating, and rest. But! In addition to the existing intellectual load, they added physical load on top. And if anyone thought that two former KGB agents, currently working as a kind of Oprichnina for the local dictator, would limit themselves to running, a boxing section, a gym, or a pool, then they are an extremely naive person.
Shooting all types of weapons, weapon maintenance, cross-country orientation, intelligence gathering in urban conditions, cleaning up tracks, target elimination—both stealth and assault—field medicine, knife fighting, fencing, evading pursuit, tangling tracks, camouflage, acting; here is a list of not all, but the main subjects being taught to a NINE-YEAR-OLD child! Childhood traumas? Morality? The value of human life? No, never heard of it, said his parents and added a couple of extra tasks, so there wouldn't be much time for nonsense. His brilliant brain was exploited to the fullest, raising some kind of death machine instead of a civilian specialist.
Little Stark didn't think much about his life, unlike his parents. No matter how young Robert and Claire looked—like people in their late thirties—in fact, both are well over sixty. Modern medicine and enhancements performed in their youth did their job, seriously extending their young years, and modern plastic surgery even allows changing height, gender, and even species affiliation—replacing skin with fur and growing animal ears and a tail. Or gills and scales. In short, everyone looks how they want. In the modern world, especially when you are part of power structures, ESPECIALLY when those structures are related to the security forces, keeping your hands clean is a rarity, practically a Herculean feat. In the second half of the 21st century, human life is worth nothing and the only measure is strength. Will you draw the blood of anyone who covets you, your family, or your property? Then you have a chance to live a long and good life, even passing something on to your grandchildren. Are you weak? It doesn't matter how smart, rich, or beautiful you are; it will be taken, you will be used, and when you are no longer useful, you'll be thrown onto the street to die.
Tony's parents understood how this world works and knew what could be useful to their child, which is why both invested in his education more than seriously. Their child became a killer? So what? He killed outright scum who had lost every right to be called human—parasites of society living off the grief and deaths of law-abiding citizens. Tony has too many classes? Braindance with special equipment ordered exclusively for his neural connections, plus a naturally perfect memory, and we shorten several years of study to a measly year, with parallel training in other directions. Plus cognitive activity stimulants with a couple of supplements for recovery. Expensive, extremely expensive; the sum numbered six zeros even during preparation, and since the start of classes, although it hasn't gained a seventh zero, the number before the zeros is far from a one. Но and the final result was worth it. Of course, in just a year of classes even Tony wouldn't have become a master and professional in all the above, simply because practice is needed besides theory, but he had already reached the level of a confident amateur.
But that is, so to speak, the practical, grounded part, whereas what was happening in the soul of the young Stark, only he knew.
At first, he took everything with enthusiasm. He liked to learn, to find out new things, to test himself, to challenge his talents. And then there was the first "practice" in knife fighting. Nothing special—his father just arrived in the evening, took him along, drove somewhere to the border with the slums, and then told him to wait in the car. So he waited. His father returned quickly, only 20 minutes, and he gets out of the armored monster with a machine gun on the roof, heading into some alley. An alley with three corpses.
Three scavengers—fans of black braindances, kidnappers, and butchers who cut organs and implants out of defenseless victims for sale. Tony didn't pity them; moreover, he despised them, perceiving them as something vile and unnatural, something that shouldn't exist. Но, on the other hand, they were humans. Humans who should have been tried and punished according to the law, and not like this, in a back alley, without evidence. At that moment, two things clashed in his head: the Principles and way of thinking obtained from dreams, and his father's authority, backed by years of life in this world.
And then Robert gave him a knife and told him to practice strikes on vulnerable points of the body. Arteries, organs, nerve intersections, empty areas between the ribs—he had to practice all of this on three human bodies. Terrible and unacceptable for a child? Perhaps by the standards of the end of the 20th century it is so, but the current world is a much more cruel place. A good parent is not one who raises a decent person; a good parent is one who teaches their child to survive. Teaches them to protect themselves and not be a silent victim, teaches them to accurately determine their strength and how to use it for victory. In the end, the cold and rational side of his personality took over that day; he gripped the knife he was given more comfortably... and struck, feeling a piece of himself die, while something else took its place, something more in line with the surrounding reality.
The bodies were still warm.
And yet Tony complained no more. Didn't whine. But he didn't feel the old enthusiasm either. There were three more such outings; the last one ended with his first kill in reality, rather than in a simulator.
"That was easy," Tony thought when the body of a grown man pumped up on steroids fell with a split head, his finger pressing the trigger of the smart pistol.
At that moment, he didn't experience any particular shocks, mood swings, or anything else described in books and shown in movies. Just the realization came that he had killed a person and felt nothing significant about it. Strange? Monstrous? Perhaps. At most, there was a sense of dirty and unpleasant, but necessary work that he had performed. Later, he was shown a file with the "feats" of the bandit he killed. Rape, kidnapping, human trafficking, forced addiction to heavy drugs, cutting out chrome...